snowbound .ᐟ.ᐟ
dbf!alpha!bucky x omega!reader (werewolf au) summary. you don't understand why your body is reacting this way to being under the same roof with your dad's best friend. one thing you do know is that this isn't normal.
word count. 10.8k warnings. age gap (everyone is of legal age), lowkey love at first sight, smut, MDNI, virginity loss, corruption (?), oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, marking, knotting, creampie, belly bulge, size kink, knot deflation, breeding kink, usage of petnames (baby, sweetheart, omega, kid for reader. alpha for buck), no use of y/n. notes. bucky is mentioned to have a metal arm, but there is no backstory on the ‘how’. i imagine he'd lost it in war. i read up on abo a few weeks ago and was inspired to write this. and i'm pretty sure there are some stuff i made up. this is my first abo fic, please be kind, or else i'll cry. this was also written by someone who's never even seen fake snow Imao. baby's first long fic! reader. reader has hair that gets stuck to forehead due to sweating. it's mentioned that reader's mother died when she was six. reader is kinda portrayed as innocent and clueless about the whole wolf stuff despite being a wolf, bc she didn't have anyone to teach her about it. bucky calls the reader kid a couple of times, but she's of age. dt. @phoenix-in-writing who came up with this amazing title, @sheriff-bodecker who helped me with this abo scent list, and my twin, my sugar, @barnes-babydoll who’s the no.1 dbf enthusiast. i love you guys🫶🏻
long as your eyes could see, it's snow. you don't remember the last time it snowed like this. like it could trap you inside if you're not careful. thankfully you reached home before it got worse.
the front door sticks like it always does in winter, the wood swollen from the cold, and you have to shoulder it open with your hip while juggling two grocery bags and the mail that was frozen to the box.
snow tumbles off your boots in heavy clumps, melting instantly on the heated tile your dad finally splurged on last year.
the house smells like a candle he probably lit for you and like the chili he’s had simmering since noon, thick with cumin and too much garlic, the way he’s made it since you were little, the way it feels like home.
you’re kicking the door shut behind you when you hear your dad’s laugh boom from the living room, the one that means he’s genuinely happy.
there’s another voice under it. even though you haven't heard it before, you know that voice from a hundred stories.
bucky barnes. the guy who pulled your dad out of a burning hut in kandahar, the guy who sends you birthday cards with twenty dollars tucked inside even though you’re in your twenties now, the guy whose face you’ve only seen in grainy photos because he’s always “on the road” or “out west” or whatever vague thing your dad says when you ask why his best friend never visits.
you round the corner expecting the same old soldier you’ve built in your head: buzz-cut, sunburned, maybe missing a finger from some explosion.
instead there’s a man sprawled in your dad’s favorite recliner like he owns it, one boot propped on the coffee table, and flannel sleeves shoved to the elbows.
he’s bigger than the pictures, shoulders filling the chair, and when he turns his head the light catches on the sharp line of his jaw and the faint white scar that cuts through his left eyebrow.
your stomach just flips. hard. like it had never before.
“there she is,” your dad grins, arms open like you’re still eight. “thought the blizzard ate you.”
“almost did,” you manage, voice cracking on the last word because suddenly your tongue feels too thick. you dump the bags on the floor. the mail scatters. “roads are shit. i slid twice just getting out of the driveway.”
bucky’s eyes—god, they’re blue enough to hurt—track the movement of your hands, then lift to your face.
he doesn’t smile, not exactly, but something kind of shifts in his expression. there's a tightening around his mouth, nostrils flaring like he’s scenting the air.
you don’t understand why that makes heat rush straight between your legs.
you’ve never felt anything like this. it’s not just warmth; it’s an insistent throb, and you’re abruptly, achingly wet.
slick. the word pops into your head from some barely remembered dream, but that can’t be right. right?
you shift your weight, making your thighs brush, and the friction makes you bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from whimpering.
your dad is still talking, oblivious to whatever's happening inside of you. “bucky’s house got buried under six feet of snow and a pine tree. power’s out for the county, roads closed till god knows when. told him he’s staying here till it thaws.”
“hey, kid,” bucky's voice sound mesmerising even closer. he doesn’t stand up— probably can’t without looking awkward in the low-ceilinged room —but he leans forward to put his elbows on his knees. “heard a lot about you.”
you try to laugh but it just comes out shaky. “yeah, well, dad exaggerates.”
“doesn’t feel like exaggeration,” he murmurs, so low you’re not sure your dad hears it over the crackle of the fire.
your skin is on fire. you shrug out of your coat too fast, and when you bend to pick up the groceries your sweater rides up in the back.
cool air hits the strip of skin above your jeans and you swear bucky’s inhale is audible. when you straighten he’s staring at the floor, jaw clenched so tight you can count the muscles there.
“you okay, honey?” your dad asks, atill not understanding what's happening. who can blame him? even you don't understand.
“fine,” you lie. but your voice cracks again. “just—just hot. house is warm.”
bucky finally stands slowly like every inch costs him. he’s taller than you expected, broad enough that the room feels smaller now.
taking two steps towards you, he stops an arms length away. his hands are loose at his sides but you can clearly see his fingers flexing and unflexing.
“you burning up, sweetheart?” he asks quietly. “hurts anywhere?”
the question is gentle, but there’s something under it that makes your knees wobble.
you stare at him like you're confused, your brows drawn together. because you sure are confused.
because how could he possibly know your whole body feels like one raw nerve? your nipples are tight against your bra, your clit pulsing in time with your heartbeat, and you’re terrified if you move wrong everyone will smell how soaked you are.
“i—” you start, then stop, because your dad is right there.
bucky’s eyes flick to your dad and back to you, a silent conversation you don’t yet understand. “we’ll talk later,” he says, soft enough it’s almost just breath. “after your old man’s snoring loud enough to wake the dead. yeah?”
you nod before you can think about it. your throat is dry, tongue sticking to the roof of your mouth.
“good girl,” he says, and the praise hits you like a punch to the sternum. your thighs clench involuntarily.
your dad claps bucky on the shoulder, breaking the moment. “come on, i’ll show you the guest room before the game starts. you still drink that piss-water beer?”
“only when i’m desperate,” bucky lets himself be steered away, but you can feel the way his gaze pierce you one last time before he disappears around the corner.
you stand there in the hallway long after their footsteps fade upstairs, heart beating so hard you can feel it basically everywhere.
your panties are absolutely ruined. you can feel the wet sliding down the inside of your thigh when you finally force yourself to move, and you have to bite your lip until it bleeds to keep from moaning out loud.
upstairs a door thuds shut. you can hear water running, and your dad's infectious laugh.
you press your back to the wall and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, knees to your chest, trying to breathe through the ache that has your name written all over it. and you don’t even know what it means.
snow keeps falling outside silently, erasing the world one inch at a time. inside, the house creaks around you like it knows something you don’t.
you stay there until your legs go numb, wondering why the air still smells like wood and forest and something darker, something that makes you want to crawl out of your own skin and into someone else’s.
bucky’s that someone else.
he’s sleeping ten feet down the hall tonight. with snow covering every inch around the house. with no where left to run even if you try.
you’re fucked. so fucked.
you wait until the house goes quiet. the way it only does after midnight, when even the the wind outside has worn itself out against the windows.
your dad’s snores rumble through the walls like distant thunder, the same rhythm since you were a kid hiding under blankets during storms.
you count to two hundred after the last creak on the stairs, then slip out of your room in socked feet, hoodie pulled up over your head, and heart punching against your ribs so hard you’re almost convinced it’s loud enough to wake him.
the guest room door is cracked open, a thin blade of lamplight cutting across the hardwood.
fingers curled against the frame, you hesitate. because you're not sure what is going to happen when you walk in. but your body is begging you to push open the door and jump in the bed with a man you barely even know.
because knocking feels too formal and you’re terrified of making any real noise, you push open the door slightly.
bucky’s sitting on the edge of the bed in nothing but sweatpants, staring at the floor like it owes him money.
the lamp paints gold across the ridges of his back, the metal arm catching the light in a way that makes your stomach flip all over again.
he doesn’t look surprised when you appear. if anything, the tension in his shoulders eases a fraction. is he… relieved?
“couldn’t sleep either, huh?” his voice is rough from disuse, gentle in a way that makes you feel small and safe and completely out of your depth all at once.
shaking your head, you step inside, and pull the door almost shut behind you. “i kept… feeling weird. like my skin doesn’t fit right. and everything smells like you and it’s making me—” you stop, because your cheeks are burning and you don't know how to finish that sentence without making a fool of yourself. “i don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“nothing’s wrong with you, sweetheart.” he pats the mattress beside him, in a way that's offering but not demanding. “c’mere. sit before you fall over.”
your legs carry you across the room like they’ve decided for you. the bed dips under your weight and you end up closer than you planned, knee brushing his thigh. the contact sends sparks skittering up your spine and you jerk away immediately, then hate yourself for it.
bucky huffs a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. “yeah, that’s gonna keep happening. sorry.”
“why?” the word comes out tiny.
he rubs a hand over his face, just to have something to do with his hands. “your mom ever talk to you about… wolf stuff? beyond the shifting when you were a kid?”
you pick at a loose thread on your sleeve. “she died when i was six. dad doesn’t— he thinks the full-moon thing is just stories. i only shift when i’m really upset or whatever. i thought that was it. the whole package.”
bucky’s quiet for a long beat. “christ. okay.”
he shifts to face you more fully, one leg goes under him now as if he's careful not to crowd you. “there’s more. a lot more. and what you’re feeling right now? that’s your body waking up to something it’s been waiting for its whole life.”
your throat feels dry as you try to push your next words out. “waiting for what?”
“an alpha,” his voice is so soft, exactly the opposite of what it seems to carry. “me, apparently.”
the word doesn’t mean anything to you and everything at the same time. you stare at him, with your mouth open a little.
he winces like it hurt him. “shit, that sounded creepy. i’m not—i didn’t plan this. i came here because my cabin’s under six feet of snow and your dad’s the only person i trust not to ask questions when i start growling at the walls in a couple days. i had no idea you're the same, let alone that you’d be—” he gestures vaguely at all of you, flustered in a way that’s almost cute on a man built like a brick wall.
“be what?” you whisper.
“unclaimed omega,” he says, like the words taste both sweet and dangerous. “and in your first real heat cycle, from the smell of it. which is… fuck, it’s like walking into a room full of birthday cakes when you’ve been starving for years.”
your face goes nuclear. “i don’t—i’m not—i’ve never even—” you can’t finish any of those sentences.
“i know,” he says gently. “i can smell that too.”
your hands move upwards on their own accord as if to hide your face from the impending humiliation. “oh my god.”
“hey, no.” his flesh hand settles on your wrist, thumb stroking the inside where your pulse is rabbiting. “this isn’t your fault. none of this is, baby. your mom should’ve been here. or someone. anybody to explain that when an omega hits maturity and meets a compatible alpha, biology loses its goddamn mind.”
you let him lower your hand. “so what is a heat, exactly? like… being horny? because i feel like i’m dying.”
he exhales through his nose, and there's a sound you're not sure is a laugh. “it’s being horny on a cellular level, yeah. but worse. your body’s screaming for— for relief. for a knot. for—” he stops himself before going too far. “sorry. trying not to be crude.”
“i don’t even know what a knot is,” you mumble.
bucky makes a wounded noise. “jesus, kid.”
“i’m not a kid,” you protest automatically, then immediately want the floor to swallow you because you sound twelve.
“you’re twenty-somethin’ and you’ve never had anybody explain this to you. that’s criminal.” he drags a hand through his hair. “okay. short version, no diagrams. alphas go into rut. omegas go into heat. when they’re near each other and the timing’s right, it’s like throwing gasoline on a bonfire. the alpha’s body produces a—structure—at the base of his—” he gestures downward, face red now. “it locks inside the omega so nothing leaks out. nature’s way of making sure pups happen. it feels… good. really good. but it’s intense and it lasts a while and if you’re not ready it can hurt.”
you stare at your knees. “so you’re saying in a couple days you’re gonna… lose control?”
“i’m saying i’m already fighting tooth and nail not to crawl into your bed right now and do things your dad would shoot me for,” his voice is strained. “and you’re leaking slick like because your body recognizes me as—as safe. as yours. which is fucking with my head almost as bad as yours.”
the room spins a little. “mine?”
he looks at you then, and his eyes are soft and wrecked at the same time. “yeah. mine too, if we let it be. but that’s—we don’t have to. i can tough it out. i can leave at first light, find a motel with industrial suppressants, ride it out alone. i’ve done it before. it sucks but it’s doable.”
panic flares sharp in your chest. “no.”
he blinks, like he's trying to process if that's what he had really heard.
“i mean—” you twist your fingers together until the knuckles are strained. “i don’t want you to go. i don’t understand any of this but when you say you’re leaving, it feels like someone’s ripping something out of me. and i’m scared and everything hurts and you’re the only person who even knows why.”
bucky’s throat bobs. “sweetheart—”
“and you call me sweetheart and it makes my whole body feel like warm honey,” you blurt out, then slap a hand over your mouth.
a helpless smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “yeah, that’s the bond talking. little bit of it already. fuck, you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”
you groan into your palm.
“look,” he says, scooting closer until your knees touch again. this time you don’t move away. “i’m not going anywhere tonight. tomorrow we’ll figure out suppressants, or—or something. but right now you’re shaking and you smell like a distressed omega and it’s making me want to punch through the walls.”
“i’m not shaking,” you lie, and then your teeth chatter loud enough to prove you wrong.
he rolls his eyes, but it's fond. “c’mere.”
before you can decide if that’s a good idea, he’s tugging you into his side, arm looping around your shoulders.
you go stiff for half a second and then melt, face pressed to the warm skin of his neck, breathing him in like oxygen. he smells good, so good, like he was just made for you.
“better?” he murmurs into your hair.
“mhmm.” it comes out a little muffled and a lot pathetic.
he chuckles, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours. “thought so. scent bonding. works both ways.”
his hand rubs slow circles between your shoulder blades while the house settles around you. eventually he shifts, pulling the quilt from the foot of the bed and draping it over both of you.
“you ever been with anybody?” he asks quietly. “kissed, touched, anything?”
heat floods your face again. “no. there was this guy in college who tried but i got all panicky and bit him. like actually bit him. on the lip. i think he needed stitches.”
bucky snorts. “good instincts.”
“i thought i was just broken,” you admit. “everyone else was hooking up and i felt… nothing. until tonight. until you looked at me and it was like someone flipped a switch.”
“not broken, baby,” he says firmly. “waiting. your body knew what it wanted even if your head didn’t have the manual.”
you tilt your head back to see his face. “so what happens now?”
“now you let me hold you until you stop shaking. tomorrow your heat’s gonna get worse—cramps, fever, more slick than you know what to do with. i’ll be here. we’ll take it slow. i’ll talk you through every step. and if at any point you want me to stop, or leave, or call someone else— i will. no questions.”
you study him, the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his metal fingers twitch like he’s fighting not to pull you closer. “you promise?”
“cross my heart, kid.” he draws an x over his chest with the flesh hand, like he's solemn.
you nod against his collarbone. “okay.”
“okay,” he echoes, there's a relief in his voice.
“bucky?”
“yeah?”
“is it always gonna feel this big? like the world got too small for my skin?”
he presses his lips to your temple in a lingering but featherlight kiss. “only when it’s right.”
you close your eyes and let the steady thump of his heartbeat under your cheek lull you toward something that feels dangerously like peace.
but in this room, wrapped in quilt and an alpha and the first real answers you’ve ever had, you finally stop shaking.
you wake up slowly, like swimming up through an ocean, and the first thing you notice is the heat.
not just the quilt tucked around you both, but bucky himself, a living furnace pressed along your back, his metal arm draped heavy over your waist, flesh hand splayed low on your stomach like he fell asleep holding you together.
your cheek is smushed against his collarbone, one of your legs thrown over his thigh because sometime in the night you apparently decided personal space was for suckers.
it’s too hot. you’re sweating where your skin touches his, hoodie twisted up under your arms, and between your legs you’re so wet it’s embarrassing, like you’ve been dreaming things you don’t even have names for.
the sheets under your hips feel damp and you pray to every god you’ve ever heard of that it hasn’t soaked through to his side.
you're not sure if he's awake yet. but you don't want to move and give yourself away. the thought is barely formed when his chest vibrates under your ear.
“morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice still laced with sleep. “been awake a while. you kick in your sleep, did you know that?”
your whole body goes rigid. oh god, he heard that thought. or guessed. does that mean he’s thinking about the other thing too?
“and yeah,” he adds quieter, thumb stroking across the strip of bare skin where your hoodie’s ridden up, “i can still smell how wet you are. been able to since about four a.m. when you started grinding on my leg like a daydream.
mortification floods you so hard you make a strangled noise and shove your face into the crook of his neck, trying to disappear into him.
his scent is stronger here, more concentrated, and it makes your mouth water and your thighs clench involuntarily.
“hey, none of that,” he laughs against your hair. “told you last night, it’s biology, baby. not your fault. i’m the one who should be apologizing for sporting wood like a teenager since the second you crawled in here.”
you risk a peek. his eyes are half-lidded, and there’s a flush high on his cheekbones that might be from the heat or might be something else.
“i thought maybe i peed the bed,” you mumble into his skin.
he actually laughs then, like the sound was startled out of him. “christ, you’re gonna kill me. no, baby, that’s slick. it's perfectly normal. it just means your body’s getting ready.”
“ready for what?” you ask, because even though you know, you still don’t totally get it, why this much is needed.
“ready for whatever we decide,” he says carefully. “or ready to make me take a very cold shower. jury’s out.”
down the hall comes the unmistakable thud of your dad’s bedroom door, then the groan of floorboards, and then the cough that always starts his day.
bucky goes still, arm tightening around you for a second before he eases away slowly, like he’s forcing himself.
“time to play innocent,” he whispers, pressing one quick kiss to your forehead that feels anything but innocent. “go. i’ll follow in a minute.”
you scramble out of the bed so fast you nearly face-plant, yanking your hoodie down and praying your legs work.
the cool air in the hallway hits your damp thighs and you whimper before you can stop yourself.
bucky’s already swinging his legs off the bed, sweatpants doing nothing to hide the situation in his lap. “go,” he repeats, voice strained. “before i do something stupid.”
you bolt. because you’re not thinking much, just acting on instinct.
in your room you change three times because nothing feels right against your skin, everything too scratchy or too hot, and end up in the softest leggings you own and one of your dad’s old army tees that hangs to mid-thigh.
when you creep downstairs, bucky’s already at the kitchen counter pouring coffee like he belongs there, hair damp from the fastest shower in history, wearing a different flannel that makes him look unfairly good.
your dad’s shoveling cereal into his mouth standing up, keys in one hand. “morning, trouble,” he says around a mouthful. “roads are clear enough for the plows. i gotta go in, inventory won’t count itself. you two behave.”
“yes, sir,” bucky says, mock-salute with his coffee mug.
your dad points a spoon at him. “and you, don’t let her con you into watching those vampire shows all day. she’ll rope you in, they’re addictive.”
“i make no promises,” bucky says solemnly.
your dad kisses the top of your head on his way out, same as always, and then the front door slams and the truck rumbles to life and pulls away, tires crunching over packed snow.
the house goes suddenly, echoingly quiet.
you stand there in the middle of the kitchen feeling like you’ve forgotten how to breathe.
bucky sets his mug down, leans back against the counter, with his arms crossed. it makes his biceps look good enough to chew through. “so. questions?”
a million of them crash together in your head. “is it always going to feel like this? like— this intense?”
“first heat’s the worst,” he says. “like the volume gets turned to eleven on everything. smells, touch, emotions. all of it.”
you chew your lip. “and the… wet thing. is that forever now?”
he huffs a soft laugh. “only when you’re around an alpha you like. or ovulating. or happy. or sad. basically whenever your body feels like being dramatic.”
“great,” you mutter. “i’m a leaky faucet.”
“adorable leaky faucet,” he corrects, grinning when you flip him off without thinking.
by ten you’re convinced you’re fine.
you make pancakes. well, bucky makes pancakes while you sit on the counter kicking your feet and stealing chocolate chips.
the cramps are mild, just a low tug deep in your belly, and the wetness has eased to a manageable dampness.
you even laugh when he flips a pancake and it lands half on the stove.
“see?” your is mouth full, but that doesn't stop you from talking. “totally normal. maybe it was just a twenty-four-hour thing.”
bucky eyes you over the rim of his coffee, expression unreadable. “sure, kid. whatever you say.”
by noon the cramps are back with friends.
you’re curled on the couch under three blankets watching some documentary about penguins because everything else felt too loud, and every time you shift the pressure between your legs makes you whimper.
bucky sits on the coffee table facing you. “scale of one to ten?”
“six?” you lie.
“try again.”
“eight,” you admit. sweat beads at your hairline even though it’s cold enough to freeze your feet. “it feels like someone parked a truck on my uterus.”
he winces in sympathy. “yeah, that’s the heat talking. your body’s cranking the dial, trying to get my attention.”
“it has your attention,” you snap, then immediately feel bad. “sorry. i’m sorry. i’m just—everything hurts and i’m scared and i still don’t really get why.”
“i know.” he reaches out, brushes damp hair off your forehead. “want me to run you a bath? heat helps sometimes. or i can make a heat pack. or—”
“can you just—” you gesture vaguely. “sit with me? like last night? your smell makes it quieter in my head.”
he hesitates for half a second, then crawls onto the couch behind you, pulling you back against his chest.
you go boneless instantly, like a switch was flipped, head lolling on his shoulder.
“better?” he asks, mouth against your temple.
“mhmm.” you’re already drifting, the pain dulling to a background throb. “don’t leave.”
“not going anywhere,” he promises.
the afternoon bleeds away in waves. one minute you’re dozing, the next you’re arching with a cramp so sharp tears leak out the corners of your eyes.
bucky holds you through all of it, rubbing slow circles on your belly, murmuring nonsense about how strong you are, how good you’re doing, how fucking brave.
by four you’re openly crying, not even trying to hide it, face buried in his shirt. “it hurts so much,” you sob. “i changed my mind, i want it to stop.”
“i know, baby.” his voice is wrecked. “i’m right here. you’re doing so good.”
you can feel him shaking too, just a faint tremor in the arm locked around you.
his scent has gone darker, sharper, and when you turn your face into his neck you realize he’s sweating through his shirt.
“bucky?” you whisper.
“yeah?”
“are you okay?” the irony is delicious, you asking him if he were okay, while you were nearly knocking on death’s door.
he laughs, but it’s thin. “no. your heat’s kicking my rut into gear about a week early. trying real hard to be a gentleman here.”
you whine. “i don’t want a gentleman. i want it to stop hurting.”
he goes very still. “sweetheart, we talked about this—”
“i know what i said,” you cut in. “but i changed my mind. please. i’ll beg if you want. just make it stop.”
he cups your wet cheek, thumb wiping away your tears. “you don’t have to beg, baby. ever. but we’re gonna do this right, okay? we are gonna go slow. with lots of talking. the second you say stop, we stop.”
you nod so hard your teeth click.
“words, omega,” he says gently.
“yes. please. yes.”
he exhales shakily, then scoops you up like you weigh nothing, carrying you toward the hallway.
“guest room’s got the bigger bed,” he mutters, half to himself. “and farther from your dad’s room for when he gets home.”
you cling to his neck, breathing him in, the pain already easing just from the promise in his arms.
he carries you up the stairs like you’re made of glass and dynamite at the same time, one arm under your knees, the other cradling your back.
your face is tucked into his neck because it’s the only place that doesn’t feel like it’s on fire, and every step jostles you against his chest.
only then you feel it. the thick, rigid line of him pressed against your hip, unmistakable even through two layers of clothes.
you pull back just enough to stare, wide-eyed even though you try hard not to be startled. “bucky… is that—”
“yeah,” he mutters, cheeks going red. “ignore it. or don’t. christ, i’m trying to be decent here.”
“it feels huge,” you whisper like you're both awed and terrified, and then immediately want to die because who the fuck says that out loud?
he trips on the top step, catches himself with a grunt. “you’re gonna be the end of me, kid. swear to god.”
the guest room door is already ajar; he shoulders it open and lowers you onto the bed like you’re something precious.
the mattress is cool under your back and for one glorious minute the cramps ease, the fever drops, and you think maybe the worst is over.
you prop yourself on your elbows, hair still sticking to your damp forehead. “i feel… okay right now. like it backed off.”
bucky stands at the foot of the bed, hands on his hips, breathing slowly through his nose. “that’s the calm before the next wave, sweetheart. happens sometimes. gives you just enough hope to make the crash worse.”
you bite your lip, debating whether to ask or not. but then tour body thrums like it needs him inside you, and you make up your mind. “so… knotting. you said last night it locks you inside. how does that even work? like… is it painful? or does it just… pop out like a balloon animal?”
he chokes on air, rubs the back of his neck until the skin goes pink. “jesus. uh. no balloon animals. it’s—there’s a ring of muscle at the base. when i’m… close, it swells, and… and gets thick. the idea is it plugs everything so nothing leaks, keeps the—keeps you full.” his ears are scarlet now. “biology’s real romantic.”
you sit up fully, knees drawn to your chest, genuinely curious. “but does it hurt you? or me? and how long does it stay big?”
“hurts if you fight it,” he says carefully. “if you relax and let it happen, it’s… intense. but good intense. lasts twenty minutes, half hour sometimes. you feel full, safe, floaty. like the best hug you’ve ever had, only inside.”
your eyes go round. “inside.”
he groans and drops his chin, as to avoid eye-contact for a bit. you've never seen him this embarrassed. “yeah. inside.”
you pick at the hem of your borrowed army tee. “we’re probably gonna have sex anyway,” you say softly, matter-of-fact. “you can just say cock. i’m not gonna faint.”
bucky lifts his head, stares at you for a long second, and then laughs. “god, baby. you’re something else, you know that?”
“i’m serious,” you insist even if your cheeks are hot. you are determined. “i want to know what’s coming. i hate not knowing.”
he exhales once and crawls onto the bed beside you, sitting cross-legged like you’re having a sleepover instead of the single most loaded conversation of your life.
“alright. honest, then. i’m big. bigger than average even for an alpha. first time’s gonna burn a little no matter what, but if i open you up slowly —tongue, fingers, lots of slick—you’ll take me. the knot’ll stretch you wide and then lock, and yeah, it’ll feel like you can’t possibly get any fuller, and then you will. and it’ll be good. i’ll make sure it’s good.”
“promise?” your voice is barely a breath.
“promise,” his is rough. “now c’mere before the next wave hits and you start crying again.”
you go willingly, letting him tug the oversized tee over your head.
cool air kisses your skin and your nipples tighten instantly, aching little points that beg for attention before he’s even touched them.
bucky’s gaze drops to your chest and something feral flickers across his face before he reins it in with visible effort.
“fuck,” he breathes. “look at you.”
you cross your arms self-consciously.
you cross your arms self-consciously, trying to hide, but he catches your wrists gently in one big hand and pins them above your head without even thinking about it, metal fingers cool against your pulse points.
“they’re just boobs.” you can feel your cheeks heating up.
they’re perfect,” he counters, and leans in, mouth closing over one stiff peak without asking permission because you’re already arching toward him like your body wrote the invitation years ago.
the first pull of his lips is gentle, almost curious, like he’s tasting something sacred. then he groans and sucks harder, tongue flicking in quick, ruthless circles while his beard scrapes the soft underside of your breast.
his flesh hand cups the weight, feeding you deeper into his mouth like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’ll ever fill him.
there’s no milk, you know that, but he’s sucking like there is, like he could live off it, like if he tries hard enough he’ll coax it out of you just to taste how sweet on his tongue.
“bucky—” your fingers tangle in his hair, not sure if you’re pulling him closer or holding on for dear life. probably both.
he switches sides, laving the abandoned nipple with the flat of his tongue before drawing it in, humming around it.
the vibration shoots straight between your legs and you realize you’re grinding against nothing, hips rolling in tiny, desperate circles.
he pulls off with a wet pop, eyes blown black. “need to taste you properly,” he rasps. “gonna make you come on my tongue twice before we can even think about my cock. okay?”
you nod so fast your head spins.
he eases you onto your back, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your leggings and panties together, peeling them down in one motion. the fabric sticks where you’re soaked through and he has to work them over your hips, cursing under his breath when the cool air hits your bare, dripping skin.
the scent of you slams into him like a punch. his eyes flutter shut for a second, throat working as he swallows hard.
“christ, look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs, settling between your thighs, pushing them wide with careful hands. his thumbs stroke the crease where thigh meets groin, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. “all wet and dripping for me. fucking glistening.”
you whimper and try to close your legs out of sheer embarrassment, but he holds you open easily, metal arm braced across one thigh, flesh hand splayed over the other, keeping you spread like a feast.
“uh-uh. let me see.” he blows a cool stream of air directly over your clit and you jolt, a high-pitched sound escaping that you don’t even recognize as yours. “sensitive little thing. look at her twitch for me.”
before you realise what’s happening, his mouth is on you.
the first lick is broad and slow, from your entrance to your clit, gathering slick like he’s starving for it, tongue curling to scoop every drop.
he groans against you the sound vibrating through your entire body, and does it again, and again, until your thighs are shaking in his grip and your back is bowed off the bed.
your brain short-circuits so hard you actually forget your own name for three full seconds.
all that now exists is the wet heat of his mouth and the mortifying little squeak you make that sounds absolutely nothing like you.
“taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, words slurred like he’s drunk on you. “sweetest thing i’ve ever had. could live down here, baby. could die happy with my face buried in this cunt.”
he circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, like he's just teasing, then seals his lips around it and sucks. it's soft at first, then harder when you cry out.
your back bows off the bed, fingers scrabbling for purchase in his hair.
“bucky—oh god—”
he slides one thick finger inside you without warning and you clench around it, shocked at how easily it goes, how much more you suddenly need.
it doesn’t hurt like you always scared you it would. it feels like coming home to a house you didn’t know you owned. you have to bite your lip to keep from saying something mortifying like 'thank you'.
“relax, baby,” he soothes, pulling off your clit just long enough to watch his finger disappear into you, eyes dark with wonder. “gotta open you up. look how greedy you are — fuck—sucking me right in like you were made for this.”
he crooks his finger, finds that spot inside that makes your vision white out, and you come with a startled wail, thighs clamping around his head, slick gushing over his hand.
he just keeps stroking that spot slowly while his mouth returns to your clit with soft and lazy licks, drawing the orgasm out until you’re shaking and oversensitive and trying to squirm away from his grasp.
“one more, baby,” he says against your folds, voice muffled again. “need you soft and open for me.”
you want to be cool and say something sexy but what comes out is, “i don’t have any more in me."
he just laughs into your thigh like you just told the best joke in the world. the laugh vibrates and suddenly you do have one more.
a sob leaves you now, as you say “can’t,” but your hips are already chasing his tongue. he laughs again like he's received the memo.
“you can and you will. come on, omega, give it to me. give it to your alpha.”
he adds a second finger, stretching you carefully, scissoring gently while his tongue flicks faster.
the burn is there, like a sweet ache, but it’s drowned out by the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until you snap again, harder this time, a rush of wet heat spilling over his chin.
he works you through it, licking softly until you go limp, with tears drying on your temples.
only then does he crawl up your body, pressing kisses to your belly, your ribs, the space between your breasts. it's like he needs to map every single part of you, make you his in every way that will ever count.
his beard is soaked, lips swollen and shiny, and he looks wrecked in the best way.
“good girl,” he whispers, nuzzling your throat, scenting you openly now. “so fucking good for me.”
you reach for him with shaky hands, tugging at his shirt. you know one thing and one thing only. that you want him. “off. want skin.”
realisation hits you that you're talking in half sentences now, but you have bigger things to look forward to.
he yanks it over his head in one quick motion, then pauses, looking down at where you’re still spread open and trembling beneath him.
you just stare at him and his abs because it's goddamn unfair how hot he is. the flannel shirt has been hiding the most beautiful thing in the world ever.
there’s a faint sheen of sweat across his collarbones from holding himself back all day, and the scent rolling off his bare skin hits you like a drug, wet earth and gun-oil and something feral that makes your mouth water and your thighs try to close on instinct.
“still with me?” his voice is both rough and gentle at the same time, thumb stroking your cheekbone like he’s checking you’re real.
you nod and pull him down until his weight settles over you, the most perfect thing ever.
his chest hair rasps against your nipples, the metal arm cool against your ribs, flesh hand burning hot on your hip, and you feel tiny under him, safe and pinned and exactly where you’re supposed to be.
“don’t stop,” you breathe against his mouth. “please don’t stop.”
"not gonna," he kisses you like he’s drowning, swallowing every little sound you make.
his tongue strokes yours, making you taste yourself on him, and you whine into his mouth.
your hands slide over the ridges of his back, nails digging in when another cramp twists low in your belly.
it is sharp enough to make your hips jerk, grinding your soaked pussy against the hard line of his cock still trapped in his sweatpants
“alpha,” you gasp against his lips, the word slipping out of you in the most needy way, surprising you both.
bucky groans, his forehead dropping to yours. “fuck, omega. say it again.”
“alpha, please.” tears spill down your temples. “it hurts. need you inside, please.”
he rears back just enough to shove his sweatpants down, kicking them off, and then he’s bare above you, cock heavy and flushed against his stomach. there's a bead of precum pearling at the tip.
you stare at him, because holy shit he wasn’t exaggerating about how big he is.
it’s ridiculous. beautiful and ridiculous and you have a fleeting, hysterical thought that you’re about to get ruined by a guy who still sends you birthday cards.
the thought makes you giggle and then choke because he’s looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
“eyes on me,” he says softly, settling between your thighs again, nudging them wider with his knees. “gonna go slow, sweetheart. tell me if it’s too much.”
you nod, almost biting your lip bloody, and he lines up, dragging the blunt head through your folds, coating himself in slick, spreading your wetness up over your clit until you’re shaking and trying to chase the pressure.
the first press is gentle, just the tip breaching you, and you both suck in a breath.
“oh god,” you whimper. it burns sharply, but underneath it is relief so profound you start crying harder, tears sliding hot into your hair.
“breathe, baby,” he murmurs, voice shaking with restraint. “breathe out a little. there you go—fuck, that’s it.”
inch by agonizing inch he sinks in, pausing every time you tense, kissing away your tears, whispering praise against your throat, “so tight. taking me so well. my perfect girl,” the words rumbling against your skin, beard scraping deliciously.
when he’s halfway you feel impossibly full already, and you claw at his shoulders. “too much—”
“almost,” he soothes, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest, rolling down between your breasts. “just a little more. you’re doing so good, omega. look how pretty you open for me.”
he pulls back just enough that you both watch his cock disappear into you, the sight so filthy your walls flutter around him and he curses under his breath.
the stretch is so sudden and complete that for one stupid second you’re scared you’re going to split open.
but then the fear flips into wonder because he’s home, he’s actually home inside you and your body is singing in a language you never even learned, every ridge and vein dragging against places inside you that light up like fireworks.
another slow push and he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, and you both moan, broken sounds that tangle in the air.
he stills as he's buried to the hilt, letting you adjust, with his forehead pressed to yours.
“move,” you beg, because you feel full and empty at the same time somehow. “please move, alpha.”
he draws back slow, almost all the way out, then slides home again, and the drag lights every nerve on fire.
when he slides back in it’s like the first sip of water after you didn’t even know you were dying of thirst. your hips tilt greedily without permission, chasing that feeling again, and you hate how obvious it is but you can’t stop.
a sob leaves you as your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his ass to pull him inside you deeper.
“like that?” he rasps, setting a careful rhythm, long strokes that have you seeing stars. “feel good?”
“yes—yes—harder alpha—” you don’t even und why you’re screaming for him to go harder, but everything in your body is asking for more.
he obliges, hips snapping a little sharper, the slap of skin loud in the quiet room.
your slick is everywhere, soaking the sheets, dripping down his balls, easing the way until he’s fucking into you relentlessly.
you turn your head without thinking, mouth finding the juncture of his neck and shoulder, and bite dow. blood floods your tongue, and you taste iron.
it’s not romantic, it’s animal and desperate and the most honest thing you’ve ever done with your mouth—claiming him before your brain can talk you out of it.
you don't know what made you feral enough to do it, but the wolf in you seems happy.
“fuck—did you just—” he pulls back to stare at you, a perfect ring of your teeth blooming red on his skin.
“i’m sorry!” you whisper, a little horrified now that he's noticed. “i didn’t mean—i just needed—”
“no, baby, no.” his laugh is breathless, and leans in to capture your lips, kissing you fiercely, tasting his own blood on your tongue and groaning like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. “you marked me. you've claimed me. means i’m yours now, my little wolf.”
your heart flips. “really?”
“really.” he nuzzles your throat, scent glands pulsing, licking over your pulse point like he’s already planning where to bite. “want me to mark you back? make it even?”
“yes,” you breathe. “make me yours. please, alpha.”
a possessive growl rips off him, and he strikes. his teeth sink into the soft spot where neck meets shoulder.
pain flares, but then melts into pure bliss, a rush of warmth flooding every vein, your pussy clamping down so hard he curses into your skin.
his bite lands and the pain is bright but then it is gone, replaced by a rush that pours straight down your spine and pools between your legs.
suddenly, you understand why people write songs about this exact second. you also understand you’re never going to be just “you” again.
you come with a scream, walls clamping down on him, milking his cock as pleasure crashes over you in waves.
bucky's pace falters, like your orgasm triggered his too. “shit—gonna knot you—can’t hold—”
the base of his cock starts to swell, catching on every thrust, and stretching you wider.
you feel it grow and thicken, a delicious pressure that has you keening.
you gasp even though you know what exactly is happening. the feeling is nothing and everything like he'd described.
“knot, omega,” he grits out,like he's confirming in case you were still confused. “gonna lock us together. fill you up, baby.”
it pops fully, sealing you tight, and you hiss at the sensation. you're stuffed so full you can’t tell where you end and he begins.
the knot throbs inside you, stretching your walls until you feel every pulse of his heartbeat.
his rhythm turns shallow, and then he’s coming, hot pulses deep inside, so much it floods you instantly.
spurt after thick spurt paints your insides, your belly rounding with it.
“take it,” his voice breaks. “take every drop—fuck, look at you.”
dazed at the sensation, you stare down between you, hand pressing over the little bulge.
when you press, you feel him pulse, another hot spurt, and the skin stretches under your hand. the possessive little wolf that lives in you purrs 'mine' so loud you’re surprised he can’t hear it.
“that’s me,” he whispers, covering your hand with his. “all in you. keeping you full.”
you come again just from that, weaker but deeper, a rolling climax that leaves you boneless and sobbing his name.
he collapses carefully, rolling so you’re on top, knot tying you together, his arms banded around your back.
he’s still leaking into you, little pulses every time you clench, and you can’t stop touching the swell of your stomach, marveling at how full you feel.
“feels weird,” you mumble into his neck. “good weird. like you’re part of me now.”
“i am,” he says simply, fingers tracing the bite mark on your shoulder. “and you’re part of me. we're mated. for real.”
you lift your head, tears fresh but happy this time. “even though i bit you like a feral raccoon?”
he snorts but kisses the tip of your nose. “that was just you being my my fierce little omega.”
the knot takes its sweet time, like it knows exactly how wrecked you both are and refuses to rush the moment.
you’re draped over bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to the steady thump of his heart, his arms locked around your back so you don’t slide off the swell of your own belly.
every few seconds one of you shifts and the tug where you’re joined makes you both hiss.
“think i look about three months along,” you mumble into his skin, poking the taut curve of your stomach.
bucky huffs a laugh that shakes you both. “try five. you’re carrying the barnes heir already, clearly i’m very efficient.”
“shut up,” you groan, but you’re grinning. “this is so weird. i look like i swallowed a something.”
sliding one big hand down to cradle the underside of the bulge, his thumb strokes soft circles. “never seen anything hotter in my life, swear to god.”
you hide your face in his neck again because the way he’s looking at you—like you hung the damn moon and then painted it gold for good measure—makes your chest ache in a brand new way.
time blurs. snow ticks against the window like it’s trying to get in on the secret.
eventually the pressure eases, the knot shrinking by slow degrees until you feel him slip a fraction inside you.
“here we go,” he murmurs, kissing your temple. “gonna be messy, baby. you ready?”
you nod, and then the last of it deflates and he slides free with a wet sound that should be obscene but mostly just makes you whimper at the sudden emptiness.
you feel it leave you and panic for one stupid heartbeat that he’s leaving too, until his arms tighten and you realize the mess is just proof he stayed.
hot and endless cum follows immediately, gushing out of you in a rush that soaks the sheets, his thighs, everything.
mortified, you try to clamp your legs shut, but he’s already laughing softly and holding you open with gentle hands.
“let it happen, sweetheart. look at that—fuck, that’s all me.” he sounds awed, staring between your legs where it keeps coming, pearly ropes painting your thighs, pooling under your ass. “you took so much. proud of you.”
“it’s everywhere,” you whisper as you feel head flood your cheeks. “the bed’s ruined. dad’s gonna kill us.”
“worth it,” he says, still watching like he can’t believe his eyes. “christen the guest room properly. he’ll just think i spilled milk or something.”
you smack his chest weakly. “that is not what this looks like.”
he finally tears his gaze away to grin at you. “no, it looks like i bred my omega six ways to sunday. which is accurate.”
the word bred sends a fresh shiver through you, aftershocks rippling up your spine.
he places a wet kiss to the side of your jaw, and moves away from you, so he can grab the water bottle from the nightstand. but even that half a second absence pulls something deep off your chest.
when he presses the bottle to your moth without any preamble, you guzzle half of it without sitting up. and then hand it back with a sheepish smile.
he drinks the rest, and a drop slides down his chin that you lean over and lick away without thinking.
“thirsty little thing,” he teases, but his voice is so soft.
he disappears to the bathroom, comes back with a warm washcloth and a towel that has definitely seen better days. you try to take the cloth but he bats your hand away, kneeling between your legs again.
“let me,” his voice gentle but firm nonetheless. “part of the deal.”
he cleans you slowly—thighs first, then careful swipes over your swollen folds, murmuring apologies when you flinch at the oversensitivity.
the cloth is warm and smells faintly of your old detergent, and the care in his hands makes your chest ache.
“you don’t have to,” you whisper.
“want to,” he says simply. “always gonna take care of you now.”
when he’s done he tosses everything toward the hamper but misses by a mile, earning a laugh from you.
he sits up and scoops you into his lap, and you curl into him immediately, resting your head on his shoulder.
“bathroom,” he decides. “then food. then more cuddling. in that order.”
you make a pathetic noise. “can’t walk.”
“wasn’t planning on making you.”
he scoops you up before you can protest about the mess, carrying you to the bathroom like you weigh nothing.
the shower’s ancient and takes forever to heat, but he holds you under the spray anyway, washing you slowly and thoroughly. his hands are tender between your legs, cleaning away the evidence with a softness that makes tears prick again.
every gentle pass of his hand feels like apology and worship at the same time.
you’re sore, swollen, raw, and still you find yourself canting your hips into his touch because even wrecked you’re greedy for him.
you lean on him like you're boneless, letting him shampoo your hair, rinse the sweat from your back, kiss the bite mark on your shoulder until it tingles.
you let him do whatever he wants, and what he wants is you.
“still with me?” he asks quietly, thumbing soap from your collarbone.
“barely,” you admit, voice hoarse from all the screaming. “feel like i got hit by a truck.”
he snorts, turning you to rinse your back. “sexy horny truck.”
back in the bedroom he strips the ruined sheets with military efficiency, muttering about evidence disposal, then wrestles a clean set from the linen closet while you sit on the edge of the mattress wrapped in a towel with your legs dangling, watching the muscles in his back flex.
he crawls in beside you once it’s made, pulling you down so you’re both face to face now, noses brushing each other.
“hey,” he whispers.
“hey yourself,” you whisper back.
you study each other in the dim afternoon light filtering through the blinds. his hair’s a mess, lips swollen, eyes soft in a way you’ve never seen on anyone.
“i love you,” you say, simple as breathing. because it is. nothing had ever felt this good, this right. he looks exactly like everything you've been searching all your life.
you catalogue the tiny things nobody else ever gets to see: the faint freckle just under his left eye, the way his lashes stick together from the shower, the tiny scar on his lip you suddenly want to kiss every day for the rest of your life.
the list feels endless and you’re stupidly grateful for every single item.
you feel his breath catch. “yeah?”
“yeah. think i started falling the second you looked at me like i was something worth looking at. downstairs, when i walked in and you smelled me and didn’t run. maybe even before that, from all dad’s stories. but definitely then.”
metal fingers trace the curve of your cheek as he finds words. “i love you too. terrified me how fast. thought i was having some kinda stroke when your scent hit me. like the world narrowed to just you and i hadn’t even seen your face yet.”
you laugh. “romantic.”
“i’m a romantic guy,” he deadpans, but his voice is softer when he adds, “you’re it for me, sweetheart. mated or not, marked or not, you’re it.”
you kiss him slowly, tasting the truth of it. when you pull back you rest your forehead against his.
“so what happens now?” you ask.
you’re both sticky and wrecked and you can feel a bruise blooming where he bit you and you’ve never been happier to be in pain.
because it means tomorrow when your dad asks why you’re walking funny you’ll have to lie to the man who taught you 'honesty is the best policy' and honestly the irony is delicious.
his thumb strokes your mating mark. “now my rut kicks in for real. been simmering since your heat hit, but the knot triggered it proper. gonna be… a lot. more intense than this. might get growly and possessive, want to keep you in bed for days. you sore?”
“little,” you admit. “but not bad. i want you, alpha. want all of it. however you need me.”
his eyes darken, when the weight of your sentence reaches him. “careful throwing that word around, baby. might not let you out of this room till spring.”
you nip his bottom lip. “promise?”
rolling you under him again, a delighted growl leaves him, “gonna wreck you all over again.”
hours later, bucky’s face is buried in your neck, beard scratching the bite mark every time he exhales.
you’re tracing lazy circles through the sweat on his back with one finger, counting the little scars you find like constellations, like if you memorize them all you’ll never lose him.
the quiet is perfect until it isn’t.
your dad’s truck is gonna crunch up that driveway in like… two hours max. maybe less if the plows are feeling generous.
the thought lands between you like a live grenade and you feel bucky tense the exact second it detonates in your head too.
“shit,” you whisper into his hair.
“yeah,” he mumbles against your skin, voice a little rough. “shit’s a good word for it.”
your heart starts jackhammering so hard you’re surprised he can’t feel it through your ribs.
telling your dad.
jesus.
the man who still calls you “trouble” and kisses the top of your head like you’re ten. the man who taught you how to throw a punch and how to change a tire and who once cried when you left for college. you’re about to walk downstairs and tell him his best friend just mated his daughter.
you’re going to break his heart or make him break bucky’s face and you’re not sure which is worse.
“we’re gonna have to tell him,” your voice is quieter than you mean to be.
bucky lifts his head just enough to look at you, blue eyes still blown wide and soft around the edges. “you want the fun version or the realistic version?”
“gimme both.”
he flops onto his back, dragging you with him so you’re sprawled across his chest like a blanket. his heartbeat is thundering under your ear and it’s the only thing keeping you from spiraling.
“fun version: we walk downstairs holding hands, i say ‘hey pal, remember that time i pulled you outta that burning hut? cool, i just knocked up your daughter, we’re even.’ then we run.”
you snort so hard it hurts, but it’s almost a sob too. “and the realistic version?”
he sighs. “he shoots me in the face, buries me in the backyard, tells everyone i wandered off drunk into the blizzard.”
you smack his chest weakly. “buck, be serious.”
“i am serious.” his voice drops. “your old man’s got a twelve-gauge and the muscle memory of a guy who once killed a dude in the dark.”
you picture it for one terrifying second—your dad’s face going blank the way it did when he came home from deployment and didn’t talk for three days —and your stomach flips so hard you taste metal.
you prop your chin on his sternum, trying to breathe. “he loves you.”
“he loved me when i was just the guy who sent you disney gift cards and fixed his truck. he’s gonna love me a lot less when he realizes i just spent the last six hours balls-deep in his only kid.”
you groan and hide your face between his pecs. the smell of him—sex and pine and you—makes your eyes sting. “god, don’t say it like that.”
“how do you want me to say it?” he’s smiling, you can hear it, but it’s thin. “should i go with ‘we discovered a profound emotional connection’?”
“shut up.” you bite his collarbone just hard enough to make him hiss, then lick the spot in apology. “i’m freaking out here.”
he softens immediately, hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, thumb rubbing that spot that makes your whole spine melt. “hey. breathe, baby. we’ll figure it out.”
you want to believe him. you do. but the idea of your dad looking at you like you’re suddenly someone else’s daughter makes something inside you crack.
you peek up at him. “together?”
“together,” he says, like it’s the easiest promise he’s ever made. “but i gotta be real with you—i’m not letting him shoot me until after i get more of that chili. i’ve earned it.”
you laugh despite everything, and somehow he always knows exactly how to yank you out of your own head. “he’s gonna smell it on us. both of us. the whole house reeks.”
bucky wrinkles his nose. “yeah. smells like a mated pair just invented sex. real subtle.”
you sit up a little, straddling his hips, sheet pooling around your waist. you feel the evidence of him still leaking out of you and it’s equal parts mortifying and possessive and you want to keep it there forever.
“we could… shower again? open all the windows? say we were burning incense or something?”
he arches a brow. “incense that smells like cum and desperate omega? bold choice.”
you flick his ear. “i’m workshopping.”
he catches your wrist and kisses the inside of it, eyes serious now. “look. i’ll take the lead, okay? been through worse firefights than one pissed-off dad.”
“you ever had a firefight where the enemy taught you how to ride a bike and made you pancakes when you were hungover?”
“fair point.” he exhales through his teeth. “maybe we ease him into it. i’ll start with ‘hey, remember when you said if anyone ever hurt her you’d skin them alive? funny story—’”
you drop your forehead to his. your voice comes out smaller than you want. “we could just… show him the bites.”
bucky goes very still. “you want me to roll in there shirtless like ‘surprise, i’m your new son-in-law’?”
“it’s honest.”
“it’s suicidal.”
you chew your lip until you taste blood. “i don’t want to lie to him. not about this. not about us.”
his whole face softens so fast it’s unfair. “yeah. me neither.” he brushes your hair back, tucking it behind your ear like you’re something fragile and priceless. “okay. no lying. but maybe… we put clothes on first. and i stand slightly behind you. like a human shield but sexier.”
you roll your eyes, but it’s watery. “why’s the shield standing behind— oh, you coward.”
“smart,” he corrects. “there’s a difference.”
you lean down and kiss him slowly, tasting the both of you on his tongue. when you pull back his eyes are dark again.
“stop that,” he mutters. “we’re trying to adult here.”
“can’t help it. you’re all… biteable.”
he groans and flips you suddenly, pinning you under him again. “keep talking like that and your dad’s gonna come home to round two and a locked door.”
you grin up at him, reckless and terrified and stupidly in love. “it’ll be worth it.”
he kisses you once more, hard, then rolls off and sits up. “come on. food first. then we face the firing squad.”
you watch him stand, all long lines and scars and the bite you put on his shoulder still red and perfect. your chest does something complicated—like it’s too small for everything trying to live inside it.
“bucky?”
he glances back. “yeah?”
“whatever he says… i’m not giving you back.”
his smile is small and crooked and yours. “good. ‘cause i’m not going anywhere, sweetheart. never.”
outside, the snow keeps piling up. inside, you know you're bound to each other in ways no one had ever been to anyone else.
my masterlist .ᐟ
extras. guess who deleted the whole draft this afternoon and crashed the fuck out? anyways, it all worked out, i think. i am quite proud of how this turned out, especially the moodboard bc seb looks absolutely delicious there! taglist. @devililithh @buckyfmd @sheriff-bodecker @honeysucklewatr @demiebarnes @kqtholins @amoremarveloustime @colettebarnes @barnes-babydoll @miraclediviner @of-sanguine-eyes @biaswreckedbybuckybarnes @manly-man-whore @indigo123789 @wasa-bby @biggestfangirl @herejustforbuckybarnes @buckysbunnny @highhopes1008 @castielscaplan @grumpysunnybarnes @luvyoupxmimi @slutdier @yes-ilovetowrite @cautiouscas17 @astridphantom @delusionalwomsn @cinnamon-girl-writes @wherewinterblooms @stifflyspeedyquirk @sassandscribbles @marvelouslyme96 @stesha02 @floatingvalhallasea @goobers-mcgee @t1redphoenix @vickynguyennn @bluellamacheesecake-blog @serenityrjd @pitabread79 @galaxygoddess30 @biggestfangirl @chenoadouble-o7 @phoenix-in-writing @ceoofdisappointment + to get added to the taglist .ᐟ
This was very hot! And then sooooo sweet🥰🥰
