#dddne

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky 9:56am

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He can’t stop looking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because he does.

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

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

And something inside him is finally starting to crack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bucky’s still in the water. Staring.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shouldn’t do this.

He knows he shouldn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He opens the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hesitate, brows furrowing. “Scent thing?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it’s not one-sided.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No answer. Of course not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t stir. Peaceful. Claimed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He still feels like a monster.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

One last deep, clumsy thrust.

The knot catches.

Swells.

Locks.

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

And that’s when your eyes flutter open.

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

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

“Bucky…?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not even an inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches. “You never told me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attic is quiet again.

But the silence feels different now.

It feels like home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.

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

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

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

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

“Buck- what-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room goes dead silent.

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

No one says a word.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You already-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No one ruins the moment.

It’s yours.

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh and lean into him.

The morning continues.

Normal.

Except it’s not.

It’s better.

It’s yours.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t answer with words. Just lunges.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That night, the attic room feels different too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I love you,” he says softly.

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

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

The attic is quiet again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mom!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky-”

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

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

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

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

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

That’s all it takes.

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

Then he starts to move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The attic is quiet again.

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

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

His grip turns rock hard.

“What's this now?” And he shoves your three middle fingers into his mouth, inhaling deeply, biting down at the base of them. 

You tried to pull away, but between his teeth and his arm locked around you, there was no escape. He bit down harder, wet velcro muscle sliding and twirling between each digit, sucking on the tips of your fingers before letting them go, and leaving teeth marks. You’re in trouble now.

“Know that taste anywhere, love.” There's fire in his eyes, but not a hint of warmth despite their redness. “Playing with my pussy without me. Without permission.” He tuts at you. “And here I was gonna to reward you for being a good loyal girl. Know you're not s’posed to touch yourself while I’m gone...” His voice was monotone, but he couldn't disguise the calculation and disappointment loaded in his words. 

Your face scorched hot, “I—”

“Look I'm tired and not in a proper state of mind to punish you, so let's just sleep for now.” 

You dropped your eyes and nodded.

He brought a hand up underneath your chin forcing you to look at him. “‘M not angry, know you missed me,” he sweetened his tone up for you, but you didn’t quite believe him deep down. “Come to bed, we'll discuss your punishment in the morning,” and he led you into the bedroom. Tucked into his side, you fell hard against him, drifting blissfully asleep, reunited with your husband.

......

Simon was moving, a light sleeper. It sometimes took him a few days to adjust back to a regular schedule. It was still dark on the other side of your eyelids, but you could hear the faint beginnings of birdsong as you stirred to partial consciousness, just enough to roll over or flip the pillow to the cooler side if you wanted. Your arms felt numb and heavy and your legs were fuzzy, a sign of a damn good dead sleep.

A wash of cold air activated goosebumps shivering across your skin.

Wait. Where did your pajamas go?

You jerked awake, thrashing, but your arms locked you down in place. They were tied above your head to the headboard, but your feet were free. You strained your neck to look around.

“Good, you're awake.”

You exhaled a deep sigh of relief knowing he was there, but a splash of fear doused your insides. Flight or fight kicked in and you tugged at your restraints on instinct, a sharp pain shot through to your left shoulder. The ropes weren't too tight or painful on your skin, as long as you didn't struggle. Usually if Simon tied you up, it was just your hands together in front or behind, but he also had only ever done so when you were awake.

“I've decided what your punishment is going to be.”

A stone dropped into the pit of your stomach and your heart started racing again. You were scared in a sense, not of being hurt, but of the unknown. Anticipation.

“Remember your safeword and colors?” 

You nodded, “yes sir.” 

“Are your restraints comfortable enough? Do I need to adjust them before I start?” 

“They're okay. I'll tell you if it changes but—” He silenced you with a firm hand over your mouth, fingertips digging painfully into the fat of your cheeks and mandible. 

“No more speaking out of turn. Don't make me gag you so we can be safe, pet.” There was something haunting about him, ominous in a way you didn't often get to experience. Primal hunger was the only emotion you could make out in the dark, but his voice kept it leashed in chains of unpolished steel.

“Might need your words for this, best to save them.” Simon moved wordlessly into position and began.

.....

Between his hands and mouth you were three orgasms deep in subspace now; lethargic and moaning, legs shaking like a leaf while he barreled you into a fourth, noises growing more and more inhuman.

Your punishment was the restraints. Hands in rope jail, locked up for crimes committed. Guilty as sin, stinking of sex. They robbed him, stole from him. A pair of thieving criminals that touched what wasn't theirs. Masterminds in their own rite, needy and greedy. They loved to trace and tangle up inside him, make him weak for you, pull him close, tell him how and where you wanted to please him. He couldn't allow you to play unfair this time and turn the tables of your own punishment.

After your fourth, you were drenched and slick, chest heaving. He got up to fetch a towel and repositioned you top of it, fluffy terry cloth material felt like sandpaper scratching your buzzing skin. There was a dull sting in your muscles, tight from tensing, a sharp contrast to the fiery meltdown of your pussy, and the rest of your senses were jacked up to the highest sensitivity setting. Simon checked your hands and the knots that tethered them to the headboard, you wiggled your fingers to show they were feeling okay. He gave you a sip of water and you wheezed your color, then he climbed between your legs once more.

Simon did not ease himself into you, this was a punishment. Ropes, overstimulation, and a rough unforgiving dicking down. As greedy as your cunt was, it struggled to take his massive size, clamping down before he could take his rightful place inside you. Possession clutched at your throat and jaw, spit in your mouth instead of kissing you, slapped your tits, called you a whore, and made bruises with his fingerprints, until he could force the rest of his cock all the way in. 

Simon grunted, fucking you raw and hard. “Fuck this pussy back into the shape o’ me. Remind her who she belongs to.” His harsh thrusts made your body lurch, adding slack to your ties, breasts bouncing, flesh rippling from impact. The taste of iron leaked onto your tongue from biting your lip to keep words from forming. The sound of skin smacking, lewd squelching, and your moans filled the bedroom. He knew your body was primed for your next orgasm, walls fluttering and body jolting like an earthquake. Reaching down, he furiously rubbed your clit and bullied your g-spot with his tip until it sent shockwaves of prickly pleasure through you. “Cream my cock, slut. S'what you wanted innit?”

The only reason you were coming at all was because he wanted you to. You didn't beg him to stop despite the overstimulation that forced tears to down your face and your muscles to spasm. You loved to turn boneless and brainless for him to use. You needed him to be whole and he provided the hard structure you needed to go soft around him. Yin and yang. 

“Gonna make you come so many times you can't come without me.” His plan was to ruin you for everyone else. As if he hadn't already done that and married you because of it.

“You promised me you would wait. How am I supposed to trust you when I'm not around?” He looked down at you with a sneer, knowing how to tug on your heartstrings and summon tears.

“Won't happen again, sir. I'm so sorry,” you whimpered.

Simon pulled out of you so fast it gave you reverse whiplash, like being turned inside out. The air that he'd been beating out of your lungs finally rushed back in, filling you with enough oxygen to get you high and floaty. His big hands slapped down, roughly gripped your hips and flipped you onto your front, ropes twisting in place. He pulled your hips up and shoved his cock back inside. Fingers hooking into the softest parts of your waist, he pulled you back to meet his violent thrusts, hitting deep enough to make you gasp. 

“Like hell it won't, slag. Can't follow simple directions.” Simon punctuated his words with the heavy crack of his hand on your rear, and he laid a few more into you before you convulsed around him. Head buried face-first into the mattress, your tears stained the sheets, and you gasped for what little air you could find. Your legs were liquid and couldn’t support you anymore, so he tightened his grip and held up your hips. He kept fucking you while you rag-dolled, body collapsing under his relentless brutality and the extreme euphoria forced into you by another mind-altering orgasm. 

Your hips fell helplessly off his cock when he let go. One day he's going to blow your back out, paralyze you, and keep fucking you anyways. Sick freak. Your back was sore from his trusts compressing your spine and the angle of the arch he bent you into. You relaxed what you could into the comforts of your bedding, rubbing your thighs together, toes curling and cracking. His broad hands came up to your face, one moved hair out of the way, and the other applied a bone-crushing grip to your jaw, forcing you to look at him.  

“Color?”

There was none in his eyes. With his bottomless stamina, he could keep you tied up like his personal sex toy and use you for days. He hadn't finished once in the hour (hours?) since the session started, and you knew he had to be aching for release. You twitched in your restraints, but the silken bite from the rope couldn't overide how much you wanted to touch him and coax him to come. You'd do anything to make that happen.

“Green.”

He pulled your ankles apart and slot in to fuck you prone. You moaned and your eyes rolled to the back of your head when he stuffed his fat cock in you again. Each position hit a little different, this time the tingling radiated in your kidneys when he pounded you from the back, dislodging every broken breath from your lungs. He was reaching depths that only he could navigate. Only he knew what buttons to press and strokes to place to have you unraveling.

A hand wormed its way underneath to press above your pubic bone. “Another,” he commanded. On cue, the band tightened and snapped. You exploded while he fucked you with abandon, squirting and shaking, choking on sobs, while he crammed you full. “That's it, filthy slut. Didn't put a towel down for nothin’.”

Simon pulled away from you once more and moved you onto your back. Your fluids were dripping wet down his cock, he flexed or twitched and it bobbed in the air. He was leaking precum and his pubic hair was slicked down and frothy from your previous climbaxes. 

“Clean me off.” He walked himself closer to your face and touched the tip of him to your swollen lips, and you greedily sucked him into your mouth, worshiping with your tongue. It was salty, and sweet, and sticky when it transferred and dried on your face. His hands cradled the back of your head forcing you to take more than you were ready for.

Tears welled up, drool filled up your mouth, and you struggled to switch to breathing through your nose. He pulled you off by your hair, saw the glassy eyed expression on your face, and scowled. “Cock drunk whore enjoyed being face fucked too much. Can't have that.”

Simon moved back to between your legs, using the towel to wipe off the arousal that spilled from your bullied hole and coated your thighs. A smack of his hand sent a sharp shock to your blistering clit, then a couple fingers scooped some of your cum from your core and reapplied it to work the hard bud rapidly back and forth with the rough pads of his fingers. 

Your body panicked, stuttering breath and hacking up your lungs. It hurt. It burned. It was too much.

The overstimulation caught up with you and you felt only pain. Your eyes went wide, “yellow-ow-ow-ow,” you cried. And Simon backed off your poor sensitive clit.

He trailed a hand down one of your trembling legs, his touch gentler than before. Normally he would reward you for using your colors, but that would have to wait until after he finished playing with you. “You should be thanking me for this, letting you come so many times. What is it seven? No...it would have been, but you just couldn't handle it. What happened to my greedy girl?”

You writhed where words failed, seeking any form of solace on your supercharged skin, but everywhere he touched blazed and scratched instead. The world spun around you, like the forever falling feeling of intoxication.

“But you're not done till I say so,” he whispered in your ear. “You're mine. Any orgasm you have belongs to me.”

He grabs your face again, squishing your cheeks, bringing your eyes to connect with his again, and with the other he worked his fingers back inside, starting with two, then three, targeting that spot that turned your vision dark. Your clit was too painful, so he'd have to be rough with you in other ways, and he knew your cunt could take a beating better than anything else, so resilient and hungry for attention. It's what drove you to break the rules in the first place. 

But if you never broke the rules, then he'd never have cause to punish you. It was all fun and games as long as you didn't make a bad habit of it. 

You were on the ropes now, beat up, bruised, and broken. His favorite little toy, marked and strung up in red for him. Fuck he was so hard for you, fighting his own release. He loosened his hold on your face. “Open.” And your tongue lazily rolled out of your parted lips. He spit, your walls pulled tight around his fingers, and you swallowed dutifully. “There she is. Go on. Take it then.” Your legs tensed and your mouth hung wide open, eyes fluttering shut, while you rode another wave of pleasure on his thick fingers. 

Before you had a chance to fall back to earth, he ripped his fingers out and stuffed them in your mouth. He bent down to leave bite marks down your chest, on your breasts, stomach, and down to your hips. Your lips curled around licking and biting down on his thick fingers, gagging down when he shoved them deeper over your tongue to the back of your throat. You closed your eyes and tears escaped out the corners, savoring the taste of yourself on his skin. He pulled them out and you released them with a wet pop, licking your chapped lips after.

Simon molded your lifeless lower body to him next. “You don't even deserve the cum I'm gonna pump you full of. Was saving it up just for you.” He slid all the way into your aching heat, lunging closer. Taking your lips into his mouth only to bite down on them, tasting the dried blood from your earlier split lip, he chewed and pulled at the tender flesh till it split again. It was not a forgiving kiss, and he let himself enjoy it a little too much, groaning deep enough for the vibrations to pass from his chest into yours. Releasing your face, your head dropped back onto the bed, bracketed by your weak arms. 

His grip moved to encircle your neck and waist, pinning you in place while he fucked you breathless. You felt him up in your ribs, piercing your diaphragm. He was a lump in your throat that couldn't be swallowed down. Your pulse hammered beneath his grip as you came once more, eyes rolling back and wet heat sucking him deeper. You were scraped like a fur hide being turned into leather, stretched thin across the universe. Head in the clouds was too grounded of an expression to process, let alone comprehend. 

.....

You must have blacked out, or died and come back to life. When you came to, your legs were thrown over Simon's shoulders, knees pressed to your shoulders. He was splitting you in half with his cock, and drunk on the sweet friction. A static cling consumed your hands and feet but slowly dissipated.

“Maybe I otta get you ol’ big and round with my kid so you can't touch yourself wi’out me. Huh?” He splays his hand under your belly button pressing down on his cock moving inside while you gush around him. “Want me to fuck a fat baby in you to keep you busy while I'm gone?” Making no effort to hit your sweet spot, in a trance, he watched himself breach your depths, brutalizing your cervix with each thrust. He knew what he was doing. “You like that? Pussy so tight on me, like she wants to be bred. Come on, I know you wanna be full.” 

He was sweaty and panting over you. The wet sounds of sticky skin slapping proved there was already a thick mess running down your crack.

How many times had he come inside you? You didn't get to feel him twitching inside while he filled you with his first load or hear him groan at his peak when he lost himself inside of you.

Another punishment, worse than all the others. Now you really saw things. How could you be so selfish? You sniffled, lip quivering, tears welling. “Sorry—so sorry—love—you.” Your voice was hoarse.

Simon shushed your sweet sobs, “That's right. Let it out.” He tipped you over the edge with more dirty words, “One last time, just to make sure it takes.”

After your ninth, he took your hands down, undoing the ropes, massaging blood flow back into them, and easing the ebbing tension from the prolonged stretch. For the first part of aftercare, he made the sweet kind of welcome home love to you in the warmth of sunrise that spilled over your bed. Kissing you languid and deep, praising you, driving his spend deeper into you, slowly rolling his hips against your clit just how you liked, kind and soft hands caressing until you came together by design. 

Ten times you came, he counted. A record for you sure, but to him each one meant something more. One for each week he was gone. One for each month until your baby would arrive. One for every carat in your wedding ring. One for each deployment you've welcomed him home from. 

(Eleven would actually kill you though, so it might be for the best to not let him catch you next time.)

temptation swirled around the pair of you like a carnal mist. sweat slicked bodies surrounded each other as heavy breaths tangled between parted lips, amongst the lust-filled air. the mattress squealed under the weight of your stepdad's presence, hovering above you.

bucky's knee was slotted between your legs, toned thigh pressed firmly against your panty-clad pussy. His solid hands were everywhere: lightly tugging on your hair, gripping your waist, and palming your breast. ravenous lips brushed yours as his metal hand settled on your jaw, tipping your head back at the perfect angle, so that he could lick into your mouth. your taste was on his tongue with a vengeance as if he couldn't rid himself of you even if he wanted to, which he didn't.

he'd jumped you as soon as he stumbled in the door, shedding the week-long mission along with his clothes. steel blue gaze landed on you instantly from your spot on the couch, and he hadn't bothered with checking if your mother was home. his strong, hulking frame crowded you, plucking you from the sofa and craddling you to his chest. you squeezed his torso, every bitter emotion melting away from the feeling of his embrace.

"missed my girl," he'd murmured into your hair. without warning, he'd lifted you, slinging you over his shoulder like a weightless sack of potatoes. you giggled breathlessly as he carried you down the length of the hallway to the bedroom with his palm braced over the round of your ass.

usually such a gentle man, who treated you as if you were as fragile as thin glass, he had tossed you onto the bed with a roughness you were unfamiliar with. it momentarily stunned you as your body bounced onto squeaky springs.

"buck," you gasped, but the surprise in your tone fell on deaf ears as he climbed on top of you.

his nose nudged the crook of your neck, lips pressing into you as he whispered against your skin, "say it, sweet girl. c'mon, tell me what i wanna hear. been deprived of hearin' those pretty lips say it."

you knew exactly what he wanted; it was the same thing every time. it was crucial that he heard it. he never begged, but he asked with urgency. sometimes you liked to make him wait for it until he was so eager that he started demanding it. but the super soldier seemed drained, bone-tired, as the week away weighed heavily on his shoulders, and he was desperate for relief.

so, you gave him what he craved. "i'm yours, daddy," you crooned, arching into his touch.

he moaned, leaning back with his eyes blown wide. disbelief was etched onto his features, as if no matter how many times you convinced him that the statement was true, it still sent him reeling.

bucky licked his bottom lip, drawing it in between his teeth with a hard bite. "that's right, baby. all mine," he confirmed before dropping his head to capture your lips in a heated kiss.

that's where you found yourself now, tongues sliding against one another as you clawed at his flexing shoulder blades. at one point, you were pulling him in, deepening the kiss. the next, you were shoving at his chest, trying to catch your breath.

breaking the kiss with a ragged exhale, he quirked a brow at your sudden behavior change. he gathered your wrists in his grasp, pinning them above your head as he inched closer to your face, noses nearly bumping with the proximity.

"what's the matter?" he asked, scanning your features.

you squirmed beneath him, struggling against his hold as worry crawled up your back like an anxiety-riddled cat. "she's going to be home soon," you answered.

of course, he knew who she was, but he didn't seem troubled by that information. your mother worked overnight shifts most days—that's how this all started in the first place—but unfortunately, that wasn't the case tonight.

"i'll be real quick. wanted to take my time with my precious girl, but we'll just have to save that for another time," he promised, punctuating it with a kiss to the tip of your nose.

reaching below your skirt, his fingers grazed over the lace center of your panties, sending little jolts of pleasure up your spine. you canted your hips off the bed, legs closing on instinct.

though his thigh kept you open, he spread you further. his flesh hand held down your inner thigh against the comforter until his knee came up to replace it. hard bone dug into silk skin as he kept you open. his other knee shifted, hooking under your opposite thigh and driving it upward until your knee was level with your midsection.

writhing, you thrashed against your restraints, but his grip only tightened around your wrists. "hold still f'me, love. gotta check in with this sweet pussy. did she miss me, too?"

a single digit traced the inner edge of your panties, adjacent to the unmistakable damp spot. "hmm…sure looks like she missed me," he muttered smugly with a wink.

moving the lace to the side, he revealed your cunt to his eager eyes. he parted the lips of your pussy with his middle and forefinger, watching the way your hole clenched around nothing.

"well, would you look at that, she's sayin' hi to daddy," he smirked. two antsy fingers skimmed up the length of your cunt, gathering your wetness and flicking over your throbbing clit. he brought the pair up to your face, tapping your bottom lip.

"go on, open. want you to taste yourself. taste my pussy, tell me how good she tastes," he growled. yet, you didn't obey, not when dread was clogging up your lungs, making it hard to breathe. it was difficult to let go when the unsettling thought of your mom coming home to see what her husband was doing to you, observing how you were unraveling for someone you had no claim to.

bucky tutted when you didn't listen, his flesh hand wrapping around your jaw in an unwavering hold. his two soaked fingers hovered above your cheek, not wanting to smear any of your arousal on you without giving a mouthful first.

"where'd my sweet girl go—the one who always listens to what i say?" he asked, tongue poking into his cheek in irritation.

"she's going to-" you started, but he immediately cut you off.

"no she ain't. stop worryin', and lemme take care of ya." still, you persisted, not offering him an opening into your mouth. he grumbled, squeezing your jaw a little rougher. "y'know daddy'll fuck you real good and hard, make all those worries disappear. you just gotta lemme in, baby."

you finally obeyed, separating your top lip from your bottom to show him the cave of your mouth. "there's my sweet girl," he praised, relinquishing his grip. "now, how 'bout you tell me how we taste together."

without another word, he spat straight into your mouth, his saliva instantly coating your tongue. directly after, he shoved his fingers into the gap with a nod, silently persuading you to close your mouth. you sealed your lips around him, sucking your juices off his digits. the combination of his spit and your wetness danced on your tongue in a harmonious blend.

you hummed, eyelashes fluttering shut as you lapped at his fingers. raising your head off the mattress, you took the pair deeper. "oh, fuck," he cursed lowly. "look at you. how does that taste? do we taste good together?"

you nodded, with a languid swirl of your tongue circling his fingers. withdrawing his digits with a soft pop, he relocated them back to your pussy. his calloused fingerpads pushed solidly against your entrance, your hole promptly expanding around the width of the pair. you let out a high-pitched moan as they thrusted into you without caution.

"sorry, love," he apologized half-heartedly. "gotta stretch you out. you haven't taken daddy's cock in a whole week, and those little fingers don't do much to keep you open f'me, huh? bet they don't even get you off now that i've spoiled you with my fat cock."

they drove in and out harshly, and he splayed the inserted digits, making room for himself. you yelped, bowing your back as he forced your body to adjust to him.

"i know, i know," he cooed. "but i gotta be quick. promise, i'll be gentle next time. just need you so bad. been achin' for my pretty girl. haven't even touched myself because nothin' feels as good as you."

the wet squelch of your dripping cunt echoed off the walls as he continued to finger you vigorously. you were panting, chest heaving with sharp intakes of air. "please, bucky. give me your cock. i can take it, i promise," you pleaded.

a huff of laughter escaped him at your impatience. "a lil demanding, aren't we?" he said, extracting his fingers. He held them up, the pair glistening with your arousal, and slid them between his lips, sucking them clean.

a deep rumble arose from his chest before he released them. "mmm…got me thinkin' 'bout sneakin' in 'ere tonight when you're asleep, and slip under these covers just to eat this sweet pussy."

he freed your wrists, moving both hands to clutch your waist and reposition you. "ooh, i wondered how you'd sound," he continued. "would you make cute lil sleepy noises, or would you sing for me, without carin' 'bout who hears?"

shifting you onto your side, he lifted your right leg, resting it on his opposite shoulder. the clang of his belt buckle, followed by the zipper on his jeans, filled the space. he tugged down the denim that hugged his hips, enough to slip his dick out of the confines of his boxers.

you felt him tap his tip against your center as he lined himself up. clutching your ankle with his free hand, he slipped the tip through your slick folds and pushed in gently. a shared groan was torn from you and your stepdad as he stretched you out; his fingers had nothing on the girth of his cock.

"fuckkk," he rasped. "i missed you. missed how perfectly you fit 'round me."

He seized your leg, metal-plated fingers digging into your smooth skin. he hugged it to his chest, luring your ankle up to his lips, planting a lingering kiss on the bone before burying himself to the hilt. he gave you a deep, measured grind before he drew back and slammed right back in.

you bent backward, your spine curving at a delicious angle. eyes squeezed shut, and hands searching for anything to grab, you shrieked loudly. bucky's thrusts were punishing, making your tits bounce with every jolt of his hips.

surrendering his hold on your ankle, his hand wandered up your front, fingers getting briefly caught in the material of your skirt. his hand snaked beneath your shirt, cupping one of your breasts and massaging it gingerly.

that only caused your head to tilt back further, neck craned, as you faced the bed frame. yet, your eyes stayed closed, the creases near your eyelids even more prominent now. his palm migrated from under your shirt, drifting over your collarbone, and settling on your neck.

he didn't choke you, but with the leverage he had, he turned your head, forcing you to face him. "c'mon, baby," he muttered. "wanna see you. wanna be able to see when those pretty eyes glaze o'er."

you peeled your eyes open, unfocused eyes locking on steel blue ones. "oh, poor thing," bucky mocked. "you're already gone, aren't you? you drunk on daddy's cock? my lil cock drunk girl."

your jaw went slack, babbling incoherently, "f-feels…'s…g-good."

chuckling darkly, he tilted his head, observing how your face contorted with pleasure. his dick was an angry force, driving into you fiercely. you felt every vein and ridge of him as he glided through your plush walls. manicured toes curled next to his head as he hit that sweet spot, grinding up into you when he was fully sheathed in your cunt.

he leaned forward, pinning your leg between your bodies. his palm scooped your head up, lifting it slightly to gaze into your eyes. the eye contact was intense as he pounded you into the mattress below. you nearly got lost in his eyes for a second, but he dragged you right back to the present when he increased his pace.

you were whimpering from the brutal build of your orgasm. the coil in your gut was winding taut, and it was threatening to explode. your cunt clenched around him, causing him to lurch forward.

"you close?" he asked, voice strained from the effort it took not to cum right then and there. you could only moan in response as your hands curled in the sheets. "oh, pretty baby, you're gonna make me cum. gonna cum right inside ya, fill ya right up. you want that?"

you nodded frantically, your eyes welling up with tears as the intensity behind the rise of your climax rattled the cage of your ribs. the tears spilled over, cascading down the swell of your cheeks.

"shh…i gotcha, love," he assured, slipping a knuckle up your face to catch the falling tears. "cum f'me."

you didn't need very much convincing because your pussy was already rippling around him. you came with a broken cry, your eyes rolling back as it crashed into you with the full weight of a wrecking ball. you shuddered, your leg shaking beside his head. you rode the wave of your orgasm as he worked you through it, proceeding to ram into your drooling cunt.

"that's it, baby—fuck—" he grunted, still holding back. "you look so pretty when you cum."

bucky's thrusts turned sloppy as his own climax threatened to take over his form. he moaned gravelly, "'m gonna fill you up. gonna put a baby in you, sweet girl. make you all beautiful and round with my child."

he huffed out a dry laugh. "what would your ma say, huh? we'd be caught red-handed, the evidence of what we've been doin' would be right in your swollen belly."

one of your hands came up, even in the daze of your euphoria, cupping the back of his neck to draw him nearer. "i don't care. fill me, daddy. make me yours," you begged, your voice utterly wrecked.

that did him in; his mind was reeling, and his eyes darkened. before you knew it, his hips stuttered in their movement, and he was spilling into. loads of cum coated your walls as he called out your name. it seeped from the small seam of your pulsating pussy, dripping onto the clean sheets below.

holding himself there, he reveled in your warmth as he came down from his high. he gazed down at you affectionately, eyes gleaming with a swarm of emotions. he knew how wrong this was, but he couldn't find it in his heart enough to care. you were catching your breath, unaware of the feelings that were swirling in his chest.

when he pulled out, he glanced down at where you were joined. your combined release trickled down your cunt. "ah-ah," he tutted, gripping his cock to shovel the cum back into your throbbing hole with his tip. "gotta push it back in so it sticks, yeah?"

you inhaled shakily, your head lulling to the side. a tired, sweet grin stretched across your lips while you watched him with hooded eyes.

"what're you smilin' at?" he teased.

"nothing," you responded. "just missed you."

in that moment, it felt like you hung the stars for him. his chest ached from those three simple words. if he were being honest with himself, he would've said he felt like half of himself was missing in his week away. instead, he murmured, "missed you too, sweet girl."

“How’d you meet him again?” Hana asks, knees pulled up to her chest.

“Would you believe me if I said we met because the gym? My parents got me a membership for my birthday and I’ve been using that sauna like crazy. Sunghoon and I happened to share one because the rest was full and well… we started talking and running into each other. It’s crazy because I’d never seen him before and then all of a sudden I was seeing him everywhere.”

“How romantic,” Jiwoo swoons, peering over your phone to look at Sunghoon’s abs. “I can’t believe you have a boyfriend now.”

“Oh my god!” Iseul squeals when she scrolls past a picture. A nude. Not yours, no, the four of you share your nudes with each other for approval before they go out to boys. It’s Sunghoon’s. He angles his phone camera down to show himself laying on his bed and gripping his cock with his free hand, fade and cock fully in the frame. “His dick is so big!”

“Let me see!” Hana exclaims, looking at the picture. “Oh my god, Y/N. You’re actually crazy. How does that thing fit in your pussy?”

“A lot of prep work,” you giggle. “Sunghoon always says I’m really tight and that we need to keep fucking so I can get comfortable with his size. He’s so sweet and considerate like that, girls.”

“I need a man like that, shit.”

“He sends you videos too?!” Iseul says with an excited laugh, her face turning red and she presses play on Sunghoon, stark naked in his bathroom after a shower, chiseled abs on his play. He films himself through the mirror as he jacks off with his hand, groaning while he masturbates.

“Need your tight pussy,” Sunghoon moans, eyebrows furrowing as his face contorts into pleasure. “Can’t stop thinking about last night, baby. Made me wanna take the condom off, if I’m being honest. Can we try that soon? Can we try raw sex? I promise it feels so much better without a condom.”

“It felt amazing,” you tell them.

Your phone rings. Speaking of the devil.

“Hi Hoonie, you’re on speakerphone!”

“Hi baby,” comes his raspy voice. Your friends squeal but you shush them. “You forgot your toothbrush at my place. I didn’t want you to go without one at your sleepover.”

“So romantic,” Iseul mouths.

“Oh shit, thank you so much, Hoonie. I’ll be outside in a second!”

Your friends follow you out the front door. Sunghoon leans against the side of his car with his arms crossed over his chest, smirking at you as you run towards him. You can’t help but get really excited over seeing him, especially when he wears those tank tops that show his toned arms.

Sunghoon bends down to kiss you, pulling your arms around his neck when his tongue pushes against your own. You feel the stares of your friends as he kisses you but you don’t care when it feels so good like this. He licks your tongue three times before pulling away and presenting you your toothbrush in a baggie.

“Thank you,” you whisper, looking up at him whilst biting your lip.

“Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” Sunghoon looks past your shoulder and sees your friends. “Hi girls.”

A chorus of “Hi Sunghoon!” echos behind you and he smirks to himself before putting his eyes back on you.

“Ditch them for me?”

“You know I can’t, Daddy. I haven’t seen them in forever.”

He nods and bends down to kiss you one more time. When he pulls away, his hands come up to grope your tits from over your sleep top. “I understand. Just miss you and fucking these tits, is all.”

“Tomorrow,” you remind him. “I’m all yours tomorrow.”

He nods and brushes his thumbs over your hardened nipples, licking his lips before looking at up at. “Hurry back to your friends, baby. I like knowing they wish they could be you.”

“They were so jealous when I showed them your nudes,” you giggle, to which Sunghoon pinches your left nipple slightly.

“Did you show them the videos of me cumming for you?”

“I’ll show them tonight, Daddy, I promise.”

“Good,” he mutters under his breath, hand coming behind you to grip your ass before giving it a spank. You hear your friends squeal behind you, not bothering to turn around and look. “Love it when you brag about me, baby. Make those girls see what they’ll never have.”

You push forward until your lips ghost over his own, putting your hand on his crotch and giving it a squeeze. “My cock.”

“Go back to your little friends before I fuck you on the street.”

“Promise?” You ask coyly, pecking his lips before pulling away. Sunghoon grits his teeth but pushes you away from him reluctantly.

“Enjoy your sleepover. Tomorrow, you’re all mine.”

~~~~~~~

“Shit, baby. I could kiss your tits until I die.”

Sunghoon strips you of your clothes the second the two of you enter his bedroom. There’s nothing but pure, raw horniness radiating from him the minute he sets his eyes on your chest, tits bouncing when he pushes you back on the mattress. You make a show of it, bouncing back on the comforter and arching your back to purposely make your tits jiggle. You go so far as to squish them together with your arms, clasping your hands in front of you until your nipples aim at Sunghoon, who settles between your legs as he pushes a pillow behind your head.

He leans his head down to peck each nipple, the sensation making your pussy jolt. Sunghoon cups your breasts, admiring the way the flesh spills from his hands. He zeroes in on your perky nipple and you feel the way he grinds his cock against the mattress beneath the two of you.

“Perfect tits,” he moans, fingers finding the buds as he pinches them. You gasp lightly and Sunghoon grins at that. “Daddy loves your tits, baby. They’re so soft and sexy. Fuck. They’re gorgeous.” He bends his head down until his lips attach to your right nipple and the graze of his teeth along with the flick of his tongue makes your back arch into him.

“Keep sucking on them, Daddy.”

“Smells so good too.” Sunghoon inhales as he sucks on you. “Fucking sexy.”

“Do you like my young tits, Daddy?”

Sunghoon groans against your nipple, harshly sucking on your bud when he hears your question before moving to your neglected one. “I love your young tits, kiddo. So perky and fuckable. Don’t you remember what I told you? Younger girls have the sexiest tits. So fresh and full of milk.”

The feeling of his mouth makes your clit ache. Sunghoon’s expert tongue licks over your sensitive spots until you’re mewling for him, hands coming to the back of his head for support. It’s not hard to start grinding and rolling your hips until your own crotch is rubbing against his covered dick, his hard and lengthy cock imprinting themselves between your covered pussy lips.

The sounds Sunghoon’s mouth makes is pure sex. He practically makes out with both nipples, making a wet mess of your buds by drooling all over them before sucking it back up.

He pulls away and lifts his head, dropping a fat glob on your right nipple. “You have beautiful nipples, kiddo.” Sunghoon bends down to lick it up. “I can’t get enough of them. I want them in my mouth every single day. I need your gorgeous big tits suffocating my face before I go to work. Can’t believe I’m the first man to worship this incredible rack.”

Sunghoon grips both of your tits until his fingers dig into the flesh as he pushes them together until your nipples touch, bending down to gently nip on them with his teeth. It makes you buck your hips into his lap, making him push his entire weight until you’re trapped between him and the mattress. Sunghoon groans against your nipples and flicks his eyes up at you, drinking in your already fucked out face. You’ve always been so sensitive. Sunghoon says it’s because you’re not as experienced as sex as he is, given your young age. But he wants to be the person to help you mature sexually as a woman and tells you every little girl needs a Daddy to help them discover how good playing with other people’s bodies feel.

You feel so alive when you’re with him. Sunghoon outranks all of the immature boys who only grope you when they’re teasing, flirting without meaning anything behind their words. Sunghoon is intentional and when he wants you, he tells you.

No guess work. No ghosting. Sunghoon tells you when he’s horny and he tells you to tell him the same. Now, your pussy’s never empty and despite having to sneak out of your house to meet up with him or tell your parents you’ll be working out when you’re really sleeping with Sunghoon, it’s all worth it because he knows how to play with your pussy and always leaves you with warm cum somewhere in or on your body.

Sunghoon’s hold on your tits gets stronger when he lifts his hips up just to slam them back down, dry humping your covered pussy, the flimsy material do doubt wet and ruined from your arousal and the precum leaking from his boxers. He moans against your tits, pressing his face between until his nose gets trapped in your chest, inhaling before sticking his tongue out to lick between your boobs.

“Play with these while I get my cock out,” Sunghoon mutters in a haste. He reluctantly pulls away from you but rushes to stand on the bed to strip himself of the fabric, big, girth cock springing out and sticking parallel to the floor. He’s so hard it hurts. His cock jumps at the first contact of his warm palm and he turns around to see you jiggling your tits between your hands. Sunghoon stares at the way your nipples move every time you push your chest up onto the bed to simulate missionary. He looks at the way your bib breasts move up and down like he’s really fucking you.

“We’re not using a fucking condom today,” Sunghoon growls, eyes looming over you like he’s a predator and you’re his unlucky prey.

He kneels back onto the bed, larger and taller frame practically towering over you as he nudges the tip of his huge fucking cock against your covered pussy rubbing himself back and forth until it causes hot friction by your clit. You whine out for him when Sunghoon slaps your covered nub with his dick over and over again, smirking at the way your eyes twist in horrified pleasure.

“I love the way your pussy feels when I rub them over your panties, kiddo. Do you know how fucking good the fabric feels on my cock? Girls nowadays want to be completely naked but I like that you keep them on for me. Fuck, baby, you’re so wet. Wetting my cock every time I slap this cute fucking clit.” He slaps on it again, making you moan out for him. “Wonder what it would feel like if I pushed it here…”

Sunghoon moves his dick until his cockhead nudges your covered asshole. His tip pushes uncomfortable by the wrinkled hole, making your gasp and clutch into your tits for stability. Sunghoon moans and licks his lips when you do, shallowly thrusting his dick against your asshole.

“No Sunghoon—”

“Your asshole is perfect,” he groans, ignoring you in favor of thrusting it against you one more time before applying pressure. Your asshole feels like it’s being penetrated even though it’s not and you can’t help but let out a squeal, clenching out of sheer vulnerability. But that makes Sunghoon chuckle. He finally pulls away and puts your legs by his side until he’s pulling your wet panties to the side, exposing your freshly waxed pussy. “One day, I’ll teach you how good anal feels. There’s nothing better than fucking a tight, wet hole, kiddo.” Sunghoon puts his thumb into your wet slit, gliding the pad around while occasionally dipping himself in a few times. “Waxed it smooth for me… you’re a good girl doing that I say. I love fucking you like this, feels so good when I have you on your knees and my balls slap against your smooth pussy.”

Sunghoon pushes himself in until he’s buried to the hilt, mouth latching onto your nipple as he thrusts inside of you. It’s primal, the way he starts to fuck. It’s like his cock and bios have a mind of their own when he enters your tight hole. The friction is too delicious and the warmth generating from your touching laps feels heavenly. Sunghoon’s tongue licks and sucks on your nipple as he moans against you, balls hitting your asscheeks the harder he fucks you.

You’ll never get over his girth cock, nor will you ever forget the first time he put it inside of you. God, you were so sensitive back then and could barely take two inches before you came. Sunghoon had only fucked you shallowly that night, watching your cum coat the tip of his cock over the condom, back before you agreed to have raw sex. He loves it when he gets to feel you, calling your pussy really sexy because it’s so young and untouched.

“Daddy can’t get enough of this pussy,” he groans. “Some people might think this is wrong, but I can’t help how I feel.” Sunghoon lifts his head and with his hands still gripping your breasts, he bend down to kiss you, whispering against them. “Can’t help that I love younger girls. You fulfill my every fantasy, kiddo. Such a tiny pussy and gorgeous fucking tits, there’s nothing better, I swear. My perfect little girl.”

You cum at that, white hot blinding lights shining in your eyes as you clench around Sunghoon. He moans and throws his head back before opening his eyes to watch the way your breasts jiggle every time he fucks you.

“Fuckkkk your tits make me so fucking horny. I’m close, kiddo. Daddy wants to fuck them.”

Sunghoon pulls out in a haste while spitting between your boobs. He slots his dick in between and growls when he sees your breasts perfectly covering him up until it disappeared between you. He’s got to the touch and he hold your tits in place, both of his legs on either side of your body while he ruts his dick between your big tits.

“Nothing better than cumming all over this rack,” Sunghoon groans as he chases his high, dragging his cock against your chest. You stick your tongue out and he bumps his tip against the flat surface. “Fucking hell, Daddy’s gonna cum all over your gorgeous breasts.”

He cums in thick white ropes, spraying across your tits, under your chin, and onto your lips. Sunghoon tastes salt but delicious and warm. You look up and his face is scrunched in pleasure as he comes down from his high, grinding his still-hard cock in his own cum before pulling himself away from your chest, aligning himself back against your pussy. Pushing himself back inside of you, Sunghoon makes you gasp and push your chest towards him.

Leon's heavy words roll off his tongue in shame and into your ears causing you to panic, even though, physically you're unable to react. “I can’t stop filling you up, oh goddd, I’ll- I’ll be a good dad I swear” his moans slightly going up in pitch at the end. If you hadn’t been here for long, and seen how he is. You would’ve thought his apologies and promises were genuine, but you know better. He takes a free hand to grab your nipple and pinches it, hard, you finally let out the small squeak he’s been dying to hear.

The pain brings you back to reality, which he gets off on doing. He doesn't like it when your mind wonders off from him, he likes keeping you present to feel everything he's doing to you.

“Y-you, you must really like it this time, you’re being so sweet to me today. Not clawing or biting at me, heh” of course you're not fighting back. He spent the first week after kidnapping you, raping you into submission. You're spent, and unable to muster up a fight anymore. His young boyish look doesn’t seem to match the amount of strength he's able to conjure up when he wants to have his way with you.

His hips are still fucking into you at a steady and rough pace, your creamy pussy wrapping around his cock sooo good for him. If he didn’t know you so well now, he’d think he finally broke you to start liking this, to start liking him. But he knows better. Leon closes his eyes to recall the memory of the way your face tightened up when he finally bullied every inch of his heavy cock inside of your cunt for the first time, before you went nonverbal.

He's not too experienced in sex, but he knows he's a bit thicker than his peers, which in a way makes him feel better about it.

He takes his head out from the crook of your neck to look down at your face. Your face holds no expression, just looking up at the ceiling with beads of tears rolling down the sides your face. Your lack of emotion throws him off a little bit, so he tries something else to bring you back to him again.

Leon lets go of your nipple to slip his hand down to your pussy, wiggling his thumb on your clit that it took a second for him to find. Trying to imitate what he saw a guy to do another girl in a porno he saw the other day. Your body involuntarily jerks from the sudden pressure.

“Mhmmm you're shaking, means you're close right?” Finally. He thinks to himself, finally doing something right. "Cum on my cock, please cum on my cock, please, please c'mon" he whines. Speeding the rutting of his hips up, the squelching sound of your pussy being filled and fucked out makes the sides of Leon's mouth raise. His thumb covered in your slick as he rubs on the bud harder.

"Fuck, I feel you squeezing me. Are you cumming? It's okay, I'm close too", your body answers his question against your will, your legs closing in around his waist for a beat while your cunt tightens and spasms around him while a loud groan pushing pass your lips by force.

“nughnnn” Your face immediately growing warm with guilt all while his says the complete opposite, brightly lit up from realizing he made you gush on his cock.

"Yessss, ugh-fuckkk" he whispers to himself, now focusing on his own high. His hips loses its rhythm before going still with one last thrust, making sure he's lodged so deep inside you, deep enough to fill you up with his seed, hoping to follow through with his promise from earlier.

Still inside you, letting his cum take, Leon lays firmly on top of you, his face going back to the warmth of your neck. Giving it a small peck before his proud smile is wiped from his face. You're still shaking.

Why are you still shaking?

He slightly lifts himself from off your chest, his cock now soft yet still being warmed by your pussy, to find that your head is still towards the chipped ceiling. Only now, your eyes are shut and your lips are quivering in a pout. Unable to hold in your cries, you begin to wail. He wipes the tears from your eyes as they fall, leaning in to give you a long kiss on the side of your lips.

A Close Call cowboykylo69 on ao3 [rough sex]

Beg @amanitacowboy [edging]

Beyond My Skin, Deep In My Bones @djarins-wife [breeding kink, rough sex, spanking]

Bleed For Me series @saradika (mand’alor!vampire!din x f reader)

Beskar Doll series JustAGalWhoWrites on ao3 (brat tamer! Din x f reader)

Best Kept Secret Chapter Six: Torment series @lincolndjarin "din djarin is a little shit, helmet stays on" (bodyguard! Din x f reader)

Close Quarters cptnbvcks on ao3 (dom! Din x f reader)

Colosseum Capers @beefrobeefcal (Din x Dieter Bravo x f reader)

Darkness Trilogy series @queenofslowburn (demon! Din x witch! reader)

Despoliation Of The Flesh series @djarinmuse (possessed! Din) [dddne]

Din's Kitten @honeybunnyale ["darkish! fic"]

Deep Into The Wilderness mandoinevarro on ao3 [sex pollen]

Fifteen series @whocaresstillthelouvre (Din x cam girl reader au)

Grip mandoandyodito on ao3 [dry humping, wet dream]

Heresy @kewwrites (demon! Din x f reader) [dddne]

How To Touch @petalsinblood ["Din has nipple piercings"]

Hyperspace Nights series @jedijesi (rough Din! x f reader)

In A Perfect World, You Love Me @theidiotwhowritesthings [forced drug, hallucinations]

In The Dead Of Night @kedsandtubesocks (creature cowboy! Din x f reader)

Interlude: Burn in My Bloodstream @prolix-yuy (Din x f reader, Din x Xi'an)

Ignite @withmyloveasyourgarden [sex pollen]

Kinktober Day 2: Din Djarin - deep throating, rope play with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober Day 3: dark!din djarin x fem!reader @darkuselesssomebody [sex pollen, dddne]

Kinktober Day 11: Din Djarin October 11 – punishment, spanking with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober 14 – somnophilia with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Kinktober Day 23: Din Djarin October 23 – boot licking, cock worship with Din Djarin @paulyenvol6

Leading Blindly @pascalispretty (virgin! Din x sex worker f reader)

Limitless | D.D. @honeybunnyale ["t.w. : Dark fic, Smut (with a robot that looks like Dinny Din Din >:)), Breeding Kink, Angst, Din and reader are both insane for each other"]

Like A Moth To The Flame series @the-scandalorian (monster! Din x f reader)

Mand'alor Cabur nautilicious on ao3 (Din x Boba Fett)

Mandalorian's Mercy // bonus content: din's poc series @silver-pieces (alpha!Din x omega!cis!woman!reader)

Mutual @the-scandalorian (sex worker!Din x f reader)

Prisoner - Part 1 @almostempty (Din x f bounty hunter reader)

Quarry series AK_Vintage on ao3 (Din x f prisoner reader)

Riduur in Training @absurdthirst [sexual grooming, training]

Rule Maker, Rule Breaker mandoinevarro on ao3 [bondage, face fucking, etc.]

Rough Day series no-droids on ao3 ["Summary: When you woke up this morning, you didn’t really think it would be a 'fixing Mando’s knife wound and then giving him a handjob' kind of day"]

Secrets @absurdthirst (virgin! Din x f reader)

Shadows @burntheedges (monster! Din x f reader)

Sorgan Girls Are Easy- Solo Din Djarin murder-wife-deactivated20250628

Silent Genesis @sp00kymulderr [light choking]

Take Me To Church series on ao3 @frannyzooey is reworking to republish on Tumblr ["set in a brothel in the 1800s in the Wild West", Threesome F/F/M]

Take Your Time @ghostofaboy (Din x Cobb Vanth)

That Time Again @orcasoul [fluff but periods]

The Apostate Ch 1 series murder-wife-deactivated20250628 (fallen angel! Din, later chapters x ofc)

The Might Of The Realm @604to647 [bath sex]

The Way To A Great Wide Somewhere @myownwholewildworld (beast! Din x f reader)

The Throne @absurdthirst [pregnancy kink, breeding kink]

The Visitor Part 1 @whocaresstillthelouvre (husband din x omc! Jedi Kalel x f reader)

The Storm @frannyzooey (Ezra x Frankie Morales x Din Djarin x f!reader)

This Is The Tea @yespolkadotkitty [sex pollen]

Tight @frannyzooey [“'I don’t want you to wear anything but this when you sleep in my bed, okay?'”]

Told Before and Told Again @kiwisbell [sex pollen, "fuck or die"]

Torment series @djarinmuse ["They are both trapped and their captor has dark plans for them"]

Unexpectedly Mated @absurdthirst (alpha!Din x f!omega!Reader) [knotting]

Unfettered @the-scandalorian [sex pollen, use of restraints, "sex-pollened!Mando gets scary"]

Unrestrained @the-scandalorian [sex pollen, alternate version of Unfettered - if the chains broke]

Untitled or response to ask "A din that hasnt seen tits since he was 25, let alone TOUCHED THEM" @here-briefly

Untitled or "inspired by time for a haircut, king" @djarinmuse [masturbation] (Din x GN reader)

Welcome Home | D.D. @honeybunnyale ["Dark-fic!...Jealous, Possessive, implied crazy Din"]

Whispers In The Dark 2.0 series @kewwrites (dark! Din x f reader) [dddne]

You Were Marked series @handspunyarns (Din x *reverse age gap* *plus-sized* *fem* *afab* O/C) [dddne]

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

I listened to My Din YT Playlist while making this and had the best time.

Disclaimer: I haven't read all of these yet, I'm just feeling the vibes. Thank you to the authors - I tried to tag only once but Tumblr's not cooperating - if you'd rather not have your work mentioned please let me know. Din won't mind ;-P

The water in the white tub is tinged pink from blood. It’s warm, almost too warm. Your skin tingles, prickling with the heat. You can’t say anything.

The shock is still rendering you useless.

Fingers bite into your arms, squeezing tight across your chest, almost as if you might hide it from sight. Nudity is not something to be ashamed of in your culture, but now it feels almost violating to have one of them looking at you.

Your eyes are locked on your knees in the water, the claw foot tub just deep enough for the water to cover the joints. One of them is swollen, the right leg already dark with bruising. Your ankle is just as bad, and between the joints teeth marks leak red into the water. It stings and throbs but no words leave your lips.

There’s a slow drip of blood, sliding over your lips to your chin before it plops quietly into the water. It’s a steady stream from your nose, has been since it hit the floor.

Screaming, body flailing in a weak attempt at breaking free. Nails rake across skin, the smell of blood. Falling headfirst, face smashing into the wood. A crack, blood seeping. Stunned, unable to see.

A hiss leaves your lips as the rag is pressed against your nose. Broken, you think. Ragged nails bite into the skin of your arms, chipped and broken.

Hands on ankles, dragging. Nails digging into wood grain. Pulling, pulling. A pop. More pain.

“Sorry.” His soft voice reaches your ears over the screaming in your head. His hand is gentle, dabbing softly at the inflamed cartilage. Beta, you think, the only ones capable of such a gentle touch. His words are just as soft, but there’s still an edge to them.

Are you? You think bitterly.

The blood slows its dripping, already healing. The rag passes over your mouth and chin, wiping away the rest of the blood. It’s dropped with a wet plop into the pile, the white stained pink with your blood. A fresh one is dipped into the water, already taking on a pinkish hue thanks to the bloody water.

He doesn’t hold back as he presses the rag against the wound on your shoulder. You whimper, jerking away from him, but his hand grips tightly, keeping you still. It burns, the pressure against the raw, open wound. It’s steadily seeping blood, staining your white hair pink.

Struggling, weight pushing, hot breath. The sharp burn of breaking skin, the deep ache of teeth sinking into muscle. Screaming, blood pouring.

“Took a chunk out.” He says, applying pressure to the aching wound. “Must’ve hurt.”

If you’d had the energy, you might have said something. Now you can’t even manage a glare. You’re nothing but a shell, being bathed by a stranger in a strange house, watching the bath water turn pink with your blood.

The wash cloth dabs at the mutilated skin, tears blurring your vision in pain from the pressure against such an injury. It’ll heal, just like the rest, leaving a scar in its wake.

A scar that represents the finality of your situation.

Tears slide down your cheeks, dripping into the water as he finishes, pulling the plug. Slowly the water starts to drop, gurgling as it’s sucked down into the drain. There’s a pink line on the side of the tub, stained by your blood. It’ll be easily cleaned, just as easily as you were. Evidence wiped away leaving a blank slate in its wake.

A towel is draped over your head, blocking out the world for just a moment. Just a quick moment where you can forget everything that’s happened and imagine yourself back somewhere safe.

***

The fire is warm, logs cracking as they burn. The side of your body, the side facing the fire is hot but you refuse to move. Your leg has been propped up on a folded blanket, elevated to help the swelling. A white fur pelt has been draped over you, giving you a modicum of modesty among prying eyes.

Your broken nails have been trimmed, blunted down to almost nubs. You can’t hurt yourself, you can’t hurt them. Your face no longer hurts, but there’s an intense throbbing in your shoulder, matching in time with the throbbing of your knee.

You’re not going anywhere. Not in this state.

Not that you’d really try. Not with them sitting right there.

Two of them. They’re sitting there, scarily still as they watch you. You refuse to look at them, to acknowledge them. Acknowledging opens too many doors, doors you’d prefer remained closed.

That’s not your choice anymore.

Instead you lay there, listening to the thumping of your heart, feeling the pulsing aches in your body in time with that steady ba-bump. Ba-bump. Slow, even breaths to keep yourself from showing any fear. You’re not sure you have any left to show. You’ve gone numb inside, your brain a blank space to push the trauma aside for now. It’ll come back later, but for now, there’s nothing.

You’re not going to give them the satisfaction of seeing you cry.

The two on the couch stiffen a bit, the first movement you’ve seen from them since they sat on the couch. You can feel the shift, your breath hitching as the strong scent of alpha fills the air. It’s the volatile one, the big one with tattoos. He moves to stand behind the couch, between the two betas sitting there watching you. They know how helpless you are. They left you in the care of betas. His sharp eyes fall to you, piercing through your skin like he’s trying to see the muscle beneath.

Goosebumps prickle your skin under his gaze, your eyes still glued to the wood beams on the ceiling. You won’t look at him, you won’t give him that satisfaction. The last act of defiance you can manage in such a vulnerable state. Left that way on purpose to make you feel weaker, smaller, more helpless.

You’ve felt what those hands can do, the destruction they’re capable of bringing. Guiltless, soulless, merciless.

The executioner.

The three of them turn their heads, seamless and consecutive as they glance at the hallway behind you. You don’t need to see yourself. You already know.

You refuse to lower your gaze, refuse to move as he approaches, footsteps heavy on the creaky wood. Tension brews in the air, suffocating like the heat starting to prickle painfully under your skin. You’re too hot under the fur but you won’t give them the satisfaction of seeing you move, exposing yourself to their eyes more than you already have been.

The creaking wood gets closer and closer to you. You can almost feel the floor shifting, rocking with every step. They’re not stealthy, instead meant for brute force. Big and heavy and relentless.

The floor cracks beside you, nearly making you jump. Your hands close into fists under the blanket, fingers clenching into your palms. A hand closes around your jaw, forcing your head down and to the side.

The grizzled face comes into view, thick beard peppered with grey. Bright, icy eyes stare into your soul, seeping past the front of indifference you’ve put up. The attempt at being strong and defiant against them. His eyes gaze into yours, boring holes in your skull as he forces his way past your defenses. A battle of wills and you have little will left. Not with him around.

His eyes leave yours to rove your face, burning a trail across your skin.

“You’re healing well.” His voice rumbles in the quiet, paired with a cracking of a log in the fireplace. It makes you flinch, pushing against his fingers which offer no give. Steel limbs holding you in place.

Those limbs let up, a big paw of a hand sliding down your throat. Your breath freezes in your lungs, body tense as his hand pushes the soft fur down slightly until his hand rests against your chest. He can feel the racing of your heart against his palm, the rush of blood through your limbs, the throbbing pain in your knee and shoulder. You’d wish this pain, this discomfort on him if only to bring him to your level, lower him on his pedestal just a bit.

You could only be so lucky.

“Bit warm under there.” He murmurs, fingers curling around the edge of the fur blanket.

The protest dies on your tongue as he rips the fur from you, shame heating your body as you’re suddenly exposed to the room, naked and vulnerable. It’s not like they haven’t seen you already, but this is so different. Here they can look, they can criticize.

He sits back on his heel, dragging his eyes across your body. Goosebumps prickle at your skin under his gaze, muscles flexing as you tense. You dare not move, hide yourself from his gaze. There would be no use in fighting, no matter how much your brain screams at you to retaliate.

The inhale catches in your throat as his palm comes to rest flat against your stomach, fingers dimpling the skin as he tags weight into the press of his hand against you. It’s possessive, tagging you like a fresh kill. He sits there, staring down at you with his hand pressed against your womb. It’s silent in the room, the three others watching the exchange curiously with rapt attention. Waiting, seeking the answer to the question of what’s going to happen next.

He’s dismantling you, breaking down those last few barriers of self control. He wants you angry and humiliated, broken down and malleable. You’re waiting, clinging to those last few shreds of sanity, hands still curled into fists as you prepare yourself for what’s going to happen next. What his next move will be. He’s the one in control, he’s the one they’re all looking to for direction.

He could do it now, while you’re in a weakened state. Invoke that right, partake of that offensive ritual. Strip you of the last of your decency, your resolve, your humanity. You’re trembling under his hand, breaths shallow as you wait, you anticipate.

You’re helpless, completely helpless. 

He removes his hand, resting it on his bent knee. He rocks back onto his heels, pushing himself up to stand. You shift for the first time, sweat making the blanket under your back soggy. 

“What?” You ask, your resolve beginning to come back now that the direct threat is gone. Anger is starting to bubble inside of you, the last bit of your honor still intact. “Not going to rape me in front of them? Not going to let them take turns?”

A smirk lifts the corner of his mouth, his chest shaking in a chuckle. “Not yet.” 

The words strike a chord of fear in you despite your attempts to remain indifferent. Not yet. He would sink so low as to partake in such a ritual. He's already taken you, stripped you of your freedoms and your pride. He's dangerous, they all are, and they've made sure you know that.

***

“C’mon lass. Don’ make me do it.”

The one with the god-awful hair is speaking to you. You had decided not to take him seriously because who in their right mind has a mohawk willingly? Deep down you know you should take him seriously. Big, stocky, meant for power not speed. You might have thought him an alpha, if it wasn’t for the playful glint in his eye. He doesn’t hold himself like an alpha, no domineering scent overpowering your senses.

His scent is surprisingly soft. You’re getting a strong whiff of it with your close proximity.

He’s pulled you up so you’re sitting, the fur pooled at your waist. He’s trying to get you up, but you’re trying your best to make it as hard as possible. You could probably get up on your own if you had to, even with one and a half usable legs. You’re being stubborn on purpose. Not out of hope he’d give up and let you lay there, but instead you do it in your weak attempts at defiance. They probably find it amusing, but to you it’s the only shreds of your hope and sanity you have left.

The situation hasn’t quite registered yet. It still feels very surreal. Despite the painful reminders your injuries conjure up, there’s still a delightful cloudiness in your brain when you think about your new reality. It still feels temporary, like your parents will walk through the door at any moment to take you back to your home, your pack.

You’re not stuck in this nightmare, you’re just waiting for the moment when it all gets revealed as some kind of sick joke.

It’s not a joke. It’s very real.

The hand groping your chest brings you back into that nightmarish reality.

“Stop.” You say firmly, trying to bat his hand away where it squeezes your bare breast.

He doesn’t stop, not like you expected him to. Instead he grips you harder, his fingers pinching your nipple. You swing at him, hitting his bare chest but it doesn’t phase him in the slightest.

“Stop!” You shriek, and he finally does let go, only to catch your hands.

He grips both of your wrists in one of his hands, the other closing around your jaw, cheeks squished as he holds your face. That playful glint has been replaced by an intensity in his gaze, the back of your neck prickling as the sense of danger rolls through you.

“Yer our omega.” He grits out through his teeth, baring them at you. “I can damn well touch ye if I please.”

“Ease up, Johnny.” The rough voice of the big alpha cuts through the tension.

Johnny.

It’s the first of their names you’ve heard. It fits him, you have to admit. You wonder what the others’ names are. They won’t come easily, you don’t think. They’re not likely to do a meet and greet with you.

“I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table.” The big alpha says, continuing on his path into the kitchen.

Johnny releases you slowly, lowering his hands. Your chest is heaving from the adrenaline that had coursed through your body. Your poor adrenal glands are probably exhausted and it’s not even dark outside yet. There’s tears in your eyes, but the words of the big alpha come back to you. The last thing you want to do is anger him. Your knee throbs as a reminder as to why.

“Can I get a shirt?” You ask quietly, wrapping your arms around yourself. The fire is hot against your back and you know as soon as you’re away from it you’ll be cold.

“No.” Johnny says before tugging the blanket off you completely.

Tears prick behind your eyes, tears of shame as you’re lifted off the floor and into his arms. You refuse to look at him, refuse to hold on as he begins to move, carrying you from the living area over to the table.

The light is on above the table, casting a bright, warm glow around the nook. You’re placed in a chair on the far side of the table facing the door. The way out so close, but yet so far. There’s no way you could get out. You can’t run, not in this state.

It feels so cruel.

The others join you, the other beta and the big alpha bringing steaming bowls of soup to the table. They’re all still bare chested, clad in only bottoms of varying sorts. The big alpha sports jeans, the other beta having chosen sweatpants. Johnny wears a pair of basketball shorts, and the head alpha sports a pair of cargo pants. You can’t help but wonder if they’re wearing them simply for your comfort, if they’d otherwise be walking around naked.

No, they wouldn’t have given you such a comfort.

If nudity was the norm for them, they wouldn’t have stopped it on your behalf.

The don’t seem to hold the same care for you, though.

The wood of the chair is cold against your skin that had been heated by the fire under the fur. It has your nipples pebbling, your arms still crossed in front of your body as a bowl of soup is placed in front of you. It’s brothy, and you can see various vegetables floating in it. There’s a biscuit on the side, butter and jam placed on the table.

You watch them sit, the big alpha taking the lone seat on the right side of the table, the two betas taking the chairs on the left, Johnny sitting closer to you. The head alpha takes the seat at the head of the table, directly across from you. It’s a purposeful placement. Second alpha to the right, the beta closest to the alpha on the left, the omega across at the other end of the table. Positions based on rank of power.

You doubt you’ll be allowed such power in this pack.

“Something wrong?” The head alpha says, and you quickly realize you’ve been staring. You’re tired, your brain exhausted from fighting. It’s purposeful. It’s all so purposeful. Put you through the ringer until you’re exhausted and forced to submit.

“I’m cold.” You say quietly, arms still wrapped around yourself as you hunch in the chair, trying to give yourself some modicum of modesty.

“Soup’ll fix that.” He says simply, picking up his spoon.

The others follow, the clinking of silverware starting to fill the quiet cabin. You continue to stare at the soup, your eyes filling with tears. You’re not hungry, but you know they’ll force feed you if you don’t eat. It’ll only heighten the shame already burning through you. You feel violated, embarrassed, vulnerable. The worst part is none of them seem to even care. Not one of them seem bothered by this treatment of you.

There truly is no mercy to be found here.

You pick up your spoon, one arm still across your chest as you stir the soup. Chunks of meat kick up to the surface. You wonder if they grow and hunt themselves, or if they go into town for food. You’ve never seen them in town, but then again, you never get to go to town often. Too many eyes, too many possibilities. You were to be hidden away, kept secret and protected.

Now look at you.

You try not to cry as you lift a spoonful of soup to your mouth. I don’t want no sniffling bird at the table, the big one had said. You don’t want to test him, scared of what he might do. Instead you shove the emotions down, focusing on the soup. You are hungry. You can feel the beginning pangs deep in your stomach as the savory scent of the soup fills your nose. You haven’t eaten since this morning.

How long ago that feels now.

The soup is good. Decent flavor. The biscuit is a bit dry, but that’s what the soup is for. It’s quiet at the table, though, no conversation to drown out the sound of silverware and chewing. You wonder if that’s normal, or if no one really knows what to say in this situation. They all eat, none of them looking at each other. None of them look at you either. It’s a small relief.

Your hand is shaking by the time you finish your soup. Nerves are still eating away at you, your brain still hypervigilant of the danger you’re in. You’re sitting with an unknown pack in an unknown place, injured and frightened. You can’t overpower them, you can’t even outrun them. They had proven that. They’re bigger, stronger, faster than you. You’re just an omega, forced to be at their mercy.

You wrap your arms around yourself again, trying to seem as small as possible in your seat. All you want to do is lay down and sleep but you’re too aware, too afraid. You don’t want to know what kinds of things they might do to you as you sleep. Nothing would stop them anyway, but the prospect of you being unaware has your skin crawling.

You’re shaking as you sit there, wrapped in your own arms. Your knee is throbbing from the position it’s been forced into. You can’t wait for that to heal. It’s a nuisance and it’s inhibiting your ability to run. If you’re going to escape and get back home, you need to be able to sneak around and run when you get the chance.

You don’t know when that chance will be.

You’re not sure it will ever come. You’d have to get past all four of them, which you doubt they’ll make an easy task for you. One of them will always be hovering, always near the door. A window is a possibility, but you haven’t seen much else of the house besides this main area. There have to be windows you could possibly climb out of if you can just get a moment alone.

You don’t know when that will be either.

First you need your knee to heal. Then you’ll deal with creating an escape plan.

Sweat is beading on your forehead from the deep throbbing in your knee. You try to shift, straightening it as best you can even as the edge of the chair bites into the back of your leg uncomfortably. You’d love to lay back down, but you’re not sure what their next move will be, what their plan is.

The head alpha is staring at you, no doubt having sensed your discomfort. He doesn’t say anything, his elbows resting on the table as he watches you. Maybe he’s waiting, testing how strong your resolve is, how far he can push you before you break. You refuse to give in that easily, refuse to let him win. It’s what he wants, your full submission. You’re not going to give him that pleasure.

Your skin prickles as his gaze darkens, his eyes trailing down your front to where your breasts peak out above the table. The urge to cover yourself is strong, but you won’t give him that satisfaction. You won’t give him any satisfaction.

You’re going to make this as hard for him as possible.

“We’re going to lay down some ground rules.” He finally says, breaking the tense silence around the table. All eyes flicker to him, waiting, ready to obey. “You’re not to leave this house.” He says, staring pointedly at you. “The world is a dangerous place for an omega. You never know who’s lurking out in the woods.”

He’s taunting you.

“We’re nowhere near civilization, and I won’t have you getting lost in the woods.”

You doubt he’d let you go far enough to even touch the door, much less pass through it.

“You’re part of this pack now, so you’re going to pitch in.” He continues. “I know you have skills. Cooking, cleaning, mending. You do your part, we won’t have any problems.”

He speaks as if you’re going to be here forever. Well, in his mind you are.

“You’re the lowest rank in this pack. You’re here to serve. My boys ask something of you, you do it.” He says. You ignore Johnny’s smirk. “There’s punishment for making trouble. I’d hate to have to enforce that upon you.”

No you wouldn’t.

“This is your home now.” He says. “The sooner you accept that, the easier this all will be.”

You doubt it.

Your gaze leaves his as Johnny stands, your eyes flickering to watch him as he starts to gather bowls. He does so wordlessly, the other beta standing to join him. The meeting is adjourned, the conversation over. He takes your empty bowl, the spoon clacking as he drops it inside before taking it from in front of you. Your eyes flicker back to the alpha, his eyes still on you. You feel more exposed now without the safety of the bowl before you. How strange that such a little thing could offer so much security.

The other alpha pushes his chair back before standing. You can’t stop your gaze from lifting to stare at his hulking form. He’s not any taller than the head alpha, but he seems bigger. He carries himself differently, with more power. If you hadn’t known, you would have assumed he was the head alpha just by looks.

The head alpha stands as well, looming over the table. You lower your gaze to the wood in front of you, not wanting to stare at him as he slowly approaches you, stalking towards you like a predator hunting his prey. You suppose you are his prey. He hunted you down like you were.

How stupid you were going so far into the woods.

Tears prick your eyes as his hands slip under you, arms looping under your knees and around your shoulders. He lifts you easily, hoisting you up into his grasp. He doesn’t even seem to struggle with your weight, a show of power. How easily he can control you. If he can’t break you mentally, he will break you physically. His words had bordered on that threat, the double meaning not lost on you.

He had proven that to you already.

He lays you back down in front of the fire, head pillowed on the cushion, his hands propping your knee back up on the stack of pillows and blankets. That hand drags slowly down your thigh, rough skin catching on yours. A worker’s hands. He pauses for a moment, big hand gripping your thigh before he removes it, grabbing the white fur and draping it back over you.

****

It’s the head alpha that carries you to bed. You hadn’t slept any, even as the night crawled on. It’s late, the moon already up and drifting through the sky. How you wish you could see her, beg her to fix this, to take you away from this nightmare. Instead you’re met with a small window above the bed reflecting the light fixture on the ceiling in the inky blackness.

You’re laid down on the bed gently. Wood framed, hand-made you think. The mattress is soft, the pillows fluffy. Feathers, you think. He’s nice enough to tuck one under your knee, moving the blankets down out of the way. The white fur has come with you, draped over your form as you lay there on the bed. You wish you were home, you wish you were being tucked in and kissed by your mother. You were too old for that but she still insisted. You’re her baby, her only child.

Does she think you’re dead​?

They’ll be looking for you. All night they’ll search. Maybe they’ll find the blood, maybe they’ll assume the worst. Or maybe they’ll know. Maybe they’ll come looking. Maybe you won’t have to escape at all.

The alpha moves away from the bed, heading towards a door on the far wall. It opens, a light switching on inside. A bathroom. He doesn’t close the door as he goes in, your eyes floating to the ceiling as you listen to him. Running water, a toothbrush, a stream of piss into the toilet, the light switch flicking as he comes back out. Your eyes dart to him before quickly jumping back to the ceiling.

He’s nude.

It’s not unusual, but this feels different. It’s intentional. Degrading.

You continue to stare up at the ceiling as he approaches the bed, cock swinging between his legs. If you had the strength you would have stared at him, fighting that dominance he’s engaging by presenting himself in such a state. He’s testing you, showing you where the boundaries lie. There are little boundaries between the two of you. You’ve been claimed, a shackle of ownership placed around your throat where his teeth dug into your skin and tore out a chunk. You’ll wear that shackle for the rest of your life, a constant reminder of who you belong to, who you answer to.

He turns on the lamp beside the bed before turning off the overhead light, bathing the room in the soft glow of the yellow light bulb.

Tears prickle your eyes as he climbs onto the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. Your leg twitches as his hands touch your skin, pressing against your bruised and throbbing knee. You hiss, your eyes squeezing closed at the pain as he pushes lightly against the swollen joint.

“It’ll be healed by tomorrow night.” He says, releasing your leg to lay against the pillow again.

You keep your gaze up, fighting tears as he settles onto the bed next to you with a sigh. He pulls the blankets up, covering you with them before he settles on his side facing you. He’s staring at you but you’re not brave enough to stare back. All that strength you held at the dinner table is gone, exhaustion pulling at your limbs. You’re too afraid to sleep, laying next to a stranger. A stranger who attacked you, forced you to be his mate, forced you here into his home, into his pack.

Why did you stray so far from home?

His fingers close around your jaw, forcing your head to the side. A tear slides down your cheek as you stare at him, his eyes lidded. “You’ll be happy here.”

It’s not a question, not even a suggestion. He’s telling you what you’re going to feel. You’ll be happy here because you have no choice. This is your home, your family now. These men who stole you away and forced you to be one of them, these men whose hands only know violence.

The rough grips on your body, hands pinching and twisting and breaking, teeth sinking in deep, ripping and tearing you apart.

His thumb wipes the tear that slides down our cheek. Such a soft, tender caress compared to what you know he’s capable of. He stares deep into your eyes, digging, searching, reaching in to find your very soul tucked safely away. That’s one thing he can never have. He can take your body and your mind, but he can’t touch your soul, no matter how hard he tries.

He pulls your head forward, leaning close to you. Your breath hitches, your heart racing hard in your chest. There’s a moment of stillness before he closes the distance, pressing his lips to yours. It’s shockingly soft and gentle, a small peck of the lips, but it does nothing to quell the fear rising in you. How contradicting his actions are. The tight grip on your jaw keeping you in place, the soft almost tender press of his lips.

Danger! Your mind screams. He’s dangerous and he’s only further proving it right now.

He pulls back, holding you there for a moment before he releases you. He rolls over onto his back, laying there in the bed next to you. In bed with a stranger, wounded and claimed. Not an ideal situation, and certainly not how you expected your night to end. You want to be back home, back in your bed, back safe with your parents. You’ll never see them again.

More tears cascade down your cheeks as you lay there, the reality of your situation hitting you.

“Can I ask you something?” You speak quietly, your voice trembling.

“Hm?” He hums, already half asleep.

“What’s your name?” You ask.

He’s silent for a moment, and you’re worried he might have fallen asleep already. Instead he speaks, giving you his name in the darkness.

“John.”

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