Seeing as we're on the subject of Disney, who is the Prince Charming actor that gets handsy during a photo op...
He literally looks like a prince!!!! Sure, it makes zero sense for him to be working at fucking Disney World lolll but I dunno, maybe he winds up broke after his toxic family cuts him off and beggars canât be choosers đ€Ł
Also if youâre gonna wear such a slutty sundress with your ass hanging out already, obviously you want him to grab a handful đ
Haha but that makes perfect sense. He gets cut off and the only thing he can get that still strokes the ego is so many girls fluttering and fawning over him and getting a photo!
The hands dragging you through the halls and towards your boss were painful, digging into your skin so hard you knew that movement in the coming days would be difficult. Muscles bruised and torn, skin scratched, all by your âcoworkersâ who were angry that you'd betrayed them.
Well they could choke for all you cared, you hadn't signed onto this job so that you could kill a bunch of innocent people just to get to a vault. You werenât a saint, you were a hacker, and a thief, just like everyone else, but you had standards, you had to if you wanted to stay out of jail.
Nick should've remembered that about you.Â
You growl in more pain as you're dragged into a dark room and tied down firmly to a heavy wooden chair, the ropes burning and chafing. You spit at the others as they walk out, and then you wait as you hear his footsteps coming towards the open doorway. You roll your eyes. Nick Fowler was always dramatic.
You scowl as he kneels in front of you, turning your head away when he goes to cup your cheek,
âDonât play coy with me, baby. What did you do with the information?â
âThe deal was off the second you killed those people, asshole,â
You meant it. Nick Fowler would never get that crucial information he needed now. It didn't matter what he did to you.
âYou know I love when you're a little spicy, baby, but right now, wellâŠâ he starts ripping your top open, fingers trailing over your skin, âI need you to behave and give me what I need. And you behave so much better when I have my hands on you.â
Going to start writing my entires for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor and @stargazingfangirl18 birthday challenges and I am giving myself a 1500 word limit on BOTH đ€
These are my (possibly dubious) birthday gifts to them, as well as to me because Iâll try and post both on my birthday on the 18th to get some attention đ
Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, cheating/established relationships, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. 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: Andy Barber, side of Mike Weiss
Summary: You have a baby on the way but itâs not the only surprise.
As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Iâm happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.
"You're nervous," Andy says as he sits beside you. You look down and stop your leg from bouncing.
"Sorry. Er... I am." You answer.
"About?" He prompts.
"The baby, just in general. I guess. It's a lot. I've been reading so much and... feels like a whole mountain," you sit back and cradle your hands in front of your stomach.
"I don't relish that feeling but I remember it well," he says.
"Mm. Mr. Barber, you don't have to stay."
"I don't mind," he leans back and stretches his neck. "It's kind of... exciting. My boy's about to graduate. He's done with mom and dad. It's almost... nostalgic," he shrugs. "Unless... you don't want me here."
"Well, erm... it is nice to have someone. It's a lot to go to these all alone."
"Yeah, your husband didn't come to the others?"
"Not yet. He's very busy. And he's my boyfriend," you sigh. "Things happened quick."
"Ah, right," he nods.
You shrink down. You must see very naive to someone like him. You have a baby on the way and a boyfriend too important for either of you.
"Well, what about mom? Your mom? Laurie's was elbow deep in everything about the pregnancy." He twirls his thumbs around each other. "The appointments, the shower, the nursery... felt like she didn't trust me."
"Oh, no. My mom... passed. In high school."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."
"Not your fault. She wouldn't be very much help either." You squirm and clasp your hands tightly. "I can do it. I think. I... I think I'll be a good mom because I always wanted one... maybe that's stupid."
"I don't think so. Parents are... tough," he replies. He plays with the knot of his tie. "My dad wasn't there. Hasn't been. He's in prison. Better for everyone that way."
"Oh my." You murmur. "I hope... I just don't want to ever do that. Leave my baby behind, you know? I... maybe... maybe I didn't think this out."
"Sweetie, please, you're going to be great because you are thinking about it at all. Lots of people don't. You will do this. It'll be fine." He puts his hand on your shoulder and rubs your arm. "It's okay to be scared. It's good. It means you care."
"Thanks--"
Your name undercuts your words. You look over at the nurse and gulp. You stand. Your purse falls onto the floor.
Andy scoops up the bag and hands it to you. You take it with a shaky smile.
"Hey, you want me to come with you?" He offers. "Up to you."
"Um," you glance at the nurse. "Okay. If it's okay."
"Sure," he stands up.
He follows you across the waiting room and down the hall. The nurse tells you to take off your shirt and put a hospital gown on. Andy shifts.
"I'll stay in the hall," he assures.
The nurse leaves and shuts the door. You take of your shirt and put the gown on. You go to the door and open it and inch.
"It's okay now, Mr. Barber."
He pushes away from the wall and comes in. He closes the door and sits in the chair across from the bed. You climb up and lay down. You wiggle your feet restlessly as you stare at the ceiling.
"Forgot what it was like," he mutters. "Doctor's and stuff. Laurie's been bothering me to get my cholesterol checked for years."
"She cares a lot about you," you say.
He hums but doesn't say anything.
The tech enters before the silence can grow tense. She greets you and covers your bottom half with a sheet. She pulls your waistband lower and tucks the top into it to bare your pelvis.
She blocks Andy's view of you as she squeezes the gel onto the wand.
"I'll be cold," she warns.
She presses it against your pelvis and you flinch. She feels around as she looks at the screen, dragging around your stomach and pelvis. She pushes down and chimes.
"There they are," she gestures to the screen. "And they are very healthy." She continues to shift. "Just gonna get as many images as I can."
"Okay," you lay still as she continues. Beyond the physical, you feel like little more than a cadaver.
"You two must be very excited. Oh and they're just the perfect size."
"Um, er," you stammer. How do you explain that Andy is your boss, not the father.
"We are. Very," Andy says. "Can I get a closer look?"
You nod and the tech angles around. He gets up and stands behind her as he looks at the screen. You shyly peek up. His lips part as his blue eyes almost gleam.
"Wow," he utters. His throat bobs.
"Just a little bean," the tech says.
You push yourself up on your elbows to see. You stare at the pulsing image. There's a baby in you. A real life inside.
Your heart clutches as your eyes crest. You're going to bring a baby into all this? Into Mike not showing up? Into being alone and afraid?
You lay back and breathe out until the tears recede. Andy stays close, startling you as he touches your hand. He smiles down at you.
"It's so amazing, isn't it, sweetie."
You blink and nod. "Yeah, uh, yes."
"We can send you a few with you to put on the fridge," the tech says. "Show family."
"Oh, sure," you agree. You can show Mike. Maybe then, he'll show up.
Hi! I'm TOTALLY IN LOVE with this fanfic you wrote!! could you please write another fic about Thorin x reader? maybe where Thorin tries to push away reader because he thinks he's too old for them and is scared the sickness of the dragon will take him again? I don't know if you're accepting requests, it's totally fine if you don't of course đ thank you â€ïž
Like a Heartbeat Drives You Mad
Thorin was evasive. He was never very talkative but since that night he chanted your name like a prayer, he kept himself elusive. You wouldn't be so presumptive as you think him afraid of you, perhaps just slightly embarrassed. As he said, you had no doubt it was likely the side effect of his constant frustration with you.
You walked with Dwalin and Balin. The elderly brothers competed often with their fearless king in the arena of gripes. They moaned of every ache or pain or even just an unexpected dip the ground, as if the land were working against them.
Kill and Fili and were not far behind in the train. They sounded as if they were having much more fun. You slowed, unnoticed by the aged warriors, and joined the brothers Durin. They greeted you with a fistful of mud across your coat.
"Eh? Is this why you're causing ruckus?" You wiped off the muck and scowled.
"What else is there to do in this swamp?" Kili flung a fistful over the heads of the elder dwarves.
A grunted replied from ahead, beyond where you couldn't see. The thick figures ahead of you parted and made way for the fuming bull. Thorin puffed into his beard, muck strewn through his hair.
"Which on of you--" He jabbed his finger in the air then choked as his crystalline eyes fell on you. His index hovered just before you before he dropped it. "No more throwing dirt!"
He turned and marched past back through the brothers ahead of you. You stared at his back as Fili whistled and Kili clucked. You continued to scrape the mud from your jacket.
"I hope there's a river ahead," you muttered.
"That was odd of uncle." Fili commented.
"Wasn't it?" Kili agreed.
"Huh? He yells at you two often."
"But not very much this time," Kili countered. "I expected at least a cuff on my ear."
"Or a box on the chin," Fili added.
You dropped your arms and puffed out. You kept on, dragging your feet on the soft earth. A heat nipped at your ears and you glanced between the brothers. They smirked.
"No more mud--"
"Never worry. We've had our fun," Fili held up his hands. "What has transpired?"
"You threw mud--"
"No, between you and Uncle Thorin," Kili nudged you. "What've you done?"
"Me? I've done nothing but the only thing we've been doing. Walk!"
"Something..."
"Naughty."
The brothers continued each other's thoughts.
"What? No!" You protested.
"You are a poor liar."
"I do not lie."
"We both saw it. Uncle... has a heart?" Fili chortled.
"You are wrong."
"Never," Kili insisted. "Shall I ask him or should you, brother? I should like to see the red in his cheeks."
"You are deluded," you scoffed and hurried ahead. "I tire of you."
You stepped back between Balin and Dwalin. You sniffed and shook your head. You stared up at the king, gripping his ax as he lead the charge. Alone.
"Is there something amiss with the king?" You asked.
"What mean you?" Balin wondered.
"Nothing. It is only... he has been quiet with me."
"Isn't he ever?" Dwalin snorted.
"Hm, suppose..." you trailed off and once more kicked ahead of them.
You pumped your arms to meet the gait of the king. He didn't seem to notice you. Not until you greeted him aloud.
He flinched, "what are you doing?"
"My king--"
"I am scouting. You must stay with the others," he looked past you, not at you.
"Yes, I will. Once you tell me what that was."
"What what was? Be plain. Dwarfesses and their riddles," he growled.
You sighed, "you ran away from me like I was an orc."
"Do not speak of them lest they appear," he chided.
"Apologies, my king, but tell me why--"
"I did not run."
"Surely, you did. Your nephews saw it--"
"My nephews are fools," he argued.
"But I am not." You returned.
It was his turn to sigh. He put his chin down and walked with his hands clasped on the handle of his ax. He tisked between his teeth.
"You should be with the others."
"You said so already--"
"You shouldn't be near me," he warned and turned his face away from you.
"I shouldn't? Because you are king?"
"That is not--" he paused and set his chin straight. He watched the horizon as he continued. "Would you invade my waking hours as you do my dreams?"
You tripped but caught yourself. You blinked in surprise. "So you were--"
"It hardly should matter. You should obey your king and be away," he waved you off.
"Why do you dream of me?"
He was silent again. This time for a while. You wavered and think to take his command. Before you can, he cleared his throat.
"I am old and old dwarves grow wild. They're mind wanders... their wits with it."
"You are unwell?"
"Mmm, not in this moment," he grumbled. "Not with you near and so is the issue. A king shouldn't feel such. Not for a dwarfess as you."
"Eh?"
"A king prone to delusion as my father was. A man with years in his bones like sand in a glass."
"I would not be mistaken, my king, what you say--"
"A confession I trust you treat with discretion. For I know, you are too young for such a proposal and I am too mad--"
"My king?" You chuckled. "Would you not even let me think on it before you accept rejection?"
"You would mock me," he stared at his boots as he trod on.
"Never, my king. But I hear you. Let it settle in my ears so I might have a clear thought." You girded, "I will return your answer before you dream of me again."
"You tease, still."
You grinned and tilted your head, "I've not yet decided if I do or I don't."
My guidelines for asks sent are in this post. I appreciate your interest in my story. I would appreciate some patience in my updating, especially on ao3 as I have discussed that I've been dealing with harassment on that platform. I'm doing my best.
Thank you again for taking the time to send an ask.
Curtis. I want that manâs face between my legs as he holds me down and ravages my kitty til his heartâs content, uncaring that Iâm crying and completely non-functioning before cooing at me as he finally fills me with his cock đ« đ”âđ«đ«„
Warnings: noncon/dubcon, smutty smut, mentions of blood, allusions to death/killing. Please mind that not all triggers are explicitly tagged. Proceed with caution.
Note: as usual, I adore your comments and reblogs and anything you have to offer. take care.
Curtis is often grumpy, but rarely is he truly angry. Today is a rare day, indeed. Heâs mad and youâve messed up.Â
Outside your stronghold in the mountains, you make a priority of silence. Youâre used to the extended lulls when all you can hear is the soft drift of snow or the whipping winds. Yet now, it feels even more quiet. A dearth so deep it makes your ears hurt. Almost as much as his grip on you.Â
Youâre not sure he even realises heâs still latched on. Heâs a strong man, not just physically. Thatâs why youâre with him. He can keep you safe from others like him. And safe from yourself.Â
Your wrist bones feel creaky as he drags you by your arm. His fingers squeeze more and less in tempo with his roiling emotions. He takes you through the snowy pass and pauses only to check the traps havenât been tripped. If someone did venture upon your hidey hole, they surely wouldnât breach it.Â
He guides you were to step to avoid the safeguards and at the door, he pushes you in ahead of him. He finally lets your own, your wrist throbbing at the sudden absence of pressure. The door slams at his back and you turn to face him.Â
âCurtis--âÂ
âShut up,â he growls as he unbuttons his coat.Â
You wince. You committed a cardinal sin. One that stains your own jacket. You look down at the red stain. There was a time when the sight of blood made you faint. Now, itâs just another grim reality.Â
âHe was hurt--â you say as he hangs his hatches on the mounted hooks.Â
âI said shut the fuck up,â he rips his glove off and throws it at you. Harmless. Not like the blade on the wall.Â
You lower your eyes. You want to apologise but he wonât let you. Â
âWe donât help. We donât fuck with strangers.â He snarls as he sits to untie his boots. Heâs huffing with anger. âYou donât break the fucking rules.âÂ
âI know--âÂ
âQuiet!â He snarls. âYou know better. I know you do. Youâre here because you know how shit works. You listen, you shut up, and you survive.âÂ
Heâs right. You need him more than he needs you. He made that clear. Heâs better off alone, youâre not.Â
He glares at you. His eyes flick up and down as he continues to tug at the laces wound around the top of his boots. He snaps his fingers with his other hand. He doesnât need to give the command.Â
You take of your coat, your mitts, your hat. All of them patched, layers sewn into layers, and you put them all where they belong. Thereâs a hook for each coat, a basket for the rest, and a shelf for the dripping boots.Â
When you have disposed of your out layers, you cross the room. You stop by the large metal tub you use to scrub the flannel, denim, and wool. You undress and drop each piece inside. As you do, Curtis stokes the low fire. Itâs let to ember in your absence but is never left to die. That warmth is lifeâs blood.Â
You go to rug in front of the blazing fire stove and get on your knees. You sit naked and pliant, waiting as he paces. He pulls of his beanie and brushes his hand over his hair. He hasnât let you trim it in some time. You barely recognise him as his close shave has grown to long shanks.Â
He turns and nears as he frames his hips with his hands. You raise yourself and fall forward so you are on hands and knees. That is what he prefers.Â
âOn your back,â he demands, as if he means to contradict your every instinct. He feeds your doubt each time you try to predict him.Â
You pull back and turn over. You peer up at him as you sit on your ass then slowly spread yourself out across the rug. As you wait for his next move, your eyes wander around the small space. He built the couch and the chairs. All with sturdy frames, cushions stuffed with feather or repurposed cotton, the fabric as mismatched as your clothing.Â
He walks circles around you. You hear only the crackle of the fire and his long, measured breaths. He stops, facing the fire, and reaches over his head to pull his shirt up. He peels it off and tosses it toward the tub without a glance. You watch the corded muscles of his back, the way his shoulder blades are bound in strength, the contortion of power in flesh.Â
He watches the open door of the fire stove, the heat blaring out nothing in comparison to his anger. He balls his fists and turns stiffly. He drops to his knees. His chest is just as thick and strong, his torso is svelte with muscle, dark fur across both, thinning out down his stomach all the way to his belt.Â
He grabs your ankles and rips them apart. You spread for him easily. You bend your knees and drag your feet up, shivering at your exposure. He drops forward onto his hands and crawls toward you. He stops before you, his eyes fixated on your cunt.Â
You are entirely vulnerable. And terrified. Usually, heâs hectic and hungry. He doesnât have time to look at you as he buries his cock as deep as it will go. As he crushes your body under his and fucks you into the floor or the couch or wall. But then he appears almost entranced by the sight of you.Â
He lowers himself nearly to his stomach and you feel his breath fan over you. You shiver and clench. He growls and nuzzles your folds beneath the wiry curls. You squeak as he pushes his nose between them and tilts his head up until his lips brush against you.Â
He hums and swipes his tongue along your cunt. You twitch and reach to grab his head, shocked by the act. Heâs never done that. No, itâs always him inside you. Your mouth, your cunt, your ass; all belong to him.Â
He smacks your hand away. You recoil and fold your arms up at your sides. Your fingers curl and your nails dig into your palms as his tongue flicks again. Your feet arch and your calves strain. Instinctively, your back arches.Â
He laps at you eagerly. Your body responds. He smears your juices around his face, rolling his head as he rubs his face into your cunt. Your voice trickles out in surprised and splendid mewls. Whatever heâs doing is amazing.Â
Your eyes roll back and you slap your hands onto your stomach as the tension coils inside of you. The tingling begins in your thighs and creeps up your back. Then he stops and it recedes, leaving a heavy weight in your core. Your cunt squeezes as he puffs damply over it.Â
Your lashes flutter and you peek down at him. Heâs watching you. You stare back as you lift yourself onto your elbows. You want more but you know better than to say so.Â
He waits until your heartbeat calms and your nerves dull. Then he dives in again, so suddenly you yelp. You keep one elbow against the floor as the other clutches a wad of your hair. You push your chest up and groan as once more his tongue stirs you to delight.Â
You moan and whine, panting as your climax climbs even quicker than before and he stops, just as abruptly as before. Youâre left dangling just before the edge. Almost, almost, almost. It hurts.Â
He watches you again. You give him a tortured look, your head wobbling on your neck. You wiggle your hips and he shakes his head.Â
He keeps his eyes locked on your as he slowly lowers himself down. He sticks out his tongue, spreading it wide, and brings his fingers up to push your folds apart. He watches you as he licks your cunt. You quiver and whimper. He does it again, slowly, a long stroke that has your walls clutching.Â
Before you can say his name, he pulls back and hushes you. You snap your mouth shut. He raises himself to his knees and tilts his head.Â
âYou forget your rules,â he sneers. âThe rule is, you only cum on my cock.âÂ
He looks down as he undoes his fly. He pulls his dick out, gripping it as veins throb under his flesh. He pumps himself, pulling back the skin to reveal his swollen tip. He growls and lifts himself on his knees.Â
He angles over you and presses his tip against your pelvis. He drags it down between your lips, rubbing along your cunt, smearing your juices onto him as he trickles precum. He lines up with your entrances and pokes in, just an inch.Â
He brings his hand up along your side, tracing a tingling trail along your skin. He leans on one elbow as he frames your chin with his hand. He glares down at you, his blue eyes as cold as ice. He slips his hand down to stretch across your neck. Â
He thrusts, forcing himself as deep as he can. The blunt intrusion strangles a yipe from you as you latch onto his wrist. Your heels bounce against the floor and he snarls, thrusting again, pausing to watch you struggle. Â
His brow furrows and his eyes blaze as he ruts again. You run your hand up and down his forearm, your other hand grasping at his bulging bicep. He pumps into you deliberately, in, stop. Out, stop. Heâs punishing you.Â
He slips his hand under your ass and sinks in even deeper. His other hand snakes around to back of your neck and he hangs his head next to yours. âSay youâre fucking sorry,â he growls and bites down on your shoulder.Â
âSorry--â you squeal as he brings his full weight down in a violent thrust.Â
MAAM. THE WAY THE TENSION GROWS. CURTIS' RAGE, hint of fear, THEIR HIDEOUT FROM THE APOCALYPSE, THEIR LITTLE HOME and traces of domesticity AND THAT SMUT!!!
Warnings: this drabble includes elements which may be dark. Please mind these warnings and take care.
Explicit, 18+. Please reblog and leave some feedback.
A day off is exactly what you need. Still, your internal clock doesnât register the break. You wake up at the same time, make your coffee, and contemplate the meaning of life. When the single-serve finishes its churning, you claim your mug and yawn over the brim, blowing away the wisp of steam.Â
You cross your apartment, the air stuffy with the damp spring evening melding into the warmth of the rising sun. You go to the balcony door and watch the haze of orange behind the cityscape as the dark blue ripples to shades of cerulean. As you let yourself out onto the narrow balcony, you find your way impeded. Â
Your coffee splashes over the top of the cup and splats onto the figure slumped across the concrete. You sigh and take a sip. The man always shows up when youâre in dire need of caffeine. You look down at him, perplexed at what to do next. Heâs too big for you to move on your own and you have the humanity to wonder why heâs passed out.Â
âUghhhhhhh,â the catlike intruder groans as he rolls onto his back and you flinch, nearly spilling more upon him.Â
âHi,â you peer down dumbly.Â
His blue eyes flit side to side then angle to the glimpse of the sky beneath the next floorâs balcony. He lets out a deep breath as his brows furrow and ripples line his forehead, âmorning.âÂ
Is he saying good morning or is he stating the time? For as little as heâs ever said to you, youâre not certain. You sniff and let it out in a heave.Â
âAre you hurt?â You ask, giving in.Â
âI am wounded,â he answers and grits his teeth.Â
You nod. That doesnât really help either of you. Â
âCan you move?â Â
He grimaces and plants his hands beside him. He pushes himself up with a growl and leans heavily forward. Heâs panting from the effort. Shoot.Â
âYes,â he puffs.Â
âGot it,â you cluck.Â
You back up and reach to set your mug on the ledge that stands under the rows of windows looking out over the balcony. You keep the door open with your foot and come back out. He hugs his stomach as he rubs his bruised temple.Â
âDo you need help?âÂ
He shakes his head and shifts, reaching for the railing. He hauls himself up with a suppressed grunt and hunches before he can stand straight. His eyes meet yours as he faces you, dragging his foot as he limps forward.Â
âConcussion, bruised ribs,â he hobbles closer, âfoot might be fractured.âÂ
His diagnosis is cool and detached. As if it isnât his own body. You step back out of the way and he enters the dark apartment. Only the kitchen light and the slowly blooming sunrise glow in the space. He staggers onward and you claim your mug. Youâll wait until you see the bottom to figure this out.Â
As he falls onto your couch, you go into the kitchen. He sits with his head tilted back and takes straggling breaths through his nose. You take out a second mug, a pod, and tap the brew button. You languish in the tension as you wait for the long grind.Â
You continue to nurse your own coffee as you bring his out and place it on the square table beside the armrest. He rumbles as he opens his eyes. His pupils are dark pits.Â
âThank you,â he mutters.Â
âMm,â you push your tip against your teeth, âyou know, Iâm not too good with blood so...âÂ
âCoffeeâs fine,â he sits forward and stymies another groan. He grabs the mug and drinks, sighing in relief. âYou got a bed sheet I can ruin?âÂ
You consider him. This is strange. Youâve just accepted that heâs going to come and crash on your couch and thereâs nothing you can do about it. Why? Itâs probably that knife. He hasnât hurt you and you donât want that to change.Â
âSure,â you agree with a shrug.Â
He takes another sip and brings his other hand up to feel the heat through the porcelain. He focuses on the mug and you back up. He isnât even asking you to help, you just assumed. As you go to grab an old sheet out of the linen chest, you canât help but wonder what happened to him. You donât think heâll be any more chatty about that than anything else.Â
The Cat Distribution System never fails! She no longer really reacts to him, he's just an accepted part of her life and I love it!
He's injured, limited in his capacity to hurt her, but she's still not calling the cops or anything! This is prime time to get him out but she's just "let me finish my coffee".
She doesn't even seem like she's thinking about moving away! I can't imagine how God would react if she even tried to do that.
No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.
Warnings:Â this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power imbalance, low self esteem, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
Summary: you meet a mysterious man on a night out with your sister. (petite!reader)
based on the winning option for this poll
Characters: casino owner!Bucky Barnes
Note:Â I had this pistachio cake and it was so good. I didn't know what else to put here but yum.
As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. Iâm trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.
Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I havenât forgotten those!) Please do not just put âmoreâ. I will block you.
I love you all immensely. Take care. đ
Youâre shaking, barely able to keep your legs from collapsing beneath you. Even with Buckyâs arm around you, youâre weak. His confidence makes you feel even smaller; reminds you of who and what you really are. Youâre not this. Youâre not arm candy. Youâre not some gorgeous supermodel. Youâre just you.Â
As you get to the end of the hall, you face the elevator and wait. His large hand squeezes your hip and he draws you even closer. He surprises you with a peck on your head. A thrill flows through you.Â
âIâm the luckiest guy in this casino, baby,â he purrs and urges you through the doors as they open.Â
You gulp and lean back into his arm as you step on, the transparent walls peering down on the drop. You try not to look and put your hand over his. You cling to his fingers and close your eyes, dizzy from the descent.Â
âAh, I forgot, doll,â he holds you even snugger, âDonât worry, I got you. You stay close to me, alright?âÂ
âOkay,â you wisp out as the motion of the elevator adds to your displacement.Â
When at last you reach the bottom, you nearly wriggle right out of his hold. He keeps you firmly against him and struts off with you at his side. He releases you only to hook his arm through yours. You cling to him if only to keep from tripping in the heels.Â
You look down at yourself, recalling your attire as you pass a mirrored wall. You barely recognise the woman and yet itâs you. The make-up isnât too heavy, your hair is perfectly done, and despite your frightened expression, you look good. Better than ever. Well, anything is an improvement over your typical aesthetic.Â
You pass through the hotel lobby into the main room of the casino. The ringing of machines and flashing lights stun you. He stops with you and raises his chin proudly. To him, itâs just another night. For you, itâs a night you wonât ever forget; one youâll never know again.Â
âAll of this is ours, doll,â he says. You wince at that word; âoursâ. Itâs a fantasy, he knows it. It must be what he tells all his women.Â
You can only let a jitter shake you. He continues on and you follow. The chaos of the casino has you senseless. You drift through like his shadow as he pulls you along. Â
Yet, you notice that you are not unseen. You feel the eyes all around you, you see them. Necks crane, bodies twists, and lips whisper. Youâre overly aware that theyâre watching you. No, theyâre watching him.Â
You feel ice form a shell over you. You numb yourself to it all as best you can. If you let yourself feel the storm brewing inside you, it will surely blow you over. Â
Bucky stops you and winks at you. He reaches to rub your hand on his forearm and gives a squeeze, ârelax. I got you. You trust me, donât you?âÂ
You exhale and nod, âyes.âÂ
âAlright, then, doll,â he pulls his arm back and puts his hand on the small of your back, âletâs go.âÂ
He walks you along, a casual pace. The looks continue. People acknowledge him as he passes, the bartender calls him sir and several other staff. He approaches a table and you steel yourself nervously. Men in suits chuckle loudly as dice are thrown against the trim.Â
âStark,â Barnes stops beside a man with grey patches at his temple, âyou didnât bring your own dice again, did you?âÂ
âThey searched me on the way in. Whatâs that about?â The man snickers, âbut I see you get to bring your own toys.âÂ
The man makes a show of looking around Bucky, leering at you. Bucky pushes him straight by the chest, ânever had any problem finding something to play with.âÂ
âAh, donât be so sensitive. Your girls are always so much fun,â the man, Stark, taunts.Â
âKeep your hands to yourself, that goes for the staff too,â Bucky warns.Â
âWow, have you demoted yourself to bouncer now?âÂ
âThese are my people, Tony,â he claps the manâs shoulder, âconsider it a friendly reminder. I know you tend to forget.âÂ
The man scoffs and rolls his eyes. He takes the dice as theyâre held out to him and tosses them onto the felt. Bucky tickles your lower back with his finger and you squirm, elbowing an unexpected figure behind you. You let out a squeak and turn as Bucky does the same.Â
âHey,â a skinny man, not much taller than yourself greets, âbeen looking for you.âÂ
âSteve,â Bucky says, âwhatâre you doing here?âÂ
âAh, you know,â he scratches his floppy golden hair, âyou havenât picked up your phone so--âÂ
âShoot, whatâs the date?âÂ
âBuck, itâs tomorrow,â the blond, Steve, grins, âIâm just making sure you show up. Ma would be real disappointed.âÂ
âI wouldnât miss Sarah Rogersâ birthday for anything,â Bucky avows, the genuine tone in his voice wrenching at your chest. âYou gonna stay and enjoy the tables? You still got your complimentary chips waiting on you.âÂ
âTold ya, I donât like to gamble,â Steve chuckles, âbut thanks.âÂ
âIâm sorry, buddy. I shouldâve picked up. Iâve been so busy...â Bucky pauses as Steve smiles at you sheepishly as if heâs only just noticed you. Â
âI get it,â Steveâs lashes flick, âsheâs... miss, youâre real pretty.âÂ
He sounds as nervous as you feel. His cheeks tinge pink and he tucks his thumbs into his pockets. His brown slacks definitely donât fit into the sparkling casino. Bucky laughs too.Â
âChill, have a drink at the bar before you go.âÂ
âThanks, pal,â Steve smooths back his hair, âbut I should probably head out--âÂ
âShe donât bite, Rogers,â Bucky chides, âwell, Iâll tell her to keep her teeth to herself,â he rubs your back and slips his fingers around your side, pulling you close once more. âHave a drink for me, alright?âÂ
âAlright,â the smaller man exhales, âdonât forget.âÂ
âI wonât,â Bucky promises.Â
As the blond strides away, slightly off kilter as he looks around, seeming lost as he tries to see around the people around, Bucky draws you away from the dice table. The small man reminds you a lot of yourself in some ways. Heâs braver than you, he came all alone.Â
âThat... who?â You wonder.Â
âMy best friend. Since we were kids,â he answers, âgood guy, just a bit... uppity. His maâs got her birthday tomorrow. You should come.âÂ
âOh, uh, thatâs... I donât know--âÂ
âSheâll be happy to meet ya. Sheâs been telling me to settle down for years,â he scoffs. âHer son too and he does try...âÂ
âWell, this isnât.... itâs early--â you stammer.Â
âYou still donât believe me,â he challenges you as he angles you to face him. He brings his hands to your arms, stroking the bare skin with his roughened fingertips, âyou donât think Iâm gonna keep ya, doll?âÂ
âNo, I didnât-- I donât know. Itâs all so new andâI'm sorry, Bucky, I want toâI donât know, I donât know, I donât know--âÂ
âShhh, doll, Iâm not mad. I got work to do. Thatâs fine,â he trails his fingers up the strap of your dress and tickles your throat, âIâll keep it up, donât you worry. Letâs get ya a drink.âÂ
He walks you to the bar, laying his hand on the top as the bartender crosses to him attentively. Bucky pauses before he orders and looks at you, âladies first. What do you want, doll?âÂ
You look between Bucky and the bartender. You have no idea. You werenât planning on drinking, youâre already a mess as it is but you donât want to be rude.Â
âYou like cranberry, doll? How about a cosmopolitan?â Bucky suggests.Â
You nod and face the bar again, âsure, uh, please, a cos...âÂ
âCosmopolitan, coming up,â the bar tender agrees, âusual, sir?âÂ
âSingle,â Bucky holds up a finger, âI wanna keep my wits about me.âÂ
The bartender sets to work and you fidget. You crane around to see the rest of the casino, a furor rising from the blackjack table. Bucky rubs your arm and draws your attention back to him. You give a nervous smile as you try not to think about those watching you in turn.Â
âHey, donât even worry about it,â his voice is low and gravelly as he brings a finger up under your chin, âthe only thing that matters is us, doll.âÂ
Before you can react, he leans in to kiss you. Youâre caught entirely off guard, trapped in his snare as his tongue glides along your lips. He hums and pulls back, dropping his hand with a sigh.Â
âI gotta get a hold on myself,â he laughs as he shows his palm, âyou make it hard, doll. You really do.âÂ
You rock and smile bigger. Your cheeks are fiery and your temples are pounding. The bartender announces your cocktail and puts it up. Bucky takes it and hands it to you. You thank him as he turns to retrieve the short tumbler of flat whiskey.Â
âGo on, have a taste, doll,â he encourages as he gives a gentle tap to the base of the stemmed glass.Â
You look down at the coned glass of vibrant red liquor and juice, a twist of lemon against the brim. You raise it cautiously and give a sniff before you press your lips around the glass. Your eyes flick up as Bucky lets out a rumble. He fixates on your mouth as you sip, his teeth graze over his lower lip.Â
Your cheeks pinch as you taste the mixed drink and you pull it away from your mouth. You dab your lips with your knuckles, terrified of smearing the gloss. You flutter your lashes at him and force another tight smile, âmm, itâs... sweet.âÂ
âDangerous,â he smirks, âI donât do cocktails. They go down to easy.âÂ
âOh,â you give a guilty pout. âI donât...âÂ
âItâs fine, itâs not that much,â he waves off your excuse, âreally, doll, you could use it. Itâll help you relax.âÂ
âRight, er, thanks,â you slowly turn the stem between your fingers and look down at the glass. âIâm sorry I donât...âÂ
âHm,â he shifts closer as your voice drifts off, âsorry for what, doll?âÂ
He nudges you smoothly away from the bar, putting you back into step as he casually traverses the floor, his hand right on your back. He guides you subtly with the constant warmth between your hips. It is both comforting and disjointing. Heâs there with you, propping you up, and yet you do not belong.Â
âI donât really fit, er, or... know what to do,â you murmur.Â
He leans in to hear your small voice. He scoffs.Â
âLet me tell you something, doll. You fit just nice on my arm. You donât need to worry about anyone else but me, you got it? All these people in this room, theyâre nothing. All these lights, all this noise, and I can only see you,â he purrs.Â
You giggle nervously. Heâs so flattering. He always knows just what to say. Â
âThanks, I...â you look away, embarrassed at your little confession. Youâre supposed to be trying to blend in and yet you canât help but put yourself on the sideline. Heâs not the type. He is the main attraction.Â
âYou feel better, doll?â He asks as he rubs the dip of your back. âIf itâs too much, we can go somewhere else.âÂ
âIâm... Iâm good. I donât wanna ruin the night,â you say, âreally.â You raise the glass and sip again, âitâs really good, thank you, Bucky.âÂ
âMph, I love it when you say my name,â he snarls, âcome on.âÂ
He continues along, guiding you between tables and behind distracted bodies. The tables are packed with gamblers and figures pass from one to one, a line forming around the counter dolling out chips for cash. You take it all in, as if itâs a scene in a movie, observing all the background characters... still, you donât feel like the star.Â
A sharp pain strikes your arm suddenly and you stumble into Bucky. He keeps you from teetering onto your ass as he hugs his arm around you. Your cocktail slips out of your grasp and the glass cracks on the floor, splashing the remnants across the carpet. Â
Youâre pressed into Bucky as the unstable man latches onto the tall stool he just slid off of. The impact of his elbow thrums in your arm and you rub the tender spot and wince. Bucky shifts you behind him and moves as fast as a shadow. The back of his dark jacket strains across his shoulder blades as he grabs the man by his collar.Â
âHey, what the hell are ya doing? Watch yourself! You nearly knocked my woman over,â he sneers as he as good as shakes the man, âyou made a mess of my carpet, you scumbag.âÂ
âBucky,â you squeak in horror, the hot eruption of rage surprises you. He is a different man; he looks more like a wolf as he snarls at the offender. âIt was an accident--âÂ
âNah, it was a mistake,â Bucky brings the man even closer, âget the hell outta my casino before I break you like that glass.â Bucky shoves him away and kicks the broken glass on the floor, ânow.âÂ
He puffs his chest out as the other man rambles drunkenly, apologising and staggering, skittering off in an uneven gait. He glances back several times as if fearing heâll be followed. Bucky signals across the room and you see a man in a suit nod; he must be security.Â
âBucky,â you touch his elbow and gently graze his sleeve down to his hand, âare you okay?âÂ
He opens his fist and lets you tuck your hand into his. Youâre quaking again. You cling to him out of need. Youâre adrenaline rings in your ears. You donât like anger.Â
âIâm sorry--âÂ
âDonât be sorry, doll,â he squeezes your hand as he exhales the tension from his shoulders. He looks down at your hand and lifts it, turning to you as he kisses the back of it. He leaves a tingle on your skin, âI like that.â He tightens his grip as he keeps a hold of you, âyou need a fresh drink, doll.âÂ
Warnings:Â financial stress and abuse, coercion, noncon, and some possible unmentioned triggers.
Character:Â Nick Fowler
Summary:Â You realise you donât know Nick anymore.
Note:Â I'm still on a short hiatus for my novel but might drop tiny tidbits here and there between.
As always, I appreciate all kinds of feedback. A like and reblog means so much to me! <3
You pull the straps over your shoulders, the satin sheet cool around your figure. The frigid night ekes in through the window as you move through the dark. Your ears are pricked for the measured breaths keeping tempo. Heâs asleep. Youâre not free, but you can catch your breath.
You think of closing the window before you go. It nips deep into your flesh but heâll be fine in the heaps of down and fabric on the bed. You ease open the door and edge down the hallway, careful not to do more than scuff the floor with your bare soles.
You take the stairs one at a time, careful not to creak on your descent. You go into the den, nightie swishing around your legs as your impatience boils over. You unclasp the glass doors framed in walnut and take out the bottle of Shiraz. You take it to the window bench and nestle up to watch the night gales stir the autumn leaves.
You wiggle free the cork, left loose by your last indulgence. You take a swig and sigh at the relief of the bitter flow across your tongue. You used to hate the flavour of wine, now you live for it. Those few minutes a night you can wash away the day.
Youâll have to replace the bottle. Again. Eventually heâll figure you out. Heâll notice the label or the charge on his statement. You donât really care, itâs just wine.
The billowing winds offer a soothing backdrop for your inebriation. You finish the bottle to your surprise. You want more. Anger brims in your drunken veins at the realisation that even this stolen delight is bound in his control.
You get up, the room jittering in your vision. Oops. Youâre drunker than you thought. You hadnât eaten enough at dinner.Â
You teeter through to the kitchen and fill the bottle with tap water. You go back to the den and find the cork, forcing it back into the neck. You pause and stare at the shape of the bottle in your hand and belch. Youâre pathetic.
You close your eyes and pout. How did it end up like this? Youâre not supposed to be here. Not with Nick. Not like this. Heâs your friend, now your keeper. Itâs supposed to be different.
The vision of you walking down the aisle, white petals raining down in what can only be a fantasy, a man in a tux waiting for you at the end. Your eyes wet as you see Curtis watching you with a glimmer. Your heart pulses as you resist the urge to rush into his arms. Then you see Nick, across from him, watching with snakish spite.
The bottle slips from your hand and shatters at your feet. You gasp and look down, shaken from what could have been. What should have been.
You spin and look around at the ghostly darkness swathed over the space. You hate this. You hate it all. Each step you take is off kilter and reckless. You grab the low table before the artificial fire set into the wall and push it on its side with a deafening boom. You clatter the arm chair onto the floor, then that ridiculous chess table her never even touches.
Your rampage cannot be stopped even as youâre aware of the ruin, of what this will get you. You donât care anymore. No matter what you do, it will always be torture.
You swing open the liquor cabinet and pull down a bottle, dropping it onto the hardwood. It smashes and the contents splash up your skirt and leg. Another and another. The sour scent brews around you with each crash.
Then the light flicks on and gives sight to your destruction. You stop with a bottle of scotch clutched in your fist. You wobble as you turn to face Nick, watching with sleep consternation. He grips the door frame and grits his teeth.
âSweetheartâŠâ his eyes scan the room with disappointment.
You donât think, you just hurl the bottle at him. He side steps as it hits the wall just beside him, a shower of glass and scotch smattering down. He stares at the brown stain on the wall then slowly turns to you.
You waver as he stays silent. Marching towards you calmly even as his eyes blaze. You gulp as you look back at him, senseless. He brings his hands up to frame your face.
âSweetheart,â he bows to look down, âwhatâve you done to your feet?â
You let your head drop and look at your feet. Little cuts bleed along the side of your soles and red prints stain the wood beneath. You shrug and let out a sob. You know heâs angry, you just donât know what heâll do next.
Now this is interesting. His immediate concern is NOT the expensive liquor. It's not the upturned furniture. Not the wine stained hardwood floor. Those stains won't come out with scrubbing, that's for sure, unless it's already darkly stained wood. Or very well waxed/shellacked. Actually I don't know.
My wood floors are so old and worn out by this point, I don't remember 20 years ago when they had been redone when we bought the house. It's unfortunate that when the previous owners had redone the original floors, we were warned that it was probably the last time they could be redone. I guess you can only redo wood floors so many times? It's actually quite discouraging to think these floors have lasted 98 years, and we're the ones to ruin them. Sigh. The house was built in 1926, and I broke it.
Oh, that Scotch stain on the wall will be nasty too!!! That drywall will have to be replaced. Walls outside of the bathroom are usually a matt paint - not stainproof, for sure. And the bottle definitely left a dent in the wall.
Oh, but my point is - his immediate attention focuses on her feet.
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