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.
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