It's just another night for you, rushing through chilly Brooklyn streets, your medical bag in hand. You know your destination; a stunning double wide brownstone, or rather, its basement. Your job. Your day to day.
You wished this new normal was anything but.
It had begun months ago, in a butchery. You were down to your last few dollars, your references in hand, with every hope and reason to be hired on; except for your gender placing a wedge in your plans.
"No need for a woman in here, Miss," Butcher Jenkins raised your blood with his words. "I can't be runnin' after you, trimming your cuts, fixing your mess ups. Times is tight."
Oh and you - so polite a candidate - couldn't keep the sass from your tongue. "I'd be fixing your trimmings, Jenkins, with your half cocked eye and shaky hands!" You knew you'd cost yourself your chance; so why not go on? "Your apprentice knows less; most beef sold here bubbles down to fat in a sauce pan!"
He finally built up his words, red-faced. "You get your hide from my shop this instant! Broad like you thinkin' you know a sirloin from a hind cut!"
"Speak like that again and I'll show you the difference 'tween a jugular and a trachea!" The threat went over his head as you slammed the door to his establishment, rafters shaking and startling his other customers.
It was just your luck that one Steven Grant Rogers was in that day for an order of steaks.
You'd piqued his interest.
The first Great War took your father; the second took your husband. Most everything had gone downhill from there.
Your father had brought you up in his own butchery, teaching you cuts and organs long before you'd one day take up the mantel of nurse and midwife. In that, you excelled - you rejected potential suitors, marriage proposals, in favor of your work - but all it took was one still birth in the lap of one of Brooklyn's chattiest slanderers, and your reputation was dashed.
Your quick temper and stubborn pride ensured it wouldn't recover.
Your marriage with Edgar was by no means a fairytale. You needed someone to marry, he needed someone to run his home. Over the short years you grew close, kind to each other. Kind enough to produce a son; the true love of your life. And for a time, you were a family. You, Edgar, and dearest Billy.
But then came the second war; and Roosevelt called a draft.
And quite suddenly, it was just you and Billy.
The room is hot, there are groans of agony and pain. Blood stains older blood, and cigarette smoke fills the chamber.
"Hang in there, Buck; Doc's on her way."
A regular night for the King of Brooklyn.
Steve's new normal worked for him quite fine.
Spotting you in Jenkins' Meats was entirely by chance, but he'd call it destiny. The flame in you had caught his eye, but your knowledge sparked his interest. He'd never met a woman who knew the word jugular, much less what it was. His gears were spinning by the time he left the shop; he could see wild potential.
It didn't take much digging to learn about you; Y/N Y/L/N, war widow, mother to an orphaned son, and a skilled woman with a penchant for guff. Further research told him your skills were in nursing, birthing, minor cutting up - and the daughter of a butcher. His heart swooned; you were just what he needed.
Not for play - yet - but for work. He was, after all, a businessman. And business was bloody. Crime usually was.
Brooklyn was his pride and joy, and he ran it's foulest workings like he'd been born for it; but there were bound to be snags, mishaps. Gangs clashed, territories were fought over, and blood spilt. Enough that they needed a doctor.
But doctors - pretentious, high-and-mighties with moral compasses and hippocratic oaths - would need to be paid off, coerced, threatened into servitude. Time, money, muscle; all of which Steve was a skin flint over. No, what was easier, was existing desperation. Somebody who'd already lost almost everything, that was what he had his heart set on.
And then, there you were, fallen right into his lap, practically gift wrapped. What luck.
Blood, blood, blood; and he screamed extra loud when you dug the bullet from his shoulder. You'd seen all manner of slug in men's flesh, since falling under Steve Rogers' employ. Tonight it is a mean hunk of lead, the size of a chestnut, struck deep into the meat and bone of James Barnes; jumped to save his friend and boss.
People bled for Steve Rogers. You'd seen that too.
He finally settled, passing out from pain and loss of blood, as you sewed up the muscle and sinew as neatly as you could. It was by no means pretty, he'd bear a vicious scar; but with luck and cleaning, he would live. Steve had his boys, Dugan and Dernier, bring Barnes up to his bunk; the poor sod would sleep til morning.
As it had been for countless nights, you were left alone, with Steve, in his basement stunk of blood, cleaning up his mess.
It was everything normal was never supposed to be.
Steve rubbed at his beard, staring hard at the back of you while you scrubbed bleach into your makeshift surgical table. He probably should've wondered, why he found you that much more intriguing covered in blood, but he didn't. "You did good work tonight, Doc," an affectionate title you wore like an insult. "Buck would be dead without ya."
"Glad to be of service." Like your instruments, your response was cold and unyielding. Much of your surgery was guesswork, hoping that a stitch would hold on you rudimentary knowledge of traumatic injury. So far, no one had died.
You were snapping shut your bag, keen to take your scalpels and scissors back home for a good boiling, as Steve huffed an annoyed sigh. "Y'could stay for a drink, y'know. Celebrate."
'What have I to celebrate?' Your mind was cold as you faced him; the devil that made him had blessed him with viciously good looks. You scorned yourself for noticing, as you often did. "I have to get home. I won't leave my boy alone so long; someone might come wondering where his mother is."
He stepped nearer, inadvertently putting himself between you and the stairs. "Such a good Mamma, ain't ya?" His accent was always thicker when he drank, and he always had himself a whiskey when one of his men was in mortal peril.
He drank often.
Your eyes bugged out at him as he twirled a strand of your hair, unlocked from your updo by stress and sweat. "Y'know, this place has more rooms than I know what to do with. Tons of space for a mother and baby."
Your talented hand caught his wrist, giving a quick, hard yank to pull him from your hair. "I'll thank you not to touch me, Steve," your words bit like a threat, but you knew you were overstepping. "My son will never know you, much less sleep in this damn house."
His expression soured, dropping his hand to his side; while his other tensed in his pocket. "You curse my house, but you seem plenty fine taking my money, livin' comfortably," grabby he was - reaching out to pinch your thick thigh through your skirts. "Havin' plenty's laid on a few pounds, ain't it?"
Again you smacked his hand away, harder this time, before stepping back. "As if I have a choice!" Steve was well aware of your unemployment before he'd found you; it's why he'd bothered with the finding. "Do you think I want to be this? A back room saw-bone for the city's degenerates--"
His hand caught hot against your cheek; one mean smack.
"Those men you sew up are my brothers," he growled out. His hands swept up, one clutching your jaw and your waist, backing you into your surgical table. "They bleed for the world I'm building, for the money we make, and you think you can run 'em through the mud?" He leaned in further, his whiskers brushed your ear. "You're not so stainless, doll."
"OFF-a me!!" You howled, pushing with all your force; your jaw was freed, but he still held your middle. "I do what I have to for my boy; this is not my life!"
"It is your life!" He snarled. You were both loud now, but nobody would come prying. They knew better. "Y/N, you can poo-poo over all this blood n' guts, but you are part of this, and there's no getting 'round it. You're in the Rogers family now."
Tears pricked behind your eyes; the truth twisted in your gut like a rusty knife. You choked back a sob in favor of a piercing glare. "I work for you, Steve Rogers," your voice was hardly a whisper. "But I am no kin of yours. I am no relation to the beast of Brooklyn!!"
Oh, now you'd done it. That name was never uttered in Steve's walls, even by his precious physician. He saw red, and his body moved on its own.
Your head's smarting from the sharp knock against the table, and you could hardly breathe with his powerful hand around your throat. He's got you pinned, and the beast he's named for is roaring behind his sea-blue eyes. How dare he still be so handsome.
"I pay for you. You are mine," he hissed, knelt over your frozen still body. "You don't like it, you cut yourself free and go back to rottin' in some tenement building somewhere."
Your silence was your answer.
"Or," he continued, his hand creeping up to your reddened cheek, cupping it like a lover. "You can shut your gob, fly right, and do what it is I pay you for. Is that somethin' you can abide, good Doctor?"
What choice was there? Pinned by a beast, pinned by circumstance; Steve Rogers was the only friendly vessel in an ocean of destitution, offering a rope to save yourself.
Pirate or not, he was your only life line.
"Yes, Steve." You jerked your head in a nod, earning one of his sinister smirks. Compliance, done with; but that wasn't his only goal of the evening.
"Good," his thumb smoothed over your cheekbone, studying the curves and plump of your face. "Now then, about you moving in."
"We won't live here!" Your voice rose again, his fingers pressed harder. "My son... doesn't need to know what I do."
"So he won't," Steve shrugged, tracing what bits of your jaw and neck were exposed. "Say it's a new lodging, I'm your landlord. We'll put you on the top floor, he won't hear what goes on down here," his tongue flicked over his lips. "...I want you kept close."
Your mouth gaped; his suggestion was obvious. "I-I won't be your whore-- that's not why I'm here--"
"Darlin', you're already sellin' those pretty hands," he murmured; the smell of blood was driving him wild. "Give me the other inches of that flesh, and you won't want for anything."
"I don't want this!" You cried out, pushing at his shoulders; he pinned your wrists above your head.
"Don't you?" He snickered, laying his weight on you; stiffness pressed against your hip. "I know how girls see me, easy on the eyes. I can have my pick of any dame this side of the East River."
"Then pick someone else! Any young twig would say yes--"
"I don't want twigs," he hummed, his hand slipping down to squeeze your fleshy hip. "They're all well and good for bein' seen on the arm, but it's somethin' thick and juicy I want warming my bed," his head dipped further in, lips against your jaw. "And I know you wouldn't mind warmin' it either."
You damned your body for heating, longing despite your mind. The woman in you still craved a man, and it just had to be him. That bloody beast.
But every woman has needs.
"I'll take nothing from you but my dues," you were shaky, your resolve tumbling. Your breathe and blush betrayed you. "You'll pay me for my knowledge. For my stitching up. That's all."
His brows raised; you were the subtle sort, but he caught your meaning. "That's all," he agreed. Freely he ground himself against your hip then; you acquiesced, he smiled. "And for your body?"
"You'll give me yours." You gave him the kiss first; and he practically devoured you. Gentlemen didn't kiss like he did; but as his teeth and tongue savored yours, you knew there was never any going back to gentlemen.
He loosed your wrists, nimble fingers pulling the pins from your hair; he'd been dying to run his hands through. He got a little lost in the taste of you, in the fullness of your mouth on his; but his rock hard length kept him focused on his greater goal.
"Lemme get this off'a ya," he panted, pulling at your frock like a man possessed, lips hardly leaving yours to speak. He nearly split the dress down the middle, your chemise hardly concealing soft, full breasts and flesh. "Fuck; bless these," he finally dipped lower, nuzzling the ample flesh, tasting just as hungrily. "Softer than damn silk... bless ya."
"Chatty, aren't you?" You'd never been with a man so talkative; you wished he'd shut up as your body gushed on every word. "Never known a man to wag his tongue."
"Be good tonight and I'll show ya how I wag my tongue," he earned his first gap as his mouth closed around the chenille, sucking and lapping at a peak. "You'll have plenty to say too, once we're goin'."
Your spine arched involuntarily, thrusting your breast up to his starvation, his hands gripping every inch of you he could reach; he was a greedy man, he wanted all he could take. Tugging along, your bloodied skirts fell to the floor, slip and stockings bare before him. He wasn't a godly man; but he looked on you like a miracle.
"W-what?" You questioned, arms twitching up for coverage. "Not the curves you were hoping for?"
He chuckled, shaking his head while he shed his suspenders, ripping apart the buttons of his crisp white shirt. "No, gorgeous," he cooed, trousers unbuttoned. "Your just what the doctor ordered."
Chemise pushed up and down; soft mounds displayed as his thumbs pulled apart your lips, glistening pink welcoming him. Deft digits delved in; he was an experienced man. "Oh--oh god, there--"
"--I know just where," he assured you; fingers curved, swirled, and your voice was music in reply. "That's it, oh yes, fuckin' perfect. Wet for me, ain't you? Soaked?"
You didn't dare give him an affirmative; instead a groan, twisting, writhing. It was enough of an answer.
"Turned your brain off, didn't I?" He sounded so smug, pulling back to finish his unlacing.
Your mind reformed enough to argue. "Y-you're not some magic thing, Rogers, I'm not some ditz--"
"Oh shut up," he was gentle in his words, pulling himself from his pants, stroking his cock; impressive, to say the least. "It's alright Doc, switch your brain off. Don't go thinkin', just do."
"Just do." You repeated, eying the thick, stiff flesh in his hand, your legs draping apart in relent. Don't think of this horrible beast, don't think of what he's done, the blood on the floor, the blood yet to be spilt. Just do.
He's almost delicate as he lays over you, head catching at your channel as his lips catch yours; his tongue slides through as he does, the kiss warming you, his thrust setting you on fire.
It had been some time since Edgar; and he'd never reached such depths.
"Oh fuck!" You didn't hold back as he set his pace; languid but firm. He was sure to hit deep as he bottomed out, every stroke intense and nigh overwhelming. "S-Steve-!"
"Yeah, there's my girl," he crowed in pleasure, pride; goal won. Women, he'd have plenty of, but one like you, soft and round and plump, with your integrity; the true prize. "God you're absolute gold, doll, you are."
"S-so chatty," you chided again, cautiously reaching around, massaging the muscles of his back; twitching and tensing as he pounded forwards, eagerly doing - no thinking. "A-ahh... must have practice."
"Loads," he wasn't about to shy from his conquests; his hips snapped harder, eyes rolled back. "Built up to you, didn't it, darlin'?"
He'd been successful; your brain had, indeed, switched off. You moaned, unabashed and unbridled, for him, for his doings. He returned his own grunts and growls in answer; he hated the name, but rutting like beasts, that he would happily take part in.
Sweeter than should've been kisses lined your skin as he filled you, eager and hungry, a man bent on pleasure. The chamber's stink of blood was washed over by the scent of sex, whines and gasps and groans in accompaniment; the basement hadn't held such base desires in ages.
His breath was hot in the crook of your neck as he grew harder, sharper with his hips, pushing home like he was settling to live in you. "Nearly there," he warned; as were you. One of those wicked hands slithered between you, polishing your pearl in efforts to have you win the race. "You first, doc."
Your mouth gaped, toes curled, every muscle flexed and relaxed and flexed again; he'd opened floodgates you'd not known were so full. His name screamed, but none would come to pry; it was in glory, gratitude, pleasure. Your music, your tightening, the thick of you did him in; with still mind enough to notice he pulled free, spending across your thighs, belly. White pearlescence painted on your flesh.
When the ringing of angel's bells in your ears finally stopped, you were met with a silence. Steve hardly peeped, but for a hiss as he tucked himself away, smoothing his hair back, labored breath stilling into calm. You laid there, sore and satisfied, as every ounce of the weight of reality came down around you.
What had you done?
"You were bloody perfect, Doc," he purred, leaning over the table again, tracing your locks. As was before, you didn't want him touching you; but there was no getting back to before. "Just like I imagined it."
You shuddered inwardly, sitting up finally to straighten your chemise; you took a handkerchief he'd offered you to clean his sticky seed from your skin. "This... this should not happen again, Steve. It can't." You decided.
He smiled, patting your cheek. "I'll send for you and your things in the morning. It's moving day."