[azriona]

Muscle Memory, Chapter 4 (the end)

Bucky/Reader, Gen Audiences, 15k in 4 chapters. Post-CA:CW, canon divergence where Bucky is an Avenger in the Tower, amnesia!fic. Please see AO3 for full tags.

Summary: You don't remember everything. Maybe you never will. But you do know this: you need to find him.

And so you do. On AO3. (Naturally.)

(And if you're wondering about the couch... it's under the cut.)

That couch did not deserve its fate, friends. I gave it a second life and have no regrets.

[azriona]

Muscle Memory, Chapter 3

Bucky/Reader, Gen Audiences, 15k in 4 chapters. Post-CA:CW, canon divergence where Bucky is an Avenger in the Tower, amnesia!fic. Please see AO3 for full tags.

Summary: Something they never told you... leads to something you finally remember. You really, really wish you hadn't.

From bad to worse on AO3... but don't worry. There's light at the end of this tunnel, too.

[azriona]

Muscle Memory, Chapter 2

Bucky/Reader, Gen Audiences, 15k in 4 chapters. Post-CA:CW, canon divergence where Bucky is an Avenger in the Tower, amnesia!fic. Please see AO3 for full tags.

Summary: You slowly start easing yourself into the life you don't remember living. At least the sofa and the cat are the same. And maybe you'll stop being afraid of this man who calls himself your husband. Surely there aren't any more surprises, right?

I mean, what kind of author would give you two cliffhangers in a row, right? Obviously it'll all be fine on AO3.

[allandoflimbo]

Summary: She falls in love with Bucky Barnes from the moment she sees him. Bucky, still in love with a woman from his past, hates Y/N and plans to make her life miserable. To both their dismay, they are assigned together to go undercover into The Capitol for six months. There, they develop a heartbreaking friend with benefits agreement. Modern AU. Dystopian. Some toxic relationship elements that could be triggering. Very sexual. Rated M.

You can also read this story on: WATTPAD or AO3

Teaser Trailer:

Chapter 1  

Chapter 2   

Chapter 3  

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6  

Chapter 7  

Chapter 8  

Chapter 9  

Keep reading

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

“The marriage between the second daughter of King Viserys I and his own brother, Prince Daemon, raised eyebrows upon its first announcement. Many assumed the match would echo the Rogue Prince’s unfortunate first union with the late Lady Rhea, despite his wish for a Valyrian bride being, finally, fulfilled. It surprised all who took witness to see the intensity of Daemon’s devotion to his second wife, a regard that would persist through a long and happy union between uncle and niece.”

- ‘Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros’ by Archmaester Gyldayn

The story of Prince Daemon Targaryen and his brother’s second-born daughter, as told through the many terms of endearment he calls her by.

Keep reading

[verytyrantcat]

Since HOTD is back and popping off, I'm once again(for the 300th time) reblogging this fic. I have no words to say other than I reread this regularly, and it gets better with each read through.

[azriona]

June 29 Drabble - Like Father, Like Son

Bucky/Reader & son, NAFTK ficlet, takes place long after Down the Wishing Well but stands well enough on its own. This 100-word drabble meets the requirements for @swoon-june's prompt of "colors" and NASA's Moon Joy June prompt of "earth" (hey, mud counts as earth, right?).

Summary: Your boys pick flowers. Just not all for you.

Your son is covered in mud, from the soft curls on his head, to the squish in his shoes on his feet.

But his smile shines sun-bright, the flowers grasped in one grubby hand a riot of color. The slightly larger bouquet Bucky holds is just as bright and colorful, though his smile is softer as he leads the toddler back to you.

“For me?” you say, pleased, taking the muddy boy into your arms. “They’re lovely.”

But JP shakes his head, splattering drips of mud everywhere. “No, Momma. Daddy picked f’owers for you. My f’owers are for Aun’ Pepper!”

<-Previous Day's Drabble -=- Drabble Masterlist -=- Next Day's Drabble->

NAFTK Tumblr Masterlist

[gaybuckybarnes]

SEBASTIAN STAN Monday (2021)

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Give Me Shelter, For My Heart | Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader | One Shot? 3k

Things are missing around the Avengers' compound and a newly returned Bucky is acting weirder than normal...Steve and Sam go to investigate and discover more than they bargained for.

Warnings: 18+ for language and suggestion of Hydra violence/torture/experimentation, omegaverse themes including alpha & omega, suggestion of pregnancy/pups, wolf shifting Rated F for Fluff and G for good friends

Challenges & Prompts: @buckybarnesevents Alpha Bucky April with extra prompts - word count, nesting, purring, beta characters, (I'll let mods decide if this hits the breeding/baby fever prompt). And @fandom-free-bingo 'forehead kisses'

Graphic by me and Canva, dividers by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources

Masterlist | Bucky Barnes

“Hmm,” Steve looked around the supply room, surveying the gaps and empty shelves, normally well stocked with blankets and provisions. It was the third time this week he’d found himself at a loss, not just for words but his things too. Everything seemed to be going missing. 

First it was a few plates and mugs from the galley kitchen by his office, then it’d been the lunch he’d left for him and Bucky in the fridge. Last night he’d gone into Bucky’s room to make sure he was okay and found the man sleeping on a bare mattress, all the sheets, pillows and blankets were gone and the newly revived Bucky refused to explain what had happened to them or even acknowledge that there was anything wrong at all. He hadn’t even addressed that fact that the window was wide open and it looked as if he was sleeping in his shoes. 

Which brought Steve’s thoughts to the man himself. Bucky had been so odd since he’d returned. For a day or two, he’d been something like his old self, despite the awful situation they found themselves in, he’d joked with Steve and reminisced with the few memories he had. They’d enjoyed a beer together and he’d even met with Tony during their mediation and patched things up. 

Then, they’d all climbed onto the jet and he’d become distant, pacing like a caged animal until they’d landed. As soon as the doors were open he’d vanished for forty-eight hours and sent the entire compound into mayhem before strolling back in as if nothing had happened, bruised and covered in blood. Judging by the bandages he sported later that day, his cuts and bruises spread under his shirt and trousers too. 

Steve knew that he’d changed during his time with Hyrda, back in the 30s they’d both been betas, happy to plod along ignoring the madness of the few alpha’s in Brooklyn. It had been a rare thing then, to be an alpha, now they were considered a dying breed, so when Bruce’s tests had revealed that Bucky was an alpha now, they’d tried to take it in their stride that he might go off on his own sometimes, especially since omegas were even rarer. But there was still so much they didn’t know, so much to unpack and discover about the Bucky they’d rescued, and Steve was so desperate to spend time getting to know this new man that all the time apart was making him worry. 

“You okay?” Sam asked from the doorway, leaning in to hand Steve a hot cup of coffee. 

“Just doing a stock check.” 

“He take something else?” Sam stepped into the small room, lined with shelves and shelves of tents, camping stoves, parachutes, it seemed to go on and on. The bare grey shelves where stock was missing was stark against the white washed walls. 

“He?” 

“Barnes,” Sam sipped his coffee, matter of fact, and Steve confronted the worry that had been plaguing him. 

“It’s Bucky, isn’t it?” Steve dropped his head heavily and Sam patted him on the back, still sipping his drink. 

“Sorry man, told you, he’s not right yet. He’s not hurting anyone though, if he hates his bedding, who cares, if he hates your lunches, who could blame him.” 

Sam sidestepped Steve’s halfhearted swipe with a grin on his face. 

“But what’s he doing with it, Sam? Where’s it all going?” 

“Hell, I don’t know, have you asked him?” Sam raised his eyebrows. 

Had Steve asked his best friend, who flinched at his touch and shied away from any conversations? Bucky who vanished for hours at a time and came back looking as if he’d been dragged through a hedge? No, he hadn’t. He’d been too scared to confront what might be going on, what latent part of his programming might be at play. 

“Look, if you’re too scared to ask why don’t I?” 

Now it was Steve’s turn to raise his eyebrow, it wasn’t that Sam and Bucky didn’t get along, they just didn’t get along yet. Steve was working on it. 

“What if we…followed him?” He offered instead and Sam laughed again. 

“Who knew Captain America was scared of his own friends,” he couldn’t contain the chuckles. “Fine, fine. Let’s keep an eye on him.” Sam turned to the ceiling, more comfortable with the AI than Steve was. “FRIDAY, if Sergeant Barnes leaves his room, please can you alert us - privately?” 

“Of course,” the soft voice answered and Steve gave his friend a weak smile. 

FRIDAY’S alert went off twice a day, every day, over the next week. But despite their best efforts neither Steve nor Sam managed to catch up with Bucky. 

It wasn’t until the following Saturday that they managed to follow him. Bucky was supposed to be at a training session to get his official certifications but they’d both had a feeling he’d try and skip it. As predicted they’d spotted the blue of his new henley edging around the side of the compound, a full backpack strapped to his back. 

Bucky ran across the grass and towards the thick forest. His still uncut hair was tied back but tendrils fell out as he sprinted into the wind. 

He was surprisingly loud, as he strode quickly between the trees, snapping twigs and branches that Steve knew he could’ve dodge even before the serum and his training. Sam looked at him, both of their feet silent as they followed. 

Bucky’s speed increased as he turned his face up into the breeze, his backpack jostled against the trees, bouncing when he began to run. 

Steve kept up, sending Sam wide, into the breeze, in case Bucky doubled back. 

Just as he was starting to feel lost in the repetition of trees and ferns, Bucky burst into a clearing and Steve slammed to a halt. 

The pine trees gave way to a small patch of clear sky, shining down on an old shed. Unlike the other abandoned guard houses, this one had obviously been cleaned recently. The small porch was swept and a pair of Avengers camping chairs were arranged neatly facing into the forest. A line had been strung between the cabin and the trees where one of the missing blankets fluttered in the gentle wind. 

Steve crouched down, motioning to Sam on the other side of the clearing to stay out of sight. 

Bucky approached slowly, “Cățeluș, are you here?” 

At first there was nothing and then a wolf nosed its way out from behind the door, it’s chestnut brown fur almost gold in the sunlight. It leaped forwards from the porch and shot across the clearing, leaping into Bucky’s arms. 

Steve whipped his head up to try and find Sam and by the time his eyes found Bucky again the wolf was gone, replaced by a woman pulling on a large t-shirt from Bucky’s backpack. 

“James!” Her sweet voice rang out in the otherwise quiet forest. 

Swamped by Bucky’s familiar red henley, you shot from the door and into Bucky's waiting arms, the back pack dropped to the floor and forgotten. 

She was swamped by Bucky’s red henley and he wrapped you in his arms, one large hand on the back of your head, tucking you into his neck. The other supported your legs, now wrapped around his waist. 

In the clearing Bucky's shoulders relaxed as he sank into your embrace, kissing and nipping at your neck. In return you tipped your head, practically purring at the attention and wriggling in his arms. 

“Have you been okay, baby.” Bucky asked, pulling away enough to look you over. 

“I'm okay, I missed you though, James, please don't leave me again.” You begged cupping his stubbled cheeks in your hands. 

Bucky turned into your palm and kissed it, “I know, I know, I’ve been making sure it’s safe for you.” 

Steve's heart sank. Bucky didn't feel safe? 

“You trust me, don't you, my little omega.” Bucky rubbed his nose into your cheek and you giggled, holding him even tighter, your hands in his hair. 

An omega? 

Sam stared over at Steve, eyes wide. 

It was clear to them both that this was no chance encounter and all Bucky’s odd behaviour suddenly started to make more sense.

Steve motioned for Sam to leave, they could sneak back to the compound and perhaps bring this up tentatively. Perhaps leave some items you might like lying around in the hopes that Bucky would take them and understand that his secret was out, but it was safe. 

Sam moved swiftly round the clearing as Steve continued to watch Bucky. 

Bucky vanished into the cabin, leaving you on the porch alone, snuggled into his shirt and pressing the collar to your nose. 

“She’s cute,” Sam whispered, squeezing up against Steve, still hiding in the overgrown ferns that lined the edge of the cabin. 

“We can’t let her sleep out here. She must be hungry and cold.”

Bucky emerged from the cabin carrying two of the missing mugs, balancing them carefully on the railing before scooping you up into his lap. His hand hovered by his mouth, sipping in slow motion as his eyes scanned the tree line and Steve took a breath, sitting back quickly. 

“Stay here, Cățeluș,” he was up in a flash, eyes always on the tree line even when he reached into his boot to pull out a familiar gerber knife. 

Instead of flipping it into his palm, he balanced it on the arm of your camping chair. Eyes still on the trees he placed his metal hand on top of your head, “stay here and stay safe, follow the plan, do what you need to.” His voice was low, series, almost a growl. Far away from the happy, loving tones he’d been speaking to you with before. 

You nodded, and as soon as he felt your head move he was up and off the porch. 

Steve and Sam looked up in time to see a wolf leap towards them. 

It was true then, the experiments had worked and Steve had the cold feeling that returned every time he discovered something new about his friend during a fight, but he had no time to worry about it now. Not when the wolf was closing in on them. 

It was huge, its white fur dusted with fallen leaves, but its teeth gleamed in the afternoon sun as he pounced, snarling. His paws the size of dinner plates slamming into the ground in front of them, teeth bared and snarling. 

Steve rolled away, pulling Sam with him and covering his body, regretting not bringing the shield. 

“Bucky!” Sam shouted from under Steve’s arm

“Bucky it’s us we don’t want to hurt you!” 

The wolf pulled back from the two men pinned beneath him, and something like clarity passed over Bucky’s icey blue eyes and he sat on his haunches, head cocked to one side, ears floppy. Then it stood, rounding the bushes and, in a blink, the man had reappeared still hiding before the foliage to cover his naked body. 

“Steve -” Bucky looked thoroughly confused, 

“Bucky, we’re so sorry we shouldn’t have followed you.” 

“What are you doing here?” Bucky’s voice wavered, his body cold without his fur and with his clothes left behind in the cabin. 

“We were worried about you, man, you’ve been so weird - stealing stuff, going missin’, can you blame us for getting creeped out?” Sam raised his eyebrows and Bucky’s brow furrowed. 

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I just had to -” he gestured back towards the cabin and, as if remembering he’d left you behind with no way of knowing he was safe he turned and ran back to the clearing. 

Steve and Sam jumped up, chasing after Bucky once more. 

The cabin porch was empty when Steve picked his way down the slope of mud and rocks into the clearing. 

A howl rang out as he got closer to the little house, a high, pained sound and then the response came, low and level. 

There were two wolves now, hidden at the side of the cabin in the shadows.

The white wolf kept itself half turned towards Steve and Sam, who kept quiet and still, barely daring to breathe, allowing its companion to approach slowly. 

The brown wolf dropped in front of the white, ears flat back against its head, and then rolled over, showing a soft belly that the white wolf nuzzled gently before turning back to Steve and barking sharply. 

Steve held his hands up and the wolf barked again, turning tail and returning to the cabin. 

It took only moments for Bucky to show himself on the porch, pulling his henley back down over his now dirt streaked belly. 

“Come in,” he gestured up the stairs and vanished again. 

The cabin, though run down, was well kept. The porch was swept of leaves and there was even a little mat by the door. 

“Shoes,” you whispered, pulling on Bucky’s sleeve as you entered the main living space, making an attempt to hide behind him. You’d dressed again too, also in one of Bucky’s henleys and a pair of leggings that Steve recognised as Avengers recruit issue. 

“Do you mind?” Bucky asked while Steve and Sam stared between you both. 

“Shoes,” you turned to look up at Bucky again, eyes pleading in one moment and then flicking to the two new men treading mud into your home. 

“Your shoes, take them off.” Bucky helped them arrange their boots neatly by the door while you pottered around the fireplace. “This is her nest,” he whispered, making sure the doormat was straight and the little curtain was neat over the window. “It’s important to omegas, to her,” you turned shooting a glare over your shoulder, “to us-that it’s kept just right and she hates shoes inside.”

In the small living space a camping stove had been set up with a kettle, a portable fridge, and an assortment of mugs, both Avengers field regulation and novelty, which were set neatly on the mantel. You chose four, and placed them next to the kettle while it steamed happily away. 

Bucky spoke softly to you in a mixture of English and Romanian, but you didn’t come any closer to the strange men. You’d seen them before, on the television and in Bucky’s notebooks, but now that they were here, so large and imposing, you couldn’t bring yourself to even look over. 

“This is Cățeluș, well, that’s not her real name but we couldn’t find that. She - uh -” you watched Bucky struggle for words and lay a hand on his cheek, smiling warmly up at him. Your Winter, your James. “-I don’t want to say the word, it upsets her, but she was with me when I was - him - part of the experiments.” 

You poured the tea quietly, watching the steam rise into the darts of sun making their way through the broken knots of wood in the wall, and you took a deep breath. With shaking hands you gave the first man, Sam, a cup. He had a gentle face, a wide smile and he didn’t look at you with pity, as you feared, only interest. 

The second man held his breath as you approached, keeping his hands as close to his body as possible until you pushed the cup towards him. Steve. Bucky had lots of pictures of Steve in his notebooks and had told you more stories than you could remember, but he didn’t look sickly, he looked too big for the space, his shoulders drawn in, slouched. You appreciated that he was trying not to look scary, even though your every nerve was on edge.  

Bucky took the proffered mug from your hands with a kiss to your forehead and you sighed, allowing him to steer you to the only arm chair in the room and then passing you your own tea. 

“We got out, eventually and - I brought her here.” Bucky sat on the rolled arm of the chair, draping his own arm over your shoulders and fitting you into his side. 

Steve and Sam could only stare. 

“Why didn’t you bring her to the compound? She can stay -” Steve turned to you, “you can stay, either in Bucky’s room or you can have your own room if you’d prefer.” 

It took you a moment to process the offer, but eventually you shook your head, turning into Bucky’s side. 

“It was awful - in there, with them she, we both -” Bucky struggled for the words, the desire to protect you rising inside 

“It’s okay,” Sam said carefully, “I know the transition’s been rough on you, Bucky, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for her, how you even got her out here. But there’s nothing to be afraid of, maybe she’ll come with you? If you suggest it?” 

Sam kept looking at you, his eyes soft and encouraging but you turned away, pressed your face into Bucky’s ribs where his scent had soaked through his shirt, reassuring and primal, chanting in your head Alpha, safe, Alpha, safe. You did miss him, when he was gone, but how could he keep you safe in that place. 

You’d seen it, once or twice, through the trees when you took a walk, looking for whatever you could find in the forest. Guards left lots of things behind, bottles and coats and jackets, useful things. You collected them all, skirting around the edge of that horrid white building and hoping to never see the terrifying things that flew out of it, men in suits and robots, it was too much. 

“You can bring whatever you like with you, and maybe Nat and Wanda could help you with some new things, if you liked?” Steve followed Sam’s lead, keeping his voice steady and low. 

“James - my nest.” You mumbled, gripping his henley in your fist. 

He dropped a hand onto your head, “we can do whatever you like, baby. You want to stay here, we can stay, you want to go to the compound, we’ll go.” 

You felt Bucky’s heart rate pick up, its beat hammering and your anxiety grew too, your breathing more ragged, you turned even further into him, practically climbing into his lap, the henley you’d taken from him riding up. 

Instantly you knew it was a mistake, the scars of your time in Hydra were still visible, raised on your skin, yellowing patches of healing bruises and calloused skin from repeated bouts in the chair. 

Sam and Steve could barely conceal their inhale of breath. 

“Bucky, did you get her checked by a doctor or…” Sam trailed off, Bucky looked angry again, his arms fully surrounding you. 

“And what would I have said, Sam?” He growled, “I know she looks like she’s been kept in a cage and beaten but please don’t arrest me, I promise it wasn’t me? Her social security number? Sorry, I don’t have it, we don’t even know her name. I did the best I could.” His anger tipped over into a resigned sadness. Bucky cupped your face in one hand and forced you to look up at him, “I did the best I could, baby, I really did.” 

You nodded and his grip loosened so you could nuzzle into his chest again, your own tears running down your cheeks at the memory of those early days. Bucky’s shaking hands patching up your burns and cuts, the whisky you’d slugged before he pulled out a stray bullet from your arm and stitched it with floss. Every touch had been gentle though, every time he’d changed your bandages or cleaned you up, it had been gentle. It had been everything he could give you. 

“We didn’t mean it like that, Buck,but we could help, get her checked over and then you can come back here.” Sam’s voice was plaintive, deliberately soothing and it made Bucky’s blood boil. 

“I’m not taking her to that place.” He bit back, there was no mistaking the way he curled you into his body, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his arms around your back. 

It didn’t hurt anymore, to be touched, but then it’d never hurt to be touched by James. His hands had always been careful with you, his strength used only for protection and it was for that reason that you lay your trust in him completely. 

“Don’t make me go, Alpha.” You whispered, your lips brushing the base of his neck where you’d marked him, right over his scent gland, your teeth marks an eternal brand. You nuzzled into him, your chest rumbling again. 

“I won’t make you go,” he looked back at Steve and Sam, the finality of his decision sat heavily in the air. 

“Can we at least bring some medical things here? Would you let Sam check you out?” Steve offered, he was increasingly concerned by the way Bucky had retreated into the chair, his own legs now curled up on the overstuffed cushion.

Above you, James nodded once, “just you and Sam, don’t tell anyone else. I’ll know if you tell anyone else.” The panic edging Bucky’s voice had Steve raising his hands in surrender. 

“I promise, Buck, just Sam and I.”

Sam and Steve left the cabin at dusk while you and Bucky watched from the deck. As soon as they were beyond the trees he pulled you even tighter against his chest, his heat warm. 

“Everything is going to be okay, baby, I promise, no one’s going to ever, ever, hurt you again.” His hands slid down your arms and across the slow swell of your belly. “But we should consider their offer, make sure we’re making a choice that’s good for you and me, as well as them.” His palm pushed up under your shirt, splayed on your tight skin and, deep inside, your pup pushed back. 

[verytyrantcat]

I always reread this a few times a year because it's adorable 🥹

[vunblr]

Brown Sugar and Gunmetal vol.2

Pairing: Alpha! Winter Soldier x Omega! Female Reader

Tags: A/B/O AU. True mates. Post-rut drop. Hurt/comfort. Caretaking.

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. PTSD symptoms. Vulnerable Alpha. Mention of exhibitionism.

Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.

Word Count: 7.9k

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

Soldat wakes to darkness. Not the murky orange light of a cryo chamber, or the sterile fluorescence of a holding cell. Just... night. The kind you could find in normal places where normal people sleep.

Normal.

Its eyes adjust instantly to the low light pouring through the window, and the first thing it processes is warm.

There's a body pressed against its side.

Omega.

Its omega.

The recognition is immediate and visceral. Her scent floods its system before conscious thought can catch up, brown sugar and yeast and the underlying sweetness that makes its chest constrict.

She's asleep, pressed against its side, one arm draped across its chest, her face against its shoulder. Breathing deep and even, completely unguarded.

Trusting.

The word makes its gut twist.

Its metal arm is wrapped around her waist, holding her close. The flesh hand is cradled against the back of her neck, its palm warm against her skin, like it fell asleep mid-touch.

Soldat doesn't remember doing that, doesn't remember falling asleep at all.

Its gaze tracks down the length of their bodies. Naked. The tactical gear is... somewhere, scattered across the floor in pieces it has no memory of removing.

The bed is destroyed.

Sheets twisted and half-pulled off the mattress, pillows on the floor. There are-

Its eyes catch on the evidence.

Empty cracker wrappers on the floor. Chocolate’s. A plate on the nightstand with apple cores and orange peels. An empty water bottle. Two more on the floor.

When did it eat?

Soldat doesn't eat or drink unless ordered to, or unless it is mission-critical.

But apparently, it did.

They did.

The memories are there, fragmented and hazy. Feeding her crackers between rounds because she was shaking. Peeling an orange with the metal hand while she watched, fascinated. Drinking water from the same bottle, her lips where its mouth had been.

Fucking her again. And again. And again.

The scent in the room is obscene. Sweat and sex and the mix of their releases, soaked into the sheets, coating their skin. It can smell itself on her, can smell her on itself, the mingling so complete there's no separation.

Mated.

The thought comes unbidden.

No, not mated. Can't be mated. Soldat doesn't-

Its heart rate kicks up.

The omega shifts against it, making a small sound in her sleep, burrowing closer to its warmth, and it finds itself tightening its arm around her automatically.

Mine, his inner alpha purrs. Safe. Stay.

But the conditioned part-

The conditioned part is starting to surface now that the rut fog is lifting.

And it's screaming.

Mission status: FAILED

Objective: COMPROMISED

Orders: IGNORED

Its breathing goes shallow.

How long?

How long has it been here?

The last clear memory before this is... the bakery vent. Following her home. That was… two days ago? Three?

The panic starts as a flutter and builds rapidly. It had no operations scheduled that night, but it was supposed to report back. There was a briefing the next morning about-

Helicarriers.

The word slams through its consciousness.

Insight. Project Insight. Helicarriers. Deployment sequence. Mission parameters. Operational intelligence. Pierce himself was leading the briefing, and Soldat-

Soldat didn't show up.

Its heart is pounding now. Actually pounding, loud enough that it can hear the rush of blood in its ears.

Missing in action. Unauthorized absence. Compromised asset.

Its flesh hand comes up, digging its fingers into its hair, gripping hard enough to hurt. The pain doesn't clear the panic. Doesn't slow the racing thoughts.

The handlers are going to… it doesn’t want to think about what they are going to do to it. And then, they're going to wipe it. Completely. Burn out whatever's left and start over, and-

The omega makes another sound. Her hand spreads flat over its chest, directly over where its heart is trying to punch through its sternum.

It looks down at her.

She's still asleep, relaxed in a way it's never seen on anyone touching it before.

Can't take her.

The thought surfaces cold and absolute.

Taking her back to base would be a death sentence. They would see immediately what she is: true mate. The biological call that HYDRA has spent seventy years chemically suppressing, and they would either kill her or use her.

Leverage. A new kind of leash. Soldat would do anything to protect her from that.

Anything.

Which means...

The logical conclusion forms with brutal clarity:

Eliminate the liability.

The words are in its head, calm and procedural. She's a loose end. A distraction and a weakness that others could exploit. Would take less than three seconds. Snap the neck. Quick and clean. She wouldn't even wake up.

Its fingers twitch, then its entire body goes rigid. The metal hand closes into a fist, servos whining softly with the pressure. It can feel the plates grinding together.

No.

The rejection is immediate and visceral. Every alpha instinct roars to the surface, pushing the conditioned thoughts with devastating force.

Mine. Protect. Cannot Harm.

She's not a liability.

The mission is her. Has always been her, from the moment it caught her scent. Everything else is just noise compared to the absolute certainty that this omega is the only mission that matters.

But HYDRA doesn't know that. And it’s waiting.

Soldat has to go back. Has to report. Has to... let them wipe its memory of her so it can't lead them back here? Has to pretend this never happened?

The thought makes its chest constrict painfully. It can't forget her.

Can't-

It has to move.

The decision doesn't feel like a decision. More like inevitability. Like gravity.

Report. Debrief. Comply.

The thoughts pull at it with the same inexorable force that instinct brought it here, except they are dragging it away.

Slowly -so slowly it's almost painful- Soldat extracts itself from her. The metal arm slides out from her waist. She makes a small sound, a sleepy protest, and it freezes.

Waiting. Watching her face for signs of waking.

But she just shifts, reaching for the pillow instead, hugging it like a substitute for the warmth she just lost.

Something in its chest cracks.

It stands, silent and controlled. Every movement is deliberate, even though its hands want to shake.

The tactical gear is scattered across the small apartment like evidence of a struggle. Pants near the foot of the bed. The vest by the window. Boots kicked off near the table.

It starts gathering pieces.

The pants and underwear first. Stiff with-

It doesn't let itself think about it. Just pulls them on, feeling the cold, uncomfortable press of dried release against its skin. The handlers are going to notice.

Going to ask questions it doesn't want to answer.

The undershirt is twisted in the sheets. It pulls it free carefully, trying not to disturb her, and the scent that rises from the fabric makes it stop mid-motion.

Her.

The shirt smells like her. Like them. Like everything that happened in place.

It pulls it on anyway.

The vest comes next. Then tactical webbing. Its hands fumble with the buckles. Twice. Three times. Fingers that can fieldstrip a weapon in the dark are clumsy now, shaking too hard to catch the clasps properly. Knives still sheathed. The gun- where's the gun?

Its eyes scan the room and find it on the kitchen counter.

When did it put it there?

Doesn't matter.

It crosses to the counter, picks up the weapon, and checks the chamber automatically. Loaded. Safety on. Exactly as it should be.

Then comes the boots.  It sits on the edge of the chair -the one with her jacket draped over the back- and laces them with a double knot. It is just standard protocol, except its hands keep shaking.

Just slightly. Just enough that the knot takes two attempts.

Compromised. Unstable. Requires intervention.

The words loop through its head in the handler's voice. Cold. Clinical. Describing it like a malfunctioning piece of equipment.

Which is what it is. What it's supposed to be.

Soldat stands and turns back toward the bed. She's still asleep, face peaceful with one hand under her cheek. The sheet has slipped down, exposing her shoulder, the curve of her neck.

It can see the faint marks there. Subtle, barely visible in the scarce light, but present. Its teeth. Not a bond bite -it didn't mean to bond her, some last shred of control kept it from that- but it didn’t matter in the end.

Because they're bonded anyway.

The knot did that. Biological inevitability. The moment it locked inside her and spilled, the bond formed, whether it understood it or not.

And now it's about to leave her sleeping and unprotected.

It should leave.

Needs to leave.

Every second it stays increases the risk. Increases the chances that HYDRA will find her. That they'll trace it back here and discover what it's been doing.

What it's become.

But it can't make itself move toward the door, can't make itself turn away from her.

It has never thought about what it wants.

Wants aren't part of what it is. Asset doesn't want. It complies. Executes. Completes objectives and awaits new orders.

But standing here, looking at her, the want is so overwhelming it feels like a physical thing. It wants to stay, wants to crawl back into that bed and wrap around her and never leave.

Wants to wake up every morning to her scent and fall asleep every night with her in its arms. Wants to learn what she likes, what she needs. Learn how to be something other than what it is.

The want is destroying it, fracturing its mind. Breaking something fundamental in the architecture of what HYDRA built.

Loyalty parameters supersede personal preference. Emotional compromise requires correction.

But she's breathing right there. Alive and safe and its in ways that have nothing to do with HYDRA and their ownership over it.

The war in its head is splitting it apart.

Go. Stay.

Report. Protect.

Comply. Want.

Its flesh hand reaches for the window ledge and stops.

It looks at her again.

She shifted in her sleep, and now the sheet has fallen further. It can see the curve of her breast. Can see the marks it left. Shadows of pressure, of grip, of the metal hand holding too tight and the flesh hand not knowing its own strength.

Evidence.

Proof that this happened. That for two days… three days? Soldat stopped being the Asset and became something else.

Someone else.

Alpha.

Just... alpha.

Her alpha.

And alphas protect their mates, even from themselves. Especially from themselves. Its hand finds the window ledge again, and this time, it slides it up. Then it steps into the fire escape landing and closes the window silently.

Then it stands there. Just stands. Staring at the closed window.

Five seconds pass. Ten.

Its forehead drops forward, touching the glass. Just for a moment. One breath. Two.

Then it forces itself to let go.

The outside air hits it like a slap as he moves, and it can smell itself, her scent clinging to its skin, soaked into the gear.

They will smell it and know. It needs to... clean up. Somewhere. Before it reports.

There's a gas station four blocks east. The bathroom is accessible from the outside. Single occupancy, a lock on the door.

It starts walking. The streets are empty. Just the Soldat and the pre-dawn dark and the pull toward base that feels like a chain around its throat.

Return. Report. Comply.

Every step away from her apartment makes the pull stronger.

Every step also makes something inside it scream.

----

She wakes to the absence of warmth that was there before.

And her alpha isn't in the bed.

The realization comes with a spike of something close to panic. Her hand reaches out automatically, searching the space beside her, and finds only cool sheets.

She sits up, and immediately regrets it.

Everything hurts.

Her thighs ache. Her hips feel bruised. There's a deep, pleasant soreness between her legs that makes her breath catch, and her shoulders protest when she moves. She's pretty sure she's done more physical activity in the last few days than she had in the past six months.

Worth it, her inner omega purrs smugly.

But where is he?

"Alpha?"

The word comes out rough. Her voice is wrecked, hoarse from screaming, probably. From all the sounds he pulled out of her.

No answer.

She looks around, and her stomach sinks.

His gear is gone. Even the strange polymer mask that she'd pulled off his face that first night.

All of it. Gone.

He left.

Her alpha left without saying anything. Without waking her up. Without even leaving a fucking note.

The rational part of her brain -the part that's been suspiciously quiet for days-starts to surface now that his scent isn't flooding her system. Now that his hands aren't on her, and his body isn't pressed against hers, and his pheromones aren't turning her into a needy, desperate mess.

And it starts cataloging.

She got out of the shower and there was a stranger in her apartment.

An armed stranger. With a metal arm and war paint and gear that screamed military or mercenary or something equally dangerous. And instead of running, instead of screaming, or throwing something at him, she-

Her gaze tracks to the state the bed is in.

And the smell.

Oh god, the smell.

Sex and sweat and the unmistakable musk of alpha mixed with her own scent. It's soaked into the sheets, thick enough that she can practically taste it.

Her eyes catch on her small dining table.

There are marks on the wooden surface. Dubious stains that she really doesn't want to examine too closely. And the window…

Her face goes hot.

The glass is smudged. Handprints. Smears made by skin against the fog of breath. Because apparently, at some point -multiple points, actually- neither of them gave a single fuck about doing it against the window.

She remembers being pressed against the cold glass, her breasts flattened, her face turned to the side, while he fucked into her from behind. Remembers the exhibitionist thrill of it, the knowledge that anyone walking by could look up and see.

Anyone in the building across the alley could have seen.

Probably did see.

The heat in her face intensifies.

Everything about the last few days was animal. Raw. Primal in a way she didn't know she was capable of.

And it was perfect.

She's never felt like this, so utterly satisfied. Every alpha she'd tried to force herself to want before was just... wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything.

But him? He was right.

Except he doesn't have a name.

The thought made her stomach knot.

She asked him. That first night, after the initial frenzy calmed enough for words, his knot still inside her, and she'd whispered against her shoulder: "What's your name?"

He'd gone rigid. Tense in a way that made her immediately regret asking. Then, haltingly, struggling with the words like they were foreign: "Alpha."

Just that. Like it was the only designation he had. The only thing he knew to call himself.

She'd tried again. "But what do people call you?"

What she could grasp about his expression in the awkward position they were in was confusion, distress, and something that looked almost like pain.

"Soldat," he'd said finally. The word harsh and guttural. Russian, she thinks, though she doesn't speak it.

Soldier.

Not a name. A title. A function.

And when she'd pushed -gently, carefully- he'd just repeated "Alpha" like it was the only safe answer. Like everything else was locked behind walls he couldn't or wouldn't break down.

So that's what she's been calling him.

Alpha.

Her alpha, who spoke maybe two dozen words total over three days, half of them in Russian she couldn't understand. Who looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having. Who smelled like home despite being a complete stranger.

Her alpha, who's gone now.

She looks around the apartment again. At the evidence of what happened here. At the empty cracker wraps, the eaten fruits, and the water bottles scattered across the floor, because they barely stopped long enough to hydrate, let alone eat properly.

At the mess that is her bed. Her body. Her life now.

Because she's bonded.

She can feel it, the connection. It's like a thread pulled tight in her chest, stretching out into the city, tethering her to him wherever he went.

She doesn't know if he's coming back, doesn't know if he can.

Because there's something deeply wrong with her alpha. She knew it from the beginning, the way he moved, the way he touched her with such desperate confusion, like he didn't know what to do with his own hands. The way he looked at her with need and terror in equal measure.

The tactical gear. The weapons. The war paint.

He's running toward something.

And she was just... what? A detour? A mistake?

No.

Her omega nature rejects the thought immediately. Viscerally.

He wouldn't have knotted her if she were a mistake. Wouldn't have held her so carefully. Wouldn't have purred. Alphas don't purr, but he did, deep and constant and soothing against her skin.

He'll come back.

He has to come back.

The bond won't let him stay away forever.

...Right?

She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly feeling very small in her wrecked apartment with the evidence of her mate scattered everywhere except where she needs him to be.

Her gaze drifts to the kitchen counter.

There's bread there. The loaf from work, she'd brought it home after her last shift. It's hard now.

The sight of it reminds her she still has a job. Thank god she'd had the presence of mind to text her boss that first morning. A brief moment of clarity between rounds when she'd found her phone buried under the couch cushions.

Sorry, I won't be able to go for a few days. Unexpected heat.

Simple. Plausible. Heat leave is protected, and her boss -bless him- had just sent back a thumbs-up emoji and told her to take care of herself.

But that brief spark of rational thought was the only one. Everything after that was just... him. His scent. His hands. His body. The overwhelming, all-consuming need to be close to him, under him, filled by him.

Heats were supposed to be manageable. Uncomfortable but controllable with suppressants, or toys, and locked in her apartment.

But this?

She didn't go into heat.

He went into rut, and her body responded like it had been waiting her entire life for exactly this.

She should be horrified.

Should be spiraling about the fact that she let a stranger fuck her for days straight without even knowing his name.

But she's not.

Because omega nature is still purring with satisfaction, still flooded with the deep certainty that everything that happened was right.

Even if he's gone now.

Even if she doesn't know if he's coming back.

The thread in her chest pulls, and she presses her hand over her sternum like she can feel him on the other end of it.

Come back, she thinks desperately. Please come back.

----

The gas station bathroom is small and filthy, and smells like chemicals and piss. Soldat doesn't care. It strips, peeling off everything that touched her, everything that's soaked in her scent.

The liquid soap dispenser is half-empty. Pink. Artificial floral smell that makes its nose wrinkle. It pumps handful after handful, scrubbing at its skin, its hair, trying to wash away the evidence.

Brown sugar and yeast and omega. Her.

The soap helps, barely. The scent is embedded too deep, under its nails, coating the inside of its mouth. It scrubs harder anyway.

The water runs cold. Soldat doesn't feel it. Just keeps washing until the pink soap is gone and its skin is raw, and the mirror shows something that looks like its normal self. Wet hair and empty eyes.

The tactical gear is another problem. It can smell her on the fabric even after trying to rinse it in the sink. The undershirt is the worst, soaked through with sweat and slick and the unmistakable musk of sex. There's no time to wash and dry it properly. No time for anything except move.

Report. Now.

The Soldat wrings out the shirt as best it can, then finds the hand dryer. It's one of those old, weak models that barely pushes air, but it's something. It holds the fabric under the stream, methodically working through each section.

The shirt stays damp anyway, but at least it's not dripping, at least the scent is diluted enough that it might not be immediately obvious.

It pulls the shirt back on. Wet and cold against its skin. The vest goes over it. The weapons back in place. Boots laced. It looks almost normal. Except for the way its hands won't stop shaking.

Then it moves.

Shadows and alleys and rooftops, the city blurring past in the pre-dawn light. Distances don't matter; it can cover miles in minutes when it needs to, and right now, it needs to.

Late. Compromised. Failed.

The words loop through its head in time with its footfalls.

It should have been there. Should have attended the briefing. Should have been in position for Insight deployment. Instead, it was-

Don't think about it.

It does, anyway. Omega. Warm and soft and trusting in that bed.

Mission first. Always.

The Potomac comes into view. Paired with smoke.

Soldat slows down, then stops on a rooftop three blocks out. It just stares.

There's smoke rising from the Triskelion, thick and black against the dawn sky. Around it, there are police cordons and military vehicles. Something happened.

Something bad.

Its heart rate kicks up. It should have been there.

It moves closer, rooftop to rooftop. Silent. Invisible. Staying in the shadows while the chaos unfolds below. It gets close enough to see the whole scene, and its brain stutters.

The helicarriers. The three of them. Destroyed.

Massive chunks of wreckage scattered across the river and the surrounding area. Fires are still burning. The Triskelion itself is partially collapsed, whole sections reduced to rubble.

Soldat stares.

This is your fault.

It wasn't here. Wasn't in position. Wasn't doing its job.

Seventy years of operations, of perfect compliance. Of being the fist HYDRA wielded in the dark. And it failed.

Failed because it was too busy fucking an omega.

Its self-loathing skyrockets.

Worthless. Broken. Defective.

It should go down there. Should report to whatever's left of the command structure. Pierce is probably dead. The handlers are probably dead.

And it's the Soldat's fault for not being there. For choosing her over the mission.

Its metal hand grips the edge of the rooftop. The servos whine, and the concrete cracks under the pressure.

It did this. This destruction. This failure. All of it. Because it's weak.

The weight in its chest is crushing. Physical. Like something is trying to cave in its ribcage from the inside.

You failed. You failed. You failed.

It doesn't know how long it stands there, just watching the emergency response, the smoke, the evidence of a catastrophic mission failure.

Its fault. All its fault.

The bond in its chest pulls. Tight. Insistent. Omega.

It left her alone and unprotected to come here, to this. To the ruins of everything it was supposed to be, its purpose. And now-

Now what?

Soldat doesn't know. Doesn't know what it's supposed to do when the handlers are gone, and everything it was built for is just... ash.

Its legs give out, and it sinks, pressing its back against the concrete wall of the rooftop access structure, pulling its knees up to its chest. Its flesh hand goes to its hair and grips. Fists in the still-damp strands and pulls hard enough that the pain registers somewhere distant and irrelevant.

The metal hand mirrors the movement on the other side. Both hands now buried in its hair, elbows on its knees, and it starts to rock.

Forward. Back. Forward. Back.

Small movements. Unconscious. The kind of self-soothing behavior that HYDRA spent decades training out of it, but it's surfacing now anyway because the conditioning is fracturing, and it doesn't know how to stop it.

Failed failed failed worthless broken defective-

The thoughts spiral. Cascade over each other until there's nothing else, just the litany of failure and the weight of seventy years of programming screaming that it deserves whatever punishment comes next.

Except there's no one left to punish it.

It doesn't know what HYDRA is anymore.

Just knows that it failed them.

And the bond in its chest won't stop pulling.

----

It doesn't know how long it sits there. The sun is rising properly now, painting the smoke-filled sky in shades of orange and red. Emergency vehicles keep arriving. Voices drift up from street level, orders being shouted, radios crackling, the organized chaos of disaster response.

And the Soldat just... sits.

The absence of someone telling it what to do is deafening. Like standing in a room where a machine has been running for seventy years and suddenly, it's gone silent, and the quiet is somehow worse than the noise ever was.

What does it do now?

It's never had to ask that question before. There was always a directive. Always a purpose. Always something to execute.

Now there's just... nothing.

It's not the Asset anymore. HYDRA is gone, dead, scattered, or destroyed; it doesn't know and doesn't have orders to find out.

It's not a person. Doesn't know how to be a person. Doesn't have a life outside of missions and compliance protocols.

It's just... nothing.

Empty.

Untethered.

Free, some distant part of its brain whispers, but the word has no meaning. Freedom isn't a concept it has framework for. Freedom sounds like chaos. Like the absence of structure. Like drowning in open water with no shore in sight.

The bond pulls again. Insistent. Her.

Its hands slowly lower from its hair. She's there. Right now. In her apartment. Probably awake by now. Probably realized it left.

What does she want it to do?

The thought comes not as a tactical question but as something else. Something the conditioned part of its brain is trying to latch onto because it needs structure. Needs someone to tell it what to do, where to go, how to function.

And she's... what? Its mate. Its omega. But also-

The idea fractures before it can fully form, but there's something there. Something about her being the only anchor point it has left. The only voice that's ever asked it questions rather than given it orders. The only person who's touched it without flinching.

Maybe she'll tell it what to do now.

Maybe that's what mates do, provide direction when everything else is gone. Maybe it's supposed to go back to her and wait for instructions. Follow her lead because it doesn't have its own.

The logic is twisted. Broken.

Soldat knows that, on some level, but it doesn't care because the alternative is sitting on this rooftop forever with no purpose and no idea what the fuck it's supposed to be.

At least with her, there's... something. A pull that isn't just the bond or the biological imperative to protect and provide. These last few days, it felt… good.

Soldat doesn't have a reference for "good" that isn't the satisfaction of mission success or handler approval. But with her, pressed against its side, breathing her scent, feeling her hands on its skin without intention to hurt but to soothe…

That was good. Warmer. Softer.

And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's what it does now, goes back to the thing that felt good instead of the handlers who only ever made it feel pain and hollowness.

Protect the omega.

There isn’t an order from a handler. Just instinct combined with the memory of her smile. The way she called "Alpha" like it was something precious instead of just a designation.

That's a mission it understands.

Soldat stands on steady legs now. It has a purpose, even if that purpose is just her. Just getting back to her apartment and figuring out what comes next.

Because she's all it has left.

The only thing in decades that's ever felt like it mattered.

----

She's throwing the last of the wrappers into the trash when the whimper escapes her throat.

The sound catches her off guard, small and pathetic and omega in a way that makes her freeze mid-motion, hand still clutching the empty plastic packaging.

She hates that she made that sound.

Hates the way her body is reacting to his absence like it's a physical wound. Like he took something vital with him when he left, and now there's just this aching hollow where he's supposed to be.

The apartment is cleaner now, at least. She's wiped down the dining table, scrubbed away the dubious stains until her arms hurt, and the wood gleamed innocently as if nothing obscene happened there. Put the dishes in the sink.

The bed is still a disaster.

She should wash the sheets. Or burn them, maybe.

But she can't bring herself to touch them yet. Can't conceive of stripping the bed and stuffing those sheets into a laundry bag, sealing away his scent until it's just... gone. The thought makes her chest constrict painfully.

She needs to shower instead. Get clean. Wash away the evidence of three days spent doing nothing but him.

Yeah. Shower first. Deal with the bed later.

She's halfway to the bathroom when another whimper builds in her throat. She swallows it down forcefully, jaw clenching.

Stop it.

He's not here. That's fine. That's... fine.

Except it's not fine, and her omega senses know it. They're screaming about it. The bond in her chest is pulled so tight it hurts, stretching out into the city toward wherever he went, and the absence of him feels wrong.

He didn't seem angry when they finally collapsed into sleep. Didn't seem upset or regretful or any of the things that would explain why he'd leave without waking her.

He just seemed... exhausted. Sated. His arm heavy around her waist, his face pressed against her hair, and that impossible purr rumbling through both their chests.

So what changed?

Why did he leave?

The questions spiral through her head without answers, and it's frustrating because she doesn't understand. Can't parse his motivations when she barely knows him.

When he barely spoke to her except in broken Russian and single-word responses.

Is he coming back?

The uncertainty is worse than anything else. Worse than the physical ache of separation. Worse than the way her apartment feels too empty and too quiet now.

She doesn't know, and the not-knowing is eating her alive.

Another whimper.

This time she doesn't even try to stop it. Just lets the sound escape while she stands in the middle of her apartment, arms wrapped around herself, and tries not to fall apart.

The bond pulls.

Come back, she thinks desperately. Please come back.

But there's no answer, just the hollow ache and the terrifying possibility that he won't. That he's gone for good, and she's bonded to a ghost.

----

She turns on the shower and waits for the water to heat up, staring blankly at the steam starting to fog the mirror. While the pipes groan and settle, she pulls open her dresser drawer. Old joggers. Soft t-shirt. Comfortable clothes that don't smell like sex and sweat and him.

At least she's on birth control.

Not because her sex life is some celebration of joy -it's been decidedly mediocre for years- but because her doctor recommended them for hormonal regulation.

Thank god for that.

Because she knows exactly what he wanted the entire time they were fucking like rabbits. What her body wanted. What every cell in her omega biology was screaming for.

Breed me. Fill me.

The memories flood back with uncomfortable clarity. The way she begged. The way she tilted her hips and presented, the way she had grinded her ass against his hips, begging for his knot. The way her body clenched around him every time he came inside her like it was trying to hold every drop.

Heat crawls up her neck.

She always thought that stuff about true mates was bullshit. Fantasy nonsense peddled in romance novels and bad TV dramas to sell the idea of destined love. True mates are rare, vanishingly rare. She's never met anyone who claimed to have one. Never knew anyone who knew anyone.

It was fairy tale stuff. Omega porn. The kind of thing you read about in smutty paperbacks, not something that actually happened to real people.

But now, thinking with a clear head for the first time in days, remembering how she reacted to his presence in her apartment...

The way her body knew him before her brain did. The way his scent made her slick coated her thighs before he even touched her. The way every rational thought disappeared under the weight of pure, primal need.

Yeah.

Maybe the fairy tales aren't bullshit after all.

She enters the shower, the hot water hits her shoulders, and she groans. Everything hurts. Her thighs. Her hips. Places inside her that she didn't know could be sore.

She tips her head back, letting the water soak her hair, and tries not to think about how empty she feels now that he's gone.

Tries not to think about the bond pulling her chest, and about whether he's coming back.

The water runs over her skin, washing away sweat, dried slick and cum, but can't wash away the bond. Her hand presses against her chest, right over her heart, where the ache is worst.

Come back, she thinks again. Desperate. Pleading.

Please.

----

She stays under the spray longer than necessary, letting the water run lukewarm before she finally forces herself to turn it off. She dries off and pulls on the joggers and the soft t-shirt.

Comfortable clothes that don't smell like him. The fabric is warm and familiar and it should make her feel better, but it doesn't.

Then, she opens the bathroom door, and her heart stops.

He's there.

Sitting on the floor against the wall by the window. The same window he climbed through that first night. His tactical gear is still on, but the black is gone from his face. Just pale skin and those devastating blue eyes staring at nothing.

He looks haunted.

She freezes in the doorway, hand still on the handle, and just stares. He came back, and it makes her feel so relieved that her knees feel weak.

But something's wrong.

He smells different, cheap soap and… smoke?. Acrid, clinging to his clothes as he walked through a fire. And his own scent reeks of distress.

She can feel it, too.

Wrong wrong wrong, her omega instincts scream. Alpha is hurting.

Whatever she'd planned to say when she saw him again, all the questions, the demands for explanations, the hurt at being left without a word, evaporate.

Her instinct to protect, to nurture, to fix whatever's broken in her alpha obliterates everything else. She moves without thinking and crosses the small space toward him, bare feet on worn floorboards.

He tenses immediately, eyes snapping to her with something that looks almost like panic.

She stops.

Three feet away. Close enough to see the way his chest is rising and falling too fast. Close enough to see his pupils are blown wide again, but not with want this time.

With fear.

"Alpha," she whispers, and her voice comes out soft. Careful. The way you'd talk to something wounded and cornered.

He doesn't respond. Just stares at her with those wild blue eyes, utterly tense, like he might bolt.

Or break.

She takes a slow breath and sinks down to her knees, making herself eye-level with him.

"You came back," she says softly.

His eyes keep focused on hers, but he doesn’t speak.

"Alpha," she says carefully. "What happened? Where did you go?"

His jaw works. She can see him struggling with the words, trying to form an answer, but nothing comes out. Just a frustrated exhale through his nose.

"It's okay," she says quickly. "You don't have to-"

She reaches out without thinking. Just needing to touch him, to soothe the distress pouring off him in waves, and her hand lands on his knee.

The reaction is immediate. He doesn't flinch or pull away.

He goes very, very still. Like her touch flipped a switch. His eyes drop to where her hand rests on his tactical pants, and something in his expression changes.

Relief. Desperate, overwhelming relief.

Like he's been waiting for her to touch him. Like he needed permission and her hand on his knee gave it.

Before she can process it, he's moving. Not pulling away, but shifting forward, closing the space between them, and his forehead drops to her shoulder.

The position is awkward. He's too tall to be folding himself down to reach her. But he does it anyway, and the weight of his body against her is solid and real and she can feel the tension in him starting to ease.

"Alpha?" she whispers, confused. Her hands come up automatically, one pressing on his back, the other threading into his damp hair. "What do you need?"

He makes a sound. Low. Almost pained.

And then, halting and rough: "Don't know."

The words are barely there. Dragged out.

"Don't know what to do," he continues. Voice wrecked. "No orders. No... nothing."

Her heart clenches. Orders?

He's not just lost. He's untethered. Whatever structure he had -whatever gave him purpose and direction- it's gone. And now he's here, clinging to her like she's the only solid thing left.

"Okay," she says softly, still stroking his hair. "Okay, that's... we'll figure it out."

"Tell me," he says against her shoulder. Not a request. Almost a plea. "Tell me what to do."

She doesn't understand.

He's clearly capable. The tactical gear, the weapons, the way he moved these days. He's not impaired. So what is happening?

"I don't..." she starts, then stops. Takes a breath. "Alpha, I don't know what you need. I can't tell you what to do because I don't know what's wrong."

His grip on her tightens. Not painful, just desperate. Like he's afraid she's going to pull away.

"Something happened," she says carefully, still stroking his hair. "When you left. Something scared you. Or hurt you. I can smell it. But I can't help if you don't tell me what's going on."

He's quiet for a long moment. She can feel him breathing against her shoulder, can feel the tremor in his frame.

"Gone," he finally says. Voice rough. Broken. "Everything's... gone."

"What's gone?"

He shakes his head against her shoulder. She's not sure if he can't explain or won't, but either way, she's not getting more than that.

She’ll let it slide for now. There are other pressing matters, like getting him out of those wet clothes. The reasoning cuts through her omega instinct screaming to hold him and purr until whatever's broken inside him stops hurting.

But he's shivering slightly against her. The gear is damp, cold, and reeks of a lot of things. He can't stay like this.

"Alpha," she says softly, still stroking his hair. "Your clothes are wet. You need to take them off."

He doesn't respond. Just turns his face, pressing his nose and mouth directly against her scent gland, breathing her in.

She tries a different approach. "You must be uncomfortable. Cold."

A pause. Then a small nod against her throat.

Progress.

"Okay," she says gently. "Let me help you, then. We need to get this gear off."

She starts to pull back, intending to give herself room to work, but his arms immediately band around her waist, keeping her exactly where she is.

"Please," he rasps against her skin, and the desperation in his voice makes her chest ache. "Just... stay."

"I'm not leaving," she says quickly, her hands coming back to rest on his shoulders. "I'm right here. I just need space to help you with the vest."

His grip loosens fractionally. Not letting go, but allowing her a few inches of movement.

She'll take it.

"Okay," she murmurs, keeping her voice low and soothing. "Arms down for me."

He complies immediately. His arms drop from around her waist, hanging at his sides, and he lifts his head just enough to look at her. Waiting. Like he's waiting for the next instruction.

"Good," she says softly, reaching for the buckles on the tactical vest. "Stay still."

Her fingers work at the clasps. They're hard to unbuckle, but she manages. The vest comes loose, and she helps him out of it, tossing it aside.

The undershirt beneath is damp and clinging to his skin. She can see the outline of his chest, the definition of muscle.

"Arms up," she says.

He lifts them without hesitation.

She grabs the hem of the undershirt and pulls it up and off. The fabric is cold and wet in her hands, and she drops it on top of the vest.

Tell me what to do.

The memory of those words suddenly clicks into place, and she pauses.

He's an alpha. Clearly capable of doing whatever the hell he wants. She experienced that firsthand: the strength, the intensity, the sheer physical dominance.

And yet here he is, following her instructions without question. Docile in a way that feels fundamentally wrong for what he is.

Something happened to him. Something that broke whatever made him capable of autonomous decision-making. The thought makes her chest tighten, but she pushes it aside. Later. She can unpack that later.

And then she sees him.

Really sees him, without the haze of his rut and the hormonal desperation clouding her vision.

The scars.

She’d spent three days with her hands all over his body, her mouth on his skin. But she hadn't really looked. Hadn't processed what she was seeing beyond the broad strokes of alpha, strong, mine.

Her brain had catalogued them dimly as occupational hazards. The kind of damage that came with a dangerous job. But now, looking at him with clear eyes and a clear head, she realizes how wrong that assumption was.

These are the scars of someone who was broken.

Methodically. Repeatedly.

The worst are where the metal arm connects to his body. Angry, raised tissue that looks like it was never meant to heal right. Like someone carved into him and bolted the prosthetic on without anesthetic or care for anything beyond functionality.

And the rest…

Thin white lines crisscross his ribs. Burn marks, some circular like cigarettes, others larger and more diffuse. Surgical scars that don't follow any logical medical pattern. Bullet wounds.

Her hand moves without conscious thought, tracing one of the longer scars across his ribs. It's old, long-healed, but still raised enough that she can feel the texture under her fingertips.

He goes very still under her touch.

"Does it hurt?" she asks quietly.

He shakes his head. A small, almost imperceptible movement.

She wonders if that's true, or if he's just so used to pain that he doesn't register it anymore.

"Okay," she whispers, pressing her hand against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath her palm. "Boots next."

He doesn't move, so she realizes she needs to be more specific.

"Sit down," she says, nodding toward the bed.

He obeys immediately, crossing to the bed and sitting on the edge, back straight, hands resting on his thighs. Like a soldier awaiting orders.

The thought makes her stomach twist, but she pushes it aside.

She kneels in front of him, unlacing the first boot with quick movements. It comes off easily, and she sets it aside before moving to the second one.

His eyes are on her the entire time. She can feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and focused, like she's the only thing in the world that matters.

When both boots are off, she stands, brushing her hands on her joggers.

"Pants," she says simply.

He stands without a word, hands going to the waistband. The buckle is quick work, and then he's pushing the tactical pants down his hips, stepping out of them.

He's in his underwear now. The fabric is stiff and stained, and the sight makes her face heat despite herself.

"Those too," she says, keeping her voice steady.

He hesitates for half a second. Then he hooks his thumbs into the waistband and pushes them down.

She clearly has seen him naked, but this feels different. Maybe because he's not rutting and desperate. He's just... standing there, vulnerable, letting her take care of him, because he doesn't know how to take care of himself.

"Good," she says softly, her hand coming up to cup his face, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. "Now get in bed."

He looks at the bed, then back at her.

"Go on," she says, nodding toward the mattress. "I'll get you some water. And food, if you're-"

"No."

The word is quiet but firm.

She blinks. "No?"

"Stay," he says, and the plea is back in his voice. Raw. Desperate. "Please."

Her heart clenches.

"I'm just going to fetch the things," she says gently, nodding toward the counter. "I'll be right-"

"No." His hand shoots out, catching her wrist. "Stay."

She looks at him and sees the fear in his eyes.

"Okay," she says softly, letting him pull her toward the bed. "Okay, I'll stay."

She climbs into the bed first, settling against the pillows, and he follows immediately. But instead of pulling her against him, he crawls up beside her and lowers himself down, his head coming to rest on her upper chest, just below her collarbone, close enough that his nose brushes against the side of her neck.

His arm rests across her stomach, holding her in place, and the full weight of his body settles against her side.

She buries her hand in his hair, threading her fingers through the damp strands, and breathes him in. Beneath the cheap soap and the smoke, his scent is still there, gunmetal and leather, and that undercurrent of alpha that makes her omega purr with satisfaction.

Mine. Safe. Here.

He presses his face harder into her neck, mouth against her scent gland, breathing her in like he's been starving for it.

"Rest," she murmurs, her other hand coming to caress his back, tracing idle patterns across his scarred skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His breathing evens out, slow and deep, and the tension in his body gradually bleeds away under her touch.

The grip on her doesn't loosen. His arm stays banded around her waist, his face pressed to her throat, and after a few minutes, the faint rumble of a purr starts up in his chest.

She feels the vibration against her skin and lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Whatever storm was raging inside him is starting to calm.

She doesn't know what happened out there. Doesn't know what "gone" means, or why he came back smelling like he does. Doesn't know who hurt him badly enough to leave those scars, or why he doesn't seem to know how to make his own decisions.

But right now, none of that matters, because he's here. He's safe. He's hers.

She presses a kiss to the top of his head and lets herself believe that for now, it's enough.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[azriona]

Down the Wishing Well, Chapters 24-27

Avenger!Bucky/Enhanced!Reader (established), sequel to NAFTK, Ultron/Endgame fix-it. Explicit in some chapters (but not any of these). This fic is written in its entirety and will be posting on an irregular schedule until complete. Please see AO3 for full tags & warnings.

In these chapters:

You destroy another one of Tony's buildings;

Loki makes a choice and plays a trick (not necessarily in that order);

Flashback to... a conversation with Bucky earlier that day, actually, for maximum angst;

The Battle of Wakanda, except with bonus You;

The inevitable.

Some things are different. Some things are not. As for the rest... you'll have to read it on AO3...

[azriona]

Down the Wishing Well, Chapters 22 and 23

Avenger!Bucky/Enhanced!Reader (established), sequel to NAFTK, Ultron/Endgame fix-it. Explicit in some chapters (but not any of these). This fic is written in its entirety and will be posting on an irregular schedule until complete. Please see AO3 for full tags & warnings.

In these chapters:

Clint is pulled back into the fight (sorry, Clint)

Loki is mysterious (what else is new?)

and a warning doesn't arrive in time.

Oh dear. Shit's getting real on AO3...

[vunblr]

Wanted (#14)

Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.

Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.

Word Count: 9k

note: And the story comes to an end, at least for now. Thank you so much for walking with me through this journey🧡

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She heard him dust his boots heavily on the porch, then the door opened, and he stepped inside, bringing the cold air and the smell of pine and sweat with him. His eyes found her immediately, still standing by the stove where she'd been keeping the stew warm.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

She felt her face heat under his gaze, and her hands tightened on the wooden spoon she was holding.

"You're home," she managed, and immediately felt foolish. Of course he was home. She could see him standing right there.

But his expression softened slightly, and he set down his lunch pail by the door.

"I am," The words came out rough. Like he'd been working hard. Or thinking hard. Or both.

He shrugged out of his coat, hung it on the peg, and crossed the small space between them in a few strides.

She tensed with anticipation, expecting him to reach for her, to pull her close the way he had last night. But he stopped just in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to look at him, and his hand came up to cup her face instead.

Gentle. Almost careful.

"Feelin’ alright?" he asked quietly.

The question caught her off guard. She'd expected... well, she wasn't sure what she'd expected. But not that.

"I'm fine," she said honestly.

His thumb brushed across her cheekbone, and something flickered in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or concern.

"Any discomfort?"

She shook her head.

He studied her face for another moment, like he was checking for signs she might be lying to spare his feelings. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead -brief, almost chaste- before stepping back.

"Smells good," he said, nodding toward the stove. "What is it?"

"Stew," she answered still processing the gentleness of that kiss. "It's been ready for a while. I was just keeping it warm."

"Sounds good." He moved past her toward the washbasin, rolling up his sleeves. "I'm starvin’."

She turned back to the stove, ladling stew into bowls, and tried to ignore the way her heart was still racing.

It was so stupid that the fact that he was careful and gentle with her still affected her, but she was still getting used to it. To matter. To have a voice. To like and dislike things and be checked on. To be cherished.

“Do you want to wash after you are done?” she heard herself ask without thinking.

He paused, his hands stilling in the basin where he'd been splashing water on his face. Then he straightened, reaching for the towel she kept hanging nearby, and turned to look at her.

"After dinner?" he repeated, like he was making sure he'd heard her right.

She nodded, focusing very hard on ladling the stew into the second bowl. "I could heat water for the tub. If you'd like."

There was a pause, just long enough that she glanced up to see if something was wrong.

He was watching her with an expression she couldn't quite read. Something between surprised and... pleased, maybe.

"Yeah," he said finally, his voice a little rougher. "That'd be good."

She nodded and carried the bowls to the table, setting them down with hands that were steadier than she felt.

Offering to heat his bathwater wasn't scandalous. It was a perfectly normal thing for a wife to do for her husband after a long day of work.

Except they both knew what had happened the last time she'd helped him bathe.

When she'd washed his back with careful hands. When he'd been sitting in the tub and she'd been close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin. When the air between them had been charged with something unspoken and inevitable.

And now -after last night- there was nothing unspoken left.

She sat down across from him at the table, smoothing her skirt unnecessarily, and picked up her spoon.

He did the same, taking a bite of the stew and making a low sound of approval.

"This is good," he said. "Real good."

"Thank you."

They ate in silence for a few minutes. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but weighted with awareness. Of each other. Of what had happened. Of what would happen again.

Eventually, he cleared his throat.

"Had a hell of a time concentratin' today," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.

She looked up. "Oh?"

"Yeah." He took another bite, chewed, swallowed. "Miller nearly had to pull me out of the way of a fallin' log. And Davidson caught me splittin' the same piece of wood three times without realizin' it."

Her eyebrows rose. "That doesn't sound like you."

"It ain't." He finally looked at her then, and there was something in his gaze that made her stomach flip. "Kept thinkin' about last night."

Heat flooded her face instantly.

"About you," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "About comin' home to you."

She didn't know what to say to that. Didn't know if she was supposed to say anything.

But he didn't seem to expect a response. Just went back to his stew, though she could see the tension in his shoulders. The way his jaw worked as he chewed.

Like he was holding himself back from saying -or doing- something more.

They finished the meal in that same charged silence, and when he pushed his bowl away, she stood to clear the table.

His hand slowly caught her wrist as she reached for his bowl.

She looked at him, her pulse jumping.

"I meant what I said," he said quietly. "About givin' you time. Few days, at least."

She swallowed. "I know."

"But… that ain't mean I don't wanna touch you." His thumb brushed across the inside of her wrist, a slow movement that made her skin tingle. "If that's alright."

She thought about the way he'd looked at her when he came home. The careful way he'd touched her face. The kiss to her forehead that had been almost reverent.

She thought about the fact that she'd spent the entire day thinking about him too. About last night. About the future.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His expression changed -something dark and satisfied crossing his face- and he released her wrist.

"Go on then," he said. "Heat the water. I'll clear the table."

"You just got home," she said, already moving toward the stove to check the water she'd kept simmering. " I'll handle it."

"If I help, you can get started sooner," he countered, already standing and reaching for his bowl. "And honestly, the idea of a bath sounds real good right now."

She couldn't argue with that logic.

They worked in tandem, her hauling the tub from its spot in the corner while he carried the first pot of hot water, both of them moving anticipating each other's movements.

By the time the tub was half-full, she'd settled onto the chair nearby the fire, waiting as he added the last pot of cold water to temper the heat.

He straightened, testing the temperature with his hand, then started unbuttoning his shirt.

She didn't look away.

There'd been a time when they'd given each other privacy for this. When she would've turned the chair to face the wall, or busied herself with some task on the other side of the room.

But that time had passed.

Now she watched as he shrugged out of his shirt, the firelight playing across his shoulders, highlighting the old scars she'd traced with her fingers more times than she could count. And the new ones, faint red lines down his back where her nails had raked him last night.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, catching her staring, and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

"Ain't fair, you know," he said, reaching for his belt. "You gettin' to look while I can't."

"I'm not the one getting in the bath," she deadpaned.

"True." He unfastened his belt, pushed his trousers down, and stepped out of them. Then his drawers followed, and he was bare, crossing the short distance to the tub without a hint of self-consciousness.

She'd seen him naked before. Many times, especially over the past two months. But there was something different about watching him now, in the firelight, knowing what it felt like to have that body covering hers. Inside hers.

He stepped into the tub with a low groan of relief, sinking down into the water until it lapped at his chest.

"Christ, that's good," he muttered, his head falling back against the rim.

She stood, collecting his discarded clothes and adding them to the basket near the door, very aware of his eyes tracking her movements.

When she turned back, he was watching her with an expression that made her stomach flip.

"You gonna help me?" he asked.

She raised an eyebrow. "Help you?"

"Yeah." He shifted in the tub, settling deeper. "I'm real tired. And last time you helped -when I had that cut on my hand- it was..." He paused, and she could see he was fighting a smile. "Real helpful."

She crossed her arms, trying to hide a smile. "You seem perfectly capable of washing yourself."

"Do I?" His voice had dropped lower, rougher. "Because I'm rememberin' how good it felt when you did it. Your hands in my hair. On my back."

Heat crept up her neck at the memory. At the intimacy of it, of touching him like that, tending to him.

"That was different," she said. "You were actually injured."

"I'm injured now," he said, deadpan. "Emotionally. From workin' all day thinkin' about my wife and not bein' able to do anythin' about it."

Despite herself, she felt her lips twitch.

"That's not a real injury."

"Feels real to me." He held her gaze, and the playfulness faded slightly, replaced by something more serious. More intent. "Come here."

It wasn't quite a command. More like an invitation. A request.

She crossed to the tub without hesitation and knelt beside it. His eyes tracked her movements, and when she reached for the soap, his hand caught her wrist.

Gently. Like he'd done at the dinner table.

"I promised I'd give you time," he said quietly. "And I meant it. But I want to touch you. Want you to touch me. That alright?"

She looked at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the tension in his jaw, at the way he was holding himself still despite clearly wanting more.

He was asking. Checking. Making sure she was comfortable.

Just like he had last night.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His grip on her wrist loosened, and he released her with what looked like effort.

"Good." he said, his voice rough.

----

She worked the soap between her hands until it lathered, then pressed her palms to his back. He made a low sound -half groan, half sigh- and let his head fall forward, giving her access.

She started at his shoulders, working the soap across the muscles, feeling the tension there start to ease under her touch. Then down his spine, she let her thumbs press on either side, the way she'd discovered he liked weeks ago and felt him exhale slowly, deeply.

Her hands knew this body now. Knew the old scars, the puckered one on his left shoulder blade, the long raised line that ran from shoulder to spine. Knew the new marks too, the faint red scratches she'd left last night, already fading but still visible in the firelight.

Evidence of what they'd done. What they'd become to each other.

"Lean forward," she said quietly.

He did, bracing his forearms on his knees, and she reached for the cup sitting beside the tub.

She poured water over his head slowly, watching it darken his hair from brown to almost black, watching it run in rivulets down his neck and shoulders. Then she set the cup aside and worked the soap through the wet strands.

Her fingers found his scalp, and she began to massage in slow, deliberate circles.

The sound he made was involuntary. Deep and rough and so unguarded that it sent a flutter through her stomach.

"That's..." He trailed off, seeming to lose the words.

"Good?" she offered, her fingers still working, applying gentle pressure as she moved across his scalp.

"Yeah." His voice had gone thick. "Real good."

She took her time with it. Working the soap through every strand, her nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that made his breathing deepen. She'd done this once before when he'd injured his hand, but that had been different. An assistance.

This was something else.

When she was satisfied, she rinsed his hair carefully, filling the cup again and again, pouring the water slowly so the soap wouldn't run into his eyes. Making sure to get every bit of lather out, combing through the strands with her fingers.

She set the cup aside and sat back slightly, her hands stilling.

He started to reach for the soap, but she picked it up first.

His hand stilled in mid-air, suspended between them.

"I can-" he started, his voice careful.

"I know you can," she said simply.

She dampened and worked more soap in her hands until they had a lot of lather, and waited.

For a moment, he just looked at her. She could see him processing what she was offering. What she was saying without words.

That she wasn't finished. That she wanted to keep touching him.

Then, slowly, like he was afraid sudden movement might break whatever spell this was, he settled back against the tub. His arms came to rest along the rim, palms up, open.

Giving her access.

She brought the cloth to his chest, and his breathing changed immediately, deeper, more controlled, as she began to work the soap across his skin.

She started at his collarbone, tracing the hard line of it from shoulder to shoulder. Then down, over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath. She could feel his heartbeat under her hand, strong and steady but faster than normal.

He was affected by this. By her touch.

She moved her hand in slow, careful circles. Across to his left side, feeling his ribs expand and contract with each breath. Then back to center and across to the right. Thorough. Methodical.

But not impersonal.

She was hyperaware of every point of contact. Of the way his skin felt warm and slick from the water. The way his muscles tensed slightly when she touched certain spots. Of the way he was watching her through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight.

His eyes had closed at some point, but she could see his hands gripping the edge of the tub, knuckles pale. He was holding himself very still. Letting her work. Not reaching for her even though she could see he wanted to.

She moved lower.

Over his stomach, feeling the muscle shift under her touch. Her hand traced the line where his torso met his hips, where the hair grew thicker, and she felt him tense.

His eyes opened.

She met his gaze -steady, deliberate- and brought her hand beneath the water.

Down, over his hip. Along his thigh.

And then, because there was no reason not to, because this was part of washing him, just like everything else, she brought it between his legs.

His breath caught audibly when her fingers made contact.

She worked carefully, the same way she'd washed the rest of him. Trying to be practical about it, though there was nothing clinical about the way her own heart was racing now. About the way her face felt warm despite the cool air in the cabin.

She felt him harden under her touch, the change immediate and undeniable, but kept her movements steady. Thorough. Washing him the way he'd need to be washed, trying not to think about the fact that she was touching him there.

When she shifted slightly to reach more thoroughly, his hips shifted forward involuntarily,  a sharp, sudden movement that made the water slosh slightly in the tub.

Chasing the contact.

He caught himself immediately, forced his hips back down, and she heard him exhale through clenched teeth.

"Can't help it, sweetheart," he said, his voice wrecked. Strained. "You touch me like that, I-"

He cut himself off, gripping the tub harder, his whole body gone rigid with the effort of not moving. Of not reaching for her. Of not asking for more than she was offering.

"I know," she said quietly, and meant it.

She could see what this was doing to him. Could see it written in every line of his body, the tension, the restraint, the way he was barely holding himself together.

But he wasn't asking her to stop, or to do more. He was just letting her touch him, letting her explore. Letting her learn him at her own pace.

She finished washing him, moving the cloth down his thighs, along his calves, even taking each foot in turn and working the soap carefully between his toes.

When she was done, she rinsed her hands and rested it in her thighs, very aware that her sleeves were damp from the water. That her face was heated. That her breathing wasn't entirely steady.

And he was sitting there in the cooling water, his eyes on her, his chest rising and falling with breaths that were deeper than they should be.

Then he exhaled slowly and opened his eyes fully.

"Thank you," he said.

She nodded, not trusting her own voice, and stood.

"I'll get you a towel," she managed.

She crossed to the chest where they kept the linens, taking perhaps a moment longer than necessary to find one. Using the time to steady herself. To slow her breathing.

Behind her, she heard him shift in the water. Heard the quiet splash and the sound of water streaming off his body as he stood.

When she turned back, towel in hand, he was standing in the tub, water sluicing off his skin in rivulets that caught the firelight.

She could see all of him.

His broad shoulders. His chest. His stomach. The dark hair that trailed down from his navel. His thighs, thick with muscle.

And between them, the evidence of exactly how much her touch had affected him.

Still hard. Still wanting.

She felt her face heat again, felt that now-familiar flutter low in her belly, but she didn't look away, didn't drop her gaze or pretend she hadn't seen.

Just held out the towel.

He stepped out of the tub carefully, water dripping onto the floor, and reached for it.

But instead of taking the towel immediately, his hand caught hers.

Gently. The way he'd done at the dinner table earlier.

He brought her hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Slowly. His lips were warm and soft against her skin.

His eyes held hers the entire time.

"You're gonna be the death of me," he said quietly, his voice still rough with want. With restraint. "You know that?"

She didn't know what to say to that.

Didn't know if there was anything she could say that would adequately express what she was feeling, the strange mix of power and vulnerability, of curiosity and nervousness, of wanting to touch him more and being afraid of what might happen if she did.

So she just stood there, her hand still caught in his, her heart pounding.

Then he released her and took the towel, wrapping it around his waist with movements that were just slightly less controlled than usual and walked to the bed.

"Come here," he said quietly.

She complied, and he reached for her hand, pulling her down to sit beside him. For a moment, they just sat there. Close but not touching beyond where his hand still held hers.

Then he brought their joined hands to his lap and traced his thumb across her knuckles.

"You didn't have to do that," he said quietly. "Wash me like that."

"I know."

"But you did anyway."

She nodded.

"Why?"

The question was gentle, curious. Not demanding. She considered it for a moment, then chose to be honest.

"Because I wanted to," she said finally. Simply. “Wanted to help you, and… wanted to touch you.”

His thumb stilled on her hand.

"You wanted to," he repeated, like he was testing the words.

"Yes."

He was quiet for a moment. Then: "You tell me, sweetheart. Am I pushin' too hard? Askin' for too much?"

She looked at him, at the genuine concern in his eyes, the way he was watching her like her answer actually mattered, and felt something warm settle in her chest.

"No," she said firmly. "You're not."

"You'd tell me if I was?"

"I would."

He studied her face for another moment, then nodded, seeming satisfied.

"Good," he said. "Because the last thing I want is for you to feel like you have to... like any of this is somethin' you're doin' out of duty."

"It's not," she said quietly. "I promise."

He swallowed, and she watched his throat work with the motion. Then he shifted slightly on the bed, his thighs separating just enough that the towel around his waist loosened, falling open slightly.

The evidence of his arousal was impossible to miss.

His hand tightened on hers for a moment, then released.

"Then," he said, his voice rough. "Would you be willin' to... help me with my situation?"

Her eyes flicked down, then back to his face.

She'd done this before. Multiple times, actually, in the weeks leading up to last night. He'd touched her, and both had discovered what she liked, what made her gasp and arch into his hand. And she'd explored him in return, learned the weight of him in her palm, the rhythm he preferred, the signs that told her he was close.

It had been part of learning each other. Part of him making sure she was comfortable with intimacy before they took that final step.

But somehow this time felt different. Maybe because now she knew what it felt like to have him inside her. Knew what he sounded like when he lost control completely.

"Alright," she said quietly.

His eyes darkened, and she saw relief and want on them.

She moved to stand between his knees, and he reached for the towel, pulling it away completely and tossing it aside. Then his hands came to rest lightly on her hips.

"You don't have to," he said, even though she'd already agreed. "If you're too tired, or if-"

"Bucky," she interrupted gently. "I said alright."

He exhaled slowly, and his grip on her hips tightened slightly.

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, okay."

She started to reach for him, but the angle was awkward; she'd have to bend forward, lean down, and her back would start protesting within minutes.

He seemed to realize it at the same time she did.

"Here," he said, releasing her hips. "Get the stool. You'll be more comfortable."

She retrieved the small wooden stool they kept by a corner and positioned it between his knees. When she sat, his hands settled on her thighs this time, palms warm even through her skirts.

She wrapped her hand around him, and he made a sound -low and rough- that sent heat pooling down her belly.

"Christ," he muttered, his head falling back slightly. "Your hand’s so warm..."

She knew what he liked. Had learned it over the course of multiple evenings spent exploring each other, his patient instructions guiding her until she understood the pressure he needed, the rhythm that worked.

So she started the way she always did, slow and firm, her hand moving from base to tip and back again in long, steady strokes.

His hips shifted forward slightly, following the movement, and his hands tightened on her thighs.

"That's good," he said, his voice strained. "That's real good, sweetheart."

She kept the rhythm steady, watching his face. Watching the way his jaw clenched, the way his breathing went ragged, the way his eyes drifted closed.

His hands slid higher on her thighs, gripping through her skirts like he needed something to hold onto.

"Tighter," he said after a moment. "Can you- yeah, like that."

She adjusted her grip, and he groaned.

"Faster?"

"Not yet," he said, his voice tight. "Want it to last."

So she kept the pace slow. Deliberate. Let him feel every stroke.

One of his hands left her thigh and came up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheekbone in a gesture that was tender despite the explicit nature of what she was doing to him.

"You're so good to me," he said quietly, his eyes opening to meet hers. "So damn good."

She felt her face heat at the words, at the sincerity in them.

His hand slid from her face down to her neck, then lower, curving around her waist. His other hand stayed on her thigh, grounding, possessive in a way that made her stomach flutter.

"Okay," he said after another minute, his breathing harsher now. "Okay, faster now."

She increased the pace, her wrist working in the rhythm she knew he needed, and felt him tense beneath her touch.

"God, yes," he muttered. "Just like that, sweet girl. Don't stop."

His hips started moving in small thrusts, matching her rhythm, and she could feel him getting closer. Could see it in the way his whole body tensed, in the way his fingers dug into her waist, in the way his breathing had turned ragged and uneven.

"Darlin’," he said, his voice breaking slightly. "I'm gonna-”

He was trying to warn her. Trying to give her time to move her hand and let him take over, grab the towel, to do whatever she needed to do.

But she didn't pull away.

Just kept moving her hand, moving, steady and sure, the way he needed.

"It's alright," she said quietly.

His eyes locked on hers, and something in his expression shifted. Went dark, intense and full of want.

"Fuck," he breathed, and then his whole body went rigid.

She felt him pulse in her hand, felt the warmth spill over her fingers as he spent, his hips jerking forward with each wave. He made a sound -low and broken- and his hand came up to cover hers, holding her in place while he rode it out.

When it was over, he slumped forward slightly, his forehead pressing against her shoulder, his breathing ragged against her neck.

They stayed like that for a moment, her hand still wrapped around him, his face buried in the curve of her neck, both of them catching their breath.

Then he lifted his head and looked at her, his eyes still dark but softer now.

"Sorry," he said, his voice rough. "Should've grabbed the towel, I just-"

"It's fine," she said.

He reached for the towel anyway, gently taking her hand and cleaning it carefully. When he was done, he cupped her face in both hands and kissed her. Slow and deep and grateful.

When he pulled back, he was looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.

"You should get into your nightgown," he said finally. "Get comfortable."

She nodded and stood, retrieving her nightgown from beneath her pillow where she'd tucked it that morning. She crossed to the corner near the dresser where a small peg rack hung on the wall, beginning to unbutton her dress.

----

Behind her, she heard him move, the creak of the bed as he stood, his footsteps crossing to the water bucket. The sound of him drinking deeply, then setting the dipper back with a soft clatter.

Then she heard him chewing biscuits.

She rolled her eyes. They'd just eaten. The man had put away two full bowls of stew and half a loaf of bread less than an hour ago.

More drinking. Another swallow. Then silence.

She'd worked her dress off and draped it over the peg, then the petticoat, the corset. Her fingers moved to the ties of her drawers when she heard his footsteps again.

But they weren't heading back to the bed.

They were coming toward her.

She stilled, her hands on the waistband of her drawers, and then she felt him behind her. Close. Not touching yet, but close enough that she could feel his body heat.

His hands settled on her bare skin, one at the small of her back, the other at her shoulder blade, and began to stroke her naked skin in slow strokes. She shivered despite the warmth of the cabin.

"Wanna touch you now," he said quietly, his voice rough and low near her ear. "Is that alright?"

She almost chuckled. So that's why he'd told her to change.

She finished pushing her drawers down her hips and stepped out of them, straightening fully. His hands were still on her back, waiting for her answer.

"More than alright," she said.

She heard the shift in his breathing. Felt one hand slide around to her hip, holding her in place.

"Yeah?" His other hand moved up to her shoulder, his thumb stroking along her collarbone. "You sure?"

She hesitated, feeling heat creep up her neck. Then, because he'd been honest with her earlier about being distracted at work, she made herself say it.

"You're not the only one who spent today thinking about last night, Bucky," she admitted quietly. "I was... distracted too."

His hand on her hip tightened, and she felt him step closer. Close enough that his chest was nearly pressed against her back.

"That right?" he said, and she could hear the satisfaction in his voice.

She nodded.

His hand slid from her hip upward, gliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. His palm was warm and calloused against her soft skin, and when his thumb found her nipple and began circling the areola in slow, deliberate strokes, she couldn't quite suppress the small sound that escaped her lips.

"What were you thinkin' about?" he asked, his mouth close to her ear now. "Specifically."

His thumb continued its maddening circles, not quite touching where she was starting to want him to touch, just tracing around and around until she felt her nipple tighten in response.

She swallowed, trying to find words while his hands were on her like this.

"About..." She paused, her breath catching when his thumb finally brushed directly over the peaked bud. "About how it felt. What you did."

"What I did," he repeated, his voice a low rumble against her back. His thumb rolled over her nipple again, more deliberately this time, and his other hand slid from her shoulder down to join the first, cupping her other breast. "Gonna need you to be more specific than that, sweetheart."

Both hands now, both thumbs working in tandem, and she had to brace one hand against the wall to steady herself.

"When you..." She took a shaky breath. "When you touched me. Before. And during."

"Durin’," he said, and there was something almost predatory in his tone now. Pleased. "You mean when I was inside you?"

"Yes," she managed.

His hands stilled for a moment, and then he turned her around to face him.

She found herself looking up at him, at the heat in his eyes, at the focus written across every line of his face.

"And what exactly were you thinkin' about that?" he asked, one hand coming up to cup her face while the other settled at her waist. "That… you wanted me to do it again?"

The directness of the question should have embarrassed her. Would have embarrassed her, even just yesterday.

But there was something about the way he was looking at her. The way his thumb was stroking along her cheekbone. The way he was asking instead of assuming.

"Eventually," she said honestly. "When... when it doesn't hurt anymore."

Something flickered in his expression, that guilt again, brief but unmistakable.

"It's gonna be a lot better next time," he said quietly.

"I know."

"When we do it again," he continued, his hand sliding from her waist to the small of her back, pulling her closer, "it's gonna feel good. Real good. I'm gonna make sure of it."

She believed him. Because he'd already shown her what good felt like, with his hands, with his mouth, with the patient way he'd learned what made her gasp and arch into his touch.

"But right now," he said, his voice dropping lower, "I just wanna make you feel good. Can I do that?"

"Yes," she said.

His mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile.

"Good," he said. "Now come here."

He guided her backward toward the bed, and she went willingly, her heart already racing in anticipation of what came next.

He stood in front of her for a moment, just looking. His eyes traced over her, bare and exposed in the firelight, and she fought the urge to cover herself.

She'd been naked in front of him many times before. But it still made her feel vulnerable in a way she couldn't quite explain.

"Lie back," he said quietly.

She did, scooting further onto the bed and settling against the pillows. He followed, moving onto the bed with her, bracing himself on one arm beside her while his other hand came to rest on her stomach.

"You're tense," he observed, his palm warm against her skin.

"I'm not-"

"You are." His hand moved in a slow circle, soothing. "Relax, sweetheart. I'm just gonna make you feel good. That's all."

She took a breath and tried to let the tension ease out of her shoulders.

His hand moved from her stomach upward, sliding over her side, until it cupped her breast. The touch was gentle at first, exploratory, almost.

"I didn't pay enough attention to these last night," he said, almost to himself. His thumb brushed across her nipple, and she felt it tighten in response. "Was too focused on gettin' inside you."

His hand shifted, and he cupped her other breast, giving it the same careful attention, testing its weight.

"But I got time now," he continued, his voice dropping lower. "And I'm gonna take it."

He lowered his head, and she felt his breath ghost across her skin a moment before his mouth closed over her nipple. The sensation made her gasp, wet heat and gentle suction that sent a jolt of feeling straight between her thighs.

His tongue slowly circled the peaked bud, and then he sucked again, harder this time, and her hands flew to his shoulders without conscious thought.

"Bucky-"

He hummed against her skin, and his hand came up to tend to her other breast while his mouth stayed busy.

His fingers found her nipple and pressed firmly under it, making her arch slightly into the touch. Then he pulled gently, tugging just enough that the sensation rode the line between pleasure and something more intense.

She whined  -helpless and uncontrolled- and felt him smile against her breast. He switched sides then, his mouth moving to the breast his hand had been tending while his fingers took over where his mouth had been.

The pattern repeated, his tongue circling and flicking, his lips suckling, his teeth grazing so lightly she barely felt it. And his hand, always his hand, pressing and tugging and coaxing her body to respond.

She could feel herself getting restless beneath him. Could feel heat building low in her belly, her thighs shifting against each other, seeking friction that wasn't there.

"Easy," he murmured against her skin. "Not rushin' this."

His mouth stayed on her breast, working her nipple with single-minded focus until it was hard and sensitive and slick from his attention. Then he moved to the other side again, giving it the same thorough treatment until both peaks were tight and aching and she was breathing harder than she meant to.

When he finally pulled back, she looked down to find him watching her with dark, intent eyes. Her breasts felt hot from his attention, her nipples darker and visibly wet, and she felt heat flood her face at the sight.

"Look at you," he said quietly, his hand coming up to cup one breast again, his thumb brushing over the sensitized peak and making her shiver. "So responsive. My wife."

He leaned down and pressed one more kiss to each nipple -soft, almost reverent- and then his hand began to move lower.

Down her stomach. Over her hip. Along her inner thigh.

"Now," he said, his voice rough with want, "let me take care of the rest of you."

His hand moved higher on her thigh, and she felt her legs part without him having to ask.

"That's it," he murmured, his palm warm against her inner thigh. "Just like that, sweetheart."

But then his other hand joined the first, and he pressed gently, urging her to open wider, spread more. She expected him to lower his head. To put his mouth on her the way he'd done before, the way that had made her forget her own name.

But he didn't.

Instead, he just... looked.

His thumbs traced along her soft curls, and then he gently parted her. Spreading her open. Exposing her completely to his gaze.

She felt her whole body tense with something that went beyond nervousness into outright mortification. It was one thing to let him touch her. To let him use his mouth on her. She'd gotten used to that over the past weeks, had learned to relax into the pleasure of it.

But this was different.

This was him looking at the most intimate part of her body with the focus he usually reserved for checking a piece of wood for flaws.

"Bucky," she managed, her voice thin. "What are you-"

She tried to close her legs, instinct taking over, but his hands stayed firm on her thighs.

"Wanna look at my wife proper," he said quietly, his eyes still fixed between her legs. "Wanna see if… if you're hurt. From last night."

The admission made her relax a little. He was just checking on her, making sure he hadn't done more damage than he'd realized.

"What's bothering me is inside," she said quietly. "I don't think you can see it."

He looked up at her then, and she saw something flicker across his face. Maybe the realization that he wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He seemed almost sheepish about it, and despite her discomfort, she felt a small flicker of affection.

Then his thumbs moved again, stroking gently along either side of her entrance.

"I'm not gonna use my fingers today," he said, lowering his head. "Just want to make you feel good. That alright?"

"Yes," she managed.

And then his mouth was on her.

The first touch of his tongue made her gasp, a broad, flat stroke that started low and dragged upward with deliberate slowness.

He did it again. And again. Long, slow licks that covered every inch of her, and made her remember with what made her twitch, what made her breathing hitch, what made her hands fly to his hair without meaning to.

His tongue circled her entrance gently, and she tensed slightly at the sensation.

He must have felt it, because he moved away immediately. Shifted his focus higher, to the small bundle of nerves that made her fall apart when he paid it the right kind of attention.

He settled there now, his tongue working in slow, deliberate circles while his hands held her thighs open. Keeping her spread for him. Keeping her exactly where he wanted her.

"Bucky," she breathed, and she felt him hum against her in response.

His hands moved from her thighs to her hips, holding her down. Not rough, but firm, keeping her still while he worked.

His tongue flicked faster now, more focused, and she felt that familiar tension start to build low in her belly. The sensation coiled tighter and tighter with each pass of his tongue.

She was dimly aware that her fingers had tightened in his hair. That she was making sounds she couldn't quite control. And he just kept going. Patiently. Thoroughly.

Like he had all the time in the world and was determined to use every second of it, making her feel good.

She gasped hard when he started to suck gently, his lips closing around that sensitive spot and creating pressure that made her vision blur, her hips grinding shamelessly against his mouth.

"Let go, sweetheart. I got you." He murmured against her skin.

His tongue returned to its work -circling, flicking, pressing- and she felt the tension reach a breaking point.

And then it snapped.

The pleasure hit her in waves, rolling through her body in pulses that made her arch off the bed despite his hands holding her hips. Made her cry out -his name, maybe, or just an incoherent sound- while he kept his mouth on her, working her through it with gentle, steady strokes.

When the waves finally subsided, she collapsed back against the pillows, boneless and breathing hard. He pressed one last soft kiss to her entrance, then another to her inner thigh, before pulling back.

She looked down to find him watching her with an expression of deep satisfaction.

"Good?" he asked, his voice rough.

She could only nod, still trying to catch her breath.

He moved up the bed, settling beside her and pulling her against his chest. His hand stroked lazily up and down her back while her breathing slowly returned to normal.

"You did good," he murmured into her hair. "Real good for me."

She made a sound that might have been agreement or just exhaustion, and felt him chuckle quietly. They lay like that for a while, the cabin quiet except for the crackling fire and their breathing.

Eventually, he stirred.

"Should get you into that nightgown," he said. "Before you fall asleep like this and wake up freezing."

She made a noise of protest, but he was already moving, retrieving the nightgown from where it had fallen to the floor and helping her sit up enough to pull it over her head.

Once she was covered, he settled back down beside her, pulling the blankets up over both of them and tucking her against his side. She felt his fingers trace idle patterns on her shoulder, his breathing deep and even. The warmth of his body, the weight of the quilts, the dying fire, it all started to pull her toward sleep.

She was just beginning to drift when his voice rumbled quietly through his chest.

.

"Been thinkin'," he murmured against her hair. "Tomorrow's Sunday. We could head into town if you want."

She stirred slightly, her hand settling on his chest. "Oh. Is the reverend coming?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"He ain’t. That's exactly why we're goin'."

She lifted her head enough to swat his arm lightly. He didn't even flinch, just kept that amused expression on his face.

"The boys at camp were sayin' that with winter comin' on, a lot of the commercial traffic's gonna die off," he explained. "So the shopkeepers and folks in town decided to open on Sundays for the next few weeks. Give the logging crews and the miners from up the mountain a chance to stock up on what they need before things get real bad."

"That's very convenient," she said.

"It is," he agreed. "They're clearly doin' it to make money, not charity, but it works out for us."

She was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Is there something you need?"

"Few things," he said. "Root cellar could be fuller."

She tensed slightly against him, and he felt it immediately.

"Ain’t your fault," he said before she could apologize. "You came from the city. You got no idea what winter's like out here. How much we need to have stored up."

His hand stroked along her back, soothing.

"Plus," he added, "I've been eatin' more since you got here. Means we're goin' through supplies faster."

She relaxed slightly at that, settling back against him.

"So, provisions," he continued. "Anything that'll keep. And..." He paused. "You're gonna need warmer clothes."

"I have-"

"Not warm enough," he interrupted gently. "What you brought from back East ain't gonna cut it when it really starts snowin'. We're gonna be inside most of the time, sure, but there'll be moments we need to go out. Tendin' to the horse, clearin' snow, fetchin' firewood. And even inside..." He pulled her a little closer. "There's gonna be times when the fire alone ain't enough. You're gonna need layers. Real warm ones."

She was quiet for a moment, processing that.

"I feel silly. Didn't realize it would be that cold," she said finally.

"It gets real cold," he confirmed. "We'll keep the fire goin' day and night, but the cabin’s living space ain’t precisely small. Heat doesn't reach everywhere equally."

He felt her shiver slightly at the thought, and he tightened his arm around her.

"We'll manage," he said. "Just need to be prepared. That's all."

"Alright," she said quietly. "Then we'll go to town tomorrow."

"Also," he added, and she could hear the smile in his voice, "wanna show you off a little before we get snowed in."

She snorted against his chest. "Show me off?"

"It's true," he said, unrepentant. His hand slid from her back down to her hip, then lower, giving her rear a gentle squeeze through the nightgown. "We haven't been able to go into town together much. Just that first time, and Thanksgiving. Want folks to see us together proper."

"Oh, Bucky…"

"Want 'em to see you on my arm," he continued, his tone softening slightly. "Want 'em to see that you're mine and I'm yours."

She felt giddy at the quiet possessiveness in his voice. The pride.

"And," he added, "thought I might take you for a drink at the saloon. If you're amenable."

She lifted her head to look at him, one eyebrow raised. "Are you planning to get me drunk so you can take advantage of me?"

His eyes gleamed in the low firelight, and his mouth curved into something wicked.

"Hm, are you concerned?" he asked, his voice dropping lower. "Or are you askin' me to?"

She felt heat flood through her body, -embarrassment and something else entirely- and she buried her face back in his chest.

"That's not- I didn't mean-"

She could feel him laughing, the vibrations rumbling through his chest beneath her cheek.

"If that's what you want," he said, clearly enjoying himself, "I'll let you drink all you want. That way you can tell me again how handsome I am and how you can't stop lookin' at me."

She made a strangled sound and covered her face with her hands, even though he couldn't see her anyway with her face pressed against his chest.

"Oh my god," she mumbled into her palms.

His laughter softened, and she felt his hand come up to gently pull her hands away from her face.

"Hey," he said, his voice losing that teasing edge. "Look at me."

She lifted her head reluctantly, expecting to see him still grinning at her expense.

But his expression had changed. Still warm, but serious now.

"I was glad to hear that, darling," he said quietly. "Real glad. It’s nice to know it ain’t only me who's smitten with you. That you feel somethin' for me too."

"You made it easy," she maintained his gaze. "To care about you. You are patient with me. Kind. You never made me feel like I was a burden or an obligation, even though that's exactly what I was at first."

His hand cupped her face more fully. "You were never a burden."

"I was," she insisted. "I showed up unannounced, caused a scandal, forced you into a marriage you didn't want-"

He huffed.

“I put a sign, woman. I was pretty much interested in gettin’ married”

“But we didn’t get to court properly, you didn’t know where you were getting into-”

“I think things turned out pretty well.” he interrupted gently, his thumb stroking along her jaw.

She huffed. "You can't possibly have known that when you agreed to marry me. I could have been awful. Lazy, or mean, or-"

"You ain't."

"But you didn't know that."

“No," he said finally. "I didn't know. But I had a feelin'."

She waited, feeling the warmth of his palm on her skin, grounding her.

"When you were standin' there in that room," he continued, his voice low and thoughtful, "lookin' terrified and tryin' so hard not to show it... and then you looked at me with those eyes of yours and said yes anyway." He paused, his thumb brushing the apple of her cheek. "I thought, this woman's got courage and sense. And I liked that."

She felt something flutter in her chest, but forced herself to speak.

"That's not much to base a marriage on," she mumbled.

"Maybe not," he agreed. "But then you didn't flinch when I was sick. Didn't complain when you had to live in a place that ain't nowhere near what you deserved.” His hand pressed against her heart. "And every day, you gave me more reasons. The way you hum when you're concentratin'. Mendin' my shirts even though you hate sewin'. How you look at me like..." He trailed off, and she saw something flicker in his expression, raw and unguarded.

"Like what?" she whispered.

His jaw worked for a moment, and she could see him gathering courage for whatever he was about to say.

"Like I'm worth somethin'," he said finally, his voice rough. "Like I'm more than just a logger with a cabin and a horse. Like you see me.”

She pushed herself up slightly, needing him to see her face, to understand that she meant every word.

"You are worth something," she said firmly, her hand coming up to rest against his chest. "You're worth everything, Bucky. You're the most attentive, kindest man I've ever known. You're honest, and hardworking, and you-" Her voice caught slightly. "You made me feel safe when I had nowhere to go. You made me feel wanted when my whole life I'd been treated like a burden."

His expression had gone very still, his eyes locked on hers.

"You took care of me when you were sick yourself," she continued, her thumb stroking over his heart. "You taught me things without making me feel stupid for not knowing them. You listen to me. You make me laugh. You-"

"And good lookin'?" he interjected, and she could see the corner of his mouth twitching even as his eyes remained suspiciously bright.

She huffed out a breath that was half laugh, half sob, and swatted his chest lightly.

"Yes, damn you," she said, "And ridiculously handsome. Unfairly so. Is that what you wanted to hear?"

His grin was crooked and devastating. "Just checkin’."

But then his hand came up to cradle her face, his thumb catching the tear that had slipped down her cheek, and his expression turned serious again.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For seein' all that. For sayin' it."

She leaned into his touch. "It's the truth."

"I gambled followin' my gut," he said quietly, his eyes holding her gaze. "And every single day since, you've proven me right. You're everythin' I didn't know I needed, darlin’. And-" He paused, and she saw his throat work. "And I'm in love with you."

She couldn't speak for a moment, couldn't do anything but stare at him as the words hugged her, warm and solid and real.

And then it hit her, not like something new, but like something she'd known all along and only now had a name for. The way her heart lifted when she heard his footsteps on the porch. The way she'd started thinking of this cabin as home not because of the place, but because he was in it. The way even now, with her body still tender and her heart wide open and vulnerable, she felt safe.

"I love you too," she replied, and her voice came out steadier than she expected, considering her emotion. "I think- I think I have for a while now.”

His eyes searched hers for a moment, and then a slow smile spread across his face, the kind that made her stomach flip.

"Do you, now?" he murmured, his voice dropping lower.

She nodded, unable to look away from him.

He kissed her then, slow and deep and thorough, his hand still pressed over her heart like he could feel it beating just for him. When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, both of them breathing a little harder.

He shifted slightly, just enough to tilt his head, and she felt him smile against her temple before he pressed a kiss there, soft and lingering. Then another at her cheekbone. Her jaw. Like he was mapping her with his mouth, taking his time, savoring.

She closed her eyes and just felt it -felt him- until her breathing evened out and matched his.

"So," he said after a moment, his voice warm with contentment. "Tomorrow. Town, supplies, that drink at the saloon, and whatever else you want."

"Just… being together sounds perfect," she said softly.

He pressed a kiss to her forehead, his arms coming around her securely.

The fire had burned down to embers, and outside, she could hear the wind moving through the pines and the distant call of an owl. But inside, wrapped in Bucky's warmth with his heartbeat steady beneath her ear, everything felt exactly as it should be.

She let her eyes drift closed, a smile on her lips, and let herself fall into sleep knowing that tomorrow -and every day after- she'd wake up exactly where she belonged.

FIN

[atlas-coolbean]

GET. AI. OUT. OF. FANDOM. Stop making headcanons with it, stop making fanfic with it, stop making fanart with it. If I see one more "asking chatgpt *blank* about *character/characters in a fandom* I'm going to lose my goddamn mind. Use your own fucking brain, stop asking AI to do everything. You could even ask other real people what they think. Just. Stop. Using. AI. In. Creative. Spaces.

[azriona]

Down the Wishing Well, Chapter 16

Avenger!Bucky/Enhanced!Reader (established), sequel to NAFTK, Ultron/Endgame fix-it. Explicit in some chapters (but not this one). This fic is written in its entirety and will update most Mondays and Thursdays until fully posted. Please see AO3 for full tags & warnings.

Excerpt:

“Boss Lady?” Friday’s voice is gentle. “Would Tony even want me in here?” Your voice echoes in the emptiness, which just makes it worse. “I almost destroyed everything.” There’s a pause. “I agree with Dr. Banner’s assessment that the Boss would be pleased you are trying to fix what was damaged.” You take a long breath. “Wish I had your confidence.” “I believe the Boss has often said the same about you.” “I…” You honestly don’t know what to say to that. Before, you were an Avenger. You were a valued member of the team. You had a place, and friends, a found-family, a home. Bucky loved you, the way you were. Steve trusted you, the way you were. And Tony… But now...?

Who are you, now that everything has changed? The truth starts to come out on AO3.

[vunblr]

Brown Sugar and Gunmetal

Pairing: Alpha! Winter Soldier x Omega! Female Reader

Tags: A/B/O AU. True mates. Smut. Porn. Debauchery.

Warnings: A/B/O dynamics. Knot. Breeding. Rough Sex. Scent Kink. Dub-con elements: breaking and entering, but all sex is enthusiastically consented. Non-traditional alpha purring. Size Kink. Premature Ejaculation. Feral/Possessive Behaviour.

Summary: Who would have thought that an inconspicuous vent in a bakery alley would be what brought them together: the omega who never felt right with any alpha, and the asset who wasn't supposed to want at all.

Word Count: 12.7k

note: I have been toying with this concept for a while, and wrote these character premises as a background: Alpha!Soldat - Omega!Reader

5:07 AM.

The sky hasn't decided yet whether it's going to dawn or surrender back to night. It’s that liminal hour when the city just stops, too late for the night crowd, and too early for the commuters. Just the street cleaners, the delivery trucks, and the bakers finishing their shifts.

She pulls her jacket tighter against the October chill and starts walking.

Twelve blocks, it’s not far. Close enough that she doesn't need the subway, but far enough that her legs feel it after eight hours on her feet, kneading dough. Her shoulders ache. Her lower back protests. She smells like the industrial-strength flour that gets into everything, no matter how many times she washes her hands.

She doesn't see him.

But he's there.

----

Three rooftops back, tracking her with the concentration it would use on a target: eyes cataloging her gait, her route, the way she favors her right leg slightly after a long shift. But this isn't a mission. There’s no handler voice in its ear telling it where to go, what to do, or who to eliminate.

Just her scent in the air.

Brown sugar and yeast, yes, but underneath that… omega. Warm and sweet and something that makes Soldat's chest constrict in a way that has no name, no designation, no mission-relevant purpose.

It doesn't understand why it's following her.

Can't articulate the drive that pulled it off its assigned route many nights ago, and keeps pulling it back to the alley behind the bakery, to the vent that breathes her scent into the dark.

It still has things to do that don't include stalking an omega through pre-dawn streets like something hungry.

But it can't stop.

Has tried. Twice. Completed the mission and returned to wait for new orders. And both times, it found itself an excuse to be back in that alley at 3:47 AM when the oven is hot, and her scent filters through the vent.

Omega. Mine.

The thought comes from somewhere deep. Some base-level recognition that bypasses protocol and conditioning, and makes Soldat's hands shake.

She turns the corner onto a quieter street.

Residential. Old brownstones with iron railings and window boxes that haven't been tended in years. It drops from the rooftop to a fire escape -silent, controlled- and continues tracking her from the shadows.

It shouldn't be doing this.

Knows it shouldn't.

Handlers aren’t here. It chastises itself.

There's no debrief scheduled for today. No extraction team waiting.

Only her scent on the wind.

----

Her building is old. Pre-war, maybe. Brick facade with a fire escape that's seen better decades. She lets herself in through the front door -no doorman, it notes, filing it away in the part of its brain that still calculates threat assessments- and disappears into the stairwell.

It waits sixty seconds.

Counts them, precisely. Giving her time to reach her floor, -the one that smells like her- to unlock her door, to be safely inside before-

Before what?

Soldat doesn't know.

Doesn't have a plan. Just the pull in its body that screams closer and the scent memory that's been driving it slowly insane for days.

It should leave, but it's already moving. Not toward the front door, but toward the fire escape.

Metal fingers find purchase first on iron rungs worn smooth by decades of weather. It climbs silently, the thing barely creaks under its weight because it knows exactly where to place its feet, how to distribute the load.

It moves up the side of the building like water flowing upward. Silent and inevitable to the second floor.

Her window faces the alley, so it crouches on the fire escape landing, perfectly still, and watches her shrugging off her jacket and draping it over the back of a chair, toeing off her shoes, and leaving them by the door.

It’s a small apartment, a studio layout, its mind automatically catalogs. Kitchen area, living space, bathroom door, and a bed in the corner.

She moves through the space and opens the fridge -light spills out, illuminating her for three seconds- grabs a bottle of juice. Drinks. Sets it down.

And pulls her shirt over her head.

Soldat's breath stops.

It can see skin it has no right to look at, and it can't make itself turn away. Can't make itself leave, like every remaining protocol says it should.

Because she's just there. Right there, separated from it by a pane of glass and ten feet of air, and the seventy years of conditioning that says don't want, don't need, don't feel.

But Soldat is feeling.

Chest tight, breathing uneven. Cock still hard. Has been hard since it caught her slick-scent through the bakery vent two hours ago, an ache it doesn't remember ever experiencing before.

And it wants.

She disappears further into the apartment.

A door closes. The bathroom, its mind supplies automatically. It hears water running through the pipes. Shower.

Every instruction it has left says to disengage now. Report the issue, because that's what this is, isn't it? An issue.

It isn't supposed to follow civilians home. Isn't supposed to be crouched on a fire escape at 5 AM watching an omega through her window like something feral.

Its hand moves to the window ledge.

Testing.

The old wood is swollen with moisture. The latch is visible through the gap in the curtains, a simple mechanism, not designed to keep out anyone who actually wants in.

Don't.

Its other hand goes to the knife at its thigh.

Leave. Disengage. Return to base.

But it's already moving.

The blade slides between the window and the frame. Simple leverage. The latch gives with barely a click, the wood is too old, and the mechanism is too worn to provide real resistance.

The window slides up smoothly, and the scent-

Fuck.

It escapes out of the open window like a physical thing. Concentrated. Undiluted. Brown sugar, yeast, and omega, coating the inside of its mouth, taking root inside its lungs.

Soldat is inside before really processing it.

The window slides shut behind it, and he just stands there, surrounded by her scent.

The shower is still running. It can hear it through the bathroom door. Can picture her under the spray, water running over skin it saw for three seconds and can't stop thinking about.

Its cock throbs.

Insistent. Painful. It looks down at the bulge behind its pants like it belongs to someone else, like it's a malfunction rather than proof that the drugs are failing, have been failing, because the body knows she's its.

It is biological, absolute, and completely outside of its control.

It crosses to the other window -the one that faces the living area, opposite the bathroom- and sits down on the sill.

It doesn't hide. Doesn't try to blend into shadows or position itself tactically, just waits.

Because she needs to see it. Some part of it that isn't entirely a weapon understands that surprising her, cornering her in the bathroom, or grabbing her when she's vulnerable, would be wrong.

Would make her afraid.

And it doesn't want her afraid.

Wants-

It doesn't know what it wants. Just knows it's going to wait right here until she comes out.

The water cuts off.

Its breathing goes shallow as it hears her moving around in the bathroom. A towel. The medicine cabinet opening and closing. Footsteps. The door handle turning, and finally, the door opening.

----

She steps out of the bathroom barefoot, wrapped in a towel, hair damp and dripping down her back.

And freezes.

Because a man is sitting in her window.

No, not a man. Something else. Something that makes every rational thought in her head go quiet, replaced by a single, primal recognition that bypasses her brain entirely and speaks directly to that omega part of her that had seemed dormant almost all her life.

Alpha.

He's engulfed in black. Tactical gear that looks military, maybe a mercenary, she doesn't know enough to tell the difference, just knows it's meant for violence. A polymer mask covers the lower half of his face as some kind of muzzle, and it should look wrong, should look like something out of a nightmare, but doesn't.

Above it, his eyes.

Blue. Pale, pale blue. The color of ice over deep water.

And they're locked on her.

Not looking. Locked. Fixed in a way that makes her instinct whisper predator even as her omega biology sings yes.

Black paint is smeared across the upper half of his face, crude, deliberately, the kind of thing meant to swallow the light and turn a man into a shadow. His hair hangs lank, brushing his shoulders, dark and tangled like it hasn't seen a brush in weeks. Maybe months.

And his left arm-

Metal.

Plates and articulated joints that catch the yellow light from her bedside lamp, silver and unmistakably not human. It rests on his thigh, fingers splayed, and she can see the micro-movements, the tiny recalibrations of servos and mechanisms that keep it alive.

She should scream.

She should run, lock herself back in the bathroom, call 911, something, anything other than just standing here dripping onto her floor in nothing but a towel that suddenly feels thinner than paper.

But her body doesn't respond with fight or flight.

It still responds with yes.

Because that scent, oh god, that scent.

It hits her fully now that she's out of the steam-thick bathroom. Leather worn soft with age. Gunmetal, cordite. And underneath it all, something alive and warm. Clean sweat, musk, cedar smoke, and a bass note she doesn't have a name for, but her body knows.

It's him.

The ghost she's been smelling through the bakery vent for days. The phantom that made her slick in the middle of a shift, made her hands shake while she shaped croissants, made her lie awake at night with her fingers between her legs chasing a release that never quite came because it wasn't him.

He's real.

He's in her apartment.

And some twisted, fucked-up part of her -the part that's never felt right with any alpha she's tried to want, the part that's been waiting for something she couldn't name- feels like he belongs here.

Her pulse hammers in her throat. She can feel it, hot and frantic, thudding against her scent gland. Her skin prickles with hyperawareness, the towel too rough against her nipples, and-

Oh no.

Oh no.

Warmth between her thighs. The telltale slick slide that means her body is already reacting, already preparing, already wanting in a way she's never felt with flesh-and-blood alphas who bought her drinks and asked politely and did everything right.

She's getting wet for a stranger sitting in her window like a bird of prey.

The shame of it burns, but not enough to stop it. Not enough to make her body listen to her brain's increasingly frantic commands to move, run, do something.

She hears him inhale and sees the way his entire body goes rigid.

Oh fuck.

He smells it.

----

It watches her freeze.

Sees the way her pupils blow wide, black swallowing the color until there's barely any left. Perceives the flutter of her pulse, rabbit-quick, omega-fragile. Sees the water droplets sliding down her collarbone, disappearing into the edge of the towel.

She hasn't screamed.

That's… weird. Civilians scream when it appears in their private rooms. They run. They freeze and shake, and sometimes they cry, but they don't just stand there staring at it like-

Her scent changes, and it takes it half a second to place it, and when it does, something in its brain fractures.

Slick.

It tenses.

That's not- omegas don't smell like that for it. Warm and sweet and wanting, with pheromones that pull at something on it, that the handlers said was fixed.

But it's surfacing now.

Clawing up from whatever dark place they tried to bury it, and it doesn't know what to do with it. It doesn't have a protocol for this. Just the overwhelming need to get closer, to bury its face in her throat and breathe.

Its cock throbs. Heavy, aching, trapped behind tactical fabric that suddenly feels painfully constricting.

It shifts slightly on the windowsill, trying to relieve the pressure, and the movement is clumsy. It doesn't know how to do this. Doesn't remember ever needing to.

Her eyes drop.

She's looking at the obvious bulge straining against black fabric, at the evidence of something it thought was dead.

She should be running.

Why isn't she running?

"How did you get in?" Her voice comes out steady. Not scared, or angry.

Like this is a normal question to ask a heavily-armed stranger sitting in her window at five in the morning.

It doesn't answer.

Doesn't know how to answer.

So it stands.

The movement is fluid and controlled because the body knows how to move smoothly even when the mind is fracturing.

She's still just standing there, still looking at it with those wide eyes, pupils blown. The towel is slipping slightly on one side, and it can see a droplet of water sliding down between her breasts, and its mouth goes dry.

It takes a step toward her.

Then another.

Her scent gets stronger with each foot of distance it closes. Thicker. Sweeter. The slick-smell underneath makes something in Soldat's alpha core growl with satisfaction because yes, omega wants, omega is ready-

No.

It doesn't think like that. Isn't supposed to think like that. Omegas are targets or obstacles or irrelevant sources of pain, not-

Another step.

She hasn't moved.

Hasn't backed up, hasn't reached for a makeshift weapon, hasn't done any of the things a smart person should do when a strange man invades her home.

Three more steps and it's close enough to feel the residual heat from her shower radiating off her damp skin. Close enough to see the way her chest is rising and falling too fast, shallow breaths that make the towel shift with each inhale.

Close enough to hear the slight hitch when it stops less than a foot away.

----

He is close enough that she can see the black paint smudged at his temple, the faint scar cutting through his eyebrow, the way his pupils have blown so wide the blue is almost gone.

Close enough to drown in his scent.

It's overwhelming this close, and her body responds like he's touching her even though there are still inches of space between them.

More slick. Warm and mortifying, sliding down her inner thighs beneath the towel.

She watches him scent the air, watches his pupils dilate even further -if that's even possible- watches his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

He knows exactly what her body is doing.

And some absolutely insane part of her is glad.

His metal hand comes up slowly, like he's giving her every chance to bolt, to scream, to do literally anything other than stand here and let him.

The hand hovers near her face.

Not touching. Just so close that she can see her reflection dancing in the fingers plates, warped and strange, and hear the whisper-quiet whir of mechanisms, as he holds it perfectly still.

Her heart is hammering so hard she's sure he can hear it, but she doesn't flinch.

Doesn't do any of the rational things a person should do when a stranger breaks into their home and reaches for their face with a metal hand that could probably crush her throat without effort.

Just stands there, meeting those burning blue eyes, her heart a war drum in her chest, and waits.

Because this feels…

Right.

Every alpha she's ever tried to force herself to want was just wrong. Wrong scent, wrong touch, wrong everything. Going through the correct actions because that's what omegas are supposed to do, supposed to crave, but her body never responded. Never wanted.

Until now.

A stranger in tactical gear with a metal arm and war paint, and her body is screaming yes louder than it's ever screamed anything in her life.

She watches his hand hover, and in defiance of every rational instinct, she takes a step forward. Closes those last six inches of space until the towel brushes against his thigh, and his scent completely surrounds her, drowns her, ruins her.

And reaches up.

Her fingers wrap around his metal wrist -still hovering, still waiting- and she guides it down, pressing that cold palm against her cheek.

----

She touches it, and Soldat furrows his brows.

Because no one touches the arm unless they have to. Handlers avoid it. Technicians maintain it with detachment. Targets flinch from it. Witnesses scream when they see it.

But she-

A sound is ripped out of it, low, subvocal, resonating in the hollow of its ribcage. It doesn't recognize it at first. Doesn't have a reference for the frequency, the pattern, or the way it seems to vibrate through its entire body.

Not a growl, not a snarl.

Something else.

Something the handlers never trained it for because alphas don't… alphas aren't supposed to-

Purr.

Soldat is purring.

It doesn't know how to stop.

Doesn't know if it wants to stop.

Because she's still touching the arm, still holding its wrist, and her eyes are closed now, her face tipped into the metal palm like she's seeking comfort from it.

From it.

The purr intensifies.

Its thumb moves -carefully, because the arm could hurt her so easily, and that thought makes something violent twist in its gut- and brushes along her cheekbone.

Her breath catches, and Soldat hears it, and wants to touch more.

Wants to map every inch of her body with both hands, with its mouth. Wants to bury its face in her throat and learn the exact composition of her scent. Wants to know what she tastes like. Wants to-

It hands grip her shoulders and pulls her closer, using the momentum to bend down and bury its face in the curve of her neck where the scent gland sits and inhales, or tries to.

Because the mask creates a barrier between its face and her skin. Only millimeters of separation, but it might as well be miles.

It’s not enough.

It presses closer, trying to get its nose flush against her throat, trying to eliminate even those few millimeters of distance.

But the rigid edge of the muzzle won't let it, and the frustration is maddening.

The sound that rips out of its throat is not a growl. Smaller than that. Sharper. Almost a whine, high and thwarted, vibrating through its chest in a way that makes it freeze because…

Because it doesn't make sounds like that.

It pulls back from her throat, hands still on her shoulders, and it stares down at the space between them like it's a tactical problem requiring assessment.

Remove it.

The thought surfaces clean and logical. A simple solution to a simple problem.

Its flesh hand releases her shoulder and lifts toward its own head. Fingers reaching for the straps at the back, close enough that it would only take a second, just release the catch, pull the strap free…

Then the hand stops, freezing mid-motion, and Soldat's jaw clenches beneath the muzzle.

The conditioning surfaces automatically and absolutely. Operational equipment stays on until a handler authorizes removal. The Soldat doesn't touch the gear. Doesn't adjust it. Doesn't remove it.

Waits for orders. Always waits for orders.

But there are no orders here.

No handler voice in its ear telling it what to do, what's permitted, what comes next.

Just the omega standing in front of it and the scent it can't reach, and the need clawing inside it like something trying to break out.

Its hand trembles. Actually trembles. Seventy years of conditioning screaming don't touch the equipment warring with the biological imperative howling get closer to omega.

She makes a sound.

Soft. Questioning. Her eyes watch the internal struggle in real time.

And it realizes, she can see it. The conflict, the frozen hand.

The Soldat's hand drops back onto her shoulder. It can't do this.

The frustration is physical. A tightness in its throat, a pressure behind its eyes, and the whine tries to surface again, but it swallows it down because it doesn’t want to show weakness to her, besides its uselessness.

The word surfaces bitter and cold.

Can't even take off its own gear. Can't function like anything other than a weapon waiting for orders that aren't coming.

----

She can see it in his eyes.

He wants the mask off. The way he's looking at the space between them with something that's not quite frustration, or confusion, but somewhere in between.

Trapped.

He's trapped by something she can't see. Some kind of rule he can't break, even though every line of his body is screaming that he wants to.

He's not going to take it off himself.

Can't, or won't, or has been trained so thoroughly not to that his hand literally won't complete the motion even though he's desperate for it.

And that… that's wrong. Whatever they did to him, whoever they are, it's wrong.

Her hands come up slowly, carefully, so he can see it coming.

She reaches past his shoulders, past his neck, finding the straps at the back of his head. Her fingers brush through his tangled hair, searching for the buckles hidden beneath.

"Can I?"

Her voice is barely a whisper. Rough with want and the absolute insanity of what she's doing, asking permission to unmask a stranger who broke into her apartment, like that's the wildest part of this situation.

But nothing about this makes sense, so why should this?

He nods, almost military in its precision.

And something in her chest aches at how strange that is, that he needs her help to remove something that's clearly bothering him. That he can't just do it himself.

She reaches up and carefully -so carefully- lifts it away.

The straps pull free from his hair. The contraption comes away from his face, and she can see the slight indentations it left on his skin, red marks where it pressed too tightly for too long.

How long has he been wearing this?

She doesn't ask.

Just holds the mask for a second, then drops it, and it hits the floor with a dull plastic thud that seems too loud in the quiet of her apartment.

For the first time, she sees his whole face.

Sharp jaw. Dry lips parted slightly as he drags in air like he's been holding his breath. A mouth that looks like it was made for smiling, except she doesn't think he remembers how. The black paint extends down past where the mask sat, smudged across his cheeks making his eyes look even more intense.

He's… beautiful. Devastatingly so.

Not pretty, not soft, but beautiful. All sharp edges and hard lines, and a vulnerability in his eyes that doesn't match the rest of him.

And he's staring at her like she's the only thing in the world that matters, like she just gave him something he didn't know he needed.

The moment the mask leaves his face, he moves.

Fast, faster than she can track, his face buries into the curve of her throat, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

A shuddering inhale that she feels all the way down between her thighs. His nose is pressed directly against her scent gland now, nothing between them, and his whole body goes rigid against hers.

Then he breathes her in again, deep and desperate, and the groan he makes is so raw it makes her knees weak.

She feels his lips part, and the wet heat of his tongue dragging directly over her scent gland, tasting her, and her vision goes white for a second.

Her head tips back.

Automatic. Instinctive. Omega nature taking over and offering her throat to an alpha she doesn't even know, and she should be terrified of how right this feels.

But she's not.

He licks her again, slower this time, deliberately, learning her taste. Then his mouth seals over the gland, and he sucks.

The sound she makes is high and breathy and omega, and she feels it, feels her knees give out, feels her body go liquid and pliant.

He catches her.

The metal arm bands around her waist instantly, hauling her up and pinning her against him so her feet barely touch the floor. She's pressed against tactical gear and body armor and all that heat radiating off his body, and the towel-

The towel is gone.

She doesn't know when it fell. Doesn't care. Can't think past the way his mouth is working her throat, licking, sucking, the scrape of teeth that makes her gasp and arch into him.

He's hard.

She can feel it against her hip, thick and insistent even through the clothing, and he's grinding into her like he can't help himself. Like his hips are moving on pure instinct, chasing friction and relief and something he doesn't have words for.

The purr is still going.

That deep, subvocal vibration she can feel everywhere they're touching: his chest against hers, his arm around her waist, his face in her throat.

Wrong, some distant part of her brain whispers. Alphas don't purr.

But he is.

And it's the most beautiful thing she's ever felt.

She tilts her head back further, giving him more access, and the noise he makes in response is purely animal. Grateful and starving and so far gone she knows -knows- that something is deeply wrong with him.

Not wrong like dangerous.

Wrong like broken.

The way he touches her is frantic but not cruel, demanding but not bruising, desperate but not violent. Like he's running on instinct with no learned behavior, no finesse. Just need, confusion, and the desperate drive to get closer.

His flesh hand grips her thigh and lifts, hitching her leg up around his hip and pressing in hard, grinding his erection against where she's slick and open and aching, and the pressure makes her whimper.

He pulls back just enough to look at her.

His eyes are wild. Just thin rings of ice around bottomless black. His lips are wet, the black paint smudged where his face was pressed into her throat. He's panting like he just ran miles, and she can see it-

The confusion.

The need.

The absolute terror of not understanding what's happening to him. He doesn't know what he's doing, what he seeks.

But she wants to pull him down to her bed and let him figure it out. Wants to guide those shaking hands, wants to teach him what touch can feel like. Wants to watch him come apart with her name on his lips, except she doesn't even know his name and-

"Please."

The word falls out of her mouth. Barely a whisper. Rough and desperate, and she doesn't even know what she's asking for.

But he seems to understand.

----

Please.

The omega says it like a prayer, and something in Soldat's mind just shatters. Because she's asking. Begging. Not for it to stop, not for it to leave her alone, but for more.

Her scent is everywhere. On its tongue, in its nose, soaking into its skin through the tactical gear. Brown sugar and yeast, and that salt undertone that makes its alpha instinct groan mine, omega, MINE.

Her leg is wrapped around its hip. Her body is bare and warm and pressed against it, and it can smell how wet she is, and its cock is so hard it hurts.

It feels pain. Real, physical pain, because it hasn't been hard in… it doesn't know how long. Doesn't remember what this feels like, this ache low in its belly, this pressure behind the zipper of its pants that won't go away no matter how it grinds against her.

And she's letting it.

Not just letting, she's arching into it, making those high breathy sounds that spike straight down Soldat's spine, and it doesn't know what to do.

It knows how to kill. Knows ten ways to incapacitate from this position. Knows where to put the knife, the bullet.

Doesn't know how to touch her without breaking her.

Its flesh hand is gripping her thigh too tightly. It can see its knuckles white with pressure, can calculate the exact force needed to bruise, and it tries to ease up, but can't make its fingers let go.

Because if it lets go, she might-

Soldat doesn't know what it's afraid of. That she'll run. That she'll stay. That this will end. That it won't.

Her hands come up.

Slide into its hair, tangling in the unwashed strands, and she pulls.

Not hard. Just enough to guide its face back to her throat, and it complies because it can't do anything else. Can't think past the need to have its mouth on her skin, to taste the scent gland again, to feel her pulse against its tongue.

It licks a stripe up her throat, tasting her, and the purr intensifies until its entire chest is vibrating with it.

She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to its leaking cock.

It doesn't know what it's doing. Just knows it needs to move, needs friction, needs something.

Its hips jerk forward, grinding the thick length behind its pants against her, and the heat there -wet and slick and ready- makes its vision blur.

Omega.

Wants.

Needs.

The thoughts don't form in words. Just primal drive, instinct clawing up from wherever they buried it. Its free hand -the metal one, careful, so careful- slides down her side. Traces her waist, her hip, until it reaches her thigh, the one not wrapped around him, and it grips, gentle as it knows how, which might not be gentle enough, and lifts.

Both her legs are now wrapped around its waist, her back against the wall, its both hands holding her up by her ass, and she's completely open against it now.

Nothing but its tactical pants between them. It can feel the slick soaking through, can smell it so thick in the air it's drowning everything else out.

It grinds forward.

The pressure makes her gasp -loud and sharp- and her nails dig into its shoulders through the vest.

Yes.

It does it again. Harder. Chasing the friction, the heat, the sounds she's making. Its hips move in a rhythm it doesn't remember learning, rutting against her like something feral.

She's saying something, but it can't process the words. Just the tone, breathy, desperate, wanting, and it's enough.

More than enough.

Its mouth finds her throat again. Finds the scent gland and bites. Not hard. Not breaking skin, just enough pressure to make her feel it, to hold her, to-

Mark?

The thought surfaces sharp and alien. Soldat doesn't mark. Doesn't claim. It's not supposed to-

But its teeth are on her gland, and she's keening, high and sweet and surrendering, and its primal alpha nature is screaming YES, MINE, OMEGA, CLAIM-

No.

Can't.

Not allowed.

It doesn't know who decided that or why, just knows it's true. It can't bond her. Can't keep her.

But it can't let go either.

Can't stop grinding against her, can't stop purring, can't stop holding her against the wall like she's the only thing that matters in the world.

She pulls its hair again, forcing Soldat's face up, making it meet her eyes. And what it sees there is want, need. But also something else.

Understanding, maybe.

Like she can see the fracture and the confusion inside its head.

Her thumb brushes its cheekbone, smearing the black paint. Gentle in a way nothing has been with it in years.

"It's okay," she whispers.

And Soldat doesn't know what she means.

Doesn't know what's okay. This isn't okay, none of this is okay. It had broken into her home and put its hands on her, and she should be screaming and squirming but instead she's-

"It's okay," she says again, and her lips brush against it like she's afraid it might break.

Soldat freezes.

Her lips are warm. Soft. Moving gently against its mouth like she's asking a question, but it doesn't know how to answer, doesn't know what to do with its mouth except keep it closed, rigid, and unresponsive while she kisses it with a tenderness that disarms it.

She pulls back.

Just a fraction. Just enough to look at it, and Soldat can see the question in her eyes even though she doesn't ask it out loud.

Is this okay?

It doesn't know.

She kisses it again, slower this time. A soft press of lips, then another, feather-light brushes that make its breath hitch.

Her hands slide from its hair to cup its face -cradling it between her palms like it's something precious- and she kisses the corner of its mouth. Its jaw. The edge of its lips again.

Patiently, like she has all the time in the world.

Like she's not pinned against a wall, held up by its hands under her ass, legs wrapped around its waist while completely naked.

Soldat's brain tries to process this, but her tongue flicks out. Just barely. A soft, wet touch against its bottom lip that sends electricity straight down its spine.

The sensation is-

Soldat doesn't have a reference for it.

Its breath catches. Actually stutters in its chest because no one has ever done that to him.

The tongue traces its bottom lip again, a little bolder this time, and something in Soldat's chest constricts. It's compelling, her mouth on its mouth. The promise of more if it just-

If it just takes it.

And something inside it just… snaps.

It surges forward, crushing its mouth against hers and takes.

Because it doesn't know how to do this softly. Doesn't know how to kiss like she was kissing it, all tenderness and patience. Just knows want and need and more, and its mouth opens against hers, demanding, claiming.

She gasps against its lips.

It swallows the sound. Licks into her mouth, tasting her -omega, sweet, mine- and her flavor explodes across its tongue like nothing it's ever experienced.

Its flesh hand comes up from her ass and grips the back of her head, fisting her damp hair and holds her still while it kisses her like it's starving.

She makes a sound, high and breathy, and Soldat growls.

Can't help it. The sound rumbles up from its chest, vibrating through the kiss, possessive and feral and alpha in a way it didn't know it still could be.

The metal arm under her ass flexes. Lifts her higher against the wall, adjusting the angle so it can kiss her harder, deeper, can tilt her head back with the hand in her hair and devour her mouth.

She whimpers into the kiss and her hips roll, grinding down against where Soldat's cock is straining behind its zipper, and the friction -fuck, the friction-makes its hips jerk forward on instinct.

It's still kissing her. Can't stop kissing her. Can't pull away even to breathe because breathing means not kissing, and that's unacceptable.

Its hips grind up. Her hips roll down. The rhythm builds between them, clumsy, desperate, uncoordinated, and it can feel her heat even through the tactical pants.

Slick. So much of it, soaking through the fabric.

For it.

It tears its mouth away from hers just long enough to breathe -one harsh gasp-and then it's dragging its lips down her jaw, her throat. Back to the scent gland that's calling to every broken alpha instinct it has left.

It bites down.

Harder than before. Still not breaking skin, but claiming the space, holding her throat between its teeth while she keens above it.

Her hands fist in its hair. Pull hard enough to hurt, but the pain is good. Grounds it. Keeps it tethered to this moment, this omega, this impossible thing that's happening.

Its metal arm shifts, adjusting its grip on her ass, fingers spreading wider, and it can smell everything. The heat. The slickness. How ready she is.

How much she wants.

Its hips are still grinding up against her in a rhythm that feels right, even though Soldat doesn't know why. Chasing pressure and friction, and the heat radiating from between her legs.

She's panting now. Harsh little gasps every time its hips thrust up, every time the thick length behind its pants grinds against where she's open and slick and wanting.

"Please-"

She says it again. Broken and desperate, and Soldat doesn't know what she's asking for, but it wants to give it to her.

Wants to give her everything.

Its mouth releases her throat. Licks over the mark its teeth left behind -soothing, claiming- and then finds her mouth again.

Kisses her hard. Deep. Swallowing her gasps and her whimpers while its hips grind up harder, faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.

The pressure is building, low in Soldat's belly, behind its cock. Something coiling tighter and tighter with every thrust, every slide of slick-heat against fabric, every sound she makes into its mouth.

It doesn't know what it is.

Just knows it's coming.

And it can't stop.

Can't stop moving, can't stop kissing her, can't stop needing-

Her teeth catch its bottom lip. Bite down just enough to sting, it snarls into her mouth.

Its metal hand grips.

Pulls her down harder against its shaft while its hips snap up, and the angle -fuck- the angle grinds the ridge of its cock directly against where she's hottest.

She cries out.

Breaks the kiss, head thrown back against the wall, and it can see the pleasure breaking across her face, can see her eyes roll back, can feel her thighs shaking around its waist.

Beautiful.

She's beautiful.

And Soldat is-

It's-

The pressure peaks.

Crests like a wave, and Soldat doesn't know what's happening, but it can't stop, can't do anything but grind up into her one more time, hard and desperate and-

Everything goes white.

----

She feels him go rigid against her, and then-

He makes a sound.

Low and guttural and broken, muffled against her throat where his face is buried now, and she feels it, feels him shuddering against her, feels the rhythmic pulse against her hip even through his pants.

Oh.

He just-

Her brain catches up a second too late, pleasure still sparking through her nerve endings from the way he was grinding against her, the perfect pressure against her clit, the desperate rhythm that had her right on the edge-

But he got there first.

And something in her breaks with something tender and possessive and achingly sad all at once.

Because this -this desperate, uncontrolled response- tells her everything she needs to know about how touch-starved he is, coming from friction alone.

Her alpha came untouched, shaking against her, and the intimacy of that moment makes her throat tight. And somehow she is glad her body, her scent, was enough to make him lose control so completely, that could give him this.

Even if she's still aching. Still empty. Still wet and wanting and so close to the edge she could cry.

The purr has stuttered into something irregular, broken, almost pained. And her omega instincts surge.

Protect. Soothe. Comfort.

Her hands move on instinct, one sliding into his hair, the other pressing flat against his chest, where she can feel his heart racing like a war drum.

His grip on her hasn't loosened.

Still holding her up, metal arm banded under her ass, flesh hand fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. Still pressing her into the wall like she's the only solid thing in his world.

He's not moving.

He’s just frozen there, face buried in her throat, breathing hard and ragged against her skin. She can feel the wetness between them, his release soaking through his pants, merging with her slick, warm where their hips are still pressed together.

And he hasn't let go.

Won't let go.

She can feel it in the tension of his body, the way his fingers are still fisted in her hair, the trembling in his flesh hand that suggests he's fighting every instinct to squeeze tighter, hold harder, never release.

Like he's terrified she'll disappear if he loosens his grip even a fraction.

"Hey," she whispers, and her voice comes out… wrecked.

"Hey, it's okay."

She doesn't know if she's talking to him or herself.

Doesn't know what she's reassuring him of. That coming like this is okay? That she's not disgusted? That she's not going anywhere?

All of it, maybe.

She feels his face shift against her throat. A tiny movement, his nose dragging along her scent gland like he's seeking reassurance in her smell.

And her heart just-

Breaks.

Breaks for this broken alpha who doesn't even know how to accept comfort without making it into something instinctive and biological.

His breathing doesn't even out. If anything, it gets worse. Harsher. Like he's trying to pull himself together and failing.

And she notices it, the alpha shame. Of losing control. Of being weak. Of needing.

"Alpha," she says, and she's surprised by how steady her voice comes out. How sure. "It's okay. You're okay."

She doesn't know if he understands words right now -doesn't know how much of him is even there behind those pale eyes- but shesays it anyway.

Like she can make it true just by believing it hard enough.

The purr is starting to even out now. Still irregular, but less jagged. And she can feel the exact moment something changes in him, when the shame starts to give way to something else.

His grip tightens fractionally. The hand in her hair flexes, and his face presses harder into her throat, and the sound he makes is low and rough and utterly possessive.

Mine, it says without words.

Omega. Mine. Not letting go.

And fuck, she wants to be his.

Her thighs are starting to shake from the position. Legs wrapped around his waist, all her weight held up by his arm, and she's not sure how long they've been like this, but her muscles are beginning to protest.

"Hey," she says softly. "You can… you can put me down if you want. I can grab a towel, clean up a bit-"

No.

He doesn't say it, just makes a sound -low, immediate, almost a growl- and his grip tightens on her.

Metal and flesh both, holding her closer instead of letting go, and his face presses harder into her throat like the suggestion of separation is physically painful.

She feels him shake his head.

Just once. Sharp and definitive.

Not letting go. Not putting her down. Not giving her space to clean up or think or do anything except stay right here, wrapped around him, her scent in his lungs.

"Okay," she whispers, and she doesn't know why she's surrendering so easily. Doesn't know why the word falls from her lips like a vow. "Okay, alpha. I'm not going anywhere."

And she… should probably be concerned about that reaction.

Should insist on disengaging, because they're both a mess, his release soaking through his pants, her slick coating her thighs and the fabric, the obscene mix of it smeared between them where their bodies are pressed together.

But the way he's holding her, the way his breathing is starting to change again. Getting heavier. Rougher. Not the ragged gasps from before but something else. Something deeper.

His scent shifts.

Sharpens.

She smells it even through her own arousal, through the mess between them, leather and gunmetal going darker, muskier, edged with something that makes her inner omega sit up and pay attention.

Alpha.

Not just alpha.

Rutting alpha.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He's-

Before she can finish the thought, he moves.

Turns from the wall, carrying her like she weighs nothing, and crosses her small apartment in a couple of long strides. Her bed is right there -unmade, sheets still tangled from when she left for work yesterday- and he doesn't hesitate.

Just leans forward and deposits her on it. Not rough, but not gentle either. Without ceremony, she's suddenly on her back on the mattress, legs falling open, and he's standing over her, looking down with those pale blue eyes engulfed in blown pupils.

Somehow, she feels more naked now, exposed. Sprawled on the bed, thighs still shaking, slick coating her inner thighs and probably the sheets beneath her.

He can see all of it, and he's staring where she's open. Wet. Swollen. Still aching from how close she was before he came, before everything stopped.

His nostrils flare.

And the sound he makes is-

Feral.

----

The scent is everywhere.

Brown sugar and yeast and the slick of her arousal, but now it's mixed with the smell of Soldat's own release, and it's-

Obscene.

The word pops into its mind, and it's correct. The mix of their scents shouldn't blend like this, but it does, and it makes its inner alpha go absolutely feral with possessive satisfaction.

Soldat's cock is stirring again.

Shouldn't be possible. It just came, hard enough that it's still feeling the aftershocks, still wet and sensitive under its pants, but it doesn't matter.

Because she's there.

Spread out on the bed, and it can see it now. Can see the slick coating her inner thighs, can see how ready she is, can smell it thick and sweet and calling to every broken instinct it has.

It doesn't think.

Just drops to its knees beside the bed gracelessly, metal hand bracing on the mattress, flesh hand going straight to her thigh.

Gripping, spreading her wider.

She makes a sound -surprise, maybe, or arousal- but it barely registers. Can't hear anything past the rush of blood in its ears.

It needs to taste her.

Not the scent gland this time. Not her throat or her mouth or any of the places it's already learned.

Here.

Where her scent is strongest, purest, where she's slick and open and-

It buries its face between her thighs.

Fuck.

The word detonates in its head, sharp and visceral, because she tastes sweet, and salt. Omega.

Its tongue drags through her folds -clumsy, unpracticed, chasing the flavor- and she gasps under it. Her thighs try to close on reflex, but its hands are there, metal and flesh both, holding her open.

Keeping her spread while it licks.

Learning her. The texture, the taste, the way she's so wet the slick coats its tongue, slides down its throat.

It growls against her.

Can't help it. The sound vibrates through her core, possessive and hungry, and she whimpers. Soldat does it again.

Licks slower this time, more deliberate. Dragging its tongue from her entrance up to-

She jerks.

Hips bucking up, a sharp inhale, Soldat freezes.

There.

That spot. Small and swollen, and when its tongue brushes it again, she makes the sound again, high and broken.

Clit.

The word surfaces from somewhere. Detached. But Soldat doesn't need the terminology. Just needs to know that touching there makes her react like that.

Makes her want.

It seals its lips around it and sucks.

----

She screams.

Can't help it. Can't muffle it. The sensation rips through her body like lightning, his mouth on her clit, sucking hard and wet and perfect, and her back arches off the bed.

Her hands fly to his hair, fisting in the tangled strands, and she doesn't know if she's pulling him closer or trying to push him away because it's too much, too intense, she's already been on edge for-

His tongue circles her clit. Flicks over it. Then sucks again, and she can't breathe.

He's-

He's devouring her.

Face buried between her thighs like he's starving, like this is the only thing he wants in the world. His hands are holding her open, and she can feel his nose pressed against her mound, can feel the vibration of the sounds he's making.

Growls. Deep and continuous, rumbling through her core every time he licks, every time he tastes her.

He doesn't know what he's doing.

She can tell. The movements are enthusiastic but uncoordinated, chasing reactions without technique. Licking everywhere, tasting everything, like he's trying to map her by flavor alone.

But it works.

Because he's paying attention. Learning what makes her gasp, what makes her hips buck, what makes her pull his hair and whimper his-

She doesn't even know his name.

The thought penetrates through her pleasure-drunk brain and dissolves immediately because his tongue just found her entrance and pushes inside.

"Oh fuck!"

The curse rips out of her. His tongue is inside her, licking, and the sensation is so foreign and good and wet that her thighs start shaking again.

He groans against her.

The vibration travels straight through her core, and she can feel it, feel him tasting her from the inside, feel the way his tongue curls and explores like he's trying to drink every drop of slick.

And there's so much.

She's never been this wet in her life. Can feel it coating her thighs, soaking into the sheets, and he's lapping at it like it's the best thing he's ever tasted.

His metal hand shifts on her thigh.

Adjusts its grip, and then-

She feels it.

The cool press of metal against her entrance. One finger, articulated and precise, pressing in and stretching alongside his tongue.

"Alpha-"

The word escapes her lips. Desperate. Pleading. She doesn't even know what she's asking for.

But he seems to understand.

His tongue pulls out. The metal finger becomes two, and he pushes them in -slowly, carefully, letting her feel the drag- and she loses it.

----

Soldat can't stop.

Can't pull away from her taste, the slick coating its tongue, the way she's whimpering and pulling its hair and making sounds that go straight to its cock.

Which is impossibly hard again. Aching, still wet from before, and it starts grinding against the mattress without conscious thought. Seeking friction, seeking relief, but it's not enough.

The pants are too restrictive. The fabric cuts into its cock every time it thrusts forward, and it's wrong.

They’re in the way.

It pulls back from between her thighs -just for a second, just enough- and its hands go to its belt, ripping it open.

The buckle clatters, the tactical webbing falling away, and then it is yanking at the fly. Buttons, zipper, whatever, it doesn't care. Just needs them off, needs the pressure gone.

The pants and undergarment peel down over its hips, shoved down to mid-thigh, and-

It looks down.

Its cock is twitching, flushed, and still wet from its release, cum smeared along the length, sticky and cooling against overheated skin. The smell hits immediately: the musk of spent alpha mixed with her slick-sweet omega scent in the air.

Its lip curls.

Not in disgust. In something else. Something possessive and satisfied because that's their scent. Mixed. Merged.

But it's also… messy.

Soldat doesn't do messy. Doesn't-

A sound interrupts its thoughts.

Her.

Whimpering.

Its head snaps up.

----

She's staring.

Can't help it.

He's... fuck. He's big.

Still wet from coming in his pants, she can see it, the streaks of his release coating it, glistening with the light from her bedside lamp.

And the smell.

It makes fresh slick slide down her thighs, makes her body ache with want so visceral she can barely think past it. She needs-

But he's already moving.

Already turning back toward the bed, dropping his gaze to where she's sprawled on the mattress, legs still spread, and she can see the intent written clearly on his face.

He's going back down. Going to bury his face between her thighs again, taste her again, and-

Yes, his mouth felt incredible. The enthusiastic, uncoordinated desperation of it, the way he licked and sucked like he was starving.

But that's not what she needs right now. Not when he's right there, hard and ready, and she can smell how much he wants her.

"Wait-"

The word tumbles out before she can stop it. Desperate. Pleading.

"Alpha, wait-"

He freezes.

Mid-motion. One knee on the bed, hands reaching for her thighs, and those pale eyes snap up to meet hers.

She sees the confusion dance across his face.

And then-

His expression shutters.

Goes from open and needy to closed and determined in the space of a heartbeat, and his hands land on her thighs, metal and flesh both.

And the grip is different now.

Firmer. Restraining.

His fingers dig in -not painful, but unmistakably harder- and he pushes. Spreading her thighs wider, pinning them to the mattress, and the look in his eyes-

Oh no.

He thinks she's telling him to stop.

Thinks she's refusing, resisting, and his entire body language has changed into something that makes her inner omega sit up and take notice.

Dominant. Controlling. Alpha.

"No, I just-" she tries again, voice coming out shakier than she wants. "I want-"

But he's not listening.

His gaze drops back between her legs. Fixed. Focused. And his hands press down harder, holding her flat against the mattress.

The message is crystal clear:

Stay still. Let me.

And-

Fuck.

She whimpers.

Can't help it. Can't stop the sound that escapes her throat because the dominance in the gesture, the way he's pinning her open, the raw alpha energy radiating off him…

It should scare her.

Should send up every red flag about consent, control, and danger.

But it doesn't. It just makes her wetter.

Makes her body respond with a fresh gush of slick because, apparently, her omega brain thinks being held down by this strange alpha is the hottest thing that's ever happened to her.

But that's not what she wants, not right now.

She needs him inside her. Needs to feel that thick cock splitting her open, needs to be filled and claimed and bred, and if she doesn't get it soon, she's going to lose her mind.

She writhes.

Twisting in his grip. Not trying to escape, just trying to move, to shift position, to show him what she wants.

But his hands just tighten, holding her down more firmly, his shoulders settling into a posture that says he's not going to let her move until he's done with her.

Okay.

New strategy.

She stops fighting the pressure pushing her thighs down, and instead, she uses it. Let him think he's won, let her legs go slack in his grip for just a second-

And then she twists.

Hard. Fast. Using the slickness of her sweat and the slick coating on her thighs to slip out of his grip, throwing her weight sideways.

It catches him off guard.

His hands lose purchase for half a second -just half a second- but it's enough.

She rolls onto her stomach.

Scrambling. Hands planting on the mattress, knees pulling up under her, and-

His metal hand lands on her hip immediately.

Firm grip. Already trying to maneuver her, and she can feel his intent: he's going to flip her back over, get her on her back again so he can put his face between her legs and-

She doesn't let him.

Plants her knees wide. Braces her weight forward on her elbows. And arches her back, hard. Pushing her ass up and out, spine curving in a deep arch that puts everything on display.

Presenting herself.

The effect is immediate. His hands go still on her hips, and the pressure trying to flip her over just… stops.

She can feel him freeze behind her. Can feel his gaze locked on her body, on the position she's in.

And she knows what he's seeing.

Her on her knees. Back arched so deep it almost hurts. Ass high in the air, thighs spread wide.

Completely open. Completely vulnerable. Offering.

"Please," she gasps into the mattress.

Her voice is wrecked. Desperate. Shaking with need.

"Please, alpha-"

She reaches back, both hands sliding over her ass, down between her thighs, and-

She spreads herself open for him.

Fingers pulling her folds apart. Exposing her entrance, slick and clenching and empty. Exposing her clit, swollen and oversensitive. Exposing everything.

Desperate.

Obscene.

Begging.

"Please- I need- please-"

----

Soldat's brain shutdowns. Every thought fragments into white noise because she's-

Presenting?

The visual input hits its alpha instincts like a tactical nuke:

Omega. On her knees. Back arched. Ass up, and thighs spread wide, holding herself open.

Showing Soldat exactly where she wants it. Where she needs it.

Begging for it.

Omega wants.

Omega needs to be bred.

Again, the thoughts don't form in words. Just primal recognition slamming through its neural pathways with brutal, devastating clarity.

This is what the body was built for. This moment. This position.

And they tried to kill it.

Tried to suppress, chemically neuter, erase this entire drive from its system. Seventy years of injections and conditioning stomping down every breeding instinct, every mating urge, every biological imperative that makes an alpha alpha.

And it's all coming back now, roaring back to life with devastating, unstoppable force. The Soldat's cock throbs again. Hard. Aching.

And it can feel it, the need building like pressure behind a dam about to break.

Need to mount her.

Need to breed her.

Need to fill her and knot her and make her MINE.

It moves before processing the thought, crawling onto the bed. Knees hitting the mattress on either side of her thighs, bracketing her, caging her in.

One hand -metal- grips her hip. Servos engaging to hold her steady, hold her exactly in position. The other hand drops to its cock, wrapping around the base. The skin is oversensitive, still tender from coming so hard before, but it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters except getting inside her.

It lines up, dragging the head of its cock through her folds -so wet, so slick, coating the tip- and finding her entrance.

There.

The head presses against her opening, and it can feel the resistance, feel her body starting to yield, and-

She makes a begging sound.

Desperate. Pleading.

And something in the Soldat's chest snarls.

Possessive. Feral. Every remaining shred of control burned away under the weight of pure instinct.

Mine.

Omega is MINE.

Soldat's hips push forward. Not slow, or carefully. And the heat-

Fuck.

The word detonates somewhere in its fractured consciousness because the sensation is-

Overwhelming.

Tight. Hot. Perfect.

It can feel her body struggling to adjust. Feel the flutter of her walls around just the tip, trying to accommodate the intrusion.

And Soldat-

Soldat doesn't stop.

Can't stop.

Just pulls back half an inch and drives forward harder, forcing deeper. Splitting her open. Burying itself halfway with one brutal thrust and-

The sound she makes.

High. Broken. Somewhere between a scream and a sob.

----

She can't breathe.

The sensation of being split open, stretched in ways she's never experienced, is so overwhelming that her mind goes completely blank.

Her body is struggling to accommodate the thick intrusion forcing its way inside, and god, there's so much slick, she can feel it coating her thighs, easing the way, her omega body preparing itself to be mounted.

The pressure of being filled too fast, too much, has her walls relaxing and clenching around him, trying to adjust, trying to make room, and it's so much more than any toy she's ever used, more than any alpha she's been with.

Just those first few inches, and she already feels impossibly full.

Her hands fist in the sheets as a high, shocked sound rips from her throat. Not pain or discomfort, but raw, filthy pleasure because she didn't know it could feel like this.

Didn't know her body could stretch like this, yield like this, open like this for an alpha's cock. Didn't know being filled could feel so right that her inner omega is practically screaming yes, this, MORE.

He pulls back half an inch -barely anything- and she feels the drag of every ridge and vein, feels the way her body is gripping him desperately like it doesn't want to let go, trying to keep him inside where he belongs.

And then he slams forward, harder and deeper, burying himself halfway in one brutal thrust.

The cry that tears from her is ragged and wrecked because oh fuck, YES, the stretch is perfect. She can feel her body yielding and surrendering even as it struggles to accommodate the impossible slide of his thick cock forcing deeper, filling her in ways that make her inner omega purr with savage satisfaction.

Because this, this is what she's built for. This is what her body has been screaming for every time she's gone into heat alone, every time she's fucked herself on toys that were never enough, every time an alpha touched her and it felt wrong because they weren't him.

This fullness, this alpha mounting her and forcing her body to yield and open and take him, this is what she's been waiting for her entire life without knowing it.

And it feels so fucking good.

"Alpha-" The word spills from her lips, broken and desperate and drenched in need. Not a protest but pure, filthy appreciation because he's so deep already and she can feel him shuddering above her, can feel the trembling restraint in his grip, and she wants him to lose it. Wants him to stop holding back and just fuck her the way his instincts are demanding.

His grip on her hips tightens -metal fingers digging in, flesh hand trembling- and she knows he heard it, knows what that word does to him.

He makes a sound, low and possessive and feral, and then he moves.

Pulls back so she feels every devastating inch of the drag, that delicious friction against her inner walls that makes her gasp and clench around him, and then he slams back in harder, deeper, forcing the rest of the way in with one brutal thrust until she feels his hips flush against her ass.

And the feeling is-

Fuck.

It's everything.

He's everywhere -inside her, around her, the weight of his body pressing her into the mattress, the heat of his skin against her back, his cock buried so deep she swears she can feel him in her throat- and the sensation of being stretched around him, stuffed full of alpha cock, mounted and claimed is so intense and perfect and right that her vision goes almost white.

Her body clenches around him reflexively, her inner walls rippling and squeezing his length, trying to pull him impossibly deeper even though there's no more room for it to go, and she feels her arms give out , her back arching deeper, presenting herself even more, and she can't do anything except feel him filling her.

She needs more.

Needs him to move, to fuck her, to use her body exactly like his instincts are screaming at him to do. Needs to feel him pounding into her, rutting into her, like the desperate omega she apparently is.

"Please-" she gasps into the mattress, and her voice is absolutely wrecked. Desperate. Filthy. Her hand reaches back blindly, finds his wrist, and squeezes hard. "Move. Alpha, please-”

Because if he doesn't start moving soon, if he doesn't give her what her body is screaming for, she's going to lose her fucking mind.

----

Soldat snarls in response.

Move?

Her begging comes from somewhere deep, somewhere primal. And it wants to give it to her. Whatever she asks.

Wants to fuck her. Breed her. Claim her.

Now.

Its hips pull back slowly, dragging its cock almost all the way out, feeling every inch of tight omega heat clinging to it, trying to keep it inside.

And then it slams back in.

Hard.

The omega screams and moans, high and sharp, and the sound goes straight to its heavy balls, flipping every remaining switch from control to breed.

It doesn't know how to do this gently.

Doesn't have the reference. Doesn't have the capacity right now with her scent flooding its system, with the feel of her wrapped around its cock, with seventy years of chemical castration breaking apart under the weight of pure biological drive.

So it just fucks.

Pulls out and slams back in, setting a brutal rhythm immediately. Hips snapping forward, the slap of skin on skin is obscenely loud in the small apartment, and she's taking it.

Taking every thrust. Her body yielding even as it struggles to adjust, slick easing the way, and Soldat can feel it, feel her getting wetter, feel the way her walls are clenching around its cock.

Its metal hand tightens on her hip.

Servos whirring as it grips harder, using the leverage to pull her back into each thrust. Making the penetration deeper, harder, and-

The omega makes another sound. A different moan, long and low and completely debauched, and her forearms lower completely, as she presses her face into the mattress.

Surrendering.

Letting it use her.

Soldat snarls again.

Possessive. Feral. Its flesh hand releases her hip and moves to the back of her neck instead, gripping. Holding her down while its hips thrust faster, chasing something its body knows even if its mind doesn't.

She's whimpering into the mattress.

High, continuous sounds with each thrust, and Soldat can smell it, can smell her arousal spiking, can smell the way their scents are mixing where they're joined.

Omega slick and alpha musk and the wet, obscene sound of the fucking as it drives into her over and over and over.

Its cock is still sensitive. Every thrust sends sparks of almost-too-much up its spine, pleasure edging toward pain, but it doesn't matter. Can't stop. Won't stop.

Because she needs this.

It can tell. Can read it in the way she's pushing back into each thrust now, can hear it in the sounds she's making, can smell it in the way her scent keeps getting sweeter.

Omega needs to be fucked.

Needs to be bred.

And the Soldat is-

Soldat is going to-

No.

The thought surfaces sharp and cold. The Soldat can't. Isn't allowed to breed. The handlers said-

But there are no handlers.

Just instinct. Pure and brutal and clawing through its system, demanding it claim this omega, fill her, knot her-

Knot.

Soldat can feel it. The base of its cock starts to swell, pressure building with each thrust. It's going to lock inside her and-

And she's going to take it.

Its rhythm falters.

Just for a second. Uncertainty flickering through the haze of need because this is- this is too much. Once it knots her there's no taking it back, no undoing it, and-

She pushes back hard.

Takes its cock to the hilt and grinds, pressing her ass flush against its hips, and the whimper she makes is so desperate, so needy, that its brain just-

Breaks.

Fuck the handlers.

Fuck seventy years of suppression.

Soldat is going to knot his omega.

Its hand leaves her neck. Both hands go to her forearms, and it lifts her, pulling her up until her back is arched almost vertically, until she's on her knees with Soldat pressed against her back.

Changing the angle completely.

And then it drives in.

Deeper than before. So deep the omega sobs, and it can feel it, can feel the head of its cock hitting something that makes her whole body shake.

There.

The Soldat does it again.

Pulls almost all the way out and slams back in at that angle, and she cries out. Loud, uncontrolled, her thighs shaking, and it can smell the spike in her arousal.

Close.

She's close.

It can tell. Can read it in her body language, in her scent, in the way her walls are starting to tighten around its cock.

Soldat's rhythm turns brutal.

Fast and hard and deep, hitting that spot, chasing her orgasm because it needs -needs- to feel her come on its cock. Needs to feel her clench and shake and break while it fills her.

Its metal arm bands across her chest, holding her upright, holding her in place, while its flesh hand drops between her legs and finds her swollen clit.

The omega shrieks.

Hips bucking, body jerking in Soldat's hold, but it doesn't let go. Just keeps fucking into her, keeps its fingers on her clit -circling, pressing, rubbing- and she's sobbing now.

Incoherent. Desperate. Completely overwhelmed.

"Please- please- alpha, I'm-"

She doesn't finish the sentence.

Just shatters.

Soldat feels it. Feels her walls clamp down around its cock like a silken fist, feels her whole body go rigid and then shake, feels the gush of fresh slick as she comes hard.

And it-

It roars.

Can't stop it. Can't control the sound ripping out of its throat as its knot swells, expanding rapidly, locking them together as the orgasm hits it like a freight train.

White-hot. Devastating.

Its hips jerk forward one last time, burying its cock and knot as deep as physically possible, and then it's coming.

Spilling inside her. Filling her. Breeding her the way every broken instinct is screaming at it to do.

The omega is still shaking.

Still coming, her walls rippling around the knot, milking it, and Soldat can't think past the pleasure, past the overwhelming rightness of being locked inside her.

Mine.

Omega.

MINE.

The knot pulses. Once. Twice. Pumping more into her with each throb, and she's-

She's taking all of it.

It can feel it. Feel her body accepting everything it's giving, can smell the way their scents are completely merged now.

Inseparable.

Her legs are shaking. The only thing keeping it upright is the metal arm still banded across her chest, holding her against it. The flesh hand has fallen away from her clit, braced on the mattress instead, because Soldat's coordination is gone.

Just-

Gone.

Pleasure still rolling through it in waves, aftershocks making its cock pulse inside her, and she's-

She's making sounds. Small, whimpering. Not in distress. Something else.

Its face drops to her shoulder, nose finding her scent gland on instinct, and it breathes her in. Brown sugar and yeast and satisfied omega, and the purr starts again.

Deep. Subvocal. Vibrating through both their chests where they're pressed together.

The knot is still locked. Not going down anytime soon.

She's not fighting it or trying to pull away. She’s just leaning her weight against its chest, trusting it to hold her up.

And Soldat does.

Metal arm secured under her breasts, flesh hand moving from the mattress to her hip. Holding her. Supporting her. Keeping her upright while they're locked together.

It doesn't know how long this lasts, doesn't have a reference for how long a knot holds. Just knows it can't pull out even if it wanted to, which it doesn't.

Can't imagine wanting to leave the tight heat of her body. Can't imagine letting go.

The purr continues, steady now. Soothing. It doesn't know if it's trying to soothe her or itself. Maybe both.

Her head tilts.

Just slightly. Turning toward Soldat's face still pressed against her shoulder, and it can see her profile. Eyes closed. Lips parted. Face heated and damp with sweat.

Beautiful.

The word surfaces unbidden.

It has never called anything beautiful before, because it doesn't have the framework for aesthetic appreciation. But she's-

She is.

Especially like this. Fucked out and knotted and completely trusting it to hold her.

Its nose drags along her scent gland, taking her in, and she makes a soft sound -pleased, satisfied- tilting her head, giving it more access, and Soldat's purr deepens.

----

She can't feel her legs.

Can't feel much of anything except him. Inside her. Around her. The metal arm holding her upright. The purr vibrating through her chest. The knot stretching her so full that she can barely breathe.

And it's-

God, it's perfect.

She's never felt like this before.

Never felt so completely claimed. So utterly taken. Every alpha she's ever been with was… adequate.

But this-

This is different.

This is feral and desperate and completely uncontrolled, and somehow it's exactly what she needed without ever knowing she needed it.

She can feel his nose dragging along her scent gland, can feel the rumble of that impossible purr, and her inner omega is just-

Singing.

Satisfied in a way she's never experienced. Sated. Content.

Because he, her alpha-

She doesn't even know his name, and she's already thinking of him as hers.

The thought should probably scare her. Should send up red flags about bonding too fast with a stranger. But it doesn't.

Because this isn't fast.

This is inevitable.

Like every decision she's ever made led her here, to this moment, knotted and claimed by an alpha who broke into her apartment and looked at her like she was the only thing in the world worth having.

His knot pulses inside her.

She feels it. The throb, the gush of warmth, and her body clenches around it automatically. Milking him. Taking everything he's giving, even though she's already so full it's almost too much.

Almost.

But not quite.

Because her body wants this. Wants to be filled. Wants to be bred. Every dormant omega instinct she had is purring in satisfaction.

Yes. This. Him. Finally.

She feels him shift behind her.

The metal arm around her tightens slightly, and then he's pulling her more upright, bringing her back flush against his chest. She's properly kneeling now, her back supported entirely by his body, and the angle change makes her gasp because the knot-

Fuck.

The knot feels even bigger like this. Deeper.

And his flesh hand-

It slides down.

Over her hip, her thigh, and then between her legs and cups her mound, covering where they're joined. Where his knot is stretching her, where the mess of their combined release is slick and obscene between her thighs.

His palm presses gently as his fingers spread to cover all of it, her, him, the evidence of what just happened.

The sound he makes against her shoulder is possessive. Satisfied. A low rumble that's half-purr, half-growl.

Mine, the gesture says.

Bred. Claimed. Marked. MINE.

And she whimpers.

Because yes.

Yes.

His.

Completely and utterly his.

His purring deepens.

Smug. Like he knows exactly what that sound means. Like he's pleased she's responding to his possessiveness instead of fighting it.

His face shifts against her shoulder, nuzzling deeper. His nose drags along the curve where her neck meets her shoulder, breathing her in like he can't get enough.

And then she feels his lips.

A kiss.

Soft. Tender. Pressed against her sweat-damp skin.

Then another. Along her shoulder. Gentle and reverent and completely at odds with the brutal way he just fucked her.

His teeth scrape. The edge of a nip that doesn't break skin, doesn't hurt, just makes her shiver.

Her hand comes up and reaches back -awkward angle, but she manages- and threads into his hair, combing through the tangled strands while he continues his exploration of her shoulder, her neck, every inch of skin he can reach from this position.

He makes a sound against her skin, and she can feel him settling.

The frantic energy bleeding out, the feral drive giving way to something gentler. Still possessive. Still intensely alpha, but softer.

His forehead comes to rest against the back of her neck.

The hand between her legs stays there, rubbing slowly, smearing their mess on her knotted entrance. A constant reminder of what they just did, what they are now.

The knot still pulses occasionally. She doesn't know how long this lasts -thirty minutes, an hour?- but she's not in a hurry, can't bring herself to care, not when he's holding her like this.

Not when every instinct she has is screaming mate.

True mate.

Hers.

She lets her eyes close.

Leans her head back against his shoulder and lets the metal arm support her weight, lets the purr lull her into a haze of satisfaction and safety.

And for the first time in her life, she feels complete.

[verytyrantcat]

Love me a great A/B/O fic😍

[vunblr]

Wanted (#13)

Pairing: Frontiersman!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Western AU. Shotgun Wedding. Strangers to Lovers. Slight Angst. Comfort. Domestic Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Warnings: Reader has Heterochromia. Loss of Virginity. Period-Typical Gender Roles and Expectations.

Summary: She came to White Creek for a teaching position that didn't exist. He needed a wife but never expected to find one like this.

Word Count: 6k

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

He crossed the distance between them in two strides, his hands coming up to frame her face as he kissed her. Deep and thorough and claiming, like he had all the time in the world and intended to use it.

His tongue slid against hers, tasting her, and she felt her body respond despite the nervousness. Felt herself lean into him, her hands coming up to grip his shoulders.

This was happening.

He guided her backward until her legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he broke the kiss just long enough to murmur against her lips, "Lie down."

She did, sinking back onto the quilt, and the coolness of the fabric against her overheated skin made her shiver.

Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it.

He stood there for a moment, just looking at her, and she saw his throat work as he swallowed. Then he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his drawers and pushed them down.

She'd seen him before. Had touched him, learned what made him groan and shudder and come undone in her hand.

But this was different.

This was knowing what came next.

He was hard. Fully hard. And she felt a flutter of something between nerves and anticipation as her eyes traced his length.

He climbed onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and settled between her legs. His hands pushed her thighs wider -gently, but with clear intent- and then his weight was braced on one forearm beside her head.

Close. So close she could see the firelight reflected in his eyes, could count his eyelashes if she wanted to.

Could feel the heat of his… manhood, against her inner thigh.

"If you feel discomfort," he said, his voice low and serious, "you tell me. Don't keep it to yourself."

She hesitated.

Her mother's voice echoed in her head, the brief, cold explanation. It will hurt, but don't make a fuss. Men don't like fussing.

He must have seen something in her face, because his expression changed.

"You understand?" he said, firmer now. Almost a command. "You feel somethin’ wrong, you tell me."

She managed to nod.

"Say it."

Her throat felt tight. "If I need you to stop, I'll tell you."

Something in his expression eased, and he leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead. Then her mouth, softer this time.

"Good girl," he murmured against her lips. "Now breathe, sweetheart."

His hand slid down her body, between her breasts, over her stomach, lower still. His fingers found her, sliding through the wetness there, and she gasped at the sudden contact.

"Still wet for me," he said quietly, almost to himself. "That's good. That's gonna help."

He circled that bundle of nerves between her legs with his thumb -just a few slow passes- and she felt her hips shift involuntarily, her body already conditioned to respond to that touch.

Then his finger slid inside her.

Just one. Familiar. Something her body knew. He worked it slowly, curling and stroking, and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. Then he added a second finger, stretching her slightly, and she tensed again.

"Relax," he murmured, his mouth moving to her neck, pressing kisses along the column of her throat. "Just gettin’ you ready. Ain’t wanna hurt you more than necessary."

His fingers moved inside her, slow and deliberate, while his thumb stayed on the nub above her entrance. The dual sensation made her breathing quicken, made heat start to pool low in her belly despite her nerves.

After a moment, when her breathing had evened out slightly, when she'd stopped tensing every time his fingers moved, he withdrew them.

His free hand moved between them, and she felt him wrap it around himself.

She couldn't see from this angle, but she felt it when he dragged the head of his member through her folds. Slow. Deliberate. Coating himself in her wetness.

The blunt pressure against her entrance made her tense all over again.

"Look at me," he said quietly.

She did. Met his eyes. Saw the hunger there, but also something else. Care. Intent. Focus.

"Now you're gonna be my wife proper," he said, his voice rough but steady.

She nodded, her throat too tight for words.

This was it. The final step. The consummation that would make their marriage real in every sense.

"Breathe," he reminded her.

She tried. Drew in a shaky breath. Let it out.

Then he started to push in.

Slowly. So slowly.

And…

It burned.

Not pleasurably. Not the building heat she was used to from his fingers, his mouth.

Just a sharp, foreign pressure that felt wrong. Too much. Too big.

Her body wanted to reject it, to tense up and push him out. Her hands flew to his shoulders, her nails digging in instinctively.

He stopped immediately. Didn't push further. Just held still, barely inside her, giving her time to adjust.

"Bucky-" Her voice came out thin.

"I know, sweet girl," he said quietly, his forehead resting against hers. "I know it hurts."

She could feel him trembling slightly with the effort of holding still. Could feel the tension in his shoulders under her hands.

"We can stop," he continued, his voice strained. "But if we try again tomorrow, or next week, it'll hurt just the same. Has to happen at some point."

She knew that. Had known that.

Had known this was coming since the moment she'd said "I do" in the church two months ago.

She nodded, trying to breathe through the burn.

"You're doin’ so good," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple. Then her cheek. Then the corner of her mouth. "So good for me. Just breathe. This is gonna hurt," he added quietly, his forehead against hers again. "Just for a second. But if I go slow here, it'll hurt longer. You understand?"

“Y-yes”

"Breathe in," he said.

She did.

"Now out."

And as she exhaled, he pushed through in one firm thrust.

The pain was sharp and immediate. A tearing, burning sensation that made her cry out. Her nails raked down his shoulders, leaving marks she'd feel guilty about later, but right now all she could process was the sudden, overwhelming hurt.

He didn't pull back. Didn't stop.

Just stayed buried deep inside her, holding completely still as her body seized around him.

"It's done, sweetheart," he said quietly, his voice strained but steady. "Worst part's over.

She couldn't speak. Could barely breathe.

Just lay there beneath him, trying to process the sharp, tearing pain that was already starting to fade, but in its wake was a deep, burning ache. And the overwhelming sensation of being filled. Stretched.

Her body struggled to accommodate something it had never held before.

"I know," he murmured, and she realized tears had leaked from the corners of her eyes when he kissed them. "I promise it's gonna feel good later. Just needs time."

She nodded, the movement jerky, not trusting her voice.

He stayed perfectly still above her, buried deep inside her, his muscles tense with the effort of not moving, giving her body time to adjust.

"That's my girl," he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. "Just like that. You're doin’ so good."

Slowly- so slowly- the sharp edge of pain started to dull.

She became aware of other things. The weight of his body above her. The heat of his skin against hers. The way his breath came harsh and uneven against her neck.

The way he was trembling with the effort of holding still for her.

"Bucky," she whispered.

"Yeah?" His voice was rough.

"I'm... I'm okay."

It wasn't entirely true. But she could breathe now. Could think past the initial shock. Could feel something beyond just the pain.

His hand slid to cradle her head. "You sure?"

She nodded.

"Okay," he said quietly. "Okay. Just... tell me if it gets worse. Promise me."

"I promise."

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Then her temple, slow and sweet and careful.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a minute or two, she felt him shift slightly above her.

His breathing had gone ragged. Harsh. She could feel the tension in his entire body, the way his muscles were locked with the effort of staying still.

He'd been so patient. So careful.

"I need to-" he started, his voice rough and strained. "I'm gonna move now."

She nodded, bracing herself, her hands tightening on his shoulders.

"Tell me if it's too much," he said. Then, quieter, almost like a plea, "But I need to move, sweetheart. I can't- I need-"

"It's okay," she managed, her voice thin. "I know."

He pressed his forehead against the side of her throat, exhaled shakily, and then pulled back.

Slowly. Just an inch, maybe two.

The drag of him against her inner walls made her wince. It wasn't the sharp pain of before, but a dull, burning ache that made her want to tense up even though she knew that would make it worse.

He pushed back in -slow, controlled- and she felt her nails dig into his shoulders.

"Shh," he murmured. "You're alright. Just breathe."

He set a cadence. Slow, careful thrusts that were clearly meant to let her adjust rather than chase his own pleasure.

But she could see the strain in his face. The tightness in his jaw. The way a muscle jumped in his neck with each measured movement.

He was holding back. For her.

"That's it," he said quietly, his voice still controlled but rougher now. "That's good. You're doin’ so good for me."

The praise settled somewhere warm in her chest, even as her body struggled to accommodate him.

He kept moving. Slow. Steady. His hips rolled in a careful rhythm that was clearly taking every ounce of his self-control to maintain. And gradually -so gradually she almost didn't notice- the sharp edge of pain started to dull further.

Still uncomfortable. Still a stretch that made her acutely aware of every inch of him. But it was bearable. Her body was learning, adjusting.

His hand slid up her side -a slow, deliberate caress- and cupped her breast.

The touch made her gasp, not from pain but from surprise.

His thumb brushed over her nipple, and sensation sparked through her body, familiar and welcome after the unfamiliar burning below.

"There," he murmured, his voice dropping lower. "Focus on that."

He did it again, rolling her nipple between his thumb and finger while his hips kept that slow, steady rhythm.

And she felt it, a flash of something that wasn't pain. Wasn't discomfort.

Something warm. Almost pleasant.

"Good girl," he said, and there was satisfaction in his voice now.

His rhythm stuttered slightly. Just a fraction. Like his control had slipped for a moment before he caught it.

She felt him thrust a little harder -once- and then he seemed to force himself back to that careful, measured pace.

But his breathing was getting harsher. His movements less smooth.

"So tight," he muttered, almost to himself. "Christ, you're so tight around me."

The words sent an unexpected flutter through her belly.

He'd never talked like this before, during the times they'd touched each other in the dark.

Was this... was this part of it? Part of what happened?

"Takin’ me so well," he continued, his voice rough and low. "My sweet girl. My wife."

My wife.

The possessiveness in his tone made something clench deep inside her. Made her hyperaware of exactly what was happening, that he was inside her, claiming his right as a husband, making her his in the most fundamental way possible.

His hand tightened on her breast, and his rhythm faltered again.

She felt him drive in harder this time -deeper- and a sound escaped her lips. Not quite pain, not quite pleasure. Something between.

"Sorry," he gritted out. "Tryin’ to- tryin’ to go slow- "

But his control was fraying. She could feel it. Could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his eyes had gone dark and unfocused.

"You feel so-" He thrust again, harder still, and groaned. "So good."

His hand left her breast and slid down between them.

She felt his thumb find that sensitive bundle of nerves he'd learned so well over the past two months and press down in a slow circle.

The sensation cut through the discomfort like light through fog.

She gasped, her hips jerking involuntarily, and heard him make a rough sound of approval.

"That's it," he said, his thumb moving in deliberate circles while his hips kept moving. "Feel that? Feel how good it can be?"

And she could. Beneath the ache, beneath the burning stretch, there was pleasure building.

"Gonna make you feel good," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "Gonna make my wife feel good while I- while I-"

His rhythm was breaking down. Getting faster. Less controlled.

His thumb worked her clit with more pressure, and she felt her body respond despite everything. Felt heat pooling, felt that familiar tightening that meant she was getting close to-

"Mine," he said roughly, and thrust harder. "You're my wife. Mine to- to fill-"

The words should have scandalized her. Should have made her gasp.

Instead, they sent a spike of heat straight between her thighs.

"Bucky-" His name came out breathy.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice harsh now, his hips snapping forward with less and less restraint. "Say you're mine. Made to fit me."

"I'm-" She could barely speak. "I'm yours-"

"That's right," he groaned. "And I’m gonna- gonna spend inside you. Gonna-"

She felt herself clench again at the words, flustered and aroused in equal measure. He was losing it. She could feel it in the way his movements had gone erratic, the way his whole body had gone taut.

"Gonna put a baby in you," he muttered, his voice wrecked.

His thumb pressed hard against her clit, and she cried out as pleasure spiked through her. Not an orgasm, not quite, but close enough that her body clenched around him.

And that was it.

His control shattered completely.

"Fuck-" The word tore out of him -rough, desperate- and he drove into her hard. Once. Twice. Three times.

No more careful restraint. No more measured thrusts.

Just need. Raw and overwhelming.

She felt him swell inside her, and then he was coming with a low, broken groan, his hips jerking as he spilled deep inside her in a hot rush.

He collapsed slightly, catching himself on his forearms so he didn't crush her, his breathing ragged and harsh against her neck.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Just lay there, connected, both trying to catch their breath.

She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, or maybe that was her own heart, she couldn't tell anymore. With his weight on top, she could feel the heat of his body, the way he was still buried inside her.

Still part of her.

After a moment, he shifted slightly, bracing more of his weight on his forearms, and lifted his head to look at her.

His pupils were blown wide, dark, and unfocused. His cheeks were flushed, color high across his cheekbones in a way she'd never seen before. His hair was disheveled from her hands, and his breathing was still ragged.

He looked... undone.

"You alright?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

She nodded, not trusting her voice.

His hand came up to brush her hair back from her face, his touch gentle despite the roughness of his breathing.

"Did so good," he murmured. "So good for me, sweetheart."

She felt him start to soften inside her, and when he finally did withdraw, he did it slowly. Carefully. The slide made her wince.

He settled back on his knees between her spread thighs, and she felt the immediate loss of his body heat. The cool air hit her sweat-dampened skin, raising goosebumps.

But then she felt something else. Something warm and wet sliding between her thighs.

His spend leaking out of her, she realized with a jolt of mortification. Her legs started to close instinctively, wanting to hide, but his hands caught her knees and held them apart.

Gently. Firmly.

Her hands flew to cover her face as heat flooded her cheeks.

She felt exposed. Obscene. She needed to-

"Not yet," he said, his voice still rough but with an edge of something else now.

Satisfaction, maybe.

She kept her hands over her face, unable to look at him. Unable to face whatever expression he was wearing while he looked at… at that.

"Sweetheart," he said, and there was amusement in his voice now. "Look at me."

She shook her head, her face burning.

"No?" She heard the smile in his voice. "Shy now? After everythin’ we just did?"

"Bucky, please-" Her voice came out muffled behind her hands.

"Please what?" His thumbs traced small circles on the inside of her knees. "You're givin’ me such a view right now. Hate to waste it."

"Bucky!" She wanted to die. Wanted to sink through the mattress and disappear.

She heard him chuckle- low and warm- and then felt the bed shift as he moved.

A moment later, she heard his footsteps crossing the cabin -the soft thud of bare feet on wooden floor- then the sound of water being poured.

She finally lowered her hands from her face, just enough to peek through her fingers.

He was at the washbasin, his back to her, still completely naked.

The firelight played across the muscles of his shoulders, the breadth of his back, highlighting old scars she'd traced with her fingers countless times. And there, standing out in faint red lines against his skin, were the marks her nails had left.

She heard the wet sound of fabric being wrung out and realized he was dampening a cloth.

Then he turned back toward the bed, and she immediately tried to sit up, close her legs, but he was there before she could move, one hand settling on her knee.

Keeping her open.

Keeping her exposed.

"Stay," he said simply.

"I can- I should-" She could do this herself. Should do this herself. It wasn't proper-

But he shook his head, already settling back between her thighs with the damp cloth in hand.

"Let me," he said, and there was something in his voice that made it not quite a request.

She lay back against the pillow, her whole body burning with embarrassment as he began to clean her.

The cloth was warm against her oversensitized skin. His touch was gentle as he wiped away the evidence of what they'd done.

His spend. Her blood.

The proof of her virginity, now gone.

It should have been mortifying.

It was mortifying.

But his touch was so matter-of-fact, so unashamed, that some of her embarrassment began to fade into something else.

Intimacy, maybe. The kind that came from letting someone tend to you like this. From being vulnerable and having that vulnerability treated with care.

When the cloth passed over a particularly tender spot, she winced involuntarily.

He paused immediately, his eyes flicking up to her face.

"Hurt?"

"A little," she admitted, her voice small.

His expression softened, and he gentled his touch even more, barely any pressure at all as he finished cleaning her.

When he was done, he set the cloth aside and looked at her, his hand still resting warm on her thigh.

"I'll leave you be for a few days," he said quietly. "Let you heal up."

She felt a confusing mix of relief and something else. Disappointment, maybe? Which was absurd, given that the idea of doing that again right now made her want to wince.

"And next time," he continued, his thumb tracing a small circle on her thigh, "it ain’t gonna hurt like that. I promise."

She searched his face, looking for certainty she wasn't sure he could have.

"How do you know?"

His mouth quirked slightly. "Can't say from personal experience," he admitted. "But that's what I've heard. First time's the worst. Gets easier after."

----

He watched her process that information, saw the way her eyes searched his face like she was looking for certainty he didn't have to give.

He'd tried to be careful. Had gone slower than his body had wanted, had prepared her as best he knew how.

But he'd still hurt her.

Had heard her cry out. Had felt her nails rake down his back. Had seen tears slip from the corners of her eyes.

And he'd kept going anyway, because he had to. That's what men did, what husbands did.

But he felt guilty anyway.

"Get under the covers," he said, standing from the bed. "You'll get cold."

She nodded and shifted, wincing slightly as she moved, and he felt that guilt twist tighter.

He turned away before she could see it on his face and crossed to the washbasin, dampening the cloth again, wringing it, and began wiping his thighs, his cock.

There was blood on him. Not much, but enough.

Proof that she'd been untouched until tonight. That he'd been the first. The only.

And, beneath the guilt and the concern about having hurt her… he couldn't help the satisfaction that came with it.

No one before him. No one else would ever know her this way.

He rinsed the cloth, wrung it out, and hung it to dry. Then he crossed back to the bed.

She'd already burrowed under the quilts, turned on her side, facing away from him. He could see the curve of her shoulder, the way her hair spilled across the pillow.

He climbed in beside her, and the mattress dipped under his weight.

Immediately, he felt her start to shift, beginning to turn toward him out of politeness, probably.

"Hey," he said quietly, his hand settling on her hip to still her. "You more comfortable like this?"

She paused. "Yes," she admitted after a moment, her voice soft.

"Then stay." He shifted closer, fitting himself against her back, his arm coming around her waist. "This is how we'll sleep."

She didn't protest. Just let him pull her in, let him curl around her like he could shield her from everything beyond these four walls.

He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, then brushed his nose against the curve of her neck.

"Good night, sweet girl," he murmured against her skin.

Then, quieter, like a benediction:

"My wife."

----

She sat at the table with her second cup of coffee, the cabin quiet now that Bucky had left for work, letting the warmth seep into her palms as she stared at the table's wooden surface.

Heat flooded her face as the memory hit her with startling clarity, sitting on this exact spot, Bucky kneeling between her thighs, his mouth on her while she gripped the edge and tried not to fall apart.

We eat here, she'd said.

And I'm about to, he'd replied.

She set her cup down with a slightly unsteady hand, her face still burning.

It wasn't as if she'd been so sheltered that she didn't know people had relations outside of bedrooms. There were stories, whispered scandals about couples caught in barns, in carriages, behind locked parlor doors.

But the kitchen table. Where they ate breakfast every morning.

That hadn't been something she'd imagined.

She wondered if this sort of thing happened in proper households, or maybe Bucky was just... different. A little blasphemous, perhaps.

Though even as the thought crossed her mind, she couldn't quite bring herself to be scandalized by it. Because if she was being honest with herself, truly honest, she couldn't deny that she'd do it again.

All of it.

She took another sip of coffee, trying to focus on the mundane tasks that awaited her today. Laundry. Mending. The usual chores.

But her mind kept circling back.

She'd fulfilled her obligation as a wife. Finally. Properly.

And it had been... nothing like what her mother had described: He'll get on top of you and put his... thing inside you. You stay on your back, let him do, and it will be over quickly.

But last night hadn't been quick. Hadn't been something she'd simply endured while staring at the ceiling.

And Bucky-

Her face heated again, this time for an entirely different reason.

Bucky, who was always so direct with her but respectful, had said things when he was inside her, when he was close to finishing.

Mine to fill.

Gonna spend inside you.

She pressed her hands to her cheeks, feeling the heat of her skin.

Those words, crude and explicit and nothing like what a husband should say to his wife, shouldn't have affected her the way they had.

Shouldn't affect her now, sitting alone at the kitchen table hours later.

But they did.

She couldn't stop thinking about it. About his weight pressing her into the mattress. The heat of his skin against hers. The way his voice had gone rough and raw when he'd lost control.

And beneath the embarrassment, beneath the shock of hearing such words from her husband's mouth, there was something else.

Curiosity.

He'd said it wouldn't hurt like that again. That it would get easier.

She knew how good his fingers felt inside her. The stretch, the curl, the way he could find spots that made her see stars. And last night, even through the pain, she'd felt the difference. The fullness. The way he filled her completely in a way his fingers never could.

If it didn't hurt next time, if her body didn't seize up in pain the way it had…

It would feel better.

So much better.

Her face burned hotter.

She set her cup down and stood abruptly, needing to move. Needing to do something with her hands before her thoughts spiraled any further.

Laundry. She had laundry to do.

And she absolutely, resolutely, was not going to think about her husband anymore this morning.

At least, she was going to try.

----

The axe bit into the wood with a satisfying thunk, and Bucky pulled it free, reset his stance, and swung again.

Thunk.

Again.

Thunk.

The rhythm should have been automatic by now, muscle memory built over two years of doing this exact thing, six days a week, dawn to dusk. Except today, his mind wasn't on the work.

It was back in the cabin. On last night.

He swung again, and the blade landed slightly off-center. Not enough to matter, but enough that Miller, working near him, glanced up.

"You alright over there, Barnes?"

"Fine," Bucky said, resetting his grip.

Miller raised an eyebrow but didn't push it. Just went back to stripping bark with his drawknife, the scraping filling the silence between axe blows.

Bucky tried to focus, to think about the angle of the cut, the grain of the wood, whether this section would split clean or need wedging. But his brain had other ideas.

He kept seeing her face.

The way she'd looked up at him when he'd first pushed inside her, eyes wide and startled, like her body hadn't been ready for the reality of it, even though she'd known it was coming.

The way her hands had flown to his shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks he could still feel under his shirt.

The sound she'd made, small and pained and trying so damn hard not to make a fuss about it.

He'd hated that sound. Hated that he'd caused it, even though there was no way around it. No secret trick that would've made it painless. First times hurt. That's just how it was.

But knowing that didn't make it easier to hear her cry out. Didn't make it easier to feel her tense up around him like her body was trying to reject what he was doing.

Thunk.

The axe sank deep, and he had to wrench it free with more force than necessary.

Miller looked up again. "You sure you're alright?"

"Yeah," Bucky said, not meeting his eyes. "Just didn't sleep much."

It wasn't a lie.

He'd lain awake for a long time after, listening to her breathing even out into sleep, wondering if she was sore. If he'd been too rough at the end when his control had finally snapped, and he'd lost himself in her completely.

He shook his head sharply and focused on the log in front of him. Work. He needed to focus on the work.

----

Except he couldn't.

Because underneath the guilt and the worry that he'd hurt her more than necessary, there was something else.

Satisfaction. Deep, primal, undeniable satisfaction.

She was his now. Fully. Completely. No ambiguity left. No waiting, no careful restraint. He'd claimed her the way a husband was meant to claim his wife, and she'd lain beneath him and taken what he gave her, even when it hurt.

Even when he'd lost control at the end and said things he probably shouldn't have said.

Mine to fill.

Gonna spend inside you.

Gonna put a baby in you.

His hands tightened on the axe handle. Christ, he'd said that last part out loud. He remembered it now, clear as day.

Remembered the words tearing out of him when he'd been too far gone to think, too close to finishing to care about propriety or what she might think.

And instead of showing surprise or scruples, she just clenched around him -tight and hot and perfect- and he'd buried himself deep and spent inside her like he'd been wanting to do for two months.

The memory alone made his body start to react in a way that was absolutely not appropriate for the middle of a workday. He shifted his stance, adjusting himself discreetly in his pants, and focused very hard on the next swing.

Thunk.

"Barnes."

He looked up. Davidson was standing a few feet away, hands on his hips, looking at him with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

"You just split that log three times," the man said. "It's done. Move on to the next one."

Bucky looked down. Sure enough, the log in front of him was already split clean through, the two halves lying on either side of the chopping block. He had no memory of finishing it.

"Right," he muttered, stepping back.

Davidson's mouth twitched. "Rough night?"

"Somethin’ like that."

"Uh-huh." Davidson's grin widened. "Well, try to keep your head attached today, yeah? Don't need you losing a foot because you're too busy daydreaming."

Bucky shot him a look, but there was no real heat in it, because he wasn't wrong. He was distracted. Badly.

And it wasn't just the memories of last night.

For two years, he'd come home to an empty cabin. Cold. Silent. Nothing waiting for him except whatever scraps he could throw together for dinner and a bed that was too big for one person.

Now? Now he came home to her. To the smell of something cooking when he walked through the door at the end of the day. To a bed that was warm because she was in it.

To a wife who let him touch her. Who responded when he kissed her. Who'd let him inside her body last night and would -God willing- let him do it again. And again. And again. Because that's what marriage was. That's what husbands and wives did.

The thought sent another wave of heat to his groin, and he had to stop and take a breath before he embarrassed himself in front of the entire crew.

He moved to the next log, setting up the cut, trying to get his head back in the game.

But his mind was already racing ahead.

Tonight, when he got home, she'd be there. She'd probably have dinner ready. Would move around the cabin in that way she did now, like she belonged there, because she did.

And after dinner...

He'd told her he'd leave her alone for a few days, give her time to heal. And he would.

He wasn't some rutting animal who couldn't control himself. But Christ, the idea of waiting even a few days felt impossible now that he'd had her once.

His jaw clenched.

Three days. Maybe four-

"Barnes!"

Miller's voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and urgent. Bucky's head snapped up just in time to realize his next swing was aimed wrong, too close to his own leg, the blade already descending. He jerked back instinctively, and the axe bit into the chopping block inches from where his boot had been.

Miller was staring at him, eyes wide. "Jesus. You trying to chop your foot off?"

"No," Bucky said, his heart pounding. "Just... wasn't payin’ attention."

"Oh really." Miller shook his head. "What the hell's got into you today?"

Bucky bent to reset the log, avoiding Miller's eyes.

He couldn't exactly say, I can't stop thinking about my wife. About being inside her. About doing it again.

That wasn't the kind of thing a decent man shared with his coworkers. Even if it was the truth.

"Just tired," he said instead.

Miller snorted. "Yeah. I bet you are."

----

By lunch, he had nearly taken his own thumb off with a slipped blade, tripped over a root he should've seen coming, and earned himself a lecture from the foreman about keeping his head in the game.

He sat on a stump during the break, eating the lunch she'd packed for him, and tried to get his thoughts in order.

This was ridiculous. He was a grown man. He'd had women before. This shouldn't be affecting him like some green kid who'd just gotten his first taste.

But it was different with her, because she wasn't just some woman. And he'd spent two months wanting her, two months holding himself back, two months being careful and patient and waiting for the right time.

And now that he'd finally had her... now he wanted her again.

Wanted to come home tonight and pull her into his arms and kiss her until she made those little sounds in the back of her throat.

Wanted to get her out of that dress and feel her skin against his.

Wanted to be inside her again. To make her feel what he'd started to show her last night, that it could be good for her too.

Wanted to hear her gasp his name the way she did when his mouth was on her.

Wanted to feel her clench around him because she was close, not because she was hurting.

Wanted-

"Barnes, you gonna eat that or just stare at it?"

He blinked. Davidson was standing in front of him, grinning.

"You've been holding that same piece of pie for five minutes without taking a bite," the man said. "Either eat it or put it down before you drop it."

Bucky looked down at his hand. Sure enough, he'd been holding a piece of pie halfway to his mouth, completely frozen.

"Christ," he muttered, shoving it into his mouth. Davidson laughed and walked away, shaking his head.

----

The rest of the day dragged.

Every swing of the axe felt like it took twice as long as usual. Every log felt heavier. Every minute stretched out like an hour.

He kept catching himself glancing at the sky, trying to gauge how much daylight was left, trying to calculate how much longer until he could go home. Until he could see her again.

It was pathetic. He knew it was pathetic, but he couldn't help it.

By the time the foreman finally called it for the day, Bucky was already moving, grabbing his coat, his lunch pail, heading for the trail before anyone else had even started packing up.

"Someone's in a hurry," Miller called after him, laughing.

Bucky didn't respond. Just kept walking. Because yeah, he was in a hurry.

He had a wife waiting at home.

And he'd been thinking about her all damn day.

Next Chapter

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[azriona]

Down the Wishing Well, Chapter 13

Bucky/Enhanced!Reader (established), Explicit in some parts (but not this one), Ultron/Endgame fix-it.

Excerpt:

Wanda steps back from the window, assessing, before looking at you with the same gaze. “I felt you touch the scepter last night.” You swallow, hard. “So you can read my thoughts or something?” “No. I just know you’re there.” You nod, relieved in a way. Wanda kneels on the floor, facing you. Her fingers spark, just enough to remind you they can. “I can look, if you want. See what’s different.”

Your skin goes cold—and all too quickly, you remember what Wanda is, and what the scepter gave her the ability to do. That it might have done the same for you…

Will you let Wanda look? Or will you refuse? Find out on AO3.