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CiCi | ✨️30✨️ | Bucky's loving wife 🩷

[semper-nox]

He seems so upset with the newspaper...

MDNI - 18+

Steve sat in the worn leather armchair, the evening paper crisp in his hands. The low sun cast long shadows across the room, striping the Persian rug in bars of gold and grey. He had a habit of reading in silence, a kind of focused meditation, the short, dark bristles of his beard catching the light as he turned the pages. The only sounds were the gentle rustle of newsprint and the distant hum of traffic from the street below.

Then, a shift.

His brow creased. The paper rustled noisily as he folded it shut, not with care but with a sharp, frustrated gesture. He slapped it down onto the small table at his elbow, the motion so sudden it sent a pencil rolling to the floor. He ignored it. His gaze, dark and unreadable, was fixed on some middle distance, seeing past the familiar clutter of the room.

The silence that followed was different from before. It was heavy, charged.

You had been watching him from the doorway, leaning against the frame, holding your own breath without realizing it. You took a slow step forward, the soft tread of your socks on the wood floor seeming loud in the stillness.

"Something wrong?" Your voice was low.

Steve's head turned, his eyes finding yours. The frustration in them hadn't vanished, but it was layered over with something else now, something hotter and more immediate. He didn't answer. He just looked at you, a long, searching look that made the air thicken in your lungs.

You crossed the rest of the room until you stood before him, between him and the slanted bars of sunlight. He reached out, not for your hand, but his fingers hooked into the waistband of your trousers, tugging you closer until your shins brushed the worn leather of the armchair. The rough texture of his fingertips pressed into the skin just above your hipbone.

He tilted his head back to look up at you, the line of his throat a pale, vulnerable column in the dim light. The faintest shadow of stubble showed under his chin. His other hand came to rest on your thigh, the heat of it seeping through the thin fabric.

He didn't need to speak. The question was in the intensity of his gaze, in the way his thumb stroked a slow circle against your trousers. He was asking for something, for a distraction, for a quiet, absolute surrender.

You sank to your knees on the rug before him, the motion fluid and unhurried. His hands left you to rest on the arms of the chair, his knuckles white where he gripped the leather. You could hear the soft escape of his breath as you settled between his legs, your hands moving to the button of his fly. The metallic click of it undoing seemed unnaturally loud.

The fabric parted. You leaned in, your hair brushing against the rough denim. He made a sound, a quiet hum deep in his chest, a surrender and a command all at once. The tension in the room was no longer an abstraction, a frustration from the outside world. It was here, coiled between you, a tangible thing, waiting to be unraveled.

Your fingers hooked into the waistband of his jeans, working them down over the sharp line of his hips. He lifted himself slightly from the chair to help, the movement making the leather creak in protest. The fabric pooled around his ankles, and the air between you felt suddenly cooler, sharper. You could feel the faint tremor in the muscles of his thighs as you rested your hands there, a subtle current running just beneath the skin.

The short, dark bristles of his beard caught the slanted light as he watched you, his head still tilted back, his throat exposed. His breathing was audible now, a shallow, rhythmic sound that seemed to sync with the frantic beating of your own heart. You dipped your head, pressing a kiss to the sensitive skin of his inner thigh. He shuddered, a full-body ripple that you felt through your hands.

His hand moved from the armrest, his fingers sinking into your hair, not pushing, not pulling, just resting there, a silent plea and a patient command all at once. The slight pressure on your scalp was an anchor, a grounding point in the charged atmosphere. You could feel the warmth of him against your cheek, the clean, familiar scent of his skin.

You took your time, tracing the line of his hip with your tongue, tasting the salt of his skin. He made another sound, a soft groan that was swallowed by the heavy silence of the room. The frustration that had been etched onto his face when he'd thrown down the paper was gone now, replaced by a raw, unguarded need. You wanted to be the one to erase it completely, to take all that tension and turn it into something else, something pure and elemental.

His fingers tightened in your hair as you finally leaned forward, your breath ghosting over him. He was hard, a hot, heavy weight against your lips, a silent testament to the desire that coiled between you. You flicked your tongue out, tasting the pre-come beaded at the tip. His hips jerked, a small, involuntary movement that sent a thrill through you.

You wrapped your lips around him, taking him slowly into your mouth, savoring the way he filled you. He was hot and hard against your tongue, the salty taste of him filling your senses. You started to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, your hands resting on his thighs, feeling the muscles tense and quiver beneath your touch.

His breathing grew ragged, and you could feel the restraint in the way he held himself, the way he fought to keep still, to let you set the pace. But the way his fingers tightened in your hair told a different story, a story of a desperate, barely contained need. You could feel the tension building in him, a taut string stretched to its breaking point, and you knew that you were the only one who could release it.

You moved faster, your tongue swirling around him, your lips sliding up and down his length. You could feel the changes in him, the way his breathing hitched, the way the muscles in his thighs bunched, the way he started to move with you, a shallow, desperate thrusting of his hips. He was close, you could feel it, the tension in him reaching its peak, a dam about to break.

You took him deeper, your nose brushing against the coarse hair at his base, your throat relaxing to accommodate him. He let out a choked cry, and then he was coming, hot and thick down your throat. You swallowed, taking all of him, your hands holding him steady as he shuddered through his release.

For a long moment, the only sound was the harsh sound of his breathing. Then, slowly, he relaxed, his body slumping back into the chair. You released him, pressing a soft kiss to his thigh before looking up at him.

His eyes were closed, his face flushed, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow. The frustration was gone, replaced by a look of utter, boneless satisfaction. You rested your head on his thigh, the warmth of him seeping into your skin.

"You didn't have to do that," he said, his voice a low, rough rumble.

"I know," you replied, a small smile playing on your lips. "I wanted to."

He opened his eyes, and in the dim light, you could see the warmth in them, the gratitude, the affection. He reached down, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw, his thumb stroking over your cheek.

"Come here," he said, his voice still rough, but now it was softer, gentler.

You rose, moving to straddle him on the armchair, your knees bracketing his hips. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You could feel the rough texture of his beard against your skin, the warmth of his breath. He held you like that for a long moment, a silent, powerful thanks.

Then he pulled back, his hands framing your face, his eyes searching yours. He leaned in and kissed you, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of him and of you and of the quiet, shared intimacy of the moment. It was a kiss that said everything he couldn't put into words, a kiss that promised everything and asked for nothing.

When he pulled away, you were both breathless. He rested his forehead against yours, his eyes closed.

"What was wrong?" you asked, your voice a soft whisper. "Before. With the paper."

He sighed, a long, slow exhale that seemed to carry the last of the tension out of him. "Just work," he said. "Stupid, pointless nonsense."

"You want to talk about it?"

"No," he said, and then he smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that transformed his face. "Not right now."

You smiled back, a feeling of contentment settling over you, a warm, pleasant hum. The frustration from the newspaper was forgotten, a distant memory, washed away by the intensity of what you had just shared. The room was quiet again, but the silence was different now, not heavy or charged, but peaceful, comfortable. It was the silence of two people who didn't need words, who could find solace and release in each other's arms, who could turn a moment of frustration into something beautiful and profound. You closed your eyes, resting your head on his shoulder, and just breathed him in, the clean, familiar scent of him, the warmth of his skin, the steady, rhythmic beat of his heart against yours.

[epiphanyrogers]

˖ ݁✦. CRY BECAUSE IT'S OVER

⤷ ari levinson x fem!reader

⸝⸝ SUMMARY — ❝ he only texts after midnight. you know it's toxic, and promise yourself this time you'll end it. but somewhere between his baby blues and the sick satisfaction of knowing you're the one he keeps coming back to, you end up crying in his lap. good thing ari thinks you're prettiest when those tears are for him. ❞ ⧽ 7.4k

！ SMUT, p in v, creampie, dacryphilia, light dubcon, dry humping, face squishing, pwp, praise kink, faux sympathy/soft mean!ari, finger sucking, size kink, toxic situationship, pet names (baby, babygirl, crybaby), 18+ MDNI » based on this request » MASTERLIST ⟡˙⋆

You up? | 2:47 AM

The notification lights up your ceiling. You know who it is before you even read the contact name. You tell yourself it’s because no-one else texts at this hour. In reality, the more embarrassing truth is that knowing and hoping have started to feel like the same thing.

You should reply not for you. Let him sit with that rejection the way you've sat with two weeks of silence.

Better yet, you shouldn't reply at all. You should leave him on read, let that little notification sit there unacknowledged while he spirals for once, wondering if you've finally moved on.

Best option - the one that would require something adjacent to self-respect - you should block his number. Should have done it weeks ago, when you'd seen him out with another girl and your friends had spent the entire cab ride home telling you what you already knew. He's never going to commit. He's never going to change. Block his number.

You'd promised you would.

You hadn't, obviously. Instead, you’ve had Ari Levinson saved as “DO NOT ANSWER” for the past four weeks. Like seeing those words flash across your screen would be enough to override six months of muscle memory and bad decisions.

But it hasn’t helped even once. And it doesn’t help now, at 2:47 in the morning, when your phone buzzes again because your hand moves before your brain can interfere.

I know you're awake | 2:49 AM

Arrogant bastard. He doesn't know anything. Except he does, doesn't he? Knows you like he's mapped you from the inside out. Knows the glow of your screen is already bleeding blue light across your rumpled sheets. Knows you're staring at his text with your heart doing that stupid hummingbird thing it does whenever he reminds you that he's out there, somewhere in the city, thinking about you.

yes. | 2:52 AM

Three dots appear immediately. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing, deleting, retyping. The hesitation should comfort you - evidence that maybe he's nervous too, that maybe this costs him something. But you know Ari well enough to recognize the tactic. He's drawing it out. Making you wait. Building the tension because he knows exactly what those little dots do to your pulse.

Your heart hammers against your ribs and you hate him for it. Hate that your body is already ahead of you, already warm and restless, muscle memory doing the work your dignity should be doing. But six months of Ari has ruined you for anything or anyone else. 

Ruined you for anything that isn't his big hands on your hips holding you exactly where he wants you, his thick cock filling you up so perfectly your eyes roll back, his voice low in your ear talking you through it until you're shaking. Ari Levinson is a lot of bad things. But between your thighs he is devastatingly, infuriatingly good.

Good | 2:53 AM

Been thinking about you. | 2:53 AM

The ease of it makes you want to scream. Been thinking about you. As if that explains the two weeks of silence. As if that justifies showing up in your notifications like he still has the right.

You should ask where he's been. Who he's been with. If she knows he's texting you at three in the fucking morning.

But your thighs clench anyway, because your body doesn't care about your pride. Your body remembers what been thinking about you means in Ari's vocabulary. Remembers the last time he'd said it, three weeks ago when he'd shown up at your apartment after midnight. You'd barely gotten the door open before his mouth was on yours, walking you backward into your apartment with his hands already sliding under your shirt.

“Been thinking about you all fucking day,” he'd growled against your throat, and you'd melted like you always do, let him peel you out of your clothes and fuck you against the kitchen counter.

You'd had bruises on your hips for a week after. Had pressed your fingers into them whenever you needed to remember that you were real to him, that you weren't just imagining the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

yeah? | 2:55 AM

what about? | 2:55 AM

There's a pause. Longer this time. You can picture him so clearly it hurts. Sprawled in his bed, chest bare, all that dark hair dusting across muscle and tapering down his stomach in a trail your tongue knows by memory. The broad sprawl of his shoulders. The thick arms. The heavy muscle of his thighs. The kind of body that makes you feel small in ways you've stopped pretending you don't love. 

And already half-hard just from the anticipation of watching you slowly give in via text message.

You know what about | 3:00 AM

You do know. God help you, you know exactly what he's thinking about and your body has already started making decisions without consulting you.

that's not an answer | 3:00 AM

ari | 3:00 AM

You add his name in a second text, and you realise you’re already chasing. That’s what he does. He texts you first, casts the line, and then sits back and watches you swim toward him every time. 

I'm thinking about the way your thighs shake when you're trying not to cum before I say you can | 3:01 AM

Heat floods through you, pooling low in your belly and spreading outward until your skin feels too hot. Your free hand slides under your waistband without a second thought, fingers slipping through how wet you are and your hips tilt up into your own touch. But all you can think about is how much better he feels. 

you're an asshole | 3:02 AM

I know | 3:03 AM

Let me come over anyway | 3:03 AM

And there it is. The ask that isn't really an ask because you both know how this ends. The presumption that should offend you but doesn't because he's earned it, hasn't he? Six months of this dance, of you saying no and meaning yes, of drawing boundaries and then opening the door anyway when he shows up with that look in his eyes.

You stare at the message until the words start to blur. Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, trembling slightly.

This is the moment. The fork in the road where you prove to yourself, to your friends, to your therapist, to everyone who's watched you self-destruct over Ari fucking Levinson that you're capable of choosing yourself. That you're more than the girl who waits for 3 AM texts. That you deserve someone who doesn't make you feel like a toy he keeps on the shelf until he wants something warm to sink into.

i'm not the one you should be texting at 3am | 3:05 AM

There. Boundaries. Self-respect. All the things you're supposed to have.

Probably not | 3:06 AM

But you're the one I want | 3:06 AM

Four words and you feel them everywhere. The lie tastes bitter even secondhand, transmitted through pixels and cellular data. The one I want. Not the only one - you're not quite delusional enough to believe that. But the one he wants right now. 

Presumably she's asleep, blissfully unaware that her—what? Boyfriend? Situationship? Whatever Ari is to her—is currently sexting his other whatever-the-fuck-you-are. Maybe she's in the bathroom. Maybe she's asleep next to him and he's doing this anyway, getting off on the proximity of the secret. The thought makes you nauseous and aroused in equal measure.

You should say to fuck off. Should tell him to lose your number, block him for real this time, delete the photos from your phone and burn the clothes he's left in your closet. Should pull your hand out from under your waistband and go to sleep. Should feel literally anything other than the dark, sick satisfaction currently unfurling in your chest at the thought of him choosing your bed over hers. 

fine | 3:09 AM

You send it before you can talk yourself out of it. Then you drop your phone face down on the mattress like you can't stand to look at what you've just done. Three seconds later you pick it back up.

One word. All that internal warfare and it comes down to four letters and no punctuation, casual as anything, like your heart isn't hammering against your ribs. Like your fingers aren’t still moving absently between your thighs because your body made the decision before you even sent that text. 

20 minutes | 3:10 AM

Be ready for me | 3:11 AM

The command in those last four words makes your stomach flip. You drop your phone onto the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, your heart still racing, your body already preparing itself.

Twenty minutes to shower, to shave, to make yourself into the version of yourself that he wants. Twenty minutes to pretend you haven't been wanting this every single night for two weeks. Twenty minutes to become the girl who's winning, even though you both know she's losing.

Your phone buzzes twice more, and you grab it so fast you nearly drop it.

Wear that black set | 3:13 AM

You know the one | 3:13 AM

You do know. Of course you know. The lace set he'd bought you a month ago, presented in expensive tissue paper after he'd cancelled dinner plans for the third time. “Let me make it up to you,” he'd murmured, watching you unwrap it with heat in his eyes. 

You'd worn it for him that same night. Had modelled the set while Ari sat on the edge of your bed watching you with dark eyes and that infuriating half smile, turning you with one finger like you were something he'd commissioned. Had ended up on your back with the lace pushed aside and his mouth on your throat while he fucked you slow enough to make you beg for it.

The sick satisfaction blooms darker, spreading wider through your chest like poison ivy.

── ⟢  ₊ 🌙 ˚・🥀 ⊹ 

The knock comes at exactly 3:32 AM. Three sharp raps, confident and unapologetic. The knock of someone who has never once considered that he might not be welcome.

You've been perched awkwardly on the arm of your couch for the last three minutes, fingers worrying the tie of your robe into knots. The black lace sits against your skin like a reminder of every bad decision that's led to this moment, delicate and expensive and utterly wasted on what's about to happen. The set and the silk robe thrown over it feels like costuming, like you’re playing the part of someone in control.

You're not in control. You haven't been since the first time Ari Levinson looked at you like you were something worth ruining himself for.

Padding over to the door, silk robe whispering against your thighs, you take one steadying breath before you open it. And there he is.

He's devastating. That's the only word for it. Big in a way that makes your apartment feel like a dollhouse. Shoulders broad enough to block out the hallway light, and tall enough that you have to tilt your head back to meet his eyes. 

The t-shirt stretched across his chest leaves nothing to the imagination, which is almost funny because your imagination doesn't need the help anymore. You know that body. Know it embarrassingly well. Know exactly how it feels to be underneath it - small, delicate and so deliciously overwhelmed by the sheer size of him. Your thighs press together involuntarily at the thought.

His hair is slightly mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look softer than he is. And the beard - god the beard - is fuller than the last time you saw him, framing a mouth that knows exactly how to destroy you.

But it's his eyes that do the real damage. Blue enough to drown in, they rake over you with a possessive appreciation that’s entirely unapologetic. 

“Look at you,” Ari rumbles, voice already rough, deeper than usual. His eyes linger where your robe has fallen open just enough to reveal the black lace underneath, tongue flicking out to brush his bottom lip. “You trying to kill me?”

“You told me to wear it.” You lean against the doorframe, trying for casual, but your pulse is hammering visibly in your throat and you know he can see it.

“I did.” He steps inside without waiting for an invitation, and the smile that crosses his face is slow and pleased and entirely too satisfied with itself. His eyes sweep over you once again, like he's taking inventory of something that belongs to him. “And you listened, you’re always such a good girl for me.”

His praise unfurls something warm and pathetic in your chest. You hate how much you want to be his good girl, how desperately you crave the affection he'll give you.

The door clicks shut behind him and suddenly your apartment feels too small, the air too thick. He shrugs his jacket off, tosses it somewhere without looking. Underneath, the sleeves of his t-shirt are pushed to his elbows, revealing his thick forearms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. And attached to those big hands that know exactly how to take you apart. 

You make yourself look back up at his face. It doesn't help. His eyes are already on you, full of heat and already dark.

“Hi,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you meant.

“Hi, baby.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with a gentleness that makes your chest ache. His palm spans from your chin to your ear, and you feel small in a way that makes your stomach flip. He could break you so easily. In some ways, he already has. “Missed you.”

The words land like a gut punch. “And whose fault is that?”

“I know.” His thumb traces your bottom lip and your breath catches. “I'm sorry.”

He's not, though. You both know he's not. Sorry would mean changing, would mean choosing you in daylight instead of just in the dark. But then his hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back further, and his mouth hovers just above yours. Waiting. The bastard is waiting for you to close the distance, chase it, prove how much you want him.

“You're an asshole,” you whisper against his lips.

“You said that already.” His breath mingles with yours. “Say it again. I like when you're mean to me.”

You should. Should call him every name you've been saving up for two weeks. Should ask him where he's been, who he's been with, if she knows he's here. Should demand answers or respect or literally anything other than this.

Instead you kiss him.

His hand tightens in your hair the second your lips touch his, taking over immediately, changing the angle to deepen it on his terms. Your mouth opens instinctively when his tongue presses against your bottom lip, and he licks into you like he owns it. You whimper into it and he swallows the sound whole, pulls back just enough to drag his teeth across your bottom lip before coming back deeper. Tasting you. Taking his time. His other hand grips your jaw, holding you steady, and the message is clear - you're not going anywhere, and you both know it.

“Fuck, I missed this,” he groans, punctuating it with another kiss. “Missed those pretty noises you make for me.”

Pulling back just enough to breathe, eyes dark, he swipes his thumb across your swollen bottom lip, dragging it down. Without thinking, your tongue dips out and chases his thumb. He notices. Of course he notices, the corner of his mouth curving as he steps back and drops onto your couch. One arm stretches along the back it, the other rests on his thigh, and his legs spread wide in an easy sprawl.

“Come here, baby.”

He tilts his head at the space between his knees, one finger curling in a single lazy beckon, and your feet are moving before your brain has any say in the matter.

You stop between his thighs and his hands find your hips immediately. Big, warm, and immediately possessive, settling on your hips with a certainty that makes your breath catch. You make the mistake of looking down at him and catching those deadly blue eyes looking back up at you through thick lashes, and your stomach drops straight through the floor. Standing between his spread thighs you feel it acutely, how much larger he is. How solid. His hands nearly span your entire waist and something about that, about being held so easily, makes heat pool low and insistent.

His fingers find the tie of your robe and toy with it, unhurried, knuckles grazing your stomach through the silk.

“This is pretty,” he murmurs, tugging one end of the belt slowly until the bow dissolves. Your robe falls open and his eyes drop, taking in the full view of black lace underneath. “But I like what's underneath better.”

The silk whispers off your shoulders and pools at your feet, leaving you in nothing but scraps of lace while he remains completely, infuriatingly dressed. And that thought alone - the disparity of it - sends heat rushing straight between your thighs. His eyes devour you slowly, like you're something he's very pleased with himself for having.

The thick bulge straining against his jeans suggests he's more than just pleased.

A sharp inhale escapes you when his hand palms your ass, tugging you closer between his spread thighs until his mouth finds your midriff. Warm lips press against your skin in lazy kisses as your hands slide into his hair. His hands smooth up the backs of your thighs to grip your hips, anchoring you in place, and his mouth moves across your skin slow enough to make you dizzy.

“Do me a favour, babygirl,” he rumbles against you, thumb tracing the lace at your hip, light enough to make you shiver. “Give me a little spin, yeah?” The timbre of his voice has dropped somewhere sinful. “Want to see all of you.”

Your face flushes but you obey, turning in the circle of his thighs while his hand guides you. You feel his gaze like a physical touch, lingering on the curve of your ass where the lace cuts high, on the line of your spine, on the backs of your thighs.

“God, I missed this view,” he groans. “Come back here.”

When you complete the turn, both his hands reach for you, gripping your hips and pulling you forward into his lap in one smooth motion that steals your breath. You end up straddling him, thighs spread wide over his, the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin. His mouth finds yours immediately, greedier this time, more demanding, tongue sliding against yours while his hands roam. Your waist, your back, your ass, mapping you like he's reminding himself of everything he's been missing.

One hand cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple through the lace until it peaks, and then he pinches lightly. You gasp into his mouth, hips grinding forward instinctively. 

“That's it,” he breathes. “Fuckin’ love the sounds you make. Love feeling you respond to me.”

His hips roll up slightly and the pressure against your clit makes your head fall back. He takes advantage immediately, mouth moving to your throat, beard scraping sensitive skin as he kisses and bites his way down to your collarbone.

“Ari—” Your hands fist in his hair, needing something to hold onto.

“I've got you baby.” His hands slide to your hips, guiding you into a rhythm, encouraging you to grind against him. “That's my girl, take what you need. Use me.”

So you do. Hips rolling, chasing the friction, grinding down against the thick ridge of him while his mouth stays greedy on your throat. His hands guide you, encourage you, grip harder when you hit the right angle. The lace between your thighs is soaked through, dragging against denim with every roll of your hips.

“Soaking these pretty panties,” he rasps against your collarbone, like he can feel exactly how wet you are through his jeans. “Love having you like this. Love watching you fall apart. All for me.”

The praise washes over you, warm and devastating. He's always been good at this - making you feel seen, special, like you're the only person in the world who matters. It's intoxicating and dangerous and you can feel yourself getting lost in it, in him.

Your hips are moving faster now, chasing more friction, and he matches your rhythm with slow, controlled rolls of his hips that drag against your clit through your panties and make your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part around a needy little sound you have absolutely no control over, hips stuttering forward greedily as your head tips back.

“Fuck, look at you. So beautiful when you're desperate for it.” His hand slides up to cup your face, thumb pressing against your parted lips and tilting your chin back down until you meet his eyes. They're dark, pupils blown wide, and the heat in them makes your breath stutter. “You have any idea what you do to me babygirl? How fucking crazy you make me?”

You want to believe him. Want to believe that this means something, that you're not just convenient and willing at 3 AM. But the wanting is what breaks you. His hips roll up and pleasure spikes through you sharp. You're so turned on it aches, so close to the edge already, and underneath all of it is the creeping, horrible feeling of wanting this to mean what it doesn't mean.

“My girl.” His mouth brushes yours as he says it, barely a kiss. The hand on your cheek slides into your hair as his hips keep moving. You can feel how hard he is, how much he wants this, wants you, and for a moment it's so easy to believe that wanting and choosing are the same thing.

“You'll always be my girl, won't you? You know that.”

The thing is, you do know. That's the problem. You know it in the way his name in your phone makes your stomach drop. In the way you put on the black lace without hesitating. In the way your body has been his since the first time he touched you and has never quite figured out how to belong to itself again. You know it in your bones.

But knowing you're his and knowing he's yours are two very different things. And only one of them is true.

The first tear slips free before you can stop it and you instinctively try to hide your face in his neck. Seeking his warmth, his scent and the solid size of him, because he has ruined you so thoroughly that even now, even like this, he’s what your body reaches for. He’s the reason you’re crying and he’s who you want to cry into and that’s the most pathetic part of it.

But his hand catches your face before you can, palm curving around your jaw, fingers pressing into your cheeks. Your lips pucker involuntarily into a helpless little pout, fresh tears spilling over his fingers as he forces you to look directly at him. 

“Oh baby,” he coos, soft and devastating and not entirely kind. His hips roll up and you whimper through the pout he’s forcing on your lips, grinding you against his erection in a rhythm that makes your body sing even as your heart splinters “What’s this? What’s going on in that pretty head?”

His thumb swipes at your tears almost lazily, eyes tracking each one with a toxic mix of heat and hunger and satisfaction barely concealed beneath concern. The humiliation and the pleasure coil into something indistinguishable from each other, and the need between your thighs deepens with every tear he collects.

“I cant do this anymore,” you manage, small and pathetic and entirely unconvincing. 

More tears follow, hot and wet against your cheeks. Beneath you he's harder than before, thick and obvious through his jeans, his free hand pressing your hips down into a rhythm you're helpless to resist. The friction drags a moan out of you that breaks halfway into a sob, messy and humiliating, and you're still pouty-lipped and crying in his palm. He watches it happen with those dark, greedy eyes before schooling his expression back into something that looks like concern. 

He tilts his head, blue eyes wide and earnest, and you feel insane. Like you've invented the problem out of thin air. “Where’s this coming from?”

The gentleness of his tone is pure performance. Like he has no idea why you'd be falling apart in his lap. Like he isn’t the architect of every wound he’s now pretending to care about. Like your tears aren’t exactly what he came here for.

“You know where.” You try to pull away but his hand tightens on your cheeks, keeping you seated firmly in his lap, keeping the thick ridge of his cock pressed right against your clit through the soaked lace.

“I really don't, baby.” His thumb swipes another tear, slow and unhurried, and his hips roll up just enough to make your breath catch mid-sob. “Talk to me. Let it all out.”

But you can't. Can't articulate the war happening inside you. The way your body is screaming yes while your heart is screaming no. Can't explain that you're furious and desperate and so far gone for him that the anger only makes you want him more.

More tears spill over and you watch his pupils dilate, watch his breath catch.

“We're done,” you finally say, the words muffled and graceless against the pout his fingers are still forcing on your lips. “I mean it this time.”

For a second he just stares at you, and then his expression shifts into something that makes your stomach drop. Not surprised - of course not - just entirely indulgent like you're a child throwing a tantrum.

“Aww, baby.” His voice goes soft, syrupy, as though he's talking you down from something small and silly. “Hey, hey. It's okay, good girl. Let it all out.”

“I'm serious—”

“Shh, I know. I know you are.” His thumb traces your bottom lip, wet and trembling, and his tongue drags slowly across his own like he's already thinking about tasting your tears. “You're upset. You've got all these big feelings and nowhere to put them, yeah? Go on baby, show me how much you're feeling right now, cry because it’s over.”

The patronizing tone makes you cry harder, which seems to be exactly what he wants. His eyes track each tear with rapt attention, that small smile playing at his mouth. Your face is still caught in his grip, bottom lip still protruding in that humiliating little pout, wobbling with each wet sob

He uses that grip on your face to pull you forward into his mouth before you can reply. The kiss is messy and wet and salty with your tears, his tongue licking into you like he's tasting the evidence of everything you feel for him, everything you just tried to end. You moan into it despite yourself and he swallows that too, hips rolling up beneath you slow and deliberate, keeping the rhythm, reminding your body what it wants even as your heart tries to want something else.

He pulls back only to drag his mouth across your cheek, your jaw, following the wet trails your tears have left behind. His tongue collects them one by one and the groan that rumbles out of him against your skin makes your thighs clench around his, as he keeps you pressed against the hard length of him that proves he's not taking any of this seriously.

“So fucking sweet,” he rasps, mouth moving to find more, greedy. “My pretty little crybaby.”

Once satiated with your tears, his hand finally releases your cheeks and you collapse forward immediately, face buried in the crook of his neck where you wanted to be ten minutes ago. Your arms loop weakly around his broad shoulders, breath ragged and wet, nose pressed into his skin. You're still crying - soft, hiccuping sobs you can't quite get a handle on - yet your hips continue to grind desperately against him because your body has clearly given up on listening to your better judgment.

His other hand slides down between your bodies, palm grazing your stomach, the lace at your hip, and then the soaked fabric between your thighs. The first brush of his fingers against the soaked lace makes you moan into his throat before you can stop yourself, hips bucking helplessly into the contact.

“Ari, I said—I ended it—” But your protest is weak and entirely unconvincing because the rest dissolves into a moan that you muffle desperately against his neck.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans. “You're drenched.” 

His fingers trace the wet fabric, and another wet moan escapes you as he presses against your clit. “See? Your body knows what it wants even if you're confused up here.” His thumb taps gently at your temple, patronising and tender all at once.

Pushing the lace aside, the first stroke of his thick fingers through your wetness makes you moan into his neck. He hums his approval into your hair before sinking two fingers into you in one slow stroke, and your whole body shudders.

“Ari, you're not listening,” you manage between ragged breaths, hips grinding down onto his hand despite every word coming out of your mouth. “I ended it. I told you I—” Another moan chokes off the sentence as he curls his fingers deeper, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit.

“I am listening, babygirl. I hear you,” he soothes, infuriatingly gentle. “You're very upset. Very hurt. And you're handling it by making a big declaration at four in the morning while you're sitting in my lap in that lace I bought you.” He keeps pumping his fingers into you as he talks, and your whole body jolts, hips grinding down into him. “While you're soaking my fingers and grinding on my cock.”

He works you slowly, deliberately, fingers curling with the kind of patience that feels like torture. Your protests dissolve into something more honest - desperate little whines against his neck, mewled into his neck because that's the only place you can hide. Your tears keep falling even as your hips chase his hand, even as your fingers claw at his shoulders, even as every coherent thought you had about ending this burns away to nothing.

“Please, please, please—”

You’re so close, desperately close, trembling on the edge of it when he pulls his fingers free. The sound you make is pathetic and defeated, and goes wilfully ignored. 

Ari brings those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan that vibrates through his chest. 

“Fuck, don't know what's sweeter, baby.” His eyes track between his fingers and your wet cheeks, dark and considering. “You or those pretty tears.”

He sucks them clean one more time like he can't help himself, then reaches down.

The zip of his jeans is the loudest sound in the room. He frees himself and an eager moan actually escapes you because god, his cock is so pretty. Thick and hard and flushed dark, the swollen head already glistening, a drop of precum sliding down to streak against your inner thigh.

The kind of cock that's ruined your standards permanently.

Those big hands close around your hips with that ease that always makes you feel like a doll he's positioning. And he uses every inch of those broad shoulders and corded forearms to drag your soaked pussy along the length of him without pushing in. Just sliding you over him, painting himself in your wet heat while the lace stays bunched to the side and you make needy little sounds against his throat.

The fat head of his cock catches your clit and you gasp, fingers digging into his shoulders.

“Ari,” you whine, a desperate little plea. “Please.”

“Please what, babygirl?” His voice is pure honey, dark and indulgent. “Tell me what you need.”

“Need you to—” Another gasp as he catches your clit again. 

“Use your words, c’mon, know you can do it.” He guides your hips forward again, achingly slow, the thick head of him nudging against your entrance before he pulls you back. Not pushing in, just making sure you know exactly what you're begging for.

“Inside,” you sob against his neck. “Please, I need your cock Ari.”

“Hmm,” he teases, almost thoughtful as he tilts his head. His hands still on your hips, holding you hovering right there, right on the edge of it. “I would, baby. You know I would.” He pauses, and you feel your heart drop into your stomach. His thumb strokes your hip in possessive circles. “But I thought you ended it. Thought you meant it this time.”

Your face snaps up to his, panic and need crashing into each other behind your eyes.

“Ari, please, no—I need you, I need—”

“Aww.” His voice softens, faux-tender, that infuriating little crease appearing between his brows. “Baby, no, I'm just doing what you asked me to do. It’s over, right? We’re done. That's what you said.” He drags you slowly over him again and the head of his cock catches your clit and you sob, fresh tears spilling hot down your cheeks. “Wouldn't want to take advantage.”

“I didn't mean it.” The words tumble out of you in a desperate rush, choked and wet and humiliating. “Ari I didn't mean it, I'm sorry, please, please I'm sorry—” You kiss him before he can answer, messy and needy, lips chasing his, hands fisting in his shirt to keep him close. “Please, I need you, I need it, please don't stop—”

You feel his cock twitch against your folds. Hot and obvious. A pulse of want he can't hide. He hums against your mouth, low and pleased, and you can feel him smiling.

“Shhh,” he breathes against your lips between kisses, voice dropping to something dark and pleased. “Look at you. Crying and begging and apologising. So fucking pretty when you're like this. Gone all dumb for my cock, haven't you?”

He drags you over him again, slow and torturous, the slick head of him catching your clit and making you whine.

“Yes,” The word falls out of you broken and grateful. “Yes, please, Ari—”

“Yeah?” His mouth moves against yours, almost amused. “You want me to take care of you? Even after you tried to end it?” Another devastating drag. “Even after you broke my heart?”

“Please, I'm yours, please—” Your hips are still chasing him, still desperate, every word collapsing into the next.

“Okay, baby. Okay.” His tone is generous now. Magnanimous, like he's bestowing something. “I'll give it to you because that's what I do, isn't it? I take care of my girl.” His hand slides to grip the base of his cock, the other tightening on your hip. “This is why you're mine, crying so pretty for my cock.”

He lines the thick, swollen head of his cock up at your entrance, and guides you down with his hand on your hip. The first inch of him has your eyes rolling back already, stretching you open with that familiar fullness that your body has been craving for two weeks.

“Shit, baby,” he groans, head tipping back briefly. “Tightest little cunt I've ever felt. Made for me, isn't it?”

You try to chase his mouth, desperate to keep kissing him, but your jaw won't cooperate. Instead, it keeps falling slack with every inch you take, lips parting uselessly around the moans pouring out of you. By the time you're fully seated your forehead is resting against his, your mouth hanging open against his lips.

“Dumb already,” he rumbles, watching your face with dark amusement, watching your wet, glassy eyes blink slowly back at him. “What am I going to do with you, baby?” His thumb finds your bottom lip, slipping into your open mouth and pressing down on your tongue. “Suck. Good girl. Keep that mouth occupied.”

You close your lips around his thumb obediently, sucking, eyes fluttering shut around the dual fullness of him in your mouth and inside you. His hips give a small, lazy roll beneath you and you whimper around his fingers.

“Go on, show me how much my little crybaby needed this.”

You find your rhythm slowly, hips rolling, chasing the friction, thighs burning with the effort of it. Ari watches you from beneath heavy lids, enjoying every second of making you work for it - not helping, not even a little. Just watching you ride him like you’re entertainment, thumb still pressed to your tongue, free hand coming up to pop the clasp of your bra like he has all the time in the world.

It falls away and his hand cups your breast immediately, squeezing, thumb dragging over your nipple before pinching it sharply. You whimper around his thumb, drool clinging to his knuckle, trailing down your chin in thin little strings.

He pinches harder and you clench around him hard enough to make him hiss, so he does it again just to feel you grip him. You're close. So desperately close you can feel it shimmering just out of reach, coiling tight in your belly with every roll of your hips. Soft whining sounds escape around his thumb with every breath.

“You getting close, baby? Want to cum?”

You nod frantically, eyes wet and pleading, drool slipping down his hand. A thin string of it pulls from your lips as you try to form the word yes.

“Then beg for it,” he purrs, lazy and mean. “You want it so bad? Let's hear it.”

You try. You really try - tongue working uselessly around his thumb, shaping syllables as best you can. What escapes is something that vaguely resembles please, mangled by saliva and his cruel pressure on your tongue, deliberately obstructing the attempt.

His grin is slow and wolfish. “That supposed to be begging?”

A desperate whine vibrates against his thumb. He presses it deeper in response, just to feel you gag, just to watch your lips stretch wider around him, and your eyes well with fresh tears.

“Nah.” His mouth drags to your throat, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Not good enough, babygirl. All I hear is spit and nonsense.” His free hand drops between your bodies, fingers brushing your clit - just a mean, fleeting touch - and you sob desperately. “Drooling all over my fingers like a needy little thing. Can't even beg right - guess you don't want it that bad, huh?”

A pathetic cry claws its way out of you, half-strangled by the thumb still in your mouth. You shake your head wildly, eyes glassy and wide. So you try harder. Put everything you have left into it, hips still rolling desperately, thighs shaking.

“P-plea'—Ari—please—wan'—wan'—cum—”

Slurred, barely English, mangled around his thumb. But desperate. Unmistakably desperate.

He groans - deep, hungry and satisfied - hips finally snapping up to meet yours. He drags his thumb from your mouth just long enough to hear the broken sob of relief that breaks loose from your lips before his mouth crashes against yours.

“Good girl,” he breathes against your tongue. “Fucking good girl.”

He fucks up into you hard, one big hand gripping the curve of your ass to slam you down to meet every thrust. The other stays between you to circle you clit with perfect pressure. Every snap of his hips hits you so deep you can feel it in your teeth. The sound of it is filthy, slick and wet and rhythmic, your apartment filled with the obscene slap of skin and your broken, mindless cries.

“Fuckin' look at you,” he growls against your jaw. “That’s my fucking girl, riding my cock so pretty.”

You can't answer. Can barely hold yourself upright. His name is the only word left in your mouth—Ari Ari Ari Ari—a desperate, broken loop as he drives into you.

“That's right.” His thumb works your clit faster, mouth dragging across your jaw. “Say it. Whose are you? Whose pussy is this?”

“Ari—” you moan. “Ari, Ari, Ari—”

“Yeah, that's right. Mine, so let me feel my pussy soak my cock.”

You break apart. Your whole body convulses, walls clamping down around him so hard he hisses, the orgasm tearing through you in wave after wave while his hips never stop, never slow. His name is still falling helplessly out of your mouth in a broken chant as he fucks you through it, hips snapping up into you while you sob and shake and clench around him.

“Fuck—fuck, baby, just like that—strangling my cock.”

His rhythm goes sloppier. Hungrier. His hand leaves your clit and his arm wraps around your waist instead, holding you against him, pinning you in place so he can fuck up into you with everything he has left.

“Gonna fill you up, baby. Fill this perfect pussy with my cum.”

You nod helplessly, squeezing around him and he loses it. His hips drive up one last time, burying himself deep, and groans against your skin as he spills inside you. You feel every pulse of it. Every hot, possessive flood while you tremble in his lap, his cock still twitching, his hand still gripping your ass like he can't quite let go.

You come down slowly, in pieces, his arms still locked around you and his cock still buried deep. His mouth moves over your throat, your jaw, your tear-tracked cheeks. Soft, sweet kisses that are a complete contrast to what he just did to you.

“My perfect girl,” he murmurs, voice gentle and warm. “Always so good for me. Always so fucking perfect.”

You can't even respond. Just whimper against his shoulder while his hand strokes up and down your spine, gentling you, his other hand cradling the back of your head. You're floating somewhere between exhaustion and bliss, and he holds you through all of it, patient and warm and impossibly tender. 

Praise pours out of him in a low, constant stream, and you let yourself sink into it, let yourself believe in it, just for a minute.

When he finally pulls out you feel his cum start to slip out of you immediately. Hot and slick, sliding down between your thighs onto the warm wet head of him still pressed against you. He glances down and tuts, both amused and disapproving.

“Mm. Look at the mess you're making, baby.” His thumb catches some of it where it's beading on his cock and brings it back up to your bottom lip, smearing it there, watching your face. Your tongue darts out before you've made any conscious decision about it. He hums, deeply pleased. “You made the mess, reckon you ought to help clean it up.”

He guides you off his lap slowly, careful with you, until your knees meet the floor between his spread thighs. You look up at him from there - face wet, lips parted, cum running down the insides of your thighs onto your apartment floor - and the expression on his face stops your breath in your chest.

That undone, almost tender expression he never wears anywhere but here. Only ever when he thinks you can't tell, when his guard has slipped, when you've fucked him past the point where he can keep the walls up.

It's the drug. It's always been the drug. It's why you didn't block his number when you said you would. Why you opened the door at 3:32 AM. Why you let him talk you out of ending it without ever actually arguing. Why you'll do the same thing the next time, and the time after that, and the time after that. Because no one else has ever looked at you the way Ari Levinson looks at you right now.

His thumb traces your bottom lip, possessive yet tender. “Open up, babygirl.”

more mads: honestly, i'm not entirely sure that's what the request meant, but i started listening to "don't smile" to get inspo for the fic and my mind immediately went to dacryphilia and that was it really, so um, sorry if this isn't what you meant anon, but i hope you, and anyone else who read this enjoyed anyway!! if you did, please hit like or, even better, please consider leaving a comment/reblog bc it would genuinely make my whole day. my leo moon means i will literally perish without external validation. i’m tinkerbell coded. love u <33 <33

taglist: @juniebjonesin @heldbybarnes @love-stucky @badbitchsincebirth05 @phoenix-in-writing @tw1sters @blowingbarnes @sassandscribbles @alpinebarnesworld @sheriff-bodecker @buckybsdoll @gilwm @venigrantrogers @mrsevans90 @rainyapricotcreatorparty @midnightramyeoncravings @catchmeupimgettingoutofhere

[buckybsdoll]

pink pony club

summary: Steve's never been good at holding onto what he loves and you — well you've never been able to stay one place long.

pairing: ex!steve rogers x stripper!reader | wc: 354 prompt: pink pony club - chappell roan "i know you wanted me to stay" warnings: angst +blue: this is my first time posting steve when its not stucky ahhhh. i had to cut out so much to try and meet the word count (and still didn't lol) so i fear it doesn't make sense anymore...but maybe i'll turn this into a longer fic with all the bits i have on the side.

event masterlist | main masterlist

“What’s Captain America doing in our club?”

One of the girls whispers to the other as their eyes lock on the man who’d just entered—shirt buttoned across his broad chest, slacks perfectly ironed, cheeks flushed as his eyes dart side to side—looking perfectly out of place in the warm pink lighting of the strip club.

You spot him before anyone has a chance to warn you—your heart giving a traitorous flip and your eyes welling up with tears involuntarily.

Steve’s heart leaps into his throat when he spots you.

Suddenly, he has no idea why he’s come here.

“Hi.”

You bite down on your lip to stop it from wobbling.

“Hi. What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to talk, to see you. Can we—” He tries to guide you to the side of the room, but you don’t budge.

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’m working.” You need him to leave, need the lump in your throat to stop rising before you completely fall apart.

“I just— sweetheart please— I miss you— just five minutes please, m’begging.”

“What do you want Steve?”

“I don’t— I don’t know— I want— I wanted you to…” He trails off, his stupid puppy dog eyes meeting yours and it takes everything in you to not cradle his face in your hands and wipe the tears about to fall.

“I know. I know you wanted me to stay, but you don’t get it Steve, I needed to move.”

You loved him. You love him. Of course you do. How could you not? Steve was everything you could’ve dreamed of — attentive, protective, and loyal to a fault.

But you needed more from your life than being Captain America’s girlfriend. And being in New York meant you’d always be just that.

So you left.

And Steve — well Steve would always put his duty above everything else. His duty to the city, to the Avengers — never mind his duty to you.

So he watched you leave—taking his heart with you, dripping all the love you’d poured into it right onto the floor of your shared apartment.

tags: @epiphanyrogers @singulartoast @love-stucky

[sassandscribbles]

Locked in towers, Loved in dreams

Masterlist Post :-

Pairing : Captured knight!bucky x Princess of hydra!reader (fantasy au)

Summary : The dark palace of hydra hides deep secrets. One of which lives in the darkest dungeon of the castle.

They say its a monster. That it is only to be unleashed when the kingdom is at war. They say never to go near it unless you want to die the most gruesome death possible.

But when the dark secrets of the castle start revealing themselves, how long can you deny the temptation of doing just what you're told not to?

Warnings : to be added later....

Chapter - 1 : Nightmares and Visions (12th june)

Chapter - 2 : The fortune teller's prophecy

Chapter - 3 : White wolf in winter's shadow

Chapter - 4 : A heart in spring

Chapter - 5 : Break of dawn

Dividers by @/uzmacchiato

Chapters will be released every Thursday and Sunday

Tag list : @redstarleftarm, @sweetserendipity65, @sambuckystony, @nymphhbabiee, @darlingdenise, @venigrantrogers, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @bstan01, @phoenix-in-writing, @singulartoast, @danerb67, @onyx8514, @globetrotter28, @buckysdecaflove, @alyssinwunderland-blog-blog, @herejustforbuckybarnes, @v33mustdie, @star-yawnznn, @buckybsdoll

Comment or send an ask to be added or removed from the tag list

[anika-ann]

One of the Long-Lost Precious Arts - S.R.

Part 1 - The Lonely Soul And The Last Ashes

Type: medieval-ish fairy-tale-fantasy-ish three-shot, angst with fluff and a bit of hurt and comfort

Pairing: king!Steve Rogers x reader          Word count: 8800

Summary: Stolen by a couple of mercenaries to become a gift to a king of a neighbouring kingdom, you’re helpless to but watch even the pitiful remnants of your life burn down – and with it, your hopes. For freedom. For a good life. For love.

There are all kinds of tales told about King Steve Rogers I.; and only time will tell which of them are true and which are mere rumours. You can only hope – but hope is a fickle, whimsical thing.

And so is fate.

Series masterlist

Warnings: 18+ just in case, brief mention of an attempted sexual assault (interrupted or fought off), alcoholism in a parent, shitty parenting (father), mixing of two faiths and several mentions of religion/praying, very brief mention of suicidal thoughts, minor injuries (bruises, scrapings), kidnapping and arson, losing one's home, misogyny (hello), but also Steve being the King we all deserve in all senses of the word and first hints of fluff

A/N: divider by @thecutestgrotto, header is mine; technically, this was supposed to be a submission to @stargazingfangirl18 's Hoelidays event, but as usual (prompts under the fic), it got out of hand an it took me forever. Ah well. Happy reading!💕

Your feet were cold.

Shoes barely hanging on your feet as they shuffled over the stone floor, you could feel the cold seeping into your skin and weary bones; and yet, it was the chill blooming inside your ribcage that you could not hope to chase away. You doubted there was a shawl warm enough to do so; let alone this sad worn thing you cherished for it had once belonged to your mother.

You shivered. You seemed to always shiver these days. The loneliness that coursed through your veins was like the water of the mountain stream; still fresh and unforgivingly icy.

Two long years since you mother had passed.

Two long years since your father had found the solace from his grief at the bottom of a bottle.

Two long years since your own solace had been none but thready dreams of ungraspable warmth. Dreams of future unknown but steady and sure. That, and memories.

You smiled as your mind conjured the kind features of your mother, your hands tender as you placed the wreath on the fireplace to honour her, her favourite flowers weaved through. She had been of wild nature, full of blooming life, foolish faith in tales of gods that might have once walked the earth. Instead of a lullaby, you had been sung tales of Lady Fortune watching over you, red threads of fate leading you as they had once led your grandmother to run off with an alchemist chasing dreams of creating a cure for humankind miraculous enough to make one walk side by side with gods; with love and hope and faith.

The women of our family have been blessed, she used to say; there’s light blooming in our hearts, fire crackling in our souls.

You used to believe her, a silly childhood wonder; a straw to clutch at once the childish foolishness had left you. Perhaps it had been truth for your grandmother and for her; the way you remembered her and wished to do so, your mother had been warmth incarnate, even as your father had been dimming her light slowly as years had been passing. She used to be the heart of your home.

You caressed the blossoms in soft memory of her; already wilting, just like your faint smile.

It slipped altogether as you moved slightly to the right, hands turning shaky, another shiver whispering past your spine.

There was no warmth where you had lived for the past two years.

And yet. Like the good daughter, you placed the little wooden cross to honour thy father too. That was what the scripture he used to recite at dinner commanded you; that was what his voice had been shouting for two years straight when you fought to keep the chalice of mead off his lips at the tavern so you’d have enough coins to put bread on your table, so you’d be able to come to the market with goods rather than empty hands of beggars.

He had loved once, you wanted to believe, both you and your mother. His love had been harsher, roughened by the touch of a man who had worked from sunrise to sunset, his words and deeds teaching you discipline. His faith in the new God, in His commandments and His wrath had been unshakeable; a stark contrast to what his hands had become once he had lost the battle against the demon of alcohol.

He had been gone but three days; perhaps his sins had angered his God at last.

His death, gods forgive you, had been a relief for you.

How could it not?

Keeping a household and the house despite the debts which your father had been trying his best to build, sleepless nights with one hand under the pillow clutching a knife for moments when his drunken haze would blur his sight enough to confuse his daughter sleeping on the floor for his wife willing to perform her marital duty. The scar on his neck from your nails had never fully healed; yet the cause of the permanent reminder had been erased from his mind the moment he drunk enough to barely remember his own name. But you remembered, always. The horror of what could have occurred had never left you and nor did the determination to defend yourself better next time.

His death, gods forgive you, had been a relief for you.

His death, gods help you, brought fresh struggles.

How could it not?

For all the hardship he had created, for all he had had less wit than a toddler in his last days, he had been a man in the house. A force to be reckoned with, even as he hadn’t truly been.

In the eyes of many, he had served a shield.

From the moment of his dying breath, the one sharp knife in your house which resided under your pillow still, was to protect you from threats that would eventually come from the outside.

Some villagers came through, aiding you with arrangements. Others sympathised.

The lot of them merely saw a lamb prepared for slaughter, a stray cat with barely any claws they could simply take. A new man to take over the house at the edge of the town and the unwed woman in it. Ripe for taking. Easy.

Like fresh hell.

They could try.

They’d find just how little claws you had, small paws that were skilled in cutting flesh of animals and would not shy away from slashing animals in human form if it meant survival. Gods knew the blasphemous thoughts of doing so to your father on the harshest of days had crossed your mind. And that had been your father, a man you had been made believe to have to honour, always, even at times when his mind was but that of an animal, led by instincts.

At the very core, you were but an animal too. The whole world was.

You shook your head to chase away the darkest of your thoughts. You swallowed against the lump in your throat as you took a step back, and ignored the grumble in your stomach. Tomorrow, you’d have to go to the market as a beggar. But that would be tomorrow; and tomorrow was a new day.

A new trial of survival.

Tears welling in your eyes, your gaze returned to the tribute to you mother, rough fingertips caressing the already dying petals.

You had been taught to honour thy father, but you had always loved your mother most and remembered her fondly for all she was.

Despite that, you genuinely doubted she had been right; Lady Fortuna was not watching over you. Perhaps your mother was still, at least. You sent a little but all the more heartfelt prayer, almost feeling a caress of her gentle touch on your cheek as the tears spilled.

Loving. Warm. A promise.

And yet, the cold creeping from below your feet grew, another shudder running down your spine.

The ground shook where you were standing, causing you to stumble back, cracking of gravel reaching your ears.

The world swung, tilting off its natural axis.

And then you were falling, and falling, and falling.

You jolted awake, the insistent cracking and rough swinging of the world as you laid on your side penetrating your senses, causing you to scrunch your face and squint against the light assaulting your eyes.

They must have opened the cover of the wagon, your mind had supplied fast and unhelpful, scrambling to remember still who was the they, and what were the when and why. Memories trickled in slowly, weaved through sensations and despair creeping to the back of your neck.

A thin blanket had been thrown over your shoulder, and having slipped, it’d let the cold follow you into the dreamland. Your hands felt shaky, cramping as they had been forced to stay in the same position for too long, tied and folded under your cheek au lieu of a pillow, the rope harsh against your wrists, cutting into your skin. Your left cheek still throbbed slightly where they had hit you as a warning to put up fight no more. The one pleasant sensation against your skin was the new clothes they provided you with, a fabric of a quality you hadn’t worn in years, firm but soft and at least a little warm against the first gusts of winter.

The light was sharp behind your eyelids squeezed tight, but the insistent sounds of gravel under the wooden wheels of the wagon were muffled in your right ear as you lay on your side.

The one sense that was assaulted only gently was your sense of smell. Spices, wine, wood and earth; the smell of a merchant’s life.

They had paid him to get you to Starkerbürg, you recalled. Hired him to help you travel the distance and cross the border without trouble; to cross the border like you hadn’t been ripped away from the only home you had ever known, snatched like a satchel of coins at a busy marketplace the same way they had cut it off from people who had been struggling as it was and yet thieves still targeted them.

Or in your case, not thieves. Mercenaries.

You supposed that it made no difference to them. To men like that, who bargained their life for gold and violence, a person, let alone a woman, was merely a thing to steal and possess too. Easily weighted in little gold; an object to buy or sell to the highest bidder.

You tasted tears as you squeezed your eyes further, few salty droplets rolling down your cheeks and seeping into your hair as you nuzzled further into your hands.

You did not dare to move another inch as you heard shuffling right behind your back, forcing a sleepy hum through your lips and praying they would think you were still sleeping, simply stirring at the constant noise.

You prayed, to all the gods you knew; prayed for a few fleeting moments of peace, last moments of reprieve from the sorrows that awaited you in the future, and the horrors of the past hours that had left but hollowness in your ribcage.

Your home, burning down in ashes in front of your blurry gaze; a battle-roughened hand griping your chin to ensure you saw the modest house, barely holding together as it had been, crumble to smouldering piles of debris and dust.

And with it, your life and your freedom.

There had never been much choice in your life. With money tight, your future had been aligned by your father who wished to arrange your marriage as that of most – a business deal – despite your mother having wished for you to marry out of love. After her passing, with your father having lost interest in everything but the bottle, it might seem you had gained. It might seem you could choose your own fate; in truth, you merely could play with the poor cards you had been dealt a little more freely.

And then the two men barging into your home and overpowering you too easily had changed the rules of the game completely and took the last chance to win free will in the fight for your existence.

The weapon you tried to protect yourself with was pressed against your throat in a flash, the unforgivingly hard and cold wall digging into your back as they trapped you against it; a sneer and a grin, a hiss to be careful not to damage the goods – you. You were the goods, you realized fast, even as you understood nothing else. Your heart was pounding loud enough to nearly drown their words, the panic squeezing your ribcage too overwhelming to try and wiggle out of the unrelenting grip.

“Oh angel… don’cha fight no more. Be good…” one of them husked to your ear, a touch of his tongue to your cheek sending a crippling tremble through your body, your knees turning weak as he pressed his full weight on you. Gods, he was so huge, if he wanted to slit your throat or else, you’d be powerless, your attempt to move a mere inch entirely futile- “…and don’cha worry. Gonna get’cha some royal fucken’ lovin’.”

You cried. You begged until your voice was hoarse. You offered to beg for a little of coin tomorrow just for them, but they just laughed, as if the idea of you giving up all you owned and could earn in a day, as pitiful as it was, amused them like nothing had in years.

“Sorry, angel. Where we goin’, them spread pretty legs of ya’rs will open doors for us and earn us a whol’lat more,” the other one chuckled, grabbing your wrist and hauling you towards the door, uncaring for how you stumbled and nearly fell to your knees.

The fire in the fireplace had been long dead; as you were dragged out, too terrified to make another sound, the man who had held your own knife to your throat discarded the weapon and went to start a fire. A fire that consumed your every hope.

The other one held your throat in a vice so you’d have to watch your life burn.

Just like he kept watch when he rushed you to bath yourself in the lake miles and miles away from your town, having paid to a merchant for a ride to the neighbouring kingdom of Starkerbürg.

You had already crossed the border, you recalled. You had been barely half-awake, having silently cried yourself to sleep, when a knife had suddenly been pressed to your side under the thin blanket. A husky threat to not dare and make a sound of protest, not to move too much. The merchant had told the soldiers guarding the border you were his daughter and your family was simply aiding men, tired from their journey, to get home.

It had been your chance, you supposed, to try to make a run for it. You had considered it, too, your heart hammering against your chest at the very thought.

But what good would have it done? Had you tried to bolt, you’d stand no chance against men trained to fight and kill with efficiency. Had you spoken up, it would have been but one voice against the three; one of a woman, no less. Had a miracle occurred and the soldiers had believed you somehow rather than the men trying to convince them you were a half-wit unaware of what you were speaking, there was no guarantee the soldiers would survive the fight, let alone win. Your hands were already tied; you would not have them stained with the blood of good men whose only crime would be coming to your aid and serving their king with honour.

And they would have been killed.

For you doubted mercenaries had such thing as a code of honour, even if they hoped to join the Royal Army of Starkerbürg, which was known to have one of the strictest ones there were.

It was beyond obvious that it was not the honour the two men had taken interest in; they chased another rumour. They had heard the king paid handsomely to those who served him. Serving in his army was a true privilege.

It would be no easy feat to join the Royal Army; it would not be easy to win his favour. For that, a gift was in order, they believed.

You.

Something to warm the king’s bed as he was apparently yet to take a wife.

Something to entertain and serve him however it would please him.

You dug your nails into your palm, biting your cheek to stifle the sob clawing up your throat. Crying never helped; you had learned as much from your father a long time ago and you had already attempted begging for your life before.

“Ya’ sure ‘bout this, Henry? She ain’t the prettiest flower there is…”

You stiffened as you heard the younger one – Dimitri, as you’d learned – utter half-heartedly, realising that it had probably been their voices what had roused you from the much-needed rest.

Your heart stumbled in your chest as the other one merely sneered in response.

“Yeah? Then why’d ya’ try to fuck her at the lake when ya’re supposed to just keep the damn watch? Yeah, I’m fuckin’ sure.”

You couldn’t supress the shiver at the memory, your stomach churning as you could still feel the touch of Dimitri’s rough hand on your breast just as you had been about to step into the cold water, huge arm pulling you back to him, fingers twisting your nipple while his other hand sneaked south to your inner thigh. The startled shriek erupting from your throat had been what saved you rather than trying to yank yourself free; in mere seconds Henry was there, ripping the man’s hands off before he could violate you further.

You did not care that you ended up plunging into the damn-near icy lake at that moment; if anything, it soothed the bile rising up your throat as the older man shouted about ‘fuckin’ half-wits’ and you ‘havin’ to be untouched and not a used whore’.

Your felt your nails piercing the skin of your palms as you clenched your fists tighter at the memory, teeth biting into your cheek so hard you tasted blood.

“Tis true she’s still snug and warm ‘nough I bet.”

Fresh goosebumps erupted on your skin as you heard Dimitri talk about you that way, even as that was hardly the first time you witnessed men reducing a woman to that. Hardly the first time you had been spoken to like that.

“Exactly. And she gotta stay ‘dat way…” Henry reminded him pointedly, earning a scoff.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever, man. I got she’s a gift ‘n’ all, but… ya’ think he’ll even--- she ain’t real a wife material for a king. They love their bloodlines ‘n’ nobility ‘n’ shit.”

“Ain’t like he’s born with dam’ golden spoon in his mouth either, Dim. He’s one of us,” Henry noted, spinking your interest despite it all.

You had heard as much. That the king of Starkerbürg had not been high-born – not even high-born enough to have become a knight. It was the eccentric ways of the late king Anthony that had allowed him to rise, first as a soldier, then a knight and an advisor and eventually, a king.

But you had heard all sorts of things of foreign kings and kingdoms; of fairies and magic and war machines denying all natural laws, of the kindest noblemen and virtuous mercenaries and corrupt holy fathers and servants of the gods.

The word was that the king of Starkerbürg, Steven Rogers I, had not only been low-born, but had earned the blessings of the God of war, and of the son of the Holy Spirit, a blessing having turned him from a weakling to a sword-wielding beast on a battlefield and into a wolf-like beast on a full moon. The word was that he had died of an animal bite once and came back to life with agony that had reshaped his mind and body and those who’s drink his blood would change as well.

The word was he was as kind and generous as he was dangerous, sharp wits competing those of the wisest scholars, headstrong and as powerful as the gods that had blessed him. The word was that his soul was as beautiful as his face was handsome.

It would be naïve to believe all tales.

But you had to believe that at least the one of him being a good man at heart had some true to it, since the one about his origin apparently did.   

“’n’ like every one of us, he’ll like a pretty thin’ to keep his bed warm. And not just bed,” Dimitri chuckled, his words dispersing your hopeful thoughts in an instant, replaced by dread.

“Now ya’re fuckin’ gettin’ it. And when it comes to ‘dat… princess, weaver, servant or whore, ‘tis all the same if she’s a virgin.”

Burning tears spilled over your closed eyelids once more, breath catching when Henry continued.

“As for bloodlines… might not she’s worth to give him an heir, but she sure as hell can have his bastar’.”

At that, you winced so hard you could not hope to disguise it, not with the whimper pushing past your lips.

A heavy hand landed on your shoulder not two seconds later, grabbing and yanking to roll you over to face them, an order to look at them not something you dared to defy even as your gaze swam in tears.

It was a curse to see Henry’s smirk so clearly as he wiped your tears carelessly, following the salty trails down your cheek and to your mouth, pulling at your wobbly bottom lip.

“Look at ‘dat… our sleepy beauty is ‘wake. Good. Gotta prep ya’ for how to talk to His Majesty…” he said, while Dimitri yanked at the rope binding your wrists together to haul you up, the twine cutting into your skin; you did not make a sound despite the pain; half-stubborn, half-terrified. If he revelled in your fear and pain, you would not give him anymore satisfaction of seeing it.

Henry’s hand never left your face, gripping your chin painfully as he leaned closer, his wine-stained breath fanning over you as his lips spread in a slow, menacing smile.

“And ya’ll be good as a lamb, ain’t ya’? ‘cause if not, we’ll slaughter ya’ like one ’n’ find another. Nothin’ special ‘bout ya’, got ‘dat?”

Somewhere deep within your ribcage, a growl worthy of a wolf was born in defiance of being a good lamb for those monsters; but it did not crawl out. Instead, the rough hand squeezing your jaw forced you to nod, before it let you go and patted your cheek.

“Gods, Henry, ya’ sure we can’t keep her? She’d be so much fun to ruin-" Henry’s glare snapped to the younger man, who chuckled and raised his hands defensively, shaking his head. “Kiddin’, man, fuckin’ kiddin’, don’cha look at me like ‘dat… ya’re thinkin’ it too.”

Henry only hummed before turning his gaze back to you, smiling so sweetly you’d almost believe him to be kind. Having already learned what kind of a man he was, however, his feigned kindness had every alarm bell in your head go off, your heart pounding so hard against your sternum you worried it might punch its way out.

“Be bad tho… and ya’ pay with blood,” he said, his gaze darkening with an emotion that made your stomach twist. “Be good… and ya’ get to see if King Rogers’s court is real generous as they say.”

Whether King Rogers’s court was generous was yet to be revealed; whether the court was rich however, was clear the moment you set foot to the city surrounding the castle. The castle stood high above the settlement, basking in the midday sunrays – but to anyone who’d set eyes on the city, it would be apparent the court had not stomped on the people of the city to rise to glory.

Life was bustling in the streets, people flowing in all directions; invitations to give a look to this goods and that, arguments over prices, laughter and chatter of neighbours as well as strangers finding a common struggle or joy, aroma of meat and cheese and spices hovering in the air.

As the merchant stopped the wagon at its designated place for the market, Henry tossed him a satchel full of coin as soon as he climbed down, beckoning to Dimitri so you’d both join him. Obediently, having no choice but to be, you did, while both men threw a sack with the little they had over their shoulder, looking around for the fastest route to the castle.

You didn’t take but a few steps before your trio realised you might not make it, not with the strange and fully justified looks casted your way; where the men walking by your side were nothing out of ordinary in the streets, a woman wearing nothing but a warm dress with a thin shawl and a rope around her wrists was. Henry soon ushered you to a less busy alley, untying your hands with words of warning as dark as his gaze, the sensation of a blade by your hip familiar by now.

Try to run and ya’ be dead before takin’ two steps.

You only nodded as the rope fell off, the relief of finally being able to move your hands and arms nearly chasing fresh tears into your eyes.

As Dimitri dragged you back to the main street, you tried not to look at the faint bruises forming around the marks where the rope had cut into your skin deep enough to draw blood. Instead, silvery sparks suddenly hovering in the air caught your eye.

Snow.

The warmth of sunrays would not allow the snowflakes to pile up upon landing, melting as soon as they’d touch the cold but not yet freezing ground; but in the air, they sparkled like thousands of tiny fireflies.

You heard children laughing, attention shifting fully from your captors walking by your side, one on each side just in case you did try to flee. For a moment, seeing the group of boys and girls who couldn’t be older than six summers trying and catching the snowflakes warmed your heart, a ghost of a smile passing your lips.

Nothing sweeter than child-like joy; you had felt it sparkle nights ago in your heart too, when you weaved the wreath for your mother’s altar, unable to resist and weaving a crown from the heather behind your house, one of the flowers strong enough to withstand the first touches of winter. You had placed it on your head, closing your eyes, lips curling for just a few precious moments; remembering your mother’s gentle hands having done the same often, whispering how one day, you’d have a crown like that in your hair on your wedding day, becoming the queen of the man whose heart would then be yours.

You were no longer a child, for many summers; for the past few years, you had been doubting fate would be as kind to you. Now, you were certain such happiness was unattainable, nothing but a tale for children indeed.

You might have a child of your own one day; scrambling to get a piece of bread for them every single day after the king you’d serve as a bedwarmer would inevitably casted you away for you were not fit to be a queen indeed.

The snowflakes melted on your skin, gentler than the tears kept at bay. As they grew in size, you heard the children’s excitement but an echo behind you. Just like where any chance of joy for you lied. Left behind.

When the sun hid behind the clouds, the silver fireflies turned but into a grey-white dust.

Ashes.

Ashes that had been flying through the air and settling on the ground where your house had been standing, around you, landing in your hair, on your cheeks, on your new dress.

You let your eyes slip shut, your arm tugged at as you stumbled over your feet.

“Don’cha fall asleep on us now, angel. ‘Tis almost yar’ time to shine,” Henry muttered into your ear, and you could hear the smile in his voice, the anticipation of victory, of gold coins clinking in his pockets as he’d exchange you like a commodity no different than a piece of meat for a place in the Royal Army.

You, on the other hand, anticipated nothing. Expected nothing.

Simpler that way.

Even seeing the townspeople not suffering at first glance, mind whispering of perhaps King Rogers being one of the kinder ones, you did allow yourself to hope for nothing.

If he showed kindness, you’d latch onto it.

If he showed much more cruelty than your captors… perhaps you’d find a moment to flee to one of the towers of the castle, more than tall enough for a fall from them to be fatal.

One had to try to play the game of life with the cards they were dealt – your father knew of this more than anyone when on his brighter days, he’d try to get rid of the burden of some of his debts by winning in a gamble. But sometimes, the only way to play the game was to end it.

Gulping at the icy shiver running down your spine at the mere idea, you looked up to the skies.

As the snowflakes grew as large as baby birds’ feathers, you wondered if this was how the angels, the creatures of the one single God, his harbingers and warriors, wept; if they lost feathers of their snow-white wings instead of tears. Perhaps they did.

You wouldn’t know, Henry might be calling you one, but you were no angel. 

When you had wept, it had been silently and much less beautiful.

And by now, you had no tears left anymore.

A couple with two children no older than three and five summers clinging to their mother’s skirts had trailed out of the doors just as you had entered, your arrival to the royal hall announced by a booming voice of the guard.

No names. No title. No purpose of the visit.

All but the last people of Starkerbürg wishing to be granted some of the King Rogers’s time and attention.

You had not dared to look up as high as where his throne sat on the platform on the other end of the hall; gaze lowered, you needed nothing but to lie one foot next to the other over and over, path set by the two men still walking by your side. Yet, your heart stumbled in its race in your chest as if it could feel the presence of a man said to be nearly as mighty with a sword as a god and a lot more benevolent than one.

Gulping at the whispers rising in what must have been a nearly empty hall, your hands closed into fists, the wounded skin on your wrists protesting with the movement. You forced yourself to release the grip once you had halted in your steps, just a moment after your companions had.

Following their lead still, since you had no experience in meeting a royal, you bend in your knees, head consciously bowing lower than before.

“Rise and be welcomed to the royal court of Starkerbürg,” a strong, surprisingly warm voice welcomed you, sending a shiver all over your skin so intense you nearly forgot yourself to follow the order. You rose but a moment after Henry and Dimitri; your knees strangely weak, a sensation that should be unpleasant but was not. “What concern do you bring and what issue do you wish us to assist you with?”

Your head snapped up before you could think twice of your actions, the words, while carrying authority, chosen much kinder for a ruler than you’d expect.

Your gaze met that of the man speaking such, a pair of sky-blue eyes trapping you with no hope for you to escape.

Your breath caught in your lungs, heart stunned into stillness.

The warmth that had spread over your skin seeped deeper, rushing through your veins and gathering into a heat curling around your heart like flames that should have burned, but gently wrapped around the poor muscle instead.

By gods, the man sitting on the throne was nothing short of magnificent, even as his clothes and the golden crown sitting on his head were much less opulent than you’d thought they’d be.

A large figure with broad shoulders one could easily believe had indeed been blessed by the God of war, the sword resting in its sheath propped up by the throne by his hip, ready to be drawn if needed; sharply cut features of his face, softened by a crown of sand-light hair, eyes framed by long lashes, lips plump enough as if made to speak kind word – and one could easily believe he was thus blessed by the son of the Holy Spirit, or an angel himself to.

Hopes rose within you before you could as much as try to stomp upon them to avoid disappointment and pain. Whether King Rogers changed into a wolf-like beast on the battlefield or whether his blood could reshape human beings, you would not know and wouldn’t dare to guess; but should his soul indeed be as beautiful as his face was handsome, you might not be entirely doomed.

The shocking warmth in his gaze despite the colour of his eyes – slightly diluted by a speckle of green you should not be able to see from such distance and yet you did, you reckoned – told you that he just might be the kind and generous ruler some painted him to be too, despite the explosive power humming beneath.

Over the rush of blood through your veins, thundering in your temples, you were distantly aware one of the men by your side was speaking. Yet, in your haze, still captivated as well as captured by the cage of King Rogers’ gaze, you could not but wonder if he himself could decipher the words spoken any more than you could. All you could focus on was the expanding of your ribcage and calming your heart, warm but startled, and the depth of his eyes, revealing nothing and all at the same time.

Beautiful.

He was breathtakingly beautiful, and you could feel his presence tingle in your very being, from the depth of your ribcage to your fingertips, all-consuming in a way you had never experienced before.

You winced when he tore away his gaze from yours at last, breathing in deeply for what must have been the first time in long minutes, blinking for the first time since you had set eyes on him.

“I see,” he said, his tone impossible to decipher. His hands propped up on the armrests before he rose to his feet, reaching for the sword, clasping it to his belt with the ease of a man who was more used to carrying it than not. “So you wish to join my army and to ensure my favour, you brought me a gift?”

Your gaze fell to the floor at the way he spoke the word ‘gift’ harsher than any other, pushing it through tightened jaw; disdain, mockery and loathing.

Cold weight settled in your stomach, the foundations of hope his displays of kindness had built cracking. The shiver creeping down your spine was truly icy this time and you could not but wince slightly when you heard the rustle of cloth as he must have stepped down from the platform.

Oh he was not pleased with your presence. Not at all. And while you could not find it in your heart to believe – foolishly so, given he had been and remained a soldier – that he would hurt you, he might have no qualms about banishing you.

To nowhere.

For you no longer had a home to return to.

Even without looking up, not daring to, you could feel a quiet and all the more dangerous anger rolling off the king with every step he took closer to you and you squeezed your eyes shut with horrible anticipation, trying to get a hold of the tears that threatened to spill when recalling the ashes of what had been the house you had been born in and lived all of your life.

Everything had been ripped away from you – and for what?

For an outraged ‘You brought me a gift?’.

The vanity. The foolishness. The madness.

Not of the king, however, you could not blame him; of the two men who thought violence was answer to all.

Henry didn’t speak a word until the king stopped but a few steps from you, the rustle of cloth falling silent; much like the entirety of the hall, your own breathing too loud to your ears, intruding.

You winced at the sudden clarity and careful pronunciation in Henry’s voice, blind pride audible despite the tone the king has used.

“Yes. Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“And I assume you asked the lady whether she wanted to travel with you, judging by the bruising around her wrists and on her face?”

You slowly blinked your eyes open as you could feel the warmth of the king’s gaze on your head, his voice, on the other hand, like ice. Your heart fluttered, surprised at the acknowledgement of the harm done to you.

Gaze flickering to your wrists, you supposed it was rather hard to miss; you could only imagine what your face looked like, purposely having avoided as much as glancing into any mirrors while led through the castle before. It was entirely possible you carried one spectacular shiner; but judging by the fact that your companion shifted by your side, only now noticing the king’s outrage, it was more likely the bruise was rather subtle and they had hoped it would remain undetected.

Or at least that King Rogers would not care.

Something in you hummed in sweetly at the fact he seemed to do so; how deeply and how long it would last and what it would mean for you, was yet to be seen however.

“We barely touched her! If she ain’t been such a-” Dimitri blurted out on your left, while Henry on your right cleared his throat loudly, cutting him off with a much more levelled voice – and with enough wit to sound almost regretful.

“We gave her options, Your Majesty,” he lied.

The lie had come to him so easily your head snapped up to him, rage flaring in your very core, hands clenching into tight fists.

Sure you had been given bloody options! To die – possibly defiled since you’d be no use to them – or comply.

Some options those were!

And some help those you had never failed to lend a helping hand were too, looking the other way and pretending to not see or even be awoken when a house caught fire in the dead of the night!

From the corner of your eye, you’d swear you could see the king suck in a generous slow breath, reminded of his presence, as gentle as a caress and a warning at once; you lowered your gaze in an instant, the anger still bubbling in your veins but silently so.

He was outraged at their treatment of you, it seemed – it would be wise of you to be as respectful as possible so you soon wouldn’t fall out of his favour too.

“I see. Would you be as kind as to tell me what your options were, my lady?”

You gulped as you saw him shift towards you only, an instinct ruling you to bend in your knees once more, head bowed low in a display of respect; meanwhile, the entirety of your mind busied itself with the fact he had just addressed you as a lady.

You breathed in shakily, trying with all your might to ignore the fact he had called you his lady and the gentle yet burning sensation it had sent rushing all over your skin; for it was mostinappropriate and inconvenient to busy yourself with such thing when asked a question.

The real question, however, was whether you should speak the truth and how, without offending the king, losing his favour, and potentially saving yourself Dimitri’s and Henry’s rage if your words upset the king so much that you’d be all thrown back to the streets with the mercenaries’ chances to join the army ruined – something they would no doubt take their revenge for. On you.

“My lady,” King Rogers repeated as if he wished to drive you mad and making you wince despite his voice being but kind and coaxing, “please. Rise and speak freely.”

With no option but to obey, you did, heart thundering a storm in your chest, as you reluctantly lifted your gaze too.

Gods, he was even more stunning up close, towering over all three of you, menacing – and yet inviting as your gaze got lost in the bright blue of his irises.

“S-sir--- Your Highness-“

A hiss by your side and a twitch of a hand you could see from the corner of your eye as Henry seemed to want to grab the rope that had been binding your hands together – a leash to yank on as a punishment for speaking up and a warning.

“Your Majesty, you stup-“

“I take no offense, gentlemen, in how the lady addresses me,” the king snapped, his glare sharp as razors when it moved to Henry for but a moment. “However, I am quite offended by the fact you would not let her speak – and speak truthfully, I am sure... My lady?”

A ghost of the plush lips caressed the shell of your ear as he spoke the godsdamned words, so soft they might as well be a whisper.

The warmest of shivers rushed down your spine, heat coiling in your belly as an image of his body caging yours against the wall with his fingers tenderly laid over your throat as his lips brushed over your jaw was conjured in your mind without warning or without right, causing you to dig your nails into your palms to bring yourself to reality.

To the much colder reality where the only body that had trapped you, truly and without any intention to let you escape the cage should you wish to, was that of the very man who had tied your hands tight enough to make you bleed, and the very man who gripped your throat roughly just to make you watch your life burn.

You swallowed against the lump regrowing in your throat at the memories, a telltale burn of tears in the base of your nose at the image of your family home crumbling to ashes, the heat of the flames on your skin having contrasting heavily with the cold of the blade.   

“I… I was indeed given options, Your Majesty,” you spoke, truthfully indeed, weighing your next words as you felt both mercenaries release some of the tension from their shoulders.

But you cared little for them; not beyond fearing what they would do to you should you make the wrong move.

On the other hand, the man who stood in front of you, he stirred sensations and feelings beyond what was appropriate or even possible, considering you had just only just met him.

It was more than gratitude for him acknowledging your situation, driving your next actions; more than respect one should have for the king, more than your own respect for how he had behaved so far; it threaded deeper than that. As something glimmered in his eyes, prompting you to tell the truth, no matter what it would be, you did not only feel safe to do so. You felt compelled. For you wanted to please him, wished not to disappoint him – and wanted nothing but to show the honesty of the very heart beating in your chest, consequences be damned.

It did not seem to truly matter if the king had ordered you to speak the truth; it felt as if you were meant to do so from the moment your lungs had expanded with your first breath on this Earth.

No punishment will come to you, sweetling, his eyes coaxed you, softening further as you took your time to continue. Please, believe me. Speak up and the rest shall be taken care of. Allow me. Believe in me.

Your lips parted with a wavering breath before you obeyed his wordless request. “For one, I could meet my end by my own knife.”

Nothing less than fire flared up in his irises, his jaw tightening, broad shoulders turning more rigid.

You would swear your life that you could feel more than see the men by your side stiffen too, but you could not find yourself to regret it. And neither you nor the king paid them any mind.

You were safe.

There was utter insanity in such thought given your predicament and yet you’d swear it on the sacred memory of your mother.

Both Dimitri and Henry were seething and either of them could probably draw a blade and slit your throat faster than a lightning, but with Steven right there, you would swear it:

You were safe.

Yes, my sweetling. Yes, you are. These men – any men – will not lay a hand on you ever again, an echo of his fierce whisper resonated in your ear, but his lips had not moved beyond twitching at your admission. He gave the smallest of nods.

“I see. Would your family not protect you?”

A noise dangerously resembling an amused snort sounded on your left, a throat cleared on your right, both carrying the same meaning, even as one was mocking and the other simply stating a fact.

The flash of regret in King Rogers’s eye told you he understood the message easily: What family?

“Well, Your Majesty, her father, sadly, was a drunk and got killed in a brawl-“ Henry began, your heart skipping an angry beat at the atrocious fake compassion in his voice.

You were not allowed to react to it, however – you were not faster than His Majesty once more.

And where your outrage would have scorched the earth, Steve’s might as well leave the earth permanently frosted over.

“If you even remotely wish to join the Royal Army, I suggest you care how you speak – and that you let the lady speak in the first place.”

It was clear to you more than it should that Henry had tried not to wince upon the icy tone of authority. Yet he did.

With shame, you realised just how pleasant of a feeling settled in your lower belly to see the man squirm in front of the king who snapped at him on your behalf, the man’s head now slightly bowed even as you would swear his teeth were grinding in anger.

With considerably less shame, you caught yourself impressed and charmed by the fact King Rogers not only defended a man who was not present to defend himself – even as he’d have little to say, considering Henry’s words were true – but also seemed to see straight through Henry’s feigned politeness and emotion.

“My apologies, Your Majesty. We are here to serve you, of course and she is, after all, a gift to you. It is your utmost right to do with her as you please.”

“And I shall,” the king replied simply, the words causing your heart to stumble in sudden fright, the reminder that no matter his kindness, Henry and Dimitri were not wrong about His Majesty having been a mercenary, a man hardened by battle. Where he was showing you respect almost beyond comprehension here in the Royal Hall, it might be strikingly different behind the closed doors of whichever chambers in which he’d decide to take you, however he pleased indeed.

But when your gazes met once more, it was nearly impossible to believe he’d be anything but gentle, every inch of your soul whispering that you indeed were in the safest place this world offered.

How foolish it was for you to trust so easily. Especially when you had not even been safe in your own bed before.

“Do they speak the truth, my lady?”

“I… yes, Your Majesty. May my father rest in peace, his soul be lifted to heavens, it was not unusual of him to… drink heavily, so much he cared little whether we’d have food to put on our table the next day…. And my mother passed two summers ago,” you added softly, unable to resist.

It was true, perhaps, that women were not made to fight men’s battles; but when it came to family, you believed they would fight just as if not more fiercely. As insignificant as the fact of your mother’s passing might seem to the men beside you, it was crucial to you – and not only in the matters of protection.

Mostly in the matter of your own heart.

A wistful smile passed the king’s lips at your addition as if in silent agreement to your thoughts and he nodded.

“I see. You have my condolences, my lady… for all your sorrows.”

The sincerity of his voice sat like a lump in your throat, the sudden burn of tears in your nose making it harder to speak. You bowed your head a fraction, out of respect – and to hide the glassy gleam in your eyes.

“Thank you, good sir--- Your Majesty.”

“And I shall see to it that your dinner is to your utmost comfort. I’d be pleased if you’d join me for the meal.”

Heat flared up on every inch of your skin at the last remark – nothing less than a subtle order.

You might be everything but adept at the court etiquette, but the silent heh erupting from Henry was enough of a confirmation that that was exactly what it was – including all implications rushing through your head like a tidal wave of terror battling a little voice and the heat in your lower belly arguing it would not be such a bad thing. The fact it was Henry approving of the king’s words however silenced the voice quite effectively.

Stomach much heavier than before, much like your head, you could not bring yourself to look the king in the eye, cheeks burning while icy fingers slowly curled around your throat.

For all the tales you had heard about the king of Starkerbürg, for all you had witnessed in the past minutes, for all you would swear on your life you could see light around him, an aura of a protector, you also heard many, many a story of the cruelty of men hidden behind a handsome face and polite manners. Just because Henry was not good enough of an actor to play the king as much as he’d please, it did not mean the king was not much more apt at the game of deceit.

And just because fate seemed to deal you a much better hand in this round of gamble, there was no guarantee you could walk out of this game unscathed, let alone somehow win.

You bend at your knees as low as you could, staying there for several moments despite your knees aching and turning shaky. You replied just as you could hear the king draw in a breath.

“Thank you, Your Majesty. You are most kind.”

Rising to your full height, you did not dare to look up still.

Not even when slight bewilderment coloured the king’s voice, a request and an order at once, however respectful.

“Natasha, please. If you could see to it that our guest is well-taken care of in one of the guest chambers, offered a bath, a little to eat and anything else she might need or request.”

“At once, Your Majesty,” a red-head woman who had been standing near his throne, not quite looking like a maid or someone who should be showing anyone to their room, let alone a low-born intruder like you, stepped out, gracing you with a light smile. “If you could follow me, my lady.”

You reciprocated her smile shakily, the brilliant green of her eyes glimmering with what almost seemed to be mirth.

“Of course… thank you.” You took a deep breath to gather courage, glancing up at the king for the briefest of moments, your heart pounding in your chest and nearly exploding when you were once again met with the absurd beauty of his face. “Thank you kindly for all your generosity, Your Majesty.”

You did not linger long enough to see his smile. You did not let the voice of your father warning you it was the Devil’s beauty that would lead you astray into the deepest pits of hell fill your head, no matter how hard the ghost of him tried.

You willed your mind to be as empty as humanly possible when you followed the woman out of the hall, the heavy door closing behind you with finality.

Not before His Majesty’s voice, strengthened by authority and ceremonial tone, reached your ears and filled your stomach with cold dread.

“Now… it is the time to reward you gentlemen for bringing me such an exquisite surprise of a gift. Please… tell me more of the trouble you went through to deliver me a gift and about what you’d wish for…”

Part 2

S.R. masterlist

Here we go! I hope you enjoyed 🥰 If you did an have the time and energy, comments and reblogs are love 💕

This three-parter fullfils the following prompts/tropes: Abducted as a gift for someone (and consequentially, Receiving an unexpected gift) and Medieval AU from the original event. It's also three months late. It is also decidedly NOT below 5000 word limit 🤭

I hope March has been kind to you and is not looking to stab you in the back (or anywhere else). Sending love 💕

[itzzkaylaaa]

can someone tell me why i’m getting the same vibe from both photos.

[buckets-and-trees]

RED, WHITE & TRUE SERIES

a Steve Stays after Endgame AU COMPLETE SERIES - length: 108k

After bringing everyone back and returning the stones to their proper spot in the timeline, Steve hands the shield and mantle of Captain America to Sam, and then retreats into a quiet life - not totally off the grid, but certainly retired, and also looking to rest. But after a few years, Pepper Potts proposes it's time for Steve to get back in the business of helping people, pursuing the greater good. She pitches he run for President of the United States of America.

Pepper's got a spot on this political campaign team for you, as well.

Characters/Pairings: Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader, Pepper Potts, Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes

Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] politically arranged marriage, slow burn, eventual smut

SERIES: ↠ Prologue: Upstate New York - A New Idea (Steve POV) [1.3k] ↠ chapter 1: Manhattan & Brooklyn - Joining the Team [4k] ↠ chapter 2: Las Vegas & Cleveland - Shifts in Strategy [4k] ↠ chapter 3: Houston - A Presidential Couple [3.4k] ↠ chapter 4: Fort Wayne, Toledo, Detroit - A Key Endorsement [4.2k] ↠ chapter 5: DC, Tampa, Athens - Pressures of the Campaign [6.2k] ↠ chapter 6: Athens to Miami - Revelations [7.5k] ↠ chapter 7: Brooklyn - Pre-Interview [5.8k] ↠ chapter 8: Brooklyn - The Interview [6.1k] ↠ chapter 9: Kansas City - Interview Broadcast Day [7.6k] ↠ chapter 10: Kansas to Tucson - Fallout [6.5k] ↠ chapter 11: Tucson - Refocusing [4.7k] ↠ chapter 12: Tucson & Denver - Important Conversations [6.4k] ↠ chapter 13: Pittsburgh & Harrisburg - October Surprise [9.1k] ↠ chapter 14: Boston & New York - Election Eve [9.1k] ↠ chapter 15: Election Day in New York, pt. 1 [7.2k] ↠ chapter 16: Election Day in New York, pt. 2 [5.3k] ↠ chapter 17: Election Day in New York, pt. 3 [5.8k] ↠ epilogue [2.9k] ↠ bonus part: Inauguration Day in Washington, DC [3k]

EXTRAS: info about VP Candidate Charlie Young info about Campaign Manager Jake commentary on their "honeymoon" after the election an ask that teases an idea I had/have for Bucky in this AU if RWT Steve lived in the His Law AU instead of this one (an ask and then back and forth of replies)

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest Steve Rogers Masterlist

[buckets-and-trees]

Forest of Fics [masterlist]

feat. Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Andy Barber, Nick Fowler, Ari Levinson, Curtis Everett, Lloyd Hansen, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Joaquin Torres, Wanda Maximoff, Matt Murdock, God the Bounty Hunter, Ransom Drysdale

latest

RWT: Epilogue [2.9k] Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader | Steve Stays post-Endgame AU, presidential campaign, smut, final part of of Red, White & True

Maybe Not [2k] Alpha!Ari Levinson x curvy!omega Millennial Female!Reader | Apocalyptic AU, omegaverse, sequel to Waiting on One Look

RWT: Election Day in New York. pt, 3 [5.8k] Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader | Steve Stays post-Endgame AU, presidential campaign, ch 17 of Red, White & True

RWT: Election Day in New York. pt, 2 [5.3k] Steve Rogers x curvy Millennial Female!Reader | Steve Stays post-Endgame AU, presidential campaign, smut, ch 16 of Red, White & True

the morning after [2.3k] neighbor!Bucky Barnes x curvy Millennial female!Reader | modern AU, smut, sequel to Sweet and Flashy Summer Saturdays

Intimate Intrigues [8.5k] Nick Hansen x curvy Millennial female!reader | post-The 355, smut

Sensible Sorting [1.5k] Curtis, Ari (off-screen curly Millennial female!reader) | modern tattoo artist au, explicit smut, part of the Obsidian Stain & Sin series

Even Better Than In My Head [2.9k] Bucky x curvy Millennial female!reader | modern AU, part of Bed Chem

Just Say When [3.2k] Nomad Steve x curvy Millennial female!reader | soft dark, smut, part of Exiled Nomad

Arrangement [2.3k] minotaur!Bucky x curvy Millennial scientist female!reader | modern minotaur AU, smut, sequel to Sacrificial

greatest

CEDAR TREES [royal/historical AU] king!Steve, smut, fluff

DEVOUR [mob AU] soft!dark Bucky, non/dub-con start, smut

I'M YOUR MAN [mafia AU] soft!dark Andy Barber, dub con, smut

RED, WHITE & TRUE [presidential campaign/Steve stays AU] slow burn, politically arranged marriage, eventual smut

Legal Temptations Andy Barber, canon adjacent, explicit smut

HUFFILY EVER AFTER: A CindereLloyd Story [modern AU] Lloyd Hansen, enemies to lovers, eventual smut

OBSIDIAN STAIN & SIN [tattoo artist AU] MFM Curtis Everett & Ari Levinson, "no strings attached," someone catches feels, smut

events & challenges

Aspen's Holiday Extravaganza 2022

Into an Alternate June-iverse 2023

Hot Bucky Summer 2023

Bucky Barnes Bingo, Round Five

Aspen's 1st Anniversary Sleepover

'A Very Horny Monday to You...' August Sultry and Sinful List

Aspen's Dark Forest Fest - October 2023

Aspen's Enchanted Birthday - January 2024

Hot Bucky Summer 2024

Build-a-Bucky Bingo 2023-24

Aspen's Countdown to Chris-mas - December 2024

Aspen's Birthday Jubilee - January 2025

Aspen's Valentine Storygrams - February 2025

BUCKY BARNES COLLECTION

STEVE ROGERS COLLECTION

OTHER MARVEL CHARACTERS COLLECTION

Natasha Romanoff, Wanda Maximoff, Sam Wilson, Joaquin Torres, Matthew Murdock, Namor the Sub-Mariner

SEBASTIAN STAN CHARACTERS COLLECTION

Nick Fowler, God the Bounty Hunter

CHRIS EVANS CHARACTERS COLLECTION

Andy Barber, Ari Levinson, Curtis Everett, Lloyd Hansen, Ransom Drysdale

[imposterogers]

the worst part is steve rogers WOULDN’T. he wouldn’t leave sam with the responsibility of the shield without being there to support him. he wouldn’t go back to a woman who died of old age, had her own life and told him to move on. he wouldn’t have ever, not even once, considered leaving bucky — aka his entire world wrapped up in one person — alone, especially after just getting him back. and he wouldn’t have decided that he’d fought the good fight enough and retire in suburbia in the decade epitomes for traditional values aka an antitheses to everything he stood for. the real steve rogers would legitimately hate the man marvel put on the screen in endgame. and yet. and yet

[rogers-carter]

steve rogers + white t-shirt

[societyfolklore]

Stuffed and Strapped

Title: Stuffed and Strapped

Pairing: Dom!Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Summary:  You were just teasing, saluting him during drills, calling him “sir” with that smirk he usually loves. But when you push it too far in front of the new recruits, the Captain doesn’t blush or joke.

Word Count:  2.4k

Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Unprotected sex, Uniform Kink, Restraint (Tactical Strap), Orgasm Denial, Rough Sex, brat taming  Use of 'Captain' as a title kink, Overstimulation, establish relationship. Dom Steve...

A/N:  Cos Captain America fucks - again this all @buckybarnesisdaddy and @crazyunsexycool comments… this is what happens with the group chat puts ideas in your head. Pair to this one shot Buried in the Steam  

It started with a game.

You’d been flirty all day, toeing the line for fun. But you clearly crossed it during training. You were helping Steve run drills with the new recruits, and at first it was harmless. A wink here. A cheeky tone there. But you started getting bolder, throwing him playful salutes in front of the others, calling him ‘Sir’ with that purr in your voice that he knew was meant for behind closed doors.

You knew what you were doing.

You just didn’t think he’d call you on it.

You thought it was a tease. Just enough to get a reaction. Maybe a twitch of his jaw. Maybe he’d pull you aside after class and whisper something filthy in your ear, let his fingers trail down your spine while no one was looking.

You expected a smirk. A blush. Maybe an innocent comment tossed back your way.

Instead, you got silence. He didn’t even look at you as he dismissed the class. Just a tight nod and a clipped, “Good work. That’s all for today.”

You were drying off in the locker room, still smiling to yourself, when you heard his voice, low, cold, unmistakable- right behind you:

"Upstairs. Now."

The tone made your stomach flip.

You turned, still holding the towel to your chest. His expression was unreadable, but his stance said everything. Rigid. Controlled. Lethal.

Your heart fluttered with excitement. You thought you’d pushed him just right.

You hadn’t.

You’d provoked the wrong part of him.

You barely had time to register the shift before you heard the steady thud of his boots following you up the stairs through the Compound back to his room. You entered the bedroom, your mouth dry with anticipation, but nothing prepared you for the way he filled the doorway.

Shield propped against the wall. His gloves tossed aside without care. He was already peeling the top half of the suit down, exposing the firm lines of his chest, still silent, still simmering. His gaze never left you as he stepped forward.

He didn’t raise his voice.

"Get on the bed."

You blinked, heart now racing. “What did I- ”

“You want to act like a brat,” he said calmly, “I’ll fuck the attitude out of you.”

He crossed the room in three slow, deliberate steps. You moved on instinct, backing onto the mattress, breath caught in your throat. His hands were on you immediately, efficient, practiced. He grabbed one of his tactical straps from the gear bag at the foot of the bed, and before you could process what was happening, your wrists were bound and tugged tight above your head against the headboard.

“You don’t get to talk now,” he said, voice low as he adjusted the strap. “You had your fun.”

Your pants were yanked down roughly, tossed to the floor. Your shirt was shoved up- just high enough to bare your chest, the fabric bunched under your arms, pinned by the tension in your stretched arms.

He stepped back long enough to undo the front of his pants, the belt scraping open with a metallic hiss that sent a thrill down your spine. His cock was already hard, thick, flushed with the kind of fury he didn’t need to voice.

He stroked himself once, slow, deliberate, his eyes fixed on where you lay helpless and exposed. Then he leaned in just enough for you to hear his voice, rough and low near your ear.

"You know I can smell you, right?" he said, tone smug and quiet. "You’ve been soaking through those damn pants since the first 'yes, sir.' You wanted this."

Before you could answer, not that he gave you a chance. He pressed in. No teasing, no warning. Just a firm, unrelenting push, his cock stretching you open until you cried out from the overwhelming pressure.

He sat back on his knees, hands locking onto your hips as he drove in deeper, using your bound, trembling body like a limp toy. The force of each thrust made your wrists tug at the strap, your back arching helplessly beneath him.

He didn't need to say a word.

He was in control. Completely.

Your back arched off the mattress, wrists straining against the strap above your head, every inch of you stretched and trembling. Your skin burned from the friction of the sheets beneath you, your muscles aching from the sheer force of his movements. Captain America- the Captain America- was using your body like it was his to command, and god, it was.

This wasn’t Steve. This wasn’t the man who left notes on the fridge or kissed your temple after a mission. This was the soldier. The shield. The force of will that held a crumbling world together and right now, he was pounding into you like breaking you apart would somehow keep the whole damn universe intact.

The stretch of him was obscene. Your cunt clenched around him with every snap of his hips, your slick coating his cock, seeping into the coarse hair at his base. Every thrust left his pubic bone soaked, the wet slap of skin on skin growing louder, filthier, messier with every punishing grind. Your body squelched beneath the pressure, clinging to him greedily, and you swore you could feel him in your throat.

You couldn't breathe without whimpering.

“You want to be fucked like a soldier’s reward?” he growled as he bent over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip like he owned it. His breath ghosted over your throat just before the drag of his teeth made your skin prickle. “Then take it.”

His thrusts turned punishing. Each one knocked the breath from your lungs, forced broken, high-pitched moans from your lips. The burn of being filled and stretched eclipsed by the addicting weight of him inside you.

You couldn't think. You could only feel.

His hands gripped your thighs, forcing them open even wider, spreading you around him like a trophy he’d already claimed. The stretch was unbearable and perfect all at once, your cunt swollen, taking everything he gave you. Your skin burned where his fingers dug in, marks already forming, and you could feel every ridge, every vein of his cock as he bottomed out again and again with bruising force.

“Look at you,” he muttered darkly, his voice like gravel dragged over heat, hips never once relenting. His gaze flicked down to where your bodies met, cock glistening with your arousal every time he dragged out just enough to make you feel the emptiness before slamming back in.

“You gonna be good now?” he asked, tone sharp as a knife, eyes burning into you as his cock slammed deep again. The stretch forced another cry from your throat, your walls fluttering around him, too full, too deep, every nerve in your core straining with the pressure.

He angled his hips, just punishing enough to hit those high, aching places that made your eyes roll back and your spine lift clear off the bed. You could feel him everywhere, every thick inch driving up into parts of you that had never felt so raw, so overwhelmed, so thoroughly used. Your walls clamped around him helplessly, spasming from the force of the stretch, straining to accommodate the sheer girth of him. The sensation was unbearable and addictive, that sharp pressure deep in your belly coiling tighter with every thrust.

“Gonna behave for your Captain now?” he rasped, his voice shredded with control, with hunger. His thrusts never slowed, never softened, just drilled deeper as though he could fuck the answer straight out of you.

Your answer was a sob.

A ruined, breathless sound that broke on your lips. Your mouth fell open in a silent cry, your thighs shaking violently as his rhythm drove you further into helplessness. Every thrust knocked your thoughts loose, left you gasping, trembling, unable to do anything but take him. Your body wasn’t just reacting, your core seizing around him, torn between resistance and surrender.

But that wasn’t enough for him.

“Use your words,” he snapped, delivering a sharp slap to your thigh that made your entire body jolt beneath him. The sting was hot and fast, bleeding into the heat already pulsing between your legs. The pain only made you clench tighter around him, a broken whimper escaping your lips. “Or I stop.”

“N-No! Please, yes, I’ll be good- Captain, please- ” The idea of him stopping made you panic.

He hummed low, dark and satisfied, like he’d tamed something wild. His rhythm didn’t slow in fact, it deepened. Harder. Intending to devastate. He wasn’t just fucking you- he was taking you, molding you, bending every inch of you around the relentless shape of his cock.

“That’s better,” he muttered, bending closer again, his breath hot against your cheek, lips ghosting your skin but never kissing. “Who's in charge now, sweetheart?”

The pressure inside you built fast, tight, dangerous. You were right on the edge, your body begging for release but just as your moans pitched into a whine, he pulled back, grinding deep but not enough.

"You." You whimpered, voice broken, breath catching. “Please- Captain, I need- ”

“Oh, you need?” he repeated, one brow arching in mock amusement. He shifted his angle deliberately, dragging his cock in slow, cruel strokes against your most sensitive spot with devastating precision. Your body jolted, legs trembling from the white-hot pleasure sparking deep in your core. “You think you get to just come because you’re asking?”

You nodded desperately, body straining against the restraint, your back arched like a bow. Your slick leaked freely down your thighs, pooling beneath you, and still, he didn’t let up or let you go.

He chuckled darkly, hips grinding just deep enough to make your eyes roll. “No, sweetheart. You come when I say. You want that reward? You earn it.”

He held you there. Set about teaching you a lesson. Kept you trembling on the edge, caught in that unbearable space between ecstasy and ruin. His cock stroked against your sweet spot with relentless control, dragging you right up to the peak again and again, only to deny you the fall. Your thighs quaked. Your voice cracked. You begged through gasped breaths and ragged pleas, nearly sobbing with need. Pulling at the binds on your wrists.

“Look at you,” he said softly, his eyes drinking in your flushed, ruined face. “All wrecked, fucking dripping, desperate for your Captain. You like being ruin like this, don’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Only your head shook in frantic, helpless desperation, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as your body locked up, seizing under the weight of another almost-climax. You were quivering, your walls pulsing in erratic, desperate waves around him. The need clawing inside you was unbearable, your core pulsing with each denied orgasm, your breath coming in broken gasps.

You felt his body shift again, the weight of him smothering you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. His hips ground slow and deliberate, keeping you hovering on the brink. The scent of him- sweat, leather, the musk of sex- coiled around you like a shroud. His breath was hot and unsteady now, ragged at the edges, as though even he was barely hanging on.

His hand slid up your body, fingers trailing between your breasts, slow and possessive, until his thumb came to rest just below your throat. He didn’t squeeze, he didn’t need to. The placement alone was enough. A silent promise. A reminder.

You couldn’t move. Could barely breathe.

And still, he didn’t let you come.

Then he leaned down, trapping you beneath the hard bulk of his chest and uniform. His lips brushed your ear, and this time his voice was darker- rough silk with a serrated edge.

His hips pulled back  “Come.”  He thrust back in hard.

Your orgasm shattered through you with violent force, tearing through you from the inside out. Your entire body arched, legs locking around his waist as you cried out- a strangled, sobbing sound that echoed against his neck. Your cunt pulsed and clamped down around him, milking him as your body convulsed. The strap above your wrists dug into your skin as you writhed, helpless to the aftershocks. His hips slamming into you over and over.

You barely registered the broken groan that tore from his throat as he followed, his hips grinding deep and hard as he spilled inside you. The heat of it only pushed you further, your body overstimulated, unravelling with each twitch of his cock inside you.

He didn’t untie your wrists immediately.

He stayed there, buried deep, chest heaving against yours, until your moans dissolved into soft mewls and your muscles sagged in exhaustion. His breath came heavy, sharp, his face pressed to your throat as he caught his bearings.

Only when your body had gone limp and your breathing levelled did he finally reach up and release the strap. Your arms dropped bonelessly to the bed, limp and shaking. He caught you before you could fall too far, pulling you into his lap and settling you gently across his thighs like you were made of glass.

He held you tighter. One hand tangled in your hair while the other traced a slow path up your spine, grounding you, reminding you who you belonged to. His palm pressed gently between your shoulder blades, holding you to him like an anchor. You could hear the steady thump of his heartbeat against your ear, feel the heat of his body finally beginning to cool. He brushed your sweat-damp hair back from your face with a rare tenderness, fingers careful and reverent.

“You did good for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice still low, still rough, but edged with something softer now. Something warmer.

He finally kissed you, deep, slow, claiming. Like the battlefield had quieted and he’d finally won. Like you were the prize he’d earned, and he was never giving you back.

[aureateink]

working late

feat Steve Rogers x fem!reader cw: MDNI 18+, established relationship, cockwarming | masterlist

You leaned against the doorway to Steve's office, where he'd been cooped up for the last four hours since his shift ended. He was pouring over a report, resting his chin on his hand while scanning the security footage on the screen in front of him.

“Are you going to say hello or just loiter in the hall?” He asked without looking away from the footage. His tone wasn't unfriendly, but not exactly welcoming either. You knew how stressed he'd been, work piling high on his mighty shoulders, and it was starting to wear on his seemingly endless patience.

“It's nearly 11,” you said. “You haven't eaten, honey.”

He sighed, scrubbing his hand over his face. “Don't have much of an appetite,” he replied. Then, sensing your frown, finally tore his eyes from the screen, beckoning you over.

You tried not to appear too eager as you bound towards him, folding yourself into his lap. He wrapped his arms around you, one of his brawny hands slipping under the hem of your sleep shirt, squeezing the softness of your haunch. “I'm sure dinner was delicious, baby. Sorry I missed it.”

“S’okay.” You nestled further into him, resting your head on his broad chest, the heavy thump thump thump of his heart soothing some of your concern. He was Captain America, he would be fine missing a meal.

But you missed him. Like, really missed him.

“It'll get better soon,” he murmured, placing a mollifying kiss to your forehead. “Maybe we’ll take a vacation.”

You huffed a laugh. “A vacation? SHIELD would fall apart without you.”

“Yeah,” he heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Sure seems that way lately.”

It was meant to be a joke, but it seemed he was more stressed than you realized. So you lapsed into silence, savoring his presence and hoping your company could offer him a bit of comfort too.

His hand continued to knead your haunch and thigh, moving absently along the curves of your body, unaware of the heat his touch, his proximity, was stirring in your belly.

You pressed your lips to his neck, trailing your fingers along his chest, feeling the muscles flex and soften with his breath. He smelled divine, masculine and clean from his post-work shower, his skin deliciously warm under your lips.

You couldn't help yourself, kissing him again and again, each press more sugared than the last, working your way up to that sensitive spot by his ear. One you knew made him melt every time.

“Baby,” he said, sensing your intention before you actually made contact. “I need to concentrate.”

“So concentrate,” you replied, laving your tongue where his pulse thrummed under his jaw.

His grip tightened on your thigh, azure eyes fluttering closed. “If I don't get this done, Fury is going to make me work a triple.”

“Better get it done then,” you hummed, nipping at his earlobe.

He chuckled, shaking his head, but didn't tell you to stop—not explicitly, at least. So you persisted, kissing downward until you reached his collarbones, nursing a mark just under his neckline. It would be healed in an hour or two, but the desired effect was all the same, if the throbbing hardness pressing against your hip was any indication.

“Y/n,” he warned, voice rough around the edges. Frustrated. “Have a little mercy.”

“M’not doing anything,” you mumbled, tracing a heart on his chest with your finger.

“Of course not,” he cooed, resting his forehead against yours, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth. “You’re a perfect angel.”

“I just think maybe you could use a break,” you said, dragging your fingertips lower to toy with the waistband of his sweats.

“That's very considerate of you, doll.” He leaned back in his seat, hips thrusting up to center you on his lap. “But I really need to get this done.”

“Are you telling me Captain America can't multitask?” You teased, sliding your hand beneath his waistband to palm his pulsing length.

A hiss broke through his teeth, head knocking back against his chair. “You’re insatiable.”

You stroked him lightly, long, languid pulls that had his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, velveteen skin feverish to the touch.

“I've been neglecting you, haven't I?” He asked, rolling his head to look at you.

In lieu of an answer, you guided his paw from your hip to the crux of your thighs, pressing his fingers against your sodden, bare pussy.

His eyes darkened, black pupils eclipsing the cornflower blue. “What a grave oversight on my part,” he purred. In a blink, you were straddling his lap, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against your heat.

“Shit, Steve,” you gasped, clutching his shoulders, hips rocking against his on instinct.

He tightened his hold on your thighs, just enough to still you. “Ah, ah,” he clicked his tongue. “You think I'm rewarding this kind of behavior?”

Your heart skipped a beat, pussy fluttering at the dominant edge to his voice. It wasn't often Steve went full dom, but when he did…phew.

“Here's what we're going to do.” He grasped your jaw, forcing you to hold his gaze. “I'm going to finish this report, and you are going to sit on this cock until I'm done.”

“But—”

“And you will not move a goddamn muscle,” he finished.

Holy shit. You were practically a puddle in his lap, helpless under the weight of his authority. Submitting like a rabbit in the maw of a wolf. “Yes, Captain,” you breathed.

He smirked, pulling you in for a brief, but lush kiss. “Lift your hips, baby.”

You obeyed while he freed himself from his sweats. His cock was an angry pink, precum beading from the slit as it throbbed in his hand.

Slowly, you lowered yourself onto him, the fist of his cockhead feeling extra huge after a few days without it, the stretch bright and burning.

“So goddamn tight, doll. Droolin’ all over me,” he panted, gripping your hips to take some of your weight off your trembling thighs.

“Did you get an extra dose of serum? Fuck,” you whined. Felt like you could feel him in your fucking throat, so full you could choke on it.

When your weight fully settled into him, a pleased sort of rumble resounded from his chest. “Bite off a little more than you can chew?” He chuckled, massaging your clenched thighs to help you relax. “What happened to my cock-hungry girl?”

“She's full,” you moaned, already struggling to not grind your hips against him, loving the fullness, but craving the glide.

He laughed again, the movement of his chest giving you momentary relief. “She certainly is. Always take me so well, sweetheart,” he praised, guiding your head to his shoulder and placing a few tender kisses to your temple. “Now be good f’me, and I promise you'll get what you want,” he said, smoothing a hand down your spine.

You nodded, trying to take more regular breaths as you melted into his chest, walls slowly softening around his cock.

“Just like that, doll. Good girl,” he praised. You heard the file slide across his desk, his writing arm starting to move, and just like that, he was working again. Balls deep in your sopping pussy.

You felt yourself flutter around him at the thought of him turning the report in to Fury, knowing what had been happening while he completed it. His cock kicked in response to your internal movements, and you muffled a moan into his neck.

“Shh,” he soothed, free hand coming up to pet your hair.

Minutes ticked by, five, ten, twenty, your mind struggling to think of anything but Steve's length digging into your guts, the steady thump of his heart, the balmy warmth of his skin. Steve seemed entirely unaffected, despite his cock not flagging even an ounce, scribbling away on his stupid little report.

Damn serum.

Your clit was mashed against his pelvic bone, the tiniest movement from either of you would send you reeling, growing more sensitive as time ticked by.

Trying to be sneaky, you took an extra deep breath, hips moving the tiniest bit. But it felt like a bolt of lightening through your lower belly, and your stifled gasp of pleasure gave you away.

Steve jerked his hips up, hitting so deep it bordered on painful, and you yelped, thighs clenching around him. “I know. I know it's hard, baby,” he cooed, the saccharine edge of his voice bordering on mocking. “But you can take it.”

“How much longer?” you whimpered, fists curling in his shirt.

He shuffled some papers. “Five pages.”

You groaned, and he surged inside of you again.

“Can feel that, you know,” he chided. “When you speak, breathe. Every time your heart beats. Every little twitch and flutter—” His words caused your walls to clench around him, and he made a strangled grunt in his throat.

Perhaps he wasn't as unaffected as he let on.

“I knew you liked when I talked to you, but fuck—feeling just how much is driving me crazy,” he huffed. Buried his face in your shoulder to nip at your pulse. “You drive me crazy.”

“Steve, I can't—” you whimpered, shaking with the effort of keeping still.

His thighs flexed beneath you, muscles coiling tight like he was battling the same urges. “God, you sound so pretty,” he groaned, big hands gripping your ass. Report abandoned.

Just another little nudge—”Stevie, please.”

Oh, you sounded so pitiful. All broken and shrill, fucked out before he'd even started.

And he folded.

“Fuck it—I’ll skip my run in the morning.” He dragged your body forward, grinding you on his cock like a toy, and you keened, the relief exhilarating, bone-meltingly sweet. “Always get your goddamn way, huh? Spoiled brat—” He tossed you up onto the desk like you weighed nothing at all, caging you under his Herculean body as he pounded into you. “Got me wrapped around your little finger.”

“Fuck, yes, yes, yes!” You chanted, clinging to him as your orgasm hit you like a train, blasting through you without warning and sending you into orbit. Stars bursting like fireworks behind your eyes as you soared.

“That's it, sweetheart. So good f’me—feels so—fuck!” He tipped over the edge with you, pumping you so full it ached. “Satisfied now, doll?” He huffed when he came down, head dropping into the crook of your neck.

You could only hum, entirely unrepentant.

© aureateink 2026. do not copy, share, post, or claim my writing as your own.

[bluemoon-fever]

needy

pairing: steve rogers x fem!reader

summary: steve rogers is a very needy man.

word count: 2.45k

warnings: fluff, smut, dub-con (reader is tipsy, but not drunk), unprotected sex, possessive steve, allusions to DD/lg (but not really), D/s undertones, daddy kink, soft!dom!steve, begging, hand job, oral (male and female receiving), rough sex, fingering, light choking, spitting, dacryphilia, praise kink, grinding, mention of safe words, nipple/breast play, cum play, creampie, aftercare, it's filth, but it's also fluffy MINORS DNI

a/n: so i've been having this in my head for over a week, and i'm excited to finally share. i also have something else planned with steve (maybe a mini series or something. i'm still planning). while all can read, i do write with black/poc readers in mind! i hope you all enjoy! Reblogs, comments, and likes are much appreciated! <3

not edited.

DO NOT COPY OR STEAL THIS POST. I do not give permission for my work to be posted on another site.

A symphony of giggles and clumsy steps lets Steve know that you’ve just arrived home. He’s at his desk, working on a new art piece. It’s a drawing of you sleeping soundly in your shared bed based on an image he snapped a few days ago. He goes to hide the drawing, wanting it to be a surprise for you when he’s done.

He hears you fumble with your phone and tell your friend through a fit of giggles that you made it home safe. Then, Steve hears the sound of you taking off your heels and walking into the kitchen. He sighs, waiting for you to finally finish up whatever you were doing and come back to him. It had been about three hours since he last saw you, and he had missed you.

On his days off, Steve cherishes your time together. It’s very rare that he gets days to be home, draw, and just relax, but when you told him you had plans to go to brunch with your friends, his mood soured a bit. He didn’t want to keep you from his friends, but he was feeling very selfish over you. He wanted you all to himself. This morning, he tried to convince you to stay in bed, but after about an extra 15 minutes of cuddles, you told him you had to get ready. He threw a pout at you that made you giggle, and you kissed his cheek all sweet before you got up to get ready. He watched as you got dressed and put makeup on which he constantly told you, “You don’t need it.”

“Thanks, babe, but I just wanted to be dolled up. It’s been forever since I’ve gone out.” Steve winces at your words. He had just gotten off a long mission, and since he had been back, he had been more focused on relaxing than taking you out on dates. Even though you never complained about it, he knew you were in need of a fun outing. That’s why he couldn’t be too mad that you were so quick to agree to brunch with your best friends. You knew he wasn’t in the mood to be out and about, and he didn’t want you to sacrifice your need for socialization just for him.

Well, he did, but he would never ask you to do that. Not when you’re his perfectly sweet, beautiful girlfriend.

Steve volunteered to drive you to brunch, but you said you already agreed to a carpool. When he volunteered to bring you back home, you shot that down (unintentionally). One of your friends agreed to be the designated driver. Steve held in a grunt, but his frustration dissipated slightly when you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek and lips. “I love you! I’ll be back before you know it.”

And here you were, but what was taking you so damn long?

Steve was about to rise until he heard you slightly stumble towards the room. Your cheeks were flushed red, a sign of the bottomless mimosas he knows you downed at brunch. Your lipstick was long gone, leaving a slight pink tint on your lips. The rest of your makeup looked fine, and you were actually glowing. Your outfit, a black mid-length, bodycon dress, clung to your curves perfectly. Steve felt his dick start to stir. 

God, he wanted needed you so bad.

“Hi, baby,” you said. You held a bottle of water in your hand and took a sip as you walked in the room. You weren’t drunk, but he could tell you were tipsy. You threw a playful smirk as you sauntered towards him. “I missed you.”

For some reason, Steve didn’t want to give into your sweetness. While he had missed you and missed your body, he wanted you just as needy as he was. He wanted you to need him so bad you were begging for it. While his exterior remained stoic, something feral bloomed inside of him that he had to stifle his own smirk.

You moved directly in front of him and leaned down to give him a kiss. When you didn’t feel him return it, your face flashed concern. Did you do something wrong? Was he mad at you? You began to feel nervous under his gaze. Rather than say anything, you moved to straddle him and began to burrow into his lap. You faced him directly and wrapped your arms around his neck. When his expression didn’t budge, you buried your face into his neck and inhaled his scent.

God, you needed him so bad.

As you shrunk yourself in his lap, Steve gave a small smile. Seeing you become so little was making him harder. He knew after one drink that you were affectionate and needy. At events, you’d seek him out, attaching yourself to his side or finding some way to touch him. He had you right where he wanted you. You had mumbled something into his neck that took him from his own thoughts.

“What was that?” he asked, keeping his voice firm.

“How was your day?” you said softly, almost at a whisper. You turned your face and looked up into his sparkling blue eyes. You were so damn sweet he felt he was getting a cavity. “Are you enjoying being off?”

“It was fine,” he said, telling the truth. It was just fine. If you were with him all day, laying naked next to him, it would have been everything he needed. But seeing you concerned about him, being so sweet and kind, made him want to just pick you up and make sweet love to you in his bed. But a strong part of him didn’t want that; he wanted to ruin you and make you more pliant. “How was brunch?”

“It was nice,” you began, playing with the hairs in his beard. “But I really missed you, Daddy.” 

Fuck, he thought. Here you were, his perfect girl, wrapped up perfectly in his lap and pliant. He couldn’t hold back any longer. He gripped your face in his large hands and began to kiss you passionately. You didn’t even try to keep up, letting him push his tongue past your lips and claim your mouth. You began to whine, and Steve felt you begin to grind against his hard-on. He shifted his hands to your neck and pulled you back.

“If you missed me so much, baby girl, then show me.” Your eyes were blown wide with lust. Your lips swollen and pink. You nodded and began to pull his dick out of his sweatpants. You began stroking him, creating a steady rhythm that made Steve catch his breath. “Fuck angel.”

You shifted off his lap and moved his rolling chair back. You settled yourself between his legs. You began giving kitten licks to the tip of his cock before staring up at him with the kindest eyes; Steve had to fight the urge to blow a load on your face. You teased him a bit more with the licks before swallowing his own length down. Steve gripped the back of your head, pushing his length further down your throat. You struggled to take all of him, and the sensation of it made him pulse a bit down your throat. He pulled you off of him and took in your state. Your eyes began watering, your mascara starting to smudge under your eyes. Your mouth was wet with saliva. Steve wishes he could take a picture of you, seeing you ruined made further awakened a beast within him.

You reached for his cock, moving your mouth back on him. He watched in amazement as you tried to deep throat him on your own. You began looking up at him, your eyes looking as big as possible. How you managed to make yourself still look innocent while sucking his dick was something.

“Look at my pretty girl, sucking her Daddy’s cock. You’re doing so good.” You keened over his praise. He watched as you attempted to move your hand under your dress to gain some relief, but he grabbed both of your hands and held them above you. He removed your mouth off of him as gently as he could. You stared up at him waiting for his next words.

“Get on the bed.” He let your hands go and watched as you moved quickly to kneel on the bed. Steve didn’t even bother making it, leaving your bed sheets at the foot of your mattress. You placed your hands in your lap. He got up and cupped your face in his hand. He pressed a soft kiss to your lips before his hand moved to pull the thin strap of your dress down. “How are we feeling?”

“Green,” you told him. You gave a small smile. “I need you.”

“I know. Be patient, baby.” If that wasn’t the pot calling the kettle black…

He pushed your shoulders back as a sign for you to lay back on the bed. He moved to pull your dress off, you lifting your hips to help him. You were left in just a lacy pink thong and strapless bra. You moved to pull the bra off and placed it on the floor next to your bed. You grabbed his hand and placed it on his chest. You were so desperate for some sort of relief.

Steve began massaging your breast, his fingers pulling at your nipple. You let out a breathy moan from the sensation, happy to finally feel something. Steve’s eyes darkened when he saw your hand slip inside your panties, and you began to play with yourself.

“How bad do you need me? How bad do you need your Daddy?” he asked, almost mockingly.

“I need you s-so bad,” you cried out. “I’ve missed you so much. Thought about you the whole time at brunch. Please, I need you.”

Steve removed his hands, causing you to whine. When you looked up at him, you saw him frantically stripping out of his sweatpants and white tank top. He didn’t even bother with underwear, secretly praying that you came home exactly like this, and he would have easy access.

His mouth began an assault on your neck. He pulled your hand out and roughly pulled your panties down, flinging them somewhere in the room. He kissed down your body, spending precious time kneading and kissing on your breasts before he found himself in between your legs. Without asking, you opened yourself up to him. “Please, please, please,” you whined.

Steve dove in, essentially making out with your pussy. You cried out, and he placed his left hand on your stomach to hold you down. His other hand began to push into your core, finding that spongy spot that instantly had your hips bucking. He looked up at you through his thick lashes, watching your face contort into pure ecstasy. He found your bundle of nerves and began to suck while continuing to play with you like you were his favorite instrument (you were). You immediately began singing out, a sign you were close. It was music to Steve’s ears, your incoherent cries.

Steve lifted up, removed his fingers from your core, and watched as your face fell in betrayal. “If you’re going to come, it’s going to be on my dick,” he spat at you. “Open.”

You opened your mouth, and Steve spit down your throat. He captured into another filthy kiss, you grabbing onto his back to pull you into him, trying to become one. He lined up himself at your entrance before pressing in quickly, filling you up quickly. You broke the kiss to moan, tears spilling from your eyes from the pressure. Steve felt himself grow harder as he began to lick at your tears. You felt so defiled, so nasty, and you couldn’t get enough. You began scratching at his back, desperate for him to move, for him to finally let you come.

“D-daddy, please. Please move. Please!” you begged. “Please, I need it. I need to cum. Please let me cum!” Tears began to spill from your eyes. Your face was so utterly fucked out that Steve could have came right then in there. But you were giving him everything he wanted, and now, he finally could oblige.

He began roughly fucking into you, pulling your legs into his arm to change his angle. Your back arched off the bed, and your moans grew louder. Normally, Steve would cover your mouth, not wanting to face your neighbors after this, but he didn’t care. He wanted the whole world to hear him fucking his perfect, sweet girlfriend on this beautiful Saturday afternoon. You grabbed at your breast and Steve brought his face down to one, popping one of your hard nipples into his mouth. You clenched harder around him.

“Steve, I’m s-so close. May I cum? Please, may I cum?” you asked so nicely. 

“Yes.” You came with a cry, your body shaking as Steve continued to fuck into you. Seeing you fall apart gave him a second wind and he kept fucking into you. You fell into a second orgasm, your eyes beginning to close in exhaustion, but Steve didn’t relent. He pulled out and turned you on your side like a ragdoll as you laid limp on the bed. He immediately rutted back into you, his pace relentless. His release was building up. “Come on, baby. Come with Daddy. Just give me one more.”

Steve came with a roar. He looked down at your coated juices on his dick and fucked it back into you. He couldn’t wait to see himself leaking out of you. Honestly, if you gave him a minute, he could go again and have you filled with him for days. The idea of you filled with him, possibly making his child made him cumming again.

He collapsed on top of you, softly kissing your face. You started giggling before turning and grabbing his face in your hand. You captured his lips in a long, soft kiss. You whined as he pulled out of you, and Steve shifted next to you. Looking down at your legs, his eyes darkened seeing his spend leak out of you. He gathered it and pushed it back inside of you. You winced at how sensitive you were, but Steve knew you loved when he’d play with your mixed releases. 

Steve rose and grabbed your water bottle, making you drink a considerable amount before placing it on the nightstand on his side of the bed. He lifted you up and placed both of you under the covers of your shared bed. He pulled you into his chest as you lazily rubbed circles into his chest and him on your shoulders.

“I love you,” you whispered before softly kissing at his chest and closing your eyes.

“I love you too.” Steve was happy. His perfect girl was finally in his arms, just like he needed.

[remmicksmuse]

ROUND 2 !

pairing: military!steve rogers x wife!reader

genre: smut, fluff

warnings: manhandling, full nelson, overstim, oral(fem receiving), fingering, slight degradation

summary: it’s been a year since you’ve seen your husband and he just got home, but he’s so much taller and bigger. his new body makes your mind go wild and wonder what new things he can do now.

notes: i’m watching captain america:the first avenger and steve rogers looks so fine i HAD to write something. and i had to keep splitting up paragraphs because tumblr said they were too long…also this takes place back in 1943. DADDY’S HOME

life has been so lonely & boring since steve left for war. now all you left have of him is some of his clothes and small pictures of him and you spread around the house. going to bed alone felt painful enough so you slept with his picture next to you sometimes. it was especially hard when you felt needy and no one was there but your pillow. you were thinking about asking your neighbor, who always flirts with you any chance they get, for help but you could never cheat on steve, not after how sweet he is to you. it’s was getting late so you headed downstairs to make yourself dinner. you made alfredo for yourself and prepared a plate. you took a seat at your dining take and stared at the picture of your husband. every night, you pray he’s still alive and comes back home soon. suddenly you hear a knock at the front door. your eyes dart up in panic, you don’t want to get your hopes up and think he’s finally home but rarely anyone visits you unless it’s a friend & your friends never show up at 10PM. you slowly arise from your chair and walk to the door. before your nervous hand reaches the door, you hear a click and the door slowly opens.

“steve, is that you?” you ask peeking from being the door. it’s dark outside so you can’t see his face, but you can see his silhouette. the man is tall & buff, and you can’t stop staring at his biceps. he starts to walk towards you slowly as you step away from him. once you both are under the light, his face is more clearer and you realize your husband is finally home. “did you miss me?” he says softly as places his hand on your waist and pulls you towards him. your at a loss of words and embrace him into a hug. for the first time, you weren’t on the same level as him. “what happened to you? i knew you’d look a little bigger after war but this is completely different!” you have so many questions but your honestly trying to stop yourself from smothering his handsome face with kisses, and something else. “it’s a long story, but my only focus is you”he sweet talks, which makes your heart flutter and his words go right to your core. “well if you’re hungry, i made-”you start before he gently pushes you against the island in the kitchen and kisses you with his soft lips. the way he was kissing made you feel like you were having your first kiss. the first you both kisses, you kisses him first and you could easily reach his lips, but it felt so different this time because you had to get on your toes to reach him, nearly having to jump. chris trapped you between his muscular arms and held you in place as he kissed you. the more he held you there, the more you felt your arousal build higher & higher. you felt him slowly glide his hands down your waist and tug on the waistband of your pajamas pants. you break away from the kiss and look at him in shock. “where did all this confidence come from, last time we tried to have sex, you could barely get it up last time and you were just so nervous”you mocked but he just smiled at you with pure lust in his eyes. “trust me, i’m not that guy anymore sweetheart, and now that i’m back i’ll give you all the love you’ve been needing this time”he murmured. before you argue back, chris’s hand is creeping into your panties and starts rubbing slow circles onto your pussy. the sudden feeling makes your legs feel weak and your lips fall open. you can’t help but feel chris’s eyes peering at you, “does this feel good?”he asks after he slides his fingers inside but you barely processes what he’s saying to you because you’re so caught up in this pleasure you’ve never experienced so you just eagerly nod. before he fully fulfills your needs, he picks you up over his shoulder and walks up the stairs. the loss of his fingers make you whine and you clench around nothing. “shh, i’ll let you finish once we get to the bedroom” he whispers.

he holds you in place on his shoulder with his arm and pushes open the door with his other. he tosses you onto the bed before he takes off his shirt. his chest and his abs make you stare in awe, he’s so strong and firm now that he’s back from the war. “are you gonna take off your clothes or do i have to do that for you too while you stare at me?”his words make you get out of head and you scramble to take off clothes. now you just left with your panties on and sitting on the bed with your knees to your chest. he climbs over to you on the bed and gently pushes you back. once he pulls your soaked panties down & throws them next to your pile of clothes, he pulls you closer to him and spreads your legs open, “no need to be shy, i see you’re not the only one that misses me” he says before placing a kiss on your pussy. feeling his lips on you makes you squirm but chris’s firm hands are holding you in place. his lips start making out with your cunt and you can’t help but whine. you were so shocked how good he was making you feel you wondered how his dick would feel inside you. chris wanted you to sound even more louder as he felt your hips slowly rocking against his face so his licks got more sloppier and wet. the amount of pleasure made your back arch and your thighs tried to close but his big hands held your legs in place. “s-steve, i’m g-gonna-”you cried and he picked up his pace at your words. “mhm, c’mon” he hummed against you and the vibrations from his lips make your tummy feel warm and sends you over the edge, making you squirt against his face. you don’t even realize you squirted before you sit up against your elbows & notice the smile on his face with your juices all over his chin. “oh chris, i’m sorry i’ve never done that before i-”you panic before apologizing but chris cuts you. “don’t apologize, i’m planning on making you do that again, but this time with my dick” he interrupts and take his pants off. as soon as his boxers come off, his cock springs free and stands tall against his toned abs. “on your hands and knees, facing the headboard”he instructs and do as he says while your thighs still quivered.

“can you feel that?” he whispers as he nudges his tip against your hole. he knows you can’t answer since he’s pushing your head into the pillow under you but the size of his dick makes you gulp. you feel the big stretch as he slowly pushes his cock inside you and before you can feel any pain, he drops a hand down and rubs your clit so you can still feel pleasure. once he finds his rhythm in his thrusts, he slowly picks up the pace. the only thing being heard inside the room is the sound of your soaked pussy squelching around him. all this pleasure makes your tummy feel tingly and like it’s going to explode. “n-ngh i c-can’t take it, s’too much!”you complain but he only goes faster. his thrusts are getting so rough, he almost knocks you off the bed. you try to grab & hold on to the sheets to get away from from the overstimulation but steve notices and pulls you up against his chest & wraps his bicep around your neck, putting you in a chokehold. “c’mon you can’t get away from me yet, i just got you back” he coos as you paw against his thick bicep. he’s not choking you enough to hurt you or make you pass out, it’s only enough to make you cough and makes you moan even louder if you move too much. soon enough he’s moving his hips as fast as he can against your ass. there’s nothing else you can do but sit there and take his cock deep inside your tummy as whimpers fall fast your lips. chris places a warm hand on your tummy and rubs it, “can you see that, there’s a bulge inside of you”he says but your brain is all fuzzy and your so cockdrunk you don’t hear what he’s saying. all you’re physically capable of doing is nodding. your so overstimulating and dizzy, his cock is making you see stars. steve feels your legs shaking and your hole fluttering around him and he starts to rub your clit. all the attention on your clit makes whine and even shred a couple tears because it’s feel like it’s so much. once he starts rubbing your nipples, you feel yourself gushing all over his cock. you whine from the relief before he unwraps his arm from around your neck and lets your body fall forward & relax against the bed. the release leaves you panting and struggling to catch your breathe. he starts to rub your back before throwing the covers over you as he watching you shiver. “i’m right here, let me know if you need anything,” he says as he scoots under the covers and cuddles your fucked out body. “and don’t underestimate me again or i’m not going easy on you next time sweetheart” he warns as you drift off to sleep from exhaustion.

[buckets-and-trees]

So Black the Darkness Hums

Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader, unnamed husband of reader Word Count: 9.1k Summary: Your wedding day is destroyed when your village is raided by the vicious king Steven and his viking warriors. He will lay claim to all he wants, including you.

Content/Warnings: DARK, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut (oral - male and female receiving, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, anal fingering, anal intercourse, breastplay, overstimulation, orgasm denial, forced orgasms), use of pet name (little bride), dacryphilia, innocence kink, implied breeding kink, exhibitionism, human tribute/trade

Notes: I was struck by the idea of a very mean viking Steve last Thursday, and he would not let me go. Thanks to the encouragements from @biteofcherry, @witchywithwhiskey, and @vonalyn. An unapologetically brutal offering for the ninth week of Chris-mas.

Additional Note: I've gone with the term magnate over chieftan per this source.

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

You had already made a long walk, dressed in white, towards a man today. But where this morning you had walked happily in the sunlight to your betrothed - the eldest son of the village magnate - now you walk over the flagstones of the village hall to the seat typically occupied by the magnate.

A seat now filled by the brutal and terrifying Steven - warrior and king of an army which had landed on the shores of your village to raid and conquer today.

And conquer they had.

Your white dress, once pristine and flowing, now clings to your skin, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt and leaves. The veil that had adorned your hair this morning lies discarded somewhere in the forest, torn away by grasping branches as you fled.

The memory of your desperate flight from your wedding into the woods plays in your mind like a fevered dream. The screams of the villagers, the clash of steel, the acrid smell of smoke as buildings burned – all of it had driven you and a group of women and children to seek refuge among the ancient oaks. The forest, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, became a labyrinth of terror as you led the group deeper and deeper, branches scratching at your arms and face, tearing at the delicate fabric of your gown. The sounds of pursuit never seemed to fade, no matter how far you ran.

As dusk fell, you huddled together, exhausted, praying to gods old and new that you would not be found. But the gods were silent, and the crunch of heavy boots on fallen leaves had filled their absence. You were all discovered, bound and forced back.

Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach the throne, each step echoing in the cavernous hall. The white gown that once symbolized joy now feels like a shroud.

The smell of blood and sweat permeates the room, a stark contrast to the polished wood and fine tapestries of the hall.

Steven's piercing eyes lock onto yours, a predatory gleam reflecting in their depths like shards of ice. His massive frame dwarfs the ornate chair, his battle-scarred hands gripping the armrests with a strength that could crush them at any moment. A round, wooden shield leans against the side of the throne. He looks both handsome and terrifying, his rugged features perfectly fitting for a fierce Viking warrior king. The intensity in his gaze sends shivers down your spine, making you wonder if he is capable of unspeakable violence or if it is all just an act to maintain his reputation as a fearsome leader. Either way, there is no denying the raw power emanating from him, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from the captivating figure before you.

Your steps falter, but a rough shove from one of Steven's men propels you forward. You stumble, nearly falling at the conqueror's feet.

"So," Steven's voice booms, a mix of amusement and contempt, "you are the bride I've heard so much about."

His face is scarred, weathered by countless battles, but still impossibly handsome, and his eyes gleam with intelligence. You see something there – a flicker that suggests he is not just a brutal conqueror, but a man with depth and complexity.

Dangerous.

"I hear you were wedded to the fine magnate’s son," Steven continues, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "How fortunate that I arrived in time for the celebration."

Your throat constricts, choking back the bitter retort that threatens to escape. You force yourself to square your shoulders and hold his gaze, summoning every ounce of courage you possess.

Steven's eyes narrow as he studies you, his gaze raking over your disheveled form with predatory intensity. He leans forward, the worn leather of his armor creaking with the movement.

"Come closer, little bride," he beckons, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.

Your feet feel leaden as you force yourself to take another step forward. You are by no means small, but he is so large in comparison that the term ‘little’ would apply to most who come into his presence. The flagstones beneath you are cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft grass you had walked upon just hours before, your heart full of hope and promise.

Steven's lips curl into a wolfish grin as you approach. "Tell me," he says, his voice deceptively casual, "were you to be a proper bride for your husband?"

The insinuation in his words is clear, and heat rises to your cheeks. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes hungry and leering. You swallow hard, struggling to maintain your composure.

"I was to be a dutiful wife," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

Steven's laughter booms through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. "'Dutiful,'" he repeats, mockery dripping from the word. "And what duties did you imagine, little bride? Mending his clothes? Warming his bed?"

Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms. The urge to lash out, to scream defiance in his face, is almost overwhelming. But you force yourself to remain still, knowing that any show of rebellion could mean death – not just for you, but for the other villagers as well.

"Whatever duties were required of me," you reply, striving to keep your voice steady.

Steven leans back in the chair. "Tell me, little bride, do you know what happens to dutiful wives when their husbands fall?"

Your stomach churns at his words, but you force yourself to stand tall. "I imagine they mourn," you reply, a hint of defiance creeping into your voice.

The warrior king's eyes flash dangerously. In one fluid motion, he rises from the chair, towering over you. His hand, calloused and rough, grasps your chin, forcing you to look up at him.

"Oh, he may have wished for death in battle, but he was merely conquered and imprisoned.”

There’s a small relief, but it’s fleeting as you know this is far from over.

“Dutiful wives plead and bargain what they can to spare their husbands an even crueler fate.”

You tremble with both fear and anger.

“And the bride of the magnate’s eldest son needs to bargain for far more than the fate of only one man.”

Your sink to your knees at Steven's words, now with the fate of your village laid at your hands. Your once-pristine dress pools around you like spilled milk over the cold flagstones. The stone bites into your skin, a sharp reminder of how far you've fallen in just one day.

Tears blur your vision as you look up at Steven, his massive form looming over you like a colossus. The firelight from nearby sconces casts dancing shadows across his face, making his scars seem to writhe like serpents.

"Please," you whisper, your voice cracking. "Spare them. Spare the village. We are simple folk, we have nothing to offer but our loyalty and our labor."

A low chuckle rumbles from Steven's chest. "Getting on your knees is a good start, little bride," he says, his voice low.

Your cheeks burn with humiliation at his words, but you force yourself to remain kneeling. The fate of your village, your family, your new husband – all of it rests on your shoulders now.

Steven circles you slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. His heavy boots echo on the stone floor, each step sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes a palpable weight.

"Loyalty and labor," Steven muses, coming to a stop before you. "Those are indeed valuable commodities. But I wonder, little bride, if you truly understand the depths of loyalty I require."

He crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. His breath is hot on your cheek as he speaks. "Your village will serve me, yes. But you... you will be the seal on our bargain. The trophy of my conquest."

Your heart stops.

“And to my earlier curiosity, I shall ask plainly and have you answer me in kind: are you a virgin bride? Untouched? Unsullied?”

You close your eyes and nod.

Any hope you had been harboring that your fate would not turn this way vanishes now.

“A king is entitled, if he so chooses, to invoke the rite of prima nocta.”

Your blood runs cold at Steven's words. Prima nocta - the right of the first night. An ancient, barbaric custom that you had only heard whispered about in hushed tones. Never did you imagine it would become your reality.

"No," you whisper, the word escaping your lips before you can stop it. You immediately regret it as Steven's eyes flash dangerously.

He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "No?" he growls. "You dare refuse me? Perhaps you need a reminder of your position."

With a snap of his fingers, two of his men drag in a bound figure, depositing him on his knees off to the side of the hall but in clear view. Your heart sinks as you recognize your new husband, his body littered with cuts and bruises.

"For every refusal, every act of defiance," Steven says coldly, "he will suffer. And not just him. Your family, your friends, you are all of you conquered and my men can hunt through this village to pull any one of them here if it serves me.”

Your eyes well with tears because you do not doubt his resolve.

“You will spare them if I give you my maidenhood?”

He straightens back up to his full height. “I think I could spare your village for at least one night.”

Steven turns to his men, waving a dismissive hand. "Leave us," he commands, his voice echoing through the hall. "But the husband stays. He will bear witness."

The soldiers file out, swiftly acquiescing to their king’s request. The heavy doors slam shut behind them, the sound reverberating through your bones. Now it is only the three of you - conqueror, conquered, and the terrified bride between.

Steven's fingers tangle in your hair, forcing your head back. His other hand works at the fastenings of his breeches. "Show me how dutiful you can be, little bride," he growls.

Steven towers over you, his massive frame blocking out the flickering light from the nearby torches. You can smell the leather of his armor, the tang of sweat and metal that clings to his skin.

Your eyes flicker to your husband, but he refuses to look at you, apparently unwilling to watch. You would not have him suffer, but his refusal to even look your way hurts. You held no silly romantic notions for the eldest son of the magnate, but he was a fine man, good, you had been happy to make a match with him, and you thought there was a growing affection between you.

“Do not look at him, little bride,” Steven growls, impatiently shaking you by the hair. “Why are you looking at him? Look at me. He can not help you.”

You force your gaze back to Steven, your heart pounding. His eyes bore into yours, dark with desire and cruel triumph. You swallow hard, trying to find your voice.

"I... I don't know what to do," you whisper, heat flaming your cheeks. It's true - you are a virgin, after all, and the mechanics of what he expects are foreign to you.

Steven's laugh is low and mocking. "Oh, little bride," he says, his voice a rumble. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."

His hand leaves your hair, moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your lower lip, rough and calloused. "Open," he commands.

You hesitate, your eyes darting once more to your husband. This time, his gaze meets yours, and you see the resentment burning in them. It wounds you more than anything this cruel conquering king has done to you so far.

Steeling yourself, you look back up at Steven and part your lips.

His thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Suck," he commands.

With trembling lips, you obey, closing your mouth around his thick digit. The taste of salt and leather fills your senses as you tentatively suck on his thumb. Steven's eyes darken with lust, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

"Good girl," he murmurs, his free hand working at the laces of his breeches. "That's it, use your tongue."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you obey, swirling your tongue around his digit, your cheeks burning with shame. You try to focus solely on the task at hand, to forget where you are and what's happening. But the sound of your husband's labored breathing, the cold stone beneath your knees, the looming presence of Steven above you – it all serves as a stark reminder of your situation.

The sound of fabric rustling makes your stomach clench.

Steven withdraws his thumb, replacing it with two fingers. They press deeper into your mouth, nearly making you gag. "Breathe through your nose," he instructs. "You'll need to learn this."

Your heart races as you struggle to follow his command, fighting against your gag reflex as his fingers probe deeper. The taste of salt and leather is overwhelming, and you can feel saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth.

"Open your eyes," Steven growls. "I want you to see everything."

Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. With his free hand, he finishes unlacing his breeches, pushing them down just enough to free himself.

Your eyes widen at the sight of him, fully aroused and intimidatingly large. A whimper escapes you around his fingers, and he smirks.

"Don't worry, you'll learn to take all of me in time."

Steven withdraws his fingers from your mouth, leaving you gasping. His hand moves to grip your hair again, tilting your head back as he positions himself before you.

"Open wide, little bride," he commands, his voice husky with desire.

You hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. The reality of what's about to happen crashes over you like a wave. But then you hear a pained grunt from your husband, and you know you have no choice. Closing your eyes, you part your lips.

Steven wastes no time, pushing himself into your mouth with a groan of satisfaction. The taste is foreign, salty and musky, and you struggle not to gag as he fills your mouth.

"Use your tongue," he instructs, his hand tightening in your hair. "And mind your teeth."

Tears stream down your face as you try to obey, running your tongue along the length of him. Your whole body trembles with fear and revulsion, but his grip on your hair is unrelenting. He thrusts in and out of your mouth, setting a brutal pace that makes you gag and gasp for air.

"You're doing well, my little bride," Steven grunts, his voice thick with lust. "Just relax and take it all in."

You try to comply, but it's a struggle. Your eyes are dripping with tears, overwhelmed from the force of his movements, and you feel like you're choking on him. But you know you have no choice but to endure it or risk angering him further.

As he continues to use your mouth for his pleasure, you feel a sense of detachment wash over you. It's like watching yourself from a distance, your body merely a tool for his satisfaction. You can't believe this is happening – this reality had never even haunted your nightmares.

A sharp pain shoots through your scalp as Steven tugs harder on your hair, pulling your head back even further. You whimper at the sting, struggling against the urge to cry out.

"You make such beautiful noises," he growls. "But I want more from you."

With that, he starts thrusting deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat each time. You choke and gag around him, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.

But then something changes – he starts moving faster and faster until suddenly he stills inside you with a groan of release. Your mouth is flooded with his release, and you swallow what you can, tasting him on your tongue as he pulls out of your mouth, leaving it feeling raw and sore. A mess of tears, his cum, and your drool drip down your chin and neck as you gasp for air.

Steven's thumb roughly grazes down your cheek, a false gesture of affection. Then he speaks, his eyes moving from you to your husband. "Such a pretty thing," he purrs. "Isn't she?" the question - a taunt - directed at your husband.

He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with both of you. Steven's laughter fills the room as he continues, "They say you are a noble and good man, always treating her right. I bet you would never have asked her to do anything so degrading, may have waited months or years before coaxing her to suck your cock."

You don’t even know how to process what he is saying and how the other man is reacting - or not reacting - to Steve’s words.

“You would never use her.”

Steven’s focus shifts fully back to you.

“But I will.”

A whimper escapes your chest as he roughly grabs your chin.

“I will ruin you and wreck you for my pleasure, and he does not get to see what I will do to you next.”

The other man makes a strangled sound, finally trying to fight his bonds.

Steven laughs darkly. “It may have tortured you to watch,” he says, and then leans down and scoops you up from the floor and into his arms - bridal style to drive the point of his dominance and the humiliation of your special day home, “but not knowing what I do to your bride next will eat you alive for the rest of your days.”

As Steven carries you from the hall, your world becomes a blur of sensations and emotions. The warmth of his body contrasts sharply with the cold dread settling in your stomach. His arms, corded with muscle, hold you firmly against his broad chest, and you wrap your arms around his neck for steadiness as he moves so swiftly. The scent of leather, sweat, and something distinctly male envelops you in such close proximity, making your head spin.

As he carries you from the great hall, you find yourself unable to look away from his face. The flickering torchlight casts deep shadows across his features, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. His eyes, when they meet yours, are dark and cold like the sea in a storm, and it chills your bones. He leans down and steals a fast, ruthless kiss, nipping at your bottom lip, and you look away when he ends it, uncomfortable with the sensation it stirs in your belly.

The corridors of the village hall, once so familiar, now seem alien and menacing. Shadows dance on the walls, cast by flickering torches, creating grotesque shapes that mirror the turmoil in your mind. The stone beneath Steven's feet echoes with each step, a rhythm that matches the frantic beating of your heart.

You pass tapestries depicting scenes from your village's history - harvests, celebrations, battles long past. They mock you now, reminders of a life that seems to have ended mere hours ago.

As Steven carries you further into the depths of the hall, the familiar corridors give way to parts of the building you've never seen before. The air grows cooler, damper, and you shiver involuntarily against his chest. He notices, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Cold, little bride?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't worry, I'll warm you up soon enough."

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out his words, to pretend this isn't happening. But the solid warmth of his body against yours, the strength in his arms as he carries you, makes denial impossible.

Finally, Steven comes to a stop before a heavy wooden door. With one hand still supporting you, he reaches out and pushes it open. The hinges creak ominously, and your heart rate spikes as he carries you across the threshold.

The room is dimly lit by a few sputtering candles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. In the center stands a large bed, draped in furs and silks - a stark contrast to the simple furnishings you're accustomed to. You see the ceremonial bridal lace, embroidered with the flower of the magnate’s clan, laying atop the other furs and silks and realize this was the bedchamber intended for you and your husband. The irony is not lost on you - this room, where you should have spent your wedding night and started your new life with your new husband, will now be the site of your defilement.

Steven tosses you onto the bed unceremoniously, and you land with a gasp, your white dress billowing around you.

Steven looms over you, his massive frame blocking out the dim candlelight. His eyes rove over your body hungrily, and you feel exposed despite still being fully clothed. You try to curl in on yourself, to shield your body from his gaze, but he tsks disapprovingly.

"Now, now, little bride," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "don't hide from me. I want to see all of you."

His hands move to the laces of your dress, and you flinch away instinctively. Steven's eyes narrow, and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand. With his other hand, he reaches for a knife at his hip, brings it up to the neckline of your dress, positioning the cool blade between your skin and the fabric and pulls down swiftly, tearing your dress down the middle. He releases your hands so he can use both of his to finish ripping away your clothing, throwing it to the floor. Your attempts to fight him are easily shunted, and once you’re naked, he presses you back down to the bed, holding the blade of the knife cruelly to your neck, just below your jaw.

“Do not think I will maintain much patience. I will not hesitate to punish if you continue to resist,” he promises. “Understand?”

“Yes,” you whisper, a tear escaping and rolling slowly down your cheek.

“Good," he says, his voice low and husky, "it's time to consummate the arrangement you agreed to fulfill."

He moves away, positioning himself next to the bed. His hands move to the fastenings of his leather armor, slowly removing each piece, then his shirt. The firelight gleams off his muscled torso as it's revealed, highlighting scars that tell tales of countless battles. You can't help but stare, a mix of fear and unwanted fascination coursing through you.

Steven notices your gaze and smirks. "Like what you see?" he taunts.

You quickly avert your eyes.

Steven chuckles darkly. "Don't be shy now, little bride. You'll become very familiar with every inch of me soon enough."

He finishes undressing, his massive frame now fully revealed in the flickering candlelight. Despite your fear and revulsion, you can't help but notice the raw power of his body - all hard muscle and battle scars. He is undeniably handsome in a rugged, dangerous way that makes your heart race with a confusing mix of terror and unwanted attraction.

Steven climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he looms over you. His hand trails down your body, callused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shiver involuntarily, eyes closing.

"Open your eyes," he commands. "I want you to see everything I do to you."

Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. He looms over you, his muscled body casting you in shadow.

"Please," you whisper, a final, desperate plea. "You don't have to do this."

Steven's hand cups your face. “But I want to,” he growls, “and I always take what I want.”

His lips crash down on yours, harsh and demanding. You whimper against his mouth, overwhelmed by his forcefulness. His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring every inch of your mouth as his hand slides down to grip your breast roughly.

You gasp at the sensation, your body betraying you as your nipple hardens under his touch. Steven chuckles against your lips.

"Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind resists," he murmurs, his thumb circling your nipple teasingly.

His hand continues its travels lower, skimming over your stomach before reaching the junction between your thighs. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee wedges between them, forcing them apart and settling himself between them. His fingers find your most intimate place, and you jerk at the unfamiliar touch.

"So soft," he growls, his fingers exploring the apex between your thighs. "And already getting wet for me."

You flush with shame, hating your body's involuntary response, feeling things you’ve never felt before and with a cruel stranger instead of the man you had pledged yourself to, built a budding relationship and trust with through your courtship.

"So responsive," he murmurs against your lips. "And so tight. This will hurt, little bride, but I'll make it good for you too."

His fingers probe deeper, and you cry out at the intrusion. Steven's mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting as his fingers work between your legs. You feel a building pressure, your body responding against your will to his ministrations.

"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let yourself feel it."

Tears stream down your face as waves of unwanted pleasure course through you. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of the sensation.

Steven chuckles darkly. "So eager now," he taunts. "Are you ready for me, little bride?"

Before you can respond, he positions himself at your entrance. You feel the blunt pressure of him against you, and panic rises in your chest.

"Wait," you gasp. "Please, I'm not-"

But Steven doesn't wait. With one powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you. The pain is sharp and immediate, tearing a cry from your throat. Steven groans in pleasure, his massive frame pinning you to the bed.

"So tight," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel even better than I imagined."

Tears stream down your face as he begins to move, each thrust sending waves of pain through your body. You turn your head away, unable to look at him, but his hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.

"I told you to watch," he snarls. "I want to see the moment you break."

His pace increases, and you whimper with each brutal thrust. The pain begins to dull, replaced by a strange, burning sensation that spreads through your lower body. Your breath comes in short gasps, matching the rhythm of his movements.

You whimper beneath him, your body trembling with the shock of the intrusion. Steven's hand cups your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that has escaped down your cheek. The gesture is almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutality of his actions.

"Breathe," he commands softly. "The pain will pass."

You try to breathe more evenly, but it feels impossible as he maintains his brutal, relentless pace.

Your body feels torn between pain and an unfamiliar, building pleasure. You hate yourself for responding to his touch, for the way your hips begin to move in rhythm with his thrusts. Steven notices, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"There it is," he growls, his pace quickening. "Your body knows what it wants, even as you continue to deny it."

His hand snakes between your bodies, finding a sensitive bundle of nerves above where you're joined. You cry out as he begins to circle it with his thumb, waves of sensation crashing over you.

"Let go," Steven commands, his voice husky with exertion. "Come for me, little bride."

Your body obeys even as your mind recoils. The pressure builds and builds until it finally shatters, your back arching as you cry out. Steven groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural moan.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. Steven's weight presses you into the mattress, his body slick with sweat. You lie there, trembling, tears streaming silently down your face as the reality of what just happened washes over you.

Steven lifts himself onto his elbows, looking down at you with an unreadable expression. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. "You did well, little bride," he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.

The tenderness in his touch and his voice confuses you, but the moment passes because his eyes darken once more as he gazes down at you. "The night is far from over," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire.

He shifts his massive body, moving downward until his face is level with your breasts. His rough hands cup the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing with a possessive grip that makes you gasp. You feel his hot breath against your skin, sending involuntary shivers through your body.

Steven's mouth descends on your left breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he takes it between his lips. He sucks hard, drawing a whimper from your throat. His teeth graze the sensitive bud, sending jolts of sensation through your body.

He alternates between your breasts, sucking and biting with increasing intensity. What starts as pleasure soon edges into discomfort, then pain. Your nipples, sensitive and swollen from his attention, ache as he continues his ministrations. You squirm beneath him, trying to escape the overwhelming sensations, but his body pins you firmly to the bed.

"Please," you gasp, "it's too much."

Steven lifts his head, his eyes dark with lust. "Nothing is too much for you, little bride," he growls. "You'll take everything I give you and beg for more."

His mouth returns to your breast, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, tears springing to your eyes yet again. The pain mingles with a confusing undercurrent of pleasure, your body betraying you once again.

Steven's hand slides down your body, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs again. He begins to stroke in slow, deliberate circles, and you feel yourself responding despite your best efforts to resist. You’re shocked at how your dripping hole is aching again already. These sensations are foreign to you and frightening to experience at his hand.

Steven's fingers move with expert precision, building a slow, inexorable tension in your core. His mouth continues its assault on your breasts, alternating between gentle sucks and sharp nips that send jolts of sensation through your body. The dual stimulation overwhelms your senses, leaving you gasping and writhing beneath him.

His fingers quicken their pace, circling your sensitive bud with increasing pressure. The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the breaking point. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, chasing the building pleasure despite your mind's desperate attempts to resist.

Steven's mouth moves to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "That's it," he growls, his voice low and husky.

Your body trembles on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release, Steven suddenly withdraws his hand. You whimper at the loss, your body aching for completion. He lifts his head from your breast, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.

“I told you I would ruin you,” he murmurs, “and this is part of your ruining.”

Steven rolls onto his back, his massive frame sprawled across the bed. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours as he beckons you with a crook of his finger. "Come here, little bride," he commands, his voice a low rumble. "I want to feel that pretty mouth on my cock again."

You hesitate, your body still trembling from the denied release. Steven's hand shoots out, gripping your hair and pulling you towards him. "I said, come here," he growls, his patience wearing thin.

Reluctantly, you crawl towards him, positioning yourself between his muscular thighs. His manhood lies semi-hard against his stomach, still glistening with the evidence of your earlier coupling. The sight and scent of it make your stomach churn with a mix of revulsion and unwanted arousal.

"Take me in your mouth," Steven orders, his hand still commanding the back of your head. “Show me what you’ve learned.”

Slowly, as if in a trance, you lower your trembling form towards his groin. You can't believe the turn of events that have brought you to this point – from a joyful bride to a conquered villager at the mercy of Steven and his ruthless warriors. The knowledge burns in your heart, but you force it down, focusing instead on surviving this nightmare.

As your lips touch the velvety head of his member, Steven emits a low groan of pleasure. His hand loosens its grip on your hair just enough to allow you some movement. Despite yourself, you remember the way he had thrust into your mouth earlier, how he had seemed to enjoy it when you'd used your tongue. Drawing on that brief flash of experience, you tentatively flick your tongue over his cock. The taste is overwhelming - a potent mixture of his earlier release, your own arousal, and the metallic tang of blood. It's a stark reminder of what's transpired, of your lost innocence.

Steven groans as you engulf him, his hips bucking slightly. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire. "Take it all in."

You struggle to accommodate his size, your jaw aching as you try to take more of him. His hand guides your movements, setting a steady rhythm as he uses your mouth. Your tongue teases across the sensitive underside of his shaft, encountering a vein that runs along its length, and you try to apply more pressure there. Steven groans in response, low and guttural, spurring you on.

"That's it, little bride," he grunts, the praise almost an animalistic growl. "Suck harder. Take more of me into that pretty mouth."

You struggle to obey, pushing yourself to take more of his length into your mouth. His hips begin to thrust upwards, forcing himself deeper. You choke and splutter around him, saliva dripping down your chin.

"Relax your throat," Steven commands, his voice strained with pleasure. "Breathe through your nose."

You try to follow his instructions, fighting against your gag reflex as he pushes deeper. Steven's hand tightens in your hair, guiding your movements more forcefully. "Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire.

You raise your eyes to meet his, your cheeks burning with shame as you continue to work your mouth over him. His gaze is dark and predatory, filled with a hunger that makes you shiver.

"Such a good little bride," he murmurs, his hips starting to thrust up to meet your mouth. "Taking my cock so well. But I think you can take more."

Without warning, he pushes your head down, forcing himself deeper into your throat. You gag and choke, face pushed flush to his pelvis. The taste and scent of him overwhelm your senses, throat struggling at his intrusion, and you feel lightheaded from the lack of air. Just when you think you can't take anymore, Steven pulls you off his cock with a wet pop.

Gasping for breath, you look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. His face is flushed with arousal, his eyes dark, but gleaming with… pride?

“You are such an exquisite, pliant thing,” he says. “It has been too long since I’ve been so well-pleased, so near insatiable.”

Your chest constricts at the praise. You did not want any of this nightmare, but his danger is novel and alluring, the unknown pleasures he’s exacting from your body, guiding you down paths you’ve never explored before - it’s all twisting your body and your very soul, seeping through your veins, a poison you can’t stop now that he’s pierced into you.

He sits up, frames your jaw in both of his calloused hands, and then lewdly licks one cheek and then the other, lapping at your tears. It’s not tender. He’s playing with his prey.

Steven's hands move to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sudden, forceful movement, he flips you onto your stomach. You gasp at the abrupt change, your face pressed into the furs on the bed. His large hands grasp your hips, pulling them upwards as he pushes your upper body down, positioning you on your hands and knees before him.

"Spread your legs wider and present yourself to me," he commands, his voice husky with desire.

Trembling, you obey, pushing your knees out further, lowering your chest to the bed, and raising your hips higher. You feel completely exposed, a new kind of vulnerable in this position, and your cheeks burn with shame. The cool air of the room caresses your most intimate places, making you shiver.

Steven's large hands grip your hips, kneading the flesh of your buttocks, spreading them apart.

"Such a pretty sight," he murmurs.

His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your buttocks as he spreads you open further. You tense, expecting the brutal intrusion of his manhood, but instead, you feel his beard brush against your most intimate flesh as he presses his mouth to your core. His tongue, hot and wet, slides up the cut of you, and you cry out in surprise. You had been told your husband would couple his manhood with your maidenhood. You had heard the lewd rumors of men using a woman’s mouth for his cock.

No one had ever whispered even a word that a man might put his own lips to your sex, and it’s an onslaught of pleasure you were in no way prepared to experience. The moan you let out is obscene and unrestrained, and you grasp helplessly at the blankets and furs beneath you.

Steven's tongue explores your folds with wicked precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your most sensitive areas. Your body trembles uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the intense sensations. You try to stifle your moans, burying your face in the furs, but Steven's hand snakes up to grip your hair, yanking your head back.

"Let me hear you," he growls against your flesh. "I want to hear every sound you make."

His mouth returns to your core, his tongue delving deeper, tasting every inch of you. His beard scratches against your sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing back against his face as he continues his relentless assault. You feel his lips close around your sensitive bud, sucking hard, and a cry tears from your throat.

"That's it," Steven murmurs, his voice vibrating against your flesh. "Let go, little bride. Show me how well you enjoy being ruined by your new king.”

His words send a shiver through you, a mix of shame and unwanted arousal. Steven's tongue continues its relentless assault on your cunt, building a tension in your core that threatens to overwhelm you. Your body trembles, teetering on the edge of release.

His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as you writhe against him. The tension within you builds to an unbearable level, and with a final, targeted flick of his tongue, you shatter.

A cry tears from your throat as the waves of ecstasy wash over you. He laps up your juices eagerly, groaning in satisfaction, before he pulls away.

You whimper at the loss, and he chuckles. “Worry not, there is yet more pleasure I will force upon you this night,” he promises.

Before you can catch your breath, you feel the blunt head of his manhood pressing against your entrance. Steven guides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, over your oversensitive bundle of nerves, and you shiver. But it is soon evident he is in no hurry at this next pursuit.

Steven continues to tease you with the head of his cock, running it along your sensitive folds. Up and down, up and down. Slow strokes, sometimes bumping against your clit, sometimes ignoring it, unpredictable in the pattern so you don’t know when the surge will come. Your body trembles, overstimulated and overwhelmed. Despite your mind's protests, your hips shift back, seeking more contact, even though you're still sore from his earlier intrusion.

His fingers dip into your core, pulling from the wetness dripping out of you, and then he swipes them over your tight rosebud, and you gasp. You know immediately what he intends to do next, though you could never have imagined such a thing, and you can not process any sort of reaction against it. Indeed, he presses the tip of one of his fingers against the tight muscle, then insistently pushes through, and your heart pounds in your chest with fear. The foreign feeling is shocking.

Shocking because it should not feel as good as it does.

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears of shame and frustration leaking from the corners.

He moves his finger in and out in only a very small motion - not fucking you with the finger, but pressing pleasure there in small, torturous amounts. He resumes the rutting of his cock against your folds, and you begin to openly weep, feeling wanton, confused, but moans accompany your sobs that you cannot hide from him.

He leans over you, his broad chest pressing against your back. His breath is hot against your ear as he speaks. "Eager for more, are we?" Steven chuckles darkly. "Beg for it, little bride. Beg for your king's cock."

You hesitate, torn between your body's desperate need for release and the last shreds of your dignity. Steven's free hand moves to circle around the front of your throat, possessive, threatening.

"Beg," he snarls.

The words stick in your throat, and Steven removes his finger from your tight hole and his hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp sting making you gasp.

"I said beg," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.

"Please," you whimper, the word barely audible.

Another stinging slap lands on your other cheek. "Louder," Steven demands.

"Please!" you cry out, your voice breaking. "Please, I need... I need you.”

He slaps your ass again. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me exactly what you need."

You swallow hard. But you can’t deny betrayal of your body, aching for his touch, for the release only he can provide. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please... fuck me. I need your cock inside me."

A growl of satisfaction rumbles through Steven's chest. "As you wish, little bride."

He shifts and begins thrusting his cock inside your cunt again.

Steven's cock enters you with a single, powerful thrust, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pain and pleasure that leaves you gasping. He sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deep into your core, your body rocking forward with the force of his movements.

His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The room fills with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your breathless moans, and Steven's grunts of exertion. The musky scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air.

"So tight," Steven growls, his voice strained with pleasure. "So perfect for your king, the perfect tribute."

You respond to his words, to his touch, clenching around him involuntarily. The friction of his cock against your walls sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, building a familiar tension in your core. He hits a particularly sensitive spot on the front of your walls that has you writhing in ecstasy, and he presses the head of his cock there over, and over. You're overwhelmed by the sensations, the fullness, the way he plays and experiments with your body, until you spasm, thrown over the edge into another orgasm.

Your body convulses as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you weak and trembling. Your limbs feel heavy, your muscles liquid, as if all the strength has been drained from your body. You struggle to stay on your hands and knees, your arms shaking with the effort of supporting your weight.

Steven senses your weakness, feeling the way your body has gone limp beneath him. With a growl of satisfaction, he pushes you down flat against the mattress. The furs are soft against your oversensitive skin, tickling your nipples and sending shivers through your body. You turn your head to the side, gasping for air, feeling utterly spent.

Before your breathing can return to anything close to normal, before you can prepare yourself, Steven’s rough hands are spreading your cheeks, and he rams his cock into your ass. The intrusion rips a tortured scream from your throat.

The pain is sharp and immediate as Steven forces his cock into your tightest opening. Your body instinctively tenses, trying to reject the intrusion, which only intensifies the burning sensation. More tears spring to your eyes as you gasp for breath, though you don’t know how you still have more tears to shed.

"Relax," Steven growls, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. "The more you fight it, the more it will hurt, and I’m not going to stop."

You try to force your body to relax, to accept him, but it's a struggle against your instincts. Steven's hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he continues to move. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pain and an unfamiliar pleasure through your body.

"So tight," he groans, his pace increasing. "You feel incredible."

The friction is intense, unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's not quite pleasure, but it's no longer just pain. It burns, but the fire consumes your whole body. You feel stretched to your limit, filled completely by Steven's massive cock.

His hands roam over your body, rough and possessive, groping at your flesh. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your cries, but it's futile. Each thrust draws a whimper or moan from you, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

Steven's hand snakes around to the front of your body, his fingers finding your sensitive bud. He begins to stroke in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations of his thick cock stretching your ass and his skilled fingers on your clit create a maelstrom of sensation that threatens to overwhelm you completely.

You're only vaguely aware of the sounds escaping your throat - desperate, wanton moans that you scarcely recognize as your own. This may be the first night you lie with a man, but though you are inexperienced, you think it can not be possible to experience any more of the overwhelming pleasure he seems determined to rip from you yet again.

Your body trembles uncontrollably, caught between the pain of the intrusion and the impossible mounting of pleasure. Each thrust sends sparks of electricity coursing through your nerves, building the tension in your core. You've never experienced anything like this before - the intensity, the fullness, the way your body seems to betray you at every turn.

Steven's pace increases, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force. His fingers match the rhythm, pressing harder, moving faster. You are hurled over another cliff of ecstasy, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, body jerking futilely beneath his massive form. He pounds into you once, twice, thrice more, and on the fourth thrust, he shouts and stills, cock buried inside you, and groans as he empties his seed in your tightest channel.

Finally spent and satisfied, Steven collapses on top of you, his massive weight pressing you into the furs. You feel utterly crushed beneath him, struggling to draw breath, yet there's an undeniable warmth from his body enveloping yours that sneaks unwanted into your bones. His heart thunders against your back, matching the frantic pace of your own. The room is filled with the sound of your mingled panting as you both quest for normal breath.

The scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthier smells of leather and furs. Your body thrums with residual pleasure, every nerve ending still singing from the intensity of your coupling. You feel utterly boneless, all strength drained from your limbs.

Slowly, your breathing begins to even out. You become acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - the rough hair on his chest against your back, the way his thighs press against the backs of your legs, his hot breath against your neck, and his lips too close to that tender and intimate space as only a beloved’s should be.

Finally, Steven rolls to the side and off of you, but you are not freed from him as he bands an arm around your waist, resettling you with him. He curls around you, and you resign yourself to being held captive, bound by his thick, corded muscles yet a while longer - possibly until the morning.

Just as you are about to drop off into sleep, he speaks directly into your ear. “I have claimed all of your holes, little bride. You will always know that I had every bit of you first, leaving him nothing.” The words are cruel, wicked, and his voice low and far too intimate.

You take a shaky breath in, and out, and beg for sleep to take you so you do not have to think of how his words haunt you now and will haunt you forever.

In the morning, your body still feels spent beyond its limits, aching, but as you shift and stir, you discover the bed is empty.

Your heart accelerates at this discovery.

Then plummets the next moment as the cruel conqueror speaks breaks the silence. “Get up and get dressed,” he commands from where he’s perched on the windowsill, watching the first light of morning appear.

Your eyes dart around the room, drawn to the scraps of your wedding clothes. “I’ve no clothes to-”

“On the chair over there,” he interrupts and gestures to a pile of clothing and shoes that have been brought in.

You slip out of the bed, trying to ignore thoughts of whether or not he watches you - he has already seen your naked form, so what does it matter?

There is a well-made linen chemise with a fine, blue linen dress to go over it. You hastily slip on the chemise, but as you reach for the dress, you hesitate. The detailing is finer than anything made in your village. This came from him.

“Shall I assist you?” Steven asks, making you jump as he’s silently crossed the room to stand directly behind you.

“No, I can dress myself,” you answer, but it falls on unhearing ears, as he’s already reaching past you for the garment.

He assists in pulling the dress over your head, and his hands roughly tug at the ties of your dress. Then he turns you to face him, and his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.

"I've decided your husband will truly be left with nothing," he declares harshly. “After last night, I cannot abide him having you as his bride when clearly you should be mine. His father - the magnate - with the rest of the elders have accepted my bargain to take my men, leave your village, and never return on condition they surrender you to me as tribute.”

You cannot speak, the shock of Steven's words rendering you mute. Your mind reels, trying to process the implications of what he's just said. The village elders, including your own father-in-law, have agreed to trade you away like chattel to save themselves. The betrayal cuts deep, leaving you feeling hollow and abandoned, and yet you know it was likely a choice of little difficulty when weighing the safety of the village.

Steven cups your cheek again in that way that pretends a tenderness that is not there, and kisses you roughly. His lips are demanding, forceful, claiming you once more. The taste of him is now too familiar. His beard scratches against your skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips.

His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessive fervor. Your body responds traitorously, a warmth blooming in your core despite everything, and you tangle a hand in his long hair.

Steven breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless and conflicted. His eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.

"You are not why I came to these shores, but you are mine now," he says, his voice low and possessive. "My little bride, my tribute, my prize."

His words send a shiver down your spine - fear, anticipation, and something else you can't quite name. You know you should be horrified, should be fighting against this fate with every fiber of your being. But after the night you've shared, after experiencing all-consuming pleasures you never knew existed, a part of you - a part you're ashamed to acknowledge - is drawn to the thought of belonging to this powerful, dangerous conqueror.

Steven's hand moves to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he speaks. "We sail with the morning tide and leave within the hour. My men are already loading the ship with supplies - food, weapons, gold. And you, my little bride, are the most valuable cargo of all."

Your breath catches in your throat at his words. The reality of your situation crashes over you anew - you're leaving behind everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved. Your family, your friends, the life you were meant to have - all of it gone in the span of a single day and night.

"Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Let me say goodbye to my family, to-"

"No," Steven cuts you off, his voice firm. "There will be no goodbyes. We leave now. I am your husband, your family. My lands will be your lands, and you will learn to forget. Perhaps all the sooner as you learn to crave the pleasures only I can give and ultimately grow with my child in your womb. Mine completely.”

so... if any of you are still alive, screech for help. I won't be able to help, because I have perished from writing this, but someone else might be able to assist you.

SEQUEL: CEREMONIAL RITUALS

↠ 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!

[nonotwithoutu]

˗ˏˋ steve rogers who says sorry during sex. ˎˊ˗

this post is explicit / mdni / 18+ !

tags: f!reader, mentions of p in v sex, somnophilia, mentions of sub steve, vague mentions of dark steve toward the end including implied forced impreg fantasy, mention of captain kink, implied established relationship/somewhat toxic relationship/friends with benefits/open to interpretation, steve's praise kink, names (honey, sweetheart), no plot just vibes

notes: I honestly have no idea what this is, but I was missing steve and had fun writing it so! ksjdgfksjgf enjoy! x

★ Steve Rogers who has enough stubborn will to go against entire nations for those he cares about, but who carries enough guilt in private to breathe out apologies like air. 

☆ Steve Rogers who has the libido to match the rest of his enhanced bodily functioning, but won’t ask for sex until he’s already minutes away from his breaking point. Who barely finishes one round before he’s already hard and aching for another, mortified by his lack of satiation even if it’s a result of his own denial. 

★ Steve Rogers who comes from a Brooklyn with thin walls and catholic guilt and a body that didn’t work correctly, in a time period that sold celibacy before marriage like salvation. Steve who couldn’t do just about anything else he wanted so badly to be able to do, but who could take back some control in this one private way and then carried it into the next century with him like a safety net. 

☆ Steve Rogers who avoids sleeping with anyone in this century because he doesn’t trust himself not to go too far. To stop when he’s supposed to. Who isn't sure what he'll become when faced with excess instead of scarcity. Who’s worried that anyone he shares a bed with will only be putting up with him because of who he is and won’t speak up if it’s too much. 

Until you. 

★ Steve Rogers who gets overwhelmed easily, his nervous system on high alert constantly because arousal is arousal, whether it’s fear or desire making his heart race. Who doesn’t understand the difference between the two at first. Steve who grits his teeth and locks his jaw and makes fists with his hands in an effort to keep control while you touch him, who shatters like a tsunami when he finally comes undone; his eyes wet and abdomen seizing with pleasure he’s denied himself for far too long. 

☆ Steve Rogers who doesn’t realize his own strength sometimes. Who gets so lost in the jackhammer of his hips, in the vision of his cock pistoning in and out of your cunt that you have to call his name to get him to come back to you. Who accidentally digs his fingers in too hard when they shake too badly so you won’t see them. Steve who’s cracked the bedframe before with his hands, shoved the sofa through the drywall with his thrusts, who’s broken furniture like eggshells and would never forgive himself if he broke you too. (Not in any way you don’t want, at least.) 

★ Steve Rogers who says sorry even when you’ve told him he doesn’t need to, and for things he can’t control. If he comes too soon or for too long, if he doesn’t pull out quick enough like he’d planned to, if he needs to keep going even after you’re spent. Even if you wake up to him fucking you awake again, the darkness a salve for his shame. 

“Just a little more, sweetheart. Promise, it’ll be enough this time. I’ll make sure, I’ll—fuck, m’sorry. Know y’already let me a couple times but I just can’t stop. Y'don't want me to stop, do you?” 

“Shh, shh—I know you’re sore. M’sorry. Gonna make it up to you after this, I swear. Won’t touch you for a week, honey. Just give me this, let me—let me use you for a little longer, huh?” 

“Sorry, sorry. I won’t put it all in, just—just a little. Won’t even feel it, sweetheart, just open up and go back to sleep.” 

☆ Steve Rogers who doesn’t surrender to anyone, but would drop to his knees if you asked him to. Would beg. Who won’t admit he likes how filthy it makes him feel when you do, even if it’s all he thinks about sometimes. Who’s eager to let you use him the same way as he feels like he uses you—the most twisted, taboo, hopeless kind of devotion. Steve who knows love most intimately through suffering. 

★ Steve Rogers whose praise kink hits him like a runaway train, abrupt and all consuming the first time you test out a murmured good boy. Makes his face turn a sacriligiously patriotic shade of red all the way down to his chest, turns the shame into something deliciously new when it’s you who’s challenging him otherwise; when he’s not allowed to argue. Steve who doesn’t have to apologize so much when you give him clear instructions, when he knows how to let go and keep himself in line all at once. 

☆ Steve Rogers who’s disgusted with himself for wanting to hear you call him Captain while he’s fucking you even though it gets him off harder than anything else. Who feels dirty for his secret fantasy of making you completely dependent on him, a hero not by the world’s necessity but of his own manipulation, his own rotten desire to be the only one who provides for you; in support, material, home, in making sure he fucks you so good that your body never learns the shape of anyone else that dares to come afterward.

He said he was sorry for the times he hadn’t pulled out quick enough, but was he? 

★ Steve Rogers who thinks he’s bad for you and self sabotages more than he lets himself be happy, but who always ends up back at your doorstep regardless. It’s your own fucked up version of deliberately unsaid marriage vows: in sickness and health, sweatpants or his stealth suit, in bad weather or the middle of the night, you let him in just like he knows you’re going to, because somehow he’s stumbled his way into making you just as needy for him as he is for you. One of you always breaks and the other always marvels at the shards, drips blood from your palms in your rush to cradle them even when you should be running far in the other direction. Steve who wants nothing more to give you white picket fences and a belly full of his children, but holds that as the most forbidden, unreachable fantasy of all. 

☆ Steve Rogers who loves you in a way you don’t fully understand, even when you study it, pick apart the offering of it he dumps on your doorstep like a dog with your teeth. Steve who holds you closer than anyone ever has but pushes you away in equal measure. Steve who fucks you enough to dent the wall he’s holding you up against, and then lays you out on the sheets and makes sweet love to you until he’s forgiven. Steve who wants things he won’t ask for, and you who can’t fault him for it because you do the same thing. Steve who warned you he was doomed from the beginning, always has been, and you who were convinced you could rewrite a story over a century in the making. 

★ Steve Rogers who loves you enough in his own way to let you try. 

☆ Steve Rogers who’s sorry for a whole lot of things, but never you. 

[bvrnesher]

✦ Held, Hard — Steve Rogers.

warnings: breeding kink.     mating press.     bicep choke during back shots.     !reader.     smut.     filthy praise.     kinda possessive steve.

word count: 1091. ﹙request﹚

IT STARTS LIKE IT ALWAYS does with him: slowly.

There’s nothing rushed about the way Steve touches you, even now—when your back’s already pressed flat to the sheets, your thighs spread and trembling from the stretch, his cock throbbing thick and heavy inside you. His weight blankets you, solid and warm and devastatingly real. His mouth is at your ear, his voice low and unraveling.

"You feel that?" he murmurs, hips grinding forward so deep it knocks the breath out of you. "That’s where I belong. Right there."

You gasp.

His cock presses into you like it’s meant to stay there. Like it owns the space. Every thrust is measured, intentional, sinking deeper than should be physically possible, dragging against your walls in a rhythm that makes your legs shake where they’re hitched high around his waist.

You claw at his shoulders, desperate for something to hold onto. He takes your wrists, pins them above your head with one broad hand, and just stays there—buried to the hilt, throbbing inside you, as if he's savoring the way your body pulses around him.

“God,” he groans, and you swear you can feel it in your spine. “You take me so well. Every time.”

Your moan slips out, messy and wrecked. He’s barely even moving and you’re already aching, already wet to the point of obscene. You feel slick and swollen, stretched full, completely split open around him—and he’s barely even started.

The mattress shifts beneath you as he begins to roll his hips, dragging his cock out halfway before sinking back in. Slow. Deep. Relentless. You bite your lip, a whimper catching in your throat, and he notices.

Of course he notices.

He presses his forehead to yours. His body covers yours like a shield, and yet his voice is soft. Gentle.

“You gonna let me give it to you, sweetheart" he whispers. “Let me fill you up nice and deep?”

You squirm, already nodding. Your arms strain under his grip, but not because you want to escape—because you want to pull him closer. You want to feel every inch of him. He smiles, just a little, and pulls out to the tip before slamming back in so hard the headboard knocks the wall.

You cry out, legs trembling, hips tipping up to meet him. Your body answers him without hesitation, your cunt clenching greedily around him. You’re soaked—his cock slides through it like velvet, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the quiet room.

He grunts, low and primal.

“Fuck,” he breathes, thrusting harder now, “you were made for this.”

You don’t even try to answer. Your mind’s already spinning—your fingers numb, your throat dry, your stomach coiled tight like something’s about to snap. He leans up, grabs one of your thighs and pushes it to your chest, folding you deeper into the mattress, and that angle—

“Oh, my god—”

“Yeah?” he pants, jaw tight, sweat dripping from his hairline. “Right there? You feel that?”

He fucks you deep, steady, his cock bullying your walls with each thrust. His balls slap your ass on every downstroke, obscene and wet and perfect. And when you moan his name—broken and high-pitched and utterly wrecked—something inside him shifts.

Steve pulls out fast.

Before you can complain, he’s already flipped you onto your stomach, strong hands moving your hips up, your knees under you, your face to the sheets. His hand spreads your ass, just enough to watch his cock slide right back into your dripping cunt, no resistance.

You sob into the pillow.

“That’s it,” he growls behind you. “That’s my girl. So fuckin’ wet for me.”

He fucks into you hard—no more teasing, no more patience. Just the sound of his thighs hitting yours, the lewd, slick noise of your cunt swallowing him again and again and again. The bed creaks violently, and your body jerks with every thrust, your mind barely able to keep up.

And then—

He brings his arm up. His left arm.

He wraps that thick, muscled bicep around your throat, forearm pressed firm against your collarbone, the inside of his elbow nudging under your jaw. He doesn’t squeeze, just holds you—his strength so overwhelming, so inescapable it makes your knees shake.

“Steve—”

“I got you,” he rasps at your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “You tell me to stop, I stop. But right now…”

He snaps his hips, brutally deep.

“I’m not letting you go ‘til I know you’re fuckin’ full.”

Your moan is almost a scream. Your hands claw at the sheets. The pressure of his arm around your throat makes your pulse throb louder in your ears than your thoughts. You’re dizzy. Floating. Every inch of your body is on fire.

He keeps fucking into you—hard, deep, claiming every inch.

You can feel it: the way your cunt pulls at him, the heat curling low in your belly, the slick between your thighs dripping down onto his cock, onto the sheets, onto his skin. Your orgasm builds fast, mean, brutal. It coils and coils and coils.

And then he bites your shoulder. Hard.

You come undone.

Your orgasm hits so hard it knocks the air from your lungs. Your whole body seizes around him, cunt clenching, shaking, your hands gripping the sheets like they’re your only anchor. You cry out—his name, a curse, something between the two—and he groans deep in his chest, arm still around your throat, hips still moving, slower now, like he’s working you through it.

And then he breaks.

Steve buries himself in one final, desperate thrust. His cock pulses deep inside you, thick spurts of come flooding your cunt, warm and heavy and endless. He groans loud in your ear, full-bodied and raw, and his grip on you tightens—his arm holding you in place, his hips jerking as he empties everything he has inside you.

He stays there. Still inside. Still wrapped around you.

You can feel him throb with every aftershock. Feel the mess dripping out of you, sliding down your thighs. Feel your own breath shaking in your chest.

He finally exhales, and his voice is hoarse, almost reverent when he asks.

“…You okay?”

You nod, even if you’re too far gone to form words. Even if your body is boneless and trembling and used in the best way.

Because yeah.

You’re more than okay.

You’re wrecked. Full. Claimed.

And God help you—part of you already wants him again.

STORMY: Okay, so, this is my first time writing about MCU and I know it sucks 😭

masterlist. here reqs info. here