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buckyalpine · 6 months

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Winter soldier x reader ft sex pollen

Unhinged winter soldier with sex pollen. This is wildly inappropriate (with some fluff?...) but I thought of it so you must all suffer with me. Imagine Hydra filling the room with sex pollen immediately after Buck is wiped, sending him out at in his most feral state in hopes that the winter soldier will lose control and give into the urges they've forced into him. They need him to breed another super soldier since they were unable to replicate the serum in his veins.

As soon as the dust fills the room, his pupils dilate, his tac suit far too hot, his veins pumping so hard they feel like they're going to burst. The straps holding him down release and his chest is heaving, trying to calm down the primal needs hes feeling, pain prickling his skin the longer he stays in the room. He grunts, striding out of the room and into the night, chasing a craving he has to get out.

He moves without a soul detecting him, until a sweet scent catches his attention. Floral, natural, innocent. Fertile. He's suddenly hyper focused on the thing his body is screaming for, following the unsuspecting woman, his teeth grinding through the pain. She enters a building and he observes each window before seeing a lights turn on, her nude silhouette appearing through the curtains.

It takes no effort for him to climb up the fire escape, easily prying the locked window open only to be met with the sound of the shower running. Her scent permeates all his senses and he nearly strips off all his clothes then and there, the pollen causing lust that makes his bones ache. The water shuts off and hes waiting like a predator waiting for its prey, sitting perfectly still while the door clicks open. She gasps and freezes in place and he sight alone makes him growl.

Pathetic little bunny.

"Who-who are you" she whispers, clutching her towel tightly together though it's not like she didn't know. Tears fill her eyes seeing the deadly soldier people spoke about, unsure if he even existed, the very rumor now sitting on her bed. He doesn't anything, groaning at the feeling of his arousal steadily dripping from his cock, palming his erection.

"Please-don't" She shakes her head, seeing his hardness pressing against his pants, his large presence suffocating because she knows there's no where to run. He slips his mask off, revealing his dangerously handsome face, his eyes wild with lust and need.

"But I have to" He grits out, stalking over to her and grabbing her by the waist, burying his nose in her freshly washed hair, deeply groaning at the scent of her bodywash, "mne eto nuzhno, zayka" [I need this, bunny]

"No-I-I'll do anything-" She trembles, squeezing her eyes shut feeling his warm wet tongue lick up her neck as his mismatched hands rip her towel away, pulling her hips flush against his cock. The rough material of his tactical hear scratches her soft skin, making her whimper when when he bites her shoulder.

"takoy myagkiy krolik" [such a soft bunny] He throws her like a doll, her ass bouncing off the mattress, flat on her back back while he undoes his pants, pulling his cock out. She squeezes her legs shut, shaking her head, his fat bobbing length taunting her as he pumps himself while crawling onto the bed.

"It hurts bunny" He groans, forcing her legs apart, her natural scent nearly causing pain as he stares at her pussy. Her button between her legs involuntarily twitches and he pinches it hard making her squeal, the sound causing a drop of precum to spill out.

His head is so focused on getting his release, he doesn't bother prepping her, shoving his cock into her tight cunt, grunting and forcing his length in when he feels resistance. He stars to fuck her hard, holding both wrists in his metal hand, keeping her pinned under him while he splits her open.

"Hurts-too much-to big-stop-" She gasps out her pained cries melting into muddled moans of pleasure, her own body betraying her, feeling her own warmth wetting his cock making it easier for him to slip in and out. "Oh god-soldat-stop-don't-

"You're wet" He hisses, almost accusatorily, pounding her harder, faster until the bed shakes and scratches the floor, the serum pumping in his veins making his cock sensitive.

"I need this-I need it" Sweat beads at his forehead, his balls feeling heavier than usual, the pollen causing his body to produce more semen than he naturally would.

"YA chuvstvuyu zapakh, kakoy ty mokryy, zayka" [I can smell how wet you are bunny] His balls throb painfully, his cock ready to burst as his thrusts become more erratic. He snarled against her neck as pleasure starts to lick up his spine, the bruising grip on her wrists tightening as he starts to pump her full of his load without warning.

She whimpers feeling shame for the delicious stretch of his cock, her cunt fluttering, swollen from his abusive pace. She finds herself flipped over with her ass in the air, her face pressed against the sheets, his cock rock hard again, prodding at her puffy folds.

"Not done-need more" he growls lowly, stripping his clothes off, his body heat dialed to 100. His crotch is covered in cum, a mix of his and hers, the smell of her driving him insane as he grabs her hips and slams her to meet his thrusts again. He has more power at this angle, fucking her like a mad man, groaning with his head thrown back, eyes rolled to the back of his head, only focused on pleasuring his cock.

"Ty shlyukha Zimnego soldata, ty voz'mesh' to, chto ya tebe dayu" [You're the winter soldier's whore, you'll take what I give you] He's at his most unhinged, grunting and groaning, fucking her like an animal, her muffled screams only causing his cock to swell more. "Make me feel good, make it go away bunny"

"Soldat please stop-too big" she begs and he fucks her harder, making her moan, pulling another orgasm out of her body even if she fought against it. His thighs meet the back of hers, rolling and rocking his hips, hitting her cervix until her sweet juices squirt out of her, obscene sounds of skin on skin filling he room. "SOLDAT"

"I have to breed you bunny" He shakes his head, unwilling to leave until he's sure she's pregnant with his child, forcing every bit of his cum into her. "My fertile little bunny" He nips your skin, running his hands over her tummy, imaging it firm and round with his baby growing inside. He loved the thought of such an unsuspecting, sweet angel carrying the child of he soldier, all of his cum making a mess in her pussy.

By the last round, the pollen has started to dissipate and the cloud is lifting. He pants, still rutting into her pussy, something tugging at his conscious, shaking his head when the lusty animalistic haze weavers.

"T-tell me your name" He rasps, his heart beating wildly, loosening his grip on her. She whimpers from pain and to her surprise, he slowly down, still grinding himself in, burying her face into her neck. "zayka, pozhaluysta" [bunny, please]

"Y/n" she whispers, unsure of why she told him, her voice catching in her throat when his lips press against her skin. She's limp in his hold, the smell of sex permeating the room, the sheets soaked with his cum, but nothing more full than her cunt.

"Y/n" He moans, his body trembling as he nears the end of his final release, stilling till he's milked himself dry, her soft body worn under him. Something is wrong, he can feel it, the emotionless control he had before, slipping from his grasp. He yearns to hold the woman in his arms but he can't .Something stops him.

His movements are robotic as he pulls away and slips his clothes back on, memories unfamiliar to him flashing through his mind.

He wasn't the soldier.

He was-

Her soft snores pull her from his spiral, looking up to seeing her sleeping form, fucked out from the way he'd ruined her. He frowns at the unfamiliar feeling of concern he's experiencing, pulling the covers over her body.

"Thank you bunny" He whispers, making her whine in her sleep, calling for the soldier.

"I'm-

He shakes his head, his previously wild replaced with those of a young man from Brooklyn.

"B-Bucky"

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buckets-and-trees · 1 year

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SALT (Bucky x Reader)

Fandom: MCU Characters/Pairings: mostly-dark!mob!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader Word Count: 2.8k Summary: True achievement in the restaurant industry requires a relentless drive. No compromises. You've risen through the ranks, and when your mentor retires, you're rightly given the mantle of executive chef at Devour. On your night of ascension, the dining room is packed, and among the guests is someone equally as relentless to get what he wants.

Content Warnings: imbalanced power dynamics, bribery, workplace manipulation, NON/DUBIOUS CONSENT, explicit language, risk of being caught, food play, knife play, nipple/breast play, vaginal fingering, forced orgasm, edging, unprotected vaginal intercourse, non-graphic cream pie (not the food kind)

Additional Notes: Written for @the-slumberparty's April Mob AU challenge. Using dark prompt #23 (bolded in the dialogue).

tagging some peeps who showed interest in the preview for this little thing: @sidepartskinnyjeans @vonalyn @winterslove1917

“You’re not serious, Stanley.”

“I am.”

You laughed and shook your head. “Sure. Whatever. I don’t have time for customer meet and greets during a normal service, let alone tonight of all nights.”

“You will do it,” Stanley insisted, “because it’s James Barnes and he’s got more money and influence than any god. He owns the mob scene in this town.”

When your maître d’ didn’t say anything more, you turned to truly look at him.

You frowned but set down your pan with a huff. “Fine. Charlie, take over while I apparently go make an appearance.”

“Table twenty-seven,” Stanley said, handing you a clean dish towel, which you pressed against your forehead, cheeks, and neck as you headed for the door that led from kitchen to dining area, tossing the towel in the laundry bin under one of the counters.

You pushed past the kitchen doors and walked through the dining room towards table twenty-seven, one of the handful booths and tables nestled in small alcoves that offered a little more privacy for VIP reservations, set off on a small dais with walls of green plants strategically placed to create ambience while sectioning off the area from curious eyes and a plethora of potential phone cameras.

There were five individuals seated around the table, but he drew your attention first as you approached. He clocked your progress before any of his companions, and when he looked up, his stare fixed on you with such intensity that you took a brief pause before your next step, which he clearly noted, and the corner of his mouth ticked up in the slightest smirk. It made your blood heat with irritation, but you focused on remaining calm and professional as you stepped up to the table.

“This was an exquisite meal, Chef,” he said, drawing the attention of his companions to you immediately.

“Thank you,” you replied.

“Sam here hasn’t been able to shut up about it since the first course came out,” a blonde man sitting to his right said.

“And you haven’t left even a crumb on your plate through any course, Steve,” he chided back good naturedly.

Each of them had a girl tucked in next to them, but not the man with dark hair and steel blue eyes you still found it difficult to look away from who had to be the infamous James. His friends and their companions continued to rave for another minute or two about different parts of the meal’s courses. You expected them to be closer to the age of your parents, not much nearer yours.

“Well, thank you again,” you finally said. “We’re pleased to have you dining at our restaurant tonight. Devour is a dream for all of us on the staff. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the kitchen to oversee final preparations for the dessert course.”

“I’m eager for what’s to come next, Chef,” he said, looking you up and down, his eyes darkening. You’d delivered the overture for your exit, but he somehow made it clear it was only with his approval that you would leave in that moment.

Twenty minutes later, you sprinkled a touch of flaky salt over the ribbon of whiskey-laced caramel drizzled over the chocolate mousse, Charlie adorned it with a perfect rosette of the Chantilly cream, and you slid the final plate across to Stanley, who put it on the final tray and sent the waiter on his way.

“That’s service, everyone!” you announced, and some of the staff clapped and whooped.

You smiled, truly satisfied. Charlie bumped elbows with you, and when you turned your head to look at him, you couldn’t help the genuine smile bursting across your face.

“Truly a triumph for you taking over,” Stanley said, loud enough for everyone to hear.

“You’ve more than earned your new title as the executive chef of Devour and this kitch–“

He was cut off as there was a burst of activity at the doors coming in from the dining room. “Everyone, clear the kitchen! Out the back, please,” came a booming voice that you’d heard speak much more congenially earlier in the dining room. It was clear this man was used to giving orders and having them followed without question.

“Excuse me,” Stanley turned to look, but on seeing who was sweeping in and ushering his staff out before him, but his tone shifted when he saw who was giving the orders – now guarded but polite, “Oh, Mr. Rogers.”

“And if I could have a word with you in particular,” Steve said, addressing Stanley and nodding towards the back.

“Of course,” he responded.

You and Stanley exchanged a glance, and you began clearing out with the rest, but Steve put a hand on your shoulder. “Not you,” he said a little more quietly. “You stay here.”

You frowned and tilted your head as you looked up at him. He only smirked at you.

“The rest of you, keep it moving, let’s go!”

You chewed on your bottom lip and let your hand drop to the silver surface of the counter where your fingers immediately began to drum impatiently. After a moment you turned to look over at the door to the dining room, and your breath hitched.

He was there, leaning up against the door frame, blue eyes fixed on you.

His face was unreadable, and so you tried to keep your face blank as well as he stalked toward you, coming around the plating area and to your side of the counter.

“What is this, Mr. Barnes?”

“I’m buying this restaurant. Steve’s arranging everything with Stanley right now.”

Your brow furrowed.

“I own this kitchen, and I own you, Chef.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he put two fingers to your lips.

“I’m tripling your salary,” he said as he stepped right into your space, backing you up against the counter, only a breath of space between you.

Your heart was racing for too many reasons – anger, incredulity, but also a thrill of arousal. You wanted to refuse him, but he also drew you in, and you could not deny that. You knew he was dangerous, you were infuriated by his audacity, and yet…

“You can’t turn down an offer like that,” he continued, “especially not after the years of hard work I know you put in for the executive chef apron in this kitchen. Our stories are not so different in that way. You earned this. You won’t walk away.”

“I can–“

“But you won’t,” he cut over you. You glowered, but he ignored your slow burning anger and instead reached around behind your back to tug at the ties of your apron. Then his voice dropped down an octave as he spoke again, “Don’t fight me. You will give yourself to me.”

“I won’t.” You cocked your chin up.

“You will,” he insisted. He pulled the black apron away from your body and tossed it onto the counter behind you.

“You will give yourself to me now.” He pushed forward, pinning you to the counter with his pelvis. You tried to suppress a shaky exhale, feeling his erection pressing into you. “Soon you will warm my bed,” he bent his head down to ghost a kiss at your temple, then another on your cheek, before he moved his mouth further down and murmured his next threat down the column of your throat, “and I promise it won’t be long until you will beg for me to take you apart without any coercion.”

When his tongue darted out over the sensitive spot just under your jaw, a whimper escaped from your chest before you could stop it, and you felt him smile against your skin.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Please, anyone could catch us.”

He chuckled. “Sam and Steve are preventing that,” he said, pulling away just enough to start unbuttoning your black chef’s jacket. “But,” he continued, “if you make too much noise, you’ll confirm that we’re doing anything more than talking.”

Once he had finished with all the buttons, he pushed the coat open. Your eyes were still closed until you felt the cool edge of a knife on your sternum, and your eyes burst open again, fear and adrenaline rushing through your body, but luckily he wasn’t looking at your face, focused instead on your chest where his metal fingers skimmed lightly over the bared skin for just a moment before they gripped the fabric of your black camisole and bra while his other hand tore his knife down in a swift movement, splitting your undergarments down the middle, putting your chest on full display for his hungry eyes. He pushed the clothing out of the way fully only over your left shoulder.

He lifted his gaze to meet your eyes again. “Dessert was exquisite, but it didn’t satisfy what I wanted.”

He reached for a nearby saucepan, which still had a ladle in it, and smiled as he gave it a stir. You watched as he took a scoop of the caramel sauce and poured a little over the round swell of your breast. It was warm, and started to slowly spread, but not enough to drip and make a mess. You imagined in his line of work, he knew how to be precise, not leave anything extra to clean up. He set the pan back down on the counter, and then reached for something else, returning with a pinch of the flaky salt that he then sprinkled over the caramel.

For a moment he merely admired his handiwork. then his warm hand came up to cup the underside of your breast, and then his mouth descended to lap up the salted caramel from your tender flesh. Heat bloomed across your chest and straight to your head and your core, his ministrations eliciting a low moan from you. He hummed in approval, then took your nipple into his mouth. Your nipples were always very sensitive, and he was not careful with his attention there, sucking, nipping, and licking until you whimpered and tried to push him away. He kept mouthing painfully at your nipple another moment longer.

He leaned back for a moment to look own at you, scrutinizing your face. You were not sure what he saw there, truthfully you didn’t know how to feel and what front to put up, but whatever he assessed didn’t deter him.

He lifted one hand to your neck and then trailed the back of his fingers down your sternum, between your breasts, over your stomach, a light touch that wasn’t rushed, knowing he could draw a shiver of anticipation from you with the purposeful action. He unbuttoned your pants, and as he slipped his hand into your panties and cupped your mound, he leaned in close to your ear and softly said, “You earned this, too, Chef.”

His fingers sought your folds. “And you are wet for me.” You didn’t need to see his face to imagine the satisfaction that must be there – it was evident in his tone. His breath was hot on the shell of your ear. “Close like this,” he whispered, “I’ll still hear even the small pretty noises I’m going to draw from you with my fingers in your cunt.”

And even though you were expecting it – dreading it? – you gasped when he quickly thrust two fingers inside you, knuckles deep, and moved them expertly in and out of your tight heat, questing and quickly finding the sensitive spongy spot on the front of your pelvic wall. You bit your lip to keep keening as quiet as you could, and your arms gripped his biceps, looking for an anchor to reality. He played your pussy quickly, nimble and knowing fingers familiarizing themselves too easily with your body for your comfort.

His thumb went to work expertly drawing tight circles over your clit, still thrusting his fingers inside you, and the additional stimulation forced you into an intense orgasm you didn’t want to give him, burrowing your face into his neck to smother your small cry of ecstasy.

You didn’t want to see his face – undoubtedly haughty knowing he’s pleased you despite you wanting to refuse him the satisfaction – and in this you are spared at least for the moment as without pretense he abruptly spins you around and tugs your pants and underwear down your thighs. You heard the quick unbuckling of his belt and unzipping of his pants as he freed his hard length. You had only a second to brace yourself against the countertop as he gripped your hip with one hand and used his other to guide his tip to your thoroughly slick and ready opening. One full and quick thrust had him fully sheathed inside you, punching the air from your lungs. He leaned forward against your back, his mouth close to your ear again. “Feel me in there? Stretching you to the limit.”

He rolled his hips ever so slightly, slowly, and your head fell back against his shoulder.

“Yes, Chef. Just like that.”

He pulled his hips back, then gave another slow and powerful drive into your cunt. “Feel as smooth and velvety around my cock as that caramel sauce was on my tongue.” While one hand remained on your hip, as he began to pick up the pace with his thrusts his other hand brushed up your spine, then moved around to grasp your breast, the one he’d overstimulated just a few minutes before. You whimpered and tried to jerk away, but you’re met with his strong chest up against your back. He chuckled and then began to tweak and roll the nipple between his fingers.

You tried to pull his hand away, still whimpering.

“I intend to leave you feeling me for days from this, Chef,” he growls in your ear. His thrusts become rougher, faster, slamming into you over and over again. Your hands pulled at his wrist torturing your nipple, but your strength was nothing to his, and soon tears were spilling down your cheeks. When an audible sob escaped your throat, he finally relented and released your breast, but then he gripped your hips with both hands, showing no mercy for your pussy as he chased his own pleasure.

Without the pain, your body focused only on the pleasure mounting in your core now. This felt good. He felt good. His cock filled you exquisitely. You tried to rock your hips just slightly to where you know he’d hit that pleasurable spot in you again, but he controlled the movement and forced you to stay at the angle he wanted.

“This one is for me, Chef, not you,” he grunted.

Still, you pant together, lungs heaving, and you’re hurtling toward another orgasm. His hips stutter for a moment, and with a groan he releases his spend inside you, slowing his movements.

You couldn’t hold back a needy whine as he pulled out of you. You looked over your shoulder at him incredulously, edged to the very moment before but then denied your second release.

He paused after tucking his softening cock back into his boxer briefs and gripped your chin, demanding an abrasive kiss from your lips. “When you come apart on my cock, I want to watch your beautiful face and hear you beg for me.”

Years in the kitchen have taught you to hold back your words when there’s even a shade of uncertainty, and you are uncertain if you will give him what he wants or not, because you can’t deny that your body absolutely wants him, and part of your spirit does, too. Relentless power recognizing another like its own, and you hate that you’re more than a little intrigued. You don’t want to just give him what he wants, but a tiny sliver of you whispers that you shouldn’t cut off your nose just to spite him.

You pulled up your pants while you heard him zip and buckle his own pants again. One he had tucked in his shirt, again with swift precision, he turned you back around to face him. He reached for your apron, wiped his hands, then set it back on the counter. He didn’t mess with your torn shirt and bra other than to adjust them well enough so he could close your chef coat and button that back up over your chest.

He gazed right into your eyes again, brushing his thumb over your lips, parting them slightly, then pushing them closed again.

“I’ll be back for more soon,” he finally said, then walked away without another word.

Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

LINK TO PART TWO: FAT

#mob!bucky barnes x reader #dark!bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes smut #navy and roo's sleepover #navy and roo sleepover #bucky smut #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes #mob bucky barnes x reader #mob boss!bucky #mob boss au #mob boss! avengers #f!reader #aspen wrote something #female reader

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tuiccim · 1 month

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Lost in the Dark

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 485

Warnings: Dark content! Somnophilia, Non/DubCon, and other dark elements. This fic contains dark themes and may include potentially triggering topics. You are solely responsible for your media consumption.

Summary: Bucky comes home after a mission and can't wait to be with you.

A/N: Special thanks to my beta readers @whisperlullaby and @fandomsaremylifeline.

The house was dark as Bucky bound up the stairs late in the night. He had been gone for two days and you weren’t expecting him back until tomorrow night. He smiled as he entered your bedroom to find you sound asleep. Naked and laid out on your stomach, you had your arms wrapped under your pillow and your ass was on display making Bucky lick his lips.

Bucky steps into the adjoining bathroom and strips. He smirks in the mirror at the wicked idea that had crossed his mind. Heading back to the bed, you hadn’t moved an inch and he chuckles lightly at the deep sleep you were in. He had rarely seen you like this and he enjoyed watching you so comfortable in his bed.

Climbing onto the bed, he straddles your legs and positions himself. He had applied a generous amount of lube to his cock and slid inside of you with little resistance.

“Fuuuuck, I’ve missed you, Doll,” he whispers as he feels your muscles clench around him. He moves slowly at first but the little whine you let out has his cock throbbing. It had been too long for his tastes and feeling you wrapped around him was intoxicating. His hips began pistoning, driving deeper, and he knew you were fully awake when your hands wrapped around the metal headboard.

His hand slides under your body to find your clit and make swift circles, “Couldn’t wait till morning, doll. Had to feel this tight cunt squeezing me. Two days is too long to be away from you.”

He knows your body and plays it as a skilled master. Your body tightens and breath hitches as the waves of your orgasm break over you. Unbidden, a high pitched moan escapes you and you feel Bucky tighten above you.

“Fuck, that’s what I needed,” he whispers in your ear as he thrusts sloppily, meeting his own end. He lays on top of you for a moment, catching his breath, and occasionally thrusting inside you with the aftershocks. Flipping you over, he looks deeply into your eyes with a sweet smile before bringing his lips to yours. He kisses you thoroughly, reminding himself of your sweet nature and softness. “Couldn't wait to get back to you, doll,” he smiles as he slips out of bed. “I’m gonna start the shower. You know I have to have you at least one more time before I can sleep.”

You watch his naked form as he walks to the dim light coming from the bathroom. When he goes through, you wipe a tear from your eye and your hand trails to feel the collar around your neck. A delicate chain attached it to the bed frame. All made from vibranium. You had been sleeping soundly for the first time in months knowing that he was away on a mission but, now, your captor is home.

Part 2

Updates and taglist: Due to the unreliable nature of tags, I no longer keep a taglist. Updates for series will be made on Sundays Central Time Zone. Please follow my sideblog @tuiccimfanfiction and turn on notifications for updates. All series and new stories will be reblogged to it. You will only receive notifications when a new part or story is out! Nothing else will be blogged to the page. I can’t thank you enough for your support!

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deftmeat · 4 months

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‎ ‎ ‎‎‎ ‎‎‎‎ ‎ 彡 ‎ ‎ ‎‎ stepbrother!peter parker obsessed with you

NSFW ( mostly just a self-indulgent au )

• reposted since tumblr hid it •

w a r n i n g : contains non con and perv!peter

before tony stark had settled down with pepper potts, he had been with another woman. but after a messy divorce and an unwanted child, he decided to cut off all contact with her.

that woman was your mother. you had never met your father until she handed you off to him one day in the chilly autumn of new york.

after turning 18, she had decided to kick you out and dump you at the very front doors of stark tower.

with loose, messily packed luggage and fat tears staining your face, a man with short curly hair opened the door to you.

of course, later you learned his name was happy and tony trusted him greatly. happy also seemed to willfully obey his every order so you assumed there was a lot of trust and history between them. but you also wondered if tony ever told anyone about you.

it didn’t surprise you though, when you were brought up to tony, escorted by happy, that your father had no idea who you are. and when you explained yourself, he acted shocked you existed.

that’s how you ended up being employed by tony himself, starting out more as an errand runner or assistant to his incessant requests.

you couldn’t lie and say you enjoyed the first few months helping out around the avengers tower and catering to people who intimidated you- but after two years you had come to form closer relationships with those on the team and were more than just a nuisance.

but there was one other person you spent a lot of time with.

peter parker.

you were basically the same age as him, both the same generation and shared the exact same humour. your friendship with peter was nothing like the ones you possessed with the other, older avengers.

your texts between each other consisted of memes and spammed word vomit. peter spilled his secrets and his fears to you while you comforted him and listened. he didn’t see you any differently despite being aware of your hidden relation to his boss, respecting you enough to never bring it up.

there were times where you’d catch him staring at you for too long or you’d accidentally touch each other and he’d linger… just a little bit. you only brushed it off that he was clingy and touch starved.

alas, peter knew sometimes you would feel embarrassed of the fact you were tony’s kid especially when tony never liked to share details about himself to his coworkers. a few of them had been told too but treated you like you weren’t the daughter of one of the most narcissistic men they knew.

another reason you got along well with everyone. so much that you had been silently promoted to aiding in missions and able to train side by side with peter and the rest of the avengers.

when sparing with peter, he’d purposefully sweep your legs out from under you, only to collect your wrist in both of his hands and slam them to the mat, his thighs locked on either side of your hips and his face unnecessarily lowered to hover over yours.

you found most of your sessions under him and while it frustrated you that he beat you every single time, you couldn’t help but notice the look on peter’s face when he did trap you to the floor.

you also noticed how as soon as he got off of you, peter was quick to end the sparring match- practically running out of the gym, his pace fast and posture hunched over. maybe peter was just weird in general?

but he couldn’t help it. seeing you under him, looking vulnerable and so damn pretty like that… his cock swelled with blood and his balls ached with the need to breed you. every. single. time.

the feeling didn’t go away, even after may had died. despite the fact peter had become a mess, you were right there, picking up the pieces that used to be him and taping them back together as best as you could.

that’s when tony had made the executive decision to take peter in. he reasoned that he was already like a father figure to the poor boy, nothing would change. tony obviously had a soft spot for him.

at least, that’s what he said to convince you. and you couldn’t turn peter away when everyone he loved was no longer in his life.

so he moved into the building, took all of his belongings and clothes with him. peter put university on hold while he figured things out. you were understanding and tony- supportive. that’s when he could see the resemblance between you two. you both cared for him. and he suggested to become apart of your family.

of course tony took it the wrong way and surprised peter by adopting him, not even telling you beforehand. you were both speechless but for different reasons.

when peter stroked his leaking dick at night, giving into his fantasies of pushing your head down and dragging his red sensitive tip across your slit and deep inside your soaked walls; he could do so freely. now? now he couldn’t.

he couldn’t have you the way he wanted. peter was definitely frustrated at the new dynamic between you and him but he found it as an excuse to freely walk into your room whenever he wanted. why not? he was your step brother now.

it creeped you out at first, how he would sometimes silently slip past your doorway and make himself at home, occasionally starting up random conversations as if he hadn’t done anything wrong.

eventually you got used to it. sometimes leaving your room to grab a snack or go to the bathroom. you could trust peter not to break anything. he was such a sweet and quiet guy.

and that’s when he would take his chance, going through your drawers and stealing little things of yours.

the sheer panties your best friend from high school had given you for your birthday. a photo of you in a revealing bikini from a trip to the beach when you used to live with your mom. one of the many bottles of body spray that littered your vanity. lotion that you used all the time. another pair of underwear that were less appealing but you wore all the time when you wanted to dress comfortably.

peter even started to lay on your bed on his stomach as soon as you left the room and grind his hips down, rubbing his jean clad bulge against the soft blanket you slept under. he’d stick his face down into your pillow and hump your mattress, veiny hands fisting any fabric he could grab and pulling it closer to his nose, smelling you while he thought of raw dogging your puffy pussy in your own bed.

just when he was on the verge of cumming in his pants, you’d always walk in and he’d feign innocence. pretending he wasn’t just dry humping your bed like a greedy rabbit. you were never the wiser.

you noticed certain things of yours started to go missing little by little until you barely had things to wear or use. you assumed it was the dryer eating your entire wardrobe so you complained to tony and he gave you his card to buy an entire new one.

he didn’t want you going alone though so he made peter go with you. you weren’t entirely thrilled since had he had been glued to your hip almost constantly as of recently but you went along with it, knowing that if you didn’t agree, tony wouldn’t let you go at all.

so when you get to the small shop on the busy corner, peter wouldn’t stop suggesting pieces for you to buy or even try on. you found that they were either way too revealing or borderline inappropriate for him to request. but he wouldn’t stop insisting, going as far as to shove a whole armful of things into you and pushing you to the changing room very eagerly.

“i’m just trying to help.” he told you before closing the door behind you once you fully stepped inside. it didn’t help that every two minutes he’d knock and ask if you had finished, that he wanted to see what they looked like on you.

you obliged, feeling a bit uncomfortable. you were exposed- not to mention in front of peter. your step brother.

you left the small room in the first thing he had shown you, a size too small t-shirt and extremely tiny booty shorts. but peter seemed to hype you up, smiling enthusiastically. his eyes held a glossed over look while his gaze slowly went down your body, taking in how your skin would stick out and show where it probably shouldn’t be.

“okay turn around.” he spoke abruptly, making your face twist into one of uncertainty. he shook his head and merely spoke down to you like you were playing dumb; “come on, i just wanna see what the back looks like.”

huffing out a sigh, you reluctantly shifted your weight and spun to show your backside.

when you did though- you swore you heard a camera clicking but when you whipped your head around to catch whoever had taken your picture without consent.. no one was there.

“peter..?” you meekly stared around, looking for the boy but he had disappeared as if in thin air. the only other people you saw were two employees reorganizing hangers across the wall.

your stomach twisted and you shrunk back into the changing room, not bothering to try the other pieces on and put your own clothes back on, feeling anxious that someone was watching you.

as soon as you went to open the door, peter was standing right in front of the entrance- making you jump and drop the large pile of things you were holding.

“woah, sis. calm down. it’s just me.” he laughed it off, giving you that boyish smile, peter’s eyes never leaving yours. you felt your face flush and apologized- pushing past him to put the exposing clothes back on the racks where he had gotten them from.

ever since then, you felt violated. you avoided peter. you started to ask FRIDAY to lock your door with an access code. you weren’t entirely sure it had been him but he was starting to freak you out even after that day.

you’d wake up multiple nights in a row, in a cold sweat, absolutely sure you could feel someone else had been inside your room besides yourself.

you’d place your hoodie down on the couch to grab a drink, coming back to find it gone.

peter would stay up for two hours after you went to bed, wanting to be certain you had fallen asleep before typing in the access code to your room- watching you put it in while he stuck to the ceiling one day.

he’d quietly shuffle in and see your phone beside your pillow and your face scrunched up while you dreamt. he’d whisper your name just to double check then crept over to your bed, hovering down to stare.

the next thing he knew, he was fucking hard- just by looking at you. that’s what you did to him and you didn’t even know it. his step sister always teasing him, purposefully taunting him with something that was forbidden for peter.

but he bottled up his frustration, struggling to push down his jeans as silently as possible. the slight sound of denim rubbing against itself was drowned out as his pants clung just below his knees. he hadn’t worn a belt for this very reason. wanted easy access while keeping you unaware of his presence.

peter bit his lip when his warm palm finally made contact with his cock, the angry tip already leaking and spilling down to weave through his fingers. “mmshit..” he choked out, careful not to be too loud when he started to stroke himself. his eyes were locked onto your sleeping face, his tongue darting out to drag across his bottom lip with desire. desire for you.

since he couldn’t have you, this was the best he could do, flicking his wrist to increase the speed that his hand jerked his dick, his cheeks wearing a dark flush the faster he went.

“yeah.. wanna breed my lil’sis.. make you mine, baby..” peter muttered, leaning forward so that his cock was right beside the pillow, the back of his hand almost ghosting your nose every time he moved up the entirety of his throbbing length.

he had only touched himself above you one other time but every single night since he saw how your ass looked in those small shorts- he couldn’t help but visit you while you were unconscious, whispering about how badly he wanted to feel your pretty cunt wrapped around his dick, about how good he bets you taste. but he was growing restless, as he confided in your passed out form- he needed more.

which lead to two nights ago. peter couldn’t help but jack off while sitting at the chair in front of your desk in the corner, listening to your soft breaths, one your previously used panties stuffed into his mouth to keep himself quiet - forcing peter to spurt cum all over his hand and bare thighs.

tonight was no different but he was feeling bolder, the aggressive animalistic demand his mind screamed at him to paint your face and mark you as his. to see how hot you looked while his warm sticky seed dripped down your lips and chin and onto your sheets, ruining them. ruining you.

a low groan rumbled in his chest when you shifted, your face now just under his slapping balls. peter almost came at the sight of your unconscious submission, your eyes fluttering and your lips just barely parted. ready to swallow the load he could feel about to explode from his swollen cock head.

his other hand not gripping his dick, shot out to claw at your head board to steady himself from falling on top of you, his body tingling with pure heat. he could barely stand, his knees buckling and the strong muscles in his pale thighs rippling with the effort to maintain his stance.

he was sure he could last another few minutes but when you moved your arms under your blanket, the sudden action pulled it down, revealing the loose tank top you had chosen to wear to bed.

peter’s eyes flitted down to your tits, and upon noticing you hadn’t worn a bra, your nipples stiff and pressing into the fabric- he let out a loud moan, massive ropes of white cum pouring out of his cock.

a few spurts hit your bare collarbones, your chest, the soft blanket draped over you and of course your pretty face. he watched as the thick goo caught on the tip of your nose and bottom lip- gravity causing it to run inside your mouth and down your cheeks onto the pillow.

“fuuuck.” peter cursed at the sight of his cum soaked step sister, all laid out for him.

when you felt something hot splatter your skin you flinched. it had made you stir. blinking your messy eyelids, trying to get whatever it was out of your eyes- you were fully awakened when you heard that familiar click of a camera.

rising your hand up to drag your numb fingers across your face, whatever was on it stuck to your digits and webbed between them. then you noticed it was also in your mouth so you leaned forward and let it drizzle out past your lips and land on your sheets. then you saw movement in the darkness and your unfocused gaze lifted to just barely be able to make out what it was. or who it was.

your body ran cold- you were first met with a cock that was still strikingly hard, leaking and pointing right at you, followed by hair framing the base of the shaft, accompanied by a small trail of the same hair up to below his bellybutton.. peter’s face above it all.

he lowered his phone with clouded eyes, panting heavily and cheeks flushed. his eyes on you.

“…pete?”

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darknight3904 · 6 months

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This Love Masterlist

Back to Main Masterlist

Started: November 3, 2023

Finished:

ɢʀᴏᴡɪɴɢ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ, ʟᴏᴋɪ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜱᴛʀɪ ᴀʀᴇ ᴀɴ ɪɴꜱᴇᴘᴀʀᴀʙʟᴇ ᴘᴀɪʀ. ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʏᴇᴀʀꜱ ᴘᴀꜱꜱ, ᴀꜱᴛʀɪ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴇ ʜᴇʀ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇꜱᴛ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ɪɴ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ᴡᴀʏ ʙᴜᴛ ʟᴏᴋɪ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜱᴇᴛ ʜɪꜱ ᴀᴍʙɪᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛᴏᴡᴀʀᴅꜱ ꜱᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ ʙɪɢɢᴇʀ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴀꜱᴛʀɪ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀ ɪᴍᴀɢɪɴᴇᴅ.

ᴛʜɪꜱ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴏʀ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡꜱ ʟᴏᴋɪ ᴀɴᴅ ᴀꜱᴛʀɪ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴏʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀꜱ, ᴛʜᴏʀ: ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ, ᴛʜᴏʀ: ʀᴀɢɴᴀʀᴏᴋ, ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀꜱ ɪɴꜰɪɴɪᴛʏ ᴡᴀʀ, ᴀᴠᴇɴɢᴇʀꜱ ᴇɴᴅɢᴀᴍᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴏᴋɪ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: ᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴜᴀʟ ꜱᴍᴜᴛ, ꜱᴇʟꜰ-ʜᴀʀᴍ/ ꜱᴜɪᴄɪᴅᴀʟ ꜱᴄᴇɴᴇꜱ. ᴀʟʟ 18+ ᴍᴀᴛᴇʀɪᴀʟ ᴡɪʟʟ ʙᴇ ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴘᴀʏ ᴀᴛᴛᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴀɴʏ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ.

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴏɴᴇ

ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ

ꜱʜᴀᴘᴇꜱʜɪꜰᴛɪɴɢ

ʜᴏʀɴꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄʟᴀᴡꜱ

ʙɪʟɢᴇꜱɴɪᴘᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ɢʀᴇᴇɴ ᴅʀᴇꜱꜱᴇꜱ

ɢᴏᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴘɪᴇꜱ

ᴍɪᴅɢᴀʀᴅ'ꜱ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀꜱ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴇꜱꜱ

ʙᴜʙʙʟᴇꜱ

ᴊᴏᴛᴜɴʜᴇɪᴍ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏɴꜱᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀᴅʏ

ʟɪʙʀᴀʀʏ ᴛᴀʟᴋꜱ

ʀᴇᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴏᴜᴛ

ᴛʜᴇ ꜰᴏᴜʀᴛʜ ꜱᴀɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴏɴ ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ

ʀᴇᴜɴɪᴏɴꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴇᴍᴏɴᴀᴅᴇ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ᴛᴡᴏ

ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴡᴇ ᴜꜱᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴛᴀʀꜱ

ɪɴᴠᴀꜱɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ᴘʀɪᴠᴀᴄʏ

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acriminalmind · 9 months

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Coming Soon...

Songs From the Wood

Forrest Dweller Wanda Maximoff x GN Villager Reader

Summary: Those who enter the mysterious woods and get off the trails are never to be seen again.

A party thrown by your former classmates ends up with you fighting for your life.

Warnings: ⚠️ 18+, minors DNI. Dark Themes, Shitty and Immature People, Consequences of Alcohol, Spiked Drink, Use of Weapons like Axes and Knifes, Some very Graphic Images (Blood, Injuries, Torture, Violent and Gruesome Deaths), Some Strong Language, Mentions of Cannibalism, Kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome, Smut, Human Sacrifices, Marriage, Pregnancy.

AN: Reader has GN pronounces in this story, but has male genitalia.

You can't use or repost my work.

Let me know your thoughts!

#fanfic #marvel #dark fic #wanda marvel #wanda maximoff x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff #wanda maximoff x gn!reader #gn reader #natalie rushman #james buchanan barnes #stephen strange #male reader #female reader #the avengers #scarlet witch

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ramp-it-up · 1 year

Text

The Sweetest Nectar

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Reader. Steve Rogers x reader

Summary: Steve is pining for you and the fact that you are Sam’s girl doesn’t mean a thing.

Word Count: 1K.

Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. RPF. SMUT,

Warnings: Warnings: 18+ Only, Minors DNI. SMUT! Read at your own risk; curate your own experience. Soft Dark Subby Nomad Steve Rogers. Darkish reader. Mention of pre-serum Steve, Lap dance in public, voyeurism, masturbation, mention of drugs and alcohol, pining, angst, teasing, exhibitionism (on reader’s part), possible non con exhibitionism (on Sam’s part). Oral sex (f receiving), p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it up), sloppy seconds, possible cheating. All errors my own.

A/N: Thanks for this ask! It streched me.

I no longer have a taglist. Please follow @rampitupandread and turn on notifications to learn when I post! 😘

I Do NOT Consent to my work being reposted, translated or presented on any other blog or site other than by myself.

You were giving your boyfriend a lap dance on Steve’s couch, and it made the host irrationally happy.

Steve was glad that Sam had someone, especially someone as sweet as you. Damn, you were probably so fucking sweet.

Steve licked his lips as he watched your hips undulate in front of Sam’s face. This was the perfect opportunity to watch you and ogle your body, because everyone was a little tipsy and a little high and doing it too.

It was all in fun, right?

You glanced at Steve upside down as you gyrated on Sam’s lap now, and bent backward all the way over, your braids touching the floor, giving the room a view of your luscious tits.

Yeah. You were perfect. And this night was the highlight since Steve came out of the ice.

You winked at Steve and his face grew red, but he played it off by taking another drink and rubbing his beard while flipping his long hair out of his face.

It worked on countless other women, but you just sat back up and pulled Sam’s face into the valley of your breasts, gasping as he motorboated your clothed breasts and grabbed the glorious globes of your blue-jeaned ass.

People laughed, but Steve’s mood changed; he started plotting dismemberment and where to scatter body parts when Bucky came up to stand beside him and watch.

“Hold it up a little higher, buddy.”

Steve didn’t tear his eyes away from you as he took another drink and replied.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“That torch you’re carrying. Maybe she’ll see it if you hold it up higher, Lady Liberty.”

Steve just scoffed and drank some more, not denying anything that Bucky had said.

Bucky laughed and went to get another beer, as Steve practically cried in his, his heart silently aching for you.

—-

You and Sam were in Steve’s bedroom, taking advantage of the fact that everyone else was doing body shots in the kitchen.

“F-f-fuckkkkk! Samuel T-t-t-hom… fuck, Samuel Thomas W-w-wilsonnnnn.”

You were grabbing Sam’s ears as he skillfully ate you out, looking down on him between your legs as he sucked and pulled and played with your clit.

“Fucky, Baby… where did you learn to do … goddamn…”

You panted to try and catch your breath as he inserted three fingers inside you and spread them out.

“Holyyyyyy Shhhhhhh!!!!!!!!”

You came like a freight train, your knees clamping down around Sam’s head. Sam’s large hands pried you from around his face and came up for air, a triumphant smirk on his face. He held your legs open and gazed at the pretty dark, wet lips of your cunt and the creamy liquid oozing out between them.

“Learning new techniques every day. Just to keep you satisfied, darlin’,”

Sam shook his head and watched as your pretty pussy lips sheltered your still quivering folds.

“It’s a beautiful view.”

Steve silently agreed from the closet, watching your beautiful cunt shine in the dim light from the street. He had his hand wrapped around his cock, fisting himself brutally at the sights, sounds, and faint smell of you. Steve silently willed Sam to action, wanting to hear how that wet pussy sounded when it was fucked good.

It was just like before the war, when he watched Bucky…

“Hmmmm, Daddy. Give me some. Please? Pretty please. Will you give me some of that thick dick?”

You leaned back, legs still open, looking up at Sam, who was standing now, in front of you.

Your face, fucked out and glowing, looked up at his friend as you licked your lips was everything in the world to Steve Rogers right now.

Steve imagined it was him you were begging, and he didn’t know if he wanted you to suck Sam off or let him fuck you senseless. He just knew that wanted to bust this nut.

“Assume the fucking position then.”

You whimpered, and Steve nearly bust in his hand.

“Yes, Daddy.”

You got on all fours on the bed and that view was even better than before. Oh, how he’d eat that ass, Steve thought.

Sam smacked both cheeks three times, and your moans and sighs alone were enough to make Steve cum. He watched his friend line up his thick dick and swipe it through your folds, and could almost feel your beautiful wetness. Stevehad to bite his lips to hold in his own grunts as Sam slowly, wetly, and solidly sank into you.

“Ohhhhhh… shit….DADDY!!!”

“Fuuuuuccccckkkkkk!”

Sam’s head lolled back on his shoulders as he bottomed out and Steve’s eyes practically rolled back in his head as he witnessed the ecstasy.

Then, Sam looked down and smacked your ass again. Steve watched, rapt, as Sam slowly pulled almost all the way out, then plunged quickly back into your wet goodness. He bet you were so warm. Sam did it again and again and again, faster and faster, and faster. Steve stroked in time as you moaned louder and louder and louder, oblivious to the others at the party.

Steve watched your back arch, and your flesh shake and ripple with every back shot delivered. He was so fucking close.

“Daddy? Daddy? Please Daddy.. I wanna, I wanna….I neeeeeed to…”

“Cum, Darlin’... give it to me. Fuck yeah!”

Sam’s voice was a growl and as you started shaking, Steve’s cum started spilling into his palm and the sock that he was using to contain it.

“Shhsshhhhittttttt….” Steve’s whisper was not silent, but quiet enough that you two wouldn’t hear it over your own noises.

You and Sam collapsed on the bed..

“That was great, Darlin’. You shouldn’t tease me like that in public. ‘S not gonna stop me from giving it to you.”

Sam kissed your nose.

“I am well aware of what that does to a man. Makes it that much better, Daddy.”

Sam laughed, and then moved toward the bathroom.

“We better get outta here, before Steve catches us in his bedroom.”

You looked toward the bathroom and then sat up on the edge of the bed, legs open again.

Steve saw your wrecked pussy, the combination of you and Sam seeping out, and his cock swelled again. He nearly yelled when he saw you playing in it again. It was like you were doing it just for him.

But you stopped when Sam came back out to get dressed.

“I need a little more time to get cleaned up. You go ahead.”

“Ok Darlin,” Sam leaned over and kissed your forehead and you reached for a peck on the lips.

“You made me hungry, took all my energy. I’m going to go eat some food.”

Sam winked and left the room smiling and happy.

When the door closed, you stared straight at the closet.

“Well? Are you going to stay in there and jack off again, or are you going to come out and clean me up?”

You leaned back on your hands, legs wide.

“Now’s your chance Steve. I know you’re in there. Are you going to come out Captain?”

Steve gulped. Then he couldn’t help but comply.

“Fuck…”

Steve emerged from the closet, the tip hard cock glistening and stiff at the opening of his undone pants. He walked toward you and dropped to his knees.

You threaded your hand in his hair, brushing it away from his forehead as he closed his eyes at your touch. You guided his head toward your throbbing cunt.

“You get sloppy seconds, but I bet that’s what you like…”

“Yes ma’am.”

Steve nodded vigorously as his tongue collected the sweetest nectar he’d ever tasted.

#ask dj #dj will answer #sam wilson #steve rogers #nomad steve #sam wilson imagine #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson smut #sam wilson x black!reader #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers imagine #soft dark steve rogers #bucky barnes #avengers #chris evans fanfics #anthony mackie #sebastian stan

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tojii-fshiguro · 2 months

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❝ℒℯ𝓉𝓉ℯ𝓇𝓈 𝓉ℴ 𝒥𝓊𝓁𝒾ℯ𝓉❞ // steve rogers series masterpost.

summary: ❝steve rogers is in love with you—his very own juliet in an ugly, unfair verona. he will do whatever it takes to prove his undying love for you, no matter the cost.❞

genre: dark, smut.

rating: m. 18+ content below. minors, dni.

pairing: dark!steve rogers ♡ femme (afab) reader.

warnings: dead dove: do not eat, dark themes, stalking descriptions of death and blood, yandere themes, strong language, adult content. (individual warnings will be included for each chapter.)

𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏…

✉︎⸝⸝ ↬ chapter 1

❣ enjoyed this mini series? check out my original story here: ❝my bloody valentine.❞ this is a rework of that original storyline/plot.

last updated: 3/11/2024. 3:41 pm, cdt.

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abby118 · 2 months

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I know I don't talk a lot about how much I despise the series, Ragnarok, or IW, but know that's just because I don't want to give it the time of day. There are a myriad of things I disagree with and/or find downright offensive for the story as well as its characters.

It's such a shame, but it's evident that the people responsible for the "sequels" knew fuck all about the narrative they were supposed to be presenting. They ended up making shoddy remakes and I can't wrap my head around how so many people are utterly blind to it. The sheer mischaracterisation of all the characters is astounding.

They threw away years worth of highly valuable backstory and, with that, any chances of elaborating on any of the of subjects they could've addressed, just to make everybody into their miserably written comic relief. It's disgusting and shows just how little respect the new creators hold for the fanbase (and essentially, their own creations).

I applaud every single one of you who have the mental energy to write these elaborate metas pointing out what went wrong. I've got a lot to say too, but I can't bring myself to do so and acknowledge it.

I'm so grateful there are still people who understand the characters and their story, you are deeply appreciated and I love seeing you 🖤💚

(PS- in case you haven't noticed I don't hesitate to block you so called fans of the post 2013 era, so if any of you end up seeing this, stay away from my blog. You will get blocked.)

#anti loki series #anti loki show #Loki #2011-2013 Loki supremacy #anti ragnarok #anti iw #Thor 1 #The Avengers #Thor The Dark World #Loki deserves better #everybody there deserves better #the Loki trilogy #and that's what led me to write hundreds of K words of my post TDW fanfic. lore and all

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k1ranishf4 · 7 months

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I can’t stop thinking about Loki’s and Thor’s age difference:

Allegedly, Loki was 1047 years old in the first Avengers movie

Thor says he’s 1500 years old in Infinity War

Those two incidents are six years apart, which means that Loki was 1053 years old in Infinity War

Which, in turn, means that Thor and Loki have an age difference of 447 years

But the thing is: in the first Thor movie during the flashback to their childhood, they looked like they had an age gap of two years tops. From looks alone and speaking in human terms, Thor seemed to be about eleven years old and Loki looked like a nine, maybe ten-year-old to me.

And since Asgardians (and probably Jotuns as well) have a lifespan of about 5000 years, according to Loki in TDW, it’s unnecessary to say that they age slower than humans because it’s obvious.

So, what? Are 447 years, say 500, the equivalent to two years in human terms? Was Thor running around like a seemingly two-year-old when Odin came back with baby Loki in his arms?

I’m not even thinking about it on purpose, it just crosses my mind whenever I start writing another draft fic. Most of the time, it’s not even relevant to the plot, I just like to know every little detail to avoid plotholes and in case it does get mentioned.

#honestly now i want to know Hela’s age just to see how far apart her and the bros were born #i care a lot about siblings and sibling bond as you can see #mostly because i have siblings myself so #it’s rather interesting to think about #marvel #marvel cinematic universe #loki #thor #avengers 1 #avengers infinity war #thor the dark world #thor movies #brodinsons #siblings #writing #fanfiction #ao3 writer #ao3 #fanfic writing

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youandtom2 · 2 years

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We Need to Talk About Peter (dark!Peter Parker)

Summary: There's something not right about Peter. Why is no one talking about it? Themes: angst, horror w/c: 4.2k a/n: I wanted to write something a little darker based loosely on the book We Need to Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. I didn't want to romanticise anything, this is simply just a story and NOT a 'peter parker x reader' even if it might be tagged as such. Please take the time to read the warnings as this is about a topic that is triggering. Also, this is a reminder to keep yourselves safe out there, especially in places where gun control isn't as enforced as it should be.

T/W: SCHOOL SHOOTING, BULLYING, VIOLENCE, SUICIDE, DARK CONTENT AHEAD! VERY RAW! READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!

MASTERLIST

Every school has one: that detached, isolated person who sits at the back of the class, having no intention of uttering a word to anyone that approaches them. The deviant nobody pays attention to because, after many fruitless attempts, it is simply too difficult to connect with them through any means of communication. To everyone's knowledge, they're just a name and a body and nothing further. A walking, empty soul that floats around the school. A blank canvas who has yet to leave an imprint on society but with no personality, no emotion and no social background, it seems highly unlikely they ever will.

Every school has one regardless. But none of those other schools ever had someone quite like Peter.

Now Peter contained all of the typical symptoms. Quiet, restricted, invisible. Oftentimes you would pass him in the corridor with the hint of a bruising or a red blemish developing on his face just minutes after being harassed by someone who didn't quite understand him. Not necessarily saying that you did, but you knew more than anyone else that there was something psychologically obscure about him; something that wasn't to be reconciled with. Everyone else disregarded him and blamed it on a defect of character, but what struck you about him was the way he would never stray from that stone cold expression, you never saw any other emotion donning his face. No fear, no pain, nothing. But that was just typical Peter.

You couldn't ignore how much it bothered you that everyone was completely blind to his very distinct anti-social behaviour. The teachers paid him no mind because he did the work, he was a grade A student, and his family background checks were completely healthy. So as long as he was able to conform to the school rules and there was no trouble at home, then it was assumed that having no personality was his personality.

Indeed, he was unique. But not in the way that everyone thought because he embodied something that no one else had. Something that exhorted him to exceed his reputation and do the unthinkable.

He had a motive.

~~~~

Your day at school is like any other. Your English literature work basks in the sun, shining its rays onto your desk as if it was mocking you, reminding you that once again you are stuck in school with work at your fingertips. English isn't your favourite but it's tolerable. The class isn't half bad, the teacher knows what he's doing and maybe about a third of the course sparks your interest. The other two thirds you fall asleep to.

The other dilemma is your partner, Peter. Having the misfortune of sitting next to him, it is inevitable that when teamwork projects come along you will always be paired with him. You have to give it to him though, he never fails you when it comes to putting in the effort. He's smart, clever and a little too cunning for your liking. This particular feature about him you try to suppress when it gets the better of you, knowing all too well that he gets enough shit from everyone else. The least you could do is persevere and expand your patience.

It's team project day and as instructed by your teacher you turn towards your partner. Your skin turns cold when you notice a purple haze grazing his cheek amongst the red undertones of his skin, where the traces of tears are obvious to the eye. Like you say, he gets enough shit from everyone else. The last thing he needs is for you to be the same. With a hesitant smile on your lips and a spark of optimism growing, you present your findings to Peter.

"Okay, so I spent 3 hours last night doing analysis and evaluation on chapter 3. I also started making the template for our presentation which I can do if you're totally not up for it. It's cool. And I know you're supposed to be doing quotes but..."

You can't help but drag your eyes over his bruising face, thinking how could anyone have the insolence to hurt someone as innocent as Peter? As your commiserate eyes skim over the last detail of his beatings he turns, catching you staring at his face.

"I-I could them if you don't want to?" Of course he doesn't reply, which is what you expect. However you're too quick to judge as he rips out a piece of paper from his notebook and begins scribbling.

'No, it's okay I'll do them.'

You read the words in your own voice simply because you don't know what his sounds like. Nevertheless, it's still something. He usually doesn't tend to write anything to anyone.

"Are you sure?"

Miraculously, he nods. After finalising his decision, you both put your heads down and focus on your work in silence, just how you both like it.

~~~~

That was all you got from him that day. That week, even. As the month progressed you noticed that Peter, however impossible it seemed, was becoming evermore unresponsive. Every period of English that you endured felt like a battle just trying to get him to even look at you. He wouldn't move other than to blink and to breathe.

He had done all of his work for the team project in four days. Something that was supposed to last 2 weeks had been completed in four days. You, on the other hand, were completely flooded with work, desperately trying to catch up with his work ethic, but even then, you were still working on finishing touches up until the day before the presentation was due.

You can understand why he did it so quickly: spending the free time he granted himself in complete ignorance because he didn't have any work to do, and left you helplessly trying to complete your half of the project in a scramble. You knew you had delegated the work equally, but showing a little decency to help you out wouldn't have harmed anyone. However, you decided not to pester him about it.

And it's a good thing you didn't. Otherwise you might've ended up like the others.

~~~~

On the day before presentation day you decide to stay in school late, running through your presentation and perfecting every detail of it. You want it to be flawless. Especially since you won't be having any assistance presenting it no thanks to a certain stubborn mute.

Under Spring's pink sky you walk home constantly being tormented by the craving of a good night's sleep. With the team project no longer occupying your mind, you take your time enjoying the view around you. That is until you turn the corner. Your view is now being hindered by a certain, lonesome, stubborn mute walking ahead of you. His back is turned and you notice a heavy rucksack clinging to his back as he drags it along the pavement. What could he possibly be carrying that's so heavy? Intrigued, you track every footstep remembering to keep your distance.

Something else comes into view in the distance. Three, no, four boys you recognise strut round the corner, obnoxiously laughing as they advance on Peter with nothing but mischief in their predatory eyes. Those boys are the recipe for trouble and you fear that the nice weather isn't the reason for their little stroll through the neighbourhood. Specifically one that Peter inhabits. Your heartbeat picks up as Peter fails to avoid them, refusing to break his stride until he and the boys come face to face. His feet are rooted to the ground and his statue-like stance doesn't convey any form of fear. He should really run if he knows what's best for him.

Their voices are muted. Words are mumbled. You can't hear a damn thing but yet you still remain hidden behind a parked car watching very intently as the scene unfolds before you. In amongst the irritated voices, you know for a fact that none of them are Peter's.

"ANSWER ME!" The boy's quick to slap Peter's face. The piercing sound so disturbing it leaves you wincing, cowering even further into your cover knowing that it was only the beginning and the worst is yet to come.

Still, Peter's reactions cease to exist. There is simply nothing that will make him bat an eyelid, even if it means slapping him in the face to test the theory. Empty-handed, the boys grow impatient, desperately waiting for something exciting to happen. They think that if they aggravate Peter further, he'll break and retaliate, giving them what they want and have never seen before: a reaction.

They never learn their lesson. They won't get one, no matter what they do.

"Fuck this," the other one says, and gives Peter a mighty blow to the face, one that's capable of breaking his jaw, and sweeps him clean off his feet. After the initiation, it's like a monkey-see-monkey-do situation. One kicks, the others kick. One punches, the others follow. The whole thing makes you sick to the stomach. Peter's body is constantly being beaten around, twitching and jerking lifelessly with the sounds of bones cracking, and laughter ringing through the air.

"STOP!" you hear your own voice yelling, suddenly realising now that your legs are carrying you towards them. "STOP IT! LEAVE HIM ALONE!"

The boys look at you with confusion riddling their face, questioning why someone like you would defend someone like Peter. One of them even mutters your name through his heavy breathing, exhausted from beating Peter senselessly. You take your stance in front of Peter, defending him from the boys.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing? Huh? He didn't do a fucking thing to you, and you think it's okay to beat him up?"

"Back off, this is none of your business," one of them has the audacity to say.

"You fuck with Peter, you make it my business. Now you fuckwits better leave because that old woman over there witnessed the whole thing from her living room and is probably on the phone to the police right now. So unless you want to spend the night in custody I'd suggest that you back off."

They leave accordingly knowing how much being involved with the police would jeopardise their precious football careers, but not without getting a last word in.

"Left a little surprise for your aunt when she gets home, Parker. I'm sure you'll enjoy it too."

~~~~

That surprise was the last straw for Peter. You helped him hobble home to discover the words 'slut' spray painted across the side of his aunt’s car. Not only that, but as you looked up to the apartment building you couldn't miss the numerous egg stains and little shards of shell scattered across the glass panes of his windows. You remember very distinctly the prominent lump in your throat when you saw what they had done to his home, thinking that nobody should ever have to go through something as debilitating as that.

You knew well enough Peter didn't show emotion, but after seeing the atrocities blatantly displayed across the Parker property, there should've been at least something, even just a hint of anger somewhere inside him. A clue or gesture of some sort that would prove that he's actually human would have sufficed.

There was absolutely nothing.

He walked the remaining distance into the building independently and slammed the door. Hearing that slam was like a wash of relief. It was the result of anger, frustration and fury. That alone was enough to convince you that there was something inside him that was capable of feeling emotion.

But for him, though, it wasn't enough.

~~~~

You make your presence known at the front of your class, anxiously waiting to get this presentation over and done with. Your eyes peer over to Peter's empty desk thinking how he should be here. As mysterious as he is, you can't understand why he isn't here, he's never skipped class and would never think to tarnish his 100% attendance record. You know giving presentations isn't his thing, but he could've at least shown you some moral support.

Pfft, yeah right.

You shrug the thought away before it bothers you even more and without delay, you begin your presentation.

"Lionel Shriver is the author of the 2003 novel We Need to Talk About Kevin which-"

Your words are cut off by four, angry shots echoing down the hallway, followed by a heart-stopping scream. Your eyes whip to the open door and in that moment you feel like your mind is absent, stunned in the disbelief of what you just heard. You try to move but you find that your muscles have stiffened, paralysed with fear and complete panic.

More shots follow, even louder than before. Your teacher yells at you to take cover which you do eventually after an unnecessarily delayed reaction, but your ears are ringing and everything you see has morphed into a blur.

The shooter is three...two...one footstep away from the classroom. Your sensitive ears pick up the murmurations of sobs, whimpers and sheer panic effusing from your classmates. But there's nothing more deafening than the heavy tread of the shooter's steps pacing slowly into the classroom.

Silence. It's just absolute, unadulterated silence. The longer it continues, the more the anticipation strangles you.

"Hmmm, where is she?" His smooth, puckish tones are unrecognisable but just as equally terrifying. You can't seem to get a good look at his face; the front panel of the teacher's desk obstructs your view. "She must be in here somewhere..." She? Who's she? You make eye contact with your teacher who presses his index finger to his lips as he too hides under the desk. Whilst the shooter wanders around the room at an unbearable pace, you distract yourself by counting to ten, praying that it'll calm your uneased mind. It's completely illogical but right now anything will help.

One.

It's almost impossible to pinpoint exactly where he is based on your judgement of sound. He could be anywhere, ready to pounce.

Two.

You close your eyes, inhaling and exhaling.

Three.

He fires two warning shots into the ground and even seconds after you can still feel the harsh repercussions of the bullets hitting the ground. Screams and cries of mercy fill the room. Bits and pieces of the floor ricochet.

Four.

You have to force yourself to clamp your hand over your mouth before you end up exposing yourself to him.

Five.

"Oh look, our presentation's on the board!" There's something chilling about his words; his taunting yet playful voice emphasises the word 'our', giving you a perfectly obvious clue as to who the perpetrator is.

You know it, but the thought can't process through your dazed mind any slower. Our. He said 'our'. You and...Peter. That answers the question why you were unable to recognise his voice. He's the shooter. And he's looking for you.

Six.

An abrupt shriek emits from a girl's mouth, one you recognise as your friend Ellis.

"Is she under that desk over there?" His cool tones are still heard despite Ellis's cries and desperate pleas. You don't hear her answer, but your guess is that he didn't need one. Adrenaline settles in and your eyes grow wide in the unprecedented fear of what is about to happen. His footsteps, unlike before, are quick and thunderous as they stalk closer and closer.

Sev-

"Found you!"

Despite his deceptive body frame, his brute force drags you out from hiding in seconds. The first thing that comes into your mind is his gun. That small but powerful TEC-9 gun is secure in Peter's clutches. Instinctively, your awareness of the threat that you face takes priority in your mind and you watch it with cautious eyes. You’ve never seen a gun up close before, and now that Peter waves it around aimlessly in front of you, you realise the very real danger it poses. All it takes is one single bullet. The very thought makes you shudder.

Like an ornament, Peter presents you to the class, body stiff and unresponsive. He stands to your left, his hand crawling up your spine while the other points the gun to the ground. You just hate the way your name rolls off his tongue, unfamiliar in his voice. What does he want with you?

"I won't harm you. I just want you to point out the bastards who attacked me."

~~~~

In that situation, you had no idea what to do. It was their life, or yours. You spent what felt like hours convincing Peter that they weren’t there as their pleading eyes begged to keep them safe, but Peter had figured it out for himself after a total rampage of the classroom. There were only two of the four of those boys in your class at that moment. Perhaps if they hadn't been in your English class they would still be alive.

But unfortunately that wasn't the case.

From that class alone, 3 died and 5 were fatally injured. Peter thankfully spared the lives of the others to continue the search of the two remaining boys from that night. Of course, he took you with him as a hostage for leverage and protection. Every part of Peter was raw. For the first time you were able to see his true self, seeing beneath the silent facade he had hidden behind for so long. You wish you hadn't.

The whole thing seemed like a nightmare you wanted to wake up from. The memories are drilled into you now: the blood splattered across the walls, lifeless bodies lying there for everyone to see the damage that had been caused. That will never leave you.

~~~~

"Peter," you whimper, clinging on to the newly discovered shrapnel wounds on your arm. He turns but he doesn't stop walking. "Why are you doing this?"

That stops him. He eases the pressure from around your arm just slightly. His presence becomes threatening, the distance between you narrows and you're now staring into the face of a cold-blooded killer. Words pass his lips in a cool manner that is strikingly discomforting, especially coming from someone who has just massacred a school. There's only one thing audible in these narrow corridors; your throbbing pulse, drowning out any exterior noise.

"I won't harm you," he repeats, however you still fear that you can't take his word for it. His hand snakes up towards your face and catches your jawline in between his fingers and his thumb, forcing you to look at him. He's always tried to avoid all eye contact, but now that he's surrendered himself to his emotions it's the only thing he's after. "I have been putting up with their shit for long enough. I have been in this silence for long enough. I have waited long enough. If it's a reaction everyone is wanting, then here it is," he spits through gritted teeth. Peter overshadows you with his authority, his presence looming over your fear and manipulating it. You have no other choice but to submit yourself to be a vital part in his vengeance.

You both travel further deeper into the heart of the school. The number of people that still remain inside is unknown but presuming that most people haven’t made their escape, Peter leads you to the classroom where the other two boys should be. Before Peter breaches and parades in, he turns and gives you one last slice of insight.

"You know why I finished the work so quickly?" he asks but you don't respond. "So I could spend my time planning this. It was going to happen on graduation, but after what they did to me I couldn't wait any longer." His malicious chuckle makes you quiver.

"Peter, y-you're only j-just going to spend the r-rest of your days in p-prison."

"Then so be it."

~~~~

A further 6 people died and another 20 were injured. True to his word, Peter got the revenge he was craving. Everyone who hurt him, everyone who pestered him and treated him like he was nothing paid the consequences that Peter had set out for them. In amongst the tragic deaths and the numerous injuries, you were spared. As thankful as you may be, you are just as equally guilty. You should've been on that list of deaths, you should've been suffering like the others did. After all, you were his only hostage. But you survived with as little as a couple of shrapnel injuries to recover from.

Once Peter had achieved his objective, he was just having fun. He didn't need you anymore but yet he still dragged you everywhere like a dog on a leash. If the leash was a gun. Peter made you watch him continue his killing spree and you remember counting up the number of lives he had taken. Ten, eleven, twelve...

With each life he took, you grew a certain abhorrence towards yourself because you didn't prevent it. The signs were there, clear as day. Quiet, restricted, invisible. The victim of harassment and bullying. Smart. Cunning. Psychologically obscure. Carrying heavy loads. These weren't the symptoms of a typical Peter. These were the symptoms of a typical terrorist. He was given the perfect ammunition, all he had to do with flick the switch and like that he became a murderer.

~~~~

"Please, Peter, stop this-"

"No."

"I want to leave-"

"No."

"Why?! Why me?! Why am I different from everyone else?"

"Because you cared!" His loud voice resonates around the perimeter of the deserted canteen. You cautiously follow his movements as he perches himself upon the lunch tables, swinging his gun around as if it was nothing more than a mere toy. He stands proudly upon his podium once again unleashing his very dangerous emotions that have no sense of direction. Standing very defensively in the corner of the canteen with beads of sweat trickling down your spine, you can feel Peter's eyes burn holes through your body like it's your 6th sense. You're muttering something about wanting to leave, but tears don't help with articulation.

"Think of it this way then," he jumps off the table, striding towards you with a dubious expression donning his face. You don't feel yourself breathing, but you know there's oxygen flooding your lungs. Your gut clenches, fingernails dig deep into your palms when he firmly presses the muzzle of the gun against the side of your head. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't just shoot you right now."

He's right. You did care. Much more than anyone else did. That's what kept you alive.

~~~~

When Peter pressed that gun against your head, you had never felt closer to death. Oxygen didn't pass through your lungs and even though it was only for a couple of seconds, it felt like a lifetime. You were stuck in a state of fear and anticipation, and you're certain Peter was too. Even he couldn't predict his next actions.

His time as a murderer was short lived. The relief that had washed over you when the police had barged through the doors to your rescue was indescribable. You knew from then on that maybe, your life was still waiting to be lived. Peter, on the other hand, had destroyed his. Guaranteed.

You could never forget how Peter lit up like a Christmas tree with the amount of red dots that smothered him head to toe. The canteen was soon flooded with angry yells and authoritative demands to drop his weapon, but with his eyes fixated on yours he chose to ignore them.

Whatever strategy Peter adopted that made it easy for him to conceal his emotions before, it didn't help him then. Looking into his glassy eyes when he finally accepted his fate, all you could see was nothing but sheer despair and defeat outlined by the tears threatening to fall. He was human. He was alive with emotions. He just didn't know how to use them. Once they were out, they were outwith his control.

It looked like it was all over. Your future was secured and you were able to live another day now that the police force had him surrounded.

But you were wrong. It wasn't over yet.

Until they officially intervened, both of you were locked in that position nobody would ever dream of being in. Evident in Peter's hazel eyes, you recognised that knowing look of deviance. It took you less than a split second to realise that Peter still had something up his sleeve. A conversation was held but there were no words shared between you; the feeling was mutual. You both knew what was going to happen. He still had one more battle to fight, he still had one more life to take.

"I'm sorry."

He whispered his last words to you before he took the gun, held it up towards his head and pulled the trigger, adding another name onto the list of the deceased.

Peter Parker and 12 others died that day. And you, along the hundreds of others, were traumatised and scarred by his actions. So much so that you remember that day like it was yesterday, the memories still fresh in your mind even years after it happened. Other schools, teachers, friends, family couldn't imagine the pain and horror that will forever be a part of you, none of them could ever know what it was like.

Because none of them will ever know someone quite like Peter.

#dark!peter parker #dark!tom holland #peter parker angst #peter parker fic #peter parker imagine #peter parker x reader #spiderman #no way home #peter parker fanfic #dark peter parker #tom holland #tom holland imagine #the avengers #peter parker

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tuiccim · 18 days

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Lost in the Dark (Part 2)

Pairing: Dark!Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: 673

Warnings: Dark content! Non/DubCon, and other dark elements. This fic contains dark themes and may include potentially triggering topics. You are solely responsible for your media consumption.

Summary: Bucky has been home for a few days, and you don't think you can take anymore.

A/N: Special thanks to my beta reader @whisperlullaby ! I'm not sure why Dark Bucky keeps rattling around in my brain, but while he's there I may do a few more snippets like this.

Part 1

Four days he'd been back and he hadn't left you alone for more than a few minutes at a time. It was as if he feared that you would disappear if he took his eyes off of you.

He had fucked you every way he could think of. The serum in his veins made his stamina entirely unmatched. You were exhausted and broken down. It had been almost four months since he had kidnapped you. For the last month, you hadn't spoken a word to him. The occasional sound slipped out but you refused to engage him in hopes he would grow frustrated and let you go. Instead, he was infinitely loving and patient.

Night had fallen and you laid on the bed waiting for him. He had fed you well but your entire body hurt, especially between your legs. You were more sore than you'd ever been. When you felt the bed dip, you braced yourself.

“Come here, baby,” Bucky pulled you against him.

You broke, you couldn't help yourself. It was all too much for you.

“Please,” you sobbed, “please, I can't. Not again.”

“What are you talking about, doll?” Bucky asks solicitously.

“It hurts. I'm so sore. Please don't make me do this,” your body began to wrack with sobs as he held you.

“Aw, baby, why didn't you tell me sooner? It's okay. If you're too sore we don't have to. Here, I'm going to draw you a bath so you can relax,” he kisses your head before swinging out of the bed.

You started shaking and you didn't know why. He was always so calm, it was terrifying. That he had been so understanding made it worse rather than better. He should be angry. He should be holding you down and fucking you without a care for your feelings, but not this man. He was kind and patient. He always made sure you came during sex which annoyed you immensely that your body betrayed you each time. He brought you little gifts and made your favorite foods.

You had smashed his first gift and expected him to go into a rage. He had simply picked up the pieces and said not to worry, he'd glue it back together. He was unwavering. His eternal calm was unsettling.

“Here we go, doll,” Bucky appeared and scooped you up. He carried you to the bathroom and gently laid you in the tub. Your favorite candles burned, all of your products were next to the bath and the water was perfectly hot. You let out a relieved sigh when the warm water enveloped your sore muscles.

“I put some Epsom salt in to help with the muscle aches. This is why you have to talk to me, baby. I can't take care of you well if you won't communicate,” he gently admonishes.

You simply nod. He hands you a glass of wine and then takes up the soap and a washcloth.

You should have known it would be too much to ask for a bath alone. He was always too keen on being with you. He rarely left your side when he was home and when he wasn't the security system still allowed him to keep close tabs.

You decided to just give in. You allowed him to wash you while you drank the glass of wine. He massaged as he cleaned and you found yourself relaxing more than you thought possible. By the time the water had cooled and you stepped out, you felt lightheaded. Bucky dried every inch of you down to your toes and then guided you back to the bed.

As you sat, you felt unusually out of it. The glass of wine had apparently gone straight to your head. You felt like you were in a dream. Bucky gently laid you down and your eyes began to flutter but before you lost consciousness, you heard him whisper, “You know I can't sleep until I've had you. But don't worry, doll, you won't feel a thing. Good night.”

Part 3

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foxgloveprincess · 20 days

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My Heart is a Hollow Plain

Pairing: Pagan God Loki Laufeyson x Female Reader [First Person Narrator]

Summary: No one told you the price of living the life of which you’ve always dreamed.

Word Count: 6.1K

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark (Soft Dark), Medieval(ish) AU, Polytheistic/Pagan Beliefs, Gender Fluid Loki, Mythology, Dubious Consent (Non-Graphic Smut), Death, Yandere Vibes, Deals/Contract (oral), mentions of Servitude, Magic, Jealousy, Yearning, Possessiveness. Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Welcome back to the Avenger’s Pantheon. Here’s Loki’s story. If you’d like to check them out, there are stories for Tony (Drabble), Steve and Bucky, Dr. Strange, and the Maximoffs in this AU. Enjoy!

Title from “Breath of Life” by Florence + the Machine

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. However, I give no permission to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work on any third party website or app. Seeing my work posted anywhere beside my blog, my library blog, or my AO3 account (FoxglovePrincess) means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!

Candles flicker and drip. A cool breeze winds its way through the stones of the temple to circle my body. Knees aching, I complete my daily prayers and stand. I bow once more before the statue of the Widow and leave.

The sun shines down on hills of gently dancing grasses. They brush along my fingers as I walk along the path leading to town. A cart passes with jugs of milk and wheels of cheese. I wave to the farmer and fall behind them.

The market bustles, the cacophony drifting through the open air. I pause at the outskirts, bracing my mettle. Skirts clutched in my fists, I walk on. The crowd swallows me. Passersby jostle my shoulders and tread on my feet. Another body ignored. Quite invisible to those around me.

My mother’s head sticks up above the rest, her hair piled atop her head and adding height to her figure. She laughs and chats with her customers, wrapping loaves of bread and sweets in a cloth for them. She always sneaks in something extra—a clever ploy to draw them back week after week to her stall. My father works behind her, hefting baskets of bread from our bakery to place for sale around her before disappearing inside again. Market days always bring us the most business.

My name breaks through the noise. My mother’s hand in the air to beckon me closer. I raise mine in return and squeeze my way behind our table. She thrusts an apron to me and I tie it quickly about my waist.

“You took too long with your prayers,” she chides. “Your sister’s had to go off to buy our cheese. Left me all alone.”

“Sorry, mother,” I reply, hands already working to count out coins for a customer. I look up to the handsome man and press a tentative smile.

He bids my mother thanks and turns, figure disappearing into the crowd. No regard sent my way. The smile falls from my lips.

“Come along, then,” my mother says through the side of her mouth. “The morning’s just begun.”

We sell out of bread and sweets just after the sun reaches its pinnacle in the sky. Temperance returns from her errands, picking up not only mother’s cheese but other necessities she knew we needed. Some candles, a few new jars, onions, carrots, and herbs.

Father leaves to check his traps in the woods, hoping for a rabbit or even a squirrel. Mother begins to cook with what we have already. Her first seat taken after putting a pot over the fire to simmer.

My sister leads me up to our rooms, above our bakery. Two straw mattresses laid on the floor, a thin wall separating us from our parents. My sister’s hand squeezes mine, a nervous tick.

“I have news,” she says in a whisper. Our mother’s ears like those of a hound. Nothing escapes her.

“What is it?” I ask in an equally quiet tone.

“The gods have finally answered my prayers,” she whispers, almost forgetting herself with her excitement.

I nod and prod her along with an inquisitive word or two. She leaves me waiting in suspense not one moment.

“Matthew has proclaimed his love.” Her face beams so happy, I think it might crack like a delicate pot. “He wishes to marry me.”

I blink, stunned by such incredible news. My thoughts flit to my own prayers, left unheard by the gods. Loneliness my constant companion despite my yearning, my pleas, my offerings.

Temperance clears her throat. I startle and blurt, “Congratulations, sister. I’m so happy for you.”

Her smile dulls and she picks a piece of straw from within her mattress. “It does not seem it.”

“Of course I am,” I enthuse. “Mother and father will be, too.” I grasp her hand still in mine.

“He says he will ask father for my hand any day now,” she says with a slight less fervor.

“How wonderful,” I reply with the sunniest smile on my lips despite the torrent of jealousy swirling within my belly. “Your life has surely been blessed.”

She looks into my eyes. My younger sister always able to read my heart despite all my efforts to conceal it. Her hand squeezes mine.

“The gods will bless you, too.”

My mother and father bake a grand cake for my sister and Matthew. Stacked at the top of the others, Temperance and her new husband barely manage to kiss over top it without all the cakes toppling.

Our town fills the field behind our home with tables of food. As grand a feast as can be made. Roasted ducks and rabbits and boars, a dozen loaves of bread, jams and preserves, cooked vegetables galore—more food than I’ve ever seen in my life. I try each and every dish, despite the tuts from my mother’s tongue. My father drinks merrily, congratulations raining down upon him.

The afternoon passes into the evening and mother bids me retire. I prepare for bed alone and sleep alone. The first time I have done so since my sister’s birth. My eyes meet the ceiling of our roof and I blink away tears. I don’t know why I’m crying, not exactly. Missing my sister, loneliness, jealousy. All three swirl through my head.

I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep—to little avail. Thoughts too loud in my head. Even as I hush them and focus. The creaks of my parents returning and the soothing night sounds just outside our window a boon, lulling me into rest.

The day after Temperance’s wedding I awaken as early as I normally do. There are trenchers and loaves and buns to bake. But first, to pray and lay offerings.

I take one of our lanterns and strike a flame outside our shop. Early morning light still slumbering behind the horizon. The familiar dirt of the road plods beneath my feet. The temple just outside of town upon our tallest hill.

The steep climb challenges me in the low light. The trek back home always just a little easier. A cold breeze brushes past my shoulder. The flame flickers but does not falter. And neither do I.

Mother and father always come to say their prayers after a hard day’s work. Yet I can’t begin my day without it. The darkness and solitude of the temple at this hour, it fills my soul. With the gods watching over just me for a moment, I feel seen.

Under the oculus, the moon shines pale and dim. I keep my lantern lit by my side. Letting the faces of the gods remain shadowed.

My fingers draw a familiar circle about me and the offering of blue iris and violets I have brought before they clasp together and I begin my prayer. The health of my family, my sister’s happiness, and, more selfishly, mine.

“Why are you here at this hour?” a sonorous voice asks.

Standing by the feet of the Horned Trickster, god of chaos and mischief, they stand. I cannot see their face to discern the line of their eye, but the hairs upon my arms and the back of my neck prickle. I do not leave my place, but my body recoils all the same.

“Do you pray for the same things every day?” they ask, unbothered by my silence. “Health, happiness.” Their hand flicks through the air in a lazy swirl. “Tedium and droll.”

“I know not for what else I should pray,” I respond, spurred by their tempting tone. I gather my flowers in my lap, their stems breaking under my tight grip.

“There is so much more,” they reply with a scoff, “to this world, to your pathetic existence, you need only ask for it.”

My lips part in shock. The man steps out of the shadows into the candlelight, and finally I see his face. More handsome than any other man in the village. He leaves me speechless with the sharpness of his emerald eyes and the arch of his brow. Raven hair falls to his shoulders, resting upon the finest silks of his doublet.

“Tell me what you truly desire.” Standing mere inches from my knees resting on the stone floor, he tilts my chin with two of his lithe fingers.

Meeting his gaze proves too intense. My eyes lower to his throat while thoughts whirl in my head. All of the things I have ever wanted. A marriage to a man who will love me for all my days. The fortune of kings. Recognition. Beauty. Praise. Power.

A smirk pulls at the corner of his lip. “Oh yes,” he purrs. “I see it.” He crouches before me and rests his free hand on his knee. His fingers trace my chin to my cheeks, and back again. “What would you do to receive such bounty from the gods?”

“I—” The phrase poised on my tongue sticks in my mouth, like honey that seals my lips together.

He hums in question, impatient for an answer.

I swallow, a lump in my throat, and croak around it, “I would do anything?” Though it spills from my lips as a question, it rings with truth. Conviction stirring in my belly at the words. My eyes raise to meet his, scared of his judgement.

He smiles and traces his fingers over my lips. “That is exactly what I thought.” He releases my face, though not the thrall he has cast over me. Enchanted by his looks as I am, I follow the movement of his hand as it snakes along my arm and grasps mine.

He rises, bidding me to follow until we stand beneath the oculus. Hues of pinks and gold bathe over us, the sun rising without. I glance up, panicked by the passing time.

“I must go,” I gasp, tugging from his grip. Yet he does not unhand me.

He says not one word until I meet his eye. “I will provide all for you,” he says with a gentle squeeze of my hand. As though he were my lover making an eternal promise. My heart thunders in my ear. Light shines on his skin from above, a dazzling glow that washes him in divinity. “Commit only to me, and I will be your servant.”

My mouth dries. I stand, stunned, before him. “Are you a god?” I whisper, head bent toward him to share such an abounding confidence.

A smile curves his lips. “What is your answer?” he asks in turn, disregarding my own question.

I stare into his grass green eyes, luminous and intense. Heat fills my cheeks. The sun continues to rise. The temple sits quiet. He waits, his hand trapping mine.

“Where have you been?” my mother blusters, stacking loaves of bread behind our counter.

The door to our bakery closes behind me with a soft click. “I’m sorry, mother,” I say, rushing to grab my apron and tie it about my waist. “My prayers took longer than I expected.”

“What could you possibly pray for?”

The sting of mother’s words pierce my chest, but I do not say anything. “Every day, prayers and every day, late,” she mutters under her breath. “You awaken the gods too early.”

Her finger wags in my direction as she turns and places her hands on her hips. Ready as ever to drone about her displeasure. But once she looks at me—really looks—she falls silent. Her lips part and she blinks.

“What’s happened?” she asks, slowing into the motion of wiping her hands on her apron to rid them of flour. She steps closer and reaches to cup my cheek. “There’s something changed about you.” Though she whispers it like a secret, I hear her.

Passing by windows in the town on my walk home from the temple, I glimpsed my reflection. To my eye, I saw no difference. The same plain face, the same soft body, the same clothes. And yet, the way my mother looks at me anew—as if there were something noticeable, remarkable.

Blinking from her daze, she pats my cheek and turns away.

“There should be buns ready in the ovens,” she says with a loving lilt to her voice, “go and fetch them from your father.”

I nod, silent, and turn to the back where the oven burns hot and fills the room with its warmth and the smell of fresh bread. Memories of spending winters curled beside the fire and ovens with my sister tucked next to me fill my head. My hand rests on the stone of the surrounding wall and I glance around to find my father.

“Right there,” he grunts carrying a paddle of loaves over to cool. My father pays me little mind, but nods to the buns sitting off on a side table.

“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the tray and carrying it out to mother.

Mr. Fitz stands there with her, paying for a loaf of bread for his wife. He glances over at my entrance and smiles.

“Good morning,” he says with a nod in my direction.

I pause, stunned. So rare that customers take a moment to acknowledge me, let alone greet me. My mother whispers my name with a nudge to my side. It is enough to knock me from my frozen state and return the greeting. He doesn’t say more, collecting his loaf from my mother and his coins, before departing.

“You must be more friendly,” my mother says, “or all your good looks will be for naught.”

A smile threatens my lips. My mother’s favor of me extending only to the help I provide, never my countenance. That she reserved always for my sister—Temperance’s lovely smile and thoughtful spirit, true beauty shining out from within. A flutter of pride swells within me at her inadvertent praise. I agree with her quickly and return to work.

The morning passes in joyful company. Customers pleasant and plentiful. Each one sends a greeting and smile my way. They ask after my health and my temperament. They meet my eye and compliment my sunny disposition.

As the sun crests the top of the sky, Lord Grant Ward enters our bakery. A first for the local lord. His lordship usually more content to send out one of his many servants for such a menial errand.

His figure stands tall in our doorway. I catch a glimpse of him from just beside the door to the front, loading the few remaining loaves into a basket with my father’s help.

“I have heard such complimentary things about this bakery today,” he says, perusing our store with a skeptical eye. His toe scuffs across our floor.

“My lord,” my mother greets, “we are grateful for your visit to our humble bakery. How may we serve you?”

He looks down his nose at her and huffs a haughty breath. Not even a word of response. My eyes narrow, the heat of fury boiling through my veins. To dismiss my mother thus. I push the door open all the way and exit the back, sweat dotting my brow and basket under my arm. Ready to confront such discourtesy.

“My lord,” I bite with as much respect I can muster—which is not much. “May I serve you?”

A glance in my direction, and he pauses. The skeptical tilt of his brow evens to one of curiosity and understanding at once. He steps forward toward our counter.

“I believe you may,” he replies, tone honey sweet. “I wish to purchase all the goods you have remaining.”

“My lord,” my mother blusters, “you are too generous.”

He ignores her, eyes locked on my figure. His hand rustles at his belt, tugging away a pouch and handing it in our direction.

“Will this suffice?”

I bob in a curtsy and accept it. My mother hovers over my shoulder as I open the pursestrings and look inside. Coins glint up at me. My mother counts aloud but trails off.

“My lord,” she says with a voice full of awe and respect, “it is surely too much.”

“Then accept it as payment for the inconvenience of closing your shop early.” The lord waves his hand through the air. “Will that please you?” he asks in a lowered tone, directly to me.

“Yes, my lord,” I reply, ire cooled but not entirely appeased. “How shall we deliver your goods to you?”

He hums and steps closer, hand reaching to pluck at the fibers of my basket. “I shall send a cart with instructions. Will you meet them?”

“Yes, my lord,” I say and take a step back.

His brow quirks at my retreat, but he says nothing more. Merely nods in acceptance and bids us farewell.

“To see that look in his eye as soon as I drew his attention toward me,” I explain. My light flickers at my feet beside the godly figures. “How insufferable. To treat my mother with disrespect.”

Fingers trail along the nape of my neck. I know them to be there, yet they have not revealed themself from the shadows.

“Of course,” I continue in a more subdued tone, “he did send his cart. He collected every bit of our bread. Took what he wanted and gave the rest to the needy.” My own hand wipes the side of my face. “Perhaps I regard his character too quickly.”

“You were right to judge him as you did,” the voice soothes behind me. Different than before.

Turning over my shoulder, I seek the visage of the god with whom I struck my deal. A figure emerges, softer, curvier.

I bow my head in respect, sure I’ve been addressing a goddess in mistake. “Pardon my musings,” I rush, knees ready to collapse to the floor. “I misspoke.”

Lithe fingers lift my chin. My eyes meet the emerald green of my patron, set in feminine features still as striking as before.

“You make no mistake,” she says with a smile tilting her lips. “I am here, my sweeting.”

My mouth forms around words I cannot speak. Enthralled by her still, I contemplate the change in her countenance and find myself unable to avert my gaze.

“You should know the fleeting nature of my appearance,” she explains. “I take many forms. How like you this one?”

“You are breathtaking,” I reply in a whisper. Clearing my throat from such bold speech, I reach into my pocket and withdraw the buttery raston and small jar of my mother’s plum preserves wrapped in cloth I have brought in offering. “To thank you, and reaffirm my vow of devotion to you.”

She unwraps the parcel. Her smile widens. A wave of her hand and only the cloth remains. Its contents vanishing before my eyes. Cupping my cheeks in her hands, she presses a kiss to my forehead—a blessing. “Thank you, my darling. You will go to town and continue to enchant all who live there,” she instructs, thumb brushing the apple of my cheek, drinking in the soft breaths which pass my lips and the surety of my attention. Her gaze meets mine with a grim darkness. “But be wary of Lord Ward. He covets you for himself. And you…” she prompts.

“I serve you.”

My steps crunch through the underbrush of the forest. Unused to traversing such uneven ground, I walk slowly. Father’s back pains him. My mother stays in our bakery with the few loaves we made this morning. So I search through the woods for his traps, content for a moment away. Engaged with my own thoughts. My patron a shining beacon in the forethoughts of my mind.

“Who dares to trespass on my land?” a voice booms through the trees. “Reveal yourself.”

My heart jumps in my chest and takes up a thundering beat. My hand clutches at my chest, though I cannot soothe myself. Careful movements carry me toward the sound of the voice. Yet one false step and my ankle twists. I yelp. The cold earth greets me as I fall and sounds of a hurried strides reach my ears.

“Who’s there?” Closer now, Lord Ward’s voice carries clearer.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” I call back, knowing he approaches still. “I did not realize these were your lands.”

He stops before me, the leather of his shoes black as night. I dare not cast my gaze up to catch his ire. Instead, I keep my head bowed in deference and pray for help.

“You need not fall to the floor,” he says in an air of curiosity.

“Yes, my lord,” I say.

“Let me help you.” He offers a gloved hand. I eye it before meeting his gaze.

“Thank you,” I accept and lean on his strength to help me rise. My lips seal against a whimper of pain and I shift my weight to rest upon my uninjured foot.

“You are hurt,” he observes. Both of his hands offered to aid me.

“I will be well, my lord,” I assure with a pat to my hands on my skirt to dispel the dirt and leaves clinging to my palms. “It is nothing.”

He steps even closer still. My breath catches in my lungs. “Allow me to escort you home.” He speaks with such a gentle articulation, it sparks a flutter of my heart. If only he behaved thus upon our first meeting.

“I thank you, my lord,” I say, picking my words carefully. “Though I must continue to my father’s traps. I fear I only have turned myself around. Forgive me for trespassing.”

“You’re forgiven,” he says with a nod, “always.”

I swallow and find I can meet his eye no more. Heat fills my cheeks, as if I labored too long beside the oven. I pat them with trembling fingers and cannot understand my lack of ease.

“If you will not allow me to escort you, perhaps you might concede to one of my servants accompanying you?”

“I would not wish to inconvenience them by taking them away from their chores, or you, my lord, in turn.” I step back, glancing over my shoulder as not to stumble and inflame my ankle further.

“May I at least check to see if the bone is sound?” he asks, already lowering to one knee and offering his hands out for my foot.

My teeth sink into my lower lip and I raise my injured leg, placing it into his grip. He tests the joint. Turning it one way and another. I wince, but do not draw away. The sooner I may satisfy the lord, the sooner I may return to my task. Once satisfied, he places my foot back to the ground and stands.

“Be careful,” he commands, with a hint of a smile drawing his lip upward. “I will send a messenger this evening to ensure you make your way home safely.”

“Thank you, my lord,” I say one final time before turning and limping away to continue my hunt.

He calls my name one more time, but when I turn, he waits in silence before a last, “farewell.” As though he wishes to say more, yet something curbs his speech.

I take my leave, slow and reluctant as curiosity nips at my heels. Though I may well have stayed with the lord and heard him out for all my victory. My father’s traps sit without any bounty. Empty.

I sigh and sink to the ground. A moment of respite so my ankle may rest. My hands dig into the soft, decaying leaves of the forest floor. My head tilts to the sky. A breeze blows through the trees.

Something wraps about my wrist. I jolt and lift my hand, ready to shake loose any impediment to its movement. Yet find a snake wound about it. Like a cuff, it sits just at my wrist, head raised to meet my eye.

I freeze. The snakes of which I’ve heard bite their poor victims, leading to a painful death. I swallow hard and wait for the creature to slither on its way. It does not.

“Please go,” I plead.

Its head tilts. Its tongue flicks. It stays.

I stare at it, slow movements turning my arm one way and another to take a better look at it. The shine of its scales, the intelligence in its eyes.

“Please don’t bite me,” I whisper as I move, looking at its long body, content to perch upon my arm.

Its head moves back to look at me. In the hush of the forest, the breeze ripples through the leaves. Birds chirp. But there is silence around us. A moment, looking into the creature’s eyes where the world around me dulls.

“You are no ordinary snake,” I pronounce in soft tones.

Its tongue flicks. It tickles my skin and I flinch from the unexpected sensation. Thoughts entangled with what sign this creature might bring. It’s relation to the gods. Stories of them and their familiars, their sacred animals. Only one holding snakes in their regard—the Horned Trickster.

“Send my regards to your master and mine,” I say, lowering my hand.

Its muscles move, slithering toward the ground from my fingers. It disappears beneath leaves and between trunks. The sun shines down through the forest canopy, heading to its resting place beyond the horizon. The afternoon heat cooling on a breeze. I push myself to stand, gazing after the snake’s possible path. A sigh blows past my lips, hands brushing dirt away from my skirts. Shuffling carefully through the roots and foliage of the forest, I head home on much steadier feet.

“I do not know how it happened,” I lament many weeks later. Head in hands, my mind struggles toward some semblance of understanding.

My patron stands leaning against the statue of the Thunder Warrior, their gaze tilted toward the ceiling. I begin to pace before them, around in a circle, perplexed by the path of my life.

“Lord Ward has called after me thrice now within the week.” My hand smooths over my hair, trying to help my thoughts remain in my head, and not floating away in a whirl of imaginings.

“You think of him often, do you?” their bored tone comments.

My brow furrows. I pause. “I suppose,” I reply. “Can one not when a man supposes to be so enamored?”

“It is everything you wished?” they ask, though the way they say it—like they don’t need an answer. A harsh bite to their words upon which I do not dally.

Instead, I give them an answer, “It is what I prayed for. I cannot help the fondness that has grown within my heart.”

A deep hiss rumbles from the shadows, filling the temple and rattling my bones. My hands jolt to cover my ears, teeth clenched shut against the grating sound.

“Do not forget,” he says stepping from the shadows to reveal his form, his lip curled and brow set, “you’ve committed yourself to me in this life and the next. You will never marry. You are mine.” His eyes blaze with a barely suppressed rage, fiery and dark.

Stunned by his venom, I ask, “If I am not to marry, what use is the rest? I wish to be loved.” Tears prick at my eyes, distraught as his commandment settles within me. I am to be alone. Regarded by all—and loved by none.

His fury cools, eyes piercing daggers in the low light. “You made your choice,” he states in a crisp, clear cadence, dispassionate and cold.

“I gave you my trust blindly,” I shriek in response. My hand grasps at the cloth of my bodice, grip tight and heart aching. I swallow a panicked sob. “How could you deceive me so? I have only ever done as you bid.”

“Do you love him?” my patron asks, accusation sharp. Answering my distress with such little regard.

Stutters of sound fall from my lips, none forming an answer. The weight of my mistake presses down upon my chest until I cannot breathe. So often my patron had been obliging and kind, the stab of this betrayal far too deep. A chasm opens in my chest and out of it, I speak. “My sister is married and thinks herself already with child. I wish for the same, and I—”

With one last look at the indifferent expression on my patron’s face, my heart shatters. Feet rush from the temple. The candle flickers in the dark, left behind as I dart into the night. Rain spatters across my cheeks, the slick of mud beneath my shoes. Though I do not hesitate, used to the path up the hill and the slightest hint of light on the horizon. Rushing, slipping steps carrying me down the slope. Hoping perhaps my folly might remain far behind at the feet of the gods. That I might escape, even to find myself returned to my previous unremarkable life. Until I reach the cross of the roads and pause. Skirts drenched from rain and weighed down with mud. Chest heaving, coughing in the damp air from exertion. Lost in my own thoughts, the steady approaching clip of horses’ hooves escapes my notice.

Only the impact of their bodies and the tread of wheels over mine thrusts me back to the present. I lay on the ground, gasping for breath, pain ravaging every measure of me. My lips part to call upon my patron, a last plea, but find I cannot. The whisper of a final breath leaving my body and sending my soul along its path to the River.

The waters lap at the sides of the boat in the dark. The Goddess of Death, Hela, stands behind me, oar in hand to push us along with the current across the river.

“Do not touch the waves,” she cautions. The pole moves through the water. “They are full of forgotten memories from those who have crossed. A temptation, but one drop will turn you mad and bind you to its tide.”

I recoil from the edge of the boat to sit upright. Gaze falling to my hands, lighter than air they sit in my lap, grey. No thoughts fill my head. Just silence, peace.

Turning to the Goddess of Death, I ask, “do any memories remain to those who have died?”

“Only those that bring you comfort,” she says without a look toward me or any inflection of sympathy.

A murmur of understanding passes from me, finding consolation in the honesty. Though I cannot place a reason for it. Already, my memories drift along the stream of the Gods Blood. Lost to me.

The oar lifts from the river and rests against the side of her vessel. Her head tilts, gazing up at the eternal black sky above us. Her brow pinches in confusion. I follow the path of her eyes, but see nothing.

A resounding hiss builds around us. The waves of the river grow larger, the boat rocking. The Goddess of Death holds out a hand to steady us upon the water. A displeased glare prominent on her features. Whispers of words drift around the boat, a fog rolling in from behind. Hela turns to slash a hand through it. Unable to make it disperse.

I cling to the bench of my seat, the dullest fear tickling the edges of my consciousness. But nothing more. Perhaps I should fear capsizing and madness, yet such emotions remain indistinct—a consequence of death, to be sure.

In a moment, Hela turns to lash out at a perceived threat and a great appendage wraps about my waist. Warm and strong, it constricts, but I have no breath to halt nor bones to break. It lifts me into the air, shadowed by the darkness of night. I dangle limp and lifeless from its embrace, the prize of its hunt. Perhaps a monster of legend stealing away my soul for a meal. Another fate which engenders no true dread.

A cry chases our ascent into the dark sky. The echoing roar of the goddess’s outrage at losing one of her souls and failing her duty to take me across the Gods Blood. But we ascend regardless.

My eyes close against the light that breaks through the dark clouds, blinded. We land upon solid earth. Flowers rising to greet my fingers, yet passing through like air. I cannot feel them.

The appendage around my waist releases me for a hand, instead, to clasp mine. My eyes turn to the person beside me. Familiar, yet I cannot put name to the lovely, angular face.

“My love,” they say, lithe finger tipping my chin toward them, “We are home.”

They guide me through the doorway of the quaint cottage before us. Another familiarity I cannot place in the haze of my incomplete memories.

The fire roars in its place. I step toward it, vague recollections of comfort tickling at the edges of my mind. I reach out to the licking flames, and feel no warmth.

A hand wraps about mine, guiding me away. They squeeze, and the reassurance of the gesture surges through me. The fingers of my other hand settle on their wrist, petting along their skin up to their sleeves. The fabric of their garments silky under my fingertips. I catch their eye, questions forming on the tip of my tongue. Who are they? Why did they steal my soul? Why am I here?

“Now, my beauty,” they praise. Their lips brush a soft kiss to my forehead. My eyes flutter shut to drink in the sensation. “You will truly be mine.”

Such familiarity, I do not ken. Their face so imprinted upon my thoughts without any recognition.

“I do not remember you,” I admit, staring into their emerald eyes and praying for some spark to ignite.

“That does not matter,” they soothe, thumb rubbing over the back of my palm. “We will have eternity to know one another.”

And we do. Years passing outside the windows of my cottage. Buildings fall, crumbling to dust. Only one of them, a bakery down the road, filling me with any notion of regret as its owners cross the River and time creeps across its walls.

Apart from it all, I watch. Drifting through the cottage, invisible to passersby. Though, even still, whispers reach me—haunted, they call my home. And they are not wrong. The world withers around me, and I remain, a shade bound to the cottage.

Only one bringing me any solace, any relief. They enter the front door and greet me with a smile, their hands offering sensation, feeling. I grasp onto them, reluctant to release them for a moment of their visit. To return to the dullness of my existence without them. The nothing which awaits me upon their withdrawal.

“Hello, my love,” they say. Their fingers tilt my chin and I meet them in a sweet kiss. My fingers pulse about their hand. We part and I let myself fall into the greedy hunger of their gaze.

Their head dips again, lips seeking more. Which I give—again and again. A kiss which might steal my breath if I had any. Their passion a spark igniting between us. Their moans filling the room around us. My fingers sink into the muscle of their shoulders. Clinging to each sensation. I cannot let them go.

“Sweeting,” they gasp. Hands wander across my form until they hitch me into their arms, my body of no substance. ”Come with me.” Though they give me no true choice in the matter—as if I would refuse them and their constant touch.

They carry me to our bed, and set me upon it without once letting me go. Following me to the plush cushions and sheets, their body pins mine to the bed and the weight of it brings a contented sigh to my lips. They drink it in and pull back to meet my gaze.

As always, as I lay beneath them with their eyes shining bright and affectionate, they prompt, “You are…”

“Yours.”

“Yes,” they purr and return their sweet lips to mine.

Unable to grasp at the bedding beneath us, I let my hands clutch at them. Our bodies joining together in amorous undulation, seeking the divine thrill of ecstasy. Chasing that peak of my existence. When the world around me explodes in bright color and brilliance. When I feel alive and whole before it fades and I return to the numbness of my eternity.

They murmur words of love into my ears. The sweat of their body cooling them. A dull shine radiates from their skin. Their holy light, they once told me. Their head rests upon my breasts, their breath tickling across me. I swallow and let my fingers weave into the silky tresses of their hair, the world dimming by the second.

“Welcome home, Loki.”

read more of The Avengers Pantheon at The Undone and the Divine

#loki x reader #loki laufesyon x reader #medieval au #mythology au #loki fanfic #loki fanfction #the avengers pantheon #dark #dark fic #polytheistic au #yandere vibes #dub con #tw dub con #heed the warning #18+#minors dni

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