#alpha bucky

You wake each morning before the sun, often finding Bucky already awake beside you. Sometimes he is working at a tablet, sometimes just lying there, head propped on his fist, watching you with that unbroken focus that feels like both a danger and a benediction. Sometimes you catch him watching you sleep. He never denies it. He likes to scoop you into the crook of his body and keep you there while you come alive, tucking your bare calves beneath his thigh, tracing circles against your shoulder with his vibranium thumb. You don’t talk much in the mornings—you rarely need to. All the words are for the rest of the day.

You have no mind to try to escape, not really, though he’s replaced every lock, every code, every guard. It’s not just the threat of what he would do—it’s that you don’t even know where you’d go. Safe havens? The places you could guess, you know he’d find you. Knowing what you do of his infrastructure and personnel, traveling unnoticed in this territory would be nearly impossible for you.

But you know this is also where you can be of the most use. You are the heir-intended turned hostage, a queen and a prisoner, and underneath all of it, you are his omega.

You no longer want to go, and the myriad of reasons are a web of complexity.

Like now. You luxuriate in the softness of the pre-dawn with the humid pressure of Bucky’s mouth between your thighs, his breath and tongue working in slow, devastating precision. The only light is the blue hour glow streaming through the balcony, a haze that sharpens every sensation. He’s on his laying on his stomach, hands bracketing your hips, holding you open with a worshipful, unyielding grip. Where he touches you, you feel the unique contrast of cool vibranium and callused, heat-stamped flesh.

He works you with a patience that borders on punitive, mouth soft and slow until you start to tremble, then he ramps back the intensity. He’s become an expert in the workings of your body, and this morning he’s allowing the pleasure to rise up in slow, gentle swells, like waves on a calm beach. He does not seem interested in making you come—at least, not yet.

He’s not pushing you to shatter for his pleasure, or to prove his dominance, or even to render you mindless and pliant—though you both know he could, because he has done all of these things. No, Bucky licks you the way a man eats a ripe peach, pausing to savor, lingering on the slow drip, happy to let the soft strands of your want spill down his chin.

This slow, unrushed intimacy is its own kind of torture. He’s not trying to break you, not this morning. He’s just… there, between your legs for close to an hour, basking in the shallows of pleasure. It does not matter how you try to coax him—if you tug his hair, he only hums and buries himself deeper, if you try to close your legs, he gently but inexorably pries them apart.

He does this for so long you start to drift, floating somewhere between sleep and waking, only to surface when his tongue slides along your seam, so gentle it feels like a memory of touch rather than real contact. Sometimes he hums against you, a low vibration that travels up your pulse points and makes your hips shiver helplessly. He likes your hips in his hands, either to hold your hips steady, or to work your entire body against his face.

At some point, you give in—let yourself go slack, limbs heavy and surrendered, your mind emptying out the way water drains from a basin. You will let him have you for as long as he needs. You forget about leverage and tactics, all those games you still play outside the bedroom, and just become the thing he worships with tongue and heat and patience.

It’s generous. It’s gratuitous. You’re ruined by it and rebuilt by it in the same moment.

He has not let you sleep the night through in over a week. Each time you rouse, it is to the knowledge or memory of being used, of being possessed, of the near-feral hunger that radiates through the bond you share with him. Sometimes, you wake to the feel of him already inside you, his weight blanketing you into the bed, arm snaked under your waist; sometimes, like now, to the animal patience of his mouth working you open, wet and thorough and tireless.

You never knew the omega side of you would want like this. And you do. You want him back with equal fervor.

It seems the two of you are accepting that whatever his intentions or yours are, were, have been, or will be, your bond as alpha and omega runs through each others veins as necessary now as blood to survive. There’s a tremor of fear in the marrow of your bones in that inimitable truth.

Only when your thighs have gone slack, when your voice is nearly lost from the repeated moans, does he finally give in. He pushes you over with a flex of his neck and a sound that is pure satisfaction. You come so hard you only know your pulse, his grip, the flood of pleasure physically surging through you in all its blissful glory.

His lips graze your thigh, a benediction, then he flips you over—smooth, efficient, a movement that lifts your hips and flattens your chest to the mattress—before he climbs up your body. He’s hard, leaking, and the imprint of his cock on your skin as he slides over you is as familiar now as the sound of your own name. Bucky nuzzles at your pulse point, and scrapes his teeth over your bonding mark, where he first claimed you. You keen—for the pleasure that intimate place evokes, for him, for the bond.

“You have no idea how good you are for me,” he says, voice a low, rough scrape down your spine. You feel the blunt crown of him nudging at your entrance, already so impossibly hard you want to weep at the promise of it. He spreads his palm over the small of your back, a solid, anchoring weight, and with the other hand he drags his cock down your seam, wetting himself in your slick.

You both groan as he pushes inside—one slow, inevitable movement, the stretch so perfect it feels like pain and pleasure are bound together. There’s no protest in your body, only a greedy clutching around him, your hips arching back to take more, always more.

"Good Omega," he murmurs into your ear.

You hear yourself pant, body still trembling from the aftershocks of orgasm, and you don't have it in you to pretend indifference. His flesh palm flattens at the small of your back, while his vibranium hand finds your shoulder, pinning you to the bed. The weight of his body over yours is crushing and exquisite, and you arch your hips in silent plea, desperate for more.

He pulls back, strokes in again, a measured, punishing rhythm that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. Bucky fucks you deep, slow.

He never lets you have the rhythm. He chooses every thrust, every breath, every escalation and mercy. You brace your hands against the bed and whine for him, open-mouthed, helpless to anything except what he wants to do to you. He’s gotten so good at reading your body that sometimes you think your own pleasure starts and ends in his nervous system.

You feel the thickening as he fucks you, the way his cock knots up, swelling even larger, filling you to the brink with each relentless thrust. It’s a dangerous pleasure, the stretch just enough to make your eyes roll back, your body at his mercy, cunt clutching him.

His voice is a low rasp, barely more than breath. “Take it,” he says, and you do, you have no choice, and you want nothing except to be filled by him, held down and rendered mindless by the heat and the stretch, the primal certainty of what’s happening.

You shudder and moan, the sound pitching upward as the knot swells at your entrance, locking you together, and the helplessness of it is so intense you can only sob into the sheets.

You feel the arc of it before you see it coming, the way he tenses and then goes utterly still. Bucky leans forward and bites down, hard, at the slick curve between your shoulder and neck, not breaking the skin but pressing deep enough that the pleasure sharpens to almost-pain. You yelp for him, which makes him thrust even deeper. He groans, a sound from the bottom of his chest, and you feel the first hot surge of his spend inside you. You clench down on him, chasing your own climax even as he’s pouring himself into you, because he likes it best when you’re pulsing, milking him, cock locked inside while you tremor through your own. You do, shattering around him again even as he finishes, your body catching every drop, every twitch.

When he’s done, he collapses over you, full-weight, heart jackhammering at your back. You let him crush you, let yourself collapse entirely beneath him, two animals spent by their own necessity.

With you locked on his knot, he wraps his arms around your whole body and pulls you with him as he rolls to his side, keeping you bracketed and half-impaled. He kisses the hot, sweaty hollow behind your ear, then nips and laps and kisses at that sacred bond mark, the spot of your original undoing, sending something both soothing and surging through the flow of the alpha-omega bond between you.

Bucky’s still panting, his nose pressed to the back of your neck, when he says, “You know I’m going to fuck you at the announcement today.” His voice is gravel, still raw from groaning your name, and it vibrates from his chest into your ribs.

You’re still locked together, cunt fluttering around the last dregs of his knot as it starts to shrink, and the idea of being presented—again, always—for his pleasure, for the spectacle, for the optics or the myth or whatever reason he’s decided, is more inevitable than surprising. What does surprise you is that he tells you in advance.

You turn your head, and he’s already watching your reaction. “You’re not going to ask?” you say.

“I’m telling you in advance. I fucked you for my men in that strategy meeting so they understood how intoxicating it is to witness, how enthralling it becomes.” He hums against your hairline, his lips moving on your scalp. “I want you ready for it. This time it’s not just the council, a square of people, or my circle. We will be pairing every unbonded omega in the territory to an alpha, so they should see why they should all want it.”

Your jaw tightens. “Still compulsory?” You’ve heard the proposal, the adjustments and enhancements.

“Pairing an alphas and omegas is good. It’s natural.”

You huff. “I still don’t agree with it all.”

He slips his hand under your chin and turns your face until your mouth grazes his. “You don’t have to be tame for this.” He rocks his hips, cock still thick and wet inside you, and you shiver, every nerve ending alive. “They should see exactly what they’re missing.”

He sucks a bruise into your neck just below your jaw, right over where the bond thuds with your heartbeat. "There will be cameras, and there’s no going back after I announce the new order. And when I have my hand between your legs, you’ll show them what it’s like to want an alpha more than air. You’ll show them how it looks when we’re together."

You know yourself well enough to admit the humiliating truth: you will, and you’ll mean every desperate whine the cameras catch, every flex and writhe when he spreads you open to the world and makes you come on his hand, or mouth, or cock, whichever he chooses. You may be the governor’s omega, the daughter of a dynasty, but your value today is this: the spectacle of being conquered, and the spectacle of being wanted even more.

You consider letting it lie, but the resentment that’s been accumulating, simmering since the first horrific day, flares brief and hot.

“It’s not what they’re missing,” you say, voice low and even. “It’s what you make of them, what you need them to be for your system to work. That’s the point, right? You reshape the appetite for your benefit. For your narrative.” You twist in his grip, pushing your face close to his, daring him to dismiss what you’re saying as just another outburst.

Bucky’s eyes narrow. “Consider your words, Omega.”

You draw in a steadying breath, then let it out slow, feeling his hold around your ribcage, the heavy, unyielding latch of his arm. “I am considering them,” you say, voice clipped and sure. “Every day, every hour, I live in the skin of your narrative.”

You’ve sacrificed, played the good omega, the willing exhibitionist, all to keep the world from burning down around you. But it’s not for you, not what you ever thought your life would be.

He props himself on one elbow, knot finally slipped and leaving you empty, leaking his come onto the sheets. The hand at your throat is gentle, but the look in his eyes says: I am listening, and I am deciding whether you are being brave or being reckless.

You want to believe it’s both. “I was raised to lead, Bucky,” you say, “not to be bred. I know that’s how it has to be right now, and I’m not resisting you. But I—” you break off, then start again, quieter. “I want more than this. Than being your spectacle. I want to matter. Not just as the omega on your arm and in your bed. To the people I used to—” You stop again, wishing you could clamber out of your own vulnerability, or at least throttle it back to some manageable, tradable thing.

Bucky is silent for many long moments. Then he turns his head slightly and noses against the side of your head, inhaling deeply. Drinking in your scent? The action appears to be curiously thoughtful. “You already matter,” he says, the words slow, not dismissive. “More than anyone in this goddamn territory.” He brushes his nose along your hairline, breathing in, then exhaling in a gust against your cheek. For a moment, you sense the truth behind it—not just the possession, but something deeper, something like… need. “And I won’t have you cost me everything by wanting to save people who don’t deserve you.”

“You don’t know this territory the way I do,” you bite back immediately."

“And you don’t know them the way I do, Omega.You saw your father's regime. It was built on hope and good intentions and a thousand tiny lies to keep the peace, and I came in, infiltrated the cracks, and broke it apart.”

You can’t look at him for a moment. You bite your tongue, will yourself not to cry or to scream or to melt, and instead watch the early morning gold creep up the far wall of the bedroom. “You could have done it differently,” you say. I

The bed is going cold under your bare thighs as you lie there, back to Bucky, his come slicking your inner thighs, your pulse still trying to catch up with your mind. He lets the silence stretch until it hums like a high wire. When he speaks, his voice is level, but you can hear the drag of steel through velvet, “You think I wanted to be the villain? You think I wanted a world that needs monsters like me?”

You want to press him further, to make him admit there were better ways, that brutality isn’t a virtue in itself, but he senses the words coming and tightens his hold, thumb at your jaw, silencing the rest. “It doesn’t matter now,” he says, the cadence final. “All that matters is what we do next.”

He pulls you in so close his breath stirs the fine hairs at your temple, and with a single, decisive gesture, shoves his hand down between your sticky thighs and presses his fingers into your folds. The movement parts you open, the sensation electric and humiliating. He circles your clit with two careful fingers, not seeking to please, not yet—just to remind you that your body, your will, your pleasure is his to modulate, dial up or down or snuff out as he chooses. The message is plain: whatever claim you think you have to autonomy, here in this bed, you are as much under his thumb as the rest of the territory.

You arch in his grip, a reflex you can't control. He drags his fingers lower, pushing one back into your cunt, then two. The mess of his come and your slick coats his knuckles, and he lets you feel every wet, obscene movement.

“I know you want more,” he says, “but don’t forget, you agreed to this. You asked for the terms, and now you’ll keep them. The value of your position at my side will grow or diminish by your own actions.”

He works his fingers in and out, then flicks them up to circle your clit, a relentless pressure that seems only to sharpen his words. “Say it. Say you know your place.”

You want to spit the words back at him. You almost do. Maybe you will—later, when you have more than the air in your lungs and the need clawing through you. For now, you’re helpless to the sensation, and so you gasp, “I know my place, Alpha.”

He grunts, a sound of approval and hunger rolled in one. “That’s right.” His fingers speed up just enough to have you writhing again, pushing into his hand for more. “You’ve done so well already, you’ve made it look like power, what I do to you,” he says, almost soft, almost proud. “No one will believe you don’t want it. And now you’re going to come on my hand while you think about how you’re going to show the territory you’re mine.”

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

Tantalizingly sheer and profane as steeple stained glass, shapely and mouth-wateringly smooth as carved marble, and tinted in such gorgeous, delicate shades as glazed watercolor, Steve has become art incarnate. Art itself. He is gorgeous. And it is making Bucky carnal with desire.

The heated, deep pool of lust low in his gut is too fucking much—it has taken over his entire body. Overflowing. Pure arousal keeps dripping, pouring, down his spine from his empty head to his growling chest to the pit of his stomach. He's hungry. His teeth ache, hungry to bite—to chew. Steve smells edible. Bucky's fucking hair, across his whole body, is standing on end, watching his mate.

He is electric.

Lost to the frantic craze of heat, somewhere between the opaque shades of pre-heat and full-blown heat, feverish and uninhibited, Steve is, he's—

Bucky's pretty omega is, really, indescribable. The sight of him is beyond words. More than. But Bucky's the only one who gets to see this and it has to be fucking documented. Somehow. Still, only he gets to fucking revel in the pornographic sight, the tempting smell, the unreal taste, the erotic, sensational feeling, the everything that is his omega lost to his baser instincts that demand to be mounted, held down, and made to take it, stretched wide on a fat knot and pumped full of cum. Bred until he's leaking cum with his belly bulging like he's already got some pups in there.

Bucky's own instincts match, the opposite side of the coin but just as primal and filthy: mate, bite, knot, breed, bite, knot, knot, breed, mate, breed, knot, bite, bite, mine, my omega—

Messy and thoughtless with those instincts, Steve is so gorgeous that Bucky has to simultaneously resist touching to watch him further disintegrate into agonized lust alone while also resisting doing nothing more than pouncing on him and ripping into him, no more fucking waiting.

Why wait, why just watch, when he can touch?

Why touch and do any of the work when he can sit back and watch him crumble into hysterics all on his own?

“Hh-AH!” Steve's voice, normally masculine, low, and sweet, has broken. It's high and wanton. Primal in the way his words have been replaced by all these fuck-me whines, begging for it without having to utter a single ‘please.’ He's far too gone for words.

On second thought, maybe Steve has the touching covered, though. At least for now—with those big, shaking paws feeling up his own fucking rack.

Feverish from the inside out, down to his skin, burning pink and misted with sweat, Steve has his hands over every exposed inch of his body and then some. The crazier his heat has driven him, the more he's run his fingers underneath the neckline of his t-shirt, getting it away from his flushed, soaked decolletage and incidentally stretching out the collar to the point that—fuck.

Jesus Christ.

Bucky has to fucking sit. on. his. hands. to prevent himself from reaching into his pants. He is ungodly desperate to squeeze his cock, already stiff but really beginning to fucking swell now. His knot is coming in hot and heavy. Nothing sounds goddamn better than sinking into vice-tight, soaking wet heat right now. On his own life, he swears it—he's gonna tie Steve next fucking thing, and he's not letting him go until his omega is knot-drunk. Steve will have to pry him off him, and that's a promise. Bucky will be the one acting as if he's heat-ravaged and desperate for anything he can get. Anything.

The soft, worn-thin fabric of Steve's little white shirt is plastered to his skin. From across the room, claiming his space on the couch, legs spread wide, it's sinfully easy for Bucky to see his full-body blush through the saturated cotton of his omega's shirt. Too, it's all too easy to see the tight, pink targets of his nipples. Bright spots of throaty, moaning sensitivity on his big, heaving tits.

Tits.

Bucky uncontrollably growls. He can't help it. ‘Cause they are—those are fucking tits. Especially when Steve's in season, the rush of hormones, flooding his big, curvaceous body, all muscle and strength and curve, makes him get all puffy. There's no other word for it. His nipples get so sensitive, harder and puffier and pinker than usual. His hole gets so leaky and even pinker than usual and puffy, too. It's the same way Steve's dick-sucking lips swell up, fat and salacious when Bucky kisses him drunk.

Steve doesn't need to kiss to get drunk now. Not kissing him might make him even more inebriated, teasing him by not letting him have what he's chasing, instinctually, inexhaustibly. Just. Needing to be held down and fucked stupid.

But, he isn't being overwhelmed like that, f-u-c-k-e-d, so he's doing it himself.

His pretty pink nipples and big tits are spilling over the neck of his stretched-out t-shirt that's turned into a pane of glass thanks to his fragrant sweat. He's melting, melting and breaking—back arching so hard it looks fucking painful, sticking his tits out, pushing hard into his hands, cupping the heavy handfuls and pinching and brushing and teasing his aching nipples. He's so hot it's frying Bucky's goddamn fucking brain.

How and why is he sitting over here?

What the hell?

He needs to be over there.

He needs to be licking the salt off his shivering skin, he needs to shove his nose under Steve's shaking arms, he needs to sink his teeth into Steve's scent glands all over again. They're so flushed and tender right now—the storm of hormones flooding him, consuming him, possessing him, and transforming him into a hurricane.

A whimpering, gasping, gutturally moaning tornado vibrating and whirling in place on their leather armchair. He shakes so hard, he shivers so much, it's got his muscles flexing and bulging. God. He's built like a tank but he just dissolves.

Bucky's omega.

Yes.

His mate.

And, fuck, his mate is dripping. Dripping sweat, dripping noises, and dripping so much, soaked so intensely with slick, that he's sllllliding on the leather.

Jesus.

He's riding that fucking chair.

His tits are so sensitive from heat but worse is his hole. It's got to be so pink and swollen, puffy, and wet between his fat cheeks. The little pair of boxer briefs he slid into this morning, skin tight, is barely holding on, dick twitching hugely in the front, making a break for it. The red, weeping head of his dick is sticking out lewdly above his waistband. He's squirming, dragging, and rubbing his hole over the leather. Drenched. Slip and slide. He can't seem to get enough of a grip to reach between his legs and touch himself there, though. Slipping a hand beneath his underwear is too complex a task. He's far too occupied by how good touching his tits makes him feel. He can't stop. Heat has destroyed, no, obliterated Steve's usual super self-control. There is no delayed gratification here. Only now. Now, now, now—

Pleasure.

Demand.

From his thrown back head, golden hair ruffled and tangled, haloing his tight, agonized expression of ecstasy, to his pushed-forward breasts, begging to be bitten and sucked on and tortured, just a little, to his tight little hips, to his needy, desperate, greedy hole begging to be fucked, to his sprawled, shaking thighs, to his cramping soles—head to toe, Bucky's omega is in demand mode.

Hedonistic.

Nothing matters but his heat.

Nothing else matters to Steve.

Nothing else matters to Bucky.

His omega.

“Ah-alphaaa!” He sobs, voice breaking jaggedly.

And Bucky is just a man—

He had left the bed just as still in the buff, stretching his limbs to relieve the small twinges of tension as he watched you complete a small part of your daily routine. He’d been so careful not to disturb your peace that when his reflection came into view behind your own, it sadly startled you.

He watched as you jumped, clutching your chest before realizing there wasn’t any perceived threat. “Jesus, you scared me.” You had laughed in relief.

“Sorry, doll.” Bucky smiled as he spoke, rubbing the sleep from one of his eyes before stepping up to slip his arms around your small shoulders. “How’d you sleep?”

“Like the dead.” You smiled, giving him a small chuckle he soon shared with you.

He loved that laugh, and he easily caught sight of your eyes shifting over more and more of his body once you’d turned to face him. It was that bashfulness you always had from the beginning that made him want to lure you further from your shell.

He was able to walk around you as you stared, unaware that the flex of each leg was drawing your attention further towards him. It made his skin feel prickled, like a tingling sensation of little lights bursting over his body. His body reacted to you, giving you this show as it flushed pink at every corner and every extension. His member swelled, lifting from his thighs in interest as your lingering gaze.

But, he wanted much more than your gaze, and he gave you a small cough to snap you out of your trance.

You were stuttering out a stifled “Oh fuck, m’sorry” as you began to quickly put your toiletries away. Those nimble fingers digging into that small black bag that sat precariously on the small porcelain sink.

Bucky could feel each vertebra seize, like a stiff rod along his spine, as his body became rigid. The air in his lungs grew stagnant, dull, and acidic with each second he held it.

Only when you zipped the bag closed again was he able to exhale, careful and quiet so as not to raise your suspicions. At any moment this little world between the two of you could have collapsed, all due to one small piece of aluminum not present among your personal effects. For now he continues this soft sway with you until the next time you seem to get too close to a bitter truth.

His smile reappeared, bubbling into a soft chuckle at the sight of your still warm and rosy cheeks. “No, it’s fine. You can look all you want, babe."

He tempted you, turning the shower on and beckoning you to follow him. Further and further into this little life you could have in these few days.

He stood under the spray, letting it soak into his hair until it clung to his wide neck and brushed his shoulders with a few stray tendrils. He watched each nervous motion as you pulled his flannel up and off your shoulders. He watched you, taking in each nervous step as well as the small dribble of sweat that trailed down from your hair to hide past your ear and behind your neck.

Finally he got to see all of you, every inch, in one long look. No bits and pieces tiled together over a night blurred over by passion. Your hands tried to linger along the fabric, but ultimately you decided just to pull it away and toss it aside.

He gives you room to follow him into the shower and steps aside to let you soak in the warm water. It trailed along your back to be traced by his fingers.

You shivered a little until he pulled himself away. His presence was never far behind as he filled his hand with shampoo and pulled a few strands of your hair towards him too. First a few stray hairs, then a full lock until his thick digits tangled themselves against your scalp.

It was hypnotic; the lull of the water was like the song of hot summer rain hitting a window, and his finger drew slow circles through your hair.

“God, that’s so good.”

Bucky couldn’t help the rumble of his chest as he exhaled a low chuckle, pleased with you melting in his hands before pulling you back under the water to wash the soap away.

He spreads the body wash bar over his hands to wash more of you, pushing hair off your neck as his fingers go over your shoulders and down your back before sliding under your arms to lather over your breasts. You bent against him as another hand slid over your nipple and down your stomach as the other continued playing with the other bud.

His grin was near devilish, still tinted with his admiration as well as lust, and quickly he pulled you to turn and face him. It was only slightly startling as he moved you languidly.

You tried to hide behind your hands, nimble digits clasped together and arms laying over your breasts.

That small lock of fingers was no match for Bucky’s. They were thicker, stronger, enclosing yours and pulling them away with ease.

He pushed closer, letting your back press to the tile wall behind you, and his lips graced along your cheek and further towards your ear. “Please don’t hide from me, ‘mega.”

The spray of the water helped to clear a path on your shoulder for him to spread his lips over your skin.

He wanted you against him, tightly wound together like interwoven vines. His lips dragging along your skin as the tip of his nose rounded over your cheek.

When he’d speak, it was a whisper, soft but still overpowering the pounding downpour of the hot shower. “You are so beautiful; everything, all of you, is so soft. So perfect.”

His hands slid away from yours, finding familiar territory along your hills and flowering valleys.

“That..that can’t be true.” Your cheeks felt tempered, blooming with fresh warmth not caused by the water.

“Don’t do that, doll. If you could only see the woman you are through my eyes, you’d never look away.” He smiled against your skin, purely delighted with you tightly hugged in his arms.

All of him was melting into you. His hard thighs against those of your plush and feminine legs, and the solid plains of stomach and chest pressed to your shapely form.

His wiggled lower, gliding over your belly and past your mound to tangle in your soft folds. Another part of him is pressed to your soft thigh, a sign of his eagerness and yet, restraint.

His lips fell away from your skin to steal a kiss from you. It was a taste of savagery, faintly biting before his mind could tell him to sink his teeth in any harder.

He pulls you into a whole new trance, and you’re bending to him, pushing your leg against his stiff member. He bucked against it in retaliation, a small wave of overstimulation making him twitch against you.

It wasn’t like you to tease, and as much as he loved to see you untangle from the roots of your bashful nature to find new freedoms, he couldn’t risk letting himself go feral.

You would finally find boldness to tempt him between your legs.

“That’s new.” He purred, letting his voice roll like low thunder along your lips.

You hummed with a little confusion, not quite listening.

His cock spreads through your thighs, bumping up along the opening between your lower lips, only teasing at the stretch of him, barely pushing inside of you. He only ghosted over the opening of your rose, never fully breaking through.

Your voice was weak, a small trill and a shuddered whimper with each threat of penetration.

He’s toying with you as the heat that once dimmed began to bubble underneath the hot water and all over your skin. But, you were equal temptation to the lion lying in wait, ready to burst from your new lover and devour you.

The alpha wanted to eat you, tear a scar into your skin, and take claim of your body as his and his alone. Its bonds nearly loose as it shook its cage to fight Bucky for freedom.

He caught his cock at the rim of your pink opening, pushing to stretch you around him like well-fitted silk. A tight, tantalizing hug that spurred his movement through your tight channel.

One of his hands met your adjacent leg, prying you apart and nearly slamming you against the harsh and slick tiled walls. Your joints pop in protest, straining against his hold as you're stretched into a new position. For now it went ignored, tossed to the wayside in pursuit of pleasing the omega mewling for the hot lock of your lover's knot.

He’s pinning you like a butterfly with clipped wings, his hands being the sharp needles digging into the sides of your legs. Yet, without him, you’d collapse to the shower floor as your feet would fail to catch you.

It left you at the mercy of his movements, the long draw back and a hard thrust inside, dragging through your body with ferocity. It was something wild, ravenous, and nearly desperate.

Each sound is so loud, from the water pouring over the both of you to the uneven rhythm of your voice cutting through the roaring of his with a higher pitch. All was ringing deep in your ear until it became a continuous buzz.

Your body was numb, senses deafened as you let yourself fall against James. Your neck and shoulder were open to his hungry lips and pearly canines.

He’s grabbing your arms, unconsciously pinning them at your sides. Teeth pressing harder and harder on your skin but never breaking the skin. His jaw locking with a crack, the popping of a joint to fight the urge to lock around your tender flesh.

A small tear will trail down his cheek, lashes fluttering as he came, locking himself inside of you.

The downpour of the warm shower does Bucky well to hide that tear.

That pain he’d felt earlier came back. Only a dull thrum for now, the pulling of a cord just below his navel. His knot pops, locking him tightly inside your quivering channel as it’s filled with the thick spill of his cum. His body allowed him the pleasure of your body and a shuddering climax, but there would still be a lingering need in his belly.

The knot takes you back into the warm, primal pool, drowns you, and washes you under its crashing water.

You are all Omega. A dangerous breed. Something just as dangerous as he could be.

With his knot still tightly wrapped in the soft embrace of your sore cunt. Once, twice, and yet another jolt of paint to match his. A sting shared by both, ringing along the back of your deep channel, and another tearing along his belly as he continues to empty himself inside you.

All either of you can do now is catch your breath. Each fighting to find air in the hot water, fighting not to suffocate in each other's twisted embrace.

When the heat of the water dimmed, running low and supplemented with something colder, you gasped for fresh, cool air. Bucky did the same, finding grounding in the increasingly cold water until he finally pulled his softening knot free, holding you in your uncomfortable position with the lock of his elbows before letting you slide back to the tile floor on weak feet.

When his knot goes down, he pulls out carefully.

Your head was still in a haze of the previous dream after being hit with freezing water. A naked James held your hand to guide you back towards the bedroom. Your knees and hips ache, popping in protest to your previous position.

Your blood boiling under your skin in a now-familiar fashion. You let him pull you in and lure you away from the bathroom and into his embrace.

He acts as your guide, your anchor, as he pulled you back to him and carried you away. He was the one that needed to be strong; he always needed to be strong.

It was immediate, hastily peppered kisses stolen over any inch of bare skin. Wandering fingers weave through past your soft belly, over your mound, and dig right into your wet core. He seemed to be showing some restraint, making his touch only slightly more gentle than when he initially tore at your seams while cornering you in the shower.

Gentle, but still brimming with need.

He needs you.

In the end you were connected to him again, spooning into that nest of blankets and pillows. It was inescapable as he bled more and more of your lingering heat to the surface of your skin. It was as if he was possessing you, a demon with hot, searing nails crawling under your flesh before soothing the subtle sting with his warm tongue.

Chapter 14

They say, that if anyone could marry an animal, that you’d be the first person to do it. That’s the only way to describe your love for animals. You loved animals with everything in you, you loved volunteering at animal hospitals and shelters, helping injured animals, but most of all, you loved capturing the beauty of animals with nature. Not necessarily studying them, but observing. Watching wildlife, and capturing the beauty of nature paired with the animals you loved, that was what you lived for. 

Which is how you ended up here. New York City seemed to have lost its touch with nature and the animals around, so you decided to adventure out in the few forests they have left to capture the beautiful world of nature and prove to everyone that it’s worth salvaging what’s left. There was one forest in particular that caught your attention, thick trees with no way to get through but the path that led through them, the morning dew that settled over the trees, it screamed mysterious and begged to be explored.  

When you told some of the locals your plan, they warned you not to go there, said dangerous creature lurked in that forest. They said that lots of tourist would go walking there, but few returned. That only fueled your determination to explore the mysterious forest.  

So, bright and early Saturday morning you packed up your camera and some supplies, threw on a pair of blue jeans and a white tank top, a winter coat over top that to strive off the cold fall air. Shoved on your combat boots and grabbed a knife your dad gave you for protection and headed out the door.  

You were a little bummed when, a mile in, nothing had changed, thick trees and brush surrounded you. But you keep going, determined to find something. Your determination paid off. 

About another half a mile, give or take, you came across the most beautiful scene you had ever seen. It was a clearing in the trees, the land was flat with a big gorgeous clear blue lake. The early morning sun shone through the trees, creating a peaceful atmosphere. The soft, green grass covered in a layer of moister, flowers littered throughout the field. But what caught your attention was the somewhat big, beautifully white wolf lent over lapping at the sparkling water.  

I thought all wolves were extirpated from New York? You quickly and quietly hide behind a tree and whipped out your camera. You snap a couple of pictures of the wolf, you put the camera away and look for a way around the field, not wanting to alert the wolf of your presence. As you back away from the tree, you step on a twig, the sound reverberates through the forest. 

The wolf’s head snaps up, gaze locking on your figure. You freeze in fear and captivity from its sparkling steel blue eyes. The wolf slowly stands up, revealing he’s bigger than what you first thought. He sniffs the air and growls. 

Now, throughout your life, your father always told you to remain still and calm when presented in a situation like this. He said animals can sense fear, chances are though that they’re more afraid of you. Don’t let them sense you’re afraid, if they can sense you aren’t a threat they’ll most likely leave and you can get the hell out of there. When have you ever listened to his advice? That’s the only explanation as to why you ran. 

You spin around and take off, willing your feet to run faster once you hear his howl and rustling behind you. Logistically you knew you didn’t stand a chance out running a wolf, but you hoped to god he’d lose interest quickly and leave you to run away in fear. You’d never like hurting animals but when the sounds of heavy paws hitting the ground got closer you grabbed the knife that was strapped to your side. 

The wolf quickly catches up and knocks you to the ground, growling. Before he can rip your head off, you cut down the side of his back leg, not to kill him but to get him to back off. The wolf yelps and scurries off of you. You take off running again but trip over a root, you fall to the ground, hitting your head on another root, knocking yourself out. 

When you come too, you’re lying on the floor of what looks like a small cabin. The main area, where you are, is a small neat kitchen and a living room joined together. There’s a table in the corner by the kitchen, a couch, rug, and small coffee table in front of a fireplace that’s currently burning with wood. You lay between the table and fireplace on the rug, a fleece throw covering you. Your bag is, what looks like tossed on the couch. You quickly crawl over to it, sighing in relief to find your camera undamaged.  

Your head is pounding, you reach back to scratch your back to find teeth holes in your shirt. Your ass and backs of your legs brown with dirt, looking like you were dragged. You freeze when you hear a whine. You look over to see small hallway that what looks like it leads to a bathroom on the right, and a small bedroom across from it, there's a door at the very end, looks like a linen closet.  

You slowly and quietly stand up, you carefully toe off your boots, hoping your sock covered feet won’t make much noise. You grab the fireplace poker as a weapon and follow the noise. When you reach the bedroom, the door cracked, you find the wolf curled on a large dog bed in the corner, furiously licking the wound on his leg, the one you gave it. 

You take a deep breath and push the door open. The wolf growls as soon as he sees you, he tries to stand up but whines and falls back down. You gently set your makeshift weapon down and turn to the bathroom. You rummage through the cabinets and drawers to find what you’re looking for. 

Walking back into the bedroom, you slowly make your way to the wolf, he growls and buries himself more in the corner. 

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “I just want to help.” You gesture to his leg, you set the supplies down and cautiously stick your hand out for him to sniff.  

Once he assures you aren’t here to hurt him, but to help him, he lays his head down and watches you from the corner of his eye. Once settled beside him, you dip a washcloth in warm water and gently clean his wound. He whines and jerks his leg. 

“I know, I’m sorry. Let me fix what I caused,” you say softly. Once you finish cleaning the wound, you wrap it in gauze.  

“There, all better,” you cautiously reach out to pet his fur. He lets you; you reach up to scratch behind his ears, he closes his eyes and nuzzles your hand. 

You giggle. “You aren’t so bad, huh?” He just lays his head in your lap. You look over at the nightstand to see a picture of two tall, muscular men. One with shoulder length brown hair, blue eyes, and a metal arm. Huh. You think as you look at the metal arm, the other guy has blonde hair, blue eyes- not a sparkly as the other guy’s is- he doesn’t have a metal arm like his friend. 

You pick up the picture. “Is one of these your... owner? Did they find me?” You question the wolf, knowing he probably doesn’t even understand you much less can answer your question. The wolf opens his eyes, he looks to the picture then back to you, giving you almost a deadpanned look.  

Just then the sound of the front door opening and closing, and the sound of feet padding through the cabin, fill the silence. 

“Hey, Buck! I just wanted to check in and se-what the hell?” The blonde man from the picture stops short when he sees you, his eyes widened.  

“Uh, hi,” you give him a shy smile. 

“Who are you and what the hell are you doing in here?” He asks, almost harshly.  

“I’m Y/N. I was exploring the forest when I... I had seen him. Needless to say, he chases me, I cut his back leg, I fell and hit my head. I woke up here and helped patch up his wound. That’s the short version. I’m guessing the other man lives here? Is this his... pet?” You gesture to the picture on the nightstand. 

The man snorts. “Yes, the other man lives here, I’m Steve and the other man is James but everyone calls him Bucky.” 

“How do you get Bucky from James?” 

“His middle name is Buchanan” 

You hum in understanding. “Will this Bucky be back soon? I’d like to apologize for hurting his wolf” 

Steve grins in amusement. “You’re petting him right now.” 

“Huh?” You look down at the wolf still nuzzling your hand.  

Steve snickers and leans down next to you; he reaches over to pet Bucky but he growls in warning. Steve puts his hands up in surrender and chuckles. “The towns people didn’t tell you about our kind?” 

“Your kind?” You look at him, confused. 

“We are a wolf/human kind, we shift to our wolf form during full moon. Bucky here is the alpha.”  

“What?! Are you jok-this is a joke, right?” You ask in disbelief. You go to stand up but Bucky whines and puts his front half on you, nuzzling into your stomach. 

Steve chuckles. “Somebody likes you.”  

“So, you’re telling me that the whole, alpha, omega, beta crap exists?” He nods, you go quiet, not knowing what to say. 

Steve spends the next couple of hours explaining everything to you. From the pack, to why he isn’t in his wolf form, once you have a mate you can shift whenever you like but they still have ruts/heats after the full moon. Steve left with the request of watching over Bucky, you agreed, and that he’d be back in a few days. He also said to be careful, once full moon is over and Bucky shifts back, he’d go into rut. 

You stay on the floor for a while, Bucky still half on you and asleep. When he does wake up, he sits up and start to rip the bandage off.  

“Bucky wait-it's not done healing,” you go to stop him but he gets it fully off, showing that the wound is healed. “What the..?” You whisper, tracing the area the wound was at.  

“You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?” You giggle. He sticks his tongue out and pulls his lips back, almost like a smile. 

He pauses and sniffs the air, he tilts his head, you giggle. He leans towards you, sniffing. He all but shoves his cold, wet nose into your neck, inhaling deeply. You yelp and giggle, trying and failing to push him away.  

“Bucky!” You laugh. He licks up your neck and you laugh harder. He nuzzles his head into your chest.  

“You’re a goofball. Listen, I have to go out and grab my stuff from my hotel if I’m gonna stay here for the next couple of days, okay?” His head pops up, ears flat and whines. “Awe,” you coo and scratch behind his ears. “I’ll be back, I promise. Wanna walk me to the edge of the woods?” He jumps up and runs to the door.  

You leave the bag you brought and head out, once off the mini porch Bucky stops, he motions to his back.  

“You want me to get on your back?” You ask in a slight condescending tone. He was huge, on all four legs he was just past your waist, but you weren’t skinny and you’d worry you might hurt him.  

He nods. “Won’t I crush you?” He rolls his eyes and waits. You sigh, giving in you straddle his back, legs wrapped around him just in front of his back legs, arms around his neck. Once you’re settled, he takes off, your grip tightens.  

Once you get almost to the edge of the woods he stops and lets you off.  

“You’ll wait for me?” He nods and lays in the brush out of sight.  

You head off to your hotel, grabbing your stuff and checking out. You get back to the woods, “Bucky!” You call out. Nothing. You walk a little further, where he had been laying was a pool of blood. 

“You want to do this here?” 

Gale’s voice—tight-lipped, reluctant, pressed between the jagged angles of lust and his good sense—spilled out into the dark. It wasn’t quite a protest, no, but it tried its best to sound like one.

John didn’t answer with words. He never did when hunger had already bloomed inside him, when his hands were full of Gale’s hips; possessive, grounding, almost cruel in their grip as he turned him, step by coaxed step, backward against the wall. 

The wooden panel bit coldly through Gale’s shirt, a shock that stole a breath from his lips and made his spine ripple. John reached behind and shut the door with a click; conspirator's kiss. Then, with the quiet smirk of one unbothered by boundaries, he slid forward, filling the space between them with his heat and bulk.

“Like you said,” John murmured, close now, voice already low with thrill. “Nobody comes out here but you.” His grin widened as he dropped, knees to the dusty floor, and added, like a joke, like a dare, like he knew how to goad Gale into giving in. “You can be as loud as you want.”

And yet it wasn’t so simple. The truth of it was: no one came out here unless a class was in session. And, right now, it wasn’t. It was too close to curfew. Gale taught those classes, taught them well—maths, English, law, decorum. But what rules governed him now? What precedent, what statute, could excuse this: the closet, the dark, the obscene scent of want woven like incense into old timber and dust?

The privy room—converted, unused, hidden by accident more than design—was narrow and secret, and reeked of dust, of wet wood and cleaning supplies the way all closets do. The sort of place one might store old chalk, or forbidden books, or trembling bodies caught between instinct and inhibition. There was something almost sacred in how small it was, as if divinity itself demanded closeness, bodies brushing, scent and sensibility forced to crowd and erode together as one.

And, still, Gale hesitated.

Even now, with John's broad shoulders crouched low, obscenely reverent before him like some ancient beast genuflecting to a lesser god, Gale hesitated. His hearing twitched to phantom patrols, to boots on stone, to the imagined rasp of a voice saying; What are you doing in there, Cleven? 

Yeah. What indeed.

Gale knew the patrols by heart, had them memorised like catechism—but what if? What if—the worst of phrases. What if someone heard? What if someone smelled them, this musk of slick and sweat and nerves that clung to the air like powdered sulfur, volatile, dangerous?

Gale was thinking of all that when John kissed him between his legs, heavy and open-mouthed and unrepentant. Gale gasped, half in shock, half in reflex, his fingers already buried in John’s hair, tugging, not in refusal, but in frivolous betrayal.

“You smell good,” John said, muffled, like a dog with its snout deep in warm earth. His face pressed, rubbed, mouthed through fabric like he might eat his way into Gale’s body, fabric and all. Like he might excavate him from the inside out. Devour was too civilised a word. There was no civilisation here.

Gale’s fingers twitched on the buckle of his belt. 

“Let’s just get this over with,” He said, gruff with shame, and hands that trembled—not from cold, though it was cold, yes, the Stalag was always cold—but from some more internal frost. An ache of being seen. He unclasped, peeled open, and offered; not gracefully, not entirely willingly, but with the guilty compulsion of a man who wanted his needs met.

John was swift, greedy. He kissed and licked at every inch of exposed skin as it was delivered to him. He helped strip the rest, dragging down the pants with brusque patience, wrestling them past one boot until only one leg remained dressed. Gale’s naked thigh prickled in the air, his skin lifting with gooseflesh not from chill, but from exposure, from being watched, even if by only one pair of eyes.

He tipped his head back. Stared upward, into the pitch. It was black above him, a blankness too thick to read. Maybe he liked it better that way. Less to see, less to think about.

And then John was parting him.

With those large, callused thumbs, he spread Gale open, reverent as an archivist unfolding a precious manuscript. The cold kissed his cunt, and Gale, traitorous in his shame, felt it flutter, twitch, pulse. A maddening reaction. Worse still, John noticed.

“You’re getting wet already,” He said, and his voice—God, that voice—was pleased. Smug. Not unkind, but victorious. “A little attention from me is enough to get you soaked, that it? Flattering, Buck.”

Gale burned. Not only his face, but his chest, his scalp, his very marrow. It flushed through him like fever. “Are you going to talk the whole time or are you actually going to do something?”

And oh, John smiled at that. Not with his mouth alone, but with his entire being. As if Gale’s annoyance were some triumph of his own; a victory prize. John was under Gale’s skin and he knew it. As if the bristle of resistance was just a velveted cue for obedience.

He bent in. He bowed, prostrated, and then buried himself between Gale’s legs with the focus of a dying man reaching for water. No preamble. No artifice. Just need—his tongue thick and eager, already pushing, parting, pressing. Thumbs held Gale open and allowed John to go straight for his entrance, straight to the sweet source of slick Gale was dribbling down his thighs.

Gale pressed the back of his skull to the wall and let out a breath that wasn’t a breath. His fist balled tight in John’s hair, grounding him, perhaps. Or grounding himself.

And the noise—oh the noise—was obscene. John moaned into him. Moaned like he was the one being touched, like Gale was the one on his knees, like John was sinking hot and heavy into his mouth instead. His fingers clasped Gale’s thighs. Not to spread, just to hold. Just to anchor how John, who was too big for the small space, bowed and bent and twisted his head to get more.

“You—” Gale began, but didn’t finish.

How could he?

John’s moustache, that irritating, abrasive thing, scraped exquisitely across Gale’s clit, a torture and a balm all at once. He licked slow, then fast, then slow again, the rhythm maddeningly perfect; an old familiar pattern they had fallen into so many times before, but somehow never like this. Never quite so filthy. Never quite so public.

Gale covered his mouth with one hand. He couldn’t trust his own sounds.

John nosed at his clit again—slow, lingering, almost ceremonial—then kissed it: kissed it as though it were a mouth capable of response, of reciprocation, of yes. And maybe Gale’s body did answer, twitching against those lover-like lips. With lips parted, breath hot and heavy on tender flesh, John waited until Gale whined from the hovering before he took Gale’s clit between his lips to suck on. Licked, pointed, grinned when Gale’s thighs trembled. 

Gale could feel it against him, the smug bastard. He considered kneeing John in the head.

From the weeping heat of his hole to the throb at its crest, John wrote his hunger in slow, sinuous cursive, a language older than grammar, older than war. Gale, for his part, could only read it in the shudder of his spine and the fire curling low in his gut.

He ground down, helpless and wanton, because how could any omega not yield under such reverence? What creature of heat and blood could remain unmoved, untouched, unstained by this worship? Because that’s what it was; a communion, and John was the acolyte, the penitent, the starving boy-child at the altar rail.

And oh, John lived for this.

It was not rare that he begged for it, no, that was common enough; pitiful and endearing in its persistence. He would whimper like a cur in the kitchen, all promise and posture. One more taste, just a little lick, he would be good, so good, would finish all of his chores and fold all of the damn sheets if Gale would just let him have another taste. 

And sometimes, most times, Gale gave in. Not from the begging alone but for the look on him: all that alpha muscle and male bravado unraveling at the seams. Gale melted. Every time. Like candle wax before a match. Otherwise he worried John may begin to weep from the lost chance at tasting him.

And now—now that he had been granted indulgence—John ate like he meant to live by it. Ate like he might be punished for leaving anything behind. Every droplet mattered. Every stroke of that broad, perfect tongue, was put to perfect use. John’s tongue delved and curled, raked and worshipped, a heat-slick instrument of ruin, obscene in its insistence. 

The sound of it—wet, low, gulping, echoing in their little room of hidden indulgence—was a thing of embarrassment, and yet Gale could not close his legs. Could not stop the tremble. Could not deny it.

When John drew back (just a moment, cruelly brief), Gale felt the mess between his thighs cling and break like sugar glass. He didn’t have to look, he knew John’s face would be drenched. Knew he would be grinning like he had won some grand prize; mouth slick, eyes glowing with the wet shine of desire, panting like a damn dog.

“God, Buck, you taste good.” John was breathless. His lips clicked when he talked. “I wish you’d let me do this more often.”

Then came the hand—large, warm, firm—slipping beneath Gale’s knee, lifting, spreading, anchoring his leg over the broad slope of John’s shoulder. The balance was precarious, absurd. Gale’s knees were unreliable at the moment. But he didn’t protest. He leaned in, let it happen. Planted the heel of his boot between John’s shoulder blades, and pressed. Gave permission and command all at once.

“Get on with it.”

And John, like the obedient dog he could be, responded by diving back in with renewed fervour.

His tongue drove into Gale’s cunt, dipped low enough to suck the slick straight from the source. It put Gale on his nose and, oh, how content he was to grind against the strong arch; dragging slick across that blessed ridge. Gale loved that nose, loved it with a certain sinful fondness. Not just for aesthetics—though, he did hope that their children might inherit it—but for utility: its perfect angle, its broad bridge, the way it fit so precisely against his clit like some anatomical key. 

But Gale was aware of his own weight. He knew how to hold himself. Knew the edges of balance and when to pull back. But John, John encouraged him with some imperious, arrogant need. He grabbed Gale’s hips and dragged him down, insisted with his body that Gale take all of him. That Gale sit—fully, dangerously, possessively—on his mouth, on his face.

John, who wasn’t exactly known for thinking ahead, didn’t seem to worry about his nose bridge breaking or neck strain or even his own breathing. He licked as if death would be a fine price for the taste. He did not suffer under Gale’s weight, he worshipped it. Pushed into it. Pulled it down harder. Broad palms and stronger fingers that encouraged Gale to rock his hips, to take what he so clearly wanted.

And when Gale groaned—something raw, shamed, half-swallowed— clit rutting into the thick bone, John groaned louder. A rumble, low and basal, the kind of noise that crawled under the skin. A noise that meant something. An alpha’s purr. A sound John only made when he was locked deep inside, buried to the hilt, knotted and helpless and singing through his teeth. 

But now, he made it with Gale straddling his face.

The vibration of it, the sound of that pleasure, rattled through Gale’s cunt and shot electric through his belly. He almost came, right then. Nearly let go from instinct alone.

“John,” He breathed, quiet, strangled, his voice fraying like old silk. “John, I’m—”

But John didn’t answer, not in language. He answered with his mouth.

He sucked Gale’s clit between his lips, hard. Pulled and tongued and lapped, and oh, the noise—a sickening, beautiful squelch, the kind that no decent soul could pretend not to hear. If anyone had passed the door, they would have known. They would have smelled the heat and want and filth radiating through old pine and dust.

Gale bit the inside of his cheek until it blossomed copper. He didn’t want to finish like this. Not with a whimper. Not with his back slipping against the wall behind him, his knee trembling atop John’s shoulder, his fingers clawing through thick hair like a drowning man grasping kelp. 

But John—God, John—was relentless. Determined. A dog with a bone and the tongue of a sinner.

It wasn’t just the mouth. It was the obedience in it.

The way John had knelt; unasked, unspoken. The way his big hands held him open, reverent, as if Gale’s cunt was worth the possibility of being caught. The way he licked like his life depended on it—because it did, didn’t it? Gale had made him need like this. Had let that primal alpha instinct rise and then bent it, twisted it, until John wanted to serve instead of take.

And still, Gale held the reins.

Even with his thighs shaking, his mouth parted around a breathless moan, he decided. He could end this now—pull away, demand John fuck him instead. He could say no. He always could. John would hate that, not making him finish, not being the one to please Gale. He would suffer far more from it than Gale ever would. That was the quiet rule of their dance.

But he didn’t.

Gale tightened his grip on John’s hair instead, both hands cradling that strong head to hold him, to make use of him. Ground harder. Lowered his boot from John’s back to the floor and stood, both feet planted now, so he could ride it, really ride it, grinding up against John's mouth like he had more to give, like he had a cock to sink down John's throat. One long breath. One low groan. One blinding, pulsing, shattering wave.

It was something golden, to finish like that; silent, breath catching in his throat, whole body going stiff then slack. Gale’s fingers curled, then uncurled, then clenched again. It hurt, a little. The way the orgasm pulled him inside out. The way it made him open, exposed. Seen. Slick spilled hot and heavy over John’s mouth and, still, John didn’t let up. Suckled through it, nuzzled into it, drew it out with delicate, obscene precision. Filled his mouth and gulped it down.

Gale panted above him. His body went slack against the wall. The smell was everywhere now—sweet, pungent, feral. Still, John drank him dry. Still, he lapped up every droplet until Gale had to physically push his head away.

Finally, finally, John pulled away. Kissed his clit on the way like some departing lover. His face was ruined; chin glistening, moustache dark, mouth open in something close to a dazed grin. He looked up at Gale the way a boy might look at a firework he had just set off: dazzled, entranced, eyes blown wide in the dark.

“It’s like you said.” John whispered hoarsely, licking his bottom lip slow, lazy. “Nobody comes out here but you.”

Gale closed his eyes and breathed deep. The silence of the old building swallowed them whole. The floor creaked beneath their shifting weight; the walls held their secrets.

Gale didn't thank him. 

He never did.