THIS. THIS.

The beard is doing things to me that I’m not ready to admit.

me when my cute, adorable, gorgeous, mystical, hot, scrumptious, admirable, MOST ETHEREAL AND KINDEST bestie messages me on Tumblr

( @highonmarvel TALKING ABT U OFC)

I am genuinely tweaking, the waiting for a new chapter is OVER, but it was SO WORTH IT. I loved seeing more of their non-horny state of mind and the unnoticed effect reader has on each and every one of their minds, it is simply delicioussss. Catfish and Joel are my MEN, I am so serious, and their contrast is eating at me.

ATE THIS UP BABE!

surrender

Summary: Catfish is made to choose.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE DO NOOOOT EATTTT. Noncon, dark dark themes, sexual slavery, reader is in pain and exhausted, heed all previous warnings, threatening, Dark Joel, forced drinking, manipulation, mentions of noncon, idk what else to tag

Pairings: Dark! Joel Miller x reader, Dark! Javier Peña x reader, Dark! Marcus Acacius x reader, Dark! Oberyn Martell x reader, Dark! Agent Whiskey x reader, Dark! Dieter Bravo x reader, Dark! Frankie Morales x reader

Joel felt over aware. As he sat down on the brittle wooden chair, fingerprints drawing circles on the table, the whiskey slid easily down his throat. Something he had gotten from trading with Jackson.

Your image dwindled on his mind, growing weaker by each passing minute. Naked, battered and bruised. He knew you were in pain, pretty cunt gaping obscenely. He knew that he could just crawl over you and fuck you once again if he wished it. You still laid in his bed, bathed and draped in new sheets, awaiting.

The door creaked open, the afternoon breeze accompanying the intruder of his thoughts. Whiskey’s shoulders squared with pride and his chest puffed, closing the door with a cocky kick of his heel.

Joel observed him as he strutted towards the table. His arm stretched under the thick denim of his jacket, and he presented his palm with a cocky grin.

The metal was tarnished, coppery, but the outline was clear. A tiny helicopter pin, Whiskey offered.

Joel felt amusement tug at his lips, but he schooled his expression. The pin clattered against the table, Joel’s eyes glued to it.

Sweet fucking Bingo.

The key to make you finally un-cling to Catfish right in his hands. He took it in his pointer and thumb, observing the way the kitchen light caught onto it.

Whiskey hummed, snapping him out of his thoughts once more.

“I think this settles for a good hour…” He drawled, eyebrow cocking teasingly. A part of him was joking, and the other part of him created a prominent bulge in his pants.

Joel avoided a disgusted scrunch of his face, fighting twitching muscles.

“She’ll need a break for tonight.” He declared, a solemn order that wiped the smirk off his man’s face. "But you'll be rewarded for this, that I promise."

Joel would he lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the way Catfish flinched as the refrigerator door slammed closed under his grip. The cool, condensed bottle sent jolts along his hands. He was buzzing with excitement as he twirled on his feet and planted the bottle on the table with a slight thump.

He ignored the hollers of enjoyment of his fellow men, kicking the chair and taking a seat. Catfish froze under his stare, the all consuming guilt, he pondered.

He grabbed the tumblers on the table, filling them up. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He poured more onto the last one, and pushed the glass to his designated driver.

Catfish’s brows furrowed under the baseball cap, shaking his head slightly. Joel could see the circles under his eyes, could feel the tenseness of his tanned skin; all a result of you. Your stay in the house was driving him mad.

“Not drinking tonight.” Catfish grumbled, but Joel tapped the glass in front of him.

“You’ll need it.” He muttered, enough to make the others cast side eyed glances at him, with sneaky intrigue. An order.

Javier cleared his throat, flicking ashes into the tray. “How’s the bitch?”

Bitch. Joel liked the ring of that nickname.

Joel’s lips curled into a sloppy smirk. “Fucked out.” He responded casually. “Giving her some damn rest, she took it like a champ.”

Javier smiled in agreement, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Catfish’s hand tense around the condensed glass. Of course he wouldn't enjoy the way they talked about her.

“Gonna bring some ‘plan b’s tomorrow.” He informed, gingerly. “no need to knock her up.”

Joel felt his muscles turn taut, and he grounded his teeth.

“Definitely.” Dieter added, with an air of authority he shouldn’t have. “No need for a little fucker here.”

Some laughed, Oberyn tsked, eyes dreamy as always. “She’d look nice, all round, those tits would be something I’d die for.”

The chair screeched as Catfish rose to his feet, still clutching the tumbler in his hand. Eyes shot at him.

“Where ya going?” Joel barked, a bit more forceful than he would wanted to. God, adrenaline was nibbling at him.

Hatred.

It spread all around Catfish’s face as he looked at them. As if he was any more worthy than they were, any more good. A look he had from the very first time, when Joel recruited him, that told him he thought he was far above them.

“I’m going to bed.” He answered, though his feet stayed stuck to the ground, awaiting.

“No, you’re not.” Joel nudged to the chair. Catfish sat down with a sigh. Good boy.

“What’s the matter?” Acacius frowned, leaning back into the wooden seat. “Don’t like us talking about her like that?”

Catfish’s jaw twitched.

“You never had an issue before.” Whiskey added, the thick smoke of his cigar curling around him in the air. "you even fucked some bitches back then."

Catfish took a sip of whatever was in his cup, perhaps to deter the questioning, perhaps because of the way Joel burnt holes into his skull with his eyes was making him uneasy.

And they persisted.

“You are too soft on her,” Javier deemed between curls of smoke. "that's why she clings so much to ya."

They agreed silently, and Joel felt the flames of jealousy licking at his spine. Each time you mumbled his name softly, he could almost feel the need in your voice for it to be him. To be Catfish the man that was pleasuring you.

As if he was the only man that could do it.

"What were you talking about in the shower?"

Catfish's face paled, but he still cleared his throat. "Nothin'."

"Didn't sound like nothing." Joel bit, studying carefully the nervous flicker of Catfish's hands. "She wants ya to fuck her?"

Catfish grimaced at the crassness of his words, untouched by the way Joel dipped his hand onto the pocket of his shirt.

"She's loosing her mind." He cleared, voice a plea, an excuse, whatever. It didn't matter to Joel.

He shrugged before dropping the pin onto the table; Catfish's eyes flickered from the dark onyx pools that gazed slowly up at him and the tarnished metal that clattered against the table.

His lips parted.

Bingo.

"How's your boy?" Joel drawled, tapping his big, imposing fingers on the wooden table. For a mere moment, he was alone with Catfish, just them under the warm lamp light. "What was his name, Tyler?"

"Joel." Catfish groaned, eyes glued to the silver helicopter.

"When was the last time you saw him, huh?"

Hands curled onto fists, and they slammed against the table. Enough.

Perhaps Joel was blissfully ignorant of the men around them, but Catfish was painfully aware. They were the only thing deterring him from pouncing on top of him.

"What have you done?" He spat, voice shivering.

Joel chuckled darkly, "Nothin'." He retorted.

He could see the way silence clawed at his ears, oh so begging for an answer.

"I haven't done anything, yet." Joel punctuated, slowly feeding him. "Just like you haven't fucked our little bitch yet."

Realization casted on Catfish features, and he shook his head on instinct.

"Joel, this is serious-"

"You know what is serious to me?" He cut him short. "That I cannot possibly trust one of my men anymore, just because he is pussy-whipped with a pussy he doesn't even fuck."

Joel's glare was intense, diminishing Catfish with his sharp tongue.

"And if I can't trust ya, then I have no reason to keep evading that little camp were your son is at."

His final jab made Catfish's eyes cloud with frustration, tears almost brimming. Fear bubbled in his throat as he spoke.

"What do you want from me?"

Cracked.

"You have to fuck her."

Catfish let out a dry, humorless laugh. Panic was nipping at him.

"What do you win from that?"

Joel's brows furrowed. "I miss the times were you just obeyed."

But as his hand reached over to the pin, Catfish spoke again. "Fine, Joel, fine."

Sweat beaded at his forehead just below his baseball cap, and his puppy dog eyes were wide, fearful.

A smug grin tugged at Joel's lips, triumphant in all it's glory. He downed the glass and rose to his feet in anticipation.

"You don't mean-"

"Yes, now. Finish your drink."

Tags:

@tateypots @koshkaj-blog @paink1llerf0rm1ller @oldloganslittleslut @purple-fig @megjohnston23 @katwriteshardy @natalieispunk

@puduvallee @pedrofan @rant-throw-away @jalepp @lumpatto @miragens-para-uma-vitoria

𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐤 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐠 @mitskilover0001 ♡

search "my vibe aesthetic" on pin and post the top results

๛﹏⋆ 𝓶𝔂 𝓽𝓪𝓰𝓼: @highonmarvel @pedrosyouknowwhat @streets-in-paradise @rvfecamerons (this is a cute thinggg to do, we also can get to know each other better ♡)

tysm for the tag <3 @yumclaire

search “my vibe aesthetic” on pinterest & post the top results

tags: @bleachbambi @daisyrandoneisme @cellophane-rat-2 @cigarettesincalifornia @jeante13 + anyone else who wants to do it!!

my baby slayed the whole house down again. My stomach does backflips everytime you post ♡

Heyy love your work. I wanted to make a request for Bucky Barne was thinking something like reader goes to his house for Christmas but then he forcefully drugs her with a syringe and she's held captive. But he's overal nice enough. He'd let her kick or scream or fight back. But then one day he lets her out of the basement or wherever he keeps her and she tries to escape and succeeds to some degree He manages to catch her and he snaps, gets angry and punishes her and she's scared cuz he snapped.

Winter

i love this! i’m sorry this isn’t proofread—i’m late as is and needed to get this out into the world so at least some people can read this as they lie in bed and have it be relevant. also, i’m so sorry, i left out the syringe bit because i got too into the plot i conjured up with the food coma here, sorry, sweetheart, but please, send another request if you really want to see it get done. let me know your thoughts, also to my sister @thehydraethereal. with that out of the way:

Bucky Barnes: A Christmas dinner opens your eyes to a new type of Winter.

additional content warnings here!

CONTENT WARNING, PLEASE READ: This piece includes graphic depictions of torture. Seriously, this is really dark; do not proceed if you are not comfortable with explicit descriptions of physical violence. This is your warning. This is fucking dark. I can not stress this enough. I am fucked up.

It wasn’t that you were technically averse to relationships or had commitment issues, you just feel like at this point in your life a solid relationship wasn’t really going to work. You had been travelling to the other side of the country quite a bit to take care of your sister, but this Christmas, your parents went down, so you didn’t really have an excuse to bail when Bucky invited you to dinner.

You don’t think you’re technically dating him–you don’t ever recall you or him asking the other to be their partner–but you’ve at least been going out with him for a few months. Guess you’d have to face him at some point; it’s been nearly three weeks since he had suggested you live together, which had caught you completely off-guard. You had managed to side-step the conversation at the time before making up some bullshit excuse to leave, and you haven’t had the courage to face him since.

Pulling into Bucky’s driveway always makes you feel a little uneasy; he doesn’t live like a hermit or overly secluded, but for some reason the houses in this suburb seem just a little too far apart for comfort–no one really has ‘neighbours.’

The scent of a very well-cooked meal carries right up to the front door, making you take a deep whiff before knocking.

“Hi, honey,” Bucky answers the door, leaning down to give you a kiss on the cheek.

“God, I’m practically drooling out here,” you say, and Bucky laughs as he steps out of the way and allows you in. “How long have you been standing?”

“Ah, a few hours,” he admits, sheepishly, watching you hang your coat up and rubbing the back of his neck when you raise your eyebrows at him.

“But it’s just the two of us, no?” you question as you lead him into the kitchen (maybe you being so casual in his home gave him the impression you’d like to move in with him).

“Yeah,” he replies, tailing you. “But I realised I don’t really know what you like and I panicked a bit.”

You giggle and that seems to ease his apparent embarrassment, allowing him to let out a breathless laugh as he moves into the kitchen, standing on the other side of the island as you settle on a stool.

“How have you been?” he inquires as he pours you a glass of wine, not making eye contact.

“Alright,” you reply, watching the red liquid slosh into the glass. “Glad to have some time off.”

“How’s your sister?”

You sigh and mouth a thank you to him as he slides the glass towards you. After a sip, you look up at him. “Better, I think, and she’s only allowed two visitors at a time–my parents really wanted to see her so I let them for Christmas, they don’t really get a chance otherwise.”

He hums in understanding as he puts on pink oven mitts and crouches down.

“Are you disappointed?” he asks loudly as he pulls a dish out of the oven.

You shrug. “I’d have liked to go, but I’m not all that sad about it. I don’t have much going for me in New York, so I was worried I’d be bored, but I’m having a good time.

“You just got here!” He laughs as he rises with a turkey.

“I know, but wine.” You raise your glass to him and peer into the ceramic dish. “Turkey?” you ask, which he responds to with a hum of affirmation.

“I don’t really like it, not sure if you do.”

“I like it. I would have thought you patriots like Thanksgiving stuff, though.”

You help him set up a few dishes across a small dining table and sit down.

“This was really sweet, Bucky.” You smile, tone sincere and nearly sappy as he cuts you a large leg of turkey. “Doesn’t this stuff make you sleepy?” you joke, and it takes him just a beat too long to chuckle.

“I think that’s a myth, actually,” he responds as he sits back down across from you.

“Really?” you raise your eyebrows as you dig your knife and fork into the leg. “I could have sworn...”

“Is it good?” he asks, watching you carefully, and with a kind of interest that makes you slightly uneasy, but you can’t deny it’s heavenly. You nod enthusiastically and point to the meat.

“God, this is great! You’d swear there was cocaine in here or something.”

Something lights in his eyes for a second, a spark you mistake for happiness. Bucky has always loved nothing more than to see you happy and relaxed: one of the reasons you were so drawn to him was his genuine desire to not only make you as happy as possible, but to appreciate that joy. Sometimes you got the impression making you happy pleased him almost as much as it pleased you, if not more. And it was times like these you felt bad you weren’t really able to make a commitment to him. He never seemed to mind it all too much, but you can tell it’s something he wants, and you almost feel like you’re taking advantage of his affection–but he knows, and you know, and if he isn’t happy with this arrangement, surely he’d say something.

But Bucky has to bite back the retort, “Well, not that drug.”

After a hearty meal you only put down when you feel you’re genuinely on the verge of passing out, you push away your plate. “Woo! I don’t know how I’m ever gonna work that off. I think I’ve gained, like, 10.”

“You're perfect the way you are,” Bucky says, leaning down to press his lips to your cheek as he clears the table.

You close your eyes and hum in delight, but you find it a little hard to open them again. When you manage to pry your eyes open again, it’s not much, still looking at the table through droopy lids. You stand and sway, rattling your chair as you grapple the table for support.

“Are you okay?” Bucky asks as he reappears in your line of sight, brows furrowed in concern.

“Yeah,” you respond, squeezing your eyes shut and ripping them open again. “But I really should get going.”

“Get going?” he repeats, moving to your side for support as you stumble forward. “I don’t think you should drive right now.”

But you dismiss him with a wave of your hand, pushing off of him to stand up straight. You think you say, “I’m fine. I’ll call you.” but you can’t really make out the words through the slight slurring.

“Lie down,” he offers gently, taking a step towards his bedroom.

“No…” you tear your arm free of his grasp. You had spent the night with him before, but for a reason you can’t figure out, this time, something is screaming at you to decline.

“Really, darling, you need to,” he insists, his voice having dropped to a low murmur. He takes a step forward and you instinctively take a step back, feeling a little guilty when he stops dead in his tracks and something like hurt flashes across his features. You know something that makes Bucky wince is when he feels someone is afraid of him, and you can only imagine how he must feel now if you’re the one displaying apprehension.

You shake your head and turn away from him to the doorway.

“Hey...” You startle as you feel his grip on your forearm, gentle, but firm. “You’re not leaving.” The words are said in a sincerely concerned way, but the fact the statement came off as more of a command than a suggestion really triggers something in you.

“Bucky...” you groan as you uselessly try to pull away, feeling weaker than you otherwise would, even against him.

He doesn’t have to give too sharp of a tug to make you stumble into his arms, his hold on you steady, and, at any other time, safe, but now it feels more certain, somehow, almost possessive. You try to protest but you’re practically babbling incoherently under him, head lolled to the side as he adjusts his grip from under your arms to pick you up bridal style.

“Just lie down for a second...”

And you’re too out of it to notice he’s passed his bedroom door.

***

It’s difficult to open your eyes again, your lashes stuck together as you turn your head over. When vision slowly comes back to you, you’re met with a midcentury wooden bedside table you don’t recognise. You prop yourself up on your forearm and squint into the room, looking for any signs of familiarity, and the only thing you recognise is the thing you dread.

“What…” you begin to mutter, and Bucky looks up from the book he’s reading with a smile.

“You’re up.” He stands from the chair positioned by ‘your’ (this isn’t your bed) beside and moves to sit on the edge, placing a hand to your forehead. “How’re you feeling?”

You weakly slap his hand away as you start to really wake up and realise what’s going on.

“I’m not… this isn’t… what…” you can’t really find the words to ask the questions you need answers to.

“It’s your Christmas present!” he says with a grin, standing to make a grand gesture with his arms, out to the room. I’ve got your favourite books here, I remember you telling me you used to want a four poster princess bed.” He points to the ceiling and sure enough, pretty curtains hang over your head. “But if you don’t like it I can change it.” He shrugs and stands somewhat nervously as he waits for you to react.

“What… the fuck.”

He tsks and swings his arms back and forth, rocking on his heels.

“I set it up for you a few weeks ago, I didn’t know if you’d be comfortable sleeping with me every night, I know you like your space.”

“Are you out of your mind!?” You throw the sheets off of you and manage to stand, even though your head feels a little heavy.

He sighs and steps forward. “I know it feels like–”

“Oh, you know what it feels like? You know what it feels like to be ostensibly kidnapped by your boyfriend?”

He blushes. “So I am your boyfriend.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you!?” You throw a pillow at him (ineffective but it was the nearest thing) which he catches with ease and turns over to reveal an embroidered flower. “I made this,” he says, proudly.

“What the fuck!?” you shriek as you throw another pillow at him, this one he dodges easily.

You’ve never seen him like this, nearly giddy and, in this context, borderline delusional. It makes you grip onto your hair and bunch your fingers into the locks. “Oh, my god, you’re insane!”

“I’m not the one yelling and throwing things,” he mutters, and your eyes snap up to his.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you begin, exasperated. “I’m so fucking sorry I don’t react well to crimes committed against me.”

“You came into my house.”

“Yes, but I didn’t come into this room! Do you really expect me to believe I can just leave anytime? That that door isn’t locked. You think I’m fucking stupid?”

He gently tosses the pillow back onto the bed and winces. “I was hoping you wouldn’t.”

“Bucky,” you begin, carefully, voice dangerously low as you step up to him. “I don’t know what in god’s name has gotten into you, but I’m not having it. I’m leaving.”

“Sweetheart, you really don’t intimidate me.” And the way he says it with such sincere pity makes you shove at his chest. He doesn’t stumble, but he takes a step back for your benefit.

You match his step and poke your finger in his chest, glaring up at him with more fury than you thought you had and trying your hardest not to wrap your hand around his throat. What really pisses you off is his patronising speech; you can tell he genuinely thinks he’s doing good, and that he honestly feels bad that you can’t appreciate it, that you’re weaker than him, and it boils your blood. Apathy or even mockery would be better than this condescending way he’s deluded himself into believing this is for your benefit.

“Don’t call me sweetheart, you piece of shit. If that door is locked, you’re gonna unlock it, and you’re going to leave me the fuck alone.” You practically spit the words at him through gritted teeth, seething to the point you can feel heat radiating from your body and wouldn’t be surprised if there was literal steam coming out of your ears.

“Sit down, angel.”

“Talk to me like that again and there will be nothing angelic about what I do to you.”

“Your mother called.”

That gets your attention and your anger dissipates for a moment. “Really? What did she say?”

When he guides you to sit down, you’re not really in the space to fight him off, waiting to hear any news from your family.

“They’re coming down in a few days, for New Year’s, and, they’re bringing your sister–they say she’s stable enough for travel.”

You feel your eyes begin to water at the thought of your sister being that strong, of being able to talk to her like you used to, before she got sick. But you snap out of it, and that swelling in your heart turns to something close to anxiety, but closer to suspicion. “Why are you telling me this?”

He scoffs as if you’re asking him if the sky is blue. “Because I know you want to see them. I told them they could stay with us for a few days.”

“With us?”

He just blinks. “Yes, with us.”

“You must be out of your fucking mind if you think…” And the next few hours are spent with you screaming in his face, swinging punches which he easily dodges, but sometimes he humours you and allows you a hit–not like it hurts anyway. His calm demeanour and ‘care’ makes you infuriated beyond belief, and by the end of the night the room has been trashed, there are scratches on the door from your desperate clawing and pounding, your voice is hoarse from all the yelling, and you’re exhausted while Bucky is no more beaten than when you first woke up.

Eventually, you’ve physically exhausted yourself so much you can’t even push him away when he climbs into bed next to you and holds you in his arms, placing your head against his chest and caressing your hair, which he knows always relaxes you and helps you fall asleep.

***

You only know it’s morning when you wake up because Bucky greets you with it, but it doesn’t take long for your attention to fall to the walls, noticing there aren’t any windows.

“We’re in the basement, you know.” Bucky comments, watching your eyes dart around the room and catching on to what you’re doing. “I don’t have a spare room, you know that.”

You’re nearly tired of glaring daggers at him seeing as he doesn’t really feel it–if anything, it seems to spur him on, like he doesn’t really care what you do as long as he gets some kind of reaction out of you. If you remained as stoic as he did, maybe that would give him pause for thought, but you really can’t resist the urge to attack him, and he somehow sees it as endearing, like any attention you give him makes his heart swell.

Initially, you refuse his invitation for breakfast upstairs, but when that morning grumpiness subsides, you let your stubbornness fall away in favour of opportunity. This really solidifies in your mind Bucky is so convinced you’ll stay that he doesn’t really worry about turning his back on you as he flips an egg.

“Where’re you going?”

You stop dead in your tracks, shocked he had heard you get up when you were practically sneaking like a cartoonish villain.

“To the bathroom,” you lie, to which he responds with a simple, “Okay.”

It’s too easy, but you’d rather take your chances than wonder if this is some kind of setup. You have to get out of here as soon as possible, so you don’t have time to look for your car keys, but you hesitate at the door. It’s beginning to snow, and you’re not dressed anywhere near enough to make it to a neighbour–the only thing that had kept you warm before coming up to see him was that nice coat, but it’s not on the rack anymore.

There’re only a few locks you have to turn to quietly open the door, your teeth chattering as a cold breeze hits you so hard it’s painful, like your skin is literally freezing onto your bones. You’re barefoot, no less. You can’t kid yourself into thinking you won’t lose a toe or some extremities in the process, but you can not stay. It really has only been one night, but something you’ve never liked in your life is being trapped, makes your skin crawl to the point you’d rather shed it than be deprived of freedom, especially when you’ve got the chance to see your family soon. And besides, it’s really not that long of a walk to the next house, you won’t die out there, but you can only vaguely make it out through the snow, and if you scream, it’ll surely be drowned by the harsh winds. With one last glance behind you, you step into the snow, and instantly regret it, your feet set close to frozen in just a few seconds, and goosebumps rising so quickly across your skin it feels like you’ve suddenly broken out in hives. And just as you consider turning back, you’re shoved forward, and you shriek as you land face first in the snow, afraid of crying at the impact lest your tears turn to ice right on your cheeks.

You’re gripped by the arm and pulled upright, before being again pushed further away from the house you can feel radiating warmth just through the open door. You gasp for air as you manage to bring yourself to your hands and knees, fingers curling into the snow and slowly becoming numb. A harsh gust blows, nearly knocking you off balance, and you squint to look up at the door, Bucky standing before you in little more than a long-sleeved t-shirt (he’s more underdressed than you) and sweatpants, hair still a little messy with sleep, but the look in his eyes, it’s a look you’ve never been on the receiving end of–in fact, you’ve never even seen it, but you can recognise it immediately.

“You forget I’m the Winter Soldier.” You’re not sure how his deep growl manages to carry across the howling of the winds, but you don’t have time to figure it out before a metal hand grips a fistful of your hair and you’re dragged through the snow, instinctively trying to plant your feet in the ground to stop him but even if you could match his strength, the cold is unbearable, and your legs are starting to feel numb, yet still stiff.

You don’t have time to be grateful that you’ve been thrown back into warmth as you slide across the floor and Bucky kicks the door shut behind him. From a hallway table, he pulls out a wrench, and you struggle to get your arms and legs to move away from him as he approaches you, menacingly.

You don’t know how such slow and heavy footsteps manage to catch up to you so quickly, but soon he’s got his boot pressing down on your ankle, preventing you from doing more than thrashing around. He leans down and grips your face roughly, forcibly pulling you up to meet him, and his eyes are so void of emotion he nearly looks dead. He doesn’t look angry, he looks like he just can’t feel.

“I do all this for you, and you can’t even offer me a pretty little smile.” His large fingers reach into your mouth, pulling your lips and teeth apart wide, wide enough for him to shove the wrench into your mouth and attach it to one of your teeth. “You don’t know what you have until it’s gone. Maybe you’ll appreciate it more if it just wasn’t the same.” You feel your gum twist and let out a cry, gurgling through your throat. Your frail fingers grasp onto his wrist as you desperately try to shake your head, but his strong hold prevents you from it. He twists a little more and you squeeze your eyes shut, holding your breath, before he eventually pulls out and you gasp for dear life, tears stinging your vision.

He roughly tugs you up and practically throws you into a nearby chair, before taking your hand with surprising gentleness, caressing your hurting fingers with the back of his for a moment before adjusting his grip to bring the wrench back forward.

“Now this is no good…” he remarks, moving his head to see more of your frostbitten marks you’re sure will leave scars. “You know what happens to these?” The wrench attacks itself to your index finger and Bucky adjusts its width so it’s threatening to chop your finger right off.

You scream at him to let go, kicking at his legs gets no reaction out of him, but don’t dare to move the hand he’s still holding.

“What if I just…” He twists only slightly and your skin breaks, blood seeping down from your frayed skin and dripping onto your thigh.

Just as you’re about to let out an unstoppable shriek of pain, Bucky’s metal hand presses to your mouth, stopping the sound going any further than echoing off his palm for only you to hear again. He twists more and you move your wrist with it, trying anything to stop him from twisting your finger off. He notices this and removes his other hand from your mouth to hold your wrist firmly in place.

“Bucky, please–”

“Shut up!” he shouts, his hold on you tightening even further. He lowers his face to yours with wide eyes, jaw clenched impossibly tight, and speaks in a dangerously low register, his voice trembling with fury as he tries to hold it together, at least in demeanour if not in action. “You really fucked up, and if you don’t have any fingers, you won’t be able to open my door ever again.”

✪

[my beloved taglist: @cowboysnbugs, @keito-123, @vogueprincess, @cjand10, @mybabygirllove]

i was in my uber yesterday and i was talking about why my grade in the exam wasn't the highest with my friend and the man in the uber started tellin me (after she left) how it's fine and im still so smart and shit and he was clearly interested in me and i got a little freaked out bc he was forty somethin and when i got home i told my mom and she started blamin ME like wdym its my fault a weird older guy did that what was i supposed to do I AM SO FRUSTRATED AND SAD

CHARACTERS LIST

MY BELOVED GHOST AND ME...

...SITTING IN A TREE.

MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE

꧁༺ 𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍

꧁༺ 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒

꧁༺ 𝐁𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐒

꧁༺ 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 𝐑𝐔𝐌𝐋𝐎𝐖

꧁༺࿔ 𝐊𝐑𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑

꧁༺ 𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐖𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓 (𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐄)

꧁༺ 𝐖𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐒𝐎𝐍 (𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐋)

꧁༺ 𝐋𝐎𝐊𝐈 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐅𝐄𝐘𝐒𝐎𝐍

꧁༺ 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐑𝐎 𝐌𝐀𝐗𝐈𝐌𝐎𝐅𝐅

OUTER BANKS

༻꧂ 𝐑𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐍

༻꧂ 𝐉𝐉 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊

༻꧂ 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍 𝐁. 𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐋𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄

༻꧂ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐅

༻꧂ 𝐋𝐔𝐊𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐘𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐊

ACTORS' CHARACTERS

𖦹༻꧂𝐏𝐄𝐃𝐑𝐎 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (𝐀𝐋𝐋)

𖦹︎ ༻꧂ 𝐀𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐍 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (𝐀𝐋𝐋)

𖦹︎ ༻꧂𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐒𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (𝐀𝐋𝐋)

𖦹︎ ༻꧂𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (𝐀𝐋𝐋)

༻꧂ 𝐒𝐄𝐁𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐍 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 (𝐀𝐋𝐋)

༻꧂𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐔𝐒 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐔𝐒 (𝐏𝐀𝐔𝐋 𝐌𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐀𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐆𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐈)

༻꧂ 𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐒 (𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐃 𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐓 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐘) & 𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐒 (𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓 𝐇𝐄𝐃𝐋𝐔𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐘)

༻꧂ 𝐉𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐏𝐇 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐄𝐌𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐎𝐑 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐀; 𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊)

༻꧂ 𝐇𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐋𝐋

✦ other important links: masterlist / warnings and information

©thehydraethereal 2025.

you never miss, i swear. the darkness is everything , i genuinely can't WAIT any longer for the next parts 🗣️😫

under his grasp

Pairings: Dark! Suitor! Marcus Acacius x Queen! reader

warnings: noncon, cheating, victim blaming, oral (f receiving), threats of rape (not to reader), noncon insinuations (not to reader), breeding kink, unprotected p in v, violence, etc

series masterlist

Seeing he had gone for good, you had dressed back into your wedding dress as it was the only comfort and clothes you had and decided to sleep in the marital couch, too scared that crawling in his bed would give him any ideas.

Morning came and you were up earlier than expected, sleep being scarce and more frightening than being awake. As your gaze searched around the room, the thick body of Acacius laid pleasantly in his bed. You tried to sleep longer, but handmaidens bustled into the room ready to prepare you for the first day of you endless nightmare.

They were quiet, Acacius’ handmaidens. They greeted you shyly, perhaps unknowing how to greet a Queen, and presented you a lavish turquoise gown; you allowed them to dress you as some stirred Acacius awake, but he batted them off, grumpily.

“I can dress myself.” He groaned, and you could tell that after he left you the night before, he had drunk.

Certain handmaiden caught your eye; she was young, similar to you physically, and she stood close to you. Her movements were timid, perhaps even more scared than the others. Your eyes followed her as she left the room.

True to his words, Acacius dressed himself in more casual robes; a beige picta. The silent was deafening, casting shadows over the dawn as you sat still, unaware of what to expect.

“When are we returning to the Palace?” You managed your courage to mutter, and Acacius finally posed his tired eyes on you.

“When you learn to be a good wife to me.” He answered sharply. “A husband cannot spend his nights looking for solace in another’s woman’s embrace.”

His words felt thick around him, his eyes glaring daggers. You felt a knot in your throat.

“Was that what you did after the events of last night?” You dared to ask him. He hesitated for a while, you could see it in his swerving eyes.

“Do not blame me, you decided not to comply.” He responded, and his feet padded closer to you, his broad figure becoming bigger and bigger.

“That didn’t deter you the other night.” You bit, rage lacing your words. “and I guess that didn’t deter you yesterday, as I can’t believe your other woman was whorish enough to sleep with a newly wed man.”

He chuckled at your words, pleased in his fantasy that you were portraying jealousy. “You would be surprise by how many girls like you dream of pleasing a General as myself.”

If that was true, then it felt unfair. For him to take you, just to dispose of you later, felt unfair. It all felt like a twisted joke, because despite not wanting him, he had done all of this for a reason.

“But just so you know,” He added, a sly grin on his face. “the one I bedded last night wasn’t compliant either.”

It felt like salt on a wound, and your face twisted into a bitter expression. He enjoyed it so much, the fight, your hatred, it fueled the fire in his loins.

“You are disgusting.” You spat, rising to your feet. “I cannot fathom how you portray yourself as the Hero-”

A sharp slap cut your words short, sending your face to the side as you gasped. His grip fell again on your face, now slightly more tender as he forced you to look at me.

“Oh, I am no Hero,” He sneered. “I am far more than that, I am your God now, and like Gods, I do not preach morality.”

You felt weak once again, but hatred still run through your veins as you glared at him. Your cheek stung.

“All this fighting has made me wanton.” He confessed, and your eyes widened in fear of his words. “after all, we must give Rome a heir.”

“You will be crowned King shortly,” You ushered, perhaps pleading. “you can have bastards and make them heir.”

He tutted at your excuses. “But I want you, darling; our heirs will rule Rome.”

“Why does it matter anymore?” You questioned, seeing impatience running through his features.

“Enough.” He barked, letting go of your chin. “Get on the bed.”

What if I say no?

What if I scream?

What if I comply?

Your mind raced, and he grew angry but you stood your ground. His lips almost curled into a smirk as he grabbed your forearms, as bruising as he had done the first night, and begun moving you towards the bed.

Your instinct kicked in, and you fought because complying was too humiliating for you. Kicking and clawing came to no avail as your back hit the soft, tousled fabrics of the bed.

“Are you going to behave or do I need to tie you down again and fuck you like a breeding mare?” He barked, and your arms grew weak under the threat. His gaze fell over the pretty dress that you wore, and he fought the urge to rip it apart. It was new, and a gift to you from him.

He opted for lifting your skirt and producing his manhood from beneath his robes. You didn’t want to look at it, feeling its weight on your leg was enough to tell you.

Your arms had fallen limp against the bed as he forced your thighs apart, presenting your cunt to his eyes.

“I realized I had forgotten something,” He confessed to you, and your mind screamed. “did not taste you properly yet.”

His dark eyes were set on you as he lowered his face to your exposed core, a pink tongue darting from his lips and licked a line along your seam. A whimper escaped your pressed lips, thighs shaking, and his mouth latched to you.

Like a man starved, he sucked your most intimate part, sending shivers along your body. Your nails dug into the covers, begging someone or something to stop the pleasure he was eliciting so darkly. But your hips buckled, making him even wilder as he thrusted his manhood into the bed. Like a man on a mission, he constrained his desires in order to get you to submit beneath him, which perhaps brought him more pleasure than the act itself.

A hand that was spreading your thighs apart let you free, but the limb curled itself into you, presenting yourself as soft mewls and squeaky moans left your lips. His fingers tangled themselves in the slick mess of arousal and saliva, pushing through your swollen walls; you jerked as he curled them inside, working your clit with his tongue.

There was a slight pain from the pressure, but it fueled the heat you felt, nipples pebbling against the silk of your dress and electricity jolting through you. Your thighs shut around his head, thick curls slightly matted from his efforts, and he knew.

A hand on your hip, holding you still, and now his digits thrusted in and out, fucking you until your legs wrapped around his neck, and you felt pressure relieve as you shot slick arousal directly into his face.

You didn’t care to try to reason what he had forced your body as you fell, spread, on the sheets, eyes lidded and throat hoarse from the war cry that had erupted from you.

Through your blurred vision you saw him rise on top of you, wiping you from his lips and face as his devoured all the essence you had poured onto him.

“No-” you whined as you felt the engorged tip of his cock pushing against your abused folds, hands rising to push at his chest.

“Come on, dumb girl,” he muttered at your skin, a hand gently taking your wrists above your head as the other propped your leg over his shoulder, letting himself slide right in with a pleased grunt. “I have pleased you, now do your duty.”

He sheathed himself in with a hiss, head bobbing back as your overstimulated core clenched around him. The sting had dissipated, and shame rose to your cheeks as you felt a need for it. The feeling, of needing to be fucked, pitifully reminded you of those nights along Lucius, the ones were his body heat felt like forbidden fruit, were you craved he would touch you, and were you would feel shame burn on you the next day as wild images blurred your thoughts.

But Acacius wouldn’t let you feel that need ever again, that you knew. He was an animal, biting into your soft skin as he rutted into you, as if trying to get closer. In a way, his assault felt like his desire to imprint on you, to make you yours, thing that he wouldn’t let you forget as he groaned and moaned it into your ear.

“There you are,” he mumbled, almost whispered, tightening the grip around your wrists unconsciously. “being fucking good for me, letting me fuck my wife.”

And you could fight it, you howled like a bitch in heat beneath him, letting General Acacius breed you despite the tears in your eyes. Your leg muscles stung beneath him, splayed like whore, for what felt like hours.

“Gonna finish inside you, paint your walls,” He panted into your ear before nibbling on your lobe. “gonna fuck the heir of Rome into you, dumb girl.”

True to his words, his pace picked up even more as he decided to finish the job. His grip snaked to your lower back as he pressed himself into you with a guttural groan, and you felt his sticky wetness inside of you, coating you; something you couldn’t clean up.

Perhaps this was for the better; the sooner you’d give him a heir the sooner he wouldn’t have an excuse to do this. But you knew that fantasy was unrealistic. Acacias had no excuse for enjoying the act so much.

His weight fell over you, shortening your breaths as you finally peered your eyes open, gaze cut by the mountains of muscular flesh of shoulder and back. The simple robe he had placed slipped from his body, and you felt sweat dampening as his torso pinned you down. His hand unwrapped his grip, knitting his fingers with yours. You begged he didn’t fall asleep.

But he didn’t, and you were grateful for that. Knowing he was crashing you, he tossed his body beside you on the bed. The silent rang in your ears; anticipation heavy, until he spoke.

“Each time you displease me, or deny me,” He said, threat and decisiveness in his voice. “I’d like you to think of our first night, and I’d like you to remember the pretty faces of the handmaidens I have here, at my power-and to know that I was considering you a Queen at the time.”

He had made his words clear.

⁎✵⋆࿔ VENUS'S NAVIGATION

✵ 𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐔𝐒 / she/her | NINETEEN | DARK FICS FANATIC / "your love carved me open, and I bled burgundy." ๛༊ ASKBOX

CARNATIONS YOU HAD THOUGHT WERE ROSES...

REQUESTS: CLOSED | 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐄𝐌𝐎𝐉𝐈𝐒

IMPORTANT LINKS: BLOG AND WRITING RULES \ ⁎✵࿔࿐ CHARACTERS LIST \ MY READERS

...THAT'S US

©THEHYDRAETHEREAL 2025. My work might contain triggering elements. You are responsible for your media consumption. Do not translate or repost my work without my consent.

༊ ⁎۵࿔࿐ MASTERPOST AND BLOG INSPIRED BY @highonmarvel