Rotten Judgement

Chapter 2

"I know who you work for," Brock Rumlow, notorious human trash bag, hissed as he pinned you with the weight of his body against a brick wall.

He put his big, calloused hand around your throat and tightened his grip until you were gasping for air. You tried to pull yourself free, but your hands were trapped behind your back. He was breathing so close to your face that you could feel his clammy breath on your skin.

In hindsight, you should have known that Rumlow wasn't going to be easy an easy target. He was a murderer and a thief, he probably didn't even have a heart. Your targets were usually old people or horny men, this was a first and you couldn't understand why Bucky needed his heart. It was most likely all black and corrupted.

You were starting to lose all hope of getting out this alley alive when someone cleared their throat behind Rumlow. You couldn't see them, but you secretly hoped it would be the God of Death. You gave Rumlow a slow grin when you saw the surprised expression on his face.

"Sir? I'll have to ask you to release that young lady."

You rolled your eyes and let your head fall back against the brick wall. Another inexperienced wannabe hero decided to come to your rescue. This one, thought, was probably their leader.

"Keep moving, captain."

"Aren't you a damsel in distress?" he asked, confusion lacing his voice.

"I'm a damsel," you groaned, trying to pull yourself free. "I'm in distress," you huffed out a frustrated sigh when it didn't work. "I can handle it. Have a nice day." You gave him a bright, fake smile.

"Ma'am, I'm afraid you may be too close to the situation to realize-"

Rumlow turned to look at the mass of muscle standing behind him. His hand was still tightly gripping your throat, but thankfully his swift movement freed one of your legs.

Straightening yourself best as you could, you brought up your knee and kicked him in the groin. Rumlow yelled out in pain, releasing you as he tried to cover his crotch with his hands. The wannabe hero stared slack-jawed as Rumlow fell over on his side and curled into a foetal position.

"Wow," he gasped quietly.

"Told you. I can handle this," you replied, brushing a strand of hair away from your forehead.

You took a better look at him and noticed his strange suit. Usually, superheroes wore tight spandex suits, but this man was wearing a pair of blue booty shorts over matching leggings. His white and red shirt, which was at least a size too small, stretched tight against the bulging muscles of his arms and chest.

He looked cute, cute enough for you to smile at him despite being a little shaken. He gave you a slow, shy smile.

"So, do you have a name or should I just call you Captain America?"

"Captain America?" he repeated. He rubbed the back of his neck and scrunched up his face, a sign he was embarrassed, but also secretly enjoying the nickname.

"Well, you're a vigilante and you're wearing a patriotic suit." You jutted out your hip and swirled your index finger, pointing at his shorts. "Are those booty shorts?"

He tugged at the hem of his shorts in a vain attempt to hide himself, his pale face turning three shades of red.

"Steve Rogers," he avoided your question and held out his hand.

"I think I prefer Captain America."

"And you are?" he called after you as you turned away.

"Leaving," you replied cheekily and rounded the corner. "Bye Captain America."