I Come For The Hot Tea

"You look beautiful, honey."

Your blood runs cold at the sound of his voice. The deep baritone causes goosebumps to rise across your skin and a shiver to run down your spine.

You had been so careful. You changed your name. You moved state. You waited. You waited years before letting yourself live again. Before letting yourself believe you were safe, that he would never find you.

You'd been wrong.

His name is nothing but a whisper on your lips as you urge yourself not to cry.

You hear the door shut softly the lock clicking into place as your heart sinks.

"I told you I'd find you."

His voice is closer now and you know better than to turn around. You can feel your muscles tensing with every painful second that passes as you wait for him to come closer to you.

This was supposed to be the happiest day of your life. In thirty minutes you were supposed to be walking down the aisle to start the rest of your life with the man you loved.

"You don't love him, honey. Not like you love me."

You spin around on instinct, forgetting exactly who you are dealing with as you prepare to give him a piece of your mind.

"How dare-"

He cuts you off with a laugh and a tight grip on your jaw.

"How dare I?" he laughs, but there's no humour there. Pulling you closer until you're against his chest, wincing as his fingers dig into your cheeks. "How dare you, honey. I've got to say you didn't make it easy. How long has it been exactly?"

You don't answer. Putting all your energy into keeping your tears at bay as you look into the cold eyes of the man you once loved, the man you now feared.

If you had known what Andy was, you would have never let yourself fall into his trap. But, hindsight was a wonderful thing.

Andy was charming, doting, protective and handsome. He was everything a girl dreamed of. He treated you like a queen, you wanted for nothing.

But there were two sides to every coin.

For as charming as Andy was he was just as manipulative. For as doting, he could be just as cold and indifferent. For as protective, he was even more possessive.

You knew Andy was a powerful man from the moment you met him but you had no idea just how much power and influence he possessed.

He made you dependent on him, had you let go from your job, and cut off from your family and friends. You became isolated. He was your only source of comfort and he never let you forget it.

"That's not what love is, Andy," you whisper, no longer able to keep your tears at bay.

The dark look in his eye should scare you but you've seen it enough times. Accustomed to what it means and you know you're not getting out of this this time.

"Just please don't hurt him," you whimper. Thinking about your fiance waiting for you at the end of the aisle.

Andy shushes you gently, wiping the stray tears from your cheeks, "Oh honey, you're really not in a position to be making demands."

Your eyes widen as a sob tears out of your throat.

Sighing, Andy rolls his eyes at your tears, clearly bored by your attachment to a man who isn't him.

"Fine, I'll let him live," Andy concedes, one hand slipping down to wrap around your throat.

You choke on a sob as his hand tightens enough to convey his next warning.

"But if you ever try and leave me again, I will put a bullet between the eyes of everyone you care about. Do you understand?"

You nod weakly, a new wave of tears spilling down your cheeks.

"Good girl," he purrs, placing a soft kiss against your lips and sealing your fate, "let's go home."

events & challenges

Aspen's Holiday Extravaganza 2022

Into an Alternate June-iverse 2023

Hot Bucky Summer 2023

Bucky Barnes Bingo, Round Five

Aspen's 1st Anniversary Sleepover

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

Aspen's Dark Forest Fest - October 2023

Aspen's Enchanted Birthday - January 2024

Hot Bucky Summer 2024

Build-a-Bucky Bingo 2023-24

Aspen's Countdown to Chris-mas - December 2024

Aspen's Birthday Jubilee - January 2025

Aspen's Valentine Storygrams - February 2025

BUCKY BARNES COLLECTION

STEVE ROGERS COLLECTION

OTHER MARVEL CHARACTERS COLLECTION

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

SEBASTIAN STAN CHARACTERS COLLECTION

Nick Fowler, God the Bounty Hunter

CHRIS EVANS CHARACTERS COLLECTION

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.”

Now, you wail in frustration, falling back down on the king-sized bed with a cute thump. Steve almost smirks. He knows you’re in no condition to walk – not when your legs won’t stop shaking and you’re still bleeding. And sure, maybe he should’ve called the physician about twelve hours ago, but you were way too delectable to neglect for even a second. He wanted to savour your loveliness some more, ruin you a little more, break you down just a little more before the doctor examines you.

 And then he’d do it all over again because he deserved to.

“Two agents will be here shortly to help you get ready.” Steve says finally.

Your head whips over in his direction, and he loves how your entire body jumps when he speaks to you. He knows he still holds that authority over you, that special importance that only a man of Steve’s calibre could possess. Despite the fact that he’s undoubtedly the villain in your eyes, which he doesn’t give a single fuck about. He knows deep down you still hold him in high regard – after all, he was an important, respected government figure. A hero. Your saviour. And you? You were just a dumb little girl.

“G-Get ready?” You squeak.

Steve feels his dick harden again – not that it had ever gone fully soft to begin with. He doubts he’ll ever not be hard in your presence ever again. Not when you were so deliciously sweet and broken and cute right in front of him.

“Your family has sent a bag of your belongings. The agents will help you get ready so the physician can see you.” Steve says, keeping his voice level and emotionless.

He can practically see your heart lurch up to your throat as you sit up even straighter.

“My family? They know I’m here? A-Are they coming to get me?”

This time, Steve allows himself to smirk freely, ever-amused by the tiny bit of hope in your voice.

“They know. And they happily provided my agents a bag of your belongings once they were informed that you were under my care, and will be for the foreseeable future.” His tone is smooth and calculated, knowing this information will hurt you. Of course, being Captain America had its perks – including the undying love and adoration that regular civilians like your parents had for him. They’d been happy that Steve had plucked you up and wanted to keep you. As they should be, because they knew what was best for you.

Your face crumples like a piece of paper, and the now familiar sight of your sweet tears as they glisten down your cheeks gets Steve even harder. Fuck, all he really wants to do is grab you, push you back down on his bed and fuck the living daylights out of you again. You were such a goddamned baby, crying your eyes out like a little fucking girl because your mommy and daddy didn’t give enough of a fuck about you to save you from the big bad wolf.

Well, you were young after all. At some point during the previous night, in between the animalistic fucking and the touching, he’d had you beneath him. Kissing the life out of you because he couldn’t get enough of your salty sweet lips, and the taste of your pure submission. “How old are you?” He’d asked.

You’d told him, in that sexy breathless whisper of yours, the one that let him know that you were half scared, and half overwhelmed with the pleasure he was drawing out of your body. Between pretty gasps and some more kisses, his tongue probing your mouth whilst he’d lazily fingered you (a short reprieve for you both before he’d inevitably fuck you again, over and over again all night). You’d told him you had one year left of college, how you were so close to graduating.

And that was exactly why you were so perfect for Steve – someone young and pretty and innocent like a little flower, someone he could defile over and over again. Someone with which he could let his inner darkness take over, and then watch while you cried your little baby tears as he put you through everything he deserved to put you through.

“Th-They don’t care?” You sputter now, hiccupping and crying like it’s the end of the goddamned world that your parents hadn’t given more of a fuck about you, and Steve relishes every second of it.

“They know what’s best for you.” He rises to his feet and fixes his tie. He’d woken up and gotten ready hours before you, as he’d had a press conference to attend. Of course, the first thing he’d done in the morning was fuck your sleeping body, nestling his fat dick between your peachy-warm ass and taking your tight, broken little pussy one last time before he had to go. You’d woken up with a start, crying and trying to fight him off with renewed vigour, but he’d had you settled down on his dick soon enough. Clearly, since he’d gotten you off three times before he’d unloaded inside you, revelling in the sound of your sobs.

He'd gone on to stand on a podium at the press conference and give a speech about HYDRA’s attack at your university yesterday. How, thanks to him and the Avengers, there had been no casualties. Not a single life lost. He’d received a hero’s welcome from the general public, with reporters scrambling to ask him question after question on how brave he’d been, how countless students now owed their lives to him. As he always did, he’d painted a gracious smile on his face – the perfect poster boy of bravery and humility. And then he’d come home to precious, little you. Stirring on his king-sized bed after a night of ruthless fucking.

Now, he had a meeting to attend, which meant he didn’t need you or your body for the next few hours. Therefore, the doctor could check up on you.

But, before Steve leaves, a thought enters his mind. In two long strides, he crosses the room. You gape as he nears you, cringe away from him when his thumb and forefinger grab your chin roughly, making you look up at him. And fuck, you look so innocent and sweet, so afraid of him. It makes him want to ditch his meeting and get back into bed with you. Show you and teach you everything about sex that your innocent mind undoubtedly didn’t know. Hell, he’d popped your cherry last night but he’d been so preoccupied with your cute little pussy that he’s still yet to use your mouth or your other hole.

But he needs to set something straight first.

“You are my property.” He says it plainly, matter-of-factly. Long ago, Steve had mastered the art of keeping his face neutral, and he knows you’re intimidated by him. He can see you, feel you, shaking under his grip. “That means you do not speak to any other man without my permission, or without me there with you.”

You suck in your breath, but you don’t say anything. Not that you could even if you wanted to, since he’s holding your jaw so tightly. One little jerk of his wrist and it would all be over for you. Sweet little girl. Life over before it even began. Of course, Steve has no intention of killing you, but he wants you to believe that he could, and he knows that you, sweet naïve little you, will believe it.

“No talking unnecessarily with the doctor or any other men you may encounter whilst I’m gone today.” Steve continues. Of course, he has a lot of other rules for you too but he’d let you know them in due course. “As my personal property, I expect you to obey what I am telling you right now. If the doctor has any questions for you, you are allowed to answer him but nothing more than that. Just know that I have eyes and ears everywhere, and I’ll know if you disobey me in any shape or form.”

He lets go of you roughly, pushing you down till you’re lying on your side. He takes one last look at you, a long, lingering look filled with lust and want. You look scared out of your mind, and he wouldn’t have you any other way. He exhales slowly, before beginning to make his way out of the room once more.

“I’ll tell him you raped me.”

Your voice carries across his bedroom like a whisper, and Steve probably wouldn’t have even heard it had it not been for his enhanced hearing. His jaw tightens, a wave of irritation rumbling inside him at your choice of word. Expressionless, he turns back around. You’ve pulled yourself up into a sitting position, and you look so tiny on his huge bed. So tiny and scared and shaking – like a little baby who has no idea who she’s up against. He meets your sad, accusatory eyes, his dick hardening even more when he sees the fire’s back within them. But all he does is look at you, daring you to say more.

You swallow, as if trying to harness all the strength you possibly can from within you. “I-I’ll tell him you kidnapped me and raped me. And he’ll see for himself once he looks at me, anyone would!” Your voice breaks as you glance down at yourself, at your bruised and bloodied body. You sniffle, “You’re a rapist and everyone’s gonna know!”

This time, Steve takes his time, leisurely making his way back in your direction. And it’s comical, how quickly your bravado dissipates. You cringe back again, crawling to the edge of the bed in a bid to get away from him. But where would you go? You could hardly take a single step without falling over your shaking legs. It makes Steve’s lip curl in amusement, watching how you start to scramble, terror evident in your eyes. Along with the immediate regret for what you’ve just said to him.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Captain, please, I didn’t mean to, I didn’t–”

Your breathing sounds laboured once Steve finally reaches you, and you look like you’re about to pass out.  Scared out of your mind like the stupid little girl you are. A rapist. Who the fuck did you think you were, calling Steve that? Comparing him to the vermin who prowled the streets and took advantage of women, the very same low-lives who Steve himself had personally put behind bars numerous times. He’d never be like them. No, this was different. He deserved this. He deserved you and your body. You were his. He could do whatever he wanted with your body, after everything he’d done to save you, to save the world.

You look up at him, swallowing harshly as if expecting the worst. But all Steve does is stroke your cheek softly. His fingers trail the smooth expanse of your face, your cheekbones, your temple, your forehead, your jaw. He strokes your face like you’re his little pet, and predictably, you start to relax. He can feel the goosebumps he’s leaving against your skin, and he knows the effect he has on you no matter how much you fight against him, or how much you accuse him of wronging you.

That’s when he draws his hand back and slaps you hard across the face.

The shock of the blow has you opening your mouth in a silent cry, but nothing comes out except for a pathetic squeak. You fall back down on his bed, clutching your face as tears of pain stream down your cheeks.

“Tell him.” Steve says softly, “Tell anyone you want. Let’s see what they do about it.”

***

Steve is hard throughout his meeting. All he can think about is you, his perfect little secret locked away in his room. None of the others could ever even dream of having a girl as lovely, soft and sweet as you.

Bucky’s girl was unruly and wild – he’d found her at a nightclub of all places, which meant her pussy was probably as used as the toilets in the dinky joint he’d met her at. And no matter how happy Bucky seemed now, Steve knew it was all a farce. That unkempt slut would never truly be the right fit for Bucky, and Steve knows his best friend deserves better. Steve would never settle like that; he would never be like him.

Tony’s wife – Pepper – was a vapid fool whom her husband had just made VP of Stark Industries. A woman in such a high-ranking position meant clearly for a man? Steve still feels revulsion when he thinks about it. No wonder Tony was a raging alcoholic – allowing his wife to wear the pants in their relationship had clearly chipped away at the old man’s sanity. Steve would never be like him.

Then there was Bruce. He had Natasha but he didn’t know how to control someone like her. He was too busy locked up in his laboratory, doing countless experiments per day. Tinkering with machines and chemicals and whatnot. All while Natasha ran roughshod all over town. Steve had heard stories of the redhead’s promiscuity. Bruce was a fool not to keep her in check. Steve would never be like him.

Thor still pined over Jane, the woman he’d claimed was the love of his life. But she’d gone and died on him. Steve doesn’t believe in love, but Thor’s situation reminds him of Peggy. What a fool he’d been back in the day, allowing himself to fall for someone as rotten as Peggy. She’d played him, danced circles around him and laughed while he’d scrambled after her. Made sacrifice after sacrifice for her. Then he’d woken up one day and realised she, like most women, was an airheaded whore. Steve didn’t think about Peggy at all anymore. In fact, he was happy she was dead now. And unlike Thor, Steve never pined over his past. He’d never be like that.

Clint and Sam, thankfully, had their heads screwed on the right way. Both of them had nice little housewives tucked away in their homes. A baby on their hip, an apron over their dress. Barefoot and pregnant, hidden away from anyone else. Steve could respect that. Sure, Sam partied a lot and stepped out on his wife more often than not. But he was a man and men had needs, and Steve could understand that.

Although neither Clint’s wife nor Sam’s wife were half as beautiful or innocent as you. No, Steve had won in the end, picked the best of the litter, the cream of the crop. And soon, you’d be his little wife, too. Tucked away in one of his suburban properties, hidden from the public eye. And, of course, he’d knock you up too. If he hasn’t already, that is.

That’s all Steve can think about throughout the whole meeting. Not that it’s anything important, anyways. Tony is droning on about something or the other – Steve doubts anyone is listening. Tony was a fucking fool, and everyone knew the true leader of the Avengers was Steve. He was the one everyone listened to, the one everyone reported to and responded to. Steve knows he holds all the power in the world. Presidents, kings, world leaders, they all practically bowed down to him. Tony was nothing but a shrivelled up, coked up, alcoholic that Steve chose to keep around out of pity.

He makes a few pleasantries once the meeting is over. Bucky invites him over for lunch with him and his girl, but Steve declines. He knows Bucky just wants his best friend and his girlfriend to get along, but Steve doesn’t view women as equals to get along with. That’s why, if he had his way, Natasha wouldn’t be a part of the Avengers at all. Anyways, he knows Bucky’s girl is temporary – nobody kept whores around for too long. Sure, Bucky was infatuated right now, but soon his best friend would want to settle down – and it wouldn’t be with a slut like his current girlfriend was. No, Bucky needed a nice, quiet, bookish, innocent, young girl. Like how Steve had you.

And with that thought, he quickly makes his way back to his apartment, back to you. The physician is leaving as soon as Steve arrives, ready with a full report.

“She’s hurt bad, Captain.” The doctor says, his face not revealing a single emotion, which Steve prefers. It’s not the first time Steve has sent a girl to be checked up by him, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. “Her pelvic region is in a very vulnerable state. Sprained in many areas, and she’s lucky she didn’t break anything down there.”

Steve feels nothing. He knew you were injured, that much was expected. How could you not be? What with how small you were and how big he was? There was bound to be some type of damage. No surprise there.

The doctor continues: “She needs time to heal, Captain. Apart from her sprains, she is also suffering from some tearing and bleeding. It will heal, but only with time. I have prescribed her medicine for the pain, but in order for her to heal properly and fully, she cannot be subjected to any vaginal sex or penetration of any kind for at least two weeks.”

Steve’s mood sours immediately. Not being able to enter your heavenly little snatch for two weeks sounded completely absurd to him. Now that he’d had your tight little pussy for one night, he expected free access to it whenever he wanted. But to be barred from what he surely owned? It was insane torture. Half of him wants to throttle the doctor right then and there.

But all he does is nod, and waits till the doctor shows himself out.

Quietly, Steve makes his way through his apartment, heading straight for his bedroom. He tries to formulate a plan of action in his head. How was he to navigate these next two weeks? Of course, he’d still keep you in his room, even if he couldn’t use you sexually. You were his property after all, and two weeks wasn’t forever. It was a long time to not fuck, however, and Steve makes a mental note to inform his agents to have a few girls sent up to one of his other apartments for the time being. They wouldn’t compare to you, but they’d have to do.

He opens the door to his bedroom and immediately pauses. There you are, sat in the middle of his bed. You’ve changed into a pair of pyjamas; a silk button up top and matching shorts with little hearts printed on them. Steve doesn’t think he’s seen anything more girlish and cute – they must have been sent along with your other stuff from back home.

Sure enough, you have a pink backpack open in front of you, and you’re sifting through it like it’s a treasure chest and not some cheap piece of luggage that looks like it’s been through several rounds of tug-of-war. Pulling out clothes and holding them close, as if he’s fucking smuggled you out of the country or something, and you’ve finally gotten a care package from home.

But then you shriek in delight, grabbing what looks to be a stuffed animal from inside your bag and hugging it close.

“Chester, you’re here!” You squeal happily – the happiest Steve has ever seen you in the short time that he’s known you. And fuck, the blood rushes straight down to his dick as he watches you hug the teddy bear close to your chest, nuzzling its fur against your nose. And you’re so preoccupied by the dumb toy that you still haven’t noticed that you’re not alone in the bedroom. “I missed you so much! I’m so glad Mom and Dad sent you!”

It’s the rawest, fucking sweetest sight of innocence Steve has ever fucking seen. You, all soft and tiny on his huge bed, in your silky pyjamas, all freshly showered and looking like a goddamned angel. As if that wasn’t enough to get Steve all riled up, that sheer juxtaposition between your softness and naivete compared to Steve’s own roughness. But you had to get your goddamned childish toy out, hugging it like it was your lifeline, looking like the sweetest, most corruptible baby girl he’s seen in his entire goddamned life. Fuck, it’s like you were begging for it.

With a guttural growl, Steve lunges for you. He feels something animalistic take over his entire body. And he’s always prided himself in being disciplined, trained his body and mind to show restraint, self-control. But all that goes out the fucking window when he sees you sitting so pretty on his bed with your goddamned teddy bear. The sight goes straight to his fucking dick and now he feels like a fucking animal.

You realise a second too late that you’re not alone, and you scream bloody murder as Steve grabs you. But even if you’d had a head start, you wouldn’t have been able to escape him. Even if your body was a hundred percent healthy, even if you were in an open field or somewhere public instead of the closed quarters of Steve’s bedroom. Even then, you wouldn’t have stood a single chance. Steve feels lust like how he’s never felt it before. Lust like fire, catching all over his body, searing his fucking soul.

For a moment, he feels incensed to the point of madness. How dare you be so fucking perfect? Like a fucking doll laid out to tempt him. Looking all heavenly and sweet, youthful wonder in your eyes that had been scared away the moment you’d noticed him there.

He grabs your calf, savagely dragging you to the edge of the bed. And you look so fucking terrified, shaking like a goddamned leaf just like how you were last night when he’d first ravaged you. And it feels like the first time again, in some ways. Except now that he knows exactly how your tight cunt feels around his big dick, he’s even more incensed to have you as you continually fight against him.

“The doctor said no!” You cry out desperately, kicking at him in a bid to get away except you’re so fucking weak, it’s like fighting with a goddamned ant for all the good it’s doing. “C-Captain, please don’t! Please don’t, the doctor said no!”

“Shut the fuck up,” Steve seethes through clenched teeth. He straddles you quickly, a knee on either side of your waist, his palm plastering over your mouth to silence you. “I know what he fucking said.”

And yet all he can think about is how you smell like strawberries and fucking cream. The female agents must’ve bathed you – your face and body all look scrubbed clean and glowing. No longer looking like how he’d left you this morning – covered in your own virginal blood. Part of him is completely enamoured by your sweet-smelling innocence, but the larger, darker part of him wants to corrupt you once more, leave you bruised and bloodied once more just how he had last night. He always wants you like that, because you’re his and he can do it.

He knows he shouldn’t, he knows it’s a danger to your health and wellbeing. But goddamit, Steve deserves this! He deserves your body whenever the fuck he wants it. He’d fucking saved you from HYDRA, saved your entire university and you were his forever reward. Fuck the doctor’s orders, you were his. He’d do with you exactly what he wanted, when he wanted to do it.

You wail as he rips your silky pyjama shorts in half. And it only takes Steve half a second until he’s forcing himself deep inside your tight cunt once more. And it feels like fucking heaven, entering back into what was now and always would be his property. Your tight, pulsating softness strangles his fat cock like a goddamned vice, choking it. And it’s like the past twenty-four hours of him ravaging you hasn’t made a single difference because you’re just as virgin-tight as you were last night.

“STOP, PLEASE! IT HURTS!”

You instantly start crying and screaming, flailing underneath him just like you had last night. And you bring that goddamned stuffed animal up to your nose, cuddling it and nuzzling it as you cry into its fur. All that does is incense Steve further – you’re such a fucking baby – and he lets out a low growl.

“Call me daddy,” he commands you, holding you down with one hand whilst his other grabs for the lube once more. He’s inside you, but he wants to go in deep, go in all the way like how he had last night. And you’re not wet, so the lube is a necessity. He pulls out and squirts it all over his dick, jacking off as he looks down at you. All crying and pathetic with your teddy bear and your silky pyjama top with the hearts on it. “Say it. Right fucking now.”

“Daddy,” you cry, sounding like a dejected fucking baby, “Daddy, please! Please no more! Th-The doctor said no more!”

“I don’t care,” he breathes, drinking in how hot you look when you cry. How hot you look with your legs splayed open, lying underneath him like you’re nothing more than a worthless little doll. A part of him is so turned on by the fact that he went against the doctor’s orders, the fact that the animal inside him just couldn’t wait to get inside you again. “You’re mine. I can use your body whenever the fuck I want.”

“B-But it hurts!”

You’re a pouty little mess, hugging your teddy bear close like it’s your only form of comfort. Which it is, because Steve wasn’t about to comfort you ever. Not now or any time in the future. But he’s just so fucking enamoured by how sexy you look – like an innocent angel sent down from heaven just to seduce him. Physically, you’re everything he wants, craves, dreams about. Like a pretty little doll, so innocent and cute yet beautiful like a fucking vixen. Like it’s written in your stars to be owned by him, to be ruined by him, over and over and over again till he consumes you entirely.

Once upon a time, Steve thought it was written in his stars that Peggy was the love of his life. Well, he didn’t believe in love anymore, but the sight of you beneath him right now, teary eyes glistening as you look up at him with an almost revered expression… The power trip it gives him almost knocks the wind out of him. It wasn’t love, it could never be love… But it’s a strong feeling that practically consumes him in this moment.

Overcome with something he can’t quite explain, Steve kisses you hard. Driven by possession or perhaps something else, but he presses his lips against yours like he’s fucking parched and you’re the only one who could ever quench his thirst.

You cry as you kiss him back, and he wonders if it’s muscle memory or if you’re only responding because you’re scared. Either way, it excites him. And he’s too busy making out with you that for a second, he forgets to press his cock back inside you after coating it with the lube. But then he does, and fuck, you’re wet now. Wet from just a little kissing. Fuck, you were so perfect for him. He couldn’t wait to marry you.

“Call me daddy again,” he says against your lips as he pushes his cock deeper inside you. With your wetness and the aid of the lube, he fits into your pussy like a snug fucking glove. He holds your hip with one hand in a bid to keep you in place, and his other hand finds its way up to your face. He cups your cheek, “Tell daddy how good it feels to get fucked like this.”

You shake your head desperately, “I hate you! I hate you so fucking much!”

Steve frowns, a new darkness spreading across his chest like a spilled vial of poison. His hand hardens, gripping your face harshly as he bucks his hips, pistoning his dick inside you with renewed force. You squeal in pain, your tiny fists hitting against his chest and grabbing the lapels of his suit which he hadn’t even bothered to take off.

“I don’t fucking care if you hate me,” he hisses, his face inches from yours. “Your feelings don’t matter, and they never will. But you better fucking listen to me and do what I say, or else I could make this a lot more painful for you.”

The threat has your eyes round as saucers, and your lips pursed, wet from his saliva and your own mixed with your salty tears. Then he feels the tenseness leave your body, sees your limbs stop thrashing as you finally go limp in his arms. As if you’ve given up and accepted your fate.

“Good girl.” He smirks, granting you one single praise because you didn’t need more than that, lest it built up your confidence. “Now, tell me exactly how daddy’s cock feels right now.”

You scrunch your eyes shut, either from embarrassment at his dirty talk or just from the sheer hate you’re feeling for him. Again, Steve doesn’t give a fuck. He gives you one extremely hard thrust that jolts your eyes back open, as if warning you he’d go even harder if you didn’t comply.

“B-Big,” you breathe out softly, shyly, “It feels big, Captain. I mean daddy.”

“Yeah? You ever thought you’d get fucked by a cock as big as this?” Steve asks, pulling out and admiring how his huge length is covered in your juices. And your blood, because of course, despite not going as hard as he had last night, he’s made you bleed once more. God, you were such a goddamned baby.

You shake your head, only earning a slap to your face and a menacing look that has you crying out: “No!”

“No, what?” He knows he has a sick gleam in his eyes, because he wants to hear you say it. “

“No, I never thought I’d get fucked by a cock as big as yours!” You cry out, your sentence ending in a piercing scream as he slams into you once more. The teddy – fucking Chester – slips out of your grip because of the force of which you’re being fucked. But Steve won’t have that, he shoves it back into your arms, wanting to watch you hold it and cuddle against it. Use your little toy as the only source of solace while your daddy ravaged you.

“That’s right,” Steve says lowly, drinking in the sight of you crying into Chester’s fur, “Cuddle your fucking toy like the little baby you are. Getting fucked by a man more than twice your age,” he licks his lips when your pussy clenches around his cock at his words, “And you like it, don’t you baby girl? You like how much older I am than you.”

“No, I don’t!” And yet you moan desperately, rutting against him now, clutching at your teddy bear yet at the same time thrusting your hips upwards to meet his animalistic thrusts.

Steve smirks, “Your cunt likes it.”

He ruts into you with wild abandon. And the whole time, he’s wondering how you’ve just walked into his life and awoken a wild beast inside him, this innate animalistic need to fuck your little body over and over again like he was put on this Earth to do so. With others, he’s always showed restraint. But you? Restraint went out the window with you.

And you squeak so fucking cutely when you cum. And Steve knows you’re in pain, what with all your bruises and injuries, and yet your hips meet upwards with his thrusts, riding out your orgasm as your hands clutch at his suit which he has yet to take off. Like you can’t help but accept the pleasure he gives you, because it feels so fucking good and he knows you’ve never felt pleasure like this before. Not before him.

“Feels good, huh?” He hears himself say, “Thank me for making you feel good.”

“Nngh, thank you, daddy!” Now, you don’t even hesitate, don’t even fight back. Your head’s thrown back and you’ve got that dazed look in your eye, forever lost in the throes of pleasure as he mauls your body to his liking.

Tamed once again.

He makes you orgasm twice more before he unloads inside you, holding your hips upwards with your legs bent back against your chest to make sure it sticks. He wants you pregnant by at least the end of the month. Hell, between last night and now, there was no way you weren’t pregnant already. And you look so fucking dazed, your fists grabbing his suit jacket so tightly, your face contorting in pleasure as you cum over and over again, and your little pussy eagerly swallows up his cum.

It's only once he’s stood back up, once he’s buckling his belt again that you seem to come out of whatever sex-crazed stupor he’d reduced you to. That’s when you start crying once more, your lips curling in anger and that fire returning to your eyes as you look up at him in absolute contempt. But he revels at the sight of you; Chester still clutched to your chest, your hair dishevelled, your eyes red, your legs shaking, his cum dripping from between your thighs. And the fresh white sheets once more stained with dark, scarlet blood.

***

“Wow, Steve. I’m really happy you found someone. I can’t wait to meet her.” Bucky says earnestly.

It’s been two days since the last time Steve fucked you directly after the doctor had advised him not to. Knowing he has no restraint when it comes to you, he’s deliberately kept well away for the time being. He’d temporarily moved to one of his other apartments, quietly making arrangements for the future whilst also making sure his agents kept you well fed and taken care of in his room. He’d left you in such a bloodied state, he supposed you deserved the brief retrieve. But in the coming few days, he planned to move you to his house in the suburbs. But he had to go public with you before he did that.

Steve nods smoothly, “Yes. She’s extremely shy, which is why I kept our relationship a secret for so long. We’ve been together six months, but I’m certain I want to marry her.”

Lying always came easily to Steve. Just another mask to slip on, just like how he did every single day when he donned his suit and a smile on his face. His words painting a rich tapestry of lies while the darkness behind his eyes remained at bay and nobody was any wiser.

“Well, that’s great. I can’t wait to meet her!” Bucky slaps Steve on the back, a wide grin on his face.

“Yes, Steve. I’d love to meet her too. It would be nice to have another girl around here.” Bucky’s girl – Kira or Kiara or something like that – pipes up.

Steve nods at her, feeling a wave of irritation build up inside him. Couldn’t she see that the men were talking? Stupid, insubordinate little bitch. Clearly, Bucky didn’t plan to keep her around for long as he hadn’t even bothered to teach her basic manners. In Steve’s ideal world, women were to remain silent unless spoken to, especially in public. Under the arms or on the laps of their husbands like pretty ornaments, made to be admired, not heard. Clearly, Kira, like most females of the twenty-first century – had no idea what it meant to be an ideal woman. Unlike you.

“Yes. Buck, as I said, she’s very shy and suffers from strong bouts of social anxiety. But I’ve been working on it with her, and I think she’ll be ready to meet the team soon, at the very least. I’d like to propose to her soon.”

Kira claps her hands together excitedly, “Oh, how exciting!”

Steve does his best to ignore her and keep his face impassive.

“I’m really happy for you, man,” Bucky says, “Me and Kira would love to meet her. When do you plan on proposing?”

“Soon,” Steve says vaguely, plans of a big, public proposal clouding his thoughts. Little did Bucky know; Steve had already privately proposed to you. He’d done it the very same night he’d met you, between your wanton moans and his heavy thrusts, when he’d demanded that you marry him, and you, in your soft breathy voice, had agreed to do just that. Not that he even needed your agreement, it’s not like you had a say in the matter either way. And a public proposal would be just for show, so every single person on his team and in his country would know that you were Steve Rogers’ property. Yes, his plans would come together soon. Very, very soon.

***

“I-I want to see my parents!” You demand shakily the moment Steve enters his bedroom. He licks his lips at the sight of you, sat on his desk wearing what looked to be a pair of embroidered jeans and a cute pink top. More clothes that your parents had packed for you. And you look just as sweet as he remembers from two days ago, and he feels his cock twitch to life in an instant. But he knows he can’t fuck you now, if he did then he’d risk even more damage to your body. Permanent damage.

“Greet me properly.” Steve says, keeping his voice level and impassive. “It’s about time we went over certain rules that you need to follow now that you are mine.”

“I need to see my parents!” You repeat, “You’ve kept me locked up here for days, and I know they’d be worried about me.” Clearly, spending two days away from him has given you some sort of amnesia with the way you’re acting so brave all of a sudden. Well, Steve has no problem reminding you what exactly he was capable of.

He crosses the room quickly, smirking at how you shrink back in fear. That was more like it. Grabbing you by the neck, he easily lifts you up off his desk chair and throws you not-so-gently onto his bed.

“Captain, please!” Your face crumples in desperation, “I’ve been here almost three days now, and I just don’t understand why you won’t just let me go! You’ve used me countless times, but why can’t you just be done with me now? Why do you have to keep on torturing me like this!?”

Steve wants to roll his eyes. Women.

“Did you not hear me? I asked you to greet me properly,” Steve says softly, completely ignoring your impassioned plea. He grabs you by the chin. Hard. “Rule number one, as stated before, is that I own you. This means you must greet me any time I enter this room, or any other. You stand up,” he yanks you to your feet, and you yelp in pain, “and you approach me with your gaze lowered in respect,” he pushes your head down like you’re a dog, till your eyes are looking straight down at his shoes, “and you greet me whilst properly addressing me. Now do it.”

You don’t do anything, and the insubordination bristles Steve. He’d have you tamed soon enough. Quickly, he grabs your chin again, squeezing it hard till it hurts and you cry out in pain. “You and I both know the pain I am capable of inflicting upon you, sweetheart. Don’t make me do it now.”

“H-Hello, Captain,” you speak through angry tears, teeth gritted and eyes downcast, “Good morning – uh – sir.”

He would have preferred you to call him daddy now, but that would come with due course. He wanted you to call him that outside of sex but he knew it would take time for you to not be mortified enough to do that.

“Good girl,” he praises, before pushing you back on the bed. Throwing your tiny body around was very easy, and he liked exerting that power over you. “You will see your parents soon enough, but we need to go over some things first.”

You open your mouth to speak but Steve quickly raises his hand as if to silence you, also giving you a look menacing enough to make you shrink back again.

“Next week, we will make our first public appearance together.”

Your jaw drops open “But–”

“There will be a party in our honour, and I will introduce you to my colleagues and the general public. You will be on your best behaviour as there will also be press there.”

You start shaking your head, a dazed look on your face as if you can’t quite believe the words coming out of his mouth. Steve doesn’t give a fuck, and continues to speak as if your reactions don’t even matter. Which they do not.

“It will also be where I propose to you in front of everyone, and you will graciously and quietly accept, or else.”

“WHAT!?” You blurt out loudly, a horrified look spreading across your features, “P-Propose? What do you mean? C-Captain, no. No, no, no, that can’t be right. You can’t propose, there must be some kind of mistake–”

Steve’s jaw twitches, but expressionlessly he waits for you to stop stuttering like a goddamned fool. Your eyes look wide as saucers, shocked beyond belief as if you couldn’t wrap your head around the very idea of being married to him. Well, it hardly mattered as you were a woman and women had no say in matters such as these.

“You will be on my arm and under my supervision for the entirety of the event. Your behaviour will reflect my values, which means you will be polite and demure. Only speak when spoken to, and remain silent when it comes to worldly or political matters that do not concern you or women in general.”

“I’m not going to– Captain, this is a mistake–”

“Your parents will be present at the event. You will not talk negatively about me to them or anyone else, nor talk in detail about the circumstances under which we met. I will do all the talking, and you will nod and agree to whatever I say.”

Fire blazes in your eyes, your incredulity forgotten for a second. “You can’t stop me from telling my parents what you did to me!”

Quietly, Steve nods. He sits down next to you on the bed, making you jump in fear. You try to shuffle away from him but almost too easily, he picks you up and places you in his lap. Your back to his front, just how he had held you the night he’d first had you. It makes his cock harden immediately, but he knows he can’t fuck you. Not for another week and a half. Instead, he places his hand in front of you, almost in your lap, where it looks so goddamned big compared to your own tiny hands.

“Do you see my hands?” He prods you when you don’t reply, “Answer me.”

“Y-Yes.”

He watches you grudgingly look at his hands, take in all the roughness, all the callouses. His bruised knuckles, the burns and scars that would heal and fade away over the next few days. Hands that had seen everything, hands that were capable of acts that your tiny, girlish mind could hardly comprehend. Horror for you was submitting your homework late. The horrors his hands had seen and committed would make the hairs on the back of your neck rise in trepidation. You were lovely and sweet, and had no idea the evils and gore he had witness and contributed to. All to keep the world safe. To keep you, his beautiful little bride to be, safe.

“The night I met you, these hands choked three grown men to death.” Steve says tonelessly.

Your tiny gasp makes his dick harden even more, and you jump in his lap, his statement catching you so off-guard.

“I wrapped my hands around their throats, and I watched the life drain out of their eyes,” He continues, revelling in how you’ve begun to shake in his arms. “And it meant nothing to me. They were evil. Vermin. Disposable. I could have killed ten more of them and it wouldn’t have mattered. Killing them meant nothing to me. Ending a life no longer damages my psyche.”

Slowly, almost tenderly, Steve cups your face. He angles it sideways till you’re facing him, and he can see the beginnings of your delicious tears well up in your eyes. Your beautiful, wet eyes that glisten in total horror. You’re frozen, paralysed in fear. Breathing erratically in his lap while he holds you, holds you like you’re a little doll. He presses a soft kiss to your temple, taking his time in inhaling your sweet, beautiful scent. Another kiss, this time your hairline, and he can feel you shuddering underneath him.

He moves down to your cheek, kissing you there too. And the same with your other cheek, and he hears you whimper softly, your body on high alert, as if you don’t trust his gentle demeanour. Finally, Steve presses a soft kiss to your lips, sucking gently as if to savour your taste. He kisses the corner of your mouth, down your jaw; he peppers kisses up your neck before returning to your lips. Now, you’re quivering on top of him, unsure and nervous and scared. That’s when he opens his mouth and utters his next words.

“Would you like me to kill your parents, sweetheart?”

A broken noise falls from your mouth at his nonchalant question. A mix between a whimper and a cry, and you gape at him in total fear.

“You could tell them the truth about everything, just like I know you’re thinking of doing,” He casually tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “You could cause a scene at our engagement party, too. Cry for help and run your mouth to whomever you think will listen. And then when all’s said and done, you’d find that no one would believe you. And you’d turn to your parents for comfort, thinking surely, if anyone would take your word, it would be them, right?”

You say nothing, and Steve pinches your side cruelly, making you cry out and nod your head out of pure fear.

Steve smirks, “Sweetheart, I’d have your parents out of the room before you’d even know what’s happening. I could make them disappear in a heartbeat, and no one would know any better.” He starts kissing your neck again, marvelling at how soft and sweet-smelling you are. “I could choke them out with my bare hands just like I did those HYDRA bastards. And in their last moments, as they try to hang on to their pathetic lives and take their dying breaths, I’d tell them it was all because of you. Their own daughter’s insubordination would be the reason for their demise. And when that’s all said and done, you’d still be mine. Dead parents and a guilty conscious, but my property all the same.”

He finishes his speech with a final kiss to your lips, before turning you around fully to face him.

“So tell me, sweet girl. Are you going to be on your best behaviour at our party?”

He wishes he could capture that delicious horror in your eyes, and keep it in a jar as proof of your innocence and subordination to him. You take a few gulping, shuddering breaths, as if trying to calm your own self down, as if trying your hardest not to cry. Finally, with your wet eyes downcast, you nod, and in a breathy whisper you answer him:

“Yes. I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

***

“Bruce, I’m glad you were able to tear yourself away from your lab long enough to attend my party,” Steve says good-naturedly, a mask of friendliness on his face as he elbows the scientist jokingly.

“Of course, Steve. This is a great event.” Bruce looks forever like his dishevelled and distracted self, as if he’d just blindly stumbled out of his laboratory and put on a sports jacket before arriving here. “Nat and I couldn’t wait to meet this secret girlfriend of yours.”

He’s got Natasha on his arm and all Steve can think about is how pathetic Bruce is for allowing his girlfriend to attend a public event dressed in such an indecently cut gown. Steve himself would never allow you to wear anything indecent where other men would be able to lay their eyes on you. Of course, in the privacy of his room, he’d have you wearing all types of scantily-clad, vintage lingerie. But in public? You were Captain America’s soon-to-be wife, the picture of modest femininity and demure innocence. Which was why tonight he’d personally chosen your dress – a beautiful baby blue gown with a respectable neckline.

Steve would never be like Bruce.

“You must be the lucky lady who finally managed to capture Steve Rogers’ heart,” Natasha shoots you a friendly smile.

Steve feels you stiffen next to him, and he knows you’re scared because someone has directly addressed you. Since the party started half an hour ago, he’s had you snugly tucked by his side, his arm around you and hand firmly pressing against the small of your back lest you try to slip away. Although he doubts you’re capable of that at all, since you look like you’re scared shitless. Undoubtedly, his threats from earlier are still looming over your head, as they should.

“She is,” Steve answers for you, making sure to keep his voice light and good-natured. “She’s had me head over heels for her since the moment we met in front of that local art exhibition late last year, right sweetheart?”

He pinches you lightly, nobody else would’ve even seen it. But you jump, swallowing hard as your stupid little mind tries to keep up with his smooth lies. “Y-Yes,” you answer shakily, “I was volunteering at the art exhibit and that’s how we met.”

A flimsily executed lie, but Steve supposes you haven’t had half as much practice as he’s had with being dishonest. Hell, his whole life revolved around dishonesty and facades, so much so that he’s perfected the art of putting on mask after mask. His agents had coached you on what to say so your story would match Steve’s, and they’d made sure all the details lined up before the false story was leaked to the press. Besides, Natasha was too much of an airhead and Bruce was too distracted to question your less than stellar lie.

“Well, welcome to the family,” Natasha leans in to give you a warm hug which you return after glancing up and receiving an approving nod of permission from Steve. And then the redhead looks up at him, “And Steve, I can’t believe you hid her from us for six whole months! You didn’t even tell me, and I thought I was more special than that!”

Steve resists the urge to roll his eyes. Natasha had always been under the impression that her and him were exponentially close. As if Steve would ever be close friends with a woman. Everything he did, he did for his image – and that included having the world think him and Nat were some sort of crime-fighting duo. When the reality couldn’t be further from the truth – if Steve had his way, a woman wouldn’t be part of the Avengers at all.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t want to jinx a good thing,” Steve answers good-naturedly, giving you a warm squeeze. He can feel your breath hitch, feel your eyes dart over to him warily before you look down at the floor again. He can sense that you’re nervous, scared of breaking the façade of picture-perfect happiness you’re supposed to be presenting, wary of the consequences if you were to break said facade. You’re also jittery and skittish, holding on to his arm with your tiny hands like the naïve little girl you are, a little girl forced into the spotlight of his world. On the arm of the most important person in the room. No, the most important person in the world.

“Nat, Bruce, if you’ll excuse us. We’ve got to make the rounds and greet everyone before this one gets too tired.” He says, and it’s not even a lie; as you’re still healing from all the injuries he’s inflicted on your body after that first night of fucking. In fact, it’s one of the reasons why your weak little body is clinging on to him so tightly – he’s sure your legs would give out if he wasn’t there to keep you up. And that thought, the fact that you’re relying solely on him, gets his dick hardening in his pants.

Steve leans over and softly kisses your temple, letting his lips linger for a second. His nose twitches, taking in your sweet scent. Two female agents had bathed you in rosewater and rubbed and lathered all sorts of sweet-smelling oils and creams on your skin, till you were glowing and smelling sweet like a flower. Then they’d slipped you into the dress he’d chosen, and applied light makeup to your face (as well as heavy makeup on your body to conceal any bruises) as per his instructions. And so when he’d seen you for the first time earlier tonight, standing there in the middle of his bedroom like a girl straight out of his wettest dreams, all he’d wanted was to shove you down on his dick and use you as a goddamned fleshlight, ruin you for daring to look like such a sweet little angel, for daring to seduce him like that, all while you stared up at him with fresh tears in your eyes and a naïve indignance in your face. Fuck, he’d been hard ever since.

He waits for you to croak out a goodbye to Natasha and Bruce before leading you away. And he hears them whispering to each other as the two of you leave:

“Gosh, isn’t he so gentle with her, Bruce? I’m so happy Steve finally found someone to settle down with!”

“Mmhm,” Bruce agrees, “I didn’t even know he was dating anyone. He always seems so busy, putting everyone else’s needs over his own. He deserves this.”

Everywhere Steve goes, he’s used to people worshipping him. Praising him, his bravery, his selflessness, his good looks. Tonight is no different, as he parades you around the banquet hall, introducing you to everyone in the circles he hangs around in. Not that he enjoys the company of any of these people – but they think he does. Just another part to play.

And he knows how jealous every man in this room is right now, how their hungry, pathetic gazes follow you around as you cling to him. Because you’re so lovely, so pure, so soft. Unhardened by the hardships of life, your face brimming with innocence and that delicious fear because of the control Steve has over you. And he knows that every other man wants you like how he has you, but they never would. He’d kill them if they tried.

He feels you stiffen, and he follows your gaze to the edge of the ballroom where the engagement party is being held. Right in the corner by the entrance, sticking out like two sore thumbs, intimidated and out of place, are your parents. Not that he’d even bothered to find out what your parents looked like from the background checks his agents had done on you in the past week, but he can tell it’s them now. And he smirks and makes a beeline straight for them, with you in tow beside him.

They’re immediately in awe of him, just like he knew they would be. Most people are in awe of Steve, and he’s used to the way they look up at him as if he’s some kind of God. Like he’s the epitome of what every other man strives to be, both physically and otherwise.

He shakes your father’s hand, gives your mother his warmest hug. Smiles and holds you close, apologises to them for keeping his “relationship” with you a secret all these months. Tells them how in love with you he is, how the two of you have so much in common, how he’s never felt like this about anyone else in his life. How he vows to take care of you and keep you safe for as long as he lives. How he’d love it if he could have their blessing as he asks for their daughter’s hand in marriage.

That last line has your parents practically falling apart. Your mother starts crying, thanking him for being so kind and generous. Telling him that she knows he’ll take good care of you. Your father is similarly affected, although he clears his throat and nods and claims the two of you make a beautiful couple, and of course you have his blessing. And it’s laughable almost, how the two of them don’t even spare you a glance. Because if they did, they’d see your face crumple in dismay, your body go stiff, your tiny little hands forming fists by your sides.

“M-Mom, please, we need to talk–”

Steve drags you away before you can croak out another word, and swiftly leads you to the centre of the banquet hall, a bone-crushing grip on your hand.

“Remember what I told you,” He warns, and he doesn’t have to say anything else. The memory of the threat he’d made earlier settles on your pretty face like a ghost, your delicate features etched in pure fear of him. And fuck, it gets him so hard how completely at his mercy you are in this moment. So tiny, fresh like a fucking flower, soft and feminine and perfectly afraid of him, clinging on to his arm while every other man looks at him in awe, and you in desire.

“I-I just wanna talk to my mother!” You squeak out softly, and it’s the first full sentence you’ve spoken to him all night. And of course, Steve could answer you. He could tell you that you’d have the opportunity to talk to her later (if you behaved). But he says nothing, because nothing you say is important, nor would it ever be.

One by one he goes over to each guest in the banquet hall, your little body firmly pressed to his side. And it turns him on so fucking much, how small you feel against him. Like a quivering little mouse. It reminds him of the fear he’d seen the night he’d first had you, and it thrills him how you’re still just as scared of him as you were then. In fact, even more so.

But he dons the mask he always does, the mask of the happy, humble Steve Rogers, as he makes his rounds, acts like the perfect host. Thanks every single person personally for coming, and for meeting his beautiful girlfriend.

“Bucky, I’d like you to meet my girlfriend.”

As Steve introduces you to his oldest and closest friend, he regards Bucky’s face carefully. He wants him to see how lovely, soft and feminine you are. See how Steve has chosen the perfect girl and Bucky should discard Kira and closely follow his example with someone who was more like you.

Instead, his enhanced hearing picks up the slight hitch in your throat and the sharp intake of your breath as Bucky shakes your hand. He notices how you swallow hard, almost like a gulp, and a different kind of nervousness takes over your being, your eyes glistening like stars as you look up at the Winter Soldier. 

“H-Hi,” You utter softly, and it’s the first time all night where Steve hasn’t had to prompt you to speak. 

“It’s great to finally meet you,” Bucky straightens after letting go of your hand, and Steve makes it a point to yank you up against his side, keeping his arm firmly around your waist. “Steve did an amazing job of keeping you a secret all this time, but he hasn’t been able to shut up about you now that we all know.”

You laugh shyly, and it’s the cutest little laugh Steve has ever heard. But it also incenses him, to hear you laugh at something another man has said. Even if that man is his best friend.

“She’s not used to big events like this,” Steve rubs your hip, eyeing Bucky carefully. “I think I’ll take her home soon.”

“Remember how much we hated these kinds of events back in the day, Steve?” Bucky elbows him before his gaze settles on you again. “Don’t worry, you get used to them. Well, Steve certainly did since he’s a pro with people now. Me on the other hand? I get shy too, so you’re not alone.”

Steve feels you perk up, feels your whole energy shit. Those stars in your eyes, he can practically see them. They make him want to crush Bucky’s head into the ground.

 “R-Really?” You sound all breathy and cute, all innocent and hope-filled, your pathetic little heart no doubt thinking you’ve found an ally of some sort. It’s almost comical, and yet Steve does not feel like laughing.

“Of course. But it gets easier over time.” Bucky straightens his suit and looks around, “I wish my girlfriend was here - she’s been dying to meet you, but I have no idea where she ran off.”

You wilt like a flower in slow-motion, your cute little mouth down-turning and your gaze retreating to the floor. Steve’s heightened senses notice all of it, and it sears him from the inside out.

“Girlfriend?” You echo softly, pathetically shrinking into yourself.

“Yes, my girlfriend Kira – you’d love her! Steve, have you seen her around?”

“No, but we better get moving. Lots of people to meet,” Steve tugs you along, watching as your eyes trail back to Bucky, a roaring fire in his heart igniting like something he’s never quite felt before. He pushes it back down quickly, extinguishing it before it affects his mask. But not before digging his fingers into your hip hard enough for you to whimper.

He guides you over to the remaining groups of people he has yet to greet. But you’re a million miles away, despite the fact that he’s physically holding you up and prompting you to speak every now and again. More than once, he catches you looking across the ballroom with a pathetic, yearning look in your eye. He follows your gaze to find it fixated on Bucky, who’s now embracing Kira in the corner of the crowd.

“Eyes on the ground or on me,” Steve mutters lowly. Of course, up until a few moments ago, he was not the least bit bothered by where or who you looked at. But those stars in your eyes when Bucky had spoken to you, and that twinkling laughter that Steve had never heard before now? His fists curl at his sides, and he wonders if he hasn’t made it clear enough who exactly you belonged to. Perhaps the brief retrieve you’d gotten when he’d been barred from fucking you these past few days had caused you to forget.

He finds he doesn’t have a problem with reminding you, even if it means going against the doctor’s orders again.

After a handful of more wooden hellos and fake pleasantries, he decides it’s time. Everything has been set up meticulously, and he leads you up to the centre of the small stage. He doesn’t even have to clear his throat to get everyone’s attention, he knows every single pair of eyes in this ballroom is plastered on him now, as he finally, officially makes you his property and brands you as his. He clears his throat.

“I know you’re not a huge fan of public declarations of love and whatnot. Quite frankly, neither am I and you know this. But I just… I always felt so out of place and,” he makes himself chuckle charmingly as he takes both your hands in his, “pardon the pun, like a man out of time. Until I met you.” He utters your name softly, slowly. Playing a part like he always does while you look up at him like a deer caught in headlights. You look uncomfortable, shy, nervous, caught-of-guard despite his agents drilling tonight’s plan into your dumb little head like how they’d been ordered to.

He squeezes your hands, hearing sighs and simpers all around him. But all he can focus on is you, looking so breathtakingly beautiful and innocent in the intimate candlelight of the ballroom. Like you’ve stepped straight out of his dreams and into his arms. Like his very own dream-girl that he’s hunted down and caught, and will now keep forever caged as his.

“You taught me that there’s more to life than just work, you taught me how to enjoy things without feeling guilty about it…” he pauses, and as if on cue he hears more sighs erupt from the crowd of guests. “You came into my life when I least expected it, and for so long, I wanted to keep you a secret from the world because I wanted to keep you safe and,” again, he makes himself laugh softly, “And I guess a part of me just wanted to keep you all to myself. But now, I want nothing more than for everyone to know just how much I love you…”

Steve would be bored by the whole thing if it weren’t for your innocuously animated facial expressions, your eyes shining with bewilderment, your luscious lips forming the shape of an o. He’s memorised speeches like this more times before than he can count. As an avenger, it’s something that’s become second nature to him – playing a character, smiling for crowds of people he couldn’t care less about, spewing out line after line that he no longer believed in. It was all in a day’s work for him.

But you… You look like you want to break into a run as you stare up at him, too scared to look away. And he’s so infatuated by that look of yours, that deliciously pure look of fear for him, he almost wants to take you into his arms there and then, shield you from everyone else because they don’t deserve to look at you. You’re like a pure little flower, delicate against the forces of nature, and despite his primal need to ruin you, there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to protect you.

He gets down on one knee, earning many a gasp from the audience. Everyone’s waiting with baited breath, and that’s when he sees it. A lone tear meandering its way down your cheek, almost like a final plea for him to rethink his proposal. Your lips purse slightly, as if silently begging him not to go through with this. It almost makes him want to laugh. God, how great it would feel to snuff the hope right out of your eyes. Stupid little girl.

“Baby, will you marry me?”

He’s got the box open between his thumb and forefinger, the ring sparkling brightly against the velvet interior. He watches you carefully, not a doubt in his mind what your answer would be. You know the consequences were you to defy him now, or at any point. But it’s mildly amusing to watch you all the same, watch a plethora of different emotions flit through your face. Fear. Helplessness. Anger. Defiance. Sadness. Resignation.

“I-I…uh…” your eyes blink back tears, and you look past him, undoubtedly at your parents. Your plump lips part, and Steve’s itching to kiss them in front of every single person here as he claims you as his. But instead, he waits, wearing a mask of charming patience as he looks up at you expectantly. And when he finally catches your eye, all he has to do is blink, as if to say: see what happens to them if you disobey me.

“I do.” You whisper. A tidal wave of applause and exclamations follow. Mindless people crying, screaming, whooping, hollering, clapping and snapping pictures as if they had a personal stake in this proposal. But they don’t matter. The only thing that matters is that he’s made you his in front of all of them.

Slowly, he slips the ring on your dainty finger. There’s no sentimental value to it; his agents had picked it out. But it’s a mark of his ownership over you, with his initials delicately inscribed on the inside slightly protruding outwards so they’d brand your skin when you put it on. A taken woman, a kept woman. His forever reward. All his. And nobody else’s.

“He deserves this,” a woman in the audience says, “oh, he’s given so much to our country, hasn’t he? All he does is give, and make unselfish sacrifices for us.”

“Yes,” the man next to her agrees as they both clap, “Steve Rogers deserves this happiness more than anyone else in the world.”

Delicately, Steve gathers you in his arms. You’re so small and trembling, half in a state of shock over what’s just happened, over the weight of the sparkling rock now on your finger. But it doesn’t matter how you feel, not when he’s got the most beautiful girl in the world on his arm, now when he’s just marked his ownership over you. And fuck, he can feel himself harden in his pants at how small you are against him. How weak and helpless and in shock after agreeing your life away to a man you’d only just met a week ago.

“Good girl,” he praises as he hugs you close, the two of you being showered by applause and yet all he can focus on is you.

“I…I…” you can’t speak, can’t stop stuttering, and so all you do is rest your cheek against his chest, and let him hold you, and hug you, and rock you against him. Before he dips your head back and kisses you all sweet and gentle, when all he wants to do is ravish you. Kiss you like a damn caveman and taste your blood simply because he owns you and he can.

He presses his hard crotch against your midriff till he feels you gasp, looking up at him with pleading, wet eyes. And it gets him even harder. You’re his. He’s essentially bought you from your parents, and now he owns you. Your sole caretaker, he’s the one you answer to, cater to, listen to, worship.

God fucking damn… Fuck the doctor’s orders. He wants to shove his cock inside you now, even if it means he’ll permanently break you.

He kisses your forehead, looking beyond you for a moment. Thor’s clapping at the back but he’s got a sad, forlorn look in his eye. Undoubtedly thinking about that bitch Jane who had died. And Bruce and Natasha, hugging each other as they look on happily. As if their sham of a relationship could ever compare to what Steve has with you. Bucky’s there too, arm in arm with his girl, a look of pride on his face.

And right at the back, in the very corner of the ballroom leaning against the wall, is Tony Stark. Nursing a brown bottle of liquor, hair unkempt, face hollow and unshaven since God knows when. And yet his eyes are alert, and he looks straight at him in a way that makes Steve bristle.

“W-Will I get to go home? For a little while? J-Just until the…the wedding?” You ask softly, and Steve looks down at you, the sound of your breathy, quiet little voice going straight down to his cock. There’s something about you asking him that, because he’s who you’d have to seek permission for anything from now on. And it incenses him all over again, and the thought of Tony is wiped completely out of his mind.

He doesn’t even bother answering your pathetic question, instead leaning down to kiss you again. You taste sweet, beautiful and salty with tears. He doesn’t mind. You don’t kiss him back. He doesn’t care about that either. You were completely and irrevocably his, and there was no reversing it. A sudden carnal need has him biting down on your lip. Hard. You whimper. Fuck.

He wants you. Suddenly, he can’t wait anymore. Grabbing your wrist in a crushing grip, he yanks you down the stage. Like the red sea, the crowd parts for him. Clapping, congratulations, more applause. He doesn’t care about any of it. You whimper beside him, the shock of the proposal clearly having yet to wear off because your feet drag against the floor. He huffs in impatience, scooping you up bridal style in one quick, fluid motion. The crowd erupts with more simpers and applause, none the wiser to the dark, carnal thoughts swirling in his head.

He carries you down the side of the ballroom, out into the hallway and towards the bathroom. He can’t wait. He shouldn’t have to wait. You were his bride to be. His little fiancé. His to do with as he pleases. Nobody could stop him. He was Captain fucking America. He’d kill anyone who stopped him. Crush their fucking skulls and paint the hallway with their worthless blood.

It’s like a wild animal has taken over Steve’s mind and soul as he pushes past the bathroom door and all but throws you inside. You wail weakly, and it gets him even harder how fragile you are, how easily he’s able to toss you from one corner to another without even using one percent of his strength.

“Y-You can’t–” You gasp weakly, that delicious pleading look still in your big, wet eyes as you realise his intentions, “The doctor, h-he said–”

Steve can’t get his eyes off your dainty little hand as you hold it in front of you, as if trying to shield yourself from him as you back away till your back is against the wall. The glimmer of your engagement ring as it brands you as his forever. Fuck, he doesn’t think he’s ever been harder than he is right now. A large part of him wishes he’d ended his proposal by fucking you in front of every single guest, letting them watch as he deflowered you and took ownership of your body again and again and again till he’d fucked you into unconsciousness just like he had that first night.

Because now you were forever his. Branded by the ring on your finger, forever tethered to him in every single way possible. Every single person now knew you were the sole property of Steve Rogers. Hell, your own parents had signed you away to him, and now he was your God, your saviour, your caretaker, your everything.

He wraps one hand around your tiny, delicate little throat, lifting you up off your feet in a crushing grip before he kisses you. Really kisses you. Forcing his tongue into your mouth in a display of total dominance and ownership, licking and exploring every part of you. Biting at your lip till he knows you’re crying against him, your little fists pounding on his chest as he kisses you. Your breathless little gasps against his mouth because he knows he’s depriving you of oxygen, choking you while he kisses you, knowing there’s not a damn thing you can do about it because of how weak and little you are.

Abruptly, he puts you down. Undoes his fly, grabs his rock-hard dick and pumps it as he watches you cower, gasping for breath and trying hard not to look at his crotch.

“N-No, Captain, no, please not here. Please, please, please–”

“Get on your knees.”

Steve loves the look of earnest confusion on your face. You’re so pure, so innocent, you truly don’t know what he’s ordering of you. Your pouty little mouth purses, your brows furrow, but Steve’s so fucking hard, that animal inside him roaring at the chance to feel your warm, wet, virgin mouth on his dick. And he’d rather be balls deep in your tight snatch but he knows he can’t, not when you’re so close to healing, not when he’s already abstained for so long.

He shoves you down onto your knees, and it’s the realisation on your face that does it for him. That sweet realisation of what’s about to happen, and the image of you in your pretty little dress, face done up all sweet, not knowing just how ruined he plans to make you look by the end of this. That’s what makes him grab his hard, fat, throbbing cock and smack you across the face with it. Hard.

You cry out in pain, and Steve does it again. Slaps your poor cheek with his fat cock just so you know what’s about to go down your fucking throat with zero mercy.

“Tell me how happy you are to be my wife,” he orders, tracing your lips with the tip of his dick. His precum paints your face, mixes with your tears and makes your cheeks shine.

“I-I’m not, I don’t want this – Captain, please don’t!”

 SMACK.

Another smack to your face, and you burst into baby tears as if you can’t take it anymore. As if you’ve been holding them in for this whole function and now you’re really letting it all go. Crying for everything you’ve lost – not that Steve gives a single fuck.

“Say it.”

“I-I’m happy to be your wife, okay?! Please, I can’t do this here, Captain, please don’t make me!”

He grabs your hair and yanks it, and it’s when you scream in agonising pain that he shoves his huge cock down your throat. And again you scream, but this time it feels like fucking heaven – feels like vibrations on his cock as he holds your head down, shoving as much of his huge member as he can fit inside that tiny, tight fucking virgin mouth of yours.

“God fuck,” he hisses, tapping your cheek hard with his palm, “Daddy needed this, sweetheart.”

He can’t help the pet-name, not when you look so sweet and ruined already. On your knees on the bathroom floor in front of him, his huge dick in your mouth, his balls in your face. Tears streaming down your cheeks, your pretty dress spread like flower petals around you. He wonders if you’re wet from how rough he’s being, and the thought sends him into a frenzy, and he bucks his hips against your mouth, making you scream around his dick again.

“You should get used to this,” he hisses, “This is your life from now on, baby girl. This is what you were meant for. You’ll serve me like this every fucking day if I want you to. On your knees like a goddamned whore wife for your husband.”

Except you’re not a whore. No, you’re his innocent little bride. The epitome of elegance and class, of feminine purity. Except for when he’s got you behind closed doors, where he can reduce you to a sniffling, slutty little mess because you’re his and he can and he deserves this.

His cock is so big, you’ve barely taken a quarter of it in your mouth and you’re already struggling to breathe. Choking on his fat cock while you start to panic, your tiny fists pushing and shoving at his abs through his three-piece suit. He takes no heed, instead reaching down to rip your dress down its front, wanting to see your pretty breasts bounce as he truly begins to fuck your face.

You whine and cry on his cock, and that’s when he grabs fistfuls your hair from either side and truly begins to fuck your face. Your eyes widen like saucers with dread pooling in them. You punch him with all your might, try to push him off you but there’s no hope. The bathroom echoes with sounds of struggle, your gasps and screams against his dick that he pushes further and further down your throat with each thrust.

“You like that, don’t you?” As suddenly as he’d started fucking your face, he pulls out of your mouth. You gasp for breath, ready to fall into a heap on the gleaming, tiled floor had he not had a strong grip on you holding you upright.

He spits on your face, taking his time spreading his saliva across your forehead, cheeks, lips, nose. But even that isn’t enough, and he takes his heavy dick, covering in your spit and his precum, and rubs it all over your face. And it gets him so fucking hard, almost like he’s scenting you. Ruining you for anyone else despite the fact that there never would be anyone else.

“Say you like daddy’s dick in your mouth,” he orders you.

“Captain, ple–”

“Say it or I’ll drag you out in front of everyone and fuck you like the bitch in heat I know can be.”

You cry and cry, tears streaming down your cheeks as you look up at him with a mix of fear and revulsion. Your spunk kept coming back, no matter how many times he tamed and broke you. No matter how much he threatened you, hurt you, pushed you around. And it makes you so much fucking sexier to him that he almost can’t stand it. You’re everything he’s dreamed of and more, and it thrills him how scared you are of him, and yet how at the same time you push your luck and keep trying to fight back against him.

“Say it, or I’ll fuck you in front of your parents before I kill them.”

A gasp dies in your throat, and you look up at him with a peculiar kind of hatred. Like almost a revered kind of hatred. Like you’ve never seen anyone so powerful in your life, and he knows how helpless he’s making you feel. And it gives him the biggest fucking power trip he’s ever had.

“I–I like daddy’s dick in my mouth,” you try to downcast your eyes but he’s holding your face in a death-grip, and holding your gaze too.

“I know you do,” Steve sighs, pressing his fat, throbbing cock back into your mouth with such force, he almost knocks you backwards. But with a steel grip in your hair, he begins to move your head up and down. Using your mouth like a goddamned fleshlight as he fucks it. His tip hitting the back of your throat and making you gag around him and he still doesn’t let off.

You’re his pretty little mess, on your knees serving him like he’s your fucking God. Face ruined, dress ripped, your tits bouncing for him. Fuck, he wants to take your nipples in his mouth. Suck and bite them till they’re bruised and sore. He’d take you home and do just that, because you were his. His girl. His fiancé. His bride to be. His little toy. His forever reward.

Now, he takes his dick out from your mouth once more, resting it on your face as he roughly guides your tired, chapped lips to his heavy balls.

“Suck,” he orders, slapping your face lest you pass out on him again. This time, you don’t question him or even protest. Your lips wrap around his balls, sucking like you’re a goddamned pornstar, a half angel, half seductress put on this Earth especially and only to service him.

It doesn’t take long after that for him to blow his load. Not when you’d been teasing him all night, dressed up in your innocent blue dress like you were seducing him. Pressing your little body against his all night because of how weak you were from how hard he’d last fucked you. And it turns him on so fucking much, your physical weakness compared to his brute strength. He could kill you if he wasn’t careful. But he was always careful. He couldn’t lose you now. Not when you were the girl of his dreams and he’d finally made you his.

He cums on your face, wanting to brand you even more. And you blink up at him in delicious confusion, you lashes sticky with his seed, your pouty lips shining and downturned. It gets him hard all over again, and roughly he yanks you up to your feet. Holding you up with just one arm, he drags you to the bathroom mirror, grabbing your chin to get you to look at your reflection.

He drags his finger across your cheek, gathering his cum on it before prodding it against your lips. Your eyes widen, that delicious innocence shining through once more as you gape up at him.

“Lick it off.”

You’re too weak, too scared, to worn out to argue this time. And Steve almost blows another load when you suck on his finger, tasting his cum for the first time. And he takes his time, feeding you his seed till your face shines clean. And he suddenly has this wild urge to fill you up with his cum. Blow a load down your throat, then flip you over and fuck your pussy so savagely before filling you up, and then, when you’re on the verge of passing out again, he’d force his cock straight up your virgin ass and cum in there too.

It excites him, knowing he has the rest of his life – and yours – to subject you to whatever he wants to. And as his wife, it would be your duty to just take it. Sweet little girl, your life was his now. He’d make your decisions, decide what you wore, when you slept, who you spoke to, what you did. And he’d use your body how he deemed fit because it was his, and you were his.

He takes his jacket off and drapes it over your front to protect your modesty before hoisting you up bridal style once more. You’ve practically passed out again, but he doesn’t care. He carries you out of the bathroom and down the hallway. There’s a back elevator that takes him down to a private parking lot underground. His agents have the black car waiting, and he lays you across the backseat.

“I almost forgot you prefer ‘em barely concious.”

Steve blinks, his lip curling at the familiar voice.

Tony Stark steps out of the shadows. Or staggers, rather; his suit creased, and liquor bottle in hand. Steve keeps his face impassive, shutting the door of the car behind him.

“What, you’re leaving so soon? Got tired of dragging that poor thing around like she’s some kind of toy?”

Steve smirks, signalling for his agent to start the car, “Go back inside, Tony.”

“Is she one of the ones you get delivered to your apartment after missions? I’ve seen a fair few of them being carried out once you’re done with them.” Tony downs his drink, “Poor girls. Never knew what hit ‘em, huh?”

Jaw tensing, Steve crosses his arms over his chest, “Take it easy on the drinks tonight, Tony. I think they’re making you hallucinate.”

“She’s too young for your PR circus bullshit, Rogers.”

Of course. Tony was jealous.

“I’ll have one of my agents escort you back upstairs if you’re unable to find your own way.”

“She looked terrified up there. What did you do, threaten to kill her family?” Tony brings his bottle to his lips again, only to realise it’s empty.

Steve only watches him quietly. Studies him, like how he often does. Old, unkempt, borderline crazy old man. A once great leader turned into a punchline. The butt of every joke. Forced to drink himself into a stupor in the shadows whilst Steve was worshipped and revered by the masses like how Tony once was.

Steve smiles easily, “Go to bed, Tony. You’re drunk.”

“I see you, Steve,” Tony slurs, shrugging off an agent who attempts to grab his arm, “I see the real you. At least what you’ve become. And you’re riding this high now, but soon they’ll all see what you really are. Hell, her face will give it away each time you bring her out in public.”

The conversation is hardly stimulating, and Steve finds himself growing bored. He opens the car door, getting a flash of your smooth, pretty legs as you lie unconscious in the backseat.

“Shout it from the rooftops, Tony. Nobody wants to believe a drunk. Nobody wants to take orders from one either.”

Tony sneers, “You’re not taking my spot, pal.”

Steve doesn’t bother answering him. He gets into the car, draping your legs over his lap before shutting the door. Tony was never someone Steve took seriously enough to waste any more energy on him than he really had to. Nor did he think of the man as a serious threat. Steve had already taken Tony’s spot. That fact was as plain as day.

Now, he strokes your bare calf, and watches as you lie in the car. Deathly still, blinking up into the darkness. Morose as you stared out the window, so ruined and deliciously used. He wonders if he’ll ever get used to seeing you like this, seeing you so utterly ravished and broken. He traces shapes against your smooth, supple skin, before pressing a soft kiss to your calf. It’s oddly gentle, especially after the animalist display he’d put on in the bathroom. But you’re like an angel in the backseat of his car, an angel with a sparkling rock on her finger, an angel that was all his. His forever reward.

He has the female agents bathe you once he’s carried you back up to his apartment. He has some things to attend to in his office, and by the time he comes back to his bedroom, they’ve laid you out on his bed in a pretty pink negligee. Fresh and pure like a flower, eyes blinking up like a deer caught in headlights the moment he walks in.

He’d ordered the agents to give you something to knock you out for the night, and it’s clear the drug has yet to take its full effect. Perhaps that’s why you’re not your usual skittish self as he sits on his side of the bed. In fact, he can feel you watching him, your breathing shallow and slow. He was supposed to go back to his other apartment after dropping you off, but he feels an inexplicable need to stay.

“I…I wish you were nice,” you croak out softly, so soft he barely hears it, and yet it surprises him, because you’ve all he’s heard from you up until this point is begging, cries and insubordinate accusations. The drug has you slurring your words slightly, and yet you’re perfectly clear, “It would be so much easier if you were just a little bit nice.”

He doesn’t say anything. Your words are stupid, foolish, childish. To Steve, it doesn’t matter what you think of him. It doesn’t matter what’ll make things easier for you. Instead, he lies down, dragging you till your body’s flush against his. Tiny and peachy warm, smelling like strawberries and cream, the negligee silky soft, your bare skin even softer. It gives him that animalistic urge where he wants to just consume you.

Instead, he holds you closer, till your cheek rests on his chest and your body’s practically on top of his. And he doesn’t quite understand why he requires this closeness right now, only that he just does, and you’re his bride and therefore there to provide him with whatever he wants.

And right now, he wants to hold you. Feel your body against his. Remind himself how small you are, how much power he yields over you. As your husband, your provider, the man you look up to, the man who owns you. He was rough with you in the bathroom after the proposal, but now it’s like the animal is sated, and all that’s left is this almost strange, alien need to have you close.

He lifts you up and presses a kiss to your lips. A soft peck at first, then another one before he deepens it. He wants to feel you kiss him back, just like how you’ve done in the past despite pretending not to want him. But your soft lips remain lax against his, and he draws back to see you sniffle.

“Would it hurt you to be nice?” Your voice comes out so small, so beautifully weak. “Just a little bit nice? Like how you are on TV. I wish… Oh, I wish you’d just…”

You’re babbling, the drug pulsing through your system. And Steve knows better than to respond to your wistful, girlish, drugged up chatter. And yet…

“Niceness gets you nowhere,” he answers quietly, his large hand running up and down your back, his pointer finger tracing against the smooth skin of your arm. “Now go to sleep. That’s an order.”

“He was nice,” you say it so faintly that if it wasn’t for Steve’s advanced hearing, he wouldn’t have heard you. And there’s a certain dreamlike quality to your tone that incenses him to his very core. “He made me feel like a person, and his eyes were kind. I couldn’t stop thinking about them. He… he…”

You pass out, the drug finally kicking in. And you lie there in his arms, all soft and small and asleep. All while Steve remains deathly still, a certain darkness that he’s never quite felt before coursing through his veins.

A darkness that makes him want to choke his best and oldest friend to death.

Whew! Did you make it till the end? I sure hope so! I'd really love to know what you guys think! I am so nervous about this. I know that The Captain's Reward is probably my most popular story, so the sequel has big boots to fill. I really, really hope you guys enjoyed it. Please please do let me know what you think! Feedback, likes and reblogs would mean the whole world to me!

I've also come up with a few questions. But as always, you guys don't have to answer these! They're just for fun hehe. Any type of feedback would be amazing!

What did you think of Steve's proposal? LMAO.

Do you think Steve will grow softer towards reader? Or will he remain how he always is?

What do you think Steve will do to Bucky?

You cling to your towel with trembling fists, naked and terrified beneath it. Strangely, you wish you could have gotten dressed before, as if thin barriers of cloth would be enough to shield you from Andy’s rage. Instead, you stand before him bare and cowering, waiting for the punishment you know is coming. 

“Please answer me when I speak to you, Honey, let’s not make this hard.” 

“Yes, I understand.” 

“Good girl. Come here.” You’re afraid to, your knees tensing as your thighs tremble with the effort not to move. With jerky steps you inch closer until you’re close enough to reach out and touch him. “You haven’t been eating enough, Honey.” Andy clucks his tongue, shaking his head. “Not getting enough rest, either, I imagine.” He places a hand on your thigh, fingering the edge of the towel. Slowly he inches it up, revealing the damp skin beneath. You almost want to stop him as he pushes it up over the curve of your hip, your fingers twitching as he exposes you carelessly. 

  “You took my daughter from her home. You abandoned your family. You broke your vows.” He continues upward, over the gentle swell of your belly, between your breasts and then wrenches the towel from you, throwing it to the floor. You flinch, whimpering as you throw your hands up to protect from a blow that doesn’t come.

“Am I missing anything?” When you don’t respond, his lip curls. “Honey, I am trying so hard to be patient with you but you are really starting to piss me off.” He grits the last part out through clenched teeth. 

“N-no.” 

“Oh? I think I am.” His grip is bruising as he turns your head forcibly to the side, pushing back the curtain of your hair. “Was he good, at least?” Your stomach goes cold, and you attempt to stammer out an answer. 

“N—I don’t know w-what you mean, Andy, I—” He jerks your head to the side viciously. 

“The evidence is right fucking here.” His thumb presses against the side of your throat hard enough to hurt. Andy fits his other hand against your hip, a painful, crude mockery of Ari’s loving touch. “And here.” You hadn’t noticed the bruises, the marks he had left behind. But Andy had seen them, keen eyes picking them out. He pushes you away roughly and you yelp as you trip over your own stiff legs. “No apology? Typical. I’m sure you’ll say we were on a break,” he sneers. “Or not together, right?” Andy squats down. “That one is your fucking favorite.” 

You’re cowering against the dresser—you don’t even remember getting to your knees. You stay there, making yourself as small as you can. Not for the first time you think of last year’s Christmas, wondering why you had ever let him back in. How had you forgotten the way his gentle hands turned hard as stone when you stood your ground? The dizzying terror of his anger? 

“Stop that.” He snaps, lip curling as he watches you shrink. “I haven’t hit you. I haven’t ever hit you.” You want to say that pushing you around isn’t any better, but you don’t. In fact, even thinking the words feels like a crime. 

“I’m sorry,” You’re on the verve of hyperventilation, your chest moving rapidly up and down as you try to find the words to placate his rage. Andy looms in your vision, his handsome face a cold, blank mask. “I’m sorry.” 

“Do you even know what you’re sorry for?” Andy cocks his head at you. “Do you?”

“I—I was wrong. I was c-confused and scared and I should have trusted you and I’m sorry.” He leans in close, playing with a lock of your damp hair. You flinch when he reaches for you. “A-Andy please—”

“That’s a very good apology, Honey. I’m afraid I just don’t believe it.” He sighs. “You never answered me.”

“What?”

“Was. He. Good.” His eyes are darker than you’ve ever seen them, colder too. You want to look away, to cower, but for the sake of your lie—perhaps your life—you don’t. 

“N-no.” Now you do, eyes flicking down to your trembling hands before moving back up to his face. “He hurt me.” For too many heartbeats, Andy is quiet. He stares at his ring, twisting it on his finger.

“I told you what other men are like, Honey.” He grips your chin again, but softer this time, shaking his head. His thumb traces over your bottom lip. “Why do you insist on running from me when I’m only trying to do what’s best for you? This is twice now.” He’s counting your breakup, the one you had requested—the one he had refused to give you, the one you had had to take for yourself in the quiet hours, what few things you could carry in garbage bags in the back of your car. 

“It’s a pattern with you, Honeybee. Things get hard, you get scared, you pack up, you leave. Our family can’t take that.” Our family. “Jake cried himself to sleep half the nights you were gone. Thinks you hate him.” He shakes his head, clucking his tongue. When you don’t answer, he raises an eyebrow silently, and you find yourself scrambling for words.

“I-I-I don’t, I—” Your throat feels tight, and it’s a struggle to make even the smallest sound. “I love Jacob.” He’s a sweet boy—you know he has no idea what a monster Andy is, what he’s capable of. 

🥀 

“Do you? Because you dropped our son like trash.” He hisses, poking a hard finger into your shoulder as you press yourself against the dresser, naked and afraid. “You’re hurting us, Honey. You’re hurting everyone.” He wants to say more, you know, but as his mouth opens again, an ear-splitting cry through the baby monitor makes the both of you jump. Your chest seizes. 

“Dove, Dove—” Andy’s firm hand on your shoulder stops you. 

“You stay here. You’re a mess, you’re not even dressed.” He sighs, shaking his head as if he hadn’t just spent the better part of an hour yelling directly into your face. He gets up, dusting off his knees. 

“Please, Andy,” you whimper. “Please, I’ll do anything, just, just let me see her, please?” You reach for his pant leg with trembling fingers. “Please, I’ll be good. I’ll be s-so good, I promise—” He sighs again, deeply, and shakes you off. 

“Finally, something out of your mouth I can trust.” He picks up the monitor. “Get up and put some clothes on. Maybe when you’re presentable.” The door closes with a cold finality, and before you realize it you’re sobbing, dry heaving as you curl into a ball on the rug. 

I deserve this.

I did this.

—

The secretary at the front desk of Brighton and Brighton’s Country Homes looks at Ari nervously.

“And you’re… you’re with the cops?” She asks, a flicker of doubt crossing her plastic features. He hasn’t had to use the badge in a long time, not in his current line of work, but the fake is still good, especially on people who’ve never seen the real thing. He flashes it from the inside of his jacket, and her over-full lips press together as she swallows audibly. 

“I’ll get Mr. Brighton.” 

“Yes, why don’t you?” He leans against the desk, looming over her. It doesn’t feel good to intimidate her, but it is necessary. A week. It had taken him three horrible days to pick through the recent high-profile home sales in the state, cross referencing the names of the buyers and realtors with his growing list of Barber’s associates. 

He’d dreamt of you every night this week, waking with a hole in his chest every morning. You’re alive—you have to be. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if you aren’t. Well, that isn’t strictly true. He knows what he’ll do—just not how. He knows he’ll make it hurt, though, make it slow the way he couldn’t do with Peter. Real slow. The secretary—her name tag says Elaine—gets up, heels clicking against the tile as she stalks into the office.

He doesn’t even wait for her to be out of sight before he climbs into the uncomfortable seat behind the desk, counting backwards from one-hundred. The appointment book in front of him is open, and he scans the names signed there beneath the big cursive IN. Eighty-one. He only has to go back three pages to find it—A. Barber, June 25th.

Seventy-five.

The pile of recent acquisitions takes him too long to sort through, he’s down to thirty when he finds it, the file with Andy’s name. He opens it to make sure, and the loopy scrawl of his signature is there at the bottom. For the first time in a week, Ari smiles. I’m coming Mouse.

He’s gone when Elaine comes back with a sweating and nervous Bill Brighton in tow, the realtor already practicing his lines. Ari sits in his car just outside, staring at the manila folder in his lap. It’s a six bedroom monstrosity five hours out into the exact middle of nowhere, according to the paper map he’d snatched from a gas station—he knows better than to have a phone with him, not now. 

Not with what he plans to do. 

It’s familiar, this feeling, these plans. He knows it shouldn’t be, shouldn’t feel this normal to study the blueprints of another man’s house. Shouldn’t feel this necessary. It’s better than thinking about what Andy’s doing to you, the punishment he knows is surely raining down on your head like fire from heaven. He can’t think about that. 

His knuckles are still bloody from the last time he did, skinned and bruised and the deposit on the shitty motel room washed away down the drain with the blood. Sorry about the wall. You’re alive—you have to be. 

You have to be. 

He knows you don’t think Andy will do it, not really—no one ever does. His hands tighten on the file. No one thinks they’re capable of taking a life until s they do it, watching someone else’s eyes go dark and cold because you have to know they can’t hurt anyone else—he hopes you never have to know that feeling. He’d made his peace with it when he’d joined the military, made his peace with it the first time he’d fired his gun close range, the first time he’d seen blood spray in the air—it was darker than he’d thought it would be. Thicker. He doesn’t want you to carry that. 

Ari’s strong enough to carry it for the both of you. 

When he gets back to the motel room, a two hour drive back out of Pittsburgh, he looks up the directions. It’s complicated to reach, Andy’s little love-nest, like he doesn’t want to be found. He probably doesn’t, not that it matters to Ari. He studies the maps for hours, slowly memorizing each turn. And then a few hours more going over the back roads, all the alternate ways—all the ways that aren’t  ways at all, the surrounding woods and valleys. 

Just in case. 

I promise. I’m coming.

Your story isn’t on the news anymore, and Ari knows it’s because Andy’s made it so—it isn’t hard to get the news stations to run what you want when you’ve defended two dozen congressmen, senators, billionaires. He wants it to be quiet when you’re “found”, slip it in beneath all the other noise. 

It’s hard to sleep, lying in the uncomfortable motel bed, the neon sign outside flashing brightly into his room despite the closed curtains. Truth be told, he’d thought this part of him—the part that goes soft at the sight of you, and Dove—had been carved out, laid to rest with Peter. It’s been a shock to feel it bloom again. It’s been a long time since he actually wanted something, wanted someone, instead of just… floating. He supposes that’s what he’s been doing, just… floating. But you, you anchor him. And maybe, just maybe, he anchors you, too. 

—

Andy holds dove in his lap, bouncing her on one knee as he juggles feeding both her and himself. Your own dinner is long cold, your hands tangled in the napkin on your lap. You twist it until the fabric creaks, listening to her fuss and whine. Dove reaches chubby little hands towards you, pushing the brightly colored spoon of mashed pumpkin away again. 

“Dovey you have to eat,” Andy says sternly, repositioning her on his lap. 

He still hasn’t let you hold her. You’d thought that just being in the same room, being able to see her might be good enough but it isn’t. Your chest tightens and aches as she begins to wail, and you raise a hand to your chest, fingers curling into your shirt. Except seeing your daughter as she cries for you is a more acute form of torture than you ever could have imagined. 

“Andy…” His name escapes your lips without you meaning for it to, and his head snaps up, lips pressed into a thin line. “I—I could, I could help,” Your voice is barely more than a whisper. 

“No.” Your eyes fill with desperate, angry tears as your gaze drops to your plate. You hear Andy rise from the table, the clink of his silverware as he picks up his plate. “You stay here.” Obediently you stare at the table until he leaves the dining room, the weight of his unspoken reprimand resting on you so heavily you fear you might collapse. 

You manage to swallow a few mouthfuls of steak, the mashed potatoes like cold glue on your tongue. When Andy comes back, it’s without Dove. 

“Went down like a light after she ate her dinner,” he says as he settles back into his chair. “You should finish your food, Honey.” You force yourself to clean your plate while he watches. “You know, I was thinking. You’ve been so good, Honey. Would you like to sleep in the big bed? With me?” Your stomach goes cold, twisting with a violence that threatens to bring up the meal you’d only just finished forcing down. 

No.

Andy blinks, cocking his head expectantly. 

“I, I, I don’t know, Andy, I—”

“I’m your husband, aren’t I?” He drawls. “You missed me, didn’t you?” You try to answer, to speak, but there aren’t any words to reach for. “Or was that a lie?”

“I missed you.” The words feel clumsy in your mouth. 

“Then get upstairs, Honey.” He leans over to brush his lips against your cheek. “Let me make you feel good.” You nearly sob, but you swallow it, stamping it down. Can I do that for you, Sweetheart? Can I make you feel good? You look down at your hands. 

“Okay.” 

Every step towards the bedroom feels like penance. It’s stupid to feel like you’re doing something wrong when Ari’s probably half the world away. He’s safe, safe from Andy, safe from you. 

Neither of you can hurt him now.

The thought of Andy’s hands on your skin makes it crawl, gooseflesh rising on your neck as you drag yourself into the shower. Maybe if you make it take as long as possible he’ll forget, fall asleep. You pray to the ever silent sky that he does, that he will let you keep the very last thing you remember of Ari. 

His gentle hands. 

You stand under the water until Andy knocks. “You okay in there Honeybee?” 

“Y-yes!” 

You rub lotion into your skin, donning the little silk nightgown he’d left out for you while you await the inevitable. You close your eyes, imagining, remembering. His touch, his warmth, his voice. These are precious to you, beyond measure. So after a moment, you lock them away inside your head, folding the memories neatly and setting them somewhere safe. 

Andy is waiting for you on the bed, a warm smile on his face. 

“You’re so beautiful, Honey. No need to be shy.” He holds out his hand, beckoning you closer. He hasn’t touched you since you’ve gotten here, the hungry, wanting need you remember gloriously absent. He’s jealous of Ari, that much you know for sure, and you wonder if this is even about you at all—or just ownership. Andy hums, weighing your breasts in his hands through the slinky, thin fabric of your nightgown. They’re bigger since Dove, heavier. This thing Andy’d picked would’ve fit perfectly before, but now it’s short—tight. 

“The baby looks so good on you, Honeybee,” he mumbles, cupping your ass with one hand as he rucks up the dress with the other, pushing it up over the curve of your hip. “Let’s put another in there, hmm?” You go cold, stiffening as he massages the cheeks of your ass with both hands, pressing heated kisses against your chest. “Fuck, Honey I missed you.” 

The kisses he trails up the side of your neck make your skin crawl, and he chuckles at your shiver.

“Missed me too, didn’t you?”

Thank God.

“Y-yes.” Your body doesn’t even feel like it belongs to you as Andy touches and pulls and caresses, like you’re watching his hands on someone else. He worms his hand between your thighs, sliding his finger along the thin cotton covering your cunt. You aren’t wet, for once your body and mind are in agreement—this isn’t what you want. 

“You’re so stiff, Honeybee.” Andy presses a hungry kiss to the side of your throat. “Just relax for me.”

You haven’t heard the sound of the doorbell before, a deep, almost groaning sound that travels through the house with enough force to make you jump. Nervously, you play with the hem of your nightgown as Andy looks up with an irritated huff.

“It’s okay, Honey. Just security.” He cups your breast again through the silky fabric, flicking his thumb across your half-hard nipple. “You stay right here.” 

He shrugs into his discarded shirt but doesn’t waste time buttoning it before heading out of the bedroom, into the hallway and out of sight. You watch him go, nervousness building in your gut. You’ve been here just over a week now, and not once have the rotating staff of security guards rung the bell. Fear makes your heart into a hummingbird in your chest, beating a mile a moment as the seconds stretch into long minutes, and Andy doesn’t return. Something’s wrong—something’s very wrong. 

No sooner than you think it your fears are confirmed by the gunshot, so loud and sharp that splits the night cleanly into two pieces—before and after. Fear makes everything sharp, the voices in the hall, Dove’s piercing wails. Andy’s rules be damned, you’re tugging on the doorknob to the adjacent room desperately before you’re even conscious of it. 

“Dove, Dove—“ your baby is in the bassinet you’d picked out for her, the cream and yellow one Andy had protested, but bought. She’s lying on her blanket, squalling, her little cheeks blotchy and fists raised. You hesitate as you reach for her, Andy’s warnings ringing in your ears before you shake them away. “I’m here, Dovey, I’m right here.” You sob as you press her against your chest, breathing in the scent of her hair, tears leaking down your cheeks. 

Holding her again almost makes you want to sink to your knees. It has been torture, being in the same rooms as her, unable to touch or hold her. There’s another gunshot, this time closer to the house. Dove begins to cry again, and you cradle her close, hushing her.

“Do you love your daughter?” That was one of the first questions Irene had ever asked you. The email thread is long since deleted, but you remember it with perfect clarity. “Because if you love her, you will leave.” The sounds of the chaos outside filter in through the closed windows, gunshots and shouting.

“You’ll remember what’s important. You’ll fight past the fear. You’ll leave.”