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maybe growing up is just becoming who you were at 14 again but learning how to love her this time

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Like to charge reblog to cast

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AI industry groups are urging an appeals court to block what they say is the largest copyright class action ever certified. They’ve warned that a single lawsuit raised by three authors over Anthropic’s AI training now threatens to “financially ruin” the entire AI industry if up to 7 million claimants end up joining the litigation and forcing a settlement.

well…darn

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Tumblr, the app that you are. AO3 is a lucky bastard.

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Title: 𝒶 𝓅𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒻𝓁𝑒𝓈𝒽

Pairing: Apollo!Peter Parker x Cassandra!Reader

Summary: Not even the gift of foresight will keep you from the God who calls you his.

Warnings: Dark!God AU, Stalking, Kidnapping, Manipulation, Dubcon/Noncon, MINORS DNI!

Word Count: 4,947

A/N: whew! back from hiatus with my very late entry for the amazingly talented @thanatosfic’s 1K Greek Myths challenge! the real challenge was keeping this under 5k—i literally just barely squeaked by lmao. it’s been a minute, so i know i’m a bit rusty, but i hope you all enjoy anyway. ❤️ divider by @whimsicalrogers

You run because you have to—because you see. He never should have let you see, Peter knows that now. It was meant to be a gift, a glimpse into existence the way they saw it, but it was a mistake.

Humans were never meant to know the future.

At least, that is what he reasons as he pursues you.

You already had a touch of prophecy without Apollo’s gift—his gift. It was what had caught his attention the first time, when your soul was young, and you hadn’t yet learned not to trust him. Just a hint of foresight. That’s what had caught his eye.

But humans are quick and clever—that’s what he would come to learn, especially about you. You who had taken his gift but spurned him. You would make him chase you to the ends of the earth—beyond, had you the power. You were looking at him now, he could tell as he explored the recently abandoned hut that had served as your home in the weeks you had evaded him.

Peter kicks over the camping stove with frustration, carding his fingers through his curly brown hair. It’s been abandoned for a week at least, maybe more. He’d caused this, his eagerness spilling over into the dreams. He shouldn’t have shown you images of yourself, writhing in pleasure underneath his touch—you’re too headstrong for such a direct approach.

He leans down to inspect the bed, lifting the top sheet to his nose and inhaling deeply. It still smells like you, a little. He sighs. It’s been so long since he’s held you the way he wants to—centuries.

Lifetimes.

The lingering scent of you stirs him, and Peter palms himself through his jeans. There was a time before he woke, where he was just Peter, and Peter alone.  He still doesn’t know what happened, when a second set of eyes opened up underneath his, and someone else slipped inside his skin with him. Or was it that he’d used to be someone else? It was confusing to think about the time before this mattered—before you mattered.

He is both now. He is Peter and more now—

He is Peter the God.

Fuck, to have you, finally—the thought makes Peter shudder with pleasure as he undoes his jeans and ruts into his own hand. He’s getting closer, bridging the gap you’ve built between yourself and him bit by bit. He swipes a thumb across the head of his cock, pretending it’s you who’s touching him. He hasn’t had this body yet, hasn’t tasted of you wearing this skin, and the newness of it excites him.

He knows you’re watching as he spills onto the dirty sheets, knows you’ll see him closing in on you, but that’s fine.

You’re out of places to run.

——

“And what brings you in today? I see here on your resume you have some experience in office administration.” The faded silver nameplate pinned to the older woman’s threadbare blouse reads Shirley, and her plastic looking smile parts to reveal lipstick stained teeth.

You force a weak smile of your own. You can’t tell her the truth—the truth that sounds insane even when you think it in your head.

“I’ve just always liked Seattle, and since I’ll be in the area for a bit—”

“Portland.” Her smile widens unpleasantly.

“W-what?”

“This is Portland.”

Shit. Seattle was last month. “Y-yeah. No, sorry, I just moved from Seattle.” You correct yourself hastily. Seattle had been good. Six long months without the visions, the all-too-real dreams that left you drained and terrified.

Without him.

“And was this the sort of work you were doing in Seattle?” The sickly sweet lilt of her voice makes you nauseous. You know what she’s doing—digging—and you want to protest, if you do, you know you can kiss this temp job goodbye. Your righteous indignation won’t pay for the hotel room you’re staying in, or put gas in your jeep or food in your stomach. You want to keep running, but you can’t—not without money.

“Yes, it was. On a more permanent level,” you add, knowing it’s what she wants to hear. It doesn’t matter that you’ll be gone in two months—maybe less, if the dreams pick up again.

“Hmm.” She thumbs through the little packet containing your application, resume and references, and you try not to fidget as she does so. You don’t want her to call up any of the people listed—hell, not even the companies, considering you’d up and left without so much as a see you later when you’d realized how close you had allowed him to get.

“Well. Everything looks to be in order…” She places the manila folder down with a snap. “I’ll make the call. You should hear from them no later than tomorrow afternoon with your hours. Please be on time.”

“Thank you so much, Shirley.”

“Mrs. Harscombe.” She corrects you with an oily smile. “And you’re quite welcome.” You know you shouldn’t risk looking into Shirley Harscombe, you know it’s only a waste of your time and energy, and it’ll only lead the Peter-Apollo-thing to you that much faster, but you’re doing it before you really mean to, peering into her future and all its possibilities. It’s like being swept down a raging river and all of it’s streams all at once, and her life thrums around you like a heartbeat.

You see Shirley standing in her kitchen as her husband berates her with a beer in his hand. You blink, and there’s Shirley—opening a second bank account, a secret bank account so that her husband—Ben is his name—doesn’t drink away all of their retirement funds, or else she’ll have to work till she’s seventy. You blink—and there is Shirley.

Smiling smugly at you as she gloats over the scrap of power she wields. You don’t feel angry at Shirley—not anymore.

“Have a good day.” You gather your bag and sweater as she stamps something on your file and enters it into the system with a few keystrokes on her computer. You head for the door, but linger in the threshold, hesitating.

“Mrs. Harscombe?” She looks up at you with the same thin smile, like an adult humoring an irritating child. “Separate bank accounts isn’t enough. You should leave him.” She sputters after you as you walk out of the door, down the hallway and out into the gray afternoon.

—

You hear from the nursing home the very next day, and by the middle of the week, you’re already well adjusted to your new schedule. Everything is simple enough, and aside from the occasional rude patient, you have little to complain about. The physicians and nurses are nice enough, and they don’t ask too many questions about your life outside of work, and you appreciate that more than anything.

Your check deposits on the first Friday with ease, and you pay for another week of your hotel room up front. You don’t dream, either. Only blissful darkness greets you when you close your eyes, and you’re more grateful for that than anything. Not having to see Peter’s curly brown hair or boyish, lopsided grin as he greets you in your dreams is a blessing.

Those fucking dreams.

It’s too real, his phantom touch lingering on your skin hours after you wake.

You used to wonder who he was before, but it doesn’t really matter, not now. Not now that thing had attached itself to him like a leech. You don’t know what happens when something rides your soul, wears you like a costume, but you don’t want to find out.

I won’t.

Your resolve doesn’t sound as strong as it used to, not even in your own head. It doesn’t help that you’re exhausted, running on fumes with less and less time in between your harrowing escapes. Not for the first time, you cast a narrowed glare upward, not really at your ceiling but beyond it, at whatever cosmic forces had dealt you such a cruel hand.

It’s not everyone that has a mad God after them.

It’s the waiting that’s the hardest.

The first few times you’d been naive. You’d truly believed you had shaken him of your scent—and so you had started fresh. New hair, new clothes, new I.D., new you. Peter would never find you, and his delusions would never again darken your door—at least, that was what you’d believed.

What a fool you had been.

And your shock to see him sitting in your new apartment, his feet perched on the coffee table as he thumbed through your magazines—nothing had ever matched up to it, before or since.

“Hi, princess. I missed you.”

And he’d truly thought he had you then—and so had you, really, until the bus had turned him into a bloody smear on the pavement. You didn’t look back then, and you still don’t now. You don’t know how he’s still alive, how the thing infesting him managed to draw life back into his mangled body, but you do know it means he won’t stop.

He won’t stop ever.

And so you wait. You wait for the tense buzzing in the back of your skull, for the sound of his laughter in the darkness of your dreams—

You wait for him.

__

“He’s looking for you.” The voice makes your head snap up, your fingers tightening on the edge of the reception desk. Mrs. O’Malley is sitting in her wheelchair, her tight, displeased expression flooding you with relief, and then annoyance. Your heart is pounding against your ribs, and you try to slow it as you give her a wan, impatient smile.

“Boris?” You ask, jerking your head towards the slumbering orderly in the corner. Mrs. O’Malley is the sort of woman who likes telling people what to do and how to do it, a habit that you assume has only gotten worse with time, turning her from bossy to battleaxe.

“I don’t think he’s looking for anything except the back of his own eyelids. Is there something I can get for you?”

“Not him,” she snaps, scoffing. “The boy,” she leans close, like she’s telling you a secret. “The one with laurels in his hair.” Your stomach fills with hot lead, and your throat grows painfully tight.

No.

“W-what?” Your thin smile is frozen on your face, but it isn’t a smile anymore, just a terrified grimace that won’t slip from your paralyzed features. “I—your medicine—” You fumble clumsily for the nurse-alert button on your desk, knocking over a cup of pens in the process. Mrs. O’Malley’s voice is like dry, withered reeds, but her grip is like iron when she grips your wrist.

“He’s looking for you,” she repeats, her bony fingers digging into your skin. “The boy with eyes that burn like the sun, bright, bright—” You rip yourself away from her, hissing as her nails rake long, red lines down the skin of your  forearm. You slam your fist down on the button as she launches herself across the desk.

“Stop! Get the fuck off me—” There shouldn’t be this much strength left in Mrs. O’Malley’s arthritis-bent fingers as she tears at the sleeves of your sweater, trying to get a better hold on you.

“Don’t run from him!” She screeches, spittle flecking your cheeks. She’s shaking you like a rag doll, her fingers driving into the meat of your shoulders like needles. “Stop running from him!” Your head is snapping back and forth so hard you think your neck might actually break, and through her shrieking, you can hear the sound of frantic footsteps.

Someone wrestles the old woman off of you, and you lay there, staring dizzily up at the humming fluorescent lights. How could she know that? You aren’t cold, but your skin prickles anyway, like you’re being watched.

The boy with the laurels in his hair.

You don’t wait to watch as the orderlies to wrestle Mrs. O’Malley onto a gurney, strapping her flailing limbs down to the thin mattress while she rages. Her nonsensical shouts echo down the hallway as they wheel her off.

“Don’t run from him! Eyes like the sun!”

By the time Boris turns to check on you, an apologetic smile on his face,  you’re already gone, half running down the darkening street.

—

The lobby of the hotel is as you left it that morning, empty and quiet. The receptionist doesn’t look up from her copy of People as you hurry by, already tallying up your meager belongings in your head. You have escaping down to a science now, a list of steps to take before you can throw yourself into the driver’s seat of your old jeep to race as far as your tank will take you, only to begin it all over again.

You aren’t neat about it, throwing open the door to your hotel room, the thud of the handle meeting the wall mixing easily with the noise of the city nightlife floating in through your window. Before it even closes, you’re already shoving what little clothing you have into a worn duffel bag. You’re chanting in your head, listing all the items you know you can’t forget.

Toothbrush. Phone. Wallet. Laptop.

You leave the scrubs you scavenged from Goodwill over the shower railing, where you’d hung them to dry after a vigorous hand-washing, and you leave your third or fourth hand nurses shoes there too, along with the key-card with your fake name on it. You won’t need those where you’re going.

Where am I going?

The thought makes you pause, your hands stilling on the pair of jeans you’re stuffing into your bag. You’re not sure. You’ve never moved with a plan, any sort of pattern, but that isn’t what makes you stop—no. It’s the larger question, the one that looms constantly over you. Closer to the front when you’re sleeping in the driver’s seat and taking bird baths in truck station bathrooms, but distant when you’re comfortable in hotel beds.

Where is your life going?

You try not to think about it, to push the thought back, back—but it won’t go. It stays stuck in your proverbial craw like toffee, only more unpleasant. Is this all there is? Running and hiding like a fucking rat? Your own grim expression meets your eye when it drifts to the mirror above the dresser.

Is it better than the alternative?

You finish shoving your clothes and most prized possessions into your few bags before shouldering them with a heavy sigh.

“South, maybe,” you say aloud, knowing you won’t go south at all—you’ll go east, to the big cities, to where you can get lost just like all the other souls. You reach for the doorknob and tug it open, stepping out into the hallway—

And right into a solid, warm body.

“Oh, sorry, I—”

“No need to apologize, princess.”

Your blood turns to ice, your chest tightening painfully. It isn’t possible, you know it isn’t—but it is and it must be because he’s here. It’s disgusting how certain you are, even without seeing his face. How sure, because the scent of him hasn’t changed, the piney aftershave and shampoo that’s just so Peter. There’s something warm and spiced underneath it, something that reminds you of warm sun on a summer day.

He smells like this in the dreams, too.

“Did you miss me?” He asks, reaching forward to curl a lock of your hair around his finger. “I missed you.” You’re frozen, unable to react, to move as he releases your hair to draw his knuckle over the curve of your cheek. It’s deceptively soft, almost reverent. “How long’s it been, princess? Two years? Three?”

You don’t have anywhere else to go but back, tripping over the threshold and into the hotel room. Peter follows, stepping gracefully into the room. He wrinkles his nose as he takes in your threadbare surroundings,  his lips pressing into a grim line. Peter kicks at your bags, forgotten on the floor as you’d scrambled away from him.

He takes a step towards you, and you go for the folding knife hidden in your jacket. Peter’s expression doesn’t shift at all, except perhaps to go a bit softer, like the sight of your fear and desperate defense is somehow endearing. You brandish it anyway, holding it like the self-defense teacher in Arizona taught you.

“S-stay back,” you croak, your throat tightening as he disregards your warning with another step. “Peter stop!”

“Or what, princess?” He asks, and his voice sounds… amused. “What? You’ll stab me? You can’t hurt me anymore.” Peter looks down at his own hands, flexing them as if becoming familiar with their function. “Nothing can hurt me anymore.”

Peter stands between you and the door, his brown eyes going molten gold as he stares at you. Your fingers tremble around the handle of your knife.

“You don’t have to do this.” You hate that it comes out as a plea, desperate and weak. “This doesn’t have to be what happens here, Peter—”

“You know what happens now, seer.” It’s Peter’s voice—but not, at the same time. “Look,” he says mockingly. “Tell me what you see.” You don’t want to, not with him there, but you can’t help it. You expect to see possibilities bloom before you like flowers in an open field, but instead, there is only one.

You see yourself. Behind you sprawls a vast estate, overlooking the sea. You blink, and suddenly you are beside yourself, only literally, close enough to feel your own breath on your face. You are swathed in soft, white fabric—Peter always did love you in white—and your belly curves outward through the layers of your dress, easy to see. And at your neck, a wide, shimmering gold necklace emblazoned with the sun. No, not a necklace.

A collar.

Peter’s hand on your chin is what brings you back, his thumb wiping gently at the tears streaming down your cheeks. His smile is wide, manic, as he pries the knife from your trembling fingers before your brain forgets to close them around the handle.

“No!” You gasp, pushing at his hands as you gulp down a lungful of air.  It’s like the scene from your second sight is tattooed on the insides of your eyelids, revealing itself again and again. You can almost feel the heavy gold around your throat, the sun sigil too warm against your skin—

“No, no, no-!” You shriek and struggle in his arms, your eyes wide and fearful. Peter bears it patiently, allowing you to beat at his chest with open palms and then closed fists as your gasps turn to ragged sobs. For all your fight,  Peter only wraps his arms around you tighter.

“Get off, get off me! Fuck you!” You rake one hand down his face, and he doesn’t flinch as you scratch jagged, bloody lines down his cheek. They close up almost as soon as you do it, but you feel satisfaction when he frowns.

“I know you’re upset, princess. You’ve been running so long,” he croons, but you shake your head, still struggling in his iron grip as Peter presses you against the wall. His lips drag along your cheek, and you feel them curve against your skin. He’s pleased. Even as his skin flakes away under your fingernails, he doesn’t care.

You scream.

Long, and loud, and finally, finally Peter stops moving. Your head bangs against the wall as you lean back, staring up at the ceiling as you pant.

“Are you done with the hysterics?” Peter asks, cocking his head. You’re not sure if he means to be cruel, or if it’s just a byproduct of the thing squatting in his skin, but it doesn’t matter because it cuts all the same.

“What are you going to do to me?” You ask, still not looking at him, not bothering to respond to his barb. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m going to give you everything you ever wanted.”

Somehow, it’s the worst thing he could have said.

Peter grasps your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, forcing you to look him in the eye as he begins inching his hand under the hem of your shirt. This too is familiar—maybe you saw it, maybe you dreamt it, but it doesn’t matter now that Peter—Apollo—is sliding his hand up your shirt, under your bra—

“No one is coming, princess. It’s just me,” he undoes the clasps deftly, “and you.” Peter’s thigh begins to slide up between your own, and you push uselessly at him. He clucks his tongue.

“Princess, this is the deal you made. Sorry you’re sore about it—oooh,” his admonishment becomes a sharp intake of breath as he tugs the collar of your shirt down hard enough to tear it, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze.

“You’re so pretty, baby.” He says, his words punctuated by the sound of ripping fabric.

“Fuck you,” you spit. “I’m not her. I didn’t make a deal!” You hiss. You try to go for his face again, but Peter neatly pins your arms above your head. “Peter, Peter please—”

“You are, though,” he says softly, dropping a kiss on the tip of your nose. “You’re her. She’s you. In here,” he shifts your wrists to one and, anchoring them as he drops a finger to the valley between your breasts. Peter brushes the halves of your shirt aside. “I know you know, princess,” he says patiently. “I know you feel it. How heavy your soul is, how many lifetimes its had.” You hate the pitying way he clucks his tongue, the way your stomach tightens with anger and fear because he’s right. You’re heavier than lead—and you hate that he knows it.

“Aren’t you ready to rest?”

You can practically feel it, the collar around your neck. Peter twists your nipple, and when you gasp, he presses his mouth to yours.  He’s warm, like sun filtering down onto your skin. Peter tastes of summer rain as his tongue sweeps over your own. He groans into your mouth, and there’s a sick, terrible tightness that grows in your stomach at the sound.

You’ve never had time for relationships, your lifestyle hasn’t been particularly conducive to romance. Beyond a couple of clumsy, regrettable hookups in bars, your own hands are the only ones to have brought you any pleasure. You don’t like the way your cunt pulses and aches as Peter’s thigh presses into you, the way heat travels like white lightning down your spine when he twists your nipples between his fingertips.

“I hate you,” you grit out against his mouth.  You don’t know why tears gather in your eyes as you say it. “I hate you!”

Peter hums. “I know, princess.” His tongue is soft on the skin of your throat, and when you swallow, he grins again. “But you won’t, always.”

There’s nowhere for you to go, stuck between Peter’s hard chest and the wall. It feels like he wants to touch you forever, caressing your face, pressing his fingers into your hips, cupping your breasts through the torn fabric of your shirt. His questing fingers dip into your panties, moaning softly against your skin when he finds you wet.

“See?” He says with a chuckle. “I think you’re starting to like me a little already.” You can’t help but feel disgusted and betrayed by your body as the little circular motions of his fingertip around your clit coax more wetness from you. You whimper, trying and failing to close your thighs around his hand.

Peter leans away from you, finally releasing your wrists from their position above your head so that he can cup your chin, forcing you to look at him as his other hand works steadily between your thighs. His sweet, chocolate brown eyes are both soft and warm like honey, and yet brilliant and burning suns in his eye sockets, rivulets of gold running down his cheeks as his smile widens.

You’re not sure which is real as your cunt clenches around the invading length of his fingers. It’s not supposed to send heat rushing through you when Peter’s teeth drag down the line of your throat, humming with pleasure as more wetness drips down his wrist, smearing against your inner thighs.

“You’re so tight, princess,” he laughs softly against your skin. The breaths that escape your throat are ragged and hard even to your own ear, each punctuated by the slick, wet noise of him stretching you open around his knuckles. “If I didn’t know you’d already let someone else have was rightfully mine, I’d think no one had fucked you before.”

Peter pulls his fingers from you, holding them in front of your face so that you can see how wet they are before he sucks them between his lips.

“Tastes sweet, too.” His weight lifts from you, and you watch as Peter takes a single step back. “Take it off. All of it.”

“Peter—”

He grabs for you then, patience worn thin at last. You slap at his hands, pushing at them unsuccessfully as Peter wrestles you to his chest, holding you as easily as he would a willful child. He tosses you to the bed, and the air leaves your lungs in a hoarse shout as your back meets the firm mattress. Peter tears your leggings down your thighs, threads snapping and tearing in his grip, and tosses them away, forgotten. Your head is caged between his hands, and there is no place else to look but at him.

“Still running, huh, princess?” His voice is cold as he stares down at you. You don’t know how eyes so bright could be so dark. So empty. “Maybe we should make it so you can’t. I think that would be best for everyone.” You know he isn’t giving you a choice, and your face cracks with horror at his words.

“Peter, please.”

He nudges your thighs apart with his own, the fabric of his jeans scraping against your skin as he slots his hips down against yours. Peter reaches between you, and your eyes widen at the sound of his zipper.

“What are you so afraid of, princess?” He asks, and you swallow a surprised  moan as the hot, heavy length of his cock presses against your slick folds. Peter hisses with pleasure, his head lolling back while he slowly rolls his hips into yours. His chin drops to his chest as Peter fixes you with a knowing look. “That you might like it?”

His cock bumps against your clit with every pass, and you whine, writhing underneath him. You hate that it feels good—better than good, better than your own hand ever has. There is something molten and hot in your veins, and Peter put it there—infected you with the hot pleasure in your belly. He draws back, only to drive forward sharply. His cock pushes against the tightness of your entrance for a moment, and then slides neatly inside.

It punches the air from your lungs in a ragged cry, the burning stretch of his cock inside you driving you to tangle your fingers in the sheets as you gape up at him, wide eyed. You’re so full, every bit of extra space inside of you is full up of Peter, and he groans, drawing out only to sink back in even deeper. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes as Peter splits you apart, his cock throbbing.

“That’s it,” he praises you, fingers digging into your left hip as he lays into your swollen, aching cunt. “See, princess your mouth can lie,” Peter pulls out slowly, glorying in the slick noise of his exit. “But this sweet fucking pussy?” You let out a garbled moan as he thrusts back into you with abandon. “She can’t.”

Every thrust jars you, leaves you raw and panting under the onslaught. Peter’s hands are everywhere, pinching and twisting your nipples, holding your hips still as he rocks into you, his cock pushing up against your cervix. You want to resist it, the sharp pleasure building at your core, but every thought is eaten by it, eroded until it’s all you can focus on.

“Feels like you need this,” Peter pants, hooking his arms underneath your thighs as he presses them to your chest. “Needed me.” You keen as his cock punches into you, dragging along your swollen, sensitive walls. You shake your head defiantly, and Peter’s fingers press into the meat of your thighs hard enough to bruise.

“I—don’t—need—you,” you grit out through his thrusts. Peter’s face darkens, but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he seems to dig into you deeper, and the pleasure begins bordering on pain.

“It isn’t nice to lie, princess,” Peter says lowly. “I can feel you squeezing me like your life depends on it.” You know he’s right, you can already feel the pleasure building in your blood, tension tightening in your belly. Peter slides a hand between you, his fingers plucking at your clit as you whine.

“N-no-fuck, I—” You try to deny it, but the words devolve into babble. You’re falling, crumbling under his assault as your cunt clenches tightly around him. Pleasure, sickly sweet and unwelcome floods through you, curdling your resistance as you drown in it.

It feels good to let go.

Peter’s hips still against you and he groans low, his head dropping to his chest as his fingers squeeze your hips.

“Don’t worry, princess,” his breath washes over your cheeks as his hand comes to rest on the swell of your belly. “I think the baby will look good on you.”

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anxiety will have you thinking things like "will everyone hate me if i order coffee at the coffee shop" and "will people think i'm crazy if i work out at the gym"

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐃 AN: maybe ill make a part two if theres interest. TW: yandere, implied non con, older man younger woman, religious trauma, age gap, forced marriage, kinda uses stereotypes about deep south towns, i apologize if you are from a town like this, not proofread i wrote this in 3 hours

thinking of a filthy old preacher. <33

you grew up in a small, run down town buried deep in the mississippi delta, where the summer air is thick as pudding and the only thing people love more then fox news is jesus christ. all two hundred people who inhabit your zip code are good, god fearin' folk who go to church on sundays and wednesdays, say their prayers before bed and read the bible when they wake up in the morning. kids are in bible school before they ever set foot in actual school, they keep on going until they're graduated and they can teach the next generation. if your a good, devout christian, youre deemed good, if you're anthing else, youre shunned.

since you came out of the womb, you've known the lord.

and since you've known the lord, you've known the reverend.

the reverend's church has been the cornerstone of your community for decades now, years before you were even born. he's tall and broad, handsome, but getting up there in age, his face creased by wrinkles, his hair and beard deep silver. He doesn't act it, though. no, he preaches the word of god with just as much zealousness as he did at twenty years old. He's a born leader. strict enough to earn the toughened farmers respect, but with enough southern charm to win over all the grannies. his church runs bake sales and social events, bible studies and sunday school. he keeps the community in line, uniform, united under the good word of the lord. a man who truly embodies jesus teachings.

that's how it seems, at least, until you turn eighteen.

you don't notice at first how his gaze starts to linger on you during sermon, eyes set for just a tad too long on the way your lovely little church dress clings to your curves, the darling ribbon you've tied in your hair. you're a little southern belle - delicate, supple. still just a slip of a thing, really, but blossoming. he finds himself asking the lord for forgiveness in his prayers at night for being distracted by temptation, but he simply can't stop himself. every time you stand up from the church pews and he catches a glimpse of plush thigh, or you bend over and he gets a peak down your shirt at your succulent little breasts, his heart throbs, and so does the tent in his pants.

it's only a matter of time before lingering gazes become lingering touches - a hand on the small of your back as he walks you out of church, a soft squeeze on your shoulder when he notices you stocking shelves at your convenience store job. his eyes darken when he looks at you, and it makes you scared.

you try to convince yourself that all of it is just a coincidence. the reverend is a good man, treated you like family your whole life. how could the most holy man you know be thinking of something so... debauched. you pray for forgiveness for even having the thought.

but he keeps on pushing, doing little things that keep you awake at night, just wonderin. on monday evenings, you attend womens bible study with some of the other girls in town, but his lectures start focusing less on christ and more on marriage.

"Now, I know we're runnin' out of time today but I want to leave you girls with one final anecdote." he says, leaning against the wooden desk at the front of the churches classroom "I hate to admit it since it makes me feel old, but y'all aren't girls anymore. It's my responsibility as your reverend to set you down a holy path." his eyes sweep over the room, lingering on each face for just a moment before landing on yours, "In the book of Timothy, chapter two, verse twelve, it says 'I want women to be holy and devoted to their husbands, so that they may encourage their husbands to live in a way that is pleasing to the Lord.'" He lets his words hang in the air for a few moments, eyes still set on you, but now glinting with something that makes your stomach curl. You find yourself gripping your bible a little tighter.

"Y'all are good girls, I've known most of ya since you were kids" he says, pushing himself off the desk, "But you're grown now, and so it's time for y'all to start thinking about takin' a husband. It's your duty not only to the lord, but to your community."

His footsteps grow closer to your desk until his shadow is cast over the text in your hand, but you don't dare look up at him. You wonder if he notices you trembling, hears your heart pounding in your chest. "God made woman as a vessel for life." he continues, voice low and resonant. "To have children with your husband and let him lead you and your family in the way of the lord is your purpose. I want y'all to remember that in these upcoming years."

He lingers for just a moment more before snapping the bible in his hands shut and making his way back to the front of the classroom. "That's it for today. I hope y'all have a blessed night. I'll see you on Wednesday."

You scramble to pack up your things and hurry out of the classroom with your friends, but you can feel his gaze on the back of your neck the whole way out the door.

After months of staring and touching and preaching about purity and the wickedness of women, you can't deny it anymore. Your reverend feels some type of way for you. He looks at you in a way no godly man should look at a girl thirty years younger then him. And the worst part is, your community is congratulating you for it. When he asked you to take a summer job at the church, your friends whined about how lucky you were to have gotten his attention. When you told your parents the reverend has been paying a lot of attention to you recently, they were delighted and told ou this would give you an opportunity to move up in the church.

and you were a good girl. you could deal with his comments about how nicely you'll fill out once you're a mother, tolerate when his "accidental touches" started to last longer and become more invasive. You were fine, all of it was fine.

At least, until you walked home from your friends house one night to find him sitting with your parents in the living room.

You didn't walk into the room, didn't bother to check what he was talking about. You already knew. How could you not, when he'd already asked you what size ring you wear and told you it would be in your best interest start tracking when you bleed "for your future husbands’ sake.”

The part that really made you sick, though, was that your parents were smiling. Nodding their heads and chuckling like lovesick fools at whatever honey-sweet words he was using to coerce them into wedding off their daughter to a man her fathers age.

You waited in bed that night until you were sure everyone was asleep, and then, with the utmost care, slipped out of bed. You pulled whatever cash you had stashed away in the shoebox under your bed and slipped whatever bills you could find in your dads pocket in your bra before slipping out into the night.

you'd never thought too much about leaving town before. your town is buried in the deep, deep south, swallowed up on all sides by miles of corn and cotton. the nearest city is half-a-days trip away, and the towns people don't think too highly of the folks who live there. you found mrs. jenkins next door cryin on the porch one time, cross in hand, pleading for god to save her son from the wicked ideas he'd gotten since movin there. since then, you'd stopped wondering too much about whatever else there might be in the world.

but if this was what a life of holiness looked like, a life of carrying children for a man who was thirty on the day you were born, a life of tending his home and warming his bed and smiling while you do it because thats what jesus would have wanted, a life where no one would listen to your cries for help because they're either too brainwashed by the reverends teachings to think he could ever be anything but righteous or too scared of going to hell to speak up, you might as well be in hell already.

with a pounding heart, you peddle your bike down to your local bus stop and listen to crickets chirp until you hear the screech of the greyhound bus pull in front of you. You stand up from your seat and climb up the metal steps, taking a seat at the back. Outside the window, up on the hill, you see the church lights glowing through it's windows and you think of your parents, and your friends and the lord who you're betraying tonight. what will they think when they find out you've left? you'll never be allowed back. everything you once knew is in this town.

...but so is the future it offered you. so is the reverend and the ring he'll propose to you with and the bed he'll breed you in n your wedding without a lick of concern for how you feel about it. and a part of you, a dangerous, but very real part of you, needs to know you tried to avoid that fate.

even if it means going to hell

the bus engine starts to rumble. the display screen above the drivers head flashes with your final destination: JACKSON, MS. You watch out the window as the bus rolls out of the station and the churches light starts to dim in the distance. Across the horizon, the sun has started to rise over the town and for the first time in months, you allow yourself to cry.

you don't know that about a mile down the road, mrs. jenkins is making a mighty racket outside of the reverends house, still in her nightgown and slippers.

he grumbles as he pulls open the front door, putting on the most genial smile he can manage at five in the morning. "Ah, Mary. What's the matter darling, what's got you so up in arms?" he asks, doing his best to keep the bite out of his tone.

"The girl!" mrs jenkins gasps, "The L/N's girl!"

Suddenly, he's wide awake. "Y/N? What about her?" he asks, now standing alert.

"I-I was sittin' on my porch to smoke a cigarette. Couldn't sleep, y'know? And I was havin a bunch of those satanic dreams I've been tellin you about-" she rambles.

"We can talk about that later." he asserts, losing patience. "The girl, Mary."

"Oh! It's just terrible reverend!" she wails, grabbing onto his shoulders for stablity, "I saw her runnin' out of her house in the dead of night, wanderin off who knows where! And that girl, she's a good girl you know. Ive known her since her mammy and daddy brought her home from the hospital and i ain't ever seen her run off at odd hours like that! I think-" she pales, her voice lowering to a hiss, "I think she might be possessed."

The reverend processes what she just told him slowly, carefully. You ran away. You snuck out at night and ran off somewhere the night after he asked your parents for their blessing. He tries to calm the rage bubbling in his chest, takes a breath as he pats the old woman's back. "Hush now, peace be with you." he mumbles, waiting for her to collect herself. "Now, I need you to tell me which way she ran, Mary. This is important."

The woman sniffles, looking up at the reverend with big watery eyes. "Last I saw, she was headed east."

East. Towards the bus stop.

The reverend see's red.

[emotionol]

18+ mdni. dub con. forced drug consumption.

He makes you suck on his thumb while you ride him in his suv. The one thumb he licked before dipping it into a plastic bag of white powder that he stole from the evidence locker.

"Keep bouncin'," Charlie grits, when you stop moving and begin sputtering from the sour taste flooding your tongue. He drives his length deeper, harsh hips rising off the leather seat, belt buckle clinking against the gun that's strapped to his hip with every severe shove.

Charlie rubs his thumb along your gum line tainting every inch of your mouth with the illicit drug. You writhe on his lap, growing dizzy as the unwelcome numbness and blossoming euphoria swirl in your veins.

A wretched smirk tugs at his lips, "Don't want you thinkin' about nothin' except comin' on my cock."

[emotionol]

You’re not depressed. You just need $250,000 in your bank account.

[emotionol]

this one made me think of curtis!! i hope you had a nice weekend!

"You're dangerous." – "Only if you ask nicely."

Trouble in the Air

Warnings: threats and dark insinuations.

Trope: Brother's best friend/biker.

The sunlight shines in slats across the dusty wood. The swelter of summer beams across you as the laze on the porch swing. You keep one head on your arm as you clutch the book, cover curled back, spine broke, entranced by the fictional world shielding you from the roiling heat.

So wrapped up in the story that you don't notice the shadow until the step creaks. You look over, expecting Greg, but not so disappointed not to. Your brother never arrives with good news or a good mood.

You sit up as Curtis rests his foot on the edge of the top step. He's tall but not lanky. The bristle of his shaven head matches the stubble across his jaw and cheeks. His blue grey eyes are icy despite the temperature.

"Haven't seen Greg today," you close up the book, ready to flee inside for something cool to drink. And away from Curtis. He's never been mean but you know who he is.

"Sounds like a good day," he drawls as he steps onto the porch. At his full height, he gives you second thoughts of standing. "How are you doing? He's not causing you guff?"

You shake your head and run your thumb along the book cover. Your nerves spin as his gaze is bolder than the noon sun. You fidget.

He walks along the railing and turns to lean on it. He crosses his arms and tilts his head. It feels like an interrogation.

"You're quiet." He comments.

You shrug and look down guiltily. It's not just with him but you can't find the voice to say so.

"It's fine. I'm quiet too. I say what needs to be said."

He drops his arms and pushes off the wood. He turns and sits next to you on the bench swing, anchoring it as he plants his feet. He looks too big for it.

"I don't like rambling, so I'd like you to be honest."

You blink. Your heart leaps into your throat. What's going on? He usually goes away when your brother isn't around.

"Do I scare you?" He asks.

You stare at him. The heat makes time slow down and you drop your gaze to your lap. You trace the title of your book with your fingertip. Your temples are throbbing.

He reaches over and puts his hand around yours. His touch is searing. He wiggles the book free and looks it over. He flips it and reads the synopsis.

"Interesting," he holds it out. "Why are you afraid?"

You take the book and squeeze until it bends. You swing your feet, toes dragging on the porch.

"You're dangerous," you croak.

He's quiet as he measures your answer. You must spund awfully stupid. He sits back and stretches his arm across the back of the bench.

"Only if you ask nicely," he says.

You don't know what he means. His touch frightens you. He tickles your bare arm.

"Sit back."

You obey. Your head rests on his arm. He sighs.

"I can be dangerous. I'm glad you realize that," he swings the bench as you sit rigid next to him. "Which means you'll tell me the truth."

"The truth?" You murmur.

"Uh huh. You're going to tell me where your brother put my money."

"Money?" You look at him. "I don't know anything about any money."

"I'm sure, sweetheart." He exhales again. He stares put at the yellow sky. "You gonna make me ask again?"

"I swear--"

He catches your by your jaw and pushes you back into the bench. You sputter and he leans in, pressing his nose to your cheek.

"I'm not leaving here without what I'm owed. So tell me where the fucking money is." He snarls. "If he spent it, say so."

You squirm and he squeezes harder.

"Please, I really don't know," you eke out.

His hand slips to your throat. You squeal. His thumb pushes behind your jaw as he drags his lips up your cheek and hovers before your ear.

"He takes something of mine, I take something too."

He's so quick, you can't think. He stands and the swing hits the house. He wrenches you from the seat and hauls you off your feet. Your book slaps onto the floor as he hangs you over his shoulder. You can smell his leather vest and sweat.

"Let's see what he likes more. My money or his own damn sister," he growls as he stomps down the front steps.

[emotionol]

"I want him" not sexually not romantically but a secret third way (squeaky toy)

[emotionol]

one time i took a picture of a tiger at the zoo and the tiger smiled for the picture it was very great and the best picture i’ve ever taken

[emotionol]

Bucky eating box and ass enthusiast because I fucking said so

He eases you into it – the way he does with most things that start as "i just wanna see" into incorrigible routine.

Starts with the pad of his thumb stroking over your puckered hole while the the girth of his cock stretches your gummy walls in gentle but deep thrusts.

Moves onto him pushing and pulling the globes of your ass as he eats your cunt from the back –slipping his tongue in and out of your sopping heat.

He leaves a peck to your puckered hole that has you squealing and rocking your legs back up to cover yourself.

Bucky narrowly moves out of the way, landing a smack to the fat of your ass with an airy chuckle.

No matter how many times he does it – wandering hands and touches - you're still left shivering under him and gasping wet breaths.

So Bucky decides that he'll take matters into his own hands.

Decides to do so while he's laid out on your bed. Heacy cock straining against his sweatpants against the comforter of your bed and your fingers woven through his thick locks.

Hes been working you up to it for the past thirty minutes, edging you up to your orgasm with hot strokes of his tongue pulsing at your slicked folds and his nose bumping up against your clit with every nod of his head.

It's all purposeful. An art form – he's told you.

And you believe him by the way that he hooks your thighs over his shoulders and spreads the sopping lips of your pussy apart to lick long and fat stripes up your hot muscle.

"Buck–" You moan, hand shaky at your side, as your fingers curl into his bedsheets.

He hums into your cunt, reaching a hand up to drag your own back to the top of his head.

You follow suit, his brown locks weave through your soft hands like a web.

And even when it happens – the hot muscle of his tongue running flat against your puckered hole – you're still choked up by it even though you know he's been working you up to it this whole night.

There's a soft pause, and you give a small whimper that has Bucky pushing the backs of your thighs further up to press your knees to your chest.

"Hold em, fr'me," he instructs, and your head is too fuzzy to do anything but.

So you hold the backs of your knees for him and let your head fall back against his pillow that smells just like him.

You can feel your heat drip from your cunt.

It's a foreign feeling at first – the hot of his tongue and scratch of his beard against your sensitive skin.

But it adds to the heightened pleasure of it.

You feel naughty and all at the same time like you're engaging with something all too taboo. You're too vulnerable.

Bucky groans, moving to rest on his haunches as he covers his hands on your knees with his own.

"Christ," he pulls back, and you watch with lidded eyes as he drops a glob of spit onto your ribbed hole.

His thumb circles it gently, and his eyes look up to meet yours.

"Y'doin' okay up there?"

You nod, "mhm," hair sticking to your forehead and chest heaving with anxious pants, "feels a little weird."

Bucky coos at you, "y'gettin shy on me?"

You shift under him, bashfully evading his gaze.

Bucky chuckles at that, bringing a hand up to hold your chin, guiding your eyes back to his.

"S'okay," he drops his hand to circle your clit softly as his thumb continues to press against your right ring, "that feel good, sweetheart?"

You're rendered speechless as your head drops back to his pillow, and you nod.

Bucky trades his thumb for his pointer and slips it past the tight ring of muscle, earning a soft gasp from you.

"Oh, there we go," He coos from above you, meeting your lips in a half-assed sloppy kiss.

His cock strains against his boxers, the taught fabric rubs against the soft skin of your thigh.

You hold his cock through the offending fabric and he moans against your wet lips.

Bucky pulls back to watch.

The intrusion of his digit pumping in and out of your hole makes you mewl and brings tears to your waterline.

Your hand shakes where you hold your knee, the other already threatening to drop.

"Buck–" Your voice is shakey.

"Need some help?" His eyes are on your tight hold pulsing around his thick digit.

As soon as you nod, one large hand is holding your legs together by the backs of your knees.

He continues to pump his finger in and out of your hole.

"Spread your ass for me," he pulls his finger from you, "let Bucky see,"

You do as he says, pulling the globes of your ass cheeks for him.

Bucky hisses from above you and bends down to slip his tongue against your ringed muscle with moan.

"Taste so good," he mumbles into you.

"Bucky please–" you cry.

And he understands, because of course he does as he brings his free hand to circle your clit, massaging the bundle of nerves as he tongues your tight hole.

You're on the edge of cumming embarrassingly quick.

"Y'gonna cum?" You can feel him fucking smile down there, "can feel you tightening up."

You nod breathlessly, "yeah, m'close."

"Jesus, you're pulsin', baby."

Something in his domineering nature and the way his thumb circles over your clit has you cumming immediately.

Tensing and pulsing under him as he circles his tongue around your hole once, then twice, and a third time before pulling off of you.

You're breathless as you look up at him; dark hair disheveled and your slick glistening over his chin and shit-eating grin.

"Next time, Daddy's gonna open this little asshole up. How's that sound?"

[emotionol]

Nothing like holding my love

[emotionol]

On the qui vive

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader WC: ~1k Warnings: Fluff | Established relationship | Absolutely-in-love Bucky | Protective Bucky | Bucky painting your toenails | Bucky taking care of some business (mob elements) | Bucky being hot and incorrigible | Allusions to spicy times | Some language | Very much unbeta'd | Let me know if I missed anything! A/N: Sorry, I haven't been on much here. Found a thought in my drafts and put together something haphazardly for Hot Bucky Summer 2025 | Week 02 Prompt: "Did I give you permission?" | @buckybarnesevents Thank you for hosting. 😊✨🥹💞 Note: Do not Steal, Copy, or Plagiarize any part of my work! I do not consent to AI scraping my work. Banner & Divider made by me. Picture credits to Pinterest. Check out my other works: Masterlist

Indulge Away!

Damn it!

You scrambled around the hotel suite.

You were supposed to be on time. You always told yourself you'd have everything sorted and ease into important days with a calm, relaxed start. But nope. That version of you clearly didn't exist. A miserable case of chaos was what you were.

Gawd!

Bucky was to be blamed anyway. He'd flown in late last night, and he didn't let you out of the bed ever since he stepped foot into the hotel room. And he thwarted every attempt of you sneaking out of the bed this morning, dragging you right back into his arms. You couldn't believe sometimes that he could be so insatiable despite being married for more than a decade now.

Your husband was a ridiculously sinful man, indeed! Not that you usually complained about your husband's incorrigible loving ways. But today was an important day, and you should be there on time.

You had a luncheon with the whole team today before your book launch tomorrow, and Jeremy would absolutely have your head if you were late to your own event. You'd already been two minutes late to the dinner meeting last night. To be fair, that wasn't really your fault either. You got held up by a couple of women who somehow recognized you. You hadn't expected anyone to know you, especially not in Venice, so far from home. It was endearing. You'd been so flustered when they asked for your autograph that you walked into the meeting grinning like an idiot, only to get an earful from Jeremy for being late.

Yesterday was a simple team dinner, but today was important, and you couldn't be late by a second.

You heard the loud yawn, followed by a grunt.

Fucking Finally!

"Bucky, hurry up, will ya?" you called out to him.

"I'm almost ready, pretty girl," came his gravelly rasp.

You'd both gotten maybe a couple of hours of sleep between stuff. You turned just in time to see him walking out of the bedroom, phone against his ear, as he said, "Good," before placing the phone down on the kitchen counter.

He wandered over, buttoning up his white shirt at such a seductively slow pace, you grunted annoyedly at him for various reasons.

Jesus Christ! He looked divine.

You sat cross-legged on the ottoman, rushing to paint your toenails because, of course, you didn't get to do them earlier. No thanks to your husband. You figured you could get it done while Bucky got dressed lazily, leisurely.

Whatever was up with him today.

He strolled over, popping a piece of fruit into his mouth that you cut hurriedly for you both a few minutes earlier.

And then he met your eyes.

Shit.

The second he looked at you, you knew. Bucky knew. You didn't know who snitched, but after nearly fifteen years with Bucky Barnes, you shouldn't be so surprised. Your husband always knew when someone so much as breathed your way wrong.

You'd actually been relieved he wasn't at the dinner last night. Because if he had been, things would've gone very differently. Henry, your executive publisher, had cornered you. He was drunk and touchy, and you managed to wiggle out of the situation without making a scene. Mostly because you didn't want to see bloodshed. But the second it happened, you knew it would've been a disaster if Bucky had seen it. So yeah, you were glad he'd been delayed. Even if part of you wished he'd been there to stop it from happening at all.

He sank onto the couch in front of you, dragging your foot into his lap.

You tried to wiggle away, but his grip tightened around your calf.

"Stay still," he warned in a dangerously low voice. Nevertheless, you squirmed.

"We don't have much time," you argued, worry gnawing at you.

"Don't worry, pretty girl. I got you," he said calmly, and he took the little bottle of nail polish from your hand.

"You'll ruin your trousers," you muttered.

"Gotta be still then, Sweetheart," He hummed softly, too jaunty, for your liking. Bucky painted the first toe carefully. It was utterly unbelievable how quickly he unraveled you.

You watched him, waiting for him to ask you, but he didn't, making you groan internally. And the longer he kept painting, the more nervous you got.

"Should I just tell you?" you mumbled, voice barely above a whisper.

Bucky didn't look up. "Tell me what, beautiful?"

"You know what."

"Do I?" He raised his eyes, and that dark gleam in them made your stomach twist. It was dangerous, that look, especially for your poor heart, always ready to topple you more and more into him.

Your phone rang. Jeremy. You answered quickly.

"Hey! Promise I won't be late. Ten minutes tops…" Jeremy, however, cut you off your babbling, "You didn't hear?" he said urgently.

"Hear what?" you asked confused.

"Henry. He was in some kind of accident this morning. It's serious. We gotta cancel the lunch."

You froze. "Is he…?"

"No idea. It's all over the place. Ronald called and said something about him losing an arm. It's bizarre. I put him in a cab last night, and he was fine." Jeremy sighed before he continued, "I don't know what happened, but I'll update you when I can. The launch is still on for tomorrow though. I'll send over the new schedule soon."

You set your phone aside, mind still trying to process. You went to pull your foot back, but Bucky didn't let go.

"Did I give you permission to move, Mrs. Barnes? You'll mess up all my hard work." he chuckled, casually blowing on your toes.

"Bucky," you hissed, "What the hell did you do?"

He took his time. Capped the polish. Set it down. Then lifted your leg over his shoulder and tugged you onto the couch beneath him.

"Bucky."

He kissed the curve of your neck, then licked a slow path to your ear. You let out a lewd moan, an entirely inappropriate reaction to the feeling of dread settling in your tummy. Bucky pressed himself against you, one hand cupped your face and the other wandered toward your chest, palming your tits.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping him to find your losing sanity, "What. Did. You. Do?"

He finally met your gaze.

"He shouldn't have touched you, doll," he said softly, his breath warm against your lips, his stubble brushing against your skin, and dousing you in his sweet, sinful smell.

“Be grateful he's still breathing."

"Bucky…" His name caught in your gasping breath, and he smiled at you reverently, and gawd, you knew you had to put some sense into your man, but fuck, did you love him so goddamn much.

Well?

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