Bruce goes to Smallville to attend an opera, accidentally finds his soulmate.
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Medallion.
A medallion is a round metal disc which some people wear as an ornament, especially on a chain round their neck.
Words: 1,290
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Scars, Courting Rituals, No Dynamic Clark Kent, Omega Bruce Wayne, Crush at First Sight, Pre-Relationship, Not Beta Read, Not Edited, Awkward Flirting, Jewelry
@fandombingo The Blooming Hour Bingo — Lovers with matching scar patterns
@multifandom-flash Soulmates — As you come of age, your soulmate's name appears on your wrist
@superbateveryweek Superbat For All Seasons Bingo — Opera
Hive receives an invitation from a past they would rather forget and Bucky finds that there may be more than self-preservation in his need to find out what his new roommate is up to.
Read this chapter on AO3 here.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 5
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Characters: James "Bucky" Barnes, Nonbinary OC
Rating: T
CW: Canon-typical violence, mind control, tampering with someone’s drink, drugging, attempted abduction, collaring, violent death, blood loss, misgendering
Prompts Filled:
@fandom-free-bingo Flight Edition : Betrayal
@fandom-free-bingo Wild Edition : A crack in the mirror
@fandom-free-bingo World Book Night Edition : Drugged
@fandom-free-bingo Maritime May Edition : Mind control
@febuwhump 2024 : Day 10 – Killing in self-defence
@fluffbruary 2024 : Day 9 – Urgency
@lgbtqbingo : Bar fight
@multifandom-flash Round 2 : The men in black
@multifandom-flash Character (Bucky Barnes) : Lost companion
@whumpuary 2024 : Day 3 – Used as bait
@fandombingo Reverse 1999 : Manipulated into a trap
@fandombingo Reverse 1999 : Tracking someone down to save them
@sweetspicybingo Hurt/Comfort Edition : Blood loss
@badthingshappenbingo : No good deed goes unpunished
@badthingshappenbingo : Tampering with food/drink
Dividers by @unfortunate-beetle-and-friends
“Each betrayal begins with trust.”
Martin Luther
Hive tidied without much direction for an hour before the stillness of the place started to worm into their brain. The walls got closer. They found themself touching their scarred surfaces as though that would stop their advance. Their nails were packed with cheesy plaster and flakes of paper; texture after texture demanded to be smoothed lest it keep grating on their soul like sandpaper. Eventually their nailbeds were smarting. Rather than pull apart the whole building scrap by scrap, they went out. Possible destinations were both far too many and hardly any at all. Anything that needed money was out. Anywhere they might be too readily noticed was a problem. They wound up in the park. There were plenty of people around and, while other people meant more witnesses, they also meant camouflage. They took a book from their small stash and passed easily enough for a student with some time to kill. From time to time, their eyes lifted from the book as if trying to tune in to distant sounds or catch some too-quiet words. No one paid them any attention.
Oh god, help… please, please help me…
Their head snapped up.
Please, I don’t want to… I can’t.
Hive’s face whipped one way then the other, their dark hair lashing their cheeks. Every face around them looked as oblivious as could be. Fuck. They knew that voice.
They dodged down crowded streets, ducking along alleys, taking the quickest route they knew in a direction they’d promised themself never to go. The voice resurged, not so faint, but irregular, as though a mind could be out of breath.
Where… am I? So hungry…
Hive winced, recalling a very similar internal monologue. Where was he? How could he possibly be in range? Even for this broken up attempt to communicate. Their mind strained. It amazed them that other people couldn’t hear it. Apparently this was a private call. Fuck. Not good. Not good at all.
They got three blocks too far north before they stopped and ducked into a doorway, breathing too hard, head spinning, arms tight across their chest. Images of the empty apartment flooded their brain, images of Bucky standing in the hall and wondering, maybe even searching. They stood shivering and hugging themself.
They wished they could ignore the voice, go back, get some sleep, rest their aching bones…
Help me… Hive, please…
They whimpered and squeezed themselves tighter, pinching their arms through their hoodie. They had to go. The whimper became an angry whine. They jabbed a foot into the wall and cried out, tears filling their eyes. Then they turned, limping, back towards the apartment.
They didn’t stay long, just long enough to pull out their notebook and scribble their apologies, and to take advantage of the quiet.
Ady?
Hive! I need help…
You’re out? How?
Complicated. Can we – I need to see someone. A – a friendly face. Meet me?
A friendly face… Hive wasn’t sure if they wanted to laugh or throw up.
Where?
They figured something out. A meeting place, crowded enough to allow them anonymity and somewhere people tended not to give a shit who was around anyway. Hive only knew it because it was about the only place they’d observed Bucky attending other than work and the grocery store. If there was anywhere a metal hand around a tumbler could go unnoticed through sheer lack of interest, it was that shithole. And if there was anywhere no one would have a hope of recalling the faces of two fugitives tomorrow morning…
It took them a while to get together some supplies, not having much stashed and lacking the cash to do things the easy, legal way. The limp added an unnecessary challenge to the game of going unnoticed. A couple of security guards had to develop sudden nosebleeds but eventually they were standing on the street above the basement bar, chewing their lip as they stared down the iron stairs. Ady… Their skin crawled. They could feel their control, their entire presence, slipping. Just like it had before. When the only way to resist was to play a sick game of musical chairs in their own body, everyone trying not to be the one in control when the music stopped...
Steady… Invisible hands held them and pushed them gently but firmly back into themself. We don’t have to do this, but if we’re going to then we should get it over with. Standing out here isn’t safe.
He needs our help. He isn’t going to hurt us.
And if he only just got out, he may have information we can use.
A deep breath of the foetid gutter-tinged air did more to upset their stomach than soothe their nerves but it did help to drive them off the street. He was sitting at a table in the corner. His cheeks were more hollow than ever. He was staring at a drink in front of him as though he’d forgotten how to transfer the liquid to his mouth. Thinking about it, it might have been years since the poor bastard was last allowed to pick up his own glass, or have a glass at all. A mutant who could do what he could certainly couldn’t be allowed any more freedom than absolutely necessary. That leash was kept tight. How he had ever slipped it was a mystery. They slid into the opposite chair.
“You came.” The fact sounded like it caused him pain.
“I, yeah, ‘course I did. You needed help.” They toed the duffel bag towards him under the table, regretting it when their toes ached dark and hot, nausea surging in their gut. They were pretty sure their foot would be vivid purple when they got home and took that sock off. “This is for you. I can find you somewhere to stay. You'll need to, you know, keep your head down for a little while…” For a moment they pictured Bucky’s expression should they show up on the doorstep with another stray in tow. No, wouldn’t work. But their old hideout was probably secure enough for a day or two while they figured out how to get him a long, long way away. They weren’t sure exactly how far the enemy’s reach extended but it was a fair bet that nowhere inside the US would be safe enough. Maybe Bucky knew more about where someone like Ady could go unnoticed with some basic precautions. Somewhere remote enough that his nightmares would trouble no one but the wildlife. “Does it work on animals?” Hive winced even as the words left their mouth. They hadn’t intended to ask. It could at the very least have waited. What a time for their vocal chords to detach from their brain.
Ady’s head dipped, hiding his face deeper in the shadows of his hood. He’d never really made his peace with the shaved head, they knew. Endless exploratory surgeries were the lot of captive mutants but when your abilities were so very brain-centred… well, his skull had been drilled into so many times, it was amazing there was enough left to hold his brain in.
“No, ‘it’ doesn’t. They can’t hear me, or if they can then they don’t understand. And I can’t make – it doesn’t affect them.” They saw him shiver inside his heavy coat.
“Sorry. I shouldn’t have – you know what I’m like.”
“What you’re all like…” he curled a little tighter, peeking up at them out of the dark, more fearful than angry. “You seem like just… you. How are the rest of them do-”
“Don’t. Don’t talk about them.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to – I never wanted to hurt any of you.”
“Don’t, Ady.”
“Lex – have you – has he -”
“Fucking stop. Christ, learn when to fucking stop.”
He flinched as though they’d struck him, and their stomach clenched as though the blow had rebounded. Their skin felt icy cold but the cold was radiating from somewhere much deeper. They needed to get out from under Ady’s pale, watery gaze. It was deceptive, that look, and they knew it as well as anyone. It was so lost, so full of need for care, connection, and it crept in, touching what you wanted no one to know was there. They shoved away from the table so hard their chair rocked. Ady looked up in panic and Hive allowed him a muttered “bathroom” to quiet his alarm. But all they got to soothe their own distress was dingy tile and a cracked mirror under a flickering, stained light bulb. They needed a deep breath but that was a bad idea in here. They tried taking in a series of tiny gasps until they had a lungful to exhale slowly.
Lex… What fucking right did he have? How dare he? They leant over the chipped sink, close to retching, gripping the edge until they recognised the blood running from under their fingernails. Fuck. When had they last lost control like that? Oh, of fucking course. Ady. Poor Lex had always turned the lash inwards when he couldn’t hold out any longer. They stared at the blood – the only wholesome colour in the hopeless little room. It was lucky that, however their power worked, it left no open wounds; this place was a paradise for every kind of crap you didn’t want in your bloodstream. They stopped the bleeding and – wound or no wound – scrubbed their hands under the hottest water they could coax from the rusty tap. Then they stared at their reflection a little longer, willing the hectic blotches out of their cheeks, face divided into misaligned halves by the long scar in the glass.
Ady… Not what their custodians had called him, of course. He’d long acquired the nickname "Leash” when Hive was brought in.
I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have… I only wanted – I wanted you to say he’d come back. That he wasn’t… and I hadn’t… I never wanted to kill anyone. I promise. Hive? Are… are you coming back?
Now wasn’t that the question. The supplies they’d collected for him were still under the table. If they walked right out, he could take them and go and they didn’t know where he’d end up or how long he’d last but they would have done something for him, more than anyone had done for them when they first got out. They could walk out guilt-free. And who would have little enough heart to blame them for steering clear of someone who’d done the things Ady had?
We would.
Things he was forced to do…
The voices didn’t come from Ady, or anywhere else outside their own head. It made them that much harder to shut out and their owners knew it.
It isn’t truer for Bucky than it is for Ady just because Ady hurt us.
They never took that fucking collar off him. What could he have done that he didn’t try?
“That he said he tried…” Hive muttered, unable to meet their own eyes in the mirror. They needn’t speak aloud to be heard but it felt better to hear their own words on the outside.
Like we did?
“We’re different.”
How do you figure that out?
“We are killers.”
You are, you mean.
“Fine, I am.”
And if you don’t take us back out there, I will. He’s no guiltier than we are. He needs help.
Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. Hive glowered down at their shoes then rammed the bolt back. The glare melted away as soon as they saw the helpless fear on Ady’s face, even shrouded deep in that coat. Just looking at it made the sweat run faster inside Hive’s hoodie, already too many layers for comfort in the bar’s close atmosphere.
They slid back into their seat. A drink had appeared in front of them.
“Got you a drink. To say sorry. And thank you, for coming when I called. I’d have understood if you’d ignored me.”
They eyed the glass. “You have money?”
“A little.” His eyes shifted away, gluing his gaze to the corner of the table. Hive heard what he didn’t say.
They lowered their voice. “Didn’t pay for it, huh?”
He gave his head a tiny shake. They could see his hands were twisting in his lap. Part of them was glad he felt guilt or anxiety or both. An uncharitable part they tried to silence, but not one they could blame on anyone else.
“You need to be careful. You know it leaves traces sometimes, and this place has a lot of potential witnesses. It’d be really easy to wind up back home if the wrong person sees.”
His hands tugged at his sleeves. He thought they were telling him off. And in their world that meant pain was sure to follow. They swallowed a mouthful of sharp memories and lifted their glass.
“It’s okay. You aren’t in trouble. I just need you to be careful, okay? I don’t want either of us going back there.”
He made a strange jerky movement towards them as they sipped; they guessed he’d wanted to reach for their hand. Seemed like he’d decided against it as he flinched back again, though Hive hadn’t even reacted. Did he – they thought they might have heard him whimper. God, he was going to be hard work. They took a breath, and a longer drink. The faint burn in their throat wasn’t especially pleasant but the room was so hot. It was starting to spin. Too many voices. Too many sounds and textures and moving bodies. When had the lights become so bright? Their stomach churned. They tried to grip the glass again only to find their fingers numb and clumsy. Ady was rocking, the movement nauseating to focus on.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m
“Ady…” Their mouth felt like it was full of cloth. “What did you do?”
It wasn’t Bucky who left the building and began to scour the streets for a trace of Hive's direction. The agency steering his body might have owed him a great deal but they were not the same. This individual stalked his target from block to block with predatory focus as much as he covered the ground with a soldier’s discipline, quartering his territory systematically. As his hunt drew out longer and longer frustration began to infect him. Sickening him. Turning his determination into anger. His pace quickened into a wolfish lope, but he was becoming inescapably aware that his search was directionless. Hive could be anywhere. Any building. Any subway. They could be on a Greyhound headed right across the country. What possible hope did he have of finding them? His pace ground to a halt. Strength flooded out of him. The impulse to find them kept up its powerful beat in his chest but it was futile. He breathed hard. Air felt thick. Heavy and poisonous. Foul in his mouth. Nowhere to go. No forward path. Where were they?
When the hand fell on their shoulder, it felt like a hundred kilo weight. They slumped underneath it. A whisper of protest was the most they could utter as their hood was dragged down and light flooded their face. Someone was speaking, low and even, over their head. Their ears were ringing. They were pulled from their seat and steered by their elbows back towards the toilet, past the rotting bathroom door and down a gloomy passageway. Whatever Ady had given them turned every sense up to one hundred. No useful input, nothing they could trust to get their bearings, only an assault of sound and light and smell.
Uneven, mouldering carpet caught their toes and they went sprawling, the pain in their foot amplified unbearably. More pain exploded from their knees. The impact travelled the length of their spine in an instant. The strong, single sensation broke part way through the lethal fog in their brain, and at last they could fight. They launched themself up from the floor and fresh agony burst in their skull when it collided with a chin. Both Hive and their escort toppled, crying out and clutching their heads. Commands were yelled. Ady whimpered. Movement. Behind them. Chairs scraping.
There was a moment, just one, in which the swimming weight resettling on their brain lightened a little, and Hive lashed out with all their strength. Blood poured down their face and chest from their suddenly gushing nose. Someone else was yelling in horror and a heavy body crashed into them, slamming them into the wall. Something wrenched in their shoulder and they fell sobbing back to the floor, the falling weight still on top of them. They lay with their streaming nose in the disgusting carpet and an immovable weight crushing their lungs. At first the weight thrashed wildly, grinding Hive’s torso into the floor. Their lungs caught fire. Their chest was burned. The struggles became weaker, and finally there was only the suffocating mass on top of them. Someone dragged it off and hauled Hive to their knees. How many were there? Bloody hands held them in place. There was a commotion, a yell, behind them.
“Hold her. I’ve had about enough of this shit. Just get the fucking collar on her, will you? Or do you want to die too? And you, get him out of here.”
Ady whimpered again and Hive felt a new familiar pressure on their mind. They mentally squirmed to escape the snare but they were out of practice. They couldn’t break free.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry I’m sorry…
They stilled, waiting motionless while a heavy ring of metal was fastened shut round their throat. They couldn’t fight. Couldn’t move. It was too sudden. Their mind moved like it was setting in cement. The metal contacts were as ice cold as they remembered against the sides of their neck.
Can… anyone…? We need to…
No reply. They ran out of strength to plead. Air felt like acid as it half-filled their aching lungs.
Someone help me… please…
“For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.” - Nelson Mandela
Thank you, everyone who has stuck with Hive and Bucky this far. Sorry the updates are painfully slow. If it's any consolation, I'm pretty sure that it hurts me more than it hurts most of you. @voiceoffenrisulfr might be the exception to that. There are another 2 chapters ready to post. One of them is already up on AO3, if you're impatient.
Summary: Bucky’s newest heifer gets acclimated to barn life, and Steve is found to be a super producer.
Cows need milking every single day, and the human variants aren’t very different in that respect. If you don’t milk ‘em every single day, you wind up with cracked and sore nipples, swollen and blocked up teats, limited output, likely infection … and some pretty grumpy omegas to boot.
1918 Dairy Series Masterlist
“Now if I can just get you to initial in the highlighted areas here, and here. And then your signature and today’s date at the bottom, that should finish us up.”
Bucky slides the contract over to the woman who’s sitting on the opposite side of his desk, sniffling intermittently from the difficult news she’s still processing. A twinge of empathy hits him as he notes the way her hand trembles while picking up the pen to sign her name to the papers that will give Bucky full custody of her nephew—permanently. “You’re making the right choice,” he assures her again. “It was either us, or leave it to the state to decide, and they always choose the highest bidder. He would’ve gone to one of the larger farms. Nestlé or Land O’Lakes.”
She looks up at him with horrified eyes. “Oh, God.”
“Yeah. He’s in the best place to get the care he needs. We’ll take good care of him here.”
She sniffles and nods miserably. “I know, I do. I’m sorry for being so emotional. I’m not usually this way.”
”It’s alright.”
”It’s just that it’s so hard saying goodbye, you know? This is all so sudden.”
“I understand completely, Mrs. Parker. Erm … but if you could just finish up with your signature there, at the bottom? Great, thank you. And don’t forget to mark the date as well: today’s the eleventh.”
Her shoulders have slumped in defeat by the time she slides the papers back over. “I feel like a fool for not noticing before. I had no idea, can you believe it? What does that say about me?”
“That you’re the guardian of a teenager?” Bucky says, but the joke falls flat. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. I do this for a living and even I didn’t notice right away.” He gathers the papers up and ferrets them away into his desk drawer, glad to have that part of the process over and done with. Sometimes getting that final signature of release can be difficult—especially when it’s a direct family member doing the custody transfer. Just one reason why Bucky prefers to acquire his stock through the auction circuit over private sale.
Tears are another reason, the crying and blubbering of surrendering parents being one of Bucky’s biggest triggers when it comes to this side of the business. He hurriedly offers the woman a box of tissues, pleased when she takes one. She uses it to dab at her eyes, then brings it up to her nose and proceeds to blow like a foghorn. Bucky suppresses a wince. “These surprise cases are more common than you think. You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about, Mrs. Parker. You’re not the only one this has ever happened to, despite how it may feel.”
“It’s Ms.,” she corrects. “And please just call me May. You’ve been so kind.”
“May. It will be alright. I promise.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Barnes.”
“Bucky, I insist.”
She blows her nose loudly again. “You must think I’m awfully dense, huh Bucky?”
“I really don—“
“I mean they always tell you the signs to watch for,” she rails, ignoring him. “But did I see any of it? No. Not one thing. I had no clue. There I was, thinking that he knew he could come to me about anything, that he could confide in me.” She scoffs bitterly. “I thought I was the ‘cool aunt’. But I’m not. I’m just a fool who didn’t want to see the truth that was right in front of me.”
“Kids these days can hide a lot,” Bucky insists. “They’re smarter than we were at their age. This isn’t your fault.”
“I thought we had a better relationship than that. Open communication and all. After he lost his parents I just … I tried so hard to be that for him. Someone he could come to and talk. I never imagined he’d hide something like this from me.” Her face quivers with grief as she thinks about it. “All this time. He must’ve been so scared.”
“Don’t put it on yourself,” Bucky advises. “It’s the system that scares them into silence, not parents. There just isn’t enough education out there. Not enough acceptance, no resources they can reach out for. Kids get scared when they don’t know what’s in store for them. They clam up. I can only imagine how much holding this inside has been weighing on him. You said he’s seventeen, right?”
May sniffles and nods. “Eighteen next week.”
“So? he’s probably been suppressing for a few years now, at least. I’m sure he’s exhausted from hiding it.”
“Oh, God,” she whispers, tearing up again at the thought. “Years … Oh, my poor boy.”
“Don’t worry. That’s all over now. He may not see it right away, but this is going to be a big relief for him in the long run. He won’t have to hide anymore. Or worry about anything at all. We provide only the best for our herd: nutrients, medical, recreation, you name it. Everything’s done to the absolute top USDA standard—or higher. He can finally be himself. He can finally rest. We’ll take very good care of him,” Bucky promises solemnly. “He’ll have a good life.”
“Yes. Yes of course.” May nods through a watery smile. “I was just worried before, because … well no offense, but you do always hear the most awful stories about these kinds of places.”
Bucky smiles politely. “Indeed. I hope the tour helped to dispel some of your concerns?”
“Oh gosh, yes. I can’t tell you how relieved I was at this place. To see that you make it so nice for them? And how clean and homey it all is? Nothing like those harsh facilities that you see pictures of.” She shudders. “The sorts of places they ship them off to … Well I guess it’s something we all avoid thinking about if we can help it.”
Bucky’s lips thin in displeasure, because he knows exactly the sort of place she’s talking about. “If, or until,” he agrees grimly. “That’s half the reason I got into the business in the first place. To provide a better option, make it easier on the families. It’s hard enough already, saying goodbye in these circumstances.”
“Someone you know?” May guesses, and Bucky nods primly.
“A few cousins on my mother’s side. And … my one sister.”
“Oh my. I’m so sorry.”
He looks away. “Yes, well. O’s tend to run in my family, unfortunately. And anyway, it happened early on, back when they were still figuring things out. The mandate had only just been put into place, and I was young then. There was nothing I could do.”
“Of course not. But, oh, you poor thing. Your poor mother …”
He waves her off. “It’s fine, really. She’s had plenty of time to cope, and I’m content to be able to offer a better alternative.”
“Did you ever find out what happened to—”
“No,” he says curtly. “No, I never did. The record keeping back then wasn’t what it is now, so there was never really any thread to pull on.”
“Oh. I see. … Sorry to pry.”
He inhales deeply and forces a pleasant set back onto his face. “That’s alright. It gave me the drive to build this place.” He gestures around the office. “My way of making amends, I suppose. For all the omegas who’ve been swallowed up by Big Ag over the years.”
“I didn’t even know nice local farms like this existed anymore,” May admits. “I thought it was all like the sort of stuff you see in those awful PETAO commercials. You know: big machinery, tiny cages, lobotomies—”
(Bucky suppresses a wince and says a silent prayer of thanks that Thor wasn’t around while they were touring the barn.)
“—just all sorts of dreadful treatment. But this place is different. Your staff is so nice. That one gentleman that we met, what was his name? Sal? Stan?”
“Sam. Sam Wilson. One of my oldest employees and a good friend, too. He’s the herd’s main caretaker. Really has a way with them.”
“Oh yes,” May gushes. “Watching him really helped set my mind at ease. I can’t tell you how relieving it is to know that Pete’ll be looked after by people like that. People who actually care.”
“I only hire people who have a passion for the work,” Bucky says proudly.
“Yes. And those nice living areas you have set up for them? with the little tvs and everything? Honestly, it feels more like a care facility than a farm. None of that cold, industrial vibe that you always imagine places like this having.”
Bucky’s smile stays plastered on his face as he nods along. “Of course, of course.” He’d ordered all the pumps shut down for the duration of this visit, to help promote a positive perception—homey and comfortable. It’s standard practice on custody transfer days. It seems to help the families cope better with saying goodbye, since all of that heavy machinery hissing and clunking away in the background doesn’t lend itself very well to the stereotypical image of a bucolic family farm. “I’m very proud of what we’ve built here at 1918,” he says. “I like to think we’re doing our part to change the industry, one small step at a time. Every effort counts when you’re working towards a more ethically-sourced product.”
“Oh I totally agree. I always try to buy organic myself, but … Well you know how it is. Life gets busy, prices are high. Convenience winds up creeping in.” May cringes guiltily. “… I’ve been shopping at Costco and the big chain grocery stores lately.”
Bucky shrugs. “Inflation is out of control. I get it.”
“No, no. It’s no excuse. Not now that I’ve seen for myself what a difference in quality of life a place like this offers to them.” She shakes her head stubbornly. “No more compromising. Only ethically sourced, organic dairy products in my household from here on out.”
Bucky chuckles. “Well I appreciate the sentiment. I’ll send you home with a voucher: a year’s subscription to our distribution service, on the house.”
“Oh, you don’t have to do that. I’m happy to pay for it, support a local business. I know how slim the bottom line can be.”
He demures with a polite smile but doesn’t make the offer a second time, because she’s right: profit margins are razor thin most years, and only modest in the best. “Well, Ms. Parker,” he says, standing up from his chair with an air of finality and holding out his hand for her to shake. “Shall I walk you to your car? We can stop by the farm’s store on the way out. At least allow me to send you off with a gift basket.”
She seems unprepared to be dismissed, but recovers quickly, standing up and gathering her purse, snagging another tissue from the box and going ahead of Bucky as he indicates the door. “Right, of course. I’ve taken up too much of your time. I’m sure you're very busy running a place like this.”
“A farm day’s work is never finished,” he agrees, leading her out towards the main barn, which they have to pass through again in order to reach the parking lot. “But work isn’t work when you love what you do, isn’t that what they say?” He leads the way back through the barn, towards the exit that will take them to the parking lot and the dairy’s on-site market and gift shop. He notices May’s head on the swivel, looking this way and that as they pass through the barn, and figures she’s probably trying to spot her nephew. Bucky feigns ignorance by cheerfully remarking on the utility of the different areas that they walk by, throwing out benign facts to try and reroute her attention. “Over there is where we milk the alphas—mostly for the bio products market I was telling you about, since we don’t inseminate artificially very much anymore. And of course there are always cosmetics companies eager to buy up any leftover materials. It’s all very efficient, nothing wasted.”
“… cosmetics?”
“Mm. You know: lip balms, facial serums, that sort of thing. You’d be surprised how many products today have alpha ejaculate or prostatic fluid in them.”
“Oh. I didn’t know.”
“We’re developing a complete organic skincare line. That’ll be available for sale on the website soon enough. Remind me to send you a coupon code for—”
“What’s that?” May interrupts, pointing towards the intake pens and craning her neck to try and see over the top of the block half walls. “Is that …”
“That’s where we sequester the new alphas. Still quite limited in number compared to our omega stock, but we scooped up four new bulls at auction last month. Real prime specimens."
“Oh.”
“It’s important to maintain genetic variability in the herd. You don’t want to waste resources on redundancy, but you also need to have enough bulls on hand to stud without propagating any traits that might lead to bigger problems down the line.”
“Seems like a lot to keep track of,” she says distractedly. “All those pumps …” She seems fixated on the rows and rows of milking pumps that sit in the back of the barn, a concerned pinch lodging between her brows as though the sight upsets her.
Bucky clears his throat uncomfortably and indicates the exit that’s just ahead. “Erm, let’s get you that voucher and a basket of samples, shall we? A company tee shirt, too. I insist.” They’ve almost reached the exit when a pitiful voice cries out,
“Aunt May!”
Bucky’s shoulders sink and his eyes slip shut in disappointment. So close. When he turns back to look at May, he sees that she’s frozen in place and is gazing sorrowfully towards the area where her nephew’s voice has undeniably just called out.
“Aunt May, help!”
“Oh,” she cries and clutches her hands.
Bucky deflates, not liking the idea of what he’s about to do because of the way it’ll draw the ordeal out for the boy, but unable to resist making the offer when he’s got the aunt standing right there, looking so pathetic and torn. “Would you like to say goodbye one more time?” he asks, already resigned to the fact that they’re definitely going over there.
“Oh, could we?” She’s already turning to walk in that direction, and Bucky sighs and follows behind her. “Peter, Honey,” she says when they get over there and she can see into the pen.
Inside the small enclosure, Peter is on all fours, facing them. He’s been put on a platform that keeps him about two feet off the floor, strapped naked to a frame that has padded bolsters to support his limbs and hips and chest—which is good, since he appears to have gone totally limp from exhaustion. He looks up at them with tear clogged eyes, his face red and swollen from crying. “May! Aunt May!”
“Oh, Peter …”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you! I didn’t want to let you down. I-I was just trying to make a difference, I swear! They, th-they said if we got it on tape, that we could change people’s minds.”
“They? Who’s ‘they’?”
He sobs and shakes his head, too flustered to talk very much. Bucky already regrets offering to host this little reunion. “Th-these people who came to 4H club. I’m sorry Aunt May. I was stupid to listen to them. Please don’t be mad.”
On the other side of the enclosure’s gate, Ms. Parker coos pitifully and presses against the rail. “Oh, Sweetie, it’s okay. I’m not mad. It’s all gonna be okay.”
“You gotta get me outta here, May!” he cries, struggling once more against the frame before going limp again with a sob. “Please, please. You gotta call the police! I had video footage, a camera. They took all my clothes, but if you can get them and maybe find it, you could take it to the police or, o-or to the media, or something!”
“Peter …”
“We’ve gotta stop them!”
He thrashes again, and May makes a helpless, miserable noise as she watches. “Please don’t be afraid, Honey. I know it’s scary but this is a nice place. I did a ton of research last night and there isn’t any place better than this, I promise.”
The thrashing slows and then stops as Peter looks up in shock. “What?”
“It’s a good facility.”
“But, you’re not … you’re not leaving me here?”
Her face pinches with regret, her fingers curling over the top rail of the gate. “I’m sorry Sweetie, but you can’t come home. Not now. You’re in the 4H club. You know how these things work.”
Peter’s eyes go wide, and then he starts struggling again in earnest. “Aunt May nooo,” he moans, body tugging uselessly against the frame’s restraints. “No, you can’t, please. I just wanted to make a difference, but not this, not this!”
“Oh Peter,” she mourns. “Please understand. I love you. I’m only doing what’s best for you.”
“Noooo.”
“Pete, please. Please don’t cry. This is a nice place. Mr. Barnes is going to take good care of you here.”
“No May, nooo. You don’t know! You don’t know what they do. What they’re gonna do to me. Please. You can’t let them. Don’t leave me here!” He fights against the frame’s restraints with all his might, but it has no effect, and he collapses into sobs so strong that they take his breath away and make him gasp and choke. “I j-just wanna go h-home, just wuh-wanna go h-ome!”
Not pleased by how distressed this is making the kid, Bucky squares his jaw and goes into the pen, quickly grabbing up a sedation canister and fitting the mask over the kid’s snotty mouth and nose. He gives him a good few pumps of the vapor, waiting until he knows the medicine has been inhaled and is taking effect. Peter’s hyperventilating sobs fizzle out along with his struggles, his body going completely limp against the frame after a few seconds. Bucky nods in grim satisfaction as he pulls the mask away.
“Oh, what is that?” May frets from outside the pen. “Will it hurt him?”
“No,” Bucky grunts, coming back out and closing the gate’s latch with a resounding click. “I’m sorry Ms. Parker, but I think this has been hard enough on Peter for today. We should let him get some rest.”
“An’ May,” The boy slurs, eyes open to just slits from how drowsy the medication and his own tantrums have left him. “Puh-please …”
Bucky gestures for May to follow him, and after one last woeful glance back at her nephew, she does. Peter’s whimpers and weak cries fade into the distance as they head for the exit, and Bucky is heavily relieved when he’s able to shut the barn door behind them, eliminating the pitiful sounds of an omega whose whole world has just collapsed around him. “I’m sorry, I know that was hard,” he says to May, when he sees her making use of that last tissue she’d snagged from the office. “He’ll acclimate quickly. They always do.”
She blows her nose and shakes her head, telling him that she understands, that she knows it has to be this way. “Was it like this, with your sister?” she asks.
Bucky tenses up. “No,” he says tightly. “No, we ah … we didn’t have much of a goodbye, I’m afraid.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
His one eye twitches as he shrugs it off and gestures in the direction of the adjacent building. “It’s fine. Sign of the times, and all. Would you like to browse the dairy’s gift shop and market before you leave? I did promise to send you off with some samples.”
“Oh. Um, yes? I guess so, yes. That’d be nice.”
He smiles stiffly and herds her in that direction, happy to have steered them off the topic of his own family. “Right this way. You’re in for a real treat. We make a sheared-style frozen custard that’ll knock your socks off.”
Taking a day off isn’t really an option when you’re a small business owner. It’s even less of an option when that small business happens to be a dairy farm. Cows need milking every single day, and the human variants aren’t very different in that respect. If you don’t milk ‘em every single day, you wind up with cracked and sore nipples, swollen, blocked up teats, limited output, likely infection … and some pretty grumpy omegas to boot.
All the farmhands at 1918 Dairy get Sundays off. It’s the Lord’s day, after all, a supposed day of rest, reverence, and relaxation. Bucky’s Jewish himself, but most of the people he employs are hardworking, salt-of-the-earth type folks: the sort of people who appreciate having Sundays off to go to church, spend time with their families, and recharge their batteries for the upcoming workweek. Bucky’s happy to give them that.
But lactating teats don’t take a day off, which means that Bucky usually winds up spending each and every Sunday in the barn, by himself, tending to a herd of over two hundred omegas.
… Two hundred and thirty-four omegas, to be exact. And sixteen alpha bulls.
Thankfully when it comes to the milking, they have the omegas on a three-cohort rotation—one hundred on, one hundred off, and thirty-four virgin or gestating—or else Bucky would be overwhelmed by the sheer amount of work to be done. With forty working pump stations to hook them up to, at roughly two hours a pop, plus all the time it takes to transfer, adjust, and manually stimulate where needed, that means that one farm worker can usually get all the active milkers hooked up, pumped, and drained for the day in about eight hours, give or take a little wiggle room. Add in the other daily duties such as feeding, washing, filing invoices, and pumping the alphas, and you’re easily looking at a twelve hour day. Nobody gets bred or studded on Sundays. Bucky just doesn’t have the time.
He gets to work early that morning, the sun not yet having fully broken past the horizon by the time his truck tires pull up on the gravel drive. He hops out and goes into the office for a quick check of any new messages, before donning his coveralls, boots, and rubber work apron, and heading over to the main barn to get things moving along.
He hefts the heavy sliding door open and turns on the lights, the barn’s electricity coming through in a series of tinny clicks as the rows of overhead lamps flicker to life one by one. It’s followed by the quiet rumble of two hundred plus bodies gradually stirring: a chorus of yawns and hums and lows as the omegas all wake up from a good night’s rest.
“Morning everyone!” Bucky calls out brightly. “Who’s ready for another Sunday funday with yours truly?!” He hears a couple of sleepy chuckles drift over from the direction of the pens, along with the unamused groans of the ones who’ve been there long enough to have heard him say the same corny line every single Sunday since forever. “Hope nobody woke up on the wrong side of the pen today!” he calls out cheerfully while he goes to heat up breakfast.
“Breakfast” consists of a hot, dense, nutrient rich mush that’s not too dissimilar in consistency to grits. It takes about ten minutes to cook up in the steam kettle, then Bucky tips it all into the fifty gallon vat that sits on a wheeled pallet that they call the feed cart. The barn’s radio gets tuned to a country station at low volume. It makes for some nice background music as he clomps down the aisles in his heavy rubber boots, pushing the squeaky-wheeled feed cart that dispenses portions of that morning’s breakfast.
Thick, steaming hot gruel travels down a long hose that Bucky aims at each enclosure’s feed trough, controlling the flow with a valve that allows him to measure out just the right amount for each omega’s specific needs. The ones who are on milk rotation right now get more than the ones who’re off, needing the extra calories for the energy that their bodies’ lactation process uses up. The ones off of rotation get a little less, and the virgin heifers get somewhere in between, since they need to be kept fattened up for successful breeding. The gestating omegas get fed the most, their bulging bellies needing more calories than even the heavy teats of the milkers necessitate.
Yes, Bucky knows them all by name. He’s made a point of it from day one, determined to be better than his large scale competitors, who treat their stock as little more than animals, identified only by serial numbers. Bucky knows each and every one of his milkers, studs, breeders, and heifers by name, thank you very much. They were born to parents who loved them enough to pick out those names, and by God, Bucky will make sure they keep them.
“Morning Pete,” he greets his newest, who’s still technically a heifer since he hasn’t been bred yet. Bucky intends to change that real soon, but hasn’t yet decided who to stud him with. “How ya’ feeling?”
Peter is sitting up on his bed roll, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His new yellow ear tag flops cutely, displaying his number: 234. “Mm’fine,” he mumbles.
Bucky smiles and aims the feed hose over the trough inside his pen, making sure to give the boy a little extra, since he’s thinner than what Bucky prefers for a successful first breeding. “Good, that’s good. It’s a beautiful day out.”
“Do we get to go outside again today?” he asks, a little bit of eagerness coming through in his voice, even though Bucky can tell he’s trying to mask it and maintain the same monotone moodiness he’s had all week. Omegas are social creatures: they respond well to being allowed to play together out in the fresh air. And that “free range” USDA stamp on the milk cartons is almost as important to Bucky as the organic one.
“Yeah, Honey,” he encourages. “If you keep up this good behavior I’ve been seeing, then you get to continue all your privileges.” It’s been seven days counting today, and Bucky is extremely pleased and not at all surprised that the boy has calmed and fallen in line so quickly. The omegas always dumb down a lot faster than the alphas, their natural compliance and low IQ working in Bucky’s favor. With occasional application of the calming gas added into the mix, he can usually have them fat, happy, and ready for breeding within a week, two weeks max. Even with the extremist activist group that Peter had gotten mixed up with prior to his acquisition, he’s been no exception in this respect. The kid is coming along nicely.
Bucky glances at his chart while the hose pumps gruel into the trough and sees that his most recent measurements indicate an upcoming heat. That means he can be bred, which is good. The sooner Bucky gets this boy’s cherry popped and his body producing pregnancy hormones, the sooner he’ll fully calm down and enter that dreamy, happy mindset that all the milkers get from their bodies achieving their natural purpose. “Keep up the good work, Pete,” he tells him kindly. “This’ll all get much easier for you soon, I promise.” He finishes dispensing the food and gives him one last smile from over top of the gate. “Eat up!” Peter is already inching towards the trough with interest as Bucky wheels the cart further on down the aisle.
He greets the omega in the next pen by name, “Morning Katie!”
Katie lows happily and moves towards her trough before he even has the hose aimed, eager for her breakfast. Bucky laughs and gets to work with filling it up. Katie is one of the other virgin heifers that he still has available for breeding. She’s a bigger girl than Peter, and Bucky is considering pairing her up with Ansel or Thor, fairly sure that she can handle the stronger offspring that such a match is likely to produce. “Good girl,” he praises her as she immediately begins eating her meal. “Eat up. We’ll have you on those pumps in no time.” She acts like she doesn’t even hear him, too distracted by her food. Bucky chuckles and continues on down the aisle.
My Ao3 story notes has some NSFW images that are a goood approximation of how I imagine Steve positioned up on the alpha milking pump platform.
By the time he’s finished all the morning feeding duties, put the off-cycle cows out to pasture, and gotten the first round of milkers hooked up on their pumps, Bucky is feeling quite peckish himself. He grabs a bite to eat in the office, scarfing half a burrito and then treating himself to some of the dairy’s site-made vanilla custard for desert. He returns to the barn to get to work putting the alphas up on their pumping stations.
It’s been almost two months now since he got the new group of bulls in from auction. Even though alphas are more temperamental and tend to take longer to acclimate to barn life, Bucky is very pleased to note that they all seem to have settled in well enough by now to be manageable. Nobody gives him much trouble as he gets them up on the pumps. Even Steve cooperates after a cursory puff on the gas canister. Bucky gets the four new bulls up on pumping stations one through four, then sticks Thor and Ansel on five and six, since they’re his two most prolific producers, with sacs the size of softballs before a milking day. They’re gentle giants, really. Ansel is naturally well behaved and always has been, by virtue of having been born and raised in captivity, and Thor, well …
Thor hasn’t had much of a temperament or a personality beyond the urge to knot and breed since Bucky made the call to have him lobotomized several years ago—a decision he somewhat regrets now, but can’t exactly take back. “How ya doing, big guy?” he says kindly at pump number five, giving the blond behemoth a friendly pat on his pectoral muscle. Up on the platform, Thor gives a pleasured grunt from his kneeling position, his hips humping against the milking sleeve as it does its work on the biggest cock in the barn. Bucky smiles fondly and tells him he’s doing well, checking the collection receptacle and nodding in satisfaction at the progress he’s making. “Keep up the good work, bud,” he tells him, “Might have a lady for you to breed up this week. How’s that sound?” Thor makes another grunting noise, indicating that he perhaps does recognize what that means. Bucky smiles and pats him again, telling him that he’s earned it, and that it’ll be a fun day for him tomorrow when he gets to go sniffing around Katie’s pen.
He moves on down the line to the next pumping platform, where Steve is being worked over. “Hey fella,” he greets, this time with more of a personable tone, since Steve still has a brain that hasn’t gone to mush and can process language and talk back. “How ya’ doing?”
Steve, panting and straining, looks over at him in annoyance. “How’s it look like I’m doing?” he grunts, though there’s less snark in the words than there would have been previously, and he’s much more manageable than he had been the first time the barn workers had to wrestle him up onto the platform several weeks ago. “Ugh,” he moans, hips humping forward into the rhythmic clutch of the milking sleeve as it works him. “Ugh, ugnn, oh—“ His moans cut off in a gut-punched gasp as he starts to climax again—probably the fourth or fifth time since Bucky first hooked him up half an hour ago. “Ooooghhhn!” he roars, once his breath comes back to him and the first few seconds of the orgasm have subsided. “Nnnnghh …”
Bucky chuckles and goes over to inspect the state of him. He’s still coming, the pump’s tubing showing a steady flow of milky white semen traveling down towards the collection receptacle, which is more than halfway full after only thirty minutes into a two hour milking session. Bucky whistles lowly, impressed and a little surprised. Steve’s putting out more than Thor at this point.
He’s not on M-TAGS protocol anymore, his body having achieved a state of production after only about a week of prep. In fact, Bucky’s had to have him up on the pumps for more and more frequent intervals. Where initially he was getting milked every third or fourth day, like a typical bull, now he’s been needing daily if not twice daily sessions, his balls filling up again so rapidly that both the AM and PM shift workers have been tasked with getting him up on the pumps, some days.
“You’re doing great, bud,” Bucky tells him, getting up close to examine his knot and the state of his balls. His knot is fully blown, pressed up snug against the rubber o ring at the base of the milking sleeve, a near-violent red color and hot to the touch when Bucky grazes it with his fingertips. He curses under his breath as he feels it throbbing and engorged with blood. “Jesus …”
Up on the platform, Steve whimpers like it hurts to be touched. “Ngh, oh! B-be careful.”
Bucky pulls his hand back with an apologetic sound. “Sorry, Hon. Is it sore?”
Steve doesn’t really answer beyond another whimper, too distracted as he keeps coming into the machine, but Bucky is experienced enough in these matters to know a chafing knot when he sees one. Steve’s cock is visible but obscured behind the thick acrylic of the milking sleeve and its rubber inner lining. It had looked pretty irritated when Bucky was working him to an initial erection, though he hadn’t taken an up-close look at it before applying the sleeve. He regrets that now, as he stands there and worries over the state of Steve’s genitals. “You’re getting sore from too much time up here,” he says, talking more to himself than to Steve.
“Ugh, I-I know,” Steve grits out. “Fuck.”
Bucky bites his lip as he considers what to do. He can’t let Steve’s body get backed up with too much semen or his nuts’ll bust in no time (and not in a good way), but he also doesn’t want to let the alpha’s dick get so sore that he develops lesions or an infection. It’s a catch twenty-two that Bucky’s never really run into before. Not like this, not with a brand new bull. It’d be one thing for a seasoned stud to need the sleeve on every day, but Steve’s dick doesn’t have the callouses yet to protect it from the constant friction. Bucky needs to find a way to relieve the pressure from his testicles without stripping his dick raw.
He walks behind the platform and bends down to look between Steve’s legs. His sac is taut and swollen, pulled up close to his body as he endures the tail end of his current orgasm. Bucky reaches out to cup the throbbing mass in his hand. “Jesus,” he mutters again.
“What?” Steve whines, afraid. “Whasswrong?”
“Nothing, Honey,” Bucky soothes. “Nothing at all. You’re good.”
He’s not. Not exactly. Steve’s sac is the size of a grapefruit, which wouldn’t be too alarming, except for that he’s already been put through more than thirty minutes of milking. It’d been even bigger at the start of the session. The fact of the matter is that Steve is producing semen at an unprecedented rate. Bucky’s been in the business for years, and he’s never seen a bull rise above and beyond production standards so quickly. Steve’s body is replenishing so fast that he needs to be milked daily, which isn’t the norm. Even Thor and Ansel, the farm’s two most prolific producers, don’t need milked every single day …
“Looks like you’re turning out to be a super producer,” he says, letting go of his scrotum and straightening back up.
“A what?” Steve says, wincing as the machine continues to work him in that same, incessant rhythm, the repetitive ‘hiss-clunk-whoosh’ sounding over and over again as it brings him into the next ejaculation cycle. “Nnnh. Wha-what does that even mean?”
“Your body’s making a lot of semen.”
He gives a sort of manic laugh as he starts to orgasm again. “Isn’t that the whole point, you freak?”
Bucky tuts. “It’s happening too fast. You’ve been on the pumps too frequently. You’re getting sore.”
”Y-yeah and whose fault is—ungh—that?” Steve moans.
Bucky sighs regretfully and places a hand on his left buttock, feeling the clench and release of the muscle as he thrusts against the suction of the sleeve. “I think we’re gonna have to use some alternative measures to drain you. Give your poor dick a rest.”
Steve whines in fear. “What? Alternative? What does that mean?”
“Shhh.” Bucky’s already walking off to a nearby supply closet to retrieve the machine he’s going to need. It’s behind the milking platform , so Steve can’t see what he’s doing as he wheels out the e-stim cart and brings it over. He gets to work in prepping it, flicking the unit’s power switch on and selecting the attachment he wants for the procedure. There are all different kinds, depending on what orifice you’re using it for. He selects one of the anal probes meant specifically for males, with that crooked shape that’s designed to nestle up against the prostate. He goes with one of the smaller girthed heads, since he’s sure that Steve’s never had anything up there before. He plugs its cord into the machine and sets it aside, taking a tube of lube and some conduction pads out of the cart’s drawers. He snaps a wire onto one of the pads and peels off the plastic backing, reaching between Steve’s legs to apply it to the plump stretch of his taint.
Steve gasps. “What’s that? What is that?!”
“Don’t worry,” Bucky says, talking to him in a calm voice as he works. “This is going to be new and different, but it’ll feel good in the end.”
”What? In the end? What does that mean? Wh-what are you gonna do? What did you just put on me? On my-my—”
He applies an additional pad to the seam of his ball sac, and yet two more to his inner thighs. With each one, Steve keeps gasping and jerking like he expects it to hurt, demanding over and over again to know what they are. Bucky refrains from answering, focusing on the work to be done. He dons a latex glove on his right hand and squirts out a bunch of lube on his fingers, the loud ‘squelch’ audible to Steve and making him tense further in alarm. “It’s okay,” Bucky soothes, then he places his cool fingertips between Steve’s cheeks. Predictably, Steve jerks and cries out in distress.
“Wh-what are you doing?!” he yelps, buttocks clenching hard and pushing forward, trying to get away. “S-stop!”
“Shhh.” Bucky rubs the pads of his first two fingers over his anus, back and forth, spreading the lube around and working the muscle without penetrating it. “Relax. Just focus on the sleeve. Focus on your orgasm.”
Steve growls, but there’s a panicked tone to it: he’s frightened. “Don’t touch me there!”
“I’m sorry Honey, but I have to. We have to give your penis a rest.” He knows it goes against every instinct an alpha has, to let someone touch back there, but this is the only other method that Bucky has available to get Steve’s balls emptied. “We won’t have to do it every time,” he tells him. “Just when your body needs a break from the pumps.” He keeps his fingers on Steve’s rim, rubbing back and forth over the muscle to get him used to the sensation, waiting until he can tell that Steve is entering the beginning of another ejaculation cycle before he pushes inside with one finger.
Steve hollers through the peak of that next orgasm, his body shuddering hard in the restraints as he fights between the instinct to get away from the penetration, and the instinct to move into the milking sleeve for more. “Noooo,” he moans, his body jerking hard, buttocks clenching again and again as his cock pumps out another load of cum.
”Sorry, Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” Bucky says quietly, knowing how much this is upsetting him. He can hear the agonized, furious tears in Steve’s voice as he vocalizes through his climax, his alpha instincts railing against the reality of having his body penetrated like this. It’s a submission that he’s wired to hate, and despite the fact that Bucky knows it’s necessary, he still regrets that he has to force him to endure this additional humiliation. “It won’t be every time,” he promises again, thrusting his finger shallowly to get the muscle relaxed. “Just take some deep breaths.”
”Kill you!” Steve yells between growls and moans, barely able to get the words out. “I’ll kill you!”
Bucky soldiers on, doing what needs to be done. He eases in a second finger alongside the first, working them in and out, twisting this way and that and tugging lightly on Steve’s rim until he’s sure that he’s ready for the anal probe. Steve quiets down some from his climax, still shuddering intermittently as he shoots cum into the machine’s tube in increasingly sluggish pulses. Bucky reaches around with his free hand and feels up his knot, noting the pulse of the blood vessels as it remains turgid in its most erect state. It’s hot and inflamed, and Steve hisses in sensitivity. “Shit,” he gasps, though he shudders in pleasure from the pressure, too. “Please,” he gasps. “Please, I can’t.”
“You’re gonna be okay,” Bucky murmurs, giving him a nice, firm squeeze to imitate the lock of an omega’s body. Bucky’s hands are far from small, but the fully erect girth of Steve’s knot is a challenge, even for him. Some bulls go down in-between their pumped orgasms, if only for a short while, but Steve’s knottings last so long that he never really loses much of his inflation before he’s coming and popping back to full-blown all over again. Bucky makes a mental note to apply some bag balm to the guy’s poor, abused skin once this is all done.
Steve finishes ejaculating and his body loses some of its tension, sagging against the restraints in despair. “Please,” he moans weakly. “Please, no more.”
“You’re doing great, Steve.” Bucky lets go of his knot and withdraws his fingers. He moves over to the e-stim cart and flicks the switch to activate a current through the pads that are on Steve’s sac and taint and inner thighs.
Steve gasps in surprise, then moans long and low. “Oooghh …”
“See? Doesn’t that feel nice?” Bucky says, knowing that it does. He’s only got the current set to level 2, and there are sixteen levels of intensity. Bucky would never admit it to another living soul, but he’s well aware of what each level feels like, because he’s played around with this machine on himself before—with the pads and the anal attachments (hey, he was curious, alright?). The point is, he knows that this isn’t hurting Steve. He knows that, at level 2, the sensation will be one of a low, pulsing thrum, the electrical stimulation to Steve’s taint and balls feeling warm and strange, but nowhere near painful or overwhelming. “Close your eyes and take deep breaths,” he advises. “Allow yourself to enjoy it.”
“Ohh,” Steve groans, head dropping down towards his chest in a way that suggests maybe he does have his eyes closed. “Nnnh, you enjoy it.”
Bucky scoffs. “Way ahead of you, bud.” He retrieves the wired up probe from the cart and applies lube to it liberally, bringing it between Steve’s cheeks and swiping it back and forth over his hole. Steve whimpers, but Bucky just hushes him. “It’s gonna be okay,” he murmurs, gradually applying pressure, more and more, until the head slips inside. Steve cries out in shame, and Bucky uses his free hand to pet his back. “Shhh, you’re doing great.” He eases the attachment in, letting Steve’s body do most of the work as it sucks it in, bit by bit, until it’s fully seated. Bucky feels the shiver that runs through Steve’s back muscles as the tapered head settles into place over his prostate. He hums in satisfaction. “There you go, feel that? That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”
Steve makes a noise that indicates he feels otherwise, but Bucky knows the only discomfort he’s experiencing right now is mental, not physical. He takes hold of the cord at the base of the probe and tugs upwards, rocking the toy inside of Steve’s rectum and nudging the head against his prostate. Steve makes a tortured, warbling sound.
“Calm down. It’s not even turned on yet.”
”Nnngh! Ooh. Ff-fuckyou,” he slurs.
Bucky laughs. “The exact opposite, wouldn’t you say?”
Steve growls, chin lifting up off his chest as he tenses and threatens, “When I get outta here, one day, you’re gonna wish you were dead.”
“Oh yeah?” Bucky remarks in a disinterested voice, already turned back to the machine where he’s fiddling with the screen. “Hmm, tell me more.”
”Gonna tear you up,” Steve vows, sounding like he’s still halfway to tears even as he lodges the threat. “Gonna fuck your ass. Tear it up. Ruin it.”
“Hm, wow,” Bucky says. “Okay Steve, well in the meantime, this is going to help give your dick some relief, mkay? We’ll start out at a low setting and work our way up until we know what gets you there.” He flicks the switch to activate the probe, then turns the dial the barest bit, sending the current through at level one.
Steve’s next threat never materializes, as his voice cuts off in a shocked “Ah!” at the feeling of electro stimulation directly against his prostate. “Oh … fuck,” he whispers, body going taut in the frame.
Bucky moves around to the front of him to turn off the pump. The hiss-clunk-whoosh of the suction cuts off abruptly and the seal on the milking sleeve is lost. The tube collapses, slumping heavy on Steve’s erection and pulling it downwards from the weight. Bucky removes it, wincing in sympathy at Steve’s oversensitized whimper and the sight of his swollen dick sliding free. It’s still erect and it bobs angrily in the air, looking sore and inflamed. “Sorry,” Bucky says, setting the sleeve aside. “We won’t use that again until you’re healed up.”
He glances up and sees Steve’s face, red and tear streaked, eyes burning with hatred and shame. When Bucky tries to reach up to wipe the tears away, Steve flinches and hisses angrily, “Leave me alone!”
Sighing, he decides to go and grab the gas canister. Steve tosses his head to try and keep the mask off his face, but Bucky gets it pressed on and gives him a good few puffs of the medicine. “Take it,” he says, watching as Steve’s chest heaves and his eyes squeeze shut. “Go on. Just breathe it in.” It isn’t strictly necessary, other than that it’ll help take the edge off his fury so that he can relax and enjoy the reprieve to his dick that he’s otherwise too indignant to appreciate. The poor guy has been through so much these past two months. He probably thinks Bucky’s a sadist who enjoys torturing him, but the reality is that he really just wants all his alphas and omegas to be happy and content in their lot. He can’t change what the world has in store for them, but he can at least change how they receive it.
So he watches in grim satisfaction as Steve’s eyelids flutter and his body sags in the frame. “Good,” he says quietly. “Very good.” He sets the canister aside and stoops down to get a closer look at Steve’s poor, abused penis. It’s still hard: red and swollen from the prolonged suction of the pump. It’s lagging a bit, having lost some of its rigidity now that it’s not being worked by the milking sleeve’s rubber lining. His knot is still inflated, but has likewise calmed down from looking like it’s about to burst. Steve sobs softly as he looks down and sees the state of his abused genitals, emotional over what’s been done to him. “Ohh noo,” he cries.
“There there, it’ll be okay.” Bucky takes gentle hold of his penis and lifts it to look at the underside and everywhere else. The head looks painful and irritated, but the main area of concern is at the base of his shaft, right where the seal was suctioned onto him. The skin there is shiny and raw in a way that suggests the very beginnings of a blister, and Bucky avoids touching it. “Yeah,” he says somberly, letting him go. “Okay. We’ll give it a couple of days.” Once Steve heals up, they can resume using the milking sleeve, but only intermittently. Since he’ll still need his balls emptied every single day, they’ll utilize the e-stim machine in between bouts on the pumps—use anal orgasms to drain him between pumping sessions, so that his body has time to recover from the suction.
Bucky goes and retrieves a simple rubber cock sleeve. Its sits over the head and first two inches of Steve’s shaft, but there is no friction or suction. It simply sits on him like a little cap for his dick, the rubber tubing at its end leading down to a limp collection bag that Bucky places on the platform between Steve’s knees. “There you go,” he says, rubbing the alpha’s belly soothingly. “Real simple and gentle, see?”
“Bucky,” Steve cries softly.
“Yeah Honey, it’s okay. I’m here with you.” He goes back behind Steve and stands at the cart’s controls, turning the probe’s dial up to the next setting. Steve’s breath hitches and his hips jerk forward out of instinct, and Bucky hums in approval. “That’s okay, Steve. You can still thrust if it feels right. It’s good for you.” He turns the dial up another notch, and then another, watching Steve carefully to gauge his body’s reactions.
The alpha’s asshole twitches rhythmically against the base of the plug, stimulated into involuntary contractions by the current. Bucky takes hold of the cord again and tugs it gently upwards to make the probe press real firmly against Steve’s prostate. Steve releases a warbling, bleating sort of cry from deep in his gut: “Mm-oooo!”
The anal stimulation pulls very different sounds from him than the pump had, his vocalizations becoming deeper and more guttural, helpless hnngh’s and moooh’s as his body contracts involuntarily. His hips continue to hump forward in a steady cadence as the probe sits against his prostate and pulses, unrelenting in its intensity. “Oh God,” he keeps gasping, like he can’t catch his breath long enough to say or even think anything else. “Ohgod ohgod ohgod.”
Bucky turns the dial up another setting, and another, then increases the current coming through the conduction pads as well. Steve keens and his sac contracts visibly as his body is forced into the next orgasm. “Ooohngn!”
Bucky moves to stand beside him so that he can observe what’s going on in front as well as behind. Steve’s cock has gone softer now, more than halfway to flaccid and flopping in the air as his body releases, ejaculating into the cap in sluggish but steady pulses. His cum travels down the tubing and into the empty bag. “Good,” Bucky murmurs, rubbing his belly in front with one hand and rocking the probe in back with the other. “Good. Just ride it, Honey. Get it aaall out.”
Steve sobs and shakes his head at the unrelenting onslaught. “Please, please I can’t. I c-can’t take any more!”
Bucky hums and reaches to turn the dial down a few notches, taking it back to level one intensity so that Steve can have a break. He sags in relief, his cock softening almost completely but still pumping out a steady flow of semen as he endures the end of the orgasm. His knot is mostly deflated as well, but his balls are visibly still contracting from the stimulation of the pads, forced into draining whether his body wants to or not. “Muuuh,” he lows, sounding almost like one of the omega milkers when their teats are being pumped.
“Yes,” Bucky says, watching the rubber bag slowly fill up. “This’ll work just fine.” This is what they’ll do from now on, on Steve’s off days. They’ll use the e-stim to essentially punch-fuck the orgasms out of him when his dick needs a rest from the milking sleeve; keep his balls emptied and his cock safe from being overworked. “Well Steve, you’re officially my top producer,” Bucky congratulates, rubbing his tummy as he gasps air into his lungs. “Catch your breath, big guy. Then we’ll go again.”
If you enjoyed reading this work, a reblog would be most appreciated. To keep my stories crossing your dash on the regular, you can give this account a follow, or join my tag list
💖 Leda
Masterlist
This has been a fill for:
Event: @multifandom-flash (omegaverse)
Card: sarah-writes-stucky
Square N: free space-knotting
Event: @afgomegaversebingo
Card: ledatheswann
Square G3: fear kink
Event: @badthingshappenbingo
Card: sarah-writes-stucky / ledatheswann
Square O5: dehumanization
Event: @ultimatechrisingo
Card: sarahowritesostucky
I3: breeding-omegaverse
Event: @stuckybingo (round 7)
Card: STB7060 L.T. Swann
Square I4: enhanced abilities
Event: @buckybarnesbingo (round 7)
Card: B065 L.T. Swann
Square B3: omegaverse
Event: @wintershieldbingo
Card: sarah-writes-stucky
Square B2: Begging
Kinktober 2026 Day 7: sex sleeve/milking/prostate stimulation
Major Tags: Fluff, angst, broken heart, twisted romantic.
Additional tags: My entry for the @multifandom-flash Calendar Events April National Ex-spouse day.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
The gray afternoon marked the moment when everything crumbled.
You had planned to meet him at his apartment. The place was his, dark, with gray walls, minimalist furniture, and a couple of clean guns on the dining room table. You knocked on the door. No one answered.
You knocked again. Nothing. The key was in the lock.
You went in.
He was there. He's back to you, looking out the window. Rain was beginning to hit the glass. The reflection of his face was barely visible in the darkness.
“Brock...” you began.
He didn't turn around. He didn't answer. Your heart raced. Something was wrong.
You could feel it before you knew what it was.
“What's wrong?” you said, taking another step inside.
He finally turned around.
“We can't,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“I can't marry you.”
“Brock?” Your voice was barely a whisper.
“There are things I can't leave behind. Things you can't understand.”
You shook your head.
“You promised me.” The air was thick. “You promised...” Your voice trembled.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
“And what?” you shouted. “Does that mean I can expect you to break your word like that, just like that?”
“It's nothing,” he replied. “It's everything.” His hands opened, as if trying to explain without words. “I never wanted you to suffer because of who I am.”
“What are you, Brock?” you asked, your tears falling uncontrollably. “A monster who plays with promises?”
“I am the man who loves you. But I can't be the husband you deserve.” "It's not that I don't want to marry you,“ he whispered. ”It's that marrying you would mean betraying who we are."
“Who are we?”
“Me,” he said, “and the world that won't allow me to be anything other than this. I want you to understand me.” His voice dropped another notch, barely a whisper. “But if you need me as a husband... I can't do it.”
“So,” you said, “you're breaking the promise you made to me... without a fight?”
He closed his eyes.
“I can't fight this.”
“What about me?” your voice broke. “What do I do with this?”
Brock leaned toward you, closing the distance between you. His lips barely touched yours, a brief kiss. It was goodbye. It was a goodbye I didn't want to say but had to. He pulled away. He took a step back.
Fic: And I heard your voice clear as day / only if for a night
And I heard your voice clear as day / only if for a night
Rating: General Audiences
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Category: Gen
Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types
Relationship: Boba Fett & Jango Fett
Characters: Jango Fett, Boba Fett
Additional Tags: Mandalorian Worldbuilding, honoring the dead, family traditions,Grief/Mourning, Teaching, Building Memories, spending time with family, Mandalorian Traditions, Mandalorian Rituals, Cooking
Language: English
Words: 1,428
Summary:
Hit with an uncomfortable realization that Boba doesn't know how to pay respects, Jango sets about resurrecting family traditions and setting that to right.
For: Cupid Exchange
For: Tropes and Fandoms Week2
Square 9: Star
Star Trope: Flash of Insight – A sudden revelation changes the course of events.
Bingos:
Bounty Hunter's Bingo: Superstitions
Fluffy: Family Dinner
Melting Pot: Participant's Choice (Worldbuilding)
@fairytalebingo Mad Monster 3x3: Witching Hour
@fourseasonsbingo 1x5: Baking Cookies
@multifandom-flash SFW Phrases: Let Them Eat Cake
@fandom-free-bingo Mystic: 'The World's Gonna Know Your Name'
@squarebysquare @xxdustnight88:
Jan/Feb: Unfinished Business
Love Shapes: Love expressed through quality time
Walkers Between Worlds: The New vs The Old Ways
What We Carry Home: Remembering The Fallen
Petals & Promises: Love, Unspoken
@clonefandomevents:
Boba: Grief/Mourning, Social Isolation, Grooming
Jango: Rituals
Rating: General Audiences
Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Categories: F/M, Gen
Fandom: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger & Original Character(s)
Characters: Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger, Original Wolf Character(s)
Additional Tags: Bondwolves, Protective Siblings, Teacher Draco Malfoy, Werewolf!Draco Malfoy, Wizards Don't Know Psychic Wolves Exist, Muggles Have Psychic Wolf Siblings, The Cultural Upbringing To Lie Your Ass Off To Save Face, ice cream date, First Dates, Didn't Know They Were Dating, werewolfism, Sharing Your Name With Someone's Not-Pet, Psychic Wolves, First Introduction To Psychic Wolves, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence, Bondwolf Siblings, Inadequate Explanation of Psychic Wolves, alternate universe - psychic wolves
Language: English
Words: 3,238
Summary:
Draco Malfoy's life isn't his ideal dream, but he's doing okay for himself. That is, until he runs into a familiar woman in Diagon Alley who is prepared to turn his life upside down again, over the course of just one sweet treat.
Bingos:
Hermione's Haven: Author's Choice (First Date)
The Material World: Leather
@fairytalebingo Mad Monster Bingo: Bitten By A Werewolf
@multifandom-flash Thanksgiving: Food as Bribe
@squarebysquare @xxdustnight88:
Jan/Feb: One Honest Moment, Chance Encounter
Nov/Dec: Free Space (Sharing a Meal), Heartfelt Confession (platonic, romantic, or otherwise)
Love Shapes: Free Space (A Thousand Little Things)
@Multi-Bingo-Rin:
October: Meet-Cute, Tattoos
November: Found Family, Witchcraft
December: Walk Together, Coffee Shop (Ice Cream Shop), First Time (First Date)
@julybreakbingoevent:
Winter Break Advent: Week 3: Werewolf
Post-July V2: Mutual Pining
Summer: Hiding feelings for another because they think the other won't want to be with them based solely on their past
July Break 5x5: The Attraction Stage
@fandom-free-bingo:
Mystic 3x3: Monster AU
Virtues & Vices 5x5: Can't Take My Past, Albatross, Fairness
Untamed 5x5: First Date
Ship: Dark!Steve Rogers X OFC (Evelyn Mae Barton).
Word count: 615 words.
Square: “Serial spouse.”
Rating: Teen.
Summary: The perfect husband... who kills for love.
Major Tags: Fluff, angst, obsessive, twisted romantic.
Additional tags: My entry for the @multifandom-flash Calendar Events April National Ex-spouse day.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
Summary: Steve Rogers is married to Peggy Carter, but he falls in love with you.
Major Tags: Fluff, angst, mention of cheating.
Additional tags: My entry for the @multifandom-flash Calendar Events April National Ex-spouse day.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
You worked as a typist in an office downtown, a fairly routine life, but one that allowed you to keep busy and distract yourself from the thoughts that sometimes assailed you in the solitude of your small apartment in Brooklyn. Everything had changed since you met Steve Rogers.
You had heard his name before; he was a war hero, “Captain America,” a man who had saved the world. But when you met him, it wasn't in the context of his legend, but as an ordinary man who, by chance, shared your passion for reading. It was in a small, dusty bookstore, far from the hustle and bustle of the city, where it all began.
You had been leafing through a book of poetry when you noticed someone else looking at the same shelf. You looked up, and there he was. You exchanged a few words about the book, and from that moment on, you began to meet at the same bookstore once a week.
The conversations soon moved to a nearby café, where you spent hours talking about books, art, and life in general. As the months passed, the friendship turned into something more. There was a silent understanding between you, an invisible bond that united you in a way that couldn't be explained in words. But there was also Peggy Carter, his wife.
That afternoon, like so many others, you were sitting across from Steve in his apartment. It was a modest but cozy place, with black-and-white photographs adorning the walls and wooden furniture that seemed to have been chosen with care. Peggy was away on a secret mission, something Steve never talked about in too much detail, but you knew it took up a large part of his time.
“I've been thinking a lot,” Steve said, breaking the silence that had fallen between you as you drank tea in the small living room.
You looked at him, waiting for him to continue. There was tension in the air, a sense that something important was about to be said.
“I can't keep doing this, and you shouldn't have to bear this burden either,” he continued, his voice low but firm. "Peggy deserves the truth. You deserve more than this... more than just being a hidden part of my life."
“What about Peggy?” you asked, even though you knew this conversation was far from easy. “Have you ever thought that maybe she's betraying you, too?”
“What are you talking about?” he asked, his voice more tense than you had anticipated.
“Steve, this isn't something I want to say lightly, but... I've seen her with another man. I don't know who he is or how it started, but it doesn't seem like they're just coworkers.”
“I can't believe it,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.
You stood up and walked over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder.
“I wouldn't have told you if I wasn't sure. I don't want you to think I'm making this up. But I think it's something you should know, especially if you're questioning your feelings for me.”
“Oops! I forgot I was married,” he said with bitter irony. “And now it seems she's forgotten too.”
“Steve, I don't want you to make any rash decisions. I'm not asking you to leave Peggy or do anything you might regret. I just want you to be honest with yourself... and with her.”
Steve nodded slowly, but the sadness on his face didn't fade. You knew he was processing everything you had said, trying to find a way through the chaos that his life had become.
“Maybe I should talk to her. Clarify the situation before I proceed with any decisions. I promise you that no matter what happens, I will never intentionally hurt you,” he said, leaning in to caress your cheek.
“I know, Steve. I just want you to be happy... whatever path you choose.”
Then Steve did something you didn't expect: he took you in his arms and kissed you. You didn't know how long they stayed like that.
Summary: Just what hurts the most: absence explained on a screen.
Major Tags: Angst, breakup.
Additional tags: My entry for the @multifandom-flash Calendar Events April National Ex-spouse day.
Links: Wattpad, Ao3, Spanish version.
@saiyanprincessswanie
My native language is Spanish, so I wanna improve my English writing skills. Please let me know if you notice any mistakes, and I will correct them.
I don’t grant permission for my fics to be posted on other platforms or in different languages (I personally translate my work) or for the use of my graphics (my dividers are included in this. I created them exclusively for my fics; please respect my work and refrain from stealing it. Some people here create dividers that anyone can use; mine is not of this type, so please look for the dividers created by others. The only exceptions are those I gifted 'cuz now belong to someone else. Please let me know if you find any of my works on a different platform and are not one of my accounts. Reblogs and comments are always welcome.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Marvel's characters (unfortunately), except for the original characters and the story.
Add yourself to my taglist here.
My other media where I publish: Ao3, Wattpad, ffnet, TikTok, Instagram, Twitter.
If you like it, please vote, comment, and provide feedback to help me improve my skills. Consider reblogging as well.
It wasn't late. It wasn't early. You were sitting on the couch, a cup of cold coffee in your hands, staring blankly at a spot on the wall. The name on the screen made you sit up straight immediately.
Steve.
You smiled without realizing it. Because it was always like that. You opened the message.
There was no “hello.” There was no “Are you okay?”
“We need to talk, but not in person. I think it's for the best.”
Your stomach clenched. You read the line again. And again. As if at some point the words would rearrange themselves and say something different. Your fingers trembled as you typed.
“What's wrong? Are you okay?”
Three minutes passed.
Then five.
Then eight.
The “typing...” indicator appeared and disappeared twice before the next message arrived.
“I've been thinking a lot. This isn't working anymore.”
You felt the first real twinge in your chest.
“What do you mean it's not working?” you typed. “Since when do you get to decide that on your own?”
The reply came quickly this time.
“It's not just my decision. It is what it is.”
You got up from the couch and started pacing around the apartment, barefoot, as if moving around could sort out the chaos that was beginning to grow inside you.
“Steve, this isn't over,” you typed. “After everything we've been through, I deserve better than this.”
The silence dragged on.
The phone felt heavy in your hand, almost alien.
Finally, the message arrived.
“I'm not good at this. I never have been.”
“At what? At loving? At staying? “You replied. “Or at facing things like an adult?”
It took him longer to answer this time.
Much longer.
You sat on the bed, your back against the wall, your eyes fixed on the illuminated screen.
“I love you.”
The air caught in your throat.
“But not the way you need. And I can't keep pretending that I do.”
There it was.
The end.
In two cold lines.
There was no long explanation. There were no elaborate apologies. There was no phone call. Just plain, impersonal text, impossible to hug or yell at.
Your hands started to hurt from how tightly you were holding the phone.
“Is that it?” you wrote. “Years summed up in one message?”
The response took long enough for hope to do something stupid inside you.
“I'm sorry.”
That was it.
No more messages.
No more “typing...”
The screen remained motionless, as if nothing important had happened.
You cried silently.
Not because he was gone.
But because he didn't even dare to see you when he decided to do it.
The phone vibrated one last time.
It wasn't him.
And for the first time, you understood that the story had ended not with a bang, but with a screen slowly turning off.
