Nightingale (Part 2) - Put Your Lights On - Brock Rumlow x OC *NSFW*
This is a prequel/sequel to my previous Brock x Reader one-shot, “Nightingale” (check my masterlist in my blog blurb for the original one-shot if you haven’t read it yet), which I have converted for the current entry into an x OC fic...because it’s mine and I can. I’m posting this on Frank Grillo’s birthday, June 8th, and dedicating it to him as my present that he never needs to know about 😏 This is rated mostly for sexual content, and you can consider everything that transpires here to be completely consensual. I hope you enjoy, and leave a comment and/or reblog because my anxiety-soaked ego needs it (moodboard made by me especially for this fic, story title and below lyrics belong to Everlast/Santana). Happy Birthday Frank 💙💙💙
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There's a monster
Living under my bed
Whispering in my ear
There's an angel
With her hand on my head
She say I got nothing to fear
There's a darkness
Living deep in my soul
It's still got a purpose to serve
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Helena let out a sigh of mild frustration as she picked up her phone again, her car paused at a stop sign, glancing at the screen. No new messages. She'd texted Brock hours before, letting him know she'd be working late at the hospital, but that she'd stop by as soon as she could. It was late, the moon glowing bright as it peeked from behind a cluster of clouds against an inky sky. She imagined he might be asleep, but that wasn't going to stop her from at least looking in on him.
It had been a few weeks since he had been formally checked out of the hospital, and she had taken a few days of vacation time to coincide with his departure, helping him readjust to life outside of the facility as comfortably as possible. Nothing felt normal anymore, not for Brock, living as a civilian for the first time in decades. He struggled to fill his time with distractions, perhaps jumping back into fitness before his body was quite ready, and hiding away from the outside world. The time he'd spent in his new partner's presence had began to chip away at the years of near-brainwashing at the hands of Hydra, the propaganda, the warped ideas that had led him to his current physical state. Though he knew he could never again lead anything resembling a normal life, the loosening ideals he'd lived by for so long weren't what kept him inside, hiding away from society. It was his face. In his mind, his ruined fucking face.
* * *
Helena glanced around an empty street for signs of life as she stepped out of her car, striding up the concrete surface of the driveway up toward the front door. There was no light inside, no indications of activity. Quietly as possible, she let herself inside, locking the door behind her and flinching when she locked her car door from a distance, the faint honk of the horn reaching her ears. So much for silence. She dropped her bag on an empty, plush chair and padded slowly through Brock's small, rented home, searching. Her instincts were on her side, she found, as she nudged open as quietly as possible his bedroom door, found him lying on his side with his face toward the wall, his back to the door. He gave no indication of wakefulness, and she made slow steps in retreat, seeking out his bathroom so that she could freshen up, wash the hospital off of her. She was immediately thankful that she'd kept her shoes on when the sound of broken glass crunching beneath her feet met her ears when she'd expected clean tile.
Fear struck her as she immediately flipped on the light, her stomach suddenly filled with nausea at the thought of what she might have walked into. She thought to turn back, seek Brock out, confirm someone looking for revenge against the former Hydra agent had not done away with him in her absence, but as she looked from the shards of reflective glass on the linoleum tile floor and up to cracked mirror, she quickly put together what had happened. This wasn't an attack from an intruder. This was the result of Brock's fist. Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she surveyed the damage, noting the drops of blood from his knuckles. He certainly wasn't getting his deposit back. With a glance toward the bedroom door as she exited the bathroom, Helena stepped toward the kitchen, seeking out something to clean up the mess.
* * *
“Hey,” Helena whispered as she crouched next to Brock's bed, staring toward his maimed facade in the dark room. Beginning to reach toward his face, she quickly thought better of it and placed her hand against the shirt that clung tightly to his torso, stroking gently at his chest. Brock gave a faint noise of acknowledgment, reaching to grasp the slender fingers that scratched lightly at him through his clothes. “Did we get in a fight with the mirror?” He grunted in response, and she sighed lightly. “Who won?”
“It was a draw,” he whispered, his voice still especially raspy since the incident that had disfigured him. “You didn't have to clean it up-”
“And have you hurt yourself more in the morning?” she cut in, an edge to her voice that she hadn't intended to let loose. “Anyway...I need a shower...and your tantrum wasn't worth getting the John McClane experience on the bottoms of my feet.”
Brock was quiet for a moment as he opened his eyes to peer at her in the darkness. “You didn't cut yourself, did you,” he mumbled, and there was enough light pouring through the windows for him to see her shake her head no.
“But you certainly did,” she returned, raising to her feet but allowing him to retain her hand, still clutched in his. Expecting her to berate him for his foolish actions, her continued words surprised him, though at this point in their relationship, they really shouldn't have. “Do you need me to bandage you up?” When she was met with silence, she took it as a yes, and she reached toward the cheap little lamp on the side table so she could properly review the fresh damage. Brock flinched against the light as expected, but he didn't turn away, drawing his right hand from under the blankets and loosened his hold on her fingers with his left. Helena carefully grasped his hand, examining the new wounds, the dried blood from his already scarred knuckles. Staring at his fresh cuts longer than he was comfortable with, she finally rose to full height and left the room, returning a few minutes later with basic first aid supplies.
Brock lifted his body with mild discomfort as he sat up, crossing his legs and lifting his right arm to hover in the air as she sat down on the mattress, immediately going to work. She was so careful with his damaged skin as she applied peroxide-soaked cotton to the wounds, regardless of the fact that he felt very little pain there from the scattered nerve damage. After several minutes of careful work, his hand looked somewhat mummified from the abundance of wrapped, white bandages. “I don't think I'm getting my deposit back,” he rasped, breaking the silence.
“That occurred to me, too,” she answered with a small smile, releasing his hand to place the leftover supplies back in their vinyl case.
“You didn't have to do that,” he mumbled as she stood up from the bed so she could put the bag of first aid items away.
“Don't worry...I'll let you make it up to me,” she replied as she stepped out of the room.
* * *
Half an hour had passed by the time she re-entered the room, feeling far more comfortable in her skin after a thorough shower, her hair and body smelling of his masculine-scented toiletries. She was surprised to find the warm lamp light still casting an electric glow, Brock leaned against a pillow he'd sandwiched between himself and the barred headboard, his eyes on the book in his hands, glancing up when he heard the hardwood floors creak under Helena's feet. “Wow,” he uttered simply as he looked over her freshly washed form, clad in a clean pair of novelty-printed boyshorts and one of his own black tank-tops. Though they'd been dating for several weeks, they had yet to become 'intimate' in any way that required the removal of clothing, and this was the barest he'd seen her.
“Yeah, I'm lucky you shop in the children's section,” she teased, indicating the signature tightness of the clothes he typically wore on his torso. Brock sat in silence as he watched her move around the room, combing her fingers through her damp hair as she dragged out the tangles within the towel-dried strands. Helena was conscious of the fact that she was delaying the inevitable, but she'd made the choice to be vulnerable enough to shower in his home with him only several feet away, allowed him to see her in this state of undress. There was no turning back now. “It's not polite to stare,” she mumbled as she finally shuffled to the side of the bed opposite Brock, pushing the linens aside and sliding in beneath them.
“I never claimed to be polite,” he answered, his eyes not leaving her still, almost hesitant to switch off the light, even with his lingering discomfort over allowing her to look upon his damaged features. Settling underneath the layers of sheets and blankets, Helena finally shifted her head to look up at Brock, still seated against a pillow. Her brows raised in unison, expecting...she wasn't even sure what at this point. She'd been with her share of men in the decade or so post-high school, but everything about being with Brock felt new, fresh, unexplored. She was aware enough of the man he'd been before the incident that had left him ashamed to show his scarred face in public, hopeful of the changes she'd seen emerge in him over the months they'd spent in each others presence, long before he'd made his affection known. The mirror was perhaps a setback, but a temporary one. He hadn't raged afterword the way he used to in their treatment sessions when she'd literally and inadvertently tap a raw nerve. He was getting better, she was sure of it. She wouldn't be here beside him if she thought otherwise.
With a final, appreciating glance at her face, Brock flicked off the lamp, casting the entire room in darkness as he began to shuffle his body back under the coverings, stuffing the pillow back under his head. Unsure himself of what level of intimacy he thought the moment might lead to as he lay facing the young woman beside him, he found himself lifting an arm as she cautiously closed the brief distance between their bodies, snuggling up against him in the warmth of his embrace. Their bodies, it seemed, were not as ready in the moment for further exploration as either had considered in the preceding minutes, both of their forms relaxing against the mattress, the pillows, and each other as sleep quickly overtook them.
* * *
Helena's voice was barely a coo as she began to awaken, not yet aware of the circumstances that had unfolded during her unconsciousness, sleepily trying to drag her hands from above her head, and being met with resistance. She opened her eyes drowsily to the still-dark room, tugged again with her hands, became more conscious of the restraints around her wrists. The shifting of the mattress somewhere near her waist gave her pause, and she whispered Brock's name into the night, anxiety tinging her voice.
“You're alright, sweetheart,” she heard him rasp, felt the fingertips of his unwrapped hand ghost over her thigh, the other bandaged one carefully gripping her waist. “This isn't how I usually go about things, but I woke up and your hands were already up above your head and I...couldn't resist,” his voice sounded slightly more hoarse as the last few words met her ears. When she gave no detectable response, Brock drew his hands from her to steady himself as he leaned in to hover over her form. His face inches above hers, he lifted his unhindered hand up to her cheek, relieved when she leaned into it instead of jerking away. “You've been so good to me...and I don't deserve it,” he rasped, met with continued silence. She couldn't exactly argue with that statement. “I don't deserve you,” he whispered, and felt her lips press against his as Helena finally acknowledged his actions.
Brock indulged her lips with uncharacteristically soft kisses before trailing away, pressing his slightly open mouth to her throat, his patchy scruff scraping pleasantly against her delicate skin. When he sucked lightly at the junction of her neck and shoulder, he heard her hands tug at the restraints, let her whimpers wash over him, sucked harder in answer. “You're so sensitive,” he whispered as his lips traveled back up the side of her throat, nudging her face to one side with his jaw to press more kisses against the little hollow behind her earlobe. He heard his name in the form of a gasp, felt her hips press into his thighs where he straddled her. “Do you want me, baby?” he rasped, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. Her stuttered yes was barely audible as he rubbed his stubble against her cheek and throat. “Think you're ready for this big, Italian cock?” he breathed, and she trembled against him when he ground himself against her, seeking out his lips when the frustration of her limited movement became too much.
Brock's kiss was greedy as he answered her needful actions, pressing his tongue inside and swallowing her moan. When he finally drew himself away again, he heard her shallow breath as she made an effort to grind up against him again. “We'll get there, sweetheart,” Brock rasped, his body drawing away from her as she began to pull at her restraints, needy for the feel of his body pressed against hers. “I think I know what you really want-”
“I want you,” she cut in as she tugged with her wrists, desperate to touch him.
Brock was silent and still for a few seconds as he basked in the words that meant so much more to him than she could fathom in that moment. Helena settled against the comfort of the mattress below her as she felt the bed shift from Brock's movements, needful, ready. When she remained untouched, she whispered his name again, questioning. The scarred man retained his silence, answering instead with both hands, unbandaged now as he slipped his fingers under the tank she'd borrowed, pressing it up just past her ribs and feeling her shudder when his bristly kiss met her oversensitive skin. Slipping a hand beneath the small of her back when she instinctively lifted a few inches off the bed to meet the caress of his lips, his mouth traveled higher, nudging the dark, ribbed fabric that separated them with the tip of his nose, his free hand descending toward the elastic waistband of her panties. “You can still tell me to stop,” Brock whispered, his fingers splayed over the smooth flesh of her stomach, a single fingertip dipping below the thin fabric.
“I don't want you to stop,” her voice was breathy as she lifted her hips, beckoning him to continue as his unbusied hand traveled further up her back to palm the valley between her shoulder blades.
Brock's rough whiskers scraped against the delicate skin he exposed as he gripped the black fabric in his teeth, dragging it up to reveal the soft, petite mounds, pressing scratchy kisses to the sensitive flesh as his right hand pushed past the barrier of her panties, the wounds on his knuckles long forgotten. He couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips, distracted momentarily from the tender flesh below his mouth as his digits met her slick folds, sliding a single finger inside and almost moaning in unison with the young woman at his mercy as she welcomed him inside so greedily. “God damn, baby,” he rasped against her skin, tilting his head and letting his heavily scarred cheek rest against her bare flesh as his vision centered where his busy hand worked, barely visible under the light of the cloud-obscured moon shining through the window blinds. Her hips pressed up into the air again as he slipped a second digit inside, curling his fingers and stroking carefully at the spongy upper walls that made her shudder against him. Brock increased the tempo briefly, experimentally, and was rewarded by a sudden and sharp cry of need. “Fuck...” he whispered, pressing more kisses to her soft mounds, drawing one of the peaks into his mouth and nipping gently as he suddenly sped up the tempo of his fingers again for a few moments, blessed with more of her needy cries.
“Brock, this isn't-” she gasped when he dampened his thumb with her dripping juices and swiped it over her neglected clit, “...this isn't fair...”
“Am I not giving you what you need?” he whispered, ghosting little circles over her sensitive bud with the pad of his thumb, two strong and dexterous fingers still plunged inside, stroking achingly slowly. When she answered in whimpers instead of words, he drew his fingers from within her, lifting them to her lips, gently pressing a soaked digit inside before withdrawing it again to replace it with his tongue, greeted with her eager kiss. Drawing away just enough to speak, his lips brushed lightly against hers as he spoke again, “Tell me what you want, sweetheart. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you.”
“I thought you said you knew what I wanted,” she whispered back indignantly, Brock's damp fingers finding her exposed breast in the moonlight and giving the nipple a little tweak in response.
“I can't be sure unless you tell me,” Brock responded, but he had already began to descend down her body, adjusting his own body to hover over her as his lips pressed tender kisses over her ribs, down the concave dip of her stomach, his fingertips disappearing into the sides of her panties and dragging them down her thighs. “Tell me,” his voice was barely audible as his heated breath ghosted over her moistened folds, teasing and falling short of satisfying.
“I want...” she began, inhaling deeply when he bit lightly into her inner thigh, distracting her as he traced the quickly disappearing indentations with the tip of his tongue, “I want you to...I want you to make me cum in your mouth...” His densely muscled arms were wrapped around her thighs before she could even register his movements, his rough whiskers brushing against her and making her tremble as his tongue eagerly plunged inside.
Brock uttered a sigh of pleasure as the deliciously tangy flavor of her momentarily overwhelmed him, pressing his face closer to her heated flesh, pushing further inside with his slick muscle. His short nails dug tiny crescents into her thighs as he did his best to fuck her with his tongue, working inside the tight channel, welcoming and needy. Above him, Helena struggled helplessly against the restraints that bound her hands, the instinct to run her fingers through his thick, dark crop of hair as he indulged in her frustratingly hindered. As good as his tongue felt inside her, it wasn't exactly what she needed, yet she couldn't hold back the sigh of loss when he drew briefly away from her.
The scarred man pressed a kiss against one thigh, damp from her own fluids, as he drew the arm clutching the opposite leg back toward himself and scraped the prickly hair of his cheek against her oversensitive skin as he slid a single digit over her soaked slit. Brock grinned against her skin as she shuddered and lifted her hips at the light touch, sliding up to circle over the neglected bud before slipping back between her folds again, flipping his hand as he pressed two fingers inside once more. Helena lifted her hips slightly off the mattress as Brock began to trail kisses over her skin, the scrape of his whiskers mixed with the soft feel of his lips and his penetrating fingers overwhelming her senses. She shuddered as he trailed further toward her core, the tip of his tongue darting out to taste the folds that enveloped his digits, finally running his tongue over her clit as she cried out faintly from above.
Brock listened with keen ears as the sounds that fell from her lips began to escalate, sighs becoming gasps, whimpers becoming cries as her hips graduating from a gentle rutting into uncontrollable shuddering, as if she were unable to get enough of him. As he swirled the tip of his tongue over her needy bud in earnest, fingers stroking with purpose, engulfed by her slick walls, the sweet sounds of her lust began to escalate with abandon, hips uncontrollable, insides clinching and pulsing around his digits as she came harder than she'd cum in as far back as she could remember. Brock didn't withdraw his fingers until the delectable feeling of her aftershocks finally subsided, his tongue making lazy strokes over her slick folds even as she shuddered beneath him from the over-stimulation. By the time he finally crawled up her body, far enough to meet her lips with his, her pulse had finally calmed to something resembling normal.
“I...holy fuck...”she whispered as Brock pressed his essence-moistened lips to her cheek, grinning against her skin in triumph.
“Yeah?” he rasped back, guiding her jaw to claim her lips with his tangy kiss, “Satisfied yet?”
“Not...even close,” she mumbled between kisses, grinding her hips up against him to punctuate her words. When she felt Brock's hands begin to ascend up her arms, toward her wrists, his intentions to free her clear, she quickly breathed a soft don't.
“Don't,” Brock repeated, his brows knitting together in confusion as his mind began to reel. Don't what? Don't fuck you? Don't-
“Don't untie me,” she continued as she felt his body begin to rise from hers.
“Are...you sure,” the former Commander questioned, running the back of his wound-free knuckles over her side, causing a shuddered response.
“I'm sure,” she whispered back, “I think I kind of like feeling a little...defenseless.”
“I think I'm starting to corrupt you,” Brock answered back, his hands lowering to his hips where he began to press his uncomfortably tight boxer-briefs down his thighs, flinging them to the floor as soon as he was able. Aided by the forgiving cloth restraint he'd chosen in lieu of anything more harsh, he grasped her hips and flipped her body with little effort, and no more than a surprised yelp from his lover. Leaning over her slender frame, Brock's callused fingertips brushed over the pulse points of her wrists, dampening his lips with his tongue and tracing feathery kisses over her throat, against the shell of her. “Get on your knees for me, sweetheart.” Brock drew back when she began to respond immediately, observing silently with the aide of the faint moonlight pouring in between the blinds as she drew up her legs and pressed her weight into her knees and elbows, lifting her hips up into the air and parting her thighs in anticipation.
Brock's tongue darted over his lips unconsciously as he stared at the display before him, his hands reaching toward her hips almost hesitantly, and freezing as he heard her voice, barely a whisper.
“Please...” she practically begged in a soft whimper, parting her thighs wider when she felt the palms of his hands take hold of her, “Brock, I need you...”
Needing no more encouragement, Brock closed the empty space between them, grasping his cock and sliding it between her slick folds teasingly, shifting his hips and plunging deep inside as soon as her needy voice defied the silence.
“Fuck...” he rasped as he became engulfed in her welcoming heat, his hips giving pause as he basked in her velvet embrace, the grind of her ass working insistently against his hips spurring them to life. With steady control, Brock began to pump himself within her, shallow when her body began to melt into the bed, impossibly deep when she would become frustrated and begin to respond in earnest.
“God dammit, Brock, just-”
“Just what?” his lips brushed against the rim of her ear as his chest met her back, pressing her deeper into the mattress as he began snapping his hips against the soft cushion of her ass, grinding against her as he buried himself inside with escalating abandon.
“Just...like that,” her voice and breathing stuttered as he filled her so exquisitely, letting the weight of his body overtake her as one scarred hand snaked around her waist, the other weaving into her sleep-mussed hair and pushing it gently aside to press his lips to the nape of her neck, the pleasant scrape of his whispers seemingly electrifying her skin. He left tender kisses in his wake as he worked around her throat, along her jaw, brushing more loose strands of auburn away as he reached her lips, consuming her mouth as his hips slapped harder against the flesh of her ass, the lovely creature beneath him working her own hips to meet his every thrust, driving him deep inside.
The minutes slipped by without notice, Brock relishing in the sweet embrace of his lover's welcoming core, his chest melting against her as his hips began to move almost of their own accord, his pace becoming erratic, his voice escaping in raspy sighs, and he felt his release approaching. As the hand wrapped around her waist began to descend, searching for the little bundle of nerves that would leave her twitching around him, he heard a sound of protest, and he pushed more strands away from her face as he leaned in, concerned.
“I don't...I don't need it...”
“You don't need-”
“Just fuck me...You already made me cum so fucking hard...,” her voice was barely a whisper, lost in the sensation of him pummeling into her, “I just wanna feel you come inside me...just fuck me...just come for me.”
Brock lifted his body from hers, rising up on his knees as he took hold of her hips with both hands, and he began pumping in harsh, almost punishing thrusts, jaw tense, teeth clenched, fingers digging in to her flesh as his body finally found release.
* * *
The sun was higher, brighter than usual as it streamed in through the blinds, Brock shifting onto his side to escape it, his free arm wrapping instinctively around the body he found there, a smile pulling at the burned corners of his lips as the smaller form pressed in closer to him. She said nothing, simply basked in the heat radiating from his damaged skin, and Brock finally opened his hazel eyes to look down upon her. He wondered briefly if she was even conscious, but the arm that slipped around his toned waist confirmed her wakefulness. His gaze shifted to the slender wrist that lay nestled between them, the faint red marks of his makeshift restraints catching his attention. Lifting his arm from around her, he carefully grasped her just above reddened skin, raising it to his lips and pressing a kiss gently against the pink-tinged flesh.
“I shouldn't have-” he was immediately cut off by a tired shushing noise, the wrist in his grasp easily wriggling free, reaching higher to rake her digits through his dark strands, and Brock considered how much he had actually missed the gentle touch when he'd had those hands restrained.
Finally opening her forest green eyes to the glowing morning, significantly later than either of them were used to waking, she took in the sight of his damaged features, Brock's gaze shifting away in the humiliation he still struggled to shake under the harsh light of day. Having none of that, Helena shimmied up higher until their difference in height was diminished, leaning in and proceeding to place feather-light kisses over his less scarred cheek, the tip of his nose, the bare brow above his left eye, every inch she could reach that wasn't wedged against his pillow.
“I fell in love with this face...this Brock...you don't have to-...” She paused when the man's hazel eyes shifted back to meet hers as her words sunk in, and she leaned in to press a chaste kiss against his damaged lips, smiling when he returned her touch, whispering against his scarred skin, “You heard me...don't expect me to say it again until you say it ba-”
“I love you,” he uttered against the almost non-existent space between their mouths, drawing in again to close the gap between them, the instinct to draw away from the touch of her hands seeming to vanish as her fingers ghosted over his cheek, jaw, throat, whatever she could reach, eager to make up for lost time.
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Original Chapter Here
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Likes are great, comments and reblogs are even better (no one gets their writing exposed to more readers if it doesn’t get reblogged), if you would like to be tagged in future writing for other Frank Grillo character fics (or just Brock Rumlow fics specifically), please let me know, and a remember that all of my other Frank Grillo character multi-chapters and oneshots can be found in my Masterlist (linked in my blog blurb)
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