chloe302225

[chloe302225]

Death Wish 17

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of crime, violence/abuse and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Bucky Barnes

Part of the mob drabbles au

Summary: you’re desperate for a way out of your life and you ask a powerful man for help (plus!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

Photo Inspo

You sit beside Bucky. He’s stoic. Patient in an ominous way. You don’t try to mimic him. You know you can’t. You just keep still and listen. He does too. 

“Something in the boats, boss. Someone undercutting us down in the southeast.” Gio explains. “That fisherman, he drove off when I tried to talk to him.” 

“Hm,” Bucky nods. “And you’ve been watching? How do you know there’s something coming in?” 

“Just the way he’s actin’.” 

“The way he’s acting,” Bucky clucks and taps his fingers on his jaw. “Not much of a reason to pull the alarm. Put some eyes on the dock. Come back next week.” 

“Yes, boss. I’ll put my boys down there.” 

“Good,” Bucky sits back, hanging his arm over the side of his chair.  

He reaches for you, taking your hand and bringing it onto the high armrest. He squeezes. You focus on your posture. You resist the urge to look around at all those eyes staring back. You know they’re watching you. They have since the moment you got here. 

“The flower shop on third,” another man steps up. You recognise him. He used to come see your dad; Alfie. He meets your gaze with a squint. “They didn’t pay me in full. Said they can’t make cut.” 

“How much is cut?” Bucky asks. 

“1500” 

“Fifteen?” Bucky scoffs. “That’s as much they’d pay the government for their license. Take half.” 

“Half?” 

“Jumped up little man,” Bucky sniffs. “I got capos not taking that much from business in north side. Half. You’re lucky I don’t ask for it all myself.” 

He snaps his fingers and dismisses Alfie with a flutter of fingers. The older man gives you a long look as he backs up. His lip twitches. 

“One more thing,” Bucky drawls and shifts. “When you look at my woman, you don’t do it like that.” 

Alfie flinches. “I ain’t--” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me. Now walk away.” 

Alfie grits his teeth and lowers his head. He retreats. The air in the room turns stagnant. You focus on not fidgeting. You don’t want to draw any more attention. 

And the dress. It cinches to tight in the middle, it shows too much of your chest, it hugs your figure a little too snugly. You are dressed up like something you aren't.

“I got a wedding to plan. I need you all to start carrying your weight. You got a problem, go to the underboss. I’m not taking council over florists and fishermen.” He tuts. “Oh and make sure you RSVP.” 

He stands and tugs you up with him. You rise and adjust the high arch of the heels. He draws you to him and kisses your forehead. 

“Come on, doll. Now that it’s top of mind, we need to figure out flowers.” He lets go of your hand and puts his hand on your lower back, ushering you out of the room without a glance sideways. 

As the door shuts behind you, you exhale slowly, quietly. He takes you down the hall and up the stairs, pointing you up first. As you climb, he hums. “Perfect view.” 

You stiffen but keep going. You walk past a door and he chuckles. You turn back as he opens it. 

“You forgot?” He wonders. “It doesn’t remind you of that first night?” 

You blanch as you near him. You look him in the eye. “I remember.” 

His eyes flick up and down. He waves you inside. You enter ahead of him. The door clicks shut behind him and he brushes his palm along your rear as he dips in behind you. 

He goes around the desk to the cabinet in the corner. He pops open the glass door and takes out a dark bottle. He pushes his fingers into two glasses and pinches them together. He spins and carries it all to the desk. He sets them down with a clink. 

Quietly, he pours. He peeks up at you. A lock of dark hair falls forward. His dark tie is knotted high and firm, his collar starched and perfect. He puts the bottle down. 

“You asked me to do it.” 

“You didn’t.” You blurt out and look away. You shake your head and blink. Your finger twitches. You feel the trigger, you smell the gun powder. 

“I gave you the power you wanted.” 

You bite your lip. This isn’t what you asked for. You asked for safety. For peace. For your sisters. 

He comes around the desk. You sense him. You smell the alcohol before he holds out the glass. You glance at it and hesitate. 

“I don’t drink.” You say. 

“You need it.” 

You take it and turn away. You put it back on his desk. You keep your back to him. 

“You did good,” he says. You can hear him slurp. “You sat and listened. You didn’t let that man intimidate you.” 

“Why would he? He’s not you.” 

Silence. He drinks again. He comes up next to you. 

“You scared of me?” 

“I know I’m not in charge.” You shrug. “I know how it goes. I’ll do what needs to be done. Whatever it is you need me to do.” 

He sighs. “I’m not like him, don’t treat me like I am.” 

Maybe not, but the situation isn’t so different... 

“I know,” you lie. “Last week, I was just his daughter. I only had to worry about my sisters. It’s... a lot.” 

“And I know you can handle it, doll,” he rubs your hip and sets his glass down. “Come here.” 

He turns you to him, cradling your cheek as he steps closer. He squeezes the soft curve of your hip and smirks. His nose brushes yours. 

“I chose you because I know you can. You know when it’s time to take out the trash.” He caresses your cheek. “And you got a hell of a poker face.” He leans in and kisses you. You can taste the smoky scotch on him. He draws back and gazes at you, purring. “I’m gonna call your bluff, one day.” 

[chloe302225]

ZUHAIR MURAD Couture Fall/Winter 2025 if you want to support this blog consider donating to: ko-fi.com/fashionrunways

[chloe302225]

Versace - Spring 1992 RTW

[chloe302225]

[chloe302225]

Tom Hardy as Harry Da Souza MOBLAND 1.02, Jigsaw Puzzle

[chloe302225]

Tom Hardy as Harry Da Souza MOBLAND 1.05, Funeral For A Friend

[chloe302225]

Harry and Jan Da Souza MobLand | 1.05

[chloe302225]

Little Surprises 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, pregnancy, cheating/established relationships, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Andy Barber, side of Mike Weiss

Summary: You have a baby on the way but it’s not the only surprise.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

"You're nervous," Andy says as he sits beside you. You look down and stop your leg from bouncing.

"Sorry. Er... I am." You answer.

"About?" He prompts.

"The baby, just in general. I guess. It's a lot. I've been reading so much and... feels like a whole mountain," you sit back and cradle your hands in front of your stomach.

"I don't relish that feeling but I remember it well," he says.

"Mm. Mr. Barber, you don't have to stay."

"I don't mind," he leans back and stretches his neck. "It's kind of... exciting. My boy's about to graduate. He's done with mom and dad. It's almost... nostalgic," he shrugs. "Unless... you don't want me here."

"Well, erm... it is nice to have someone. It's a lot to go to these all alone."

"Yeah, your husband didn't come to the others?"

"Not yet. He's very busy. And he's my boyfriend," you sigh. "Things happened quick."

"Ah, right," he nods.

You shrink down. You must see very naive to someone like him. You have a baby on the way and a boyfriend too important for either of you.

"Well, what about mom? Your mom? Laurie's was elbow deep in everything about the pregnancy." He twirls his thumbs around each other. "The appointments, the shower, the nursery... felt like she didn't trust me."

"Oh, no. My mom... passed. In high school."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to..."

"Not your fault. She wouldn't be very much help either." You squirm and clasp your hands tightly. "I can do it. I think. I... I think I'll be a good mom because I always wanted one... maybe that's stupid."

"I don't think so. Parents are... tough," he replies. He plays with the knot of his tie. "My dad wasn't there. Hasn't been. He's in prison. Better for everyone that way."

"Oh my." You murmur. "I hope... I just don't want to ever do that. Leave my baby behind, you know? I... maybe... maybe I didn't think this out."

"Sweetie, please, you're going to be great because you are thinking about it at all. Lots of people don't. You will do this. It'll be fine." He puts his hand on your shoulder and rubs your arm. "It's okay to be scared. It's good. It means you care."

"Thanks--"

Your name undercuts your words. You look over at the nurse and gulp. You stand. Your purse falls onto the floor.

Andy scoops up the bag and hands it to you. You take it with a shaky smile.

"Hey, you want me to come with you?" He offers. "Up to you."

"Um," you glance at the nurse. "Okay. If it's okay."

"Sure," he stands up.

He follows you across the waiting room and down the hall. The nurse tells you to take off your shirt and put a hospital gown on. Andy shifts.

"I'll stay in the hall," he assures.

The nurse leaves and shuts the door. You take of your shirt and put the gown on. You go to the door and open it and inch.

"It's okay now, Mr. Barber."

He pushes away from the wall and comes in. He closes the door and sits in the chair across from the bed. You climb up and lay down. You wiggle your feet restlessly as you stare at the ceiling.

"Forgot what it was like," he mutters. "Doctor's and stuff. Laurie's been bothering me to get my cholesterol checked for years."

"She cares a lot about you," you say.

He hums but doesn't say anything.

The tech enters before the silence can grow tense. She greets you and covers your bottom half with a sheet. She pulls your waistband lower and tucks the top into it to bare your pelvis.

She blocks Andy's view of you as she squeezes the gel onto the wand.

"I'll be cold," she warns.

She presses it against your pelvis and you flinch. She feels around as she looks at the screen, dragging around your stomach and pelvis. She pushes down and chimes.

"There they are," she gestures to the screen. "And they are very healthy." She continues to shift. "Just gonna get as many images as I can."

"Okay," you lay still as she continues. Beyond the physical, you feel like little more than a cadaver.

"You two must be very excited. Oh and they're just the perfect size."

"Um, er," you stammer. How do you explain that Andy is your boss, not the father.

"We are. Very," Andy says. "Can I get a closer look?"

You nod and the tech angles around. He gets up and stands behind her as he looks at the screen. You shyly peek up. His lips part as his blue eyes almost gleam.

"Wow," he utters. His throat bobs.

"Just a little bean," the tech says.

You push yourself up on your elbows to see. You stare at the pulsing image. There's a baby in you. A real life inside.

Your heart clutches as your eyes crest. You're going to bring a baby into all this? Into Mike not showing up? Into being alone and afraid?

You lay back and breathe out until the tears recede. Andy stays close, startling you as he touches your hand. He smiles down at you.

"It's so amazing, isn't it, sweetie."

You blink and nod. "Yeah, uh, yes."

"We can send you a few with you to put on the fridge," the tech says. "Show family."

"Oh, sure," you agree. You can show Mike. Maybe then, he'll show up.

[chloe302225]

one year ago today we were introduced to this man:

[chloe302225]

Chanel - Fall 1992 Couture

[chloe302225]

Helping Hand 15

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, manipulation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

Part of the Bookstore AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

"That sling is going to be your best friend." Clara, the physical therapist steps back to take you in for what must be the dozenth time.

For the last hour, she's had you do what you can. It still isn't much but several times, she needed to steady you. Right then, she has to help you sit so your leg doesn't collapse.

"And that hip. You're having quite the streak of bad luck," she says.

"Pushing herself too much," Jonathan appears in the archway. "She cannot help herself. Wants to do it all herself."

"Well, I suggest that you slow down. Seems you have good help around here," Clara lifts her bag onto her shoulder. "We've enabled your access to the clinic's portal. The exercises I've shown you today are there."

"Right, thanks," you utter quietly. "I appreciate it."

"And if you have any question, Jonathan has my number."

"Okay," you pick at the edge of the sling around your wrist.

"Well, I'll let you get some rest. Remember. Slow. Don't let those painkillers fool you," she smiles. "Jonathan."

She nods at your keep and he walks her out. That eerie feeling winds tighter around your neck. He couldn't even take you to the clinic. No, he insisted on the home visit. You shudder and stare at the wall.

"I thought that since you are to be laid up," Jonathan slithers as he enters behind you. "It would be a fine time to catch up on you're reading."

He puts a stack of books on the end table near the arm of the couch. You stare at the spines. They remind you of the store. How does it feel so long ago?

"Let's get you comfortable," he moves closer and adjusts pillows for you to lean on. "Well, darling, shall I make a recommendation."

You close your eyes. "I don't want to read."

He exhales and clucks. You sense him moving but don't look. You keep hoping this is just a nightmare.

He grabs your legs gently and pulls them up. You open your eyes as he sits and drapes them over his lap. You go slack, the tension in your shoulder and hip at the cusp of unbearable.

"Very well," he turns the book over in his hand. "I shall read to you as you rest."

He clears his throat and flips back the cover. You sink into the pillows and watch the ceiling. His dulcet tone rises in narration. He has the sort of voice that could be on TV.

He weaves through the prologue without stutter or stumble. His intonation draws you out of your reluctance, your mind clinging to the building plot. You're only drawn from the intrigue by the tickle along your foot.

You peek down. Jonathan cradles the book in one hand. His other is by your foot. He flutters his fingertips up your arch and you twitch.

He clasps around your foot and squeezes, still reading without pause. His meaning is clear. Stay. He already knows you can't go anywhere. He's made sure of it.

He eases his grip and curls his thumb, pressing his knuckle along your arch. You stiffen then let the tension go. He drags his knuckle and the muscle eases. Oof.

You wiggle your toes. The sensation is overwhelmingly soothing. His warmth, his firmness, his tenderness. He's diligent but delicate. You never knew such a simple act could be so good.

You moan. Shame burns in your cheeks but you can't hold it back. It's like he's slowly untangling a lifetime of weight in your foot alone.

He continues to work expertly and switches to your other foot. You close your eyes as his voice and touch lulls you. Your stomach storms. You shouldn't enjoy it as much as you do. You shouldn't let him keep doing all this

His timbre rolls into a low hum. You wake in silence. In the bed. The windows are dimming as the evening sets in.

You're dizzy. Those pills are too strong. You sit up and rub your arm through the sling. Strong but better than the agony.

Your stomach rolls over and grumbles noisily. You're hungry. The aroma drifting in doesn't help either.

As if he can sense your every move, Jonathan appears in the open doorway. He grins as he crosses the room. He's dressed nicely, not that he ever isn't. Yet there is a particular effort put into his violet shirt and black slacks that strikes you. He crosses the room and gently caresses your cheek.

"Let's get you ready for dinner."

You blink. What does he mean?

He gently lifts you and moves you to the cushioned chair at the desk. It's then you notice the mirror set up that wasn't there before. And there's a neatly organized tray of cosmetics, and hair tools and accessories.

He tends to your hair first. Twisting and clipping. You sit, confused and dazed, still dredging through the narcotic haze.

Then he cleanses your face with a cool wipe. He lets it dry before he moisturizes. His hands are deft but soft. How does he know to do all this?

He doesn't plaster you in it. A touch of mascara and some gloss. You shake your head as the strangeness of the situation sinks in.

He stands as you glance at your reflection. You look pretty good. For someone who feels like death.

He returns with a dress in hand. A layer of sheer black over a grey blue silk sheath. It's beautiful.

He undresses you, removing the sling to get your shirt off, then helping you stand to get your pants down. He helps you into lacy black panties and bra. You shiver in horror beneath the numbness of the painkillers.

He gets the dress on and helps you back into your sling. He stands you up with his arm around your back and he guides you to the full-length mirror in the corner.

"See what I will do for you, darling," he smiles at your reflection. "I can make you whole again."

[chloe302225]

Helping Hand 14

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, manipulation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

Part of the Bookstore AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You stare at the wall. Your eyes are too dry to cry. The pain, the memory of the night before, the reality you find yourself trapped in, cannot bring the swell to surface. A blur moves along the edge of your sight and your eyes come into focus.

You watch Jonathan plant the lap desk over your thighs. He pauses to pet your head and kiss your forehead. You grit down and turn your attention back to the plaster.

“Can’t have you fussing over breakfast,” he purrs, “doctor’s orders that you relax.”

You don’t respond. He hums, disappointed, but doesn’t reproach you. You almost prefer your ex and his bluntness. At least he would tell you what you did.

You sit in the fog of painkillers and disbelief. It still doesn’t seem real. Jonathan. The refined businessman, the proper gentleman, entirely above you, and yet he’s entirely twisted. Last night, the way he touched you, the way he ignored your pain and used it against it, it’s not so different than every other man you’ve known.

It’s your own fault for believing there were decent ones left in this world. Or that they ever existed at all.

He returns and lays out a generous meal; orange juice and coffee to be certain you have whatever you like; crepes rolled and sprinkled with sugar and drizzled with syrup, berries glistening, yogurt and granola in a small cup on the side. It’s all perfect. Just like everything else in his life. Can’t he see that you are anything but?

“There you are, darling,” he proclaims as he backs up.

He stands and watches. His blue eyes no longer remind you of the summer sky, rather they are icy and cold. You look down and lift the cutlery.

“Thanks,” you murmur as he clears his throat.

You eat. Not because you’re hungry but to keep yourself from sinking any further into horror. You don’t taste it. If this was anywhere else, you might be in awe of the culinary precision and medley of flavours. You can hardly think through the drug-laced nightmare.

You finish and he takes away the tray and lap table. You lean back into the pillows and grown. There’s a new pang in your hip. It started when he had himself over you, rolling against you, your legs splayed beneath him.

You close your eyes and slump. You don’t hear him return. The world shifts as he moves you to lay on your back, removing a pillow to reposition you.

“Darling, how do you feel?” He brushes his knuckles against your cheek. “The doctor recommended a hot bath? How about it?” You groan and stay hidden under your eye lids. He bends and kisses your forehead before he stands again, “very well.”

You sense him back away but do not look. You've known this helplessness before. During your first marriage when you truly believed you were trapped with Andy forever. You can only hope Jonathan tires of you just the same, but what then? Starting over again with even less time.

You hear the distant splash of water on porcelain and wince. The jolt sends electricity down your spine. You groan and grimace in pain.

His footfalls mark his return. Your eyes open as he approaches and sits on the edge of the bed. He undresses you as you put up no resistance. What’s the use in it? It only hurts more.

He removes the sling gently before he strips away your other layers. When you're naked, you don't even have the strength to be ashamed. Maybe the stretch marks might scare him away.

He gently slips his arms beneath you. As he lifts you, you moan. He coos at you, hushing your pain. You lean into him with no other choice but to let him do what he wants. So very much like your first marriage.

He takes you into the bathroom and lowers you into basin. You can't help but be soothed by the warmth of the water as it laps down. The futility keeps you there.

He shifts, his shadow moving beyond your eyelids. It isn't until he touches you again, that you react. Your lashes flick up and you wince as tension strings up your muscles.

He gently slides his hand under your uninjured shoulder and sits you forward. He's naked, a striking realization that has you even more rigid. He angles in behind you, easily, all too smoothly, moving to sit against the porcelain as he brings you over him. Your eyes dart to the ceiling and stick there as he eases you back. You're horrified at the feeling of his flesh against yours. The heat is even more intense than the water.

He sighs as he embraces you from below, your head on his shoulder, and his hands crawl around your hips. Mortified, you keep him from touching your stomach. He stops but runs his hands in the other direction, tracing along your pelvis and kneading your thighs.

You reach for him again and he brushes you off. You're uncomfortable and not because the pain. He's touching those parts of you that are ugly. The ones marked with age and fat. The ones your husband hated so much. The ones that drove him to another.

“You needn't punish yourself any longer, darling,” he reprimands, “I'm only trying to give you all you deserve.”

You scoff and feel him stiffen. He once more frames your hips and hums, “what?”

“Nothing,” you mutter.

“No, tell me what is so amusing.”

“What I deserve? To be thrown on the floor? To be kept in a bed all day at your beck and call–”

“It was an accident, darling, we both were there–”

“You know it wasn't,” you sneer furiously and try to sit up, “ahhhh!”

You fall back, heavy enough that you feel the air rush out of him. He steadies you with his hands on your sides and you groan and snivel. You hate this. You hate feeling this helpless. You never wanted to be trapped again, yet here you are.

[chloe302225]

Helping Hand 13

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, manipulation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

Part of the Bookstore AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The dull hues speckle in your vision. You've grown used to the haze and when it fades, you long for it. The pain melts way enough for comfort but not enough to be forgot. Always there, always aware of your own futility. 

It isn't the pain that rouses you that night but a sensation just as pertinent. At first, you're not sure what it is. Gentle waves on your skins, spirals that raise bumps, caresses that make you shiver.

You bring your hand up to meet another. Your touch lingers on Jonathan's wrist as your lashes flutter open. His silhouette is limned by the lamp behind him. The shadows set his features in a sinister way.

You murmur but don't speak. He hushes you, trading the strap of the sling that binds your arm. You groan at the ripple of pain underlined by something more. Something unbidden.

“All I want, dear, is for you to feel better,” he says as he pets your cheek, “do you know that? It's all I've ever wanted.”

You blink. You have no strength to argue. To point out the obvious. He's the one who has you at your worst.

“That day in the bookshop, when we met,” he turns onto his shoulder and lays on his side, “you looked lost and I felt as if I'd found you.”

You shake your head and squint. His words confuse you. He weaves such sweet soliloquys yet what he's done cannot be painted with pretty lies.

“You put that man above you for how long? And even after he abandoned you, you still could not put yourself first,” he cradles your face, “darling, can't you see that's all I'm doing.”

“No…” you whisper and close your eyes. 

You whimper and try to turn your face away. He catches your chin and tuts, keeping you in place as he lifts himself again. He surprises you as his lips meet yours. He kisses you softly, as if he means every word he says. A new sort of pain sparks in you.

He lets his fingers dance to your hairline. He moans into your mouth as his tongue delves inside. You squeeze your eyes tight, unable to resist. As much as you could blame the drugs, you know it's as much your own weakness. Just like those days you laid on your back and fulfilled your vows.

His fingertips graze your temple and cheek, down tour neck and along the crook of your collarbone. Further and further, feeling you through the light layer of fabric. That too big tee shirt that serves as your only shield.

He grips your hip as he leans over you, the slight pressure of his weight makes you squirm. You break away from his lips and gasp, grabbing him with your free hand, the sling keeping you trapped below him. 

“Please, Jonathan,” you beg.

“Darling, darling,” he kissed along your chin, “I only want to take care you, hm? Just because he never did, doesn't mean no one will.”

“No, stop,” your voice crackles, “please…”

“Sorry, darling, sorry,” he rasps between nibbles along your neck, “I won't mention him. It's best…” he kisses your shoulder, “if we both forgot that pesky ex.”

“N-no,” you squirm, “please…”

“I won't…” he let's the sentence dangle, “no, I only want a little.”

You wriggle, groaning at the agony it nails into your bones. You still to quiet the pangs, whining as he lifts himself over you. His hand wanders up and down your side as his lips descend your body.

He pushes up the bottom of the tee and bares your stomach. You babble and hide beneath your eyelids. He rolls the fabric above your chest as his lips tickle the tender flesh there. You quiver as he nips and pecks at you.

For a moment, you think it might be delirium. That the painkillers have skewed your mind. You want to believe it but it's all too real.

Just as real as that flamed stoked in your core. That glimmer of desire that lights your horror. You shouldn't like it. You shouldn't want it. It's that desire that comes from neglect. Of desperation.

His hand roves over your body, admiring you, worshipping you. No, consuming you, controlling you, violating you. You shudder as he teethes and kisses along your chest, toying with your sensitive buds and your overwrought nerves.

“It feels nice, doesn't it darling?” He speaks into your flesh, “I can tell, the way you tremble…”

You let out a moan, tortured but easily mistaken for delight. His hand brushes along your hip and down your thigh. He cloying drags his fingers back and forth, circling nearer and nearer your vee. 

You bite your lip as he nudges you lightly, shifting his legs between yours. He hovers over you, smothering your lips once more. He kisses you hungrily as his fingers trail along your pelvis. He delves between your folds as he swallows your groan.

He rubs you, slow but firm, curious but certain. His touch awakens your body even as your mind stays foggy. He draws pleasure from you easily. Expertly. 

As before, you are defenseless. You have no way to resist him. He is above you in every way. More than physically. 

He rolls your bud beneath his fingertips. He kisses you ravenously, puffing and panting, moving his hips in time with his hand. He slides his fingers down and dips them inside you, pressing the heel if his hand against you.

He rocks his hand, electricity shooting down to your toes and up to the crown of your head. You tense as the unyielding pain mingles with your stolen delight. You whine and turn your head away, his lips smearing across your cheek.

He breathes in your ear, growling as he tilts his hand, adding to the pulsing pressure in your core. You can feel how wet you are. You can hear it. You bite back another moan.

This isn't fair. It isn't. But life has never been very fair to you. Nor have the men in it.

[chloe302225]

Helping Hand 12

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, manipulation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

Part of the Bookstore AU

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“It won’t do to have you so far from me,” Jonathan rebukes as he angles you through a new doorway. The vague scent of sandalwood tinges the are, “so I should have you close.”

He sets you on the bed, larger than your previous one, as you groan and reach to the strap of your sling. Your shoulder is at battle with your hip as to which can cause more agony. On that front, this man wins all. He has sparked in you a pain much deeper than the physical.

“Dear,” he brushes his fingertips over your forehead, “you are due for more painkillers. Perhaps tea and something to eat. You won’t do well to keep taking the pills on an empty stomach.”

You whimper as you try to shift yourself, your back at an awkward angle against the single pillow. He’s quick to bend over you once more, dragging over another pillow and adjusting you just so. You stop your squirming and relent to his control. You turn your face away as tears glisten along the rims of your eyes.

“You will be better, darling, but you need to relax. Let me take care of you,” he caresses your cheek, “did you ever have a man to do so?”

You bite back a retort. You wouldn’t need him if he hadn’t sabotaged you. You didn’t need any man before him, you’d shed the dead weight of your ex-husband happily. It’s only now, trapped with another, that you realise what a relief that had been.

“I understand, the pain overwhelms you,” he leans in to kiss your forehead, “let me fetch you your medicine.”

He struts away. You peek at his departure, seeing his lithe steps and well-forged shoulders strut away. He’s a finely built man, handsome, but something sinister makes him hideous. You knew from the moment you met him, he was too good to be true. As anything ever is.

You turn your head left then right. You take in the strange space. The decor is just as precise and refined as the rest of the house. You prefer the simplicity of your apartment. That morsel of security you’d built there. All the pretty things in the world couldn’t make this bearable.

A light catches your eye, the subtle buzz of vibration. You see your phone case, magenta with a plum trim, on the sleek white dresser. Your lip trembles as you tense. You pause and listen to the house through the open door.

You’re not entirely helpless. You won’t surrender this easily. You take several breaths, bracing yourself for the effort of rolling onto your side. You use the momentum to get your feet to the floor and lean on the nightstand to gain your balance.

Your leg buckles but you don’t fall. You grip your side and hobble a single step, swaying, collecting yourself before the next. Your heart beats faster and faster as your progress across the room is slow and faltering. You don’t have much time.

You nearly collapse against the dresser. You barely keep it from clattering against the wall loudly, the jewellery tray and lamp wobbling but not turning over. You pick up your phone and swipe up the screen. The lock’s been removed. Shit.

The notification is a system reminder to put unused apps to sleep. You swipe it away and tap onto your contacts. Andy’s number is gone and every message he spammed in the hours before your desolation. Good riddance.

Your mom’s number scrolls under your thumb. You haven’t seen her since the family Christmas before your divorce. She wasn’t happy about it. Somehow she took the dissolution of your marriage personally.

You don’t need friends, you just need the police. You bring up the keypad and a red icon blinks back at you. No sim. Your pulse thrums in your throat and temples. You’re fucked.

Your legs fold and you slip onto the floor. You’re once more helpless on your back, like a turtle in its shell. You clutch the gutted phone in your hand and stare at the ceiling. You hear his approach, the soft rattle of porcelain and pills.

“Oh, my,” Jonathan enters and there’s a clink as he sets down the tray in his hands.

You watch him numbly as he comes to you. First, he takes the phone and places it back on the dresser. Then he scoops you up and brings you back to the bed. He’s careful to pull the covers to your waist this time. He lingers to run his hands over your hair and straighten the shirt on your shoulders.

“I’ve made certain you won’t be disturbed in your recovery. Myself as well. I’ve spoken with the store manager and he will keep me updated with any urgent issues.” He parts and retrieves the tray, coming back to rest it on the nightstand. “You will have my undivided care.”

You cringe and let your vision blur. He takes the bowl from the tray and cradles it over his lap, stirring with the spoon.

“Soup, it should be light on your stomach,” he explains, “you do need to eat. You wouldn’t want to add to your troubles.”

You blink and say nothing. He sighs but doesn’t reproach you. That noise is reprimand enough. He raises the spoon before your lips and you open your mouth. You look above you, avoiding a glance in his direction. You let him feed you, wanting it to just be over.

There’s a dribble along your lip. He tuts and sets the spoon back in the bowl. He brings his thumb up to wipe away the soup from your lower lip, his touch creeping up as he dips inside your mouth. Your eyes widen and meet his as he delves further in, turning his hand to push your mouth snug around him.

“I know you’re not used to someone taking care of you. That you never had anyone who wanted to,” he says as he drags his finger back out, curling his fingers to brush his knuckles along your cheek, “it’s what you’ve always wanted. What you need.”

He retracts his hand and scoops up more of the soup, “it’d be easier if you just admitted it. Darling,” he brings the spoon to your mouth again, “if only you knew all the things I would do for you.”

[chloe302225]

Helping Hand 11

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, manipulation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

“I don't want them,” you try to wave Jonathan off as he offers a pair of pills, “I don't, urgh, need them, I'll deal–”

“You can barely speak for the pain, darling–”

“Stop calling me that,” you hiss, shaking as your hip throbs. Even the bed offers little comfort. Bigger and softer than your own yet entirely unwelcoming. “Can I… Can I have the coffee? My head is pounding.”

You reach past his hand and he clucks, “better reason for you to take your pills.” He moves the mug away, “take them and you may have some coffee.”

“Are you ser–”

You try to sit up straight and fall back against the heaped pillows, “argh, why are you doing this?”

“Why am I taking care of you? Well, anyone with decency–”

“You did this to me–”

“You tripped on the rug. As for your shoulder, I believe that was the creature you call an ex-husband. You would do yourself a favour by letting him go… like he did you.”

“You don't know shit about my marriage,” you growl, eyes pricking hotly, “fine, fine,” you wince as your muscles raze with fire, “I'll take the damn pills. I can't stand it.”

You grab the pills, scratching his palm, and throw them between your dry lips. You moan and gurgle as you try to force them down. He offers the coffee and you take it without a second thought, gulping down the bitterness and pasty tablets.

“Why… why don't you find someone who isn't broken? Someone younger?” You croak, resting the hot mug over your chest.

“You speak so unkindly of yourself, it's no wonder you refuse my kindness,” reproaches, “you're not broken, you are malleable…”

“Jonathan,” you breathe, his words slicing to your core. He's not wrong, you let Andy mold you into his cookie cutter and all for what?

“Enjoy your coffee, please,” he grins, “you've earned it.”

You flinch. You feel so small and weak. Exactly how you felt with Andy. How you've felt ever since. And now this man, no better than the last, only better at playing the gentleman.

“I want to sleep,” you murmur and look away from him.

“Yes, lots of rest,” he coos, “darling, I only want you happy and healthy.”

🩵

You only drink half the mug before you give in to dread. You're trapped here. Not just in this house but your own body.

You close your eyes as the painkillers kick in. They cannot soothe your anxiety but dull the world enough for you to doze. You have no way to track the time but you wake in a similar light, still racked and cramped.

You push your elbow into the bed and lift yourself. Even just a half cup has your bladder urgently full. You rock and writhe until you manage to sit up and sidle to the edge.

You look around, just the idea of standing is defeating. You need to stop assuming things can't get worse. You brace the bed with one arm and repress a yowl as you force yourself to your feet.

You lean on one foot, your hip giving a frightening thrum as you slowly move your leg. You limp, inch by inch, shuffling as you whimper with each step to the door. You sniffle as you enter the hallway, leaning on the wall as your body shakes.

You feel along and find a bathroom and nearly fall through the doorway. You catch yourself on the sink and sob. You kick the door shut but it doesn't catch. You don't care.

You use your unslung arm to get your pants down and angle down onto the toilet. You lean back with a heave and let go. The soft trickle underlines your mewling.

You finish up and pull yourself up with the counter. You flush, bent over the marble as you slide over to wash your hands. You just need to get back to the bed. One thing at a time.

You put a foot flat and push yourself straight. Your lower back spasms and you cry out, crumpling onto the bath mat. You curl on your side and whine, gulping as your eyelashes stick together.

Footsteps near softly and you look up at the figure standing over you. Soft tisks tickle your ears as Jonathan bends to touch your forehead. He lets his hand wander down your cheek.

“Darling, you should've called for me. You know, that's your problem,” he shifts around and scoops his arms under you. He grunts as he stands straight, his strength a harsh contrast to your futility. “You try to do everything on your own. I'm here, darling. Whatever you need of me.”

You drop your head, hunched in his hold as he carries you into the hall. You don't argue. You learned better than that years ago. You should have realised then too that trust is a dangerous thing.

[chloe302225]

Helping Hand 10

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, manipulation, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You toss and turn, as much as you can with your injured shoulder. You fall asleep caught up in your exchange with Jonathan, replaying it until it distorts to dreamy nonsense. Just the sight of his face skewed in your subconscious.

When you wake, it is less than peaceful. You almost scream at agony tearing through your muscles. You must’ve rolled the wrong way. You manage to push yourself onto your back and grunt, wheezing out the pain as your eyes prick with tears.

You shake as you push yourself up, cradling your arm as you fix your sling to support it. It is unlike anything you've felt before. As if a rusty blade is sawing through your muscle.

You look down at your shirt, the borrow cotton tugging at your nerves. You still don't remember what happened to your uniform. Your assumption unsettles you too much to acknowledge. Would he really do that?

You stand slowly, moving at a snail's pace as you take in the unfamiliar place. You can't help but admire it. He keeps a fine house, the type you never could, the kind Andy nagged you for all those years.

You wander into the kitchen, as pristine and stylish as the rest of the house. It's like stepping into a lifestyle magazine. You stop short of the end of the counter and muse at propriety. It doesn't feel right to disturb the perfection, or as a guest to help yourself.

You turn back as a yawn greets you, wafting down the hall. Jonathan enters in only a towel, his blond hair speckled with beads of water as his skin glistens. He drops his arms and fixes the knot at his waist, clearing his throat as he gives a grin.

"Morning," he purrs, "I thought you'd still be asleep."

"Uh, no," you try to cross your arms out of habit and cry out.

"Oh, dear, do not tax yourself," he rushes closer as you shy away. Anyone with a body like his would be so unbothered in his half-naked state, "please, coffee? Tea? Whatever you've come in search of, I can take care of it."

You sigh and run your fingers along the seam of the sling. You chew your lip and your eyes list to the wall.

"Coffee, please," you relent. "Just something to get me going, then I'll be out of your hair."

"I am in no hurry to have you gone," he assures.

"But I should be," you sniff.

He sighs and goes to work. You listen as he opens and closes a cupboard, working swiftly at the counter. Soon the aroma of coffee brews and tickles your nose.

"Come, you should sit, it will be a few minutes," he gestures you into the hall, "after you."

You put your head down and go ahead of him. Even with the sling, you arm feels heavy. You step onto the runner that trims the hardwood and carefully pad across the embroidered pattern.

The world shifts suddenly and it's as if the rugs been pulled out from under you. Literally. You stumble forward, jarring your tortured muscles, twisting around desperately so you land on your hip with a startling force.

You lay on your side, whimpering as you peek down to your feet. You see the rug crumpled as Jonathan pulls his foot from atop it. He shows his teeth and tuts.

"Ah, no, darling," he nears and looks down at you, "my designer did mention I should put some trackpads under that to keep it in place."

You tremble as you try to sit up, your lower back struck with an electric pain. You writhe and clutch your shoulder, legs bent as you whine. It was an accident right, he wouldn't…

"Are you hurt?" He asks with enough concern to muffle your doubts. Why would he do that? No, you're just paranoid.

You push with hand, trying to sit up and yelp again. Your tears break through as you collapse. You shake your head.

"No, I'm… hurt."

"Darling, you really can't help yourself," he chuckles. "Here, we can't have you on the couch, you'll need proper support."

He kneels and scoops you up easily, lifting you to cradle you against his naked torso. You groan as your head lolls, the pain rippling in your vision. It's too much to think straight but you know this isn't right. You have bad luck but it can't be that bad.

"What are you doing?" You hiss.

"Taking you to bed," he says, "I've a guest room. I would've shown you earlier but I didn't want to overextend you."

"Ah, ah," you cry out, "I… I should see the doctor–"

"Hush hush, darling, we'll get you abed and figure all that out," he climbs the stairs, unhindered by your added weight.

You squeeze your eyes shut and gnash your teeth. You have no choice but to surrender to his control. You can't do much more than fold like a broken doll.

You open your eyes as he enters a room and you glance over at the crisp white bedding. He lays you over it, carefully pulling back the blanket and leaving it folded back beside you. He stands straight, looking down at you with his hands on his hips, smirking. He's smirking.

"Jonathan," you murmur, "why–"

"You've fallen. Very unfortunately," he tisks, "you're in no state to return to work or be alone."

"Why would you–"

"How could you trip so carelessly? It is only lucky I was here to assist you," he lifts a finger in reproach, "and to see you well."

"Jonathan…" you croak.

"Not to worry, I'll fetch the painkillers. Ah and your coffee, it should be ready," he declares as he wags his finger and struts to the door. He pauses and looks back over his shoulder, "and I'll be certain your ex-husband cannot impede your recovery. No calls."

He winks and sets back on his path. You gape after him, choking on agony as you cling to your shoulder. This can't be real.

[chloe302225]

Helping Hand 9

Warnings: non/dubcon, mentions of divorce, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Characters: Jonathan Pine, 40s reader

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

You rouse, not fully, but enough to sense the blurry silhouette hovering around you. You try to throw your arm up only to remind yourself of your injury. You groan and lift your lashes higher, startled as Jonathan sets a tall glass of water on a coaster. He glances over at your groggy movement.

“Ah, darling, I thought to leave this for you,” he shows two of the green painkillers as he unfurls his long fingers, “you are due. However, they do note you should have something to eat. Were you very hungry?”

Your eyes are sticky and dry. You shake your head. It’s not just the drugs or the pain, it’s that you haven’t slept in months. Not really. You wake up, go to work, and come home, caught in so much worry you can barely stay still. And your marriage had been full of restless nights.

“It’s fine,” you murmur and try to sit up. You struggle and he’s quickly to help you, shifting you up to rest against the cushions. He hands you the pills and holds onto the water.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” he offers as you toss back the pills with your good arm. You reach for the glass and he hands it over. You drain almost half before giving it back. “You must be in an awful lot of pain. And I’ll be certain you are provided paid leave–”

“I don’t need you to do all this,” you argue, “really. Just tonight and I’ll be on my way.”

“It isn’t an imposition–”

“I told you, I’m fine,” you lean back and groan.

“That isn’t what the doctor said.”

You close your eyes and sigh. You don’t have the strength to argue. Besides, what can you say? He isn’t doing anything wrong. He’s doing a lot more for you than your ex ever did.

“I’ll get a cab in the morning,” you insist.

You sense him linger, expecting a retort, but he offers nothing else. He leaves you without further instigation. Another thing Andy could never do. He always had to have the last word.

You let yourself drift back to sleep, letting go of your irritation, clinging to the dregs of drowsiness that crust in your eyes. You sink into the deep sludge of the medicated abyss. You could stay like that forever.

Dreams streak the insides of your eyelids, the sort that don’t make much sense. The sensation of floating and warmth along your arms and sides, a tickle down to your hips. Your legs move without effort. The soft roll of rich timbre, dulcet and cooing.

You wake in darkness, only the moonlight gleaming in to limn the low glass coffee table and frames mounted on the wall. You take slow, deep breaths, enjoying your calm fatigue. You could just as easily fall back asleep. Your eyes close and your head lolls to the side.

You hear a buzzing, the low rumble tweaking your nerves. A phone. Yours? It doesn’t matter.

You wait it out and sink into the pillow, your unbound arms stretching down as you feel the soft throw blanket tucked around your silhouette. You realise then your clothes have been changed; the polyester uniform polo has been replaced by a loose tee and the dark pants with a too-long pair of sweats. You don’t remember changing.

The buzzing comes again. You sneer. What time is it? You hear soft pads and the buzzing softens before ending completely.

“Hello,” the voice is deliberately low as it answers, you hear a garbled scratch from the speaker, “no, I’m afraid she is unavailable.” A pause, “well, given the time of evening, I think it should be expected– sir, I don’t care who you are, she is sleeping– ah, ah, you’ve been calling all night, I am aware but did you ever think she is busy–” He snickers, "who am I? Are you so concerned--"

Your heart flutters as you piece together the one sided conversation. It ends with a chuckle and hum. You listen to the light footfalls near and watch the shadow place down your cell phone on the glass table. The figure stands straight and looms.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you mutter, “I can deal with my ex-husband.”

He takes a breath, “pardon, I didn’t mean to overstep. He is rather persistent.”

“Mhmm,” you shift onto your good shoulder, “still… none of your business.”

He’s quiet. You feel him watching you. He can’t see much but it feels as if he can.

“Do you always bite the hand that feeds?” He challenges.

You snort, “ah, now you sound like him–”

“Don’t,” he warns, an edge in his voice, “do not compare me. As little as I know of the man, I know it is an insult. Perhaps you might consider that I’ve treated you much better than he ever would or could. Accept that I am entirely different… and not so foolish as to leave a woman like yourself.”

You roll your eyes beneath the lids and exhale, “you don’t know me like that.”

“Fair, but I know what I want,” he says flippantly and turns on his heel, “a good night’s sleep may help you consider the same.”

He strides off, leaving you in perplexing silence. You listen to his footsteps ascend an unseen staircase. You keep from crinkling your forehead, not wanting to set deeper the lines already etched there.

What does he mean? What exactly does he want?