[daddybucky]

Welcome!

We’ve had quite the influx of new people over the weekend, so this seems to be the perfect time to make the pinned post I’ve been thinking about~

Here are the important things to know:

Everything you will find on this blog is 100% self-indulgent and 99% unedited. I write what I like, and if it doesn’t spark joy (or story ideas) then I move on to the next thing.

This here is exclusively a blog of bottom!Steve, sub!Steve, and omega!Steve. A lot of the times, all at once. 

Most of what you find here is of the kink variety, specifically Daddy kink. The older stuff does feature Master!Bucky--which I am slowly trying to tag as such--but all current universes are Daddy!Bucky. If that's not your thing, that's cool! Grab a fruit snack on your way out, I hope you find what you're looking for elsewhere. :)

This is mostly a prompt-based blog, so yes, I am always taking requests or ideas for new universes. All I ask is that you don’t send the same ask twice.

Other than that, my ask box is always open for questions and I write when I can. Happy porning, fam!

[daddybucky]

i just know your drafts are a fucking goldmine

if by 'goldmine' you mean 32 iterations of the same basic concept and porn that would make my mother disown me, you would be CORRECT

jokes aside, the way I write prompts is I have a folder called Prompt Fills and there are 9 different Prompt Fill documents in there so I can rotate through them and have a few things going at once, just so if I get stuck on A, I can jump to B or C

And then there are several of what I call "holding docs" which is just a place to hold discarded scenes or bits of scenes that I've written but I take out of the prompt fill for whatever reason. Sometimes I take it out and put it back but a lot of times, I just take it out

It looks like this, in case you're interested:

Anyways, I do find stuff in there sometimes that makes me go, "why did I throw this away?"

so in that aspect, you would be (also) correct XD

[daddybucky]

i know sugarbaby steve struggles to take care of himself so any other responsibility is a stretch but i keep thinking about him with a little kitten purring on his chest and this image won’t leave my mind today i thought id share :3

oh my god, that's so cute tho

Maybe one morning they find an abandoned little kitten under one of the cars in the driveway and Steve won't let anyone take it to a shelter because what if something happens to it???

Cue Bucky finding his boy laying on the couch, petting the little kitten curled up on his chest.

He kneels down beside Steve with a little sigh, letting his fingers tangle with Steve's as he pets the helpless creature.

"So do we have a kitten now, sweetheart?" He asks.

Bucky doesn't think their life is really conducive to pets, but if it's what his boy wants, he'll start ordering supplies immediately.

Steve gives him a knowing smile.

"No," he says, speaking softly so as not to wake the little kitten. "I don't even like taking care of myself, Daddy, I don't want that responsibility."

Bucky laughs softly, kissing his cheek. "How very mature of you, baby."

Steve pouts. "Take that back," he insists, and it only makes Bucky laugh harder.

Steve shushes him, covering the kittens ears to shield it from the sound.

"So what are we going to do with it, hm?" Bucky asks.

Steve smiles mischievously. "I'm going convince someone else to take her home."

And that's how one of the house guards accidentally becomes a Cat Dad.

[daddybucky]

In the deepest most complimentary way, I got out of Marvel after the debacle that was infinity war and endgame. Stopped reading fic, stopped following people etc. You're the only one that I still follow and read from that era, and I still go to read all of your things as soon as I see them

I understand completely that first part completely

Endgame really killed most of my love for the MCU, too, and now I mainly only engage with it through the ficlets I write. I don't even read the fic anymore.

So yes, I definitely do take that as a compliment, thank you! <3

[daddybucky]

oh yes yes please i’m so down for the alternative a/b/o au!!!!!!

I've had most of this done for like four days now, but I got stuck on the last part. I've been trying to figure out a better way to go about it but I'm just gonna roll with it bc I COULD figure out what I want to do with it eventually but then you'll be waiting longer

--

Okay, so the evolution of this one is:

Somewhere in my inbox, there’s a message that talks about the “crush on the pack Alpha” trope, which I also love, I don’t care if it’s overdone. 

I’m also in my Silver Daddy era so I’ve ALSO been thinking a lot about Steve with Hot Older Alpha Daddy from that one blurb or Bucky as the Hot Older Alpha Daddy.

So, this is a combination of the two. Bucky is much, much older, more salt-than-pepper, hot like burning, an absolute Daddy of an Alpha, all big and burly and beefy; strong, rugged, and down-to-earth. The kind of Alpha that commands a room without even trying. The kind that never has to raise his voice, he’s just obeyed.

He’s the experienced, well-loved Alpha to an established, powerful pack.

One of his pack members is killed in an altercation with someone from another pack—a pack that is generally secretive and secluded, one that no one really knows much about.

The pack law about an incident like this is clear: blood for blood, a life for a life.

Over the years, this has been interpreted in different ways. 

Nowadays, it normally means the pack at fault will give up one of its members to the aggrieved pack to make up for its lost member. The other option would be to condemn the wolf who committed the crime to life as a rogue wolf; very few choose this option, as it usually leads to more problems in the future.

The exchange happens in neutral territory on the night of the full moon. A ritual must be performed to sever old ties and create new ones and wolf magic is always performed best under the moon.

The night of the ritual, Bucky stands in a clearing on a carved stone platform that sits next to a small stream. With him are four other people: a witch priestess, who will perform the ritual, and three pack Alphas that will act as witnesses, just as the law demands.

None of them are prepared for the arrival of the Alpha of the pack at fault or the wolf he brings with him.

Bucky has never met the Alpha of this pack; he’s never had a reason to before now. The moment he scents the man, though, he knows that there is something wrong.

The Alpha’s scent is off. He smells of woodsmoke, like a bonfire in winter; it might have once been a pleasant scent, but now there’s an acrid, tainted edge to it.

Fear. Fear and misery, that’s what it is. But not the Alpha’s fear or misery. No, this is the scent of those around him. It’s embedded into the very foundation of his pack scent.

When the Alpha steps into the clearing with his subordinate, and it takes every ounce of Bucky’s experience to stop himself from visibly reacting.

The Alpha himself looks a step or two above feral. There’s a mangy, rabid look the man, like he’ll bite anyone who gets too close. One large hand is clamped down brutally on the back of his subordinate’s neck. He’s dragging the quiet, obedient wolf along as if he’s a particularly stubborn animal.

That wolf is a horror all his own.

He wears the simple white tunic that was once traditional for a blood sacrifice. Bucky doesn’t know why; such clothing hasn’t been required in a century, at least. Not since the blood sacrifice itself became the less common path of justice.

The boy is young, of mating age but barely. His scent has matured into adulthood, but his pale, gaunt face is still painfully youthful. He can’t be any older than twenty, if even that. 

He’s blonde, bruised, and too thin by half. 

He is also, to the horror of everyone present, an Omega. 

Not even just an Omega, though if there were ever such a thing as ‘just’ an Omega, Bucky has never heard of it. Even accounting for the obvious malnourishment, the boy’s size clearly shows him to be a runt. 

An unclaimed Omega runt of mating age.

From any other pack, this would be the ultimate gift. Perhaps the truest apology imaginable. 

Omegas were—usually—the heart of any pack lucky enough to have one. They were revered to the point of worship. 

To give up a pack’s Omega would be a genuine expression of sorrow and regret for what has transpired between their packs. To give up a pack’s Omega runt—it would be an unprecedented act of contrition.

It is clear, though, that that’s not the case here. 

For reasons Bucky cannot even begin to fathom, this Alpha doesn’t appear to hold Omegas in high regard. If the signs of neglect and abuse are any indication, the Alpha and his pack seem to hate Omegas.

It’s as baffling as it is abhorrent.

By the look on the man’s face, Bucky can easily guess that the Alpha does not mean this as a conciliatory gesture; he means it an insult. 

The Alpha wants to anger him, Bucky thinks. The wolf he’d lost had been strong, on his way to being an Enforcer. The Alpha wants him to look at this boy—a scrawny, half-grown, weak wolf—and feel slighted. Perhaps, he even wanted to provoke Bucky into an attack so that he could claim to now be the injured party. 

To some degree, it even works: Bucky is angry, but not for the reasons the other Alpha wants.

And he is not the only one, either.

The witnessing Alphas share his horror as they take in the Omega—starved, beaten, offered up as if he were a lamb to be slaughtered.

When an Omega is taken care of properly, they have a naturally sweet scent, one that innately attracts other wolves. There is no scent more pleasing to a wolf than that of a content Omega, except maybe the milky scent of a newborn pup. 

This Omega, his scent is wrong, too, but in a different way. He smells of dying earth, spoiled fruit, and rotting flowers. Misery and fear and hurt.

“You bastard,” hisses one of the Alphas, a short blonde woman from a small but respected pack. “You—what did you do—”

She lunges like she’s going to attack. Her fellow Alphas just barely catch her in time to stop her.

The Omega flinches, whimpering.

“Stop,” Bucky says immediately, keeping his voice soft and calm. “You’re scaring the Omega.”

The female Alpha immediately stops struggling to break free, but she doesn’t stop glaring.

“You could live for a thousand years and never recover from this shame,” she snarls quietly. “Explain yourself. Now.”

The Alpha, completely unconcerned by his reception, glances at the Omega.

“He tried to run,” he says, as if that was sufficient explanation.

It wasn’t. It explained only the dirt on the boy’s knees, his cheeks, the smear of it on the side of his white tunic.

The Alpha deposits the boy in the middle of the clearing and backs away, leaving him all alone among a small crowd of strangers. The Omega collapses to his knees, his whole body trembling. Fat, silent tears roll down his cheeks but he doesn’t make a sound. His fear scent—that note of rotting flowers—chokes Bucky with every breath.

The Alpha watches with a truly sadistic gleam in his eye, his lips curving into a barely-there smile.

It hits Bucky, then, the full scope of what’s happening.

The white tunic. The boy’s attempt to flee.

It isn’t just rough-handling. This sadistic fuck is torturing the Omega right up until their last moments together.

Oh, yes. Bucky is very angry, indeed.

He would attack the Alpha, and be well within pack law to do so given the state of the Omega, but doing so would frighten the boy even further. His duty right now is not retribution for this injustice—as much as he would like it to be—but instead, to help the Omega. Otherwise, he would be no better than the Alpha doing it.

It isn’t the way of things, but neither the witnessing Alphas nor the priestess rebuke him when he falls out of line. Only the boy’s Alpha protests with an annoyed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Bucky does not look away from the Omega when he addresses the man.

“You will keep quiet,” he says, his voice low and calm, “or I will have you tried here and now for what you’ve done.”

The Alpha shuts up. 

Slowly, Bucky approaches the Omega, his hands outstretched in a gesture of peace. He tries to make himself smaller, hunching down so that he doesn’t tower quite so much over the poor boy. It doesn’t really work; he is a very large Alpha and the Omega is a runt. There is nothing he can do to lessen that size difference.

The Omega freezes in place. His body locks up tight, his breath coming in short, rapid pants. That fear scent gets worse.

“Easy,” Bucky soothes. He stops a foot away. “Easy now. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise.”

He kneels down. Perhaps being on the same level will lessen the boy’s fear; at least, he hopes it will. He tilts his head, trying to catch the boy’s gaze.

The Omega keeps his face angled at the ground in front of him, but he’s watching Bucky from the corner of his eye.

“Hi, sweetheart,” Bucky murmurs warmly. “My name is Alpha Barnes. My pack calls me Bucky. Do you think you can tell me your name?”

The Omega just breathes. Tremors still skate along his spine. He’s still in the grips of fear; perhaps a fear too great to allow him to speak.

The Alpha snarls his annoyance.

“Speak, boy,” he snaps, making the Omega flinch. “They asked you a question.”

The witnesses Alphas bristle, ready to fight. Bucky silences them with a look and then turns his gaze on the rival Alpha.

“Hush,” he says mildly. “If he doesn’t want to answer, no one where will make him, and  especially not you. You’ve lost that right.”

The Omega jolts at the simple command, finally turning wide eyes on Bucky. 

Bucky meets his gaze, smiling gently. With the boy looking at him for the first time, Bucky can really take him in. His heart aches at what he sees. Not just the malnourishment, the bruise on his cheek, his youth. 

Even underneath it all, the Omega is so small, fine-boned and fae-like in his appearance. How could anyone ever look at such a delicate thing and want to hurt him?

“I mean that,” he promises, his voice just as soft and gentle as his smile. “I think things are a little scary and confusing for you right now, aren’t they? It’s a lot to take in. You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to. I just want to make sure you’re okay and that you understand what’s going on.”

A little furrow appears between the Omega’s brows as he searches Bucky’s face, like he can’t quite make sense of him.

Bucky soldiers on. “Do you know what’s happening right now, pup? Has your Alpha told you what we’re doing here tonight?”

This gets a reaction. The Omega flinches, making a soft, barely perceptible noise. He hugs his knees to his chest, lowering his gaze to the ground again as he nods. 

“What has he told you?” Bucky asks. “What do you think will happen here tonight?”

The Alpha in question opens his mouth as if to protest, but a single look for Bucky silences him. He looks mutinous about it.

The Omega just breathes. He can’t or won’t answer.

“Did he tell you this was a punishment?” Bucky asks, going with his instinct. “Did he tell you that you’d be hurt tonight, or worse?”

Hesitantly, Omega nods. He flinches when the witnessing Alphas hiss and growl their displeasure at his answer. Bucky holds up a hand, silencing them.

“That isn’t true,” Bucky murmurs. “Nothing bad will happen to you tonight, I promise. You won’t be hurt and you won’t be sent away a rogue.”

The Omega looks up at him again. A fragile hope blooms in his wide eyes and he almost seems scared of it—like he knows better, but he can’t help it.

“Someone in your pack killed someone in my pack,” he tells the Omega. “So now, your Alpha must give up one of his own to make up for the packmate I lost. That’s what’s happening here, nothing more. The priestess will prick your finger and take a few drops of your blood to pay the blood debt owed. She’ll use that same blood to perform a ritual that will sever your ties to your pack. When the bonds are gone, she’ll wash away your pack scents and create a new bond between you and I. You aren’t dying, little one. No one will send you out into the world alone, either. You’re just getting a new pack, okay? When everything is done, I will be your Alpha, and you’ll come home with me.”

If the boy knew anything about real pack dynamics, he’d know the very idea of condemning an Omega to life as a rogue is so ridiculous, it’s laughable. The idea of killing one—well, every other Alpha present would rather die themselves than be part of something so heinous. 

But the poor pup doesn’t know; he thinks that his pack is the way things are when that couldn’t be further from the truth.

The Omega looks around the clearing, gauging the truth of Bucky’s words in each face he finds. He looks over his shoulder at his Alpha and looks away just as quickly, flinching under the man’s furious gaze. 

It’s unclear what decision he’s come to when he looks back at Bucky again, but either way, he nods.

Bucky looks at the boy’s Alpha again.

“You can go,” he says. “Enjoy whatever time you have left, because I will make sure you’re punished for this.”

The Alpha sneers, swaying forward. For a second, it looks like he might be the one to attack.

“I am the Alpha,” he snarls, and the Omega flinches again at his answering rage. “I can do with my pack as I see fit.”

“Within pack law,” one of the witnessing Alphas, this one male, replies. “You may do with your pack as you see fit as long as it’s within the law. This is not within the law. Alpha Barnes is right; you’ll be punished. If he doesn’t make sure of it, we will.”

His two companions murmur their assent.

“I’ll be waiting,” the Alpha snaps, but it’s clearly false bravado.

With that, he leaves.

The Omega’s scent goes haywire in his absence, a mess of contradictions. He’s relieved, but also anxious, frightened. 

Bucky understands. The Alpha had been cruel to him, but he’s also the devil the Omega knows. The boy has no idea what to expect from the rest of them. Given the state of him, he can’t expect much.

After a long, tense moment, the priestess approaches with a bowl of herbs in hand. She kneels down beside them.

“May I touch you?” She asks quietly.

The Omega, who’d been looking in the direction his previous Alpha had disappeared, whips his head around. The question has clearly thrown him off and Bucky isn’t surprised about that, either, even though the reminder of what this Omega has been through sickens him anew.

Even the largest, strongest Omegas are fragile things when compared to other wolves. One of the very first and most important lessons a pup ever learns is how to respect them and take care of them properly. 

Bucky still remembers his own lesson. 

He hadn’t meant to hurt anyone; he’d just been excited. But he’d been born an Alpha and although he wasn’t as strong then as he is today, he also hadn’t known the extent of his own strength or how to control it at the tender age of five. In pursuit of a hug and a scent-marking, he’d barreled into their pack’s Omega and accidentally knocked him over.

The Omega had ended up with a few scrapes and bruises and Bucky had ended up sobbing his heart out over being the culprit. Even before he’d been taught better, he knew the Omega was special.

The Omega’s scent was sweet, like they all were. This one smelled like cinnamon and sugar; like the snickerdoodles he loved to have for dessert. Whenever Bucky caught a whiff of that scent, he had the immediate urge to seek the Omega out. To be near him, to have his attention, his touch, his care. 

Even a glance from the Omega could make him feel like bubbles were fizzing and popping in his stomach. He wasn’t alone, either; everyone wanted to be near the Omega. It was obvious even to a child.

The Omega’s word was law. Even Alphas—even the Alpha—deferred to him. Upsetting him could send even the strongest wolf to their knees.

The Omega’s happiness was the pack’s happiness. 

With the Omega’s blood scent and hurt lingering in the air, Bucky knew he’d done wrong. The pack’s reaction had solidified that notion.

But while the pack fussed over the Omega, the Omega fussed over him.

The crowds had parted with the arrival of the pack Alpha—Bucky’s father, now long dead. He’d knelt beside them where Bucky was curled up in the Omega’s lap, his large hand curving around Bucky’s shoulder and engulfing it completely.

His father had been a behemoth of a man, just like Bucky had grown up to be. He’d also been a kind, gentle Alpha; the kind of man that was always smiling. When he frowned, it didn’t seem to fit quite right on his face. He frowned then as he took in the scene before him and though it was a small thing, Bucky still felt it like claws to his heart. He’d always hated upsetting his father.

“I didn’t mean to,” he said for perhaps the millionth time since the Omega had fallen.

“Of course you didn’t,” the Omega cooed, trying to dry his tears. “It’s alright, sweetheart, nothing to worry about. It was just an accident, that’s all. Alpha won’t yell at you. And if he tries, I’ll bite him for it. How does that sound?”

The Omega cupped his face, first kissing his forehead and then smiling down at him like they were sharing a secret joke. 

He’d already tamed the crowd around them with similar threats and just like with Bucky’s father, he hadn’t raised his voice to do it. An Omega never had to raise their voice to keep their pack in line.

Bucky’s father laughed at the threat, reaching out his free hand to brush over the Omega’s neck, scent-marking him. The Omega leaned into the touch. As much as everyone wanted the Omega’s attention and affection, the Omega craved theirs just as much. Especially the attention of an Alpha.

“I mean it,” he said, glaring playfully. “If you hurt him, I’ll be very cross with you.”

“No yelling, I promise,” his father said, with no small amount of humor in his voice. He took Bucky from the Omega’s arms. “Now off to the healer with you. I’ll take care of the pup.”

“It’s just a few scrapes—”

“And it’ll make everyone feel better to know you’ve been tended to,” his father said, brooking no argument. “Go on now, before I bite you.”

The Omega’s delighted laughter echoed through the crowd. The sound of it seemed to settle the last of the pack’s fraying nerves. He allowed himself to be helped up and away. It was only when the crowd had dispersed that his father had put Bucky down again, kneeling in front of him.

“I didn’t mean to,” Bucky said again, quieter.

“I know, son.” His father smiled softly, passing a hand over his head. “Accidents happen. But we can still learn from them, can’t we? What do you think you should learn from this one?”

Bucky frowned. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

His father smiled.

“Fair enough,” he said. His expression sobered, but was still kind as he took Bucky’s hands in his own. “Omegas are a special kind of wolf, son. They’re the heart of the pack, but they’re also very fragile. They can get hurt very easily and they don’t heal as fast as we do. We have to be careful with them. So we never, ever touch an Omega or their nest without permission, do you understand? They’re not as strong as we are. They can’t properly defend themselves against other wolves. Always remember, there’s—”

“—no honor in hurting a weaker wolf,” Bucky recited with him. 

His father laughed, patting his cheek. “Good pup. Now let’s go check on our Omega, hmm? He’ll want to make sure you’re alright.”

His father had been right—the Omega had been more worried about how their talk turned out than about his own well-being. Bucky might have been stronger than the Omega physically, but not mentally. He’d still been just a pup, after all. Omegas were always protective of pups.

Because that’s the way a pack worked; the strong looked after the weak. 

Or, Bucky thinks as he looks over the Omega runt again, that’s the way a pack should work.

The memory of his pack’s Omega, now gone nearly as long as his father, spoiled and happy and confident in his place—

It’s painful in the face of this young Omega. This boy who should be just as spoiled, who should know that the Alphas surrounding him would do anything to please him. He should be preening under their attention, but instead he cowers away. Because he’s been taught to be afraid.

We never, ever touch an Omega or their nest without permission.

He wonders how far gone an entire pack has to be to not just ignore that lesson, but to go so far as to hurt the Omega in their care. How far gone must an Alpha be to find pleasure in his fear, his pain?

When the priestess receives no answer, she smiles sadly.

“I know you’re afraid,” she murmurs, “and this is all very sudden and confusing for you. I wish I could give you time to acclimate, but the spell must be performed at the witching hour under a full moon. If we wait too long, I won’t be able to sever the ties to your former pack for another month. It’s entirely your choice, but I want you to understand what waiting means for you.”

The Omega glances from the priestess to Bucky and back again. His shoulders slump as he reluctantly holds out his hand. The priestess pricks his finger with easy, quick efficiency, turning it over and squeezing exactly three drops of blood out of the small wound.

As soon as the Omega’s blood is on the herbs, she lights the bowl on fire and speaks a few soft words. A light flashes, like lightning has struck nearby, and then a tangle of pulsing threads appears in the center of the Omega’s chest. The braided threads lead around his body and into the forest where his Alpha disappeared.

At the sight of them, even the priestess recoils.

Bucky already knows the answer, but still, he asks, “Are they supposed to look like that?”

“No,” the priestess whispers, horrified. “Most of the time, they’re white-blue. If it’s a mating bond or a particularly strong connection, they’ll be gold. But this? I’ve never—”

She looks at the Omega, as if seeing him for the first time.

The threads are rotting. Their color is a sickly gray with several spots along the length completely blackened out. It’s an illusion—it has to be—but Bucky swears he can smell their decay. 

“Cut them,” he demands. The Omega looks up for the first time since his blood was taken. “Sever their ties to him. Now.”

He can’t imagine what someone has to go through to have their bonds fester like that or what it must feel like.

How long have they been hurting this Omega? And how much more pain have those decaying bonds caused?

Bucky meets the Omega’s sad gaze and swears, “They will never touch you again.”

The Omega doesn’t answer.

The priestess picks up a pair of silver shears, gingerly picking at the thread to hold it still. The shears turn out to be useless. The moment she pinches the braid between her fingers, the entire thing disintegrates. 

The Omega heaves a soft sigh. It’s a quiet sound, but Bucky thinks he hears a note of relief in it. The decay in his scent isn’t as strong as it was before, but it’s still there.

To everyone’s surprise, a single golden thread is left behind. It was somehow hidden beneath all the decay, protected from sight by the rot.

Bucky frowns. There isn’t a mate-scent on the Omega, but—

“Do you have a mate?” He asks gently. “Or a pup?”

The Omega shakes his head. He offers no explanation for the remaining thread, but his expression as he looks at it is pure devastation.

The priestess plucks at it just as gingerly as she had the other threads, but this one is strong. It thrums, pulsing white-gold. Uncertainly, she lifts the shears. 

This breaks the Omega. He sobs quietly, recoiling from her.

“Don’t,” he begs, raw and broken. “Don’t, don’t, please don’t—”

“Whoa, whoa,” Bucky soothes, holding his hands out. “Easy, pup. Easy now.”

He doesn’t touch the Omega. He can’t, no matter how much he aches to pull the boy into his arms and comfort him. He hasn’t been given permission yet.

The Omega turns to him, tears brimming in his pleading blue eyes, his lips trembling. 

“Please,” he whispers again.

And that one plea is what breaks Bucky. He can’t do this. He can’t watch an Omega be in this kind of pain and do nothing. 

He beckons the boy closer desperately.

“Come here,” he begs, unashamed. “Let me touch you, pup. Let me help.”

The Omega nods frantically, scrambling into his lap. His eagerness for comfort surprises Bucky until, too late, he realizes what his request must seem like from the Omega’s point of view. 

The Omega thinks this is his bargain; permission to touch for the bond’s safety. 

Bucky looks helplessly at the other Alphas. For all his experience, he has no idea what to do right now. His instinct to comfort and nurture is at odds with those deeply ingrained lessons.

Never, ever touch an Omega without their permission.

This isn’t true permission.

He sees his own dilemma reflected in their eyes. They, too, understand what’s occurred and why the Omega crawled so willingly into an Alpha’s lap, despite all he’s been through.

“Help him,” the female Alpha murmurs finally, her sad gaze on the trembling boy. “The Omega comes first.”

Yes. She’s right, of course.

Omegas always come first.

Carefully, Bucky closes his arms around the boy’s too-thin frame. He rocks them both, rubbing his cheek over the boy’s hair as he shushes him softly. He can feel himself calming now that the Omega is protected in his embrace, his instinct to comfort deepening his scent.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, cupping the Omega’s head, guiding the boy’s face into the vulnerable skin of his throat. 

He hopes this sign of trust isn’t lost on the Omega in his panic. 

“Breathe, pup. Take in my scent. Everything’s okay. Everything will be okay, I promise. Just breathe for me now.”

Thankfully, the Omega does. He grips Bucky’s shirt tightly, pressing his cold nose into Bucky’s throat as he breathes—first shallowly and then progressively deeper.

Alphas and Omegas were made to complement each other. They are opposite halves of a whole; a yin and a yang. Alphas were born to care for the pack and Omegas, to be cared for by the pack. They exist for the pack, but also, each other.

As calming as an Omega’s scent was to an Alpha, so too was an Alpha’s scent for an Omega.

Bucky hasn’t done anything of note, not truly. He was just lucky enough to be born an Alpha and luckier still to be born into a pack that nurtured and loved him. Just as easily as the other Alpha’s pack scent carried his pack’s misery, Bucky’s own scent carries his pack’s love for him, their happiness and contentment.

It isn’t just his Alpha scent that mellows the Omega—with what he’s been through with his own Alpha, just that alone would not be enough. No, Bucky has no doubt that what mellows the boy is that pack scent. The proof that Bucky doesn’t hurt those around him. 

He’s done nothing to deserve it, but still, his chest swells with pride when the Omega’s scent mellows out, the panic receding. If nothing else, the Omega’s subconscious at least recognizes that he isn’t in danger.

“There we go,” Bucky whispers, sifting his fingers through the boy’s hair.

He leans back, looking down at the vulnerable Omega in his arms. 

“I know you don’t believe this right now,” he murmurs softly, “but everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe now, I promise. From this point on, everything that happens is up to you.”

He glances briefly at the golden thread. The magic is starting to fade and with it, the ability to see the bond, but it hasn’t gone away completely yet.

“That bond is yours. Only you get to decide what happens to it. If you want to keep it, then keep it. I’ll stand between it and whoever wants to take it away from you, I promise.”

The Omega watches him with heavy, exhausted eyes. He looks so defeated, so small and defenseless. The protectiveness Bucky feels toward him is almost too much to bear.

“Let’s stop for the night,” he suggests softly. “You’ve been through so much already. The important part has been done; you’re no longer tied to that pack. They have no more claim to you. How about we leave the rest for another day, hm?”

“But the new bond,” the priestess starts to protest. 

Bucky silences her with a look.

“The bond doesn’t have to be done tonight,” he promises. “It doesn’t have to be done at all if you don’t want it. Any decent pack would consider themselves lucky to have you. You can take your time to choose, if you’d rather go with someone else. My pack can foster you to until then or until you find a pack you’d rather stay with until you find the bond you’re looking for.”

The Omega blinks tiredly, a little frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. He looks—troubled? Confused? Bucky isn’t quite sure. He doesn’t know the Omega well enough to read the finer nuances in his expressions or scent yet.

He smiles down at the Omega, touching his cheek gently.

“But all of that can be a discussion for a different day,” he says. “If it’s alright with you, I’ll take you to my territory tonight. We’ll get some food in you and maybe get you a nice, hot bath and a good night’s sleep and then we can worry about the future tomorrow. Does that sound okay?”

Hesitantly, the Omega nods.

Bucky smiles again, nodding with him.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Then let’s go with that.”

[daddybucky]

Spent all day thinking about your silver daddy bucky and twink steve at the kink club

This isn't them at the club, but it is Silver Daddy Bucky: Part II

In which Bucky continues to shamefully lust after a pretty boy half his age and then that same boy seduces him with great success.

There's nothing hotter than a man having a moral dilemma over his lust for you, or whatever that quote is.

Warning for unnegotiated kink. That's a big no-no, obviously, but we'll ignore it here for the porn.

(Part I for anyone that wants a refresher.)

--

Despite all the reasons why he shouldn’t want this, can’t have this, anticipation buzzes underneath Bucky’s skin as he guides Steve to his car. 

It’s been so long since he’s taken someone home—since he’s gotten the chance to take care of someone. Even if Bucky can’t keep him, at least he won’t be alone for one night.

Steve waits until they’re in the car to finally speak.

“You don’t have to do this,” he says quietly, looking down at his lap as he picks nervously at his nailbed. “I know Etienne bullied you into it. You can just drop me off at home, if you want to.”

He looks so small sitting in Bucky’s passenger seat. Small and exhausted, still with that air of fragility and very much like he shouldn’t be left alone.

“From what I gather,” Bucky says, choosing his words carefully, “both of your roommates are busy tonight. If I dropped you off, would you call one of them home?” 

The sheepish look Steve gives him tells him all needs to know. Hesitantly, Bucky reaches over, resting his hand over Steve’s.

The last thing Bucky wants to do is drop him off, not now that he’s allowed himself to accept the idea of taking Steve home. But he also doesn’t want to make Steve do anything he’s uncomfortable with.

“I’ll do what you want me to,” he says honestly, brushing his thumb along Steve’s own. “But you’ve been through a lot. I’d prefer it if you weren’t alone tonight. I think maybe you’d prefer that, too?”

After a brief pause, Steve nods his agreement. 

“Then you tell me what you want to do. I’ll drop you off at home if that’s what you want, but you have to promise you’ll call someone to come be with you. Or I can take you home with me. I’ll make us some dinner, something nice and comforting after the day you’ve had. No wine tonight, even though you deserve it, but I might be able to scrounge up a soda. I have a nice, big jacuzzi tub that might help with any soreness and I promise, my guest bed is comfortable. I can be as present or as absent as you want, all you have to do is tell me. There are worse ways to spend the evening, I think, if you can forgive the company.”

Steve’s smiling by the end of his speech—a soft, delicate thing that makes his eyes shine brightly. For perhaps the millionth time since they’ve met, Bucky finds himself breathless from his angel’s sheer beauty, cuts and bruises and all. What he wouldn’t give for the right to lean over and kiss those full, smiling lips. To be able to touch this boy whenever and however he pleased.

“Dinner sounds nice,” Steve says finally, his voice just as soft and delicate as his smile.

Bucky smiles back. “Then let’s do that.”

In the end, though, dinner never happens.

Bucky spends so much time in the store agonizing over the impossibly soft teddy bear he finds on one of the shelves—questioning whether or not Steve is the type of boy to even want a teddy bear, wondering if it’d be overstepping to buy it—that by the time he gets back to the car, Steve is fast asleep in the passenger seat.

He’ll never admit to how long he just sits there and watches Steve sleep before he starts the car and finally drives them home. Once there, he takes the bags in first, dumping them carelessly on the counter and going back for the more important cargo—his boy.

With great, painstaking care, he gently lifts Steve out of the car and carries him inside. He promised Steve the guest bedroom, but with that lithe body cradled in his arms, Steve’s head on his chest, Bucky can’t force himself to take him anywhere other than the master bedroom. He lays Steve on the bed and goes back to the kitchen.

There are protein shakes in his fridge for his workouts and for those times when he really can’t be bothered to cook for just one person. He takes one out, shaking it up before sticking a straw in it. On his way back to the bedroom, he grabs a glass of water, a bottle of ibuprofen, and at the last second, the bear he couldn’t leave the store without. He sets it all on the nightstand as he sits on the edge of the mattress, gently pulling Steve back into a sitting position.

“C’mere, sweetheart,” he says gently. “I need you to wake up for me. Just for a minute.”

Steve face scrunches up as he whines, shaking his head.

“Tired,” he mumbles, blinking sluggishly.

“I know,” Bucky soothes, petting his hair. “But I can’t let you go to bed on an empty stomach. Can you drink this for me? Please?”

He sets the straw against Steve’s lips. With a little sigh, Steve wraps his lips around it. His head drops against Bucky’s shoulder as he obediently sips.

Bucky softly coaxes him through drinking the whole thing, helpless to stop the way his cock hardens against his thigh. His gut is hot and tight by the time Steve is done, his breath heavy and unsteady.

He can’t help it. This is his deepest pleasure—providing for a beautiful boy, gently coaxing him into obedience, cooing soft praise into his ear. It’s his favorite type of play, the thing guaranteed to heat his blood, and this might not be play, but it’s so close to what he wants, what he craves.

It’s been so long since he’s gotten the opportunity to do anything close to this, to fulfill this part of himself, and the fact that it’s this boy, so sweet and sleepy and pliant in his arms, accepting his direction, his praise? He could no more stop his cock from hardening than he could stop his heart from beating.

He rubs his cheek on the top of Steve’s head, sifting his fingers through his hair.

“Good boy,” he murmurs, allowing himself to press a single kiss to his temple. “Thank you for doing that for me, sweetheart. You’re such a good, good boy. I need you to take some medicine now, okay?”

Bucky reaches for the ibuprofen as Steve makes a little noise of assent.

Steve doesn’t even open his eyes; he just parts his lips, accepting the medicine and then the sip of water that Bucky tips into his mouth. The inherent trust is enough to bring Bucky to his knees.

He kisses Steve’s forehead again, unable to stop it.

“Such a good boy,” he murmurs again. “I want you to be comfortable while you sleep. Would you be okay with me changing your clothes? You can borrow something of mine.”

Steve nods against him, whispering a sweet, sleepy, “Yes, Daddy.”

Bucky swallows roughly, holding him a little tighter, rocking him gently as he tries to breathe through the pulsing in his cock. What he wouldn’t give for it to be true; to be this beautiful angel’s Daddy.

When he can stand to let go, he retrieves a sleep shirt from his drawer and sets about changing Steve’s clothes. 

He doesn’t allow himself to look or linger. This boy isn’t his to look at, no matter how badly he wants it. He changes Steve’s shirt first, letting his own swallow him and protect his modesty as much as possible when it’s time to remove his jeans.

“My pants won’t fit you,” he murmurs, “will you be comfortable like this?”

Steve nods sleepily. Helplessly, Bucky smiles.

“Alright, sweetheart, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pulls back the covers, guiding Steve underneath them. Once he’s all tucked in, nice and warm, Bucky sits beside him again.

“I bought you something at the store,” he admits finally, running his thumb along the side of Steve’s neck. “I don’t know if it’s something you’ll like. It’s okay if you don’t, but I thought it might be comforting after today.”

Steve blinks once, looking at Bucky through heavy-lidded eyes as he makes a soft, inquisitive noise. God, he’s so sleepy. And so fucking adorable, it makes Bucky’s teeth ache.

His heart pounding somewhere in his throat, Bucky shows him the bear. 

Steve blinks again. His breath hitches. And then the softest, sweetest smile Bucky’s ever seen breaks over his lips. He reaches for the bear eagerly, hugging it close as he rubs his cheek against its soft fur before tucking his face against it. Contentment radiates off him in waves, the corner of that sweet smile still visible.

Bucky watches, so enamored he’s breathless with it. He has to fist his hand against the mattress to stop himself from slipping it between his thighs and touching his pulsing, aching cock.

Just hours ago, this beautiful boy looked up at him shivering, lost, hurt, and crying. Now, he’s warm and happy, comfortable and fed, and it’s because of him. Because of his attention, his care. 

What he wouldn’t give for the right to take his cock out and stroke himself to that knowledge as he watched this beautiful boy fall asleep in his bed, in his clothes. What he wouldn’t give for the right to take out his cock and gently coax his beautiful boy into nursing on it, to show his gratitude for Daddy’s care.

For a moment, he can see it so clearly: that blonde head slowly bobbing above his lap, those pretty lips red and wet, stretched wide around him, his cock in the perfect heat of that perfect fucking mouth, the little noises his baby boy would make as he sleepily nurses.

What noises would they be, he wonders in a haze of heat and pleasure. Content? Hungry? Needy? Would he fall asleep with it in his mouth? Is his boy a little cockslut, would he like nursing on Daddy, or would he do it simply for Daddy’s pleasure?

Both possibilities are heady in their own way, heat flooding his gut as the unfolding fantasy flips between the two of its own accord.

God, what he wouldn’t give to be this boy’s Daddy.

Steve’s hand seeks his out, tangling their fingers together.

“You’re such a good Daddy,” he whispers sleepily. He snuggles closer to his bear, rubbing his nose against it with a little sigh. In a small, sad voice, he adds, “I wish I could make you like me.”

Every ounce of heat and pleasure that filled Bucky only moments before vanishes in an instant.

“Sweetheart,” he says, choked. “Of course I like you.”

Steve makes a little noise, mumbling, “Not the way I want you to.”

Bucky’s heart skips at beat and then—then it starts to pound. He can’t seem to take in a deep breath as he reaches for Steve with unsteady fingers, touching his hair gently.

“How do you want me to?” He whispers shakily.

He gets no answer. Steve has finally succumb to his exhaustion again, his breath turning deep and even. Bucky pets his hair, feeling almost sick as he watches this beautiful, perfect angel of a boy sleep in his bed, in his clothes, his face tucked against the bear Bucky bought him—and apparently somehow under the impression that Bucky is anything other than hopelessly in love with him.

Does Steve want that?

There aren’t a lot of ways to interpret ‘not the way I want you to,’ but there’s still nuance to it.

Does he want the feelings? Or is he just looking for sex? Does he just want a scene partner, someone to play with?

If he did—

No, it’s best not to think about. Because the truth is, if Steve wanted him—even only for something physical—Bucky would probably give in to him. On whatever terms he laid out, in whatever way he desired, Bucky would be helpless to do it. The chance to experience the heaven of his angel would be worth whatever pain followed.

We don’t need another situation on our hands, Natalia had said to him just hours ago, and Bucky hadn’t had the heart to tell her that this is nothing like that—it’s worse.

He’d never felt like this for the situation. He’d been lonely. They’d been just compatible enough for him to try and make it work. He’d thought it was the best he could hope for at his age and he hadn’t wanted to go back to the loneliness of an empty house and an empty bed. But, eventually, staying together had seemed like the worse fate and—well. And.

Bucky hadn’t been wrapped around his finger, not the way some people liked to think. He’d just gotten tired of arguing at a certain point.

But Steve—Steve has him. Without a touch, without a kiss, Buck is already wrapped so tightly around that lithe, delicate finger, he’d do anything asked of him. Anything to please this beautiful, sweet angel of a boy.

He shouldn’t, though.

His feelings aside, Bucky shouldn’t touch him either way. He shouldn’t even let himself dream about it, want it. 

Their age difference is—not insignificant. 

He doesn’t know Steve’s exact age, but he knows there’s at least twenty years between them. He knows that he could legally drink before Steve was even born. An age difference like that isn’t something to dismiss or ignore, not without hurting the younger party involved. The last thing Bucky ever wants to do is hurt such a beautiful, sweet boy.

He watches Steve sleep for what feels like hours, his heart torn in two, wanting and knowing he shouldn’t and yet not daring to hope his feelings could be returned on any level. Unable to look away, unable to even stop touching him, his fingers caught in the impossibly soft strands of his hair. Steve doesn’t seem to mind; even in his sleep, he seems to lean into the touch, making the sweetest little noises as he rubs his face in his teddy’s fur. 

Finally, Bucky leans down to press a tender kiss to Steve’s temple, lingering to breathe in the scent of him. He has to leave now or he won’t be able to do it at all.

“Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

Pulling away, leaving the room, is one of the hardest things he’s ever done. The only thing he wants to do is crawl under the covers and hold Steve through the night. But he doesn’t have permission for that, so instead he grabs his own change of clothes and relegates himself to the bed he couldn’t bring himself to leave Steve in.

He doesn’t know if he’ll bring up what Steve said the next morning. He doesn’t know if he has that right or if he even wants to know—any answer would crush him, he thinks. If he’s wrong completely about what Steve meant, if Steve only wanted something physical. Even if Steve wanted everything that he wants, it would crush him, because there’s still the matter of their ages. 

He still hasn’t made up his mind about it by the time he falls asleep.

That night, he dreams of a beautiful, blonde angel in his bed, lithe and naked and his to touch. He dreams of an eager mouth nursing on him. He dreams of a sweet, sleepy voice saying Yes, Daddy, dreams of tasting those sweet words from even sweeter lips, of hearing them just before he sinks inside his baby.

He wakes the next morning harder than he’s ever been in his life. There’s an obscene tent to his pajama pants, a spreading damp patch where he’s leaking.

“Fuck,” he breathes out hoarsely, reaching down to rub himself through the material. He’s so sensitive, the pleasure almost hurts. “Oh, fuck.”

It would take nothing. All he would need to do is ease his pajamas over his erection and spit in his hand. Just a few strokes and the lingering flashes of his dream and he’d come so hard. His angel always makes him come so goddamn hard.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s come thinking of Steve. It wouldn’t even be the first time this week. But it feels like crossing a line when the boy in question is in his house, innocently unaware, recovering from a very bad day. 

He lets go of himself, gripping the sheets as he pants softly, resisting the urge to roll over and rut into the mattress like an animal. To get himself off imagining what it would be like rut into his angel the same way, that gorgeous, lithe body underneath his, sweet little cries echoing in his ears while his cock is buried in tight, perfect heat—

“Fuck,” he snarls again, and rolls out of bed before he gives in.

He stumbles across the hall to the bathroom. He uses one of the spare toothbrushes he keeps for guests so that he doesn’t wake Steve just yet, brushing his teeth and ignoring the unbearable heat in his body, the way his skin feels too tight and his gut is clenched and his nipples are peaked and aching. 

Taking care of Steve the night before has messed with his equilibrium. It’s been too long since he’s had sex or played with a boy and now that he’s been reminded of how good it can be, his body aches for it. He doesn’t just want it, he needs it.

He needs to be a Daddy. It satisfies something vital inside Bucky and it’s been far, far too long since he’s been able to fulfill those needs. 

He needs to play and tease and coax, to provide and praise. He needs to reduce a boy to tears with pleasure alone and then gather him close to comfort him, needs to coo at him gently while he eases his cock inside and then fuck him until neither of them can move. 

The problem is he’s entirely uninterested in touching anyone but the one boy he shouldn’t touch at all.

What he needs the most is a lithe body underneath him, open, vulnerable blue eyes staring up at him so trustingly, blonde hair spilling over his sheets, fingernails scraping at his hips, a tearstained face and wet, trembling lips, a soft, sweet voice crying, “Daddy,” as he comes.

He doesn’t need a boy. He needs his boy. His sweet, perfect, gorgeous little angel. The one boy he can’t have.

Bucky stands there for several long minutes, getting his breathing under control as he tries his hardest not think about it—all that he wants, all that he needs, and what he can’t bring himself to have with anyone but the boy currently sleeping his bed.

By the time he leaves the bathroom, he has a plan. He’ll make breakfast before he checks on Steve, give himself time to calm down and get his body in order. He’ll remember how to be normal and he won’t, under any circumstances, make the boy he’s in love with uncomfortable.

It’s a very good plan, he thinks.

It all goes to hell the moment he steps out of the hallway and sees Steve already awake. He’s standing frozen in the middle of the living room, wearing only the shirt Bucky put him in the night before, hugging his middle as he stares at something over the fireplace. 

Bucky is suddenly very aware of his body. He’d gone to bed without a shirt the night before and he’d planned on putting one on before waking Steve up, but he hadn’t gone that far yet. He’s bare-chested, that soft layer of fat over his belly on display, and nothing at all present to hide the erection still tenting his pajama pants. 

His cock throbs at the sight of his beautiful, lithe boy in only his shirt. Those bare, creamy thighs that would feel heavenly wrapped around him on full display. The only thing that would make this sight better would be his collar around that slim, pretty throat. 

A dainty one, he thinks dazedly, unable to pull his gaze away from where the hem of his shirt stops and pale, unblemished skin starts. His cock throbs.

A pretty, dainty collar for a pretty, dainty boy.

A pretty, dainty boy wearing a pretty, dainty collar that Bucky put on him and nothing fucking else, laying vulnerable in Bucky’s bed, waiting obediently for Daddy to come fuck him.

His hand twitches toward his cock, but Bucky balls it into a fist to stop himself from crossing a line. 

Bucky shifts back, intent on retreating back to the guest bedroom before Steve sees him like this, but something must’ve alerted Steve to his presence. Maybe a creak in the floor, maybe Bucky’s harsh, panting breaths, maybe just a sixth sense that he’s being watched.

“That’s my painting,” Steve says quietly. He doesn’t take his eyes away from the painting in question—the one that is, indeed, his.

Bucky winces. He’d hung it out in the open where it could be admired because he never thought anyone would know its artist; never thought the artist himself would ever darken his doorstep, let alone spend the night.

“Yes,” he admits, because what else is there to say?

“You bought my painting,” Steve breathes out.

He finally turns around. Even with the cuts and bruises still marring his face, he’s ethereal in the morning light. The sun hits his eyes just right to make them glow as they take Bucky in, lingering on Bucky’s bare chest and the erection he can’t hide. 

Steve licks his lips, his eyes growing heavy-lidded and hazy, a hot little noise in his throat. There’s a new confidence in his gaze when he reluctantly tears it away from Bucky’s hard cock to look him in the eye again. It’s as if he knows that Bucky is hard for him, because of him. 

And how could he not? How could he doubt it, when the proof of Bucky’s feelings for him hangs on the wall for everyone to see?

He’s desperate for this boy. He’s always been desperate for this boy.

Steve takes an unsteady step toward him.

“You bought my painting,” he repeats, simultaneously a question and not one at all.

“Yes.” The word is a soft, unsteady exhale. A confession. “Yeah, baby. I bought your painting.”

One moment, Bucky’s arms are hanging limp at his sides, all too empty, and the next, there’s an angel in them. He barely has time to register the bliss of that gorgeous, slender body in his embrace before lithe fingers sift through his hair, tightening their hold and yanking his head down into a hungry, eager kiss.

The first touch of those soft, plush lips and Bucky is gone. He groans deeply, clutching the back of Steve’s head and backing him up against the wall as he plunders his boy’s mouth, a starving man finally given a feast. 

Heat so potent it almost feels cold rushes through him, so fast and so brutal it’s impossible to tell where it starts. But he can feel precisely where it ends, that rush of molten hunger right to his cock that leaves it pulsing. His groin is so hot and tight, he can barely breathe with it, goosebumps rippling along his skin. He feels like he could come from just this, his baby wrapped around him, the taste of an angel on his lips.

Steve moans, clutching at his face, dragging Bucky’s mouth back to his every time Bucky tries to pull away to let them breathe. He’s eager and demanding, but pliant, making his desires known and then submitting beautifully when Bucky gives in to them.

“Daddy,” Steve gasps softly between kisses. “Daddy.”

If Bucky thought Yes, Daddy in that sweet, sleepy voice last night was his undoing, it’s nothing compared to hearing his angel say Daddy like this—this hungry, needy little voice, dripping with want and pleasure.

“Baby,” he groans, smearing kisses along Steve’s jaw. “God, baby, we—we shouldn’t—I shouldn’t—”

He says it because vaguely, he knows he should. He just can’t quite remember why, not with his body aching the way it does, liquid heat still pulsing in his cock and his mind a haze of want. 

He says it, but his body contradicts him in the same breath, his mouth desperate to taste every inch of skin it can reach as he helplessly presses Steve further into the wall, his hips tilting of their own accord, desperately seeking friction against his angel’s body.

Steve moans, tugging at his hair again.

“Shut up,” he says breathlessly, pulling Bucky in for another mindnumbing kiss. “Shut up, I don’t care—-don’t stop, Daddy, please don’t stop—”

Hearing him beg, hearing him say Daddy again, it’s a fatal blow. A shot of the most potent drug in existence. Bucky kisses him again with every ounce of want, every ounce of need, he’s felt since the first time they met.

Steve whimpers into it, his hands sliding down Bucky’s neck, over his shoulders and chest and back. The hunger in his touch is palpable; he’s almost feverish with it, rubbing his palms along Bucky’s body as if he can’t get enough. He wrenches his mouth away, letting his lips follow the same path as his fingers.

“You feel so good, Daddy,” Steve breathes out, wriggling out of Bucky’s hold to kiss along his chest. The words are little more than a moan, his fingers sliding through Bucky’s chest hair. “God, you feel so—”

He cuts himself off with a whimper, burying his face between Bucky’s pecs, rubbing against him wantonly. Bucky’s chest hair is thick and covers most of his torso; it must be scratching Steve’s skin something fierce, but his little angel only moans like it’s the best thing he’s ever felt.

“You feel so good,” Steve whispers again, sounding half-delirious, his hands still roaming Bucky’s chest and back, unable to sit still.

Bucky’s in such a daze, he doesn’t realize his little angel’s goal, not at first. But then he feels a flutter around his legs, a soft weight at his ankles, and cool air on the lower half of his body. Belatedly, he realizes Steve’s hands are low on his hips, exactly where the waistband of his pajamas used to be.

He blinks dazedly down at the boy still nuzzling against his chest, trying desperately to get his mind to catch up. Steve looks up at him with blatant, raw desire in his eyes as he sinks to his knees. He lets his mouth drag the length of Bucky’s body as he goes, pressing teasing little kisses along the way. His eyes never leave Bucky’s.

“Baby,” Bucky rasps, his heart thundering in his chest. “You don’t have to—”

Steve makes a desperate little noise, kissing just below his belly button.

“Please, Daddy,” he whispers against Bucky’s skin. “Please, let me. I want it so bad. Please, don’t make me stop. Please, please—”

He finally makes it to his knees. When he leans back to take Bucky in, fingers spasm.

“Oh,” he breathes, squirming in place. “Oh, I knew it. I knew you’d be big.”

Bucky’s whole body tightens, his fat cock throbbing at the awe in his little angel’s voice.

Because it is big, it’s true. His cock is a hefty, meaty thing, long and thick even when it’s soft. It only grows longer and thicker when he gets hard. It’s been a long, long while since he was with a boy that liked that, though. Over the years, he’s heard enough variations of, “You’re not putting that monster anywhere near me,” to know that not every boy is enjoys a cock this big.

It’s certainly big now. He’s harder than he’s ever been in his life, his cock heavy and aching between his legs. Flushed so deep it’s nearly purple, precome drips steadily from the plump, swollen tip, his veins standing out underneath stretched, taut skin.

It hurts. The beautiful boy kneeling so prettily at his feet has made him ache with want. He needs to be touched. He needs to come, and badly. His cock is so swollen, so sensitive, that even Steve’s warm breath against it is too much, every inch of him fucking pulsing with the need to play with this perfect boy.

And Steve is perfect—so fucking perfect, in ways Bucky never dared to dream, because he’s staring at Bucky’s cock like he’s never been so hungry for something in his life. No boy has ever looked at him like this, has ever desired him so shamelessly, so plainly.

With a little noise, Steve lurches forward and buries his nose into the trimmed hair at the base of his cock, breathing in deep. He moans, his expression almost drugged, every deep inhale of Bucky’s scent seeming to drug him further.

“Daddy,” he breathes out reverently, nuzzling against the base of Bucky’s cock like the sweetest little kitten Bucky’s ever seen. 

Steve rubs his hands along Bucky’s hairy thighs, kissing the root of him sweetly before burying his nose there once more. He breathes in deep again and then whimpers.

“Daddy,” he says again, but this time, his voice is lighter, sweeter. So fucking little and needy and whiny.

Is that all it takes, Bucky wonders dazedly. Just access to a cock, a masculine scent, and his perfect little angel goes under?

He throbs at the thought.

Steve turns his head, pressing another soft, slow kiss to the base of Bucky’s cock. He shifts almost imperceptibly, bestowing another kiss and then another and another. 

Bucky watches, panting harshly, his hands braced against the wall, as the angel at his feet worships him. That’s what this is, the only thing it could be when Steve’s eyes stay trained on him, his expression reverent and covetous as drags his lips along Bucky’s heated, aching flesh. There isn’t an inch of him neglected, not a single patch of skin left untouched by those pretty, plump lips.

“Daddy,” he whispers again. “Daddy.”

God, the hunger in his voice. The need, the want.

Bucky had wondered only just the night before what his boy would be like with his cock and now he knows.

His is a born cockslut. A boy enamored. The longer he kneels at Bucky’s feet, the clearer it becomes: it isn’t just that he wants to worship Bucky’s cock, that he wants to kiss it and touch it. It’s that he can’t seem to hold himself back, can’t stop. Kneeling at his feet, with the heavy musk of arousal in every breath and his cock so close, his angel has no self-control. It’s almost a compulsion, his sweet little kisses, the little kitten licks, the soft, gentle suckling along his throbbing cock.

A slim, cool hand reaches up, cupping his balls, massaging them so, so gently. Bucky groans, helplessly widening his stance. The pleasure coursing through him is almost too much to take, every light touch driving him to the brink of his sanity.

When Steve has kissed every part of his cock, he dips down, bestowing the same treatment to his balls. First kissing them, then mouthing at them. He takes one and then the other into his mouth, suckling gently, releasing them to bestow the sweetest little kitten licks before suckling again.

He whimpers again, fingernails digging into Bucky’s hips as he lifts his head to kiss along Bucky’s cock once more.

“Daddy,” Steve breathes out. He looks up at Bucky, his gorgeous blue eyes open and beseeching, yearning. “My Daddy.”

Bucky is struck suddenly with how young he looks, how small. This delicate little thing kneeling at his feet, looking up at him so trustingly.

He should stop this. No matter how much he wants it, no matter how good it feels, he shouldn’t allow this to happen. He’s too old for this beautiful boy. 

But he’s also only a man, and the boy of his dreams is on his knees, worshipping him more earnestly than anyone ever has before—worshipping him and loving it, if the drugged expression on that sweet face is anything to go by. He begged in such a pretty little voice, Please let me, Daddy, and I want it so much. His every touch feels like it was designed to specifically bring Bucky the most pleasure possible.

He’s only a man. How can he even begin to deny such a perfect boy? How can he put a stop to this, even knowing he should, when this boy clearly wants it so badly and it’s already the most intense pleasure he’s ever known?

He blinks and it isn’t only Steve’s youth he sees anymore. He sees the signs of his own age. The silver hair dusting his thighs, underneath lithe fingers rubbing along his belly, at the base of his cock mere inches from a perfect, plump mouth.

He should stop this. He doesn’t deserve this. He’s far too old for this young, gorgeous boy. He will stop this—

Steve rises onto his knees and, with all the reverence of the devout performing a sacred act, he takes Bucky between his lips.

Every thought melts away into nothingness. There is only the warm, wet mouth around his throbbing, aching cock. 

“Oh, fuck,” he breathes shakily. He reaches down, sifting trembling fingers through his boy’s soft hair. “Baby, that’s—oh fuck, that’s—”

The words die on his tongue, his head falling back with a deep, heartfelt groan when his boy starts to suckle. 

He thought he knew a cockslut’s hunger. He was wrong.

Nothing he’s ever experienced could’ve prepared him for his angel’s mouth on his aching cock. His boy is ravenous. He clutches at Bucky’s hips, suckling like he’s starving for it, his movements almost frantic with it.

In the silence of the early morning, there is only Bucky’s heavy, panting breaths, the wet sound of that perfect mouth on his cock, and the sweetest, hungriest little noises he’s ever heard a boy make.

When Steve seems to realize that he gets to have this—that no one will take away the cock in his mouth—his mood shifts, changes. With a long moan, he loses that frantic edge and instead, it’s replaced with utter indulgence.

Bucky isn’t sure who that indulgence is for. The slide of those lips over his aching flesh, the gentle, almost reverent suckling as lithe hands explore his thighs and hips, his belly and chest—it feels like the purest form of worship. He’s being savored, there’s no doubt about it. The more of his strong body Steve touches, the needier his little noises get. 

And yet, Bucky can feel just as clearly his little angel’s greed. Steve isn’t sucking his cock to please him, he’s doing it for his own pleasure. It’s obvious in his closed eyes, his trembling fingers rubbing along the curves of his beefy, muscular body, tangling in his thick chest hair, the rapturous look on his face as he takes more and more of Bucky into his mouth.

This is a boy made for this very act. Perhaps it is the purest form a worship, but it’s also an act of pure hedonism.

A cockslut, Bucky had thought him, and he was right. This boy loves cock. He craves it more than his own gratification. No, it’s more than that—the cock in his mouth is his gratification. He’s suckling for his own selfish pleasure.

Bucky feels like he’s been doused in heat. It licks at his insides, crawling down his thighs and up into his lungs, his throat, until he feels like can’t breathe from the pleasure. He pants harshly, groaning with each pull of his baby’s mouth. His vision has gone blurry, the whole world a swirling haze of light and color and ecstasy. 

He blinks blearily, his chin falling to his chest. The sight that greets him is almost enough to disintegrate him.

Ecstasy is written into every line as Steve’s face. He whimpers mournfully every time he’s left with only the tip in his mouth. He laps at it sloppily, greedily chasing every drop of precome before hastily taking it back into his mouth. His tongue out and waiting, eager feel the weight of it again. Like he can’t help it; like he needs this cock on his tongue. When he gets what he wants so badly, he moans sweetly and goes back to his indulgent suckling.

Bucky closes his eyes, trying to remember how to breathe.

He can feel the hunger in the pull of his mouth, in the ravenous little noises he makes. No matter how much he gets or how long he has it, this boy is still starving for it.

Please let me, he’d begged. I want it so much.

Bucky can feel the truth of that now. His beautiful little angel wants cock so very much. And Bucky—Bucky is a Daddy made to spoil a sweet boy.

He cups the back of Steve’s head, lightly running his knuckles along a soft, warm cheek as he gently, gently, starts to fuck his baby’s mouth.

Steve stills immediately, a soft little noise in his throat as he blinks hazily up at Bucky.

God, he looks so young, so innocent. How can a boy this cockhungry look so innocent?

Bucky’s never had a kink for that, not in all the years he’s been a Dom, but he does now. His gut flares hot and bright, tightening as molten heat pulses in his cock. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything as hot as his hard, fat cock throbbing between those pretty pink lips while innocent blue eyes stared up at him from such a sweet face.

He wants his cock in that throat. He wants to see it bulge with his girth, wants to see tears gather in those pretty eyes and spill down his flushed cheeks. He wants to wreck this boy. His little cockslut deserves it for making Daddy feel so good.

“I know, baby,” he coos gently, his voice dripping with sympathy. “I know. Daddy’s being so mean, not letting you suck on it anymore. But you’re being so sweet to Daddy right now, making me feel so, so good. Daddy wants to make you feel good, too. Will you let me, baby? Will you let me give my boy a little reward for being so sweet?”

Steve’s gaze is worshipful as he nods. 

Oh, his baby likes this. He likes being cooed at nice and gentle and soft while his mouth is fucked.

Perfect, Bucky thinks deliriously. This boy truly is perfect for him.

God, he loves being sweet and filthy with a boy. It’s the headiest combination.

“Open up, baby,” he whispers shakily, overwhelmed by how much he wants this boy. “Daddy’s going to put his cock in your throat. I think you’ll like that, won’t you? But if it gets to be too much, just slap my thigh and I’ll stop.”

Eagerly, Steve’s jaw goes slack, his mouth as open as he can get it. He lets Bucky guide him, angle him just right.

Sliding into his boy’s throat for the first time feels like transcending to another plane of existence. He didn’t know anything could ever be this perfect. That slim throat bulging with him the way he imagined, convulsing around the head of his cock in the most head-spinning, mind-numbing constriction he’s ever felt. The tears gathering and spilling over when he slides a little deeper, staining his cheeks beautifully.

Bucky groans, so close to coming he can almost taste it. He pets his baby boy feverishly, the heat in him near its boiling point. 

“Oh, that’s it,” he whispers, his hips moving in short, aborted little thrusts. “That’s it, baby. It feels so good, doesn’t it? God, look at you. You’re such a good little boy for Daddy.”

Steve’s eyes roll. His fingers spasm and tighten their hold as he moans. Bucky knows even before he sees the wet spot forming on his t-shirt that he’s made his boy come.

Bucky’s control disintegrates.

He pulls back until only the tip is held between Steve’s lips and then rolls his hips forward, sliding back into his throat. Long, deep thrusts that put him back in his baby’s throat every time he bottoms out. He hears his baby choke on it every time, feels that mindnumbing convulsion around his cockhead, and it makes him delirious.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispers drunkenly. “Tell me, baby. Slap my thigh if I—if I need to stop—god, you feel so good—”

Steve claws at his thighs and hips, but he never gives the signal to stop. In fact, Bucky can feel him tugging, trying to pull his hips closer, his cock deeper. His eyes roll every time he chokes, tears streaming steadily down his face.

He loves this. He loves a fat cock in his throat. He loves choking on it.

Steve whimpers, swallowing greedily around his cock.

Perfect, Bucky thinks again, and comes.

He doesn’t even have time to give a warning. It sweeps through him so suddenly and brutally, it steals his breath. Steve doesn’t seem to mind at all; he chases every last drop, making sure none is wasted.

He licks sweetly at Bucky’s cock, gently cleaning him. Bucky watches, his knees weak in the aftermath of his orgasm, as those sweet little kitten licks turn into more reverent kisses.

“Daddy,” his boy whimpers, his voice wrecked now, but there’s a note of awe in it. Bucky pets him shakily, his chest tightening when Steve turns guileless blue eyes up at him, his gaze full of utter worship.

He kisses near the base of Bucky’s gaze and then buries his nose there again, breathing in deep. 

Reluctantly, Bucky eases him back. He’d love nothing more than to stand there and let this beautiful boy give in to his instincts, but his knees won’t hold him anymore. He slumps to the floor. He barely has time to lean against the wall before his lap is full of a lithe, trembling boy, tears still staining his cheeks.

“Was I good, Daddy?” Steve asks, his voice soft and meek.

He looks so fucking vulnerable, his cheek pressed to Bucky’s shoulder as he meets Bucky’s gaze. His orgasm has done nothing to abate the innocence in his eyes; if anything, it’s grown.

Bucky gathers him close, cupping the back of his head and kissing his forehead as he rocks them both gently.

“God, baby,” he breathes, dotting little kisses over Steve’s face. “You have no idea how good you were. You were a dream, sweetheart. The sweetest boy Daddy’s ever seen. I’m so proud of you, sweet boy. You did so, so good for me.”

Steve whimpers, tilting his face up, seeking out a proper kiss.

Bucky dots little kisses around his mouth, too, murmuring, “Such a sweet boy. Such a perfect, perfect boy for Daddy.”

He finally gives in, pressing their lips together in a slow, sweet, lingering kiss. His boy’s mouth is beautifully pliant, opening for him eagerly, letting him lead the kiss. It would be so, so easy to lose hours just kissing this boy.

When he pulls back, Steve makes a little noise of protest. His eyes are still guileless and vulnerable, still full of that innocence, as he looks up at Bucky.

“Daddy,” he whimpers, his voice soft and needy. “Please.”

Please what, baby? He wants to ask. What do you want, sweet boy?

But that instinctual question is followed by a sudden realization. He has no idea how to take care of this boy. He has no idea what Steve needs while he’s in this headspace. He has no idea what to do to make this vulnerable, innocent boy feel safe and comfortable and just as importantly, he has no idea what to avoid so that Steve doesn’t feel scared or alone.

He let his lust get the better of him and now—if he doesn’t tread very, very carefully—Steve will be the one to pay the price.

Bucky caresses his cheek gently

“I’m sorry, baby,” he murmurs, kissing the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been a very bad Daddy, haven’t I?”

Steve’s neediness disappears between one blink and the next. He frowns, a little furrow appearing between his brows.

“Nuh-uh,” he says, almost indignant. He pets Bucky’s face in a haphazard approximation of Bucky’s caresses. “You’re a really good Daddy. You made me feel so good, Daddy. I liked it so much.”

Bucky catches Steve’s hand in his own, kissing his fingertips.

“I’m glad,” he whispers. “But it’s not just Daddy’s job to make you feel good, baby. I have to take care of you, too. We didn’t do a lot, but you still could’ve hated it. I’m glad you didn’t, but I didn’t know that going in, did I? And now, Daddy doesn’t know how to take care of you while you’re feeling like this. We should’ve talked first, sweet boy. It’s important to talk first so that we both feel good at the end.”

The pout Steve turns on him then is so adorable, it’s devastating. 

“No,” he insists.

Affection fills his chest even as he feels his groin heat and tighten, his cock twitching. It’s impossible for him to get hard again, not this soon, but if anyone could do the impossible, it would be this boy.

“No?” Bucky asks, a soft, tender smile curving his lips. He’s already so in love with this boy, and he doesn’t know how to contain it.

“No,” Steve repeats with a nod. “I had to seduce you first.”

Bucky laughs, kissing his cheeks. 

“Is that what you did, baby? Did you seduce Daddy like a naughty little boy?”

Truth be told, he doesn't have to ask. That’s exactly what happened. He was indeed seduced by the adorable little minx in his arms, blinking up at him so innocently. If there’s a man strong enough to resist the allure of this gorgeous little angel, that man sure as hell isn’t Bucky.

Steve whines softly, flushing as he squirms.

“Yes,” he says breathlessly. “You were being so silly, Daddy. You said we shouldn’t, even though I want you so bad and you bought my painting and I made you hard. I had to show you that we definitely should.”

I want you so bad.

Bucky’s chest constricts at the easy, open way his boy says it. Like it’s just a fact; like Bucky should’ve already known. 

Steve pauses, unsure for the first time. The way he looks to Bucky for reassurance, it’d be enough to bring Bucky to his knees if he was still standing.

“I made you hard, didn’t I, Daddy? It was me?” He asks in a small, uncertain voice.

“It was you.” Bucky kisses him softly. “It’s been you since the first time I saw you, sweet boy.”

Steve makes another one of those adorable little noises. “Really? But you made me wait so long.”

Bucky smiles again, but this one is tinged in sadness and self-doubt.

“That’s because I’m too old for you, baby,” he admits, running his fingers through Steve’s hair. “I was probably older than you are right now when you were born.”

“So?” Steve looks offended by the notion. “That doesn’t make you too old. You’re perfect, Daddy. You make me feel so good.”

“Do I, baby?” Bucky asks, stealing another gentle kiss. 

He decides not to argue with Steve for the moment; this is clearly a battle he won’t win. Not when his little angel is like this, so sweet and adorable that Bucky has no defenses against him. Perhaps not ever. He’s never had any defenses against this boy.

“How else can I make you feel good, hm?”

Steve rubs his cheek against Bucky’s bare chest, tangling his fingers in the thick hair.

“Can I have my teddy bear, Daddy?” He asks, quiet and uncertain again. “The one you bought me?”

Bucky cups his head, bestowing a kiss to his forehead.

“You can have anything you want, sweetheart. Anything at all.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Steve beams.

“I want you on top of me,” he demands, like he thinks he might have to argue for it. “You make me feel so little inside, Daddy. It feels really, really good.”

Bucky smiles. “I can do that.”

“And more kisses. Lots of kisses.”

Bucky obliges this request immediately.

“What else, baby?”

“I want you to tell me I’m good.”

“You are,” Bucky promises, kissing him again. “You’re more than good, sweet boy. You’re perfect. The most precious boy I’ve ever met.”

Steve practically glows under the praise.

“And I want you to be my Daddy,” he says, as if it’s just another silly request and not the heart-stopping declaration it is. “Not just for right now. I want you to be my Daddy for real.”

Bucky tries to relearn how to breathe.

“You sneaky little minx,” Bucky admonishes, like his heart isn’t pounding. “Did you think you could just sneak that in and I wouldn’t notice?”

Steve pouts. “But you said I could have anything! Pretty please?”

Bucky kisses him. He can’t help it. He already knows what he’ll say; this is just prolonging the inevitable.

He’ll give them what they both want. Being with this boy will be the greatest pleasure of his life, he already knows it. He’ll enjoy every second he gets, and when Steve finally realizes that he can do better, Bucky will let him go. 

He doesn’t get to keep Steve either way. A man like him could never get to keep a boy so perfect. At least this way, he’ll have a few bittersweet memories to look back on.

“Okay, baby,” he murmurs. “If that’s what you want.”

Steve wriggles, glowing with happiness again.

“It’s what I want the most,” he insists.

“Then it’s yours,” Bucky promises, and seals it with a kiss.

[daddybucky]

just reread sokrovische moyo for probably the tenth time and that’s not an exaggeration. i think it’s one of my favorite works of all time and as a fic reader of over a decade i really really don’t say that lightly. i like to revisit it in different parts of my life to see what sticks out to me each time. it’s been several years since my last read so i was really emotional this go around.. been feeling lonely and a bit lost and the beautiful world you created made me feel so warm and at home while reading (the trees communicating, reaching for pietro after the hydra incident, the cozy little cottages, etc etc) just so precious and sweet. your nymph steve resides in my heart always. i think he taught me a lot about taking up space and expressing emotions, and i love him (you) for that. thank you. i saw you said it’s not your fav work and i just felt compelled even more to express how it’s changed my life and show u my appreciation <3 part of me wants to beg for horny dragon bucky + nymph steve drabbles but these two are almost too precious in my mind for that rn (not that i’d be upset if we got any, heh) not sure how to put that into words. anyways. i look forward to my next reread of this fic :,)

thank you so much :( <3

I know my stuff isn't terrible, but I DO judge myself pretty harshly, so I have a bad habit of picking stuff to death and then never fucking finishing it. Which is one reason why one of the rules on this blog is that I won't beta read or go back and edit what I write. Sometimes it means that when I reread it weeks or months later, I don't like it, but it helps to get me in the habit of just rolling with the punches instead of getting caught up in perfectionism

but it's always, always nice to hear that even with the stuff I'm like, "I COULD'VE DONE SO MUCH BETTER THAN THIS," people still enjoy it :)

[daddybucky]

Perhaps I’m blanking but do you ever write rimming??

I swear I do it’s just few and far between bc I always get distracted with the world building, so by the time I get to the porn it’s usually the basics

There’s actually a prompt that’s at least a year old asking for rimming / feminizing Steve’s hole (calling it ‘pussy’ except I don’t like that word so I’m substituting it for ‘cunt’) that I’ve been TRYING to answer for like 3 months now and I still haven’t figured out what I wanna do with it

But if you have any specific ideas/scenario requests, feel free to drop them!

[daddybucky]

“You were right, before—I will be mated within the fortnight. I may have my pick of the suitors, but those suitors were not chosen by me or with my happiness in mind. My destiny is an unfulfilling marriage for political gain.”

this part is giving me yummy thoughts about prince steve having an affair with bucky on the side… or thoughts of bucky stealing him away… i love these two sm

Cheating/affairs are a hard no for me, I'm afraid :/ I'm down for group sex and sharing, but no cheating

that being said, there WILL be a part two and Bucky--well, I actually think I'll call him James in this 'verse, it feels right--absolutely WILL be stealing his Omega away from those suitors, because when you're a barbarian king, why would you do anything else when it turns out your true match is the prince of the nation that hates you?

thoughts of part 2 were what took part 1 so long, I wanted to hurry up and get to the part where James comes to stake a claim on his mate XD

[daddybucky]

Any chance you have any hurt/comfort criminal au thoughts? perhaps the more serious version of the kidnapping idea u mentioned in ur post? or anything idk i just could rly use some H/C rn🫶

I don't have any particular h/c thoughts in mind for that 'verse, no, my singular recurring criminal au thought rn is just schmoopy lovemaking at the cabin, not exactly what you're looking for XD

but I did start dabbling in another a/b/o 'verse that has similar h/c vibes to the criminal au if that's an acceptable substitute?

or, alternatively, i'm open to h/c suggestions for the criminal 'verse!

i haven't even started thinking/plotting the serious kidnapping version, that would probably take forever to put together, so not really a good idea if you need the h/c sooner rather than later :)

[daddybucky]

noticed u said omega prince steve and alpha bucky are being filthy, does that imply you’re writing it?

👉🏻👈🏻

I blinked and it was 10k 💀 This is why we can't have nice things, man

--

Okay, so the Omega Prince Steve thing:

Steve’s kingdom is all about wealth, refinement, and class while their neighbor and enemy is more earthy, rugged. Steve has no interest in the Alphas of his own country; they’re all too buttoned-up, polished. Their scents are…muted, somehow. 

Steve has seen an Alpha or two of their enemy nation from afar and while he doesn’t know their scent, he still finds the men themselves intoxicating. There’s something real about them. They’re large and muscular and they carry themselves far, far differently—with an animal grace that says they haven’t completely abandoned their baser instincts. The Alphas of his own nation, they have; their base instincts have been stuffed into neat little boxes where they can pretend those instincts don’t exist.

No one realizes it yet, but their society has spent so long suppressing their true natures to appear more well-bred that they’re slowly losing touch with the part that makes them wolves. The longer they suppress the wolf, the harder it is for them to shift, their senses are slowly dull, etc.

The barbarians do no such thing. They embrace their animal nature and the more connected to it they are, the stronger they become.

Steve is not the crown prince of his nation. He’s the youngest child of the king, the only Omega, and the only runt. He was described as a quiet, happy babe, an inquisitive child, and now of mating age, he is considered the jewel of his people. When one thinks of the perfect Omega, they think first of their littlest prince. He’s coy, demure, inviting. Soft and docile and so very sweet. There is no one that better embodies what an Omega should be.

No one knows that the thing that makes him so perfect is that he’s embraced his animal nature, too. He hasn’t removed himself from the very instincts that make him an Omega. He’s free in a way the rest of them aren’t, because he isn’t afraid of his own desires.

And certainly no one knows that in the dark of night, that prim and proper Omega lays in bed and dreams of a brutish Alpha’s large hands on him, pinning him to the bed, mounting him with enough force that it hurts. 

His favorite fantasies are always when it hurts. 

Sometimes, when the flush of arousal becomes too much, Steve will slip his hands underneath the covers, scraping his nails sharply over his nipples, the slick rim of his hole. It’s his favorite way to come, that bite of pain. He’s learned, through the exploration of his own body, that the right pain gives him the most intense pleasure, especially when it’s to his hole, his cock, his nipples. He dreams of receiving that pain from a large, strong, devoted Alpha.

He happens upon the most improper manuscripts from authors unknown, detailing stories much like his fantasies. Perhaps not specifically of the pain, but of everything else—dainty Omegas being claimed by barbarian Alphas. Sometimes, the Omega is their captive and sometimes he isn’t. Sometimes, the Omega’s sweet scent has sent the Alpha into a rut. Sometimes, the Alpha’s pheromones have sent the Omega into heat. Either way, every time, the Alpha mounts the Omega in a moment of raw, animal hunger, fucking into him until the Omega receives his knot and his mating bite.

Helpfully, the manuscripts always provide an illustration of this moment—the Alpha and Omega together as they were meant to be. The Omega presented for his mate on his knees, his chest pressed to the floor. The Alpha behind him, on top of him, his hand around the Omega’s throat and teeth in his neck on top of his Omega, the Omega’s expression a mask of such exquisite pleasure it looks almost painful.

This is the part where Steve loses the battle with his wandering fingers. He plays with himself for hours to the sight of those drawings, the yearning desire to be the Omega mounted in them. To be taken the way he was meant to be, to be knotted.

It’s always Steve’s favorite part to imagine, the knotting. Because he isn’t a normal Omega; he’s a runt, smaller and more delicate than the rest of his kind. A knot would no doubt hurt him. 

He craves for a knot to hurt him.

For years, this is Steve’s most secret desire: the rough handling of an Alpha, the ache of his cock, the pain of his knot. But that’s all they are: dreams. Fantasies. Something to get him through the monotonous day. He knows that as much as he desires it, he will never know any fulfillment. Certainly not sexually, but even in companionship, it’s doubtful. 

He will never receive a rut, not even when he takes a husband. He will never be allowed to feel an Alpha at his most carnal, a slave of his most basic instinct that tells him to mount and fuck and mate.

The people of his country have so thoroughly abandoned their natures that most Alphas never experience a rut, nor do most Omegas ever go through their first heat. 

Even if by some miracle, he was married to the scarce Alpha that did, Steve would not be allowed to receive it. It would be considered beneath his station. His husband would be expected to take a mistress or concubine or visit one of the Houses. Should he dare to ask, his very proper husband would no doubt look horrified at the notion. 

After all, a rut is a blemish for the Alphas of his country—a shame that none wish to carry. To his people, it is a sign that the Alpha is still slave to his baser urges. An Alpha that goes through rut is not to be trusted. An Alpha that has gone through a rut and it’s known that he spent it with their royal spouse? He would never recover from the social shame. 

Of course, his husband would be allowed to take his heat, should the damnable thing ever occur. That wouldn’t be shameful or below his station.

Steve would love a heat with the right person, but he takes a vicious thrill in knowing whatever Alpha he’s forced to marry will probably never know the pleasure of his. If he hasn’t had one yet, it’s very unlikely he ever will; certainly no Alpha in his country is enough to send him into one. They are all tedious and boring, their scents so repressed it’s hard to find a single one appealing.

No, he will never know the flush of heat rising in his body. He will never know an Alpha’s rut and he will never wear one’s claiming bite; his very proper society considers them both scandalous and barbaric. A brutal, primitive tradition from ancestors barely out of the forests. Nevermind that Steve has whiled away many an afternoon daydreaming of the ache of a fresh mating bite, a big body cradling his own, his mate licking obsessively at the mark the way the Alphas always do in his stories.

It’s true, what they say about him. He is the perfect Omega. A true Omega, born and bred, even if he is a runt. He craves an Alpha’s dominance to the very marrow of his bones; craves to be the object of one’s obsession, their desire, their greatest possession. It is what he was born to be.

Steve is a true Omega, but there are no true Alphas among his people. He has long since resigned himself to the knowledge that he will only know fulfillment in his dreams. 

Until, that is—

Late one evening, there is a commotion outside his chambers. He’s reading one of his favorite stories, the flush of arousal just beginning to spread, but he cannot sink into it fully because whatever is happening outside his door keeps happening.

Frustrated, he abandons his pursuit of pleasure and slips back into the silky little shorts he’d donned after bathing. He grabs his favorite robe as he leaves his room, throwing it on haphazardly as he walks across the outer rooms of his chambers and throws open the door.

“What on earth is going on?” He asks the Beta guard standing there.

The guard glances at him and then looks again, his eyes widening. It’s only at that moment that it occurs to Steve what he must look like.

The flush to his cheeks. Redden lips from biting them as he read. His light, gauzy robe untied and slipping off one slender, bare shoulder, showing off his bare chest and dusky pink nipples, already tight and hard. The silky little shorts that feel like heaven again his skin. 

He undoubtedly looks debauched and, in this Beta’s eyes, no better than naked. Steve adores his clothing, but it is more than scandalous among his people. He should’ve grabbed something more significant, if only to save the poor guard’s sensibilities. 

It’s a good thing, he thinks, that so many of his people have lost their finer sense of smell. The Beta would have a stroke if he caught a whiff of Steve’s budding arousal on top of it all.

The Beta flushes a deep shade of red, swallowing roughly before he respectfully turns his gaze to the ceiling.

“A-an intruder, my prince,” he stammers hoarsely. “Do not worry, more guards are coming to protect you. Please stay in your room, we will keep you safe.”

Something jolts inside Steve, but he could not say if it was from fear or excitement if pressed.

“An intruder?” He repeats. “Where? In what part of the castle?”

The Beta’s eyes fall to him again instinctively before hastily looking back to the ceiling. His muted scent shifts.

“I do not know, Your Highness,” he says, voice strained. “P-please, go back into your room.”

Steve smiles. “Because you will keep me safe?” He teases.

The Beta whimpers, his hands fisting at his sides. His uniform does nothing to hide the tent now straining the front of his pants.

A commotion down the hall draws his attention. The Beta panics, stepping forward.

“Please, my prince,” he hisses softly, “before the others come. You should not be seen like this.”

And because Steve is a true Omega, desiring only to please those around him, he steps back and allows the guard to pull the door closed again. He smiles to himself, retreating back to his room and the hours of pleasure waiting for him there.

He doesn’t notice the shadow by his bed until it is far, far too late.

The scent hits him first: deep and rich, the scent of churned earth after rainfall, utterly intoxicating and undeniably Alpha—such a heavy, dominating thing that it’s almost a physical presence in the room with him. It tugs at something low in his gut, as if the scent is a calling and something deep and primal in Steve wants to answer it.

A very, very large man stands near his bed, his boot casually propped on the edge as he thumbs through the manuscript Steve abandoned only minutes before. Not just a man, Steve realizes belatedly through the sudden swimming in his head. An Alpha—the owner of the scent.

“What a naughty, naughty little prince,” the Alpha rumbles, his voice deep and amused.

Steve blinks, struggling to focus past that scent long enough to figure out what, exactly, is going on. There’s a strange Alpha in his room.

Oh. Oh. The intruder—

He gasps softly, turning on his heel to—he doesn’t know, to shout? To run? It doesn’t matter, because the Alpha is faster. 

Large, rough-hewn hands take hold of him, one covering his mouth and the other locking around his waist to pull him against a devastatingly massive chest. Steve has met many Alphas in his time, but none so broad and muscular as this man. The Alpha radiates heat like a hearth in the dead of winter, their every point of contact burning.

“None of that now,” the Alpha murmurs in his ear. “Let’s not cause trouble. That poor man you terrorized is correct: you shouldn’t be seen in these clothes. You’ll cause a fucking riot.”

Steve flushes hot, his heart jolting. No one has ever sworn in front of him before; no one would ever dare. He’s only ever seen such crude words on a page. Hearing them spoken aloud feels vulgar, but in a way that he finds oddly exciting.

The Alpha loosens his grip on Steve’s waist, picking delicately at the robe.

“If you can even call these clothes,” he comments. “What a wicked little thing you are. Not even the Omegas of my land would dress like this.”

The Omegas of his…?

Steve blinks, struggling to process the words—to process anything, really, past the overwhelming presence of this looming Alpha. His warm body and strong arms, a scent more potent than a whole evening spent drinking wine. With every breath, Steve’s head swims, his mind growing hazy and his body deliciously warm, lax. It’s just so—wild. Uncontained.

Wild.

The Omegas of his land.

It clicks, finally.

The Alpha is a barbarian. An enemy of his people. 

Steve gasps into the man’s palm, his heart stuttering in his chest. The Alpha wraps his arm around Steve’s waist again, keeping him in place.

“Shhhh,” the Alpha murmurs, soft and soothing. “Hush now. I mean you no harm, little prince. I swear it before the ancestors and the gods. This is merely the only room they won’t search. We’ll spend the evening together, you and I—all very proper, you have my word—and when they’ve given up, I’ll leave you in just the condition I found you in. You just have to keep quiet for a little while, that’s all.”

That big, warm body herds him toward the bedroom door. 

“Shut the door. That’s it, nice and slow. Lock it. Now put the key in my pocket.”

Steve tries to obey, but doesn’t quiet manage it. His fingers spasm, dropping the key. The Alpha lets go of his waist, catching it before it hits the ground. Steve tries not to think too hard about what it means that his skin feels achingly cold and bereft every time the man stops touching him.

The Alpha tsks.

“None of that, pup,” he chides, pressing the key back into Steve’s palm. This time, he guides Steve to the right place, making him complete the task set out for him. “Into my pocket like a good boy.”

Since the moment the man grabbed him, Steve has been a frozen, trembling mess in his arms. He doesn’t know if the trembling is from apprehension or excitement—he thinks, with no small amount of shame, that it might be both. 

He doesn’t know this man or his intentions, and that is something to fear. But the Alpha is so big it makes his head swim, and he’s so warm, his voice soft and rumbling. His touch, while firm, is still careful. But most of all, there’s his scent. It isn’t just the notes of wood and earth in it, calling to the forgotten animal inside him—the man’s scent is heavy, present and dominating. This Alpha fills a room without even trying.

Steve has never witnessed anything like it, not even from his own father, a king.

So, yes, there was a war in Steve. Apprehension and arousal have been battling inside him since he first saw the man in his bedroom, neither of them truly winning out until just this moment. Until that deep, rumbling voice murmurs pup and good boy. And now the war is won, arousal flushing through him hot and quick.

How many times has he read those same words in his stories? How many times has he dreamed of an Alpha saying them to him? Of being mounted as he’d told to be a good pup for his Alpha, to take it like a good boy? None of his fantasies compare to the reality of having them whispered in his ear when he can feel a warm chest vibrating against his back, when he’s wrapped up in a big, strong body and surrounded by a deliciously drugging scent.

His cock stiffens and, to his shock, his hole grows slick. No Alpha outside his own imagination has ever made him wet before, not even when he first presented. Of course, it would be this rugged barbarian stranger; this thief in the night with his wild scent and rumbling voice.

Helplessly, Steve moans.

The Alpha pauses suddenly, still a statue for several heartbeats. Then, carefully, he nudges his nose behind Steve’s ear and inhales deeply.

“You deviant little thing,” he whispers, but it’s a gentle, marveling tone, not at all cruel. “What is going on in that head of yours?”

Hesitantly, Steve reaches up to pull the Alpha’s hand from his mouth. The Alpha allows it, his big hand dropping to loosely hold Steve’s throat instead. For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of their breathing—the Alpha’s calm and even, Steve’s heavy and panting—and their opposing heartbeats, the Alpha’s just as calm as his breath, while Steve’s is a wild, galloping thing in his chest.

Finally, Steve gathers the courage to turn in the Alpha’s embrace. He rests his hands upon the Alpha’s chest, shivering at the feel of large, warm hands against the small of his back and wrapped around the back of his neck, and looks up at the intruder for the first time. The man before him is devastatingly handsome—much older than Steve, with thick hair and a strong stubbled jaw, full lips and a dimpled chin.

Steve wonders what it would be like to have his fingers buried in that hair, to be kissed by those full, red lips. He wonders how the heavy, dominating scent surrounding him would change with the Alpha’s arousal.

“Hi,” he whispers breathlessly.

The Alpha’s lips quirk. “Hi, pup.”

His bright gaze is hooded as it roams Steve’s face. His big, warm hand rubs along Steve’s spine, the touch so electric that Steve can hardly breathe from it. With only the mere suggestion of pressure on the back of his neck, the Alpha turns Steve’s face toward the firelight to gain a better look. His scent deepens, the earth fading from it until he smells only of ozone—the scent of an impending rainstorm.

“What a funny thing, fate,” the Alpha murmurs, his thumb sweeping along Steve’s neck. “The most coveted Omega in all the five lands, suitors far and wide journeying toward this city at this very moment for the chance to be your mate, and you somehow end up in my arms.”

Steve shivers, his breath stuttering as little sparks of pleasure crackle in his veins, heating him from the inside out. Everywhere the Alpha touches is burning hot and sensitive, and when that touch moves, the skin left in its wake is cold and aching, yearning for his heat again.

“The jewel of the Southern Sea, they call you,” the Alpha says. “No one in all the five lands can compare to your beauty, they say. Rumor has it most of your suitors know they have no hope of being chosen. They only want to see you for themselves.”

Steve has heard it all before. He knows what they say of him—the poetry to his beauty, the various nicknames: the Jewel of the Southern Sea, the Golden Rose, an Alpha’s Delight. There is even a prominent, ongoing rumor that he was godborn—his true mother, according to the whispers, being the moon goddess herself. 

Part of him even understands. He looks nothing like his parents and siblings, pale and golden blonde and delicate while they’re all tan and sturdy and sandy-haired. He is the first runt of his bloodline, and the first Omega born to them in generations. Still, he has never cared about the whispers; he is loved fiercely by his parents, his packmates, his people. The rumors spread about him and what stock people put in them have never seemed of much consequence.

Until now, that is.

Steve bites his lip, glancing at the Alpha from beneath his lashes. A soft blush heats his cheeks.

“And you, Alpha?” He asks. “What say you, now that you have seen me? Do I please you or have you found me wanting?”

The Alpha laughs softly.

“You don’t need me to tell you how beautiful you are, pup,” he admonishes. “I believe you already know.”

Steve whines plaintively.

He is a true Omega, body and soul, down to the very marrow of his bones. He lives to please his pack, aches for their care and love and approval. But he has never wanted anyone’s approval as much as he wants this Alpha’s. He doesn’t know why, but it is vital that this Alpha find him pleasing.

Reaching up, he cups the Alpha’s strong, stubbled jaw in his hands. He pulls the Alpha down to him and obligingly, the Alpha bends until their lips are only a hair’s breadth apart, so close that they share the same breath.

“Tell me,” Steve begs softly. “Please, Alpha? Tell me, have I pleased you?”

The Alpha rumbles deeply, his heavy-lidded gaze roaming Steve’s face as his scent growing heavier yet.

“Are you trying to seduce me, pup?” He murmurs, squeezing the back of Steve’s neck. Not enough to hurt or frighten, just enough pressure to notice the change.

Steve’s heart stutters. “Could I?”

It seems preposterous, the idea that he could seduce such a virile, dominating Alpha—that he could sway him in any way. The Alpha was right, of course. Steve isn’t stupid; he knows that he’s beautiful. He has felt coveting, hungry eyes on his body since puberty. It has only grown worse as he’s neared mating age. But those coveting eyes are most often from weak, powerless, unassuming men who want to use his beauty and status to elevate themselves and inflate their own egos. 

A man like this Alpha, he needs no aid in elevation. He has no inadequacies to speak of that he would need a young, beautiful mate to make him feel big and powerful. He already is. In any room he steps in, he must surely be the most powerful Alpha there.

“Very, very easily,” the Alpha promises. He leans in, brushing his lips against Steve’s ear as he whispers, “You are more beautiful than ever imagined and more perfect than anyone could dare dream. A single moment spent between your thighs would be a heaven no Alpha is worthy of. I find the rumors wanting, little prince, not you. Words cannot contain the truth of you. Even your scent has no equal.”

He lingers, nuzzling just behind Steve’s ear and breathing him in. 

Steve moans helplessly, clutching at the Alpha’s shoulders. Every brush of their skin—even the lightest graze—sets him alight. His head still swims from the Alpha’s scent and it only worsens with the Alpha’s deepening arousal. Steve’s body is a rising inferno of need, the core of him wet and aching. This Alpha is everything he’s ever dreamed of and everything he thought he’d never get the chance to have.

“I like your scent, too,” Steve confesses, bashful in a way he’s never been before. “It makes me dizzy and—and warm, like I’ve had too much wine.”

He tilts his head, exposing his throat, inviting the Alpha to scent him further. The sound the Alpha makes then is almost a purr, deep and long and rumbling.

“You are trying to seduce me,” he comments softly. “You wicked little minx.”

His lips brush Steve’s pulse point. He takes one last, deep breath before lifting his head. His pupils are blown wide, his gaze hooded and hungry as it roams Steve’s face again, but there is still a light to them—still warmth and kindness held within, even in his lust. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, letting his head fall back.

“Oh, to be an oathbreaker,” he sighs. 

The Alpha looks down at Steve again, his lips quirking.

“Alas, I am not,” he says, and he sounds genuinely regretful over it. Leaning down, he brushes a featherlight kiss between Steve’s brows. “To bed with you, pup, before I forget that fact.”

He spins them both around, pushing Steve toward his bed. 

“Go. Rest. I will stand watch until their search is over.”

The moment they stop touching, Steve goes cold. His skin tightens, goosebumps rippling all over. It’s as if he’s been pushed out into the elements during a winter storm—as if he’s been plunged into an icy lake. He feels the chill down to his bones, and it hurts. Not being touched by the Alpha hurts. 

No, it’s more than a simple hurt. Being separated from the Alpha is a torture Steve hadn’t expected.  He feels utterly abandoned, even though some part of him knows that the Alpha is only a foot away. He feels rejected, isolated, alone.

It has been only seconds since the Alpha released him, but Steve turns on his heel and launches himself back into the Alpha’s arms. The Alpha catches him easily, cradling his body in his strong arms like Steve is something delicate and precious. The heat of him drives away the cold immediately.

“Pup—”

“Come to bed with me,” Steve whispers, both a plea and a demand. He leans up on his toes, mouthing at the Alpha’s jaw—a coquettish gesture meant to convey submission and helplessness, but one that specifically invites the Alpha to dominate. “Lay with me until you have to go.”

The Alpha groans. 

“I can’t,” he protests, but it is soft and weak.

Steve whines, the rejection no better than a shard of ice to his heart.

“You say I could seduce you, yet you will not be seduced,” he says, petulant.

Desperation driving him, he rises upon his toes and wraps his arms around the Alpha’s neck, clumsily kissing him. 

“Please,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to get the words out. “Please, Alpha. Please, please.”

He kisses the Alpha again, just as clumsily as before.

For all his fantasies, Steve has never kissed anyone before. He’s known since puberty what he desired in a mate, even if he couldn’t articulate it then. He knew that what he desired, those around him lacked. Even then, he was spoiled enough that he hadn’t wanted to settle for less. Why should he subject himself to a touch that didn’t set him alight? Why should he allow another to kiss him, touch him, mount him if that person couldn’t fulfill him? He would rather remain untouched than be unmoved by a potential lover.

His husband would’ve been his first, if not for this night, this Alpha.

It should be this Alpha, though. He knows that now; the thought of it being anyone else is absurd. What others lacked, this Alpha contains in spades. Steve wants to give this Alpha his every first—thinks, a little hysterically, that he can give his firsts to no one but this Alpha.

The Alpha gives in with a groan, cupping the back of his head to plunder his mouth. He kisses with a ferocity that Steve somehow wasn’t expecting, but one that instantly makes him lightheaded. He can barely keep up, but he finds he doesn’t care. Instead, he gives himself over to the kiss completely, relaxing in the Alpha’s hold.

The Alpha rips his mouth away nearly as quickly as he gave in, panting softly as he stares down at Steve with a little furrow between his brow. He cups Steve’s cheek, caressing him as he searches Steve’s face.

“How many have you seduced into your bed, pup?” He asks after a moment, his voice almost hesitant. 

“None, Alpha,” Steve answers truthfully.

The Alpha swallows roughly, his eyes darkening. 

“And how many times have you been mounted?”

“None.” 

Steve lifts onto his toes again, bestowing another soft, clumsy kiss.

“You are the first to touch me,” he says, unashamed of his inexperience. “You are the first that I have wanted to touch me. You were right, before—I will be mated within the fortnight. I may have my pick of the suitors, but those suitors were not chosen by me or with my happiness in mind. My destiny is an unfulfilling marriage for political gain. But I want to know true desire, Alpha. Just once, I want to know what it is like to be wanted and to want in return. To be touched and kissed and crave more. I have only this one chance to know desire and pleasure as I’ve dreamt it. Will you give it to me or am I to be denied even this?”

The Alpha nips at his bottom lip.

“I would love nothing more than to fulfill your every desire, pup,” he whispers, “but I swore before the ancestors and the gods that I would not touch you. I have already done too much.”

Steve relaxes in his hold, a sweet smile blooming on his lips. Is that the only thing holding the Alpha back?

“You did not,” he promises. “You swore before them that you meant me no harm. That is not the same thing at all—to touch me would only be harm if I did not want it.”

Steve sees it, the moment the Alpha recalls the precise nature of his oath. His gaze darkens once more, pupils blown wide beneath heavy lids. 

He kisses Steve again, but slowly this time. Gently. With an air that says he’ll dedicate the night to just this if he has to, the Alpha explores every inch of Steve’s mouth. There isn’t a part of him left untasted and when the Alpha is done, he pulls back for a mere half-second to allow Steve a breath before he does it again. And again. And again.

His hands explore Steve’s body with the same slow precision, finding their way underneath his robe to touch smooth, bare skin. Within minutes, Steve is trembling in his arms, utterly overwhelmed but desperate for more. Overwhelmed, but fearing only that it will stop—that the Alpha’s maddening kisses, his touch, will disappear.

One big, broad hand slips beneath the waistband of his shorts, grabbing his asscheek and squeezing tight. Steve gasps into the Alpha’s mouth. He’s burning hot all over, and yet that touch feels like a brand. He’s sure that if he were to find a mirror, he’d see the Alpha’s handprint lingering on his most intimate parts. 

The Alpha’s thick, calloused fingers slip between Steve’s cheeks, where he’s aching and wet. 

“You’ll take me, pup?” The Alpha’s voice is a low, hypnotic thing, the words whispered between drugging kisses. “Hm? Is that what you desire? To be stripped down and then made to present for me? To let me mount you? You want to take my cock in this aching little cunt and let me fulfill the need I can smell in your scent?”

Steve jolts, another gasp falling from his lips.

“Yes,” he breathes.

The Alpha pulls his fingers away, drawing his hand out of Steve’s shorts and making him whine with the loss. He brushes his large hands over Steve’s shoulders, gently pushing off his robe as he takes another kiss.

“What else?” The Alpha asks. “What else do you want, hm?”

Steve draws back enough to look him in eye.

“Make it hurt,” he confesses in a whisper. The Alpha goes still. “That is my deepest desire, Alpha. My constant dream. I want to be mounted and I want to ache with it. I want you to be rough with me, to take me as if I were your prize. As if it is your right to have me. I want to be taken as our ancestors would take their mates.”

The Alpha’s scent somehow, impossibly, expands and deepens with each word. It is not simply arousal, there is more lurking beneath its depths now, but Steve can’t yet parse the nuances of it. He doesn’t know what it means, only that it has weight.

The Alpha searches his face again for a long, tense moment and then gently, he takes Steve’s chin between his fingers. His voice is low and even when he speaks, more serious than Steve has heard it so far, each word enunciated.

“You will never, as long as you live, ask this of another stranger,” he says. “Your desires are not shameful, but they are dangerous. Asked of the wrong man and you could be hurt in ways you do not find pleasurable. You will only ever ask this of someone close to you, someone you trust. Not of someone whose name you do not even know. Do you understand, my little prince? You will not do this again.”

Steve nods obediently.

“I understand,” he says, but the solemnity of the words is ruined by the smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

He can’t help it; he understands the Alpha’s scent now. The Alpha is angry with him. He should be devastated by this realization—for as true an Omega as he is, he cannot stand the idea that this Alpha would be displeased with him—but instead something precious and delicate flutters in his chest. It isn’t the anger itself that moves him, but the drive behind it; the Alpha is worried about him. The Alpha feels protective of him.

The Alpha’s frown deepens.

“Swear it to me now,” he demands. “Swear before the ancestors that you will not put yourself in danger like this again. Swear that you will only ask this of someone you know.”

Steve lets his smile win. He takes the Alpha’s face between his palms, leaning up to kiss him sweetly.

“I will never ask it of another soul,” he whispers against the Alpha’s lips. “For as long as I live, you will be the only lover I confess my truest desires to. I swear this before all the ancestors and all the gods, old and new, born and unborn.”

“I did not ask that of you.”

“No,” Steve agrees. “But it is what I wanted to give.”

He did not know this would be his vow until the words were out, but he doesn’t regret it. Already, he knows that no lover will ever compare to this Alpha. He can feel the truth in the very marrow of his soul: this Alpha is his true match.

It feels like such a childish, naive thought. A fanciful thing that only a pup would believe in, and in truth, Steve had never believed in true matches before this night. This Alpha and this feeling inside him. The way he feels cold and abandoned when the Alpha stops touching him, even when they’re still near. The way he feels warm and right when he’s held in the Alpha’s embrace.

No one has ever made him feel like this. He’s positive no one else ever will.

Steve steals another kiss.

“I will only ever ask it of you,” he whispers, “but I do ask it of you, my Alpha. Will you fulfill my deepest desires?”

In answer, the Alpha cups his neck in a big, broad hand and pulls him in for his own kiss. It’s just as slow and deep as their second, but this one never truly ends. Through it, Steve is undressed the rest of the way, a big hand tugging at his shorts until they fall to his ankles. That same hand cups his bare thigh and lifts him into the air. He moans into the Alpha’s mouth, wrapping himself around that big, broad body and clinging tight. He’s never felt more like a runt than in this moment, small and delicate in a large Alpha’s embrace, his thighs aching with the stretch of wrapping around the Alpha’s waist.

Through drugging kisses, he’s carried to his bed and laid among the blankets, the Alpha settling over him. He feels even bigger this way—a massive, looming presence over Steve, a dense weight that Steve could never hope to buck off. It should be frightening, but he finds only pleasure in this moment, in this feeling of smallness, the knowledge that he is too weak and little and helpless to best this man.

Perhaps he is weak and little and helpless, and perhaps they do both know it, but this knowledge would never be used against him. It only means the Alpha will take care of him, he just knows it.

The Alpha lifts his head, his gaze warm and hungry as it roams Steve’s face. He caresses Steve’s jaw with his thumb.

“How the Gods of blessed me this night,” he whispers. He leans down to kiss Steve’s nose, his cheeks, his eyelids, between his brows. “You are more perfect than words can describe, my little jewel. A delight to me in every way.”

Steve whines softly, tilting his head, inviting the Alpha’s mouth further down—to his neck. The Alpha groans his pleasure, biting at his throat.

“Do you know what I’m going to do now, pup?” He lifts his head, bestowing the lightest of kisses on Steve’s lips. “Now, I will taste every inch of you. Your body will hold the memory of my mouth for days by the time I’m done with you. I’ll take this adorable little cock into my mouth until you spurt and then I’ll sink my tongue into your virgin cunt and feast until you beg for the torture to end. I’ll make you ache for it, pup, until when I finally release you, it’s nothing but instinct for you to present for me so that I may mount you. You won’t be thinking of what satisfaction I can bring you when you do. No, you’ll already know that everything I do, I do for your pleasure. Your only thought will be what pleasure you can bring me—how you might repay all that I’ve given you. You’ll submit to the pain of my cock not because it’s what you crave, but because you want to please me. When you hurt, pup, it’ll be in the name of my pleasure.”

Steve moans breathlessly, each word setting his belly on fire. The promise in the Alpha’s voice as he paints such a fantasy is nearly enough to make him come untouched. Desperately, Steve drags the Alpha into another kiss.

“Please,” he whispers into it. “Please, Alpha. I want it. I want to hurt for your pleasure. Please, please.”

The Alpha groans, biting his bottom lip.

“Then you better keep quiet, pup,” he warns. “I will not be rushed. I will savor every inch of you for as long as I want. Do not let your cries bring an interruption to your door.”

With that last warning, the Alpha sets about fulfilling his promise—and fulfill it, he does. There is not an inch of Steve left untouched by the Alpha’s lips, not a single patch of skin that isn’t tasted to its fullest. He starts with Steve’s outer extremities, kissing along his arms and legs, his hands and feet, before letting himself be pulled back to Steve’s center, rolling him over to taste his back before finally descending upon his front.

The Alpha’s mouth on his chest is revelation. Steve grasps at the Alpha’s hair, shoving against the Alpha’s face as a hot mouth mercilessly suckles his nipples. He has an arm thrown over his mouth so that he may cry into it, unable to stop his wails of pleasure and instead only able to muffle them. The Alpha isn’t gentle in his suckling, but that only makes it better. The scrape of teeth, the harsh suckling, it makes the pleasure sharper, more potent. 

His most intimate parts remain untouched and already, he’s delirious from the Alpha’s ministrations. His body already bears the littered marks of an insistent mouth, the bruises aching wonderfully. Already, this experience is better than any fantasy he’s ever spun for himself.

The Alpha lifts his mouth from an abused nipple, licking the sensitive nub lightly.

“Have you ever had a heat, pup?” He asks, kissing his way to across Steve’s chest to the other nipple.

Steve shakes his head clumsily, lifting his arm only long enough to admit, “No, Alpha. Never.”

The Alpha rumbles nuzzling against Steve’s untouched nipple as his fingers brush and rub and pinch the one his mouth just left. Steve gasps, arching into his touch, biting down on his arm to muffle the cry bubbling in his throat as lightning bolts of pleasure-pain go from his nipple straight to his neglected cock.

“If you ever do,” the Alpha murmurs, “you will produce milk for your Alpha. You were made for it. Your tits crave a mouth on them.”

He leans down, suckling lightly at Steve’s nipple before retreating. He chuckles softly when Steve, whining, tries to bring his head back down, arching his back to shove his chest into the Alpha’s face.

“Look at you,” the Alpha coos. “You love to have an Alpha suckling from you, don’t you, my little prince? You would love to provide milk, wouldn’t you? To have these tits be swollen and full. It hurts if they get too full, did you know that? You would like to hurt like that for your Alpha, too, wouldn’t you? Would you cry, pup? Would you tell Alpha how much it hurts, would you beg for the relief of my mouth?”

Steve whimpers. “Yes,” he confesses, and he means for all of it. 

He would love to provide milk for this Alpha, would love to experience the ache of too much milk, would love to cry and beg for his Alpha’s mouth.

He would do anything—anything at all—to experience such a heat with this Alpha.

The Alpha rumbles again, suckling his tit.

“The rare Omega,” he whispers against the abused nub, “is so eager to please his Alpha, he produces milk during the Alpha’s rut, too. I bet it would be you, pup. You’re such a perfect little Omega. You’d provide milk for your Alpha’s rut, I just know it. Such a perfect Omega.”

The Alpha sounds drunk on his own fantasy, groaning softly before he stops talking and just sucks.

When he finally makes it down to the stunted, aching little cock laying against Steve’s belly, he swallows it down without any preamble. Steve has only seconds to experience the throbbing pleasure of a hot mouth on him before he comes with a muffled sob. With each spurt of his orgasm, his body tightens and he feels the deep ache of the bruises left behind by his Alpha’s mouth. The pain leaves him drowning in such intense pleasure that he thinks his orgasm may never end.

He’s still gasping for breath in its aftermath when his thighs are pushed up, exposing the most intimate part of him. His hole is wet, feeling emptier than it ever has before, and with the Alpha’s touch lingering all over, Steve knows that no matter how well he knew his own body, his fingers would not be able to satisfy the deep ache in him this time. The hunger in him could only ever be satisfied by the Alpha between his thighs.

“Gods, the way you smell,” the Alpha groans, leaning down to nose at Steve’s crease. He breathes in deep, making Steve blush. 

Before he can voice an embarrassed protest, the Alpha fulfills his last promise: with a soft, hungry growl, he buries his face between Steve’s legs and feasts.

Steve loses all sense of time and space. He loses track of—everything, really. His own name, his rank, where they are and who they are outside of the joining of their bodies. They are floating in a blurring, empty void, alone and adrift in a sea of unending pleasure.

Fingers join the tongue driving him to madness and he comes. He doesn’t even know when he got hard again, or how long he’s been hard. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is his Alpha and the impossibly thick fingers fucking him gently, the pleasure wrung from every atom of his body, the scent of sex and hunger and Alpha and Omega all twining together.

Their scents have mixed, Steve realizes distantly, perhaps an eon after the Alpha first touched him. It is no longer rain-soaked earth and peonies as separate entities, but now the scent of freshly planted flowers after rain. 

It’s this realization that drives Steve to begging. Their scents have joined, but they have not. 

It is wrong. Somehow, it hurts. 

Their scents have joined, their bodies should, too. Their scents have joined, but only Steve’s satisfaction is with it. He has come and come again, but his Alpha has not. He feels so good, his body strung tight on its way to another orgasm, and yet his Alpha is still left unsatisfied.

He can’t abide that. He is an Omega, he aches to please his Alpha. To bring him pleasure.

“Please,” he begs hoarsely, clawing at the Alpha’s shoulders. “Please, Alpha. Please, please—”

The Alpha pulls back, licking gently at Steve’s hole as he removes his fingers.

“What is it, pup?” He coos. “What can I give you?”

The moment he is freed, Steve turns over his knees, bending to press his face and shoulders into the bed. His knees are spread wide, his hips tilted up, exposing himself completely.

Presenting for his Alpha.

“Please,” he says again.

The Alpha groans. Steve hears the rustle of clothing. Belatedly, he remembers that his Alpha stripped him bare, but never undressed himself. He shivers. Somehow, this feels right. He should be laid bare and vulnerable before his Alpha, even if his Alpha isn’t bare for him.

The bed dips. He can’t see his Alpha, but he feels him. The large, looming presence positioned just behind him, the heat of him washing over Steve in waves, a weighted gaze crawling along his spine.  He hears the sound of skin on skin—the Alpha touching himself to what he sees.

“You are perfection, my little prince,” the Alpha breathes softly. “Look at you, flushed so prettily all over, presenting like a good little pup. That perfect little cunt aches for me, doesn’t it, gorgeous? I ache for it, too, pup. Mounting you will be the most divine pleasure of my life.”

He leans over Steve, kissing his shoulder.

“You’ve taken my fingers, but it will still hurt,” he promises in a whisper. “Tell me as much if it brings you pleasure, I will happily come to the sound of your cries.”

The Alpha grabs one of his hands, bringing it down to press against his muscled thigh.

“But if it’s too much, you need only tell me to stop or slap my thigh and I will. You are very small, my little prince, and I am no average Alpha. I may be too much for you. Do not endure it if it does not bring you pleasure. I only want to give you what you desire, nothing more. Your pleasure is my pleasure. If you do not enjoy it, neither will I. Do you understand?”

Steve’s heart pounds, his lips trembling though he doesn’t know why. He thinks he might be truly in love with this Alpha, as nonsensical as it seems.

“Yes, Alpha,” he answers.

And then he feels it: a gentle nudge against his wet hole. The Alpha wraps one of those big, broad hands around Steve’s shoulder, guiding him into it as he pushes inside.

Steve shudders and then finds that it isn’t a shudder at all—he’s trembling and he can’t seem to stop. His throat closes around a scream, trapping it until it feels like he’s choking on it. He claws at the bed, gasping for air that’s being pushed from his body with each inch of a long, fat cock.

He sobs. 

In all his imaginings, in all his fantasies, he could not have accounted for this. He knew that the stretch would ache, that he would hurt, but he could never have accounted for the pressure. The depth. He is being reshaped, remade. The Alpha is already so deep, but he’s pushing deeper still, each inch of him thicker than the last, stretching Steve to the brink of his sanity.

“It hurts,” he whispers, and his voice is unlike anything he’s heard before: frail and weak, small and timid and wavering, filled with pain and pleasure and wet with tears. He sniffles and only belatedly realizes he’s crying, his eyes burning and his cheeks damp.

He’s never felt so small, so vulnerable. He has also never felt so safe; the Alpha’s large body looms over him, shielding him from the world, engulfing him in delicious heat and strong, capable arms. He is vulnerable and he is protected—exactly as an Omega should be.

The Alpha rumbles deeply, nosing behind his ear.

“I know it does, pup,” he murmurs. “Is it everything you wished for? Does it feel good to hurt for my pleasure, my little jewel?”

Steve whimpers, his lips trembling as more tears spill over. He nods clumsily.

“Yes, Alpha,” he admits in a whisper. 

The Alpha groans, the noise so low it’s nearly a growl, his pleasurable palpable.

“Gods, you feel so good,” he whispers, shifting his hips, driving himself deeper. “I was right before. Your cunt is an undeserved heaven, my little jewel, but I will take what you so sweetly offered. Open up, I want more. That’s it, take me deeper. Take it like a good little pup. Hurt for me. That’s a good boy. Such a good, good boy for your Alpha.”

Steve sobs brokenly.

“It hurts,” he whimpers again, delirious, the heat inside him almost too much to bear. “It hurts, Alpha. It’s too big, it’s too—oh, it hurts, it hurts—oh, oh—”

He breaks. No orgasm, no fantasy, no story—no matter how detailed—could have prepared him for this onslaught. 

The pleasure throbs through him in agonizing waves. He would scream if only he had the breath for it. With every spurt, his body tightens around the Alpha’s fat cock and when it does, it tinges the edges of his pleasure with the sweetest pain, only deepening it, prolonging it.

His orgasm lasts a lifetime. Every time he thinks it’s starting to wane, another wave hits, drowning him again.

When it finally ebbs, he is not left with the loose-limbed, sleepy satisfaction of previous orgasms. He is only acutely aware that his Alpha is still hard inside him. He has come, but he is not satisfied. He still hungers, but not for his own satisfaction—for his Alpha’s.

He whimpers.

“Is it too much, pup?” The Alpha asks, his voice a delicate, gentle thing, cooing and sweet. “Do you want me to to stop?”

Steve shakes his head desperately.

“No,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with tears, barely audible. “No, Alpha, please. Don’t stop. You promised. You promised, please, please—I want to feel it. Please—”

His words break off with a gasp as the Alpha moves inside of him. He pulls out until only the tip remains inside before nudging deep inside once more, not stopping until all of him is sheathed. He is slow and gentle at first, but as their bodies move together, his grip tightens on Steve’s body. He shifts, pushing Steve deeper into the mattress, his rhythm turning fast and rough.

It’s everything Steve wanted, everything he imagined, and more. He is taken, fucked, claimed. It hurts, the Alpha’s cock too big for comfort, and yet every time the Alpha asks, Steve begs him not to stop. Begs for it to never end. It hurts, and he loves it, craves it, will die without it. His cock is hard again. 

They are little more than animals now, driven by nothing but the chase of intense pleasure, the barest and deepest instinct to mate. Tears spill down Steve’s cheeks, his cries echoing throughout the room, accompany the crude slap of skin-on-skin and the Alpha’s grunts of pleasure. He is a vessel for his mate, his pain giving way to his Alpha’s pleasure, and it’s exactly what he wants to be.

“Alpha,” he sobs. “Alpha, Alpha—”

There is a hesitant knock at the door.

Steve doesn’t understand the sound at first. He blinks blearily toward its source, whimpering as he’s fucked mercilessly. 

Another knock.

“Your Highness?” A hesitant voice asks. The knob jiggles noisily. “My prince?”

He was told to be quiet, to muffle his sounds of pleasure lest they be interrupted, but in the onslaught of pleasure-pain brought by his first mounting, he lost all semblance of reason. He forgot who he was—who they both were—where they were and what was at stake. He forgot to fear who might overhear.

His cries of pleasure still echo in the room, the Alpha’s grip on him tight and unrelenting as he fucks them both toward orgasm. Steve can’t stop it. Even now that reality has reasserted itself, he can’t stop the broken sobs clawing their way out of his throat as he’s pinned and fucked like an animal.

He remembers who he is now. He is a prince. The beloved Omega runt of his nation, the jewel of his people. He is a prince, and there was an intruder in his palace, and he presented himself to that intruder—a stranger—like a wanton whore, inviting a man whose name he still doesn’t know to mount and hurt and fuck him. 

He does not feel ashamed. All he feels is pleasure so intense it nearly blinds him and—with each knock—a deep, all-consuming fear that such pleasure will be taken from him before he is satisfied.

Another knock, another jiggle of the doorknob. “My prince?”

“Go away,” Steve says, sounding hoarse and drunk.

“My prince—”

“Go away,” he cries, grabbing the first thing his fingers land on—his manuscript—and flinging it clumsily toward the door. In a wholly uncharacteristic display of aggression, he snarls, “Do not come in or I will behead you myself.” 

They cannot be interrupted. He will die if the Alpha stops; if they are torn apart by circumstance before he has the chance to experience the Alpha’s orgasm.

The other side of the door goes silent.

The Alpha leans over him, chuckling as he nuzzles behind Steve’s ear.

“Fear not, my little jewel,” he croons. “The whole of your army could descend upon this room and it would not stop me from mounting you. I would merely kill them all and take you again.”

Steve turns his head into the Alpha’s kiss, desperate to taste him again.

They fall into pleasure once more, time and space melting away once more until they are only two souls tangled together, two bodies straining for satisfaction.

Another eon might pass before Steve feels it: on a mind-numbingly deep thrust, the Alpha’s cock flares wider where it did not before. Steve cries out, the stretch almost too much. He knows what it is, what it means. His groin goes hot and tight, his balls drawing up. He might come just from the idea alone.

“Yes,” he breathes, pleads, begs. And then again, louder, “Yes, yes—”

His Alpha’s knot. He’s pleased his Alpha. He’s driven him to such pleasure that his knot swells.

“I want it,” Steve begs hoarsely. “I want it, yes, Alpha, please—your knot, please—”

“No,” the Alpha barks, his voice harsh for the first time that night. He pants for breath, groaning as he rolls his hips slowly. Softer, he says again, “No, pup. Don’t beg for it. You have no idea how much I want to knot you, but I can’t. This perfect little cunt can barely take my cock, you’ll need to work up to it before you can take a knot. It will hurt too much tonight. Don’t beg, my jewel. I won’t be able to stop if you beg for it.”

Steve reaches back, sliding his hand into the Alpha’s sweat-dampened hair and bringing him closer for another kiss.

“Please,” he whispers into the Alpha’s mouth, his voice raw and aching. “Please, Alpha. It should be you. I don’t care if it hurts. Please knot me. It should be you, it should be your knot. Please, please—”

The Alpha snarls, shifting their bodies until he covers Steve completely, pressing him flat against the mattress. He’s rougher than he has been all night, rutting against Steve’s ass desperately, keeping his cock sheathed as deep as it will go. The base swells.

The Alpha was right—Steve is too small for this. The Alpha’s cock already felt like he was being stretched to his limits and now, the knot demands more of him. Steve goes limp underneath the Alpha, sobbing breathlessly as his hole is forced wider, the pain of it burrowing deep into his core until all he can do is cry his hurt and come.

This time, the orgasm does take his vision. It whites everything out, a roaring in his ears stealing even the sound of his Alpha’s pleasure from him, until for a single perfect moment, he exists in nothingness. He is nothingness. Mere light and atoms, a flowing of stream of pain and pleasure in the mere shape of a body.

Reality reasserts itself in small stages. First, the solidifying of his body, the feel of the bed beneath him, a great, hulking heat against his back, a hurting hole still stretched passed its limits, the most intense pleasure of his life still flowing through him. He feels delirious with it, drunk on it. 

He hears his Alpha next, his muffled snarls and labored breath, the pounding of his heart.

Finally, he blinks, and he can see again—and what he finds makes his gut tighten anew. The Alpha is stretched out on top of him, their faces mere inches apart, his teeth buried in the wrist brace against the bed. Blood drips from the corner of his mouth. He groans, the sound as delirious with pleasure as Steve feels, his jaw tightening around its prize as he rolls his hips slowly, fucking his knot impossibly deeper.

Steve shivers, lightheaded.

The Alpha wanted to bite him. Wanted to mate him properly, claim him in truth. He wanted it so badly that he could not stop the bite at all; he could only change where his teeth made their home.

Steve leans forward, licking at the dripping blood. The Alpha grunts, releasing his wrist to take Steve’s mouth in a bloody, claiming kiss. 

Knotting brings with it a high—not just for the Alpha, but for the Omega as well. Steve knew this intellectually, but reading about it in stories and textbooks is nothing compared to the true experience of it. The orgasm has done nothing to clear the fog from his mind, that weightless, floating feeling like he’s drifting on pure sensation. In fact, the knotting has only increased it.

It takes a long, long while for the worst of it to fade. When it does, the Alpha repositions their bodies, laying them on their sides and cradling Steve close to his chest. The movement, gentle as it is, makes the knot tug against his abused hole. He whimpers, turning his face into the Alpha’s large arm.

He feels a kiss behind his ear.

“Does it hurt too much?” The Alpha asks gently, brushing his fingers lightly through Steve’s hair.

Steve shakes his head. “I like it,” he whispers, soft and somber.

He feels—preemptively bereft. There is no need for sadness or loneliness yet, not with the Alpha’s heat, his strength, still firmly wrapped around him. But he knows now that the fog of lust and pleasure has cleared that their time is coming towards its end. He has only these last few minutes, just until the Alpha’s knot finally softens.

The Alpha cannot stay. Even if Steve were brave enough to ask, it would be too dangerous. This isn’t just any man—he isn’t a guard in the palace or a commoner from the streets. He is from an entirely different land, of a different people with their different rules and customs. He is, to anyone else, an enemy.

Steve lets his fingers trail up and down the Alpha’s bare arm, cataloging his warmth, his strength. He keeps his nose pressed into the crook of the Alpha’s elbow so that his every breath is nothing but that overwhelming scent of rainsoaked earth. His eyes catch on the Alpha’s wrist, the bite marring it, the blood black in the shadow of their bodies.

“You feel it, too, don’t you?” He whispers, letting his fingers graze the outer edges of the bite. “It isn’t just me?”

The Alpha holds him a little tighter.

“I feel it, too,” he promises, bestowing another kiss behind Steve’s ear. The Alpha lingers there, breathing him in.

“But you cannot stay, and I cannot go with you.”

“If I could, I would steal you away this very night,” the Alpha murmurs. “But to do so would cause a war. Many innocent people would die because of my selfishness.”

Steve nods. He expected that answer. There is a terrible, dark part of him that wishes the Alpha had bitten him, even if it would’ve been without permission. If they were mated, his father would either have to let him go to the Alpha’s homeland, or allow the Alpha to stay. Separating him from his Alpha would mean death to them both otherwise.

With a sigh, Steve brings the Alpha’s arm across his chest, clinging to it.

“Stay until I fall asleep,” he orders quietly.

“Of course.”

They don’t say anything else. As he starts to doze, Steve thinks about asking the Alpha’s name, but decides against it. Perhaps it will be better this way; a clean break. If he knows the Alpha’s name, he will be tempted to find him.

He dreams of sweet kisses dotting his face, his Alpha’s voice promising, “I will be back for you, my little jewel. Wait for me.”

The next morning, the only proof the Alpha was ever there are the bruises on his body, a shirt clutched tightly between Steve’s fingers, and a lingering, earthy scent.

[daddybucky]

miss you🫶🏽

would you believe me if I said that I had planned on finishing & posting something over the weekend, but then my sister called me at 9pm the other night and was like, "btw Mom and [maternal grandmother] got hit by a race car."

That's exactly how she put it. "Mom got hit by a race car." Because she's the youngest and her goal in life is obviously to give me a fucking heart attack.

It was actually a junior sprint, whatever the fuck that is. I looked it up and it almost looks like a go cart, but it's made out of metal, so my mom has a severely sprained ankle (I actually think it could be broken but it's so swollen rn that a break won't show up on the X-Ray) and my grandmother's leg is broken.

That is an actual thing that happened in my life this weekend. Because why not, amiright?

[daddybucky]

omega prince steve when???🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺👉🏻👈🏻

#SOON

The segue is giving me fits but as soon as I wrestle that into submission I know everything else that happens 👌

I didn’t have time to work on it last week bc I had to go out of town for work but hopefully this week 🤞

[daddybucky]

AHEM

Saw these tweets this morning and thought it was absolutely imperative to share with the class

[daddybucky]

Hi long time reader first time caller I just want you to know your interpretations of Bucky and Steve had been a staple in my life since like 2015-2016 and now as an adult getting their doctorate your writing helps ground me often. Thank you and keep on keeping on!

thank you! <3

it's my stress reliever and I'm glad it can be yours, too :)

[daddybucky]

I'm not asking for anything, I'm just coming here to say I agree with the previous MRI anon, in that your work is very comforting to read, like being wrapped cozy and snug in a heated blanket at the just the /right/ temperature.

oh bless you <3 i'm glad you enjoy it!!

[daddybucky]

I see this trend of people asking you for writing when going through something and I hate to add to it in case it’s starting to come across wrong or selfish. I am going through my own medical crisis though, and have to get an MRI with contrast dye next tuesday. I am definitely going to be thinking about your daddy bucky and imagining I have him waiting for me outside the MRI machine when I’m done in order to get thru it. saw someone else mentioned wisdom teeth - can I ask if you have any thoughts about how daddy bucky would take care of stevie in one of these scenarios? or any similar scenario? I’m just very nervous and your work always comforts me

I had to do this quick and dirty for you, Nani, since it is now Tuesday and I didn't have as much time to write as I thought I would because my niece had a choir concert last night

It's not as long as the others, but I didn't figure you'd want to wait a whole month like the others had to

--

I was thinking about what would happen if Steve had something like an emergency appendectomy. Like, maybe there’s a few days of discomfort and Steve just thinks it’s indigestion but then the day comes that the pain is excruciating and when they take him to the ER, the doctors start throwing around words like ‘rupture’ and ‘emergency surgery’ and before Bucky can really wrap his head around any of it, they’ve whisked his baby away to locations unknown.

Hours later, when Steve finally comes out of the anesthesia and opens bleary eyes to a Daddy-less room, he keeps asking, “Where is he?”

He’s feeling hurt and vulnerable and very whiny, yes, but he also knows just how worried his Daddy will be. He doesn’t want Daddy worrying about him, he needs Daddy to know that he’s okay.

And Bucky is worried. He’s been a terror the entire time Steve’s been under. Prowling the hallways with a murderous expression and no amount of cajoling from Natalia or Etienne or Danny, who even tries, can get him to calm down. The best they can do is stop him from harassing the poor nurses every five seconds for updates, but even that is a struggle.

They’re the only three there, even though pretty much anyone who’s spent an extended amount of time with Steve wants to be there. They just can’t fit that many people into the waiting room, so it was decided that Natalia, as Bucky’s right hand man, and Etienne, as Steve’s best friend, and Danny, as the designated bodyguard, would be the ones to stay with Bucky and send updates to the others.

When he’s finally let into Steve’s room, the sight before him tightens his chest to the point of pain, stealing his breath. His beautiful, beautiful baby boy, looking so pale and small in a hospital bed, his expression crumpled in dissatisfaction or discomfort or both. Bucky loves him so much, he’s sick with it. He’d burn down the entire hospital, the entire city, if it would wipe that expression off his boy’s face.

“Sweetheart,” he chokes out.

He sits beside Steve on the bed, touching his hand lightly. It’s freezing cold to the touch, something Bucky will not abide, not under any circumstances. He picks up his boy’s hand, gently kissing his fingertips before encasing it completely between his own.

Groggily, Steve blinks up at him. Bucky knows the moment he’s recognized, because that air of dissatisfaction melts away into the softest, sweetest smile he’s ever seen. Seeing it makes Bucky feel like he’s been stabbed in the gut.

He braces an elbow by Steve’s head, leaning down to pepper the gentlest kisses imaginable over his boy’s pale face.

“My sweetheart,” he murmurs to between kisses. “My baby. My precious, precious baby boy.”

Fingers brush along his jaw.

“I’m okay,” Steve mumbles, his words slurring. “‘m okay, Daddy, promise.”

“I know you are, baby,” Bucky says softly. He pulls back, meeting his boy’s sleepy gaze. “You’re not allowed to be anything else, understand? I’m making it a rule.”

Gently, he brushes back Steve’s hair and then cups his face, caressing his cheek.

“You have to be okay, sweetheart. I won’t allow you to be anything else. You can’t leave me, not like this.”

It earns him another achingly sweet smile, his boy soft and rumpled and sleepy but content now that Bucky is there with him.

“Okay, Daddy,” Steve whispers, nodding.

Bucky kisses his nose. “Don’t pacify me, sweetheart. I mean it.”

“I know,” Steve promises.

It isn’t long before he falls asleep again, the medicine still in his system pulling him under. When he wakes up later, Bucky won’t let him so much as hold his own cup. Every time he tries, Bucky pulls it out of his reach.

Steve isn’t even sure why he keeps trying. He likes when Daddy does things for him, but he also likes watching that stubborn, domineering look enter his Daddy’s eye every time Steve clumsily reaches for his drink. He makes a game of it—trying to get the cup out of Daddy’s hand—right up until Daddy finally grabs his wrist and settles his hands atop the blanket.

“Stop,” he says, softly but firmly. “You just had surgery, baby. You’re a very, very helpless boy right now, so be a good boy and let Daddy do it for you.”

It isn’t so much as what Daddy says as how he says it. Steve’s heart squeezes tight.

“Is that what you need, Daddy?” He asks quietly.

Daddy brushes his fingers through his hair, leaning forward to kiss his forehead.

“That’s exactly what I need, sweet boy,” he murmurs. “I had to watch you be in pain and then they took you away from me for hours and cut you open and there was nothing I could do about any of it. You’re going to be a good boy and let me baby you as much as I want to while you recover.”

Steve smiles softly. “Okay, Daddy.”

Through his entire recovery, he’s doted on and babied and pampered relentlessly. He spends most of that recovery cradled against his Daddy’s chest, held in his big, strong arms and smothered in countless kisses. Outside of the doctor’s recommended exercise, his feet don’t even touch the ground. He’s carried everywhere, dressed, handfed every single meal, bathed every night—everything his Daddy usually does for him, it’s amped up by a factor of a thousand, and things Daddy might normally let him do himself, he very sternly forbids. 

Steve need only think about pouting before his Daddy is there to indulge to his every whim and he looks completely at peace the entire time he’s spoiling his baby rotten.

The more Bucky babies him, the more Steve seems to glow with contentment, his gaze bright and warm and loving and stuck on his Daddy. He might be the center of his Daddy’s world, but Bucky is also the center of his.

To Steve’s eternal disappointment, no matter how well he feels, his Daddy won’t play with him until the doctor okays it, but he does successfully pout his way into long, drugging kisses on a nightly basis.

“You take such good care of me, Daddy,” Steve whispers one night, a week into his recovery.

Daddy smiles, kissing him so tenderly that Steve feels it in his toes.

“Always, baby,” he promises. “Now can you be a good boy and go to sleep for me? You need your rest to get better.”

And Steve, who has been pampered so thoroughly all day—all week—and who feels near to bursting with warmth and contentment and love, can do nothing but obey.