Mwhahahahaha

Dark side of @backoff-imreading Still 30 Still awkward Still reading

[navybrat817]

Let's Just Talk

Pairing: Benjamin Poindexter x Female Reader

Summary: You witness something you shouldn't have, and Bullseye just wants to talk.

Word Count: 300

Playlist Prompt: I Wanna Be Bad - Willa Ford / “No I can't promise that I won't do that”

Warnings: Soft!Dark tone and vibes, mention of murder and blood, threat of violence (not against reader), Benjamin Poindexter (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Day 2 of the June Jukebox Scribbles Challenge by @societynsoelsscribbles . ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications as I no longer do taglists. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Your hand shook as you locked the door, your heart pounding so fast it ached. You blinked tears away and did your best to steady your breathing. You had to calm down and think of soothing things. 

But all you saw was blood. A pair of lifeless eyes staring at you. And that man standing above the body. You heard enough about him to know who he was…

Bullseye.

He saw you. Of course, he did. Luck was never on your side.

“Why did I take the garbage out tonight?” you muttered.

The gentle knock on your door jolted you.

“Hello?” the man asked, like he knew you were still close enough to hear him. “Listen, I didn’t mean to scare you in the alley.”

You took a step back. Could you find something to defend yourself? Something he couldn’t use against you?

“Just open the door, okay? I won’t hurt you. I promise!” He sounded so sincere you almost believed him. “He was a bad guy. I’m one of the good guys.”

You almost laughed at the irony. He murdered someone. How did that make him a good guy?

“Please,” he said, his voice taking on an edge that made you tremble. “If you don’t, I’ll have to get the key from the landlord.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait!” you begged, your breath shaky when you opened the door. “Just… please, don’t kill me.”

He smiled like a madman once he stepped inside, his mask gone. 

“Kill you?” he asked, shaking his head. “No. I’d never.”

He carefully covered your mouth when you opened it, smothering your sounds. 

“Don’t scream,” he whispered.

No, I can’t promise that I won’t do that. 

“Let’s just talk,” he suggested, wiping a tear away tenderly. “And you’ll see that I’m a really good guy.”

First time writing for this man. What do we think? Maybe this can be expanded? Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

Masterlist ⚓Ko-Fi

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Oh I shouldn’t loveeee this man! It’s giving g let’s talk this out and then I’ll talk you through it

[clawxmoon]

frank castle doesn't think of himself as a curious man. he doesn't like getting into other people's business and knows where to draw the line. he thinks he already has enough of his own problems to get involved with a stranger. at least that's what he thinks.

but he can't control his curiosity when he notices his pretty neighbor around. frank sees you helping elderly women bring heavy grocery bags in their homes. you always greet him politely even though you don't even know his name. he can smell what you're cooking almost everyday and thinks your food probably tastes amazing.

he recognizes what groceries you get, when you have deep-clean days, when you shower, when you have friends over, when you're not around sometimes.

he can't help himself but peek over in your apartment every time the door is open to check what it looks like. the way you decorate it, pictures hanged on walls, what are you watching on tv?

frank searches for you at the nearest grocery store, thinking he can "randomly" bump into you and pull you for a chat. he catches you getting coffee every once in a while at the closest cafe, his immediate response after greeting you is to check what kind of coffee you like. frank now knows you like it sweet.

he also tries his hardest to find out where you work. you know, just in case some asshole decides to try something; or if it's raining and you need picking up; or maybe because he wants catch you for lunch.

sometimes he overhears the conversation with your friends when you invite them over. he listens closely and focused, already knowing you ordered pizza and now you're drinking wine while watching something on tv he can't make any sense out of.

frank also doesn't miss out on seeing you drunk. he catches you stumbling up on stairs one night, very drunk and helpless. he has no other choice but to help you get home. when you invite him in, his heart starts racing. he watched you from afar for so long and now he was with you. it didn't feel right. nevertheless, he helped you get in bed that night. you fell asleep immediately. frank didn't sleep at all.

your older grumpy neighbor also doesn't fail to see when you get sent flowers at your door. when he first sees them, he's confused. you surely don't have a boyfriend - are you getting to know someone? he takes a look at the bouquet and rolls his eyes. could do better, frank thinks to himself.

oh and don't even get him started if he sees you need something fixed at your place. he won't even ask, he just invites himself over with his box of equipment and gets to work. don't even think about paying him back with money, he would rather die than receive some kind of stupid compensation from you.

however, frank doesn't notice how much petnames he uses on you. he doesn't realize the way his voice gets softer when he talks to you, not the way his jaw relaxes and the way he smiles more. but you notice. you notice your older quiet neighbor slowly softening up on you.

frank doesn't admit to himself that his newly discovered stalking behavior is getting out of line. he just ignores the thoughts. because what else can he do? he's a curious man...

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Off the Tracks 4

Warning: age gap, gaslighting, manipulation, dark elements….

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Bucky Barnes (short!reader)

Summary: You meet a man who makes you realise your life isn’t exactly what you thought. Based on this.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Your nerves are fried. You can’t stop squirming. Your mind is racing. You retrace every word, every single thing you did that day. Oh why can’t Kirstie just tell you what you’re doing wrong?

You can feel your manager’s derision roiling off of her. It pools in your stomach like bile and boils. Self-awareness tempers your every thought, your every move. You’re doing it wrong, you just know it!

If you lose this job, your parents will be so disappointed. So will you. You just want to do well but how can you when no one tells you what you’re missing?

And she didn’t like the skirt. Of course she didn’t. It’s juvenile. Cherry blossoms? It must make you seem like even more of a child. You’ll ask your sister if she has something you can borrow for tomorrow; if you get home before she’s asleep.

You frown as you get off the subway and run to the second platform. You heard the last train depart and the sign assures your worst fear; ‘departed 2 mins ago’. Great!

None of this is working out and you can’t help but blame yourself. Grow a backbone. Ask Kirstie if you can skip lunch so you can leave early. It’s not like she lets you go on break anyway.

You pout and look around. You’ll find somewhere to tuck into your book until the next train comes. Or maybe you can find a different connection. You could probably take a train to a midway point then switch over… or a bus. That would take a bit longer but still better than the late train.

“Too bad,” Bucky’s voice startles you before you can find a bench.

You turn to him and wipe away your chagrin. “Oh, hi. You’re back.”

“And you missed your train.”

“Um, yeah. I… I’ll get the next one.” The glumness sticks in your voice despite your efforts.

“Not too fun after a hard day’s work.” He clucks. “You thinking of moving closer? Or to the city?”

“Hm. Maybe. But it’ll be a while before I can afford to. If ever.” You shrug.

“Right. Makes sense.” He accepts. “Well, I guess the important thing is you’re trying. Got a good job. You show up.”

“Hm, doesn’t feel good enough…” you mumble then sniff and shake your head. “I… It doesn’t matter. It’s whatever.”

He looks you over and his cheek dimples as he thinks. “Something bringing you down? Or someone?”

You scoff. “It’s really not your problem. Or a problem at all. I know you must have bigger things to worry about.”

“I’ll make it my problem.” He insists. “What’s up?”

Your phone jitters before you can deflect him again. You reach for it and smile sheepishly. “Sorry, one sec.”

You check the notification. By the first few words of your mom’s text, you know it’s not good. You’ll deal with that later.

“Is that the problem?” He points to your phone as you put it back in your pocket.

You rock and look away. “It’s just… me. That’s all.”

“I know you’re not a liar but you shouldn’t do that. Keep all that inside and you'll boil over.” He girds. He subtly motions you over to the bench. He waits for you to sit before doing the same. “So, who's texting up a storm? Boy troubles?”

You scoff. Then snort. You roll your eyes and stare across the platform.

“My mom. She's just… very concerned, I guess. I've barely been working a week and… I don't know.” You pout.

“You said you live with her?”

You nod. “Her and dad. And my sister.”

“Can get a bit stir crazy when you're all crowded in.” He says as he leans his elbows on his knees, trying to look you in the face. “Trust me. I've been stacked in steamers like a sardine with a hundred other soldiers, shared a foxhole with men who can't stop kicking my shins…”

“You're right. It could be worse,” you drop your shoulders.

“That's not what I'm saying. I'm… empathising.” He leans over and pushes on your arm with his.

“Yeah, well…” you trail off and shake your head again, trying to shed your self-pity.

You look down as your phone lights up again. It's your mom. She's calling.

“Sorry. Excuse me.”

You wiggle your phone awkwardly then stand. You traipse away from Bucky and answer the call. You keep your back to him and brace yourself.

“Are you on the train?” She asks. “I'm on Life 360. It says you're at the station.”

“I… I missed it.” You admit.

“Again?”

“Mom, I'll get the garbage out–”

“You're not going to get very far if you can't be on time. I sure hope you're not this late for work every morning–”

“No. It's just the way home–”

“You need to figure it out. You need to start pulling your own weight around here. Maybe help with dinner and no one's going to wait till nine to eat.” She snips.

“I know. I'm sorry–”

“The least you can do is lend a hand. Me and your dad have been very lenient. We let you stay here and study.” She tuts.

“I'm working on it, mom.” You insist.

“One day you'll realise the world isn't going to wait on you.” She huffs. “I'll see you when you get home. If I'm awake.”

She hangs up before you can say anything else. No matter what, you're always wrong. You got a diploma. Not enough. You got a job. Not enough.

You put your phone in your pocket and sigh. You drag your hands down your cheeks and sink down. Your name startles you as Bucky nears, gently touching your sleeve.

“Everything okay?” He asks. Again.

“It's fine. My mom is just… disappointed.” Again.

“Ah. Well, you know, trains are never on time. Always too early or too late.” He chuckles. “But you'll get where you're going.”

You nod and sway.

“Don't let me keep you. Please. I'll just wait until the next–”

“Maybe I wanna be here.” He interjects. “Maybe I got nothing better to do.”

“Uh huh.” You sniff. “You don't have to lie.”

“I'm not.” He nudges your arm playfully. “How about another meatball sub?”

“I should stay… wait for the train.”

“You got at least two hours. Get a small sandwich…” he coaxes.

You chew your lip as you look at him. “Why are you being so nice?”

He arches a brow and his cheeks dimple. “I see. My reputation precedes me.”

You laugh and shake your head. “No, it's just… I don't know.”

“Got you,” he softly swipes a fingertip along your chin. 

“What?” Your eyes widen and your face falls.

“You smiled.” He preens.

“Oh…uh.” You smile again, this time you can't hold it back. “Yeah…”

“Come on. You had a long day. You needa eat.” He says.

You exhale. “Twist my arm.”

“I don’t wanna, but if I have to…” he winks.

“Maybe I’ll try something else though. How’s the teriyaki?” You ask.

“Never tried it but you got me intrigued,” he grins.

🚃

The chicken is good. You're contentedly full when you finish the half-sub. Bucky has a much bigger appetite than yours.

He wipes his metal fingertips with a napkin and pulls his glove back on. He flinches and feels around his jacket hanging on the back of his chair. He swipes his tongue behind his lips and gives a tight smile.

“Sorry,” he pulls out his phone. “Ugh, work. Hold tight.”

He gets up and crosses the shop. He puts the phone to his ear as he pushes through the door. “Update?”

The door jingles shut behind him and you watch him through the windows. His jaw is squared and his forehead rippled as he listens intently. He rubs the stubble along his chin and nods. His lips move but you can’t make out the words. You shouldn’t try. It’s none of your business.

You look down and crumple up the wrapper in front of you. The teriyaki lingers on your tongue. You chew the inside of your cheek as you mull over the train ride still ahead of you. You just want to lay down and sleep but each night, you seem to get less and less.

The bell chimes again. Bucky clears his throat as he approaches and picks up his jacket. “All done?” He asks.

“Uh huh.” You push your chair back and stand. He holds out his hand. You hesitate.

“Garbage.” He curls and opens his fingers as he swipes up his own with his other hand.

“Oh, uh, thanks.” You hand over the wrapper.

He goes to dump it in the trash as you gather up your bag and jacket. You follow him to the door and he holds it open for you. You pass through as he stays close.

You start down the street and he shifts around you as another pedestrian marches down the other direction. He inserts himself between you and the other lane of foot traffic, penning you against the building faces. He growls at the passerby with the dragging gait.

You catch a yawn in your hands then press your palms together. You drop your arms as you twine your fingers through each other and trod along. He stays close as the streetlights flick on one by one.

“So, you work at a condo place? You move anything yet?”

“Um, no. Krista signs the leases. I’m still training.”

“That’s always the awkward part but everyone’s gotta do it. When I signed up for basic training, I nearly drowned in some mud.” He chortles.

“Really?”

“Well, sure. You’re not crawling through sh– muck every day. Well, not until you sign up for it.”

“Yeah, I guess.” You nod glumly.

“Eh, sorry, I don’t mean to bring down the mood. Tell me about one of your princesses.” He prompts as you reach the entrance of the subway.

“Well… I don’t know…”

“Tell me about a happy princess.”

“Hm. Those aren’t real.” You frown. “I like the tragic ones, mostly. Queens, too.”

“Fine, tell me about one of them.”

“Hm. Well, there’s a really sad one. Sophia Dorothea. She was married to George I but cheated on him. She was exiled, not even allowed to see her kids. But each time she heard they were in the same city, she’d dress up in case she was allowed to visit… that never happened.” You hum. “Yeah, not very happy.”

“History tends to repeat itself, at least in that sense. Good with the bad and all.” He agrees.

“Yeah, but I guess… there’s happier ones I could read about. Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he agrees lightly. “In my day, not to sound like an old man, there was Wallis Simpson. That was a big scandal.”

“Oh yeah! Yeah. She’s the one Edward stepped down for.”

“That’s the one. Must be a special woman if she’s worth all that. Any man should be as lucky.” He scoffs.

“I guess.” You utter as you weave through the station.

You reach the platform and check the time on your phone. It’ll be another hour at least. Bucky jostles you slightly. “Uh oh.”

You look up and blink. You follow his gaze to the departures screen. The late train is highlighted in red. ‘Technical Issues - Cancelled’. Your mouth falls open.

“Huh? How can… how can they cancel it?” You babble.

“I have no idea. That’s odd.” He says and shifts his weight in his shoes.

“How… what…” you can’t get the dozen questions out of your brain as they all jumble together.

“Well, that’s too bad.” He clucks. “I don’t think you’ll be making it home tonight.”

“I know,” you hook your hands around your neck anxiously. “But… what am I going to do?”

“Woah, doll. All good. Why don’t you crash at my place?” He asks.

You look at him and furrow your brow. “What?”

“Sure. It’s not too far and you won’t bother me. Be easier for you to get to work too.”

“But… but…” you look around helplessly. What other choice do you have?

“I got laundry in my place. You can toss your clothes in.” He offers. “Come on, we can make it work.”

“But… but…” You chant again.

“Hey, it’s why I do. Save people, right?”

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Second date and now moving in together?! Bucky has waited long enough for a home sweet home I guess

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Life for a Life

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as brainwashing and suicidal ideation and possible untagged elements such as noncon. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

If you are struggling, please seek help through a support line.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

You voted, I wrote it. This is June 1st's fic!

Bucky Barnes + “You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”

I welcome and appreciate all feedback. This means replies, reblogs, and asks. I do prefer if you can reblog and share my work along with your thoughts. <3

Please check my pinned post for more information on my blog, stories, and asks!

Do one kind thing for yourself today and take care.💖

The wind rips across your face. The noise of the river roars beneath you, dark tides slapping and churning beneath a sliver of moonlight. From here, it looks so far but could be right beneath your toes.

Far enough. Deep enough.

You shiver and grip the metal beneath you. Just one push and it all goes away. You sniff, head so full it hurts, and breathe out through your lips. You can taste the river water.

One push.

One.

You can do it.

For once in your life, do something. A simple fall, a short end. That's all that's ahead of you. There's nothing else left for you. There never was anything for you. You never did anything.

So do this and be done with it. You close your eyes. You feel the rivets in the metal. You roll your shoulders.

"Well then." You say and push off.

Before you can plunge through nothingness and into the depths, a snag jars you. You dangle from some unseen obstacle, whimpering at the wrench that has your spine and neck ringing. You flail like a cat and look up at the unexpected safe fall.

The man is hunched and shadowed like a gargoyle on a stone building. You kick your legs and grab his hand, prying at in bendable fingers with a sob. "What are you doing?"

He says nothing. With no effort at all, he hauls you back onto the metal. You kick and smack at his grip. He ignores you.

"Let me go!" You plead. "I just want to go."

Not a word. Not a look. You couldn't see it in the shadow of the bridge if there was.

"Let me go." You beg weakly as you grasp wrists.

He flicks away your struggles and grabs your throat. You gasp. He squeezes until you can't breathe. Maybe he can still give you that escape.

You let your hands fall away. He tightens his hold until your throat burns and your head pounds. He lets you go and you fall back limp on your back, one leg dangling over the edge. He clucks.

Your vision pulses and your ears ring. He moves around you. He brings your hands together then your feet. You shiver and try to pull them apart. You can't.

"Why?" You croak.

The silence stirs with the noise of the water and the groan of the metal under his weight. He moves over you, feeling your pockets and clothing. He stops, his hand on your shoulder. His voice grates through the night as something dry and coarse fills your mouth.

“You can’t even take care of yourself, so why not let me.”

💓

You sink into a haze. Shock, dread, resignation. You wonder if maybe you did make it to the water and this is some twisted after life…

What else could it be? No one knew. No one cared. You didn’t tell anyone what you meant to do. Didn’t even write it in your diary. You just made up your mind. You just wanted it over.

Your lashes flutter as your eyes zero in. It’s all too real to be the last flashes of your synapses clinging to consciousness. The room is dim but vivid. Shadows gather in the mortar between thick cinder bricks; the air is still and frigid, and the chair beneath you is hard and unforgiving.

Your finger twitches and the tendon in your wrist strains. Your arms are trapped, your ankles too. Metal binds you to the wooden frame of the chair, another around your neck and forehead.

You shift futilely. What sick fate is this? Is it irony? You were so ready to give it all up that someone else stole your life away?

A sudden crackle makes you flinch. A light radiates in your vision and static fills a square screen. You blink, unable to move your head against the metal binding. You gulp as the black and grey speckles ache in your vision.

The monochrome dots blip away and white lines run up a black screen, a low click each time they reach the top of the screen. They ripple, the waves growing more intense until a vision fills the frame.

The silhouette of a bride in her veil kissing her groom appears beneath the classical wedding overture. A sterile voice says a single word as the image lingers. “Longing.” The couple begin to dance, feed each other cake, and the husband carries his wife over the threshold.

“Tidy.” The voice says.

The scene changes. A jacket being hung. Bristles dragging on tile. A tub full of bubbles surrounded by candles. The camera pans in on the spinning laundry through the window of a machine, making your dizzy.

“One.”

A man’s face flashes; blue eyes, sharp jawline, dark hair.

“Dawn.”

The morning beams warmly through windows, illuminating another pair of silhouettes before the scene switches to a garden and a trickling birdbath. The stir of water tickles in your ears and sends a cool flow down your spine.

“Apron.”

Thick hands tie the strings of an apron against a checkered dress, slowly looping and winding the bow, laying out the tails perfectly.

“His.”

The man’s eyes blink and disappear.

“Obey.”

A belt is pulled from the loops of a pair of trousers and bent in the same large hand, slapping the palm with an echoing noise.

“Bed.”

Pillows drop onto a bed, blankets are dragged down to the end, petals flutter onto the floor at the base of the frame.

“Only.”

The man again, arms outstretched.

“Home.”

The vision of a house, unmoving, standing on the screen, bold, so still it must be a picture. It stays there as the audio cuts out. The silence scrapes in your ear until you squirm then all at once it evaporates.

A whisper slowly rises from the speakers; “home, home, home, home.” The voice gets louder and louder and louder; until your eyes water and your ear drums thrum. Then, silence again. And darkness.

You sit in the void, shaking. You close your eyes and shudder. Then hear the television flick on again.

“Longing.”

💓

She’s soft, pliant as he leads her into the light. She shies away and he coaxes her further. She leans on him. She doesn’t notice that his arm doesn’t belong to him.

He takes her into the large bathroom and sits her on the small bench with the drawers in the bottom. Her clothes are dingy with the stale remnants of the river’s mist. That day on the bridge only remains in the soiled fabric.

As he tries to pull away, she grabs onto him. Her lashes flick wide. Bucky knows that look. He used to see it in the mirror. That glassy distance. On her, it’s not so bad.

“Doll, I’m just gonna get you washed up.”

She stares at him and nods, her hands slipping down his forearm. The sensation is like cool rain on a hot day, or sunshine after a grey winter. He smiles. Her lips tremble then she does the same.

“Yes, honey.” She lowers her hands to her lap and stares ahead.

He begins. He cuts off her clothes. She does react. Not even as he pauses to admire those parts of her that make him salivate.

When he is done with that, he fills the large basin of the tub. He goes to her but thinks twice of getting her up just yet. He undresses then goes to her.

He brings her in the tub with him. He can take his time. He doesn’t have to hurry. He leans her against him and sighs. She’s stiff and squirmy. He runs his hands up her sides.

“Doll, relax. I got you.”

He feels her obey. She slackens against his chest and lets her head rest on his shoulder. He strokes her stomach.

“Good.” He praises as he draws little swirls on her skin.

This is all he wanted. To feel someone close. To have someone who can never go away. To not have to be afraid.

This is what he deserves. And what she needs. After all, she was all too willing to throw her life away. He saved it, he didn’t take it. He’s giving her a new life. A life with propose; him.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Bucky gives me the shivers in the best way! But what do you mean you are using the same tech that ruined your life???

Sir let’s take a moment to think about the fracturing here! But also 🤷🏽‍♀️ safety??? Sort of?? Kind of?? Probably not

[superbassbuck]

you make loving fun!

pairing: farmer!bucky barnes x f!reader

warnings: 18+ NSFW, small town au, banter, neighborly enemies to lovers, pervert!bucky (stealing nude photographs), photographer!reader, fluff, sexual tension, public sex, dirty talk, degrading, breeding kink, overstimulation, oral (f receiving), size diff and kink

word count: 11.9k main masterlist || bwa stardew masterlist -'.🌾.'-

a/n: thank you to my precious and dear friend @pinksplace for hosting this incredibly fun event based on only one of the best games to exist. stardew valley. this is based on the character haley that you can romance in the game, so reader kinda has that mean, spoiled princess trope. I only ripped my hair out a million times writing this, so I hope you enjoy!

synopsis: Living in Pelican Town wasn't all that bad compared to the city life you were used to. With the big farmhouse next door unoccupied, everything was quiet, peaceful, and scenic. Then, Bucky Barnes moves in. Suddenly, you're waking up to the smell of manure, the squawking of chickens, and a farmer who's far too annoying—and far too hot—for his own good or your own comfort.

Living in a small town, far from the city bustle you once called home, was a change that required a slow and steady adjustment for most people.

You were accustomed to walking across massive city blocks with a shopping center on every corner. You were used to breezy dresses and high heels, always meticulously grooming yourself nicely before ever stepping out of your apartment.

Now, the clean, organized world you knew has been replaced by dirt, soil, and animals.

Heels have given way to cowboy boots. The apartment with the skyline view has been traded for a modest cottage, its windows looking out over the silent and empty farmhouse next door.

Surprisingly, the change in scenery didn’t take long to adjust to. Since moving here, you’ve carved out a life in a quiet corner of town, tucked away from the rest of the townsfolk. With the vast, unoccupied land stretching out beside you, you often find yourself lounging in the grass to sunbathe or wandering out with your camera to capture the blooming apricot trees in the spring. 

It is comfortable, quiet, and— much to your surprise—doesn’t feel like a downgrade from city life at all.

Until one day, you woke with a start to the sound of chickens squawking uncontrollably right outside your door.

Are Marnie’s chickens running loose again?

With a tired groan, you pushed yourself out of bed—your hair poking out in every direction and your eyes heavy with deep, dark circles. You shoved the curtains aside, letting a bright, burning ray of sunshine through the glass to hit you square in the face.

Wincing, you blinked several times to adjust, but it didn’t take long for your eyelids to fly wide open at what you saw just beyond your window.

The once empty farmhouse next door was now cluttered with boxes and crates. Animals that belonged on Marnie’s ranch were roaming freely over the fresh grass where you used to lay out a towel to sunbathe.

Now, it was likely being littered with pig shit.

And in the center of the chaos stood a man you didn’t recognize. 

Sweat dampened his dark hair, sending loose strands draping over his face. He had his back to you—his white tank top and jeans stained dark from dirt and a hard day’s work.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. 

Was someone actually moving in? 

Or had Marnie run out of space and decided to rent this spot out, ruining the peace and quiet you relished in this corner of town?

To make matters worse, he revved the engine of a lawnmower and got to work, polluting the air with noise.

Grabbing your slippers and hastily throwing on a cardigan to cover your nightgown, you stomped out of your cottage and marched over to the farmhouse fence.

“Hello!” you called out, pulling the cardigan tight across your chest. “What’s going on here—?”

The lawn mower’s engine roared even louder, drowning out your voice completely. The man continued to guide the machine in a slow, methodical line, his back still turned to you. The smell of freshly cut grass and gasoline filled the air, mingling with the… less pleasant scent of the roaming livestock.

“Excuse me!”

Nothing.

You stepped closer to the fence, cupping your hands around your mouth. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

He reached the end of a row and made a sharp turn, but he didn’t look up. His eyes stayed on the ground. From your spot by the fence, you watched the sun dance across his muscles as he maneuvered the heavy machine, sweat glistening on his forearms.

You waited until he drifted closer to the fence line before shouting again.

“Hey! Farmer boy!”

The mower sputtered and stalled, and finally, your voice pierced through the noise. 

He glanced up, pushing sweaty strands of hair out of his face. You stood just a few feet away, arms crossed tightly over your cardigan—the hem of your nightslip riding up ridiculously high on your thigh, your hair a mess of bed tangles and your face twisted grumpily. 

The breath left Bucky’s lungs—and it wasn’t because of the blistering sun burning his skin, or the morning’s hard labor.

It was because he had a beautiful woman standing right in front of him — a woman who was a total sight for sore eyes. 

Bucky let go of the mower, wiping his grimy hands on his stained jeans as he sauntered toward you. Meeting you at the fence, he flashed a charming smile, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling as he reached out a hand.

“Hi there, beautiful,” he greeted smoothly. “I’m Bucky.” 

You didn’t move. Your eyes followed his face, to the dirt caked between his fingers and underneath his nails, and then back at his face. 

“Beautiful?” you repeated, scrunching your face in what appears to be disgust. 

Bucky’s brows furrowed just slightly, but he didn’t let the rejection deter him. He slowly lowered his hand. 

Since he arrived early in the morning—well before the sun even rose—everyone in Pelican Town had been so kind and welcoming. Several of the folks had come by to help haul his luggage and boxes, even helping him get the chicken coop set up and the livestock moved in.

When Bucky inherited his parents’ old farm after they passed, he’d had his reservations about returning. But after those initial interactions with the townspeople, he started to think that maybe life out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

His parents, Winnie and George, had always told him that the town they grew up in was filled with the most kindhearted people you would ever meet—a place where neighbors looked out for one another and never hesitated to lend a hand.

But now, here you were, and you wouldn’t even meet him halfway for a simple handshake.

“Sorry, ma’am,” Bucky huffed with that southern drawl he inherited from his parents. “Just callin’ it how I see it. Just as you called me ‘farmer boy.’”

You returned his petty jab with a roll of your eyes. 

“What is going on here?” you motioned to the mess surrounding him. “Is there some big renovation being done? Are you turning the farmhouse into a ranch or something? This is private land, you know.”

Bucky couldn’t help but smile at the way your voice rose in anger just from his mere presence alone.

He rested both palms on his hips. “Why do you care?” He nodded his head toward you, prompting an answer.

You hiked a thumb over your shoulder. “Because I live right there, and all the noise you’re producing is going to be a problem.”

He glanced over your shoulder, letting out a soft hum. “Oh, so you’re my neighbor? How cute.” He looked back at you, a playful gleam dancing in his blue eyes. “You’re also the woman who’s been crossing the fence—snappin’ pictures of my trees and layin’ in my grass to sunbathe on my private land. Ain’t that right?”

Your shoulders tensed.

You didn’t know a thing about this man—yet he knew exactly what you had been up to before he took over the farm. You shifted on your feet awkwardly and defensively. 

“H-how do you know that—?”

“It’s a small town, darlin’. And Marnie was tellin’ me all about it while she was helpin’ me with the chickens.” Bucky crossed his arms, his grin widening once he realized he’d won this little back and forth with you. “Wasn’t too happy when I first heard about it—but after findin’ out it was a pretty girl trespassin’, well, I don’t mind it one bit.”

Bucky watched as you purposefully avoided eye contact, your face scrunching in either embarrassment or pride—he couldn’t quite tell which.

“The people who owned this farmhouse left several years ago, even before I moved here. Their names were Winnie and George—”

“My parents,” Bucky interrupted, pointing a thumb at his chest. “I’m their son.”

Your eyes widened. 

Living in a small town, you heard plenty of stories about the people who lived here now and those who had long ago. It hadn’t taken long for you to learn about Winnie and George—the married couple who once called Pelican Town home. They had a massive arrangement of animals and livestock, always hosting parties and events on their land.

When Winnie got pregnant, they had moved across the country to give their son a “better life.”

But apparently, that country charm couldn't keep them away forever, because their son was back. And based on the looks of it, he was here to stay for good. 

You blinked, the name finally clicking. “Y-you’re James?”

“Sounds pretty comin’ off your lips.”

Agitation boiled in your blood as you stared back at his handsomely smug face. You couldn’t believe this was who you had to deal with now.

“Wow,” you drawled sarcastically, glaring him down. “Are you always this charming?”

“For you? I can be.” Bucky motioned to the rest of the farm with a sweeping gesture. “And you better get used to it—because I’m goin’ to be livin’ here from now on, right next to that cute little cottage of yours.”

Your jaw hung once his words registered in your mind.

Living here? That meant you had to deal with all the animals, the loud lawn mower, and that awful stench. 

That also meant no more sunbathing in the wide, open grass. No more pictures of the trees and flowers that grew in Winnie and George’s yard—the ones you were planning on making a scrapbook of.

“Any way you can keep the noise down to a minimum?” you huffed, trying to smooth over your agitation.

Bucky saw right through you, and his grin only grew wider because of it. “What? A little noise is already ruinin’ your beauty sleep?”

And most importantly, it meant dealing with a dirty, farm boy neighbor who didn’t seem to care at all about being neighborly, or your own well being.

You were about to snap something snarky back, but he was already revving the mower's engine, not even looking your way anymore.

“Look, princess,” he shouted over the noise. “If you want to keep takin’ your silly pictures for your social media or sunbathin’ on my lawn, by all means.”

Social media? 

What kind of woman did this man think you were? 

He finally looked up at you again, flashing another one of those charming smiles.

“Just be careful not to step in pig shit.”

Since then, you and Bucky had been stuck in a constant back and forth. 

Every morning, you woke to the sound of chickens squawking at the top of their lungs, followed immediately by the pungent scent of pig shit drifting through your window.

You complained to Bucky several times, but he always just wiped the sweat from his forehead and shrugged. “Guess I’ve gotten used to the smell. Doesn’t bother me none. Just light some incense and call it a day, would ya?”

On weekends, you would hang your damp laundry to dry in the sun, only for Bucky to decide that was the perfect time to leaf blow his gravel path. He would send a cloud of dust, dried hay, and dirt straight into your damp, clean dresses.

When you stomped out of the house in a rage, Bucky would just grin, nodding toward your laundry line and the pink lace that were strung up on it.

“Cute panties.”

Then out of sheer embarrassment, you would retreat back into your cottage without uttering a single word in defeat. 

The breaking point came one evening when you were walking home from an errand run in town. One of Bucky’s goddamn cows had drifted astray and was currently munching on the sunflowers poking through your fences. You could put up with a lot of things, sure, but your precious flowers were where you drew the line.

You dropped your grocery bags on the porch and marched to the fence, your blood pressure spiking with every petal that vanished into that cow’s mouth.

“Hey, stop that! Shoo!” You flapped your arms wildly, trying to look as intimidating as possible. “Go on! Get back to your own side!”

The cow didn’t react. She simply blinked her long lashes at you, a half eaten sunflower stem hanging out of her mouth like a cigar. When you stepped closer to give her a firm nudge, she didn’t retreat. The cow let out a hum of what sounds like appreciation, leaning her massive head into your shoulder and nearly knocking you backward.

She wasn’t scared of you at all. 

She was smitten. 

“No! No cuddles! You’re a trespasser!” you hissed, trying to shove the heavy beast back toward the fence.

The cow responded by letting out a long, wet lick that started at your wrist and ended at your elbow. You shivered at the contact—you had just showered!

A low, gravelly chuckle erupted from the farmhouse porch, a sound you hadn’t heard over your own frantic shooing. 

Bucky was leaning against the railing with a half peeled orange in his hand, a smug little smile tugging at his lips. He was enjoying this.

“Well, look at that,” he called out, his grin reaching his eyes. “Seems like my Bessie’s got a taste of my neighbor. I’m jealous.”

“Bucky, get your cow!” you shouted, trying to wipe the cow slobber off your arm. “She’s eating my sunflowers! These were for the festival!”

Rather than rushing to your rescue, Bucky took a bite of the citrus, juices spilling over his lips. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand as his dirty boots stomped down the wooden steps, until he finally met you at the fence.

“Bessie ain’t doin’ any harm. She’s a good girl, ain’t she?” He smiled mid chew, his hand coming up to pet Bessie’s head as he started talking to the cow instead of you. “You got a good lick outta’ her, right? Is she as sweet as she looks?”

Your eyes went wide at the blatant comment. You scoffed, trying to ignore the sudden, drastic spike in your heartbeat.

“You need to take better care of your damn animals, Bucky.” 

Bucky exagerrated a frown, tilting his head as he played stupid. “I take plenty of care over my sweet Bessie.” 

You crossed your arms, glaring him down. “I mean keeping your animals on your property and leaving mine alone.” 

“But Bessie didn’t even cross your fence.” 

“She’s eating my sunflowers!” you reminded him, motioning dramatically toward your mangled plants.

Bucky snickered at your little outburst. He didn’t know what it was, but seeing you riled up over something as small as sunflowers was far too entertaining. Maybe it was the constant scent of soil and manure messing with his head, but his short yet frequent interactions with you had been more interesting than anything else in town since he had moved in.

“Alright, Bessie,” Bucky cooed to the cow. 

He kept one hand on her head, gently urging her away from your garden. He gestured toward the mangled stems. “What’s this festival you’re savin’ these flowers for, anyway?”

“The Flower Dance,” you said, your brows furrowed as if he already should have known the answer.

“Explain it to me, princess.”

You ignored the pet name. “Every year in the spring, the town hosts a dance in the center of the square. The whole place is decorated with colorful banners and flowers, and Gus sets up a buffet spread of homemade food.”

Bucky rubbed his chin, looking amused. “And there’s dancin’, I presume?”

“Lots of it,” you continued. “People partner up for a waltz. The girls show up in nice dresses and flower crowns.”

“And what about the men?”

Your eyes raked over Bucky—taking in the dirt caked on his boots and the fresh scuffs on his jeans. “Still average looking, at best.”

It seemed no matter how many insults you hurled at him, he remained entirely unfazed. His smile only grew wider as he stepped closer, leaning over the fence until you were nearly nose to nose.

“So,” he drawled, voice growing deeper. “Do you have a partner?”

You blinked, thrown off guard by the question. “Excuse me?”

Bucky’s posture shifted slightly. He looked down, dragging a calloused finger along the top rail of your fence, tracing the grain of the wood as he searched for the right words. From where you stood, you could tell he was trying to maintain that ‘cool guy’ exterior, but his faint, boyish smile gave him away.

He shrugged casually, though he still didn’t meet your eyes.

“Well... I was just wonderin’...” he started. “Since I’m new in town and all, maybe you could show me the ropes of this ‘flower dance’ thing. Seems like a lot for a guy to take in on his own.”

You cocked an eyebrow at him suspiciously.

“Sounds like you already got it all figured out,” he said, finally looking up. That smug smile returned to the corners of his mouth. “And a guy like me... well, it’d be a dream to take a woman like you.”

You let out a short, scoffing laugh. 

He had been taunting and poking fun at you since the day he moved in—and now he was inviting you to be his partner for the Flower Dance?

Was he pulling your leg?

Instead of entertaining him, you just rolled your eyes and turned back toward your house. 

“Very funny.” 

As you gathered the groceries from your steps, you added without looking over your shoulder, “Control your animals, Barnes.”

It was like Bucky was trying to get back at you for rejecting his invitation to the Flower Dance—because from that day onward, he had been nothing but an aggravating pest lingering just outside your cottage.

Instead of being a slighty annoying and impractical neighbor, Bucky took your rejection with a tip of his hat and a doubled effort to be the most inconvenient man alive. 

He started a ‘fence repair’ project that involved loud hammering at six in the morning—shirtless. When you stomped out of your house in a rage, he only grinned. 

“Sorry, sweets. But the world doesn’t stop movin’ just ‘cause a pretty girl wants to get some sleep.”

You retaliated by accidentally spraying your hose at his freshly painted fence before it had a chance to dry, followed by a fake giggle and a chirpy “oops!”

This relentless back and forth went on and on, until you found yourself pinned beneath your grandmother’s heirloom vanity on an unfortunate Friday afternoon—the day right before the Flower Dance festival.

This vanity was the one piece of furniture that had survived the move to Pelican Town, and the one thing you were trying to preserve. 

While you were trying to shimmy it away from a leaky pipe in the wall, the antique wood groaned. With a suspicious sounding crack that made your heart drop, the back leg snapped, and the entire heavy structure tilted, the vanity’s ornate mirror swinging dangerously toward the floor.

You caught it just in time, wincing as your shoulder braced roughly against the heavy wood, but you were pinned. 

If you moved, the mirror would shatter and the delicate wood would splinter beyond repair.

In that moment, you didn’t know what was worse—being pinned beneath a very heavy, very important vanity, or the fact that your window was propped open and the only man in sight who could help you was none other than Bucky fucking Barnes.

“Bucky!” you shouted toward the window.

He heard you—you knew it—because as he closed the mailbox, he gave a subtle glance over his shoulder before pretending he hadn’t heard a thing. He went right back to sorting through his mail.

“Bills, bills, bills,” Bucky clicked his tongue, loud enough for you to hear. He shook his head. “More bills.”

“Bucky, get over here!” you shouted louder, trying to shift your feet, but the movement only made the vanity creak ominously. “I need your help!”

Bucky finally turned around, that stupid, smug smile tugging at his lips at the sight of your struggle.

“You sure about that?” he taunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t know—you look pretty strong to me. I didn’t expect that kind of muscle out of a girl like you.”

“I’m being serious, Bucky—!” you gasped, the wood sliding through your sweaty palms. You tried adjusting your feet again, but your sandals gave little to no traction against the wooden floor. “It’s going to—it’s slipping!”

As you scrambled to fix your grip, the vanity slipped straight through your fingers. You shrieked, jumping to the side just in time to avoid having your feet crushed as the heavy furniture crashed to the ground.

The impact made the entire house shake. Shards of glass exploded, skidding across the floor like ice as pieces of the wood on the vanity splintered off.

Bucky, who had been taunting you just seconds ago, was already moving toward your door before you could even notice.

“Shit, shit,” he cursed under his breath. He shoved the front door open, barging through and tossing his mail aside.

“Fuck—are you okay?” Bucky rushed to your side, crouching beside you. His warm hands found your shoulders as he gently pried you away from the broken glass.

The worried tone in his voice went in one of your ears and out the other. All you could do was stare at the wreckage before you, the glass scattered everywhere a clear testament to how shattered you felt inside.

“That… that was my grandmother’s,” you said with a shaky breath. “It’s the last thing I have of hers.”

Bucky stood beside you, sensing the tension in your shoulders as his teeth caught his bottom lip. You could feel the guilt coming off him for not helping you sooner.

Slowly, you lifted your head to look at him, your eyes wide in disbelief. Bucky looked like he was bracing himself for a round of yelling—a smart move on his part.

“I asked you for help,” you started, voice trembling as the rage began to boil in your blood. “I asked you for help, Bucky! And all you did was stand there and watch me struggle!”

You stepped closer, the soles of your sandals crunching against the glass as you shoved a finger into his chest. “You’re an asshole, Bucky. You’ve been a pest and a jerk since the second you moved in, and now the one thing that’s actually important to me is broken because you wanted to play some stupid game!”

Bucky could only stare at you completely wide eyed, as the angry shakiness in your voice softened into something more broken and small. 

Your face—once scrunched in a pissed off snarl—gave way to a slight wobble in your bottom lip that Bucky caught immediately.

Maybe he should’ve retorted. He should’ve told you it wasn’t entirely his fault. But the way the tears started to prick at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over any second, made his heart ache in ways he didn’t want to admit.

Before you could shove him a second time, his large, calloused hands came up, gently catching your wrist.

“Hey,” he said, his voice surprisingly calm. “Stop. Don’t move. You’re gonna cut your feet,” he warned, looking down at your sandals.

“What—?”

“Here.” Bucky’s hands nudged your shoulders, guiding you to the edge of your bed slowly and carefully. “Just stay here, okay?” he murmured, crouching in front of you until he was at eye level. His eyes bored into yours, a small attempt to soothe your panic. “Don’t move an inch until I get the glass up. I’m goin’ to get my kit. I have the tools to fix this.”

“You can’t fix this, Bucky,” you choked out, wiping a tear away with the back of your hand. “The wood snapped. The mirror is in a million pieces.”

Bucky reached out, his thumb catching the tear that you missed to wipe. 

“I can,” he said, and for once, there wasn’t a trace of smugness in his tone. “I’ve got some aged mahogany in the barn that’ll match this grain near perfect. And I know a guy in town who can cut a new glass plate by morning.”

He stood up, looking down at the broken glass and then back at you. “I’m sorry, princess. I really am. I’ll make it right. Just stay put.”

For the first time, princess didn’t sound like a condescending, backhanded compliment. 

So, you obeyed. 

You sat on the edge of your mattress, sandals discarded on the floor and bare feet tucked safely away from the danger zone as you watched Bucky go to work. He was meticulous, sweeping your broom across the wood to make sure not a single drop of glass was left behind on the floorboards.

Once the floor was clear, he kept his focus on the broken leg and the empty, ragged frame where the mirror used to be.

“This vanity must be important to you, huh?”

You kept your eyes down, picking at the fabric of your quilt. “I’m not really in the mood for your taunts, Barnes.”

“Hey,” he huffed, glancing up at you. “I’m not tryin’ to play at you, darlin’. I promise.” He frowned, his tone softening as he took in the saddened expression on your face. 

“I know what it’s like, tryin’ to preserve an heirloom. My parents—” he swallowed hard, keeping a brave face just for you, “a lot of the stuff they gave me didn’t make the move back to Pelican Town. Which is ironic, ‘cause this was their home from the very beginning, you know? It could’ve been just fine if they kept their stuff here.”

You blinked, sniffling as you looked at him. Aside from that slight glimpse of vulnerability when he’d asked you to the festival, this was the most he had ever shared about himself.

“I’m so sorry,” you said sympathetically, not really knowing what else to offer him in a moment like this.

Bucky offered a small, weary smile. 

“Don’t be,” he groaned slightly as he knelt back down, opening the drawers of the vanity to carefully remove your belongings so he could get started on the repairs. “What’s all this?”

He started pulling out various bottles and products—makeup brushes and perfumes that looked far too expensive and meticulous for a girl to be bothered with in a town like this.

“Well, look at that,” Bucky let out a low whistle, turning a tube of designer lipstick over in his calloused palm. “What is this? Chanel? Dior?” He glanced up at you, that same spark returning to his eyes, though it was softer now—less of a bite and more of a tease. “Always wondered how a farm girl kept lookin’ like she just stepped off a runway in Zuzu City.”

“What’s wrong with a girl wanting to look her best?” you scoffed, feeling a little embarrassed. 

Bucky grinned at the sound of you finally getting your spark back.

He reached back into the vanity, pulling out a small scrapbook. As he moved it, a handful of photographs slipped from between the pages and fluttered onto the floor.

Your eyes flew wide as the photographs hit the floor—some of them landing face up, while others landed face down.

You scrambled off the bed, trying to snatch the photos, but Bucky was already sweeping them up. He stood, holding them high and well out of your reach.

“Wait—don’t!”

“Oh?” Bucky’s brow arched, as he playfully tilted his head at you. “What do we have here?”

“Bucky, stop playing around! Give them to me—!”

Bucky’s arm stayed locked high above his head, a deep chuckle vibrating in his chest as he flipped through the pages. The first few were random blurbs—bits of a poetry phase you had gone through that had lasted all of a week.

“Roses are red, violets are blue—? You write poetry?” he questioned, making your face burn with embarrassment.

“It was a phase! Just shut up and hand it over—”

He ignored you, continuing to flip through the book until his expression suddenly softened. His thumb brushed over the edge of a Polaroid taped to one of the pages with pink, polka-dotted washi tape.

“This is…” he breathed, his voice trailing off as he took in the photo of the apricot tree on his own lawn. He stared at the way the sun peaked through the branches, highlighting the orangey-pink fruit. “The tree on my lawn—my mom’s apricot tree. She grew that from a sapling.”

He continued flipping through the pages, his blue eyes trailing over each one carefully. He took in the way you arranged the different prints—candid shots of the townsfolk, the horses at Marnie’s farm, colorful cocktails from Gus’s saloon, and flowers. Lots of them. Flowers he recognized from both your lawn and his.

“You know… when the people in town mentioned you were a photographer, I just assumed you were an influencer,” he admitted. He gave you a lopsided grin, his gaze dropping back to the book. “Some… social media vermin.”

You scoffed, crossing your arms and raising a brow. “A vermin?”

Bucky grinned. “Yeah—I mean, you’re a good lookin’ woman, with all your fancy designer clothes and stuff—” he waved his free hand while the other held the book aloft. “I figured you’d be into all the selfies and modelin’ crap.”

“Well,” you huffed, trying to mask your bashfulness. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Disappointment is the farthest thing from what I’m feelin’, little doll,” he mused. He took in the photographs and the various little doodles of flowers in the corners of the pages, tucked neatly around the polaroids. “These are beautiful.”

You boasted about plenty of things—the clothes you wore, the bags you carried, the way you styled your hair. But photography and scrapbooking were more personal. It was the hobby that had helped you during the transition from the city to the farm. Some might deem it corny, but away from the expectations of social media—where strangers were updated through sugar-coated photos on a digital screen—you had turned photography into something private. Something more you.

“I…” you started, struggling to handle the look of adoration on Bucky’s face. “Thank you, Bucky. That’s very sweet of you.”

After taking in every page, he closed the scrapbook and handed it back. His attention shifted to the glossy prints dangling from his fingers, and he began sorting through them with a boyish grin.

“And these are the photos you’re goin’ to add to the book later, I take it—?”

Bucky stopped short the second his eyes landed on the next shot. Most were the same snaps of trees and the town, but there was one that made his breath hitch and his pants suddenly tight.

“It’s a little project I’m working on,” you explained, completely clueless and still a bit bashful. “A page dedicated to the different seasons. The trees are always changing, and the town looks completely different from spring to winter.”

Bucky stayed quiet, his shoulders tensing as his eyes remained glued to the photograph. He cleared his throat, his adam’s apple bobbing.

“I… see,” he said, his voice suddenly low and raspy.

Your brows furrowed. You couldn’t understand why he was so focused on that photo specifically. Curiosity getting the best of you, you tilted your head to peek at what he was looking at—and your heart dropped into your stomach.

Staring back at you was a selfie you had taken on your instant camera. You were sprawled across your bed, hair fanned out across the pillows. Your chest was exposed bare, one arm draped over your breasts, though if someone looked close enough, they could see the shaded curve of an areola peeking just past your forearm. Your body was angled to accentuate your curves, revealing the soft skin of your thighs and hips in nothing but a pair of lace panties.

Face burning a million degrees, you snatched the photo out of Bucky’s hands. 

“Don’t look at that!” you shrieked, spinning away from him.

All Bucky could do was stand there—frozen, bewildered, and hard as fuck. 

He could hear your frantic heartbeat from where he stood. And with your back turned, it was painfully obvious you didn’t want to talk about it.

“Right. Sorry,” he cleared his throat again, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He turned toward the door. “I’m gonna—uh, grab my tools and start workin’ on this vanity, okay? I’ll be back!”

Before you could say a word, his boots were already rushing out the door. 

He eventually returned with his tools and set to work on the vanity. While he worked, you tried to keep yourself busy, maintaining a respectful distance at all times.

From your open bedroom door, where he was crouched on the floor, Bucky still had a clear view of you in the kitchen making lemonade. You told him it was your way of saying “thank you,” but he knew the truth. 

You were just trying to put as much space between you as possible after that photo.

But right now, the last thing he wanted was for you to be far away.

That image of you was scorched into the back of his mind, taking up permanent residence. Laid completely bare, hair fanned out, wearing nothing but those lace panties and an expression that screamed, “fuck me, Bucky!” — it was enough to drive him crazy.

As he watched you move around the kitchen in the little sundress that had made his mouth water the first day he laid eyes on you, a million thoughts raced through his mind just as fast as the blood was rushing to his dick. 

Why had you taken a picture like that? 

Who was it for? 

Was there someone you were dating—someone you were sending those prints to?

Suddenly, a bitter spike of jealousy flared in his gut. The idea of you taking photos like that just to mail them off to some soft handed city boy prick made him want to burn the whole town down. His movements grew jerky and annoyed as he worked. The wood felt awkward in his grip, and his tools kept slipping.

“Shit,” he cursed, grabbing your attention. 

You glanced over your shoulder, a glass of freshly squeezed lemonade in your hand. “Everything okay? Need any help?”

“Just peachy,” Bucky mumbled.

As he heard your footsteps drawing closer, he tried to adjust himself, willing away the erection that was vulgarly pressing through his pants.

“Why don’t you take a break and have some lemonade, then?” You held the glass out to him, a small smile tugging at your glossy lips—a view that didn’t help Bucky’s situation in the slightest. “Before the ice melts.”

Bucky’s gaze traveled from your lips down to your hands. They were pretty—small and soft as they curled around the tall glass. Even your fingertips were perfectly manicured.

You were being far too kind, offering him a drink while he crouched there on your floor, his mind dark and filthy as he imagined how those fingers would look slicked with his cum instead of condensation.

“Sure,” Bucky grunted, straining as he stood up. “A lemonade sounds good.” 

The two of you stepped out onto the front porch for some fresh air, taking in the way the sun poked through the branches. Next door, the chickens were squawking and the birds chirping, but the domestic sounds did nothing to help the awkward silence between you.

You kept your gaze straight ahead on the grass and flowers, but you could feel Bucky’s stare lingering on the side of your face.

“So…” he started, and you mentally braced yourself for whatever was coming next. “That photo—”

“Oh, God,” you sighed, squeezing your eyes shut out of embarrassment. “Don’t start.”

Bucky raised his glass, letting out a huff of a laugh—though it didn’t sound humorous at all. It was just filler noise to cover his nerves.

“Well—it’s, uh... it’s a good picture,” he mumbled, staring at the ice cubes melting in his glass. “You look good in it.”

You felt like you wanted to shrivel up and let the wind carry you away. You avoided his gaze, turning your head to hide your burning cheeks. “You’re such an idiot.”

“All I’m sayin’ is,” he continued, mumbling even quieter as that jealousy bled through his voice,“whoever is gettin’ those kind of photos from you is a lucky man.”

You blinked, finally glancing at him. 

“Lucky man?” You noticed the way his cheeks were flushed pink. “There is no man.”

Bucky froze with the glass halfway to his lips, his blue eyes snapping to yours. “No man?” he repeated, like he needed the reassurance.

“No,” you shrugged casually, giving him a small smile. “I just take those photos for myself. I spent years worried about how other people perceived me. When I moved here, I wanted to see myself for me. It makes me feel confident. Seeing myself like that is kind of empowering, you know? It’s for my eyes only.”

You let out a shaky breath, the embarrassment still very much there—but no longer because you were seen half naked. Now, it was because of how corny your explanation sounded out loud. 

You glanced at Bucky out of the corner of your eye, trying to gauge his reaction, but he looked so deep in thought that you couldn’t make out a single one.

“For your eyes only, huh?” Bucky hummed.

When you gave him that little nod, Bucky knew he was doomed.

The jealousy that had been sitting like a pit in his stomach was drowned out in a damned instant the minute you said ‘no man.’ That meant he was the only one who saw that photo of you—that sweet, vulnerable side where you laid bare, warm and inviting. Bucky loved the fact that there was no man, and no one else after you.

To him, that just meant you were already his.

“Go to the Flower Dance with me,” he asked suddenly.

You huffed a lighthearted laugh. “This again?”

Bucky turned to face you fully now, eyes boring into yours so intently it was like he was giving you a silent warning not to even bother looking away. 

“Let me take you to the Flower Dance. Let me be your partner. Let me dance with you.”

“Bucky, you can’t be serious—”

“I was serious the first time I asked you, and I’m even more so now,” he said, his brows furrowing as his voice deepened. “Dance with me.”

You bit your lip, hesitating.

When he noticed your silence, he stepped closer, standing over you until he was looking down at you completely.

“Consider it a thank you for fixin’ up your vanity.”

“Thank you? You made me struggle and didn’t help me the first time!” you countered, but Bucky didn’t budge. He didn’t fight back or laugh.

He was dead serious.

He wanted you to go to the Flower Dance with him as your date—and you had a very strong feeling he wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“Fine,” you reluctantly agreed, despite a smile tugging at your lips. “But just remember—it’s a thank you for fixing my vanity.”

Bucky grinned, finding himself very, very happy with your response.

To you, agreeing to the Flower Dance was just a fair trade—a thank you for his labor and a way to settle the score over your grandmother’s vanity.

But as Bucky watched you walk back into the house, his hand drifted to his pocket, letting his fingers brush gently against the glossy edge of the photograph—your photograph— tucked deep inside. 

Having that naked, intimate piece of you hidden away against his thigh—a secret kept just for him—was a reward far better than anything else you could have given him.

He knew he was being greedy by stealing the photo and taking you to the Flower Dance, but he didn’t care. The photo was enough to drive him crazy tonight, but dancing with you tomorrow was the cherry on top.

It was Saturday morning—the day of the Flower Dance—and Bucky had been restless since dawn, and even more so the night before.

He lost track of how many times he had jerked off since he stole that photo. One time was right after he finished fixing your vanity. He had retreated to his farmhouse, slammed the door shut, and before he even kicked off his boots, he had his pants unzipped and cock in hand.

Another time was in the shower, then again right before he fell asleep, and… once or twice more as the clock ticked closer to the start of the festival.

It was shameless, almost pathetic, but when you were dealing with animals and manual labor all day, you had to relieve the stress somehow. And nothing relieved it quite like the memory of you sprawled across those pillows with those sweet tits pressed together.

As you made your way to the town square, you found yourself walking with a pep in your step. Your heels clicked against the pavement, and your sundress swayed at your hips with every stride.

You had taken lots of care to look better than usual today. You had woken up early just to have enough time for your hair and makeup, trying on three different dresses just to see which one made you look the best. You even found yourself wondering what Bucky was wearing—hoping, subconsciously, that your dress might actually match his outfit.

Fuck.

You were actually looking forward to see him and dance with him.

Your heart was beating far too fast for your chest. You could already imagine it—Bucky, finally rid of his grimy farm clothes and wearing a proper outfit, or his heavy boots stepping all over your sandals because he didn’t have a clue how to dance.

You found yourself grinning to yourself up until you made it to the bustle of the community square. Gus had his food spread out on a table beneath a canopy, potted flowers that were grown by the townsfolk were scattered about, and colorful banners were decorated across the lightpoles.

“What’s got you smilin’ to yourself for?” a familiar, deep gravelly voice interrupted you, stopping you in your tracks.

It was Bucky, wearing a nicely ironed button up tucked into his khaki pants that were held up by a nice, brown leather belt. Your smile faltered slightly—not because he looked terrible, but because he looked good.

Too fucking good.

He tilted his head, hands tucked deep into his pockets. “Hey, where did that smile go?”

“I… nothing,” you cleared your throat, hands primly behind your back as you took him in. “You look… good.”

You suddenly felt small as you watched Bucky’s eyes trace over you—taking in the way you did your hair and your makeup, down to the short hem of your dress. You watched as he caught his bottom lip between his teeth.

“That might’ve been the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” he joked before nodding to you. “You look beautiful.” He glanced around before taking a step closer, leaning down so only you could hear. “Kind of makes me a bit jealous knowin’ other people can see how pretty you are.”

Your face warmed, and Bucky expected you to back away from his boldness—but you stepped closer, batting your lashes at him in a way that drove him fucking crazy.

“Yeah, but they’re not the ones dancing with me, are they?”

With all the pent up frustration building inside him, that little taunt of yours felt like an open invitation to grab you and do whatever he wanted.

But instead, his tongue ran over his teeth as he grinned, amused by your comment. He extended a hand toward you.

“The dance is ’bouta start soon. Come on.”

Despite this being his first time ever experiencing a Flower Dance, he took initiative as if he had been doing this longer than you had. The live band propped up on the stage began to play, the acoustic guitars picking the same catchy tune you knew by heart from all the years you had attended before. 

Women and men gathered hand in hand to get into position. Bucky led you to the very center of the crowd, standing tall in front of you. He guided your hand to his shoulder before resting his own large palm firmly against your hip. 

You couldn’t help but chuckle at his sudden burst of confidence. “Wow, Bucky Barnes. Don’t tell me you actually know how to dance?”

“Course I do,” he huffed. “Just ‘cause I’m covered in dirt all day doesn’t mean I don’t know how to take a lady for a dance. Don’t sound so surprised.”

He pulled you in closer, and you looked up at him, your eyes wide and soft with a sheepish smile to match.

“You wouldn’t let me fall, right?” you teased, your voice barely sounding over the guitars.

“Never,” he promised, his grip on your waist tightening to prove it to you. “Not a single speck of dirt on that pretty little head of yours. I’ve got you.”

The music started, and as you two danced, you noticed how Bucky was pulling you closer and closer with each step. 

His hand stayed tight at your waist before moving to your lower back, then back to your hips with a small, firm squeeze. The hand that held yours gripped tighter, reeling you in even more with every move.

As he spun you back into his chest, you felt the hitch in his breathing. You leaned back slightly, looking up at him. 

“You okay, Bucky?” you teased with a smile. “You’re looking a little... stiff.”

God, those eyes and those glossy fucking lips.

Bucky let out a visible shudder before forcing a nod. “Dancin’ with a very pretty girl in my arms—it’s natural for me to be a little nervous, isn’t it?”

He spun you again, your short sundress flaring out like a ballerina—and he caught a quick glimpse of your bare thigh. Just barely. He wanted more.

He drew you in until your forehead was resting against his collarbone. He leaned his head down, his nose grazing the skin of your temple as he took a deep, shaky inhale of your scent—shampoo, vanilla, and the warmth of your skin from the sunlight. You smelled so good, and each inhale was doing serious damage to his self-control.

From his height, his gaze fell directly into the neckline of your dress. He had a direct, unobstructed view of the swell of your breasts, the fabric of your sundress moving against your curves with every breath you took. 

It was the photograph come to life, only now he could actually touch you… just not in the complete ways he wanted to. 

His hand on your back slid lower, his palms suddenly clammy as he pressed your hips tight against his. You gasped softly, your step faltering for a split second as you felt him.

A thick, heavy, warm bulge was straining against his khakis, pressing right into the notch of your thighs.

Bucky’s jaw was clenched so tight it looked painful, his eyes were somewhere over your shoulder as he tried to maintain a shred of dignity. He thought he was being subtle—that you were too caught up in the festival to notice how inappropriately turned on he was.

He was wrong.

Deciding to play a much dirtier game, you took matters into your own hands. He spun you around again, but instead of facing him, you tucked yourself right back into the curve of his body. 

Your back hit his chest, and your ass ground firmly against his cock.

Bucky let out a shuddering groan that tickled against the back of your neck as he felt the curve of your ass press harder into his bulge. 

Before he could even think about pulling away to save face, you reached over and grabbed his hands. Your fingers slid over his knuckles, guiding his large, calloused palms down until they were over your hips. You kept your hands over his, forcing him to feel the way your curves fit perfectly against his body.

“Shit,” he cursed, and you grinned.

Everyone else was too preoccupied with their own dancing to even notice Bucky’s predicament, so you continued swaying your hips against him to the music. 

Every rub of your ass against his cock was like adding oil to the flames. Bucky’s nose nuzzled the side of your head, and you could hear his breathing get more labored the more you ground against him.

“Still nervous you’re dancing with a pretty girl?” you taunted. You felt him twitch against you in response.

He groaned, his lips so close to your ear that you could feel his hot breath. “You know exactly what you’re doin’.” 

“And what exactly am I doing, Bucky?”

“You’re bein’ a goddamn tease.”

Your smile grew wider. “But you’re not exactly pushing me away, are you?”

His grip on your hips tightened enough to bunch the fabric of your dress around your waist. He hiked the skirt up higher, his hot palms gliding just beneath the hem to tickle your outer thighs — then higher, towards the sensitive skin of your inner leg.

You gasped softly when you felt his thumb graze against your clothed cunt. 

“Keep tauntin’ me,” he growled against your ear, “and I’m goin’ to flip up this tiny skirt and fuck you right here in the middle of the square—where everyone can see.”

Your eyes traced over the crowd. Everyone was all smiles, too caught up in the joy of the festival to even notice the two perverts feeling each other up in the middle of it all.

“Then do it,” you challenged.

“You goddamn slut.” Bucky huffed a laugh against the back of your neck— no humor in it at all. “No. I’m too jealous for that. I wouldn’t want anyone else seein’ my girl like that.”

Your breath hitched. His girl?

“That’s funny.” You looked up over your shoulder at him, your eyes wide as you faked your innocence. “I don’t remember ever being your girl.”

Bucky’s cock twitched hard against your ass, and you knew right then that you won.

“Not my girl?” Bucky scoffed, spinning you around so you were forced to look him in the eye.

“You’ve been my girl from the minute I stepped foot back in Pelican Town. From the moment I laid eyes on you—I’d already decided you were mine. And you agreeing to dance with me today just confirmed it all.”

He ground his hips against yours, letting you feel his heavy bulge press against your inner thigh.

“If you don’t believe you’re my girl, then I’m just gonna have to prove it to you.”

You weren’t able to get a single word in as Bucky’s hand wrapped tight around yours. 

He led you away from the crowd, pushing through with polite and gentle ‘excuse me’s that went completely against how roughly he was holding you.

He took you towards the shadows at the side of the saloon.

It was a narrow, unassuming alley, hidden from the main square by overgrown shrubbery and stacked wooden crates.

“Bucky,” you looked around breathlessly and no one was near, “what are you doing?” 

He didn’t answer.

He shoved you back against the cool brick wall. He didn’t wait, and he didn’t waste his time asking, either. 

His hands were already at the hem of your sundress, bunching the fabric in his fists and hiking it up until the cool spring air hit your hips.

Your eyes went wide, your heart fighting against your chest as you watched him fall to his knees.

You knew you should’ve stopped him.

You should’ve told him this was inappropriate—that anyone could walk in on you two right now.

But as he knelt there, his eyes boring hungrily into your thighs and his tongue darting out to lick his lips the second his fingertips found the waistband of your panties, you couldn’t find the breath to argue. 

How could you possibly deny a predator his well-earned prey?

Bucky tugged your panties down your thighs and past your legs, tossing them aside. His hand rubbed up and down your thigh before hiking your leg over his shoulder, his hot touch making you shudder and grow even wetter as he stared at you intimately.

“God, look at you,” he groaned, palming himself. “What a fucking sight. All the men you danced with before I moved back into town didn’t get to see this side of you, did they?”

You only stared at him. When you didn’t answer, he gripped your ankle, making you wince.

“Answer me.”

“No,” you shook your head, swallowing hard. “Only you.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” he hummed, pleased. He leaned in, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thigh. “Dancin’ like a saint in front of the mayor, in front of all the townsfolk, just to be drippin’ wet for me like a goddamn whore.”

He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive folds, making you hitch a breath. 

He looked up at you from between your legs, and you swore you could’ve melted right there at the sight of him. His eyes were completely blown out, staring at you in ways that should’ve made you afraid.

“I'm gonna taste every fuckin’ drop you made for me while you were rubbin’ that pretty ass against my cock. I’m gonna eat you until you’re beggin’ me to stop, and even then, I ain’t stoppin’.”

“Bucky… —ah!” your hand flew over your mouth once Bucky buried his face between your legs.

With your short dress bunched messily around your waist, Bucky’s tongue—hot and wet—swiped upward against your cunt, making you moan against your palm. He kept flicking his tongue up and down against the sensitive skin, and your fingers tangled into his hair, giving it a firm tug that made him groan against you.

“S-someone might... walk in on us—” a whimper broke from your lips as Bucky tilted his head, his tongue moving against your weeping cunt.

His hands slid up past your thighs to grab your ass, kneading and squeezing as he ate you out behind the saloon.

The mention of someone catching you only made his cock harder in his pants. He moaned against your slit, his tongue lapping at your juices as he licked and suckled on your sensitive pussy. The tip of his tongue found your clit again, flicking at it and leaving vulgar suckling noises in the quiet alley. 

His finger poked at your wet and vulnerable entrance, sliding in easily as he fucked your clit with his tongue.

“Oh my god, Bucky—!” you cried out.

You were shaking, your back scraping against the brick as Bucky ate you out shamelessly.

As his tongue danced on your most sensitive spots and his finger fucked you in rhythm with his mouth, your hips began to buck uncontrollably against his face, and Bucky let out a muffled growl.

“S-slow down—fuck, I’m gonna cum—” you whimpered behind your hand.

He hummed in satisfaction, the vibration making your pussy tingle as his fingers dug into the soft flesh of your ass to hold you steady while he licked every last drop of you. Your back arched off the wall and you tried to squirm away to save face, but Bucky wouldn’t let you.

One hand stayed tight on your thigh and the other squeezed your ass, all while his face was tucked deep against your pussy, soaking in everything you had to give him.

“Fu—fuck, Bucky…” you whimpered as he slowly released your leg from his shoulder.

He leaned back on his heels, looking up at you, and the sight made your breath hitch. Bucky gave you a devilish little grin, his chin and lips gleaming with the wet sheen of your juices. 

Between his legs, his bulge was straining against his khakis—a damp spot darkening his lap where his pre-cum had soaked right through.

You looked around frantically—coast still clear—before tugging your skirt down and adjusting the straps on your shoulders. “We… we should go. The rest of the town’ll be looking for us—”

Bucky pushed himself up from the ground, his large body blocking your path as his hands went to his waist. He began to tug at the fastenings of his belt.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” he rasped in a low growl. “I’m not even close to done with you.”

You swallowed hard, staring up at him as you caught your breath from your release. “Bucky, we can’t. Someone will catch us—”

“No,” Bucky hissed, unzipping his pants and tugging them down. “Not until I get to cum—you’re not goin’ anywhere.”

He stepped closer, nudging his leg between your thighs as his hands found the hem of your skirt again. His hand trailed up, dragging the fabric up around your waist as he pinned you back against the wall. 

Bucky’s hand wrapped around his shaft, and as your eyes trailed down—you let out a soft gasp.

He was big, thick, and pulsing in his hand. His tip caressed your clit, and he began jerking himself off against your warmth. He let out jagged breaths, his hand trailing down your thigh before hiking it up and over his hip.

“Ah—Bucky!” you cried out, holding onto his shoulders for support.

“Stay right here,” he commanded, his hands gripping your ass to hoist you higher against the wall. “Wrap those legs tighter.”

His cock dragged across your slit, his tip catching your entrance and making you gasp. He nudged his tip against your opening, testing the tension, and let out a shaky, ragged breath.

“So tight...” he rasped, the words sounding almost painful. “But you’re so wet for me, sweetheart. I could just slip right in.”

“Bucky, wait—you’re too big,” you whispered, your hands bracing against his shoulders.

You could already feel him stretching you, even just at the entrance. “I don’t think it’s gonna fit—and we can’t do this in public, someone is going to—”

Before you could finish, Bucky’s palm clamped firmly over your mouth to silence you. His eyes were dark, focused entirely on where your pussy hugged his tip.

“Shut up,” he hissed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I can’t wait. The sooner I fuck you, the sooner we can get outta here.”

With a slow tilt of his hips, he began sinking himself inside you. 

You let out a muffled, pitchy moan against his palm, your eyes rolling back as the sensation of him filling you made you see stars.

He was stretching you apart, claiming every inch of your body as he pushed deeper and deeper, until his hips finally pressed against yours.

He stayed there for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to rest against the crook of your neck as he let out a groan. “Fuuck, shit—”

He was so deep, his cock stretching your walls as his body pinned you so firmly to the brick that you couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

“There,” he growled against your skin, his hand still tight over your mouth as he watched the pleasure wash over your face. “Fits perfectly.”

Despite his words, his face was twisted and his jaw was clenched from how tightly your body was squeezing him.

As he started rocking his hips, his cock sliding in and out of your wet cunt, it took everything in him not to fuck you hard against the wall right then and there.

He knew you were still trying to adjust to his size, watching the way your face twisted as you tried to be a good girl for him.

He couldn’t believe it—the girl of his dreams, the girl from the very photograph he’d jerked off to from the night before until now—you were actually right here, taking his big cock inside your tight little pussy.

“A-are you okay?” he managed to muster, his voice rough as he stared at you with lustful, hazy eyes.

You whimpered before giving him a small, frantic nod. 

He took that as his invitation to fuck you harder.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight—can barely move.”

He started to move faster, his cock sinking deep into your pussy and pulling out before slamming back in. His grip on your thigh was tight as he held you up.

“So goddamn wet too, sweetheart.”

“B-bucky… ahh—we can’t.”

“Can’t?”

He kept folding your leg over, trying to adjust you so he could sink even deeper, but the tension in your body wouldn’t let him. The angle was awkward. The wall was too cold, and he couldn’t get deep enough to satisfy the ache in his balls.

He wanted more. 

He wanted to break you.

With a frustrated snarl, he pulled out of you roughly—the sudden loss of him making you cry out.

Before you could even catch your breath, Bucky grabbed your hips and spun you around, slamming your chest and face back against the cool brick.

“Hands on the wall,” he commanded cruely.

He bunched your sundress up around your waist, baring your ass to the cool air of the alley. He stepped back into you, his cock heavy and sprung, and grabbed your hair, tugging your head back so he could whisper against your skin.

“Since you’re so worried about someone walkin’ in,” he hissed, his hands gripping your hips so hard his fingers left marks, “I’m gonna make sure they get a real good view if they do.”

He lined himself up with your entrance again—his hot tip making you gasp.

Your cunt was still gaping from his fucking earlier, allowing him to slide in easily without much resistance this time.

As he sheathed himself inside you in one thrust, you let out a muffled cry, your fingers scraping against the wall to hold yourself up while he began to fuck you hard from behind.

“Fuck—love it when you’re screamin’ for me,” he groaned in pleasure.

Every wet slap of his balls against your ass echoed in the narrow alley. 

He reached around, one hand squeezing your breast through your dress while the other stayed buried in your hair, keeping you pinned in place.

His eyes took in the way your ass bounced against his cock, the soft flesh jiggling with every move. He lifted the hem of your skirt higher to get a better view of your smooth skin rocking against his hips.

“You know, maybe you should just come live with me,” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear as he slammed into you again.

The thought seemed to fuel him, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. “It’d be so damn cute seein’ you walk around the house all barefoot and bred.”

What was he saying?

His filthy words felt more intense than the rough movements of his cock. He groaned, his teeth grazing your shoulder.

“That old farmhouse is big and lonely, sweetheart. Way too quiet,” he whispered. “It was my parents’ dream for me to start a family there. To have a house full of kids runnin’ around the farm, tendin’ to the animals.”

He pulled back nearly all the way out before thrusting back all the way in, making your knees buckle. 

“I think you’d look real good carryin’ the Barnes name. Real good with a belly full of my babies while I work the fields. What do you think? Think you could handle being a farm wife?”

“B-Bucky,” you huffed a nervous laugh as his cock filled you completely. “What are you saying? Don’t be—hmpf—ridiculous...”

“Oh, come on, don’t be shy now,” he teased. “You can sunbathe on my lawn and take all the pretty pictures of the trees and animals for your scrapbook.”

His tongue darted out to lick the shell of your ear, his heavy balls continuing to slap against you as his cock hit your sweet spot over and over.

“And I’ll buy you all the lingerie so you can pose all cute in front of your little camera again,” he delivered a hard thrust that made you whimper and cry. “Take those sexy photographs that I can keep—maybe you can make a scrapbook out of those, too. Just for me.”

Your face burned with humiliation.

Here you were, being treated like a total slut by Bucky Barnes out in the open, and yet the thing that made you too flustered to even form a sentence was him bringing up your photograph.

“G-god...” you stammered. “Don’t bring that up!” you hissed, overcome with embarrassment.

Bucky just chuckled. “I have that picture, you know?”

Your pussy fluttered and clenched around his cock at his words—the tightness making him groan. You snapped your head around, face flustered. 

“W-what!” you choked out. “You stole it?”

He could feel how much the idea turned you on, your body betraying your embarrassment by becoming even wetter and tighter as you realized he’d liked that photo enough to steal it for himself.

“Don’t exaggerate, doll,” he rasped, his hand tightening in your hair to pull your head back so he could see the shame written on your face. “I’ve spent all night staring at it. Staring at the way you were lookin’ at the camera, imaginin’ you were looking at me instead.”

His hips pushed against yours, forcing you to take another deep inch of his cock.

“I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve sat on the edge of my bed, jerkin’ myself off until I was shaking, just thinkin’ about what it would feel like to have the real thing under me.” 

He groaned, his pace becoming more uneven and frantic as the dirty confessions spilled from his lips.

“Every time I closed my eyes, I was picturin’ you—my own fucking neighbor—just like this. Bent over, taking every inch of me while you cried my name.”

The way you were whimpering and fluttering around his cock meant that you were enjoying every sinful confession he was blurting out.

You had already came, your body sensitive and weak, but Bucky was fucking you right through it. 

“B-Buck… I can’t—I’m sensitive—” you whined, knees wobbly. 

He tossed his head back, feeling his balls drawing tight as your pussy milked him.

“Fuuuck,” he groaned, kneading your hips. “I want to cum inside. Wanna make my ma and pa proud—”

Bucky leaned down until his breath was tickling your ear again. “Please? Will you let me cum inside, sweetheart?” He pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. “I promise you—I’ll give you the good life, I’ll give it to you reaally good.”

You felt your breath get stuck in your throat. 

He was asking for permission?

Your body tightened beneath him.

You were so close from cumming beneath him a second time, and the way his hips stuttered against yours was a sign that he was just mere seconds away from filling you up.

“Been dreamin’ of fillin’ you up with my seed since I saw that dirty little picture of you. Please, sweetheart. Just give me what I want.” 

Footsteps crunching the grass sounded near you—too close—and the thrill of getting caught despite yourself made you finally let go. 

“Bucky, fuck—I’m cumming—!” you cried out, but Bucky’s hand clamped over your mouth, stifling your moans as you rocked your hips back against his cock.

You rode the orgasm out while Bucky’s face twisted in a pleasure so intense—it was damn near painful.

“Fuck. Fuck. Please, baby, I can’t—” he gasped, stilling his hips to keep from breeding you. “Please—let me cum inside—”

You couldn’t believe that for all the filthy words he was spouting earlier, how in control and dominant he was, he was still asking for permission.

“Please, fuck—can’t hold it in. You feel too good—”

“Just cum inside, Bucky!”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Bucky cried out a broken moan against the side of your neck, his hips twitching as he buried himself so deep it made your eyes roll back.

The first hot jet of his seed hit your womb, filling you so deep it made your toes curl in your heels. He gripped you tight, his whole body turning stiff as he pumped himself empty inside you.

He groaned, a long, broken sound that tickled your spine as he fought for his breath.

“God… like that—just like that… every last drop ‘til I’m empty, sweetheart.”

The footsteps outside the alley grew louder, then faded as the stranger passed by, oblivious to the vulgar scene unfolding just a few feet away.

Bucky stayed exactly where he was for a moment, his chest rising and falling against your back as he breathed your scent in. He was still twitching inside you, his cock heavy and pulsing as it leaked into your womb.

“There we go” he soothed, pushing the sweaty strands of hair away from your temples to look at you. “Lookin’ every bit of my girl.”

He kissed the temple of your forehead before slowly pulling out, the sudden loss of his warmth leaving you feeling cold and empty.

“Keep your legs together,” he murmured possessively, bringing the hem of your skirt back down to cover your slick thighs. “Not a single drop goes to waste. Keep it there ‘til it takes.”

He reached out gently, smoothing your hair and straightening the strap of your sundress until you looked at least somewhat presentable again. 

He brushed the dust from the brick off your shoulders, his eyes softening at the sight of your debaunched face. The makeup you spent so much time working on this morning was now a smeared mess of his doing. 

And somehow, to him, you looked even prettier. 

“There,” he said, wiping the stray lipstick on your chin. “Let’s get back and enjoy the rest of the festival.”

He turned to fix himself, tucking himself back in as he adjusted his jeans and buckled his belt. 

You watched him, still a little dazed and shaky legged, until he bent down to pick up your lace panties from the dirty floor of the alley. You reached out, expecting him to hand them back to you, but he didn’t.

“Lace?” he huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You were askin’ for it.” 

He folded them neatly and tucked them into his back pocket. He caught your confused look and flashed a boyish, almost innocent looking grin that looked far different from how he looked at you earlier. 

“Bucky?” 

“Right next to that precious photo I ‘stole,’” he intertwined your fingers with his, pressing a soft kiss to your lips as he led you out of the alleyway. 

“For my growing collection.”

if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them! again, please be sure to check out the stardew valley inspired masterlist if you haven't already!

I do not have a tag list. to get notified for fic updates, please follow @notify-superbassbuck and turn on notifications.

[veltana]

A late night horny thought from me to you. Written on my phone before bed. Not edited.

Steve saying he'll use a condom but then doesn't because he wants you full of his seed so you'll stay

Dub-con nsfw smut under cut.

He's always been the good guy. Putting others before him, saving lives, saving the universe and sometimes he just has this urge to take, keep and claim.

You've both agreed to wait with kids, to have fun for a while first. But Steve is deep down scared that he won't be enough and you'll leave, and he can't have that.

He's made sure you're out of it, pulled several orgasms from you with his mouth, before flipping you onto your stomach.

He takes the condom, opens it, pretends.

"Steve that feels so good!" You moan when he presses inside. And fuck it's the best feeling ever. Steve fuck you hard, deep, feeling the precum leak heavily into you.

And you don't know.

You beg for more. Press your cunt back onto Steve's dick.

He pulls you up onto your knees, pressing your head into the pillow.

Fuck, he's so deep.

"Are you gonna come, sweetheart? Are you gonna come around my cock before I fill you up with my cum."

You moan louder, clawing at the sheets, you pussy pulsing around him.

You think it's just dirty talk.

"I'm gonna breed you until it takes, have you filled with my cum day and night."

"Steve! Cum in me, fill me up, I want it so bad!"

"That's a good little cum-dump."

Steve takes your arms and puts them behind your back, giving him extra leverage to slam into you.

You're shaking, wailing and then you come hard enough for Steve to fucking lose it.

With an animalistic growl, he grabs your hips instead, and with a few hard thrusts he comes harder than he's ever done in his life, cum overflowing from your hole and dripping onto the bed.

You're never leaving him now.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

[all-the-bones-ever-deactivated2]

this hit me like a truck

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

It’s giving

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Called to Duty 7

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, abandonment, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Captain Syverson

Summary: You struggle to move on from the biggest mistake of your life but find it hard to forget among the whispers of a small town.

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

"Grandchild? I wasn't aware I had any." Frigga's eyes slowly descend and her cheek dimples.

"Just over four months and you will." You cross your arms. "I wasn't sure if your son told you."

"He's never mentioned you, darling. I'm sorry, what was your name?" She asks with a smirk.

"You know me. I was at your birthday."

"There were so many people..." She shrugs. "And my son has a very... Generous heart. His women are hard to keep track of."

"And his bastards?" You challenge.

She stares at you and measures your accusation. She snorts and he smirk grows. "Alleged."

Your chest sears with anger. Your nostrils flair and your brows tweak. Your anger boils. It's not just the hormones, it's her flippancy.

"I see where he gets it from," you hiss.

"Well, darling, you won't be the first in town to have a fatherless child. Doubtful to be the last. In my day, why Pauline had a cute little girl on her own. Pity what became of them but that's what happens when you aren't mindful--"

"Actually. Fuck you." You sneer. "I'd rather do it by myself than let my child be near you entitled assholes."

"The language. How appalling--"

"Oh shut up." You reach and push the bell off the counter. "You might want to have your staff check the beds for crabs, hard to keep track of all those women like you said."

You shake your head and spin on your heel. You storm across the lobby, as angry as you are humiliated. You didn't expect much, maybe some disappoint aimed at him, but no, you're still the guilty one.

You hurry out the front doors and down the steps. You trip at the bottom and land heavily on your knees and hands, barely keeping from crashing down on your stomach. You gasp and stare down at the ground. You almost...

Your arms shake as you sit back on your heels and your eyes sting. You touch your stomach and exhale. You could have hurt them.

Your lip trembles as fear swells in your stomach. You've never felt this before. You cursed this baby a million times. You wished it away over and over.

No, you don't want it gone. You want these people gone. Then and their bitter tongues.

A car door slams and startles you. You look up as Sy runs over from his truck. You knew he'd follow.

"Are you okay? What happened?" He falls to his knees and grabs your hand, checking the scrapes on your palms. "Was it him?"

"Sy, no, I... I fell. I tripped." You sputter, still breathless. "I almost-- I could've..." You sniff.

"You're okay? The baby?" He asks.

"We're okay." You assure him. You sink down and slump your shoulders, rubbing your stomach. "That was... Awful. I don't know why I came here."

He hesitantly reaches out and hovers his hand in front of yours. Gently, he puts it over yours. His warmth is comforting.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You tried to stop me. I didn't listen." You sigh. "You've only tried to help me when no one else has. It's just what I do. I don't listen to good sense. I get myself... Knocked up and fired."

"You can blame me for that last one. Even the first one." He keeps hisbhand over yours. "I mean it."

You look at him and laugh. "Sy, you're sweet. In your way but this is a baby. A living thing. It's... A big deal." You heave. "I think I just figured that out myself."

"I know it's a big deal. It'd be an honour...if ya'd just let me be that man." He looks down sheepishly. "Be your man."

You stare at him. He seems genuine. As genuine as anyone has been to you. They all just laugh behind your back or spit in your face. You believe him but you just don't know if you can believe in yourself. He'll be like everyone else and get tired of you.

"Baby's are forever."

"I know that." He looks at you. "Maybe I want forever."

You frown. "What if I don't know what I want?"

He slowly bends his fingers and latches on to your hand. He gets to his feet and helps you up with him. He clings to you.

"I'll wait that long for you to figure it out." He says. "Can I get you dinner? Just for tonight?"

You look at his hand and carefully turn yours to hold onto him. You nod. You're tired and defeated. You don't think you'll make it all the way back on your own.

"Woman in my condition can't turn down a good meal."

He grins and backs up, gesturing you to the truck like a golden chariot. He walks you across the lot and opens the door for you. He helps you up into it and you thank him.

He lets you go and his hand grazes your stomach again. His smile only grows as he stares at your middle. You squirm.

"It's a happy thing, ya know. I just wanna make you see that. Wanna make you happy like you should be." He insists.

"I know, Sy." You gently pat his knuckles and he draws away. "I just don't know if I can do the same for you."

He nods and sucks his teeth. He closes the door and backs away. He marches around the front of the truck and climbs on.

"Buckle up. Precious cargo." He says as he pulls down his own seatbelt. He turns the engine and shirts into reverse. He keeps his foot on the gas as he grips the steering wheel with one hand. "But just so you know, I'd be happy every day with you." He turns to look over his shoulder and backs up. "Cause you're the prettiest woman I ever known. Waking up to that, going to sleep next to that... How could a man not be happy?"

Your cheeks burn. It's not him you doubt. You don't even know how to respond. You're already letting him down.

"Oh and so ya know, I'd knock that dummy's block off again any day." He sneers.

"Please don't." You say. "Just..." you look over at him. "Let me get you cleaned up." You tut. "Oh Sy, look at your face."

He smiles bigger and touches his nose. "Worth it."

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Forever with Sy sounds like a beautiful nightmare

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Can't Buy Me Love 3

Warnings: This will include dark elements, abuse, trauma, neglect, kidnap, including non/dubcon. Please do not read if these elements or any dark elements make you uncomfortable.

Character: August Walker

Summary: a miserable situation is switched for another. (another wife-buying fiend)

Please reblog if you enjoy and leave some feedback! Muah 💋

You shiver as the man lifts your foot to the brim of the tub. You’re unstable as you balance on one leg. He coats your leg in shaving cream, spreading it with his large hand. You shiver as you can do nothing against his diligent grooming.

He starts with your calf. He shaves away the hair in even lines, thoroughly dragging the blades through the cream. His hand moves from your ankle to knee, angling your leg to his needs. His focus is unbreakable. You take that chance to get a look at him.

He’s big. Even as he squats at his task, you can tell. He’s burly too. Shoulders broad and rounded with muscles, hands large and thick, his chest rising and falling a calm even keel as he works. You wouldn’t even think to attempt to overpower him.

He works on your thigh, leaning in as he continues his tedious work. He puts your leg straight and turns you to get the back. You stare at the wall blankly. You feel like nothing more than an object as he twists and turns you any way he likes.

He drags his knuckle over your ass and prods beneath the cheek, along the crease of your thigh, bouncing the cushion. You cringe in embarrassment. He continues to take stock of you.

He switches legs. He’s faster this time. Less curious.

You stand still and shivering, waiting as he rinses the razor. You assume he’s done.

He’s not. He clucks and pushes two fingers between your thighs. He wiggles them until you pull them apart. He switches the razor for a pair of scissors. You close your eyes as he trims at your coiling hair.

His fingers graze your cunt as he works. He leans in as he focuses on the task. When he’s content with the length, he grabs the cream and razor. He cleans up the edges along your thighs and across your pelvis but leaves a healthy patch of hair.

He taps your hip and you turn around. He nudges your back until you hinge at the waist, bending enough to expose yourself. He continues to trim and shave from that angle.

You flinch as he pushes his fingers between your lips again. He plays with you and hums. You clench. He purrs and pulls away.

He stands up and you stay as you are. He moves behind you, the cabinet closing with a sharp click. He grips your shoulder and turns you around. He takes a towel and unfolds it. You step out and he dries you himself; rubbing from head to toe; as intent as ever, lingering along your tits and ass.

He moves you to the side and bends to dislodge the stopper in the tub. He straightens and grabs your elbow. He forces you across the cold tile to the door. He stops and squeezes your arm before he opens the door.

You let him drag you through the halls. You keep your head down. He takes you into a room with high ceilings and ivory walls. There’s a tall doorway looking into another across from you. He puts you at the center, by the white sofa facing two round backed sitting chairs before an antique fireplace. He points to the floor. Stay.

He brushes by you and disappears into the next room. You stare at the golden embroidery in the carpet. He returns and comes around you. He pulls fabric over your head without warning. You bring your arms up to poke through the straps as he tugs it down your body. The skimpy nightie barely kisses your thighs.

He leads you to the table between two chairs, at an angle from the sitting area. He sits you down. You hunch down meekly, trying not to think too much. He grabs your shoulders and pushes them back. You sit up straight and he lets go.

He walks away again and returns with a folder. He puts it in front of you. You look at him and quickly shy away. He sits across from you and opens the folder then jabs his finger onto the front page.

“Read it. Remember it.” He commands.

His voice startles you. You realise he hasn’t said a word to you. His voice is deep and harsh. Exactly what you would expect.

You nod and bend your neck to read. Last name ‘Harper’, First Name ‘Mercy’, Birthdate… You’re confused. Who is this woman? There are blank fields; no height, no weight, no hair colour. In a typeface font, there’s pages of her biography; early life, education, occupation…

You turn the pages and pause. You look up at the man. He watches you calmly.

“You don’t want to forget who you are.” He warns and points back to the folder. You look down again furrow your brow, then glance at him again. Oh. Ohhh. You’re supposed to be this woman. “Mercy.”

Your eyes go wide then you nod. You grab the folder and slide it closer, leaning it on the edge of the table. You read on.

Then you find another profile. This one is filled out completely. It has the man’s picture attached. August Octavian Walker. A rather presumptuous name. You don’t judge, you just read.

You rub your cheek as a yawn brews. Your head hurts. Your stomach too. It growls loudly as you flip another page. The man sniffs and leans forward. He’s watching you.

You try to hold onto the information but it all passes through you like wind. You get to the end and chew your lip. You turn back to the start and resume from there.

“Good.” He praises as he stands. “Continue.”

You obey. There’s safety in that task. You can hide in the pages as you can hide in the identity of this other woman.

He crosses the room and leaves through the door you came in. It locks loudly behind him. You cautiously peek over at it. It’s just another cell, even if the walls are nicer.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Hold on! He created a whole identity?!?! Reading about your so called self is a diabolical mind game!

[biteofcherry]

Been thinking a bit about the time Lloyd finds you pregnant and hiding from him, then about Nesting Steve, and now I'm wondering how other babes might be if you ran away (pregnancy still secret)?

Who gives chase right after you disappear, not even knowing you're knocked up? Who doesn't care and finds out years later, after spotting you with a child that resembles him so much? And what he does then? Who is actually aware you are pregnant and just casually cuts your run after a few minutes? Maybe one knows, but doesn't interfere, just keeps secret security on you and the baby?

*we can think up other version of Lloyd and Steve, too. And all our other faves. Darker. Softer. Pinning. Ruthlessly possessive.

[stargazingfangirl18]

You whimpered as he backed you into a dark corner of the bus station.

It was late at night and no one was around—and that was the whole point. You figured you had a better chance of slipping out of town, out of his territory, under the cloak of night from a part of the city he knew you’d never usually stray too.

Because ruthless mobster Andy Barber knew you as well as you—his former executive assistant—knew him.

You had known who he was, and what he was capable of, when you took the job. But you were desperate and the money was incredible and you were gifted at keeping others organized and operating efficiently.

You were so gifted that it didn’t take long for you to capture Andy’s attention in a very unprofessional way. And no matter how many times you tried to respectfully shun his advances, he just kept coming at you.

Until he finally had you.

Late one night in his office, as he held you down atop his desk, smothering your tearful cries with his big hand. He’d cooed and showered you in praise the entire time he stuffed you with his cock.

And a few months later, when you realized he had stuffed you full of something else that night—a potential heir that would tie you to your abuser for life—you had panicked.

You hadn’t shown up for work that day, you had ignored all of Andy’s calls and texts, going as far as tossing your phone in the dumpster on your way to the bus station.

And still, he had found you.

“You know how much I don’t like to be ignored, honey,” Andy tsked as he pressed his palm against the wall beside your head.

His free hand touched your hip, fingers falling to tease along the frayed hem of your oversized sweater.

“You think you can cut and run on me? Just up and quit without proper notice? Without my permission?” Andy’s eyes glinted with the fire of fury, making you choke on another whimper.

“Please—“

“You’re not stupid,” he murmured as he dipped close, pressing his forehead to yours and watching as your tears spilled over and your lower lip trembled. “So I don’t now what the hell you were thinking.”

His wandering hand shifted, its destination the warm place between your thighs, but as his touch skimmed over your stomach, feeling the small bump that had just started to show, Andy went absolutely still.

A brief flicker of surprise flashed across his features before he quickly shuddered it away, and then his lips were curling into a ruthless smirk as his eyes lit with understanding.

And a primal kind of satisfaction.

“Oh, sweetheart,” that cooing tone that made your insides wilt seeped into his voice as his large, warm palm possessively cradled your belly. “You’ve been so fucking bad trying to hide this from me. Trying to run and keep me from my child?”

The edge to Andy’s voice made you flinch, but his touch was soft as he cradled your cheek and aimed your frightened gaze his way.

“I own you now. And if I were you, I’d be thinking of all the ways you’re gonna make it up to me once we’re home, all the ways you’re gonna show me that you know who you belong to, that you can be a good girl…that you’re mine.”

Eyes glittering as your breath hitched on a suppressed sob, Andy leaned in and pressed the gentlest kiss to your trembling lips. Then he enveloped your hand in his, tugging you away from the wall and tucking you close to his side, keeping a firm hold on you the entire time he led you across the bus station lobby then outside, putting an end to your poor attempt at escape before it really even started.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

For Your Consideration 7

Warning: Sherlock being intense lolll, smut.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Sherlock Holmes

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Your legs shake as your skirts slip from around Sherlock’s head. His cheeks are reddened, his lips glistening, and his curls askew. His hands circle your hips and as your last bastion of strength gives out, he guides you down onto his lap.

You gasp as your legs splay over his thick thighs and your skirts heap all around you. He groans and leans in. His fingertips graze up your corset as a sharp intake hops in your chest. He feels along your throat and frames your chin, pinning your head lightly to the wall.

He kisses you so you taste your delight on his lips. Your lashes hood your eyes as his tongue delves into your mouth. He rumbles contentedly as you are helpless to the vows of your marriage.

His other hand searches the layers of your dress. He slips beneath, scaling along the top of your calf and up your thigh. His hand curls behind your head and he pulls you closer. His fingers stretch across your rear, nails digging into the edges of your pantelette.

He lifts you slightly as his touch descends from your head. His fingers catch in your veil and tug it crooked. He tickles your jawline and long your neck. He follows the angle of your shoulder and guides your hand to his chest.

He parts from your lips and lets you sit back. You heave as your lashes flutter. He leads your hand to his jacket, using you to push it aside. He growls as his smokey eyes swallow you up.

You gulp and shakily bring up your other hand. You feel the lapel of his jacket and push it back on his shoulders. He shudders and lets you remove it, his arms falling down to let the sleeves slacken. The heavy coat falls to the floor.

He tugs at his ascot and lashes it down to the floor. You watch him, awash in a dazed heat. He grabs your hands again and places them on the buttons of his vest. You pluck them open with quivering curiosity.

He reaches around you to the buttons behind your neck. He pops them roughly and you gasp. The dress slackens and slumps to expose the top of your chest, peeking out from shift and corset. He hums and leans in to kiss the full swell of your tits.

You shiver as your hands slip beneath his open vest. You feel his stomach tighten. His hands drift down your sides as he nips at your flesh lightly. He groans and bats through your skirts. He shifts you in his lap as his hand dips beneath you.

He grunts as he jolts beneath you. Frustration bounces you as he lifts himself slightly off his heels then settles back down. He raises his head, glassy-eyed as his tongue pokes out between his lips. He angles you against him as two fingertips graze your cunt.

He glides two fingers between your lip, dragging his tip with them. He rubs against you as his arm folds around you and he grips the back of your neck. He lines himself up with your entrance as his chest fills with fumes. He lets his breath out slowly as he urges you onto him.

You clasp the fabric of his shirt as your thighs clench. He breaks through your modesty as he lowers you in his lap. Your walls throb around his overfull intrusion. You hiss sharply as he breathes gingerly. His lips part and he croaks.

“My love,” he runs his hand up your dress again. “You are… better than expected.”

He keeps a grip on your hip as he guides you in his lap. He lifts you back on his length and pushes you back down, sinking even further as you whine. You tense and slide your hands up to clutch his shoulders. The friction between your bodies thrums in your thighs.

He reaches up your back and pushes the fabric of your dress inside the back of your corset as he growls. The tension of the boning and lace chafes. He bows to kiss your neck and yanks; hard. The laces pop as the corset’s frame digs into you then loosens all at once. His mouth dips lower as your breasts overflow your garments.

He growls as he moves you against him. He tilts your hips over his as he smears spit across your skin. His curls tickle you as he keeps his head down diligently.

You gasp as you lurch forward. He takes you with him and he shifts onto his rear. He bends his legs behind you as he lowers himself flat on his back. He lays crammed into the width of the corridor as he pulls you flush across him.

His hand creeps down to your thigh and he squeezes. He pumps into you from below as your arms are crushed between your bodies. You straddle him like an animal, limps shaking as your head drops down against his shoulder.

He pets the back of your head and inhales the scent of your hair. He groans with each thrust, the toes of his shoes squeaking against the wall. His hand skims up to your ass and he kneads you through your linen pantelettes, fingertips tickling the exposed crease beneath your cheek.

You huffs and once more you’re upended. He rolls you over and pins you beneath his large body. He frames your face and bends to kiss you. You brace his chest as he ruts into you, the floor heavy against your back. You hook your legs around him and lift your hips higher. He plunges even deeper and you moan.

Your head lolls to the side as he growls and groans behind your ear. You close your eyes, battered by his desperation and a storm of awe and delight. Your fear scatters for the heat pulsing in your core.

“Almost…” he murmurs. “My love, you are… spec–tac-u-lar.”

He rams down into you, hips jutting violently as he loses control. He shakes as he fights to keep his motion and his voice unravels from deep in his chest. He slows, dragging himself in and out in long strokes until he’s still.

He exhales and lets his full weight down on you. Your legs slip off him, limp around his hips as your heels hit the floor. His shallow breaths mingle with yours and he gently turns you on your side, sliding his arm under your head as he stays inside you.

“My love, this did exceed my fervent calculations,” he sighs.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Knowing Sherlock he’s done calculations on how many O’s you can take in a row and how long he can be inside!

[vunblr]

Muzh

Pairing: SoftDark!Winter Soldier x Female Reader

Tags: Smut. Basement wife.

Warnings: 18+ only. Non-con undertones. Dub-con. Stockholm Syndrome. Captivity.

Summary: It made a choice in the space between orders and instinct. Safety wore the face of captivity. Kindness wore gloves. And when she asked its name, it gave her the only word that felt true.

note: Day two of Kinktober 2025. The prompt was Kidnapping. It is a follow-up for the one-shot Spasibo, but it could be read separately.

Word count: 7.8k

Kinktober Masterlist - Softark! AU Masterlist

It had told itself it would never touch her with its hands.

Maybe that was why it stole a pair of new gloves from the armory, soft leather, still stiff at the seams. Maybe that was why everything else had to be new too: new sheets, new cutlery (with a new lock for that drawer), new and sparse furniture, new clothes folded in drawers she hadn't seen yet. All of it clean, untouched, unsullied by the life it had lived.

It wasn't a monster. Not for her, anyway.

Her own books would come later. Things that smelled like her. Things to build the cage into something she might mistake for a home. It told itself she'd be allowed to have personal items when the time came. It told itself a lot of things.

The studio apartment was ready now. Welded windows, unbreakable glass. A fake vitraux stencil let in natural light in fractured greens and purples. Beautiful, almost holy. From inside, it looked like stained glass. From outside, it let nothing through.

It stood in the center of the room, flexing the fingers of the flesh hand inside the new leather, the metal one hanging still at its side. It looked at the space the way a feral thing might look at a den it had clawed into existence, and told itself again:

She would be safe here.

She would be its here.

She just didn't know it yet.

----

It waited until the hallway was quiet, until only her footsteps echoed up the stairwell. It had watched the pattern of her nights for weeks, memorized the sway of her bag against her hip, the sound of her keys finding the lock. This would be the last time she went home like that.

The rag was folded neatly in its pocket, the bottle capped, the gloves snug against its palms. It told itself this wasn't a hunt. It was a rescue. They knew. They had seen the cracks in its compliance; they had traced its escapades after dark. It was only a matter of time before they found her apartment -way too exposed- and when they did, she would be a message, a punishment. It couldn't let that happen.

It moved behind her without a sound. Slid one arm around her waist, pressing the cloth gently to her face with the other. The scent bloomed harsh and chemical. She gasped once, tried to twist, her nails scraping uselessly against its forearm, but it was already lowering her weight against its, murmuring soundless apologies into her hair.

Her body gave in with a small shudder, and he felt a pang of guilt. He held her tighter, steadier, as though his embrace alone could soften the betrayal. This was for the best. This was the only way. Walking away had never been an option.

----

She woke up to the faint smell of fresh paint and detergent, and a thin blanket clinging to her damp skin. The ceiling above her was white plaster, free of cracks, pipes, or familiar shadows. A studio apartment, sparse, with windowpanes frosted over by some kind of reinforced film. Her head throbbed, temples pulsing in time with her heartbeat. Her memory was a blank.

She sat up slowly, pressing her palms on the mattress, fighting the urge to bolt. Her shoes were gone. Her bag too. Also, her phone.

Breathe. Take inventory.

A low sound came from the far side of the room, behind a sliding door she hadn’t noticed at first. Bathroom, she guessed. She listened, holding perfectly still until the sound resolved into water shutting off, a small scrape of metal on tile. Someone was in there.

Her throat worked. “Hello?” she said, voice pitched soft, almost polite. “Is someone here?”

She stood, bare feet silent on the carpeted floor, keeping the bed between herself and the door. She scanned for exit points, heavy objects, anything she could use if she had to. The windows were sealed, not just locked but welded, the edges glinting with new metal.

“Hello?” Again, same tone. Not a demand, just an opening. She’d seen enough unstable men to know screaming would only wedge her deeper into danger.

The sliding door opened, and he emerged slowly, his broad shoulders filling the frame, hair dripping at the ends as though he’d washed up. His hands were visible, empty, moving with deliberate slowness.

Her pulse kicked. She didn’t scream. Didn’t run. She kept her eyes on his, trying to read him, searching for recognition in that blank stare. “I… I think there’s been a mistake,” she said softly, choosing the words with care. “Could you tell me where I am?”

He just watched her, unblinking, as the silence stretched. The green light from the stained windows fell across his face, turning his eyes into something feral and lost. She noted the gloves, the faint smell of antiseptic, the way he didn’t blink often enough.

Inside her, every instinct screamed; outwardly, she stayed still, praying her calm might keep him calm.

----

It could see it in the way her pupils darted to the sealed windows, the tightness in her mouth, the small tremor buried under her voice. Distress. Perfectly normal. There would be something wrong with her if she didn't react like this.

Yet still, no screaming. No threats. No pounding fists or wild tears. Just quiet questions, soft steps, eyes roaming over potential exits like she was mapping terrain. Assessing. Calculating.

It hadn’t expected that. It disarmed him more than any struggle would have. For a heartbeat, some sick idea swirled in its chest: maybe she liked the space. The thought disgusted it, and it shut it down immediately, jaw clenching hard enough to ache. Of course, she didn't like it. This was her cage. Its doing.

But she would. Eventually. It had made it so. The air was clean, the corners free of shadows. New sheets, new cups, new locks to keep her safe.

Her safe.

Not others.

She whispered something again, another question it didn't answer. It only watched her standing there barefoot, like an animal in a glass box, and thought of the alley, the handkerchief, and how she'd looked at it as if it was a man.

Ah, yes. Where was she?

Its lips parted before it could stop them, and only one word slid out, harsh and broken, voice rusted from disuse.

“Home.”

She blinked. Her throat moved, but she didn’t reply.

It lowered its gaze, the gloved fingers flexing once, leather creaking softly. The metal hand remained perfectly still.

She would understand, eventually. It said to itself like a mantra.

Home.

----

The first time she’d seen him, coming out of the bathroom on that first day, she’d thought -absurdly- that he was handsome. It was a stupid, dangerous comfort, the kind your brain grabbed at when it was drowning, grasping for anything that felt less threatening. A face with symmetry, at least. Sharp jawline, pale eyes that might've been blue or gray in different light. A man who looked like he’d been carved out of stone and bad dreams, beautiful in the way abandoned cathedrals were beautiful: cold, hollow, wrong. He was clearly not okay; God only knew what his intentions were.

After a couple of days, she began to understand the meaning of this place. Not a serial killer's lair. Something worse in a quieter way: a fractured mind that had built its own little terrarium, a carefully constructed world where the rules made sense only to him. She'd seen documentaries about men like that, read articles with phrases like "basement wives", women and girls who disappeared into ordinary houses and were never seen again.

----

Some days, he stayed in the studio, sitting in one of the two wooden chairs at the table, just watching her. Silent, shoulders squared, hands resting on his thighs like a soldier at ease. Other days, he vanished entirely, leaving her alone with the green-and-purple light spilling through the fake stained glass, and she would count her breaths and pace the perimeter and wonder if this was the day he wouldn't come back. Sometimes he cleaned weapons on the table, knives and metal parts spread like organs on a surgical cloth, his gloved fingers moving with practiced efficiency, each piece disassembled and reassembled without hesitation.

She’d learned the hard way she wasn’t allowed to touch those.

He hadn’t hit her, not exactly. But he had ways. A grip at the back of her neck that pressed her to her knees without leaving bruises. A palm clamped around her wrists until her fingers went numb. No shouting, no rage, just force, and the implied certainty that he would win any contest of strength. That struggling would only make it last longer.

She’d also spotted the cameras, black lenses no bigger than coins in the corners of the ceiling. There was no angle to hide anything.

So she played along.

It wasn’t a decision so much as a natural response. She'd been a people-pleaser since she was a teenager, maybe before. Absent parents, a childhood spent reading moods and adjusting accordingly, a lifetime of trying to earn scraps of affection from people who looked through her. She knew how to tilt her face, soften her eyes, how to nod at the right moments, how to fold herself into whatever shape kept things calm, kept her safe, kept her breathing.

She still thought about escaping -some far corner of her mind running maps and timings- but she was realistic. The windows were welded, reinforced glass thick enough she'd break her hands before making a crack. The door had no handle on her side, just smooth metal. Her odds were microscopic, infinitesimal, but they weren't zero, so she smiled when he was there, tried on the soft cotton dresses he left folded on the chair, tied the aprons loosely around her waist, and said thank you when he stocked the fridge with things she actually liked.

Playing the game. Surviving.

One day at a time.

----

He rarely spoke.

Sometimes, when he forgot himself, the words came out in a low rush of Russian, and when he saw from her face she didn’t understand, he would slow down and grind the sounds into broken English. Sparse phrases. One-word commands. Eat. Sleep. Stay..

He’d never sat her down and told her rules. There was no printed list on the fridge. But within days, she understood there were rules anyway, written into his pauses, his gestures, the tilt of his head.

The hunger rule was the clearest. He didn’t ask for food outright; he simply appeared near the kitchen, a silent, hulking presence at the table, sometimes touching the edge of a plate with a gloved fingertip, or setting an unopened tin from the pantry in the middle of the counter. A silent cue. She understood it meant cook.

He’d even given her a clock, a vintage kitchen wall clock in faded pastel blue. She couldn't tell if it was synced exactly to real time, but it gave her something to orbit around, a way to mark hours inside her Polly Pocket world.

He didn’t expect her to know when he was coming or to have meals waiting; he wasn’t that delusional. But if he was there at what passed for breakfast or dinner, she knew she was to make something for both of them. It had become automatic, like the choreography of a strange marriage: water running, knives chopping, the hush of a stove burner catching flame.

The first time she’d gotten it wrong -delayed, distracted- he’d only stood behind her, silent and very close, until she felt the weight of his presence pushing her forward, as her hands trembled while she scrambled eggs into a pan. He hadn’t touched her, but the point was made.

Now, when the clock’s hands passed certain numbers, she started cooking without needing a signal. It was survival and structure both, a way to buy herself a few more quiet hours in a room with a man who barely spoke, who sometimes murmured to ghosts in russian.

It heard her voice like a pin dropped in porcelain. “Would you… like butter on the puree?”

For a heartbeat, it thought it had imagined it. Nobody had ever asked it anything. Gave it orders, yes. Instructions, yes. Demands barked in cold rooms with fluorescent lights. But what it wanted was foreign territory, uncharted, dangerous.

It blinked once, twice. The kitchen smelled of steak and potatoes, rich and warm, almost overwhelming after years of ration bars and nutrient paste. Her hand waited above the bowl, with a smear of yellow butter trembling on the edge of the spoon. She had frozen after the question, as if she’d felt she’d stepped over some invisible line.

The surprise was not only the offer itself, but the freedom in it. A choice. She had given it a choice.

It didn’t remember the last time anyone had. Hydra never had. The men who gave the orders didn’t. Even with her -dragging her here, keeping her here- it had never once asked what she wanted. Not really. It had told itself it was for her safety, but it had always been about control, about the only kind of protection it knew about.

The sound of its own voice startled it. “Da,” it said, rough, the syllable feeling like gravel in its throat. It cleared its throat and tried again, this time in English, the words coming slower, more deliberate. "Yes. Butter."

It saw her fingers tremble as she lowered the spoon, a small dollop of butter melting into the pale purée. It wondered if she realized what she'd done, what small crack she'd opened.

It kept staring at her, not in a menacing way but searching, just watching how her hair had moved against her neck when she nodded, the way the light fell across her knuckles as she stirred.

Butter on the puree. Such a small thing. But she had asked.

She had asked.

“Thank you,” it murmured, almost inaudible, dropping his gaze to the table.

She blinked, startled, then busied herself with the plate.

It didn't move closer. Didn't reach out. It let the moment stand as it was, fragile and strange, like a door had opened a millimeter on its hinges.

----

She placed the plates down, careful as always, and sat opposite him. Eating together had become part of their routine, an unspoken rule she’d learned quickly. Refusing to eat meant he wouldn't either, and the tension that followed felt worse than compliance.

The collar of his T-shirt had slipped again and she caught a glimpse of mottled blues and yellows climbing from his collarbone and vanishing under the fabric, spreading like a bruised map across his skin. Not just bruises, patterns of impact, restraints, the kind of damage that came from repeated violence. A lifetime of it, written on his body.

“You’re hurt,” she blurted, before she could stop herself.

His gloved hand froze halfway to his mouth. The leather creaked as his fingers clenched on the fork. He looked like a man caught between two instincts: break the moment or let it pass.

"Do you… want me to look at it? After dinner?" she tried again, her voice as neutral as she could make it, offering it like she might offer more food: casual, unthreatening, a choice he could refuse.

His eyes lifted to hers, pale and watchful, searching her face for something she couldn't name. A beat of silence stretched between them, measured by the ticking of the blue clock.

"Nyet," he said finally, the word a little harsh, defensive. Then, softer, almost uncertain, as if testing unfamiliar ground: "Later."

The rest of the meal passed in quiet. She couldn’t stop noticing how his gloved hands never quite clenched, how he placed the fork down between bites instead of keeping it in his grip, as if trying to prove he wasn’t a threat. As if manners could make him less dangerous.

----

As she stacked the dishes in the sink and let the water run until it steamed, she saw him stand and walk toward his bag. The grey long-sleeved shirt stretched over his back as he leaned down, his muscles moving under the thin fabric in a kind of silent choreography.

When he arrived, he always looked like some kind of soldier:  tactical pants, heavy boots, and a leather jacket bristling with hidden pockets. Never a name tag, never an insignia, just a black uniform and smoke over his eyes. Sometimes, he wore a mask covering half his face like an executioner. But almost as soon as the door closed, he would incline his head toward her as a greeting, disappear into the bathroom, and scrub it all off. He never sat down, never spoke, never did anything until the quick shower was done and he’d re-emerged dressed normally. And the gloves, of course. Always the gloves.

As he rummaged in the bag, she imagined for a moment the matte gleam of a gun. Instead, he pulled out books. Her books, she realized with a lurch, a few she’d left stacked on her coffee table back at her apartment.

He started to lay them on the table with quiet care. Then he drew something small and flat: a bookmark patterned with blue hydrangeas, delicate watercolor blooms against cream paper. Not hers. She knew every bookmark she’d ever owned, every torn-off receipt she’d once used to mark a page. This had been chosen. By him.

The water hissed from the tap, bubbles sliding over her fingers. Her eyes traveled between the glass in her hands and the neat little pile he was building on the table, the delicate bookmark laid on top like an offering at an altar, like he was trying to build something that resembled normalcy from salvaged pieces.

For a second, she could almost pretend she was watching a man come home from work, setting down gifts for his wife, the quiet domestic ritual of coming back to someone, not the stranger who had taken her out of her life. It almost felt domestic. And that was the part that scared her most.

----

She felt his gaze snap to her before she even looked up. A flicker of glacial eyes, then his hand moved. One slow push, sliding the stack of books an inch toward her. A gesture.

She looked at him, drying her fingers on the hem of the apron. There was something in his face then, just for a second: hesitation, vulnerability, a question maybe. And then it was gone, shuttered away, his expression sliding back into that familiar blankness.

She wiped her hands properly and stepped closer to the table. Her voice came out low, the way you talk to an injured animal. “Thank you,” she murmured. Then, because the silence felt heavier than his stare, she nodded at the bookmark. “Is this for me?”

“Da.”

"It's beautiful," she whispered, picking it up with careful fingers, studying the delicate watercolor petals. And there, there it was, a flash of surprise in his eyes. Or maybe she only imagined it.

She wet her lips, closing her fingers around the bookmark, pressing it against her palm like a talisman. “Do you want me to look now?” she asked quietly, careful to keep her tone neutral. Not pushing. Not coaxing. Just an offering.

For a moment, he didn't move. His eyes went to the bookmark in her hand, then to her fingers still resting on the books, then back up to her face, searching for something: mockery, maybe, or pity.

Then he nodded once.

She wiped her palms on her apron and murmured, “Okay.” The word felt even smaller in the room. “Okay, let’s… see.”

----

It lowered itself into the chair it always claimed, the one closest to the wall, the legs creaking faintly under its weight. It didn't move to take off the shirt. Didn't move at all. Just sat there, spine rigid, hands on its knees, gloved fingers flexing once, then going still.

Something in it bristled at the thought of letting her close, of showing her its wounds. Vulnerability was a hole in the armor; it was an opening, an invitation to be stabbed, betrayed, and undone. For years, that had been drilled into its brain, beaten into its body with fists and electrodes and cold rooms, until it was as automatic as breathing. Never show weakness. Never let them see.

Yet, under that, a smaller and hungrier part of it -the one that had lain beaten in a filthy alley when she'd offered her handkerchief, when she'd looked at it like it was human- craved the opposite. Wanted her hands on it, warm and careful, giving care it had never asked for, never earned, never deserved.

It stared at the far wall. She was near enough for it to smell the soap on her wrists. Its throat bobbed once as it swallowed. It wanted to tell her to go away, to stop looking at it like that, but its body stayed seated, rooted, as if it already knew it would not.

She shifted slightly. "Can you… take off your shirt?" she asked quietly, almost a whisper, careful not to startle him. Using that same soft voice she used when asking about butter.

It froze, every muscle locking. It didn't answer at once, as if debating the motion, weighing risk against… want. Against need.

Slowly, deliberately, it peeled the gloves from its fingers, flesh hand first, then the one that covered the metal. The leather flexed with a soft whisper as it lay them carefully on its knees, lined up parallel. Then its hands went to the hem of its shirt, tugging it up inch by inch, letting the material slip over its head with a whisper of cotton on skin.

She wasn't looking yet. Her own mind had drifted, gaze unfocused on the middle distance, trapped in the quiet, endless spiral of why. Why she was offering care to her fucking captor. Why she felt a need to help him, to ease his pain. Why the thought of him hurting made something twist in her chest. It didn't make sense. Stockholm syndrome, maybe. Survival instinct wearing the mask of empathy. Or maybe she was just broken in a way she hadn't recognized yet.

It sat there, bare-chested, waiting for her to register its torso, bracing for the look of disgust, horror, revulsion. Maybe a scream. Maybe tears. She hadn't broken down when it brought her here, but surely this-

Her gaze drifted to him.

For a second, she just stared, her lips parting slightly, as if her mind couldn't quite process the body in front of her. The pale light slid over ridges of old scars -knife wounds, bullet holes, burns- and the bruises blooming like ink under his skin in various stages of healing, purple and yellow and sickly green. The mountain range of scar tissue where metal bit into flesh at the shoulder, the seam angry and raised, never quite healed. It was a battlefield mapped across flesh, a history of violence made visible, years of unspoken suffering carved into muscle and bone.

It kept his eyes on the floorboards. Inside its brain, every old directive screamed to cover itself, stand up, retreat. But some thin, stubborn part of it kept it there, resting its hands on its thighs, letting her see.

She inhaled sharply and pressed her palms on the edge of the table. Her mouth opened, closed, then finally whispered, voice cracking slightly, “Where… where does it hurt the most?”

Something flashed across its features. Relief, maybe, or confusion that she wasn't running, wasn't screaming. Then its face went blank again, shuttering, and it pointed with one finger at the fresh gash along its ribs, still seeping slightly, the edges inflamed and angry.

----

The first thing that hit her wasn’t the scars but the arm. The metal arm. Titanium bright under the kitchen light, smooth plates fitted like an exoskeleton, articulated segments that moved with unsettling fluidity. A red star stamped on the forearm like a wound that had never healed. It looked too heavy for a human shoulder to bear, too deliberate, the kind of thing you only saw in feverish news footage or nightmares, conspiracy theories made flesh.

Then her eyes slid to the joint where flesh became machine. Angry ridges, old stitch-marks, skin that had learned to grow back around steel. The seam was brutal, unforgiving, no attempt at aesthetics or comfort, just function, meat fused to metal. She had to physically stop her hand from rising, from tracing the seam to soothe it, somehow as if kindness could undo years of surgical violence.

The rest of his torso read like a war diary, a chronicle of pain: thick, pale scars crossing his ribs in diagonal slashes, some raised and keloid, some faded to silver, some recent enough to shine raw and pink. Circular marks that could only be bullet wounds. Burns that had healed badly. Evidence of knives, or worse. She wondered what kind of life could carve a body like this, what kind of mind could survive it and still function. Maybe that was why he wasn’t right in the head. Maybe that was why she was here.

Her eyes finally found the new marks, bruises dark as ink spreading under his ribs, a fresh split across his flank. That was when she heard herself ask, voice low, “Where does it hurt the most?”

She worked from where he'd pointed first, the fresh gash along his ribs. Her fingers hovered over it, assessing, before reaching for the alcohol. "This is going to sting," she murmured, more warning than apology.

The first touch of alcohol-soaked cotton should have made him jolt, but instead, the only indication that he felt pain was a hiss between his teeth for almost a second. The wound was deeper than she'd hoped, and would probably need stitches in a hospital, but she knew better than to suggest that. Instead, she pulled the edges together as best she could with butterfly bandages, pressing them firmly, smoothing her thumb over each strip to ensure they'd hold.

"There," she said softly, almost to herself. Then she moved to the bruises at his shoulder, pressing gently, checking for breaks, feeling for the telltale shift of fractured bone beneath muscle. Nothing seemed broken, just deep tissue damage that would hurt for weeks. She traced the edges of the bruising with careful fingers, cataloging the damage.

Finally, the shallow cuts scattered across his ribs. Her hands moved automatically: alcohol, gauze, tape, the muscle memory of someone who'd patched up strays before, who knew how to be gentle with wounded things.

With each touch of cotton, each press of tape, he seemed to lean imperceptibly closer, tilting his weight a fraction toward her warmth like a plant bending toward sun. But his eyes never closed, not even for a blink too long, tracking her every movement with unnerving stillness, as if he expected her to strike, to hurt him when he was most vulnerable

When the last strip of tape was pressed flat, she straightened and stepped back. He reached for his shirt immediately, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. By the time she’d packed up the kit, he was already reaching for his gloves.

“You don’t have to,” she said softly, half a question, half a plea. “If it’s more comfortable… you can leave them off.”

He paused, one glove dangling from his fingers. His gaze dropped to the titanium hand, matte plates catching the low light, articulated fingers that could bend metal without effort, then lifted to her face. The air between them seemed to contract. She felt herself trying to smile, to make it casual.

“It’s-” her voice cracked, then steadied. “It’s a really good prosthesis. I mean, looks… advanced.” She was babbling now, filling the silence with anything that might ease the tension that seemed to pile up on his shoulders.

He didn’t answer. Just the barest shake of his head before sliding the glove over metal, tugging it snug at the wrist. Leather swallowed steel until only the faintest outline of the plates showed.

Inside, a mantra as old as the programming: never touch her with those hands. Not after what they’d done. Not after what he’d done.

----

Time blurred after that night. His visits were never on a schedule she could trace; sometimes he vanished for days, leaving her alone with the ticking clock and the green-purple light, sometimes he came back before sunrise, smelling of gunpowder and something metallic she tried not to think about. When he stayed overnight, it was always the same ritual: she in the bed, him somewhere else in the apartment. On the floor, maybe, or in the chair by the table, sitting upright in the dark.

He never lay down with her, never crossed that invisible boundary. Instead, he would pause at the threshold, voice low and flat, telling her to sleep. Not asking. Telling. And somehow, he always knew when she’d kept her eyes open too long, when she was rigid under the sheets; a quiet insistence would follow, a sound more like a command than a suggestion, pressing her back into drowsy obedience.

More than once, she’d heard him in the bathroom after midnight. The pipes carried every sound; a thin, wet rhythm, the drag of breath through his teeth, a low, muffled noise that was almost but not quite a groan. The kind of sound that made her skin prickle because it was intimate and solitary at the same time, because she shouldn't be hearing it.

Afterward, the tap would run. The door would open. Footsteps would cross the floor.

She always lay turned toward the wall, face pressed to the pillow. She never shifted when the door hinges squeaked. She knew he knew she was awake -it was impossible not to- and yet the silence between them held. Neither of them acknowledged it, and somehow that was worse than if they had.

----

He’d slid down into the corner hours ago, knees drawn up, head against the wall, like a machine finally powered off. She’d heard his breathing lengthen, the little catches in it that marked the border between wake and sleep. For once, she’d dared pad barefoot across the studio in her nightgown, just to look at him up close.

At some point in the dark, it started: a low sound from his throat, a twitch in his shoulders, one gloved hand clawing at the floor. His body jerked as though invisible fists were landing, muscles locking, jaw clenched so hard she thought it would crack a tooth. She stood up from the bed and went toward him, then froze, with her fingers half-extended; she didn’t want to be the thing his mind attached to his terror.

Then, as abruptly as it had come, it broke. He jolted awake with a ragged breath, eyes wide and unfocused, chest heaving. For a second, he didn’t know where he was; then the walls and shadows became familiar, and his gaze found hers.

She stood a step away, hands hovering in the dim light, a whisper caught between her lips, "It's okay," she said finally, voice hoarse from sleep and something else. Tenderness, maybe, or pity. "You were having a bad dream. That's all.”

His eyes flashed down to the floor, then up to her face. They were wet at the corners, and for a heartbeat, she thought he’d shove her away.

She knelt on the soft carpeted floor and reached for him as though approaching some wounded, cornered animal. Her arms slid tentatively around his shoulders, drawing his head against the thin cotton of her nightgown. Then, slowly, like ice melting, his forehead came to rest just below her collarbone, pressing his weight against her chest, surrendering to the contact.

She could feel the tremor running through his body, feel the damp heat of his breath through the fabric, the smell of soap and metal and sweat. Her hands moved once in his hair without thinking, a gentle hush of touch.

For a long moment, they stayed like that, a strange knot of warmth in the cold studio. Her hand moved again, and again through his strands of hair, and something in him went very still.

Its gloved fingers twitched against the floor. Then, almost without its consent, one rose to her hip, settling there with a hesitant weight, the way a man might test a step on ice. She felt the leather under her nightgown, the pressure light but unmistakable.

She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. She breathed out instead, a soft thread of air against its crown, warm and steady, and her other hand kept combing through its hair, nails scratching lightly against its scalp.

The part of it built to survive, to kill, whispered that this was dangerous, that closeness was always a precursor to pain. But the other part of it that had lain half-dead in that alley, clutching a strawberry handkerchief like a relic, leaned into her warmth, into the impossible softness of being held.

Its other hand rose, brushed her waist with reverent hesitation, then flattened at her back, holding her just enough to feel the beat of her heart.

It inhaled against her chest, deep and desperate. Soap, cotton, skin. The scent it had stalked for weeks was now alive and shivering under his hands. His grip closed a fraction, not enough to bruise but enough to feel the tremor in his own knuckles.

Her breath trembled against his scalp; she could feel the tremor in his arms, the hesitant rise of his chest as he pressed a little closer. His fingers no longer sat still on her hips, they began to move, stroking the cotton of her nightdress in small circles, learning the terrain. Still gloved. Still careful.

She didn’t pull away. Her body stayed loose against him, as if a stiff posture might shatter their fragile truce, might remind them both of what this was, what he'd done. Her hands kept moving, one at the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, the other at his nape, tracing down over the rigid line of his shoulders. “It’s okay,” she murmured again, not sure for whom she said it.

He lifted his head at last. Eyes still dark, shadowed, but no longer vacant, no longer lost in nightmare. He looked at her mouth, then at her throat, then at her hands on him.

Something flashed across his face -need, shame, hunger, all at once- and his thumb moved over the edge of her nightgown, catching the hem where it had ridden up her thigh. When she didn't move, didn't protest, just watched him with those wide soft eyes, he eased his forehead back against hers, an almost-kiss without pressure, just breathing her in, sharing air, and his hand slid up her bare thigh, leather warm against her skin, climbing higher with aching slowness.

He reached for the hem of her nightgown and, with a swift, insistent motion -giving her time to stop it- peeled the thin cotton over her head. It fell somewhere behind them, forgotten. For a long heartbeat, he only stared, eyes wide and hungry but trembling, as if afraid the vision might disappear.

Then, still silent—it had no words for this, no script, no orders—it guided her down onto the carpet. Its palms were rough and warm even through the leather on her shoulders. Still, its movements were oddly careful, almost ritualistic, reverent, as it lowered her until her back met the softness of the rug.

It followed her down, kneeling, bracing itself with one arm beside her head. Then it bent, pressing its mouth to her sternum, a single exhale against her skin before its lips began to travel lower. First, a kiss at the hollow between her breasts, then another, wetter, at the curve of her left breast. It opened its mouth wider, drawing the flesh in, circling slowly with its tongue, reverently, as though memorizing her taste.

Her breath caught when it dragged its thumb across her nipple, then sealed its mouth over it, suckling until she gasped. It alternated between kisses and soft bites, its tongue and lips tracing circles, the cool of its metal thumb contrasting with the heat of its mouth. It worshipped, slow and deliberate, switching from one breast to the other, moving its mouth greedily but never roughly, breathing harder each time she shivered beneath it.

It drew back a fraction, eyes dark, a thread of saliva connecting its lips to her skin. Without looking up, it pressed one last kiss to the inside of her breast, then let its hand slide down her side, over her hip, pausing at the waistband of her panties. The intention was unmistakable. Its gaze flicked up at hers, searching for permission, then back down, head lowering again, ready to descend further, to taste more, to finish the devotion it had started.

It began its slow, possessive descent, its mouth trailing heat over every inch of skin it could reach. The leather of one glove brushed along her side as it shifted, the cool metal of the mittened hand steadying her hips to the carpet. It moved lower, the sound of its breath rougher now, as her scent drew it in like a current.

When it reached her thighs, it slid both hands outward, guiding her legs apart with soft insistence. She tensed, instinctively trying to close herself off with shame flickering across her face, even as her breath came faster.

It looked up at her, eyes dark but unblinking, and applied the faintest extra pressure, easily holding her open with the contrast of soft leather and cold alloy. "No," it said. Just that, low and absolute, not a rebuke but a command, voice rough velvet against the air.

It stayed there for a heartbeat, stroking small circles at the crease of her thigh with its gloved thumb, metal fingers still holding her firmly. Its gaze held hers, waiting until her trembling slowed, until she nodded almost imperceptibly, until she let go of the last bit of resistance. Only then did it lower its head again, inhaling deeply, parting its lips, a sound half growl, half sigh escaping its throat.

It lowered his mouth to her, brushing his lips along her slit. Her heat, her wetness, met it immediately, and it inhaled sharply, tasting her as it flicked out its tongue to find the sensitive bundle of nerves that made her arch and shiver. It circled, flicked, and sucked with slow, possessive insistence. Each motion drew a ragged moan from her throat, a shiver through her body.

It had all the strength to keep her open, but it was the quiet command in its single word and the way it used its mouth -slow, relentless, skilled- that broke through her shame and replaced it with shuddering pleasure.

Her breath came in short, broken gasps, small moans spilling from her mouth as it built her tension higher, teasing every nerve until she could no longer think, only shiver, arch, and cry out.

It slid its gloved finger inside her, curling, pressing, pushing in perfect sync with the motions of its mouth. Each thrust of its thick finger met the suction on her clit, amplifying every gasp, every whimper, every trembling response. It explored, stroked, and pressed, drawing her higher with patient obsession, worshiping with its lips and tongue, fingers probing with intent.

It felt the slick walls around its finger begin to pulse, squeezing rhythmically, and her next sound -half-moan, half-sob- gave it the cue. It buried his finger to the knuckle, angled just so, rubbing that exact spot deep inside her while its mouth sealed over her clit. Its suction grew stronger, relentless now, drawing her higher with every pull of its mouth.

Her thighs trembled violently, hands clutching at nothing as she cried out. It didn’t let up; it just held her there, its finger still pressing and stroking, its mouth latched on her clit, drinking in every shudder, every helpless sound as her climax hit.

The pulse around its finger became frantic as her hips bucked up against its face, her orgasm breaking over her, the wet heat coating its glove, her voice cracking into a raw cry.

It kept the pressure and suction through every spasm, riding it out with her until she went loose and trembling, hips falling back to the carpet.

Only then did it ease its finger free, slowing its tongue to soft, wet laps that coaxed the aftershocks from her body. Her thighs quivered around its shoulders, the scent of her climax heavy in the air, and it stayed there for a moment longer, breathing her in, gloved hands sliding up her legs in a slow, possessive caress.

It lifted its head from between her thighs, lips wet, eyes black with hunger. For a heartbeat, it only looked at her, breathing hard, a small tremor in its shoulders. Zhena. The word moved silently on its lips before it pushed itself up, sliding its hands down its own thighs.

It started to undo its pants with a rough jerk, the fabric straining over the thick shape of its erection. When it shoved them down its hips along with its briefs, its cock sprang free, flushed dark, and heavy.

She caught herself staring -the size of him, the weight, the hunger in his eyes- and when he noticed, she flicked her gaze away, heat rushing into her cheeks.

“It’s okay,” it rasped, voice still that rough velvet. Not a tease, not a question. A reassurance.

It shifted closer, kneeling between her thighs, sliding one gloved hand under her knee to open her fully again. With the other, it wrapped its palm around its shaft, stroking once, guiding himself lower. The head of its cock found her entrance, slick and hot from its mouth, and it pushed forward just enough to breach her, the pressure making her gasp.

It held there for a beat, just the swollen crown inside, its breathing ragged, waiting for her to relax.

Then it sank into her slowly, the slick heat of her body drawing a low, broken sound from its chest. Its hands stayed braced on either side of her hips, gloved fingers biting lightly into her skin as it fought to keep the movement steady. She arched beneath him, tipping her head back, a soft gasp spilling from her lips at the stretch.

For a heartbeat, they held still, pressed together, the only sounds their ragged breathing and the wet slide where their bodies met. Then it began to move -slow thrusts, deliberate and heavy- pulling back just enough to push in again, deeper each time. The muscles in its back flexed under the low light, its breath breaking in quiet groans with every stroke.

Her thighs trembled around its hips, drawing her knees higher. She met it instinctively, rolling her hips up to catch it, a thin whimper leaving her throat when it shifted just right and grazed that spot inside that made her body jolt.

Its rhythm built gradually, snapping its hips a little harder, then slowing again, its whole body trembling with the effort of control.

It slid one palm from her waist to the carpet, bracing itself over her without losing the rhythm. The wet sounds between them grew louder as it drove deeper, pulling almost out before sliding back in with a slow, grinding push that pressed them flush together. It dropped its head toward her throat, its breath hot against her skin as it panted, small guttural noises slipping out of it each time it bottomed out.

She clawed lightly at its back through the fabric of his t-shirt, eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open on a low cry as it rocked into her. The hand on her hip slid under her thigh, lifting her higher so it could push even deeper, the angle hitting her perfectly.

Its pubic bone brushed her clit with every drag of its hips, a rough, relentless friction that made her gasp out loud, startled at the sudden jolt of pleasure.

She clenched down on him in reflex, inner muscles gripping him like a pulse, and the sudden squeeze pulled a low, broken sound from his throat.

It responded with a harder, faster roll of its hips, every thrust heavier, wetter, louder. The sounds of their bodies slapping together filled the room as her gasps turned into raw, breathless cries. Her nails raked down its back, her thighs trembling, every drag of its cock hitting deeper and rubbing harder against her swollen clit.

Its breath fell against her mouth, hot and uneven, russian curses spilling between clenched teeth.

Her breath broke into shuddered gasps until no sound came at all,  just her mouth open, lips trembling, and her head tipping back as she came, silent and overwhelming.

Her body clamped around it, milking it, dragging out a groan from its lips as its hips snapped in three heavy thrusts, until it reached its own peak, every muscle tensing as it throbbed and spilled into her with a final, shuddering growl.

It stayed over her, still braced on its forearm, its breath hot against the hollow of her neck. It didn't move to roll off; it simply pressed its face into the side of her throat as if it could disappear there. Its shoulders trembled with the aftershocks, fine tremors running through muscle and sinew as it let go of her thigh to press its other arm on the floor, taking its weight to not crush her beneath it.

She lay staring at the ceiling, at the green-purple light filtering through the fake stained glass, heartbeat still ragged and too loud in her ears, her body humming with sensation she didn't want to name. Her palm drifted up almost without thinking, moving on instinct, until it rested at the nape of its neck. Her fingertips traced the damp hair stuck to its skin, darkened with sweat, a hesitant gesture that was not quite a caress, not quite a question.

“Hey,” Her voice was a hush, more air than sound. “You… never told me what I should call you.”

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing. He didn’t lift his head, didn't pull away from the shelter of her neck. She felt its jaw shift and the faint scrape of stubble against her skin.

Then, low and rough, like a word dragged out of some hidden place, it said, “Muzh.”

She blinked, not sure if it was a name or just a sound. Either way, it was more than she’d had before. Something to call him.

Her fingers kept moving through his hair, slow and steady, while the clock on the wall ticked on, marking the time in their snow-globe world, suspended and untouchable.

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212 @dracosathenaeum @frog-fans-unite @wintrsoldrluvr @escapefromrealitylol @nojudgmentjustsupport @lemonylover @mcueveryday

dividers by @/hyuneskkami

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

With each touch of cotton, each press of tape, he seemed to lean imperceptibly closer, tilting his weight a fraction toward her warmth like a plant bending toward sun.

[vunblr]

Spasibo

Pairing: SoftDark! Winter Soldier x Female Reader

Warnings: Somnophilia/non-con -masturbation-. Stalking.

Summary: She offered kindness where there should’ve been fear. Now it haunts her in silence, starved for warmth it can’t forget.

Word Count: 987.

notes: For the @avengers-assemble-bingo event, Kinky Bingo. The Prompt is Somnophilia. Card number KB-014.

SoftDark! AU Masterlist

They hadn’t said it that time.

The mission briefing had been barked, burning coordinates into its brain, the mark to eliminate, the item to retrieve. But they hadn’t said no witnesses. That line, that kill-switch command that made the world go red and simple, went missing.

It didn’t know why. Oversight, irrelevance.

Didn’t matter.

The Soldat followed the target anyway, carried on the mission, and then sat in the grime of an alley. One eye was swelling shut. Blood dribbled from its lip, slow and sticky. Its ribs shrieking every time it breathed.

And that’s when she came.

Light footsteps. The jingle of a metal bowl in her hand. Cat food. Of all things. She came to feed the strays in that stinking alley.

And saw it.

She should’ve screamed. Run. But she stopped with wide and soft eyes, and something in her face. Pity? No. Not that.

She stepped closer, cautiously. Didn’t ask what it was doing. Didn’t demand answers. Just looked at it. Quietly. Then pulled something from her pocket and offered it out.

A handkerchief. Folded. Patterned with strawberries.

“For your lip,” she said. “You need it more than I do.”

The Soldat didn’t move. Just stared at her. She wasn’t a threat. She wasn’t a target. She was a witness, but no order existed for her.

It took the handkerchief.

Didn’t thank her. Didn’t speak. But it didn’t throw it away either.

And that was the mistake.

Or maybe the seed of it all.

----

It found her two weeks later. Tracked her. It wasn’t looking for anything, not really. Just a scent. A place to curl in the absence of blood.

Her apartment wasn’t locked tight. Second floor, balcony entrance. Easy.

She left her window cracked for the breeze.

It slipped in without a sound.

Didn’t wake her.

Didn’t touch.

Just watched her sleep, crouched at the edge of her room, with its knees bent like a feral thing in wait, a gloved hand twitching against the floorboards.

But later, on missions, after the carnage, it would remember the piece of cloth still hidden in the chest pocket of its gear and smell her kindness, dried and faded now, but real. Press it over a mouth that never smiled. Close its eyes like praying.

So it came back. At first, it was only crouching in silence. Weeks of it, watching the rise and fall of her breath, how her fingers curled in her sheets. How her lips twitched when she dreamed.

Once, it knelt by the bed. Leaned close. Pressed its nose to her hair, breathing deep like it could warm it from the inside out.

The next time, it lay beside her. Once. Just once. Careful not to shift the mattress. Didn't touch. Didn’t move.

Not until she turned in her sleep, and her knee brushed against its thigh, and her breath fanned its cheek, and then it bolted down the side of the building and vanished like a shadow.

But the last time- no. Not the last, just the worst.

Something changed.

She lay on her stomach, tangled in white cotton. The old nightdress clung high on her hips, exposing her thighs, the round, sweet curve of her ass.

No underwear.

No barriers.

The Soldat landed on her balcony like a whisper. Damp boots, ragged breath. Blood still under its fingernails from somewhere else. It was on its knees before it knew it. Crawled to the bed like an animal starved of warmth. Lowered its face to her sheets.

A muscle twitched in its jaw. It didn’t touch her directly.

But it couldn’t stop itself and ended up reaching. With trembling fingers, it lifted the hem of her nightdress, slowly and reverently.

Her scent invaded its senses. Sweet, sleep-warm, and slick.

It lowered its face between her semi-parted thighs, brushing its nose against her skin, just to smell. To inhale. Its body shuddered, eyes rolled back.

It wasn’t enough.

It straddled the backs of her thighs and leaned to grab the headboard of the bed with its metal hand. Then, freed its cock, already hot and leaking in its hand, and began to stroke.

It didn’t rush.

Just moved over her in silent tempo, eyes locked on the mess of her hair, inhaling the scent of her shampoo, and listening to the whisper of her breath.

Every pump of its fist reminded it of the handkerchief.

She slept through it.

Of course she did.

It came with a strangled sound, thick spurts of seed painted her skin, viscous heat sliding down between her thighs, pooling too close to what it would never dare to take.

For a moment, it just stared.

Then, her breath hitched, and she turned slightly, but didn’t wake up.

It moved quickly. Found a washcloth, wet it with warm water from her kitchen sink, and returned to the bed.

It cleaned her slowly.

As if each wipe could undo its sin. It mopped the spend from her inner thighs, her ass, even the sheets beneath her where it had dripped. It worked by moonlight and by breath, as gently as it could manage with a metal arm and blood beneath its nails under the damp cloth.

Erased the defilement, as if it never happened.

As if it hadn’t knelt over her and spent itself on her skin like a starving thing.

She didn’t wake.

Maybe she dreamed of something soft and warm. The Soldat hoped- no, it didn’t know what it hoped. That was a forbidden word.

It smoothed the cotton nightdress back into place and stared at her.

It would never touch her with those hands.

But a word softly left its lips, one that no one had trained it to say.

The one it owed her from the handkerchief.

"Spasibo."

Then it slid out the window into the dark, the strawberry cloth still hidden in its chest pocket, close to skin that never felt clean.

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

I held my breath the whole time I read this!!!!!! Poetry at its finest 🙌🏽🙌🏽

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Drive By

Warning: dub/noncon, criminal activity, intimidation.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Frank Castle

Summary: while selling your flowers, you get more in return than you expect.

Note: Part of the Dirty Men Doing Dirty Deeds AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Jackie likes blue flax with larkspur. You hand over the bundle as she drops money in your basket. You look down at the bouquets of wild flower and thank her.

"These will look lovely in my kitchen. The kids are coming to visit." She preens as she turns the bunch by the stems and strokes the petals.

"How exciting," you breathe wistfully. "Family... Is so special."

She smiles at you with a tint of pity in her pale blue eyes. You hop on your heels and spin away. "Have a lovely day."

You hum and carry on along your usual route. The cafe takes a half-dozen bundles to put out at their tables. They're always so nice to you and offer a free tea. You get one with ice that day.

You leave the cafe, condensation running down your wrist and suck on the paper straw. You swing your basket with your steps as you continue down the block. The sun is so pretty today. The clouds are wispy and romantic.

Up ahead, there's a burger place with picnic tables outside, a few smaller tables along the front windows. On busier days, you might sell a few flowers to couples out for a lunch date. As you near, you don't see much of a crowd, only the usual figure perched in an iron chair, his hand around a glass bottle of soda.

The ice rattles in the plastic cup as you near Frank. His stares across the street but he's aware of your approach. He knows everything that goes on.

You stop by his table. "Nice out, today." 

"Too hot," he wipes his forehead. His thick black hair and black beard are damp with sweat.

"Do you like sunflowers or cosmos?" You ask.

His eyes flick over to you. He leans back slightly, sideways in his chair, hand still on the bottle. "No flowers today."

"Maybe tomorrow." You hum. "Have a good one, Mister."

You waft by him, your skirt rippling behind your knees, the scent of pollen stirred by the motion.

"Mm. You too." He growls after you.

You lift your chin a little higher. He's yet to buy any flowers but it's the first time he said that. You think it might be a good day so far.

You go to the park and find your usual spot. A bench beneath a weeping tree. Some stop to peruse, a few buy, and others simply ignore you. You like to watch. It peaceful. It why you could never work behind a counter. You just love to be outside. Walls are so oppressive.

The afternoon melts over the sky and you scoop up your basket full of flowers. You put your empty cup on the nearest bin and float down the far end of the path. As you emerge through the crooked trellis coiled in ivy, a rumbling beast rolls up before you.

The large black truck idles, chugging as the window rolls down. You stand on your toes to see inside. You must have the look of someone who knows where you're going as people stop you so often for directions. Too bad you never have a good answer.

"Turnin' in for the night?" Frank asks.

You tilt your head curiously. "I suppose I'll find my way home soon."

He nods and checks the windshield. "I'll give ya a ride."

You angle your head the other way. "It isn't far, Mister."

"Don't mind." He leans over the empty side of the seat and tries to see past the edge of the window. "Got flowers left in there?"

"A couple."

"How much?"

"Half a dozen for six. Ten for a full dozen." You say.

"For all." He says.

"Hmm. End of day discount, how about... Twenty-five?"

"Thirty. And you let me drive ya." He insists.

You look down at your basket. It's better than letting them wilt for no one but you. You nod.

"Okay, Mister." You say.

He reaches over and pulls up the lock. The truck is an older model. As you open the door, you find a single bench seat. You put your basket up first and climb in after.

You turn to close the door as he cranks the shifter behind the wheel.

You sit back and catch the basket before it can slide off the seat. You glance at him as he leans on the gas. He keeps a slow trawl down the street.

"I live on Crawford." You say.

He slides his hand to the bottom of the wheel, an arm slung across the driver's window. He steers with just his thick thumb. His thick beard has a small patch of grey and the hair on his head is even denser.

He scratches his cheek as the wind blows through the window and ruffles his hair. He sighs. "Damn thing," he tugs the shank on his chin. "Needa just get rid of the damn nest."

"You can't do that." You say.

"Why's that?" He asks.

You dip your hand into the basket and grab a stem of jasmine. He taps the break as you reach over and tuck it into his beard so the petals stick out. "Cause now it's good luck."

"Mm," he hums as he lets off the brake. "Smells nice."

"They can mean hope. Or friendship. Or maybe they're just pretty." You say.

He stops at the sign and cranes to see himself in the rearview. He touches the flower but doesn't take it out. He sits back and drives on, steering away from Crawford.

You won't say anything for a bit. A little longer means you can admire the scenery. You mostly walk wherever you go.

He chews his lower lip and runs his thumb along the wheel. He pushes his hair back and clutches it. A line pinches in his forehead. He mutters but you can't make out the words.

He turns another corner. You watch a chipmunk skitter up a tree and a pigeon pecks at a crack in the pavement. You kick your feet over the floor.

"Mister." You say. "I don't live this way.”

He nods. His dark eyes scan the road. He turns off toward the trees.

“I know…” he says so quietly, you can barely parse it out.

Your chest fills with static. Your panic sinks beneath your helplessness. You know you won’t be able to stop him if he tries anything. You knew that in the back of your mind when you got in the truck. And you got in.

You look out the windshield and watch the trees get closer. He drives between them and stops beneath a canopy of leaves. You don’t react as he pulls the lever into park. Not even as he shuts off the engine.

“You wanna put that on the floor?” He asks quietly.

You reach over and move the basket onto the floor. You stare at the bunches of flowers you tied together with twine. The bells on the foxglove are falling off.

“That’s good.” He drawls.

You clasp your hands together. He grips the wheel. You can see his measured breaths from the corner of your eye. A samara spins through the air and lands on the hood.

“You’re lonely…” you say.

He exhales. He doesn’t answer. You wait. You watch another green samara twirl down.

His hand rests on your thigh. You keep your eyes forward. He squeezes and growls. You put your hand on his.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. He doesn’t have to. You sidle over the seat and nestle close to him. His body is rigid.

You squeeze two of his thick fingers in your fist. You pet his knuckles. The tension seeps from him little by little. You trace a bulging vein across the back of his hand.

“You’re sweet,” he whispers.

You stroke his hand, grazing the dark hair above his knuckles. He turns his palm up. You put yours against it and lean into him.

“Too sweet,” he breathes.

He grabs onto your hand and tugs your arm up above your head. You gasp as he bends your arm back over your shoulder and turns your hip. He guides you down onto the seat as he twists around. He lays you across the coarse weave and spreads himself over you.

“Please, mister, I won’t be bad.” You say as his pelvis sinks down against yours. His weight aches in your hips.

His dark eyes bore into you as his brows stitch. He untangles his hand from yours. He pets your head and kisses the tip of your nose. You shiver.

“Be sweet for me,” he begs. “That’s all.”

“Yes, Mister. I’ll be sweet.” You assure him as you feel along his beard. The jasmine falls down beside your head. “Nice and sweet.”

You trail down his neck and he shudders. He closes his eyes and his jaw clenches visibly. He bends to rest his forehead on yours. He grips the edge of the seat and pushes his pelvis down, crushing you into the cushion.

“I need you bad.” He rolls his hips. “But… I don’t wanna break ya.”

“I know, mister.” You twine your fingers through his thick hair.

He hums and tilts his hips down again. The friction chafes in his jeans and speckles along your thighs. You stroke the back of his head. He growls.

“I want ya… but I don’t… don’t wanna hurt ya.” He thrusts hard, ramming against you bluntly. “Just thinking of ya around me. You wanna be sweet with me, don’t ya?”

“Yes, Mister. Nice and sweet,” you echo his earlier words. “Just for you.”

 His hand slips under your head, fingers stretched around your skull. He hisses as he rubs against you furiously. He groans into your ear.

“Just for me,” he rasps and spasms, writhing against you wildly. “So sweet… so…”

He grunts and locks up. He quakes and falls down on you with his full weight. He pants into your hair as his hand falls away from your head. You trail your fingers down the back of his neck.

“I get lonely too.” You murmur.

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

A feral Frank castle is my favorite Frank Castle!

[biteofcherry]

Just read your bikers Ari and Curtis 🤯 Their so hot and dark. I'm scared of them but I want to be theirs. Now I'm thinking how would you write a dark biker Steve?

So this is the ask that I started writing a story for yesterday and lost it completely 🙁I spent half of yesterday crying because of that. I was angry and sad at the loss, then my period hormones added to that, turning it into a full on breakdown.

Honestly, I was ready to abandon it completely. I knew I wouldn't be able to recreate it the way it was written (and I was so happy with the sentences I weaved). But today I decided to not give in to my stupid hormones, nor to the fuckery that tumblr can be on occasion.

I mean, the power of dark biker Steve is stronger than any obstacle! 😎

Truly, I couldn't resist the idea of biker Steve in the same vibe as Gasoline Ari and Curtis. So maybe it's not even my stubbornness to fight against the difficulties, but my horniness for Steve that prevails, lol

~ * ~

Cornflower

dark biker!Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: No one attempts to cheat Steve Rogers and his Dark Avengers. Unfortunately, your husband makes that mistake.

warnings: Dark Steve. Dub-con. Power imbalance. Oral. Fingering. Pussy spanking. Squirting. Unprotected. Anal play. A smidge of degradation. Possessiveness.

word count: 4.5k

Steve Rogers Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Steve Rogers leads the Dark Avengers, a group that stretches its dark wings over the whole span of the city and wide area surrounding it. They may give to the community, but it’s on their terms only, and the avenging they do is for their past hurts, offences, as well for not abiding to the Captain’s rule. 

You’d say no one sane dares to go against him, if even the law is deep in his pocket (or cowering in the corner in fear of what gruesome retaliation he could come up with). But perhaps it doesn’t have anything to do with sanity, and everything to do with stupidity.

There were traits your husband annoyed you with on occasion, but never before would you call him stupid.

Unfortunately, he proves to be exactly that when a strong wing of the biker gang rides into your neighborhood and flanks your house.

They don’t wait for the nightfall. They don’t need to hide in the shadows. They come in broad daylight, on a Sunday noon before the scent of home cooked dinner spreads through the house. 

Of course you didn’t know your husband scratched the gang’s back, to have his back scratched in return. His ambition tended to spike into a red flag, though you didn’t expect it to veil true greed. 

You’re frozen on the spot when Steve enters the house, two of his men right behind him. No guns up, no trashing of the place. Quite a polite self-invitation, really. But nothing about them is polite. They’re contaminating the safe, light space with the darkness that drags with them. 

There’s a crunch of bone and a spurt of blood when they hurt your husband. Your instinct to rush to his aid is more a human reaction than your bravery to shield your husband from consequences of his own actions.

You don’t get far. 

Steve’s arm shots up, his hand clenching around the front of your neck with precision that didn’t need calculating. 

His grip is firm, unyielding. Even as you gulp nervously and your throat bobs against the warmth of his palm. 

His eyes are so blue. You’d call them beautiful if they didn’t belong to a monster. His attention shifted to you fully, but somehow you knew he was still very much aware of every detail that was happening behind him. 

Without taking his eyes off of you, Steve ordered his men to take your husband to his study. To wire all of your savings into Rogers’ account. From the secret, off-shore account your husband’s been keeping from you, as well. 

When Steve’s gaze slowly swipes down your form, studying every inch of your clothed body, it’s not exactly lewd. But there is clear interest in his eyes that prickles goosebumps all over your skin. 

“You’re a counselor.” He states. You’re not surprised he knows such details. 

“We’re going to arrange a session,” Steve’s thumb presses harder to the side of your neck, where your pulse pounds wildly as terror intensifies. “You’ll help me make some decisions.”

Tears well in your eyes when his hold shifts to the back of your neck and, with a squeeze, he nudges you toward the stairs. He makes you walk up to the floor where your bedroom stands wide open. 

You know fighting him off won’t make any difference. If anything, it would make things worse. More painful. In the end any accusation you make would still be swept under a rug. You hate that your husband isn’t fighting for you either, even if he stands no chance. Honestly, you’re not even sure he would attempt to prevent it from happening.

Steve doesn’t shove you. Doesn’t hit. He simply walks into the bedroom with you and gives a single command:

“Strip.”

With trembling fingers, you pull the zipper on the side of your cream dress. Steve takes off his leather jacket and drapes it over the back of the velvet chair at your vanity. The black t-shirt he’s wearing stretches tightly across the wide span of his broad chest. The stitching on the sleeves threatens to rip when his biceps bulge. 

He takes it off in one move, revealing a sculpture of light skin covered in a map of dark symbols, remnants, and meanings sealed in ink. You’ve never seen a man so well built, neither one so heavily tattooed. 

It amps the scary factor. It also ignites something low in your belly. A heated curiosity at a forbidden fruit that means only doom.

You take off your bra and underwear, preferring not to test the limits by showing defiance. What would be the point if in the end he’d still have you spread out naked. Best to endure it, hoping for it to end. 

Steve points to the bed and you sit at the edge of the mattress; your legs pressed closed, your hands covering the triangle between your thighs. You try to focus on the details of the fluffy rug beneath your feet, but the jangle of belt buckle tugs on that curious thread and your gaze shifts upwards.

He works his belt and zipper open, then pushes his jeans down. The sight of his cock, already hardening, rushes heat between your thighs.

He’s big. Not comically so. Proportionally. Impressive in girth and length. 

A cock you could fantasise about, if it wasn’t about to bring you humiliation and pain. 

Steve steps close, towering over you. It’s not only because you’re seated, and you’re no dainty Thumbelina either. He’s simply massive. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asks, voice completely calm. 

There’s poor consolation in the fact he doesn’t mock you, that he won’t be humiliating you in front of his men. That, in it all, he treats you quite gently. For now, at least. 

You shake your head, despite knowing well it won’t save you from him. 

Steve leans down, placing his hands on your thighs. They’re so big his fingers grip nearly the whole span of your thick thighs. The pressure there is steady, on the edge of hurtful.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asks again, and this time you give the right answer.

“Yes.” Your throat constricts as you whisper. 

Steve Rogers is a very clever man. Making you sign your fate with your own voice, consenting to something you truly didn’t want. 

Tears well up in your eyes as his touch moves down. His fingers hook beneath your knees and he pries your legs open. He spreads you wide, forcing your bent legs up until your feet rest on the edge of the mattress. Your pelvis tilts, your balance shifts. You have to brace yourself on your hands, placing them on the sheets behind you.

His blue eyes blaze with hell fire, which scorches your skin from within as Steve slowly drops his gaze down your naked, exposed form. 

“Does your husband eat your pussy?” He asks unabashedly, studying your most intimate place with intent that forms a phantom caress right over your folds. 

“Sometimes,” you reply in a small voice. 

“He’s really dumb.” Steve snorts, summing up all of the foolish decisions your husband made that got you into this position, as well pointing out the opportunities missed.

He doesn’t follow it with explanations of how a husband should worship his wife’s pussy, there’s no poetic remark on not treasuring properly the sweetness of your cunt. What’s unsaid is the power that a man holds, if he makes his woman shatter on his tongue into an unsalvageable mess that will forever belong to him. 

Steve grips your hips and easily tosses your body further onto the mattress. That’s impressive, too. You’re not a small person. Your curves overflow man’s hands, yet Rogers had no problem manhandling you into position on your back in the middle of your marital bed. 

He crawls over you. Even on his knees, between your obscenely spread thighs, he maintains the full power. 

He looks down at you not with the appetite of a bloodlusting warlord wanting to break his enemies, but the confident calm of a triumphant king who already owns these conquered lands.

He brushes his fingertips over your cheek and down the column of your throat. Swipes them lower, tracing circles across the soft swell of your breast, until your nipples stiffen into painful points begging for attention. 

Instead of aiding their suffering, Steve strokes the skin right under your boob where a delicate cornflower shivers on its thin stem with each shaky breath you take.

It’s a souvenir from your twenty-fifth birthday, when your friends came up with this reckless idea to get matching tattoos. Four giggling flowers who pretended they would remain badass forever and not become proper women in their steady, boring lives. 

Steve studies that cornflower as if it was the key to understanding you. 

It lasts merely a few breaths before both of his hands spread over your curves and grip your flesh as he lowers his head to your belly. A shiver rocks your body, not entirely in repulsion. 

He leads open-mouthed, wet kisses over the weight that you often feel insecure about. Each taste of your skin seems to drive him hungrier, less patient. Kisses turn into sucking, nipping even. Until he’s leaving a line of deep hickeys across your abdomen and toward the juncture of your thigh. 

One of his hands pins your thigh down. With the other he hoists your leg over his shoulder, then places it atop your mound, using his fingers to spread you open. 

There’s no preamble. His tongue licks your seam open. Then his full mouth is there on your pussy - lips, nose, beard. As if he’s biting into his favorite, juicy fruit after starving for days. 

There’s nothing gentle, or sweet in the way he feasts on you. He eats your pussy with decisiveness and certain mercilessness, like your body had no other choice but to yield and love his brand of pleasure. And, to your horror, it does. 

His tongue swipes into spots that your fingers never discovered as sensitive, his sucking competes with your trusted toy. He plays your pussy like a maestro, plucking a harmony of moans and screams that reverberate through the house. 

You're helpless against the onslaught. Even the part of your brain that a few minutes ago knew it’s supposed to hate and sob at the assault, is overridden by waves of arousal beyond your control.

Pitiful protest bubbling on your lips are more at yourself for giving into the pleasure. Steve pays them no mind as he licks you into a mess that drips down his chin. 

His fingers part your flesh, exposing the throbbing bundle of nerves. His mouth latches onto it and your brain goes haywire. Your spine arches, all of your limbs locking in a spasm so tight you fear breaking apart. 

You come with a cry so loud it’s unmistakable to anyone downstairs what’s just happened. 

Steve doesn’t ease down. He keeps sucking, tormenting you until hot tears are streaming down your temples and your body writhes in futile attempt to escape. 

When he finally pulls back - beard glistening with your juices, his eyes flaming gasoline glow - it’s only a moment of reprieve. 

He tilts your ass up and drives two thick fingers into your pulsing cunt. He doesn’t pause to wait out the aftershocks, but pushes through them. He curls his fingers, pressing them right against that spot that only one single of your toys was ever able to stimulate. The sound you make at his victorious hunt is a keen of surrender. 

Steve presses his knee to your meaty thigh, holding it in place as he uses his freed hand to land a stinging slap right over your swollen folds. 

It’s instinctive, how fast your hands move to protect the sensitive area even as your hips keep bucking eagerly against his fingers. 

“Hands off, Cornflower.” Steve orders. “This is my pussy now. No one touches what’s mine without permission.” 

You whimper pitifully but force your arms aside. You don’t want to see what he’d do if you disobeyed. Gripping a fistful of the sheets, you tug on the fabric as your body ignites with the burn of pleasure that mixes with pain. 

Steve spanks your pussy again. Again. And again. 

Fucking you with his fingers faster, harder. 

The heat he stokes coils a fierce wave in your core. It’s overwhelming. Unlike anything you experienced before. On the next slap it releases. You come in wet streams, splashing all up Steve’s wrist and onto his abdomen. 

You clench your eyes shut, refusing to watch the mess your treacherous body made from assault that should leave you numb and unwanting, not shaking with the strongest climax of your life. 

Steve drains you until there’s sticky, thick cream webbing between his fingers, and your body drops lax on the mattress. 

Your breath is wheezing, your eyes closed and your eyelashes glued with tears. There’s not a single muscle in your body that could flex now and show any resistance to whatever Steve wanted to do to you next. 

As he straddles your chest, though keeping most of his weight off your ribcage, your legs tense anyway. 

He cups the back of your head and forces it up. Your eyes peek open, but instantly close again when the hot heaviness of his cock, crown pearly with pre-cum, slaps your cheek. 

“Lick your mess.” Steve grips your hair close to the scalp, forcing you to tilt your face closer to his abdomen. 

Heat engulfs you from within as you open your eyes and stare at the sculpted abs and the shine of your own slick covering Steve’s skin. It’s humiliating. Degrading. 

It makes your pussy pulse with another spark of vulgar arousal as you stick your tongue out and start licking him clean. 

He doesn’t wait for you to be thorough, just enough for the fire in his eyes to reach an inferno point, and for the drops leaking from the head of his dick to trickle out copiously. His grip on your hair tightens. He tilts your head back.

There’s no command now. He surges forward, forcing his cock between your lips. 

Fresh tears spring to your eyes. Your hands smack against Steve’s thighs, but his muscles seem to be made of steel because he doesn’t even flinch. 

With your head tipped back, your direct look is into those blue eyes. Into the face of a monster who broke you not with brutality but unparalleled pleasure. The scent of his musk, the salty taste of his cock on your tongue, it should repulse you. It should make you want to clench your teeth and face death.

Instead, a gurgled, hungry moan forms around his girth as you try to swallow more of him down your throat. 

Steve holds your head in place as he thrusts into your mouth. He keeps it slow, but deep. 

“That’s a good cockslut.” He groans, pushing to the back of your throat. 

You choke around him, blinking teary eyes up at him. His words are degrading, yet fall on you like a praise that licks heat between your thighs. 

“Don’t pretend to hate it, Cornflower.” He fucks your face in steady rhythm. “You may not be used to it, but something in you likes what I did to you. What I’m going to keep doing.” 

Steve drives forward with a grunt, lodging himself so deep you gag and lose the flow of air. Your legs start kicking, fingernails scratching against Steve’s thighs as you fight for breath. Your throat relaxes then constricts, saliva pooling around the girth heavy on your tongue. Tears smudge remnants of your makeup. 

He finally pulls back, completely. You cough, catching raspy gulps of air. 

Steve doesn’t wait for you to settle down fully. He stretches above you, fitting himself between your spread thighs. One hand curls around the front of your neck while the other guides his cock between your puffy folds. 

He surges into you in one, languid thrust. Your swollen walls cling to the intrusion, both resisting the breach and loving the stretch. 

Beneath him, you moan and arch. Your hands anchor onto his back, clinging to the broad spread of muscles that ripple as he moves.

“That’s it.” He withdraws and snaps his hips back. “You’re going to take it all. Not until you can’t take it anymore, but until I decide it’s enough.” 

“Nghh!” You whine as he speeds up. But the way your legs draw up, bracketing Steve’s hips, isn’t in an attempt to fight him off. 

He fucks into you roughly; each stroke a lash of power that forces your submission. The bed rocks with the movement, but there’s nothing comical about it. Not when you’re cresting from penetration alone. 

Or maybe it’s an amalgamate of being split on a fat cock and the sense of being overpowered and owned. 

Because Steve is fucking you like he owns you. 

He doesn’t. He can’t! 

Your nails needle his skin as pleasure mounts in your core. The tingling tale of the oncoming climax skitters down your spine and fizzes in every inch of your skin that had contact with Steve’s sweaty, naked body. 

“Are you going to cum on my cock?” He asks, bracketing your jaw with his big hand and forcing you to look at him. 

You try to nod, scared of opening your mouth to let out all the shameless sounds that want to spill. But Steve’s grip tightens in displeasure.

“Say it, Cornflower.” He orders.

“I-” your voice is low, breathy, as tiny gasps puncture between each word because you’re so close, so close- “I’m going to cum.”

“Whole sentence,” he drives in harder, ripping a full moan out of you as your vision starts turning white.

“I’m going to cum on your cock!” You cry out and topple over right after.

Sunlight bursts beneath your eyelids as your body seizes in peak pleasure. For a moment all sounds disappear. The only thing that remains is the pulsing of your cunt and Steve’s cock that keeps prolonging it. 

“What a good fucktoy.” He grunts in your ear, his own breathing turning rapid. “Doing as she’s told and coming so prettily on my cock. Your sweet pussy is perfect. Tight and wet and warm. Taking all the pain and still clinging to my dick, begging to be filled.” 

There’s that degradation again, which should disgust you, not make you whimper in despair for more. 

Steve stills suddenly, buried deep to the root. You don’t feel a rush of fluid heat filling you. No, his cock is still very hard and throbbing. You peek up at him, gaze a little foggy, with stars still sparking in your peripheral vision.

They flash a sunburst when Steve’s lips capture yours. 

His mouth is as demanding on yours as it was on your pussy. It still tastes of your pussy, too. 

Steve kisses you with unceremonious possession, teasing his tongue between your lips and fucking your warm cavern in shallow thrusts. You don’t try to have any control over your body anymore - your own tongue flicks back against his, your lips returning the same hungry brand. 

He tugs your bottom lip between his teeth before he pulls back completely. His cock slips free, leaving you pulsing and aching. 

Then those rough, big hands are on your hips, flipping you onto your stomach. He yanks your ass up, manhandling you into the position he wants. You don’t manage to scramble up on your hands to properly brace yourself when Steve thrusts back into your cunt from behind.

“Ahh!” Your pitched scream is near vulgar. 

But he feels even bigger now. Deeper somehow. Up to your throat. 

He doesn’t build up the pace, just starts back where he paused. The same force, the same speed. No, quicker. 

The slap of skin meeting sweaty skin composes a presto. Your flesh jiggles with each, ripples that softly play and mesmerize Steve. He watches your ass pressed to his pelvis. Drinks in the sight of his cock disappearing in your tight heat. 

“Ever had your ass fucked, Cornflower?” He asks, gripping one of your buttocks.

Tension snaps into your upper body. Your arms shake as you try to prop yourself up. You turn your head to the side, but it’s not enough to see Steve fully. 

“No, please-” you start.

Steve doesn’t care for the tremble in your tone. He bends forward, cupping your chin with his hand and plunging two of his fingers into your mouth. 

“Suck.” He tells you, eyes watching your cheeks hollow as you obey. 

Your tongue moves against his digits, coating them in your saliva. You do it for your own sake, but there’s a part of you that bounces in eagerness at the dirty act. Sure, you sucked a cock before. Which, theoretically, should appear more filthy than sucking on someone’s fingers. And yet… 

When Steve pops them free, a string of your drool breaks between the tip of his fingers and your lip. 

Your hands clench on the sheets, body swaying with the constant pounding. Blood rushes to your head - hell, blood rushes everywhere, when you sense the wet fingers press between your asscheeks. 

He’s not gentle, though you wouldn’t exactly say it’s brutal, the force with which he pushes his fingers into your tight rosebud. 

“It’s too much!” You choke out, instinctively trying to shuffle forward.

Steve’s free hand clamps on your shoulder, pulling you back onto his cock and the fingers relentlessly thrusting deeper. 

“Too much-” you groan as your whole body shudders. 

Your upper body drops down, face planting into the crumpled sheets. Steve’s digits sink deeper. His cock keeps filling you. There’s tension everywhere. Smidge of pain. So much pleasure, too. 

It’s fucking maddening. 

“Are you going to cum?” Steve seems to read your body, all its wrecked signs, better than your protesting mind does. 

“Yes!” You sob into the sheets. 

“Then fucking come!” His cruel command pairs with the twist of the fingers in your ass and a slap on your buttock.

And you do. On his command. On his cock and his fingers, and all of that’s monstrous, dark, and merciless. 

It’s not a quiet orgasm. The sounds you make, despite being muffled by the stained covers, are raw and vulgar. Your body is shaking, muscles locked so tight it almost hurts. You don’t squirt this time but there is wetness that you feel seeping past the thickness of Steve’s cock. 

“Good fucktoy.” Steve groans, watching you from his position of victory. “Sweet, slutty cumdump. Coming from fingers in her virgin ass and a cock deep in her tight pussy. I’m going to break and own each of your holes. And you’re going to love it.”

You don’t try fighting it. What’s the point when you’re spent and unable to form a coherent thought. When your body ignites with each humiliating word, as if impatient to have him do more filthy things to you. 

Only gasps and tiny whimpers leave your parted lips, sinking into the sheets, as Steve ruts into you chasing his own release. Fingers still deep in your ass, he presses them against the membrane separating that hole from your pussy. You don’t know if he can feel his own cock through it, but something about it sets him off.

He stills with a grunt that verges on a roar. Loud and low. 

You don’t think it’s a power play for the people downstairs to hear. Steve doesn’t need to assert himself over your husband in any way. He did it all for his own pleasure. His sounds express his satisfaction. 

Though with the way your nipples and clit throb in response, his loud climax is for your pleasure, too. 

The surge of wet heat spilling into you lasts longer than you remember it ever happening. Or maybe you’re so oversensitive and hyperaware that each rope of cum filling you appears to double in magnitude. 

Steve eases his fingers out of your tight rim, but doesn’t pull out of your pussy. Hips flush with your buttocks, cock twitching each spurt, he stays balls deep. Your heartbeat starts slowing down when he withdraws a few inches. Not fully yet, no. He watches the shine of your slick on his dick, the smudges of his own cum. 

Then plunges back into you. 

“You make a beautiful fucktoy, Cornflower.” Steve hums, softly brushing his lips up your spine. 

He lies on top of you, dropping your weight fully down from your position on your knees. Still not pulling out of you. 

With his nose he nudges your earlobe, then kisses a spot behind your ear. 

As sick as it may be, there’s some comfort in the way Steve’s warm, heavy body covers yours. You’d call it protective, if he wasn’t the one who broke you. 

When he finally pulls out and gets up, you fight with the need to curl into a ball. What’s horrifying, that it doesn’t come from the need to cry yourself into a fetal position, but simply desire to fall asleep after having your brains fucked out. 

You force yourself to roll onto your back and sit halfway up. You watch Steve put his jeans on. Your gaze strays up, appreciatively gliding over the map of tattoos and beads of sweat. You notice the tiny crescent dents in his skin where your fingernails left a mark. 

You wait to hear the rest of the fate that awaits your husband, and thus you. Will he tell you to plan a funeral? Will he banish the both of you from the city under a threat of burning you down with your house if you refuse? 

Steve reaches for his t-shirt, but instead of putting it on he tosses it at you. 

“Put it on.” He dons on his leather jacket and zips it halfway up. 

You comply, not about to argue about the option of covering your naked, ruined state. Even if everyone was definitely aware of what took place. 

Steve is much bigger than you, however his t-shirt stretches over your chest obscenely. You’re about to rush to your dresser for some sweatpants when Steve redirects your plans.

“Wear jeans. And grab a jacket.”

You pause mid-step and stare at him. It’s a request that isn’t dictated by some lewd fantasy he wants to play out. Before you dare to ask why that particular set, he pulls the rug out from under you.

“A bike can graze your skin and the rush of wind is cold.”

Heart thumps in your chest with lead heaviness. Fear reinstigates itself. Though it doesn’t have all the room for itself, since messier, hotter feelings are clinging to their spots. 

“You’re taking me.” You swallow hard, realizing Steve’s intention.

“Yes.” Again, there’s no extra cruelty or mockery. Just a plain, firm declaration. “By now your husband has transferred all of your savings, as well his secret one, to my accounts. He signed off the house to me, too. Tomorrow he’ll sign the divorce papers. Unless he wants to make you a widow.” 

Steve finds himself in front of you in a single stride, cupping your chin with a gentle reminder of the power he holds.

“You’re mine now, Cornflower.” 

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

This took me for a ride!!!!!!!!!!

[buckets-and-trees]

Kitchen Counter [Hot Water]

Characters/Pairings: dark!Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader Word Count: 299 Summary: He said he'd find you.

Content/Warnings: NON-CONSENT/RAPE; slapping/rough manhandling; mention of male receiving oral; smut (unprotected vaginal intercourse); breaking and entering

Author Notes: Written day 6 of @societyfolklore and @soelstress's Sexy September Scribbles challenge. All pieces must be 300 words or less. Prompt in bold-italics.

not necessary to have read, but this encounter takes place 7 weeks after Hot Water

↠ Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

“Can you be good for me?” he asks.

You’re crying, you can’t stop.

Something sharp cracks across your cheek. So sudden and bright that it shocks the tears out of your eyes, and for a moment you’re too numb to cry, too startled even to breathe. He looms over you, the hand that had struck you now gripping your shoulder, squeezing so tightly it feels like the bones there might splinter. "Tell me you'll be good," he says again, quieter this time, but not softer. It’s a command, not a question. You nod, the movement stilted, puppetlike. Your cheek stings, your throat sore from him already brutally fucking it. That was his greeting when he broke into your home, waiting for you to get back from work. He spins you around and shoves you over the kitchen island. The edge of the counter bites into the juncture of your hips to things, his hand at the back of your head as he holds you in place.

Your thighs quiver as he shoves your skirt up over your hips, exposing you to the cold air. When he tears away your panties, the elastic snaps and the fabric burns your thighs, but you barely register it before the thick head of his cock is pressed between your legs. There’s no slow build, no easing you open. He thrusts in, forcing you to stretch around him, and your body—traitorous, blameless body—slicks with the panic, the rough need, the memory of him and everything he’s done. The first push is a brand, tearing a gasp from your throat. The next is worse. “You missed me, didn’t you?” he says, voice raw and hushed against your hair. His grip on your hip is a bruise blooming, a promise of purple come morning.

more SEXY SEPTEMBER SCRIBBLES

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]

Ooh this made me have the full blown shivers!!

[krirebr]

Never Let You Go

Pairing: Dark Cole Turner x female reader

Word Count: ~4.7k

Summary: You rent a tiny cabin to have an isolated respite from your hectic life. You weren't expecting the rental's proprietor, Cole.

Warnings: Dark fic, delusional behavior, poisoning/drugging, non-con, frottage, somnophilia, just general creeperness, explicit language All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me

Masterlist

A/N: This is my entry for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor Be Mine and Only Mine dark!simp challenge. I used the dialogue prompt "I would do anything to keep you. Anything." And the trope prompts making you sick/injuring you so you can't leave and delulu for you you. Thanks for hosting such a fun challenge, Roo!

Another big thank you to @stargazingfangirl18 who always encourages all of my most unhinged instincts. I'm really on one with this one, guys. 😬🤭

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You’d just finished bundling up when there was a knock on the door of the little cabin. You sighed. There was no question who it was.

You forced a smile as you opened the door. “Hey Cole,” you greeted. “What’s up?”

“Oh hey!” he replied, brightly. He always seemed so excited to see another human. You’d spent your whole trip trying to tell yourself that he was just very lonely and you should be gentle with him. “Just wanted to check on the generator. Make sure it’s holding up well in this cold.”

“Yup! All good.” You gestured to the couple lamps scattered through the single room. “Lights are on, it’s warm and toasty in here. Everything’s fine.” You took a small step forward, your hand on the door, hoping he’d take the hint. But, of course, he didn’t. He never did. 

“What about groceries? You have everything you need? I could make another trek into town today.”

You shook your head. “No, that’s okay. I’m still making my way through the last haul you brought in. I’m good. You’ve taken very good care of me.”

He went stock still at that. It was odd, but almost everything he did struck you as odd. “You mean that?” he asked, his voice almost pleading.

“Yeah, of course. Absolutely. You’ll be getting a five star review from me. Promise.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, great!” He said, sort of shaking himself, almost like he was coming out of a trance or something. But before you had a chance to dwell on how strange that was, he’d moved on. “You going for a hike?”

“Uh, huh,” you said, grabbing your backpack from where it rested on the floor next to the dresser. You took another step forward, hoping to force Cole out of the doorway. “Figured I’d try one of the forest trails today.”

He didn’t move. “Cold day for it.”

“I’m all bundled up. I’ll be fine.” You took another step forward. You were starting to feel a little trapped.

His face suddenly lit up. “You should come by the farmhouse when you’re done. I could make you some hot chocolate to warm you up.”

“Oh, sure! Maybe!” Another step forward. “But probably not if it’s getting dark. Got plans to snuggle up with a book here tonight and go to bed early.”

“Oh yeah. That sounds really nice. Well, if you’re able, I’ll be there.”

“Okay, Cole. Thanks! For everything. But I’m gonna head out now.” He just blinked at you, so you gestured to the doorway and the wide expanse waiting for you outside.

“Oh! Right! Of course!” He finally backed up to let you out. “Well, I’ll just be up at the house. Holler if you need anything.”

“Will do, Cole. I know where to find you.”

He finally stepped away, letting you leave the cabin. You watched him as he got on his little snowmobile and drove back to the main house. He was very, very sweet (and kind of hot with the dark beard and the light eyes and the broad shoulders), but he had the social awareness of a gnat.

This was supposed to have been your retreat from civilization.

You were burned out. Too much work, too much relationship drama, too much everything. You needed a break. A big one.

So you filed a PTO request for two weeks off in the middle of winter and began to search for a secluded nature retreat. 

You thought you’d found a great one. A tiny home done up to resemble a rustic, cozy cabin. Only room enough for you. Located on the edge of dense woods, it had access to several hiking trails, a sledding hill, a skating pond, and a gorgeous lake. No internet, no cell signal, no neighbors. A great environment to completely unplug, reconnect with yourself, and recharge. It was perfect.

Well. It was almost perfect, as it turned out. Your cabin, you discovered when you got there, was one of three in a little cluster on the property. Yours was the only one currently booked, but there was still a neighbor to worry about. Cole, the proprietor, lived in a farmhouse a few acres away. But it felt much closer with how often you saw him. You didn’t think he’d gone a single day without stopping by your little cabin at least once. 

You tried to be kind. He’d told you on one of your first days that this place used to belong to his parents and they’d left it to him when they’d died. The isolation you saw as a nice little break from reality was what he lived with all the time. He must be desperate for company, especially in the depths of winter. So you excused the way he just kept popping over to make sure you had everything you needed, or how he’d interrupt your hikes to see if you were enjoying the view. Or when he’d knock on the door during your morning meditation to bring you breakfast. He was lonely. You felt sorry for him. So you could tolerate his overly friendly behavior. This trip may not have been the solitary paradise you’d envisioned, but it was still the rejuvenating break you’d needed. Everything was fine.

The next day, Cole, of course, found you as you were strapping on ice skates to go out on the frozen pond. “You didn’t come by the house last night.”

“No, I didn’t,” you confirmed, making sure to give him a bright smile to avoid any awkwardness. “I lost track of time on my hike, and it was already dark by the time I got back.” You didn’t apologize. You hadn’t said you definitely would.

“I missed you,” he said quietly, and that stopped you in your tracks. “Your stay here is almost over. I gotta soak up all the quality time with you that I can.”

That– that was a joke, right? Yeah, it had to be. Just a joke, it was fine. You gave him a good–natured chuckle. “Oh,” you said, “I’m sure you’ll be happy to be rid of me in a few days. A lot less work when no one’s here, huh?”

“I don’t know about that,” he said with a sheepish shrug. “It’s been really nice having you here.”

“Aw,” you smiled again, a little more sincere this time. “Thanks, Cole! It’s been a really great trip. I’ll be sad to leave.” Something hopeful flashed across his face before disappearing quickly. “Well,” you said as you stood up on the skates, “I’ll leave you to your work. Thanks again for everything.” Then you skated off.

You were so absorbed in your exercise and the bracing cold that you didn’t notice just how long he stood there and watched you skate.

You weren’t leaving until the next morning, but you’d started gathering your things together. Even though the cabin was just a single room, you’d still managed to spread out considerably over the last week. It was good to do this now, so you wouldn’t have to scramble before you left in the morning.

Like clockwork, there was a knock at the door. It almost felt a little sentimental. This was the last day of your trip. You were about to take your last hike here. And now Cole was bothering you for the last time. You smiled to yourself. Now that you were about to leave, now that you’d fully adjusted to the reality of your trip instead of the ideal fantasy that’d been in your head, you could admit that he had an awkward charm to him. At the very least, he’d make for a sweet story once you were back in the real world.

You opened the door with a genuine, warm grin. “Morning, Cole!” you greeted him. “What can I do you for?”

His answering smile couldn’t match your warmth. It had a brittle edge to it, almost… sad. His eyes cast around the room behind you. “You’re packing up already?” he asked in lieu of a greeting, alarmed. “I thought you weren’t leaving until tomorrow?”

“That’s still the plan! Just trying to get everything together while I can take my time with it.”

He didn’t say anything in response, just continued to look around, eyes almost seeming to catalog all of your things. It wasn’t until you cleared your throat pointedly that he focused on you again. “What’s on the docket for your last day, then?” he asked.

“One last hike to the lookout,” you told him. “Packed my camera, so gonna try to get some good pictures before the sun fully crests.”

He nodded absently. “You’ve been a really great guest,” he said with a conviction that would have felt strange from anyone else, but you were finally getting used to your host.

“Thanks, Cole. That’s so sweet of you,” you said sincerely. “I’ve really enjoyed staying here. I almost wish I didn’t have to leave. I don’t know how I’m going to go back to the real world after such a peaceful two weeks.”

Cole took a very long time to respond, just staring at you instead. Then he nodded to himself. Almost like he’d made a decision. Pulling a thermos out of his bag, he changed the subject without any warning at all. “I brought you some hot chocolate,” he said, thrusting the thermos at you. “My mom’s old recipe. Thought I’d bring it by before you left since you didn’t get to try it the other night.”

“Oh, okay,” you took the bottle from him, not knowing what else to do. “Thank you! That–  That’s really nice of you.”

“Maybe it can keep you warm on your hike,” he offered.

“Oh yeah! That’s really thoughtful of you. Thanks!” You smiled broadly.

Cole didn’t move, just stared at you expectantly when you didn’t do anything with the thermos. “You should try it,” he said lowly, almost pushy.

“Oh, sure.” You awkwardly unscrewed the cap under his watchful gaze. You took a cautious sip. It was very sweet, but it had an undertone of spice, and it was very warm. You probably would take it with you on your hike. That wasn’t a bad idea. “It’s delicious, Cole. Thank you so much!”

He beamed at you in return, but you couldn’t help noticing something slightly melancholy underneath. “Have a great hike,” he said, always so sincere. “I’ll see you tomorrow for checkout.”

Something was very wrong. 

You’d made it to the lookout and gotten some really great pictures. You’d sat and drank your hot chocolate and had taken a moment to say goodbye to this place. 

It was when you’d begun your hike back that you’d started feeling off. 

Your skin had gotten clammy. Your vision had started to swim. Your limbs felt weird. And you’d started to sweat. Even though it was so cold out. Even though it had started to snow, harder with each passing minute. It was snowing so hard out—it’d started so suddenly—and you were all alone and your insides were turning to jelly and you didn’t know which way was up. And you were all alone. You were all alone.

You fell to your knees just as your stomach emptied its contents. Your face was so wet, but you didn’t know if that was from snow or sweat or tears. You tried to call out for help, but you couldn’t get your voice to work. You’d never been so scared. What was happening? Were you going to die out here?

Something touched you. You would have jumped if you’d had the strength. You tried to turn your head to look but you could barely get your muscles to work. “Oh sweetheart,” a voice spoke from… somewhere. You were so dizzy and cloudy you couldn’t quite tell. “It hit you pretty hard, huh?” You didn’t know what the voice, a man, was talking about. There was guilt and sadness in his tone. You didn’t understand. Suddenly you were moving off the ground. You cried out, but he hushed you gently. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. It’s gonna be okay.” 

You finally placed his voice, as he carried you over to his snowmobile. Cole. It was Cole. He’d come to save you. That was your last conscious thought as he drove you down the trail.

Time passed strangely as you moved in and out of consciousness. You were in a dense fog, only able to pick up on sensations rather than details. You ached. You toggled wildly between chills and fever. You dreamed in shapes and colors. There were hands on you sometimes. Soft. Gentle. Everywhere. There was a voice in your ear always. Soothing. Comforting. You weren’t sure what the difference was between being awake and asleep. You layed on a cloud.

You had no idea how much time had passed when you finally woke up for real. Or where you were. Or how you had gotten here.

You were in a large bedroom with wood paneling and a slanted ceiling. The bed was so soft you thought you might sink into it. A clearly homemade quilt was on top of you, a patchwork of pinks and greens and blues with delicate flowers stitched across it. There was a glass of water on the bedside table next to you. On the nightstand was a copy of The Hobbit and a pair of reading glasses.

You were wearing a pink nightgown, frilly. It wasn’t like anything you owned. Someone had changed your clothes. Undressed you.

The door opened, and you pushed yourself back into the headboard. Cole came in, carrying a tray with more water, a Gatorade, and a bowl of soup. His face lit up at the sight of you.

“Oh, you’re awake! And you’re looking pretty lucid. That’s great news!” He set the tray down on your nightstand and immediately moved to press the back of his hand to your forehead. You tried to shy away, but it didn’t do any good. “Clammy,” he said, as he removed his hand, “but you aren’t burning up anymore. Thank goodness.”

“What–“ you started, but it came out as a croak. Your throat was bone-dry and your voice was so rough. You tried again. “What happened?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Cole said as he sat down on the bed right next to your hip. He was so close. “You got really sick on your hike. Thank god I found you when I did! You were collapsed and barely conscious. I’ve been taking care of you.”

You took a breath. You still felt so fuzzy. You looked around you again. This must be the farmhouse. “Why aren’t I in a hospital, if I was so sick?”

He stood back up, moving to the tray he’d brought in. “Oh, the snowstorm. All the roads are completely impassable. I had to bring you back here. Don’t worry, I took such good care of you.”

“How long?” you asked, terrified of the answer without fully knowing why.

“You’ve been in and out for the last three days.”

“Oh my god,” you tried to sit up, in a panic, but you felt so weak, like you didn’t have full control over your body. “I was supposed to be back at home, back to work. I need to call– “

“Hey, hey,” Cole put a hand on your shoulder. “It’s okay. Calm down. I already took care of all that.” 

You let him guide you back down onto the mattress as you looked up at him, confused. “What–  What do you mean? How?”

“You had your emergency contact on your reservation form, remember? I called them, talked to them. Took care of everything. You don’t need to worry about that.”

You blinked at him. Everything, your brain and your body, felt like molasses. You didn’t understand.

“Hey,” he said, so softly, his hand briefly brushing against your cheek. He was so comfortable touching you. “Let’s get some food in you, huh?” He picked up the tray with the bowl of soup and carefully placed it on your lap. Sitting down next to you again, he picked up the spoon and began to move it towards your mouth.

Your face heated in embarrassment as you reached to take the spoon from him. “I can do it myself,” you said, feeling strangely small.

He hesitated before letting you take over. “Okay,” he finally said. “But don’t be embarrassed if you need help. I love taking care of you.”

Something about that sentiment made you deeply uncomfortable, but you didn’t say anything. What would you say? You still felt delirious. You needed him, even if the whole situation seemed off. But that was probably just Cole.

As you ate, he went over to the other side of the bed and layed down next to you, grabbing his glasses and the book from the nightstand. “I’ve been reading to you these last few days. I think you liked it. It always soothed you.” Then he opened the book and began reading. His voice was deep, steady, lulling. And you were still so tired. You finished the soup and then let yourself be carried back into sleep.

You dozed through the rest of the day. Surfacing every so often to the sound of Cole’s voice, steadily reading to you, before you were lulled back into unconsciousness. 

He woke you up in the evening for another bowl of soup. He watched you expectantly as you ate it. Eyes going so soft when you told him it was good.

When you were done, he cleared your tray. And then he walked over to the dresser and started taking off his clothes. 

“What are you doing?” you called out as loudly as you could muster, alarmed.

He turned his head as he just kept going, removing his shirt and tossing it into the nearby hamper. He shot you an amused look. “I’m getting ready for bed.”

“In here?” you asked, your voice as high as it could go even with how hoarse it still was.

“Of course,” he chuckled. “It’s my room. Where do you think I’ve been sleeping this whole time?”

“I– “ you started, but your head was starting to feel so heavy and it was hard to turn your thoughts into words. “Shouldn’t I be in a guest room then?” You let yourself lay back down as his hands moved to take off his pants. Things were happening too fast. You couldn’t track it.

“I needed to keep you close, baby–“ Baby?? “– to keep an eye on you. To make sure you were okay. You aren’t out of the woods yet.” He came back to the bed, crawling in next to you. He was wearing soft, cotton sleep pants, thankfully, but his chest was bare. “But don’t worry, I’ll get you there.”

You turned away from him, onto your side, as you struggled to keep your eyes open. This bout of exhaustion had come on so quickly, you couldn’t fight it anymore. You felt Cole right up against your back, his warm breath on your neck, but you were too weak, too tired, to move, to think. 

Just as you were pulled down down down into unconsciousness, he whispered in your ear, “This used to be my parent’s room. They were so happy here.”

You were floating. 

Stuck in that place between wakefulness and deep sleep, you hovered, unsure if you were dreaming or not. It was dark, only the impression of objects behind your eyelids. You were so warm, a heavy weight cosseting you.  

There was a low moaning sound right outside your awareness. Then, gentle touches on your stomach and the inside of your thigh. It felt nice. This was a nice dream.

You were being rocked on whatever cloud you were floating on. Slow and steady at first, rhythmic, but as the pace picked up, it got more erratic. The moaning got louder. You felt it deep in your chest. The grip on you tightened. You rocked harder and harder and harder and harder until suddenly, you were stilled. A wet warmth spread across your back. You felt it seeping into your skin. Becoming part of you. 

There was a feather-light tickling on the back of your neck. And then “I love you” was whispered on the wind wherever you were, before you sank into the darkness again.

You were woken by the sun beaming through the soft curtains. You blinked your eyes open and took a deep breath as you oriented yourself. You were in Cole’s farmhouse, after you’d gotten extremely sick. You took a quick inventory of your body. You stomach felt steady, if hungry. Your muscles didn’t ache. Your skin didn’t feel clammy. And, most importantly, your head felt completely clear for the first time since you’d left for your hike that day.

Another deep breath. Cole’s arm was draped over you and his body was pressed against your back. He snored loudly in your ear. What the fuck? You tried to remember what he’d said. That he needed to keep you close so he could keep an eye on you because you were so sick. That… That made sense. So maybe you should give him the benefit of the doubt now. He’d probably gotten so close to you in his sleep, unknowingly. It hadn’t been on purpose. Even so, it was making you feel a little claustrophobic.

You tried to slip yourself out from under him as carefully and quietly as you could. There was no need to wake him. But when you started to move, you felt something on the small of your back. Something thick, dry, stiff, and cracking. What? No. No. That couldn’t–  But no, there was no mistaking what you felt. What else could it possibly be? What–  What was going on here? What had happened while you were sick?? Your skin was crawling. You needed to get out of here.

You got free of Cole and out of the bed without disturbing him too much, thank God. He just flopped onto your side of the bed, snuffling into your pillow. You couldn’t stop and think about the implications of that. There was no time. You needed to go.

As you moved through the room, you caught sight of what you were wearing. Right. First things first, you need to change out of this weird nightie. Where were your things? What had he done with what you’d been wearing? What you’d had with you?

You looked through the hamper first, trying not to touch much, for fear of what you might find. But none of your things were there. So you went to the closet next. When you opened it, you stopped dead.

There, neatly organized into one side, were all of the clothes you’d packed for your trip. Hung up in a nice little row. Your pants were stacked in the little built-in cubbies, and your shoes were lined up beneath everything on the floor. The other side contained all of Cole’s things, pressed up right against yours. Like they belonged there, together.

The one thing you didn’t see was your backpack or all of the important things that had been inside it—your keys, your money, your phone, your IDs. All of the things you would need to get the fuck out of here. You could search for that in a minute, check other parts of the house, maybe try going back to the cabin. Right now, you just needed to get out of this room. 

You grabbed a pair of pants and a top, not really paying attention to what they were, just changing as fast as you could. You grabbed the shoes with the best traction and turned around.

To find Cole standing next to the bed, in sleep pants and nothing else, sleepily scratching his beard, and staring at you. “Where are you going?” he asked. And while he looked and sounded casual, you could feel the tension filling the room.

“I– uh– I think it’s time for me to go, Cole, don’t you?”

“It isn’t safe,” he said, taking a step towards you. You automatically took a step back. His eyes narrowed. “You’re still sick.”

You shook your head wildly. “No, I’m feeling much better now. I feel fine. I can– I can go. I’m well enough to go.”

“That’s great,” he said, but there was evident surprise in his tone. “I’m so glad, but you still can’t leave. The– the snow! The roads aren’t clear. There’s no getting out. It always takes days for the plows to get out this far.”

You swallowed, taking a few more careful steps backward, away from him. He matched your movement. “Well. I think– I think I’ll go have a look for myself. I’m resourceful. I might be able to get through.” You didn’t care whether the roads were blocked or not. You’d trek as many miles as you needed to, through twelve feet of snow, just to get the hell out of here.

He took another step forward, and you took another step back. You were starting to feel like a caged animal. “You can’t leave,” he said with finality.

You took another step back, or tried to, when your back collided with the wall. No, not the wall. Something was sticking out of it, hitting you. The doorknob. You’d backed yourself into the door. Breathing out a sigh of cautious relief, you reached behind yourself, not daring to take your eyes off Cole. Surprisingl,y he didn’t move, didn’t attempt to stop you. You grabbed the handle and turned it. 

It rattled in your grasp, but, to your horror, it didn’t move.

“It locks from both sides with a key,” Cole informed you calmly, patting the pocket of his sleep pants. “Quirks of an old house.”

At that, all of your resolve crumbled. “Cole, please,” you begged. “I just want to go home. Please, let me go home!” Tears were starting to run down your face as panic took over.

His face dropped. “Oh sweetheart,” he said, with so much sympathy you wanted to scream. He rushed to you, cradling you in his arms. “You are home. That’s what I’ve been trying to get you to understand. It was fate that brought you here, to me. Don’t you feel it? Haven’t I taken such good care of you? Don’t you see what a good husband I could be to you? What a good life I could give you?” 

You pushed against him as hard as you could, trying to break his hold, but it was no use. He was so much stronger than you’d realized, his muscles so much firmer beneath your touch than you ever would have guessed. “Please,” you begged again. “I appreciate you taking such good care of me while I was sick, I really do. But I’m better now, I am. And I need to get back to my life!”

“Shh,” he ran a soothing hand down your back. “Yeah, that was my mistake. You should have been under for longer.” You looked at him, confused and so, so scared, as he let go of you, taking a few steps back to sit at the foot of the bed. “You reacted so strongly to the hot chocolate. You weren’t supposed to get that sick. Just enough to keep you here a few extra days. Long enough to see how well I could take care of you. What a good life I’d be able to give you. So much better than the one you were running from. But instead you were just–“ his expression collapsed into anguish. “It really scared me. So, last night, I switched to something else, decreased the dosage. But that apparently wasn’t enough. It’s been really hard to get the dosage right.”

All you could do was stare at him in shock. Horror. Terror. What had he done to you?! What was he going to do to you?!

He stood up again, restless, and you pressed yourself into the door, as much as you could. He looked sad, distressed by your fear. You almost wanted to laugh.

“I never wanted to hurt you,” he pleaded. “I don’t want to hurt you. But–“ He stood up to his full height, shoulders suddenly set in determination. With a steely tone, he said, “I would do anything to keep you. Anything.”

Tag List

@stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @midnightramyeoncravings @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @steviebbboi @missaprilt23 @thiquefunlover63 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @stellar-solar-flare @alexakeyloveloki @kmc1989 @awkwardgiraffe726 @watermelontidewater @alicedopey @lokislady82 @sassybearfire @mencantaleer @thecrandle @1000plants @remussbitch @rach2602 @dragon-of-dreams @mommad @cookiesandwhimsy @quantumbarnes @bartonsparrow25

[backoff-imreadingdarkness]