Kellhems - Steve Rogers Wife

Mission Control 9

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, stalking, 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: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

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 ❤️

Fear courses through you; bolsters you. You tighten you grip and feel how he tenses with it. You squeeze him firmly and pump him. The hot friction draws a groan from him. You pause, unsure if it’s a noise of delight or something else.

He reaches for you. You flinch. He pokes your thigh, once, twice, and three times before you take the hint. You open your legs and he swipes his fingers up and down your cunt. He swirls around your slickness, soaking himself in it, then recoils.

He pushes your hand away and spreads your juices around his turgid length. As he did before, he brings you grip to him. He puts his hand around yours and guides you in a smooth motion.

He shudders and lets out a shaky drone. He does it again and pushes his chest out. He squeezes your hand before he lets you go. You keep your hand moving. That’s what keeps him from hurting you. If you do as he wants. You only dread when you don’t know what he wants. So long as he stays quiet, you’ll have to keep guessing.

He stretches his arm across you and grabs your shoulder. He turns you to face him. You let him guide you. You put your head on his shoulder and keep working him. He groans as his fingers curl tightly into your flesh. He grits his teeth and closes his eyes.

He tickles down your arm and traces down to your side. He follows the curve of your waist and hip and draws his touch back up. His fingertips continue to wander, almost curiously as he hums and huffs.

He brings his hand up behind your head and clutches your hair. The roots strain in his grasp and you hiss through your teeth. You brace yourself for him to wrench the follicles out.

He doesn’t. He clasps on tightly but does not yank, only keeping you close, keeping you under control. His breath hitches, chest rising and falling, voice scraping up his throat. He seizes, muscles tensing, toes curling, knees slightly bent.

He cums, gushing over your fingers and knuckles, dripping under your palm and smearing up and down his length. He shakes and snarls, locking onto your wrist as he forces you still. You lay there and wait. He drags your hand from around him and puts it on his chest. He flattens it there as the scent of your excess lingers in the air.

He’s placid. For now.

Slowly, his breath evens out. You feel him go rigid and lets go of your hand. He sits up without a car and you fall away. You roll onto your back and watch him. He is mechanical as he rises and stalks to the door. It opens and shuts in his stead.

You’re alone but not less afraid. You don’t dare move from where he left you. Something tells you that’s wrong. If you can avoid provoking him, you can languish in inaction.

Time unfurls around you in a pulsing static. When he returns, the door snaps so loud you wince. You listen to him but do not look. Not until he approaches you. He hands you a wet cloth, folded. You take it as you sit up.

“Thank you,” you say.

You don’t expect a response or get one. You gingerly wipe your cunt with the cloth. You’re tender and thrumming.

He wears a pair of black pants. He backs away and goes to the table. He takes something. He must have brought that with him. He takes the matte silver packet and returns to you. He raises it to show you. He rubs it between his hands. You listen to the friction.

He tosses it at you. The packet is hot, almost intolerably so. You lift it from your lap by the corner. There’s no writing on it, just a sticker with an abstract outline of elbow past.

You look up at him as he stares, then back at the packet. You grab the tap at the top and glance up again. His pupils pinpoint. You slowly tear the top and look inside. The artificial yellow of the macaroni inside wafts up the scent of cheese. It steams from within. How can that be?

You peek at him again. He nods. You squeeze the packet and daintily take the noodle that sticks out between your teeth. There’s a faint flavour of cheese but overall, it’s bland. You chew without care. You’re starving.

You can’t help yourself from tipping the packet and devouring it in only a few bites. Even as the heat makes your eyes water. When you finish, you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand.

He comes forward and hands you a bottle of water. You take it with another thank you and empty it just as quickly. He looms over you.

Your eyes flick up and meet his. Once more, he is blank. You nearly deflate. There’s nothing in the pit of his bold irises.

He backs away and circles the bed. He goes to the armoire and pulls out a black shirt. He dresses, strapping on a leather harness and body armor, knife straps, gloves, boots. He clothes himself for battle, capping it off with a black cowl that covers his face entirely.

His shoulders square as he stares into the armoire. He reaches inside and pulls something else out. It’s large and round, though the lower edge is slightly misshapen. He turns to face you with the shield and your mouth falls open.

The silver is scratched and dented, worn from use, but you see what once was; chips of red and blue and the etched outline of a star at the center. Your eyes crawl up from the shield to his masked face. You recreate what’s beneath from the morsels in your mind.

It simply can’t be him. You know it’s not. It might be his body but it’s not his mind. That is not Captain America. That is something else.