How Do I Become Thor’s Wife?

He kisses you, clutching your face tightly in his hands. And oh, there it is again! That feeling that you’ve never ever felt before. Like a blast of sunshine transporting you back to a gorgeous summer day. Like the type of summer day you’d see in the movies, where the saturation’s amped up and everything’s golden and hazy like a dream. Where the sun warms your skin from the inside out, where the grass rustles against the gentle summer breeze. The type of summer day you’d snap a polaroid of and keep safe against your heart forever and ever. 

How could Steve of all people make you feel like that?

And then the animal awakens. Like a rubber band inside you snaps and the dam breaks free. You feel your body buzzing – from the tips of your fingers straight down to your core. And the omega inside you takes over your brain, chanting over and over again: Steve. Alpha. Steve. Steve. Steve.

And so you don’t fight against it when he pulls you over the console and into his lap. You don’t complain when the steering wheel hits your back uncomfortably before he scoots his seat back, holding you snug against him. In fact, it’s the opposite. There’s a ferality to your every move, and you find yourself with a one-track mind as you clamber to rip his shirt off and touch his warm skin that feels like it’s buzzing too. 

Must please alpha. Must have him. Need him. Nobody else. Just him. Just Steve.

There’s a tiny part of you – the sane part of you – that’s in shock. In mourning. In absolute dismay over what’s just happened. How Steve – your boyfriend’s best friend and the man who hated you – has just marked you without even asking, without even a warning! And Bucky… oh, how could you have done this to him? When all he’d ever been was good to you? When all he’d ever been was the perfect boyfriend? 

But the feral omega inside you drowns all the other thoughts out. So freshly mated that all you can think about is Steve – touching him, pleasing him. Letting him fuck you. Like a plague in your mind, it’s all you can think about. 

That’s why you don’t stop him when he rips your clothes off with the raw power of an incensed and freshly mated alpha. There’s fire in the oceans of his eyes now, determined and feral just like how you’re feeling. Underneath you, it feels like he’s humming and vibrating with anticipation, and you match him move for move. Like both of you are parched, you paw each other’s clothes off. And you’re naked before you even realise it. 

Steve fucks you right there in the driver’s seat of his car, bouncing you on top of his dick while you clutch on to him tightly, whilst tears of relief, confusion, fear and heartbreak well in your eyes. It’s all a blur, a heated, passionate, incensed blur full of desperate rutting and even more desperate kisses. 

And you’d never felt this way with James. That’s what breaks your heart the most.

 “You’re perfect for me,” Steve breathes against your lips between kisses, all the while desperately pushing you up and down on his dick. And he’s so big, so fucking big that it hurts but it hurts so good. And you haven’t had sex in so long, not since Peter. You’d never done it with Bucky, and a fresh wave of guilt washes over you before the pure, animalistic lust for Steve pushes it aside once more. 

“Steve,” you cry softly, “Please, please harder. Faster, please!”

You’ve never experienced sex like this. So raw, so desperate. With Peter it had been awkward but sweet – the first time for both of you and so there’d been a lot of fumbling and a few giggles. With Bucky, the furthest you’d gone was him fingering you and that had been good. It had been hot and he’d known exactly what to do to make you feel good. But this. Oh, this…

It’s insane how your body was reacting to Steve’s. Almost like you’d been parched your whole life and he’d not only quenched your thirst but also lit a fire in you straight from within. Each time his fat dick forced its way into your tight hole, you felt like heaven was exploding inside of you. Never before had you ever thought that sex could feel like this. And it’s with animalistic vigour that you grind down to meet his thrusts, letting him take control of you, contort you, use you, as he fucks you harder and harder. 

You lose track of how many times you guys do it. Everything’s whirling up like a tornado, time’s running away from you. All you feel and see are sweaty limbs and heavy breathing, and a part of you feels like you could go on like this forever. He makes you cum so many times, and he himself spills his load so many times inside you. And yet he remains so hard, fucking you like he can’t ever stop, and you feel all faint and dizzy and yet the feral omega inside you still wants to please him, and your greedy pussy swallows his dick up again and again and that’s when you reach the insane realisation:

I want him to get me pregnant.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Steve whispers as he reaches down to rub your poor, raw clit while he fucks you. “I want it too. And I promise I’ll give you what you want. Soon.”

Your walls squeeze around him and you cum once more. And it’s so earth-shattering, despite the fact you’ve lost count of how many orgasms you’ve had. Your mind is frenzied with thoughts of carrying your alpha’s babies, letting him knock you up, pleasing him by giving him a family, then making him knock you up again, and –

It’s after hours that you two finally stop fucking. And slowly, the fog in your brain begins to lift. The feral omega inside you purrs, as if satiated if only for the time being. You move to get off Steve, but he growls, holding on to you tightly. He’s still got his dick lodged inside you, and you feel him half hard as if he’s still not done. But you whine, sore and sensitive, and so he begrudgingly lets you go, placing you back on the passenger seat. 

It’s with trembling guilt that you put your clothes back on, the action sobering you up some as if you’d been wildly drunk just moments before. But it’s only when you reach up to gingerly touch the fresh bite mark on your neck, that your heart lurches and the stone-cold realisation sets in. 

“What did you do…?” You utter slowly, dread seeping its way across your entire being. 

Steve sighs, “Omega, look–”

“WHAT DID YOU DO!?” 

The panic sets in pretty quickly after the dread. Your first instinct is to run, run, run as far away as you can. But two desperate tugs at the door handle confirm that the car is still locked. And that’s when your horror and anxiety maxes out to about a hundred. 

“I–No, let me out! Let me out right now, I can’t breathe, I can’t– oh my God, WHAT DID YOU DO!? LET ME OUT!”

“Listen to me–”

“No, just let me out! I need to get out, I can’t breathe! Let me out, just let me–”

Steve presses his fingers against your mark, and you go lax. The feel of his warm skin against your throbbing mating gland does things to you that you’ve never felt before. A different type of calm washes over you, like the cloud of chaos that was making your chest tighten slowly dissipates – all because of his touch! Oh god, oh god, oh god, what had he done to you?!

“You’re okay.” Steve affirms, his tone steady and clear. “I marked you, omega. We’re bonded now and you’re my mate, that’s all. Don’t panic.”

THAT’S ALL!? DON’T PANIC!? You feel like your entire world has just flipped over your head. And it plays in your head once more, his unforgiving bite. How savagely he’d torn into your skin, left his mark and drew blood in the process. How he’d declared that you were his, how he was never going to let you go. And you remember how badly it had hurt, how scared you’d felt in those few moments before the animalistic, carnal lust had taken over. 

With one single bite, he’d stripped away your autonomy. Violated you and stolen your independence, your body, your life. 

You roll your window down, the sudden urge to throw up rocking you down to the core. Your body’s shaking from head to toe, and it’s like your mind still hadn’t completely caught all the way up to what’s just happened. Like a part of you is still in denial, unable to really see what’s just happened. What he’s just done to you.

“H-How could you do it?” Your voice comes out hoarse, quiet.

“I did what was inevitable. It was going to happen anyways, because of the way we feel about each other.”

 He sounds so… normal. And that’s what scares you the most. 

“The way we…? What are you talking about?” You moan softly, the panic still not subsiding. In fact, it’s swirling around your bloodstream along with the dread, mixing together to create the most disgusting self-loathing that you haven’t felt in forever.

“We’re in love.” Steve says confidently, “And it was only a matter of time before we got together naturally. I just sped up the process a little bit.” 

It’s his matter-of-fact tone that gets you the most, and your head snaps in his direction, jaw dropping in pure shock over what he’s just said.

“Steve we… we’re not in love. I don’t love you.” You say slowly. 

He blinks, “Yes, you do. Of course you do. You feel the same way about me as I feel about you. I felt it.”

“What are you saying–?”

“I felt it multiple times, omega. Like the night of our date, that moment we shared. Not to mention how you reacted to my gift.”

You think back to the cute little stuffed teddy with the shiny coal black eyes and blue bow tie that had shown up at your doorstep the night of your double date. How your heart had lifted instantly when you’d held it in your arms, when you’d cuddled it close and it felt like all the dark clouds had disappeared. Replaced by the intense feel and smell of a hot summer’s day, one that had calmed you from the inside out and lulled you into a perfect slumber where not one single nightmare had touched your mind…

“No, no, no…”

“Yes. You knew that bear was from me. I knew you felt troubled that night, and I knew it was because you were confused after you had that moment with me, after I saved you from that bowling ball. I believe that’s the night your realised Bucky could never give you what I can, and you’d never feel for him what you feel for me.”

“You’re crazy!”

“Am I?” He grabs your wrist and tugs you closer, as if he can’t stand not touching you in some way or form, and the omega inside you purrs at the contact. But the rational part of your brain is horrified by your reaction, and by his next words: “Am I crazy, omega? Am I really? When you’re the one who wanted me to break up with Sharon! You’re the one who got angry every time you saw me with her!”

“Th-That’s not true!”

“It is!” Steve looks crazed, incensed, his blue eyes flashing as he leans forward over the console and the grip he has on your wrist tightens. “It is true, omega! Don’t try to deny how we feel for each other. You don’t think Bucky told me about all those times you’d come to him, all upset because you’d seen me kissing her, or touching her? It bothered you, just like how it bothered me to see you with Bucky.”

“No, Steve, that’s not true!” You shake your head desperately, trying to tug your hand out of his grip but to no avail. “I-I was upset because you treated Sharon horribly, and she deserved better, and I hated seeing you cheat on her!” 

“No. You hated that I was still with her and not with you. And you can deny it all you want, but I’ll always know the truth when it comes to you. Because unlike Bucky, I actually know you, omega. I know you from the inside out because we’re meant to be together.”

Again, he kisses you. And for the life of you, you can’t understand why you just let him do it. Why your body shudders before melting into him, and why your shoulders sag in relief. 

“Wh-What are we going to tell him?” You ask when the two of you break apart. “How could we possibly face him after this? He’ll be so hurt and mad, and rightfully so!”

“I’ll speak to him,” Steve straightens his sweater before placing his hand on your leg, like he can’t go a few seconds without touching you. Which is exactly how you feel too, no matter how hard you try to swallow it away. “I don’t want you worrying about that. And I also don’t want you speaking to him at all from now on, so just let me handle it. 

Your jaw drops, “I’m not allowed to speak to him?”

“That’s what I just said, yes.”

“You’re insane if you think you can tell me who I can or can’t speak to.” 

Steve has always intimidated you, but lately your confidence has grown. And yet, you regret the words as soon as they leave your mouth. Almost like every cell in your body is repulsed by the very idea of you talking to your alpha like that. But mentally, you’re at war with yourself – because he was well and truly acting insane right now! How could he possibly think he could tell you what to do? How could he possibly expect you not to explain things to Bucky after you’d essentially just cheated on him?! 

“You won’t speak to Bucky,” Steve repeats, surprisingly unperturbed by your words. “The mark on your neck means that you’re mine, and marked omegas don’t go around talking to alphas who aren’t their mate. Besides, his reaction won’t be pretty, and I don’t want you anywhere near that.”

You sit back against your seat and try your hardest to block his words out. You don’t care what Steve says, you don’t care, don’t care, don’t care! It almost doesn’t register to you, when he refers to the mark on your neck. Oh, you haven’t even gotten a look at it yet and you never want to! It doesn’t feel real, being marked, being owned by someone. Especially someone like Steve Rogers. This was all one terrible, messed up mistake. It had to be! 

And I’ll fix it, you decide once and for all as you put your seatbelt back on and Steve starts the car again. You’d explain everything to Bucky, and knowing him – he’d understand! He’d understand how you’d been trapped in Steve’s car, coerced by him, how you’d begged him to stop and he’d ignored you and bit you anyways. Oh, of course Bucky would understand! He was the most caring, thoughtful and calmest alpha you knew! He was your boyfriend, not Steve! NEVER STEVE!

Your mind works itself into overdrive, a million frenzied thoughts flurrying in and out of your head. You were sure there were some pills you could order that would dull the bond. You’d read about them in one of your biology textbooks back in high school. It wasn’t a complete solution but it was something, and perhaps with the effects of the bond dulled, you’d be able to think clearly, and form a better plan, and–

“I’m so happy we’re together now.” Steve interrupts your thoughts, one hand on the steering wheel as he drives back out towards the highway, his other hand still on your thigh, stroking softly and leaving goosebumps in its wake. “I wanted you since the moment I saw you, the moment you walked in that first day and I could smell that fucking addictive scent of yours. I knew from that day that we were meant to be. Bucky couldn’t smell you, but I could. It’s like you were made for me, sent to that class especially for me.”

Your eyes widen at his delusions, and you gulp, too stunned to really say anything. Why was he acting like he didn’t hate your guts since the moment he’d seen you? Oh, he was well and truly insane! 

So then why was there a part of you, deep down inside, that was glowing, almost purring at his words?

You keep your eyes glued out the window, deliberately turning away from him as much as you can. Once this car ride was over and you were at Bucky’s house, you’d never, ever be alone with Steve Rogers again. And you’d get yourself out of this mess. And Bucky would help you. 

He would definitely help you, wouldn’t he?

***

“Why are we stopping here?”

Not twenty minutes later, Steve pulls into a parking lot of what looks to be a four-star hotel, and definitely not Bucky’s house.

“It’s late. We need to rest.”

Panic rises up to your chest, “N-No, we need to get to James’ house! We need to explain what happened, and– Oh, he’ll be waiting for us! We can’t make him wait a whole extra day!”

“Relax. I already texted him and told him we got stuck in traffic and decided to stay at a hotel for the night. We’ll see him tomorrow morning. Now come on.”

You stare at him as he gets out of the car and starts unloading your bag and his own. How could he possibly be so calm? It was almost eery. He’d betrayed his own best friend! His childhood best friend! Did that mean nothing to him?

“I-I should text him. Or call,” You get out of the car too, scrambling to get your phone out of your purse. In your frenzy, you’d completely forgotten you could do those things too. 

“Omega, no.” Steve’s voice is stern and authoritative as he comes around the car and grabs your wrist. And oh, he’s so much bigger than you! And so frighteningly formidable that it makes you shrink back. His muscles bulge and you gulp, averting your gaze down to the ground, feeling an aura of authority around him that you hadn’t ever really felt before, and it makes the mark on your neck prickle. “You will not tell him what happened, not even over call or text. I’ve told him you’re already asleep. Now come on.”

It was crazy, how Steve thought he could make every single one of your decisions for you. What’s even crazier is when he grabs your hand and starts pulling you towards the hotel entrance. 

“Please let go of my hand.”

He ignores you. 

“Steve, please! We’re not a couple, I don’t want you to think that–”

“You’ve got my mark on your neck and I just fucked you multiple times in the front seat of my car. But you draw the line at holding my fucking hand?” His grip tightens. 

“I draw the line at all of it!” 

“Well, just give it a rest.”

The hotel room is big and spacious. But your heart sinks when you see there’s only one bed. Oh no, he didn’t expect for the two of you to share, did he?

“Go wash up and change and then get into bed,” Steve orders the moment the two of you step inside. “We’ll head out early tomorrow.”

“I-I can’t share a bed with you!”

Steve sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as he drops the bags on the floor. “I don’t fucking care what you can or can’t do, omega. Now go wash up and change.” 

Your heart starts pitter-pattering like crazy in your chest. You eye your duffel bag, knowing full well that you can’t wear your pyjama shorts in front of Steve, not when he’s already looking at you with those dark, blown out blue eyes. 

And what about yourself? Could you even trust yourself being in such close vicinity to him all night? You’d so easily spread your legs for him once he’d marked you, but you couldn’t let it happen again. No. Not ever again.

Ten minutes later, you timidly emerge from the bathroom wearing your baggiest hoodie and a pair of loose jeans. Not the most comfortable sleeping attire by any means, but there was no way you were going to bare your skin in front of Steve Rogers again. 

No matter how much the mark on your neck prickled or the omega inside you screeched at you to do the exact opposite. 

Steve frowns, “I thought I told you to change.”

“I have changed. This is what I always sleep in.”

“No, it’s definitely not.”

“Yes, it is! I swear!”

“You’re cute when you lie, omega.” He collapses down on one of the armchairs adjacent to the bed, looking nonchalant as he texts someone on his phone. “But I know what you sleep in, and it’s not that.”

It’s your turn to frown, “How do you–?”

There’s a pause, and then he throws his phone aside before looking up at you with dark eyes, “You would never draw your curtains.”

“Huh?”

He smirks, leaning forward with a wolfish look, “You heard me. You’d never draw your curtains when you changed.”

Your jaw drops at what he’s insinuating, “Steve! Th-That’s so wrong, how could you–”

“I’d watch you slip on the sexiest little shorts that made your ass look insane,” he sits up straighter, licking his lips and running his hand through his hair. “And I could see every fucking thing those goddamned hoodies hid from me during the day. Who knew you were hiding all that.”

Suddenly, the air around you feels thick and hot. You instinctively take a step back at the same moment Steve stands up and takes a step towards you. 

“And then I’d go home and think of your hot little body while I jacked off.” He takes another step forward, “And I’d think of you while I fucked my girlfriend. Think of the sexy little private show you put on for me every night I watched you. Almost like you knew I was watching, and you were doing it just for me. Because God knows you never let Bucky see you like that.”

You swallow, taking another step back, “You’re scaring me, Steve…”

“Good. It’s hot when you’re scared.”

Another step back, and now the backs of your knees are touching the bed. “Y-You should stay over there, please, and I’ll stay over here.”

Steve chuckles lowly, “Now why would I do that?”

He lunges at you. You scream, try to run but he’s too big to dodge. Easily, he grabs you and pushes you down on the bed. You land on your back, and he’s on top of you instantly, his hard crotch pressing obscenely against your core. 

“Let me fuck you again,” he whispers beguilingly against the mark on your neck, and your eyes almost pop out of your head when you feel his teeth graze against it. “You know you want it as bad as I do.”

“W-We can’t,” you swallow thickly, suppressing the urge to thrust back up against his hard, covered cock. The omega inside you is practically screaming at the proximity, begging you to rip his clothes off and spread your legs for him again just like you did in the car. But the rational part of your brain cuts through all the noise, “Steve, please, we can’t do this. It’s not right. Bucky–”

Steve presses his forehead against yours, his hands grabbing your wrists and pinning them on either side of you. “It’s okay, we’ve already fucked so it’s not a big deal if we do it again. He’ll understand…”

“No, he won’t,” you moan, unable to stop yourself. Weakly, your legs kick against him in a bid to get him off of you but it’s almost like your body’s given up before even trying. Like every cell in your body is just screaming at you to just give in. “I-I can’t hurt him like this, Steve. We can’t do this.”

“Just let me put the tip in,” Steve breathes, his chest pressed so hard against yours, you can feel his heartbeat in sync with your own. “Just the tip, baby. It’ll calm me down and then we can just go to sleep.”

“Noooo,”

“Shhh, yes. Just say yes,” he urges, thrusting his clothed cock against you and oh fuck, he’s so hard. “Just the tip, I promise. It’ll feel so fucking good.”

Your mind is screaming at you to let him do it, let him fill you up because you’re just an omega and you need your alpha to fill you up because that’s what you were made for, wasn’t it? This is what your purpose was, to fulfil your alpha’s desires and this is what he wanted and you wanted it too! You wanted it so fucking bad, like your whole soul was itching for it.

“J-Just the tip? You promise?” Your brain feels fried with lust and desire, and not a single rational thought.

“I promise, sweetheart. Just the tip. Don’t you trust me?”

It’s past midnight before the two of you finally stop fucking and fall asleep. Overcome with carnal desire, you let Steve take you so many times, you lose count. And he’s so much bigger than you, overpowering your pleas which grow weaker as your lust grows stronger and stronger. And you feel like you’re drowning in a haze of sunshine, like you can’t breathe but in the best way possible. Like you can’t think but it’s alright because you don’t need to think. It’s like your mind and soul leave your body altogether, and the only thing that’s left is the purring omega inside you, the one that’s crying with joy because your alpha is inside you, filling you up again and again as if he can’t stop. Because he doesn’t want to stop. And neither do you. 

You were well and truly fucked.

***

The morning is sombre and grey - both the weather and your mood. Mind now somewhat clearer, you refuse to even look at Steve, let alone speak to him. You can hardly look at yourself either, not after what you’d done yesterday. Because it was plain as day - you had cheated on your boyfriend. Multiple times. 

But it wasn’t your fault! The rational part of your mind screams, Steve forced you! 

And the proof is right there in the mark on your neck. The mark you refuse to look at or even acknowledge. All you do want to acknowledge right now is that you need to get far, far away from Steve, so you can think clearly enough to figure out how to get yourself out of this mess. 

Luckily, Steve is in no mood to talk either, and the two of you silently set off. You wonder to yourself whether he finally feels the guilt too. The same guilt for betraying Bucky that’s been eating you from the inside out. And your stomach churns at the thought of finally facing him. 

He’s standing in his driveway when Steve finally pulls up. Looking so devastatingly handsome, a smile lighting up his face when he catches your eye. You sit in the front seat of Steve’s care, shaking with nervous anticipation and dread, fingers itching to take the seatbelt off and jump out of the car as soon as Steve parks it.

“You stay in the car,” Steve murmurs, “Let me talk to him first.”

It takes everything in you not to obey him, and so when he finally does stop the car, you jump out before he can stop you. Before the chemistry of your own body cells can stop you. And you run up to Bucky, feeling like the worst person alive when you see his smiling face.

“There you are, princess,” Bucky laughs, catching you in a tight hug, “I thought you guys would never make it.” 

You shiver in his arms, burying your face in his chest, digging your nose around as if to smell his familiar wintery, woody scent. But all you can smell is the hot summer’s day that sticks to your skin, and you savour your boyfriend’s embrace, but it does nothing to calm your beating heart. 

“What’s wrong? Are you cold? Why are you shivering?” He cups your face in his hands, and you look up at him with eyes already wet, lips downturned and wondering if he can see the ugly betrayal on your face. 

There’s a shuffling somewhere behind you, and Steve clears his throat, “Bucky. We need to talk.”

Bucky doesn’t look at him. No, his gaze is fixed on you. Light, pretty blue eyes blink as they drink in your drained, tired face. Take in how your lower lip quivers, the shame painted so plain as day on your features. 

His nostrils twitch, his body going rigid against yours.

“James,” you whisper, “I’m so sorry, I–”

“Why? Why would you be sorry?” The smile is frozen on his face, and there’s curiosity mixed with something else in his eyes. Like dread for what you might say next.

All morning, you’d played this moment again and again in your head. Gone through millions of different scenarios, practiced a thousand different explanations. But there was no way to spin the truth in a way that wouldn’t hurt him. And it’s like everything you’d thought you’d say in this moment goes flying out the window, and you feel your throat close up, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“Sweetheart? I asked you a question.” Bucky’s grip on you is firm. It doesn’t hurt, but it does keep you planted to reality, and you know you need to start talking now, and explain everything. And tell him that you didn’t mean it, that you didn’t want to be bonded to Steve! That you wanted James and no one else. And that this didn’t mean anything, and…

“Let her go. I’ll explain everything.” Steve comes up beside you, and you wish you didn’t feel the comfort that comes in waves the moment you feel his presence next to you. Like a warm ray of sunshine on a cold, bleak day. 

And yet, Bucky still doesn’t look at Steve. Only you. And the look on his face in that moment is one you don’t think you’ll ever forget. It’s like his features turn ghost-like in a handful of long, painful seconds. His eyes narrow down to slits, the sparkle snuffed away like a candle. He pales, taking the sharpest intake of breath, he takes a step back as realisation dawns slowly on his face.

“You didn’t…”

“I’m so sorry, James,” again, you try to find your voice, try to launch into the explanation that’s stuck inside your goddamned throat. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for this to happen, I–”

Bucky’s movements are like a whip, and in a flash, he reaches out and moves your hair aside. And there it is, plain as day. The big, jagged mark on your neck, the one that you’d tried so desperately to ignore and forget. The one that belonged to Steve. 

The whole world stands still. And you see it all flash across Bucky’s face. Disbelief, hurt, pain, betrayal. He reaches out as if to touch you, but his hand turns into a fist instead. In slow motion, he looks from you to Steve then back at you.

That’s when Steve steps in front of you, “Leave her out of this. We can discuss it without involving her.”

CRACK.

It’s sickening, the sound you hear. Steve falls to the ground with a thud, the force of Bucky’s fist laying into his face so hard that it knocks him off his feet. And Bucky looks livid, standing above him with a look of such reverence on his face, it chills you down to the bone. And then he looks at you, and his eye twitches. You flinch – he’s never look at you like that before. With such hatred and disbelief.

“OK, fine, I deserved that,” Steve staggers to his feet, wiping his jaw. You gape – Bucky’s got him cleanly on the side of his face. The black eye already forming, and there’s blood everywhere. “But if you just let me–”

Bucky disregards him, instead making a beeline towards you. Your eyes widen when he grabs your shoulders, his eyes wild with angry hurt, “How the fuck could you? How could you just…”

He’s thrown off you before you can even form an answer.

“Don’t touch her. I told you; we should discuss this. In private.”

“Don’t touch…? She’s my girlfriend, you fucking son of a bitch!” It’s almost like Bucky still doesn’t believe it, and again he looks at you with such an unreadable expression you don’t know what to even think! And your throat’s chosen the worst moment to close up, and you watch him helplessly, wishing you weren’t like this. Wishing you could just explain it all calmly and clearly like how you’d practiced in your head.

“Tell me you didn’t fucking do this,” Bucky lowers his tone, speaking only to you as if Steve just isn’t there anymore. “Tell me you didn’t go behind my back with my best fucking friend.”

“I didn’t mean for this to happen!” You burst out, “I didn’t want this, James! Please believe me–”

“How long has this been going on?” He looks… disgusted. Still in disbelief. Oh, didn’t he believe you?!

“It hasn’t! I want you, not him. I don’t want this, I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t–”

“THEN WHY THE FUCK WOULD YOU LET HIM MARK YOU?” Bucky explodes, and the hurt is so evident in the way his voice breaks slightly at the end, “How could you…”

You swallow and step forward, trying to grab his hand but he shrugs you off coldly, “I didn’t want him to–”

“Bucky, it’s done now. It’s happened, and we can talk about it when you’re in the proper state to talk, but–”

CRACK.

 He punches Steve again. This time, Steve spits out blood, the entire left side of his face swelling up. Your hands go up to your face in horror.

“I can’t fucking believe you,” he whispers, his gaze solely locked on you, as if Steve doesn’t exist and it’s just you and James in a whirlwind of betrayal that you had created.

“Please believe me,” you plead. Oh, he had to! Your bond with Bucky was stronger than anything Steve had done to you. You knew it! Oh, he had to believe you! “Let me explain, James. It’s me, OK? I’m still the same person; I’m still your girlfriend. I just–”

“Save it.” His face hardens, and then he’s no longer looking at you. No, it’s like you’ve disappeared, like you’re not even there anymore. Like he’s just looking through you. He swallows, running a hand through his hair, “I can’t… I can’t fucking be here right now.”

“James–”

You try to grab his hand again, but he shoves you. Hard. The force of it has you falling back, and Steve is the one who catches you before you can hit the ground. And you start crying in earnest, calling out his name over and over again as he walks away. You try to run after him, but Steve’s got a death grip on you despite how much you struggle against him.

Bucky ignores your cries, and in a determined daze he makes a beeline for his car. And Steve just lets him go, and you scream for him to stop, to just hear you out, to let you explain. But it’s like he can no longer hear you, or hear anyone for that matter. He’s got a glazed over look on his face, like he can’t quite believe what’s just happened.

He drives off, and you cry till your voice is hoarse and your throat hurts so bad. And everything hurts, you hurt from the inside out. Like you’ve just lost something that you can never ever get back no matter how hard you’d tried to persuade yourself that you could fix things.

Oh, this couldn’t be how things ended!

In the end, Steve has to carry you inside. It’s all a blur of salty tears, but he takes you into his own house across the street from Bucky’s. And it’s huge, but you take none of it in. You feel like a baby, a helpless and stupid baby. Pathetic. A cheater. Oh, the hurt in Bucky’s eyes! You don’t think you’ll ever forget it.

“It’s okay, omega,” Steve presses a kiss to your forehead, holding you close to his chest, “It’ll be okay, I promise.”

You hate how right the reassurance feels. Especially coming from the completely wrong person.

***

Steve’s home is like a castle. At least in your naïve eyes. A big, empty, sprawling castle with acres and acres of land around it. It may as well have had a moat too, with how big it is. All the houses in the area are massive. But you still haven’t registered it or really taken it in or properly observed your surroundings, despite spending the night in his bed again.

“My parents are away,” he says, sitting on his desk chair all nonchalantly as if the two of you hadn’t just collectively betrayed his best friend yesterday. His best friend who still hadn’t returned, because his car was missing from his driveway. You knew because you’d keep looking out the window to check. “They’re busy, but once they’re home, I’d love for you to meet them. They’d like you, especially my mother.”

“When do you think he’ll be back?” You ask distractedly.

“I just told you, they’re busy so I don’t know. My mom is… Well, she’s…”

“I mean Bucky,” you interrupt, taking another glance out the window. Still no car. “He’s been gone since yesterday; he won’t answer his phone. I hope he’s OK…”

“Could you stop?” Steve looks irritated, “He’s not your concern anymore, omega.”

You lock eyes with him incredulously, “How could you care so little? Did you see how hurt he looked? I need to explain everything to him, I just –”

“You don’t need to do shit. I don’t know how many times I need to say this to you, but he’s not your boyfriend anymore. I am. He’s just someone from your past. And that’s why I didn’t want you out there yesterday. I knew it’d get physical, and that’s how it is with us alphas. We work it out our own way.”

“I’m his girlfriend and I betrayed him–”

In a flash, he’s on his feet. He crosses the room in a second, grabbing you by the chin so you look straight at him, “Don’t fucking say that again if you know what’s good for you.”

Oh, how could you ever begin to understand Steve?! Steve and his one thousand different moods which he seemed to keep switching in between? From horrible to nice to protective to scary and threatening all over again? Which one was truly him? What were you supposed to believe?!

He sighs, his grip loosening some, “Fuck, I’m sorry. Look, I’m not stupid, OK? I know it wasn’t the smartest thing to do, marking you like that. I know I’ve put you in a terrible position, but I’m trying to protect you when I tell you to just stay out of it and stay away from him from now on. I know him, I know he’ll be fine.”

“Would you be fine?” You whisper, heart thudding because his mood swings scare you, “Would you be fine if your best friend marked your girlfriend behind your back?”

“If I was in love with my girlfriend, I would have marked her up the moment I knew she was the one,” Steve says without missing a beat, “That’s the part you’re refusing to understand. You seem to think he’s the one and if it weren’t for me, you’d have had your happily ever after with him. Ignoring the fact that he didn’t make you happy, and eventually both of you would’ve realised that and gone your separate ways.”

“Stop acting like you knew what we had between us!”

“Don’t fucking raise your voice at me. And I do know what you had with him. Or the lack of what you had with him. I know it doesn’t hold a candle to what you have with me.”

He kisses you, and no matter how hard you pound at his chest, how desperately you try to push him away, you end up in his arms anyways. His scent too alluring, too addicting. His lips even more so. Like two puzzles pieces, you slot together so perfectly it’s almost like the universe is playing a cruel joke on you. Because Steve couldn’t be your soulmate, he just couldn’t!

And yet… And yet your hands go to cup his face to deepen the kiss, and he winces. You pull back, biting your lip at his swollen jaw and black eye.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he answers your silent question, shooting you a wink and a lop-sided smile, “And I’d happily take a hundred more punches in the face for you, baby. That’s how you know I love you.”

Why does it make your heart skip a beat and butterflies crowd in your stomach when he says that? Why does it make you feel all warm inside, like you want to giggle and kick your feet? Why were you designed like this? Why did he make you feel like this? When nobody else ever had…

He kisses you some more, and your heart’s breaking and you’re so fucking confused but you let him. You want him to, and that’s what disgusts you the most. The omega inside you is purring, basking in the sunlight of his glow, never wanting him to stop.

But his phone rings and he pulls away, a frown etching his features when he sees who it is.

“What do you mean – is she okay?” He goes to the other side of the room and turns his back. You can still hear him, but the lack of his scent immediately around you makes your head clear a bit, and you look out the window again. Still no sign of Bucky.

Steve clears his throat, “Just… Okay, I’ll be there, I just need to– I’ll be there, okay?! Goodbye.”

He turns back to face you and sighs, “I have to go.”

You rip your gaze away from the window, “What?”

“I need to… My mom– Uh, something came up so I need to go deal with it.” He runs a hand through his hair, “You need to stay put here. There’s a library, a pool, a cinema. The chef’s made food and he can bring it to you whenever you want it. Just don’t… Just don’t leave the house, okay?”

You frown, “Is everything okay?”

“Yes. Or it will be.” He hugs you suddenly, hugs you so hard that you’re taken aback and can barely breathe. “Omega. Please don’t leave the house. I’ll be back soon, okay baby?”

“Okay,” you say automatically, because he’s your alpha and you’re supposed to agree with whatever he says and listen to him.

He leaves, and then you’re alone with your thoughts. And once more, the cloud of haze clears once he’s not in your presence. Oh, the effect he had on you was insane! He made you feel like, like… Oh, like nothing you’d ever felt before and you hated it!

Didn’t you?

***

You don’t know how long you sit there. By Steve’s bedroom window, staring listlessly at the rich suburbia outside. Nothing about your situation seems real at all, and yet you keep catching glimpses of Steve’s mark on your neck every time you look at his bedroom mirror. It makes your mind bubble with panic each time. Oh God, what could you do?!

In a frenzy, you turn to your phone. You know there are some special pills you can take, you’d heard of other omegas taking them. They help to dull unwanted bonds. After some desperately intense googling, you find some for purchase on a random website. They’d have to do, and so you order them to your dorm address hastily, without a second though

And it makes you feel slightly better, as if you’ve finally taken a little bit of control of your situation. A tiny bit of hope that lightens your otherwise bleak reality.

That’s when you see it. Or him. His car pulling into the driveway. James.

You remember Steve’s words. Don’t leave the house.

But Steve wasn’t here right now, and therefore his words don’t have that much of an effect on you. It still feels wrong, leaving the room and quietly darting down the grand staircase, despite no one being at home except you. You let yourself out, running across the street without even looking both ways.

“James! James, wait!”

He turns around at the sound of his name. And it’s crazy how different he looks in just twenty-four hours. Scruffy, gaunt, empty. He watches as you run over to him, his hands remaining by his side. Looking at you almost as if you were a stranger, and not his girlfriend.

Promptly, he turns his back on you, hurrying towards his front door. You catch up to him, grabbing his arm except he coldly shrugs you off.  

“James, please, just give me a chance to explain.”

“There’s nothing left to explain so don’t bother.”

You bite your lip at how cold he sounds, and yet continue following him up his front steps. “Yes there is. I need you to understand that I didn’t want this, OK? I don’t want to be with Steve, and I didn’t want this mark.”

He stops, hand hovering over the doorhandle.

“I don’t want him,” you repeat, despite the omega stirring inside you, yelling in your head that you’re lying, lying, lying!

He sighs, unlocking the door and twisting it open, but now he turns to look at you. “I don’t know why I don’t believe you.”

“It’s you I want,” you say, hoping you sound confident, assured, like you know exactly what you’re saying without a single doubt in your mind. “Not Steve, okay? You.”

Bucky’s dark eyes flash with a semblance of… something. But his jaw remains clenched, his lips pressed together in a thin line. His gaze flits over to Steve’s mark on your neck, and oh how you wish it wasn’t there! How you wish it would just disappear, and take away all your confused, muddled emotions along with it!

“Why did you let him mark you?” His voice is hoarse, raspy almost. Like there’s so much bottled up hurt and anger inside him, and he’s not sure how to let it out. But all you want is for him to believe you.

Or is that just you wanting to believe yourself?

“I didn’t get a choice,” your voice catches, and you step forward. You don’t expect it, but he moves aside, allows you into his home before following you. The temperature’s dropping outside as dark clouds begin to form, and you welcome the warmth of his foyer as he mechanically shuts the door behind you. You take it as your chance to continue: “James, he didn’t give me a choice. You have to believe that, okay? He didn’t ask me if I wanted him to mark me, he just did it. And I… I didn’t want to, okay? He…He just did it… He just, he just…”

Your voice breaks in earnest as you stutter over your words, thinking back to the pain you’d felt when Steve had bit you. How callously he’d made that life decision for you both, without even asking you, without even informing you, without even a single warning.

There’s something else you feel, something deep in the recesses of your mind. Almost a sense of shame, a sense that you’re betraying him, betraying Steve by speaking against him to another alpha. Like a nagging feeling that tugs at your heart, that warns you to stop. That makes you feel unnatural for going against all of Steve’s orders, for being here right now, for retelling the story of how it happened.

Because you’d let him fuck you right after that, hadn’t you? Over and over and over again?

“He just did it,” you repeat, shame numbing you from the inside out. “He just did it. He just, he just…”

Bucky draws you into his arms. It’s hesitant at first, and his nose twitches as if trying to resist the scent of another alpha – his best friend – which is stuck to you like a second layer of skin. But he pulls you into an embrace anyways, and your whole body shudders in relief, and you break down, sobbing against his chest for everything you’d lost yesterday. Yourself. Your body. Your shame. Him.

“I’m sorry,” you want to hide your face in his chest forever, like the shame is too much, almost swallowing you up whole, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Flashes in your mind, going back to it all. That feeling after Steve had bit you, that feeling of utter relief when he’d kissed you, that feeling you’d never felt before. Like you’d been incomplete all your life but suddenly you weren’t anymore. What about all that? Shouldn’t you come clean about all that too?

No, that wasn’t me! Your mind screams desperately, so loud it makes your head hurt. That wasn’t me! That was his mark on my neck, his scent all around me, confusing me! Making me think things I should never think! Making me feel things I don’t actually feel! No, I couldn’t feel those things, I couldn’t, I couldn’t, I couldn’t!

“It’s me that you want?” Bucky asks, slowly drawing back and cupping your face in his hands. And you find that you can barely smell him at all. That smell of powdery winter snow, of smoky firewood on a cold winter morning. It feels like a distant memory because you can hardly smell it now, no matter how hard you try.

You nod desperately, “Yes, yes, it’s you! James, you’re the one I always wanted. You’re the one I fell for. You were nice to me when he was only ever mean and awful. And I wish so bad that we could just go back to how we were before he… before he just… he…”

Do you ever get that yearning feeling? Steve’s voice forces its way inside your head once more, do you ever get that feeling? Of wanting something so bad but you can’t seem to figure out what it is?

No! You hug Bucky harder, wanting to erase the memory of Steve from your mind. And more importantly, erase anything you may have felt when under the influence of his darned scent and his mark on your neck. Like how you’d felt when he’d kissed you…

“I want you, James,” you repeat, as if you’re trying to persuade yourself as much as you’re trying to persuade him. “I… I don’t want him. He didn’t give me a choice. If he had, I would’ve picked you.”

He takes your trembling hands in his, and his blue eyes bore into yours. As if trying to detect even a sliver of dishonesty. But you look back at him squarely, heart beating like crazy and dangerous feelings, distressed emotions bubbling inside you. Oh, you’re confused, you’re so confused! You feel like you’re betraying Steve, yet at the same time you have betrayed Bucky. But it was Bucky who you wanted in the first place, right? You’d been happy with him, hadn’t you? Nothing Steve had done could ever change that! Right?

“Prove it,” Bucky’s blue eyes are dark with a new kind of intensity you’ve never seen before. He presses his forehead against yours, “Prove that it’s me you want. That he means nothing to you.”

You nod, “It is you, James. I’ll do anything to get you to believe me. Anything, I’ll–”

He kisses you. And oh, it feels wrong! It feels so wrong but you cling to it, cling to him. Willing the universe to just give you a break, to just let you have this. Let it feel right for his sake if not your own, because you just want him to stop hurting. You’d do anything to stop him from hurting.

You kiss him back fervently, passionately. You put everything into it, carding your fingers through his hair. He kisses you fiercely, desperately, like you’ll turn to dust in his arms if he doesn’t. And all the while, the shame monster in your heart grows bigger, mocking you for not feeling like how it felt with Steve, how it felt like the whole world had stopped and he’d scorched your whole being from the inside out in the best way possible.

Bucky picks you up easily, his lips not leaving yours. Your heart lurches as you feel him moving, but you keep kissing him. Up the stairs he takes you, and a feeling of dread pools in your stomach, his words echoing in your head: Prove it.

Into his bedroom now, and his scent faintly tingles your nostrils. It’s still so faint, as compared to the hot summer’s day that’s stuck to your skin. He drops you on his bed, his huge frame covering yours like a dark shadow. He presses his front against yours, and you know what he wants. Prove it, prove it, prove it.

“You’ll do anything won’t you?” He murmurs between kisses, his lips moving down your cheek, your neck, your collarbones. Thumbs hooking the waistband of your leggings. “To prove that it’s me and not him?”

You nod, desperation making you surge up into his kiss, letting his hands roam your body, trying to ignore how freezing cold he feels.

Bucky pulls back, a peculiar look in his eyes. Almost like he’s trying to read you. And then he slowly slips your leggings down but looks at you before he does. “You’ll prove it to me?”

Prove it, prove it, prove it. You could do this. You were choosing to do this. It would show him, show yourself, that Bucky was the one for you. That Steve’s mark didn’t mean anything when it truly came down to it.

You take a deep breath and nod. A smile touches his lips, and he kisses you again, gentler this time. You scrunch your eyes shut so hard it hurts, try to imagine a princess finally reunited with her prince charming after he saved her from the beast who’d taken her when she didn’t want to be taken. This was how it was supposed to be, right? Right? Back in the arms of the man you were supposed to be with?

“I wanted this so bad,” Bucky murmurs, caressing the skin of your bare legs as your leggings pool by your ankles. “I thought it was over, you and me… I thought I’d lost you.”

“No, never,” you cup his face, “Never, James… You’ll always have me.”

Your chest hurts, feels heavy. Like there’s a pool of dread inside that’s getting bigger and bigger, threatening to burst. You will it away, fight against it, but you can feel the stinging in your eyes, the wobble of your lips, your mind screaming: no, please don’t… please stop…

It’s okay, you can get through this, you coach yourself. It’ll make him happy, and he deserves to be happy. And it’ll make you happy too, because this is what you’re supposed to want.

“You’ll prove it to me, won’t you?” He repeats against your lips, “Prove that you don’t feel anything for him? Just me?”

There’s a lump in your throat which you ignore, nodding, “O-Okay, James.”

It’s all a big blur as he shoves his jeans off, and you try to focus only on his face. His eyes look dark, far away. There’s none of that familiarity you once knew, that you’d seen just a few days ago. Now, he looks determined, forlorn, but apart from that you can’t read him at all.

You press your lips together and clutch his shoulders tightly as he enters you. Kissing him harder to ease yourself through the feeling of dread. The feeling that you’re doing something so wrong. The feeling that you don’t want this at all. The feeling that the more he presses into you, the more you feel like you’re floating. Like you’re out of your body. Like you don’t know what’s happening anymore. Like you’re losing yourself.

It's a peculiar feeling. Almost like homesickness. But for a person rather than a place. Like your whole world had turned upside down in the past twenty-four hours and the man who’d stolen your life with a single bite to your neck was the one you were yearning for. Like he was your home. And you needed him so bad, you feel sick.

You don’t know when the tears start welling up in your eyes, or when you first feel the streams of salty wetness on your cheeks. But you try to swallow it up, breathe, hold it back. THIS IS WHAT YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO WANT! Your mind screams. Please, please, please just get through it. Get through it for James. He needs this. He’s your boyfriend and he needs this.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and it’s a pet name he’s called you a thousand times and yet it sounds so alien in this moment. So alien that you let out a soft sob. But you swallow before another one can escape. No, pull it together. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

His hair brushes against your forehead, and you focus hard on the brunette strand, so hard it blurs. Or was that just your tears? And then he pushes into you harder, and you feel like running, running, running away!

Another sob. And then in a choked whisper:

“Stop, please.”

But it’s drowned out by his soft grunts and kisses, and the unmistakable sound of sex. The headboard thuds dully against the wall. He whispers sweet nothings in your ear. Your chest heaves up and down in panic. The clock on the wall ticks steadily. One tick. Two ticks. Three, four, five, six, seven…

A wracked sob leaves your throat before you can stop it. Then another one, and another. And then the tears start flowing, and you’re crying in earnest. Sobbing like you’ve lost everything, like you’ve lost yourself, your identity, everything you ever knew about yourself and what you wanted. You cry and cry and cry underneath him, and the bubble of panic in your chest explodes.

“Are you crying?” Bucky stills, his blue eyes incredulous.

You shake your head, “I’m sorry, I…I just… I’m sorry, I’ll try, I’ll…”But you can barely get your words out, and you’re crying so hard that he sits up, shocked and aghast.

“Is the thought of having sex with me really that disgusting?”

“No!” You try to grab his hand but he snatches it away as if you’re diseased. And you feel like you’re on a foreign planet, lost and alone and confused and so fucking sad that you can’t think straight. And you don’t know what the right thing to do is. You take a deep breath, “James, please, I’ll try. I’m sorry, please, let’s just try again…”

You try to grab his hand again, try to pull him back. But at the same time, the panic bubble in your chest explodes at the thought of having him, anyone, inside you again at this moment. And you’re crying again, and you can’t breathe, and it’s like the walls are closing in on you.

And Bucky just watches, his face set in stone. Watches you cry on his bed, naked and vulnerable and feeling like a stranger in your own skin. A stranger with a mark on your neck that’s damned you for all eternity. And he feels like a stranger too. A stranger who just watches you.

Until he doesn’t.

“Get up.”

In a blur, he’s off the bed. Putting his clothes on before throwing yours at you. Hard.

“Didn’t you hear me? I said get the fuck up.”

His words pierce through you like a sword. “J-James, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, OK? Please, let’s try again. I promise I’ll be better, I promise I won’t cry, I–”

“GET. UP.”

He yanks you up by your arm so hard it hurts. And his eyes look grey and stormy, like you’ve never seen them before. He looks far away and hurt and disgusted, and it’s all because of you.

“James, please, I swear I won’t cry, I’m so sorry that I did. I just felt overwhelmed, and I’m sorry – please let’s try again. I want this, I promise I want this!”

“You think I’m some sort of charity case that you have to fuck in order to make yourself feel better?” He sneers, and in that moment, you don’t know who it is that’s spoken because how could this possibly be James?

“Get the fuck up and get out.”

“No! James, please listen – I want to try again, okay? I’ll do better, I want this to work, I want us –”

“–You want him.”

“No!”

“Did you let him fuck you?”

It comes out of nowhere, the hostile question. The look of pure reverence. And then there’s pin drop silence. Several beats of it. Your heart’s racing. You want to gulp for air but you can’t. Feels like you’re drowning and there’s no escape.

You don’t think you’ll ever forget the look on his face as realisation dawns.

“You’re a fucking stranger,” he spits out, and it’s accusatory yet at the same time void of any emotion. Like your silence has sucked it all out of him and there’s nothing left. Your boyfriend’s gone. Like the wind. Like he never was. “Get out.”

“I didn’t mean for it to happ–”

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU FUCKING WHORE!”

His booming voice is like a whip cracking across your face. He could have physically slapped you and it would have hurt less. It’s all slipping away now. The golden memories in your head. Him asking you out, all the dates, all the kisses. His crinkling smile, his reassurances, his affirmations, his patience. Slipping through your fingers. Going, going, gone.

It’s like a nightmare sequence after that. You’re half naked as he roughly yanks you to your feet. You beg, cry, beg some more but he’s a statue. A statue made up of pure hatred. Nobody’s ever hated you like this. Except for your father who had left you, but you never let yourself think about that.

You’ve barely pulled your leggings up before he’s shoving you out of his room. And you sputter, cry, beg, you do everything. It’s not even that you don’t want him to hate you. Oh, you deserve to be hated! You deserve it all! You just don’t want him to hurt. And you can’t fathom how it’s come to this, when just yesterday morning everything was perfect.

Oh, you hate Steve! You hate him, hate him, hate him!

“James, please listen–”

He’s a robot. Doesn’t even look at you. And you’ve never felt the roughness as you do now, never felt it as he shoves you out the door. On the landing now, and he’s pushing you down the stairs. And still you fight against it, and it’s like you’re fighting against your goddamned fate because this can’t be how yours and Bucky’s story ends! It just couldn’t.

“I won’t speak to him again, I promise–” You babble, hoping he’ll listen, or even just look at you, “I-I’ve ordered these pills I found online, they’re supposed to dull the bond. And I’ll stay away from him, I promise I won’t even look at him. I want to fix this, James, please don’t shut me out. Please!”

Down the stairs, past the foyer. He’s determined to get you out of the house. You’re begging, pleading, saying anything you think might reassure him. And yourself. But Bucky looks like he’s long gone. Like all the feelings he may have once felt for you have been snuffed out. Gone. Gone like the wind.

“I’m a fucking fool for trusting you, for thinking you were different,” he mutters, looking straight ahead as he pushes you toward the front door. “You’re nothing more than a trashy omega slut.”

Another harsh slap to the face, and the tears stream down your cheeks. Tears of hurt, betrayal, anger at yourself, sadness, confusion – all of it! Just a huge muddle that you couldn’t make sense of and you hated yourself for it!

“I’m not! Please let me explain–”

“Get fucked,” he sneers, and you can’t find the old James anywhere on his face, and it’s the last thing you see before he forcefully pushes you out the door. “It’s what you’re best at doing anyways.”

The door slams in your face with a finality you’ve never quite felt before. But you don’t have time to ponder over it, because the frigid cold of the outside hits you like a freight train. Freezing splashes of rain descend down from the skies as if to mock you, punish you, let you know that this was what you deserved.

“James! Please let me back in!” You pound on the door, but the rain is so loud, you doubt he could ever hear you.

And would he even care if he could?

“I promise I won’t speak to him again,” you sound broken, beaten down, yet still hanging on to that tiny thread of hope that the old James would come back, open the door and take you in his arms and promise you that he understands, that he always understands, “I won’t speak to him again, James! I want to be with you – please open the door! Please!”

You feel parts of yourself breaking off, withering away as you beg and plead and pound on the unforgiving door that wouldn’t open no matter how much hope you put in him. Losing yourself, bit by bit. Parts of you that you thought you knew, falling off like apples from a tree. Till you feel like a ghost floating outside of the body of a stranger.

Who even were you anymore? When all he saw was the mark on your neck?

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to the wood, pressing your cold cheek against it, “I’m sorry for all of it.”

Lightning strikes overhead, the rain pelting down like rocks. Your fingers are numb, and the feeling’s slowly spreading. Along with the dark realisation that Bucky wasn’t going to let you back in no matter how much you begged.

You feel like nothing as you slowly trudge back to Steve’s house. You don’t belong there, and yet… where else could you go? You want the rain to swallow you up whole, or the rushing water to suck you down a drain and take you far, far away. Away from everyone, to eternal darkness. To a place where no one could see the mark on your neck, where you didn’t feel like you’d forever lost yourself.

Instead, the water just descends upon you cruelly, soaking you through your clothes and down to the bone and yet you can’t bring yourself to care.

It’s when you reach Steve’s house that you realise you don’t have a key.

You don’t belong anywhere, the dark voice inside you mocks. Nobody wants you, nobody needs you. All you do is cause hurt and despair wherever you go, and–

You sink down on the marble steps in front of the Rogers’ mansion, trying to will yourself not to feel the freezing cold of the wind and rain, or the numbness, or the hopelessness. But it’s no use, it all consumes you anyways. Till you’re positive you’re not there anymore. Just a ghost of someone who used to be someone, before she was claimed in one unforgiving bite and her world crumbled around her.

The car headlights don’t even register to you. Neither does the silhouette of Steve until he’s right up in front of you. Saying words that you can’t make out, grabbing you by the arm but you’re too cold so you can’t quite feel it.

“What the hell were you doing out there in the rain?” He says the moment he’s unlocked the door and pushed you inside, the instant warmth enveloping you like a hug except it brings you no joy.

You shrug, not having it in you to answer. Instead, you stare at a speck on the floor. The pristine, cream-coloured marble floor and yet there’s a singular speck on it. Was it designed like that? Or could it perhaps be scrubbed off? Removed forever? You feel the urge to remove it, numb fingers twitching. Determinedly focusing on only that speck as Steve shakes your shoulders.

“Did you hear me, omega? Why were you out there in the freezing cold? Do you have a death wish?”

Yes.

“He doesn’t see me anymore.”

Steve squints, “What?”

“The mark. That’s all he sees.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“He’s forgotten that I’m still me.” Or am I?

Steve runs his hand through his hair in frustration, “What the hell are you–”

He stops short. Nose twitches. And you look away from the speck in time to see the most peculiar expression cross his face. Like blank shock and disbelief, like trepidation.

“Where were you?” He asks, this time in a voice so quiet yet so loaded. Like he knows the answer yet he’s hoping you won’t say it.

“With James.”

Steve sucks in his breath, and then you’re being yanked straight into him. He sniffs at you desperately, and then you feel it. A peculiar kind of thudding pain. Dull, yet so precise. Like a heart breaking in the distance. Not your own, but it may as well be. Because you feel it.

He cups your face in his, forcing you to look at him. But you don’t need to, because you feel it. A heart shattering feeling of despair. Was that him feeling that?

“You didn’t.” He says it firmly, and yet that confidence doesn’t reach his eyes. He searches your face as if trying to find the answer that he wants to hear. “Tell me you didn’t. Just please… please tell me you didn’t, and I’ll believe you.”

“I had to prove it to him,” you feel like a robot, and it comes out in a broken, faraway whisper. “I had to prove to him that I still cared about him.”

There’s a tremor in his hands, and yet he shakes his head as if he doesn’t quite want to believe it.

“You wouldn’t.” He swallows harshly, “You love me, so you wouldn’t–”

A lone tear runs down your cheek. “He said I had to prove it to him...”

Pin drop silence. And then…

“FUCK!” He shoves you away and you thud into the wall. Not too hard. Or maybe you’re just too numb to feel anything anymore.

He turns to the nearest object he can find – a heavy decorative crystal bowl. You flinch when he throws it to the floor with so much force, it shatters on impact. Shards of glass fly everywhere. Then he grabs something else, throwing that too. The noise of it breaking makes your ears ring. And then he throws something else – a vase this time. The expensive China explodes on the marble, flowers and water sliding across the floor dejectedly.

And it’s like you’re five years old again. Snap your fingers and you can see it. Drunken screaming and fighting, objects flying, things breaking. Your mother yelling, her drunken boyfriends charging at her. The ghost of a little girl cowering in the shadows, wanting it all to just stop, stop, stop.

You slide down to the floor, cupping your ears because he won’t stop throwing things. He won’t stop yelling. You feel this bone-chilling fear, and you wish you were gone. That you didn’t exist. You scrunch your eyes shut, but you can still hear him:

“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” He knocks over an ornate wooden table. One of the legs gives out.

“Please stop,” you whisper, but when had anyone ever stopped when you asked them to?

He gets louder. Angrier. You cover your ears desperately, and you stare at your speck. Focus on it real hard till it blurs. A shard of glass slides over it, and you get the urge to pocket it. Maybe you could use it later.

You grab it, the sharp, jagged edge grazing against your palm. That you can feel. And you’re so scared, so scared of how angry he is. Terrified of him and the ghosts of your past that scream inside your head, revving back to life when you’d tried so hard to bury them.

You don’t know where to go. Back out into the rain? What if he dragged you back and hurt you? He was scaring you so bad. Your chest feels like it’s about to explode. All you can think to do is run up the stairs, up to the only room in this house that you know how to get to. His room.

He’s still breaking things behind you when you take off, up the grand staircase that feels like a giant tongue that could swallow you whole. That mocks you for even being here. You don’t belong here. You don’t belong anywhere.

Into his bedroom, and then you stand there, frozen, the shard of glass still in your hand. The jagged edge is sharp and enticing, like it’s egging you on. Quick, the voice inside your head screams, before he follows you up here. Do it.

Not here, you tell it, it’ll stain his carpet if I do it here.

You glance at his bathroom, at the porcelain bathtub inside. It’s massive, like you could drown in it if you really tried to. The glass presses into your palm. Now. Do it now. Do it, do it, do it, do it–

 Steve crashes into the room, grabbing you by the shoulders. You flinch, gasp dying in your throat. His eyes are fiery and crazed, jaw clenched, breathing erratic.

“You’re mine,” he seethes, his face inches from yours, “No matter what you may think, or who you decide to spread your legs for. I’m not letting up on you. You’re mine, and I’ll fucking kill him if he gets between you and me.”

“It’s all your fault!” You burst, not realising your anger has overridden your fear until it explodes out of you. And your hands are shaking as your grip hardens on the shard of glass, but you manage to meet his wild eyes, all your grief turning into a momentary spark of rage. “He hates me and it’s all your fault!”

“I don’t give a fuck,” he sneers, gripping your jaw roughly, “I don’t give a fuck if he hates you. All I care about is that you’re my fucking property and I’m done being nice about it. Clearly that shit doesn’t work on you.”

“I HATE YOU!” You try to square up to him, but he’s so big, so frightening. It makes you tremble, shrink back, and yet you’re still so overcome with emotion: “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!”

“It doesn’t matter what you think,” his grip on you doesn’t let up. In fact, it’s unforgiving, “And I don’t care if you hate me. In fact, you don’t even know what I’m capable of. From here on out, I’ll give you a fucking reason to hate me.”

“I hate you,” you repeat, again and again till the words lost their meaning, and you sag in his arms because your rage and sadness has sapped all the energy from your body. “I hate you, Steve. I wish I’d never met you. I hate you and you ruined everything.”

“You ruined everything,” he spits out, venom laced through his each and every word. And then he throws you roughly on the bed. For a wild moment, you think the worst. And you ready yourself for it, knowing you won’t be able to overpower him no matter how hard you tried.

But he just stares at you. Long and hard. His gaze both fiery red with rage and yet so icy cold at the same time. His navy eyes switching between fire and ice too, looking broken and far away one second, and then frenzied and wild the next. Like he was going through a whirlpool of emotions and didn’t know how to get a grip on himself.

And it made him look so dangerous that it chills you down to the bone.

He opens his mouth to say something, and a clap of thunder booms outside and a flash lights up the whole room for a few beats. You watch him. He watches you. Silence, except for the storm.

He turns and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him and plunging you in darkness. A weakness overtakes you almost instantly. A peculiar kind, like a mental exhaustion as much as a physical one. You can still feel the glass in your hand. But you can’t find the will to go to the bathtub to use it. All you can do is lie there. On his bed. In his room. Smelling of him. Surrounded by him. Him. Him. Him.

Did you even exist anymore?

*

You leave the next day. Waking up alone on Steve’s bed, you robotically gather your things and go. You find him passed out on an armchair downstairs. The mess he’d made has been cleaned up as if by magic. The floors gleam once more, and even the crystal bowl has been replaced. Like yesterday never happened. Like you’d imagined it all. But your shard of glass tells you otherwise.

He’s surrounded by bottles of alcohol, and you can smell it on him. It makes you want to leave even more. And you try to be quiet, but as you cross him you sense his eyes on you. He’s awake. Unmoving.

You clear your throat.

“I’m going to get the bus back to campus.”

No answer. He just watches you. But he does not stop you. And so you leave without another word.

***

The familiarity of your dorm room brings you no relief. Neither does your desk or your textbooks or any of your other things. Luckily, classes would resume from tomorrow, but that still meant the rest of today and all of tonight to get through surrounded by silence. Silence and fear. Your mind screams with thoughts of everything that had gone down in the past few days, and oh how you wish you could just mute it all!

You itch for a friend – but who could you possibly call? All the friends you’d made were Bucky’s friends first. Maybe Peter? No, you couldn’t burden him with this. Your mother? Oh, she wouldn’t even answer! And that was it. You had no one else.

You stare hard at the shard of glass that you’ve brought along with you. Stare at it so hard that your vision blurs, and you swallow thickly. Desperation suddenly rising, you quickly log into the university’s website, looking up the resident student counsellor. She looks friendly enough in her picture, maybe you could call her? Maybe she’d know what to do?

You catch a glimpse of the mark on your neck in your mirror, and feel a strong urge to burst into tears again. Limply, you hold your phone up, ready to type in her number. But then the screen goes black. Battery dead. Your face crumples, and you throw your phone on your bed in frustration. What was the point? She’d never understand! Nobody could understand!

I’ll just wait for the pills, you think to yourself as you curl up on your bed in defeat, they’ll dull the bond and everything’s gonna go back to how it was before. It will, it will, it will!

You hold your teddy close and scrunch your eyes shut, hoping the voice in the back of your head doesn’t say anything. And it doesn’t this time, and you snuggle into the warm fur of your bear, and fall into a fitful sleep.

*

It feels like the first day of college all over again. But you’d done it once and survived, so you could most definitely do it again. That’s what you keep telling yourself as you make your way into the lecture theatre for World Politics the following Monday morning.

You hadn’t heard from Steve since the last time you’d seen him the morning you’d left his house. And you doubt he’d be in class today. But you don’t care! Not in the least. Not even a little bit. He was scary and you hated him for everything he’d done. And now he hated you too, you know he did. You couldn’t forget the look in his eye when he’d found out you’d been with Bucky. Oh, he definitely hated you too!

Maybe the distance will help weaken the bond, you think to yourself. At least until the pills arrive.

There’s an immediate hush when you enter the lecture hall. At first, you think nothing of it. But then the whispers begin. A soft hum that turns into a tidal wave in mere seconds. You frown as you make your way to the front row where you usually sit.

“Well, if it isn’t the campus slut.”

Your head snaps up. A group of alphas are sat two rows behind you. Steve and Bucky’s friends. You recognise them– Ransom, Andy, Curtis. All three of them sit there guffawing at you.

“Excuse me?”

“Careful Andy, she might just fall on your dick if you hold eye contact with her for too long. And who knows what diseases she’s carrying.”

What the–

“That’s true. She clearly doesn’t care about who she’s fucking – seeing as she hopped from Bucky to Steve in less than a day.”

Your eyes widen, and you feel winded. Like you haven’t quite heard them right. They couldn’t possibly…

“Who’s next in line, huh?” Curtis leers at you in a way he never has before. You’d never been particularly close to any of them in the past, but they’d never spoken a disrespectful word to you before now. “You gonna run through our whole friend group? Should I stock up on condoms or do you carry a pack around with you wherever you go?”

Your jaw drops, and yet no sound comes out.

Ransom laughs, “She’s definitely got a pack in her purse. Which is just as well, ‘cause I’ve got the rest of the day free. What do you say, omega? You taking any appointments?”

“And how much do you charge?”

“Wh-What are you–”

You’ve barely gotten your words out when someone slams their book down next to the three alphas.

“Nah, she’s all booked up for today,” Bucky takes a seat next to his friends, his face void of any emotion except for an empty smile. He nods to the front of the room where the professor is setting up his PowerPoint. “How do you think she got into this class in the first place?”

The betrayal is like a slap in your face. Bucky looks rough, tired. His cheeks hollow, his eyes blank. Stubble grown out, bags under his eyes. And that empty smile, one that you’ve never seen on him before. One that’s not familiar at all. He’s like a statue, one that doesn’t meet your gaze.

“James,” you whisper, “How could you–”

“I had to get tested after I fucked her,” he’s acting like you’re not even there. And it’s like he’s been brainwashed because how could this possibly be the man who’d never once been anything but sweet, nice and charming to you? How could this possibly be the man who was your boyfriend just last week? “She hid it from me, you know? The fact she was fucking the professor. But I’d steer clear of her now that I know. Hell, she’s probably fucking half the faculty, can’t think of any other way she’d get have gotten into this college.”

Curtis snickers, “Half the faculty huh? I thought she was with Steve now.”

Bucky acts like he hasn’t heard him, although you see a flicker of emotion in his eyes when Steve’s name is mentioned. Like hurt, anger. But then it’s gone. Like a candle being snuffed out, and he’s back to looking empty again.

“Steve’s probably just using her for a good time,” Andy says, “We know what he’s like, and we know what girls like her are good for.”

“A pump and dump,” Ransom elbows Bucky, “C’mon bro, you’re lucky you escaped her. We can only hope Steve does too.”

“Stop it!” You break, a surge of embarrassment mixed with anger coursing through you, “H-How dare you speak about me like that!”

All four of them burst out laughing, but the only one you can focus on is Bucky. His laughter sounds strange. Forced. Programmed. Empty. You look at him and only him.

“James, I know I hurt you but how could you–”

“Why the fuck is she talking to me?” Bucky’s looking at you and yet not quite at you. Like his gaze is just going through you, beyond you. “Look at her, trying to psychoanalyse me as if she’s some psychiatrist and not just a hick-town omega slut who spread her legs to get into school for free.”

The gasp dies in your throat, and you feel your lower lip wobble. How could he?! Oh, how could he say all these terrible things without batting an eye?! The same man who’d held you so tenderly, who’d been so patient with you. Who’d built up your confidence, told you that you were different, that you were the girl he wanted to change for, the one he wanted to settle down with. The same man who’d stood up for you in the past, who’d comforted you, complimented you, longed for you. The same man you’d had endless conversations with, the same man who’d held you in his arms in your bed at night.

Gone, gone, gone like the wind.

“I can’t believe you,” you utter, trying to be strong but you feel a wave of tears on the brink of overtaking you, “H-How could you say all this, after everything we’ve –”

“Now she’s about to turn on the waterworks. Just watch.” Oh, James was gone. Utterly and completely gone. And a stranger had stolen his face and his body and his voice and everything else because this wasn’t your James. This was a monster.

You stand up, accidentally knocking your textbooks to the ground. More cruel snickers. Slowly you look around, suddenly hyper-aware of the multiple pairs of eyes looking your way. Oh, it wasn’t just them! Everyone was looking at you! Everyone was laughing!

Your cheeks feel hot, and your eyes well with tears. What rumours had Bucky spread about you? What lies had he convinced the whole world to be true?! You can’t quite wrap your head around his betrayal. Oh, you can barely even look at him! Which is just as well, because he can’t look at you either.

“I’d never do this to you,” you whisper, picking your books up and hugging them close to your chest as some form of pathetic comfort, “I-I’d never…never do this to you.”

He still doesn’t look at you, and yet everyone else is. And you don’t care that the class has begun, that the professor is already talking. All you can feel is everyone’s burning gaze on you, and the sting of Bucky’s betrayal and his cruel words. Oh, you can’t take it! And you know you should be strong; be the confident woman you’d grown to become these past few months. But all you can think to do in this moment is run.

You thud down the stairs, and it’s like the laughter grows louder and yet the silence is deafening. Like there’s a spotlight on you. And everyone can see your tears as they threaten to spill. And a sob breaks through your lips as you reach the door of the lecture theatre and throw it open, escaping the cruel stares and yet feeling like you haven’t escaped anything at all. Like this is just the beginning.

You burst into tears before you can stop yourself, chest heaving as you feel a panic attack coming. Leaning against the wall, you pray the hallway remains empty. Sinking down, you can’t help but cry. Hot tears of embarrassment, sadness, hurt and betrayal all mixed into one. Tears of frustration because you were so pathetic that you couldn’t even defend yourself. Tears of helplessness because was this how it would be from now on?

The mark on your neck throbs, and you feel an inexplicable need for Steve. But would things have been any different had he been here? No, because he hated you too.

You’re unlovable, the cruel voice inside your head taunts. It hasn’t made an appearance in a while but it’s back in full force now. You’re unlovable and that’s why everyone hurts you. And you deserve it. You deserve it, you deserve it, you deserve it!

***

The days all start blending into one after that. You’re a pariah on campus, treated almost like a disease. It hurts so bad at first. So, so bad. You can’t quite wrap your head around how Bucky’s managed to turn everyone against you. He’d been your one true friend here but everyone else you’d spoken to had somewhat liked or respected you. Now, all you get is jeers, laughs or straight-up dirty looks.

Just ignore them, you coach yourself after a week of it. You’re here to learn. You can take it. You’ve taken much worse back home. And you don’t wanna go back. You worked so hard to get here and you CAN’T go back.

And yet it doesn’t get easier. It’s like you’ve got a sign on your back saying campus slut, and everyone taunts you like they can’t get enough. Especially the alphas. And often you find yourself back in your dorm room, hugging your teddy and crying your eyes out and trying not to think about the piece of glass you’ve stashed carefully in your bathroom cabinet. Sniffling into your teddy’s warm fur that smells like the man who was the cause of all of this.

 And Steve still doesn’t show up to any of his classes. Not that you care, because you hate him and he most definitely hates you too. And a part of you is still so terrified of him since that fateful rainy night, when everything had crashed and burned. When you’d seen the hatred in his eyes with your very own, inches away from your face.

And then, after weeks of no showing all his classes… he comes to your dorm room one night. He thinks you’re sleeping, but you’re awake when he gets into bed next to you. And then he comes again the next night, and the next. And then it’s almost like you can’t sleep unless he’s there, and he comes almost every night. Gets into bed with you, even though it’s tiny and the two of you barely fit.

And he holds you close, tucks you in against his chest and sometimes you think it’s all a dream. Because your days are so nightmarish, that your mind has conjured up a dreamlike fantasy as soon as the sun sets. And you finally relax, and your heart finally stops hurting, and you welcome the tenderness. Not knowing why he comes, but knowing it calms you, and you can finally escape the torment of the bullying during the day.

Once you even hear him on the phone. You’re half asleep but you feel the weight of your bed shift, see him sitting on the edge of it.

“I don’t care what that that doctor says. He’s an idiot and we need to find another one. And dad’s gonna do that, he’ll find someone competent. And you’re gonna be OK, we just need to–”

But he’s gone each morning when you wake up, almost like he wasn’t there at all. Like a shadow, slipping away as the sun rises.

Your pills finally arrive, and you take them without a second thought. At first, you feel no difference. But after a few days, a certain numbness hits. You don’t know if the pills are a dud, and it’s just you disassociating due to all the heckles and taunts and harassment. But you take them nonetheless, as if swallowing them diligently day after day might one day solve all your problems. As if one day you’d wake up and your mark would be gone, and Bucky would be nice again, and you’d find your confidence again. And Steve would be gone, gone, gone forever.

Except that’s not what you want at all, the voice in your head sings. It’s always there now. Always putting you down. But you deserve it, don’t you?

One day, you’re walking across the field on your way home after classes when you feel a slight breeze. And then you smell it. That inexplicable scent of burning firewood and a hot summer’s day. Except it’s not summer, which meant–

Your head whips up the same time his does. And for a split second, your eyes meet. Steve. With the rest of the football team – minus Bucky, thankfully. He holds your gaze, and it’s the first time you’ve looked at him in what feels like weeks. And you feel an odd comfort, despite the fact that you hate him and he probably hates you too.

There’s a group of cheerleaders hanging around him, it looks to be some sort of joint practice session. And Steve just stares at you, and you can’t help but stare back. Like he’s got you in some captivating hold that you can’t break free from. Like you’re both encased in a bubble where it’s just you two, despite the numerous people milling around.

And then, out of nowhere, the bubble pops when Steve pointedly turns his attention to a girl near him. You vaguely recognise her from around campus. A cheerleader. Beautiful, with long flowing hair. He puts his arm around her waist, and just like that you feel your heart plummet like an anchor. He watches you over her head, watches while the girl giggles at whatever he’s said. Watches you as she scrapes her nails against his chest, moves closer to him. He runs his hand up and down her back, his eyes boring through yours the entire time, almost like he’s waiting for a reaction.

It feels like a ton of bricks have dropped inside your stomach, alongside a whirlpool of emotions ranging from anger to disbelief. You want to rip the girl’s hair out, and at the same time want to curl up into a ball and cry. Oh, you hate him, you hate him, you hate him! Hate him for making you feel like this, hate him for confusing you so much, for making you yearn for him and yet stomping all over your heart at the same time! And you hate your pills for not working at all in this moment, when you’d hoped and prayed that they were and would.

You stand there, heart breaking over and over again. But it’s when the girl stands up on her tiptoes and kisses Steve’s cheek that you forcibly tear your gaze away and turn. Determinedly marching off, tears blurring your vision. Oh, you hated him so bad! You hated him and you hated Bucky too! And most of all, you hated yourself, and–

“Hey, hey, hey – watch where you’re going!”

“Sorry,” you mumble, peaking up at the person whose chest you’ve just banged into.

To your horror, Curtis’ face relaxes once he recognises you, “Oh, it’s just the campus slut. Ready to finally give me my appointment?”

“L-Leave me alone,” you avert your eyes, staring hard at the grass. Panic rises in your chest – an instinctive response that you’ve grown used to now. And you hate how your stutter has returned, and how scared you sound. You wish you were a different person, a more confident person. But daily torment has beaten that out of you, and you cower like a sorry, pathetic loser, hoping he’ll grow bored and let you off easy and allow you to just leave.

“Now why would I do that?” He chuckles, grabbing your shoulders to stop you from scurrying away, “Tell me, you interested in a two-for-one special? Me and Ransom were talking about it, we could show you a good time.”

“Please, j-just stop, I just wanna go back to my dorm room.”

“Please, j-just stop!” He mimics, making his voice all comically high-pitched. But then his eyes grow dark, and he looks down at you with a lecherous kind of hunger that scares you. “It’s too bad you’re just a trashy omega slut, because you’re such a fucking hot piece of ass. C’mon, just come back to my dorm room with me, we could have some fun–”

It happens quickly. His hand snakes down and you let out a quiet squeak when he squeezes your ass. A burning hot anger courses through you, along with a paralysing sense of fear. You bat his hand away and jump backwards. He looks unperturbed, closing the gap between you instantly, a hungry grin on his face.

And then he’s yanked away from you, and there’s a blur of movement. Your eyes widen as Steve tackles Curtis to the ground, his fists pummelling into his face over and over again. You hear several sickening cracking sounds, Curtis screaming, everyone else yelling and forming a crowd around them. And then just Steve’s fists, crack after crack. Spurts of blood.

And Steve looks furious, like he’s a man possessed. Veins popping, face red. Landing punch after punch on Curtis’ face which is quickly growing unrecognisable. Your mouth falls open but no sound comes out.

Several others try to pry Steve off. First Sam, then Thor joins in. But they can’t, and he easily fights them off. Another fist to Curtis’ jaw, and another one straight to his eye. You hide your face, too scared to watch yet at the same time too paralysed to do anything else.

“Don’t fucking touch her again!”

It takes five guys from the football team plus their coach to finally get Steve off. And he’s breathing hard, his eyes crazed like he’s frenzied like a wolf. And his gaze meets yours, and you’re so fucking terrified that you have to look away.

“You’re fucking in for it now, Rogers,” the football coach is livid, “I don’t care how much money you come from or whatever the fuck you’re going through at home with your mother–”

“SHUT THE FUCK UP!” Steve snaps in fury, and several of them have to hold him back as he lunges for the coach too.

That’s when it all gets too much for you, and you turn on your heel and run, run, run away. Heart thudding and feeling like you need to scrub yourself clean ten times over because of how he touched you when you didn’t want him to. Violated you.

Back in your dorm room, you collapse on your bed and cry. Hugging your teddy close and hating everything about life. You think back to a million years ago, when you’d first started college. How optimistic you’d been to leave all the sadness of home behind. But sorrow seemed to follow you wherever you went. Everything was a mess and it was all your fault! Oh, if only you’d been stronger, somehow hadn’t let Steve bite you, if you’d have been smart enough to escape. Then none of this would be happening! Oh, it was all your fault!

You cry and cry, dragging yourself into the shower and scrubbing yourself raw over and over again. Maybe you could wash it off? Wash off Curtis’ touch? Wash off Steve’s bite mark? Wash off whatever it was written on your face that made everyone treat you like crap?

You itch for the shard of glass. You still haven’t thrown it away, and the voice in your head urges you to use it. To do it, just do it. Just do it.

Your body hurts by the time you finally get out of the shower. In a tearful rage, you’d rubbed the sponge so hard at your mark that it’s opened up and bleeding once more. You’d wanted it to disappear but you’ve made it more apparent than ever, and it hurts. Everything hurts.

You’re still hurting as you drag yourself under your covers and fall into a fitful sleep.

*

“Fuck, stupid fucking shoes. Fuck you!”

You wake up with a jolt, and yet self-preservation has you instinctively stay still, and your eyes shut while your heart thuds. But then you smell Steve’s familiar scent, and your body can’t help but relax. He noisily makes his way across your dorm room, kicking anything in his way before collapsing on your bed. You lay determinedly still, making sure your breathing remains shallow.

“Hi,” Steve sighs, and you can immediately smell the liquor on him. But his hand is so warm as it strokes your back. He lowers the blanket so he can touch the bare skin of your arm, and his warmth sears you from the inside out. And it’s a calming effect that you welcome despite everything. Oh, he confused you so much!

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says after a short pause, and you can hear him slurring his words, and it makes your blood freeze. How much had he drank? Would he get violent, mean, scary, horrible? How could someone calm you yet scare you so much at the same time?

“And they all know it. They all want you, baby. I wish I could protect you from everyone. Take you back home and keep you safe and sound. Away from all these assholes who can’t wait to take advantage of you.” He sighs, and it’s such a stark contrast, this gentle tone he’s using. So different from that rainy night where he’d crashed and broken everything and you’d been scared for your life. It’s funny, because you associate alcohol with violence, and yet this is the gentlest Steve has ever spoken to you.

“Y-You were scary today,” you speak, voice still croaky from sleep.

He jumps, “You’re awake…”

“Yes.” Would he leave now? He only stayed when he thought you were asleep.

But Steve stays put, “I got suspended.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. But I got Curtis expelled, so he won’t bother you anymore. And that’ll teach that stupid fuck not to mess with what’s mine.”

Relief floods your body. But it’s fleeting. Curtis was gone, but the other alphas still remained. And they’d be even more ruthless now that you were the reason Curtis was expelled. Not to mention Bucky, who was still on a warpath to ruin your life. You gulp, feeling the urge to cry again.

The two of you lie there in silence, with him just stroking your back, both of you lost in a million racing thoughts.

“You didn’t care,” he breaks the silence.

“Huh?”

“When I was talking to that other girl. When she kissed me. You didn’t care at all.”

You think back. Well, you had cared. Hadn’t you? But what could you possibly have done about it?

“I wish you loved me like how I love you.” He sighs, stroking your hair now, playing with it and twining it around his finger. “I wish… I wish you’d just see what I see, and let yourself be happy with me instead of fighting against it.”

“I don’t think I’m ever gonna be happy,” you say softly.

“Why not?”

“I don’t think I’m supposed to be,” your voice catches, the lump in your throat getting bigger, “I think I just… I just try to find happiness wherever I can, but whenever I do it’s always a matter of time before I ruin everything. I ruined it with my dad, and so he left and that’s why my mom hates me now, so I’ve ruined it with her too. And I ruined it with Peter, and then with James.”

“But what about me?” He sounds so… so innocent.

“What we have isn’t love,” you do anything but look at him, focusing on the loose thread of your duvet cover instead. “You just took what you wanted and you didn’t even ask. And you don’t love me, Steve. You’re never there, every day when they…” you sniffle, “Soon you’ll realise how unhappiness follows me wherever I go, and you’ll leave me too.”

“Never,” he buries his face in your hair, inhaling deeply and hugging you close till all you can smell is him. “I’ve never been in love before but I promise I love you. You’re all I think about, day and night. Even when there’s other shit I should be focusing on, it’s always just you. I think I loved you from the moment I saw you. And I wish to God I could go back and do it all differently. Take you out and make you my girlfriend properly. Then you’d have loved me back, and none of this other shit would’ve happened.”

Oh, his words painted the prettiest picture! But could you believe him? Or should you believe the facts? Which were that he’d been horrid to you when he’d first seen you, and Bucky was the one who’d been nice. It’s like Steve’s whole personality has changed overnight – from the ruthless, stoic and mean alpha to now this hot and cold man who goes from scary one day to in love with you the next.

“I don’t believe you,” it comes out in the faintest whisper, and yet you know he’s heard you because he stiffens, “All you’ve ever done is hurt me and I don’t believe you about anything… Thank you for standing up for me today, but…”

Your voice trails off, but you know what you want to say: but I’m just so miserable, so miserable all the time and it’s all because of you!

“But what? Why won’t you let yourself love me?” In his drunkenness, he sounds almost like a petulant child, like he’s used to getting everything he’s ever wanted and he can’t fathom why he can’t have this.

“Y-You scare me,” you whisper, scrunching your eyes shut and shrinking into yourself under the covers lest you make him mad. “Not just today but… last time, at your house, when you were throwing and breaking things, and I was so scared. H-How could I love someone who makes me feel so scared?”

There’s such a long pause, you think he’s dozed off. But he hasn’t, because he tries to pull you closer, clumsily embrace you. Except you remain stiff, cowering under the covers and not knowing what to think, especially now since you’ve reminded him of the night you slept with Bucky.

“I was so angry that night, I thought I’d explode,” he says softly into your hair, “and I’ve never felt anything like it. If any one of my exes told me they’d slept with my best friend, I wouldn’t have cared. But you,” he pauses, exhaling deeply, “it felt like you’d ripped my world apart from underneath me. I was so angry, and I knew if I went to see him then, I would’ve murdered him. Slit his fucking throat. Instead, I took it out on you. But it wasn’t your fault that he took advantage of you.”

You swallow back tears, “I was so scared,” I still am. All the time.

“I know, baby. I’m sorry. I won’t scare you like that ever again.”

“You will.” All of you scare me.

“I won’t. I’ll be better for you, I promise.” He tries to hold your face, tries to kiss you but you turn away, not accepting his embrace despite every cell in your body screaming at you to give in. “Baby, please. I know everything sucks right now but soon, I’ll fix everything. I’ll take you away from here and I’ll fix everything.”

What?

“Mmhm,” he’s this weird mix of drunk and half asleep, and he presses his face against your cheek, nuzzling you while you remain still in his arms. “I’ll take you back to my house and keep you safe there. We’ll have our little girl and my mom’s gonna be there to see her, and everything’s gonna be just fine.”

Oh, he was drunker than you thought!

You swallow harshly, “I don’t want that.”

“Yes, you do. You want what I want. I can feel it.” Again, he tries to kiss you. This time, you let him. You don’t know why, but it’s almost like it’s muscle memory kissing him. It comes so easily, so naturally. And he’s such a good kisser, even when he’s drunk. He holds your face so carefully, like you’re made of glass and you’ll break if he goes too rough. And he tastes like alcohol but surprisingly, you don’t mind.

“I love you so much…”

You shake your head, try one last time to fight him, “No, you don’t…”

“Yes, I do.”

“No, Steve. You don’t. You know nothing about me, none of my interests or my quirks because you never asked.” Not like how James did. “All you know is that you want to own me and control me. But that’s not love. What we have isn’t love.”

“You’re wrong. Completely wrong. I do know you. I know you better than he does. I know you more than anyone else in this world.”

You don’t know how or when he slips inside you, but he does and it feels like a dream sequence. Like two puzzle pieces that were lost on two separate ends of the attic until someone finally found them and put them together again. HOW?! HE DIDN’T LOVE YOU AND YOU DIDN’T LOVE HIM! SO HOW?!

And how could this be the same Steve? The one who’d looked so mad with rage the last time you’d come face to face with him? The one who’d screamed and yelled and thrown and broken things, and yet here he was, holding you so tenderly as if none of that had ever happened? And here you were, accepting his touch and spreading your legs for him as if none of that had ever happened.

“You’re so good for me,” Steve whispers, his teeth grazing against your neck, “so soft and small and fucking perfect for me. Fuck, I needed this.”

You feel his tongue lap at your mark, and it’s so different from the first time. When he’d ruthlessly sunk his teeth into you, leaving his stamp of ownership on you without a second thought. Without caring what you wanted. Now, he seems so soft, so gentle.

What would he be like tomorrow?

You quiver, feeling so small in his arms. He shifts till he’s on top of you, his strokes gentle yet precise, his tip touching where you need him so badly. Building you up in a way you’ve learnt that only he can. You pant, pulling him closer, wanting him to kiss you again. Needing him, yet hating him, yet needing him all the same. Like you’ll die without him. Like he completes you, no matter how hard you wish it wasn’t true.

“Promise you’ll love me one day,” he says softly while you clutch at his t-shirt, your shaking legs wrapping around his waist as he holds you close. “Promise you’ll try to love me. That you’ll forget about him and love me like how I love you.”

Your answer is lost in a sea of breathless moans and desperate ruts. The sound of kissing, the dull thud of your cheap bed frame against the wall. The beat of his heart and your own. So in sync, almost like they’d been like that since the day you were born.

He falls asleep soon after you both climax. Still holding you tight, as if he thinks you might slip away. You try to follow suit, but your mind can’t keep quiet. Not even for a second. Despite his inviting warmth that radiates from his body and envelopes you into an enticing hug. The voices in your head scream so loudly, it’s like they’re at war with each other. And you lie there for ages, trying to get them to quieten down, but they don’t. And your heart beats so hard it almost hurts, and you feel sick. And wrong. And used.

You stumble into your bathroom, and it’s when you look at your reflection in the mirror that the dark voice in your head speaks up.

You really are a slut, it accuses. Spreading your legs for him again, and enjoying it again. You’re everything they make fun of you for being. In fact, you’re worse. You say you don’t want him, that you don’t love him, and yet you give in to him every time.

The dark, mocking words spread through your bloodstream like poisonous ink. Your vision blurs. You hardly recognise the girl in front of you. Who was she? Who were you? What had you become?

Get fucked, you remember Bucky’s venomous words. It’s all you’re good for.

In a frenzy, you throw open the cabinet under the sink. Carefully pick up your glass shard, the one you’ve kept so safe for all this time. Maybe for this moment.

Do it, do it, do it. You know you want to. It’ll be best for everyone if you just do it now.

The glass feels cool against your palm. You trace it lightly against your skin, daring yourself to bring it upwards. Slowly. Very, very slowly. It’s sharp and jagged, glinting under the cheap bathroom light. You scrunch your eyes shut, try to ignore the thudding of your heart.

Do it, do it, do it. Now.

You hear a stirring in the distance. The sound of your name. Footsteps. Your name again. Louder this time. The doorknob rattles.

“Open the door!” Steve shakes the door again, calling out your name. Oh, how long had you been in here for? And how did he know to come find you? “Omega, did you hear me? Open the door.”

The glass falls from your hand, and you roughly wipe the tears from your face. Tears you didn’t even realise you’d shed. You open the door and he grabs you the moment you do, pulling you out and staring at you hard.

“What were you doing in there?”

“Nothing.”

He regards you carefully, so carefully you fear he can read your mind and see right through you. And you think that perhaps he can, when he gently peels back the sleeves of your sweater and looks. Just looks. Long and hard, as if searching for something. Something you still couldn’t bring yourself to do. And then he wraps his arms around you, lifting you up and carrying you back to bed without another word.

You fall asleep in his arms, and it’s the strangest sensation – feeling troubled and at peace at the same time. Because being in Steve’s arms brings you peace, and yet he’s the very person who’s caused your whole life to turn into a mess. Oh, how could such a terrible person make you feel so safe, so at home like nobody else could? Did it make you a terrible person? Feeling so at ease with him? And not feeling like that with good people like Peter and James?

Did it even matter? It’s not like he’d even be there long enough for you to wrap your head around the complicated ways in which he made you feel. Because of course, in the morning he’s gone once more. And you’re left alone once more. Gone with the wind. Like a fleeting dream. Almost like you imagined it all. Almost like he never was.

Your teddy’s coal black eyes stare at you profoundly, and you feel the sudden urge to throw your glass shard in the garbage. Instead, you methodically get ready for the day, swallowing a bunch of your pills like you do every morning. Life was slowly losing all meaning, but the pills still made you feel like you had a bit of control. And so you take them, and yet you don’t dare hope for anything.

***

“Congratulations, another top tier research paper,” The professor smiles as he hands you back your work at the end of class later that day. “You really are a star pupil.”

You feel a small burst of pride, but it’s snuffed out quickly when the inevitable wave of snickers sound from behind you.

“More like star of taking it up the ass,” an alpha mutters under his breath. More laughs. You duck your head, shoving your paper into your bookbag without a second glance.

The professor, having not heard anything, looks unperturbed, “It’s a pleasure to have a student like you.”

More laughs and jeers and jokes made quietly. The professor moves on, slamming a research paper down on the desk behind you while you quietly pack your bag.

“Not your best work, Mr. Drysdale,” he says, “Although perhaps you should be commended for actually turning something in this time. And Mr. Barnes – I see you’ve taken a page out of Mr. Drysdale’s old playbook because you didn’t turn anything in at all. You do realise this paper contributes to your final grade?”

Bucky laughs as if it doesn’t even mean anything. And to the likes of alphas like them, it didn’t. Just like how it didn’t matter to Steve that he’d gotten suspended. You suppose when you had that much wealth, things like this just weren’t something to worry about.

“Hey, omega – what kind of magic pussy have you got that’s making the professor simp so hard?” Ransom jabs your shoulder hard.

You’re numb to it now. It’s just another day. You zip your bookbag shut and stand up, about to make a hasty exit like you always do but the alphas block your path.

“What’s the hurry? Thought you’d stay back to show the professor a good time after all that ass kissing he just did for you.”

You swallow harshly, not having it in you to even plead or beg with them anymore. You’d just stay quiet, wait for them to get bored and leave you alone off their own accord. That, and the fact that they scared you beyond belief.

“God, just look at her, Bucky. She’s fuckin’ terrified like a little mouse.” Ransom guffaws, “Should be. She got Curtis expelled.”

Your hands shake so bad that your book bag drops to the ground, the contents spilling out everywhere. You hastily get on your knees to pick everything up, hating how they just stand there and watch instead of just leaving.

“Jeez, you’re not even gonna wait till everyone leaves before you get on your knees?” Ransom elbows Bucky, “Did her parents raise her to be slut or what?”

It’s only when you stand back up, that you hear him. Bucky, in the most detached tone you’ve ever heard him speak in:

“Her father was probably disgusted by her. She’s probably the reason why he left.”

Something breaks inside you. The tiny sliver of thread that was barely holding you together since last night. It breaks. Just like that. You feel cold all over. Freezing. Like anything keep you warm on the inside has decayed and died, withered away along with your spirit and your will to live.

Through all the laughing and mocking, you look straight into his cold, dead blue eyes and see a flickering semblance of something. Horror? Regret? Now, his mouth clamps shut. But it doesn’t matter. He’s said it. The one thing you never spoke about, the one thing you didn’t ever want to even think about. How did he even know? And now everyone knew!

You back away in slow motion, your whole body shaking violently. And then you break into a run, not caring that you’re indoors, not caring that every single person is staring at you. Not caring that you’re crying, or that your throat is closing up, or that your chest is hurting, or that your stomach feels like it’s on fire. You wish you weren’t there, you wish you’d never even come here. Maybe everyone was right – this was no place for an omega, especially you.

Oh, you wish you were dead! You wish it would all be over and you’d just be dead and unable to feel anything! Anything at all!

Out into the courtyard you run, and even more eyes gawk at you as tears stream down your cheeks. You wish you’d just disappear! Just die and it would be like you never existed. Deep down in the ground where nobody could hurt you anymore, where words meant nothing because you’d be dead and unable to feel a single thing!

In the distance, you can hear someone calling out your name. But you don’t look back. You feel like prey, like they’re all out to get you and you need to run, run, run. More calls of your name. You run faster, despite the growing pain in your stomach.

A hand grabs yours and stops you, yanking you back. That’s when you realise you’re heaving with tears, and you can barely breathe.

“I didn’t mean to say that!” Bucky keeps hold of your hand, as if scared you’ll run away the moment he lets go. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to take it that far–”

“YOU WIN, OKAY!?” You burst out, yanking your hand back with such force that it hurts, and you can still feel his searing touch on your skin. “You win, now just leave me alone!”

“I’m sorry!” He tries to grab your arm again, “I’m sorry, it should never have gone that far. I was just so angry, and I–”

“I’m leaving,” you say quietly, “I can’t take it anymore, James. You were my first friend here but now it’s like you’re a stranger and I’m so miserable all the time.”

“You’re the one who–”

“I would never treat anyone the way you’ve treated me these past few weeks. Not even if they were my worst enemy, James!” You fiercely wipe your eyes, and it’s almost like your hurt is so deep that it’s translated into physical pain, and you can feel it deep in your stomach. “So you win, okay? I can’t stay here anymore. I’m gonna go home tonight and never come back! And maybe then you’ll be happy because I don’t know how else to say that I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY FOR GETTING MARKED AGAINST MY WILL, OKAY!”

He opens his mouth to say something, but you beat him to it:

“I’m sorry that you hate me now, hate me so much that you treat me like I’m the dirt at the bottom of your shoe!” You shove him. Hard. You’ve never been physical like this with anyone before but all the animosity and hurt and anger building up inside you has broken loose. “I’m sorry that Steve took me from you. He never gave me an option but you don’t care about that at all! And now I’m stuck with someone I never chose to begin with, but you don’t care at all about that! You only care about yourself and how all of this made you feel!”

“It’s not worth it!” You cry, more to yourself than to him, “None of it’s worth being this miserable. Not college, not my scholarship, none of it! So you win, James! I’ll leave tonight, and you can forget all about me, and maybe that’ll make you happy because I tried so hard, but I don’t know what else will!”

“Leave?” Bucky repeats, spitting the word out as if he can’t quite believe it, “You can’t leave–”

“It’s like none of it meant anything to you!” A sob escapes your throat, and you don’t even hold it back. “Like what we had meant nothing, like I meant nothing. You couldn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt, you couldn’t fathom that I’d never, ever hurt you on purpose! Or go behind your back on purpose! I’d never do that to you, James! But it happened and I tried to apologise, and you didn’t accept it, but why can’t you just LEAVE ME ALONE!?”

“I can’t,” he says quietly, “I don’t fucking know why, but I just can’t leave you alone.”

“Well, I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?” You whisper, “I’ll do you a favour and leave on my own.”

You turn to go, and that’s when you’re hit with another piercing pain. A squeak leaves your throat, and yet you remain determined as you walk away from him. But you don’t get very far before you feel it again, stronger this time. It almost winds you. Oh god, what was happening?

“Hey, are you OK?”

His voice barely registers. You clutch your stomach before taking another step forward. Oh, god please. Please just let me get back to my room.

Another pang. It feels like red hot knives twisting inside your abdomen. Your legs falter, face twisting up. What was happening to you?

You hear Bucky call out your name before your ears start ringing. You feel hot all over, and then it hits you again. And it’s so painful, you feel like you’re going to throw up. Instead, a wracked cough escapes your throat. Almost like a dry heave. And with horror, you look at the palm of your hand which is now covered in droplets of red.

It almost doesn’t feel real.

Another pang of shooting pain, and this time your knees buckle from underneath you. You collapse, but Bucky’s there to catch you. He hoists you in his arms, and you see the look of confusion and fearful concern on his face.

“Let go,” you whisper through the excruciating pain, weakly pushing against him. “I don’t want your help, I just… I need to go home. Just let me go, let me go, let me–”

Your stomach twists up as you’re hit with another stabbing pain, red hot waves of it that just won’t stop. Again and again, till you feel faint. And everything starts fading, darkness beckoning you. And it hurts so bad, so, so bad.

“Oh fuck,” Bucky sounds like he’s far away, and yet you can hear the panic in his voice, “Sweetheart? Please… Oh god, oh god…”

And then, mercifully, you pass out and everything goes black.

Well... OMG THERE IT IS. Here we go. I'm not sure what to say. To those who made it till the end - thank you for being patient with me whilst I worked on this. Please do let me know what you think - your feedback, reblogs, comments, asks - they mean the world to me more than you'll ever know. I will say, I've developed this sort of super-anxiety when it comes to posting fics now. I never had it before but now it's crazy haha - I keep second-guessing my work. I know the characters may be a bit different, but the story has an effect on how they act! And I wanted to explore a more yandere-ish Steve, a more outspoken Omega, and a more ... well... whatever Bucky was in this chapter, haha. But enough of me yapping...

I did come up with some questions (but you don't have to answer them ofc, but just in case you do...)

What do you think happened to omega at the end? :((

If you were omega, would you forgive Bucky?

Does Steve truly love Omega like how he says he does?

Who should she end up with?

True to your eldest brother’s words, he did sit before you and hid the view of the guests, but most importantly, Aemond. You fiddled with your fingers in anxiousness and prayed that the feast would pass quickly. “Do not fret, sister; you could retire after the second course,” The prince whispered beside you, and you could only give a small smile of gratitude. However, that smile was quick to wilt as you realized that before the feast could actually commence, those who sought your father’s blessing for their marriage were to approach the long table. As your brother saw the clear alarm in your eyes, he too realized what was to happen next. “I… I shall be fine, brother.” You managed to say, but the validity of your words was debatable.

You tried to keep your mind preoccupied as the lords and ladies who asked for your father’s blessing for marriage began to queue before the long table. Your eldest brother began to speak to you and your brother, offering any anecdote just so you would not let your mind wander towards your past knight, who stood with his betrothed at the end of the line. When he was drawing closer, your fingers nervously traced the embroidery of your dress, bracing yourself as you would once again be faced with the love you had lost. 

Luckily, your cousin Eliza suddenly appeared, in her arms was her babe, and she quickly excused you from the long table as she had been privy to the truth. “Come, cousin, my son has been desperate to spend time with his aunt,” Eliza smiled softly as her daughter coed in her arms, ushering you to stand and offering an escape from facing Aemond. 

Aemond, who stood at the end of the line, felt his breath fall short as he saw you stand, your gaze planted on the babe in Lady Eliza’s arms. This was the closest he had been to you for two years. He was finally ready to face you, to look into your enchanting eyes once more, but his chances were gone as you had left, just as he did. 

“Thank you,” You said quietly as you took Eliza’s son into your arms, the tot quickly settling into your hold. You need not utter why you gave thanks, as Eliza quickly understood and took your hand and gave it a loving squeeze. 

“Oh, by the way, cousin, I wish for you to meet Lord Andrew. He’s my dear husband’s cousin,” Eliza smiled, and as the words left her lips, the young lord stood. His stature towered over those who sat at the long table and over you as well. Eliza knowingly smiled as she caught the way your eyes slightly widened when you saw her husband’s cousin. With his tall frame, warm brown eyes, and sand blonde locks, he looked exactly like the man you had envisioned and told her you would marry when you were younger. Eliza would like to believe it was fate. Though she had once wished it was Aemond you would end up with, it would seem that was just a fantasy, as he was now lined up before your father to ask for his blessing with his betrothed on his arm. 

“A pleasure to finally meet you, princess.” Lord Andrew smiled and took your hand to place a kiss on your knuckles. For the first time in two years, you feel the familiar heat on your cheeks and the slight flutter in your heart as your eyes meet those of warm brown eyes. 

Aemond, who was standing before your father, saw the scene, eye wide and confused. His mind was running with questions that no one could answer. For the past moons, he and the whole of the kingdom believed that their beloved princess was married. But you were still here, in your father’s house. No prince nor lord escorted you through the castle walls, nor did anyone see you with another man who was not related to you. Could it be true that your hand was not taken by another? That you had kept your promise to him that you would never take another that was not him? Aemond could not stew in his thoughts any longer as the king was now before him, and he and his betrothed were asking for his blessing, but all he wanted to do was run to you and leave all his misguided actions behind.

As the feast went on, Aemond could not help as his eye kept glancing in the direction of the princess. She forwent her proper place by the head table and instead occupied the seat next to a lord in a place that seems to be connected to Lady Eliza’s husband’s house. Aemond watched steely-eyed as the lord leaned forward and invaded the princess’s space, a smirk on his lips. Aemond had thought you would back away, put further space between you and the lord as you often did, but you only mirrored his smile, and he dared say he saw you mimic the lord’s movements and lean further as you two engaged in a conversation that was meant for you two alone. 

Aemond gripped his chalice tightly. Aemond had always resisted jealousy before, even if he often failed. But now? All he wanted was to stew in his jealousy. Nurse the pit in his heart as you laughed with a lord. And curse the day that he decided to leave you. However, Aemond could do no such thing, as all he felt was his own doing. 

You resisted turning towards the direction of your past knight. He was on the other side of the room, yet you could still feel the familiar burn of his lilac, icy stare. Questions infiltrated your mind— the same questions you had years before. Why did he leave? What have you done wrong? Why had he not returned your letters? All of these questions were never given an answer, and you would think that after years of silence, you would have given up and decided to move on. But who could truly move on from their first love? So instead of giving in to your wants to march over to the other side of the hall and demand Aemond’s answers, you preoccupied yourself with Lord Andrew. If Aemond had clearly moved on, so should I. You thought. You breathed in deeply and decided that it was truly better to forget about him because if you dwelled further, the hurt in your chest might never leave, and it only doubled each time as you thought of him and his soon-to-be lady wife. 

“Might be too forward of me to ask if we could break fast tomorrow, princess?” Lord Andrew questioned sheepishly, his eyes going downwards in shyness, and you bit your tongue. “But we had not even finished our supper, my lord,” You say, eyes glancing towards the plates before you two that were barely touched as you and the lord had been too preoccupied with speaking and getting to know one another. 

“Oh— I… apologies, princess, I did—“ You bit your lip to prevent the amused smile that wanted to come forth as the lord began to ramble on his apologies for being too forward, and his fear of offending and scaring you off was evident in his eyes. You licked your lips and took hold on his hand that reasted atop teh table as a signal for him to cease fretting and voiced out that you would very much like to break your fast with him on the morrow but what you liked most that for the first time in two years, you found someone who could bring your thoughts away from Aemond. 

When Aemond witnessed that you bestowed your touch upon another and how his stare could not persuade you to look upon him, he quickly stood and excused himself from the house’s table and left. Desperately wanting to erase the scene he had witnessed in his mind and expel the rage and hurt he had felt because he had to come to the truth of his actions— that his rash and ill-thought-out decision had led him to lose the love of his life. 

When morning approached, you woke earlier than you had thought as the incessant barking of your pets broke your slumber. You sat up on your feathered bed and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes, all the while Theo used his mouth to pull at the sleeve of your nightgown and urged you to stand. When you did, you looked upon Sapphira in question, and the two of your eldest cats only nudged their furry faces upon your leg, and you stumbled upon them as you tried to dress in your robe. You stayed silent as your cats began to push and lead you outside your chambers. The castle was still fast asleep, and the sun barely broke through the horizon.

Through your tired stupor, you did not question the odd behavior of your beloved pets as you walked barefoot through your home and were led to the gardens. When Theodore and Shapphira’s whinnings finally ceased, you sighed and scooped them up in your arms, “Why must you wake me and lead me to gardens for nothing, my loves?” You asked softly as they rested calmly in your arms Ypu turned to return from whence yyou came from but your steps quickly ceased and you froze in your spot as you were greeted by Aemond who was only dressed in his night clothes and from the sweat on his face, you would wager he came from the tiltyard. He had a triad of cats in his arms, the kittens belonging to the felines in your arms that you quickly placed back on the ground as you feared that at any moment you might just run away, as you had never thought you should be confronted by him. 

“They stumbled into the tiltyard… I supposed they were yours because of their jeweled collars.” Those were the first words that Aemond had spoken to you. Even he himself was surprised that he did not stumble or stutter— he was certain that the words on his lips would be caught if he dared to speak to you now. You nodded meekly, watching as Theodore and Sapphira looked upon the man who had been your constant companion before. 

When Aemond looked upon the pets that he once helped raise, he felt another pit in his stomach. It was odd; he was never particularly fond of your cats, but deep inside, he still cared for them because he knew how much you adored them. Back in his home, Aemond had the habit of feeding the stray cats he saw on the grounds, a small voice in his head urging him to do such actions because he knew you’d approve of it. To this day, in House Targaryen, there were maids and squires instructed to feed any wandering or stray cat they found. 

You dared not look at Aemond, your eyes firmly planted on the ground, and as you saw him dip down and return the kittens to their parents, you took that as your turn to leave. “Good day, lord Aemond,” Was all you managed to say, and you tried to follow your cats, who returned inside the castle walls. When Aemond heard his name from your lips, he felt his knees weaken and his heart burn at the tone of dismissal in your voice.

He watched you try to hastily return inside the castle walls and perhaps hide from him once more, but he could not let it be so. He was brash as he took hold of your arm and pulled you closer to him. “Please,” Was all he could say, his being too consumed with the thought of you near, that you were once again in his grasp and that he was finally breathing in your scent and hearing your voice once more. 

“I command you to let go of me,” You ordered, voice harsh as you knew that each second spent near Aemond would undo all the stitches that his leaving had caused. You only felt him hold onto you tighter, trying to pull you closer. “I’m sorry, my heart,” You hear him whisper. He was standing behind you, his hold still upon your arm and his face thrading near your head, his breath fanning your hair. You feel the threat of tears quick to come. You shut your eyes tightly and shook your head. “Do… do not call me that— how dare you call me that?!” 

You seethed and forcefully removed his hold upon you so you could meet his eye. “You have no right to call me your heart after you had left mine broken for years!” You practically screamed, the hurt in you bubbling into rage. You watched as Ameond tried to speak— to try and say his peace but you could not let him do so— the questions you had that you desperately wnated the answers for could finally be known but you could not let it be so because you knew that whatever reason he offered, your heart would be too soft and understand him. Now, you felt as if you’d rather hate him and forgo closure rather than hear his side and mourn him for the rest of your life. 

“You had left—you left me after… after everything, and not only did you not give me a reason, you had as well ignored me! I do not wish for your apologies nor your explanations— I do not even wish to see you! But here you are, in my home once more… asking for my father’s blessing so you could marry another.” Aemond stood stiffly, he knew you were close to tears and all he wanted to do was take you into his arms and let you cry onto him once more, but he knew that the tears you wished to shed were not of sadness— it was of anger; anger towards him. 

“You have it— you have the king’s blessing.” You said. “And would you please do me this kindness?” You asked, Aemond’s lowered gaze finally placed itself upon yours once more. “Leave. You have gotten what you came for— you are free to do as you wish, but I beg of you, leave.” Aemond fisted his hands at your request, at the pleading tone in your voice. Is this truly what you wish? For him gone? Or were you only spurred by your anger? “I… I can’t, not again,” 

You scoffed at Aemond’s reply. “You had no trouble doing it the first time… what is the difference now?” You asked bitterly. You watched as the solemn sadness in Aemond’s eye faded, and in turn, fire took its place. “Do you honestly believe I wished to do that? Do you truly think I wanted to leave you?” 

You laughed humorlessly. “Aemond, not only did you leave, but you left me without a word! You could have explained your situation to me— you could have sent a letter— anything! And I would have understood! Yet you did not, I had to find out what had happened to you through whispers and gossip! So yes, I do believe you wished to leave— and you were only a coward to leave without telling me why.” 

“Do you wish to know why?” Aemond asked, stepping closer to you. “No.” You answered plainly. “I am done questioning why— I have thought of any possible reason as to why you had done what you did. I’ve had enough… So no, I do not wish to know why, Aemond.” You swallowed thickly as you met his eye, you stared into the lilac orb that you had deemed the most beautiful gaze you’ve ever held years before, and quietly mourned the fact that this may be the last time you looked upon them. 

You moved to walk away, to finally leave all of this be, but four words from Aemond made you freeze. “I only love you,” He said, staring upon your departing frame that ceased as the words left his lips. He took that as an opportunity to really tell you the words he wished to have said years before. “You are right, I was a coward— I have broken your heart and trust… but do not think for one moment that I have ceased loving you, my heart. I have promised you— laid out my oath that you shall be the only one that I will love and have 'til the end of my days… I still intend to keep my oath,” 

You breathed out a heavy breath, turning to him once more. His eye filled with hope by that small action, you dared to step closer and cup his cheek and stroke his scar with your thumb as you had often done before. That only put forth further hope in him, but it was quick to die at the words that left your lips. “You have already broken one of your oaths, Aemond. What is one more?” It placed further dread in your heart as you studied his eye filled with hurt, and at any moment it looked like a tear might fall from the lilac orb, but you could not help but say the following words that engraved in Aemond’s mind that he had truly lost you. “Marry Lady Cassandra, Aemond. You may not have kept your promises to me, but at least keep the word you’ve given her.” 

It's Monday. Again. This day used to be Rafe's long day at the office, just Mondays.

All days are Mondays now, apparently. You weren't informed of it, no one notified you, it just started happening and you couldn't have a voice in it.

Rafe groans, because he's still tired after a weekend of trying to disconnect with your family. He spent most of his time on his phone every time the kids weren't all over him. Yesterday had been rough for you two, no fight had happened but he felt the anger and disappointment in your eyes every time he picked up a call.

There was a point where you didn't even flinch anymore. You just... didn't care.

He unwrapped his arm from around your waist and the weight that's lifted from you it's more than just his arm. You don't open your eyes to catch a last glimpse, you haven't done it in a long time now, you don't know if he had noticed.

You don't move, you just concentrate in your breathing, not on the perfectly quiet steps he has mastered over the years of getting ready in the dark while you were still asleep. Like always, he locks himself in the bathroom, washes his face, his teeth. You don't remember his bathroom routine that much, it's been a minute since you saw him doing it.

You only go back to sleep once he leaves the room, he makes sure to be extra careful on closing the door. He knows he ended the night on your last nerve and he's staying there.

Rafe makes his way downstairs, passing over the kids room while he tied his tie around his neck with a perfect robotism, he doesn't look down to make sure it's well done, he knows it is.

He checks on Olivia, asleep. He checks on Parker, asleep.

He sighed, rubbing the exhaustion out of his eyes with one of his hand, the other slipped to his back pocket for his phone. He used to keep it in the front, until he caught that faint frown you’d make every time the rectangular outline broke the line of his pants. You never said a word about it, but he noticed. So, he changed it.

He makes coffee first, like every single morning while he checks his messages. Unread emails flood the screen—offers, follow-ups, contracts, reminders. Numbers and names, money and motion, calendar packed with even more things to take care of. His kind of thing. He leans against the counter, waiting. The coffee dripped slow and steady, exactly what he hasn't been in a long time, it feels almost like it's on purpose.

The thought of it already makes him roll his eyes. He puts the phone down on the marble and the screen fades to black.

Then, silence.

The house is quiet, too quiet. He used to have so much noise around him and he loved it. Kids running around, laughing, fighting at times, you yelling at them to keep them at ease and him wrapping an arm around you to keep you from running behind them.

It's not like the house doesn't have that anymore, it's just that by the time he's around, it doesn't. Kids asleep for the night or mornings (like now) where they have another hour of dreams.

He glanced toward the hallway. The walls were lined with frames, perfectly spaced and organized by you, a collection of faces frozen in moments he can’t get back. You, the kids, his arm around all of you. He’d picked that wall himself, said it made the place feel warm. Now it just stared back at him and he doesn't know what to say to it.

But, like always. Time is money and he can't afford to waste it, so his nostalgia leaves as fast as it appeared.

He was out the door at 6:50 am.

By the time you woke up, the sun had the decency of being out. It's still the soft version of it, not as yellow as it is at noon. It's already 8:00 am and the kids need to be on the car, seat belts on by 8:55.

And it's a kind of dance you are a professional at. You've been over the steps over and over again, usually it changes when the kids start to get older, normally it gets easier (or harder, depending on how you view it) but for the past school year, you've done it all on your own without counting Rafe almost in any single morning.

So, you made it your choreography. Your steps, your break, your waiting times, your turns and pirouettes. You are a beautiful ballerina at this point, almost two months before school ends and you get dragged into the long days of summer where no entertainment seems to be enough for anyone.

You go to Parker's first, he's already pretty fast at getting dressed in his own. You need to wake him up delicately. Just like Rafe, he's not a morning person and has even the same character, short and temperamental. You decided you can take a few extra minutes of your morning on just waking up Parker in order to avoid a tantrum.

Once he's up, eyes barely open and head still hanging on his shoulder with tiredness, you go over to Olivia's room.

She's much different, not exactly a morning person either but she does need the extra energy to start day or else she'll just mop around like a plant. You tickle her, kiss her cheek, shake her arm a little bit and she's eyes wide open with a soft smile on her face already.

Beautiful.

Both of them sit on the couch with their breakfasts, the only one actually talking is Olivia. She has this thing where she has to tell everyone her most recent dream with full details that she invents right on the spot to fill the empty voids she can't remember.

Parker just... nods. He doesn't have the energy to do anything about it right now.

Breakfast is done, so are that snacks on their backpacks. You take your time on doing Olivia's hair.

At 8:55? You're already on the road, your boy tries to catch up on some more sleep, but the chatting between you and Olivia stop him from it.

"Miss Glinda—" Her name is not actually Glinda but Olivia is never able to remember her actual name. "Said we were going to, uhm... draw people."

"Today?" You asked, attentively listening while you take a turn.

"I don't know." She shrugged, freeing herself from the responsibility of knowing the full information. "She just said it."

You laughed, they always make you disconnect from the tensions inside of you, the conversations that were had or the ones that weren't with Rafe that always pull your strings just a little bit much. These kids make you forget that.

Rafe has been at the office for a while now. When he arrived, the building hummed with quiet precision— screens lighting up, shoes clicking across marble floors, the low murmur of ambition echoing down the hall.

He didn't stopped to greet anyone. Almost never does, it's not like he owns it to anyone there. Just nodded, the kind of polite acknowledgment that said I’m already thinking about something else.

His office is on the top floor, where he is at right now, glass walls that had big curtains whenever he needed a fucking minute, which was quite often lately.

The island spitting out behind him, he can see a lot. He's at the center of Outer Banks, after all. It's always a busy street, not like in summer season, you can barely walk when the heat has finally landed. Tourists and students on summer vacation invade the whole place.

Rafe looked behind him, it was magical how almost every window in every house or building had a view to the beach.

But even with the skyline stretching open before him, he keeps looking at his reflection in the glass, he has a frown almost all that time now. He used to like this view, the kids love the beach, you love it. Now it just reminds him how far he’s standing from home.

He pushes the thought to the back of his head, he convinced himself to make those intrusive feelings an afterthought. He doesn't have time for them, not right now.

"Mr. Cameron?" His assistant’s voice cuts in from the doorway. "You’ve got the Henderson call in five."

He nods once. "Yeah. I’ll be there."

She leaves, and the silence folds back around him, all knowing.

He leans back in his chair, jaw tight, eyes dragging once more over the skyline.

He’s built something solid, unshakable—offices, deals, numbers, a name that carries weight.

And for what.

He gets up, grabs his phone and walks out of his office, doing the same thing he always does: anxiously rubs the wedding band resting on his finger, the one that hasn't moved for almost ten years.

Back at home, you're doing the same thing. Same gesture.

The laptop hums quietly in front of you— the same one that holds years of your work, the one you finally decided to dust off and come back to. It wasn’t just about missing music; it was about the pull of it, that quiet anticipation that meant soon, you’d have to start moving again. Work.

You bite the inside of your cheek, glance at the time. Almost eleven. He should be free at some point. You know that around noon he gets a lunch break he never actually takes, but that’s when he usually answers—briefly, distractedly, but still, he answers.

Swallowing your discomfort, you type.

You: heyy, when are u coming home today?

It was simple. Also casual enough to avoid the bitter feeling you get on your mouth every single time you have to ask. You haven't had a consistent answer in months.

You know he won't text you back now. He never does. You could call him— you used to. Back when it was an excuse to hear his voice, to make him pause for a minute in the middle of his day.

But you don’t call anymore. You’re not even sure if he’d pick up.

You stare at the screen a second longer, watching the message hang there— blue bubble, no response. It’s nothing new, but it still hits the same way every time: ignored.

You close the laptop halfway, just to dull its glow. The house is still. Too still. Even the fridge hum sounds too loud.

You get up and go to refill your coffee because it has gone cold already. You turn the machine at the same time you watch the old one go down the drain, you pick up in every little thing that could resemble freedom and relief in your life, just to keep going.

You take a sip, lean against the counter, glance at the clock. Eleven-twenty. You tell yourself not to check your phone, but you do anyway. Still nothing.

He makes you anxious. You hate it. You’re already anxious enough without him. You've always lived with anxiety and Rafe knows it, for the past year it has started to turn exhausting for everyone in the house, not just you anymore. The tiredness of keeping still makes you so restless you naturally chase whatever that can keep you occupied.

It's intense, you know it.

You try to work. Open a file, let the first few notes play. They sound foreign, like someone else wrote them. You listen, adjust a chord, delete it, try again. The rhythm doesn’t come. It sounds so bad.

Your phone lights up on the desk, and your heart jumps too quickly. But it's not him and it's just a simple but painful reminder.

You exhale, long and quiet.

There’s a certain kind of tired that doesn’t come from doing too much—it comes from waiting, waiting and waiting.

You sit back, fingers tracing the keyboard absently. You think about calling him, about breaking that rule you made for yourself weeks ago: don’t chase the silence.

By the time you finally forget about your phone, it’s already noon and you have to pick up the kids soon. The music’s still looping—soft, repetitive, like something to hold on to. You’ve settled into the rhythm of pretending not to wait.

Then the vibration breaks through the room, small but sharp. You freeze. You reach for it too quickly, already hating yourself for the way your pulse jumps but you can't help it.

Rafe: Hey baby

Might be late. Got a meeting at 4. Don’t wait up.

Yeah, you never do anyways.

Three sentences. No punctuation, no softness. You read it twice anyway, like maybe you missed something hidden between the words. You didn’t.

Your thumb hovers over the keyboard, ready to type something—anything—but what’s left to say? Every answer feels pathetic.

So you don’t send anything. You just let the screen fade back to black.

You think about how it used to sound when he called you in the middle of the day— his voice low, the soft background noise of his office, the way he’d say your name, honey dripping, eager to see you again.

Now it’s just three sentences.

He sends the text and stares at it for a second before locking his phone. It’s easier that way—short, clean, detached. Fuck, when did he start needing to sound detach from his wife? But at the same time it is easier. Easier than saying I don’t know when I’ll stop working. He knows you hate excuses, so he might as well tell you the truth: he's got work.

The office hums around him in a way that used to be overwhelming when he wasn't the one in charge of everything. People moving, doors opening and closing, voices low and clipped. Deals being made. Money moving.

He should feel proud. He does, sometimes. Just not today.

Everything has been harder since Rafe finally got the company all to himself almost two years ago. He's finally the boss, the goddamn CEO he always dreamt of being, taking after his father. But this job just takes, takes and it takes. The position he's in now it's obviously more demanding, everyone needs him at all times. Or maybe his employees are fucking stupid, he has no idea at this point.

Sure, even more money ends up in his pocket, he knows it's not a problem you have at home. The problem at home isn't even there at all, and that's him.

The reflection of himself in the computer is almost too much. It's tired but all pulled together in a neat and expensive suit. The kind of man that gets things done, except he doesn't know how to fix the one thing that actually matters: his marriage.

But it's not like he can do something about it right now, he thinks. He doesn't have the time to even breathe before he gets another scheduled call.

The day slips away without you really noticing, today is one of those lucky days, where you don't think about it too much. One moment it’s morning light pouring through the kitchen, and the next, the sky outside is already beginning to fade.

Five p.m.

And you know damn well he’s still in that meeting. Probably hasn’t even looked at his phone. Probably won’t for a while, you already know it.

The kids are home, shoes kicked off near the door, snacks already half-eaten on the counter. Parker’s talking about soccer again—his new team, the one he joined a few months ago after Rafe took him to a soccer match and ended up fascinated. You nod, smile, ask the right questions, you keep your mind here, where it matters, where you're needed.

Olivia’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open, tongue poking out in concentration. She's also in art classes, another teacher she calls Miss Glinda, whose real name is actually Lisa, introduced last week.

You tell her it’s beautiful, and it is, but you can’t quite shake the ache in your chest that you're the only one seeing it.

By six, the house quiets again. Parker’s at practice, Olivia’s in her room humming softly as she plays. You clean the kitchen even though it doesn’t need cleaning. Reorganize a drawer. Fold a few shirts that didn’t need folding.

Seven-thirty comes and you hop up on the car again with Olivia to pick up her brother from practice. The sky outside bruises purple, the air heavy with that end-of-day stillness and you get caught on with how beautiful it is.

By eight-twenty, you pull into the driveway, headlights brushing against the front of the house, it's already dark outside. Olivia’s half-asleep in the backseat, clutching her stuffed animal. Parker’s sweaty and content, still chattering about how his team finally won a match in practice.

You look up and see the porch light’s on. His car’s already there.

Your heart dips— somewhere between relief and dread. You weren’t expecting him to be home this early, though eight-twenty hardly counts as early anymore.

You're tired of taking whatever you can get.

You unlock the door with your elbow, balancing Parker’s gear bag that's heavy with his water bottle, his shoes, the keys, Olivia’s teddy and a dozen small pieces of your life that somehow always end up in your hands.

You're overloaded, you don't have space anymore.

The house smells faintly like his cologne and the coffee he makes too late in the day already. You're already infected by him and you haven't even seen him.

He’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, a glass of water in one hand, phone in the other like always. The overhead light makes him look tired, sharper around the edges.

He looks up when you walk in, hearing the commotion. “Where were you?”

It’s not rude. Just… blank. But still, it stings. It somehow makes it worse.

You blink, stunned and also predictable as you set the bags down. “Parker had practice.” You sighed tiredly, looking around.

He frowns slightly, like he’s trying to remember. He looks at the calendar in the fridge, a useless magnet. “Right. On Mondays?” You *know* he doesn't remember even tho he's the one who took him to his first practice.

“Since February." You answer quietly, too obvious, and you hate how small your voice sounds.

Parker runs past you, dumping his hoodie by the door, already yelling something about needing another snack. Olivia trails behind, dragging her jacket, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“You should’ve told me you’d be out.” He says again, not looking up from the fridge this time.

"Didn't think I had to." You said flatly. You drop your keys into the bowl by the counter. “You were in meetings all day, didn’t want to bother you.” You hide your indifference under caring, as if you still fucking care he spends the entire day on meetings.

“That’s not—” He sighs, straightens, looking away from the fridge. “I’m not saying you bother me.”

“Didn’t say you did.” You walked past him to the living room.

Rafe's eyes follow you, he doesn't what this form of your body language means. Sure, you're tired but he doesn't have the ability to read you that well anymore and the tone in your voice is pissing him off.

The air shifts, just slightly. Olivia’s humming somewhere down the hall, Parker’s asking for yogurt from the pantry before he runs off to his room again. The house sounds alive again, but it doesn’t feel like it.

Rafe leans against the counter, arms crossed loosely. “I just like knowing where you guys are. That’s all.” He scratched the back of his neck, same gesture every time he doesn't know what to do with you, what's the right thing to say.

You nod, slowly as you try to come up with an answer that is good enough to stop an argument. “You could, if you asked sometimes.” But it's impossible.

His jaw tightens and he frowns, not liking what he's hearing. He doesn’t answer right away and he won't admit how thrown off he is by the comment. “I do ask.”

You internally groan as you walk over to the dining table, pausing before you can reach for your laptop. “About work.” You tell him. “About schedules, meetings, new listings. Not about us.” You swallow the imminent need of start screaming at him.

He looks at you then, eyes tired and unreadable. Maybe he turned like that to match you, he hasn't been able to understand you in so long. “That’s not fair.” He exhaled, shaking his head.

You chuckled softly, humourlessly and in disbelief that he's the one telling you this. "It never is, Rafe." You said before turning around. *What a victim he is, huh*.

He exhales, quiet, steady. Runs a hand down his face like he’s trying to decide if it’s worth saying what’s in his head. “I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.” He tries to explain, to remind you he hasn't forgotten about you he's just busy.

“I know,” You say quickly, cutting him off before the familiar list starts—calls, clients, deadlines, numbers. You know it all. “You always do.” Your voice has been getting totally good at touching irony but never really using it. "But so do I."

There’s a silence that sits between you—soft, fragile, like glass. You both keep your voices low, careful not to alert the kids, but it’s not really about them. It’s about everything you’ve been avoiding breaking and it's turning unsustainable.

He noticed your hand, the way it reaches out eagerly to grab your laptop, the one resting with a promise inside of it. "You're working again?" He asked, rising a brow, not daring to get closer.

You look behind you, getting the device on your hands. "Trying to." You said shortly, looking like you've been caught red handed on your attempts of getting yourself back on your feet.

As if he could ever say something bad about it. Or anything at all, really.

"That's good." He nodded without adding anything further. Polite, practiced— it sounds like a line in a script he keeps failing to deliver.

The silence stretches, but it’s not comfortable. It’s full of all the things you used to say without thinking —how was your day, you look tired, I missed you— now replaced by the kind of small talk that doesn’t touch anything real.

Rafe cleared his throat again, still from his place on the kitchen.

You repeat his action, walking over to where he is, laptop in hand and leaving it on the kitchen island so you can refill Parker's bottle and put it back in the fridge.

He stops you before you can do anything else, you guys hadn't even greeted each other since you stepped inside. Wrapping a consistent arm around your waist, he pulls you closer. "Hey." He said quietly, crunching down to catch your eyes, in that way that says let's calm down.

You look up at him, hand naturally coming to rest on his chest when he pulled you closer. You don't exhale the air of exhaustion when you lock eyes. "Hey." You whisper. And you don't pull him away either when he leans down to give you a kiss because you did miss him. The problem is, you always do, you're used to it.

A kiss would normally pump your energy up again after such a long day. It would make you want to keep up and stay up with him. It doesn't really work this time around.

"I'll... make dinner." He said in the same quite and guilty way.

You nod, touching his nose with yours for a moment before leaving him alone for shower time.

Dinner goes by in a blur for you, you don't really talk. It doesn't pass as fast for Rafe, he tries to keep up with whatever tired and half-asleep things the kids eagerly tell him about their day. His eyes keep drifting back to you every single time they tell him something he didn't know about.

He does the dishes, the least he can do on the few hours he actually spends at home and before you even know it, you hear the particular door of his at home office being closed, probably locking himself up with the intention of checking on a few last emails, paperwork, texts before bed.

You're downstairs, remembering to ask Rafe to come with you on Wednesday to take the kids to have their blood drawn for a test, just their Vitamin levels, just a routine check.

You're already in your head anticipating how the conversation is going to go when you ask him while you start preparing the kids' backpacks for the next day.

It’s muscle memory at this point: check the notebooks, refill the pencil cases, tuck away their snack money. You take your time with it, it's not like Rafe is waiting for you in bed.

There it was, the drawing Olivia mentioned they were going to do this morning.

'Family' was the title with messy handwriting and orange pencil.

And underneath it, the picture: you and her in the center, hands joined. Parker on your other side, smiling with his wild little hair sticking up. And then —off to the left, small, distant— Rafe. A briefcase in his hand. Not touching anyone.

It looks almost like a punishment of your reality the more you look at it.

Your heart drops so fast it almost feels like guilt. You blink at it once, then again, as if maybe the lines will rearrange themselves if you just give them time, if someone tried hard enough.

They don’t.

Before you can think too hard about it, you reach for Parker’s. His drawing is messier, his colors darker, bold strokes that fill the page. But there’s no sign of Rafe at all and your heart quickens.

Just you. Him and Olivia. The house. The dog that died two summers ago.

Oh, shit.

You press your lips together, your throat tight.

You knew this was coming, in some quiet part of you. But seeing it drawn by the kids: seeing the distance in color and space, how Parker doesn't even count Rafe anymore, that’s what hurts the most.

You close the books and lean against the table, palms flat against the wood, eyes unfocused.

What are you supposed to do now?

You take a deep breath at the same time you take the drawings with you. You make your way upstairs, shaky and scared to ask for more as you walked.

You don't knock, you don't wait for him to answer, he never will if you do.

You just open his door, barging inside because you also own this place. This office, so Rafe and calculated thoughts still belongs to the house. You can be here.

"Rafe—" You say and before you get another word he cuts you off.

He was on the phone, walking around the office as he gesticulated with his hand but he stops just for a moment when he sees you. He lowers the phone, pressing it against his shoulder as he gives you his pleading eyes. "Baby, I'm on the phone, I'll be there—" He starts to promise.

"Rafe, I need to talk to you—" You start with indignation.

"Baby—"

"Rafe!"

He sighed, putting his phone up to his ear again as he muttered some "I'll call you back." to whoever he was talking to. No, you won't you wanted to say.

"What?” He asks, bracing himself against his desk, flipping through papers that don’t need to be touched— anything to avoid your eyes.

You decide to give him a chance, the last one. You ran out of them a long time ago, but this is Rafe we're talking about here. Of course you would get chances out of your ass just for the sake of your marriage.

You swallow, hands shaking as you grip the drawings you're hiding behind your back. "I need you to come with me to the hospital in Wednesday. The twins are getting their blood tested—"

"I can't go on Wednesday." He immediately says, and he says it with such a natural and immediate reaction. He hasn't even touched you that fast in weeks.

You exhale, trying to make it through the sentence. "Well, make time, I need you there—"

"I can't." He repeated as if you hadn't listened. "I got a meeting with the Spanish investors—"

"Then move it." You demand.

"I can't move it—"

"Well, I can't go on my own, Parker's gonna faint—" You tried to explain. Your boy, as energetic and fast he is, he's also terrified of needles. The only time he was ever conscious when he was vaccinated, he fainted. Just like Rafe would.

"He doesn't faint—"

"Yes, he does, you know this!" You voice came out with frustration.

He immediately remembered. Of course he does. The first time Parker fainted during a vaccine, Rafe had been the one to catch him before he hit the floor. He’d laughed about it later, about how his son inherited that from him of all things.

Now, he just runs a hand through his hair and mutters, eyes blinking with exhaustion. “Right. Yeah.” He cleared his throat, ashamed.

The silence that follows is sharp enough to hurt. You can still hear the faint buzz of his phone on the desk, another call lighting up the screen and you've never been so close to kill him. Does the damn thing never gives it a rest?

He doesn’t look at you when he says, quieter now, because he knows it's not what you eat to hear. “I’ll see if I can move it.” You want immediate solutions.

You don’t believe him, and he knows it.

“Don’t see, Rafe. Just do it.” Your voice cracked with the frustration you've been trying to hide behind a mask for almost two years, and you can't make it stick to your skin for much longer.

He finally lifts his gaze— tired, distant, but still your husband somewhere under all that static. “I said I’ll try, okay?”

But you're so tired of just trying, you haven't been trying to do anything on your own for months now, you just did it, no excuses because there's no space for it.

You scoffed, patience running so thin is cracking beneath your ribs, attempting to escape and slap him. "I'm supposed to deal with a fainted kid and the other one crying because she thinks her brother is dead—" It seemed so dramatic but that's literally what happens. Olivia doesn't understand the difference between fainting and dying yet.

Goddamn it, he can't deal with your planning and you're anxious anticipation right now. His heart always clenches when he sees you drowned in it but he really can't do it right now. "Why are you always thinking the worst is gonna happen? Why are you so dramatic—"

"I'm not fucking dramatic, it's what happens every single time—" You sigh and cut your own sentence before finishing it. You decided that you're not going to protect him from the truth anymore.

So, with a trembling hand, you pull the drawings from behind you, slamming them harshly on the desk as you clench your jaw. You put the reality in front of him like betting in poker, it all means something.

He frowns, confused, until his eyes land on them. He sees Olivia's drawing first, his face twitches with something that resembles an early grief and he doesn't even know it.

He then sees Parker’s— you, Olivia, the house.

No Rafe.

He stares at them, jaw clenching, throat working hard like he’s swallowing down something bitter. “What is this supposed to be?” He finally asks, his voice quiet and defensive like someone is setting him up for failure.

“This...” You start, voice tight as an elastic as you try not to let go and let the tone hit him like a whip. “...is what our kids see when they think of family.”

He looks up, anger flashing just under the surface at what you just said. “Don’t put that on me—”

“I’m not putting anything on you, Rafe. You did this yourself.” You said with no regrets, without mincing words for the first time in months. It feels fucking relieving.

He runs a hand through his hair, steps back and shakes his head, incapable of actually admitting on what the kids have done because of him. “You think I don’t care? You think I’m not doing everything I can for them—for you?”

You shake your head. “You’re doing everything for a version of us that doesn’t even exist anymore, Rafe." You won't let him twist your arm in this.

“That’s not fair.”

“No.” You swallow while regaining energy to continue, voice quiet but steady now. “What’s not fair is them growing up thinking their dad’s a stranger.”

He looks at you— the kind of look that’s both furious and scared, the one that always came before he tried to talk you down. “Don’t do this right now, okay? Not over some drawings—”

You laugh under your breath, sharp and broken. “It’s not about drawings, Rafe. It’s about everything else in our lives." You can't believe that Rafe, your Rafe, is saying all this denial bullshit. The man who is always recognized for being upfront and straight to the point can't handle it when they do the same to him.

"They're kids." He tried to take some pressure off it so he can have some common ground with you. "You're reading too much into it—"

"Rafe, this is what they see." You got close and grabbed Parker's drawing, moving it in front of his face like mocking. As if he was a goddamn bull and you were holding a red flag. His jaw clenches at the gesture. "You stopped coming to dinner, you stopped being here on weekends, you're on your fucking phone all the time."

"Because I'm working!" He snapped at you, desperate to make you see his side of the story the more he noticed you drifting away from him in a way he has never experimented before. "Can't you fucking see it? I'm trying to make it all work for us—" He gestured the entire place.

You know, you know how hard it has been having to manage an entire empire all by himself after his father was the one commanding everything for so long. You know it's not easy, you know he drowns in help and responsibility sometimes. You know how hard he works.

But you would've never expected your family to be the one losing in all of this.

"Us?!" You asked with indignation. "You don't even see us anymore! When was the last time we actually did something?!" You yelled at him, throat flexing with effort the more agitated you get with this conversation.

"Fine, I'll move the fucking meeting!" He gave up, sighing as his face fells with exhaustion. You saw the way his shoulders slumped, completely surrendered.

You bit the inside of your cheek, hot tears blurring your vision the way rain does with car windows, making it impossible to see. "No, you know what, don't cancel anything, just—"

This isn't what you wanted. Not like this, you don't want Rafe making it look like cancelling a meeting is a sacrifice in trade of taking care of his responsibilities as a father. You hate the way it makes you look like you're asking for too much, as if this isn't what he promised and vowed to when you got married.

It seemed like so long ago.

Rafe gave up, body sagging with defeat after your words. He doesn't know what to do to make you happy. He knows he's been absent, he's very conscious of it but how else is he going to start fixing what he did if you don't let him?

There's some things that can't be fixed.

"Then what do you want, please tell me, because—"

"I want a divorce."

It makes you nauseous, the words come out of you like a protective reflex. Like coughing, your body trying to clear the way when something irritates you so you can breathe.

This is like that. Your throat closed and you try to control your chest, you have years of singing lessons all for this moment. You know how to control your lungs... but fuck, it's impossible right now.

Rafe goes still. He can't move, those are the forbidden words, something he promised to never say or ask for. It's the closest thing he ever felt to a heart attack but the one thing attacking him was heartbreak. Sharp and direct, knowing exactly where to go to once it's aimed.

Then, you see the surrender on his body, the way he collapses momentarily with a helpless expression. He can't say he didn't see it coming.

But he would be a fucking loser if he doesn't try to make you stay.

His face goes blank for a moment, you finally reseted him like you wanted. He takes a second to decide if he heard you right or not. "You don't mean that." He said quietly.

"I do."

Oh, those words were used against him now, huh. I do, I do, I do.

"(Y/N)—" He takes a step closer, searching for the eyes that have drove him crazy for almost fourteen years now. He doesn't want to stop seeing them.

You step back, putting a hand between you while you shake your head, the tears falling on your cheeks are unstoppable now. "I can't do this anymore." You said in a little voice, defeated. "I can't keep pretending."

"We're not pretending anything, we're married." Rafe reminded you, voice straining with pain, he could barely talk. "You're my wife."

"Well, you haven't been treating me like one." You said, eyes looking up at him. The glistening in them reflect the image of the current Rafe, the one he turned himself into.

You sigh, closing your eyes for a second in disbelief of what you just said. This is Rafe, which is also the reason you can't take it from him anymore. He wasn't supposed to ever do this to you. He was supposed to be the one that would never, ever hurt you. Yet, here he is.

"I want a divorce." You repeated, words mean and foreign, acting like a slap on both of your faces. "I'll call a lawyer." You turned around, walking away from the cursed office as you left him stunned on his feet.

He stood there, just a glimpse of his despair. No words, no sounds. Just... nothing.

He snapped out of his trance a moment later, you were already reaching the next floor, the one that led to your room. He hurried, he felt like a doctor running in the ER, trying to stop a heart from crashing. He never thought it would be his.

“Wait—hey, hey.” Rafe calls after you, his footsteps quick on the stairs as he sees your figure more away from him. “Can you just stop for a second?”

You don’t. You head straight for your room, pulling open the door as you walked inside of it. You want to sink in your bed and cry until you're dehydrated.

“Rafe, I said everything I needed to say.” You tried not to keep crying.

He comes up behind you, voice rough. “No, you didn’t. You threw a grenade in my face and walked away.” He complains, demanding you to change your mind.

“I didn’t throw anything. I told you the truth.”

He catches your wrist when you move past him, not hard— just enough to make you stop. “You can’t just say you want a divorce out of nowhere.”

“It’s not out of nowhere." You shoot back, pulling free. “You just didn’t want to see it coming.” This wasn't the first time you thought about it, the idea has being flowing around you, haunting you like a chore in the middle of the night.

That's the problem, *he's not surprised*. He is stunned that you really dare to ask him for one.

He exhales, frustrated while he attempts to get closer. “Come on, baby, don’t do this.” He's begging for you, his entire body aches in pain at the idea of not having you with him.

“Don’t call me that." You set the painful boundary. You can't have him talking to you like that in the middle of an emotional tsunami.

He moves closer anyway, his hand finding your waist like the instinct he had for over a decade. “You’re tired. You’re overwhelmed. You’ll feel different tomorrow.” He tried to convince both of you, knowing it's a lie.

You shake your head, eyes wet but steady. “No, Rafe. Don't try to turn this around on me being emotional or something—" You gasp for air. "Tomorrow you’ll be gone again and I'll have to take care of everything again!" You pointed at him accusingly as you followed the beat of your heart, the one that was telling you to keep going with this. This is... what you need.

That lands, a bomb straight to his chest. You can see it in the way his shoulders drop for half a second before he tries to recover. “You think I don’t hate that? You think I don’t know I’m not around enough?”

“Then fix it!”

“I’m trying!" He says again, louder this time. “What the hell do you want me to do? Quit everything?”

“I want you to show up!”

Rafe tightened his grip on your waist, pulling you closer to him as he tries to hold onto the last seconds of you in his arms. He knows it's ending. It has been for a while. He's tired too. "I get it. You're angry—" But he still fights a lost battle.

You push his hand off. “I’m not angry, Rafe. I’m done.” You make it clear, your voice doesn't wave with nerves now.

He grabs your face then, both hands against your cheeks, desperate, eyes glassy. “Look at me." He begs to see your eyes. He hates that the resentment in them has never been so clear, it was always a shadow, a single touch. Your eyes are full of it now. "You... love me." He says with pain. The mere idea destroys him. "Alright? I know you do, you love me. You don't walk away from that."

"And what about me?" The pain that threats to kill your voice is almost too much to handle. "When do I get to feel loved? I haven't felt in months, years!"

"I love you! I never stopped, I swear." His voice cracks for the first time, the desperation on proving his love is so strong he can barely control it himself. "Don't leave me. Just let me fix it. Give me a week, I'll be here."

"I don't have a week!" You snapped at him, heart pounding with misunderstanding. "Don't you get it? I'm done. I'm done with your disappearing, I'm done with your excuses. I don't have any more space for them. I've ran out of it." And fuck, you actually feel cruel for claiming what you want, what you deserve.

"Don't fucking do this." He tries to use that tone, the corporative one. As if that could ever work with you.

“I already did.” Your voice is calm, final. The second he tried to twist it, tried to scare you into staying, you knew— it’s over.

“Find somewhere else to stay tonight.” You give him a deadline, an ultimatum, the kind of line that leaves no room for negotiation. Anything that marks the end, you take it.

"We already know you're fucking good at it."

Just like that.

You don’t look back. And you surely don’t argue. You simply turn and walk out of the bedroom— not out of his life entirely, but to the guest room. Enough distance to give him the time to leave the house tonight.

His heart drops.

Rafe lost. Not a deal, not a game.

He lost you.

The house was already shaking by the time you pulled up. Music thumping through the walls, lights bleeding through the windows, laughter spilling out the front door in waves.

Typical.

Kooks always threw the same kind of party.

Big house. Loud music. Too much money. Not enough sense.

And him—your ex.

Poster boy for it all.

If you’d had any sense, you would’ve waited until morning to grab your stuff. But he’d texted you earlier, something smug about “tonight’s fine,” and you weren’t in the mood to drag it out. 

You just wanted your things back. 

Heads turned the second you stepped inside, bag slung over your shoulder. The air was thick—sweat, perfume, bass vibrating through the floor. Eyes followed you, some with pity, most with that hungry curiosity Kooks always had for drama that wasn’t theirs.

And then there he was.

Leaning against the counter, beer in hand, that same smirk already in place like he’d been practicing it just for you.

“Well, look who finally decided to show up,” your ex called out, voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

You forced a thin smile. “Just here for my stuff.”

He pushed off the counter, strolling closer until he was right in front of you, confidence dripping from every step.

“Come on. We both know why you’re really here,” he said, tone dipping low—what he probably thought sounded smooth. The smell of alcohol didn’t help his case. 

You frowned, face scrunching up in disgust.

“Yeah. To get my shit and leave.” You said flatly, before turning toward the stairs.

But he moved faster, cutting you off.

“Still pretending you don’t miss me?”

You scoffed, arms crossing tight. “What’s to miss? The love triangle between you, me, and your ego?”

That one hit. You saw it in the flicker of his jaw before he recovered.

“Don’t act like that, baby,” he drawled, still trying, still not reading the fucking room.

You rolled your eyes so far back you might’ve slipped into another dimension.

“I’m not your baby. And I’m not acting. Move.” You shoved past him. Hard enough that his drink sloshed in his hand, nearly spilling down his shirt. 

He was still running his mouth as you headed for the stairs—every word confirming exactly why you’d left in the first place.

By the time you hit the second floor, the music had dulled to a low, distant thud beneath your feet.

His room looked the same as it always had. The same tangled sheets. The same clothes on the floor. That same heavy mix of overpriced cologne and cheap arrogance still clinging to the air, sharp and overdone, like he thought it could cover everything else.

The feeling tugged at you—strained, bitter—but you pushed it down. You dropped your bag on the edge of the bed and crossed to the dresser, pulling drawers open one by one. You grabbed what was left: a few shirts, your perfume, things you didn’t even remember leaving behind.

In the bathroom, you scooped up the rest with one arm. Skincare, hair ties, half-used bottles that had been sitting there too long. You didn’t stop to check what was worth keeping. Just kept moving, focused on leaving as fast as you could.

All that was left was the nightstand, cluttered with smaller things. An extra charger. Lip balm. A book. Little reminders that once, you’d actually lived here.

You stepped out of the bathroom, quietly cursing under your breath about how ridiculous this all was. About how ridiculous he was.

The zipper on your bag rasped faintly as you tucked the last few bottles inside, the quiet sound almost lost beneath the bass thudding from downstairs. You straightened, brushing your hands against your thighs, already turning toward the nightstand—

Then the bedroom door flew open.

Quick. Sharp.

It slammed shut just as fast, the echo cutting through the music below.

You froze mid-step, pulse skipping as your eyes locked on the figure now standing in front of the door, his back to you.

Broad. Solid. Familiar.

A silhouette you recognized maybe a little too quickly.

Rafe. 

His shoulders were tight, like he was bracing for something. Or maybe trying to outrun it.

Your eyes lingered longer than they should have, tracing the tension in his back, the slow rise and fall of his frame. You tilted your head slightly, curiosity slipping into something quieter, something sharper. Because Rafe Cameron didn’t run from anything.

Not people. Not consequences.

He moved through spaces like the world would part for him eventually. Like time itself would slow down just to fall at his feet. And it usually did.

So what the hell had him slipping into rooms, shutting doors like he needed to hide?

The corner of your mouth lifted.

“What are you doing?” you asked. Your voice wasn’t sharp, just amused. 

Intrigued, even.

He turned, slow but unbothered, like he’d only just now realized he wasn’t alone. A red solo cup hung from his hand, paired with that same unreadable ease he alway had stamped across his face.

Then his eyes met yours.

His lips twitched up—just barely. It was something crooked, but subtle.

“Hi,” he said. Voice low. Lazy. Like he had no intention of explaining himself.

And knowing him, he probably didn’t.

“Hi,” you echoed, tone matching his, but you didn’t let him steer the conversation. Your smile tugged wider as you took a slow step closer, eyes narrowing just enough to make it playful.

“What are you doing in here?”

A soft chuckle slipped out of him, deep and smooth. His lips parted, maybe to give one of those half-answers he was famous for.

Then you heard it.

A voice from the hallway.

High. Loud. Whiny.

“Rafe?”

It dragged out like a complaint. Followed by another, more desperate call.

“Rafeee—come on.”

He didn’t flinch, but something in his jaw tightened. Just for a second. Like even hearing her voice scraped against something in him.

You glanced toward the door, then back at him.

“I see,” you said, laughing under your breath.

He smirked faintly, lifting his cup for another drink, but his eyes stayed on you, steady and unblinking.

And you felt it—the weight of his stare sinking low in your stomach, warm and heavy.

It had always been like that.

That quiet pull that existed long before you ever admitted it to yourself. The kind that lived in glances that lasted too long and silences that said too much. It was always there, thick in the air, but never acted on.

Your ex made sure of that.

Rafe was “bad news,” “not your type,” “off-limits.”

The one time you’d slipped—bumped into Rafe at a party and muttered a quick apology—it had been enough to start one of those “boundaries” arguments your ex liked to rehash. Over and over. Like saying sorry was a betrayal.

And maybe it was. Not because of you, but because of the way Rafe had looked at you that night—the same way he was looking at you now. Like the room had narrowed to just the two of you, and he didn’t mind letting you know it.

From the hallway, the girl’s voice rose again. Louder this time. Dragging out his name in that grating tone that made it sound like a plea.

Rafe sighed under his breath, muttering something you almost missed. “Shouldn’t have even come. Don’t even like the guy.”

He followed it with a roll of his eyes and a slow shake of his head, like the whole night was one long mistake he was trying to blink out of existence. That familiar mix of irritation and indifference—his signature—settled across his face as he glanced away for a second, then right back to you.

You knew they weren’t real friends, Rafe and your ex. They were more like mutually tolerated acquaintances—something about deals, favors, image. That kind of friendship didn’t last without alcohol or an audience.

Still, you teased. 

“If you don’t like him,” you asked, eyes skimming the rim of his cup before meeting his stare again, “then why are you here?”

Rafe’s gaze dragged over you like he was weighing his words, deciding if silence said it better.

When he finally opened his mouth, he flipped it cleanly.

“Why are you?”

You caught it immediately—the shift, the way he dodged without ever breaking eye contact. Typical. But this time, you didn’t press. You let him have the out.

A soft sigh slipped past your lips as you turned toward the bed, the reminder of why you even came here cutting clean through the haze.

“Just grabbing my stuff.” You said, voice taut and measured.

It wasn’t defensive. Just honest. You didn’t owe him more than that.

He nodded slightly, still watching you.

“Yeah, I heard you guys broke up. Shame.”

Your eyes snapped back to him, fast and sharp. “I don’t think so.”

Rafe smirked—not wide, just enough to crease the corner of his mouth. Like he’d been waiting for that.

Then—

“I wasn’t saying it for you.”

His words came smooth and low, carrying a rough edge that landed exactly where they shouldn’t have. Right in that place you pretended didn’t exist—the one you’d denied a hundred times.

You shook your head, trying to clear it, and stepped toward the nightstand for the last of your things.

Rafe didn’t say a word.

He just leaned against the doorframe like he belonged there, one hand wrapped around the solo cup, the other tucked loose into his pocket. His eyes tracked you, slow and steady, dragging over every shift of your body with a focus that pressed heat into your spine.

The silence stretched, but not in a way that begged to be filled. It hung thick in the room, weighted and electric. It curled around your body, crept up your legs, settled just beneath your skin.

You swung your bag over your shoulder and turned toward the door, ready to walk out like you hadn’t noticed. Like your pulse wasn’t racing.

But he was there.

In front of the door again. Still. Calm. Blocking nothing and everything all at once.

Your breath caught before you could stop it. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there with the same unreadable expression. The kind that made it hard to tell if he was daring you to leave or waiting for you not to.

Standing that close, the pull hit again. Harder this time.

You could smell the liquor on his breath—sweet and sharp. Feel the warmth radiating off his skin. It filled the space between you, made the distance feel smaller than it was.

You swallowed once, tightening your grip on the strap over your shoulder.

“Have a good night,” you said, voice quiet but steady.

He matched it, tone easy. “You too.”

Your eyes lingered on his face, slow enough to give you away. The sharp angle of his jaw, the line of his nose, the way his lips parted slightly when your gaze dropped to them. A subtle twitch curved the corner of his mouth, like he knew exactly where your thoughts were heading.

Heat curled low in your stomach, thick and undeniable. The air between you thinned. Every inch of space suddenly felt too loud, too charged, too full of the tension you’d spent months pretending wasn’t there.

You felt it in the silence. In the way both of you held still. In the way you waited for the other to break first.

And then—

Fuck it.

You dropped your bag without a second thought, barely hearing it hit the floor. Your hands were already reaching for him, fingers hooking around the back of his neck as you pulled him in fast. 

Your mouth crashed into his like you were mad at him for how good it felt. Like the silence, the glances, the weight of his stare had finally worn you down to this.

Rafe moved just as quick.

The red cup left his hand in an instant, beer splashing out as it hit the floor somewhere behind you. He didn’t look to see where it landed. Didn’t care. His hands were already on you, urgent and greedy, dragging down your back, gripping your waist.

Your fingers twisted in his shirt, mouth parting wider as his tongue slid against yours, deep and rough. His grip on you was bruising, palms locked at your hips like he’d been waiting too long to touch you and wasn’t about to be gentle about it.

The kiss turned desperate—messy, breathless, all tongue and teeth and the sound of shallow breathing between half-formed moans. Every step he took pushed you backward until the back of your legs hit the edge of the bed. His weight pressed you into the mattress, the sheets twisting beneath you until—

You felt it.

Something hard, wedged beneath your back.

You broke the kiss just enough to reach down, fingers brushing over the fabric before closing around it. Your chest tightened the moment you brought it into view.

A phone.

His phone.

Your ex’s.

You hadn’t even noticed it earlier in the mess of the unmade bed.

For a second, neither of you moved. The silence stretched thick between your bodies, the weight of it pressing into your ribs. Then your gaze found his again, a flicker of amusement cutting through the heat. 

Something passed between you. Unspoken. Instant.

Rafe’s eyes dropped to the phone, then back to you, slow and wicked, before a laugh slipped out. 

Then came the smirk. Heavy. Knowing. Like he’d just been handed a gift he wasn’t about to waste.

The air in the room shifted.

Sharper. Dirtier. Meaner in all the right ways.

Without missing a beat, you tilted your head toward the nightstand, voice low.

“There. Prop it against the lamp.”

Rafe didn't ask questions. Didn't hesitate.

He walked over, flipped the phone in his palm, then swiped to the left. The screen lit up instantly, camera open from the lock screen. With one tap, he flipped it to video then pressed record, setting it in place with a casualness that made your skin prickle.

From that angle, your face barely even showed in the frame. But Rafe's? Clear as day. And he didn’t care. If anything, he seemed proud of it.

He turned back to you just as you opened the nightstand drawer.

Your hand reached in, grabbed one of the condoms your ex always kept stashed there. You held it up between two fingers, brows raised in silent question.

Rafe glanced down at it, then up—his eyes dragging over you in one slow pass before a rough, amused laugh slipped out.

“That’s not gonna work,” he said, grin cutting wide. “Too small.”

The jab landed exactly where it was meant to, and you couldn’t help the way your mouth curled. A breathless sound escaped as you tossed the condom across the room without another thought.

Rafe was already leaning in, his mouth catching yours before you could say anything, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other gripped your thigh, pulling you closer.

The kiss turned fast. Messy. His teeth scraped your bottom lip as his tongue pushed deeper. He moved with you, climbing back onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress as he adjusted his hold. 

You shifted with him, bodies tangling, lips never separating as you both pushed further into the sheets. His hands roamed without pause, sliding up under your shirt, over your stomach, each touch making your breath catch against his mouth.

Your shirt was gone a moment later, pulled over your head and flung somewhere near the pillows. His hands were already moving lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts and yanking them down, leaving only the thin stretch of your panties behind.

You reached for him next, tugging at the fabric clinging to his chest until he leaned back just enough for you to strip it off. The cotton slid away, revealing muscle and the sharp lines that cut down his stomach. Your fingers trailed over his skin, slow at first, then lower, finding his belt.

Rafe watched you the whole time, smug and silent, while you worked him out of every layer. The buckle clinked under your touch, his pants dragging down his legs before hitting the floor with a thud. His boxers followed, and then he was bare in front of you.

When your gaze dropped, the air caught in your throat.

He was hard already, thick and full, the flushed head slick against his stomach. It sat heavy between you, impossible to ignore, and even harder to forget. You didn’t need to say it—one look and it was obvious.

That condom wouldn’t have stood a chance.

You glanced back up at him, jaw tight with the effort not to react, not to give him the satisfaction. But it was too late. He was already smirking, that same cocky tilt to his mouth that said it all.

Told you so.

His voice came next, low and rough—

“Turn around.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. 

You moved fast, quicker than you ever had in your ex’s bed. Your knees sank into the mattress as you turned to face the headboard, hands bracing against the cool sheets. You arched your back just enough, offering more, and behind you, you heard him exhale through his teeth. The sound was sharp, guttural, and it only made your stomach coil tighter.

Your eyes flicked to the nightstand, to the phone propped perfectly in place. The screen reflected the shape of your body, the silhouette of Rafe moving behind you. His hand slid along your waist, steadying you as the other slipped lower, hooking your panties to the side before he lined himself up.

The head of his cock pressed against your entrance—just barely—before he pushed in hard, burying himself to the hilt.

The stretch of him ripped a broken moan from your throat, your arms buckling under the weight of it. He didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t pull out slow—just gripped your waist tighter and fucked into you like he meant it.

“Shit,” he groaned, voice roughening against the sound of skin on skin. “I knew you’d be this good. Knew it every damn time you looked at me and didn’t say a word.”

You whimpered into the air, thighs trembling under him, the friction almost too much and the praise making it worse. Your hands scrambled for traction, clutching the sheets, but he held you steady, rhythm merciless.

“You’re taking it so well,” he gritted out, hips pounding into yours. “So fuckin’ good.”

You moaned louder, head dropping forward. Each thrust pulsed through every nerve, your breath stuttering as your body hovered between pain and pleasure, desperate to keep up with him.

“Fuck,” he said, voice sharp now, pitched just enough to carry. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling you back into every stroke. “No wonder you’re so pissed all the time.”

You thought he was talking to you at first—until his next one hit.

“Pussy like this, and you still couldn’t keep her?”

Your brows pulled together. Confused. Caught halfway between breathless and blank. Then your eyes slid sideways—back to the camera.

And there he was.

Rafe.

Looking dead into the lens.

You gasped, the realization crawling up your spine faster than his rhythm. Dizzying. Raw.

He wasn’t talking to you.

He was talking to your ex. No shame. No hesitation.

“I’d be mad too,” Rafe said, voice thick. His eyes stayed locked on the lens, mouth curling into something dark. “Had all this and fucked it up.”

His hips never slowed. Never faltered.

He kept driving into you, hard and wet and ruthless, every thrust hitting deep, every snap of his hips landing like a full-stop.

Like he meant every single word.

Rafe leaned forward, his chest brushing your back, breath hot against your ear.

“Bet he never fucked you like this, huh?”

The words scraped down your spine, low and ragged, grinding straight into the center of you.

A soft, broken sound slipped from your throat as your eyes fluttered shut, jaw going slack. His voice, the snap of his hips against your ass, the wet drag of friction between your thighs—it all filled the room in a way you couldn’t escape.

“All that time he spent whining about me…” Rafe grunted, driving into you harder. “And he couldn’t even make you come right.”

Your moan cracked open at the end, wrecked and raw. “Rafe—fuck.”

“That’s right,” he said, voice rough with grit. “Tell him, pretty. Tell him who’s making you feel this good.”

“Rafe,” you gasped again. “Rafe—please.”

He grinned, dark and full of bite.

“Louder. So he can hear what it sounds like when you’re actually enjoying yourself.”

And you did.

You gave him everything. A cry so loud it tore from your throat, echoing off the walls, wild and broken. The kind of sound no one could mistake for anything else.

The kind of sound anyone standing outside that door would’ve heard.

Rafe’s laugh followed, deep and cocky, dragging straight through your already-raw nerves.

He straightened up behind you, hands slipping down to your hips. Then he pushed you down into the mattress, arching your ass higher. A new angle. A deeper stretch.

And when he drove back in, it hit everything, sending you over the edge.

Your legs shook. Your mouth dropped open. You came with a shudder, the orgasm tearing through you in one long, overwhelming wave.

Rafe fucked you through it, hips pressing into you as your body clenched around him, helpless to the pace. 

He didn’t stop—not really—but the rhythm eventually shifted, slowing just enough to drag every motion out, grinding deeper until your breath hitched. 

His voice came next, thick with control.

“That feel good?”

You moaned, voice wrecked. “Yes.”

He leaned in, chest grazing your back again, his words brushing against your ear.

“Better than him?”

You lifted your head, voice cutting through the noise loud enough for the camera to catch it. The sound that left you was half a moan, half a laugh—mocking and undone all at once.

“So much better.”

Rafe looked straight into the lens, a slow smirk crawling across his lips. No guilt. No apology. Just a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and who he was doing it to.

He didn’t break eye contact with the camera as he buried himself in you over and over, your body jolting with every deep thrust. His fingers dug in harder, holding you in place, forcing you to take every inch. You tried to breathe, to pause, but he didn't let you—not yet.

Because a real fuck didn’t stop at one orgasm.

And your ex?

He was about to learn that the hard way.

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his breathing was uneven, like he was fighting back sobs. you squeezed your eyes shut. you remembered how it felt, standing there at that party, your chest splitting as you watched him touch her the way he used to touch you.

“i keep trying to fill the hole you left. pills, booze, girls, fights—none of it works. it never works. because it’s not you. it’s never you. and i swear to god, you’re the only one who makes me feel like i’m not insane. like i’m not just my father’s fucked-up, broken son. with you, i felt… human. like maybe i was worth something. do you get that? you’re the only thing that’s ever made me feel alive.”

your throat closed. tears spilling down your cheeks. he was saying all the things you once begged him to say when you were still there, still fighting for him. and now it was too late.

“i know i ruined it. i know i broke you. i know i’ve been a coward from the start. but i can’t fucking breathe without you. i can’t sleep, i can’t eat, i can’t think. i walk into a room and i’m looking for you. i close my eyes and it’s you i see. i’m haunted by you, y/n. and maybe that’s what i deserve. maybe that’s my punishment for throwing away the only good thing i ever had. but i’m begging you, even if you never take me back—please don’t forget me. please don’t erase me from your life like i don’t exist. i couldn’t take it.”

a pause, then a sound so raw it broke you. he choked on a desperate sob. you bit your lip so hard it almost bled. part of you wanted to hate him for this. and part of you wanted to reach through the phone and just have him with you again.

“i love you. i love you in a way that ruins me. in a way that’s killing me right now. and i’ll never stop. i don’t care if you hate me, i don’t care if you never say it back again—i’ll never stop loving you. you’re it for me, y/n. you’ve always been it.”

the voicemail ended in silence. but his words hung in the air, pressing against your ribs, making it impossible to breathe. you sat there in the dark, your phone clutched tight, tears slipping down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

you hated him. you loved him. you couldn’t stop hurting. and yet, god help you, you wanted him. your thumb hovered over his name in your call log. you told yourself not to do it, that it would only hurt more. but you pressed it anyway.

the line rang once. and then his voice came through, rough and broken, like he hadn’t slept in days. “…y/n?”

his eyes followed you around the library; the whispered voices around him tuned out as he watched you adjust, stock, and rearrange books on wooden shelves until the study group dispersed for the evening.

he'd come back to the frat house with a party already in full swing. the house was still trashed from the one that ended the night before. surfaces were sticky with dried alcohol, discarded solo cups were placed everywhere, some tipped over, and more garbage was accumulating as the party continued.

he immediately immersed himself in the outgoing atmosphere. drinking cheap booze that was never put away, smoking joints that were passed to him by his friends, and chanting loudly to the trap music that was blaring from the speakers.

all before he went to the basement, filled with stoners and who knows who else. the energy was less wild but still lively as he quickly found himself crouched in front of the edge of a table, inhaling a line of coke.

later he ended up on one of the basement's dingy couches with lipstick stains on his tanned skin and the collar of his wrinkled polo. completely gone and wiping his nose repeatedly as a random girl played with a stray strand of his greasy hair.

rafe knew you wouldn't show up. you probably didn't even have a skimpy dress in your small dorm room closet, and only heard about frat parties in the books you read.

since that afternoon, he'd see you around campus. suddenly unable to miss the pink cardigans you always wore as you hurried to your next lecture. it got to the point where his friends noticed and were confused why he was interested in you. asking if you knew each other and if he was into nerdy girls now.

rafe never thought he'd actually talk to you. finding you at the library late at night after he left the party 'early', absolutely coked out of his mind. slurring out things he'd thought when sober.

sentences like: "all you do is sit here 'n read? 's fuckin' boring." or: "been wanting to see you without those sweaters, y'look hot."

leaving you appalled and creeped out, as no one had ever spoken to you like that or at all, for that matter. also for the fact that you had no idea who he was and because he was under the influence.

the 'conversation' resulted in rafe sending topper and kelce to find you the next day to awkwardly apologize as you watched them with utter confusion.

days later, rafe would make another appearance at the library under the guise of meeting with his study group to wrack his brain for ways to approach you again. spending the entirety of the meeting watching you helping other guests.

he decided to check out a book, one that he found on an abandoned book cart, before tossing it onto the counter.

"sorry about friday. let me take you out."

rafe wasn't the greatest boyfriend. your goals were never aligned. he partied while you studied for midterms scheduled weeks in the future. or when he'd forget you existed for hours on end, doing whatever drugs he did, leaving you worried sick.

he'd show up to your dorm high a few days out of the week, remains of the white powder under his nose as he mumbled about how he didn't see the messages you sent or whatever weak excuse he could form with an intoxicated mind.

you didn't even look at him as you broke up with him, "i can't do this anymore, rafe."

the wooden door shut in his face before he could protest your words, leaving him to only stare at the dry-erase board with your name written on it.

all rafe could do was wait. wait for you to answer the slew of unanswered texts and calls he left you. he even camped outside of your dorm. lighting up when you entered or left your room, just for you to continuously ignore him.

you'd hear him begging your roommate to convince you to talk to him, "please i'll do anything. i swear. just let me see her."

he continued going to his study group, watching you do your daily tasks. not used to the lack of warm smiles you always gave him when you felt him staring. instead you kept your distance, avoiding the study area altogether.

you didn't even look up when he slid a book in front of you. already knew it was him from the mix of expensive cologne and the lingering, unique natural musk he had.

"you can't check out another book until you return the five overdue ones," you said coldly.

a weak scoff escaped him before he weakly sank to his knees, the rough carpet scraping against his knees. "rafe, what are you doing?" you sputtered, quickly rounding the counter to help him up.

"whatever you want, you hear me? i'll get clean, everything you complained about, i'll fix it," you shook your head, his words leaving you unconvinced.

he instantly grabbed hold of your calves, nearly tripping you in your heels as he pulled toward him. he looked like he was about to cry, blue eyes dilated as they brimmed with tears. "i need you, alright? just don't leave me, please," he pleaded, his voice cracking, ignoring the people staring at the two of you.

you brushed back the hair that fell over his eyes, your front shattering as you gave in to him. his arms wrap around your waist, his body relaxed, knowing he had you back.

“Bucky,” you exhaled when he crowded you against the kitchen counter. “You just had me.”

You woke up with his head between your thighs, bringing you to orgasm before you could register what was going on.

His eyes swept over you, hungry and intense. He didn't smile. You knew that look all too well. He was debating whether to drag you back to bed or drop to his knees.

You blamed his insatiable appetite on being locked up behind bars and deprived of this kind of intimacy.

“I didn't have enough. I’ll never have enough,” he said, his voice husky. Deep. “Don’t deny me.”

“Bucky,” you said, his bare chest pressed against yours.

His fingers dug into your skin enough to feel his ownership. “You're mine,” he whispered, his other hand gripping your neck. Your pulse thundered under his rough touch. You were the only softness he knew now. “Say it.”

“I’m yours.” Of course you said it. Because when he looked at you like you were his salvation you wanted him to claim you.

He smirked, dark and triumphant, before he kissed you. It was hard, dominant, like he was trying to crawl inside you and stay there. Maybe you'd let him. Maybe you'd let him be the thing he worshipped in his own warped way.

Because he’d burn the world if you tried to walk away.

“Now tell me, princess,” he said, shoving his knee between your legs and tightening his grip. “You wanna choke or scream for me?”

You did both.

Ugh. I love him. Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

“Did you really think you could get away that easily?” You were pushed against the wall, trapped between the cold tiles and the man in the Ghostface mask. “A pretty girl like you should’ve thought better.” You could hear the chuckle in his voice, the hairs on the back of your neck standing up from the chill that ran down your spine.

You looked up at him, barely able to see the wickedly dark glint in his eyes because of the mesh of the mask. Words were trapped in the back of your throat as he kicked your feet apart and placed his leg between yours, pressing it right against your clothed cunt. You could hear the way he groaned behind the mask, your whole body freezing in more than just fear.

“Mmm, I can feel you throbbing against my knee. Does being chased turn you on?” His voice was low and a bit raspy, speaking next to your ear. “Or do you just like being manhandled?”

“I-“ You shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as you are, but the feel of his leg flexing against your cunt made your mouth run dry. The adrenaline pumped through your veins, hands clenching at your sides as you watched the man in front of you.

A rough hand ran up the sides of your body, forming goosebumps in its wake before stopping at the base of your head and pulling your hair. “I knew I picked the right girl, knew you’d be the perfect slut to let me do whatever I want.”

The twitch of his cock made you look down, the small lights around you illuminating the bulge underneath his cloak. It made you gasp, made your hips inch forward against his knee.

”Jesus Christ, look at you.” He cocked his head to the side as he watched you, his chest rumbling with deep groans. “You can barely keep it together. Is this your way of begging for me?”

You were about to answer when his other hand quickly pushed past your pants and panties, quickly finding your clit. “Oh, baby…,” his breath hitched as he felt how wet you were, already coating his fingers in your juices. “Atta girl.”

There was no denying it now, not with his fingers toying at your clit, running slow figure eights on it. You tried your best to hold back the moans, biting your lip so hard that blood hit your tastebuds.

“Don’t be shy, baby.” His fingers dipped lower, teasing your hole as it clenched around nothing. “No one will know that you’re screaming over my fingers scissoring you open. I gotta get you ready for my cock, don’t I?” He swiped at the blood on your lips, smearing it along them.

You whined at his words, your whole body betraying you. “Please… I want it..” You weren’t putting up any fight. Your body itched for him, hands grabbing at any part of the cloak to get to his cock.

He turned you around and pressed your face into the wall. “Stay still, got it?” You heard him unzip his pants before he pulled down yours enough to have your cunt out and waiting for him. “I wanna hear how pretty you scream with my cock inside you. Take it like a real good girl.”

Without warning, he bottomed out inside you, heavy balls pressed against your clit. It took you by surprise how fast he was, your eyes rolling in the back of your head. Stars flittered behind your eyelids, your thigh already shaking from the rough stretch.

“Fuck- such a tight pussy.” He grabbed your hips and fucked you up and down on his cock sleeve, like you were nothing but is dumb cocksleeve to use. His masked eyes never left where he disappeared inside you, coating his cock in your cream. “So messy for me. Maybe I should make you clean me up when you’re done.”

Thrust after thrust, your head became fogged up from how good his cock felt. You rocked against him, nails trying to dig into the walls to keep yourself from falling.

“Y-yes! Right there!” Your voice sounded hoarse already from moaning and yelping at being used. “Can feel you in my stomach.”

A hand reached around you, pressing right onto the bulge that formed in your stomach from how deep his cock was. It’s almost like you could feel him in your throat.

“That’s it, keep squeezing my fucking cock.” He brought his head down to the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. “Maybe I should’ve- shit- brought my knife and carved my initials into your pretty skin, make you remember this night forever.” God, he was so sadistic in the way he laughed at your pathetic and dumb moans.

“Y-yeah? Stake your claim over me?” You could help but smile, your cunt taking over your brain as you just let him pound into you with no remorse. “Show me… want you to show me how bad you want me.”

The coil in your stomach tightened with each bride of his cock, every twitch inside you making you arch into his touch. You clenched around him, sucking him in the closer you got.

“You gonna cum already?” He brought his hand down in a swift spank to your ass, the recoil making him moan almost as dumbly as you. “It’s just bouncing and bouncing for me, baby.”

You don’t know if it were being able to feel every vein of his cock as he fucked into you so hard that you’ll see bruises from his hips tomorrow morning, or if it was the way he called you baby, but you couldn’t hold your orgasm back any longer.

Your back arched as you dragged your nails down the wall, and pornographic screams fell from your gaped open mouth as your orgasm shook every inch of your body. “Don’t stop, don’t fucking stop- please!” Your words almost slurred from how hard you were cumming, the splashing of your juices echoing in your ears. Never in your life had you been so cock drunk, dumb off of being fucked raw.

“Soak my cock, baby.” He pressed his head against your back, the mask resting against you as you heard his breath shake. “Show daddy how much you love when he uses you like this.”

“Rafe, daddy!” Rafe’s name finally fell from your lips, pushing him right over the edge.

“God fucking dammit- I’m gonna cum, baby.” His masked face nuzzled into your neck as his cock twitched, pumping you full of his cum. “Take every fucking drop. Gonna breed this fucking cunt.”

“You feel so fucking good,” you could feel him fill you up, giving you everything he had as he spilled into you. “Thank you, thank you.” You giggled, your body still shaking as you felt his cum drip out of you, coating your skin.

After taking long enough to catch his breath, he pulled out of you, watching his cum leak from your used hole. Rafe couldn’t help but trail his finger up your inner thigh, making you wince in overstimulation. “Did such a good job, baby.“

“You seemed actually scared there for a moment.” Rafe chuckled as he took off the mask before pulling you into his arms and resting his chin on top of your head. His lips swollen from all the biting he must’ve done while he was inside you. “I had to catch you off guard.”

“Trust me, you really did.”