thinking david corenswet is hot is the most embarrassing reputation ruining annoying thing I could have done tbh like ohhh my god really? tall big muscles dark hair and blue eyes kind man is hot? god fucking really. are you fucking stupid I hate myself. oh you think superman is hot? fucking superman? groundbreaking type shit going on here oh my god he’s tall should we tell everyone he’s tall and his jaw is nice wow she thinks the attractive man is attractive. you and everyone else. is pizza your favorite food too. fuck you. everyone look at her she thinks SUPERMAN is hot boundaries are really being pushed over here should we get her a medal because she thinks Mr Smile is easy on the eyes. “hear me out” and it’s a fucking marching band. should we call people magazine. vanilla. I DISGUST myself. summer blockbuster. I should be killed
POV: rafe’s mom and your mom have been best friends since childhood. they planned to get pregnant together and had you and rafe. who naturally became best friends and eventually into lovers.
(this is not aesthetic at all but it was hard to find pictures)
Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Captain Hydra
Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You let your hands drift down to the soldier’s neck. You’re shaking. Stop thinking. That hasn’t done you any good. It can’t. They say when you’re in life and death moment, your body takes over. That’s what you need to do right now.
You touch his high collar and feel along the front of his arm. You press your hands flat to his chest. He takes a deep breath as his hands hover around your hips. He toys with the light linen as you trace the straps of his harness. He lets you unbuckle one side, then the other.
He does stop you. He is entirely still but for the tilt of his head. He watches you strip away the leather harness and then his belt. He doesn’t react as you hand catches the pistol. Even if you were fast, you’re not a marksman and by the scars on his body, it wouldn’t be that effective.
You set it aside as his arms fall straight. You go back to him and remove his body arm, a piece at a time; shoulders, forearms, chest, thighs, calves. You didn’t realise before how much he layers on. You stack it all then take his hand. You bring him to the couch and have him sit.
You get down to undo his boots. It’s another task to keep you busy. One piece at a time. That’s it. Like counting. You set his boots aside and peel off his socks. You hiss at the sight of his bruised toe. He doesn’t flinch.
You tuck the fabric into the top of the boots and turn back to him. You stand and unzip his jacket? Shirt. It’s thick, a layer of mesh over something heavy. The high collar splits and you pull down the tab to reveal his muscled chest. You push the sleeves down and he brings his arms slightly back to help.
The weight of his gaze drapes over you. You stop and frown, touching the black and blue chafed around his shoulder, a slender gash at the center. You daintily flutter your fingers over the edge.
“Ouch.” You look at him and he blinks. You’re not sure he can feel even that.
You finish taking the jacket off. He shifts on the cushion as you lay the fabric over the rest of his things. As you return to him. He stands and tears open the front of his pants. You gulp. He’s bulging to escape.
You near and he reaches for you, keeping one hand on his fly as he squeezes the back of your neck. You whimper and grasp his wrist, patting his stomach at the same time. You show your teeth in pain.
“Ow, hurt,” you say. “Soft.”
You spread your hand over his and he slackens his hold on you. He stretches his fingers across the back of your head instead and you slide your palm up to his chest. You reach for his other hand and move it away from his fly. He resists but lets you take over.
You tug his pants down little by little. He exhales deeply and you push the fabric past his thick thighs. It catches at his knees. You look down and gently brush along his swollen length. He twitches and clutches your hair even tighter.
“I’ll be nice if you are,” you say.
He doesn’t react. Not that you expect a vocal answer. He just stands there, still. You reach to move his hand from your hair and urge him to sit with a careful nudge and finish removing his pants.
He is rigid and upright. You rub along his chest and shoulders. You feel his heart beating. You lightly push until he leans back.
“That’s good,” you tell him, “relax.” You meet his eyes again. They cling to you. You trail your hands down and his stomach clench. You hush and coo at him. “I said relax.”
He tenses then slowly, you feel him easing. You trace along his pelvis and thighs. He flexes but quickly shakes his head and grips the muscle along his legs as if to force them to release. You bring your hand up along his shaft and tickle up his length.
You’re alight in that moment. Do or die. No thinking. Keep going.
He goes stiff again. You put your other hand on his shoulder. You tell him again, “relax.”
His jaw squares as he watches you stroke him. Your gaze falls to the easy motion of your hand. A raspy noise rises in his throat and he pulls his hand back to brace the couch cushions.
You lean in and lift your knee onto the couch, then the other. You straddle him as you keep yourself above your hand, pumping him as he grunts. He rips his hands from the cushions and grabs the front of your dress.
He stops himself from tearing it open and instead, plucks the top button carefully. He continues down the front until your chest is exposed. He spreads a large hand over your tit and kneads. His breath rises and falls shallowly. The feel of his rough palm against your nipple plucks at you.
You balance on your knees and yank up your skirt. He keeps his hand on your chest, fondling eagerly, as his other frames your hip. He urges you down and you lead his tip along your folds. You bite your lip as you push him to your entrance and lower yourself little by little.
His fingertips dig into you and a strangle sound catches in his throat. You sink down as you drone, your nerves unwinding as you give into instinct. You clasp onto his thick arm as you take him as deep as you can and blow out between your lips.
You tilt and moan. He’s big and you’re not quite wet enough. You put your hand over his and move it from your hip along your pelvis. You guide his thumb to your clit and wiggle it, letting out a squeak at the flicker of heat. He presses more firmly and you slip your hand up your stomach.
You rock your hips and push your head back as you let the rhythm coax you. Your eyes roll into your skull and you sigh.
There is nothing but the promise of relief. No unanswered questions, no bloodstains on the floor, no wailing winds or desolate house. There is only that fleeting release that will let you feel anything but horror, if only for a split second.
I feel like she's trying to have the illusion of control over something, trying to cling to the false hope of being able to control him because now he lets her guide him, but sometimes even I fool myself into thinking that she has a fraction of dominance here.
Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Captain Hydra
Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
Indomitable. Of the man words you would use to describe the soldier. So it is that there is no resistance left in you.
The buzz of your struggle for your very life slakes away and you’re left depleted. As if to balance the scales, he helps you wash away the blood. You maneuver around your foot in an effort to keep the bandage and wounds dry. By the end, you can barely hold your head up.
He carries you to the couch. His avoidance of the bedroom is noted. Your mind tiptoes back inside, the gruesome sight etched into your brain.
He covers you in a blanket before he builds a new fire. The crackles eases you. You wallow as you are, body ensnared in a shell of agony and shock. Your eyes close without meaning to.
His shadow moves around you in the din of subconscious. The black tides ebb and flow, swirling in your head, lifting you into the flicker of the room and plunging you back down. His footsteps pace through the distortion of your fatigue.
The fires snapping and cracking stays constant. Then there’s something else. Thumping, scraping, sounds that blend together into a grating drone.
You wake to a pang that throttle your voice in your throat. You lurch and try to pull your foot away from the snare. The soldier clamps onto your ankle and keeps your feet in his lap. He rewraps your foot and calf in a fresh length of bandage.
You whimper and whine as he secures it. He hushes you through his teeth. He trails his hand up your leg and rests it on your knee. He looks at you as you fall back and pant.
Fuck. The pain never quite went away but its more unbearable than ever. Your body will never be the same again. It will never be yours.
You pull your feet off his lap, a strangled grunt forcing its way from your throat. You turn onto your side to face the back of the couch in an effort to hide your grief. Hours ago, maybe longer, you were happy to be alive. Now you’re back to dreading your existence.
The couch shifts with his weight. He stands on the groaning floor and his shadow ripples in the glare of the fire. He touches your back, nudging you, and brushes his hand down to your hip. He clutches you as he angles himself down behind you.
You don’t move. You let him move you. He crowds you into the couch as he lays himself flush to you. He hooks his arm around your middle and nestles in under the blanket. His warmth, despite his unwelcome, is a comfort. More than the pain, you loath the cold.
He tickles along your stomach. You shiver. The heat of his body clouds around you as his fingertips explore your body. You have nothing to hide beneath but the blanket and he’s invaded that.
He fondles your chest. There’s a curiosity in his touch that keeps you from fighting. That and what you know for sure. It’s all futile. All of it. You may have fought for your life but without him, it was a losing battle. He holds your life in his hand just as he holds you.
His thumb rolls around your nipple as he feels it harden. He flicks it, circles it, pressing against it. His touch grows firmer as goosebumps graze your skin.
His fiery breath plumes into your hair and his hand crawls back down your stomach. He flutters over the soft flesh of your stomach, lingering on the cushion there. It’s not so much as it was only weeks ago. As his hand drifts lower, you tremble.
He traces the lines of your pelvis and pets the curly tufts of hair. He combs through the wiry strands and twirls them around his fingertips. His breath grows jagged. He grunts as he presses against you.
You close your eyes. He pets you until your flesh is hot. He slides his fingers down and prods until your part your thighs. You murmur as he curls his fingers and slips between your folds. You bite your lip as he presses against your clit roughly.
You wince at he pushes hard, rubbing you until the friction scalds. You close your legs against him and reach to stop his hand. To your surprise, he stops. He tenses. You won’t make him stop, but you can’t let him hurt you anymore.”
“Softer,” you whisper, “nicer.”
Your turn your hand to stretch over his large one and extend your fingers along his. You guide his fingertips and rock his hand gently. You lift your leg again and arch into him. You might not want it or have asked for it but the thought of release is the only relief you can imagine.
He moves to your whim. You feel his muscles relax as he gives over control to you. Your body responds despite being whittled away in the shadow of the last days. You slicken against his touch.
“Like that,” your hand falls away.
He keeps the slow, steady motion. You sigh. You give in entirely as he keeps going. Your nerves tie around his fingertips and a cluster thrums in your core. You sink against him and hum. You focus on the climax, letting the rest of this twisted world drift away.
This series should have much more recognition, it's one of the best I've read in a while and I've read a lot of stuff.
She clings to whatever little relief she can get for her rest and at least now he is willing to learn how she likes it. The fact that he stopped makes me think he would stop completely if she asked him to. And about her leg, i'm afraid of a worse infection or something, i need her to heal soon.
Warnings: NON-CON, mentions of prostitution, mentions of infidelity
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies
summary: turning your life around is easier said than done when you tempt the very man meant to lead you to salvation.
♱
“Bless me, father, for I have sinned…”
The familiar words tumbled from your lips, and your gaze remained on your lap, eyes following your finger as you traced patterns into the solid black skirt on your frame. It kissed your ankle as you shifted your feet, and the reminder of the long fabric had you swallowing down less than gentle thoughts. You slowly reached up to touch the collar of your shirt, eyes briefly falling closed as you cleared your throat.
You’d spent hours agonizing over how you’d leave the house…
“It has been seven days since my last confession. These are my sins.”
Like clockwork, you listed the time you cursed for some accident or another and the time you took the Lord’s name in vain and the brief impure thought about that attractive man you’d seen in the grocery store. Every week, it was the same. Sins that you yourself would never have considered as such months ago that you were now hyper aware of. They climbed out of your throat seamlessly, remembering every single one until only one was left.
The silence between you and the man just on the other side of that wall stretched—a familiar occurrence—and you took your lip between your teeth. You could taste blood as you worried it, swallowing it down before clearing your throat again. You smoothed your hand over your skirt, and you furiously blinked, struggling to blink away the tears that had started to collect. As you sat in silence, you wondered why you were trying so hard to impress people that had already written you off?
“I’ve had…some hateful thoughts as well.”
You struggled to get the words out, always struck by just how emotional this made you. You looked up towards the ceiling, eyes roaming, and you hadn’t even realized that your breathing had started to pick up until he spoke.
Father Mayhew.
“Take your time,” he gently encouraged. “Speak when you are ready.”
It wasn’t the first time you’d heard those words, recalling your first ever confessional and how you’d cried. It was as embarrassing now as it was then, but it was necessary. You were determined to live differently now—to be different, now.
“Although I have abandoned my former life and…occupation…” you thought you heard him shift. “...I feel as if I will never truly be forgiven for it.”
You swiped your tongue between your lips.
“...will never be accepted.”
You recalled the eyes that often found their way to you during mass—the judgment, the disdain, the way in which some stared at you as if they didn’t know how to place you.
Every sunday it was the same. You’d wake up and agonize over how to present yourself in a place as holy as this. You’d fret that this skirt was too short and that dress was too tight. You’d fiddle with your hair for far too long and every lipstick you wiped off would stain your lips a little more than the last. You were constantly at a crossroad, torn between wanting to look nice for church and concerned about looking like…well…a whore.
You struggled to swallow.
“I see the way they look at me,” you eventually whispered, staring at nothing. “I can’t hear what they whisper, but I know it’s about me.”
You touched your throat, hating how tight it felt.
“It’s…discouraging.”
You didn’t want to use that word, but it was the only word that was appropriate. It made you sad, and you often wondered why you kept returning to a place that made you sad. Surely a church wasn’t necessary to ‘find God’...right? You didn’t think so, but you had wanted to start somewhere, and considering that none of your friends even owned a bible, they had been of no help. Stepping foot into a place that had only ever served to be ominous and oppressive in your eyes was the most terrifying thing you’d ever done.
…but then you had laid eyes on Father Mayhew.
He’d been the only one in the church at the time, and you would never forget the curious glint in his dark gaze. You’d had no doubt that he could see you were scared and unsure and in an environment you were wholly unused to. You’d appreciated the gentle way in which he talked to you, guiding you towards a pew in the front as you asked him questions that some people had answers to their entire lives. He hadn’t treated you like you were stupid, but more importantly, he hadn’t treated you like you didn’t belong.
You were willing to bet that he hadn’t even known about you then.
Although, months later, you were willing to bet that he did now…even though you’d never told him.
“Humans are flawed,” his smooth voice reached your ears through the wall. “We all fall short—even the most devout of us—and we find ourselves falling prey to the temptation of judgment…pride…lust…”
You intently listened. After all, he’d never said these words to you before, always giving you some speech about God’s love trumping all.
“I have no doubt that it is trying, but I am sure you will come to give them grace for their sins just as they will give you grace for yours. We are all God’s children striving to lead a life in his image…”
His voice lowered at that, and you frowned slightly, looking towards the wall and thinking to yourself that he almost seemed to be talking to himself now.
“He wants his children to love one another, a feat that is not without difficulty I’m sure you know…” that actually made you hold back a chuckle. “...but God’s love is powerful and he always grants forgiveness to those who genuinely yearn and ask for it.”
At that, you did smile.
You told him that you were truly sorry for your sins, and he told you to say ten Hail Mary’s, and you stepped out of the confessional feeling better than you did thirty minutes ago. You didn’t know how long the feeling would last though, and so you wanted to hold onto it for as long as you could, but you knew from experience that was easier said than done.
You touched the crucifix around your neck as you stepped out of your building.
It had once belonged to your mother, and despite how long she’d been gone and how down on your luck you’d been ever since, you could never quite find it in you to pawn it. It was real gold—probably the only real piece of jewelry you ever owned—but you just couldn’t do it, and you supposed that you were never meant to. Despite the many years you’d lived life as the complete opposite of a God fearing woman…it felt right sitting just below your collarbone.
Even if many would not agree.
You were no stranger to several men in this town—and the ones who often passed through on their truck routes—but that had not stopped you from seeking solace and guidance from a place you’d never stepped foot into in your life. You couldn’t lie and say it didn’t feel…strange to be in the same building as some of the men you’d serviced before, their wives and children at their side as they furiously avoided making eye contact with you. It felt even worse to watch the way the women would congregate together after church, excluding you all the while talking about you.
It felt somewhat pathetic for your only ally in the place to be the priest.
Although you sometimes wondered how true that was these days. You’d never once confessed that you used to be a prostitute—although the kids called it sex work these days—but you weren’t stupid. As godly and devout as they claimed to be, you knew that the church was filled with gossip and there was no telling who’d let it slip to the dark haired man. You knew when he knew though…
…because he looked at you different.
It wasn’t a bad different—thank God for that—but just…different, and while it wasn’t necessarily bad, you still didn’t think you liked it. Confession—being anonymous—never allowed for you to tell him your name, and considering you’d only ever spoken to him once outside of confession months ago, you didn’t know if he ever knew it was you he was talking to. You didn’t know if he knew that the woman he spoke so gently with each week and listened to cry on the other side of some window was the same woman who often shrunk under his heavy gaze as he looked down on his congregation.
You never felt like he was judging you, no, but you also never felt like he was looking at you as he did that first day, a gentle curiosity in his eyes. He wasn’t your friend—far from it in fact—but he felt like the closest thing you had to one in this church, and so you often forced yourself to find excuses for it. He watches you because he wants to make sure you’re settling in okay. He watches you to observe how other members of the church are treating you. He watches you because he’s wondering if you’ll ever come to confession, convincing yourself that he’s never recognized your voice all this time.
That is why he watches you, you told yourself.
No other reason.
“You always come to pray at least three times a week…”
The familiar voice startled you as you stood, hand lowering as you’d just finished signing the cross. Your hand was still on your chest as you turned to face him, a small smile on your lips as he stood directly in the center of the aisle. You hadn’t even heard him make a single sound, and you wondered how long he’d been standing there.
He slowly returned your smile with one of his own, although it was smaller, and the silent way in which he stared at you reminded you that he’d said something to you.
“Yes,” you finally said, moving away from the altar. “It helps with…um…really everything.”
He blinked at you, and you noticed that a strand of his hair was threatening to go rogue. He always looked so neat and perfect that it was hard to miss. Father Mayhew was handsome—if anyone had seen enough men to know it was you—but he was handsome in a way that you would categorize as flawless. Divine even. In a way that was untouchable and only meant to be admired in the most innocent of appreciation.
He slowly nodded at your response, and you didn’t miss the way he studied you—dark eyes drinking you in and taking note of every stylistic choice you’d made today.
“You know, I think I might see your face far more than those who have been coming here for years,” he lightly told you, a slight laugh on his lips.
You laughed with him, only offering him a shrug.
“I’m still new. I’m sure it just seems that way because you aren’t used to seeing me.”
He started to shake his head before you could even finish talking, and you watched him move closer.
“No,” he murmured—so low you almost didn't hear him. “I think you are perhaps my most…devout congregant.”
He touched your crucifix as he said this, dark eyes tracing the shape of it, and he was so close that you could smell his cologne. You blinked at the scent, finding it strange to know that he wore cologne. It shouldn’t be strange, you supposed, but you realized then that you didn’t quite view priests—view him—as human. As normal…
His eyes lifted then to finally connect with yours, and a crooked smile danced along his pink lips.
“It’s admirable,” he whispered. “More of my congregation could stand to follow your lead.”
You couldn’t ignore the way your chest bloomed at those words, almost hating how much validation you wanted from this place. Validation that you were a good person…you weren’t who you used to be…that you were worthy of something more, you didn’t know. It just felt relieving to hear such a compliment from Father Mayhew when no one else in the church would even give you a chance.
“Thank you, Father,” you quietly replied to him. “That means a lot to me.”
You watched him slowly inhale as he dropped his hand, and he seemed even slower to step out of your way. When you walked past him, you could feel his gaze on you—always watching—and you smiled when he called out to you, telling you that he looked forward to seeing you on Sunday.
No one was more sad than you when you had to disappoint him.
An unexpected cold had you bedridden for days, and while you knew that an illness was a perfectly valid excuse to miss church, you couldn’t swallow down the disappointment. You hadn’t missed a single Sunday since you first started going, and you thought to yourself that the first thing you’d do when you returned was explain your absence to Father Mayhew.
You had never anticipated him showing up at your door to get it himself.
No one ever knocked on your door these days, so the sound had taken you by surprise. Your friends—while supportive of the direction your life had taken—didn’t quite understand it and so you didn’t see them as often, and as for anyone else… Well, there wasn’t anyone else who would come knocking on your door. You didn’t do that anymore so no customers were going to be greeting you on the other side with their money in their hand and an eager grin on their lips, and you doubted any of the women in town would want to sit down for a chat anytime soon.
Your shock at Father Mayhew’s presence was all over your face.
“Father,” you stated, the lilt in your voice hinting at your surprise.
He looked just as you were used to seeing him—clerical collar still on, not a hair out of place, and a hint of a smile on those pink lips. You stood there gaping at him for all of five seconds before it struck you how rude you were probably being.
“I…I’m so sorry. Um…come in,” you told him, stepping out of the way and widening the gap in the doorway.
He didn’t respond nor move right away, looking past you into your small house with a look in his gaze that you couldn’t name. If he were anyone else, you might worry that he was judging where you lived. You watched his jaw briefly tighten, a noticeable strain in his face, and it only just occurred to you that maybe this wasn’t appropriate? Although you were positive you’d heard of priests and pastors visiting the sick before, and while you certainly weren’t on your deathbed, you didn’t see why this would be different.
Before you could say another word though, his foot crossed the threshold, and you closed the door behind him.
“I do apologize for the unexpected visit,” he said to you, gazing around before his eyes landed on you again. “...but when I noticed that mass was absent of a face I’d grown to look forward to, I became concerned.”
You couldn’t stop your smile at his words
“Oh,” you softly said. “Well, there’s no need to be concerned. It’s just a small cold that will be gone in a day or two.”
You watched him exhale at that, nodding to himself, and you studied him, surprised to see that he looked genuinely relieved at that.
“I’m glad to hear that’s all it is…”
At that, your brows furrowed, and you watched him slowly walk about your living room.
“I had feared that some of your fellow church goers had scared you off.”
Your lips parted at his words, and he turned and looked at you.
“They often fall into the temptation of judgment, after all…”
Your heart skipped a beat, and you didn’t know how to react with the knowledge that he knew it was you who came to see him once a week. You’d only spoken to him face to face twice, and you swallowed, looking away.
“I thought it would be a shame if they scared you off,” he confessed, and you noted that he was closer now. “I wondered what I would have to do to convince you to come back. Drag you, perhaps.”
You gave a soft laugh at that, although he didn’t join you, and it awkwardly faded. He stared at you in silence for what felt like a long time, and just when you were considering asking him if he wanted anything to drink, he reached out to touch the crucifix around your neck again.
“So devout,” he quietly said to himself. “It almost makes me ashamed…”
At that, you gave a heavy laugh, wondering how you could ever shame a priest.
“Why?”
“...because I see why they flocked to your door…money in hand.”
His gaze lifted as he said that, and you were still as you both just stared at each other. His words made you blink, and you were suddenly very aware of his hand practically on you. You couldn’t stop the slight frown that fell over your face, and for the first time in months—since you first stepped foot into that church—you felt…wrong.
“I see why their eyes trace every inch of you when you’re not looking…as if to relive the memory of what you felt like—tasted like.”
You finally took a step back, hand coming up to cover your necklace as if protecting it from his touch.
“What memories they must have of you…”
You wrapped your other arm around yourself, mind whirling to reconcile the man before you with the same man who’d always been so welcoming and gentle. Not once did you ever think he judged you for your past, and you supposed that you were right, but not once did you ever think he also might…
You hadn’t done that in over a year, but had it really escaped you so quickly that a seemingly devout man was still…a man?
“Father, I think you should-.”
“I don’t say any of this to offend you,” he interrupted, tilting his head. “I say it because I fight the urge to touch you every time you’re in my presence.”
You moved by him to make your way to the door, but like an ever present shadow you only just noticed, he was close behind.
“You can cover up as much as you’d like—wear skirts down to your ankle and shirts up to your chin…” his hand on the door halted your movements.
You felt his chest just barely grazing your back, and his lips followed suit, the softness of them brushing against your ear as he spoke. That familiar cologne invaded your senses.
“...but none of it can hide the temptation you pose by merely existing.”
You shrunk away from him at that, tears in your eyes as he verbalized the same fears you had every time you walked into the building. You flinched when his lips touched the back of your neck, heart dropping to your stomach, but you reached for the door handle anyway.
“Father, I’d like you to leave-.”
Your words were cut off by your own sharp scream, taken aback by the feel of his fingers harshly pressing into the skin of your throat. His hand rested on the back of your neck, and you pressed your hand to the door when his lips grazed your cheek.
“They’re all like rabid dogs…just waiting to pounce,” he mused against your skin, sliding between you and the door and forcing you further into your house with every step. “Just waiting for you to give up this charade and go back to taking their money for a quick fuck.”
You blinked, and a few tears escaped.
“...but they don’t know you like I know you.”
He grinned against your cheek, and you winced as he lightly nipped at the skin there.
“They don’t know that you come to church at least thrice a week to light candles and pray…”
You were full on sobbing now, and you could feel the cool metal of his ring against the back of your neck.
“They don’t know that you never miss your weekly confession, telling me every time you so much as say the Lord’s name in vain.”
His free hand was reaching for the buttons of your shirt, popping them open one by one, and you gasped when his fingers finally met skin. He dipped his head, mouth finding the skin of your shoulder and collarbone interesting before his hand searched for your wrist.
“They don’t know that you are the most pious woman to walk through those doors,” he purred, pressing gentle kisses to the inside of your wrist. “...and that I just want to ruin you for it.”
When his hand dipped between your legs, you were quick to try and stop him, still wincing at the tight grip on the back of your neck. Father Mayhew made a noise of disapproval, and your hand faltered when he harshly bit your shoulder.
“We are…and always will be…sinners…”
Once his fingers were inside of you, it was like the point of no return. You found it funny that he likened the men in church to that of rabid dogs when he himself was behaving like the very thing he used to insult them. When your knees buckled, he followed—one arm around you and holding you in place while the fingers on his other hand curved into you.
Every thrust of his fingers made you wetter—embarrassingly so—and when he pulled your head back, he forced a kiss onto your lips. He swallowed down your whimpers and noises of protest, a moan escaping him as he tasted the inside of your mouth. With him so close to you, you could feel the muscles and contours of his frame beneath his clothes, and you were forced to recognize your predicament and his strength and what that meant for you.
When you were face to face with him again, his hair was nowhere near as neat as it was when he first walked through your door. His pink lips were swollen and reddened from kissing you and dragging over your skin. Your pajama top had long been discarded, the bottoms long ripped and pulled off of you. Father Mayhew’s—Charlie—clerical collar was long gone, his shirt pulled open and hanging off of him.
You recalled the way your mouth had parted into an ‘O’ shape when the head of his cock finally dipped into you, stretching you with every inch and making your heart momentarily stop. His hand covered a breast, the feel of his ring cooling that singular part of your skin, the rest of you so overheated. His other hand was wrapped around your throat, and you clawed at his hand as he fucked you.
The sound of skin slapping against skin was loud in your tiny home, the only sound to rival it being his harsh grunts and your strained voice. Any fight that you’d put up had been quickly squashed down, shown in the harshest manner just how strong your priest was. You hated how good it felt, hated that you didn’t want this but was now forced to enjoy it. Nevermind the fact that you hadn’t enjoyed sex for the act itself in years…
…but of all people to find yourself in this predicament with.
Father Mayhew’s hands never stayed in one place for long. He seemed determined to touch every part of you he could get his hands on, lips tasting the saltiness of your skin. Sweat clung to your frame and his, his fingers sliding over you as he kneaded your thighs and your waist and your chest. Every time you reminded yourself how wrong this was, he’d push his cock into you to the hilt, and you’d involuntarily throw your head back.
You could feel your crucifix pressing into your skin, and your eyes watered.
“I must admit that I was—am—jealous,” he dragged out, voice hoarse and throaty and wholly unlike how you were used to hearing him. “Your devotion to God inspires an envy within me that I never knew existed.”
You took note of the scars on his back underneath your fingers.
“...a desire to have you completely devoted to me,” he bit out, covering your lips with his own. “You so desperately desire forgiveness and acceptance…and all the things you didn’t think you were worthy of having.”
He harshly thrust into you, making you gasp.
“...and I can give that to you,” he whispered into the kiss.
The power behind his thrusts had you scratching at both his back and the floor, eyes squeezing shut at the way his fingers dug into your skin. It was like he was both holding you to him and trying to prevent you from ever walking away. Your chest arched up into his as you gasped, choked whimpers climbing out of your throat with every push of his hips. He growled against your skin as his lips traveled to your neck, the sound almost demonic to your ears.
When you came around him—your first orgasm in over a year—you couldn’t swallow down the noise it forced out of you. You could feel blood beneath your nails and a slickness on the inside of your thighs, but all the while Father Mayhew didn’t stop.
With one hand pressed against the floor, he pushed himself up to look down at you. His free hand slid up your sweaty frame, coming up to wrap around the crucifix that rested against your skin. He tightened his hold around it, and he pulled on it, forcing you to lift your head and meet him halfway for a kiss.
“I want you just as eager to get on your knees for me…”
I started reading it at the time it came out, but I stopped because I was very sleepy and I felt like I wasn't really consuming the story and I'M SO GLAD I came back because this is a work of art. The way he verbalizes the fears she confessed to him? This man is the devil and wants to dismantle her. I need more!⚰️
Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Captain Hydra
Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
Your pain recedes as you focus on what needs to be done. You let the soldier cling to you and lead him out of the room, away from the scent and sight of his victim. What startles you more than the scene is that you don’t feel anything but relief. That man, whoever he was, could have done the same to you.
You enter the bathroom and face him. His head hangs forward, his eyes hooded and heavy, his shoulders sloped in exhaustion. You limp around him and tug free the bottom of his shirt. Blood smears onto your hands as you strip away the layer.
His face is red with the same stain. You help him undress. As you grab his belt, he winces, and looks down. There’s his knife and a gun, and small leather pockets containing other hidden tools.
“It’s alright.” You assure him. He shouldn’t be afraid. You won’t hurt him. Or maybe he thinks you’d hurt yourself. Foolishly, you don’t have that resolve.
He lets you continue. You pile the layers by the door. You pant through the pain in your foot and shoulder. You turn on the faucet and guide him into the tub. Before you can draw away, he catches your arm and looks to the water lapping around his feet.
You shake your head, “I’ll get clean soon. You first.”
He squeezes then lets go. You search the wooden cabinet and find a cloth. You reach to dip it in the water then bring it to his face. You lean heavily on the porcelain to take the weight off your foot. You wipe away the crimson across his forehead and brow. You work slowly down his face. He breathes in long slow intakes, letting them out softly.
He leans back against the tub as he surrenders to your tendings. You stop the faucet to drain the dirty water and refill it around him. You go trade the cloth for a clean one and return to him. He catches your hand in his.
He tugs the washcloth from your grasp. He sits up and wets it by his leg. He moves his hand up your arm and presses the warm fabric to your shoulder. You groan and hiss but let him do it. He drags it across the gash as the dried blood chips away with the friction. He tilts his head as his forehead lines with concern.
You put your hand on his and still it. “Will you wait?”
He grips the cloth then reclines once more. You lower his arm down carefully then retreat. You go to the bedroom and retrieve the tin box, dented and scratched, just like everything else. You bring it with you and balance it by the sink.
You take some gauze and the alcohol spray. You go to him and frown at his left hand. You nod, “I’m not sure what to do. That needs to come out.”
He raises his hand and shows the broken bone sticking out by his thumb. Some time amid the chaos, it embedded itself in his flesh. He pinches the end and, without feeling, dislodges it. The sudden swell of blood makes you nauseous.
He reaches for you and grabs your wrist. He tugs you closer and directs you silently to press the gauze to the break in his skin. You squeeze tightly against the flow and shudder.
He lets you go after a time and you return to the kit. He snaps his fingers and you flinch. You look back at him as he stares at you intently. His eyes flick to the box. You lift the whole thing and bring it to him.
He sits up and reaches for it. You hold it open and he sifts around. He takes the alcohol spray and beckons you. You kneel on the floor as he reaches over the porcelain.
He sprays across your chest and shoulder. You whine and he stops, eyes wide. You gulp and nod, “it’s fine. It needs to be done.”
He bites down so his jaw squares and continues. He wipes away the grime and sweat and blood. He takes out tubes and uncaps it. You stare at it but can’t watch as he applies it to your split skin. He pinches the edges together. It’s some sort of glue. He reseals the cuts and drops the tube in the box again.
You back up to look in the mirror. You can see the tortured lines but the skin is taut and firmly held. Still, you move carefully. He grunts as you put down the kit.
You return to him. He wants you to get in. You can just tell. Or maybe you’re breaking. Maybe you just want to believe you can understand him. You look down at your foot.
“I can’t,” you say. “I’ll wash after, when I can keep my foot dry.”
He looks at you tersely. His neck tenses and you steel your nerves.
“You still need to get clean,” you insist and grab the cloth from the water. You stand and add soap to it. You look down at him. “Relax, okay?”
He stares at you. His eyes sparkle with confusion. Wait. They didn’t have that light before. They never gleamed or glimmer or shone. They were always dull. But you see something.
You lather the cloth and bend to scrub his shoulders. His chest rises and falls visibly. He lays back as you wash him. When you drag the cloth to his sternum, he clutches it again, this time moving it over his heart. You feel it pound.
He surprises you as he grabs you with his other hand. Right around the back of the neck. You gasp as he pulls you down. His lips crush to yours as you squeak.
You’re terrified by the suddenness but that same fear keeps you from fighting. You don’t want to escalate. It wouldn’t be smart to rile him any more than he already is.
He kisses you hungrily, his tongue smushes into your lips until you open for him. It’s as if he means to devour you. Finally, he releases you and you pull back breathless. You stare at him as he stares back. He puts his fingertips to his mouth and hums hoarsely.
You go back to washing him. To keep yourself busy, in hopes it will ward him off from any further whims. The adrenaline trickles away as fatigue creeps through you. You need to finish before you crash back to reality.
Okay, that sparkle in his eyes? I think it was the desire to reciprocate her care, her affection, what he did with the kiss. My Steve Rogers is fighting hard to break free and I know it
Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
EXTRA WARNING. THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXTREME GORE AND VIOLENCE. DO NOT READ IF SENSITIVE TO THESE DESCRIPTIONS.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Captain Hydra
Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You kick with your good foot. The man deflects it easily. He chuckles. It’s like sand, gritty and dry. He hits your other foot so you shriek again and a surge of bile floods your throat. You swallow it back as you continue to thrash.
The man crawls up your body as he wrestles with you. He grabs your wrists as you fight to resist him. He’s much too strong. As you bounce on the stiff mattress, a wash of futility overcomes you. It’s exactly like before, when it was another man on top of you.
He chuckles as he brings your hands together and traps your arms in his grip. With his other hand, he reaches to his belt. He pulls free the snap on a sheath and slides free the long blade. You whine as you open and close your fingers desperately.
“Please, you don’t have to do this. Please. I don’t know him. I’m not... not his. Please, just let me go,” you beg through your teeth.
He’s only amused by your pleas. He twirls the knife in his hand and admires the groove in the silver. His dark eyes flick down to you and he smirks.
“That man doesn’t know what suffering is,” he taunts. “You want to have some real fun...”
He lowers the knife and traces across your collarbone. Your heart pounds and your breath clouds painfully in your chest. He hooks it under the left strap of your night gown and slices through. He does the same on the other side.
He turns the knife the draws a slow line toward your throat. The skin splits around the metal and you cry out. He cackles and flicks it so it digs in a little deep. You kick the bed, huffing and howling with each throb of your injured foot.
Adrenaline floods through you as you tug on your hands and write. This can’t happen. It can’t. You survived this far, you won’t go down without a fight. Even if it is a losing one.
You manage to wrench a hand free. He slips and the knife cuts across your shoulder. You whine but ignore the gash. You twist and bite down on his sleeve. You pinch until you feel the firm muscle of his forearm. Tighter and tighter until you taste iron.
The crack across your cheek has you reeling. You fall back against the bed and throw your hand out. You grab onto the blade of the knife, the metal searing your skin as blood seeps out around it. You squeeze and throw all your body weigh in the opposite direction.
You dislodge the knife from his grip and it hits the bed. You don’t hesitate. You grab it with your other hand and swipe at him. It deflects off his body arm but leaves a tear in his sleeve. You swing again and let out a beastly snarl. You miss and he hits your hand so the blade flies from your grasp.
You don’t care. You hit him. Over and over. Even if it doesn’t hurt. Even if it hurts you more.
“Noooooo!” You shout, “no! Get off!!! Fuck off! Fuck you!!”
You’re like an animal. All pain, all fear dissolves and there’s only one thing left. Survival.
Your vision clears you see his grin. You hate him. You hurl your fist at him but before he can smack it away, he lurches backward. He flies off of you and hits the wall with a startling force.
Another rasping breath blows through the room. Deep pants through nostrils as the soldier stands glaring at the intruder. His fists ball up as he steps closer to the dark-haired man. You dizzily sit up and watch as it all happens at a speed slower than reality.
The other man raises himself on his knees but doesn’t make it further. The soldier, the captain, whoever, whatever he is, grabs him by the scruff and smashes his face into the walk. Bone mulches as the dark-haired man croaks and spits up crimson and ivory.
The captain drags him by his neck as he searches the room. He finds the knife on the floor and throws the man onto his back. He plants his foot on his chest and looks at the blade. He turns his head to glance at you. His eyes are dilated and dull.
He drops his chin to consider the man on the floor. He slips his foot off of him and falls to his knees. He straddles the man, knees on his arms to keep him from resisting, and he traces along the man’s hairline. The man roars and gnashes his teeth.
The soldier continues the path around the man’s face until he’s sliced around cheekbone, jaw, and temples. He stabs the knife into the floor so it stands on its own. He runs his fingertips along the blood incision and you watch in horror as he peels the skin away from the bone. As he skins him with his hands alone, you cover your mouth and wretch. You can’t look away.
You see every nasty detail. When the man has no face, his eyes are plucked out next with thumbs, crushed in fists, thrown down like gobs of chewed gum. Blood pours into his hair and down his neck. His breath is sickly and wet.
Then the soldier strips him of his clothing. He shreds it with the knife but he destroys the man’s body with his hands. He breaks every finger, bending them back until they meet his hand. He twists his joints around until the crack and snap, he buries his nails into the skin until he can wrap his grip around his ribs and tear them out.
The man’s blood stains the soldier. You see it slicken his black clothing, shining, stinking as the body of the intruder gurgles on the floor. The soldier doesn’t stop. Not even when he’s dead.
You sit and watch him splitting sinew from bone, his eyes narrowed, almost hypnotised by the undoing of his enemy. You can’t take anymore. The smell of it, the sound, you can even taste it.
You slide to the edge of the bed and stand. You whimper at the horrible pulsing in your foot. You hobble across the floor as the soldier is distracted in his work. You steel yourself and touch his shoulder. He winces as you lean on him but he doesn’t stop.
His hands are red but with his blood as much as the man he murdered. He has cuts on his knuckles, a splintered bone juts out by his thumb. He doesn’t feel any of it.
“You’re hurt,” you point and gulp back a wave of nausea. “Please, stop.” You bring your hand up to his chin and he finally stills. He lets you turn his head and he looks up at you. “If you don’t clean that, it will get worse.”
He raises his hands and examines them. You tormented shoulder throbs and your foot radiates with heat. You gently touch his thick fingers.
“Safe,” you say to him. “Like you said.”
He stares at your hold on him then softly moves his hands to take yours instead. He stands as his pupils shrink. His eyes wander to your shoulder and the blood dripping down your chest.
“We both need to clean up,” you look down. “Don’t we?”
WHAT DID I JUST READ? the bloody scene was so visceral that my brain stopped imagining his actions lost in blood and more blood. But I'm not afraid at all, this man is already called a monster, he has to become a beast to defend his girl! His eagerness to destroy the intruder's body and the fact that the man didn't say a word when he saw him, he already knew he was doomed.
I'm glad our girl fought so hard, went beyond what her body would allow to defend herself. She couldn't let herself be violated again just because someone wanted to hurt her initial abuser. And in the end she stands up to stop the carnage and asks for cleansing? just WHOA.
Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Captain Hydra
Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You pant as your body shakes uncontrollably. The pain is unbearable. The monster keeps your foot raised as he wraps a new bandage around it. The throbbing eases slightly though the sting remains. Your screams still echo in your skull. You passed out at least once as he cleaned the wound.
He pins the dressing and lowers your leg tenderly onto the pillow. He stands and pulls the blanket up to your waist. You catch your breath as you wipe the beads of sweat from your forehead.
The last day has been torture. You don’t know how much more you can handle. He stares down at you with chagrin woven into his expression. He bows his head and turns sharply. You can do nothing but languish as he stomps around.
He opens the armoire. You shudder. He takes out black boots and a jacket. He closes it without retrieving the shield or his body armour.
He comes back to the bed and sits to tie his boots. You push yourself up on your elbows.
“You’re going somewhere?” You ask.
He glances at you, then the night stand. He leans over and swipes up the pill bottle. He rattles it.
“You’re getting more?” You guess.
He frowns then shakes his head. He looks at the label then once more at you. He points to the bruise around his eye. The one he inflicted himself.
“Pain killers?” You can’t help the eagerness in your voice. He nods. “Oh, but...” you glance around. He extends two fingers and moves them back and forth quickly. You have to guess again, “you’ll be fast?”
He confirms again with a tilt of his chin. You lower yourself back to the pillow. He focuses on tying the laces, the leather straining as he does, then rises again.
He pulls on the coat and leaves the room. You listen for the front door but instead, his footfalls approach once more. He brings in a glass of water and bag of trail mix. He puts them beside the bed and steps back.
“Thank you,” you utter.
He twists on his heel and marches out. Despite not wanting to grow used to his place, his staunch lack of response is more and more familiar. At least when he is placid, he is manageable. You only worry about that other side of him. The one even he seems afraid of.
The front door opens and closes. The wintry air flows through and you slip further beneath the blankets. You shift onto your side and settle in. You can’t sleep any more but you find yourself drifting into a state somewhere between waking and not. A sort of trance that has you etching each knot in the wood walls with your eyes, trying to memorise them all, trying to see faces or fantastical scenes in the dark markings.
The winds bellow without, beating the walls, whistling and wailing. You fold an arm over your head as the constant nose starts to itch in your ears. You turn onto your back and sit up to have some water. The antibiotics make your stomach heavy. You make yourself eat a handful of nuts.
The edges of the covered windows soften with the rising darkness. You while away the time by counting the stitches in the trim of the patchy quilt. Fatigue slowly creeps into your eyes.
Your head begins to droop as you lean back against the bed frame. You’re too lazy to slide down, instead slumping uncomfortably. Your mind sinks into itself as the billowy undertone fades.
Click. The subtle but decisive noise of the front door rouses you. You blink and rub the sleep from your eyes. You look at the bedroom door expectantly, waiting.
You can hear footsteps but they don’t come to you. What is he doing? You listen as they pace around; through the front room, slow, measured. Something is different about them.
You sit up as much as you can and stare at the door. You see the shadow before the stranger. You know by the silhouette it isn’t him. Your eyes flick up to meet the dark pair that come to peer into the bedroom.
The man’s lips slant as he looks you over. He scoffs as he steps into the room. He nonchalantly walks the parameter as you sit in silent horror. You can tell by his demeanour that he isn’t a friend. Yet how did he find this place? How did he get inside? With all those traps, he wouldn’t just stumble upon you.
His dark hair is pushed back from his face, a shadowy stubble around his jaw, and his shoulders are broad and set straight. His boots scrape the floor as he goes to the corner and looks down at the shelf. He touches one of the pictures and laughs.
“Hello?” You croak at last, “who are you?”
The man turns and chuckles again. He crosses his arms and approaches the bed. You don’t know if you should hope he can save you. The void depths of his eyes is terrifying. There’s no light in them.
“I should ask you the same,” he sneers. “But I can guess what you are.” He teethes his lip and angles his head arrogantly. “So the automaton found himself a pet. How precious.”
“Please, I’m not—he took me--”
You choke on your words as he grabs the blankets and rips them off of you. You squeal and instinctively bend your legs. You press your heels into the bed and roar at the agony it lights in your calf. He tosses the blankets away as he gives another sinister laugh.
“I don’t care about any of that,” he snarls and reaches for your bandages foot. He latches on and you shriek as he drags you down the mattress. “That... thing doesn’t get toys. So, I’ll just have to break you so he can’t play no longer.”
You cry out and thrash as the man crawls onto the bed. Fuck, fuck, fuck!
Will this girl ever have peace? Not that she is at peace, trapped in captivity and invalid, but it is impressive how things can get worse for her. I don't know if it's Bucky or Brock, but the Captain has to come back in time to cause a bloody tragedy with this guy, don't mess with his doll, the doll that is injured.
Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Captain Hydra
Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
When you come too, the pain is dull. Yet, the pulsing in your foot and leg is near excruciating. You whimper and clutch the blankets. The smell of your sweat clings to you and the bed.
The bed shifts subtly and you look down to the end. He sits with his back to you. He raises his head and turns it as he hears you. He brings his hands up to rub his eyes then rises. He struts up to peer down at you.
You groan as your head lolls to the side. You don’t have the strength left to do anything but languish in the agony. You grit your teeth and squeeze your eyes shut. You just want to keep sleeping.
His weight creaks in the floor and his steps scuff around the room. He returns and looms over you as you flatten yourself to the mattress. He pokes your shoulder and grunts. You open your eyes as he holds up the notebook.
‘You need?’
You would be annoyed if you weren’t in so much pain. What you need is for him to take you home and leave you alone. That’s not going to happen. As it is, you’re certain you’ll be dead of infection soon enough.
He taps the page impatiently.
You sigh and let out a shaky breath. “Hurts...” you murmur. “Something to... make it less.”
His eyes search you and his blond lashes flutter. He turns and grabs a bottle from the side of the bed. He shows you the label. You squint at the small letters.
“That’s an antibiotic,” you mutter. “Still...” you suck in air sharply, “pain.”
He tilts the bottle to examine then puts it back. He shakes the notebook at you again. You sniff and cross your arms over the top of the blanket. You can’t really ignore him or tell him to go away. You could die without him and you hate that you have to live with him, but you’re scared.
“Anything.” You say. “Just... something to do. There’s nothing here.”
He makes another noise. Almost like a hum. You bring your hands up and rub your temples.
“Why don’t you talk?” You hiss.
He dips his chin down and turns the notebook around. He slides out the pen and scratches onto the paper. He shows you.
‘No.’
“No? You won’t, or you can’t?” You huff.
His brow furrow, he holds up two fingers.
“You can’t,” you say.
He nods.
You don’t know if that makes it better. You thought it was a game. That he wanted to terrify you with his silence. He could be lying but what’s the point in that?
He flips the notebook again. He writes slowly. You read his scrawl; ‘food’.
You look at the ceiling and swallow, “yeah, I should eat.”
He’s already moving as finish your first syllable. He puts the notebook down and marches out. You stare after him, slightly agitated and just as much perplexed. He set the trap, he can’t be surprised that it went off.
You put your arms straight and as you try to sit up, the tug in the muscles of your leg throttles you. You have to smother a scream as you stop yourself. You press your hands to the bed and force your leg limp. You drag yourself up to sit with your upper body alone.
Your tears leak out and you mop them away. You look down at the white nightgown, much like the one you wore the first night there. You reach behind you and move the pillow then lean back. Your foot is on fire.
You can hear him through the open door. You look over at the notebook and reach for it. You drag it off the night stand and examine his jagged writing. You flip the page back. It’s a list of all the things he brought back before. It’s crooked and all over the page.
You shuffle back through the pages and stop at the cross hatching of ink. Your likeness stares back at you. It’s you on the bus, watching through the window, looking almost peaceful. You frown. There’s a word sliced through the scene; ALONE.
You don’t understand it but you’re starting to wonder if he does. There’s something not connected in him. He’s fractured. You should feel bad for him but you can’t. Not after all the pain he’s caused you.
You close the notebook and drop it back on the night table. You slump and your vision hazes. You gaze endlessly at the wall.
He returns, his shadow breaking through the blur. He has a plate in hand. He stops beside the bed and offers it. You take it and without thinking, you thank him. You could cringe. Thank you... for what?
The sandwich is in one piece, meat and cheese juts out from beneath the crusts, and the bread isn’t aligned. You guess it’s the effort that counts. You rest the plate on your lap and brace yourself to sit up higher. He’s quick to bend over you and help pull you upright.
You groan and let out a whine. He retracts and stands over you, watching. You try to ignore his ominous presence and focus on the food. You’re hungry even if it doesn’t look the most appetizing.
You take the sandwich and bite into the crust. The rye is rich and the filling isn’t too bad. He even added mayo. A small thing but you can’t help but be relieved it isn’t just dry bread and meat. You chew and look up at him. You hover your hands over the plate.
“What about you?” You ask.
His eyes round and he blinks. He looks down at his chest then lifts his chin again. He doesn’t offer any response.
“Right,” you nod and take another bite.
His fingers twiddle at his side and he moves his weight back and forth on his feet. You eat in silence, hunched over the plate. When you finish, he scoops up the plate. Before you can react, he’s stomping out.
Jesus. He’s so damn abrupt. He returns. He had a glass of water. You accept it and drink deeply. The coolness is a relief.
He grabs the notebook and opens it. He angles the tip of the pen then writes again. He shows you as you sip from the glass.
‘Not for you.’
You shake your head, “not... the food?” You asked confused.
His mouth slants and he turns the book up. He puts the pen to the paper but doesn’t move it. Not right away. He finally scratches into the paper then turns it back to you. He’s drawn the spike. Your foot thrums at the memory of flailing on the cold ground.
“The trap isn’t for me,” you say. His eyes cling to yours. “But you didn’t tell me.”
His gaze drops and his cheeks tauten. He scribbles another word. ‘Stay’.
You puff out and nod. “I’m supposed to stay. Got it. My fault.”
He clucks and frowns. He points to himself. He hits his chest hard then wags his finger at you. He thumps his chest again. You stare and he stretches his hand wide, staring at it. You gasp as he smacks himself hard across the face. He brings up his other hand and lays another strike across his other cheek. He starts to beat himself frantically.
“Stop! Stop!” You squeal, horrified. He doesn’t seem to hear you. You don’t know what to do. You grip the glass and splash what’s left of the water onto him and holler again, “stop!”
He stills and drops his arms. He looks at you, his cheeks red and scratches, a cut around his eye socket. You shudder up at him.
“I can’t do anything. Not like this,” you gesture to your foot. “So I need you... to do it which means you can’t beat yourself up.”
You sigh and suck your teeth. It’s exactly what he wants. You are stuck with him. You need him.
I CAN'T HELP NOT FEEL SORRY FOR HIM! 😭 Poor man, they took all his humanity away and he couldn't even keep his voice. I'm so curious why, is there a sensor for his voice in the cabin? Does something get activated if he speaks? Jesus! I believe he doesn't feel tastes like someone normal, but even the sensitivity of putting mayonnaise for her is something for me, he has something inside him. The way he is so distressed that he wanted to inflict pain on himself for hurting her? maybe he really thinks that the abuse is not hurting...
Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Captain Hydra
Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
When the monster emerges again, you refuse to look at him. He leaves without trying to get your attention. Is he off to smear more blood on his hands? Or is he just trying to get away from the violations he’s committed in this place? Can he even fathom the pain he’s caused?
You stay by the fire for the night. You put a pillow under your head and sleep on the floor. Your angry burns as hot as the flames and the morning greets you in an exhausted haze.
You busy yourself by cooking. Your human instinct draws you to eat but by the time you have a plate ready, your hunger dissipates. You leave it on the table to rot as you pace around the cabin.
You look around the front room and it’s worn walls. You examine where his fist snapped the planks then stand in the doorway of the bathroom. The dingy tub drips and the mirror is cracked in the corner. You turn and head into the bedroom.
You kick the door open and shiver as you peer around. The bed is made tidily. The corners are so tight, like a military barrack. The armoire looms against the wall. You turn away from it and approach the shelf in the corner. You stare at the images of yourself, of your former life, of your family.
You grab onto it and throw it all to the ground. It takes several tries to tip it but you do. It crashes and breaks the monotony of that prison. You stumble back and shake your head. What is wrong with you?
You spin and race from the room. The cabin blurs around you and you skid to the front door. You twist the handle and wrench it open. You grit your teeth as you stand in the frame and stare out into the shadows between the trees. Your eyes scan the patchy grass turned grey with the wintry decent.
Fuck it. You won’t stay. Even if you won’t escape, you won’t stay.
You hurl yourself forward. You stumble down the stairs and your socks soak with the first step over the frosty ground. Your second step is more confident and the third produces an odd metallic click. Then suddenly a pang rips through your foot and calf. You shriek in agony and horror as you collapse.
You gnash your teeth together and writhe and whine. You shake in sheer pain and struggle to even get your shoulders off the ground. Your eyes flood and your cheeks stained with tears. You raise your head and look down at your foot. The spike is lodged into your heel and extends up into your leg.
The sight churns in your stomach and you angle to puke onto the frozen strands of grass. More than the scene of gruesome mutilation, the agony makes you hurl. You can’t bear it. You’ve never felt anything this horrible in your life.
You know you shouldn’t take it out but you can’t leave it in. The spike might be keeping your foot connected but you’d rather have the whole thing off. You sit up then splay again. You’re dizzy with the effort as your blood slowly seeps out around the base of the spike.
You push yourself up again and hunch forward with all your weigh. You reach for your leg, bending it as you wretch again. You swallow the bile and touch the metal. A blinding whiteness strikes only to be shrouded in a smothering black void.
You wake again. Shivering as the winds barrel over your body. You blink up at the clouds as your leg throbs. You look down at the nightmarish wound and drag yourself back towards the step. You notice the hole where the spike erupted up from. A trap.
Stupid, stupid.
You manage to get yourself up the steps before you pass out again. You sprawl and rouse with another tide of vomit spilling onto the porch. You heave as you use your uninjured foot to push towards the door.
You finally get inside. Trembling in pain as much as the frigidity. You need to get the fire going. If you don’t bleed out, you’ll freeze to death.
You get halfway to the couch before you devolve into another blank valley. You wake again to the wailing winds and the crisp cold. You won’t get that far.
You grab the edge of the tattered rug and roll it around you. You don’t stop until you hit the couch. You quiver against the hard frame and chatter violently. Another swell of unconsciousness overwhelms you.
A strike of lightning cuts through you and you wake screaming. A sudden pressure on your heel has you whimpering and begging. Your eyes are awash in agony and your body is pulsing violently. There’s a coil around your ankle and the clunk of metal on wood.
You blink and find yourself no longer on the hard floor. You lay on the bed. The pain remains but you know the spike is gone. You shiver even as you’re trapped beneath at least a dozen layers of blankets. You can’t move. You won’t even think of it.
Your head pounds and your body buzzes. How did you get here? There’s no way you got here on your own.
The answer stalks in. His eyes meet yours and he hesitates before he comes to the bed. The vessel that was once Captain America lowers himself stiffly onto the mattress. His puts his rough palm to your forehead. He makes a guttural noise of disappointment.
He’s disappointed? It’s his fault this happened. You laugh but the tension it cords in you sends another storm of pain through you.
You wheeze and whine until you’re too weak to even spasm. You feel the sweat slaking down your body. He pulls down the blanket and you shiver worse than before.
“I... have a fever,” you say aloud. He tilts his head as if in agreement. You let your head drift to the side and groan, “let me die.”
He rests his hand on your shoulder and squeezes. He lowers his head and stays like that, as if he’s thinking, preparing for something. He peels the blankets down past your feet. You look down at your bandaged leg.
He touches your calf daintily. That alone is like a zip of electricity. Your vision speckles and goes black again. Even as your thoughts fizzle to darkness, you still feel the pain. There is nothing else.
I don't think he would set such a cruel trap for her, maybe he was afraid that someone would be able to take her away from him. And by God, this reader is living hell on earth, I feel so bad for her. 😭
Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.
My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.
Character: Captain Hydra
Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️
You curl up on the couch and watch the fire. It isn’t the isolation or his silence that will drive you over the edge, it’s the idleness. There’s nothing for you to do. Not to distract yourself or to get yourself free. All you know of him and whatever he is now assures that there is no escape. You won’t even let yourself dream of the possibility or it will crush you.
He doesn’t emerge before you fall asleep. The blackness sweeps over you as you hug yourself into the couch. A dreamless slumber has your head throbbing and when you wake, you hear the clacking of logs. A crackle of the kindling and his shadow flickers over you. His footsteps leave you again.
Is he mad? You don’t care. You’re mad. It’s all you can feel. If you let the terror break through, you won’t be okay. No, you’ll be angry. He did this to you. He’s taken away your life.
You can’t sleep. If you do, your head might split. You sit up when you’re certain he won’t return. You go to the kitchen and put water on to boil.
You find the tea shop bag on the counter. You shake as you look at it. You take out the pot and the cups. You wash them in the sink and dry them carefully. Then you take out the canisters of loose leaf. You read the flavours labeled on the side. It all feels so out of place in the desolate cabin.
You brew the apple chai and sit at the table. The scent wafts into your nose but it cannot comfort you. Nothing can. You are lost. There's no one to save you. You are certain of that. The world’s greatest hero, or used to be, is gone. He’s a shell. He’s a villain.
You shift on the chair and let your hand wander to your thighs. The bruises remain tender. You feel rotten that you almost forgot how cruel he’d been. He can be gentle but it cannot undo what’s been done.
You finish the tea and wash the cup. You put it away. You pace around the kitchen and the front room. Your weight makes the floor groan. You know he can hear you. You don’t care. You will never be ready for the next time... so you won’t try.
When you venture to bathroom, you notice the bedroom door is slightly open. A weak invitation you won’t take. You lock yourself in to attend to your human needs. That’s what is so chilling. He doesn’t seem to recognise those. Not in your or himself. He’s almost confused by the most basic facets of existence.
The more you think, the worse you feel. Not only for your own helplessness, but for him. You shouldn’t feel bad. No, he’s a monster. Yet you can’t help but suspect there’s something wrong. No, not something wrong. Something’s missing in him.
As the morning rises outside the windows, you watch the trees. The leaves shed as the pine stands thick and dark against the paling horizon. The grass is flat and yellow around the dusting of dirt and twigs. The moon is still visible even as the sun climbs.
You shiver and turn away. You change into the clean clothes and put the dingy ones aside to wash later. You take out the broom and sweep. You tie back the tattered curtains even as the glass lets the chill creep in.
You feed the fire and stir around the embers. You hold onto the long poker and examine the point. You tap it on the brick of the fireplace to knock off the ash. It’s sharp and heavy. Iron.
You hear him approach. You drop your arm and turn to face him. He has something in his hand. He looks at it, then you. He stops on the other side of the couch and his eyes flick down to the poker. You glance at your hand then relinquish the poker to the stand.
You cross your arms and step away from the fireplace. You glare at him. He squeezes the notebook in his hands, the pages curled at the edges. A pen is tucked into the bent spiral.
He turns it and offers it over the couch. Reluctantly, you near and lean in to read the page. There’s ink scratched in the same tortured writing as the food packets.
‘I keep you safe.’
You blink at the page then take a breath. You look him in the face. He rescinds his reach.
“Safe from what? The only person who’s hurt me is you.”
His eyes round and he looks down at the book. He searches the page. His thumb runs up the spiral and he slides out the pen. He puts the tip to the paper but doesn’t write. He pauses and thinks.
When he does, he shows you the page again. Another word. ‘Need’.
Your chest squeezes and your stomach churns, “you need what? To hurt me? To feel better?”
His cheeks pinch and his eyes crinkles as his mouth draws in a line. He angles the pen around the notebook and taps the word ‘safe’.
“No, I’m not safe,” you argue. "Not with you."
He drops his arms in frustration. His jaw squares and he puffs out deeply. He shakes his head then brings the notebook up again. He writes. The next words he shows; ‘Alone. Both’.
You bite down on bile. He just doesn’t get it.
“Yes, I was alone. I didn’t care. I was... me.” You insist.
His forehead lines and the scar down his cheek tautens. He nods.
“I would rather be alone. Do you understand that? Can you? Do you understand anything? Huh?”
He stares at you and his throat bobs. He pushes his chin up. He closes the notebook. He flings it one way, then the pen in the other.
You brace yourself as he twists on his heel and his shoulders square. He stomps across the room as he raises a fist and hits the wall. The planks crack and splinter as he growls. He doesn’t look back as he retreats to the bedroom and slams the door. The whole house shakes with his anger. You do too.
You shouldn’t have said any of it, but maybe you don’t care. You’d rather he just hurt you already. Waiting is much more painful.
Okay, I feel bad for feeling sorry for him. Did he really think that just because she was alone, she needed him? I believe he mirrored in her the feelings of loneliness and emptiness that he himself felt. Now I'm sad because even he, a monster who shouldn't have feelings, felt alone and thought that simply ripping her out of her life would be better because now both would have company. This attempt to explain yourself and try to calm her anger, Steve I know you're there... 🙇🏾♀️ Furthermore, her anger and frustration are real, imagine not even being able to have the thought of running away because there is no way? I know he will hurt her again and those steps of his must hurt deeply.
Off: I love the dynamic of her being angry and him just huffing and getting frustrated because he wants to change how she feels.
