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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 months ago

Text

Blind Offer 7

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon, manipulation, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After a leak causes you to evacuate your apartment, your landlord offers a vacant unit that’s too good to be true. (short!plus!reader)

Character: Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Lloyd Hansen, and August Walker

Note: Welcome back yall

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

Love you like I love turning intended one shots into series. Take care. 💖

Steve lets out a long breath and shuts the book. He lays it on the bath desk and nods. You stay where you, mashing your palms together by the door, longing to run away.

“Take this away,” he demands curtly without looking at you.

“Yes, sir,” you trip forward and clack your heels on the tile before you can steady yourself.

You remove the empty glass, streaked with moisture, and put it on the counter. Then you lift the lap desk, balancing the book atop it, and rest it further back on the marble. The water shifts noisily behind you and reluctantly, you face him again.

“I prefer the sage and peppermint soap,” he says as he leans back against the side of the tub, his head tilted back with a sigh, “ugh, long day...”

You let his words hang. Is he mocking you? Yes. This is all at your expense.

You near the tub again and look at the bath shelf. There’s several bottles that weren’t there before. You bend to reach over him as he waits expectantly. You take the black silicon body scrubber along with the sage soap and stand straight. You squeeze out a dollop onto the soft bristles and dare to look down on Steve.

Oh. You try not to see, only try to do what he wants. You set the soap aside and dip the scrubber into the water then lather. You grip the edge of the tub as you lean over him. Your hand shakes as you reach to touch his broad chest. The tension eases as you drag across his firm muscle.

He’s watching you. You feel his gaze and are caught glancing up by his crystal blue eyes. You blanch and he smirks.

“When you use that toy, do you think of me?” He growls.

You flinch but don’t recoil. You look down as you focus on washing his chest and shoulders. You swallow and bite down on your humiliation.

“Honey, I know you’re not blind. Neither am I. You’re a gorgeous girl and well, look at me...” he purrs and brings his hand above the surface to tickle your other hand. “You wanna play with that toy tonight? Want someone to play with?”

You quiver and dip your hand in the water again. He snickers and sits up, bracing the sides of the tub, and stands. The water slakes off of his thick form.

“Why am I asking?” He faces you, “you’ll do whatever I want, honey.” He stands before you staunchly, “continue.”

You continue to wash him. You push the suds down his stomach and he sucks it in as his muscles contract. You gets his sides then his back as he turns. The lower you get, the less diligent you are.

When he faces you again, he catches your hand, and you let out a squeak. He’s hard. He slips the scrubber from your hand and replaces it with a cloth. He closes your grasp around his rigid length.

“Gotta get it all,” he purrs.

You tremble and he pumps your hand once, up, then down.

“Be thorough, honey.”

You stare at the lines of his torso, just above your hand. You move mechanically, stroking him firmly, gripping tighter just to keep from disassembling. He chuffs and shakes, grunting through his nose as he latches onto your chest.

“Little more,” he grits between his teeth.

You close your eyes and keep the motion. This is disgusting. He’s disgusting. And you have no choice. As he squeezes your tit, kneading it, you can only think of that woman in her smeared make up. Is she still around or are you merely a replacement?

“Ah, god,” he spasms and warmth spurts up your forearm and down the washcloth’s edge. You open your eyes with immediate regret. His cum strings in glistening ribbons, the smell cutting through the scent of sage. “Mmm,” he fondles you a little more before he pulls away, “bad girls make messes, good girls clean them up.”

You open your hand and let go of him. Before you can use it to wipe clean your arm, he snatches it. He holds it above you, dripping onto the tile in front of you.

“No,” he sneers “not like that.”

You frown in confusion.

“Clean it up,” he repeats with punctuation and taps your mouth with his thick finger.

His meaning sinks into your stomach and churns. You shudder and lift your arm. Your lip curls as you bring it up and poke out your tongue. The taste nearly makes your wretch. Your body racks as you make yourself lick up his cup.

He hums as he watches you, “such a good girl, keeping me clean.”

Your eyes sting with tears as your stomach and chest contract. You’re repulsed by yourself as much as him. How fucking weak are you just going along with it. What else can you do? The flashes of the woman’s pretty face streaked with tears and fear keep you from letting out the surge of self-hatred and rage.

“Yes, sir,” you whisper.

“Finish.” He demands.

You swallow down the order and the taste of him. Humiliation roils around you, adding to the heat fed into the air by the bath water. He takes the washcloth and tosses it, returning the scrubber to your hand. You continue on the task, pretending as if you were merely washing a counter or a tabletop.

When at last he’s content, he lowers himself back into the water. You cling to the scrubbie, unsure. He growls. You go rigid.

“Hair.”

The order is clear. You put the soap back on the shelf, trading it for shampoo in a similar scent. You use the small plastic jug to wet his hair, using your hand to block the pour from his face. You lather, scrubbing his scalp, the act made awkward as your thoughts race. You’ve never had to wash another person’s hair.

His groans taint the innocent deed as he leans his head back. You try not to show your uncertainty. Your bottom continues to pulse each time you think of resisting. You can even recall exactly how the table felt against you with each heartless strike.

You rinse out the soap, dragging your fingers through his hair, pouring until the water is clear and free of bubbles. You set the thing back as you found them and Steve stretches his neck with a choked grunt. He Pushes himself to his feet again, careless of the water that drips onto the floor.

He steps over the edge and you back up. You search and grab the towel. The little things are your last attempt at appeasing him. You might just make it through the night. Does it matter? What about tomorrow?

You dry him off as he drips onto the bath mat and around it. He lets you, bending for you to get his hair. Even naked, his size and strength is stark against your own. You don’t miss the twitching lower down either.

“Did you lay my pajamas out for me?” He asks.

You cringe. Of course, you’re missing something. You let him claim the towel as he wraps it around his waist.

“Sorry, sir, I didn’t have the chance--”

“Go, do it,” he commands.

“Yes, sir.”

You are happy enough to get some space. As demeaning as his tone is, it’s better than lingering. You turn and flit off to figure out the pajamas.

You head down the hall and slow. Steve clears his throat from behind you and you turn back to find him peeking around the door frame.

“The main bedroom. At the end,” he instructs.

You nod and carry on. You’d almost gone into the room you’d been occupying. You deign to call it your own room. This place is not your home. It’s a prison and you hate yourself for not realising it sooner. Every single red flag waves in your memory and makes you want to tear your own eyes out.

You go into the larger bedroom. You flick the light on and peer around. The overhead light has a simplistic white glass shade that casts over the space brightly. There are sconces on either side of the king bed, a switch beside each for their control, and nightstands that match the sleek black bed frame. Beneath the grand bed, a plush white rug across the dark hardwood. Like the rest of the house, it’s pristine.

There’s a large closet nearly the expanse of a whole wall and two tall dressers, one to either corner as if to bookend the door you’ve come through. Another door stands opposite the closet through which you can only see shadows and the glean of the overhead light. It must be another bathroom.

You step further inside and stop short as movement catches your eye. You didn’t notice your reflection before, there above the headboard of the bed. Your heart drops and you look up. The bed is mirrored perfectly by the reflective panel above. You shiver and turn to the dresser.

You put your hand around the knob and pause. You squint as you bend to read the label and notice one on every drawer; each a single letter. You notice only four variations in initials; S, B, L, and A. That’s what they must be; S is Steve. Your blood simmers to a boil. There are more of them. That man on the speaker must be one of them.

You pull open the top drawer marked S. You pull out a pair of pajamas; plain blue cotton, a tee and matching pants. You shut the drawer with your hip and carry the armful to the bed.

You hear him coming down the hall. You lay the pajamas on the mattress and back up. He marches through and stops at the foot of the bed. He swipes the towel from around his waist and hurls it at you. You catch it with a gasp.

“There’s a mess in there.”

“Yes, sir,” you force out and keep the towel in hand.

“Towel goes in the laundry tomorrow. With my clothes. Hamper at the end of the hall.”

You repeat your acquiescence and carry on. The heels click incessantly beneath your strained arches. You enter the bathroom and gather up his disposed clothing. You ball it all up with the towel and dump it all in the standing hamper.

You drain the tub and wipe down the sides. You take the washcloth from the sink and add it to the laundry. You’d rather burn it. You wash your hand before you finish sopping up the little puddles of water on the tile. You hang the bathmat over the edge of the tub to dry out. You even flush the yellow piss he left in the toilet. That feels especially deliberate of him.

You return to him, click, click, click. You stop in the doorway as he pulls back the bedcovers. He glances over and narrows his eyes. Great, what cryptic order have you missed.

“You don’t look ready for bed.”

“Sorry, sir--”

“Get changed,” he interrupts you, “come back here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Off again. You’re irked by how he orders you around. You feel like a dog.

The room is barren of your things. It isn’t yours, that’s why. It’s made for the doll they’re trying to make you into. You go to the dresser and pull it open. It’s full of lace and silk and sheer fabrics. None of it meant for practicality.

You pull out a jade green nightly and shake your head. You retreat to the bed and sit, clutching the silk. This isn’t right. For once in your life, you’d rather be stocking shelves amidst the greedy customers and crow-like managers. You hate this all. You hate yourself for not being strong enough to get out.

“Never keep your man waiting,” the woman’s voice returns and makes you wince. You look around and find one of the picture frames has dissolved its usual image of a bicycle wheel and bucket. Her eyes is swollen and bruised despite her efforts to cover it with makeup, “men do not like to wait. You not only disrespect their time but them—Ah!”

She throws her hand up to shield herself before the screen goes black. You whimper and slump your shoulders. Your lip trembles as tears threaten to spill over. You can’t do this. Eventually, you’ll slip up again. You don’t want to be like her. A hollow shell of fear and yet what else can you do?

“Doll,” the man’s voice ripples through the air, “don’t make me repeat myself.”

You look up at the ceiling defiantly. You scowl and the bodiless voice laughs.

“Keep on,” he goads, “I’ll remember every single one.”

You stand and put your chin down. His threat is clear. Tonight, it’s Steve, one night, it will be him. You strip down and as you pull the silk over your head, the man’s low timbre roll in the air.

“Can’t wait, doll,” he taunts and the microphone clicks decisively.

You collect the clothes and put those in the hamper as well. You come back down the hall and make certain the lights are all off. You make your death walk towards the main room and peek inside as you approach. Steve lays across the bed, his pants tented without shame. He has one light on at his side of the bed.

��Turn that off,” he demands as you enter.

You flick off the overhead and come forward. He lifts his head to watch you. You approach the side of the bed and he stretches his arm across to rub the space beside him. He flips back the covers and winks.

“You look good but... green’s not my colour.”

You furrow your brows as you warily touch the mattress, pressing one knee to the edge, “sorry, sir, should I change?”

“No,” he rolls onto his side and grabs your arm, hauling you up impatiently, “I like the way your tits look in that.”

You clamp your lips tight to keep form showing your repulsion. He forces you against him so you feel his need against you. He growls in his throat as his hand trails up your arm. He frames your chin and forces you to look at him. His nose brushes yours.

“I knew you were perfect the day you signed the lease, honey,” he snarls as he rubs the tip of his nose against yours. “So sweet and soft--”

You press your hand to his chest and whimper. The idea that he’s been planning this, that it was all manufactured, a trap, is worse than the reality itself. Was the washer made to break or was it just a perfect opportunity?

“It’s really too bad no one’s seen you around the building in days...” he purrs, “and once you fail to turn up for work... well... they’ll replace you but who will really think to look. Another missing girl in the city. Forgotten with yesterday’s headlines.”

“Please, stop,” you beg as you curl your fingers against the light cotton across his chest.

“You should be thanking me, baby,” he pulls you with him as he falls onto his back, keeping you nestled in his thick arm, “a girl like you shouldn’t be stocking shelves and smiling at strange men.” He reaches with his other hand to flip off the light, “you should know your place. You need a good man, maybe more, to show you.”

The darkness sets in with the ominous tilt of his words. There is no way out of it. And even if someone were to look for you, how could they even know you would be here? You never mentioned it to your coworkers, never thought to say anything to your mother’s sparse texts. She never answered anyhow.

You were stupid. You trusted him. A fucking landlord. You should know better than that.

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