A remarkable but insignificant woman in your village, your life changes irrevocably and in frightening ways the day you wed the son of the village chieftain. Your nuptials were unknown to the fierce viking warrior and king Steven and his men the day they landed on your shores, but he is not unhappy about the opportunity that presents itself in claiming the bride.
Content Warnings: [check individual parts for their respective warnings] DARK STORY, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut, rough sex, use of pet name (little bride, little wife), human tribute/trade, kidnapped wife
↠ So Black the Darkness Hums
↠ Ceremonial Rituals
↠ Once More at the Shrine
↠ Fierce Affirming Sight of Sunlight Steven's POV
↠ Come Down from Battle
↠ The Rumble Where You Lay
↠ Fervent Flickers of Flame
↠ It Rises with the Fall
↠ The Inevitable, Ruinous Ache
↠ more to come
What if this Steve were a mob boss instead of a Viking King?
Commentary:
an ask about whether or not his queen would consider divorce
Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steve Rogers x curvy Female!Reader, unnamed husband of reader
Word Count: 9.1k
Summary: Your wedding day is destroyed when your village is raided by the vicious king Steven and his viking warriors. He will lay claim to all he wants, including you.
Content/Warnings: DARK, invoking prima nocta, non-consent/rape, stealing of virginity, explicit smut (oral - male and female receiving, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, vaginal intercourse, anal fingering, anal intercourse, breastplay, overstimulation, orgasm denial, forced orgasms), use of pet name (little bride), dacryphilia, innocence kink, implied breeding kink, exhibitionism, human tribute/trade
Notes: I was struck by the idea of a very mean viking Steve last Thursday, and he would not let me go. Thanks to the encouragements from @biteofcherry, @witchywithwhiskey, and @vonalyn. An unapologetically brutal offering for the ninth week of Chris-mas.
Additional Note: I've gone with the term magnate over chieftan per this source.
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
You had already made a long walk, dressed in white, towards a man today. But where this morning you had walked happily in the sunlight to your betrothed - the eldest son of the village magnate - now you walk over the flagstones of the village hall to the seat typically occupied by the magnate.
A seat now filled by the brutal and terrifying Steven - warrior and king of an army which had landed on the shores of your village to raid and conquer today.
And conquer they had.
Your white dress, once pristine and flowing, now clings to your skin, damp with sweat and streaked with dirt and leaves. The veil that had adorned your hair this morning lies discarded somewhere in the forest, torn away by grasping branches as you fled.
The memory of your desperate flight from your wedding into the woods plays in your mind like a fevered dream. The screams of the villagers, the clash of steel, the acrid smell of smoke as buildings burned – all of it had driven you and a group of women and children to seek refuge among the ancient oaks. The forest, usually a place of comfort and familiarity, became a labyrinth of terror as you led the group deeper and deeper, branches scratching at your arms and face, tearing at the delicate fabric of your gown. The sounds of pursuit never seemed to fade, no matter how far you ran.
As dusk fell, you huddled together, exhausted, praying to gods old and new that you would not be found. But the gods were silent, and the crunch of heavy boots on fallen leaves had filled their absence. You were all discovered, bound and forced back.
Your heart pounds in your chest as you approach the throne, each step echoing in the cavernous hall. The white gown that once symbolized joy now feels like a shroud.
The smell of blood and sweat permeates the room, a stark contrast to the polished wood and fine tapestries of the hall.
Steven's piercing eyes lock onto yours, a predatory gleam reflecting in their depths like shards of ice. His massive frame dwarfs the ornate chair, his battle-scarred hands gripping the armrests with a strength that could crush them at any moment. A round, wooden shield leans against the side of the throne. He looks both handsome and terrifying, his rugged features perfectly fitting for a fierce Viking warrior king. The intensity in his gaze sends shivers down your spine, making you wonder if he is capable of unspeakable violence or if it is all just an act to maintain his reputation as a fearsome leader. Either way, there is no denying the raw power emanating from him, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from the captivating figure before you.
Your steps falter, but a rough shove from one of Steven's men propels you forward. You stumble, nearly falling at the conqueror's feet.
"So," Steven's voice booms, a mix of amusement and contempt, "you are the bride I've heard so much about."
His face is scarred, weathered by countless battles, but still impossibly handsome, and his eyes gleam with intelligence. You see something there – a flicker that suggests he is not just a brutal conqueror, but a man with depth and complexity.
Dangerous.
"I hear you were wedded to the fine magnate’s son," Steven continues, a cruel smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "How fortunate that I arrived in time for the celebration."
Your throat constricts, choking back the bitter retort that threatens to escape. You force yourself to square your shoulders and hold his gaze, summoning every ounce of courage you possess.
Steven's eyes narrow as he studies you, his gaze raking over your disheveled form with predatory intensity. He leans forward, the worn leather of his armor creaking with the movement.
"Come closer, little bride," he beckons, his voice a low rumble that sends shivers down your spine.
Your feet feel leaden as you force yourself to take another step forward. You are by no means small, but he is so large in comparison that the term ‘little’ would apply to most who come into his presence. The flagstones beneath you are cold and unforgiving, a stark contrast to the soft grass you had walked upon just hours before, your heart full of hope and promise.
Steven's lips curl into a wolfish grin as you approach. "Tell me," he says, his voice deceptively casual, "were you to be a proper bride for your husband?"
The insinuation in his words is clear, and heat rises to your cheeks. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes hungry and leering. You swallow hard, struggling to maintain your composure.
"I was to be a dutiful wife," you manage to say, your voice barely above a whisper.
Steven's laughter booms through the hall, echoing off the stone walls. "'Dutiful,'" he repeats, mockery dripping from the word. "And what duties did you imagine, little bride? Mending his clothes? Warming his bed?"
Your fists clench at your sides, nails digging into your palms. The urge to lash out, to scream defiance in his face, is almost overwhelming. But you force yourself to remain still, knowing that any show of rebellion could mean death – not just for you, but for the other villagers as well.
"Whatever duties were required of me," you reply, striving to keep your voice steady.
Steven leans back in the chair. "Tell me, little bride, do you know what happens to dutiful wives when their husbands fall?"
Your stomach churns at his words, but you force yourself to stand tall. "I imagine they mourn," you reply, a hint of defiance creeping into your voice.
The warrior king's eyes flash dangerously. In one fluid motion, he rises from the chair, towering over you. His hand, calloused and rough, grasps your chin, forcing you to look up at him.
"Oh, he may have wished for death in battle, but he was merely conquered and imprisoned.”
There’s a small relief, but it’s fleeting as you know this is far from over.
“Dutiful wives plead and bargain what they can to spare their husbands an even crueler fate.”
You tremble with both fear and anger.
“And the bride of the magnate’s eldest son needs to bargain for far more than the fate of only one man.”
Your sink to your knees at Steven's words, now with the fate of your village laid at your hands. Your once-pristine dress pools around you like spilled milk over the cold flagstones. The stone bites into your skin, a sharp reminder of how far you've fallen in just one day.
Tears blur your vision as you look up at Steven, his massive form looming over you like a colossus. The firelight from nearby sconces casts dancing shadows across his face, making his scars seem to writhe like serpents.
"Please," you whisper, your voice cracking. "Spare them. Spare the village. We are simple folk, we have nothing to offer but our loyalty and our labor."
A low chuckle rumbles from Steven's chest. "Getting on your knees is a good start, little bride," he says, his voice low.
Your cheeks burn with humiliation at his words, but you force yourself to remain kneeling. The fate of your village, your family, your new husband – all of it rests on your shoulders now.
Steven circles you slowly, like a predator sizing up its prey. His heavy boots echo on the stone floor, each step sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the eyes of his men upon you, their gazes a palpable weight.
"Loyalty and labor," Steven muses, coming to a stop before you. "Those are indeed valuable commodities. But I wonder, little bride, if you truly understand the depths of loyalty I require."
He crouches down, bringing his face level with yours. His breath is hot on your cheek as he speaks. "Your village will serve me, yes. But you... you will be the seal on our bargain. The trophy of my conquest."
Your heart stops.
“And to my earlier curiosity, I shall ask plainly and have you answer me in kind: are you a virgin bride? Untouched? Unsullied?”
You close your eyes and nod.
Any hope you had been harboring that your fate would not turn this way vanishes now.
“A king is entitled, if he so chooses, to invoke the rite of prima nocta.”
Your blood runs cold at Steven's words. Prima nocta - the right of the first night. An ancient, barbaric custom that you had only heard whispered about in hushed tones. Never did you imagine it would become your reality.
"No," you whisper, the word escaping your lips before you can stop it. You immediately regret it as Steven's eyes flash dangerously.
He grabs your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. "No?" he growls. "You dare refuse me? Perhaps you need a reminder of your position."
With a snap of his fingers, two of his men drag in a bound figure, depositing him on his knees off to the side of the hall but in clear view. Your heart sinks as you recognize your new husband, his body littered with cuts and bruises.
"For every refusal, every act of defiance," Steven says coldly, "he will suffer. And not just him. Your family, your friends, you are all of you conquered and my men can hunt through this village to pull any one of them here if it serves me.”
Your eyes well with tears because you do not doubt his resolve.
“You will spare them if I give you my maidenhood?”
He straightens back up to his full height. “I think I could spare your village for at least one night.”
Steven turns to his men, waving a dismissive hand. "Leave us," he commands, his voice echoing through the hall. "But the husband stays. He will bear witness."
The soldiers file out, swiftly acquiescing to their king’s request. The heavy doors slam shut behind them, the sound reverberating through your bones. Now it is only the three of you - conqueror, conquered, and the terrified bride between.
Steven's fingers tangle in your hair, forcing your head back. His other hand works at the fastenings of his breeches. "Show me how dutiful you can be, little bride," he growls.
Steven towers over you, his massive frame blocking out the flickering light from the nearby torches. You can smell the leather of his armor, the tang of sweat and metal that clings to his skin.
Your eyes flicker to your husband, but he refuses to look at you, apparently unwilling to watch. You would not have him suffer, but his refusal to even look your way hurts. You held no silly romantic notions for the eldest son of the magnate, but he was a fine man, good, you had been happy to make a match with him, and you thought there was a growing affection between you.
“Do not look at him, little bride,” Steven growls, impatiently shaking you by the hair. “Why are you looking at him? Look at me. He can not help you.”
You force your gaze back to Steven, your heart pounding. His eyes bore into yours, dark with desire and cruel triumph. You swallow hard, trying to find your voice.
"I... I don't know what to do," you whisper, heat flaming your cheeks. It's true - you are a virgin, after all, and the mechanics of what he expects are foreign to you.
Steven's laugh is low and mocking. "Oh, little bride," he says, his voice a rumble. "I'll teach you everything you need to know."
His hand leaves your hair, moving to cup your face. His thumb traces your lower lip, rough and calloused. "Open," he commands.
You hesitate, your eyes darting once more to your husband. This time, his gaze meets yours, and you see the resentment burning in them. It wounds you more than anything this cruel conquering king has done to you so far.
Steeling yourself, you look back up at Steven and part your lips.
His thumb pushes into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue. "Suck," he commands.
With trembling lips, you obey, closing your mouth around his thick digit. The taste of salt and leather fills your senses as you tentatively suck on his thumb. Steven's eyes darken with lust, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
"Good girl," he murmurs, his free hand working at the laces of his breeches. "That's it, use your tongue."
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you obey, swirling your tongue around his digit, your cheeks burning with shame. You try to focus solely on the task at hand, to forget where you are and what's happening. But the sound of your husband's labored breathing, the cold stone beneath your knees, the looming presence of Steven above you – it all serves as a stark reminder of your situation.
The sound of fabric rustling makes your stomach clench.
Steven withdraws his thumb, replacing it with two fingers. They press deeper into your mouth, nearly making you gag. "Breathe through your nose," he instructs. "You'll need to learn this."
Your heart races as you struggle to follow his command, fighting against your gag reflex as his fingers probe deeper. The taste of salt and leather is overwhelming, and you can feel saliva gathering at the corners of your mouth.
"Open your eyes," Steven growls. "I want you to see everything."
Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. With his free hand, he finishes unlacing his breeches, pushing them down just enough to free himself.
Your eyes widen at the sight of him, fully aroused and intimidatingly large. A whimper escapes you around his fingers, and he smirks.
"Don't worry, you'll learn to take all of me in time."
Steven withdraws his fingers from your mouth, leaving you gasping. His hand moves to grip your hair again, tilting your head back as he positions himself before you.
"Open wide, little bride," he commands, his voice husky with desire.
You hesitate, your heart pounding in your chest. The reality of what's about to happen crashes over you like a wave. But then you hear a pained grunt from your husband, and you know you have no choice. Closing your eyes, you part your lips.
Steven wastes no time, pushing himself into your mouth with a groan of satisfaction. The taste is foreign, salty and musky, and you struggle not to gag as he fills your mouth.
"Use your tongue," he instructs, his hand tightening in your hair. "And mind your teeth."
Tears stream down your face as you try to obey, running your tongue along the length of him. Your whole body trembles with fear and revulsion, but his grip on your hair is unrelenting. He thrusts in and out of your mouth, setting a brutal pace that makes you gag and gasp for air.
"You're doing well, my little bride," Steven grunts, his voice thick with lust. "Just relax and take it all in."
You try to comply, but it's a struggle. Your eyes are dripping with tears, overwhelmed from the force of his movements, and you feel like you're choking on him. But you know you have no choice but to endure it or risk angering him further.
As he continues to use your mouth for his pleasure, you feel a sense of detachment wash over you. It's like watching yourself from a distance, your body merely a tool for his satisfaction. You can't believe this is happening – this reality had never even haunted your nightmares.
A sharp pain shoots through your scalp as Steven tugs harder on your hair, pulling your head back even further. You whimper at the sting, struggling against the urge to cry out.
"You make such beautiful noises," he growls. "But I want more from you."
With that, he starts thrusting deeper into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat each time. You choke and gag around him, tears flowing freely down your cheeks now.
But then something changes – he starts moving faster and faster until suddenly he stills inside you with a groan of release. Your mouth is flooded with his release, and you swallow what you can, tasting him on your tongue as he pulls out of your mouth, leaving it feeling raw and sore. A mess of tears, his cum, and your drool drip down your chin and neck as you gasp for air.
Steven's thumb roughly grazes down your cheek, a false gesture of affection. Then he speaks, his eyes moving from you to your husband. "Such a pretty thing," he purrs. "Isn't she?" the question - a taunt - directed at your husband.
He shifts uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact with both of you. Steven's laughter fills the room as he continues, "They say you are a noble and good man, always treating her right. I bet you would never have asked her to do anything so degrading, may have waited months or years before coaxing her to suck your cock."
You don’t even know how to process what he is saying and how the other man is reacting - or not reacting - to Steve’s words.
“You would never use her.”
Steven’s focus shifts fully back to you.
“But I will.”
A whimper escapes your chest as he roughly grabs your chin.
“I will ruin you and wreck you for my pleasure, and he does not get to see what I will do to you next.”
The other man makes a strangled sound, finally trying to fight his bonds.
Steven laughs darkly. “It may have tortured you to watch,” he says, and then leans down and scoops you up from the floor and into his arms - bridal style to drive the point of his dominance and the humiliation of your special day home, “but not knowing what I do to your bride next will eat you alive for the rest of your days.”
As Steven carries you from the hall, your world becomes a blur of sensations and emotions. The warmth of his body contrasts sharply with the cold dread settling in your stomach. His arms, corded with muscle, hold you firmly against his broad chest, and you wrap your arms around his neck for steadiness as he moves so swiftly. The scent of leather, sweat, and something distinctly male envelops you in such close proximity, making your head spin.
As he carries you from the great hall, you find yourself unable to look away from his face. The flickering torchlight casts deep shadows across his features, accentuating the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the curve of his jaw. His eyes, when they meet yours, are dark and cold like the sea in a storm, and it chills your bones. He leans down and steals a fast, ruthless kiss, nipping at your bottom lip, and you look away when he ends it, uncomfortable with the sensation it stirs in your belly.
The corridors of the village hall, once so familiar, now seem alien and menacing. Shadows dance on the walls, cast by flickering torches, creating grotesque shapes that mirror the turmoil in your mind. The stone beneath Steven's feet echoes with each step, a rhythm that matches the frantic beating of your heart.
You pass tapestries depicting scenes from your village's history - harvests, celebrations, battles long past. They mock you now, reminders of a life that seems to have ended mere hours ago.
As Steven carries you further into the depths of the hall, the familiar corridors give way to parts of the building you've never seen before. The air grows cooler, damper, and you shiver involuntarily against his chest. He notices, a cruel smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Cold, little bride?" he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. "Don't worry, I'll warm you up soon enough."
You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out his words, to pretend this isn't happening. But the solid warmth of his body against yours, the strength in his arms as he carries you, makes denial impossible.
Finally, Steven comes to a stop before a heavy wooden door. With one hand still supporting you, he reaches out and pushes it open. The hinges creak ominously, and your heart rate spikes as he carries you across the threshold.
The room is dimly lit by a few sputtering candles, casting long shadows across the stone walls. In the center stands a large bed, draped in furs and silks - a stark contrast to the simple furnishings you're accustomed to. You see the ceremonial bridal lace, embroidered with the flower of the magnate’s clan, laying atop the other furs and silks and realize this was the bedchamber intended for you and your husband. The irony is not lost on you - this room, where you should have spent your wedding night and started your new life with your new husband, will now be the site of your defilement.
Steven tosses you onto the bed unceremoniously, and you land with a gasp, your white dress billowing around you.
Steven looms over you, his massive frame blocking out the dim candlelight. His eyes rove over your body hungrily, and you feel exposed despite still being fully clothed. You try to curl in on yourself, to shield your body from his gaze, but he tsks disapprovingly.
"Now, now, little bride," he says, his voice low and dangerous, "don't hide from me. I want to see all of you."
His hands move to the laces of your dress, and you flinch away instinctively. Steven's eyes narrow, and he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one large hand. With his other hand, he reaches for a knife at his hip, brings it up to the neckline of your dress, positioning the cool blade between your skin and the fabric and pulls down swiftly, tearing your dress down the middle. He releases your hands so he can use both of his to finish ripping away your clothing, throwing it to the floor. Your attempts to fight him are easily shunted, and once you’re naked, he presses you back down to the bed, holding the blade of the knife cruelly to your neck, just below your jaw.
“Do not think I will maintain much patience. I will not hesitate to punish if you continue to resist,” he promises. “Understand?”
“Yes,” you whisper, a tear escaping and rolling slowly down your cheek.
“Good," he says, his voice low and husky, "it's time to consummate the arrangement you agreed to fulfill."
He moves away, positioning himself next to the bed. His hands move to the fastenings of his leather armor, slowly removing each piece, then his shirt. The firelight gleams off his muscled torso as it's revealed, highlighting scars that tell tales of countless battles. You can't help but stare, a mix of fear and unwanted fascination coursing through you.
Steven notices your gaze and smirks. "Like what you see?" he taunts.
You quickly avert your eyes.
Steven chuckles darkly. "Don't be shy now, little bride. You'll become very familiar with every inch of me soon enough."
He finishes undressing, his massive frame now fully revealed in the flickering candlelight. Despite your fear and revulsion, you can't help but notice the raw power of his body - all hard muscle and battle scars. He is undeniably handsome in a rugged, dangerous way that makes your heart race with a confusing mix of terror and unwanted attraction.
Steven climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight as he looms over you. His hand trails down your body, callused fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. You shiver involuntarily, eyes closing.
"Open your eyes," he commands. "I want you to see everything I do to you."
Reluctantly, you obey, your gaze meeting his. His eyes are dark with lust, a predatory gleam that makes you shiver. He looms over you, his muscled body casting you in shadow.
"Please," you whisper, a final, desperate plea. "You don't have to do this."
Steven's hand cups your face. “But I want to,” he growls, “and I always take what I want.”
His lips crash down on yours, harsh and demanding. You whimper against his mouth, overwhelmed by his forcefulness. His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring every inch of your mouth as his hand slides down to grip your breast roughly.
You gasp at the sensation, your body betraying you as your nipple hardens under his touch. Steven chuckles against your lips.
"Your body knows what it wants, even if your mind resists," he murmurs, his thumb circling your nipple teasingly.
His hand continues its travels lower, skimming over your stomach before reaching the junction between your thighs. You try to squeeze your legs shut, but his knee wedges between them, forcing them apart and settling himself between them. His fingers find your most intimate place, and you jerk at the unfamiliar touch.
"So soft," he growls, his fingers exploring the apex between your thighs. "And already getting wet for me."
You flush with shame, hating your body's involuntary response, feeling things you’ve never felt before and with a cruel stranger instead of the man you had pledged yourself to, built a budding relationship and trust with through your courtship.
"So responsive," he murmurs against your lips. "And so tight. This will hurt, little bride, but I'll make it good for you too."
His fingers probe deeper, and you cry out at the intrusion. Steven's mouth moves to your neck, sucking and biting as his fingers work between your legs. You feel a building pressure, your body responding against your will to his ministrations.
"That's it," he murmurs against your skin. "Let yourself feel it."
Tears stream down your face as waves of unwanted pleasure course through you. Your hips buck involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of the sensation.
Steven chuckles darkly. "So eager now," he taunts. "Are you ready for me, little bride?"
Before you can respond, he positions himself at your entrance. You feel the blunt pressure of him against you, and panic rises in your chest.
"Wait," you gasp. "Please, I'm not-"
But Steven doesn't wait. With one powerful thrust, he sheathes himself inside you. The pain is sharp and immediate, tearing a cry from your throat. Steven groans in pleasure, his massive frame pinning you to the bed.
"So tight," he growls, his breath hot against your ear. "You feel even better than I imagined."
Tears stream down your face as he begins to move, each thrust sending waves of pain through your body. You turn your head away, unable to look at him, but his hand grips your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.
"I told you to watch," he snarls. "I want to see the moment you break."
His pace increases, and you whimper with each brutal thrust. The pain begins to dull, replaced by a strange, burning sensation that spreads through your lower body. Your breath comes in short gasps, matching the rhythm of his movements.
You whimper beneath him, your body trembling with the shock of the intrusion. Steven's hand cups your face, his thumb wiping away a tear that has escaped down your cheek. The gesture is almost tender, a stark contrast to the brutality of his actions.
"Breathe," he commands softly. "The pain will pass."
You try to breathe more evenly, but it feels impossible as he maintains his brutal, relentless pace.
Your body feels torn between pain and an unfamiliar, building pleasure. You hate yourself for responding to his touch, for the way your hips begin to move in rhythm with his thrusts. Steven notices, a triumphant gleam in his eyes.
"There it is," he growls, his pace quickening. "Your body knows what it wants, even as you continue to deny it."
His hand snakes between your bodies, finding a sensitive bundle of nerves above where you're joined. You cry out as he begins to circle it with his thumb, waves of sensation crashing over you.
"Let go," Steven commands, his voice husky with exertion. "Come for me, little bride."
Your body obeys even as your mind recoils. The pressure builds and builds until it finally shatters, your back arching as you cry out. Steven groans, his thrusts becoming erratic as he follows you over the edge, spilling himself deep inside you with a guttural moan.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is your mingled breathing. Steven's weight presses you into the mattress, his body slick with sweat. You lie there, trembling, tears streaming silently down your face as the reality of what just happened washes over you.
Steven lifts himself onto his elbows, looking down at you with an unreadable expression. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing away your tears. "You did well, little bride," he murmurs, his voice uncharacteristically gentle.
The tenderness in his touch and his voice confuses you, but the moment passes because his eyes darken once more as he gazes down at you. "The night is far from over," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire.
He shifts his massive body, moving downward until his face is level with your breasts. His rough hands cup the soft flesh, kneading and squeezing with a possessive grip that makes you gasp. You feel his hot breath against your skin, sending involuntary shivers through your body.
Steven's mouth descends on your left breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple before he takes it between his lips. He sucks hard, drawing a whimper from your throat. His teeth graze the sensitive bud, sending jolts of sensation through your body.
He alternates between your breasts, sucking and biting with increasing intensity. What starts as pleasure soon edges into discomfort, then pain. Your nipples, sensitive and swollen from his attention, ache as he continues his ministrations. You squirm beneath him, trying to escape the overwhelming sensations, but his body pins you firmly to the bed.
"Please," you gasp, "it's too much."
Steven lifts his head, his eyes dark with lust. "Nothing is too much for you, little bride," he growls. "You'll take everything I give you and beg for more."
His mouth returns to your breast, biting down hard enough to leave a mark. You cry out, tears springing to your eyes yet again. The pain mingles with a confusing undercurrent of pleasure, your body betraying you once again.
Steven's hand slides down your body, fingers finding the sensitive bundle of nerves between your legs again. He begins to stroke in slow, deliberate circles, and you feel yourself responding despite your best efforts to resist. You’re shocked at how your dripping hole is aching again already. These sensations are foreign to you and frightening to experience at his hand.
Steven's fingers move with expert precision, building a slow, inexorable tension in your core. His mouth continues its assault on your breasts, alternating between gentle sucks and sharp nips that send jolts of sensation through your body. The dual stimulation overwhelms your senses, leaving you gasping and writhing beneath him.
His fingers quicken their pace, circling your sensitive bud with increasing pressure. The tension coils tighter and tighter, a spring wound to the breaking point. Your hips begin to move of their own accord, chasing the building pleasure despite your mind's desperate attempts to resist.
Steven's mouth moves to your ear, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine. "That's it," he growls, his voice low and husky.
Your body trembles on the edge of release, every muscle taut with anticipation. Just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge of release, Steven suddenly withdraws his hand. You whimper at the loss, your body aching for completion. He lifts his head from your breast, a cruel smirk playing on his lips.
“I told you I would ruin you,” he murmurs, “and this is part of your ruining.”
Steven rolls onto his back, his massive frame sprawled across the bed. His eyes, dark with lust, lock onto yours as he beckons you with a crook of his finger. "Come here, little bride," he commands, his voice a low rumble. "I want to feel that pretty mouth on my cock again."
You hesitate, your body still trembling from the denied release. Steven's hand shoots out, gripping your hair and pulling you towards him. "I said, come here," he growls, his patience wearing thin.
Reluctantly, you crawl towards him, positioning yourself between his muscular thighs. His manhood lies semi-hard against his stomach, still glistening with the evidence of your earlier coupling. The sight and scent of it make your stomach churn with a mix of revulsion and unwanted arousal.
"Take me in your mouth," Steven orders, his hand still commanding the back of your head. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
Slowly, as if in a trance, you lower your trembling form towards his groin. You can't believe the turn of events that have brought you to this point – from a joyful bride to a conquered villager at the mercy of Steven and his ruthless warriors. The knowledge burns in your heart, but you force it down, focusing instead on surviving this nightmare.
As your lips touch the velvety head of his member, Steven emits a low groan of pleasure. His hand loosens its grip on your hair just enough to allow you some movement. Despite yourself, you remember the way he had thrust into your mouth earlier, how he had seemed to enjoy it when you'd used your tongue. Drawing on that brief flash of experience, you tentatively flick your tongue over his cock. The taste is overwhelming - a potent mixture of his earlier release, your own arousal, and the metallic tang of blood. It's a stark reminder of what's transpired, of your lost innocence.
Steven groans as you engulf him, his hips bucking slightly. "That's it," he murmurs, his voice husky with renewed desire. "Take it all in."
You struggle to accommodate his size, your jaw aching as you try to take more of him. His hand guides your movements, setting a steady rhythm as he uses your mouth. Your tongue teases across the sensitive underside of his shaft, encountering a vein that runs along its length, and you try to apply more pressure there. Steven groans in response, low and guttural, spurring you on.
"That's it, little bride," he grunts, the praise almost an animalistic growl. "Suck harder. Take more of me into that pretty mouth."
You struggle to obey, pushing yourself to take more of his length into your mouth. His hips begin to thrust upwards, forcing himself deeper. You choke and splutter around him, saliva dripping down your chin.
"Relax your throat," Steven commands, his voice strained with pleasure. "Breathe through your nose."
You try to follow his instructions, fighting against your gag reflex as he pushes deeper. Steven's hand tightens in your hair, guiding your movements more forcefully. "Look at me," he commands, his voice rough with desire.
You raise your eyes to meet his, your cheeks burning with shame as you continue to work your mouth over him. His gaze is dark and predatory, filled with a hunger that makes you shiver.
"Such a good little bride," he murmurs, his hips starting to thrust up to meet your mouth. "Taking my cock so well. But I think you can take more."
Without warning, he pushes your head down, forcing himself deeper into your throat. You gag and choke, face pushed flush to his pelvis. The taste and scent of him overwhelm your senses, throat struggling at his intrusion, and you feel lightheaded from the lack of air. Just when you think you can't take anymore, Steven pulls you off his cock with a wet pop.
Gasping for breath, you look up at him through tear-blurred eyes. His face is flushed with arousal, his eyes dark, but gleaming with… pride?
“You are such an exquisite, pliant thing,” he says. “It has been too long since I’ve been so well-pleased, so near insatiable.”
Your chest constricts at the praise. You did not want any of this nightmare, but his danger is novel and alluring, the unknown pleasures he’s exacting from your body, guiding you down paths you’ve never explored before - it’s all twisting your body and your very soul, seeping through your veins, a poison you can’t stop now that he’s pierced into you.
He sits up, frames your jaw in both of his calloused hands, and then lewdly licks one cheek and then the other, lapping at your tears. It’s not tender. He’s playing with his prey.
Steven's hands move to your shoulders, gripping them firmly. With a sudden, forceful movement, he flips you onto your stomach. You gasp at the abrupt change, your face pressed into the furs on the bed. His large hands grasp your hips, pulling them upwards as he pushes your upper body down, positioning you on your hands and knees before him.
"Spread your legs wider and present yourself to me," he commands, his voice husky with desire.
Trembling, you obey, pushing your knees out further, lowering your chest to the bed, and raising your hips higher. You feel completely exposed, a new kind of vulnerable in this position, and your cheeks burn with shame. The cool air of the room caresses your most intimate places, making you shiver.
Steven's large hands grip your hips, kneading the flesh of your buttocks, spreading them apart.
"Such a pretty sight," he murmurs.
His thumbs dig into the soft flesh of your buttocks as he spreads you open further. You tense, expecting the brutal intrusion of his manhood, but instead, you feel his beard brush against your most intimate flesh as he presses his mouth to your core. His tongue, hot and wet, slides up the cut of you, and you cry out in surprise. You had been told your husband would couple his manhood with your maidenhood. You had heard the lewd rumors of men using a woman’s mouth for his cock.
No one had ever whispered even a word that a man might put his own lips to your sex, and it’s an onslaught of pleasure you were in no way prepared to experience. The moan you let out is obscene and unrestrained, and you grasp helplessly at the blankets and furs beneath you.
Steven's tongue explores your folds with wicked precision, alternating between broad strokes and focused flicks against your most sensitive areas. Your body trembles uncontrollably, overwhelmed by the intense sensations. You try to stifle your moans, burying your face in the furs, but Steven's hand snakes up to grip your hair, yanking your head back.
"Let me hear you," he growls against your flesh. "I want to hear every sound you make."
His mouth returns to your core, his tongue delving deeper, tasting every inch of you. His beard scratches against your sensitive skin, adding another layer of sensation to the overwhelming pleasure. Your hips buck involuntarily, pressing back against his face as he continues his relentless assault. You feel his lips close around your sensitive bud, sucking hard, and a cry tears from your throat.
"That's it," Steven murmurs, his voice vibrating against your flesh. "Let go, little bride. Show me how well you enjoy being ruined by your new king.”
His words send a shiver through you, a mix of shame and unwanted arousal. Steven's tongue continues its relentless assault on your cunt, building a tension in your core that threatens to overwhelm you. Your body trembles, teetering on the edge of release.
His hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as you writhe against him. The tension within you builds to an unbearable level, and with a final, targeted flick of his tongue, you shatter.
A cry tears from your throat as the waves of ecstasy wash over you. He laps up your juices eagerly, groaning in satisfaction, before he pulls away.
You whimper at the loss, and he chuckles. “Worry not, there is yet more pleasure I will force upon you this night,” he promises.
Before you can catch your breath, you feel the blunt head of his manhood pressing against your entrance. Steven guides the tip of his cock up and down your slit, over your oversensitive bundle of nerves, and you shiver. But it is soon evident he is in no hurry at this next pursuit.
Steven continues to tease you with the head of his cock, running it along your sensitive folds. Up and down, up and down. Slow strokes, sometimes bumping against your clit, sometimes ignoring it, unpredictable in the pattern so you don’t know when the surge will come. Your body trembles, overstimulated and overwhelmed. Despite your mind's protests, your hips shift back, seeking more contact, even though you're still sore from his earlier intrusion.
His fingers dip into your core, pulling from the wetness dripping out of you, and then he swipes them over your tight rosebud, and you gasp. You know immediately what he intends to do next, though you could never have imagined such a thing, and you can not process any sort of reaction against it. Indeed, he presses the tip of one of his fingers against the tight muscle, then insistently pushes through, and your heart pounds in your chest with fear. The foreign feeling is shocking.
Shocking because it should not feel as good as it does.
You squeeze your eyes shut, tears of shame and frustration leaking from the corners.
He moves his finger in and out in only a very small motion - not fucking you with the finger, but pressing pleasure there in small, torturous amounts. He resumes the rutting of his cock against your folds, and you begin to openly weep, feeling wanton, confused, but moans accompany your sobs that you cannot hide from him.
He leans over you, his broad chest pressing against your back. His breath is hot against your ear as he speaks. "Eager for more, are we?" Steven chuckles darkly. "Beg for it, little bride. Beg for your king's cock."
You hesitate, torn between your body's desperate need for release and the last shreds of your dignity. Steven's free hand moves to circle around the front of your throat, possessive, threatening.
"Beg," he snarls.
The words stick in your throat, and Steven removes his finger from your tight hole and his hand comes down hard on your ass, the sharp sting making you gasp.
"I said beg," he growls, his voice low and dangerous.
"Please," you whimper, the word barely audible.
Another stinging slap lands on your other cheek. "Louder," Steven demands.
"Please!" you cry out, your voice breaking. "Please, I need... I need you.”
He slaps your ass again. “I want to hear you say it. Tell me exactly what you need."
You swallow hard. But you can’t deny betrayal of your body, aching for his touch, for the release only he can provide. "Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Please... fuck me. I need your cock inside me."
A growl of satisfaction rumbles through Steven's chest. "As you wish, little bride."
He shifts and begins thrusting his cock inside your cunt again.
Steven's cock enters you with a single, powerful thrust, filling you completely. The sensation is overwhelming, a mixture of pain and pleasure that leaves you gasping. He sets a relentless pace, each thrust driving deep into your core, your body rocking forward with the force of his movements.
His hands grip your hips tightly, fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises. The room fills with the sounds of flesh meeting flesh, your breathless moans, and Steven's grunts of exertion. The musky scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air.
"So tight," Steven growls, his voice strained with pleasure. "So perfect for your king, the perfect tribute."
You respond to his words, to his touch, clenching around him involuntarily. The friction of his cock against your walls sends waves of pleasure coursing through you, building a familiar tension in your core. He hits a particularly sensitive spot on the front of your walls that has you writhing in ecstasy, and he presses the head of his cock there over, and over. You're overwhelmed by the sensations, the fullness, the way he plays and experiments with your body, until you spasm, thrown over the edge into another orgasm.
Your body convulses as waves of pleasure crash over you, leaving you weak and trembling. Your limbs feel heavy, your muscles liquid, as if all the strength has been drained from your body. You struggle to stay on your hands and knees, your arms shaking with the effort of supporting your weight.
Steven senses your weakness, feeling the way your body has gone limp beneath him. With a growl of satisfaction, he pushes you down flat against the mattress. The furs are soft against your oversensitive skin, tickling your nipples and sending shivers through your body. You turn your head to the side, gasping for air, feeling utterly spent.
Before your breathing can return to anything close to normal, before you can prepare yourself, Steven’s rough hands are spreading your cheeks, and he rams his cock into your ass. The intrusion rips a tortured scream from your throat.
The pain is sharp and immediate as Steven forces his cock into your tightest opening. Your body instinctively tenses, trying to reject the intrusion, which only intensifies the burning sensation. More tears spring to your eyes as you gasp for breath, though you don’t know how you still have more tears to shed.
"Relax," Steven growls, his voice strained with effort and pleasure. "The more you fight it, the more it will hurt, and I’m not going to stop."
You try to force your body to relax, to accept him, but it's a struggle against your instincts. Steven's hands grip your hips tightly, holding you in place as he continues to move. Each thrust sends shockwaves of pain and an unfamiliar pleasure through your body.
"So tight," he groans, his pace increasing. "You feel incredible."
The friction is intense, unlike anything you've ever felt before. It's not quite pleasure, but it's no longer just pain. It burns, but the fire consumes your whole body. You feel stretched to your limit, filled completely by Steven's massive cock.
His hands roam over your body, rough and possessive, groping at your flesh. You bite your lip, trying to stifle your cries, but it's futile. Each thrust draws a whimper or moan from you, your body betraying your mind's resistance.
Steven's hand snakes around to the front of your body, his fingers finding your sensitive bud. He begins to stroke in time with his thrusts. The dual sensations of his thick cock stretching your ass and his skilled fingers on your clit create a maelstrom of sensation that threatens to overwhelm you completely.
You're only vaguely aware of the sounds escaping your throat - desperate, wanton moans that you scarcely recognize as your own. This may be the first night you lie with a man, but though you are inexperienced, you think it can not be possible to experience any more of the overwhelming pleasure he seems determined to rip from you yet again.
Your body trembles uncontrollably, caught between the pain of the intrusion and the impossible mounting of pleasure. Each thrust sends sparks of electricity coursing through your nerves, building the tension in your core. You've never experienced anything like this before - the intensity, the fullness, the way your body seems to betray you at every turn.
Steven's pace increases, his hips snapping against your ass with bruising force. His fingers match the rhythm, pressing harder, moving faster. You are hurled over another cliff of ecstasy, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, body jerking futilely beneath his massive form. He pounds into you once, twice, thrice more, and on the fourth thrust, he shouts and stills, cock buried inside you, and groans as he empties his seed in your tightest channel.
Finally spent and satisfied, Steven collapses on top of you, his massive weight pressing you into the furs. You feel utterly crushed beneath him, struggling to draw breath, yet there's an undeniable warmth from his body enveloping yours that sneaks unwanted into your bones. His heart thunders against your back, matching the frantic pace of your own. The room is filled with the sound of your mingled panting as you both quest for normal breath.
The scent of sweat and sex hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthier smells of leather and furs. Your body thrums with residual pleasure, every nerve ending still singing from the intensity of your coupling. You feel utterly boneless, all strength drained from your limbs.
Slowly, your breathing begins to even out. You become acutely aware of every point of contact between your bodies - the rough hair on his chest against your back, the way his thighs press against the backs of your legs, his hot breath against your neck, and his lips too close to that tender and intimate space as only a beloved’s should be.
Finally, Steven rolls to the side and off of you, but you are not freed from him as he bands an arm around your waist, resettling you with him. He curls around you, and you resign yourself to being held captive, bound by his thick, corded muscles yet a while longer - possibly until the morning.
Just as you are about to drop off into sleep, he speaks directly into your ear. “I have claimed all of your holes, little bride. You will always know that I had every bit of you first, leaving him nothing.” The words are cruel, wicked, and his voice low and far too intimate.
You take a shaky breath in, and out, and beg for sleep to take you so you do not have to think of how his words haunt you now and will haunt you forever.
In the morning, your body still feels spent beyond its limits, aching, but as you shift and stir, you discover the bed is empty.
Your heart accelerates at this discovery.
Then plummets the next moment as the cruel conqueror speaks breaks the silence. “Get up and get dressed,” he commands from where he’s perched on the windowsill, watching the first light of morning appear.
Your eyes dart around the room, drawn to the scraps of your wedding clothes. “I’ve no clothes to-”
“On the chair over there,” he interrupts and gestures to a pile of clothing and shoes that have been brought in.
You slip out of the bed, trying to ignore thoughts of whether or not he watches you - he has already seen your naked form, so what does it matter?
There is a well-made linen chemise with a fine, blue linen dress to go over it. You hastily slip on the chemise, but as you reach for the dress, you hesitate. The detailing is finer than anything made in your village. This came from him.
“Shall I assist you?” Steven asks, making you jump as he’s silently crossed the room to stand directly behind you.
“No, I can dress myself,” you answer, but it falls on unhearing ears, as he’s already reaching past you for the garment.
He assists in pulling the dress over your head, and his hands roughly tug at the ties of your dress. Then he turns you to face him, and his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that sends shivers down your spine.
"I've decided your husband will truly be left with nothing," he declares harshly. “After last night, I cannot abide him having you as his bride when clearly you should be mine. His father - the magnate - with the rest of the elders have accepted my bargain to take my men, leave your village, and never return on condition they surrender you to me as tribute.”
You cannot speak, the shock of Steven's words rendering you mute. Your mind reels, trying to process the implications of what he's just said. The village elders, including your own father-in-law, have agreed to trade you away like chattel to save themselves. The betrayal cuts deep, leaving you feeling hollow and abandoned, and yet you know it was likely a choice of little difficulty when weighing the safety of the village.
Steven cups your cheek again in that way that pretends a tenderness that is not there, and kisses you roughly. His lips are demanding, forceful, claiming you once more. The taste of him is now too familiar. His beard scratches against your skin, a sharp contrast to the softness of his lips.
His tongue pushes past your lips, exploring your mouth with a possessive fervor. Your body responds traitorously, a warmth blooming in your core despite everything, and you tangle a hand in his long hair.
Steven breaks the kiss, leaving you breathless and conflicted. His eyes roam over your face, taking in every detail as if committing it to memory.
"You are not why I came to these shores, but you are mine now," he says, his voice low and possessive. "My little bride, my tribute, my prize."
His words send a shiver down your spine - fear, anticipation, and something else you can't quite name. You know you should be horrified, should be fighting against this fate with every fiber of your being. But after the night you've shared, after experiencing all-consuming pleasures you never knew existed, a part of you - a part you're ashamed to acknowledge - is drawn to the thought of belonging to this powerful, dangerous conqueror.
Steven's hand moves to grip the back of your neck, holding you in place as he speaks. "We sail with the morning tide and leave within the hour. My men are already loading the ship with supplies - food, weapons, gold. And you, my little bride, are the most valuable cargo of all."
Your breath catches in your throat at his words. The reality of your situation crashes over you anew - you're leaving behind everything you've ever known, everyone you've ever loved. Your family, your friends, the life you were meant to have - all of it gone in the span of a single day and night.
"Please," you whisper, your voice trembling. "Let me say goodbye to my family, to-"
"No," Steven cuts you off, his voice firm. "There will be no goodbyes. We leave now. I am your husband, your family. My lands will be your lands, and you will learn to forget. Perhaps all the sooner as you learn to crave the pleasures only I can give and ultimately grow with my child in your womb. Mine completely.”
so... if any of you are still alive, screech for help. I won't be able to help, because I have perished from writing this, but someone else might be able to assist you.
SEQUEL: CEREMONIAL RITUALS
↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest
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ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ › bucky barnes is used to getting any girl he sets his sights on. a smile, a wink, a smooth line, it’s never taken much effort. then he meets you.
ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ › 40s!bucky x female reader
ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ › 18+ MDNI strangers to friends to lovers, some fluff, flirty/playboy bucky turned loverboy, innocent reader, kinda uptown girl but not like rich or anything, smoker bucky, mentions of alcohol, brief angst, porn with SOME plot, but also plot what plot, lowk just porn with feelings, smut, p in v, virgin/inexperienced reader, lowk possessive bucky, minor corruption kink? fingering, oral sex ft munch bucky, dirty talking bucky barnes, pussy pronouns, missionary + bow, unprotected sex, creampie, soft aftercare, cigarettes after sex, not beta read we die like men.
ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ › 10.7k
ᴀᴜᴛʜᴏʀꜱ ɴᴏᴛᴇ › 40s bucky how i love you so. ps i did nawt want to proofread this so i skimmed it not even gonna lie... #sosorry like once im done writing something i want it OUT of my head asap i dont want to look at it anymore. anyways thank u for reading enjoy xx
The bell above Moretti’s Candy Shop jingles sharp and bright when Bucky shoulders his way inside, carrying the cold autumn air in with him.
“Trouble,” Mrs. Moretti sighs immediately from behind the counter.
Bucky grins, easy as breathing. “You say that like you ain’t happy to see me.”
“I’d be happier seein’ the ten cents you still owe me, Barnes.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three times.”
The shop smells like chocolate and sugar and roasted nuts warming beneath glass lamps. Outside, Brooklyn groans along in its usual rhythm, trolley bells, men hollering across sidewalks, kids sprinting through puddles but in here everything feels softened somehow. Golden. Like the world’s been wrapped in wax paper and tied shut with string.
Bucky leans against the counter, halfway through another smart remark when he notices you.
And just like that, the rest of the room disappears.
You’re standing near the chocolate display case with your gloves folded neatly in your hands, staring through the glass with such genuine wonder it almost knocks the grin off his face.
Not overwhelmed or indecisive, you seem almost enchanted.
Your eyes drift slowly over every row like each candy’s worth considering properly. Caramels. Peppermints. Chocolate turtles. Then your attention catches on the Whoppers display, and stays there.
He almost laughs when he follows your gaze to them.
Cute, he thinks immediately.
Girls usually notice him first. Usually there’s lipstick smiles and fluttering lashes before he’s even crossed the room. He knows what he looks like, knows how his grin lands, knows exactly how long to hold eye contact before women start leaning toward him without realizing it.
But you don’t notice him at all. You’re still staring at the candy like it might hold the secrets of the universe.
Something about that hooks into him immediately as he steps over.
“Those your favorite?”
You blink hard, startled from your thoughts, then turn toward him.
And there it is.
That little pause that every girl gives him, but this one seems different. Not because you recognize him as handsome or because you’re flustered, you just hadn’t realized anyone was speaking to you.
“Oh,” you say softly. “Yes.”
Your voice is gentler than he expected, careful around the edges.
Bucky pushes off the counter and steps closer. “Want a box?”
Your eyes widen instantly. “No, it’s quite alright, I couldn’t possibly.”
“C’mon, doll.” He flashes the smile that usually works without fail. “How could I deny such a sweet girl a sweet treat?”
He expects blushing, maybe a nervous laugh. Instead, you look genuinely conflicted over the idea of him spending money on you.
“Well that’s very kind,” you tell him honestly, “but you really don’t have to.”
Bucky stares at you for half a second, then another.
Well. That’s new.
“Mrs. Moretti,” he calls, unable to stop grinning now, “gimme a box of Whoppers before this sweetheart talks herself outta it.”
Mrs. Moretti snorts loudly but slides the candy across the counter anyway.
“And a cannoli,” Bucky adds quickly.
Your head turns toward him. “Oh, no, truly—”
“Too late.”
He pays before you can protest again, then holds the small paper bag out toward you with exaggerated politeness.
“You really got this for me?” you ask.
“Nah,” he deadpans. “Bought it for the guy behind you.”
You laugh and that sound lands somewhere directly under his ribs. Not loud or practiced. Just soft and surprised, like you hadn’t expected him to be funny.
Bucky suddenly wants to hear it again.
Outside, Brooklyn glows amber beneath the sun. Laundry lines sway overhead between brick buildings. Somewhere down the block, someone’s radio crackles out jazz muffled by static.
You take a careful bite of the cannoli as the two of you step onto the sidewalk, then immediately freeze as cream spills out the other side onto your glove.
“Oh goodness—sorry,” you murmur, horrified. “I made a mess.”
Bucky looks at you.
At the powdered sugar dusting your mouth, the cream threatening to drip onto your sleeve, the embarrassment blooming across your face over something so small.
His brain stops functioning.
“Don’t apologize,” he says immediately, a little too seriously for someone he just met ten minutes ago.
“I just—”
“It’s a cannoli,” he says, clearing his throat. “They’re uh, they're structurally unsound.”
That earns another laugh. And there it is again, that strange feeling settling low in his chest, not lust exactly but something softer than that.
You wipe at your glove carefully, still embarrassed. “I’m making quite the first impression, aren't I.”
“Oh, believe me,” Bucky mutters before he can stop himself, “you are.”
But you don’t seem to catch it. Instead, you just smile politely and continue walking beside him down the sidewalk like this is all perfectly ordinary. Like handsome men buy you candy and pastries every day.
Bucky decides almost immediately that he doesn’t want the conversation to end, so he keeps finding reasons for it not to. He points out the bakery on the corner because “their cheesecake could start a war.” He walks slower whenever you stop to admire storefronts. He offers you his arm when an old woman barrels past with a grocery cart and nearly clips your shoulder.
You take it without hesitation.
“Oh,” you say softly, looping your arm through his. “Thank you.”
Bucky glances down at your hand resting against his sleeve and his heartbeat stumbles oddly.
Usually this part’s easy. Usually flirting feels like muscle memory. Lean closer, smirk a little, call her doll in that lower voice that always works. But you accept every bit of it with such innocent sincerity that it keeps throwing him off balance.
“You always this sweet?” he asks after a while.
You nod thoughtfully. “I do like sugar, yes. But I don't get to eat to very often.”
Bucky chokes on air.
“…Jesus Christ.”
Your brows pull together. “What?”
“Nothin’, doll.”
Because clearly you think he means literal sweetness, and somehow that’s even worse, or better. He can’t tell anymore.
The afternoon stretches unexpectedly around the two of you. You wander through Brooklyn side streets while the sun lowers warm and lazy across the buildings. You stop outside record stores and flower stands and little grocers with apples stacked in wooden crates out front.
And all the while, Bucky keeps trying.
He leans too close while talking and you just look up at him attentively. He calls you doll every other sentence and you smile like you think it’s genuinely affectionate. He flashes smirks sharp enough to cut glass and you return them with polite warmth, entirely unaffected.
“You’re very nice, Mr. Barnes,” you tell him eventually.
Bucky nearly trips over the curb.
“Nice?”
“Well yes.” You glance at him earnestly. “Handsome too, but mostly nice.”
Handsome too. Mostly nice.
Bucky stares at you outright now. Your voice held no teasing lilt, no coyness, you said it like you’re discussing the weather and something inside him short-circuits completely.
Because by now he knows for a fact you have no idea what he’s doing.
“Doll,” he says slowly, “you know I’m layin’ it on thick, right?”
You blink.
“…Laying it on?”
Silence.
Then Bucky laughs so suddenly and loudly a passing couple turns to stare, not in a mocking sense but genuinely delighted. You look confused enough that it only makes him laugh harder.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, shaking his head, “you really don’t know I've been flirting you?”
“I assumed you were being friendly.”
“I am bein’ friendly.”
“That seems normal.”
“Normal?” He stares at you. “I bought you candy fifteen minutes after meetin’ you.”
“Well… yes.”
“And?”
“You seemed very determined about it.”
Bucky rubs a hand down his jaw, trying unsuccessfully to hide another grin.
This should annoy him. It should. But instead he feels strangely fascinated, like he’s spent his whole life learning one language only to discover you speak something entirely different.
“So no fella’s ever taken you out before?” he asks carefully.
“Not really.”
The answer comes without self-pity, just honesty and Bucky’s chest tightens unexpectedly.
“What d’you mean not really?”
You shrug lightly. “I suppose men don’t usually notice me that way.”
Bucky stops walking altogether, making you turn toward him curiously as he just looks at you in complete disbelief. At your soft mouth faintly lined with your lipstick, at your bright eyes, at the way strangers glance at you as they pass without you ever seeming aware of it.
“That oughta be illegal,” he mutters.
You laugh again, warm and startled and sweet enough to ruin him slowly.
Somewhere between the candy shop and the golden Brooklyn sidewalks and the way your hand still rests trustingly against his arm, Bucky realizes something unsettling, he stopped flirting for sport an hour ago. Now he’s doing it because he genuinely likes the way you smile when he speaks. Because he wants to keep hearing your laugh mingle with the evening traffic. Because watching you move through the world feels a little like standing near candlelight, soft and gentle and impossible not to lean toward.
And Bucky Barnes is not known for leaning toward things gently.
Which is how, sometime after you’ve finished your cannoli and the Whoppers box is tucked safely under your arm like it’s something fragile, you both turn a corner and run straight into trouble in the form of Steve Rogers and the rest of the Commandos.
They’re all there—loud, sprawling across the sidewalk like they own it.
“Barnes!” one of them calls immediately. “Where’ve you been?”
Then Steve sees you and something in his expression shifts instantly into knowing.
“Oh,” Steve says slowly. “Oh, that’s where.”
Bucky groans under his breath. “Don’t start.”
Another one of them whistles low. “Barnes buying candy for a girl? End times.”
Bucky, of course, straightens immediately, protective without thinking.
“Leave him alone,” you add gently, glancing between them. “He’s just being kind to me.”
The group goes quiet for half a beat, then someone mutters, “Kind?”
Steve’s mouth twitches like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. Bucky, meanwhile, stops breathing properly, because you said it so simply. Like there was no other explanation, like the idea that he might be doing anything else never even crossed your mind.
He looks at you then and it’s unfair how easy it is to forget everyone else exists when you’re standing that close.
The Commandos keep talking behind him as they walk by, but Bucky doesn’t hear a word of it anymore.
All he hears is the soft cadence of your voice still echoing in his head.
Just being kind to me.
That word lands heavier than anything else today. Kinder than flirtation, kinder than charm, kinder than every practiced thing he’s ever used to get someone to look at him twice. He realizes, with faint shock, that he wants to be that to you. Not some impressive or smooth flirt, just kind.
Eventually Steve clears his throat loudly from behind you. “You walkin’ her home, Barnes, or standin’ there makin’ heart eyes in the middle of the sidewalk?”
“I am absolutely not makin’ heart eyes,” Bucky says automatically.
You glance up at him and his words die immediately.
“…We’re walkin’,” he finishes weakly.
“Good,” Steve says, already grinning. “Try not to break anything on the way.”
Bucky flips him off without looking away from you.
You don’t seem to notice the tension at all. Just adjust your grip on the candy box and smile faintly like this is still just a normal afternoon walk, and somehow that makes everything worse.
The walk to your building takes longer than it should.
Bucky slows down without meaning to and you match him perfectly.
Brooklyn shifts around you in its usual evening rhythm, windows glowing warm, radios humming behind curtains, the smell of dinner drifting out of open doors but between the two of you everything feels strangely contained.
“I had a very nice time today,” you say eventually, glancing up at him.
Bucky swallows. “Yeah?”
“You’re very kind.”
That word again.
It hits him harder this time, right in the center of his chest. He looks away for half a second, jaw tightening slightly like he’s trying to figure out how to respond to something he’s never been called before in a way that mattered.
“Kind,” he repeats quietly, like he's testing whether he deserves it.
You stop in front of your apartment building steps as the streetlamp above flickers softly, casting gold light over your face. For a moment neither of you moves, then Bucky shifts, suddenly more uncertain than he’s been all day.
“Can I ask you somethin’?”
“Of course,” you answer immediately.
He hesitates, this is the part where he usually knows exactly what to say, instead, he feels seventeen different versions of himself arguing at once. He steps closer without thinking, seemingly too close, making your breath catch faintly.
He notices it immediately, the tiny shift in your posture, the nervousness flickering across your face. You’re not used to this part. The closeness, the intention that comes with it.
“Sorry,” he says softer, almost immediately stepping back half an inch like he’s correcting a mistake he didn’t want to make, “I uh—.”
You exhale quietly, watching as Bucky drags a hand through his hair, looking away for a second like he’s regrouping. Then, carefully he speaks up.
“Can I do this properly?”
You blink. “Properly?”
He looks back at you then, all teasing gone for a moment.
“Can I take you out tomorrow night?”
Your eyes widen slightly.
“…Like a date?”
“Yeah,” he says, a little quieter now. “Like a date.”
You look at him for a long moment, then your smile returns—small, but real.
“I think I’d like that very much.”
Something in Bucky’s chest loosens all at once, like a knot he didn’t know he was holding.
“Yeah?” he asks, almost stupidly.
You nod and that’s it, that’s all it takes. Bucky steps back, already grinning like he’s lost all sense of self-preservation.
“Tomorrow,” he says, pointing at you like he’s making a promise he fully intends to keep, “I’m pickin’ you up at seven.”
“I’ll be ready,” you reply softly.
He turns to leave, walking backwards for a second because he can’t quite make himself stop looking at you. Then he finally turns around properly after you give him a soft wave goodbye, and immediately starts grinning wider.
The Commandos are still waiting down the street when he finds them. Steve takes one look at his face and sighs.
“Oh no.”
Bucky doesn’t even try to hide it. He shoves his hands in his pockets, still smiling like an idiot.
“Fellas,” he says lightly, “I’m in serious trouble.”
Bucky doesn’t sleep much that night, at least not properly.
He lies on his back staring at the ceiling, replaying the day in fragments he can’t seem to organize into anything sensible. Your voice, your laugh. The way you looked at candy like it was something magical. And worse than all of it, powdered sugar on your mouth, cannoli cream on your lips and the way you’d apologized for it like it was a crime.
He turns onto his side, groans into his pillow, then sits up like the bed has personally betrayed him.
“Get it together,” he mutters to himself.
But the problem is… he is together.
That’s the issue. He just isn’t used to what it feels like when someone looks at him like he’s safe instead of interesting. So in the morning, Bucky Barnes does the only thing he can think to do, be a man of his word.
He decides to do it properly.
No shortcuts, no charm tricks, no easy grin and leaned-in confidence.
A real date.
Which is how Steve finds him hunched over a small, slightly chaotic pile of wildflowers behind a Brooklyn fence line.
“Are you pickin’ flowers now?” Steve asks flatly.
Bucky doesn’t look up. “Shut up.”
Steve leans against the fence post, arms crossed. “That for the girl?”
“Yes.”
“You know you could just buy ‘em like a normal person.”
“I don’t have money right now for fancy bouquets.”
“That’s not the point.”
Bucky finally straightens, holding the uneven bundle like it might fall apart if he breathes wrong. “It is to me.”
Steve studies him for a long moment, something softer flickering beneath the teasing.
Then he sighs. “You’re in trouble, pal.”
Bucky huffs. “Yeah. I said that already.”
But he doesn’t feel like running from it, not even a little.
By the time evening rolls around, he’s checked his reflection in every shop window he passes twice. He fixes his tie, adjusts his jacket, runs a hand through his hair, then immediately second-guesses it and smooths it back down again. The flowers are wrapped in paper he stole, respectfully stole, from a corner stand. They’re not perfect, a few stems are uneven, one bloom is slightly bent.
He hopes they’re enough.
Outside your building, Bucky pauses as he exhales once. Then knocks.
When the door opens, everything inside him stops. You’re standing there in soft light, hair pinned back neatly, expression shifting the moment you see him. And you light up like it’s involuntary.
Bucky forgets how to breathe for a second.
“Hi,” you say, smiling.
“Hi,” he manages back.
Then he lifts the flowers slightly, suddenly unsure of everything in the universe.
“Those are for me?” you ask, voice soft with surprise.
“Unless your neighbor’s awful pretty,” he says automatically.
You laugh, stepping forward immediately to take them.
“They’re beautiful,” you murmur, already burying your nose in them gently. “Oh… and they smell wonderful.”
Bucky watches you like he’s forgotten how to look anywhere else.
“I, uh,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Yeah. Picked ‘em myself.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
Your smile softens in a way that makes him feel strangely proud.
“I’ll find a jar,” you say quickly. “Wait just a moment.”
You disappear inside, flowers clutched carefully to your chest like they’re something priceless. Bucky stays standing there in the doorway slightly stunned. He hears movement inside, cabinet doors opening, water running, your quiet little hum as you arrange them.
He doesn’t realize he’s smiling until his cheeks start to hurt.
Before you leave, your sister appears briefly in the hallway. Older, sharper-eyed. The kind of woman who looks like she’s already decided what kind of trouble someone is before they speak.
Her gaze lands on Bucky immediately.
“Bucky Barnes?” she asks.
He straightens instinctively. “Yes, ma’am.”
She looks him over once then turns to you.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
You hesitate. “Of course.”
She pulls you aside just enough that Bucky can’t hear everything, but not enough that he doesn’t feel it. Her voice is lower when she speaks.
“Be careful." She says.
You blink. “What?”
“Boys like him don't settle down. Sure he’s charming and handsome, but he's just a sweet talker.” Her mouth tightens. “He just wants a good time, so don’t go getting your hopes up.”
Bucky can’t hear the exact words, but he sees your expression shift slightly and something in his stomach turns uneasy.
When you return, you’re still smiling—but quieter now, careful in a way you weren’t before.
“Ready?” you ask him.
“Yeah,” he says, though his voice comes out softer than he means it to.
Dinner settles into something Bucky doesn’t recognize at first.
It’s quiet.
Not empty, but softened around the edges like the whole world has decided to behave itself for once. Soft jazz drifts from somewhere near the ceiling, curling through candlelight and clinking silverware. The room hums with conversation that never quite reaches your table.
And for the first time all day, Bucky Barnes isn’t scanning anything. His eyes aren't darting around the room looking for exits or other women, something quick to catch his attention.
Just you.
You, sitting across from him with your hands wrapped around a glass of water like it’s something grounding. You, talking in that gentle, thoughtful way of yours that keeps catching him off guard. He realizes halfway through your story about your aunt’s ridiculous attempt at baking bread that he hasn’t looked away once.
Not once. And maybe worse, he doesn’t want to.
You laugh at your own memory, shaking your head slightly. “It was practically a brick. We had to slice it with a knife meant for meat.”
Bucky smiles without thinking. “Sounds dangerous.”
“It was emotionally damaging.”
That makes him laugh for real.
And then you smile back at him, that small, bright, effortless smile and something in his chest shifts again. Because he likes this, not the performance of him, not the usual rhythm of charm and response and winning someone over. He likes this.
You talking, rambling softly when you get comfortable, pausing like you’re thinking too hard before continuing anyway. And every time you say his name, Bucky, like it’s just another word instead of something that usually comes wrapped in attention and expectation he feels it settle somewhere warm and unfamiliar.
Bucky Barnes, who usually knows exactly what he’s doing with people, finds himself doing something far more dangerous, imagining. Not in a loud way. In quiet flashes between bites of food and sips of coffee, a small bouquet of flowers on a table that isn’t a restaurant, you at a kitchen counter, hair slightly messy, laughing at something he said. A door opening at the end of a long day and you looking up like it matters that he came home.
He shifts slightly in his seat, almost like the thought physically disorients him.
Impossible things.
And yet they come anyway.
After dinner, the night pulls the two of you deeper into Brooklyn’s glow. Neon signs flicker awake, streetlamps paint everything gold and blue. Somewhere down the block, music spills out of a club like a living thing.
“You seen the new picture show over on Fulton?” Bucky asks as you walk.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Then you’re goin’.”
You glance up at him. “Is that an order?”
“Absolutely.”
You laugh softly, like you’re still not used to how easily he says things like that. The theater is older with slightly worn velvet seats, the faint smell of popcorn and wood polish, flickering light that makes everything feel softer than it should. Bucky buys the tickets without hesitation, you try to argue but he ignores you in the best way possible.
Inside, you sit close but not touching. Close enough that he’s aware of you constantly, that every small movement you make registers like it matters.
Halfway through the film, something changes on screen, the lights dim all soft and emotional, the kind of scene that doesn’t need words. He feels you go still beside him and when he glances over, your eyes are glossy in the dim light.
You’re trying to be subtle about it. You are not succeeding.
Bucky doesn’t say anything, just reaches into his pocket slowly and pulls out his handkerchief and without a word, gently offers it toward you.
You turn toward him and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then you take it carefully, fingers brushing his and in the dark, you smile at him softly. Like he did something important without realizing it. Bucky looks back at the screen, but he doesn’t see it anymore, he just feels the moment settle between you like something fragile and real. And he never wants it to end.
The picture ends on a cliffhanger that has the whole theater groaning as the lights flick back on. Outside, the city opens up again. Cool night air, bright lights reflecting off wet pavement. The distant echo of music from clubs and cafés and street corners all blending into one living rhythm.
You walk beside him slowly, a little quieter now that the night has come to its end.
Bucky notices.
He glances down at you. “You alright?”
You nod. “Yes. It was… very nice.”
“Yeah?”
You smile faintly. “You’re very kind.”
That word again.
Kind.
It lands differently now. He doesn’t know why, maybe it’s the way you say it like it still surprises you, like it still feels new. Bucky opens his mouth to respond, but you stop walking. You've tried to fight it all night, tried to push the words far back into your head. But everything feels like a double edged sword, and if you don't do something now, you'll both get cut.
“I just…” you start softly, then hesitate.
He turns toward you fully.
You look down at your hands. “You really don’t have to pretend with me.”
Bucky blinks. “Pretend?”
You glance up, nervous now. “I know boys like you don’t mean anything by this sort of thing.”
Silence. It drops so fast it almost feels physical.
Bucky stares at you and for the first time all day, his expression isn’t teasing or amused or carefully controlled. It’s hurt, deep, immediate and unmistakably hurt.
“Boys like me?” he repeats slowly.
You realize instantly something is wrong.
“I didn’t mean— I just meant—”
He gestures vaguely between the flowers, the dinner, the theater still glowing behind you both.
“You think I do this with every girl?”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Because you don’t know, you just assumed, because your sister said he’s Bucky Barnes and people talk about him like they know him before he even speaks.
“Sweetheart,” he says quieter now, but sharper in a different way, “I picked those flowers myself.”
You freeze and he exhales through his nose, looking away for a second like he’s trying to steady something in himself.
“I ain’t ever done this before,” he admits. “Not like this.”
That hits harder than anything else tonight, you stare at him now, like you’re recalibrating something you thought you understood.
“But everyone says—” you start.
“Yeah. I know what everyone says.” Bucky cuts in immediately, voice low. "But I only do this unless I mean it."
The street hums around you both, cars pass by, music drifts on the wind, lights flicker in the distance. But between the two of you, everything feels suddenly suspended. The silence doesn’t leave right away, it just changes shape. It stretches between you and Bucky in the middle of the sidewalk, softened only by passing headlights and the distant laugh of strangers who don’t know they’re walking through something fragile.
Bucky doesn’t look away from you.
I don’t do this unless I mean it.
It should’ve sounded smooth and confident. Instead it just sounds… exposed. Because the truth of it sits heavier now that it’s out in the open. He watches your face carefully, like he’s waiting for you to decide something about him, and for the first time all day, he realizes that matters. Not casually, not in the way flirting usually matters, but in a way that sits deep under his ribs and doesn’t move.
Your expression is quiet, thoughtful in that way you get when you’re trying to understand something honestly. He swallows once, then looks away briefly like the night air might help him think straighter, but it doesn’t.
It only makes everything quieter.
“I don’t like that,” he says finally.
You blink. “What?”
He gestures vaguely, frustration threading through his voice now—not at you, but at something older.
“What they say. About me.”
You don’t interrupt, you just listen and that alone is enough to make his chest tighten. Bucky exhales slowly, because this is new for him too. Saying it, not laughing it off, not playing it into something charming.
“People think they’ve got me figured out,” he says. “Think I just—” he huffs a short laugh without humor, “—go around Brooklyn collecting girls like it’s nothin’.”
His jaw tightens slightly.
“And maybe I used to let ‘em think that.”
That lands differently in the air between you.
“But I’m tired of it,” he says quietly.
Bucky continues before he can talk himself out of it.
“Tired of it all blurring together,” he admits. “Tired of it not meaning anything.”
His eyes flick over your face again, more careful now, more intentional.
“And I think…” He hesitates, like the next part is the hardest thing he’s said all night. “I think I’m tired of not being taken seriously.”
That one settles heavier. You don’t speak yet. So he keeps going, because stopping now feels impossible.
“Maybe I don’t wanna be that guy anymore.” His voice drops slightly.
That guy. The one people assume things about, the one who never stays, the one who never gets understood correctly because no one bothers to look twice. The words hang there, raw and unpolished.
You shift slightly on your feet and when you finally speak, your voice is soft.
“What kind of guy do you want to be then?”
Bucky stills.
That question shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it does, the way you asked him like you really want to know, the way your eyes never leave his as he looks at you. The city lights catch your face in soft gold and shadow, painting the curve of your cheekbones, the faint red of your lips still slightly brighter from the theater lights, the way you stand there holding his honesty like it’s something you’re willing to carry for a moment without dropping it.
And something inside him clicks. Like a door deciding it’s been open long enough to let something new inside. Bucky takes a slow breath, then another and when he speaks again, his voice is quieter than before.
“The guy,” he says, nodding faintly toward you like the answer has been standing in front of him all night, “that gets to do this with you every night for the rest of my life.”
Silence falls again, but this one is different. It isn’t heavy or tense. It feels like something settling into place that neither of you fully understands yet, but neither of you wants to move away from.
Bucky doesn’t smile, not yet. He just watches you carefully, like he’s waiting to see if he’s gone too far. If he’s said too much, if the version of him he’s choosing now is one you can stand to look at. And for the first time since he met you in that candy shop, James Buchanan Barnes isn’t trying to win anything.
He’s just waiting.
For you.
"I think I'd like that."
Two months don’t feel like two months to Bucky Barnes.
They feel like a rhythm he accidentally fell into and never bothered climbing out of. Mornings start with the same thought: What time can I see her? Evenings end with the same realization: Not long enough. And everything in between just becomes space he has to get through.
He shows up at your apartment more often than he means to. Not in a dramatic way, just like he happened to be nearby. Which is a lie, he crosses half of Brooklyn for it.
“Bucky,” you’d say sometimes, opening the door already smiling, “you live nowhere near here.”
He’d shrug like it doesn’t matter. “Was in the neighborhood.”
“You were in the neighborhood three days in a row?”
“Brooklyn’s a big place, doll.”
You’d just laugh and let him in.
And that’s the problem. You always let him in.
Diners become routine. Milkshakes split between two straws that you pretend not to notice he always lets you have the first sip of. Walks that start with him offering his arm and end with your hand still resting there long after it’s necessary. Movie nights where you lean slightly closer each time you get nervous during a scene, and Bucky pretends he doesn’t notice how carefully you do it. Flowers every week. Sometimes wild. Sometimes bought if he could pinch it. Sometimes just picked from somewhere he absolutely shouldn’t have been picking flowers.
You always put them in a jar immediately. Always smile like they matter. And Bucky changes without noticing, he stops looking at other women entirely, not because he’s forcing himself not to.
Because he just… doesn’t see them the same way anymore. Not when you exist in his world now, softening all the edges.
Steve notices first, then the Commandos, then basically anyone who’s ever known him longer than five minutes.
“You’re smiling more,” Steve says once, watching him across a table.
“I always smile.”
“No,” Steve says, “you don’t.”
Bucky just shrugs. Because what’s he supposed to say? That he likes the way you say his name like it’s something you trust? That he’s started thinking about ridiculous things like whether you’d like a porch someday, or a kitchen with too much sunlight, or a life where he doesn’t leave as often as he does?
He doesn’t say any of it, but it’s there anyway.
Tonight, he’s early.
Which is stupid, because he’s always early now. He’s at the bar having a drink and smoke with the Commandos, but he’s not really with them.
He’s angled toward the door, elbow on the counter, sleeves already adjusted three times, hair smoothed back once, then twice, then abandoned entirely because it keeps falling anyway as Steve watches him with growing disbelief.
“You’re worse than a kid waiting for Christmas,” Steve mutters.
Bucky doesn’t look away from the door. “Shut up.”
“You’ve checked that door eight times in five minutes.”
“It might’ve changed since the last time I looked.”
“Bucky.”
“I’m busy.”
The door opens and he straightens instantly. Not you. His shoulders drop a fraction as he sits back down.
The teasing starts almost immediately.
“Two months huh?” one of them says, grinning. “This one’s got it bad.”
“Must be real good if Barnes is still around.”
“You finally settle down?”
Bucky rolls his eyes, but there’s a stupid softness to his mouth that gives him away immediately.
“Knock it off.”
The laughter builds.
“What’s the catch, Barnes?”
“C’mon, what are you gettin’ out of this?”
“Ain’t no way you’re behaving this long without somethin’ in return.”
Bucky exhales, finally turning fully toward them and for once, he doesn’t joke. Not even a little.
“Nothing’s happened between us yet.”
The table goes quiet. A beat. Then howling ensures.
“You’re kiddin’.”
“Celibate Bucky Barnes?”
“I never thought I’d live to see the day.”
Someone nearly chokes on their drink.
Bucky shrugs slightly, like it’s not a big deal, but his voice goes quieter when he adds on.
“I like her.”
That shuts them up for half a second longer.
“I don’t wanna mess it up,” he says, “by goin’ in headfirst.”
And just like that, the teasing explodes again.
“Look at him.”
“He’s gone.”
“Man’s fighting for his life.”
“You hear this? Barnes is soft.”
Bucky laughs under his breath despite himself, shaking his head.
“Yeah, yeah—laugh it up.”
And that’s when it happens, the door opens again, Bucky doesn’t look right away still half-laughing, still mid-protest, then he hears the sound of the room shifting slightly.
Someone going quiet and he turns. You’re standing just inside holding your bag, still in your coat and completely still. Not smiling, not walking toward him. Just listening. For a second, Bucky doesn’t understand then he sees it. Your expression. Something flickering there, uncertainty, confusion, something tightening at the edges of your face like you’ve just heard something you weren’t meant to.
His smile fades immediately.
“Hey,” he starts, already pushing his chair back.
But you don’t come closer. You take one step back instead, then another, quiet and careful.
“Doll—” Bucky stands fully now.
But you’re already turning to leave, the door swings open, and you’re gone. He’s out of the bar so fast it barely feels like a decision. Brooklyn air hits him like a slap, cold, sharp, and real and for a second he just stands there, scanning the sidewalk like the world might give you back if he looks hard enough.
“Doll?” he calls.
Nothing.
“Hi.”
He turns.
You’re a few steps down the sidewalk, hugging your coat tightly around yourself like you’re trying to hold yourself together with it. Streetlight catches your face in soft gold, but it doesn’t soften the expression there.
Not really.
Bucky’s chest tightens immediately.
He crosses the space between you in a few quick steps. “Hey—no, hey, listen to me,” he says, already shaking his head like he can undo whatever just happened inside by sheer force of will. “Don’t listen to those idiots in there. They don’t know when to shut up.”
Your gaze flickers up to him, then away again just as fast.
“It’s alright,” you say softly. “Really.”
But it isn’t alright, not in the way he knows you mean.
Because your arms are wrapped around yourself too tightly. Because your smile is there, but it doesn’t reach anything. Because you look like you’re already somewhere farther away than the sidewalk you’re standing on.
And Bucky notices everything, too much, sometimes.
“Hey,” he says again, quieter now. “You ready to go?”
A pause.
“…Yeah.”
That’s it.
No teasing, no warmth, no easy rhythm. Just agreement, and it scares him more than anything else tonight.
It's all wrong.
That’s the only way Bucky can think to describe it. Brooklyn is still alive around you, windows glowing, distant laughter, the low hum of traffic, but between you and him there’s a silence that feels heavy instead of soft. He walks slower than usual without realizing it. You don’t take his arm, but your hand finds his anyway just barely. Just fingers brushing, then settling.
Bucky holds it like it’s something fragile.
He keeps glancing at you, waiting for you to look back, you don’t. You’re staring down at your joined hands instead, like you’re trying to figure something out in them. And your thoughts, if he could hear them, would be too loud.
Maybe your sister was right.
Maybe this was always going somewhere you don’t belong.
Maybe he’s just being patient because eventually he’ll expect more.
And maybe you’re already disappointing him.
Bucky doesn’t say anything. Because something about your silence tells him words might break whatever thread is holding you upright right now. So he just walks you home, step by step, closer than usual and quieter than ever.
By the time your building comes into view, something in you has tightened so much it feels like it might snap.
You stop walking, Bucky stops immediately with you.
“Buck…” your voice is barely above the street noise.
“Yeah?” He turns toward you fully.
You swallow hard. “Maybe… we shouldn’t do this anymore.”
Everything stops. Bucky freezes completely, like the words physically catch him mid-step.
“What?” he says, but it’s not sharp, more confused than anything.
You look down, finally letting go of his hand so slowly, like it costs you something.
“I don’t think I’m good for you,” you say.
That lands harder than anything else tonight. Bucky stares at you like he’s trying to understand a language he thought he already knew.
“Sweetheart,” he says slowly, “where is this comin’ from?”
You shake your head slightly, still not meeting his eyes.
“You deserve someone who can make you happy,” you say. “Someone better.”
Bucky lets out a short breath like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
“That’s not—no,” he says immediately, stepping half a step closer before stopping himself. “No, that’s not how this works.”
You finally look up at him and whatever he sees there makes his voice soften instantly. Because you look scared. Not of him but of yourself.
“You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he says, like it should be obvious.
You blink, once, then again. And then it spills out of you before you can stop it.
“I can’t make you happy, Buck,” you say, voice cracking slightly. “I can’t give you what you want, I can’t—I can’t… make you feel good.”
Silence hits again, but this time, Bucky understands exactly where it came from. His expression changes all at once, his frustration disappears, his confusion sharpens into something quieter. Something knowing as the pieces fall into place.
The Commandos. The bar. The teasing.
“Oh,” he says softly. “Babydoll…”
The way he says it now is different.
“I want you,” he says gently. “I’m happy with you just like this. None of that matters to me anymore, okay?”
Your breath shakes slightly but you don’t look convinced. Instead, something inside you finally breaks open.
“Well it matters to me!” you burst out, voice suddenly raw. “I want to, I just—I don’t know how. And I'm scared you're going to leave just because I’ve never—”
You stop but it's too late. Bucky goes completely still and everything clicks into place so fast it almost hurts. Why you flinch sometimes when he gets too close. Why you always hesitate before a kiss even when you want them. Why you look like you’re bracing for something you think you’re supposed to be able to give.
Why you’re standing here right now looking ashamed of something you never should’ve had to explain.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “You’re okay.”
Your eyes are glossy now, but you’re still trying to hold it together. Bucky doesn’t move closer doesn’t rush you. Just stays right where he is so you don’t feel cornered.
“Your parents home?” he asks softly.
You blink, thrown slightly by the question.
“What? Oh… no. They went to my sister’s ballet recital. They won’t be back until later.”
Bucky nods once then gives you a small, warm smile and gently threads his fingers through yours.
“C’mon,” he says quietly, squeezing your hand just once, just enough to ground you. “Let’s go talk inside.”
Inside your apartment, everything feels quieter in a different way.
Not the heavy silence from outside but something softer, contained with warmth between you. You close the door behind Bucky like you’re sealing the world out, then immediately seem to remember yourself again, nervous energy flickering back in.
“Okay,” you say quickly, brushing a hand over your sleeve. “Um—this is the living room. Obviously. And that’s the kitchen, and—”
Bucky just watches you, following your voice like it’s something grounding. You move a little faster now, pointing things out like you need the space filled with words so you don’t have to think too hard about anything else.
“This is my mother’s glass cabinet, don’t touch that one, she’ll know, and—oh.”
You stop because Bucky is already in the kitchen holding two small glasses, and the apple brandy bottle.
He glances over his shoulder innocently. “What?”
You blink. “Bucky.”
He raises a brow. “What?”
“That’s my mother’s.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can,” he says simply, already pouring.
You let out a sound of disbelief. “You are unbelievable.”
He slides one glass toward you. “Relax, doll. I’ll replace it.”
“That’s not the point.”
“It is tonight.”
You stare at him for a second longer, then sigh, like you’ve decided arguing with him is pointless.
“Fine,” you say. “But you’re explaining this to her if she notices.”
“Deal.”
You hesitate, then take the glass anyway. That alone makes something in his chest ease.
You lead him toward your bedroom after that, slower now, more uncertain at the edges. Not running anymore, just settling. The room is small. Warm and lived in. A book on your bedside table, a folded sweater on the chair, soft lamplight that makes everything feel like it belongs only to you.
Bucky doesn’t sit right away. He just leans against the dresser, watching as you set your glass down carefully like you’re still trying to figure out what this moment is supposed to be.
You take a sip, then another. Waiting until your chest grows warm.
“I'm sorry about earlier,” you say quietly.
Bucky’s expression softens immediately. “What?”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the glass.
“I’ve… never done any of this before.” You glance up at him, cheeks warm now. “I mean—anything like this. Dating. Being… like this with someone.”
Silence stretches gently. Then, more spills out, almost like you need to get it out before you lose courage.
“And you were my first kiss.”
Bucky goes still in a way that isn’t shock, it’s something gentler and more careful. You rush on quickly, as if afraid of what the truth might do in the open air.
“I just thought you should know. In case I’m—awkward. Or—”
“Hey,” he cuts in softly as he pushes off the dresser and steps closer, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.
You don’t.
“Look at me,” he says gently.
You do and his expression is steady now. No teasing anywhere in it.
"You don't ever have to apologize to me. For anything."
“I like you a lot, Bucky,” you say suddenly, like it’s been sitting in you too long to hold back anymore.
Something in his face shifts immediately, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
“I like you too, babydoll,” he says quietly.
Your breath catches.
You swallow. “I can’t promise it’ll be any good but—”
Bucky doesn’t let you finish, he leans in and kisses you. It's not rushed or demanding, just soft and gentle. Like he’s waiting for you the entire time, making sure you’re still there with him, still okay, still choosing this. When he pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you, your eyes are wide.
“Don’t…” he whispers, “don’t say that.”
You pause, slightly stunned by the kiss. “Okay.”
A beat, then, softer:
“Can I kiss you again?”
You hesitate only a second then nod.
This time, when he kisses you, it’s a little less uncertain, still gentle and patient. But warmer now, like something between you is finally starting to trust the moment instead of question it. He doesn’t rush you, doesn’t push for anything more he just stays close enough that you can decide how much you want.
And eventually, you do loosen up slowly. Like your shoulders finally remember they don’t have to stay tight. You laugh a little under your breath at something he mumbles against your lips, and he smiles against you in response. When you pull back again slightly, breath uneven, he rests his forehead briefly against yours.
“That okay?” he asks softly.
You nod again, then your voice goes quieter.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.”
“I do,” he says gently.
You huff a soft laugh. “That’s not really comforting.”
“It should be,” he replies, a hint of warmth returning. “I’m real good at not rushin’ things.”
And he is, he stays exactly where you need him to, no pressure behind his precense. Eventually, you end up sitting on the edge of your bed together, close enough that your shoulders brush. Your glass is forgotten somewhere on the nightstand and Bucky’s hand finds yours again without thinking.
"I want to try…" you can't make the words out with a deep red blush crossing your face. "And I trust you."
"Good." Bucky hums, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek. "We'll go slow."
When you shift slightly closer, he lets you guide the space between you, like learning something new together instead of taking anything from you. When your nose brushes his, you tug lightly at your sleeve, suddenly self-conscious.
“I feel like I should be… more dressed for this,” you admit quietly. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be wearing.”
Bucky looks at you like the question itself doesn’t make sense then he shakes his head slightly.
“Doll,” he says softly, “you could be wearing a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter.”
You blink at him as he leans in just a little, brushing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“Just you,” he says quietly. “That’s all I need.”
You nod as he kisses you again. The kiss started slow, almost hesitant, but the moment Bucky’s hand cupped your jaw, tilting your head just so, it deepened into something more. You'd heard of desire in life, how it can warp the thoughts and actions of even the most resilient. But this, this burning ebb and flow deep within you was something else entirely. It had to be. It was as if a switch flipped inside you, your body felt magnetized to his, pushing closer and closer until there wasn't an inch of space between you.
His lips were warm, insistent, and when he pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth. "Can I touch you?"
You could only nod as his fingers traced a slow path down your thigh, the fabric of your dress bunching under his palm as he slid higher, his thumb brushing bare skin. You shivered, arching into him, your hands clutching at his shirt yearning for more.
Bucky smirked, catching your wrist. "Go ahead," he murmurs, guiding your hand down his chest.
Your thumb slipped beneath his shirt, your breath hitching at the hard planes of muscle beneath your fingertips. He was lean but solid, every ridge of his abdomen making your pulse jump.
His lips were still on yours when his fingers returned, teasing the damp fabric of your panties again. “Already this wet for me?” he mutters, voice rough against your mouth. “God, I can feel how hot you are through these.”
You whimper, arching into his touch. “Please, just—”
“Just what, sweetheart?” His thumb presses harder, circling your clit through the silk. “Tell me what you want.”
You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Touch me properly—God, Bucky—”
“That’s it,” he growls, hooking his fingers under the waistband, dragging them aside. The first slow stroke of his fingers through your slickness drew a choked moan from your throat.
“Fuck, you’re dripping.” He drags his fingers up, pressing them to your lips. “Taste.”
You sucked them into your mouth, eyes locked on his as you licked them clean, and the groan that ripped from his chest was filthy.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters, sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them just right. “Love how tight you are, how you squeeze me.” His thumb circles you clit faster. “Gonna cum already? That quick?”
You couldn’t answer, nails biting into his shoulder as pleasure coiled tighter, sharper.
“That’s it,” he urges, voice dark with praise. “Cum on my fingers, let me feel it babydoll.”
Your hips jerk as you shatter, his name a broken moan on your lips. He didn’t stop, fingers still working you through it until you were gasping, oversensitive and trembling.
He didn’t let you catch your breath just yet, licking his fingers clean before hauling you to the edge of the bed. One leg hooked over his shoulder, his mouth hot and relentless between your thighs, tongue lapping at your oversensitive clit.
“One more,” he murmurs, lips brushing your thigh. “Bet you can take it.”
Bucky wraps an arm around you, splaying his wide hand across your stomach, sinking his tongue into the slit of your cunt, curling it before going back to flick your clit. He groans against you, muffled by your skin as his free hand comes up, the pads of his fingers pressing into you.
"So fucking good babydoll," he groans as he feels you rock against his lips and fingers. "Bein' such a good girl for me."
The pressure coils tight inside you, your chest rapidly rising as your words are reduced into nothing but messy mumbles of 'Bucky' and 'Please'. He doubles down on his efforts, closing his lips around your clit as he arches and scissors his fingers inside you, his eyes locked up on you as he watches you crest over your high. Back arching off the bed as your thighs clench on the sides of his head, trapping him right where he wants to be. He brings you down with a gentle kiss to your pulsing clit, easing his fingers out and licking them clean.
"That was so much better... than I ever thought," you pant, still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. Bucky hums against your inner thigh, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. His tongue flicks lightly over your oversensitive clit, just enough to make your hips jerk.
"Mm, you thought about this?" His voice is low, rough with amusement. "My sweet girl thinking dirty thoughts? Thinking about what it’s like to be touched, licked, 'nd fucked?"
You whimper as he teases you again, the words alone sending another shudder through you. His fingers stroke slow circles on your thighs, gentle but possessive.
"Tell me," he murmurs. "Tell me what else you imagined."
You barely have time to answer before his mouth is on you again, licking and sucking just right, his fingers curling inside you with practiced ease. The pleasure builds too fast, too much at once and you're cumming all over again, rolling through you in deep, relentless waves.
When it finally eases, you’re boneless, breathless, but still aching for more. A deep and burning need simmering just under the surface of your skin. "Bucky," you plead, voice raw. "Please."
He kisses his way up your body, slow and deliberate, before finally pulling back just enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. The sight of him, all hard muscle and dark hunger makes your pulse jump.
"Condom?" he murmured, fingers tracing the soft curve of your stomach.
You still, then hum to yourself. "Oh. I don’t have any."
"Shit," he breathes, biting his lip. "Do you think your sister has any hidden, or maybe your—"
"We don’t…" Your voice drops, gentle now. "I mean, if you’re okay with it… we don’t have to."
He goes utterly still above you, his pulse hammering under your fingertips. "You sure, doll? Docs say I'm clean as a whistle," he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your cheek.
"But I don’t wanna rush you into anything."
Your thighs press together instinctively, already aching again, needing more. "I’m sure, Buck. I trust you." You hesitate, then whisper, "And you can… pull out. If you want to."
A slow grin spreads across his face at your shyness, even as the hunger in his eyes burns hotter. "Okay, babydoll."
He kisses you again, deep and slow, one hand cradling your jaw like you’re something precious while the other guides himself between your legs. There’s no rush, just the thick press of him stretching you open inch by inch, his lips never leaving yours until he’s fully sheathed inside.
"Good?" he rasps against your mouth.
You can only nod, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts moving in long, unhurried thrusts that make your back arch off the bed. He licks into your mouth as his hips roll into yours, one hand sliding down to rub tight circles on your clit until you’re gasping, teetering on the edge. Every stroke hitting something deep within you that you didn't even know existed. A quick addiction began inside of you, something you wanted to never end.
Obscene sounds filled the room, the air thick with something sweet and warm and needy. Your hands never left his back, digging half crescents into his skin as you pleaded for more.
Then he stops.
You whimper in protest, but he’s already shifting, pulling out just enough to drag you onto your side. One of your legs hooks over his shoulder as he leans back, changing the angle completely. The first thrust punches a moan from your throat, it's all so much deeper now, his grip tightening on your thigh as he fucks into you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips.
"Fuck," he grits out. "You take me so damn good."
Your hips rise to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, and the way your body clenches around him nearly makes Bucky lose it. His rhythm falters, a groan ripping from his throat.
"Fuck—you get so tight when I fuck you like this." He leans back just enough to let his gaze drop between you, his cock glistening with your slick as he drives into you again. "Go on, baby, look at it. You see that? Not a virgin anymore. Now you're all mine—you and this sweet pussy."
You're drowning in pleasure, barely coherent, but one word claws its way out of your throat.
"Harder."
Bucky obliges immediately, his thrusts snapping into you, the slap of skin echoing in the room. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to bruise, his breath coming in ragged bursts.
"Mm, wonder how I should give you your first load," he growls, voice thick with lust. "Should I pull out and paint that soft tummy? Or maybe these tits?"
He palms your breast roughly, thumb flicking over your nipple. "Maybe I should put you on your knees and cum all over your pretty face—"
"No!" You tighten your legs around him, pulling him deeper with a frantic whimper. "Please—"
He chuckles darkly, sinking into you fully with a satisfied groan. "What, you want it inside?"
His next thrust is punishing, forcing a broken moan from your lips. "Sweet little pussy’s never been fucked before, and now she wants to be filled too?" His hand slides down to grip your ass, tilting your hips just right. "Greedy little thing."
You can only nod helplessly, your body wound tight around him, clenching and begging as Bucky fucks you toward over edge all over again. Even after he spills inside you, Bucky can't stop, won't stop, his hips grinding slow and filthy, milking every last drop deep into your fluttering cunt. His hands slide under your knees, folding you nearly in half, pressing your thighs toward her chest until you're spread obscenely open.
"Fuck, still so tight," he growls, watching where you're joined—his cock still buried to the hilt, your pussy dripping around him. "Touch yourself. Wanna feel you come again while I'm still inside you."
Your fingers shake as you rub frantic circles over your clit, oversensitive and whimpering, but you don't stop, can't stop. Bucky groans at the way your walls ripple around him, his thrusts turning shallow and possessive, forcing his cum to seep even deeper.
"That's it," he rasps, biting the side of your leg. "Make a mess for me."
You practially sob as you cum again, tears rolling down the sides of your face, cream mixing with his spend, leaking down to your ass as your body is overcome with wave after wave of pleasure. Bucky curses when he feels it, hot pulses of you squeezing him and suddenly he's hard again, slamming into you with a snarl as another orgasm rips through him.
Your legs tremble in his grip. Neither of you can move anymore, just wrecked and sticky and full, but Bucky still rocks into you lazily, refusing to pull out just yet.
"Fuckin' perfect," he mutters against your lips as he gently sets your legs down, your mixed spend leaking from your thighs.
The room soon goes quiet in a soft, yet heavy way. You feel your chest loosen with something new, something warm and gooey.
The lamp is still on. It turns everything gentle around the edges—the rumpled sheets, the scattered clothes on the floor, the faint sheen of warmth still clinging to both of you like the night hasn’t fully let go yet.
Bucky moves first, carefully untangling himself from the sticky warmth of your bodies pressed together. He leans over the side of the bed, rummaging blindly until he finds his pants on the floor, tugging them closer with a quiet huff.
“You stay right there,” he murmurs without looking back at you.
You’re already curled slightly into the sheets, watching him with tired eyes that still look soft around the edges, calm in a way that feels new.
He finds his shirt and brings it over to you, then pauses, thinking.
“Water,” he says to himself like it’s a mission.
He disappears into the small kitchen. You hear cabinets open, the faint clink of a glass, water running. When he comes back, he’s got a glass in one hand and something folded in the other.
He sets the water beside you first.
“Here,” he says gently.
You take it without protest, sipping carefully. Then he unfolds the cloth—damp, warm from the sink.
You blink at him. “What’s that?”
“For you,” he says simply.
And then, softer, “Just… stay still a second.”
He cleans your skin with careful hands, unhurried, like it’s the most normal thing in the world for him to be this gentle after everything. Like there’s no rush anywhere. Like the whole night has slowed down just for this.
You watch him instead of the ceiling now, he notices.
“Stop lookin’ at me like that,” he mutters.
“Like what?”
“Like I’m doin’ something impressive.”
You smile faintly. “You are.”
That makes him pause for half a second, just long enough to look at you properly again. Then he shakes it off, like he doesn’t trust himself to sit in that feeling too long.
“Stay,” he says again, softer, and gets up.
This time he’s gone longer. When he comes back, there’s a cigarette tucked between his fingers and a lighter in his pocket. He pauses at the edge of the bed like he suddenly remembers something.
“…Can I smoke in here?” he asks, already sounding like he knows the answer.
You tilt your head slightly, thinking. “Probably not.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “That a no?”
“A probably no.”
He nods like he respects that, then immediately does it anyway but not in a careless way. He walks to the window, opens it wide, letting in the cool night air. The city noise spills in—distant traffic, laughter somewhere far below.
He leans out slightly, lights the cigarette, and inhales once before exhaling into the open air. You watch him from the bed, curious despite yourself.
“That smells… strong,” you say.
Bucky glances over his shoulder. “Yeah. That’s the point.”
A pause, then you sit up a little. “Can I try?”
That makes him turn fully now.
“Doll,” he says slowly, like he’s deciding whether to be responsible or curious.
You just look at him expectantly.
He exhales through his nose. “Alright. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
He crosses back to the bed, hands it over carefully. You take it like it’s something delicate as he watches you.
“Just… small inhale,” he instructs gently. “Not like you’re drinkin’ air.”
You try and immediately cough. Bucky laughs softly, not teasing, just amused and leans in quickly, patting your back once.
“Easy,” he says. “Easy, sweetheart.”
You glare at him between coughs. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “It is.”
But you still try again, more carefully this time, and he guides you with quiet patience until you manage it without immediately dissolving into another fit of coughing.
“There you go,” he murmurs, almost proud.
You hand it back to him, shaking your head slightly. He takes another drag, then leans back against the windowsill while you curl into the sheets again, watching him instead of the ceiling now.
After a moment, you let out a small laugh to yourself.
Bucky notices immediately. “What?”
You shake your head, still smiling. “Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
You glance up at him, amused. “I was just thinking… I’ve had brandy, cigarettes, and lost my virginity all in one night.”
Bucky freezes for half a second, then exhales a laugh, low and disbelieving.
“…Yeah?” he says. “Well. How d'ya feel?”
You nod, still smiling like you can’t quite believe it yourself. “I think I’ve been corrupted by Bucky Barnes.”
That gets him fully now, he turns toward you properly, cigarette forgotten for a moment in his hand.
“Oh yeah?” he asks, a little softer now. “What’s the verdict?”
You look at him for a long beat, not a hint of shyness glinted in your eyes.
“I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
Bucky’s expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with charm and everything to do with something deeper settling into place.
He puts the cigarette out and tosses it out the window, crawling across the bed to you, and leans down just enough to catch your face in his hand.
“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your lips.
You smile against him. “You were trouble first. I was sweet as can be."
Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.
Word Count: 11k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She wakes to weight and warmth.
His arm is still pressing around her waist, face still against her throat. The purr has faded to silence sometime during the night, but his breathing is deep and even. Peaceful in a way she suspects is rare for him.
She doesn't want to move, to disturb him.
But the sound of the traffic is entering through the window, the need to pee is not something she can ignore, and she can smell him, smoke, cheap soap, and the underlying scent of alpha that's been masked by everything else.
He needs a proper shower. Real soap. Clean clothes.
The thought of clothes makes her glance down at his naked form, tangled with her body in the sheets. She'd gotten him out of the tactical gear yesterday, but that's all he had. No change of clothes. No personal belongings. Just weapons, the suit, and… trauma.
One problem at a time.
She shifts carefully, trying to ease out from under him without waking him, but his arm tightens immediately around her.
"Alpha," she whispers. "I just need to get up for a minute."
His eyes open with instant alertness, like he goes from sleep to fully conscious in a heartbeat, and she can see the question in those pale blue eyes, even though he doesn't ask it.
Where are you going?
"Bathroom," she says softly. "I really need to go."
His arm loosens, and she slips out of bed. She can feel his eyes tracking her across the room, watchful, waiting for her to come back.
She does her business quickly, washes her hands, and when she comes back out, he's sitting up in bed. Back straight. Hands on his thighs. Watching the bathroom door like he's been waiting for her to reappear.
"Hey," she says softly, crossing back to the bed. "You okay?"
A stiff nod as an answer.
She sits on the edge of the mattress, close enough that her knee brushes his thigh. "I was thinking... you should take a shower. A real one. Get all that smoke and-" She gestures vaguely at him. "Everything else off."
He doesn't respond. Just looks at her with those unreadable pale eyes.
She tries again. "Would you like to-"
The tension in his shoulders increases fractionally, and she stops mid-sentence.
Right.
She remembers yesterday. The way he asked her to tell him what to do. The way he followed every instruction without question, like having someone make decisions for him, was a relief instead of an imposition.
She changes her approach.
"Alpha," she says, her voice firmer now. Not harsh, but directive. "I need you to take a shower. I need to smell you, not all this other stuff covering your scent. It would make me feel better."
The change is immediate.
His shoulders drop, and the tension bleeds out of his body. He nods, certain this time, because she's not asking him to choose. She's telling him what she needs, and he can do that. He can be useful to her.
"Good," she says, standing. "Come on."
He rises from the bed immediately and follows her to the bathroom.
She pulls back the curtain and turns on the shower, adjusting the temperature until the water runs hot. Steam starts to fill the small space almost immediately, and she steps back, gesturing to the shower. "Get in."
He walks with no self-consciousness, no modesty, and steps over the edge of the tub and under the spray.
And then he goes very, very still.
His eyes close, and his brow furrows like he’s trying to decipher what he feels. Then, his head tips back slightly, water streaming over his face, his hair, his shoulders.
She watches, fascinated, as his hands come up slowly -almost reverently- and push his hair back from his face, as his shoulders drop another inch, as he just stands there, unmoving, letting the hot water pour over him.
How long has it been since he had this?
The question disturbs her. Because this isn't just relief of removing filth. This is something else. Something that speaks to deprivation so complete that hot water feels like a luxury.
She swallows past the tightness in her throat and watches him for another moment, then makes a decision. She can't reach him properly from outside, and she's going to get soaked anyway trying to wash his hair.
"Scoot over," she says, pulling her shirt over her head.
He shifts immediately, making room, his eyes tracking her movements as she strips down to nothing and steps into the tub behind him.
The space is small, and the heat of the water mixing with the heat of his body makes the air thick and humid. She has to press close to reach around him, her chest against his back, and she feels him tense for just a second before relaxing into her touch.
"I'm going to wash your back first," she tells him, reaching for the soap. "Then your hair."
He nods, still facing the spray, and she works the soap into a lather between her hands before pressing them to his shoulders.
The scars feel different under the water. Softer somehow, but no less present. She traces them without meaning to, following the lines across his shoulder blades, down his spine, mapping the damage while she cleans away days of sweat and smoke and whatever else he's been through.
He's so still under her hands, waiting patiently for her to finish.
When his back is clean, she reaches for the shampoo.
"Okay, I need you to bend down for me," she says. "I can't reach your head."
He complies immediately, turning around and bending at the waist, his back to the showerhead now, water sliding down his face and neck.
"Close your eyes," she instructs quickly. "The water's going to run into them with the products, and it'll sting."
His eyes slide shut obediently, and she works the shampoo into his hair, massaging his scalp with her fingers. The water runs dark at first, carrying away dirt and product and god knows what else, but gradually it clears. She rinses thoroughly, then repeats with conditioner, working it through the tangled strands until they feel smooth under her fingers.
"Okay, you can straighten up now."
He does it slowly, water still streaming down his face, and just stands there, waiting.
She lathers it between her hands and places them on his chest. Her palms slide across his sternum, over his pecs, following the contours of muscle and scar tissue. The water runs between them, making everything slick, and she works methodically, cleaning away the last traces of smoke and sweat.
Her hands move lower, over his ribs, across his stomach. He doesn't move, doesn't react, just keeps standing there, letting her work.
When she reaches his hips, she soaps her hands again and continues downward, sliding them clinically between his thighs, washing with the same care she's given the rest of him.
That's when she notices it.
His balls are heavy. Drawn up tight against his body, swollen in a way that speaks to biological need not fully satisfied. A remnant of the rut, probably, or maybe just the proximity to her, naked and touching him in such an intimate way.
But he's not hard.
Not responding the way you'd expect an alpha to respond to his omega's hands on his body like this. And that tells her everything she needs to know about how deeply whatever they did to him runs.
She swallows the surge of anger -not at him, but at whoever made him like this- and keeps washing gently, giving him no reason to feel self-conscious about his body's lack of response.
"Does this feel okay?" she asks softly, as she works. "What I'm doing?"
"Yes."
The answer is immediate. Certain.
At least that's something.
She rinses her hands and reaches for more soap, working it over his thighs, his calves, finishing the job, and the whole time he just stands there. Letting her. Trusting her.
When she's done with his legs, she straightens, looking up at him.
"The other day," she says carefully, keeping her voice soft. "I asked you about your name."
His entire body goes rigid.
She can see the conflict playing out across his face. Confusion. Fear. The urge to answer warring with something else. Something that won't let him.
"Is it because you don't feel safe with me?" she presses gently. "Or because you don't have one? Or... you don't remember?"
His jaw works. She can see him struggling, can smell the spike of distress in his scent.
"Soldat," he finally says, and the word sounds forced. Automatic.
"Okay," she says softly. "But that's not really a name, is it? That's what you were. Not who you are."
He lifts his gaze to look at her fully now, and the look in his eyes is… lost. Confused. Like he genuinely doesn't understand the difference between those two things.
Like he's never had to understand the difference.
"Don't..." His brow furrows, and she can see him reaching for something that isn't there. "Don't remember," he says finally, and the frustration in his voice is palpable. "There was... something. But it's-"
He makes a gesture at his head with his flesh hand. Scattered. Fragmented. Gone.
Her chest tightens.
"Okay," she says, reaching up to cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. "That's okay. Maybe it'll come back. Or maybe it won't. Either way, you're still my alpha."
He leans into her touch, eyes closing briefly, and nods.
"Yeah," he echoes, barely a whisper.
She pulls him down into a gentle kiss -just a press of lips, nothing demanding- and feels him relax into it.
"Come on," she says, pulling back. "Let's get you dried off."
She reaches past him to turn off the water, then grabs a towel from the rack. "Dry yourself," she instructs, pressing it into his hands. "I'll be right back."
He takes the towel and starts patting himself down while she wraps herself in another towel and steps out of the tub.
His boxers are still on the floor where they'd left them yesterday, stiff and stained. She picks them up with two fingers, grimacing slightly, and takes them to the sink.
The water runs cold as she works soap into the fabric, scrubbing at the stains. Then, she rinses them thoroughly, wringing out as much water as she can.
She's still wringing them when she senses him behind her.
She glances up at the mirror and sees him standing, towel wrapped around his waist, watching her with those pale, unreadable eyes.
"Almost done," she says, giving the boxers one final squeeze before turning to face him. "I'm going to put these on the radiator. They shouldn't take too long to dry."
She moves, acutely aware of his gaze following her as she crosses to the radiator against the far wall. The metal is warm under her fingers as she drapes the damp fabric across it, smoothing it out so it'll dry evenly.
And that's when she remembers the other issue that needed to be approached. She turns to face him, wrapping her arms around herself. "I need to go out for a bit," she says.
"No."
The word is immediate.
"Alpha, it's to get you clothes," she explains, keeping her voice gentle. "There's a discount store just around the corner. I'll be quick, I promise. Twenty minutes, tops-"
"No."
He takes a step toward her, and something in his posture shifts. His shoulders broaden, his back straightens, and suddenly the space between them feels charged.
Another step.
She backs up instinctively until her shoulders hit the wall, and then he's right there, towering over her. His arms come up, forearms bracing against the wall on either side of her head, caging her in.
Not touching or hurting her. But unmistakably alpha in a way he hasn't been since he came back yesterday.
His head lowers, nose finding the curve of her neck, and she feels him inhale deeply. Scenting her. His lips brush against her scent gland, then the edge of his teeth, a gentle scrape that makes her breath catch.
"No," he says again, the word rumbling against her throat.
Her heart is hammering. Not from fear but from the sudden intensity of his presence, the way he's using his body to communicate what his words can't.
Don't leave. Don't go. Stay.
"Alpha," she says softly, her hands coming up to rest on his chest. She can feel his heart beating just as fast as hers. "I'm not leaving you. I'm just going to the store. I'll come right back."
His teeth scrape her gland again, more insistent this time, and a low sound rumbles in his chest. Not quite a growl. Something between that and a whine.
Mine. Stay. Don't go.
"Alpha," she says again, trying to keep her voice calm and reasonable even though her pulse is racing. "Listen to me. Nothing's going to happen to you while I'm gone. You'll be safe here. And nothing's going to happen to me either. It's just around the corner. Twenty minutes."
The sound in his chest intensifies. His face presses harder against her throat, and she can feel the tension in his body radiating in waves. "I know you don't want me to go. I understand. But I'll come right back. I promise-"
"No."
Still that same flat refusal. Immovable.
She can feel her patience starting to fray. This isn't working. Reasoning isn't working. He's too deep in whatever instinct is driving him to listen to logic. So she takes a breath, hating what she's about to do, but not seeing another option.
"You asked me to tell you what to do," she says, and her voice comes out firmer now. "So I'm telling you. I need you to let me get dressed and go buy you clothes."
He goes very still against her.
Then his head turns slightly, just enough that she can see his eyes. They're narrowed, fixed on her with a force that makes her stomach flip.
He doesn't like this. Doesn't like being ordered. But he's caught between what his instincts are screaming at him to do and what she's telling him to do.
She presses on, gentler now but still firm. "It's not acceptable for you to be naked. I mean, you can be naked if you want, that's fine. But you can't not have clothes. It's not warm enough for that, and if you need to go somewhere, you can't just walk around with your ass out."
That seems to penetrate his mind.
His eyes shift, some of the feral focus fading, replaced by the beginning of understanding. He pulls back slightly, just an inch, and she can see him processing. Trying to reconcile the conflicting drives.
She reaches up slowly and takes his flesh hand in both of hers, squeezing gently.
"Everything's going to be okay," she says softly. "I'm going to go to the store, I'm going to buy you some clothes, and I'm going to come right back. Fast. I promise."
His jaw works. She can see the internal struggle playing out across his face.
Then, slowly, his arms leave the wall, and he takes a step back, giving her space, but his hand tightens around hers. Not letting go. Not yet.
"Twenty minutes," she says, squeezing his hand again. "Okay?"
A long pause.
Then, finally, a single nod.
Stiff. Reluctant. But a nod.
----
Seventeen minutes.
The numbers on the laptop screen. 10:47 AM. She left at 10:30. Said twenty minutes. That means she should be back at 10:50.
Three minutes left.
Soldat sits on the edge of the bed, towel still wrapped around its waist, and watches the clock change to 10:48.
Its chest feels wrong. Tight. Like something is constricting around its lungs, making each breath require conscious effort.
She's coming back.
She said she would.
Twenty minutes.
But what if she doesn't?
The thought surfaces unbidden, and Soldat's hands clench into fists on its thighs. Metal fingers whir softly with the pressure.
What if she sees something out there that makes her realize what it is? What it's done? What if someone tells her about the Asset, about HYDRA, about the people it has killed?
What if she just... decides not to come back?
It wouldn't blame her.
10:49.
One minute.
Its breathing is getting faster. Shallow. The tightness in its chest is spreading, crawling up its throat, making its vision tunnel slightly at the edges.
She has to come back.
She has to.
Because without her, it doesn't know what it's supposed to do. Doesn't know where it's supposed to go. Doesn't know who it's supposed to be.
The handlers are gone. HYDRA is gone. Everything it was built for is rubble by the Potomac.
She's all it has left.
The only anchor point in a life of obeying, violence, and emptiness. The only person who's ever touched it without flinching. The only voice that's ever asked instead of ordered-
Except she did order. Told it to let her go.
And it complied.
Because that's what it does. It obeys. That's all it knows how to do.
But what if obeying was wrong this time? What if letting her leave means she doesn't come back, and it's sitting here alone in an empty apartment with no purpose and no-
10:51
The lock clicks.
Its head snaps toward the door, every muscle tense, its hand moving to grab a weapon that is not on him.
The handle turns, the door opens.
And she steps through, with a big plastic shopping bag in hand.
The relief is so overwhelming it's almost painful. The tightness in its chest releases all at once, and it has to grip the edge of the mattress to keep itself from lurching across the room toward her.
She came back.
She's here.
"Hey," she says, slightly breathless, closing the door behind her. "Sorry, the line was longer than I thought. But I got-"
She stops mid-sentence because Soldat is moving now, crossing the space between them in three long strides.
It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to be closer, needs to confirm she's real and solid and not some hallucination its fractured mind conjured up.
Its arms wrap around her before it can stop itself, pulling her against its chest. The shopping bag crinkles between them, but it doesn't care. Just buries its face in her hair and breathes.
Brown sugar, yeast, and omega.
Real. Here. Safe.
"Alpha?" Her voice is muffled against its chest, surprised but not afraid. "Everything alright?"
It doesn't know how to answer that.
Doesn't know if "alright" is something it's capable of being. Just tightens its grip fractionally and tries to remember how to breathe.
She pulls back slightly in its grip, not trying to escape but making space to look up at it.
"I'm back," she says softly, one hand coming up to rest on its chest. "See? Just a few minutes."
It nods, still not trusting its voice.
She smiles, small and reassuring, then shifts the shopping bag between them. "Come on, let me show you what I got."
Its arms loosen reluctantly, letting her step back, and she moves to the bed, upending the bag onto the mattress. Fabric spills out. Gray, black, and dark blue. Soft-looking materials that don't resemble tactical gear at all.
"Okay," she says, organizing the pile. "I got you socks, boxers, a couple of long-sleeve shirts, and sweatpants. I didn't want to risk jeans because I wasn't totally sure about your size, and these will stretch more anyway."
It stares at the pile.
Normal clothes. The kind normal people wear. The kind it hasn't worn since… the thought fractures before it completes. It doesn't remember wearing anything except uniforms. Combat gear. Things designed for function, not comfort.
"And these," she continues, pulling out a pair of slide sandals. Cheap rubber things. "Just so you have something for your feet. I'll get you actual shoes when I can, but this is a start."
She looks up at it, expectantly. Waiting for some kind of response.
It doesn't know what to give her. Its gaze drops to the clothes again. They look soft. Warm. Like something a person would wear, not an asset.
"Try them on," she says gently. "See if they fit."
It reaches for the boxers first, then the sweatpants. The fabric is... strange. Fleece-lined, warm against its skin, nothing like the rough pants it's used to. The waistband has a drawstring. It tugs it tighter and ties it.
Then the shirt. Long sleeves, black, soft cotton that smells like store packaging and nothing else. It pulls it over its head, and the fabric feels like something foreign against his skin.
Not precisely uncomfortable, but different. It stands there, dressed like a normal person, and doesn't know what to do with its hands. Then, something white catches its eye on the floor. A piece of paper that must have fallen from the bag.
It bends down, picks it up.
The receipt.
Its eyes scan the numbers automatically. Line items. Prices. Total at the bottom.
$47.83.
The number feels like a dead weight.
It knows what things cost and the value of money. Has always had to know. Forty-seven dollars for clothes that don't deserve. Money that she probably doesn't have much of, given the size of this apartment.
The guilt is immediate and visceral.
She shouldn't have to spend money on it. Shouldn't have to take care of it. Shouldn't have to do any of this because it showed up uninvited and broke her life apart. Alphas don’t do that; alphas provide and fix, take care of their mate-
"Do they fit okay?"
Her voice pulls it back. It looks up from the receipt, and she's watching it with those warm eyes, head tilted slightly.
It nods.
"Good." She smiles. "You look-" She pauses, something shifting in her expression. "Good, alpha. Like an average person."
The words shouldn't hit as hard as they do.
Like a person.
Not an asset. Not a weapon. Not the Soldat.
Its throat feels tight. It looks back down at the receipt still clutched in its metal hand.
"Too much," it manages, voice rough. The words feel clumsy in its mouth, but it forces them out anyway. "Cost too much."
Her brow furrows. "What?"
It holds up the receipt. "The money. You... spent."
Her gaze fixes on him with something that looks almost like pain.
"Alpha," she says softly, crossing to it. Her hands come up to frame its face, thumbs brushing its cheekbones. "Don't. Don't do that. It's not too much. It's clothes. You need clothes."
It wants to argue. Wants to explain that it's not worth forty-seven dollars, not worth her time or money or care. She doesn’t know what it is, what it has done. That she should have screamed and fought him instead of letting it touch her.
But the words won't come.
Just the guilt, mixing with the relief that she came back, and the confusion of wearing soft civilian clothes that smell like nothing except fabric and detergent.
"You're worth it," she says, like she can read its thoughts. "Okay? You're worth it."
It doesn't believe her. But doesn’t have the heart to tell her.
----
She lets her hands drop from his face, giving him space to process, and turns her attention to her empty stomach.
"I don't know about you," she says, "but I'm starving. It's too late for breakfast, so we should probably just do lunch." She then moves toward the small kitchen area, opening the freezer. "I have some vareniki in here. They have ricotta inside."
When she glances back at him, his head is tilted slightly, brow furrowed. Like he's trying to grab onto something just out of reach.
"They're a kind of pasta," she explains, pulling out the package. "I buy them from this lady who makes them at home to order. They're really good."
He doesn't respond, just stands there looking lost.
She waits a beat, then realizes he's not going to tell her if he wants them or not. Can't tell her, maybe. The choice is too much, too open-ended.
"I think you'll like them," she says, deciding for him. "I'm going to make them with butter and some grated cheese. Okay?"
A nod. Small. Certain now that she's told him what's happening.
She fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove, turning the burner to high. While she waits for it to boil, she gathers the butter from the fridge and the cheese grater from the drawer.
She can feel his eyes on her.
When she turns, he's still standing exactly where she left him. Not at attention, but close. Back straight. Hands at his sides. Like he's waiting for orders.
"You can sit down," she offers, nodding toward the small table.
He moves immediately, pulling out a chair and sitting. But even seated, she can tell he is not relaxed or comfortable. Just... compliant.
She turns back to the stove, checking the water. Not boiling yet.
She glances over her shoulder again.
He's watching her. Not staring, exactly, but his gaze is fixed on what she's doing. Tracking her movements as she grates the cheese, watches the water, and adds salt.
There's something almost... analytical about it. Like he's cataloging every action, filing it away. Or maybe he just doesn't know what else to do.
"You okay over there?" she asks softly.
"Yes."
The answer is immediate. Automatic.
She's not sure she believes him, but she also doesn't know what else to ask.
The water finally boils, and she drops the vareniki in, stirring gently to keep them from sticking. They'll need about five minutes.
She turns to lean against the counter, facing him properly now.
He's still watching. Those pale blue eyes fixed on her with a focus that should probably make her uncomfortable, but doesn't.
"You can come closer if you want, alpha," she says. "I told you about sitting because I thought you would want to."
He stands immediately -too quickly- and crosses to her.
But he doesn't stop at a comfortable distance. He comes right up to her, close enough that she can feel his body heat, and just... stands there.
Watching.
She tilts her head up to look at him. "You want to see what I'm doing?"
A nod.
"Okay." She turns back to the stove, and he shifts with her, positioning himself slightly behind and to the side. Close enough that his arm brushes hers.
She stirs the vareniki, watching them bob in the boiling water. "They're almost done. They float when they're ready."
He doesn't say anything. Just watches. His presence is solid and warm beside her, and she can smell him now: clean, finally, underneath the faint scent of alpha that makes her inner omega content.
The pasta floats to the surface, and she fishes it out with a slotted spoon, draining it before transferring it to a serving plate with melted butter. He's still right there, watching every movement like this is the most fascinating thing he's ever seen.
Maybe it is.
The thought makes her chest ache.
"Go sit down," she says gently, nodding toward the table.
He moves immediately, pulling out a chair and settling into it with that same stiff posture.
She carries the serving plate to the table, setting it on a folded dish towel to protect the wood. Then she gets two regular plates and forks, setting one in front of him.
She serves him a generous portion. He's a big man, and she has no idea how much he eats. The vareniki gleam with butter as she arranges them on his plate, then sprinkles a generous amount of grated cheese over the top.
Then she serves herself and sits down across from him.
For a moment, they just... look at each other.
He's dressed. Clean. Fed. Safe.
Hers.
And she has absolutely no idea what she's doing.
"Go ahead," she says softly, picking up her fork. "Try it."
He picks up his fork and spears some food, bringing it to his mouth.
She watches him chew, his expression for any sign of reaction.
Nothing. Just methodical chewing. Swallowing.
Then he takes another bite. And another. Not desperate, but consistent. Like eating is just another task to complete.
"Do you like it?" she finally asks.
He pauses mid-bite, looks at her, then down at his plate. Like he's trying to determine if he's supposed to like it.
----
"Yes," he says finally.
It's the truth, as far as it can tell. The food is... good. Warm. The cheese is salty, the butter rich, the pasta soft in a way that's completely different from field rations or the nutrient paste they sometimes fed it through a tube to save time during mission prep.
It doesn't remember the last time it ate something that wasn't designed purely for function. Something that had flavor beyond the metallic tang of whatever vitamins they pumped into its system.
It likes this.
But the words to express that don't come. No one has ever asked for its approval on anything, least of all something as mundane as food. Its preferences have never mattered. Its sustenance was just another logistical concern, handled efficiently and without consideration for comfort.
She nods and returns to her own plate, and it watches her take a bite, chew, swallow.
There's something in her expression. A flicker of something that might be disappointment, though it's not entirely sure it's reading her correctly.
Did it insult her?
The thought sends a spike of anxiety through it. She spent food reserves, and not even normal ones, but the kind she had to order specially, to cook for it. And all it could give her was a flat "yes".
It needs to fix this.
It picks up its fork and takes another bite. Faster this time. Then another.
The problem is that it's already full.
Its stomach has spent decades being fed the bare minimum to function. Caloric intake calculated to maintain muscle mass and operational capacity, nothing more. The portions have always been small, controlled, and its body adapted.
Three vareniki in, and it can feel the pressure in its abdomen. Uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But she cooked this. She made it for it, and not finishing would be… what? Ungrateful? Disrespectful? A waste of the money she spent on ingredients?
It can't do that to her.
It forces another bite down. Chews mechanically. Swallows past the growing discomfort. Then another, and keep going.
Even though its stomach is protesting. Even though each bite is getting harder to swallow. Even though every instinct that isn't about pleasing her is screaming to stop.
It's halfway through the plate when her voice cuts through its thoughts.
"Alpha."
Its head snaps up, fork frozen halfway to its mouth.
"I'm sorry," she says, and there's genuine apology in her voice. "I should have made more. I'm watching you eat, and I'm thinking you're going to still be hungry."
If she only knew.
It shakes its head immediately.
"Are you sure?" she presses with concern. "Because I can make something else if-"
"Da." The word slips out before it can stop it, but it corrects itself quickly. "Yes. I’m sure."
She studies it for a moment, like she's trying to determine if it's telling the truth, then nods slowly.
"Okay," she says. "But if you get hungry later, tell me. We have more food."
It nods, relieved. She's not going to make it keep eating. Not going to force more food on it. She's just... accepting its answer.
She returns to her own plate, and it oblige his body to keep swallowing. Once it finishes the plate, it isn’t sure what it is supposed to do now.
Wait for her to finish? Clear the table? Stand at attention?
The uncertainty must show on its face because she glances up.
"You can relax," she says gently. "You don't have to just sit there. If you want to get up, you can."
Permission again.
It doesn't move. Not because it doesn't want to, but because it doesn't know where to go or what to do.
So it stays. Hands in its lap now, fork set down. Watching her finish her meal.
----
She finishes her plate and stands, gathering the dishes. "I'll wash these real quick, and then we can watch something. Or just cuddle on the couch if you want. You look tired."
It nods because it doesn't know what else to do.
She moves to the sink, running the water, and it sits there listening to the domestic sounds of dishes clinking, water running, her humming softly under her breath.
Normal sounds. Safe sounds.
And then its stomach clenches.
Hard.
The discomfort it had been ignoring suddenly becomes impossible to ignore anymore. A sharp, twisting sensation that makes its breath catch.
It stands abruptly, and the chair scrapes against the floor.
Bathroom. It needs to get to the bathroom.
It moves quickly, but not quickly enough.
Halfway across the small space, its stomach rebels violently. It doubles over, and everything comes up splattering across the floor in a grotesque puddle.
No.
No.
It hears her footsteps, hears the sharp intake of breath, and the shame is immediate and devastating.
"Oh, hey- it's okay-"
She's there in a second, the mop bucket from beside the sink suddenly in front of it, and it grips the edges as another wave hits it.
More comes up. Its body convulsing, emptying itself while she holds the bucket steady.
The thoughts spiral:
Unacceptable. Weak.
It made a mess on her floor. Ruined the clean space she maintains. There's also vomit on the new clothes -it can feel the wet warmth on its shirt- clothes she spent money on, clothes it doesn't deserve, and now they're ruined too.
Pathetic. Can't even eat a normal meal without failing.
She made food. Went to the effort of cooking, of feeding it like it's worth the care, and it couldn't even keep it down. Couldn't perform this one simple biological function without making a spectacle of itself.
Seventy years as Hydra’s fist, and it can't even-
"Alpha, breathe," her voice cuts through the spiral. Soft. Steady. "Just breathe. It's okay."
It's not okay.
Nothing about this is okay.
Another heave, but nothing comes up this time. Just painful dry retching that makes its eyes water and its throat burn.
"That's it," she murmurs, one hand on its back now, rubbing slow circles. "Get it all out. Don't fight it."
It wants to pull away. Wants to hide. Wants to be anywhere but here, hunched over a bucket while she watches it fall apart over something as stupid as food. But it can't move. Can only grip the bucket and try to breathe through the shame that's threatening to drown it.
Another dry heave shakes its body, but nothing else comes up.
She keeps her hand on its back, steady and warm, and her voice stays calm. "Okay. I think you're done. Just breathe for me."
It tries. Shaky inhales that burn its raw throat. The bucket is still clutched in its hands like a lifeline.
"Let me take that," she says gently, tugging at the bucket.
It releases it reluctantly, and she sets it aside, out of the immediate splash zone.
Her eyes scan the floor, the mess, then back to it. There's no disgust in her expression or anger. Just concern.
"Are you okay?" she asks. "Does your stomach still hurt?"
It can't answer. Can't form words past the shame clogging its throat.
She frowns slightly, biting her lip. "Maybe the filling was off? Or..." Her hand comes up to touch its forehead, checking for fever. "Are you getting sick? Do you feel feverish?"
It shakes its head. No fever. Just failure.
"Okay," she says, clearly trying to figure this out. "Could be a bug. Or maybe the cheese didn't agree with you."
She doesn't know.
Doesn't realize it forced itself to keep eating. Doesn't understand that its stomach has been starved down to nothing for decades and can't handle normal portions anymore.
She's trying to find an explanation that makes sense -bad food, illness, anything- because the truth wouldn't occur to her.
That it's just broken.
"Come on," she says, helping it straighten up. "Let's get you cleaned up first, then I'll deal with the floor."
It looks down at itself. The new shirt has vomit splattered across the front. Dark wet stains that reek of bile and failure.
The shame intensifies.
"Alpha," she says softly, catching its gaze. "Stop. I can see you spiraling. It's just a shirt. It'll wash."
It's not just a shirt. It's the evidence of how completely useless it is. How it can't even be trusted with basic things like eating without fucking it up.
She guides it toward the bathroom, her hand gentle on its elbow. "Let's get this off you and rinse your mouth out."
It follows because it doesn't know what else to do.
In the bathroom, she helps it pull the soiled shirt over its head. The movement makes its stomach clench again, but there's nothing left to come up. She tosses the shirt in the sink and turns on the tap, rinsing it quickly before wringing it out.
"Here," she says, handing it a cup of water. "Rinse and spit. Your mouth has to taste awful."
It does. The water is cool, soothing against the burn in its throat. It rinses and spits into the sink, then rinses again.
"Better?" she asks.
A small nod.
She's watching it carefully, and it can see the wheels turning in her head. Trying to figure out what's wrong, why this happened.
She's not going to figure it out unless it tells her.
And it doesn't know how to tell her that it's fundamentally broken. That decades of abuse have left it unable to function in even the most basic ways.
"Go sit on the couch," she says gently. "I'm going to clean up the floor, and then I'll bring you some ginger ale or something, okay? Something gentle for your stomach."
It wants to argue. Wants to clean up its own mess, but she's already guiding it out of the bathroom, her hand firm but kind on its back.
"Go," she insists. "Sit down. Let me handle this."
So it does.
Because she told it to.
And obeying is all it knows how to do.
----
She works quickly, mechanically. Paper towels first to get the worst of it, then the mop with disinfectant.
Her mind is racing. She ate the same thing he did, but her stomach feels fine. No nausea. No cramping. Nothing.
So it's not food poisoning. Is he sick? Coming down with something?
But he doesn’t seem to have a fever. His skin was cool when she touched his forehead, maybe even a little cold.
So what is it?
She scrubs harder at the floor, frustration mixing with concern. She needs to fix this. Needs to figure out what's wrong so she can help him, but she doesn't have enough information.
And he's not going to tell her. Not because he's being difficult, but because he probably doesn't even know himself what's wrong.
Or worse, he knows and doesn't think he's allowed to say.
The thought makes her chest tight again.
She finishes with the floor, dumps the dirty water in the toilet, rinses the mop and bucket, and washes her hands thoroughly. Then she goes to her purse on the counter.
There's a small tin of mints in the side pocket. Cherry flavored. She pops one out and grabs a clean dish towel from the drawer.
When she enters the living area, he's exactly where she left him. Sitting on the couch. Shirtless. Back straight. Hands on his thighs.
Waiting.
His eyes track her as she approaches, and she can see it immediately, the distress. The smell of shame radiates off him in waves, even though his expression is carefully blank.
"Here," she says softly, holding out the mint. "For your mouth."
He takes it without question, placing it on his tongue.
She sits down next to him, close enough that their thighs touch, and drapes the dish towel across his bare chest.
"Just in case," she explains. "If you feel sick again."
He nods stiffly.
She shifts, tucking herself against his side, her head resting on his shoulder. One arm wraps around his waist, and she can feel how tense he is.
Like he's bracing for something.
"Alpha," she murmurs. "It's okay. You just got sick. It happens."
He doesn't respond.
She cuddles more against him and starts to purr.
Low and steady, the sound rumbling in her chest. It's instinctive, her omega nature trying to soothe her distressed alpha, trying to calm whatever storm is raging inside him.
She feels him go even more rigid for a moment, like he doesn't know what to do with the comfort she's offering.
Then, slowly, incrementally, he starts to relax.
His shoulder drops slightly. His breathing evens out. The tension in his frame bleeds away by degrees. But the distress doesn't fully leave. She can still smell it on him, acrid and sharp underneath his natural scent.
This isn't just about getting sick. She knows that instinctively, even if she doesn't understand why. This is... something else. Something significant enough to send him spiraling.
She keeps purring, keeps holding him, and wishes desperately that he could just tell her what's wrong.
But he can't. Or won't. Or doesn't know how.
So she does the only thing she can: stays close and purrs and hopes it's enough.
His arm comes up slowly, carefully, and wraps around her shoulders. Holding her against him like she's the only thing keeping him tethered.
"I've got you," she whispers against his chest. "Whatever it is, I've got you."
She feels him nod. Just barely.
And his grip on her tightens.
----
They stay like that for a while. She's not sure how long, but long enough that the mint has dissolved completely in his mouth. Long enough that his breathing has returned to something approaching normal.
He seems okay physically. No more nausea, no signs of fever or illness. Just that lingering tension that hasn't fully released, like he's waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She understands now, in a way she didn't before, just how broken he is. How careful she's going to have to be. How slowly she'll need to move.
Their relationship didn't start with a conversation. It started with scents through a bakery vent. With biology and instinct, and something neither of them could control or explain.
Maybe that's where she needs to go back to. Not words, he doesn't have those, or can't access them, or doesn't trust them. But touch. Scent. The things that bypass language entirely.
Her hand slides up from his waist, tracing along his side. Up higher, to where the metal meets flesh. The scar tissue is thick, raised, and angry, even if it seems this was inflicted long ago.
She traces it gently, following the line where the metal bolted into living tissue.
"Does this hurt?" she asks softly.
"No."
His voice is rough but certain.
She nods and shifts, rising up slightly on the couch. Her lips press against the scarred tissue, feather-light. A kiss to the damage someone else inflicted.
His breath hitches.
It's subtle -just a small catch in his breathing- but she feels it. Feels the way his body goes very still under her mouth, like he's trying to process a sensation he doesn't have reference for.
She does it again, and this time, his exhale shakes.
And his scent shifts.
It's not dramatic, but it's there. The edge of distress that's been clinging to him since he got sick starts to fade, replaced by something warmer. Deeper.
Alpha.
Not the stressed, broken alpha smell. The real thing underneath. Leather and gunmetal and that bass note that makes her inner omega drool.
She keeps going. More kisses, tender and purposeful, mapping the border of his trauma with her mouth. Working her way across his shoulder, and with each press of her lips, his breathing gets a little heavier. A little less controlled.
The angle is awkward -she's twisted sideways on the couch, half-kneeling to reach him properly- so she shifts, swinging one leg over his thighs, settling into his lap so she can reach his shoulder, his neck, without straining.
The position puts them chest to chest, and she can feel it immediately, the way his breathing stutters when her weight settles fully on his thighs.
His hands come to her waist automatically. Steadying her. Holding her.
She presses kisses up the side of his neck now, following the line of his throat, and his pulse is racing under her lips now; she can feel it, fast and hard and alive. And his scent is getting stronger now, filling her lungs with every breath.
Her body responds before her mind catches up.
Warmth low in her belly. A flutter of arousal building between her legs. The beginning of slick, just a hint of wetness that has nothing to do with conscious thought.
She tries to ignore it. This isn't about sex. This is about comfort, about showing him that touch can be gentle, that-
A sound rumbles out of him.
Low. Subvocal. Vibrating against her lips where they're pressed to his throat, and she can feel it in her chest too, where they're pressed together.
He's purring.
The realization makes her still for half a second, and then she's moving again, drawn by instinct. Her mouth finds his scent gland, and she opens her lips against it.
Just a gentle press at first. Testing.
His whole body shudders beneath her.
Not a small tremor. A full-body shake that she feels everywhere they're touching, and the purr stutters, breaking into something rougher. More desperate.
His metal hand slides up from her waist to cup the back of her head. Not forcing, but holding her there. Like he needs this contact, needs her mouth on his gland more than he needs to breathe.
She seals her lips over it and sucks.
Gently. Carefully.
The reaction is immediate and devastating.
His scent explodes.
It floods her system -thick and overwhelming- hitting the back of her throat, her lungs, soaking into her skin. Leather and gunmetal and musk, and underneath it all, something that's just him, raw and unfiltered and so intense she feels dizzy with it.
Her vision blurs at the edges.
The hand on the back of her head tightens, metal fingers fisting carefully through her hair, and she can feel him trembling. Actually trembling, like he's coming apart under her mouth.
"Omega," he rasps, and his voice is wrecked. Barely recognizable.
The word sends a bolt of heat straight between her legs.
She's slick now. Properly slick. Can feel it coating her inner thighs, soaking through her underwear. Her body responding to his scent, to his need, to the broken way he's naming her like she's the only thing in the world that can fix him.
And maybe she is.
Her own breathing is getting ragged now. Her heart is pounding. The hand not holding his shoulder slides down to his chest, and she can feel his heart racing under her palm, matching hers beat for beat.
She sucks harder at his gland, and he makes a sound, broken and needy and so fucking desperate it makes her inner omega keen with the need to soothe, to provide, to give.
His hips shift beneath her. Just slightly. An involuntary rock upward, and that's when she feels it, his thick cock pressing against her through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, hardening with every second her mouth stays on his gland.
The friction sends a spark of pleasure through her, and she can't help the small roll of her hips in response. Seeking more of that pressure, more of that contact.
He groans against her hair, and the purr has morphed into something else now. Something between a purr and a growl, possessive and needy all at once, and it vibrates through both their chests where they're pressed together.
----
The kiss deepens, and the chaotic thoughts that have been spiraling since it threw upstart to fade, pushed aside by something stronger.
Instinct.
Alpha instinct that knows what to do even when its conscious mind doesn't. That knows how to touch her, how to hold her, how to make her feel good. This, at least, it can do.
This, it didn't fail at.
Her hips shift in its lap, grinding down, and the friction sends a bolt of heat straight through it. Its cock is fully hard now. Its hands slide down to her waist, gripping, and it can feel the softness of her through the thin fabric of her shirt. Warm. Yielding.
Omega. Mine.
She pulls back from the kiss just enough to catch her breath, her lips swollen and wet, and the sight makes its chest constrict.
"Alpha," she breathes, and the word is laced with need.
It can give her this.
Can make her feel good. Can use its body for something other than violence and destruction. Can be worthy of the care she's given it.
Its mouth finds her throat, licking over her scent gland, and she gasps. Her fingers tangle in its hair, pulling, and it growls softly against her skin.
The sound is possessive. Territorial. Pure alpha.
And she responds to it. Her hips rolling down harder, seeking friction, seeking it.
"Please," she whimpers, and that word -that desperate plea- flips every remaining switch in its brain from think to act.
Its hands slide under her shirt, palms against bare skin. She's so warm, so soft, and it can feel her pulse racing under its touch. It drags the fabric up and she helps, lifting her arms so it can pull the shirt over her head.
The shirt hits the floor, and it just stops and stares.
Its gaze drops to her breasts, and something primal and hungry coils in its gut.
Pretty. Perfect.
The thoughts are simple, base-level. No complex analysis, just pure aesthetic appreciation mixed with possessive satisfaction.
Mine. All mine.
Its metal hand comes up slowly, cupping one breast, and she shivers at the cool touch of the plates. The flesh hand mirrors it on the other side, warmer, and it just holds her for a moment. Learning the weight, the softness.
Then its thumbs brush over her nipples, watching them harden under the touch, and she makes a small sound that goes straight to its cock.
It wants its mouth there. Wants to taste.
It leans forward, closing the distance, and seals its lips around one nipple. Her hand flies to the back of its head, holding it there, and it sucks at the bud.
Her reaction is perfect. Back arching more, pushing her breast further into its mouth, a breathy moan escaping her throat.
It switches to the other side. Licking, sucking, feeling her nipple harden against its tongue, and her hips are moving restlessly in its lap now, grinding down shamelessly against its cock in a rhythm that's making it hard to think.
Need her. Need to be inside her.
It lifts her suddenly -hands gripping her ass, standing from the couch with her legs wrapped around its waist- and crosses to the bed in three strides.
The bed where it knotted her days ago. Where it learned what it felt like to be something other than it was. It lays her down carefully -always careful, because it could hurt her so easily- and follows her down, covering her body with its own.
She's reaching for it immediately, pulling it down into another kiss, and this one is hungrier. More desperate.
Its hands map her body with growing confidence. Over her sides, down to the waistband of her joggers. It hooks its fingers in the fabric and strips her swiftly -joggers and underwear gone in seconds- and then she's bare beneath it, legs falling open in invitation.
The scent of her arousal hits it like a drug. Sweet and thick and unmistakably omega.
Its mouth trails down her body -throat, collarbone, between her breasts- following instinct more than conscious thought. It pauses there, unable to resist, taking one nipple back into its mouth while its hand palms the other breast.
She whimpers, her hips lifting off the bed, seeking friction.
Lower.
It kisses down her stomach. Her hips.
And then between her thighs. It doesn't hesitate. Just buries its face between her legs and tastes.
Her reaction is immediate. Back arching off the bed, hand flying to its hair, a broken sound escaping her throat.
Good.
She feels good.
This is what alphas do. This is its purpose.
The thoughts are simple. Clear. No room for shame or failure or worthlessness.
Just its tongue on her clit, her taste flooding its mouth, her thighs shaking on either side of its head, and the sounds she's making that tell it it's doing this right.
For once in its miserable existence, it's doing something right.
And it's not going to stop until she falls apart.
Its tongue drags through her folds slowly, and her taste floods its system. Salt and sweet and omega, the slick coating its tongue, sliding down its throat.
She wants this. Wants it.
Its mouth seals around her clit and gives it a firm suck, and her hips buck up off the mattress. The hand in its hair tightens, pulling, and it growls against her, a deep, possessive sound that vibrates through her core.
She cries out, thighs trembling, and more slick floods out. It can smell it, thick and heavy in the air, mixing with its own scent until the entire room reeks of them.
Alpha and omega. Mated. Mine.
It pulls back just enough to look at her. Chest heaving, eyes glazed with need. It wants to remember this, wants to keep it when everything else is fractured and scattered.
Its fingers slide through her wetness, feeling how ready she is. How open. Her body yielding for it, welcoming it.
This isn't blind instinct anymore. It knows now. Learned her body those first frantic days: what makes her gasp, what makes her whimper, what makes her come apart completely.
And it plans to use every bit of that knowledge.
Because right now, making her feel good is the only thing it's certain of. The only thing it hasn't failed at.
Two fingers slide inside her, and she keens. Her back arches, head thrown back, and the scent of her arousal intensifies.
It watches her face as it curls its fingers, finding that spot inside that makes her whole body jolt. There. It strokes deliberately, and her thighs start to shake.
"Alpha-" Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. "Please-"
Begging.
Its omega is begging for it.
It is drunk with primal satisfaction.
Its mouth returns to her clit, tongue circling while its fingers work inside her. The dual sensation makes her cry out, hips rolling desperately against its face.
It can feel her tightening around its fingers. Getting close. Her slick is coating its hand now, running down its wrist, and the scent is so thick it's almost overwhelming.
Perfect.
She's perfect.
It sucks harder on her clit, fingers stroking faster, and her entire body goes rigid.
Then she shatters.
The sound she makes is broken and beautiful. Her walls clamp down on its fingers, pulsing, and fresh slick floods out as she comes.
It doesn't stop. Keeps licking, keeps stroking, drawing out her orgasm until she's trembling and oversensitive and trying to push its head away with shaking hands.
Only then does it pull back.
Its face is wet. Its hand is soaked. And its cock is so hard it hurts, straining against the sweatpants.
She's still panting, still trembling, but her eyes are on it now. Watching as it rises up on its knees between her spread thighs.
"Alpha," she breathes.
Its hands go to the waistband of the sweatpants. It shoves them down just enough to free its cock, and the relief of pressure is immediate.
It's leaking already. Has been since it first tasted her. The head is flushed and wet, and it wraps its flesh hand around the base, positioning itself. The head of its cock slides through her folds, coating itself in her slick, and they both groan at the contact.
Then it pushes inside.
Slow. Controlled. Watching her face for any sign of discomfort.
And then it realizes: this is the first time.
The first time it's taken her like this. Face to face. Looking at her while it pushes inside.
Those frantic days were different. Needed to mount her from behind, needed to claim and breed and lose itself in pure instinct. Couldn't think, couldn't see, could only feel.
But this is different.
It can see her face now. Can watch the way her mouth falls open as it sinks deeper. Can see her eyes flutter closed, then open again to meet its gaze. Can watch her head tip back slightly, throat exposed, as she tries to take all of it.
And it likes this.
Likes seeing the pleasure written across her face. Likes watching the exact moment when it bottoms out and her breath catches. Likes the way her hands come up to grip its shoulders, nails digging in slightly.
"Alpha," she breathes, and her voice is already wrecked.
It pulls back slowly, almost all the way out, just to watch her expression change. The loss registers on her face, a little furrow between her brows, her hips shifting up like she's trying to follow.
Then it pushes back in. Steady. Deep.
Her mouth opens in a gasp, and her head falls back against the pillow.
This. This is what it wants to remember. Not just the feeling -though fuck, the feeling is incredible, tight heat and slick and home- but the visual. Her face. The way she looks when it's inside her.
It does it again. Slow withdrawal, watching her react. Watching her body arch slightly, seeking. Then the slow push back in, filling her completely, and the way her eyes roll back slightly when it hits deep.
Its gaze drops lower. Watches where they're joined -its cock disappearing into her, slick coating the shaft- then up to her breasts.
They move with each thrust. Gentle sway, nipples still hard and wet from its mouth, and it can't look away.
Beautiful.
It wants to touch, but its hands are occupied -one braced beside her head, the other gripping her hip- so it just watches. Mesmerized by the movement, by the visual proof of what it's doing to her.
Making her body react. Making her shake and gasp and take its cock.
"Look at me," it rasps, and it's surprised by its own voice. The command in it.
Her eyes snap open, locking onto its.
And it moves.
Still slow. Still controlled. But purposeful now, each thrust measured and deliberate. Angling to hit that spot inside that makes her gasp.
But it's not enough. Not deep enough. It needs-
Its metal hand releases her hip and slides down, hooking behind her knee. It pushes her leg up and out, bending it toward her chest, opening her wider.
The angle change is immediate and devastating.
It sinks deeper -so much deeper- and she cries out, back arching off the bed.
"Fuck! Alpha-"
Yes. This.
It does it again, pulling almost all the way out and driving back in at this new angle, and the sound she makes is perfect. Broken and desperate and so full of pleasure it makes something fierce and possessive burn in its chest.
Its gaze drops again, watching its cock slide into her at this angle, watching her body stretch to take it, watching the way her breasts bounce with each harder thrust now that it's found the right position.
The visual is almost too much. Her leg pushed up, held in place by its metal hand, opening her completely. Her hands gripping the sheets, knuckles white.
Taking everything it's giving her.
Mine.
The thought is absolute. Possessive. This omega, spread open beneath it, taking its cock, making those perfect sounds… all mine.
It hooks her ankle over its shoulder, and its hand slides between them, finding her clit.
The reaction is immediate.
She clenches around it, walls fluttering, and her whole body tenses.
"Alpha-fuck-I can't-I'm-"
It circles her clit in time with its thrusts, watching her face the entire time. Watching her pleasure build. Watching her breasts move with each impact of its hips against hers. Watching her get closer and closer to the edge.
Its thumb presses down on her clit, and that's all it takes.
She breaks.
Clenching down hard, her back arching off the bed, a broken cry escaping her throat. It can feel the rhythmic pulse of her orgasm, feel the fresh gush of slick, and it feels so fucking good-
Its own control fractures.
The measured thrusts become harder, faster. It grips her hip and the back of her thigh, holding her in place while it drives into her, chasing its own release while she's still coming, still squeezing around it.
When it comes, it's with its eyes locked on her face, watching her watch it fall apart. Its hips jerk forward, driving deep, and it barely manages to keep its arms locked so it doesn't collapse its full weight onto her.
The pleasure rolls through in waves, each one making its cock pulse inside her, and it can't look away from her face. Can't stop watching the way she's looking at it, eyes heavy-lidded, satisfied, something soft in her expression that it doesn't have words for.
Its hips give a few more shallow thrusts, riding out the aftershocks, and then it stills. Panting. Overwhelmed.
It starts to shift, pulling back, preparing to roll to the side, and her arms immediately wrap around its neck.
"No," she says, breathless but firm. "Stay."
It freezes, uncertain. Its weight is resting on her. Not all of it, its forearms are still taking most of the load, but still. It's heavy.
Her legs lift, wrapping higher around its waist, and the message is crystal clear:
Don't move. Stay exactly where you are.
"Please," she adds, softer now. "Just... stay like this for a minute."
It doesn't understand why she'd want this. Why she'd want its weight pinning her down, its softening cock still buried inside her, its sweat-damp skin pressed against hers.
But she asked.
So it stays.
Carefully, it lets more of its weight settle onto her and she makes a small, satisfied sound. Her hands slide from its neck into its hair, fingers combing through the damp strands.
"Better," she whispers. Then- "You okay?" she asks quietly.
It nods. Then, because that feels insufficient: "Yes."
Her thumb brushes across its cheekbone. The touch is gentle, reverent, almost.
"You did so good," she murmurs. "Made me feel so good."
Good.
Its throat feels tight. It doesn't know what to say, how to respond, so it just... stays as it is, letting her hold it. Letting her touch its face, stroke its hair, murmur soft praise that it doesn't know how to accept but desperately needs.
The chaos in its head is quiet now. Not gone, probably never fully gone, but... manageable.
HYDRA is gone. The handlers are gone. The structure that told it when to move, when to eat, when to breathe… all of it, gone.
And somehow, that's more terrifying than any mission it was ever sent on.
"Alpha," she whispers after a while, when his breathing has fully settled. "I'm glad you came back home."
Home.
The word lands strangely. Foreign. It tries to process it and can't quite make it fit.
Not base. Not safehouse. Not operational location.
Home implies... permanence. Belonging. Things it doesn't know how to conceptualize beyond the pull of the bond that says mine, stay, protect.
Her fingers card through its hair, gentle and soothing.
"We're going to have to talk eventually," she says. "Really talk. I need to understand you, and you need to understand me.
It nods against her shoulder because she's right.
The bond is real, undeniable, biological, absolute. But she's also a person, with thoughts and history and a life it knows nothing about. And it is... what?
Not a person. Not really.
Except-
The scene surfaces suddenly in his mind. Sharp. Unwelcome.
The man on the bridge.
Who said a name like it should mean something. Like the Asset was someone worth calling by name. The memory -if it even is a memory and not a construct of his fried brain- is fragmentary. Unreliable. Could be nothing.
But it knows what she said is true.
Eventually, she's going to need more. Need answers it doesn't have. Need it to be something it doesn't know how to be.
And it's terrified of what could happen when it can't give her that-
"Alpha?" Her voice cuts through the spiral, soft and concerned. "Where did you go?"
It shakes its head against her shoulder.
She doesn't push. Just holds it tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles on its back. Careful, always careful, lets itself sink into the warmth of her body, the rhythm of her breathing, the beat of her heart on her throat.
The future is uncertain, terrifying. Full of questions it doesn't have answers to.
It doesn't have commands anymore.
Just her hands in its hair. Her voice saying stay. And the pull of the bond that bypasses every fractured synapse in its brain.
Summary: Every Tuesday morning the housewives of Waiting Willow Lane eagerly wait for the handsome milkman. Pearls around their neck, red lips and a tight apron to accentuate their waist, at 5AM ready to bat their eyelashes at Bucky, not you though, but what happens when you smell another woman's perfume on your husband's shirt?
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, angst, misogynistic themes, cheating (not on reader), smut, mutual masturbation, yearning, accidental pregnancy, Carol Danvers and Wanda Maximoff slander (i swear it just happened, I love them i swear), reader wears glasses and there's a small barely there reference that she's plus size. Please let me know if I missed anything.
Word Count: 6.3k
A/N: Took me a while, and it's so so late (carrot? late???) So I'm forever grateful to my friends at @stantastic-association for letting me submit this piece of trash (affectionate) for the Bucky's Dreamhouse collab 🩷 I humbly hope you enjoy it.
The sheets felt unusually cool to the touch, buried in Egyptian cotton, your hand reached to the other side of the bed— empty — is he not in bed anymore?!
You were up before you could even put on your glasses on first, "shoot shoot shoot!". The scent of fresh coffee lingered in the air, that meant he was one foot out the door if he hasn't left already.
The front door slammed shut, the echo of it like a held breath finally released.
With a reluctant sigh you sat on the bed, looking into your beautiful papered walls; mentally preparing yourself for the day that would come.
Since you didn't have to cook for John anymore, you opted for a simple breakfast, a piece of toast and a soft boiled egg, but of course not before making the bed, ironing his pajamas and robe, refilling his liquor cabinet and placing a new package of his favorite cigars — which you hated the smell of — sometimes you wondered if he noticed the small things you did for him.
With your hair securely in rollers, and a special little red dress you wore the first time you met John, you tweaked your eyebrows until you accidentally drew blood, maybe he'd like that shade of blush on you, no no no, too much red, you know what they say…
A fair amount of time later you walk up to the full length mirror, feeling like a hundred bucks! that is until you carefully examine yourself — the hair —horrified you pull the pins out of your hair without a second thought, today you had to be perfect.
With a fresh new look and determined to make the best of today, you decided some ice cream would hep with the summer heat, you bargained with yourself that the cleaning could wait just a little.
Wiping the dust off your grandmother's hand-cranked ice cream maker, you put yourself to work, on your counter you lined up sugar, eggs, heavy cream, strawberries from your garden and of course some milk.
Earlier in the morning the milkman dropped off fresh bottles, you wondered why Bucky hadn't dropped by to say hello, probably just busy with Mrs Scavo down the street, or according to Carol Danvers he's been making extra special deliveries to Wanda Maximoff, a real operator that one.
As you cranked, you wondered why those women had such an easy time cheating on their husbands, sure Bucky had eyes that made you want to swim in the ocean, a smile that could make you feel like you're in front of the sun… soft hair that you'd love to rake your fingers through while he sleeps next to you-
Your hands stopped moving — gosh, what a silly crush! — Not even that, curiosity, you decided to call it. Surely it was normal to wonder if so many women raved on and on about him, your marriage was safe and you loved your husband, — he gave you everything — you reminded yourself.
You churned until your shoulder ached and the handle grew stiffer with every turn, focusing on making the perfect consistency instead of the real reason you decided to make the sweet treat in the first place.
With the ice cream locked away in the freezer, you saw the time and you felt your stomach drop, if you wanted to get everything done on your list you'd need a miracle.
You would never tell this to another living soul but you found it aggravating to clean such a big house, you felt ungrateful for even thinking it, it was any woman's dream to take care of such a lovely home, you tried to make it your own, to imagine your children playing and laughing; you always wanted a big family, but you still haven't been able to get pregnant, maybe buying such a big house jinxed it, you told John as much and he laughed in your face, even after 5 years of marriage, you still weren't used to such nice things, you felt out of place in your own home.
A small part of you, the voice you rarely let speak its mind, felt relieved you haven't been able to carry a son for John, you loved him of course but-
Shaking your head you caught yourself standing at the sink with the water running, not sure how long you'd been there, with a sigh you took off your gloves, —the cleaning would get done so much faster if you lived in a smaller house.—
You pick up his shirt to smell the neck, powdery and sour of course, what kind of self respecting- wait no, you're not mad at her. You should focus all of your anger on your idiot of a husband.
Moving from room to room, dusting and sweeping, finally the last thing you had to do was laundry. As you picked up clothes to put on the basket, there's a particular smell in one of John's shirts that caught your attention. It was unfamiliar, powdery, sharp.
It wasn't yours.
You stood there for a long moment, the shirt still in your hands, the smell of it settling into something you couldn't understand. Powdery. Sharp. The kind of perfume a woman wears when she wants to be remembered. You knew it wasn't L'Air du Temps — too bold for that — and it certainly wasn't Chanel, whoever she was, had no taste. You almost pitied her.
You folded the shirt and put it in the basket with the rest.
The roast was resting on the counter when you heard his key in the door. You had set the table the way he liked it — napkins folded, glasses polished, the good place mats — and changed into something presentable, something that didn't look like you'd spent the afternoon unraveling.
"Something smells good," John said, the way he always did, dropping his briefcase by the door without looking at you.
"Pot roast." You smoothed your apron and carried his plate to the table. "Sit down."
He loosened his tie and settled into his chair with the comfortable authority of a man who had never once questioned his place in the world. You poured his drink without being asked.
You always did.
The conversation moved the way it always did over dinner — his day, Henderson's incompetence, the traffic on Millbrook Avenue. You listened with your chin resting lightly in your palm, nodding at the right moments, laughing softly at the right places. Picture perfect wife.
"Carol Danvers called today," you offered, when the silence stretched a little too long.
"Mm." He cut his meat without looking up.
It was somewhere between the second glass of bourbon and the end of dinner that he said it — the way he always eventually said it — casual as a change in weather.
"She is expecting again, isn't she?" He reached for his glass, ignoring anything you had to say. "Third one."
You kept your smile exactly where it was. "Yes, she is."
"Three years younger than you." He swirled his drink. Not looking at you. Never quite looking at you when he said things like this. "Funny how these things work out for some people."
Right on time.
"It is," you agreed pleasantly, and stood to clear his plate.
In the kitchen you ran the water hot — hotter than necessary — and stood over the sink scrubbing a dish that was already clean. Through the small window above the faucet the night had settled dark and still over Waiting Willow Lane. Across the street a light was on in the living room, blue and quiet behind their curtains, you wondered if they ever felt as miserable as you did now.
You knew what perfume it was, you just hadn't wanted to name it yet.
You set the dish in the rack and reached for the next one.
You asked about his secretary on the way to bed — her name, how she was managing with the new filing system — and watched his face for just a fraction of a second twitch before he answered. He was a decent liar. You had married a decent liar and spent five years becoming a better one.
Goodnight, you said.
Goodnight, he said.
The morning came the way mornings do after nights like that — indifferent and bright, the sun spilling through the curtains without permission.
Like muscle memory, despite your anguish you did your hair and makeup quickly, cooked him a delicious breakfast and packed his lunch, all with a graceful smile.
As he shut the door on his way out you just stood there for a moment, as the house settled into its particular morning quiet, and then you moved.
You made coffee you didn't drink, stood at the kitchen window in your robe and watched the sprinkler next door sweep back and forth across a lawn that looked exactly like yours, funny. As hard as you tried to locate something useful inside your chest — anger, resolution, a plan — you came up with nothing.
He gave you everything, you reminded yourself.
The thought felt different than it used to.
When he bell rang you hesitated to answer, despite having your hair and makeup done, you felt as if you were the living dead, so when it rang again you pulled your silk robe tighter and opened the door.
"Fresh milk, straight from the farm!"
Bucky Barnes stood on your doorstep with two glass bottles tucked under one arm and a smile that had no business being that easy this early in the morning. He was already in his whites — sleeves rolled to the elbow despite the hour — and his hair perfectly soft in the morning light.
"Morning," he said, adjusting his tone slightly, the way people do when they realize they've walked into something quieter than they expected.
"Good morning." You held the door open a little wider. An invitation, "You brought me that butter I wanted?"
He tilted his head, just slightly. Something shifted behind his eyes — curiosity, or recognition — and then he smiled again, softer this time, and crossed the threshold, "of course!".
The kitchen felt smaller with him in it, he set the bottles on the counter and stood there with his cap in his hands while you poured two cups of coffee without asking, because it gave you something to do with yours.
"Lovely home," he said, and he meant it — you could tell the difference, he wasn't performing the way some men did, eyes moving around a room cataloguing what things cost. He was just looking, genuinely, the way people look at things they find beautiful.
"Thank you." You set his cup in front of him. "I try to make it feel like one."
He looked at you over the rim of his cup and didn't say anything for a moment. That was unexpected, it wasn't uncomfortable, surprising actually, most men filled silences, Bucky seemed comfortable in it.
"I heard you've been making special deliveries," you said lightly, settling onto a chair. "All over Waiting Willow." You paused, smiling into your cup. "Mrs. Maximoff must go through an awful lot of milk."
Something crossed his face — not guilt exactly, amusement, maybe, edged with something more careful. "You been talking to Carol Danvers."
"Carol Danvers talks to everyone."
He laughed at that — a real one, low and easy — and set his cup down. "And what do you think about it?"
You turned your cup slowly in its saucer. "I think you're a real operator," you said pleasantly, "the kind that practices in mirrors."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then — "And yet here I am in your kitchen."
"And yet," you agreed.
The silence that followed was a different, the dangerous kind that you recognized at a distance, the way you recognize weather changing before you can see it.
"I made ice cream yesterday," you said, standing before it could settle any further. "Strawberry. From the garden." You moved to the freezer and retrieved the metal container, setting it on the counter between you, deliberate. "Have some."
Not even waiting to be asked a second time, Bucky took a spoon and scooped some pink delight. He went very still for a moment, "is it good? I haven't tried it yet".
He looked up at you with an expression that was almost accusatory. "You made it and didn't try it?"
"I got distracted."
"That's a crime." He said it so seriously that you almost laughed. He was already feeding you a spoonful before you could even react. The strawberry hit your tongue cold and sweet and perfectly balanced and you understood immediately why he'd looked at you like that.
"Oh," you said.
"Right? It's so much better than store bought", he took another spoonful but his eyes remained on you, attentive, you felt seen.
You hadn't noticed you'd gotten some on your chin until his thumb was already there — just below the corner of your mouth — catching it with the kind of ease that suggested he hadn't thought about it either. His hand didn't move away immediately, neither did you.
Suddenly the summer heat became suffocating and his eyes dropped, just briefly, to your lips.
The percolator chose that exact moment to let out a sharp hiss from the stove top and you both came back to the kitchen at the same time, the morning light, the two coffee cups, now unfrozen.
Bucky pulled his hand back slowly and cleared his throat, reaching for his cap.
"Best ice cream on Waiting Willow Lane," he said, and his voice was only slightly hoarse.
You smiled as your heart beat in your throat, walked him to the door and stood on the threshold watching him go back down the path to his truck, bottles clinking softly against each other. He didn't look back, but the air felt different, you knew he would be back.
You stood there long after he had turned the corner, your heart doing something unreasonable in your chest, your thumb pressed lightly to your own chin where his had been.
Curiosity, you reminded yourself.
You went back inside and washed both coffee cups, feeling really curious.
Days had passed and for days you couldn't stop thinking about the infamous milkman.
You felt despicable for even thinking how his lips would feel across your skin, if his arms would be strong enough to hold you; over and over you thought of the way you almost took his thumb in your tongue, your mouth watered imagining the saltiness.
Despite your husband's disregard for your marriage, you still hated the thought of betraying your vows, you didn't know if you'd be able to live with the guilt.
But that damn voice, it told you things in the dead of night, you'd find yourself rubbing your legs together imagining Bucky whispering terrible terrible things in your ear.
Would he be a gentle lover, or would he take your virtue like something that belonged to him?
Was it worth destroying your marriage?
Then again, John already had.
You had every intention of keeping your distance, set boundaries…
But this morning you woke up with a particular ache between your legs, too painful to ignore. Staring at the ceiling you tried not to wake your husband, almost praying over and over that you felt nothing.
It wasn't working.
At 4:37 in the morning you gave up entirely, pulled your robe around you, and went downstairs.
The street was the kind of dark that exists only in the hour before the world wakes up— completely still and strangely serene. You sat on the front steps of your porch with your knees pulled up and your glasses on watching the street all the way down the Lane where the road curved out of sight.
You heard his truck before you saw it. That familiar low rumble, unhurried, moving through the dark in peace.
He almost didn't see you.
The truck rolled to a stop in front of the house and Bucky climbed out with two bottles and made it halfway up the path before pulled up short.
He looked at you for a moment. Then at the window behind you. Then back at you.
"You're up early," he said carefully.
"Couldn't sleep."
He nodded slowly, the way people nod when they know that isn't the whole answer. He set the bottles down by the door and instead of going back to his truck like you thought he would he stayed where he was, cap in his hands again,raked his fingers through his hair and waited.
You looked at the end of the street where the sky was beginning — barely, there to consider the color blue. —
"Would it be so wrong?," you asked quietly, shame be damned.
The silence that followed had weight to it.
"No," he answered.
"Then why are you looking at me like that?"
With a huff he walked to the other side of the porch, you followed shortly.
Bucky kept his distance, avoiding your eyes, you had to swallow the urge to grab him and make him look at you, as if he sensed your frustration after looking out the dark street he finally set his eyes on yours.
"Because I actually like you," he said simply. "And I don't want to be something that happens to you."
Your chest did something complicated.
"It wouldn't—"
"Don't tell me it wouldn't hurt you." He said it gently but without apology. "All these other housewives, they don't care about me— and I see the way you look at me."
"You look at me too!" you whispered defensively, feeling your cheeks heat up.
You took your glasses off and cleaned them on the hem of your robe for something to do with your hands.
Put them back on. The street came back into focus — the identical lawns, the sleeping houses, the tulips along your front path standing perfectly still in the windless dark.
"I'm not asking you for anything complicated" you said finally. "I just—" You stopped. "I'm so tired of being careful."
He turned and looked at you then, really looked, the way he had in the kitchen days ago, like he was trying to find uncertainty.
"I won't break," you said.
Something shifted in his expression — something that had been holding itself back — As he moved toward you, you walked back until you hit a wall, the distance between you on that porch became a different kind of distance entirely.
"Your husband is right upstairs," he said. His voice was very low, almost like a warning.
"I know."
As the smell of his cologne overwhelmed you in the most delicious way, he slowly raised his hand towards your face, his rough fingers a stark contrast against your soft cheeks, it made your knees weak.
The sky had gone from black to the deep bruised blue, almost morning. Somewhere down the street you could hear the faint chirp of the birds waking up.
His other hand found the doorframe beside your head and the world narrowed down to the small warm space between you and the thrill of it — the sleeping street, the dark windows, John right upstairs, the whole of Waiting Willow Lane not yet awake — you've never felt more alive.
His mouth found yours slowly, the kiss was sweet and gentle, the kind that you dream when you're a girl, but then there's a spark of guilt that unconsciously makes your head tilt back but he's quick enough to hold you by the back of your head and chin, his tongue asks for more and as easy as breathing, you let him in.
You'd only ever kissed John and this was nothing like it, with him it was proper, painfully slow. This felt like a rush, everything moved so quickly; you could feel your blood pumping and his heart felt like it was your own. Smashed between the wall and him, a small gasp escaped you when your hand grazed the outline of his hard cock.
Logic and all sense went out the window as you unbuckled his belt, the sight of your beautiful hands handling him with such hunger, that alone almost made him come. With the same fervor he worked open your robe to find you completely nude.
"Well, aren't you a firecracker" he grinned, while his fingers found your clit with ease. As you worked on him with quick tugs, his weight dropped on you, the grunts against your neck mixing with your quiet moans.
"We're gonna get caught if you keep singing for me" Bucky nipped your skin, proud of being the one making you like this; the thought of getting caught by John or your neighbors, the scandal, was enough to make you both finish at the same time, you had to bite your tongue to silence your scream while he groaned into your jaw, you could feel his cream between your fingers, you shivered in delight.
"You're dangerous" he whispered to himself.
It started with hushed moans and grunts in his truck.
Parked three streets over on a road that went nowhere in particular, engine off, the early morning sitting quiet around you like it was keeping your secret too. It felt reckless and nothing like the life you had ironed and folded and tucked into neat corners for five years. It felt like something that was entirely yours.
On Wednesdays you met him in the park when John had his lunch meeting with Henderson, coming home late and smelling like cheap perfume. You sat on a blanket under the elm tree, it wasn't just about using each other anymore, Bucky would bring you something from the bakery on Millbrook and you would talk for hours before you did anything else. That part surprised you, that he wanted to talk.
He told you about his route, the way he could see small moments in people's lives that most never saw. It was strange how easy you opened up to each other, you told him things John laughed at, and he marveled at. If you were honest with yourself, he's the first person you've ever been completely honest with, you told him about your life before John, about the affair…
He never judged, listened like it mattered, every word.
Over the next few months it was harder and harder to stay away from Bucky or for him to keep his hands to himself. You got reckless the way you always feared you would.
It started small — a moment too long on the doorstep when he made his deliveries, coffee that stretched past the reasonable hour, Wednesdays in the park that edged too close to afternoon when every mother took their children to play. You told yourselves each time that you would be more careful next time, and next time you were even less careful , you realized somewhere along the way you just stopped caring, the urge to be together was all consuming.
It was Carol Danvers who heard it first, which meant it was everywhere by the next 24 hours.
It's on the days you never expect when horrible things happen, John came home on a Friday. You knew he was angry before he was fully through the door — something about each step he took, the way he put his keys and briefcase down like it insulted him.
Taking a deep breath, your brain already expected the worse, you were at the stove and you kept your eyes there, kept on whisking batter, your face arranged into the pleasant neutral expression like nothing was wrong.
"Heard something interesting today," he said cold and calculating, from somewhere behind you. Looming.
"Oh?" The spoon kept moving.
"About you." A pause. "And the milkman."
The silence was heavy, as you felt your blood run cold, the day you were most afraid of was here.
You turned from the stove with a careful smile. "You know how people talk on this street."
"I do." He loosened his tie with one slow pull. "I also know you could never do that to me" he stated with venom in his voice… "But why would Carol Danvers tell such lies about you?", if you didn't know any better you'd say he was actually confused.
Of course . "Carol Danvers once told Wanda Maximoff she saw a UFO over the Hendersons' roof." You set the spoon down and reached for two glasses. "Dinner is almost ready Hon-."
His hand smashed down against the kitchen counter, rattling the utensils.
"Don't do that." His voice dropped a register. Not loud — John was never loud, that wasn't what made it frightening. He was the kind of man who got quiet when he was angry, he's never laid a hand on you, but deep down you always feared one day he would.
Clearing your throat, you set the glasses on the table and smoothed out place mats that didn't need smoothing.
"I'm not doing anything," you said calmly
"Look at me."
Without hesitation, you did, kept your face open and calm and faintly puzzled, the face of a woman who has nothing whatsoever to hide, and you held his gaze without flinching. If John ever found out what you did, what you have been doing under his roof, you don't know what he would do to Bucky, and you would do anything to keep him safe.
Something moved behind his eyes — rage building up — his fists closed tightly, the silence making your heart beat incessantly, acting on instinct your hand came to rest against your stomach, protectively.
You moved it away before he noticed.
"I am married to you John" you carefully said, "no matter what, that's the only thing that matters", your own words slapped you like a brick to the face.
He looked at you for one more long moment, still not quite convinced, but refusing to push any further, tentatively you took off your apron, revealing your waist perfectly accentuated by your dress, your eyelashes fluttered as you walked up to him, arms slowly wrapping around his neck, his stare remained cold but he couldn't help but grab onto your hips, pulling you closer
"Miriam Patterson had her baby. A boy." He muttered with the particular cruelty of a man who knows exactly where to press, you felt the sting behind your eyes but in a blink you replaced the hurt with a small smile.
"How wonderful for them," you whispered, as you kissed his cheek, then the other, next his neck, "Maybe we'll be just as lucky soon" you purred into his ear, fingernails scraped lightly against the back of his neck.
As his hands wondered your body, you wondered if you'd ever stop feeling sick.
You were on the porch before four.
Sat on the top step in the dark with your robe pulled tight and your glasses on, hands folded in your lap while your fingers nervously nitpicked your skin, despite having made your decision, knowing it was the right thing to do, you felt like a wicked woman, cursed to ruin anyone who cared for you…
You didn't mind waiting for him, the tulips along the path were black in the dark, you enjoyed watching the sun slowly shine on them, slowly turning them red again.
You heard his truck at the end of the lane and felt your heart do the thing it always did — that stupid, inconvenient, involuntary thing — and then he was coming up the path and kneeling down in front of you, worry taking over his face, "Jesus Doll, what are you doing out here? it's freezing", his arms wrapped around yours, rubbing them to warm you up and kissing your cold face with his warm-soft lips —You almost smiled —
Because you didn't respond, Bucky pulled back , his face going soft the way it always did when you were upset. He smelled like the warm bread and something underneath that was just him. You had take a deep breath before you trusted your voice.
"I need to tell you something," you said.
He waited.
"I'm pregnant." You blurted.
Bucky didn't move. You couldn't read his face until you saw the biggest smile break out — still in disbelief a genuine laugh escaped him, the joy that radiated off of him almost made your resolve crack.
"Okay," he said quietly, cupping your face with pure adoration is his eyes. — "Okay."He repeated, like he was already making plans in his head. "Okay, so we—"
"Bucky."
He stopped.
You were going to be sick but you weren't so sure it was morning sickness, swallowing down any hesitation, you sighed.
You turned and looked at him. In the thin grey light just beginning to suggest itself at the edge of the sky his face was very open,
"I'm can't leave him Buck," you whispered.
He looked at you. Something shifted behind his eyes — understanding arriving before he was ready.
"You don't want to leave him… there's a difference."
"I'm sorry."
A long silence.
"You're sorry," he repeated. His voice had changed, not mad, at least you didn't think he was mad, he was good at keeping his feelings at bay.
"We can't see each other anymore" you said in defeat, your throat aching to let yourself cry.
He stood up abruptly and took three steps down the path and stopped with his back to you, one hand pressed to the back of his neck, his shoulders tense in a way you had never seen on him before. Your Bucky who was easy about everything, Bucky who worshiped you and listened like it mattered, his eyes were red, and he could barely keep looking you in the eye.
"Did you sleep with him." It wasn't quite a question. The words came out low and tight. "Once you knew. So he wouldn't suspect," he spat.
You were too stunned to answer. He'd never raised his voice to you like this, you couldn't blame him.
He laughed — a short, broken sound that had nothing of his real laugh in it — and turned around and looked at you from the bottom of the path with something in his face that you would spend a long time trying to forget.
"Bucky—" You cried, quick on your feet, moving down the steps, your voice lower than a whisper. "You have to be quiet, please, he's right—"
"I know where he is." His voice cracked, "Maybe I should go up there, talk to the man who's going to raise my son!"
"Please." You reached him and put your hand against his chest and felt him breathing too fast, he tried to back away from you "our son!" the words caught in his throat, but you wouldn't let him, looking up at him with everything you had left you pleaded "Please."
You took his hand and brought it slowly, carefully, to your stomach.
Held it there.
He went very still.
His jaw worked, eyes were bright red, you could see his internal fight, his body begged him to push you away and go inside your house to kill the bastard, but then his thumb rubbed your belly, reminding himself that you were carrying the best parts of himself.
You don't know for how long you stood there, the sleeping houses remained quiet, except for the faint sound of their sprinklers. You watched him trying to ground himself .
"Let me go," you whispered, tears falling down both your faces. "Do this for me. Let us go."
The sky from black to blue to the first pale suggestion of morning Waiting Willow Lane was beginning, to wake.
His hand was still on your stomach when he closed his eyes, committing to memory the sound of your laugh, the smell of your hair in the mornings, he imagined a perfect world where he would raise a family with you, a world where he could be enough.
When he opened them again the look on his face told you with a quiet and terrible certainty, he would do as you asked.
He pulled his hand away gently, stepped back. You knew it was selfish but you desperately wanted to kiss him one last time, but before you could even take a step forward his eyes told you it wasn't a good idea.
He might never let you go if he kissed you right now.
Straightening his cap with the careful deliberateness of a man reassembling himself from the outside in, he looked you in the eyes one last time.
"I loved you well", he didn't say it anger or disappointment, just a gentle statement.
You nodded in return.
"Take care of yourself," he said, his voice was even. It hurt more than when he yelled.
You stood on the path and watched him walk back to his truck, you did not call after him, you just held your stomach like your life depended on it.
The truck turned at the end of the lane and was gone.
You stood there until you couldn't hear it anymore.
Wiping your tears with your sleeve, you went inside and washed your hands at the kitchen sink, started the percolator and began, with care and precision, to make your John's breakfast.
Then return to their familiar situation 250 words
The baby came on a Tuesday.
Small, perfect and furious about it, the way all new things are, the moment the nurse had placed him in your arms, you looked down at that small outraged face and felt something so large move through you that you forgot, for just a moment, every single thing that had brought him to this world.
He had his eyes.
Back at home, John held him the way most men held babies — carefully, at a slight distance, as though he were something that might make a sudden movement. He'd been slightly more helpful than you expected after the delivery, he said the right things, fed him when you couldn't, changed one diaper, still you couldn't help but wonder if you'd made the right decision.
"He has my eyes" he said, settling the baby into the crook of your arm.
"He does" you said softly, holding back a laugh.
Looking down on him again. His little face was simply looking now, experiencing the world, his cerulean blues wide and new and completely unimpressed, there was something in his expression that was so familiar and so devastating that you had to press your lips together for a moment and breathe very carefully through your nose.
"He's perfect," John said, and for once you believed he meant it.
You nodded and looked at your son, this way he would be taken care of , you reassured yourself.
Across the street the night was still.
Bucky sat in his truck with the engine off and the lights off , watching the warm yellow square of your bedroom window the way a man watches something he has no right to anymore and cannot look away from.
He had told himself he wouldn't come. He had told himself every night for 9 months he'd respect your wishes and leave you alone, despite his military training, you made him weak.
He could see your shadow behind the curtain. Just the outline of you, soft and warm against the light, and the smaller shape in your arms that you were rocking with the slow, unconscious rhythm of a woman who had been waiting her whole life to do exactly this.
Bucky smiled, despite everything, he wouldn't want any other woman to be the mother of his child, you were happy and he would be happy too, that's all that mattered.
He watched you move. Back and forth, back and forth, the shadow of you against the warm light of that room, that house, that life that had no place for him in it.
The tulips along your front path had come back. Red and perfectly upright in the dark, standing in a row like they didn't know anything had happened, which of course they didn't. Things grew back. The world kept its own schedule, indifferent and bright, the same way mornings came after nights that felt unbearable.
He thought about a Wednesday in the park under the elm tree, a blanket on the grass, paper bag from the bakery on Millbrook. The way you had talked about wanting a family and to be able to care and protect them; the way you had looked at him when you thought he was distracted.
Your shadow stilled at the window. — Just briefly — you stopped rocking and stood there, and in the perfect quiet of the room, with every house dark and every curtain drawn he had the irrational, hopeful feeling that you knew he was there.
He stayed until he couldn't anymore, fingers gripping the wheel until white and then he stayed a little longer, when he finally reached for the ignition his hands started shaking.
The truck moved quietly down the empty street.
At the end of the lane it turned, and was gone, and the night closed back over Waiting Willow Lane like water over a stone, as though nothing had ever been disturbed at all.
In the warm window your shadow rocked on.
End Notes: Thank you so much for reading 🥹, The Director always appreciates comments, reblogs and feedback!
warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. smut. unprotected pnv (this is cate's psa to use protection). oral (f receiving), fingering, handjobs, mild dacryphilia, breeding kink, yelling, crying, angst fairytale accurate depictions of clothing and kingdoms, use of a fictional kingdom name and a fuck ton of new york neighborhoods as other kingdoms, death of a parent, daddy issues. reader has hair that can be wrapped around a hand. probably some spelling and grammar issues but we die like men. vaguely little mermaid inspired.
word count: 10.1k
summary: you are the youngest daughter of seven sisters and a single brother with an affinity for exploring and a love for prince bucky of brooklynn, a kingdom your father inexplicably hates. after saving bucky's life, you can't help but want to find him again.
cate talks: part two is here! i really wanted to make sure i got this up before my birthday ended today. I'm so so thankful for every one of you. happy birthday to me, and enjoy part two of these two idiots in love!
part one
Wanda didn't ask any questions about your puffy eyes or damp dress upon your return to the palace. She didn’t pry you for details, only asking if you had a nice time in the kingdom and sending for extra hot water for your bath.
Sulking in the water, you scrubbed furiously at your skin until it was raw. To your chagrin, you were unable to scrub the ghost of his touch away, resigned to soaking in the water until the clock dictated that you absolutely must get ready or risk being late for dinner. The only thing worse than attending and facing Bucky was skipping, leaving him to think you were avoiding him.
Your muscles ached from the activities on the beach. The memory itself remained tucked safely in your mind, not a shameful secret, but a precious moment you knew you would treasure forever.
He moved like he knew you. He moved like he loved you.
Tonight’s dress was simpler than the night before, giving you the ability to dress yourself without the help of servants. The fabric was teal blue color, bitterly similar to the color of the ocean with sheer long sleeves that made your arms shimmer.
No one was here to escort you to the dining room tonight, loneliness settling in on the walk and allowing anxiety to fester in your stomach as you floated through the halls like a ghost, heels clicking on what felt like your death march. Just like the night before, Steve, Sam, and Natasha waited at the dining room entrance for you. Bucky, you noted, to your relief and disappointment, was nowhere to be seen. Steve gave his compliments on your appearance first, offering his arm to escort you to the table.
“Bucky will be down soon,” Steve explained, voice soft and soothing in a manner you didn’t realize you needed. “He’s answering a letter from his father. He doesn’t like us to wait for him.”
Nodding, you force a smile, detesting the memories of the afternoon on the beach even more.
Conversation flowed politely, with the gentlemen asking questions about your adventures in the kingdom and your thoughts on the merchants around town. Natasha asked if you’d danced in the square, and Sam wanted to know if you did ever make it to the gardens.
But Bucky never did come down. You caught yourself glazing towards the large doors more than once, hoping they might open to reveal a tired but handsome man. Every creek of a floorboard under the servant’s feet made your head snap to the direction of the sound. One of Bucky’s personal valets stopped by halfway through the main course to let you all know that he would take dinner in his room. Ignoring Natasha’s concerned glance at you, Steve and Sam’s pitying stare, you prayed no one could hear the sound of your heart cracking over the soup course.
This was stupid. You were stupid. You left home with only hope that you could stay in Brooklynn, foolishly deciding against telling Bucky the truth for what? To prove that he could love you feeling like he had to? For your own vanity?
It was too late now. Bucky didn’t know it was you who had saved his life, and now he couldn't stand to look at you.
“What did you do to her?” Steve asked, grabbing Bucky’s bicep as he passed by in the hall later that night. He had staked out Bucky’s office after dinner, waiting to confront his friend. “She looked like she was seconds from bursting into tears all throughout dinner.”
Bucky sighed, looking up at the ceiling, then back at his friend. “Not here,” he muttered, shaking the grip on his arm loose in one stern movement, “outside.”
To the empty garden they went, unspeaking as they wanted and eyeing your closed balcony door and dark room before Bucky dared to utter a word. When he finally did, told Steve everything, from the dance in the village, to the plums, to the gardens, to the beach and the way you felt against his lips.
“I know her, Steve. I don’t know how, or from where, but she’s familiar. Like I’ve known her for a lifetime.”
Steve’s eyes go wide, “you don’t think she could be your girl from the cottage?”
Bucky stares out to the restless sea, unmoving as he considers the possibility. “If she is, why didn’t she just tell me? I wouldn’t hesitate to marry her, if that’s what she’s worried about.”
“If there’s one thing I know about women,” Steve sighs, “it’s that they don’t want to be an obligation. I haven’t spent half the time with her that you have, but one thing is clear to me, that woman wants you. Have you seen the way she looks at you? If she thinks you’d only choose her because she saved your life, I wouldn’t want to stick around either.”
“I have to find out,” Bucky resolved, standing up to face your window. The room glows now, soft light coming from behind the curtains. He can picture you moving about in there, blood thrumming under his skin at the thought of you undressing for bed. “I don’t care who she is, but I need to know.”
They stand in silence, the heaviness of the situation sitting like a thick fog.
Steve claps Bucky on the back comfortingly, “I owe Wilson a round of cards. Join if you want. Or go get your girl.” Steve leaves, steps echoing as he walks back inside. “Oh-” He turns back, pointing a finger at his friend’s chest. “Don’t hurt her. You can be an idiot without trying.”
Bucky closes his eyes, mind desperately sifting through his day with you and his memories of his angel in the cottage. They were already blurry, distorted through his fever and alcohol induced haze, but the more his mind worked, the more the two women were becoming one and the same. Your lips were hers, your eyes were hers. Your voice was hers. His eyes fly open. He couldn’t picture her. It wasn’t an illusion anymore. You were the one occupying his mind.
As if materializing from his thoughts, you emerge onto the balcony, unnoticing of him and running a brush through your hair while gazing at the stars.
His heart aches as he notices the puffiness around your eyes. Actually aches. The thought of you being in pain makes him want to gather you into his arms and destroy whatever caused the tears. The thought of you leaving to rejoin your family makes his heart sink. Bucky wants to follow you. To keep you, to know you like no one else ever will. You already have that of him.
Bucky has heard whispers about the loss of one’s innocence. That once a woman loses her virginal purity, they become even more enrapturing in another way. A glow, it has been described as. He didn’t take it very seriously; despite having been with more than one virgin, he had never seen it before. Even after his cold departure, you still maintained the flush that had stained your cheeks and the enchanting glow that emanated from your skin. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Bucky is struck with the firm, unbudging truth: he wants to marry you.
As if sensing his presence, you look down and gaze upon him. Your hairbrush slips from your fingertips, clattering to the marble balcony as a tiny ‘oh’ escapes your parted lips. Raising a hand, you wiggle your fingers in a wave whilst your lips curl into a wobbly smile. The action is shy and oddly endearing, contrasting the thin pink nightgown that flutters around your frame in the night breeze.
Bucky smiles, waving his own hand in response. “Hello, sweetheart.”
Tucking your head into your chin, you maintain your nervous disposition. “Hi,” you call down, rubbing your arms through the thin fabric of the nightgown sleeves. “I-We missed you at dinner.”
“I didn’t plan to,” Bucky sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He cranes his head back to look directly at you, “trust me, it was not done easily. I did not expect my correspondence to take so long.”
You lean down, elbows resting on the railing as you shrug slightly. “Perhaps. But you are the heir. It is unreasonable to expect you-” Your voice catches and you force your eyes to the floor, unwilling to look at him anymore.
You believed he was no different than your family, he realized, especially after your afternoon together. Likely, you probably thought worse of him.
That would not do, Bucky decided rather quickly. He could not have his future bride thinking she would have to settle for scraps of him. He had claimed you as his, body and soul on that beach, but more so, you had done the same to him.
With a quick glance around the garden, he grabbed at the stones and vine of the castle wall, hoisting himself up and scaling the small distance up to your balcony. After he cleared the railing, you were on him in an instant, grabbing his arms and scanning his hands for any abrasions. “You- you idiot! That was dangerous! Why would you-”
“I needed to get to you.” He says simply, cradling your face in his hands as though you were a precious artifact. You freeze at his words, lips falling open and raising your hands to cover his. He takes one, pressing it to his chest so that his heart thudded under your fingertips. “I can’t live another moment with you thinking I won’t be there for you. That I don’t want you. I want you here, in the castle with me. You’ve already taken ownership of my heart. Nothing you can say could possibly make me leave you. You are mine, just as much as I am yours.”
Heart burning, you squeeze his hand, locking your eyes to his icy gaze and searching for any sort of deception. When you don’t find any, you sigh, leaning closer into the warmth of his body.
“Bucky,” you sigh, tilting your head back. “I-”
He doesn’t let you answer, brushing his mouth over yours gently. “I love you.” Bucky murmurs against your lips. You hope his kisses will always have you weak in the knees, relying on him to hold you up. His hands wander, holding you up as he presses into you. He tastes when he kisses, as though trying to map every part of you with his mouth.
“We shall send for your family tomorrow. We may have done things out of order, but swear to you, I want to do this right. You are the most precious thing to me.” Bucky’s words aren’t just a statement; they’re a promise, thick with the power of unspoken feelings.
Emboldened by his words, you rise to your tiptoes to press your lips to his. You try to ignore the anxiety that creeps into your core, knowing that you’ll have to come clean to Bucky and your family if you want to stay with him. Moving your lips against his, you try desperately to quash the feeling with the love you have for him. You try to convey to him the years of want you’ve had. The years of love. From the very first dance, to the cottage, to the beach.
You know me, your mind whispers, please realize it.
When you finally separate, he presses his forehead to yours, still clutching your hand to his chest. “I feel,” he breathed, “like I’ve known you my whole life.”
The words are exactly what you want to hear, but they still feel shallow. The ugly truth rests heavy on your mind. He does know you. You just wish he knew why.
The next morning, Steve looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else as he stands in front of Bucky’s wooden desk. He can’t stop shifting his weight from foot to foot, thumbing at the broken wax seal of the letter he was holding.
Bucky doesn’t notice his friend’s discomfort. Steve’s best friend looks unabashedly happy, a small smile painting his lips while he looks over the royal decrees that litter the desk. Steve has always been there for Bucky, through childhood and the pains of growing up a prince, but he doesn’t want to be the bringer of bad news about the woman he has fallen for.
Steve clears his throat nervously, “Buck. You need to read this.”
Bucky looks up, gazing at the man before staring at the letter with a quizzical look on his face. “Is that the response from her family? What did they say?”
“They said- she’s not-” Steve sighs, waving the letter, trying to find the words to explain something he himself doesn’t understand. “She’s not with the traveling group.”
Bucky’s eyebrows narrow in confusion as he snatches the letter from Steve’s grasp. “What?” He skims the words, catching lines of apology, thanks for looking after a stranger, but no information about the girl residing in his guest room.
“They left Brooklynn two weeks ago. She wasn’t out there that long.” Steve’s voice is light, but hollow, the way one speaks when speaking to a sick child.
Deceit settles into Bucky’s body like lead, feeling hurt, devastation, but above all, deception at the thought of you. “So, who is she?” The letter is tossed aside, atop a pile that he meant to discard weeks ago.
Steve shrugs, cataloging the sudden droop in Bucky’s shoulders and tiredness sinking into the creases of his face. “I don’t know. Is she even from Clare-Auberge?”
Bucky’s mind races, tuning out the continuing rambling of his friend as he struggles to reconcile the woman he thought he knew with the truth in front of him. You couldn’t have lied to him. This isn’t real. He frantically analyzes every conversation you’ve had with him, trying to figure out if you ever really cared for him.
He keeps returning to the beach. The look in your eyes, the feel of your skin against his. Your kiss. The sound of your voice. Your eyes. The way he cannot stop remembering the night in the cottage without picturing your face. The way you talked about the ocean.
“She’s the girl from the cottage.” Bucky murmurs, eyes going wide. It’s too many coincidences to ignore anymore. He meets Steve’s gaze, voice firm as he declares, “That’s how I know her.”
“Bucky-” Steve protests weakly, feeling as though his friend is searching for logic and excuses where there are none.
“I know it, Steve.” Bucky stands up, pacing back and forth behind his desk. “It makes sense now.”
“But Buck, if that was her, why would she lie? Why wouldn’t she just come clean and tell you the truth?” Steve wants it to be true, for his friend’s sake, but cannot bear to watch his heart break.
Hot anger spreads under Bucky’s skin at Steve’s point, a prickly sensation that yearns for him to find you and confront you. Make you tell him the truth.
“I don’t know.” His boots click against the floor menacingly, opening the door with a deadly calm. “But I know who she is.”
“I know you,” Bucky says, voice calm and calculated as he looks you over. You freeze, the teacup halfway to your lips with your book still open in your lap.
“Excuse me?” Placing the teacup down, your heart thuds as you shut your book. The butterflies in your stomach turn into a hurricane of worry. He can’t know. How could he know?
Bucky advances on you like a predator stalking their cornered prey, face unreadable and jaw set. “You heard me. I know you.”
The panic must be written clearly on your face because he continues rigidly, “We received word this morning that the travel group is not missing anyone. Furthermore, they passed through two weeks ago. You may not be with them, but I’ve met you before. Why did you lie?”
Your pounding heart must be visible through your skin, “I-”
“Who are you?” He demands, leaning down over you, forcing you to look up at him. “I bore myself to you. Housed you. Has anything you’ve told me been true? Were you using me to get information? Is your name even-”
“Yes!” You yell, rising to your feet and forcing him a few steps back. “I didn’t lie about my feelings for you.” Your eyes flash, “but there are complications.”
“Complications?” He sneers, hurt flashing across his face, “don’t insult my intelligence.”
“I didn’t want you to want me out of obligation.” You drop your hand, palming at the locket that rests between your skirts. The metal is firm to the touch, reassuring you of its existence.
“Obligation?” Bucky laughs mirthlessly, face still inches from yours as his eyes dart back and forth, luring you to snap at him. “How could I possibly-”
It works as you dig your hand into your pocket, pulling out the locket in a swift movement and letting it dangle between your bodies. Its appearance silences him, eyes following the swing as the puzzle falls together with the confirmation he needed.
“I was the one who found you at Willowstream during the storm,” you say forcefully, “I helped you, shared my heart with you, and sent for your friends when I could no longer stay with you for your own protection.” Your voice is hard as steel. “I told you I would see you again. Of course I wanted to. But I don’t want you to love me because you feel like it was owed.” You drop the locket on the side table, wrapping your arms around your middle as if holding yourself together. “I lied. Omitted the truth. About many things. But not one thing about my feelings for you are false.”
“It’s you?” He breathes, still fixated on the locket, the words equally question and statement. “You were the one?”
Swallowing, you reach for your voice, thick with emotion. “It is the simple things in life that are the most beautiful-”
“-extraordinary; only wise men are able to understand them.” Bucky finishes your sentence as you did that night, as if it's second nature. The physical, tangible confirmation is one thing, but the intellectual confirmation from you bearing your heart to him thrills him from head to toe.
You are the woman who knows his soul.
And he is the man who knows yours.
Bucky reaches for you, taking your hand in his. “I knew it. It is you.”
“I wanted to tell you, truly. I just didn’t know how.” The words tumble from your mouth, as though someone has tuned on a faucet. Desperation colors your tone, begging him to believe you.
“I knew it was you,” Bucky groaned, “I knew it. I remembered your eyes. The way you felt against me. I just couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to be wrong”
“I’m sorry,” You whisper urgently, “really, I know I deceived you. I don’t have an excuse. I love you.”
Bucky runs his thumbs over your cheeks. “I love you. I don’t care. You’re here. You’re real.”
“There’s something else you need to know-” You murmur urgently, leaning into his touch but stopping his lips from touching yours with a placating hand on his chest.
“Later.” He hums, licking his lips. His predatory gaze has turned hungry. Hungry for you. His fingers tangle at the laces of your bodice pressing his thigh to your core, suggesting his desire to tear your clothes from your skin and fuck you until you can’t stand. “I have you now. I need you. Please, sweetheart, tell me I can have you.” Bucky husks, leaning in again.
Your eyes fluttered closed as his lips grazed yours, a barely audible sigh of his name falling from your mouth. “I’m yours.”
A thunderous crash followed by unintelligible yelling sounds down the hallway and into the room, the two of you jumping apart like children caught out after bedtime.
“What the hell?” Bucky grunts, turning wildly, “are we under attack?”
You can hardly register his words before the yelling grows clearer, approaching just outside the door. “Where is my daughter?!”
Oh Hell.
“That’s not-” The door bursts open, your very enraged father stomping in, followed closely by Sam and Steve while your brother strolling lazily a few steps behind the entourage. Your father’s blazing gaze settles on you, half-shielded by Bucky’s body. Fear should have iced your blood, making you drop to your knees and beg your father to try to understand. It should have paralyzed you.
It didn’t.
“Sorry, sir-” Sam wheezes, bending at the waist and grasping at his side, “-tried to stop him,” he inhales sharply. “Got my ribs.”
Steve pieces the puzzle together first, his mouth dropping as his gaze snaps between you and your family. His jaw hangs low, saying your name in a gasp of surprise. Bucky must not hear him, but you do, catching his eye and shaking your head wildly. Steve’s mouth snaps shut as you step in front of Bucky, pushing away his placating arm and ignoring the way his grip on your wrist tightens frantically, trying to pull you backwards.
“King,” Bucky starts, “I don’t-”
“Father,” You say evenly, interrupting Bucky, “I don’t believe you’ve met Prince Barnes.”
Silence. Charged, electric silence. Eyes flitting between you and your father, watching the tense stand-off with barely contained curiosity and confusion. Your father stares you down, willing you to back down. You don’t falter under his gaze, setting your jaw stubbornly and hardening your eyes.
“Princess?” Bucky mumbles bewilderedly, still maintaining his hold on you. “Of… Clare-Auberge?”
“What did you do to her?!” Is the next thing that tears from your father’s mouth, eyes targeting Bucky again and lunging towards him. You easily sidestep the swing of your father’s arm that tries to push you out of the way, taking Bucky with you and keeping his body protectively behind you. Your father turns, recovering from the sudden movement with a practiced yet tired ease. “Did he marry you? Touch you?”
You roll your eyes despite the truth of the latter suggestion, “He didn’t-”
“I would never-”
“Don’t try to tell me what you ‘wouldn’t’ do! I’m going to tear you apart, war be damned!” Your father bellowed, starting towards the two of you again. Another exasperated breath escapes your lips, resting a hand on your hip.
Steve and Sam straighten up, hands moving to their weapons to defend Bucky. You tilt your head assertively, wordlessly challenging your father. Bucky could easily beat your father on his own, even in his unbridled rage, but the men still stood ready. He would have to go through you before any of them, knowing that he would never lay a hand on you in anger. Your brother boredly shifts his weight onto one leg, picking up a cookie from one of the plates and examines the treat before popping it into his mouth and crunching loudly. Damn heirs.
The room broke into yelling, threats and defenses overlapping into a mind-piercing cocophany of racket. Your own voice was lost in the din, protests and exasperated pleas to stop going entirely ignored.
“Enough!” You finally screamed over the din, balling your fists at your side. “Will any of you listen to me?!”
“Listen to you?” Your father snickers incredulously. Hot rage boils in your stomach. “You know nothing of-”
“The complexities of politics? The rules of propriety? I’ve been sitting in on your meetings with the ambassadors since I could walk! I can name more about our policy's history than Will, who you should really ask about his relationship with Belle’s maid!” At the mention of his name, your brother’s head perks up, crumbs dusting his chin and shirt. “I might be a princess, but I had no trouble leaving the palace for Brooklynn and still wouldn’t have if Bucky had not been kind enough to take me in. During the storm, I saved his life at Willowstream. I love him! You know nothing of me!”
Your chest heaved, staring your father down. He did not move, caught between processing your words and watching in abject horror as Bucky wrapped an arm around your waist.
“Was that what you were going to tell me?”
You snort, pressing the side of your body to his and softening under his touch. “What, the princess part? Or the love part?”
He presses his cheek to your temple, speaking his response into your hair. “Yes.”
Despite it all, you can’t help but smile, happy to have everything in the light and the assurance that his love for you did not waver. Affection swells in your chest, switching your weight to one foot so you can truly rest your body against Bucky’s, his frame supporting you.
No one seems to know what to say, watching you lean into Bucky. The two of you stand as a unit, unwavering against your father and his anger. It’s clear that the two of you love each other, and would stand against the world together. The realization must come to your father too because his shoulders drop a fraction of an inch and the strain in his face loses.
“I wish to speak to Prince Barnes.” Your father fixes a cold, unreadable stare on Bucky. “Alone.”
Looks are exchanged between Sam, Steve, and Bucky before Bucky nods. “Of course.” The room reshuffles as it clears, you grip Bucky a little tighter, refusing to let him go. Bucky presses your knuckles to his lips, voice warm and promising. “I love you.”
“I lo-” It’s Natasha who seemingly materializes out of nowhere, pulling you away from Bucky and into the hallway with Steve and Sam.
Will follows your group, shutting the door behind him and picking through his handful of cookies. Natasha stares at you with unbridled curiosity, confusion coloring her stare. Steve is unspeaking, eyebrows narrowed in judgement that makes tears prick your eyes. Sam has his arms crossed, face hard. Will is the first to react, picking through a napkin of cookies he somehow managed to knick, and shoving another in his mouth. “So,” he says through a mouthful of cookies, spraying crumbs to the floor. Natasha wrinkles her nose in disgust, glancing at your brother from the corner of her eyes. “Wanna tell us what’s been going on, sister?”
“I know better than to ask you if my daughter’s story is the truth.” Your father begins, uncapping a glass carafe of bourbon on the chess table in the corner. He doesn’t ask if Bucky wants any, pouring a glass for the both of them. “That girl is a force of nature.” Your father downs his glass in one easy go, pouring another as he releases a long–suffering sigh. “How much did you know?”
Bucky swallows, unable to hide the bit of fear that rests in his chest as the realization that the only person who could stop him from being with the woman he loved was sat across from him and held an obvious grudge against his kingdom. “I know the girl who saved me. I know the girl who appeared in the woods, dressed in rags. They seemed similar. She didn’t tell me that she was one and the same until this morning. But-” Bucky inhales sharply, “I think I always knew, in my heart.” Bucky meets your father’s terse stare. “I love her. Not out of obligation. Not because anyone wants me to. Because I do. She wanted me to love her for her, not out of necessity or guilt.”
Your father’s stony face is unyielding as he leans forward. “My daughter loves you. Truly. Deeply. I can see it in the way she looks at you. I will believe you if you say you love her. If you do not,” He swallows a lump in his throat, “I will take her away and she will never know the truth. My daughter is precious. It is a privilege to be loved by her.”
There are a lot of things Bucky wants to say. Reassurances that he’s honest; a good man. He loves you with his whole soul. “I took her to the ocean.” Bucky says instead, “around my kingdom. The people love her. When she saw the ocean, I finally suddenly understood. She is my reason for being.”
“Why should I trust that you care for her alone? You cared for her and who you thought was an entirely different person that saved your life.”
“I couldn’t figure out how I could care so deeply for two different women. Then it was her eyes. I was ready to let the woman who saved me go, just for her. I would love her if I met her tomorrow. Princess, savior, stranger, I love her. There is no force in this world that could undo that.”
“It would take a good man to take care of my daughter. To challenge her. Are you that man, Barnes?”
There’s no hesitation. “I am.”
Bucky exits the room with an unreadable expression on his face. When he passes by you, he jerks his head towards the rest of his friends in a silent order to enter another room, and leave the two of you alone for a moment. His hand touches your shoulder, heat sinking into your skin through the fabric of your dress. Bucky doesn’t say anything as he does so, just keeps his demeanor calm, letting the comfort sink into your body as his touch warms you from the outside in.
The door shuts loudly behind you, leaving you alone with your father as he stands silhouetted by the light streaming in from the window. Timidly, you clasped your hands behind your back. The grandfather clock in the corner ticks ominously. You know you should speak; apologize to your father, assure him that you didn’t mean to worry him, but deep down you wanted him to make the first move. So you wait.
“He says you’ve made yourself a home here,” Your father begins, unwilling to say Bucky’s name, and doesn't dare to give him the power of presence. You don’t respond, holding eye contact. “That people like you. You got to see the ocean for the first time since your mother-” He swallows, “that boy loves you.”
You nod, unsure of how you should answer, so you keep your mouth shut, lips pressed tightly together. “Do you love him?”
You nod again, bringing yourself to speak no waver in your voice when you respond. “I do. Truly.”
“You’re a princess, but more than that, you’re my daughter.” Your father’s face softens, the years of wear appearing on his aged face as tears well in his eyes. “I failed you as a father. You should never have felt so abandoned that you needed to run away to be understood.”
The dam inside you breaks. Years of feeling ignored, hopeless and useless pushing past the walls you’d built as you realized that you had run away from home, abandoning your family with not so much as a word.
The epiphany devastated you. You knew that it was the right choice, bringing your family the clarity they needed to realize how small you truly felt around them, but more importantly, Bucky, who would never need that absence to realize what you truly meant to him.
It only made you love Bucky more.
“Daddy,” you cry, throwing yourself into your father’s arms. “I’m sorry!”
He holds you tightly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and stroking your hair. “Don’t apologize, my darling girl. I love you so much.”
“I love you too.” You whisper, pressing yourself into his chest as you wrap your arms around his center. He holds you as you cry, overwhelmed with the attention of your father. “How did you know where I was?” You ask, voice muffled into his clothes.
“Your sisters,” your father sighs, “are as industrious and stubborn as you are. Andromeda and Fawn remembered you dancing with Prince Barnes at that ball, years ago and recognised the glass statues in your collection as from Brooklynn-” He winces at the memory, “Lillian has relations with the merchants who heard of him taking in a lost girl. Belle, Ariadne, and Tatiana were furious when I said that only Will and I would be going to retrieve you.”
You blinked, stunned by the revelation. “I didn’t think they noticed me.”
“You’re their baby sister. They may not understand your passions, but they love you all the same.”
You pull away from your father, stepping back to pick at your nails and dropping your eyes to the floor. “When will we be heading for home?” Your voice grows hollow, mentally drafting your goodbyes.
A glint sparkles in your father’s eyes. “Whenever you should like to return to Clare-Auberge, there will always be a home for you.”
“Whenever I should like-” Your eyebrows furrow, “but- Father-?”
“Speak to Prince Barnes first.” Your father says gently but firmly. “I suspect the two of you will have much to say to each other.”
“What are you talking about?’ You press, unused to your father’s cryptic statements.
“You love him, yes?”
There’s no hesitation as you answer again, “Yes, of course.”
Your father’s voice is firm, but pride leaks through. “You are my daughter. You must make your own choices now. I suspect he will have some things he’d like to propose to you.”
The knock comes in early afternoon, interrupting the writing of letters to your sisters to inform them of your safety. After your meeting with your father, Steve escorted you back to your room, coolly informing you that Bucky would be by later today and leaving you alone. Your heart jumps with excitement as you open the door, preparing itself to be Will or your father. To your delight, it’s Bucky’s handsome face that greets you instead, looking all too proud of himself.
“I have something to show you.”
You tilted your head in surprise, eyebrows raising as you rose to your feet. “Now?”
Bucky shrugged like it was simple, “When else?” He holds out his hand, and like always, you take it, letting him lead you silently through the halls.
“Wait,” you say, tugging him to a stop by the stairwell’s main landing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know my father was going to show up, and I really did want to tell you. I was just… scared.”
“You have nothing to be scared of anymore, my love. I’m here now. I won’t ever let you go.” Bucky takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting your face up to his. “I love you.”
“Can you forgive me?” You ask nervously, voice unfamiliar to your own ears.
He pretends to think, failing to smother the amused curl of his mouth. “I nearly went half crazy searching for something right in front of me. I’m more thankful that you’re real and here in front of me.”
“Still,” you assert firmly, “you have every right to be upset with me for deceiving you.”
Bucky shrugs easily, as though he has just lost a meaningless card game. “It doesn’t matter. You were seconds from telling me the truth before being interrupted.” A wicked grin covers his handsome face, “but if you wish to be punished, I can think of a few ways that would please me.” He pulls your body into his, the evidence of his want warm and prominent, even through the layers between you. You gasp in mock outrage, giggling as warm desire settles into your core at his suggestion.
“Bucky!”
“What? We’ve got a lifetime for you to make it up to me, if you really want to.”
Your eyes go starry and insides to mush, the suggestion lost on you at his promise. “a lifetime?”
“I’m going to marry you.” Bucky says obviously, like one would if they were commenting on the weather. “Not because I have to. Because I want to. Because I love you.”
“Some proposal,” you tease, bringing your hands to toy with the soft hair at the nape of his neck. “What if I-”
“That wasn’t my proposal.” Bucky smirks, tilting his head teasingly at you.
“It wasn’t?”
“Absolutely not,” he scoffs, offended at your suggestion. “You’re going to be my wife, that much is settled, but the proposal itself?” Hair is brushed from your eyes, as he speaks. “That is going to be far better than this.”
“You mean not in an empty hallway?”
“Definintely not.”
“I look forward to it.”
“You’d better.”
“I think you’re the one who should be getting ready. You’re head over heels in love with me.”
“Obviously,” Bucky hummed, entirely unbothered by your assertion. “But don’t pretend you’re not just as bad.”
You shrug, unable to restrain the wide grin that threatens to split your face in two. “What a pair we make.”
He leads you down a corridor you haven’t been to yet, filled with portraits and sculptures and past a series of wooden doors. He stops in front of a set of dark oak double doors, producing a key and unlocking them with a click.
Inside is a room with pale blue walls and painted almond blossoms on the wall nearest the balcony. Sheer curtains do little to block the sunlight from coming in and brightening the dim room. A bed with a sheer canopy is covered in a sheet, but other than that, the room is devoid of furniture. Through the windows, you’re able to glimpse the glittering ocean.
“Do you like it?” Bucky asks nervously, scratching the back of his neck.
“Like it? It’s beautiful, but Bucky-” Confusion colors your tone as you take in the slightly dusty room and the large man taking up its space.
He doesn’t seem to hear you, motioning towards a door on the wall opposite the bed. “My room is just through here. Can’t have the princess too far off.” The tips of his ears go pink while your heart stumbles, wondering if you heard him correctly.
“Bucky, what-”
“It needs furniture of course, which you can choose. Anything to your liking.”
“My liking? Bucky, really, I need you to explain.” Mind racing, you watch the man you love reduced to stumbling words and half-baked explanations. “Are you alright?”
A thin sheen of sweat has formed on his forehead, his bottom lip tucked between his teeth nervously. “This is going to be your room. You don’t have to sleep here, if you’d rather sleep with me. Not that you have to, but you’ll have your own space here. For your collections and anything else you’d like to do.”
“Mine?” The word settles in the air between you, spoken aloud and causing a smile to creep onto your face. “Is this real?”
His eyebrows knit together in confusion, cataloging your reaction. “Yes?”
You giggle, throwing yourself into his arms. He catches you easily, holding your waist as you stand on your tiptoes and stabilize yourself on his shoulders. “We’re getting married?” You all but yell, beaming brightly.
He laughs, “I mean, yes, that’s what I was saying-”
You pull him in by his collar, pressing your lips to his. The kiss surprises him but he kisses you back with just as much fervor. Teeth click against each other, smiles preventing the picture perfect kiss you’d read about, but it doesn’t matter to you. It’s perfect.
“I need you to stop smiling so much, sweetheart. ‘M trying to kiss you properly here.” Breathing heavily and laughing as you hold each other.
As suddenly as a leaf on the breeze, you remember your father, brother, and sisters. Your home in Clare-Auberge. The home that hasn’t felt truly like home in years. The feeling you’d been chasing in small villages through your explorations. The way you felt when Bucky looked at you, whenever he kissed you, like the world was rearranging itself around the two of you in a perfect bubble. The way he would sacrifice anything for you. You were going to marry Bucky. He had presented the space to you not as a demand, but an option. In your heart, you knew that if you asked, he would let you go without a question. If you asked, he would follow you to Clare-Auberge and relinquish his throne. It was all up to you.
“Bucky. My father-”
“Wants you to be happy.” He looks at you earnestly, waiting for you to respond. “As do I.”
Your face must be a sickening mixture of shock and excitement, because he takes your hand, wordlessly leading you down to the beach you had seen from the balcony. He didn’t speak during the walk, allowing you to think and relax in the salty air.
The second your toes touched the soft sand, your shoulders relaxed as you took a deep breath, inhaling the ocean air.
“Better?” Bucky asks gently, rubbing his thumb over the back of your hand.
You nod, meeting his reassuring gaze with a smile. “You knew.”
“I think I loved you before I really knew you.” Bucky murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “Like I know my own soul, I know you. I look at you and know you’re the very reason I was born.” Between the two of you, he digs into his pocket to pull out a shining band topped with a sparkling gem. “I told you I would make this a big thing, but I don’t want to wait a second longer-”
Your face lights up, hands flying to cover your face. “Yes!”
“What do you say-”
“Yes!” You screech, bouncing excitedly on your toes.
He laughs, “Will you marry me, my love?”
“Yes!” You repeat, voice rising in pitch. The ring fits your finger perfectly as he slips it on, glittering on your finger in the golden light. The light gives him an ethereal glow and casts the moment in the image of a romantic scene in a storybook. In one swift moment, Bucky has lifted you by the waist, spinning you around until you’re nearly doubled over his shoulders in laughter.
He sets you down, kissing you again in that achingly tender way that makes you weak in the knees. All of the time spent dancing around each other, hiding from feelings out of the fear of getting hurt, culminates in this one, perfect moment. A happily ever after. It’s the kind of moment one dreams about. To be truly known. To love fearlessly.
“When?” You hear yourself ask as you surface for air.
Bucky hums, eyes still closed. “Whenever. Sooner, rather than later if it were up to me. I want to be able to call you my wife.” The words make heat curl in your stomach, imagining him husking them into your ear while you’re underneath him.
“I’d marry you right now,” You sigh as a kiss is pressed to your neck under your ear. “But my family would have things to say.”
“Don’t they always?” Bucky teased, drawing a laugh that fades into a soft moan as his teeth nip your soft skin. He soothes the bite with his tongue. “I’d marry you now. I’ll marry you later. In a storm. On a boat. Name the time and place and I’ll be there.”
Your mind raced with ideas, thoughts of color schemes and flowers, but the one perfect thing that would never change was Bucky, waiting for you at the end of the aisle.
After a small celebratory dinner with your father and brother, you’d finally been released for bed.
Just like the nights before, Bucky walked you to your door, kissing your hand chastely as your father watched with hawk-like eyes for any inappropriate behavior.
You thought you’d be able to manage being able to be without Bucky, especially for just a night, but as you laid in bed, a prickly warmth settled under your skin. You tossed and turned, aching for the feel of his skin against yours and the sound of his heartbeat in your ear.
You’d made enough reckless decisions lately that you figured one more wouldn’t make things worse. That was how you’d found yourself slipping through the dark hallways and passed the odd guard who averted their eyes at your appearance.
Bucky was sitting up in bed when you creaked his door open. He said your name in surprise, dropping his book to the floor. “Sweetheart, what are you doing here?”
You only smiled in response, quietly pulling the door shut behind you and tiptoeing to his bed.
“Get in,” Bucky murmured, lifting the blanket for you to climb in next to him. You settle against his chest with a contented sigh, nuzzling into his breast and finding his heartbeat. He can feel the heat of your skin through the thin nightgown you’re wearing. Bucky tries desperately to ignore the way the fabric rides up your thighs, stopping just below the curve of your ass, but he’s only a man. A warm blooded man with a throbbing erection. His hand falls protectively to the small of your back, a safe spot for him to rest.
“Missed you,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to the skin above his heart. Goosebumps rise on his tanned skin at your action. Pridefully, he can’t help but notice the way the ring on your finger sparkles in the low light. You squirm closer to him, pressing the pulsing heat between your legs to the muscle of his thigh. A small smirk grows on your lips as a groan bubbles in his throat.
“Angel, if anyone catches you here-”
“We’d have to get married faster.” You sigh mockingly, your voice coated in sweetness as you prop yourself up to meet his gaze. “What a shame.”
Bucky grins despite himself, the hand on your back daring to wander lower, letting his fingers dig into the plush flesh of your backside. His other hand caresses your cheek with a gentleness unlike the one on your ass. “You’re trouble, woman.” He says with no malice in his voice.
You grin, meeting him halfway for a kiss and dragging your fingers to the bulge in his pants to palm at him. “Maybe. But I'm your trouble now.” Your smile grows wicked, “what are you going to do about it?”
Bucky growls, flipping you onto your back with minimal effort and pushing the nightgown to your waist to find you delightfully bare underneath. His fingers are gentle and anything but sweet as he pulls them through your glistening folds and gently circling your clit. His featherlight touch draws a meek whimper from your lips.
Bucky brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking your juices from his digits. Humming at the taste, he lowers himself down your body, palming at the skin as he goes before gently pulling your thighs apart and settling between your legs. Swallowing nervously, a hot flush spread across your chest at the sight of Bucky’s broad shoulders holding your thighs apart. He looks at you like you’re a meal and he’s been starving for years.
You expect him to dive in, licking you thoroughly until you can’t breathe, but he shifts again, bending your leg at the knee to kiss at the skin on your inner leg. Kisses pepper their way up your legs, soft presses of his lips paired with the scratch of his stubble as he moves up, inch by inch. You squeeze your eyes shut, relishing the feeling of his hot breath on your skin. He reaches the threshold of your thigh. His resolve seems to be chipping away with every second that passes, growing more frantic with every pass of his tongue.
“Bucky,” your voice sounds foreign to your own ears, distant and pleading. “Please.”
His eyes dart up to you, taking in your already fucked out expression wth a smug look on his face. “Please what, my love?”
You squirm under his hold, pinning your hips in place. “Please,” you cry, attempting to shift your tips into his touch, looking for any pressure to ease the throbbing between your legs. “Touch me.”
He doesn’t wait a moment before diving in, tongue dancing over your sensitive core before dipping his middle finger into your dripping pussy. You arch into him as he curls his finger, rewarding the action with a cry of his name. His answer comes in the form of another finger inside you.
“Taste so perfect, sweetheart,” He growled, a feral rasp in his throat as the last of his restraint fades away. He drags his tongue up and down your clit, applying a pressure that makes your head spin and hips cant up to chase the pressure of his mouth. “So fucking wet. Are you this desperate for me?”
You nod, head shaking wildly as your breaths grew quick and vision blurring as you felt your peak growing close embarrassingly fast. The high pitched sounds coming from your mouths would have been mortifying if you were of sound mind, but the pleasure Bucky was bringing you made you drunk.
“I’m– oh! I’m going to, Bucky,—don’t… please don’t stop—”
“Come on sweetheart,” Bucky cooed, coaxing your release without moving from against you. “Come for me. Come for your husband.”
Not a moment later, you shattered underneath him, the word itself seemingly pushing you over the edge. White hot pleasure overtook your body, legs tensing as the orgasm washed over you. Bucky drank everything you gave him, licking and sucking through your orgasm as if you were the sweetest honey, the most fruitful wine, his salvation.
When you come down, tense and shaking from overstimulation, you knot your hands in his hair to pull him away from you. Bucky’s eyes are dark, the blue of them eclipsed by the black of his pupils, blown wide with desire.
“So greedy, sweet girl.” Bucky murmurs, blanketing your body with his. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling his hard length against your wet cunt. The condescending words are contradictory to his actions, desperation lacing his tone as he grinds against you. “I’ve barely gotten you back, and you’re already begging for me.”
His kiss is hot and searing against you, tongue dancing with yours as you grip his hair, holding him in place against you. True to his statement, you are greedy, trailing your hand down his body and wrapping a hand around his hard, aching, cock. It throbs at your touch, leaking precum onto your skin. He gasps into your mouth, trusting into your gentle touch.
“I missed you,” Bucky groans, “I barely had you and I missed you so much. Tell me you missed me too. Missed me inside you.”
“Yes– oh yes, Bucky. I missed you.” Nodding wildly, you drag his length through your folds, mixing your juices together. You moved your hand again, building a rhythm of your own that he chased with subtle thrusts of his hips. The combined slickness of the both of you created an obscene sound.
When you looked between the two of you, you caught sight of his cock, thick with a vein tracing its way to the tip. His tip was flushed an angry red, almost looking bruised. He pulsed again in your hand, a broken moan shuddering from his lips as you dragged your thumb through the slit.
Your mouth watered at the sight, the urge to shimmy down his body and lick him until he was just as much of a mess as you were overwhelming you. As if reading your mind, Bucky pressed your hip down, stopping the movement.
“You want your tongue on my cock?” He taunted, a smirk painting his lips despite his voice sounding like he wanted the same thing.
You nodded once, moving again to try to bring yourself to eye level with his cock, even shifting your body to flip you so you could be atop him. The action was fruitless as his massive hand kept you pressed into my bed.
“Another time,” Bucky promised, kissing your cheek chastely in an action unlike what was happening below your waist. “I’ll have you on your knees for me at all hours, pleasuring me with that pretty tongue of yours. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
You answered by dragging himself through your dripping folds again, feeling another bead of precum gather atop your sensitive clit, relishing the feeling. “Tell me, my love. Did you lay awake at night thinking about me? Remembering my touch? How good I felt in your tight cunt?”
You wiggle, notching him in your entrance. Bucky tilts his hips, putting just the tip inside. Clenching on instinct, you nod, head thrashing side to side against his sheets.
His response is a mocking click of his tongue, hand catching your risk to stop you from pulling him closer. Pride swelled in Bucky’s chest, loving seeing you like this, stripped of your sass and spunk, desperate for him and only him. Love filled your eyes as you gazed up at him. Bucky softened, leaning down to press a light kiss to your lips.
“Words. Say it for me, darling.”
“Yes! Yes, Bucky– I dreamt about you, ever since that night in the cottage, I imagined how you would feel against me. Please, please touch me.” You sob, tears leaking from your eyes out of sheer desperation.
“Good girl.” He kisses each of your cheeks once, before sheathing himself inside your pussy in one smooth motion.
“Chirst,” he chokes out, pressing his face to your collarbone and squeezing his eyes shut as he focuses on not cumming. “How are you tighter than before?”
A moan is all you can answer with, raking your nails down the skin of his back, sure to leave angry red marks.
Bucky froze, refusing to start moving. He wanted to relish this moment, to savor it. Your body rippled, struggling to accommodate him. Every loving clench your body offered him made it harder to maintain composure.
You pulsed around him with every shift of his body, his cock barely pulling out of your cunt before squeezing desperately, as though trying to suck him back in.
“God… sweetheart, stop,” he choked out, his barely regained composure fracturing again. “If you keep– fuck– clenching like that...”
You couldn’t help yourself, locking your ankles around his waist and pulling him back against you, mewling as he filled you completely again. Bucky set a rhythm, painting against your lips as he thrust in and out, every punch of his cock kissing your cervix and pushing you further up his bed.
“I can’t!” Your voice was broken, “I’m sorry– oh Bucky– I just missed you so much! I missed this.”
Your voice shattered him, his pace now brutal and desperate, filling you again and again. His fingers gripped your things, tight enough that you were sure he would leave bruises to discover in the morning.
“Fuck– my love, my life, my wife. You’re my everything. So little time feels like years without you. I love you so much.”
Any gentleness he had once possessed had disappeared into the night. Breathy “ahs!” and cries of his name escaping your lips with every thrust, hips somehow driving deeper and deeper into you.
He barely held out, desperate to make you come before he did. He wanted to feel you shatter around him again. He had a lifetime to make you his, paint with his seed over and over again, but all he cared about in this moment was your pleasure. Bucky was determined to feel you come around him again before his own release.
The scent of sex and sweat enclosed the two of you, an intoxicating mix that was utterly filthy and sensual at once. “You want to come?” He taunted as you moaned freely, uncaring of anyone overhearing you. Bucky couldn’t bring himself to be bothered either, no longer caring of who overheard you, smug at the thought of the world knowing you were his and his alone.
Hot lips wrap around your nipple, sucking and biting with renewed fervour.
“Oh– Bucky, I– mmphh! I can’t!”
“You can,” He huffed against your skin, switching to the other breast to give it the same affection. “And you will.”
Your clit ground against his pubic bone every time he bottomed out. The pressure was enough to overstimulate you, barely giving you any time to recognise what was happening before a second orgasm washed over you.
The world beyond his body no longer existed. The world outside of the four walls of his room could cease to exist, and you wouldn’t care so long as his touch was on your skin. Your soul had always been his, but now he was branded upon it. Your overstimulated senses screamed as his lips pressed to the corner of your mouth, licking up the tears that had fallen from your eyes.
He fucked you through it, slowing his pace slightly to let you drag him back inside your dripping pussy. “I’m going to have you like this forever,” He promised, picking up his pace again. “Full of my cum. Dripping with me all the time. Wouldn’t you like that, my love? Bred with our children?”
Despite your skin being soaked with sweat and senses overstimulated with ecstasy, you nodded crying out in frantic agreement. You clung to his shoulders as his pace slowed again, hips circling in a desperate attempt to stave off his own orgasm. A fresh jolt of lightning shot through the center of your body and down to your core, renewed vigor pulsing in your lower belly at the promise of carrying his children. Of being Bucky’s forever.
“Gonna fill you up,” Bucky murmured as the remainders of your orgasm fluttered around him. “Fill your cunt with my love so that I drip out of you. Is that what you want?’
“Yes! Oh, Bucky- my love– yes!”
His body went rigid, muscles locking up as his orgasm ripped through him, a guttural shout ripping from his throat as he punched into you a few more times, painting your insides with his hot seed.
“Fuck–! Cumming!” The sound ripped almost painfully from his throat, a desperate groan filled with desire and love. His eyes rolled back in his head before they shut, unable to keep open through his overwhelming orgasm. His heavy chest heaved against yours, arms shaking as he struggled to keep himself steady. You sighed, focusing yourself and tensing your muscles around him to clench around him again.
Bucky collapsed atop you when you did, whining as his hips weakly thrust into you in an attempt to ride out his orgasm and keep you close to him. His arms bracketed your head, holding himself in a hover above you, careful not to crush you with his weight even in the throws of pleasure.
Your skin stuck to his, his twitching cock still nestled inside you in a post-orgasmic state, as though you would become one if he just pressed himself harder against you.
Heavy breathing permeated the silence of the room as he rolled over, taking you with him and careful not to dislodge himself from inside you. Though your bones felt like jelly and your body was thoroughly exhausted, you were warm with love and desire. You found his heartbeat easily, relishing the feeling of knowing you were now his and only his.
“I finally have you. You’re real.” Bucky whispered, stroking your hair. You snuggled further into him, feeling his seed begin to slip out of you. “I never want to lose you. I felt like I was going crazy without you.”
You propped your chin up, watching him longingly. You cupped his face, stroking the prickly stubble on his cheek. “You never will,” you promised softly. The hand that wasn’t stroking your hair curled around your cheek.
Turning your head slightly, you press a gentle kiss to the palm of his hand. The action makes goosebumps rise up his arm, bliss encircling you two as reality seems to finally set in.
“I have you, sweetheart. My savoir. I’ll never let you go again.”
Half-asleep, the question slips from your lips before you can stop it. “But, if I do, will you come find me again?”
You feel his smile and hear the rumble of his voice before you fade into sleep. “Always.”
warnings: 18+ explicit content, minors DNI. smut. unprotected pnv (this is cate's psa to use protection). semi-public sex (we fuckin' on a private beach yo), fingering, fairytale accurate depictions of clothing and kingdoms, use of a fictional kingdom name and a fuck ton of new york neighborhoods as other kingdoms, death of a parent, daddy issues. reader has hair that can be wrapped around a hand. probably some spelling and grammar issues but we die like men. vaguely little mermaid inspired.
word count: 14.5k
summary: you are the youngest daughter of seven sisters and a single brother with an affinity for exploring and a love for prince bucky of brooklynn, a kingdom your father inexplicably hates. after saving bucky's life, you can't help but want to find him again.
cate talks: massive thank you to @blowingbarnes for the inspiration and being one of the sweetest people on this website. part two will be up asap! enjoy :)
part two
The coronation of Prince Peter of Queens might be the most fun you’ve had in your life until this very moment. King Stark had truly spared no expense for his adopted son’s rise to the throne. Wine flowed freely, jovial music sounded through the elaborately decorated ballroom, and everyone seemed to be in a joyous mood.
Well, everyone except for your father and sisters. The former remained alongside the wall, speaking exclusively to Lord Walker of Washington and offering only a few curt words to whomever summoned the courage to approach them. Three of your older sisters had attended alongside you and your brother, but they all sat rigidly at their table conversing lowly among themselves. Lillian, Andromeda, and Fawn had all chosen steel blue dresses, representative of your Kingdom’s color. One the other hand, you stuck out magnificently in a dress of deep cerulean. You felt rather like a butterfly flitting around the ballroom with a new friend, a young woman from Sokovia, Lady Wanda, who was easily able to point out everyone in the room and provide little anecdotes.
It was when the two of you huddled behind the champagne tower, giggling as you watched Prince Peter fumble over his words with a lady from Midtown that a new man caught your eye.
He was older than you, perhaps around the age of your eldest sister, Lillian, but he wore it well. His face was clean shaven with a sharp jaw and cheekbones, dark brown hair perfectly styled away from his face, but oh, his eyes.
Blue, bright blue and captivating, inviting you to drown in them even from your distance. They were as close to the ocean as you remembered from your childhood. “Who’s that?” You breathed, grabbing Wanda’s arm with your free hand. Champagne spilled over the edge of your coupe at the jerking movement, but you didn’t notice, utterly enamored by the handsome stranger. She follows your gaze, smiling knowingly when she realizes who you’re referring to. “That is Prince Barnes of Brooklynn. Bucky to his friends. Heir to the throne. The man next to him-” She gestured to the blonde man standing next to Bucky, “is his best friend, Sir Steven Rogers.”
“Brooklynn,” you repeat, heart sinking only slightly, “too bad my father hates them.”
“He’s quite popular,” Wanda comments, “I’m beginning my training as a lady-in-waiting to his mother next month. I hear he’s constantly fending off eligible young women.”
“I can see why,” you observe, stepping back into view of the crowd with Wanda. Two young children have begun to circle his and Sir Rogers’ legs in a game of hide and seek. Laughing, Bucky leans down to catch the girl by her waist and tickle her sides. She screams in laughter, pushing him away to dart back into the crowd. The little boy follows her, but not before Bucky reaches down to ruffle his hair.
Your heart betrays your mind, putting aside all ideas of the chasm between the two of you created by your father’s pride. Prince Bucky is perfect.
“And now,” King Stark announces, quieting the ballroom without much effort, “a traditional waltz.” The ballroom erupts with hums of excitement, women and men scrambling for partners, You bounce on your toes. While your sisters had declined to learn the dance, you had begged your governess to teach you privately once lessons were done for the day. After years and years, you would finally be able to show off and prove you didn’t belong in your sister’s shadows.
All you needed was the perfect someone to ask you.
As if out of a dream, Prince Bucky and Sir Rogers were approaching you and Wanda, seemingly unnoticing of the many women trying to catch their eyes.
“Wanda,” a smiling Sir Rogers greeted first. He bowed at the two of you, Bucky dipping his head as the two of you curtsied. “It’s good to see you again.”
“The two of you as well,” Wanda turns, presenting you and saying your name. “Princess of Clare-Auberge.”
Both men bow at you, Steve’s smiling never wavering as he directs the question to you. “Pardon me, Princess, might I request the honor of escorting Lady Wanda to the dance floor?”
Nodding eagerly at Wanda, you motion for her to take his outstretched hand. Steve leads Wanda away, leaving you and Bucky alone, much to your delight. He clears his throat, smiling kindly at you and offering his own hand. “Since my friend has disposed of your company, I feel if would be rude of me not to ask the beautiful princess to accompany me for the waltz.”
A pity dance from the man you’d suddenly developed a crush on wasn’t exactly what you had in mind, but since it was Bucky and your window was closing, you nod and accept his hand. There are hundreds of eyes on the two of you as you take your place on the dancefloor. Your gloved hand is held delicately in his, the other settling on your waist. You can feel the heat of his skin through the smooth fabric. When the music begins its bright start, Bucky leads you around the room effortlessly, your skirts swirling and creating an intimate bubble around the two of you. Step for step, you match his movements, eyes locked on his.
“You dance wonderfully,” Bucky says, voice low enough so that only you can catch it.
“Thank you,” you sigh, relaxing in his hold and closing your eyes for a moment to let the music wash over you. His eyes roam over your face, catching the glint of the ballroom lights in your hair. “This is perfect.”
“Perfect?”
“My sisters don’t dance,” you explain, eyes opening again. “We don’t have many balls at home, especially not like this. Tonight is perfectly wonderful. A fairytale.”
Bucky spins you, surprising you at how much you disliked momentarily having his hand off of your body. When it returns to its spot, his thumb brushes the lowest button of your dress. He doesn’t respond to you, only smiling politely as he begins another sequence of turns. You’re content to revel in the magic of the moment, unaware of the world around you. As the music comes to a slow stop, Bucky’s grip loosens on you, his hands dropping back to his sides as he bows deeply. Your low curtsey is just as formal, blood thrumming against your skin with anticipation that he might ask for another song in your company.
“Thank you for the dance, Princess.” Is all he says before walking away.
The fantasy ends like a popped bubble, your heart sinking as you’re left standing alone. Resuming your position along the wall, you can’t bring yourself to care too much. You got your dance with a handsome prince. A prince you can only hope to see again.
That’s more than most get. More than you had ever gotten.
Wanda doesn’t return to join you again, her red hair standing out on the dance floor as she’s claimed for another song. It ends and another begins, still she does not return. An hour passes; the glass of bubbles in your hand grows warm. You’re afforded a few spare glances and polite nods from passing guests, but no more invitations to dance.
You may as well be invisible.
Fed up and with sore feet, you discard your glass on an empty table and head for the now deserted Grand Hall. The guards pay you no mind as you collapse on the stairs, dress fanning around you like a flower. You draw your knees up to your chest, resting your chin in your hands as you pout.
“...can’t imagine why they would come.” A chirping voice echoes from a next to the staircase, just out of your sightline. A door closes loudly, a step of footsteps following. “Of course, the King and his heir must come, but his daughters-”
“The eldest is just so plain!” Another voice exclaims, shiny black hair coming slightly into view. Duchess Daphne, you deduce from her accent. “Rather boring dresses too. They all are, really. Seven daughters and not one bit of style.”
The first voice snickers meanly, an ice blonde bun appearing over the railing. Another Duchess, this one being Marina of Coney. “Can you imagine marrying into that family? It’s a shame too, that heir isn’t all terrible looking.”
Hot shame douses your body as you dig your nails into your palm. A rebuttal sits heavy on your tongue, threatening to escape into the open.
“At least the youngest got to have her fun dancing with Prince Barnes. She’s got some taste, I suppose, and dances quite well. It’s a shame no one else will bother with her.”
The muffled giggles grow into a raucous fit of laughter as the doors to the ballroom open and close again, entirely unnoticing of your presence. The footman who closes the door behind them offers you a sympathetic look, one you desperately ignore.
Tomorrow you will go back to Clare-Auberge with one golden memory.
Bucky was kind to you. Bucky danced with you. That was perfect.
And your father’s wrath be damned, you would see him again.
Your room was quiet: the perfect escape from the Lady’s Room where your sisters would be catching up on their studies, instrumental practice, and whatever else they pleased.
Grinning to yourself, you flipping through the journal where you had carefully documented pathways to Brooklynn, Queens, and visits to the little villages throughout the kingdoms. Nothing more than a day’s travel, which you had carefully primed your father to allow with permission to stay at Willowstream as needed, the old country estate that was rarely used.
Today would be your furthest and most daring adventure yet, a trip to the Brooklynn village nearest your border and their capital. A book waited for you in the village bookshop, supposedly one of the most well stocked in the world.
The library in your castle was plenty beautiful, but not as thorough as you would have liked; you had finished every book by your fourteenth birthday, and repeated requests for more books went ignored. Being the youngest of eight with a widower for a father meant that your birthdays didn’t go beyond a few odds and ends.
Which, to be entirely honest, you didn’t entirely mind. It afforded you less attention than your sisters and could slip beyond the castle walls without much fanfare. It left you the opportunity to see the world around you, especially Brooklynn, a the neighboring kingdom your father held an irrational hatred for and preferred to ignore the existence of. You, on the other hand, enjoyed your travels to their villages, daydreaming on your walks that Prince Bucky would come along and declare his love for you, sweeping you atop his horse and bringing you to his palace.
The glint of an old invitation caught your eye, tucked carefully in your wooden box of treasures and trinkets. Prince Peter’s coronation, now two years ago, echoed like it was only yesterday. The waltz. Bucky. The Duchesses laughing at you and your sisters. You couldn’t remember the last serious suitor that had visited for any one of you. You shook your head at the bittersweet memory. Your dance with Bucky would always be a treasured moment. No one could take that away from you.
Selfishly, you kept your ear out for news about him in the villages. He was still single, that much you knew. Well liked, too, a rarity for entire villages to have positive opinions about a royal family.
Further into the box was your collection of odds and ends collected from years of exploring. A ribbon from a shop by Willowstream, a small hand-painted vase from the frist time you ventured into Brooklynn, a vibrant red pressed wildflower from a small farm that hosted you for lunch when you found yourself lost. Pebbles smooth as glass that sparkled in the light, painted postcards, a wooden pen carved of walnut. Seashells from your mother, the last remainder of your childhood trips to the ocean.
Your collection wasn’t flashy, but it meant everything to you. It was a reminder of your freedom. The things other princesses weren’t allowed to do. If your father truly knew what you were doing and had a say, you wouldn’t for much longer.
A call of your name from the hallway sent you shoving the box back into your closet before Ariadne, your sister closest in age, walked in without knocking.
“Are you seriously studying those maps again?” She scoffs, crossing her arms and leaning against your desk. “Father won’t be pleased if he discovers you’ve been out exploring again.”
Mentally noting not to confide in Ariadne about exactly what you were doing when disappearing for hours again, you grab your walking boots to tug them on your feet.
“I’m not exactly exploring,” you countered, “I’m going to Greenwich for a book.”
Ariadne picks up a china statue of a dancing couple, lazily studying it with the air of someone who could not bring herself to care.
“We have a library here.”
Standing up and brushing invisible dirt from your skirt, you swerve past her. “And I’ve already finished those books.”
Ariadne follows you into the hallway, unwilling to let you go without a fight. “There’s a storm coming tonight!” She calls after you.
You wave her off dismissively, rounding a corner away from her.
“I’ll be back before it comes.”
Ariadne calls your name one more time, stubborn exasperation leaking into her tone. She knows she can’t stop you.
But truly, no one could.
“There’s no chance in hell I make it back home.” You said aloud to nobody, lifting your skirt and picking over an exposed tree root. The sky glowered in response, thunder rumbling ominously from the dark gray clouds just visible through the tree tops. “I suppose I should stop at Willowstream.” You muse, referring to the royal cottage at the edge of the woods. It was a two hour walk from the palace and was typically only used for a few weekends throughout the year, too early at present for the late summer soirees. Though, the caretakers should be there, ready to greet you as they prepared the home. You pick up your pace as the sun fully disappears, a few drops of rain cooling your warm skin. Reaching the beginnings of the proper pathway, a cheerful mew greets you. Carrot trots up cheerfully alongside you, seemingly unbothered by the incoming tempest. Carrot lived in the meadow behind Willowstream, a common fixture in the gardens and around the house. He began to trot slightly ahead of you, leading the way to the magnificent front doors. You knocked on the heavy door, receiving no answer, and dug in the small planter beside the door to retrieve the spare key.
No sooner had you opened the heavy wooden doors did the heavens open up. Rain battered the roof relentlessly, sheeting so heavily that you couldn’t see more than a few feet outside the window. Carrot seemed to pay no mind to the noise, simply hopping atop the sitting room windowsill (an action that never would have passed if your family had been there) and watched the pathway, tail flicking mindlessly.
Looking around, you found the furniture uncovered and freshly cleaned, wood stacked neatly by the fireplace. At least you had dry wood, you supposed, smugly stacking wood in the hearth and striking a match. This was one of those “useless servant-skills” your father had stuck his nose up at and here you were, fending for yourself.
The rain kept coming, hours passing with hardly a reprieve from the crashing thunder, lightning flickering through the curtains every few minutes. You had pulled a book from the library, some romance novel, and read by the fire as the sun set. Carrot now laid contentedly on his back in front of the fire, purring away.
A movement through the window caught your attention.
A shadowy figure was making their way up your pathway.
You gasped, dropping your book and darting behind the curtain. Carrot startled, opening one eye before settling down again.
“Some guard cat.” You scoffed to yourself, twisting your skirt around your hand and looking back through the rain soaked window.
Heart racing, you squinted into the darkness, watching the figure stagger two more steps before stumbling and collapsing. Before you could truly grasp what you were doing or the consequences of you actions, you had pulled your cloak back over your shoulders and taken the candle out into the inky night.
Mud squished under your shoes, barely audible through the rain as you fell to your knees. The candle sputtered in protest, hardly withstanding the raindrops and wind but stubbornly refused to go out. You brought your candle to the face of the figure and nearly dropped it in your surprise.
It was the Prince of Brooklynn. Prince Bucky. The prince you had been hopelessly in love with for two years now, and here he was, collapsed in your front yard.
His breaths came shallowly, cheek pressed to the grass. Reaching down, you touched his shoulder, eliciting a groan from deep in his chest as he strained to lift his head. You jerked your hand back as though burned. He pressed his hand to the ground, trying to push himself up. Carefully, you touched his shoulder again, lowering your lips to his ear.
“Let me help you.” You murmured, hoping he could hear you. “You have to stand.”
Stumbling under his weight, you heft him up, his arm slung over your shoulders. His head hangs listlessly, eyes heavy lidded as he limps alongside you as you bring him towards the dry cottage.
When you finally get him inside, you lay him down on the sofa. Collapsing on the floor next to him, you let the crackling fire warm you from the outside in, heaving from the walk. Bucky’s breathing has evened out in the warmth, his chest rising and falling slowly. His eyes are still closed, skin ghastly pale and sickly.
You look around, taking stock of the situation and realizing three very important things.
You’re alone.
WIth a man.
A man who is the Prince of Brooklynn and looks to be knocking on death’s door.
Bucky groans again, writhing against the soaked sleeves of his heavy coat. You carefully stand, reaching for his arms.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, peeling the soaked fabric from his skin, “but you need to get warm.”
You hang his coat by the fire, looking back at him. His boots are soaked too, taking much more effort to wrestle off. His socks quickly follow, joining the coat by the fire. You capture your lower lip in between you teeth.
It’s not as though Willowstream is well-equipped at the moment, even for you but especially not for someone this ill. Especially not the Prince of Brooklyn.
At least you’ve got food; some bread, eggs, and berries you picked up in the village, and the wine cellar is sure to be stocked with leftover whiskey from last summer. If you go to the kitchen, you should be able to cook up some food for the two of you, and a little bit of hot whiskey might help Bucky.
You let your gaze fall back to him, passed out on the couch. He’s even more handsome than you remember, even covered in mud and sopping wet. Your heart thuds in your chest, the fluttering sensation in your stomach returning full force as you brushed some of his dripping hair from his face.
You’re hesitant to leave him in this condition, but it’s necessary to get water, food, a rag, and dry clothes.
You move as quickly as you can, turning on the stove and heating the food while you run to get some of your brother’s old clothes. Tearing a strip of fabric from one of the shirts, your heart sinks a little before you find your voice again.
“I’m going to clean you up now.” You tell Bucky, pressing the wet fabric to his dirty forehead, cleaning his skin. His eyelids flutter, revealing his familiar blue eyes, foggy with sickness. You curl a hand around his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbone. “How do you feel?” You ask tentatively.
Bucky leans into your hand, nuzzling towards you like a kitten. “Like death incarnated,” he rasps. “Where are we? Who are you?”
The urge to tell him everything claws up your spine, bubbling through your throat. It settles on the tip of your tongue, a fantasy settling in your head, the way you’ve always dreamed of.
Your father would never allow it. You would be ruined from simply being alone with him.
He probably doesn’t even remember.
So you settle for a simplified answer.
“You’re in Willowstream- a house owned by the Royal Family of of Clare-Auberge.”
His head is still hazy, but he follows your every word. “And who does that make you?’
You take your hand back, instead offering a plate of eggs and bread. “You need to eat.” You respond, ignoring his question.
Bucky levers himself into a sitting position, the blanket you'd placed on top of him falling from his chest and pooling at his waist. You try to ignore the way the thin white linen of his shirt clings obscenely to his chest, still wet from the rain.
He takes the plate slowly, and you swallow as you avert your eyes from his built figure. “It’s not poisoned,” you supply helpfully, sitting back down on the floor. Bucky lets out a quiet noise sounding something like a laugh before taking a bite.
The two of you eat in silence, the fire crackling behind you. Once he’s finished, Bucky sags back against the cushions, a new sheen of sweat settling on his forehead. He shudders, tugging the blanket higher on his torso.
“Are you alright?” You ask, voice rising slightly. You stand, leaning over him and placing a hand on his forehead. “You’re burning up. You must have a fever.”
“Not that shocking.” Bucky coughs, a sarcastic lilt to his gruff voice. “I did get caught in the storm.”
“Hold on,” you turn abruptly, dashing back to the hallway where you’d stashed the whiskey. When you come back, Bucky’s gone paler, eyes drooping again. You pour some into a glass, holding it out to him.
“My father always said a bit of whiskey helps his throat.” You offer, holding it out.
“Thank you.”
“What were you doing out here anyways?” You ask him tentatively, sitting back down and wrapping your arms around your knees.
Bucky sips slowly, throat bobbing with the action. A drop slips from the corner of his lips, your eyes following it as it makes a path down his neck and disappears into the collar of his shirt.
“Separated from my hunting party.” Bucky says simply. “Was trying to follow the path back to the main road to Brooklynn, but once the storm hit, I was hopelessly lost.” He looks you over, and perhaps its your imagination, but his blue eyes soften. ”And you? Do you live here?”
“Couldn’t make it home before the rain started.” You say simply.
Bucky raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t your house?”
You realize your mistake quickly, heat rising in your chest. “I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re implying.” You say defensively, “I simply live elsewhere. The owners are kind enough to let me visit when I’d like.”
“The Royal Family of Clare-Auberge, you mean?”
Fuck. Fuck. You did say that, didn’t you?
It’s dangerous enough that Bucky is here, considering your father’s hatred for the Kingdom of Brooklynn, more so if he were to find him here, alone, with his youngest daughter.
Bucky wouldn’t make it out alive.
“They’re a very generous family.” You stammer, “I’ve known the princesses since I was young.” Not a lie, technically.
To your relief, Bucky smiles teasingly, “I won’t tell them even if you’re lying.”
“No?”
“The King of Clare-Auberge isn’t exactly fond of the people of Brooklynn.” He looks back down at his glass, taking another long sip. “Though I don’t know why.”
You trace your nail along the seam of your skirt. “I don’t either. I’ve always wanted to visit Brooklynn.”
Bucky watches you intently, waiting for you to go on.
“I once read in a book that Brooklynn’s waters are the clearest blue in the world. That the palace puts most cathedrals and castles to shame. The people are the kindest of all. I’ve only been fortunate enough to visit one of the small villages on the outskirts and oh,” You sigh dreamily, remembering fondly, “I got the most beautiful vase from a potter. I’ve collected so many little things from my explorations.” You pause, looking over at Bucky, expecting him to interrupt you or change the subject, but he looks at you as though you’re the most interesting person in the world.
Your cheeks warm, hoping if he notices, he blames it on the roaring fire. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much, aren’t I?”
He shakes his head, that small smile curling on his lips. “I like listening to you.”
You laugh, “Then you’d be the first. My sisters say no one wants to hear me ramble and my father-” You stop, heart sinking, “he doesn’t understand my interests.”
“I understand.” Bucky says, to your surprise. “I don’t think I talk very much, but I when I do, no one ever hears me.”
“I hear you.” You murmur, not realizing that you had moved to sit next to him on the sofa, and worse, that he’d moved closer to listen to you. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“Is the water that blue?”
Bucky smiles, leaning closer to you conspiratorily. “More so. I think the townspeople seem to overlook it because they see it everyday. I once read in a book: it’s the simple things in life that are the most-”
“extraordinary; only wise men are able to understand them.” You finish, “I love that book.”
“Exactly.” Bucky says. His face is separated from yours by mere inches, sharing each other’s breaths. You should pull away. Should let him rest. Pretend like this hasn’t happened because how will you ever be able to forget him now?
Bucky’s hungry gaze rakes over your face, dropping unashamedly to your lips. You hear him set down the cup of liquor and his fingers intertwine with yours. He looks at you like you’re water and he’s been drowning in the desert. “I’ve never met anyone like you before.” He rasps, rasing his other hand to trace down your cheek. Your foreheads press together, now sharing shallow breaths.
“I-”
You don’t finish before he’s kissing you softly, just a brush of his lips along yours. You don’t hesitate, heart kickstarting as you move your lips against his. It’s simple. It’s heavenly. It’s as though this is what you’ve been meant for your entire life. Kissing Prince Bucky. You let out a soft sound into his mouth, a noise he swallows greedily. It seems to embolden him to tilt your head, gently biting your lower lip. The action goes straight to your core, your dress suddenly feeling far too hot and constricting.
“Bucky.” You sigh dreamily as you separate for air. Your chests heave.
He presses a kiss to your cheekbone, then again to your jaw. “What is your name?”
Your blood runs cold, snapping you back to reality reminding you that you really should pull away from him. “It’s best you don’t know.”
The words don’t stop him from making a trail down your neck and back up to the corner of your mouth. “And if I wanted to see you again? How am I to find you?”
A lump rises in your throat. “You don’t.”
Bucky pulls back from you, concern coloring his face. “Of course I do. I want to know everything about you. I want to meet your family, speak to your sisters, pet your damned cat. I want to show you the ocean-”
“Don’t make a promise you can’t keep.” You say weakly, tears welling in your eyes.
“Why wouldn’t I-” Bucky’s voice rises, dissolving into a fit of coughs before he can finish his sentence. He falls back against the pillow, body shaking with fever.
You’re leaning over him again in an instant, hair surrounding the two of you like a curtain. Concern creases your forehead, which he must be able to discern considering he doesn’t push the subject again despite looking like he very much wants to.
“You need rest.” You whisper, tears stinging. “Please.”
“But where will you-”
“I’ll be here.” You fake a reassuring smile, hoping he doesn’t see through it. “On the chair.”
“You should take the couch, it’s more comfortable and I-”
“I will do no such thing.” Your voice is firm, willing it not to waver. “You are ill. Rest now, as your body is begging you to do.”
Bucky looks as though he wants to argue more but instead reaches into his pocket. He pulls a gold locket out, the firelight catching the glint of Brooklynn’s coat of arms. “Take this,” he gasps, “as my thanks. You can add it to your collection.”
“Bucky, I can’t-”
“You will,” he insists firmly, taking your wrist and pressing the locket into your palm. “A part of me should stay with you until I can see you again.” His gaze is serious, creases in his forehead indicating he does not want to argue, but will if you press the subject. Your fingers close tentatively around it. “Promise me you’ll see me again.”
“Okay.” You whisper, watching his eyes close again. “I will.”
It doesn’t take much longer for him to drift off, sinking into a much-needed slumber. The fire is grows quieter but still burns with the intensity needed to heat the room as you curl up on the floor by sofa. The chair was never going to be comfortable. At least here you can stretch out.
And, you think grimly, it will allow you to leave tomorrow before he wakes.
At half past four, the rain finally stops. Bucky’s fever looks to be gone, and you’re wide awake, gathering your belongings to return to your palace.
With one last look around the room, your eyes fall on the locket, still sitting on the side table where you had discarded it, fully intending to leave it with Bucky.
You flip it open, faced with a small portrait of a younger Bucky, likely painted when he came of age. The back is engraved with his initials. J.B.B.
Traitorous heart thudding, you look back to Bucky, still fast asleep.
Before you can change your mind, you shove the locket into your pocket and duck out into the morning light.
Deliver to the Brooklyn Hunting Lodge:
To those concerned:
Prince Bucky is resting at Willowstream in Clare-Auberge. His fever broke at approximately 4:30 this morning. The main doors are unlocked. Please use the utmost discretion in his retrieval, as the Royal Family is unaware of his presence.
Delivered to Sir Steven Rogers at 7:00.
“You’re late.” Andromeda called, catching you sneaking by the open door of the Lady’s Room. She hardly looked up from her star chart, plotting another point on a constellation.
“You’re annoying.” You shot back, stepping backwards into the doorway and leaning against the frame. “How do you know I didn’t return late and leave early.”
“Becuase your skirts are six inches deep in mud.” Lillian sighs, setting down her embroidery and fixing you with her best eldest sister stare. “Go change before Father sees.” You grunt in response, resigned to your fate and walking to your room.
“I told her it would storm.” Ariadne says pointedly to your sisters, loudly enough that she knows you can hear it from down the hallway. “But she just had to have that book.”
Angry tears prick your eyes as they laugh at you; their silly baby sister too lost in her own world to ever pay attention to reality.
“Good to see you all too,” you mutter petulantly, “what did you bring back? We were all so worried!”
Kicking the door shut behind you only creates a mud stain on the wood and an unsatisfying slam. You shed your boots first, then the damp dress. Dry clothes, you realized, were a luxury you missed. It was a miracle you hadn’t caught a cold either.
You didn’t bother to put on an elaborate new dress, moving with haste to put away the few items from your journey before your father or siblings could see. The book went atop your desk, wrapped in a dust jacket from an old book on ancient history, the two small paint pots from town in your box, and a silver fork wrapped in a ribbon into your vanity. Relaxing your shoulders, you surveyed your room, content at the state of things as you prepared your soiled dress for the laundry.
A soft thunk echoed on the hardwood floor as you picked up your skirt, Bucky’s locket thudding to the floor. Scooping it up quickly, you dart your eyes around the room as though someone was hiding and ready to scream at your betrayal.
Bucky’s smiling face peered up at you as you opened the locket, the very lips you’d kissed not sixteen hours ago calling you back to him like a siren song. You shut the locket with a soft click, heart fluttering at the memory as you tucked it into your pocket.
You lasted a week before your father discovered you had not made it home on the night of the storm.
Belle had made an off-handed comment about your trip, sending your father into a rage. He screamed, ranting and raving and sending a servant to search your room. You sat, frozen and exposed in the throne room as your treasure box was brought before you in the throne room. His face grew redder as he picked through item after item, shattering your pebbles, ripping the ribbon and snapping the walnut pen in two.
You stood still, tears streaming down your face as you watched him pick apart your prized possessions and destroy them.
“Daughter you have become far too difficult to control!”
“It’s just a few things I’ve collected! Please-”
“You could get killed, wandering about! You can’t keep doing as you please, not returning and acting foolishly!”
“But Daddy, the storm! How could I have-”
“If you hadn’t left the palace walls, you wouldn’t have gotten caught in the storm at all!”
“I just wanted to visit the library and greet the people! The woods-”
“-are far too close to the barbarian people of Brooklynn!”
You jutted your jaw out, snapping before you could contain yourself. “They aren’t barbarians!”
It was as though you had threatened his life. The guards shifted uncomfortably by the door and averting their eyes, pretending as through they weren’t listening. The air grew thinner and colder as your father’s disposition hardened into something you had never seen before. His face went red with anger. “And how,” He gritted through clenched teeth, “would you know such a thing, dear daughter?”
Unwilling to back down, you squared your shoulders, tears still hot on your cheeks as your collection laid in tatters around you. “I’ve visited their villages nearest our borders and spoken to others at balls.”
It seemed wisest to omit your saving of Prince Bucky, you internally decided. Deep down, you wanted to keep that precious memory to yourself; all your own.
“No more balls!” Your father declared, “no more leaving and this foolish ‘exploring’ nonsense!”
“You can’t keep me trapped here!” You cried, waving your arms around wildly.
“The hell I can’t! I am your King!”
The world tilted, your father heaving in the center of the now frozen room surrounded by his youngest daughter’s prized possessions, destroyed at his own hand. Rain pattered quietly against the window. No one breathed. Fresh tears welled in your eyes as you looked at your brother and sisters, who jerked their heads back behind the corner from which they had been eavesdropping.
You opened your mouth. Then closed it, swallowing your hurt. “My apologies, Your Majesty.” A sob caught in your throat, “I thought you were my father.” You sink into a deep curtsy, keeping your eyes on the floor. “Am I excused?”
You don’t wait for an answer, pressing your hand to your mouth as you exit. Passing your siblings, you refuse to look as any of them, quickening your steps to get back to your room.
Tatiana says your name, Belle tries to apologize, and Lillian tries to catch your arm saying something about it all being for the best.
“Just leave me alone!” You cried, snatching your arm away and dashing down the long hallway, skirt swishing angrily at your ankles. When you finally make it inside the privacy of your own room, the dam breaks, sobs wracking your body as you collapse atop your bed.
It just wasn’t fair. Whatever ridiculous grudge your father held, it could no longer be valid. You couldn’t be a nun, living in Clare-Auberge forever. Raising your head from your crossed arms, you dig the small locket from your pocket and gaze at the Brooklynn coat of arms. You run your finger over the small initials, thinking of your promise to Bucky. You clench your fist around it, knuckles turning white.
A knock sounds at your door, startling you. You shove the locket under your pillow, willing the door not to open.
Fawn, your middle sister, said your name. “I know you’re hurt.” She says, voice soothing in that annoying older sister way that implies you’re being dramatic, “but… this will pass. It’s for the best.” You don’t respond, staring at the doorknob and silently willing it to burst into flames. She inhales shakily. “We convinced father to let you skip dinner tonight. One of your lady’s maids will bring you a plate.”
Fawn tries your doorknob, sighing when she realized it was locked. “Just… send for me if you need anything. I won’t judge you.”
You scoff under your breath as her footsteps retreat down the hallway.
She didn’t understand you.
None of them did.
Except Bucky.
The way he looked at you, spoke to you, even in his fever addled brain.
It was all you had ever wanted.
If only you could…
Maybe he would.
How would you know if you didn’t try?
You looked around your lonely, empty room, suddenly faced with the bitter reality that your father truly wanted to keep you here until he found someone to marry you off to.
Someone to quiet his tempest of a daughter.
What was here for you anymore?
Nothing. Your family, but what did they know about you?
You watched the candle on your nightstand flicker as the room grew darker and the wax ran down. It sputtered helplessly, reaching the end of its life as dinner was brought to you. The candle was promptly replaced as your maid as if you wanted assistance for bed.
You shook your head as you bit into a roll, the bread tasting like ash in your mouth, sending her home early.
It was midnight when you began to move, knowing most servants would be gone and the night guards would be in the middle of a rotation.
No one used the servants corridors this late at night. It was even easier to blend in with your hair in a tight, simple bun, wrapped in a simple, inside-out cloak you had been given from your aunt.
No one would look at you and think “princess.” Not with the ripped bag and simple stained dress you wore when gardening.
Luckily, you didn’t pass anyone as you snuck to the basement, heart pounding at every scuff of your shoes or drop of a rock. You crept out the door of the laundry room into the inky night, knowing not a single soul would be watching the back gate for a woman leaving the palace, least of all one of the princesses.
When you finally got to the worn wooden trail you knew best, you lit your lantern, confident that no one would see the light. With every step towards Brooklyn, you felt lighter. Freeer. By the time the sun rose and your departure had been discovered, you would be long gone.
Dawn was starting to rise when you crossed the river into Brooklynn, walking for another hour before the sun began to creep over the horizon. Coming across a clearing, you allowed yourself to collapse on the mossy ground. Exhaustion permeated your bones. By your own estimate, you were only a few hours walk from Brooklynn’s capital, where the palace was. You felt perfectly safe - and hidden - from the main trail to sleep.
Using your cloak as a blanket and resting your arms under your head, you let your eyes close and sleep overtake you.
“It’s a girl.”
“A girl? Don’t be ridiculous, Buck, why would a- Oh.”
Your eyes fluttered open to the sound of voices, jerking up into a sitting position as the memory of the day before flooded your mind. You met the wide eyes of two men, feeling your heart drop through your stomach.
The sky blue eyes of Prince Bucky stared right back at you.
Bucky, who was looking at you, awestruck. You waited for him to fall to his knees, declare that he knew you, remembered you, and thank you for saving his life.
He did not.
“Are you alright, miss-?” The blonde one asks. Steve, you recall, the one who danced with Wanda at the coronation ball. His brows are knit together in concern as he studies you.
“Yes!” You blurt, adjusting your dress and looking around for your small bag. You hoped you didn’t have a crease on your face from the sleeve of your dress and that your hair didn’t look exactly like you’d slept on the forest floor.
Bucky held out his hand, which you gladly took, stumbling to your feet.
“What’s your name?”
No sense in lying, you supposed. Especially since you had seemingly tripped right where you wanted to be. So you told them, carefully meeting Bucky’s eyes as if he would declare that you were a princess of Clare-Auberge and march you right back into your father’s arms. He didn’t say anything, eyes narrowed quizzically as though you were a rather difficult puzzle.
“Pleased to meet you.” Steve nods, bowing. You curtsy lightly in response. “Steve Rogers. This is Prince James-”
“Bucky.” Bucky interrupted, “have we met before?”
Half-heartedly, you raise one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m sure you meet lots of young maidens.” You counter. Bucky looks unconvinced, but doesn’t challenge you on the subject.
“What are you doing, sleeping in the woods?” Steve asks, leaning against his rifle. His eyes scutanize you. You’re clearly not a commoner, based on your dress, but a member of the nobility would never find themselves in such a situation.
“I… I was travelling. To Brooklynn. I’ve gotten lost, I suppose.” It’s not technically a lie, but it isn’t the truth either.
“She must be part of the group that returns north each May.” Steve muses.
“We can’t leave her here.” Bucky responds, speaking to Steve, rather than you. “She’ll have nowhere to go.”
Steve nods, “We can send word that we’ve found one of their own. And until arrangements can be made for her to return home-”
“She can stay at the palace.” Bucky decides firmly, taking Steve by surprise.
Part of you wants to protest; to declare that you couldn’t possibly impose on their hospitality. On the other hand, you don’t have anywhere to go. You’d left without a plan, all hope that you’d even be able to see Bucky again. Here he is, presenting his company to you on a silver platter.
You’d be a fool not to accept it.
“I-”
“We assure you, nothing improper will occur.” Steve promises, “Our Lady Justice, Natasha, is most protective.”
“Thank you.” Is all you can manage, “really, I did not expect this sort of kindless towards a traveler.”
Bucky's eyes remain fixed on you. "It is an honor to serve my people." Still, the words sound rehearsed, as if he is in a trance. His gaze remains on you as you're lead towards the road, two horses waiting patiently for their riders.
"Are you alright on horseback?" Steve asks, "we did not expect a passenger or we'd have used a different mode transportation." He sounds sheepish, as though one could have predicted a damsel in distress.
You nod, looking over the two horses. One, a small palomino and the other, a sturdy black mare.
"You'll have to ride with me. Steve's is much smaller.”A flush rises up his neck. "Steve's horse." Bucky emphasizes.
You hide your smile behind your hand, following Bucky to the black horse. He helps you atop the animal, then follows. He sits behind you, chest pressed to your back as he grabs the reins. Bucky's beefy arms encircle you, ensuring you couldn’t fall, even if you tried. You’re very aware of your skirts riding above your shin, suddenly very glad you chose your taller boots, lest you expose yourself to all of Boooklynn.
"Alright?" Bucky husks into your ear, his breath sending shivers down your spine.
"Fine," you manage, trying to hold yourself away from the addicting warmth of his body. He smells like he did at Willowstream- pine and sandalwood. "Thank you.”
The ride is silent until you approach the more populated parts of town. It’s not freezing by any means, but between the wind and cloudy skies, you begin to shiver. Bucky remains solid and warm at your back, but your cheeks are wind bitten and sting.
“Are you cold?” Bucky murmurs, sending another non-cold related shiver through your body.
“A bit,” you manage, tucking your chin into your chest. “But I’ll be alright.”
Bucky doesn’t answer, tightening his grip on the reins, an action that brings his thick arms tighter around you and urges his horse faster.
The village outside of the palace is beautiful, passing comforting homes lining the street and a market with brightly colored flowers and fruit for sale. People wave and bow as Bucky and Steve ride through, as though the sight is as comforting as it is normal.
“Beautiful.” You murmur, awed. “They love you.”
His gruff response is oddly bashful. “I do my best.” The pathway goes by a large garden, filled with an amalgamation of flowers of nearly every color you could imagine.
“The Centennial Garden.” Bucky supplies. “A gift from my parents when Brooklyn had its hundredth anniversary.”
“It’s wonderful. I heard it overlooks the ocean with cliffs lined in roses. I’ve always wanted to see—”
Bucky’s laugh is warm against your back. A glimmer of hope lights in your heart. “You can see it.”
You feel yourself perk up at the promise of exploration. “Really? Oh, that would be so lovely.”
“Of course,” Bucky says, smile evident in his voice as he slows his horse to a walk, approaching the palace gates.
Brooklynn’s palace is as imposing as the kingdom, with tall white marble walls and a dark terracotta roof. It glimmers in the noon sun, allowing you to imagine the gold glow it must be cast in at sunset.
Bucky dismounts his horse first, helping you down with one hand on your waist and another enclosing your own. Once on steady ground again, he studies your face, his gaze boring into you.
“Are you sure we haven’t met before?”
Heavy boots come down the courtyard stairs, a sharp feminine voice saving you from answering.
“Barnes! Rogers! You’re late. What did I tell you about—” A woman with short red hair stops in front of you, arms crossed over her chest. “Who is this?”
You swallow, clasping your hands behind your back and averting your eyes.
“Don’t tell me you-”
“No.” Bucky says firmly, defensively. “She’s from the group heading north. They must have gotten separated. She’s going to stay here until we can reunite them.” He introduces you, “This is Natasha.”
Natasha scrutinizes you. “Clearly, she needs a bath.” You flush at her loud proclamation of your hygiene, despite knowing it is likely more than true. “And a change of clothes. I’ll have Wanda look after her.” She takes your arm, leading you inside. Both of you look back at Bucky and Steve as Natasha gets in one more scold for them. “And you two need to actually look over those proposals! I’m not fending Stark off again for you.”
Wanda sent everyone out of the room for your bath, helping you undress and get into the hot water before pointing an accusatory finger at you.
“Explain.”
“Please don’t tell anyone.” You beg after recounting your story, and omitting your saving of him at Willowstream. “I want to tell him, I do. I wish I could.” You sigh, leaning backwards into the tub. Soapy warm water splashed carelessly, waving over the sides and wetting the floor.
“Tell me why you can’t again?” Wanda asked, sitting by the edge and pouring a tad more soap into the water.
“If my father finds out I’m here, he’ll kill me. Then Bucky. Then declare war.” You shudder, “No, it’s much safer for me to pretend like we’ve never met. If he likes me, then maybe with time my father won’t-”
“Perhaps he won’t take exhaustive revenge measures?”
You nod, exhaling so aggressively it sends a waft of bubbles flying from its mountainous pile.
“Well, you’ll have to move quickly.” Wanda stands to exit, calling over her shoulder from the doorframe, “he’s been pining after a girl who saved him. One with an “angelic look” in her eyes.”
The door closes loudly behind her, another sigh escaping your lips. Quite a hole, you’d dug yourself, by not telling anyone about your saving of Bucky. You couldn’t tell anyone, you decided. He could know when the time was right. When he truly wanted you, not the vision who had saved his life. You didn’t want to be his obligation; you wanted to be his desire.
However long it would take.
Stepping into their dining room, you feel incredibly out of place. Brooklyn’s dining room was far brighter than yours at home, full of light, color, and laughter. A place where people are actually meant to be with each other and know each other. “Go on, dear.” An older maid encourages as she walks by, “you look lovely.”
At once, four pairs of eyes snap to you. A flush settles across your chest as the men are seemingly dumbstruck by your appearance. You manage a smile, eyes falling to Bucky as he looks awestruck simply from your entrance.
“Wow.” He gapes. “You look… you are beautiful.”
You duck your head in an effort to hide your blush, taking miserably, hair falling over your cheeks. Wanda had picked you a pink gown, one with an off-the-shoulder neckline, long sleeves, and a voluminous skirt you’d normally declare too fancy for dinner. Natasha’s lips tug into a smug smile, giving an approving nod. Sam and Steve exchange a knowing look before turning back to Bucky, who has still not moved. Steve snorts, “Y’wanna get her chair, Buck?”
It’s as though someone kicked behind his knees, the speed with which he steps towards you, motioning towards what is presumably your seat. It’s an oddly informal act, for a crown prince to pull out your chair, but based on the reaction of his friends, such an action is not only normal, but expected.
Dinner is served with little aplomb, conversation lively and flowing, much more different than your own home. The boys bicker, Natasha cuts in drily, and you watch in awe.
“Where are you from?” Steve asks, turning the conversation to you. “You only said you were with the northbound group.”
You swallow, silently thankful you spent your time preparing a story.
“Clare-Auberge.” There’s no point in lying, “In the capital, not far from the castle.”
“Your kingdom is rather elusive.” Sam comments, “I’m not sure we’ve ever hosted the king. He has many daughters, if I recall.”
“Seven.” You nod, “and a single son.”
Steve turns to Bucky. “They were at Peter’s coronation, in Queens. King John stood sullenly, only speaking to Lord Walker.”
You shift uncomfortably. You have fond memories from that night, if only from your single dance with Bucky. He clearly doesn’t even remember that dance. You would never forget Duchess Marina and Delphine whispering about how plain and boring your sisters were.
“And your father? What does he do for work?”
Your soup is rapidly going cold from how long you’ve been ignoring it. “Good God, Wilson, will you let the girl eat? And stop quizzing her about her family and kingdom.” You duck your head, silently making a note to thank Natasha later.
Bucky clears his throat after a moment. “And have you been to Brooklynn before?”
You shake your head. “Only to the villages along the border, when we pass through. But I’ve heard wonderful things… about the garden and the glass blowers in town.”
“And the ocean? Our artists are simply unable to do it justice. I’ve been told that it is impossible to accurately depict it; only those who recognise the beauty in the simplicity of life are able to truly appreciate it.”
Silence falls over the table, Sam suddenly looking very interested in his dinner and Steve exhaling sharply through his nose at his friend. A soft thud echoes under the table, Natasha kicking his shin as she hisses “Bucky.”
A shiver runs down your spine. He’s quoting you. Dejection settles in your stomach as you resist the urge to burst into tears. Bucky holds your gaze, unspeaking and unaffected by his friends clear disdain for his behavior.
“I am quite fond of the ocean,” you admit, “I have wanted to see Brooklynn’s waters for some time. I did not think anyone else much shared the same desire.”
That was the largest truth you had dared to share with the group. Bucky still held your gaze as his eyes softened ever so slightly.
“Sounds like you should give her a tour of the kingdom tomorrow.” Steve proposed, mischief glinting in his eyes.
Bucky shrugged, still not looking away from you, studying you as though seeing you in a new light. “If she would like to-”
You resisted the urge to squirm or flush under his stare. “I don’t wish to impose any more than-”
“Please.” Bucky interrupts, a hint of a plead entering his tone. His cheeks tinge pink at his outburst, evening out his tone. “It would be my pleasure.”
A glimmer of hope flickers in your chest, holding his gaze as a tiny smile graces your lips. “Then yes. I would like that very much.”
It was much too dark to see the waves from your balcony, to your utter disappointment. There was a new moon, meaning the only light came from what spilled from the castle and the gas lamps in the garden. Your balcony overlooked a small courtyard in the garden, likely where parties would be held. It was all so lovely and full of life. So different than your home in a wonderful inexplicable way.
“-just don’t understand it, Steve.” Bucky’s voice drifted through the balcony’s open french doors. “How could a woman have access to a home like that and disappear before sunrise?”
“I’m not entirely sure you weren’t hallucinating your ‘angel.’” Steve voice counters, the two men coming into your view. Heart pounding, you turned to press your back to the door and duck down like a child despite the fact that neither had seen you.
Bucky’s laugh came clear and good natured. “Trust me, Steve. She’s real. And I’m going to find her.”
The two are quiet for a moment before Bucky speaks again. “But that girl…”
Steve says your name, clarifying exactly who Bucky is referring to.
“Yeah,” Bucky hums, sitting down on a stone bench and gazing up at the sky. The gas lamps from the garden cast shadows onto his face eerily similar to that of the fire at Willowstream. “She’s beautiful. Educated. She seems familiar, somehow. Like I’ve met her before.”
“You don’t meet many girls from Clare-Auberge. Minus the angel.” Steve laughs, “Still, I don’t think she’s her.”
“It feels like…” Bucky sighs, dropping his head down, a stand of his hair falling out of the neat hairstyle and onto his forehead. “It feels like I’m betraying her, by trying with someone else. God forbid, what if I do fall in love with someone else, marry them, and she shows up the very next day?”
Steve sits next to his friend, clapping him on the back. “You deal with that if it happens. Because, Buck, much better than any dream girl, is one of flesh and blood. Warm, bright, and real.” Steve gestures up towards your room. Bucky follows his hand, watching your silhouette move about behind the sheer curtains, a feeling of hope warming his heart.
The Kingdom of Brooklyn is a kaleidoscope of color, even more so than you saw yesterday now that the sun has come out. Bucky follows you as you delightedly dart from stall to stall, pointing out statues and buildings on the street. His subjects greet him with a bow or curtsey, making polite conversation until you look like you want to say something, at which point he turns his focus to you.
“What is this?!” You exclaim, holding up a dark purple fruit, “it’s so pretty!”
Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, picking one up himself. “You’ve never had a plum before?” You shake your head, mumbling the word under your breath in awe, turning the fruit in your hand to examine the violet color. “They’re good. Really good. Sweet.”
You grin, looking up at him to find him already watching you in wonder. The icy blue of his eyes has melted into something warmer, like the color of the sky after a storm. Bucky looks to the merchant who has been watching the two of you amusedly the entire time and holds out a couple of silver coins. “Four plums, please. For the lady.”
You grin, grabbing another fruit and placing it into a basket.
“Not that one,” Bucky interjects, “it’s not ripe yet. Here-” He picks up another one, slightly darker in color. “You want it to be a little soft when you press on it.” Bucky takes your hands, placing them over the plum underneath his. His palms are calloused as he squeezes the fruit, the slightest bit of give under the fruit’s skin. Your eyes meet his, caught in the moment as the world fades around you. “And,” He continues, voice low, “it should smell sweet.” He raises the fruit to your nose, allowing you to inhale the sweet scent without looking away. “So when you bite it,” He lets go of the fruit, motioning for you to taste it, “it will be sweet. Juicy.”
Teeth breaking the plum’s skin, you let out a soft moan as the sweet juice flows over your tongue. “My God,” you hum, taking another bite. “this is heavenly.”
Bucky doesn’t respond, transfixed by your reaction. He swallows, adam’s apple bobbing as he stares at your lips, transfixed by the shiny juice coating them. Knees weak, you exhale shakily, fruit suddenly hanging forgotten by your side. Carefully, like you’re made of glass, he raises his hand, carefully wiping the juice away from your chin. His touch is sure, eyebrows knit together in concentration. You don’t move away from him, breaths coming in shallow puffs as your eyelashes flutter. For one microscopic second, his gaze drops to your lips.
A loud clatter from the street has the two of you startling apart like children. Bucky scratches the back of his neck as you raise the fruit to your lips to try to hide the flush spreading across your skin. “I’m glad you like it.”
Dancing, you would quickly learn, was very popular in Brooklynn. What was reserved exclusively for balls in Clare-Auberge was commonplace here. A band played in the square, upbeat music that beckoned people of all ages and from all walks of life to gather in the street and move to the music. Hands clasped at your waist, you watched in awe of the couples whirling by you. Men were eyeing you, silently working up the courage to ask you to dance. You remained blissfully unaware as a burning feeling of jealousy came over Bucky, who found himself sending sharp glares to anyone who started towards you. They all averted their eyes, slinking away from the future monarch.
“Would you-” Bucky clears his throat, figuring he couldn’t scare off everyone who wanted to dance with you if he didn’t have the courage to do something about it. You turn to him, hope crossing your face. “Will you dance with me?”
The beam that settles on your face could power Brooklyn for a year, Bucky thinks. The entirety of his world seems brighter, as though he’s been living in the shade for years. When he takes your hand in his, encasing yours in his much larger one, it feels natural, like you were made to fit against him. Bucky leads you through mid-tempo dance, whirling you around the square in time with the tune. You stumble once, subtly enough that only he notices you watching your feet warily before he murmurs “eyes on me,” and holds your waist tighter.
“The people in Clare-Auberge don’t dance like this,” You sigh happily, shoulders relaxing, “everyone is so happy here!”
Bucky hums in agreement, but truthfully, he hadn’t noticed his people at all today. He was entirely focused on you and your disposition. The kingdom was happy, that he knew, but he only cared for yours in that moment. He spun you again, reveling in the way the sun caught the strands of your hair. Pulling you back towards him, he was perhaps too distracted, because your heel caught the toe of his boot. You would have fallen on your rear if not for his quick reflexes, wrapping his arm back around your waist and pulling you up into his broad chest. His reassuring smile made your breath catch, clutching the fabric of his shirt as your faces paused mere inches from each other. A devilish look overtook his face, bringing both hands to your hips and lifting you off the ground. Your own hands dropped to his shoulders as he whirled you in a circle, laughing as he spun you. When your feet hit the ground again, he didn’t change your position, admiring your breathless giggles. Bucky relishes the feeling of your fingers grasping the back of his neck in a way that was far too intimate for two people of your rank. But to either of you, the eyes of anyone watching didn’t matter; encased in your own bubble, the world couldn’t touch you.
Bucky decided to take the long way to the gardens. If anyone asked, he would claim that it was because he remembered you saying you wanted to see the cliffs and show you the wildflowers. In truth, it was because he wanted to savor every possible second with you. Angel be damned, this was a warm-blooded real woman who seemed to want him as much as he wanted her. A beautiful woman, at that. How could that possibly compare to a fever addled memory?
He wasn’t sure what came over him when he caught you watching him drive the team with burning curiosity, but if there was one thing his mother had always called him, it was impulsive.
So he did what any young man would do in the presence of a woman he liked; he offered you the reins. Bucky barely had time to react before you shoved your armful of purchases into his as you grabbed the reins and flicked them.
The horses took off into a brisk run, carriage bouncing along the road.
“Whoa!” Bucky yelled, nearly falling forward into the footwell. You only laughed, the sound music to his ears as you remained steady in your seat. “You tryin’ to get us killed, doll?”
“Of course not!” You call back, voice carrying jovially over the rush of the wind. Your face goes slightly warm, registering his term of endearment. “I just like to go fast.” A gentle tug of the reins has the horses slowing to their trot. Bucky’s laugh is warm and clear, tucking his hands behind his head.
“I do too.”
He finds himself watching you drive the rest of the way, enjoying the way you focus on the task. You seem delighted to do it, as though it isn’t a chore most dread. There’s a tiny crease between your eyebrows. He longs to press his thumb there, just to see it even out. He would top it with a kiss too, tasting your skin. Your lower lip is caught between your teeth, unconsciously his tongue darts to wet his lips. Your action sends nearly all of his blood south to his groin, refusing to let himself linger on your chest. Subtly, he shifts in his seat, adjusting the now pulsing erection.
The gates to the gardens are closed when you approach, but open after one look front he guard there, who offers the two of you a smile and a wave as you pass.
“The gardens close to the public at four everyday,” Bucky explains, guiding the carriage to a stop in front of a small pond. Colorful blooms surround you, lining the pathway and small gazebo. “But I get 24-hour access.”
You nod knowingly as he steps down, offering his hand to you. “Royalty privileges.”
The dirt crunches under your feet as you step down, letting go of his hand to shield your eyes and look up at him.
“A rough deal,” Bucky hums faceiously, “a hard life I lead, between the large castle and extravagant dinners.”
“However do you manage?” You smile teasingly, hand brushing his as you look around. “The entire kingdom must hang onto your every word.”
Heart pounding, Bucky takes your hand in his, lacing your fingers together as though its normal. “Who knows? I do what I must.”
He leads you towards a weeping willow tree, its leaving swaying gently in the soft breeze. You sit down rather unceremoniously, leaning against the trunk and inhaling the scent of greenery and fresh air. Bucky stays standing, watching you relax.
“You would have to tear me from here,” You hum with your eyes closed, “none of my family likes to be outside like I do. If only I had a book, this would be perfect.” You open your eyes, looking up at Bucky. “You’re so lucky to have Steve and Sam. Natasha too. It’s so evident they care about you.”
Bucky frowns, sinking down next to you, shoulder brushing yours. “What about your sisters? Surely they care for you.”
You pick a pale blue wildflower by your knee, tracing your finger over the delicate petals. “I’m sure they do. Somehow.” You bring the bloom to your nose, drinking in its sweet scent. “My eldest sister’s favorite thing to do is embroider. Inside. Another studies arithmetic as though it’s going to disappear from the world tomorrow. The middle sister plays the flute- well, we all play instruments, but she excessively plays the flute. Truthfully,” you look at Bucky, “I don’t think any of my sisters know what I like, and if they do, they don’t understand. They don’t understand me.”
Bucky plucks the flower from your lap, twirling it between his fingers. “What do you like?” He asks, not out of a necessity, but from a genuine interest in knowing. He quite likes it when you talk, he’s discovered, content to listen and absorb your voice like the sun.
“Reading,” You say definitively, “Exploring. People. Being outdoors. I love the ocean; when I was a child-” You shift, turning to face Bucky, finding him watching you intently. “When I was a child, we would come to Brooklynn every summer for two weeks. I looked forward to it all year. My mother loved the ocean too. We would hunt for seashells for hours and hours, until our skin was burned and my father begged us to come inside. When I was four-” You trail, exhaling sharply as a shadow crosses your face. “My mother fell ill on our travels. The doctors couldn’t make it in time; I think there was a storm. She died three days later.”
The memory sits in your chest, clear as day. Tatiana singing softly in your ear as you cried, rocking you in time to Fawn playing the flute comfortingly outside the door to your mother’s sick room. Ariadne standing over you and your sisters, whispering with Belle about how unfair it was that you all weren’t allowed to see your mother, reduced to waiting outside her room. Will, sitting on the opposite side of the hallway, stacking wooden blocks as tall as he could before they toppled over, eyes glazed over. Lillian came out of the room, silently saying something to Andromeda and shaking her head, joining the seven of you on the floor. “I haven’t been to Brooklynn since. Haven’t seen the ocean. But I know in my soul, it will be as though I never left.” You look back down. “I don’t know how much I remember anymore.”
Bucky takes your hand and squeezes, “then let’s go.”
You furrow your eyebrows, “Go?”
“To the ocean.”
Bucky thinks he’d trade his entire kingdom away just to see your face light up like this once more.
“Really? You mean it?” Your voice is daring, hopeful, as though he would take it away at any moment and announce he was playing a cruel joke on you.
Bucky helps you to your feet, brushing some hair from your face and and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone. “Entirely.”
Bucky picks one of his private beaches that’s only a few minutes drive from the gardens. It has soft waves and a rocky cove that shields it from view of the public. Dolphins can be seen around sunset and colorful fish circle jovially in some tide pools.
Your eyes are wide with excitement from the second he stops the carriage, scrambling down and grabbing his wrist as you run to the water. Stumbling over the sand, the last of your hair falls down from the half-up hairstyle Wanda had done this morning before you left. Hair flies freely in the wind, tangling hopelessly. Laughter tears from your chest as you run, looking back at Bucky who can’t contain his smile either. Suddenly, you stop only feet from the water, stumbling as your face drops.
“What’s wrong?”
Releasing his wrist, you wring your hands nervously, “what if it’s not what I want it to be?”
“It will be.”
“How are you so sure?”
Bucky studies you, searching your face as though he’s found something. He’s sure because he can’t remember the last time he was this excited to spend time with someone. The last time he got to see joy and hope on someone’s face because he was doing something they wanted to do, not the other way around. Because he’s watched you talk about the ocean, seen the way your eyes linger on the paintings in the castle and the coast as you drove by. He feels the tugging in his heart, felt the longing of closer.
“Only someone worried that they would love something so much would be afraid to do it.” He offers instead.
This, you realize, is love. You love him. Deep true love, not the kind you thought you knew. Love is to be truly seen. He sees you. To be afraid and jump anyways.
It’s too soon, you think. Far too soon to say it out loud, much less consciously think it, but you know it, mind racing all the same. Your eyes beg him, asking for a quiet recognition of ‘you know me.’
“So,” Bucky prompts, motioning to the water, “are we going in?”
Pressing your lips together, you suppress a smile as you nod, kicking away your impractical. His boots follow your shoes, waiting neatly next to yours and you step into the water.
Oh. Oh.
You hike your skirt to your knees, wading deeper and laughing in disbelief. Fuck propriety and fuck rules and fuck whatever made you wait this long to feel this. Bucky comes to stand next to you, his own pants rolled up as he catalogs your reaction. “Well?”
You laugh like you can’t believe it, wiggling your toes in the sand beneath your feet. “You were right,” you exclaim, “I do love it.”
Bucky can’t resist smirking, a smug pride settling in his chest with the knowledge that he made you this happy. Still, he is overcome with something boyishly mischievous and sticky. If you ever asked, he would say that’s why he leaned down to scoop up a handful of water and flick it at your arm.
Most women he’s met would gasp in disbelief and storm away, forcing him to grovel for forgiveness, but your response is far more daring and something no one would ever dare to consider doing to a crown prince.
Clenching your skirts tighter in your fist, you kick a wave of water at him, sending enough at him to soak his lower front in cool ocean water. You pause for a second, a mischievous glint in your eyes before you turn and take off. Water splashes wildly around you, shrieked laughter echoing down the beach. “Hey!” Bucky shouts, giving chase, “get back here!”
With your skirts soaked from the waist down and the water slowing you down, Bucky’s long legs catch you easily, reaching down to splash at your back again before wrapping his arms around your waist. Your back is pulled into his chest, laughter fading as you turn into him, steading yourself with a hand on his chest, above his pounding heart.
“Got you,” he husks. He leans closer, your breath catching as his nose brushes yours.
The moment is interrupted by the crashing of an errant wave against you, knocking you to your ass, water soaking the rest of your dress. Bucky fared better than you, boulder that he is, looking down at you in horror.
“Shit,” he curses, holding out a hand. “Are you alright-”
Wrapping your hand around his, you dig your feet into the sand and give a sharp tug, pulling his unsuspecting form down, arms caging around your head to catch himself.
This is far more charged than your former position. His body is warm despite being soaking wet, his lower half pressed to yours with no urgency to move away as he leans down. Or you lean up. There’s no clear answer and you’re not inclined to find one as your lips meet.
The kiss is more charged than it was at Willowstream. More desperate than that one, lips moving with urgency to say what words can’t. All pressure and no gentleness. You move with him, pressing deeper and gasping when Bucky’s tongue prods your lower lip, slipping into your mouth greedily. His hand traces down your body, digging his fingers into your thigh and hitching it over his hip. Canting your hips up, you can feel his length pressing against you through his pants. Your hand grasps his neck, whimpering his name as he moves to your neck, pressing one, two, three wet kisses to the sick of your neck. He groans low and guttural as you grind yourself up into him.
Your hair is now soaked with salty seawater, the waves crashing around your body as Bucky grabs at your dress, fumbling for whatever ties and buttons he can reach. The fabric is heavy, clinging to your body like a second skin. You don’t bother trying to pull your arms from the sleeves, letting it hang open. His own shirt is easily pulled away from him and tossed further up the beach, your skirt following carelessly. Hot skin presses to your chemise as he tugs at your slip. The outline of your body is clear through the fabric, now sheer from the water. Tugging easily at the fabric, it rips, reduced to nothing but a pile of rags. A groan tears from his throat as his hands roam your soft flesh, searching for the best places to hold onto but never stopping in one place for long, greedy to discover more.
Bucky groans into your mouth as your fingers trace the ridges of his abs, physically shuddering when you run them along his waistband. Your own wandering hands embolden his tongue to slide fervently against yours as he palms at your breast. If your nipples weren’t hard before, they could cut glass now, stiff peaks poking against his warm palm. You arch into his touch, silently asking for more pressure, more him. Bucky’s fingers wrap around your right nipple, pinching and rolling the bud to pull soft moans of his name from your mouth.
“You feel so good.” He murmurs, voice muffled against your collarbone. You can only gasp in response, digging your nails into his bicep.
His hand traces down your stomach, hovering right above your slit. His middle finger drags through your slick, gathering it at your clit and circling. “Can I-” He whispered, raising his head slightly, as though he couldn’t possibly bear to be further than a few inches from you.
You nod, reaching down to his length. You palm him as he strokes you, eliciting quiet moans from each other.
Looking up at him, your eyes meet his hooded blue ones, suddenly shy despite the fact that his throbbing erection was in your hand, no one could possibly see you, and his want seemed to outweigh your own. “I’ve never done this before. I-I don’t know how.”
Bucky’s eyes stayed on you as he pulled his hand from between your legs, running along your thigh to hold your hip in place. He settles back on his knees, acting as a breaker for the waves and leaving you utterly exposed to his gaze. You shudder as his fingers return to graze your clit, a high pitched gasp tearing from your lips. “Shh,” he murmurs, unable to tear his eyes from your face, cataloging every twitch and reaction of your body. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you.”
He inserts a single finger, curling it against your walls. The movement causes your back to arch into him, eliciting a cry of his name from your lips. “Buck-y oh-!” His thumb targets your clit, circling and stimulating the little bud with the experienced precision of someone who derives their pleasure from their partner. The action sends tingling waves of pleasure through your body, unconsciously arching into his touch. He plays your body like an instrument, pulling pleasure from you like he would drown without it. Bucky catalogues your reactions, pushing another finger in and grunting at the way you tighten around him again, clenching and canting your hips to meet his movements.
“You’re doing so good, doll. So perfect, just for me.”
“J-Just for ah- you!” You echo, eyes bleary as you try to lift your head to see him. The sight before you is magnificent; Bucky buried knuckle deep in your cunt, meaty thighs holding your legs apart to allow him to work. An arrogant smirk plays on his shiny, swollen lips, so incredibly pleased with his abilities.
A knot in your lower belly forms with every twitch of his fingers, but as soon as it arrives, Bucky pulls his hand away, quickly undoing his pants.
“Why- why did you stop?” You cry, propping yourself onto your elbows. Tears of frustration well in your eyes as your pussy flutters around nothing, begging for more.
Bucky leans back over you, coaxing you down onto your back and draping himself over you like a blanket. His sweet kiss is nothing like the obscenity between your legs as his hard cock presses against your weeping folds.
“I’m sorry, darling, but I’m selfish. I want to feel you around me when I make you come for the first time.”
Eyes wide and mouth slack, you watch as with one swift movement, he pulls himself out, fisting himself and fully running the tip through your folds. Any frustration you could have had in the prior moment about the retraction of his touch is resolved, a hot pressure pushing at your weeping hole.
“It’s- it’s big.” You gasp as the tip breaches you, looking down to be met with the obscene sight of where your bodies meet. Bucky leans down to press a featherlight kiss to your lips. “Bucky, please!”
“We’ll make it fit,” he whispers against your lips, pushing further in. “Just let me in, sweetheart.”
You throw your head back, the sand from the beach scratching abrasively against your scalp, but you don’t care. Bucky is all-consuming, slowly claiming your body as his own with every inch of himself he pushes into you. The feeling was so strange, your body unaccustomed to the feeling, but you couldn’t help but want more. The sensation overwhelmed Bucky, resisting the urge to push inside you in one fell swoop with every mewl and clench of your body around him.
“Bucky, please!” You cry, unsure what exactly you’re asking for but begging all the same. A hand tangles itself into his damp hair again, tugging at the locks and eliciting a groan from him. He rocks his hips again, pressing deeper until your hips are flush to his. You freeze against him, his chest heaving against yours with barely contained restraint. The tip of his cock pressing against your womb, your pussy stuffed full with him. The gentlest shift of his hips recast the intrusion entirely in pleasure. The consuming stretch of your body singing Bucky’s name as though it could not fathom ever existing without it. A loud moan tore from your lips, echoing around the deserted beach.
Bucky didn’t move, savoring the feeling of you wrapped around him. He brought his hand to your face, tugging your lip down with his thumb. “You’re so perfect,” He gritted, “like you were made for me- fuck. So tight.”
You let out an airy sigh, closing your lips around his thumb and sucking the tip into his mouth. With your eyes maintaining eye contact with him, Bucky felt the last of his restraint disappear, pulling his length from your cunt and slamming back in one smooth thrust. He built his rhythm easily, each press of his cock into your warm heat sent a shock of pleasure through your body, the coil in your stomach growing again.
“You’re doing so perfect for me.” Bucky moaned, waves crashing around the two of you. You felt yourself struggling for control as your peak grew. Your eyes struggled to stay open, vision blurring as Bucky moved above you. “Fucking Chirst, you’re so wet.”
Bucky kept his rhythm, hips bucking against you with clinical precision. You try desperately to maintain a shred of dignity as your clit throbs in time with his movements. Sensing your need, he slides his fingers between the two of you to carefully rub patterns on your swollen clit. Dignity fully gone, you cry out his name, thanking him in high pitched gasps.
“That’s right,” he coos, pecking your lips sweetly in an action entirely in opposition what is happening below your waist, “let me hear it. Let me know how much you like me filling you like this.”
“You- I- ah! I’m going to- mphh!” Another moan is muffled against his lips with a hot kiss, tongues tangling with each other’s. Even the waves cannot cover the sound of his skin slapping against yours, wet plaps that should make you blush, but don’t.
What does make your blood run hot is the squelch of your wetness with every push inside you.
“I- Bucky- I can’t oh!” Your release crashes over you like the waves of the ocean, unrelenting and consuming. The fluttering of your walls around him shatters the remainders of Bucky’s restraint, chasing his own pleasure with sloppy thrusts.
“Sweetheart, I’m close. You’re going to take it, okay? You can- ah- I know you can.” You nodded hurriedly, wrapping your leg around his waist to keep him close to you and encouraging him to fill you. His hand palms aggressively at one breast, nipping and biting at the other while he pushes into you with a fervor unlike before.
His own release came with a grunt of your name and a roar of ecstasy ripping from his throat as though it could not be contained. You felt his release fill you, marking you as his like never before. He owned you, from the inside out. He throbbed within you, kissing languidly at your neck as though he never wanted to let you go.
“I know you,” he whispers, so quietly you can barely hear him, “I don’t know how, but I know you.”
You don’t respond, unable to summon a response through your gooey, pleasure drunk brain. You aren’t even sure if you heard him right, but he knows.
Inside you, his tip kept spurting warmth against your cervix, pumping you so full that you felt the excess of his seed overflowing out of your tired cunt.
Neither of you move or say anything for a long moment, sharing breaths. Bucky softens inside you, slowly pulling himself out with a ‘pop!’ and a whimper from your lips at the sudden ache of emptiness. He sits up and freezes, looking over you with something akin to horror.
There is something about you so familiar, so comforting, the back of his mind whispers. The eyes of his angel peirce his brain, blood running cold.
“I-” You begin, still starry-eyed in your post-orgasmic haze, but Bucky stops you.
“We should get back.”
He helps you to your feet, tucking himself away with precision and avoiding eye contact. Bucky refastens the buttons of your dress and replaces your skirt with tactical precision, as though you’re an essay that needs editing. His touches are fleeting, all warmth and tenderness gone. Silently, he leads you back up the beach and picks up your shoes, carrying them to the carriage. Something cold and rotten settles in your stomach, feeling as though ice has begun to run through your veins.
When he begins to guide the horses back towards the main road to the palace, you feel tears prick your eyes.
“Did I-”
Bucky doesn’t let you finish, but doesn’t look over at you either. “No. It’s my fault. Don’t worry about it.”
You want to scream, for the first time feeling like leaving Clare-Auberge was a mistake, that the man you’d dreamed of for years wasn’t what you had imagined.
“Okay,” you say thickly, barely a whisper. Turning to look at the cliffs, a cloudy sunset over them, Bucky doesn’t notice you swiping furiously at the one tear you’ve allowed to fall.
warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, mean and dark!bucky, hairy bucky, size difference, rough animalistic sex behavior, blood and wounds, animal hunting, manipulation, touch starved, breeding kink, baby trapping, pet names: “sweets, sugar, little doll”
a/n: thank you @artficlly for taking the time to host such a fun, creative event for writers to enjoy! be sure to check out the other works in the masterlist!
word count: 11.4k
main masterlist || 🎨 art's moodboard event
synopsis:
After a fishing trip gone terribly wrong, you find yourself stranded and stumble upon a small cabin deep in the woods. The man who lives there ends up risking his life to save yours, and you take it upon yourself to stay, return the favor, and make it up to him. But what you didn't know is that Bucky has no intention of letting you go.
Twigs and dark leaves crunched beneath the heavy stomp of your boots, each step forcing you to draw a ragged, tired breath from your overworked lungs.
Your hands gripped the straps of your backpack; the fishing gear inside clinking inside as the weight pressed into your aching spine.
You had set out with friends, a group of self-proclaimed ‘natural adventurers.’ In hindsight, that confidence was your downfall. You had done the one thing every horror movie and survival guide warns against—and that was splitting up.
From there, the trip spiraled.
You lost signal, then your footing, and somewhere in the frantic scramble through the bushes and trees, you had lost your phone.
Now, deep within the woods under a sky of oppressive gray clouds, your legs were beginning to give out. But as you shoved past a dense thicket of damp leaves, the greenery finally parted.
There, nestled in the distance, sat a small cabin. A thin ghost of smoke drifted from its chimney, dissipating into the moist air.
Finally. A small, breathless prayer to whatever deity was watching over you. You weren’t alone out here after all.
The cabin looked small from a distance, but up close, it was plenty big enough to house a whole family.
Your body surged with a newfound spark of motivation at the possibility of finally finding salvation. Maybe they had a functioning phone you could use to call for help—or better yet, a truck to drive you back to the closest town, even if it was miles and miles away.
That hopeful feeling made the gear digging into your spine feel a little lighter as you trudged uphill past the rocks and bushes, closing the gap between you and the house.
As you got closer, you took in the land.
Chopped logs were piled messily at the side of the building. There was a long, wooden table with a large cutting knife sitting on top—presumably where the family cut and prepped their meat.
Drawing in a deep breath of encouragement, you carefully climbed the first few steps of the entry stairway. You reached the porch and raised a hand to knock on the heavy wooden door.
“Hey! Who the hell are you?”
You spun around.
A man was stomping toward the porch, a fresh pile of logs tucked under one massive arm and a grime streaked axe slung over his shoulder. He was intimidating, to say the least. His features were hard and unwelcoming, framed by matted, dark hair and an unkempt beard that shadowed a sharp jawline. A sweat stained red henley clung to his broad chest and muscular forearms, which were mapped with the scars of years of manual labor.
His cold blue eyes pinned you to the spot, glaring at you with pure, unadulterated hostility.
“U-um,” you stammered, taking a quick step away from the door. “I mean no harm, sir. I’m just here to—”
“Get the fuck off my property,” he growled.
He dropped the logs—but kept a firm grip on the axe—as he marched toward you, his heavy boots grating against the dirt.
Jesus Christ. What did you get yourself into?
Just when you thought you’d finally found help, it was just your luck to stumble across an axe-murderer instead.
You quickly scrambled down the steps, raising your hands to show you came in peace.
“Sir, please!” you winced, trying to stand your ground. “I’m lost. I… I promise you. I was out on a fishing trip and I—”
“I don’t believe you,” he hissed. He approached just enough to get a good look at you, yet staying just out of arm’s reach. He nodded toward the heavy pack on your back. “Take it off.”
“… Excuse me?”
“Remove your backpack,” the man clarified harshly. “If you mean what you say, then you should have no problem with me goin’ through your stuff.”
With a hard swallow, you slowly removed your backpack as instructed. It was far too heavy to carry with just two arms, but as you strained to pass it to him, he snatched it out of your hands in one quick motion. You couldn’t help but wince at both his strength and rudeness.
He set the axe on the ground, and you finally let out a small breath of relief. He began to rummage through your pack, taking note of the fishing rods and reels, and digging through the fishing lines and tackle boxes filled with various lures. He sifted through the other emergency supplies—a flashlight, a couple of granola bars, and some first aid stuff— a bottle of rubbing alcohol and bandaids.
“See?” you huffed, a little spark of pride returning to your voice. “I told you. I was out on a fishing trip and I got lost—”
“Hands up,” he instructed, stepping toward you. “I’m goin’ to pat you down.”
You blinked. “Pat me down?” you repeated in disbelief. “For what—!”
Before you could even finish the sentence, and long before you gave him permission, two large, rough hands gripped your arms and started patting down your sleeves. You squirmed a little under his touch, but that didn’t stop him. His hands then moved to your waist, patting firmly through the fabric of your clothes.
To save yourself from the awkwardness of the inspection, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.
“…What’s yours?” you then asked.
He ignored you.
Your breath hitched and your face grew warm as his hands continued further down—to your hips, and then between your legs.
Once the man was satisfied that you weren’t a threat, he pushed himself up with a groan and finally looked you in the eye.
“Bucky.”
“Bucky,” you repeated softly. “Great. Well, now that we’ve got all this…” you motioned to yourself and your bag that he left on the ground, “sorted out, do you have a telephone I can use to call my friends?”
He reached down, snatched his axe off the ground, and headed back toward his pile of wood. Thunder started to crackle in the heavy clouds above you as you hurried to grab your pack, stumbling slightly as you tried to keep up with him.
“W-wait, okay—no phone. Fine. But do you have a vehicle or something? A ride to take me back to the nearest town, perhaps?”
“No ride,” was all he said, his voice flat as he started tossing the logs into the existing pile.
What?
No ride?
You couldn’t tell if this man was telling the truth—or if he was using these clipped, short answers just to fuck with you. But as you watched him lift his axe and deliver a swing to a log with perfect precision, you realized maybe this guy didn’t have time nor energy to play around.
That conclusion was almost worse than him joking.
“I’m sorry, you don’t have a functioning phone and you don’t own a vehicle?” you questioned in disbelief. “Then how do you get around?”
You could see the irritation building in his already grumpy features.
“Everythin’ I need is right here,” he grumbled. “Catch my own food. Build my own house. Don’t need to rely on anybody else.”
Your heart started to race as panic settled in.
“Do you know where the nearest town is?” you asked, your hands tightening around the straps of your pack. “Maybe I can get there before sundown—”
Bucky looked up at the sky, taking in the thick clouds and the moisture building in the air, before he looked back down at his logs. He delivered another hard chop before answering.
“Not a good idea,” he mumbled. “Looks like a storm is comin’.”
The forecast before you left this morning had promised a sunny day—but with the clouds thickening, the possibility of rain wasn’t low.
Still, a storm sounded like an exaggeration. A light trickle, at most.
“Can you please just tell me where the closest town is? The sooner you tell me, the faster I’ll get out of your hair.” You pressed.
He set the axe down and wiped the sweat streaking his forehead with his dirty forearm. He looked at you, letting out a slow, impatient breath.
“To the south,” he pointed behind you. “Go straight until you hit the road, then make a left. Though if you leave now, you’ll get caught up in the storm ‘fore you even make it to the street.”
You looked in the direction he was pointing—all you could see was a thick density of bushes and trees. You glanced back at him and gave him a short nod.
“Thank you, sir,” you said, though you hardly meant it because he had hardly been helpful.
As you began to turn and tread through the brush toward the south, Bucky called out, making you pause for just a second.
“I’m tellin’ you, lady, s’not a good idea to leave now,” he warned. “There are some dangerous animals out there—and the storm ain’t goin’ to do you any favors.”
You didn’t listen. You had to get back home. Adjusting your heavy pack and pushing through the dense treeline, you left both the man and his warnings behind you.
For the first twenty minutes, you felt pretty confident.
The woods were quiet, and though your legs were on fire and your back was aching, you felt like you were making good progress.
Then, the first cold drop hit the back of your neck.
A light trickle followed, tapping against the leaves above you. Within minutes, the sky seemed to open up entirely. The ‘light trickle’ you had predicted transformed into a heavy downpour, turning the forest floor into a messy slurry of mud that made your boots slip with every step.
The wind began to pick up, howling through the branches and making the trees groan around you. You squinted through the fog and the heavy curtain of rain, realizing you couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction.
You were shivering, your hair was completely drenched, and your clothes were soaked through to the bone.
Just keep going straight, you told yourself. As long as you keep going straight, you'll be fine.
Then, a low snarl crept up behind you—and that sure as hell didn’t come from the wind.
Your whole body froze. To your right, partially obscured by dense ferns, a lean, gray shape shifted. It wasn’t a coyote—no, it was far too large. It was a gray wolf, its fur matted and dark with rain, stepped into the small clearing.
“Oh… my god,” you breathed to yourself.
Your heart was beating so fast you couldn’t hear anything else. Every survival tip you had ever read vanished from your mind; the only thing you could think to do was run.
And that’s exactly what you did.
The moment your heels spun, the forest became a blurry nightmare. Your heavy pack bounced violently against your spine as you bolted, not even daring to look back. You just ran and ran, your lungs burning with every inhale.
Then, like an idiot, your boot hit a mud covered root.
Your heart leaped into your throat as your feet slipped out from under you. You let out a sharp gasp, tumbling forward until your shoulder collided hard with the trunk of a thick oak tree. The impact knocked the wind clean out of you, leaving you gasping and dazed in the mud.
A hungry growl vibrated through the air, cutting through the roar of the pouring rain. You looked up just in time to see the gray mass of the wolf taking eager steps toward you, its jaws snapping for your throat.
In a blind, frantic panic, your hand slapped against the side pocket of your backpack. Your fingers curled around the cold canister of bear spray you packed but never actually used.
You ripped it out clumsily, shoved it forward, and squeezed the trigger.
A cloud of stinging orange mist exploded into the air. The wolf’s head snapped back as it landed a few feet away, pawing at its face and whining as the chemicals hit its sensitive nose and eyes.
You scrambled to find your footing, your hands shaking so hard you could barely push yourself up. Just as you were about to make another break for it, a massive shadow blurred past you.
“You idiot!” he hissed angrily, his voice a ragged pant. “What did I tell you!?”
Bucky.
Anger clouded his face, his chest heaving as he gripped a knife in one large hand. Without hesitation, he launched himself at the disoriented animal. As he pounced, the wolf lashed out, its claws swiping across Bucky’s leg.
He let out a pained yell. “Ah, fuck!”
It seemed like he had done this a dozen times before, adjusting his heavy weight until he finally pinned the weakened animal into the mud. The wolf snarled, snapping its jaws blindly, but Bucky’s grip was like metal. His large, scarred hand clamped down on the back of the wolf’s neck, the veins in his forearms tensing as he forced its head into the dirt.
With a loud groan of effort, he drove the blade deep into the side of the wolf’s neck, right behind the jaw.
The animal threw out one violent kick that nearly knocked him off before Bucky adjusted his weight again, twisting the knife to sever the artery.
The wolf let out a weak wheeze before it finally stilled. Bucky remained over the carcass for a moment, his clothes soaked with rain and blood dripping down his leg. He let out a slow, steadying breath before he stood up, wiping the blade on his already dirty jeans.
He turned his cold, blue gaze toward you, and for a second, his eyes resembled the wolf’s—angry and grim.
“I told you, stupid girl,” he growled, his voice barely audible over the storm. “I fuckin’ told you.”
All of it happened in a blur.
One second, you were tumbling through the woods, just a moment away from losing your life. The next, you were standing in the middle of Bucky’s cabin. Your body felt frozen, your pulse still thrumming wildly as your drenched clothes clung to your skin like a layer of ice. You only snapped out of the haze when you felt Bucky’s hands peeling the pack off your shoulders.
When he reached for the zipper of your jacket, you flinched.
“Hey!” you gasped, your voice cracking. “What are you doing—?”
“I don’t need you to remove my jacket for me,” you snapped, though your hands were shaking too hard to even find the zipper.
Bucky’s brows furrowed, and you watched his jaw tick. He looked terrifying in the dim light of the cabin—water dripped from his matted hair, his chest heaved with the earlier adrenaline of the kill, and fresh blood stained the denim of his jeans where the wolf had lashed out.
He took a step forward, closing the distance between you until he looked down at you.
“Listen, girl,” he hissed impatiently. “I just saved your goddamn life. Now here I am, lettin’ you into my home, about to offer you my damn shower—and this is what you say to me?”
You let out a shaky breath, swallowing hard against the lump in your throat. He was right. He had saved you.
Your eyes trailed down to the jagged cut on his thigh. “You’re bleeding,” you pointed out. “You need to take care of that wound, or it’ll get infected.”
Bucky only scoffed, stepping away and shaking his head at you as if you were the most frustrating thing he had ever encountered.
“Bathroom’s down the hall, make a left,” he gruffed, already turning his back on you. “And don’t take too long—I need to use it after you.”
Not wanting to risk upsetting him further, you took it upon yourself to head toward the bathroom.
The cabin was certainly large enough to house a small family, which only made you wonder more if he really lived here all alone. The walls were stripped of anything personal—no photos, no decor—aside from a few scattered post-its and scraps of paper covered in messy handwriting, tacked up with rusted nails.
As you neared the bathroom, you noticed the bedroom right next to it. The door was cracked open just barely and curiosity got the better of you.
Leaning back slightly, you caught a glimpse of his private space. It was sparse, but in the center sat what looks to be a queen sized bed. It looked massive in the small room—certainly big enough to fit another person.
“You found it?” Bucky shouted from across the cabin, snapping you back.
“Yeah—I did. Thanks!” you called back, your heart giving a small, startled jump.
After settling into the hot shower, the steam finally began to sedate the bone chilling cold from your limbs. You scrubbed the mud and gunk from your skin with the harsh lye soap. Stepping out, you quickly reached for one of the rough, oversized towels.
You had just managed to tuck the fabric securely around your chest, shivering as the cool air hit your damp skin, when the door suddenly creaked open.
“Jesus!” you yelped, clutching the towel tighter and stumbling against the counter. “Knock much?”
Bucky didn’t enter the room. He just stood stiffly in the gap of the doorway.
In his hand, he held out a bundle of folded fabric— a worn, massive white T-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that looked like they could fit two of you.
“Not used to company,” he mumbled. He reached out and set the pile of clothes on the edge of the sink without a single glance in your direction. “‘Sides, I’m not interestin’ in lookin’.”
He didn’t wait for a ‘thank you’ or for you to yell at him to get out. He simply pulled the door shut.
Eventually, you changed into the clothes he provided.
With every step you took out of the bathroom, the shorts threatened to slip past your hips, forcing you to yank the drawstrings tighter. The clothes didn’t smell like fabric softener, but it carried a scent that was distinctly him and the rest of the cabin— pine, and woodsmoke.
Returning to the living room, you found Bucky sitting in one of the wooden chairs, his leg propped up as he examined the angry red gashes on his thigh. He hissed, his jaw tightening as he accidentally grazed the wound with his thumb.
“Thanks for letting me use your shower,” you spoke up, catching his attention.
Your eyes caught the deep gashes on his leg.
“Do you need help?” you offered again. “I can help you clean that up. I have some antiseptics and bandages in my pack.”
Bucky didn’t look up, his fingers hovering stiffly over the torn skin.
“No need,” he said roughly, his voice strained.
It was clear to you that the adrenaline was finally wearing off and the real pain was setting in. He gripped the edges of the wooden chair, his knuckles turning white as he forced himself to stand. He took a single step, his breath hitching as he leaned heavily on his good leg, and began to limp toward the bathroom.
You frowned. “Are you sure—”
“I told you and I’ll keep tellin’ you,” he grunted through the pain, “I don’t need your help, girl.”
Then, he disappeared down the hall and shoved the door shut.
You tried to make yourself comfortable in the dim cabin, but a sudden, strangled shout of pain echoed through the walls. The sound made you jump—an involuntary yell painfully tore straight from Bucky’s throat. Something heavy hit the floor, maybe a stool? Or a basin? Then it was followed by the sound of ragged breathing and more muffled grunts.
“Bucky?” you called out, taking a careful step toward the bathroom. “Are you okay?”
There was no answer.
You stood outside the door, trying to respect his privacy, until another pained groan reached your ears. Your stomach twisted. Despite his prickly attitude, he was obviously struggling with a wound far worse than he wanted to admit—and standing here, not doing anything to help him after he saved your life, only made you feel worse.
“Bucky, I’m coming in,” you warned, your hand reaching for the doorknob.
You waited one more second, expecting him to curse at you to stay out, but the only sound was his labored breathing.
So, you took it upon yourself to push the door open.
Inside, Bucky was laid out in the tub—naked, of course.
His head lolled back against the porcelain as he fought to steady his breath. His dirty, blood stained clothes were piled in a heap on the floor, leaving trails of mud and grime everywhere. The tub was filled with soapy water, and while he was bare beneath the surface, your eyes didn’t wander—you didn’t care to look.
Your entire focus was pinned to his leg, which he had propped up on the edge of the tub.
Stripped of the dark denim, the damage was more visible. The wolf’s claws had dug deep, leaving uneven, angry furrows that were weeping blood into the water. The skin around the punctures was already beginning to puff and redden, and with the grime from the forest floor mashed into the open wounds, it looked even worse.
“Jesus,” you gasped, kneeling beside him to examine the damage. “Bucky, this looks like it’s already getting infected.”
Without giving him the chance to pull away, you reached out and pressed the back of your hand against his forehead. He was burning up—the heat radiating off his skin was alarming, a telltale sign his body was already struggling to fight the bacteria from the wolf’s claws.
“You’re overheating!”
Bucky’s eyes remained shut, his thick lashes casting long shadows against his pale, sweaty cheeks. A low, delirious mumble escaped him as his head rolled further to the side.
“...Tired,” he croaked.
Your frown deepened. “Stay right there. Don’t move,” you commanded, though it was obvious he wasn’t going anywhere.
Before he could argue, you scrambled out of the bathroom. Bucky’s vision was disoriented and blurry, his mind racing through a fog of fever.
Just my luck, huh?
He had been minding his own business until you showed up on his doorstep. His only excuse for following you was a half baked thought about picking berries to go with his meat before the storm broke—and he just happened to grab a knife, and he just happened to head south in the exact direction you walked off to.
Damn. He was a fucking idiot.
You hurried back into the bathroom, clutching the antiseptic, a roll of sterile gauze, and a small bottle of ibuprofen tightly in your hands.
You knelt by the edge of the tub again, popping the cap off the antiseptic. “This is going to sting. Just try to breathe.”
As the cool, medicinal liquid hit his cuts, Bucky’s body jerked causing the water to slosh. A sharp hiss whistled through his teeth, his fingers gripping the wet ledge of the tub. He stared at you warily through heavy, lidded eyes.
Just like the wolf he had saved you from, he looked as if he were ready to pounce.
He wasn’t used to this. For as long as he could remember, pain was something to be swallowed with a bottle of whiskey and a needle and thread. He had built his own house, caught his own food, and bled his own blood without a soul nearby to witness it.
That was the whole point of being out here.
But as you meticulously cleaned the wounds, your touch was... different.
It was soft, steady, and gentle. He hadn’t felt anything like it in years. He had forgotten what it was even like to be tended to.
Bucky’s breath hitched as he watched you focus, your bottom lip caught between your teeth in concentration as you began to wrap the clean white gauze around his thigh.
“There,” you said softly, setting the tools down and offering him a weary smile.
You looked at him as if you were expecting a thank you, but the words didn’t come.
He let out a slow, shaky breath and let his head thud back against the tub. He was a fool for letting a stranger in, a bigger fool for letting her see him like this—but as the pain started to dull into a throb, he found he didn’t really care.
Sensing his need for space, you got up slowly. “I’ll let you be. When the storm clears up, I’ll be out of your hair—for real this time.”
Just as you turned for the door, Bucky’s hand shot out of the tub, catching your wrist and splattering water across the floor.
“Take the bed tonight,” he said, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You blinked at him. The couch? That tiny thing?
“Sorry, but your couch is far too small for someone like you,” you said, half-insulting his choice in furniture. “Besides, you need proper rest to heal up. I’ll take the couch.”
Bucky’s hand lingered around your wrist for a moment. You expected him to protest further, but it seemed his energy was finally spent.
With a tired sigh, he dropped his hand, letting it hang limply over the side of the tub.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
He had a dreadful feeling it was going to be a long night.
By the time Bucky woke up, the storm had retreated, leaving behind a world that smelled of damp earth and pine needles. Sunlight pierced through the bedroom window, cutting a sharp line across the bed where he lay alone.
He groaned, his eyes snapping open as he braced himself for the throbbing pain in his leg. He reached down, his fingers brushing against the white gauze you had wrapped around his thigh.
To his surprise, the skin wasn’t burning anymore. The fever had also broken. He sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, testing his strength.
There was a dull ache, sure, but he was steady enough to stand on his own.
He pulled on a clean pair of jeans and limped out into the living room, expecting to find you still curled up on that cramped, uncomfortable couch. A stray thought crossed his mind… that maybe he should’ve invited you to share the bed, but even he knew that would have been going too far for a stranger.
When he reached the living room, he found the couch empty. The rough wool blanket he had given you was folded neatly at one end, and when his eyes shifted to the corner where your heavy pack had been sitting, he found nothing but the bare floor.
His jaw tightened.
A strange, lonely feeling settled in his chest. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years and didn’t care to name. Of course you were gone. You had hiked out the moment the rain stopped, just like you said you would.
All he could do now was hope you made it to town safely.
He grabbed his boots and stepped out onto the porch, intending to finish the woodpile he abandoned yesterday. The air was crisp, and the forest was alive with the sound of dripping eaves and morning birds. He took a deep breath, turning his gaze toward the lake to check the water levels after the storm.
He froze.
Down by the lake, silhouetted against the sparkling reflection of the morning sun, was a figure. You were crouching by the water’s edge, his oversized white T-shirt tucked into those ridiculous drawstring shorts with a fishing line in your hands.
As he watched, you reached down and hoisted a small wicker basket— likely something he kept in the shed for gathering berries—and he could see the shimmer of scales thrashing inside.
By the looks of it, you had already caught three or four good-sized trout.
Bucky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
He began to descend the porch steps, his limp much less pronounced than it had been the night before. The damp grass flattened under his boots as he made his way toward the bank, the sound of his approach masked by the gentle lapping of the lake against the stones.
“Thought you said you were leavin’,” he called out, his voice gravelly with sleep.
You jumped, nearly dropping the basket back into the water as you spun around. Your hair was a mess of tangled waves and there were smears of mud on your shins, but your eyes were bright—clear of the panic from the night before.
“Oh!” you smiled at the sight of him. “You’re still alive!” You hoisted the basket up with straining arms, making your way toward him. “I caught you some fish—you eat fish, right?”
Bucky crossed his arms over his chest. “More of a red meat kind of guy.”
“Well... fish is good for you,” you informed him, trekking past him barefoot with the heavy basket. “And I’m going to fix you up some breakfast.”
Bucky’s brow furrowed as you reached him. “Don’t waste your effort,” he huffed, still looking as grumpy as ever. “I like my breakfast done a certain way.”
You ignored him, walking right past and back toward the cabin. “You should lay back down and take it easy. Consider this a thank you for saving my life yesterday.”
“I don’t need you playing house,” Bucky mumbled grumpily, following you through the cabin and into the kitchen. “I’ve been feedin’ myself since before you were born. Put those down, I’ll do it.”
You didn’t even look back as you set the wicker basket on the wooden counter. “Sit. Down. Bucky.”
He opened his mouth to snap back—to tell you exactly whose house this was and who was in charge—but the stubborn confidence in your voice caught him off guard. Up until this moment, he pinned you as a naive, helpless girl who couldn’t survive a night without his intervention.
He huffed, sounding like a disgruntled bear, and finally lowered himself into the sturdy wooden chair at the head of the table. A low groan escaped his throat as he eased his shoulders, his injured leg pulsing— a none too friendly reminder of why he shouldn’t have been standing anyway.
From his seat, he watched you move.
“Not only can I catch fish,” you said, getting to work, “but I can also cook it well.”
The cabin, which usually felt cold and cavernous, suddenly felt smaller and more… domestic.
You moved around his kitchen, your bare feet moving across his rough floorboards. You looked ridiculous in his clothes; the hem of his white T-shirt tucked into the oversized shorts, and the sleeves rolled up in thick bundles just so you could use your hands.
He watched the sunlight catch the dampness of your hair as you began to prep the fish. The sight of a woman in his space—wearing his shirt, smelling like his soap, and ignoring his bad attitude just to make sure he was fed—hit him harder than he expected.
“Christ,” he cursed under his breath.
For most of his years, he believed isolation was his only sanctuary. But watching you, he realized things he never thought he would feel.
He liked seeing this—a beautiful woman, clean and comfortable, cooking just for him. He could already picture it, coming home from a long day of chopping wood or hunting, only to find you like this. Safe and sound.
He liked the idea of having someone to protect.
Bucky was suddenly feeling very hungry now, and it wasn’t just for the fish.
“You’re gonna burn ‘em,” he muttered, though his eyes were soft as he watched your back. “Pan needs more grease.”
“I’ve got it, Bucky,” you replied, glancing playfully over your shoulder. “Stop worrying that old head of yours.”
“Old?” Bucky grumbled, though a faint, reluctant twitch of a smile played on his lips.
You turned back to the counter as you began to slice the trout into neat fillets.
“You know,” you began, tone light and teasing, “in my friend group, they called me the Fish Whisperer. Or the Fish Butcher. One of those. It depended on how much wine was involved in the cooking process.”
You let out a small, self deprecating chuckle, turning your head to see if you could pull another reaction out of him. But as you looked back down to finish a particularly tricky cut near the bone, your damp finger slipped on the smooth handle.
The blade skidded across the scales, coming dangerously close to your thumb. You let out a sharp, panicked gasp, pulling your hand back just as the tip of the knife bit into the wooden cutting board.
“Crap—!”
Despite his injured leg, Bucky moved with that same quick, almost predatory speed you had seen in the forest.
In a heartbeat, he was already hovering over you, his large hand reaching out to steady your wrist while his other instinctively moved to your lower back to stabilize you.
“Careful, sweets,” he rumbled into a protective growl.
You swallowed hard at his sudden closeness, his chest pressing against your shoulder. His grip on your wrist was firm but careful—the touch of a man who knew exactly how much damage his hands could do and was choosing, with every ounce of his will, to be gentle.
“Bucky…” you breathed, trying to still your heartbeat. “Are… are you okay?”
You stayed frozen, feeling his warm breath against the side of your neck. He let out a shaky breath, as if trying to stabilize his own heart, his thumb tracing a slow, distracting line over where your blood rushed in your wrist.
“I… just don’t want you hurtin’ yourself,” he said slowly, his voice thick and low. “That’s all.”
Since that little mishap with the knife, the tension in the cabin was suffocatingly thick—and you weren’t entirely sure if Bucky felt it, though he was certainly the cause of it.
By the time you finished preparing breakfast, you laid everything out on the table. Even with your back turned, you could feel his shameless stare burning through the thin fabric of the white T-shirt you wore.
“Where’s the cutlery?” you asked, turning to him.
He simply shrugged, his gaze glued on you before he looked down at the food.
“Your hands are the cutlery,” he said flatly.
You didn’t think it was possible, but eating with your hands only increased the tension tenfold.
You picked carefully at the fish, trying to maintain some level of decency, but Bucky was another story entirely. He went after the meal like a ravenous animal, picking the trout apart with his bare hands. You didn’t even need to ask if he liked the food; the way he was scarfing it down told you everything you needed to know.
You swore he didn’t look away from you once.
Leaning forward with his elbows heavy on the wooden table, he used his blunt, calloused fingers to strip the flaky white meat from the bone. Every time he finished a piece, he licked his thumb and forefinger clean with a slow, wet swipe of his tongue. His eyes remained glued to yours, dark and unreadable, as he licked his lips.
All of this made a strange heat crawl up your neck, and with no napkins in sight, you eventually had no choice but to follow suit.
You hesitantly lifted your hand, licking the salty grease from your own fingertips. The moment you did, Bucky stopped chewing. He went completely still, his gaze dropping to your mouth, his dark blue eyes tracking the movement with a sudden, sharp hunger. He watched every motion, his jaw clenching as he seemed hypnotized by the way your tongue moved.
Small, was all he thought as he felt his body warm. But it’ll do.
“I suppose I should take my leave after this,” you announced mid chew. “Thank you for everything—”
“You shouldn’t,” Bucky interrupted suddenly, a piece of fish still caught between his fingers. “There might be another storm tonight.”
Your brows furrowed. Another storm? While the mountain weather was notoriously unpredictable, the sky outside was currently a clear, piercing blue.
Although he proved himself right yesterday, another storm seemed today entirely unlikely.
Pushing out of your chair and grabbing your plate, you made your way to the sink.
“Well, in that case, I should leave now. The sooner the better—”
“Good luck with that,” he huffed, his tone sharpening with what seems like restless impatience. “The mud and the terrain from yesterday’s mess will only slow you down. You’ll be lucky to make it a mile before you’re stuck again.”
He took a quick sip of his water, letting out a satisfied exhale as his gaze settled on you. “Best you wait ‘til tomorrow.”
You stood by the sink, staring out the window as you weighed your options. Your friends and family were likely worried sick, perhaps already calling for a search party, and the thought of them panicking made your chest hurt with guilt.
But then, you remembered everything that had happened yesterday.
The storm, the wolf, the bone chilling rain, and the way the world had turned into a sliding, muddy trap. Bucky was right about the terrain—if you went out there and twisted an ankle or got lost in the washouts, there wouldn’t be anyone to save you a second time.
You were completely oblivious to the way Bucky’s eyes traced your body. You didn’t notice how he was manipulating the trauma of yesterday to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
In his kitchen, in his shirt, and under his roof—permanently in his sights.
“I… I guess you’re right,” you admitted softly, finally turning back to face him. “I don’t think I have another fight in me today. If the mud is really that bad, I’d just be a liability.”
Bucky didn’t smile—that would have been too obvious—but the tension in his shoulders eased instantly.
“Smart girl,” he rumbled, picking up another piece of fish before tossing it in his mouth. “No sense in chancing it. The woods don’t give second chances twice in a row.”
“I’ll just… stay out of your way, then,” you murmured, feeling a strange mix of relief and unease. “I can help with the chores? Or the woodpile?”
Bucky hummed, pretending to ponder the offer, though he already knew exactly what he wanted out of you.
“I’ll take care of the heavy liftin’,” he explained. “You can help me clean the place a bit—or catch some more fish for dinner.”
“You liked my fish?” you asked, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
Bucky pushed himself out of the chair with a grunt and met you at the sink, handing you his plate. “Guess you were right,” he gruffed. “You can cook, sugar.”
Your face warmed at the nickname. It seemed so at odds with a man as burly and grumpy as Bucky, yet it fell from his lips so naturally.
“Okay,” you agreed, setting the plates in the basin and turning on the tap. “Anything to help lighten your load. Thank you for letting me stay another night, Bucky. I really don’t know how to repay you.”
A swell of satisfaction and pride settled in his gut.
He liked this.
No—he loved this.
“Look at you, doin’ the dishes,” he noted with a nod toward the sink. “That’s already doin’ more than enough.”
He raised his hand to give you a gentle pat on the back, though his body yearned for something more—to press a kiss to your forehead, the way a husband might for a wife.
“I’ll go fetch some firewood to keep the place warm for when that storm hits,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Just stay here. Clean up, catch the fish. Don’t want you gettin’ hurt or lost again, little doll.”
The storm might not have been coming, but as far as he was concerned, you weren’t going anywhere.
For the rest of the day, you did exactly as instructed.
Despite your insistence that he stay off his leg, Bucky spent the entire afternoon outside. While you cleaned the cabin, the thud of his axe echoed against the trees.
Eventually, you headed back down to the water, but the moment you began fishing, you felt the pierce of a gaze tracking your every move. Every time you glanced over your shoulder, you found Bucky only a few feet away, wiping sweat from his forehead, his chest heaving from the labor— but his eyes never left you.
When you moved down the shoreline, or stumbled over a slick rock, or struggled with a particularly strong fish fight, Bucky was at your side in an instant.
“Careful, sweets.”
“Mind your step. Can’t concentrate on my own work if you’re stumblin’ all over the place, little doll.”
“I saw you fall just a moment ago. Sit down—let me check your leg.”
You kept promising you were fine, but nothing seemed to soothe his protective instincts.
You didn’t want to call him suffocating—he was certainly kinder than when you came across him yesterday—but the unwarranted attention he kept giving you felt restless.
As the day bled into evening, you noticed there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.
You waited, even as you cooked dinner and set the table while Bucky washed up, but by the time the sun had completely fell below the horizon, the air remained still, dark, and clear.
There was no storm.
And it was too late to start the trek to town now.
You and Bucky were sitting at the dinner table yet again, but since the sun went down, neither of you had spoken a single word to each other.
“Hey, Bucky?” you called out.
He didn’t look up. His eyes were glued to the plate as he scarfed down the meal you made the same way he had earlier this morning. When he didn’t answer, you tried again, firmer this time.
“Bucky. There’s no storm like you said there would be.”
Bucky swiped a hand across his mouth, clearing the grease. “I guess not.”
A slow, impatient exhale left your nose. Bucky sensed your tension, and he narrowed his eyes at you, displeased. He rested both heavy forearms on the table and leaned in.
“It’s good that you stayed,” he pointed out, his voice low like a warning. “It’s better bein’ safe than sorry. You should know that by now—’specially after yesterday, sugar.”
Your frown only deepened, and Bucky’s jaw tightened. He clearly wasn’t pleased by how eager you were to leave him.
“I know,” you sighed, looking toward the dark window. “It’s just... my friends and family must be worried sick. If I had left earlier, I could have been home by now.”
“If you had left earlier, you wouldn’t have made me that delicious breakfast for savin’ your life,” Bucky reminded you, his tone sharp with impatience. He shoved his empty plate aside and leaned back in his chair, making it groan. “You should sleep in the bed tonight.”
“What?” You blinked, not quite comprehending his words. “No. Your leg still needs to heal, and that couch is far too small for you—”
“No one takes the couch,” he cut you off like a command. “We both share the bed tonight. There’s plenty of space.”
You hesitated, your gaze drifting toward the dark hallway that led to the bedroom.
The thought of sharing a bed with him—this hulking, unpredictable man, made your pulse race. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” you pointed out softly. “I’m perfectly fine on the couch, really.”
“If you’re gonna trek tomorrow morning, you’ll need all the sleep you can get.”
He pushed his chair back, the heavy wood scraping harshly against the floorboards as he stood and began to limp toward the bedroom.
“Come on,” he grunted, not even checking to see if you were following. “I’ve got a set of clothes you can change into.”
With a defeated sigh, you followed him. By the time you reached the bedroom, Bucky was already rummaging through a heavy dresser in the corner. He pulled out another oversized white T-shirt and held it out to you.
“Here.”
“And the pants?” you asked, taking the soft fabric from his hand.
“All I’ve got are sweatpants that’d be way too damn big for you,” he said, shoving the drawer shut. “Unless you want to sleep in jeans?”
You swallowed hard. Sleeping without pants? You looked down at the drawstring shorts you had been wearing all day—stained with mud and smelling of the lake from your fishing trip.
“I’ll just wear these again,” you decided.
Bucky looked at you, his expression darkening with displeasure.
“No. Those are dirty,” he gruffed. “The shirt’s big enough to be a night dress. You’ll be fine.”
His tone left no room for nos or further objections. It wasn’t a request but rather an arrangement he had already finalized in his head.
After retreating to the washroom to change into the fresh shirt, you returned to find Bucky already stretched out on the mattress, his large frame covered by the sheets, taking up half the bed as he waited for you.
The sight of you standing in the doorframe wearing nothing but his shirt made the fabric of his pajama pants feel suddenly, painfully tight. He wasn’t sure he would even survive the night with you lying right next to him.
He scooted over, clearing a space for you while trying to discreetly adjust himself beneath the quilts.
You made your way to your side of the bed, sliding under the covers and lying stiffly beside him.
You stared up at the ceiling, feeling completely out of place in the quiet, suffocating cabin. Beside you, Bucky lay perfectly comfortable.
To him, this was exactly where you belonged.
“I’m sorry you couldn’t leave today,” he said, though the apology rang a little hollow. “I was just lookin’ out for you.”
You turned your head toward him, your hair fanning out across his pillowcase. Bucky’s heart strummed in his chest at the sight of you.
He could get used to waking up to this every morning.
“It’s okay,” you reassured him with a soft, tired smile, though he could still sense the disappointment behind it. “Better safe than sorry, right?”
“Exactly right, sugar.”
From your short time knowing Bucky, it hadn’t taken long to notice just how… blatant he was with his staring. Even now, lying together shoulder to shoulder, his blue eyes were piercing right through yours.
Unreadable and unwavering.
You swallowed hard, trying to break the tension. “How’s your leg?”
“Still hurts,” he mumbled lowly. “But I’m feelin’ a lot better lyin’ next to a pretty girl.”
So much for breaking the tension.
His words, intimate and entirely unexpected, filled you with embarassment. Staring back at him, you had known from the very start how handsome he was beneath all that grumpiness, the tired eyes, and the dark shadow of stubble.
You hadn’t pegged someone like him as the flirtatious type. But as you searched his expression, you couldn’t tell if he even realized he was doing it, or if he was simply saying the first thing that came to his mind.
Averting your gaze, you stared into the dark corner of the room.
“Y-you’re ridiculous,” you stammered, breathless.
Bucky’s large, calloused hand reached out, his fingers hooking gently under your chin. He tilted your face back to him, forcing you to meet his eyes yet again.
“For tellin’ the truth?” he rumbled, his voice filling the tense air between you.
You couldn’t move, held captive by his touch and the intensity of his stare.
You watched as his eyes began a slow and hungry journey. He traced the line of your forehead, the curve of your cheek, and then dropped to your mouth, lingering there until your lips parted involuntarily to suck in a breath.
“Pretty,” he mumbled so quiet, it was like he was speaking to himself.
His gaze continued downward, looking at the delicate column of your throat, then further still, taking in the way his oversized shirt draped over your body, shifting with every shallow breath you took.
When his eyes finally snapped back to yours, they were darker than before—pupils blown wide.
“So goddamn pretty.”
“I…” you started, not quite sure what to say, “t-thank you.”
There was a moment of silence between you two, and throughout the quiet, Bucky’s hands began to be more bold in its movements. He caressed your cheek, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before trailing his thumb slowly over your bottom lip. He watched with a dark, satisfied grin when your breath hitched.
“You know, bein’ out here alone all these years... it makes a man yearn for things,” Bucky started to explain in a low, gravelly whisper. “Things a man like me thought he’d never have.”
“Like what?” you breathed.
“A family,” he answered with what sounded like a dreamy sigh. “I’ve seen it everywhere in these woods. Bears protectin’ their cubs, birds tendin’ to their nests. It’s the most natural, beautiful thing there is—that kind of connection. I just know havin’ somethin’ special like that... it’d finally bring me peace.”
You weren’t entirely sure where he was going with the confession, but all you felt you could do was nod and offer him sympathy.
“I hope you find that peace one day, Bucky.”
Then, his hand suddenly trailed from your cheek down to your throat, his fingers wrapping around the delicate skin of your neck in a gentle yet possessive squeeze that made you gasp.
“Feels like I already have, little doll.”
Bucky didn’t give you the chance to breathe, let alone retract the invitation he saw in your eyes.
He closed the space between you two, his mouth crashing against yours with a hunger only a man like him—starved and isolated for decades—could possess.
It wasn’t gentle at all. It was more like a claim.
His lips were rough, and his tongue swept against yours messily and hungrily. He moved like a man who hadn’t shared a kiss with a woman in his lifetime—like a man who was dying for the touch of another person.
You melted into the mattress as he moved more eagerly against you, the sheets ruffling as he hovered over you. One of his hands held you still by side of your neck while the other wandered your body through the thin fabric of his own shirt. His rough hand, warm and calloused, groped and fondled you through the flimsy white cotton, making you gasp into his mouth.
Bucky growled low in his throat as your fingers tangled into the thick, messy dark hair at the nape of his neck. His stubble tickled your skin, and the needy noises leaving his lips only made you squeeze your legs together, a deep ache beginning to build.
“Bucky,” you gasped, turning your head sharply to break the contact. You were panting, your lips swollen and tingling. “We... we shouldn’t. This is... I’m supposed to be leaving tomorrow.”
Bucky took this as an opportunity to bury his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breath searing your sensitive skin. He trailed a line of wet kisses toward your ear, his stubble grazing your jawline.
“Tomorrow’s a long way off, sugar,” he buzzed against your skin.
“Bucky, please—”
You were cut off with a sharp gasp as you felt Bucky grind his hips firmly against your leg.
Against the soft fabric of his pajama pants, he was hard, throbbing... and leaking. In the short time you two had been making out, he had already made a mess of himself in his own pants.
A shaky groan left his lips as he gripped your hip tight, making you wince slightly. “Fuck, baby,” he breathed, resting his forehead against your collarbone. “M’so hard. It hurts.”
Bucky began to rock himself—slow and shallow—against the soft heat of your leg. You couldn’t help but look down, watching the heavy outline of him throb against the fabric as he pressed into you.
“Just... we can fuck tonight—and you can forget all ‘bout me tomorrow,” he pleaded, his voice wrecked. “You can leave as early as you want—but please, darlin’. I need this.” He rocked his hips against yours again, drawing another gasp out of you. “It’s been so long.”
He drew the long hem of the shirt up and past your hip, and his breath hitched at what he saw.
“… No panties?”
Your face burned with embarrassment. “I… didn’t want to re-wear the ones I had on,” you explained, your voice small. “They’re dirty.”
You said that, but what Bucky was seeing right now felt far filthier. Your pussy, exposed and puffy and glistening, was laid out bare right in front of him—ripe and ready for the taking.
You knew exactly how this looked, and the way Bucky’s eyes darkened as they locked onto your cunt only confirmed it. His tongue darted out to wet his lips, his gaz heavy as he took in every inch of you.
Bucky quickly slid down the bed until his broad chest was wedged between your knees. You tried to pull back—mostly out of shyness—but his large hands clamped around your thighs like iron shackles, pinning you wide for him.
“Bucky, wait—!”
But you cut yourself off with an involuntary cry as his tongue flicked out and lapped at your cunt. He was relentless and wasted no time. He buried his face against you, his dark stubble grazing your sensitive inner thighs as he began to feast like a starving animal.
He was messy and loud. The wet, slapping sounds of his tongue working against you filled your ears—vulgar and completely shameless.
You had never been touched or licked like this before. You had never felt the unabashed hunger of a man’s mouth on your skin, and your body was loving every second of it.
“Oh god,” you gasped, your fingers knotting the bedsheets.
Your hips bucked up against his face, seeking more, but Bucky held you perfectly still, his thumbs digging into your skin to keep you exposed.
He let out a low, muffled growl against your clit, his tongue flickering faster and faster against the sensitive peak until you were sobbing for breath. Every time you instinctively tried to close your legs or hide from the overwhelming sensation, he only snarled, forcing you back open for him.
He was devouring you.
He was treating you like the prey he had spent all day stalking.
Bucky finally pulled away, letting you catch your breath. His eyes were dark and his chin was coated with your sweetness mixed with his own saliva and drool.
“Taste s’fucking good,” he groaned so deep, sounding almost frustrated. “Only makin’ it harder for me to let you go.”
He sat back on his heels, still wedged firmly between your thighs, as he pulled his shirt over his head. You watched, enamored, as his broad chest moved— every muscle flexing under the warm glow of the bedside lamp. Dark hair traced the center of his chest, trailing down to where his hands found the waistband of his pants.
He pulled them down and kicked them to the side of the bed. Lying there between your legs was a man of pure masculinity. Thick hair decorated his body, and his hand—which you already thought was massive—could barely wrap around his cock as he stroked himself to his full length.
Bucky’s jaw went slack as he fucked his hand, his eyes shamelessly taking in the way you were spread out for him in nothing but his cotton tee.
Dark, curly hair sat at the base of his cock, and from where you laid, you could smell him—the salty scent of his precum, the masculine musk of pinewood, everything that was uniquely him. It made you ache, your pussy clenching around nothing as you watched.
“You’re drippin’ all over my sheets, sugar,” Bucky grunted. “Makin’ a reaaal mess.”
“Bucky,” you breathed, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “I don’t think you… I don’t think it’ll fit—”
“No?” he cut you off.
He didn’t let you finish—he didn’t need to—but he already seemed darkened by whatever doubt you were about to voice.
“I don’t care,” he grunted, his large hands grabbing your legs and hauling you flush against him. “M’gonna make it fit.”
Your body tensed as you felt the head of Bucky’s cock poke against your entrance. He groaned at the contact, his eyes fluttering shut in relief. You were already so wet, so warm, and so inviting. And judging by how easily his tip began to slide in, it wouldn’t be long before he was buried deep in your cunt.
Bucky held himself there for a moment, bracing his weight on his forearms as he let you adjust to the stretching pressure of his tip alone.
He looked down, a dark, fond smirk pulling at his lips as he watched you squeezing your eyes shut with the effort of taking him.
“Open ‘em up, sugar,” he rumbled the command. “I want you lookin’ at me for this.”
As your eyes fluttered open, meeting his blown out blue gaze, he began to push.
“Oh—fuck, Bucky!” you gasped as he slid deeper, your tight cunt stretching painfully and perfectly around his length.
A broken groan tore from his throat, his chest heaving as he fought every urge in his nervous system to just slam himself deep inside you. He was trying so hard to hold back that his face contorted into a snarl, his muscles locking with the strain.
You mewled and whimpered as he forced his way in, each movement of his hips more strained than the last. He was struggling with the tightness of you, the stretch a dizzying mix of burn and pleasure. By the time he was halfway in, it already felt like too much.
You began to squirm, your hips shifting and doing nothing to soothe the ache in Bucky’s balls. If anything, your movements only made him groan in pleasure.
When he realized you were trying to escape his length, his hands snapped down to your hips. His fingers dug into your skin, pinning you flat against the mattress and making you yelp.
“Where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” he growled, hovering over you with a snarl that made him look terrifying under the warm lamplight. “You aren’t goin’ anywhere. I told you, darlin’—I’m makin’ it fit.”
With that, his grip tightened on your waist and he hauled you flush against his body in a ruthless motion.
Your legs shook and your eyes rolled back as his cock buried itself completely, sinking to the hilt deep inside your cunt. Your head spun with the overwhelming bliss of being filled so thoroughly.
“Haaah—!” you hissed sharply, your back arching off the bed. “B-Buck—”
Bucky’s entire body was shaking, overstimulated with a desire he hadn’t felt in years.
He hovered over you, dark strands of hair shadowing his eyes as he watched your soft legs shake and squirm beneath him. His cock—the one you claimed was too large to fit—was sunk completely inside you, twitching as it savored every desperate ripple and clench of your tight walls around his shaft.
He watched himself grind his hips against yours, slow and steady at first, letting you adjust to every inch.
“Christ,” he groaned, the sound torn from the back of his throat. “You’re takin’ me so well, little doll…”
When your whimpers finally began to break into soft, needy moans, he took it as his cue to pick up the pace.
He started drawing his hips back and thrusting faster, making your body jolt and shake against the mattress with every thrust. The sight of his cock disappearing entirely into your cunt, leaving only his dark curls pressed against your glistening slit, made him throb and leak deep inside you.
“God… feels s’much better than my hand,” he grumbled to himself.
“Bucky…” you whined softly, the sound like music to his ears. “Feels good, don’t stop.”
Bucky was hypnotized.
He looked down, his vision tunneling as he watched the way you moved helplessly beneath him. Your body was rolling with every thrust against his mattress. Your hands came up to his shoulders, soft fingers digging into his hard muscles for stability.
And when you looked at him with those soft, trusting eyes, something in his chest snapped.
His hips began drawing back further before slamming all the way in, drawing a loud, sharp cry from you that only made him want to fuck you harder—right through the bedframe and against the floorboards.
Bucky felt like an animal in heat, his mind clouding with a singular, primal thought that went far beyond just getting off.
He wanted to fill you. He wanted to plant himself so deep that it would take.
“Bucky—it’s too much, ah!” you moaned, clinging to him and wrapping your legs around his waist for support, inadvertently drawing him even deeper.
That didn’t help him at all.
“Oh—fuck, sweets!” he roared, pinning his weight onto you as your legs strapped him down. “Fuck—you’re askin’ for it now.”
The thought of breeding you, of keeping you right here in the cabin he built with his very own two hands, made his blood sing. He could see it so clearly—you, rounded and heavy with his child, tits full of milk, never having to leave the safety of these woods or the protection of his arms.
Every filthy thought of a future together was met with another hard thrust inside you.
“Mine,” he growled. He was so lost in the haze of lust that his mind was a jumbled mess. The only thing he could process was the need to fuck and breed.
Fuck and breed. Fuck and breed.
To breed.
Breed. Breed…
“You’re stayin’ right here, sugar. M’gonna fill you up so full, you won’t even remember how to walk out that door.”
His words were purely possessive. If you didn’t know any better, you would think it was just dirty talk—and god, did it work. Your pussy spasmed tight around his cock as you felt yourself getting close.
“Fuuck, Bucky,” you whined, “d-don’t stop…! I’m gonna cum—”
Every gasp that left your lips fueled the dark fire in his gut and the building ache in his balls. He didn’t just want tonight; he wanted years.
He wanted the connection he had seen the animals share in the woods—he wanted a son running around this cabin and you there to be called Mama.
Your cunt clenched as you tossed your head back, letting out a loud cry that rang through the cabin as you came undone all over Bucky’s cock. The feeling was exquisite, your pussy was milking Bucky with every pulse—and at this point, your body was practically begging for Bucky to cum inside.
“I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, the words sounding like both a warning and a promise.
His eyes were crazed and wild as he looked down at the friction where your bodies joined. “Gonna give you everythin’ you need. Just stay... stay for me, little doll. Let me put a baby in you.”
Your head was rolling back against the pillow, your face drenched in sweat as your vision swam. You were still coming undone, your mind a hazy blur.
“H-huh…?” you managed to whimper with a tired slur of your words. “W-what was that—?”
One of his hands drew up from your hip to your neck, pinning you in place, while the other found your thigh, spreading you wider and bending it back so he could pound into you deeper—making the mattress and wooden bedframe shake and bolt against the cabin wall.
“Oh my god—!”
“Don’t you worry your pretty head ‘bout it,” he grunted, his breath hot and uneven against your ear. “M’just tellin’ you how it’s gonna be. I’m gonna keep this pussy pumped so full of me, you won’t ever remember what it’s like to be without it.”
He pulled back almost all the way, dragging out the pleasure until you cried out, before slamming back in until the hairs on his pelvis hit your slit.
“You’re gonna stay right here,” he reminded you darkly. “Nothin’ but my shirts on your back so I don’t have to waste time undressin’ you. Just easy access... every time I walk through that door, I’m gonna bend you over the table, the bed, the porch... and I’m gonna remind you who you belong to.”
The filth of his words and the overstimulated stretch of your walls was nearly enough to make you pass out.
“I’m gonna fill you up every single night, little doll,” he hissed, his pace becoming uneven and desperate as he felt his own climax nearing. “Until you’re waddlin’ around this cabin carryin’ my name... carryin’ my blood. You’re never leavin’, understand? You’re mine to breed.”
When you didn’t answer right away, he lightly squeezed your throat, making you gasp.
“Understand, sweets?”
“Y-yes,” was all you could muster weakly and tiredly, not understanding enitrely as all you felt was overwhelming pleasure. “Never leaving… fill me…”
You repeated the last few words you remembered him saying, and that was your downfall.
“Yeah?” he huffed a prideful laugh, like he finally had everything he wanted right here—right beneath him. “You gonna make me a daddy?”
His heart leapt in his throat, balls drawing tight as he felt himself finally reaching the edge. This was perfect—a pretty pussy to fuck whenever he pleased, and an even prettier woman to take care of.
Bucky’s entire body buckled, and he let out a loud roar that made you flinch—it sounded more like an animal than a man. His back arched as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself so deep it made you cry out again, his pelvis bottoming out against you.
A thick, hot rush of cum flooded into you, a heavy and pulsing warmth that seemed to go on and on.
His eyes rolled back and his teeth bared in a primal snarl as his entire frame shuddered with his release. He was pumping you full, emptying every bit of himself deep into your womb.
“Fuck—baby—!” he choked out, voice strained and cracking.
He didn’t pull out, even when his cock was completely spent and overworked inside you. Even as his body stilled and his length throbbed tiredly against your used, overstimulated walls, he stayed buried to the hilt.
He panted, his heavy chest heaving against yours as he kept you pinned firmly into the mattress. He was soaking you, making a complete mess of your insides just like he promised.
“There… fuck,” he rasped, his sweaty forehead dropping to rest against yours. “Puttin’ a baby in there right now—you feel it, don’t you? You feel how much I'm givin’ you?”
You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. You had absolutely no energy left in your spent body.
All you could smell was the thick scent of sex and sweat, and the only light in the room came from the bedside lamp, which was now flickering weakly.
Then came the thunder. Rain began to pour, hitting against the cabin roof and the surrounding forest floor harshly. Bucky shifted his body, pulling you into his arms and dragging your limp body against his chest, pressing soft, and sweet kisses against your sweaty skin.
“There’s the storm, baby,” he cooed gently, his voice prideful as he proved himself right yet again.
“I told you. You aren’t goin’ anywhere.”
sitting in the drafts since new years oh nah someone save me 🥀 once again, this is my contribution for art's moodboard event hosted here! please be sure to check out the incredible writers who put out their work so far!
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warnings: 18+ NSFW, smut, friends with benefits, secret relationships, jealousy, blood and wounds, war, fluff, angst, light banter, mutual pining, slight chef!bob x reader moment, possessive sex, pussy pronouns, breeding kink
wordcount: 12.2k
a/n: based on this request. thank you sm for the suggestion because it helped me out of my slump. ohhh knight!bucky how i yearn for you
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synopsis:
A maidservant’s only job is to tend to the princess's every whim. But despite the warnings of everyone around you, you can't help but fall for the one person you shouldn't, and that was the kingdom's trustiest knight and the princess’s sole protector—James Barnes.
Being the maidservant of a princess came with both its advantages and disadvantages.
You were constantly on your feet, up before the sun rose and down long after it set. Your body was in a permanent state of ache and strain from lifting heavy baskets of laundry up and down several flights of stairs, and your fingers were often raw from the needle poking through thick fabrics.
Princess Daphne always barked the wildest commands, keeping you and the other maidservants running around the palace to satisfy her every whim and desire.
It was hard, tedious work, but it gave you a roof over your head and a decent enough pay. And in this day and age, with the war against Sokovia, protection was the most important thing.
You could live in a beautiful home, but none of it mattered if Sokovian soldiers could barge past the kingdom gates at any moment with their weapons and horses at the ready.
With knights posted at every corner, the palace became your sanctuary.
There was one knight in particular who always seemed to linger near the maidservants’ chambers on the highest floor. A window sat right outside your room in the hallway, offering a clear view of the grounds where that same knight always stood on guard.
“James,” you greeted him with a sigh, still catching your breath from the long climb up the stairs.
He turned toward you, his usually tense, focused shoulders easing slightly at the sight of you.
A small, rare, and gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips.
“You know—when it’s just me and you, you don’t have to call me James.”
A sheepish flush crept over your face as you approached him.
There was a true sense of family among the palace workers; the bond between the maidservants was like a sisterhood, and you were close with many of the chefs. Late at night, when the palace fell asleep, you and the other servants would gather at the kitchen tables to laugh and drink long past midnight.
The knights hardly ever got the time off or the leisure that you and the other maids enjoyed. But for Bucky, just seeing and talking to you was enough.
He stepped toward you, his heavy armor clinking with every movement. “Long day?”
“Mhm,” you mumbled tiredly.
Finally stripped away from the presence of royalty, you were free to speak as sluggishly and as improperly as you liked.
A soft exhale left Bucky’s nose. His right hand—flesh and human—came up to caress your cheek, while the other, metal and forged by the kingdom’s greatest blacksmith, cradled the other side of your face.
The touch was cold and made you shiver, but nonetheless, it was still Bucky.
Your Bucky.
“Sleepy girl,” he muttered, his thumb tracing your cheek as he stared down at you, strands of long, dark hair falling over his face. “You’ve been working so hard, haven’t you?”
A little whine left your mouth as you stepped closer into his space, letting yourself bask in his touch.
He chuckled softly, pulling you against his chest and pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
“I should let you retreat to your bedchambers,” he spoke quietly. “But I don’t want to let you go. I haven’t seen you all day. Is that selfish of me?”
“Very selfish of you, James.”
“I told you not to call me that.”
You smiled, tilting your head back against his chest to look him in the eye. “Oh—I apologize, Bucky.” You teased.
Bucky grinned, his hand trailing down to your chin and lifting it, presenting your lips to him—the prize he’d been seeking all day.
“That’s my girl,” he mumbled.
Just as he leaned in to find the salvation he’d been starving for, the door to your bedchamber swung open. Your roommate, Yelena, poked her head out and scrunched her nose in disgust.
“Ew,” she dragged out childishly. “Is this what you knights usually do on your time off? Stick your tongue down an unassuming maidservant’s throat?”
Your face burned with embarrassment as Bucky pulled away, glaring daggers in Yelena’s direction.
He clicked his tongue. “Unassuming,” he repeated in a grumble.
He looked back down at you with a soft, disappointed sigh.
“I shall let you rest.” Using his gloved hand, he brought your fingers to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to the back of your palm. “Goodnight, maiden.”
Bucky stepped aside as you retreated toward your bedchambers. Yelena held the door open with her body, arms folded tightly across her chest as she continued to glare him down.
“Yelena,” you hissed at her quietly as you slipped inside, “stop.”
After throwing one last look over her shoulder at Bucky, Yelena finally pulled the door closed. Inside, your roommates and fellow maidservants were already settled for the night, snug and comfortable on their cots.
Natasha was brushing out her hair, a knowing, teasing glint in her eyes. “Did you have fun with soldier boy out there?”
You gasped softly at her direct question. “N-Nat—!”
“You know, soldier boy didn’t even spare us a glance when we walked up the stairs,” Wanda added, swinging her feet over the edge of her bed as she stood up. “It’s as if the knight recognizes the sound of your footsteps by heart.”
All eyes were on you, and you wished the floor would simply open up and swallow you whole to save you from the relentless teasing.
“You ladies are unbelievable—”
“Am I the only one who doesn’t find this funny in the slightest?” Yelena barked, a disapproving look on her face. She glared harshly at Nat, then Wanda, and finally you. “If word gets out that a maidservant is having an affair with a knight—no, the Sergeant himself—we’re all ruined!”
You frowned, undoing the ties in your hair as you made your way to your side of the room.
“I wouldn’t call it an affair,” you explained. “We haven’t put a title on…” You swallowed hard, twisting the hair tie between your fingers, “…this arrangement.”
Yelena ran a hand down her face. “That’s even worse!”
“Yelena, calm down,” Natasha cut in, glancing at you from her bed. “But as harsh as she's being, she is right.”
You kept your head down, trying to appear fixated on the hair ties and pins scattered across your dresser. You knew they were right—that being in any kind of relationship with one of the kingdom’s knights was nothing but trouble.
Especially when the knight in question was Sergeant Barnes—the very man entrusted to watch over the princess.
“You are in love,” Wanda pointed out gently from across the room. “We can see that. But you have to believe us—we’re only looking out for you.” She approached you, setting a gentle hand on your shoulder. “Falling in love with a knight will bring nothing but heartache.”
Words were just words until they were spoken by the right person. Yelena and Natasha could doubt you and Bucky all they wanted—but it was Wanda’s voice that truly made the realization sting.
Because Wanda was a maidservant who had fallen for a knight, just like you.
His name was Vision, and he had been felled in a battle against Sokovian soldiers. While they were deep in their secret affair, they had been told the same things over and over.
“You could get us all in trouble.”
“You’re only thinking for yourself.”
But before word could ever get out about Wanda and Vis, he passed away, leaving Wanda to grieve in total isolation.
She couldn’t even attend his funeral, and her name couldn’t be left in his will.
It pained you because, despite the sanctuary and comfort of living in the palace, you still wanted more. You wanted to be with the man who stood just outside your bedchambers.
“I know,” you said quietly, looking up at the other girls and forcing a smile to show them you were okay—that this was okay. “And I understand. I won’t let it come between us.”
It was a promise you had made countless times, but you knew you would always run back to him.
You were kneeling on the floor, adjusting the hem of Princess Daphne’s dress as her blue eyes bored into the large window to her right rather than the full body mirror in front of her.
“Is it just me, or are the roses in the garden unkempt?”
There was no one else in the room, so this was her attempt at a conversation. Most of these ended with her complaining about some minor issue, leaving you to simply nod in agreement.
You glanced over your shoulder, taking in the roses. They didn’t look out of place—maybe a few weeds were overgrown nearby, but nothing unruly.
“The roses do look unkempt these days, Your Royal Highness,” you agreed anyway, bringing your attention back to the skirts.
She hummed. “The gardener has been fruitless lately, has he not?”
“I believe Mister Alexei has been feeling unwell, Your Royal Highness,” you explained politely.
Princess Daphne raised a brow, looking down at you as you fluffed her skirt. “Whatever for?”
You pressed your lips together, glancing up to meet the princess’s eyes. “His wife passed away, Your Royal Highness.”
“I see,” she sighed softly. “That’s a shame.”
You stayed quiet as you continued to fix her dress. You finally rose from the floor, letting out a soft groan as you pulled yourself up. You smiled, admiring your own handiwork on the princess’s back, but her mind seemed preoccupied with something else.
“All finished—”
“I would like for you to tend the gardens today.”
You blinked at the sudden request. “I… the gardens?”
“You fill the vases with the most precious and stunning flowers every morning,” she said with a guileless smile. “So, I am entrusting you to tend the gardens.”
You truly didn’t know what to say.
You had never been ordered to work the grounds before—sure, you might have plucked a stray weed or offered a hand to Alexei when the days in the palace were slow and long, but never like this. That was what a gardener was for.
But knowing Princess Daphne, she couldn’t tell the difference between someone arranging a bouquet and someone maintaining an entire estate.
And you were nothing but a maidservant. How could you refuse, anyway?
“I… yes,” you bowed your head. “It will be done, Your Royal Highness.”
“Wonderful!” Princess Daphne beamed, clasping her gloved hands together as she stepped off the pedestal without your assistance. “I expect the roses to be vibrant and lively once I return from my promenade!”
Once Princess Daphne left her bedroom, you stayed behind to tidy the mess she had left in her wake. When the room was back in order, you made your way down to the gardens.
Outside, the sun was baking the garden soil. Your nostrils were immediately hit with the scent of dirt and blooming jasmines.
You managed to find a pair of old, oversized gardening gloves—likely Alexei’s—in a shed, and after tucking your skirts as best you could, you dropped to your knees before the rosebushes. The work started easy, clearing away small weeds and tossing them into a pile.
But then, a thick rooted weed tucked right at the base of a vibrant red rose was giving you a run for your money.
You gripped it tight, bracing your feet against the stone path, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Come on,” you hissed under your breath, your face heating up from both the sun and the exertion.
With a frustrated huff, you desperately heaved, putting your entire body weight into it. The root finally snapped, but the sudden lack of resistance sent you flying backward. You tumbled through the air like a fool, losing your balance until you landed with a dull thud right in the middle of a freshly turned hydrangea bed.
The Queen’s favorite flower.
You sat there for a moment, stunned, with your legs sprawled out and dirt smeared all over your… toosh.
The heavy clinking of metal hit the stone pavement, stalking closer and closer. Bucky loomed over you, his long hair catching the light from behind as his heavy cape draped over his shoulders. He didn’t offer a hand immediately, wanting to take in the sight of you sprawled out and dirty.
He rested his gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, a slow, devastatingly handsome grin spreading across his smug face.
“Don’t tell me the princess has you working her gardens now.”
You looked around to see if anyone else was near, but it was just him.
“Bucky,” you greeted with a breathless smile. “Don’t tell me the princess has you clearing the garden perimeters.”
Bucky’s grin widened as he extended a hand. When you took it, he lifted you from the dirt with ease.
“If the princess believes there are any threats out here, you can start by eradicating these,” you said, lifting the weed in your hand for emphasis.
He chuckled softly, reaching out to brush away a bit of soil that had caught in your hair.
“No, actually,” he said. “The princess sent for me. She wants me to accompany her on her promenade through town.”
“Oh,” your smile faded slightly. “I see.”
Bucky nodded, standing tall in his armor. All you could think about was how, while the man you loved was out strolling and shopping with the princess, you would be here in the dirt, working far beyond your usual station.
He tilted his head, leaning down slightly to get a better look at your expression. “Is there something troubling you?”
I don’t want you to promenade with the princess, even if it is your job.
I want you to stay here with me instead.
“Nothing,” you lied, forcing a smile as you clutched the weed tighter in your gloved hand. “It’s a lovely day outside for a promenade—I’m sure it’ll be a good change of pace from guarding the palace all day.”
Bucky furrowed his brow, noting the way your shoulders slightly slumped and how your voice had grown quiet. He reached out and caught your hand with his gloved one, running his thumb gently over your knuckles.
“The promenade won’t last forever,” he promised, his eyes searching yours. “And once you’ve finished tucking the Princess into bed, I’ll be posted near the gazebo south of the palace.”
He stepped even closer until his tall frame shadowed yours, the cold metal of his chest piece brushing against your bodice.
“Meet me there,” he whispered, his thumb still tracing slow, gentle circles over your knuckles. “Behind the willow trees. No other knights patrol that far down, and the sound of the water will drown out... everything else.”
Drown out everything else.
You knew exactly what he meant. This wasn’t the first time you two had snuck away past your working hours just to find comfort in each other’s arms.
Bucky’s gaze dropped to your lips for a quick, hungry second before he pulled back just slightly to maintain appearances.
“Tonight, after the moon hits its peak,” he murmured, quiet and low. “Don’t make me wait for you, sweetheart.”
Your heart thumped faster in your chest. Now, the only thing left to do was count the hours until you were in Bucky’s arms again—a thought that made the day drag on far slower, despite the mountains of work piled up before you.
“Tonight,” you repeated with a genuine smile. “I shall be there.”
Bucky smiled softly, satisfied with your answer. “Good—”
“Sergeant Barnes!” the King shouted from across the garden, where he stood by the shade.
Bucky’s body went stiff as a board, his hand instantly dropping from yours as he snapped into a formal salute. You quickly stepped away, desperately brushing the loose soil from your skirts and keeping your head bowed low.
“Your Majesty,” Bucky’s voice lacked the warmth he shared with you just a moment ago.
He moved toward the King, leaving you behind without another glance.
The King didn’t even spare a look at the messy hydrangeas or at you—the dirt smudged maidservant trembling beside them. His eyes were fixed solely on his most trusted knight.
“Sergeant, the Princess is ready for her departure,” the King lectured with authority. “Why are you lingering in the gardens when your charge is waiting at the carriage?”
“My apologies, Sire,” Bucky replied, a mask of stoicism and professionalism taking over him. “I was merely ensuring the perimeter was secure before leaving the grounds. I am headed to the stables now.”
The King gave a curt, stiff nod, though he didn’t look pleased. “See that you are. In these times, the Princess’s safety is paramount. We cannot have our best men distracted by trivialities.”
The King’s gaze flickered momentarily toward you—a cold, passing look that made you feel like nothing more than a piece of garden furniture—before he turned back to Bucky.
“Move along, Sergeant.”
“At once, Your Majesty,” Bucky said.
He turned to leave, but for a split second, while the King’s attention was turned away, Bucky’s gaze broke rank.
Over his shoulder, he stole one last look at you. You were already back on your knees, picking at the weeds, and Bucky’s heart clenched. He wished he could spend his days right next to you.
In his eyes, you shouldn’t be the one picking the flowers, but rather the one receiving them.
But all he could do for now was tear his gaze away and head for the stables.
With the Princess gone and the garden task finally completed, you followed the distant yet familiar sounds of clinking copper and boisterous laughter down into the belly of the palace.
The kitchens were a different world entirely. As soon as you pushed through the heavy doors, the scent of roasting garlic, fresh rosemary, and baking bread enveloped you—a welcome relief, even after being stuck outdoors in the fresh air all morning.
At the center of the room, several maidservants were perched on the edge of the prep tables, their legs swinging as they broke fresh bread and shared it with the kitchen crew.
“Look what the cat dragged in!” Yelena called out, her mouth half full of loaf. She beckoned you over with a sticky hand. “You look like you’ve been rolling in the trenches.”
Natasha looked up from where she was leaning against the counter, a cup of cider in her hand. “And it looks like you didn’t have your knight in shining armor to save you this time.”
“That’s because the Princess is strolling through town today, which means Sergeant Barnes is busy looking after her,” John, one of the cooks, mentioned from across the kitchen, not looking up from his work.
Wanda motioned for you to take the empty seat next to her. “Hours have passed, and the Princess should be returning soon. Eat now, unless you want to wait until midnight.”
Your stomach grumbled as you stepped deeper into the kitchen to claim your spot.
“I’m starving,” you groaned tiredly, sinking into the seat. “What are you all feasting on?” You smiled, taking in the mountain of bread crumbs and various loaves scattered across the table.
Yelena nodded toward the back of the kitchen. “Bob has been locked away by the ovens all morning. He calls it focaccia—” she lifted a piece of the bread, “apparently, it’s all the rage in the southern kingdoms.”
You glanced over to see Bob carefully dimpling the surface of a fresh loaf with his fingers, drizzling it with a generous amount of olive oil and pressing sprigs of rosemary into the dough.
“He’s even made a special companion for it,” John called over his shoulder, “a savory onion and fig jam.”
Wanda slid a small wooden bowl and a thick, airy slice of the bread toward you. The loaf was golden brown and glistening, pockmarked with herbs that smelled divine. The jam was a deep, thick purple that smelled of caramelized sugar.
“Try it,” Wanda encouraged. “It’s much better than the dry biscuits we usually get. He even added a bit of honey to the jam to cut the salt.”
You tore off a piece, dipped it into the jam, and took a bite. It had a satisfying, golden crunch on the outside but remained soft and pillowy on the inside.
“Mmm!” You beamed, eyes widening as you reached for another piece. “Bob—this is delicious! If you’ve been cooking like this all this time, how haven’t I had a taste until now?”
“It’s because you spend most of your free time with Sergeant Barnes rather than us,” Yelena teased, rolling her eyes, which earned her a sharp nudge in the shoulder from Wanda.
Across the kitchen, Bob’s ears turned a shade of pink that you noticed even from your seat.
“Thank you,” he mumbled, keeping his focus fixed on the dough in front of him. “I’ve been trying something new… so I’m glad you like it.”
“Aw, look at that,” Yelena teased, turning her entire body to stare at the baker. “You’ve got Bob all flustered now.”
John snickered, glancing at Bob, whose face only burned a deeper shade of red.
“Careful with that one, Bob,” he warned, pointing his whisk at you. “Getting too close to her will only get the kingdom’s mightiest soldier’s blade pressed against your throat.”
The entire kitchen barked in laughter at John’s comment. You should have been embarrassed by their relentless teasing, but instead, you just felt bad for Bob. The poor man was stammering in the corner, desperately trying to dismiss the attention.
“Hey now,” you called out, focaccia crumbs still clinging to your lips. “Don’t tease the guy. He’s the only one keeping you all fed.”
Laughter still hung in the air, and for a few minutes—away from the pressure of your chores—you were all just a group of friends rather than a squadron of dirty servants.
The enjoyment continued until the melodic tolling of the courtyard bells rang out. In an instant, as if a switch had flipped inside everyone’s head, the boisterous noise died. Everyone scrambled to their feet to collect themselves.
“The promenade is over,” Natasha said, setting her cider down and wiping her hands on her apron. “Back upstairs, girls. Princess Daphne will be expecting us.”
“I didn’t even finish my loaf!” Yelena’s complaints were ignored by everyone else as they hurried toward the doors.
Wanda stood up, giving your arm a gentle squeeze. “The Princess will likely want a bath and a change of clothes immediately. Go on—I’ll change her sheets so they’re ready for her to lie down.”
You swallowed your barely chewed bite in one hard gulp. “Right. I’m going.”
On your way to greet the Princess, you collected a set of freshly pressed towels along with various soaps and aromatic oils for her bath.
You scrambled up several flights of stairs, lungs burning, hoping to reach her chambers before she did.
With your heart beating wildly in your eardrums, you rounded the corner and stopped short.
Princess Daphne was already lingering at the entrance of her bedroom, but she wasn’t alone.
Bucky was standing right beside her.
And against your better judgment, you pressed yourself into the shadows of the wall, gripping the wicker basket tight as you listened in.
“My knightly duties do not require me to escort you all the way to your chambers, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky said, his tone formal and polite.
Princess Daphne giggled, pressing a gloved hand to her mouth as she flushed beneath the knight’s gaze.
“Please, when it is just us, you must call me Daphne,” she sighed, her voice drifting into something dreamlike. “Just as I shall call you Bucky.”
You felt your heart drop.
As far as you knew, you were the only one who called him Bucky. It was a name he had reserved for the people closest to him. You knew he had served the palace long before you arrived, but the reminder of the closeness he shared with her was a sting that never failed to make your heart ache.
“Thank you for accompanying me on my stroll through town, Bucky,” Princess Daphne continued, as you winced from behind the corner.
“Of course,” Bucky nodded politely. “With the rising tensions against the Sokovians, it is my duty to put your safety above all else.”
“You always make the gloomy days brighter and the dangers feel so much smaller,” she smiled.
“I am glad to hear that, Your Royal Highness,” Bucky hummed, his gaze flickering to the door of her bedchambers. “Shall I take my leave, then?”
The Princess frowned, her expression turning pouty. “I told you to call me Daphne.” She looked around with a sigh. “And no need—it seems my maidservant has yet to arrive—”
Your feet moved before you could think, and you rounded the corner, acting as if you had just arrived and hadn’t been eavesdropping the entire time.
“I apologize for the wait, Your Royal Highness,” you said, bowing politely with the basket still in your hands. “I made sure the towels were freshly warmed for your arrival. I can prepare your bath right away, if you’re ready.”
Bucky turned toward you, his eyes widening slightly in surprise.
“Oh,” Princess Daphne was surprised, her hands folding primly at the front of her dress. “I would like that very much.”
You stood there for a moment with a polite, awkward smile, waiting for the Princess to grant you permission to enter, but she didn’t.
So instead, the three of you remained in a tense, silent standoff.
Bucky’s eyes were fixed on you. His posture was stiff, his gloved hands tightening at his sides as if he were fighting the urge to reach out.
Princess Daphne cleared her throat, glancing at Bucky. “You are dismissed, Sergeant Barnes.”
He didn’t reply immediately—not until the Princess called for him once more, her voice sharper this time. “Sergeant?”
“I… my apologies,” Bucky said, finally turning to face her. He bowed low. “Your Royal Highness.”
He glanced at you, offering nothing more than a short, professional nod. For someone of his rank, it wasn’t customary to acknowledge a maidservant, but as he walked past you, you felt the subtle, intentional graze of his glove against your skirt.
The ghost of his touch made the hair on your arms stand up.
“The bath, then?” Princess Daphne spoke up, snapping you back to attention.
“Yes—of course, Your Royal Highness,” you stammered, scrambling to recover your composure.
You pushed into her bedchambers and moved toward the bathing area, immediately drawing the steaming water.
The Princess followed close behind, peeling off her silk gloves. She didn’t wait for you to ask about her day, as she was already glowing with excitement to recount her afternoon.
“He truly is a marvel, isn’t he?” she sighed, watching the water swirl into the marble basin. “The way the villagers part for him—he has such a presence. Or perhaps it was simply because he was standing beside me. And yet, he was so attentive today. He held my parasol the entire time we crossed the market square without me even having to ask.”
You kept your back to her, focusing on the steam radiating off the tub as your jaw clenched at the image.
“He is a man very dedicated to his duties, My Lady,” you managed to say.
“It’s more than duty,” she countered, her voice drifting into a dreamy haze. “When we stopped by the fountain, he told me that my safety was the only thing on his mind.”
Steam continued to fill the room as the tub rose with nearly scorching water.
You knew, deep down, that Bucky only said those things because it was his job—just as your job was to nod and smile at every word the Princess spoke. But a selfish part of you was seething with jealousy at the thought of anyone else walking by his side.
“Do you think he finds me charming?”
Your eyes widened and the vial of bath oil slipped from your hand, splashing more of the aroma into the water than intended. You turned to look at her, the word “I—” dying on your lips.
“It’s so hard to tell with men like him,” she continued, unlacing her bodice with a sigh. “So stoic. So guarded. But I saw the way he looked at me today!”
There was so much you wanted to say, but the words withered at the sight of her.
Having served her for so long, she had grown comfortable being nearly bare in your presence. As she let her hair fall—the silky blonde locks you had pinned so carefully earlier—her slender, graceful frame made your heart ache.
She was so beautiful, and standing in the same room as someone as beautiful as Princess Daphne felt like a cruel insult to your own heart.
But that was okay, because you would see him tonight. Unlike Princess Daphne, you would see the real version of him—the version of Bucky who gave you nothing but his warmth and his heart.
So, until then, you simply bit your tongue and nodded with a hollow smile.
“It is impossible not to find you charming, Your Royal Highness.”
The night crept on, and while the other maidservants were long asleep, you slipped out of the bedchambers. With quiet, tiptoeing steps, you made your way down the stairs and snuck out the back of the palace toward the gazebo where you and Bucky had agreed to meet.
The night air was cold and breezy, the shawl around your shoulders fluttering in the wind as you treaded through the grass.
Bucky was right—no guards were posted on this side of the palace.
As you sat down, your eyes drifted to the left. Tucked away behind the trees and bushes stood the small cabin where the kitchen crew rested. The lights were out, meaning the cooks were likely all in bed.
While you waited, the only things keeping you company were the hooting of owls and the gentle chirping of crickets.
By now, it was well past midnight, and your earlier excitement was slowly fading into exhaustion.
You found yourself yawning every few seconds, your eyelids growing heavier with each passing minute.
Had Bucky been caught up in other duties?
Had he forgotten?
Or worse—was everything Princess Daphne said true?
Had he realized his heart belonged elsewhere?
An hour had passed, and your heart began to ache the longer you sat alone without a trace of him.
You knew you had to be up early for your morning duties, so with a tired sigh, you pushed yourself off the bench and pulled your shawl tight.
As you stepped down from the gazebo, the sound of crunching grass echoed in the distance. Your eyes snapped open, your heart leaping at the possibility of him finally appearing.
But as the figure stepped into the faint, warm light of the gazebo, your shoulders deflated.
“Bob?” you asked, your voice sounding more disappointed than you intended. “What are you doing out here?”
Bob blinked, looking just as confused as you were. “I stayed behind in the kitchen,” he said, hitching a thumb over his shoulder. “I wanted to perfect the focaccia.” He lifted the loaf, which was carefully wrapped in a white cloth.
He stepped closer into the light, his eyes trailing you up and down. He took note of your thin sleeping gown with nothing but a flimsy shawl to cover the rest of you. Your face warmed in embarrassment as you wrapped the shawl tighter around you, though it salvaged nothing.
“What are you doing out here?” Bob returned the question.
“I’m… um—waiting for someone,” you replied meekly.
Bob glanced around, the crickets filling in the already awkward and suffocating silence when he found no one else near.
“… For how long?”
“I haven’t been out here long,” you lied, only finding yourself more embarrassed being caught in this predicament. “I was just starting to head back, actually.”
Bob pressed his lips together as if he wanted to say something. He knew you weren’t telling the truth, and any worker within the palace could piece two and two together.
Instead of leaving you be, he stepped up into the gazebo to meet you and lifted the loaf in his hands, changing the subject for your comfort.
“I think this is the best loaf I’ve made,” he said, unwrapping the cloth and revealing the gold-crusted focaccia with herbs laced at the top. “Want to share it with me?”
You looked back toward the palace. You really should have gone back inside, knowing just how early you’d have to rise in a few hours to tend to the Princess.
But at the thought of returning to your cold, lonely cot with nothing but the empty promise Bucky left behind, the warmth of a friend didn’t sound bad at all.
“Just for a moment,” you whispered, and Bob smiled gently.
You sat back down on the wooden bench, and Bob settled beside you, careful to maintain a respectful distance. He carefully tore the focaccia in half, the crust crackling over the chirping of the crickets.
“Here,” he said softly, handing you the larger piece. “It’s still warm.”
You took the piece in your hands and bit into it—no jam this time, but the taste was even better than the one you had earlier that day in the kitchen.
It was delicious, and you didn’t even need to shower him with compliments. The satisfied look on your face told Bob everything he needed to know. He smiled, his expression warming as he bit into his own piece.
For a moment, you two just sat there in silence. The only sounds were the crunching of bread and the wind rustling the leaves in the trees. Bob didn’t push for answers or smother you with questions like the girls usually did back in your chambers.
You two just sat there, enjoying each other’s company under the stars.
“You’re an incredible cook, Bob,” you said, gazing up at the dark sky. “I wish people outside of the palace could taste this—it’s exquisite.”
Bob wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his shoulders hunched modestly.
“I told myself that when the war is over, I want to open my own bakery one day.” He looked up at the sky with you. “It’s always been my dream.”
You glanced at Bob. He had such a faraway look in his eyes that your heart could only ache for him.
Sokovian soldiers had been sweeping through the streets, stripping people from their families and tearing down local businesses—wreaking havoc everywhere they went. For the lucky few handselected to work in the comfort of the palace, it was like a dream compared to the world outside.
But even though many workers had aspirations beyond these stone walls, they knew deep down that safety came before all else.
“Well, when you do open up your shop,” you said, nudging him in the shoulder with a reassuring smile, “I’ll be the first one in line.”
Bob smiled at you. “What about you? What do you want to do when the war is over? Will you stay here at the palace?”
“Does anyone actually want to stay at the palace?” you joked, and he chuckled softly.
“No. I want what any other woman would want. I want to get married, have my own family—” Your smile faded slightly at the thought. “Maybe a cottage somewhere deep in the forest, by a river. A place where my husband can go hunting while I stay home with the baby.”
But even if the war ended tomorrow, you knew that future was a ghost.
Even if everything went exactly as planned, the only person you could imagine sharing that life with was Bucky—and he was the Sergeant of the Howling Commandos. They were the elite, the knights specifically curated to guard and protect the royal family at all costs.
He could never leave his post, even if he wanted to.
Bob knew it, too. It was why he didn’t press you with more questions. He simply rested a hand on your shoulder, offering a silent sympathy.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You forced a smile. “It’s okay.”
Another silence settled between you, the crickets filling the space before Bob sucked in a breath to continue.
“I know you hear this plenty of times,” he started gently, “but you deserve so much better than—”
“Hey!”
A rough voice shouted from across the yard, followed by the sound of heavy boots thumping frantically against the grass. Both of you snapped your heads up, and your breath hitched at the sight of Bucky.
He looked as though he hadn’t slept in days.
He looked angry, his entire body tense, and his left hand—the cold metal of his prosthetic—rested firmly over the hilt of his sword.
Bob scrambled to his feet, hands raised in surrender to show he meant no harm. You quickly stood up beside him.
“James—”
“What the hell are you doing past your post at this hour?” Bucky seethed. He didn’t even look at you—his icy glare was focused entirely on Bob and Bob only.
“I—I was just about to head to bed, sir,” Bob stammered, his hands still raised. “I was just finishing up some work in the kitchen and—”
“Bullshit,” Bucky spat, stepping into the faint light of the gazebo. “All I see is a mere cook who has forgotten his place—a foolish boy who thinks he’s entitled to roam the grounds after dark. You’re a cook, Reynolds. Your duty begins and ends at the stove.”
You winced at his cruelty. You knew Bucky could be rough—it was how he had earned his rank, but Bob didn’t deserve this.
“James, calm down—”
“You will not tell me to calm down, for you are interloping on palace grounds as well,” Bucky snapped, cutting you off so harshly that you flinched.
“I meant no disrespect, sir,” Bob whispered, his voice trembling.
“Then get out of my sight before I decide your presence here is a threat,” Bucky threatened, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword. “Back to your hole, baker. Now.”
“Y-yes, sir!”
Bob scrambled down the steps of the gazebo, sparing one last, sympathetic glance over his shoulder before retreating toward the dark cabins. Bucky watched him with a tense jaw, his face twisted in disdain until Bob reached the door and shut it behind him.
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Bucky had never spoken to you like that.
Usually, your meetings were filled with the hushed, gentle tones he shared with no one else. But tonight, he spoke to you as if you were just another servant—and that hurt more than his shouting. Instead of running to him for a hug as you usually did, you stayed rooted to the floor of the gazebo, your body tense, unsure of what he would do next.
Bucky slowly turned back to you, his eyes piercing, cold, and completely unwelcoming.
He stepped fully into the gazebo, his gaze trailing down your thin nightgown before landing on the white cloth Bob had left behind on the bench. He picked it up slowly, examining it as if it were evidence of a crime.
“You broke bread with the boy?”
You didn’t dare to speak.
“Answer me,” Bucky commanded.
“I waited for you,” you said instead, your voice trembling.
Bucky fell silent, the cloth in his hands lowering at your quiet admission. For a moment, it seemed as though he had been snapped out of his defensive daze, and you took the opportunity to continue.
“I waited for over an hour,” you said, wrapping the shawl tighter around your body defensively. “I have to rise in merely four hours—you know that. And yet...” Your voice started to shake, your face scrunching as you tried to will away tears. “You stood me up.”
Bucky parted his lips to speak, but you breezed right through him.
“Not only that—but you treated Bob with such blatant disrespect! He’s my friend, and he did nothing but keep me company and feed me!”
Bucky’s eyebrow twitched at that, his voice coming out pettier than he intended. “I didn’t realize that kid was of such importance to you.”
You blinked, your face scrunching at his words. “Don’t tell me,” you scoffed lightly in disbelief. “Are you jealous?”
He made a face. He could deny it all he wanted, but the way his jaw set told you the truth.
“I am many things,” he said stiffly. “But jealous? I am not.”
You crossed your arms over your chest, shaking your head. “Oh, I’m sure.”
“And even if I was,” Bucky stepped closer, invading your space until he was looking down at you. You made no effort to move, standing your ground despite the height difference. “Is that so wrong?”
Your brows furrowed. “Funny for you to say. I heard you had an excellent time being out with the Princess today.”
Bucky’s face became a mask of confusion. “What?”
“About how charming you were,” you said with bitterness. “She said you held her parasol and that you looked at her… differently.”
Bucky let out a dry, humorless rasp of a laugh, running his gloved right hand through his hair.
“Looking at her differently? That’s unbelievable,” he scoffed. “And you know it is my job to do as I am told.” He took another step, his shadow completely looming over you. “And charming, is it? What do you think? Am I charming?”
He was taunting you now, but you refused to let him distract you from the fact that he had stood you up.
“You’re ridiculous, James,” you spat. Your hands tightened on your shawl as you tried to push past him, but he grabbed your arm firmly enough to hold you in place.
“Wait—” he sighed, his shoulders finally easing as the defensive walls came down. “I’m sorry. It was never my intention to stand you up—I swear it.”
He squeezed your arm gently—a silent plea for you to hear him out.
“I was with the General,” he spoke, his voice getting quieter. “The meeting… it went on for hours. There were maps, ledgers, reports from the front. It’s Sokovia. The news is bad, and the King is panicked.”
He met your eyes, and you could finally see the raw regret and exhaustion behind them. “The Sokovian line is breaking through the southern pass. It’s getting worse, and the General is scrambled. He spent three hours arguing over troop placements and supply routes—I… I couldn’t just walk out.”
Bucky tugged on your arm gently, guiding you to face him. His left hand moved to your chin, his thumb stroking your cheek to keep your focus on him as he explained.
“I was supposed to leave tonight. Right after the meeting adjourned, I was ordered on a scouting mission to the front lines. I wouldn’t have even had time to find you to say goodbye.”
Bucky was leaving?
You sucked in a sharp breath, a wave of regret washing over you for being so quick with your accusations.
“But… you’re still here,” you whispered, your eyes searching his.
“I am,” he nodded, tilting his head down to stay in your line of sight. “Rogers and Wilson… they volunteered to take the mission in my stead. They’re out there right now, just so I could be here—with you.”
Bucky’s hands trailed from your face down to your arms, eventually finding your hands and cradling them in his larger palms. He brought your hands up to his face and leaned down, pressing soft, gentle kisses to your knuckles.
“There is never a moment where I’m not thinking of you, and God—the thought of you waiting for me this entire time… I can’t even fathom it,” his voice broke as he pressed another kiss to your skin, looking up at you through his lashes. “I swear to you—I would never leave you alone.”
He stood tall again, releasing one of your hands while his other crept up to tangle in the hair at the nape of your neck. He tilted your head back slightly, holding your gaze under the dim gazebo light.
“And as for that outburst earlier…” He exhaled, the sharp edges of his pride finally softening into embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I’ve been on edge, is all. I never meant to take it out on you, my dear.”
Bucky didn’t wait for verbal forgiveness—he took it from the silence and the way you gazed up at him, your eyes softening in the moonlight.
He leaned in, his breath warm against your chilled skin before his lips finally met yours. It was a soft, yet desperate press, a low groan escaping him at the feeling of your warmth against his own.
When he pulled back, it was only to pepper kisses across your forehead, his eyes closed tight as if he were memorizing every inch of you.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a gravelly, broken thing.
He kissed your temple, then the tip of your nose, his hands sliding from your hair down to the small of your back to pull you flush against his chest, you shivered from the cold armor. “A beautiful, beautiful sight.”
You sighed softly, your body unable to help but crave his touch—to crave him.
And all Bucky wanted to do was make love to you.
He stepped back, his eyes never leaving yours as he began to remove his armor pieces one by one. You moved to take your shawl off, setting it on the bench behind you as you reached for the straps of your dress.
“No,” Bucky cut you off coldly. “Keep it on. I want to tear through it myself.”
You swallowed hard, your face warming as you obeyed. You stood there, watching him as he watched you with hungry eyes. As he stripped away the layers of leather and steel, his breathing grew heavier. When he reached his belt, his fingers fumbled clumsily for a moment before he stepped back into your space.
He closed the distance again, his lips trailing down the line of your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a shaky breath, your head tilting back to give him better access as his mouth explored you.
“I’ve missed you,” he mumbled, the words muffled against your throat. He began to suckle gently, marking you between words. “God, I’ve missed you so much it hurts.”
“I’ve missed you so much too, Bucky,” you moaned softly. “So much.”
Bucky groaned against your skin, satisfied by your confession as his touches grew needier. His metal hand trembled slightly as it gripped your waist, pulling you so close there wasn’t any space left between you.
He whispered sweet nothings into the crook of your neck, each sentence making you writhe beneath him. “You smell so good.” “You’re so soft.” “So pretty.”
Bucky’s hands were everywhere all at once, a contrast of heat and cold as he explored the curves he had spent all day dreaming about. His flesh hand groped at your hip while his metal fingers seared through the thin fabric of your nightgown, mapping out the expanse of your lower back.
“I’m sorry,” he rasped against your ear. “I’m so sorry for keeping you waiting, my dear. I’m going to make it up to you. I promise.”
Your heart raced as his lips found yours again. His tongue pushed past, sweeping against yours as he kissed you hungrily.
Now stripped of his armor, Bucky pressed his hips forward, and you gasped softly at the feel of him—his cock, thick and hard, straining against his pants as it poked against your lower belly.
Your body already felt so empty without him. There was a building ache between your legs that only he could remedy.
“Bucky,” you sighed softly against his mouth. “I need you.”
“I know, my dear,” Bucky groaned, rolling his hips against your stomach once more, letting you feel just how hard he was for you. “You don’t know how badly I needed you today.”
His hands wandered down to grope your bottom through your dress, bunching the fabric in his fists as he lifted it up past the curve of your ass to squeeze you more.
“Missed your legs wrapped tight around me,” he breathed. “Missed you moaning my name.”
Bucky couldn’t wait any longer.
His strong arms wrapped tight around your body, picking you up and laying you gently on the floor of the gazebo. He spread your legs, nestling himself between them. With a rough hand, he found the hem of your skirt and lifted it past your thighs, exposing your undergarments. He impatiently found the waistband, tugging them down roughly past your legs to expose you to the cool night air and his hungry gaze.
“Fuck,” he muttered, his tongue darting out to wet his lips at the sight of your glistening cunt—already puffy and begging for him, and he hadn’t even put it in yet.
“She missed me, hasn’t she?” he hummed, staring at your pussy as he began palming himself over his pants. He felt pre-cum trickle at the tip, staining the front of his trousers. “Bet I can just slide in so easily. She wouldn’t even put up a fight.”
You watched, breathless, as Bucky pulled himself out of his pants. His cock sprang forth, so thick and so heavy, as pre-cum dripped from the tip and onto the floor.
“Christ,” you said, voicing your thoughts out loud.
Bucky grinned, his flesh hand gripping the shaft as he pumped himself slow and steady. “When was the last time we fucked, sweetheart?”
You swallowed hard, trying to mask your embarrassment at his vulgar words. “I… I don’t know. Nine… ten days ago?”
Bucky hummed. “Haven’t fucked you for a little over a week and you’re already seeking attention from other men, aren’t you?”
Your eyes widened at his words, and you couldn’t help a small, huffing laugh. He really was jealous—and that jealousy only seemed to spur him on, because his cock twitched in his hand as he stroked himself.
“Gotta claim you again,” he mumbled so quietly, it was like he was speaking to himself. “Gotta remind you who you belong to.”
With his metal hand bracing his weight over you, he rubbed his cock up and down your cunt, soaking himself in your juices. Your back arched off the floor, your hips wiggling for more of him, but Bucky only clicked his tongue.
“What an eager little thing,” he taunted.
“Bucky,” you whined, wiggling your hips until your entrance caught his tip. “Pl-please...”
Bucky groaned, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt your warm, wet opening catch around his sensitive tip.
He was so hard it was nearly painful. He had planned to take his time and savor this moment—but with the war in the back of his mind, he felt a desperate, driving need to fuck you as hard and as much as he could while he was still alive.
With a low growl, his hand found the back of your thigh, hiking it up and spreading you wide. With half of his tip already inside, he adjusted himself so he could sink even deeper.
“Goddamn,” he breathed, his muscles straining with the effort it took not to fuck you into the floor right then and there. “Just as I thought—so fucking wet… can just… slide right in.”
You hissed, your hands finding Bucky’s broad, bare back and clawing at the muscle as his thick cock stretched you out with each passing thrust. You could feel him throbbing deep inside you—searingly hot as your cunt welcomed him.
“Mine,” Bucky gritted through clenched teeth as you bottomed out against his pelvis, sheathing him completely.
To him, the feeling of your pussy was like a much needed, warm, tight hug after a long, stressful day.
“Ten days,” he breathed against your ear. “Ten fucking days—don’t think I’m gonna last long inside you, baby.”
“Don’t care,” you mumbled, wrapping your legs tight around his waist. “I just want to feel you, Bucky. Every inch of you.”
Bucky groaned, his flesh hand sliding up to your neck and applying pressure. He held your gaze, his eyes dark and blown out with lust, as he began rocking his hips back and forth. He moved slowly and sensually, forcing you to feel every swollen pulsing ridge and vein.
The sound of your pussy squelching around him filled the quiet gazebo. The mating press position made you feel utterly helpless—completely and devastingly stuffed.
“Oh my—Buck, too… too much.”
“Too much?” he repeated raspily, staring deep into your eyes as he continued to fuck you slow. “But sweetheart, this is me taking my time with you. You’ve taken harder.”
“I know,” you winced, your legs squeezing him tighter. “It’s just been… ten days—”
“Ten days and you’ve already gotten so tight for me again,” he murmured, his pace increasing. “Means you haven't been fucking anyone else.”
Your face burned as you stammered, “Of course not—”
The words that left your lips made Bucky’s heart soar and his cock pulse.
With a sharp exhale, he increased the pace. His thrusts slapped harder and deeper, making you bounce against the floor as you clung to him. The wet, vulgar sound of his skin hitting yours echoed under the gazebo roof, a testament to his hunger for you.
Bucky looked down at you, taking in the sight of your dress hiked up and ruined, your hair fanned out across the floor. You looked so beautifully destroyed, and something in him only wanted to ruin you more.
“Jesus,” he muttered, his blue eyes trailing down to where your bare hips tilted to meet him. He watched in awe as his cock disappeared in and out of you, his shaft slick.
“You look so good like this,” he rasped, his metal hand digging into your thigh to spread you even wider. “Sprawled out for me. Mine. Just mine.”
Bucky leaned in, his teeth grazing your exposed shoulder as his movements became sloppier and uneven.
“Seeing you like this always makes it so damn hard to leave,” he rasped against you, his balls growing heavier with each thrust. “Makes me want to do things to make sure you stay.”
You were a babbling mess beneath him, your voice reduced to broken sobs and incoherent pleas. You couldn’t even form words anymore, just soft, high pitched whimpers that only made Bucky’s grip on you tighten.
“I want to breed you,” Bucky confessed shamelessly. “Wanna give you a piece of me—so when I’m out there fighting, or when you’re away from me, you’ll still have me. I want to pump you so full that you’ll always be carrying a part of me.”
You body clenched at the implication of his words. He groaned at your tightness, gritting his teeth as he continued.
“Need to…” Bucky thrust deep, “pump you full…” He felt his balls growing tighter, felt himself getting closer. “Going to have to make you my girl for good.”
Your eyes rolled back as Bucky used your body for his pleasure. He was so much bigger than you, so much stronger, and all you could do was be the woman he needed as he fucked himself into you. You moaned, your body getting wetter and tighter as you felt yourself getting close.
The gazebo and the starlit sky above started to blur as tears prickled your eyes from the overwhelming sensation of being fucked.
“You like that?” Bucky breathed warmly against your skin. “You like the idea of being full of me? Of my own seed... dripping down your pretty legs?”
Your head was spinning as you nodded frantically.
“Yes!” you cried out. “Yes, Bucky—please! I’m yours… all yours—I want to be full of you!”
“Fuck,” Bucky moaned. With your hands still tight around his shoulders, he circled both his arms around your waist, lifting you from the ground and pulling you flush against his chest.
He repositioned you until you were straddling his lap, held aloft by his strength alone. Bucky’s arms wrapped tight around your body—the scent of sweat and sex mingling as he buried his face in the crook of your neck.
“Bounce on it, baby,” he muttered roughly. “Fuck—bounce on me ‘til I cum.”
Your fingers laced through his long, dark hair, giving it a tug as you fucked yourself down onto his cock.
Bucky groaned, his head pressing into your shoulder as his hands moved from your waist to your hips, his thumbs digging into your skin to help guide your rhythm. Every time you moved down, he met you with a hard thrust upward that sent sparks through your body.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as you began to quiver and squeeze around him. “Just like that.”
“Bucky… I’m—I’m going to—”
“I know, baby,” he rasped, holding you tighter against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere.
“D-don’t go,” you whimpered against him, your body tightening as you clenched around his cock, letting yourself unravel all over him.
Bucky growled, low and deep in his throat, as his arms pinned you tight against his chest. With one last rough thrust deep into your cunt, he finally broke.
Thick spurts of cum surged from him as he began pumping you full. He slowly rocked his hips in gentle motions, letting his seed settle and mix inside the heat of your body.
“Good girl,” he praised with a gravelly rasp. “My sweet, precious girl.”
You let yourself melt into his touch as you two fought to catch your breaths.
Still perched on his lap, you felt him nuzzle his face into your chest, his hands roaming your back gently, mapping every inch of you as he came down from his high.
“So perfect,” he mumbled.
You looked down at him through your lashes, and the sight of him made your heart ache. You wanted to stay like this forever—with Bucky always by your side, holding you and making sweet love to you while he praised you with gentle words you wouldn’t want to hear from anyone else.
He told you he wasn’t going anywhere in the heat of the moment, but even you knew he could only mean so much.
“I don’t want you to go,” you said, your voice broken as you were reminded of his duties after tonight. “Please, just stay with me.”
Bucky let out a long, heavy sigh, his grip on you softening tenderly. He pulled back slightly to look at you, his thumb gently brushing away the sweaty strands of hair that clung to your face.
He didn’t pull out, he stayed joined to you, his cock still half hard and soft inside, wanting to keep that connection for as long as the world would allow.
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I know.”
He began to press soft kisses all over your face— your damp forehead, your cheeks, and your lips.
The reality was that after tonight, Bucky would have to be posted at the front lines along with his comrades, Steve and Sam. He would have to ready his blade, preparing for war at any given moment to lay his life down for a royal family instead of living on for the woman he loves.
But instead of letting that feeling take over, he gently pushed your hair back, looking deep into your eyes.
“Right now, let’s just enjoy the moment,” Bucky murmured gently, caressing your cheeks. “Me and you—we’re together now, and that’s all we can ask for, right?”
He spoke so soft, but you knew deep down he was feeling that hurt just as much as you were. You nodded, forcing a shaky smile despite the tears that threatened to escape.
“Right,” you whimpered.
“Don’t cry,” Bucky sighed softly, his thumb coming up to wipe the tear that spilled anyway, before leaning in to press another kiss to your lips. “I’m right here, baby. Right here.”
The sounds of crickets, soft breathing, and the gentle rustle of leaves filled the gazebo as you two held each other. His hands trailed down to your waist, his thumb rubbing gentle circles over the fabric of your crinkled nightgown.
“When the war is over,” you brought up carefully and quietly. “Do you think we’ll have a chance to be together?”
Bucky went still for a moment before a small, hopeful smile tugged at his lips—he didn’t have high hopes at all, but the smile you returned meant it was enough to reassure you.
“In a perfect world, where there is no war and no duties to bind us separately, I’ll always choose you.”
The sun that rose the next morning was the brightest it had ever been that month.
You found yourself in a happier mood, and everyone around you could tell.
“What’s she smiling about over there?” Wanda asked as she folded freshly washed white cloth.
“What do you think?” Natasha grinned, watching out of the corner of her eye as you hummed to yourself, handwashing towels.
“She’d usually be complaining about her back by now,” Yelena chimed in. “But she’s just singing to herself like some mentally deranged—”
“I can hear you all, you know,” you said over your shoulder without looking back. You pushed off your seat with a groan, stretching before you lifted the bucket of dirty water in your hands.
“I’m going to dump this outside,” you announced to the rest of the group. “Maybe bask in the sun for a bit—who knows. It’s a pretty day.”
“Okay, but don’t be long,” Natasha called out as she pushed the tower of folded clothes to the side to work on the next batch. “We have a lot to do today.”
“I won’t,” you reassured as you pushed the door open with your back, heading out of the cleaning chambers and into the warm sunlight.
As you dumped the water out onto the grass, birds chirped and the trees rustled gently in the spring breeze. Bucky was out there, somewhere, huddled in formation with the other knights as they scouted south of the kingdom.
After last night, Bucky had told you how he and the others had a mission that required them to be on their horses before sunrise. But later that night, he would meet you at the gazebo again.
He was the kingdom’s strongest soldier, and you knew he was more than capable of taking care of himself. But every time Bucky was out on a mission, you couldn’t help but pray for his safety.
You always hoped that he would return home without a scratch, falling back into your arms once again.
You gathered the empty, damp bucket and reached for the door, but you stopped short at the sound of horns blaring from the top of the guard posts.
Your head snapped up immediately at the unexpected sound.
Was this a drill?
The kingdom hadn’t made any announcements for a drill today—unless you had missed it?
As you raised your hand to shield your eyes, squinting past the sun, you saw the frantic movement of the soldiers at the top of the towers. The distant shouting was getting louder, and you watched in confusion as they began to ready their crossbows.
“Sokovian flags on the horizon!”
“Soldiers are pushing back from the southern bridge!”
“Alert the town! Citizens to the shelters! Get down!”
Your ears rang as everyone around you scattered in a frantic, panicked hurry. The horns continued to blare, crying out a symphony of war and ruin. Palace workers ran around, bumping into you as they retreated toward the safety of the cleaning rooms you had just stepped out of.
You knew you should run. You should follow them into the dark, stone safety of the cellars.
But the only thing you can think of was the southern bridge.
That was exactly where Bucky was stationed.
A hand clamped onto your arm, making you wince and snapping you out of your haze.
“Are you trying to get killed?” she hissed over the bustle of the crowd. Natasha yanked you backward, dragging you into the sanctuary of the cleaning chambers.
Inside, the room was unrecognizable. The neat stacks of folded white linens had been toppled and trampled underfoot. Buckets were overturned, soapy water slicking the floor as servants and workers scrambled toward the trapdoor leading to the deep cellars.
“Oh my god,” you breathed. “How—”
“They’re saying they’ve already made it inside,” Natasha yelled over the noise. “Sokovian spies were already within the kingdom just yesterday—soldiers are barging right into the palace as we speak.”
You felt your blood run cold.
Sokovian soldiers were already threatening to tear down the palace, and the kingdom’s strongest soldier wasn’t there to protect it.
“Where are the others? Yelena? Wanda? Bob—”
Natasha led you toward the trap door, cutting you off. “They’re already inside—”
The doors of the cleaning chamber shattered inward before she could even finish.
Sokovian soldiers stomped through, their armor dark and their weapons already leveled. “Clear the room!” one of them shouted, and before you knew it, the sharp crack of muskets and the whistle of crossbow bolts filled the air, splintering the wooden tables around you as the others screamed.
“Down!” Natasha screamed, shoving you to the floor as a projectile embedded itself in the wall where your head had been seconds before.
“To the back doors,” you hissed at her, pointing behind her. “Quick!”
She nodded, ducking behind you as you both scrambled for the exit. You burst out into the rear garden, the air already suffocating with smoke from gunshots and the sounds of people shouting over one another.
“The grapevines,” you shouted, pointing to the heavy wooden trellis that led to the outer wall. “We can climb over and reach the forest. The trees are thick enough to give us cover—”
Natasha didn’t let you finish before she grabbed your arm, already running in the direction you had pointed. “Let’s go, then!”
As you ran, a sharp crack sounded from your right. Natasha let out a choked gasp, her body crumpling as her leg buckled and blood blossomed through her skirt.
“Nat!”
You turned back, reaching out to grab her arm, but the world suddenly turned into a blinding flash of white.
A cannonball screamed through the air, striking the stone archway just above you. The impact was nearly enough to deafen you—a force strong enough to throw you backward.
You hit the ground hard, the air driven from your lungs.
Everything went silent, replaced by a high pitched ringing in your ears that drowned out the war. Dust and debris rained down, coating your tongue in grit and stinging your eyes. Through the haze of gray smoke and broken stone, you tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy.
You felt yourself deteriorating, the sounds fading in and out as your vision began to blur.
A concussion set in, your head aching and your body going numb while the world around you began to crumple and fall apart.
“Get the Princess to safety!” the kingdom’s soldiers shouted over the noise. “Go, Sergeant!”
Your head throbbed with an ache as you craned your neck, struggling to see the what was unraveling in front of you.
Through the thick dust, a familiar silhouette broke through the haze.
It was Bucky—his armor and silver blade flashing through the smoke. Following close behind him, a figure huddled low — the Princess, disguised under a dirty, oversized cowl to conceal her identity.
Ah, there he was.
Your heart thumped weakly in your chest as a strange, hollow peace settled over you.
Bucky was alive. Your Bucky.
He was alive, and he was protecting the princess.
You smiled faintly, and though your heart ached to reach for him, you knew it was futile. You couldn’t even feel your legs anymore, pinned beneath the heavy stone debris. The blood pooling around you was enough to tell you that the end was near.
But at the very least, in this moment as the war claimed you, you knew the person you loved was still standing.
And that was all that mattered.
In the chaos, amidst the smoke and the screaming, Bucky caught sight of you out of the corner of his eye.
His entire body froze. The soldier who never hesitated, the very man who served as the kingdom’s ultimate sword and shield, went completely still.
His blue eyes widened, locking onto your broken form, taking in the blood, the dust, and the way you struggled to even lift your head.
Any other soldier would have seen your body and deemed it a lost cause, a life not worth the delay. But for Bucky, every duty was forgotten as his feet began to move—away from the Princess, and toward you.
“Sergeant Barnes! What the hell are you doing? Get back in formation!”
“Barnes! Get over here! Protect the Princess!”
“The Princess is exposed! Cover!”
“Barnes!”
Several commanding voices roared after him, but Bucky didn’t look back. He didn’t care about the crown or the certain court martial that awaited him, or even the noose.
All he cared about was you.
Heavy footsteps thundered near your head, and for a moment, you feared it was a Sokovian guard coming to finish the job. They dropped to their knees beside you, and trembling hands cradled your neck to lift you up.
“No, no, no,” it was Bucky who rasped, his voice frantic as he wiped the dirt from your face. “Hey… hey, look at me. Open your eyes, sweetheart. It’s me—stay with me. Come on, stay with me.”
You tried to speak, but all that emerged was a soft, wet cough.
His thumb brushed the dust from your cheek, leaving streaks in its wake, while his blue eyes searched yours for any sign that you were still there.
“Bucky…” you whispered, the sound barely audible over the roar of the nearby fire.
“I’ve got you,” he choked out, leaning his forehead against yours. He ignored the shouting soldiers and the Sokovian arrows whistling overhead. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere—you have to stay. You have to stay awake for me.”
He began to pull at the debris with a desperate strength, refusing to let the world take the only thing he cared about.
“I can’t—I can’t move my legs,” you choked out, your body feeling useless as he tried to lift you.
He was finally able to pull you free and cradle you in his arms, lifting you bridal style as he ran. You didn’t know where he was going, nor did you care. All that mattered was being here, held by the person you loved most.
“Just stay awake, okay? Promise me you’ll stay awake.”
“Bucky—”
“We’ll get you somewhere safe—I swear it—”
“Bucky,” you tried again, your voice a soft, fragile thread.
As he ran, Bucky tilted his head down to glance at you, his eyes searching yours to make sure you were still there.
“I love you,” you whispered suddenly.
Bucky’s stride faltered for just a moment as a choked, broken sound escaped his throat.
For a second, the face of the stoic soldier crumbled, and his eyes grew glossy with tears that threatened to spill over. But he forced his jaw to tighten—forced himself to get back into that same resolve that kept him alive til now.
“No,” he rasped, his voice hardening from vulnerability to a command. “Don’t say that. Not yet. You don’t get to say goodbye.”
He pushed himself faster, his boots skidding over the blood slicked stone of the courtyard as he dodged the falling debris of the palace.
“You save that,” he muttered, his breath hitching as he ducked behind a crumbling stone pillar to avoid a spray of Sokovian arrows. “You save those words for when we’re back at the gazebo—you save them for when the sun is up and there isn’t a drop of blood on this grass. Do you hear me?”
He looked down at you again, anticipating a response—anything to show that you were still alive—but your breathing was growing labored in his grip.
“I’m not letting you go,” he promised. “You hold on to me, and don’t you dare close those eyes.”
Bucky continued to run, and the world around you was nothing but a darkened blur.
The sounds started to grow distant, and in this moment, even on the verge of death, at least you were held by Bucky once more.
Bucky kept his promise—and more.
Even in a world that wasn’t perfect, bound by duties that often kept you both far apart, in the end, he would always choose you.
thank you to the anon for that lovely request and for entrusting me to write it. if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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When you discover your mate in such a devastating way, you have no idea of the difficulties that soon lay ahead of you and Azriel. After being separated for more than a year, you finally get to be reunited with your mate—which comes as quite the surprise to his family.
Pairing: Azriel x f!reader
Word Count: 13.1k
Warnings: eventual smut, p in v, oral(f), secret mate trope, angst, longing, slow burn-ish, inner circle chaos, fluff, some Az pov
A/N: Requested by @garricktavisfanclub. Thank you for the help with brainstorming and the writing process! Thank you @harvest-bunny for beta reading some as well! 💕
This is more or less the Azriel version of my Eris fic Secret’s Out, but this one definitely decided to be a triple threat—prepare for angst, fluff and smut. 🤭
AZRIEL
Three hundred and ninety-six days.
It’d been three hundred and ninety-six days since he’d seen his mate.
The ache in his chest remained sharp, but had dulled around the edges—like a hollow hole had been carved permanently into his chest where his heart should be. It wasn’t normal for a male to be separated from his mate for so long, but sometimes, it happened.
Sometimes, mates were thrown at one with no signs or warning. Sometimes they were inconvenient. Not that she was—or was a burden. But he’d been knocked nearly clear off his feet when the bond had snapped.
It had been four hundred and thirty days since Azriel discovered he had a mate.
Four hundred and thirty days—fourteen months—since that ancient instinct had slammed into him without any warning. It was as if in that moment, two souls had just interlocked. Or at least recognized one another.
He still remembered it like it was yesterday.
Rhys had tasked him to send his spies out to the continent. War with Hybern was brewing—getting closer every day. There was also the imminent threat of the other territories on the continent allying with Hybern.
If that were the case, Prythian wouldn’t stand a chance.
It was no secret that the faerie lands Azriel called home was to be made an example of. If Hybern destroyed Prythian without a second thought, he knew it would send the message Hybern wanted to the other territories.
Rask, Montesere and Vallahan.
They were all a great possibility of siding with Hybern. Being closer to the far away faerie land than to Prythian, it would’ve been foolish to not consider that they’d been sympathetic to the King's cause. At the bare minimum, it would be an alliance out of fear and desperation—to not become the King of Hybern’s next target.
That was why Rhys had sent him briefly to the continent to dispatch orders.
His spies were tasked to covertly plant a mixture of truths and lies—to keep them busy, turn them against one another, discourage them from wanting to ally with each other or Hybern.
“I know you all are the best trained in Prythian, but I do not think I need to remind you how delicate of a matter this is. Proceed with the utmost caution.”
He’d given the order to them as a whole just half an hour before. It wouldn’t be long before he needed to return to Prythian.
It was a miracle from the Mother herself that Rhys had even let him come on this short trip—despite the fact he’d healed from the incident in Hybern weeks earlier. In fact, he’d healed much faster than Cassian since it was Cassian who’d had his wings shredded. Az would’ve understood more if Rhys had kept him home this long for an injury such as that—even if Az knew himself too well, knew he’d have fought to come anyway.
Instead, Rhys had made a few trips himself in the last month that Feyre had been gone.
His newly appointed High Lady.
He hadn’t even had knowledge of it until he’d woken up from Madja’s healing, after Hybern. It was then he’d learned that Feyre had returned to the Spring Court with Tamlin, to work from the inside—to gather information on Hybern for them. Especially considering Tamlin had been stupid enough to ally with Hybern.
So, clearly Rhys had needed the distraction while his mate was away.
Feyre was back now, though, with information on Hybern’s movements—their motivations—so Rhys had sent him out bright and early just that morning, anxious to keep any more hurdles from popping up. More than they were already dealing with, that is.
He scanned the familiar faces—mostly all High Fae—some other lesser faeries similar to the half wraith twins, Nuala and Cerridwen, who had been trained under him.
They’d all been trained under him at one point or another.
While some of them could winnow, others could not.
The ones who could winnow, would be transported to their assigned territories by the ones who could, before winnowing to their own assigned locations.
She was one that was always the first to jump to help transport fellow spies.
Azriel had known her for years.
In fact, she was one that was trapped in the Night Court for the forty-nine years that Rhys was trapped Under the Mountain.
She’d been a spy that’d floated from court to court prior to Amarantha trapping most of Prythian under that mountain. Az had had encounters with her before, but never had worked with her in close proximity until Rhys had pulled her from Helion to do some work for him.
Apparently, Rhys had trusted her enough to task her, too, to help protect the Night Court in his years of absence.
Despite all of this, Az still hadn’t encountered her much over those years. Even when he did train her some to be one of his spies, it was never anything out of the ordinary. They’d developed a casual friendship, but not a close one. Definitely nothing like the friendships of the Inner Circle that had been forged over centuries. Or even the one he’d developed with his new High Lady in the short months she’d been a part of their family.
He was overseeing the group leaving—seeing them off before his flight back home—when it happened.
She was always so organized—always made sure everything and everyone was where they were supposed to be before continuing.
She’d just finished seeing off one group, making sure they knew where in Rask to winnow to, when she’d returned to the small group she was to winnow—in a few trips—to Vallahan. From there, she’d winnow to Montesere to begin her own tasks.
She turned to him, braid whipping over her shoulder with the movement. A weapons belt was tied around her hips—at least half a dozen knives on her. She wore Illyrian leathers, something she grew accustomed to in her decades living in the Night Court. She’d always said she moved quicker and easier in them. They aided her in her stealth.
“We won’t disappoint you, Spymaster.”
Az had simply inclined his head, indicating the comment was heard and received.
She’d just grabbed the arms of two fellow spies, darkness ready to sweep them away for her first winnowing trip, when her eyes met his.
He had a rapid fire thought that he’d never truly realized how beautiful they were—how beautiful she was.
It was short lived though because he felt the ancient instinct slam into him so forcefully that he actually stumbled back. That shining, golden thread had unfurled itself from wherever it had been buried deep—sleeping—spearing straight through his ribs. It twined around them and buried itself into his heart. The feeling had been so overwhelming and powerful that he’d stumbled as if someone had physically and forcefully pushed him backwards.
Az had never felt so thrown off in his entire life.
It was like the word purred throughout him, echoing through his bones.
Mate.
Her own eyes widened—whether it was from the same realization he was having or in reaction to his own startled expression, he wasn’t sure.
And then she was gone.
Azriel blinked the memory away.
He had no way of knowing the journey that lie ahead of him—them—in that moment.
He didn’t see her again for another month.
After all, they had been in the middle of a brewing war.
It hadn’t been long after his return—he couldn’t even remember the exact number of days—before Hybern had made a crucial move. The King had sent his two ravens to attack Feyre and Nesta in the library under the House of the Wind—the priestesses’ library.
Hybern was no longer a looming threat—they had arrived.
Az had tried his best to keep his head clear, to focus on the things at home that he needed to. War was here and he’d needed to be at his sharpest, mentally.
But he couldn’t stop thinking of her.
Couldn’t stop remembering how he’d always been intrigued by her.
For so long, he’d assumed he’d just admired her skills—most of which had been self-taught. She’d been alone for most of her life, something he’d never gotten the full story about. He’d gotten the feeling that it was something she rarely talked about anyways.
But he’d never let himself linger on why thoughts of her sometimes lingered in his mind.
After Mor…well, after he’d spent centuries loving a female that did not return his feelings, he’d sworn to himself he’d never be that foolish again—be that vulnerable. He’d built a wall of solid iron around his heart and went on with life, that protection in place.
Az hadn’t thought he deserved to be loved, anyway.
The Mother had other plans for him, it seemed. Now he’d known exactly why he had been pulled to her.
But with war approaching, he hadn’t had the luxury or the time to think of her. That hadn’t stopped him from thinking of her every spare moment though.
When he’d returned from the continent, he’d told no one. Not even Rhys. He hadn’t planned on telling anyone—hadn’t been sure how. That, at least, had been Az’s plan. Until the night before the last battle with Hybern.
When the truth came spilling out.
Azriel stared out over the cliff’s edge, looking at the sea of war tents, body rigid with tension.
The Night Court. The Illyrians. Keir’s Darkbringers. Summer. Dawn. Day. Winter.
It still wasn’t going to be enough to defeat Hybern.
Az and his family knew that. They knew they wouldn’t be walking off that battlefield tomorrow.
He’d scouted ahead, had his spies here relaying info about Hybern’s positioning and armies. Cassian had planned, thought through every battle strategy he knew. Made adjustments accordingly.
Even then it didn’t look promising in their favor.
A part of Az’s soul howled and thrashed at that thought. He tried to ignore the tightening of his chest, the lump in his throat. He wouldn’t live long enough to even tell her she was his mate. He wouldn’t live long enough to even see her again.
He’d give anything—if only to see her one last time. To tell her he was sorry she had to be shackled to him.
Though his face remained stony, cold—devoid of any emotion that was currently warring within him—he must’ve been obvious enough to raise alarms. He sensed the presence behind him long before the male spoke.
“You’re brooding later than usual, Az.”
Azriel said nothing, just kept staring at the miles and miles of war tents, letting the wind rustle his dark hair, his jaw working.
“You’ve been distracted.”
Rhys finally approached his side, staring out at the sight below them, too.
“War does that to an individual,” Az finally rasped.
It had only been a week or so of battling—maybe more, maybe less. Az wasn’t sure. One lost all sense of time and reality during battle, he’d found, long ago.
Rhys just gave an unconvincing hum, eyes scanning the darkening horizon.
Soon, nightfall would come. Soon, they’d all sleep before battling the ugliest and most deadly battle of this war, come tomorrow.
That thing in his chest twisted painfully.
Over the last weeks, he’d found himself wondering what she was doing, if she was safe and okay. He knew his spies on the continent were busy keeping the other territories distracted and making sure to keep an eye on the human queens.
The King of Hybern hadn’t gathered those mortal queen’s armies. Had sent them back to their palace actually. It still didn’t hurt to have eyes on them, just to prepare for any potential surprise.
Az didn’t put it past the King of Hybern to pull every last trick he had—no matter how twisted or sneaky—just to win this war.
Still, the thoughts lingered.
Every battle they’d faced this far, he’d had the haunting thought of what if it was his last. What if he was to never walk off of this battlefield?
Even if the thought killed him, it killed him even more to know the pain his mate would have to live through, if he died.
“I’ve seen you intensely focused during some of the most stressful times—war included,” Rhys crossed his arms, finally looking over to him, “I have known you for five hundred years, brother. You think I don’t know when something is clearly bothering you?”
He should’ve known better than to think he’d fool Rhys.
Rhys and Cass knew him well. Knew it wouldn’t pay to push him and that he’d open up when he was ready. But clearly, his behavior had concerned Rhys enough to actually approach him tonight.
Rhys continued speaking though.
“You’ve been…off, since returning from the continent a month ago. Is there something you discovered that I should know about?”
Rhys likely thought he’d made some awful discovery. Something that would change this war and be devastating to hear—enough that Az would keep it a secret from him.
In a way he had—and it was.
Az let out a long breath, the night wind ruffling his hair, rustling his wings—cooling the heat from the day. His eyes slid closed as he exhaled, finally speaking the words he’d kept secret for more than a month now.
“My mate.”
He couldn’t even begin to explain anything else other than those two words. Not who, not how, just those two words.
Rhys actually started.
“What? Who?”
His hazel eyes finally slid to his friend’s violet ones. He breathed her name and Rhys sucked in a sharp breath.
He looked as surprised as Az still felt.
“And you had no idea?”
Az shook his head, briefly explaining what had occurred—how the bond had slammed into him as she’d winnowed away. How he’d been a coward and had left before she’d returned for the other individuals she’d had to transport.
Rhys, for once, seemed to be at a loss for words. He seemed to realize how much Az had to lose now. If anyone, Rhys would understand. He had Feyre to consider now during this war—his own mate.
Az’s voice cracked as he spoke.
“What if I don’t make it back to her?”
Rhys was speaking before Az could even finish his sentence.
“I will do anything in my power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
Azriel still remained stone faced, giving nothing away. But the way his jaw clenched likely gave away his worry.
“You can’t promise that, Rhys. You have no way of knowing how tomorrow will go.”
Rhys didn’t deign him an answer to that.
“You’ll see her again, Az.”
Az didn’t believe him, but he admired that his High Lord seemed to believe the words. He didn’t hold on to much hope, but he clung to that little scrap that came in his brother’s words.
If only to get him through this next day.
Now, over a year later, he was glad to know Rhys’s words had been proven true. They’d won against Hybern, just barely, but they had.
Rhys still was the only one to know about her existence.
Well, that was a lie. Cassian, Mor and Amren knew her, knew who she was, but had no idea who she was to him. Rhys had kept his secret.
He’d kept his promise too.
When things had settled down, a few weeks after the war had ended, Rhys gave him a few days to go to the continent. To visit her—see her.
Az still recalled how much of a nervous wreck he’d been.
Azriel had no idea what he was going to do. What he was going to say. He couldn’t just approach her and announce he was her mate. Gods, he was a mess. He swore there was a tremble to his hands even as he flew to the continent.
Rhys had given him all the time he could spare him—two days. He still needed Az at home. There was much work to be done following the war with Hybern.
Velaris needed to be rebuilt—Prythian as a whole had to deal with the ravages that war had left them with. Bryaxis was missing and needed to be hunted down. Alliances needed to be tended to regarding the other courts of Prythian. There was now no longer a wall between the mortal lands and the faerie lands. They had no idea where they stood with the mortals.
Rhys had the brief thought of trying to form a treaty with the other territories here—post war—to strengthen alliances across the sea. But that was for another time.
The human queens needed to be kept an eye on—they’d been suspiciously quiet all throughout the war and following. Rhys wasn’t stupid enough to think they were no longer a threat with the King of Hybern dead.
All that to say, there was much to be done.
But two days? Az had no idea how he was going to tell her and do everything he felt like he needed to do, in such a short time.
Even if he didn’t know what half of that entailed. He had no clue what he was walking into. Had absolutely no idea if she was even aware of the mating bond.
Mother above, he felt like he was back on the battlefield with Hybern, dodging swords and arrows, only this time it was his love life involved. His mate involved.
He still hadn’t figured out how he felt about it. He still felt thrown. Sure, he’d known her for years, admired her work ethic, her as an individual, had always known she was a beautiful female.
The thought struck him instantly.
No wonder he’d always sought her out every time they worked together.
He’d always convinced himself it was because she was his most skilled and trained spy. One of the leaders of his groups. Even because she was a friend and he cared about her.
He’d never had any indication that it was something far more ancient showing signs of what lay at the heart of his very being. What his soul knew before even he had.
Azriel circled the queen’s palace, eyes searching. Rhys had garnered information that she was stationed nearby, one of the many informants still keeping tabs on the group of mortal queens in the aftermath.
There was lodging nearby, some for bigger groups who chose to stay together and smaller ones for those who needed more space, more privacy.
He was glad she often occupied one of the smaller cabins.
Azriel’s heart pounded when he landed in the pathway in front of the cabin. She must’ve been close to a window to see his arrival, might’ve even sensed it, for the door swung open and she came barreling out, towards him.
The moment her eyes had laid on him, she made a sound like a wounded animal as she rushed to his arms. She flung herself into him and he actually found himself stumbling a bit, catching her as she clung to him.
“You’re okay, thank the Mother you’re okay. I—we didn’t know. We couldn’t get any solid reports. Only that Prythian had won the war, but there weren’t any confirmation on deaths or the injured and no one had heard from you—”
She was rambling, nearly shaking.
She’d been terrified for him.
He brought a scarred hand up, pressing it to the back of her hair as she held him tighter. His hands still trembled, but that aching part of him, deep in his chest, seemed to ease as he wrapped his other arm around her, letting her have her moment.
When she pulled back, his hands instantly cradled her face. It was such a relief to see her. The tightening of his body—the feeling of constantly being on edge—that had seemed to permanently plague him for the last month, finally began loosening.
His hazel eyes just stared down into her face. That beautiful face.
Even flushed, widened eyes filled with worry—and a tinge of panic—hair escaping her braid and tendrils falling into her face, she was beautiful.
That specific instinct flowed through him like a whisper on the wind.
You are mine. I am yours. Mate.
She looked like she was trying to figure out what to say, but had no idea how to voice it. Azriel swallowed hard, his voice raspy when he spoke.
“Hello…mate.”
Az tried to tamper the small smile that crept on his face at that memory.
It was…an interesting time, that was for sure.
He’d discovered soon after that she’d felt the bond snap too, that day. Such an odd and unique occurrence—as it was rare for the bond to snap for both individuals at the same time.
But he supposed they didn’t have the typical bond, either.
They’d spent the entire day talking.
It had been awkward at first. It was like meeting each other all over again, seeing each other in a brand new light. It was overwhelming and a lot to process, especially in such a short time together.
But they’d started talking and that strange unfamiliarity faded, flowing more into the normal familiarity he’d had with the female. It turned into awe as he’d watched her speak, silently marveling that this incredible female was his mate. That she was the female the Mother had chosen for him.
When he’d confessed he’d felt pulled to her time and time again, she’d just gaped at him, asking why he’d never said anything.
Then she’d admitted, a touch shyly, that she’d felt drawn to him for quite some time. She’d even jokingly said she’d thought it had to do with him being quiet and mysterious—traits of a person that would naturally intrigue most individuals.
He hadn’t even planned for what had spilled out of his mouth next. The self loathing he’d locked so deep inside of him came bubbling up before he could stop it. He’d told her about Mor—how he’d felt he wasn’t deserving of love if he hadn’t been good enough for her.
It hadn’t been his proudest moment.
He hadn’t been sure if his heart had broken or swelled seeing the look of devastation on her face. A hand had laid on his face as she told him how good he was, that he deserved nothing but good things in life, especially love. Whether it was with her or not.
She’d been so selfless in that moment that he barely recalled the way he’d reached for her—with his hands, yes, but with his heart and soul, too.
What had started as comfort, turned softer, more intimate—shifted easily into something else.
She’d ended up in his lap, his lips on hers.
By nightfall, things had drastically changed from daytime.
Azriel still felt guilt even to this day at how it felt like he’d used her. Only satiated the bond enough, given into the primal physical desires before figuring anything else out. She’d seemed to enjoy it and had been thoroughly enthusiastic as he was, but it still didn’t erase all of his guilt.
His blood heated at the thought of the heat, passion, desire and intensity of that day and a half.
He’d fucked his mate thoroughly, that’s for sure.
He could still hear her moans in his ears, feel her body underneath his hands if he tried hard enough. Could still remember the feeling of her hands dragging down his wings as they’d both lost themselves to the overwhelming passion.
That day and a half spent being tangled with her, in her sheets, had nearly ruined him. It had been the best sex he’d ever had.
Which made him feel even more like an asshole when he had to leave.
He couldn’t forget the wounded look in her eyes—one that she’d tried to mask when he’d inevitably had to leave.
She hadn’t been angry, knew he needed to leave. But it was the uncertainty of what was to come that left his stomach in knots. He’d hoped she hadn’t felt like a lover tossed to the side once he’d received his pleasure.
It had been thirteen months since he’d last seen her. Three hundred and ninety-six days.
Rhys had kept him busy—in fact he was so overloaded, hands full in the time since, he wasn’t able to even entertain the thought of visiting.
Rhys still had her stationed on the continent, especially with strange activity starting to stir with the human queens. His brother and High Lord had taken precaution and had spies watching and monitoring the situation closely.
He’d also insisted during this time that Azriel not visit the continent. Rhys’s words rang in Az’s ears.
“If you want to keep her safe, you’ll stay away. It’s safest right now if no one knows what she is to you—at least while she’s over there.”
Rhys had told him—ordered him basically. While he knew his brother was right and it was the wisest thing to do, the mating bond tugged tighter in his chest, an ache so painful settling in to stay for a good long while.
Rhys had managed to arrange a system though, managed to have letters and messages passed through him—it was better than no contact.
It was through her letters that he fell in love with her wholly.
Oddly enough, it’d felt like they’d done everything backwards. They’d practically consummated the bond—at least physically—before they’d even had a chance to know one another.
Each letter exchanged, revealed something new about both of them. They weren’t very frequent, but he treasured each and every one. Treasured the fact that with each one he found himself falling more in love with her.
Her last letter had come nearly a month ago now. Az didn’t expect another one for at least another few weeks.
But it was still fresh in his mind. He’d read it so much he’d memorized it.
Azriel,
I am well. Keeping busy. I hear you are too. I know it seems silly to say, but I miss you. Your notes and letters are the best parts of my day—they keep me going.
Okay, you wanted me to share one fact about my day every time I write? I will do that now.
Today I saw a plant that reminded me of your eyes. It sounds ridiculous, I know. But the shade of green reminded me of the shade that can be so prevalent in your eyes, depending on the day—depending on your emotion. The happier you are, the more the jewel toned green shines through.
I’m embarrassed to admit that’s something I noticed about you long ago.
I won’t make this terribly long, but I just wanted to jot a few thoughts to you and hope they make it to you eventually.
Sometimes, at night, I’ll look at the starry sky and remember the beauty of it in Velaris. How I long to be back there and with you. Sometimes, I imagine you’re looking at the night sky too, at the same time, connecting us even with the miles of distance between us.
It helps ease the pain some nights. Maybe it’ll help you too.
With Love,
Your Beloved Mate
It was what kept him up one night recently.
He hadn’t been able to sleep, so he’d traveled up the stairs of the House of Wind to the training pit, deciding to train under the stars.
His blade had sliced through the cold night air, his heart rate accelerated from the exertion. He’d pushed himself hard, sweat still slicking his golden brown skin despite the chill.
He often didn’t sleep well at night, often found himself up here at night to exercise.
One would think that sleep would’ve been a welcome reprieve from the ache he lived with, a few blessed hours without the pain of missing his mate. Unfortunately for him, it only furthered his difficulty sleeping.
That night, just days ago, he remembered that specific line from her latest letter.
Sometimes, I imagine you’re looking at the night sky too, at the same time, connecting us even with the miles of distance between us.
So that night, he’d looked up at the stars. He watched the night sky, the deep darkness of it, the contrast of the bright twinkle of the numerous stars.
He looked and looked, knowing that halfway across the world, she’d likely be asleep.
Even then, he’d felt a little closer to her.
Now, in the present, Az found himself en route from the House of Wind down to the River House. The wind sailed past his wings and they flapped steadily, each beat taking him closer to his family.
Az was in no mood for a family dinner tonight, but Rhys had strongly suggested that he be in attendance.
Maybe it was Rhys’s way of trying to preoccupy him. Azriel knew he’d been struggling more so recently, especially seeing his two brothers now happily mated, having their own mates by their side.
It had become harder and harder to live with the distance—the ache in his chest still painfully present. It felt like the bond had stretched so taut it was threatening to fray and break.
He missed her so badly. He wished he had the chance to tell her that much.
No one but Rhys knew of his secret—still after all this time—or the heaviness he carried day to day.
Nesta—who he’d befriended in the time she and Cassian spent figuring out their relationship before they’d finally mated—was apparently as good as himself when it came to reading people. She’d noticed his loneliness enough that she’d tried to do something about it.
She’d given him subtle hints that Elain had a crush on him—even tried to play matchmaker with him sometimes at Rita’s with other random females.
He’d politely turn down each and every one of the females at Rita.
With Elain, he’d known for quite some time that she’d developed a crush on him.
His High Lady’s middle sister was lovely and sweet, but he’d tried to never encourage her. Remained polite and friendly, but never with the intention of leading her on.
After all, it was like he could say why he wasn’t interested. So, he’d opted to say nothing at all.
So, not wanting to disappoint Rhys, Az figured he’d show up long enough to appease his brother before likely returning to the training pit on the top of the House of Wind. After all, training had been one of his only companions during these long and lonely nights.
His boots had just hit the ground on the lawn in front of the River House when he heard squealing and laughter.
Az sometimes wished—and yearned for—the lightness his family seemed to wield so easily these days.
The rise and fall of the voices gained in volume as he approached the door and walked in. He could hardly understand anything being said as he entered the foyer, a mix of voices talking over one another—laughter mingled with it.
The scent hit him before he’d even rounded the corner of the hallway into the dining room. He froze for half a second, his knees buckling. Then his body was moving before he could register it, swinging around the corner into the room.
He might’ve made some sort of noise—a gasp? A sharp inhale?—for half of the occupants of the room turned towards him.
And there, in the middle of the chattering individuals stood his mate.
She’d been smiling, listening to someone before his appearance and turned with the others to the doorway—turned her beautiful face towards him. Azriel swore something collapsed in his chest at the sight of her. The barrage of overwhelming emotions filled him at lightning speed, he could hardly pinpoint any of them. Shock, relief, joy, love.
He didn’t take note of who exactly was in the gathered group as his body moved faster than he could process.
He was across the room in a few long strides and then she was in his arms. He scooped her up, twirling her and was already kissing her before he’d even put her down again. Her hands were on his face instantly as she kissed him just as hard as he was her—all the months of being separated going into the single kiss.
“What the fuck?”
Az processed and filed away the baffled tone in Cass’s comment. He spent little time on it because he was still kissing her. Probably longer than necessary or appropriate, but he couldn’t help it. He’d just barely parted from her lips when he had to press his against her own again—just to make sure she was real, that this was real.
“Um…Az?”
That was Feyre.
“Is Az always this friendly to his spies that have been away from home so long?”
That was Nesta’s bemused tone he heard.
He finally realized he needed to part from her lips. There would be time for everything he wanted to do to her, later. When he broke away, her eyes were shining, mirroring and reciprocating all the feelings he currently felt. That golden tether in his chest seemed to glow brighter in her presence, the bond literally seemed to purr in response to her.
“Will someone please explain what the fuck is going on?”
Azriel finally looked away from her, his hands still on her waist, looking past Feyre and her previous huffed statement, to Rhys, who’d yet to say anything. The male was leaning against the dining room table, a glass of wine already in hand, a small smile on his lips.
“Thank you for bringing my mate home to me,” Azriel breathed.
“Hold up—”
Nesta.
“Did he just say—”
This time, it was Feyre.
“Yes he did but—”
Cassian looked bewildered, looking back and forth between Az and her.
“Mate?”
The last comment was said with a small gasp, a soft voice that sounded like a gentle breeze on a warm day. Azriel finally turned to the other presence in the room.
Elain.
He’d never intended to make things awkward with her—never desired to hurt her feelings. But, surprisingly, she didn’t look wounded, she looked…curious. Surprised, yes, but her lovely face was already brightening, as if she was thrilled to welcome another female to the circle.
Azriel finally stepped back a respectful distance to make proper introductions—though she already knew Cassian and Rhys.
He said her name and motioned to Feyre—who she’d heard of plenty, but had yet to meet. Rhys had dispatched her to the continent soon after he’d returned from Under the Mountain and before Feyre’s first arrival to the Night Court.
“This is Feyre Archeron, High Lady of the Night Court.”
Color spread lightly across her cheeks as if remembering who was in attendance just a moment earlier for their little performance.
“My Lady, it’s an honor to finally put a face to the name,” his mate said, giving a quick, respectful curtsy.
Feyre just looked stunned. Az wasn’t sure if it was because of his truth revealed or such formality from her.
“These are her sisters, Nesta and Elain Archeron,” Azriel said, gesturing to them.
She offered a kind smile, the one he’d grown accustomed to in the last decades. Now though, it made his heart skip a beat.
Elain still looked like there were a dozen questions on her tongue that she was too polite to voice, Nesta just leveled an assessing gaze towards his mate—ever the protector of her loved ones.
His mate didn’t let it unnerve her. She took Nesta’s intimidating stare with her head held high. She offered a respectful dip of her head to the eldest Archeron and his friend, as if she was aware of exactly what Nesta was doing.
“You already know these two bastards,” Az smirked teasingly towards his brothers.
She turned her smiling face back to Rhys and Cass as Az continued.
“Everyone…my mate.”
There was such silence that he could’ve heard a pin drop.
Then chaos erupted so suddenly that he saw her flinch at the abruptness of it—not out of fear, but from being startled. Az had to resist the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose at the barrage of comments and questions.
“What do you mean you have a mate?!” Cassian blurted out first.
“Is this why you’d never talk about your love life?” Nesta’s eyes narrowed on him.
“When did this even happen? You never gave any indication—” Feyre began.
“Not a sign!” Cassian interrupted Feyre, adding on to her sentiment.
Cass threw his hands up in exasperation.
“I mean we all know you’re a moody bastard and you’ve been a moody bastard but I had no idea it was because of a mating bond!”
Cassian was ranting, still looking between Az and her.
“He just swoops in here and kisses this random female—okay well technically you knew her—like it’s nothing and we weren’t supposed to have questions?”
“And here I thought he was just that passionate and friendly with his spies,” Feyre smirked.
“How long have you known?” Nesta glared.
He could tell the female was angry. Probably because he’d never breathed a word about her to his friend. He’d have to talk to her soon—assure her it wasn’t because he didn’t trust her.
Even if it hadn’t been for safety measures, Az wasn’t one to share things about his life. He was a pretty private person by default. Old habits were hard to break.
“Over a year,” Az answered simply.
He peered over at his mate, who was taking it all in silently, monitoring the flow of the chaos. At least it was a good sign that she didn’t look ready to bolt because of his overwhelming family.
Cauldron help them if Mor and Amren had been here…
“Mor and Amren will be glad to see you too—well Amren—since Mor is on the continent. She’ll hate to have missed you,” Rhys said to her, as if reading his mind, “Amren should be back from visiting Varian in the Summer Court, tomorrow.”
“Did they know?” Cassian asked, eyeing Rhys suspiciously.
“No, they did not,” Rhys answered calmly, unruffled.
“You’re remarkably calm about this,” Feyre accused her mate with narrowed eyes.
“Perhaps because he’s known since the war,” Az uttered.
There were squawking protests in response.
“What?!” Nesta gaped.
“And you never told me?!” Cassian accused, gaping as much as his mate.
“You never told me!” Feyre exclaimed, hitting Rhys’s bicep with a slap of her hand, showing her exasperation.
“With the big mouths you lot have, I can’t exactly blame Az for not telling you,” Rhys drawled, taking a sip of his wine.
There were more protests from the three.
“I had to practically drag it out of him even then,” Rhys shrugged.
The other three just stared at him, still a mixture of confused, pissed and exasperated.
“What was I supposed to say?” Az asked cooly, a brow cocked as he stared at them.
“I don’t know, maybe, ‘Hey Cass, guess what? I think I just found my mate.’ would’ve sufficed!”
“Hey Cass, guess what? I think I just found my mate,” Az deadpanned, earning a slight giggle from his mate.
His eyes cut sideways to her, a small smile making his lips twitch.
He caught sight of motion out of the corner of his eye and he turned to see Elain approaching his mate. He hadn’t even realized that she’d been the only one yet to say much of anything. Az watched hesitantly, apprehensive.
He knew Elain wasn’t the type to be unkind to anyone, but he didn’t want to complicate matters further, especially considering her little crush on him.
But Az watched in shock and awe as she brought his mate into a light and brief embrace—as if it was a gesture that came naturally to her—a bright smile on her face, radiating brighter than the sun itself.
It was a quick gesture—likely as to not make her uncomfortable but she spoke in that sweet and soft voice, nothing but sincerity in her words.
“Welcome. I am—we all are—happy you’re here.”
His mate blinked as if surprised, but smiled at the Archeron, at her kindness, whispering her thanks.
He watched with a tad of longing as Elain swept her off to the kitchen, asking if she was hungry, that she’d be happy to get her something while they waited on the others to settle enough to actually sit for dinner. He couldn’t help the smirk as he watched a lone shadow follow after the two females.
Nosy little thing—but he couldn’t reprimand his shadows for wanting to keep an eye on his mate. After all, they hadn’t had the opportunity to, much.
“So you’re just going to be casual about this?” Feyre demanded, hitting him on the arm now too.
He scowled at his High Lady, rubbing his bicep where her strong hit had landed.
“In his defense, I told him it would be wise—safer—to keep her a secret,” Rhys jumped in, “First with Hybern and then everything post war.”
Az noticed Rhys didn’t mention the mortal queens—something they were still keeping an eye on. Rhys was beginning to suspect they were stirring, but had yet to bring it to the others’ attention until he had more information.
Az knew something was coming soon though.
But he was also tired of secrets.
“At least that explains why you showed no interest in my matchmaking—or Elain,” Nesta commented, arms crossed over her chest.
Az winced, not sure how to broach that subject.
“I did not intend to ever give her any idea that I was inter—”
But Nesta waved him off, interrupting him.
“Relax, she’s fine. I think she just found her new best friend though, so prepare yourself.”
True to her word, Az could hear the tinkling laughter floating out from the kitchen. It made his chest squeeze, nothing but pure joy at hearing the sound of his mate’s laughter, filling him.
“How did it happen?” Feyre asked, now more calm and curious.
“Yes, Az, I think we are well owed a story,” Cass grumbled—likely still annoyed that Rhys had known and not him.
Cass swiped the wine glass from Feyre’s hand that Rhys had just handed his own mate before she could take a sip. She protested in dismay, but Rhys simply snapped his fingers and a freshly filled glass appeared in her hands. She just beamed, sending an appreciative thanks to him.
“Probably in the most dramatic way a male could ask for,” Az said.
Cassian just snorted.
“Somehow, that’s not surprising when it comes to you, Az,” Nesta mused, finally sitting in one of the chairs at the dining table behind her.
She extended an arm across the back of the chair, crossing her legs, raising a brow, clearly settling in for the story as well.
“It happened a few weeks before the war with Hybern broke out. Remember when Rhys sent me to the continent to assign my spies to keep the other fae territories preoccupied? Discourage them from allying with Hybern?”
He was met with three nods.
“No, I don’t,” Nesta remarked, matter of factly, considering she hadn’t been involved with courtly stuff yet at that point.
Az just gave her an exasperated look at her splitting hairs. She just smirked, the earlier anger softening into teasing.
“Go on,” Nesta encouraged, waving a hand.
“Well, anyways, everyone was leaving—winnowing to their assigned locations or winnowing others—and she’d just grabbed the first few she was going to winnow,” Az began, blowing out a deep breath, still remembering that moment like it was yesterday.
“She turned to me and it just…slammed into me.”
Az’s jaw worked as he remembered—wished he had handled it better. Especially considering all that had happened afterwards. The time spent apart.
He chuckled half heartedly, remembering what a sight he must’ve looked to her.
“All I could do was stumble and gape. I was…I was not prepared for that to happen. Hadn’t expected it to be her.”
He grimaced at how that sounded.
“I don’t mean—”
“We know,” Rhys said softly, “We know what it’s like to have that instinct slam into you out of nowhere.”
If anyone did, Az knew at least Rhys understood.
“What did she do?” Feyre asked, gently.
“Just stared at me wide eyed as I’d stared at her. Then she was gone.”
Nesta opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the two females returning from the kitchen. Az felt his heart warm as he saw her help Elain carrying out dishes of food.
Elain sat down the dish in her hand and flitted off back to the kitchen, for the rolls that were about to come out of the oven, she’d said.
His mate sat down the dish on the vast oak table and put her hands on her hips, already displaying the amount of sass he knew good and well she possessed.
“If everyone is done standing around and talking, I, the guest of honor would certainly like to eat.”
Cassian threw his head back and laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulders.
“I forgot how much I liked you.”
Az had to bite back the snarl at seeing his brother’s touch on his mate. Perhaps the mating frenzy they thought they’d experienced in those short few days was only the start of it—they hadn’t had the opportunity to see it through wholly. Mainly because he definitely felt on edge seeing Cass touch her.
Cass noticed and grinned.
“For fuck’s sake, not another one. If you’d like to go outside and fight before dinner, Az, we can. Right there on the front lawn.”
Her eyes cut to the rigidity of his body and she politely stepped out of Cass’s embrace with a teasing smile.
“Cut him some slack. The bond instincts are warming back up and coming alive again. After all, I haven’t seen him in three hundred and ninety-six days.”
Nesta’s jaw dropped, Feyre choked on her wine and Cassian went wide eyed.
“What?!” Nesta asked, looking purely shocked, “Gods and I thought five days separated from Cassian was torture.”
“It wasn’t…easy,” she said, fidgeting nervously, “But it was necessary.”
“I would’ve died,” Feyre uttered, clearly not even wanting to imagine parting from Rhys for that long.
“I almost did,” Az mumbled, finally pouring himself a glass of wine.
“Did you even have time to fu—”
Az pointed at Cassian.
“Finish that sentence and you’ll be spitting out shards of glass.”
Cassian eyed the wine glass still in his hand and wisely set it on the table—and didn’t continue the sentence. Though he still pushed.
“Honest question, brother. Did you at least get to see her after the bond snapped?”
“We had two days to…talk about things and figure some things out,” she explained, "About a month after the war. What was most important was discovering he was alive and well.”
“Two days?” Nesta blinked.
“Cauldron, two days for me and Nesta is just warming up, if you know what I mean,” Cass smirked.
“Yes, we all know what you mean, Cassian,” Rhys gave him a pointed look, “But their situation was different than yours and Nesta’s—or even mine and Feyre’s.”
His mate shrugged—perhaps a tad self deprecatingly. He felt a twist of guilt in his gut—felt the strong desire to make up for all that time lost and time parted.
“I was just grateful to get that. I didn’t know if he’d even want to face me again after the bond snapped.”
“So you felt it too? In that moment?” Feyre asked, a shade of wonder in her voice.
She looked a bit shy at the question and nodded.
“It was like something had wrapped around my ribs and tugged. But Azriel looked so horrified that I had no idea if he knew—or if he even wanted to know.”
His heart twisted, that tether in his chest tugging. If it weren’t for the fact Rhys expected them to stay for dinner, he’d sweep her away right now and not come out of his room for days. Just to remind her over and over how much he wanted her—how much he chose her.
“Still hope you got to fuck your mate,” Cass mumbled to him and Az just gave him a look, causing him to elbow his brother back with a sly grin.
“Please tell me in the two days you got to see each other there was at least some sex.”
Nesta said so casually that Az had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at the way his mate blinked, clearly thrown off by the abrupt question.
“Let’s just say I gave her no reason to doubt if I had any interest in her or the mating bond,” Az smirked, dropping a kiss on the top of her head as he walked around her to her other side.
He slid his arm around her waist so effortlessly that she practically melted into his touch.
Cassian’s eyes instantly fell to the motion.
“Gods, it’s gonna be weird getting used to mated Az,” he mumbled.
She shrugged nonchalantly.
“He’s still the broody and protective Illyrian he’s always been—probably more so as a mated male honestly. Though he might take time off from that to be affectionate, but trust me the insufferable bat act isn’t going anywhere.”
Az’s lips twitched as all four burst into laughter at her wry response.
“Oh you’re going to fit in just fine,” Nesta mused, approval shining in her eyes.
It did Az good to see that look shining in his friend’s expression, to know that Nesta, too, approved of his mate.
Just then, Elain returned with the rolls, setting them down, announcing it was time to eat.
As they all sat—him at his mate’s side of course—that shadow that had followed her to the kitchen earlier twined and curled its way around one of her ankles.
She peered down at it, smiling fondly as she glanced up at him. In return, he just effortlessly slid a hand onto her thigh, giving it a gentle squeeze as the clink of plates and dishes being passed sounded.
Az bit back a sigh. As much as he wanted to spend time with his mate, hold her, talk to her, he knew he had to endure this family dinner first.
Soon though.
That would come soon.
•••
“I see your family has grown since I’ve last been here.”
You were sprawled across Azriel’s bed after dinner, on your back, as you watched him—upside down—change out of his leathers that he’d spent his day in.
“Just be glad Mor or Amren weren’t here. The chaos would’ve been at unbelievable levels,” he remarked dryly.
You watched as he peeled his shirt off, golden brown skin and muscles coming into view. Then his form spun in your sight as you rolled over onto your stomach, your braid falling down along your back. You eyed your mate, taking in the gorgeous sight of his muscled body, the Illyrian tattoos snaking around his biceps and up over his shoulders, his broad wings tucked in closely at his back.
You’d had a tiny crush on the Illyrian for quite some time prior to the bond snapping, though you’d never entertained it, never thought too long about it. But you’d have to have been blind to not notice how attractive the shadowsinger was.
You’d also been drawn to his strength. Not just his physical strength—though the few blessed opportunities you’d had to see his finely honed body had been very pleasant. But you meant his silent strength. The way he was a male of few words—but the ones he did speak were meaningful. The way he was loyal to his work, his loved ones.
Most saw him as intimidating or frightening. You never had. He was intense, but that was normal for him.
The day the bond had snapped…had been a difficult day for you.
You were grateful to have had a mission to focus on, but it hadn’t stopped the way the look of horror on Azriel’s face kept flashing behind your eyes. You’d tried to deny it, tried to convince yourself what you’d felt was anything else—that maybe he hadn’t felt it—but it was a pointless exercise.
That ancient instinct had slammed into you so forcefully it was like Azriel’s soul had punched you straight through your rib cage. You’d felt that sturdy, unbreakable tether tie itself to your rib, wind its way around your heart.
The word had echoed throughout your body like a reverberation.
And Azriel had looked horrified, had stumbled backwards.
When you’d returned to winnow the next pair of individuals, he’d been gone.
When Hybern finally declared war against Prythian, you’d tried your hardest to access any information you could. How they fared, how your family fared.
But most importantly, how your mate had.
Even if he didn’t want to be tied to you—chose not to accept this bond—you knew you wanted him to be okay.
The news of Prythian’s victory was short lived for you though when all you managed to receive was murky reports on any Night Court residents’ status. Though you worried for all of them, you worried the most about him.
The day he’d showed up at your little cabin nearly broke you. You’d made a deal with the Mother that if she’d kept him safe, you would force yourself to be okay if Azriel didn’t want to be your mate.
It was embarrassing the way you’d flung yourself into his arms, but you’d been so relieved, that golden thread in your chest warming at the sight of him.
A lot of truths had been unearthed that day.
And somehow—though you hadn’t planned to—you’d fallen into his arms and he into your bed.
Your cheeks warmed at the thoughts of how your hands had been all over his body, his mouth all over yours, the way you two had fit together like you’d always meant to be tangled in such a way.
The heat—the passion—had been incredible.
But then, he’d left.
You knew the two of you had been on borrowed time. But it didn’t sting any less when he had to leave.
Somehow, despite everything that had happened in the short few days, you’d still felt like you’d been left with more questions than answers. The bond had been acknowledged but it hadn’t been fully accepted and you weren’t sure if you’d counted it as being consummated, either.
At the root, it had been nothing more than giving into the primal instincts, the physical pull.
Not seeing Azriel for over a year had been the hardest thing you’d ever had to do—even more so than some of the missions you’d had to accomplish in the past. The lack of him had left a constant ache in your chest.
You’d been grateful that you were able to get letters to him and from him.
That truly was when the falling in love portion had happened. The secrets shared and stories told between letters. When you’d bared your soul to him and he bared his to yours.
Now, as you watched him tug off his pants, his broad black wings rustling at his back, you couldn’t help the amount of love that filled your chest.
You were proud to call him your mate. He was such an amazing male and you were prepared to tell him that for the rest of yours and his immortal life.
The moment when you saw him in that doorway earlier was nearly magical. The hollowed part of your chest instantly filled with nothing but warmth and love, the golden thread reaching out for its mate.
You’d known then that you’d endure it all over again if it led to the happiness you felt in this moment.
“The interrogation was unexpected,” you teased.
He winced as he reached for sweatpants then seemed to think better of it and just stayed in his shorts, turning to you.
You really tried to keep your eyes from straying, but it was rather difficult as they naturally fell down his muscled stomach and below his waist.
If he noticed your stare, he didn’t comment.
“Sorry about them. They mean well. I mean you know how Cassian is, but Feyre and Nesta can be intense.”
You just snorted.
“You underestimate Elain. She already wants to take me shopping. She said she knows of the perfect place to get some warmer clothes, plus any cute items to spruce up our space—wherever we land,” you grinned.
There was still much to figure out, you knew.
You were back home, in Velaris, for good. You and Azriel still had to figure out where you’d live, though you were happy living anywhere he’d be.
“She’s enthusiastic, but I don’t mind,” you added.
He finally came over, sitting on the edge of the bed, face turned down to look at you.
“I missed you so much.”
Your heart skipped. You swore the bond actually purred in his presence. Your face softened as you looked up at him.
“I missed you too, Azriel.”
The side of his finger caressed down your cheek and you thought he might kiss you, until you felt his touch at your back. Fingers pulled the band that had held your braid together, free.
He pulled the thick braid over your shoulder and you peered down, watching as scarred fingers gently unweaved your braid, bit by bit.
You’d noticed over the years that he seemed to be self conscious of his hands, whether because of the scars that mottled them or the things you knew he was capable of—the things he did with his hands—you’d never been sure.
Neither had disturbed you though.
They were just as much a part of him as his hazel eyes or the way his lips quirked upwards when he was fighting a smile. They were who made him, him.
When he’d freed your hair entirely, his fingers ran through it loosely, absentmindedly.
“Better,” he whispered.
You smiled, watching him as if he was in a trance.
“I suppose there’s still much we need to discuss,” he said gently, eyes finally turning back to your face.
Perhaps like the fact that while you’d satiated the bond and acknowledged it, it had yet to be accepted.
Maybe that’s why—without his knowledge and hesitantly—you’d left the item here in his room. For later, for now.
A small wrapped cake. From the continent.
Chocolate, just like he adored.
You’d brought it back with you, in hopes to offer it to your mate.
In hopes he would accept it as he accepted you.
“Well…we were a bit preoccupied the last time I saw you.”
A knowing glint sparked in his eyes, his lips twitching.
It was unusual—you were prepared for it to be a tad awkward. After all, after a certain point there’d been little talking between the two of you the last time you’d been face to face.
But, it didn’t discount the time you spent corresponding with ink and paper, though.
You thought you’d been enamored with the male in front of you before, but over this period of a year? You’d absolutely fallen in love with him.
“About that…” you chewed your lip nervously, “I actually brought something for you.”
His brows flicked up in surprise.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I wanted to.”
You sat up, rustling in your bag that you’d left in here, pulling out the carefully wrapped item that you’d packed with just as much care. It would be just your luck you’d end up presenting your mate with a flattened cake as a way to show you were accepting the mating bond—that you were choosing him.
Azriel watched you, curiosity apparent in those hazel eyes.
“Forgive me as this is my first mating bond,” you teased, causing him to chuckle, “And I’m not entirely sure what’s appropriate to offer, but…”
You trailed off, unwrapping the small cake. His eyes dropped from your face to the small confection and his eyes widened.
You couldn’t tell if it was because of it being his favorite delicacy from the continent or the meaning behind it.
“I remembered how much you loved these,” you smiled sheepishly.
He just stared and stared at the square of cake, two layered, filled and iced with the most scrumptious chocolate frosting you’d ever tasted yourself. After he’d mentioned it in a letter once how much he’d liked this specific item from a specific bakery located only on the continent, you’d gotten yourself one that day—making the special trip in an effort to feel closer to him.
You had. And he’d been absolutely right about how amazing the dessert was.
“You’re sure?” Azriel whispered, finally looking back up at you.
You saw the hesitation in his eyes, like he was afraid this was nothing but a cruel joke the Mother was playing on him.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Az,” you said, just as softly.
You’d yet to call him the familiar nickname that his friends and family called him—despite his insistence to, long ago. But it came out so naturally now, without you even thinking of it.
He just huffed a laugh—not finding humor in the situation, but more like in utter disbelief.
“If you’ll have me,” you said, a shade hesitantly.
Scarred fingers brushed yours and you felt your body come alive in awareness and connection from the simple gesture. His hand covered yours as he simply wrapped it back up.
Your brows bunched, confused.
“There’s no rule that says I can’t enjoy it later—especially when all I want to enjoy right now is you,” he murmured.
He sat it aside on his bedside table, eyes never leaving yours. For some reason, you felt your stomach flutter seeing your mate’s intense gaze on you.
Your mate. Your mate.
You still found it hard to believe sometimes—that the Mother could give you such a wonderful gift as Azriel.
You melted into his touch as he brought you close, fingers cupping your chin gently before bringing his mouth to yours. Before you knew it, you were falling back against the pillows, bringing him with you as you kissed him.
His hands were gentle on you as if he, too, couldn’t believe that you were really here.
Perhaps it was because you were so consumed with kissing him—feeling the warmth of his body near yours, his touch on your body—that you’d hardly noticed when clothes disappeared.
It was as if they’d magically disappeared off your body, the two of you were too consumed with one another because soon you were naked under him, Azriel bare above you.
He took a moment just to stare at you, his large palm cupping your cheek. You smiled, unable to contain your joy and lightheartedness, titling your face into his touch. Your hands took the opportunity to roam his chest, feeling the warm skin, the solid strength that you spent so many long days wondering if you’d only ever imagined feeling.
“I missed you,” you murmured, feeling quite vulnerable at the moment.
“I missed you, too.”
He whispered his sentiment before bending to kiss you again, body effortlessly tangling with yours. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders—careful of the powerful wings at his back—as your lips parted under his, his tongue gentle as it swept into your mouth. You moaned softly, one hand sliding up and into the back of his hair.
Your legs fell apart even further, welcoming his body between them and you whimpered against his mouth when a moment later you felt his cock nudge your entrance.
That thread that had been curled up in your chest—had felt like it was withering—started to come alive like a flower finally receiving the first rays of sunshine in too long. The kiss paused long enough for him to push into you, a mixture of his groan and your content sigh combining in the air.
He stayed still long enough for both of you to savor the moment. Your body warmed like it was once again coming to life because you were near—connected to—your mate. Your eyes had closed, taking a moment to just enjoy the reality of having Azriel with you. All you could feel was warmth in your chest.
Then something wet hit your face—once, twice.
Your eyes fluttered open and saw his still closed, though tears still streamed down his golden brown cheeks. Something inside your chest—your heart—ached at the amount of pain, relief and even disbelief you could detect etched into his expression.
“Az,” you whispered.
Your hand slid away from his neck—his hair—and you cradled his face in your hands.
“It’s real.”
His eyes finally opened, the hazel pulling even more of a green hue through his tears.
“I’m real,” you murmured, thumbs catching his tears, “I’m here.”
You blinked back your own tears that threatened to spill.
“Hi,” you gave him a watery smile.
He just huffed a breathless laugh.
You knew what storm of emotions he was feeling—you were feeling them too. The relief of being together again, the fear that this was nothing but a lovely dream, the love you felt for your mate in that moment.
“Hi,” he uttered back.
Then you brought him back in for another kiss and yours and his body began moving as one, as if they always knew you were meant for each other—like they’d been doing this for centuries, not still truly brand new to the sensation.
You broke away briefly, head falling back into the pillow as he moved in you.
“Az,” you breathed, utterly and completely overwhelmed.
The tether that bound you both seemed to glow brightly in your chest. There was no physical sight to see, but you swore you could see the bright golden light of it, shining behind your eyes. You could definitely feel it in your chest too.
Sure, the two of you had acted on the bond in those short days you were together—repeatedly, if you were honest—but that seemed to be more like trying to appease it. Not actually succumbing to it fully.
Tonight…tonight was different.
Tonight, it felt like someone had opened a door in your chest and filled it with sunshine to such capacity that you wondered how you’d survived so long without this warmth, this joy.
With each and every thrust, those threads seem to take a life of their own. Yours and Azriel’s respective ends of that tether seemed to reach out for one another as if recognizing its other half.
You were gasping, small moans and pleased sighs coming from you. His hands mapped your entire body, unable to get enough of the feel of you under his palms. You were no different, your hands gliding over his arms, sliding over his shoulders, roaming his back and you couldn’t help it—palms dragging down his wings once again.
“Gods.”
He groaned brokenly, a combination from the touch on his wings and the entire intimacy. His mouth was persistent on your neck, shoulder, as your hips moved with his, your body pressing as closely as you could to him.
But it wasn’t enough.
Tenderness was turning into desperation—the quickly rising desire that needed more of him, all of him.
He sat back on his knees, pulling your torso up simultaneously, shifting you until your knees were bent, repositioning both of your bodies and shifting his cock deeper within you. You whimpered at the depth of him as he pulled you into his lap, your knees braced on either side of his hips.
Azriel brought your face back to his as he kissed you while you moved in his lap. You rose and fell, grinding on his length, luxuriating in the closeness of him for a short time before chasing release.
You reveled in the feel of his hands gliding along your back, the feel of his strong body under your own touch.
It was desperate, both of you clinging to one another for fear either of you would disappear. Your hands clung to his shoulders, his hands tight on your back. Briefly, his lips skirted along your face, peppering kisses everywhere he could—your cheeks, your nose, your brow, your lips.
“Say it,” he urged, eyes filled with such yearning to hear the words.
Your body moved with more urgency, wanting to be connected to his in every possible way. You wanted to stay this close, never have distance between the two of you like you’d spent the last year enduring.
“You,” you rasped, voice wavering from emotion and overwhelm, but still sure, “Are mine.”
He groaned lowly, eyes briefly closing as his fingers dug even more firmly into your skin—unwilling to let you go either.
“And I,” you whispered, fingers curling around his arms even tighter, “Am yours.”
Those threads on each end of the tether had finally met one another, twining and wrapping around one another—finally and fully connecting. You felt it like a lightning bolt in your chest, the moment that your half joined his. Every nerve in your body seemed alight and you gasped, both at that and how the two of you moved together.
Pleasure was building, the desperation and love only fueling the fire within you and your mate. You were ready to fall with him, to completely lose yourself in him in this moment.
“Together,” you breathed, gasping, “Az, please.”
He knew what you meant, knew you wanted him to fall with you, knew you wanted to embrace this closeness for as long as you possibly could.
“Yes. Yes.”
He was as breathless as you—voice gravelly—unable to say much more than you. His mouth hovered over yours as both you and he teetered closer to the edge.
Before you could fall completely, you pressed your lips to his firmly, kissing him with all the love you felt for the male. When you broke apart, his hands gripped your hips, moving you faster on him.
Pure joy and euphoria rushed through your veins, filled your entire body as you let yourself succumb to the consuming sensation of pleasure, love and a mating bond finally intertwining.
Your pleasured cry filled the room as you kept moving on him, fingers digging into his shoulders as your head tipped back.
Your name was on his tongue repeatedly as he fell only moments after you, the moans of your name filling your ears. He clung to you as both you and he eventually slowed, happy to ride out every last wave of ecstasy.
When you’d finally stilled in his lap, you felt his lips brush your throat and you smiled, still trying to catch your breath. Your head lifted at last to find Azriel watching you.
His entire heart could’ve been written on his face—all the love and happiness shining from his features. You smiled, eyes closing as he leaned forward, forehead dropping to yours.
You felt whole. For the first time in over a year, you felt like you were whole again.
“Hi, sweet girl.”
Your heart skipped at the affectionate nickname and you smiled, sitting back to look at his face.
“Miss me?” you teased.
“Just every waking moment of every day,” Azriel answered honestly.
Your face softened, knowing just how he’d felt. But he was here, you were together—something you’d never brought yourself to think too much about for fear it’d never become a reality. His hands came up to cup your face as you gazed adoringly at him, words not even needed between the two of you at the moment.
You shifted a bit, sliding off of his cock and directly out of his lap and grasp.
You fell back—actually fell backwards on the bed—as if your fatigued and exhausted body had given out on you from the combination of the sex and your travels.
He made a concerned noise, trying to reach for you, but you’d already landed back against the pillows with a tired giggle. He was still kneeling in the center of the bed, concern bleeding into relief when he realized you were okay.
Your eyes took in the marvelous sight in front of you. The golden brown, sculpted body. The powerful wings spread at his back. The dark ink of the Illyrian tattoos that twined over his arms and shoulders.
He was so incredibly beautiful.
Your eyes dipped—past the muscled chest, impressively chiseled stomach and further down.
To the cock you’d just been on.
You felt your entire body flush, already feeling the need to have him over and over within you. This was nothing like the short weekend you’d once had with your mate. This was so much more intense.
Gods, your mate. It was truly gonna take some time to process that. So much so, you knew you’d had this same pattern of thought dozens of times throughout the evening—from dinner until now.
Those hazel eyes took in your own bare body, spent and sated, his gaze roaming over you affectionately—and mischievously.
“You know, I’m sorry we missed out on dessert,” Azriel mumbled.
Your eyebrows flickered up.
“I didn’t realize there was any.”
“Even so, I think I’ll have mine now,” he grinned wickedly, crawling towards you slowly, hooking his arms under your thighs.
You yelped as he gave one sharp tug, sliding you down on the sheets and closer to him.
“Az, what are you talking ab—oh hell.”
Your question turned into a full on moan as your mate leaned down, licking a path along your slit, tasting the combination of both you and him.
He hummed before snarking, “I think we taste pretty good.”
Any other time you might’ve been stunned at his filthy remark, but this wasn’t any normal time. Especially not as his hands clutched your thighs more firmly and spread them just the slightest bit more.
“I have a lot of time to make up for, mate,” he murmured, warm breath hitting your still sensitive center.
You whimpered, trying to resist the urge to squirm beneath him.
His mouth lowered, tongue pressing flat against your clit. Your gasped moan filled the air between the two of you, your hips bucking.
You were so wound up from him, you were halfway positive you were gonna come again just from the simple motion.
One hand left your thigh, bracing his corded forearm over your stomach, keeping you pinned to the bed. You moaned more desperately as he lapped at the bud, fingers of his other hand coming up to push his spend back into you.
He hummed against you, pulling back just enough to speak, hazel eyes already dark with desire again.
“I hope you’re ready for me to claim you over and over,” his voice dropped to a more deadly, deeper timbre, “And over.”
Gods, you wanted nothing more.
You could only nod enthusiastically as he watched you with that heavy lidded desire, fingers sliding in and out of you.
As he resumed his attention on you, he pulled the bundle of nerves between his lips, sucking gently, alternating that with flicks of his tongue. You had no idea how he managed to time each flick of his tongue with a curl of his fingers.
It wasn’t gonna take long, that’s for sure. Almost instantly after you’d come down from your last high, you’d already wanted him again. But here he was, unrelenting, fingers and tongue working you so good you thought you might actually combust.
Despite him holding you down with his strength, you managed to grip his hair in one hand—the other in the tangled sheets—and push his face closer to your cunt. That building pressure had snuck up on you so fast this time, ready to snap.
“Oh gods, Az I can’t—”
You truly didn’t think you could handle much more until one last stroke of his tongue, one more curl of your fingers had you quite literally shrieking his name aloud.
You might’ve actually bowed off the bed.
All you could remember was your vision going white as he pulled another orgasm from you in so many minutes. When he’d realized you’d had enough for the moment, he pulled back, mouth and fingers leaving you, removing his arm from your abdomen.
Your breath sawed from you and you swore there were dots of light dancing in your vision. Azriel looked a tad smug, bending to press his lips to yours sweetly before pulling you up again and in his lap again.
“I’ll make sure you don’t fall this time,” he murmured, nudging your temple with his nose as his arms wrapped firmly and securely around you.
Your entire body was still trembling from the releases he’d given you and you were glad for the support. But your chest warmed at the intimacy of the moment. That newly connected thread in your chest—the one that had wrapped around your ribs and buried itself in your heart over a year ago—glowed brightly, as if knowing it, too, had finally found its matching half. It almost seemed to hum in happiness, that tether that connected you to him.
In wonder—and still slightly in awe of the last few days’ events—you reached out, pressing your palm to his bare chest. You felt the steady drum of his heartbeat under your touch and smiled faintly, knowing the other end of that golden thread, the one identical to yours, lay in his heart.
“I hope you’re prepared to not see anyone for the next few days.”
His teasing remark seemed to come out of nowhere, breaking the moment and your eyes flew up to his face, a surprised giggle bursting from your chest.
“Next time you have to be away, can you make sure I have a stuffed bat to cuddle?”
Your lips quirked upwards, the remark as lighthearted as you felt.
He chuckled, deep and low. He moved back enough to finally look you in the face properly.
“Bold of you to assume I’m going anywhere ever again.”
“Az, I think Rhys is still in the business of keeping you properly busy.”
“I can always quit,” he teased.
You smirked.
“I’ll make sure Rhys has your resignation papers in the morning then.”
He laughed again, the sound warm and light—sounding happy—just like you felt.
“I can get started on them right now,” you beamed, playfully moving like you were about to climb out of his lap.
He tightened his grip on you, holding you still in his lap.
“And just where do you think you’re going?” Azriel smirked, keeping you just where he wanted.
As if you’d want to be far from him ever again—or at least for the foreseeable future.
“Nowhere,” you smiled, content to be in your mate’s arms, “Nowhere at all.”
He returned your bright smile, head dipping in search for your lips, but not before murmuring a sweet sentiment.
Pairing: DILF!Neighbor!Steve x Reader
Word count: 3.6k
Warnings: divorce, cheating confrontation, age gap, SMUT (oral - m receiving, unprotected p in v, cowgirl, breeding kink if you squint)
Summary: After Peggy found out Steve cheated, things took an unexpected turn.
+fran: this is kinda what I had unfinished after the last scene of neighborhood watch... its porn with some plot. hope you like it <3
The loud, thunderous confrontation Steve expected when he got home from his run and saw your panties on his kitchen counter in front of his wife never… happened.
Really.
"Peg…" He started, not knowing how to continue the sentence, really. He knew how pathetic he'd sound. How much of a poor excuse for a man he'd look like he'd been.
She exhaled softly through her nose, not even looking surprised. “Don’t,” she says, not sharp—just tired. “Please don’t insult both of us by lying.”
He swallowed, jaw tightening. “I wasn’t going to—”
“You were,” she cut in gently, almost like she understood where he was coming from, finally looking at him fully. “You would’ve said it’s not what it looks like. Or that they’re not yours. Or that there’s some explanation that magically makes this okay.”
Her gaze dropped to the counter again. To the panties. “And I’m telling you right now,” she added, quieter, “I don’t need one.”
Steve set the glass down slowly, like if he moved too fast the whole thing would explode. “You don’t even want to—talk about it?”
Peggy let out a small breath, something almost like a humorless laugh. “Steve,” she said, and there was something almost kind in it. “We’ve been not talking about it for years.”
His throat tightened at that, the bitter feeling of guilt coming up like bile inside his mouth. “You think I didn’t notice?” she continued, tilting her head slightly. “The distance. The way you started going on more runs. The way you stopped even trying with me.”
Steve dragged a hand down his face. “It wasn’t supposed to—”
“Turn into something?” Peggy finished for him.
He nodded barely, and she narrowed her eyes at him like she was studying a version of him she'd never seen before. Like the man she'd been sleeping next to was a complete stranger.
When she asked him if he loved you, his hesitation was answer enough.
“Peg—” he stepped forward, arm extended at some feeble attempt to comfort her, and she put both of her hands in the air as a sign to stop him, something frantic finally breaking through. “It’s not like that, I just— I got—”
“Lonely?” she offered.
He stopped, swallowed. “…Yeah.”
She nods slowly. “Me too.” Then Peggy exhaled through her nose, almost amused again, like she was deciding whether to say something she’d been holding onto. "…I kissed Howard.”
It’s so unexpected it takes a second to even register.
“What?”
She shrugs one shoulder, casual in a way that feels surreal given the weight of it. “A few weeks ago. After a late night at the firm. We were going over a case, had a couple drinks, and…” She gestures vaguely. “It just happened.”
Steve wasn't angry. How could he be? It was one kiss, he'd had a whole entire affair — that was still ongoing, by the way — he didn't have a leg to stand on. And he felt relieved. Not angry, not betrayed, just like a weight had lifted off of his shoulder.
Just… surprised.
“And?” he asked, quieter now.
Another deep breath from her, Peggy tried to fight a smile at the memory. “And it didn’t feel wrong,” she said simply. “That’s how I knew.”
She pushed off the counter, smoothing her hands over her pants like she was grounding herself in the moment. “I thought I’d feel guilty. Or panicked. Or like I’d ruined something.” Her eyes met his again. “But all I felt was… clarity.”
Steve let out a slow breath, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “Guess we’re a pair, huh?” he mutters.
That earned a real smile from her this time. Small, but genuine.
“Guess so.”
Peggy hummed softly, tapping her fingers against her arm. “I mean, we were good on paper. We always have been. Safe. Predictable.” Her eyes flicked up to him, searching, not accusing. “But I haven’t been in love with you for a while, Steve. And I think… I think I knew that. I just didn’t want to say it out loud.”
It was quiet, the way everything moved.
For any divorces brought on by cheating, this was probably the easiest that Murdock & Sons ever took care of. Everything divided 50/50, Steve took the house since he'd spend more time with Jamie and Peggy wanted to move closer to the firm anyway.
The house felt different after she left.
Quieter.
But not the quiet that suffocates, the quiet that settled. The quiet you'd only find in early mornings when the world hadn't woken up yet aside from the birds outside, and the sky was turning from a deep indigo to a light purple.
He's started noticing things he never had, the hum of the espresso machine, the way the house looked a little more lived in — not messy in the slightest, but like a happy family lived there.
Cause a happy family did live there.
Him, and Jamie, and… you.
It wasn’t immediate. Not officially. There was no conversation about it, no moment where Steve sat you down and said this is what you are to me now.
It just… happened.
You started staying over more often. At first on the nights Jamie wasn’t there—late dinners, falling asleep on the couch, your things slowly appearing in corners of the house. A hair tie on the bathroom counter. A sweater draped over the back of a chair. Your favorite mug somehow becoming the one he always reached for in the morning.
Then it bled into the rest of his life.
The first time you were there when Jamie was, Steve had braced himself for it to feel strange. Complicated. But it wasn’t—not in the way he expected.
You fit.
Too easily.
You moved through the kitchen like you belonged there, barefoot on the tile, talking softly to Jamie while you warmed his bottle, swaying without even realizing it. The baby watched you like he always had—wide-eyed, curious, reaching for you with that same instinctive trust.
Steve stood there, leaning against the doorway, watching it unfold like something he hadn’t meant to build but suddenly couldn’t imagine undoing.
You made the space warmer.
Livelier.
You laughed more than Peggy ever did in that house. Left the TV on in the background. Sat cross-legged on the floor with Jamie, letting him tug at your fingers, your sleeves, your hair. You picked him up when he cried, and while you didn't freak out at every little thing, you grazed soothing circles on his back until he calmed down. You didn’t follow a schedule with him like it was a checklist—you just… were with him.
And Steve felt it.
Everywhere.
In the way the house smelled like your lotion instead of sterile clean linen. In the way there was always something half-finished on the counter because you got distracted mid-task. In the way you’d call out to him from another room like you’d been doing it for years.
It blurred the lines fast.
Most nights, after Jamie was asleep, the house would fall into that softer kind of quiet again—the kind that felt private instead of empty.
What really did him into the abyss of "I left my wife for a PYT" was when he caught himself staring at the crown molding in the ceiling — the one Peggy specifically picked out for their bedroom and it made him feel like an old Victorian man — and he didn't hate it anymore.
Steve had always noticed the intricate trim she had picked out years ago, something she’d been so proud of.
He used to stare at it some nights, lying stiffly on his back, feeling like he was trapped in a life that looked perfect but felt… cold. Like a museum display of a marriage instead of something living.
Because instead of a frigid, frozen marriage suffering from hypothermia in his sheets, he was naked with you on top of him, bare as the days you spent at the bed and breakfast, kissing down his body.
The sheets tangled at his feet, and he tilted his head to look at you instead. Plush, kiss-bitten lips leaving licks, sucks, and kisses down his sternum, the top of his abs, then lower, lower, lower, until you bit the deep V by his hipbone.
Steve sighed deeply, content, eyes locking with yours as you soothed the bite with a kiss. "You're a fucking tease." There was no real bite behind it, the side smile on his face telling you it was all coming from a place of l—
"Don't act like you don't like it." You murmured against his skin, lips brushing closer and closer to the needy length of him.
You kissed the base, making him groan. Then another kiss, and another, and another, as you scooted lower and got yourself comfortable leaning over him, between his spread legs.
A long lick from base to tip before you put him in your mouth, soaking him in your spit, made him hiss and close his eyes in pleasure. Big, warm hands coming to brush your hair out of your face and into a makeshift bun on the back of your head.
"That's it, sweetheart, fuck—" He knew he should feel ashamed. He knew he should feel at least a little bad that he'd be patted on the back for soaking sheets his ex-wife picked out with your slick and sweat.
And he couldn't give less of a fuck when his cock hit the back of your throat and you gagged, and pulled him in even more.
He didn't even have to ask.
Whether it was some sort of people pleasing tendency, or that you just liked it, he really didn't want to know the answer.
Some nights he struggled to keep up with your sex drive, like ovulation had turned you into a ravenous animal who could only be satiated by orgasms.
“Doesn’t it feel nice? To touch someone who wants you?” Yeah, it felt pretty fucking nice.
You hummed around his length, knowing what it did to him, and his hips bucked up into your face.
He watched you slowly bob you head up and down his cock, the only sound in the room being the wet schlick of you taking him deeper and deeper and his moans.
He tried keeping quiet, you had only gotten Jamie down half an hour prior, but every time you swirled your tongue around the head and pressed it to the underside of the tip, he got louder.
The hand that wasn't stroking the parts of his length that weren't in your mouth, was rubbing his balls in delicate motions, every now and then palming a little bit deeper.
Steve felt like he was in fucking heaven.
“Jesus…” he exhales under his breath, voice rough, barely held together. “You’re—”
A sharp cry cut through the moment like glass. The baby monitor alerting you Jamie was definitely up.
You pulled him out of your mouth with a pop, spit all over you lower lip and chin. Steve groaned—actually groaned—his head thumping back harder against the pillow. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
You wiped your chin on the back of your hand, and hopped off the bed, walking closer to him and the bedside table, grabbing his discarded t shirt from the floor and pulling it over your head.
“Relax,” you say lightly, leaning over him and kissing him on the lips. “I’ve got him.” Leaving him there, hard, wet, and leaking.
Steve watched you go.
Actually watched you—like he couldn't quite wrap his head around how quickly you switched, how easily you move from one thing to the next like it’s all just part of the same life.
Watched you wipe your hands on the shirt and disappear down the hall.
Your voice came quietly and sweetly from the monitor next, just over the cries. “Hey, sweetheart… what’s wrong, huh?” gentle, warm, completely different than the teasing tone you had seconds ago.
He heard the cries get less and less loud, and then stop altogether, only the soothing south of your voice coming through the monitor, and the dull shuffle as you swayed back and forth in the room with him in your arms.
Soft glow of the nursery lamp washing over you, Jamie tucked against your shoulder, his little fist curled into your shirt like he’s holding onto something he doesn’t want to lose.
“Hey… hey, it’s okay,” you murmur, swaying slowly, your cheek resting against the top of Jamie’s head. “You’re alright, baby. Just a bad dream, yeah?”
It shouldn't , but it makes Steve harder knowing that you're just so good with such an important part of his life.
It makes him wonder, if this how it was always supposed to be, if every good and bad decision brought him, brought you here for a reason, in whatever twisted way that was.
And his mind wandered.
Wandered to dangerous places that had you moving out of next door, and into this house for good. Places that had a ring on your finger, and you driving his Bronco. Places that had you on your back under him every night until a belly round with his kid wouldn't let you anymore.
In five minutes, you're back, skipping quietly into the room, taking him out of his daydream when your knees hit the mattress and you crawled to perch yourself on top of him.
Steve groaned at the feel of your bare pussy on his painfully hard length.
"He's good," you ground down onto him, hands resting on the sides of his face to pull him in for a kiss. "He went right back down."
You pulled away, leaning back ever so slightly to reach for the hem of the shirt and take it off, tossing it to its rightful place on the floor next to the bed.
Steve sat up, bringing you down for a kiss again, his beard tickling your face as his hands roamed all over your body, kneading the skin of your thighs and ass between his palms.
You sighed as he pulled away to kiss all over your neck and chest, letting his teeth graze the skin of your breast, making you hiss, followed by a moan when he rocked your hips down against him and the head of his cock bumped your clit.
"Shhh, don't want him to wake up again." He murmured against your skin, using his other hand to tweak the nipple he wasn't swirling his tongue around.
As you rocked back and forth, slicking him up in your wetness, the heat licking up your spine started to get hotter and hotter.
"Steve…" Your nails scraped softly at his shoulders, coming to rest at the nape of his neck playing with his hair that had gotten longer. "Please."
That made him chuckle, turning his face to look up at you from beneath his long lashes with a boyish smile that could've made you cum untouched.
"What d'ya want, honey?"
Taunting you was one of his favorite things to do, and if you weren't so into it, it'd make him feel like a fucking creep.
"Want you." You rocked your hips again, hand coming down to line him up with your entrance.
"Ah, ah, ah," His grip on your hips tightened. "Use your words."
The little huff of air that left your lips would've been adorable if it wasn't for such obscene sight.
"Want your cock, Steve."
God, he'd never get tired of hearing you say that.
He bit his lip, still smirking at you, and pulled you down his shaft agonizingly slow, until you sat flush on top of him, your breath caught in your throat at the first sting of his entire length inside of you.
You sat up, and sank back down until you built a rhythm that had you kissing and sucking all over his neck to stay quiet, heavy ragged breaths from both of you.
"Steve, hah—" His hands tightened on your ass cheeks, bringing you down harder and harder onto him, until it hurt deliciously every time the tip of him hit your cervix.
"So— fuck— so good." His voice was strained, like he was holding back to make it last longer. "Taking my cock so good."
He licked his thumb and brought it down to rub deep circles on your clit, his other hand coming to grab your face and tilt it down to look at him.
"Feel good? Huh?"
Pathetic little "uh huh!"s left your lips, more and more whiny by the second.
"Can feel you clenching around me, honey."
Honey.
He liked to call you honey, it was… domestic.
It got harder and harder to keep the rhythm, your eyes rolling back and your thighs burning, all the while the noise of blood rushing between your ears got louder and louder.
"Gonna keep you here just like this, fuck—" He pistoned his hips up harder to meet your thrusts. "Just leaking, wet, all mine—"
Steve interrupted himself with a deep groan when you reached your peak, riding that high and getting impossibly tight around him.
“Gonna keep you stuffed so full, always.” He thrusted more and more erratically. “Til. It. Takes.” He said it mostly to himself, but you heard it.
He followed suit, biting your chin lightly as he spilled all he had into you until it leaked out onto him.
You just stayed like that for a bit, his fingers grazing your back gently, kissing your temple, until both of you felt ready to clean up.
What woke Steve the next morning was a knock at the door, to no one's surprise.
It was wednesday, it was 7am, it happened every week.
Peggy came to take Jamie until Saturday at noon.
You stirred a little against him, shifting with a small sound, your fingers curling lightly into his chest before your eyes flutter open.
“…what time is it?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep.
Steve glances toward the clock, then back at you.
“Morning,” he says quietly. “She’s here.” He kissed your forehead. “I’ve got it,” Steve murmurs, already shifting out from under you, grabbing a pair of sweats off the floor.
You sat up in bed, pulling the sheet loosely around yourself, watching him for a second as he moves around the room—familiar, practiced, like this routine has already settled into place.
And maybe it has.
By the time he makes it down the stairs and opens the door, Peggy was waiting at the doorlike she still didn't have a key.
“Morning,” she said, easy.
“Hey,” he replied.
Jamie was already awake, soft little noises coming from the baby monitor clipped to the counter behind him, and Peggy’s eyes flicked toward it instinctively.
“Up already?” she asked.
“Just now,” Steve said. “We were about to get him.”
We.
It slipped out without thinking.
But she didn’t comment on it. Just nodded once, stepping inside like she was passing through, not returning. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll grab his bag.”
Steve turned toward the stairs, but he only made it halfway before he heard your voice—soft, still thick with sleep, drifting down from above.
Peggy’s head tilted slightly, eyes following the sound without looking fully surprised. Steve paused for half a second, then nodded to himself like it didn’t matter.
A beat after he responded.
Then your footsteps.
Slow at first, then more certain as you came down the stairs, one hand loosely holding the edge of the oversized shirt you were wearing—his shirt—like it didn’t even register as something to think about.
Peggy looked at you, somehow without an ounce of animosity. Almost… glad that you opened her eyes to the rest of her life.
The sleep-soft expression. The familiarity in the way you moved. The fact that you didn’t hesitate at all when you reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Morning,” you said, voice gentle.
“Morning,” Peggy returned, just as calm.
Jamie let out a louder sound from upstairs, and without thinking, you turned back toward the stairs.
“I’ll get him—”
“I’ve got it,” Steve said automatically.
But you were already moving.
Already halfway up.
And that—more than anything—made Peggy’s gaze linger.
Not on Steve.
On you.
On how natural it was.
How unforced.
By the time Steve followed you up, you were already in the nursery, lifting Jamie from his crib, murmuring something soft against his hair as he settled into you like he always did.
Steve stopped in the doorway.
Watched.
That same quiet feeling from the night before settling in again—heavy, real, undeniable.
Downstairs, Peggy moved through the kitchen, grabbing the bag she knew exactly where to find, packing a couple things without needing to ask.
Because even now, she still knew the house.
She just didn’t belong to it anymore.
A few minutes later, you came back down with Jamie tucked against your chest, his head resting against your shoulder, half-awake and content.
Peggy stepped forward to take him, and he went easily—but not before his fingers curled into your shirt for just a second longer than necessary.
You smiled faintly, smoothing his hair back.
“See you in a few days, sweetheart,” you murmured.
Peggy watched that, too.
Then adjusted him on her hip.
“I’ll bring him back Saturday,” she said.
Steve nodded. “Yeah.”
She shifted her bag onto her shoulder, pausing just briefly as her eyes moved between the two of you—Steve standing close behind you, your hand still lingering where Jamie had been, the quiet ease in the space.
No chaos.
No tension.
Just… a life continuing.
“Have a good rest of the week,” she added.
“You too,” Steve said.
You gave a small nod. “Drive safe.”
Peggy’s lips curved just slightly—something soft, almost amused, almost knowing.
Then she turned, stepped out, and pulled the door shut behind her.
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. Knot. Breeding. Rough Sex. Scent Kink. Dub-con elements: breaking and entering, but all sex is enthusiastically consented. Non-traditional alpha purring. Size Kink. Premature Ejaculation. Feral/Possessive Behaviour.
Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.
Word Count: 12.7k
note: I have been toying with this concept for a while, and wrote these character premises as a background: Alpha!Soldat - Omega!Reader
5:07 AM.
The sky hasn't decided yet whether it's going to dawn or surrender back to night. It’s that liminal hour when the city just stops, too late for the night crowd, and too early for the commuters. Just the street cleaners, the delivery trucks, and the bakers finishing their shifts.
She pulls her jacket tighter against the October chill and starts walking.
Twelve blocks, it’s not far. Close enough that she doesn't need the subway, but far enough that her legs feel it after eight hours on her feet, kneading dough. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back protests. She smells like the industrial-strength flour that gets into everything, no matter how many times she washes her hands.
She doesn't see him.
But he's there.
----
Three rooftops back, tracking her with the concentration it would use on a target: eyes cataloging her gait, her route, the way she favors her right leg slightly after a long shift. But this isn't a mission. There’s no handler voice in its ear telling it where to go, what to do, or who to eliminate.
Just her scent in the air.
Brown sugar and yeast, yes, but underneath that… omega. Warm and sweet and something that makes Soldat's chest constrict in a way that has no name, no designation, no mission-relevant purpose.
It doesn't understand why it's following her.
Can't articulate the drive that pulled it off its assigned route many nights ago, and keeps pulling it back to the alley behind the bakery, to the vent that breathes her scent into the dark.
It still has things to do that don't include stalking an omega through pre-dawn streets like something hungry.
But it can't stop.
Has tried. Twice. Completed the mission and returned to wait for new orders. And both times, it found itself an excuse to be back in that alley at 3:47 AM when the oven is hot, and her scent filters through the vent.
Omega. Mine.
The thought comes from somewhere deep. Some base-level recognition that bypasses protocol and conditioning, and makes Soldat's hands shake.
She turns the corner onto a quieter street.
Residential. Old brownstones with iron railings and window boxes that haven't been tended in years. It drops from the rooftop to a fire escape -silent, controlled- and continues tracking her from the shadows.
It shouldn't be doing this.
Knows it shouldn't.
Handlers aren’t here. It chastises itself.
There's no debrief scheduled for today. No extraction team waiting.
Only her scent on the wind.
----
Her building is old. Pre-war, maybe. Brick facade with a fire escape that's seen better decades. She lets herself in through the front door -no doorman, it notes, filing it away in the part of its brain that still calculates threat assessments- and disappears into the stairwell.
It waits sixty seconds.
Counts them, precisely. Giving her time to reach her floor, -the one that smells like her- to unlock her door, to be safely inside before-
Before what?
Soldat doesn't know.
Doesn't have a plan. Just the pull in its body that screams closer and the scent memory that's been driving it slowly insane for days.
It should leave, but it's already moving. Not toward the front door, but toward the fire escape.
Metal fingers find purchase first on iron rungs worn smooth by decades of weather. It climbs silently, the thing barely creaks under its weight because it knows exactly where to place its feet, how to distribute the load.
It moves up the side of the building like water flowing upward. Silent and inevitable to the second floor.
Her window faces the alley, so it crouches on the fire escape landing, perfectly still, and watches her shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, toeing off her shoes, and leaving them by the door.
It’s a small apartment, a studio layout, its mind automatically catalogs. Kitchen area, living space, bathroom door, and a bed in the corner.
She moves through the space and opens the fridge -light spills out, illuminating her for three seconds- grabs a bottle of juice. Drinks. Sets it down.
And pulls her shirt over her head.
Soldat's breath stops.
It can see skin it has no right to look at, and it can't make itself turn away. Can't make itself leave, like every remaining protocol says it should.
Because she's just there. Right there, separated from it by a pane of glass and ten feet of air, and the seventy years of conditioning that says don't want, don't need, don't feel.
But Soldat is feeling.
Chest tight, breathing uneven. Cock still hard. Has been hard since it caught her slick-scent through the bakery vent two hours ago, an ache it doesn't remember ever experiencing before.
And it wants.
She disappears further into the apartment.
A door closes. The bathroom, its mind supplies automatically. It hears water running through the pipes. Shower.
Every instruction it has left says to disengage now. Report the issue, because that's what this is, isn't it? An issue.
It isn't supposed to follow civilians home. Isn't supposed to be crouched on a fire escape at 5 AM watching an omega through her window like something feral.
Its hand moves to the window ledge.
Testing.
The old wood is swollen with moisture. The latch is visible through the gap in the curtains, a simple mechanism, not designed to keep out anyone who actually wants in.
Don't.
Its other hand goes to the knife at its thigh.
Leave. Disengage. Return to base.
But it's already moving.
The blade slides between the window and the frame. Simple leverage. The latch gives with barely a click, the wood is too old, and the mechanism is too worn to provide real resistance.
The window slides up smoothly, and the scent-
Fuck.
It escapes out of the open window like a physical thing. Concentrated. Undiluted. Brown sugar, yeast, and omega, coating the inside of its mouth, taking root inside its lungs.
Soldat is inside before really processing it.
The window slides shut behind it, and he just stands there, surrounded by her scent.
The shower is still running. It can hear it through the bathroom door. Can picture her under the spray, water running over skin it saw for three seconds and can't stop thinking about.
Its cock throbs.
Insistent. Painful. It looks down at the bulge behind its pants like it belongs to someone else, like it's a malfunction rather than proof that the drugs are failing, have been failing, because the body knows she's its.
It is biological, absolute, and completely outside of its control.
It crosses to the other window -the one that faces the living area, opposite the bathroom- and sits down on the sill.
It doesn't hide. Doesn't try to blend into shadows or position itself tactically, just waits.
Because she needs to see it. Some part of it that isn't entirely a weapon understands that surprising her, cornering her in the bathroom, or grabbing her when she's vulnerable, would be wrong.
Would make her afraid.
And it doesn't want her afraid.
Wants-
It doesn't know what it wants. Just knows it's going to wait right here until she comes out.
The water cuts off.
Its breathing goes shallow as it hears her moving around in the bathroom. A towel. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. Footsteps. The door handle turning, and finally, the door opening.
----
She steps out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dripping down her back.
And freezes.
Because a man is sitting in her window.
No, not a man. Something else. Something that makes every rational thought in her head go quiet, replaced by a single, primal recognition that bypasses her brain entirely and speaks directly to that omega part of her that had seemed dormant almost all her life.
Alpha.
He's engulfed in black. Tactical gear that looks military, maybe a mercenary, she doesn't know enough to tell the difference, just knows it's meant for violence. A polymer mask covers the lower half of his face as some kind of muzzle, and it should look wrong, should look like something out of a nightmare, but doesn't.
Above it, his eyes.
Blue. Pale, pale blue. The color of ice over deep water.
And they're locked on her.
Not looking. Locked. Fixed in a way that makes her instinct whisper predator even as her omega biology sings yes.
Black paint is smeared across the upper half of his face, crude, deliberately, the kind of thing meant to swallow the light and turn a man into a shadow. His hair hangs lank, brushing his shoulders, dark and tangled like it hasn't seen a brush in weeks. Maybe months.
And his left arm-
Metal.
Plates and articulated joints that catch the yellow light from her bedside lamp, silver and unmistakably not human. It rests on his thigh, fingers splayed, and she can see the micro-movements, the tiny recalibrations of servos and mechanisms that keep it alive.
She should scream.
She should run, lock herself back in the bathroom, call 911, something, anything other than just standing here dripping onto her floor in nothing but a towel that suddenly feels thinner than paper.
But her body doesn't respond with fight or flight.
It still responds with yes.
Because that scent, oh god, that scent.
It hits her fully now that she's out of the steam-thick bathroom. Leather worn soft with age. Gunmetal, cordite. And underneath it all, something alive and warm. Clean sweat, musk, cedar smoke, and a bass note she doesn't have a name for, but her body knows.
It's him.
The ghost she's been smelling through the bakery vent for days. The phantom that made her slick in the middle of a shift, made her hands shake while she shaped croissants, made her lie awake at night with her fingers between her legs chasing a release that never quite came because it wasn't him.
He's real.
He's in her apartment.
And some twisted, fucked-up part of her -the part that's never felt right with any alpha she's tried to want, the part that's been waiting for something she couldn't name- feels like he belongs here.
Her pulse hammers in her throat. She can feel it, hot and frantic, thudding against her scent gland. Her skin prickles with hyperawareness, the towel too rough against her nipples, and-
Oh no.
Oh no.
Warmth between her thighs. The telltale slick slide that means her body is already reacting, already preparing, already wanting in a way she's never felt with flesh-and-blood alphas who bought her drinks and asked politely and did everything right.
She's getting wet for a stranger sitting in her window like a bird of prey.
The shame of it burns, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to make her body listen to her brain's increasingly frantic commands to move, run, do something.
She hears him inhale and sees the way his entire body goes rigid.
Oh fuck.
He smells it.
----
It watches her freeze.
Sees the way her pupils blow wide, black swallowing the color until there's barely any left. Perceives the flutter of her pulse, rabbit-quick, omega-fragile. Sees the water droplets sliding down her collarbone, disappearing into the edge of the towel.
She hasn't screamed.
That's… weird. Civilians scream when it appears in their private rooms. They run. They freeze and shake, and sometimes they cry, but they don't just stand there staring at it like-
Her scent changes, and it takes it half a second to place it, and when it does, something in its brain fractures.
Slick.
It tenses.
That's not- omegas don't smell like that for it. Warm and sweet and wanting, with pheromones that pull at something on it, that the handlers said was fixed.
But it's surfacing now.
Clawing up from whatever dark place they tried to bury it, and it doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't have a protocol for this. Just the overwhelming need to get closer, to bury its face in her throat and breathe.
Its cock throbs. Heavy, aching, trapped behind tactical fabric that suddenly feels painfully constricting.
It shifts slightly on the windowsill, trying to relieve the pressure, and the movement is clumsy. It doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't remember ever needing to.
Her eyes drop.
She's looking at the obvious bulge straining against black fabric, at the evidence of something it thought was dead.
She should be running.
Why isn't she running?
"How did you get in?" Her voice comes out steady. Not scared, or angry.
Like this is a normal question to ask a heavily-armed stranger sitting in her window at five in the morning.
It doesn't answer.
Doesn't know how to answer.
So it stands.
The movement is fluid and controlled because the body knows how to move smoothly even when the mind is fracturing.
She's still just standing there, still looking at it with those wide eyes, pupils blown. The towel is slipping slightly on one side, and it can see a droplet of water sliding down between her breasts, and its mouth goes dry.
It takes a step toward her.
Then another.
Her scent gets stronger with each foot of distance it closes. Thicker. Sweeter. The slick-smell underneath makes something in Soldat's alpha core growl with satisfaction because yes, omega wants, omega is ready-
No.
It doesn't think like that. Isn't supposed to think like that. Omegas are targets or obstacles or irrelevant sources of pain, not-
Another step.
She hasn't moved.
Hasn't backed up, hasn't reached for a makeshift weapon, hasn't done any of the things a smart person should do when a strange man invades her home.
Three more steps and it's close enough to feel the residual heat from her shower radiating off her damp skin. Close enough to see the way her chest is rising and falling too fast, shallow breaths that make the towel shift with each inhale.
Close enough to hear the slight hitch when it stops less than a foot away.
----
He is close enough that she can see the black paint smudged at his temple, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his pupils have blown so wide the blue is almost gone.
Close enough to drown in his scent.
It's overwhelming this close, and her body responds like he's touching her even though there are still inches of space between them.
More slick. Warm and mortifying, sliding down her inner thighs beneath the towel.
She watches him scent the air, watches his pupils dilate even further -if that's even possible- watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
He knows exactly what her body is doing.
And some absolutely insane part of her is glad.
His metal hand comes up slowly, like he's giving her every chance to bolt, to scream, to do literally anything other than stand here and let him.
The hand hovers near her face.
Not touching. Just so close that she can see her reflection dancing in the fingers plates, warped and strange, and hear the whisper-quiet whir of mechanisms, as he holds it perfectly still.
Her heart is hammering so hard she's sure he can hear it, but she doesn't flinch.
Doesn't do any of the rational things a person should do when a stranger breaks into their home and reaches for their face with a metal hand that could probably crush her throat without effort.
Just stands there, meeting those burning blue eyes, her heart a war drum in her chest, and waits.
Because this feels…
Right.
Every alpha she's ever tried to force herself to want was just wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything. Going through the correct actions because that's what omegas are supposed to do, supposed to crave, but her body never responded. Never wanted.
Until now.
A stranger in tactical gear with a metal arm and war paint, and her body is screaming yes louder than it's ever screamed anything in her life.
She watches his hand hover, and in defiance of every rational instinct, she takes a step forward. Closes those last six inches of space until the towel brushes against his thigh, and his scent completely surrounds her, drowns her, ruins her.
And reaches up.
Her fingers wrap around his metal wrist -still hovering, still waiting- and she guides it down, pressing that cold palm against her cheek.
----
She touches it, and Soldat furrows his brows.
Because no one touches the arm unless they have to. Handlers avoid it. Technicians maintain it with detachment. Targets flinch from it. Witnesses scream when they see it.
But she-
A sound is ripped out of it, low, subvocal, resonating in the hollow of its ribcage. It doesn't recognize it at first. Doesn't have a reference for the frequency, the pattern, or the way it seems to vibrate through its entire body.
Not a growl, not a snarl.
Something else.
Something the handlers never trained it for because alphas don't… alphas aren't supposed to-
Purr.
Soldat is purring.
It doesn't know how to stop.
Doesn't know if it wants to stop.
Because she's still touching the arm, still holding its wrist, and her eyes are closed now, her face tipped into the metal palm like she's seeking comfort from it.
From it.
The purr intensifies.
Its thumb moves -carefully, because the arm could hurt her so easily, and that thought makes something violent twist in its gut- and brushes along her cheekbone.
Her breath catches, and Soldat hears it, and wants to touch more.
Wants to map every inch of her body with both hands, with its mouth. Wants to bury its face in her throat and learn the exact composition of her scent. Wants to know what she tastes like. Wants to-
It hands grip her shoulders and pulls her closer, using the momentum to bend down and bury its face in the curve of her neck where the scent gland sits and inhales, or tries to.
Because the mask creates a barrier between its face and her skin. Only millimeters of separation, but it might as well be miles.
It’s not enough.
It presses closer, trying to get its nose flush against her throat, trying to eliminate even those few millimeters of distance.
But the rigid edge of the muzzle won't let it, and the frustration is maddening.
The sound that rips out of its throat is not a growl. Smaller than that. Sharper. Almost a whine, high and thwarted, vibrating through its chest in a way that makes it freeze because…
Because it doesn't make sounds like that.
It pulls back from her throat, hands still on her shoulders, and it stares down at the space between them like it's a tactical problem requiring assessment.
Remove it.
The thought surfaces clean and logical. A simple solution to a simple problem.
Its flesh hand releases her shoulder and lifts toward its own head. Fingers reaching for the straps at the back, close enough that it would only take a second, just release the catch, pull the strap free…
Then the hand stops, freezing mid-motion, and Soldat's jaw clenches beneath the muzzle.
The conditioning surfaces automatically and absolutely. Operational equipment stays on until a handler authorizes removal. The Soldat doesn't touch the gear. Doesn't adjust it. Doesn't remove it.
Waits for orders. Always waits for orders.
But there are no orders here.
No handler voice in its ear telling it what to do, what's permitted, what comes next.
Just the omega standing in front of it and the scent it can't reach, and the need clawing inside it like something trying to break out.
Its hand trembles. Actually trembles. Seventy years of conditioning screaming don't touch the equipment warring with the biological imperative howling get closer to omega.
She makes a sound.
Soft. Questioning. Her eyes watch the internal struggle in real time.
And it realizes, she can see it. The conflict, the frozen hand.
The Soldat's hand drops back onto her shoulder. It can't do this.
The frustration is physical. A tightness in its throat, a pressure behind its eyes, and the whine tries to surface again, but it swallows it down because it doesn’t want to show weakness to her, besides its uselessness.
The word surfaces bitter and cold.
Can't even take off its own gear. Can't function like anything other than a weapon waiting for orders that aren't coming.
----
She can see it in his eyes.
He wants the mask off. The way he's looking at the space between them with something that's not quite frustration, or confusion, but somewhere in between.
Trapped.
He's trapped by something she can't see. Some kind of rule he can't break, even though every line of his body is screaming that he wants to.
He's not going to take it off himself.
Can't, or won't, or has been trained so thoroughly not to that his hand literally won't complete the motion even though he's desperate for it.
And that… that's wrong. Whatever they did to him, whoever they are, it's wrong.
Her hands come up slowly, carefully, so he can see it coming.
She reaches past his shoulders, past his neck, finding the straps at the back of his head. Her fingers brush through his tangled hair, searching for the buckles hidden beneath.
"Can I?"
Her voice is barely a whisper. Rough with want and the absolute insanity of what she's doing, asking permission to unmask a stranger who broke into her apartment, like that's the wildest part of this situation.
But nothing about this makes sense, so why should this?
He nods, almost military in its precision.
And something in her chest aches at how strange that is, that he needs her help to remove something that's clearly bothering him. That he can't just do it himself.
She reaches up and carefully -so carefully- lifts it away.
The straps pull free from his hair. The contraption comes away from his face, and she can see the slight indentations it left on his skin, red marks where it pressed too tightly for too long.
How long has he been wearing this?
She doesn't ask.
Just holds the mask for a second, then drops it, and it hits the floor with a dull plastic thud that seems too loud in the quiet of her apartment.
For the first time, she sees his whole face.
Sharp jaw. Dry lips parted slightly as he drags in air like he's been holding his breath. A mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, except she doesn't think he remembers how. The black paint extends down past where the mask sat, smudged across his cheeks making his eyes look even more intense.
He's… beautiful. Devastatingly so.
Not pretty, not soft, but beautiful. All sharp edges and hard lines, and a vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't match the rest of him.
And he's staring at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters, like she just gave him something he didn't know he needed.
The moment the mask leaves his face, he moves.
Fast, faster than she can track, his face buries into the curve of her throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
A shuddering inhale that she feels all the way down between her thighs. His nose is pressed directly against her scent gland now, nothing between them, and his whole body goes rigid against hers.
Then he breathes her in again, deep and desperate, and the groan he makes is so raw it makes her knees weak.
She feels his lips part, and the wet heat of his tongue dragging directly over her scent gland, tasting her, and her vision goes white for a second.
Her head tips back.
Automatic. Instinctive. Omega nature taking over and offering her throat to an alpha she doesn't even know, and she should be terrified of how right this feels.
But she's not.
He licks her again, slower this time, deliberately, learning her taste. Then his mouth seals over the gland, and he sucks.
The sound she makes is high and breathy and omega, and she feels it, feels her knees give out, feels her body go liquid and pliant.
He catches her.
The metal arm bands around her waist instantly, hauling her up and pinning her against him so her feet barely touch the floor. She's pressed against tactical gear and body armor and all that heat radiating off his body, and the towel-
The towel is gone.
She doesn't know when it fell. Doesn't care. Can't think past the way his mouth is working her throat, licking, sucking, the scrape of teeth that makes her gasp and arch into him.
He's hard.
She can feel it against her hip, thick and insistent even through the clothing, and he's grinding into her like he can't help himself. Like his hips are moving on pure instinct, chasing friction and relief and something he doesn't have words for.
The purr is still going.
That deep, subvocal vibration she can feel everywhere they're touching: his chest against hers, his arm around her waist, his face in her throat.
Wrong, some distant part of her brain whispers. Alphas don't purr.
But he is.
And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever felt.
She tilts her head back further, giving him more access, and the noise he makes in response is purely animal. Grateful and starving and so far gone she knows -knows- that something is deeply wrong with him.
Not wrong like dangerous.
Wrong like broken.
The way he touches her is frantic but not cruel, demanding but not bruising, desperate but not violent. Like he's running on instinct with no learned behavior, no finesse. Just need, confusion, and the desperate drive to get closer.
His flesh hand grips her thigh and lifts, hitching her leg up around his hip and pressing in hard, grinding his erection against where she's slick and open and aching, and the pressure makes her whimper.
He pulls back just enough to look at her.
His eyes are wild. Just thin rings of ice around bottomless black. His lips are wet, the black paint smudged where his face was pressed into her throat. He's panting like he just ran miles, and she can see it-
The confusion.
The need.
The absolute terror of not understanding what's happening to him. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he seeks.
But she wants to pull him down to her bed and let him figure it out. Wants to guide those shaking hands, wants to teach him what touch can feel like. Wants to watch him come apart with her name on his lips, except she doesn't even know his name and-
"Please."
The word falls out of her mouth. Barely a whisper. Rough and desperate, and she doesn't even know what she's asking for.
But he seems to understand.
----
Please.
The omega says it like a prayer, and something in Soldat's mind just shatters. Because she's asking. Begging. Not for it to stop, not for it to leave her alone, but for more.
Her scent is everywhere. On its tongue, in its nose, soaking into its skin through the tactical gear. Brown sugar and yeast, and that salt undertone that makes its alpha instinct groan mine, omega, MINE.
Her leg is wrapped around its hip. Her body is bare and warm and pressed against it, and it can smell how wet she is, and its cock is so hard it hurts.
It feels pain. Real, physical pain, because it hasn't been hard in… it doesn't know how long. Doesn't remember what this feels like, this ache low in its belly, this pressure behind the zipper of its pants that won't go away no matter how it grinds against her.
And she's letting it.
Not just letting, she's arching into it, making those high breathy sounds that spike straight down Soldat's spine, and it doesn't know what to do.
It knows how to kill. Knows ten ways to incapacitate from this position. Knows where to put the knife, the bullet.
Doesn't know how to touch her without breaking her.
Its flesh hand is gripping her thigh too tightly. It can see its knuckles white with pressure, can calculate the exact force needed to bruise, and it tries to ease up, but can't make its fingers let go.
Because if it lets go, she might-
Soldat doesn't know what it's afraid of. That she'll run. That she'll stay. That this will end. That it won't.
Her hands come up.
Slide into its hair, tangling in the unwashed strands, and she pulls.
Not hard. Just enough to guide its face back to her throat, and it complies because it can't do anything else. Can't think past the need to have its mouth on her skin, to taste the scent gland again, to feel her pulse against its tongue.
It licks a stripe up her throat, tasting her, and the purr intensifies until its entire chest is vibrating with it.
She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to its leaking cock.
It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to move, needs friction, needs something.
Its hips jerk forward, grinding the thick length behind its pants against her, and the heat there -wet and slick and ready- makes its vision blur.
Omega.
Wants.
Needs.
The thoughts don't form in words. Just primal drive, instinct clawing up from wherever they buried it. Its free hand -the metal one, careful, so careful- slides down her side. Traces her waist, her hip, until it reaches her thigh, the one not wrapped around him, and it grips, gentle as it knows how, which might not be gentle enough, and lifts.
Both her legs are now wrapped around its waist, her back against the wall, its both hands holding her up by her ass, and she's completely open against it now.
Nothing but its tactical pants between them. It can feel the slick soaking through, can smell it so thick in the air it's drowning everything else out.
It grinds forward.
The pressure makes her gasp -loud and sharp- and her nails dig into its shoulders through the vest.
Yes.
It does it again. Harder. Chasing the friction, the heat, the sounds she's making. Its hips move in a rhythm it doesn't remember learning, rutting against her like something feral.
She's saying something, but it can't process the words. Just the tone, breathy, desperate, wanting, and it's enough.
More than enough.
Its mouth finds her throat again. Finds the scent gland and bites. Not hard. Not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her feel it, to hold her, to-
Mark?
The thought surfaces sharp and alien. Soldat doesn't mark. Doesn't claim. It's not supposed to-
But its teeth are on her gland, and she's keening, high and sweet and surrendering, and its primal alpha nature is screaming YES, MINE, OMEGA, CLAIM-
No.
Can't.
Not allowed.
It doesn't know who decided that or why, just knows it's true. It can't bond her. Can't keep her.
But it can't let go either.
Can't stop grinding against her, can't stop purring, can't stop holding her against the wall like she's the only thing that matters in the world.
She pulls its hair again, forcing Soldat's face up, making it meet her eyes. And what it sees there is want, need. But also something else.
Understanding, maybe.
Like she can see the fracture and the confusion inside its head.
Her thumb brushes its cheekbone, smearing the black paint. Gentle in a way nothing has been with it in years.
"It's okay," she whispers.
And Soldat doesn't know what she means.
Doesn't know what's okay. This isn't okay, none of this is okay. It had broken into her home and put its hands on her, and she should be screaming and squirming but instead she's-
"It's okay," she says again, and her lips brush against it like she's afraid it might break.
Soldat freezes.
Her lips are warm. Soft. Moving gently against its mouth like she's asking a question, but it doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know what to do with its mouth except keep it closed, rigid, and unresponsive while she kisses it with a tenderness that disarms it.
She pulls back.
Just a fraction. Just enough to look at it, and Soldat can see the question in her eyes even though she doesn't ask it out loud.
Is this okay?
It doesn't know.
She kisses it again, slower this time. A soft press of lips, then another, feather-light brushes that make its breath hitch.
Her hands slide from its hair to cup its face -cradling it between her palms like it's something precious- and she kisses the corner of its mouth. Its jaw. The edge of its lips again.
Patiently, like she has all the time in the world.
Like she's not pinned against a wall, held up by its hands under her ass, legs wrapped around its waist while completely naked.
Soldat's brain tries to process this, but her tongue flicks out. Just barely. A soft, wet touch against its bottom lip that sends electricity straight down its spine.
The sensation is-
Soldat doesn't have a reference for it.
Its breath catches. Actually stutters in its chest because no one has ever done that to him.
The tongue traces its bottom lip again, a little bolder this time, and something in Soldat's chest constricts. It's compelling, her mouth on its mouth. The promise of more if it just-
If it just takes it.
And something inside it just… snaps.
It surges forward, crushing its mouth against hers and takes.
Because it doesn't know how to do this softly. Doesn't know how to kiss like she was kissing it, all tenderness and patience. Just knows want and need and more, and its mouth opens against hers, demanding, claiming.
She gasps against its lips.
It swallows the sound. Licks into her mouth, tasting her -omega, sweet, mine- and her flavor explodes across its tongue like nothing it's ever experienced.
Its flesh hand comes up from her ass and grips the back of her head, fisting her damp hair and holds her still while it kisses her like it's starving.
She makes a sound, high and breathy, and Soldat growls.
Can't help it. The sound rumbles up from its chest, vibrating through the kiss, possessive and feral and alpha in a way it didn't know it still could be.
The metal arm under her ass flexes. Lifts her higher against the wall, adjusting the angle so it can kiss her harder, deeper, can tilt her head back with the hand in her hair and devour her mouth.
She whimpers into the kiss and her hips roll, grinding down against where Soldat's cock is straining behind its zipper, and the friction -fuck, the friction-makes its hips jerk forward on instinct.
It's still kissing her. Can't stop kissing her. Can't pull away even to breathe because breathing means not kissing, and that's unacceptable.
Its hips grind up. Her hips roll down. The rhythm builds between them, clumsy, desperate, uncoordinated, and it can feel her heat even through the tactical pants.
Slick. So much of it, soaking through the fabric.
For it.
It tears its mouth away from hers just long enough to breathe -one harsh gasp-and then it's dragging its lips down her jaw, her throat. Back to the scent gland that's calling to every broken alpha instinct it has left.
It bites down.
Harder than before. Still not breaking skin, but claiming the space, holding her throat between its teeth while she keens above it.
Her hands fist in its hair. Pull hard enough to hurt, but the pain is good. Grounds it. Keeps it tethered to this moment, this omega, this impossible thing that's happening.
Its metal arm shifts, adjusting its grip on her ass, fingers spreading wider, and it can smell everything. The heat. The slickness. How ready she is.
How much she wants.
Its hips are still grinding up against her in a rhythm that feels right, even though Soldat doesn't know why. Chasing pressure and friction, and the heat radiating from between her legs.
She's panting now. Harsh little gasps every time its hips thrust up, every time the thick length behind its pants grinds against where she's open and slick and wanting.
"Please-"
She says it again. Broken and desperate, and Soldat doesn't know what she's asking for, but it wants to give it to her.
Wants to give her everything.
Its mouth releases her throat. Licks over the mark its teeth left behind -soothing, claiming- and then finds her mouth again.
Kisses her hard. Deep. Swallowing her gasps and her whimpers while its hips grind up harder, faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.
The pressure is building, low in Soldat's belly, behind its cock. Something coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every slide of slick-heat against fabric, every sound she makes into its mouth.
Her teeth catch its bottom lip. Bite down just enough to sting, it snarls into her mouth.
Its metal hand grips.
Pulls her down harder against its shaft while its hips snap up, and the angle -fuck- the angle grinds the ridge of its cock directly against where she's hottest.
She cries out.
Breaks the kiss, head thrown back against the wall, and it can see the pleasure breaking across her face, can see her eyes roll back, can feel her thighs shaking around its waist.
Beautiful.
She's beautiful.
And Soldat is-
It's-
The pressure peaks.
Crests like a wave, and Soldat doesn't know what's happening, but it can't stop, can't do anything but grind up into her one more time, hard and desperate and-
Everything goes white.
----
She feels him go rigid against her, and then-
He makes a sound.
Low and guttural and broken, muffled against her throat where his face is buried now, and she feels it, feels him shuddering against her, feels the rhythmic pulse against her hip even through his pants.
Oh.
He just-
Her brain catches up a second too late, pleasure still sparking through her nerve endings from the way he was grinding against her, the perfect pressure against her clit, the desperate rhythm that had her right on the edge-
But he got there first.
And something in her breaks with something tender and possessive and achingly sad all at once.
Because this -this desperate, uncontrolled response- tells her everything she needs to know about how touch-starved he is, coming from friction alone.
Her alpha came untouched, shaking against her, and the intimacy of that moment makes her throat tight. And somehow she is glad her body, her scent, was enough to make him lose control so completely, that could give him this.
Even if she's still aching. Still empty. Still wet and wanting and so close to the edge she could cry.
The purr has stuttered into something irregular, broken, almost pained. And her omega instincts surge.
Protect. Soothe. Comfort.
Her hands move on instinct, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his chest, where she can feel his heart racing like a war drum.
His grip on her hasn't loosened.
Still holding her up, metal arm banded under her ass, flesh hand fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. Still pressing her into the wall like she's the only solid thing in his world.
He's not moving.
He’s just frozen there, face buried in her throat, breathing hard and ragged against her skin. She can feel the wetness between them, his release soaking through his pants, merging with her slick, warm where their hips are still pressed together.
And he hasn't let go.
Won't let go.
She can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers are still fisted in her hair, the trembling in his flesh hand that suggests he's fighting every instinct to squeeze tighter, hold harder, never release.
Like he's terrified she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.
"Hey," she whispers, and her voice comes out… wrecked.
"Hey, it's okay."
She doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.
Doesn't know what she's reassuring him of. That coming like this is okay? That she's not disgusted? That she's not going anywhere?
All of it, maybe.
She feels his face shift against her throat. A tiny movement, his nose dragging along her scent gland like he's seeking reassurance in her smell.
And her heart just-
Breaks.
Breaks for this broken alpha who doesn't even know how to accept comfort without making it into something instinctive and biological.
His breathing doesn't even out. If anything, it gets worse. Harsher. Like he's trying to pull himself together and failing.
And she notices it, the alpha shame. Of losing control. Of being weak. Of needing.
"Alpha," she says, and she's surprised by how steady her voice comes out. How sure. "It's okay. You're okay."
She doesn't know if he understands words right now -doesn't know how much of him is even there behind those pale eyes- but shesays it anyway.
Like she can make it true just by believing it hard enough.
The purr is starting to even out now. Still irregular, but less jagged. And she can feel the exact moment something changes in him, when the shame starts to give way to something else.
His grip tightens fractionally. The hand in her hair flexes, and his face presses harder into her throat, and the sound he makes is low and rough and utterly possessive.
Mine, it says without words.
Omega. Mine. Not letting go.
And fuck, she wants to be his.
Her thighs are starting to shake from the position. Legs wrapped around his waist, all her weight held up by his arm, and she's not sure how long they've been like this, but her muscles are beginning to protest.
"Hey," she says softly. "You can… you can put me down if you want. I can grab a towel, clean up a bit-"
No.
He doesn't say it, just makes a sound -low, immediate, almost a growl- and his grip tightens on her.
Metal and flesh both, holding her closer instead of letting go, and his face presses harder into her throat like the suggestion of separation is physically painful.
She feels him shake his head.
Just once. Sharp and definitive.
Not letting go. Not putting her down. Not giving her space to clean up or think or do anything except stay right here, wrapped around him, her scent in his lungs.
"Okay," she whispers, and she doesn't know why she's surrendering so easily. Doesn't know why the word falls from her lips like a vow. "Okay, alpha. I'm not going anywhere."
And she… should probably be concerned about that reaction.
Should insist on disengaging, because they're both a mess, his release soaking through his pants, her slick coating her thighs and the fabric, the obscene mix of it smeared between them where their bodies are pressed together.
But the way he's holding her, the way his breathing is starting to change again. Getting heavier. Rougher. Not the ragged gasps from before but something else. Something deeper.
His scent shifts.
Sharpens.
She smells it even through her own arousal, through the mess between them, leather and gunmetal going darker, muskier, edged with something that makes her inner omega sit up and pay attention.
Alpha.
Not just alpha.
Rutting alpha.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He's-
Before she can finish the thought, he moves.
Turns from the wall, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and crosses her small apartment in a couple of long strides. Her bed is right there -unmade, sheets still tangled from when she left for work yesterday- and he doesn't hesitate.
Just leans forward and deposits her on it. Not rough, but not gentle either. Without ceremony, she's suddenly on her back on the mattress, legs falling open, and he's standing over her, looking down with those pale blue eyes engulfed in blown pupils.
Somehow, she feels more naked now, exposed. Sprawled on the bed, thighs still shaking, slick coating her inner thighs and probably the sheets beneath her.
He can see all of it, and he's staring where she's open. Wet. Swollen. Still aching from how close she was before he came, before everything stopped.
His nostrils flare.
And the sound he makes is-
Feral.
----
The scent is everywhere.
Brown sugar and yeast and the slick of her arousal, but now it's mixed with the smell of Soldat's own release, and it's-
Obscene.
The word pops into its mind, and it's correct. The mix of their scents shouldn't blend like this, but it does, and it makes its inner alpha go absolutely feral with possessive satisfaction.
Soldat's cock is stirring again.
Shouldn't be possible. It just came, hard enough that it's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and sensitive under its pants, but it doesn't matter.
Because she's there.
Spread out on the bed, and it can see it now. Can see the slick coating her inner thighs, can see how ready she is, can smell it thick and sweet and calling to every broken instinct it has.
It doesn't think.
Just drops to its knees beside the bed gracelessly, metal hand bracing on the mattress, flesh hand going straight to her thigh.
Gripping, spreading her wider.
She makes a sound -surprise, maybe, or arousal- but it barely registers. Can't hear anything past the rush of blood in its ears.
It needs to taste her.
Not the scent gland this time. Not her throat or her mouth or any of the places it's already learned.
Here.
Where her scent is strongest, purest, where she's slick and open and-
It buries its face between her thighs.
Fuck.
The word detonates in its head, sharp and visceral, because she tastes sweet, and salt. Omega.
Its tongue drags through her folds -clumsy, unpracticed, chasing the flavor- and she gasps under it. Her thighs try to close on reflex, but its hands are there, metal and flesh both, holding her open.
Keeping her spread while it licks.
Learning her. The texture, the taste, the way she's so wet the slick coats its tongue, slides down its throat.
It growls against her.
Can't help it. The sound vibrates through her core, possessive and hungry, and she whimpers. Soldat does it again.
Licks slower this time, more deliberate. Dragging its tongue from her entrance up to-
She jerks.
Hips bucking up, a sharp inhale, Soldat freezes.
There.
That spot. Small and swollen, and when its tongue brushes it again, she makes the sound again, high and broken.
Clit.
The word surfaces from somewhere. Detached. But Soldat doesn't need the terminology. Just needs to know that touching there makes her react like that.
Makes her want.
It seals its lips around it and sucks.
----
She screams.
Can't help it. Can't muffle it. The sensation rips through her body like lightning, his mouth on her clit, sucking hard and wet and perfect, and her back arches off the bed.
Her hands fly to his hair, fisting in the tangled strands, and she doesn't know if she's pulling him closer or trying to push him away because it's too much, too intense, she's already been on edge for-
His tongue circles her clit. Flicks over it. Then sucks again, and she can't breathe.
He's-
He's devouring her.
Face buried between her thighs like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants in the world. His hands are holding her open, and she can feel his nose pressed against her mound, can feel the vibration of the sounds he's making.
Growls. Deep and continuous, rumbling through her core every time he licks, every time he tastes her.
He doesn't know what he's doing.
She can tell. The movements are enthusiastic but uncoordinated, chasing reactions without technique. Licking everywhere, tasting everything, like he's trying to map her by flavor alone.
But it works.
Because he's paying attention. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck, what makes her pull his hair and whimper his-
She doesn't even know his name.
The thought penetrates through her pleasure-drunk brain and dissolves immediately because his tongue just found her entrance and pushes inside.
"Oh fuck!"
The curse rips out of her. His tongue is inside her, licking, and the sensation is so foreign and good and wet that her thighs start shaking again.
He groans against her.
The vibration travels straight through her core, and she can feel it, feel him tasting her from the inside, feel the way his tongue curls and explores like he's trying to drink every drop of slick.
And there's so much.
She's never been this wet in her life. Can feel it coating her thighs, soaking into the sheets, and he's lapping at it like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.
His metal hand shifts on her thigh.
Adjusts its grip, and then-
She feels it.
The cool press of metal against her entrance. One finger, articulated and precise, pressing in and stretching alongside his tongue.
"Alpha-"
The word escapes her lips. Desperate. Pleading. She doesn't even know what she's asking for.
But he seems to understand.
His tongue pulls out. The metal finger becomes two, and he pushes them in -slowly, carefully, letting her feel the drag- and she loses it.
----
Soldat can't stop.
Can't pull away from her taste, the slick coating its tongue, the way she's whimpering and pulling its hair and making sounds that go straight to its cock.
Which is impossibly hard again. Aching, still wet from before, and it starts grinding against the mattress without conscious thought. Seeking friction, seeking relief, but it's not enough.
The pants are too restrictive. The fabric cuts into its cock every time it thrusts forward, and it's wrong.
They’re in the way.
It pulls back from between her thighs -just for a second, just enough- and its hands go to its belt, ripping it open.
The buckle clatters, the tactical webbing falling away, and then it is yanking at the fly. Buttons, zipper, whatever, it doesn't care. Just needs them off, needs the pressure gone.
The pants and undergarment peel down over its hips, shoved down to mid-thigh, and-
It looks down.
Its cock is twitching, flushed, and still wet from its release, cum smeared along the length, sticky and cooling against overheated skin. The smell hits immediately: the musk of spent alpha mixed with her slick-sweet omega scent in the air.
Its lip curls.
Not in disgust. In something else. Something possessive and satisfied because that's their scent. Mixed. Merged.
But it's also… messy.
Soldat doesn't do messy. Doesn't-
A sound interrupts its thoughts.
Her.
Whimpering.
Its head snaps up.
----
She's staring.
Can't help it.
He's... fuck. He's big.
Still wet from coming in his pants, she can see it, the streaks of his release coating it, glistening with the light from her bedside lamp.
And the smell.
It makes fresh slick slide down her thighs, makes her body ache with want so visceral she can barely think past it. She needs-
But he's already moving.
Already turning back toward the bed, dropping his gaze to where she's sprawled on the mattress, legs still spread, and she can see the intent written clearly on his face.
He's going back down. Going to bury his face between her thighs again, taste her again, and-
Yes, his mouth felt incredible. The enthusiastic, uncoordinated desperation of it, the way he licked and sucked like he was starving.
But that's not what she needs right now. Not when he's right there, hard and ready, and she can smell how much he wants her.
"Wait-"
The word tumbles out before she can stop it. Desperate. Pleading.
"Alpha, wait-"
He freezes.
Mid-motion. One knee on the bed, hands reaching for her thighs, and those pale eyes snap up to meet hers.
She sees the confusion dance across his face.
And then-
His expression shutters.
Goes from open and needy to closed and determined in the space of a heartbeat, and his hands land on her thighs, metal and flesh both.
And the grip is different now.
Firmer. Restraining.
His fingers dig in -not painful, but unmistakably harder- and he pushes. Spreading her thighs wider, pinning them to the mattress, and the look in his eyes-
Oh no.
He thinks she's telling him to stop.
Thinks she's refusing, resisting, and his entire body language has changed into something that makes her inner omega sit up and take notice.
Dominant. Controlling. Alpha.
"No, I just-" she tries again, voice coming out shakier than she wants. "I want-"
But he's not listening.
His gaze drops back between her legs. Fixed. Focused. And his hands press down harder, holding her flat against the mattress.
The message is crystal clear:
Stay still. Let me.
And-
Fuck.
She whimpers.
Can't help it. Can't stop the sound that escapes her throat because the dominance in the gesture, the way he's pinning her open, the raw alpha energy radiating off him…
It should scare her.
Should send up every red flag about consent, control, and danger.
But it doesn't. It just makes her wetter.
Makes her body respond with a fresh gush of slick because, apparently, her omega brain thinks being held down by this strange alpha is the hottest thing that's ever happened to her.
But that's not what she wants, not right now.
She needs him inside her. Needs to feel that thick cock splitting her open, needs to be filled and claimed and bred, and if she doesn't get it soon, she's going to lose her mind.
She writhes.
Twisting in his grip. Not trying to escape, just trying to move, to shift position, to show him what she wants.
But his hands just tighten, holding her down more firmly, his shoulders settling into a posture that says he's not going to let her move until he's done with her.
Okay.
New strategy.
She stops fighting the pressure pushing her thighs down, and instead, she uses it. Let him think he's won, let her legs go slack in his grip for just a second-
And then she twists.
Hard. Fast. Using the slickness of her sweat and the slick coating on her thighs to slip out of his grip, throwing her weight sideways.
It catches him off guard.
His hands lose purchase for half a second -just half a second- but it's enough.
She rolls onto her stomach.
Scrambling. Hands planting on the mattress, knees pulling up under her, and-
His metal hand lands on her hip immediately.
Firm grip. Already trying to maneuver her, and she can feel his intent: he's going to flip her back over, get her on her back again so he can put his face between her legs and-
She doesn't let him.
Plants her knees wide. Braces her weight forward on her elbows. And arches her back, hard. Pushing her ass up and out, spine curving in a deep arch that puts everything on display.
Presenting herself.
The effect is immediate. His hands go still on her hips, and the pressure trying to flip her over just… stops.
She can feel him freeze behind her. Can feel his gaze locked on her body, on the position she's in.
And she knows what he's seeing.
Her on her knees. Back arched so deep it almost hurts. Ass high in the air, thighs spread wide.
Completely open. Completely vulnerable. Offering.
"Please," she gasps into the mattress.
Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. Shaking with need.
"Please, alpha-"
She reaches back, both hands sliding over her ass, down between her thighs, and-
She spreads herself open for him.
Fingers pulling her folds apart. Exposing her entrance, slick and clenching and empty. Exposing her clit, swollen and oversensitive. Exposing everything.
Desperate.
Obscene.
Begging.
"Please- I need- please-"
----
Soldat's brain shutdowns. Every thought fragments into white noise because she's-
Presenting?
The visual input hits its alpha instincts like a tactical nuke:
Omega. On her knees. Back arched. Ass up, and thighs spread wide, holding herself open.
Showing Soldat exactly where she wants it. Where she needs it.
Begging for it.
Omega wants.
Omega needs to be bred.
Again, the thoughts don't form in words. Just primal recognition slamming through its neural pathways with brutal, devastating clarity.
This is what the body was built for. This moment. This position.
And they tried to kill it.
Tried to suppress, chemically neuter, erase this entire drive from its system. Seventy years of injections and conditioning stomping down every breeding instinct, every mating urge, every biological imperative that makes an alpha alpha.
And it's all coming back now, roaring back to life with devastating, unstoppable force. The Soldat's cock throbs again. Hard. Aching.
And it can feel it, the need building like pressure behind a dam about to break.
Need to mount her.
Need to breed her.
Need to fill her and knot her and make her MINE.
It moves before processing the thought, crawling onto the bed. Knees hitting the mattress on either side of her thighs, bracketing her, caging her in.
One hand -metal- grips her hip. Servos engaging to hold her steady, hold her exactly in position. The other hand drops to its cock, wrapping around the base. The skin is oversensitive, still tender from coming so hard before, but it doesn't matter.
Nothing matters except getting inside her.
It lines up, dragging the head of its cock through her folds -so wet, so slick, coating the tip- and finding her entrance.
There.
The head presses against her opening, and it can feel the resistance, feel her body starting to yield, and-
She makes a begging sound.
Desperate. Pleading.
And something in the Soldat's chest snarls.
Possessive. Feral. Every remaining shred of control burned away under the weight of pure instinct.
Mine.
Omega is MINE.
Soldat's hips push forward. Not slow, or carefully. And the heat-
Fuck.
The word detonates somewhere in its fractured consciousness because the sensation is-
Overwhelming.
Tight. Hot. Perfect.
It can feel her body struggling to adjust. Feel the flutter of her walls around just the tip, trying to accommodate the intrusion.
And Soldat-
Soldat doesn't stop.
Can't stop.
Just pulls back half an inch and drives forward harder, forcing deeper. Splitting her open. Burying itself halfway with one brutal thrust and-
The sound she makes.
High. Broken. Somewhere between a scream and a sob.
----
She can't breathe.
The sensation of being split open, stretched in ways she's never experienced, is so overwhelming that her mind goes completely blank.
Her body is struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion forcing its way inside, and god, there's so much slick, she can feel it coating her thighs, easing the way, her omega body preparing itself to be mounted.
The pressure of being filled too fast, too much, has her walls relaxing and clenching around him, trying to adjust, trying to make room, and it's so much more than any toy she's ever used, more than any alpha she's been with.
Just those first few inches, and she already feels impossibly full.
Her hands fist in the sheets as a high, shocked sound rips from her throat. Not pain or discomfort, but raw, filthy pleasure because she didn't know it could feel like this.
Didn't know her body could stretch like this, yield like this, open like this for an alpha's cock. Didn't know being filled could feel so right that her inner omega is practically screaming yes, this, MORE.
He pulls back half an inch -barely anything- and she feels the drag of every ridge and vein, feels the way her body is gripping him desperately like it doesn't want to let go, trying to keep him inside where he belongs.
And then he slams forward, harder and deeper, burying himself halfway in one brutal thrust.
The cry that tears from her is ragged and wrecked because oh fuck, YES, the stretch is perfect. She can feel her body yielding and surrendering even as it struggles to accommodate the impossible slide of his thick cock forcing deeper, filling her in ways that make her inner omega purr with savage satisfaction.
Because this, this is what she's built for. This is what her body has been screaming for every time she's gone into heat alone, every time she's fucked herself on toys that were never enough, every time an alpha touched her and it felt wrong because they weren't him.
This fullness, this alpha mounting her and forcing her body to yield and open and take him, this is what she's been waiting for her entire life without knowing it.
And it feels so fucking good.
"Alpha-" The word spills from her lips, broken and desperate and drenched in need. Not a protest but pure, filthy appreciation because he's so deep already and she can feel him shuddering above her, can feel the trembling restraint in his grip, and she wants him to lose it. Wants him to stop holding back and just fuck her the way his instincts are demanding.
His grip on her hips tightens -metal fingers digging in, flesh hand trembling- and she knows he heard it, knows what that word does to him.
He makes a sound, low and possessive and feral, and then he moves.
Pulls back so she feels every devastating inch of the drag, that delicious friction against her inner walls that makes her gasp and clench around him, and then he slams back in harder, deeper, forcing the rest of the way in with one brutal thrust until she feels his hips flush against her ass.
And the feeling is-
Fuck.
It's everything.
He's everywhere -inside her, around her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his skin against her back, his cock buried so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat- and the sensation of being stretched around him, stuffed full of alpha cock, mounted and claimed is so intense and perfect and right that her vision goes almost white.
Her body clenches around him reflexively, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his length, trying to pull him impossibly deeper even though there's no more room for it to go, and she feels her arms give out , her back arching deeper, presenting herself even more, and she can't do anything except feel him filling her.
She needs more.
Needs him to move, to fuck her, to use her body exactly like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Needs to feel him pounding into her, rutting into her, like the desperate omega she apparently is.
"Please-" she gasps into the mattress, and her voice is absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Filthy. Her hand reaches back blindly, finds his wrist, and squeezes hard. "Move. Alpha, please-”
Because if he doesn't start moving soon, if he doesn't give her what her body is screaming for, she's going to lose her fucking mind.
----
Soldat snarls in response.
Move?
Her begging comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. And it wants to give it to her. Whatever she asks.
Wants to fuck her. Breed her. Claim her.
Now.
Its hips pull back slowly, dragging its cock almost all the way out, feeling every inch of tight omega heat clinging to it, trying to keep it inside.
And then it slams back in.
Hard.
The omega screams and moans, high and sharp, and the sound goes straight to its heavy balls, flipping every remaining switch from control to breed.
It doesn't know how to do this gently.
Doesn't have the reference. Doesn't have the capacity right now with her scent flooding its system, with the feel of her wrapped around its cock, with seventy years of chemical castration breaking apart under the weight of pure biological drive.
So it just fucks.
Pulls out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm immediately. Hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the small apartment, and she's taking it.
Taking every thrust. Her body yielding even as it struggles to adjust, slick easing the way, and Soldat can feel it, feel her getting wetter, feel the way her walls are clenching around its cock.
Its metal hand tightens on her hip.
Servos whirring as it grips harder, using the leverage to pull her back into each thrust. Making the penetration deeper, harder, and-
The omega makes another sound. A different moan, long and low and completely debauched, and her forearms lower completely, as she presses her face into the mattress.
Surrendering.
Letting it use her.
Soldat snarls again.
Possessive. Feral. Its flesh hand releases her hip and moves to the back of her neck instead, gripping. Holding her down while its hips thrust faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.
She's whimpering into the mattress.
High, continuous sounds with each thrust, and Soldat can smell it, can smell her arousal spiking, can smell the way their scents are mixing where they're joined.
Omega slick and alpha musk and the wet, obscene sound of the fucking as it drives into her over and over and over.
Its cock is still sensitive. Every thrust sends sparks of almost-too-much up its spine, pleasure edging toward pain, but it doesn't matter. Can't stop. Won't stop.
Because she needs this.
It can tell. Can read it in the way she's pushing back into each thrust now, can hear it in the sounds she's making, can smell it in the way her scent keeps getting sweeter.
Omega needs to be fucked.
Needs to be bred.
And the Soldat is-
Soldat is going to-
No.
The thought surfaces sharp and cold. The Soldat can't. Isn't allowed to breed. The handlers said-
But there are no handlers.
Just instinct. Pure and brutal and clawing through its system, demanding it claim this omega, fill her, knot her-
Knot.
Soldat can feel it. The base of its cock starts to swell, pressure building with each thrust. It's going to lock inside her and-
And she's going to take it.
Its rhythm falters.
Just for a second. Uncertainty flickering through the haze of need because this is- this is too much. Once it knots her there's no taking it back, no undoing it, and-
She pushes back hard.
Takes its cock to the hilt and grinds, pressing her ass flush against its hips, and the whimper she makes is so desperate, so needy, that its brain just-
Breaks.
Fuck the handlers.
Fuck seventy years of suppression.
Soldat is going to knot his omega.
Its hand leaves her neck. Both hands go to her forearms, and it lifts her, pulling her up until her back is arched almost vertically, until she's on her knees with Soldat pressed against her back.
Changing the angle completely.
And then it drives in.
Deeper than before. So deep the omega sobs, and it can feel it, can feel the head of its cock hitting something that makes her whole body shake.
There.
The Soldat does it again.
Pulls almost all the way out and slams back in at that angle, and she cries out. Loud, uncontrolled, her thighs shaking, and it can smell the spike in her arousal.
Close.
She's close.
It can tell. Can read it in her body language, in her scent, in the way her walls are starting to tighten around its cock.
Soldat's rhythm turns brutal.
Fast and hard and deep, hitting that spot, chasing her orgasm because it needs -needs- to feel her come on its cock. Needs to feel her clench and shake and break while it fills her.
Its metal arm bands across her chest, holding her upright, holding her in place, while its flesh hand drops between her legs and finds her swollen clit.
The omega shrieks.
Hips bucking, body jerking in Soldat's hold, but it doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking into her, keeps its fingers on her clit -circling, pressing, rubbing- and she's sobbing now.
Incoherent. Desperate. Completely overwhelmed.
"Please- please- alpha, I'm-"
She doesn't finish the sentence.
Just shatters.
Soldat feels it. Feels her walls clamp down around its cock like a silken fist, feels her whole body go rigid and then shake, feels the gush of fresh slick as she comes hard.
And it-
It roars.
Can't stop it. Can't control the sound ripping out of its throat as its knot swells, expanding rapidly, locking them together as the orgasm hits it like a freight train.
White-hot. Devastating.
Its hips jerk forward one last time, burying its cock and knot as deep as physically possible, and then it's coming.
Spilling inside her. Filling her. Breeding her the way every broken instinct is screaming at it to do.
The omega is still shaking.
Still coming, her walls rippling around the knot, milking it, and Soldat can't think past the pleasure, past the overwhelming rightness of being locked inside her.
Mine.
Omega.
MINE.
The knot pulses. Once. Twice. Pumping more into her with each throb, and she's-
She's taking all of it.
It can feel it. Feel her body accepting everything it's giving, can smell the way their scents are completely merged now.
Inseparable.
Her legs are shaking. The only thing keeping it upright is the metal arm still banded across her chest, holding her against it. The flesh hand has fallen away from her clit, braced on the mattress instead, because Soldat's coordination is gone.
Just-
Gone.
Pleasure still rolling through it in waves, aftershocks making its cock pulse inside her, and she's-
She's making sounds. Small, whimpering. Not in distress. Something else.
Its face drops to her shoulder, nose finding her scent gland on instinct, and it breathes her in. Brown sugar and yeast and satisfied omega, and the purr starts again.
Deep. Subvocal. Vibrating through both their chests where they're pressed together.
The knot is still locked. Not going down anytime soon.
She's not fighting it or trying to pull away. She’s just leaning her weight against its chest, trusting it to hold her up.
And Soldat does.
Metal arm secured under her breasts, flesh hand moving from the mattress to her hip. Holding her. Supporting her. Keeping her upright while they're locked together.
It doesn't know how long this lasts, doesn't have a reference for how long a knot holds. Just knows it can't pull out even if it wanted to, which it doesn't.
Can't imagine wanting to leave the tight heat of her body. Can't imagine letting go.
The purr continues, steady now. Soothing. It doesn't know if it's trying to soothe her or itself. Maybe both.
Her head tilts.
Just slightly. Turning toward Soldat's face still pressed against her shoulder, and it can see her profile. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Face heated and damp with sweat.
Beautiful.
The word surfaces unbidden.
It has never called anything beautiful before, because it doesn't have the framework for aesthetic appreciation. But she's-
She is.
Especially like this. Fucked out and knotted and completely trusting it to hold her.
Its nose drags along her scent gland, taking her in, and she makes a soft sound -pleased, satisfied- tilting her head, giving it more access, and Soldat's purr deepens.
----
She can't feel her legs.
Can't feel much of anything except him. Inside her. Around her. The metal arm holding her upright. The purr vibrating through her chest. The knot stretching her so full that she can barely breathe.
And it's-
God, it's perfect.
She's never felt like this before.
Never felt so completely claimed. So utterly taken. Every alpha she's ever been with was… adequate.
But this-
This is different.
This is feral and desperate and completely uncontrolled, and somehow it's exactly what she needed without ever knowing she needed it.
She can feel his nose dragging along her scent gland, can feel the rumble of that impossible purr, and her inner omega is just-
Singing.
Satisfied in a way she's never experienced. Sated. Content.
Because he, her alpha-
She doesn't even know his name, and she's already thinking of him as hers.
The thought should probably scare her. Should send up red flags about bonding too fast with a stranger. But it doesn't.
Because this isn't fast.
This is inevitable.
Like every decision she's ever made led her here, to this moment, knotted and claimed by an alpha who broke into her apartment and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having.
His knot pulses inside her.
She feels it. The throb, the gush of warmth, and her body clenches around it automatically. Milking him. Taking everything he's giving, even though she's already so full it's almost too much.
Almost.
But not quite.
Because her body wants this. Wants to be filled. Wants to be bred. Every dormant omega instinct she had is purring in satisfaction.
Yes. This. Him. Finally.
She feels him shift behind her.
The metal arm around her tightens slightly, and then he's pulling her more upright, bringing her back flush against his chest. She's properly kneeling now, her back supported entirely by his body, and the angle change makes her gasp because the knot-
Fuck.
The knot feels even bigger like this. Deeper.
And his flesh hand-
It slides down.
Over her hip, her thigh, and then between her legs and cups her mound, covering where they're joined. Where his knot is stretching her, where the mess of their combined release is slick and obscene between her thighs.
His palm presses gently as his fingers spread to cover all of it, her, him, the evidence of what just happened.
The sound he makes against her shoulder is possessive. Satisfied. A low rumble that's half-purr, half-growl.
Mine, the gesture says.
Bred. Claimed. Marked. MINE.
And she whimpers.
Because yes.
Yes.
His.
Completely and utterly his.
His purring deepens.
Smug. Like he knows exactly what that sound means. Like he's pleased she's responding to his possessiveness instead of fighting it.
His face shifts against her shoulder, nuzzling deeper. His nose drags along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing her in like he can't get enough.
And then she feels his lips.
A kiss.
Soft. Tender. Pressed against her sweat-damp skin.
Then another. Along her shoulder. Gentle and reverent and completely at odds with the brutal way he just fucked her.
His teeth scrape. The edge of a nip that doesn't break skin, doesn't hurt, just makes her shiver.
Her hand comes up and reaches back -awkward angle, but she manages- and threads into his hair, combing through the tangled strands while he continues his exploration of her shoulder, her neck, every inch of skin he can reach from this position.
He makes a sound against her skin, and she can feel him settling.
The frantic energy bleeding out, the feral drive giving way to something gentler. Still possessive. Still intensely alpha, but softer.
His forehead comes to rest against the back of her neck.
The hand between her legs stays there, rubbing slowly, smearing their mess on her knotted entrance. A constant reminder of what they just did, what they are now.
The knot still pulses occasionally. She doesn't know how long this lasts -thirty minutes, an hour?- but she's not in a hurry, can't bring herself to care, not when he's holding her like this.
Not when every instinct she has is screaming mate.
True mate.
Hers.
She lets her eyes close.
Leans her head back against his shoulder and lets the metal arm support her weight, lets the purr lull her into a haze of satisfaction and safety.
And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.
summary: Daisy, the most spoiled sheep in Texas, who also happens to be your daddy's undisputed favourite, chooses the worst possible time to give birth. And out of all the things in the world, she only seems to want to eat Joel Miller’s corn. With your mama sleeping soundly and your daddy out playing poker with Joel, you figure it’s safe to sneak into your neighbour's field to get some corn for Daisy…except Joel isn’t as absent as you thought.
warnings: no outbreak AU, rural setting, implied age gap, smut, fingering, spanking, clit rubbing, spitting, unprotected piv, public sex, getting your back blown out in a cornfield, mild profanity, mentions of alcohol and gambling, mentions of failed marriage/absent wife, domestic farm life, use of weapons, brief violence, societal pressure around marriage, nosy southern family behavior, livestock birth, reader wears a nightgown and has her hair braided (no other description of reader's appearance), no use of y/n.
word count: 6.2k
a/n: i don't know what demon possessed me but i wrote this in 3 days (don't tell my one month old drafts this). anyways, i hope y'all will like it!!
Pampered little shit, that's what Daisy is.
The most spoiled sheep in all of Texas, you can be sure of that. Refuses to eat the grass around the barn like every other animal. So you have to haul her four miles up a hill before she’ll even consider opening her mouth. And don't even think about giving her hay if you don't want a hoof hitting you square in the knee. You even have to sing her a song when you're crouched down trying to milk her. Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Well, it's true. You've hummed so many Dolly Parton and Johnny Cash songs to Daisy that you can't stand to listen to their voices anymore whenever you go out to a dance in town.
And all of it is your daddy's doing.
If that man didn't treat Daisy like his own child you're sure she'd quit being such a snob.
Well, guess what? The prissy cotton ball got knocked up in March and your daddy's fussing over her like she's about to have his grand baby.
Can you believe that?
You can swear on your life that she only enjoyed that high pasture because the neighbour's ram was getting sweet on her.
Now it’s late July and she’s round as a barrel, waddling around the barn like a freaking duck. Her sides sway when she walks, her udder’s all tight and shiny, "bagging up," as your daddy keeps proudly announcing. She can’t seem to get comfortable, lies down, grunts, hauls herself back up with the kind of suffering sigh usually reserved for when your dad loses at poker to your neighbour.
You would almost feel pity for her. Almost. If she didn't turn into an aggressive little bitch.
You try to give her the grass by the barn because she's too pregnant to walk up the hill where her baby daddy's probably waiting? She snorts, stamps a hoof like she’s declaring war.
You offer the expensive hay your mama bought especially for her? Yeah, that hay that cost more than your truck payment. Same reaction, only louder, as if you personally insulted her.
You crouch to milk her, and she leans back on her haunches, hooves braced, glaring like she's preparing to kill you.
And maybe she is.
Sometimes she tries to shove you with her head. Not playful, definitely not gentle. Full-on "get out of my way" because she is pregnant and dramatic and convinced the world exists solely to serve her cravings. If she misses, she’ll stomp her front hooves, ears pinned, eyes wide, just to make the point. And when you think she's done? She bleats. High-pitched and commanding, the kind of bleat that could summon cows from the next ranch over if they weren’t too afraid of her.
Speaking of the next ranch, she seems to have developed a certain fondness for it. For what your darling neighbour, Joel Miller, is growing.
Corn.
Over the crooked fence line and across property you absolutely should not be crossing, stands a tall, golden field that might as well be calling her name.
And your daddy? The only craving of his sweet fluffy angel that he can't satisfy is this. Why? Because he doesn’t plant corn. Says it’s too much work, too much water, too much risk.
Joel apparently disagrees. Has about 150 acres of land dedicated to it.
You think you've had enough of her diva attitude and you're about to slaughter her with your bare hands? She suddenly becomes docile when the wind shifts just right and carries that sweet green smell from Joel’s fields.
She just stands there, calm as anything now, like she hasn’t been making your life hell all day. Nose lifted, ears twitching, breathing it in like it’s the finest thing she’s ever smelled.
You follow her gaze out toward the fence without meaning to.
Ripe. Golden.
Not yours.
You click your tongue and turn away.
"Don't even think about it, Daisy. That corn ain't ours."
Not that the fucking sheep understands a word you're saying, but you can swear that she rolled her eyes behind your back.
────୨ৎ────
You don’t think much of it after that. Just another one of Daisy’s moods. The Lord knows she’s had plenty.
Your daddy heads out not long after supper, already halfway into his boots while he’s still talking, hopping a little on one foot as he tries to shove the other on properly. He’s got that look on his face too, like he’s been thinking about this game all day.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him fumble around like he’s in a hurry for once in his life.
"Where’s your hat?" you ask.
He glances around, pats his head like it might magically be there, then spots it on the table and grabs it. "Right there, see? I knew where it was."
"Mmhm."
He jams it onto his head anyway, a little crooked, and only fixes it when he catches you looking.
"Don’t start," he mutters, but there’s no bite to it.
You let out a quiet snort.
He steps closer then, reaching out to tuck a stray piece of your hair back before leaning down to press a quick kiss to your cheek, his stubble scratching just enough to be annoying.
"Don’t wait up," he says. "Game might run long."
You already know the drill. His poker games always drag well past midnight. Especially if there’s booze involved.
And there’s always booze involved.
You nod, half listening, your mind already drifting somewhere else entirely, running through the list of things you might have forgotten to do before coming inside. The chickens... the latch on the coop.. whether that one stubborn hen finally went in or decided to sleep out like she’s got a death wish.
Meh.
It’s been a while since you’ve had to chase a fox off with a rifle. Could be entertaining.
Your mama doesn’t even look up from her chair, too busy picking at something in her lap. "Don’t lose too much," she calls out, like she’s said it a hundred times before.
He laughs, already turning toward the door. "No promises if Joel’s there."
That gets your attention for half a second.
Of course he is.
When isn’t he?
You lean your shoulder a little harder into the frame, watching your daddy step out onto the porch, boots thudding against the wood. "Try not to bet anything we actually need this time," you call after him.
He waves you off without turning around. "That was one time."
"One time too many."
You still sometimes bring up the time your dad didn’t have enough cash and decided, like an idiot, to bet a few acres of land instead.
And lost. To Joel fucking Miller.
You remember that fight. Hard not to.
Your mama near tore the house down, your daddy swearing up and down he’d win it back next time.
He didn't.
Joel won it fair and square, as everyone kept saying.
The great Joel Miller. God of poker games to your dad. Asshole land thief to your mom. Keeper of Daisy’s latest obsession. And the fantasy of all the girls in town. Maybe even some of the married ladies too, if church gossip is to be believed.
Scandalous.
From what your aunts have told you when they visit, it seems that he's always been the center of attention for women. Even when he was married a long time ago. Even more so when his wife left him.
"You should’ve seen him back in high school, sugar. Prettiest thing you ever laid eyes on."
"If I hadn’t already been promised to your uncle Peter, I would’ve snatched him up myself."
"Mhm, that man’s always had women trailin’ after him."
"Still does. Don’t think he don’t notice neither."
"Speakin’ of that… when’re you gonna let someone put a ring on that finger, darlin’?"
"Lord, you might be the only unmarried gal left 'round here."
"Ain’t natural, a pretty thing like you, still runnin’ around with no husband."
"I know this real sweet boy over at my church. Works with his hands, good family, don’t drink much…"
"Don’t listen to her, that boy’s mama is a nightmare. But she’s right about one thing. You oughta settle down soon."
"You don't wanna end up like aunt Petunia."
Oh, yeah. Aunt Petunia. Jilted at the altar and never even looked at another man again.
Turned to religion instead. Properly turned, too. Church every Sunday, every Wednesday, and any other day her arthritis doesn't act up. Talks about sin and damnation every chance she gets.
The only unmarried woman in your family. And, naturally, the favorite subject of town gossip.
Somehow, every conversation with these women ends up circling right back to the same thing. A ring on your finger. Preferably sooner rather than later.
And how, at your very grown age, it’s practically a tragedy there isn’t one already.
The screen door creaks as you pull it shut behind you, and a second later the truck engine turns over, loud in the quiet of the evening. Headlights sweep across the yard, catching the fence line, the barn, the edge of the field before swinging away as he backs out.
You watch until the red of the taillights disappears down the road.
For a moment, it’s quiet again.
Just the hum of insects, the distant rustle of something in the grass, the kind of stillness that settles in once the day’s properly done.
You push off the doorframe with a small sigh, stretching your arms over your head until your back cracks.
"Well," you mutter to yourself, "there goes the evening."
Your mama shifts in her chair but still doesn’t look up, already halfway to falling asleep where she sits.
You glance between her and the dark window, then out toward where the barn sits just barely visible in the distance.
Everything seems fine.
No foxes, no whining from one particular sheep, no stray chickens running around the coop. Just peace and quiet.
You shrug it off and go to bed.
────୨ৎ────
If there truly is a hell where people burn at the stake, as your aunt Petunia so often reminds you, then you’re certain their screams sound better than whatever the woolly demon in your barn is making.
Somewhere between a dream and waking, something feels off. Too quiet, then not quiet enough. A sound that doesn’t belong, threading its way into your head until you can’t ignore it anymore.
You frown, shifting under the covers.
There it is again.
Your eyes snap open. You lie there for a second, staring up at the ceiling, listening.
"That fuckin' sheep's gonna be the death of me," you mutter, already pushing yourself up.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, barely awake, shoving your feet into your slippers while rubbing at your eyes. Your nightgown clings to your skin in the heat, an uncomfortable reminder that sleeping with the window open in the middle of summer was a mistake.
"Mama," you call as you step into the hallway, voice still thick with sleep.
No answer.
You head for your parents' room and push the door open. You're not sure how late it actually is, but your dad's side of the bed is empty.
Probably still out playing poker with Joel and God knows who else.
"Mama, wake up."
She groans, shifting under the covers but not opening her eyes. "What?"
"Daisy’s actin' up. She sounds-" you hesitate, listening for another noise from outside. "She sounds wrong."
"She’s fine," your mama mumbles, already turning onto her side. "They do that."
"I don’t think she’s fine."
You stare at her, waiting for her to sit up, to tell you what you're supposed to do.
She doesn’t.
Just pulls the covers higher and settles right back in like you didn’t just wake her up.
"You know daddy's gonna kill us if somethin' happens to Daisy-"
Snoring. She's fucking snoring.
You let out a slow breath through your nose. "Unbelievable."
Fine.
You turn on your heel and head for the door, trying to reach for your boots in the dark hallway.
The night air hits you warm and heavy as soon as you step outside, thick with dust that makes you cough. You don’t hesitate, heading straight for the barn, boots kicking up stray pebbles with every step.
Halfway there, you stop short, squinting into the dark.
"Shit."
You turn back toward the porch, grabbing the old flashlight hanging by the door, thumping it once against your palm until the beam flickers to life.
"Better not die on me now," you mutter, already heading back out.
Another strained sound reaches you before you even get the door open.
"Yeah, yeah, I’m coming," you mutter, pushing inside.
You hook the flashlight between your shoulder and cheek for a second, fumbling along the wall until your fingers find the old oil lamp.
"Hold on, hold on..."
It takes a second. Longer than it should. Your hands aren’t as steady as you’d like.
The wick finally catches, flame flickering weak at first before steadying, casting a warm, uneven glow across the barn.
Shadows stretch and shift along the walls, softer than the harsh electric light but no less unsettling.
You grab the lamp, turning back toward her.
Daisy’s pacing.
Or trying to.
She takes a few stiff, uneven steps, then stops, shifting her weight like she doesn’t know where to put it. Her sides heave, and when she sees you, she lets out another one of those low, strained sounds that twists something in your chest.
Daisy tenses, and the flame trembles with the motion, throwing her shape into something uneven and sharp for a second before settling again.
"Alright," you murmur, more to fill the space than anything else. "Easy."
Your shadow moves when you do, stretching long across the straw, then snapping back in as you lean closer.
"Hey- hey, easy," you say, moving toward her slower this time, hands out.
"Yeah... yeah, that’s it. Calm down," you say quietly.
The barn feels too quiet otherwise.
Too still outside of her breathing, the soft rustle of straw, the occasional creak of wood shifting somewhere above.
Daisy sways again, a strained sound leaving her as she tries to settle. Her sides rise and fall too fast, breath uneven, and for once she doesn’t look at you like she’s about to take your knee out.
"Don't you dare bite me now, girl," you murmur, crouching down beside her.
She just looks tired.
As close as you were to turning her into lamb chops just a few hours ago, the sight does something unpleasant to your conscious.
"Okay," you say, more to yourself than her. "Okay, I’ve seen this. I know this."
You haven’t. Not really.
Not like this. Not alone.
You’ve helped once when your cousin gave birth, but you’re certain it’s a whole different thing when it’s a sheep.
You reach out anyway, resting a hand against her side, feeling the tension there, the way her muscles tighten under your palm. The lamplight flickers with the movement, soft and uneven, catching on your hands and the curve of her body.
"Easy," you murmur. "C’mon, girl."
She lets out another sound, sharper this time, and you wince. "Yeah, I know. I know."
You glance back toward the open barn door for a second, half expecting your mama to suddenly appear, maybe your daddy too, like this is something you don’t have to handle by yourself.
Nothing.
Just the dark yard and the sound of insects humming like nothing’s wrong.
"Great," you mutter. "Love that for me."
Daisy shifts again, and this time she goes down, legs folding under her awkwardly before she settles into the straw. She doesn’t stay still long, though, moving, adjusting, like she can’t get comfortable no matter what she does.
"Alright, alright," you say quickly, moving with her. "That’s fine. That’s… that’s normal, I think."
You drag a hand over your face, trying to remember anything your daddy ever said about this that you actually paid attention to.
You’ve never been one to love the countryside life, even though you were born into it. Always wanting more, always planning on leaving as soon as you could.
Maybe that’s why you pushed back every time your family tried to marry you off to some farmer.
Is it so wrong to want more? Is it so wrong that you don’t want to end up like the other women in your town?
They all seem to think so.
Another strained sound from Daisy pulls your focus right back.
You lean in a little, squinting. "Okay. Okay, I see it."
Your voice drops without you meaning it to, like talking softer might make it easier.
"Yeah, yeah, that’s it," you say quickly. "You’re fine. You’re fine."
You don’t know if she is.
But saying it feels necessary.
Time stretches after that.
You lose track of it somewhere between talking to her like she understands you and trying to keep your hands steady when things get messy.
It takes longer than you expect, longer than you’re comfortable with. You second guess yourself more than once, wondering if you should’ve dragged your mama out of bed anyway or waited for your daddy to get back home.
But somehow, you managed on your own.
────୨ৎ────
You didn't think the most evil creature in all of Texas was able to create such a delicate little thing.
Daisy shifts beside you, low and restless now that the worst of it is over. The lamb presses close to her side, unsteady but trying to stand on its legs.
You push yourself up slowly, joints stiff, brushing straw off your nightgown without really thinking about it. Your legs feel heavy when you stand, boots scraping through the hay as you move closer to the feed.
You scoop some up without thinking, more out of habit than hope, and hold it out toward her.
"Here," you say. "Eat something."
Of course she doesn't listen to you and won't eat anything you're offering. Not the grass, not the hay, won't even drink some water.
She might've just given birth but she's still a stubborn cunt.
You let out a slow breath through your nose, already feeling the headache coming on. "So what, you gonna starve now?"
She looks past you instead. Towards the open barn door. You follow her gaze before you can stop yourself.
Out beyond the yard, past the shining creek and the fence line where dark fields stretch out under the night sky.
And there it is. Corn.
Joel's corn.
You close your eyes for a second.
"No," you say immediately.
Daisy shifts forward like she didn’t hear you, nudging the back of your leg with her head.
You open your eyes again. "Absolutely not."
Behind you, the lamb lets out a small sound, pressing closer to her side.
If she doesn't eat, then her baby doesn't eat.
Darn it.
────୨ৎ────
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
Since when does a sheep tell you what to do?
Daddy would get angry if he found out that his precious baby gave birth and didn't have anything to eat.
Stupidest reasoning you've ever concocted.
But you've done worse than steal from your neighbor's cornfield. Much worse, if you're being honest. And with no reasoning at all, so does it really matter now?
You find a weak point faster than you should.
Of course you do.
One of the fence posts leans just enough, wire sagging where time and weather have already done half the work for you. You step closer, testing it with your hands first. The wood shifts slightly under your grip, old and tired.
You plant your boot on the lower wire, gripping the post with one hand while the other keeps the flashlight angled awkwardly between your fingers. The wood digs into your fingers as you haul yourself up, nightgown catching on the wire for a second before you yank it free.
"Ow, shit," you hiss quietly, not stopping.
You swing one leg over, then the other, balancing there for a breathless second at the top.
Then you lower yourself down on the other side, boots hitting the ground with a soft, uneven thud. Your knees bend to take the weight, and the flashlight jerks hard in your hand, beam skittering across the rows of corn before you steady it again.
Your boots sink slightly into the softer ground beyond the yard, grass brushing your legs as you move faster than you probably should. The flashlight beam cuts a narrow path ahead of you, bouncing with every step, catching on fence posts and patches of uneven earth.
The corn moves slightly in the night wind, tall and dark around you, swallowing the edges of the light.
One step in and the world changes. The fence is gone behind you, the barn somewhere farther than it should feel, and all that’s left is rows of tall stalks shifting softly in the wind.
You lift the flashlight, sweeping it ahead.
Light catches on leaves, gold-green and sharp at the edges, throwing shadows that move when you move. It feels like the field is watching you back, which is ridiculous, but so is everything else about tonight.
The stalks brush your arms as you push through them, dry leaves scratching at your skin, whispering every time you pass. The sound of your own breathing starts to feel too loud, so you focus on the light instead.
You shift the flashlight, biting down on it so it rests between your teeth, freeing your hands. The beam tilts upwards now, illuminating more sky than ground, but it is enough. Just enough to see where your fingers are going.
"There," you mumble around it.
You reach out, grabbing one of the stalks.
It is thicker than you expect, rough under your palm. You pull a few ears free, stuffing them quickly into the crook of your arm before moving to the next. The corn husks crinkle loudly in your hands, every sound feeling bigger out here than it should.
"This is ridiculous," you mutter again, voice muffled.
The flashlight slips slightly between your teeth as you speak, and you tighten your jaw to hold it steady. Somewhere behind you, the field shifts with the wind, corn bending and straightening like it is breathing.
You hear a crunch of boots through dry stalks that is not yours.
You freeze so fast your whole body locks up, flashlight still clenched between your teeth, corn pressed tight against your chest.
Then light cuts through the rows.
A second beam.
Please let it not be Joel, please let it not be Joel, please-
Well, of course it's Joel. It's his goddamn field, isn't it?
You shift slightly, like moving will somehow make you less visible, but the moment you do, the corn in your arms slips. One ear hits the ground. Then another. The whole bundle follows in a soft, humiliating cascade of thuds and rustling husks.
"Shit-" you whisper around the flashlight.
The second beam adjusts immediately.
Now it finds your face properly.
You blink against it, raising a hand to shield your eyes, corn scattered all around your boots like evidence you cannot undo.
When your vision finally adjusts to the light, you see that it's not only a flashlight pointed at your face, but a rifle too.
Could this night get any more shitty than it already is?
You take the flashlight out of your mouth slowly, like that might somehow make this less embarrassing, and swallow.
"What the fuck are you doin'? Get that thing outta my face."
The light doesn’t move.
"What am I doin'?" comes the reply, calm as anything. "What are you doin' out here in the middle of the night? I coulda shot ya."
What are you supposed to do? Thank him for not killing you?
You stare at him through your lashes, irritation rising quicker than any common sense you should have right now.
"Weren't you supposed to be out playing poker?"
A beat passes where neither of you really moves. The flashlight is still pointed at you, though it dips slightly now, enough that you can actually see him instead of just being blinded by it.
He looks down first, then past you, then at the ground like he is trying to understand what he is looking at. It takes him a second too long to say anything, which already makes this worse.
"Fuckin' thief," he says finally, like he is still processing it. Then his eyes come back to you. "What would your daddy say if he found out about what you're doin'?"
"He’s not gonna find out," you say quickly.
Joel lets out a quiet breath through his nose, like he has already heard enough.
"The hell he is," he mutters.
Before you can react, he steps forward, closing the distance in two long strides. His free hand wraps around your arm, not rough but not giving you much of a choice either. Close like this you can see the rifle in his other hand clearly, a reminder that you should probably behave.
"Hey-" you start, pulling back instinctively.
"Come on," he says, already turning you with him. "You’re gonna tell him yourself what kinda thievin' kid he raised under his roof."
You stumble a step before catching your balance, forced into motion as he guides you back the way you came. The corn brushes against you again, louder now that you are not sneaking, the flashlight beam jerking in your hand as you try to keep up without tripping over uneven ground.
"The corn wasn't even for me, it was for Daisy-"
"Daisy?"
Yeah, playing the sheep card, that's totally gonna work.
"Yeah," you say, a little too defensive now, "My sheep."
He keeps walking, doesn’t slow, doesn’t let go of your arm.
"You broke into my field for a sheep," he says.
"I didn’t break in," you shoot back. "And she just gave birth, for your information."
Not that he cares.
You reach the edge of the field, the fence coming back into view, and he finally slows. His grip loosens just enough that you can pull away. You yank your arm free, taking a few steps back.
"Daddy ain't even home," you add. "Thought he was out playin' poker with you."
"I didn’t go tonight," he says.
You frown. "What?"
A little late to find out that he was home the entire time. Maybe if you knew from the start you wouldn't have snuck in his field.
You cross your arms anyway. "Well, he went. So he’s not here. Which means there’s no reason for you to be draggin’ me back like I’m five."
He looks at you for a second, then says, "You've always had such a mouth on you, sweetheart."
You don’t answer him right away. That alone makes it worse, because now it’s just quiet. Too quiet.
What if he does tell your dad that you snuck on his property and tried to steal from him?
Then you'd be fucked.
The thought sits heavy in your chest longer than you want it to. Not enough to scare you straight, but enough to make you stop talking for a second.
Wait, what the fuck is that?
A sound cuts through the corn behind you. Growling..?
The rustling comes harder now, closer, moving through the rows in a way that doesn’t sound like wind.
Something bursts through the edge of the corn a second later, low to the ground, fast enough that your brain doesn’t fully register it at first.
Then it does.
Fucking fox. Probably on its way to kill your chickens.
You step back too quickly, boots catching on uneven dirt and broken stalks. Your heel slips, your balance goes before you can fix it.
"Shit-"
It happens fast. One second you’re upright, the next you’re going down hard into the dirt and scattered corn. The flashlight flies from your grip, beam jerking across the ground, cutting through stalks before it drops out completely. The batteries must’ve come loose.
For a second, everything is just noise. Your own breathing, the rustle of the corn, your heartbeat too loud in your ears.
A shot is fired. The loud noise startles you even more than it did the fox who crawled under the fence and ran off.
You don’t move right away. You’re still half on your side in the dirt, one hand braced under you, the other feeling blindly for the flashlight.
You don’t even acknowledge Joel until his rifle lands on the dirt beside you, smoke still curling from the barrel. Not long after, his flashlight is thrown down too, the beam angled uselessly into the ground.
The light spills forward, cutting across the dirt and broken corn stalks, making it harder to see him properly when you turn your head. Just shape and shadow now. Close enough that you know he’s there.
You’re still on your hands and knees, trying to get your footing back, palms pressed into the dirt while you push yourself up a little at a time. The ground shifts slightly under you as you move, uneven and stubborn.
Then a thought flashes through your mind, an undeniably bad one.
If trespassing and stealing weren’t good enough reasons to get you reported to your father, you were about to give him something truly worth reporting.
You give him another look over your shoulder, even though you can't really see him you can tell he's kneeling or crouching behind you.
Perfect.
That was it. You snap your heel backward and upward, swinging your leg around in a pass meant to land squarely between Joel’s legs.
That's for scaring the shit out of you with that rifle of his.
Your aim isn't at its best in the pitch-black night, but what you lacked in precision you made up for in force, your foot drove in hard where you assumed his groin was.
From the way your heel drove into him and the sound that tore out of his throat, you figured you’d landed it well enough. But when you turned your head again, you saw his silhouette clutching his stomach.
A little lower next time, maybe.
You figure that this is a pretty good time to run away, so you try to sit upright and bolt straight for the fence.
But you don't get far. Something clamps around you ankle dragging you right back. You lose your balance mid trying to stand up and fall straight to your face.
What you don't expect is a sudden retaliatory strike.
You feel his hand gripping a fistful of your nightgown, hauling it up until you can feel a gentle breeze grazing the skin of your hips.
A sharp, abrupt slap lands against the curve of your ass. Your mouth drops open in shock. You barely have time to react before another hit snaps across your cheek.
"Fuckin' hell.. your daddy should've done this to ya a long time ago, sweetie," he muses through his teeth.
It's not the first time you're being told that you need a good ol' spanking. You never actually got one, so maybe that's why you're so shocked to feel Joel, out of all people, do it.
"Spoiled little thing, ain't ya..? Thinkin' everything should go your way.."
Sounds familiar?
Maybe you and Daisy aren't that different after all.
You let out a short, breathless laugh despite yourself, more annoyed than intimidated and lift your ass up in the air, wiggling your hips at him.
He lets out a low grunt and moves in closer, clearly unamused by your teasing. The air around you thickens with the soft scent of worn leather, dry hay, and fresh wood shavings, all layered with the salty tang of skin that’s spent the whole day beneath the sun.
Well, this is clearly one strange way to convince him not to tell your father what you've done tonight.
Your teeth clamp down so hard you almost bite clean through your lower lip, trying to hold back a reaction you can't quite control. The night around you feels even tighter somehow, the cornfield pressing in on all sides, the rustle of dry stalks shifting with every faint movement.
Then something shifts behind you and a new sensation cuts through everything. Warmth presses against you, sudden and intrusive, and you go completely still for a heartbeat, your thoughts stalling in the dark as a finger pushes your underwear to the side.
For a moment, you stay frozen, caught in the pitch-black field while the corn rustles around you and the silence stretches tight and uneasy.
He teases you lightly with the tips of his fingers, hovering at your entrance. A sharp, consuming need coils through you, tightening your thighs as you respond instinctively, your body betraying you and deepening the slick warmth that gathers against his hand.
Then, without much warning, he slips a finger into your warmth and curls it just right. The sensation pulls a sharp sound from you, your fingers burying into the dirt underneath you.
A mix of intensity and emotion overwhelms you, so strong it stings behind your eyes. You tremble as your body responds to him, sensitivity heightening everything he does. When he adds another finger, it’s slower this time and you gasp at the stretch and pressure, your breath catching as he works you carefully.
"Gonna hurt a little, baby," he murmurs behind you.
Your gaze is fixed forward, at the rifle laying on the ground next to you, at the flashlight that does absolutely nothing to help you see the man behind you. You almost extend an arm to grab it, but you stop yourself when Joel's hand leaves your cunt. You sigh at the loss, arching your back into him.
You hear the faint clink of his belt buckle, followed by the soft scrape of his zipper coming down. A moment later, there’s the rustle of fabric as he pushes his jeans down.
His hands slide around your back, holding you close as he draws you in. His pelvis is flush against yours, what you assume is his cock heavy against your thigh.
A sudden rush of emotion and intensity floods through you, scattering your thoughts until they drift loose and unfocused, leaving your mind suspended.
You feel the cold press of his belt against the back of your leg, the nudge of his cock between your thighs, hands groping over your hips, squeezing the soft flesh in his rough palms.
The head of his cock grazes your swollen clit, going up to nudge itself at your entrance. Then something warm and sticky lands between your folds.
"Did you just fuckin' spit on me?"
His cock slaps against your moist folds with a squelching sound, making you clench around nothing.
"Language, sweetheart," he says through gritted teeth.
You should recoil from his touch and tell him that spitting is fucking gross, but before you can protest further he smears it up your slit. He slots his head against your hole and you let out a strangled noise, vision blurring further into the dark as he slams into you.
There is an ache as he pushes in, a stinging sensation that dulls with the warmth and pressure of him settling heavily inside you. Spreading you apart in his hands, he spits yet again, the glob of saliva landing at the base where he's buried to the hilt inside you.
"So fuckin’ tight, sweetie," he says. He reaches around to rub your puffy nub, a move that makes your entire body shiver.
Joel moves his other palm up your back, finding purchase in the braid resting on your back, tugging it until your back arches even more. He lets a low groan escape out of his throat while he rocks his hips back and forth.
For a moment he withdraws, gripping your hair even tighter, then he drives his cock to nestle inside your cunt again. The circles on your clit and harsh movements may as well set your whole body on fire.
You are filled to your limit, overwhelmed by heat and slick need, your body trembling as each sharp thrust draws another helpless sound from your throat. Already worn down, overstimulated, and desperate, you’re barely a second away from begging him to slow down.
A sharp slap echoes as your bodies meet, the sound punctuating the moment, and a muffled whimper slips past your clenched teeth as the sensation of your climax crests and pulls you under.
You let out a soft, broken sound, your back arching even as you instinctively pull away, caught between retreat and need. Your body wavers, unsure whether to escape the overwhelming sensation or press closer, chasing it instead.
Your fluttering walls push him over the edge. You feel him twitching inside you before he pulls out, his release spilling across the curve of your lower back.
The sound hits you both at the same time.
That low, familiar rumble of your daddy's truck engine rolling up the dirt road. You turn your head and there they are, behind Joel and the crooked fence, the headlights cutting across the yard like a warning.
You shove forward, scrambling out from under him, hands slipping in the dirt as you try to push yourself upright. Your nightgown is still bunched up, hair half pulled loose, breath uneven as you drag the fabric back down your legs, fingers clumsy, not working fast enough.
If Joel didn’t shoot you tonight, your daddy sure as hell will if he sees you like this.
𝙋𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜: frat!Rafe Cameron x innocent Pogue!reader
𝙒𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨: dark, dubcon, unhinged inner monolog from rafe, misogynistic rhetoric, classist rhetoric (in the context of kooks, pogues etc), daddy kink, innocence kink, loss of virginity, smut (oral + p in v), oral (female receiving, fingering, MAJORR size kink, spanking, daddy issues, condescension, babying, dirty talk, swearing, very unbalanced power dynamic, which rafe gets off on, slut-shaming, derogatory name calling, manipulation, college au, reader is a freshman and rafe is a senior, 18+ only, mdni
𝙎𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: Rafe bets his friends he can fuck you in one week.
𝘼/𝙉: It's here! The full fic. Word count: 23k. Please let me know what you think - reblogs and feedback mean the world to me. Read the warnings before you read, and enjoy!
“Her.”
Rafe looks over at the Pogue girl Topper’s nodding at and smirks. “Been there, done that. Pick a different one.”
Topper scoffs, “She literally moved here last week.”
“And?”
“OK… What about her?” He brazenly points at a leggy blonde that stands out in her group of Pogues.
“Last weekend at the beach party you threw. She gives good head.”
“Jesus Christ dude, is there anyone left??”
Rafe chuckles, leaning back and stretching his legs out while his friends stare at him in disbelief. He sometimes wonders if they know how stupid they look. Like followers. His followers. Hanging on to his every word, oohing and aahing at whatever he did. Making him feel like he was a God among men. Which he may as well be, considering that’s how most people at this college looked at him.
That’s why he loved fucking the Pogue girls. Almost exclusively. There was something about the power imbalance. Most of them came from poor families, looked at Rafe like he was a God. It didn’t take much for them to spread their legs for him, impressed by his power, turned on by his wealth. Hell, even the Kook girls were the same. But Rafe hardly ever took them home. They were spoiled sluts who hung around the country club wasting their lives and spending their daddies” money. Yeah, they didn’t pique his interest at all. Not as much as the Pogue girls who worked at the country club. In their little housekeeping outfits, deliberately teasing him in the hopes he’d take one of them home.
Yeah. It was safe to say Rafe Cameron had a type.
“Well, what about that one?”
Rafe rolls his eyes, about to say that yes, he had indeed fucked whatever girl Topper was pointing at this time. Because he’d fucked all of them. Because of who he was. Because of what he was capable of. Because of the family he came from. Because of what being a mere notch on Rafe Cameron’s bedpost meant to every single slut he’d ran through.
Except he doesn’t. Because Topper is pointing at you. And he’s never seen you before in his life.
You look so out of place, despite the fact you’re with a group of Pogues. And he knows you’re a Pogue. Like a shark with blood and a predator with its prey, he can always tell. And yet you stand awkwardly on the outskirts of the group, smiling yet not quite participating in whatever conversation is going on. You push your glasses up, straighten your skirt, pretend to look for something in your book bag. You’re shy. Self-conscious. Insecure. Rafe smiles.
“Who is she?”
“Aha! You haven’t slept with her!” Topper cheers like he’s won the fucking lottery. Sometimes Rafe wonders why he’s friends with him.
“Who is she?” He repeats like he hasn’t even heard him.
“She’s the new chick,” Kelce says, “except she’s not exactly new in town.”
“I heard she was home-schooled,” Topper snickers, “That’s why she’s fucking weird and has no friends. Even the Pogues don’t want her.”
Rafe observes you some more. Watches the bright smile on your face, how you try to chime in to whatever conversation the girls around you are having. They nod at you politely yet dismissively. They’re not your friends. As Topper said, you don’t have any.
Insecure. Weak. Vulnerable.
He licks his lips.
“How long?”
“Huh?”
He runs a hand through his hair impatiently, “How long do you wanna bet it takes me to get her into bed?” He nods in your direction.
Topper raises an eyebrow.
“You can’t be serious, man. She looks like she doesn’t even know what sex means.”
Kelce laughs, “She looks like she can’t even say it. Like she spells it out every time, s-e-x.”
They’re right. You look very innocent, but all that does is incense him. Rafe’s used to easy sluts who spread their legs after one drink or a ride on his motorbike. But you. He can tell you’d be harder to crack. But there’s something so fucking hot about how naive you look. How shy and sweet you are. How ruined he could leave you. Splayed out on his bike, legs quivering, all sweaty limbs and shy pants after he’s done having his way with you—
“How long?” He repeats, not in the mood to waste time and already getting hard picturing innocent little you with your tiny skirt flipped up and his head buried between those soft thighs, your sweet little confused cries because no one’s ever touched you like that, and—
“A week.”
“Mm?”
“A week to fuck her. With proof.”
Rafe stands up and stretches, licking his lips as he watches you retreat to a small bench, getting your little book out and burying your nose in it.
“That’s too easy. What do I get when I do it?”
“If you do it, you can decide what you get then. But as I said before, we’d need proof.” Kelce says.
“Yeah, proof,” Topper echoes, a glint in his eye as he looks over at you, “Pictures.”
Rafe shrugs, already kind of bored, “Sure.” He’d taken plenty of pictures of his conquests in the past. Him and his boys had a group chat where they shared that kind of shit. And the idea of taking pictures of you in such a vulnerable position gets him harder than anything. Sweet little freshman baby fucked dumb by the big bad senior, posing for pictures afterwards all teary-eyed but submissive. They all got submissive for him, even after he was done using them.
You flip a page, completely engrossed in your book and looking every bit the naive baby he’s imagining you as. A little lamb who has no idea she was in the presence of a fucking lion. And he bets you’re a virgin. Homeschooled with no friends? Forget virgin, you probably haven’t even had your first kiss. And that gets him so fucking horny, right there in the middle of the campus courtyard. The idea that you’re so pure, so untouched. So happy, so unassuming. A little fucking baby.
He’d have fun ruining you.
***
“You sure do love reading, don’t you?”
It’s the following day when Rafe finds you sitting by yourself in the corner of the library, with nothing but your book to keep you company.
You jump like a little mouse, pushing your glasses up your nose and gulping up at him, fear briefly flitting across your face before you force a small smile. And he likes his girls jumpy, he likes them slightly afraid of him. He knows he has that effect on people in general, but he wonders who’s told you about him.
“Sorry, were you — uh — were you talking to me?”
Rafe smirks, “Yes. Who else would I be talking to?”
“Oh, uh, I’m not sure…”
“It was a rhetorical question.”
“Oh, of course,” you look embarrassed, and he watches you squirm under his gaze for a good few seconds. “I… um…”
“You find books more interesting than people?”
“Huh?”
He chuckles, pulling up a chair next to you, noting how your eyes widen as he takes a seat, “Why are you always reading?”
“I don’t know, I guess I just like to read,” you shrug.
“You sure do.” He wonders if he could get you to read your precious book out loud while he went down on you, licked your virgin cunt while you cried because it felt too good. And then he’d spank you if you stopped or messed up a word, and like a stupid dumb fucking baby, you’d sniffle and wail through each paragraph, hold back your moans while he went to town on your little pussy till you wet yourself, and he’d suck your—
“Are you making fun of me?”
You pose the question so innocently— hell, you practically whisper it, and it knocks Rafe straight out of his daydream to find you blinking up at him with Bambi eyes.
“What?”
You bite your lip, “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m not so good at understanding if someone’s joking or not. I’m not… uh… I’m not used to being around so many people, and it makes me nervous and I can’t tell if someone’s being genuine or if they’re making fun of me.”
“You were homeschooled, huh?” Rafe stares at you intently, noting how you play with your hair nervously, and your fingers tap against the hard cover of your book. How you can barely make eye contact with him for longer than a few seconds.
“Yes. My mom taught me and my older brothers.”
Rafe nods, taking his time to answer. He looks at you some more, enjoying how it makes you uncomfortable. You fidget nervously, and it amuses him every time you peek up to meet his gaze before a look of alarm crosses your face and you divert your eyes down to your book once more.
“You’re a shy little thing, aren’t you?” He says finally, chuckling at the embarrassed look on your face.
“I… I guess. I do want to make friends but it’s pretty overwhelming.”
“I’ll be your friend.”
He does a good job of hiding his predatory, wolfish smile. And he wonders if you can see the glint in his eye as he mentally undresses you. You look so small and weak, especially compared to him. Gullible too. Too innocent for your own good, the way you gape up at him as if he’s offered you gold on a platter. It makes him want to stroke your soft cheek, pat it and tell you what a good little girl you are. For being so naive.
You shake your head as if trying to straighten out your thoughts. He can tell, he has that effect on women too.
“Oh, you don’t have to, I uh—”
“Rafe Cameron?! In the library?!” An annoying, high-pitched voice shrieks, making you jump as it cuts you off mid-sentence.
It’s a kook girl. A cheerleader. Rafe can’t be fucked to remember her name but he’s sure he’s hooked up with her. She’s one of those ones, the ones that hang out at the country club and try to catch his eye. One of the desperate sluts who thinks if she spreads her legs enough times for him, that he’ll make her his girlfriend or some stupid shit like that.
“Rafe, what are you doing here?” The cheerleader sidles up to him, her hand on his chest and batting her lashes in his direction in some pathetic form of seduction. She ignores you, and you shrink into yourself, hastily burying your face in your book.
“What do you want?” He asks, not quite as interested in her answer as he is in continuing to stare at you. How you try to act like you don’t care, but he knows you’re hurt from being ignored, from being treated like you’re invisible.
“Nothing. Just wondering what you’re up to.” But she flashes him her fuck me eyes, her nails scraping suggestively against his chest. Rafe yawns, considering it. He has time before his next class (not that he could be fucked to turn up to class half the time) and his dick’s hard from talking to you. And since you probably don’t even know what the word blowjob means…
“Go in there,” he nods at one of the private study rooms in the far end of the library, and the fucking slut nearly trips as she scrambles to obey him. Rafe takes his time, stretching his legs before slowly getting up.
You peek up from your book, “Are you guys gonna go study in there?”
He could’ve bust a nut then and there from how fucking innocent you sound. Batting your little eyelashes at him like you’re trying to seduce him without even realising it. He knows he’ll be thinking about you, weepy and on your knees, while the kook girl blows him. Fuck, and if he plays his cards right, he’d have you by the end of the week. And he always plays his cards right.
“You could call it studying.”
You nod, “OK, well, goodbye then.” You look back down at your book, but risk a glance up at him again, which he finds very amusing.
“What’s your name, homeschool?”
You tell him.
He sounds it out, before shooting you one last smile, “Well, I’ll see you soon. Won’t I?”
You give him a puzzled look, but it’s replaced by your usual wide-eyed Bambi stare when he pats your hand, his thumb lingering, stroking your skin. He wonders if you’ve ever even touched someone of the opposite sex before. Judging by how your breath hitches softly, he doubts it.
Fuck. He can’t wait to ruin you. Play the slow game and enjoy that sweet virgin snatch before any other man ever could.
That’s what he’s thinking of when he’s got the cheerleader on her knees in front of him. That sweet little look on your face, the look of curiosity mixed with shyness and that little hint of indignation. Fuck, he wants to ruin you. And he would. With proof.
***
Day two. Rafe finds you walking down the hallway, your books clutched to your chest and eyes trained to the floor. Cutest little skirt making your perky ass pop, winking at him enticingly with every step as if you’re deliberately seducing him. Makes him want to slap your cute little ass, reprimand you for teasing him and half the men on campus without even realising it. He wonders what you’d say if he just did it. Spanked you in front of everyone. You’d probably start blubbering like a little baby. He has to forcibly stop picturing it before he gets uncomfortably hard.
You’re alone. As usual.
“Hey, homeschool,” he falls into step beside you, eyebrow raising in amusement when you don’t slow down nor look at him.
“Oh, h-hello, Rafe.”
“What’re you up to today?”
“Nothing, just going to my next lecture.”
He grabs your wrist, watching as your breath hitches, and yet you still don’t look at him. Damn, what had gotten Bambi so scared?
“You’ve got time to talk to me, don’t you?” He asks, but it’s not really a question. And you know it, judging by how you swallow harshly.
“I’m so sorry, I don’t want to be late—” You attempt to tug your little hand out of his grasp but you’re so small and weak that it barely has any effect.
“C’mon, homeschool. That’s no way to treat your one and only friend.”
He’s walks you into a corner, and he likes how you gape at the wall before turning and looking up at him. He’s so much taller than you, bigger than you in every single way.
“Rafe, I…” you sigh, shifting from one foot to the other, “My friends said some things…”
“Friends?” You don’t have any.
“Some of the girls I know. They saw us talking yesterday at the library and they…” you sigh, “They said you were probably just playing a joke on me.”
Fuckin’ jealous pogue bitches.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yes. They said there’s no way you’d talk to me for any other reason apart from as a joke. And they…” you bite your lip, looking so cutely distraught and it goes straight to his dick. “They said some other things… about you.”
Of course they fuckin’ did. Always talking behind his back, but never to his goddamned face. Nothing but a bunch of jealous, gold-digging whores.
He doesn’t say anything, just merely looks at you as if he expects you to tell him. And he knows you will. You’re too innocent to keep secrets.
“They said that you… that you’re scary sometimes.”
Rafe remains impassive, waiting for you to continue.
“That you… that you pick on a lot of us Pogues. E-Especially the boys. That you and your friends bully them.”
He snorts. Bully. What a juvenile word. Sure, he pushed the dipshit Pogues around here and there. They deserved it for all the trouble they ran around town causing, disrupting the natural order of shit. And he could fuck their girls better than they ever could. Especially that fuckin’ idiot JJ Maybank…
“They also said that… never mind.” Again, you try to tug away from him but to no avail.
“Tell me.” He likes how you struggle under his scrutinising gaze.
“It’s… it’s not appropriate.”
“Say it. Now.”
You lower your voice, “They said you like to use the girls. The pogue girls. Th-That you have a kink for them.”
The scandalous words have hardly left your mouth before you duck your head down as if embarrassed. God, you were so fucking innocent. Rafe wonders how he should play this.
“Huh. Is that so?”
“Y-Yeah. One of the girls I talk to… She said that you…” you swallow, biting your lip, “that you’ve been with her and all her friends too. That you tell them all the same thing but it’s always a lie and you just end up using them.”
Rafe nods, “Hmm.”
“I’m sorry, Rafe, but I don’t think we should—“
“That’s funny. I thought you were smart. You know, with all your books and the glasses and shit.”
You blink, “What?”
He shrugs, “I didn’t think you’d go ahead and pass judgement on someone without even getting to know them first.”
“It’s not that–”
“I mean, here I am, wanting to be friends with you. And I’ve been nothin’ but nice, haven’t I?”
He’s still got you backed into a corner, and he watches as you flinch when he emphasises his words. He knows people get intimidated by his intensity, but there’s nothing he hates more than people talking shit behind his back. Especially low-life Pogues. And he likes how scared you look right now, pouty lips all downturned and alarm in your eyes.
“I asked you a question, homeschool.”
“Yes, you’ve been nothing but nice! It’s just, I heard all these things, and–”
“And you chose to believe them.” He steps back abruptly, “I’ll see you around, I guess.”
He walks away, about to count to three in his head but you beat the count before he can even begin.
“Rafe, wait! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to judge you.”
He stops, allows you to catch up.
“You’re right, I…I shouldn’t listen to other people.”
“You shouldn’t.” Rafe agrees, easily taking your heavy textbooks from where you’ve been balancing them in your arms. You gape, but he just continues smoothly: “Where’s your next class?”
You tell him, “But you don’t have to walk with me or anything–”
“I’m your friend, homeschool. That’s what friends do.”
*
Day 3. You’re eating your lunch on a bench outside all by yourself. Rafe’s heading to his car with his friends. They usually cut classes most days to hit the beach or the country club. Rafe doesn’t see the point of college anyways, not when he was poised to inherit all of his father’s businesses, money and property. And with the ideas he had, he’d expand tenfold on whatever Ward was doing now, make a shit ton more money than his old man ever did. That would show him…
”How’s the bet coming along, Rafe?” Topper asks.
“Wait till the end of the week.” Is all Rafe says. He doesn’t need to give progress reports to his dumb fuck ass follower friends.
“That means he’s nowhere near cracking that virgin pussy.” Kelce chuckles. “No worries, brother. She looks like she’s got a stick up her ass anyways. Not loose like the rest of the Pogue whores.”
He ignores them as they laugh. But they’re right. You’re not like the rest of the Pogue girls. They’d grown up wild, promiscuous, loose. Trained to catch the attention of a rich Kook like himself, filled with self-serving motivations to marry into money. But he can already tell you’re different. With your cute little outfits and respectful, quiet demeanour. You look like you’d fit in where he was from.
Too bad he was only going to fuck you before discarding you like he did the rest of them.
“I’ll catch you guys later.” He says, making a beeline for you.
“Hey,” he chucks you under the chin, smirking when you jump.
“Oh, hey Rafe.” You look beyond his shoulder, “Your friends are all leaving.”
“Yeah. The waves are good this time of day.”
You gape, “But don’t you have classes?”
He takes a seat next to you, making sure to stretch out while you shrink into yourself. Still so nervous around him. He snickers, “You gonna tell on us?”
You look aghast, “No! I would never–”
“I’m just kidding, homeschool.”
“Oh,” you look embarrassed, “Sorry. Sometimes I–”
“Can’t tell if someone’s joking or not,” Rafe completes, “I remember. I’ll be more straight up with you.”
You nod, and he can tell you’re trying to think of something else to say. But you’re too nervous, too awkward. And so you just bury your head in your book again, all while he watches you. You’ve got a bottle of apple juice and a half-eaten sandwich of some kind on the table next to you. Cut up into little triangles. He bets you’ve done it yourself. Fuckin’ cute.
“You dress cute.” He says, and again, widened Bambi eyes stare up at him. He chuckles, “You know, the little skirts and plaid and shit. It’s cute.”
“Thank you.”
“You do it on purpose?” He can’t help but ask, because he wonders if a part of you knows what you’re doing. Knows you’re dressing like a sexy little angel out of his wettest dreams. All little and cute and innocent, so much smaller than him. Weak. All pastel and pretty, like you’d look so fucking sexy on the back of his bike. On his arm. On his dick.
“I don’t know what you mean by that,” you say, sounding every bit as innocent as you look. Damn, homeschool must’ve done a number on you. But he likes how sheltered you sound. It gets him so fucking hard, and a part of him almost feels sorry for how primed you are to be taken advantage of. “I wear my mom’s old clothes, or stuff I find in the charity shops.”
He’d had maids and housekeepers who shopped in places like that. He remembers him and his siblings giving them their old clothes once they’d grown out of them.
He nods, “You look pretty.”
Your breath hitches, and you really don’t know how to respond to that, because you slam your book shut and stand up, “I, uh, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
He watches you leave, distracted by your ass again but not enough to miss the little smile that quirks on your lips as you bid him farewell and walk away.
*
On day 4, Rafe walks up behind you in the busy hallway, pressing his huge hand on your lower back and pushing you into another secluded corner. He smirks when you squeak, but he likes how easily he can push you around because of how weak and small you are.
“Hey.” He told himself he’d take it slow (well, as slow as he could take it in the span of one week) and yet he can’t help but press into you a little bit. It’s innocuous enough, but your eyes widen as per usual, and the feel of your hot little body against his much larger one is enough to give him a boner. It’s how he could easily push you into an empty lecture hall and have his way with you if he so wanted to. Sure, you’d cry and resist at first, but they all gave in in the end. And if someone caught them, he’d pay them off.
Rafe Cameron owned the world. Nothing could stop him.
“Hello, Rafe.” You breathe, and he loves how his name sounds when you say it. He imagines you moaning it when he has you on his lap, pressing you down on his dick while you cry and whimper because it’s too much, it’s too big. But your greedy little virgin pussy would take every inch of his fat dick, and he’d do all the work, of course. You’d be too busy crying, and he’d bounce you up and down on his dick while you grabbed at his arms, his hair, his face. He’d tell you to scrape your nails down his back, leave a fucking mark or two so daddy could remember you.
“Come for a drive with me? I’ll buy you lunch.”
Despite your shyness, a fire flashes in your eyes, “I can buy my own lunch!”
He raises an eyebrow. As if on cue, you lower your gaze.
“Sorry, I mean… thank you for your offer, Rafe. But I can buy my own lunch.”
Surprisingly though, you agree to the drive. And he still has his hand pressed against your back, guiding you out to where his car’s parked. You ogle at it, probably never having seen anything as expensive. He wonders if your family even owns a car, or if you even know how to drive. It would be hot if you didn’t, it made you look even more helpless. In need of someone like him to protect you, take care of you. Someone powerful and wealthy like himself.
“Wow, I’ve never been on this side of the island before!” You say, oohing and aahing as you stare out the window. Rafe’s never seen anyone so easily excited by the neighbourhood he’d grown so used to. But he supposes the mansions, sports cars, country clubs and private beaches would be impressive to anyone who hadn’t grown up with easy access to all of that.
“No?”
“No, but my brother’s friend works there, I think.” You point to the vast golf course at the back end of one of the clubs. “He says the tips are really good.”
Rafe frowns. You were talking to other men? No, not you. You were too sweet, too innocent. He was sure he was the only man you spoke to. Or even if you were speaking to others, he doubts a golf caddy pathetically running after balls would be much competition. And yet, he bristles, wanting to change the subject.
“Do you have a job?” Rafe asks.
You shake your head, “No. I sometimes tutor some kids in the neighbourhood but nothing permanent. I’d love to have a part-time job with proper wages like the country club or library or something, but my family’s kind of protective of me.”
“Mm?” He’s deliberately being quiet, wanting to hear you talk, wanting to learn more about you.
“Yeah. That’s why I was homeschooled. My mom’s scared someone’s gonna take advantage of me.” You pause, before giggling, “It took a lot to convince her to let me apply for colleges, but I think she’s finally starting to see me as an adult who can make my own decisions and protect myself.”
The irony isn’t lost on Rafe, but he finds himself leaning closer. You have this way of talking, so soft and breathy, yet energetic and full of life at the same time. Like you’re a storybook character, like you’re someone out of this world. Like an angel dropped down from heaven and sent just for him. You’re his type to a tee. God, he wants to fuck you so bad.
“What would your mom say if she knew you were out with me?” His hand creeps up to rest on your knee. You’re wearing jeans, which he doesn’t approve of but he decides to give you a pass since it’s windy today.
You don’t notice his touch anyways; you’re too busy pondering over his question. But there’s a glint in your eye, “Sh-She wouldn’t approve. But that’s only ‘cause she doesn’t know you.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, his thumb rubbing circles against the denim of your jeans. “And you do?”
You swallow, finally realising he’s got his hand on you. Surprisingly, you don’t move. It’s almost like you’re frozen, those big fuck me Bambi eyes making a comeback, “Uh…I…We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He smirks, “Yeah. Friends.” His hand creeps up higher, stroking your thigh softly, wishing you were wearing one of your little skirts so he could feel your bare skin. But it’s thrilling anyways, touching your quivering body while you’re defenceless inside his car. He could lock the doors and have his way with you right now. Hell, people outside would get quite the show but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s fucked in public.
Poor little you. Losing your virginity in the front seat of his car. He’d drag you into his lap, bounce you up and down on his cock. But not before making you beg for it first. And you’d cry so fucking bad, because it would hurt. Because he’d promise he’d be gentle but he knows himself, he knows he’d lose control like he always did. Fuck you so goddamned hard, he’d have to lay you down in the backseat afterwards because you wouldn’t be able to stop shaking. Then drive you back to his house, carry you into his bed and have his way with you again. And again. And again.
“Rafe?”
“Yes?”
“You’re not hanging out with me because you feel sorry for me, are you?”
That grabs his attention, “Why would you think that?”
You shrug, “No reason. I just… Well, you have so many friends. I guess I don’t quite understand why you’re hanging out with me.”
“I like you.” He shifts even closer, his hand steadily stroking your leg while you remain stiff, “Do you like me?”
“H-Huh?”
“You heard me, homeschool.” And yet he knows you’re distracted by his fingers tracing shapes on your thigh. Not random shapes, though. It’s his initials. Over and over again. R.C., he wonders if you can tell.
“I, uh, y-ye–” You’re having trouble getting your words out, and it amuses him. He can see you visibly shaking, and he wonders if it’s out of fear or anticipation. Or both. He leans down, bringing his face close to yours.
“I didn’t quite get that.” He licks his lips at how weak and intimidated you look. “Say it again.”
It’s an order, and you clear your throat, shake your head as if to clear your thoughts.
“Yes,” you whisper, as if it’s something scandalous, “Y-Yes, I like you.”
He pulls back abruptly, leaving you gaping at him.
“Let’s get something to eat. I’m starving.”
He buys you a panini from a little artisan bakery, with a strawberry iced tea and a packet of chocolate hearts with a cherry cream filling. You protest at first, unzipping your bag to pay for yourself, but he’d sooner roll over and die than let a woman pay for anything.
“Toss me one,” he says, and you throw a little cherry-filled truffle at him. He catches it between his teeth, and your eyes light up, clearly impressed.
“Wow, that was cool!”
“C’mere, you’ve got a little something…” He grabs your chin gently, pulling you forward before rubbing his thumb against the side of your lip, wiping away a bit of chocolate. “Messy girl.”
Your breath hitches, but you stay still for him like a good little girl. His thumb lingers, and he wants to press it into your mouth, make you suck the chocolate off it. Then tell you he had something else for you to suck on. Push you down and make you warm his cock with your mouth while he drove you back to campus. One hand on the steering wheel, the other pressing your head down, making you take his big cock despite you whimpering and panicking because you can’t breathe.
He rubs your lower lip with his thumb for a moment before pulling away. You clear your throat, snapping out of whatever reverie you’ve been in, straighten up against the seat and put your seatbelt on. You still look like you’re in a daze, however, and he wonders if you’re wet from him wiping your face clean.
“I-uh-we should head back please, if that’s okay?” you say, voice slightly shaky as you avoid eye contact with him. “I don’t want to miss my afternoon class.”
He grins, “You a teacher’s pet?”
That makes you smile, and you shrug shyly. It almost enamours him.
He gets you back to campus on time, and you give him a little wave before you jump out of his car and walk inside. And god, it’s insane how hot you are. Even in your jeans, which have cute little embroidered flowers on the butt. Makes your ass look insane. Like it’s begging to be grabbed, smacked, fucked.
He breathes out heavily through his nose, slumping back against his seat. His dick is uncomfortably hard. God, you didn’t even realise how much you’d teased him tonight. Sitting tight and pretty in the passenger seat of his car, so quiet and pretty. So innocently impressed by Figure 8, and by him. How shy you’d been when you’d admitted that you liked him…
He gets his phone out, blindly texting one of the desperate girls on his phone. He needs a release. And he’d be thinking of you the whole time.
*
On day 5, Rafe tells you to give him your number. From his peripheral, he can see a bunch of Pogues whispering and watching while he takes your phone and puts his number in.
“Have your little friends been talking more shit about me?”
You flinch. He can’t help the intensity of his tone sometimes, and he’s noticed you never swear and, like a jumpy little mouse, probably feel intimidated when he does.
“No, I haven’t really spoken to them in a while.”
Rafe grins, “Yeah?”
“Yes. I’ve been busy with schoolwork.”
He saves his number on your phone before pressing it into your back pocket for you. You gape, eyes darting around to see if anyone saw. He wonders just how prim and proper you are, and how quickly he could get you to come undone once he got you comfortable and behind closed doors.
“You’re not too busy to text me, right?”
You smile, looking down and fidgeting with your binder. He notices you’ve got little stickers on it, like cupcakes and hearts and shit. What a fuckin’ baby.
“Text you? I don’t really– I have to a test tomorrow that I need to study for.”
But he knows you’ll text him. They always did. You weren’t any different.
“What are you smiling at?” Kelce asks, pulling up beside him as Rafe watches you head into your next class.
Immediately, he straightens his face, “Nothing man.”
“You falling for that homeschool freak Pogue?”
He snorts, “You wish. I have standards.”
“You sure about that?”
He whips his head sharply to stare down at his friend, “You want me to repeat myself?”
Rafe doesn’t miss the flicker of fear in Kelce’s eyes. They’d never admit it, but he knows his friends are afraid of him. Of his mood swings, his unpredictability. He doesn’t care. In fact, he prefers it this way. They weren’t like him, they were weak-minded, beneath him. He kept them around because of semantics, because of who their parents were and who his dad was. And because they proved to be minorly useful sometimes when he needed help to get shit done.
All the girls he’d been with had been afraid of him too. When he fucked them, he often lost control. But it turned him on, how they’d swallow their fear in case they offended him, or set him off. Once, he’d fucked a girl who just wouldn’t stop shaking. Sure, he’d showed her his gun right before he’d bent her over, but it was her problem if she was frightened by something as mundane as that.
You weren’t scared of him. Yet. Intimidated, sure. But he’d kept that side of him well under wraps when it came to you. You were too sweet, too pure. And you were a good girl, incapable of crossing him in any form. He didn’t have to scare you to get what he wanted from you. No, you’d give it to him, like the good little girl you were. Naïve, innocent little girl.
*
Rafe: Hey.
Y/N: Hi, Rafe. How are you?
He finds himself smiling at his screen. There’s a party going on downstairs, but Rafe couldn’t care less. It’s the same thing every other night. His friends showing up at his house and bringing along a whole entourage of people he doesn’t give a fuck about. Sarah used to do it a lot before she moved out, invite her fuck ass Pogue friend group into his house as if they were ever welcome there.
Rafe didn’t want any Pogues inside his house. Unless they were girls that he intended to sleep with. But he appreciated it when they showed themselves out once he was done using them.
Rafe: What are you up to?
A minute passes by, then another one. Fuck, he hates that you’re making him wait. What a fuckin’ tease. He wonders for the hundredth time if you’re doing it on purpose. No, not you. You’re too innocent.
Y/N: Nothing, I just finished cleaning my room. Wbu?
It’s insane how the visual of that gets his dick hard in less than a second. The thought of you doing something as domestic as cleaning. The good little college girl, who went home straight after school and spent her evenings dusting and vacuuming or whatever it was that cleaning entailed. Unlike the Kook sluts his friends were probably fucking downstairs. They were pathetic party girls who’d easily spread their legs for a line or two.
He calls you, losing patience with this texting bullshit. He runs a hand through his hair impatiently when you don’t immediately pick up, huffing and gulping down the remaining whiskey in his glass. Slamming it down on his desk when you still don’t pick up. Fucking tease. He grabs a baggie from one of the drawers, prepares a neat line; despite promising himself he wouldn’t do it tonight. Fuck that. Ten seconds have passed; you still haven’t picked up. He snorts it quickly, about to throw his phone out the fucking window, except you choose that moment to pick up.
“H-Hello?”
“Hi,” he sounds slightly breathless, but who the fuck cared. He refills his glass with more whiskey, taking a sip to calm himself down. “Took your time to pick up, huh?”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” you say hastily, “I got distracted.”
He feels a sudden surge of jealousy so violent, he doesn’t know how to act for a moment. Distracted by fucking what?
“The lights went out, so I had to go reset them,” you explain, and he barks out a laugh. Jesus fucking Christ.
“Y-You sound kinda breathless, Rafe,” you say, “Is everything okay?”
“Why wouldn’t it be okay?” He downs his drink and sets it aside before his hand slips down. God, you sound so hot. All breathy and innocent, even just over the phone. “Tell me what you were doing.”
A pause, and then you force out a chuckle, “I told you, I just finished cleaning.”
“What like vacuuming and shit?”
“Yes.”
Over the years, Rafe had slept with a number of maids Ward had hired on multiple occasions. He’d fucked Wheezie’s babysitter a few years ago, the housekeeper too. His father had a knack for hiring hot Pogue girls, and maybe that’s where Rafe’s kink for them started.
He could imagine you working for him – he’d make you wear the sexiest little barely-there maid outfit. You wouldn’t question it because you were too innocent. With your little feather duster, trying to clean except you’d be too small to reach certain areas. Fuck, he wouldn’t last five seconds in the same room as you. And he wouldn’t have to because you’d be his hired help, his property. He’d have you bent over his desk, fuck you so hard till you couldn’t stop shaking, till you were crying like a baby and apologising for not focusing on cleaning all while he carried you up to his bedroom. Locked you up in there so nobody else could see you. His girl. All his.
“Uh, Rafe?”
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.
A pause.
“Really?” You clear your throat, “Where are you? I can hear music.”
“Shit, yeah. Like, there’s a party or whatever going on downstairs. My friends came over unannounced.”
“Oh.” He can sense a level of dejection in your tone. He bets you’re thinking about it, thinking how it’s just a reminder that he has his own group of Kook friends. And you’d never be one of them. You’d never truly fit in. You were either one or the other. Hell, Sarah had proven that when she’d transitioned into the slums. But maybe there was a way to bring you into his world, a way that would stick.
He has to forcibly shake his head to remind himself you’re just part of a stupid bet.
“I’d rather speak to you than them.”
“That’s not true, Rafe.”
“I like how you say my name.” He’s palming his dick now, knowing he’s treading over the line and could easily scare you off now if he’s not careful. But fuck being careful. He’s never really been careful before in his life. He hasn’t had to be. “An’ I’m serious. I told you, I like you.”
“Rafe, I… I just can’t shake the feeling that–”
“That what?” He spits into his palm before resuming touching himself. And shit, he doesn’t know if it’s the drugs or if it’s really just the sound of your voice that’s got him so goddamned horny. He wonders if you’ve ever touched yourself before. If you even knew how to.
“That you’re just playing a big joke on me. I mean, even the people from the Cut think I’m this weird, homeschooled freak.” You laugh, but he can tell you don’t find it funny, “It’s just hard to believe that you’d want to be my friend.”
“They think I’m a freak too,” he says, being honest for once. “Only difference is they don’t talk shit about me because they know I’d kill them.”
“You’re funny, Rafe.”
You’re too innocent to realise he’s not kidding. Not in the least.
“And if anyone says anything about you, I’ll kill them too. I’m serious.” Fuck, he feels like his dick’s gonna goddamn explode. The thought of protecting you like that, like he was responsible for you. Like you were all cute and helpless and he was the one taking care of shit, the one protecting you. That’s all he’s done his whole life, take care of shit and get shit done. And nobody’s ever fucking appreciated him for it.
“Well, thank you, Rafe. I’ve never had anyone stick up for me like that.”
He likes how you keep saying his name now that he’s told you he likes it when you say it. Means you’d be real good at taking instructions. He can imagine telling you what to do when he finally has you in his bed. Order you to get on your hands and knees. Then he’d spread your cute little ass, eat you from the back while you moaned his name over and over, thanking him for taking care of you, weeping how much you appreciate him, how much he means to you. How much you need him.
“A-Are you still there?”
“Shit, yeah. Yeah, I am.” His dick’s red and painfully hard, and he’s still trying to pump it steadily but now he’s imagining your tight little virgin cunt wrapped around it. Soft like velvet, warm and wet. Pulsating around him. Never had even a finger up there but you’d take his big dick, because he owned you, because he was your protector, because you were too weak and helpless without him, and–
“Could you, uh, fuck, say my name again,” he orders you, not caring in the least if he scares you off.
“Rafe?”
He cums into his fist like a goddamned teenage boy, biting down to keep from making any noise. God fucking dammit, you’d listened again. What a good fucking girl. He wants to tell you that, tell you how good you were for him just now, how obedient and submissive you were without even realising it.
“If you’re busy, it’s okay and you can go,” you say softly.
“No, wait…” he clears this throat, grabbing a bunch of tissues from his desk. He can’t believe you hadn’t caught on to him jacking off. “I wanted to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
“Do you want to come over tomorrow? To hang out?”
“Like, uh, at your house?”
“Yeah.” He needs you in private, needs you on his turf where he can control just about everything. God, was it even about the bet anymore? Or just this newfound fucking irrevocable need to fuck you just for his own personal satisfaction? Maybe both.
“I don’t know, I’ve never been to a guy’s house before.”
That just makes him even more determined to be your first.
“C’mon, it’ll be fun. We can go after your classes finish or whatever, and I’ll drive you home afterwards.”
“Rafe…”
He shuts his eyes for a moment, savouring the sound of your voice. He wonders if he can get you to call him daddy. God fucking dammit, just the idea of that was getting him hard again.
“Look, we’ll order some food, watch TV. Whatever you want. It’ll be fun. And it’s what friends do.”
That last part gets to you. He can tell. He knows how badly you want to have friends. He knows you’ve never had any. Not good, permanent ones like you saw in movies and TV shows. Hell, Rafe’s not sure he himself has real friends. But he doesn’t care. The idea of friendship means nothing to him. He’s best when he’s on his own because nobody else could be trusted. But what is important is having a girl like you in his bed. A girl like you who looks up to him with shining eyes, like he’s your goddamned entire world. A girl he plucked up from poverty and saved, and you’d appreciate him more than anyone in his dumb fucking family ever did.
“Say yes,” he all but orders you, but he already knows the answer before you say it.
“O-Okay, yeah. Yes, that sounds like fun. I’d love to come.”
*
“What do you mean you’re not coming?” Topper frowns, crossing his arms over his chest, “You were supposed to bring the, you know…”
Rafe rolls his eyes, wondering why he’s friends with a fucking loser who can’t even say the word coke. That’s why nobody on the goddamned island wanted to sell to Topper. Hell, even Barry refused to.
“I have plans.” Rafe answers, checking his watch for the tenth time. Your final class of the day was due to end any minute now, and he couldn’t wait to get you into his house.
“What plans? You were gonna help me with Sarah tonight.” Topper was a whiny fucking bitch, but even Rafe had to admit he was a better fit for his sister than that lowlife John B.
“I’m not helping you with shit, man.” He mutters disinterestedly, although he had promised a few nights ago that he’d help him. He’d been high as a fucking kite, though. So it didn’t exactly count. “Look, she’ll get bored eventually when she realises his broke ass can’t provide shit for her. Then she’ll come crawling back.”
Topper shakes his head, “No, Sarah’s not materialistic like that.”
Rafe smirks, “You don’t know her.”
“Well, speaking of broke, how’s it going with that homeschool girl? You guys sure seem to be hanging out a lot.”
“Do you have brain damage, Topper?”
“What?”
Rafe corners his friend against a wall, relishing the immediate fear in his eyes, “I seem to remember you placing a bet a week ago.”
“Well, yeah, but –”
“So why the fuck,” he hits the locker lightly behind Topper’s head, “are you asking me about hanging out with her a lot?”
“Chill, dude. It’s just,” he looks hesitant, scared as he’s barely able to make eye contact, “It’s okay if you like her, you know?”
Rafe feels a wave of emotion, something he can’t quite pinpoint. And that makes him mad, because what the fuck was he feeling? He has to clench his fists by his side to stop from slapping the taste out of Topper’s mouth. Why did him bringing you up irritate him so much? Jesus, reign it the fuck in.
He takes a deep breath and steps back, forcing a chuckle, “You think I’m gonna slum it like that?”
Topper grins nervously, as if Rafe hadn’t had him pinned against a locker like a little bitch just a second ago. He straightens up, “I mean, it’s not exactly a secret what your type is.”
Rafe laughs, and Topper relaxes and joins in after a moment or two. That’s when Rafe slams him against the locker again.
“Get it through your thick fucking skull, Topper. I may fuck a Pogue but I’d never date one. Got that?”
“Yes, okay, Jesus Christ, man.” Topper pushes Rafe off him and backs off, “Do whatever the fuck you want.”
That’s when Rafe starts laughing again. “I will, pussy.”
Topper fucks off after that. Sometimes, Rafe wonders what his deal is. He acted up in front of the rest of the group, then tried to act all sensitive and understanding in private. Like Rafe had time for that shit. And how dare Topper insinuate that Rafe had feelings for you? Hell would freeze over before he ever caught feelings for a Pogue.
He realises a bunch of people are staring at him. Goddamit. Fuck all of them. When he was younger, Ward had sent him to see a therapist once a week. He’d quit going once he’d realised it was everyone else who was the problem, and not him. But one thing the shrink had taught him that had stuck was to breathe slowly and count to ten whenever he felt angry or overwhelmed.
That’s what he’s doing when you arrive.
“Hey, Rafe. I’m sorry I’m late. The professor held me back.”
“Why?” He barks out before he can contain himself. He’s already on edge, and now some dumbass professor is keeping you back in class because you undoubtedly get his old, shrivelled dick hard and you’re too innocent to even realise it.
You blink, “He really liked the essay I submitted last week. He even said he wants to use it as an example for his other classes!”
“That’s great,” Rafe plasters a smile on his face but he’s only half listening, “Let’s go.”
He calms down some as he guides you out of the hallway and toward the parking lot. He almost grabs your hand when it gets a bit too crowded, but remembers himself just in time. He couldn’t be caught holding hands with a Pogue. It was too intimate, and like he’d said to Topper, he’d never let it get to that point with a Pogue. Instead, he places his hand on your lower back and pushes you forward. You smile at him, and it goes straight to his… well, not his dick, surprisingly. But it goes somewhere within him, and he feels it again. Something he doesn’t really recognise or know how to deal with. So he forcibly pushes it back inside himself.
“You look cute,” he says once he’s got you outside and there’s more room to breathe. You look like an angel in the afternoon sunlight, dressed in the cutest little sundress he’s ever seen. It’s this pinkish-orange, like the colour of the sunset, and you’ve got matching ribbons in your hair. Like you’ve really made an effort to get all dressed up just to go to his house.
“Thanks,” you look down as if you’re embarrassed, like you don’t know how to take a compliment, “It’s my mom’s dress.”
“It’s really pretty,” he says softly, before clearing his throat and looking away.
He gets you to his car, lifting you up by your waist and helping you into it. And that turns him on so much, how small and sweet you look. Like a little fairy in his arms. None of the other girls were like you. Not at all. He wonders what you’re wearing underneath, and feels his cock thicken in his slacks with anticipation when he realises he was probably going to find out today.
You don’t say anything when he pulls up into the driveway of his house. Ward had fucked off on some business trip and taken Wheezie and Rose with him so he had the place to himself. That’s how he liked it best, it gave him space to think and breathe without the constant noise of his family. Well, Wheezie was an exception. He didn’t mind her too much.
“Wait here,” he says, getting out the car and walking around to open the door for you. You allow him to lift you out again, this time your hands landing on his shoulders. And it’s fucking insane how that tiny, voluntary touch does things to him that no other girl has ever done before.
Now, he doesn’t think twice before grabbing your hand and pulling you down to the large, ornate wooden double doors. You’re distracted anyways, eyes wide as saucers as you ogle the mansion that Rafe’s never thought twice about. But he reckons it’s a step or two above whatever shacks the people from the Cut lived in, so he allows you to remain silent and let it sink in.
Finally, you exhale slowly, “This is… uh… wow. I can’t believe there’s people in this world who live like this.”
Rafe smirks, squeezing your hand, “Yeah. Do you want a drink?”
He leads you to the bar in the corner of the living room, again lifting you up and placing you on one of the stools. You giggle, “I can climb on myself, you know.”
“Yeah? You seem to like it when I pick you up, though.”
He winks, and notes how you duck your head and smile shyly, your hands wringing together on your lap like you’re nervous. God, you were so fucking cute.
“What’s your usual drink of choice?” He asks, going behind the island to inspect the liquor. His friends had gone through a lot of it at the party the night before, but the house help had restocked everything this morning.
You blink, “Um, water?”
He stifles a laugh, pouring himself his usual whiskey with ice, “You’re a good girl, huh?”
“I tried some of my mom’s wine once but it tasted horrible,” you shrug, “I don’t know why people like it so much.”
“Try this.” He pours you a Peach Schnapps with lemonade and ice, “It’s sweet like you.”
You hesitate, but end up taking it. And he watches as you take a tentative sip, and he knows you like it because you take another one. And then another. He can’t help but feel proud for introducing you to your first alcoholic drink.
“You’re not as bad as people say you are,” you say out of nowhere, and his expression immediately sours.
“People have been talking about me to you?”
“No, it’s just the stuff I’ve heard. Like what I told you before. But it can’t be true, because you’re so nice to me so it just doesn’t add up.”
He grips his glass tight, about to lose it because yet again people were talking shit about him behind his back and never to his fucking face. Because they were all a bunch of pussies who knew he’d beat the shit out of them or kill them if they said anything to his face. But then you speak again.
“Do you always drink after school?”
“Huh?”
“Like, alcohol. Do you drink a lot? Like every day?”
“No.” He lies. “Only sometimes.”
He takes you out to the patio, where the sun is shining and you look so fucking pretty in your little sundress. Like you fit right into his world, next to the pool with a drink in your hand, sat next to him and looking at him with sparkling eyes as if he was your god. He wonders if you’ve naturally grown more comfortable with him through the course of the week, or if it’s just the alcohol. Probably the alcohol, since no one was ever really comfortable around him.
Either way, he puts his hand on your leg just like he had a few days ago in his car. Your breath hitches, but you don’t make a move to stop him. Instead, you opt to take another sip of your drink, and he wonders if he can get you drunk tonight. Shit, did he even want to? It was no fun fucking a drunk girl.
“Tell me more about you,” he strokes the soft skin of your bare thigh, feeling your goosebumps underneath the pads of his fingers. “You ever had a boyfriend or anything?”
Your eyes widen, “No. I, uh, you don’t tend to meet any guys when you’re homeschooled.” Embarrassed, you giggle before looking away. He reaches out, grabbing your chin lightly and making you look at him again. Fuck, your lips were so sexy. So pouty and perfect, begging to be kissed. “What about…what about you? Have you had any girlfriends?”
He shrugs, “A few.”
You nod, “Of course you have. That was a stupid question. Sorry, I forget not everyone’s as far behind in life as I am.”
“You’re not far behind.” He says, although you are and he prefers it that way.
“I am. Every other girl my age has had all the experiences you’re supposed to have. Drinking, partying, boys, all of it.” You sigh, “Sometimes I feel like I’m so far behind that I’ll never catch up.”
Rafe inches his hand upwards, till he reaches the hem of your dress halfway up your thigh. He plays with the fabric, and he can tell you’re acutely aware of what he’s doing. You don’t make a move to stop him, but you do press your legs together.
“There’s still plenty of time to catch up,” he says softly, “I can help you.”
You smile up at him, holding up your drink, “You already have. I’d never drank with friends before now.”
“Congratulations,” he says, clinking his glass with yours, “To one of many firsts.”
He downs his drink and so do you, and he’s quick to get a refill for both of you. He’s guessing you’re a lightweight, and again the thought of getting you drunk crosses his mind. But that would be way too easy.
“I’m capping you after this one,” he says, handing you your second Peach Schnapps.
You giggle, “Are you gonna cap yourself too?”
“No.” He chucks you under the chin again, “But, see, I’m not a baby.”
“Hey!”
He kisses you. And shit, he hadn’t planned on catching you so off-guard. Hell, he’s caught himself off-guard. But he couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help how kissable your lips looked, all pouty and bitten. And you taste like cherry lip gloss mixed with peaches and lemonade, and you’re so pliant underneath him, and he’s kissed a shit ton of girls but it’s never felt like this.
You pull away with a start, shocked as you stare up at him. Breathing hard and biting your goddamned lips before they turn into the shape of an o.
“I’m sorry,” Rafe says, although he’s not, “I’ve been wanting to do that since the day I first saw you.”
Your breathing is shallow, and with a shaky hand you put your glass down on the crystal table in front of you. “I’ve never, uh, I’ve never kissed anyone before.”
“Well, it’s easy. I could show you.”
You swallow, “I don’t want this to be like, a pity thing.”
Rafe exhales slowly, “You’re here in front of me in this tiny fuckin” dress, acting all cute and innocent and you think I want to kiss you out of pity?”
Your jaw drops, “Hey, it’s not tiny!”
He kisses you again. And sure, maybe he should’ve asked permission since it’s, well, your first kiss. But frankly he’s never had to ask permission to do anything in his entire life, and he wasn’t about to start now. The way he sees it, you wouldn’t have worn a slutty dress and agreed to come to his house if you didn’t want him to make a move on you.
Again, you pull away, “Rafe, I– don’t… I don’t know how to kiss, I’m sorry–”
He cups your face in his hands, pulling you closer and pressing his lips against yours again. Just to feel your soft, quivering lips against his confident ones. He kisses you once, twice, three times. Coaxing you to open your mouth, to let him in. Fuck, a part of him just wants to shove his tongue down your fucking throat, show you what it means to really be kissed. But he’s already pushing his luck right now.
“I’ll teach you,” he says, “But you need to do exactly what I say, okay?”
He can’t believe his goddamned luck when you nod. God, you were just so fucking hot, prancing around his house in your little dress, all impressed by his riches and shit, drinking your drink he made you like a good little girl, and now here you were, agreeing to whatever he said.
He taps his leg, “Get on my lap.”
Your eyes nearly bug out of your head, “Wh-What?”
Rafe smirks, “Didn’t you just agree to do exactly what I say?”
He’s surprised with the amount of patience he has with you. If you were another girl, he’d have thrown your ass out to the curb for asking too many annoying questions. Or bent you over, shoved your face into a pillow to shut you up and had his way with you. God knew he’d done that more times than he could count over the years. He was aware of how much bigger and stronger he was than you and every other girl, and that fact turned him on more than anything. The fact that he could, if he wanted to, completely take advantage of you however he wanted. And all you’d be able to do is cry and beg him to stop, which would just turn him on more.
“I did, I’m sorry, but I don’t–”
Easily, he grabs your hips and lifts you up onto his lap, makes you straddle him with one leg on either side of him. Your dress is just about long enough to still cover your modesty, but now he’s acutely aware of your panty-covered pussy just inches away from reach. Fuck, he wonders what kind of panties you’re wearing, and if you’d let him look…
“There. Comfy?”
“Well, I guess, but…”
He pulls you into another kiss, this time catching you mid-sentence so he’s able to slip his tongue into your mouth. And you’re so fucking shy, just rigid while he explores your mouth. But he doesn’t mind. You taste so fucking sweet, and it’s getting him so hard, knowing he’s the first man you’ve let touch you like this, kiss you like this.
He can feel your breath hitch as he strokes your face, his thumbs running across your cheeks before his hand tangles into your hair. He yanks you closer, grazing his teeth against your plump bottom lip. You gasp, and he chuckles into your open mouth. His tongue plays with yours, coaxing you to kiss him back, but not really caring too much if you don’t.
And god, he wants to thrust up into you so bad. You’re sitting right on top of his fucking hard dick, and you don’t even seem to realise it. In fact, you shift around, that cute little peachy ass rubbing against his boner, and he wonders if you even know what a boner is.
When you pull away this time, your eyes are bright and excited. And he loves how he’s kissed the gloss off your lips, and how he can still taste you on his tongue.
“Wow, that was…” you giggle, breathless yet excited from finally having your first kiss, “I don’t have anything to compare it to, but that was good!”
Rafe has to crack a smile at your innocence, and his hand lands on your bare thigh, tracing his initials on it again, “Yeah? You like kissing me?”
“I…um… yeah I do,” you say shyly, before closing your eyes for a moment and taking a deep breath, “Could we uh, could we try again? Could I try?”
Well, shit. He’s never devoted this much time and energy into just kissing a girl, but his dick grows even harder at how you’ve plucked up the courage to ask him that. And so he simply nods and sits back, lets you figure out what it is you want to do.
Your cute little hands hold on to his broad shoulders shyly. And you lean up, fluttering your eyes closed like it’s some kind of fairytale for you and you’re the little princess kissing her prince charming. It’s part enamouring, part pathetic. But Rafe feels it again, that unfamiliar feeling bubbling up in his chest. He shakes out of it, focusing on your plump lips that hesitantly press against yours.
He sits still; lets you explore his mouth. Your tongue pokes out, swipes against his. And the feeling goes straight to his dick. And then he’s kissing you back, because he doesn’t have the goddamned willpower to just sit there and do nothing. There’s an animal inside of him and you’ve awoken it, more than any drug or alcohol ever could.
And he gets rougher, biting your lip till you gasp into his mouth. His hands slip up and down your bare arms before he takes your hand, squeezes it before pressing it down on his chest, wanting you to touch him, feel how much bigger he is than you.
“Good girl,” he mutters when you don’t move your hand, and then he fingers the hem of your dress. “Gonna let me touch you a little bit?”
“Rafe, maybe not too much–”
“C’mon, princess, you have to touch while you’re making out, right? That’s lesson number two.” He distracts you with another rough kiss, grabbing your jaw and squeezing while he brings you closer to his mouth. Kissing down your jaw and neck before returning to your lips, smirking when you squeak out a little involuntary moan. That’s when he slips his hand up your dress and cups your ass. Perfect little handful of your bubble butt, and he gives it a little squeeze to test the waters. You’re too distracted with kissing him, and so he squeezes harder. God, so fuckin’ soft and pliable, just like how he’d imagined.
“Nice ass,” he murmurs against your lips, and that’s what jolts you out of it. He curses inwardly when you pull away, pushing against his chest when he doesn’t immediately stop. And a part of him knows how easy it would be to just pin you down on this fucking sofa and have his way with you. Tell you how it’s your fault for wearing this fucking dress, your fault for seducing him in his own home, acting so sexy and innocent and getting him so riled up. Teasing him with your shy little kisses and squeaks till he had no choice but to hold you down and fuck you.
“I’m sorry,” you say as you slide off his lap, straightening your dress, “I just… I got overwhelmed.”
He blinks, and he’s this close to pulling you back on top of him, telling you he didn’t give you permission to stop, that you had to listen to him because this was his house and he’d been kind enough to invite you over. And he could make you feel so good, if you just stopped being a goddamned little prude.
Instead, he forces a smile, “You’re a pretty good kisser for someone who claims she’s never done it before.”
You beam, relaxing immediately, “Oh, you’re just saying that. I bet I was really bad.”
“My memory’s kinda foggy, I think you’re gonna have to remind me,” he pulls you back into him, and you giggle as he presses light kisses on your lips, his arm going around your shoulders while your hands tangle into his hair.
It doesn’t go any further than that, though. You stop him when he tries to touch you again, and a part of him wants to slam his fist down on the glass patio table in frustration. And yet, something stops him from just overpowering you and taking what he wants. No, that would be too easy. He’s about to crack you, he can tell from the way you look at him with those big eyes, now full of trust and comfort. He just needs more time.
Too bad he only had one day left to complete the goddamned bet.
“You should come over again,” he says when he’s done up your seatbelt for you in his car. He finds he likes doing all that shit – opening the door for you, lifting you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt into place, all of it. A stark difference from other girls, where often he’s tossed their clothes at them and motioned for them to leave after he’s done hooking up with them.
“That sounds nice,” you say, waiting for him to come round and get into the driver’s seat, “And I told you; you don’t have to drive me all the way home. I could’ve just got the bus.”
He blinks. He didn’t realise buses even functioned in Figure 8, but either way, he can’t have you on a public bus. Especially not in that dress, where every man would be leering at you and you’d be none the wiser about it. The control freak in him is itching to be let out, to tell you exactly what you were and weren’t allowed to wear in public, tell you how you weren’t allowed to speak to any men except him. And you weren’t allowed to argue or contest any of this, because he was in charge of you now, and–
“No buses,” he says firmly, his hand resting comfortably on your thigh as he drives, “Anyways, come over again tomorrow. We can go in the pool or whatever.”
He feels you go rigid, “Th-The pool?”
He glances at you, “Yeah. It’ll be fun.”
You laugh nervously, “Uh, I’m not too great with water. I don’t really swim or anything.”
Rafe has to do a double-take, “You realise you live on an island?”
Even he knew that every child born in Kildare could swim before they could even walk. It’s just the way it was. They were surrounded by water. Rafe doesn’t even remember learning how to swim; it was almost like he knew how to do it by default.
“I know how to swim, I just don’t like water,” you say, and there’s something off about your tone. Something he can’t pinpoint, but you turn to the side and look out the window. Silent for the rest of the drive. Rafe doesn’t push it, although your odd behaviour has piqued his curiosity.
It’s only when he’s pulling up into the pitiful dirt road of a street where your house is situated that you clear your throat.
“Look, Rafe, you’re my friend now. And I don’t really like keeping secrets from you. I’m sorry I was so quiet just now.”
Cute. He likes how much you apologise to him. It shows how respectful you are, how much you respected him as an authority figure.
“That’s okay,” he says.
You take a deep breath, “I used to go out in the water a lot when I was younger. With my dad. He had a boat, and I would help him. But…”
Your voice trails off for a moment. Rafe thinks he knows where this is going, and a part of him is touched you’d share something like this with him. A tiny, obscure part of him, that is. He can’t help but squeeze your leg reassuringly, and you clear your throat again and blink several times. Like you’re trying not to cry. And Rafe’s never had the patience for emotional chicks, but it’s different with you.
You force out a little laugh, “I don’t want to go into details. But one time we were out pretty far, and the weather was bad. Like, really bad. The waves were rough and…” You swallow, looking down into your lap and wringing your hands together, your chest rising and falling rapidly, “And… Well, I was fine but… my dad…”
Shaking your head, you don’t say anymore. You don’t have to. Your eyes are wet and glistening, the muscles in your face working overtime to stop the tears from coming out. He parks the car in front of your house, turning to face you. He’s never been in a situation like this before, and he’s not sure how to act.
Fiercely, you wipe away the one or two rogue tears that have escaped down your cheeks, “It happened so long ago, I barely remember it. But I’ve been scared of the water ever since.”
He nods, “It’s just you and your mom now?”
“Yes. And my brothers. But they’re always working, so it’s just me and her. That’s why she’s so protective of me… I, uh, I don’t have a dad anymore.”
Rafe knows what it’s like to lose a parent, but he can’t fathom ever talking about it or voicing his feelings on it or some shit like that. His loser therapist had tried to get him to talk about his mother, but he hadn’t. He couldn’t. It was just muscle memory at this point, to force any thoughts of her straight out of his mind. It was easier that way. And now, it was like he could barely remember her. And he hated it, but it made it easier too.
He’s never been good at comforting anyone else. And a part of him is glad you’re not sobbing your eyes out right now, because he’s not sure how he’d handle that. So he’s happy when you clear your throat again and smile up at him.
“I’m not sure why I told you that, I’ve never had a friend to tell that to before. I guess I just feel comfortable with you, Rafe.”
What the hell had he done to make you so trusting of him in the span of less than a week? God, you were like an innocent little angel, sitting in his car all tiny and vulnerable. Making him feel like a goddamned fucking monster for the thoughts he had towards you, what he planned to do with you. Suddenly, the bet feels so stupid and insignificant. God, this was why Rafe didn’t speak to the women he fucked. They went all emotional on him, and now he wasn’t sure how to act.
“I feel comfortable around you too,” he says carefully. He’s never been great with his words, but he grabs your hands that continue to wring nervously together. His big, warm hand dwarfing your tiny ones, and he realises you’re shaking. And there’s a part of him that wants to protect you against everything. Take you back to his place, lock you up in his room so he could keep an eye on you and keep you away from anything and anyone who could ever hurt you and make you cry.
Even if the only person who could hurt you the most right now is Rafe himself.
You leave after that, thanking him again and again for giving you a lift home. He wants to walk you to your door, but you run off quickly, and his mind’s too distracted to follow you. He drives off once he sees you’ve safely closed your front door behind you, his mind moving a million miles per minute.
Jesus Christ, why’d you have to go and open up to him like that? This would be so much fucking easier if you hadn’t done that. He hates that he should know better, that he knows that he should leave you alone. You were too innocent, too vulnerable for his bullshit; to be caught in the middle of some dumbass bet he’d made with his friends. God dammit, he hates himself for agreeing to that stupid bet, seems so fucking juvenile looking back. Wished he’d picked a different girl at the very least, someone not as lovely a you.
Most of all, he hates himself because he knows that despite everything he’s just found out about you, he still has every intention of fucking you. Daddy issues and a phobia of water. It was almost like fate was handing you to him on a silver platter. He had to fuck you. He’d figure out the rest later.
*
Kelce: One day left, loverboy.
Topper: Can’t wait to see the pictures.
Rafe mutes the groupchat before throwing his phone aside. He’d goddamn throttle his friends if they were in front of him right now. Sometimes, he gets these violent tendencies. He doesn’t really know what to make of them except it feels good to have some kind of release. Usually that comes in the form of pushing around a sorry ass Pogue, but that option’s not really available right now.
Instead, he searches blindly for the coke he’s stashed in his bedside drawer. Again, he’d promised himself he’d cut down, but this was just to take the edge off. It didn’t count. Not really.
He wonders what you’d think if you knew how often he took drugs. Well, you wouldn’t because he’d keep you well away from that part of his life. Even when he made you his girlfriend, he’d keep you separate from all the partying. And he’d never allow you to even look at any type of Class A drug. And who knows, maybe he’d become better for you, maybe he’d go stone cold sober if you wanted him to.
That makes him laugh. Going sober for a Pogue. It was insane of him to even consider it.
Again, he has to remind himself to take his emotions out of it. All you were was a stupid Pogue, and a part of a bet he was going to goddamned fulfil. And he wouldn’t allow himself to think anything more of it. He may have had a momentary lapse of judgement yesterday, but today was a new day, the last day of the week he had to fuck you.
How? He wasn’t too sure. Reports of a storm meant you couldn’t come to his house again like how he’d planned. Even now, Rafe could hear the harrowing winds outside. Like a goddamned cyclone. And the rain pelting down unforgivingly, and the distant roar of the sea, waves crashing like they’d taken on a life of their own.
The weather on the island was usually all sunshine, but once in a blue moon a storm would hit like now. Residents were always told to wait it out and stay inside. For Rafe, that meant copious amounts of drugs and alcohol. Sometimes a girl or two to keep him company. But the idea of fucking anyone that isn’t you right now makes him sick.
He thinks about texting you, but what would be the goddamned point? If he couldn’t physically be with you today? He knows the weak, pussy part of his mind just wants to talk to you in whatever form he can. But he needs to bury that bullshit down deep inside him and never back, and–
His phone vibrates. It’s you. And he hates how he feels his heart jump to his fucking throat. You’ve called him all on your own, which means you were thinking about him like how he was thinking about you.
“Rafe?” You sound sexy like you always do, all breathy and weak and needy. A bit panicked too.
“Hey,” he says, trying to sound nonchalant, “What’s up?”
“Hey, calm down.” Rafe barely recognises the gentle quality of his voice as he straightens up, “What’s wrong, princess?”
“I’m scared.”
You say it so softly, with an air of embarrassment and shame, that at first he doesn’t quite get what you’re saying. But then he does, and something kicks in inside him. This innate need to protect you. You sound so small and needy on the phone, and you called him. You need him.
“What happened? Did someone hurt you?”
“No, no. Oh, Rafe, it’s the storm. It keeps getting worse.”
He chuckles in relief that you weren’t in any immediate danger, “Well, shit. Yeah. Looks pretty wild, huh?”
“I hate it,” you whimper softly, “and I’m sorry I called. But my mom’s stuck at work, and my brothers are crashing somewhere else. So it’s just me, and, and…”
“Hey, calm down. It’s okay, you’ll be okay.” He’s never had to comfort anyone before, but it comes naturally with you. “As long as you stay inside, the storm should pass. Just watch TV or something.”
“The lights are gonna go off any second,” you sniffle, “They always do when the weather gets bad.”
They did? Rafe never noticed shit like that. Then again, he doubts you had the luxury of backup generators where you lived. He pauses.
“Gimme twenty minutes. I’ll come over.”
“No!” You say quickly, “Rafe, it’s too dangerous.”
He snorts. He’d been in far more dangerous situations than a little bad weather. But the less you knew about that, the better. “I think I’ll be okay, princess.”
“B-But we’re not allowed out. You’ll get a fine.”
Rafe can’t count on one hand how many times he’d been fined by the dumbass police on this goddamned island over some petty bullshit reason or another. A fine meant nothing to someone with money. He was above the law, and most people on this island knew it.
“Stay put. I’ll see you soon.”
Rafe actually enjoys driving in the storm. The roads are deserted, and he can speed without worrying about anything else. And he does speed, and he runs more than one red light too. Gets to your house quicker than he thought he would. Past all the other tiny shacks all boarded up because they weren’t built well enough to withstand the storm.
“Rafe! You came!”
You sound like a fucking needy little baby, but something pulls at his heart when you hug him harder than you ever have before. And you’re so small, on your tippy toes so your arms reach around his neck. Automatically, his arms wind around your waist and he holds you close, and he can feel you trembling, your face buried in his chest as you hold on to him tightly.
“Yeah. Roads were empty. Didn’t take long.” He mutters, looking around the inside of your house. Pitiful. And pitch black, because you were right, the power had gone out. He hates that you live here. You’d fit in so much better at Tannyhill, in a pretty pink silk dressing gown and dripping with diamonds he’d buy for you. And you’d be so thankful for him, tell everyone that he saved you, how well he took care of you. How he gave you everything you could ever want, and how much you appreciated him.
At that moment, a clap of thunder makes you jump and squeal. Quickly, you pull him inside and shut the door. That’s when he notices that you’re crying.
“Hey, it’s okay. C’mere.” He pulls you into another hug, and he’s never seen another human being look so scared, so vulnerable. It makes him feel so powerful, like the man he knew you needed. “You’re safe now, I’m here.”
It feels natural, his lips pressing a kiss into your hairline. Like you’re his little baby, like he’s been trusted with something so precious and now he has to protect you. And you’re too scared to be your usual jumpy self, and you just snuggle closer into him. A flash of lightning lights up the whole room, the storm relentless against the weak confines of this sorry excuse of a house.
“Maybe we should head back to mine.” He suggests, but you whimper again.
“No, no, we can’t go out there. It’s not safe. Rafe, please.”
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen another human being so scared before. Not even when he was fucking that one girl after he’d showed her his gun. Even now, he consciously tucks his gun further down the waistband of his chinos. Of course he’d brought it with him, he wasn’t going to enter the Cut without a piece on him.
“Okay, okay. We’ll stay here. When’s your mom coming home?”
“Not till tomorrow once the storm’s died down.”
He licks his lips. It was too good to be true.
You’re still holding on to him as you lead him into your bedroom. He wonders why you’d take him straight there, but he guesses it’s your safe place. And you’ve got candles lit up, and they brighten the room enough for him to notice how small it is. The size of a shoebox, with a single bed covered in pink sheets and a bunch of stuffed animals.
Despite everything, his dick hardens.
“You’re a really good friend, Rafe.” You say honestly, “Nobody else would’ve come over like this.”
He shrugs, sitting on the edge of your bed and patting the mattress next to him. It’s not even his house and yet he feels like he needs to take control. And you obey, taking a seat next to him. But you’re preoccupied with your own fear, doing that thing where you fidget with your hands in your lap.
“I wouldn’t do it for anyone else.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, biting your lip like you can’t quite believe what he’s said, “I-I’m not special, Rafe, I–”
You’re cut off by another clap of thunder, this one so loud it makes the whole house shake. You scream bloody murder, and honestly, if you were anyone else Rafe would’ve laughed. But it’s you, and so he just watches. It’s fascinating, the way you clutch onto him like he’s your saviour, and he wonders just how this opportunity had basically just fallen into his lap.
He pulls you into his lap, knowing you won’t protest. Not in the state you’re in. You’re wearing a pair of black leggings and a little white tank top. No bra, because he can feel your nipples, hard and poking out from the fabric of your top. He can feel them against his chest as he hugs you again, and he can also feel you shifting on top of him. Your peachy little ass rubbing against his dick like you’re a fucking tease except he knows you’re none the wiser, that you have no idea the effect you have on him.
He’s so turned on, it feels like he might explode.
“I’m sorry,” you apologise for the umpteenth time, “It’s just so scary. Wh-What if the storm gets worse, Rafe?”
“It probably will,” he says, feeling slightly wicked. He holds you tighter against him, wanting to feel the brush of your breasts against his chest again. Fuck, he wants to cop a feel so bad. “They were saying something about a severe weather warning on the news. Not like anything we’ve ever seen before.”
“Noooo,” you moan like a goddamned baby, cuddling into him even more.
“It’s okay,” he says, running his hand up and down your back, “You ever, uh, you ever think of distracting yourself from the storm?”
You hiccup and blink up at him with wet eyes, “Nothing works, Rafe.”
He smirks, “I could distract you.”
“H-How?”
He runs his thumb over your lips. They’re wet with your salty tears, and yet like muscle memory, you part them for him. You watch him in wonder, your breathing shallow as he pushes his thumb into your mouth, his other hand holding you in place by your hip.
“Suck.” He instructs gently, and your eyes are as big as saucers. But in your frightened, vulnerable state, you obey immediately. And it feels like he’ll bust a nut right there, watching as you suck his thumb on command like a little fucking baby. Like he’s your daddy.
“Good girl,” he says, stroking your hair out of your face so he can watch you better. “Now listen to me, I can help you. I can distract you so that you forget all about the storm. Do you want that?”
You nod slowly, almost like you’re entranced by him. Not that he needs the green light from you, but it’s hot to see you agree so easily to whatever he’s saying. Fuck, you really were just like an angel fallen straight from heaven and into his lap. Perfect for him in every single way. So soft, so impressionable. Completely untouched. Ready to be ruined.
“That’s good,” he mutters vaguely, thinking of everything he was going to do to you. He takes his thumb out of your mouth, noticing how you pout involuntarily, like you’d gotten used to the feeling of sucking on it. Fuck, he could give you something else to suck on. “Give me a kiss.”
“H-Huh–”
“Do it. Just like how I taught you yesterday. You remember our lesson, don’t you?”
You nod, “Yeah, but will that really work? I mean–”
It’s like God himself is on Rafe’s side because there’s a loud boom of thunder at that exact moment. And you jump in his lap, tears welling in your eyes. Your chest rises up and down, and you bite your lip again, your gaze zeroing in on his mouth. Slowly, you lean up, shyly pressing your lips on his. But there’s a desperation to it, and Rafe’s returning kiss completely envelopes you whole.
He makes out with you for a while, smirking through your little pants and moans mixed with a whimper every time the weather gets especially brutal outside. He’s never been with such a goddamned scaredy cat baby before in his entire life, and it turns him on beyond belief. In the state you’re in, he could get you to do anything.
Rafe’s hands slip up to grab your little top, tugging it upwards. And this time, he almost loses it in frustration when again, you stop him.
“Rafe, Rafe no stop.” You push his hands off, straightening your top back over your midriff. “Couldn’t we just… just kiss?”
He presses his lips together in a thin line, “You trust me?”
“Of course, I just don’t know if I want to–”
“Look, didn’t I say I would distract you? I mean, shit, I could just leave.”
Your jaw drops, a flash of fear glimmering in your eyes. Instinctively, you grab onto his bicep with your tiny hands, a pleading look on your face, “No, don’t!”
He smirks, “I won’t leave. But you need to trust me to do what I need to do to distract you. Because the storm’s just gonna get worse.” He grabs your chin when you avert your gaze, forcing you to look at him, “Hey, c’mon. Who has more experience with this shit, you or me?”
“Y-You.”
“Yeah. And who’s older?”
“You are.”
“That’s right. Which means you need to trust me to make these kinds of decisions, because I know what’s best for you. That’s why you called me over, right?”
You don’t say anything, but this time when he tries to take your top off, you don’t protest. And Jesus fucking Christ, he was right. You’re not even wearing a bra, almost like you were deliberately trying to seduce him. Acting like a whiny little damsel in distress, pulling him into your pitiful little pink room, all candlelit and shit, on your little bed with your stuffed fucking animals.
Your nipples are hard, and he can’t help but cup your breasts. They’re so tender, so soft just like you. He’d imagined this exact moment many times over the course of the week whilst he’d jacked off to you, but nothing could compare to now. The way you tremble beneath his touch, knowing no one’s ever touched you like this before. He squeezes gently, watching how your breath hitches.
He’s overcome with animalistic instinct in just a second, and leans down to take your breast into his mouth. Sucks your nipple sweetly, before biting down. You cry out, arching your back so prettily, feeding him more of your nipple as you push it into his mouth. He bets you probably don’t even understand why it feels so good, having never been touched like this ever before.
He pinches your other nipple and you gasp. He smirks and does it again, looking up at you to see you gazing imploringly down at him.
“Th-That hurts,” you say pitifully.
“Yeah, but you like it, don’t you?” He takes your hands in his, bringing them up to his hair. Like a good little girl, you get the message. Your hands fist into his hair as he continues to play with your tits, licking and sucking all over them, pushing them together, biting your nipples and sucking the sensitive skin around them, wanting to leave his mark everywhere.
“Rafe, I, that… oh… oh my–”
“Stand up, baby.”
You squeak at the pet-name that falls so naturally from his lips, and he can tell you like being called that. It’s from the way your eyes widen, and how you scramble to obey. God, you were a little tease but you took instructions so fucking well.
You stand between his legs, and it gets him so fucking hard that you’re still barely eye level with him even when he’s sat down.
“Take your leggings off.”
You open your mouth to argue, but this time he just flashes you a look and you’re quick to shut the fuck up. That, and he distracts you with his hands running up and down your sides, squeezing your waist, then your hip. Finally landing on your ass with a light slap as if to tell you not to keep him waiting.
You push your leggings down and step out of them, till you’re standing between his legs in just your pink flowery panties and nothing else. And he feels a hunger he’s never ever felt before, looking down at you ravenously as if you’re a piece of meat and he’s a goddamned starved lion. A part of him just wants to grab you and stick his cock inside you while you scream and thrash and beg him to stop while you secretly enjoy it and cum again and again.
“Turn around,” Rafe says slowly, because despite his animalistic thoughts, he wants to savour this. And you do, letting him see your sexy butt adorned in just your panties. He hooks his thumb under the elastic, snapping it against your skin and laughing crudely when you yelp. “God, you’ve got such a perfect ass. I knew that since the moment I saw you.”
“Wh-What?”
“You heard me. You’re always wearing the cutest little outfits, like you were showing it off just for me.” He grabs your left ass cheek, squeezing it hard while you moan in pain or pleasure, right now he doesn’t really give much of a fuck. His other hand palms his cock through his pants at the sight.
“I wasn’t!” You say indignantly, as if he’s accused you of the absolute worst. “I wasn’t showing off, Rafe!”
“Sure you weren’t,” he snorts, “Now bend over, lemme see it better.”
He can’t believe it when you don’t hesitate this time, almost like you’re seeking his approval. Like you’re under some kind of submissive spell now, making everything even easier for him. You bend over, and your cute little ass is directly in his face. He pushes your panties to the side, gives the soft flesh a feather-light kiss before spanking you again. You yelp all cutely, but stay in position for him. What a good fucking girl.
“Stand up straight, look at me again.”
You turn back around, biting your lip as you look at him anxiously. Around you, the whole room seems to vibrate as another boom of thunder strikes. You make a noise in your throat, before grabbing onto his bicep again. You keep doing that, and it makes him feel strong, big, important. Like you’re a little baby seeking protection from her daddy.
“I’m gonna take your panties off now, okay?” He doesn’t know why he tells you before he does it, but he watches as you relax. There’s a war going on behind your eyes, he can tell. He knows part of you is liking how he’s making you feel, and part of you is desperate to distract yourself from the storm, and it’s battling the part of you that wants to keep your modesty, the part that knows this is a bad idea, that itching fear that he’s not a good guy, that he’s taking advantage of you.
Slowly, he slips your panties down your shaking legs, and you keep holding on to his arm like you’re scared to let go. Like the storm would come and get you the moment you stopped holding him like a little baby. He lets you, liking how weak you feel against him.
And then you’re completely naked in front of him, stepping shyly out of your panties that are left on the floor in a heap along with the rest of your clothes. And he’s still fully dressed, and that juxtaposition turns him on beyond belief. He can smell your pussy, and it’s driving him crazy. Makes him want to just pin you down and have his way with you. It incenses him in a way he’s never really experiences before.
His hands grab your hips, yanking you closer. He feels a wave of impatience, pushing you down till you’re sitting on the bed. He gets up, pushing your legs apart with one of his own. You gasp, and he sinks down to his knees, pressing a soft kiss to the skin just below your belly button.
“It’s time for lesson number three, baby,” Rafe murmurs softly, “this is how I’m gonna distract you, okay? Shit, I’m gonna make you feel so good, you’ll forget all about the storm. You gonna let me do that?”
You swallow, “H-How, Rafe?”
God, you were absolutely clueless. Made him feel like a fucking monster for taking advantage of you like this. But he liked it, liked how good and sweet and innocent you were, even now when he had you naked on your pretty princess bed with your legs spread for him.
“I’m gonna kiss you down here for a while, alright baby?”
“Down there?” You suck in your breath prettily, as if the very idea of that sounds so insane to you. God fucking dammit, just how much had your mother sheltered you?
Instead of explaining further, Rafe spreads your folds with two of his fingers, smirking when he sees you glistening and wet. And God, what a pretty and perfect pussy you had, all slippery and wet, like it was begging to be fucked. And even now, as you sit there breathing heavily, your pussy seems to get wetter just by him spreading it. You’re leaking down onto your pretty pink sheets, and it’s all because he’s merely touched you there.
You’ve gone silent, the storm seemingly already forgotten as you just watch him. Your chest rises up and down, and it’s like every other part of you is frozen in place. In awe, until he notices a slight movement in your pelvis. Involuntarily, you hump the air, like your poor pussy is begging for some type of contact or friction. He smirks.
“You have an accident, princess?”
You look absolutely aghast, “No!”
Rafe leans forward, inhaling deeply. And you smell so goddamned sweet, and he can’t wait any longer. He lays his tongue flat against your virgin cunt, and he can feel you throbbing with anticipation. He licks upwards, and you grab onto his hair, tugging hard as you yelp.
“Oh my God–”
He looks up, “Not God, baby. Just me.” Absentmindedly, he flicks your clit with his thumb and your entire body jerks. He chuckles, “And there’s another thing I’m going to need you to do.”
“What?”
“You’re going to call me daddy while I eat your cunt, okay?”
For the fifth time this evening, your jaw drops, and you gaze down at him in indignance, “What? But Rafe, you’re not my–”
“Your daddy? I mean, you do want me to take care of you, don’t you?” He smiles when you don’t immediately respond, “That’s why you called me today. Because you felt unsafe, like how you’ve felt your whole life ever since you lost your real daddy, isn’t that right?”
He half expects you to shove him off you, scream, lose it, slap him, kick him out of your house for going there, for trying to take advantage of your obvious daddy issues. But it’s like you’re in a trance, and he keeps going, “You want someone to take control, to reassure you that everything’s gonna be okay. That’s why you’ve let me take care of you this whole week, right? Because you need me, you like how I make you feel.”
He softly strokes your bare thighs, noticing that you’re shaking under his touch. And you look like you’re about to cry, in your most vulnerable state in front of him. And yet he keeps going, his voice like a calm lull, almost hypnotic with how you look at him with your huge, unblinking eyes.
“I can be your new daddy, princess. You’re gonna let me, aren’t you?”
Rafe doesn’t wait for your response. Instead, he grips your thighs harder, spreading them as far as they’ll go. He spits on your mound, watching his saliva drip down to your pussy. You’re watching too, with stricken, hooded eyes. Like you’re frozen in time and space, and he’s the only constant.
Leaning forward, he envelopes your clit between his lips, giving it a harsh suck. Your entire body convulses, and you moan the loudest he’s ever heard you. Thunder claps at the same time, but you’re louder than it, and your hands grab on to his hair, and you press your cunt into his face, practically smothering him but he fucking loves it.
“Tell daddy to lick your cunt,” he orders, his voice deeper and lower than it’s ever been, and a slight threat in his tone, “say it, or else I’ll stop everything.”
“L-Lick it, please,” you beg so prettily, keeping your voice barely above a whisper. Rafe sits back, looking at you expectantly till you make the prettiest little noise of impatience. You shoot him a pleading look of desperation, but he doesn’t let up. You cry out, gripping his hair harder before ducking your head in shame, “P-Please, okay? Please lick my cunt, daddy.”
Rafe could’ve orgasmed right there at the sound of your sweet, delicate voice pleading with him, finally addressing him as daddy. Instead, he sucks hard on your sensitive, engorged clit, and you scream bloody murder. He snickers against your soaking folds, grabbing your thrashing hips, stilling them slightly but allowing you to rock them against his face till it’s shining with your wetness.
“Messy little girl,” he mutters, “excited, aren’t you? Never had this virgin pussy eaten, huh?” he grows sloppy, messy with his licks. Tonguing your sensitive nub till you’re a writhing mess above him, incoherent little gasps and moans tumbling out of your mouth as you continue to hump against his face because you’re a goddamned virgin who doesn’t know how to act because you’re feeling so good.
Rafe’s practically making out with your pussy, and he’s never enjoyed going down on a girl as much as he is right now. It’s how responsive you are, it’s how this is all so new to you so you don’t even know nor care to hold anything back. You’re rubbing your pussy on his face like all you can think of is how good he’s making you feel. And he fucks you with his tongue, unable to quite believe how sweet you taste. Like an angel, his angel. All his.
“It’s…It’s too much, Rafe!” you cry out, and yet you’re rolling your hips with abandon, riding his tongue while he sucks and licks you out like he’s starved.
“You can take it,” his voice is muffled, and you try to wrap your thighs around his head except his grip on them is too strong. It’ll leave bruises in the shape of his fingers all over your soft skin, but he likes that. He wants to bruise you, mark you, make you his in every way possible. So next time when you wore a slutty little sundress, every goddamned man on this island would know you’re taken. Fuck, he’d get his name tattooed on your goddamned pussy, and–
You cum, squeaking so prettily he wants to bottle up the sound and keep it safe in his memories forever. Your first orgasm, and all it took was a couple of minutes of him eating your cunt. And your muscles squeeze around his tongue, and you cry and moan like you don’t even know what’s happening. Your grab at his hair, pulling so hard because you’ve probably never felt like this before.
And Rafe doesn’t stop, his tongue swirling circles while you hump and grind against his mouth, riding out your orgasm, moaning his name over and over again. Outside, the weather gets worse, and at one point he notes the whole room shakes as if the goddamned roof’s about to blow off. You don’t give a fuck though, and he doesn’t either.
“Oh, Rafe, oh, oh oh, it’s too much!”
Now, you’re trying to push him off you, but selfishly he keeps tongue-fucking you. His thumb rubs your engorged, sensitive clit. He knows it’s too much for you, but he’s too fucking turned on to stop.
“C’mon, baby. Don’t be like that. Lemme give you another one.”
“No, I-I can’t, I, oh fuck!”
He slaps your clit, and a squelching sound fills the room. You gasp, and he just snickers, having entirely too much fun with you. And again, you twitch your hips, inadvertently pushing your cunt into his face again. You’re out of breath and sensitive from your first orgasm, and yet your greedy little pussy wants to give him another one.
“You like it when your daddy slaps your cunt?”
You’re such a shy little thing, gaping at him as if he’s said the most insidious thing on earth. And yet, your cunt squeezes around his tongue, and he you up as you continue to leak into his mouth. He looks up at you, “Tell me you like it.”
“I, uh, I like it, uh… daddy, oh gosh!”
It takes just one more spank and you come undone, cumming all over his face and he licks you throughout. Long, languid stripes of his tongue flat against your wet folds, then he switches to fucking you with it, and your fuckhole’s so goddamned tight, his tongue barely even fits a little bit, but it doesn’t stop him. He’s got one hand slipped down his pants, jacking off because this is the hottest thing in the world he’s ever witnessed. Innocent little baby crying after orgasming from getting her pussy spanked by her daddy.
He feels like a lion closing in on the fucking lamb, forgetting himself for a second as he gets up. Aggressively pushing you down till you’re lying flat on the bed, surrounded by your stupid stuffed animals. In a second, he’s on top of you, breathing hard like a man possessed. God fuck, all he had to do was shove it inside you, hold you down and tell you to take it. Maybe press his hand over your mouth to keep you from screaming too loud. Not that it mattered. Nobody could save you from him tonight.
But you blink up at him so prettily, so unaware of his intentions, your eyelashes wet with tears. Your lips bitten and pouty, face shiny with sweat. Your hands grab his arms again, squeezing like you’ve grown used to doing.
“R-Rafe, that was… wow.” You say breathlessly, so blissfully innocent, not realising at all that he’s moments away from holding you down and fucking you, that he’s planning how he’ll do it in his head this very moment. “I never… I never thought it could feel that good.”
Rafe finds himself feeling that again, that weird feeling that kept bubbling up inside his chest from time to time whenever he was with you. He still doesn’t have a name for it; he can’t even properly describe it. But looking down at you now, watching you stare up at him with those shining eyes of yours. All he can do is push a piece of your hair out of your face, and smile slowly down at you.
“What do you even know about sex, baby?” He breathes, his face so close to yours.
“Oh, well, uh… Not that much. I mean obviously I know how it works. I just… I didn’t know you could call someone da– that.”
He smirks, tapping your cheek condescendingly, “You mean daddy?”
You look embarrassed, “Yeah.”
“I need you to keep calling me that, okay?” Rafe says gently, “It’s completely normal and I told you I’d take care of you from now on. You want that, don’t you?”
Again, he nudges at your lips with his thumb, making you suck it. Which you do, and the feeling goes straight to his dick. He wants to fuck you while you suck his thumb, gently rock his hips into you, your tight pussy squeezing his huge cock while you whimper around his thumb, sucking it while you cried and just took it, took whatever he gave you and then said thank you, daddy like the good little girl you were.
He starts kissing you again, unable to help it. And your response is so enthusiastic, he feels like he might explode. You’re getting more confident with all the kissing stuff, and Rafe likes that it’s all because of him.
“You ready for the next lesson, baby?” He asks between kisses, his hands everywhere all over your naked body. Squeezing your breasts, playing with your ass. Loving that you’re naked beneath him and so willingly too.
You swallow harshly, “I don’t think I’m ready–Oh!”
He takes your hand, pressing it inside his slacks. Right on his hard, throbbing dick. And fuck, it feels so small, so weak against his pulsating cock. He bites his lip hard to keep from thrusting into your hand.
“Take it out.”
“N-No!”
He exhales loudly through his nose, holding your hand tight against him when you try to snatch it away. “Baby, what did I tell you about doing what I say?”
“I-I know but… but I’m scared.”
“It’s okay to be scared,” he says, “but you need to do this, alright? Didn’t I make you feel good just now?”
“Well, yes, but–”
“So just trust me. I’ll make you feel good again, okay baby?” He kisses you lightly once, twice, three times till you smile, “You’ve been such a good girl tonight. So brave for me....”
You hiccup, looking up at him with those goddamned saucer-like eyes again, “R-Really?”
He strokes your cheek, innately aware of your hand relaxing against his cock, “Yes. Such a brave, good girl. You forgot all about the storm outside, didn’t you?”
As if on cue, you whimper and cuddle into him more. He smiles like a goddamned wolf, feeling evil yet desperate at the same time, “Call me daddy again, princess.”
You don’t even fucking hesitate, “d-daddy, I–”
“Take daddy’s cock out, baby. It’ll distract you, I promise.”
You do exactly what he says, and he helps you. He can’t help but hiss when you free his dick from the confines of his slacks, and you gasp too, dropping it immediately when you see it.
“Shit, gimme your hand,” he murmurs, and he doesn’t wait this time. Snatching your hand in his, he spits down into your palm before pressing it on his dick. “Stroke it.”
You pull back, “I don’t know how, I don’t–”
“Do it or I’ll leave right the fuck now.”
In your helpless daze, you whimper before placing your hand back on his dick. And it’s so red, about ready to explode the moment you touch him. He exhales slowly, and it feels so fucking good, and he covers your hand with his, guiding it, making you stroke him up and down.
“That’s so good, baby. You’re so good.”
“I am?”
“Shit, yeah, just keep doing that. You’re such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” He notes how you grow more confident, rubbing his dick and jacking him off like a good little girl. His hand leaves yours, instead cupping your face as he pulls you in for another kiss. He can’t help kissing you, you taste so fucking sweet and it’s insane because he’s never particularly enjoyed kissing anyone this much before. But he loves kissing you, leading you through it, guiding you. Loves how responsive you are, loves how you listen to him even when you feel all scared and hesitant. As if you know that at the end of the day, he was the one with all the power, the one in charge. The only one who knew how to take care of you.
“You ever seen a cock before this, princess?” He asks crudely between kisses.
Your eyes widen, “N-No, Rafe– I mean, uh, daddy.”
“No? Good girl. That’s so fuckin’ hot.” He bites your pouty bottom lip, and you gasp, squeezing his dick in your hand and it makes him moan straight into your fucking mouth. What a naughty girl.
“It’s, uh, it’s so big,” you say quietly, so quietly that Rafe almost doesn’t catch it. But he does, and he smiles, pulling back slightly.
“Yeah?”
Shyly, you duck your head, “Yeah, daddy.”
God, you were so fucking irresistible. He couldn’t take it anymore. He takes your hand, which was still steadily pumping his dick, and holds it tightly. Holds both your hands by your sides as he nudges your legs apart again, and watches as you take a deep breath, as if you know what’s coming.
Lowly, he whistles at how wet you are, your juices having leaked down to stain your pink sheets again. Rafe’s never had a virgin before but he knows how eager they are, how easily turned on they get. He can imagine how slippery wet and snug your snatch would be around his dick. Now, he swipes a finger down your slit, gathering your wetness while you squirm under him.
“Aww, look how excited your pussy is, princess.” He snickers, bringing his finger up to your lips, smearing them with your wetness, getting it all over your face too till it shines and you’re all messy. “Tell me, what’s got her so wet?”
‘I don’t know.”
SMACK.
Rafe finds he quite enjoys slapping your cunt, especially when it’s so wet and throbbing. You cry out, quivering and shaking underneath him. He flashes you a look, “Answer the question.”
“You,” you breathe, blinking up at him, “You, daddy.”
“Yeah? I get your pussy wet?” He’s working himself up, his dick nudging against your folds and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shove it in there. “Tell me why.”
You moan pleadingly, “R-Rafe, please!”
“When I ask you a question, I expect you to answer it properly,” he says, enjoying himself a bit too much. It was payback for all the times you’d teased him without even realising it this past week. Flaunting your sexy little body, blinking up at him with those fuck me eyes, as if you were just begging for it in your own little innocent way.
You swallow harshly, and despite everything he can see you thinking carefully, as if you want to give him a real proper answer to impress him. Cute.
“I, uh, I like how big you are,” you stutter slowly, “you-you’re a lot bigger than me.”
He grins wolfishly, pushing his hair out of his face before pressing a greedy kiss to your lips, which you respond to fervently. But he pulls away all too quickly, looking down at you as if he expects you to continue.
“I like how strong you are,” you’re looking anywhere but at his face, he guesses because you’re too shy. He sponges kisses down your jaw, your neck, down to your chest. Kisses all over your tits, presses them together and licks them, bites at your nipples while you moan between your words. “You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Rafe pauses, and it’s there again. That stupid fucking feeling that he doesn’t understand, nor does he care to understand it right now. Nobody’s ever felt safe with him before. Everyone’s always been afraid of him or hated him or screwed him over because they didn’t trust him. No one’s ever looked at him how you’re looking at him and it makes him feel things he’s never felt before.
But he shoves those feelings straight back down, clears his throat before pressing his finger down between your folds. You shiver and moan, hips bucking up before he pins them in place. He tries pushing his pointer finger inside you, but is met with resistance despite how soaking wet you are. Fuck.
“Tightest pussy I ever had,” he mutters, “but she’ll take daddy’s dick, won’t she?”
It’s more of a statement than a question, and he ignores your soft cries as he forces his finger up your cunt. Till it’s finally knuckle-deep, and he bets you can feel the cool silver of his ring against your warmth. And your pussy’s so fucking snug, gripping his finger like a vice, and even he has to wonder how he’d possibly fit his big dick inside you.
“So full,” you breathe, your chest rising and falling rapidly with each breath. But he shuts you up soon enough when he starts fingering you. One singular finger, because that’s all that fits. But he moves it in and out, curving upwards till you moan, thrusting your hips in rhythm like you can’t even help it.
“Gonna add another one, okay baby?”
‘W-Won’t fit, daddy.”
“Shh, yes it will. Daddy’s gonna make it fit.”
Rafe makes it fit. He has to hold you down while you cry like a baby, but soon he’s got his index and middle finger shoved inside you, finger-fucking your tight, virgin cunt while his hard dick slaps against his stomach, and he’s so fucking turned on. More than he’s ever been in his whole life.
“How’s that feel, baby?” He murmurs into your ear, nibbling at it, licking inside it and making you jump. And fuck, you’re so jumpy, and he has to keep you pinned down while he fingers you, and a sick part of him wonders if he’s drawn blood already.
“H-Hurts,” you whimper like the goddamned little cry-baby you are. “R-Rafe please slow down.”
“Come on, don’t tell me to slow down,” he continues pumping his thick fingers up your slippery wetness, feeling like you’re swallowing them up whole every time, “Not when you’re drippin’ all over your sheets like a little–”
“But it hurts!”
“That’s okay, it’s supposed to hurt,” he explains slowly, like you’re dumb, “it’s because you’ve never done this before, so that’s why I gotta stretch you out like this first, okay?”
A lone tear meanders down your cheek, “I-I don’t think it’s gonna fit, Rafe.”
“I made ‘em fit, didn’t I?”
“Nooo, you’re, uh, I mean your…” You sniffle helplessly, a wild look in your eye that looks half scared, half confused as he bets your body’s starting to betray you.
Rafe feels a smile creep up on his face, “You already thinkin’ about my cock, sweetheart? How it’s gonna feel when it’s up your virgin cunt?”
You shake your head vehemently, but you’re a little angel slut because your hips are bucking up to meet his fingers. “Rafe, no. Your f-fingers, they’re already too much, I don’t think I can take…”
“Didn’t I just tell you I’d make it fit?”
You grip his arm tightly, pleadingly “Y-You’re too big, I-I don’t think I can handle anymore…Oh fuck!”
He knows he’s hit that spot inside you because your whole back arches, and you let out the hottest moan he’s ever fucking heard in his life. Complete abandon, head thrown back, digging your nails so hard into his arm that he’s sure you’ve broken through his skin.
“That’s right, baby girl. Just fuckin’ take it,” he mutters, increasing his pace, wondering if he can fit a third finger in. “Fuck, you’re so good, baby. Taking your daddy’s fingers like a champ. God, look at your little virgin cunt, swallowing ‘em up like a greedy little slut. Didn’t think you’d turn out to be so fuckin’ slutty, baby.”
You clench around him, moaning his name and he can’t believe how much his dirty talk is having an effect on you. His thumb rubs at your clit while he continues to finger fuck you, wanting to draw another orgasm out of you because you’re so fucking gorgeous when you cum, and he wants you to make a mess all over his fingers before he finally takes you with his cock.
“Too much, too much, oh, oh, oh,” you’re half delirious, humping against his fingers, letting him fuck you with them, and he knows you must feel so full. And it feels like heaven for him, being inside you (even if it is just with his fingers). You feel so soft, so wet, so warm. Your muscles tensing and relaxing around him as he builds you up.
“Take it,” Rafe repeats, “bet it’s never felt this good huh? You ever finger yourself, baby girl? Touch yourself late at night when you think everyone else’s asleep?”
You gasp at his words, but he feels you clench around his digits.
“Mmm, not such a good little girl after all, huh? Fingering yourself when you think your mommy’s asleep,” he grins wickedly at the horrified look on your face, increasing pace, “but it’s never enough, is it? Your fingers aren’t as big as mine, so you could never make yourself cum.” He laughs, “this whole time, all you needed was a man like me to take care of you. Say it, say you need me. Say it.”
“N-Need you!” You cry out, delicious tears streaking your face, “I need you, daddy. I-I…Oh fuck, please! Please, I don’t… I just… I–“
You squirt all over his hand. And it’s insane; Rafe’s never seen anything like it before. He gazes in wonder, caught off-guard for once. You completely come undone, crying and panting his name, rocking your hips against his hand as you ride out your third orgasm of the night. And who knew it would take just a little bit of dirty talk to get you to squirt? God, you were so fucking hot, so full of surprises. So perfect for him, it was unbelievable.
“Good girl,” he strokes your head like you’re his little pet, taking his wet fingers and pressing them into your mouth, and you’re so hot when you automatically suck on them. “Such a good girl, baby. That was so fuckin’ sexy.”
All you do is clutch at him and cry, so spent and overstimulated from your orgasm. Rafe licks his lips, feeling both protective yet predatory at the same time. You’re at your weakest, most vulnerable state. Outside, thunder and lightning strike over and over again as if they were paid to do so, and the room lights up and goes dark, it shakes and shudders, and the winds howl like a pack of possessed wolves. And yet you look so pretty in the dim glow of the candlelight.
It's the perfect night for you to get ruined. His perfect little baby. Pristine and innocent and at his mercy.
Rafe’s cock is so hard it hurts, throbbing as he grabs it by the base, pumps it as he hovers over you. On his knees while you lie beneath him, looking so deliciously scared. He presses his whole length against your stomach, and watches your eyes almost bulge out of your head. He knows he’s big, but compared to your tiny frame, he’s massive. And he gets off on that, gets off on how much bigger he is than you. He smears his precum against your stomach, smirking as he watches you swallow and try to be brave.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes, “You like my cock, baby? You like looking at it, huh?”
The way you lick your lips gives it away, and he laughs cruelly, tapping your cheek like you’re his little pet. “Say it, then. Say you like it. Beg me to put it inside you. C’mon, baby, look at your pussy, she’s crying for it. Beg me.”
He knows you’re at war with yourself, and you shake your head tearfully, opening your mouth to speak. But a clap of thunder sounds just then, so loud it makes the whole room shake. You cry out so pitifully, it makes his heart throb a little. You grab at him, and he falls down on top of you, kissing you, kissing your salty sweet lips and your tears. Kissing you all over while your desperate hands tangle into his hair.
That’s when he nudges the tip of his dick against your folds. And it already feels like fucking heaven, your wet warmth practically begging him to shove it inside you. He presses his tip on your puffy, sensitive clit and you jump, your eyes widening and then you push at his chest.
“R-Rafe, please, I don’t think–”
“Shh, c’mon, baby. Let daddy fuck you,” Rafe urges softly against your lips, “gonna make you feel so good again, mhm?”
“Nooo…”
He tries to ignore your soft cries, the way your palms press weakly against his chest.
“Shit, just relax,” he coaxes, knowing he could just hold you down and force it in, and yet…
He kisses you, tasting salt on your lips. You try to kiss him back, but he can feel you gulping for breath. He can feel your heart hammering against your chest. He can feel your limbs pushing at his body, but he’s just so much fucking bigger than you that it doesn’t even make a difference, and yet…
“Rafe, I… please…”
“Baby…”
His dick feels like it’s going to explode, and he runs it up and down your soaking slit, and you moan. And your face looks turned on beyond belief, and yet scared at the same time. Nervous, frightened, vulnerable. It’s a heady mix, and he doesn’t know what to do, and–
“Please, Rafe. I’m not ready, I-I can’t, Rafe. Please…”
“Fuck.”
Something comes over him, and Rafe feels it again. That bubbling, intense feeling inside his chest. Like a rush of an emotion he doesn’t know if he’ll ever understand. All he knows is he can’t, he fucking can’t. You’re so sweet, so kind, pure like a flower and he just can’t bring himself to pluck it. Tear it apart. Ruin it like how he ruined everything else he touched.
He rolls over, lying beside you while you quiver next to him. Both breathing hard. And outside, the wind howls and howls almost like it’s mocking him. Laughing at him for being a goddamned pussy. And there’s another clap of thunder, and he hears you crying softly.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Rafe finds himself gathering you in his arms, holding you against his chest, “Hey, look, don’t worry about it. It’s okay.”
“I-I thought I could but…” you hiccup between your tears, and your eyes look like there are a thousand stars shining wetly inside them, and he knows he’s never seen anything so beautiful. “I’m sorry, I thought I could do it, I thought–”
“It’s okay,” he repeats, cupping your face and making you look at him, his thumbs swiping away your tears, “Don’t cry, okay? Shit, it’s okay, baby. It’s okay.”
“Y-You’re not mad?”
He strokes up and down your back, soothing you while he wonders whether he is. But the only thing he feels right now is this strange, innate need to protect you. To reassure you. Hold your quivering body close till you stopped shaking. It’s insane, because he doesn’t feel like himself, because he’s never felt this before. It’s alien. Completely, utterly fucking alien.
“No,” he answers quietly, pressing a kiss to your hairline, “No, I’m not mad.”
“You pr-promise?”
“I promise.”
He feels like a different person as he tucks his dick back into his slacks. Like someone else, like someone he doesn’t recognise. But it feels so natural, holding you so close that your heartbeat feels like his. And the storm outside feels like a million miles away. Like it’s just you and him on a different planet and nothing else exists, nothing else means anything except you.
You fall asleep in his arms, spent after everything. And Rafe doesn’t even feel frustrated in that moment, because all he can focus on is how peaceful you look. Your tears dried on your cheeks, your chest rising and falling rhythmically. You trusted him with everything. And it made him feel like someone important.
The wind laughs and laughs all night.
*
The morning is calm, tranquil. Almost like the storm never even was. And Rafe wakes up well rested, with you cuddled on his chest, his arm around you and his thumb in your mouth. The room dappled in sunlight, the candles all blown out or melted away.
Slowly, he detangles from you, making sure not to wake you up. You look so peaceful, so innocent. So soft and pretty, in your little shack of a house on the Cut. He frowns as he looks around. In the morning light, your room looks even more pitiful. It’s clean, and you’ve made it pretty with notes and posters and fairy lights. But he can see the paint peeling off the walls, the fact it’s smaller than his closet back home.
Rafe can’t believe he’s woken up on this side of the island.
He has the sudden urge to leave. To run. Hastily, he types out a text to you.
Rafe: Hey. I thought I’d leave in case your mom came home and saw us. Didn’t want to wake you. Talk to you later.
He has to get home. Gather his thoughts. Recalibrate. Think about what the fuck came over him last night, when he’d had you right where he fucking wanted you. And then he’d pussied out of it. Rafe Cameron never pussied out of anything.
What the fuck did that mean?
His gaze shifts to you again, so pretty and sound asleep. Naked because you’d so willingly shed your clothes for him, spread your legs for him. And he could have had you. Hell, he could have you right now. Force himself into you while you were still asleep, and you’d wake up crying and sobbing, all confused and sleepy while he held you down and ordered you to just take it.
That’s what he should’ve done last night. So then what the fuck had stopped him?
Now, he lightly runs his fingers over your bare thigh, humming lightly at how smooth you feel. So soft, like an angel. A powerful, almost all-consuming feeling overtakes him. A wave of possessiveness coursing through him like a tidal wave of dark poison. You were his. All his. He could do what he pleased with you. Your body was his. You’d all but served it to him on a silver platter last night, in your pathetic little room with the candles.
Rafe feels like he’s having an out of body experience. He gets his phone out, ignoring any small, decent part of him that was sending warning signals to his brain. You were his. He had every right to do this.
Silently, he takes the pictures. And a sick part of him gets off on it, gets off on the fact you’re asleep and none the wiser to what’s happening. But this was the least you could do, you’d left him hanging last night. After he’d been so patient, so understanding. Fuck that. Why had he been like that? Like he was weak?
“You make me feel safe, daddy.”
Your words from last night ring in his ears, bouncing around in his brain till it gets too much, till they start to echo and get louder and louder. Till he feels the urge to punch the shit out of your bedroom wall. It was all too much. He had to get out of here.
He tucks his phone into his pocket, pushes the cotton covers up till your chin, and then leaves without looking back.
*
“There he is! The loverboy himself!”
His friends gather around him the next morning like he’s the second coming of Christ himself.
“How was she, Rafe?” one of them slaps him on the back, “That is, if you fucked her.”
“Yeah.” Kelce stands in front of him with his arms crossed over his chest, looking at Rafe expectantly. They all are. “Did you fuck her?”
Rafe scoffs, “Is that even a question.”
He’d waited all day yesterday for you to respond to his text. Like a pussy ass little bitch, he’d waited for you to say something. Growing angrier and more paranoid by the second when you didn’t. Staring at the pictures he’d taken of you like a man possessed, his thumb hovering over the delete button a handful of times before he’d thrown his phone angrily across the room. Hating how you were making him wait. Hating how his heart had leapt up to his fucking throat when you finally had replied: I’m so sorry for being such a scaredy cat yesterday. Thank you for coming over.
He'd discovered something then. He was obsessed with you. And he hated it.
“Pictures or it didn’t happen,” Kelce grins, cutting straight to the chase. Next to him, Rafe sees Topper’s eyes light with interest, as well as the others too. Fucking desperate losers, trying to catch a glimpse of something that belonged to him. Because they’d never get to see you like that, ever. No one else would. He’d make sure of that.
“It did happen.” Rafe says calmly, “Like I said it would.”
“Okay well, that’s great brother but we’re gonna need proof.” One of the clowns pipes up.
“You don’t need shit,” He shoots back.
“You didn’t take pictures?” Topper asks.
Rafe runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I did.”
“Then show us. That was the deal.”
He wants to beat the shit out of all of them for daring to ask to see intimate pictures of you. As if you were anything like the other whores he’d fucked in the past, the type of stupid girls him and his friends used every week. You were different, and you were his, and they had no fucking business looking at what was his.
“Look. I don’t give a shit if you don’t believe me.” He mutters, completely over the dumb ass bet and over his friends too. They’d forget about it by tomorrow, ready to become his willing followers once more. They always did.
“C’mon man, you can’t bring our hopes up like that. Either you never fucked her or,” Kelce’s eyes glint when it registers, “Or you’ve gone soft for her. You’ve–”
Rafe grabs him roughly by the collar, a sudden anger coursing through him like he’s been electrocuted. “Listen, you fucking moron. Don’t ever insinuate I’ve gone soft for a goddamned Pogue.”
He spits that last word out like it’s venom, and yet he tried to ignore how hollow it feels. When he realises people are staring, he quietly lets go, smoothing Kelce’s shirt while his friends stare at him fearfully in that way he’s grown used to people looking at him.
“I fucked her,” Rafe says plainly, his tone switching from aggressive to calm in a split second, almost like he’s slipped on a mask, “I fucked her just like I’ve fucked every other Pogue bitch who’s thrown herself at me before her. And it wasn’t anything special. She acts all innocent, but it was easy to get her to spread her legs for me just like I told you it would be.”
He hears a thud, and then a little gasp behind him. So soft, it barely registers. Except it does, and he turns around.
And immediately locks eyes with you.
And then it feels like it’s just him and you. And nobody else is there. And there’s no sound, like both of you have stopped breathing. You stand there, frozen, stricken. Your books on the ground in front of you. Only a few steps behind him, well within earshot. And he sees something break in your expression, porcelain features twisting in hurt, shock, dismay, disbelief.
“Oh shit,” Topper mutters from somewhere behind him. A few of his friends snicker, but Rafe can’t hear them. No, he’s frozen, staring at you as if he can’t quite believe it. And he sees the tears welling in your eyes.
A little broken sob falls from your lips, and then you turn and run. And Rafe wants to chase after you but it’s like he’s frozen in time and space. Watching you run off while he just stands there.
Stands and watches as you run away from him, your hands reaching up blindly to wipe at your face. And that feeling returns tenfold. That feeling that Rafe can’t quite put his finger on, that feeling which he wants to push back down because it suffocates him, and he doesn’t understand it. The feeling consumes him from the inside out, till he feels like he can’t breathe.
And he just stands there and watches until you’re gone.
𝘼/𝙉: OOF. Okay, I finally posted it! Please let me know what your thoughts! Literally any reaction, predictions, favourite parts etc. All of it, ANY of it would be so appreciated! Also please forgive any spelling or grammatical errors. Here's some questions in case you want to answer them (you don't have to!! you can comment/reblog whatever you want, i just always post questions at the end of my fics)
Does Rafe genuinely care for reader?
Should reader forgive Rafe?
Favourite scene/part?
Anyways, that's it. Now I'll anxiously wait to see what you guys think. PLEASE PLEASE consider reblogging this fic if you plan on liking it and want me to continue it. Thanks so much for all your support when I posted the sneak peek. I hope this lived up to your expectations! <3
PAIRING: dad's best friend!bucky barnes x female!reader
SUMMARY: after graduating college, you return to your father’s hometown, disheartened and uncertain about the future. two years later, you have a stable job, a trustworthy best friend and a doting boyfriend who wants to spend the rest of his life with you, and dreams of kids looking like you two running around his farm. the only problem? he's your dad's best friend.
WARNINGS: she/her pronouns for reader; age gap (bucky’s in his 40s, reader’s in her late 20s); pre-established relationship; secret relationship; dbf!bucky (they met when reader had already finished college); farmer & store owner!bucky; whipped!bucky; very light angst; fluff; romance; discussion of marriage and having kids; mention of bucky drinking one (1) beer (he's not tipsy nor drunk); smut; feral!bucky; implied lactation kink; nipple play; heavy breeding kink (bucky calls reader mama twice); kinda dom!bucky; bucky uses pronouns for reader's pussy; oral (f receiving); fingering; pussy slapping; squirting; overstimulation; unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it pls); rough & primal sex; doggy style; multple orgasms; creampie.
WORD COUNT: 7k
A/N: found out the em dash is not supposed to be separated from the words preceding and following it, and now I'm screaming. I separated them because it looked good, but I got curious and looked it up. now I want to cry because, one, the sentences look stuffy to me (idk if it makes sense, but everything is so close??), and two, of course I have to edit everything 😭 anyway, hope you’ll enjoy it 🩵
You let yourself in by sliding the key into the lock, the same one Bucky pressed into your palm five months ago. The house is a single-story ranch set back from the road, the kind of place someone builds when they plan to stay, dreaming of muddy shoes by the door, a full table, and years unfolding in the same rooms.
The door opens with a soft catch, and you lock it behind you, standing at the entryway for a second to breath in the familiar scent: a mix of clean soap and worn leather. Underneath, a trace of hay and cedar that never quite leaves.
Bucky is still out with the guys, today it’s darts night at the bar. Your dad thought you were staying over at Wanda’s, which isn’t exactly a lie—you had dinner with her, and your friend would cover for you anytime, being the only person you trusted enough to confide in about your unusual situation.
You hang your coat on one of the hooks by the door, before sitting on the nearby bench to slip your boots off. The house is quiet as you pass by a stack of mail sorted carefully on the console table, before your attention is instantly drawn to a familiar brown jacket draped over the back of a chair, probably a last-minute outfit change before going out. Your eyes promptly catch a hole near the sleeve once you hang it back by the front door, so you make a mental note to mend it for Bucky tomorrow.
Fixing things is just who he is—not in a grand way, but in a thousand small ones. A hinge tightened; a cracked step reinforced; a toaster coaxed back to life with patience and a screwdriver. It’s one of the first things you noticed about him.
You met Bucky two years ago. That night, one of your dad’s friends, Sam, hosted a cookout—one of those informal gatherings that somehow turn into half the town showing up with folding chairs and enough home-cooked meals to feed a whole county.
You had just arrived, still living out of a suitcase, still feeling like a guest in your dad’s hometown. You stepped out of his truck to the distant sounds of laughter and animated chatter, when you saw him. Bucky stood by the grill, sleeves rolled up to reveal thick forearms dusted with dark hair, his henley stretching across a chest that looked built by years of hard work rather than any gym. His salt-and-pepper stubble was slightly unkempt, and his sun-kissed skin spoke of long days outdoors.
He wasn’t trying to impress, yet your eyes couldn't look away.
Your dad nudged you out of your stupor. “I get to finally introduce you to Bucky. Have I already told you he owns the local feed store?” As if that explained everything. And technically, you didn’t need a recap of his whole life; after all, you had spent the past three years on video calls listening to the exact same things.
“Today Bucky fixed the screen door. Saved me hundreds of dollars.”
“I can’t keep up with him anymore. He and Steve are too fast.”
“He’s such a sore loser at darts.”
Yet, you listened to it all over again, this time eager to remember every single detail about the handsome, older man.
Your dad was on the verge of depression when he moved back to his hometown after your mom asked for a divorce. You were worried about him, yet couldn’t do much while living on the other side of the country. Then, after a week spent reacquainting himself with the place he had left to follow your mom’s dream career, the light in his eyes gradually returned. All thanks to this James Barnes guy who he met at the store while looking for chicken feed. Apparently, their parents knew each other very well. From that day on, he and Bucky became inseparable. The farmer was well-loved by the community, especially after taking over his family’s store.
He introduced your dad to darts night and weekend morning runs, and you couldn't be more thankful for that.
When you were finally introduced to him, Bucky smiled like he had all the time in the world, his blue eyes full of a gentle attention that made you feel seen without being appraised.
The way your name rolled on his tongue made your knees tremble. Then, he shook your hand, slowly, as if to savor the feel of your skin. “Welcome back.”
Over the following weeks, you kept hearing his name everywhere. At the diner, where the waitress mentioned that Bucky had tipped them generously, again, even if he always orders the same thing. At the flower shop, where your boss Wanda would roll her eyes fondly and repeat, “If you need help, just ask Bucky. He’ll be on his way before you know it.”
Then at the hardware store, the post office, the bar...
Always the same refrain: good man. Reliable. Kind. Devoted.
He helps without making it a favor; fixes fences for neighbors who can’t; makes deliveries after hours whenever storms hit; sits with old men who want company more than conversation. He loves his land, his animals, the rhythm of days that begin early and end with the satisfying ache of honest work.
And with you, he was a gentleman.
He never assumed, nor rushed. When he touched you at the beginning of your relationship, it was careful, reverent even, like he understood the weight of what you were doing and refused to treat it lightly. The age difference lingered there, quiet but acknowledged in the way he always checked in, giving you room to choose him. And well, he is your father’s best friend after all. That man trusts Bucky with his own life. You don’t think ‘delighted’ would be the right word if he found out his daughter and his forty-something friend have been sneaking around behind his back for almost two years.
You lean against the counter now, posture relaxed as you fill the kettle. Outside, the stars shine brightly in the sky, an unusual sight for someone used to the constant glow of city lights. You know he’d probably come home later than usual—darts nights always run long—but you don’t mind waiting. You like this part, too. Being here alone, belonging.
You move through the house easily with your cup of steaming tea cradled in your hands, turning on a lamp in the living room, straightening a cushion that didn’t really need it. The walls tell his story without trying: framed photos of Bucky and his family posing on the porch in different seasons, several ribbons from different county fairs pinned beside a faded map of the town, and his father’s tools hanging neatly as a reminder of his hard work.
This is a man who stands firm in who he is.
You change into one of his old shirts—soft and discolored in places—and curl up on the couch with a book you barely pay attention to.
Somewhere down the main road, laughter spills out of Barton’s Corner, the oldest bar in town, always crowded with familiar faces. Soon enough, you’d hear the rumbling sound of Bucky’s truck pulling in, older than most of the others but spotless. The kind of vehicle someone keeps not because they have to, but because it carries their story.
For now you just wait, safe and cozy.
The front door opens slowly, the sounds of heavy steps followed by the low click of the lock. Bucky walks inside, moving on instinct: his boots are lined up neatly by the door before he even thinks about it, and his jacket is hung right beside yours. The house is steeped in silence, the lamps casting that familiar honeyed glow that tells him someone has been awake recently.
His gaze goes straight to the couch.
You are asleep, a book fallen open on your chest and one arm draped loosely over it as if you’d tried to hold onto the last sentence. Your expression is unguarded in a way that makes something warm bloom in his chest. He stands there for a moment, longer than necessary, taking you in as the quiet of the night settles around him like a held breath.
It’s not the beer, he only drank one tonight, almost an hour ago. This dizzy feeling stems from something completely different. Coming home and finding you here, waiting for him to come back safely… It feels like a gift he’s still not sure he deserves.
Bucky crosses the room quietly to crouch beside your relaxed form. He murmurs your name, as gently as he can, his knuckles brushing against your arm, barely there.
“Hey, sweetheart. You’re gonna wake up with a crick in your neck.”
You frown faintly, nose scrunching as if his voice has deeply offended you.
“Mh.” You completely ignore him.
A soft grin tugs at the corners of his mouth despite himself. He says your name again under his breath, then tries a little firmer, but you only bury your face deeper against the cushion beneath you, clutching the book like a shield.
He sighs. “All right. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
After successfully prying the book out of your grip, placing it next to your half-empty cup, Bucky slips his arms under your body and hosts you up in one smooth motion. An exaggerated grunt falls from his lips as he settles you over his shoulder, and the reaction is immediate.
“Bucky!” You screech, eyes snapping open as you suddenly find yourself upside down, head dangling toward the floor. “Oh my God! Put me down!”
He chuckles, deep and unbothered, adjusting his firm grip on you. “You had your chance,” he playfully pats your asscheek. “I tried wakin’ you up.”
“So you thought this was a good idea?” You protest, laughter bleeding into your words.
He starts climbing up the stairs with careful steps. “I know I’m too old to be doin’ this kind of nonsense, so you’re gonna have to appreciate the effort.”
You huff, lightly thumping his back with your fingers. “You’re not that old.”
“Tell that to my knees tomorrow.” Bucky grins. “Now hush before I drop you.”
You go still, but not before squeezing his ass hard enough to elicit an indignant noise out of him. It’s in small moments like this that Bucky feels quiet joy settling deep in his chest. Making breakfast together, your laughter filling the kitchen, curling up on the couch in comfortable silence... Even the simplest, most ordinary things feel extraordinary since he met you.
He nudges the bedroom door shut with his heel, careful not to let it click shut. The room smells faintly of laundry soap and something inherently his. He adjusts his grip on you out of habit even though you’re already stirring to be let down.
“Easy.” He murmurs, more to himself than to you.
The moment he lowers you onto the mattress, you ignite like a spark on the Fourth of July. You’re on your feet in an instant, arms wrapping around his neck with enough force to knock the breath out of him.
“Hey—wow.” He guffaws, instinctively bracing himself. “Go easy on your old man.”
You make a small, irritated sound against his shoulder, half whine, half reluctant chuckle. “Stop calling yourself that.” Your face presses harder to his neck, your next words muffled against his skin. “You’re not old.”
Bucky immediately feels the sharp tension of the thought that flares to life at the back of your mind whenever he makes these jokes. He’s noticed it before, the way your smile tightens and your eyes go briefly distant. You mentioned it once during one of your late night talks in his truck, that you’ve always hated how your dad used to joke about that too, back when time started showing up in his bones, coloring his hair with grey streaks. Even when you were younger, it scared you—how fast years could slip by, how easily people started measuring themselves in what had already passed.
Bucky swallows and his arms adjust around you properly, one hand spreading solidly between your shoulder blades. “Alright.” He says softly. “I hear you.”
Your body melts into his hold at once, cheek pressing against his chest and eyelids fluttering shut. “It feels like it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. I missed you.”
He closes his eyes as well, and for a moment, the whole world reduces itself to the feeling of you: your warmth, your breathing against his, your soft hands on his skin… He lets himself bask in it.
“It’s only been three days.” He teases lightly.
You pull back just enough to look up at him, brows drawn together in mock severity. “Still too long.”
He guides your head back into your favorite hiding place with a low hum in his throat, his body mindlessly swaying side to side, settling into the rhythm of a slow song no one else can hear.
You could fall asleep just like this, content in his arms.
“You stayed out later than usual.” You ponder drowsily.
There it is. Bucky feels heat creep up the back of his neck as he gently pulls back to properly look into your eyes. “Ah, yeah. Guess I did.”
You squint at him, suspicious and amused all at once. “Did you ask for a re-match again?”
“No.” He rolls his eyes. “I’m not a sore loser, contrary to what the rumors say.” You let out a skeptical hum, prompting him to tickle your sides. You burst out laughing, tears gathering at the corners of your eyes as you beg him to stop. Bucky’s barely contained grin makes him look so boyishly pretty as he keeps teasing you, until he eventually decides to spare you.
“You know I hate when you do that.” You pant, still smiling.
He exhales a small, helpless laugh as his hands slide up to your waist, thumbs brushing familiar circles into your sides as if to ground himself. Then, when you’re finally calmed down, “I’m not going to the farm tomorrow.”
You stiffen, gazing up at him with wide eyes. “What?”
“Nor to the store.”
You straighten up, now staring at him like he’s just told you the sky's been purple all along. “You’re sick.” You conclude decisively. “You have to be sick.”
He shrugs, the corners of his mouth lifting up. “Feel fine.”
“You never skip work.”
“I know.”
“But—”
“And you, my love, are skipping yours too.”
Your brows furrow, he can clearly see the gears turning in your head. “Did I—did I forget something? I didn’t ask Wanda for the day off. Is it someone’s birthday? My dad’s? Oh God, is it—”
A chuckle claws out of his throat, his hand reaching out to cup your cheek before you can spiral any further. “Baby, breathe.”
You blink at him, worry softening into confusion.
“I just… needed a day off.” He shrugs. “Life has been hectic lately. Always somewhere to be, something to fix, someone needing my help.” His thumb brushes the skin under your eye. “I figured it might be nice to slow down for a bit. Have you all to myself for once.”
Your expression shifts, surprise giving way to something hopeful and almost shy. “Just… us?”
“Just us.” Bucky nods, trying to not grin. But then you smile, bright and a little disbelieving, and he can’t help himself. He leans in to kiss you, unhurried, lingering like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your lips. Your hands cup his jaw, so soft, so sure, that something in his chest tightens unexpectedly.
He pulls away before he can sink any deeper into it, jaw tightening as he realizes his focus has pathetically thinned with a single kiss, mind slipping somewhere far more tempting.
The tips of your noses brush against each other as his voice drops into that playful register that always gets to you, refusing to burst the quiet bubble of peace.
“So here’s how it’s gonna go: we’re sleeping in. I don’t care that we both wake up at the crack of dawn—we’re rotting in this bed until one of us gets hungry enough to complain.”
You laugh softly. “You always get hungry first.”
“True. Then I’m making pancakes—the good ones.”
Your eyes light up. “The ones with Nutella inside?”
“The very same.” He beams, eyebrows wiggling up and down. “And then,” he continues, resuming the gently rocking motion, that teasing grin you love so much tugging at his lips. “We’re catching up on that show we started a month ago.”
“I knew you liked it!”
“In my defense, the day we watched the first episode I spent the entire afternoon arguing with Mr. Jones over that fuckin’ tractor part he ordered. He kept insisting it was the wrong one, and you know how stubborn that old man is.” He kisses you once more, savoring the sweet taste of your lips. “Lunch is whatever you want. I’ll cook.”
You open your mouth to argue, yet he silences you with another kiss, quick but firmer in intent. “I want to.” He rasps out, forehead resting against yours. “Let me take care of you. All I need is for you to be here, nice and warm by my side.”
Your eyes soften. “You don’t have to do everything.”
“I know.” He shrugs. “I just want to.”
Drawing you impossibly closer, his hands tighten at your hips. “So,” he clears his throat, voice low and content. “We sleep, we eat, and we make love on every piece of furniture in this fuckin’ house. Sounds like a productive day, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah. It really does.” You can't help but laugh again at his serious tone, your forehead falling on his chest.
“But,” you start, palms smoothing the fabric clinging to his pecs. “Since you’re taking the day off, I suppose I should warn you.”
He raises a brow. “About?”
“Me.”
He snorts. “Bit late for that.”
You gasp affronted, giving his chest a light shove that doesn’t actually create any distance between you.
“Excuse you. I was going to say that I tend to steal blankets and hog pillows, but you never notice since you’re always falling asleep before me—”
“Damn right if I do, sweetheart!” He cuts in smoothly. “And add ‘thinking out loud’ to your little list of quirks.”
You freeze. “I do not.”
“Oh, you do.” He grins, nodding. “Especially when you’re looking for something you’ve just put down. You ask questions like there’s a second you in the room with all the answers.”
Your mouth falls open, then closes again. “That is wildly exaggerated.”
“And,” he continues, enjoying this a tad too much. “You leave half-finished mugs of tea everywhere. Windowsills, bookshelves... Even the bathroom counter.”
Your eyes narrow. “You’re one to talk. You fix things that aren’t broken.”
“I told you already, it's called preventative maintenance.”
“You fixed the door hinge because it ‘sounded sad’.” You tilt your head, making air quotes.
“It was asking for help.”
You burst out laughing despite his seriousness, shaking your head. “Oh, my poor Jamie.” You sigh, slipping into a dramatic tone as you cradle his face. “Always working so hard, and not getting a single moment of well-deserved peace in his own home.”
A tingling warmth settles in his chest at the word home, even wrapped in teasing. He stills you gently, thumb brushing along your jaw, his expression turning solemn. Certain.
“Our home, my love.”
Those soft words land heavily than intended, like the final piece of a puzzle setting into place.
Blinking and caught off guard, humor drains out of your face at once. You can only swallow a fresh set of tears, a slow and real smile brightening your features as you lean into his touch.
“Yeah.” You bite your bottom lip. “Our home.”
Bucky presses his forehead to yours, breathing in the scent of your body lotion lingering on your skin since this morning, before playfulness returns to his voice, familiar.
“And for the record, I find your habits endearing.”
“Oh, now you’re backtracking.”
“Not at all. I reserve the right to complain while secretly liking them.”
Your laugh is full and bright, making Bucky feel like he’s stepping into sunlight after months spent in the shade of a dark, cold winter. Your arms wrap around his neck again, and he holds you there, thinking—not for the first time—that he wants to spend forever doing this with you. Just existing together, right here.
Goosebumps rise on your skin as Bucky lowers his face into the slope of your neck, leaving a trail of small, open-mouth kisses from the sensitive patch of skin just behind you ear, to your shoulder.
“Aren’t you tired?” You mumble, eyelids falling close as he starts leading you backwards.
“For you? Never.” He pushes you gently until you are lying on your back, pliant and open amidst the soft sheets.
When the cold tip of his nose touches the skin of your throat, a shiver runs down your back. He inhales deeply, moaning as your scent finally melts away the rest of the day’s tension. His broad body presses you more firmly into the mattress, still teasing your neck with pecks and languid licks, while his hips start a gentle grinding motion against your core. You can’t stop yourself from squirming, your chest heaving in anticipation at the feeling of his already half-hard cock brushing your sensitive clit.
You bite your lip, placing your hand on his belt, and after making sure Bucky is paying attention, you slowly slip your hand under his flannel shirt, gradually hiking it up to reveal more and more of his skin.
“Go on.” Comes his raspy encouragement. His blue eyes turn darker with lust, relishing in the soft pressure of your nails as you caress his belly. He shudders once, too impatient to wait. Once he removes the shirt himself, his heartbeat quickens as blood pumps hot in his veins, and travels way too fast south.
Your eyes barely manage to set on his naked chest before Bucky is back on you, devouring your lips in a scorching kiss, his hands roaming freely over your covered torso. Your back arches, arousal pooling hot in your core as he brushes the underside of your breasts, thumbs teasingly tracing the shape of your nipples.
“Bucky.” You whimper.
“Arms up, doll.” Soon, you are left in your panties. It’s way too hot in his bedroom, and yet you shiver under his intense stare, the ever consuming urge to have you closer bleeding out of his pores.
“Cute.” He flicks the little bow on the hem of your panties with a small smirk, and you let out a trembling breath, torn between hiding in embarrassment and pushing your hips harder against his hand.
“Jamie, please.” Bucky focuses on your chest now, goosebumps raising once he traces the swell of your breasts with his nose, before leaving a harsh bite.
“You’re so mean.”
His little grin presses against your cleavage. “I know, bunny. I know.”
He looms over you, taking in the view, his breath ghosting, sliding over your hot skin until he suddenly gets fed up with his own teasing and leans in to kiss the supple flesh. He grabs one of your tits in his hand, studying your face as his thumb grazes over your nipple. You suck in a sharp breath, mouth parting around a low moan at the rough texture—proof of years spent taking care of the land.
Your eyes roll back as his tongue circles your left areola, both your nipples finally receiving soft nibbles and sweet suckles that gradually turn harsher.
“Don't stop.” You whimper melts into a gasp when Bucky delicately blows on your sensitive flesh, the cold contrast making you squirm. “Please, don't stop Bucky."
He switches from one breast to the other, using his fingers to tease the neglected nipple, moaning appreciatively when your hand tugs at his hair and presses his face firmly into the soft flesh. At some point, Bucky lets his teeth gently graze your nub, and you reward him with a sweet squeal, prompting him to do it again.
Momentarily pulling away, he glances up at you with glistening lips, then back at your breasts, his eyes hazy.
“One day…” He mumbles, leaving a kiss on a raw nub. You suck in a confused breath.
“What?”
Your whisper is like a bucket of icy water dropping right over his body. The moment realization hits him like a freight train, horror dawns upon his features, his eyes widening, startled at his own admission.
“Bucky?” You raise on trembling elbows when he withdraws from you as if your skin just burned him. “Bucky?” You plea again, fingers desperately grasping onto his shoulder when he gives you his back, settling at the edge of the bed with his chin tipped down.
Dreadful minutes of silence stretch between you, before Bucky finally summons the courage to speak. To lay bare the truth for you, and for himself.
He nervously fidgets with his fingers. “I’ve been trying to let it go. To be subtle.” A low, humorless chuckle echoes in the still room. “Didn’t wanna scare you off.”
Your shoulders drop at his dejected tone.
“I just couldn't stop thinking about it.” He shakes his head. “Which is stupid, right? I mean—look at me. I am in my forties, and you still have your whole life ahead of you. I don’t want you to be stuck in this damn town—”
“Bucky, hey. Look at me.” You stop him immediately, frowning. You crawl at the edge of the bed by his side, slowly guiding his chin to face you. “I am not ‘stuck’ in this town. I chose to stay here because I like it, and I love you.”
“I love you too, sweetheart. So much, you are my whole world. But I don’t want to tie you down. I can't hold you back.” He swallows around the uncomfortable knot in his throat, words turning frantic. “And your dad—God, he’s my best friend and here I am, dreaming about marrying his daughter, about having kids who look like us running around the farm and calling you mama.”
Your throat tightens, and you swear your heart stops for a second before resuming its fast pace, as if trying to come out of your chest.
“But… when I think about a future without you… it’s just wrong. Everything is wrong if you are not by my side.”
He looks down for a second, tentatively intertwining your fingers together. His shoulders loosen a bit when you don't dismiss his touch, and the fact that he would even think that feels like a stab in your heart. When his eyes land back on yours, the storm inside has now eased into a gentle drizzle.
“I want everything with you. Even if it means your dad will hate me forever. I’ll let him punch me in the face if he wants, I’ll fix every single thing in his house—”
“You already do that.” You sniffle, biting your bottom lip to hide a smile. Bucky stops short, the corners of his mouth slightly lifting up before he cradles your cheek.
“I hate myself for wanting this, for feeling like I'm clipping your wings, but I can't imagine my life without you. I’ll wait, sweetheart. As long as you need. And if you don’t want it? Good, okay. Means we’re spending the rest of our lives making love and—and traveling. You’d like that, right angel? You mentioned you want to see the world, and I can make that happen.” His smile is pleading, blue eyes glistening with tears. “I know this is all so sudden, but—” He swallows. “Please, don’t leave me.”
“You would really give up your dreams of having kids… for me?” Your jaw clenches in hope to keep the tears at bay, even if your voice breaks.
Bucky nods resolutely, frowning as if you’ve just asked him if the grass is green. “Of course. I just want you, my love. Just need you.”
Your chin trembles, glassy eyes looking at the man you love—raw, uncertain, fragile in a way that pulls painfully at your heart. The sight of him like this, laid bare and willing to give up something so deeply rooted just to be with you, leaves you with a bitter taste on your tongue. And all you can think, is that you want that future too. You want him, and every piece of that life he's been dreaming about, without hesitation.
“Bucky, I want to be with you.” You choke on a sob. “And I want—” Taking a deep breath, you smile through the tears sliding down your cheeks. “Kids who look like us running around the farm and calling you dad.”
“Yeah?” He whispers hopeful, his shaky hand holding your jaw as if guarding a priceless treasure. “You really want that with me?”
You nuzzle closer into his palm, momentarily closing your eyes to bask into the familiar warmth. “I love you, Jamie. Don't ever think that you're tying me down, or holding me back from some... imaginary life you've made up for me in your head. I love you, and I want everything with you.”
“I love you too, baby.” He chokes out. “But what about your dad?” He presses his lips together, tense.
You can't help but chuckle at how adorable he looks right now. “Well, he’d better start working out. He’ll soon have a grandchild to keep up with.”
Finally, he gives you a relieved laugh. “Soon?”
Your playful smirk makes his hold on you tighten just slightly. “Well, we’re already half-naked, and there’s an empty bed right here, so...”
His breath hitches for half a second, because this is finally real: you, him, the possibility of building a life stitched together from little hands reaching for both of you, and sleepy hugs before school. All the dreams he’d never dared to voice, the small, secret hopes he’d held onto before falling asleep... They were all worth waiting for.
A squeal claws out of your throat as Bucky abruptly grabs your waist to pull you closer, filthily kissing you until you’re left clinging desperately to his shoulders. Your giggle soon turns into a gasp when you find yourself lying back on his bed.
“Wanna fill you up so fucking bad.” He mutters, sparkling blue eyes reverently tracing your curves. “Gonna worship you every night, and still want you more by morning. You’d let me, wouldn’t you?”
“You already do.” Your voice wobbles pathetically, suddenly a little breathless, squirming beneath him.
“You’re so fucking beautiful, doll.” He breathes you in, dragging his nose down your throat as he tightens his hold on your thighs. “I’ll stuff you full until it takes. Again and again. Fuck you against the wall, the shower—hell, even the damn barn.”
“Please!” Your pussy shamelessly throbs at the thought of him taking you right there, out in the open for anyone to see.
“But first,” Bucky’s fingers lightly graze the embarrassingly damp spot on your cotton panties. “Need to feel you around my fingers.” You whine in protest at that, but you know it’s futile. Kneeling between your thighs to keep them nice and open for him, his arm drapes over your hips to keep you still. Your panties are tossed somewhere on the floor, before he attacks your pulsing clit, alternating between steady flicks of his tongue and slow rubbing motions with his calloused fingers. Two of his digits stretch you open, your eyes rolling back at how perfectly they hit your sweet spot, until you flinch, a desperate gasp escaping your lips at the sudden sting.
“So fucking gorgeous.” A growl is swallowed back when you fist his locks. “The prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” He murmurs, dark eyes glancing up at your scrunched-up features. You can barely form any coherent word, crying out as he smacks your pussy again.
“Good girl.” The proud praise elicits a whimper out of you before you can stop it. “Taking whatever your old man gives you so well.” His hand falls on your tender flesh a little harder this time, making you gasp at the delicious pain, back arching up.
“You want another one, doll?”
“Please.”
“So fucking polite.” He groans between your folds, forcing you to stay put for his greedy mouth. “Go on, make me proud and come for me.”
The knot in your lower belly snaps at his command. Your thighs shake around his head, your hole tightening to keep his fingers trapped inside you as he nurses on your nub until overstimulation sets in.
A high, desperate sound escapes your throat as Bucky pulls away, and for a second you truly believe he’s finally going to fuck you, but his hand is back at it again, leaving quick, little slaps on your clit that make your hips jerk helplessly, straining against his muscled arm.
If seeing your pussy drool means taking you apart until you can barely remember your own name, then so be it.
“Fuck fuck fuck!” You almost scream, head tossed back against the pillow.
“You’re so messy, lovely.” He marvels, voice husky with arousal. His mouth latches back around your bundle of nerves, producing such humiliating, sloppy sounds. “Look at her, sweetheart, crying so prettily for me.”
He grinds against your swollen clit once more, your legs jerking close at the raw scrape of his stubble, before he is getting out of his own clothes with a brisk motion.
Boneless and gasping for breath, you glance up at him through your damp lashes, gaping at the leisurely pace he uses to stroke his hard cock, the flushed tip copiously leaking precum.
Bucky smirks, his mouth glistening with your slick as he settles closer to your core. “My pretty girl is finally gonna let me put a baby in her.” His hand assertively squashes your cheeks together until your lips pucker, only then his tongue pushes past them, claiming you with a hungry kiss. A strand of saliva connects your mouths, thin and filthy, as he slightly pulls back.
“Been thinking about you round with my kid for months. All soft and giggling, with a ring shining on your left hand.” He confesses roughly, dragging his mouth along your neck.
Your lips part in a silent moan when his cock makes itself comfortable between your folds, the head slipping inside you without hesitation. His right palm settles on your belly, heavy and possessive, but still mindful. The pressure makes everything better as his hips speed up, immediately setting a punishing, impatient pace.
“I’ll be good,” his voice cracks against your breast, your body shoved further up the bed with each brutal thrust. “Best husband ever. You’ll never have to lift a finger, my darling wife.”
“You’re already so good to me, Jamie.” You moan, high and helpless, inevitably clenching around him as he calls you his wife. He growls at the pressure, harshly moving your hips to meet his, the room soon filling with the shameless slaps of your skins and the wet squelch of his cock driving deeper and deeper.
“Gonna rub your feet when they hurt, and eat all your weird cravings with you in the middle of the night—fuck mama, this perfect pussy is so tight.” His head falls back in bliss.
That’s when the hand on your belly moves lower, until his fingers are back at toying with your clit, pinching and flicking it, as you squirm under his possessive stare.
“God, you’re taking it so good. Look at you, such a pretty little thing.” He gasps, frantically moving your bent knees back until they are touching your chest, his thrusts turning cruel as soon as you respond with a delirious sob at the new angle.
“Let me hear you” He pants, his lips hovering over yours. “Tell me how badly you want it, princess.”
“So bad, Jamie!” Your nails leave red marks along his back. He moans at the delicious pain, thrusting harder. “Fuck Bucky, give it to me! Wanna be always full with you, breed me Jamie.”
The way he wrenches himself back with a snarl makes you wail, your pussy feeling pathetically empty, before he flips you on your hands and knees. The change of position is so sudden that your hazy brain can barely catch up, not until his length is filling you again, his thrusts turning messy as its tip perfectly slams against your sweet spot at an almost desperate speed.
The maddening pace drives you forward, your nipples rubbed raw against the sheets and your arms scrambling to anchor yourself, before his thick belly pushes heavy against your back, and one of his hands traps both of your wrists under you. His other arm wraps around your waist, palming your stomach.
You can only lie there, pliant and still, as he stakes his claim on you.
“There we go, sweetheart. Are you gonna make a stupid mess all over my cock?” He coos in your ear, fingers traveling lower only to give your throbbing nub a mean pinch.
The way his hips are driving into you at such a primal pace, his strangled moans as his cock abuses your sweet spot… It’s too much. You scream his name, eyes rolling back and toes curling when your climax finally unravels, violently. Shaking and with tears running down your cheeks, you end up squirting all over his crotch and sheets, body erupting in flames and vision momentarily fading to black.
Bucky grunts when your slick slides down his heavy balls, wishing he could have his mouth on your pussy to taste it.
“Good girl. You came so hard angel, look at that.” His smile is predatory, delirious. “My turn now to make a mess, mama.” His cruel fingers fly back between your thighs, rubbing and slapping your clit only to feel your body squirm pathetically under his.
It’s only a matter of seconds before Bucky spills into you, the animalistic urge to feel his cum leak out of you and onto his cock is too intoxicating to resist.
“I'm coming, baby, fuck. Gonna come so fucking hard for you, not gonna waste a single drop.” He grits his teeth, forehead falling on your shoulder. “Take it, sweetheart, take it. Love you so fucking much.” He chokes out, and then his cock is pulsing with each spurt of cum filling you, mixing with your creamy mess.
A satisfied sigh unconsciously falls from your lips, your spent body finally slackening as you’ve never felt so full before.
Your legs are now sore with that unique ache that seeps deliciously into your bones, yet you can’t stop the pained whimper when you try to move, still trapped under Bucky’s heavy body. He gently tries to adjust the two of you, at least enough for his arms to support the majority of his weight, but his face buries in the slope of your neck, cuddling your damp skin like a needy cat.
“Jus’ a little more.” He grunts, words slurred. “Need to make sure it takes.”
One moment, Bucky is gently rocking into you from behind; the next, you are clean and tucked under clean sheets with his arms wrapped securely around your waist, your back perfectly molded to his chest. The way his palm rests on your belly, protective and certain, makes your heart beat just a little bit faster. It makes you realize just how much of him you already carry with you.
Quietly, he breaks the peaceful silence. “You with me, sweetheart? Are you alright?”
You nod, even if your throat still hurts a little and your limbs lie uselessly, heavy and spent. Your index finger sluggishly drifts up, blindly touching his cheek as if to ask ‘what about you?’. Bucky huffs a laugh against your neck, before pressing a soft kiss on your cheek.
“Never felt anything like this before.” He mumbles, a soft sigh of wonder slipping past him.
The room holds its breath for a moment, the quiet stretching so long it feels almost sacred. You swallow hard, before your voice finally rises in a trembling whisper. “Do you think… we did it?”
His chuckle is easy, the warm sound somehow pacifying the tension coiled in your stomach. His fingers gently lift your chin, delicately turning your head enough for your eyes to meet.
“Don't worry, my love.” His voice is a teasing murmur. “I’m gonna keep you full until we do.”
When Steve stops the truck in your front yard, he rises an eyebrow at your house still being swallowed in darkness.
“Isn’t your daughter home yet?” He frowns at the time displayed on the dashboard. Your dad shrugs with an amused grin on his lips.
“She’s at Wanda’s.” He mocks your voice, skeptically raising both his eyebrows, and Steve does a double take.
“You still haven’t told them you found out about their relationship?”
“Oh please, you wouldn't either if you could see Barnes twists in his seat whenever I ask about his weekends.”
“You are such an asshole.” Steve guffaws.
Your dad groans as he jumps down the red truck. “Hey! I’m allowed to have some fun too.”
END NOTES: thank you so much for reading 🩵 I know raw & older is winning the poll and I swear it's going to be posted soon!
𝑪𝑳𝑬𝑨𝑵-𝑼𝑷 𝑫𝑼𝑻𝒀 After months apart, you and your new boyfriend Steve run into your ex, Bucky, at a party. Old wounds reopen, possessive stares turn into brutal words, and before anyone can stop it, the three of you are alone in Steve’s apartment.
new boyfriend!steve x fem!reader x ex-boyfriend!bucky
word count : 7,8k
warnings 18+ : cuckolding, voyeurism, humiliation, degradation, praise kink, rough sex, creampie, creampie eating, oral sex (m & f recieving), throat fucking, choking, hair-pulling, marking, possessive behavior, exes to complicated situations, angst, emotional manipulation, jealousy, past relationship trauma, stucky undertones (past relationship heavily implied), no aftercare, cheating
author’s note : HELLO NEW YORK!! oh my god this was SO fun to write!!! thank you so much to the lovely anon who dropped this idea in my inbox, you have my whole heart ily <3
The Avengers Tower was alive with low music, clinking glasses and the kind of easy laughter that only came after a mission had gone well enough that no one was in a body bag.
Tony had declared it a “victory party,” which really just meant he’d ordered too much Thai food and opened the top-shelf bar. The lights were dim, warm amber and the city sparkled beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows like a promise no one quite believed anymore.
You were curled into Steve’s side on one of the long leather sectionals, your head resting against his chest, his steady heartbeat a quiet rhythm under your ear. His arm was draped across your shoulders, heavy and comforting, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns along the bare skin just above the neckline of your dress, little circles and soft strokes that made you feel safe, cherished. He smelled like cedar and soap, clean and steady, the way he always did after a shower and a long day of saving the world.
Every time he leaned down to murmur something in your ear, “You’re the most beautiful thing in this room, you know that?” or “I’m the luckiest guy here tonight” his breath tickled your skin and made you smile, warm and genuine.
Four months together and he still looked at you like you were something miraculous, like he couldn’t quite believe you’d chosen him. He’d brush his lips against your temple, soft and lingering, or squeeze your hand under the table just because he could.
“You want another drink, sweetheart?” he asked now, voice low and gentle against your hair, lips brushing your forehead.
You tilted your head up to meet his eyes, those clear, earnest blue eyes that always looked at you like you were the only person in the room. “I’m good,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Just wanna stay right here with you.”
He smiled that small, private smile he saved only for you, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made your chest ache with how much you loved him and tightened his arm around you, pulling you closer.
That was when the elevator chimed.
It wasn’t dramatic. No thunderclap, no record scratch silence. Just a soft ding, doors sliding open, and then the temperature in the room seemed to drop five degrees.
Bucky stepped out.
Black tactical pants, black Henley stretched tight across his chest, leather jacket still dusted with snow from the rooftop he must’ve landed on. His hair was shorter than the last time you’d seen him, pushed back from his face, a few strands falling forward as he scanned the room with that old, soldier’s efficiency. He hadn’t been invited. No one had expected him.
His gaze sliced through the crowd and landed on you instantly.
Locked on Steve’s hand resting gently on your waist, fingers splayed soft and protective over the curve of your hip. Bucky’s eyes lingered there, heavy, possessive then dragged slowly upward until they met yours.
Your stomach flipped. Your knees went weak, even sitting down.
Six months.
Six months since the breakup.
Six months since the screaming matches that left you both raw, since the slammed doors and shattered glass, since the way Bucky had looked at you like you’d reached into his chest and torn something vital out with your bare hands.
You’d cheated on him with Steve.
That was the part that cut deepest. Not the fights, not the way you walked out but the fact that you’d gone to Steve while you were still technically his. While Bucky was still coming home to you, still fucking you like he owned you, still whispering filthy promises against your skin in the dark. You’d let Steve touch you, kiss you, hold you gently in ways Bucky never could… and then you’d let Bucky keep touching you too, until the guilt and the lies finally exploded.
He’d never been soft with you. Never gentle. It had always been rough edges and bruising grips, teeth on your throat, metal fingers digging into your hips hard enough to leave marks for days. He’d fuck you like he was trying to brand you, call you filthy names while he made you come apart, then hold you after like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.
And before you, there’d been Steve. The two of them, years ago, tangled up in something fierce and tender that no one else ever really understood. Late nights in safehouses, quiet touches in the dark, Bucky’s head in Steve’s lap while Steve ran fingers through his hair like he could smooth away seventy years of pain.
They’d loved each other hard, soft in ways they never showed the world, until it all burned down in fire and blame and things neither of them ever talked about anymore.
Steve felt you tense. His arm tightened reflexively, protective, comforting. You felt his jaw clench against the side of your head as he followed your gaze.
Bucky’s lips curved, not quite a smile, more like a predator recognizing territory it used to own. He tilted his head slightly, eyes glittering with that familiar snark.
Steve pressed a kiss to your temple, slow and deliberate, his hand sliding a fraction lower on your waist in quiet reassurance. A claim, yes but mostly a promise: I’m here. I’ve got you.
Bucky’s smirk deepened, sharp and knowing. “Cute,” he mouthed from across the room, just loud enough for you to read his lips. He didn’t care. He never had.
The night dragged on after that, but you barely noticed. Conversation blurred. You laughed when Steve whispered something sweet in your ear, nodded at the right times, but every nerve in your body was tuned to Bucky across the room.
He didn’t approach. Didn’t need to. He leaned against the bar, nursing a whiskey, watching you with that lazy, dangerous intensity, like he was remembering exactly how you sounded when he had you pinned beneath him.
Always watching.
Eventually, people started drifting out. You and Steve said your goodbyes, his hand warm and steady at the small of your back as he guided you toward the private elevator, murmuring, “Let’s get you home, sweetheart. You look tired.”
You were almost there when you realized Bucky was already waiting by the doors, one shoulder against the wall, hands in his pockets, that infuriating smirk still in place.
Steve’s steps slowed. His fingers tightened just slightly on your back, protective not possessive.
The three of you reached the elevator at the same time.
No one spoke as Bucky hit the button with deliberate slowness. The doors slid open. You hesitated, heart pounding but Steve’s hand pressed gently, urging you inside with a soft, “It’s okay.”
Bucky followed.
The doors closed.
The silence was brutal.
Eighty floors never felt so endless.
You stood between them, Steve at your back, warm and solid, his chest rising and falling steady against your spine; Bucky in front of you, close enough that you could smell leather and gun oil and that damn cologne he’d worn since Berlin. No one looked at anyone else. The hum of the elevator was deafening.
Then Bucky spoke, voice low and rough, dripping with snark.
“You happy playin’ house with America’s golden boy now, doll? He tuck you in at night? Read you bedtime stories?”
Your breath caught.
Steve’s hand flexed on your hip, gentle but firm. His voice came out tight, controlled, but laced with quiet steel. “She’s happier than she ever was with you, Buck.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to Steve in the mirrored wall, something old and raw flashing there for just a second before the smirk slid back into place. “That so, Stevie? You holdin’ her hand in the dark when the nightmares come? Or you just real good at the gentle stuff now?”
He took one step closer. The space shrank to nothing.
You swallowed hard. “We’re not doing this, Bucky.”
He tilted his head, studying you with that sharp, mocking glint, voice dropping lower, velvet over broken glass.
“Then why’re you already wet just from me lookin’ at you, huh? Why’re you leanin’ into him like he’s the only thing keepin’ you upright when we both know one word from me and you’d be on your knees?”
The words hit like a slap.
Heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, between your legs. You couldn’t hide it. Couldn’t stop the way your thighs pressed together instinctively, the way your breath hitched.
Steve’s fingers dug in, not painful, just grounding. His breathing had changed, warm against your neck. He didn’t deny it. Didn’t say a word.
Because he could feel it too, the way your body betrayed you, leaning just slightly toward Bucky even as Steve held you close. The way your pulse raced under his palm.
Bucky’s gaze flicked down to where Steve’s hand rested, then back up to your eyes. His smile was slow, sharp, devastating.
“Still the same girl who begged me to ruin her, huh? Golden boy treatin’ you too soft, doll?”
The elevator dinged.
Doors opened onto the residential hallway.
No one moved.
Then Bucky stepped out first, glancing back over his shoulder with that same cocky tilt of his head.
“You comin’?” he asked, voice soft and taunting. “Or you gonna keep pretendin’ you don’t want this as bad as I do?”
Steve’s jaw worked. His eyes met yours in the mirror, dark, conflicted, full of that quiet, aching love that made your heart hurt.
You took one step forward.
Steve followed, hand never leaving your back.
The three of you stood in the narrow residential hallway, dimly lit, the kind of quiet that only comes late at night in a building full of people pretending to sleep. The air felt thick, charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.
Bucky leaned back against the wall opposite the elevator, arms loosely crossed over his chest, that familiar half-smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth. His eyes moved over you first, like he was cataloguing every inch he used to know by heart, then flicked to Steve with lazy, pointed challenge.
“So,” he drawled, voice low and rough around the edges, “we just gonna stand here playin’ statues all night, or are we finally gonna talk about the elephant in the hallway? Namely, how you two couldn’t keep your eyes off me for five damn seconds back there.”
The words landed like a match on dry grass.
You snapped.
All the anger and hurt you’d buried for six months came rushing up your throat at once. You stepped forward before you could think better of it, voice shaking but loud enough to bounce off the walls.
“Talk?” you repeated, incredulous. “You want to talk now? You disappear for half a year, show up uninvited, spend the whole night staring at us like we’re something you misplaced, drop that shit in the elevator and now, now you want to talk?”
Bucky’s smirk flickered, just a fraction but he didn’t look away. If anything, his eyes sharpened, amused and cutting at the same time.
“You don’t get to do this, Bucky,” you pressed on, chest tight. “You don’t get to waltz back in here acting like nothing happened. Like you didn’t scream at me, like you didn’t let me walk out, like you didn’t break everything we had and then just… vanish. We’re not your toys. I’m not yours anymore.”
Your voice cracked hard on the last word. You hated that it did.
Bucky’s jaw flexed. For a second the snark slipped, and something raw flashed across his face, old hurt, maybe regret but he covered it fast, tipping his head with that infuriating little tilt.
“Funny,” he said, voice softer but still edged, “’cause from where I’m standin’, you’re still reactin’ pretty strong for someone who’s supposedly over it.”
Steve, who had been silent the whole time, finally moved.
“Enough,” he said quietly.
It wasn’t loud, wasn’t sharp but it carried the same calm authority he used on missions when everything was going to hell and someone needed to steady the room.
He stepped forward, placing himself not quite between you and Bucky but close enough that his presence filled the space. His hand settled gently on your lower back, warm, grounding, the same way he’d touched you all night.
He looked at Bucky, eyes steady.
“My place is right down the hall,” he said. Not a question. Not an invitation. Just a fact. “If we’re doing this, we do it there. Not out here.”
Bucky held Steve’s gaze for a long beat. Something passed between them, old, complicated, impossible to name. Bucky’s smirk softened into something almost wistful, then sharpened again.
“Yeah,” he murmured, pushing off the wall with lazy grace. “Lead the way, Rogers. Wouldn’t want to keep the happy couple waiting.”
Steve didn’t rise to the bait. He just turned, guiding you forward with that same steady hand on your back, gentle pressure between your shoulder blades saying I’ve got you without needing words. You walked beside him, legs still unsteady, heart still racing.
Bucky followed a few steps behind, boots quiet on the carpet.
No one spoke again until you reached Steve’s door.
Then Bucky’s voice drifted up, low and laced with that familiar snark but quieter than before.
“This conversation’s been a long time coming, doll,” he said. “And I’m not walkin’ away till we’ve had it. All three of us.”
The hallway to Steve’s apartment stretched like it was mocking you tonight. Snow fell heavier outside, fat flakes plastering the lobby windows, and the elevator ride up had been suffocating, three bodies, one shared history, zero words.
Bucky led, shoulders loose under his damp leather jacket, like he’d already mapped every exit. Steve’s hand pressed to the small of your back, warm through your dress but his fingers trembled.
You hadn’t spoken since the bar, since Bucky walked in on you and Steve tangled in a booth, lips locked, hands under clothes. None of you had.
The door shut with soft finality, louder than any slam.
Bucky ignored the lights. Manhattan bled through the windows in cold blue-gold slashes, streetlights flickering, neon buzzing faintly, a distant siren cutting the night. He strode through the living room straight to the open kitchen, boots leaving wet prints that would dry into faint stains.
Steve stopped just inside. “Buck,” he said, voice low, careful, like he was approaching a live wire. “We need to talk. Just… talk. Before anything else.”
Bucky braced both hands on the dark granite island, back to you. He laughed once, short, bitter, echoing off the cabinets. “Talk.” He rolled the word like it tasted like ash. “You always loved talkin’, Stevie. Talked me through every nightmare after the ice. Talked me into believin’ I could be more than a weapon. Hell, you talked me into kissin’ you that first time in the safehouse, remember? When I was still half convinced I’d hurt you.”
He turned slowly, eyes catching the city glow like sharpened steel. “And now you wanna talk? When you’ve got your hands on the one person I thought was still mine?”
Steve’s jaw clenched. He stepped forward. “I’m not pretendin’ that night didn’t gut you. You walked in on us, her and me and yeah, it hurts. It hurts me seein’ you like this too. But we don’t have to make this a war. What we had… what we were… it ended because you walked away. You said you were too broken for me. You left.”
Bucky’s eyes flicked to you, sharp, wounded then back to Steve. “And you waited what, six months? Before you moved on with her? My girl.”
Your stomach twisted. You’d dated Bucky first, wild, intense, healing until the breakup left you both shattered. Then Steve had been there, steady, gentle, pulling you out of the dark. But the lines had always blurred; the three of you had shared too much history for clean breaks.
Bucky moved.
Fast. Silent. His metal hand closed around your wrist, firm, not cruel pulling you against his chest. Cold leather against your bare arms; heat radiated underneath. You inhaled, whiskey, gun oil, winter clinging to him like regret.
Steve’s protest caught in his throat.
Bucky tipped your chin up with two fingers, forcing your gaze to his. Dim light edged his irises silver-blue. “Still so pretty when you’re scared, doll,” he murmured, gravel-rough. Thumb slow across your lower lip. “Still get wet just from me lookin’ at you like you’re mine again. Even after he’s had you.”
A choked sound from Steve, anger, need, guilt.
“Bucky,” Steve said, quieter. “Let her breathe. Please.”
“Don’t.” Bucky’s head snapped toward him. Eyes narrowed. “Don’t you dare, Rogers. Not after you took what was mine while I was still tryin’ to figure out if I deserved to breathe the same air as you.”
Steve froze. Mouth half-open. Words trapped.
Bucky turned back. His grip eased, sliding up your arm, into your hair. He tugged, sharp, possessive. Your head tipped back; a gasp slipped free.
“See that?” he said, voice carrying. “She doesn’t need savin’ right now. She needs to remember who she belonged to first.”
His mouth crashed down, brutal, claiming. Teeth clacked; tongue swept in. You gasped; hands fisted his jacket, pulling closer even as guilt knifed your gut. His flesh hand bunched your dress, dragging it up, calluses scraping thighs.
Steve’s breathing turned ragged, uneven.
Bucky broke the kiss, lips hovering. “Still tastes like mine,” he rasped. “Even after his.”
He spun you, the room blurred until your hips hit the island. Granite chilled your stomach as he bent you over it. Palms slapped down; cold shocked up your arms.
He kicked your feet wider. Metal hand gathered your hair, wrapped it around his fist like a leash, yanked. Your head snapped back; gaze locked across the island to Steve.
Steve stood rooted opposite, hands clamped on the counter, knuckles white. Chest heaving. Thick outline strained his jeans; dark wet spot spreading. His face was wreckage, shame flushing cheeks, hunger darkening eyes, old tenderness cracking through jealousy. He looked torn in half.
Bucky’s flesh hand shoved your dress higher, hooked lace, tore it away. Rip echoed.
You whimpered, thighs trembling.
Fingers found you, slick, swollen. Two metal digits plunged in, cold, curling perfectly. Knees buckled; he pinned you harder, chest to back.
“Fuck, doll,” he groaned against your ear. “So wet for me. Even with him watchin’ like he’s about to break.”
Steve’s voice cracked. “Buck- slow down. She’s-”
“Too much?” Bucky mocked, twisting fingers; you moaned, hips rocking back. “Listen, Stevie. That’s her sayin’ it’s not enough.”
Your voice shook. “Stevie… fuck, it’s too much-”
Steve flinched. Counter creaked. “Bucky. Ease up. Just- give her a second-”
Bucky laughed low, dark. “Ease up? She’s grippin’ like she’s scared I’ll stop.” He withdrew slowly, wet, glistening shoved pants down. Cock pressed hot against your thigh. “You want slow? Watch.”
He thrust in, one long, brutal stroke. Stretch burned; fullness punched air from lungs. You cried out, nails scraping granite.
He set punishing rhythm, deep snaps jolting you forward. Metal hand fisted hair, forcing eyes on Steve. Sweat beaded; dress bunched; hair stuck to damp neck.
“Look at him, sweetheart,” Bucky growled, breath ragged. “Look how hard he is. Hates that he wants this. Bet he’s never taken you rough like I did. Never made you scream like you will tonight.”
Gaze locked Steve’s, glassy, pupils blown, sweat on temple. Destroyed.
“Stevie-” you gasped, voice fracturing. “It’s- fuck- too much-”
Steve hoarse, pleading. “Buck, please. Slow down. She needs-”
Bucky snarled, yanked hair; back arched. “She needs me to fuck her until she forgets how good you felt. Until she remembers why she chose me first.” Lips at ear. “Ain’t that right, doll? Tell him who you really belong to.”
You sobbed, pleasure, overwhelm, tears. “Bucky- please-”
He groaned, hips stuttering. “That’s it. Come for me. Come while he watches me claim what he stole.”
Coil snapped.
You shattered, sobbing his name, walls clamping, thighs quaking. Slick coated thighs; vision whited. Bucky chased, desperate thrusts, buried deep, came with broken groan, spilling hot inside.
Bucky stayed buried inside you for what felt like forever, long after the last hot pulse of his release faded, long after your body stopped clenching in frantic aftershocks and settled into soft, exhausted tremors.
His hips remained locked to yours, heavy and unyielding, like if he pulled away the whole fragile thing between the three of you might shatter. Forehead pressed to your shoulder, metal arm braced beside your head on the island, flesh hand still loosely pinning your wrists above you, not to restrain anymore, but because letting go felt like surrender.
His breathing was uneven against your neck, hot, ragged, almost broken. For one suspended second the cruel edge cracked open, and you felt the raw ache underneath: the way his fingers flexed against your skin, trembling like he was terrified you'd disappear again if he moved.
Like every time he’d lost you, first when he walked away from Steve, then when you followed Steve’s quiet comfort after the dust settled, had carved another hollow in him.
Then he exhaled, slow and shaky, a sound that was half sigh, half sob he tried to swallow. And he pulled out.
The drag was slow, obscene, every ridge and vein etched into oversensitive walls, thick slide of his come following in a warm, shameful rush that dripped down your thigh, pooling sticky at the crease where leg met hip.
The sudden emptiness made you clench around nothing; thighs shook harder, muscles twitching from overuse. Bucky was still hard, flushed dark, glistening with the two of you mixed, veins stark under city light striping the kitchen. He didn’t tuck himself away.
His eyes lifted to Steve.
Steve hadn’t moved, still rooted opposite the island, hands white-knuckled on granite, chest heaving in sharp, uneven bursts. The thick ridge of him strained painfully against denim, dark patch of precome spreading wider, soaking through.
His face was wreckage: cheeks flushed crimson, lips parted on silent pants, eyes glassy and huge and fixed on the place Bucky had just claimed. Shame warred with hunger, fury with grief, old love flickering beneath it all like embers refusing to die.
Bucky’s mouth curved slow, cruel, victorious but the edges cracked like thin ice over pain. He stepped around the island, metal hand sliding under your thighs with surprising gentleness.
“Up you go, doll,” he murmured, voice low, almost tender. Super-soldier strength made it effortless; he lifted you, laid you flat on the cold granite. Your back hit with a shock of chill that made goosebumps race across sweat-slick skin, nipples tightening painfully under the bunched fabric of your dress. Legs dangled off the edge; come leaked slower now, trailing down your ass to the counter in lazy rivulets.
Bucky turned to Steve. Flesh hand tangled in blond strands, not rough. Firm. Guiding. Like muscle memory from nights long ago, when he’d pull Steve close in the dark and whisper promises neither believed anymore. “C’mere, Stevie.”
Steve let himself be pulled forward, knees hitting tile with a dull thud that echoed in the quiet. Hands hovered, trembling, before settling on your thighs, thumbs digging in, opening you wider. His eyes flicked up to yours: glassy, pleading, wrecked then down to the mess between your legs. Guilt twisted his features; he looked like a man staring at everything he’d lost and found again in the worst way.
Bucky cradled the back of Steve’s head, fingers threading through short hair, stroking slow. Almost affectionate. The gesture was so intimate it hurt, like Bucky was remembering every time he’d done this before, in safer moments, when it was just them.
“Go on,” he rasped, voice thick with something that wasn’t just mockery. “Taste what I left in her. Clean her up like you used to clean me up after missions, gentle, careful, like I might break.”
Steve’s breath hitched, chest jerking violently. He leaned in. The first touch of his tongue was devastating: hot, wet stroke lapping at the thick mix of Bucky’s release and your slick. A broken groan ripped from him half sob, half reverence. He licked deeper, nose bumping your clit, tongue pushing inside, scooping, swallowing with filthy wet sounds that bounced off the cabinets. Salt of tears mixed with everything else on his tongue.
You moaned, hips jerking involuntarily. Oversensitive nerves sparked white-hot. Hands fisted Steve’s hair; thighs trembled around his ears. Guilt knifed through the pleasure, Steve’s tears on your skin, Bucky’s quiet breaths above you, the history you were all drowning in.
Bucky watched, still stroking Steve’s head in slow drags. “That’s it, Rogers,” he said, but the taunt cracked halfway. “Eat my come out of your girl. Taste how much she still wants me. Always did, didn’t she? Even when she was tryin’ to love you the way I couldn’t anymore.”
Steve whimpered against you, the vibration shooting straight through. His hips jerked uselessly against air; tears slipped faster down cheeks, mixing with the mess on his chin. He looked up at Bucky for a heartbeat, eyes raw, pleading then dove back in like proving devotion could fix what he’d broken.
Bucky leaned down, lips brushing Steve’s ear. “You’re too soft with her, Stevie,” he whispered, voice fracturing on the old nickname. “Always were. Gentle hands, slow kisses, makin’ love like the world hadn’t already chewed us up. I walked away because I thought you deserved better than a broken thing like me. And you found her, soft like you, steady. But she never needed gentle. She needed taken apart. Owned. Fucked till she forgot the pain. That’s why she’s shakin’ on your tongue right now. Why she screamed mine instead of yours.”
Steve’s tongue faltered, just a heartbeat then redoubled, frantic, desperate. Like he could erase the years of silence, the breakup Bucky forced, the way Steve had let you in to fill the void.
You couldn’t stop the moans. Hands tight in Steve’s hair, hips rocking despite the guilt clawing your chest. The second orgasm coiled vicious and fast, too much sensation, too much emotion.
Bucky kept talking, relentless, but rawer now, armor slipping. “Look at you, Captain fuckin’ America, eatin’ my load like it’s the only way you’ll get a taste of what we had. Bet you never got her this wet. Never made her come this hard. Too busy bein’ the good guy. Holdin’ hands. Whisperin’ I love yous like they’d fix what I broke when I left you.”
Steve groaned muffled, broken. Tears streamed. His cock twitched visibly in his pants, another dark bloom spreading, close, untouched, aching.
You came sharp, shattering cry tearing out. Thighs clamped around Steve’s head, flooding his mouth with fresh slick mixed with Bucky’s release. He drank slower now, softer, almost reverent, like soothing the ache he couldn’t heal.
Bucky pulled him off by the hair, firm but careful. Steve’s face was destroyed: lips swollen and shining, chin dripping, cheeks streaked with tears and come, eyes lost and pleading.
No time to breathe.
Bucky fisted his cock still slick, hard shoved it into Steve’s open mouth.
Steve took him with a choked, grateful moan, eyes fluttering shut. Bucky braced his metal hand on the island beside you, started fucking Steve’s mouth long, deep, possessive strokes. Slow. Like savoring something he'd denied himself for years.
“Fuck, Stevie,” Bucky rasped, staring down, then up at you with something cracked and tender. “Still take it so pretty. Always had the sweetest mouth. Remember that night in the safehouse? After the first wipe wore off? You on your knees, lookin’ up at me like I was still worth somethin’.”
He pulled out, fed himself shallow into your mouth, letting you taste the bitter-salt mix of all three. Then back to Steve. Alternating. Using both throats like he owned them, eyes locking on yours every time he sank into Steve, making sure you saw the way Steve choked, swallowed, took it like it was salvation.
Steve cried openly now, silent tears, spit dripping down chin, hands clutching Bucky’s thighs, pulling him closer even as he gagged. Desperation, love, regret all pouring out.
Bucky’s taunts grew quieter, rougher, more broken. “You treat her like she’ll break, Rogers. I break her every time- she begs for more. Because she knows what it’s like to lose me. To lose us.”
“Bet you never made her choke. Too polite. Too afraid of hurtin’ her like I hurt you.”
“Look at you- gaggin’ on the cock that just bred her. Tears in those pretty eyes. Pathetic. Perfect. Mine.”
Bucky’s rhythm faltered. Breath coming in harsh pants. “Gonna come,” he growled. “But not yet.”
He pulled Steve off, wet pop. Kissed him deep, brutal, desperate. Tongue sweeping in, tasting himself, you, the years of distance. Steve moaned into it, hands clutching Bucky’s jacket like a lifeline, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.
Bucky broke the kiss, voice wrecked. “Down, both of you.”
He guided you off the island, legs shaky, knees buckling. Helped you to the floor beside Steve. Cold tile bit into skin. Bucky stood over you both, cock hard, leaking, chest heaving.
“Suck,” he ordered soft, commanding, almost pleading.
You and Steve leaned in together. Tongues met on him, licking, sucking, sharing the mess. Steve took the head, you licked the shaft, then switched.
Messy. Filthy.
Hands on Bucky’s thighs, in each other’s hair. Bucky groaned, metal hand cradling Steve’s head, flesh in yours guiding, stroking, holding you both like he was afraid to lose this again.
“Fuck- good,” he panted, voice cracking. “Both of you. Mine. Always were.”
He came hard, thick pulses alternating down throats. You swallowed greedily; Steve too. Bucky held you both there till spent, fingers trembling in your hair, then eased out.
Bucky tucked himself away. Looked down eyes soft, terrible, glistening.
“You always looked prettiest like this,” he whispered to Steve, voice raw, no mockery left. “On your knees for me. Beggin’ without words.”
To you, brittle smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “Do me a favor, Rogers. Tuck her in gentle tonight. Whisper those sweet lies you’re so good at. Tell her it’ll be okay. She’ll need it after I reminded her what she- what we- actually want.”
His gaze flicked between you, mocking facade crumbling into something heartbroken, possessive, aching.
“Wouldn’t want her gettin’ cold without me, would we, softie? Or you. You never did like sleepin’ alone.”
Steve’s jaw locked. Tears still falling. He didn’t answer, couldn’t.
Bucky’s laugh was hollow, echoing as he turned.
He walked out.
Door clicked shut.
The apartment was too quiet after Bucky left.
The door’s click lingered like a dropped pin in an empty theater, sharp, final, echoing long after it should have faded into the snow-muffled night outside.
City lights sliced through the half-open blinds in thin, merciless stripes: cold blue pooling across the hardwood, gold bleeding over the rumpled sheets of the couch where everything had started to unravel, catching on the damp, darkening spots where sweat and come and tears had soaked through fabric and skin alike.
Everything looked bruised in that light. Everything felt bruised.
You couldn’t move. Your back was still pressed to the island Bucky had pinned you against earlier, cool and slightly rough against your spine where your dress had ridden up and stayed bunched around your waist like a cruel afterthought.
Your thighs throbbed, deep, pulsing soreness from being stretched wide, used hard, left gaping and empty. Sticky trails of him had cooled on your inner thighs, dripping slow and obscene down the creases of your legs, pooling in small, shameful puddles on the floor beneath you. Your throat burned raw; the taste of him lingered, bitter, salty, thick at the back of your tongue, layered now with the faint copper of Steve’s tears and the musky residue of shared desperation.
Steve stayed on his knees in the middle of the room for what felt like forever. Head bowed so low his forehead nearly touched the floor. Shoulders rising and falling in uneven, shuddering jerks. Hands fisted on his thighs, knuckles blanched white, trembling so violently you could see the fine vibration even from across the dim space.
His shirt clung to him in dark, clinging patches, under the arms, across the broad plane of his chest, sweat and shame and the untouched, humiliating release that had soaked through his jeans without a single stroke.
Face still wrecked: your slick shining on his chin and cheeks, Bucky’s come streaked across his lips, his own tears carving silent, glistening tracks through the mess. He looked smaller than you’d ever seen him. Captain America, America’s unyielding symbol reduced to a broken man on his knees, carrying the weight of two hearts he’d loved and lost in the same night.
Finally, he moved.
Not standing. Crawling.
Palms and knees dragging across the floor with soft, scraping sounds that seemed too loud in the silence. His breathing was ragged, wet, half sobs he tried to swallow. When he reached you he paused, palms flat on the floor beside your hips, head hanging low for a long heartbeat, then pushed himself up with careful, shaking effort. Every inch he rose looked like it cost him something vital.
You hadn’t made it fully upright. You were half-slumped against the island, legs splayed awkwardly, dress twisted and useless, arms limp at your sides. Staring at the ceiling. Feeling every ache, every bruise, every ghost touch of metal and flesh and regret.
Steve slid one arm under your knees, the other around your back. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice cracked open, hoarse, barely more than breath. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m here.”
He lifted you like you weighed nothing, super-soldier strength made tender, almost hesitant, like he was afraid the wrong pressure would break you both.
Your head fell against his shoulder; you inhaled cedar soap undercut by salt and the faint metallic edge of his own arousal still clinging to his skin. His heartbeat hammered against your cheek: wild, unsteady, stuttering like it couldn’t decide whether to race or stop entirely.
He carried you through the dim living room, past the kitchen island still smeared with fingerprints and slick and the faint metallic sheen of Bucky’s arm, down the short hallway to the bedroom. The door was already ajar; pale city light spilled across the unmade bed in thin, cold stripes. He didn’t turn on the lamp. Just eased you down onto the mattress with excruciating care, like setting something fragile on cracked glass.
You sank into the cool sheets with a soft, broken exhale.
Body heavy.
Aching.
Empty in ways that went bone-deep.
Steve didn’t speak at first. He knelt beside the bed, one large hand resting on your knee, thumb tracing slow, soothing circles over the skin there, round and round, like he could smooth away the soreness with repetition alone. His eyes, red-rimmed, lashes clumped with drying tears searched your face like he was looking for cracks, for permission, for forgiveness he didn’t know how to ask for.
“I’m gonna take care of you,” he said quietly. “Okay? Just… let me.”
You nodded, small, tired. Fresh tears pricked; you let them fall. No point hiding anymore.
He stood, disappeared into the bathroom. Came back with a warm, damp washcloth folded neatly in one hand and a small ceramic bowl of water in the other. The faint scent of lavender soap followed him, something gentle he kept stocked for nights when the nightmares came or when missions left him raw or when the three of you used to collapse together in exhausted heaps and pretend the world outside didn’t exist.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Gently parted your thighs, careful, no pressure, no demand. The washcloth was warm against your skin; he wiped in slow, methodical strokes up the insides of your legs, cleaning the sticky, cooling trails Bucky had left behind.
No rush.
No judgment.
Just quiet, focused tenderness. His other hand rested on your hip, steady anchor, thumb brushing the bone there in small, unconscious circles.
Every pass of the cloth made you shiver, oversensitive nerves sparking, then settling under the gentleness. He cleaned between your legs with the same reverence: soft dabs along the swollen, tender folds, careful around your clit where even the lightest touch made you flinch. When the cloth brushed too close, accidental, feather-light you gasped; he froze instantly, eyes flicking to yours in panic.
“Sorry,” he murmured, voice thick. “Didn’t mean to-”
Finished between your legs, then moved to your inner thighs, your lower stomach where stray drops had landed, the crease of your hips. The cloth cooled by the end; he set it aside, took a fresh one from the bowl, dampened it again, and wiped your face, cheeks, chin, the corners of your mouth where spit and tears and come had dried into salty crusts. His thumb lingered under your eye, catching the last tear that slipped free.
“You’re safe,” he said, so soft it cracked in half. “With me. Always. I swear it.”
He helped you out of the ruined dress, lifting your arms like you were a child, sliding the fabric over your head with infinite patience, folding it carefully even though it was stained and wrinkled beyond saving. He set it on the chair anyway. Naked now, skin prickling in the cool air. Goosebumps rose; you shivered once.
He pulled the comforter back, guided your legs under the sheets, eased you down fully. The cotton was cool against your overheated body; you sighed as it settled over bare skin.
Steve stood for a long moment, watching you, chest rising and falling unevenly then started to undress himself. Shirt peeled off slowly, revealing the broad planes of his chest, the faint red crescent marks where your nails had dug in during the chaos, the older scars that Bucky used to trace with reverent fingers. Pants and boxers next; he kicked them aside without looking, wiped himself clean with quick, efficient strokes of the cloth, practical, almost mechanical.
Then he climbed in beside you, careful not to jostle the bed too much. Pulled you into his arms immediately. Your back to his chest, his arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed wide over your stomach like he needed the skin-to-skin contact to believe you were still real. His chin tucked over your shoulder; breath warm and uneven against your neck.
He tugged the comforter higher, tucking it around your shoulders with careful hands, smoothing it down your arms, making sure no part of you was exposed to the chill creeping in from the window. The gesture was so achingly tender it dragged fresh tears from you, silent, hot, soaking into the pillow.
“I love you,” he whispered into your hair, voice breaking on every syllable. “Even the parts of you that still love him. Even the parts of me that still do. I never stopped. Not for a second.”
You turned your head just enough to press your lips to the rough stubble of his jaw. “I love you too,” you said, voice shaking. “And I’m scared. Scared we’ll never figure this out. Scared he walked out for good this time. Scared he’ll come back and we’ll tear each other apart again trying to share what’s left.”
Steve’s arm tightened around you, almost too tight, like he could physically hold the pieces together. “Then we’ll be scared together,” he murmured against your temple. “And we’ll wait. However long it takes. However many nights it takes. I’m not letting go of you. Not again.”
His fingers found yours under the covers, threaded them together, squeezed once. Hard. Like a vow.
You closed your eyes. The city hummed outside, indifferent, endless. Snow tapped softly against the window now, a faint white noise that almost covered the hollow space Bucky’s absence had carved out. The hole was there, in the room, in your chest, in the inches between you and Steve but Steve’s heartbeat against your back was steady now.
Slower.
Stronger.
An anchor in the dark.
He kissed the nape of your neck, soft, lingering, lips trembling just slightly.
“Sleep, sweetheart,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”
You believed him.
Just enough.
Tears dried on your cheeks. Breath evened out. The ruin didn’t disappear but it quieted, settled into something you could carry for one more night.
Together.
You drifted off in his arms, tucked in, held, cleaned, not fixed.
But not alone.
And for tonight, with Steve’s warmth wrapped around you and the faint scent of lavender still clinging to the sheets, that was enough to let the darkness take you gently.
The bedroom was dark except for the faint silver glow from the city outside the window, same blinds, same cold stripes of light across the sheets, but everything felt different now.
Softer.
Quieter.
The kind of quiet that settles after you’ve learned to live with scars instead of tearing them open every night.
Steve was finally asleep beside you. Deep, even breaths. One thick arm slung heavy across your waist, anchoring you to him even in sleep; the other tucked under his pillow. His hair was still mussed from your fingers earlier, lips faintly swollen from the slow, thorough kisses you’d traded for hours.
You’d fucked tonight, gentle at first, exploratory, then desperate as the weeks of careful healing cracked open, then gentle again until you both unraveled in each other’s arms. No taunts. No ghosts crowding the room. Just skin on skin, whispered I love yous between gasps, like the words were the only truth still holding weight.
You were still catching your breath, heart rate drifting down, skin cooling, when your phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Once. Sharp. Insistent.
You glanced at Steve, out cold, face slack and peaceful in a way it hadn’t been for weeks and reached over carefully so the mattress wouldn’t dip too much. The screen lit your face in cold blue.
Unknown number.
Your stomach dropped. You knew.
The first message hit like a slap.
Unknown number 2:34am
Still hear you screaming my name while Rogers watched you fall apart. Bet he still jerks off thinking about how wet you got for me. How you begged. Tell me you don’t get soaked every time you remember my cock splitting you open on that island, doll. Tell me you’re not clenching right now just picturing it.
Your breath snagged in your throat.
Another buzz. Immediate. Relentless.
Unknown number 2:33am
I know he’s asleep next to you, playing house like a pathetic little boyfriend. I know he fucks you like you’re made of porcelain now, slow, boring rolls, sweet kisses, whispering how much he loves you while he barely scratches the surface. Pathetic. You need teeth. You need bruises. You need someone who’ll wreck you so hard you forget your own name instead of holding your hand through it like a goddamn therapy session.
Heat flooded low in your belly, traitorous, instant, humiliating. Your thighs pressed together on instinct. You could still feel the ghost of Bucky’s metal grip digging into your hips, the brutal stretch, the way he’d snarled Stevie like it was both a claim and a wound he refused to let heal.
Steve shifted in his sleep. His arm tightened around you reflexively, pulling you flush against his chest. Warm. Safe. Loving. His nose nuzzled the back of your neck, a soft, unconscious sound escaping him.
Another message.
Unknown number 2:34am
You were mine first, doll. Remember that? You were mine before Rogers ever laid a fucking finger on you. Then you went behind my back and cheated on me with him, let Captain America fuck you while you were still coming home to my bed every night. Now it’s his turn. One word and I’ll let you do the exact same thing to him. I’ll fuck you right beside him while he sleeps like the trusting idiot he is. I’ll make you bite the pillow so he doesn’t wake up to the sound of you coming on the cock that had you first. Or maybe I’ll wake him up. Let him watch again. Let him see what you really look like when you’re being properly ruined by the man who owned you before he ever did.
Your pulse thundered in your ears. Fingers shook on the screen.
The three little dots appeared. He was typing again.
Next message landed like a blade.
Unknown number 2:34am
Fair’s fair, sweetheart. You cheated on me with him once. Now come cheat on him with me. You know you want to. You know part of you still belongs to me. Say it. Tell me you’re touching yourself right now thinking about how I’d pin you down and fuck his name right out of your mouth. One word. I’ll be there before he even stirs.
Your free hand clenched the sheet. Shame and want twisted together so tight you couldn’t breathe right.
Steve murmured something soft in his sleep, your name, maybe, or just a sigh of contentment. His lips brushed your shoulder, tender, unconscious. The arm around you flexed again, holding you like you were the center of his world.
You stared at the glowing screen.
Thought about the weeks since that night.
Steve crying into your hair the morning after. Steve kissing every bruise Bucky left like he could erase them with his mouth. Steve fucking you slow and deep last week, eyes locked on yours, whispering how much he loved you, how he’d fight for this, for you, even if it meant sharing pieces of your heart he could never fully touch.
Thought about Bucky.
The way he’d walked out like he was leaving forever, but the door had clicked shut like a promise he’d be back to collect what was his.
The way part of you still ached for the violence of him. The way he broke you open and made it feel like worship.
But right now, in this bed, with Steve’s heartbeat steady and warm against your back, something cold and clear crystallized:
You could want both.
You could love Steve with everything soft and safe and healing in you.
And still crave the ruin Bucky offered like a drug you couldn’t quit.
But you didn’t have to choose tonight.
You didn’t have to answer.
You turned the phone face-down on the nightstand.
Silent. Dark.
Steve shifted again, nuzzling closer, murmuring something sleepy and sweet against your neck, wordless comfort.
You slid your hand over his, lacing your fingers through his bigger ones. Squeezed once. Hard.
Then the phone buzzed one last time.
You didn’t want to look.
But you did.
One final message waited on the screen, colder and sharper than the rest.
Unknown number 2:36am
Run back to me whenever you’re ready, whore. We both know you will. You cheated on me with him once. Now be a good girl and cheat on him with me. I’ll be waiting ;)
pairing: teenage dirtbag!steve rogers x nerd!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, college au, banter, alcohol, second chance, friends to strangers to lovers, angst, miscommunication, arguments, fluff, public sex, fingering, finger sucking, dry humping, names: "good girl" "baby"
word count: 14.5k
a/n: its finally out... thank you to the readers who are supporting my dirtbag series! dedicated to my best steve girlies who watched me slave over this: @blowingbarnes @tw1sters @epiphanyrogers
☆ main masterlist || steve's playlist || dirtbag marvel series || bucky's story ☆
synopsis:
Years of drift had turned you and Steve Rogers into strangers. Now being in college, he was the dirtbag guitarist in a rising band, and you were the quiet girl buried in her books. You figured your friendship was over—until he discovered you were the secret pen behind his rival band's greatest hits. Suddenly, Steve is miraculously crawling back.
You remember it as clear as day.
Steve’s voice—which was much higher than yours back then—squealing excitedly about how he was going to become the lead guitarist in the biggest rock band to ever exist. After school, he’d always invite you over to play Guitar Hero with him and his other best friend, Bucky.
“This game blows,” little Bucky would spit, sliding the guitar strap off and setting the toy down impatiently. “I’m not even havin’ fun.”
“Don’t be like that in front of the missus, Buck!” Steve would stammer, embarrassed by how his friend was overreacting in front of you.
It was always cute how easy it was for him to get flustered whenever you were near.
“Just… just let her play the guitar, then.”
Bucky would roll his eyes, annoyed by how easily smitten Steve was, and hand you the plastic neck. “Fine. When your mom buys the drum kit, that’s when I’ll play.”
And the minute Sarah bought the drums, and the microphone next, it was over for the three of you. You and Bucky were at Steve’s house every day, practically joined at the hip. You would take the mic, Steve would take the guitar, and Bucky would go crazy on the drums.
Their passion for music was exhilarating, and it naturally rubbed off on you. Although your younger self didn’t understand the significance of music at the time, all you knew was that it felt and sounded good.
It was loud, jumpy, and extremely fucking catchy.
It was ultimately you, Steve and Bucky.
One day in high school, Steve was sitting at the edge of your bed again, idly picking out the chords of a secondhand Strat to the tune of Wake Me Up When September Ends. You were at your desk, writing in your notebook and humming quietly to yourself.
“You know,” Steve had spoken up suddenly, “you’ve got a pretty voice.”
You smiled, your eyes never leaving the page. “I know. You tell me this every time.”
“Oh?” Steve hummed, stopping his picking and setting the guitar down. “Conceited much?”
You only chuckled, shaking your head. “Well, when you remind me every single day, I start to believe it.”
Steve shifted on the mattress, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He watched the smooth movement of your pen and the way you’d chew on your lip every time you wrote an interesting line—one you would never share with the class.
“You’re always filling those pages,” he pointed out, nodding toward the notebook. “Is it more of your poetry? Or just… thoughts?”
You shrugged, a bit shy about it. “A bit of both, I guess. Just whatever’s in my head.”
Steve let out a low hum. You expected him to pick his Stratocaster back up and start strumming again, but he didn’t. His blue eyes brightened with an idea as he scooted closer.
“You’ve got the voice, and you’ve clearly got the rhymes. Why don’t you try writing some songs?”
You let out a laugh before you could stop yourself. Steve was always quick with a compliment, but he had never suggested something like this before.
“Very funny, Stevie.”
“What?” he frowned slightly, though his eyes were still bright. “I’m being serious. You could totally pump out some great songs.” He leaned back, folding his arms over his chest with a smug smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one writing the greatest hits for my band.”
“Your upcoming band?” you finally swiveled in your chair to look at him, a brow arched in amusement. “You mean the one that’s currently just you and Bucky?”
“Hey! The right guitarist and bassist will come to us soon enough,” he countered. “Just you watch.”
You rolled your eyes playfully, turning back to your desk to hide the heat in your cheeks. “No, Steve. I don’t have the talent for that. I’m not exactly musically inclined like you and Bucky.”
Steve shrugged casually, pressing on. “You never know if you don’t try.”
You knew exactly where this was going.
After years of friendship, you knew Steve was obsessed with people reaching their ‘full potential.’ He was a person who craved creativity and expression; you were someone who craved comfort and familiarity.
As much as you loved to read and write and sing, you knew you’d never find a stable career on talent alone.
“I’m fine right here,” you muttered, picking up your pen and trying to find your place in your notebook. “Writing poems is one thing. Putting them to music and letting people hear them is a different thing entirely.”
You hoped he’d sense your discomfort and drop it, but he didn’t.
“That’s the problem,” Steve said, dropping his playful tone with a sigh. “You always choose to be comfortable. You’re always hidin’ behind these books… or burying yourself in homework. You need to actually put yourself out there for once.”
You felt a prickle of annoyance under your skin. Rather than sounding like a best friend, he started sounding like a father. You laughed awkwardly, trying to diffuse the tension building up inside you.
“Okay, okay, I get it. Professor Rogers has spoken. Can we stop now?”
“Come on, listen to me for once,” Steve pressured, his persistence only fueling your irritation. “You’re going to spend your whole life studying things other people did instead of doing something for yourself. Don’t you want more than just…” he gestured to the stacks of books and papers cluttering your room, “…this?”
You always knew Steve meant well, but you hated how easily he could make your world feel small.
“Don’t talk to me like that, Steve—”
“You’re incredibly talented!” Steve let out an incredulous laugh. “I’m just looking out for you, sweetheart. I hate to see all that talent wasted on something meaningless—”
“Meaningless?” you scoffed, finally spinning your chair around and standing up to face him. “Are you kidding? I work hard to secure my future! I do it because I want to. You don’t ever hear me talking about how… about how…”
You paused, clenching your fists at your sides before you said something you’d regret. But Steve kept biting. He stood up, and with the massive growthspurt he had in high school, it was his turn to look down at you.
Making you feel small yet again.
“About what?” he challenged.
You clenched your jaw, thinking you’d get away without screwing it all up, but as you lifted your eyes to meet his—condescending and belitting—the words slipped out anyway.
“About how you’re chasing an unrealistic fantasy!” you snapped cruelly. “I’m working for a future, Steve. A real one. While you and Bucky are just… playing around in a garage, making noise and calling it a career!”
Steve’s face fell.
The eyes that had been narrowing down at you widened in shock, and his shoulders dropped the minute your words began to echo back in the room. In all your years of knowing him, you had never seen him look like that, and the realization that you were the cause made you desperate to turn back time, but it was all too late.
“Steve… I—”
“This is what you’ve thought?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper. “All this time… while you were over at my place, or me sitting here on your bed, listening to me play… you thought it was just noise?”
Christ.
You had attacked the one thing he loved most.
What kind of friend were you?
“Steve…” your voice cracked. You reached out, your fingers hovering near his sleeve, but he took a sudden step back. “I—I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. You just kept pushing me… and I—”
“No,” Steve scoffed, stepping completely out of your reach. He picked up his Stratocaster, leaving nothing but a dent on your bedsheets where the guitar had rested. “I think you meant exactly what you said.”
He didn’t look at you again as he headed for the door.
“I’ll see you around.”
Then the door shut coldly.
Years had passed, and that was the last time you had ever truly spoken to Steve.
You had tried reaching out through texts and emails, you would even shown up at his house and waited outside his classrooms, but he never extended a hand back. He would give you a quick, dismissive side glance before walking the other way. You even tried talking to Bucky, but he would only scratch the back of his neck awkwardly and make some excuse for him.
It wasn’t entirely your fault, anyway. Right?
Steve had pushed you, and you had finally stood up for yourself. He owed you an apology just as much as you owed him one. But after all those failed attempts to resolve things, you decided to leave the ball in his court.
Now that you’re in college, the ball is still in his court.
Unmoved.
You missed Steve dearly.
He was your only true friend growing up, and now that you’d fallen apart, there was an empty space in your heart reserved just for him.
You thought by now you’d finally gotten over the broken friendship, but how could you? You both went to the same college, and his band’s gig posters were plastered on every wall on campus.
“CIVIL WAR” was splayed across the top in a spray painted design. Underneath was a grainy photo of the band; even through the blurry print, you could pick out Steve right in the center, screaming into the microphone. His hair was shaved at the sides and shaggy at the top, and stubble traced the line of his chiseled jaw.
He also looked like he had been working out.
He looked incredible, and it only made your heart ache for him more.
Below the photo, a message was scrawled in a bold font that was clearly written by Bucky.
Leave your heart at the door and come rock with us at Shield Dive this Friday. Doors open at 9, good fucking music at 10.
“You goin’?” a familiar voice asked from your left.
You lifted your head, clutching your book to your chest at the sight of him. Bucky stood there with a stack of papers in his hands—more posters for the band, you assumed.
“Oh,” you breathed, forcing the kind of polite smile you’d give any other stranger. Because that’s what Bucky was to you now. A total stranger.
“No. It’s… uh, it’s not my place,” you said lightly, followed by a chuckle that sounded more like a sigh. “I’m sure you guys will sound great. You always do. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
You ducked your head, ready to end the awkward encounter, but Bucky spoke up before you could walk away completely.
“He would want you there, you know.”
You froze, but you didn’t turn around completely. You knew exactly who he was referring to, but you couldn’t let yourself believe it. If Steve really wanted you at his shows, why hadn’t he ever reached back out?
You could only look over your shoulder and give Bucky a sad, tight smile—a silent thank you for the pitiful attempt at making you feel better, though it only made you feel worse.
“No, he wouldn’t.”
It was an hour before their set at Shield Dive, and the bar was already packed—more crowded than they’d ever seen it. The small band originally scheduled to open had canceled at the last minute, and a new group had stepped in to take their place.
“Christ,” Natasha muttered, peeking past the curtains with her bass strapped to her side. “It’s a full house.” She turned to Steve with a grin. “Bet you didn’t expect that tonight, Rogers.”
Steve crossed his arms, his jaw tensing as he held back a snarky reply. He certainly hadn’t expected their rivals, F.R.I.D.A.Y., to be the ones opening for them. His pride was too strong to admit his confusion; why was a band with more hits than Civil War performing as an opener?
He was starting to think Tony Stark—the lead singer and guitarist—was doing it just to mess with them.
Sam, sensing Steve’s irritation, clapped a comforting hand on Steve's shoulder. “You good, man?”
Bucky was watching silently. He knew his best friend well enough not to even ask.
Whatever Steve was feeling, Bucky was likely feeling it, too. But Steve was the bandleader—the last thing he needed to do was lose his cool in front of the others.
“Just peachy,” Steve finally replied.
He uncrossed his arms and pried his eyes away from the curtain, where Stark and his crew were setting up on the stage that was supposed to be theirs.
“We’re just going to have to play better than they do,” Steve told the group. “If half these people came for F.R.I.D.A.Y., then we’re going to be the reason they stay.”
“I know all of you folks are stoked to hear Civil War,” Tony Stark’s voice rang through the microphone, pulling Steve’s attention back to the gap in the curtain where Nat stood.
“But my gang and I have a couple of songs we want to run through for you first—” before Tony could even finish the sentence, the crowd erupted into a roar that did nothing to soothe the irritation building in the pit of Steve’s stomach.
Tony grinned smugly, his designer sunglasses reflecting the harsh stage lights. Steve scoffed under his breath. Who the hell wears sunglasses indoors?
“Covers for now. We want to keep it simple for you guys before the real show starts,” Tony said, putting a condescending emphasis on the word real. “War Machine, AC/DC—” The crowd cheered. “Spiders, System of a Down—” Groups of girls screamed Peter’s name at the top of their lungs. “And of course, Iron Man. Black Sabbath—”
The entire dive bar started to shake from the volume of people cheering and stomping their feet.
The opening chords of War Machine began to rip through Shield Dive, and the crowd went feral immediately. It was loud and as much as Steve hated to admit it, they sounded incredible. Peter Parker moved with an experienced precision that didn’t seem possible for someone who looked like he belonged at a high school prom and nowhere near a dive bar.
“I don’t get it,” Steve mumbled grumpily, his arms locked tight over his broad chest. “How does a kid like Parker end up with that crowd? He’s a prodigy. Why is he hanging out with old fucks like Rhodey and Vision?”
The audience was eating it up.
Every single person in the shitty dive bar was tucked firmly under Tony Stark’s thumb. It wasn’t just that they sounded great, it was the principle of it. Why was someone like Tony Stark—who had enough of his mommy and daddy’s money to buy the venue—playing an opening set of covers right before theirs?
Bucky stood just behind Steve, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed in a perfect mirror of his best friend. As he watched Peter, he chewed on his toothpick, his jaw clenching as he listened to every hit of the snare.
“Kid’s alright,” Bucky mumbled. “Still not as good as me, though.”
The rest of the setlist finally was nearing its end, and as they finished Iron Man, the crowd kept roaring for more. Steve clicked his tongue and turned back to the rest of the group, grabbing the neck of his guitar.
“They’re wrapping up,” he said. “Come on. We’re up next—”
“But before we let you go—we’ve got one more!”
Steve snapped his head back toward the stage. Tony was still standing dead center, the feedback from the speakers catching his loud, snarky voice and throwing it across the room.
Steve’s hand tightened on the neck of his guitar. Are you fucking kidding me?
They were already over their time.
“We’ve got a song for you folks—a special one! Because it hasn’t even been released yet,” Tony smiled, peering cockishly through his sunglasses as the crowd began to cheer again. “And we’re going to be performing it for the very first time here tonight—with you guys!”
The dive bar went ballistic. Steve was already losing his cool after finding out F.R.I.D.A.Y. was performing, and now with Stark and his goons going way past their scheduled showtime to debut a brand new song—Steve felt like his head was going to explode.
“A new song?” Bucky’s brows furrowed, giving Steve a look.
Peter started with the rapid fire snare snapping, building up to a crescendo that only Dave Grohl could fucking do with Everlong, which only built the hype of the crowd even more.
Rhodey’s melody guitar was haunting, and the moment Tony stepped up to the microphone and sang the opening verse to the crowd, Steve knew he was cooked.
The beginning verse, the chorus—it was all incredible. If it wasn’t Peter’s drumming or Tony’s voice that sold the song, then it was Vision’s bass solo that would sell them out. It’s rare for a song to be a hit based on a bassline, but when you have a catchy Deacon or McVie style groove, you’re going to get pretty fucking far.
It was, without a question, the best song Steve had ever heard.
It was the kind of song that changed a band’s career overnight—the kind of song he’d been trying to write his entire life.
Everyone under the roof knew it. Hell, even his own band behind him knew they couldn’t compete with that. The only way someone could successfully follow an opening like this was if they were Bowie performing right after Queen at Live Aid in '85.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Bucky breathed next to him, watching them with a frustrated frown. “They’re good.”
By the time the song ended, Steve was already feeling deeply discouraged. The crowd was loud, Steve couldn’t even hear his own thoughts cursing Tony out.
Tony caught his breath, wiping a stray strand of hair out of his face as he smiled into the mic. He waited for the cheering to die down just enough to be heard, that smug, infuriating grin plastered on his stubbled chin.
“Wow,” he drawed. “Didn’t expect you guys to enjoy it that much—but who the hell am I kidding? Who wouldn’t like that song?”
Steve gritted his teeth. That smug asshole.
“But we can’t take all the credit for that masterpiece. We had a little help from a brilliant new talent—a dear friend of mine who’s goin’ to be running this town before long.”
Tony pulled the microphone from the stand and stepped toward the edge of the stage.
“She couldn’t be here tonight, but I still want to shout her out with the credit she deserves. Let’s hear it for the writer behind the music!”
And the moment Tony said your name, the world and all its sounds came to a sudden halt.
Steve no longer heard the screaming of the crowd or Tony’s aggravating voice.
All he could hear was the echo of that name.
Your name.
“Steve.”
You.
“Are you okay?”
You had started writing songs? Since when?
“Steve, we’re up—”
And out of all the artists you could’ve written for, you’d been writing for his biggest rivals?
“Steve!” Bucky’s voice cut sharply against Steve’s thoughts. “Come on. Get your head in the game, man. We’re live in—”
“Bucky,” Steve turned to his friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Did you not hear what Tony just said? He said her name—”
“I know,” Bucky interrupted, his face tense as he frowned. “I heard him, which fucking blows, but there’s nothing we can do about it right now.” He motioned past the curtains to where F.R.I.D.A.Y. was clearing their gear. “Right now, we have a show to perform. And we need our leader up stage and center with a clear head.”
Steve clenched his jaw. He had everything but a clear head. There were a thousand things he wanted to say—likely the exact same things Bucky was already thinking.
But his best friend was right. They had a show to put on.
“You’re right,” Steve finally sighed, nodding to himself to try and amp his energy up. “Let’s go.”
And the show they performed after F.R.I.D.A.Y. was a disaster.
It was the start of a new week, and since this morning, you’ve had an uneasy feeling in your gut.
Maybe it was the stress of all the upcoming assignments and exams that were lined up for you, but those usual anxieties have always felt familiar. This feeling was different.
You were alone in the quiet library, keeping your head down as you buried yourself in a stack of textbooks. Occasionally, you’d lift your gaze to check the clock hanging in the center of the room—but what you didn’t expect to find waiting for you was a pair of familiar blue eyes.
Steve.
Catching his eyes across campus wasn’t unusual, yet it always made your heart skip a beat—as if it were trying to reach out to him. You looked away, as you always did, and by now he’d usually look away too or already be gone, off doing his own thing. That was the end of it.
But as you glanced up again, expecting to see the empty space where he had just been standing, your heart let out another slow and painful thump.
Steve wasn’t gone. And he wasn’t looking away.
You looked away again, waited a good five seconds this time, then dared to look back up.
He was walking straight for your table, his stride purposeful with his worn messenger bag slung lazily over his shoulder. His expression was completely unreadable. You felt your breath hitch as your heart began thumping nervously.
Maybe he’s just looking for a book, you tried to convince yourself. Maybe there’s a textbook he needs for a lecture right behind me.
Your grip on your pencil tightened, and you scribbled something at the edge of the paper to make yourself look productive, waiting for the sound of his footsteps to pass. Instead, the shadow of a broad frame eclipsed the light hanging over your table.
Steve stopped directly in front of you, his presence taking over your every sense.
“I need to talk to you,” he said firmly, not even bothering to use an inside voice for the library.
It was the first time he had spoken to you directly in years, and this was the first thing he had to say? Not a simple “hello,” or “it’s been a while,” or even a “how are you?”
With his not-so-quiet voice filling the silence of the library, students who were already mildly agitated by his sudden eruption began snapping their heads toward him.
You shifted awkwardly in your seat, still avoiding eye contact. You could feel the heat of the embarrassment crawling up your neck from the collective stares of the students—and from him.
“Not now, Steve,” you whispered.
Steve didn’t move a muscle. If anything, he seemed to plant his feet firmer against the carpet.
“No,” he said, his voice still loud enough to grate on the nerves of the surrounding students. “I think we should really talk.”
You couldn’t risk seeing whatever expression was on his face—whether it was guilt, pity, or that stubborn righteousness he always carried. You just flipped a page of your notes, the paper crinkling loudly.
“I’m busy studying, Steve,” you muttered dismissively. “Some other time.”
The wooden chair in front of you was pulled back suddenly, scraping against the carpet, and the empty space was abruptly filled by Steve’s large presence. He sat down across from you, dropping his messenger bag onto the desk with a heavy thud to catch your attention. He didn’t pull out a single book or a laptop. He just sat there, looking like a no-good dirtbag completely out of place in a library filled with students actually trying to get work done.
“Okay. Fine.” He rested his elbows on the desk, cupping his chin in one hand. “I’ll wait, then.”
The sheer audacity of Steve Grant Rogers made your skin prickle.
You tried to be the bigger person by ignoring him entirely, focusing on the work in front of you—but how could you when you could feel his gaze piercing through you the entire time?
Curious, you lifted your head to give him a wary glance, and he caught it immediately, flashing a smile.
That ‘all-good,’ charming Mr. American smile of his.
With an exhausted sigh, you quickly shoved your chair back to get up and make yourself busy. Steve’s eyes followed you, one brow raised curiously.
“Where are you going?”
“Need to find a reference book,” you mumbled, walking off toward the tower of bookshelves before giving him a chance to respond.
You heard the groan of Steve’s chair as he pushed himself up to chase after you. You turned a corner, then another, putting rows of dusty encyclopedias between you. All you needed was a second to breathe—a second to stop your hands from shaking. Finding yourself in an empty aisle, you thought you had finally lost him. With a relieved sigh, you began browsing the shelves for a book you actually needed for an assignment.
You reached for a thick, leather-bound volume on the top shelf, straining on your tippy toes until your calves ached. Just as your fingertips brushed the spine, a large hand reached over your shoulder, hooking the book and pulling it down to help you.
You let out a relieved sigh, dropping back onto your heels. “Thanks—”
But when you turned to take it, Steve was standing right in front of you, holding the book high above his head and well out of your reach.
“I need to talk to you,” he repeated, having the decency to be at least a little bit quieter this time.
“Steve,” you sighed, reaching up for the book. “I’m really not looking forward to talking right now—”
“I don’t care,” he cut in with that look he always got when he was being stubborn.
He leaned over you, pinning you against the shelf as the book dangled in his hand. The height difference only reminded you of the night he’d looked down at you in your own bedroom—making you feel small all over again.
“I’m not giving you this book back until you talk to me.”
You scoffed in disbelief, a bitter smile straining at his audacity. “Are you being serious right now?”
When you realized he was, you shook your head and tried to push past him. “Fine. Keep it, then—”
Steve stepped to the side, blocking your exit. He pinned one arm to the shelf, his tatted forearm cutting off your path and blocking your view.
“I heard the set that F.R.I.D.A.Y. played at Shield Dive,” he said, his voice dropping. “I heard the song. Your song.”
You felt your heart drop.
In all the times Steve had performed, it had never once occurred to you that his band would cross paths with F.R.I.D.A.Y. And what did he mean, playing at Shield Dive? You’d secretly supported Civil War from the sidelines—a bittersweet loyalty to Steve and Bucky—but even you knew that Tony’s band wouldn't usually bother with a shitty dive bar.
You tried to keep your face blank, but your shaky voice betrayed you.
“I don’t… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammered.
Steve didn’t buy it for a second. It had been years since he’d spoken to you, sure, but he still knew exactly what you looked like when you were lying.
He stepped closer, the tips of his boots nearly touching your shoes. He was so close now that you were certain if he stood still long enough, he’d be able to hear your heart beat.
“Please don’t lie to me.”
“Get out of my way, Steve,” you tried to move past him once more, your voice tight. “I need to study.”
But Steve stepped in front of you again, closing you in. He let out a deep exhale, as if he were carefully pondering every word, terrified of screwing this up even more than he already had.
“Look—I know you and I got off on the wrong foot years ago,” he said gently, his gaze softening as he caught your eye. “And I’m sorry I haven’t reached out. I just...” He paused, looking hesitant, before forcing a small, bittersweet smile. “But you’re making music now? That’s… that’s incredible.”
You bit your lip, feeling apprehensive.
“Steve…”
“I’m really happy for you,” he said softly—so soft it sounded solemn. “I always knew you had a secret talent for that sort of thing—that song they played sounded amazing. The fact that you’re actually pursuing it… that’s really special.”
He took another shaky breath and let it out. “I’m happy for you,” he repeated, almost as if he were trying to convince himself.
You blinked at him, completely caught off guard. You had spent all this time bracing yourself for the “I told you so,” or the condescending “Why didn’t you listen to me?” that you were sure he’d eventually throw in your face.
But it never came.
The strain in Steve’s voice gave you a glimpse into what he was truly feeling—and it resonated so sharply with your own heart, it hurt. It was a mirror of your own grief for the friendship, along with a hollow longing for each other’s presence again.
The vulnerability in his blue eyes made your shoulders ease just slightly, your tone softening.
“Thank you,” you admitted. “I didn’t think it was something I’d actually get into, but…”
Under Steve’s gaze, it was easy to trail off and feel sheepish. You wanted to open up to him, to thank him for finding your new talent, but a small, deep part of you wasn’t ready to let your walls down just yet. He had broken no-contact for the first time in years, and it was only after discovering you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y.
There had to be something more to this than a simple “I’m happy for you.”
But still, your heart missed him—and in this moment, your heart won.
“What is it that you wanted to talk about?” you questioned softly.
Steve looked down at you, his thumb tracing the edge of the book’s spine. There was so much he wanted to demand— a thousand questions clawing at his throat. He wanted to know why you were writing for Tony Stark, of all people. He wanted to know when you’d started, and if you were doing it just to spite him after he’d encouraged you to write songs in the past.
And a part of him, the selfish part that still felt like he owned a piece of your heart, wanted to ask if you’d ever write a song for him.
But the longer he looked at you, the clawing in his throat stopped and the words died.
You were looking up at him with such wide eyed, innocent trust. It was the look he remembered from high school; those were the very eyes he had wanted to protect and never see sad again. It was the very face he’d wanted to smother in kisses the moment he realized he loved you.
But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t ruin this fragile moment of peace by making it about himself.
Steve bit his lip, his jaw tightening as he forced his gaze away from yours. He let out a breath that sounded more like defeat than a sigh.
“I’m just proud of you,” he said, voice strained and barely above a whisper. “That’s all.”
You stood there, stunned, because that wasn’t what you had expected at all.
That’s all?
Before you could press him, Steve simply lowered the book and pressed it gently into your hands. His fingers lingered against yours for a second, and you wanted nothing more than to drop the book and interlock your fingers with his.
But he pulled away.
“I’ll see you around,” Steve murmured.
He turned on his heel and walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and disappearing without looking back.
Later that day, Steve found himself sitting in his living room with Bucky over. It seemed like it was just yesterday the three of you were here, playing Guitar Hero together.
“So,” Bucky said, handing Steve a beer before plopping onto the couch next to him. “How’d it go?”
Steve brought the open bottle to his lips, staring blankly at the TV screen. “With what?”
Bucky smacked his lips. “You know what.”
Steve knew exactly what he was talking about, yet his mind was still stuck on you. After the gig at Shield Dive, he’d told Bucky he was going to talk to you in hopes of convincing you to write for Civil War instead—but God, what kind of person was he? To show up in your life after years of one-sided silence and demand something like that?
He felt like the lowest of the low for even considering it.
“Come on,” Bucky nudged his shoulder, impatient. “Well? What did she say? Did you apologize to her and then ask her like we discussed?”
Steve ran a hand through his hair. He knew Bucky wouldn’t let him live this down. Just to get him off his back, he let out a sigh and lied.
“I did, yeah.”
“And?” Bucky prodded.
“She… she said yes,” Steve swallowed, looking down at the condensation building up on his beer bottle. “She’ll write some songs for us.”
Bucky blinked, not expecting those words to come so smoothly out of his friend’s mouth.
“She said yes?” he repeated, huffing out a breath of disbelief before his grin widened. “Well, would you look at that? Your girl’s still got a soft spot for you.”
That one sentence made Steve feel ten times worse.
“Yeah,” Steve mumbled. “I guess she does.”
He took a long, slow swallow of his beer. He had always been a terrible liar, his face usually gave him away before he even finished a sentence, but Bucky was so blinded by the hope of having brand new music that he hadn’t even noticed the way Steve’s hand was shaking.
The guilt was already starting to eat at him. He hadn’t even apologized for abandoning you for all those years. He’d never apologized for belittling your dreams or making you feel small.
Worse, he had just used your name to buy himself some peace with Bucky and the band.
“This is great news, man,” Bucky cheered, swinging a drink back with a grin. “Who knows—maybe we’ll all start hanging out again, just like the good ol’ days.”
Steve chewed at his bottom lip, his thumb mindlessly swiping over the condensation on the bottle. Every word Bucky said felt like another shovel of dirt on the hole he was digging for himself.
He knew he had to make it up to you, but the problem was, he didn’t even know where to start.
As the week went on, Steve found himself drawn to the library more and more each day.
He would linger near the bookshelves, trying to catch even a quick glimpse of you. He knew the library—in all its quiet and the scent of old paper and ink—had always been your favorite place. It was the only place he felt he could still find a trace of you.
He tried his best to look busy, picking up random books he had zero interest in and flipping through the pages just to kill time, hoping you’d walk by.
The students nearby, actually hunched over their midterms, gave him judgmental stares. A man like Steve Rogers—the notorious lead singer of a screaming band, covered in tattoos and wearing ripped clothes—looked like nothing but trouble in a place meant for focus.
He knew what they thought of him, but he didn’t care. He was too busy scanning every passing face, his heart jumping every time the library doors creaked open, but slumping when it wasn’t you walking through them.
Just as he was about to give up and leave, the doors pushed open once more and in you came—looking as overworked as ever, hauling a bag on your back that was nearly bigger than you were.
You made your way to an empty desk, settling in. You spread your literature and notebooks across the surface until your work had claimed nearly every square inch of the tabletop.
Steve had to bite back a smile. Despite the years of silence between you, you were still the same raging geek he remembered. He shook off his grin and walked over, stopping in front of your desk just as he had the day before.
“Can I sit here?” he asked, catching your attention. He gestured vaguely to the open chair. “I need to study for an exam and this…” He looked around at the dozen or so empty spaces nearby, then right back at you. “…is the only table available.”
You blinked. “Uh—”
But before you could even think about denying him, Steve pulled the chair out and sat down right in front of you.
Steve pulled a worn, spiral bound notebook from his bag, the edges fraying and the cover covered in stickers and faded sharpie doodles. As he flipped through the pages, you caught flashes of messy lyrics and sketches.
Your heart ached a little.
You always remembered how much Steve loved to draw.
“I’m pretty bad when it comes to the whole studying thing,” he admitted, keeping his focus on a cluttered page. “I get distracted. My mind wanders.”
He lifted his head to look at you, the tips of his ears turning a faint pink.
“And since you’re… you know, actually good at all of that,” he gestured vaguely toward your organized textbooks and highlighters, “I figured maybe if I sat here, I’d be more motivated. Seeing you work might rub off on me.”
It was a blatant excuse, and you both knew it.
The library was nearly empty. There were at least three other tables that wouldn’t have involved him invading your personal space. But the fact that he’d found you again— that he’d taken this specific opportunity to be near you—made your heart ache for him.
With Steve in your presence, you always found yourself letting your heart win.
“Motivated?”
“Yeah,” he murmured, leaning forward just an inch, his tatted arm resting on the edge of the desk. “I figured I could use a good influence. It’s been a while since I had one of those.”
You shook your head, keeping your eyes down, focused on your own notebook. “Easy for you to say.”
Steve tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
“Just feels like I’m getting the bad end of the bargain,” you said, looking at him through your lashes. “With you being a bad influence and all...”
Steve blinked, taken off guard by your words.
The taunt felt nostalgic—a sweet reminder of how you used to tease him for being a bad influence back when you were growing up, even though you still stuck by his side every single day.
Steve couldn’t help but smile. Despite the years and the silence between you, teasing you back still felt as familiar as breathing.
“So, me merely existing is the bad end of the bargain?” Steve grinned. “It could be a lot worse, sweetheart. I could have my guitar right now, playing Wonderwall again while you’re trying to study.”
“Oh, God,” you cringed. The sweetheart nickname didn’t even register as a surprise because of how naturally it rolled off his tongue. “That was the worst.”
“The worst?” Steve playfully scoffed, looking mildly offended. “That was your favorite song!”
You chuckled. He was still the same old Steve you remembered—so easily wound up whenever you made a comment about his music. “Only because I found your singing out of tune endearing.”
“Out of tune?” Steve repeated in disbelief, his eyes widening. “After all those years of me singing that to you... you thought I was out of tune?”
At his dramatic reaction, you couldn’t help it— a laugh escaped you, loud enough to fill the silence of the library. Your hand flew to your mouth as students and staff snapped their heads toward the noise with annoyed glares. One of them pressed a finger to their lips and let out a sharp ssshhh!
Steve was smiling so hard his cheeks actually started to hurt.
Your laugh—soft and smooth as it had always been—sent a familiar flutter through his chest. It had been so long since he’d heard it, and the sound made him want to stick by your side like glue.
“You might’ve thought that then,” Steve teased, “but I sound a lot better now.”
You didn’t doubt it for a second— you’d heard his growth firsthand from the sidelines. “Oh, yeah?”
He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest tight enough that his muscles bulged against the fabric of his shirt. You swallowed hard trying not to look.
“Yeah,” he grinned proudly. “You’re just gonna have to see for yourself one day.”
You giggled again, finding it charming that he was completely oblivious to the fact that you actively listened to his music secretly. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Steve’s expression shifted, the teasing smirk fading into something much fonder. Watching the way your face scrunched up as you chuckled made his heart weak, and he blurted out the next thought before he could stop himself.
“I missed you.”
Your laughter slowly faded, and Steve mentally cursed himself.
Fuck.
Did I just screw this up?
But then you reached for your pencil, fidgeting with it as you avoided eye contact. The warmth flooding your face told him everything he needed to know. It was every tell tale sign that you were flustered, and relief washed over him when he realized he hadn’t ruined it.
“We should… study,” you mumbled, busying yourself by shifting through your pages.
Steve’s smile returned, softer this time. He uncrossed his arms and adjusted himself in his seat, leaning back in.
“Right. Study.”
Since that day, you found yourself at the same table every afternoon with Steve sitting right across from you.
As the days passed, you started looking forward to these ‘study dates’—even making an effort to look more presentable. It reminded you of back in high school when Steve hit a sudden growth spurt, your tiny childhood crush had exploded into something much bigger, and you’d started wearing skirts and dresses to school just to impress him.
But just like back then, Steve didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he was doing his best to ignore it, keeping his gaze respectfully on yours rather than on your legs or the way your dresses accentuated your cleavage.
He told you that his scores had greatly improved since you started studying together, but you called bullshit. Every time you were together, you spent most of your time exchanging glances and cracking jokes, trying not to laugh or make noise.
“You know, Bucky’s been hell-bent on writing a song about this one girl on campus,” Steve spoke quietly, jotting something down in his notebook. “Some angsty love song that’ll probably get us in trouble when we perform on game day.”
Having spent so much time on the sidelines, you were the observant type—it didn’t take two brain cells to figure out that Bucky had the hots for the most popular girl in school.
“That’s really cute,” you murmured, leaning your chin on your hand as you watched Steve’s pen move. “He must really like her if he’s willing to put it all into a song.”
Steve’s jaw clenched just slightly, the guilt gnawing at him again. He forced a stiff nod and looked back down at his notebook.
“It’s not cute. It’s a distraction,” Steve explained quietly. “His mind has been elsewhere lately when he should be focusing on the band. We have a reputation to keep up, and he’s…” Steve chewed on the inside of his cheek, realizing how contradictory he sounded. “…busy pining.”
You couldn’t help but let out a small, huffed laugh. “Hey, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think?”
Steve looked up, his smirk returning as he caught your expression. He leaned forward, that familiar teasing light back in his eyes. “How so?”
“Because,” you said, leaning in and holding his stare, “instead of being with the band and practicing, you’ve been here. Every single afternoon. With me.”
Steve’s breath hitched.
The library felt deafeningly quiet after your words. They seemed innocent enough on the surface, but there was something in the way you held his gaze that made the moment feel impure. His eyes dropped to your lips—which you’d applied a generous amount of gloss to, and how could he not notice?— for a split second before snapping back to your eyes.
“Yeah, well…” he said, gesturing vaguely to the books between you. “I’m also studying, remember? So… not entirely a distraction. I’m being productive.”
“Right,” you teased, your eyes still locked on his. “Very productive.”
The silence between you grew tense with everything neither of you was brave enough to say.
You watched his eyes flicker down to your lips again, and for a second, you could’ve sworn you saw his gaze snap down to the curve of your chest pressing against the fabric of your dress.
He looked up quickly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as if he were suddenly parched.
You felt like you desperately needed an escape route—anything to free yourself from the tension before you said or did something you would regret.
“I… I need to find a book for my, uh, lit assignment,” you stammered, standing abruptly and smoothing the skirt of your dress. “Excuse me.”
With your face burning, you fled into the maze of the stacks, desperate to put some distance between yourself and Steve. Finding sanctuary behind the empty Self-Help and Health section, you pressed your forehead against one of the wooden ledges and let out a long, shaky breath.
Fuck. Pull yourself together.
You couldn’t believe that after years of silence, you were back to sitting across from Steve every day, secretly pining for him.
Growing up, you’d always known Steve was handsome, but now, as an adult, he had become the kind of man who made you feel something much deeper—something undeniably… sensual.
And you couldn’t help but wonder if Steve was feeling the same way.
You paced the empty aisle, biting your thumb nail as thoughts raced through your mind.
Hey, Steve. How about instead of studying at the library, you come back to my place and we study in my room like we did in high school?
No. That sounded too desperate.
Hey, Steve. After our study session, you want to grab lunch?
Hey, Steve. When we’re done here, how about you play 'Wonderwall' for me again and prove me wrong?
“You okay?” Steve asked suddenly.
You jumped, having not even realized he’d approached you until he was standing right in front of you. “Oh! Sorry. I—uh… I was just trying to find a book—”
You quickly reached for the shelf next to you, yanking one out to prove your point.
Steve blinked at the cover, his surprised expression slowly melting into a grin.
“A Comprehensive Guide to Sexual Wellness and Libido,” he read aloud. “Interesting assignment for a literature class.”
Your eyes went wide, and your face felt as hot as a furnace. You quickly flipped the book around to glance at the cover yourself, mentally cursing your own stupidity.
“Shit,” you hissed under your breath.
Steve chuckled as he stepped closer, plucking the book from your fingers and gently sliding it back into the empty space on the shelf.
“Seriously,” he prodded softly, his eyes finding yours. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” you dismissed quickly, your gaze dropping to your hands as you began fiddling with the hem of your skirt.
He followed your movement, taking in the way your fingers fidgeted. It immediately pulled him back to high school—to those nights spent lying close together on the grass in his backyard, counting stars while you nervously picked at the threads of the picnic blanket.
“No?” Steve drawled, his voice like velvet.
He reached out, his hand catching yours and catching you off guard. He moved slowly, interlocking his fingers with yours as if he were savoring the sensation, making up for every second of the years he'd lost holding your hand in his.
“Then why are you fidgeting, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
It wasn’t the first time he’d called you that since you’d started talking again, yet the nickname suddenly sounded different. It no longer felt like the casual shorthand of a childhood friend.
It felt like a name you’d give to someone you loved.
To someone you wanted.
“There has to be something on your mind,” Steve murmured, his voice dropping even lower.
His free hand came up, his fingers light as he caressed your jawline. With his thumb, he gently hooked your chin, tilting your face up until you had no choice but to meet his eyes.
“I know that look.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “There’s nothing on my mind.”
Steve tilted his head, his expression almost patronizing as he saw right through the lie. “Is that so?”
His thumb smoothed over the glossy shine of your bottom lip, making your breath hitch. “Because there are a lot of things on mine.”
You didn’t trust yourself to speak. Your mind was too busy trying to steady your racing heartbeat to form actual words.
“Thoughts of you... suddenly wearing these pretty dresses and makeup,” Steve hummed, his eyes dark with appreciation as he took you in. “Clothes you didn’t wear before. Tell me—are you wearing them for me?”
A slow exhale left your lips as you looked up at him through your lashes. “And if I was?”
A low groan rumbled deep in Steve’s chest. All those years growing up with you, he’d always thought of you as the innocent girl-next-door, the one with her nose perpetually stuck in a book. He never imagined that years later, he’d find you like this— admitting that you’d been wearing these short dresses just for him.
And him only.
“If you were…” Steve began, his hand that wasn’t cupping your jaw traveling slowly down. His palm traced the fabric of your dress, resting at your hip. “Then that would make me so fucking happy—because after all these years, you still know that you’re my girl.”
Steve gave your hip a soft, appreciative squeeze before sliding his hand further down, his fingers brushing against your thigh as he played with the hem of your skirt.
“My best girl.”
He hooked his fingers under the fabric, slowly bunching the material upward. You felt the cool library air hit your skin for only a split second before his warm palm replaced it, pressing firmly against the bare skin of your thigh.
“Steve…”
He leaned down, his nose nuzzling the top of your head as he breathed you in, his hand sliding higher up your thigh beneath the dress, roaming freely.
“Fuck,” he groaned against your hair. “I missed you.”
Both his hands settled at your waist now, planting you firmly in place as he pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your temple.
“I missed you too, Stevie,” you breathed, the name coming out so vulnerable it was nearly a whimper. “So much.”
Steve felt his heart thump at the familiar nickname. Stevie. He’s been called that countless of times by his close friends, but every time you said it, always stirred something warm in his chest.
And when you said it like that, breathless and nearly pleading, it made him want to do unspeakable things to you.
“You’re just asking for it now, aren’t you?” Steve growled.
With his hands firm on your hips, he spun you around, making you gasp softly as he pressed you against the bookshelf. “Turn around. And stay quiet.”
You didn’t even have time to think before his broad chest was pinning you from behind.
A sharp gasp escaped you as he hooked his fingers under your hem and hiked the dress up, exposing the cotton of your panties before pressing himself firmly against the curve of your ass.
“Steve—!” your face went hot at the feel of him. “You’re…”
“Hard?” Steve finished for you. He gave his hips a slow, deep rock against you, letting you feel the heavy length of him straining against his jeans. “I know, baby. But how can I not be? Not when you’re wearing a dress like this.”
He rocked against you, slow and deliberate, his hands roaming freely over your body and bunching the fabric of your skirt into his palms. His hands were so warm, so large, you couldn’t believe that after all the years you’d spent imagining those calloused fingers on your skin, you were finally being handled like this in the middle of a library.
“Fuck,” you whimpered.
A high pitched whine escaped you when his right hand palmed your cunt through your panties underneath your skirt, his fingers adding pressure as he made circles over your clit.
It didn’t take long for you to get wet with the way he’s handling you.
“Oh—! Steve—!”
“Quiet,” he growled, his other palm coming up to muffle your cries. “You wouldn’t want to get us in trouble now, would you?”
You shook your head. “Mmphh.”
With his hand still clamped over your mouth, he gave your cheeks a squeeze as he peered over you from behind. “Will you be a good girl?”
You nodded.
The way Steve’s cock was suffocating in his jeans felt like pure torture.
Everything about this could make him bust in his pants right then and there—having his childhood ex-best friend, a good girl with her perfect grades and her books, pushed up against the shelf and being touched by a loser like him was filthy.
It was wrong, and yet, it was everything he had ever wanted.
“That’s it,” he cooed, “my good girl.”
His fingers toyed with the waistband of your panties before sliding down to find you, his fingers pressing against your wet folds. Steve shuddered, his breathing turning heavy at the warm and slick contact.
“Fuck,” he groaned into your hair. “You’re so wet.”
A broken, muffled sound escaped you against his palm as he pushed a finger against your tight entrance. At the same time, he kept up the heavy grind of his hips against your ass, dry humping you through the rough denim of his jeans.
You mewled against his mouth and Steve chuckled darkly, pushing his finger past your tight entrance letting himself sink into your warm, tight cunt.
It was exactly how he imagined it— you felt incredible from just his finger alone, and with how tight you were squeezing him, he could only imagine how great it would feel with his dick instead.
“Mmph!” you groaned, rocking your hips back against his hand, inviting him in deeper.
The movements of your hips desperately moving for more was enough to make him go mad.
“Desperate little thing,” Steve panted, his grip on your mouth tightening as he felt you tremble. “Moving your hips like that for just my fingers—” he ground the heavy length of his cock against you harder. “I should just pull it out, push these panties to the side, and fuck you right here in the middle of the library.”
“Ah—mmph, Steve… p-please…”
Steve added another finger, the stretch making your knees go weak. You cried out against his palm when his thumb found your clit, pressing down and rubbing to match his fingers thrusting in and out of you.
“That’s it,” he growled against your ear. “Goood fuckin’ girl.”
You gripped the edge of the bookshelf, the wood digging into your palms as your legs finally gave out.
Steve caught you, his chest pinning you even harder against the shelf and making it shake.
“God,” he moaned. “Shit—feels so good, baby.”
His cock throbbed and twitched against the denim, the friction pushing him closer and closer to cumming.
His mind addled with lust, he shifted his hand from your mouth, sliding his index and middle fingers between your lips instead.
With half lidded, heavy eyes, he looked down at you. Blonde strands of hair fell messily over his forehead as he stared at the way you sucked on his fingers to stay quiet, your shimmery lip gloss coating his skin.
“Pretty,” he breathed, feeling himself getting close just from looking at you, “so pretty—God, you’ve always been so beautiful.”
Your cunt clenched around his fingers. Knowing that Steve needed you this badly—even after all this time, in every way that you had always needed him—was enough to make you cum.
“Steevie, mmph—” you whined around the fingers sitting vulgarly in your mouth, “gonna… cum—”
Steve’s heart leaped at your words. His cock was straining, leaking a desperate amount of precum against his jeans as he rutted against you like a helpless dog.
He should have been in control, but your whines and the way you clamped down around his fingers— warm and impossibly tight—made it hard for him to keep it.
He was going to make sure he came with you, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Good girl,” he praised with a rasp.
He rocked his hips against yours, making your chest thud against the shelf, the books rattling. “Fuck, I need to feel you, baby. I need you to cum for me—”
Steve’s voice broke as his pace turned frantic. His hips moved an uneven and messy motion, humping you faster and harder until his entire body suddenly went rigid—his hips locking tight against yours as he finally let himself spill in his pants.
Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded the front of his jeans, his cock pulsing. You could feel the warmth against your back, and you let out a sharp gasp as he rocked his hips one last time —letting the mess soak into denim and against the fabric of your skirt.
He buried his nose into the crook of your neck as he fought the urge to cry out a moan. You mewled against his fingers, your knees shaking as you fell apart.
“Steve…” you let out a breath of disbelief. “I can’t believe we just did that.”
“Fucking hell…” Steve cursed, trying to catch his breath.
He slowly withdrew his fingers, the slick squelch echoing in the quiet aisle.
“That was—”
The words died in his throat at the distinct sound of footsteps went near the aisle.
You both scrambled to pull away, faces flaming with adrenaline and embarrassment. Steve moved with frantic shaky hands to smooth down your skirt and try to adjust the heavy, damp bulge in his pants.
He let out a breathless, low chuckle, shaking his head as he looked down at the mess he’d made of himself—and of you.
“Close.”
Since that day in the library, you and Steve had been drawn to each other like moths to a flame.
What started as quiet ‘study’ sessions evolved into sneaking away from lectures and into empty music rooms, until finally, he ended up right back where you two had first started.
Your bedroom.
Ever since that heated afternoon against the bookshelf, Steve had grown bolder. He let his fingers run through your hair, staring into your eyes longer than any friend ever should, and his hands were constantly finding excuses to touch you— even if it was just playing with the fraying wool of your cardigan.
To anyone else, it looked exactly like dating.
And that was the problem.
If Steve wanted a clean start with you, he wanted to do it right. But nothing about this felt… right.
Being back in your room felt like a second chance he never thought he’d get, and as much as he craved every minute with you, guilt was beginning to churn in his gut. Bucky and the rest of the band had been breathing down his neck about the new song Steve promised you were writing for them. And as the days went on, their impatience only grew.
buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?
buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’
Steve ignored his friend’s text, quickly switching it to silent.
You pushed back from your desk chair, trudging over to where he laid sprawled across your bed, papers and books scattered everywhere.
He smiled as you approached, haphazardly swiping the papers aside to make space just for you.
“Done studying already?”
“Could hardly call it that,” you sighed tiredly, throwing yourself onto the bed and letting the mattress sink. “It’s hard to focus when it’s raining outside. It makes me feel sleepy.”
Steve’s eyes softened at the sight of you. Back then, every time you were burnt out from studying, you always sought comfort in his arms.
“Need a hug?” he raised his arms up, offering you a spot against his chest. You smiled tiredly, crawling over to him so you could tuck your head under his chin. He pulled you in close, resting his cheek against the top of your head.
He was happy to know that, despite how much had changed between you lately, this stayed exactly the same.
Without thinking, he tilted his head down to press a soft kiss to your forehead, and that only made you nuzzle deeper into his chest. Steve smelled exactly the same as he always had—masculine, with a clean hint of aftershave and the faint scent of leather.
“What’s on your mind, my darling girl?” he asked with a hand rubbing up and down your back.
“I feel so overworked,” you sighed against his chest, your voice muffled by his band tee. “I’ve got all these assignments piled up—and Tony won’t stop bugging me about this new song he wants me to write.”
You could feel Steve stiffen slightly at your words.
“Is that so?”
You hesitated before answering. “… Yeah.”
When Steve had first found out you were writing songs for F.R.I.D.A.Y., you had been ready for the interrogation.
You were waiting for the moment he would pester you about it—asking when you’d started writing and why you’d chosen that band specifically—but he never brought it up. Even after days of hanging out again, the subject remained untouched, a big elephant in the room.
Steve stayed quiet for a long second, and this time, it was your turn to press.
You lifted your head from his chest to look at him. “What’s on your mind?”
His hands fidgeted with the fabric of your shirt—a nervous habit you remembered from years ago—and you couldn’t help the anxiety rising in your chest.
“Can I… can I ask you a question?” he murmured, sounding uncharacteristically uncertain.
You inhaled deeply, bracing yourself for the worst. “Of course. Anything.”
“Did you start writing music…” his hand paused its restless roaming against your back, and he finally looked down to meet your eyes. “… because of me?”
You blinked, the question catching you completely off guard.
“Uh, yeah, actually,” you admitted softly. “I started writing after we… um—you know.” You looked back down at his chest, feeling suddenly sheepish. “After we stopped talking.”
Stopped talking.
Steve’s breath hitched, the guilt in his gut burning an even deeper hole. You continued before he could find the words to interrupt.
“Whenever I’m feeling down, the writing just comes freely,” you explained. “It’s like I have all these thoughts running through my mind and I have no idea how to say them out loud, so I put them on paper. When we stopped being friends, there were a lot of things I wanted to say to you—but… how could I, when you didn’t want to hear me out?”
You let out a soft, hollow laugh that had nothing to do with humor. The sound made Steve’s heart ache.
“I’m—”
“I just thought,” you cut him off, your fingers tracing a pattern on his shirt, “if I never got to say it to you in person, then at least I could write about it and keep it with me forever.”
Fuck.
What kind of person was he? To have caused you the kind of heartbreak that hurt so badly you had to resort to writing music just to survive it?
He didn’t even want to know if you had given those specific songs to Tony—because, truthfully, he didn’t care. He didn’t care who you were writing for anymore, because the only thing he could focus on, the only thing that mattered, was you.
And now that he finally had you back, he was never going to let you go again.
“Hey,” he cooed gently, one warm hand coming up to tilt your chin. “Look at me.”
You looked up, and Steve felt like the lowest scum on earth at the sight of your pained expression. You looked like you were on the verge of tears just from the recollection of the memory alone, and he hated it. He hated himself for being the reason behind that look.
“I’m… fuck. I’m so sorry,” Steve whispered, his voice shaky as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “God—I can’t believe I let my own pride get in the way of us. Fuck. I’m such an idiot.”
He pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you so tight that it made you gasp against his chest.
“I wanted to reach out—I promise you,” he admitted, his lips pressed against your temple as he breathed every word. “Every single day, I would pick up the phone, or I’d walk halfway to your house… and then I’d stop. I was so scared of what you’d think of me—that I was just some…” he grimaced at the thought, “some no-life loser wasting his days on a Fender.”
He let out a short, breathy laugh, trying to lighten the mood, but he was still hurt.
“But hearing that you were writing music… it made me really, really happy, you know?”
You smiled sadly, searching his face. “Really?”
“Really.”
The two of you stared at each other for a long moment, the only sounds were your guys breathing, matching heartbeats, and the soft thump of rain droplets against your window.
He was close enough to lean down and press a kiss to your lips—close enough to finally say the words he’d been wanting to say to you for a long time.
I love you.
But instead, you cleared your throat and pulled away. You sat up on the bed, wiping at your eyes as if trying to shake away the unshed tears.
“I should… I should probably get back to studying,” you said quickly, scrambling off the mattress. The bed rustled with each movement, and Steve’s phone slid off the edge, hitting the floor screen first with a thud. “Ah, sorry!”
Steve cleared his throat, sitting up and adjusting himself as he tried to find his composure. He reached down for the phone too.
“It’s fine—”
But you were already halfway there, picking it up before he had the chance.
“Oh, good,” you smiled, turning it over to check the glass. “It didn’t crack—”
As you went to hand the phone back to him, the screen lit up. Right there in the center of the display, the message from Bucky sat in plain sight, catching your eye before Steve could grab it.
buck🥁: hanging out with her again and still no song?
buck🥁: and here you were, talking to me about ‘distractions’
“Still… no song?” You read the words outloud, your voice small and hollow.
You glanced up at Steve, the blood completely drained from your face. Your heart felt like it had dropped straight into your stomach, yet you managed a fragile, disbelieving smile. “Steve… what is this?”
Steve’s heart plummeted. He snatched the phone from your grasp, his thumbs flying as he frantically swiped at the notifications—but it was useless. It was already too late. You had seen every word Bucky had sent.
“I-it’s nothing, I swear!” He couldn’t even look you in the eye as he swiped away at the messages, trying to get rid of them. “Buck’s just being—”
“Is this what this is, Steve?” your voice shook, rising in anger. “You were just trying to get me to write a song for you?”
You had walked straight into Steve’s trap. Every tear that threatened to spill out from being vulnerable with him just a second ago were now streaming down your cheeks in a hot, angry rush.
You felt like an absolute idiot—but then again, hadn’t you been one this entire time?
Steve scrambled off the bed, taking a desperate step toward you. He reached out, his fingers brushing your arm, but you slapped his hand away.
“I can’t… I can’t believe you,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “This entire time… I thought you actually wanted to be my friend again. I thought you actually cared about me—”
“No, please,” he begged, his own voice cracking as he looked at you with eyes full of panic. “Please—just listen to me. It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all! Everything I said to you earlier, the things we did—”
“The things we did…” You shuddered, a sudden, violent wave of nausea rolling through you that made you feel like you were going to throw up.
You had let him touch you, handle you, and defile you in your safest place—among the very bookshelves where you usually found peace. You had given him all of that, thinking it was a reconnection, only to find out he had one goal and one goal only— to get a song out of you.
A hand flew to your face, fingers tangling in your hair as you paced the room in a frantic panic, refusing to even glance in his direction. “I’m an idiot… I’m such a fucking idiot…”
“Please—” Steve reached out once more, his voice a desperate rasp, and you snapped your head around to glare at him.
“I can’t believe I was stupid enough to think you actually wanted to be with me again—that you actually missed me, missed us,” you spat. “But the second you find out I’m writing for your rivals, you… you what? Try to get in my fucking pants just so you can be some one-hit wonder?”
Steve flinched. Every word that came out of your mouth was a knife digging into his chest—and he knew he deserved every bit of it. He wanted to explain, to grovel and beg for a second of your time, but you wouldn’t let him.
“You have to believe me,” he pleaded desperately. “I would never do anything to hurt you—not like that. Fuck. Please, sweetheart. Just hear me out—”
Sweetheart.
Hearing the nickname now made you physically ill.
“Get out.”
Panic flared in Steve’s chest, his eyes going wide as he took another step, trying to bridge the gap between you. “Please, don’t do this—”
“Get out of my house, Steve!”
The world went dark for him. A constant, deafening ringing filled his ears, and the look of pure betrayal on your face made him want to die. He was so frozen, so eerily still in his shock, that he didn’t even resist when you grabbed his arm and began dragging him toward the front door.
He had the strength to stay rooted to the spot, to remain completely unmoved, but he was so mentally broken that his body simply let itself get dragged by you.
He let it happen.
It might have been the last time he’d ever feel your touch again.
He didn't even realize he was standing on the porch until the rain began to pour, soaking through his shirt in seconds. You gave him one hard, final shove. He nearly stumbled down the stairs, the sudden loss of balance forcing him to snap out of his fucked up daze just in time to catch himself.
Just as you were about to slam the door in his face, he spun around and yelled for your attention.
“Wait!”
And to his surprise, you actually did.
You held the door open and glared at him through the downpour, but at least you were still there.
A small, stubborn part of you still wanted to hear him, even if he didn’t deserve a single second of your time. Your mind was screaming at you to shut the door, but your heart had always been a traitor for Steve.
“What?” you shouted over the rain.
Steve stood there, drenched from head to toe, while you remained perfectly dry save for the tears streaming down your face.
“I lied to Bucky!” he shouted, squinting against the rain. “After we found out you were writing for Tony, I told the band you were going to write for us—just to get them off my back.”
He paused, bracing himself for the sound of the door slamming. But when it didn’t come, he pressed on, determined.
“But I promise you—I promise you with everything I have—I never wanted a song out of you. Every word I said, everything I did with you... I meant every single fucking second of it.”
He swallowed hard, the rain masking the fact that he was crying, too.
“I don’t care about the song. I don’t care what the band thinks, or the rivalry with Tony. I just… I walked up to you in that library because I realized all I wanted was to be in the same room as you again. I wanted to be near you when you smiled. I wanted to see the way you stick your tongue out when you're taking notes, or how your leg shakes when you’re deep in a book. I missed that. I missed everything about you.”
Your hand tightened around the doorknob.
Your mind screamed at you to shut him out, to give him a taste of the silence he had fed you years ago. But you couldn’t move.
“I’ve spent every day of the last few years hating myself for what I did to you,” he continued, his voice desperate and raspy. “And I hate myself even more for the way you're looking at me right now. If I could turn back time, if I could just apologize for being an idiot the first time around, I wouldn’t be out here in the rain, begging for the unforgivable. I’d be in there,” he pointed to the inside of your house, “on your bed, playing my guitar while you laughed at me for being out of tune.”
Rain drenched his face, his vision blurring as he struggled to keep his eyes open just to look at you.
He sucked in a deep, shaky breath, his heart laid bare on his sleeve as he poured out the words he prayed you would believe.
“I love you,” he confessed, breathless and desperate. “I love you. I’ve always loved you. From the day you beat me in Guitar Hero to the morning we walked to high school together for the first time. I loved you even when you told me my music was just noise. I thought I’d finally moved on, but the second I saw you sitting in that library, I fell in love all over again.”
When you stayed quiet, your expression still shattered, he took a hesitant step back onto the porch. He extended a trembling hand toward you, a silent plea for permission, for a sign that he hadn’t lost you for good again.
“Please,” he pleaded sadly. “Please believe me. Please tell me you love me, too.”
You just stared at him, your brows furrowing as your expression shifted slightly.
For a fleeting, desperate second, Steve swore he saw a flicker of forgiveness in your eyes.
He held his breath as he waited for you to reach for him. But instead, you took a slow step back from the doorframe, your hand shaking as you began to pull the door shut.
“Goodbye, Steve.”
Days passed, and for most of them, you stayed buried in bed, skipping classes and ignoring your study sessions.
You found yourself back in the same headspace you had been years ago, after the first time Steve broke your heart. Your nose was buried deep in your journal, filling pages with sloppy, incoherent prose.
You wrote down anything and everything that crossed your mind, no matter how little sense it made—anything to numb the hollow ache Steve had left in your chest once more.
Steve had been blowing up your phone and showing up at your door, but every attempt at reaching out went unanswered. Tony was also blowing up your email, pestering you about the new song you were supposed to be releasing, but those emails sat unread, too.
Your world was a blur of gray silence. But as a college student, you couldn’t afford to waste your tuition sulking forever.
Today, you got rid of the flowy dresses you picked specifically for Steve and instead wore something that well expressed how you were feeling on the inside. You dragged yourself to campus with a heavy weight on your shoulders, up until you finally made it to the front doors of the library.
A figure near the events board caught your eye, and this time, it wasn’t Steve.
Bucky stood there with a red marker in his hand, drawing a massive X across the Civil War poster he’d put up only a few days ago. He must have sensed you watching, because he turned to glance at you.
“Hi, Bucky,” you greeted him awkwardly.
He looked you up and down, taking in your miserable state, and sucked in a sharp breath. He looked guilty, and you wouldn’t have been surprised if Steve had already explained everything to him.
They were best friends, after all.
To save yourself from the mounting tension, you gestured to the poster. “What happened to your guys’ gig this weekend?”
Bucky looked back at the crossed out flyer, a forced, lopsided smile tugging at his mouth. “Cancelled. Steve… uh, he hasn’t been feeling well.”
So much for avoiding the awkwardness.
“I see,” was all you could manage.
Your hand tightened on the strap of your bag. Just as you were about to dismiss yourself and retreat into the familiar sanctuary of the library, Bucky stopped you.
“Wait. I… about everything with you and Steve,” he started, his eyes apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break whatever you guys had going on. I…” He looked down at his scuffed Converse and sighed, clearly struggling with the words. “I just hate seeing the two of you like this.”
You didn’t know what to say. You weren’t even sure there was anything left to say. Instead, you just forced a tight, hollow smile and turned away.
“Take care of yourself, Bucky.”
After a long study session that felt agonizingly lonely without Steve’s presence beside you, you began the trek back home in the dark.
Walking alone at night should have made you alert, but your mind was too clouded with thoughts of Steve to pay attention to your surroundings. Your blood ran cold when a voice—deep and unmistakably male—shouted from behind you, making every hair on your arms stand up in sudden fear.
“Wait!”
You snapped your head over your shoulder, panic flaring until you realized it was just Steve. The sharp spike of fear began to subside, replaced instantly by a heavy, soul-crushing exhaustion.
You turned back around, quickening your pace to put distance between you and the man who had broken your heart.
“I don’t want to talk, Steve,” you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the way your hands were shaking inside your pockets. “I’m tired. Just... go home.”
But he didn’t. You heard the scuff of his boots against the concrete as he lunged into a run, closing the gap until he was hovering just behind you.
“Please,” he rasped, his hand catching your shoulder. “I’ve been trying to find you all week. I’ve gone to every building, the library, your house… just please.”
You finally turned around, seeing his face clearly for the first time in days. Under the pale moonlight, he looked like a wreck—perhaps even more so than you. Dark circles bruised the skin beneath his eyes, his hair was a wild mess, and a thick layer of stubble shadowed his jaw.
He seemed to be thinking the same of you; the moment his eyes met yours, his breath hitched. A soft, broken sigh escaped him as he extended his arm toward you.
In his hand, held out like a peace offering, was a slim plastic case. It was a burnt CD, the silver surface catching the dim glow of the streetlights. Across the front, in his unmistakable, messy scrawl, were three words.
My best girl.
Your brows furrowed as you looked at him again. “Is this a new song for Civil War?”
“It’s not for the band,” he huffed, his lungs burning as his eyes searched yours.
He took a hesitant step closer, the CD trembling slightly in his grip as he waited for you to take it.
“I’m not the best at writing...” his voice sounded fractured and worn thin. “I usually let Sam handle the lyrics. It probably won’t sound half as good as the things you write, but it’s for you. Every word, every line—it’s all for you.”
He had written a song?
For you?
You hesitated, caught between the urge to snatch the disc and the instinct to push him away again. But as your gaze locked with his, you knew it was a lost cause. Your heart wouldn’t let you leave him standing there like that.
As you reached for the case, your fingers grazed his for a slow second. Your warm touch sent a jolt through Steve, leaving his heart racing so violently he felt as if it were trying to escape his chest just to get closer to you.
“I don’t know what to say—”
“Don’t say anything. You don’t even have to speak to me after this,” he confessed, though he regretted the idea the minute they left his mouth. “Just… please. Listen to it.”
With a heavy heart, you let out a long sigh, refusing to meet his eyes again for fear you’d say something you’d regret.
“I’ll listen to it,” you said, your voice low and cautious. “But this doesn’t mean we’re on good terms again.”
The words stung, but Steve had expected you to shut him out completely. As badly as he wanted to pull you into his arms and beg for a real chance, he decided to take this small victory for now.
“I know,” he said, a sad, fragile smile ghosting over his lips. It was the kind of look that made your heart ache despite your better judgment. “Thank you.”
He lingered for a moment, his fingers twitching at his sides as if he wanted to reach out and tuck a stray hair behind your ear, but he caught himself. He knew he’d lost that right. Instead, he took a step back, finally giving you the space you were silently demanding.
“Just… use the good headphones,” he added with a self-deprecating huff. “The acoustics in the garage aren’t exactly professional grade.”
You managed a small, involuntary chuckle despite yourself. “Fine.”
The sound made Steve’s smile brighten.
Another small victory.
“Good,” he murmured, quickly shoving his hands into his denim pockets before he did something stupid with them—like reach for your hand or pull you in for a kiss. “Good.” He repeated.
The conversation was clearly over, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to leave.
Even standing there in tense silence, just having you in his line of sight was enough to make him want to stay. But he couldn’t hold onto the moment for long, as you had already turned away, heading back toward your house without a second glance.
“Goodnight, Steve.”
Steve watched you go, his voice quiet and vulnerable as you moved out of his reach once more.
“Goodnight, sweetheart.”
Once you were back in the solitude of your bedroom, you flicked on your bedside lamp, inviting in a warm glow.
You reached under the bed and pulled out the old CD player Steve had gifted you back in middle school—a machine he’d spent his entire savings at the time just to see you smile. And as promised, you plugged in your best headphones to listen.
With shaky hands, you inserted the CD into the disk slot, and the machine whirrled softly until you heard the sharp intake of Steve’s breath.
Then, the acoustic guitar started to play.
The strumming was soft, melodic, and gentle. It was a song that would never go on Civil War’s setlist, or even considered being played in a dingy dive bar. It was too fragile, too sacred. The arrangement felt like it belonged in a cathedral, with echoing chords that carried the same ethereal, pained yearning of a Buckley track.
Then, Steve started to sing.
You had always known he had a beautiful voice, but on stage, he usually buried it under layers of grit and distortion to match the band’s frantic energy.
Here, there was nowhere to hide. His voice was steady but heavy with so much emotion, singing in a low, resonant register that vibrated right through the headphones and into your skull and down your heart.
The song was a masterpiece of us.
It was filled with melodic shifts that he knew you loved, and lyrical metaphors that referenced books you’d always mention growing up. Who would’ve thought that someone like Steve Rogers—a notorious dirtbag in a band just as dirty as him— was capable of writing a song full of pained and yearning like this.
By the time the song ended, you hadn’t even realized you had been crying.
first time writing steve rogers on his own guys... kinda nervous... thank you for taking the time to read my work and i hope you guys enjoyed it!
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