#tw dddne

[slutdier]

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

alpha!bucky barnes x fem!omega!reader

word count : 17,9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky 9:56am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t stop looking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he does.

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

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

And something inside him is finally starting to crack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s still in the water. Staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn’t do this.

He knows he shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He opens the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate, brows furrowing. “Scent thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not one-sided.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer. Of course not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t stir. Peaceful. Claimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He still feels like a monster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One last deep, clumsy thrust.

The knot catches.

Swells.

Locks.

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

And that’s when your eyes flutter open.

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

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

“Bucky…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not even an inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches. “You never told me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attic is quiet again.

But the silence feels different now.

It feels like home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.

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

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

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

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

“Buck- what-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room goes dead silent.

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

No one says a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You already-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one ruins the moment.

It’s yours.

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh and lean into him.

The morning continues.

Normal.

Except it’s not.

It’s better.

It’s yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer with words. Just lunges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, the attic room feels different too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he says softly.

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

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

The attic is quiet again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky-”

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes.

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

Then he starts to move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attic is quiet again.

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

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

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

[privmadonna]

CANINE LOVE

leon s. kennedy + fem!reader

-> summary: in which leon finds his beloved puppy girl’s weakest breaking point.

♡ content warnings: dubcon, porn with no plot, owner!leon, hybrid!reader, age difference, prone bone, breeding kink, creampie, clit stimulation, slight orgasm denial, cockwarming near the end.

♡ notes: made this short little puppy girl drabble based off a thought i had since i rlly can’t get enough of her… also the intro for this was kinda rewritten from a deleted fic of mine that i posted here cause i loved it way too much to let go so it’s not plagiarism of any sort lol, comments & rbs are always loved!

Good pooches go to grateful men with open arms and gaping hearts, bad pups are left tied to cages whimpering, throwing their heads back, learning to be tough and put their paws down in faces of retaliation.

If you had told Leon, two, four years ago that he’d been victimized in such an unpredictable predicament as this one, he’d go straight to making the assumption that you were lying. He’d kick you to the curb, whining and flattened-ear while so-desperately trying to convince him otherwise. Nonsense was on a short fuse with his aging tolerance, and that was an obvious observation you’ve grown used to in your time under his pliable care.

But he hasn’t, or rather, can’t bring himself to resort to such blatant cruelty. Leon can be one hell of a bastard, though there’s certain boundaries that aren’t meant to be crossed. That’s why he’s succumbed to a tender, more defeated alternative—forcing you naked on your stomach in a way that mimics a position of prey, an uncontrollable mutt he worships so devoutly to the point that is inexplicable.

You were brought into his life willingly, and he would not let that go to waste. Especially when you’ve got a brattish streak coded in like DNA, a nice pair of complementary tits, and a pussy that’s tighter than any whore or adverse soul he’s had the misfortune of taking past first base. You’re got all the things a man needs in life—a wife, a man’s best friend, a means to blow some steam off.

“I know, I know it’s hurting, pup, but focus here,” Leon, your owner, the one man who has simultaneously a gentle hand and a crushing fist that explodes in a splotch of bruise-kissed pleasure, reaches down to cup your jaw and reel your head back over one shoulder, “you wanted this, you asked for this—can’t be giving up on me now.”

A mere sniffle is the most he earns at first, wiggling hips poking back against his deep, consistent thrusting hips as your face paints a portrait of utter dumbification, ears pulled back in a weakened sway while a lewd trail of drool paints one edge of your mouth, “It’s too much, Leon,” you whine, brows furrowing in something that’s not quite aggression but a false show of resistance, “I can’t, I really can’t!”

“Don’t say it like that,” he points out almost monotonously, shaking his head disapprovingly and taking the time to brace his stance, knees sinking and molding under the weight of his broad, bare form, “makes me sound like a bad guy, a rapist, or something,” as he uses the hand splayed at your back to get himself deeper, eliciting a stupefying pleasure that wraps around your hipbones and traverses up the arched column of your spine, “you really think of me that way, sweetheart?”

Yes, god, in all honesty, yes, is what you had initially wanted to blurt out, however you must remember that you’re only a lowly pooch—opinions didn’t necessarily matter unless they were beaten out of you or when it came to knowing what hole would be the best for sticking his dick in for that day, so you simply stick with: “No, never,” simple and straight to the point, tail swishing back across his sheen abdomen.

For once, a genuine grin breaks out on that stupidly sculpted, dignified face of his—not snarky and full-of-shit—but genuine. The real deal. You watch it spread like the most infectious of plagues once he fully processes your words, the whole front row view considering his hand is kept as a sort-of mantle still cupping your chin. Albeit unnerving, you can’t help but feel a sense of pride thrum at your heartstrings; you lived off of his approval, made your stomach feel ten times lighter, puts a means to fall in as a devotee to whatever cult he’s coerced you into. This must’ve been love.

Given that, Leon finally releases your head and allows it to fall back to the pillow that your arms keep a tight embrace onto. Nails digging into the cotton cover, your near-grown-in canines join in and drag along the soft surface as you feel your walls instinctively clamp down on his relentless cock. There’s an audible, hearty groan that falls from his thrown back head and agape lips before you feel him succumb to the same ecstasy he inflicts upon you—his upper body bending as much as it could to kiss your shoulder, his hips taking on a more brutal rhythm and drilling the leaking tip of his cock against the opening of your cervix.

You smother your face into the pillow as the raw seams of pleasure begin peeling back, trickling on your skin as these scorching burns that are sent down to your core. It intensifies the stretch of your pussy around him, how his affectionate lips are now moving down from your shoulder and following a path down your back, planting his ardent love at every crevice, dip, and curve that makes up the girl (puppy, lover, whatever you could or were to him) which is kept so dearly close to his usually closed-off heart.

His cock ravages your insides, pounding right up against your cervix and gets you completely drunk on him, him, him. It only was him, and most likely was going to stay like that until god knows how long. Until he loses himself to the alcohol, until his lungs fill with so much smoke that he cannot help but surrender, until his tortured psyche is laid to rest once his physical body lays in the bed of soil that would soon come to embrace him as its own. By leash and collar, you were bound to his wrist for life, sitting at his feet and laying your head on his thigh like the most compliant of creatures. You loved him, where the air was charged with lust and nothing moral of the sort, but still so undoubtedly loved him.

He finds one of your spread hands face-down by its palm on the mattress, intertwining your smaller fingers in a bondage-grip with his. The other hand plants at the shoulder he had previously lavished his affection on, acting contrastingly harsher and forcing you down further into the bed. As your tits are left flattened to the delicate linen, you lift your heart-curved ass to his pelvis, assuming a more exaggerated position which seems to do the trick in your favor. His quivering, bulky thighs move slightly to cage your lower half in, and that alone has you gone—drilling cock emitting an audible squelch each time you collide with one another.

The dissonance of your high-pitched moans go far beyond recognition that you’re not even sure if you were yourself anymore. Desperate and fucked-out, your jaw hangs slack while you feel your eyes rolling into your head, tail going to curl around his abdomen as if trying to bring him impossibly closer. Leon, with his head picked back up and chest hunched over docile body, grunts at the array of fur sticking to his stomach adhesively. Big mistake on your part.

Curiously, he releases your shoulder and does his absolute best to untangle your tail from around him. Once he frees himself from you, Leon gives a single experimental tug that manages to make everything about your barely-hanging-on composure collapse in an instant. A pitiful whimper bubbles from the depths of your throat, soon evolving into repetitive moans the more he uses this newly-found weakness to his advantage. His hips grow meaner, rougher, everything and anything that could tip you over the edge, and your pussy is nothing but unhelpful to the matter; squeezing, molding to his shape, taking him inside as if you never wanted to let go.

Suddenly the hook of fingers delved into your collar sends your head back again, putting you cheek to smoldering cheek with him, “That’s got you going, huh, little lady?” he cooes in sickly affection, “c’mon, tell me you love me.”

“I… I love you,” you spit out in a garble structure of speech, gasping for any sort of relief while his thrusts are occupied with sending you forward up the mattress, nearly busting a lip on the creaking headboard.

Another sharp tug sends needle-point prickles across your skin, coarse fingers pulling at the bouquet of fluff before so crudely heading southwards, spreading your puffy pussy lips apart to get to your deepest point. Somehow that hadn’t been enough for him, because if it were, he wouldn’t be torturously pulling your hood back, or rubbing messy, disorderly circles onto your throbbing nub. Who knew you had ended up in the claws of someone so utterly cruel? That’s all Leon was to you now—cruel, cruel, cruel. A cruel, coldhearted bastard that had left an impression on your poor, codependent heart.

He breathes against your cheek, reeking in a fog of tobacco and leftover whiskey, “Ain’t enough, baby, I can tell your heart’s not in it,” his voice seems to come in through clenched teeth and in free intervals that weren’t taken by low grunts, standing in as evidence that he had been getting off on your torment this whole time, “tell me how much you really love me.”

Doe-eyed and sniveling in a display you no longer cared how pathetic you looked, your lips found his in an intricate tangle of tongues and teeth and saliva that stuck to his gray-flaxen stubble scratching your own mouth. With your eyes closed, the kiss had almost felt… purely romantic, in a way. The type of kiss that you’d share on New Year’s as the clock hand struck midnight, or at a big wedding reception on the happiest day of your life in an all-white gown. As sloppy as it was, no words could compare to how you profess your love for him in such a manner—swapping muscles and moans that were the most intimate of gestures. He even holds your jaw in support, no longer treating you like the mutt you were and holding you by the collar edge.

“Not a bad start,” he chuckles, parting away for a moment, “gotta work for your keep, though.”

You stare crescent-eyed and unblinking, “You’re the only one for me,” you say and it’s embarrassing how borderline pathetic he makes you, “my heart doesn’t know any other, I swear, I do my best for you, I love you, I love you—“ then you’re back to slobbering over his mouth, determined and feeling that sense of carnality crawling up your back.

Whispers of love you, love you, love you and the breathiest ah’s unravel from your tongue between kisses, the alternation between his circular ministrations at your clit and the harsh wrenches of your tail feeding into your profuse tenderness for him. No matter how harsh, how violent, and how truly savage he got—you knew it would all come back down to love in the end. That’s what you’ve been taught, anyway.

Love was not always supposed to be soft and gentle. It could be a nasty, spiteful, down-to-earth thing, and you’d take it against your budding chest just the same. In his case, he drags his sentiment through the dirt, gets it roughened-up and polluted just for it to inevitably soften around the edges once it came to the right person at the right time. Slowly melting and shaped to fit your own love for him.

Leon sighs and thinks his limbs are about to give out, to which he tells you: “Awe hell, can’t stand seeing my girl like this, breaks my heart,” that staccato rhythm of his grows harder and more punishing to your liking, “go ahead, pup, give it to me.”

Where a blissful tranquility envelops you in a warm blanket and sends signals of ecstasy to your core, it was no surprise that your breaking point soon came crashing over you. With your mind going blackout dark, you swore you could’ve counted the stars in your vision, speckles of static clouding over your vision as the voice found in your throat reaches a pitch that startled yourself.

The next thing you knew you were wrapped up in his arms as always, flat hand stroking your hair back, ears included. Your face no longer lays on his ruined pillow but instead the mountainous range of his chest, sticky and warm and heaving from the sheer velocity he worked himself to near-death with. Would’ve been nice to be there when he filled you up, but what’s done is done, all you can do is be thankful for the after-feeling; his warm, potent load kept plugged inside thanks to how you two are kept connected to each other.

“Was I good? Did I do good?” you suddenly yiff, nearly startling him with the way you pick your head up, ears high-tide atop your head.

He sighs, an exhausted smile pulling at the corners of his lips, “Real good as always, pup,” his fingers come to scratch at that spot amid your two ears and that does it for you.

You’d never be the trophy wife, or the cherished daughter that he’d be sending off to a boarding school once the peaks of her adolescent starting giving brief hints to, but something caught in the snares of similarity to that. Something special, a once in a lifetime experience. His growing girl, his best friend he’d keep right in the center of hollowed heart eye for as long as his heart bled its standoffish fondness for you.

[kurekoii]

Zuko who loves fucking who all the time(yes all the time)

stepping into darker themes if you dont like it please go to my other works

!tw: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat,somo,breeding,impreg,degrading,petnames,cnc??,etc

The first rays of dawn filter through the heavy silk curtains of your royal chambers in the Fire Nation palace, casting a warm, golden glow over the expansive bed where you and Zuko lie entwined. You're his wife, the Fire Lord's queen, and even in sleep, you look utterly ravishing—curled up on your side, your body draped in his oversized royal sleeping robes. The deep crimson fabric clings to your curves, the sash loosely tied, leaving just enough skin exposed to tease him. Zuko stirs first, as he always does, his long black hair splayed across the pillows like a dark halo. His golden eyes flutter open, and immediately, that familiar heat surges through him. He's rock hard already, his thick cock throbbing against the thin sheet that barely covers his hips. Every morning, without fail, he wakes up like this—aching for you, his dirty little secret being how much he loves taking you while you're still lost in dreams.

He shifts closer, his breath hot against the nape of your neck as he presses his body flush against yours from behind. One strong arm snakes around your waist, pulling you back into him so you can feel the rigid length of his erection grinding against your ass through the robes. You're still asleep, soft breaths escaping your lips, oblivious to the predator in your bed. Zuko's hand slides up, cupping one of your breasts over the silk, his thumb circling your nipple until it hardens into a peak. 'Fuck, my pretty slut,' he murmurs low, his voice rough with sleep and lust. 'Look at you, wearing my robes like a good little wife. Makes me want to ruin you before you even open your eyes.'

He doesn't wait for permission—somnophilia is his vice, and you're his willing victim in these stolen moments. His fingers deftly untie the sash of the robe, parting the fabric to expose your naked body beneath. No undergarments, just like he prefers. He groans softly as his hand roams lower, dipping between your thighs to find your pussy already warm and slightly damp from the night's dreams. 'Always so ready for me, aren't you? Even in your sleep, this greedy cunt knows who owns it.' He spreads your folds with two fingers, stroking your clit in slow, deliberate circles while his cock nudges insistently at your entrance. The tip leaks pre-cum, smearing against your skin as he positions himself.

Zuko thrusts in slowly at first, savoring the way your unconscious body yields to him. Your walls clench around his girth, tight and hot, pulling him deeper inch by inch until he's buried to the hilt. He bites back a moan, his long hair falling forward to brush your shoulder as he starts a lazy rhythm—pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in, each stroke stretching you open. 'That's it, take your husband's cock like the filthy whore you are,' he whispers, his free hand tangling in your hair, gripping a fistful but not pulling yet. He keeps talking, his words a filthy litany meant to seep into your subconscious. 'I know you're dreaming of me filling you up, breeding this perfect pussy until you're swollen with my child. My queen, my cumdump—gonna knock you up again and again.'

Your body responds even in slumber, hips twitching back against him, a soft whimper escaping your lips as he picks up the pace. The wet sounds of his cock plunging into your slick heat fill the room, mingling with his ragged breaths. Zuko's other hand kneads your breast roughly, pinching the nipple hard enough to make you gasp in your sleep. He leans in, lips brushing your ear. 'Wake up, princess. Time to feel me fuck you properly.' But he doesn't stop—oh no, he drives deeper, his hips snapping forward with more force now, the bed creaking under the assault. Your eyes finally flutter open, hazy with confusion and building arousal, only to widen as pleasure crashes over you.

'Z-Zuko?' you murmur, voice thick with sleep, but he silences you with a sharp tug on your hair, yanking your head back to expose your throat. He bites down there, not gently, marking you as his while he pounds into you relentlessly. 'Shh, my dirty girl. Just lay there and let me use this tight hole. You've been teasing me all night in those robes—now pay for it.' His degrading words send a thrill through you, your pussy fluttering around his thick shaft as he talks you through every thrust. 'Feel that? That's my cock claiming what's mine. Gonna stretch you wide, make you beg for my seed. You want it, don't you? Want me to pump you full until it drips out, until your belly swells with our heir.'

He rolls you onto your stomach without pulling out, his weight pinning you down as he mounts you like an animal in heat. His long hair curtains around your face as he grabs another handful, pulling hard to arch your back. The new angle lets him hit deeper, his balls slapping against your clit with every brutal plunge. 'Fuck, you're soaking me, you needy slut. Listen to that—your pussy's weeping for my cum. Tell me how much you love waking up to your king's dick buried inside you.' You moan, pushing back against him, the somnolent haze giving way to full-blown ecstasy. Zuko's hand snakes under you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing furious circles, forcing you toward the edge. 'Come on, princess. Milk me dry. Show me what a good breeding bitch you are.'

The pressure builds unbearably, his cock dragging against that spot inside you over and over, his dirty talk pushing you higher. 'Imagine it—my seed taking root, your tits heavy with milk, body all soft and round from carrying my child. That's what you were made for, isn't it? To be fucked full every morning, every night, until you're dripping with me.' He growls, pace faltering as his own release nears. With a final, savage pull on your hair, he slams in deep, grinding against your cervix. 'Take it all, my love—every drop for that fertile womb.' Hot spurts of cum flood you, creaming your pussy as he holds himself there, pulsing inside you. The sensation tips you over, your orgasm ripping through you in waves, walls clamping down to wring him out.

Zuko collapses over you, still twitching, his lips pressing soft kisses to your shoulder now that the frenzy has passed. But even as he softens slightly inside you, he doesn't pull away—letting his cum stay plugged deep, just how he likes it for his breeding fantasies. 'Good girl,' he murmurs, voice tender now amid the degradation. 'My perfect wife. Ready for round two once you're awake enough?' He chuckles, nuzzling your neck, already stirring with that insatiable morning hunger.

please dont come for meee

also should i continue work like this or should i maintain what i was doing

did you like itt?

yes

no

Voting ended onApr 19

[slvttynay]

olderbrother!gojo

mdni- somno, dubcon, incest, all characters are of age

imagine olderbrother!gojo who creeps into your room at night while your sleeping to help find some relief for his rock hard cock that he woke up to.

you’re already lying on your back, so all he did was remove the blanket and slide up your nightgown. praise the dirty gods that you weren’t wearing underwear.

you were still slick from having played with yourself before falling asleep. your olderbrother!gojo pulled out his long length and hovered over your sleeping body. he lowered down until he was parallel to your slit.

gojo spread open one of your thighs a little and sank down between your folds, like a hotdog in a bun.

minutes gojo sat there feeling your juices roll down the sides of his cock. he slowly moved back and forth, his precum mixing with your slickness.

you stirred in your sleep “shhh go back to sleep babygirl. it’s just a dream. big brothers just fixing his problem. go back to sleep” he cooed at you. his words breathless from the feeling of his twitching cock between your folds.

you nestled back into your pillow and went back to sleep, but gojo could have sworn he could feel you ever so slightly rolling your hips to meet his thrusts. god how hot you were- playing the sweet little sleeping sister, when secretly you’re awake and wanting nothing more than to grind back until you were shaking.

he could feel his high approaching, but didn’t want to leave you without anything. he reached one hand down to the top of your slit and started making soft circular motions right in the edge of your clit. the teasing and bumping making you jerk your hips up into him.

you were clenching around nothing, legs tensing. a quick, yet powerful orgasm took over you right before your olderbrother!gojo sprayed your stomach with his hot white seed.

he collapsed on you, breathing as if he just ran a marathon. in a way his weight was comforting.

you both fell asleep, but when you awoke the next morning you were alone and wiped clean from the previous nights events.

[wenoswhore]

hide & seek. ۪✿ | ˖◛⁺⑅♡ b.ej. |. 𝓟airing: wolf!ej x fem!reader

໑ ׄ ۪✿ ݁ ⑅ w.c 1.6k ெ˚❀ smut, knotting, fingering; dddne

Ever since you moved to this murky little town, where most of the houses are owned by the ‘wolves’ (what ever the fuck that means), you’ve found yourself checking over your shoulder every few minutes, even inside your own home. Especially there, the tacky place that you managed to rent for far too cheap. Supposedly, someone died there…

…or was mauled, by an unknown creature.

You told yourself the landlord was bullshitting yet, the gnawing sense of dread never seems to leave you.

After a long shift at the dingy library, you rush home, the sun went down hours ago. The wind bites at your skin. Your teeth chatter uncontrollably. Your feet pick up the pace as you enter the alleyway, the one that you have to take, to walk through, to get home…the one that leads to the forest. Wrapping your arms around yourself, hugging, grounding. Heels clicking against the concrete. The trees loom closer.

Then…

a low vicious growl.

You freeze.

Chest now heaving, you swallow the lump in your throat, looking into the dark forest, something stares back at you that you can’t quite make out. Two bright glowing orbs, lights? No?

…eyes.

You scuffle back

thwack

Your back hits something solid, your shaky eyes look up, a meek squeal leaves you.

“Y/n?”

The figure tilts his head at you, “what are you doing out so late?”

The familiarity of your neighbour’s rich, velvet voice soothes you.

“E-euijoo?”

His tall slender build moves to look at you, a cigarette balanced lazily between his fingers. You step back cautiously, his ravenous eyes taking in your doe ones. A smirk etches on his face, canines barring.

“You know…”

He steps closer. Lowering himself to meet your gaze. His voice drops down an octave.

“I’d hate for my pretty little neighbour to get hurt because she can’t follow curfew.”

His long fingers tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “n-no! i-was at work…i just…”

“You just what?!…”

He tilts his head.

“Hmm?”

The silence stretches.

“You know what happens to girls who don’t listen. Naughty girls?”

He pauses.

“They get punished”

Tears well at your eyes, hand coming up to clutch his shirt feebly “E-euijoo, i swear, i’m just trying to get home.” His eyes darken at the formation of gloss at your beautiful huge eyes, his thumb roughly drags against your cheek, his brow raises mockingly. “Then let’s get you home.” His hand wraps around your arm, gripping but not entirely enough to hurt just yet.

Your feet drag against the forest floor, branches snapping at every step. “Eh…euijoo, this isn’t the way home…”

His grip on you tightens, his nails digging into your arm now.

“Ow! That hurts…let go!”

He stops.

Slowly.

He turns, closing in on you.

Your spine hits the rough bark of a tree. Caging you in, his large veiny hand braces beside your head.

“Y/n…”

His voice rough, sounding more like a growl.

His thumb drags against your bottom lip, nowhere near gentle, just enough pressure to make you flinch.

“I’m trying to be patient with you.”

His grip tightens, his strength inhumane. Your chest heaves, his hazy eyes staring down at you, pinning you against the tree.

“Don’t make me forget that.”

“What if i want you to forget?”

The words leave your mouth before you can stop them. His thumb presses harder onto your lip, dragging it down slightly before letting go. He shifts closer, his entire front against yours.

His smirk so wide, his sharp teeth glint in the moonlight. “Oh yeah?”

“You wouldn’t last a second, sweetheart”

Your fingers tremble against his shirt, the feeling of his entire front making you squirm, he can practically taste your arousal. “I-i’m not afraid of you.” He laughs, amused, his broad shoulders shake. Immediately, his eyes narrow as he tilts his head at you again; a habit that he’s made up when he studies his prey. “You’re so adorable…but so very wrong.”

Suddenly he pushes your wrists above your head, pinning you to the tree. “You think because you’re so wet you can take me?”

His voice drops. Lips pressed against your tear, “oh sweet girl, you’re dumber than i thought you were.”

His lips move down to your face, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, then your neck.

Then…

His teeth bare, sinking down without warning, a shrill escapes your throat, blood cascading down your body. You can feel him smirk against your neck, as he rips himself away from you. Writhing in his hold, his hands still holding you down.

“Still think you can handle it now?”

“You stupid little deer”

He pulls back momentarily to look at your face, brows furrowed, cheeks stained with tears. He licks a long stripe against your neck, gathering the blood on his tongue.

“Tell you what…let’s play a little game.”

“A-a game?”

“Yes! A game!”

His voice booms through the forest, your shoulders flinch, as he moves closer, if that was even possible. His face so close to your own.

“O-okay…”

He yanks you forward by your long locks, gripping your head into his chest. “Good girl.” He growls.

“Hmm…how about hide and seek? Except if i find you…you’re dead.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, that bastard smirk still adjourned onto his face. “W-what?”

He lets out a loud laugh, booming “god, you’re so thick, i’m not going to kill you princess.”

He pauses.

“I’ll just…

…take what’s mine”

He shoves you back against the tree,

“Hide”

Fear twists in your stomach, your legs tremble but, you force them to move, darting behind a cluster of trees. Brambles graze your arms and legs, your heart hammering as if it might pop out. Adrenaline courses through you. You hear his footsteps. He’s not running, not chasing. Just moving. Slow, calculated.

“This is too easy, y/n!” He calls out, voice echoing softly.

You squeeze your eyes shut, clasping your palm over your mouth, muzzling your sounds. A soft growl reaches your ears. The tears fall faster and harder, still keeping your eyes closed. His voice cuts through.

“Y/n~”

An electric shiver runs down your spine. He’s much closer than before but, you still can’t see him. Your foot moves slowly, careful not to make a sound but, your hair gets caught on a branch, ripping a yelp from your throat.

“Gotcha.”

His claws pull you back, gripping into your waist.

“My, my, what a treat i’ve found.” His voice rough, low, coursing through your veins. “What ever shall i do with you now?”

His grip like iron, shoving you against the forest floor, your palms digging into nature’s flesh, “mm-e-euijoo, p-please.”

Staring down, his eyes boring into your soul, “please what huh?” “Stop?”

He crouches in front of you, his hands caressing your bare thighs, inching closer and closer to your clothed cunt under your dress.

“You want me to stop?”

His words don’t mirror his actions, his fingers prancing around the waistband of your panties. He takes in a deep breath.

“Fuckkk, i can smell you from here,” one finger dips into the band, prodding at your clit. “So, so sweet”

You squirm in his grasp, attempting to shut your legs, whimpering at the sensation of his finger. He digs his claws into your thighs, anger spreading across his soft features.

“Don’t you dare”

“I found you, now it’s time for my reward.”

You let out a prey-like whimper, blood pooling down your legs as he releases his nails, and his other hand from your pants.

“You’ve upset me now…so no prep for you”

His large paw grips your head flipping you onto your stomach, ripping his pants off, your panties next to go. He slaps his hand against your ass cheek, leaving a deep, red mark.

“Fuck!” you squeal.

He lands another harsh blow, “watch your mouth pretty girl.”

His fingers snake into your hair, pushing you further into the dirt. His mouth salivates at the sight of you, lining up his cock he throttles straight into you. Grunting ferociously at the way you take him. “God, you’re so fucking tight.” He growls, rutting his hips at an inhuman pace. Your nails dig into the dirt, the feeling of him hitting your cervix drives you mad. His grip on your waist bruising, you’re covered in blood and dirt but, it turns on him on even more.

Pounding relentlessly, he howls, the moon glinting in his eyes. “so tight- good f’me, you’re going to take my knot like the good girl you are.” The growing bulge in your stomach swells, his release threatening. His fingers moves with precision, shoving them into your mouth, gathering your spit, he swivels them around before retreating with a loud ‘pop’. Diving them against your clit, forcing your release. Your legs thrash violently, the pain stings, from his bite mark, his scratches, from his large cock pumping in and out of you.

And then,

He releases his entire knot into you, your eyes roll into the back of your head and you swear you can see the stars, your skin on fire. He moans out as he keeps rutting against you.

His movements are slower now but, he doesn’t pull out. Instead, he moves you back onto him, cradling your body into his large arms, pressing a soft kiss on the top of your head.

“You’re so perfect. All mine.” He coos.

His sudden softness gives you whiplash yet, you’re too fucked out to care, nuzzling your face into his chest.

You knew this town was cursed from the start. Perhaps you should have left when you had the chance.

wenoswhore . ꨄ︎₊⊹ . 2026

[baelorswife]

old as she was, she still missed her daddy sometimes

dead dove: do not eat. 18+ MDNI. father!baelor targaryen x daughter!reader.

tags: modern AU. targcest/incest. physical violence (aerion gets punched). spanking. daddy kink that is not just a kink. explicit sexual content. reader is an adult when the smut happens, but baelor’s and her’s relationship is morally questionable before then. i’m new to the asoiaf universe, so please forgive any inaccuracies. don’t like? don’t read.

word count ~3.4k words

twenty years since you were his baby, baby as in fat-cheeked and snotty-nosed and milk-toothed, pass by in a blur, though, and he’s left wondering where the same time that he had thought he had spades of went. time is a fickle thing. OR baelor can’t say no to his daughter but finds he doesn’t want to.

from the moment he knew of your existence, a mere tadpole growing inside the pond of your mother’s belly, he had true purpose. he was going to be a father.

she didn’t want a fetus, let alone a targaryen fetus, a family women in it knew for its troublesome births and more troublesome offspring—a madness they had called it, the insanity that afflicted even the most well-raised of children—growing inside of her, but it wasn’t difficult to convince her to keep you for his sake. to see the pregnancy through to the end until she could transfer you to the home in his arms.

baelor and his family are disgustingly wealthy. it’s impossible to live in the sprawl of king’s landing, the city of dreamers and romantics and artists and hustlers, without having heard of the targaryen fortune and being somehow tangled up in their web of influence, from corner store clerk to politician.

paying off the one-night stand he met at a private cocktail lounge, your mother, giving her all she could ask for during her pregnancy and for a lifetime afterward, was of little consequence to him, even at the young age of nineteen.

are you sure about this, dear? you know i have always wanted grandchildren, myriah, his mother had asked. but being a parent, it changes you. the love you will feel for her once she is born… it will be the most devastating and rewarding thing you will ever experience.

his mother was so understanding. so kind about it all. his father was happy for him, too. he thought baelor was a young man with a good head on his shoulders that would make for an excellent father. better now than when your back aches and your knees creak. between them, they had four children.

baelor was always their favorite, though.

neither his father nor his mother can ever know the true nature of his relationship with you as it has developed into what it is now, but, somehow, he thinks they would understand it too.

not long after giving birth to you, as your mother shut the door closed behind her, her checking account filled and her hands full with bags of cash and a passport in tow, she left you for him to take care of.

feed, raise, nurture.

love.

time is a fickle thing.

up until he had you, he thought the world moved too slowly. maybe that’s what happens when it—the world—is at one’s fingertips. like the buttery, fine silk of a cashmere sweater or the intricate grain patterning of a handmade marble statue, he could bask, indulge in the luxury of time that wealth afforded.

twenty years since you were his baby, baby as in fat-cheeked and snotty-nosed and milk-toothed, pass by in a blur, though, and he’s left wondering where the same time that he had thought he had spades of went.

time is a fickle thing.

you two have always had this inexplicable bond. one that goes beyond that of a father and his daughter. bound not just by blood and by DNA but by something as ridiculous but as real as fate. he takes pride in being a good father. being your father. providing for you whatever your little heart desires.

and, it seemed, all you ever wanted was him.

you both had tea parties after he, or his driver, if baelor was stuck in an important meeting, picked you up from school. you would dress him in fluffy, pink, lotus silk scarves and beaver fur felt cowboy hats, pouring darjeerling tea into bone-white porcelain cups; cute, childish laughter ringing in his ears and a deep, crimson flush washing over his cheeks when you had told him, i always love spending time with you, daddy.

me too. i love you so much.

if he could make the time, he would chaperone field trips with your class. instead of joining your classmates, you would fall back and entwine your pinky with his as you pointed at the zoo animals that you had found funny-looking with your other hand.

look, daddy!

i’m looking, i’m looking.

then there had been the slumber parties with just the two of you over the weekend.

you would share a bed together, just like when you were but a tot, when he had shed tears because you were a living, breathing thing that he had created, and he couldn’t help the flurry of emotions leaking from his eyes and onto your doughy face before he had put you back into your crib.

your childhood blanket would be swept beneath his heavy comforter, your plushies surrounding both of your heads by the pillows, your lava lamp on, and a projector projecting the galaxy onto the ceiling.

during the day he would do with you what you would do normally at slumber parties. share stories and jokes. make homemade s’mores and thumb wrestle. he would always let you win.

he would try to get you to sleep in your own room once monday rolled around; he would, but baelor’s a weak man for his daughter, and he would let you sleep in with him for a few nights more until the next slumber party rounded the corner the next weekend.

monday morning rays filtered in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. the city beyond was awash with light. a swathe of warmth beside him, your hair mussed and cheeks glossy with sleep. thigh stretched over his waist, the skin of your calf brushed against his upper thigh, your shorts rolled up high on your legs. your hands pillowed your sleeping face.

beneath the covers, he grabbed your ankle, pressing his thumb and forefinger into the pulse point, just to feel the steady drumming of it. his baby, cozy and gentle and a radiant tangle of limbs all over him, was snoring softly, just shy of being late for waking up for school.

like with all life that isn’t taken away, you grew. right before his blue and brown eyes. he had been with you through it all. your first best friend. besides you, of course, dad. your first period. i feel so gross, daddy.

you’re becoming a woman. not gross at all, love.

your first boyfriend.

boyfriend?

dad. i’m in highschool. i’m dating. get over it.

he felt it then. the curdling rot of a sickness so entwined with love that made a father jealous of a man—a boy—stealing the heart that belonged to him, your heart.

then, your first heartbreak, at eighteen. a late bloomer you were, he supposes. after all, he was only a year older than you when he had you. his raison d’être. but he didn’t mind having kept you to himself all those years. grew comfortable with it, in fact, so much so that the thought, disturbing and twisted, but one he stood by all the same, came to him unbidden when you told him your boyfriend had ended things between you.

you’re the only man i’ll ever need. you won’t ever let me down. i’m so glad i didn’t let that idiot take my virginity.

good, baelor thought, also glad. a girl’s first time ought to be with her—

aerion, his nephew, crass as always, had come over on a hot summer day, the summer before you started university, to lounge with baelor by the rooftop pool, watching you splash around in a small bikini with friends and your other cousins. aerion joked that if you weren’t baelor’s daughter, if you weren’t his cousin, he would, at some point, have smelled you in the city with his strong nose and caught you, a sweet thing, to lure into his bed to bite and to fuck with his sharp teeth and venomous tongue.

seven hells. look at her. not much holding me back from doing it now, uncle. except maybe you.

baelor, known for his good nature and patience, saw red.

then, red clung to the thin hair on his knuckles after he had repeatedly punched aerion square on the nose, his flesh giving way to the pummel of his fist, making a scene in front of everyone and embarrassing the seven hells out of you.

to this day it’s crooked and scarred from where baelor had broken bone.

(that was over two years ago. so much has changed since then. and yet, so little. underneath it all, the layers of depravity and taboo and sin, there’s love. you’re still his baby girl. and he’s still your doting father.)

though you’re attending university and are in your sophomore year of a four-year program, you’re living at home. you chose a school in the city, a prestigious one that he pays for because you deserve nothing less as his baby, so you could be close to him.

you come home to him in the evening, as he is preparing you two dinner.

tender lamb with herb sauce made from a paste of garlic and shallots. served with a bed of leafy greens smothered in aioli vinaigrette and pasta salad.

a dornish recipe he stole from his mother’s recipe book; an indulgent meal after a hard day at work keeping the targaryen empire alive, its heartbeat constant and healthy, felt through every corner and alleyway in the city and even further beyond its borders. daeron II, retired and living the rest of his days with his wife, vacationing around the globe—your grandparents are proud of baelor, the true heir to the targaryen name.

you slam your school purse on the bar-height dining table across from him, then sit yourself beside him on top of the soapstone kitchen counter, kicking your socked feet against the cupboards.

he wraps his free hand around your knee, the other mixing the pasta salad, tapping once, twice with his pointer finger over the span of it, before giving it a soft squeeze to still your bouncing leg.

“what’s wrong, sweetheart?”

he knows that there is something wrong. his fatherly instinct is so attuned to you and your needs that the question doesn’t come as a surprise to you.

you sigh, a little soft, exhausted noise. his heart aches. hyperbole aside, he would burn down the world for you, if only to make you feel a little better.

“i think i flunked my test. ’m not feeling too good about it.” you worry your lower lip between your teeth, then let it go, swollen, filled with increased blood, and plump.

he chuckles, easy and light. “you say that every time. and you know what? you always ace it.”

“i dunno about this time…” you whisper, looking down at your leg, baelor’s fingers now massaging your inner thigh through your jeans, a comforting gesture. the corner of his mouth lifts in an arc when you play with one of his rings, twisting it back and forth around his finger, a habit you picked up from him over the years. then, you ask, “can i get a hug, dad? it’ll make me feel better.”

“of course.” he drops what he’s doing, and with his palms, he splits your legs apart by your kneecaps, standing between them to wrap his arms around your middle. even with you sitting on the counter, he’s tall enough to meet your eyes.

your arms encircle his neck, and you lean your head against his, falling into him with a soft breath. he noses your crown. you smell like sweat and sugary perfume and a hint of stale classroom.

after a few seconds, he lets go, unwillingly, face inches from yours. he presses a light peck over the arch of your furrowed brow.

“why don’t you draw a bath? it’ll relax you. dinner will be ready when you come out.”

you nod, eyes brimming with an emotion he can’t quite place a finger on. he wonders if there’s something else you’re not telling him. but you know what the punishment you get for keeping secrets from him is.

the last time he spanked you was a little over a year ago when you had lied about sneaking out at night to go to a party. he wasn’t upset that you had gone. he’s had a lifetime of fun. he understands well you wanting to socialize with your university friends. but if something unfortunate had happened, he wouldn’t have known it until it was too late. you should have simply asked him. he would have said yes.

he never liked corporal punishment; it was something that went against his beliefs as a father and a holy man, but it seemed to get you to listen.

(or, maybe, looking back, you had secretly liked it.)

maekar still knocks his boys around from time to time. aerion the most. aegon the least. after baelor had told him what you had done, or what you didn’t do, rather, maekar told him to give spanking a go. it matters not how old they are. children need to be taught lessons.

when the session was over and you had both calmed down, after your salty tears were wiped away with the pads of his fingers, i’m sorry, so, so sorry your apologies rushing from your lips, and his gentle shushes reassured you that all was well again, he had excused himself and jerked off in the shower, telling himself it was because of the power he felt pulsing through him being the one to form welts on the unblemished skin of your smooth, soft rump and not because he liked making you cry out daddy in such a salacious way.

he tucks the thought into a deep corner in the folds of his mind, stepping back as you slink from the counter and make your way to the bath.

dinner is quiet. your hair is wet with bath water and drips, drips, drips onto the floor. you smell like his products. you’re wearing an old shirt of his, tattered but sentimental, and a pair of his boxers as shorts.

baelor doesn’t press you because he knows you will come to him in time.

he misses talking to you, though. he misses his baby telling him about her day.

later, baelor wakes in the middle of the night to you padding into his room.

his eyes adjust, but the room is so dim that he can barely make out your silhouette. “sweetheart. what’s wrong?”

“can i sleep in your room tonight?”

“we haven’t done that since you were a kid.”

“i need you, daddy,” you whine. he can hear you shifting from foot to foot. “please?”

your neediness pricks an ugly, desirous, fatherly thing at the base of his spine. so he says, “come here,” lifting the covers and patting the spot next to him.

once you’re settled beside him, your eyes staring into his, he broaches the subject.

“there’s something on your mind that you’re not telling me.”

you hide your face in your pillow, inhaling a deep breath through your mouth and exhaling through your nose. he lets you take your time. then, you manage to murmur, voice muffled by your pillow, “i’m still a virgin.”

baelor huffs, bemused. “so?”

“so, i don’t want to be one anymore. i’m twenty. before my test today, my friend told the group that i haven’t been dicked down yet. at my big age. she humiliated me! i kept thinking about it during my test, and, hours later, i still can’t stop thinking about how she was right.”

he huffs again, but more in amusement. you’re still so young. he’s turning forty in less than a year, and he can’t remember the last time he had a woman. just a few since you were born, as a matter of fact. he put it all aside, a chance at a love life, for you. he has no regrets, though.

“she’s not a true friend, then. there’s no rush in losing your virginity, and there’s certainly no need to air out your business to others.”

you sigh. “you just don’t get it, dad.”

“get what? help me understand.” he reaches a palm out to turn your head from your pillow to face him. he thumbs the apple of your cheek, warm to the touch, lotion-soft.

again, he lets you take your time in answering him, your eyes piercing through each other. “i’ve never… i’ve never wanted it with... with anyone, though. not as much as—not as much as i want it with… with you.”

you immediately snuggle up to him, burying your face in his chest, embarrassment heating your cheeks, your heart thumping, and his heart stopping. his cock jumps in his briefs, and his first thought is if you had felt it heavy and hardening against your thigh.

there’s little point in pretense. you both know what you two have is beyond innocent, fatherly-daughterly love, and yet—

“we can’t. it’s not right,” he says, tone soft and understanding. as if this were as simple as telling you “no” to an expensive purse you wanted.

and then he thinks, when has he ever said no to you?

you don’t dare look up from the cotton of his shirt, but you whisper, “just once? a girl’s first time should be special. who else but with you, dad? i trust you.”

a girl’s first time ought to be with her father.

“just once?” he breathes out, looking down at you, his breath warm, fanning across your exposed shoulders, the straps of your nightgown slipping down. he curls his fingers around your chin, with thumb and forefinger, forcing your eyes up, and pinches the fat of your cheek to make sure that you’re real. that you’re his. asking for your father to take your virginity.

“i’ll be more comfortable if i can get over this hill. maybe then i’ll want to do it with someone who isn’t you. someone who’s right.”

you’re baiting him. testing him. because you know he won’t let you have anyone that isn’t him. it’s him. it’s always been he who is right for you, who has done right by you. you’ve been his good girl, though; haven’t given him trouble or a need to worry since your last and only boyfriend.

“just this once, baby.” he presses a chaste kiss to your eyelid, and they both flutter closed, your lashes long and soft against your cheekbones. “we’ll take it slow.”

he wishes he had imbibed some of the dornish wine he has saved for special occasions. because then he could excuse this as a drunken affair. though, a father fucking his daughter senseless under the influence doesn’t seem any less horrible than if he were doing it sober.

your nightgown gets tossed over the edge of the bed along with his shirt and briefs. soon enough, a mix of blood and cum and slick coats his cock. from spearing it into his baby girl’s virgin cunt. the cunt that he made, that was made for him.

all he can think is warm, warm, warm. you’re so warm. so soft. sweet. the noises you make stir his groin, and he twitches inside of you with every mewl that crosses your swollen, kiss-bitten lips. your lips are pillow-soft, cherry-flavored with lip balm.

he licks into your mouth. bites your lower lip, hard enough to bruise.

gods, you’re beautiful. body slick and sticky with sweat and face wet with tears from taking your father to the hilt over and over again. not just once. because how could baelor have you, his love, his heart, just once?

i love you, daddy. iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou—

—i love you too, baby. my sweet. my good girl, hm? let daddy do all the work.

time is a fickle thing, yes. but he’s almost glad to have lived through the drag of before you and sped through the years after you since it got him to now. here. him inside your cunt, and you clinging to him, breasts to chest, your ankles up to your ears as he thrusts inside you, both as his daughter and lover.

baelor is going to the seven hells.

he’ll make a visit to the sept once you’re stuffed full with his seed.

later, at a time that is too late for it to be night anymore, he gives you an advil for the soreness and a plan B for the come seeping out of you, guilt gnawing on his nerves and love bursting at the seams of his heart.

the love you will feel for her once she is born… it will be the most devastating and rewarding thing you will ever experience.

his mother was right. and she can never know just how right she was.

[yumanohime]

safeword

trigger warnings : dead dove do not eat, dubcon/noncon, use of safeword but it is ignored, pain, gaslighting, violence (slight? not too extreme i think...) , double penetration, use of toys

purple.

your safeword with yuma.

"say the safeword and i'll stop," you recall his promise to you at the start of your relationship when you first started to get intimate with him. "no questions asked," he pecks the top of your head reassuringly.

during the course of your relationship, you've used it before. the first time when you weren't feeling it because you were having a fever, and the second time was when he got too rough. both times, he stopped immediately the moment you said the safeword. both times, he would softly kiss the top of your forehead, stroke your hair and comfort you. you believed him. well, at least you did.

there were times when you caught small moments of his that felt off, things that you can't quite put a finger on what to name it. maybe you'd say no to something he wanted. maybe you weren't in a mood to sleep with him. maybe you told him to slow down. you'd catch a tinge of something dark flash in his eyes, and his jaw would clench, a vein visibly popping in his neck. but you brushed it off. he would never hurt you. he has never hurt you before.

but tonight... you're not so sure. he had wanted to try out double penetration with a vibrator, pleading you with those eyes. you were hesitant at first. you've never done anything like that before. it seemed... painful. you could barely even take him on normal days, but you figured you'd try. worse case scenario, you told yourself that you'd use the safeword.

"yuma-" you whisper out, trying to get his attention. he's slowly pushing at your entrance, the stretch starting to get uncomfortable. the vibrator's already inside of you, buzzing. he had already prepped you earlier with his fingers, pouring enough lube just in case.

"just relax..." he coaxes, almost sleazily. the initial stretch was unbearable, painful. you'd never felt anything like this before. his finger just weren't enough compared to this. you feel like you're being torn apart at the seams. your body tries to push him out, clenching painfully around him.

"purple," you whisper out the word to the best of your ability, tapping out early. you feel your breath being knocked out of your lungs.

he stills for a moment. it's over, you feel a wave of relief. you wait for him to pull out, to comfort you. to say "it's okay" and stroke your hair like he always does, and always has.

he doesn't.

"you're fine," it's a sharp statement, not a question. one that's challenging you, as if asking you if you dare to go against him. you feel his fingers grip into your hip tighter, digging into your hipbones as he continues to push in. he's supposed to stop, you said the safeword. but he doesn't. a dreadful, sinking feeling settles in the pit of your stomach, like heavy lead being dropped onto you.

"yuma-.. purple-" your voice cracks, louder this time. you try to push his chest away, but it's futile. he doesn't move, not even an inch. he's too strong, almost like a wall of well built muscle from all those gymming sessions. a part of you always knew that physically, you're no match for him.

"always like this..." an annoyed tch leaves his lips. "always gotta listen to your bitching..."

your throat tightens. you've never heard him speak to you like that. so bitter, so venomous... like resentment that has been quietly brewing beneath the surface.

"please-.. baby.. purple-" you desperately try to push his arms away, but your defiance only spurs him on. the more you try to fight him, the more he pushes in, and the more you feel like you are being split open. a burning, scraping sensation against your walls. it's overwhelming, the buzzing from the vibrator inside your body only getting stronger, and stronger, the sound filling your ears. you could feel the static-like pain all the way in your toes, like stepping into a pile of needles. you feel like you're about to die.

"i. said. you're. fine." he repeats, more like a snarl this time, each word harshly punctuated with a thrust. his voice is annoyed, like he's dealing with a child throwing a tantrum. "you're dripping. you like it, don't you?"

you shake your head. no, i don't like it. it's not me, it's the lube, you try to say, but your tongue feels heavy and can't form the sentence. tears start to form in your eyes, blurring your vision. you don't know if it's from the pain of being ripped apart or from the way he's treating you. "no- purple- please, purple-"

he's all the way in. a sharp pain, like as if you were stabbed, shoots up your spine, emitting a scream from your lips. he's not gentle at all. rough and impatient, like he's tired of waiting, tired of you.

"see? told you, you like it," his hand grips your jaw, tilting your face up, as if to prove his point. his fingers press into the soft skin right underneath your jawbone. he can feel your veins pulsating, your heart rate spiking from fear and pain, but he doesn't care. his eyes are cold, empty, his pupils black. you don't recognize this man infront of you anymore. your manicured nails try to claw at his arms, desperately trying to make him stop. red scratch marks start to raise on his arms. he hisses at the sharp sting and roughly releases your jaw, letting your head drop back onto the pillows. you catch his left eye twitching in anger. the darkness inside of him that you were never able to name. his hand slides down to your thigh, roughly pushing your legs further open and starting to move quicker.

"purple," you whisper again, a sixth time. the word comes out like a pathetic whimper, barely audible, your voice breaking. "please- purple- yuma- purple... pur-"

his hand slams onto your mouth, clamping it shut. his palm presses so hard that you can feel your teeth digging into your lip, a metallic taste blooming in your mouth from your lip being split. you can feel his cold metal rings, grinding into your facial bones.

"just shut up for once," he doesn't even look at you. he just keeps on thrusting in, and out, the sickening sound of skin slapping filling the room. putting all of his weight onto you, crushing you into the mattress.

you can't breathe. your lungs burn from the lack of oxygen and the tears streaming down your face drowns what little oxygen you could receive inbetween the gaps of his fingers. you can't open your mouth anymore. you lost count of how many times you said 'purple'. the safeword dies in your throat, swallowed down with the rest of the words you couldn't say to him.

it was never meant to keep you safe.

thanks for all the likes/reblogs/follows/comments/messages i really appreciate every single one (;´ - `;)♡ i'm kinda having brain fog recently hhhh....... it takes me like a week to write one fic

[baronessvonglitter]

i swear i'll only make you cry

Javier Peña x f!reader, Joel Miller x f!reader | wc: 3.5k | read on AO3

summary: After facing an unimaginable loss, you start the healing process, only to uncover a darker secret.

Spoilers under the cut. Resume with caution.

WARNINGS: 18+ Only! Mature. Crossover fic. Mentions of alcohol. References to smut. Protected and UNprotected piv. New relationships. Angst. TW: infidelity. TW: murder. TW: blood. DDDNE. Funerals/mourning. Police investigation. Deep dark secrets. Reader is afab and wears makeup.

a/n: I was heavily inspired by two things: firstly, How can you love somebody like me? by my dearest @time-for-my-weekly-spanking - who also beta'd a part of it 🖤 (if you haven't read her fic, go do it now!) and secondly, Cry by Cigarettes After Sex. So much of this is just stream of consciousness that I wrote late into the night, so if it rambles it rambles 😅

dividers by @cursed-carmine 👑

JAVIER PEÑA MASTERLIST | JOEL MILLER MASTERLIST | FULL MASTERLIST

All you wanted was for your boyfriend Javier to be faithful to you.

When you met him you knew he came with a reputation. Some people come with emotional baggage, things that can be dealt with if they really want the relationship to work. Javi came with a history of bedding women and then forgetting them. He had a string of affairs with just about any woman who glanced in his direction. But he never stayed long enough to catch his breath.

He was the kind of man that a feminist like you hated. Until you saw him that night at a party hosted by a friend of yours from work. Javi was the center of attention, flirting with three women at once, all of them vying for his attention. You rolled your eyes, taking a gulp of your white wine as you made small talk with some people about the latest movie you all saw.

You didn't expect Javi to come to you, but right as your glass of wine was dwindling he was there with another glass, pouring it fresh from the bottle so you could trust he wasn't putting anything in it that would harm you or knock you out.

So you accepted it, and struck up a conversation. You'd expected him to start flirting right away, to convince you to join him in one of the empty bedrooms upstairs for a quick fuck, but he started talking about the movie as well, giving his own interpretation. He was clever, that much you could tell, even when on occasion his eyes flicked down to your cleavage.

By the end of the night he had your number, and a part of you was disappointed that he hadn't immediately taken you home and fucked your brains out. Not even an offer. But two days later you were on a date with him at the fanciest restaurant in town. While there, other women glanced his way, giving him obvious come-hither stares, but he only had eyes for you. It felt like something truly magical, despite the fact that your rational mind was telling you not to give in so easy.

He only fucked you that night because you came onto him at the end of your date, pinning him against the door as he kissed you good night. He wasted no time in kissing you back, his hand on your ass to pull you close to his bulging erection in his pants. He tasted like sin and cigarettes and whiskey, and you wanted more.

He was as good in bed as everyone said. He took his time in teasing you, knowing exactly where you wanted to be touched and licked and kissed. He made it all about you, making you come on his fingers, on his tongue, until you nearly passed out from exhilaration. And he hadn't even put his cock inside you yet. 

He was careful, wearing a condom by the time he finally got inside you. As slippery as your cunt was from the numerous orgasms he'd bestowed upon you, he was still a stretch to fit. He kissed the nape of your neck as his body pressed yours down on the mattress, spreading your thighs as he took you from behind. 

You thought poetry and love songs were a waste of time until your body moved in rhythm with Javi's. You thought people who cried over romantic movies were fools until Javi's cock hit that perfect spot inside you, making your head swim, stars bursting behind your eyelids. Each thrust had you moaning his name, and each murmured sweet nothing in your ear had the defenses of your heart crumbling down.

You were done for by the end of the night.

You thought you'd be one of many, just another notch on his bedpost. But he asked to see you again, and then another night, and then a weekend away on the coast. It wasn't very long before you were actually dating, and Javi seemed to have left his promiscuous ways behind him. You preened when you thought of yourself as the woman who changed him once and for all.

And things were perfect for awhile. He'd skirted the idea of moving in when you asked him about it, but he was romantic in other ways - sending flowers to your job, buying you jewelry when he was late for the homemade supper you made him. It was small things at first. Forgivable. Could happen to anyone.

The cracks started to show when he spent later and later nights at the office, citing a breakthrough in whatever case he was working on. He spent a lot of time meeting with his CI's - confidential informants, as you knew from police procedurals on TV. And he sure spent a lot of time gathering information from them.

The worst part was when he forgot your birthday. Working late, as usual, he didn't respond to your many calls and texts. Other girlfriends would have worried. You knew better. You'd already heard the rumors and the whispers. You'd seen texts pop up on his phone when he was in the shower. Random women's names - Cinnamon and Sapphire - texted him, but he kept the messages private. It didn't take a fool to realize they were probably dancers or sex workers. You knew opening them would be a Pandora's Box of unwelcome surprises. So you let yourself rot on the inside.

A friend invited you out, knowing you hated to be alone on your birthday, and you had a great time at your favorite restaurant, followed by some awful karaoke at the wine bar you'd been dying to go to, but Javi had been too busy to take you.

You'd almost forgot about your problems that night. Almost.

Javi came home even later than you, stinking of another woman's perfume and pussy. And you stamped it all down deep inside, telling yourself maybe he just needed to get it out of his system. Love takes time. Sex isn't the same for men as it is for women - men see it as a need, women see it as an expression of love - all the bullshit you'd been told your whole life. You made excuses for him time after time, because when it came down to it you knew he really loved you.

You pretended to sleep while Javi showered. He kept a change of clothes for the nights he stayed over, and once you felt the bed dip down with his weight, you felt him hold you against his chest, his old DEA t-shirt soft and cottony. You hated that the moment his hands slid between your legs you were already wet for him. He had all the power and he knew it. You shed silent tears as he fucked you that night, for once not using protection, and some dark part of you hoped you'd catch something, just to have solid proof, just so you could blame him for something concrete. He couldn't see or didn't care about your muffled sniffles as you cried into your pillow while he thrust in from behind. He let out a loud groan when you came around him, your walls welcoming him, your pussy celebrating his return. Your body was a traitor when it came to loving him.

You lived in suspended animation - never knowing if Javi would leave you, or give you the awful news that he'd gotten someone else pregnant. You were sure he had to have some bastards running around out there, even if he'd never admit to it. Every time he smiled at you you wondered if he was thinking about someone else. Every time he tried something new in bed you imagined he'd done it already with another woman. Every moment was filled with dread and you hated it, hated yourself, and eventually you admitted you hated him.

But now he's dead.

You get the call just as your plane lands. A work trip kept you away for a few days. Javi's work partner and best friend is on the line, sobbing.

"He was shot," he says, barely audible through the tears."There's cops all over the place. I don't know what to fucking do!"

You shake your head. None of Steve's words feel real. Javi can't be dead when you just saw him a few days ago.. This must be a nightmare. It doesn't make sense.

You don't know when exactly you hang up the call, but your main goal is to get to Javi's apartment. Sure enough, it's swarming with cops. When you get to his door there's yellow police tape over it. One of the officers tells you to stay back but you've already caught a glimpse of him.

Javier Peña, the man you'd broken every one of your rules for, who'd stolen your heart and repeatedly shattered it, is on his living room floor, a bullet hole in his heart and one in his temple. His eyes are open, gazing off into some final abyss, lips parted. There's a slight look of surprise on his features,as if his murderer had taken him by surprise.

And the blood. There's so much of it, a pool of crimson, a red target blooming on the yellow of his shirt.

You hear a gasp, then a mournful wail. A pair of arms grabs you, holding you back against a lean, tall figure, and you realize you're the one wailing. Behind you, Steve clings to you, his tears dripping onto the nape of your neck.

The days go by in a blur. Javi's family plans his funeral, and when you offer to help in whatever way they need, you're met with blank stares and uncomfortable glances. It says all you need to know - they have no idea who you are. Javi never told them about you, not in all the months you dated.

You lose yourself in a bottle of whiskey that night, only getting up to let in your best friend, Joel Miller. He was there for you the night Javi forgot your birthday. Joel didn't forget, and took you out for a fun night. He's here for you now, holding you as you sob, pressing gentle kisses to the top of your head, taking the alcohol away when you've had too much.

He tucks you into bed, talling you he'll stay on the couch. But you don't want to be alone. You invite him in your bed and there's just a slight hesitation before he climbs in, holding you.

He's a perfect gentleman despite your vulnerable state. His hands never drift above or below your waist as you sleep.

In the morning he takes you to Javi's funeral. Your sunglasses cover your cried-out, puffy eyes. Tissues are bunched up in your hand. Joel's arm is through yours as he leads you to the casket containing Javi's body.

Joel's your strength now. Without him, you wouldn't be able to stand.

Looking down at Javi's body - waxen, peaceful-looking now - it's only the shell of the man you loved.

The service goes on. Fellow DEA agents come to pay their respects to the Peña family. Prayers are said, petitions for the repose of Javi's soul. You wonder where he is now - if he's resting in heaven or in a hotter place. He wasn't a bad person per se, he just couldn't commit to you.

You also wonder if all the women he chose over you even know if his demise. His status as a DEA agent granted his case to be newsworthy, but as you glanced around the small chapel you didn't see anyone who looked like they'd been someone he slept with. None of his women cared, it seemed, to say their final goodbyes.

After the funeral, away from the sadness, you just feel empty. Joel's with you through the whole ordeal - making sure you eat, shower, get the proper rest you need.

Steve keeps you updated in the following days, letting you know Javi's murder is top priority with local police. Joel listens in as well when Steve drops by, his brow furrowed in deep thought and concern as the agent speaks what he can about the case. So far, no leads. Javi pissed off a lot of people in high places, having broken up money laundering schemes and narcotics deals. Despite his inability to love you the way you needed, you had to admit Javi was great at his job. A little too good, as his suspected killer is likely someone with criminal connections out for retaliation.

It only makes you feel minimally better to know his murder is being given the investigation it deserves. Naturally, as his girlfriend, you'd been questioned as well, just to cover all bases, and you'd cooperated willingly. It was well-known that your relationship with Javi was rocky towards the end, with his numerous affairs, but you had an airtight alibi, having come in on the flight from Pittsburgh at the time of Javi's death.

Weeks go by with no new leads. A few people wanted for questioning are picked up, taken in for interrogation, and ultimately released. Javi's neighbors are questioned again. The same old details are hashed over, re-examined, all in the hopes of squeezing blood from a stone.

Months go by. A year. Javi's murder case grows cold.

Meanwhile, the companionship between you and Joel sparks to life.

He's there for you almost every night, never asking you to choose him even though it was written plainly on his handsome face. He never asks you to return the affection he feels - no, the love he carries - beacuse he cares more about having you as a friend than risking anything more. You've gone through something so traumatic and he won't force something to bloom from that, just heat based on anguish - lust born of sorrow. He wants to be more than just a soft landing for your fall.

You'd always heard that love - true love - sneaks up on you when you least expect it. And with Joel it does.

He's always been there for you, more than anyone else. It only makes sense when your glances linger, when hugs become embraces and kisses find their way onto lips instead of cheeks. It all feels so natural with him, like setting down a heavy bag you didn't realize you were carrying. Not so much a dramatic change, but your shoulders relax, your breathing evens out, and for the first time in a long time you feel that everything will turn out all right.

Marrying him is the next logical step. You can't imagine going through this life without him at your side. He keeps you safe, never makes you doubt him, he's true to his word. Even in bed all his focus is on you, making you gasp and sigh and moan, forgoing his own pleasure until you've had yours quite thoroughly.

Any memories of Javi remain just that - memories. Some good times to be remembered, but his infidelity and lying cast a shadow on what could have been a great love.. a love that could have blossomed if not for his cold-blooded murder. When you think about him laying in a pool of his own blood it makes your stomach clench. What if you'd been with him that night instead of working? What if you'd insisted on staying?

What's meant to be will always find a way, but what could have been is even stronger, lurking in your thoughts like a shadow, taunting and scorning. If you could have made him happy, would he still be alive today?

You voice your thoughts to Joel, who tells you not to blame yourself for Javi's demise. He was in an occupation of danger. He consorted with criminals, used women in defenseless positions as informants and cheated on you with them.

Joel keeps you in the present - fun travels, long nights spent in ecstasy, cozy days spent in each other's arms while reading or watching an old favorite show of yours.

At first you visit Javi's grave once every couple weeks, then once a month, then every other month. Joel goes with you sometimes, but other times makes excuses, citing work or something he needs to be away for. You trust him completely. You could set your watch by the exact time he comes home each night.

He asks you to have a baby with him, knowing it's not something you've always wanted, but he knows he can provide for you and a child.. or more than one, if you'd like. You tell him you'll think about it. Right now your life is perfect and you don't want to do anything to disrupt it.

That's when the cops come back.

Javi's case is reopened. New evidence is brought to light, witnesses are giving new, updated statements. People are being re-questioned - so are you and Joel.

You understand why you'd be a suspect in the first place, but your jealousy over Javi's affairs didn't consume you to the point of committing murder. You didn't hate him. You hated his actions. But still, not enough to want him removed from the earth.

You and Joel are at the station together. You're released first, and you grab a soda while you wait for him to come out. 

An hour passes by. Then another.

He emerges, accompanied by an officer. Joel's lips are pressed into a tight, forced smile as he guides you outside to his truck.

"We need to talk," he says, pulling out of the parking lot and into the night.

Under the light of the dining room lamp, Joel holds your hands as he tells you the truth.

He'd always loved you, always been your friend. He never asked for more than you wanted to give. Sure, in the meantime he dated here and there, but there was never anyone special. No one like you. No one he wanted to spend the rest of his days with.

He sat back, barely controlling the ire and disappointment at what he saw in your relationship with Javi. He saw your smeared makeup after a crying session, he heard your voice breaking over the phone when you called him in the middle of the night when Javi ghosted you.

How could he ask you to choose him when you were so enamored of a man who didn't deserve you? He refused to put an ultimatum towards you. The blinders you wore were of your own making. He just had to finally make sure you saw what he wanted you to see.

He had to get rid of Javier Peña.

He waited until you were out of town. You needed an alibi. Cops always looked to the significant others of a murder victim, even one with many enemies like Javi. He knew you'd be captured on surveillance at your hotel, your credit card would be used out of state, and you'd have no idea of what was about to happen. Your innocence during questioning would be genuine, discernible to any detective. 

Joel had it all planned out, and he carried it out without a moment's hesitation.

He would never tell you how good it felt to shoot that son of a bitch. He thought of you while putting those holes in Javi's chest and his head. He risked that you might not love him back, but it was worth it to make sure that bastard never hurt you again, even if some desperate hope in his heart acknowledged that another could take Javi's place and begin the whole cruel cycle all over again.

It was lucky you started to love him back. He doesn't know what he did in a past life to deserve that. He'd give anything to have the circumstances different, without this sword of Damocles hanging over both your heads. 

Because now.. now the authorities are onto him.

"There's been some new evidence," he says, tight-lipped on the details. "I have to leave town before everything goes to shit.."

A zillion questions flit through your mind, but your mouth refueses to give shape to the words that need to come out. There's too much traffic in your brain. There are too many unknowns that maybe you don't want to know.

Joel killed your Javi. In cold blood.

He imagined himself your savior, but you feel he may as well have killed you in the process. Your Joel - your sweet, loving Joel - who'd do anything for you and stood by you in your darkest moments - is a murderer. He killed your love, even if it was already killing you.

"I don't know if I can forgive you," you tell him, defeated, lost. Hurt. "How could you??"

"You know my reasons," he says lowly, clasping your hands as you try to take them away from his grip. "But I need to know now - when I leave, are you coming with me?"

"Joel, you can't possibly expect me to-"

"And if you stay," he interrupts, "will you tell the police what I've told you?" His eyes look wild, frightened. "What will you do?" he asks again.

Several moments pass, fraught with apprehension. You look at Joel. You think how scared Javi must have been in his dying moments. Did he think of you before everything turned black?

Your husband needs an answer. The clock is ticking. You imagine squad cars pulling up to your driveway any moment, alarms blaring, turning the sky red and blue.

Heart pounding, you wet your lips, and you give Joel your reply.

tagging the Joel and Javi fans: @tateypots @aurorawritestoescape @milla-frenchy @joelmillerswife9 @joelalorian @mcthsman @ess-evo @madpanda75 @kokoluwie (if you would like to get off the ride please lmk and I'll un-tag you)