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an urge that can never be cured

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He’s trapped inside himself, lungs aching with the pain of too-warm air that holds no relief. He’s so hot, blistering and burning, and if he could scream he would, if he could claw his way to the surface of himself long enough to get a breath that wouldn’t strip his throat raw with its heat, he would scream until he was emptied out and hollow and maybe, maybe , there would be relief in that. But Steve is trapped himself, and he can’t get free, can’t cool down, can’t focus on anything happening outside his body which is burning with heat and—

“Aw, Cap.”

Steve could sob in relief. Brock’s hand is cool and soothing and broad where he’s placed it, heavy between his shoulder blades. It’s an anchor, a point of contact drawing him out from the haze of heat and need and pain filling up every corner of him. He can’t quite focus his gaze enough to get a sense of his surroundings, but he must be— he must be somewhere safe. Brock is here and that— that’s a good thing. Rumlow is a good man. 

He’s sitting upright now, instead of— he must have been laying down. He knows he wasn’t standing, so that must be it. Something cool and smooth it pressed to his lips.

“C’mon pal, drink. Can’t have you—“

The words are lost to the order, Steve does as he’s told. The water soothes as he swallows and in a way, that hurts as much as the searing heat. Differently so, but it still leaves him shuddering. It helps him focus at least, Brock’s features swimming into hazy clarity. He’s handsome, Steve thinks absently. He’s always thought so. Rugged good looks, a strong jawline and sharp smile, dark eyes that twist him up inside when he’s alone. He’s also speaking, Steve realizes belatedly, barely able to switch his focus away from its hold on Brock’s face. Christ, his voice. Melodic, almost. Beautiful. 

“—Out like that. You with me, Rogers?”

“Um…”

“Stuff’s good isn’t it.” That sharp smile. 

“What— I—“ Has speaking always been this hard? He doesn’t think so, but then again nothing feels real right now. Like it’s all a dream. Something spun out of his imagination. His mother had always told him he’d had an active imagination. 

“Aw, don’t fret it. I’ve got you.” Brock’s hands are back on him and suddenly it’s taking all of Steve’s willpower to split his attention between those hands and that voice. He makes a sound, something soft and wanting in his throat. It makes Brock laugh.

“You’re gonna be good for me? You gonna be sweet for me, bella ?” Brock’s palm tracks down Steve’s spine, the skin to skin making him shiver. When had he taken his shirt off? He’d been so hot, he must have…

“I wanna hear you say it. We can’t have fun if you don’t say it, right?” And, yeah, that sounds reasonable. Steve can be good. He wants to be good. All he’s ever wanted is to do good

“Yeah… Yeah I’m— ‘m good.” It takes effort to get the words out, his tongue heavy. He licks his dry lips, trying to bring him back to himself, and tastes something sweet, cloying. Like honey and— and something else. Something he can’t quite place. 

“I know you are, baby. I know. You’re real good. The best I’ve had since—“ 

Brock says something else, his voice murmured and low and unintelligible as Steve is immediately distracted by Brock’s fingers slipping between his legs. It catches him off guard and the sound that he makes is high and hitched, startled, and Brock is laughing again, low against his ear. 

“Eager. You’re aching for it, aren’t you. Aw, sweetheart, you should have said something sooner, I would have taken care of you right.” Brock’s teeth graze the place beneath Steve’s ear and suddenly all the heat, all the need and searing pain under his skin has a direction, a focused point and he’s hit that, yes , he is aching. Bone-deep, painful want . It twists up into a white-hot ball of arousal in the pit of his stomach. 

The surety of his movements leave Steve gasping, dazed. Brock’s fingers push into him, not pausing to give him time to adjust, two digits curling into slick heat. His knuckle brushes something that makes Steve whine .

“You like that? Like fucking yourself on my fingers? You’re so open, baby. Bet I could just slide right in and—“

His fingers find that spot again and sparks dance in front of Steve’s hazy vision, body jerking around the intrusion. 

Christ .” 

The sudden loss of Brock’s touch is startling. Heartbreaking .

“No don’t leave—“ Steve struggles to shift from his spot, having been balanced on elbows and knees. A laugh from behind him has him pausing. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Cap. Wouldn’t dream of leaving you like this for anyone to find.”

Steve’s breath catches in his throat, his body reacting to the image of its own accord.

“Oh? You like that thought?”

No , he wants to say. But all he manages is a choked off pleading sound, his need for more contact overpowering his want to hide his embarrassment. 

“Damn, shoulda figured you’d be into that,” Brock laughs, and it’s not kind, but he’s touching Steve’s thigh and that’s really all he can focus on. He feels the head of his cock teasing at his entrance. He wants very badly to push himself back onto it, to try and drive out his desperate arousal. 

“You like the thought of being fucked by anyone? By just anyone walkin’ in and seeing you spread open like this? It’d be a good look on you.” 

Brock pushes in and smacks Steve’s thigh hard in a single movement. Steve’s startled cry is muffled by a pillow as he’s knocked forward with the thrust. Brock just groans, gripping his hips with bruising strength. But all that is drowned out by the mixture of pain and pleasure as Brock starts fucking him. 

His movements are both languid and brutal, the pace neither overly fast nor merciful enough to give Steve a moment to adjust. Brock’s cock is somehow hotter than any of the heat he was suffering in earlier. It makes everything else feel lukewarm in comparison. Steve is distantly aware of the sounds he’s making, the dampness on his cheeks and the pillow he’s clutching to him, the slick mess between his thighs. But all of it is muffled by the delicious drag of Brock’s dick inside him, managing to find that spot that has him howling. Brock slaps his ass, adding another bright shock of pain to the torrent of sensation.

“Tighten up, Princess. Don’t go all loose on me over a few pretty words. Not yet,” he growls, hips snapping in a way that has Steve’s back arching sharply.

“O-oh, fuck —“

Brock laughs, breathing low as he leans over Steve’s back, a hand snaking under him, finding one off his nipples and pinching hard . He makes a low, satisfied noise as Steve sobs and clamps down hard around his cock. 

“Good, baby, just like that for me.”

“Brock pl-lease I need—“ Steve’s words are ragged and desperate.

“You gonna come for me, bella? You gonna be good and come on my cock?”

Steve’s reply is more of a wet sob than a word. He can’t hold back, can’t wait for a more direct order, can’t do anything but shake apart as Brock fucks him and twists at the nipple still firmly in his grasp. He comes in a rush that leaves him breathless and boneless and almost as hazy as he’d been earlier, though in a different way. Fucked out. Hollowed out. 

It’s bewildering, when Brock pulls out, the slick mess between his thighs entirely his own, but he takes the opportunity to collapse forward, and slowly roll over onto his back, off of his sore knees. 

He catches his breath, gaze focusing on Brock, watching him. He smiles like a shark, one hand lazily working his dick. 

“You, uh—“ Steve’s mouth is dry as he tries to organize his thoughts and words. Brock tuts, tone that of an over-indulgent parent.

“We’re far from done, sweetheart, I promise you.” 

Steve sits up, about to say something. A protest? Doubtful, but perhaps a plea for more time. But Brock is standing and walking around the bed towards him, and it's all Steve can do to keep himself even somewhat propped up as Brock picks up a small bottle from the nightstand, waving it gently, the amber liquid inside just a bit too viscous to slosh. 

“How about you have another taste, baby, then we can keep our fun going.”

A part of Steve wants to refuse, but he can’t find the words. So instead he reaches one unsteady hand out to take the bottle, raising it to his lips.

“Good boy.”

And Steve wants very badly to be good.