She, 40s. I’m a mountain goat and I seek solace in fanfics, reading and writing. The latter mostly badly, but at least it’s done without AI. And as always: Free Palestine.
I started writing fanfiction as a teenager, then joined my first fanfic forum "Nuns with Pens" (Dark Angel, Jensen Ackles). English is not my mother tongue, but I really enjoy writing in it.
Welcome to my guttermind. I am but a humble slave who attempts to glorify her masters in rather ghastly attempts at writing. All stories are crossposted on my Wattpad account under the same username. Please don't plagiarise, translate or post anywhere else. I am highly AI-intolerant.
The smut label means there's explicit content and minors should not consume and/or interact. Just stay off the red, kids.
I love you all, thank you so much for reading.
x Lu
Marvel
Master Loki Laufeyson:
Where light in darkness lies
Summary: How helping with a panic attack can lead to something more. One shot. 3.4k
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Panic attack, a hint of angst, fluff, a bit of fingering.
A/N: There aren’t a lot of explanations given. I have also taken a great deal of liberties to bend characters at my will.
But like of each thing that in season grows
Summary: How a kind gesture can lead to something more. One shot. 9.7k
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Christmas fluff, mention of off screen assault, some swearing, lots of snow, books, poetry, smutty smut.
A/N: Okay, look. It just wanted to get out. You’re thrown in without a warning, nor a floatie. Apologies for the liberties taken to interpret and manipulate characters to dance after my will once more. Obviously don't read if you're a minor.
Contagion
Summary: Loki is a god, you’re a mere mortal. What happens when an accidental sacrifice is made that, turns out, could kill you? One shot. (9.5k)
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: Reader is an immunologist, so there’s job specific terminology used, reader also has hair long enough to tie into a ponytail (sorry not sorry), there will be skips between present and past (italics), Loki being an idiot, reader being an idiot, pining, bit of angst, mentions of blood, blood bond with (hopefully) a wee twist, mentions of death, inappropriate thoughts, explicit smut, explicit consent, horniness, some swearing.
A/N: This has been simmering away in a pot for a while now. I suppose it’s another marmite story, so if blood bonds and that kind of trope is not your cup of tea, this is your invitation to scroll on. Again, I profusely apologise to all characters involved for playing with them at my will and, ultimately, writing them out of character.
Ditto
Summary: Loki and you decide to chase away the loneliness together. What happens when one of you catches feelings? 18+ One shot. (6.2k)
Pairings: Loki x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+. Sub-par writing. Reader is a statistician, some terminology and references used. Loki being an idiot, reader being an idiot, angst, sadness, smut, consent, repentance. Bad writing.
A/N: PMS, that’s my excuse. Is it a good excuse? Of course not. I would like to apologise to both Loki and reader for putting them through this. For what it’s worth it didn’t help.
Master Bucky Barnes:
Worth all of it
Summary: How ‘Endgame’ should have ended, in my opinion. One shot. 1.1k
Pairings: none
Warnings: Endgame (it’s a trigger, okay), Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, the tiniest dusting of angst with a big helping of friendship fluff.
A/N: This is a little hug from me to you. Why? Because I felt like it. This little drabble is an extortionate amount of wishful thinking on my part. It’s been festering in my brain and on my hard drive for years. So take it or leave it.
Apologies if my Bucky and my Steve are not canon. Also, a head’s up that English isn’t my mother tongue.
The Feral Three
Summary: Bucky is an incredibly patient man. He’s given you space, time and opportunities. But when he finally reaches his limit, he decides to do something about it. One shot. 5.6k
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: Hints of slight stalking (in a non-angsty way, Bucky’s curiosity is piqued is all), mentions of insecurity of reader, explicit consent, mutual horniness, unhinged dirty thoughts, swearing, explicit smutty smut (it's pure filth, really).
A/N: This is unapologetically self-indulgent, so I suppose it’s a marmite fic. If my marmite’s not your jam (wow, this is dad joke level…) please feel free to move on and dive into someone else’s gutter mind.
I do, however, apologise for the liberties taken to interpret and manipulate the fictional characters of Bucky and, by extension, Steve.
Measure for Measure
Summary: Bucky is like a ticking time bomb during the fitting of his latest Avengers suit. But it’s not his past that has him so riled up. One shot. 3.5k
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: Mentions of prosthetic, piss poor sewing references, implied smut, reader trying to be nice but being a bit of a tease, fluff-ish, bit of steam.
A/N: I did a little tidy up and found this sat in my folder, gathering cobwebs. (Probably for a reason…) It’s just meant to be a little fluff. I’m acutely aware that I don’t do Bucky any justice regarding character portrayal, nor Steve, Natasha or Sam. Like I said, it’s just a little ball of floof because tomorrow’s Monday and that’s reason enough.
White Wolf
Summary: When Bucky hits a slump, long after Wakanda, he remembers a friend who might help him find acceptance and understanding. What he gets is much more. For starters, a kid. 18+ One shot. (10.8k)
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Reader is referred to in 3rd person. The slightest skimming of suicidal thoughts. Some description of degradation (in past). Bucky’s siblings mentioned – yes, plural. Mentions of erectile dysfunction. Masturbation. Explicit consent. Explicit scenes, as in smut. Adult themes. Wishful thinking, because Steve didn’t go back, he stayed.
A/N: Listen. I just couldn’t stop thinking about Bucky and his goats. That’s literally it. The only excuse I have for the existence of this story. I hope you enjoy it – I loved writing it.
Red Shirt
Multi-chapter -> Status: Complete
Summary: Bucky has reasons for keeping you at a distance. Very good reasons. But the best reasons seem irrelevant in the face of change. 18+ (Multi chapter)
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Dark themes. Unrequited love, a dusting of angst, description of gore, death, mentions of torture. Foul language in places. Explicit consent. Explicit scenes. Smut. Adult themes.
A/N: It’s a bit dark, this one. It just ran away with me. Breaking it up in a few chapters as it’s a bit long.
Warnings: Mild Violence. Maybe I'll add more in the future.
Summary: A knight from another century crashes -literally- into a florist’s life and turns her world upside down.
Word Count: 4.2k
note: This is a silly time-travel story written purely for entertainment and to get out of my author's block. I won't be diving into complex timeline theories here. Let's not overthink the logistics and just enjoy the ride(?)
The tournament grounds were quieter now.
The crowd that had packed the stands since dawn -merchants, nobility, smallfolk who'd bartered half a week's wages for a decent vantage point- had dissolved into the taverns and banquet halls of the city, chasing warm ale and the joy of retelling someone else's violence over a good meal.
The field itself was a ruin of churned mud and discarded favor ribbons, the occasional lost boot. Someone's gauntlet, bended and forgotten near a fence post. The detritus of spectacle.
Sir James Buchanan Barnes walked through it like a man who wanted very much to be somewhere else.
He was limping. A gift from the third bout, when Sir Aldric Thornwall had gotten a lucky angle with his shield and introduced it firmly to Bucky's ribs.
The impact had knocked the air from his lungs with an audible crack that he'd felt more than heard. He'd finished the match anyway. He'd finished all of them. He'd placed second, which in any reasonable accounting of the day should have felt like something.
It didn't feel like much of anything.
Just the persistent throb beneath his ribs with every breath. Just the weight of mail he hadn't bothered to shed yet, still bearing the afternoon's sweat and dust.
The banquet, he thought, scowling.
Lord Castellan Morrow had made it clear, through three separate messengers, that his presence was expected at the celebration feast. That the competitors were guests of honor. That it would reflect poorly on a man of his standing to absent himself.
Bucky's standing, such as it was, had survived worse reflections.
So he just kept walking.
The city proper closed around him as he left the tournament grounds. Cobblestones replacing mud, the noise changing from open-air echo to the compressed warmth of torchlit streets.
Wintermouth at night had a specific smell: woodsmoke and river damp. He knew these streets well enough to navigate them half-asleep, which was approximately his current condition.
A pair of knights from the eastern circuit fell into step beside him for a while, their breath wine-sweet and celebratory, clapping him on the shoulder with the camaraderie of men who hadn't taken a shield to the ribs. He felt the impact reverberate down through the bruise, sharp enough that his vision whited at the edges.
"Hell of a final bout, Barnes."
"Could've taken him," the other offered generously. "Aldric fights dirty."
"Aldric fights to win," he said, which was the only response that was both true and didn't require him to have feelings about it. His voice came out rough, abraded by thirst and the dust he'd swallowed every time he'd hit the ground.
They took the hint, or something close enough to it, and peeled off toward the sound of music spilling from an open tavern door, lute strings and off-key singing and the particular roar of men determined to enjoy themselves.
The next interruption came two streets later, in the form of two scarcely clothed women leaning against the warm stone of a bakehouse wall, still radiating the day's stored heat.
Their exposed skin gleamed amber in the torchlight, deliberate and inviting. They tracked him with the experience of people who had learned to read a man's evening prospects at a glance.
"Sir Knight," one called, with a smile that had worked on better men than him. Her voice was honey-slow, practiced. "Shame to spend a victory night alone."
"First runner-up," he said, without stopping. The mail clinked with each step, a sound he'd long stopped hearing.
"Close enough."
It wasn't, but he didn't have the energy to explain the difference. He kept walking.
The maester caught him at the corner of Chandler's Row. Plump, earnest, clutching a satchel of medicines with both hands as it might escape. His robes were too clean, his face unlined. Fresh from the Citadel, probably. Still believed healing mattered more than politics.
"Sir Barnes." He was slightly out of breath, which suggested he'd been following for a while, trying to work up the nerve to address him. "Lord Castellan Morrow sends his regards and requests that you allow me to examine your injuries before the feast-"
"I'm not going to the feast."
A pause. The maester's throat worked. "He anticipated you might say that. He asked me to convey that your attendance is-"
"How's your handwriting?" Bucky interrupted.
The man blinked. "My- adequate, ser. Why?"
"Good." Bucky stopped walking, turned just enough to face him properly. Watched the maester straighten reflexively under the attention. "Here's what happened: you found me three streets back, examined me thoroughly despite my objections, and determined I've got at least two cracked ribs and a possible concussion. You ordered me to bed with strict instructions not to drink, feast, or make any sudden movements for the next three days."
He held the maester's wide-eyed stare. "Your professional opinion is that my attendance at tonight's festivities would be, and I'm quoting you here, 'medically inadvisable and potentially dangerous to Sir Barnes's recovery.'"
The maester's mouth opened. Closed. His gaze flickered down to Bucky's left side, where he'd been favoring it, where the mail sat wrong.
"You..." The man's voice was uncertain. "You do likely have cracked ribs, ser."
"There you go. Not even a lie." Bucky's smile was brief and sharp. "You write that up for your Lord, attach your seal to it, and you've done your duty. He gets his excuse in writing, you get to have actually helped someone today, and I get to go home. Everyone wins."
He could see the man working through it, the truth of the injury versus the falseness of the examination, the political cover versus the medical accuracy.
"I... suppose that would be acceptable," the maester said slowly. Then, with a hint of spine Bucky hadn't expected: "But you should let me examine you properly. Cracked ribs can shift, puncture-"
"I've had worse."
"That's not the reassurance you think it is, ser."
Despite everything -the ache and the exhaustion- Bucky felt something in his chest. Not quite a laugh, but close enough.
"Tomorrow," he offered, and meant it more than he'd meant most things today. "You can poke at me all you want tomorrow."
The maester nodded, satisfied or at least willing to accept the compromise. "I'll have the letter sent within the hour."
"Appreciated."
----
His lodgings were modest by deliberate choice. A single room above a cooper's workshop on the quieter end of the merchant quarter, rented by the week during tournament season. No servants' quarters. No one to report his comings and goings to anyone who might have opinions about them.
This had its advantages.
He catalogued the disadvantages the moment he stepped inside and faced the cold hearth, his breath still misting in the chill air.
Right.
He set the heavy tournament satchel down with a dull thump, rolled his left shoulder experimentally -the socket grinding in a way that spoke of old breaks poorly healed- and decided that feeling was overrated.
The fire wasn't going to light itself. The armor wasn't going to unlace itself. The evening was shaping up to be a prolonged exercise in doing everything the hard way, which was, at this point, so consistent as to be almost comforting.
Almost.
He got the fire started on the third attempt. The tinder was damp, -because of course it was- and then stood in its growing warmth and began the specific misery of removing plate armor without assistance.
The tabard first, then the gorget, useful as it was, he hated the damn thing; removing it felt like relief. Then the pauldrons, working the straps with fingers that were more cooperative on the right side than the left.
The scarring along his left forearm pulled when he reached a certain angle, the old tissue going taut. It always did. He'd stopped noticing it the way you stopped noticing a crack in a familiar wall; it was simply part of the room now.
The breastplate hit the floor with a sound like an argument ending, the impact reverberating through the floorboards.
There.
What remained was a man in a sweat-dampened gambeson with a bruised ribcage, a mild headache, and absolutely no interest in examining either. The padded underarmor clung to him, cold now that the mail was gone, the fabric stiff with salt and exertion.
He took off the gambeson and dragged the wooden chest from his satchel, the one the tournament steward had pressed into his hands with excessive ceremony, and set it beside the fire. The brass fittings caught the light, over-polished. Performative.
The lock was simple. Inside: coin, as expected. A satisfying weight of silver stacked in neat columns, some gold beneath. He'd need it. The estate his father had left him was four walls and a burned-out shell, courtesy of the same people who took him hostage and left their mark on his arm.
Rebuilding wasn't cheap. Timber, thatch, labor, it all required the kind of funds you didn't earn through valor or skill, just the slow accumulation of tournament prizes and some service contracts.
Glory didn't buy roofing.
He picked up a brooch set with garnets -gaudy, impractical, the kind of thing you pinned to a cloak if you wanted to be robbed- and looked at it for a moment. The stones were decent quality, at least. It would fetch a reasonable price from the right jeweler.
He set it aside with the others. A necklace of amber. A pair of silver clasps. All destined for the same fate: the jeweler's scale, melted down or pried out and reset for someone who actually wanted them.
He had no use for adornments. He wasn’t fond of them, as most of the nobility, and also, he had no one to give them to.
The war had seen to that.
He reached back into the chest, fingers brushing past velvet pouches, and found something else.
A ring. Silver, heavier than it looked. He drew it out into the firelight and turned it between his fingers. The stone was a ruby, deep red, cut into the shape of a star.
He stared at it.
Red stars on grey and black.
His colors.
He turned it slowly, watching firelight slide across the facets. The star was crude, the points uneven, the kind of work you got from a jeweler with more ambition than skill. It was, objectively, the ugliest ring he had ever seen. Garish. The sort of thing a merchant's son wore to his first banquet, desperate to prove he belonged.
Bucky, who wore his father's signet ring only on scarce occasions because selling it felt wrong, even if the man was never a paragon of paternal love, felt the particular pull of a terrible idea.
Just to see if it fits.
It was small for his right hand, so he tried the left, mostly out of stubbornness… and it slid on. The fit was perfect. Uncannily so, as though it had been sized for exactly this finger, accounting for the slight deviation where the bone had set wrong.
The ruby flared.
Not like firelight reflecting, but light from within, red and sharp and pointed, like something had woken up inside the stone and found him looking.
The ring burned. Seared against his skin, hot enough that he felt it in his teeth, a bright line of pain circling his finger.
What-
He grabbed for it with his right hand, trying to twist it off, but his fingers passed through something that wasn't air and wasn't quite resistance.
The room tilted.
No. The room disappeared.
The fire went first, snuffed like a candle, leaving no smoke, no ember-glow. Then the chest, the coins. The ceiling with its water-stained beams. The floor beneath his feet.
All of it went, between one breath and the next, and what replaced it was falling.
His stomach lurched, and the burning in his finger became the only solid thing in a world that had stopped being solid.
He tried to breathe and couldn't find air.
The darkness swallowed him whole and the last thing he registered, distant, wrong, was the smell of plants and humidity.
Then nothing.
----
She stood on the sidewalk in front of The Sweet Briar with her hand buried to the wrist in her purse, fingers closing around lipstick, a crumpled handkerchief, what felt like a receipt that she really ought to throw away, and absolutely nothing key-shaped.
The morning was grey and cool for early spring, the kind of damp that sank into your coat and stayed there. The street was quiet, too early yet for the lunch crowd, the shops on either side still dark. A truck rumbled past, leaving the smell of diesel and wet pavement in its wake.
Just when she thought she might have actually forgotten the keys -left them on the kitchen counter next to the bread box, maybe, or in yesterday's coat pocket- her fingers finally closed around the key ring at the very bottom of the purse, underneath everything else, because of course they were.
The lock stuck.
She jiggled it once, patiently, the same way she had jiggled this exact lock approximately four hundred times and had not yet called the locksmith, because she only ever remembered the lock was broken when she was standing directly in front of it, key in hand, and by the time she got inside she'd forgotten again.
The metal resisted, then gave with a sound like a small complaint. She pushed inside.
The front of the shop was an obstacle course.
Mr. Thomson from the supply house had delivered very late yesterday afternoon, because apparently a union picket line two blocks east had backed up half the city's delivery routes. By closing time, she didn’t have the energy to do anything about the results: buckets of early flowers stacked three deep against the counter, their blooms still tight-furled and smelling faintly of earth.
Two flats of fern she hadn't priced yet, the fronds already drooping from a day out of soil. A box of wire and ribbon spools that had no business being in the middle of the floor but was there anyway, and somewhere underneath all of it, allegedly, the new ceramic pots she'd ordered in February and assumed were lost.
She picked her way through it with careful steps, her heels clicking against the wood floor, and made it to the back without incident.
The stockroom was small and currently in a state that she chose to call organized chaos and not a problem she had to solve today.
More deliveries back here too: boxes stacked along the left wall, the worktable barely visible under brown paper wrapping and tissue. The air smelled like potting soil and the green, living scent of the spider plants hanging near the window, their runners brushing the top of a stack of terra cotta. She reached up and pulled the cord on the single overhead bulb.
The light swung once, twice, and settled.
She saw the legs first.
Long legs, stretched across the floor between a toppled flat of begonias and the base of the shelving unit, attached to a man who was very much present and very much not conscious, sprawled at an angle that suggested he had not chosen to be on the floor so much as arrived there.
Her breath stopped.
For one crystalline second, her brain refused to process what she was seeing -legs, boots, a body where no body should be- and then her heart kicked hard against her chest.
There was a man. In her stockroom. On the floor.
He'd taken out a good portion of the new stock on his way down. The begonias were scattered, soil spilled across the floorboards in dark trails. A ceramic pot in sage green -the one she'd specifically ordered and waited two months for- was in three neat pieces beside his left arm. The pothos she'd been propagating had been knocked from its perch; the vines lay crushed beneath his shoulder.
She stood very still for a moment, one hand still on the light cord, the other pressed flat against her chest where her heart was trying to break through.
He wasn't moving.
His chest was -she watched for a second, barely breathing herself- yes, his chest was moving. Shallow, but steady.
So. Not dead.
She still hadn't decided if that was good or bad.
Her gaze darted to the back door: still closed, the bolt still thrown from the inside. The window was latched. No broken glass. No signs of forced entry.
So how-?
Her hand moved without conscious thought, reaching back toward the worktable, fingers closing around the wooden handle of a trowel. Not much of a weapon, but the edge was solid steel, the point designed for breaking hard soil. It would do.
She took a step closer, the trowel held low at her side, ready to strike.
His clothing was strange. The shirt was wrong, off-white and loose, the kind of fabric that looked hand-woven, rough in a way she couldn’t describe. The collar was laced instead of buttoned, the ties loose and askew.
The trousers were the same, tucked into boots that had absolutely no business existing in 1955: tall, dark leather, worn in the way that took years and hard use, not a factory.
Over all of it, a belt of heavy leather, studded and wide. And attached to it, running down each thigh -she tilted her head slightly- what appeared to be straps, buckled and reinforced, holding padded cushioned sheaths flat against his legs.
Like something out of a medieval fair, except those fairs didn't come through this city, and even if they did, the participants didn't break into a flower shop in full costume and collapse on the begonias.
She took another step closer, careful to avoid the broken ceramic.
His face was-
Well.
A face that had seen better days was her first thought, and her second was that even roughed up as he was, it was a remarkable face to have stumbled into her stockroom.
Strong jaw, straight nose, the kind of bone structure you saw in magazine advertisements for razors or cologne, the ones that made you look twice even when you weren't in the market.
A bruise was already darkening along his left cheekbone, deep purple spreading toward his temple. There was a cut above his brow that had bled and dried, the blood a rust-brown line trailing toward his hairline.
The beard was a few days past deliberate.
And the hair -she paused on that- dark brown, long enough to brush his shoulders, pushed back from his face and thoroughly disordered, tangled with mud and sweat.
It was long for a man. Longer than any man she'd seen outside of a history book or painting.
She straightened up slowly, the trowel still in her hand.
Alright, she thought, forcing her breathing to steady. Think.
Option one: he was a vagrant who'd somehow gotten through a locked door -the damn lock, God help her- and passed out on her stock.
Possible. Unlikely, given the boots alone probably cost more than her monthly rent, but possible.
Option two: he was a veteran. There were men, she knew -the whole city knew, even if nobody said it plainly- who hadn't come back from the war quite right in the head.
Shell-shock, they'd called it in the first war. Combat fatigue now, as if giving it a softer name made it easier to carry.
Except that didn't explain the kind of clothes.
Option three: he'd gotten blind drunk somewhere in the vicinity, wandered in through a door she knew she'd locked, and the outfit was theatrical. A costume. There was a theatre district six blocks south. Strange things happened near the theatre districts. Actors were weird.
Except that the door had been locked. And bolted.
She looked down at him again.
At the slow rise and fall of his chest. At the ring on his left hand, silver with a red stone that caught the light strangely, still faintly warm-looking even in the dim stockroom.
At the begonias, crushed beyond saving.
The telephone was on the opposite wall. She edged past him, keeping the trowel between them out of some vague instinct that felt less vague with every step. Her heel caught on a scatter of soil, and she steadied herself against the doorframe, not taking her eyes off him.
He still wasn't moving.
She picked up the receiver with her free hand, the trowel still raised in the other, and dialed zero, the rotary clicking back into place.
The line hummed and returned a busy signal.
Dammit.
She clicked the hook and tried again, her gaze locked on the sprawled figure.
Busy. Again. It was a challenge to get to an operator these last few weeks. It was the third time this month she needed to make a call, and the lines were occupied.
She leaned her hip against the wall and tried a fourth time, watching him over her shoulder out of an abundance of caution that was starting to feel less abundant and more barely sufficient.
Okay. If she could just get through to the operator, get a squad car over here -or an ambulance, depending on what exactly was wrong with him- she could have this sorted before her first customer arrived at nine. It was a reasonable plan. It was perfectly reasonable-
The fifth attempt produced a busy signal and also, from somewhere behind her, a sound. The distinct scrape of ceramic against concrete, and then a longer drag, like weight shifting.
Her breath caught.
She turned around slowly, the receiver still pressed to her ear, the busy signal droning against her brain.
He was sitting up, propped on one hand with the other braced against the shelving unit, head bowed forward like it weighed too much to lift. The dark hair fell across his face in tangled strands. His shoulders rose and fell with breaths that looked like they hurt.
She didn't move. Her fingers tightened around the trowel handle until the wood bit into her palm.
For a moment he just sat there, motionless except for the breathing. Then his head lifted slowly, and he blinked at the stockroom with the heavy, confused expression of a man whose surroundings were not what he'd been expecting.
His gaze tracked left: shelves, boxes, the window with its spider plants. Right: more shelves, the worktable, the spilled soil.
Then his eyes found her.
A nice pair of steel blue eyes.
That was the completely irrelevant thing her brain produced, and she hated that it did, because those steel blue eyes were currently fixed on her with a frown that was more baffled than threatening, but he was large.
She could see that now, even sitting down he had the kind of shoulders that spoke of labor or violence or both- and he was between her and the back door, and she did not know him, and she was alone, and-
Her mind didn't finish the thought. She crossed the distance between them in three steps, raised the spade, and swung.
She didn't account for his reflexes.
One moment she was bringing the flat of the blade down toward his head, and the next, her wrist was caught mid-arc in a grip like iron, the world tilted sideways, and she was on her back on the stockroom floor with approximately two hundred twenty pounds of confused stranger pinning her there.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs. Her shoulders hit concrete, her head just barely missing the leg of the worktable. The trowel clattered away, skittering across the floor into the scattered soil.
He'd moved fast. Too fast for someone who'd been unconscious thirty seconds ago. Too fast for someone who'd struggled to sit up.
His hand was still locked around her wrist, holding it flat against the floor above her head. His other forearm was braced beside her shoulder. His knee was between hers, his weight distributed in a way that kept her pinned without crushing her, like this was something he'd done before. Many times before, in fact.
When she pulled at her wrist -once, testing, her breath coming in sharp gasps- he simply held it, not tightening, not letting go, like the question of her leaving hadn't seriously occurred to him as a variable.
Her heart was hammering so hard she could feel it in her throat, behind her eyes. She could smell him: leather and sweat and something else, something like smoke and metal and old wool.
She could count his eyelashes.
The blue eyes she'd noticed before were a lot more striking at this distance, and a lot less groggy. Whatever fog had been in them when he'd first sat up had burned off fast into something sharp and assessing.
He was looking at her the way she imagined soldiers looked at enemies in the dark. His chest rose and fell against hers with each breath. She could feel the heat of him through her blouse, through his strange linen shirt.
Get off get off get off-
She opened her mouth to scream, to say something, to demand he let her go-
And then he lowered his face toward hers by one deliberate inch, eyes narrowing and demanded, low and very even:
Summary: Bucky has reasons for keeping you at a distance. Very good reasons. But the best reasons seem irrelevant in the face of change. 18+ (Multi chapter)
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Dark themes. Unrequited love, a dusting of angst, description of gore, death, mentions of torture. Foul language in places. Explicit consent. Explicit scenes. Adult themes.
A/N: It’s a bit dark, this one. It just ran away with me. Breaking it up in a few chapters as it’s a bit long.
Summary: Bucky has reasons for keeping you at a distance. Very good reasons. But the best reasons seem irrelevant in the face of change. 18+ (Multi chapter)
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Dark themes. Unrequited love, a dusting of angst, description of gore, death, mentions of torture. Foul language in places. Explicit consent. Explicit scenes. Adult themes.
A/N: It’s a bit dark, this one. It just ran away with me. Breaking it up in a few chapters as it’s a bit long.
Crossposted on Wattpad
-----------------------------
Epilogue
Bucky watches you from the doorway. Your body’s still recovering, he knows, because he knows how you moved before, without stutters and pauses. He swore off you not too long ago. But Taylor flipped a switch in him, and he… monitored him. Trying to make sure you were alright. He remembers how he felt when he found out.
How every doubt was erased by the sheer fear of losing you. How he was hanging on by a thread until he kicked in that door and his eyes landed on you.
He remembers how in hospital you were calling out for him, when you found your voice again. When the nurses first told him he didn’t believe it. But then when he was sitting with you, he witnessed it himself. And the fact that you had feelings for him. That they were the same as his for you.
Made him rethink. About how maybe he was wrong to seal his emotions away. See that he was given a second chance. And that he would be an absolute idiot for not taking that chance.
He looks at you, as you’re putting the dough in a bowl and drape a towel over it. He steps closer to you, snakes his arms around your waist and pulls you back into his chest. You sigh and place your hands over his, your neck tilting to the side in an offer and his lips find your skin.
Bucky loves that he can do that now. Touch you. Kiss you. Be with you.
He loves that he can love you. In the quiet little ways.
“What are you making?” he asks.
“Attempting bread, again,” you breathe.
You’re a good cook, he’ll give you that, but a baker you are not. And yet, you refuse to let the non-cooperation of yeast defeat you. It’s your twelfth attempt, none of the previous ones have risen. You made sure to separate the salt from the yeast and yet. And yet you were disappointed every time the dough didn’t rise. No air bubbles. No lightness. Instead, stodgy “bricks”, as you called them.
“It’ll work this time,” he murmurs, then he turns you in his arms. Looks at you for a moment. You look happy. He will never get over how you look at him now. Openly loving him. No more distance.
“I have news,” he starts carefully. “They found Mikky.”
He can feel you tense under his fingertips. “Looks like someone got to him hours before we did and… did a little revenge number on him.”
He watches the words sink in.
You nod. Then swallow. “Is he dead?”
“Very. I saw pictures.”
You nod again.
Bucky waits and runs his hands slowly up your arms. You need another moment to gather your thoughts.
“Good,” you say eventually.
Then you take a breath. “What do you want for dinner?”
“There’s more.”
You hesitate. He hastens to soothe you with his touch. “Nothing bad. It’s just… They accepted my resignation. So I’m all yours now. If you want.”
To his surprise, no one even thought about asking him to return his enhanced arm. In fact, they were adamant that lifetime tech support for it was put in place. He is… free. You both are.
Bucky doesn’t realise he’s been holding his breath, until you say: “I don’t want anyone else.”
You lean up to him and your lips meet.
He pulls away a fraction. “So for dinner… I have an idea.”
The corner of his lips pulls up and he swallows your laugh with his mouth when he lifts you onto the kitchen counter, hands sliding under your top already.
Summary: Bucky has reasons for keeping you at a distance. Very good reasons. But the best reasons seem irrelevant in the face of change. 18+ (Multi chapter)
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Dark themes. Unrequited love, a dusting of angst, description of gore, death, mentions of torture. Foul language in places. Explicit consent. Explicit scenes. Adult themes.
A/N: It’s a bit dark, this one. It just ran away with me. Breaking it up in a few chapters as it’s a bit long.
Crossposted on Wattpad
_______________________
Three
Bucky stays. He parked his car in the carport, because the snow started coming down hard and hasn’t let up in a few days. He’s busy fitting a catflap in the side door that, according to him, won’t make the place draughty. You attend your therapy session remotely, comfortable on the sofa, a fire crackling in the hearth.
You’re making progress. There are set backs, as expected. Healing is not linear and it gives you hope. You have never really known how important hope is. Even though there’s still so much to unpack. To revisit. To relive.
It’s a new therapist, not paid by S.H.I.E.L.D.. You don’t have to lie, or pretend. Not anymore. You’ve already lost your job. The payout was not to be frowned upon. You know it was to buy your compliance to not sue them over Taylor. Not that you can go on a lifelong holiday to some tropical luxury island, but you won’t have to choose between being warm or having food and that’s more than a lot of people have.
Physically, you’re as recovered as you can be, considering the injuries you sustained. There’s some irreversible damage, and you’re coming round to accept it. The world is not the same as before, but the colour is starting to seep back in, here and there. Bucky’s brought a whole palette full, it seems. And he’s only been here for a few days.
The cabin’s small, with just one bedroom, so he’s on the couch at night. Though you find him on the floor every morning.
It’s almost… domestic. You start on dinner when your session’s over, whilst he puts the tools away and tries to coax the cats to come try out their new entrance. Eventually, cat treats do the trick and he smiles up at you when they test out their new freedom.
Being around Bucky is surprisingly easy. He’s spent most of his time fixing things and you know it’s because he’s a man of few words. And really, what is there to say? What could he say? ‘Sorry this shit happened to you? Much worse stuff happened to me?’ Words can’t undo what happened. Can’t talk it away, make it better. But your therapist insists on ‘name it to tame it’. Sometimes, however, it’s just too much.
With Bucky, you can move in silence.
Words are like… seeds. They fall onto the vastness of your mind and then it seems as if nothing happens, you feel a little bit lighter when they’re out there. But then the seeds take root and start to grow – and you have no control over what they develop into. Flowers or weeds. It’s weeds most of the time. And they grow quickly and take over, cover everything else, threatening to smother and suffocate the beauty you reclaimed.
So you rather not talk. Therapy is exhausting as it is. At least you don’t have to deal with the feelings your words evoke in an interlocutor. Because your shrink is trained to not react. Ordinary people aren’t. And you can’t deal with their shock, disgust, pity, grief, horror, or whatever other emotions. It’s enough to have to learn how to recognise and deal with yours.
Bucky’s not chatty. His grumpiness is comfortingly normal. The only difference, really, is the way he looks at you, openly. Because now you know. His eyes are warm and there’s something shining in them. Whatever it is, it’s safe. And that’s all you need right now.
After dinner, he sits on the sofa in front of the fire, arm slung over the back, feet resting on the coffee table. He looks relaxed. You put another log on and turn. You could sit back in your chair, but instead, you sit down next to him. His arm moves around your shoulder, guiding you towards him, and it feels natural to follow and mold into his side. Not two minutes later, one of your cats jumps onto his legs, starts making biscuits, purring and then curls up on his lap.
And as you sit there with Bucky’s arm around you, his warmth pressing into your side, you understand what your therapist meant when she said the right company can heal, too. Your head feels heavy, so you rest it on Bucky’s chest. You can feel him stroke your hair.
*****
The nightshirt is drenched with sweat as you peel it off and toss it in the laundry basket, along with the bedsheets. The cold night air makes your skin break out in goosebumps as you wait for the shower to warm up. The hot spray washes away the sweat and most of the nightmare.
Bucky’s there, leaning against the wall, when you open the bathroom door. You stop, look at him. His eyes sweep your face, then lock with yours. He pushes off the wall and takes a step forward, offering comfort. You take it and sink into his embrace. His arms wrap around you, his heartbeat steady under your cheek feels real, comforting. You’re safe.
It’s only when he starts rubbing your back and murmurs soothing words into your hair that you notice you’re crying. You stay like that for a long time, him just holding you, in the doorway of the bathroom. An inbetween space.
This repeats several times over the next few days. You wake up with a nightmare and each time, he’s there, waiting outside the bathroom. Sometimes it takes you longer to open that door than others. But he’s there. Each time. Waiting. Offering comfort.
You push at his chest and he immediately releases you. But you only pull back to look up at him.
“Make it good again, please,” you beg.
His eyes hold so many questions.
“I can feel them still,” you explain, “My body… I need… gentle touch.”
You don’t know if it makes any sense at all, but that’s all the explanation you can give at this moment. Bucky, however, seems to understand.
He takes your hand and walks you to your bedroom. He leaves the door open and the light on, because he knows. He sits at the end of your bed and waits until your hands undo the knot of your dressing gown and you step to him. His legs open to let you stand between his knees. You place your hands on his shoulders. His eyes are on yours, the entire time.
You nod. And only then do his eyes wander down your naked body. If he’s appalled by what he sees, he doesn’t show it. Not one flinch, not one tick in the jaw. His hands land on your waist, warm and safe, before he pulls you in and he rests his head in the space between your breasts. You can feel his hot breath puffing against your skin. Then he tilts his head up a fraction, enough so that his lips now touch your skin. It’s got the right kind of weight, his touch. It’s not featherlight and it’s not careless. It’s firm, but tender, so tender.
His fingers trace the map of scars on your body – the visible and the invisible ones – before his mouth follows the same path. You watch his every move, as he looks up at you, ever so often, checking in. He touches and kisses scars you haven’t even mustered up the courage to touch yourself yet. At some point, your hands fall into his hair, running your fingers through his strands, letting him know what is okay, warning him with a scrape of your nails when you struggle.
He’s incredibly responsive to your reactions, his ministrations careful. He touches and kisses every inch of your torso, all the way up from your fingers to your shoulders, along the collar bone. Then he gently turns you around. You tense, but his fingers interlace with yours. He kisses it away. With the utmost care and near worship.
Then he moves. Guides you to sit on the edge of the bed and he’s on his knees in front of you. Palm around your ankle, eyes on yours, checking in, constantly. He slides his fingers along your calf, his lips follow. Making sure to erase every violent touch with a gentle one and to sear it into your skin’s memory with a kiss.
You take his hand when he reaches the top of your thigh. He stops immediately. But your hands find his t-shirt and tug on it. He helps to pull it off. There’s a map on his body, too. Much, much more violent than yours. The deep ridge between the skin of his shoulder and the metal of his arm is where your fingers start to trace, just like he did.
You look at him, before you lean forward and kiss the scars you just touched. There’s a sharp intake of breath, you move to stop, but his fingers curl around your upper arms, holding you in place, not pushing you away. So you continue. It draws a shaky breath from him.
At some point you move to lie on the bed, Bucky rolls to hover above you, fingers and lips caressing your throat. You can feel the effect this has on him pressed against your thigh. But he doesn’t push, just keeps replacing the bad memories with good ones.
Your hands frame his face as you pull him from your throat. And you stare into his eyes.
“Can I kiss you? On the mouth?”
He nods.
You lift your head, your fingers tracing his lips before you brush your mouth against his. It’s slow, careful. His eyes are hooded and dark when you pull back.
“Can I kiss you back?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yes.”
He takes his time, thumb working over your lips, pushing the plump pillows apart. His fingernail catches on your teeth, you open your mouth, let your tongue swipe across the pad of his thumb.
His pupils dilate. Then he lowers his head.
His kiss is not like yours. His is intense, tongue in your mouth, sliding against yours. He tastes of crumbling restraint. He drinks up the moan that makes its way up your throat and answers it with his own.
“Bucky,” you whisper against his lips. “Please.”
He pulls away, just enough to look into your eyes. His breathing is heavy now. “Is this a good idea?”
He immediately follows it up: “I just… I don’t want to overwhelm you. This is a lot for you right now.”
You know he’s right. You need to give yourself time to adjust to this.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“Anything, sweetheart,” he says and presses a kiss onto your hairline.
He wraps you in his arms, pulls the cover over you both and you lie in the light of the bedside table lamp. His hand plays with your hair, the other covers the hand you place on his chest. His thumb slowly rubbing back and forth on the back of your hand. You can feel his heart thump under your hand, your head gently rises and falls in line with his breathing. You feel safe. And warm. Loved.
*****
Bucky now sleeps in your bed every night. His kisses slowly but surely make your body unlearn to expect violence and teach it tenderness and gentle touch instead. Of course the nightmares are still there. But because he’s here, because you feel his warm body next to yours, they seem to lose their power over you. He holds your tense body, reminds you that you are safe now and that your brain is simply replaying a memory, trying to understand and make sense of the torture you were subjected to.
During the day, Bucky fixes up the cabin. Sometimes you think he’s fixing things that are working perfectly fine. But you realise quickly it is his way of coping with things. With what happened to you.
Nearly two weeks after Bucky spent his first night in your bed, Dale comes to check in on you. You introduce them and can’t help but feel fatherly tension descend upon Dale’s shoulders. When you come back with the tool he’s asked to borrow, both men are standing there, arms crossed in front of their chests.
Dale leaves with a quick thank you and a look at Bucky. When the door closes behind him you turn to Bucky.
“Please tell me you guys didn’t threaten each other.”
Bucky smirks. “We didn’t. Just had a chat, from caring neighbour to...” He hesitates, looks at you, not sure what word to use for whatever it is that is between you. “...more than friend?”
It’s tentative and vulnerable. You close the distance between you, take his head in your hands and press your lips firmly on his. His breathing stutters and his pupils are blown out when you break the kiss.
“Lover,” you say and he comes in for another kiss, hands holding you as if he’s afraid you’ll slip away.
It’s later that day, you’re watching the logs in the fire burn to white ash, when his arm curls around your shoulders, pulling you into his side.
“I thought I’d lost you,” he starts. “Taylor came back from the rescue ops and was so damn smug. Unbearable. But I had no evidence. He’d wiped the body cam, claimed there was interferences in the complex. I went through every agent’s footage. He made just one tiny mistake. He liked to brag. It was caught on someone’s camera, when he thought it was all off. So… I came. Hoped I wasn’t too late. Thankfully wasn’t.”
You listen to him, ask no questions, don’t look at him, just let him speak. Your hand on his chest, his heart beating fast under your fingertips.
“It’s one thing that things happened to me,” he says after a long outbreath. “But to see what they did to you? Almost made me wish for the Winter Soldier program back.”
You let the words swirl in the room, like snowflakes, then settle. “So you wouldn’t be affected?”
“I was plenty affected, even as the Winter Soldier. Difference was back then I had handlers that would keep me in check, so it was either showing unquestionable compliance or excruciating pain. No,” he caresses your cheek, “the Winter Soldier would have taken him down. I didn’t. Didn’t even arrest him. Couldn’t. Would have killed him. And that would have been your right. Sorry that he was killed in prison and this was taken from you.”
One of the first things you learnt in therapy was to ground yourself. To make sure you don’t dissociate and stay in the moment, reminding yourself that you are safe now. So you do the breathing you were taught, you activate all your senses. It takes a moment, but you need to do this, before you can talk.
“I wouldn’t have killed him.”
Bucky looks at you, surprised. “You wouldn’t?”
You shake your head. “He betrayed me, true. He dishonoured the code, true. For whatever fucked up reason, he left me there to rot in hell. Fine. I thought I might want to kill Mikky though. And this sounds insane, but it’s not because of what he did to me. It’s what he did to my comrades. These were my colleagues, my friends. He stole them from their families, stole their dreams and opportunities. I wanted revenge for them.”
Bucky nods.
“But I can’t let myself want that. Because he was so… he is such a monster. Not inhumane or even an animal. No animal behaves like that. He enjoyed it all. Every second of it. It got him off. He chose this. No one made him. He actively chose to harm other human beings for a job. And that is such a weak choice, violence. He’s a monster… and I am a human. If I go for revenge he will win. Because he’ll have turned me into him. And he took so much from me, but I will not let him take my humanity from me, too. So,” you turn to look at Bucky, “I hope they will find him and deal with him. I hope this, because I don’t want him to do this to anyone else anymore. But I don’t care about him. Or about Taylor. But I care about you.”
You sit up a bit, your fingers drawing circles on Bucky’s chest. “I don’t think you realise… I…,” you huff in frustration for not finding the right words. “Thank you. For choosing me.”
It seems to hit a nerve in him, because for a moment he looks absolutely dumbfounded. Then his eyes well up. You’ve never seen Bucky cry, or laugh out loud even, for that matter. He, too, seems tongue tied and instead lets actions speak.
His lips are on yours, hands under your shirt. It’s desperate, as if he needs to assure himself that you’re here, safe, with him.
With a quick movement you straddle his lap and his hands are on your back. He tugs on your top and you pull over your head. His presses hot, open mouthed kisses onto your sternum and collarbone as you arch into him, head rolling back. His hands slide under the elastic of your bra, hands cupping your breasts, thumbs stroking over your nipples, both pebbling at his touch. Your hips roll forward and his up into yours, making you feel his arousal as he presses against your core. He pushes the fabric up over your mounds and when his lips close around the areola of your left breast, you fall forward, hands in his hair, keeping him in place.
“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asks, breathing raggedly.
You nod. “Yes, please.”
“Are you sure?” he’s shaking with restraint.
Your hand comes up to cup his face. “Bucky. I am begging you to make love to me. I wouldn’t, if I didn’t feel safe, or absolutely sure that this is the right thing. I want to feel you. All of you. If you want that, too.”
He kisses you, desperate, all teeth and tongue, then pulls away. “The second you want to stop, you tell me and I’ll stop, promise?”
You nod, whispering against his lips: “I promise.”
He kisses you deeply, before he moves down your throat, to your breasts. He takes a mouthful of your breast, making you gasp. He starts to suck on your nipple, teeth grazing, just enough to let you know they’re there, tongue playing with the hardened bud. His other hand kneads the flesh of your other breast, the metal cool against your skin, and that contrast makes you shiver in delight.
He gives the other breast the same attention, before he looks at you, his lips swollen and moist with saliva.
“Is this okay?”
You nod, running your hands through his hair, before he picks you up and walks you to the bedroom. He places you gently on the mattress, then he trails kisses down your stomach as he tugs off your trousers and underpants along with them. You open the first few buttons of his shirt, hands splaying in his chest. But he kisses your hands, then adjusts his body so he’s now lying between your legs and he spreads you open wide for him. You didn’t think his eyes could become darker, but they do at the sight in front of him.
You know exactly what he sees. There’s no surprise on his face. He’s read the report. But you know it is different reading a description to actually seeing it in real life. But Bucky’s not phased. Instead, there’s just plain hunger and awe. His fingers trail the scars, then he kisses the inside of your thighs, the top of your mound, working his way closer and closer. And you love how he prepares you for the touch that is inevitable.
You hold your breath as he flattens his pink tongue and licks you all the way from your wet slit to your clit. You can feel his moan reverberate on your skin and up through your body, echoed by your own.
“Still okay?” he rasps, locking eyes with you.
“Yes,” you manage. He searches your eyes, before he dives in again. His hands hold you open for him as he feasts on you.
He licks his lips as he breaks away one last time. “Mmh, sweetheart, might lose words soon. If it gets too much, tap me on my shoulder, I’ll stop, okay?”
You nod, trying not to push his head back down. “Okay.”
“Tap,” he reiterates, before his mouth reconnects with your clit.
Electric shocks zap through your body. You keep your eyes on him, no matter how difficult it is to keep them open. His tongue feels amazing, drawing circles, licking, sucking, you’re floating.
“Does that feel good, babe?”
You nod, hazily. His gaze connects with yours as he feasts on you with careful fervency. And that’s all it takes. You fall over the edge into oblivion, fingers tugging on his hair, legs shaking as you moan into the pillow.
He watches as you come down slowly. He wipes his chin on his shoulder.
“Need to feel you, sweetheart. That okay?”
“Mhm,” is all you manage, before you watch him remove his hand from his hold on you and then his finger’s at your entrance, stroking it, wetting his finger with your slick, before he pushes in and out again, his tongue back on your clit.
“‘Nother one,” he murmurs.
The feeling of two digits knuckle deep inside you, pumping in and out of you, curling against that spongy spot and his hot mouth sucking and licking your clit has your hands fisting in his hair once more, tugging on his strands, hard, your whole body quivering, the coil winding tighter and tighter. The sounds are pornographic as he’s eating you out, licking, slurping, his fingers squelching from your wetness, his moans, your gasps.
That’s when the coil snaps and you’re propelled over the edge again. Your eyes flutter close for all but a second, but when you open them you see him watching you, as he slows his ministrations down, letting you ride out your orgasm.
“Was that good for you, babe?”
Your thighs are shaking, you feel like liquid. “That’s a fucking understatement.”
He looks proud. The fact that he’s happy that you’re satisfied, that he’s given this to you, taken care of your needs is sexy as hell.
You tug him up and he complies, kissing his way up your body and settling between your legs, before claiming your mouth in a deep kiss. You can feel his erection through his jeans and your fingers fumble with the button and the zip, tug on his shirt. He breaks the kiss to push down the trousers, before coming back to help you get rid of your clothes. Then he just looks at you, lying under him. You can feel him throbbing hotly against your inner thigh, his precum painting a wet trail onto your skin. Your legs snake around his waist, the movement pulling him in, his tip rubbing against your wet entrance. You both groan softly.
“Bucky, please,” you beg, voice hoarse, “inside, now.”
His hand runs down your torso, over your hip, along your thigh, fingers curling under your knee to pull it up just slightly, then his hand wanders up your thigh a bit and around, taking hold of his cock, aligning it with your pussy. You hold eye contact as his hips tip forward and he sinks into you. The girth of his cock stretches you, just shy of pain. Your hands are on his back, nails biting into his skin as he bottoms out. You’re so full. He lowers his head, lips parted, breath as stuttering as yours, his hair falling around your face like a curtain, closing you off from the world.
It’s just him and you now.
“You okay?”
Warmth spreads through you. “So much more than okay, Bucky.”
His lips drag over yours, tongue moving against yours, just like his hips. His strokes are slow and deep, one hand by your head, the other cupping the flesh of your breast. Like the waves tumbling onto a shore, his hips roll into your body. He adjusts the angle when you rasp and pursues that position that has you dragging your fingers down his back, cupping his ass and pulling him in further. Closer, you need to be closer.
He can sense your impatience, but he’s a determined man. His fingers travel down to where your joined. He coats his fingers in your juices and then rubs your clit. It’s not quite the right pressure, so you adjust his hand. He’s quick to learn and builds you up again.
“With… with me, Bucky,” you stutter breathlessly.
He understands, nods, grits his teeth and sets a faster pace. His eyes find yours. He’s not checking in with words anymore. The coil winds tighter and tighter, his muscles under your hands are tense, shaking. His thrusts are starting to get sloppy and he lifts your left leg onto his shoulder. He’s deeper now and you both moan, his hips stuttering, your walls start to flutter and squeeze around him. You both find release at the same time with quiet gasps, bodies shuddering. His lips find yours and, as you are both still hanging onto the effects of the orgasm, his hands caress your body, soothing, calming, reassuring, reverent.
You’re both breathing raggedly when he breaks the kiss, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, pupils blown, bodies sweaty and sticking together where you touch. You raise your hand to his face, letting your fingers trace over the bridge of his nose, along his brow, down the stubble on his cheekbone, to his lips.
When your eyes meet, there’s an unspoken understanding there. A lightness, a warmth.
Summary: Bucky has reasons for keeping you at a distance. Very good reasons. But the best reasons seem irrelevant in the face of change. 18+ (Multi chapter)
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Dark themes. Unrequited love, a dusting of angst, description of gore, death, mentions of torture. Foul language in places. Explicit consent. Explicit scenes. Adult themes.
A/N: It’s a bit dark, this one. It just ran away with me. Breaking it up in a few chapters as it’s a bit long.
Crossposted on Wattpad
______________________
Two
The dripping pulls you from your state of slumber or unconsciousness, it’s hard to tell apart. All you know is that it’s the only sound now.
Before, the room you were in held the sound of several people’s laboured breathing. But it’s just yours now, you think.
And the dripping.
It’s slow, but constant. Annoying.
Maybe another torture method.
It seems unlike Mikky, though. He’d let something drip onto you. So you’d also feel it. Maximise effect, as he’s explained to you in great detail many times over the past few hours, days perhaps. He’s decided to leave you. For the day or forever, you don’t know.
The memory of Taylor smirking at you and selling you out plays on a loop in your brain. One rerun between each drip.
The door gets kicked open. It creaks at the hinges as it swings back from the wall it hit. A figure steps out of the dust into the light. You know how this goes by heart now. The smirk, the words that will follow.
But this time, he sucks in a sharp breath, then steps closer. Maybe he’s come to finish you off himself. You don’t know, you don’t want to see, so turn your head away, close your eyes.
The hands on you feel strange. They’re… gentle. But maybe it’s a trick, a new tactic. Something snaps, you flinch and pain follows. It takes a moment to realise it’s because blood flows unhindered into your hands again, sending pins and needles through them. The restraints are gone.
Another touch to your face, careful, cool. Your eyes open as far as the swelling allows.
Bucky. You feel his name in your throat and on your tongue, but it never leaves your lips.
It really must be your time to die now. You’ve heard of people with near death experiences, some saw angels, or a bright light, a loved one who’d passed on long before.
You see Bucky in your final moment. Your brain is pulling up a memory you don’t recognise, or maybe concocts a new one. He looks sweaty and dusty, debris on his tac suit, lips in a thin line, jaw set. He’s making quick work of the restraints on your feet.
You like the hallucination. A nice parting gift. A good way to go – not alone. You only hope it stays with you till the very end.
Bucky’s eyes are not just blue, you decide. They’re a stormy sea of grey, pale green and blue. He gets like that on missions. Tight lipped and tense, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Your feet now hurt and he slips his arms around and under you. He’s lifting you up as if you simply were a grocery bag. Your cheek hurts as it is pressed against the rough kevlar of his vest. He’s moving and it makes you queasy, so you close your eyes. The air is cleaner with every step he takes. The stench of blood and death falls away slowly.
You know that hearing is one of the last senses to go when you die. His boots hit a different surface now, no longer concrete. It’s gravel and hard pressed soil, then metal. It’s colder now.
Then you’re lowered onto something soft. Your left hand fists in his vest. Your eyelids are too heavy to open and your throat is aching, too dry to speak. So you tug, once, twice.
He moves away anyways. There are other hands on you now, nasty hands. They feel rubbery, prodding and poking your battered body. Your hands come up to bat them away, frantically, but mid air two big hands catch yours, one warm and calloused, the other cool and smooth. He’s still here.
Everything sounds tinny now, even his voice. You can’t make out what he says, it’s so far away. But the low rumbling of his voice soothes your soul.
This is it, you think. You’re ready to let go.
His fingers rub over your knuckles and your breathing stutters.
*****
You’ve never taken up a lot of space in your life. It’s a survival tactic you learnt a long time ago, first to evade your dad and then the bullies at school.
But just because you’ve been conditioned to think you’re not very valuable as a person, doesn’t mean you don’t love your life. You do.
You have things to live for. The two little purring furballs waiting for you at home, the mountains you love to go hiking in, Mrs Russell from the second floor who roped you into her community garden project. Things that bring you joy. Like music, the theatre, hearing the children of the school just opposite your building at break times in the playground. The feeling of sinking into freshly washed bed sheets that were dried in the sun. The smell of freshly chopped logs. The smell of books. The stars in the night sky. The first sip of coffee in the morning. The smell of the first snow of the season. The sound of a pencil in the sharpener. The wind in your hair when you’re on the summit of a mountain. The sun on your skin on a warm day.
So you fight for those things. Somehow. It’s not like there’s a voice saying “you have to choose: live or die”. There’s no light. No “best bits” reel of your life. Nothing dramatic at all. You just somehow… stay alive.
When you wake up, you feel rather awkward. There are all these people around you. The nurses and doctors seem to constantly check up on you. When one is out the door, the next one comes to prod and poke you. You can just never really… sleep. Which would be hilarious, seeing as they keep on saying you need to rest, rest, rest. Only you’re so very tired, so the joke’s on you. As soon as you drift off, they poke you awake, ask a question or want something. Like “lie on your back, please”, “time for physio”, “how are we feeling today?”, “I just need to draw some more blood”, “I just need to check your temperature/blood pressure/wound”, “hold your arm straight, you’re cutting off the drip”, “let’s see what we’ve ordered for lunch today”, “have we had any bowel movements yet today”.
It goes against your self-preservation instinct to be in the centre of attention. And even though you try to tell yourself that you’re in hospital and nearly kicked the bucket and their attention is necessary for your recovery, it still makes your skin crawl. You’d prefer being at home, in your own bed.
It feels utterly surreal, to be alive. The world is still the same, it’s still turning, the sun rises and sets as if nothing’s ever happened. But everything’s changed, for you. Everything is… louder, brighter... And somehow less relevant. Anger, you notice quickly, is the predominant feeling. You want to be left alone and be able to do what you need to do. Rage, break down, cry, mourn, mend and break all over again.
Apparently, they put you in an artificial coma so you could recover better. You don’t really want to know the details. There’s one thing that is painfully obvious to you the second you wake up: your career as S.H.I.E.L.D. agent is over.
The doctors confirm this, rattling off your injuries and sustained traumas. It’s an incredibly tough pill to swallow. And at the same time, you can’t deny feeling relieved. It makes no sense, not right now. Maybe never.
A few days after you come to, a dude in a tailored black suit and aviator shades visits. You can’t make out the name on his badge but you know it’s S.H.I.E.L.D.. He tells you about this Veteran Connections Programme that “should help you transition back into civilian life”. He leaves a pack of signed forms, a brochure and a card with a name to call. After wishing you a speedy recovery he leaves. Not once does he take off the sunglasses.
It’s maybe a day or two after that encounter that you have another surprise visitor – Bucky.
Turns out you weren’t delusional and he actually did get you out. However, you know you’re delusional to imagine the nurses whispering that he’s been visiting you. Wishful thinking is a curse.
He stands at the end of your bed with his hands in his pockets. This, too, feels surreal. That you’re here, in bed, and he’s over there, looking at you. Or rather staring. Despite everything you’ve experienced, your heart still stumbles in his presence. That surprises you, because it feels… normal. Like a connection to a past version of you that you have now lost.
He doesn’t ask you how you are and you’re grateful, because you would have to lie.
“Sergeant Taylor got a dishonorable discharge last week,” he starts. “He was found dead in his cell yesterday morning. Apparently, he had a little… accident.”
You merely nod. “Not your doing, I hope.”
Bucky looks at his boots. As if to collect himself. “Wanted to, not gonna lie. But that wasn’t up to me. Thought you might want to have a say. Looks like word got round in prison though, and he wasn’t popular for what he did. Sorry you got robbed of that choice.”
Maybe you should feel relief. But there’s just indifference.
“What about… Mikky?”
The leather of his boots softly creaks as he shifts his weight, his Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows thickly.
“We’re following up a lead,” he says carefully.
You don’t want to admit it out loud, but that scares you. That he’s somewhere out there. You’re not worried that he might come back to finish the job. You’re scared he might continue it.
“You’re safe here,” Bucky says as if reading your mind. It sounds soft and gentle.
You fiddle with a thread on the bedsheet and nod. “I know.”
You can feel his gaze on you, hear the creaking of his leather jacket.
“I see you got the visit,” he changes topics, picking up the card the bloke in the shades left.
“Yeah, they didn’t waste time getting rid of me.”
“You can still do a desk job,” Bucky emphasises.
And for a moment, you contemplate it. True, you could do just that. Still have the same company on your paycheck, work behind the scenes for the same purpose. But the thing is, you hate desk jobs. You were never good at it and your strength was in the field. You spent close to two decades perfecting your skills. Plus you would have to go to work in a place where everyone would know what had happened. It would follow you around, cling to you forever, like a shadow. It would make moving on a lot harder, if not impossible.
“I think we both know that visit was their way of discharging me,” you attempt to straighten out a crease in the bedsheet.
“So what are you gonna do now?”
You breathe in, hold it for a beat and release. You have thought about this, even before the visit. The options you had weren’t… exciting. Work in security or surveillance. That would mostly mean night shifts for the former, and staring at a screen in the latter. You weren’t good enough to go teach. Explaining things wasn’t your strength. So what you have come up with is much more scary. Almost as scary as voicing some of it out loud.
“I used to rent a cabin in the woods for my annual leave. I might rent it for a little longer and do some thinking.”
You don’t tell him that you’ve been looking at online classes to retrain. You’re just not certain yet as what.
It takes a moment for his lips to turn up ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth. “Sounds like a good plan.”
Silence settles between you and though Bucky’s still awkwardly looming at the foot of your bed, the quiet feels comfortable.
You break it after a moment. “Thank you for coming to get my team out.”
It means your comrades’ families had bodies to say goodbye to and bury. Dignified. It makes a difference over lowering an empty coffin into a grave.
“You give me too much credit.” It sounds… rough.
You tilt your head up to him.
“How so?”
He looks at you for a long moment, as if debating whether or not to say the next bit. Bucky may have been trained to school his features, but his eyes, you have learnt, are an open book. There’s uncertainty in there, vulnerability, perhaps, and then determination.
“Because I really came for you.”
*****
The smell of freshly cut wood in the snow is your favourite scent. You’re not sure why, but it’s comforting.
“That ought to do you for winter,” your new neighbour says, as he looks at the pile of freshly chopped and neatly stacked firewood now forming a wall on your porch. “And just in time, too.”
“Thanks, Dale. I really appreciate your help,” you pat snowflakes off your coat.
He grins. “No problem. You fixed my generator the other day, so it’s a small repayment.”
You know better than to start a discussion with Dale over whether changing out some copper wiring is the same as chopping wood for over an hour. Because you quickly learnt that Dale and his wife Suz are just as stubborn as they are generous: very.
You watch as he gets in his car and waves when he pulls out of the driveway. They only live a few minutes’ drive away. But a few moments after Dale’s car turns right and disappears down the main road, another car pulls into your lane.
You’ve had a dream about this, many times, in fact. The car pulls up, a black 4x4. A man gets out. Mikky. And you freeze every time in your dream. Can’t move. Can’t do anything but watch as he walks up the steps, saying “ya miss me, sugar?”, before cackling and shoving his knife in your stomach.
You snap out of it, watch the car come down the lane. It’s a black 4x4. You tense, your hand curling around one of the logs from the pile. The snowfall is too dense for you to make out who’s in the car. It stops a few metres from you. You can feel your hands go clammy and your body’s frozen in place.
The engine dies, the door opens and out gets someone that has you exhale in relief and sets your heart racing for a different reason.
Bucky closes the door and walks up to you, stopping at the bottom of the steps of the porch. He just stands there, solid, tall and rugged. Snowflakes dance around him, some of them resting on his hair and coat.
“Hi,” he says. It sounds like they’re the first words he’s spoken today.
Your heart beats in your throat. “Hi.”
There’s a long silence. He gives you time to digest the surprise, but the shuffling of his feet indicates that his patience is limited.
Your mouth opens to ask the question he clearly has anticipated, because he moves slowly up each step of the porch, measured, careful, his body language open and non-threatening, eyes on you the entire time. Then he’s in front of you.
“I got your message.”
His words take you back to that day in the hospital, when he said he had come for you. How he’d looked at you, waited. For something. Anything. You were too shocked to react. His mouth had softened, a corner tilting up into the ghost of a smile. His eyes were full of something. It wasn’t disappointment or hurt, it looked like… understanding and patience. He tugged the corner of the bedsheet straight, before he turned and walked out of that room.
You found your voice, much later. But he was on a mission abroad, you were told. One that might take several months. Despite doubting he’d ever get it, you left him a message – just in case.
Then you packed up your things, coaxed your cats into a carrier, said bye to Mrs Russell on the second floor, gifting her the only plant you’ve ever owned.
It turned out that the owner of the cabin was more than happy to rent it out all year round. You would look for your own place, but you were still recovering, still dealing with the psychological and physical fallout of what happened in that place.
And all this time you’ve been thinking about Bucky. His last words to you.
Most days you manage to talk yourself into believing that he didn’t mean it like that and you misunderstood. Because how could he just come rescue you. Because, well… Natasha.
But there are other days. Days when you can feel that glimmer of hope starting up in your chest, making it ache and yearn.
And now nearly four months later, Bucky’s here.
You blink, then step aside, gesturing to the door. “Come in.”
His hand brushes yours as he walks past. Time slows down. You can see his fingers stretch and curl to reach all of yours in the brief contact. Your heart falters and you could swear, honestly, that his breath stutters at the touch.
He opens the door and you follow him inside, shutting the cold wind out. You take off your boots and hang up your coat, his hand appearing in your peripheral as he reaches for the hook next to yours. It’s a black coat, you notice, down filling, waterproof. It looks big next to yours. Just like his boots on the plastic mat underneath. Snow slowly peels off the leather and slides onto the shoe tray to melt.
He turns to you. He is close, but not close enough to touch. Until he does, slowly, measured. Giving you time to move away or stop him – with words or actions. He knows what it’s like, human touch after the experience you’ve had. It’s… difficult. Conflicting. But you feel safe as you watch his hand reach for you. So you don’t stop him. His fingers curl around your arm, carefully, just above the elbow. His warmth makes you shiver and your eyes flutter shut.
“I got your message,” he says again, voice as careful as his touch.
You turn to fully face him then. Eye contact is difficult, because it exposes you. But his eyes are soft, warm.
His hands hold you firmly, but gently. “I am not with Natasha.”
Your heart clenches in your chest. The sight of your eyes welling up makes him smile. And its beauty steals your breath.
“I never have been, never wanted to. I need you to know and understand this.” A pause. “Do you understand?” It sounds important and genuine and you believe him.
“Yes.” It comes out quiet, raw.
“That night at the bar? Natasha was helping me out. Or trying to.” His hands slowly move up on your arms. “She was trying to help me get to talk to you.”
You blink. Several times. To stop the threatening tears from falling. You fail.
“Talk to me?”
He nods. Takes his time to bring his hand up to your face, to capture a tear drop with his thumb.
“Why?” you whisper.
Bucky shrugs, his finger swiping at your damp skin. “You trust me with your life on missions, I know that.”
You nod.
“Can you trust me with something else, too?” He waits a beat. “Your heart?”
He watches as the words sink in and the hope blossoms and blooms in your chest so quickly, it’s almost embarrassing.
Whatever Bucky’s waiting for, must be written on your face and it’s enough for his shoulders to relax. You only notice now how tense he has been up until just now. And you watch it disappear from his eyes, hear it in his exhale, the relief.
And then he leans in, his forehead touching yours. The fingers of his hand are curled in your hair, gently, but holding you in place, as if he’s afraid you’ll run. Your fingers fist into the fabric of his top, to show him you won’t.
You both stand there, breathing together. You can feel his heart beat under your fingertips, it’s thumping just as quickly as yours.
“I’m damaged,” you choke out eventually.
There’s a long silence, as his fingers hold you a little tighter.
Summary: Bucky has reasons for keeping you at a distance. Very good reasons. But the best reasons seem irrelevant in the face of change. 18+ (Multi chapter)
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Dark themes. Unrequited love, a dusting of angst, description of gore, death, mentions of torture. Foul language in places. Explicit consent. Explicit scenes. Adult themes.
A/N: It’s a bit dark, this one. It just ran away with me. Breaking it up in a few chapters as it’s a bit long.
Crossposted on Wattpad
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One
‘Hell is other people’ is probably Jean-Paul Sarte’s most famous line. It’s from one of the many books you read for your room mate at college. ‘Huis clos’, a play about a toxic, twisted tale of three people stuck in a room together in hell. It’s about unrequited love, jealousy and bitterness. Your room mate had a deep aversion to reading – most ironically – as a literature student, and much preferred writing instead. So you occasionally did her homework for her, in exchange for tokens for the laundromat. Who knew washing clothes on campus could be so expensive?
You can’t help but think about this warped love triangle as you’re perched at the table in the bar. Across from you sits Nat, ranting to Bucky, who is next to you, peeling the label off his sweating beer bottle.
Bucky is Nat’s confidant — a relatively new development — so she’s unloading, post mission. Steve isn’t going easy on her at the moment, seems to hold her to a higher standard than others. You have an inkling as to why. She dragged you along for ‘some fresh air and company’ just as you were about to leave the building.
You wish you were home now. Really anywhere but here. Nat is a wonderful woman and a lovely acquaintance. But friends you are not. It’s just not how life works. She’s an Avenger, you’re not. The fact you’re here is based on a mere coincidence and you’re very aware that this is carefully disguised damage control, rather than the beginnings of a friendship.
Meanwhile, unbeknownst to the Black Widow, Bucky is in love with Nat. He hasn’t ever mentioned it, doesn’t really need to. The way he looks at her says enough.
And Nat… Well, a few weeks ago you stumbled upon Steve and Nat having an uncharacteristically heated argument. One that seemed half a breath away from turning into something entirely different.
You wonder if Bucky knows.
This outing started with Nat asking you very carefully dressed questions to determine just how much exactly you saw and if you told anyone. How you read the situation. You think Nat is probably one of the cleverest people and best fighters you’ve ever met, but you can confidently say that she is stupidly deep in denial about what very clearly is unfolding between her and Steve.
Which leaves… you.
You love Bucky. If Nat was in love with you, that would make the triangle almost Sartresque. Bucky’s oblivious not only to your feelings, but potentially also your existence. You’re nowhere on Bucky’s radar, not even as white noise. Unsurprising, seeing as you’re a ‘redshirt’.
Any Star Trek geek knows that a member of the landing crew from Starship Enterprise dressed in a red shirt was toast. Their death was usually unceremoniously quick. Redshirt characters were expendable and unimportant to the main plot. A filler chapter at most.
You may not wear a red shirt, but you are one: a S.H.I.E.L.D. field agent. Though highly trained and qualified, at the end of the day you are collateral damage. You accompany the Avengers on large scale missions. Not that Bucky knows that. At least you don’t think he’s ever noticed you.
Which, you guess, is a good thing, seeing as drawing his attention usually means fucking up a mission. You prefer not being on his radar over facing his wrath. Not that he ever shouts at people. He just occasionally leaves dents in the metal wall of the gangway, but it’s the silent stewing and the cold eyes, the quiet voice when he patiently explains what the mistake was and how to improve or prevent it next time. That is more scary than any outburst would be.
Yet at the same time you wish a little bit that you were getting his attention.
It’s pathetic, really, how this man reduces you to your insecure teenage self. Back when you crushed on guys from far away. Across the dining hall, the corridor, the classroom. You were quiet, unnoticeable, discreet, silent.
The loneliest spectator.
With Bucky, it’s the same. You love him from a distance. Distance is safe, you’ve learnt. You can’t imagine life without him. It’s not his goddamn handsome face, his muscles, the plumpness of his lips or his messy hair – though all aesthetically very pleasing and fuel for plenty of nighttime fantasies, that’s not what makes you love him.
It’s the things he does when he thinks no one’s looking.
The way he stirs his coffee – thrice, anticlockwise – and immediately washes up the spoon, dries and puts it back in the drawer, before taking the first sip.
And how he closes his eyes when he takes the first bite of food. Any food. As if it’s something precious. Something to enjoy and not just to inhale as quickly as possible. It lasts just for a second, but you see it.
How he always puts on his right boot first, but ties the laces of his left one first.
How he holds and sharpens his knives. With utmost concentration and devotion.
How he mutters to the Switch when he’s trying to figure out how to get Link to stop shooting an arrow right after he’s used ultrahand.
How he wipes at his eyes each time Link gets a spirit orb and some gloom evaporates from the arm Raru’s lent him, because Link lost his fighting Ganondorf.
How he scratched that absolutely filthy stray cat in the alley once. The smile that ghosted over his lips as he watched her making biscuits on his leather jacket, ruining it in the process, will forever be etched into your brain.
How his stump hurts when the weather changes. The way his fingers massage the scar tissue around the plates. The way he hides the phantom pain.
How he makes sure everyone on his team is always safe, adjusting a strap here, checking magazines, sharpening a knife, unjamming a gun there. He does it unceremoniously, without people watching or most of them even noticing.
He doesn’t like attention and is sceptical of niceties, you’ve observed.
It’s pathetic, really. How you love him from afar. Safe, but also cruel. A punishment, almost.
Last week in a briefing he’d slipped in the room late, his back brushed against your side as he made his way in. Your heart stuttered.
Really, you should get a grip, face the fact that he doesn’t even know you exist and get over it. Move forward.
Instead, you sit here, in a bar, sipping on a heavily watered down cranberry juice, listening to Nat laying out a plan to improve the next mission and trying to get Bucky’s opinion on it.
Meanwhile you’re pondering about the ice/juice ratio of this establishment and how they get away with charging the amount of a meal for it.
“What do you think?”
You feel a pair of eyes on you, Nat’s.
“Sorry?”
An eyebrow is raised. “I wanted to know what you think of the plan.”
It’s not that you haven’t been listening. You have. You just don’t think Nat really cares about your opinion, nor should she. After all, she’s the Black Widow.
Bucky now looks at you, too. Intently. Probably, because you’re the reason that Nat’s expression has changed.
“I-I think it’s a good plan. And… I’m sure when you bring it up at the briefing it’ll improve efficiency. Steve will be impressed.”
Nat smiles and you can’t help staring at her luscious lips. You can’t blame Bucky for wanting her. She is drop dead gorgeous after all, inside and out.
You finish your drink and check your watch. “Time for me to head back.” You stand up.
“Oh,” says Nat, a bit disappointed. “I was going to stay for another. Are you going to be okay? Maybe Bucky should–” She elbows him, hard.
“Yeah, I’ll take you back–,” Bucky is half-way out of the chair.
“I’ll take a taxi,” you interrupt quickly and maybe a bit too forcefully. “But thanks.” You flash a quick smile. It stops Bucky mid-movement and he sits back down. You do not want to be used by Bucky to get brownie points with Natasha. “See you guys tomorrow.”
Nat nods her head. Bucky’s attention is back on her as she leans in to talk to him.
*****
You don’t know.
When you get up the next morning. When you clock in, when you change into your gear, exchange banter with your team mates, take notes during the mission brief. You don’t know when you sign the log at the special arms dispensary, or when you strap yourself in on the helicopter that accompanies the Quinjet.
None of you know what you’re all walking into.
As soon as you enter the warehouse, it is chaos, absolute carnage. It’s not a trap, it’s just that you’re overwhelmingly outnumbered. Your team engages in enemy fire and hand to hand combat. You take out several opponents before it happens.
It’s muscle memory, trained into every fibre of your being over many years, the duty to protect. So you don’t think when you see the knife glinting across the room aimed at your team. It’s a second, at most, a few things happen all at once, yet everything seems to slow down.
Your rifle’s jammed and the strap twisted somehow, so you can’t lift it as a shield. The throw is precise and aimed at an Avenger – Bucky, who’s oblivious. He’s busy fighting two guys, his back turned to knife face.
Your body moves, twists. The blade cuts through fabric, skin, tendons, muscle tissue of your right shoulder. You can feel the blade scraping at bone. It’s like nails on a chalkboard.
It’s the second hit, however, that takes you by surprise. You only saw that one blade. It’s a rookie mistake. Of course there’s always two. The second knife lodges itself in your side and it burns immediately. You’re thrown off balance and stumble to your knees.
Instinct is to pull the blade out, and your hand immediately wraps around the handle to do just that. But you have been trained. Still hard to not rip them out anyways. Because it fucking hurts. No adrenaline dulling that one for you.
You’re not aware of lifting your rifle, aiming and pulling the trigger, putting a bullet in between Mac the Knife’s eyes. You’re on auto-pilot. Your drill sergeant would be proud, a clean non-dominant hand shot.
Seconds feel like minutes.
Protocol is to take cover when injured. So you crawl behind the crate to your right.
It’s also protocol to radio the team leader about injuries and fatalities. Problem is that your team leader’s lifeless eyes stare at you from the floor behind the crate, his brain splattered on the wall behind him.
All you think about is how on the way to the briefing room this morning he showed you a picture of his little girl Lola, blowing out one candle on her birthday cake, cheeks all puffed up, lips pursed, the candle light reflected in her eyes.
“She’s such a cutie pie,” one of your comrades had remarked, peering over your shoulder. “She’ll cause so much trouble when she’s older.”
“Can’t wait to see it,” the Team Leader had proudly grinned.
His words bounce through your brain as you crawl to him and close his empty eyes, your hand shaking.
It is sticky from blood, his or yours, you’re not sure, as you reach up to your shoulder to activate comms and radio in a fatality to operations.
*****
The stitches fucking pull. They’re not supposed to, but they do. Your arm’s in a sling and you can’t do the simplest things. Hit a couple nerves, that blade did. Apparently it’s all wait and see if you’ll recover. Right now, it’s just really painful, despite the pain killers. The tingling starts in the shoulder and works its way down to your fingertips. Sometimes, you lose strength in the arm from one minute to the next. So far that’s cost you four mugs. The physio told you to keep using the hand, you just have to hold the arm in the sling so the stitches don’t open.
Washing hair is probably the most irritating. You just can’t really reach. You know you can, it just feels like it. Not quite right. You can forget about doing your hair nicely. Air dried mess it is.
The counselling sessions don’t really help getting rid of the image of your dead team leader. Nor the one of his little girl sobbing “I want Daddy” in her mother’s arms at the funeral. So you ask if you could please return to work early. They put you on desk duty, for obvious reasons.
Your fingers tingle and you can’t feel a damn thing, forcing you to type up yet another mission report with one hand. It’s not going well. It’s the unpredictability of it all that messes with your head.
A paper cup is placed on your desk. Coffee. You look up to see Bucky standing there.
“How are the stitches,” he says gruffly. He looks on edge, eyes skimming over you, before boring into yours.
“Fine,” you reply automatically, masking your surprise poorly. It’s the first time he’s ever acknowledged your existence.
An awkward moment of silence follows.
“That’s for you,” he tips his head in the direction of the cup.
“Thank you,” you say, completely baffled.
His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he glances from the cup to you and back again. Expectantly. When you don’t take the hint, he drags a hand from his pocket and nudges the cup toward you with his index finger.
You catch on.
“Thank you,” you reiterate, taking the cup and holding it up to your lips. The liquid burns your tongue because you are stupid and not careful. You manage a smile. “Mmh. Delicious.”
Bucky seems satisfied and is about to turn, but hesitates. His index finger traces the edge of your desk.
“Heard about your team leader. My condolences.”
And with that he’s off.
You stare at the back of his retreating form. It’s going to take you months to recover from that.
Bucky Barnes just talked to you.
******
Fridays are your therapy days. Physiotherapy in the morning, counselling after lunch. At home, you religiously do the exercises the physio has shown you. Your side is healing nicely, but the damaged nerves in your shoulder are temperamental. It’s been three weeks now. You itch to go back into the field. Pencil pushing is not your forté. Every teacher at the academy agreed with that.
It takes time, the physio says. Be patient. But you can’t and don’t want to anymore.
You lie your way through the counseling session. You’re not stupid. If you told the shrink what really is going on you’d be pulled out of the field, probably for good. Everyone has nightmares and flashbacks in this line of work. You cope with it, like you have before: by yourself. Usually, work distracts and helps a lot. But it’s harder with reading and typing up reports all day. However, your shrink wasn’t born yesterday, but after some prodding and your unchanged answers, she just sighs and waves you off.
A week ago, they offered you your late team leader’s spot. You turned it down, as did the other candidate of your team. Wouldn’t feel right. So they recruited someone new, from another tactical team, a Sergeant Taylor. He reminds you of your drill sergeant at the academy: a shouty sadist with the compassion of a rock.
Within two days he pulls you off your desk job, against doctor’s orders. How, you don’t know. But when he calls you into his office and says you’ve ‘had a long enough holiday now’ and he doesn’t put up with time wasters, and says it’s either stay on the team or leave, you stay. Because what else can you do? End up as a security guard working nights for the rest of your life? Work as a private security detail? You haven’t got the will to eat a bullet for a scum politician or a billionaire who exploits people and the planet.
A few days later you’re back in the field. Though it feels good to be back, you know you’re not 100% ready, physically, and that is a risk – for your comrades.
There’s a tremble. You try your best to hide it, but it’s there. A constant reminder of your latest injury. Thankfully, you can also shoot with your left. You do extra training sessions at the shooting range at night, because it’s empty then.
One night, Bucky’s there. He comes in after you’ve started your drill. He settles into the stand right next to yours.
He watches you when you call back the target and inspect the hits in the corrugated cardboard.
Then he steps into your stand, close to you. Not into your personal space, but it makes your heart clench anyway.
“Did they offer you anything for the tremor?”
You’re training with your left hand, which is perfectly fine. And though observation is second nature to him, you don’t know how he noticed. He doesn’t even know you.
His voice is low and quiet. Not really needed, because you’re alone in the shooting range, but he’s mindful about your privacy, which you appreciate.
You nod. “Beta blockers. But they… make me really tired and I need to be alert on a mission.”
He stares at you, face unreadable.
“You’re a better shot left handed than most of your team with their dominant hand.”
“Thanks.” It sounds just like your mouth feels: dry like a desert.
There’s a pause and you can almost hear the wheels turning in his head.
“I watched the footage of the bodycams from the mission that got you injured. All cams.”
You did your job and did it well, so you’re not sure why you freeze and discomfort worms its way into your throat. It makes you not trust your voice, so you don’t say anything.
“You saved my life when you took the knives.”
Embarrassment floods you. It’s ridiculous. You’ve taken plenty of hits for your comrades and they for you and never, not once, has it felt this awkward when they found out. A quick ‘thanks for having my back’ had you all move on swiftly. It is part of the job, after all.
You say that last bit out loud.
Bucky just stares you down. It’s impossible to maintain eye contact, it’s so intense. So you stare at the bridge of his nose instead.
“Thank you,” he says eventually.
You breathe a sigh of relief. “No worries.”
There’s another pause, less awkward this time.
“How’s Taylor?”
“Not exactly a fan of mine.”
It slips out before you can help it. Bucky’s eyebrows raise and you roll your lips into your mouth, teeth biting down to keep you from talking. You shouldn’t have said anything, maybe you’re just imagi–
“Misogynist?”
One word that sums up a lot. It leaves you a little breathless. There’s the slightest nod of your head, enough for him to exhale sharply through his nose.
He hands you a new target, his fingers brushing yours for less than a second as you take it. Maybe he’ll take the tremble as the result of your injury. But he holds onto the cardboard and you look up, surprised.
“Make sure someone has your 3.” He’s never once looked at you like this before. Blue eyes piercing your soul. It’s so… intimate, your heart stutters.
“And watch your 6,” he adds quietly, before letting go of the target and turning to leave.
You’re left baffled and confused. And then the dread rises. Bucky, in your humble experience, doesn’t go round warning people. So maybe, just maybe, the Taylor situation isn’t just in your head.
******
Unfortunately, you’re proven right. It’s a mission gone horribly wrong. The intel was absolute bull shit. Four of your team walked straight into death. Whilst a mixture of blood and body tissue of comrade four dripped off your tactical gear and your ears were still ringing from the blast, two of your other comrades and you were zip tied and dragged off to god knows where. Hard to see with your head covered in a black pillowcase.
Turns out they have plans for you. Like seeing how much it’ll take to break you. There’s several of them, but the one they call Mikky is the worst. He’s a psychopath if ever you’ve seen one. Never have you seen someone enjoy causing someone else pain like Mikky. The deranged smile on his face is demonic. He makes even his own men cringe, though not enough for them to help any of you or to step in. Perhaps they are as terrified of him as you are.
One of your comrades refused to cooperate. His dried blood is pulling on your skin. They haven’t bothered removing his body. It’s part of their tactics to break you, to leave you with the smell of death and decay.
You lose track of time. Your body’s a pulsing pulp of pain, you’re unsure how much more you can take. But you know S.H.I.E.L.D. protocol. And you hold on to that hope.
When you hear gunshots and explosions, the hope in your chest quickly blooms into determination. Only one of your teammates and you are left by now. He’s lying in the corner, unconscious. You’re strapped to the gurney of terror, Mikky bent over you.
The door is kicked in, creaking at the hinges and a person steps out of the dust into the light.
Sergeant Taylor.
For a long, cruel moment you’re filled with hope.
His gun is trained at your torturer, Mikky, eyes scanning over the room, then you, assessing your state. It’s the smirk that tugs on his lips that makes your blood freeze. You’ve seen the same smile on Mikky.
“Clear,” Taylor radios in, backing out the door. “Lower level all clear. There’s no one here. Mission unsuccessful, retreat.”
The door slams shut again and you hear the steps falling back, the voices growing faint, and it feels as if your soul is leaving your body.
The words on the badge that’s sewn onto your torn top seem to burn through your skin. Nemo resideo – leave no man behind.
“Well, fuck me, bitch, did you just get sold out by your team leader?! Holy shit!” Mikky’s maniacal cackle roars in your ears.
Much as you’d like to disagree with him, unfortunately, he’s painfully accurate. You have just been served your death sentence by your team leader.
Summary: Bucky has reasons for keeping you at a distance. Very good reasons. But the best reasons seem irrelevant in the face of change. 18+ (Multi chapter)
Pairings: Bucky x Female Reader
Warnings: 18+, MDNI. Dark themes. Unrequited love, a dusting of angst, description of gore, death, mentions of torture. Foul language in places. Explicit consent. Explicit scenes. Adult themes.
A/N: It’s a bit dark, this one. It just ran away with me. Breaking it up in a few chapters as it’s a bit long.
Crossposted on Wattpad
______________________
Prologue
Bucky Barnes loves you.
He can’t pinpoint it to a particular moment, the realisation that he does love you. There’s no cheesy earth shattering revelation like watching you glide down the stairs in a beautiful dress, no bumping into each other and him catching you to steady you, making eye contact and feeling your souls connect. There’s no charmingly clumsy declaration in the pouring rain. There’s no electric current when you touch, no unresolved sexual tension over flirting, no butterflies in the tummy, no clammy palms or nervously stumbling over words.
Unlike the books and the movies, it’s quiet.
It’s just… there.
Maybe, he thinks, it’s a bit like the planted seeds on his window sill that showed no sign of germinating despite him checking every morning and every evening. And one evening when he comes back, the patch of earth in the windowsill box that was barren when he left in the morning now looks as if the lettuce leaves had been growing there for days. It’s clearly been there, under the soil growing and only just popped up that day, coaxed forth by the sun.
Bucky, in all honesty, isn’t sure what to do with this love. To say he’s conflicted, would be an understatement. On the one hand, this emotion, though surprising, makes him content, happy even. It unearths something in him he’s thought HYDRA managed to snuff out for good. Tenderness, need, want. Instinct. Not trained on, not tampered with genetically. Just… human. And, probably most dangerous of all, hope.
On the other hand… In his line of work, love is a weakness. Affection toward anyone could – and would be – used against him. It would make him vulnerable and the person of his affection a target. It’d be a risk to his performance and commitment as an Avenger. Love would make him rethink his priorities. And by god, he’s killed so many people, the only way he knows how to try and make things right is by saving as many as he can now. And love… would be a hindrance in this. It could make him pause, hesitate when he normally wouldn’t. It would cloud his judgement, his assessment. Love could indeed be dangerous.
And then, of course, after a long list of duties, there is the simple fact that Bucky is scared of love. For many reasons. Most obvious being that it makes him vulnerable. But also… because what could he possibly give to you? What has he got to offer? What happens when he decides to retire to spend his life with you – if (and it’s an enormously huge if) you were to return his feelings and would share the same dream – will they take away his enhanced arm and replace it with a bog standard prosthetic? And then what? He’ll be officially disabled. A burden.
And what of his mental scars? The nightmares, the flashbacks, the traumas that are so deeply embedded in him that he is unsure if he will ever be able to live the life of a civilian. What if he is not safe to be around? Not safe to be a father, drop the kids off at school, be a partner, be loving, kind, patient. Laugh with neighbours over a BBQ, cheer at the kids’ school play, sort things out with the headmaster when his youngest undoubtedly gets into trouble, because she would.
And it breaks him a little more that he knows exactly how many children you would have together and that he can see their little faces look up at him. That sometimes in the haze between sleeping and being awake, he has this little dream of a lazy morning, snuggled up in bed with you and then two tiny bodies jumping on the bed, replacing peace with utter chaos. It would be so… wonderful.
Ex-assassin.
Not exactly father material. Or husband, for that matter. And maybe you would be patient and understanding and it would drive him nuts with guilt, because he would want to be so much more for you, do so much better. And maybe yes, he’s also scared that he’d lay all his cards on the table for you and that you would turn him down. Because there is so much darkness in him. And if it’s too much for him, then how can it not be too much for you, too?
So yeah… He’s conflicted about loving you. And maybe it’s better that he keeps this all locked away. Because you can have all of this with someone else. Someone abled. Someone who is not a mental train wreck. Someone who is… not Bucky. Normal. Someone who can satisfy all your needs. You deserve that. So much more than he will ever deserve you.
He’s not sure why this thought hurts. But it settles in his bones, deep and cold. Bucky has been conditioned to bury feelings. To school his thoughts, disregard his emotions in order to survive. It is difficult to erase decades of this, even if the Winter soldier program was broken. His love for you cracked it all open. And he finds it really difficult to push the feelings down. But for you, he has to.
Of course, that all blows up in his face the day he loses you.
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. PTSD symptoms. Vulnerable Alpha. Mention of exhibitionism.
Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.
Word Count: 7.9k
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
Soldat wakes to darkness. Not the murky orange light of a cryo chamber, or the sterile fluorescence of a holding cell. Just... night. The kind you could find in normal places where normal people sleep.
Normal.
Its eyes adjust instantly to the low light pouring through the window, and the first thing it processes is warm.
There's a body pressed against its side.
Omega.
Its omega.
The recognition is immediate and visceral. Her scent floods its system before conscious thought can catch up, brown sugar and yeast and the underlying sweetness that makes its chest constrict.
She's asleep, pressed against its side, one arm draped across its chest, her face against its shoulder. Breathing deep and even, completely unguarded.
Trusting.
The word makes its gut twist.
Its metal arm is wrapped around her waist, holding her close. The flesh hand is cradled against the back of her neck, its palm warm against her skin, like it fell asleep mid-touch.
Soldat doesn't remember doing that, doesn't remember falling asleep at all.
Its gaze tracks down the length of their bodies. Naked. The tactical gear is... somewhere, scattered across the floor in pieces it has no memory of removing.
The bed is destroyed.
Sheets twisted and half-pulled off the mattress, pillows on the floor. There are-
Its eyes catch on the evidence.
Empty cracker wrappers on the floor. Chocolate’s. A plate on the nightstand with apple cores and orange peels. An empty water bottle. Two more on the floor.
When did it eat?
Soldat doesn't eat or drink unless ordered to, or unless it is mission-critical.
But apparently, it did.
They did.
The memories are there, fragmented and hazy. Feeding her crackers between rounds because she was shaking. Peeling an orange with the metal hand while she watched, fascinated. Drinking water from the same bottle, her lips where its mouth had been.
Fucking her again. And again. And again.
The scent in the room is obscene. Sweat and sex and the mix of their releases, soaked into the sheets, coating their skin. It can smell itself on her, can smell her on itself, the mingling so complete there's no separation.
Mated.
The thought comes unbidden.
No, not mated. Can't be mated. Soldat doesn't-
Its heart rate kicks up.
The omega shifts against it, making a small sound in her sleep, burrowing closer to its warmth, and it finds itself tightening its arm around her automatically.
Mine, his inner alpha purrs. Safe. Stay.
But the conditioned part-
The conditioned part is starting to surface now that the rut fog is lifting.
And it's screaming.
Mission status: FAILED
Objective: COMPROMISED
Orders: IGNORED
Its breathing goes shallow.
How long?
How long has it been here?
The last clear memory before this is... the bakery vent. Following her home. That was… two days ago? Three?
The panic starts as a flutter and builds rapidly. It had no operations scheduled that night, but it was supposed to report back. There was a briefing the next morning about-
Helicarriers.
The word slams through its consciousness.
Insight. Project Insight. Helicarriers. Deployment sequence. Mission parameters. Operational intelligence. Pierce himself was leading the briefing, and Soldat-
Soldat didn't show up.
Its heart is pounding now. Actually pounding, loud enough that it can hear the rush of blood in its ears.
Missing in action. Unauthorized absence. Compromised asset.
Its flesh hand comes up, digging its fingers into its hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. The pain doesn't clear the panic. Doesn't slow the racing thoughts.
The handlers are going to… it doesn’t want to think about what they are going to do to it. And then, they're going to wipe it. Completely. Burn out whatever's left and start over, and-
The omega makes another sound. Her hand spreads flat over its chest, directly over where its heart is trying to punch through its sternum.
It looks down at her.
She's still asleep, relaxed in a way it's never seen on anyone touching it before.
Can't take her.
The thought surfaces cold and absolute.
Taking her back to base would be a death sentence. They would see immediately what she is: true mate. The biological call that HYDRA has spent seventy years chemically suppressing, and they would either kill her or use her.
Leverage. A new kind of leash. Soldat would do anything to protect her from that.
Anything.
Which means...
The logical conclusion forms with brutal clarity:
Eliminate the liability.
The words are in its head, calm and procedural. She's a loose end. A distraction and a weakness that others could exploit. Would take less than three seconds. Snap the neck. Quick and clean. She wouldn't even wake up.
Its fingers twitch, then its entire body goes rigid. The metal hand closes into a fist, servos whining softly with the pressure. It can feel the plates grinding together.
No.
The rejection is immediate and visceral. Every alpha instinct roars to the surface, pushing the conditioned thoughts with devastating force.
Mine. Protect. Cannot Harm.
She's not a liability.
The mission is her. Has always been her, from the moment it caught her scent. Everything else is just noise compared to the absolute certainty that this omega is the only mission that matters.
But HYDRA doesn't know that. And it’s waiting.
Soldat has to go back. Has to report. Has to... let them wipe its memory of her so it can't lead them back here? Has to pretend this never happened?
The thought makes its chest constrict painfully. It can't forget her.
Can't-
It has to move.
The decision doesn't feel like a decision. More like inevitability. Like gravity.
Report. Debrief. Comply.
The thoughts pull at it with the same inexorable force that instinct brought it here, except they are dragging it away.
Slowly -so slowly it's almost painful- Soldat extracts itself from her. The metal arm slides out from her waist. She makes a small sound, a sleepy protest, and it freezes.
Waiting. Watching her face for signs of waking.
But she just shifts, reaching for the pillow instead, hugging it like a substitute for the warmth she just lost.
Something in its chest cracks.
It stands, silent and controlled. Every movement is deliberate, even though its hands want to shake.
The tactical gear is scattered across the small apartment like evidence of a struggle. Pants near the foot of the bed. The vest by the window. Boots kicked off near the table.
It starts gathering pieces.
The pants and underwear first. Stiff with-
It doesn't let itself think about it. Just pulls them on, feeling the cold, uncomfortable press of dried release against its skin. The handlers are going to notice.
Going to ask questions it doesn't want to answer.
The undershirt is twisted in the sheets. It pulls it free carefully, trying not to disturb her, and the scent that rises from the fabric makes it stop mid-motion.
Her.
The shirt smells like her. Like them. Like everything that happened in place.
It pulls it on anyway.
The vest comes next. Then tactical webbing. Its hands fumble with the buckles. Twice. Three times. Fingers that can fieldstrip a weapon in the dark are clumsy now, shaking too hard to catch the clasps properly. Knives still sheathed. The gun- where's the gun?
Its eyes scan the room and find it on the kitchen counter.
When did it put it there?
Doesn't matter.
It crosses to the counter, picks up the weapon, and checks the chamber automatically. Loaded. Safety on. Exactly as it should be.
Then comes the boots. It sits on the edge of the chair -the one with her jacket draped over the back- and laces them with a double knot. It is just standard protocol, except its hands keep shaking.
Just slightly. Just enough that the knot takes two attempts.
Compromised. Unstable. Requires intervention.
The words loop through its head in the handler's voice. Cold. Clinical. Describing it like a malfunctioning piece of equipment.
Which is what it is. What it's supposed to be.
Soldat stands and turns back toward the bed. She's still asleep, face peaceful with one hand under her cheek. The sheet has slipped down, exposing her shoulder, the curve of her neck.
It can see the faint marks there. Subtle, barely visible in the scarce light, but present. Its teeth. Not a bond bite -it didn't mean to bond her, some last shred of control kept it from that- but it didn’t matter in the end.
Because they're bonded anyway.
The knot did that. Biological inevitability. The moment it locked inside her and spilled, the bond formed, whether it understood it or not.
And now it's about to leave her sleeping and unprotected.
It should leave.
Needs to leave.
Every second it stays increases the risk. Increases the chances that HYDRA will find her. That they'll trace it back here and discover what it's been doing.
What it's become.
But it can't make itself move toward the door, can't make itself turn away from her.
It has never thought about what it wants.
Wants aren't part of what it is. Asset doesn't want. It complies. Executes. Completes objectives and awaits new orders.
But standing here, looking at her, the want is so overwhelming it feels like a physical thing. It wants to stay, wants to crawl back into that bed and wrap around her and never leave.
Wants to wake up every morning to her scent and fall asleep every night with her in its arms. Wants to learn what she likes, what she needs. Learn how to be something other than what it is.
The want is destroying it, fracturing its mind. Breaking something fundamental in the architecture of what HYDRA built.
Loyalty parameters supersede personal preference. Emotional compromise requires correction.
But she's breathing right there. Alive and safe and its in ways that have nothing to do with HYDRA and their ownership over it.
The war in its head is splitting it apart.
Go. Stay.
Report. Protect.
Comply. Want.
Its flesh hand reaches for the window ledge and stops.
It looks at her again.
She shifted in her sleep, and now the sheet has fallen further. It can see the curve of her breast. Can see the marks it left. Shadows of pressure, of grip, of the metal hand holding too tight and the flesh hand not knowing its own strength.
Evidence.
Proof that this happened. That for two days… three days? Soldat stopped being the Asset and became something else.
Someone else.
Alpha.
Just... alpha.
Her alpha.
And alphas protect their mates, even from themselves. Especially from themselves. Its hand finds the window ledge again, and this time, it slides it up. Then it steps into the fire escape landing and closes the window silently.
Then it stands there. Just stands. Staring at the closed window.
Five seconds pass. Ten.
Its forehead drops forward, touching the glass. Just for a moment. One breath. Two.
Then it forces itself to let go.
The outside air hits it like a slap as he moves, and it can smell itself, her scent clinging to its skin, soaked into the gear.
They will smell it and know. It needs to... clean up. Somewhere. Before it reports.
There's a gas station four blocks east. The bathroom is accessible from the outside. Single occupancy, a lock on the door.
It starts walking. The streets are empty. Just the Soldat and the pre-dawn dark and the pull toward base that feels like a chain around its throat.
Return. Report. Comply.
Every step away from her apartment makes the pull stronger.
Every step also makes something inside it scream.
----
She wakes to the absence of warmth that was there before.
And her alpha isn't in the bed.
The realization comes with a spike of something close to panic. Her hand reaches out automatically, searching the space beside her, and finds only cool sheets.
She sits up, and immediately regrets it.
Everything hurts.
Her thighs ache. Her hips feel bruised. There's a deep, pleasant soreness between her legs that makes her breath catch, and her shoulders protest when she moves. She's pretty sure she's done more physical activity in the last few days than she had in the past six months.
Worth it, her inner omega purrs smugly.
But where is he?
"Alpha?"
The word comes out rough. Her voice is wrecked, hoarse from screaming, probably. From all the sounds he pulled out of her.
No answer.
She looks around, and her stomach sinks.
His gear is gone. Even the strange polymer mask that she'd pulled off his face that first night.
All of it. Gone.
He left.
Her alpha left without saying anything. Without waking her up. Without even leaving a fucking note.
The rational part of her brain -the part that's been suspiciously quiet for days-starts to surface now that his scent isn't flooding her system. Now that his hands aren't on her, and his body isn't pressed against hers, and his pheromones aren't turning her into a needy, desperate mess.
And it starts cataloging.
She got out of the shower and there was a stranger in her apartment.
An armed stranger. With a metal arm and war paint and gear that screamed military or mercenary or something equally dangerous. And instead of running, instead of screaming, or throwing something at him, she-
Her gaze tracks to the state the bed is in.
And the smell.
Oh god, the smell.
Sex and sweat and the unmistakable musk of alpha mixed with her own scent. It's soaked into the sheets, thick enough that she can practically taste it.
Her eyes catch on her small dining table.
There are marks on the wooden surface. Dubious stains that she really doesn't want to examine too closely. And the window…
Her face goes hot.
The glass is smudged. Handprints. Smears made by skin against the fog of breath. Because apparently, at some point -multiple points, actually- neither of them gave a single fuck about doing it against the window.
She remembers being pressed against the cold glass, her breasts flattened, her face turned to the side, while he fucked into her from behind. Remembers the exhibitionist thrill of it, the knowledge that anyone walking by could look up and see.
Anyone in the building across the alley could have seen.
Probably did see.
The heat in her face intensifies.
Everything about the last few days was animal. Raw. Primal in a way she didn't know she was capable of.
And it was perfect.
She's never felt like this, so utterly satisfied. Every alpha she'd tried to force herself to want before was just... wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything.
But him? He was right.
Except he doesn't have a name.
The thought made her stomach knot.
She asked him. That first night, after the initial frenzy calmed enough for words, his knot still inside her, and she'd whispered against her shoulder: "What's your name?"
He'd gone rigid. Tense in a way that made her immediately regret asking. Then, haltingly, struggling with the words like they were foreign: "Alpha."
Just that. Like it was the only designation he had. The only thing he knew to call himself.
She'd tried again. "But what do people call you?"
What she could grasp about his expression in the awkward position they were in was confusion, distress, and something that looked almost like pain.
"Soldat," he'd said finally. The word harsh and guttural. Russian, she thinks, though she doesn't speak it.
Soldier.
Not a name. A title. A function.
And when she'd pushed -gently, carefully- he'd just repeated "Alpha" like it was the only safe answer. Like everything else was locked behind walls he couldn't or wouldn't break down.
So that's what she's been calling him.
Alpha.
Her alpha, who spoke maybe two dozen words total over three days, half of them in Russian she couldn't understand. Who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having. Who smelled like home despite being a complete stranger.
Her alpha, who's gone now.
She looks around the apartment again. At the evidence of what happened here. At the empty cracker wraps, the eaten fruits, and the water bottles scattered across the floor, because they barely stopped long enough to hydrate, let alone eat properly.
At the mess that is her bed. Her body. Her life now.
Because she's bonded.
She can feel it, the connection. It's like a thread pulled tight in her chest, stretching out into the city, tethering her to him wherever he went.
She doesn't know if he's coming back, doesn't know if he can.
Because there's something deeply wrong with her alpha. She knew it from the beginning, the way he moved, the way he touched her with such desperate confusion, like he didn't know what to do with his own hands. The way he looked at her with need and terror in equal measure.
The tactical gear. The weapons. The war paint.
He's running toward something.
And she was just... what? A detour? A mistake?
No.
Her omega nature rejects the thought immediately. Viscerally.
He wouldn't have knotted her if she were a mistake. Wouldn't have held her so carefully. Wouldn't have purred. Alphas don't purr, but he did, deep and constant and soothing against her skin.
He'll come back.
He has to come back.
The bond won't let him stay away forever.
...Right?
She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly feeling very small in her wrecked apartment with the evidence of her mate scattered everywhere except where she needs him to be.
Her gaze drifts to the kitchen counter.
There's bread there. The loaf from work, she'd brought it home after her last shift. It's hard now.
The sight of it reminds her she still has a job. Thank god she'd had the presence of mind to text her boss that first morning. A brief moment of clarity between rounds when she'd found her phone buried under the couch cushions.
Sorry, I won't be able to go for a few days. Unexpected heat.
Simple. Plausible. Heat leave is protected, and her boss -bless him- had just sent back a thumbs-up emoji and told her to take care of herself.
But that brief spark of rational thought was the only one. Everything after that was just... him. His scent. His hands. His body. The overwhelming, all-consuming need to be close to him, under him, filled by him.
Heats were supposed to be manageable. Uncomfortable but controllable with suppressants, or toys, and locked in her apartment.
But this?
She didn't go into heat.
He went into rut, and her body responded like it had been waiting her entire life for exactly this.
She should be horrified.
Should be spiraling about the fact that she let a stranger fuck her for days straight without even knowing his name.
But she's not.
Because omega nature is still purring with satisfaction, still flooded with the deep certainty that everything that happened was right.
Even if he's gone now.
Even if she doesn't know if he's coming back.
The thread in her chest pulls, and she presses her hand over her sternum like she can feel him on the other end of it.
Come back, she thinks desperately. Please come back.
----
The gas station bathroom is small and filthy, and smells like chemicals and piss. Soldat doesn't care. It strips, peeling off everything that touched her, everything that's soaked in her scent.
The liquid soap dispenser is half-empty. Pink. Artificial floral smell that makes its nose wrinkle. It pumps handful after handful, scrubbing at its skin, its hair, trying to wash away the evidence.
Brown sugar and yeast and omega. Her.
The soap helps, barely. The scent is embedded too deep, under its nails, coating the inside of its mouth. It scrubs harder anyway.
The water runs cold. Soldat doesn't feel it. Just keeps washing until the pink soap is gone and its skin is raw, and the mirror shows something that looks like its normal self. Wet hair and empty eyes.
The tactical gear is another problem. It can smell her on the fabric even after trying to rinse it in the sink. The undershirt is the worst, soaked through with sweat and slick and the unmistakable musk of sex. There's no time to wash and dry it properly. No time for anything except move.
Report. Now.
The Soldat wrings out the shirt as best it can, then finds the hand dryer. It's one of those old, weak models that barely pushes air, but it's something. It holds the fabric under the stream, methodically working through each section.
The shirt stays damp anyway, but at least it's not dripping, at least the scent is diluted enough that it might not be immediately obvious.
It pulls the shirt back on. Wet and cold against its skin. The vest goes over it. The weapons back in place. Boots laced. It looks almost normal. Except for the way its hands won't stop shaking.
Then it moves.
Shadows and alleys and rooftops, the city blurring past in the pre-dawn light. Distances don't matter; it can cover miles in minutes when it needs to, and right now, it needs to.
Late. Compromised. Failed.
The words loop through its head in time with its footfalls.
It should have been there. Should have attended the briefing. Should have been in position for Insight deployment. Instead, it was-
Don't think about it.
It does, anyway. Omega. Warm and soft and trusting in that bed.
Mission first. Always.
The Potomac comes into view. Paired with smoke.
Soldat slows down, then stops on a rooftop three blocks out. It just stares.
There's smoke rising from the Triskelion, thick and black against the dawn sky. Around it, there are police cordons and military vehicles. Something happened.
Something bad.
Its heart rate kicks up. It should have been there.
It moves closer, rooftop to rooftop. Silent. Invisible. Staying in the shadows while the chaos unfolds below. It gets close enough to see the whole scene, and its brain stutters.
The helicarriers. The three of them. Destroyed.
Massive chunks of wreckage scattered across the river and the surrounding area. Fires are still burning. The Triskelion itself is partially collapsed, whole sections reduced to rubble.
Soldat stares.
This is your fault.
It wasn't here. Wasn't in position. Wasn't doing its job.
Seventy years of operations, of perfect compliance. Of being the fist HYDRA wielded in the dark. And it failed.
Failed because it was too busy fucking an omega.
Its self-loathing skyrockets.
Worthless. Broken. Defective.
It should go down there. Should report to whatever's left of the command structure. Pierce is probably dead. The handlers are probably dead.
And it's the Soldat's fault for not being there. For choosing her over the mission.
Its metal hand grips the edge of the rooftop. The servos whine, and the concrete cracks under the pressure.
It did this. This destruction. This failure. All of it. Because it's weak.
The weight in its chest is crushing. Physical. Like something is trying to cave in its ribcage from the inside.
You failed. You failed. You failed.
It doesn't know how long it stands there, just watching the emergency response, the smoke, the evidence of a catastrophic mission failure.
Its fault. All its fault.
The bond in its chest pulls. Tight. Insistent. Omega.
It left her alone and unprotected to come here, to this. To the ruins of everything it was supposed to be, its purpose. And now-
Now what?
Soldat doesn't know. Doesn't know what it's supposed to do when the handlers are gone, and everything it was built for is just... ash.
Its legs give out, and it sinks, pressing its back against the concrete wall of the rooftop access structure, pulling its knees up to its chest. Its flesh hand goes to its hair and grips. Fists in the still-damp strands and pulls hard enough that the pain registers somewhere distant and irrelevant.
The metal hand mirrors the movement on the other side. Both hands now buried in its hair, elbows on its knees, and it starts to rock.
Forward. Back. Forward. Back.
Small movements. Unconscious. The kind of self-soothing behavior that HYDRA spent decades training out of it, but it's surfacing now anyway because the conditioning is fracturing, and it doesn't know how to stop it.
Failed failed failed worthless broken defective-
The thoughts spiral. Cascade over each other until there's nothing else, just the litany of failure and the weight of seventy years of programming screaming that it deserves whatever punishment comes next.
Except there's no one left to punish it.
It doesn't know what HYDRA is anymore.
Just knows that it failed them.
And the bond in its chest won't stop pulling.
----
It doesn't know how long it sits there. The sun is rising properly now, painting the smoke-filled sky in shades of orange and red. Emergency vehicles keep arriving. Voices drift up from street level, orders being shouted, radios crackling, the organized chaos of disaster response.
And the Soldat just... sits.
The absence of someone telling it what to do is deafening. Like standing in a room where a machine has been running for seventy years and suddenly, it's gone silent, and the quiet is somehow worse than the noise ever was.
What does it do now?
It's never had to ask that question before. There was always a directive. Always a purpose. Always something to execute.
Now there's just... nothing.
It's not the Asset anymore. HYDRA is gone, dead, scattered, or destroyed; it doesn't know and doesn't have orders to find out.
It's not a person. Doesn't know how to be a person. Doesn't have a life outside of missions and compliance protocols.
It's just... nothing.
Empty.
Untethered.
Free, some distant part of its brain whispers, but the word has no meaning. Freedom isn't a concept it has framework for. Freedom sounds like chaos. Like the absence of structure. Like drowning in open water with no shore in sight.
The bond pulls again. Insistent. Her.
Its hands slowly lower from its hair. She's there. Right now. In her apartment. Probably awake by now. Probably realized it left.
What does she want it to do?
The thought comes not as a tactical question but as something else. Something the conditioned part of its brain is trying to latch onto because it needs structure. Needs someone to tell it what to do, where to go, how to function.
And she's... what? Its mate. Its omega. But also-
The idea fractures before it can fully form, but there's something there. Something about her being the only anchor point it has left. The only voice that's ever asked it questions rather than given it orders. The only person who's touched it without flinching.
Maybe she'll tell it what to do now.
Maybe that's what mates do, provide direction when everything else is gone. Maybe it's supposed to go back to her and wait for instructions. Follow her lead because it doesn't have its own.
The logic is twisted. Broken.
Soldat knows that, on some level, but it doesn't care because the alternative is sitting on this rooftop forever with no purpose and no idea what the fuck it's supposed to be.
At least with her, there's... something. A pull that isn't just the bond or the biological imperative to protect and provide. These last few days, it felt… good.
Soldat doesn't have a reference for "good" that isn't the satisfaction of mission success or handler approval. But with her, pressed against its side, breathing her scent, feeling her hands on its skin without intention to hurt but to soothe…
That was good. Warmer. Softer.
And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's what it does now, goes back to the thing that felt good instead of the handlers who only ever made it feel pain and hollowness.
Protect the omega.
There isn’t an order from a handler. Just instinct combined with the memory of her smile. The way she called "Alpha" like it was something precious instead of just a designation.
That's a mission it understands.
Soldat stands on steady legs now. It has a purpose, even if that purpose is just her. Just getting back to her apartment and figuring out what comes next.
Because she's all it has left.
The only thing in decades that's ever felt like it mattered.
----
She's throwing the last of the wrappers into the trash when the whimper escapes her throat.
The sound catches her off guard, small and pathetic and omega in a way that makes her freeze mid-motion, hand still clutching the empty plastic packaging.
She hates that she made that sound.
Hates the way her body is reacting to his absence like it's a physical wound. Like he took something vital with him when he left, and now there's just this aching hollow where he's supposed to be.
The apartment is cleaner now, at least. She's wiped down the dining table, scrubbed away the dubious stains until her arms hurt, and the wood gleamed innocently as if nothing obscene happened there. Put the dishes in the sink.
The bed is still a disaster.
She should wash the sheets. Or burn them, maybe.
But she can't bring herself to touch them yet. Can't conceive of stripping the bed and stuffing those sheets into a laundry bag, sealing away his scent until it's just... gone. The thought makes her chest constrict painfully.
She needs to shower instead. Get clean. Wash away the evidence of three days spent doing nothing but him.
Yeah. Shower first. Deal with the bed later.
She's halfway to the bathroom when another whimper builds in her throat. She swallows it down forcefully, jaw clenching.
Stop it.
He's not here. That's fine. That's... fine.
Except it's not fine, and her omega senses know it. They're screaming about it. The bond in her chest is pulled so tight it hurts, stretching out into the city toward wherever he went, and the absence of him feels wrong.
He didn't seem angry when they finally collapsed into sleep. Didn't seem upset or regretful or any of the things that would explain why he'd leave without waking her.
He just seemed... exhausted. Sated. His arm heavy around her waist, his face pressed against her hair, and that impossible purr rumbling through both their chests.
So what changed?
Why did he leave?
The questions spiral through her head without answers, and it's frustrating because she doesn't understand. Can't parse his motivations when she barely knows him.
When he barely spoke to her except in broken Russian and single-word responses.
Is he coming back?
The uncertainty is worse than anything else. Worse than the physical ache of separation. Worse than the way her apartment feels too empty and too quiet now.
She doesn't know, and the not-knowing is eating her alive.
Another whimper.
This time she doesn't even try to stop it. Just lets the sound escape while she stands in the middle of her apartment, arms wrapped around herself, and tries not to fall apart.
The bond pulls.
Come back, she thinks desperately. Please come back.
But there's no answer, just the hollow ache and the terrifying possibility that he won't. That he's gone for good, and she's bonded to a ghost.
----
She turns on the shower and waits for the water to heat up, staring blankly at the steam starting to fog the mirror. While the pipes groan and settle, she pulls open her dresser drawer. Old joggers. Soft t-shirt. Comfortable clothes that don't smell like sex and sweat and him.
At least she's on birth control.
Not because her sex life is some celebration of joy -it's been decidedly mediocre for years- but because her doctor recommended them for hormonal regulation.
Thank god for that.
Because she knows exactly what he wanted the entire time they were fucking like rabbits. What her body wanted. What every cell in her omega biology was screaming for.
Breed me. Fill me.
The memories flood back with uncomfortable clarity. The way she begged. The way she tilted her hips and presented, the way she had grinded her ass against his hips, begging for his knot. The way her body clenched around him every time he came inside her like it was trying to hold every drop.
Heat crawls up her neck.
She always thought that stuff about true mates was bullshit. Fantasy nonsense peddled in romance novels and bad TV dramas to sell the idea of destined love. True mates are rare, vanishingly rare. She's never met anyone who claimed to have one. Never knew anyone who knew anyone.
It was fairy tale stuff. Omega porn. The kind of thing you read about in smutty paperbacks, not something that actually happened to real people.
But now, thinking with a clear head for the first time in days, remembering how she reacted to his presence in her apartment...
The way her body knew him before her brain did. The way his scent made her slick coated her thighs before he even touched her. The way every rational thought disappeared under the weight of pure, primal need.
Yeah.
Maybe the fairy tales aren't bullshit after all.
She enters the shower, the hot water hits her shoulders, and she groans. Everything hurts. Her thighs. Her hips. Places inside her that she didn't know could be sore.
She tips her head back, letting the water soak her hair, and tries not to think about how empty she feels now that he's gone.
Tries not to think about the bond pulling her chest, and about whether he's coming back.
The water runs over her skin, washing away sweat, dried slick and cum, but can't wash away the bond. Her hand presses against her chest, right over her heart, where the ache is worst.
Come back, she thinks again. Desperate. Pleading.
Please.
----
She stays under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water run lukewarm before she finally forces herself to turn it off. She dries off and pulls on the joggers and the soft t-shirt.
Comfortable clothes that don't smell like him. The fabric is warm and familiar and it should make her feel better, but it doesn't.
Then, she opens the bathroom door, and her heart stops.
He's there.
Sitting on the floor against the wall by the window. The same window he climbed through that first night. His tactical gear is still on, but the black is gone from his face. Just pale skin and those devastating blue eyes staring at nothing.
He looks haunted.
She freezes in the doorway, hand still on the handle, and just stares. He came back, and it makes her feel so relieved that her knees feel weak.
But something's wrong.
He smells different, cheap soap and… smoke?. Acrid, clinging to his clothes as he walked through a fire. And his own scent reeks of distress.
She can feel it, too.
Wrong wrong wrong, her omega instincts scream. Alpha is hurting.
Whatever she'd planned to say when she saw him again, all the questions, the demands for explanations, the hurt at being left without a word, evaporate.
Her instinct to protect, to nurture, to fix whatever's broken in her alpha obliterates everything else. She moves without thinking and crosses the small space toward him, bare feet on worn floorboards.
He tenses immediately, eyes snapping to her with something that looks almost like panic.
She stops.
Three feet away. Close enough to see the way his chest is rising and falling too fast. Close enough to see his pupils are blown wide again, but not with want this time.
With fear.
"Alpha," she whispers, and her voice comes out soft. Careful. The way you'd talk to something wounded and cornered.
He doesn't respond. Just stares at her with those wild blue eyes, utterly tense, like he might bolt.
Or break.
She takes a slow breath and sinks down to her knees, making herself eye-level with him.
"You came back," she says softly.
His eyes keep focused on hers, but he doesn’t speak.
"Alpha," she says carefully. "What happened? Where did you go?"
His jaw works. She can see him struggling with the words, trying to form an answer, but nothing comes out. Just a frustrated exhale through his nose.
"It's okay," she says quickly. "You don't have to-"
She reaches out without thinking. Just needing to touch him, to soothe the distress pouring off him in waves, and her hand lands on his knee.
The reaction is immediate. He doesn't flinch or pull away.
He goes very, very still. Like her touch flipped a switch. His eyes drop to where her hand rests on his tactical pants, and something in his expression changes.
Relief. Desperate, overwhelming relief.
Like he's been waiting for her to touch him. Like he needed permission and her hand on his knee gave it.
Before she can process it, he's moving. Not pulling away, but shifting forward, closing the space between them, and his forehead drops to her shoulder.
The position is awkward. He's too tall to be folding himself down to reach her. But he does it anyway, and the weight of his body against her is solid and real and she can feel the tension in him starting to ease.
"Alpha?" she whispers, confused. Her hands come up automatically, one pressing on his back, the other threading into his damp hair. "What do you need?"
He makes a sound. Low. Almost pained.
And then, halting and rough: "Don't know."
The words are barely there. Dragged out.
"Don't know what to do," he continues. Voice wrecked. "No orders. No... nothing."
Her heart clenches. Orders?
He's not just lost. He's untethered. Whatever structure he had -whatever gave him purpose and direction- it's gone. And now he's here, clinging to her like she's the only solid thing left.
"Okay," she says softly, still stroking his hair. "Okay, that's... we'll figure it out."
"Tell me," he says against her shoulder. Not a request. Almost a plea. "Tell me what to do."
She doesn't understand.
He's clearly capable. The tactical gear, the weapons, the way he moved these days. He's not impaired. So what is happening?
"I don't..." she starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "Alpha, I don't know what you need. I can't tell you what to do because I don't know what's wrong."
His grip on her tightens. Not painful, just desperate. Like he's afraid she's going to pull away.
"Something happened," she says carefully, still stroking his hair. "When you left. Something scared you. Or hurt you. I can smell it. But I can't help if you don't tell me what's going on."
He's quiet for a long moment. She can feel him breathing against her shoulder, can feel the tremor in his frame.
"Gone," he finally says. Voice rough. Broken. "Everything's... gone."
"What's gone?"
He shakes his head against her shoulder. She's not sure if he can't explain or won't, but either way, she's not getting more than that.
She’ll let it slide for now. There are other pressing matters, like getting him out of those wet clothes. The reasoning cuts through her omega instinct screaming to hold him and purr until whatever's broken inside him stops hurting.
But he's shivering slightly against her. The gear is damp, cold, and reeks of a lot of things. He can't stay like this.
"Alpha," she says softly, still stroking his hair. "Your clothes are wet. You need to take them off."
He doesn't respond. Just turns his face, pressing his nose and mouth directly against her scent gland, breathing her in.
She tries a different approach. "You must be uncomfortable. Cold."
A pause. Then a small nod against her throat.
Progress.
"Okay," she says gently. "Let me help you, then. We need to get this gear off."
She starts to pull back, intending to give herself room to work, but his arms immediately band around her waist, keeping her exactly where she is.
"Please," he rasps against her skin, and the desperation in his voice makes her chest ache. "Just... stay."
"I'm not leaving," she says quickly, her hands coming back to rest on his shoulders. "I'm right here. I just need space to help you with the vest."
His grip loosens fractionally. Not letting go, but allowing her a few inches of movement.
She'll take it.
"Okay," she murmurs, keeping her voice low and soothing. "Arms down for me."
He complies immediately. His arms drop from around her waist, hanging at his sides, and he lifts his head just enough to look at her. Waiting. Like he's waiting for the next instruction.
"Good," she says softly, reaching for the buckles on the tactical vest. "Stay still."
Her fingers work at the clasps. They're hard to unbuckle, but she manages. The vest comes loose, and she helps him out of it, tossing it aside.
The undershirt beneath is damp and clinging to his skin. She can see the outline of his chest, the definition of muscle.
"Arms up," she says.
He lifts them without hesitation.
She grabs the hem of the undershirt and pulls it up and off. The fabric is cold and wet in her hands, and she drops it on top of the vest.
Tell me what to do.
The memory of those words suddenly clicks into place, and she pauses.
He's an alpha. Clearly capable of doing whatever the hell he wants. She experienced that firsthand: the strength, the intensity, the sheer physical dominance.
And yet here he is, following her instructions without question. Docile in a way that feels fundamentally wrong for what he is.
Something happened to him. Something that broke whatever made him capable of autonomous decision-making. The thought makes her chest tighten, but she pushes it aside. Later. She can unpack that later.
And then she sees him.
Really sees him, without the haze of his rut and the hormonal desperation clouding her vision.
The scars.
She’d spent three days with her hands all over his body, her mouth on his skin. But she hadn't really looked. Hadn't processed what she was seeing beyond the broad strokes of alpha, strong, mine.
Her brain had catalogued them dimly as occupational hazards. The kind of damage that came with a dangerous job. But now, looking at him with clear eyes and a clear head, she realizes how wrong that assumption was.
These are the scars of someone who was broken.
Methodically. Repeatedly.
The worst are where the metal arm connects to his body. Angry, raised tissue that looks like it was never meant to heal right. Like someone carved into him and bolted the prosthetic on without anesthetic or care for anything beyond functionality.
And the rest…
Thin white lines crisscross his ribs. Burn marks, some circular like cigarettes, others larger and more diffuse. Surgical scars that don't follow any logical medical pattern. Bullet wounds.
Her hand moves without conscious thought, tracing one of the longer scars across his ribs. It's old, long-healed, but still raised enough that she can feel the texture under her fingertips.
He goes very still under her touch.
"Does it hurt?" she asks quietly.
He shakes his head. A small, almost imperceptible movement.
She wonders if that's true, or if he's just so used to pain that he doesn't register it anymore.
"Okay," she whispers, pressing her hand against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm. "Boots next."
He doesn't move, so she realizes she needs to be more specific.
"Sit down," she says, nodding toward the bed.
He obeys immediately, crossing to the bed and sitting on the edge, back straight, hands resting on his thighs. Like a soldier awaiting orders.
The thought makes her stomach twist, but she pushes it aside.
She kneels in front of him, unlacing the first boot with quick movements. It comes off easily, and she sets it aside before moving to the second one.
His eyes are on her the entire time. She can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and focused, like she's the only thing in the world that matters.
When both boots are off, she stands, brushing her hands on her joggers.
"Pants," she says simply.
He stands without a word, hands going to the waistband. The buckle is quick work, and then he's pushing the tactical pants down his hips, stepping out of them.
He's in his underwear now. The fabric is stiff and stained, and the sight makes her face heat despite herself.
"Those too," she says, keeping her voice steady.
He hesitates for half a second. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down.
She clearly has seen him naked, but this feels different. Maybe because he's not rutting and desperate. He's just... standing there, vulnerable, letting her take care of him, because he doesn't know how to take care of himself.
"Good," she says softly, her hand coming up to cup his face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "Now get in bed."
He looks at the bed, then back at her.
"Go on," she says, nodding toward the mattress. "I'll get you some water. And food, if you're-"
"No."
The word is quiet but firm.
She blinks. "No?"
"Stay," he says, and the plea is back in his voice. Raw. Desperate. "Please."
Her heart clenches.
"I'm just going to fetch the things," she says gently, nodding toward the counter. "I'll be right-"
"No." His hand shoots out, catching her wrist. "Stay."
She looks at him and sees the fear in his eyes.
"Okay," she says softly, letting him pull her toward the bed. "Okay, I'll stay."
She climbs into the bed first, settling against the pillows, and he follows immediately. But instead of pulling her against him, he crawls up beside her and lowers himself down, his head coming to rest on her upper chest, just below her collarbone, close enough that his nose brushes against the side of her neck.
His arm rests across her stomach, holding her in place, and the full weight of his body settles against her side.
She buries her hand in his hair, threading her fingers through the damp strands, and breathes him in. Beneath the cheap soap and the smoke, his scent is still there, gunmetal and leather, and that undercurrent of alpha that makes her omega purr with satisfaction.
Mine. Safe. Here.
He presses his face harder into her neck, mouth against her scent gland, breathing her in like he's been starving for it.
"Rest," she murmurs, her other hand coming to caress his back, tracing idle patterns across his scarred skin. "I'm not going anywhere."
His breathing evens out, slow and deep, and the tension in his body gradually bleeds away under her touch.
The grip on her doesn't loosen. His arm stays banded around her waist, his face pressed to her throat, and after a few minutes, the faint rumble of a purr starts up in his chest.
She feels the vibration against her skin and lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Whatever storm was raging inside him is starting to calm.
She doesn't know what happened out there. Doesn't know what "gone" means, or why he came back smelling like he does. Doesn't know who hurt him badly enough to leave those scars, or why he doesn't seem to know how to make his own decisions.
But right now, none of that matters, because he's here. He's safe. He's hers.
She presses a kiss to the top of his head and lets herself believe that for now, it's enough.
Mother’s Day had a way of sneaking up on you. It wasn’t that you forgot, it was that the meaning of it shifted every year, depending on where you were, how much time you had, how far away everything felt. This year, it landed heavy in a quieter way, sitting somewhere in the back of your mind as you stood at the nurses’ station in the ED, chart half-open in front of you, your attention only partially on the screen.
“I’m telling you,” Dana said, leaning back in her chair with a coffee in hand, her tone equal parts amused and judgmental, “if you send another generic ‘thinking of you’ card, your mother is going to disown you.”
You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head as you clicked through your notes. “She lives across the country, Dana. It’s either that or I overnight something that’ll get there late anyway.”
“Excuses,” she shot back. “You’re a doctor. You make good money. Buy her something that says ‘I love you and I’m not emotionally stunted.’”
You rolled your eyes, but there was no real bite behind it. “I was thinking earrings,” you admitted after a second, glancing up at her. “Simple. Nothing over the top. Just… something she’ll wear.”
Dana’s expression softened just slightly. “See? That’s better. Pair it with a card that doesn’t look like you grabbed it from a gas station five minutes before checkout.”
“I do not do that,” you said defensively.
“You absolutely do that,” she countered.
Before you could respond, a familiar presence slipped into your periphery, and you didn’t even have to look to know it was him.
Robby.
He moved like he always did, easy, purposeful, like the chaos of the ED bent just slightly around him instead of the other way around. You felt it before you saw it, the subtle shift in your awareness, the way your attention pulled without permission.
“Eat,” he said, his voice low as he set a protein bar down next to your chart, not even breaking stride at first.
You glanced up, catching his eye for just a second. “You just assume I haven’t?”
“You haven’t,” he replied without hesitation, that faint, knowing look tugging at his mouth. “It’s noon.”
You opened your mouth to argue, then closed it again, because, annoyingly, he wasn’t wrong.
“Thank you,” you said instead, softer.
He gave a small nod, already stepping away, already being pulled back into whatever case had his attention next.
Dana made a noise beside you that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh. “God, you two are gross.”
You couldn’t help it, you smiled, shaking your head as you picked up the bar. “We are not gross.”
“You are,” she insisted, leaning in slightly. “It’s subtle, but it’s there. The little looks, the food deliveries, the….whatever that was.”
You unwrapped the bar, trying to play it off, but you knew better than to pretend too hard with Dana. “It was a protein bar.”
“It was not just a protein bar,” she said flatly.
You took a bite, mostly to avoid answering. But she didn’t let it go. Her eyes flicked toward where Robby had disappeared, then back to you, her expression shifting, sharpening just slightly. “Hey,” she said, quieter now. “You okay?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Because you just watched him walk away like someone kicked your dog,” she replied, not unkindly. “And I’ve known you long enough to know that look isn’t about a protein bar.”
You exhaled slowly, your grip tightening just a fraction on the wrapper in your hand as you leaned back against the counter.
“It’s Mother’s Day this weekend,” you said after a moment.
Dana frowned slightly. “And…?”
“And I’ve been thinking about my mom,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “About sending her something. About how far away she is. About how I don’t call her as much as I should.”
“That’s normal,” Dana said gently. “We all suck at that.”
“Yeah,” you murmured, nodding faintly. “But then I started thinking about him.”
Her brows lifted slightly. “Robby?”
You nodded, your gaze drifting toward the hallway he’d disappeared down. “He told me once that his mom ‘left’ when he was little.”
Dana’s expression shifted, more serious now. “That’s all he’s ever said?”
“That’s it,” you replied. “No details. No story. Just… ‘left.’”
You swallowed, your voice softening further. “And I don’t even know what that means.”
Dana didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fill the silence. So you kept going.
“I don’t know if she walked out. If she died. If she chose something else over him. I don’t know if he hates her or misses her or if he even thinks about her at all.” You let out a small breath, shaking your head. “And it’s stupid, but I can’t stop thinking about what this weekend feels like for him.”
Dana studied you for a moment, her expression unreadable.
“That’s not stupid,” she said finally.
You gave a small, uncertain shrug. “It feels like I’m… stepping into something I don’t fully understand.”
“You are,” she said simply. “That’s kind of what happens when you care about someone.”
The words landed quietly. You glanced back down at the protein bar in your hand, then toward the hallway again, your chest tightening just slightly.
“I don’t want to push,” you said. “But I also don’t want to ignore it.”
Dana tilted her head, considering you. “Then don’t do either.”
You frowned slightly. “That’s not helpful.”
“It is,” she insisted. “You don’t have to fix it. You don’t have to bring it up in some big, dramatic way. Just… be aware. Be present. If he wants to talk about it, he will.”
You nodded slowly, letting that settle.
“Besides,” she added, a faint smirk returning, “for all you know, he’s planning to ignore the entire weekend and bury himself in back-to-back shifts like the emotionally repressed man he is.”
A small laugh slipped out of you. “That does sound like him.”
“Yeah,” she said, nudging your arm lightly. “Which means if you do anything, keep it simple. No pressure. No grand gestures. Just… you.”
You looked down at the protein bar again, then back up, your eyes drifting once more toward where he’d gone, something quieter settling into place in your chest.
“Just me,” you repeated softly.
And somehow, that felt both easier and infinitely more complicated at the same time.
******
Your apartment felt quieter than usual when you got home. Not lonely, just still, like it was waiting for something to happen, or maybe for you to decide what kind of night this was going to be. You kicked off your shoes by the door, dropped your bag onto the chair you always told yourself you’d stop using like a landing zone, and moved toward the kitchen out of habit, checking the oven before anything else.
Dinner was already halfway there. Something simple. Something warm. Something that didn’t require much thought. You poured yourself a small glass of water, then drifted over to the couch, laptop already open before you’d fully settled, the glow of the screen lighting up your face as you clicked back into the tab you’d left earlier.
Earrings. You’d been scrolling for twenty minutes already, moving between options that all felt almost right but not quite enough, your cursor hovering, your mind wandering more than focusing. Your mom would like something simple. Elegant, but not flashy. Something she could wear every day. You clicked into another pair, gold, small drop, understated but beautiful, and paused, tilting your head slightly as you studied them.
“These might be it,” you murmured to yourself.
The sound of the door opening pulled you from your thoughts. You glanced up, heart giving that now-familiar shift as Robby stepped inside, looking more worn than he had earlier, his jacket slung over his shoulder, his movements slower, like the day had followed him home again.
“Hey,” you said, closing your laptop halfway but not fully, your voice softening.
“Hey,” he replied, dropping his keys into the bowl, his eyes finding you immediately. There was always that moment, brief but real, where something in him settled when he saw you.
“You’re late,” you added, watching him shrug out of his jacket.
“Hand-offs ran long,” he said. “Jack had questions.”
You smiled faintly. “Of course he did.”
He huffed a quiet breath at that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Something smells good.”
“There’s dinner in the oven,” you said, nodding toward the kitchen. “Ten minutes, maybe.”
He nodded once, already turning toward the hallway. “I’m going to shower.”
“Okay,” you said, your gaze lingering on him for just a second longer before he disappeared down the hall.
You reopened your laptop fully, your attention slipping back to the screen, though your thoughts were still halfway somewhere else. You clicked on the earrings again.
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “These are it.”
You added them to your cart just as the sound of the shower shutting off echoed faintly down the hall. By the time Robby came back out, his hair still damp, a clean t-shirt replacing the one from earlier, you were still sitting there, laptop balanced on your knees, staring at the screen like you were still deciding.
“What are you working on?” he asked, moving into the kitchen to grab a glass.
You glanced up. “Hey, actually, come look at this.”
He stepped closer, leaning slightly over your shoulder as you angled the screen toward him.
“What do you think?” you asked, pointing lightly. “Too simple?”
He studied them for a second, his expression thoughtful in that quiet way he had when he wasn’t overthinking things.
“They’re nice,” he said. “You’d wear those.”
You shook your head lightly. “Not for me.”
He glanced at you, brows pulling together just slightly.
“They’re for my mom,” you said. “For Mother’s Day.”
There was no pause. No visible shift.
“They’re nice,” he repeated, just as easily, before straightening and moving back toward the kitchen, reaching for a bottle of wine like the conversation hadn’t changed anything at all.
You watched him. The ease of it. The lack of reaction. The way he moved like nothing had just landed between you. He noticed. Of course he noticed.
His hand stilled for half a second on the bottle before he glanced over at you. “What?”
You hesitated.
“I’ve been thinking about this weekend,” you said slowly.
His brow furrowed slightly. “Okay…”
“And about you,” you added.
That got his full attention.
“What about me?” he asked, not defensive, but cautious.
You shifted slightly on the couch, your fingers tapping lightly against the edge of your laptop. “It’s Mother’s Day.”
He blinked. Like the connection hadn’t fully clicked.
“Yeah,” he said. “It is.”
You studied him, waiting. He didn’t fill in the rest. The oven chimed. You exhaled quietly, closing your laptop and setting it aside as you stood. “I should grab dinner.”
He nodded, like the moment had passed, but you could feel it hadn’t. Not really. You moved through the kitchen on autopilot, pulling plates, portioning food, focusing on the rhythm of it instead of the weight of what you were trying to say.
When you both sat down at the small table, the space between you felt different now. Not tense. But aware.
Robby took a bite, nodding slightly. “This is good.”
“Thank you,” you said, taking a sip of your wine, though your eyes hadn’t quite left him.
He noticed that too. He set his fork down slowly, leaning back just slightly in his chair, his gaze steady.
“Alright,” he said. “Out with it.”
You let out a small breath, setting your glass down carefully. “I don’t want to be insensitive this weekend.”
His expression didn’t change immediately.
“Insensitive how?” he asked.
You held his gaze. “You don’t have a mother.”
The words landed. Blunt. True.
He leaned back a little further, exhaling through his nose. “I don’t have a concern.”
You frowned slightly. “Robby—”
“She left a long time ago,” he said, cutting in, his tone even. “It’s not a big part of my life anymore. Hasn’t been for a while.”
You watched him for a second, something in your chest tightening. You took a breath. Careful. Tentative.
“What does ‘left’ mean?” you asked quietly.
He didn’t answer. Not right away. He shook his head slightly, picking up his fork again, like he could move past it if he just kept going. “It was a long time ago.”
You frowned, your voice softer but firmer now. “That’s not really an answer.”
He paused. You saw it. The moment he realized you weren’t going to let it go, not because you were pushing, but because you cared. He set his fork down.
“I don’t like talking about it,” he said.
You nodded once. “That’s obvious.”
A flicker of something, frustration, maybe, crossed his face, but it wasn’t directed at you. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.
“My mom was a drug addict,” he said, his voice flat, stripped of anything soft. “In and out of trying to get clean. Mostly out.”
You didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt.
“She had me somewhere in the middle of that,” he continued. “By the time I was two, I was living with my grandmother full time. She tried, I guess. Showed up sometimes. Disappeared again. That kind of thing.”
Your chest tightened.
“At five,” he added, quieter now, “she stopped showing up altogether. I haven’t seen her since.”
Silence filled the space. You didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what the right response was.
“That’s…” you started, your voice catching slightly before you steadied it. “That’s awful for a kid.”
He shrugged, like it didn’t matter, like it was just a fact. “I’m a big boy now. It’s fine.”
“It’s not fine,” you said gently.
His eyes flicked up to yours, something sharper there now. “It is.”
You shook your head slightly, your voice softening. “No, it’s not.”
A beat.
“I’m sorry,” you added.
His brow furrowed immediately. “Why?”
You blinked, caught off guard. “Because that’s…because it’s awful, Robby.”
“You didn’t leave me,” he said, his tone tight, not angry at you, but not calm either.
“I know,” you said softly. “That’s not what I meant.”
Silence again. He looked away, his jaw tight, his shoulders tense in a way that told you this wasn’t something he revisited often. You let the moment breathe. Didn’t push. Didn’t try to fix it. After a second, you reached for your glass again, your voice quieter when you spoke.
“Thank you for telling me,” you said.
He didn’t respond right away. But you saw it. The way something in him shifted just slightly. Like maybe that mattered more than he expected it to.
******
The morning felt heavier than it should have. Not because anything had been said, because, if anything, it was the opposite. The quiet that settled in after dinner had lingered, stretched into the night, carried through the soft, careful way you both moved around each other before bed, and followed you into the morning where everything was polite, functional, and just slightly… off.
Robby had left early. Earlier than usual. You’d heard him moving around in the kitchen, the soft clink of a mug, the quiet shuffle of keys, and by the time you made it out of the bedroom, he was already halfway out the door.
“See you at the hospital,” he’d said.
“Yeah,” you’d replied.
And that was it. No lingering. No softness. No easy familiarity like the night before. You hated it.
Not because you regretted asking, but because you could see, even in those brief moments, how much it had pulled something open in him that he usually kept locked down tight. And now you had the answer you’d been wondering about, the missing piece that explained so much about him, about the way he carried things, the way he shut down, the way he didn’t trust anything that felt too steady. And you had no idea what to do with it. So you walked.
The air was cool, the early morning light stretching across the street in long, quiet lines, your bag slung over your shoulder, your mind somewhere else entirely as you replayed the night over and over again. By the time you reached the corner, you stopped. Exhaled. And pulled out your phone.
You didn’t overthink it. You just called. She picked up on the third ring.
“Well,” your mother’s voice came through, warm and familiar in a way that immediately made something in your chest loosen, “this is a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure of my very busy daughter calling me before noon?”
You let out a small breath, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, honey,” she replied, softer now, immediately picking up on the shift in your tone. “What’s going on?”
You hesitated for half a second.
“I was looking at earrings for you last night,” you said.
“Oh?” she said, clearly pleased. “Should I be excited?”
“You should be very excited,” you replied, your voice lightening just a touch. “They’re perfect. Simple. Elegant. You.”
“I love them already,” she said without missing a beat. “Even though I haven’t seen them.”
You smiled, shaking your head slightly as you started walking again. “I’ll send them today.”
“Good,” she said. “And I’ll wear them and tell everyone how thoughtful my daughter is.”
You huffed a small laugh. “You already do that.”
“Of course I do,” she said. “It’s my job.”
There was a pause. A shift.
“You didn’t call just to talk about earrings,” she added gently.
You swallowed.
“No,” you admitted.
“I didn’t think so.”
You took a breath, your pace slowing slightly as you gathered your thoughts. “It’s Robby…the…man I’m seeing.”
Her tone changed immediately, curious, but careful. “Alright.”
“And yesterday,” you continued, “we were talking about Mother’s Day and I realized I didn’t know anything about his mom. He’d only ever said she ‘left’ when he was little.”
“Okay…”
“And I asked,” you said, your voice quieter now. “And he told me.”
You could almost hear her lean in on the other end.
“He said she was a drug addict,” you went on. “In and out of trying to get clean. He was with his grandmother by the time he was two. And after five… he never saw her again.”
There was a long pause. Not uncomfortable. Just… full.
“Oh, honey,” your mom said softly.
“Yeah,” you murmured.
“How did he say it?” she asked.
“Like it didn’t matter,” you replied. “Like it was just… a fact. Something he dealt with and moved past.”
“And what did it feel like to you?” she asked.
You didn’t answer right away.
“It didn’t feel like nothing,” you said finally. “It felt like something he buried.”
“That sounds about right,” she said gently.
You let out a slow breath. “I didn’t know what to say. I told him it wasn’t fine, and he pushed back. Not at me, just… in general.”
“Of course he did,” she said. “That’s how people protect themselves when something hurts that deeply.”
You frowned slightly. “So what do I do?”
There was a pause.
“You don’t fix it,” she said simply.
You sighed. “That’s what everyone keeps telling me.”
“Because it’s true,” she replied. “You don’t fix it. You don’t make it better. You don’t try to replace anything or fill in anything that’s missing. That’s not your role.”
“Then what is my role?” you asked, a little more vulnerable than you intended.
“To be consistent,” she said. “To be steady. To be someone who doesn’t leave.”
The words settled deep.
“You don’t need to make a big moment out of Mother’s Day for him,” she continued. “In fact, I wouldn’t. That could feel overwhelming. But you also don’t ignore it completely.”
You nodded slowly, even though she couldn’t see you. “So… what? Just act normal?”
“Not normal,” she corrected gently. “Intentional.”
You let that sit.
“Check in without making it a production,” she added. “Give him space to feel whatever he feels about it, even if that’s nothing. And most importantly, don’t make it about you being afraid of doing the wrong thing. Make it about him.”
You exhaled softly. “Okay.”
There was a small pause.
“Can I talk to him?” your mom asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“On Mother’s Day,” she clarified. “Just for a minute.”
You stopped walking entirely, your brows pulling together. “Mom, that’s… a little odd.”
She laughed softly. “I know it sounds that way.”
“It does,” you said.
“Trust me,” she replied, her tone warm but certain. “I’m not going to interrogate him or make him uncomfortable. I just… want to say hello.”
You hesitated.
“I don’t know if he’d even—”
“Then don’t force it,” she said. “Just ask. If he says no, that’s fine. But if he says yes…” she trailed off slightly, then added, softer, “sometimes people who didn’t have a mother figure need to hear something they didn’t realize they were missing.”
Your chest tightened.
“You really think that’s a good idea?” you asked quietly.
“I think,” she said gently, “that you trust me.”
You closed your eyes for a second, exhaling slowly.
“Yeah,” you admitted. “I do.”
“Then just… trust me on this too.”
You nodded, even though she couldn’t see it. “Okay.”
“And honey?” she added.
“Yeah?”
“You’re doing just fine,” she said softly. “The fact that you care this much? That’s already more than enough.”
Your throat tightened slightly, emotion catching you off guard.
“Thanks, Mom,” you said quietly.
“Anytime,” she replied. “Now go save lives. And send me those earrings.”
A small laugh slipped out of you. “I will.”
You hung up a moment later, standing there for just a second longer before you started walking again, your mind still full, but steadier now. You didn’t have all the answers. But maybe you didn’t need them. Maybe you just needed to show up. That felt like something you could do.
******
Mother’s Day felt… quieter than you expected. Not heavy, not tense in the way you had braced yourself for, but softer somehow, like the edges of everything had been sanded down overnight into something manageable. You stood outside the little coffee shop on the corner, shifting your weight slightly as you waited, your hands tucked into the sleeves of your light jacket, your eyes scanning the street more than necessary. And then you saw him.
Robby crossed the street with that same familiar stride, a little slower than usual, a little more tired around the edges, but still unmistakably him. Your chest eased before you could stop it.
“Hey,” you said as he approached.
“Hey,” he replied, and before you could say anything else, he leaned in and pressed a tired, gentle kiss to your forehead.
It wasn’t heated. Wasn’t charged. But it meant everything. You let out a quiet breath, something in your shoulders loosening as you took it for what it was, peace.
“Coffee?” you asked, gesturing toward the door.
“Please,” he said simply.
Inside, the shop buzzed with soft conversation and the smell of espresso, the kind of place that made everything feel just a little slower, a little more human. You ordered together, easy, familiar, and then stepped aside to wait, the small space forcing you close in a way that felt natural instead of overwhelming.
You didn’t think about it. You just stepped into him. Your arms wrapped around his middle, your cheek brushing his chest as you tucked yourself against him, the contact grounding, quiet, real.
He didn’t hesitate. His arms came around you, holding you there, one hand settling at your back as you leaned into him, your face turning slightly so your words pressed into the fabric of his shirt.
“I’m sorry,” you murmured.
You felt him sigh more than heard it, the sound low, almost relieved, his hand tightening just slightly at your side.
“It’s okay,” he said softly.
And just like that, it was gone. Whatever had lingered between you, whatever tension had carried over from that conversation, dissolved into something simpler, something steadier.
“Robby?” a voice called.
Your coffees. You pulled back, glancing up at him for half a second before stepping away to grab them, handing his over as you pushed open the door with your shoulder. Outside, the air felt warmer now. Lighter. You fell into step beside him easily, your fingers slipping into his without hesitation as you started toward the park, the rhythm of walking side by side settling in quickly.
“So,” you began, a small smile tugging at your lips, “my neighbor’s cat got out last night.”
He glanced over at you, already amused. “That sounds like it ends badly.”
“Oh, it does,” you said, nodding seriously. “Apparently it made it all the way down to the lobby and refused to come back upstairs.”
“Smart cat,” he muttered.
You laughed. “No, Robby, not smart. Dramatic. There were three grown adults trying to coax it with treats while it stared at them like they were beneath it.”
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “I respect that.”
You grinned, squeezing his hand lightly. “Of course you do.”
The sound warmed something deep in your chest. Your phone rang. You frowned slightly, pulling it from your pocket, your brows lifting when you saw the name.
“Hold on,” you said, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”
Her voice came through bright and warm. “Hi, sweetheart. I know we already talked earlier, but I was just thinking about you.”
You smiled, glancing at Robby briefly. “We’re just walking through the park. It’s nice out.”
“That sounds lovely,” she said. “And you’re with him?”
You hesitated just slightly. “Yeah.”
“Good,” she replied.
There was a beat.
“Can I talk to him?” she asked.
You froze for half a second, your steps slowing as you looked over at Robby. He noticed immediately, one brow lifting slightly in question.
You pulled the phone away from your ear, lowering your voice as you leaned closer. “She wants to talk to you.”
His expression shifted, confused, a little caught off guard. “Why?”
You shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. You don’t have to.”
He studied you for a second, then glanced at the phone, then back at you. “What did you tell her?”
“Nothing…I mean she knows about us, obviously.”
A beat.
“Alright,” he said, holding his hand out.
You blinked, surprised, but handed him the phone.
“Hi,” he said, bringing it to his ear, his voice careful, neutral. “This is Robby.”
You watched him. At first, there wasn’t much. He listened. Nodded once, even though she couldn’t see him.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “She told me.”
Another pause. His expression softened, just slightly.
“No, ma’am,” he added, almost instinctively, and that alone made your chest tighten.
You couldn’t hear her words. But you could see their impact. The way his shoulders eased. The way his jaw unclenched. The way his gaze dropped to the ground, not guarded, not closed off, just… listening.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter now. “That means a lot.”
Another pause. Longer this time. He swallowed. You saw it. The flicker of something deeper, something that caught him off guard.
“Yeah,” he said, softer still. “I…yeah.”
His free hand came up, rubbing the back of his neck, a habit you knew well, but this time it wasn’t tension, it was… something else. Something close to emotion.
“I will,” he murmured. “I promise.”
A breath. Then a small, almost unsteady exhale.
“Thank you,” he said again, more firmly this time. “Happy Mother’s Day.”
He pulled the phone away slowly, staring at it for half a second before handing it back to you.
You took it, your voice soft as you brought it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Oh, honey,” she said gently. “He’s a good one.”
You glanced at him, your heart full in a way you couldn’t quite put into words. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I know.”
“Alright,” she said. “I’ll let you go. I love you.”
“I love you too,” you replied. “Happy Mother’s Day.”
You hung up, slipping your phone back into your pocket, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. Robby was quiet. Not shut down. Just… processing. You stepped closer, your arm sliding around his, your hand resting lightly against his side.
“What was that?” you asked softly.
He looked at you. Really looked at you. For a long second.
Then he leaned down and kissed you. Not rushed. Not overwhelming. Just soft. Intentional. Full of something that hadn’t been there before. When he pulled back, his arm came around you, pulling you in close against his side.
“Let’s go home,” he said quietly.
******
His place felt different when you walked back into it together. Not because anything had changed physically, the same couch, the same soft light filtering through the windows, the same quiet hum of the refrigerator, but because something between you had settled into place in a way it hadn’t before. There was no tension trailing behind you this time, no question hanging in the air waiting to be addressed. Just a quiet understanding that neither of you rushed to break.
Robby closed the door behind you, his hand lingering on the handle for a second before he turned, his eyes finding yours immediately. Neither of you spoke. You slipped your shoes off slowly, setting them by the door, your movements unhurried, grounded in the calm that had followed you home from the park. He moved past you into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses without asking, pouring water, like the day called for something simpler.
“Here,” he said, handing one to you.
“Thanks,” you murmured, your fingers brushing his briefly as you took it.
You took a sip, then set it down on the counter, watching him as he leaned back slightly against it, his shoulders more relaxed than you’d seen them in days.
“You’ve been quiet,” you said gently.
He let out a small breath through his nose, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah.”
“That a good quiet or a bad one?” you asked.
He considered that.
“Good,” he said finally. “Just… thinking.”
You nodded, stepping closer, your presence easy now, no hesitation in the space between you. “About what?”
He looked at you, something softer sitting in his expression, something steadier.
“Your mom,” he said.
That made you smile faintly. “She tends to have that effect on people.”
“She told me to stop waiting for things to fall apart,” he added.
You blinked, surprised. “She did?”
“Mm,” he nodded. “Said I’ve gotten really good at bracing for the worst before it even happens.”
You tilted your head slightly. “She’s not wrong.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
A beat.
“She also told me,” he continued, his voice lowering just slightly, “that people who stay are rare. And if you find one, you don’t make them prove it over and over again.”
Your chest tightened. You hadn’t heard that part.
You stepped a little closer, your voice soft. “She said that to you?”
“Yeah,” he said, holding your gaze. “She also said you’re stubborn.”
You huffed out a small laugh. “That tracks.”
He smiled then, really smiled, and it did something warm and steady to your chest. Silence settled again, but it wasn’t empty. It was full.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he said after a moment.
“Do what?”
“Call her. Ask her. Think about all of that,” he said, gesturing lightly between you. “You could’ve just… ignored it.”
You shook your head slightly. “That’s not how I work.”
“I know,” he said. “That’s kind of the point.”
Another pause.
“I meant what I said before,” you added, your voice grounding just slightly. “About not being something temporary. About not doing this halfway.”
“I know,” he replied immediately.
“And I meant it today too,” you continued. “About showing up. About being steady.”
He stepped closer then, closing the last bit of distance between you, his presence warm, solid, real.
“I know,” he said again, softer now. “And I’m not going anywhere.”
Your breath caught just slightly at that. Not because it was dramatic. Not because it was overwhelming. But because it was simple. And real. And exactly what you needed to hear.
You studied him for a second, searching his face the way you always did, looking for any hint of deflection, of hesitation, of the man who used to keep one foot out the door just in case. You didn’t find him. Instead, you found this version. The one who stayed.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
His hand came up then, resting lightly at your waist, not pulling, not rushing, just grounding himself there as his other hand brushed a loose strand of hair back from your face.
“You’re really good at this,” he murmured.
“At what?” you asked softly.
“At not leaving,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “You make it easier than you think.”
He shook his head slightly, like he didn’t quite believe that, but he didn’t argue either. Instead, he leaned in. The kiss was soft. Not urgent, not desperate, not trying to prove anything. Just… certain.
You leaned into it easily, your hands finding his arms, steady, familiar, your body settling against his like it had already learned the shape of him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours, his breath warm, even.
“Stay tonight?” he asked quietly.
You smiled, your answer immediate this time. “I was planning on it.”
A small, almost relieved laugh slipped out of him, his arm tightening slightly around you.
“Good,” he said.
And this time, when you moved through the apartment together, relaxing during the day, doing a few loads of laundry, and finally through dinner cleanup, through the quiet routine of the evening, through the soft, unspoken understanding of where this was going, there was no hesitation.
No testing. No pulling away. Later, when you slipped into bed beside him, you curled into him easily, your head finding its place against his chest, your hand resting over his heart like it belonged there. His arm wrapped around you without pause, holding you close, steady, present.
“You okay?” you murmured softly, your voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” he said, just as quietly. “I am.”
You smiled against him, your eyes closing as the weight of the day finally settled into something softer.
“Me too,” you whispered.
And as sleep came, easy and unguarded, wrapped in the quiet certainty of each other, It didn’t feel like the beginning of something fragile. It felt like the start of something that might actually last.
This series of the amazing @vunblr is now complete, so there’s zero excuse to not go and immediately binge it. Please go read it, like each chapter, leave kudos and reblog. ♥️
Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. Knot. Breeding. Rough Sex. Scent Kink. Dub-con elements: breaking and entering, but all sex is enthusiastically consented. Non-traditional alpha purring. Size Kink. Premature Ejaculation. Feral/Possessive Behaviour.
Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.
Word Count: 12.7k
note: I have been toying with this concept for a while, and wrote these character premises as a background: Alpha!Soldat - Omega!Reader
5:07 AM.
The sky hasn't decided yet whether it's going to dawn or surrender back to night. It’s that liminal hour when the city just stops, too late for the night crowd, and too early for the commuters. Just the street cleaners, the delivery trucks, and the bakers finishing their shifts.
She pulls her jacket tighter against the October chill and starts walking.
Twelve blocks, it’s not far. Close enough that she doesn't need the subway, but far enough that her legs feel it after eight hours on her feet, kneading dough. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back protests. She smells like the industrial-strength flour that gets into everything, no matter how many times she washes her hands.
She doesn't see him.
But he's there.
----
Three rooftops back, tracking her with the concentration it would use on a target: eyes cataloging her gait, her route, the way she favors her right leg slightly after a long shift. But this isn't a mission. There’s no handler voice in its ear telling it where to go, what to do, or who to eliminate.
Just her scent in the air.
Brown sugar and yeast, yes, but underneath that… omega. Warm and sweet and something that makes Soldat's chest constrict in a way that has no name, no designation, no mission-relevant purpose.
It doesn't understand why it's following her.
Can't articulate the drive that pulled it off its assigned route many nights ago, and keeps pulling it back to the alley behind the bakery, to the vent that breathes her scent into the dark.
It still has things to do that don't include stalking an omega through pre-dawn streets like something hungry.
But it can't stop.
Has tried. Twice. Completed the mission and returned to wait for new orders. And both times, it found itself an excuse to be back in that alley at 3:47 AM when the oven is hot, and her scent filters through the vent.
Omega. Mine.
The thought comes from somewhere deep. Some base-level recognition that bypasses protocol and conditioning, and makes Soldat's hands shake.
She turns the corner onto a quieter street.
Residential. Old brownstones with iron railings and window boxes that haven't been tended in years. It drops from the rooftop to a fire escape -silent, controlled- and continues tracking her from the shadows.
It shouldn't be doing this.
Knows it shouldn't.
Handlers aren’t here. It chastises itself.
There's no debrief scheduled for today. No extraction team waiting.
Only her scent on the wind.
----
Her building is old. Pre-war, maybe. Brick facade with a fire escape that's seen better decades. She lets herself in through the front door -no doorman, it notes, filing it away in the part of its brain that still calculates threat assessments- and disappears into the stairwell.
It waits sixty seconds.
Counts them, precisely. Giving her time to reach her floor, -the one that smells like her- to unlock her door, to be safely inside before-
Before what?
Soldat doesn't know.
Doesn't have a plan. Just the pull in its body that screams closer and the scent memory that's been driving it slowly insane for days.
It should leave, but it's already moving. Not toward the front door, but toward the fire escape.
Metal fingers find purchase first on iron rungs worn smooth by decades of weather. It climbs silently, the thing barely creaks under its weight because it knows exactly where to place its feet, how to distribute the load.
It moves up the side of the building like water flowing upward. Silent and inevitable to the second floor.
Her window faces the alley, so it crouches on the fire escape landing, perfectly still, and watches her shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, toeing off her shoes, and leaving them by the door.
It’s a small apartment, a studio layout, its mind automatically catalogs. Kitchen area, living space, bathroom door, and a bed in the corner.
She moves through the space and opens the fridge -light spills out, illuminating her for three seconds- grabs a bottle of juice. Drinks. Sets it down.
And pulls her shirt over her head.
Soldat's breath stops.
It can see skin it has no right to look at, and it can't make itself turn away. Can't make itself leave, like every remaining protocol says it should.
Because she's just there. Right there, separated from it by a pane of glass and ten feet of air, and the seventy years of conditioning that says don't want, don't need, don't feel.
But Soldat is feeling.
Chest tight, breathing uneven. Cock still hard. Has been hard since it caught her slick-scent through the bakery vent two hours ago, an ache it doesn't remember ever experiencing before.
And it wants.
She disappears further into the apartment.
A door closes. The bathroom, its mind supplies automatically. It hears water running through the pipes. Shower.
Every instruction it has left says to disengage now. Report the issue, because that's what this is, isn't it? An issue.
It isn't supposed to follow civilians home. Isn't supposed to be crouched on a fire escape at 5 AM watching an omega through her window like something feral.
Its hand moves to the window ledge.
Testing.
The old wood is swollen with moisture. The latch is visible through the gap in the curtains, a simple mechanism, not designed to keep out anyone who actually wants in.
Don't.
Its other hand goes to the knife at its thigh.
Leave. Disengage. Return to base.
But it's already moving.
The blade slides between the window and the frame. Simple leverage. The latch gives with barely a click, the wood is too old, and the mechanism is too worn to provide real resistance.
The window slides up smoothly, and the scent-
Fuck.
It escapes out of the open window like a physical thing. Concentrated. Undiluted. Brown sugar, yeast, and omega, coating the inside of its mouth, taking root inside its lungs.
Soldat is inside before really processing it.
The window slides shut behind it, and he just stands there, surrounded by her scent.
The shower is still running. It can hear it through the bathroom door. Can picture her under the spray, water running over skin it saw for three seconds and can't stop thinking about.
Its cock throbs.
Insistent. Painful. It looks down at the bulge behind its pants like it belongs to someone else, like it's a malfunction rather than proof that the drugs are failing, have been failing, because the body knows she's its.
It is biological, absolute, and completely outside of its control.
It crosses to the other window -the one that faces the living area, opposite the bathroom- and sits down on the sill.
It doesn't hide. Doesn't try to blend into shadows or position itself tactically, just waits.
Because she needs to see it. Some part of it that isn't entirely a weapon understands that surprising her, cornering her in the bathroom, or grabbing her when she's vulnerable, would be wrong.
Would make her afraid.
And it doesn't want her afraid.
Wants-
It doesn't know what it wants. Just knows it's going to wait right here until she comes out.
The water cuts off.
Its breathing goes shallow as it hears her moving around in the bathroom. A towel. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. Footsteps. The door handle turning, and finally, the door opening.
----
She steps out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dripping down her back.
And freezes.
Because a man is sitting in her window.
No, not a man. Something else. Something that makes every rational thought in her head go quiet, replaced by a single, primal recognition that bypasses her brain entirely and speaks directly to that omega part of her that had seemed dormant almost all her life.
Alpha.
He's engulfed in black. Tactical gear that looks military, maybe a mercenary, she doesn't know enough to tell the difference, just knows it's meant for violence. A polymer mask covers the lower half of his face as some kind of muzzle, and it should look wrong, should look like something out of a nightmare, but doesn't.
Above it, his eyes.
Blue. Pale, pale blue. The color of ice over deep water.
And they're locked on her.
Not looking. Locked. Fixed in a way that makes her instinct whisper predator even as her omega biology sings yes.
Black paint is smeared across the upper half of his face, crude, deliberately, the kind of thing meant to swallow the light and turn a man into a shadow. His hair hangs lank, brushing his shoulders, dark and tangled like it hasn't seen a brush in weeks. Maybe months.
And his left arm-
Metal.
Plates and articulated joints that catch the yellow light from her bedside lamp, silver and unmistakably not human. It rests on his thigh, fingers splayed, and she can see the micro-movements, the tiny recalibrations of servos and mechanisms that keep it alive.
She should scream.
She should run, lock herself back in the bathroom, call 911, something, anything other than just standing here dripping onto her floor in nothing but a towel that suddenly feels thinner than paper.
But her body doesn't respond with fight or flight.
It still responds with yes.
Because that scent, oh god, that scent.
It hits her fully now that she's out of the steam-thick bathroom. Leather worn soft with age. Gunmetal, cordite. And underneath it all, something alive and warm. Clean sweat, musk, cedar smoke, and a bass note she doesn't have a name for, but her body knows.
It's him.
The ghost she's been smelling through the bakery vent for days. The phantom that made her slick in the middle of a shift, made her hands shake while she shaped croissants, made her lie awake at night with her fingers between her legs chasing a release that never quite came because it wasn't him.
He's real.
He's in her apartment.
And some twisted, fucked-up part of her -the part that's never felt right with any alpha she's tried to want, the part that's been waiting for something she couldn't name- feels like he belongs here.
Her pulse hammers in her throat. She can feel it, hot and frantic, thudding against her scent gland. Her skin prickles with hyperawareness, the towel too rough against her nipples, and-
Oh no.
Oh no.
Warmth between her thighs. The telltale slick slide that means her body is already reacting, already preparing, already wanting in a way she's never felt with flesh-and-blood alphas who bought her drinks and asked politely and did everything right.
She's getting wet for a stranger sitting in her window like a bird of prey.
The shame of it burns, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to make her body listen to her brain's increasingly frantic commands to move, run, do something.
She hears him inhale and sees the way his entire body goes rigid.
Oh fuck.
He smells it.
----
It watches her freeze.
Sees the way her pupils blow wide, black swallowing the color until there's barely any left. Perceives the flutter of her pulse, rabbit-quick, omega-fragile. Sees the water droplets sliding down her collarbone, disappearing into the edge of the towel.
She hasn't screamed.
That's… weird. Civilians scream when it appears in their private rooms. They run. They freeze and shake, and sometimes they cry, but they don't just stand there staring at it like-
Her scent changes, and it takes it half a second to place it, and when it does, something in its brain fractures.
Slick.
It tenses.
That's not- omegas don't smell like that for it. Warm and sweet and wanting, with pheromones that pull at something on it, that the handlers said was fixed.
But it's surfacing now.
Clawing up from whatever dark place they tried to bury it, and it doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't have a protocol for this. Just the overwhelming need to get closer, to bury its face in her throat and breathe.
Its cock throbs. Heavy, aching, trapped behind tactical fabric that suddenly feels painfully constricting.
It shifts slightly on the windowsill, trying to relieve the pressure, and the movement is clumsy. It doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't remember ever needing to.
Her eyes drop.
She's looking at the obvious bulge straining against black fabric, at the evidence of something it thought was dead.
She should be running.
Why isn't she running?
"How did you get in?" Her voice comes out steady. Not scared, or angry.
Like this is a normal question to ask a heavily-armed stranger sitting in her window at five in the morning.
It doesn't answer.
Doesn't know how to answer.
So it stands.
The movement is fluid and controlled because the body knows how to move smoothly even when the mind is fracturing.
She's still just standing there, still looking at it with those wide eyes, pupils blown. The towel is slipping slightly on one side, and it can see a droplet of water sliding down between her breasts, and its mouth goes dry.
It takes a step toward her.
Then another.
Her scent gets stronger with each foot of distance it closes. Thicker. Sweeter. The slick-smell underneath makes something in Soldat's alpha core growl with satisfaction because yes, omega wants, omega is ready-
No.
It doesn't think like that. Isn't supposed to think like that. Omegas are targets or obstacles or irrelevant sources of pain, not-
Another step.
She hasn't moved.
Hasn't backed up, hasn't reached for a makeshift weapon, hasn't done any of the things a smart person should do when a strange man invades her home.
Three more steps and it's close enough to feel the residual heat from her shower radiating off her damp skin. Close enough to see the way her chest is rising and falling too fast, shallow breaths that make the towel shift with each inhale.
Close enough to hear the slight hitch when it stops less than a foot away.
----
He is close enough that she can see the black paint smudged at his temple, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his pupils have blown so wide the blue is almost gone.
Close enough to drown in his scent.
It's overwhelming this close, and her body responds like he's touching her even though there are still inches of space between them.
More slick. Warm and mortifying, sliding down her inner thighs beneath the towel.
She watches him scent the air, watches his pupils dilate even further -if that's even possible- watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.
He knows exactly what her body is doing.
And some absolutely insane part of her is glad.
His metal hand comes up slowly, like he's giving her every chance to bolt, to scream, to do literally anything other than stand here and let him.
The hand hovers near her face.
Not touching. Just so close that she can see her reflection dancing in the fingers plates, warped and strange, and hear the whisper-quiet whir of mechanisms, as he holds it perfectly still.
Her heart is hammering so hard she's sure he can hear it, but she doesn't flinch.
Doesn't do any of the rational things a person should do when a stranger breaks into their home and reaches for their face with a metal hand that could probably crush her throat without effort.
Just stands there, meeting those burning blue eyes, her heart a war drum in her chest, and waits.
Because this feels…
Right.
Every alpha she's ever tried to force herself to want was just wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything. Going through the correct actions because that's what omegas are supposed to do, supposed to crave, but her body never responded. Never wanted.
Until now.
A stranger in tactical gear with a metal arm and war paint, and her body is screaming yes louder than it's ever screamed anything in her life.
She watches his hand hover, and in defiance of every rational instinct, she takes a step forward. Closes those last six inches of space until the towel brushes against his thigh, and his scent completely surrounds her, drowns her, ruins her.
And reaches up.
Her fingers wrap around his metal wrist -still hovering, still waiting- and she guides it down, pressing that cold palm against her cheek.
----
She touches it, and Soldat furrows his brows.
Because no one touches the arm unless they have to. Handlers avoid it. Technicians maintain it with detachment. Targets flinch from it. Witnesses scream when they see it.
But she-
A sound is ripped out of it, low, subvocal, resonating in the hollow of its ribcage. It doesn't recognize it at first. Doesn't have a reference for the frequency, the pattern, or the way it seems to vibrate through its entire body.
Not a growl, not a snarl.
Something else.
Something the handlers never trained it for because alphas don't… alphas aren't supposed to-
Purr.
Soldat is purring.
It doesn't know how to stop.
Doesn't know if it wants to stop.
Because she's still touching the arm, still holding its wrist, and her eyes are closed now, her face tipped into the metal palm like she's seeking comfort from it.
From it.
The purr intensifies.
Its thumb moves -carefully, because the arm could hurt her so easily, and that thought makes something violent twist in its gut- and brushes along her cheekbone.
Her breath catches, and Soldat hears it, and wants to touch more.
Wants to map every inch of her body with both hands, with its mouth. Wants to bury its face in her throat and learn the exact composition of her scent. Wants to know what she tastes like. Wants to-
It hands grip her shoulders and pulls her closer, using the momentum to bend down and bury its face in the curve of her neck where the scent gland sits and inhales, or tries to.
Because the mask creates a barrier between its face and her skin. Only millimeters of separation, but it might as well be miles.
It’s not enough.
It presses closer, trying to get its nose flush against her throat, trying to eliminate even those few millimeters of distance.
But the rigid edge of the muzzle won't let it, and the frustration is maddening.
The sound that rips out of its throat is not a growl. Smaller than that. Sharper. Almost a whine, high and thwarted, vibrating through its chest in a way that makes it freeze because…
Because it doesn't make sounds like that.
It pulls back from her throat, hands still on her shoulders, and it stares down at the space between them like it's a tactical problem requiring assessment.
Remove it.
The thought surfaces clean and logical. A simple solution to a simple problem.
Its flesh hand releases her shoulder and lifts toward its own head. Fingers reaching for the straps at the back, close enough that it would only take a second, just release the catch, pull the strap free…
Then the hand stops, freezing mid-motion, and Soldat's jaw clenches beneath the muzzle.
The conditioning surfaces automatically and absolutely. Operational equipment stays on until a handler authorizes removal. The Soldat doesn't touch the gear. Doesn't adjust it. Doesn't remove it.
Waits for orders. Always waits for orders.
But there are no orders here.
No handler voice in its ear telling it what to do, what's permitted, what comes next.
Just the omega standing in front of it and the scent it can't reach, and the need clawing inside it like something trying to break out.
Its hand trembles. Actually trembles. Seventy years of conditioning screaming don't touch the equipment warring with the biological imperative howling get closer to omega.
She makes a sound.
Soft. Questioning. Her eyes watch the internal struggle in real time.
And it realizes, she can see it. The conflict, the frozen hand.
The Soldat's hand drops back onto her shoulder. It can't do this.
The frustration is physical. A tightness in its throat, a pressure behind its eyes, and the whine tries to surface again, but it swallows it down because it doesn’t want to show weakness to her, besides its uselessness.
The word surfaces bitter and cold.
Can't even take off its own gear. Can't function like anything other than a weapon waiting for orders that aren't coming.
----
She can see it in his eyes.
He wants the mask off. The way he's looking at the space between them with something that's not quite frustration, or confusion, but somewhere in between.
Trapped.
He's trapped by something she can't see. Some kind of rule he can't break, even though every line of his body is screaming that he wants to.
He's not going to take it off himself.
Can't, or won't, or has been trained so thoroughly not to that his hand literally won't complete the motion even though he's desperate for it.
And that… that's wrong. Whatever they did to him, whoever they are, it's wrong.
Her hands come up slowly, carefully, so he can see it coming.
She reaches past his shoulders, past his neck, finding the straps at the back of his head. Her fingers brush through his tangled hair, searching for the buckles hidden beneath.
"Can I?"
Her voice is barely a whisper. Rough with want and the absolute insanity of what she's doing, asking permission to unmask a stranger who broke into her apartment, like that's the wildest part of this situation.
But nothing about this makes sense, so why should this?
He nods, almost military in its precision.
And something in her chest aches at how strange that is, that he needs her help to remove something that's clearly bothering him. That he can't just do it himself.
She reaches up and carefully -so carefully- lifts it away.
The straps pull free from his hair. The contraption comes away from his face, and she can see the slight indentations it left on his skin, red marks where it pressed too tightly for too long.
How long has he been wearing this?
She doesn't ask.
Just holds the mask for a second, then drops it, and it hits the floor with a dull plastic thud that seems too loud in the quiet of her apartment.
For the first time, she sees his whole face.
Sharp jaw. Dry lips parted slightly as he drags in air like he's been holding his breath. A mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, except she doesn't think he remembers how. The black paint extends down past where the mask sat, smudged across his cheeks making his eyes look even more intense.
He's… beautiful. Devastatingly so.
Not pretty, not soft, but beautiful. All sharp edges and hard lines, and a vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't match the rest of him.
And he's staring at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters, like she just gave him something he didn't know he needed.
The moment the mask leaves his face, he moves.
Fast, faster than she can track, his face buries into the curve of her throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.
A shuddering inhale that she feels all the way down between her thighs. His nose is pressed directly against her scent gland now, nothing between them, and his whole body goes rigid against hers.
Then he breathes her in again, deep and desperate, and the groan he makes is so raw it makes her knees weak.
She feels his lips part, and the wet heat of his tongue dragging directly over her scent gland, tasting her, and her vision goes white for a second.
Her head tips back.
Automatic. Instinctive. Omega nature taking over and offering her throat to an alpha she doesn't even know, and she should be terrified of how right this feels.
But she's not.
He licks her again, slower this time, deliberately, learning her taste. Then his mouth seals over the gland, and he sucks.
The sound she makes is high and breathy and omega, and she feels it, feels her knees give out, feels her body go liquid and pliant.
He catches her.
The metal arm bands around her waist instantly, hauling her up and pinning her against him so her feet barely touch the floor. She's pressed against tactical gear and body armor and all that heat radiating off his body, and the towel-
The towel is gone.
She doesn't know when it fell. Doesn't care. Can't think past the way his mouth is working her throat, licking, sucking, the scrape of teeth that makes her gasp and arch into him.
He's hard.
She can feel it against her hip, thick and insistent even through the clothing, and he's grinding into her like he can't help himself. Like his hips are moving on pure instinct, chasing friction and relief and something he doesn't have words for.
The purr is still going.
That deep, subvocal vibration she can feel everywhere they're touching: his chest against hers, his arm around her waist, his face in her throat.
Wrong, some distant part of her brain whispers. Alphas don't purr.
But he is.
And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever felt.
She tilts her head back further, giving him more access, and the noise he makes in response is purely animal. Grateful and starving and so far gone she knows -knows- that something is deeply wrong with him.
Not wrong like dangerous.
Wrong like broken.
The way he touches her is frantic but not cruel, demanding but not bruising, desperate but not violent. Like he's running on instinct with no learned behavior, no finesse. Just need, confusion, and the desperate drive to get closer.
His flesh hand grips her thigh and lifts, hitching her leg up around his hip and pressing in hard, grinding his erection against where she's slick and open and aching, and the pressure makes her whimper.
He pulls back just enough to look at her.
His eyes are wild. Just thin rings of ice around bottomless black. His lips are wet, the black paint smudged where his face was pressed into her throat. He's panting like he just ran miles, and she can see it-
The confusion.
The need.
The absolute terror of not understanding what's happening to him. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he seeks.
But she wants to pull him down to her bed and let him figure it out. Wants to guide those shaking hands, wants to teach him what touch can feel like. Wants to watch him come apart with her name on his lips, except she doesn't even know his name and-
"Please."
The word falls out of her mouth. Barely a whisper. Rough and desperate, and she doesn't even know what she's asking for.
But he seems to understand.
----
Please.
The omega says it like a prayer, and something in Soldat's mind just shatters. Because she's asking. Begging. Not for it to stop, not for it to leave her alone, but for more.
Her scent is everywhere. On its tongue, in its nose, soaking into its skin through the tactical gear. Brown sugar and yeast, and that salt undertone that makes its alpha instinct groan mine, omega, MINE.
Her leg is wrapped around its hip. Her body is bare and warm and pressed against it, and it can smell how wet she is, and its cock is so hard it hurts.
It feels pain. Real, physical pain, because it hasn't been hard in… it doesn't know how long. Doesn't remember what this feels like, this ache low in its belly, this pressure behind the zipper of its pants that won't go away no matter how it grinds against her.
And she's letting it.
Not just letting, she's arching into it, making those high breathy sounds that spike straight down Soldat's spine, and it doesn't know what to do.
It knows how to kill. Knows ten ways to incapacitate from this position. Knows where to put the knife, the bullet.
Doesn't know how to touch her without breaking her.
Its flesh hand is gripping her thigh too tightly. It can see its knuckles white with pressure, can calculate the exact force needed to bruise, and it tries to ease up, but can't make its fingers let go.
Because if it lets go, she might-
Soldat doesn't know what it's afraid of. That she'll run. That she'll stay. That this will end. That it won't.
Her hands come up.
Slide into its hair, tangling in the unwashed strands, and she pulls.
Not hard. Just enough to guide its face back to her throat, and it complies because it can't do anything else. Can't think past the need to have its mouth on her skin, to taste the scent gland again, to feel her pulse against its tongue.
It licks a stripe up her throat, tasting her, and the purr intensifies until its entire chest is vibrating with it.
She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to its leaking cock.
It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to move, needs friction, needs something.
Its hips jerk forward, grinding the thick length behind its pants against her, and the heat there -wet and slick and ready- makes its vision blur.
Omega.
Wants.
Needs.
The thoughts don't form in words. Just primal drive, instinct clawing up from wherever they buried it. Its free hand -the metal one, careful, so careful- slides down her side. Traces her waist, her hip, until it reaches her thigh, the one not wrapped around him, and it grips, gentle as it knows how, which might not be gentle enough, and lifts.
Both her legs are now wrapped around its waist, her back against the wall, its both hands holding her up by her ass, and she's completely open against it now.
Nothing but its tactical pants between them. It can feel the slick soaking through, can smell it so thick in the air it's drowning everything else out.
It grinds forward.
The pressure makes her gasp -loud and sharp- and her nails dig into its shoulders through the vest.
Yes.
It does it again. Harder. Chasing the friction, the heat, the sounds she's making. Its hips move in a rhythm it doesn't remember learning, rutting against her like something feral.
She's saying something, but it can't process the words. Just the tone, breathy, desperate, wanting, and it's enough.
More than enough.
Its mouth finds her throat again. Finds the scent gland and bites. Not hard. Not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her feel it, to hold her, to-
Mark?
The thought surfaces sharp and alien. Soldat doesn't mark. Doesn't claim. It's not supposed to-
But its teeth are on her gland, and she's keening, high and sweet and surrendering, and its primal alpha nature is screaming YES, MINE, OMEGA, CLAIM-
No.
Can't.
Not allowed.
It doesn't know who decided that or why, just knows it's true. It can't bond her. Can't keep her.
But it can't let go either.
Can't stop grinding against her, can't stop purring, can't stop holding her against the wall like she's the only thing that matters in the world.
She pulls its hair again, forcing Soldat's face up, making it meet her eyes. And what it sees there is want, need. But also something else.
Understanding, maybe.
Like she can see the fracture and the confusion inside its head.
Her thumb brushes its cheekbone, smearing the black paint. Gentle in a way nothing has been with it in years.
"It's okay," she whispers.
And Soldat doesn't know what she means.
Doesn't know what's okay. This isn't okay, none of this is okay. It had broken into her home and put its hands on her, and she should be screaming and squirming but instead she's-
"It's okay," she says again, and her lips brush against it like she's afraid it might break.
Soldat freezes.
Her lips are warm. Soft. Moving gently against its mouth like she's asking a question, but it doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know what to do with its mouth except keep it closed, rigid, and unresponsive while she kisses it with a tenderness that disarms it.
She pulls back.
Just a fraction. Just enough to look at it, and Soldat can see the question in her eyes even though she doesn't ask it out loud.
Is this okay?
It doesn't know.
She kisses it again, slower this time. A soft press of lips, then another, feather-light brushes that make its breath hitch.
Her hands slide from its hair to cup its face -cradling it between her palms like it's something precious- and she kisses the corner of its mouth. Its jaw. The edge of its lips again.
Patiently, like she has all the time in the world.
Like she's not pinned against a wall, held up by its hands under her ass, legs wrapped around its waist while completely naked.
Soldat's brain tries to process this, but her tongue flicks out. Just barely. A soft, wet touch against its bottom lip that sends electricity straight down its spine.
The sensation is-
Soldat doesn't have a reference for it.
Its breath catches. Actually stutters in its chest because no one has ever done that to him.
The tongue traces its bottom lip again, a little bolder this time, and something in Soldat's chest constricts. It's compelling, her mouth on its mouth. The promise of more if it just-
If it just takes it.
And something inside it just… snaps.
It surges forward, crushing its mouth against hers and takes.
Because it doesn't know how to do this softly. Doesn't know how to kiss like she was kissing it, all tenderness and patience. Just knows want and need and more, and its mouth opens against hers, demanding, claiming.
She gasps against its lips.
It swallows the sound. Licks into her mouth, tasting her -omega, sweet, mine- and her flavor explodes across its tongue like nothing it's ever experienced.
Its flesh hand comes up from her ass and grips the back of her head, fisting her damp hair and holds her still while it kisses her like it's starving.
She makes a sound, high and breathy, and Soldat growls.
Can't help it. The sound rumbles up from its chest, vibrating through the kiss, possessive and feral and alpha in a way it didn't know it still could be.
The metal arm under her ass flexes. Lifts her higher against the wall, adjusting the angle so it can kiss her harder, deeper, can tilt her head back with the hand in her hair and devour her mouth.
She whimpers into the kiss and her hips roll, grinding down against where Soldat's cock is straining behind its zipper, and the friction -fuck, the friction-makes its hips jerk forward on instinct.
It's still kissing her. Can't stop kissing her. Can't pull away even to breathe because breathing means not kissing, and that's unacceptable.
Its hips grind up. Her hips roll down. The rhythm builds between them, clumsy, desperate, uncoordinated, and it can feel her heat even through the tactical pants.
Slick. So much of it, soaking through the fabric.
For it.
It tears its mouth away from hers just long enough to breathe -one harsh gasp-and then it's dragging its lips down her jaw, her throat. Back to the scent gland that's calling to every broken alpha instinct it has left.
It bites down.
Harder than before. Still not breaking skin, but claiming the space, holding her throat between its teeth while she keens above it.
Her hands fist in its hair. Pull hard enough to hurt, but the pain is good. Grounds it. Keeps it tethered to this moment, this omega, this impossible thing that's happening.
Its metal arm shifts, adjusting its grip on her ass, fingers spreading wider, and it can smell everything. The heat. The slickness. How ready she is.
How much she wants.
Its hips are still grinding up against her in a rhythm that feels right, even though Soldat doesn't know why. Chasing pressure and friction, and the heat radiating from between her legs.
She's panting now. Harsh little gasps every time its hips thrust up, every time the thick length behind its pants grinds against where she's open and slick and wanting.
"Please-"
She says it again. Broken and desperate, and Soldat doesn't know what she's asking for, but it wants to give it to her.
Wants to give her everything.
Its mouth releases her throat. Licks over the mark its teeth left behind -soothing, claiming- and then finds her mouth again.
Kisses her hard. Deep. Swallowing her gasps and her whimpers while its hips grind up harder, faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.
The pressure is building, low in Soldat's belly, behind its cock. Something coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every slide of slick-heat against fabric, every sound she makes into its mouth.
Her teeth catch its bottom lip. Bite down just enough to sting, it snarls into her mouth.
Its metal hand grips.
Pulls her down harder against its shaft while its hips snap up, and the angle -fuck- the angle grinds the ridge of its cock directly against where she's hottest.
She cries out.
Breaks the kiss, head thrown back against the wall, and it can see the pleasure breaking across her face, can see her eyes roll back, can feel her thighs shaking around its waist.
Beautiful.
She's beautiful.
And Soldat is-
It's-
The pressure peaks.
Crests like a wave, and Soldat doesn't know what's happening, but it can't stop, can't do anything but grind up into her one more time, hard and desperate and-
Everything goes white.
----
She feels him go rigid against her, and then-
He makes a sound.
Low and guttural and broken, muffled against her throat where his face is buried now, and she feels it, feels him shuddering against her, feels the rhythmic pulse against her hip even through his pants.
Oh.
He just-
Her brain catches up a second too late, pleasure still sparking through her nerve endings from the way he was grinding against her, the perfect pressure against her clit, the desperate rhythm that had her right on the edge-
But he got there first.
And something in her breaks with something tender and possessive and achingly sad all at once.
Because this -this desperate, uncontrolled response- tells her everything she needs to know about how touch-starved he is, coming from friction alone.
Her alpha came untouched, shaking against her, and the intimacy of that moment makes her throat tight. And somehow she is glad her body, her scent, was enough to make him lose control so completely, that could give him this.
Even if she's still aching. Still empty. Still wet and wanting and so close to the edge she could cry.
The purr has stuttered into something irregular, broken, almost pained. And her omega instincts surge.
Protect. Soothe. Comfort.
Her hands move on instinct, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his chest, where she can feel his heart racing like a war drum.
His grip on her hasn't loosened.
Still holding her up, metal arm banded under her ass, flesh hand fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. Still pressing her into the wall like she's the only solid thing in his world.
He's not moving.
He’s just frozen there, face buried in her throat, breathing hard and ragged against her skin. She can feel the wetness between them, his release soaking through his pants, merging with her slick, warm where their hips are still pressed together.
And he hasn't let go.
Won't let go.
She can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers are still fisted in her hair, the trembling in his flesh hand that suggests he's fighting every instinct to squeeze tighter, hold harder, never release.
Like he's terrified she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.
"Hey," she whispers, and her voice comes out… wrecked.
"Hey, it's okay."
She doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.
Doesn't know what she's reassuring him of. That coming like this is okay? That she's not disgusted? That she's not going anywhere?
All of it, maybe.
She feels his face shift against her throat. A tiny movement, his nose dragging along her scent gland like he's seeking reassurance in her smell.
And her heart just-
Breaks.
Breaks for this broken alpha who doesn't even know how to accept comfort without making it into something instinctive and biological.
His breathing doesn't even out. If anything, it gets worse. Harsher. Like he's trying to pull himself together and failing.
And she notices it, the alpha shame. Of losing control. Of being weak. Of needing.
"Alpha," she says, and she's surprised by how steady her voice comes out. How sure. "It's okay. You're okay."
She doesn't know if he understands words right now -doesn't know how much of him is even there behind those pale eyes- but shesays it anyway.
Like she can make it true just by believing it hard enough.
The purr is starting to even out now. Still irregular, but less jagged. And she can feel the exact moment something changes in him, when the shame starts to give way to something else.
His grip tightens fractionally. The hand in her hair flexes, and his face presses harder into her throat, and the sound he makes is low and rough and utterly possessive.
Mine, it says without words.
Omega. Mine. Not letting go.
And fuck, she wants to be his.
Her thighs are starting to shake from the position. Legs wrapped around his waist, all her weight held up by his arm, and she's not sure how long they've been like this, but her muscles are beginning to protest.
"Hey," she says softly. "You can… you can put me down if you want. I can grab a towel, clean up a bit-"
No.
He doesn't say it, just makes a sound -low, immediate, almost a growl- and his grip tightens on her.
Metal and flesh both, holding her closer instead of letting go, and his face presses harder into her throat like the suggestion of separation is physically painful.
She feels him shake his head.
Just once. Sharp and definitive.
Not letting go. Not putting her down. Not giving her space to clean up or think or do anything except stay right here, wrapped around him, her scent in his lungs.
"Okay," she whispers, and she doesn't know why she's surrendering so easily. Doesn't know why the word falls from her lips like a vow. "Okay, alpha. I'm not going anywhere."
And she… should probably be concerned about that reaction.
Should insist on disengaging, because they're both a mess, his release soaking through his pants, her slick coating her thighs and the fabric, the obscene mix of it smeared between them where their bodies are pressed together.
But the way he's holding her, the way his breathing is starting to change again. Getting heavier. Rougher. Not the ragged gasps from before but something else. Something deeper.
His scent shifts.
Sharpens.
She smells it even through her own arousal, through the mess between them, leather and gunmetal going darker, muskier, edged with something that makes her inner omega sit up and pay attention.
Alpha.
Not just alpha.
Rutting alpha.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
He's-
Before she can finish the thought, he moves.
Turns from the wall, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and crosses her small apartment in a couple of long strides. Her bed is right there -unmade, sheets still tangled from when she left for work yesterday- and he doesn't hesitate.
Just leans forward and deposits her on it. Not rough, but not gentle either. Without ceremony, she's suddenly on her back on the mattress, legs falling open, and he's standing over her, looking down with those pale blue eyes engulfed in blown pupils.
Somehow, she feels more naked now, exposed. Sprawled on the bed, thighs still shaking, slick coating her inner thighs and probably the sheets beneath her.
He can see all of it, and he's staring where she's open. Wet. Swollen. Still aching from how close she was before he came, before everything stopped.
His nostrils flare.
And the sound he makes is-
Feral.
----
The scent is everywhere.
Brown sugar and yeast and the slick of her arousal, but now it's mixed with the smell of Soldat's own release, and it's-
Obscene.
The word pops into its mind, and it's correct. The mix of their scents shouldn't blend like this, but it does, and it makes its inner alpha go absolutely feral with possessive satisfaction.
Soldat's cock is stirring again.
Shouldn't be possible. It just came, hard enough that it's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and sensitive under its pants, but it doesn't matter.
Because she's there.
Spread out on the bed, and it can see it now. Can see the slick coating her inner thighs, can see how ready she is, can smell it thick and sweet and calling to every broken instinct it has.
It doesn't think.
Just drops to its knees beside the bed gracelessly, metal hand bracing on the mattress, flesh hand going straight to her thigh.
Gripping, spreading her wider.
She makes a sound -surprise, maybe, or arousal- but it barely registers. Can't hear anything past the rush of blood in its ears.
It needs to taste her.
Not the scent gland this time. Not her throat or her mouth or any of the places it's already learned.
Here.
Where her scent is strongest, purest, where she's slick and open and-
It buries its face between her thighs.
Fuck.
The word detonates in its head, sharp and visceral, because she tastes sweet, and salt. Omega.
Its tongue drags through her folds -clumsy, unpracticed, chasing the flavor- and she gasps under it. Her thighs try to close on reflex, but its hands are there, metal and flesh both, holding her open.
Keeping her spread while it licks.
Learning her. The texture, the taste, the way she's so wet the slick coats its tongue, slides down its throat.
It growls against her.
Can't help it. The sound vibrates through her core, possessive and hungry, and she whimpers. Soldat does it again.
Licks slower this time, more deliberate. Dragging its tongue from her entrance up to-
She jerks.
Hips bucking up, a sharp inhale, Soldat freezes.
There.
That spot. Small and swollen, and when its tongue brushes it again, she makes the sound again, high and broken.
Clit.
The word surfaces from somewhere. Detached. But Soldat doesn't need the terminology. Just needs to know that touching there makes her react like that.
Makes her want.
It seals its lips around it and sucks.
----
She screams.
Can't help it. Can't muffle it. The sensation rips through her body like lightning, his mouth on her clit, sucking hard and wet and perfect, and her back arches off the bed.
Her hands fly to his hair, fisting in the tangled strands, and she doesn't know if she's pulling him closer or trying to push him away because it's too much, too intense, she's already been on edge for-
His tongue circles her clit. Flicks over it. Then sucks again, and she can't breathe.
He's-
He's devouring her.
Face buried between her thighs like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants in the world. His hands are holding her open, and she can feel his nose pressed against her mound, can feel the vibration of the sounds he's making.
Growls. Deep and continuous, rumbling through her core every time he licks, every time he tastes her.
He doesn't know what he's doing.
She can tell. The movements are enthusiastic but uncoordinated, chasing reactions without technique. Licking everywhere, tasting everything, like he's trying to map her by flavor alone.
But it works.
Because he's paying attention. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck, what makes her pull his hair and whimper his-
She doesn't even know his name.
The thought penetrates through her pleasure-drunk brain and dissolves immediately because his tongue just found her entrance and pushes inside.
"Oh fuck!"
The curse rips out of her. His tongue is inside her, licking, and the sensation is so foreign and good and wet that her thighs start shaking again.
He groans against her.
The vibration travels straight through her core, and she can feel it, feel him tasting her from the inside, feel the way his tongue curls and explores like he's trying to drink every drop of slick.
And there's so much.
She's never been this wet in her life. Can feel it coating her thighs, soaking into the sheets, and he's lapping at it like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.
His metal hand shifts on her thigh.
Adjusts its grip, and then-
She feels it.
The cool press of metal against her entrance. One finger, articulated and precise, pressing in and stretching alongside his tongue.
"Alpha-"
The word escapes her lips. Desperate. Pleading. She doesn't even know what she's asking for.
But he seems to understand.
His tongue pulls out. The metal finger becomes two, and he pushes them in -slowly, carefully, letting her feel the drag- and she loses it.
----
Soldat can't stop.
Can't pull away from her taste, the slick coating its tongue, the way she's whimpering and pulling its hair and making sounds that go straight to its cock.
Which is impossibly hard again. Aching, still wet from before, and it starts grinding against the mattress without conscious thought. Seeking friction, seeking relief, but it's not enough.
The pants are too restrictive. The fabric cuts into its cock every time it thrusts forward, and it's wrong.
They’re in the way.
It pulls back from between her thighs -just for a second, just enough- and its hands go to its belt, ripping it open.
The buckle clatters, the tactical webbing falling away, and then it is yanking at the fly. Buttons, zipper, whatever, it doesn't care. Just needs them off, needs the pressure gone.
The pants and undergarment peel down over its hips, shoved down to mid-thigh, and-
It looks down.
Its cock is twitching, flushed, and still wet from its release, cum smeared along the length, sticky and cooling against overheated skin. The smell hits immediately: the musk of spent alpha mixed with her slick-sweet omega scent in the air.
Its lip curls.
Not in disgust. In something else. Something possessive and satisfied because that's their scent. Mixed. Merged.
But it's also… messy.
Soldat doesn't do messy. Doesn't-
A sound interrupts its thoughts.
Her.
Whimpering.
Its head snaps up.
----
She's staring.
Can't help it.
He's... fuck. He's big.
Still wet from coming in his pants, she can see it, the streaks of his release coating it, glistening with the light from her bedside lamp.
And the smell.
It makes fresh slick slide down her thighs, makes her body ache with want so visceral she can barely think past it. She needs-
But he's already moving.
Already turning back toward the bed, dropping his gaze to where she's sprawled on the mattress, legs still spread, and she can see the intent written clearly on his face.
He's going back down. Going to bury his face between her thighs again, taste her again, and-
Yes, his mouth felt incredible. The enthusiastic, uncoordinated desperation of it, the way he licked and sucked like he was starving.
But that's not what she needs right now. Not when he's right there, hard and ready, and she can smell how much he wants her.
"Wait-"
The word tumbles out before she can stop it. Desperate. Pleading.
"Alpha, wait-"
He freezes.
Mid-motion. One knee on the bed, hands reaching for her thighs, and those pale eyes snap up to meet hers.
She sees the confusion dance across his face.
And then-
His expression shutters.
Goes from open and needy to closed and determined in the space of a heartbeat, and his hands land on her thighs, metal and flesh both.
And the grip is different now.
Firmer. Restraining.
His fingers dig in -not painful, but unmistakably harder- and he pushes. Spreading her thighs wider, pinning them to the mattress, and the look in his eyes-
Oh no.
He thinks she's telling him to stop.
Thinks she's refusing, resisting, and his entire body language has changed into something that makes her inner omega sit up and take notice.
Dominant. Controlling. Alpha.
"No, I just-" she tries again, voice coming out shakier than she wants. "I want-"
But he's not listening.
His gaze drops back between her legs. Fixed. Focused. And his hands press down harder, holding her flat against the mattress.
The message is crystal clear:
Stay still. Let me.
And-
Fuck.
She whimpers.
Can't help it. Can't stop the sound that escapes her throat because the dominance in the gesture, the way he's pinning her open, the raw alpha energy radiating off him…
It should scare her.
Should send up every red flag about consent, control, and danger.
But it doesn't. It just makes her wetter.
Makes her body respond with a fresh gush of slick because, apparently, her omega brain thinks being held down by this strange alpha is the hottest thing that's ever happened to her.
But that's not what she wants, not right now.
She needs him inside her. Needs to feel that thick cock splitting her open, needs to be filled and claimed and bred, and if she doesn't get it soon, she's going to lose her mind.
She writhes.
Twisting in his grip. Not trying to escape, just trying to move, to shift position, to show him what she wants.
But his hands just tighten, holding her down more firmly, his shoulders settling into a posture that says he's not going to let her move until he's done with her.
Okay.
New strategy.
She stops fighting the pressure pushing her thighs down, and instead, she uses it. Let him think he's won, let her legs go slack in his grip for just a second-
And then she twists.
Hard. Fast. Using the slickness of her sweat and the slick coating on her thighs to slip out of his grip, throwing her weight sideways.
It catches him off guard.
His hands lose purchase for half a second -just half a second- but it's enough.
She rolls onto her stomach.
Scrambling. Hands planting on the mattress, knees pulling up under her, and-
His metal hand lands on her hip immediately.
Firm grip. Already trying to maneuver her, and she can feel his intent: he's going to flip her back over, get her on her back again so he can put his face between her legs and-
She doesn't let him.
Plants her knees wide. Braces her weight forward on her elbows. And arches her back, hard. Pushing her ass up and out, spine curving in a deep arch that puts everything on display.
Presenting herself.
The effect is immediate. His hands go still on her hips, and the pressure trying to flip her over just… stops.
She can feel him freeze behind her. Can feel his gaze locked on her body, on the position she's in.
And she knows what he's seeing.
Her on her knees. Back arched so deep it almost hurts. Ass high in the air, thighs spread wide.
Completely open. Completely vulnerable. Offering.
"Please," she gasps into the mattress.
Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. Shaking with need.
"Please, alpha-"
She reaches back, both hands sliding over her ass, down between her thighs, and-
She spreads herself open for him.
Fingers pulling her folds apart. Exposing her entrance, slick and clenching and empty. Exposing her clit, swollen and oversensitive. Exposing everything.
Desperate.
Obscene.
Begging.
"Please- I need- please-"
----
Soldat's brain shutdowns. Every thought fragments into white noise because she's-
Presenting?
The visual input hits its alpha instincts like a tactical nuke:
Omega. On her knees. Back arched. Ass up, and thighs spread wide, holding herself open.
Showing Soldat exactly where she wants it. Where she needs it.
Begging for it.
Omega wants.
Omega needs to be bred.
Again, the thoughts don't form in words. Just primal recognition slamming through its neural pathways with brutal, devastating clarity.
This is what the body was built for. This moment. This position.
And they tried to kill it.
Tried to suppress, chemically neuter, erase this entire drive from its system. Seventy years of injections and conditioning stomping down every breeding instinct, every mating urge, every biological imperative that makes an alpha alpha.
And it's all coming back now, roaring back to life with devastating, unstoppable force. The Soldat's cock throbs again. Hard. Aching.
And it can feel it, the need building like pressure behind a dam about to break.
Need to mount her.
Need to breed her.
Need to fill her and knot her and make her MINE.
It moves before processing the thought, crawling onto the bed. Knees hitting the mattress on either side of her thighs, bracketing her, caging her in.
One hand -metal- grips her hip. Servos engaging to hold her steady, hold her exactly in position. The other hand drops to its cock, wrapping around the base. The skin is oversensitive, still tender from coming so hard before, but it doesn't matter.
Nothing matters except getting inside her.
It lines up, dragging the head of its cock through her folds -so wet, so slick, coating the tip- and finding her entrance.
There.
The head presses against her opening, and it can feel the resistance, feel her body starting to yield, and-
She makes a begging sound.
Desperate. Pleading.
And something in the Soldat's chest snarls.
Possessive. Feral. Every remaining shred of control burned away under the weight of pure instinct.
Mine.
Omega is MINE.
Soldat's hips push forward. Not slow, or carefully. And the heat-
Fuck.
The word detonates somewhere in its fractured consciousness because the sensation is-
Overwhelming.
Tight. Hot. Perfect.
It can feel her body struggling to adjust. Feel the flutter of her walls around just the tip, trying to accommodate the intrusion.
And Soldat-
Soldat doesn't stop.
Can't stop.
Just pulls back half an inch and drives forward harder, forcing deeper. Splitting her open. Burying itself halfway with one brutal thrust and-
The sound she makes.
High. Broken. Somewhere between a scream and a sob.
----
She can't breathe.
The sensation of being split open, stretched in ways she's never experienced, is so overwhelming that her mind goes completely blank.
Her body is struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion forcing its way inside, and god, there's so much slick, she can feel it coating her thighs, easing the way, her omega body preparing itself to be mounted.
The pressure of being filled too fast, too much, has her walls relaxing and clenching around him, trying to adjust, trying to make room, and it's so much more than any toy she's ever used, more than any alpha she's been with.
Just those first few inches, and she already feels impossibly full.
Her hands fist in the sheets as a high, shocked sound rips from her throat. Not pain or discomfort, but raw, filthy pleasure because she didn't know it could feel like this.
Didn't know her body could stretch like this, yield like this, open like this for an alpha's cock. Didn't know being filled could feel so right that her inner omega is practically screaming yes, this, MORE.
He pulls back half an inch -barely anything- and she feels the drag of every ridge and vein, feels the way her body is gripping him desperately like it doesn't want to let go, trying to keep him inside where he belongs.
And then he slams forward, harder and deeper, burying himself halfway in one brutal thrust.
The cry that tears from her is ragged and wrecked because oh fuck, YES, the stretch is perfect. She can feel her body yielding and surrendering even as it struggles to accommodate the impossible slide of his thick cock forcing deeper, filling her in ways that make her inner omega purr with savage satisfaction.
Because this, this is what she's built for. This is what her body has been screaming for every time she's gone into heat alone, every time she's fucked herself on toys that were never enough, every time an alpha touched her and it felt wrong because they weren't him.
This fullness, this alpha mounting her and forcing her body to yield and open and take him, this is what she's been waiting for her entire life without knowing it.
And it feels so fucking good.
"Alpha-" The word spills from her lips, broken and desperate and drenched in need. Not a protest but pure, filthy appreciation because he's so deep already and she can feel him shuddering above her, can feel the trembling restraint in his grip, and she wants him to lose it. Wants him to stop holding back and just fuck her the way his instincts are demanding.
His grip on her hips tightens -metal fingers digging in, flesh hand trembling- and she knows he heard it, knows what that word does to him.
He makes a sound, low and possessive and feral, and then he moves.
Pulls back so she feels every devastating inch of the drag, that delicious friction against her inner walls that makes her gasp and clench around him, and then he slams back in harder, deeper, forcing the rest of the way in with one brutal thrust until she feels his hips flush against her ass.
And the feeling is-
Fuck.
It's everything.
He's everywhere -inside her, around her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his skin against her back, his cock buried so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat- and the sensation of being stretched around him, stuffed full of alpha cock, mounted and claimed is so intense and perfect and right that her vision goes almost white.
Her body clenches around him reflexively, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his length, trying to pull him impossibly deeper even though there's no more room for it to go, and she feels her arms give out , her back arching deeper, presenting herself even more, and she can't do anything except feel him filling her.
She needs more.
Needs him to move, to fuck her, to use her body exactly like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Needs to feel him pounding into her, rutting into her, like the desperate omega she apparently is.
"Please-" she gasps into the mattress, and her voice is absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Filthy. Her hand reaches back blindly, finds his wrist, and squeezes hard. "Move. Alpha, please-”
Because if he doesn't start moving soon, if he doesn't give her what her body is screaming for, she's going to lose her fucking mind.
----
Soldat snarls in response.
Move?
Her begging comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. And it wants to give it to her. Whatever she asks.
Wants to fuck her. Breed her. Claim her.
Now.
Its hips pull back slowly, dragging its cock almost all the way out, feeling every inch of tight omega heat clinging to it, trying to keep it inside.
And then it slams back in.
Hard.
The omega screams and moans, high and sharp, and the sound goes straight to its heavy balls, flipping every remaining switch from control to breed.
It doesn't know how to do this gently.
Doesn't have the reference. Doesn't have the capacity right now with her scent flooding its system, with the feel of her wrapped around its cock, with seventy years of chemical castration breaking apart under the weight of pure biological drive.
So it just fucks.
Pulls out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm immediately. Hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the small apartment, and she's taking it.
Taking every thrust. Her body yielding even as it struggles to adjust, slick easing the way, and Soldat can feel it, feel her getting wetter, feel the way her walls are clenching around its cock.
Its metal hand tightens on her hip.
Servos whirring as it grips harder, using the leverage to pull her back into each thrust. Making the penetration deeper, harder, and-
The omega makes another sound. A different moan, long and low and completely debauched, and her forearms lower completely, as she presses her face into the mattress.
Surrendering.
Letting it use her.
Soldat snarls again.
Possessive. Feral. Its flesh hand releases her hip and moves to the back of her neck instead, gripping. Holding her down while its hips thrust faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.
She's whimpering into the mattress.
High, continuous sounds with each thrust, and Soldat can smell it, can smell her arousal spiking, can smell the way their scents are mixing where they're joined.
Omega slick and alpha musk and the wet, obscene sound of the fucking as it drives into her over and over and over.
Its cock is still sensitive. Every thrust sends sparks of almost-too-much up its spine, pleasure edging toward pain, but it doesn't matter. Can't stop. Won't stop.
Because she needs this.
It can tell. Can read it in the way she's pushing back into each thrust now, can hear it in the sounds she's making, can smell it in the way her scent keeps getting sweeter.
Omega needs to be fucked.
Needs to be bred.
And the Soldat is-
Soldat is going to-
No.
The thought surfaces sharp and cold. The Soldat can't. Isn't allowed to breed. The handlers said-
But there are no handlers.
Just instinct. Pure and brutal and clawing through its system, demanding it claim this omega, fill her, knot her-
Knot.
Soldat can feel it. The base of its cock starts to swell, pressure building with each thrust. It's going to lock inside her and-
And she's going to take it.
Its rhythm falters.
Just for a second. Uncertainty flickering through the haze of need because this is- this is too much. Once it knots her there's no taking it back, no undoing it, and-
She pushes back hard.
Takes its cock to the hilt and grinds, pressing her ass flush against its hips, and the whimper she makes is so desperate, so needy, that its brain just-
Breaks.
Fuck the handlers.
Fuck seventy years of suppression.
Soldat is going to knot his omega.
Its hand leaves her neck. Both hands go to her forearms, and it lifts her, pulling her up until her back is arched almost vertically, until she's on her knees with Soldat pressed against her back.
Changing the angle completely.
And then it drives in.
Deeper than before. So deep the omega sobs, and it can feel it, can feel the head of its cock hitting something that makes her whole body shake.
There.
The Soldat does it again.
Pulls almost all the way out and slams back in at that angle, and she cries out. Loud, uncontrolled, her thighs shaking, and it can smell the spike in her arousal.
Close.
She's close.
It can tell. Can read it in her body language, in her scent, in the way her walls are starting to tighten around its cock.
Soldat's rhythm turns brutal.
Fast and hard and deep, hitting that spot, chasing her orgasm because it needs -needs- to feel her come on its cock. Needs to feel her clench and shake and break while it fills her.
Its metal arm bands across her chest, holding her upright, holding her in place, while its flesh hand drops between her legs and finds her swollen clit.
The omega shrieks.
Hips bucking, body jerking in Soldat's hold, but it doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking into her, keeps its fingers on her clit -circling, pressing, rubbing- and she's sobbing now.
Incoherent. Desperate. Completely overwhelmed.
"Please- please- alpha, I'm-"
She doesn't finish the sentence.
Just shatters.
Soldat feels it. Feels her walls clamp down around its cock like a silken fist, feels her whole body go rigid and then shake, feels the gush of fresh slick as she comes hard.
And it-
It roars.
Can't stop it. Can't control the sound ripping out of its throat as its knot swells, expanding rapidly, locking them together as the orgasm hits it like a freight train.
White-hot. Devastating.
Its hips jerk forward one last time, burying its cock and knot as deep as physically possible, and then it's coming.
Spilling inside her. Filling her. Breeding her the way every broken instinct is screaming at it to do.
The omega is still shaking.
Still coming, her walls rippling around the knot, milking it, and Soldat can't think past the pleasure, past the overwhelming rightness of being locked inside her.
Mine.
Omega.
MINE.
The knot pulses. Once. Twice. Pumping more into her with each throb, and she's-
She's taking all of it.
It can feel it. Feel her body accepting everything it's giving, can smell the way their scents are completely merged now.
Inseparable.
Her legs are shaking. The only thing keeping it upright is the metal arm still banded across her chest, holding her against it. The flesh hand has fallen away from her clit, braced on the mattress instead, because Soldat's coordination is gone.
Just-
Gone.
Pleasure still rolling through it in waves, aftershocks making its cock pulse inside her, and she's-
She's making sounds. Small, whimpering. Not in distress. Something else.
Its face drops to her shoulder, nose finding her scent gland on instinct, and it breathes her in. Brown sugar and yeast and satisfied omega, and the purr starts again.
Deep. Subvocal. Vibrating through both their chests where they're pressed together.
The knot is still locked. Not going down anytime soon.
She's not fighting it or trying to pull away. She’s just leaning her weight against its chest, trusting it to hold her up.
And Soldat does.
Metal arm secured under her breasts, flesh hand moving from the mattress to her hip. Holding her. Supporting her. Keeping her upright while they're locked together.
It doesn't know how long this lasts, doesn't have a reference for how long a knot holds. Just knows it can't pull out even if it wanted to, which it doesn't.
Can't imagine wanting to leave the tight heat of her body. Can't imagine letting go.
The purr continues, steady now. Soothing. It doesn't know if it's trying to soothe her or itself. Maybe both.
Her head tilts.
Just slightly. Turning toward Soldat's face still pressed against her shoulder, and it can see her profile. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Face heated and damp with sweat.
Beautiful.
The word surfaces unbidden.
It has never called anything beautiful before, because it doesn't have the framework for aesthetic appreciation. But she's-
She is.
Especially like this. Fucked out and knotted and completely trusting it to hold her.
Its nose drags along her scent gland, taking her in, and she makes a soft sound -pleased, satisfied- tilting her head, giving it more access, and Soldat's purr deepens.
----
She can't feel her legs.
Can't feel much of anything except him. Inside her. Around her. The metal arm holding her upright. The purr vibrating through her chest. The knot stretching her so full that she can barely breathe.
And it's-
God, it's perfect.
She's never felt like this before.
Never felt so completely claimed. So utterly taken. Every alpha she's ever been with was… adequate.
But this-
This is different.
This is feral and desperate and completely uncontrolled, and somehow it's exactly what she needed without ever knowing she needed it.
She can feel his nose dragging along her scent gland, can feel the rumble of that impossible purr, and her inner omega is just-
Singing.
Satisfied in a way she's never experienced. Sated. Content.
Because he, her alpha-
She doesn't even know his name, and she's already thinking of him as hers.
The thought should probably scare her. Should send up red flags about bonding too fast with a stranger. But it doesn't.
Because this isn't fast.
This is inevitable.
Like every decision she's ever made led her here, to this moment, knotted and claimed by an alpha who broke into her apartment and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having.
His knot pulses inside her.
She feels it. The throb, the gush of warmth, and her body clenches around it automatically. Milking him. Taking everything he's giving, even though she's already so full it's almost too much.
Almost.
But not quite.
Because her body wants this. Wants to be filled. Wants to be bred. Every dormant omega instinct she had is purring in satisfaction.
Yes. This. Him. Finally.
She feels him shift behind her.
The metal arm around her tightens slightly, and then he's pulling her more upright, bringing her back flush against his chest. She's properly kneeling now, her back supported entirely by his body, and the angle change makes her gasp because the knot-
Fuck.
The knot feels even bigger like this. Deeper.
And his flesh hand-
It slides down.
Over her hip, her thigh, and then between her legs and cups her mound, covering where they're joined. Where his knot is stretching her, where the mess of their combined release is slick and obscene between her thighs.
His palm presses gently as his fingers spread to cover all of it, her, him, the evidence of what just happened.
The sound he makes against her shoulder is possessive. Satisfied. A low rumble that's half-purr, half-growl.
Mine, the gesture says.
Bred. Claimed. Marked. MINE.
And she whimpers.
Because yes.
Yes.
His.
Completely and utterly his.
His purring deepens.
Smug. Like he knows exactly what that sound means. Like he's pleased she's responding to his possessiveness instead of fighting it.
His face shifts against her shoulder, nuzzling deeper. His nose drags along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing her in like he can't get enough.
And then she feels his lips.
A kiss.
Soft. Tender. Pressed against her sweat-damp skin.
Then another. Along her shoulder. Gentle and reverent and completely at odds with the brutal way he just fucked her.
His teeth scrape. The edge of a nip that doesn't break skin, doesn't hurt, just makes her shiver.
Her hand comes up and reaches back -awkward angle, but she manages- and threads into his hair, combing through the tangled strands while he continues his exploration of her shoulder, her neck, every inch of skin he can reach from this position.
He makes a sound against her skin, and she can feel him settling.
The frantic energy bleeding out, the feral drive giving way to something gentler. Still possessive. Still intensely alpha, but softer.
His forehead comes to rest against the back of her neck.
The hand between her legs stays there, rubbing slowly, smearing their mess on her knotted entrance. A constant reminder of what they just did, what they are now.
The knot still pulses occasionally. She doesn't know how long this lasts -thirty minutes, an hour?- but she's not in a hurry, can't bring herself to care, not when he's holding her like this.
Not when every instinct she has is screaming mate.
True mate.
Hers.
She lets her eyes close.
Leans her head back against his shoulder and lets the metal arm support her weight, lets the purr lull her into a haze of satisfaction and safety.
And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.
