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[soft-and-bitter]

We Can Last Forever

Mafia!Bucky x Ex!Reader

You turn to an old flame in a moment of desperation. Bucky takes full advantage of the situation to bargain for something he's wanted as soon as he set eyes on you.

Word Count: 1853

Warning(s): swearing, descriptions drug use and sexual situations

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M A S T E R L I S T

"Look who we have here," he murmured, smirking. There wasn't a trace of worry in his tone, nor on his handsome face. And for reasons you couldn't quite grasp, these facts only served to elevate your own stress, the urgency of the situation now clearer than ever.

Bucky was your last resort.

"Hi," you greeted. Despite the sheer brevity involved, even you could hear how unsure you sounded, but it was just as well; you were winging this after all, what with all your options up in flames. On the other hand, you also couldn't fuck this up either, because what else would you come up with if this didn't work out?

With a deep breath, you tried again. "Hi, Bucky. I'm sorry this is so last minute."

He tilted his head, the black turtleneck he wore accentuating the steep line of his jaw. "It wouldn't have been if you'd called ahead of time. Oh, wait," he said, lip curling, "you got rid of my number from your phone. How could I have ever forgotten?"

You looked away, both hands gripping your phone behind your purse. Rather than place it next to you on the plush sofa, you'd opted to set it on your lap. Maybe you saw it as a barrier, however meagre, just something other than the distance that separated you from Bucky. For protection? But it was you who had sought him out, not the other way around.

There was no stilling your frantic thoughts, all those contradictions and uncertainties colliding against each other to form some ugly kaleidoscope of confusion in your head. Several stories below, the club was at the height of its frenzy, the bass throbbing faintly against the walls of Bucky's office, a cursed soundtrack to score the situation you were in, with no promise it was ending anytime soon.

"I . . . it felt like the right thing to do at the time," you tried explaining, still clutching your phone tightly. "I wasn`t ready to deal with the truth."

He chuckled softly. "Yet here you are," he said, each word sliding past his lips in a slow drawl. "I guess there's no keeping me out of your life after all, despite that text of yours."

You turned your head to look back up at him again. Bucky was leaning against his expansive chrome and glass desk, long fingers curled around the edges. His jet-black suit was tailored within an inch of its life; one of his cufflinks winking at you playfully, as if amused by your discomfort and panic.

"You're right, I guess I can't."

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Well, it is what it is. Now tell me why you're here."

Here was your moment, your golden opportunity. You didn't shy away from the details. Why would you when everything you described was all part of his sordid world, the drugs and the money owed, the nefarious parties involved? And so you laid it all out before him like a spread made up of your family's suffering: stressed and overworked, David had gone back to an old habit his dirt bag of an uncle had first introduced him to more than a decade ago. One hit after another, then another, and now your brother—the smarter of the two, in your opinion, and certainly the more successful—was now in so much debt he'd brought up the possibility of selling your mom's home for cash.

Bucky didn't react when you told him how much you needed to borrow. That soothed your nerves somewhat; if he wasn't fazed by the amount, then maybe he'd be more willing to part with his money.

You hoped.

"We'll have the money back in your hands before you even get a chance to miss it," you assured with a smile you hoped was blinding enough for Bucky. "David just has to get through this hump, but once he does, everything will be fine."

Just for a moment you wondered whose worries you were really trying to assuage—Bucky's or yours? Because paying off David's dealer was one thing, but your brother had also promised to check into rehab asap. Yet even with his high-paying FAANG job in Silicon Valley, he had already blown through his savings, together with any credit he'd been approved for. To top it all off, the massive bonus he kept harping on about wouldn't get paid out until the end of the year. You yourself had funnelled whatever money you could spare to help his cause. Where the hell would the money come from until then?

Bucky sighed audibly, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You haven't exactly explained why I should help you in the first place," he said.

He wasn't wrong, you realized. And really, it was what you`d hoped to avoid all along. "Listen, I know you probably won't believe me when I say this, but . . . I guess I thought we had something special going on between us. Special enough that I felt I could turn to you."

"You're right, I don't believe you," he confirmed, shaking his head. "Try harder, won't you?"

You stared up at him, a furrow between your brows. "It's the truth, Bucky. I was scared, okay? And let's face it: you knew I'd be, didn't you? Otherwise you would've told me from the start what the hell you really were."

He didn't respond to that right away. In the silence that ensued, with the club's bass pounding at the same speed as your heartbeat, you began to doubt yourself. Couldn't you have handled that with a little more finesse? What if Bucky was offended by your response that he decided he was going to turn you away?

When he finally spoke, it was with an edge of mockery and triumph in his voice. "Just so we're clear: you've come to ask a crime lord to help you when the very fact of me being one had you running off in the first place."

"I couldn't think of anyone else to go to."

Bucky scoffed. "I sure hope the irony's not lost on you."

The smile you offered him was sardonic at best. "Believe me, it's not."

Just when you were convinced that you'd screwed this up entirely, Bucky pushed himself off the edge of his desk and moved towards you, closing the distance. Neon blue strobe lights flashed through the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the club, casting otherworldly shadows across his face as he stalked nearer. You didn't turn your head to watch when he dropped into the sofa next to you, stretching his arms wide across the headrest. His fingers feathered against one of your shoulder blades.

From the corner of your eye you watched as he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, sighing once again. "If you want my help, you'll comply with whatever I set out for you," he said.

"Like what?"

You could feel his gaze on you. "For starters, I'd like a kiss."

"Are you serious? Now?"

"Now," he echoed.

"And that's it?"

He gave a light shrug. "The night's still young. We'll just have to see how things go."

"But why?"

"Why not?" he countered, fingers drumming against the headrest. "Besides, you're the one who thought there was something special between us. Let's see what's left."

For a moment, you hesitated. Bucky's request was simple, but that was where the uncertainty lay. There was something between the two of you, even now, even after you left him in the lurch, that it was enough for you to reach out to him. You were doubtful a kiss would prove that to him, though.

There had been so much more you'd done with him, after all.

"Well?"

You studied his face. His expression was still passive, but curiosity shone bright in his eyes. What choice did you have? David was counting on you now, his own fear and panic elevating your own. With a tilt of your head you leaned forward, eyes falling closed, as you caught Bucky's lips with yours.

Bucky didn't react at first, and you nearly stopped, too shy and uncertain to entertain the possibility of being unwanted, that this was just a cheap way for him to get back at you. But then his lips moved against yours, bold and intentional; when he coaxed your mouth opened and his tongue slid past your teeth, you realized.

He still wanted you.

Both your phone and your purse dropped somewhere below you as one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders tightly. Bucky drew you in deeper, his hold fierce, lips desperate and bruising, pulling you into a well of memories: his naked body against yours, mouth lingering on intimate spots that made you cry out in ecstasy, the sweet words he'd whispered in your ear while you came down from your high. Let me give you more. Let me give you everything. You just have to stay. Can you do that? For me?

His lips latched onto the side of your neck as you lost yourself further in his touch, fingers tangled in his dark hair, while his large hand fanned across your breast—

Your phone was like a grenade going off. You jerked back in panic, gasping for breath while the familiar melody on your device blared throughout the room. It was Bucky who got to it first.

"How fitting," he said, turning your phone around so you could see the screen. "It's your brother."

Heart hammering in your chest, you didn't move at first.

"Go ahead, answer it," he ordered, holding out your phone to you. "Tell David the money will be wired to his account in less than thirty and he's got you to thank for this."

His words were like a bucket of cold water flung at your face. With sudden clarity you remembered why you'd come here in the first place, and it wasn't to re-ignite things with an old flame. You needed Bucky's help, and, to your immense relief, he was giving it to you.

When you accepted your brother's call you cut straight to the chase, telling him of the lifeline Bucky was throwing his way. The only one, you emphasized, hanging up before he could profess any gratitude. David had work to do, but you'd done your part. Your mom would get to keep her house, just like she deserved to.

You looked at Bucky. "Thank you. You don't know how much this means to my family."

He smirked at you, his hair now tousled thanks to your doing. "Don't thank me just yet, sweetheart. We're not quite done, are we?"

During the call one of his hands had crept along the inside of your thigh. It remained there, his hold entirely too tight and too hot, even through the fabric of your slacks. When Bucky spoke, you didn't miss the raw desire in his voice, the predatory anticipation that lingered on his smirk.

"We'll finally finish what we started, sweetheart. Just like we were always meant to."

Jimin's "Like Crazy" had me in such a chokehold when I first listened to it that it inspired this whole damn story; it's the song I imagined blasting down in the club while Reader haggles with Bucky. Hope you guys enjoyed it!

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Shout out to all the Black ppl that can no longer participate directly in the fandom they love because of the stresses of racism 👍🏾 you contain multitudes of value and I'm sorry that the color of your skin and the power of your voice makes people not want to acknowledge that.

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urgh this is so good! I'm glad I went through your S.R. Masterlist again @syntheticavenger cause I must've missed this story the first time around, but here I am now and I LOVE IT

Time To Run - Part Three

This is going to be a series… although I don’t know the length. It’s based off this request from a lovely nonnie.

Warnings: I promised to post warnings for the next chapter when the time comes and that time is here so 18+ only going forward. A lot of mentions of domestic abuse.

Mob Boss! Steve Rogers x Female Reader

Previous: One, Two

gif by @lovinevans

Tag list - @caffiend-queen @river-soul @jevans2 @whisperlullaby @angrythingstarlight @navybrat817 @emmabarnes @oneoftheprettynerds @itsbqueenthings @steviesdoll @golden-ariess @cutiebubbleboo @roxyfan14-blog​

Summary | Scrawny Steve Rogers has been your best friend since elementary school. Despite his powerful mob boss of a father, known only to those as the King of New York, you’re his protector and confidante. As the time passes and your lives go different routes, the tables have turned and you need him to protect you.

The bed squeaks underneath you, your eyes focused on the time on the clock, Brock’s hands using your waist as an anchor as he thrusts into you. You never know what to do with your hands. You’ve fantasized choking him with your bare hands, sinking your fingers into his throat until his air supply is effectively cut off.

At least you wouldn’t have to hear about his book deal that fell through if he couldn’t speak. Your nightgown is hiked up further, his eyes lower to your breasts, his lips pressed into a frown. Missionary is the only position he truly preferred, even as you used to attempt to make him happy once upon a time, trying to change it up. This was the proper way for conception, he vowed, trying to sink so deep inside you that you would pray to God above that you would get pregnant just so he could stop.

It was never enjoyable. You were well acquainted with disappointment – his own and yours, the way he would roll off of you as his spend would drip out of you. You used to map out constellations on the ceiling to take your mind off the fact that no matter what, there was something wrong with you. You saw Brock’s jealous stare at the women in the congregation with their round bellies and eventually cherub cheeked babies who interrupted the service with their squeals.

After a while, you had to wonder if God was sparing you and the potential life you would bring into this world. If there was a higher power, surely they would see your struggle and cut you a break.

Keep reading

[soft-and-bitter]

I Swear I Need You

Pairing: Dark!Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

Summary: You've been avoiding your husband. Aemond will do whatever it takes to correct that.

Warnings: possessive/unhinged!Aemond, time-travel, infidelity, period-typical views of gender and marriage, angst, murder (non-explicit), reader’s plans go awry real fast

When you mull over it further in the safety of your own bed, you realize just how unsurprised you are by your husband's actions. Tales of Targaryen madness have always been prevalent throughout the kingdom, and the prince’s own uncle was said to have murdered his first wife long before wedding his niece.

That's probably where he'd drawn inspiration from, you decide with mounting fury. Aemond must've taken a page out of his uncle's book and discarded you in a moment of aggravation. You were of little use to his present cause—whatever it was. Being the outsider that you are, you're not privy to his family's agenda.

Having come to with a violent start, heart racing painfully in your chest, you come to terms with what's happened—with what will happen, should you remain down the same path: your husband is going to murder you. He'll push you off the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay after you confront him about his dalliances; the ocean below you'll plunge into while you scream your lungs out, knowing full well you know not how to swim—that even if you did, you were no match for the strong currents of Blackwater Bay.

But you're alive now, you remind yourself. Not because, by some miracle of the Seven, you survived the waters, but...but because your demise has yet to happen. 

You've somehow traveled back in time. The thought is as ludicrous as it is a relief, but you know not how else to explain it.

If you're alive now, it must mean you can still avoid the fate you've just met. But how?

You remember the confrontation you had with him, all the words that had tumbled from your mouth while he watched, his face impassive, one violet eye as wide as it was blank. The problem was that you never could gauge his mood, but what you're actually realizing now is that you just weren't worth the effort for him to emote to any extent. After all, you were never the prize; your enormous dowry was.

I have been nothing but an attentive and devoted wife to you—but you, you choose to spit it all back in my face—they say your father, may his bones rest in peace, would never—if you're this blind, then perhaps your nephew should've maimed your other eye for good measure—

Well, that’s it, isn’t it? You'd gone off on your husband when once you wouldn't have dared to. In your defense, you were drunk from imbibing too much Dornish red, your bitterness and neglect at a fever pitch that night.Here you were, a hare forced to dwell amongst dragons; some at court called you an upstart, others called you a tart with middling blood. You were craving.

You know your husband craves, too. You're just not what he wants.

Well. 

In the end, this is what you surmise: if you want to keep your head above the water, you just need to stay clear of your husband. Keeping on his good side means keeping out of his way. Where once you longed for his attention, you are now more than happy to do without it, so long as it means you can live.

After all, Prince Aemond can't murder his wife if he hardly remembers he has one. 

In your head, at least, it makes sense.

**************

The basket of white linen shirts placed in your bedchamber startles you.

You've just returned from a game of shuttlecock with your handmaidens,basking in the cool morning weather before the near-stifling noonday heat takes over completely. You're feeling light and invigorated, but the sight of that basket chases away your happy mood. It's Aemond's, those linen shirts. You completely forgot about them, but here they are.

Playing ghost with your husband comes surprisingly easy to you, but you suppose the foundations for your success were always there from the start; there was the fact that the two of you have always kept to separate sleeping arrangements, and Aemond has only ever sought your company at a frequency deemed dutiful by royal standards: there’s the few meals taken together each week with or without your in-laws, peppered with an occasional rendezvous in the evening that’s held before the hearth in your bedchamber. Where you once took these opportunities to please and engage him, now you keep mostly to yourself, mincing empty words when silence was unavoidable. Your quiet complaisance seems to please him enough, you think, but you'll never know for sure.

Under no circumstances do you accept any appointments with him on the terrace overlooking Blackwater Bay; you even turn down a surprising request to walk with him through the royal gardens, because you know one of the paths lead to that same fateful spot you were once pushed off from.

In short, you have no interest in gaining your would-be murderer's favour—though, of course, you're certainly not interested in gaining his disfavor, either. It's a thin line you walk on, and you're trying not to fall off before making it to the other side.

"You can take this back to the prince's chambers, Edyth," you order, gesturing toward the basket.

Your favourite handmaiden frowns at you. "But princess, you haven’t mended them yet,” she reminds. 

"You’re right, and I don’t intend to."

Edyth looks worried. "Prince Aemond will question this, won't he? You've always insisted on darning his shirts yourself. What am I to tell his page when asked?"

You doubt your husband remembers such trivial devotions coming from you. A truth that heavy may have once left you despondent, but now, with a spark of vindication, you realize just how well that works in your favour.

"You will tell his page that I've not the time to darn his shirts anymore," you respond. "Besides, Prince Aemond has important matters on his mind to heed who is darning his shirts, don't you think?"

The look on your handmaiden's face tells you she's not wholly convinced, but she obeys nonetheless.

**************

"Won't you dance with me, sweet sister?" the Princess Helaena asks, and you smile brightly at her. You've never excelled at anything in particular, but you do consider dancing one of your stronger points. The King need not bother the two of you tonight, thankfully; as you rise from your seat you spot your brother-in-law watching fair Lady Bridgetts with a less-than-lecherous gaze, surrounded by his like-minded coterie. The King these days doesn't care much for small family gatherings, as was once the norm, you were informed; he prefers the more boisterous and wine-soaked kind, attended by courtiers he knows will keep him entertained. 

Despite her marriage to King Aegon, your sister-in-law has yet to be crowned queen, but she doesn't seem to mind in the least. Her steps are light and airy, cheeks red with excitement. You match her enthusiasm with your own, realizing that your feelings of joy are, in fact, genuine; Aemond is absent tonight, as he has been for the past few days, and so you've been able to breathe a little easier because of it. Your husband has been charged with mending frayed ties with the lords of The Reach, taking him away from the capital. A blessing, that—you wouldn't have attended tonight's amusements had he been in attendance.

And so you dance and dance with the Princess Helaena, the two of you spinning in delight as the music picks up its tempo; your surroundings blur while you move, eager to be rid of your present worries for a night or two. While you've taken it easy with the wine—you learned your lesson when you drunkenly confronted Aemond on the terrace that fateful day—you've indulged on the candied fruits that accompanied tonight's supper, the sugar elating your good spirits even further.

But perhaps you've been too eager to forget, it seems, that the gods have sought to correct this.

As you ready yourself for another spin, someone catches your eye—pale blonde hair and garments as black as night instantly betray his identity.

Aemond is watching you as you stumble lightly at his appearance, just as the music halts.

Your husband's gaze remains firmly upon you as a Kingsguard standing watch by the entrance announces Prince Aemond's arrival. You look away with haste, cursing beneath your breath. This wasn't what you anticipated; your husband isn't expected back for a few days still.

His mother voices as much after greeting her son warmly. "Nonetheless, the sweet air of the Reach has done you well," she comments, and you refrain from rolling your eyes. In your opinion, Aemond looks exactly the same, his pallor just as it was when he left King's Landing. You wonder, more with curiosity rather than bitterness, what fleshly delights he had sampled on there.

"For all of its riches, The Reach lacks what I truly desire," he says, casting a look at you over his mother's head. You're forced to hold back a scoff. You have no time for flattery.

"Then you will happily greet your wife with open arms, will you not?" the Queen Mother asks, turning to lead her son towards you.

With a smile painted on your face, you offer a quick curtsy in greeting. "Welcome back to the capital, husband." The last word tastes foreign in your mouth. 

The Prince must’ve changed into a fresh set of clothes before appearing before them all, by the pristine look of his leather doublet and hose. He doesn't respond right away, his expression impassive.

"You look well, my love," he finally says.

You actually want to agree with him because it's true, but you’re sure that would be in bad taste when you've been apart from each other for such a while.

"Won't you dance with her, Aemond?" It's the Princess Helaena, speaking from across the room. "Those who dance and tumble, dance and tumble, will always discern," she portends, a faraway look blossoming on her still flushed-face.

You glance at your husband. "Perhaps some wine would be a better idea after such a long flight," you suggest instead.

"Only if you join me as well."

You can't just skip out this instant, you realize; that could raise Aemond's suspicions, and you don't want to deal with that. No, you'll make your exit when the moment's right, but now isn't it.

"If it pleases you, then I will."

His violet-eyed stare is unsettling, as it normally is. "It would please me very much."

You look back at Helaena with apology and affection. Here, at least, there is no bad blood to smooth over; your sister-in-law continues smiling at you in that otherworldly, enchanted way of hers. You also have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about. 

Things fall back into place again as the two of you both seat yourselves at the dining table; the music winds itself back up again, but it’s a new tune this time. You smile knowingly at a trio of courtiers you’ve caught trying to scrutinize you discreetly by one of the stone columns. Tongues never stop wagging at court, and you suspect the grapevine will be plenty fruitful on the morrow, now that Prince Aemond has returned. 

At the head of the table, your husband holds out a cup provided by his servant. "To your health," he says, watching you. 

You raise your own cup before bringing it to your lips. You sip cautiously, as you’re wont to do now. 

Tonight’s retinue of courtiers gravitate around you both, but none dare approach close enough for discourse. From your vantage point, adjacent to the Prince’s own seat, you can see the Queen Mother’s tapestries on display along the gallery’s wall. She was forced to relinquish some of her favourites to King Aegon, he who has a penchant for life’s finest things. It’s mainly what you think about while nursing your wine, saying little to your husband.

"What have you been doing here in my absence?"

You shrug. "Things, here and there."

"Such as?"

For a moment, you consider telling him about your day traversing through River Row. Despite having never lived there for a day in your life, being surrounded by fishmongers and sea captains grips you with nostalgia you didn’t realize you yearned so badly for. More than once you’ve even had a selection of fish brought back to the Red Keep for your cook to try his hand at preparing. But why in the gods would you tell him all that? You want as little to do with your husband as possible; it’s as if the more you give, either with words or actions, the easier it will be for him to use against you, to lure you to the terrace you avoid like death itself. 

"Trifling things, husband," you finally say, fingers dancing around the rim of your cup. "I doubt you’d be interested in the courtly pursuits that maidens and ladies participate in to wile away the time."

"Hm. And yet my shirts have come back to me unmended each time they are brought to your chambers. My page insists you’ve been occupied."

Your fingers stop moving. "Oh. I didn't think you'd mind, to be honest. And besides, I realized I was too poor a seamstress in the end," you add for good measure.

"I ought to be the arbiter of that."

You know his gaze has barely left your face since he’s arrived, and it’s beginning to make you nervous. Instinctively, you open your mouth to apologize, but he cuts you off, his voice low and commanding in that calmly dangerous way of his. 

"I will ask you again, wife: what have you been doing in my absence?"

As the minstrels segue into a new song, you shift your focus entirely on him. The Prince sits with his back erect, one hand on the table; his face is, as far as you can tell, an attestation to his boredom and the company present. 

His gaze on you is another story, altogether. Beneath his stare, you’re reminded of the madness all Targaryens are supposedly capable of—that conquering dragons is madness itself. How else to explain wedding and bedding your own kin, or murdering them for sport?

Your husband has killed. He has killed his nephew, and once he has killed you. If you let him, he could do it again. You don’t know what he wants to hear, or what he even wants from you, but you know you’re right to try and stay clear of him.

One of his long fingers taps sporadically against the base of his cup. Tap. Tap, tap. Tap—

"I've taken to the arts," you confess warily.

He blinks once, and only once. "What kind?"

"Well, ink paintings have taken the court by storm as of late," you explain, shrugging. "There isn’t one person I know who hasn’t dabbled in it."

"And you’re taken by it as well?"

You nod. "Yes, quite. Our teacher is a good one, and I’ve done well under his tutelage. He hails from Qarth, actually, but from what I understand the art of ink painting comes fr—"

"Your teacher is a man," he states, cutting you off. 

You huff quietly, slightly incensed from his interruption. "Of course he is. Women aren’t allowed to apprentice."

Another tap of his finger against the base of his cup. "And how often do you congregate with this teacher of yours?"

You’re really hoping that your husband doesn’t plan on taking an interest in ink painting. That’s just what you need, isn’t it, the Prince hovering about your space while you indulge in a past-time you’ve genuinely enjoyed pursuing, and not just for social purposes. "Our circle meets once a week," you lie. So what if it’s actually more frequent than that? With a civil war on the horizon, you’re not even sure if any of this will last, and you want to enjoy it as husbandless as you’re able.  

Boisterous laughter rings across the room. You realize it’s coming from the King and his coterie, but the source of their humour is unknown to you.

"You must show me your work, then," Aemond voices. "I very much wish to see your endeavours."

You smile nervously. "Yes, of course. Perhaps soon."

He smiles back at you, but there is dark mischief beneath it. "Perhaps now, my love. Let us rid ourselves of this company and find sweeter things to do in your chambers."

Your mind halts, fearful and mortified. This is absolutely not the direction you ever intended this conversation to go in—far from it. You have yet to find a plausible excuse to keep the prince out of your bed when your duty remains unfulfilled, but the experience is few and far between. Your husband does not crave you; the suddenness of his request throws you completely off guard. 

Say something, anything.

"The time is late and you’ve journeyed far, husband. Wouldn’t you prefer the comfort of your own familiar bed? You’re back in the capital now, besides; we’ve plenty of time for, um, things."

He says nothing to you, but you catch it on his face. That gleam of madness again.

For a moment you think he’s ready to let it go. And then, without breaking eye contact, he extends his arm and tilts his cup sideways, Dornish red spilling out over your lap like a bloody waterfall. You gasp loudly for all to hear, but you're too slow to avoid it; the wine has soaked through your skirts.

"How careless of me," he says without even a sliver of remorse, his face turned upwards to your own, one violent eye aglow with calm mischief.

You'd shot up from your seat as soon as the wine splashed onto your gown, your chair screeching against the stone floor. The music had halted again and the discourse terminated, all eyes turned towards you and the prince.

In the hushed silence that has descended, you glare at the prince, fingers bunching into the folds of your gown not soiled by the carnage he has wrought. You're flushed with a mix of frustration and embarrassment, face warm as you catch attendants approaching you from the corner of your eyes. How could he?

"I was very fond of this dress," you say, waving off the attendants. There was nothing they could do to salvage the garment.

"Then you must forgive this husband of yours," he says, standing. "We will need to have another dress made for my lady wife. A much finer one, so that it wholly befits her status and beauty."

"Yes, indeed," his mother cuts in as she nears, turning you towards her so she can examine the damage done by her son. "What a shame. It isn't like you to be so clumsy, Aemond."

Despite his misdemeanor—or, perhaps, because of it—the corners of his mouth remain tilted upwards in a mischievous smile. "It would seem that reuniting with my lady wife has made me soft and befuddled," he confesses, standing. You take a step back, alarmed.

"Come, wife," he says. "Unfortunately in this state, you're no longer fit for company like this. We will bid everyone a good night."

You consider disobeying. I'm not fit for your company either, you think to say, but there is a shadow lingering in his good eye that you're wary of. Aemond will broker no argument or negotiation tonight. Besides, the stain on your dress is too unbecoming for this set, yes; you look down at it, noticing how it resembled a bloody island in the sea of the blue fabric.

In the end, it is the Queen Mother who decides for you. "You'll not want to linger in that dress for much longer, my love," she comments with an apologetic smile. "I'll see to it that Aemond makes good on his promise of a new dress. You are certainly deserving of it."

So you bow your head in deference towards her before bidding your King and his company a goodnight. Helaena kisses your cheek affectionately before whispering something in your ear. You don't think much about it just now, not until you're lying in your bed, coming to terms with everything that had transpired tonight.

What will transpire tonight, that is.

**************

You make it a point not to look at your husband as you make your way through the Red Keep, back to your own suite of rooms. The few restless courtiers still milling about eye the two of you cautiously.

In the now-empty corridor leading to your chambers do you finally voice your anger. "You did that on purpose," you accuse, turning on your heel to glare at him. Even his close proximity cannot thaw your feelings.

His smile remains placid. "Yes, I did." Not even a half-hearted attempt to deny it, you realize.

"Why do such a thing? What have I done to draw such ire from you tonight?"

The warm light that emanates from the torches around you sets your husband aglow while he studies you for a moment, silent. You freeze in fear beneath his gaze; it’s a look not so different from that which he'd given you before shoving you off the terrace—but no, that hasn't happened yet, not in whatever realm you've found yourself in right now. That won’t happen, so long as you play your cards right, so long—

You fail to act in time; he already has you pushed against the wall, his warm body crowding into yours. His hands curl possessively around your waist, face a hair's breadth away from your own. And while you desperately try to claw yourself from his presence, unable to discern between this Aemond and the one who killed you, between the sturdy ground beneath your feet and the ocean you were once plunged in, he only seems intent to trespass, to enforce his presence on you the only way a dragon is capable of. 

"Something has come over you," he says at last with a gentle tilt of his head, his hands tightening over your waist. "Where once you seemed intent to occupy every moment of my time, you're now avoiding me as of late. Why is that, wife?"

Heart drumming loudly in your ears, you try your hardest to maintain a passive look on your face. "No, that's absurd," you insist with the lightest of scoffs. "What reason would I have to avoid you?"

"That, my love, is exactly what I plan to find out."

You shake your head vehemently, trying another tactic. "So what if I have been making myself scarce before you? You’ve been preoccupied with matters of state, don’t you see? I only wish not to add to your burdens!"

He seems to be mulling over your answer while you try to keep yourself together, but his grip on your waist doesn’t loosen at all.  

"Perhaps you’re right," he affirms. "I’ve been a poor husband to you, haven’t I?"

"No! That’s not what I m—"

He doesn’t let you finish. "This needs to be rectified immediately."

You blink at him, throat parched. "I don’t understand."

A knowing smile blooms slowly along his mouth. "You will once the night is through."

**************

AN: Guys this was supposed to be like, 2k words, but here we are past the 4k mark and I have no excuses other than this plot escaped me. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading! It’s been a while since I’ve written GOT fic, so I might be a little rusty. Let me know if you’re interested in reading more; I guess I could try my hand at smut or smth and I always planned to make our boy nuttier as the ideas flowed outta my head. 

Also, despite the sappy-sounding title, it’s ripped from Seulgi’s 28 Reasons which I had on full repeat because of its creepy, dark-pop vibe. Bye.

#timely reblog #now that the teaser just dropped

[soft-and-bitter]

if i post a fic and get no kudos or comments in the first fifteen minutes i’m a failure and should never write again. but the moment i get 1 comment i’m the next stephen king

[soft-and-bitter]

lol @azenpal everyone but reader knows better than to mess with Steve but she's also kinda drunk so she's not thinking straight 🤷‍♀️

Not for the first time, you realize just how badly you need to escape from Steve. You have to, before he decides to turn a passing comment into reality and you’ll be trapped with him forever.

The Cure & The Cause

Mafia!Steve x Captive!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Notes/warning(s): some sexual content, coercion, Steve is sweet but a little psycho, no plot just vibes. Reader’s been kidnapped by Steve and is being held captive for a bit before story begins. Part of the same universe that Failed Bargaining belongs to.

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving some feedback, thanks! ❤

When the car rolls up to the curb and a member of Steve’s unit opens the door, Sharon exits first before it’s your turn. You’ve barely stepped out of the black Range Rover before several bodyguards usher you towards the entrance of the multi-storied boutique, but the small stretch of sidewalk you cross is simply not enough for you to attempt an escape. Figures.

You’ve only ever gone shopping for a wedding dress once, when you had accompanied your best friend in search of hers. But with the costs of her traditional wedding adding up quickly, Lisa had been forced to make some concessions where her dress was concerned. Her final choice was still lovely, in the end, though admittedly it wasn’t perfect in every capacity that she’d envisioned.

As soon as you step foot into the bridal boutique, you realize right away that whatever financial concerns Lisa had during her own wedding planning, Sharon will not have. Money is, quite frankly, the least of her worries. For starters, Sharon is one of Steve’s highest-ranking, and she’s getting married to Sam, so it’s no surprise that all the stops have been pulled out. This upscale boutique is apparently one of many salons she has in mind to visit, but already it’s proving to be the most impressive. 

“We have the whole place to ourselves,” Sharon mentions with uncharacteristic giddiness, just as you and the rest of the group settle into plush white sofas. You thought that that in itself spoke to Steve’s influence and wealth, but when the senior manager in her stylish black dress and six-inch heels pops open a bottle of Dom Perignon circa 1996, you’re left wondering how much of Steve’s largesse these people are truly hoping for. 

Together with the champagne, the store’s personnel offer you and the others an assortment of French pastries while Sharon gets into her first dress. A collection of them has already been set aside for her based on previous consultations, but today is when she gets to try them on. You’re already reaching for your second flute when you think that for just a second, you want to imagine that this is all a normal picture, that these women you’re here with—Sharon, Nat, Wanda and Sarah—are in fact your girlfriends, rather than accomplices to your captivity. That without him present, you might just be able to subscribe to the illusion. Combined with the right amount of ridiculously expensive champagne, it’s more than possible. 

This scares you more than you want to admit. Mostly because you’re stuck realizing how lonely you’ve been up to this point, even before Steve decided to take you, but also how your perception of your captivity is beginning to morph into something less depraved, a jagged picture where the edges are becoming dulled. 

You swallow down another bit of champagne in response, and then a little bit more; the next thing you know, time is flying by and your reaction at every dress Sharon steps out in gets more expressive, louder. Somewhere along the way you even end up in Nat’s lap, arms flung over her shoulder, the both of you choking on laughter at a snide comment Sharon’s made about the gown that Wanda—yes, her—has chosen to try on. It’s the very portrait of idealized friendship, of closeness and devotion and support. Of course you want to believe all this, even if only for a minute.

“It looks like you ladies have gone through most of the champagne I sent,” says a low, timbrous voice that slices through the racket of laughter and loud talk.

You, together with everyone else, process Steve’s sudden presence in the salon at the same moment, only your reaction is nowhere near as positive. Amongst the wild cheers and drunken shrieks that the other women let out, you merely stare at him with your mouth agape, blinking at the sight of him in the doorway, Bucky lingering not so far behind. Rather than disappointment, your brain can only process how fucking handsome this man is, how the top of his head nearly grazes the lintel as he enters, every step full of confidence. You’re completely out of his league, your brain foggily reminds you, though you know that—just like you know what’s beneath the gray suit he’s wearing, the one tailored to perfection. 

More treacherous thoughts, you realize, just like most of them today.  

“It feels like I’ve stepped into a party,” Steve says, rounding a sofa to enter the fray. His blue eyes cut to you, take in your place on Nat’s lap and the way you’re holding on to her, but he says nothing. 

“That’s because it is a party,” Sharon insists, a little too loudly, the tendrils of her hair dancing along the sides of her face. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“We were driving through the district and I thought I’d drop in,” he says, still hovering over them. Bucky’s leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his body and a look of mild amusement on his face, but he doesn’t attempt to intrude any further.

With his hands poised on his hips, Steve looks over at Wanda standing before the wall-to-wall mirrors. “Last time I checked, you’re not getting married. What’s happening here?” 

“Nobody says you have to be a bride to try on a pretty dress,” Nat explains beneath you, one arm still loosely wrapped around your waist. “Sharon needed a breather, actually, so we’ve decided to take turns modeling now. Right, babe?” 

She knocks a shoulder against one of yours.

When Steve swivels his head to look down at the both of you, there’s a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “In that case, it’s your turn,” he commands, eyes fixed squarely on you. “Now that I think about it, I'm curious to know how you’d look in a wedding dress. And you want to please me, don’t you?”

You blink at him, letting his words wash over you. You remain sitting on Nat’s lap, even though you’re still not sure how you ended up there in the first place, and you can’t quite believe that Steve’s here too, but reality is starting to sink back in, your little fantasy cracking at the edges. These women around you aren’t your friends, and this isn’t some typical shopping excursion at a designer bridal house.  

When you respond, you’re only vaguely aware how much the champagne you’ve been knocking back has emboldened you. His champagne, no less.

“Forget it,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t want to.”

You think you may be imagining it, but the room suddenly feels quieter. Steve, though, is still looking down at you, his face still set in a calm expression.

“Find a dress, sweetheart, or I’ll choose one and get you into it myself.” He sinks into the plush sofa adjacent to yours, the sole occupant. “Knowing your tastes, you won’t like what I have in mind for you.”

You know that Steve’s not messing around, because he’s made good on a similar threat before. Worst of all, none of the women around you dissent on your behalf, not even Nat, sitting so close to you. You should feel betrayed by their silence, but it’s partly your fault you helped craft the illusion you so badly wanted to believe in. 

“Come on beautiful, let’s go find you something,” Nat says gently, nudging you to stand. Maybe it’s the hurt you’re feeling, but this time around you don’t object as you follow a sales consultant, Nat trailing close behind. You pass by Bucky as you leave the private room; he throws you a look akin to mild sympathy before he joins the rest.

“My god, look at you,” he breathes, slowly rising from the plush white sofa. “My sweet, sweet girl, all dressed up to get married.”

You’d chosen a dress that made you think of a suit of armor. But by the way Steve studies you, his gaze sharp enough to pierce through any material, you just feel vulnerable. Exposed. Ironic, because your first and final choice felt the most conservative compared to all the dresses that Sharon and the others had come out in. Nat had coaxed you into wearing a veil, too, completing the whole look. 

The champagne keeps your fiery spirit afloat, your tongue looser than normal. “I'm never getting married,” you say.

Steve lifts an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Never?"

"Never," you parrot.

“Well that's too bad, 'cause that won't be a decision you get to make. Now come here.”

You think about ignoring him for a second, just turn right back where you’d shuffled from as your own quiet brand of fuck you. But there’s a look of expectancy on his face, and at his full height, Steve isn’t one to spar with. 

His hands are already on your waist when you turn to the expanse of mirrors. You weren’t wrong when you deemed this dress less eye-catching than the others, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less lovely. 

“What do you think?” he asks. You can feel his fingers playing with the veil that waterfalls behind you, the way his knuckles ghost along your back.

“It's . . . fine, I guess,” you say, staring at yourself in the mirror.

“Oh, I think it’s more than fine,” he insists. “Stunning, in fact. Should I buy it?”

He doesn’t mean it, you convince yourself, but it’s not enough to clamp down on the panic rising within you. Didn’t he just hear what you’d said a second earlier?

Until now, Steve has never mentioned marriage or anything of the like. But since when did you know how his mind worked? You wouldn’t be here if you did. 

“Well?”

You shake your head. “Don’t. I can’t wear white to another bride’s wedding,”

Steve chuckles as he gently draws back the veil and your hair away, sweeping both over your left shoulder. “In that case, you can wear it at home, just for me. And you’ll make sure not to wear anything underneath, won’t you?”

Goosebumps dance along your skin. His hands on your waist have you trapped in place, body pressed against his. To your alarm, you feel him hardening against your back, a threat and a promise.

" I liked it more when it was on the rack," you say hastily, trying to ignore his growing desire, "now that I'm in it, I'm having second thoughts."

In the mirror, you can see Steve shaking his head. "No, you're absolutely radiant in this. It's perfect . . . and it's just so you."

He acts without warning. You inhale sharply as his tongue trails up your neck, slow and hot. Steve was licking you—licking you—in front of everyone, without an ounce of shame. It reminds you all too well of the other night, when he had spread you out across his desk and eaten you out while he'd taken a call on speaker. He'd taken his damned time too, keeping you on the very precipice while the caller spewed all this babel your mind couldn't comprehend, all thanks to the desperate state you were in. And when he finally let you come, it had been with his hand shoved against your mouth.

Not for the first time, you realize just how badly you need to escape from Steve. You have to, before he decides to turn a passing comment into reality and you’ll be trapped with him forever.

Yeah I have no idea what this is lol; it was such a basic and simple premise that really didn’t need to be 2k plus words long, but here we are I guess. Graphics by me.

[soft-and-bitter]

@krirebr I'm glad that came through here!!! Thank you for reblogging!

Not for the first time, you realize just how badly you need to escape from Steve. You have to, before he decides to turn a passing comment into reality and you’ll be trapped with him forever.

The Cure & The Cause

Mafia!Steve x Captive!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Notes/warning(s): some sexual content, coercion, Steve is sweet but a little psycho, no plot just vibes. Reader’s been kidnapped by Steve and is being held captive for a bit before story begins. Part of the same universe that Failed Bargaining belongs to.

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving some feedback, thanks! ❤

When the car rolls up to the curb and a member of Steve’s unit opens the door, Sharon exits first before it’s your turn. You’ve barely stepped out of the black Range Rover before several bodyguards usher you towards the entrance of the multi-storied boutique, but the small stretch of sidewalk you cross is simply not enough for you to attempt an escape. Figures.

You’ve only ever gone shopping for a wedding dress once, when you had accompanied your best friend in search of hers. But with the costs of her traditional wedding adding up quickly, Lisa had been forced to make some concessions where her dress was concerned. Her final choice was still lovely, in the end, though admittedly it wasn’t perfect in every capacity that she’d envisioned.

As soon as you step foot into the bridal boutique, you realize right away that whatever financial concerns Lisa had during her own wedding planning, Sharon will not have. Money is, quite frankly, the least of her worries. For starters, Sharon is one of Steve’s highest-ranking, and she’s getting married to Sam, so it’s no surprise that all the stops have been pulled out. This upscale boutique is apparently one of many salons she has in mind to visit, but already it’s proving to be the most impressive. 

“We have the whole place to ourselves,” Sharon mentions with uncharacteristic giddiness, just as you and the rest of the group settle into plush white sofas. You thought that that in itself spoke to Steve’s influence and wealth, but when the senior manager in her stylish black dress and six-inch heels pops open a bottle of Dom Perignon circa 1996, you’re left wondering how much of Steve’s largesse these people are truly hoping for. 

Together with the champagne, the store’s personnel offer you and the others an assortment of French pastries while Sharon gets into her first dress. A collection of them has already been set aside for her based on previous consultations, but today is when she gets to try them on. You’re already reaching for your second flute when you think that for just a second, you want to imagine that this is all a normal picture, that these women you’re here with—Sharon, Nat, Wanda and Sarah—are in fact your girlfriends, rather than accomplices to your captivity. That without him present, you might just be able to subscribe to the illusion. Combined with the right amount of ridiculously expensive champagne, it’s more than possible. 

This scares you more than you want to admit. Mostly because you’re stuck realizing how lonely you’ve been up to this point, even before Steve decided to take you, but also how your perception of your captivity is beginning to morph into something less depraved, a jagged picture where the edges are becoming dulled. 

You swallow down another bit of champagne in response, and then a little bit more; the next thing you know, time is flying by and your reaction at every dress Sharon steps out in gets more expressive, louder. Somewhere along the way you even end up in Nat’s lap, arms flung over her shoulder, the both of you choking on laughter at a snide comment Sharon’s made about the gown that Wanda—yes, her—has chosen to try on. It’s the very portrait of idealized friendship, of closeness and devotion and support. Of course you want to believe all this, even if only for a minute.

“It looks like you ladies have gone through most of the champagne I sent,” says a low, timbrous voice that slices through the racket of laughter and loud talk.

You, together with everyone else, process Steve’s sudden presence in the salon at the same moment, only your reaction is nowhere near as positive. Amongst the wild cheers and drunken shrieks that the other women let out, you merely stare at him with your mouth agape, blinking at the sight of him in the doorway, Bucky lingering not so far behind. Rather than disappointment, your brain can only process how fucking handsome this man is, how the top of his head nearly grazes the lintel as he enters, every step full of confidence. You’re completely out of his league, your brain foggily reminds you, though you know that—just like you know what’s beneath the gray suit he’s wearing, the one tailored to perfection. 

More treacherous thoughts, you realize, just like most of them today.  

“It feels like I’ve stepped into a party,” Steve says, rounding a sofa to enter the fray. His blue eyes cut to you, take in your place on Nat’s lap and the way you’re holding on to her, but he says nothing. 

“That’s because it is a party,” Sharon insists, a little too loudly, the tendrils of her hair dancing along the sides of her face. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“We were driving through the district and I thought I’d drop in,” he says, still hovering over them. Bucky’s leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his body and a look of mild amusement on his face, but he doesn’t attempt to intrude any further.

With his hands poised on his hips, Steve looks over at Wanda standing before the wall-to-wall mirrors. “Last time I checked, you’re not getting married. What’s happening here?” 

“Nobody says you have to be a bride to try on a pretty dress,” Nat explains beneath you, one arm still loosely wrapped around your waist. “Sharon needed a breather, actually, so we’ve decided to take turns modeling now. Right, babe?” 

She knocks a shoulder against one of yours.

When Steve swivels his head to look down at the both of you, there’s a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “In that case, it’s your turn,” he commands, eyes fixed squarely on you. “Now that I think about it, I'm curious to know how you’d look in a wedding dress. And you want to please me, don’t you?”

You blink at him, letting his words wash over you. You remain sitting on Nat’s lap, even though you’re still not sure how you ended up there in the first place, and you can’t quite believe that Steve’s here too, but reality is starting to sink back in, your little fantasy cracking at the edges. These women around you aren’t your friends, and this isn’t some typical shopping excursion at a designer bridal house.  

When you respond, you’re only vaguely aware how much the champagne you’ve been knocking back has emboldened you. His champagne, no less.

“Forget it,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t want to.”

You think you may be imagining it, but the room suddenly feels quieter. Steve, though, is still looking down at you, his face still set in a calm expression.

“Find a dress, sweetheart, or I’ll choose one and get you into it myself.” He sinks into the plush sofa adjacent to yours, the sole occupant. “Knowing your tastes, you won’t like what I have in mind for you.”

You know that Steve’s not messing around, because he’s made good on a similar threat before. Worst of all, none of the women around you dissent on your behalf, not even Nat, sitting so close to you. You should feel betrayed by their silence, but it’s partly your fault you helped craft the illusion you so badly wanted to believe in. 

“Come on beautiful, let’s go find you something,” Nat says gently, nudging you to stand. Maybe it’s the hurt you’re feeling, but this time around you don’t object as you follow a sales consultant, Nat trailing close behind. You pass by Bucky as you leave the private room; he throws you a look akin to mild sympathy before he joins the rest.

“My god, look at you,” he breathes, slowly rising from the plush white sofa. “My sweet, sweet girl, all dressed up to get married.”

You’d chosen a dress that made you think of a suit of armor. But by the way Steve studies you, his gaze sharp enough to pierce through any material, you just feel vulnerable. Exposed. Ironic, because your first and final choice felt the most conservative compared to all the dresses that Sharon and the others had come out in. Nat had coaxed you into wearing a veil, too, completing the whole look. 

The champagne keeps your fiery spirit afloat, your tongue looser than normal. “I'm never getting married,” you say.

Steve lifts an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Never?"

"Never," you parrot.

“Well that's too bad, 'cause that won't be a decision you get to make. Now come here.”

You think about ignoring him for a second, just turn right back where you’d shuffled from as your own quiet brand of fuck you. But there’s a look of expectancy on his face, and at his full height, Steve isn’t one to spar with. 

His hands are already on your waist when you turn to the expanse of mirrors. You weren’t wrong when you deemed this dress less eye-catching than the others, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less lovely. 

“What do you think?” he asks. You can feel his fingers playing with the veil that waterfalls behind you, the way his knuckles ghost along your back.

“It's . . . fine, I guess,” you say, staring at yourself in the mirror.

“Oh, I think it’s more than fine,” he insists. “Stunning, in fact. Should I buy it?”

He doesn’t mean it, you convince yourself, but it’s not enough to clamp down on the panic rising within you. Didn’t he just hear what you’d said a second earlier?

Until now, Steve has never mentioned marriage or anything of the like. But since when did you know how his mind worked? You wouldn’t be here if you did. 

“Well?”

You shake your head. “Don’t. I can’t wear white to another bride’s wedding,”

Steve chuckles as he gently draws back the veil and your hair away, sweeping both over your left shoulder. “In that case, you can wear it at home, just for me. And you’ll make sure not to wear anything underneath, won’t you?”

Goosebumps dance along your skin. His hands on your waist have you trapped in place, body pressed against his. To your alarm, you feel him hardening against your back, a threat and a promise.

" I liked it more when it was on the rack," you say hastily, trying to ignore his growing desire, "now that I'm in it, I'm having second thoughts."

In the mirror, you can see Steve shaking his head. "No, you're absolutely radiant in this. It's perfect . . . and it's just so you."

He acts without warning. You inhale sharply as his tongue trails up your neck, slow and hot. Steve was licking you—licking you—in front of everyone, without an ounce of shame. It reminds you all too well of the other night, when he had spread you out across his desk and eaten you out while he'd taken a call on speaker. He'd taken his damned time too, keeping you on the very precipice while the caller spewed all this babel your mind couldn't comprehend, all thanks to the desperate state you were in. And when he finally let you come, it had been with his hand shoved against your mouth.

Not for the first time, you realize just how badly you need to escape from Steve. You have to, before he decides to turn a passing comment into reality and you’ll be trapped with him forever.

Yeah I have no idea what this is lol; it was such a basic and simple premise that really didn’t need to be 2k plus words long, but here we are I guess. Graphics by me.

[soft-and-bitter]

Not for the first time, you realize just how badly you need to escape from Steve. You have to, before he decides to turn a passing comment into reality and you’ll be trapped with him forever.

The Cure & The Cause

Mafia!Steve x Captive!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Notes/warning(s): some sexual content, coercion, Steve is sweet but a little psycho, no plot just vibes. Reader’s been kidnapped by Steve and is being held captive for a bit before story begins. Part of the same universe that Failed Bargaining belongs to.

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving some feedback, thanks! ❤

When the car rolls up to the curb and a member of Steve’s unit opens the door, Sharon exits first before it’s your turn. You’ve barely stepped out of the black Range Rover before several bodyguards usher you towards the entrance of the multi-storied boutique, but the small stretch of sidewalk you cross is simply not enough for you to attempt an escape. Figures.

You’ve only ever gone shopping for a wedding dress once, when you had accompanied your best friend in search of hers. But with the costs of her traditional wedding adding up quickly, Lisa had been forced to make some concessions where her dress was concerned. Her final choice was still lovely, in the end, though admittedly it wasn’t perfect in every capacity that she’d envisioned.

As soon as you step foot into the bridal boutique, you realize right away that whatever financial concerns Lisa had during her own wedding planning, Sharon will not have. Money is, quite frankly, the least of her worries. For starters, Sharon is one of Steve’s highest-ranking, and she’s getting married to Sam, so it’s no surprise that all the stops have been pulled out. This upscale boutique is apparently one of many salons she has in mind to visit, but already it’s proving to be the most impressive. 

“We have the whole place to ourselves,” Sharon mentions with uncharacteristic giddiness, just as you and the rest of the group settle into plush white sofas. You thought that that in itself spoke to Steve’s influence and wealth, but when the senior manager in her stylish black dress and six-inch heels pops open a bottle of Dom Perignon circa 1996, you’re left wondering how much of Steve’s largesse these people are truly hoping for. 

Together with the champagne, the store’s personnel offer you and the others an assortment of French pastries while Sharon gets into her first dress. A collection of them has already been set aside for her based on previous consultations, but today is when she gets to try them on. You’re already reaching for your second flute when you think that for just a second, you want to imagine that this is all a normal picture, that these women you’re here with—Sharon, Nat, Wanda and Sarah—are in fact your girlfriends, rather than accomplices to your captivity. That without him present, you might just be able to subscribe to the illusion. Combined with the right amount of ridiculously expensive champagne, it’s more than possible. 

This scares you more than you want to admit. Mostly because you’re stuck realizing how lonely you’ve been up to this point, even before Steve decided to take you, but also how your perception of your captivity is beginning to morph into something less depraved, a jagged picture where the edges are becoming dulled. 

You swallow down another bit of champagne in response, and then a little bit more; the next thing you know, time is flying by and your reaction at every dress Sharon steps out in gets more expressive, louder. Somewhere along the way you even end up in Nat’s lap, arms flung over her shoulder, the both of you choking on laughter at a snide comment Sharon’s made about the gown that Wanda—yes, her—has chosen to try on. It’s the very portrait of idealized friendship, of closeness and devotion and support. Of course you want to believe all this, even if only for a minute.

“It looks like you ladies have gone through most of the champagne I sent,” says a low, timbrous voice that slices through the racket of laughter and loud talk.

You, together with everyone else, process Steve’s sudden presence in the salon at the same moment, only your reaction is nowhere near as positive. Amongst the wild cheers and drunken shrieks that the other women let out, you merely stare at him with your mouth agape, blinking at the sight of him in the doorway, Bucky lingering not so far behind. Rather than disappointment, your brain can only process how fucking handsome this man is, how the top of his head nearly grazes the lintel as he enters, every step full of confidence. You’re completely out of his league, your brain foggily reminds you, though you know that—just like you know what’s beneath the gray suit he’s wearing, the one tailored to perfection. 

More treacherous thoughts, you realize, just like most of them today.  

“It feels like I’ve stepped into a party,” Steve says, rounding a sofa to enter the fray. His blue eyes cut to you, take in your place on Nat’s lap and the way you’re holding on to her, but he says nothing. 

“That’s because it is a party,” Sharon insists, a little too loudly, the tendrils of her hair dancing along the sides of her face. “What are you doing here, anyway?”

“We were driving through the district and I thought I’d drop in,” he says, still hovering over them. Bucky’s leaning against the doorway with his arms folded across his body and a look of mild amusement on his face, but he doesn’t attempt to intrude any further.

With his hands poised on his hips, Steve looks over at Wanda standing before the wall-to-wall mirrors. “Last time I checked, you’re not getting married. What’s happening here?” 

“Nobody says you have to be a bride to try on a pretty dress,” Nat explains beneath you, one arm still loosely wrapped around your waist. “Sharon needed a breather, actually, so we’ve decided to take turns modeling now. Right, babe?” 

She knocks a shoulder against one of yours.

When Steve swivels his head to look down at the both of you, there’s a smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. “In that case, it’s your turn,” he commands, eyes fixed squarely on you. “Now that I think about it, I'm curious to know how you’d look in a wedding dress. And you want to please me, don’t you?”

You blink at him, letting his words wash over you. You remain sitting on Nat’s lap, even though you’re still not sure how you ended up there in the first place, and you can’t quite believe that Steve’s here too, but reality is starting to sink back in, your little fantasy cracking at the edges. These women around you aren’t your friends, and this isn’t some typical shopping excursion at a designer bridal house.  

When you respond, you’re only vaguely aware how much the champagne you’ve been knocking back has emboldened you. His champagne, no less.

“Forget it,” you say, shaking your head. “I don’t want to.”

You think you may be imagining it, but the room suddenly feels quieter. Steve, though, is still looking down at you, his face still set in a calm expression.

“Find a dress, sweetheart, or I’ll choose one and get you into it myself.” He sinks into the plush sofa adjacent to yours, the sole occupant. “Knowing your tastes, you won’t like what I have in mind for you.”

You know that Steve’s not messing around, because he’s made good on a similar threat before. Worst of all, none of the women around you dissent on your behalf, not even Nat, sitting so close to you. You should feel betrayed by their silence, but it’s partly your fault you helped craft the illusion you so badly wanted to believe in. 

“Come on beautiful, let’s go find you something,” Nat says gently, nudging you to stand. Maybe it’s the hurt you’re feeling, but this time around you don’t object as you follow a sales consultant, Nat trailing close behind. You pass by Bucky as you leave the private room; he throws you a look akin to mild sympathy before he joins the rest.

“My god, look at you,” he breathes, slowly rising from the plush white sofa. “My sweet, sweet girl, all dressed up to get married.”

You’d chosen a dress that made you think of a suit of armor. But by the way Steve studies you, his gaze sharp enough to pierce through any material, you just feel vulnerable. Exposed. Ironic, because your first and final choice felt the most conservative compared to all the dresses that Sharon and the others had come out in. Nat had coaxed you into wearing a veil, too, completing the whole look. 

The champagne keeps your fiery spirit afloat, your tongue looser than normal. “I'm never getting married,” you say.

Steve lifts an eyebrow, his eyes twinkling with amusement. "Never?"

"Never," you parrot.

“Well that's too bad, 'cause that won't be a decision you get to make. Now come here.”

You think about ignoring him for a second, just turn right back where you’d shuffled from as your own quiet brand of fuck you. But there’s a look of expectancy on his face, and at his full height, Steve isn’t one to spar with. 

His hands are already on your waist when you turn to the expanse of mirrors. You weren’t wrong when you deemed this dress less eye-catching than the others, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less lovely. 

“What do you think?” he asks. You can feel his fingers playing with the veil that waterfalls behind you, the way his knuckles ghost along your back.

“It's . . . fine, I guess,” you say, staring at yourself in the mirror.

“Oh, I think it’s more than fine,” he insists. “Stunning, in fact. Should I buy it?”

He doesn’t mean it, you convince yourself, but it’s not enough to clamp down on the panic rising within you. Didn’t he just hear what you’d said a second earlier?

Until now, Steve has never mentioned marriage or anything of the like. But since when did you know how his mind worked? You wouldn’t be here if you did. 

“Well?”

You shake your head. “Don’t. I can’t wear white to another bride’s wedding,”

Steve chuckles as he gently draws back the veil and your hair away, sweeping both over your left shoulder. “In that case, you can wear it at home, just for me. And you’ll make sure not to wear anything underneath, won’t you?”

Goosebumps dance along your skin. His hands on your waist have you trapped in place, body pressed against his. To your alarm, you feel him hardening against your back, a threat and a promise.

" I liked it more when it was on the rack," you say hastily, trying to ignore his growing desire, "now that I'm in it, I'm having second thoughts."

In the mirror, you can see Steve shaking his head. "No, you're absolutely radiant in this. It's perfect . . . and it's just so you."

He acts without warning. You inhale sharply as his tongue trails up your neck, slow and hot. Steve was licking you—licking you—in front of everyone, without an ounce of shame. It reminds you all too well of the other night, when he had spread you out across his desk and eaten you out while he'd taken a call on speaker. He'd taken his damned time too, keeping you on the very precipice while the caller spewed all this babel your mind couldn't comprehend, all thanks to the desperate state you were in. And when he finally let you come, it had been with his hand shoved against your mouth.

Not for the first time, you realize just how badly you need to escape from Steve. You have to, before he decides to turn a passing comment into reality and you’ll be trapped with him forever.

Yeah I have no idea what this is lol; it was such a basic and simple premise that really didn’t need to be 2k plus words long, but here we are I guess. Graphics by me.

#steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve rogers fanfiction #mafia!steve rogers x reader #mafia!steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #chris evans x y/n #steve rogers au

[soft-and-bitter]

We Can Last Forever

Mafia!Bucky x Ex!Reader

You turn to an old flame in a moment of desperation. Bucky takes full advantage of the situation to bargain for something he's wanted as soon as he set eyes on you.

Word Count: 1853

Warning(s): swearing, descriptions drug use and sexual situations

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving some feedback, thanks! ❤

M A S T E R L I S T

"Look who we have here," he murmured, smirking. There wasn't a trace of worry in his tone, nor on his handsome face. And for reasons you couldn't quite grasp, these facts only served to elevate your own stress, the urgency of the situation now clearer than ever.

Bucky was your last resort.

"Hi," you greeted. Despite the sheer brevity involved, even you could hear how unsure you sounded, but it was just as well; you were winging this after all, what with all your options up in flames. On the other hand, you also couldn't fuck this up either, because what else would you come up with if this didn't work out?

With a deep breath, you tried again. "Hi, Bucky. I'm sorry this is so last minute."

He tilted his head, the black turtleneck he wore accentuating the steep line of his jaw. "It wouldn't have been if you'd called ahead of time. Oh, wait," he said, lip curling, "you got rid of my number from your phone. How could I have ever forgotten?"

You looked away, both hands gripping your phone behind your purse. Rather than place it next to you on the plush sofa, you'd opted to set it on your lap. Maybe you saw it as a barrier, however meagre, just something other than the distance that separated you from Bucky. For protection? But it was you who had sought him out, not the other way around.

There was no stilling your frantic thoughts, all those contradictions and uncertainties colliding against each other to form some ugly kaleidoscope of confusion in your head. Several stories below, the club was at the height of its frenzy, the bass throbbing faintly against the walls of Bucky's office, a cursed soundtrack to score the situation you were in, with no promise it was ending anytime soon.

"I . . . it felt like the right thing to do at the time," you tried explaining, still clutching your phone tightly. "I wasn`t ready to deal with the truth."

He chuckled softly. "Yet here you are," he said, each word sliding past his lips in a slow drawl. "I guess there's no keeping me out of your life after all, despite that text of yours."

You turned your head to look back up at him again. Bucky was leaning against his expansive chrome and glass desk, long fingers curled around the edges. His jet-black suit was tailored within an inch of its life; one of his cufflinks winking at you playfully, as if amused by your discomfort and panic.

"You're right, I guess I can't."

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Well, it is what it is. Now tell me why you're here."

Here was your moment, your golden opportunity. You didn't shy away from the details. Why would you when everything you described was all part of his sordid world, the drugs and the money owed, the nefarious parties involved? And so you laid it all out before him like a spread made up of your family's suffering: stressed and overworked, David had gone back to an old habit his dirt bag of an uncle had first introduced him to more than a decade ago. One hit after another, then another, and now your brother—the smarter of the two, in your opinion, and certainly the more successful—was now in so much debt he'd brought up the possibility of selling your mom's home for cash.

Bucky didn't react when you told him how much you needed to borrow. That soothed your nerves somewhat; if he wasn't fazed by the amount, then maybe he'd be more willing to part with his money.

You hoped.

"We'll have the money back in your hands before you even get a chance to miss it," you assured with a smile you hoped was blinding enough for Bucky. "David just has to get through this hump, but once he does, everything will be fine."

Just for a moment you wondered whose worries you were really trying to assuage—Bucky's or yours? Because paying off David's dealer was one thing, but your brother had also promised to check into rehab asap. Yet even with his high-paying FAANG job in Silicon Valley, he had already blown through his savings, together with any credit he'd been approved for. To top it all off, the massive bonus he kept harping on about wouldn't get paid out until the end of the year. You yourself had funnelled whatever money you could spare to help his cause. Where the hell would the money come from until then?

Bucky sighed audibly, pulling you out of your thoughts. "You haven't exactly explained why I should help you in the first place," he said.

He wasn't wrong, you realized. And really, it was what you`d hoped to avoid all along. "Listen, I know you probably won't believe me when I say this, but . . . I guess I thought we had something special going on between us. Special enough that I felt I could turn to you."

"You're right, I don't believe you," he confirmed, shaking his head. "Try harder, won't you?"

You stared up at him, a furrow between your brows. "It's the truth, Bucky. I was scared, okay? And let's face it: you knew I'd be, didn't you? Otherwise you would've told me from the start what the hell you really were."

He didn't respond to that right away. In the silence that ensued, with the club's bass pounding at the same speed as your heartbeat, you began to doubt yourself. Couldn't you have handled that with a little more finesse? What if Bucky was offended by your response that he decided he was going to turn you away?

When he finally spoke, it was with an edge of mockery and triumph in his voice. "Just so we're clear: you've come to ask a crime lord to help you when the very fact of me being one had you running off in the first place."

"I couldn't think of anyone else to go to."

Bucky scoffed. "I sure hope the irony's not lost on you."

The smile you offered him was sardonic at best. "Believe me, it's not."

Just when you were convinced that you'd screwed this up entirely, Bucky pushed himself off the edge of his desk and moved towards you, closing the distance. Neon blue strobe lights flashed through the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the club, casting otherworldly shadows across his face as he stalked nearer. You didn't turn your head to watch when he dropped into the sofa next to you, stretching his arms wide across the headrest. His fingers feathered against one of your shoulder blades.

From the corner of your eye you watched as he tilted his head back to look at the ceiling, sighing once again. "If you want my help, you'll comply with whatever I set out for you," he said.

"Like what?"

You could feel his gaze on you. "For starters, I'd like a kiss."

"Are you serious? Now?"

"Now," he echoed.

"And that's it?"

He gave a light shrug. "The night's still young. We'll just have to see how things go."

"But why?"

"Why not?" he countered, fingers drumming against the headrest. "Besides, you're the one who thought there was something special between us. Let's see what's left."

For a moment, you hesitated. Bucky's request was simple, but that was where the uncertainty lay. There was something between the two of you, even now, even after you left him in the lurch, that it was enough for you to reach out to him. You were doubtful a kiss would prove that to him, though.

There had been so much more you'd done with him, after all.

"Well?"

You studied his face. His expression was still passive, but curiosity shone bright in his eyes. What choice did you have? David was counting on you now, his own fear and panic elevating your own. With a tilt of your head you leaned forward, eyes falling closed, as you caught Bucky's lips with yours.

Bucky didn't react at first, and you nearly stopped, too shy and uncertain to entertain the possibility of being unwanted, that this was just a cheap way for him to get back at you. But then his lips moved against yours, bold and intentional; when he coaxed your mouth opened and his tongue slid past your teeth, you realized.

He still wanted you.

Both your phone and your purse dropped somewhere below you as one of his arms wrapped around your shoulders tightly. Bucky drew you in deeper, his hold fierce, lips desperate and bruising, pulling you into a well of memories: his naked body against yours, mouth lingering on intimate spots that made you cry out in ecstasy, the sweet words he'd whispered in your ear while you came down from your high. Let me give you more. Let me give you everything. You just have to stay. Can you do that? For me?

His lips latched onto the side of your neck as you lost yourself further in his touch, fingers tangled in his dark hair, while his large hand fanned across your breast—

Your phone was like a grenade going off. You jerked back in panic, gasping for breath while the familiar melody on your device blared throughout the room. It was Bucky who got to it first.

"How fitting," he said, turning your phone around so you could see the screen. "It's your brother."

Heart hammering in your chest, you didn't move at first.

"Go ahead, answer it," he ordered, holding out your phone to you. "Tell David the money will be wired to his account in less than thirty and he's got you to thank for this."

His words were like a bucket of cold water flung at your face. With sudden clarity you remembered why you'd come here in the first place, and it wasn't to re-ignite things with an old flame. You needed Bucky's help, and, to your immense relief, he was giving it to you.

When you accepted your brother's call you cut straight to the chase, telling him of the lifeline Bucky was throwing his way. The only one, you emphasized, hanging up before he could profess any gratitude. David had work to do, but you'd done your part. Your mom would get to keep her house, just like she deserved to.

You looked at Bucky. "Thank you. You don't know how much this means to my family."

He smirked at you, his hair now tousled thanks to your doing. "Don't thank me just yet, sweetheart. We're not quite done, are we?"

During the call one of his hands had crept along the inside of your thigh. It remained there, his hold entirely too tight and too hot, even through the fabric of your slacks. When Bucky spoke, you didn't miss the raw desire in his voice, the predatory anticipation that lingered on his smirk.

"We'll finally finish what we started, sweetheart. Just like we were always meant to."

Jimin's "Like Crazy" had me in such a chokehold when I first listened to it that it inspired this whole damn story; it's the song I imagined blasting down in the club while Reader haggles with Bucky. Hope you guys enjoyed it!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #mafia!bucky barnes x reader #mafia!bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan x y/n #bucky barnes au #james buchanan bucky barnes

[soft-and-bitter]

Failed Bargaining (Drabble)

Mafia!Steve x Introvert!Reader

Steve would go to any length in order to have you, and that worried you—a lot.

The Cure & The Cause

Mafia!Steve x Captive!Reader

Steve uses every opportunity to remind you that he’ll do with you as he pleases, whether you're willing or not.

We Can Last Forever

Mafia!Bucky x Ex!Reader

You turn to an old flame in a moment of desperation. Bucky takes full advantage of the situation to bargain for something he's wanted as soon as he set eyes on you.

maybe you could be the one

Chris Evans x Personal Assistant!Reader

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3

You tell Chris you're stepping down as his PA. His reaction isn't what you expect.

I Swear I Need You

Dark!Aemond Targaryen x wife!Reader

You've been avoiding your husband. Aemond will do whatever it takes to correct that.

[soft-and-bitter]

#i feel this lol

[soft-and-bitter]

This tweet totally describes me

[soft-and-bitter]

so much tension already in just a few paragraphs! excited for the next part :) thank you for updating queen

Thank you!!!

[soft-and-bitter]

Failed Bargaining (Drabble)

Mob Boss!Steve x Introvert!Reader

Steve would go to any length in order to have you, and that worried you. A lot.

Warning(s): swearing

If you enjoyed this, please consider reblogging or leaving some feedback, thanks! ❤

Steve made you nervous the very first time you set eyes on him. Because as soon as you did, you knew just how far apart your worlds were. Every fibre of his being exuded unbridled wealth and glamour, but there was more to it too, simmering beneath it all: shades of darkness you didn't think you wanted to delve into.

Apparently Steve shared none of your sentiments.

You stared at the necklace dangling before you, brows knitted. "Um, what's this?" you ask, even though you knew perfectly well what it was. While awaiting the next course, the others present at your surprise birthday dinner had, fortunately, fallen into their own worlds, deep in conversation about anything other than what was going on now between the two of you.

"A birthday present, of course," he responded, his smile never faltering. "Just one of many for my sweet girl."

It was a simple design—nothing ostentatious, thank god, but you were highly skeptical of its cost, not to mention its provenance. You may not have known Steve that long, but observation, coupled with Sharon's anecdotes, taught you that Steve never did anything in half-measures.

"You didn't have to," you tried to protest, but he was already sweeping your hair over one shoulder to gain access to your nape.

Steve chuckled softly, wrapping the delicate necklace around your neck. "But I wanted to, sweetheart. And that's what matters."

The pet names worried you just as much as the gift. Everything was moving way too fast, this . . . thing, whatever it was, between the two of you. Steve had materialized into your life out of the blue, and now suddenly it felt like he was everywhere, in every corner you inhabited, like he'd always been there. Never mind that you still had no idea what he did for a living.

His birthday gift, cold and heavy against your skin, only drove the message home. If you thought you were doing things casually, Steve wasn't having it.

Fuck.

Steve played with the gold chain of your necklace before dropping a kiss tenderly on your shoulder. "It's beautiful on you," he remarked, fingers ghosting along your collarbone. "You're never going to take this off. Promise?"

You blinked at him once, twice. His command took you aback, the gravity in his tone so different from anything you experienced. Steve watched you expectantly, his blue eyes bright.

"Steve, listen," you began, one hand covering his own as you tried to stop his fingers from exploring further. "This is all amazing, it is, but, um . . . don't you think we might be moving a bit too fast here?"

You feared he'd take offence to that, but his smile said otherwise.

"Sweetheart, we're not moving fast enough."

Just something quick and short to get me back in the swing of things. I do consider this part of a bigger story I've been cooking up, so let me know what you think! Do y'all want more?

#steve rogers x reader #steve x reader #steve rogers x asian!reader #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers au #mafia!steve rogers #mafia!steve x reader #mob!steve rogers #mob!steve x reader

[soft-and-bitter]

Breeding kink with out the pregnancy >>>>

#this may be a joke #but idc #cause yaaaaaasssss