✦Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on aO3!✦
✦summary: you fell for bucky a long, long while ago. and you think about him, every day and every night. if only you knew that he thought about you too.✦
✦warnings/tags: bucky barnes x female!reader, friends to lovers, light emotional angst, everyone's bad at feelings, fluff, smut, plot and porn mix (dirty talk, use of sex toys , fingering, pussy eating like crazy, fantasization, praise kink, manhandling, perfectly "appropriate" use of bucky's metal arm, nipple play, dumbification, semi-public sex, dry humping, sensitive reader, finger sucking, masturbation, bucky gets nasty, body worship, overstimulation, mean!bucky, oral m!recieving, praise kink, monster dick bucky, he fucks like a machine), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 7.5k✦
✦Author's Note: request! who wouldn't fantasize about bucky barnes?✦
You think you might be a freak.
Compared to everyone else in the building, you’re perfectly normal. On the outside. Where everyone can see. You don’t have any powers, and you’ve never been shot up with serums or infinity stones. You’re a human, with a sharp tongue and shaper brain, pretty features and a charming smile, and absolutely no desire to be anything else.
Tony even asked you once. If you’d consider it. The whole hero thing. You’d laughed and shaken your head. You told him that you’re not that kind of brave. That you prefer to stay behind the scenes, helping with the tech and med services. Tony had laughed with you, and remarked causally that you’d be good at it.
You’d smiled and waved him off. But he was wrong. Because you can’t be normal about anything.
You’re not casual. You’re obsessive, and quietly insane. You don’t become the top of your field like this while being anything else. It’s easy to contain yourself in this kind of work, in it’s order and chaos all at once. There are rules that you to follow, then break, and everyone praises you and you glow like a diamond catching sunlight.
Not absorbing it. Because it passes right through, and it’s never enough, and you get addicted to it. The praise, from these living gods. They all love you, and you bask in it, and then you look at him.
Bucky.
The only one who doesn’t praise you. Who doesn’t treat you like a good dog, bringing them treats and newspapers. When you met him, he barely treated you like anything at all. Tony had introduced you, he’d looked you up and down, shaken your hand, and walked away.
But you.
You’d been a fucking goner.
Bucky’s handsome in the way you used to only see in movies. Your exact type, from the hair to the eyes to the way he carries himself. Silent and in control, kind but not overly nice, polite without expectation. You’d made it two years without developing a crush on anyone. Somehow, surrounded by some of the world’s most handsome men, you’d maintained that tiny sliver of your sanity.
Then there was Bucky. And you lost yourself.
You’re not weird around him. You’re not a stalker, and you’re not that kind of insane. You’re perverted in the privacy of your head, drooling over his massive hands and muscles, but swallowing it before it leaks out of your lips. You don’t react when Tony says his name, save for a traitorous pulse in your cunt.
“You ready to look at his arm?” Tony asks, and you hum.
“Think so. Just maintenance?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Tony sighs. “I’d work on Terminator myself, but Cap says I spend the whole time looking like I want to throat chop him. So,” he shrugs. “Don’t look like you wanna throat chop him.”
You laugh softly, and grab the tools off the bench. It’s not a big deal. You’re the only person besides Tony, in the whole building, who’s qualified to work on Bucky’s arm.
But that means you get to be close to him. Just the thought of it makes your skin hot, your heart buzzing more than thumping, your fingers fidgeting with the straps of your toolkit as you restlessly wait.
Bucky says your name, and your head shoots up. He’s there. He’s right there, and watching you with those careful, beautiful eyes.
“Hi,” you say, and it sounds so pathetically breathless.
Bucky tilts his head. His hair looks soft. You want to run your fingers through it, to pull on it, to feel it tickling over your face as he ruts into your drooling pussy-
He’s staring at you. He must’ve said something that you didn’t hear. Fuck.
“What?”
His lips twitch. Just the smallest movement up, almost impossible to catch. Your heart skips, and you almost miss his words again.
“You the one workin’ on me today?” His voice is low. It rolls through the air like thunder.
You wonder, if there’s any part of him that isn’t addictive.
You’re here for a job. You’re here to give him medical treatment. You plaster a sweet smile on your face, and gesture to the chair. You can be normal about this.
“Tony has bad bedside manner,” you say smoothly, and Bucky chuckles.
God, that’s worse than the smile. It echoes through your chest, and you almost choke on it. How fucking bad you want him.
“He does call me Schwarzeneggerevery time I’m here,” he mutters, crossing the room. “Don’t even know what that means.”
You hum, pretending to look at your tools. He’s sitting down next to you. Your knees are bumping. You’re normal. “Arnold Schwartzinagor. Actor who played the Terminator.”
“Ah.” Bucky pauses. “Sam calls me that, too. It a good movie?”
“It’s fine.” You shrug. “If you like stuff from the 80s.”
“I don’t know things from the 80s.”
You laugh softly, and look up with an apology on your tongue. You find Bucky staring at you, and your breath catches in your throat.
His eyes are so intense, you think they can see right through you. To the lust, pounding in your bloodstream. You have to open your mouth to breathe. Bucky’s eyes flick down. Just tracking a movement. Nothing about you.
You kick yourself internally, and push the casual smile back into place.
“I think you’d like some of it.” You reach for his arm, and Bucky turns it palm up, still staring at you. “I mean, any decade will have it’s ups and downs.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You run your fingers over the plates of metal, and for a second, forget all about the Bucky attached to them. It’s a beautiful artwork of technology. Overlapping, gold-inlaid, smooth under your fingers. You turn the wrist slowly, and there’s only a faint whir. No clicks. Shuri must be using a muffler, or some kind of fluid that moves the wires instead of gears-
“You want me to go?”
Your head shoots up, a panicked flush spreading over your cheeks. “No- No- I- I’m just-“
Bucky raises his brows, light amusement dancing in his eyes. Your words falter. He’s fucking with you.
“Shut up,” you roll your eyes, and Bucky chuckles again.
God, that sound. It’s going to be the death of you.
“It’s just- It’s amazing technology.” You mumble defensively, and Bucky shrugs.
“I can tell, from the way you’re eye fuckin’ it.”
“Eye fucking.” You shake your head, biting back your smile. “How do you even know what that means?”
“Too much time with Sam.”
“Hm,” you grab your screwdriver, running your hands up the mock muscle—he should be thanking Shuri even more, she didn’t have to give him biceps—looking for a panel. “Tony told me you weren’t going to talk.”
“Tony’s got that bad bedside manner,” Bucky shrugs with his good arm. “You gonna be nicer to me, doll?”
You just hum, ducking your head to hide your flush. Doll. He called you doll.
And Bucky huffs an amused laugh, at your non-answer. But he keeps talking to you. He tells you what Sam’s already gotten him to watch, and what Steve’s trying to get him to watch next, and what Steve’s saving so they can look at it together.
“Is Star Wars any good?” He asks, and you snort.
“Do you like cowboys?”
“I’m neutral.”
“Do you like space?”
“Yeah,” he pauses, then mutters, “I wanted to go to the moon. When I was a kid.”
You look up, and find a faraway look, etched over his handsome features. Your smile softens, and you lower your voice to a whisper, because this feels like a secret. “Yeah?”
Bucky nods, his eyes finding yours again. “I heard we got up there eventually.”
“We did. A few times.” It’s hard to hold his gaze. An unbearable ache is staring to pool between your thighs. “But now there are aliens on earth, so the final frontier is less… Coveted.”
Bucky’s lips twitch. It seems to be the closest he really gets to smiling. You want to see it over, and over, and over again.
“I think you’d like Star Wars.” You’re still whispering. You don’t know why.
“Alright,” Bucky says. And that’s it. He just… Trusts your words.
He asks for you again, next week. Tony claps you on the shoulder and thanks you, because Christ, he stares at me and I feel like I’m under surveillance. You roll your eyes and don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like that when Bucky stares at you, but he also does stare at everyone. So you’re not special. You’re just another person in his line of sight.
“I tried those donuts you were talkin’ about,” he tells you one afternoon, and you hum.
It’s the new routine. Bucky comes for you to work on his arm. You’re normal about it. You talk like people, and his lips twitch, and you feel something press on top of your chest, trying to gnaw your heart right open.
“Liked them,” he adds, staring at you. As always.
You hum, looking at him under your lashes. “Did you have the cookies and cream?”
He nods. “Just like you told me to.”
You smile despite yourself. It’s those small confirmations that he thinks about you, which get you the most. It means you mean something to him. It drives you insane.
“Sam says there are all kinds of ice cream flavors now, too.”
“Sam’s right.”
Bucky sighs. “Hate it when that happens.”
You laugh, a bubbly, pathetic sound that only Bucky pulls out of you. His fingers twitch under your hand, and you glance up.
It would be wise, if you stopped doing that. Every time you find him staring at you, you feel fucking insane.
“You should try cotton candy ice cream,” you murmur. “It’s fucking crazy.”
“That is my favorite kind of thing.”
“I know.”
Bucky’s lips twitch, and your heart almost bursts. “You got a good place? For ice cream?”
You shrug. “The grocery store?”
Bucky grunts, and his fingers twitch again. You focus back on his hand, because you don’t understand why they keep doing that. The rest of the session passes, and Bucky smiles at you before he goes, and you hold onto it like he just handed you a pearl-strung noose. Clutched between your teeth and priceless, but making your breathing short.
The rest of the day always passes in a daze, after you see Bucky. The seconds rush past you in an avalanche, and then you’re in your room, and you let it take over.
How much you want him. How much you need him.
You lay, flat on your back in bed, and let your thoughts run wild. Bucky’s massive hands, one cool and one burning hand, would wander up your thighs. He’d shove your knees open, and kiss over the sensitive, hidden patches of skin. The stubble he’s been growing would scrape and tickle, as he kissed over your weeping pussy.
“All for me?” He’d murmur, and you’d nod helplessly. “You just walk around, pussy leakin’ because of how bad you need it?”
And you’d whimper. You do. There’s nothing you can do to help it, but save that desire for locked doors and hot, tangled sheets. Your fingers—smaller than Bucky’s, but all you have—rub over the swollen lips of your pussy, spreading your arousal as you picture that it’s Bucky instead. You push one finger in slowly, then a second one because you need them to stretch you like Bucky’s would.
“Messy girl,” he’d coo in your ear, and your back arches. You start to fuck yourself, slow and tentative as your thoughts run wild.
This is what just one of his fingers would feel like. Pumping in and out of you, his palm grinding down on you clit until you’re trembling beneath him. You’d try to push up into his hand, but he’d shove you right back down and kiss over your throat. Licking and nipping and driving you out of your fucking mind.
“Buckyyyy...” You moan at the air, and when you squeeze your eyes shut you can almost feel him.
“There you go, babydoll,” he’d kiss under your ear, his body pressing over yours. Warm and massive, pinning you to the bed, forcing you to just take it. “That’s it. You like that, don’t you. Like fallin’ apart on my fingers.”
You whimper and grab at the sheets. Your wrist aches, and you can’t hit that gooey, wet spot inside you, but god you just need to cum.
“I know,” Bucky would hit deeper. Wet, lewd sounds would fill the room, as he pounded his fingers into you at an unforgiving pace. “I know, sweet girl. C’mon, show me how pretty you are when you cum.”
Your back arches off the bed. Your hand shoots over your mouth as you moan and cry out his name, your thighs shaking and pussy squeezing down on your fingers. You lay there for a while after you’re done, holding the sheets in a vague form of Bucky.
Tomorrow, you’re going to see him again. Maybe just over breakfast, or passing in the hall. But you’ll see him. And you’ll have to look him in the eyes, and pray that he can’t see it just under your features. That all he’d ever need to do it touch your head, and you’d fall to your knees.
You’re devoted to him. He thinks of you as a friend, and he’s not your boss, but he’s boss adject, and there’s nothing about him that’s accessible. There’s no world where this ever goes beyond fantasy.
But god, you’re going to fantasize. You can’t hurt anyone, by just fantasizing.
That’s what you’ll tell yourself over and over, to avoid the guilt.
It’s all just a fantasy.
You‘re perfectly professional about it. It’s not Bucky’s fault that he’s so handsome it feels like you shouldn’t be allowed to look at him. You can keep your desire bottled up, keep in the warmest, wettest pits of your stomach. It can seep out between your thighs when it becomes too much to bare. It can breed into itself and spread up into your heart, festering in the dark. But Bucky will never see it. You’ll be good, and you’ll act sane, and that will be it.
He’s been through too much already, to add your insatiable, ardors devotion to his list of problems.
You’ve developed an easy friendship. That’s all you’ll allow yourself to have, all you let yourself think about in his presence. When you’re working on his arm, you don’t think about those big, cold fingers being buried in your pussy until you’re alone in your room. All your daydreams are trapped in your sheets, and your moans absorbed and locked in your pillowcase.
You think about Bucky pinning you down with a warm, splayed hand on your abdomen. About his smirk, as he bullies three metal fingers into your pussy, forcing a perfect stretch before fucking you like a toy. His cold thumb swiping over your clit, sending shivers through your body. His eyes gleaming and attention burning, as he drags out orgasm after orgasm.
That hand would be like having a personal fuck machine, and he’d act like it until the very end. All taunting and teasing until you were spent and limp below him. Then he’d kiss the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the space between your eyes. He’d coo about what a good girl you were for him, and you’d whimper, your voice lost from screaming his name.
“What’re you thinking about?” Bucky says, sitting next to you at the kitchen counter.
You swallow, and shrug meekly. You never feel small around anyone but him, but you’ve never been this lost in anyone but him. It’s a miracle no one’s noticed, how Bucky shows up and suddenly you’re all flushed cheeks and girly giggles. You might as well be twirling your hair and kicking your feet. It’s pathetic. You can’t stop.
“Nothing?” Bucky pushes a little, and you give him a close-lipped, full smile.
“Nope.”
“You looked like you were thinkin’ about something.”
“I wasn’t.” You look back to the sandwich you’d been working on. Bucky keeps staring at you. He always does. “Nothing going on up here, Barnes.”
Bucky’s lips twitch.
The whole world seems brighter, like he’s just like some holy kind of candle.
“I don’t believe that,” he murmurs, and you shrug.
“You don’t have to.”
“Well, I don’t.”
“Good for you.”
“It is, isn’t it,” he chuckles. “I’m gonna love being right.”
You blink, shooting his a sideways look. “Being… Right?”
“I know you’re thinkin’ about something.” He shrugs. “I’ll figure out what.”
Oh. Under no circumstances can he find out what you’re thinking about. “It’s not anything interesting,” you try lamely, and Bucky smirks.
“Ah. So it’s something.”
“I- That’s-“ You sputter. “Why do you even care-“
“I like knowin’ what you’re thinking,” he shrug. “It’s always interesting.”
You blink at him. For some reason, that makes your throat close up, your eyes burning with embarrassing tears. Your knees are wobbling, and you’re sitting down. You grunt and look back to your sandwich, and Bucky chuckles.
“C’mon. Tell me.” He leans closer. There’s a gravity, from his heat, and it makes you want to just collapse over his chest.
You look at him from the corner of your eye, and you won’t tell him. That’s against the rules. It defeats the purpose.
But god, he’s looking at you. Really looking at you. You can count each shade of blue in his eyes. If you move just an inch, your noses might bump.
“I’m hungry,” you whisper, and Bucky’s brow knits.
He looks down to your sandwich. Then back to you. Adorable confusion flashes over his face. “You should… Uh- Eat.”
You nod, and he clears his throat, leaning back. You wish you could grab the collar of his shirt, and drag him back.
“You ever seen this thing called the Princess Bride?” He asks, not touching any food himself.
Just sitting there. With you. You try not to think about it too much.
You nod, chewing on your sandwich with puffed out cheeks. “’S a really good movie-“
“Chew then swallow, doll.” Bucky’s lips twitch, and you flush and obey.
“It’s a good movie,” you mumble, giving him a sheepish smile. “Sorry.”
Bucky shrugs, his gaze dropping to your mouth. Your breath hitches. You go perfectly still, afraid that if you shift, he’ll look away.
His tongue darts over his lips. He tips his head, his forearm flexes as he curls his fingers, and your breathing gets shallow. Something electric has shifted in the air, and it’s making you dizzy. Bucky reaches up slowly, and if you weren’t rooting in place, you think you’d fall out of your chair.
His thumb wipes the spot right above your lips, and a shock rushes through your body. His nostrils flare, his eyes lock onto yours, and his touch lingers.
When he pulls back, the movement is slow. Controlled. Your tongue flicks out, to lick where his thumb had been. Bucky’s nostrils flare.
There’s something on his thumb. Tiny little breadcrumbs that must’ve been stuck to your cheek from the sauce. Bucky brings the finger up to his mouth, holding your gaze, and sucks the crumbs away. Heat pools in your tummy, and your thighs press together.
Bucky stares at you. You grab the edge of your seat with white knuckles, trying to keep yourself from falling off.
“Crumbs,” he mutters, and you nod.
“Yeah.”
“I- Uh-“ He coughs, and looks away. Disappointment sinks like a boulder into your stomach.
You don’t know what you expected. Hell, you’ve told yourself what to expect. You’re not allowed to be disappointed by him. You’re not allowed to want anything from him, except for what your head can offer.
“Sam’s been tryin’ to make me watch it,” he mutters, and you blink.
“What?”
“Princess Bride.”
“Oh.” You’re still a little drunk on his proximity. He smells like something rich and spicy, and it’s fogging up your brain. “Cool.”
Bucky nods. “We’re gonna watch it next Friday. In that common room, where Stark makes us do game nights.” He gives you a sideways look. “I never see you at those.”
You shrug. “I’m not an Avenger.”
“Stark says you get invited.”
You do. But that would be a night of drinking and laughing and being closer to Bucky than you can handle, so you usually lock yourself in your room and pretend he’s fucking you stupid.
“You’re invited to movie night, too.” He adds casually, and you swallow.
Movie night. Where Bucky would be near you. In the dark. You can’t go there. You’ll lose your mind.
But he’s looking at you with such dim, cautious light in his eyes. There’s no expectations. Just hope. And it pulls the words out of you before you can stop them.
“Oh- Okay.”
Bucky beams, and that makes it worth it. The risk, that he might brush your hand in the dark and you’ll moan loud enough for everyone to hear.
He reaches up, and wipes a few more breadcrumbs from your cheeks. Time seems to stop, when he touches you. It’s dangerous, and you barely manage not to fall all over him before he pulls away.
“You get messy,” he mutters, and oh, God.
You shouldn’t have said yes. Why the fuck did you say yes. Now you’re going to have to sit next to him, after that.
You get messy. He has no idea.
That night, you end up back in your bed with a vibrator pressed over your panties. It makes the feeling stronger, with the friction of the fabric, and you toss your head back. It’s easier and easier to get lost in the fantasy, lately. The better you know him, the clearer it gets.
You can almost feel his hands, mapping over the curves and soft dips of your body. You can almost smell him.
He mouths at your breast, pinching and rolls your nipple between metal fingers. You make a broken, pathetic sound, and he smirks.
“I know, doll. Too much, isn’t it?”
You whimper, pressing the vibrator down. Bucky hums, his hand wrapping around yours, and your hips jerk when he angles it to shove right against your clit.
“Too much,” he coos, making out with the softness of your breast. “I’m barely even touchin’, and you’re already about to fuckin’ fall apart for me.”
Your eyes roll back, as Bucky starts to guide the vibrator up and down. Your mouth falls open in a long moan, as he grabs your hips and pushes them higher, further exposing your pussy. He bites at your nipple, then turns his attention to the neglected one. You writhe in the sheets, gasping his name, and he smiles.
“Dirty girl.” He pushes your hand back, just enough for him to rip away your panties, exposing your cunt to the cold air. “Look at that, pretty little pussy fuckin’ shining for me.”
You grind down, trying to find friction on the sheets. Bucky pushes the vibrator against your bare pussy, and your eyes roll back in your head. He starts kissing all over your chest, pawing at your breasts and swirling his tongue around you nipples, sending electric shock through your body. He licks the sensitive buds the same way he licked his thumb. Your hips start to roll mindlessly, as the coil in your stomach threatens to snap.
When you cum, it’s with a cry of his name. The coil snaps, and heat floods out of your pussy, all over the vibrator and your hand. Your body convulses with the sheer force of it, and Bucky kisses down. Over your abdomen, your hips, your inner thighs.
“What a mess, baby.” He mocks, before pressing the sweetest kiss to your clit.
You sob, trembling in the sheets, and grab at his hair.
But your hand finds nothing.
Because it’s just another fantasy, kept in the confines of your mind.
Movie night was a bigger mistake than you could’ve ever imagined.
You show up, and it’s just Bucky and Sam. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch, because men are strange creatures.
“Stevie’s on a mission,” Bucky says, staring at you like he’s seeing an angel. Like he didn’t invite you.
There’s an odd rasp to his voice, too. Maybe he’s just tired.
Sam says your name, that signature, I know something that everyone else doesn’t smirk on his face. You don’t think much if it. He always has it, even when he doesn’t know shit.
“Buck told me you’d be comin’. I didn’t believe him.”
“Sam.” Bucky grunts, and Sam shrugs.
“What? I didn’t.” He grins at you. “You never leave your lab-“
“She leaves her lab.” Bucky gives you an apologetic look, but you just laugh.
“No, he’s right. I really don’t.”
Bucky sighs, rolls his eyes, and pats the seat next to him. You smile to yourself, taking a long breath before you move. You’re going to be normal about this. Very, incredibly normal. So normal, they’ll think something’s wrong, because no one’s ever been this normal in history.
You last ten minutes.
The movie starts. You’ve seen it before, but you try to pay attention to every, tiny detail. The only other option is paying attention to Bucky. To the weight of him at your side, the way his knee brushes against yours and his arm is slung over the back of the couch. You’ve never seen him so relaxed and tense, all at once. He’s sunken into the cushions, but whenever you look over, his jaw is tight.
You could swear you catch his gaze, once or twice. If you do, he looks away immediately. And you feel it, that buzzing heat over your skin. But you’re supposed to be watching the movie. He’s supposed to be watching the movie. So you really, really try not to look over.
Bucky’s knee pushes against yours, and you swallow. His fingers trail near your shoulder, and you wrap your arms around your stomach to suppress the shiver. He’s warm. So fucking warm you can feel it, blooming in your core. You shift in your seat, and you’re already wet.
The movie isn’t even a third of the way done.
Bucky’s fingers rest on your shoulder. It’s so light, so casual, you’re not even sure he knows he’s doing it. You take the risk, and turn to fully look at him. He’s gotten even more relaxed, the knit of his brows loosened, pretty pink lips parted as he watches the TV. You want to reach up, and trace the stubble of his jaw. Maybe kiss up the column of his throat, dig your nails into his pecs and make out with that full, perfect mouth.
You let out a tiny sigh. Bucky doesn’t react to it. Too lost in the movie. Not paying you any mind.
And you should look away. You’re not here to Bucky watch.
You turn your head for three whole seconds, before your eyes start to ache. As if they can’t stand not to look at him. You try to resist it, but it plays over and over, on a loop in your brain. The image of him in the dark. The heat from him, almost penetrating under your skin and making you rise up like a balloon. Your head is in the clouds. You have to look at him.
You close your eyes, trying to fight it. Bucky’s hand drops from your shoulder, down to your upper arm, and your breath hitches.
Your eyes shoot open, and Bucky’s right there. Staring at you, with the same intense, focused need that’s clawing at your ribs and up your throat.
He grabs your chin, between strong but gentle fingers. You swallow, letting your gaze trail down his body. His massive chest, torso that looks perfect to hook your legs around, his thick thighs and his crotch.
The bulge, pushing through his sweats. It looks thick. Long and thick, demanding some attention. You look back to Bucky with your best, doe-eyed pout. He smirks, and leans down to kiss you. It’s slow and deep, his tongue swiping over your lower lip before pushing into your mouth. You moan, and Bucky weaves his hair through your hair, tugging slightly. Your second moan is downright pathetic. You grab his thigh, letting your nails brush against the outline of his cock.
Bucky hisses against your lips, and pulls back. You bat your lashes at him, and his lips twitch.
“Messy girl,” he mutters, before pressing a sweeter, mocking kiss to your lips.
He pulls away too quickly, but before you can give chase, you’re lost in a daze. Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking his boxers with him. His cock springs free, thick and veiny, massive even in his own hand. He strokes himself slowly, giving you a prompting, amused look. You swallow, licking your lips.
“C’mon, doll,” he beckons. “Show me what you can do.”
Almost in a trance, you nod. Bucky’s eyes darken, as you crawl over his lap. You move his hand away, and fist his cock in one hand. He grabs the back of your neck, not to push, but for balance. A low, guttural sound rolls through his chest as you start to pump him, and you smile to yourself.
He really is perfect. A heavy, certain weight in your hand, jumping slightly whenever you squeeze him near the base. You shift back on your knees, using your other hand to massage his balls. He hisses, his grip tightening on your neck, and you smile.
When you look at him, there’s nothing but pure devotion in his gaze. You squeeze again, then pick up your pace, and he groans out your name.
You kiss him, pushing his head back against the couch cushions. He grunts, but lets you guide him. As if he knows that it’s all just a show, before you let him fuck your face like an animal.
“Relax, baby,” you breathe against his lips.
Bucky lets out a deep, rough laugh. “Little hard to do that right now.”
You giggle, swiping your thumb over the slit of his cock. “Is it? Hard?”
Bucky groans, and deepens the kiss. You slide off of him, before he can just grab your hips, pick you up, and sit you on his dick.
You move back, lowering down to your stomach so you’re eye level with his dick. He’s pulsing in your hands, trying to hold himself back. You don’t want him to. You want him to cum everywhere. Down your throat and over your face and tits, claiming you in one of the most primal ways possible.
“Doll…” Bucky rasps, and you look up at him under hooded eyes. He’s a wrecked. Bulging muscles and sweat, slicking on his brow. “Don’t tease- Jesus-“
You wrap your mouth around him, and take him as deep as you can go. He bumps against the back of your throat, but you suppress your gag reflex, relaxing to try and get even more. Your nose brushes against the hair at base of him. Your tongue presses flat against Bucky’s shaft, your fingers still working his balls, and he fists his hand in your hair.
“So- So fuckin’ warm-“ He chokes out. “Holy- You’re somethin’, sweetheart- God-“
You hum, and Bucky’s hips jerk up. He stutters out an apology, but you just moan again. He tries to pull you off, muttering more apologies, and you dig your nails into his thigh. You want it. You want him to use you.
He gets it, after a moment. His grip on your hair tightens. He starts slow, jerking his hips up as he pushes you a little further down, before yanking you back. You moan around his cock, drool falling from your swallow lips. Your eyes roll back. He’s using you, god, he’s using you, and it’s the best fucking thing in the world.
Bucky fucks your face like a fleshlight, and you grind your ass up against nothing. He hits the back of your throat, over and over, salty and heavy on your tongue. The sounds he makes are beautiful and sinful, and-
“Something on my face, doll?”
You blink, and Bucky’s cock isn’t in your mouth anymore. You smack your lips, trying to find it. Bucky frowns at you, the light of the movie making him even more, impossibly handsome. Sam ignores you both, popcorn stuffed in his mouth.
Bucky looks worried. He said something.
“Hm?”
“You were, you were- Uh-“ He clears his throat, then shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He looks back to the TV, and your face burns. His thigh is pressed right against yours. You can swear, when you lick your lips, you can still taste his dick.
You’re so, so fucked.
It only gets worse.
Eating breakfast becomes a trial, because Bucky is always there, and you’re always thinking about his fingers while he eats. How they’d feel stuffed down your throat, gripping your hips, scissoring deep inside of you. He wipes cream cheese off your cheek, and you almost moan.
“You feelin’ alright?” Bucky says, always so caring and worried, and you nod weakly.
“Yeah. Just- Just tired.”
He looks at you like he doesn’t believe you, but lets it go. If you were smarter, you’d be avoiding him. But you’re not. And you still have to work with him, anyway. It makes avoiding him rather impossible.
For a while you cling onto the idea that work would be sacred. That while Bucky’s in your office and you’re examining his arm, it’s purely professional. Not a single dirty thought.
You last about a week, with that one. Bucky startles you walking in. You trip, and he catches you around your waist.
“Careful,” he smiles down at you, all handsome and stupid.
“Uh huh,” you breathe out, and you could’ve sworn a flood gushed out between your legs.
Bucky’s nostrils had flared, and he’d helped you up to your seat. You’d already had the new fantasy, blooming in your mind like the little fucking pervert that you were. You’d tried to shove it down, swaying in the middle of the room, but then you’d looked at him. Sitting with his legs spread in your chair. And you’d been lost.
You imagined climbing into his lap. His arm wrapping around you as you sat down on his cock, grinding slowly, lashes flutters as he kneaded and pulled at your hips and breasts. He’d stand up, taking you with him like you weighed nothing, and pin you to the wall. One arm would stay around you, holding you in place as his mouth started to explore your dripping cunt.
His tongue would work you open, pushing in and out of your pussy. He would’ve already cum inside of you, and every stroke of his tongue would send a wave of your mixed arousals over his beard. You’d watch him, moaning his name, and his thumb would bully and flick and tease your clit, until your were dazed and gasping for air and-
Bucky says your name, and you could slap yourself. This is getting out of hand.
“Sorry,” you mumble, sitting next to him. He smiles at you, so kind.
Always so kind.
“You’ve been kinda out of it, lately.” His words are casual. You still daydream about shooting yourself and running away.
“Just getting lost in thought,” you murmur, and he hums.
“Anything I can help with?”
You shake your head, because if you speak you’ll start begging. Please, please, please, he’s the only one who can help you, you’re going insane with how much you need him, and he could save you, he could really save you-
“Movin’ usually helps me.” He offers softly. You almost don’t hear him. “Y’know. Using my body. Remembering that it’s mine.”
“Yeah?” You say softly, cleaning the panel near his shoulder. He looks at you, and you risk looking back.
You can’t read that expression. You’re not sure you want to.
“Yeah,” he mutters. His gaze might flick down to your lips, but you don’t trust your own mind anymore. “You wanna try it with me? I head to that gym in the basement every night. It ain’t bad.”
And you should say no, but you can’t help it. You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch, and God, what you won’t do just so he smiles.
You will torture yourself, apparently. Bucky’s too hot to be allowed in a gym. Wearing a tank top that shows off his massive arms, smiling at you all lazy, in the way that’s more of a guard than the slip that you always crave, but a smile all the same.
First, you try walking on the treadmill and just watching him the mirror. He’s lifting weights, and his arms, they should be classified as weapons. You want those biceps keeping you in a head lock, against his chest or at his side. Keeping you still, while his cock pounds relentlessly into your pussy.
Bucky meets your gaze in the mirror. His lips twitch, and you look away, face burning.
You feel him, more than you see him coming over. The gravity of his presence, you think you’d be able to feel him blindfolded and dropped in a crowd of a million people.
“Come on,” he offers you a hand. “Lemme show you something.”
And you can’t say no to him. You really should learn how.
Because the something is training. Wrestling. Throwing fucking punches and trying to get the other down.
“Bucky, I can’t-“
“Yeah, you can.” He raises his fists, nodding to your own. “Up, doll.”
You sigh, raising them slowly. “You’re going to kick my ass-“
“I am. And then you’re going to get better.”
You scoff—he’s ridiculous—but listen. Bucky smirks, and lunges. You yelp and try to scramble away, but he’s too fast. You’re pinned under him in seconds, whacking at his arms and wiggling.
“Bucky- Get off-“
He laughs, standing up with a proud grin. You’ve never seen him so relaxed, so confident. It makes you hornier than you ever could’ve imagined.
He’d been over you. Everywhere over you. Pinning you down and manhandling you, and- Oh God-‘
“Up,” he beckons, and you swallow.
“I- I don’t know-“
“Yeah, you do.” He gives you a playful smile. “Get up.”
You sigh, and scramble to your feet. Bucky raises his fists again. You narrow your eyes, and match.
He chuckles. “Getting competitive?”
You shrug. “You wanted me to.”
Something flashes in his eyes. You’re not sure how to read into it.
“Damn right I do,” his voice is lower. You’re not imagining that.
You don’t get time to think about it, before he’s moving again. You hold your own exactly a second longer than before, but it ends the exact same way. You, pinned under Bucky’s broad, strong body. His face is pressed near your breasts, his fingers digging into your hips, his legs shoving yours apart to stop you from flailing around.
It goes on longer than it shoulder. This strange game that you like playing more than you should. Bucky starts trying to properly get you to throw a punch, but he gives up fast. Soon you’re more play wrestling than doing anything else. You’re giggly and dazed, charging at him like a bull, and he acts as bored and collected as always, but you can see the amusement dancing in his eyes, every time you try to climb him like a tree.
Then something shifts.
He gets you beneath him, and you try to shove at his chest. He catches your wrists and pins them up over your head. Your breath hitches, and he blinks. His hips drop against yours, and you can feel it. The bulge of his cock, pressing into your core.
He’s hard.
Not fully, but enough. Enough that you can imagine every ridged and curve of him, sliding between the puffy lips of your pussy. Your thighs clench, and Bucky grunts, rutting forward.
You both freeze, and your eyes lock. It’s one of those seconds, where you just stare hopelessly at each other. You almost apologize, but your tongue is limp. Bucky’s face is redder than you’ve ever seen it. His cock twitches in his pants.
And this isn’t a dream or fantasy. Bucky mutters your name, and it’s so real you think your heart might pound of your chest.
Bucky moves first. He clears his throat and moves to his feet.
“Better.” He offers you a hand. “That was…”
He trails off. You stare at each other, lost for words.
Bucky turns, and leaves without another word. You sway in the center of the room, breathing shallow, head spinning.
What the fuck just happened.
Bucky kisses up your spine, his mouth hot and possessive. His tongue flicks against your neck, and his fingers dig into your hips. He drags your ass up in the air and you mewl, pressing your face into the sheets.
“Ah,” he scolds, slapping your soaked, swollen pussy. “Lemme hear you, doll.”
You turn your head, moaning loud and shamelessly. Bucky chuckles, kissing a soft spot on your neck.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, notching his cock against your entrance. “Good girl.”
You coo like a baby bird, flushed and dazed. He’s big, so big that it almost hurts. He doubles over you with a groan, pressing his face into your shoulder as he slowly pushes every inch inside of you. The stretch burns in the best way, and you clench down around him.
“No,” Bucky leans down, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Nothin’ to apologize for. Just gotta relax, babydoll. Lemme do the rest.”
You hum, and take a deep breath. You’re grounded, in the feeling of Bucky everywhere. His warmer arm wraps around your neck, forcing you up enough for his lips to trail open kisses over your face.
“That’s my girl,” he mutters against your ear, bottoming fully out. “That’s it. Just take it for me, just like that.”
You mewl, pushing your ass back up, then crying out with delight as Bucky pulls out, and slams back in. He’s met with no resistance, from how your pussy is gushing out with every thrust, every touch, every hot kiss.
But there’s nothing else to be expected. Not with how Bucky’s using you, how worshipful his every touch and kiss is, all while he fucks into you so hard you think the bed is going to break. His breath is hot on your back, the head of his cock drill against that one, gooey spot deep inside you. His cold arm locks around your middle, and his fingers tease and graze over your clit. Rubbing in tight little circles, making your eyes roll back in your head.
Bucky grunts, hauling you up so you’re pressed against his chest. You’re pinned down on his cock now, wet and warm and tight. So fucking tight that it pulls a low, rumbling moan from his chest. His hips slam up in a barely controlled rhythm, chasing more of your heat. You’re limp in his arms. Dazed and smiling like you’re drunk. Bucky uses his arm around your neck to push your head further back, and you have the nerve to fucking giggle.
You’re so beautiful like this that he almost cums right there. Fluttering lashes and the sweetest sounds, you pussy milking him like a machine. He kisses you because he can’t help it, and you hum happily, grinding your ass down into him.
He needs you to cum first. He gropes at your clit, letting his fingers fumble for a second to work you up into a teased, messy frenzy, before he pushes down and rubs in a steady, unyielding rhythm. You cry out his name, squeezing down so hard on his cock, and Bucky buries his face in your neck.
He cums, so hard that his vision goes white. Thick ropes of cum spurt over his hand, squeezing hard at the base of his cock.
It’s not as warm as you’d be, he thinks.
And he thinks. All the time, Bucky just thinks about you. About how you’d feel, molding around him. About how you’d sound right in his ear, how you’d get smiley and drool, and he’s feed you his fingers just so you have something to do with that pretty mouth. You’d moan around them, and he’d thrust up into you so hard he’d knock the damn worries out of your head.
It’s his favorite time of the day, this. Your rooms are closer than you seem to think, or you just forget how good his hearing is.
And every night, right before bed, he gets to settle into the mattress and beat his cock into his hand, listening to you moan and call his name. He’d never tell you. You deserve better, than a broken robot like him. He counts himself lucky he even gets to be your friend, because he’s a man well practiced at restraint. At not getting what he wants.
But this space, where no one can see, he allows himself things. He allows himself you.
But only ever in his head.
✦End note: this might be one of my fave bucky fics i just got to be soooo horny with it✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Simon who was in fight or flight mode his whole life never let his nervous system relax. But now that he has Johnny in his life, by his side, in his bed, he has turned into someone who is constantly falling asleep. He trusts Johnny implicitly and can finally let his guard down, becoming himself. After years of restlessness, Simon crashes in the calmness of Johnny's presence.
He sleeps against Johnny's shoulder during transport.
He always says he doesn't feel tired when they start a movie but inevitably conks out halfway through.
His quick sit down on the couch turns into a nap.
And Johnny doesn't mind.
He makes sure to stay still to not disturb Simon.
He pulls the blanket over his still body.
He gently takes the book out of Simon's hand and places it on the table.
After fighting for so long, Johnny will let Simon rest when he's around as much as he needs.
there will never be anything as funny as the mutual disbelief between long form and short form fic writers about each other's style.
short form writers look at people writing 100k+ fics as though this is some sort of talent given as part of a fae bargain, that the commitment required shows some sort of ungodly mental fortitude.
meanwhile long form writers look at people writing 1000 word one shots like god I would cut off my left nipple to be able to say anything concisely. i would love to play with multiple ideas. free me from the shackles of this child I have birthed. i love them but I now must take them to t-ball and doctor's appointments and they're going to destroy everything I own.
I am so tired of short-attention-span, trim-the-fat culture.
All writing advice these days is for how to write like Chuck Palahniuk. "Cut 'think', cut 'feel', cut 'wonder' - only action, only pushing forward, show and move and move and move." What if I could emulate this style, and still don't want to? What if I want to write like Henry James, with three paragraphs of introspective musings between each dialogue line?
The music advice is, "make it shortform, make it Tik-Tok compatible, make it punchy, hit the refrain as soon as possible." What if I want that 10-minute prog rock piece? What if I want that symphony? What if I want it slow and luxurious and lazy?
Movies. Series. Poetry. Bodies. Everything is "trimmed trimmed trimmed trimmed, stripped bare, you have three seconds to win me over, make it airport chic." I don't want to win you over, then, I guess.
I want the fat left it.
I want the pleasure and the indolence and the indulgence.
Fuck this art-advice that's always "your art needs Ozempic."
Summary: After hanging up the ghost mantle, Simon struggles integrating with civilization, leading to him buying a house near a beach and catching something big.
Fish.
That's all he smelt standing on the rusty old excuse of a dock. Watching the waves as they slammed against dark rocks that lined the overgrown beach.
This is the last place he thought he'd end up at, he was sure his life would end in whatever third world country he was deployed to- but what was he supposed to do? Say no?
Disobey his captain when he passed over the documents? That damn piece of paper stating that his run is over, that he's unwillingly forced into retirement.
He didn't have a choice. Fate always had a cruel way of punishing him day by day after all.
"Tried to talk with Laswell but we both know your head isn't here Lieutenant."
"Sir-"
"After recent events... you haven't been the same." Price sighed, "I can't risk putting you or the team in danger."
"So I'm a liability now?"
He knew he was being a prick.
They all had been going through it. Including Price- who was trying oh so hard to keep everything togheter when he was rotting on the inside.
"Ghost-"
"I can still serve-"
"Simon."
The air was tense, every breath they took feeling like water was being filled in their lungs instead of oxygen. The harsh lights of Price's office making his already red eyes sting.
"It was an honor serving with you soldier. Take care of yourself."
So that's how he found himself back in his dingy run down flat in a rather unpleasant neighborhood in Manchester.
After years devoted to serving for his country, one wrong call and circumstance cost him his brother. Another person he thought of as home gone because he wasn't there to have his back.
It wasn't obscure to think that he would lose his mind- yes he was considered heartless and untouchable in the eyes of new recruits that would enlist- hell even his colleagues and higher ups thoughts the same. In reality, Ghost was only ever a facade to mask his hurt.
So how does one, who spent so long being a soldier, a machine built for war, go back to being a civilian?
He can't.
Simon Riley died a long time ago.
As much as he hated to admit it... Price was right.
He is a liability- became lost in his own rage and pain, blacking out and going on a rampage, killing multiple men like they were going to bring him back.
Months of him not sleeping, taking unnecessary risks, causing outbursts and overall punishing himself- ultimately leading to the death of Makarov. Killed by a bullet going perfectly straight through his skull.
Ghost made sure he put ten more for good measure and a few stab wounds before he was eventually pulled away.
He wasn't himself and he knew that.
Long gone was the calm and collected lieutenant.
Sounds of traffic, beeping horns, yelling, construction workers- drowned out by his own thoughts. Some random football game played in the background while he was on his... God knows what bottle of bourbon- he stopped counting after the tenth one.
Gaz and Price visited, took him out for a pint or two, went grocery shopping for him- but they still had work. Still had six months of deployment ahead of them. He doesn't blame them for losing track of time.
Just how he lost track of when he was supposed to pay his rent, the eviction letter pilled up next to the other useless junk mail.
So what was a man who was unable to integrate into society supposed to do? Pack his measly half empty suitcase and buy a house somewhere off the coast of course.
A two story beach house swallowed inside the overgrown forest that opened up to an unkept beach. Forgotten.
It was perfect.
So he got to work, started repairing the interior, plaster that had fallen off or old windows needing to be replaced by better insulated ones. Bringing in his minimal furniture from his flat after he finished repainting the whole house. He was slowly clearing out the outside as well, cutting down some smaller trees and tending to the grass.
It was sort of nice, he had something to do instead of live on his miserable couch, drinking and wallowing in self pity- I mean he still did that but that was time reserved for after he had finished working.
He even started a small garden for vegetables- mostly potatoes- considering the closest town was a relatively small one that was a 10 minute drive from where he was. He went once a week for basic supplies and food, even started selling fish on the market.
There was an old fishing boat that came with the property, he scraped off the algae and bought himself some new gear... Finding the whole experience quite relaxing.
Watching how the serene water shifted ever so slightly, the sunlight bouncing on the surface as he cast his fishing line once more.
It was familiar, yet...
No matter how much he enjoyed being out on his little boat, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Call it paranoia.
But years in the military have taught him to be aware of his surroundings and he knew when there was a pair of eyes on him. He could tell when he was being hunted.
Yet he could never pin point exactly where it was coming from.
He finished up for the day, deciding to head back to his humble abode. Not before looking at the water and gazing at his reflection, his scarred and burnt face staring right back at him.
Yeah... Enough for today.
Soon, the weather got warmer- almost six months since...
The water was frantic that morning, small waves moving and splashing due to the slightly windy weather. He had been fixing up the deck, sure it worked fine but it was a question of when it wouldn't. The screws were all rusty and crooked, wooden planks moldy and rotting away- so he bought some new ones from town and began unloading his truck. No doubt there was going to be a storm coming in so he just piled the wood and covered them with a tarp.
Good thing he already fixed most of the leaks in the attic, he was going to redo the entire roof at some point but it worked for now- before he had placed a multitude of different pots and pans to catch each individual leak.
He enjoyed it here far more than the city. There wasn't any loud banging or yelling, no nosy people, only the soft melody of crickets, waves and occasionally rain letting him go numb.
Fishing helped as well, it was a quiet past time.
No ghosts are coming to haunt him here.
Well...
Almost no ghosts.
He narrowed his eyes toward the window overlooking the water, taking a long drag from his cigarette. No matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't help shake that feeling that someone was watching him.
It had started weeks ago, a little after he moved in. Little things at first. Tools moved when he swore he'd left them elsewhere, or the occasional glimpse of movement beyond the rocks offshore.
Every instinct he had screamed he wasn't alone out here and every time he grabbed a rifle to check, he found nothing.
"Bloody losing it," he muttered under his breath.
The storm worsened by evening.
Waves crashed violently against the shore while Simon pulled on his jacket and headed outside with a flashlight. One of his spare fishing nets had come loose near the waterline, dragged halfway towards the rocks littering the beach.
He could've left it for tomorrow morning, could've stayed in the warmth of his living room instead of stomping across wet sand, boots sinking deep.
Then the beam of his flashlight caught movement, his muscles tensing up and seemingly all of his senses being on high alert.
Something thrashed inside the tangled net.
Not something.
Someone.
For some time his brain was struggling to take into account what exactly he was seeing. Pale skin slick with seawater. Long strands of hair tangled with rope. Wide terrified eyes reflecting in the light.
And below the waist- a fish tail.
Massive. Powerful. Covered in dark iridescent scales that shimmered a sort of turquoise color beneath the rain.
You jerked violently as Simon approached, claws catching uselessly in the netting.
"Easy," he barked automatically like he was giving an order, that only made things worse.
You hissed at him, sharp teeth flashing as you desperately tried to drag yourself backward toward the sea. The net tightening around your tail, cutting into the scales hard enough to draw blood.
Simon stared for another second.
Any normal person would've probably panicked.
But he had fought beside highly trained men, wearing a skull mask while missiles fell from the sky. His scale for "impossible" was far from broken.
He crouched carefully, slowly approaching you while drawing a dagger from his belt. Your eyes widening at the metal.
"Oi," he said gruffly, holding one hand up slightly. "Not gonna hurt you."
The words sounded ridiculous considering they were coming from him, six foot something, pure muscle of a man with a knife in his hand.
Of course you didn't trust him.
The moment he moved closer, you snapped at him hard enough that he jerked back on instinct.
"...Right. Fair."
Rain dripped from the edge of his hood while he studied the mess of rope wrapped around you.
The fishing line had dug deep between the scales of your tail. Every movement tightened it further.
Simon clicked his tongue, patience running thin.
"Hold still unless you fancy losing the whole bloody fin." He grumbled, left to only assume that you don't understand the words, but maybe you had understood the tone.
Barely.
Your breathing remained sharp and panicked, but you had stopped fighting long enough for Simon to start cutting through the net. The knife worked carefully between ropes, severing one knot at a time.
Up close, he could see details that made his chest tighten strangely.
Scars.
Old ones.
Across your shoulders. Along parts of your tail, not natural and definitely not accidental. Something had hurt you before.
"There," he muttered after cutting another line loose. You flinched when his hand brushed against your tail accidentally. The scales were colder than he expected.
Human enough to look fragile.
Not human enough to feel real.
One final rope snapped and the net fell loose entirely.
For a second neither of you moved.
Then you surged backward fast enough to splash seawater across his boots, dragging yourself toward deeper water, strong fins treading through the rough waves.
Simon stood slowly, knife still hanging loosely in his grip as he watched you swim away- only to stop and turn around to gaze right into his eyes.
Rain poured between you in silver sheets while your eyes stayed fixed on him- cautious, frightened, curious. Like you'd been watching him for far longer than he realized.
With a flip of your tail you disappeared into the waves while Simon remained there alone on the shore, soaked to the bone.
After a long silence, he looked down at the shredded fishing net beside his feet.
"...The hell just happened?"
If Simon couldn't sleep before, he sure as hell couldn't now. Sitting on his worn out mattress with a cigarette on his lips, taking deep breaths of it as he stared with wide eyes through his window. His wet clothes thrown in the laundry hamper while he contemplated whether or not what happened was real or not.
A fucking mermaid.
He truly has lost his mind.
Surely it's the lack of sleep, maybe even a rusty old pipe burst and he's getting high off of gas because there is no way in hell that what he saw was real.
The storm had long since passed, wind clearing out the nasty clouds as sunlight found its way and crept through his windows.
He must be crazy.
So why the fuck is there a torn up fishing net where you had been? Why did he find shiny scales around it and deep groves in the sand where you had dragged your body when you jumped in?
And most importantly- why were there missing fish in his catch from the day before? You have bloody claws and teeth and yet you chose to take his? He spent a few solid hours using his heavy duty equipment to catch those. Not to mention his perfectly good net that he had to tear up in a million pieces since you got yourself tangled up in it.
The nerve of some people- or fish.
A part of him wished it stoped then and there. But of course it didn't and you were still around.
He could still feel your eyes on him, frankly he isn't sure if it's better now that he knows who is stalking him- might've been better to live in paranoia instead of delusion.
You weren't being slick either, he could see the slight ripples on the water when there was no wind, or the silhouette sitting by the rocks at dawn.
When he was fixing up the house though? Yeah, that was apparently peak entertainment for you. Curious eyes staring at him from the water while he worked on the deck, trying to finish it up before another storm rolled in.
He got used to the staring.
It meant he wasn't alone.
Your voice was soothing as well. You'd spent nights perched up on your rock, singing a soft melody that lulled him to sleep whenever he was restless- which was almost every night but your songs made him get at least two more hours of sleep to his measly none.
So what if he accidentally left a fish on his deck?
It's not like he purposefully placed the biggest one and stayed perched on his window waiting for your little webbed hands to find it- or how his chest filled with pride when he noticed that it was gone.
Meaningless.
Just like the pretty shells and smooth sea glass he would find after accidentally misplacing a fish every morning. He doesn't miss the little pleased click you'd do when he picked it up, glancing unamused at your general direction and watching you plop back into the water like a child getting caught stealing.
Sure it was embarrassing, but he was so fascinating to you- humans were always afraid of your kind, hunting and poaching you for god knows what sort of imaginary tale they spread about you. Forcing your kind to retreat into deep water just to be safe, turning into a myth or legend that was told to young children.
But he was different. He could've easily taken you, practically served on a silver plater for him since your already caught yourself... he didn't though.
Simon soon realized you had been watching for far longer than what he thought.
You've had your eyes on him since the very first day he'd set foot on the property. Seen him open the door to the house and watch in amusement when the handle was left in his hand. Seen him drunk on his porch at 3am. Seen him awake pacing on the beach after a gruesome nightmare. Seen him sitting on the ground of that same beach and talking to ghosts that weren't there.
You've seen him entirely and saw yourself.
Weeks spent at a distance, knowing of one another and yet scared to get close- because for both of you, getting close meant nothing good.
Though, you couldn't help but sit closer and closer to the shore.
Who could blame you? That man had the most treasures you've ever seen- simple work equipment had you in awe whenever he would use it. Surely he wouldn't mind if you tinkered with them, holding them and mimicking what he did. And yeah, it did annoy him to find his tools wet and not where had left them- but he drew the line when he saw that his pack of cigarettes were gone.
He heard you laugh for the first time that day. Your sweet voice giggling behind a rock while holding his things hostage.
Slowly that giggle turned into words.
He'd sit on the now sturdy and well built deck while you were perched up on your rock. Listening to him speak, about his day, the fish he'd catch or the nosy townsfolk that make up stories about him. In time he started to open up about his childhood, the rare but fonder memories- then some of his time serving.
You loved his voice, gruff and raspy but soft when he spoke to you... Nothing like the fishermen you'd listen in on whilst you got curious and swam up to the surface. Their voices were loud- but you did learn a few words here and there just by observing them.
Eventually you became more comfortable around Simon, swimming closer to him and trying to form your own sentences. You could understand most of what he was saying, having him explain new words to you as you tried your hardest to remember them.
You in turn, would teach him about tide patterns, giving him insight on the underwater life and how they react to them- along with how to identify and stay away from dangerous currents.
Now, whenever he'd go fishing you would be trailing close behind, telling him what time of day it was best to go out. His eyes just followed you while you were herding up some fish and leading them directly to his net, careful not to catch your own fins since you already cost him one.
He'd reward you by giving you the biggest fish to eat, and you'd give him the shiniest shells you could find.
For a while he was just referring to you as Fish. An annoying fish that would meddle with his stuff. He learnt your name of course, it was as beautiful as you- also having him hear you say his name for the first time was something to say the least.
Doesn't stop him from continuing to call you fish.
You were by far the first living thing that made this place feel less empty... First thing to make his lip dare to lift up in a poor attempt at a smile.
His drinking started to decrease as well, the nightmares still haven't left but your singing helped him keep them at bay.
One night in particular he woke up after drinking a whole bottle of bourbon. He wasn't proud of that but if the hangover wasn't a big enough punishment, having a nightmare of him screaming Johnny's name whilst he sees the life drain from his eyes and blood pool around his head. Having his hand firmly pressed to his chest, desperately searching for a heartbeat only for him to turn into ash and dogtags.
Clenching his fist against his own heart, he found himself standing in the water instead on his own bed, the cold salty water to his knees as he lets out a frustrated scream.
Your ears pick up that sound and before you knew it you were moving your tail frantically, looking for him and thinking he drowned but he was just sitting there... Letting the waves hit him as he held his knees to his chest, red eyes filled with tears... Desperately trying to keep them from falling.
"Si...?"
"Couldn't save him."
Oh...
You didn't say much after that.
Just carefully swam up next to him and gently laid your head on his knee.
You've seen how this played out before, he'd have that same nightmare and believe whatever awful things his subconscious thought up to torture him that night. Although you didn't know what atrocity had woken him up or the extent of what he had endured... Pain is something you sadly recognized easily.
The only thing you could do is offer your presence to him, wishing to take or at most share his hurt.
That was the first physical comfort he'd accepted in years.
You stayed like that for a while, the soft waves hitting the both of you as you sit in silence, not wanting to move an inch in fear of startling him. Simon, whose ragged breathing had slowed down a bit, just stared out into the open sea.
"Cold" you mutter, feeling how cold his skin was. Humans weren't built like mer, he was going to get sick if he didn't go.
As much as he hated the thought of leaving, once he looked into your worried eyes he slowly got up. Your hands dropping to the wet sand as you looked up at him.
He just gave you a nod. Making his way to his house where a warm shower would do him some good.
The morning after he sat by the dock and waited for you to pop up, not uttering a word before giving you the fish he would've otherwise left.
You couldn't help the happy clicking coming from the back of your throat when you snatched the fish up, biting into it as if you were given the best meal ever- because you were given more than just food.
Since then he's made an effort to always greet you when the sun rises with breakfast. Started bringing his own food because last time you'd insisted on sharing the raw bloody fish with him and he almost took your offer. Food poisoning be damned.
On the other hand you always show up early, a shiny treasure in your hands and waiting for him to make his way down when you pop up from the water. He gave you a pleased grunt whenever you'd present them to him. Not nearly as much excitement as you but when it came to him, that was enough.
Well, the first time you'd had the pleasure of hearing him laugh- more like a small chuckle but it still counted- was when you tried getting up on the dock with him.
It wasn't that high.
But it wasn't that low either.
You could've pulled yourself up, sure, it would've been easier- but you decided to jump instead. Landing face first into the planks and bruising your cheek. Shrieking and flapping your fins like a fish out of water.
It's safe to say that whatever pain you felt was momentarily forgotten once you heard him scoff and saw the tiniest hint of a grin. Stilling yourself as you gazed at him, the corners of your mouth pulling upwards.
He pushed you back in the water for staring too long. Much to your protests. He watched you for a good five minutes just flapping around glaring at him before hauling you up next to him.
You huffed, taking a big bite from your food.
From this close you could make out more of his features, every line, scar and mark. You'd trace them all, your interest peaking at the ink that lined his arm. Asking him about his tattoos and looking closely at them- you didn't ask him about his scars though. You had your own share of them to knew how painful it is to remember how you'd gotten them.
Eventually you'll open up to him, once where you noticed how he let his eyes wander before looking away as to not make you uncomfortable. Painfully respectful- yet he couldn't shake the feeling of dread whenever he'd see your wounds.
"My kind dislikes yours," you'd start quietly. "We were driven away by fear, forbidden from going near the surface."
Your fingers ran absentmindedly along your scales as you stared out at the dark water. "I was a curious kid. Always sneaking away, always asking questions. I wanted to see your world." A small, bitter smile tugged at your lips. "Paid the price for it."
Simon followed your gaze before his eyes settled on the scar stretching across your back. Unlike the others, it was clean and deliberate, the kind of wound that hadn't come from an accident. His expression hardened almost instantly.
"Did they..."
You nodded. "They made an example of me. Said i didn't belong among them."
The waves rolled under the wood bellow you, filling the silence that followed. You expected questions, maybe even pity, but Simon only stared at the scar for a moment longer before looking away.
"Wasn't right of em"
Your head turned toward him.
"They were our rules-"
"Don't mean shit."
For so long you've tried to justify what they did to you, to see reason within the truth... Swimming alone near the surface you once dreamt to see, running away from hooks and nets as the sharp blades pierced your skin.
Humans who would hunt you and whenever you'd tried to make a friend they would only care to have your tail on a line. You knew Simon was different. A human like them but he hadn't harmed you.
Hesitantly, you take his hand in your own and bring it up to your cheek, holding it there as you closed your eyes.
"Thank you."
For a moment, Simon only looked at you, the walls he kept around him were suddenly not so solid. He only grunted in response, yet he didn't pull his hand away.
Days started to blur togheter from that point on. He would wake up early to have breakfast with you, then do some work around the house as you watched him whilst you sunbathed on your rock. Once you gave him the clear on the weather, he'd set off on his fishing boat while you swam next to him.
You made sure to gather only the best fish for him, climbing on the boat once you were done to have some lunch. Giving him a playful splash from your tail before he heads back for town to sell his catch.
So what if he stopped by the small jewelers shop, the shiny necklace on display catching his attention. So what if he bought it for you? You seemed to like that sort of stuff anyway.
Judging by your reaction you more than loved it.
He helped you put it on as you held your hair up, only to look down and see how the light reflected off of it. The sun setting in the background as you laid down on the shore next to him.
It felt natural how he had somehow revolved his entire schedule around you.
He woke up thinking about you, worked around the property just listening you talk about everything and anything. Whenever he was in town he'd think of how you'd react to life on land, all of his mundane reactions would be tainted with thoughts of how excited you would be to see this. He'd spend the ends of his days watching the sun set peacefully with you by his side.
Which makes whatever emotions that built up hit harder when he shows up one day on the dock, carrying a sandwich for him and your favorite fish. Expecting to find you waiting there for him, either you'd be plopped on the deck already or hiding in the water trying to scare him- but you weren't there. Not when he scanned the entire area or called out your name. Maybe you just overslept. Didn't stop him from sitting there waiting for you. Telling himself you're fine.
But he wasn't fine.
Breakfast came and went without a glimpse of you. Simon told himself it didn't matter, carrying on with repairs around the house, an old plumbing leak he'd been putting off doing.
Yet every time he straightened up, his eyes drifted toward the water. By midday he'd checked the shoreline more times than he cared to admit, his tea long gone cold beside him. The afternoon passed no easier, each movement in the waves caught his attention only to turn out to be nothing.
By the time evening settled over the coast, Simon found himself standing on the porch with his arms crossed, staring out at the darkening sea. The realization that he'd spent the entire day waiting for you sat heavily in his chest, irritating him far more than your absence ever could.
To anyone else he would've seemed mental. Staring out into the open sea waiting for a damn mermaid to show up.
"Bloody fish." He muttered under his breath, feet already taking him away from the shore.
Then he heard it, a small splash in his direction and when he turned around- there you were. The second your head broke the surface of the water, Simon was already moving down the beach.
"Where the hell were you?" he barked, frustration getting the better of him. "Been gone all bloody day without a word-"
The rest died in his throat.
You'd stopped a few feet away, and only then did he notice the water around you wasn't just dark from the evening shadows.
It was red.
His eyes then dropped to your tail. A deep gash ran along one side of your fin, fresh blood slipping between the scales and disappearing into the sea.
The irritation vanished instantly, replaced with a feeling he knew all too well.
"What happened?"
His voice came out lower this time, sharper in a different way. He was already crouching at the water's edge, reaching for you before he even realized he'd moved.
"Current took me farther out..." you let him pick you up from the water, "Some fishermen managed to hit me-"
You hesitated before adding "I'm sorry."
Simon's expression darkened immediately as his eyes stayed focused on the blood staining your fin.
"Don't apologize."
The words came out sharper than intended. He crouched beside you, inspecting the wound before muttering a curse under his breath.
"Stay here."
Without another word, he turned and headed for the house, returning minutes later with a first aid kit, clean cloths, and a bucket of fresh water. By the time he knelt beside you again, the irritation from earlier had vanished completely, replaced by a focus you were beginning to recognize.
"Let me see it."
You pulled your hands away from your wound and hissed in pain when he started working on it. His hands were precise, cleaning and disinfecting, later wrapping you up in some waterproof gauze.
He finished tying off the bandage and sat back with a quiet grunt. The cut would heal, eventually. He told himself that was all that mattered.
Still, the image of blood in the water refused to leave his mind.
The silence stretched between you as the sun dipped below the horizon. Simon kept his gaze fixed on the waves, jaw tight. He told himself the anger twisting in his chest was directed at the fishermen, at the carelessness of it all. It had nothing to do with the way his stomach had dropped when you hadn't shown up that morning.
Not at all.
For the next two weeks, your visits became shorter while the wound healed. Simon insisted it was to keep pressure off the injury, though you suspected he was simply looking for an excuse to keep an eye on it. Even so, the beach felt strangely empty whenever you disappeared beneath the waves, leaving him alone with the sound of the sea and thoughts he stubbornly refused to examine.
Your fin had eventually healed enough that Simon no longer had an excuse to fuss over it, though that didn't stop him from glancing at it every now and then whenever he thought you weren't looking. The two of you had slipped back into an easy routine. You sat nearby, talking far more than he ever did, filling the quiet with questions about human life while he hammered boards into place or sanded down old wood. Most of the time, he answered with various grunts, but you'd learned how to translate those by now.
"What was your family like?" you asked, watching him work.
Simon paused briefly before continuing. "Complicated."
You accepted the answer for what it was. Some subjects were harder than others. Instead, you traced patterns into the sand with your fingers, thinking for a moment before looking back up at him.
"Do you ever get lonely?"
The question seemed innocent enough.
Yet the hammer stopped.
For a few seconds, Simon didn't move. His shoulders stiffened, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the half-finished porch as if he were looking at something only he could see. You waited, expecting one of his usual dismissive answers, but none came.
Eventually, he set the hammer down with more force than necessary.
"Don't."
The single word caught you off guard.
"What?"
"Don't ask questions like that."
Confusion flickered across your face. You weren't trying to upset him. It was just another thing you wanted to understand, another piece of him he rarely spoke about. Yet something about the question had struck deeper than you'd intended.
"I was only curious."
"Well stop."
The sharpness in his voice made the air between you suddenly feel colder. Simon scrubbed a hand down his face before looking out toward the ocean, avoiding your eyes entirely.
"It's best if you stay in the water."
The words landed heavily.
You stared at him. "What?"
"Your world's out there." His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. "The sea's where you belong."
The confusion in your chest slowly gave way to hurt. For months he'd welcomed your company, taught you about his world, sat beside you for hours without complaint. Now he was acting as though you'd crossed a line you couldn't even see.
For the first time since you'd met him, the silence between you felt uncomfortable. Simon knew it the moment it settled over the beach, knew he'd said the wrong thing, but the thought of taking it back terrified him even more. Because if he did, he'd have to admit why the question had bothered him in the first place.
For a moment, you simply stared at him. The hurt on your face was immediate, impossible to hide no matter how hard you tried. Simon felt it like a knife between his ribs, especially when your eyes began to shine with unshed tears.
"Oh."
The quiet response was somehow worse than shouting.
You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening in fists as sand dug into them. For a second, Simon thought you might argue, might tell him he was being an idiot. Instead, you only nodded.
"Okay."
The word barely rose above a whisper.
Without another look in his direction, you slipped back toward the water. Your movements were slower than usual, lacking the excitement that normally accompanied your visits. Simon watched you go, every instinct screaming at him to say something- to stop you, explain himself, take the words back- but he remained rooted where he stood.
When you disappeared beneath the waves, the beach felt unnaturally quiet.
The first day passed easily enough. Simon threw himself into repairs around the house and convinced himself the silence was for the best. By the third day, he found himself glancing toward the water whenever he stepped outside. By the fifth, he was standing on the porch long after sunset, staring at the empty shoreline. A full week passed without so much as a glimpse of you, and the realization settled heavily in his chest.
The beach hadn't changed.
The house hadn't changed.
Yet somehow everything felt emptier without you there.
Days passed by in silence. Like they were before he met you... It's the same sensations he had when he lost-
He missed you.
No matter how much he denies it, the heaviness in his chest is enough to drown him.
Almost two weeks had passed.
The weather had been clear that morning, the sea calm enough that he'd decided to take the boat farther out than usual. Anything to keep his hands busy. Anything to stop himself from looking toward the shoreline every five minutes expecting to see someone who wasn't coming.
The engine hummed steadily beneath him as he cast his line overboard. He told himself it was for the best. You belonged to the sea. He'd only said what needed to be said.
Then why did he feel so empty?
A gust of wind cut across the water as the horizon darkened.
What had been clear blue skies less than an hour ago were now swallowed by heavy clouds rolling in far too quickly. The waves began to swell beneath the boat, rocking it hard enough to make him grab the railing.
"Shit."
The storm hit fast. Faster than he could ever anticipate.
Rain lashed against him as the sea turned violent, tossing the boat like driftwood. Simon fought the wheel, trying to turn back towards shore, but another wave slammed into the side making the boat jerk violently.
Something cracked.
Then another wave hit.
The world seemingly flipped as if the ocean was punishing him.
All he could feel in that moment was the cold biting at his skin.
Simon barely had time to suck in a breath before the sea dragged him under. He kicked toward the surface, disoriented, only for another wave to crash over his head. Saltwater filled his lungs as he struggled against the current, his soaked clothes dragging him deeper.
For the first time in years, genuine fear gripped him.
Not of dying.
Of regret.
The last thing he'd said to you echoed in his head.
It's best if you stay in the water.
His chest burned.
Another mouthful of water.
Another failed attempt to reach the surface.
And as darkness crept into the edges of his vision, all Simon could think was that if these were his final moments, then the last thing he'd ever given you was a reason to leave.
Miles away, beneath the crashing waves, something made you stop. You'd been drifting through the empty sea, wishing to go back and see him but you knew better. He didn't want you and that broke your fragile heart in a million pieces.
Suddenly a foreign feeling crept its way to you.
A disturbance in the water.
Something familiar.
And suddenly, without knowing why, your heart dropped as your tail cut through the murky water- frantically swimming like your life depended on it because it wasn't your life on the line but his.
The moment you found him, he wasn't fighting anymore.
His body drifted beneath the surface, dragged by the current as the storm raged overhead. Panic seized your chest as you shot through the water, reaching him just before he disappeared into the darkness below. You had one arm hooked beneath his shoulders while the other struggled to keep his head above the waves whenever he broke the surface. More than once the sea tried to pull him from your grasp, but you held on, ignoring the ache in your muscles as you forced both of you towards the shore.
By the time you reached the beach, you were exhausted.
"Simon."
No response.
You dragged him onto the sand, hands shaking as you pressed against his chest the way he'd once shown you after you'd asked about it. Nothing.
"Simon."
Your voice cracked.
Then suddenly seawater spilled from his mouth. He coughed weakly before falling still once more. Relief flooded through you so hard your vision blurred.
He was alive. Barely holding on but alive nonetheless.
Your gaze snapped toward the distant house.
You couldn't carry him there.
Not like this.
The wind howled around you as you looked down at your tail. Every warning you'd ever been given echoed through your mind. Every story. Every lesson. Every consequence.
There would be no going back.
Not after this.
For a moment, fear rooted you in place. If you did this there would be no taking it back, you'd be forced to live a life unknown to you- but one look at Simon's nearly lifeless face had your doubts wash away.
The choice disappeared and pain exploded through your body.
Your vocal cords burned as you yelled out, your tail thrashing violently against the sand as your sparkly scales split apart beneath your skin. Bones cracked and shifted into unfamiliar shapes. Every nerve in your body felt as though it were being torn apart and rebuilt. All while you could only manage to claw against the wet sand, desperate for relief that never came.
The transformation seemed endless, but when it finally stopped, you collapsed beside him, gasping for breath.
It was over. The relief washed over your body as you forced yourself to look down... What once was a powerful tail had become legs.
Human. Fragile. Permanent.
Tears mixed with rainwater as you stared at them. The sea no longer called to you the way it once had.
You had given it up.
Given up the ocean.
Given up your home.
Given up the only life you'd ever known.
For him.
The realization hurt almost as much as the transformation itself.
Yet when you looked at Simon, unconscious and shivering beside you, you found you couldn't regret it.
Not even for a second.
With trembling limbs, you forced yourself upright. The first step nearly sent you crashing back to the ground, feeling as you were walking on shards of broken glass. The second wasn't much better. Your legs felt wrong, unsteady beneath your weight, but somehow you managed to hook Simon's arm around your shoulders.
The brute was fucking heavy, making the walk to the house slow and miserable.
By the time you reached the front door, every muscle in your body burned and your legs felt ready to give out beneath you.
Still, you kept moving.
Because Simon had freed you from the net once. Shown you the type of kindness that you've forgotten from a life full of loneliness.
Now it was your turn to bring him home.
You'd set him down on the soft couch, started removing his drenched clothes. Drying him off and wrapping him in a thick blanket. The red flickers of coal in the nearly dead fire caught your attention, making you grab some of the logs and arranging them in the same way Simon once did when he showed you how good cooked food could be.
The house is much warmer now. Lulling you into a peaceful slumber as your eyes fell heavy.
A while later, consciousness returned slowly to him.
Everything hurt.
His chest burned with every breath like it was bleeding from the inside, his muscles ached, and there was a pounding headache lodged somewhere behind his eyes. For a moment Simon simply stared at the ceiling, confused by the warmth surrounding him. The last thing he remembered was the storm.
The boat.
The water.
The regret.
Then nothing but darkness.
A crackle drew his attention towards the fireplace. Someone had built a fire. Fresh blankets had been piled over him.
Then he felt it.
A hand.
His gaze dropped.
Your fingers were loosely intertwined with his own, your head resting against the edge of the couch where you'd apparently fallen asleep. For a second, relief hit him so hard it was almost painful.
You were here. Like an angel sent from heaven- was he in heaven? Sure seemed like it if you were next to him.
Then his eyes traveled lower.
And froze.
Legs.
His breath caught as the realization struck with the same force of the wave that knocked him out.
How the storm took him, or the fact that there was absolutely no way you could have gotten him home otherwise. A thousand questions rushed through his mind.
Slowly, carefully, Simon pushed himself upright. The movement made you stir, your brow furrowing as you began to wake.
The second your eyes met his, relief flooded your face.
"Simon."
His grip tightened around your hand before he could stop himself.
Neither of you spoke for a moment.
Then his gaze dropped briefly to your legs before returning to your face.
"What did you do?"
The question came out rough.
Not angry.
Not accusing.
Just afraid of the answer.
Your eyes welled up with tears and you brought his hand to your cheek, "Don't belong in the water anymore."
The weak smile you offered him did nothing to ease the sick feeling twisting in Simon's chest.
Instead it made it worse because only now was he beginning to understand what you'd done.
You'd given up everything for him.
"Jesus Christ..." he breathed.
Your smile faltered.
Before you could say anything else, Simon's hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, pulling you forward. The movement was sudden, almost desperate. One second you were sitting beside the couch, the next you were wrapped in his arms.
For a moment neither of you spoke.
You could feel the way his grip tightened around you, as though he were afraid you'd disappear if he let go.
"Dumb fish," he muttered hoarsely into your hair.
The insult lacked any real bite.
Slowly, your arms slipped around him in return.
"I thought you wanted me gone."
The words were barely above a whisper as Simon's chest tightened painfully.
"No."
The answer came immediately.
"No, sweetheart."
The endearment slipped out before he could stop it. You pulled back just enough to look at him and for the first time since waking, Simon met your gaze fully. There was no mask now. No distance. No convenient excuse he could hide behind.
Only relief.
Relief that you were here next to him, and that he'd been given another chance.
His hand rose to cup your face.
"I'm sorry."
Your eyes widened.
It was probably the first genuine apology you'd ever heard from him.
"You don't have to-"
"I do."
His thumb brushed away a tear before it could fall, and for a moment neither of you dared to move.
You were close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, close enough to see every scar and line on his face. Simon's gaze dropped briefly to your lips before immediately returning to your eyes, as though he was giving you every opportunity to pull away.
You didn't.
Slowly, carefully, he leaned in and you felt the brush of his lips against yours.
It was tentative at first, almost uncertain. Simon's hand remained against your cheek while yours found his wrist, holding on as if grounding yourself. It wasn't dramatic or desperate, just soft and lingering, years of loneliness and unspoken feelings finally finding somewhere to go.
When he pulled back, it wasn't far.
His forehead resting against yours as he let out a shaky breath, eyes closing for a moment.
"You belong with me," he murmured quietly, squeezing your hand.
This time, when you smiled, it didn't hurt.
Nuzzling your face closer into his neck as his hands hold you impossibly tighter- making you feel safe. This is your home now. Simon is your home and you wouldn't have it any other way.
You also couldn't help the way your heart skipped a beat when your eyes drifted to the little basket under the window, every little treasure you've gifted him was neatly tucked into it and it was the only thing in the house that didn't have a layer of dust covering its surface.
Yeah.
You don't regret one bit of it.
Not when you finally feel wanted.
Not when he'd finally taken you to town, shown you the life you'd yearned for all this time. Or how he'd let you decorate the house in different hues of blues and plants reminiscent of the kelp you'd once swam through. A big aquarium was stationed in the corner along with an assortment of shells and shiny rocks you'd collected with him whilst you walked along the beach hand in hand.
It was safe to say that Simon was right about how you'd react to human life- except for watching tv. You were cursing so much it would make a sailor blush because of the sheer amount of incorrect statements being said about underwater life.
Months later he'd surprise you with a shiny ring, asking you to marry him. You were confused to say the least- you were under the assumption that you were already mated. C'mon, you've given him almost hundreds of shiny treasures and he'd shown himself as a capable mate when he'd presented you with the biggest fish he'd caught.
Were you not mates?
It took a while for Simon to explain human customs and marriage over your hysterical crying, by the end of it you somehow ended up tangled in bed together- he ended up with a multitude of bites and purple hickeys, not like he complained.
You also didn't get the whole wearing white to a wedding. What was the point of wearing such a dull color to a special day? Simon made you cry once again when he showed you a custom made mermaid gown that had the exact hues and shades that once adorned the scales on your tail.
The wedding was small. By small it was just you two accompanied by Price and Gaz to sign as witnesses. The grateful look on their faces didn't go unnoticed by you. You decided it was best not to tell them what you were.
The only person you told was Johnny.
You held Simon's hand tightly as he knelt on the ground where they had once spread his ashes. He still has that nightmare from time to time, but now he has you to help him. A part of him believes that he had sent you to him. A guardian angel to make him die a happy man.
Because he is happy.
Especially the night where you were cuddled up close to him, taking his hand in yours and instead of pressing it to your cheek you lowered it to your stomach... Wordlessly telling him that you were having a little fry of your own.
Now, Simon Riley stood not as a dead man, but as a lucky bastard that was given a second chance at life- a life with you in it. Call it a fairy tale if you will but he is beyond grateful to whatever being there was that gifted you to him.
a/n: Oookay this was a bit of a long one on my part, do I think it could use a bit more flushing out and if given to the right writer it could sound so poetic and beautifully written? Yeah, a lil bit- but it's my lil story and I love mermaids this time of year- hope you enjoyed reading it tho <3
Oh yeah um the tears in my eyes were always just there definitely
jokes aside genuinely one of the sweetest fics i’ve ever read and omg reader crying because she thought they had mated already makes the earlier part so much sadder😭😭 this is so cute and such an accurate simon!! I love this so so much!!
being a kid and hearing adults say stuff like "woah 2011 was 4 years ago haha" didn't really convey the fucking horror of a youtube video crossing my recommended labelled "9 years ago" and it's from 2017. that's not true. 9 years ago is 2010 or something. don't lie.
Summary: Omegas are rare, something to be cherished and guarded, kept away from the world. You knew better than to wander alone. Now you must pay the price for your recklessness.
Pairing: John Price x reader, eventual Poly 141 x reader
Word Count:
Warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, alternate universe, non-military 141, alpha/beta/omega dynamics, shapeshifters, reader has white hair for plot but otherwise is ambiguous, kidnapping, injuries, blood and slight gore, hints of violence against reader, forced nudity, vulnerability, manipulation, indirect threats of rape, sexual assault/non-consensual touching, weaponized shame and humiliation, mild language, oh and angst
A/N: Well, I'm doing it. No promises on what this might become but worth a shot. Please, please heed the warnings as this is probably the tamest chapter out of all of them.
MASTERLIST
The water in the white tub is tinged pink from blood. It’s warm, almost too warm. Your skin tingles, prickling with the heat. You can’t say anything.
The shock is still rendering you useless.
Fingers bite into your arms, squeezing tight across your chest, almost as if you might hide it from sight. Nudity is not something to be ashamed of in your culture, but now it feels almost violating to have one of them looking at you.
Your eyes are locked on your knees in the water, the claw foot tub just deep enough for the water to cover the joints. One of them is swollen, the right leg already dark with bruising. Your ankle is just as bad, and between the joints teeth marks leak red into the water. It stings and throbs but no words leave your lips.
There’s a slow drip of blood, sliding over your lips to your chin before it plops quietly into the water. It’s a steady stream from your nose, has been since it hit the floor.
Screaming, body flailing in a weak attempt at breaking free. Nails rake across skin, the smell of blood. Falling headfirst, face smashing into the wood. A crack, blood seeping. Stunned, unable to see.
A hiss leaves your lips as the rag is pressed against your nose. Broken, you think. Ragged nails bite into the skin of your arms, chipped and broken.
Hands on ankles, dragging. Nails digging into wood grain. Pulling, pulling. A pop. More pain.
“Sorry.” His soft voice reaches your ears over the screaming in your head. His hand is gentle, dabbing softly at the inflamed cartilage. Beta, you think, the only ones capable of such a gentle touch. His words are just as soft, but there’s still an edge to them.
Are you? You think bitterly.
The blood slows its dripping, already healing. The rag passes over your mouth and chin, wiping away the rest of the blood. It’s dropped with a wet plop into the pile, the white stained pink with your blood. A fresh one is dipped into the water, already taking on a pinkish hue thanks to the bloody water.
He doesn’t hold back as he presses the rag against the wound on your shoulder. You whimper, jerking away from him, but his hand grips tightly, keeping you still. It burns, the pressure against the raw, open wound. It’s steadily seeping blood, staining your white hair pink.
Struggling, weight pushing, hot breath. The sharp burn of breaking skin, the deep ache of teeth sinking into muscle. Screaming, blood pouring.
“Took a chunk out.” He says, applying pressure to the aching wound. “Must’ve hurt.”
If you’d had the energy, you might have said something. Now you can’t even manage a glare. You’re nothing but a shell, being bathed by a stranger in a strange house, watching the bath water turn pink with your blood.
The wash cloth dabs at the mutilated skin, tears blurring your vision in pain from the pressure against such an injury. It’ll heal, just like the rest, leaving a scar in its wake.
A scar that represents the finality of your situation.
Tears slide down your cheeks, dripping into the water as he finishes, pulling the plug. Slowly the water starts to drop, gurgling as it’s sucked down into the drain. There’s a pink line on the side of the tub, stained by your blood. It’ll be easily cleaned, just as easily as you were. Evidence wiped away leaving a blank slate in its wake.
A towel is draped over your head, blocking out the world for just a moment. Just a quick moment where you can forget everything that’s happened and imagine yourself back somewhere safe.
***
The fire is warm, logs cracking as they burn. The side of your body, the side facing the fire is hot but you refuse to move. Your leg has been propped up on a folded blanket, elevated to help the swelling. A white fur pelt has been draped over you, giving you a modicum of modesty among prying eyes.
Your broken nails have been trimmed, blunted down to almost nubs. You can’t hurt yourself, you can’t hurt them. Your face no longer hurts, but there’s an intense throbbing in your shoulder, matching in time with the throbbing of your knee.
You’re not going anywhere. Not in this state.
Not that you’d really try. Not with them sitting right there.
Two of them. They’re sitting there, scarily still as they watch you. You refuse to look at them, to acknowledge them. Acknowledging opens too many doors, doors you’d prefer remained closed.
That’s not your choice anymore.
Instead you lay there, listening to the thumping of your heart, feeling the pulsing aches in your body in time with that steady ba-bump. Ba-bump. Slow, even breaths to keep yourself from showing any fear. You’re not sure you have any left to show. You’ve gone numb inside, your brain a blank space to push the trauma aside for now. It’ll come back later, but for now, there’s nothing.
You’re not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you cry.
The two on the couch stiffen a bit, the first movement you’ve seen from them since they sat on the couch. You can feel the shift, your breath hitching as the strong scent of alpha fills the air. It’s the volatile one, the big one with tattoos. He moves to stand behind the couch, between the two betas sitting there watching you. They know how helpless you are. They left you in the care of betas. His sharp eyes fall to you, piercing through your skin like he’s trying to see the muscle beneath.
Goosebumps prickle your skin under his gaze, your eyes still glued to the wood beams on the ceiling. You won’t look at him, you won’t give him that satisfaction. The last act of defiance you can manage in such a vulnerable state. Left that way on purpose to make you feel weaker, smaller, more helpless.
You’ve felt what those hands can do, the destruction they’re capable of bringing. Guiltless, soulless, merciless.
The executioner.
The three of them turn their heads, seamless and consecutive as they glance at the hallway behind you. You don’t need to see yourself. You already know.
You refuse to lower your gaze, refuse to move as he approaches, footsteps heavy on the creaky wood. Tension brews in the air, suffocating like the heat starting to prickle painfully under your skin. You’re too hot under the fur but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you move, exposing yourself to their eyes more than you already have been.
The creaking wood gets closer and closer to you. You can almost feel the floor shifting, rocking with every step. They’re not stealthy, instead meant for brute force. Big and heavy and relentless.
The floor cracks beside you, nearly making you jump. Your hands close into fists under the blanket, fingers clenching into your palms. A hand closes around your jaw, forcing your head down and to the side.
The grizzled face comes into view, thick beard peppered with grey. Bright, icy eyes stare into your soul, seeping past the front of indifference you’ve put up. The attempt at being strong and defiant against them. His eyes gaze into yours, boring holes in your skull as he forces his way past your defenses. A battle of wills and you have little will left. Not with him around.
His eyes leave yours to rove your face, burning a trail across your skin.
“You’re healing well.” His voice rumbles in the quiet, paired with a cracking of a log in the fireplace. It makes you flinch, pushing against his fingers which offer no give. Steel limbs holding you in place.
Those limbs let up, a big paw of a hand sliding down your throat. Your breath freezes in your lungs, body tense as his hand pushes the soft fur down slightly until his hand rests against your chest. He can feel the racing of your heart against his palm, the rush of blood through your limbs, the throbbing pain in your knee and shoulder. You’d wish this pain, this discomfort on him if only to bring him to your level, lower him on his pedestal just a bit.
You could only be so lucky.
“Bit warm under there.” He murmurs, fingers curling around the edge of the fur blanket.
The protest dies on your tongue as he rips the fur from you, shame heating your body as you’re suddenly exposed to the room, naked and vulnerable. It’s not like they haven’t seen you already, but this is so different. Here they can look, they can criticize.
He sits back on his heel, dragging his eyes across your body. Goosebumps prickle at your skin under his gaze, muscles flexing as you tense. You dare not move, hide yourself from his gaze. There would be no use in fighting, no matter how much your brain screams at you to retaliate.
The inhale catches in your throat as his palm comes to rest flat against your stomach, fingers dimpling the skin as he tags weight into the press of his hand against you. It’s possessive, tagging you like a fresh kill. He sits there, staring down at you with his hand pressed against your womb. It’s silent in the room, the three others watching the exchange curiously with rapt attention. Waiting, seeking the answer to the question of what’s going to happen next.
He’s dismantling you, breaking down those last few barriers of self control. He wants you angry and humiliated, broken down and malleable. You’re waiting, clinging to those last few shreds of sanity, hands still curled into fists as you prepare yourself for what’s going to happen next. What his next move will be. He’s the one in control, he’s the one they’re all looking to for direction.
He could do it now, while you’re in a weakened state. Invoke that right, partake of that offensive ritual. Strip you of the last of your decency, your resolve, your humanity. You’re trembling under his hand, breaths shallow as you wait, you anticipate.
You’re helpless, completely helpless.
He removes his hand, resting it on his bent knee. He rocks back onto his heels, pushing himself up to stand. You shift for the first time, sweat making the blanket under your back soggy.
“What?” You ask, your resolve beginning to come back now that the direct threat is gone. Anger is starting to bubble inside of you, the last bit of your honor still intact. “Not going to rape me in front of them? Not going to let them take turns?”
A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, his chest shaking in a chuckle. “Not yet.”
The words strike a chord of fear in you despite your attempts to remain indifferent. Not yet. He would sink so low as to partake in such a ritual. He's already taken you, stripped you of your freedoms and your pride. He's dangerous, they all are, and they've made sure you know that.
***
“C’mon lass. Don’ make me do it.”
The one with the god-awful hair is speaking to you. You had decided not to take him seriously because who in their right mind has a mohawk willingly? Deep down you know you should take him seriously. Big, stocky, meant for power not speed. You might have thought him an alpha, if it wasn’t for the playful glint in his eye. He doesn’t hold himself like an alpha, no domineering scent overpowering your senses.
His scent is surprisingly soft. You’re getting a strong whiff of it with your close proximity.
He’s pulled you up so you’re sitting, the fur pooled at your waist. He’s trying to get you up, but you’re trying your best to make it as hard as possible. You could probably get up on your own if you had to, even with one and a half usable legs. You’re being stubborn on purpose. Not out of hope he’d give up and let you lay there, but instead you do it in your weak attempts at defiance. They probably find it amusing, but to you it’s the only shreds of your hope and sanity you have left.
The situation hasn’t quite registered yet. It still feels very surreal. Despite the painful reminders your injuries conjure up, there’s still a delightful cloudiness in your brain when you think about your new reality. It still feels temporary, like your parents will walk through the door at any moment to take you back to your home, your pack.
You’re not stuck in this nightmare, you’re just waiting for the moment when it all gets revealed as some kind of sick joke.
It’s not a joke. It’s very real.
The hand groping your chest brings you back into that nightmarish reality.
“Stop.” You say firmly, trying to bat his hand away where it squeezes your bare breast.
He doesn’t stop, not like you expected him to. Instead he grips you harder, his fingers pinching your nipple. You swing at him, hitting his bare chest but it doesn’t phase him in the slightest.
“Stop!” You shriek, and he finally does let go, only to catch your hands.
He grips both of your wrists in one of his hands, the other closing around your jaw, cheeks squished as he holds your face. That playful glint has been replaced by an intensity in his gaze, the back of your neck prickling as the sense of danger rolls through you.
“Yer our omega.” He grits out through his teeth, baring them at you. “I can damn well touch ye if I please.”
“Ease up, Johnny.” The rough voice of the big alpha cuts through the tension.
Johnny.
It’s the first of their names you’ve heard. It fits him, you have to admit. You wonder what the others’ names are. They won’t come easily, you don’t think. They’re not likely to do a meet and greet with you.
“I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table.” The big alpha says, continuing on his path into the kitchen.
Johnny releases you slowly, lowering his hands. Your chest is heaving from the adrenaline that had coursed through your body. Your poor adrenal glands are probably exhausted and it’s not even dark outside yet. There’s tears in your eyes, but the words of the big alpha come back to you. The last thing you want to do is anger him. Your knee throbs as a reminder as to why.
“Can I get a shirt?” You ask quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself. The fire is hot against your back and you know as soon as you’re away from it you’ll be cold.
“No.” Johnny says before tugging the blanket off you completely.
Tears prick behind your eyes, tears of shame as you’re lifted off the floor and into his arms. You refuse to look at him, refuse to hold on as he begins to move, carrying you from the living area over to the table.
The light is on above the table, casting a bright, warm glow around the nook. You’re placed in a chair on the far side of the table facing the door. The way out so close, but yet so far. There’s no way you could get out. You can’t run, not in this state.
It feels so cruel.
The others join you, the other beta and the big alpha bringing steaming bowls of soup to the table. They’re all still bare chested, clad in only bottoms of varying sorts. The big alpha sports jeans, the other beta having chosen sweatpants. Johnny wears a pair of basketball shorts, and the head alpha sports a pair of cargo pants. You can’t help but wonder if they’re wearing them simply for your comfort, if they’d otherwise be walking around naked.
No, they wouldn’t have given you such a comfort.
If nudity was the norm for them, they wouldn’t have stopped it on your behalf.
The don’t seem to hold the same care for you, though.
The wood of the chair is cold against your skin that had been heated by the fire under the fur. It has your nipples pebbling, your arms still crossed in front of your body as a bowl of soup is placed in front of you. It’s brothy, and you can see various vegetables floating in it. There’s a biscuit on the side, butter and jam placed on the table.
You watch them sit, the big alpha taking the lone seat on the right side of the table, the two betas taking the chairs on the left, Johnny sitting closer to you. The head alpha takes the seat at the head of the table, directly across from you. It’s a purposeful placement. Second alpha to the right, the beta closest to the alpha on the left, the omega across at the other end of the table. Positions based on rank of power.
You doubt you’ll be allowed such power in this pack.
“Something wrong?” The head alpha says, and you quickly realize you’ve been staring. You’re tired, your brain exhausted from fighting. It’s purposeful. It’s all so purposeful. Put you through the ringer until you’re exhausted and forced to submit.
“I’m cold.” You say quietly, arms still wrapped around yourself as you hunch in the chair, trying to give yourself some modicum of modesty.
“Soup’ll fix that.” He says simply, picking up his spoon.
The others follow, the clinking of silverware starting to fill the quiet cabin. You continue to stare at the soup, your eyes filling with tears. You’re not hungry, but you know they’ll force feed you if you don’t eat. It’ll only heighten the shame already burning through you. You feel violated, embarrassed, vulnerable. The worst part is none of them seem to even care. Not one of them seem bothered by this treatment of you.
There truly is no mercy to be found here.
You pick up your spoon, one arm still across your chest as you stir the soup. Chunks of meat kick up to the surface. You wonder if they grow and hunt themselves, or if they go into town for food. You’ve never seen them in town, but then again, you never get to go to town often. Too many eyes, too many possibilities. You were to be hidden away, kept secret and protected.
Now look at you.
You try not to cry as you lift a spoonful of soup to your mouth. I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table, the big one had said. You don’t want to test him, scared of what he might do. Instead you shove the emotions down, focusing on the soup. You are hungry. You can feel the beginning pangs deep in your stomach as the savory scent of the soup fills your nose. You haven’t eaten since this morning.
How long ago that feels now.
The soup is good. Decent flavor. The biscuit is a bit dry, but that’s what the soup is for. It’s quiet at the table, though, no conversation to drown out the sound of silverware and chewing. You wonder if that’s normal, or if no one really knows what to say in this situation. They all eat, none of them looking at each other. None of them look at you either. It’s a small relief.
Your hand is shaking by the time you finish your soup. Nerves are still eating away at you, your brain still hypervigilant of the danger you’re in. You’re sitting with an unknown pack in an unknown place, injured and frightened. You can’t overpower them, you can’t even outrun them. They had proven that. They’re bigger, stronger, faster than you. You’re just an omega, forced to be at their mercy.
You wrap your arms around yourself again, trying to seem as small as possible in your seat. All you want to do is lay down and sleep but you’re too aware, too afraid. You don’t want to know what kinds of things they might do to you as you sleep. Nothing would stop them anyway, but the prospect of you being unaware has your skin crawling.
You’re shaking as you sit there, wrapped in your own arms. Your knee is throbbing from the position it’s been forced into. You can’t wait for that to heal. It’s a nuisance and it’s inhibiting your ability to run. If you’re going to escape and get back home, you need to be able to sneak around and run when you get the chance.
You don’t know when that chance will be.
You’re not sure it will ever come. You’d have to get past all four of them, which you doubt they’ll make an easy task for you. One of them will always be hovering, always near the door. A window is a possibility, but you haven’t seen much else of the house besides this main area. There have to be windows you could possibly climb out of if you can just get a moment alone.
You don’t know when that will be either.
First you need your knee to heal. Then you’ll deal with creating an escape plan.
Sweat is beading on your forehead from the deep throbbing in your knee. You try to shift, straightening it as best you can even as the edge of the chair bites into the back of your leg uncomfortably. You’d love to lay back down, but you’re not sure what their next move will be, what their plan is.
The head alpha is staring at you, no doubt having sensed your discomfort. He doesn’t say anything, his elbows resting on the table as he watches you. Maybe he’s waiting, testing how strong your resolve is, how far he can push you before you break. You refuse to give in that easily, refuse to let him win. It’s what he wants, your full submission. You’re not going to give him that pleasure.
Your skin prickles as his gaze darkens, his eyes trailing down your front to where your breasts peak out above the table. The urge to cover yourself is strong, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. You won’t give him any satisfaction.
You’re going to make this as hard for him as possible.
“We’re going to lay down some ground rules.” He finally says, breaking the tense silence around the table. All eyes flicker to him, waiting, ready to obey. “You’re not to leave this house.” He says, staring pointedly at you. “The world is a dangerous place for an omega. You never know who’s lurking out in the woods.”
He’s taunting you.
“We’re nowhere near civilization, and I won’t have you getting lost in the woods.”
You doubt he’d let you go far enough to even touch the door, much less pass through it.
“You’re part of this pack now, so you’re going to pitch in.” He continues. “I know you have skills. Cooking, cleaning, mending. You do your part, we won’t have any problems.”
He speaks as if you’re going to be here forever. Well, in his mind you are.
“You’re the lowest rank in this pack. You’re here to serve. My boys ask something of you, you do it.” He says. You ignore Johnny’s smirk. “There’s punishment for making trouble. I’d hate to have to enforce that upon you.”
No you wouldn’t.
“This is your home now.” He says. “The sooner you accept that, the easier this all will be.”
You doubt it.
Your gaze leaves his as Johnny stands, your eyes flickering to watch him as he starts to gather bowls. He does so wordlessly, the other beta standing to join him. The meeting is adjourned, the conversation over. He takes your empty bowl, the spoon clacking as he drops it inside before taking it from in front of you. Your eyes flicker back to the alpha, his eyes still on you. You feel more exposed now without the safety of the bowl before you. How strange that such a little thing could offer so much security.
The other alpha pushes his chair back before standing. You can’t stop your gaze from lifting to stare at his hulking form. He’s not any taller than the head alpha, but he seems bigger. He carries himself differently, with more power. If you hadn’t known, you would have assumed he was the head alpha just by looks.
The head alpha stands as well, looming over the table. You lower your gaze to the wood in front of you, not wanting to stare at him as he slowly approaches you, stalking towards you like a predator hunting his prey. You suppose you are his prey. He hunted you down like you were.
How stupid you were going so far into the woods.
Tears prick your eyes as his hands slip under you, arms looping under your knees and around your shoulders. He lifts you easily, hoisting you up into his grasp. He doesn’t even seem to struggle with your weight, a show of power. How easily he can control you. If he can’t break you mentally, he will break you physically. His words had bordered on that threat, the double meaning not lost on you.
He had proven that to you already.
He lays you back down in front of the fire, head pillowed on the cushion, his hands propping your knee back up on the stack of pillows and blankets. That hand drags slowly down your thigh, rough skin catching on yours. A worker’s hands. He pauses for a moment, big hand gripping your thigh before he removes it, grabbing the white fur and draping it back over you.
****
It’s the head alpha that carries you to bed. You hadn’t slept any, even as the night crawled on. It’s late, the moon already up and drifting through the sky. How you wish you could see her, beg her to fix this, to take you away from this nightmare. Instead you’re met with a small window above the bed reflecting the light fixture on the ceiling in the inky blackness.
You’re laid down on the bed gently. Wood framed, hand-made you think. The mattress is soft, the pillows fluffy. Feathers, you think. He’s nice enough to tuck one under your knee, moving the blankets down out of the way. The white fur has come with you, draped over your form as you lay there on the bed. You wish you were home, you wish you were being tucked in and kissed by your mother. You were too old for that but she still insisted. You’re her baby, her only child.
Does she think you’re dead?
They’ll be looking for you. All night they’ll search. Maybe they’ll find the blood, maybe they’ll assume the worst. Or maybe they’ll know. Maybe they’ll come looking. Maybe you won’t have to escape at all.
The alpha moves away from the bed, heading towards a door on the far wall. It opens, a light switching on inside. A bathroom. He doesn’t close the door as he goes in, your eyes floating to the ceiling as you listen to him. Running water, a toothbrush, a stream of piss into the toilet, the light switch flicking as he comes back out. Your eyes dart to him before quickly jumping back to the ceiling.
He’s nude.
It’s not unusual, but this feels different. It’s intentional. Degrading.
You continue to stare up at the ceiling as he approaches the bed, cock swinging between his legs. If you had the strength you would have stared at him, fighting that dominance he’s engaging by presenting himself in such a state. He’s testing you, showing you where the boundaries lie. There are little boundaries between the two of you. You’ve been claimed, a shackle of ownership placed around your throat where his teeth dug into your skin and tore out a chunk. You’ll wear that shackle for the rest of your life, a constant reminder of who you belong to, who you answer to.
He turns on the lamp beside the bed before turning off the overhead light, bathing the room in the soft glow of the yellow light bulb.
Tears prickle your eyes as he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your leg twitches as his hands touch your skin, pressing against your bruised and throbbing knee. You hiss, your eyes squeezing closed at the pain as he pushes lightly against the swollen joint.
“It’ll be healed by tomorrow night.” He says, releasing your leg to lay against the pillow again.
You keep your gaze up, fighting tears as he settles onto the bed next to you with a sigh. He pulls the blankets up, covering you with them before he settles on his side facing you. He’s staring at you but you’re not brave enough to stare back. All that strength you held at the dinner table is gone, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. You’re too afraid to sleep, laying next to a stranger. A stranger who attacked you, forced you to be his mate, forced you here into his home, into his pack.
Why did you stray so far from home?
His fingers close around your jaw, forcing your head to the side. A tear slides down your cheek as you stare at him, his eyes lidded. “You’ll be happy here.”
It’s not a question, not even a suggestion. He’s telling you what you’re going to feel. You’ll be happy here because you have no choice. This is your home, your family now. These men who stole you away and forced you to be one of them, these men whose hands only know violence.
The rough grips on your body, hands pinching and twisting and breaking, teeth sinking in deep, ripping and tearing you apart.
His thumb wipes the tear that slides down our cheek. Such a soft, tender caress compared to what you know he’s capable of. He stares deep into your eyes, digging, searching, reaching in to find your very soul tucked safely away. That’s one thing he can never have. He can take your body and your mind, but he can’t touch your soul, no matter how hard he tries.
He pulls your head forward, leaning close to you. Your breath hitches, your heart racing hard in your chest. There’s a moment of stillness before he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours. It’s shockingly soft and gentle, a small peck of the lips, but it does nothing to quell the fear rising in you. How contradicting his actions are. The tight grip on your jaw keeping you in place, the soft almost tender press of his lips.
Danger! Your mind screams. He’s dangerous and he’s only further proving it right now.
He pulls back, holding you there for a moment before he releases you. He rolls over onto his back, laying there in the bed next to you. In bed with a stranger, wounded and claimed. Not an ideal situation, and certainly not how you expected your night to end. You want to be back home, back in your bed, back safe with your parents. You’ll never see them again.
More tears cascade down your cheeks as you lay there, the reality of your situation hitting you.
“Can I ask you something?” You speak quietly, your voice trembling.
“Hm?” He hums, already half asleep.
“What’s your name?” You ask.
He’s silent for a moment, and you’re worried he might have fallen asleep already. Instead he speaks, giving you his name in the darkness.
if you leave this kind of comment on any fanfic writer’s work or if you think this shit is okay and isn’t the reason more and more writers are choosing not to share their works with your entitled ass for free anymore, you should be ashamed of yourself.
if you suspect a fic is ai and if that bothers you, quietly close the tap and leave the fic. no one forces you to stay.
This is so important!!! "This is so obviously AI" There is no such thing! We have writers who write English fics when English isn't their first language, we have young writers, inexperienced writers, old writers, eperienced writers, European writers, American Writers, Canadian Writers, writers from every back story and age and race, and no work sounds "AI Generated" because AI learns from US! It steals from US! Most AI "writing" platforms pirate straight out of places like Tumblr, Ao3, and Wattpad, where we have THOUSANDS of works shared between the lot of us, which means it learns from HUMAN WRITTEN works! No one's work "sounds AI", AI sounds like us!
jbbartram-illu
germansingergirl
jacobvanloon
stormborns
tangentwithtanner
