Hiiiii everyoneeeee (*≧▽≦) I finally sat down, well…....collapsed dramatically, and put together my sharpwolf fanfics!! It took me the whole week (yes…..like full sun-up to sun-down energy drinks and dramatic playlists week and maybe more than one week hahaha) but I really wanted to share something special with you all ♡
I’m still kinda nervous about it hehehe (/ω＼) so please be gentle with me T_T formatting might look a lil weird if you’re reading on mobile bc I wrote this using my laptop, and I might go back and edit a few things if I can gather enough energy (and courage) later (also all of them are not beta read :'D) ~
Also!! I meant to post earlier, but I accidentally fell asleep first (sleep won that round zzz). Then, just my luck, the power went out right after, while I was speedrunning one of the fics!! So I ended up deciding to post that one fic later instead. I’m really sorry it’s late m(_ _)m Life kinda said "nope!" but I’m here now and ready to share!!
I really poured all my heart into these stories….my whole week, too; I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I loved writing them, ♡ they mean a lot to me, so….thank you for even checking them out (´｡• ω •｡`) ♡
And if you're wondering why I’m spamming you with all these fics.....hehehe (๑˃̵ᴗ˂̵) it's because I’m totally that kind of person haha~ the type who hoards WIPs like shiny treasures ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: and then, when the stars align (or when sleep doesn’t win the boss fight lol), I just dump them all in one go!!
now without further ado.....
✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: pick your story! :･ﾟ✧:･ﾟ✧
A. The Hunt
B. That Time I Got Reincarnated as the Vile Character in the Odyssey
C. Antinous: The Redemption Arc
D. Sunlight Sisters: Of Love, Vows, and Demons
hello!!! i wanted to put all my fic ideas / wips / random prompts in one place so it’s easier to keep track of everything —and so you can vote on which one you’d actually want me to finish and publish first 👀
all of them have a title (because i love thinking titles oml) + a short description, and a few of them even have moodboards attached!!
1. Charles And His Big, Blonde, Clingy, Cat Boyfriend
Charles is an f1 driver and every day he comes home to his beautiful cat boyfriend Max.
2. I know you want it, baby you can have it (Oh I’ve never done it)
this lestappen age gap prompt
3. Shoot your shot, let me suck the gun
this lestappen cum prompt
4. HUNG Pizza Guy Fucks Slutty Customer's Brains Out After He "Forgot His Wallet"
this lestappen porn prompt
5. Why does everything thats supposed to be bad make me feel so good?
this landoscar fic post
6. One of you is cute, but two though!?
After a stressful airport ordeal, all Charles wants is to get home to Max and collapse into his arms. Instead, he walks in to find Max… and a second Max, straight out of 2019. Shenanigans ensue.
7. Don't be phony, baby show me, I can ride your pony
A tribute to Lando's horse cock by Oscar Piastri.
8. Dutch, the language of love
After winning the Dutch GP Charles goes for a drink and meets local Max. He won’t just leave with a hangover for his flight back to Monaco —but also a limp and a new boy toy trailing behind him.
9. Hey there, summerboy!
this lestappen fic post
10. I aint nothing but a nasty dog.
this lestappen sex pollen prompt
11. P is Cupid
this lestappen fic post
vote for your favorite / whichever one you'd want to read the most!
Alright folks! So here's the deal, I have way too many finished fics just sitting in my drafts, waiting for their time to shine (or at least see the light of day). Before I start posting anything new, I’m doing a good old-fashioned fic dump—clearing out the backlog like a dragon finally sharing their hoard.
Expect a mix of fun surprises, forgotten favorites, and maybe a few ‘what was I thinking?’ moments. Either way, I’m excited to finally share them with you! Once the backlog is out, we move on to fresh chaos. Hope you stick around!
The S.T.A.R.S. headquarters is a ghost town after midnight, the fluorescent lights dimmed to a faint hum, casting long shadows across the linoleum floors. Chris Redfield’s boots echo faintly as he moves through the empty halls, the weight of the cassette in his jacket pocket heavier than it should be. The black plastic is warm from his grip, the red slash in the corner a reckless mark of his unraveling. He recorded it last night, alone in his apartment, lights off, curled on the couch with the recorder pressed to his lips like a confessional. Every word was a wound, a plea, a surrender—and now he’s here, standing outside Albert Wesker’s office door, heart pounding like a drum.
The door is solid oak, polished to a sheen, with Captain A. Wesker etched on a brass plate. Chris’s breath hitches as he crouches, the cassette trembling in his hand. He shouldn’t do this. He should burn the damn thing, pretend it never happened. But his fingers move on their own, sliding the tape under the door, the plastic scraping softly against the floor. He lingers for a moment, palm pressed against the wood, imagining Wesker finding it, those cold blue eyes narrowing as he realizes what Chris has done. The thought sends a shiver through him, equal parts dread and desire. He stands, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, and slips back into the shadows, leaving the tape behind like a bomb waiting to detonate.
Inside the office, Albert Wesker remains long after the team has gone home, the silence of the S.T.A.R.S. headquarters a rare luxury. The room is a fortress of order—metal filing cabinets, a polished desk, a single tumbler of bourbon catching the dim glow of a desk lamp. The blinds are half-drawn, slivers of moonlight cutting through the darkness, painting the walls in stark contrasts of silver and shadow. Wesker’s leather chair creaks faintly as he leans back, gloved hands steepled, his sharp features unreadable. He’s reviewing mission reports, or so he tells himself, but his focus wavers, a rare lapse in his iron discipline.
His eyes catch on the cassette, lying just inside the door where it was slipped under, a black rectangle with a single red slash in the corner. It’s out of place, an intrusion in his meticulously controlled world. He rises, movements fluid and predatory, and retrieves it, turning it over in his gloved hands. No label, no note—just the red mark, like a drop of blood. His lips curl into a faint, amused smirk. He knows who left it. Only one person would be this reckless, this desperate.
Wesker returns to his desk, settling into the chair with deliberate calm. He slides the cassette into an old player he keeps in a drawer, a relic from his days of cataloging interrogations. His gloved finger hovers over the play button, a moment of anticipation he savors. Then he presses it, and the machine whirs to life, a faint hiss crackling through the silence before Chris Redfield’s voice spills out, low and ruined, like a man confessing to a sin he can’t escape.
“You haven’t touched me in eighteen days.”
Wesker’s smirk sharpens, a predator scenting blood. Eighteen days. The precision is almost pathetic, a tally of longing etched into Chris’s voice. Wesker’s fingers tap a slow rhythm against the armrest, a metronome of control. He can picture Chris in that dingy apartment, curled on a worn couch, counting the hours like a prisoner marking time. The thought is… deliciously satisfying.
“I keep thinking about your mouth. About the way you bite when you lose control. You remember that? Or is that just me?”
Chris’s voice trembles, raw with need, and Wesker’s eyes narrow, a flicker of heat stirring beneath his icy composure. He remembers—vividly. The locker room, the heat of Chris’s skin under his teeth, the way he’d arched into the pain, gasping like it was a gift. Wesker shifts in his chair, the leather creaking softly, his gloved hand tightening on the armrest as he forces himself to remain still, to savor the power Chris is handing him on a platter.
“I jerked off in the showers today. I thought about you the whole time. Thought about you bending me over that steel sink again.”
Wesker’s breath catches, a subtle lapse he immediately regrets. The image is searing—Chris braced against the sink, head bowed, muscles taut, the cold metal biting into his hips as Wesker fucked him with ruthless precision. The memory is a spark, igniting something dangerous in Wesker’s chest. His hand drifts to his lap, resting there, not yet moving, but the temptation is a low hum under his skin, growing louder with every word.
“I didn’t finish. Couldn’t. Not without your hand on my throat.”
The admission cuts through Wesker’s composure like a blade. He leans forward, elbows on the desk, his gaze locked on the spinning cassette as if he could see Chris through it—flushed, trembling, unraveling in that grimy shower stall. The thought of Chris failing to find release without him is intoxicating, a testament to the control Wesker wields even in absence. His fingers brush the edge of his tie, loosening it with a slow, deliberate tug, a concession to the heat coiling in his gut, sharp and insistent.
“You left bruises on my hips. I want more.”
Wesker’s eyes darken, pupils dilating as he pictures those bruises—purpling marks against Chris’s tanned skin, a map of his dominance. The idea of adding more, of pressing harder, deeper, until Chris is marked inside and out, sends a pulse of arousal through him. His gloved hand presses against his thigh, the leather creaking faintly, testing his restraint. He can still feel the ghost of Chris’s hips under his palms, the way they’d bucked against him, desperate and yielding.
“Use me like you did after the briefing, remember? When I couldn’t walk straight for two days.”
The memory hits like a drug—post-mission adrenaline, the supply closet, Chris pinned against a shelf, Wesker’s hands ruthless, his control fraying just enough to let something feral slip through. Chris had been a mess, pliant and desperate, his gasps muffled against Wesker’s shoulder as he’d fucked him into oblivion. The next day, Chris had limped through training, every wince a silent reminder of Wesker’s claim. Wesker’s lips part slightly, his breath slower, heavier, as the tape continues.
“I can still feel you, you know. The way you fucked me so hard I forgot my own name. I want that again. I want you to make me beg for it, make me crawl for you, Wesker. I want you to fuck me until I’m screaming, until I’m nothing but yours.”
Chris’s voice drops lower, thick with arousal, and Wesker’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking faintly. The audacity of it—Chris laying himself bare, offering himself up like this—stirs something dangerous in Wesker, a hunger he rarely allows himself to indulge. His hand moves, brushing the front of his slacks, a deliberate graze that sends a jolt through him. He doesn’t give in—not yet—but the heat is undeniable, a fire stoked by Chris’s reckless confessions.
“I keep imagining you there, in the office. Bending me over your desk, ripping my clothes off, fucking me raw until the whole building hears me. I want you to take me apart, Wesker, until I’m a mess you made, until I can’t even stand.”
A low hum escapes Wesker’s throat, unbidden, and he catches it, his lips pressing into a thin line. The image is vivid—Chris sprawled across this very desk, papers scattered, jeans shoved down, his body flushed and trembling under Wesker’s hands. The thought sends a shiver through him, and his fingers curl, nails digging into the leather of his glove as he fights the urge to give in to the heat pooling in his gut.
“I want you to fuck me until I can’t think, until I’m nothing but your slut, your toy, your fucking pet. Call me whatever you want, just don’t stop. I want you to use me until I’m shaking, until I’m begging you to let me come, until I’m sobbing your name.”
Wesker’s breath catches, sharper this time, and he despises the lapse. Chris’s words are a weapon, each one chipping away at his iron control. The raw need in his voice, the way it frays with desperation, is a heady thing, a reminder of the power Wesker holds. His hand presses harder against his slacks, the contact sending a spark through him, but he stops short, his discipline a thin thread holding him together.
“I keep dreaming about your hands. The way they feel when you’re rough, when you don’t hold back. I want you to choke me again, to make me gasp your name. I want you to fuck me so hard I can’t stand, so deep I feel you for weeks.”
The tape hisses, and then there’s a sound—a low, unmistakable moan, the rustle of fabric, the creak of a couch as Chris touches himself. Wesker’s eyes narrow, his pulse hammering as he listens to the soft, desperate sounds, the slick rhythm of Chris’s hand, the ragged edge of his breaths. It’s raw, unfiltered, and Wesker feels it like a current under his skin, electric and dangerous. His gloved hand moves, a slow drag across the front of his slacks, the pressure deliberate, testing the edge of his restraint.
“I want you to tie me up, Wesker. Use those cuffs from the armory. Make it hurt. Make me feel it for days. I want to see your marks every time I look in the mirror, to know you’ve ruined me.”
Wesker’s eyes glint, a predatory edge sharpening his gaze. The image of Chris bound, wrists red from struggling, his body marked and trembling, is almost too much. His hand tightens, a faint tremor betraying the effort to stay still. He can see it—Chris on his knees, head bowed, begging for more, his skin a canvas of Wesker’s control. The thought is a drug, and Wesker’s pulse quickens, his breath coming slower, heavier.
“I want you to fuck my mouth, Wesker. Hold my head and make me take it, make me choke on you. I want to taste you, to feel you lose control for once. I want you to come on my face, to mark me like that, to make me yours in every fucking way.”
The words are a shock, raw and filthy, and Wesker’s control frays further, his hand pressing harder against his slacks, the leather glove creaking as he grips himself through the fabric. The image is searing—Chris on his knees, lips swollen, eyes defiant even as he submits, his face marked with Wesker’s release. Wesker’s jaw clenches, his breath hitching as he fights the urge to give in fully, to let Chris’s voice unravel him completely.
“I want you to punish me, Wesker. Spank me, whip me, whatever you want. Make me earn it. Make me beg until my voice is gone. I want to be on my knees for you, to feel you break me, to know I’m yours even if you throw me away after.”
Chris’s voice is a wreck now, slurred with arousal, and Wesker’s control is a fraying thread. The image of Chris bent over, skin red and welted, begging for more, is a fantasy Wesker didn’t know he wanted until now. His hand moves, gripping himself harder, the pressure a deliberate concession to the heat Chris has stoked. He doesn’t come—won’t—but the thought of Chris broken and pleading is a drug he can’t ignore.
“I’m hard just thinking about it. About you fucking me with that voice—telling me I’m yours, even though you’ll pretend I don’t exist tomorrow.”
The accusation lands like a blade, and Wesker’s smirk returns, colder, sharper. Chris isn’t wrong—Wesker’s indifference is a weapon, honed to keep him off balance, to keep him hungry. But the resentment in Chris’s voice, the way it cracks with need and anger, stirs something in Wesker he doesn’t care to name. His fingers move, a slow, deliberate drag across the zipper of his slacks, the contact sending a jolt through him. He’s too disciplined to give in fully, but the temptation is a live wire, sparking with every word.
“I want you to fuck me in front of a mirror, Wesker. Make me watch myself fall apart, make me see how pathetic I am for you. I want you to spit in my mouth, to tell me I’m nothing without you. I want you to own every fucking inch of me.”
Chris’s voice is barely holding together, raw and desperate, and Wesker’s hand tightens, his breath hitching as the image burns into his mind—Chris on his back, staring at his own reflection, broken and owned, Wesker’s voice cutting through him like a knife. The thought is almost too much, and Wesker’s fingers press harder, a slow, deliberate rhythm, his discipline fraying at the edges.
“I want you to ruin me again, Wesker.”
The name is a prayer and a curse, and Wesker’s jaw clenches, his eyes dark with something feral. He can picture it—Chris broken beneath him, owned, marked, his defiance reduced to whimpers. The thought is intoxicating, a power he craves even as he fights to keep it leashed. His hand presses harder, a slow, deliberate rhythm, but he stops short, his discipline a thin shield against the fire in his veins.
“If you’re not going to answer me, at least do one thing.”
Wesker leans closer to the recorder, his breath slow and measured, but his eyes are locked on the cassette, as if Chris’s voice could pull him through the machine. The defiance in those final words, the challenge, is a spark to dry tinder.
“Play this while you touch yourself. I want you to come to my voice.”
The tape clicks off, the silence deafening, heavy with the weight of Chris’s surrender. Wesker sits back, his chest rising and falling with deliberate calm, but his eyes are dark, glittering with a hunger he rarely allows himself to feel. His hand lingers in his lap, fingers brushing the fabric, a slow, deliberate tease. He doesn’t give in—not fully—but the thought of Chris’s voice, broken and begging, is a temptation he’ll revisit, again and again.
He ejects the cassette, turning it over in his hand, the red mark glaring up at him like a dare. Chris is a liability, a weakness Wesker should crush before it festers. But the tape is a trophy, a testament to his power, and he’ll keep it. He’ll listen again, late at night in this very office, when the world is quiet and his control can slip, just a fraction. When he sees Chris next, he’ll let the silence speak, let Chris drown in his own need, knowing Wesker holds the leash.
Wesker stands, leaving the tape on the desk, the bourbon untouched. The office is silent again, but the air hums with the promise of what’s to come. The game is far from over—it’s only just begun.
💜Thank you for making it to the end.
Reblogs & comments keep me going 🌙
More unhinged fanfiction? I’m on AO3: @RedfieldLegacy
As we wrap up 2025 in the next couple weeks— I wanted to express such a huge amount of gratitude and appreciation for the RWRB fandom.
I came into this year nervous but so excited to share stories I’ve held dear to my heart and to myself for quite sometime. I finally took the leap and you all are just were so absolutely wonderful in responses to them.
Henry and Alex mean oh so much to me and many of you as well. So telling stories with them at the heart of each of them? Oh I was absolutely so overwhelmed.
I started my first fics almost two years ago and now? They’re shared with all of you? Wow. I could weep. 🥹💕
So here is a 2025 wrap up. Again—thank you for all the love and I truly can’t wait to see what 2026 brings for all of us. Ideas, fics, RWRB2??!? I can’t wait for it all.
Here’s a list of my favorites from this year. We truly did so much didn’t we? 💕
—
First Story Posted:
Everything But I Love You
Alex Claremont-Diaz is smart, ambitious, and stuck working under the coldest senior partner at the firm—Henry Fox, who never smiles and only ever calls him Alexander. But beneath the perfectly tailored suits and clipped emails, Henry is barely holding back feelings he’s tried to bury for years.
Workplace banter turns into after-hours tension, and one drunken confession might unravel everything.
Or: Alex thinks his boss hates him. His boss is desperately in love with him.
Favorite One-shot:
Combed Through With Care
Alex is an hour and a half early for his first big job interview in Manhattan and jittery as hell. His sister tells him to breathe. To maybe get a haircut. To pull it together. Which is how he stumbles into Tease—a cozy little salon tucked into a side street with soft lighting, warm tea, and a stylist named Henry who specializes in curls and speaks with a British accent that absolutely should not be that attractive.
It’s just a haircut.
Until it’s not.
Holds The Most Precious Place in My Heart:
Home is Wherever I’m with You
Six months ago, Alex broke Henry’s heart silently, permanently, or so he thought.
Now Henry’s back in New York for one week. Just one. A training rotation. A hospital wing. A life he almost had.
He isn’t supposed to wander.
He isn’t supposed to find the oncology floor.
He isn’t supposed to find Alex thin, pale, sleeping in a bed with a wristband and a diagnosis no one deserves.
But he does. And everything changes.
Now Henry is no longer the doctor.
He’s the man who never stopped loving him.
And Alex (the man who tried to let him go) is still wearing the scars of that choice.
My Favorite Feral Comment Section:
Operation: Claremont-Diaz Collapse
Henry and Alex have been best friends since high school and maybe something more. (If either of them would actually do anything about it.) Enter Pez, who's had enough of watching his best mate pine.
Armed with charm, chaos, and a foolproof plan he's dubbed Operation: Claremont-Diaz Collapse, Pez is determined to get Henry into Alex's bed. Four steps. Zero shame. What could possibly go wrong?
Sooooo bitches I'm not back but I was bored and remember Tumblr existed and out of boredom continued working on my 50k ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ekko fic got tired of it and decided to dedicate a fic to my boo bear Zayne from love and deep space but the question is do you guys wanna read it to ???
Title: Built from Ruin
Pairing: Zayne x Reader
Word Count: ~17k
Summary: You trusted him with everything — your body, your heart, your silence. He said nothing. He watched. And now, nothing can be undone.
Things Said Over Whiskey (968 words) by cathouse_mary
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Wullf Yularen, Gilad Pellaeon
Additional Tags: Drinking, Gossip
Summary: Two old navy men in a bar ten years after RTS.
~
Care (73764 words) by cathouse_mary
Chapters: 25/?
Fandom: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017), Star Wars: Thrawn Ascendancy Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn, Star Wars: Rebels
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Relationships to be added, Pellaeon/Marinith, Pyrondi & Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Thrawn/Pyrondi
Characters: Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Pyrondi (Star Wars), Hammerly (Star Wars), Gilad Pellaeon, Albus Marinith, Voss Parck, Dagon Niriz, Lomar (Star Wars), Agral (Star Wars), Original Imperial Characters (Star Wars), Original Female Imperial Character(s)
Additional Tags: Being Lost, post-Lothal, Whump, injuries, Emotional Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Blankets, No Beta We Die Like Clones
Summary: The 7th fleet is decimated, lost, and trying to survive being abandoned in deep space. Thrawn is recovering from his injuries, his officer corps dead or injured.
~
Love's Sucker Punch (1526 words) by cathouse_mary
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017), Star Wars
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Ilyana Pyrondi/Artur Tagge
Characters: Original Imperial Characters (Star Wars)
Additional Tags: These Idiots
Summary: Artur Tagge meets the most infernal pest.
This is a fanfic of a fanfic of a fanfic - the fanfic of my fanfic is below and I am cocreator because we FAFO this thing.
~
Pyro's Pyrotechnic Love Life (27258 words) by cathouse_mary, Aeon_2407
Chapters: 6/?
Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Thrawn Series - Timothy Zahn (2017), Star Wars: Rebels
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Hammerly/Pyrondi (Star Wars), Ilyana Pyrondi/Artur Tagge, Karyn Faro/Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Agral/Yve (Star Wars), Ezra Bridger/Sabine Wren, Kanan Jarrus/Hera Syndulla, Alrich Wren/Ursa Wren
Characters: Original Characters, Artur Tagge, Pyrondi (Star Wars), Hammerly (Star Wars), Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo, Karyn Faro, Gilad Pellaeon, Agral (Star Wars), Lomar (Star Wars), Yve (Star Wars), Woldar (Star Wars), Cassio Tagge, Domina Tagge, Lapin Tagge, Original Imperial Characters (Star Wars), Original Stormtrooper Character(s) (Star Wars), Chimaera Crew Members (Star Wars), Sabine Wren, Ezra Bridger, Kanan Jarrus, Hera Syndulla, C1-10P | Chopper, Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios, Ursa Wren, Alrich Wren, Tristan Wren, Anakin Skywalker | Darth Vader, Wilhuff Tarkin, Conan Antonio Motti, Wullf Yularen, Sheev Palpatine | Darth Sidious, The Force (Star Wars)
Additional Tags: Established Relationship, Chimaera means family, Sorta angsty at the beginning, but a lot more fluffy and funny later, I promise, No Beta We Die Like Clones, Everyone Is Gay, The Mandalorian Darksaber (Star Wars), Canto Bight | Capital City of Cantonica (Star Wars), Planet Krownest (Star Wars), Clan Wren (Star Wars), Unresolved Romantic Tension, Romantic Angst, Everyone Needs Therapy, Especially Artur, Established Thrawn | Mitth'raw'nuruodo/Karyn Faro, Established Hammerly/Pyrondi, Force Visions (Star Wars), The World Between Worlds (Star Wars), Alternate Timelines, Blood and Injury, Violence, Child Abandonment, House of Tagge
Summary:
What is it about the obscenely rich yet kind and funny officers that has Pyro gravitating to them her entire love life? Luckily, there were only two so far that fit the criteria.
And her ex is transferring to the Chimaera. Not too bad.
Right?
Warning: R18/ slightly dark, explicit, language, smut (i tried.), dub-con, abo dynamic, mentions of restraints, no beta-reader, one-shot. DNI if under 18.
As beautiful and fearless as the unconquered goddess Athena. You were no Aphrodite, give you a shield and an ebony blade any day and you would have the city of Troy falling on your feet. Thus so, you often compared Steve as the reincarnation of Ares, Bucky as Hades himself, misunderstood but having immense capacity for affection, ask Persephone. But you were not Persephone or Aphrodite, you were Athena. Unconquered.
“Peace? And what under Helios would you do with yourself if there’s peace? Be a farmer? You profit from this war as much as I do. You don't want peace, Rogers - you just don’t want to deal with them.”
The team might eat up your little kicked puppy act, but he’s seen better.
You always had a dull interest with Greek mythology, oftentimes they added colour to your language.
Steve had dealt with criticisms his whole life. The latest bane in his life being the existence of you. You angered him, got under his skin, refused to even show a speck of respect. He found you to be shrewd, calculating.
He had sparred with you before, calling you out for puling your punches.
It conflicted Steve to hell and back. He wanted you to be strong, stronger at the same time, he wanted you to trust him, to show him the vulnerable facets of yourself too.
You laced the final eyelet of your boots. Stomping your heel a few times before getting up on your full height. Your back straightening to make yourself seem taller. Even with the boots on, Steve had a whole foot more, towering over you - much to your chagrin.
“No...” You jerked your wrist out of his grasp, rubbing the bruised area, an angry red already forming on the skin. Your lips twisted into a derisive grin. Sometimes you wanted to punch him in his perfect teeth. You really wished you weren’t trying so hard to even your breathing, because the cold frigid air made your rhinitis hurt with each inhale.
“And you’re just a poor attempt of them trying to replicate me.” Steve’s tone held no love or sympathy. You were just a watered-down skillset version of Natasha Romanoff to him.
You levelled your gaze, refusing to back down from his stormy blue ones. He clasped your wrist, firm grip in one hand.
“Listen - .” Steve tried to take a gentler approach. Only to be cut off by your terse tone, you pulled your arm away from him again.
As time cumulated, Steve found himself detesting your existence. It wasn’t natural for Omegas to behave like you. You never have had heats, you never nested. You were never affectionate, at least not to him and that led him to believe that you had purposefully done so.
You bristled at his tone, clamping your mouth shut, any sass toward a reply had escaped you. Of course, you were damaged as an Omega, you weren’t normal. Steve Rogers had the original serum, his perfections, heart, strength amplified, making him the prime species of an Alpha.
Steve Rogers volunteered for the Super Soldier program.
Bucky and you didn’t.
“Hey cupcake. Wonder boy here giving you trouble again?” The voice that could only belong to one person.
Relief washing over you as Bucky saved you. Again. You looked over Steve’s shoulder, brushing past Captain Rogers to carry your feet as quickly as you could manage towards the Winter Soldier. Pulling on the metal arm to tug him along.
“Nothing he hasn’t already done. Let’s go.”
Bucky once confessed to Steve, unsure if his metal hands could afford the barest form of affection toward a dame, yet here he was, affectionately mussing up the braid atop of your hair, your fringe falling forward on your forehead, sticking out in all directions. You swatted his metal arm away, clearly annoyed that you would have to redo your intricate braids.
In the open space of his room assigned in the Avengers compound, you handed Bucky the patches that was wired towards the case of the machine, he mechanically stuck one on the underside of his wrist, another under his left rib. He didn’t miss you stealing glances when he pulled the hem of his shirt to reveal the defined sculpt of his muscles.
“Whatever Steve said, it’s best not to take it too personally. He has a habit of running his mouth and then getting socked in the face after, even before the serum.” You tried to remain impartial, offering a wry smile back at him, that faraway look still etched in your eyes.
You kept your hand steady, holding the glass vial in one hand, injecting it from a secondary tube with another practised hand. This was the part that had his instinct thrumming. Your keen eyes following the trail of the liquid, to every fibre of his being.
You knelt before him on the floor, your eyes sometimes darting between the patch on his wrist to his face, to the screen of the transportable machine. He resisted every urge against his Alpha instinct to lean against the comfort of your touch. Ignoring every thrum and sensation wrecking against his lower region when your hand made contact with the sides of his face, cradling it like a precious artefact, your thumbs absentmindedly massaging the sides of his temples. If he leaned close enough, he could sense lilies in your scent as well. Gently wafting off the pulse point on your wrist.
You caved under the intensity of his gaze. By the way he was brooding and staring at you, was like a wolf keenly staring at his prey, you cleared your throat, trying to stay focused. You brusquely moved your hand away from him the moment the machine started its pulsing beeps, signally the end of the transfusion.
It seemed that he finally found his voice to reply to your question.
“And do... what exactly…?” He leaned forward, you didn’t drink, so inviting you over for a nightcap was close to zero. You rarely spent time in the after-battle revels, preferring the company of Tony’s machines and guided systems. That, and your idea of a hard beverage was coffee without milk.
“Is it just me or are these treatments getting shorter and shorter?” He tried not to let his disappointment show, removing the patch on his wrist and body carefully.
“If you wanted to monopolize my time with you, you could have just asked.” You rolled up the tubes, a knowing smile fully pulling on your lips, bagging it in a biohazard labelled zip lock.
“Hot chocolate?” He offered.
You had the audacity to give him a coy smile.
You were easy to read if one paid enough attention. Tony did say that only Steve had maintained to get under your skin. It seemed that you reserved and directed every ounce of resentment, anger, aversion for the said First Avenger. It was like Steve had a special place in your mind where no one else had. Something about that didn’t feel right with Bucky.
It was worse because Steve will usually just brush him off whenever the assassin tried to pry the reason why he was hell-bent on making Y/n’s life so difficult.
You smacked your lips together, savouring the rich chocolate taste that lingered on your tongue. Bucky got down the milk and chocolate ratio to perfection, you swirled the liquid in your mug watching the swirls and steam rise from the mug.
Bucky had poured himself a dry scotch. Albeit mournful that he can’t get himself to drink into a stupor. The super soldier serum enhanced his metabolism, so no drunk Bucky for you to handle. Eyeing you carefully as you sipped your concocted beverage in peaceful silence.
“What’s going on with you and Steve, really.” He said quietly, pouring himself another from the decanter.
You bit the inside of your cheek. Not knowing how to begin. You took another long sip, appreciating the whiff of vanilla permeating. Bucky really knows how to treat a girl. You turned a furious pink at the thought – no. Bucky’s Steve best friend. That can’t end up well.
“You know him better… you tell me why he hates my guts so much.” Your fingers started to tangle on the chain of your necklace, where it stopped right above the décolleté of your sweater.
Bucky tried to not look where your hand lingered on the necklace. He took a long gulp of his scotch, appreciating the burn on his pain receptors at the back of his throat from this whiskey. Stark’s got good taste. He mused.
Shifting his gaze to your loose curls tumbling on your bare shoulders. If he didn’t know any better, he would think that you were tempting him on purpose.
“He doesn’t… hate you, no. Steve’s… old fashioned, very traditional kind of guy... guess he’s trying to scare you into leaving so you won’t put yourself in dangerous situations anymore y’know?”
“Good thing I don’t scare easy…” You threw him a defiant look, was that a challenge, he wondered.
“Andddd.. that’s where the problem is.” He stated dryly.
You leaned back further into the armchair, taking in his explanation, nursing your hot chocolate delicately, bringing your knees up, finger tracing the rim of the mug. Bucky watching you, entranced, his imagination going so far as to what other … things your fingers could do to him.
“If it really means that much to you…” You surprised yourself on how quiet your voice was, “I’ll try to… tolerate… him, for you.” You placed the now empty mug on the marbled coffee top.
Oh honey, don’t do this to him. You cannot possibly fathom what you were doing to him. You being this submissive was testing his herculean self-control. He wanted to be a good doting, supportive Alpha, everything you had confided in him.
With a newfound bravado spurring your actions, you walked toward where he sat on the chaise lounge sofa. You pressed him into the couch, your hand on his shoulders.
“But I can be so good for you too.” You purred.
Nuzzling your nose in the crook of his neck, taking in the rich leather and cedar scent he gave off. You briefly registered his hand gripping a little too tightly on your waist, the fabric of your sweater bunching in his hold. Absolutely fucking addicted to your sensual vanilla scent. You really did smell like cupcakes, fucking hell, you were his undoing.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ. Lord, have mercy on his soul because he don't think he’d be able to walk out of this one.
His hand travelled to the length of your neck, applying just the right amount of pressure while his mouth got busy, peppering open mouthed kisses all over your exposed shoulder, throat, collarbone.
“That’s right, you’re going to be a good girl for me?” He growled against your skin.
His finger nears your mouth and you suck on it, a carnal moan liberated from your vocal cord.
“Baby…? Look at me…?” He whispers, your lips just inches apart.
Fucking hell, he’d damn his own soul for a taste of you. The small keening noises you made against his hold, keeping you in place when his hand reached the apex of your thigh. Your body warmer than usual, a delirious cloying sweet scent permeating, sticking to every corner of his room. You were in heat. You weren’t thinking. This was purely instinct driven from you.
He rested his metal hand against the back of your neck, feeling your warm breath fanning against his face. Your eyes screwed shut, it must be difficult for you right now… when your instinct and every sense only wanting for one thing. He pulls you close, resting your forehead against his, nose touching.
It barely registered that all of this was occurring and he hadn’t even kissed you yet.
You answered by holding his face in your hands then closing the distance. He kissed you again, gentler and softer. Bucky took his time, vowing to adore you, protect you, do anything for you. He carried you to his bed, laying you down on your back.
You remembered the night falling, Bucky kissing your neck, your hair, whispering something desperate in the morning before leaving you in your second day of heat. There was a rattle of a doorknob, clothes rustling, discarded carelessly on the floor. Your already weak lust ridden body and senses mindlessly reaching out to source of the Alpha musk.
Your fingers pulling on the grey linen of the sheets, your knuckles turning white from your grip. You reached down with your other hand, your fingers running through his hair as he continued his ministrations between your legs, eating you out. You bucked your hips impatiently, earning a growl from the Alpha as his grip on your hips tightened, keeping you in place.
He could eat you up all night, but he was nothing if not an indulgent Alpha for his omega. His desire for you reaching a fever pitch as he pulled your hips flush against his. Your weeping cunt lined against his hard shaft and he pushed himself completely inside of you.
He swallowed your screams into another searing kiss, he bites and nips on your lower lip. Praising you on how good your hot pussy was taking him, how you were tightening so good and how perfect you would carry his pups.
He reached down to adjust your leg over his shoulder, hitting inside you deeper. He let out a guttural groan, your walls tightening around him that had his soul ache for you, had sent your carnal lust into overdrive.
Yes, oh god, yes you needed this. Your Alphas hand covering your line of sight. You wanted his knot; his seed to keep you full. You creamed hard around his cock and he followed soon after, his seed spilling your insides. His knot still keeping him inside of you.
Your alphas hand moved from your jaw, to the side of your head, lovingly dragging his finger against your scalp, your alpha nuzzling against your bare shoulder.
You relished in the aftermath of your second day heat. A gentle, feathery brush of your lips against his forehead…. Your fingers tangling against the muss of dark blonde hair.
Trepidation crawled against your skin. Seeping into your veins and soul. Dark blonde hair?
“… Steve?” You hated how broken and small your voice came out. Feeling the scruff along his jawline as he pressed a soft kiss against your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair away from your face.
It finally dawned on you, Bucky left you that morning, whispering his regret and remorse at having to leave you for a mission, so he had Steve take his place in your heat.
A sob wrecked through you before you could even help yourself, your chest tightening, closing in like a vice around your lungs, the wet streaks your tears left on your face…. this can’t be happening; your distressed scent soured the entire proximity.
“Shhh, we'll take good care of you...” Steve pressed another kiss on your nose, pulling on your shoulders to rub your back soothingly.
“Your Alphas will always take care of you.” Steve observed your reaction, stubbornly pressing the side of your face on his shoulder, refusing to look at him.
He tugged on your hand, pressing his mouth over veins on your inner wrist. Huh… so he is capable of making a tender expression like that, you mused dryly.
The familiar burn still etched in between your thighs, his knot still buried deep, every carnal illogical emotion burns whenever he shifted himself inside of you. Your eyelids grew heavy, before finally letting sleep take over you. Your fingers still loosely clasped in his, your soft even breathing as you were trapped in a slumber.
You were everything Steve and Bucky wanted in an Omega and more. You belonged to him, to them; you were their fated pair.
It finally made sense to him why he felt hostile towards you.
Steve could barely reach out to you and it angered him, frustrated him. Every question he ever had was left unanswered. Had he been too severe? Where had you been? Who hurt you in that mission? Why weren’t you taking better care of yourself? Why had you been avoiding him? Why can’t you just listen and let him explain himself?
You awoke by the rude glare of the sunlight seeping into the bedroom. your hair was a mess, just looking at the love and bite marks littered on your skin. You reached up to scratch the back of your neck, feeling another bump there.
Jesus Christ, was there any part of you that they didn’t mark?
You picked up a grey t-shirt that was carelessly strewn on the floor by the foot of the bed, slipping the material on over your head. You slipped into your loose joggers, tying the string. You straightened your back a little, stretching your tense and sore muscles. There was a knock by the bedroom door.
Steve stood by the frame of the door, looking like Ares reincarnated, crossing his arms, taking in the sight of you.
You nodded, absentmindedly taking the tablet propped on the bedside table. Your fingers scrolling through the interface, a deep frown etched on your face.
Attempting to flatten any flyaway hair, you looked up at him, stifling another yawn with the back of your hand. The scars on your knuckles and hands littering across your skin.
“Is… Bucky home?” You asked softly. The veteran war hero shook his head.
All your assignments, mission recon. None of them showing on your feed.
| Avenger Direct Override: Captain Steve Rogers. |
This self-righteous bastard.
“What is this?” You flipped the tablet around to his view, your confusion evident. You were tempted to hurl the device to his head.
“Safeguards.” As if that explained anything.
You grit your teeth, fully intent on reinstating your withdrawn missions.
You swung the door open to Bucky’s study room, your smacked face first into Bucky's metal arm. You rubbed your nose.
“Whoa, where’s the fire cupcake?” Bucky held onto both sides of your arms, keeping you steady.
“You do realize I am an enhanced, just like you two?” You tried to keep your voice levelled, calm. Bucky touched the side of your face, applying just a bit of pressure to alleviate the migraine you’re currently having.
“My missions, Bucky, my job, they’re gone, its all gone.” You trailed off. You felt like you were doused with cold water. The shock of it all barely registering as you tried to wrap your head around all this. You stared at him, an incredulous look thrown in his direction.
“Of course it is. I made sure of it yesterday. C’mon, back to bed, you haven’t fully rested from your heat cycle yet.” The cold metal under your knees and another warm flesh against your back carried you off your feet. Your back and legs rested against the plush and soft mattress. Your sharp eyes attesting the situation, running a mile per minute.
“I’m sorry, we had no choice.” Was Bucky’s response.
You nodded. “I’m sorry too.”
You slapped a metal cuff whirred around his prosthetic arm, without missing a beat you threw the secondary device on the floor, effectively locking him in place.
Steve's reaction was quicker than you had anticipated, you took a well-placed kick to his center. Throwing Steve off-balance. You had the bedsheets wrapped around your hand, throwing it over his head, twisting and tying it in place with quick precision,
That won’t hold them for long.
They were still super soldiers.
The doors will be barred and locked, you’d be an idiot to try and force your way out that way.
Your eye caught the glint of the red and silver metal, you slung the shield over your arm, the sheer size of it effectively blocking your body. It should.
It will.
Running on instinct to build momentum. Both your arms holding the leather brace, you pushed forward, leaning your weight into the metal shield. The dull shattering of glass nearly made your ears bleed from the point of impact against the vibranium shield.
A four storey drop, Natasha and you had taken worse.
By some form of miracle and perhaps of experience, you had managed to land on your side with the vibranium shield dampening the impact. Knowing full well of its remarkable shock absorbing properties. A visible hollow in the ground where you had fell.
You coughed a choked gasp. Glass cuts on your arms and face. You stood up, a little unsteady, finding the center of gravity to keep you grounded, releasing the vibranium shield from your arm. It fell carelessly on the lawn of the compound.
What the hell – what the hell, you repeated the mantra in your head. You ran, you ran like your life depended on it, the gate proved to be an easy challenge for a skilled climber such as yourself, but landing on your bare feet made the task more laborious.
You would rather be a fugitive, than be a broodmare. You weren’t ready to give up any of it. To be some sort of domesticated … pet for the both of them. You won't. You're a warrior. A soldier.
Pure adrenaline driven by instinct, you aptly realize this wasn't a real 'fight' in a sense, it was a hunt, a test of strength, will.
You tried to recall where Natasha and Tony rigged the places to set intruders off from the Avengers Compound, deterrents as he’d like to call it.
Nope. You set off a boogey and was thrown several feet back. You rolled your body along with the impact.
Motherfu- you bit your lower lip, bearing the pain.
Getting up ungracefully, dusting yourself off, muttering a string of curses. “Damn your boogeys, Stark.” You looked up, trying to find your bearings.
You ducked behind several overlapping tree trunks when the familiar ringing of the vibranium shield all but splintered a hundred-year-old bark.
Jesus Christ - He was trying to kill you, you balked. That tree trunk could had been you. Your heart palpitated. Leaping from the branch, landing on the ground, bending your knees to lessen the impact.
The sight of both prime species of Alphas who you had spent your heat with, blocking your exit. You scanned the perimeter. No way out or back but through.
“You can’t beat us hand to hand.” Bucky slowly walked towards you from the opposite end, in case you tried to make a run for it.
“Yeah, but I can still kick your ass,” you said contemptuously. Bucky shrugged; he can’t argue with that kind of sass.
You punched him, a weak lunge that Steve probably would have seen coming even before he turned super-soldier. He grabbed your fist and threw you over his shoulder.
You groaned, okay, he wasn’t pulling his punches then. The pain was beyond unbearable. The exertion from your Heat Cycle, the lack of nutrients, was starting to affect even your enhanced metabolism.
“Honey, I'm not going to-“
You were aware of the former hydra assassin on your 6, moving towards you. You leaned on your side avoiding the metal arm aiming for your arm before slamming your palm heel into his jaw.
Moving far faster than he could even react, you reared one foot back and brought it up with a powerful kick right to his nose. You were convinced that you could have killed him, but Steve just recovered from his stagger, blood dripping from his nose. He then wiped it clean with the back of his sleeve casually. Not surprised in the least bit.
“– haven’t had a broken nose since Siberia.” Steve mumbled.
Jesus – he heard a crack, and it was definitely from him, definitely bone, had not for his enhancement, that would have been his dislocated jaw.
Bucky’s metal arm shot out to your shoulder and the back of your leg connected to the side of his head, driving your momentum forward to throw him a several feet back.
You dislodged the vibranium shield from the splintered tree. Moving faster than any human should have, you grabbed the leather brace of it, the first swing of your arm, you stopped right before the edge could connect to his throat. Choosing instead to push him away with the broad side of the shield.
You were learning, adapting to their behaviour, fight pattern.
“I can do this all day, honey.” A wolfish grin stuck on his boyish features. He had managed to twist your body into a headlock. The shield still braced against your arm.
“I can’t.” You struggled through clenched teeth, your speech impended by your breath hitching, your lungs struggling to keep the oxygen intake.
“Drop the shield, and we won’t punish you.” Bucky’s coarse voice responded.
Though it spurned his Alpha on, loving the hunt, the challenge, he didn’t think it would be wise to push your limits any further. Not especially in your post-heat cycle where your condition could be so delicate.
You dropped the vibranium shield, the loud sonorous metal rang in your ears. Your shoulders slumping.
Steve’s grip loosening, still holding your shoulder and neck in place. Bucky taking your chin between his thumb and index finger.
“Fought like a true warrior of Athena.” He watched your resolve shattering, lip quivering utterly defeated. You’re defeated because out of Steve and Bucky, the former hydra operative gets you.
He knew how hard you’ve trained, seen your work up-close, recon, takedowns, destabilize, neutralize.
“Cupcake, we never said you can’t take on missions anymore. You can always tag along with us.”
Steve arched a brow, don’t lie to her. “I don’t think so, I’m tempted to just suspend her indefinitely for insubordination.”
Your muscles tensed and coiled like a spring under the First Avenger’s grip. His hand clenched harder against your shoulder, you whimpered, your knees nearly buckling at the shot of pain bursting through your shoulder sockets.
“But maybe she needs to do something for us, as an act of good faith that she’d be able to behave.” Steve rasped into your ear; his gravelly voice held no room for dispute. It was the Captain America tone.
You hissed, clearly not appreciating his concern. The flecks of amber in your irises glowed, your Omega instinct still on high alert.
You were exhausted, spent, cut, bruised and sure you had a broken rib, call it intuition, or... just the blaring pain whenever you shifted or moved your side. Bucky titled your face, clicking his tongue at the long cut that started from your temple to your jaw.
“Let’s have Dr Cho look at you on this. Make sure it doesn’t scar.” His concern was visibly etched onto his face. Turning your face again, his fingers against your scalp for any bleeding or bumps that may lead to a concussion.
“We can treat you good, so good...” Steve brought his arm lower, resting his warm palm low against your stomach and Steve always delivers on his promises. Pulling your back flush against his chest.
“Steve’s Rut and mine are usually about the same time. This time round, we’ll have you to help us get through it.”
You were resisting in his hold, Steve didn’t want to have to dislocate your shoulder, he whispered hotly against your ear. Nuzzling against the back of your nape, rubbing his scent on you. He pheromones calming the rage in you, subduing you.
Your arms were sore not from carrying the vibranium shield but the sheer resistance and force of from Steve, to bracing the impact of the four storey drop. You had cuts and scuffing all over you’re the soles of your bare foot and arms.
Bucky knew more than he let on. This was more than just a little rebellious streak.
Primarily you were an Omega. It’s embedded in your biology, the behaviour and traits dating back before the birth of Christ himself, the strongest Omega would only mate with the Stronger Alpha. If he breaks or yields, he fails in his conquest to have her.
You must had felt confused, winning every conquest close to three decades of your life. Not finding an Alpha who could best you. Not knowing what to do. Barely finding a reason why you weren’t like most Omegas.
They heard your soft sniffle, suppressing every ounce of emotion to keep your eyes dry from the tears threatening to spill forth.
“Hot Chocolate?” Bucky bent forward, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear like he always does when you’re upset. Lifting your chin with a finger to look at him. Your face crumpled, nodding a few times before the dam breaks. Steve bending his knees to your height to pick you up in his arms as you covered your face in his shirt and wept.
(epilogue).
A sudden movement in the corner of your eye had your hairs standing.
You poured the melted butter into the peanut butter paste, mixing it until smooth, following the simple steps on the tablet, you methodically poured and mix carefully. Once done, carrying the tray to the fridge. Wiping your dirty hand against the clean towel hanging by the oven.
“Had to turn around, said he forgot something” Her reply was instantaneous.
“Jesus! Mary and Moses. Please grant Natasha Romanoff the blessing to not give other people near heart attacks.” Natasha raised a brow, swiping the Callebaut chocolate off a bowl before licking it off her fingers.
Talk about language, you've been spending way too much time with Steve.
“Where’s Steve?” You gave the empty living room a once over.
"He dropped me off, then said he was going to circle back 'cause he forgot something." She gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Bucky?”
“Said we needn't wait on him, went to pick something up. Anywho, Steve and Bucky is being pretty tight lipped about your 6 months sabbatical, you wanna tell me about it?” Natasha had trouble speaking with rich semi-sweet chocolate sticking to the roof of her mouth.
“Just... taking a break I guess.” Your turn to shrug your shoulders, serving her small portion of the dish you just made to a side-dish bowl.
“Yeah.. to make … some half-cookie half-brownie Frankenstein monstrosity – Clint took the whole tray back home to give it to his kids.”
“What a shame.” You said wryly.
Your mentor gave you the side eye, stabbing another forkful of chicken casserole pasta in her mouth. “Yep, Tony nearly waged the second civil war for that last tray.” Natasha brought the glass of water to her mouth. Washing her mouth pallet.
“Wow, a second civil war? Better not tell Steve.” You remarked dryly.
“Tell me about it, we could use your help this time, you know.” Natasha gave you a kicked puppy look, batting her thick lashes. You looked at her from over your shoulder from where you were drying the plates onto the dish rack, your lips twisting into a sardonic smile of your own.
You gingerly took out the first tray of the infamous brookies bars, skillfully cutting it with a chef’s knife, packing it carefully in a lock&lock before stuffing the container in a paper bag.
You brought your finger to your lips, “For you and Tony, Don’t tell Clint.” You gave Natasha a conspiratorial grin, she knew you would take their side.
You bet money that Natasha would kill to see you go against Bucky and Steve in a little scuffle
If only she knew.
Flipping the handle of chef’s knife in your hand , before hanging the blade on the super-magnetic bar on your kitchen wall.
No doubt your skills have only improved over the years, honed and refined.
Knowing Bucky, he probably trained you himself.
“You’re an angel and none of them deserve you.” She pulled the bag closer to her person.
“Are you proposing?” You leaned forward, just content to watch her eat. Resting your face against both of your palms, elbows leaning on the tabletop. She eyed your child-like gesture, the twinkle of innocence gleaming in your rounded eyes.
“Tony would had, had a whole Winston ring and Manhattan apartment with your name on it too.” Natasha answered, still sour over the fact that Steve and Bucky had kidnapped her protégé right under her nose.
She also blames you because Tony was being an insufferable prick for the past few months. Bemoaning why his goddess Athena would ever think to leave with the Manchurian Candidate and Star Spangled Man with a Plan.
“Jesus Christ, ring’s bling bigger than my future, price tag too….” You shook your head, Tony’s exuberant over-indulging tendencies never failing to shock you.
“Yeah, but you always seem more Tiffany-ish anyway, that's what I told Tony.” She pointed … to well, all of you with the fork. You felt offended by that.
You fished out the thin box chain necklace from under the neckline of your blouse, a simple flat 24K gold band set with a humble brilliant cut diamond attached. The stark screw indentation on the ring recognizable to any person.
"Cartier, nice." Natasha gave a slow nod.
You tilted your head slightly toward the sound of front gate of the driveway sliding open.
That would be Steve. He dropped the keys into the porcelain bowl on top of the shoe cabinet.
Natasha had counted at least 3 vehicles parked in your garage. Steve’s Harley bike, Bucky’s R8, and the black Chevy Camaro which was supposedly yours but Steve used the Camaro to run his errands as well.
“Hey honey, sorry I’m late, they were out of white chocolate, had to circle back to Maison– what… did I miss?” Steve was very not used to seeing Natasha pausing mid-chew to stare at his mate. You did your habit of tangling the chain that held your gold band between your fingers, a wide Cheshire grin on your face.
Decidedly choosing to ignore it, he pressed a kiss on top of your head before heading towards the bedroom to get himself changed.
Bruce picked Natasha up after dinner and dessert, she hugged you so tightly you were concerned if she was trying to check on your muscle mass or something.
Bucky clamped his lip shut. Knowing that Steve would be more apt to break the news to you.
Bucky and Steve then led you to sit on plush lounge. You knew what they wanted to ask. You tried to mask your disappointment.
“I know – my heat is supposed to be today – but sometimes its late, it happens.” They knelt in front of you. Steve takes your face in his hands, pulling you forward to kiss your forehead, nose and mouth, swallowing whatever retort or excuses you had from him, you had this irrational habit of overthinking things.
“The reason why you’re very late on your Heat Cycle is because you’re … very pregnant, honey.” Your jaw slacked. The affectionate tone he had for you, the warmth of his palm against the front of your stomach.
That was one way to drop the metaphorical bomb. You drew in a sharp breath, well – that was one way.
The baby blues of his eyes gleamed, he was so close he could see the refraction in the amber flecks of yours as well. The permanent side-effect due to the enhancement you underwent.
You wanted to be happy, you are happy but -
You felt normal, there wasn’t any morning sickness or particular cravings or mood swings. It was too normal – was there something wrong? –
“Hey hey hey, its fine, you’re fine, the baby is fine, you just happen to be the lucky few mommas not feeling nauseous.” Bucky rubbed the inside of your wrist soothingly. Steve rubbed your lower back, you wanted to tell Steve that it was still early for you to be having lower back aches, but you didn't find the heart to tell him that.
A child, your child. Yours, you held the divine right to protect the life of your offspring.
Then you broke into a smile of your own. A hand you placed protectively over your still flat stomach.
A fierce sense of pride overcame Steve and Bucky, watching your maternal instincts already settling well.
Bucky settled on kissing the inside of your palm, rubbing your knuckles in gentle circular motions with his thumb. Steve nuzzling in your scent gland, basking in your mellow vanilla fragrance. Bucky pulled your legs over his lap, and right past the sight of him...
