Hey sweet friend! I have a scenario for you to ponder…
Since I was let down by Marvel not bringing the Steve variant back as Captain HYDRA…
Could you see him being kind of soft!dark? Not full on evil (although, I wouldn’t be mad at that either 🤭)
But he’s vicious, ruthless even once he reveals his true nature.
Except for one thing: his girl…😈
His Exception
Wordcount: 1.6k
The first man begged.
The second tried to bargain.
The third attempted to run.
Steve listened to each of them with the same quiet patience he had once used during mission briefings, his hands clasped behind his back and his expression almost sympathetic.
Almost.
“You betrayed me,” he said.
His voice never rose. It did not need to.
The room had gone deathly still the moment he entered, the green-and-gold shield secured to his back and blood already drying along the sharp line of his jaw.
Everyone knew what happened when Captain Rogers raised his voice.
The people who knew him better understood that his calm was far worse.
“We made a mistake,” one of the men stammered.
Steve tilted his head.
“No.” His mouth curved faintly. “You made a choice.”
The gunshot echoed through the chamber.
You flinched behind the observation glass.
It was small. Barely noticeable.
Steve noticed anyway.
His head turned immediately, his eyes finding you through the darkened pane although he should not have been able to see beyond it.
Perhaps he couldn’t.
Perhaps he simply always knew where you were.
The remaining prisoners began speaking at once, spilling names, access codes, and secrets in their desperation to survive. Steve looked away from the glass and allowed them to continue for precisely eleven seconds.
Then he lifted his hand.
The soldiers standing behind them fired.
Silence returned.
Steve stepped over the spreading blood without looking down.
The doors opened before him.
You had barely moved from your place when he entered the adjoining room. His men remained outside. They knew better than to follow him when he came to you.
You stared at the blood on his uniform – the dark, wet patches across his chest and the smear still glistening on the side of his neck.
“They surrendered.”
“They betrayed us.”
“They were unarmed.”
“They were still dangerous.”
Your gaze rose to his face. “You executed them.”
Steve removed his gloves slowly, tugging at each finger with deliberate care before placing them on the table beside you. The leather was stiff with drying blood.
“I did.”
There was no shame in his voice.
No regret.
Months ago, when the truth about him had first emerged, you had searched constantly for some trace of the man you thought you knew. The righteous soldier. The loyal friend. The hero who always offered his enemies a chance to stand down.
You had eventually understood that the man before you was not an imposter wearing Steve Rogers’ face.
That would have been easier.
He was still patient. Still devoted. Still so painfully earnest that every word sounded like a vow.
He had simply chosen a different cause.
And Steve Rogers had never believed in half measures.
“You’re frightened,” he murmured.
You tried to deny it, but he was already reaching for you.
His bloodstained fingers stopped inches from your cheek.
For all the horrors those hands had committed, Steve had never touched you without allowing you the opportunity to pull away.
You remained still.
His knuckles brushed your skin with impossible softness. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the warmth of his skin. You felt the faint stickiness of it against your cheekbone as his thumb traced a slow, deliberate path beneath your eye.
“Not of you,” you said.
A lie.
Perhaps not entirely, but enough of one that his eyes sharpened.
Steve knew every change in your breathing. Every nervous movement. Every careful word you selected when you thought honesty might provoke him.
He had studied you with the same thoroughness he once reserved for battle plans.
“You should never lie to me, sweetheart.”
His thumb pressed a little firmer, dragging a thin smear of blood across your skin. Then his hand slid lower, fingers spreading to cup the side of your neck. You felt the heat of his palm, the slight roughness of dried blood catching against your pulse point. His thumb rested over the rapid flutter of your heartbeat.
“What would you do if I admitted I was afraid?”
“To you?” His expression softened, but his body moved closer until the front of his uniform brushed your chest. You could feel the hard line of the tactical plates, the residual heat of his body, and the unmistakable press of his cock already half-hard against your hip. “Nothing.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one that matters.”
His other hand settled on your waist, fingers spreading wide over the soft give of flesh just above your hipbone. He pulled you flush against him in one controlled motion. The blood on his uniform transferred immediately – a dark, wet bloom spreading across the fabric covering your stomach and the underside of your breast. You felt the dampness soak through, the cool stickiness of it against your skin.
Steve’s mouth hovered near your forehead, then drifted lower. His lips brushed the corner of your eye, then the high point of your cheekbone, tasting the blood he had left there.
“You can be angry with me,” Steve continued, voice low and rough against your skin. “You can hate what I’ve done. You can scream, break everything in this room, refuse to speak to me for a week if that makes you feel better.”
His hand at your waist slid higher, palm dragging up the curve of your ribs until his thumb brushed the underside of your breast. He didn’t cup it fully – not yet – but the pressure was deliberate, possessive, testing how much you would allow.
“But you will never have to fear what I might do to you.”
Beyond the glass, soldiers dragged away the bodies of men Steve had condemned without hesitation.
You glanced toward them.
“And everyone else?”
Steve followed your gaze.
The tenderness disappeared from his face so quickly it made your stomach tighten.
“Everyone else should be afraid.”
His arm closed more tightly around your waist. The blood on his uniform pressed harder against you, transferring in broader streaks now. His cock was fully hard, a thick, insistent heat trapped between your bodies. You felt the slow roll of his hips – almost unconscious – as he ground once against you, the friction deliberate enough that a low sound escaped the back of his throat.
His hand finally closed over your breast, fingers spreading to claim the soft weight of it. His thumb dragged across your nipple through the fabric, once, twice, until it stiffened under the attention. The blood on his palm left another dark print on the cloth.
You were not naïve enough to mistake his restraint for goodness.
You were simply the one person upon whom his darkness refused to fall.
His exception.
Perhaps his weakness.
Although, as Steve lowered his head and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your temple – tongue briefly tasting the skin there – you suspected the rest of the world would consider you something far more dangerous.
“You need to wash,” you whispered.
Steve’s faint smile returned. His hand remained on your breast, kneading slowly, possessively.
“Are you ordering your commander around?”
“You’re getting blood on me.”
His gaze dropped to the crimson stain spreading across your sleeve and the darker, wetter patch over your chest.
For the first time since entering the interrogation chamber, Steve looked displeased.
Not by the deaths.
Not by the violence.
By the fact that some trace of it had touched you.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
He stepped back just far enough to give himself room, but his hands never left you. One stayed on your breast; the other slid down to the front of your pants, cupping you through the fabric with the same careful strength. You felt the heat of his blood-slick palm, the pressure of his fingers as they pressed against your mound, seeking the seam of you.
The apology was quiet and sincere.
It might have meant something, had three men not been lying dead in the next room.
Steve took your hand and turned it over, examining your palm as though he expected to find an injury. Then he brought it to his mouth and sucked two of your fingers between his lips, cleaning the faint smear of blood that had transferred there. His tongue was hot, thorough.
“There’s a secure room prepared upstairs,” he said against your knuckles. “You’ll stay there until the compound is under control.”
“I don’t need to be locked away.”
“It isn’t a prison.”
“It has an armed guard.”
“It has twelve.”
You stared at him.
Steve brought your fingers back to his lips, then lower, guiding your hand to the hard line of his cock straining against his tactical pants. He pressed your palm there and held it, letting you feel the thick pulse of him through the fabric.
“I have enemies,” he explained patiently, rolling his hips once into your hand. “And they’ve begun to understand what you are to me.”
His eyes held yours.
There was affection there.
Adoration, even.
Something so deep and absolute that it was more frightening than hatred could ever have been.
“You’re the only thing they could take from me,” he said. “So I’m going to make certain they never get close enough to try.”
“And how many people will you kill to make certain of that?”
Steve’s free hand slipped beneath the waistband of your pants without warning. His blood-streaked fingers found the heat between your legs, stroking slowly through the dampness already gathering there. He pushed two fingers between your folds, gathering the slick evidence of your body’s response, and pressed them deeper until the heel of his palm ground against your clit.
Then he smiled.
Every trace of softness remained reserved for you.
the idea that every summer will be as hot if not hotter than this for the rest of my life is unbearable i need to (remembers suicide jokes are bad for my mental health) murder an oil executive
sometimes u headcanon a character as a sexuality but then also ship things that contradict that. sometimes you ship things you would NEVER EVER want in canon. this is because these things are fun and silly and not legally binding.
Some NSFW tfatws!Bucky Barnes stuff, minors dni, nsfw below the pic u have been warned.
Warnings: most dom!bucky but some subby stuff, oral, p in v, lmk if I missed any
- just thinking about tfatws!bucky rutting into you like a fucking animal. He’s holding you so tight as he fucks you, god knows he needs this.
- He’s so hard and he just fucks you relentlessly, he’ll slow down and do these delicious slow strokes just to get himself to stop from cumming.
- even though he’s going so hard he’s murmuring the sweetest things in your ear, his head either nestled in your neck or his forehead up against yours.
- he’s so endlessly grateful, he can’t explain the bliss he feels during sex, cause it’s not just pleasure, it’s the fact that after so much suffering he gets to feel this way, you let him feel this way.
- he’s amazed you even like him, after everything he’s done.
- but every day it’s something, he’s so tense. He’s always stressed and you can feel it when it’s really bad.
- so when he’s had a particularly rough day you’ll start by coming up behind him and giving him a massage, he’ll almost always give in because his back might as well be a bunch of steel rods and your touch just feels so good.
- but a massage turns into making out turns into fucking
- also I think he’s a munch maybe I’m just romanticizing fictional men but idc.
- because I feel like eating u out would calm him down in a weird way. Like clear his brain. When he can focus on something that feels more simple (like your pleasure), he can feel relaxed and in a way safe. Between your thighs he feels very safe.
- he loves ur thighs.
- loves to lay on them as you run your fingers through his hair. He loves to kiss them, gently bite them. He just thinks they’re so soft and sweet.
- aftercare is incredibly important to him
- taking care of u is taking care of himself because not only does he love u so much and want u to be okay but everything he does is actively making amends, and he likes to feel like he’s being a good boyfriend, that he’s being good for you
He’s such a softie I know he’s like grumpy and stuff but cmon he’s a softie 🥺🥺
i think it's funny when a character is almost exclusively referred to by their last name by other people and this carries over into their internal monologue when someone writes from their pov. not even on a first name basis with herself
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