#alpha beta omega

[queenmommyalexisblogs]

[slutdier]

𝑩𝑬𝑺𝑻 𝑭𝑹𝑰𝑬𝑵𝑫𝑺 𝑫𝑶𝑵’𝑻 𝑲𝑵𝑶𝑻 You go back to the summer cabin with your lifelong best friend Bucky Barnes and the tension you’ve both ignored finally becomes impossible to deny. One charged night changes everything between you, no longer just best friends, but something irrevocably more.

alpha!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader

word count : 17,9k

warnings 18+ : no use of y/n, childhood bestfriends to lovers, somnophilia, stealing intimate items for masturbation, bucky is a pervvv, dddne, guilt-ridden sexual acts, consuming bodily fluids without prior consent, unprotected sex, breeding, knotting, scenting, biting, pheromonal compulsion, heavy guilt and self-hatred while doing the wrong sexual acts, first heat/first rut happening (both late), a/b/o & possessive dynamics, fingering, virginity loss

author’s note : first of all I just wanna say the BIGGEST thank you for 2k followers like what??? that’s actually insane!!! please take this fic as a little gift from me to you <3 I’m beyond grateful for every single one of you. and second of all… since centuries of rut kinda blew up (which still feels unreal), I decided to cook up another a/b/o bucky fic 😩😩

Old Polaroids still live in the glove compartment of Bucky’s truck, faded edges, corners curling from years of being handled, the plastic sleeves cracked from too many openings and closings.

There’s one of you at eight, gap-toothed and grinning wide, perched on his skinny shoulders while he pretends to stagger under your “enormous” weight, both of you laughing so hard the photo is blurry.

Another from twelve: you braiding his too-long hair on the cabin porch steps, him scowling at the camera but letting you finish, the sun catching the brunette strands that always refused to stay tame.

A blurry one from sixteen: both of you asleep on the attic pull-out couch after a late-night movie marathon, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slung protectively around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His mom took the picture quietly and slipped it into the stack later; neither of you ever mentioned it.

Everyone always said you were inseparable. Best friends. Practically siblings.

They never mentioned how his hand sometimes lingered a second too long when he helped you down from the dock, fingers brushing the back of your knee. They never mentioned how you’d catch yourself staring at the line of his jaw when he laughed, sharp, shadowed, the way it flexed when he was trying not to smile too big.

They never mentioned the quiet nights when the rest of the group had gone to bed and you’d stay up talking until the sky lightened, voices low, knees touching on the porch swing, the silence between sentences heavier than words.

Now you’re both twenty-two, back from sophomore year of college, still virgins, still waiting for that first presentation that everyone else got years ago.

Late bloomers, the doctors called it with clinical shrugs. Lucky, your mom called it with a wink, like it was a gift instead of a delay. You both just called it annoying. Friends had heats and ruts in high school, paired off, moved on. You and Bucky stayed the same, safe, platonic, untouched by the biology that rewrote everyone else’s lives. Sometimes you wondered if it was a mercy or a curse.

This summer the families are caravanning to the cabin like always, the annual week of lake swims, bonfires and board games. But Bucky texted you last week, casual as ever.

Bucky 9:56am

Hey. I’ll drive you up early. Beat the traffic, set up the attic real quick, snag the good couch spot before anyone else tries to steal it. Just you and me, no rush, no chaos. Sound good?

Everyone thought it was sweet. Typical Bucky, looking out for you.

You didn’t tell them how your stomach flipped when you read it.

The truck smells like motor oil, pine air freshener, and him, cedar, faint metal, something warm and smoky underneath that always made your head swim a little when you were close.

Windows down the whole way, old pop-punk blasting from speakers that crackle when the bass hits. You sing off-key on purpose just to make him laugh; he rolls his eyes but belts the chorus louder than you, voice rough from disuse but still carrying every note like muscle memory.

Halfway there the road narrows, trees thickening into proper forest, sunlight dappling the cracked windshield in shifting gold patterns. It’s sticky, end-of-June hot so the AC is useless and the windows stay wide open. You kick off your sneakers, prop bare feet on the dash. He pretends to hate it, mutters something about fingerprints but never actually tells you to move them. Never has.

The playlist loops to that one song from high school, the one you used to scream-sing in his bedroom until his mom banged on the wall and threatened to unplug the stereo. You grin, unbuckle and before he can finish saying “don’t-” you’re already leaning halfway out the passenger window.

Arms spread like wings, hair whipping wild in the wind, you arch your back into the rush like you’re flying. The loose cropped tank stretches tight across your chest, wind molding it to every curve. No bra, too hot and it’s just Bucky. The hem flips up with a sudden gust, flashing the smooth underside of your breast, the soft curve where skin meets ribcage, glowing in the sun.

“Jesus Christ!” Bucky’s voice cracks high, hand shooting out to fist the front of your denim shorts like you’re about to tumble onto the road. “You’re gonna fall out! Get back in here!”

You laugh, loud and free over the rush of air, swinging your head side to side. “Buck, it’s fine! Just drive! Feels amazing- come on, live a little!”

He can’t stop looking.

Knuckles white on the wheel, eyes flicking between the empty backroad and you: arched spine, wind-plastered tank, nipples pebbled from the breeze, that accidental strip of underboob. His throat works hard. Heat floods his face, then surges lower, cock twitching painfully against his zipper, sudden and insistent.

“Fuck- okay, okay, just- get in before I crash us both,” he stutters, voice pitching like he’s sixteen again. “You’re- Jesus, you’re killing me here.”

You duck back inside, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter, shirt falling back down but not before he steals one last glimpse. You flop against the seat, still grinning.

“What? It’s hot. You used to let me do that all the time when we were younger.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, shifting in his seat, trying to angle his hips away from view, “when you were eighteen and flat as a board.” He swallows hard. “Now you’re… you’re not.”

You blink at him, teasing edge softening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” He cranks the broken AC to full blast, praying the weak puff of cool air kills the throbbing erection before you notice.

You do notice, the fidgeting, the hand he keeps low on the wheel, the flush crawling up his neck to his ears.

“Buck?” Soft, teasing but gentle. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just- road’s bumpy.” He clears his throat twice. “Don’t do that again unless you want me to drive us into a tree.”

You laugh again, crank the music louder, oblivious. Or pretending to be.

He spends the next twenty minutes white-knuckling the wheel, thighs clenched, reciting engine specs and batting averages under his breath to will the hardness away. It only half works.

Every glance sideways shows the faint outline of your nipples through the thin tank, the way your shorts ride high on your thighs, skin still flushed from the wind. And something else, your scent on the breeze, sweet and warm, just starting to bloom like honeysuckle after rain. His own scent sharpens without him noticing, cedar turning darker, smokier, edged with something desperate and metallic.

The cabin appears at the end of the dirt road, quiet and empty, families still hours away. Pine needles crunch under the tires as he parks.

You hop out first, stretch tall, arms overhead. The cropped tank rides up again, another flash of underboob, innocent and devastating in the late-afternoon light. Bucky stays in the driver’s seat an extra minute, head dropped to the wheel, breathing hard through his mouth, willing his body to calm down.

He tells himself it’s nothing. Just the heat. Just old habits. Just the cabin pulling old memories to the surface.

But deep in his gut, something ancient and hungry stirs for the first time, low, insistent, like a door creaking open after years of being locked.

That night the attic room feels smaller than ever. Shared pull-out couch, same as always, same faded quilt, same creak when you shift.

You toss and turn, low-grade fever creeping under your skin, making the sheets feel too heavy, too rough. Bucky lies rigid beside you, pretending to sleep, pretending he doesn’t feel the air thickening between you, pretending he doesn’t catch the faint, sweet shift in your scent every time you roll closer.

Pretending he doesn’t already know what’s coming.

Because he does.

He’s felt it building for years, in stolen glances, in the way his pulse jumped when you hugged him goodbye before college, in the hoodie he never gave back because it still smelled like you. He’s ignored it, buried it, told himself it was nothing.

But tonight, lying inches from you in the dark, the lie feels thinner than the quilt between you.

And something inside him is finally starting to crack.

The morning sun filters through the pine trees outside the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors.

You wake up tangled in the sheets of the pull-out couch, the attic room still dim and stuffy from last night’s humidity.

Bucky’s side of the bed is already empty, neatly made, like he couldn’t sleep either. That low, nagging warmth in your belly lingers, a dull ache that’s been building since the truck ride yesterday.

You blame it on the travel, the excitement, maybe even the greasy diner food you grabbed on the way up. Definitely not anything else. Not the way Bucky’s scent seemed to cling to the pillows, sharper than usual, making your skin feel too tight.

Downstairs, the cabin is alive with the familiar chaos of family vacation mornings. The coffee maker gurgles on the countrr, filling the air with the rich, bitter aroma of coffee. Bacon sizzles in a pan, popping and spitting grease while Bucky’s mom flips slices with a spatula, humming an old tune under her breath.

Your dad is at the table, newspaper spread wide, grumbling about the stock market even on break. Bucky’s sister, Becca, bounces in from the porch, her ponytail swinging, already in her swimsuit with a towel draped over her shoulders.

“It’s already pushing ninety out there,” Becca announces, grabbing a strip of bacon straight from the pan and dodging her mom’s swat. “Lake time before lunch? Come on, we can’t waste this weather!”

Your mom laughs from the sink, rinsing berries. “I’m in. Just slather on the sunscreen, last year you all burned like lobsters.”

Everyone murmurs agreement, the energy shifting to that easy, vacation buzz. Bucky’s dad claps his hands together. “Alright troops, suits on, towels ready. Let’s make it happen.”

You feel a flush creep up your neck at the thought of changing. It’s silly, you’ve all done this a hundred times but something feels different this year. Maybe it’s college making you more self-conscious, or the way Bucky avoided eye contact last night when you both climbed into the shared bed, muttering “night” like it was a chore. You slip into the downstairs bathroom while the others scatter, locking the door with a soft click.

The swimsuit is nothing fancy: a simple navy two-piece from last summer’s clearance rack. High-waisted bottoms that hug your hips comfortably, a triangle top that ties at the neck and back, leaving just enough skin exposed to feel breezy but not exposed.

You’ve worn it to pool parties with college friends, no big deal. But here? With the families? With Bucky? Your reflection in the foggy mirror stares back, cheeks already pink. You tug the strings tighter, adjust the fabric and throw on a loose cover-up before stepping out.

The porch creaks under your flip-flops as you head down to the water, towel slung over your shoulder. The lake sparkles under the high sun, a mirror of blue sky and surrounding pines.

Bucky’s already there, knee-deep in the shallows, fiddling with the dock ladder like it’s the most important task in the world. He’s in plain black trunks, fitted, riding low on his hips, the kind that show off the V of muscle from years of campus gym sessions. His back is to you at first, shoulders broad and tense, the faint scars from old accidents (or that one time he fell off the roof as a kid) catching the light.

He turns when he hears your footsteps on the gravel path. His gaze flicks over you, quick, almost dismissive then snaps away to the water. Then back. Slower this time, lingering on the hem of your cover-up where it brushes your thighs.

“Uh… looks good,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other still gripping the ladder like a lifeline. His voice is rougher than usual, like he swallowed wrong. “I mean- the suit. It’s… new?”

You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest, the way his eyes keep darting back. “Not new. Just haven’t worn it here before. You know, college pool parties and stuff.”

He nods, Adam’s apple bobbing. Doesn’t meet your eyes fully. “Right. Cool. Yeah, makes sense.”

The awkwardness hangs for a second, thick as the humid air, before Becca cannonballs off the dock with a whoop, splashing everyone and breaking the tension. “Last one in’s a rotten egg!”

The group piles in with shouts and splashes, your parents wading slowly, Bucky’s dad doing an exaggerated belly flop that sends waves rippling. You and Bucky hang back at first, old habits dying hard. You slip off the cover-up, folding it neatly on a rock and wade in together. The water is shockingly cool against your heated skin, goosebumps prickling up your arms as it laps at your calves, then thighs, then waist.

It starts innocent enough, like every summer before. Bucky splashes you first, a light spray across your face. You retaliate with a full palm-skim, drenching his hair. He laughs, real and bright, grabbing your wrists to stop you. “Oh, it’s on now!”

You twist free, diving under to escape, and the playfight escalates: him dunking you under when you least expect it, you jumping on his back to pull him down.

At one point, you climb onto his shoulders for an improvised chicken fight against Becca and her boyfriend, your thighs clamped around his neck, his hands steadying your calves. He stumbles on purpose, sending you both toppling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Underwater, bubbles swirl around you, his body brushing yours in the chaos, chest to your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you up.

You surface gasping, sides hurting from laughing. “Truce?” you wheeze, treading water close to him, faces inches apart.

“Never,” he says but he’s grinning, that real, boyish smile you haven’t seen since high school, water dripping from his lashes. For a moment, it’s just you two, like kids again, the world narrowed to the lake and the sun on your skin.

But then you swim to the dock to climb out, needing a breather. Water streams off you in rivulets, the suit clinging like a second skin, dark fabric plastered transparent in places, nipples pebbled hard from the cold, every curve outlined unmistakably. You haul yourself up onto the warm wood, dripping puddles, and turn to call him over. “Come on, slowpoke! Race you to the cabin?”

Bucky’s still in the water. Staring.

Not subtle at all. Not even pretending anymore. His eyes trace a slow path: the line of your throat where water beads, down to your chest heaving from the swim, over the dip of your stomach, the way the wet bottoms hug your hips and thighs. His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Color creeps up his neck and he dives under fast, disappearing beneath the murky surface as if trying to drown whatever thought just crossed his mind.

You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water, pretending you didn’t notice the heat in his gaze. But your skin prickles with awareness, a flush that’s not just from the sun blooming across your chest. What’s his deal? you think, kicking your feet lazily. It’s just a swimsuit. Just me.

He surfaces a minute later, hair slicked back dark and wet, breathing harder than the swim warrants. He shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets flying. “Sorry,” he calls over, voice strained. “Thought I saw a fish or something. Big one.”

You roll your eyes, smirking to hide the butterflies. “Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth.”

The group starts drifting toward lunch, parents complaining about hunger, Becca towing her boyfriend by the hand. “Come on, you two! Food’s ready!”

You climb up from the dock, grab your towel from the rock and head up the shaded path to dry off. Behind a cluster of trees for a bit of privacy, you peel off the wet top and bottoms, modest enough with everyone else distracted. The air feels good on your bare skin for a second, cooling the persistent warmth in your core. You wrap the towel around yourself snugly and drape the suit over a flat rock in the sun to dry, bottoms folded neatly on top.

Bucky stays in the water longer than anyone, even after the others have toweled off and headed inside. When he finally emerges, he’s shivering despite the heat, arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s holding himself together. Water washes down his torso, catching in the faint trail of hair below his navel. He walks past the rock where your suit dries without looking at it or at least, that’s what it seems. But you catch the twitch of his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating.

You don’t think much of it then. You head inside for lunch, sandwiches and cold lemonade around the big oak table, everyone talking over each other about plans for the afternoon hike or board games if it rains. Bucky joins late, hair still damp, in fresh shorts and a t-shirt that clings a little too much. He sits across from you, quiet, picking at his food. His knee bounces under the table. When your eyes meet, he looks away fast, muttering something about needing more mustard.

Later that afternoon, the cabin quiets down. Parents napping on the porch swing, gentle snores mingling with the hum of cicadas. Becca and her boyfriend head off for a hike, backpacks slung low. You’re on the hammock out back, book open on your lap but not really reading, your mind keeps replaying the lake, Bucky’s stare, the accidental brushes underwater. That warmth in your belly flares again, insistent now, making you shift uncomfortably.

That’s when you hear it: the soft click of the downstairs bathroom door locking.

Inside, Bucky leans back against the sink, the cool porcelain a shock against his overheated skin. His heart slams so hard it echoes in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of shame and want.

Your bikini bottoms are balled tight in his fist, he’d snatched them from the rock when no one was looking, during the chaos of unpacking the cooler for lunch. His palm had brushed the damp fabric, and it was like electricity, heart in his throat the whole time, convinced someone would turn and see.

He shouldn’t do this.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He’s done bad things before, stolen your hoodie from the laundry in college, buried his face in it that night until the scent faded. A hair tie from your backpack once, twisted around his wrist like a talisman. But this? This is new territory. Filthier. Wronger.

But the fabric is still damp from the lake, still warm somehow from your body and there’s that faint trace of something new weaving through it, sweet, slick, almost honeyed. Your scent. Not the full bloom of heat yet but the first tentative leak, the prelude that’s been teasing him since the truck ride, since last night in the attic when he lay awake listening to your soft breaths.

With shaking hands, he brings the bottoms to his face. Presses them to his nose. Inhales deep, slow, like he can pull you into his lungs.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word. “Fuck, I’m sorry. So goddamn sorry.”

The smell crashes over him like a wave, your skin, fresh lake water, sunscreen and that warm, needy undertone that twists something deep in his gut. His cock throbs instantly, straining painfully against his shorts. He shoves them down just enough with his free hand, wraps his fist around himself, already leaking, already desperate.

He strokes fast, too fast, jerky and guilty, the damp fabric still pressed to his mouth like a gag. “I’m so fucked up,” he breathes against the cloth, words muffled and wrecked. “You’re right there… my best friend… and I’m doing this… smelling you like some creep. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”

His hips jerk forward into his hand. He bites his lip hard to muffle the groan, tasting blood as he comes hard and sudden, spilling over his fist in hot, shameful pulses that leave him shaking. The bikini bottoms stay pressed to his face the whole time, soaking up the ragged sounds of his breathing, the quiet sob that slips out at the end.

When it’s over, he slumps against the wall, chest heaving, legs weak. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, blurring the tile floor. What the hell is wrong with me? he thinks, staring at the fabric in his hand like it’s evidence. She’s outside reading, trusting me, and I’m… this.

He cleans himself up with wads of toilet paper, hands still trembling. Wipes the bottoms as best he can with a damp cloth from the sink, careful, almost reverent, then unlocks the door and slips quietly back into the house.

The laundry pile is right there in the narrow hallway off the kitchen, a big overflowing basket of beach towels, damp swimsuits, and everyone’s clothes from the day. No one’s around; the house is still quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of crickets outside. He glances over his shoulder once, heart hammering then tucks your bikini bottoms underneath a folded beach towel near the bottom of the pile. Careful. Stealthy. Like nothing ever happened.

But as he walks back outside, the clawing shame doesn’t fade. He can still taste the faint salt of lake water on his tongue. Still feel the phantom weight of your body against his in the water. Still hear his own broken apologies echoing in his head, meaningless now.

And somewhere under his skin, buried deep but stirring stronger, something darker is waking up, something primal that doesn’t care about sorry, about best friends, about right and wrong.

Something that just wants more. And it’s only the first full day at the cabin.

The cabin quiets after dinner in stages, the familiar rhythms of family winding down like a clock ticking toward silence. First the clatter of dishes being stacked in the sink, silverware clinking against plates, the occasional laugh as someone recounts a story from the lake that day.

Then the low murmur of parents saying goodnight on the porch, chairs scraping as they stand, voices fading into the night like echoes. Finally, the creak of floorboards as everyone drifts to their rooms, doors clicking shut one by one, leaving only the hum of crickets and the distant lap of the lake against the shore.

The wind from earlier has died down completely, leaving the air thick and still, heavy with the scent of pine sap and cooling earth. You climb the narrow attic stairs alone, each step feeling heavier than it should, the wood groaning under your weight like it’s protesting the climb.

Your skin feels wrong, too tight, too hot, like someone turned the thermostat up inside your body and forgot to tell you. Sweat beads at the small of your back, even though the night has cooled outside. The low ache from earlier has spread, subtle and unrelenting, low in your belly, between your thighs, a persistent throb that makes every brush of fabric against your skin unbearable, electric.

You tell yourself it’s just the heat of the day lingering, just exhaustion from swimming and laughing and pretending everything is normal. You’ve had off days before, cramps, fevers, the kind that come and go without explanation. This is nothing new. Nothing to worry about.

You change into an old tank top and soft sleep shorts, loose, familiar, the same ones you’ve worn in this room every summer since you could remember, faded from too many washes, the hem frayed from years of use.

The pull-out couch is already made up, sheets cool against your fevered skin when you slide in, but the relief is fleeting. You leave the small triangular window cracked, hoping the night air will help, a faint breeze whispering through the screen carrying the scent of water and woods. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the ache sharper, like the coolness is mocking the fire building inside you.

You curl onto your side, knees drawn up, trying to breathe through it. Deep inhales, slow exhales. But each breath pulls in the faint trace of Bucky’s scent from the pillows, cedar and something metallic, lingering from last night. It makes your head swim, the throb between your legs pulse harder. You press your thighs together, bite your lip to stifle a whimper. Just sleep, you think. It’ll be gone in the morning.

Downstairs, Bucky lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary. He rinses the last coffee mug under the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Then he wipes the counter twice, once with a sponge, once with a dish towel, scrubbing at invisible spots until his arms ache. Anything to delay going up those stairs. Anything to avoid the attic, the shared bed, you.

He can smell it already, your scent drifting down the stairs like smoke signals, sweet and syrupy, blooming stronger with every passing minute.

It’s not the full force of heat yet, but it’s close. Close enough that his mouth waters involuntarily, his pulse hammers in his ears, his cock twitches traitorously in his sweatpants, half-hard just from the tease of it.

His own body betrays him too, the rut stirring low in his gut, a restless energy that makes his skin itch, his muscles tense like coiled springs. He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles ache, staring at his reflection in the dark window above it.

Stay down here, he tells himself, voice a harsh whisper in his mind. Sleep on the couch. Pretend you’re drunk. Pretend you ate something bad. Pretend anything. But his feet move anyway, slow, deliberate, like they’re not listening to him anymore. Up the stairs. Past the creaky third step he’s known since he was ten. To the attic door.

He pauses with his hand on the knob, ear pressed to the wood. Your breathing is uneven inside, shallow pants, soft whimpers you’re trying to muffle into the pillow. He can hear them. Smell them. Feel them in his bones, like a hook pulling him forward.

He opens the door.

The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight slicing through the triangular window, casting long shadows across the slanted ceiling. You’re curled on your side, knees drawn up tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold the heat in or keep it from escaping completely. Your hair sticks to your damp forehead in dark strands. Your scent hits him full force now, rich, needy, unmistakable, wrapping around him like a vise.

You don’t look up right away, eyes squeezed shut against another wave of discomfort. “Buck?” Your voice is small, cracked, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.” He closes the door behind him softly. Locks it without thinking, the click echoing too loud in the quiet. “Couldn’t sleep downstairs. Couch is lumpy.”

A weak laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. “Liar.”

He crosses the room in three steps, drops to sit on the edge of the mattress. The bed dips under his weight. You flinch at the sudden movement, then relax when you realize it’s him. Always him. His presence alone eases something in you, the ache dulls just a fraction, like his nearness is a balm.

“I can smell it,” he says quietly, no point in pretending anymore. “Your heat. It’s… starting.”

You swallow hard, finally opening your eyes to meet his. They’re dark in the low light, pupils blown wide. “I know. I thought- I thought maybe it was just a fever. But it’s not going away. It’s getting worse.”

He exhales through his nose, shaky and uneven. “Mine too.”

Your eyes snap wider, searching his face. “You’re-?”

“First rut.” He laughs once, bitter and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair. “Figures it would hit the same week. Same night. Same fucking attic. Like the universe has a sense of humor.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and electric, charged with everything unsaid over the years. The childhood friendship that never quite stayed innocent. The glances that lingered too long. The way you both always ended up here, in this room, pretending it was just tradition.

You shift slightly, wincing as the movement drags the sheet across your oversensitive skin, sending a fresh spark of need through you. “It hurts,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Not bad yet, just… constant. Like I’m burning from the inside out. Empty. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

He nods, throat working visibly. He knows exactly what you mean, his own body feels like a live wire, every nerve singing with want, every breath pulling more of your scent into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it, until his rut claws at him from the inside, demanding more.

“I… I can help,” he says, voice rough around the edges, like the words are being dragged out of him. “With the scent thing. If you want. It… calms it down. A little.”

You hesitate, brows furrowing. “Scent thing?”

He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing darker even in the dim light. Awkwardness rolls off him in waves, stammering, avoiding your eyes.

“Yeah, uh… like, close contact. Nuzzling, or… licking the gland. Releases pheromones or something. Makes the heat less… frantic.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I, um, overheard Mom talking to Becca last year. When her boyfriend was here during her heat. She said if things got too much, they could try scenting first. You know, to take the edge off without… without going all the way. Said it’s safer, especially for first times.”

The memory flashes through his mind unbidden: him paused outside Becca’s door last summer, frozen when he heard his mom’s voice inside, calm, matter-of-fact, explaining the basics like it was no big deal. “Just scenting, honey. It helps without complicating things.” Becca had groaned in embarrassment; her boyfriend had mumbled something awkward. Bucky had backed away fast, face burning but the idea stuck. Lingered. Especially when he thought about you.

You blink at him, processing. The suggestion hangs there, awkward and intimate, making the air feel even thicker. “Oh. I… didn’t know that was a thing.” Your voice is small, but curious. The ache pulses again, sharper, and you shift uncomfortably. “Does it really help?”

He nods, still not meeting your eyes fully. “From what I’ve heard. Yeah. But only if you’re comfortable. I can… I can go back downstairs if-”

“No.” The word slips out fast, desperate. “Stay. Please. I trust you.”

He exhales, relief and tension mixing in his expression. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He moves behind you slowly, careful not to startle, like you’re something fragile he might break. Slides under the sheet, spoons you from behind, chest pressing to your back, arm sliding around your waist, careful not to press too hard, not to let you feel how affected he already is. His nose finds the crook of your neck immediately, right over your scent gland. He inhales deep, greedy, a low rumble starting in his chest before he can stop it, instinctive, alpha-deep.

You sigh, body going liquid against him almost instantly. “That… that feels better already.”

He nuzzles closer, lips brushing skin tentatively. “Tell me if it’s too much. Or if I should stop.”

It isn’t too much. It’s exactly what you need.

He licks, slow, tentative at first, just the flat of his tongue over your gland, testing. You whimper, arching back into him without thinking, the sound pulling a groan from his throat.

He does it again, longer this time, wetter, tasting salt and sweetness and you. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush. His hips press forward instinctively, the hard line of his cock nestling against your ass through thin layers of fabric.

You don’t pull away. If anything, you press back, a soft moan escaping.

His scent floods the room in response, dark cedar, gunmetal, smoke, sharp and possessive, mingling with yours in a heady mix that makes the air feel drugged. It wraps around you like a blanket, heavy and warm, soothing the fire in your veins. Your eyelids grow heavy almost instantly, the frantic edge of your heat dulling under the weight of his presence. Safe. So safe. Protected.

But it’s not one-sided.

Even as your body melts, your own instincts stir, deep and shy, curious and innocent. You turn your head slowly, nose brushing the side of his jaw, then his neck.

His scent gland is right there, warm and pulsing. You nuzzle it tentatively, awkward and unsure, just mirroring what he’s doing. Your tongue darts out, small, hesitant licks against his skin, tasting cedar and metal and him. It’s clumsy, inexperienced, your cheeks burning with embarrassment even as you do it.

Bucky freezes. A choked sound escapes him, half groan, half whimper. “Oh- fuck- baby-”

You pull back a fraction, eyes wide and nervous. “Is… is that okay? I just- I thought… maybe it works both ways? Like… fairness?”

He nods frantically, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s- more than okay. God. Keep going. Please.”

You do, awkward, innocent little licks along his gland, mirroring his rhythm. Your tongue is shy, tentative but every pass makes him tremble harder, hips jerking against you in tiny, helpless rocks. His scent deepens in response, smokier, more desperate and yours answers, sweetening, blooming brighter.

“Feels… weird,” you mumble against his skin, voice small and embarrassed. “Good weird. But I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Me neither,” he admits, voice cracking. “Never done this. Never even- never even kissed anyone. Just you. Always you.”

You both blush harder at the confession, two virgins fumbling through instinct, through need, through trust.

He keeps licking your gland, slow and careful. You keep licking his, awkward, innocent, both of you trembling, both of you making soft, embarrassed noises every time your tongues brush skin.

Your eyelids grow heavier. The frantic edge of your heat dulls under the weight of his presence, his scent, his careful touches. Safe. So safe. Protected.

“Buck…” you mumble, already slurring, the world softening at the edges.

“Mmm?” He presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck now, teeth grazing but not biting, each one sending little sparks through you. “You okay? Still good?”

“Feels… so good…” Your words trail off into a sigh. Breathing slows. Deepens.

He keeps going, slow, reverent drags of his tongue, soft purrs vibrating through his chest into your back, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. His hand splays wide over your stomach, thumb brushing just under the hem of your tank in soothing circles. Not groping. Just holding. Claiming in the gentlest way he knows how.

You sigh once more, soft, content, almost a purr of your own and slip under completely. Deep, scent-drunk sleep. The kind only an alpha’s presence can pull an omega into during a first heat.

Bucky freezes mid-lick, tongue still pressed to your skin.

He listens: your breathing even now, slow and peaceful. Completely out. Trusting. Vulnerable.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes, the words barely audible. Horror and hunger twist together in his gut, sharp as knives.

He should stop. Pull away. Go sleep on the floor downstairs. Lock himself in the bathroom. Anything to put distance between you.

Instead, his hips rock forward, small, helpless, instinctive. The friction through his sweatpants is torture. Perfect torture. His cock throbs, already leaking, the rut demanding more now that he’s this close, this immersed in your scent.

“Baby…” he whispers against your hair, voice wrecked. “Need more. Just a little more. Please…”

No answer. Of course not.

He whimpers, high, broken, needy, the sound pathetic even to his own ears. Presses his face harder into your neck, mouthing at your gland like he can drink the calm straight from your skin, like he can absorb the trust you gave him and somehow make this okay.

His hand slides lower, trembling, slips under the waistband of your shorts. Finds you soaked, swollen, clit throbbing even in sleep under his fingertips. He bites his own lip until it bleeds, copper tang grounding him for a second.

“Just gonna touch,” he tells your sleeping form, voice shaking with guilt and want. “Won’t wake you. Promise. I’m sorry- I’m so sorry…”

Fingers circle slow. Slick and careful, petting gently. Your hips twitch once, unconscious little rock and he groans low, wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“So wet for me,” he mumbles, words slurred against your skin. “Even when you’re dreaming. Fuck- you want it too, don’t you? Say yes. Please just- say yes even if you’re asleep-”

He grinds against you harder now, shallow thrusts through fabric, cock leaking steadily, making a mess of his sweatpants. His fingers speed up, just a little, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he ruts like a desperate teenager, hips snapping with less control.

The guilt is screaming in his head, louder than before. She’s asleep. She trusts you. You’re disgusting. Stop. Stopstopstop- Flashbacks hit him, stealing your hoodie in college, jerking off with it pressed to his face that night; the swimsuit bottoms from today, still damp in his memory; the way he’s always been like this, wanting you in secret, hating himself for it. Best friend. She’s your best friend. What kind of monster are you?

But his body doesn’t listen. The rut doesn’t care about guilt or friendship or years of restraint.

He comes with a choked sob, muffled against your neck, hot pulses soaking the front of his sweatpants, hips jerking hard against you in frantic, uneven thrusts. He shakes through it, whole body trembling, fingers still moving on you until he feels the tiny flutter of your body coming too, soft, dreamy, barely-there orgasm that leaves you sighing and nestling closer even in sleep, like your subconscious knows it’s him and wants more.

He pants against your hair, hot tears stinging his eyes now. Heart hammering like it’s trying to escape his chest.

Slowly, carefully he withdraws his hand. Wipes it on his ruined pants with a grimace. Pulls the blanket higher over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like that can make up for what he’s done.

You don’t stir. Peaceful. Claimed.

He presses the softest kiss to the back of your neck, right over where he’s been licking for what feels like hours, the skin glistening faintly in the moonlight.

“Love you,” he whispers, voice cracked and raw. “So fucking much. I’m sorry. I’ll make it right. Somehow.”

He curls tighter around you. Still hard. Still aching, the rut not satisfied with just this. But calmer now, at least for the moment.

You sleep on, safe, claimed by scent, marked in the only way he’ll allow himself tonight.

Bucky’s chest heaves in the aftermath, each breath a ragged pull that does nothing to steady him, his heart slamming against his ribs like it's trying to escape the prison of his body. His sweatpants are ruined, sticky, cooling uncomfortably against his thighs but the rut doesn't care about discomfort.

It’s not done. Not even close. His cock twitches weakly, already stirring again, the alpha instinct roaring back to life with a vengeance that makes his hands shake. He can feel the knot forming at the base, swollen and insistent, even though he hasn’t pushed inside you yet. The thought alone sends a fresh wave of shame crashing over him, hot, choking, familiar.

He lies there for what feels like an eternity, arm still draped over your waist, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. The warmth of your skin seeps through the thin tank, grounding him and torturing him in equal measure.

Get up, he thinks desperately, go splash water on your face, sleep on the goddamn floor downstairs. Lock yourself in the bathroom until morning.

But your scent curls around him like smoke from a dying fire, sweet and cloying, seeping into his pores until his mouth waters again, until his vision blurs at the edges. The alpha in him stirs, primal and unyielding, whispering that this is right, that you’re his to claim, to take, to mark in every way possible. The man in him, the virgin who’s never even kissed anyone properly, the one who’s been your best friend since scraped knees and shared secrets, screams back: She's asleep. She's vulnerable. She's your best fucking friend. This isn't you.

Memories flood him unbidden, adding layers to the torment: the first time he realized his feelings weren't just friendly, that summer you turned eighteen and wore that sundress to the bonfire, the fabric fluttering in the breeze; the way he’d excused himself early, locked in the bathroom downstairs, hand around his cock imagining it was you.

Or college last year, when you sent a selfie in a new outfit and he’d saved it, stared at it in the dark until he came with guilt choking him. Small thefts building to this, hoodies, hair ties, now swimsuits. How did I get here? he wonders, tears already pricking at his eyes. When did I become this?

His hand, still trembling from the first release, slides back down, like his body is on autopilot. Between your thighs again, where you’re even wetter now, your body betraying you in sleep, slick pooling from the earlier touches, from his scent blanketing you like a possessive shroud.

The heat is building in you too, he can feel it, the way your inner walls flutter faintly at his proximity, instinct responding to alpha even in dreams. He scoops, fingers dipping shallow at first, collecting the warm, sticky essence that coats you. They come away glistening in the dim light, strands of your arousal stretching between them like liquid silk, sweet and golden like honey.

He stares at his own hand, breath hitching sharp in his throat. The sight is hypnotic, proof of your need, even unconscious, and it breaks something in him. This is real, he thinks. Not a fantasy. Not stolen fabric. You.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking on the words as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slow and clumsy, like he’s afraid to taste but can’t stop himself. The first taste is lightning, sweet, tangy, pure you, like warm honey on his tongue, exploding across his senses.

A broken whine rips from his throat, high and needy, echoing too loud in the quiet room, he clamps his free hand over his mouth to muffle it, eyes squeezing shut. But he doesn’t stop. He sucks them deeper, tongue swirling awkwardly, cheeks hollowing as he chases every trace, every drop. “F-Fuck- fuck, you taste like… like honey… so sweet… so good… how are you this perfect? Even asleep, you’re dripping for me… like… like you were made for this…”

His hips grind forward instinctively, clumsy and desperate, pressing the renewed hardness against your ass. The friction is messy, awkward, his sweatpants bunching, his movements jerky like he doesn’t know what he’s doing (because he doesn’t).

He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, stares at them again, clean now, but the flavor lingers on his tongue, addictive and haunting. “I’m a monster,” he mutters, tears pricking hot at his eyes, blurring his vision. “Tasting you like this. Stealing it while you sleep. You have no idea- god, if you woke up now… saw me like this… you’d hate me…”

He dips again, deeper this time, fingers curling just inside, scooping more slick with a clumsy, fumbling motion that makes his own breath hitch. Your body clenches faintly around him, unconscious and soft, a tiny ripple that pulls a guttural, embarrassed groan from deep in his chest.

“S-See that? Even dreaming, you’re gripping me… pulling me in… like you know it’s me… like your body wants me to… to…” He shoves the fingers back into his mouth, sucking harder, sloppier now, the wet sounds obscene in the silence, echoing off the slanted walls. His free hand fists the sheet beside you, knuckles straining white, nails digging into the fabric like it can anchor him.

“Been perving on you for years… that red swimsuit summer- f-fuck, it rode up every time you moved… showed everything… jerked off in the shower thinking about peeling it off you… tasting you then… stole your bottoms today, you know that? Locked myself in the bathroom, buried my face in them like a dog in heat… came so hard I saw stars, whispering your name… and now- now I’m here, licking your slick off my fingers, rutting against you like I can’t control myself… because I can’t… I’m disgusting, baby… so sorry- love you-hate myself- can’t stop- been holding back forever, but the rut… it’s breaking me…”

Memories surface, adding depth to the spiral: the time in high school when you cried on his shoulder after a bad date, and he’d held you too tight, inhaling your scent until he was dizzy; the college care package you sent with a note that smelled like your perfume, and he’d kept it under his pillow for weeks. Small sins building to this avalanche. “You think I’m the good guy,” he chokes out around his fingers. “The best friend who protects you. But I’m not. I’m this. Always have been.”

His hips rut faster, grinding in earnest now, the earlier mess making everything slick and hot, friction building to a fever pitch that makes his vision tunnel.

Tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks as he licks his fingers clean one last time, savoring the taste like it’s his last meal, like tomorrow everything ends. “You’d hate me. Wake up and see the creep I’ve always been, the way I’ve watched you, wanted you. But f-fuck- fuck, I need you. Love you so much it’s killing me. That’s why, that’s why I’m like this. Need to be closer. Need to taste- need to have every part of you before you find out and leave.”

He comes again, sudden and shattering, hips slamming forward with a strangled, sobbing cry muffled into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin but not biting.

Hot pulses flood his pants anew, body convulsing in waves, every muscle locking tight as the release rips through him like wildfire. He shakes like he’s breaking apart, sobs wracking his frame, tears soaking into your hair and the pillow beneath.

When the aftershocks finally go, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, he slumps heavy against you, panting harsh and broken. The guilt crashes in full force now, unfiltered by the rut’s haze, ugly, clawing, leaving him raw and exposed.

“Oh god,” he sobs quietly, face buried in your hair, inhaling the clean shampoo scent mixed with your heat like it’s a lifeline. “What did I do? What the fuck did I just do? I’m sorry- I’m so sorry- how do I fix this?”

Carefully, oh so carefully, like handling something sacred and fragile, he shifts just enough to reach for the corner of the blanket. Dips it between your thighs, wiping you clean with gentle, trembling strokes, his touch feather-light, reverent. He smooths your shorts back into place with utmost care, tucks the sheet around you snugly to keep you warm, brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead with feather-light touches, lingering on your cheek like he can wipe away his sins. His tears fall freely now, silent and hot, dripping onto your shoulder, soaking into the fabric of your tank.

“I’m gonna tell you,” he whispers into your hair, voice thick and wrecked, nose pressed to the spot he scented earlier, the skin still warm and marked by his earlier licks.

“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Confess everything- the hoodie from college that I never gave back, the swimsuit bottoms I stole today and ruined with my come, the way I’ve wanted you forever, watched you in secret, loved you in ways I shouldn’t. This night. All of it- the touching, the tasting, the grinding like a desperate animal. Beg you to forgive me. Or hate me. Kick me out of your life forever. Whatever you need, I’ll take it. I can’t keep this secret anymore. Can’t keep hurting you like this, pretending I’m just your friend when I’m… this. Love you too much- too much to lie. Please… please don’t hate me. But if you do, I deserve it.”

He holds you closer, body curled protectively around yours, as if he can shield you from himself, from the truth waiting in the dawn. The rut simmers low still, a distant hum waiting to reignite with the morning light, but for now, exhaustion pulls at him like an undertow. Sleep creeps in against his will, tears drying stiff on his cheeks, his promises echoing in his mind like fragile vows.

The attic is a furnace of heat and scent, the air so thick it feels like breathing through honey. Bucky had tried to sleep, really tried. He’d even drifted off for a little while, exhaustion finally pulling him under after the first round of guilt and need burned itself out. But now he’s awake again, jolted back by the insistent, aching throb between his legs, cock hard and heavy against your ass, leaking steadily through the ruined fabric of his sweatpants. His cock is pulsing with every heartbeat, refusing to let him rest.

His arm is still locked around your waist, fingers splayed across your stomach like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, even in sleep. Every shallow breath you take drags more of your blooming heat into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it all over again. He shifts just slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only makes him groan low in his throat, hips rocking forward on instinct, pressing himself tighter against you.

He still feels like a monster.

But the rut doesn’t care about guilt. It only cares about claim.

His hand trembles as it slides down again, hooking the waistband of your sleep shorts with reverent care. He tugs them aside slowly, agonizingly slow so the fabric drags over your hips, cool air kissing newly bared skin. You don’t stir. Just sigh, soft and trusting, shifting closer like your body knows exactly who’s touching you even in sleep. The shorts catch briefly on the curve of your ass; he freezes, heart slamming, fumbles them lower until they’re bunched at your thighs.

He stares for a long moment, breath hitching at the sight of you: soft, bare, glistening in the moonlight from earlier touches and the steady leak of your heat. His mouth waters. His cock jerks against his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking as he lines himself up. The tip nudges your entrance, slick, hot, ready. He’s shaking so badly the head slips once, twice, smearing wetness along your folds. A broken whine tears from his throat, high, helpless, muffled against your shoulder. “I’m so sorry… I can’t stop… can’t-”

He presses forward, inch by torturous inch, slow and clumsy, fumbling like he’s never done this before (because he hasn’t). Your virgin pussy resists, tight, so impossibly tight, clenching instinctively against the intrusion, pushing back like it doesn’t know whether to let him in or keep him out. He gasps, hips stuttering, tears already welling up again.

“F-Fuck- baby, you’re so… so tight…” he whimpers, voice small and shaking, almost baby-like in its desperation. “I’m sorry… I’m trying to be gentle… I don’t wanna hurt you… you’re so warm… so fucking warm… feels like coming home… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t be doing this… shouldn’t be taking you while you sleep…”

He pauses, breathing hard against your neck, tears dripping onto your shoulder. His tip is barely inside, your walls fluttering and squeezing, resisting every tiny push. He sniffles, voice cracking even more.

“C’mon, sweet girl… it’s just me… you know me, baby… it’s Bucky… just Bucky… open up for me, honey… please… let me in… I’ll be so gentle… promise… you’re so tight… so perfect… like you were waiting for me…”

He rocks forward again, tiny, careful little movements, coaxing, pleading with your body like it’s a shy thing he’s trying to befriend. Your walls flutter, then slowly, sweetly, start to soften, parting just enough, letting him sink another inch. He whimpers, high and relieved.

“There you go… good girl… that’s it… just like that… you know me… you trust me… let Bucky in, baby… please…”

Another slow push, your pussy yields a little more, gripping him so tight he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Tears stream down his face now, mixing guilt and awe and overwhelming love.

“So good… so sweet… like honey… fuck, you’re letting me in… you’re so tight… so warm… feels like home… I’m sorry… I love you… love you so much…”

He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, buried to the hilt and nearly blacks out from the sensation. You’re molten around him, slick dripping down his balls, every tiny shift of your body gripping him like velvet. He stays still for a long moment, panting against your neck, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the guilt clawing at his chest like talons.

Then he moves.

Slow. Clumsy. Deep, dragging strokes that pull whimpers from his own throat with every pass. He’s whining, high, pathetic little sounds he can’t swallow back as he fucks into you with careful, fumbling thrusts, like he’s worshiping something holy and terrified of breaking it.

“Can’t stop,” he whispers, voice wrecked and whiny. “Can’t- fuck- can’t stop. You feel too good. Too right. I’m sorry… I’m so fucking sorry… been wanting this for years… watching you, stealing pieces of you… hoodie, swimsuit, now this… I’m disgusting… pervy little creep… but you’re mine… feel like mine…”

He angles his hips, awkward at first, fumbling, grinding deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your body flutter even in sleep. A soft, unconscious moan slips from your lips. He freezes, terror and lust warring in his chest then groans when you clench around him again, instinctive and needy.

“See that?” he mumbles, voice cracking. “Even dreaming you’re pulling me in… like you want it… want me… fuck, I’m gonna knot you… gonna lock inside… fill you up… mark you as mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I need- need it so bad…”

The knot begins to swell at the base, thickening with every clumsy thrust, catching at your entrance on the out-stroke, stretching you wider. He’s whining louder now, high, desperate little sounds he can’t swallow back, hips stuttering as the pressure builds to something unbearable.

“Gonna knot you,” he gasps against your ear, tears falling faster, soaking your hair and shoulder. “Gonna lock inside… fill you up… make you mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I can’t stop… love you… love you so much it hurts… need you to be mine…”

One last deep, clumsy thrust.

The knot catches.

Swells.

Locks.

Hot, pulsing fullness stretching you open as it seals inside, tying you together. A broken sob rips from him, half relief, half shame as the first thick spurt of come floods you, wave after wave, so much it leaks out around where you’re stretched tight around him. His whole body convulses, hips jerking in tiny, helpless pulses as he empties inside you, tears streaming freely down his face.

And that’s when your eyes flutter open.

A soft, dazed sound slips from your lips, half moan, half sigh as awareness returns in hazy pieces: the overwhelming fullness deep inside, the heat of his body wrapped around yours, the rhythmic pulsing of his knot, the wet mess between your thighs, his tears on your skin, the broken way he’s clinging to you.

Your gaze finds his in the moonlight, wide, sleepy, pupils blown with lingering heat-drunk haze, no shock, just soft, instinct-led trust.

“Bucky…?”

He freezes, entire body locking up, knot throbbing helplessly inside you, tears still streaming down his face, voice shattered when he finally speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, barely audible, shaking so hard the knot tugs inside you. “I’m so fucking sorry- I couldn’t- I shouldn’t have- please don’t hate me- please- I’m disgusting- I know I’m disgusting-”

Your breath hitches, but it’s not fear, it’s need. The heat is still thinking for you, instincts purring in your veins, making everything feel right, warm, necessary.

You reach back slowly, fingers finding the nape of his neck, pulling him closer with sleepy, trusting gentleness.

“Shhh,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and honey-sweet heat. “It’s okay… feels so good… so full… Buck…”

He whimpers, fresh tears soaking your skin as he clings tighter.

You clench around the knot deliberately, slow and sweet, drawing a wrecked, whiny sound from deep in his chest.

“More…” you mumble sleepily, voice soft and slurred, pure instinct speaking. “Bucky… please… more… feels so warm… so right… don’t stop…”

He buries his face in your neck, shaking harder, sobbing quietly against your skin.

“Love you,” he whispers, over and over, voice raw and broken. “Love you… love you… thank you… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

You sigh and settle back against him, letting his knot hold you together, mumbling sleepily against his hair.

“More… Buck… please… feels so full… so good… keep going…”

He whimpers again, high, helpless, overwhelmed and rocks gently, tiny movements that make you both sigh in perfect harmony.

Finally crossing the line together, clumsy, guilty, innocent and so in love it hurts.

The knot keeps you locked together for what feels like an eternity, throbbing, pulsing, a steady heartbeat buried deep inside you that matches the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his against your back. The attic has grown still, the earlier frenzy burned down to embers. Outside, the lake laps softly at the shore, a distant, soothing metronome.

Inside, there’s only the quiet rasp of your breathing, the occasional creak of the old pull-out couch beneath your combined weight, and the faint rustle of sheets whenever one of you shifts. Moonlight has slid across the slanted ceiling, painting long silver stripes over the rumpled quilt and your tangled limbs, his arm banded low across your stomach, your legs entwined with his, bodies fitted together like pieces that have finally found their match.

Bucky’s face is still buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to the spot just over your scent gland, breathing you in like he’s afraid the scent will disappear if he stops. His tears dried long ago into faint salt tracks on your skin, but he hasn’t let go.

Not even an inch.

His breathing is ragged, uneven, aftershocks still rolling through him, guilt and awe warring in his chest like twin storms. He’s trembling harder now, not just from the bond or the knot, but from something deeper, something primal starting to uncoil inside him, raw and hungry, the alpha side he’s never let out before clawing its way up. It makes his fingers twitch against your skin, makes his hips give tiny, helpless rocks even though he’s trying so hard to stay still.

You’re both shaking a little: him from the raw vulnerability of what he’s done and the overwhelming relief that you haven’t pulled away; you from the lingering fullness, the slow, hazy return to reality after everything that just happened. You’re still so sweet, so pure, like warm honey in his arms, even after the mess, the tears, the guilt. Your scent is everywhere, soft, golden, comforting and it’s making that new, primal thing inside him growl quietly, wanting to claim, to keep, to never let go.

You clench around the knot once, instinctive, testing the connection and he whines, high and broken, hips jerking involuntarily, tugging the knot tighter inside you. His fingers dig into your hip, not hard, just desperate, like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.

“F-Fuck- baby, don’t-” His voice cracks, raw and wrecked, still so awkward. “Don’t do that unless you want me to… to lose it again… I’m already- god, I’m barely holding on… I’ve never… never felt anything like this…”

You smile into the dark, small and sleepy, voice still thick with the afterglow, sweet like you always are. “Maybe I do.”

He exhales a shaky laugh against your throat, the sound half sob, half wonder, still so boyish, so unsure. “You’re gonna kill me. Swear to god, you’re gonna kill me and I’ll die happy… I’ve never… never even kissed anyone properly before tonight… and now… now I’m inside you… knotted… bonded… I don’t even know what I’m doing…”

Silence settles again, comfortable now, softer than anything that came before. His hand slides up your side in slow, reverent strokes, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, like he’s mapping territory he’s only dreamed of touching. He’s clumsy about it, fingers trembling, hesitating every few inches like he’s scared he’ll do it wrong but so gentle, so careful.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant, the words dragged from somewhere deep and carefully guarded.

“Do you remember… the summer we were seventeen?” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck as he talks, voice cracking a little. “You had that stupid crush on Jake from the lake house next door. Came crying to me because he kissed some girl at the bonfire instead of you.”

You huff a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you where you’re joined. “I remember. I was so dramatic. Thought the world was ending. Sat on the dock sobbing into my hoodie sleeves like it was the apocalypse.”

“You were sitting there, knees up, tears everywhere. I sat next to you for hours. Didn’t say much. Just… let you lean on me.” His thumb brushes slow circles over your hip bone, grounding himself in the feel of you. “That was the first time I realized I wanted to be the one kissing you. Not Jake. Me. I hated myself for thinking it. You were crying over some idiot and I was imagining pulling you into my lap, wiping your tears, fixing everything with my mouth. Thought I was the worst friend alive for even picturing it.”

Your breath catches. “You never told me.”

“Couldn’t.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your shoulder. “Every summer after that… every time you fell asleep on my shoulder during movie nights in the living room, every time you hugged me goodbye before you left for college… I’d go home and jerk off thinking about you. Your laugh. The way your hair smelled after swimming, chlorine and sunscreen and something sweet underneath. That red swimsuit you wore, the way it rode up every time you dove in. The way you looked at me sometimes, like maybe you felt it too, like maybe I wasn’t crazy. I’d come so hard I’d see stars, whispering your name into my pillow like a prayer, then hate myself for days. Thought I was ruining everything. Thought if you ever found out how much I wanted you, you’d never look at me the same.”

Tears prick your eyes now, hot and sudden. “Buck…”

“I was terrified,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the last word. “Terrified of ruining the friendship. You were the only person who ever really saw me, scraped knees, bad moods, nightmares after my dad yelled too loud, all of it and I couldn’t lose that. You were safe. You were home. So I buried it. Deep. Stole pieces of you instead, hoodies left on my floor after movie nights, hair ties from your bag, that swimsuit today. Kept them like secrets. Like proof you were mine even if you didn’t know it. Like proof I could have you in some small, fucked-up way without breaking everything.”

He presses a trembling kiss to your scent gland, soft, reverent, like he’s apologizing to it too. “I’m still terrified. Even now. Even with my knot inside you… with your slick on my tongue… with the bond humming between us. Scared you’ll wake up fully tomorrow and realize what a creep I’ve been. That you’ll see all the times I watched you too long, all the nights I came thinking about you while you slept in the next room, all the ways I’ve taken pieces of you without asking. Scared you’ll leave. And I wouldn’t even blame you.”

You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his jaw, tasting salt from his dried tears. “I’m here,” you whisper, voice steady despite the emotion thickening your throat. “I’m not leaving. I’ve been scared too- scared of saying anything, scared of losing you if I did. But I’m here. I want this. I want you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, relief and longing mixing in his chest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth and tracing your lips like he’s trying to remember them. He’s clumsy and hesitant, as if he’s afraid he might ruin the moment.

“Can I…?” His voice cracks, barely audible. “Can I bite you? Make it real? Make you mine forever? I need to feel the bond snap. Need to know it’s forever. If you’ll let me.”

Your heart stutters. The question hangs between you, heavy, sacred, irreversible. You feel the knot pulse inside you, feel his heartbeat against your back, feel the raw hope and fear in his voice.

You nod slowly, eyes locked on his in the moonlight, tears shimmering in your own.

“Yes.”

He inhales sharply, like the word punched the air out of him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he tilts your head to the side, fingers shaking, like he’s terrified of hurting you. His lips brush your scent gland, soft, reverent kisses first, then slow drags of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your heat still clinging to you.

“I love you,” he whispers against the spot, voice trembling. “Always have. Always will. No matter what happens tomorrow. No matter what you decide. I love you.”

He hesitates, nose brushing your skin, breathing shaky. “Is… is it gonna hurt?” you ask softly, voice small and nervous, sweet like honey even in your uncertainty. “The bite…?”

He freezes, eyes wide, suddenly looking so young, so unsure. “I… I dunno, baby,” he admits, voice cracking. “I’ve never… never done this before. I don’t wanna hurt you. You’ll tell me if it does, okay? Promise you’ll tell me and I’ll stop. I swear.”

You nod, trusting, sweet. “Okay. I trust you.”

He exhales shakily, presses one more soft kiss to your gland, then bites.

Teeth sink in, sharp, claiming, but so careful it’s almost too light at first. He hesitates again, whimpering against your skin, then presses deeper, fumbling, a tiny sob escaping him as he finally sinks in properly. Pain flares bright and hot for a split second, then explodes into white-hot pleasure as the bond snaps fully into place, stronger this time, like a circuit completing, like a key turning all the way in a lock that’s always belonged to him. The world narrows to the point of contact, to the pulse of his knot inside you, to the way his come keeps filling you in slow, endless waves, to the electric hum of the bond blooming between you, threading through every nerve, every heartbeat.

You come again, soft, rolling, dreamy, clenching around his knot in fluttering pulses that milk him deeper, drawing another broken moan from his throat. Your vision whites out for a moment, pleasure crashing through you in gentle waves, every nerve singing with the new connection, the certainty of him. You feel him everywhere, his heartbeat, his fear, his love, his awe all of it pouring into you through the bond like warm sunlight.

He licks over the freshened mark, slow soothing laps, sealing it with his tongue, his scent, his everything. His hips rock in tiny, helpless movements, riding out the aftershocks with you, knot pulsing in time with your fluttering walls. He’s whimpering the whole time, soft, needy little sounds, still so cute, still so overwhelmed.

“Mine,” he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent, nose pressed to the bite, inhaling deeply like he can draw the bond itself into his lungs.

You reach back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours.

“Yours,” you breathe, voice soft and sure, sweet like honey even now.

He exhales and curls tighter around you, knot still locked, heart hammering against your back in perfect sync with yours.

The attic is quiet again.

But the silence feels different now.

It feels like home.

The knot finally begins to deflate as the first pale light of dawn creeps through the triangular attic window, turning the room soft gray and gold. It’s slow, agonizingly slow, each pulse weaker than the last until the thick swell eases enough for Bucky to shift without tugging painfully. You both feel it at the same moment: the sudden, slick release of pressure, the warm gush of his come and your slick leaking out around where he’s still half-buried inside you.

You make a soft, surprised sound, half gasp, half sleepy giggle as the fullness recedes. Bucky freezes, breath catching in his throat like he’s afraid to break the spell, but then his face cracks into a shy, lopsided grin.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough from hours of whispering confessions and love, but now there’s a goofy lightness in it. “I’ve got you. Just… breathe, okay?”

He pulls out carefully, wincing when the last of the knot slips free with a wet, obscene sound that makes both of you flush bright red and immediately dissolve into muffled laughter. More come spills out immediately, hot and messy, soaking your thighs, the sheets, the space between you. The scent hits harder now, thick, unmistakable, a cloud of sex and bonding that fills the tiny attic room like smoke.

You both stare at the mess for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, frozen, then at each other.

“Shit,” you whisper, cheeks burning so hot you’re sure they’re glowing.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice small and cracking with embarrassed giggles. “Shit. That’s… that’s a lot. Like… wow. Did we… did we do that?”

Bucky moves first, sitting up on his knees like he’s trying to look responsible, reaching for the edge of the quilt to wipe between your thighs with gentle, hesitant swipes. His hands shake a little, careful not to press too hard on tender skin, but he keeps missing spots because he’s laughing too hard under his breath.

“Sorry if it’s- uh- cold. Or sticky. Or… everything,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming, ears bright red. “I’m trying to be… gentlemanly? I think?”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing harder, the absurdity of it all bubbling up like champagne. “It’s fine. You’re being very… thorough. Like a little nurse.”

He glances up, caught, then ducks his head again, ears practically glowing. “Just- don’t want you uncomfortable. You’re probably sore. I was… enthusiastic. Oh god, I said that out loud.”

You snort softly, legs parting shyly, watching his face, focused, reverent, still streaked with dried tears from the night before, hair a total disaster from your fingers. “That’s one word for it. You were… very thorough there too.”

He finishes cleaning you as best he can, then wipes himself down, cock still half-hard and glistening, thighs sticky, before tossing the soiled corner of the blanket aside with a dramatic grimace that makes you both giggle again. The sheets are a wreck, stained, rumpled, reeking of you both but he pulls the top quilt over the worst of it, buys you both a few more minutes of denial.

You sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, the dull throb in your neck where the bite pulses like a second heartbeat. The fresh mark is raised, red, already scabbing at the edges, his claim, permanent now. Bucky’s eyes flick to it, then away, but this time there’s no guilt flash, just a soft dopey smile and a blush that spreads to his chest.

You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek. “Hey. Look at me.”

He leans into your touch like a man starved, eyes closing for a second, then opening again with that same silly, lovesick grin. “I did that,” he says, voice small and proud and a little awed. “I… I marked you. And you let me.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “And I wanted it.”

He giggles, high and nervous and so Bucky it makes your heart flip. “You did. You really did. I kept asking if you were sure and you just kept saying ‘yes, Bucky... please’ like… like I was gonna stop or something. I was so nervous I almost dropped you during it.”

You laugh, soft and happy, leaning forward to bump your forehead against his. “You didn’t drop me. You were perfect. Clumsy, but perfect.”

Downstairs, voices begin to drift up, parents stirring, coffee brewing, the clink of mugs, Becca’s laugh at something her boyfriend said. Normal morning sounds. Innocent sounds.

Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.

“They’re gonna smell it,” you whisper, but there’s no panic, just giddy excitement. “The whole house is gonna reek of- of us. Of sex. Of bonding. They’ll know. Oh god, they’ll know.”

Bucky’s grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. They will. And I’m weirdly okay with it? Like… I want them to know you’re mine now. Officially. No more hiding.”

He looks toward the stairs like they’re an adventure, then back at you, eyes dark, protective but so soft at the same time. “They don’t get to make this weird. Not today. Not when we’re this happy. You’re mine now. Officially. And I’m not letting anyone act like it’s something to tease about… unless it’s cute teasing. Then maybe.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving, scooping you up in one smooth (but slightly wobbly) motion, arms under your thighs and back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You yelp softly, then dissolve into giggles, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“Buck- what-”

“Shh.” He presses a quick, silly kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle harder. “I’m carrying you down. No arguments. You’re sore. And… I don’t want anyone getting too close to you right now. Not when you smell like me. Like us. Also I just… really like carrying you. It’s fun.”

The possessiveness in his voice is new, low but undercut with such goofy tenderness it makes your heart flip. You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face against his shoulder as he carries you to the stairs, both of you giggling like idiots every time he almost trips on a step.

He’s careful, slow steps, avoiding the creaky third one out of habit but every movement jostles you just enough to remind you of the ache between your legs, the way he’s still leaking out of you a little, slick trailing down your inner thigh. You bury your face deeper, laughing against his neck.

“This is so embarrassing,” you whisper, but you’re grinning so wide it hurts.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple, voice full of that same lovesick wonder. “And I’m allowed to be a little clingy now. Bonded privileges. Also I’ve wanted to do this forever and now I can and it’s awesome.”

You snort against his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says proudly. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

When you reach the bottom, the kitchen is already alive.

Your mom at the stove, flipping pancakes. Bucky’s dad pouring coffee. Becca and her boyfriend at the table, mid-conversation about some dumb TikTok. All of them freeze the second you appear in the doorway, Bucky carrying you bridal-style, both of you in rumpled sleep clothes, hair wrecked, skin flushed, the air around you heavy with sex and fresh bonding.

The room goes dead silent.

Becca’s mug stops halfway to her mouth. Your mom’s spatula hovers over the pan. Bucky’s dad’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline so high they nearly disappear into his hair.

No one says a word.

They don’t have to. The scent is unmistakable, heat, rut, come, bond, all tangled together in a cloud that fills the kitchen like smoke. Everyone knows exactly what happened upstairs. Everyone knows you’re mated now.

But no one speaks. No teasing. No “so… how was it?” No sly grins. No congratulations shouted across the room.

They just… look away. Polite. Quiet. Letting the moment belong to you two, not turning it into cabin gossip or family ribbing. Becca suddenly becomes very interested in her coffee. Your mom flips a pancake with exaggerated focus. Bucky’s dad clears his throat once, then busies himself with the sugar bowl.

It’s a kindness, unspoken but clear: we see it. We know. We’re not ruining this.

Bucky’s grip tightens on you, but he’s grinning like an idiot, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. He carries you past the table toward the back porch door, glaring over your shoulder at anyone whose gaze lingers even a second too long, but the glare is half-hearted because he’s too blissed-out and giggly to really mean it.

He shoulders the screen door open, steps out onto the porch with you still in his arms. The morning air is cool, lake mist curling over the water, birds calling softly from the pines. Sunlight glints off the ripples, turning everything golden and gentle.

He sets you down gently on the old wooden bench, kneeling in front of you immediately, hands on your knees, eyes level with yours.

The possessive fire dims. What’s left is raw, vulnerable Bucky, the boy who sat with you on the dock when you cried, the man who spent years terrified of this exact moment, the one who still can’t quite believe you’re letting him stay but now he’s glowing, eyes shining, smile so big it’s almost painful.

“I need to say it properly,” he starts, voice low and rough, but cracking with giggles every few words. “Not in whispers in the dark. Not while I’m inside you. Right here. Right now. In the daylight, where you can see my face and tell if I’m lying… or if I’m just a giant dork who can’t stop smiling.”

You reach for him, fingers brushing his cheek, thumb catching a lingering tear track but you’re smiling too, wide and silly and so happy it hurts.

“You already-”

“No.” He catches your hand, presses it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with exaggerated care, making you laugh. “I need you to hear it. I’m sorry. For everything. For stealing pieces of you for years, hoodies, hair ties, your swimsuit yesterday. For jerking off to the thought of you when I should’ve just told you how I felt. For crossing lines last night, even if you said it was okay. For being too scared to say I loved you sooner. For every time I watched you too long, wanted you too much, and hated myself for it. I was a coward. A creep. I don’t deserve this- don’t deserve you- but I’m begging anyway. Forgive me. Please. Or don’t. But know I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me. I’ll be better. I’ll be honest. I’ll be yours. Completely. No more hiding.”

Tears shimmer in his eyes again, but he’s still grinning, shaky, real, ridiculous. He’s shaking just a little like this is the scariest thing he’s ever done, even after last night, but he’s also so happy he can barely sit still.

You slide your hands into his hair, pull him forward until your foreheads touch, noses brushing in that silly, intimate way you used to do as kids when you were making up after a fight.

“I’ve wanted you too,” you whisper, voice thick with happy tears. “For years. Same summers, same movie nights, same goodbyes. I was scared too- scared of losing my best friend if I said anything. Scared you didn’t feel it back. Scared I’d ruin everything by admitting I thought about you when I was alone. That I’d touch myself thinking about your hands, your laugh, the way you always looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I wanted you too. Always.”

You kiss him pouring everything into it: forgiveness, love, certainty, a little silliness when your noses bump awkwardly and you both huff a laugh against each other’s mouths.

He melts against you, hands sliding to your waist, holding you like you might vanish. When you pull back, he’s smiling, small, shaky, real, eyes shining with pure, giddy joy.

“Mine?” he asks this time, voice soft and hopeful, like a kid asking for the last cookie.

“Yours,” you answer, tapping his nose with your finger. “Dork.”

He laughs, quiet, relieved, and so full of love it makes your chest ache and stands, pulling you up with him. Wraps an arm around your waist, tucks you against his side like you belong there (because you do).

Together, you step back inside, past the kitchen where everyone still pointedly doesn’t look, doesn’t speak, just lets you have this. Your mom suddenly remembers she needs more butter. Becca’s boyfriend becomes fascinated by his phone. Bucky’s dad clears his throat twice and busies himself with the sugar bowl again.

No one ruins the moment.

It’s yours.

And now everyone knows it, quietly, gently, without a word.

Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you pass the table, voice low enough for only you to hear.

“Think we can sneak back upstairs for round two after breakfast?”

You elbow him lightly, grinning. “Behave. Or I’ll make you do dishes.”

He groans dramatically. “Cruel. You’re cruel to your mate.”

You laugh and lean into him.

The morning continues.

Normal.

Except it’s not.

It’s better.

It’s yours.

And you’re both so blissed-out, so giggly, so stupidly in love that nothing else matters.

One year later, the cabin looks exactly the same, same weathered pine siding kissed by a decade of sun and rain, same creaky porch steps that groan under every footfall, same triangular attic window catching the late-afternoon sun like a golden wink.

But everything feels different. The air tastes sweeter, the lake glitters brighter, the summer heat wraps around you softer now that it no longer carries the sharp edge of unspoken want. The bond between you and Bucky hums quietly beneath your skin like a song you both know by heart, steady, warm, always there.

You’re officially mated. The silver scar of his bite on your neck has faded to a delicate crescent that he still kisses every morning like it’s brand new, like he’s reminding himself you chose this, chose him.

You wear his old hoodies more often than not, and he wears your hair tie on his wrist like a wedding band he never takes off, faded blue elastic stretched thin from constant wear, a tiny, silly token that makes your heart flip every time you see it.

He’s changed in the best ways. His hair is longer now, dark waves falling just to his chin, curling slightly at the ends when it dries after the lake, framing his face in that effortlessly sexy way that makes your fingers itch to run through it.

The stubble he started growing last winter has settled into a full, neat beard, thick, dark, and perfectly trimmed, rough against your skin in all the right ways. And his body… god. He’s beefier, broader, more solid, shoulders wider from consistent gym time, arms thicker, chest and back carved with muscle that presses against you like he was built to hold you forever. He’s not just your Bucky anymore. He’s a man. Your man. And you’re completely obsessed.

This year the families caravanned up together again, cars loaded with coolers, beach towels, and the usual chaos of overlapping voices.

No one bats an eye when you and Bucky disappear for long “walks” that last hours, or when he scoops you up piggyback across the yard just because he can, your laughter trailing behind you both like music.

They’ve had a full year to get used to it: your mom still gets misty-eyed every time she catches sight of the bite mark and murmurs something about “finally,” Becca teases you mercilessly about “locking him down before he could escape,” and Bucky’s dad just grunts approvingly, hands him another beer, and says “good man” like it’s the highest praise.

The first full day, everyone heads to the lake like always, same routine, same laughter, same sun-warmed dock. You’re in the same black two-piece from last year, high-waisted bottoms, simple triangle top, except this time Bucky’s eyes don’t dart away in guilt. They linger, dark and hungry and proud, tracing every curve like he’s allowed to look now. Allowed to touch. Allowed to claim.

You dive in first, cutting through the cool water like you own it, the shock of it making you laugh when you surface. Bucky follows, powerful strokes closing the distance fast, hair slicked back dark and dripping, beard glistening with lake water. When you reach the dock, he’s already there, waiting, grinning, water dripping from his lashes and the ends of his hair.

“Race you to the buoy?” you challenge, splashing him lightly, droplets catching the sun like diamonds.

He doesn’t answer with words. Just lunges.

You squeal as he catches you around the waist underwater, spinning you until your back presses against the dock pilings. The wood is rough against your spine, but his hands are gentle, sliding up your sides, pinning your wrists above your head with one palm while the other cups your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His beard scrapes lightly against your skin when he leans in close, rough, delicious friction that makes you shiver.

“Cheater,” you breathe, laughing against his mouth.

“Winner,” he corrects, voice low and rough, then kisses you, deep, slow, breathless. Water laps around you both, cool against heated skin, but the kiss is fire. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive in the way he’s perfected over the last year, like he’s reminding you that this is real now. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling him harden against you through his trunks, his body pressing you firmly to the wood.

He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice husky, “Missed this view last year. You in this suit. Me not allowed to touch. Had to dive under the water like an idiot to hide how hard I was.”

You nip his bottom lip, grinning. “You’re allowed now.”

His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “Good thing we’re underwater.”

He kisses you again, harder this time until you’re both gasping, clinging to the dock, the rest of the family too far away to notice (or pretending not to, because they’ve learned). When you finally surface for air, foreheads pressed together, he’s smiling, goofy, boyish, the same smile he gave you when you were kids racing to the buoy, but now it’s edged with something darker, hungrier.

You reach up, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging lightly. “This hair is getting ridiculous,” you tease, voice breathy. “You look like a sexy pirate. And this beard…” You drag your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough scrape, scratching lightly through the thick scruff. “God, I love it. It’s so scratchy. I’m gonna have beard burn everywhere and I’m not even mad.”

He groans low in his throat, hips rocking against you once, helpless, leaning into your touch like a puppy getting pets, eyes fluttering shut, beard pressing harder into your palm as you scratch. “Fuck- keep doing that,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You’re killing me, honey.”

“I am,” you admit, grinning, scratching your nails gently through his beard again, watching him melt. “Makes you look like a man now. All beefy and grown-up. I’m obsessed. You’re so hot it’s unfair.”

His eyes flash and he leans in, beard rasping deliciously against your throat as he nips lightly. “Careful what you wish for. Keep scratching like that and we’re not making it back to the cabin.”

That night, the attic room feels different too.

No more pretending. No more guilt. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the bond between you.

You’re already in bed when he climbs the stairs, same old pull-out couch, same faded quilt but this time you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt, legs bare, hair loose over your shoulders. He stops in the doorway, just looking, eyes soft and awed like he still can’t believe this is real after a whole year.

You crook a finger, smiling. “Come here, baby.”

He obeys instantly, kicking the door shut, locking it, crawling over you with that slow, predatory grace he’s learned you love, longer hair falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he leans down. The kiss starts soft, then deepens as he settles between your thighs, already hard and ready against you.

“Missed this room,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “Missed you in it. Without the guilt. Without the fear.”

You slide your hands under his shirt, tracing scars and muscle, feeling the bond flare bright at every touch. “No fear tonight. No guilt. Just us.”

He groans softly when you tug the shirt off him, then helps you out of his. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. The bond sings as he flips you onto your stomach, his body caging you from behind. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, beard scraping deliciously against your skin, making you arch and giggle.

“On your knees, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rougher now, that primal edge creeping in. “Wanna see you like this.”

You obey, heart racing, thighs trembling, pushing up onto your knees, ass in the air. He groans low, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Fuck… look at you. So pretty for me.”

He slides in from behind, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch, then deeper, harder, until he’s buried to the hilt. You moan into the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets. He starts thrusting, deep, steady, powerful, his bigger frame rocking you forward with each snap of his hips.

One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. The other comes down, sharp, playful smack against your ass. You yelp, surprised, then moan, pushing back against him.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” you breathe, voice shaky with pleasure.

He leans over you, beard scraping your shoulder, voice low and filthy in your ear. “Been holding back for years, baby. Now I don’t have to. You’re mine. Gonna fuck you like I’ve always wanted to.”

Another smack, lighter, teasing, then his hand soothes the sting, kneading the flesh. You’re dripping around him, clenching hard, and he growls, pace picking up, harder, deeper, hips snapping against your ass with filthy, wet sounds.

“God- yes- right there,” you whimper, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Harder, Bucky… please…”

He obeys, grunting, primal, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll have marks tomorrow. His beard scrapes your neck as he leans down, biting lightly at your shoulder, not claiming, just possessive.

“Fuck- you take me so good,” he rasps. “So tight… so wet… all mine.”

You come first, shattering around him, crying out into the pillow, walls fluttering and milking him. He follows seconds later, deep, guttural groan, hips slamming forward one last time as he fills you, knot swelling, locking you together.

He collapses over you, careful not to crush you, both of you panting, sweaty, laughing breathlessly into the sheets.

After the knot eases, he rolls you both to the side, still buried inside, arms wrapped tight around you, nose buried in your hair.

He presses a kiss to the bite mark, gentle, reverent, then nuzzles lower, nosing at your collarbone, your chest, until his lips brush the edge of your breast.

You laugh softly, sleepy. “What are you doing?”

“Reclaiming every inch,” he murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Gonna mark you everywhere eventually. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

You roll your eyes, fond, fingers carding through his hair, then scratching lightly through his beard. He leans into it like a puppy, eyes fluttering shut, low rumble in his chest, beard pressing harder into your palm.

“God, I really love this beard,” you whisper, scratching again, watching him melt.

He groans, hips rocking lazily against you once. “Keep scratching like that and we’re not sleeping tonight.”

You grin, wicked. “Good. Because I want you again. And again. And again.”

He kisses you, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes shining with that same lovesick wonder.

“I love you,” he says softly.

“I love you too Buck,” you answer, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

He laughs, quiet, relieved and so full of love it makes your chest ache and curls tighter around you.

The attic is quiet again.

But this time, it’s full of giggles, teasing, and the promise of forever.

The kitchen is its usual beautiful chaos the morning after, pancakes sizzling on the pan, butter melting into golden pools, coffee brewing with that rich, comforting smell that always means home.

Becca and her boyfriend are already in full debate mode over the last blueberry muffin, forks poised like swords, while sunlight pours through the big windows, turning everything warm and golden. The faint scent of lake water still clings to the air from yesterday, mixing with syrup and bacon in the best way.

You and Bucky wander in hand-in-hand, both freshly showered but still glowing like you’ve been dipped in honey and sunlight. His hair is still damp, pushed back messily from his face, a few soft waves curling against his neck. The beard is dark and scruffy, framing that strong jaw perfectly, and his shoulders look even broader in the soft morning light, the plain t-shirt clinging just enough to show how much beefier he’s gotten. He looks like a man who’s been well-loved and is very pleased about it. You’re in one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves flopped over your hands, legs bare under sleep shorts, hair still a little tangled from his fingers last night.

The second you step through the doorway, the room doesn’t exactly go silent, it just… pauses. Like everyone collectively holds their breath for half a second, then decides to be extra nice about it.

Your mom glances up from the stove first. Her eyes flick between you two, land on the fresh bite mark peeking above the hoodie collar, and her whole face melts into the softest, knowing smile. She doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the pancakes with a tiny, satisfied hum and starts humming an old tune under her breath.

Bucky’s dad lowers his newspaper slowly, takes one look at the pair of you, Bucky’s arm already around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder and grunts. “Took you long enough.”

Becca snorts so hard she nearly inhales her muffin. She coughs, eyes watering, then points her fork at you both with zero remorse. “Okay, first of all, loud. Like, loud loud. We all heard you last night. Thin attic floorboards, guys. Thin. Attic. Floorboards. I was trying to watch a movie and it sounded like someone was moving furniture up there. Repeatedly.”

Her boyfriend chokes on his coffee, trying (and failing) to hide a grin behind his mug. He coughs into his elbow, shoulders shaking.

Your face flames instantly. Bucky’s ears go bright red, but he doesn’t let go of your hand in fact, he squeezes it tighter, thumb rubbing soothing little circles over your knuckles like he’s trying to calm you both down at once.

Becca keeps going, merciless but playful. “I mean, we were all sitting there like ‘should we turn the volume up?’ and then it was just… ‘oh Bucky- yes Bucky- oh my god Bucky-’” She does an exaggerated, breathy impression that makes everyone groan in unison.

“Becca!” you squeak, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder, mortified but already starting to giggle.

He’s laughing now, quiet, embarrassed but so happy he can’t help it. His free arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his side like he’s shielding you (and maybe showing off a little). “We… uh… got carried away,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. His beard rasps against your temple when he leans down to whisper, “Sorry, honey. Guess we weren’t quiet. At all.”

You peek up at him, cheeks still burning, but you’re giggling too. “You were the loud one,” you whisper back, poking his chest. “All those growly noises. And the… the spanking. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

His eyes darken for half a second, before he catches himself and blushes harder. “You liked it,” he mutters, voice low enough that only you can hear. “Don’t lie.”

“I did,” you admit, scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like a big puppy, eyes fluttering shut for a second, a soft, happy rumble vibrating through his chest.

Becca makes a gagging noise. “Gross. You’re both gross. And loud. And gross. But also… kinda cute? In a disgusting way.”

Your mom finally turns fully, spatula in hand, eyes twinkling with pure mischief. “So… when can we expect grandpups? I’m not getting any younger, you know. And after last night’s… enthusiastic performance… I’m thinking it won’t be long.”

Bucky chokes on air. You squeak and hide your face deeper in his hoodie.

“Mom!”

Bucky’s dad just chuckles, low and rumbling. “She’s right. Cabin’s been too quiet. Needs little feet running around again. Maybe a couple of ‘em, judging by all that racket.”

Becca leans forward, grinning wickedly, but her eyes are soft. “Yeah, Buck. You gonna put a pup or three in her this summer? Look at you, long hair, full beard, all beefed up. You’re basically built for it now. Dad material.”

She pauses, then her voice goes all dreamy and sincere. “I just want a little niece so bad. I’d braid her hair every morning. Tiny little French braids with ribbons. Teach her how to cannonball off the dock. Dress her up in all my old sundresses. Spoil her rotten. Please? I’d be the best aunt.”

Bucky’s ears are practically glowing. He clears his throat, arm tightening around you possessively, but there’s a tiny, shy smile tugging at his lips. “We’re… uh… we’re working on it,” he mumbles, then glances at your mom and Becca with a sheepish look. “Eventually. When we’re ready.”

Your mom laughs and turns back to the stove. “Take your time. But not too much time. I want to be able to chase them around the yard before my knees give out. And Becca’s right- she’d be the most ridiculous aunt. Already planning outfits.”

You bury your face in Bucky’s shoulder again, mortified but laughing so hard your stomach hurts. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, lingering then whispers against your hair, voice full of that same goofy, lovesick wonder:

“We’ll get there, honey. When we’re ready.”

You nod against him, still giggling, fingers scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like always, eyes half-closing, a happy little rumble vibrating through his chest.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “When we’re ready.”

Becca fake-gags again. “You two are disgusting. And cute. Mostly disgusting. But also… hurry up with the baby. I need to practice my braiding skills.”

Bucky just grins, wide, shameless, proud and pulls you even closer, beard rasping softly against your cheek as he nuzzles in.

The kitchen fills with chatter again, normal, loud, loving, full of teasing and warmth and the promise of more family, more noise, more little feet someday.

The attic is quiet now, the kind of soft, golden hush that only comes after a long summer day. Moonlight slants through the triangular window, painting silver stripes across the rumpled quilt and your tangled legs.

You’re sprawled across Bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to warm skin, listening to the steady thump of his heart under your ear. His hair fans out across the pillow like dark silk, still a little damp from the shower and his beard rasps gently against your fingertips as you trace lazy patterns along his jaw.

He’s got one thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting possessively on your hip, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt you’re wearing.

You shift a little, propping your chin on his sternum so you can look up at him. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and half-lidded, that quiet, lovesick smile tugging at his mouth.

Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, suddenly shy.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “Um… what if… what if we started trying? Like… tonight?”

Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. His thumb freezes on your hip. His scent spikes, sharp, protective, hungry.

“Tonight?” he echoes, voice cracking just a little, low rumble vibrating through his chest. His eyes search yours, stunned. “You mean… pups? With me?”

You nod, cheeks burning hotter, but you don’t look away. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. About… us. A litter of little ones. Running around, maybe with your eyes…” You give a small, nervous laugh, fingers twisting in his hair. “I just… I want that with you. If you do.”

He stares at you for a long beat, something raw and stunned flickering across his face. Then his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so gently it makes your chest ache.

“Baby,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion. “You have no idea how much I want that. How long I’ve wanted it.”

You smile, shy but bright, and lean down to kiss him, soft at first, sweet. But when you pull back, something shifts. His pupils are blown, breathing uneven, and you can feel him starting to harden under you.

The shyness recedes, replaced by a slow, mischievous heat.

You trace a finger down his chest, over the ridges of his abs. “You know… if it happens, my body’s gonna change. A lot.” Your voice drops lower, teasing now. “These are gonna get so full. Heavy. And… leaky.”

Bucky’s breath hitches. His grip on your hip tightens.

“Jesus,” he mutters, flush creeping up his neck.

You press on, voice turning huskier. “Imagine it… me sitting in your lap, shirt off, letting you taste. Letting you wrap that beard around my nipple while I ride you slow. Milk dripping down while you’re still inside me, still trying to put a baby in me.”

His jaw drops. Eyes go wide, dark, stunned. “Fuck baby- you can’t just-” He swallows hard, voice cracking again. “You start all sweet and shy and then hit me with that?”

You giggle, the sound low and a little wicked now, and grind down once, feeling how hard he’s gotten. “Can’t help it. Thinking about you breeding me… getting me all swollen and full… it makes me so wet.”

He groans, deep and wrecked, hands flying to your hips to hold you still like he’s trying not to lose it. “You’re gonna kill me. Sweet one second, filthy the next. How am I supposed to survive you?”

You slide down his body slowly, dragging your tongue along the deep lines of his abs, tasting warm skin and faint salt, following the trail lower. When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you nuzzle the thick bulge there, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over the fabric. You feel him twitch, hear the sharp inhale above you.

“Baby-” His voice is hoarse, hips jerking up just a fraction.

You hum against him, hot breath soaking through, then pull away completely.

Without a word, you roll onto your side, back to him, curling up like you’re ready to sleep. The t-shirt rides up just enough to bare the curve of your hip and the tops of your thighs, quiet invitation, quiet torture.

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

You can practically feel his eyes burning into your back, hear the ragged edge to his breathing.

A beat. Then the mattress dips. His chest presses flush to your spine, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His cock, rock-hard, settles hot against your ass through the sweats.

“You think you can say all that,” he growls low against your ear, beard scraping your neck, “get me this desperate… then just roll over like you’re going to sleep?”

You bite your lip to hide the smile, staying still.

His palm spreads over your stomach, like he’s already picturing it round with his child. “Not happening, sweetheart. You started this fire.”

He rocks forward once, slow, letting you feel every inch. Then his hand slips lower, fingers dipping under the hem of the t-shirt, sliding between your thighs. You’re soaked, have been since the first shy words left your mouth and he groans when he finds you bare and slick.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, voice wrecked. Two thick fingers circle your clit once, twice, then sink inside you slow and deep. You arch back against him with a soft whimper.

“Bucky-”

He curls them just right, thumb pressing your clit in lazy circles while his other hand tugs your thigh up and back, opening you for him. “Gonna fill you up tonight,” he rasps against your ear. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep until it takes. Until you’re carrying my kid.”

The words hit like a spark. You clench around his fingers, moaning softly.

He pulls his hand free just long enough to shove his sweats down, freeing his cock, thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you.

“Tell me you want it,” he breathes, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me to breed you, baby.”

You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. “I want it,” you whisper, voice shaking with need. “Want you inside me. Want you to come deep and stay there until I’m full. Please, Bucky.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch until he’s seated to the hilt. You both groan at the stretch, the perfect fit. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His arm bands around your waist, holding you flush while his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit.

“Gonna keep you like this all night,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Gonna fuck you full. Gonna watch these get heavy for me. Gonna taste you when they start leaking.”

The filthy promise, combined with the deep grind of his hips, snaps something in you. You push back to meet every thrust, soft moans spilling out as the pleasure builds fast and bright.

He picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the quiet attic. His beard rasps against your neck as he mouths at your scent gland, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“Come for me,” he growls low. “Come on my cock while I fill you up. Gonna give it to you- gonna breed you right now.”

The words tip you over. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat, pulsing, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later with a broken groan, burying himself as far as he can and coming hard, hot pulses flooding you, hips stuttering like he can’t stop.

He stays buried deep, knot swelling inside you, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach. His lips brush your shoulder in lazy, sated kisses.

“Gonna stay like this a while,” he murmurs, voice soft now, wrecked and tender. “Gonna make sure it takes.”

You hum, content, threading your fingers with his over your belly. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

The attic is quiet again.

But now it’s full, full of ragged breaths slowing to calm, full of the warm, sticky promise between your thighs, full of maybe, someday little feet on the porch.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

taglist : @angel-bugz @sheriff-bodecker @arsenalofproblems @imanidiotsimpforhotmen @spdrveil @shackoflove @buckybunni @fancypeacepersona @noirecherie @xo4yu @vickynguyennn @avgdestitute @silveredpenumbrashark @latenightmatilda @thegirlfatherr @nonotwithoutu @sebastians-love @doelikedollz @wintersgirllost @ryswritingrecord @biggestfangirl @swansonnetts @herejustforbuckybarnes @avatarobsessedgirly @gilwm @bb-laufeyson @gibbsgirl7 @hnnhbananananana @metal-armed-muse @mollyherondale @sambuckystony @globetrotter28 @amidnightwish21 @mathcat345 @buckysdecaflove @dilfsbaby

[nikolais-baby-daddy]

Alpha!Nikolai, inviting alpha!John and pack to come to his cabin after a mission. John agreeing, gathering alpha!Simon, omega!Johnny, and beta!Kyle, up and heading out into the Russian countryside.

Who get inside and seated, only to see an omega!reader walk into the kitchen.

"You have an omega?" John asked, surprised the old bastard never mentioned.

Nikolai not looking away from the TV. "Da."

"And... how did you get an omega?" John asked slowly.

"Came home from deployment. They were curled in my bed." Nikolai shrugged.

"And you just... kept them?" Kyle pipped up.

"They're pretty, chose me, and well stabbed me when I tried to make them leave." Nikolai replied.

The room went silent, Simon’s brow lifting, Johnny choking on a laugh, Kyle mouthing stabbed? while John stared like Nikolai had completely lost his mind.

"Right," John muttered, rubbing his face. "And aren’t they a little young for you?"

"They're of age." Nikolai said, as if that was the least debatable thing in the world.

"That’s not..Nikolai, you can’t just keep an omega because they wandered into your house," John tried again, tone edging into command. "Come on, sweetheart, let’s get you home—"

The moment he stepped closer, you bared your teeth, lunged, and sank them right into John’s hand. He jerked back with a shout as you bolted across the room, scrambling into Nikolai’s lap like a territorial wildcat, growling low and mean.

"What the hell?!" John snapped as he looked at the bite mark. The omega having broken skin. "Is that thing even an omega?"

"More like feral animal. Which you may want to check that for rabies. I have gotten it tested yet." Nik said nonchalantly. Then he moved and wrapped an arm around you, his fingers runnung up and down your spine in a soothing motion. "Hush, milaya, you're no going anywhere."

"And i thought Johnny was feral." Simon muttered under his breath.

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2

[yanderenightmare]

♡ FMT: oneshot, 3k words

♡ TW: noncon, hybrid au, bunny ! reader x wolf hybrid, black market, sex worker ! reader, debt, mentions of bad parenting, threats, thoughts of death

♡ FEM reader

There’s no point sugarcoating it. You’ve always had it rough. 

As with all other rabbits living in the black market. Stuck at the very bottom of the food chain. Stripped for cash with death lurking behind every corner, trapped in the same club your mom used to work at before she ran away and left you to pay off her debts.

Despite all the valid reasons you could have, you don’t really blame her. You don’t see what good it would do. After all, she probably got herself killed in the process anyway. Mourning her instead of cursing her is better for your soul.

Or, at least that’s what you tell yourself. But deep down, you know the real truth. And that truth says that you don’t really think about her in any meaningful way at all. To you, she’s nothing more than a concept. A path you can decide to either follow or reject. 

Should you take your chances and run like she did, or do you decide on the almost equally risky choice of staying put...

Like that, you couldn't curse or mourn her any more than you could a choice between food and water. You can only battle the indecision she's left you with for what it’s worth. In the end, it's just a matter of what you decide for yourself. She's got nothing to do with it.

But you suppose indifference is just what your mother's betrayal taught you. And for that, you’re grateful. Others would sooner use it as a source of blame and frustration. Or, at least, that’s the common trend among your fellow workers.

Out of the many, you might call just one of them an actual friend. Just like you, her mother also left her here to repay her debts—and perhaps that’s the only reason for your friendship. Solidarity. 

She likes to regard herself as thick-skinned, but you’re not so convinced, cocking a brow at her as she acknowledges how any day might be her last and swears she’s not afraid of it—brave-faced, behaving like every little thing is worth the fight because there wouldn't be anything left otherwise. 

You, on the other hand, dream of running away every single passing second just like your mother.

Though, unlike her, you let the dreams suffice. You’re more practical in that regard. You can only ever chase such things, never catch them. And so, your thoughts of escape are nothing you’d ever dare actually do. They’re just tiny nothings to pass the time.

Some might call that cowardly, but you’ve always had mixed feelings about the concept of courage. Some part of you admires it and wishes to have some of the same strength your friend has, but at the same time, you can’t help but think it’s foolish. After all, if you say you can handle worse, you’re basically inviting it to come.

Of course, she argues the same, that acting cowardly like you also acts as an invitation. That, either way, whatever a rabbit does, it’ll always be prey—and so, having dignity in the face of death is better.

You see her point, and yet you still don’t think you can agree. Act like prey and you’re just waiting for trouble to find you. Act brave, however, and you’re out there looking for it. There’s a difference in that. And you think that difference is important. And every day is only a matter of waiting for that difference to show its face.

And it turns out, this might just be the day.

She’d been extra mouthy with some guests. You’d come to her aid, not to fight, but to apologize for her like always. Usually, it ends with a free lap dance, maybe something more—a few bite marks and an aching back and a really long shower.

Only this time, she’d done worse than just talk back—a drink was spilled, the glass was broken, and her dull claws had somehow managed to draw blood straight across a customer's face.

You know it then and there, that was it. This is the day you die. Predators will be buying your flesh in the market tomorrow—if they don’t feast on you today—bones and all.

You’re taken upstairs to that part of the building where people go and rarely return from. 

It’s dark in the many turning hallways. You walk straight, and as you walk, you think about your short life, and how it was all coming to an end tonight. Spending your last moments treating the route like a dumb metaphor. How, maybe if you’d taken a different turn down another hallway, you might still be walking by this time tomorrow.

But it’s a silly thought, you decide. All hallways wind up at the same place in the end. And with that, you don’t regret trying to help your friend, despite it having pulled you into her mess. In all matters of eventuality, you might have been the one to fuck up with a customer today, and she the one coming to your aid. And so, you suppose, none of it really matters. It’s not as if you’d be losing all that much.

The room you enter is a little more lit. Not by much, but enough for you to see the wolfish pack members lining the walls. Even without it, you smell them. The air reeks of cigars and musk and blood and meat and other scents you’re more than used to. And yet, for some reason, it’s nearly enough to make you faint as you follow closely behind your friend, to the far end of the room, where, behind a red oak desk, death is sitting waiting.

There had been rumors going around down at the club recently, saying that the old boss had been killed by his juniors. You were never one to partake in such gossip—it didn’t concern you. But you could put the rumors to rest now, feeling the glare of the new leadership linger on you. Not one, but two.

Young wolves, both of them—brothers, by the looks of it—they couldn’t be that far off from your age if you had to guess. Still, they were full-grown with a strength that could rip you apart faster than you could blink.

You keep your eyes fixed on the ground instead of eyeing them. But your friend, brazen even now, looks on ahead, meeting their red gaze. How she approaches such things as a challenge instead of torture is beyond you. It’s so alien, you almost doubt you’re even the same species. 

You probably don’t even look remotely akin in the way her ears stand at attention while yours droop down, trying to make yourself as small as possible.

The wolves start talking, your friend talks back, and you swallow thickly, not listening to a word being said—too much blood pounding in your head to focus. But you don’t think it matters much. After all, you’re going to die, and there isn’t much more to it than that, and so that’s the only thing you can think about. The small talk is only a game, anyway, and your friend doesn’t seem to understand she isn’t a player, but a pawn. You know well how predators like playing with their food. And the more fun the food is, the longer they spend eating it. And while your friend insists on making herself interesting, you plan on being boring. Boring and quick.

You hadn’t noticed his approach, but suddenly a clawed finger curls under your chin, lifting your round gaze from your feet, up to look into a pair of crimson eyes. Stock-still, you don’t move a muscle—you don’t even blink. In fact, you don’t even dare draw breath while waiting to have your throat ripped out.

Though, unfortunately for you, and with no regard to your efforts of being boring, it seems he plans on enjoying himself after all. Granting you time in which, despite not feeling inclined to, your eyes skitter nonetheless, taking him in. 

His fur isn’t bristly like those other wolves you’d catered to down in the club, but fine-cut and kempt, and clean. The way he looks at you, you can’t see his fangs yet. It’s almost as if—well, you don’t know exactly, it wouldn’t be right to make assumptions—but it’s almost as if he doesn’t want to spook you just yet. Though you’re certain that’s only a fleeting objective. One soon to alter against your favor.

And still, his teeth remain hidden, even as he speaks. “This one is mine.” 

His voice is deep like a rumbling, and yet, soft—or as soft as he can make it. So are his eyes, though red and glaring, not hungry—not like those you see look at you through the cage while you dance. These eyes are refined and controlled—tame, if a wolf could be such a thing.

You don’t know why, but somehow, it’s more unsettling than anything you’ve ever seen before…

“Fine by me,” the other one answers in a rasp. Only then does your vision snap to see your friend bent over the red oak desk, struggling against the wolf at her back. He, contrary to the other, licks his canines with a grating laugh, full of growl and bark, “The feisty one’s more my type anyway.”

Funny enough, when all’s said and done, your friend is the one who screams. And for odder reasons still, you don’t voice a single sound. It’s as if the roles reverse for a moment. She, terrified and swivel-eyed, begging and pleading and apologizing. And you, taking a deep breath, calm, peaceful, smiling, saying, soft-toned, one last time, “See you soon,” before you’re both taken opposite ways.

You can still hear her screaming even as she disappears from view and you’re led somewhere even darker, a big paw placed on the small of your back, guiding you forward with a steady push you don’t even think to fight against.

The room you arrive at has a bed—but that was to be expected. You refrain from conjuring any images of your impending last night, insisting on holding onto this feeling of strange peace in knowing the very simple truth of your death.

“Are you listening?” the wolf says, possibly for a numbered time as he snaps his fingers before your eyes, holding your cheeks with black claws dipping into the fat.

You blink, and for the first time feel some of that never-had bravery appear within. It’s a pity this is where and how you use it, but better in your last moments than never at all, you think.

“I won’t struggle,” you announce. “So, you can just get it over with.”

You don’t look for his reaction. You don’t look for anything. You just wait for him to heed your offer and do just that—get it over with.

But he doesn’t seem inclined to. Rather, his tail piques behind him and starts ever-so-softly wafting from side to side—unfortunately still intrigued by your effort of being unintriguing. Smiling at you, when asking, “Get what over with exactly?” 

He then topples down in the plume of the bed, sitting there, widespread, inspecting you where you stand as if you’re some odd creature he’s never seen before. And you suppose you can’t blame him. You feel just as odd as you most likely seem, but right now, though you know you’re supposed to act like prey, you just can’t help but want to drop the theatrics and skip to the end.

You sigh, deeply, with a type of exhaustion like you haven’t ever had a proper rest. “Eating me, fucking me, whatever it is…”

He scoffs at that, offering a small laugh and a real smile where he finally flashes those great big teeth you’re sure are going to plant themselves in your neck some time tonight. 

“You’re funny, you know that?” You’re not sure if it’s meant as praise, but you also don’t care to think about it enough to find out before he keeps going, “I can tell you actually mean it. Your heart’s beating out of your chest, but it’s strangely calm.”

You don’t indulge him with an answer. You just continue waiting for it, knowing it could come at any moment. Even though you know it’s best to be oblivious when it finally happens, for some reason, you really don’t want to practice ignorance is bliss in your final moment. No, for your final moment, you want to be able to say that you faced it head on.

“Come, sit. Why don’t we talk a little first? It might help you feel a little more comfortable.”

If you were on the clock, you would thank him for the offer. And he’d get a good little rush thinking about what a hero he is, unknowing of how you really feel. But the truth is, out of all the guests you get in the club, his type is truly the worst. The nice ones. Gentle predators who dare talk to you as if you’re the same, who praise your intellect and charm, as if you’re anything but a toy to them.

But you’re not on the clock. So this time, you won’t be doing anyone any such favors, replying to him with a short and bitter, “No thanks.”

You expect him to try it again, coo at you for a little bit longer, see if he can’t persuade you into coming willingly into his clutches. But no. As if he can see his act isn’t fooling you, he decides to drop it just like that.

“Alright then. As you wish.” He removes his suit jacket, tossing it aside along with his tie shortly after as he cuts right to the chase, “Take off your clothes.” 

You do as prompted. Glad to finally be getting somewhere. You unclothe as unceremoniously as you would as if you were alone.

“Thought you were a stripper.” He complains at your lack of tact, a brow raised at your now naked body and the little heap of clothing at your feet.

But, as you thought you’d already made clear, you haven’t any desire to cater to the man. And so, withholding your apologies for once, all you say is, “You didn’t tell me to put on a show.” Hoping you’re making yourself better understood this time, wanting him to know that his disapproval means nothing to you, and hoping it incites a little more rage out of him.

However, instead of rage, this time he starts laughing. “Guess so.” 

He signals for you to come closer while the chuckles die down, and you obey, stepping up before him. 

“No matter…” His rough paws dwarf your hips when you get close enough, pulling you onto his lap. “I think I actually prefer you this way.” 

Regardless of how many times you’ve been in the exact position, instinctively, your fur poofs up under his claws anyway.

“Honest and raw,” he drawls. “I’ve never seen you quite like this before…”

Your brows curl at that. You didn't realize he was familiar with you.

“When you’re working the floor, you’re always so…” Smiling lazily, he looks you over with halfmast eyes of fondness. “Filtered, masked, polite to a fault. Like, you're somewhere else pulling your own strings.” 

He chuckles again, finding fun in his own impressions—like the very idea of you is a wonderful joke. 

“I already thought you were interesting then, but look at you know…” He licks his teeth and traces the outline of your body—a low growl in his chest, not threatening, but enjoying, like a purr. “For such a small thing, you’re full of surprises.”

You swallow thickly, even more disturbed now by his confessions. How long has he been watching you? 

Again, you have to remind yourself of how it doesn’t matter. This is what they do. They play games. Make you run in circles all for their amusement so that it feels extra good when they finally sink their teeth in.

“You’re not one for small talk, are you?” he says then following your silence.

And again, you just give him that unapologetic look of fuck you, saying, “You didn’t tell me to talk.”

He doesn't laugh this time, but grins. Scoffing “Tch–” as he takes your insolence like a challenge. “Let’s get right down to business then.”

His claws dig deeper in an instant, making you gasp as he lifts and tosses you down beneath him. And then his hand’s around your throat—not squeezing, not hard at least, but enough to keep you pinned as he bears on top, full face of fangs and all, now with that playful spark in his eyes that all nice guys get when riled up.

“Care for a little wager?” he rasps, knee between your thighs, hiking your leg over his hip while his paw presses down flat on your lower stomach. 

“All these years working here… and I’m willing to bet not a single guest has ever made you cum.”

You flinch once you realize what he’s up to, feeling his hand draw downward, cupping your cunt in a heated hold.

“I’m right aren’t I?” he raves on with another low snicker. “Some have tried, but you won’t give in to them. It’s your silent little rebellion.” 

His fingers part, leaving just the middle to curl up, nuzzling your entrance with the tip, dipping against it until forcing its way in, making you keen with a whine.

“Yeah–it’s defiance like that that I love. We don’t fuck you, you fuck us. Is that right?” 

Your hands circle around the one on your throat, and he watches on in delighted shudders while you struggle under his will.

Voice heated and raspy as he continues, “It’s so cute it makes my mouth water. Like you’re trying your best to be a carnivore. Hunting, chewing, and spitting us back out, and never letting anyone get a true taste of you in return.”

He pulls his digit back, maneuvering quicker than you can counter as he seizes both of your legs beneath the knees and folds you over—his clothed, fatted crotch rubbing against yours, as he hovers over you, wild haired and wild eyed.

“See, here’s what I’m thinking.” Bowing, he gets in close to your face—both of your breath’s heavy, caught in each other’s air as he lays forth the stakes, “If I get you to sing for me, you stay right here and be my cute little pet indefinitely.” 

His tail, now wagging relentlessly behind him, is already a tell-tale sign that this is going to be far from fair. 

“But…” he croons, continuing, “If you manage to hold out, I’m gonna let you leave the market with enough funds to set you up for life. Now, how’s that sound?”

Again, you swallow thick, getting caught up in the fantasy of it with eyes wide, before you’re reminded of what you know. Just another game… You wonder if this was the type your mother once played. Another awful game where they dangle hope in front of your eyes only to squeeze it free of life. Their idea of a fun time.

“Come on, what do you say?” he taunts—fangs practically dripping.

Still, you furl your brows and bite back with a, “Fuck you.”

And again, it only makes his grin broader. Simpering at you, “That’s what I like to hear.”

He’s on his knees in the next moment, before the bed, claws digging into the cake of your thighs, keeping them where he wants them as he lowers his mouth between them.

“Mmh, it's gonna feel so good to be the first one to ever make you truly yield.” 

You squirm under the warmth of his words.

He only coos, “Don’t worry,” tongue not even a whisker away as he speaks, “If I win, which I will, I’ll let you challenge me with the same odds anytime you want.”

♡ BNHA – Dabi ♡ JJK – Geto ♡ HQ – Kuro, Atsumu ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ DS – Doma ♡ WB – Suo, Togame ♡ GA – Tamsy, Enjin

♡ Omegaverse & other Hybrid Tales ♡ FEM/GN X M INSERT masterlist

[thukunna]

cw yandere!satosugu with alpha!suguru and omega!satoru, beta!reader, abo dynamics, omegaverse lul, mentions of blood, violence, mating bites, heat cycle, scenting, mentions of non/dub-con touching

usually i’m not a huge fan of omegaverse aus but imagine beta!reader meeting paired mates!satosugu through mutual friends, and immediately becoming close friends with them just because they were so sweet and caring towards you.

sure, they were a little touchy here and there; suguru had a habit of holding your waist, holding your hands, or pushing his body weight into you at any given moment. while satoru did basically the same things, he was a little too much, and you'd had to (gently) tell him off a few times. you were sure that having him nose the nape of your neck wasn't a good look in front of others.

he never really listened even when you scolded him, you were just surprised suguru never said anything when he did it. so you boiled it down to him being that physically affectionate in general.

you really didn't think anything of it. even when people told you that you reeked of both of their scents, you couldn't smell anything other than your perfume due to being a beta, but you could only assume that it was because you were always around them.

so naturally you were confused when satoru started doubling over on the couch when you were both watching a movie. you only realized what was happening when you saw how flushed his skin looked, clutching his lower abdomen with heavy and uneven breaths leaving him. you'd seen omegas go into heat a few times prior, all on accident and from afar, never this up close.

you were just a little slow and panicked when you reached for the phone, unsure who to call, even wanting to call the police at one point. and then you remembered, suguru, of course.

you told satoru that everything was going to be okay, albeit in a shaky voice, as you turned to call suguru. the only thing was that you weren't expecting satoru to lunge at you so violently that it made you fall to the floor, the air punching out of your lungs on impact.

you could feel how much he was burning up through your own clothes, his skin scalding where it pressed against yours, the frantic hammering of his heartbeat against your spine, and the obvious wet drag of his tongue licking against the nape of your neck in sloppy yet deliberate strokes.

you thought suguru picked up, you could faintly hear his voice through the phone's speaker somewhere near your head, but you were given no time to make use of it. you were given a second to register something solid and sharp scraping against your neck - teeth, you realized with dawning horror - before something heavy pressed insistently into your nape, almost dull at first before the pressure sharpened, became needle-like, pushing through the barrier of skin with a wet tearing sensation that made your stomach lurch.

you could feel something hot and sticky pool at the sides of your neck, trickling down to soak into your collar, and you couldn't help but start screaming at the unbearable pain that radiated through your entire body.

you pushed off satoru with newfound adrenaline coursing through your veins, but it did nothing to stop him - he only dragged you back under him with ease, all with a smile on his flushed face that looked all too wrong - too pleased with a pointed focus through the haze in his eyes.

when he flipped you over to get you back on your stomach despite your attempts to stay facing up, you could tell he was already going back for your neck.

you weren't sure why he was; maybe it was one of the unfortunate behaviors of heat, but even then, you'd never heard of omegas initiating mating bites.

one thing was for sure, it was fucking painful, so you tried your hardest to keep your hands permanently stuck to the nape of your neck to avoid him biting it more. the wound throbbed with each pulse of your heartbeat, hot and wet.

you didn't like the sound he made when you did so - a low, frustrated whine that vibrated against your back - his hands already going to pry yours off with a strength you could barely rival.

you were terrified. you yelled and screamed, kicked and thrashed, you told him to stop.

you could feel the palms of your hands slick with something wet and sticky as you continued to hold them there, your own blood making your grip slip against your skin.

when the door flew open, revealing a very disheveled and panting suguru, you were only thinking of how thankful you were that he was finally here. that he could grab satoru and deal with him while you made your escape.

you briefly imagined how you were going to bring it up when you saw satoru after his heat cycle, you weren't sure if you'd laugh about how terrifying the situation was, but you'd forgive him nonetheless.

except, you didn't see suguru reaching for satoru. you didn't see him move with any real urgency at all. all he did was close the door and lock it, watching your panicked face become confused.

satoru stopped trying to pry your hands away at that point, but you could tell he was still breathing hard with his body looming over you, his weight pinning you down.

you were about to ask for help, because maybe suguru thought you were trying to take advantage of the situation, but nothing left your mouth. suguru spoke before you could.

"satoru - fuck," he huffed out, almost frustrated. "we made a deal. i'd be marking her first."

[earth-kingdom-strap]

i was thinking about alpha!toph....👀

On the line

Alpha Toph Beifong × Omega Wife Reader

WC:6.9k

Synopsis: After missing your suppressants for a couple days you go into heat in your shop during rush hour.

Warnings/Content: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, heavy breeding kink, knotting, mating marks, unprotected sex, p in v sex, bondage, kissing, pussy slaps, g!p Toph, Omega wife, reader is a baker, dirty talk, biting, scenting, posessive alpha toph, semi public sex (?), office sex, idk chat they just fuck nasty.

Owning the most renowned bakery in Republic City was a dream, to this day you still had to pinch yourself from time to time to make sure this was actually your life. But during the peak of the holiday rush, it felt more like a beautiful, flour-coated nightmare. Your life was no longer your own. It was measured in precise flour weights, frantic shipping manifests, and the constant chime of the front door.

Between the mountain of inventory audits piling up on your desk and your insistence on covering the grueling late night shifts so your staff could spend the holidays with their families, you had pushed yourself past the point of exhaustion.

In the haze of double shifts and stress over a missing butter shipment, the small, pink suppressants sitting on your nightstand had been completely forgotten. For the first time in years, your heat cycle that you’ve so carefully managed was now no longer under your control.

The first sign of the impending disaster wasn’t the fever, but the betrayal of your own senses. Usually, the heady aroma of warm cinnamon and rising yeast was your favorite part of the job, but today it felt nauseating. It mingled with a sudden, honey-thick sweetness radiating from your own skin, a scent so potent it cut through the smell of the ovens like a knife.

Your vision began to swim in a dizzying haze, and the sacks of flour you’d been counting moments ago suddenly felt like leaden weights, slipping from your grip as the world tilted beneath your feet.

Within minutes, your apron was a damp, clinging mess, soaked through with a feverish sweat that made your skin slick and sent violent shivers through your frame. The air in the front of the shop that was once filled with the innocent scent of sugar and yeast, was now replaced by the primal musk of an omega in heat.

Your pheromones hit the front of the shop like a physical shockwave. You watched, paralyzed, as a few Alphas near the display cases stiffened, their conversations cutting off mid-sentence as their heads snapped toward the back of the shop with predatory synchronization. The atmosphere was no longer about holiday treats, or fresh brewed coffee. It was now thick with the dangerous tension of a hunt.

The world tilted sideways as the floor seemed to liquefy beneath you. Black spots swarmed your vision, eating away at the edges of the room until all you could hear was the uneven thrum of your own heart.

Your knees finally gave out, buckling under the weight of the fever, but the impact never came. A pair of strong, steady hands clamped underneath your shoulders, hauling you upright just as you were about to hit the tile.

“Whoa, Boss! I've got you,” Your head baker muttered, his voice tight with a mixture of alarm and the physical effort of keeping you upright.

He was a Beta, mostly immune to the biological siren call you were radiating, but even he looked rattled by the potency of the air around you.

He didn't wait for you to find your footing. Sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere and the predatory stares of the Alphas in the cafe, he practically carried you toward the back. Your toes dragged against the floor as he navigated the narrow hallway, shoving open the door to your private office with his shoulder.

“In here, sit,” He urged, easing you onto the leather couch. “I'll work on filling the rest of the orders and getting everyone out. It might take some time but I'll make sure no one bothers you.”

You couldn't muster a response in your current state and he seemed to understand. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling the chaos of the shop. You slumped against the armrest, gasping for air that felt far too thin. The feel of the leather under your palms was cool, a fleeting mercy against your burning skin, but as the first cry of heat induced desperation tore from your throat, you knew the office was only a temporary fortress.

Your eyes slammed shut as another wave of your arousal hit you like a physical blow, forcing your body to buckle under the raw intensity of it. It wasn't just a sensation, it was a deep, pulsing ache radiating from your very core, making every nerve ending scream.

Just as you thought things couldn't get any worse, a fresh rush of slick gathered between your thighs, soaking through your panties and leaving you feeling dangerously exposed in the middle of your workplace.

The pressure building in your lower belly was so sharp it moved past pleasure and into the territory of pure, localized pain. You bit your lip to stifle a sob, your hands were clenched as you clawed at the leather of the couch. You were shaking, the tights that you were wearing completely soaked through as every fiber of your being was currently crying out for your wife’s touch, her knot, to ease the ache.

It has been years since you’ve felt a heat this strong. The suppressants had done their job a little too well, acting as a chemical dam that had finally burst, leaving you utterly unprepared for this level of destabilization.

For years, you had carefully sheltered Toph’s heart, respecting her deep seated fear that she was too abrasive to ever be a good parent. You had buried your own desires to protect her from the weight of that responsibility. But as your heat stripped away your filters, the polite veneer of your marriage shattered along with it.

You tried your best to calm your breathing, but your entire body was pulsing and it made every breath feel like a chore. You knew that even if you tried to find relief yourself, it would be a drop of water in a desert. Your body wasn’t just asking for your Alpha’s touch, it was demanding a purpose.

You needed the full weight of your Alpha wife on top of you to tether you to the earth. You wanted the ache of her knot and the completion of being bred. It wasn't just about surviving the heat anymore, it was about the legacy you’d both been avoiding. You didn't just want her touch. You wanted her bloodline. You wanted to feel the kick of a child who shared her stubbornness, her strength, and her heart.

It was the crushing realization of everything you’d both been avoiding, finally collapsing under the heat of your own nature that broke you. And the sob that tore from your throat was thick with years of unspoken grief and a new, terrifying hope.

The silence of the office grew as the storm of your tears finally receded. You lay there, curled into a ball on the leather couch, your skin slick with sweat while the air around you turned thick with the honeyed scent of your distress. All that remained was the pulsing ache of your cunt and a bone deep longing for Toph.

Hesitation gnawed at you the longer you lay there with your thoughts. You knew the weight of the badge Toph wore. She was the metal wall standing between Republic City and total chaos. To pull her away from her duties for anything less than a city wide threat felt selfish, even as your body screamed for its mate.

Your omega reminded you of what happened earlier and the Alpha’s still idling in your shop. The image of Toph finding you mid heat, alone and vulnerable in a public space flashed through your mind. You knew she'd flip shit if she found out how reckless you were being.

You fumbled with the desk phone before you lost your nerve. Your fingers slick with sweat and shaking so violently you nearly dropped the receiver twice. You dialed the non-emergency line, the familiar digits feeling like a lifeline. On the third ring, a young officer picked up. You recognized the voice, Officer Wong, and based on the hitch in his breath, he recognized yours too.

“Chief's office, Wong speaking,” He said, his tone shifting from professional weariness to concern as he heard your ragged breathing.

“Wong,” You greeted, your voice strained. “It’s me. I need to speak to my wife now and don't you dare put me on hold.”

There was a hesitant pause. You could hear the chaos of the precinct behind him. The shouted orders and the clanging of the metalbending trainers. “The Chief is... she’s in a high-level briefing with the Council representatives, ma'am. She isn't in the best of moods and she was very clear about not being disturbed. I-I'm actually a little terrified to even knock on that door right now.”

Your heat was rapidly replacing your usual patience with a raw, demanding edge. You leaned your head back against the leather, gasping as a fresh wave of slick made your skin crawl with a desperate need for friction.

“Wong,” You growled, your voice dropping into a low command that even the Beta on the other end of the line couldn't ignore. “I don't care if she's meeting with the Avatar and the Fire lord. You walk to that door, and you tell her that her wife needs to speak with her now.”

You heard him gulp, the sound audible over the line. “Ma'am, she'll have my head-”

“If you don't tell her,” You interrupted, a sharp ache in your core making you hiss through your teeth, “She'll find out later that you kept me waiting while I was like this. Which do you think is worse for your career?”

There was a frantic beat of silence, then the sound of the phone being scrambled as Wong moved with the desperate speed of a man who valued his life. In the distance, his muffled, terrified voice broke through the precinct's noise. “Chief! Chief, I'm sorry, but it's your wife! It's an emergency!”

On your end, the world felt like it was beginning to blur. You gripped the phone like a lifeline, your knuckles tight against the dark plastic. The background noise of the station suddenly went dead quiet, it was the kind of silence that precedes the storm.

The phone was snatched up, and you heard your wife's harsh, erratic breathing.

“Sugar-foot,” She whispered, her voice vibrating with a protective fury that made the omega in your purr. “I’m here, talk to me. Are you hurt?”

You were definitely hurting but not in the way that she might be thinking right now.

You gripped the receiver so hard you could hear the material groan as a fresh wave of your heat made your breath hitch. “Toph, I'm in the office and-”

The line went silent for a second, as you were cut off by the distant, frantic shouting of officers in the background. You heard Toph growl something at a subordinate to get out, followed by the slam of her office door.

“Sorry about that sweetheart. What's going on?” She demanded her tone dropping into that dangerous, gravelly rumble that she only used when she was truly rattled. “Your heart is thumping so hard I can feel it from across the city, and your voice sounds like.. like you’re….”

Her voice trailed off as if she was afraid someone would hear. You could imagine how tight her jaw probably was hearing you like this.

“I missed my suppressants, Toph,” You choked out, a sob of relief and desperation breaking through. “For two days. I was so busy with the holiday rush and the shipments that I didn't realize until it was already too late. I’m in my office, the shop is full of people, and I can’t- I can't even stand up on my own. It's like my body is punishing me for denying it the one thing that it needs.”

You heard a sharp intake of breath on her end. The sound of metal groaning, likely from her gripping the edge of her desk, echoed through the phone.

“Two days,” She repeated, her voice dropping into a dangerous register that vibrated deep into the very essence of your being. The protective fury was still there, but it was being overtaken by a dark, territorial hunger. “You were so busy taking care of everyone else’s holiday that you left yourself wide open. You're radiating like a lighthouse, Sugar-foot.”

Fresh tears stung your eyes, you could hear the underlying disappointment in her voice. “I’m sorry baby I didn't think-”

“That's the problem. You weren't thinking.” Her voice had hardened into a scolding tone. You could hear the metallic shing of her police cables retracting into her armor with violent speed. “You're in a full blown heat, in a public building with the doors unlocked during rush hour and my seismic sense is picking up spiked heart rates all over your lobby.”

“I know I'm an idiot,” You whimpered, your body arching as the ache between your thighs sharpened. “Please, Toph. It hurts. I need you.”

“Lock the office door right now,” She barked, and you could hear the clatter of her armor as she moved. “If anyone so much as touches that handle before I get there, I’ll bury the whole fucking block. Stay on that couch and don't move an inch.”

You did as you were told the moment the line cut off. The click of the lock resonated through the quiet office, a fragile and final barrier between your unraveling state and the bustling streets of Republic City. It was the only thing keeping the world out, but it couldn't stop the storm from brewing within. Your legs, which had been trembling since you stood up, finally gave out entirely. You collapsed back onto the couch with a loud exhale.

You buried your face in your hands, the shame burning hotter than the heat itself. This was a nightmare. You were the owner of this establishment, a professional who prided herself on order and grace. And yet here you were, overtaken by a primal need you hadn't felt in years, leaving your staff and customers to deal with the fallout of your scent.

You wanted to scream at the top of your lungs into the leather cushion, the image of that bakers wide, terrified eyes burned into your mind. He was barely twenty three, a sweet guy who helped prep during the day with a smile, and today he’d had to serve as a human shield for his Omega boss. He’d felt you shaking, caught the scent of your slick, and had to physically drag you through a gauntlet of unmated Alpha’s whose eyes had turned dark and predatory.

How do you look him in the eye on Monday? How do you maintain the authority of a business owner when he’s seen and smelled the most vulnerable version of you? You were supposed to be the one taking care of them, the one ensuring they got home to their families, and instead, you’d turned their workplace into a breeding den.

The professional distance you’d worked so hard to maintain had evaporated in a single rush of pheromones and you felt small, exposed, and utterly humiliated.

You curled into a ball on the couch, the leather cool against your saturated skin. You felt like a failure for being so careless with your meds, and as a professional for losing control in front of your staff during rush hour no less. Toph was right, the timing couldn't have been worse.

Your self deprecating thoughts were short lived. As a distant thrum began to vibrate through the couch frame. It was faint at first, like the beating of a heart deep within the earth, but it was growing louder.

Your wife was coming, fast.

Before you could even finish the thought the stone wall of your office groaned under the weight of an impossible force and then shattered inward. Toph hadn't bothered with the door you’d just locked, she was literally reshaping the building’s foundation, tearing an archway through the earth just to reach you.

As the dust settled, you swallowed thickly, the sight of her nearly stealing the air from your lungs. She looked absolutely feral. Her hair was a mess, escaping its usual pins and falling into unruly waves that framed her face and fell over her shoulders.

Her skin was streaked with the grime of the city’s underbelly and the sweat of her transit. Toph's chest was heaving, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly, syncing with the frantic hammering of your own heart. She stood there, feet planted wide, her seismic sense likely feeling every drop of your slick and pulse of your blood through the floorboards.

She looked powerful, dangerous, and to your heat addled brain, utterly irresistible. Your body betrayed you again. A fresh, hot wave of Omega slick pulsed out of you, the sweet scent saturating the air in the small room to the point you could taste it on your tongue.

You watched as Toph wiped a smear of dirt from her forehead, her sightless eyes fixed in your direction. The protective fury was still there, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a dark, possessive hunger. She stepped over the rubble, the metal of her armor clinking softly, until she stood at the edge of the couch, towering over you, her entire shadow swallowing you whole

Her restraint snapped like dry timber. A flicker of something feral flared in her expression as her nostrils flared and she breathed in your Omega scent.

The sound that tore from Toph’s throat wasn’t human, it was a low, rumble that vibrated through the floorboards and settled deep in your core. It was the sound of an Alpha who had found her mate vulnerable in the open, and it sent a primal shockwave through you that made your core clench in a desperate, weeping pulse. Toph's Alpha instincts were screaming to cover you, to hide you, and to mark you so thoroughly that no other soul would dare look your way.

“You've got no idea what you’re doing to me,” She grounded out, her voice thicker than you’d ever heard it before.

“I have some idea.” You groaned, the words catching in your throat as another wave of heat made your hips roll instinctively against the leather.

Toph let out a sharp breath. She unbucked her heavy metal cuffs and tossed them aside with a resounding clatter. Her rough, calloused fingers found the hem of your shirt and slipped under. She didn't just touch you, she possessed you, her palms searing against your fever hot skin.

“Yeah? Well, you're about to have a lot more than an idea,” She rasped, her voice dropping into a register so deep it felt like a physical weight on your chest.

With a sudden, explosive movement, the ground beneath you groaned and opened up, making a sand bed. Toph hauled you flush against the cold metal of her chestplate and lowered you both to the ground. The shock of the freezing iron hitting your skin drew a sharp cry of relief from your lungs, but she silenced it instantly, burying her face in the crook of your neck, her body flush against you. Her teeth grazed the saturated skin there before she bit down, not hard enough to draw blood, but deep enough to leave a stinging mark that would broadcast her claim to anyone who dared look your way.

“You want me to put a pup in you right here on this floor, don't you?” She growled, her breath hot against your neck as she felt you tremble. “You'd let me breed you in the middle of your own shop?”

She nipped at the sensitive skin of your jaw, her teeth grazing the bone in a way that made your vision white out. “Because right now, I don't give a damn about anything. All I can feel is your tight cunt pulsing against my armor.”

“Yes, I need your knot! I want to carry your pups.” The words weren't a request, they were a desperate plea. Your Omega had finally shattered your pride, leaving you drenched in slick and lost to the cloud of your own lust.

“I’m going to fill you so full of me that you’ll be leaking my seed for a month,” Toph husked against your skin.

She was nuzzling your neck with her cheek, marking you with her scent. Toph's large hand locked around your wrist, keeping them above your head as sand bindings wrapped snug around them, replacing her hands. You whined at the slight burn of the sand as you yanked against the restraints, desperate to touch her.

You were so lost in the overwhelming feel of her claim that you hadn't noticed that Toph's movements went deathly still above you. A deep vibrating rumble in her chest sounded in the room then. Toph's nostrils flared as she took in a lungful of your scent.

Her seismic sense, usually tuned to the distant thrum of the city, suddenly narrowed down to the microscopic vibrations on your skin. Beneath the honeyed sweetness of your heat and the sharp scent of her own mark, she caught it: the faint trace of the baker who had held you upright.

It was a Beta’s scent, helpful and innocent, but to an Alpha whose mate was in a fertile peak, it was a trespass. Toph’s entire body turned to stone. Her jaw set with a terrifying, tectonic pressure, and the floor beneath the sand began to groan.

“Who,” She hissed, the word barely a whisper but vibrating with enough force to rattle the glass on your desk. “Who put their hands on you while you were like this?” Her clouded eyes didn't see you, but they flashed with a dark intensity.

She gripped your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat, her teeth baring in a posessive sneer.

“I can smell him on you,” She said, her voice dropping into a guttural snarl that made the sand-bindings around your wrists tighten. “A stray was touching my Omega while she was dripping for me?”

“It was no one,” You lied, the words faltering under the dizzying haze of your heat combined with the territorial pheromones she was pumping into the air. “Please, Toph I would never let anyone touch what’s yours.”

Your instincts were screaming at you to soothe the Alpha looming over you. The crushing weight of her possessive pheromones had your entire body buzzing. You could taste it on your tongue and feel the pressure of it behind your eyelids. You were absolutely addicted to the way she claimed you.

Toph let out a mocking hum, it was a sound of pure disbelief that vibrated right through your chest. She knew you were lying. Her seismic sense was tracking the guilty flutter of your pulse.

“You're a terrible liar, Sugar-foot,” She murmurs, her nose dragging roughly along your jawline until her lips were resting directly against your throbbing pulse point. “Your heart is tripping over itself. You're vibrating so hard I can practically taste the lie on your skin.”

She shifted her weight, pinning you down more securely into the soft sand. Her hand slid from your waist, her rough, calloused palm pressing firmly against your heat-soaked center. You cried out, your head snapping back as the sudden pressure sent a white hot jolt of electricity straight to your Omega fried brain.

“I don't care if he was just helping you. I don't care if it was an accident,” She growled, her teeth grazing the sensitive skin right over your scent gland. She didn't bite, not yet but the threat was there, sharp and certain. “You are mine. Every drop of slick, every breath you take, and every inch of this heat belongs to me. My scent is the only thing that belongs on you, especially now.”

She abruptly lifted off of you and began to unbuckle her metal belt with one hand, the clatter of the police gear hitting the floor and resonating in the room. She stomped her heel, causing a massive earth pillar to shoot up from the foundation, completely barricading the entrance to ensure the outside world was locked out.

“Since you want to protect no one, I'm just going to have to work twice as hard to scrub him off you,” She promised with a feral, possessive grin. “By the time I'm done knotting you in this dirt, you won't even remember anyone else's hands, let alone your name.”

Toph didn't waste another second on words. With her Alpha dominance fully asserted and the room sealed off from the rest of the world, she used her free hand to rip the rest of her uniform away, letting the fabric and buckles discard into the sand. She moved with an animalistic focus, reaching down to shred what remained of your damp apron and clothes until there was nothing left between her skin and yours.

The sand around your wrist slackened just a bit as her focus broke at the feel of your slick that was already covering her own thighs as she pressed into you. You allowed your gaze to hungrily trail down her body that was corded with muscles that flexed with every movement until you reached her thick shaft. You parted your lips as you stared at the tip that was flushed, and leaking. Toph wrapped her palm around it, stroking her girthy length as the pad of her thumb circled around the slit, spreading the beads of precum.

You couldn't take it anymore, you needed her now. Using your own earthbending you broke free of the restraints and pulled Toph into a messy kiss. The moment your mouth connected with hers, a pathetic sound erupted from your lips. Toph tasted like her morning coffee and everything you have been craving since your heat had started.

More of your Omega slick dripped from your cunt as she kissed you back with fervor. Your moan was swallowed by her tongue as she licked into your mouth, her tongue twisting and sliding against yours in a wet, hungry tangle. You couldn't get enough of her, you were basically drooling as saliva gathered at the corner of your mouth, stretching into thin strings whenever she pulled back just enough to suck your tongue between her lips, her cheeks hollowing with every pull causing your pussy to clench around nothing.

Toph's growl vibrated down into your throat as her hand clamped the back of your neck, keeping you right where she wanted while her other hand released her cock and slid up to grab your breast, her thumb dragging over your nipple until it stiffened under the rough circles.

Toph kissed like she wanted to consume your soul. The longer the kiss went on the more potent your pheromones became, driving your hunger and mixing with the Alpha musk pouring off Toph as her cock pressed into your thigh. You rocked up against her desperately as her seismic sense caught every quiver and roll of your hips chasing her cock.

Toph broke away only to nip along your jaw, her breathing rough. “Gonna breed this pretty Omega cunt right here.”

Toph was completely lost to her rut, she slammed you flat against the sand-covered floor, her full weight pinning you down hard. She shoved your thighs wider with her knees and drove her thick shaft straight into your soaked hole in one brutal thrust. The sudden stretch ripped a broken cry out of you that echoed off the stone walls barricading the door.

Her hips snapped forward again as she dove into you, each slam driving her cock deeper. Every time she bottomed out her balls slapped wetly against you, amplifying your pleasure as the fullness made you dizzy. Toph continued her deep thrusts, pulling back just enough to slap your dripping pussy with the palm of her hand, the sharp sting making you jolt before she thrust back in even harder, never letting the delicious friction end.

“Fuck, listen to you,” She whispered, her voice rough. “Taking every inch like you were made for it.”

You couldn’t form words anymore. Your mouth hung open, spilling broken sounds and half-finished pleas as she kept pounding into you. “T-Toph—ah”

She answered by grabbing your wrists and yanking them above your head again. The metal cuffs from her uniform clicked shut around them, binding you to the stone floor with a short chain. The restraint only made you arch harder into her next powerful thrust as your greedy cunt hugged her shaft driving her deeper.

“Fuck,” Toph grunted, grinding deep so the head of her cock stimulated your g spot with each roll of her hips. “Feel how full you are? I'm stuffing this omega pussy just like I told you I would.” She lifted her palm off the floor and gave your swollen pussy lips another sharp slap, the heavy weight of her sack smacking against you with each punishing stroke.

You weren't even sure what you were saying as you babbled incoherently, your voice cracking as Toph's relentless rhythm left you teetering close to the edge already. “Yes– you're so big baby, stretching me so good ughhhh.”

Toph’s breath came hot against your ear. “Gonna fuck this greedy hole all night. You want that don't you?”

Toph changed the tempo as she felt how close you were, giving you long, deep strokes instead of the quick bursts from before. Even lost to her rut she was still focused on your pleasure. Her seismic sense listening to each quiver of your body as you pulsed around her. Your omega slick drenched the both of you, each time Toph pulled almost completely out of you, her thick tip stretching your tight hole, you could see the sheen of your wetness that coated her abs and hear the wet sounds your pussy was making as she moved in and out of you.

The brief emptiness made the omega in you whine as you thrashed against the restraints, begging her to give you what you need. And just when the sting of the metal became too much she gave you exactly what you were asking for and slammed the full length of her thick cock back into you, rolling her hips so her heavy shaft pressed against your walls.

“Yes–fuck,” You gasped, meeting her thrust. “I want it, Toph. Want you to wreck me.”

Toph snarled in approval and snapped her hips again, causing your eyes to roll back into your head. Your walls fluttered and squeezed around her, rippling along her cock like they were trying to coax out her knot. She felt every desperate contraction and greedy pulse, as she too was close to coming. “That’s it. Milk me with that tight cunt. Make your Alpha proud.”

Your walls clenched and released around her, coating her length in fresh slick that ran down to soak her balls. She groaned, at the sensation, her hips stuttering. “Shit baby, you’re dripping everywhere. This omega cunt is soaking my cock.”

Toph used her strength to hold herself up with one arm, while the other slid between your slick bodies, her fingers finding your enlarged clit and circling it. The heels of your feet dug into her ass as she continued to pound into your pussy with those deep strokes that made your walls flutter as she hit that perfect spot inside you.

Your wrist burned against the restraints, with ever thrust forward the ground beneath you shook as she fucked you into the earth. It was like a continuous feed of pleasure for toph, not only could she feel your hot cunt wrapped around her shaft but she felt every hitch of your breath and vibration of your body through the palm of her hand that was buried in the earth as she fucked you.

She slowed her circles around your clit and gave your swollen pussy lips another firm slap. The impact made your walls clamp even tighter around her shaft. She slapped you again, twice in quick succession, then thrust back inside with enough force to send your body deeper into the sand bed she made.

“Toph!!” You moaned, your thighs trembling around her frame. “More, slap it again..”

She obliged, palm cracking against your slick folds before she buried herself to the hilt and ground in slow circles. The head of her cock pressed deep, rubbing against your inner walls until they fluttered and spasmed around her. “You like that?” She hissed against your lips. “Like feeling my cock stretch this hole open while I slap your pussy?”

“Yes,” You sobbed, legs shaking as the pressure became almost unbearable. “Feels so good. Don’t stop.”

Toph’s rhythm turned relentless. You could feel every thick vein and flare of her cockhead as it dragged along your walls, pressing against that sensitive spot inside you. Her breathing grew heavier, her breath was hot against your neck as she spoke. “You’re close aren't you? Gonna come on my cock before I even knot you?”

“Yes– so close baby.” You mewled, “Please make me come.”

She answered by fucking you harder, hips snapping with enough force to shift the sand beneath your body. Each thrust forced a wet squelch from your pussy as her balls slapped against you in steady rhythm.

Toph’s hand found your throat, holding you in place as she drove into you. “Come on then,” She ordered. “Come on my cock. Let me feel this perfect omega cunt squeeze me while I wreck it.”

“Toph–fuck, I'm coming!!”

Toph groaned low, feeling every contraction along her length. She didn’t stop moving, fucking you through it with short, deep strokes that kept your walls fluttering around her. “Fuck yes,” She hissed. “That’s my good Omega. Coming so hard on my cock you’re dripping everywhere.”

She kept thrusting, drawing out every aftershock until you were shaking and oversensitive. Only then did she slow, still buried deep inside you, her cock twitching with the effort of holding back her own release. She leaned down, lips brushing your ear.

“Now beg for it,” She whispered, voice dark with promise. “Beg me to knot this messy cunt and breed you full.”

“Please,” You whimpered, voice hoarse. “Knot me, Toph. Make me a mommy.”

Toph’s hips rolled in a slow, deliberate grind, her tip pressing against your fluttering walls. “Not yet,” She murmured. “Want to feel you come on me again first.”

She released your binded wrist and your hands immediately shot out to grasp at her shoulders, your nails dragging across the saturated skin.

Toph thrusted forward again, slower this time but just as deep. Your walls hugged her shaft, still sensitive from your first orgasm. The wet sound of her cock sliding through your slick filled the office, as Toph's pheromones released out of her in powerful waves causing your omega to purr. “This cunt was made for my cock, you feel so good baby.”

She drove into you with long, steady thrusts. Due to you still being so sensitive it didn't take long for your second orgasm to come barreling ahead. For you it was the intimacy of it, the way she was holding you flush against her, her body fully on top of you while your fingers traced her spine was enough to send you over the edge for the second time. You came with a quiet cry, your face buried into her neck, your thighs shaking as your canines elongated and locked onto that familiar mating mark.

Toph's hips picked up speed, her arms tightened around you as the beginnings of her powerful orgasm slammed into her. You let out a guttural moan as Toph growled possessively into the flesh of your neck. The ground underneath you vibrated with what could only be described as a minor earth quake. Toph's Alpha nature was screaming, demanding her knot be seated deep within you to ensure the legacy she had spent years running from came to fruition.

She was finally knotting you

Toph’s next thrust came up short, the swollen base of her knot catching at your entrance before it could sink deeper. The sudden stretch burned, forcing your pussy wider around the thickening bulb as it locked inside you.

Toph nuzzled your neck, her teeth grazing where she knew the mating mark she left on your skin all those years ago was. Her cock pulsed hard, your vision blurred as she bit down just as the first thick jet of hot cum painted your inner walls. Your fingers dug into the muscle of her back, nails scraping as another spurt followed as she came inside you. Toph was flooding you with her seed. Each pulse made your belly tighten and swell, the heat of her release spreading through you as your clit throbbed untouched between your bodies.

A broken sob tore from your throat as you lost track of home many times you've come. Your pussy clamped down around the knot as your walls fluttered, milking every fresh spurt she pumped into you. The metallic taste of your blood filled Toph's mouth as she marked you, her hips never stopped moving as she continuously pumped into you. She was completely lost to her animalistic nature and your omega couldn't be more satisfied.

Tears slipped free from your eyes, sliding down your cheeks as your body shook through the constant overstimulation.

Toph’s hips rolled in short, grinding circles, keeping the knot seated tight while her cock kept throbbing and releasing inside you. The shallow movement dragged the swollen bulb against every sensitive spot, forcing another helpless orgasm to crash through you. Your pussy spilled omega slick that splattered against her thighs and leaked into the sand below. Toph had you folded completely in half now, her hands bracing the back of your thighs as she held you place, making sure you got every last drop of her cum.

Toph's tongue lapped at the mark she left on your skin before she placed a wet kiss to it. She lifted her head from your neck, her palms leaving your thighs so she could cup your face firmly. The pad of her thumbs traced your cheeks, brushing away the fresh tears that continued to fall. “You're being such a good omega, taking every last drop of my seed. Are you still with me baby?”

Your lips parted around another breathless sound as your belly swelled full and heavy with her knot. “Y-yes, too full–can’t stop..”

“I know,” Toph husked, her eyes fluttering closed as the honey-scented musk of your heat started to dissipate from the air now that you had her knot. “It's been awhile Im going to make sure it takes.”

“You're going to be the best mom.” She added, kissing away your tears as she brushed your hair that was sticking to your face out of the way. “I wouldn't want anyone else to carry my pups.”

You knew she meant it. After spending so many years thinking she hated the absolute thought of it, you were at a loss for words. All you could do was cry and pull her down into a warm kiss. Toph rested her forehead against yours, her lips curving into a soft smile. You weren't sure how long you laying there just kissing her, but eventually, her knot deflated and softened, slipping out of you with a slick, wet pop.

Now that your heat had finally broken, all that remained was a quiet hum in your veins. Toph stayed close, her touch incredibly gentle as she lifted herself off of you and guided you out of the makeshift sandbed she had molded in the center of your office. You leaned heavily into Toph since your legs were still shaking. You really didn't have time to lay here with her, you were in desperate need of a shower and some food before your heat picked back up again. This was only day one.

“Ugh, I just realized,” You mumbled, resting your head against her shoulder as you looked around. “There isn't a shower here.”

“Why would there be?” Toph snorted, wrapping a solid arm around your waist to keep you up. “Good thing you drove to work today. Let's get you home before it picks up again because I can not do another round on the earth.”

“Whose fault is that? We had a perfectly good couch in here and somehow you still decided to make a bed out of the floor.” You responded.

“I needed the space,” Toph claimed, a wicked smirk cutting across her face. “Besides, you weren't complaining when you were begging me to put a pup in you.”

Your face warmed at that, you grabbed her discarded shirt from the desk and threw it right at her face. “Shut up.”

Toph just snorted, catching the fabric easily as you finally gathered your bearings. Looking around the room, the reality of the past few hours fully set in. The office was a complete disaster. Papers were scattered everywhere like confetti, the chair behind your desk was completely overturned.

If that weren't bad enough your walls were crooked and the floor was nonexistent since Toph had earth bended the pillars through your very expensive hardwood floors to lock you. “Toph. Look at this place, it's a mess.”

“Can't see it, babe, remember?” She teased, her grip on you tightening affectionately now that you were dressed.

“You know exactly what I mean,” You said, playfully slapping her arm with a huff. “You are definitely renovating this entire office the second my heat cycle is over.”

Toph let out a booming laugh, kissing your cheek. “Deal. I'll build you the fanciest office in Republic city, But first, lets get home.”

And you had never agreed with a statement more in your entire life.

AN: Sorry this took so long Anon I had to make this right for you and I still feel like I could've done more.

[pinkandblueblurbs]

overcompensating

alpha!jack abbot x omega!fem!reader. a/b/o au and dynamics, references to omega discrimination, scenting, instincts, penetrative sex, fingering, sex at work, power imbalance, brat taming, praise, possessiveness, unprotected sex.

word count: 2.4k

a/n: I dont feel great about this one tbh... i dont think i captured the dynamic quite as well as i'd hoped to. but hopefully ya'll enjoy :')

Jack’s really not sure what your problem is.

You’re stubborn, headstrong, overly ambitious, and oftentimes just shy of rude. All of which are things Jack has come to expect from omegas after years of working with them in such a high-stakes environment— most take on an overly-harsh exterior to counteract the stigma they face. It’s a survival mechanism, a necessary precaution in order to be taken seriously and have any chance of success in a profession that’s dominated by alphas and deals with countless assholes day in and day out.

Jack doesn’t begrudge them. He knows that working in the Pitt— or in emergency medicine, or in any medical setting, for that matter— isn’t easy for omegas. He tries to keep that in mind and act accordingly. He works hard to foster a good work environment for everyone on his crew.

He likes to think he does a halfway decent job. And, seemingly, most of the omegas that have passed through his supervision over the years would agree. Once they see how he runs things they usually start to let their guards down a bit. They stop entering every situation with their teeth bared and hackles raised. They speak their minds with confidence rather than nervous aggression. They accept his teaching without assuming he’s trying to undermine them.

They even start to give in to their instincts a bit, without fear that he’ll think of them as weak or take advantage of their vulnerability. They allow themselves to preen under his praise, submit under his command, and settle under his comfort.

Not you. You’ve been here for 3 months now and he can still feel your eyes tracking him through every room like you’re waiting for him to pounce. You still respond to everything he asks through clenched teeth, like you’re bracing for backlash that never comes. You still roll your eyes at every one of his jokes and question every one of his orders.

Tonight is no different. If Jack took a shot every time you rolled your eyes, scowled, or talked back to him, his name would be up on the patient board.

He should find it infuriating. Part of him— the most basic, primitive part— does. You give him the urge to snap his teeth and growl, make you show him some respect.

The rest of Jack finds you… interesting. Exciting. Jack loves a challenge, and you pose a very fun one. He’s determined to figure you out.

Jack tracks you down after shift change. He finds you in the empty room of the last patient you discharged. You’re hunched over your rolling computer cart, finishing up some charting.

When he walks in you look startled, then cornered, then extremely irritated.

“You know, I came in here for some peace and quiet.”

“Do you have some kind of problem with me?” Jack asks, choosing to ignore your snide greeting. You eye him for a moment, like you’re deciding whether you want to tell the truth or not. He raises a brow and waits.

“You clearly don’t trust me with the patients.” You eventually say, stony. Not true. “You’re always— hovering. Like you’re waiting for me to slip up. But I’m not gonna slip up”

Anxiety and vulnerability roll off you in waves, souring your scent. When Jack smells it he desperately aches to soften. To gather you in his arms and rumble out assurances. I know you won’t, little omega. You do such a good job. You’re so good. It takes everything in him to stifle the urge.

“I’m your attending,” he says calmly, careful to keep his voice even. “It’s kinda my job to keep an eye on you. Y’know, to attend.”

Your eyes narrow. “You’re not my attending.” You grind out the words, and maybe Jack’s reading into it, but you sound… bitter? Jealous? “You and Shen are the attendings. Supervising me isn’t your personal little pet project.”

“You want it to be?”

You look taken aback. Just for a second. Jack can’t help but revel in it– you’re not easy to shake.

“I just want you to fuck off and stop breathing down my neck so I can actually do my job!”

Jack doesn’t respond for a moment. He barely manages to stifle his surprise at the fact that an omega just, essentially, cursed him out and spat in his face. He stares down his nose at you, intentionally allowing the silence to feel thick. Studying you.

He sees you catch on. You straighten up, even puff out your chest a bit, trying to look strong and sure and unbothered.

It’s a good attempt, he’ll give you that. You’d have plenty of alphas fooled.

But Jack catches the way your head tilts back for just an instant like you’re about to bare your throat. Sees the flash of doubt in your eyes, like your instincts are begging you to just give this up already, roll over, and show him your belly. Oh. That’s new. He feels his cock swell.

“Yeah? You want me to fuck off?” He lets his voice drop an octave. You make a choked, barely-there sound that he’d like to call a whimper. Your scent shifts sweeter.

Jack steps towards you, big and slow and imposing, and is surprised again when you don’t back up. Ballsy little thing.

“You know what I think?” His voice is smooth, low, almost a purr. Dripping with alpha condescension.

Jack sees your throat bob as you swallow. You just glare up at him without a word, and he knows it's because you don’t trust your voice not to waver. He smirks.

“I’ll tell you, sweetheart.” He watches you shiver. He’s so close now that he’s almost touching you. “I think you know that I’m good at what I do. I think you respect me. Maybe even like me a little. And all this attitude you give me…” he raises a brow and leans down, letting his breath fan over your face, “Is you trying to overcompensate for the fact that what you really want is to be bent over and put in your place.”

It’s bold, Jack realizes. Might be too much. Could make you turn tail, but he doubts it. You’re braver than that.

He watches you stiffen. There’s a flash of blatant hunger in your eyes— bingo— but it’s quickly snuffed out by stubborn defiance.

“I’m not just some needy ommie who’ll give it up to any alpha with a pulse.” Your voice only wavers a little.

“Oh, I know.” Jack nods. He feels, looks, and smells painfully smug. His voice is like velvet. “But you’ll give it up to me, won’t you?”

That breaks you. You practically collapse in on yourself, all small, and breathe out an involuntary “alpha.”

“There it is.” Jack coos. The praise makes you preen, and you extend your neck, baring your throat for Jack to brush his lips against. You smell fucking delicious. “Sweet little omega. You don’t have to fight it.”

“You’re such a douchebag.” You bite out. Sure, it’s weak and shaky, but it impresses Jack regardless. He has his nose pressed against your gland and you’re still talking back.

“Ooh, you don’t quit.” He rumbles. He pulls back slightly, his big hand coming up to cup the side of your neck. His eyes rake shamelessly down your body, not even trying to hide his desire. He’s sure you can smell it on him anyway. “What’s it gonna take, baby? Do you need my cock inside you to finally start behaving yourself?”

“You tell me, Abbot.” You sneer. “What’s it gonna take, in your professional opinion?”

Jack smiles, challenging and predatory in a way that would make most omegas wither. But not you. Your lip curls up, showing off cute little canines. He can’t help but groan and grind down against your abdomen.

“Fuck, baby.” Jack growls. “So cute when you act all tough.” He grips around your hip with a big hand and backs you up against the hospital bed while the other works hastily at the waistband of your scrubs. Once he has them loosened, he shoves his hand right down the front of your panties.

The second he gets his fingers inside you, you melt. Slick practically pours onto his hand. The strong, heady scent of it is overwhelming. It makes his nostrils flare.

If the way you’re squirming around on the bed and whining incoherently tells him anything, it’s that he’s not gonna need to get his cock involved to make you behave. The realization hits him like a truck, right through to his ego.

“There you go, little omega. You like that?” He taunts.

You nod, finally eager and obedient. It’s like a victory after all the fight you’ve given him. Jack didn’t know that submission from an omega could feel quite this good. It usually comes too easy.

“Yeah. Good girl. I’ve got you, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

“D-Dr. Abbot— alpha— please.”

You sound fucking broken and Jack can’t stand it. His instincts whir— make her happy, make her feel good, fill her up.

“I’ve got you.” He repeats in the low, steady voice he reserves for omegas in distress. He pulls his fingers out of you, and it’s only so he can free his cock from his scrubs, but you whine anyway.

“Fuck— hurry up.”

“Shh. Easy.” Jack murmurs. His free hand reaches up, intending to stroke soothingly across your cheek— but he has to yank it away when you turn your head and nip at his fingers like a kitten. Fucking brat.

“Settle down.” He growls. The tone squeezes you tight, wrings out any fight you have left. You’re left lax on the bed below him– boneless, pliant, willing. Good, his alpha purrs. “That’s better. Just take what I give you.”

Jack slides his hard cock through your slit once, coating it in your slick, before he pushes into you.

You feel like heaven— the hottest, wettest, tightest fucking pussy he’s ever had. And the sound you make when he stretches you. That high pitched, keening moan of pleasure. Jack wants to bottle that sound.

“Good omega.” He purrs, leaning down to press hot kisses along the column of your neck. He’s possessed by the need to ensure you smell like him for days.

You arch into it, exposing your throat further, pushing your hips down on his cock.

“You feel so fucking good. You were made for this.”

You whine at that, and Jack can see your mind wrestling with the sentiment despite the way it makes your pussy gush and your instincts sing.

Jack hushes you. “It’s okay.” He holds you still by your hip and litters more wet, soothing kisses across your jaw. “There’s nothin’ wrong with it, sweet girl. Let yourself enjoy this.”

“Abbot—“ when you say it, Jack can’t stifle his choked laugh— “feels so good.”

“Call me Jack, baby, my fuckin’ dick’s inside you.” He shakes his head before he briefly connects his lips with yours. “Jesus. I woulda done this ages ago if I knew you wanted it this bad.”

His cock sponges over your g-spot and his tip kisses your cervix with every thrust. He can feel you getting close— your pussy’s clenching, you’re whimpering louder, slick is dripping down your thighs and onto the bed below. Your hands grapple desperately at his freckled sides, arms, and shoulders, nails leaving indented crescents in their wake.

“Come on, sweet omega.” Jack purrs in your ear. His hand finds your breast so he can thumb circles on your nipple as further encouragement. He fucks into you relentlessly. “I want you to cum for me. Milk my cock.”

“Jack— Alpha— fuck.” You sound broken as your orgasm washes over you. You shake below him on the table— lips parted, brows furrowed, eyes locked on his. Jack growls.

“There you go, that’s it. You’re so good.” He means it more than he’s ever meant anything. You’re so fucking good. You look good, you smell good, you feel good, you sound good. Jack’s not gonna last much longer. “You’re such a good omega.”

“Yours,” You keen— and fuck, you’re still cumming. “Your omega.”

“Mine.” Jack nods. His hips falter. “My good girl. Doing so well for your alpha.”

Jack lets his teeth ghost over your mating bond, grazing the tender, unbroken skin there.

The whimpery sound you let out sends him over the edge. His hips snap forward one more time and he spills inside you with a long, low groan. It takes everything in him to hold back and not bite you right then.

“Babygirl,” Jack grits out once he can speak, breathless. Your walls are still fluttering around his softening cock. “You’re fucking incredible.”

You don’t say anything. He lifts his head from the crook of your neck. “Hey. Look at me. You okay?”

“Jack…” you murmur. You’re looking at him like he hung the moon and the stars, and he feels like he could start glowing. Still, your scent sours with uncertainty. “Jesus, this is— we shouldn’t have—“

“Why not?”

“This is completely unprofessional—“

Jack scoffs. “Yeah, doll, we’re well past that.”

“This is exactly what I’ve been trying to avoid!” Your voice is raised. “And you make it very difficult!”

You’re clearly dismayed, and Jack shouldn’t grin, but he does.

“Do I?” Jack leans down to nose against the gland on your neck again. He smells only himself there, mingling with your scent, and goddamn he could get hard again. His tongue darts out to soothe over the area, and you melt. “Do I make it hard for you to conduct yourself?” He lets a mocking lilt bleed into his tone. “Is that why you insist on being such a pain in my ass all the time?”

“Don’t be mean.” You grumble. You're trying, and failing, to maintain your contempt. The words come out far too pleading.

“Attagirl. Now you’re getting it.” Jack coos. He leans down and gives you a kiss. “If you want me to be sweet on you then all you have to do is ask.”

You scowl at him. You still smell anxious, and that won't do at all.

Jack's expression softens. He deepens his scent to match, radiating protective reassurance. "Everything's gonna be okay, doll. I'll make sure of it."

[novelives]

Omega!dennis who was never taught courting traditions since his family was adamant that no alpha would ever want him.

So of course he has no idea that the two older alpha attendings are courting him. They were just being nice!! little gifts of food or clothes that Dennis had written off as them simply making too much or spring cleaning their closet, even if the clothes seemed brand new and perfectly in his size.

Dennis wasn’t raised to accept gifts without giving as well, so one day he makes a few extra of a dessert he was making for girls night. hiding them in the back of the fridge desperate for Trinity to not ask any questions. The next morning he left them in a fridge with a note, by next shift the tupperware was empty with a thank you note on top.

That’s how PTMC ended up with one confused unaware omega and two over the moon alphas at the acceptance of their courting.