hello!! may i please request a dark!stucky x little!reader where steve and bucky have been watching her for a little while struggle with normal life (working, paying bills, friends, etc) and decide to kidnap her to “help her”. she wakes up tucked into bed in an all pink cozy little girl room and they walk in and explain how she doesnt have to worry about anything at all except being a little girl. they act as if they are doing her a favor and she is like “ummmm i wanna leave? 😫😫✋” and they are not having it. steve being too sweet and comforting while bucky is silent and broding. ends in forced age regression and maybe punishment? i’d imagine her to be a fighter
thank you!!
Hi there! As I was writing this, I wondered if I made it too much. But then I keep remembering you said dark!Stucky sooooo, you got it :D
Also, if you are interested in this kind of story, I’d direct you to Caged in Comfort. But just like on here and there, be sure to read the disclaimers first!! Thank you for the request and I hope you enjoy. Happy reading!!!
Their Little Girl
Summary: You’re struggling to survive a harsh, lonely life until Steve and Bucky “rescue” you and bring you into a pink, controlled world where all your adult worries vanish even though you’re forced to become their powerless little girl. (Dark!Stucky x little!reader)
Disclaimer: Minors DNI. Forced Age Regression. Stalking. Dark!Bucky Barnes. Dark!Steve Rogers. Physical Punishment (Spanking). Kidnapping. You are responsible for the media you consume.
Word Count: 2.9k+
Main Masterlist
You didn’t realize anyone was watching you.
How could you? You were too busy just… surviving.
You dragged yourself from bed every morning to the shriek of your alarm, pulled on the same worn jeans that barely fit anymore, and shoved two slices of dry toast into your mouth on the way out the door. Work was always chaos with customers yelling, your manager hovering too close, and your name badge always falling off. Lunch breaks were a can of soup in the back room alone. You came home exhausted, head pounding, heart heavy, and eyes already burning with unshed tears.
Your apartment was quiet with peeling walls, broken blinds, and a fridge that whined louder than it cooled. You tried to keep it clean because it was the one thing you could control, but the growing stack of unopened bills on the kitchen counter mocked you every time you walked past them.
No one had noticed your slow unraveling. Not your coworkers, not the landlord, not even the people you used to call friends. You had gotten too quiet and withdrawn. You didn’t smile anymore. You just didn’t have the energy.
But they noticed.
Steve leaned back in the driver’s seat of the black SUV parked across the street, arms folded with his eyes fixed on your apartment window.
“She’s doing it again,” He muttered, voice tight.
Bucky leaned forward beside him, resting his metal hand on the dash. “Counting the envelopes. Same as last week.”
“She’s not eating enough.”
“Didn’t sleep last night either.”
They watched as your shadow moved behind the curtain, slow and slumped. Like someone walking through a dream they couldn’t wake from. You turned off a single lamp, then collapsed onto the couch in a silent heap.
Steve’s jaw clenched. “She’s barely hanging on.”
“She won’t ask for help.” Bucky said it like a fact, not a judgment. He understood what it was to keep your head down, to try and stay invisible in a world that demanded too much. But seeing it in you stirred something dark in his chest.
“She doesn’t have to ask,” Steve said. “We give it to her.”
Bucky glanced at him. “You sure she’s ready?”
Steve smiled, just faintly. “She doesn’t need to be. She just needs us.”
And so they watched. Every night and every morning. They learned your routine, what bus you took, where you bought groceries, and how you cried when you thought no one could hear.
They memorized the little things like the way your fingers twitched when you were anxious, the soft way you spoke to your kettle when it boiled like it was your only friend, and the sound of your laugh on the rare, rare days it slipped out like sunlight through a crack.
They listened, waited, and planned.
Because they knew what you needed. And you’d never be able to survive the real world on your own. Not like this, not with how fragile you were.
You needed to be taken care of. Watched over, looked after, and controlled.
You needed a softer world where you didn’t make decisions, didn’t pay bills, and didn’t break under pressure. You needed to be told when to nap, what to wear, and when to use your words.
And soon… You wouldn’t have to worry about anything again.
Your first sensation was warmth. A strange kind of heavy warmth like being wrapped in cotton candy.
Your nose twitched. The air smelled like frosting and something vaguely floral.
You stirred as something soft crinkled beneath your head. The sheets were thick and soft as your fingers brushed over the comforter, silky and smooth, and definitely not your own.
Your eyes cracked open.
The ceiling above you was white and painted with stars. Glow-in-the-dark ones, stuck in little constellations.
And the walls… Your eyes widened.
Pink.
Every inch of the room was soft pink, creamy white, or pastel lavender. Plush animals lined the dresser. A white toy chest sat at the foot of the bed, painted with your name in curly bubble letters you did not recognize. The rocking chair in the corner was draped with a fuzzy throw blanket that looked like it belonged in a dollhouse.
You sat up fast, heart hammering in your chest.
The room was too quiet. There were no city sounds, no sirens, and no neighbors through the wall. Only the faint hum of ventilation. The kind that sounded… industrial.
“Where the hell–” Your voice caught in your throat. Your mouth was dry and your head throbbed.
You swung your legs out of bed. The floor was covered in a plush white rug. Even the pajamas on your body weren’t yours, it was a soft oversized nightshirt with a glittery cartoon bear on the front.
Your fingers trembled as you reached for the nightstand. No phone, no clock. Just a pacifier, a pink one, sitting there like it belonged to you.
You backed away fast toward the door.
It opened before you could reach it.
Steve stepped inside first. The Steve Rogers, Captain America. Bright-eyed and smiling with a soft grey henley shirt. He looked… friendly. He looked like he was about to read a bedtime story.
“Hi, sweetheart,” He greeted, voice warm. “You’re up early.”
You froze.
Then Bucky stepped in behind him, tall and quiet, dressed in black. His gaze swept over you like a stormcloud, unreadable and intense. His arms stayed loose at his sides, one hand twitching slightly in that way you’d come to associate with danger.
You took a step back. “What… what is this?”
“You were so tired,” Steve said gently, stepping forward. “We figured it was best to let you rest. Your body’s been under so much stress.”
“Where am I?”
“Home,” Bucky answered. His voice was deeper than you remembered. Rough, quiet, but certain.
“This isn’t my– this isn’t–“ You choked on the sentence.
Steve reached out a hand like he was offering you a hug. “You don’t have to worry about anything anymore. We’ve taken care of everything. Bills, job, apartment: gone.”
Your stomach lurched. “What?”
“You don’t have to be an adult now,” He explained with a soft smile. “You can just be our little girl. We’ll take care of you. All you have to do is be sweet.”
You blinked, staring. “You kidnapped me.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked away for the briefest second. Steve tilted his head. “We rescued you.”
You shook your head, backing up further until your feet hit the edge of the bed. “This is insane. This is– I want to leave. You can’t do this.”
Bucky’s expression darkened. His jaw clenched, and his shoulders straightened.
“Not happening,” He stated flatly.
Steve sighed softly, like you were being difficult on purpose. “You’re overwhelmed and that’s okay. Most littles are, at first.”
“I’m not a little,” You snapped. “I’m a grown adult and I want to go home.”
Steve moved slowly in front of you. His smile was still there, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore, sweetheart,” He said quietly. “We’ve seen how you struggle. You were falling apart.”
“I was managing!”
“Barely,” Bucky muttered.
“You cried every night,” Steve added, more gently now. “You were collapsing. No friends, no one checking in. You were going to slip right through the cracks until we stepped in.”
You shook your head over and over. “This is wrong. You don’t get to decide this. I didn’t ask for this!”
Steve smoothed your hair with one hand. “You didn’t have to. We know what’s best for you.”
You slapped his hand away.
He didn’t react, but when Bucky stepped forward, you flinched. His eyes locked with yours, hard and icy.
“Don’t do that again.”
You flinched, but you didn’t back down. Something burned in your chest: hot, angry, and terrified. You weren’t going to sit here and nod like a good little puppet while they rewrote your life into some pink, padded fantasy.
So you moved, fast.
Before either of them could stop you, you bolted toward the open door, ducking under Steve’s arm and slipping right past him. Your bare feet slapped the cold floor as you sprinted down the hall, your breath ragged and chest heaving. You didn’t know where you were going and you didn’t care. All you knew was you had to get out.
“HEY!”
Steve’s voice thundered behind you, but you didn’t look back.
Your fingers grazed a doorknob, locked. Another one, locked. You turned a corner blindly, heart slamming in your ears, and spotted a staircase. You surged toward it–
And slammed into something, or more so someone.
Bucky.
He caught you effortlessly, arms snapping around your middle like a vice. You kicked, screamed, shoved, and clawed at his chest but it didn’t matter. He lifted you off the ground like you weighed nothing.
“Let go of me–!” You screamed, your nails digging into his skin. “LET ME GO!”
“Bad choice,” Bucky growled.
His voice was low, and there was no softness left in it. No calm or compromise. Just disappointment wrapped in steel.
He turned sharply on his heel and carried you back down the hall as you thrashed like a wild animal. Your fists pounded against his chest, tears blurring your vision.
Steve stood in the hallway doorway with his arms crossed, disappointment plain on his face. “You really thought you could just run?”
“GET AWAY FROM ME–!”
Bucky stepped into the pink bedroom again and kicked the door shut behind him. It locked with a heavy click.
You squirmed harder, but he sat on the bed and hauled you over his lap before you could process what was happening.
“Wait–no, no, don’t you DARE–”
SMACK.
The sound cracked through the room. Your whole body jolted.
SMACK.
Your breath left you in a choked gasp as the sting bloomed sharp and hot across your bottom.
“I warned you,” Bucky muttered, arm steady as stone as he landed another swat.
SMACK.
“You don’t run,” Steve said from across the room. “You don’t hit, you don’t scream.”
You kicked your legs, humiliated, furious, and sobbing now as the punishment continued. Not hard enough to injure, but firm, controlled, and designed to break down your fight.
When it was over, you were trembling and panting. Your face buried in the blankets, eyes hot with tears.
Bucky lifted you gently, repositioning you in his lap so you were facing him and held you in his arms like a child, body limp from exhaustion and fury.
You turned your face away, still refusing to give in.
But Steve approached and crouched beside you, voice maddeningly soft. “Shhh, sweetheart. It's okay now. It’s over. That was the last time you’ll ever have to feel that scared. All you have to do now… is listen and behave. Be our good girl.”
Your lip quivered, but you bit it hard. You wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.
But Bucky’s hand was rubbing slow circles into your back now, murmuring low words you couldn’t understand. Not because they were mumbled, but because your head was fogging. Your fight was bleeding out of you.
“We’re gonna take such good care of you,” He murmured. “Whether you like it or not.”
And in your haze of confusion and fury and fear… That terrifying truth sank in.
They weren’t going to let you go. They were going to keep you.
You didn’t know how long you sat there curled in Bucky’s lap, stiff and trembling, your cheek pressed to the worn fabric of his t-shirt. His hand never stopped moving on your back, slow and rhythmic like you were some frightened animal he was trying to soothe.
You hated it. You hated how warm he was. You hated how safe it felt, even now. You hated that your eyes were still wet.
The punishment had left your skin burning, but it wasn’t the pain that rattled you. It was the helplessness. The dizzy, sinking realization that you couldn’t fight them. That they were bigger, stronger, and smarter.
You hated them. And a small, whispering part of you hated yourself for wanting to cry in someone’s arms.
Steve came back into the room with a pink plastic tray. You flinched at the sight of it. There were two bottles, a tiny bowl of applesauce, and a spoon with a bunny on the handle.
“No,” You said instantly, your voice was hoarse. “No. I’m not doing that.”
Steve set the tray down on the bed, completely unfazed. “Sweetheart, your tummy’s empty. You didn’t eat dinner last night, and it’s well past lunch. You need something gentle.”
“I’m not a toddler,” You snapped. “I’m not hungry. I’m not doing this.”
Steve just smiled softly, like he already knew you’d say that. “You don’t have to be hungry to eat, little one. We’re going to take care of you now. That includes making sure you eat right, nap, play, and dress properly.”
“I won’t.”
Bucky’s arms shifted slightly around you, still holding you tight. You could feel his breath slow against your back, that low patience of his barely twitching under the surface.
“You said that before,” Bucky murmured, almost absently. “Still ended up over my knee, didn’t you?”
You glared at him with everything you had left. But your muscles ached and your throat was tight. You wanted to scream, to fight, to hit someone, but you were tired.
And that… that scared you more than anything.
“Here,” Steve said gently, lifting the spoon with the bunny handle. He scooped a bit of applesauce and held it up. “Just a few bites. Then we’ll change you into something comfier and let you rest. You’ve had a big morning.”
“Don’t talk to me like that,” You snapped, but it came out smaller than you meant.
Steve tilted his head. “Like what?”
“Like I’m… like I’m…” You couldn’t finish it.
“Like you’re precious?” He offered. “Like you’re tired and overwhelmed, and just need two people who love you more than anything to make the big world go away?”
You looked away as your jaw clenched. Your stomach rumbled in betrayal.
Bucky’s grip around you tightened slightly as a warning. “Last time we’ll ask,” He said. “Open your mouth.”
You sat still and tense. Then, after too long… you did.
Just a little, just barely, but Steve smiled like you’d just handed him your heart. He fed you a tiny bite, and you hated the way it made you tear up again.
It was applesauce. It wasn’t even good. You weren’t giving in. You weren’t.
Bucky shifted you slightly, holding you closer, like the fight leaking out of you was some kind of affection. You could feel the heat in your face as another bite was lifted to your lips.
“I hate you,” You whispered.
Steve didn’t flinch. “I know. That’s okay. You won’t forever.”
You let the next bite in. Then the next. Until the bowl was empty and one of the bottles was pressed into your hand. You didn’t want to drink it, but you did. Small sips, just to have something.
Afterward, Bucky stood and carried you again. You didn’t fight him this time. He sat you on the bed and handed Steve a stack of clothes from the dresser.
Soft, ruffled, and pastel.
You shook your head before he could even speak. “No. I can feed myself. I can dress myself.”
Steve just gave you that same quiet, sweet smile. “Not anymore.”
When they were done dressing you, you were shaking, burning, and mortified. You’d been clothed like a doll.
Bucky lifted you again, this time bridal style, and laid you gently in the bed.
“I’m not tired,” You croaked. “I’m not napping.”
“You’re exhausted,” Steve murmured, tucking the blanket around you. “Your body’s been running on panic and caffeine for weeks. This is just what you need.”
“I don’t want it.”
“But you need it.”
They were both still for a moment, then Steve moved toward the headboard. You heard the soft click of something being unlatched.
Your blood ran cold. “What are you doing?”
Bucky didn’t answer. He simply lifted your right wrist and guided it gently into the padded cuff Steve had pulled from the side rail. It locked with a faint snap.
You screamed again, kicked at the blanket and immediately felt the other cuff lock around your ankle.
“No– no, no, please–”
“It’s just for safety,” Steve said calmly, brushing your hair back as he fastened the last restraint. “So you don’t hurt yourself. It’s just to help you stay still so you get the rest your little body needs.”
You couldn’t breathe as you yanked at the cuffs. They were padded but firm, tight enough to keep you in place without hurting you.
“Please don’t do this,” You whispered. “I don’t want this. Please–”
Steve kissed your forehead. “One day, you’ll thank us.”
Bucky stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. Silent, watching, and guarding.
The soft hum of a white noise machine filled the air. The nightlight glowed pink. The ceiling sparkled with tiny plastic stars.
And you…
You lay there trapped and shaking, crying softly.
The last thing you saw before your eyes gave out was Steve adjusting the monitor in the corner of the room, a baby monitor, so they could watch you from anywhere.
synopsis: steve comes back from war changed and believes he should be selfish for once <3
tw: dark!steve, dead dove do not eat, minors dni!, ooc steve, manipulative steve?, sorta innocent reader if you squint, you are responsible for the media you consume
wc: 1.3k
a/n: this was so fun to write! no smut in this part buttt i might do a sequel with the smut :p
Steve Rogers was a noble man—a sweet man—the kind of person you wouldn’t think twice about leaving your drink around.
The last time you saw Steve, he was barely 5'1" and maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet. Needless to say, you weren’t exactly intimidated by him.
You and Steve grew up together in your small Brooklyn neighborhood. He always spoke passionately about wanting to help people and serve his country. You never really took him seriously, mumbling a soft, “Sure you will, Steve,” as you ruffled his hair.
To you, Steve was like a little brother—even though he was technically a year older. So when you saw the news that your sweet, scrawny Stevie had somehow become the tall, strong Captain America—a war hero—it’s safe to say you were stunned.
When he was declared dead after crashing a plane into the ocean, you were devastated. You cried for weeks. Your Stevie had achieved his dream of serving his country—and given his life for it.
Steve had been waiting for this moment for decades—the chance to finally go back to where he came from and live the life he was meant to. He didn’t regret giving up so many years for the sake of others—that had always been his calling.
But he did regret not making you his.
You were the one who haunted his thoughts: when he took the serum, when he fought in the war, when he was sure he was going to die in that plane crash. Even after waking up in a completely different world, you were the first person on his mind.
As soon as he understood where—and when—he was, he searched for you using Stark’s countless devices. And he found you. You had passed just twenty years after him. No husband. No kids. It was almost as if…
you had been waiting for him to come back and save you.
You heard a knock at your door.
It had been exactly a month since the tragedy, and you were still mourning your friend, but each day, it got a little easier. So imagine your surprise when you opened the door… and your best friend was standing on the other side, holding a bouquet of flowers. He looked slightly older than he had in the pictures you owned.
This wasn’t the Steve you remembered. The sickly boy you grew up with was gone. In his place stood a man—tall, strong, and broad. He had to be at least 6’3 or 6’4, and even through his clothes, you could see the muscle in his arms and legs.
To say you were shocked and overwhelmed would be an understatement.
“Hey, doll”
Steve said with a soft smile, looking at you with so much tenderness and love, while you just stared at him, speechless.
“Stevie? Is that you? I thought you—”
He didn’t give you a chance to finish. The bouquet fell to the floor with a soft thud as he pulled you into a hug, lifting you right off your feet. One of his hands cradled the back of your head while he buried his face into the crook of your neck.
“Missed ya so much, Dolly,” he murmured. “Got not idea what i did to get back, but it’s okay. I’m here now.”
You melted into the hug, not caring how he had returned. All you needed in that moment was to feel your best friend’s arms around you again.
When he finally loosened his grip and let you catch your breath, you took his hand and gently led him to your dining table, pulling out a chair for him to sit.
“Oh, Stevie… you’ve changed so much. I don’t even know what to say.”
He chuckled lowly. “You don’t even know the half of it, baby. But it doesn’t matter now, okay? Don’t worry that pretty little head of yours about all that.”
You and Steve talked for hours, catching up on everything you’d missed in each other’s lives. He told you about being trapped in ice for seventy years, then waking up in a completely different world—one where he became a hero again, this time fighting alongside a team called the Avengers. Together, they’d faced threats beyond imagination, including a villain who tried to wipe out half of Earth’s population.
It all sounded insane—like something out of a comic book—but when you looked into Steve’s bright blue eyes, you believed him. His body had changed, stronger and more sculpted, shaped by war and time, but his eyes… they were still the same. At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.
But as the night wore on, something began to feel... off.
Steve kept watching you, almost like he was studying you. At first, you brushed it off. But every time another guy came up in conversation—just a casual mention—his jaw would tighten, and his hand would grip yours just a little too firmly. You reminded yourself that Stevie had always been protective. It was just in his nature. Right?
Still, the tension in the room grew heavier with each passing hour. The emotional weight of the day was catching up to you, and your body began to ache with exhaustion. Your eyelids drooped despite your effort to stay present.
“Steve,” you said softly, stifling a yawn, “why don’t we keep talking another day, darling? I’m suddenly so tired.”
He smiled—but something about it sent a chill through you. The warmth in his eyes was gone, replaced by something darker, almost unreadable.
“Of course, sweetheart,” he said smoothly, rising to his feet. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
Steve’s hand wrapped around yours as he helped you to your feet. You followed him down the hall—a route you’d walked a thousand times—but with him, with this new version of him, it felt different. Something about the air had changed, colder, heavier. The corridor was dimly lit, shadows dancing at your every step.
When you reached your bedroom, he opened the door for you, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Thank you, Stevie,” you said.
He didn’t answer at first. He hated that nickname—he’d only ever let you call him that.
Steve looked at you, trying to memorize your face all over again, as if he didn’t quite believe you were really standing there after all this time.
“I missed you,” he muttered, his voice so low you wouldn’t have heard him if he weren’t so close. “More than you’ll ever know.”
Your breath caught. The way he said it—it sounded like a promise, like the truest, purest thing he’d ever spoken.
“I missed you too,” you whispered, staring into his eyes, lips slightly parted.
Steve stared back at you, eyes full of hunger, and before you could react, he kissed you. His lips crashed into yours with such force you were sure it would leave a bruise. You tried to pull away, but he held your head in place, firm and unyielding.
He finally pulled back to breathe, and you gasped. You hadn’t even noticed the tears spilling down your cheeks.
“Steve, what are you doing? What was that?”
His eyes raked over you like a man gone mad. Biting his lip, he muttered, “Marry me.”
You weren’t sure you heard him right.
“What?”
“I said marry me. Do you think I spent my life saving other people just to have nothing in return? No. I’m not going to let you go. Marry me.”
You didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t wrong—he had given up so much. And somehow, you felt like you’d be selfish not to give him this one thing.
You felt dizzy, like your thoughts weren’t your own. And in a moment of weakness, you muttered, “Okay.”
And with that, your fate was sealed.
It wouldn’t take long before Steve had the white picket fence life he always wanted… and you, his perfect little wife to complete it.
rating: 18+. mdni.
content: implied waterboarding, noncon
word count: 334
Valentine’s Day countdown masterlist
You splutter as your back hits the tiled walls, water cascading down your face, dripping from the locks of your hair. You hold a trembling hand to your throat as you cough, attempting to clear water from your lungs. Your eyes burn as you look upwards, where Steve stands tall above you, looking as superior as he feels. The flickers of fluorescent lighting make him look even more menacing as he crowds you in the small bathroom.
Suddenly, he crouches down, pushing dripping locks from your face with a harsh swipe. You continue to blink up at him despite the burn of water droplets leaking into your waterline.
“You know why I’m doing this,” he nods his head once, “right?”
You nod in return, letting out another small cough, “yes.”
“Why?” he mutters, patting your cheek. “Why am I doing this?”
“I didn’t…” You swallow thickly, grimacing at the taste stuck in your mouth, “I didn’t listen. Tried to run away.”
“That's right,” his hands reach for his belt, unbuckling casually.
“Just turn around already. You fucking reek.” He raises his eyes to look into yours. “I hope you learned your lesson. Hm?”
Wordless, you shift onto your tender knees, trembling as you bend yourself over the seat of the toilet. Shaking hands lift the hem of your skirt before sliding down the elastic of your underwear, baring bruised skin.
Steve settles behind you, too casual, too comfortable. You felt sick as you braced your elbows over the seat, watching droplets fall from your hair into the water below. He adjusts you roughly, making the inconvenience clear with noises on his lips and the marks that promised to bloom beneath his fingers.
You stay quiet as he pushes into you, grunting and groaning behind you. Your bruised knees ache as your body is slammed forward with every harsh thrust, fighting off his hand as he begins to push your head lower. You shake your head violently, using your strength to push against his hold.
Summary: You were Steve Rogers connection to help him disappear after Germany.. but the last time he called, it didn't work out..After almost a year he reappears—bleeding, angry, and needs somewhere safe. But you’re not a hero. Just someone with a skillset. But you owe him and Steve never forgets a debt.
Word Count: 5.4k
Warnings: /Explicit Content / 18+, Minors DNI, SMUT, Unprotected sex, Rough sex wall sex, fingering, creampie, Slight Dub Con..maybe.. little angst and emotional manipulation.. guilt, shame, Brief mentions of past physical injury (blood, wound care)...
A/N: Set in that two year period of Civil War to Infinity War @buckybarnesfic this ones for you.. hope you like it.. (since we didn't clarify which Steve in the poll)
The lights were off when you got home. Not unusual. You were always the one switching them on, feeling your way through the dark like it was muscle memory. But the air felt wrong, too still. And the window was unlocked. That wasn’t routine. That was intentional.
Your steps slowed. Every sense sharpened. Your hand brushed the wall near the light switch, but you didn’t flip it, letting your fingers just hovered there, the quiet hum of instinct crawling up your spine. Without looking, your other hand slid beneath the hem of your jacket, hand closing around the grip of the compact pistol holstered against your ribs. Safety off. Just in case.
Then you saw him.
Sitting at your kitchen table, a shadow in worn black, broad shoulders hunched but not slouched. Blood dried across his knuckles, crusted at the base of his fingernails. His ruined tactical suit looked darker than black, stained with sweat, dirt, something you didn’t want to name. A backpack sat slumped at his feet, worn and scuffed like it had been dragged through hell.
His hair was longer than you’d ever seen it. Still blonde, but darkened with grime, curled slightly at the ends where it brushed the collar of his suit. A beard shadowed his jaw, lending something feral to his otherwise statuesque stillness. It had been months since you’d seen him. But one look at him now, and the sharp weight of recognition curled low in your chest like a bruise resurfacing. He didn’t look like the man people called Captain anymore. He looked like a man who had nothing left to lose, shoulders rigid beneath the frayed edge of his ruined suit, jaw tight like every word cost him something. His eyes didn’t shift, they just locked on you with a stare that looked straight through skin and memory, like he was cataloguing all the ways you’d changed and all the ways you hadn’t that made it hard to breathe. Like he'd seen too much, lost too much, and carried it all in the line of his spine, straight and unrelenting.
And that stare- flat, unreadable, but heavy. The kind of look that pinned you in place. Like you were the one trespassing. You could feel it in the gravity he carried. Like every step he’d taken since he walked out of your life had weighed more than the last.
And now he was here. Hurt. Waiting.
“I needed a place to stay.”
You dropped your keys on the bench with a sharp clatter. “And you chose mine?”
“You were the closest. You owe me. Remember?”
He shifted slightly, just enough for your eyes to catch it. His hand ghosted toward his ribs, fingers curling in just a little, like he was testing the edge of something raw. The fabric there clung damp to his side, and the tension in his jaw told you everything you needed. He was hurting. More than he wanted to admit.
You crossed your arms. “I gave you a clean house.”
“You gave me a trap,” he said quietly.
Your jaw flexed. “I ran every scan. Every sweep,” you snapped, louder than you meant to. “Don’t pin your ghosts on me, Rogers.”
You could feel your face heating, not from anger, at least not only from that. It was defensive, instinctive, a wall thrown up against the guilt gnawing just beneath. Because deep down, buried beneath the pride and professionalism, was something worse: the sharp sting of failure.
You didn’t mess up. You double-checked that house. Triple-checked. The data was clean. You knew it was. But that didn't change what happened, Steve had gotten wounded Sam too. And so had the only people on your roster who still tried to do good. Tried to be more than just ghosts and criminals.
Maybe it wasn’t your fault. But it sure as hell felt like it.
So no- you weren’t going to let him say it out loud. You beat him to it.
He looked down at his hand. Blood flaked off his knuckles. “You don’t get to call it a sweep when there’s blood on the walls.”
The room went still. Just the hum of your old fridge and the ache of everything unsaid. It felt like something suspended in the air, waiting to break.
“I’m here now,” he said, softer this time. “Because you’re the only one I trust to make it right.”
It was almost worse hearing that from him. Like it was a mercy he was offering you, calling it trust when it was really necessity. And worse still because a part of you wanted that trust. Needed it like a wound needed stitching.
“I didn’t ask you to trust me,” you said. “That was your mistake.”
“And you didn’t say no when I walked in tonight,” he countered, voice lower, more deliberate. “That’s yours.”
The words hit hard, slicing past your pride to land where your guilt still lingered you barely kept buried, where your pride tried to build walls against it. You hated the way it made you flinch inside, hated the way he saw too much with too little effort. Still, you kept your expression neutral, carefully smoothing over the twitch of reaction. If he sensed your hesitation, your guilt, your anger. It stayed unspoken. You locked it behind your eyes and gave him nothing. Just moving away to pull a med kit from under the sink. Tossed it onto the table with more force than necessary.
“Can’t have my most high-profile clients dying on my floor. It’s bad for business.”
His eyes stayed on you. Heavy. Accusing. Unforgiving.
“And you’re all about business, aren’t you?”
That stung more than it should have, because it wasn’t entirely wrong. But it wasn’t right either. The money had always been part of it, sure. But some jobs you took because they reminded you who you used to be. Who you wished you were still capable of being. Jobs that felt like a line between right and survival.
And Steve? He was one of the few that made you want to be better.
Which only made all of this worse.
You patched him up in silence. The gash along his ribs said more than he ever would. You didn’t ask. Just worked- methodical, steady, but not detached. Every time you pressed gauze to his skin or stitched through another layer, you were painfully aware of the rise and fall of his breath, the way his muscles tensed under your fingers, the way he didn’t wince even when he should have.
You told yourself this was just another job. Like any of the others. Keep your head down. Get it done. But the truth crept in at the edges. He wasn’t just another fugitive. He was Steve fucking Rogers. The one you used to believe in. The one who made you feel like maybe you weren’t just profiting off desperation.
Now, you were here, cleaning up his blood in your kitchen while guilt licked at the base of your spine.
“Where is everyone else? Sam? Wanda? Hell, where’s Natasha?”
He didn’t answer at first. Just stared like he was weighing how much to give.
“We’ve had to split up for a bit,” he finally said. “Easier if everyone lays low on their own for a while. Can’t afford to make patterns. Too many people watching too many doors.”
You studied him a moment longer, the implication settling like a stone in your gut. They were scattered. Isolated. Probably hurting. Probably hunted. Where they all in places like yours? With people like you?
"Wonderful..." Your voice was quieter this time. Not a surrender. But something worn, something bruised.
He let you work. Silent. Watchful. You wondered if he could feel your shame in the way your hands hovered, just a second too long, at the edge of his skin.
He took the pullout couch. You weren’t noble enough to offer your bed. But later that night, you stood barefoot in your kitchen, watching him sleep. Drink in hand. Guilt rotting in your gut. You couldn't stop thinking.
You hadn’t spoken to Natasha in years when she called you over a year ago. Said Steve needed help. Discreet help. She’d made it clear you weren’t the first call. Just the one she knew would say yes. That said enough on its own. You were reliable, cold-blooded, detached, at least that’s what your reputation had earned you. Just the ghost in the wires. Not someone who got involved.
You’d helped a lot of people disappear, stay hidden. Everyone was running from something- bad choices, bad people, or bad governments. You never asked what. Never cared. Names, locations, and needs. That’s all you needed to know to make someone vanish.
But Steve wasn’t just another fugitive. He was the kind of man people still called a hero, even now. Even after the world turned on him.
That complicated things.
You took your drink to bed. Lay awake staring at the ceiling, the warmth of the whiskey dulling nothing. You tried not to think about how his blood had soaked into your dish towels. About how he hadn't flinched when you stitched him up. About the weight of his stare while you moved around him like you didn’t care.
They were supposed to be the good ones. You were the girl people called when they were desperate enough to pay for salvation.
Desperate enough that you could turn it into currency. It wasn’t heroic, but it kept you fed, off the grid, untouchable. That should’ve been enough. But tonight, with Steve Rogers asleep in your apartment and the ghosts of better intentions clawing up your throat, it didn’t feel like power. It felt like penance.
You'd wanted to believe helping the runaway Avengers would make you feel cleaner. That maybe, just maybe, throwing a lifeline to people who were still trying to do the right thing would tip the scale, erase some of your sins. But all it had done was shine a brighter light on your own rot. You weren’t like them. You weren’t running because you believed in anything. You were running because it was profitable. Because you knew how to disappear, how to survive, how to sell freedom to the desperate.
Helping them hadn’t absolved you. It had only shown you the line you’d long since stepped over. And that- the knowledge of it- curled in your chest like shame with nowhere to go.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
The next 48 hours crawled.
Tension threaded through the air like exposed wire, taut, crackling, ready to snap, constant, impossible to ignore. It crept into everything: the sound of the faucet, the scrape of a chair, the clink of a spoon against ceramic. Your footsteps shifted from brisk to cautious whenever he was in the room, movements sharper, clipped. You moved through the space like it was still yours, but now it felt shared in a way you hadn’t agreed to. Like you’d rented out your shadow without realizing.
And Steve? He watched. Always watched. Like he was taking notes you didn’t have access to. Not just studying your habits, but measuring them. Measuring you.
You walked around in a towel. Changed shirts in the hallway after disappearing for hours and returning dirty. Stripped your gun on the coffee table wearing just a tank and shorts- your legs bare, your expression unreadable. It wasn’t for him. It wasn’t about him. It was survival. Routine. Muscle memory that made the space yours again, because you had lived in it, built a rhythm in it. He was the intruder.
You kept your distance. Made no move to soften the edges. Didn’t invite misinterpretation or give him anything he could read as permission. Just silence, space, and cold professionalism.
You took calls in your bedroom, low-toned, clipped, all business. The kind of calls that made Steve’s jaw twitch and his silence go heavy. Names slipped out sometimes, familiar ones. Sometimes dangerous ones. You caught the way he stiffened when you asked about biometric locks or listed off chemical agents like grocery items. You never looked at him while you spoke, but you knew he was listening. Judging.
But if he didn’t like your business, he could fucking leave. You weren’t the one who came crawling through a window.
You sat down at the kitchen table, dropping the tablet beside your coffee with a flat thunk- its glow still active from the last call. Steve was already seated across from you, silently nursing his mug of tea, eyes sharp and unreadable. You didn’t look at him. Just tapped open your notepad and started writing out your latest supply list. Med kits, Weapons orders, new ID’s... Standard stuff.
Except nothing felt standard anymore.
You could feel his eyes tracking the screen. Judging. The quiet disapproval rolled off him in waves. It curled up your spine like heat off the burner, and finally, you snapped.
“If you’re going to hang around like some awful smell,” you muttered, not even glancing up, “stop side-eyeing me.”
Steve didn’t blink. “You’re a professional, right? So be professional.”
“You’ve benefited plenty from my ‘unprofessional’ connections.”
“And you’ve made a profit off people like me.”
That shut you up. Because it was true. But also, because you weren’t sure what cut deeper- his judgment, or the fact that some part of you thought maybe you deserved it.
You’d had enough.
You snatched the tablet off the table and stood, grabbing your jacket from the back of the chair. The air felt too tight around you, like his presence was taking up more space than it should. You didn’t need his attitude, not in your own home. Not in the place where you were the one doing the favor.
You didn’t say a word. Just moved with practiced calm, throwing the bolt on the door as you stepped out, letting it slam behind you with just enough force to echo.
~#~#~#~#~#~#~
It broke on the third day.
You were on your way back from a drop off, passing through city center on your way back, instinct coiling low in your gut. Something felt off. Not obvious. Not loud. Just wrong. Your eyes swept casually across the street, and there he was. Standing by a paper stand, pretending to read. Too still. Too focused. You never looked straight at him, but you noted everything; his relaxed stance was a little too rehearsed, the subtle lift of a radio at his belt, and the unmistakable outline of government-issue boots tucked under worn denim. He didn’t notice you clocking him. But you did.
You kept moving. Didn’t break stride. Didn’t let the tension touch your face. Just stormed back toward the apartment with fire in your chest and a bitter taste in your mouth.
The moment the door shut behind you, the air seemed to thicken, sound muffled, movement slower. You stood frozen for a breath, keys clutched tight in your hand, heart pounding loud in your ears. The echo of your own footsteps felt louder than they should’ve, like even the floor was warning you. Your pulse didn’t calm, didn’t fade. Tossing your keys down and tore through the nearest drawer, grabbing one of your burners. The screen lit up with a single blinking message.
'City getting hot. Stay home where it’s cool.'
Initials only. The source was solid.
“Fuck…” you muttered, tossing the phone back into the drawer and slamming it shut hard.
“What?” Steve’s voice came from the living room.
You didn’t answer. Trying to reign in a temper you didn't have a habit of loosing in front of people. You wanted to scream at him to leave, instead you stormed past him as he entered to hall.
“You sticking around’s going to get me burned,” you said, too evenly. “I’ve got clients. People on the books. Some of them are wanted too. You’ve got the damn U.S. government charging you with treason. Ross would love to catch someone like me with my pants down.”
Steve stepped closer.
“You’re afraid of Ross… but not me?”
“I don’t make a habit of fearing men who sleep on my couch.”
You turned, marching up the hallway for your room, needing distance. Needing something solid between you and him before this got worse. Before the weight of him pressed in too close again. You needed walls. Doors. Space that he couldn’t occupy so easily. Because being close to Steve Rogers wasn’t just physical- it was gravitational. He pulled at your balance, at your composure, at every carefully drawn line between professionalism and something far more dangerous. He distorted your centre, made you forget which way was forward, which direction was safe.
You didn’t look back as you spoke. “I’ll get you another safehouse,” you said over your shoulder, tone clipped, brittle. “A better one. One with backup access and line-of-sight coverage. Somewhere that isn’t here.”
“I already had your best one,” he replied without missing a beat. His voice didn’t waver, didn’t shift- like the memory was a static weight in his gut. “And I nearly bled out on the floor.”
You stopped, hand curling slightly against the doorframe.
Behind you, his footsteps followed. Measured. Heavy. He wasn’t done. Not by a long shot.
“You think you can just push me out the same way I came in?” he asked, closer now. “You think distance makes this cleaner? It doesn’t. Not for either of us.”
You didn’t turn, but your shoulders stiffened. He was standing too close now. Just shy of touching as you turned around to glare at him.
“I didn't ask for you to come here."
His jaw flexed, the smallest tic of frustration or restraint. It was hard to tell which.
You crossed your arms. Defensive. Measured. Like you could somehow fold all the vulnerability back into your skin if you just held still long enough. “This some kind of twisted loyalty test? See if I'll sell you out? That it?”
“No.” He took a step closer, boots quiet against the floor. “It’s a reminder.”
“Of what?” Your voice had lost some of its edge now. Less bite. More breath. The words came out quieter, like you weren’t sure you really wanted to know the answer.
“That I’m still here.” Another step. The air shifted between you, heavier. “Still breathing. Still owed.”
You held your ground. Refused to shrink. But your pulse spiked anyway. Your heart had already begun its steady climb toward your throat, hammering at the base of it like a warning. Your limbs had gone tight, tense- not with fear, but with anticipation. Something was coming. Something you weren’t sure you could stop, and maybe didn’t want to.
Before you could speak–he moved.
Not rough. Not sudden. Just close. Too close. He didn’t storm in like a soldier. He closed the space like a storm surge. Inevitable, all-encompassing, quiet until it swallowed everything in its path. It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t fast. But it was unstoppable. You could feel it in the way your breath shallowed, in the way your back hit the wall like it had always been waiting there. He didn’t touch you, not yet, but the promise of it wrapped around your spine and pulled. You felt the energy in the room shift, magnetic and unrelenting, pulling your breath with it.
He backed you into the wall like a shadow, hand braced beside your head. Not touching yet, not claiming–but claiming all the same. His breath was warm against your cheek. His chest nearly touched yours, heat bleeding through your clothes like contact without contact.
You stood your ground, unmoving, eyes fixed on the space just past his shoulder- refusing to meet his. You knew if you looked, if you let him in even a little, you’d unravel. Because if you did, it would be real. If you looked, if you blinked, if you breathed too hard–he’d have you.
“You don’t get to play wolf just because you’re cornered,” you said quietly, but your voice had lost some of its sting.
“I’m not playing,” he replied, his voice low and steady. “And I’m not leaving.”
That was it.
His mouth crushed yours. One hand slammed beside your head, the other sliding to your jaw, holding you there while he kissed you like he meant to end the argument with his teeth.
It was hunger in silence. Control wrapped in restraint. The kind of kiss that doesn’t ask for permission because it already knews the answer.
Your hands didn’t stop him. They pulled him closer.
His mouth was rough- more pressure than finesse. But it didn’t matter. You opened to him anyway, lips parting under the drag of his teeth. Your fingers curled into the cotton of his shirt, holding him there even as your mind screamed that this was a mistake.
But your body had already decided.
Steve groaned low into your mouth as his hand slid down gripping your waist, anchoring you to the wall. You felt the frustration in his touch, the way his fingers tightened like he was holding back too much, like something had been festering under his skin far longer than he could tolerate. The shift of his hips, the heat of his mouth, all of it screamed need, but it wasn’t just lust. There was anger there too. Frustration, guilt, betrayal- everything that had gone unsaid since he walked into your apartment.
The shift of his hips sent a jolt through your spine. He was already hard. Already thick and hot through the fabric of his pants, pressing against your hip with unspoken urgency.
“Steve-”
He didn’t let you finish.
The second you spoke his name, something in him snapped. His mouth found yours again- harder, more desperate this time. A kiss that stole the breath from your lungs, that swallowed the protest before it could form. Like the sound of his name on your tongue had unlocked something primal and possessive.
His hand dropped fast, gripped the crotch of your shorts and tore. The fabric gave with a sharp rip. No finesse. No hesitation. Just sheer frustration and heat ripping through cotton like it was nothing.
You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Not when his hand was already pushing between your legs, Steve's thick fingers dragging through your slick folds with a possessive thoroughness, like he owned the right to feel how soaked you were.
You moaned, hands slapping the wall as your knees buckled. His fingers sank into you, two at once, pushing your wall out. You clenched around them instinctively, the wet, obscene squelch of your arousal echoing in the quiet hallway. He fucked you slow and deep, but there was no gentleness to it. His fingers curled with ruthless precision, dragging against your front wall until your thighs trembled.
“Hold still,” Rogers growled, those blue eyes blazing into you. “Don’t make me say it again.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“And you’re letting me fuck you against your own wall. So what does that make you?” His thumb pressed up against your clit- circling it with a slow, maddening care that the rest of him didn’t show. The pad of it moved in torturous little spirals, featherlight but exacting, coaxing sparks of sensation that made your knees tremble.
The contrast was devastating. Where his thumb moved with calculated patience, his fingers drove into you with merciless rhythm, wet squelches echoing in the narrow hallway. Each curl of his fingers dragged over your most sensitive spot, and your core fluttered around him with slick, involuntary greed. The soft grunt in his throat as he felt just how drenched you were. You whimpered, your hips grinding helplessly into his hand, overwhelmed by the brutal dichotomy of soft and hard, of care and carnality. He was claiming you in layers- one with his touch, and one with his unrelenting presence.
“What? No comeback?” he rasped, voice low and rough, threaded with need.
You whimpered when he pulled his fingers free, already dizzy from how thoroughly he worked you open. Your hips bucked forward with a mind of their own, chasing the friction even as his touch disappeared.
Steve exhaled a shaky breath, muttering like he wasn’t talking to you- more like he was talking himself through restraint. “It’s been a long time,” he murmured. “You’re the one I call when I need something. Now I need this.”
Then you heard the sound of his zipper.
“Steve- fuck- wait-”
“You want me to stop?”
Your breath catching in your throat and the crackling hum of tension so thick it nearly choked you.
"...No."
He pressed in with one brutal, punishing stroke.
You gasped, hissing and cursing at the sheer size of him. The stretch was unforgiving, a searing fullness that knocked the air from your lungs. Your walls fluttered violently around him, not ready, not even close, but he didn’t wait. He sank in like he had every right to be there, like your body had always been his to wreck.
Your muscles clenched, spasming as you tried to take him, adjust to the brutal girth. It was too much. Just the right kind of too much. Your cunt stretched tight around him, wet and tensing.
He didn’t speak. Just groaned deep in his throat, and it vibrated through your chest like thunder. The veins in his arms flexed as he grabbed your thighs and hiked them higher, wrapping your legs around his waist. The new angle made your breath catch again as he bottomed out, your spine arching from the sheer pressure of it.
"Nnghuh! God.."
“Christ” he whispered, voice strained but warm against your ear. “When was the last time you got fucked sweetheart? Feel tighter then a vice.”
He started slow- one, two strokes, deep and measured, like he was testing the fit, feeling how tightly your body clung to every inch of him. Like he needed to feel you tremble around him, to memorize the way you gasped and shuddered just from being filled. But then restraint gave way to desperated need.
His hips slapped against yours with each thrust, heavy and fast, until the drywall behind you trembled. The picture frame above your head rattled violently, the screws groaning in protest.
“You put my people on the line,” he muttered against your lips, voice cracking like he hated saying it. “We needed you. We trusted you. You were supposed to be our failsafe, not the reason we bled.”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. A choked sound, barely audible over the rush in your ears as he pushed into you again.
“Yeah?” he growled, grinding his hips into yours with a punishing press. “I can feel how sorry you are, sweetheart." You cried out, unable to stop the sounds ripping from your throat, a tangled mix of shock and release, like every barrier you’d built was breaking loose with each moan. It wasn’t just physical- it was every unspoken resentment, every buried guilt spilling out in raw, breathless surrender. You were a mess of broken gasps, choked pleas and moans you didn’t recognize as yours.
Your fingernails scraped across his shoulders, desperate for purchase, for something to ground you as your body struggled to keep up with what he demanded.
You reached for him blindly, nerves fraying, control slipping like sand through your fingers. He caught your hand mid-air. Laced his fingers with yours and pinned it above your head, pressing it into the wall like it was the only anchor either of you had.
“Steve...please-”
“Begging now?” he murmured, but there was no mockery in it. Just a kind of low, broken awe, like the sound of your voice was something he'd needed to hear for longer than he’d admit.
You trembled against him, your body clenching around the relentless force of him, every stroke driving deeper, harder, spearing up into the sensitive nerves that had already been teased past their limit. Each thrust was a collision of heat and pressure, his cock thick and unrelenting, dragging along your swollen walls, stretching you further than you thought possible. Your wetness coated him, made the glide devastatingly smooth, and the wet slap of skin echoed through the hall in time with your stuttering gasps. Every impact made your spine arch, your breath catch, your mind blur. It was raw. Carnal. The head of his cock kissed something inside you that made your vision white out for a moment, made you choke on his name like it was the only anchor you had. Your body didn’t know how to handle it. Both overstimulated and overwhelmed, nerves fried by the bruising rhythm and the fullness that never let up, never relented. He was everywhere; inside you, against you, all-consuming and there was no escape you wanted.
His breath turned ragged at your ear, voice thick and heavy. “That's right, squeeze me, good girl.” he gritted out, the strain obvious in his voice. “Gonna make you remember this.”
You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your throat was raw from crying out, your body alight from the firestorm building in your core. Your muscles fluttered wildly around him, unable to do anything but cling to every punishing thrust. He was burning you open from the inside out, and you welcomed the ruin.
Your orgasm slammed into you like a detonation; sharp and incandescent. A white-hot burst of sensation that tore through your core and stole the sound from your lungs. You bit down on your arm, the taste of skin grounding you as your body shook with it, walls convulsing around him like they were trying to pull him even deeper.
“Fuck- gonna come- inside- fuck-”
His words were broken now, punched out on the edge of climax. He surged forward, slamming into you one last time, hips locking as he spilled inside with a raw groan. You felt it, thick, hot, flooding you, filling every inch he’d ruined. Steve's whole body shuddered against yours, hands gripping your thighs so tight you knew he’d leave bruises.
Neither of you moved. The air around you almost crackled.
Then he pulled back, slow and unhurried. His chest lifted from yours, breath evening as if nothing had happened. Your legs slid down his hips, shaking from the effort of holding on, and you collapsed against the wall for support.
Your core throbbed in the aftermath, his cum already dripping down your inner thigh, sticky and unmistakable.
And without a word, turned and walked into your bedroom.
Like it was his.
And you let him.
You could bring yourself to follow him into the bedroom. Instead, you grab a blanket, soft, worn, one that still smelled faintly like him, though you weren’t sure if it was from the fabric or from the way your skin still remembered his touch. You wrapped yourself in it like armour and collapsed on the couch. Not because it was comfortable. You need the space. You need something that still feels like a boundary. A line he hadn’t crossed. Yet.
You expect him to leave in the morning.
He didn't
Instead you woke up to Rogers in your kitchen. Shirtless. Calm. Like it’s his kitchen and you were guest. The light from the window catches on the line of his shoulder, casting warm gold against skin, highlighting the tension still wound through muscle and bone. You couldn’t help but track the way it moved across him, softening the sharpness of his frame just enough to make him look human again. That flicker of warmth shouldn’t have affected you, but it did. It made something ache- deep and stupid- in your chest, like the sight of him untouched by shadow was a lie your body still wanted to believe. Even the sight of his hair is still damp from a shower, curling slightly at the edges did something to you.
“I’ll be here a while,” he says simply, not even turning to look at you.
You open your mouth, close it again. Looking at the floor. There’s a new weight to the room. Steve then he sets a plate down in front of you on the coffee table. Toast and hot steaming mug of coffee beside it. Looking up at him Steve looked different today. Softer. Probably because he’d worked off the chip on his shoulder when he was slamming into you.
“Like you said... Ross is in the city,” he started taking a seat next to you. “Not safe to go out."
The words hit like punch, knocking the wind out of you.
You felt boxed in, your own home suddenly smaller. Ross outside, danger circling. Steve inside, tension curling in your gut. Trapped with the thrum of last night’s tension still beating behind your ribs.
Steve didn't press, just nudging the plate closer with steady fingers
“Eat,” he said, voice low but firm. “Then you’re in the shower.”
Warnings: This fic will contain NON-CON, bondage, breeding kink, amaurophilia (blindfold). My warnings are not exhaustive, proceed at your own risk.
[STEVE ROGERS x reader]
Summary: The merriest time of the year; the air around you, chill and comforting as all beings cozy themselves up with their family. Lights and decorations cover houses and streets along with the soft sheets of snow as people create a makeshift comfort blanket for the ones they love. You’d wanted to give your boyfriend a little holiday surprise; what you did not expect is for the treat to be savoured by an unlikely bedfellow.
NOTE: A little something for @stargazingfangirl18, @buckets-and-trees and @biteofcherry's Hoes for the Holidays !!! Hope you enjoy! Happy holidays.
DIALOGUE PROMPTS: 1. “It’s the most wonderful time of the year, right?” and 13. "You taste sweeter than a s’more and I want to eat you more.”
KINK PROMPTS: 4. Breeding and 6. Tied up - but in in a bow, because festive
DIVIDERS: @ pixopix
*
You try to quiet down the excitement bubbling inside of you as you try to figure out your way with the long silky ribbon. You press your thighs together as you recollect the memory of the conversation you had a week ago at the café. He’d said it so nonchalantly— you weren’t really paying much attention to the conversation, eyes focused on the warm chocolate stain from his drink; lips aching to be on his. You didn’t want him to notice your line of sight so just to keep the conversation afloat you’d asked him what he wanted for Christmas— his remark had snapped you out of your trance, heat spreading on to your cheeks, “Just you. Wrapped up in nothing but a bow.” He’d said it with a wink and a cheeky smile, you're sure he didn’t mean it quite literally but you just couldn’t get the picture of it out of your head.
So, when you went to get him a proper present, the red silk hanging from the upper shelf of the Christmas decoration isle was all the convincing you needed. You’re sure he’s forgotten all about it and that makes the surprise all the more thrilling.
You had already finished up all the decorating beforehand, body buzzing with energy as you wrap the shiny little fairy lights all over your apartment. It always felt so magical during this time. The lights nicely complemented the warm shade of your wallpaper, you’re glad you listened to the counter staff while checking out.
You had finished up with the meals as well; all you had to do was warm it up before eating. And to make sure to take the cake out of the fridge a little while before Christmas celebrations began, you didn’t want its texture to be too brittle. You keep wondering if you should have waited for this until after dinner, but you couldn’t possibly get it all arranged in time if he was here with you.
You can only hope that he isn’t too tired, and has the appetite for both you and your food.
You covered your eyes with one of those sleep masks you found, it had a deep dark red going on and you figured it matched the occasion. Next, was to find a way to properly wrap the long red ribbon all around you. While covering your eyes made things difficult there was no way you could have done that after you had wrapped the tie around your hands.
You strip down and get on top of the bed. Goosebumps ran all over your body and you’re sure the chill isn’t to blame; the heater couldn’t help you with this. You tie the first knot around your ankles after wrapping it around twice. Then moving on you carefully wrapped it around both your thighs, the feeling of it slightly grazing your cunt making you bite onto your lip.
The soft cloth brushed against your body as you tried your best to get it to stay in its place. You moved it along and wrapped it around your stomach, three turns and then the remaining tucked into a choker on your neck.
Another strip neatly tied around your tits, nips hardening and slightly poking through the red satin.
Now to the tricker part, you rotated your hands around to the back, clasping the silk between your fingers you somehow manage to wrap them around your wrists. You tried to get the final tie look like a nice bow, but you really can’t tell if it turned out the way you wanted, oh well you had a pretty red bow on your hair, you suppose that would do.
Now for the harder part; the waiting. Bucky had left for a mission nearly four days ago, he was supposed to come back yesterday but had a few complications going on. Still, he’d told you he’d be back home by the next morning and now it was nearly night. You weren’t complaining; the delay had given you enough time to set up all the decorations, but now you feel yourself growing impatient. Still the thrill of what was to come was enough to help you wait it out.
Somewhere in the back of your mind you can hear the sound of a bell ringing. You feel warm air whiff around you as you hear it again, confused you try to figure out what it was. Head grazing against the pillows you shrug it out; it isn’t until you hear the creak of your bedroom door opening that your brain is able to comprehend the slumber it had fallen into.
You’re unsure how long you had to wait, couldn’t even recollect when you’d fallen asleep. You properly snap out of your haze as you feel knuckles softly graze your cheek. You let out a whispery laugh as you feel his warmth on you.
“Hi! what took you so long?” you softly question, but get nothing in reply.
You lift yourself to sit upright, but before you could say anything you sense the weight of him move as he gets out of the bed. The sound of his footsteps fades as he makes his way out. The reaction thoroughly confuses you and all you can is hastily call after him.
“Hey, come back,” you try to laugh it out, “this isn’t your only gift!”
You’re a little hurt by the reaction, mind jumping to figure out what to say next.
You could hear his footsteps stop and then returned. The heavy breathing of him loud in the quiet room. “I promise I’ve got something better, I just… I thought this could be fun,” you admit.
“If you’re tired… you know, we don’t have to, I-
But before you could finish, his mouth rushes in to latch on to you. He kisses you like a man starved, fingers cup you chin as his hot tongue moves against yours. His other hand moving to grope on to any part of your skin he could get at.
He continuous to kiss you as one of his hands move to grope at your breast. Your body revels at the warmth it had waited so long for, but you can’t help but frown at the feeling of his face against you. You’d expected him to get a little scruffier. You yelp as he turns you around, face smushed against the pillow with your ass up in the air. Your skin prickles at the feeling of your naked body against his clothed one.
His hands move to palm your ass before his fingers move into your warm aching cunt. You moan into the pillow as his finger move in and out. His desperately rub circles around your clit as his lower half humps you ass. His other hand moves to rub you neck as he lets out a groan. The sound of it just rings different in your ears and you can’t help but frown again. His fingers move out of you as he continuous to press kisses along your spine.
The entire weight of his body press on top of you as he humps you into the bed. You can hear his hot breath at the shell of your ear, you're about to figure out a way to say something to get him to talk. But the voice you hear nearly stills you, you feel your blood run cold as strong hands wrap itself around your waist.
“Bucky couldn't make it,” he sighs. His hands twisting at yours as he tightens the knot around your wrist, pulling your shoulder blades closer.
“The fuck-
“Oh baby,” he moans again. Fingers latching on to the bow on the back of your head, titling your head up backward towards him as he pulls your hair along with it.
“What- Steve! Steve get off of me.” You shout, fear and confusion filling you up.
“Oh, come on y/n you’ve been so nice, don’t be mean to me now.”
He rolls you around, hand pressed against your mouth, muffling your screams. The hastiness with which he moved around overwhelmed you as you struggle to understand what was happening. His hand moves down and presses around your neck, the warning hidden in his strength before his lips catches yours again.
“Please don’t, be good for me please.”
He kisses his way down along you stomach, as you struggle in his grasp. A scream dying in your throat as he kissed your cunt. He presses his face into it as he laps at your folds, “You taste sweeter than a s’more,” his voice heavy filled with something you’ve never heard before, “all I want is to eat you more. More and more and more, don’t want to remember anything else on my tongue."
You try to push him off with your legs but he simply holds on to your tied ankle. No amount of pushing or pulling seems to deter him away.
“What is wrong with you, Steve? Get off of me!" you cry out.
You feel tears kiss your cheeks, the mask covering you feels oppressive, the darkness of it all increasing your anxiety. The ribbon tied around your body now feels like it is burning into your skin, his touch intensifying the pain.
He nips at the inside of your thigh before moving away. You scramble, trying to get up to no avail. All you can do is lie there uncomfortably as you hear him take his clothes off; the clack of the belt felt too loud for you to bear.
Your entire body goes rigid as he hauls you up, he toys with the string around your ankles. His face pressed onto your chest as he leaves a kiss atop your collar bone. He takes his time and slowly unties it. Your feet which were stuck together are now let free, you try to use your knee and kneel at him only for him to spread your legs apart and position himself between you. An annoyed “Don’t” slips out of him.
You turn your face away from him as he tries to kiss you again. He presses his lips to your cheek as you feel the tip of his cock rub against your sore cunt. Your lips part as you cry out in pain as he pushes himself inside you. The second he’s seated himself inside you he begins to thrust in, hard.
The feeling of his cock stretching your inside slowly begins to turn your pained cries into disgusting moans. You hate yourself for feeling this way and yet can’t help it as he jerks your body into the mattress.
His thrusts continue on; his body pressed on top of yours as it crushes your hands underneath the weight of both of you. You try to bite at his lips only for him to evade it swiftly. His forehead pressed on to yours as he continues thrusting into you. Hands playing with parts of the ribbon twisted around your stomach and breasts.
Rubbing his thumb over the hardened bud of your breast, he loops his left arm underneath your waist, pressing your bodies close together. Your breast pressed to his chest, barely allowing you to breathe. His other hand squeezes your hips and moves to adjust your legs, wrapping them around his hips. Linking the two of you closer as he continues to push inside you.
You feel him hit a spot inside you and it almost makes you roll your eyes to the back of your head.
“You like that? You want me inside you, huh? Want me to put my babies in you?” he rambles.
“Uhhh no, no don- you can barely form coherent words, a “no” escapes you but it just sounds like a needy whine.
The bed, rocks underneath the weight of you, he laces his forearm underneath your head; supporting your neck and preventing your head from dashing into the headboard.
You suddenly feel a change inside you, a feeling of fullness, like you're about to completely burst. He notices it too, tongue poking out to lick your lips as he leans down to kiss your chin.
“Come for me, baby; come with me. Ooh, come on, come with me, I’m gonna come inside you.”
“No, no, no, Steve. Wha- stop- arhhh,” you wail.
“Ahh… say my name, oh god, keep saying my name, honey.”
You don’t know why but you do it, you repeat his name out loud and his thrusts pace up. You can’t tell what you’re doing; if you want him to stop or if you want him to continue. All you know is that your mind wants to reach at a feeling so badly.
His hips start to stutter and you feel a high starting to come through you. He grunts and pushes in again and you feel yourself come undone, moaning into his mouth as he does the same, his hot cum shoots into you and you feel it coat the inside of your walls.
He empties himself inside you, but doesn’t pull out. His hands moving upward to remove your eye-band, eyes latched on to the way you face moves in pleasure. He keeps thrusting into you lazily. The sound of it repulses you, but not as repulsing or terrifying as the eyes that bore into you.
His hands moves and pat your sweaty hair in place as he hums. “You’re so perfect. So perfect, you know that? You are the most perfect present; for me, for him, for our little blue-eyed babies.”
You can’t help but let out a laugh at him, eyes tearing up as you gaze at his face. Your entire body sears in pain as you close your eyes. The light around you, just as harsh as the man next to you. You almost preferred it when you had the covers over your eyes. It blinded you from having to see him for what he is. You truly think it would have hurt less if this were somebody else.
A stranger would have been less cruel than the man you know, the man who was your friend, a man who pretends that he cares.
“Hey, hey, don’t cry please,” he presses his forehead onto yours, “I know, it shouldn’t have been like this. But you knew this was to come. You couldn’t possibly expect me to stay away from you?”
His lips move up as he places a kiss on your forehead, arms wrapping around your body like a warm blanket. “Just lay down, relax ok. I promise everything’s gonna be alright.”
His gaze falls onto you as he smiles at you in a way that’s unnerving, a softness in it that feels like it's mocking you and the horrendousness of the situation. He leans in and places a final light kiss on your lips as he whispers, “Afterall, It’s the most wonderful time of the year, right?”
A/N: I’m honestly shocked I wrote something after so long 😅 This one took a minute, but I’m excited to share it. Ran it through spellcheck more times than I’d like to admit only the best for y’all. Thanks for being here!
Steve knew it was a crazy idea to move into the same building as you.
The condo wasn’t cheap, but he purchased one of the larger units anyway. An investment, he told himself. In your future. It would make things easier when the two of you finally joined your lives together.
It was all for you. Truly.
Leaving the familiarity of his old place hadn’t been easy. The grey walls, the silence—unsettling, but predictable. Still, he was tired of coming home to emptiness. Tired of rooms that didn’t echo with warmth. The idea of living closer to you—your light, your space filled with color and comfort—made the decision feel inevitable. He wasn’t running from something. He was moving toward you.
He’d noticed you’d been staying up late the past few weeks. Zillow tabs open. Listings saved, unsaved, saved again. You eventually settled on a condo—something modest, something that still gave you room to breathe. Steve remembered the day you mentioned it. The cross streets. The tone of your voice when you said you liked the area.
Naturally, he’d grown curious.
The building was across town. Farther than he liked. Farther than he could tolerate. The distance sat heavy in his chest, made his stomach turn.
So he did what made sense.
He bought a place nearby.
Steve wanted to be close to you. Your family wasn’t in the picture—you needed him. Chosen family. The phrase steadied him whenever doubt crept in. He would choose you, over and over again.
He’d have to set up new cameras. Add a few discreet security features.
For peace of mind.
Being close to you would be worth it.
A fresh start. New energy. A different part of town.
You chose the building because it felt like home. A feeling you never thought you’d experience again. And yet—here you were, slick with sweat, dragging the last box across the floor of your new place.
Moving hadn’t been an easy choice. Life had been… life. Work was steady. You’d made new friends. For the first time in a long while, you felt settled in yourself. Buying a home—laying down roots—felt right.
You hadn’t planned on it happening this way. You always thought you’d wait. Meet someone first. Build toward it together.
You smiled to yourself at the thought of a meet-cute.
Hell, he could be in this building.
You laughed quietly. “That would be too damn easy.”
That night, you celebrated with takeout and wine. Lit a few candles. Let the quiet wrap around you.
Home.
You slept deeply. Better than you had in weeks.
Still, on the third night, you couldn’t shake the sense of awareness that followed you down the hall. Like the space was paying attention.
You brushed it off.
When you ran into one of your neighbors in the hallway, it felt almost comforting.
“Oh—sorry,” you said, stepping aside.
“No, you’re fine,” he replied, already smiling. Friendly. Familiar, somehow.
“You’re settling in okay?”
“Yeah,” you said. “I really like it here.”
He nodded, like he already knew that. “It suits you.”
You laughed softly, unsure why your chest tightened. “I think so too.”
Later that night, winding down for bed, it came back to you.
Steve.
From IT.
You’d spoken to him plenty of times at work—polite conversations, quick fixes, nothing memorable enough to linger. No wonder he’d sounded so familiar. You felt a flicker of embarrassment for being caught off guard.
You made a mental note to apologize if you saw him at the office this week.
You fell asleep thinking nothing of it.
Steve learned your routines faster than he meant to.
Not because he was trying—at least, that’s what he told himself—but because you were… consistent. You left for work around the same time every morning. You liked the side entrance when it rained. You checked your mailbox every day, even when it was empty.
You made the building feel alive.
He watched from a distance, always careful, always respectful. He never followed too closely. Never stared too long. He wasn’t that kind of man.
Moving here had been the right choice. He could feel it in his chest, that steady certainty that had guided him through harder decisions before.
Proximity wasn’t obsession—it was preparation. Protection.
You deserved someone nearby. Someone who noticed.
When he passed your door, he slowed without realizing it. Imagined what it would be like to hear your laughter through the walls. To know you were safe, just a few feet away.
Soon, he thought.
Steve lay awake long after the lights in your unit went dark.
He pictured you inside—safe, warm, unaware of how close you were to everything you’d ever need. He wasn’t worried. He was patient. Good things took time.
