clancykolzig

[clancykolzig]

Surveillance and Surrender

Characters/Pairings: Alpha!Ari Levinson x curvy Female!Reader Word Count: 10.5k Summary: In the five years since the virtual collapse of civilization, you learned to navigate the challenges of survival with precision and resilience. Challenges not only of survival, but solitude after you lost everyone you knew before. And you'd been fine before meting the enigmatic Alpha Ari. After multiple chance encounter, after a night spent together that you fled from the next morning, you tried to leave him behind, but something undeniable and surreal developed, and you can't ignore it any longer. Will you surrender and embrace a potential future with Ari? Or will your other instincts determine he's not safe, even if you do yearn for him?

Ignore the warnings if you want to avoid spoilers.

Content/Warnings: omegaverse (alpha and omega dynamics, biting/claiming, knotting); feels; angst; apocalyptic setting; explicit smut: oral (female and male receiving, unprotected vaginal intercourse, knotting)

Notes: Takes place directly after Maybe Not.

Part One: Waiting On One Look || Part Two: Maybe Not

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

You arrive at Ari's hideout by nightfall, your body trembling with exhaustion and something like anticipation. But you don't approach the cabin. Instead, you find a vantage point in the woods, settling among some dense undergrowth with a clear view of his place.

The pain in your chest eases slightly just being near him, even without contact. You can breathe easier now, the fog lifting from your mind. But you need to be sure. Sure of him. Sure of yourself.

So you watch.

You tell yourself it's strategic—you need to ensure he hasn't invited others in, that his kindness wasn't a trap.

He emerges mid-morning, rifle slung over his shoulder. His movements are slower than you remember, less fluid. Even from a distance, you can see the tension in his shoulders. He checks the perimeter, refills water containers from the rain barrels, then disappears back inside.

The second day, you move closer, finding shelter in an abandoned shed at the edge of his property. Through a crack in the warped wooden slats, you watch him chop firewood, his muscles flexing with each swing of the axe.

He stops halfway through, leaning heavily on the axe handle, his head bowing. You watch as his shoulders rise and fall with deep breaths before he straightens and continues his task with renewed determination.

That night, you watch through the cabin window as he sits at a small table, a mug between his hands, staring at nothing. He doesn't eat, just sips occasionally from the mug. Your stomach growls in sympathy. The bond-pain has subsided to a dull ache with proximity, but hunger has returned with a vengeance.

On the third day, your resolve weakens. You've watched him long enough to know he's alone, that there's no trap waiting. You've seen the way he moves through his days—efficient but hollow, like he's going through motions without purpose. You recognize it because it mirrors how you've felt for years. How you felt until that night with him.

But still you keep your distance. You need to be sure he’s safe, smart. 

The fourth day, you follow him at a distance as he hunts. His movements are careful, practiced. He brings down a deer with a clean shot that drops the animal instantly. You watch as he field dresses it with practiced efficiency, his hands steady despite everything. There's something intimate about watching him like this—seeing his survival skills, the way he wastes nothing, the respect with which he treats his kill.

When he shoulders the dressed carcass for the trek back, you notice he stumbles slightly. The alpha who carried you to bed with ease now struggles under a weight he should handle without difficulty. Whatever is affecting you is affecting him too.

Through the window, you watch as he stores most of the meat but cooks a small portion. He sets two plates on the table.

Your breath catches. Two plates. Every night, you realize with a jolt, he's been setting two plates.

He's been waiting for you.

The realization makes your knees weak. You sink to the ground, back against a tree, and press your palms against your eyes. 

You've always lived by your own rules: though you’ve stayed in the region that you were familiar with before the world fell apart, you never stay in one place too long, never trust anyone fully, and above all, never get attached. Rules that kept you alive when the world fell apart. Rules that have kept you safe.

But here you are, watching an alpha set out a second plate night after night, hoping against hope for someone who ran away.

You correct your own thoughts, because that almost cheapens it, makes him seem pathetic when you know it’s not that. 

Your paths kept crossing. 

You instinctively trusted him and he proved he was a trustworthy ally in those scattered and short encounters. 

That he lasted that long, that he had the same strategic plans that you did, spoke to someone you could logically assume had skills as honed as your own. 

You’d been drawn to him in each of those encounters - nice moments, funny moments, moments you were sure of. 

You’re nearly ready to trust him, but you tell yourself if you’ve waited this long, a few more days won’t be unendurable just to hedge your bet - because it’s still an enormous gamble. 

The next day, you wake to the sound of his truck starting. You peek through the shed wall to see him driving away, dust kicking up behind the wheels. This is your chance to get into the cabin undetected, to search for any signs that will either confirm your worries or alleviate them.

You wait ten minutes to ensure he doesn't return for something forgotten, then approach the cabin cautiously. The door is locked—smart—but you find a window at the back that opens with minimal effort. Slipping inside, you're immediately enveloped in his scent. Cinnamon and cedar, earth after rain. The bond-pain in your chest transforms into something warm, something that spreads through your limbs and makes you feel lighter than you have in days.

The cabin is sparse but organized. A living area with a worn couch, the small kitchen table with its two chairs, a woodstove in the corner. You open cabinets, finding stored food—more than you expected, all carefully rationed and labeled. He's been planning for the long term. 

There's a bookshelf stocked with dog-eared paperbacks. The bedroom door stands ajar, and you can see the rumpled bed where you spent that night together, neatly made. 

You hesitate at the threshold, caught between the memory of that night and the reality of your return. Slowly, you step into the bedroom, your fingertips trailing over the quilt he's smoothed over the mattress. On the bedside table sits a small, framed photograph—a relic from before. You pick it up carefully, studying the image of a younger Ari. He stands with his arm around a smiling woman, both of them squinting in sunlight. His sister, maybe? The resemblance is there—same golden skin, same bright eyes. Behind them, a house you don't recognize.

The intimacy of this small piece of his past makes your throat tighten. He's kept this, through everything. A reminder of who he was, who he still is beneath the survival instincts and scavenged supplies. 

You set the photo down gently and continue your investigation, opening the closet door. His clothes hang neatly on one side—shirts, pants, a heavy winter coat. The other side is empty, cleared of whatever was once there. A space made for you, you realize with a shock.

Your heart hammers against your ribs. He's been preparing for a future that includes you, even after you ran. The realization is overwhelming—terrifying and comforting in equal measure. This doesn't feel like a trap anymore—it feels like hope. Dangerous, fragile hope. 

You close the door quickly, your heart racing. In the corner of the room, you spot a small desk. Papers are scattered across its surface, maps with routes marked in red. You recognize some of the locations—supply caches, safe water sources, places to avoid. His knowledge mirrors your own, confirming what you already suspected about his survival skills.

Under the maps, you find a journal. You hesitate, knowing this crosses a line, but your need to understand him overrides your hesitation. You flip it open.

Inside are drawings—detailed, skillful sketches of the landscape, of animals, of the cabin. And there, on the most recent pages, sketches of you. Your profile as you scavenged in that grocery store. You in the forest - his memory and view of the day you left. 

You are relieved the journal wasn’t full of any written thoughts - though you clearly hadn’t been able to help yourself, you are glad you didn’t violate a more private territory. 

The sound of an engine rumbling in the distance sends you scrambling. You replace everything exactly as you found it and slip back out the window, carefully closing it behind you. You retreat to your hiding spot in the shed, heart pounding. 

But it's not Ari's truck. The vehicle passes on the distant road, and silence returns. 

Your pulse returns to normal and your decision crystallizes. You've seen enough—more than enough to know he's been honest with you. Enough to confirm he’s the man you thought he might be - not all the details, but you don’t want to discover the details like this, you want to learn them from him. With him.

The decision made, you straighten the cabin, preparing to surprise him when he returns. You even find coffee beans in the pantry and figure out his hand grinder, setting up to brew a pot when he walks through the door.

So you wait. 

The sun climbs higher, then begins its descent. The shadows lengthen across the yard. Birds call their evening songs. 

You pace the small cabin, checking the window every few minutes. His truck should be back by now. You try to quiet the anxiety building in your chest—he's capable, experienced. Probably just extending his supply run.

As sunset bleeds into twilight, you position yourself by the window, watching the road. The coffee sits unbrewed, forgotten. You debate going to look for him, but fear of missing his return keeps you rooted in place.

Night falls completely. The woods around the cabin grow quiet, the natural world settling into its nocturnal rhythms. Your anxiety spirals, transforming into something cold and leaden in your stomach.

He should be back by now. 

You check his maps again, trying to deduce where he might have gone. There's a trading post marked about twenty miles east—far enough to warrant the truck, close enough to return before dark. Other locations are scattered across the paper, some crossed out with notes like "cleared" or "raiders." 

A sound outside sends you rushing to the window—but it's just a raccoon, waddling across the yard toward the trash bins Ari keeps secured against wildlife. 

You don't know when or how you fell asleep, but somehow you find yourself waking up on the couch, upper body slumped to the side. Despite your worry and waiting, your body must have been far more exhausted from the uneasy sleep you’d subjected yourself to hovering in the woods for the five days before while you watched your alpha. 

Your alpha.

The thought startles you fully awake.

You rise, stretching your stiff limbs, and move to the window again. Morning light filters through the thickly wooded forest.

Still no sign of Ari or his truck. Your stomach growls loudly, reminding you that you haven't eaten since yesterday. The anxiety of waiting makes you reluctant to touch his supplies, though you know he wouldn't mind. 

Instead, you retrieve your backpack from where you stashed it in the shed and rummage through the meager contents. A few protein bars, some dried fruit, half a bag of beef jerky—carefully rationed supplies you've been saving. You unwrap a protein bar and force yourself to eat it slowly, savoring each bite though it tastes like cardboard in your dry mouth. 

You wash it down with water from your canteen, rationing carefully even though Ari's cabin has a supply. Old habits. Survival instincts.

The food does little to settle your nerves. You pace the cabin, alternating between the window and the door, listening for the familiar rumble of his truck. Your mind conjures increasingly dire scenarios—mechanical failure, raiders, injury. The bond-ache in your chest pulses with each passing hour. 

You pace the cabin, checking and rechecking his maps, trying to piece together where he might have gone. Anywhere on these maps would have been a single-day trip. 

But you suppose he could have taken a different map with him with a destination such farther away. 

By midday, your patience fractures. You stand in the center of the cabin, fists clenched at your sides, torn between two impossible choices. 

Stay and wait, hoping he returns on his own. Or leave to search for him, with no vehicle and no clear direction. 

"Damn it, Ari," you mutter, kicking at the leg of a chair. "Five days I watched you, and the one day I decide to trust you is the day you disappear?" 

You return to his maps, spreading them across the table. Your fingers trace the routes he's marked, the notations in his neat handwriting. There are too many possibilities—the trading post, the abandoned hospital ten miles north, the small town to the west that might still have supplies. 

You drop into the chair at his desk, head in your hands. The rational part of your brain insists that leaving would be foolish. You have no vehicle. The trading post is twenty miles away—a full day's journey on foot, and that's if you encounter no trouble. Raiders are active in the area.

But staying means another day of uncertainty, another night wondering if he's injured somewhere, unable to return. Another day of that dull ache in your chest. 

You straighten, decision made. You'll search for him, but you'll be smart about it. You gather supplies methodically—water, food, medical kit, ammunition for the small handgun you've carried for two years. You find a spare knife in his kitchen and add it to your belt. 

As you prepare, a glint of metal catches your eye. Keys, hanging by the door. Not his truck keys—those would be with him—but something else. You approach, examining the small ring. There's a padlock key, what looks like a house key, and—your breath catches—a motorcycle key. 

You peer out the window, scanning the property. There, half-hidden beneath a tarp behind the woodshed, the outline of something that could be a motorcycle. 

Have you ever driven a motorcycle before? 

No. 

But how hard can it be? 

Not harder than staying here.

And really how hard can it be? Boys do it.

You’ve got nothing but time to kill waiting or time to kill figuring out how to operate a motorcycle anyway. 

You reach for the key ring, fingers just brushing the cool metal when the distant rumble of an engine freezes you in place. Your heart leaps into your throat as you recognize the sound—Ari's truck.

Without a second thought, you abandon the keys and bolt for the door. Your feet hit the wooden porch and then the dirt path as you sprint toward the approaching vehicle. The truck appears around the bend, dust billowing behind it. 

You see Ari through the windshield, his face tight with concentration—or pain. Your chest constricts at the sight of him. He's alive. He's here. 

The truck barely rolls to a stop before you're there, yanking open the driver's door. Ari's golden face breaks into a wide smile as he turns toward you, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. There's not a scratch on him, no visible injuries at all. He looks exactly as he did when you watched him leave yesterday, except for the layer of dust on his clothes from the road.

You urge him out of the truck, and he complies easily. "You're not hurt," you breathe, your hands instinctively patting his chest, shoulders, arms, checking for injuries you can't see. "I thought—I was worried—"

"I know," he says, still smiling that infuriating, beautiful smile. "I felt it."

"Felt what?" you ask.

"Felt you. Felt your worry." Ari's hand comes up to cover yours where it rests against his chest. His heart beats steady and strong beneath your palm. "The bond works both ways, ‘mega. I knew you were waiting."

"Then why didn't you come back sooner?" The words burst from you, part accusation, part relief.

"I could smell you for days," Ari says simply, his voice rougher than you remember. 

"You knew I was watching?"

He nods. "I figured you needed time." His eyes never leave yours. "I told you I would wait, and I meant it. And then yesterday, the pain just... shifted. Became something warmer. I knew you'd made your decision."

"But where were you?" you demand, more impatiently now.

Ari's expression softens as he takes your hands in his. "I go to see my sister and her family twice a year," he explains, squeezing your fingers gently. "They're about sixty miles north, in a little community they've built with some other survivors. I would have told you before I left, but..." He trails off, raising his eyebrows. "I was pretending to be oblivious to your proximity until you were ready to come out of hiding.”

You roll your eyes, but a small heat creeps up your neck. 

But you brush off the moment, processing this new information. "So your sister? She's alive?" 

"Yes. Her, her mate, and their two pups. They made it through the worst of it." Pride fills his voice. "They've got this whole setup now—gardens, livestock, even a school for the kids." He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small, worn photograph. "This is them." 

You take the photo carefully. It's the same woman from the frame in his room. 

“They've been trying to get me to join their settlement for years."

You study the image—the woman's smile, the children clinging to her legs, a tall alpha man with his arm around her shoulders. They look happy, healthy. Like a family from before.

"Why haven't you?" you ask, handing the photo back. "Joined them, I mean." 

Ari tucks the photo away carefully. "At first, it was because I was still looking for my parents. Never found them." His voice drops, old grief evident but weathered by time. "After that... I don't know. It felt too settled, too permanent. Like admitting the world wasn't going to go back to normal." 

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you feel naked under his gaze. "And then I met you. Kept running into you. Started thinking maybe there was a reason for that." 

The honesty in his voice makes your chest ache. You swallow hard, the weight of his words settling in your chest, replacing the bond-ache with something warmer, something both terrifying and exhilarating.

"My sister wants to meet you," he adds, his lips quirking into a half-smile. "Eventually,” he clarifies. “There’s no rush, but I've mentioned you. After our... encounters."

You blink at him, startled. "You told your sister about me?" 

"Of course I did," Ari says, looking almost confused by your surprise. "Every time we crossed paths, it was the most interesting thing that had happened to me in months." 

Something warm unfurls in your chest. The idea that he'd been thinking about you, talking about you, even before that night in the grocery store—it changes something, shifts your understanding of what's happening between you. 

"And what did you tell her?" you ask, trying to keep your voice casual. 

Ari's smile turns almost smug. "That I kept running into this stubborn, resourceful omega who was too smart to trust anyone but too intriguing to forget." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "That I couldn't stop thinking about you between encounters. That I was starting to plan my scavenging routes hoping I'd run into you," he admits, not looking remotely embarrassed. "She started calling you 'the ghost omega' because you kept disappearing."

You laugh despite yourself. The sound feels foreign in your throat—when was the last time you genuinely laughed?

"She thinks I'm crazy for not tracking you down sooner," Ari continues, his thumb tracing circles on your palm. "Says I'm too patient for my own good."

"And what did you tell her?" you ask, your voice softer now.

"That some things are worth waiting for." His gaze holds yours, unwavering. "That forcing you to trust me would've been no trust at all."

Something warm unfurls in your chest at his words. He understood—has understood you all along. 

The weight of all your fears and doubts you had carried feels insignificant compared to the certainty in his eyes. This alpha—Ari—has been patient not because he's weak, but because he’s unbelievably strong, because he respects you enough to wait.

"I looked through your things," you confess abruptly, needing to start this—whatever this is—with honesty. "Yesterday, while you were gone. I came in through the window and searched the cabin." 

Ari doesn't look surprised or angry. He just nods. "Find what you were looking for?" 

"I think so." You take a deep breath. "I found the space you cleared in the closet." 

His cheeks darken slightly. "Ah. That." 

"That," you confirm, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "Pretty confident, weren't you?" 

"Hopeful," he corrects, the word hanging between you like a promise.

Before you can respond, his hands are on your waist, pulling you against him. The movement is swift but gentle, giving you time to pull away if you wanted. You don't. Your bodies collide, your softness against his rugged frame. The bond-ache in your chest dissolves completely, replaced by warmth that spreads through your limbs like wildfire. 

His lips find yours, hungry yet tender. You melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, drawing him closer. The kiss deepens, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting of dust from the road and something uniquely him. You whimper against his mouth, and he responds with a growl that vibrates through your connected bodies. 

When you finally break apart, both breathing heavily, he rests his forehead against yours. "No more waiting," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on yours again.

These kisses are different from those you shared that first night—less desperate, more deliberate. His lips move against yours with purpose, claiming you in a way that makes your knees weak. Your hands find purchase in his shirt, bunching the fabric as you press closer. 

His hands slide beneath your shirt, warm against your skin, and suddenly you're both moving backward toward the cabin. The journey is clumsy, neither of you willing to break contact long enough to walk properly. You stumble up the porch steps, laughing against his mouth when you nearly trip. 

Ari catches you easily, his strong arms keeping you upright. "Careful, 'mega," he murmurs, voice rough with desire. "I just got you back. Don't want to lose you to a porch step." 

The casual possessiveness in his words sends heat curling through you. He pushes the door open behind you, guiding you inside without breaking the kiss. The door slams shut, and suddenly you're pressed against it, Ari's body a solid wall of heat against yours. 

His eyes are dark with desire, and that licks through you, thrills you. 

"I need to know what you want, 'mega. Need to hear it."

You take a shaky breath, overwhelmed by his scent, his proximity, the intensity of his gaze. "I want to stay," you whisper, the words falling from your lips like a confession. "I don't want to run anymore. I want—" Your voice catches, decades of survival instincts warring with the truth burning in your chest. "I want you."

Ari's eyes darken further, his pupils dilating until only a thin ring of blue remains. "Say it again," he growls, one hand sliding up to cup your face. 

"I want you, Ari," you repeat, stronger this time. "I've spent years surviving. I think... I think I'm ready to start living." 

Something shifts in his expression—relief, joy, hunger—all making your heart race, all mirrored in you. He kisses you again, deeper, his body pressing yours more firmly against the door. His hands are everywhere, relearning the contours of your body as if committing them to memory. 

Ari lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you through the cabin. His mouth never leaves yours, alternating between deep, claiming kisses and softer, reverent ones that make your heart stutter.

He sets you down gently on the edge of the bed—the same bed you ran from days ago. But there's no panic now, no urge to flee. Only a bone-deep certainty that this is where you're meant to be. 

"I want to see you," he murmurs, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt. "All of you." 

You lift your arms in silent permission, and he peels the fabric away, exposing your skin to the cool air. His gaze traces over your exposed skin with reverent hunger. He looks at you like you're a miracle, something precious salvaged from the ruins of the world. It makes your chest ache and swell.

"Beautiful," he breathes, bending to press his lips to your collarbone. 

You reach for him, tugging impatiently at his shirt. "Your turn," you murmur. He obliges, pulling the dusty garment over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the golden expanse of his chest. Your fingers trace the lines of his muscles, the scattered scars that tell stories of survival. You want to know each one, to learn the history written on his skin. 

You press your lips to his stomach. Your fingers drift lower, tracing the trail of hair that disappears beneath his waistband. He watches you with hooded eyes. You can feel his muscles tense beneath your touch, his breathing growing heavier. Slowly, deliberately, you unfasten his belt, watching his face as you drag the zipper down, the sound deafening in the quiet cabin.

You slide down his body until you're kneeling between his legs. Tugging his jeans down his hips, you reveal him inch by inch, your mouth watering at the sight of him already hard for you. When you take him in your hand, he hisses, his head falling back. 

"Omega," he groans, the word filled with need. 

You wrap your hand around him, feeling the velvet-soft skin over steel hardness. You lean forward, maintaining eye contact as you take him into your mouth. His sharp intake of breath sends a thrill through you.

"Fuck," he whispers, his hand coming to rest gently on your head, fingers tangling in your hair. 

You take your time, exploring him with your tongue, learning what makes his breath hitch, what draws those delicious growls from deep in his chest. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deeper, reveling in the weight of him on your tongue, the taste that's uniquely his. 

You work him slowly at first, learning what makes his breath hitch, what draws those delicious growls from deep in his chest. You discover he likes it when you use your tongue along the underside, when you hollowed your cheeks and suck harder. His fingers tighten in your hair when you take him deeper, and the slight edge of pain only heightens your own arousal.

You lose yourself in the rhythm, in the taste of him, in the sounds he makes. His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tense beneath your hands where they rest on his thighs. Your hands work what your mouth can't reach, twisting gently in counterpoint to your bobbing head. His thighs tremble beneath your free hand, muscles taut with restraint.

"That's it, 'mega," he groans, his voice strained. "So perfect."

His praise sends heat through you, your own arousal building with each moan you draw from him. You feel powerful like this, on your knees but completely in control, reducing this strong alpha to trembling need. 

His hips begin to move slightly, shallow thrusts that match your rhythm. His control is impressive, but you can feel it fraying at the edges.

"Stop," he finally gasps, gently pulling you off him. His eyes are wild, pupils blown wide. "Need to be inside you when I come." 

He pulls you up, then pushes you back onto the bed. You land with a soft bounce, watching as he kneels to remove your boots, then your pants, peeling them slowly down your legs. When you're naked beneath him, he takes a moment just to look at you, his gaze traveling from your face down your body with such reverence it makes you shiver. 

Everything the two of you did that first night together was frenzied, desperate, pursuit of pleasure and a long-delayed gratification you’d been dancing around for months. 

But this time both of you know there’s not a question mark as to how long you have together, There’s still eagerness, need, and want, but the uncertainty has been erased. 

"Been dreaming about this," he murmurs, hands skimming up your calves, your thighs. 

His hands glide up to your thighs, gently pushing them apart. He settles between them, his breath hot against your inner thigh. "Need to taste you," he growls, and then his mouth is on you, tongue sliding through your folds. The contact sends electricity up your spine, drawing a gasp from your lips.

You arch into his mouth as he explores you with deliberate precision, learning what makes you whimper and shake. His tongue circles your clit before sucking it gently between his lips. Your hands fly to his hair, fingers tangling in the silky strands as you hold him against you.

Ari moans against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as he devours you. The wet heat of his mouth is delicious against your heated skin. Your hips rock against his face, and you lose yourself in sensation, hips undulating against his skilled mouth, seeking more pressure, more friction.

"That's it," he murmurs against you, the vibration of his words sending ripples of pleasure through your core. "Let me take care of you."

His tongue delves deeper, tasting you thoroughly before returning to circle your clit. He alternates between broad strokes and pointed precision, reading your body's responses with uncanny accuracy. When he slides two fingers inside you, curling them to find that perfect spot, you cry out, back arching off the bed. 

"That's it," he murmurs against your sensitive flesh. "Let me hear you." 

He continues his sweet torture, his fingers working in tandem with his mouth. Your thighs begin to tremble as pressure builds low in your belly. Ari seems to sense your approaching climax, redoubling his efforts, his tongue flicking rapidly against your clit while his fingers maintain their perfect rhythm. 

"Ari," you gasp, the word half-warning, half-plea. 

"Come for me," he demands against your flesh, and the command in his voice combined with the relentless pressure of his tongue sends you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes through you in waves, your body spasming around his fingers as he works you through it, drawing out every last tremor of pleasure.

When you finally collapse back against the mattress, boneless and panting, he rises above you, his mouth glistening with evidence of your pleasure. The sight is enough to stoke the embers of your desire back to flame despite your recent release.

He moves slowly up your body and lowers himself over you, skin against skin. His weight feels right, grounding you in this moment, in this reality you've chosen. He kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. The intimacy of it makes your heart stutter.

He aligns himself at your entrance, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your slick heat. His eyes lock with yours, searching for any hesitation. Finding none, he pushes forward slowly, stretching you deliciously as he fills you inch by inch. Your breath catches at the perfect fullness, the way your body yields to accommodate him.

"Fuck," he breathes, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. "You feel like home," he murmurs, the words so quiet you almost miss them.

The sentiment strikes you deep in your chest, resonating with truth. After years of wandering, of surviving, this—his body joined with yours, his scent surrounding you—feels like the only thing you ever needed. This is what was missing, what you've been searching for without knowing. A place to belong. A person to belong to.

He begins to move, setting a languid pace that has you arching beneath him, seeking more. Your nails dig into his shoulders, urging him closer, deeper. He responds with a growl that vibrates through your connected bodies, his hips snapping forward with more force. 

"Mine," he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot on your skin. "Tell me you're mine." 

The possessiveness in his voice should frighten you—after years of fierce independence, of trusting no one—but instead, it ignites something primal within you. The omega in you preens under his claim, recognizing what your rational mind has been fighting: this connection between you is rare, precious. Worth the risk. 

"Yours," you breathe against his lips. The word sparks something within you—a certainty, a decision. You want more than this passive surrender. You want to show him your choice is active, deliberate. 

You plant your hands against his chest and push. He looks momentarily confused, then understanding dawns in his eyes as you urge him onto his back. He goes willingly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as you straddle him. You sink down on him in one fluid motion, taking him to the hilt. 

You roll your hips experimentally, and his hands find your waist, steadying you as you begin to move. The new angle sends him deeper, hitting spots that make your vision blur at the edges. You plant your palms on his chest, using the leverage to lift yourself before sinking back down. His eyes are dark with desire as he watches you take your pleasure from him, his golden skin flushed with want.

The intensity builds between you with each roll of your hips. His hands slide up your sides to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples. The dual sensation makes you gasp, your rhythm faltering momentarily before you find it again, more desperate now. 

"You're incredible," he murmurs, his voice thick with arousal. "Never thought I'd have this."

Something shifts inside you—a certainty so profound it steals your breath. This alpha beneath you, looking at you with such reverence, such need—he's yours as much as you are his. The realization crashes through you with startling clarity. This isn't enough. Skin against skin, bodies joined—it's good, it's perfect, but it's temporary. You want permanent. You want forever.

This alpha beneath you, looking at you with such reverence, such need—he's yours as much as you are his.

You lean down, pressing your chest to his, your lips finding the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder. His scent is strongest here, intoxicating, drawing you in. You inhale deeply, feeling his pulse race beneath your lips.

"Omega," he whispers, his voice strained with understanding. His hands slide up your back, one tangling in your hair, not pulling you away but holding you there, an invitation.

You scrape your teeth against his skin, testing, tasting. He shudders beneath you, his cock twitching inside you. A low rumble builds in his chest, vibrating against your chest like a purr. The vibration travels through your connected bodies, heightening every sensation.

In that moment, instinct takes over. You sink your teeth into the tender flesh of his neck, breaking skin. The metallic taste of blood floods your mouth as you claim him, marking him as yours irrevocably. 

The moment your teeth break his skin, something shifts between you—a connection snapping into place like the final piece of a puzzle. The bond you've been feeling fragments of solidifies, crystallizes into something unbreakable. You can feel his pleasure, his surprise, his overwhelming joy washing through you as if they're your own emotions.

He cries out, his body arching beneath you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he bucks up into you, his release triggered by your claim.

You release his neck, licking the wound gently, tasting the copper of his blood mixed with the salt of his skin. When you pull back to look at his face, his eyes are wild, pupils blown wide with pleasure and something deeper—awe, devotion, completion.

"You claimed me," he breathes, voice hoarse with emotion. "You claimed me first."

The wonder in his voice makes your heart clench. You nod, unable to form words through the overwhelming sensations flooding your system—his pleasure washing through you, amplified by your own, the bond humming between you like a live wire.

"I want this," you murmur against his mouth. "I want you. All of you."

You kiss him fiercely. His arms tighten around you, rolling you both until you're beneath him again. The movement sends aftershocks of pleasure through your oversensitive body, drawing a soft moan from your lips. He's still hard inside you, his release apparently only fueling his desire rather than sating it.

He slides one hand beneath your neck, supporting you as he lowers his mouth to the juncture of your neck and shoulder. "My turn," he growls, nuzzling against your neck, his breath hot against your skin. His teeth scrape the sensitive spot over your pulse point. 

A needy whine escapes you, and you tilt your head to expose your throat to him, a gesture of submission and trust so profound it makes your heart race. "Make me yours, Ari."

His teeth pierce your skin in one swift motion, the sharp pain blooming into something transcendent as the bond between you completes itself. There is only Ari, only the connection forming between you, only the overwhelming sensation of belonging.

You feel his consciousness brush against yours—his joy, his relief, his utter devotion flooding through you. His hips begin to move again, thrusting into you with renewed purpose. Each movement sends dual waves of pleasure through your joined bodies, your sensations feeding his, his feeding yours in an endless loop of escalating ecstasy. 

His mouth leaves your neck, his tongue gently laving the mark he's made. You feel his satisfaction at seeing his claim on your skin, a primal pride that burns through your bond. 

"Mine," he murmurs against the fresh mark, his voice reverent. "Finally mine." 

You wrap your legs around his waist, drawing him deeper as he begins to move again. The sensation is unlike anything you've experienced before—it's not just physical pleasure but something transcendent. You can feel his emotions, his desire, his overwhelming joy at having claimed you, at being claimed by you. 

His thrusts grow more urgent, more powerful. The headboard knocks against the wall with each movement, the rhythm matching your racing hearts. Your body responds to his as if it was made for him, meeting each thrust, taking him deeper. The dual sensation of your physical connection and the newly formed bond between you pushes you toward a peak that promises to eclipse all others. 

"Ari," you gasp, clinging to him as the pressure builds. 

"Come with me," he commands against your lips, and you feel his hand slip between your bodies, finding your sensitive bud and circling it with practiced fingers. The dual assault—his cock filling you, his fingers working you, his presence in your mind through the bond—is too much. Your second orgasm crashes through you with unexpected force, your inner walls clamping down on him, milking him.

He follows you over the edge with a guttural cry, his hips stuttering as he empties himself inside you. His knot begins to swell, locking you together, anchoring him deep within you. The sensation of being completely filled, completely joined with him, sends aftershocks of pleasure rippling through your body.

He collapses on top of you, careful to distribute his weight so he doesn't crush you. You cling to him, unwilling to let even an inch of space come between your bodies while you're knotted together. His face is buried in your neck, his breath coming in ragged pants against your marked skin. 

"I can feel you," he murmurs in wonder, his lips brushing against your pulse point. "In my head, in my chest. Everywhere." 

You know exactly what he means. The bond thrums between you, a living connection that allows you to feel the contentment radiating from him, the wonder, the possessive satisfaction. You marvel at how complete it feels, how right, when just days ago you were running from the very possibility of it. You send back your own feelings, letting him feel your certainty, your relief at finding him, for coming back to him. 

With his knot still tying you to him, he shifts carefully to his side, bringing you with him so you're facing each other, legs intertwined. His arm drapes over your waist, and he traces idle patterns on your back as your breathing slowly returns to normal.

"I never thought..." he begins, his voice rough with emotion. "After everything fell apart, I never thought I'd find this. Find you."

You trace the lines of his face with trembling fingers, memorizing every detail—the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, the slight asymmetry of his smile, the faint scar above his right eyebrow. 

"I was so scared," you confess, your voice barely above a whisper. "Not of you, but of this. Of what it meant to stop isolating." 

He captures your hand, bringing your fingertips to his lips. "I know," he murmurs against your skin. "I could feel it every time we met. The way you kept yourself just out of reach." 

"How did you know to wait?" you ask. "Most alphas would have..." You trail off, not needing to finish the thought. You both know what most alphas would have done—tracked you, claimed you without consent, taken what they wanted. 

"I didn't want a submissive, I wanted a partner," Ari says, his eyes serious as they hold yours. "Someone who chose me as deliberately as I chose them." His thumb traces over your bottom lip. "Someone strong enough to survive alone, smart enough to know when not to."

His words settle in your chest, warming you from the inside. This alpha—your alpha now—has upended everything you thought you knew about the world after the collapse. Where you expected brutality, he offered patience. Where you expected dominance, he offered choice. 

"I'm glad I came back," you whisper, the confession easy now with his mark on your neck and his knot still tying you together. 

His smile is radiant, transforming his face. "Me too, 'mega. Though I have to admit, I was tempted to hunt you down when I realized you were watching me. Four days of pretending I didn't know you were in my shed was... challenging." 

You feel heat rise to your cheeks. "You knew the whole time?" 

"Alpha senses , remember?" Ari chuckles, the vibration of it traveling through your connected bodies. "Your scent is distinctive to me. I could probably track you for miles now." His fingers trace the mark he's left on your neck, a possessive gesture that sends shivers down your spine. "And I definitely would have if you hadn't come back on your own."

"What would you have done?" you ask, curiosity getting the better of you. "If I hadn't come back?" 

Ari considers this, his brow furrowing slightly. "Given you another week. Maybe two." His expression softens. "Then I would have come looking for you. Not to force you back, but to make sure you were okay. To remind you there was a place for you here, if you wanted it." 

The certainty in his voice, the unwavering patience—it makes your throat tight with emotion. And there's no threat in his words, only wonder, as if the ability to find you is the greatest gift he's ever received.

And it is. 

Alphas and omegas claim and mate with each other as well as with betas, and they create strong relationships. 

But fated mates - the kind whose bond can develop before a claiming bite is even exchanged between two individuals? 

That was rare, something you only thought was lore, or simply lost to those with alpha or omega designations since alphas and omegas were becoming even more rare. You had never heard of anyone who had experienced it. 

Ari’s knot finally begins to soften, allowing your bodies to separate. He doesn't move away, though, keeping you wrapped in his arms as if afraid you might disappear again. Through the bond, you feel his contentment, his satisfaction, but also a thread of concern.

"What is it?" you ask, unable to ignore the slight dissonance in his emotions. You certainly hope he doesn’t harbor any fear of you leaving. 

Ari sighs, his thumb tracing the mark on your neck. "I just realized we did this a bit out of order. Most people discuss future plans before claiming each other for life." 

You laugh softly, the sound still unfamiliar after so many years of disuse. "I think we both knew what this was, Ari. What it would be."

Through the bond, you can feel his relief at your understanding. It's strange, this new awareness of another person's feelings alongside your own. After years of isolation, of trusting only your instincts, suddenly having access to someone else's emotions is overwhelming—but in the best possible way. 

"Still," he says, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your skin, "I should probably mention that I'd like you to stay. Permanently." His eyes meet yours, serious despite the lightness in his tone. "And not just because we've bonded for life." 

"Oh? Why else, then?" you ask, playing along, enjoying the way his scent shifts with his happiness. 

"Well, I've got this extra space in my closet that needs filling," he deadpans. "And it seems irresponsible to waste something like that.”

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his chest, breathing in his scent—your scent now mingled with his. The bond hums between you, warm and vibrant, a living connection that feels both ancient and brand new.

"I suppose I could help you fill that closet space," you murmur against his skin. "For practical reasons, of course." 

"Of course," he agrees solemnly, though you can feel his joy bubbling through the bond. "Purely practical." 

His fingers trace the curve of your spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Through the bond, you feel a flicker of something deeper—a hope he's trying to contain, not wanting to overwhelm you so soon. 

"What is it?" you ask, tilting your head to meet his eyes. 

Ari hesitates, then sighs. "I didn’t anticipate how telling this aspect of bonding is.” But there’s still a content curve to the line of his lips. “But I was just thinking about my sister. Her family." He trails off, but you can feel the direction of his thoughts through the bond—the possibility of children, of a family. 

After a few moments, he softly asks, “Do you want children? Would you want them with me?" 

The idea should terrify you, but instead, it fills you with a tentative hope you haven't allowed yourself to feel in years. In the old world, this would have been a standard conversation before commitment. In this new, broken world, it carries different weight.

"I never let myself think about it," you admit. "It seemed... irresponsible. Bringing children into this world."

Ari nods, understanding in his eyes. "I felt the same way, for a long time. But seeing my sister's pups, watching them grow up in their community..." He pauses, gathering his words. “Before I met you, I still didn’t think seriously about that kind of life. But being there yesterday after I already knew you had come back, even though that’s all it was at that point, it had me viewing it all differently.”

You can feel the sincerity in his words, the longing that he's kept carefully contained until now. Through the bond, his emotions wash over you—hope tempered with patience, desire balanced with understanding. He's not pushing, merely sharing, letting you see all of him.

"I'd want them to be safe," you say softly. "I'd want them to have more than just survival." 

Ari's hand comes up to cup your cheek. "My sister's community is growing. They have walls, gardens, livestock. The children there don't just survive—they play, they learn." His thumb strokes your cheekbone. "We could visit, see it for yourself. No pressure to stay or join. Just... see what's possible." 

You nod slowly, considering. "I'd like that." The words surprise you as they leave your mouth, but they feel right. 

"Not right away," he adds. "We have time. Time to figure us out first, time to see if we want to join a larger community, time to decide if we want to create life in this new world." 

Time. It's a concept that had lost meaning for you after the collapse. Days blended into weeks, weeks into months, survival the only goal. Now, with Ari's arms around you, the steady rhythm of his heart against your palm, time feels precious again. Something to plan with rather than just endure. 

"When I ran," you confess, "I wasn't just running from you. I was running from the possibility of having something to lose again." 

His arms tighten around you. "I know." 

"But I think..." you pause, searching for the right words, "I think not having anything to lose is its own kind of loss." 

Ari's smile is soft, his eyes understanding. You know - because you feel it - he used to feel much the same way you did, though he had worked to build a more permanent place to stay, where you had moved along from place to place after a few months. 

Through the bond, you feel Ari's joy at your new openness, tempered with his own caution. Neither of you wants to rush this fragile new thing between you.

"For now," he says, pulling you closer, "I just want to enjoy having you here. Learning you. Building something together that's just ours."

You nestle against him, fitting perfectly in the curve of his body. "I'd like that too."

Outside, the sky darkens with approaching clouds, promising rain. The soft patter begins against the roof of the cabin, a gentle rhythm that makes the shelter you've found in each other's arms feel even more precious. You listen to the sound together, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek. 

"I should check the rain barrels," Ari murmurs, though he makes no move to leave the bed. His fingers continue their lazy exploration of your back, tracing constellations on your skin. 

"Later," you reply, pressing closer, nuzzling your nose against his neck. "Rain can wait."

His chuckle rumbles through his chest. "Never thought I'd hear you prioritize comfort over practicality, 'mega." 

"I'm not," you counter, tilting your face up to meet his eyes. "I'm being extremely practical. Conserving energy." 

"Is that what we're calling it?"

“Mhmm,” you hum with contentment. He kisses you slowly, and you return the kiss, tongues tasting each other, orienting with each other, but this kiss is for kissing. For laying together with warmth, but not to stoke the fires again - not yet anyway. 

Your fingers trace idle patterns on Ari's chest, following the contours of his muscles, the scattered scars that tell the story of his survival.

"Tell me about before," you say softly, your curiosity about him growing now that you've decided to stay. "What did you do?"

Ari's chest rises and falls with a deep breath. "I was a park ranger," he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. "Spent my days in the wilderness, teaching people how to respect nature, how to survive in it." His hand strokes your hair absently. "Ironic, isn't it? All those skills I taught as novelties became what kept people alive."

"And your sister?" you ask, nestling closer as the rain intensifies outside. "Was she a ranger too?" 

Ari shakes his head, his chin brushing against your hair. "Doctor. Pediatrician, actually. That's why their community has thrived—medical knowledge is rare now. People seek her out, bring supplies in exchange for care." 

You process this, picturing the woman from the photograph healing children in this broken world. Hope stirs in your chest, tentative but real. 

"What about you?" Ari asks gently. "Before." 

You hesitate, the memories of your old life like artifacts from another era. "I was a teacher," you admit finally. "High school English." 

His surprise ripples through the bond, followed by something like delight. "That explains all the books in your pack," he says, smiling against your temple. “What else?”

You tell him about your life before—the hobbies you had, the apartment you loved, the friends you'd meet for drinks every Friday. Simple things that seem impossibly luxurious now. As you speak, you realize how long it's been since you've talked about the past without pain clutching at your throat.

"I miss ice cream," you admit with a small laugh. "And hot showers that last more than two minutes." 

Ari grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I miss movies. And delivery pizza." 

"God, pizza," you groan dramatically, and his laughter fills the small bedroom, wrapping around you like another blanket. 

The rain continues outside, a steady rhythm on the roof. Inside, wrapped in each other's arms, you exchange stories—small pieces of yourselves that you've kept hidden away for so long. The easy intimacy of it—sharing memories without fear, laughing together at the absurdities of the old world—feels like another kind of revelation.

"What about your family?" you ask, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "Besides your sister." 

Ari's expression softens, tinged with old grief. "Parents were in Seattle when it hit hardest. Never heard from them again." His voice is steady, the pain weathered by time. "Tried to find them for almost a year before I had to accept they were gone." 

You press a gentle kiss to his shoulder, offering comfort without words. Through the bond, you feel his appreciation for the gesture, the way your touch eases the old ache. 

The rain becomes a lullaby, and you find yourself drifting, safe and warm for the first time in years.

"Sleep," Ari murmurs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I'll be here when you wake up."

And for the first time since the world fell apart, you believe it. You let yourself sink into sleep without fear, without the need to stay half-alert. The bond hums between you, a reassurance more effective than any promise could be.

You dream of gardens and children's laughter, of a future you'd stopped believing was possible.

When you wake, the rain has stopped. Sunlight filters through the windows, casting golden stripes across the bed. Ari is still beside you, his breathing deep and even. You study his face in repose—the worry lines smoothed away, the slight part of his lips, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. In sleep, he looks younger, unburdened by the weight of survival that you've all carried for so long.

You trace the mark you left on his neck with gentle fingers, marveling at the physical evidence of your bond. It's already healing, but it will leave a scar—a permanent reminder of your claim on him. The sight of it fills you with a primitive satisfaction that surprises you. 

Carefully, you slip from the bed, wrapping yourself in Ari's discarded shirt. It falls to mid-thigh, enveloping you in his scent. You pad quietly to the window, drawing back the curtain to look outside. The world after rain always seems cleaner, more hopeful. Droplets cling to leaves and grass, catching the morning light like countless tiny prisms. 

"Stealing my clothes already?" Ari's sleep-roughened voice comes from behind you. You turn to find him propped up on one elbow, hair tousled from sleep, eyes soft as they take in the sight of you in his shirt. "Not that I'm complaining."

You smile, warmth spreading through your chest at the domesticity of the moment. You gesture toward the window. "The rain stopped."

"Mmm," he hums, stretching like a large cat before hefting his large body out of bed with surprising grace for his size. "Good. We should check the barrels after lunch, see how much we collected." His eyes never leave you as he speaks, drinking you in with an intensity that makes your skin prickle pleasantly. 

He walks toward you with purpose, golden skin glowing in the morning light. There's no self-consciousness in his nakedness, just the confident stride of an alpha who knows what he wants. Your breath catches as he approaches, his arousal evident.

"Turn around," he murmurs, his voice gentle but commanding. "Look outside." 

You obey, facing the window again. 

A shiver runs through you as he presses against your back, his arousal evident against the curve of your ass. His lips find the mark on your neck, kissing it gently before trailing down to your shoulder. One hand slides up to cup your breast beneath the shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple until it hardens beneath his touch.

"Ari," you breathe, leaning back into him.

His hands slide beneath the hem of his shirt that you're wearing, skimming up your thighs to your hips. The touch sends sparks across your skin.

"I want you to see it," he says, pressing against your back, his lips at your ear. "Our home. Our territory." 

His hands guide your hips, pushing you forward slightly until you're braced against the windowsill. The position makes you vulnerable, exposed, but there's no fear—only anticipation coiling in your belly. 

"Beautiful," he whispers, guiding your gaze outward while his hands work the shirt up your body. "All of this is ours now." 

His hand slides between your thighs, finding you already wet for him, and he growls approvingly, positioning himself at your entrance.

He enters you in one smooth thrust, filling you completely. You gasp at the delicious stretch, the perfect fullness. Ari's rhythm is deliberate, each thrust pushing you slightly forward, your fingers gripping the windowsill for support. His hands hold your hips firmly, guiding your movements to match his. You feel connected not just physically but through the bond that pulses between you with each movement, amplifying every sensation.

"Look," he murmurs against your ear, nipping gently at the lobe. "Look at our home, omega." 

Your eyes focus on the clearing beyond the cabin, the way the morning light catches on the rain-soaked leaves, transforming ordinary trees into something magical. This place that was just a shelter to him before is now something more—a beginning, a foundation for whatever you build together. 

He adjusts his angle, hitting a spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your head falls forward, a moan escaping your lips. 

"No," he says gently, one hand leaving your hip to cup your chin, tilting your face back toward the window. "I want you to see it. See us. See the future we're building." 

His words, combined with the relentless rhythm of his thrusts, push you closer to the edge. The dual stimulation—physical pleasure and the emotional connection flowing through your bond—is overwhelming. 

"This is real," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire and something deeper. "You're here. You're staying." 

"Yes," you gasp, the word both confirmation and plea. "Yes, Ari." 

His pace increases, his control slipping as his own pleasure builds. You feel it through the bond—his mounting desire, his joy at having you in his arms, in his home, wearing his mark. It feeds your own pleasure, creating a feedback loop of sensation that spirals higher with each thrust. 

Your release hits you without warning, pleasure radiating outward from your core, making your legs tremble as your body clenches around him. Through the bond, your orgasm triggers his, and Ari buries himself deep within you with a final thrust, his release flooding you as his forehead drops to your shoulder.

For several moments, you both remain still, breathing heavily, connected in every possible way. His arms wrap around your waist, holding you against him. Through the bond, you feel his contentment, his satisfaction, and beneath it all, a profound sense of rightness.

"Good morning," he murmurs against your neck, pressing a kiss to the mark he left there. 

You laugh softly, turning in his arms to face him. "Good morning indeed." 

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles down at you, a tenderness in his gaze that makes your heart swell.

"I should make us breakfast," he says, though he makes no move to let you go. "Protein. After last night and this morning, we both need it." 

You smile, tracing the line of his jaw with your finger. "Is that your way of saying I've worn you out?" 

His laugh is deep and warm. "Never, 'mega. But I also promised you coffee, if you want to start the day properly.”

“Mmmm, I like the other way we started it,” you say, impishly rutting your hips against his. 

He growls and laughs. “Can’t argue with that, but have to keep you properly nourished if we want to sustain that kind of healthy, active lifestyle.”

Heat rises to your cheeks despite everything you've already shared. "Is that a promise?" 

"Absolutely." He pulls on a pair of worn sweatpants, leaving his chest bare. The sight of him—casual, comfortable, marked as yours—fills you with a possessive satisfaction you've never experienced before. 

You follow him to the kitchen, still wearing his shirt, watching as he moves with easy confidence through the small space. He retrieves eggs from a small cooler—a luxury you haven't enjoyed in months—and sets a pan on the small propane stove. 

"Where did you get eggs?" you ask, settling onto one of the kitchen chairs, legs tucked beneath you. 

Ari cracks an egg into the pan with practiced precision. "Trade. There's a family about ten miles west with chickens. I fix their generator, they give me eggs." He glances at you over his shoulder. "We should visit them sometime. The alpha there makes this incredible cider from wild apples." 

We. The word settles in your chest, warm and unfamiliar. He's already making plans for a future together that extends beyond this cabin, beyond mere survival.

You watch him prepare breakfast, marveling at how natural this feels—sitting in his kitchen, wearing his shirt, planning small excursions together.

And nothing feels more right.

300 word drabble -> 2k one-shot -> 10.5k follow up

...I am so normal.

HOPEFULLY Y'ALL DIDN'T MIND! 🤣

and @stargazingfangirl18 I hoped you enjoyed how devoid of smut this was

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

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[clancykolzig]

I can’t say/see this without getting misty eyed/choked up.

LILO AND STITCH (2002) Dir. Chris Sanders & Dean DeBlois

[clancykolzig]

Omg omg omg omg omg omg it’s Friday! It’s here! It’s Friday omg omg omg!

The uncle got what he deserved. Little bitch.

And my two favorite lines?

1: Polly stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to cut past the steel. “You love her, I know that. But she’s not yours to fix. She’s hers to heal. Make room for that.” Preach, Polly! Preach!

2: Fucking idiot. Well said, Ada. 😂

The Arrangement ~ Chapter 8

Series Masterlist

Words: 10.4k (I'm SO sorry)

Pairing: Thomas Shelby (Peaky Blinders) x Reader F

Warnings: Angst, shaming someone with religion, oppressive historical views on women, pregnancy, arranged marriage to a stranger, references to depression, more angst, references to graphic violence, reference to arson and slaughter.

The stage has been set for your wedding to a farmer you've just met and you're on the edge of despair. Will Rory show up to save you? Will anyone?

You hadn’t slept in days. Even now, standing in the cold little room at the back of the church, you weren’t entirely sure you were awake. Everything felt insulated, blurry around the edges. Like you were watching it all happen to someone else. Just a few short weeks ago you were back at home, working for your mother and just trying not to get on the bad side of your stepfather’s temper. 

Your wedding dress clung heavy against your skin. It was adeep burgundy satin, carefully fitted and it did nothing to hide your swelling belly. It had been deliberately chosen. It was burgundy, not red. No, that would be too bold. It was deep and dark, a shade chosen deliberately, like a stain you weren’t allowed to wash away. Your mother had made you a flower crown of wild flowers with a small bouquet to match, tied in white ribbons. It was small but you were grateful for that small sign of dignity she’d given you. 

Your uncle said it was appropriate and it suited a girl with “experience.” Mature. He said white would’ve been mockery.

You’d wanted to be sick.

But you weren’t arguing. You were too tired and ill to fight much anymore. 

But as your shaking hand slid around that slight bump of your tummy,  you took a deep breath. You would fight for him or her. If you did nothing else with the rest of your life, you wanted to see to it that your son or daughter came into this world to do more than have a miserable existence. Especially if it were a girl. You were being married off to a farmer and expected to bear him sons and help work the land. How would he treat the child of a gypsy? The child of a gangster?

As sad as it made you, you would almost consider trying to get a word to Polly if the day ever arrived that your new jailer said a harsh word or raised a hand to your child. You’d give your child to the Shelbys and be parted from them if you knew they would be safe and loved. And they would be. You had thought more than once that Polly would likely kill someone she caught harming a child. And Tommy…

No, you couldn’t think about him right now.

Your hands trembled as you adjusted the hem of your dress in the mirror, your reflection gaunt and unfamiliar in the small, cracked mirror. Was this really happening?

Feeling dizzy again, you took a seat on the edge of the chair, your stomach churning. You hadn’t been able to eat. You hadn’t even kept water down that morning. The nausea hadn’t let up in weeks, but this was something else. Panic, or maybe despair. Looking back, night of the wager didn’t seem so bad compared to this. You’d do that all again if you could be spared this wedding you didn’t want. And…

No, I can’t think about Tommy… Now you knew for certain he was done with you. 

There had been no word from Rory. No note or knock on the door. Nothing. You’d thought he’d come. You’d honestly believed, with everything in you, that your brother would find a way to save you.

But as the morning slipped away and the minutes blurred together, those thoughts came back to prey on your mind… Did Rory tell Tommy? And if he had, did Tommy forbid him from coming? You wouldn’t have been surprised. Not with how things had been left between you. He’d said it was your choice, but maybe he’d meant it like a punishment. Maybe this was the cost of walking away from him. It was all your own fault. 

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and smoothed your hands down the front of the dress.The deep red caught in the light, casting shadows across the room like old blood. You would walk yourself down the aisle because your uncle refused. He said he wouldn’t escort a fallen woman. He said it would “send the wrong message.”

As if any of this sent the right one.

You were blinking back tears when the door creaked open softly, and your mother slipped inside. She didn’t say anything at first, just closed the door behind her and looked at you, eyes full of quiet worry. Looking up into her eyes you saw that same heartache you were drowing in. You stood when you saw her, hands still trembling slightly at your sides. She crossed the room and took them gently into her own, her thumbs brushing over your knuckles like she had when you were little and scared of storms.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly, for what felt like the hundredth time.

You closed your eyes. “Uncle’s not going to stop it, nor let me out of it.”

She didn’t argue because she knew you were right.

“I tried,” she whispered. “I begged him. Told him this wasn’t the answer, that this wasn’t you. But he wouldn’t hear it. He said what’s done is done, and this is how we make it right.”

“Make him feel better, you mean,” you muttered.

Her mouth pressed into a sad line. “Yes.”

You stepped away from her just enough to breathe. Your dress felt too tight suddenly, the room too small. It was hard to breathe.

“I don’t know if I can walk down that aisle,” you said, your voice breaking. “Not like this, and alone.”

She stepped closer again, brushed a hand over your cheek. “Maybe you won’t have to,” she said gently. “Maybe Rory will come yet.”

You looked at her. “Do you think Tommy told him not to?”

Her eyes softened with something like pity. “I don’t know. But I know Rory and so do you. And if there’s a way to be here, love, he’ll find it.”

You looked away, trying to hide the sting behind your eyes. “Feels like the world’s already made up its mind about me.”

“No,” she said, cupping your face, her voice trembling now too. “Just the wrong people. That’s not the same.”

You tried to hold onto her words. You were losing hope that someone, anyone, might still stop this. But the minutes kept ticking by and you were still wearing burgundy. You may have well just pinned a a scarlet letter to your dress to complete the look.

"Did you see him?" your mother asked.

And you knew who she meant. The farmer. You nodded.

You’d seen him, just briefly. A huge, burly man with rough, callused hands and a weathered face that made him look closer to fifty than the thirty-two your uncle claimed. He’d smelled like earth and pipe smoke, nodded politely without meeting your eyes. And all you could think was those hands were meant for labor, not tenderness. Not for you. Not for anything you still had left to give.

She hesitated. “He’s… polite enough, I suppose. Looked like he was trying very hard not to look at you.”

You glanced at her, and she gave a faint, apologetic smile. “He’s nervous. Said very little. Just nodded when your uncle introduced you. Didn’t even try to make conversation.”

You felt your chest tighten. “That’s the man I’m supposed to marry.”

She didn’t try to correct you nor did she tell you it wasn’t too late. She didn’t offer hope she didn’t have. She just reached for your hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "I don't get the impress he’s a cruel man,” she said softly, “but he’s not for you.”

That single sentence hit harder than all the rest. You already knew it and you weren’t walking toward a new life.You were walking toward containment.

And suddenly, that burgundy dress felt like a prison.

Your mother Mary had only meant to slip off to the water closet before everything began. One last moment of calm before the storm she couldn’t stop claimed her daughter. But when she turned the corner, nearly bumping into someone tall, she gasped softly and froze.

“Rory?”

Her son looked like a ghost and a stranger all at once. Not the boy she’d kissed on the forehead a few nights ago, but a man in a fine dark suit, shoulders squared, eyes sharp. His overcoat was rich wool, something expensive, protective. And his cap--

Her breath caught. It was a Peaky cap. And yes, there it was. That glint because of the razors sewn into the seams.

Rory saw her staring, and gently grabbed her hand, guiding her into a quiet alcove behind the coatroom, out of sight.

“Mum,” he whispered, eyes scanning the hallway. “Listen to me. I don’t have much time.”

She blinked, her hand still caught in his. “What on earth--”

“She can’t know I’m here. Not yet. Not until it’s time.”

That stopped her. Mary was trying to keep hope from blooming in her chest. Today, she didn't really think she could handle more disappointment.

“Rory--”

“I’ve already been through uncle's house,” he said. “Packed what was hers. Yours too. It’s in the car. All of it.”

Mary just stared at him.

“We’re going home,” he said. “To Birmingham. Tonight.”

"Is he here?" she had to ask.

Rory knew exactly who she meant, answering that with a single nod. 

Mary's knees almost gave out. She had to grab the doorframe to stay upright. Her free hand pressed over her mouth, and her eyes burned before she could stop them.

Rory faltered. “Wait, are you crying?”

She laughed. It was one of those helpless, trembling laughs that sounded half broken and half like music. “Rory,” she choked, “thank God.”

He blinked. “I thought...” He looked at her, truly looked. “I thought you’d have a hard time with it. Me being a Blinder. With your daughter going back to the Shelbys.”

... your daughter going back to the Shelbys. 

The way he worded it got her attention. It was very much in the style of the Peaky Blinders, claiming what they wanted, however they had to get it. It was how all of this begin. Just now, she didn't have a problem with it at all. On top of everything, the man had come here to stop the wedding and take her daughter back. And for once in her life, she was just fine with it. Her daughter was far better off with a man who actually loved her, even if she didn't feel the same. But honestly, Mary was pretty certain she did have feelings for him. She'd come around to it.

She stepped forward, cupped Rory's face like she had when he was a child.

“Son,” she said, her voice thick, “after the hell we’ve lived in? After what your sister’s been through? Thank God you’re one of them.”

And just for a moment, Rory��s mask cracked. Not because she was disappointed. But because she was proud.

You moved like your body belonged to someone else. Your arm wasn’t looped through anyone’s. Your uncle refused to walk you down the aisle. Even the groom didn't offer you an arm which was just a hint about your life to come. So you followed the groom alone, head bowed, hands clenched so tight around the small bouquet in your fingers that your fingernails dug half-moons into your palms. The deep burgundy dress whispered against the polished stone floor with every step, trailing shame and expectation behind you like a veil of smoke.

The music rose with organ pipes thundering gently overhead. The small church was lit with mid-day light, but you felt none of it. Just the weight of the stares. The murmur of judgment all around you. You didn’t look left or right. You weren't about to acknowledge any of their faces. Not the women who’d whispered behind their hymnals, probably about the fact that you'd just begun to show. Not the men who wouldn’t meet your eyes, but would surely talk about you over ale by sundown. The pews were lined with people who didn’t know you and they didn't care to know. They’d heard enough to believe what they wanted.

The priest began the Introductory Rites, his voice solemn, echoing through the still church. There was no joy in the occasion and no warmth at all. Just formality, structure, and most importantly, containment. The groom, silent and massive beside you, didn’t even glance your way as you stood before the priest. 

You heard words about faith, and union, and forgiveness but none of them applied here. You thought about Rory, your mother... Tommy. And for one aching moment, you wished he’d lied. That he’d broken his word and that he’d come looking for you. Your throat was tight, and you were struggling to breathe. Your knees shook as you stood before the altar. And just as the priest’s voice moved into the Rite of Marriage, just as he asked the groom to step forward the church doors slammed open. The sound cracked like thunder, cutting clean through the liturgy.

Heads turned throughout the church as gasps echoed around you. The groom stiffened. And you turned slowly, heart hammering so loud in your ears it nearly drowned everything else out. 

There he stood, framed in light.

Thomas Shelby. 

His coat was flaring behind him like the wings of something unholy. His shoulders squared, boots echoing across the marble. You saw Arthur and John marching behind him, faces carved from stone, eyes scanning the pews with the kind of stillness that made people forget how to breathe. They were flanked by other men, each one built like they hadn’t come for prayer. Caps low. Posture deadly. A wall of calm, silent threat moving through a house of God like they owned it.

And behind them, Rory. Dressed like them. A fine dark coat hung from his shoulders, the Shelby cut unmistakable. His cap bore the same stitch of razor-threaded menace, and his steps fell in time with the rest. He didn’t look like the boy you’d grown up with, not in that moment. He looked like someone else now. Someone dangerous and respected.

But when his eyes found yours, everything softened. That familiar warmth cracked through the armor, just for you. His lips curled up in the smallest of smirks, and he gave you a wink, sharp and sure and quiet as a promise. Your mother was right, he hadn’t let you down after all. He never would.

You didn’t feel so alone. Not anymore.

The priest faltered and the room froze. The only movement you saw was Polly, she was here too, walking up to where your mother sat and stopping by her side. 

But you? All you could was stare. Because Tommy’s eyes weren’t on anyone else. Only you. You couldn’t breathe. For a second, you forgot how to breathe and the world tipped sideways. The pews, the altar, the candles... it all faded into nothing. 

Because it was him. Not a dream or a memory. Not in some fevered hope you’d barely allowed yourself to hold on to. And he stood in the doorway like the storm you always knew he was. All you could feel were his eyes on you, all heat and truth and reckoning. Your knees nearly buckled, but somehow you managed to stay upright. 

And all at once, the words from weeks ago came rushing back to you. If you walk away, I won’t stop you... But if you stay, you’re mine.

You had walked away. But he came anyway. And now you stood shaking, waiting like everyone else to see what he was here to do. 

Tommy Shelby didn’t knock. He walked into that church like he owned it. Because today, he did. The moment the doors flung open, silence rippled through the nave like a shot across no man’s land. Heads snapped toward him. Mothers gasped. The priest stuttered and froze mid-blessing.

He walked straight down the aisle, slow and measured, boots echoing across the stone, every step a promise. A warning. His brothers were behind him, so was her brother and more Blinders, walking like men who were ready to raise hell in a house of God. Liam stayed by the doors, to make sure no one was leaving. Not until he said so.

Tommy’s gaze never left her.

She stood like a statue at the altar. His girl, wrapped in burgundy, shaking like a leaf in a storm. Her eyes were wide, rimmed red from sleepless nights. Even from here, he could see the dark hollows beneath her eyes. And the dress--Christ. That fucking color. Like shame sewn into silk.

Tommy felt something claw up the back of his throat. Not nerves or hesitation. Rage, cold and poisonous. This was very fucking personal. What the fuck had they done to her? Her shoulders were drawn tight like she was bracing for a blow. Her lips were parted slightly, too stunned to speak. She looked like someone had drained the life right out of her and dressed her up for a burial instead of a wedding. 

Her hands clutched the bouquet like a lifeline, and as he watched, one hand dropped, slow and unthinking. It came to rest just below her ribs. A soft, protective curl of fingers over the slight swell of her belly. His child. It was instinct. She didn’t even realize she was doing it. But to him, it was louder than any vow or confession. It was truth and undeniably beautiful. And it split something wide open inside him. A fierce, unshakable need to get her out of this fucking church and make sure nothing and no one ever touched what was his again. Later, he’d reckon with the rest of it -- what it meant, what they’d lost, what they still had to fight for. But right now? She was standing there, carrying everything he never thought he’d have, and she hadn’t run yet.

Tommy was here to deal with them. Her uncle, the bloody farmer. Anyone who looked at her sideways. He was here for her, and nothing else up to heaven and down to hell mattered in this moment. 

They tried to stop him. The farmer stepped forward, puffing up like a man about to claim something he thought was his. The uncle rose from the front pew, already barking, indignant bluster spilling louder with every breath. And just behind him, the priest looked appalled, his lips pressed into a thin line of silent disapproval, as if the very presence of Tommy Shelby and his men had defiled the sanctity of his church.

Tommy just kept walking, shoulders squared, heart pounding like war drums beneath his ribs. He reached the front of the church and turned, slowly, to face them all. “This wedding’s not going to happen.”

The farmer muttered something and Tommy cut him off with a glance sharp enough to slice bone. "You paid,” Tommy said coolly, “to marry a woman who doesn’t even know you. A woman carrying my child.”

The gaps and murmurs were almost comical and he caught Polly's smirk when his gaze found hers, standing next to his girl's mother. The priest turned white as his chausible.

The uncle blustered, “This is my church! This is my--”

“That’s your niece, not your property,” Tommy said coldly. “And yet you still put a price on her. Took money from a man she’s never met and sold her like a broodmare to clean up your own shame.” 

“Is this true?” the priest asked, breaking the silence. His voice, once a calm guide through sacred vows, now trembled with righteous fury.

Tommy looked to the side--not at the priest, but at the uncle. “Tell him,” he said.

The uncle's lips parted, but no words came. His his eyes went wide, fists clenched, the veins in his neck straining under pressure he hadn’t expected.

“You accepted money for a sacrament?” the priest said, stepping forward now, eyes narrowing. “You lied to me and you lied before the Almighty.”

The groom took a step back, as if distance might save him from the weight of the scandal crashing down. People in the congregation were rising from their seats.

“Father, I--” the uncle finally stammered. “It’s not. It was a gesture of goodwill. A dowry of sorts.”

“A dowry requires consent,” the priest snapped. “From the bride. Did she consent?”

All eyes turned to her. Tommy didn’t. He already knew the answer. Her silence was the loudest sound in the room.

Tommy turned back to the uncle now, one hand in his coat pocket like he was debating something. “I’ve seen men do despicable things to protect their reputation,” he said calmly. “But selling your own blood? That’s a new kind of cowardice.”

The uncle opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Tommy stepped forward, just once, and the man stepped back without even realizing it. 

Tommy let the silence stretch, the words settle like dust.  Then he gave a slight nod to his men. "Take him.”

Two of his men moved instantly, Arthur and Rory, razor-laced caps winking in the light. The congregation flinched as they passed, but no one dared interfere.

The uncle sputtered, backing toward the altar. “I... I am a man of God...”

“No,” Arthur said flatly, gripping his arm. “You’re just a man. And you're leaving this house of God.” 

They grabbed him by both arms, dragging him down the aisle past the rows of stunned wedding guests. His feet scraped along the stone, his protests loud at first, but weakening with every step. When he started pleading with his nephew, Rory didn't even acknowledge him. The priest stepped aside then without a word.

And as the heavy wooden doors swung open to blinding daylight, the sound of them slamming shut behind him was final. Like a judgment.

Tommy shifted his attention to the groom, keeping his gaze sharp and emotionless. “And you. Paying to marry a pregnant woman,” he said, voice low, almost polite. The kind of polite that made men sweat.

The farmer stood frozen just beyond the altar, thick hands clenched awkwardly at his sides. His face was flushed, not from shame, but from fear. Tommy took a step closer, voice low and cold. “You didn't care that she didn't consent.” Another step. “And you still showed up to claim her like a prize pig.”

The farmer opened his mouth, but thought better of it.

Tommy didn’t blink.

"I suggest you return to your farm. Immediately." Tommy just wished he could be there to see the man's reaction at seeing his home and barn in ashes, his livestock slaughtered.  “If I ever lay eyes on you again,” Tommy leaned in slightly, “I will make sure you lose more than you already have.”

There was a spark of fear in the man's eyes because he caught the hidden meaning in Tommy's words. Tommy looked past him, toward John, who stood at the ready with a straightened spine and knowing nod.

“Escort him out.”

John grinned. “With pleasure.”

The farmer didn't resist when John moved forward. Not when two other Blinders flanked him.They didn’t drag him like the uncle. He walked out on his own. 

When the door opened and closed a second time, a hush fell so deep you could hear the creak of the old wooden pews as the people sitting shifted in place, unsure if they were supposed to stay or run. The rest were on their feet.

Tommy's hand remained in his coat pocket. He didn't have a gun there, but they didn’t know that. A few men flinched and a couple of the women looked near tears. Tommy smiled. 

“You can all sit,” he said, voice like velvet over steel, “or you can stand and pray that God Himself can pull me off whoever gets in my way.”

Nobody moved. So Tommy turned back to her. 

“You walked away from me,” he said quietly, the fight drained from his voice, leaving only something raw and real. “And I meant what I said. I didn't stop you. I didn't come after you.” He paused, his gaze didn’t leave yours. “But then your brother came to me. Told me what was happening. What they were planning.” Another beat. “And I couldn’t ignore that."

He stepped forward, slower now, voice low enough that only you could hear. “So tell me… do I leave this church with you, or without you? You know my terms.”

Tommy offered her his hand. That was it. No more threats or speeches.Just one choice and it was hers. He wasn't going to break his word now no matter how much he wanted to. He stood there, hand outstretched. Waiting along the rest of the church and it was silent. For the first time in a very long time, he didn’t know what would happen next. She hadn’t moved or spoken. Her hand was still pressed to her stomach, but her eyes were locked on his with a thousand emotions crashing behind them. 

Tommy Shelby, the man who always knew the next move… waited. Waited for her to run. Waited for her to turn away again, to choose safety or shame or silence over him. He wouldn’t stop her this time either. If she didn’t take his hand, he’d walk out of this church, let the door slam behind him, and bury this like everything else that had ever carved him hollow. 

Jesus Christ… he didn’t want to bury it. He wanted her. Even now, in that awful dress, looking as shattered as she did. He wanted her in his house, in his bed, under his protection and sharing his name. He wanted his ring on her hand. He wanted to be there when she woke up sick in the morning, to see the curve of her belly grow, to know--really know--he hadn’t lost everything he wanted so badly.

He’d never begged. Not once in his life. But right now, he was praying like a soldier under fire.

Her fingers moved, trembling and uncertain. She reached for him and when her hand touched his, just as timidly as she'd taken his hands the night he claimed her for the wager, the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding left him in a quiet, broken rush.

She looked up at him, eyes glassy, knees buckling, and just as his other arm moved to catch her she fainted. Right into his chest. He caught her before she hit the floor, one arm around her back, the other under her legs, pulling her up against him as gasps rippled through the room. She's so much lighter and she's pregnant. 

The priest started forward. Her mother did too. But Tommy just held her, gently cradling her. She’d chosen him.

He didn’t need permission, or to offer an explanation. Tommy didn’t look back. He just turned and marched straight out of the church with her in his arms.

Tommy slid into the back seat beside her, careful not to jostle her as Arthur closed the driver’s door and started the engine.There wasn't a spot of blood on him which meant Rory had the honor of removing his uncle's tongue and hands. He'd speak to him about it later. John was in the passenger seat up front, already lighting a cigarette, both of them quiet now that the tension had finally broken. 

She still hadn’t stirred, even when he'd pulled her into his lap. Tommy’s eyes never left her as he adjusted his coat around her, brushing his knuckles lightly across her hand. She looked so frail... but she was safe now, and now she could get better.

His rear door opened again, and Tommy was suprised when her mother appeared, standing by the car. The woman's face was calm, though her eyes shimmered with quiet emotion.

Tommy looked up at her. He straightened instinctively, unsure if she was about to slap him or sob. Instead, she met his gaze and said, “Thank you, Mr. Shelby.”

He held off saying anything until he knew where this was going.

She glanced briefly at her daughter, then back to him.“For dealing with my brother. And for the other one, too.” She blew out an exhale. “My second husband was a cruel man. I don’t mourn him. Not after what he did.”

Tommy watched her carefully.

She’d looked like hell at the safehouse, frail, bruises hidden under layers of pain and forced dignity. But now? She looked much stronger. Clear-eyed and grounded. The resemblance between mother and daughter was unmistakable. 

Mary noticed him looking her over.

"She took care of me. Nursed me back to health." She reached in to trace her daughter's cheek. "But now she needs the same chance."

"She'll have it," Tommy finally said. "Anything she needs."

"Thank you, Mr. Shelby."

Tommy shook his head. “Tommy.”

She smiled. “Mary.”

Mary continued, voice quiet but steady. “I'm going back home with my son.” Her mouth lifted, just a little. “It’s time, I can start working again.”

Tommy nodded once. “It’s under my protection now. You’ll never have to worry about safety again.”

Mary gave a quiet laugh, the sound low and knowing.“I guess not. Not now that my son’s a Blinder.”

There was no judgment in her voice, just acceptance. Tommy gave a small smile in return. “He’s a good one.”

Mary’s eyes softened. “Takes after his father.” She studied him for a long beat, really looking at him. Not like a gangster or a reviled gypsy. Not like the man who flipped her family’s life upside down. Just a man holding her daughter.

“I trust you’ll keep her safe now… properly safe.” There was no threat in her words, just the quiet, loaded plea of a mother who had already lost too much.

Tommy didn’t flinch. “With my life,” he said.

Mary's gaze moved to her daughter, resting so quietly now in his arms. "Let her know I’ll be by tomorrow.”

He gave a nod.

She didn’t linger. Just closed the door with a soft click, turned, and walked toward the second car where Rory and Polly were waiting. If Mary thought anything of the spray of blood on her son's crisp white shirt, she didn't react. They disappeared down the road seconds later, Arthur already pulling their own car into gear.

Tommy leaned back, eyes moving over the woman he held. And somewhere, buried beneath the weight of everything they'd experienced today... He actually felt hope. It was a fragile, flickering thing. But it was there.

The fire burned low in the hearth once they made it home to the mansion, throwing off the chill of the day and sending flickers of gold across the walls of the sitting room. The scent of smoke clung to everything--coats, skin, the air itself--like the aftermath of a battlefield.

Tommy sat back in the leather armchair with his shirt sleeves rolled up and the top button of his shirt undone. A glass of whiskey rested untouched in his hand, but for once, he didn't really feel like drinking.

Rory sat stiffly at the edge of the sofa, dried blood still dark on his shirt sleeve, his collar. It wasn't his own, Tommy knew, but it didn’t matter. His hands were clenched between his knees, elbows resting tight against his thighs like if he let go, something inside him might snap. He hadn’t said much since they got back. Just kept glancing toward the stairs, eyes flicking up every few seconds, like he was listening for a footstep, a voice, anything to tell him his sister was all right.

And Tommy understood. God help him, he understood. He wasn’t sure where the line between his worry and Rory’s began anymore. He only knew that the two of them were stuck in the same storm, both waiting on the same answer.

Arthur paced near the fireplace, still riding the high of adrenaline.“That priest nearly shat himself when we walked in,” he muttered, shaking his head. “And that poor sod of a groom. I’ve never seen a man go pale that fast without being shot first.” He huffed a dry laugh, but it lacked bite.

John was leaned against the sideboard, arms crossed, nodding slowly. “Felt good though, didn’t it?” he said, looking at Rory. “Giving the bastard uncle what was coming.”

Rory didn’t smile or smirk. Just looked back at John with steady, unreadable eyes. "He earned it.” His voice was flat, calm. 

It was the kind of answer that didn’t ask for agreement or approval. It simply was.

Tommy watched him closely, a flicker of something shifting in his chest. Something final. There was no doubt now. The boy was gone. The man who sat in front of him -- bloody shirt, steady hands, sharp edges -- was a Blinder. Not by name but by nature. And Tommy knew exactly what that meant. Rory could do anything he asked of him now. Whatever it took. But he’d also have to live with it.

Tommy exhaled slowly, tipping his glass in Rory’s direction. "You did right by her.”

And maybe, for the first time in days, Rory allowed the faintest smile in return.

Footsteps on the stairs drew their attention. Polly appeared, her expression unreadable but sharp as ever. Ada was still up there.

"The midwife's having a look at her," Polly said.

Tommy straightened instantly. “Who?”

“Nadya,” Ada replied, gently. “I called her when we got home.” 

That was all Tommy needed to hear.

“We figured you wouldn’t want a doctor,” Polly added.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

He gave a sharp nod, no questions asked. If Polly had called Nadya, the situation had been taken seriously. The Lee midwife had a reputation stretching far beyond gypsy circles. She was trusted, capable, and silent as a grave. Exactly the kind of woman you wanted in moments like this. The kind Tommy trusted more than any bloody doctor in Birmingham.

Polly’s eyes landed on Rory, still perched at the edge of the sofa like he didn’t know how to sit still or breathe properly. His gaze stuck to the floor now, as if looking up might shatter him. She crossed the room slowly and placed a hand on his shoulder, light, but steady.

“She’s strong, love.” Her voice was quiet. “Takes after your mother that way. And she’s not alone, not anymore.”

Rory didn’t look up right away, but when he did, the fight in his eyes had softened. It wasn't gone, but it was banked.

Polly gave him a small nod, her hand squeezing once before letting go. “She’ll be alright.”

Then, as if nothing more needed to be said, she moved to the drinks cabinet and poured herself a brandy, business as usual. That was Polly’s way. Reassurance wrapped in calm certainty.

And in that moment, Rory sat just a little straighter.

Nadya came down the stairs a few moments later, the soft click of her boots nearly lost beneath the low rumble of conversation. Ada trailed behind her, arms folded, eyes locked on the midwife with an unspoken urgency.

The Romani woman’s face gave little away. It was lined with experience, calm in a way that only came from witnessing more pain and joy than most ever would. Her scarf was still tied tight around her dark hair, her hands scrubbed clean, but Tommy could smell herbs and smoke clinging to the folds of her coat.

She spotted Polly immediately. In Romani, quiet and clipped, she said: “I need to speak with you.”

The two women were heading for the side parlor. Tommy was already on his feet. Nadya’s voice was low, too low to catch through the door when he reached it. Polly’s murmurs rose once, then faded again. Whatever was being said wasn’t for him. That much was clear.

And Tommy wouldn't allow that.

Polly had barely shut the side parlor door behind them when Tommy crossed the hall and opened it without knocking. The hinges creaked like they wanted to stop him. They didn’t. Both women turned. Polly’s expression hardened in that way it always did when she was about to scold him. Nadya’s face didn’t change at all.

“This is private,” Polly warned.

Tommy closed the door behind him quietly. “There’s nothing about her that’s private from me anymore.”

That stopped Polly short, but not Nadya. The Romani midwife simply regarded him for a long, measured beat. Then she gave a small nod, as if she’d already known he’d come. She adjusted the scarf around her neck and folded her hands calmly in front of her.

Tommy didn’t sit. He stood there like a soldier at the ready, concerned about what he was about to hear.

“Then listen well,” she said in English this time, her accent thick but clear. “She’s underweight and exhausted.” She held his gaze without flinching.“In the shape she's in... there can be consequences. It can cause problems during the birth, if she makes it that far, for the mother and the baby. The child could be born early, be sickly.”

The words hit with the precision of a bullet. Tommy didn't hear much past if she makes it that far. He knew she wanted the baby. And if she lost it now, it would tear through her like a fatal wound. He'd do all he could to protect them both. But if something happened, they could have more children. He couldn't replace her.

So no, he didn’t flinch or panic. But every muscle in his body coiled tight as steel. “Tell me what she needs,” he said. “Whatever it is, she’ll have it.”

Nadya studied him for a long moment, testing the weight of his words, searching his face for even a flicker of doubt. She found none.

Her voice was quiet, but firm when she answered. “She needs nourishment, water, and deep sleep. No stress, no demands."

Tommy caught her meaning.

"I can visit each day," she offered. "Until she is better."

Tommy nodded. He'd pay her handsomely. 

With that, Nadya gave a small nod and stepped past him without another word. Her boots made no sound as she disappeared down the hall, the door clicking gently shut behind her.

Polly lingered. She watched Tommy a moment longer, arms crossed, her eyes sharp but tired. “You heard her,” she said quietly. “Now do it. No lectures. No hovering. Just let her breathe, Tommy.”

His jaw ticked once, but he gave a nod.

Polly stepped closer, her voice softening just enough to cut past the steel. “You love her, I know that. But she’s not yours to fix. She’s hers to heal. Make room for that.”

He didn’t respond. But the silence said enough. Polly nodded once, then turned and left, her skirts whispering down the hallway behind her.

Tommy stood still for a moment longer, letting her words settle where they needed to. When he stepped out of the parlor, he caught a punch to his arm, small and sharp. Ada stood glaring up at him. 

"Fucking idiot," she said before marching down the hallway to head home. 

She wasn't wrong.

Tommy turned toward the stairs. Each step up felt heavier than it should have, boots pressing into polished wood like the weight of the world was still draped across his shoulders. He hadn’t even reached the landing when he heard it, soft footfalls behind him. He didn’t have to look back to know who it was.

Rory.

Tommy didn’t stop him. If the lad wanted to see his sister, needed to, Tommy wasn’t going to stand in his way. And so they climbed the stairs together in silence, both men carrying different burdens for the same woman. When they reached the top, Tommy paused at the door to his room. The soft glow of candlelight leaked from beneath it. He turned the handle slowly and stepped inside, letting Rory follow behind him without a word.

She was awake when they stepped into the room. The candlelight cast a warm, flickering glow over the space, softening the sharp edges of everything. She looked so small in his bed. Fragile, even, curled slightly on her side beneath the quilt. But her eyes met theirs the moment the door opened. And despite everything, the weight of the day, she smiled. Just a little.

Tommy’s chest tightened at the sight of it. Like the air had turned to glass inside him. He crossed the room slowly, not saying a word, just… He sat at the edge of the bed next to her. Making sure she was really there.

Rory followed, quieter still, lingering just inside the door like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. 

"Rory," her voice was a raspy, tired. "Come here." 

Her brother stepped forward without hesitation, moving to the side of the bed. He came to a stop just next to Tommy, shoulders squared but eyes betraying the ache he carried with him.

Tommy didn’t say a word. Just sat there as her gaze moved over Rory, taking him in, like she hadn’t truly seen him until now. The fine suit. The blood on his sleeve, his shirt. The Peaky cap in his hand. She blinked, eyes glassy, but full of something deeper than fatigue. Recognition. Tommy could feel the moment she saw it, not just what her brother had become, but what he’d done to protect her. What he'd risked. Her fingers twitched slightly above the quilt, like she wanted to reach for him. But she didn’t yet.

And Tommy sat still between them, letting her take it all in, that fragile peace between them settling like dust in golden light. 

“You look… grown up,” she murmured, smiling. “And handsome. But don’t let it go to your head.”

Rory shook his head. “Don’t worry. Tommy’s already made sure I don’t forget who’s boss.”

Her gaze shifted to Tommy and back. She reached out, her fingers brushing her brother’s wrist where he stood beside the bed. “Where’s Mum?”

Rory’s voice softened. “Back home. Getting ready to take in some sewing."

She closed her eyes for a moment. "We missed you," she whispered.

Rory nodded, his throat bobbing with the weight of everything they weren’t saying. Then, with a glance to Tommy: “Now, you'll never get rid of me.”

She looked between them, Rory’s hand still close, Tommy’s presence steady just beyond. “Will one of you do something for me?” Her voice was soft, but firm. 

Tommy gave the smallest nod. 

She exhaled slowly. “Burn that fucking dress.”

Rory huffed a laugh.Tommy’s jaw ticked just slightly, and he smiled. Not because it was funny, but because it was right. That dress had become a symbol of everything he hated about how she’d been treated. What he had done. Seeing her wear it in that church felt like watching her carry someone else’s shame.

But hearing her say it, demand it be destroyed, meant she wasn’t carrying it anymore. It wasn’t a surrender, but a choice. And Tommy, for once, didn’t want to control the outcome.

Gazing up at her brother again, her eyes were gentle. "Thank you for coming for me. For seeing me. For... everything."

Rory cleared his throat, rough around the edges.“You don’t have to thank me for that.”

Her hand squeezed his. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Rory hesitated before bending down and kissing her forehead. With a nod to Tommy, he quietly slipped out of the room, the door closing with a soft click.

The quiet pressed in, gentle but heavy, like the whole room had been holding its breath. 

You didn’t look at him at first. You weren’t ready. Your fingers curled against the edge of the quilt you remembered, still looking and feeling like it was barely used. The lamplight cast flickering shadows across the walls, dancing in time with the pulse pounding faintly in your ears. 

You could feel him. He sat next to you on the bed, still and steady. 

Finally, you took a deep breath and turned your head. Met his gaze.

Tommy looked exhausted, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, and hands clasped loosely between his knees. Not just from the day, but from everything. The months and the lies, and the cost of it all. And still, still--he looked at you like you were the only thing that made sense.

“I should’ve known,” you said, pleading in your tone. Tears were already stinging the backs of your eyes. 

Tommy’s brow creased. “Known what?”

You let out a shaky breath. “That it was a lie. The maid and that message. Everything.” You blinked hard. “I walked right into it. Like a bloody fool.”

His whole expression shifted. Not in pity or disbelief. But something colder and dangerous. “The maid?” His voice was like gravel under ice.

You nodded slowly. “The new one. Fair hair, always nervous around you. I... I don’t even think she wanted to do it. She looked terrified when she told me. But she said… she said Mum was badly injured. She didn’t say how, just... gave me an address.” You swallowed, shame threading through every word. “I should’ve known better. After everything. I should’ve known not to trust someone.”

The muscles in his jaw flexed. “You’re not a fool,” he said, voice low. “But someone in my house is about to wish you were.”

The quiet in the room dropped another octave. His mind was already turning, you could see it behind his eyes. The machinery of his fury winding itself up like a slow-turning vice.

No, you were apologizing, not trying to get someone killed. You reached for his hand, taking it in yours. He stilled, it was like you'd temporarily disarmed him.

“She was scared,” you whispered. “My stepfather was responsible. Maybe he threatened her. I don’t know. But she didn’t look like someone trying to hurt me. Just someone trying to survive.”

His eyes stayed locked to yours, and for a moment, neither of you breathed. “That doesn’t mean she’s staying.”

You let that point drop. You knew the look in his eyes that now meant that girl’s fate was already sealed. No amount of mercy from you could unmake the choices she'd made.

But what you had to say next sat like a stone on your chest. Your gaze drifted past him for a moment, to the window. The memory of what happened on the front step, the blood that stained the stone.

“I’m sorry,” you went on, the words barely above a whisper.

Tommy’s brow furrowed. “For what?”

“For the man who died.” Your voice cracked, and you forced the rest out. “He tried to stop them. He died because of me.”

Tommy didn’t flinch, didn’t deny it happened. He moved closer to you. “His name was Ellis,” he said quietly. “He was loyal. Brave. And he died doing what I trained him to do.”

You shook your head, tears threatening to spill from your eyes now. “That doesn’t make it better.”

His gaze met yours, steady and calm in a way that almost made it worse. “It wasn’t supposed to make it better,” he said. “It’s the truth. Every man who wears the cap, including your brother, knows what it means. They make a choice. Same as I did.”

His words were solid and final.They should’ve helped, but they didn’t. He lived with that weight by turning it into steel and control and fury.

You? You just lived with it. And now Ellis's blood would never be anything but your burden to carry.

Tommy saw it in your face, how it still sat in your chest like it belonged there, and he didn’t argue with you. There was just warmth and the quiet promise that at least you weren’t carrying it alone.

Tommy squeezed your hand once, firm but careful, before letting go. “You need rest,” he said gently. “We’ll talk more when you’ve had some.”

You nodded, even though you felt more tired than you'd ever been in your entire life. Your mind hadn’t stopped spinning since the moment he burst through the church doors. But he wasn’t just placating you. There was a quiet worry lining the edges of his expression, tension in the way he watched your every movement, like he didn’t want to crowd you, but couldn’t help checking for signs you might shatter again.

He saw you were struggling physically, more than you were letting on. You saw it in his eyes.

Before he could say it aloud, before he could give voice to the thing that had haunted your sleep and made you curl protectively around your belly in the dark, you said, “I know I'm not... well, right now.”

His eyes softened, but his posture didn’t shift.

You reached for his hand, took it back. Then your voice cracked again, the tears came on. “I’m so sorry I left.”

That made his brow twitch slightly, the only betrayal of how much those words mattered.

You took a breath. “I didn’t know about the baby. Not until weeks later.” You looked down, ashamed.“I left to take care of Mum. That was all it was. My uncle was… he was so insistent. And I thought I was doing the right thing, that it’d only be for a little while. That I could-- But I could have said something and I didn't...”

You stopped. Your throat clenched too tightly to finish.

Tommy reached up then, brushing his knuckles gently against your cheek. “You don’t have to explain everything right now,” he said, voice low. “But I needed to hear that.”

Your eyes flicked to his. “That I wasn’t trying to leave you?”

He gave the smallest nod. “That you didn’t choose someone else. Something else. Over me.”

You swallowed hard. “My mother was in horrible shape. I was scared when I started piecing things together. But... I never stopped thinking about you.”

His thumb rested against your jaw now, steady as ever. “Love, this is all on me,” Tommy said softly, firmly. “Not you.”

You started to protest, to say something -- anything -- to shoulder your share of the wreckage, but he silenced you with the faintest shake of his head.

“You blame yourself for what happened… but I built the house.” A pause. His voice was quiet, full of regret. “I opened the door. And I never should’ve let you walk into it blind.”

More tears as you watched him. Tommy let his thumb brush along your jaw again, like he could ease the ache building behind your eyes.

Your gaze searched his face. “Tommy…”

He looked at you instantly, alert -- but not impatient. 

“The baby.” You hesitated. “Do you…”

His head tilted slightly, like he already knew where your mind had gone, but he let you finish anyway.

"Do you even want it?” Your voice was so soft it barely reached him. But the question stopped him cold.

Tommy stilled, eyes locked on yours. Not in confusion or hesitation. 

“It’s mine.” His voice was low, certain. “I knew it before Rory said the words. I knew it before I saw you today.” His gaze drifted briefly to your stomach, then back to your face. “This child is mine. And so are you.” The words weren’t possessive, not in the way men like Sean O’Grady twisted love into something cruel. Tommy’s voice held something different. A vow, a truth spoken plainly, without theatrics. “Family is sacred. What you give your life for. What you build everything around. It’s not something you toss away because things didn’t go to plan.”

His hand clutched your just a little tighter. 

“You gave me something I never thought I’d have. And now that I do, I’ll protect it, with everything I am.” Leaning forward, he kissed your forehead. “I want all of it. You. The child. The future we're owed, even if I burned the path getting us here.”

Your fingers curled slightly under his, not pulling away, but still unsure if it was real. Because people didn’t talk like that. Not to you or about you. No one had ever made you feel like you were anything special. Like your life -- your love, your child --  was something sacred. The ache in your chest swelled, sharp and unfamiliar. It burned, felt like hope.

You didn’t speak, couldn’t, not with your throat tight and your heart knocking against your ribs like it wanted to break free of your body. But your hand moved. You turned it under his and laced your fingers with his. It wasn’t a declaration, but it was something.

A beginning. A promise that just maybe, you were strong enough to try again with him. With all of it. 

The silence between you then was thick, but not cold. Just… full. Like there were too many words and not enough room to let them out. 

Finally, he spoke. “I’ve been thinkin’.” His voice was rough. “About how we got here.”

You didn’t interrupt, but your heart started flying. 

“All of it started as strategy. One more play on the board. I told myself I was in control.” He gave a bitter, quiet laugh. “And I was. Until you.” He turned slightly to look at you now, the lamplight casting long shadows on his face. 

“I never gave you a choice,” Tommy said quietly, eyes fixed on the space between you. “Didn’t expect to care as much as I did… but once you were here in my house, it stopped bein’ about power or vengeance.” He looked at you then, really looked. “Stopped bein’ about makin’ a point to Small Heath... It became just about you.”

He looked down at his hands for a beat, then back up.

“The war made emotions hard for me,” he admitted, like the confession itself was something fragile in his throat. “Expressing them harder. I made choices that left no room for softness. No time for honesty. Only angles and leverage. And I hate that it touched you, too.” He swallowed thickly. “But I’m not going to get this wrong again. Not with you.”

It wasn't just at the words, but the way he said them. Like they cost him something, scraped against old wounds just to reach you. Tommy wasn’t just apologizing. He was exposing parts of himself he never let anyone see. And for the first time, you realized… He wasn’t the only one who had been afraid. You’d both been surviving. But now, maybe, just maybe, you could start living.Together.

“I handled all of it wrong. I didn’t say the right things. Didn't give you truth when I should have.” A pause. “But I never lied about this -- how I feel about you. I didn’t know how to say it… so I tried to show it. Protecting you. Taking care of your mum. Bringing Rory in close.”

Your mother's words came back to you. The Thomas Shelby fell in love with my daughter. 

He had done those things. Even now, as his voice wavered and steadied, you could see the pieces of it. Nothing had been done out of obligation or strategy. It was something much deeper. Love, your mother had said.  You weren’t sure you could call it that yet. But maybe… maybe you were getting closer.

“You were never just a message, love. You were the moment the game stopped mattering... And I’d do anything to keep you from ever feeling like a pawn again.” The air hung heavy between you. “You’re not here because I won. You’re here because you chose to be." Some emotion flashed in his eyes. "And if you choose to stay… I’ll spend every day earning it.”

You held his hand tighter, just letting him get it out. He had to be able to hear the sound of your heart, racing, hoping. 

Tommy drew in a breath, slow and uneven.“I’ve spent my whole life building walls. Men like me… we don’t get to be soft. We don’t get to want things, not really.” His eyes met yours -- steady now, but tired. “But I wanted you. I did the first time I laid eyes on you... And it scared the hell out of me, how much.”

A silence passed between you, heavy with things neither of you had ever been taught how to say.

“I thought if I kept it all tight, you wouldn’t see the cracks. Wouldn’t see what the war left behind...” His thumb gently brushed away a tear that slid from the corner of your eye. "No more lies. No more silence.” A breath. “I love you.”

It wasn't an admission or a calculated risk. A vow.

Tommy went on before you could respond, your heart melting as he poured his feelings out. And you listened because you knew you weren't likely to see him vulnerable very often, if at all after tonight. But now you understood him. 

“You need to know,” he said, voice lower now, firmer.“I’m not easy. I won’t pretend to be.” He looked down for a moment, jaw working. When his eyes lifted again, they were clearer and his gaze locked with yours.“You’re as good as married to the devil himself. I’ve done things you’ll never want to hear about. I’ll make decisions that don’t always make sense to you. And I won’t be gentle all the time... But I will love you. And I will protect what’s mine.”

The hand at your cheek moved instinctively to your tummy, so carefully. Reverent. “You and this child… you’ll have everything I can give. Not just money or security, but respect. Legacy. A name no one will ever touch. But for that to happen…” he said slowly, “I need you to get well. Strong again. For the baby. For you. For what’s next.”

You swallowed, your throat dry. “What’s next?”

He didn’t hesitate. “A wedding.”

You froze at that word, especially given the day you had. 

“Tommy...” The word came with instinct, with nerves, and the hundred doubts spinning inside your head.“What about… what will people say?” You glanced down at yourself, the tiny curve barely noticeable now under his hand, but soon it would be obvious. “I’ll be showing. Everyone will know.”

He leaned in closer, his voice low and resolute. “Good.”

Your eyes shot back to his.

“Let them see. Let them talk.” His gaze never wavered. “They should know exactly who you are... my bride. My family. And they should know what happens to anyone who even thinks about layin’ a hand on what’s mine. You'll show in your dress, love. And I’ll stand beside you like I’ve never been prouder of anything in my goddamn life.”

Tommy smiled. With a dry edge to his voice, he added. “And no fucking red dress. I’ll burn it myself, if Rory doesn’t beat me to it.” 

You had to smile at that. Your brother would beat him to it.

A breath passed, and he softened slightly. “I know it’s the last thing you want to think about today.” His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles.“But it’s important. Not just for appearances. Not just for power or status or whatever they all think it means... It’s for us. For the life we’re going to build.”

His hand smoothed over your belly while your heart was crashing in your chest.“You won’t be hidden ever again. You won’t be whispered about. You’ll walk into that church like the woman you are, strong, beautiful, and mine.” He leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours.“It won’t always be soft. But it will always be real. You have my word.”

You nodded, kissed him carefully on the lips. "Okay," you whispered. "And Tommy, I --"

His kiss cut you off, stopped you from telling him you loved him because he knew it was coming. "Not right now," he said meaningfully. "Tell me when you mean it. And I'll know it's true then."

For all that Tommy was, how did he know you weren't there now?

“Nadya’s coming back tomorrow. Every day, until you’re well.” His voice was quiet, but there was no room for negotiation in it. “And you’re to do whatever she tells you. No arguing. No trying to be strong when you’re not.”

You nodded without hesitation.“I liked her,” you whispered, meaning it. “She reminded me of Polly, a little.”

That earned the faintest ghost of a smile from him.“A bit more terrifying, if you ask me.”

“I’ll listen to her,” you promised. 

Tommy leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering for a beat. “Good.” He paused before adding,“Your mother’s coming tomorrow, too."

You hesitated, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before reopening. “My mother’s house…” you began softly. “Will it be safe? Will she be okay there?” You looked up at him, worry flickering in your expression. “Will Rory he be allowed to keep an eye on things? After all this is… settled?”

Tommy didn’t hesitate. “The house and your mother are under my protection,” he said firmly. “So is the shop. No one will lay a hand on either without answering to me.” He let his thumb sweep gently across your hand before continuing. “Rory’s a Blinder now. He’ll keep watch over her. Over both of you. I’ll see to it.”

A breath you didn’t know you were holding slipped from your lungs. Relief, warm and quiet, spread through your chest.

He saw it, felt it. "You’ve done enough worrying,” he murmured then.“Get some rest, love.”

And this time, you thought maybe you actually could.

You were already asleep as he quietly stripped off his clothes, had one last drink of whiskey. Tommy slid into bed and curled up behind you. You were sound asleep, hands tucked under your pillow as your breath came in shallow whispers. You'd chosen him and you were back where you belonged. He slid one arm under your pillow, his other hand draped over what the two of you made, holding you both.

@outlanderuniverse @alyssajunelle @gothic-chinadoll @sparda1234 @mrsnms @alexakeyloveloki @theinheriteddutchess @wiseyouthingluencer @lovinglimerence @goldensunflowe-r @andydrysdalerogers @hellfirehopeless

@wantedby-larry

[clancykolzig]

Diethylene glycol in an antibiotic instead of the GRAS glycerin.

Capitalism kills.

Republicans deregulating kills.

Anti-prevention reactionary ignorance kills.

[clancykolzig]

Part three of Simon Riley x Single Mother <3

Part one -- Part two

It rains the next day, and the day after, then Simon gets the orders — he’d be leaving on a mission for a week or two, maybe more.

While he’s away, he thinks of you more often than he’s comfortable with. He wonders if you had the baby yet, and if you did, if the delivery went smoothly. He thinks of how you’d told him that it was just you and Charlie, and how he hopes you’re managing everything on your own.

It’s too much and he knows it, but he thinks it all the same.

By the time he gets back home, it’s been a little over a month. A few days are spent holed up in his apartment, decompressing and trying to remember how to breathe, then he’s back to it.

To you.

More walks, by the park, around the perimeter then a lap through town and back again. Eyes scanning each time, ears perked in case the little boy comes calling.

No luck — at least, not for a while. But a week or so later, during one morning stroll, there you are.

Your big belly is gone, save for a tiny little swell, and in its place is a baby carrier, which seems to be securely strapped in place, but he sees you hold onto it anyway. Sticking out of the bottom of the carrier are two impossibly tiny socked feet.

If he thought you looked tired the first two times he saw you, it’s nothing compared to how you look now. You look exhausted, weary down to your bones, but you still smile as Charlie, energetic as ever, shows off on the monkey bars.

Simon slowly makes his way over, stopping a few feet away from you. The movement makes you notice him, and you give a small laugh.

“You sure like this place, huh?”

He shrugs, hands in his pockets, and says, “Trees are nice.”

There were a few cherry trees that were blossoming now, growing along the sidewalk by the street, and he did always think they were nice-looking. You didn’t need to hear, at least not yet, that he’d found something much more beautiful to see in the park now that he’d noticed you.

At the sound of Simon's voice, Charlie jumps down from the monkey bars and runs over, putting a hand on one of the baby's feet.

"This is my baby sister, Emma," he tells him. "She looks like me but you have to be careful with her because her head is soft and her neck doesn't work right."

He chuckles, then uses Charlie's introduction as an excuse to take a glance at the baby resting against your chest. He can't see much with the way the carrier is situated, just a tuft of hair sticking out of the top, then Charlie pulls his attention back to him.

"You never said your name," the boy points out.

"It's Simon."

"I'm Charlie."

"I know."

"This is Mum," Charlie says, tugging on the hem of your shirt. "She has a different name too though."

You laugh softly, and hold your hand out to Simon, telling him your name: it's your third time meeting each other, and finally, a proper introduction.

The morning goes by much the same as your last park playdate went. Charlie bounds from the jungle gym to the slides to the swings, demanding attention and applause. Simon keeps a bit of a distance and tries to ignore just how much closer he wants to be. But with how tired you are now, or perhaps now that you know Simon just the tiniest little bit better, you speak more freely.

It does absolutely nothing to stop his yearning.

Finally, Charlie starts showing signs of slowing down. He gets a little less talkative, doesn't have quite so many tricks to show Simon, and then he stands, going to you and grabbing one of your hands away from where it rests on the baby carrier.

"Can we go home now?"

You nod, smiling at the boy, and he lifts his arms expectantly.

Simon notices you frown, just a little, before telling your son, "Baby, you know I can't carry you, I've got your sister."

"But I'm tired."

"Can you walk for me?" you ask.

He sees Charlie look from you to the baby and back again, tears welling up in his wide bright eyes, and it's enough for him to speak up.

"I could carry him, if you like."

It would be a big step in your friendship, if you could even call it that at this point, him carrying your son home, but he's ready to take it. Moreso, he's ready to offer it -- he'd take so much more, anything you offered.

"... You don't mind?"

Soon enough, the four of you are on the sidewalk, with you leading the way. Charlie is already asleep on Simon's shoulder as he holds him in his arms.

"The baby woke him up early," you explain as you walk. "I thought he'd last till his afternoon nap, but then you showed up and he had to show out."

He smiles, and when he feels the warmth spreading through his chest, he knows he's in even more trouble than he thought. It was one thing, being interested in you, but it was another to be interested in the whole package.

But of course, he had been all along, hadn't he? You drew him in, something about you seeped inside him right away, digging in its claws and holding on tight, but he couldn't deny, at least not anymore, that there was something more, too. Charlie had been, every moment he'd seen him, sweet and precocious and disarming, and now the baby ...

"Everything go all right?" he hears himself asking, speaking softly as Charlie lets out a gentle snore by his ear. "The delivery and all."

"Oh, yeah," you answer, turning down a little residential street. "Quick and easy, or I guess as easy as birthing a human can be."

"You got someone helping you?"

You shake your head, smiling up at him.

"Nope, just us. We do all right though."

You guide him through a rickety little gate towards a house, cute but rundown, and unlock the door, stepping inside and letting him come in before closing the door behind him. You show him to Charlie's room, and he lays the boy down gently in his little twin bed.

"Want some tea?" you offer, and he agrees. Anything to just stay a little longer.

While you're filling the kettle, the baby starts crying. She'd fussed a bit here and there at the park, but this sounds more insistent, Simon thinks, and you sigh, the exhaustion clear on your face.

"What can I do?" Simon asks.

And before he knows it, he's in your kitchen, taking over the tea while you sit on the couch, feeding little Emma. He can hear you as he hunts through the cabinets for cups, can hear your quiet little shushes and her little coos and gurgles as she feeds, and it's easily the most domestic scene he's ever taken part of.

By the time he meets you in the living room, two cups in hand, the baby is resting in your arms. He can see her little face fully now. Charlie was right, she does look like him. And they both look like you.

You excuse yourself for just a moment to lay her down, then come back, baby monitor in hand. You set it on the coffee table, trading it for your cup of tea, and sit beside him on the couch.

For the first time, it's just the two of you.

"Can I ask you something?"

It's not the most reassuring way to begin the conversation, but he nods, having an idea of what you might have on your mind.

"What's all ... this?"

"All what?"

You give him a look -- he knows what, but he can't very well say it, so he hesitates, trying to find the best way out of this. But you, in another show of how perfect you could be for him, give him an out.

"Look," you begin, "my thing has never not been being unable to see red flags. My thing is actually kind of zeroing in on the red flags and running straight for them. And that's not you."

"... No?"

"No," you reply. "You're yellow at best."

He smirks. "I'm a yellow flag?"

You nod, smirking back, and god, he just wants you more.

"And how's that?"

"You've got ... something. You've got sad eyes. Like you've seen a lot of stuff and like you maybe don't know how to deal with it. Something to keep an eye on, but not something that's going to destroy someone else."

"You sure about that?" he asks.

"I wouldn't let you carry my kid home if I wasn't."

He nods, taking a sip of his tea. Just when he thinks he's in the clear, you say, "But that still doesn't answer my question."

Simon considers for a moment. He barely even understands the pull he feels towards you himself, how can he explain it? But you watch him with patient eyes, close enough to touch, and he knows that if he's ever going to have a shot at actually having this, for keeps, he's going to have to try.

"I ... has there ever been something that you've never had, but you still knew you wanted it?"

You give him a small smile, and there’s understanding in your eyes — of course you have.

“And what is it that you want?” you ask.

But it’s not really a question. You know, and he can see that. So he doesn’t answer, but keeps his eyes on you steady.

“Simon,” you begin, and he has to force himself not to focus on how sweet his name sounds on your lips so he can hear the rest of what you have to say. “I don’t … why?”

“Just hit me that day,” he explains, his voice low and quiet. “Don’t know why, but it hasn’t gone away.”

“And … Charlie? The baby?”

“Charlie’s a good kid. Can’t imagine the baby will be much different.”

You stay silent for a beat, then tell him that you need to go check on the kids. He’s alone again, and he’s on the cusp of something with you, he just knows it.

When you come back a few moments later, you sit a little closer, a look of resolve on your face, and he waits.

“I’m kind of a mess,” you tell him.

“That’s fine.”

“I have two kids, and their dad is … he’s not in the picture.”

“Doesn’t bother me.”

“… Simon, I have a newborn.”

“I know, I met her. Head’s all soft and neck doesn’t work right. I remember.”

You laugh, but it’s nervous laughter, your eyes darting around the living room like you’re trying to find more reasons for him to want to run, but with every passing moment with you, he’s more and more sure that he wants to stay.

Finally, you speak again, your hand coming to rest on his arm.

“Just … I don’t know, ok?”

“You don’t have to.”

You don’t have to know, he wants to say, because he does. He knows you fit, and that he could take care of you and your children. He could carry Charlie home when he gets tired from playing too hard, and he could make you tea while you feed Emma. He could paint the house, fix it up, replace the gate with something good and sturdy. He could fix that leak in your kitchen faucet and make your life easier and do the best thing he’d ever do, with you and your family.

But you’re not ready to hear that. And he’s a patient man. He can wait.

[clancykolzig]

Creamy or Crunchy

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: Bucky joins you grocery shopping to everyone’s surprise.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Bucky hovering; Bucky knowing his favorite people; little bit of protective!Bucky

Author’s Note: I don’t know what this is but I was in need of some silly fluff. Hope you enjoy! ♡

Masterlist

He’s been trailing after you since you left the tower, stuck to your side.

Not in an obvious way, not in a manner that would draw stares or second glances, but in that ever-present way of his - like a second shadow or an old instinct that never really shuts off.

You’ve barely gone five blocks to the nearest grocery store, and Bucky has stuck close the whole time, keeping pace without a word.

It caught everyone off guard when he volunteered to come with you.

He had been slouched in his usual spot at the kitchen counter, cradling a cup of coffee he never seemed to finish, and looking like he had nowhere in particular to be. So when he had straightened, eyes trained on how you pulled on your shoes and muttered a gruff “I’ll come with you,” there was a moment of pause in the conversation between Natasha, Steve, Clint and Sam lounging on the couch in the common room.

Even you had blinked at him, thrown off by the suddenness of it.

Still, you didn’t argue.

Normally, grocery shopping isn’t something that interests anyone in the tower. It is a mundane, civilian thing - something of a life most of you had long since left behind.

There are people who handle it, services that deliver whatever you need at the touch of a button. But you aren’t looking for efficiency. You are looking for something real - something that can make you feel like a human being again.

You’d just gotten back yesterday from a month-long solo mission in Vorkuta, Russia. It was rather harsh. You spent those weeks in the cold, in silence, every step a deliberate calculation, every breath rationed as if you weren’t entirely sure when you’d be allowed another. You operated alone, only allowed to talk to Tony once a week for updates. It was the kind of quiet that made a person feel less like a person and more like an echo.

So you need something normal now. Something unremarkable.

No mission, no intel, no carefully rehearsed exit strategies.

Just a trip to the store, because you want to pick out your own food instead of eating whatever shows up in the tower’s stocked fridge. You want to grab things impulsively - maybe a bag of chips you don’t need or a carton of juice just because it looks good.

You want the simple, stupid pleasure of choosing something, just because. Of standing under the fluorescent hum of grocery store lights and deciding between brands of cereal and coffee creamers like it actually matters.

And Bucky, for all his presence, says nothing.

He just walks with you, hands stuffed into his pockets, eyes darting between the sidewalk and the people passing by. He is relaxed, but only just. There is tension in the way he moves, like he is running an assessment every few steps, tracking details of things you don’t care about at the moment.

The doors to the store slide open with a mechanical hiss, spilling warm, artificial air onto the street.

Inside, there is that familiar smell of waxed floors and cold produce, the sounds of shoppers, the beeping of registers.

A cart squeaks somewhere to your left. A child giggles near the bakery section. A bored-looking cashier stares blankly at the register screen. A tired-locking employee is restocking shelves.

It’s nothing special. But it feels real and humane in a way you need.

Bucky steps in behind you, scanning the store out of habit, then looking at you as if waiting for direction.

You grab a basket and move forward.

He follows without a word.

You walk through fruits and vegetables in bright, and glassy colors, stacked in neat abundance. The air smells like citrus, earth, the scent of misted greens, and something fairly plastic all slightly overwhelming your senses after a month of smelling mostly cold air.

You extend a hand toward the lemons, fingers brushing the textured skin of one when you feel the weight of the basket shift.

Bucky’s hand curls around the handle, pulling it from your grip and holding it himself.

Your gaze snaps up to him, but he isn’t looking at you. Not directly. His eyes are fixed on the rows of produce in front of you, his brows drawn together just slightly, his mouth set in that endearing little frown.

He stands close. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him. Close enough that, if you shifted just an inch, the fabric of his sleeve would brush against yours.

It’s not intentional, this proximity - it’s more like a habit. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, doesn’t notice the way his presence expands to fill the space between you until there’s almost nothing left.

He exhales through his nose, shifting his weight slightly, eyes sweeping the fruit display as if it’s something to be figured out rather than casually shopping through.

His metal fingers whir slightly as he flexes his grip around the basket handle.

“This is a lot,” he murmurs, almost absently.

You keep glancing at him. It takes you a second to realize he is speaking at all, his voice being so quiet, a thought that accidentally made its way out.

“What?” you ask softly.

His eyes fall to you briefly, then back to the fruit. His mouth tightens, jaw working, debating whether to explain it or just let it drop.

“Back then,” he says, still not quite looking at you. His eyes scan the apples, the oranges, the rows of neatly stacked avocados and kiwis and papayas flown in from places he never got to see. “You had your basics. Apples. Pears. Some oranges, if you were lucky. But this?” He tilts his head slightly. “This is a lot.”

He doesn’t say it with wonder. He says it with assessment, categorizing this excess, measuring it against whatever memory of the past lingers in the spaces of his mind. Like he is trying to decide if this abundance is a good thing or just another shift in the world that changed without him.

For a second you wonder, if he is talking to you at all - or just thinking out loud, caught between time periods, a man stretched across decades that won’t quite line up.

Your fingers brush the lemons again, grabbing one and carefully putting it in the basket Bucky is holding. “Well,” you mumble, keeping your voice light. “You should see the cereal aisle.”

Bucky huffs out something that’s almost a laugh, something genuine and his eyes land on you again.

You move and pluck what you need. Apples, zucchini, a handful of bright bell peppers. A bundle of fresh basil, its scent still on your fingertips - something Wanda has been asking for. Some mangoes, ripe and golden, the kind Sam offhandedly mentioned craving the other day.

Bucky watches.

He doesn’t reach for anything himself, just keeps his grip on the basket as you fill it and trails closely after you.

His eyes track every motion - the way your fingers test the hardness of an avocado, the way you turn a tomato in your palm, the way you pause just a second before deciding on a bunch of grapes.

He simply observes.

You step over to the plums.

Their deep purple skins glisten under the lights, some nearly black, some streaked with dusky red. You pick one up, pressing it lightly with your thumb, feeling the faint give beneath your touch. Satisfied, you reach for more, slipping them into a paper bag one by one.

Bucky doesn’t say anything.

But you feel him.

The attention he gives you.

His face is unreadable, expression carefully neutral, but there is something behind his eyes - something considering, something caught between memory and recognition.

You don’t know if he realizes you are getting them for him.

You don’t know if he remembers, or if it is just something subconscious, some buried instinct nudging at him in a way he can’t understand.

But you remember. You remember the way he stared at the heap of plums on the kitchen counter weeks ago, the way his fingers had twitched with a want to take one, but he hadn’t. And the way he watched Wanda as she used them to make a pie he didn’t end up eating.

“Do you want some more?” Your voice is casual, warm. And when you glance up at him, he is already looking at you.

Then, almost abruptly, he clears his throat, dropping his gaze. The fingers of his metal hand flex once around the basket handle. He shifts his stance slightly but does not move away from you. When he speaks, his voice is low, almost careful, almost bashful.

“S’ fine.”

But you catch the almost-question in the way his eyes move around, how his fingers tighten and release.

So you grab a handful more and drop them into the bag without a word. Then you fold the top down and place it into the basket.

Bucky doesn’t look away this time.

And he continues wandering along with you through the aisles.

The plums sit among other products and you catch him glancing at them once or twice.

You reach for a carton of eggs when there is a shift.

Not in the air, not in the store itself, but in Bucky.

His posture tightens, his grip on the basket adjusts slightly. You don’t immediately know why, but then you turn your head and see a man standing a few feet away, watching you.

It’s not overtly threatening, not enough to draw attention, but something about his gaze lingers too long, too deliberate. His eyes trace the shape of you, moving slow, assessing. He isn’t leering, isn’t smirking, but the way he looks makes your skin prickle.

He seems to debate if he should say something. Waiting for an opportunity.

You barely have time to move away before Bucky does.

He doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t say a word, just shifts seamlessly into place - between you and the man.

It’s not a dramatic gesture. No sudden motions, no confrontational stance. Just his presence - him planting himself in the way, broad shoulders squaring, jaw setting, scowling.

That man takes his brown eyes away from you and meets Bucky’s gaze, and whatever he sees there - whatever lives behind those icy blue eyes - is enough to make him rethink his interest. He looks away, scratching the back of his head, shuffling back a step, and seems suddenly far more interested in bread.

You exhale softly. Bucky doesn’t move.

He stays right where he is, a silent wall between you and whatever attention you haven’t wanted. His scowl lingers for a second longer before he glances back at you, eyes sweeping over your face as if he is making sure you are fine.

You tilt your head, offering a small, gentle smile. “Everything good?”

His lips twitch, almost like he wants to say something but doesn’t quite know how to form those words.

“Yeah,” he mutters, swallowing.

But his stance is still slightly stiff, his fingers can’t stay calm around the basket handle. And he glances, just once, in the man’s direction - making sure he stays gone.

Something warm fills your chest.

You missed him, while you were gone.

He’s always such a grounding presence at your side.

You missed his dry, reluctant commentary whenever the team does something ridiculous.

You missed walking into the common area with him brooding in his usual chair, pretending not to listen to conversations he’d eventually grumble his way into.

He was there when you stepped off the jet yesterday.

It wasn’t necessary for him to be there, it was six in the morning, after all, but he was.

He hadn’t said much - he never says much - but his eyes ran over you in a way that told you he had been waiting. That there was something heavy underneath that furrowed brow and the almost too casual nod he gave you. Something like relief. Satisfaction. And something much more profound.

You remember how he was when you left.

Standing off to the side of the hangar, arms crossed, jaw pressed tight as you made your final checks. It also wasn’t necessary for him to be there, but, again, he was.

He said goodbye briefly, wished you luck, but in the way you felt him watch you board the jet it seemed there was more he wanted to tell you.

And when the engines had roared to life, when the ground beneath you had begun to shrink, you caught the last glimpse of him - standing stiff, pensive, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

Now, he walks beside you, trailing just a half-step behind, his grip steady around the basket that should be in your hands, watching you more than anything you’re planning to buy.

Maybe that’s why he came with you.

Maybe that’s why he hasn’t strayed, why he hovers close, why his eyes find you like he is memorizing something he doesn’t want to lose track of again.

Maybe he missed you, too.

He is not grumpy, but there is still a tension in him. Something wound too tight in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw, in the way he glances at you like he wants to say something and then doesn’t.

You can’t have that.

Your eyes scan the shelves as you walk further along, knowing that Bucky will follow.

“What kind of soup does Steve eat?”

Bucky’s brows pull together at your casual question, as if he can’t believe that’s what you asked. “Soup?”

You nod, dead serious. “Yeah. I mean, does he have a favorite? Chicken noodle? Tomato? Something tragic, like plain broth?”

Bucky exhales sharply, almost a laugh and something in him relaxes ever so slightly. He tilts his head back a little as if this is the most absurd thing anyone has ever asked him, but he humors you.

“Steve doesn’t eat plain broth,” he says in that low rasp that sometimes sends a shiver down your spine. Now is sometimes. “He’s got more sense than that.”

You hum thoughtfully, reaching for a can on the shelf, inspecting it like it holds the answer to some great mystery.

“So what is it, then? Something classic? Or does he secretly go for the weird gourmet stuff?”

Bucky steps closer, peering over your shoulder. The fabric of his jacket brushes against your back.

You glance up at him, arching your brow.

“You don’t know, do you?”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but his face is soft. The scowl has faded. There is a tug at the corner of his mouth. “Of course, I know.”

“Uh-huh.”

He huffs, reaching past you to grab a can from the shelf, fingers brushing yours briefly. “Clam chowder,” he utters. “There. Happy?”

You blink, genuinely caught off guard. “Wait. Really?”

Bucky smirks, just a little, just enough to be real.

“Yeah,” he says, voice a bit quieter. “Really.”

“Well, then,” you quip, taking the can off his hands and putting it in the basket. “He shall have it.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

You walk a little slower now, Bucky falls into step beside you. He seems lighter now, his face softened as he watches a little boy excitedly run off to a certain aisle while his mother calls out for him.

You plan on keeping him that way.

You spot a ridiculously, colorful display stacked high with an array of different kinds of peanut butter.

“Creamy or crunchy?”

Bucky blinks, turning to look at you. “What?”

You gesture toward the display like it’s obvious. “Steve. What kind of peanut butter does he eat? Creamy or crunchy?”

There is a beat of silence. Then, something seems to turn alive in Bucky’s expression. His lips twitch as if he suppresses a smirk and doesn’t want to give you the satisfaction.

“You serious?”

“Deadly.” You fold your arms, tilting your head. “I feel like he’s a creamy peanut butter guy, but I could be wrong.”

Bucky is hovering again, looking at the shelves like this is suddenly a debate worth considering. His arm brushes against your side, but he doesn’t move away.

“You’re wrong.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised. “Oh?”

“He’s a crunchy guy,” Bucky says, reaching for a jar with his flesh hand and inspecting it like proof. “Says the creamy stuff’s got no texture. No character.”

You snort.

Bucky hums, still holding the jar, rolling it absently in his hand. He looks at ease. The basket dangles from his metal fingers as if it weighs nothing, even though it is filled with products.

You watch him.

The tension in his shoulders is practically gone and you know you should probably leave it there, but you don’t.

Because you want more.

More of this, more of him, more of that unguarded space where he forgets to be closed off.

So, you bite your lip and tilt your head at him before asking carefully. “What about you?”

Bucky glances at you, a small crease forming between his brows. “What about me?”

You gesture vaguely. “What kind of peanut butter do you like?”

For a moment, he just stares at you, like the question has never occurred to him before. Like no one’s ever bothered to ask.

You can almost see the gears turning in his head, his fingers tightening slightly around the jar. The hesitation is there. He doesn’t know how to answer. Perhaps he doesn’t know if he has a preference. Or it’s just been a long, long time since someone cared enough to ask.

You wait, patiently.

Finally, he lets out a cough, looking back at the display as if searching for an answer among the shelves. “…Crunchy,” he mutters. “I guess.”

You gin. “Yeah?”

He shifts his weight, looking rather uncomfortable but not in a bad way. Just unsure. This is unfamiliar ground for him, not knowing what to do with the attention.

You reach forward and pluck the jar from his hand before he can second-guess himself.

“Alright,” you say, dropping it into the basket with a decisive little thud. “Crunchy it is.”

Bucky observes you do it, something shimmering in his expression - something soft, a little hesitant, but warm. Like this tiny, seemingly meaningless choice holds a weight to him.

His jaw flexes slightly, as if he is about to say something, but he just exhales through his nose and shakes his head. “You’re ridiculous.”

But there is no bite to it.

And this time, he is the one to start walking, making sure you come along, staying just a little closer than before.

You are nearing the checkout registers when Bucky suddenly stops walking. It’s so abrupt that you almost keep going, but the absence of him beside you makes you pause.

You turn, finding him standing in front of a shelf, scanning its contents with a strange kind of focus, considering something.

You wait, watching the way his eyes search the options, his brows furrowing slightly. There is no tension in his posture, no obvious reason for the sudden stop - just deliberation.

Then, without a word, he reaches out, grasps a familiar-looking package, and drops it into the basket.

A soft thud.

Your gaze falls down, and your stomach does something strange when you realize what it is.

Chocolate-covered almonds.

The ones you always grab when you’re wandering the tower’s kitchen late at night, mind still wired from a mission, too awake to sleep but too tired to focus on anything real.

The ones you mindlessly snack on when you’re curled up on the couch, half-listening to, half-joining a conversation, or watching a movie.

The ones you didn’t even realize you had a thing for until you see them sitting in the basket between his plums, Steve’s soup, and the peanut butter Bucky prefers.

Your lips part slightly, surprised, searching his face. “You- Why’d you grab these?”

Bucky doesn’t even hesitate.

“Because you like them.”

Matter-of-fact. Simple. As if it’s obvious.

Just a fact.

Like it’s something he has known all along, something he has cataloged somewhere deep in that careful, quiet mind of his without ever making a big deal of it.

The realization unsettles you - not in a bad way, but in the kind of way that makes your chest feel suddenly too full.

You swallow, the corners of your lips twitching slightly, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

“How do you know that?”

The words leave your lips lightly, bright with curiosity, playful in their demand. But beneath it, there is something you don’t quite let slip.

Something about the fact that he’s been watching.

That he’s noticed.

That he has paid attention in a way you didn’t think anyone has.

His grip on the basket adjusts for the hundredth time, but not because it’s heavy, he just seems to need something to do with his hands.

He schools his expression into something nonchalant, something careless, but it’s betrayed by the hint of warmth dusting across his cheekbones.

“You’re always munchin’ on ‘em,” he says, a teasing edge lacing his voice. He tries to sound smug, like it is an observation, just a simple fact, but there is something softer beneath it. Something like fondness.

You don’t even know if it’s been that obvious. If you truly eat these things out in the open that often.

Or if he just really is that observant.

That realization settles deep in your chest, warm and startling all at once.

So you just huff, pretending like your heart isn’t skipping beats, like his answer isn’t winding around something tender inside you.

“Well,” you remark, nudging his arm as you start walking again, “now I feel self-conscious about my snacking habits.”

Bucky lets out a soft chuckle. And when he falls into step beside you, he leans in slightly, voice just low enough for you to hear.

“Don’t.”

“The most sincere compliment we can pay is attention.”

- Walter Anderson

[clancykolzig]

Pit of Hell

dark Alpha!Ari Levinson x omega female reader

summary: You only wanted to go one level deeper into the circles of Inferno. Just one step to secure yourself a stable life. But you're unexpectedly thrown into the lowest level. The pit of hell itself. Where a beast awaits.

warnings: dark!Ari; A/B/O; secret society; semi-dystopian; heavy dub-con; coercion; entrapment; power imbalance; breeding kink; virginity kink; rough sex; dacryphilia; branding; light exhibitionism (forced); degradation; very light blood kink (in reference to virginal blood); oral (m receiving); forced deep throating; dirty talk; no knotting

word count: 7k

Author's Note: I gave you some options in the polls and the results were... meh? Lol, I mean I always love Alpha Ari and breeding is forever my on brand kink, but honestly it was just a little disappointing, because I already have alpha Ari with a breeding kink. So I had to come up with something new. Something interesting. And it steered me toward really dark waters 🫢 What you should be aware of, is that I made it a different kind of Alpha/Beta/Omega universe. I made it semi-dystopian, where the dynamics and physiological details usually associated with the omegaverse are extinct. Or are they...? 👀

As I was writing it, thoughts of making it into a series and introducing more dark Alphas appeared. So it's officially the first installment in the universe called Inferno. Aaand I may have already decided on who the other animals are and how depraved they will be 👀

Special shout out and thanks to @buckets-and-trees for dancing with me around the fire of secret society trope and to @stargazingfangirl18 for whoreheartedly supporting the most unhinged list of warnings

Ari Levinson Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Heart pattering, you looked at the glass case filled with rows of colorful cards. Most were gone already, but the one you waited for at the moment was still there. And was about to end up in your hand. 

Magenta. 

While colours used to be rather indifferent to you, being accepted into Inferno taught you to crave certain shades. Not for their pretty looks, but because each was a key.

Inferno was officially named a private club, but was in fact the only place Omegas were able to earn exorbitant sums of money. Well, not exorbitant if seen from the Alphas point of view, but considering how the crumbled society worked it was the best an Omega could make in the broken world. 

Different kinds of service were expected of Omegas at each level of the Inferno. The first circle of the so-called hell was for simple waitressing and it paid the lowest. If an Omega was accepted by the Inferno, they started at that level and had to prove themselves to be allowed into another floor. 

For the past eight months you rolled your hips in the third circle where Omegas were dancing on platforms and in cages, while the Alphas carried their business meetings, or leered at them without being allowed to touch. 

You were about to exchange your blue key card for the magenta one, descending into another level where the dances would be private, with some touching allowed. It meant the standard paycheck would be higher, plus the tips you might earn from any Alpha who asked for a dance from you. And those tips wouldn’t be in money only, but also certain passes or favors that were incredibly valuable in the cold, harsh world. 

Days of cushioned lives that Omegas led once upon a time were long forgotten. They sounded like fairytales when compared to the harsh reality of the past century. Omegas were at the bottom of the food chain now. Not even coveted as much by the Alphas as they used to be. Very few were swooped up and mated, most going through their lives scrambling to stay afloat and perhaps meet a nice, hardworking beta to form a relationship with. 

As you waited for Astoria (the woman who was possibly the most powerful Omega in the city, since she was the one managing Inferno and the Omegas working in it), your eyes scanned the colourful cards behind a reinforced glass case. 

Magenta was your goal from the very first time you were explained the rules of this place. For now, any colour assigned to deeper levers was too scary, because they meant less control over what happened to you. For example, the red that was appointed for the fifth level meant limited sexual acts. 

You didn’t want that. Even if the paycheck would make your life so much more comfortable. 

As much as you recoiled from the prospect of deeper circles of hell, you couldn’t help your gaze zeroing in on the single golden keycard. It was displayed in that glass cage at the very top, purposely making the lowest circle of hell appear as the highest advance. 

Neither the introduction to the club rules, nor the rumour mill among the Omegas gave away what happened on that level. 

Since from levels six to eight Omegas were giving their bodies for all sorts of sexual play, each more debauched and scary, you couldn’t even imagine what happened in the darkest pit. It was too terrifying to even think about. 

“It’s best you not consider earning it.” Astoria’s smooth, tinkling voice startled your attention away from the glass cage. 

The look she gave you wasn’t a reprimand, but rather a warning. From one Omega to another. 

While Astoria was a strict employer, a stickler for rules, she truly looked out for the Omegas. When you were developing a cold two months ago, she slipped you a package of meds which you wouldn’t be able to get yourself.

“Has anyone ever gotten it?” You asked, nodding toward the golden card. 

“No.” Astoria shook her head, then paused. “Though… There was an incident a year ago.”

“An incident?” You’ve been working at the Inferno for about a year and a half and you haven’t heard of any incident. They had to keep it secret, if there wasn’t even the briefest rumour about it.

“Someone stole it.” Astoria’s voice lowered into a hush. “Reckless girl was too curious for her own good. She wanted to see…”

Your stomach tightened in dread. The complete unknown was more terrifying than if you had an inkling on what could’ve happened to her down there. 

The golden card glimmered enticingly, undoubtedly luring many of the Omegas (especially those who already worked the lowest levels and their boundaries were partially blurred), but your interest in it disappeared immediately. 

“What happened to her?” You asked, nervously picking at the fringes of your white, short dress. 

Astoria opened her mouth, but before she could say anything another voice interrupted.

“She bore the consequences of her actions.”

It was a male voice. Deep, low and smooth in a way that felt like a thick drop of something sweet, like honey, slowly sliding down your body. It licked you with its timbre from your sternum to the valley below your belly button. 

As pleasant as it was, it also scared you with its dangerous potency.

Beside you, Astoria straightened like a string in a violin, her earlier open softness disappearing behind a well practiced mask of professionalism. And obedience, which you never saw in her posture at any other time. 

The man who walked in wasn’t only an Alpha. No, Astoria dealt with those without flinching. But there were Alphas and then there were Alphas. 

The true apex predators. 

There were very few of them, but they were rumored to be able to dominate other Alphas without much effort, as if they were meager Betas. 

“I’d say that her curiosity served Rogers well.” He added with a dark sort of amusement.

Your instincts shook in alarm. Any Alpha insinuating an Omega served them well was repulsive, but when it came from a predator like this one it evoked thoughts of complete ruin, of being forever broken. 

“Mr Levinson.” Astoria politely bowed her head. 

You knew you should drop your gaze down, too, but couldn’t help yourself but look at the Alpha that strode in. 

His big, beefy body was fitting for an Alpha of his power. Everything about him looked thick and imposing, even with the seemingly relaxed stance he presented. Golden rings glinted on his fingers as he combed them through his lush hair. As he swiped his hand over his beard, you saw a glimpse of a bleeding sun tattoo on the back of his hand, ink dripping onto his knuckles. 

When he moved forward, you tensed in fear, finally tilting your chin down and staring at the floor. 

Levinson. It finally ringed in your head with recognition. 

One of the four men owning the Inferno. 

Perhaps, it was more fitting to name them the four horsemen, considering they created this hell. 

“What’s in store for this sweet Snowdrop, Astoria?” Ari asked, circling your shivering form. 

You didn’t dare to ask if the unexpected petname came from your white dress, or because he deemed you so fragile and crushable. 

“She’s worked blue level for the past eight months.” Astoria’s voice was back to her unwavering, professional tone. Detached from any protectiveness or sympathy she might’ve felt for you. “She’s been promoted to magenta, supposed to start tonight.”

Levinson hummed behind you. Though he didn’t lean over, nor touched you, a jolt of unwanted caress slid down your spine. If that Alpha chose to really touch you, not only you wouldn’t be able to fight him off, but your body would give in at the snap of his fingers; that’s how powerful his Alpha aura was to your Omega hindbrain. 

Slowly, Ari circled you again. His gaze swiped over every inch of you, mapping out your curves, each dip and roll. 

When he tucked a finger beneath your chin a hot jolt started your heart into a frenzy. The merest touch, but it filled you with terror. He tilted your chin up, forcing your head to lift and give him a full, unobscured view of your face. 

“No.” He said unexpectedly, releasing you. 

Taking a step back, he turned to Astoria and declared: “She stays on the blue level.” 

Without waiting for any counterargument, he walked out of the office. He knew there would be no arguing. Astoria wouldn’t plead for you. Hell, you wouldn’t plead for yourself. 

Well, inside of you there was this fussy, outraged voice demanding you be given the opportunity, but you also knew that clashing with this Alpha would be like scratching at a wall. If he didn’t find you annoying to the point of breaking your neck, he’d be at least completely unbothered. Merciless. 

Heartless. 

Astoria muttered a quiet sorry, which you welcomed with a small, sad smile. Clutching your blue keycard in your hand, you returned to your former level, telling yourself it was at least something you knew well and felt comfortable with. Besides, you were still employed. That was a big win every day. 

By the time you returned to your home in the early morning hours, you felt calm and content. Yes, there was still the lingering disappointment at being denied promotion, but you anchored yourself to the stability you still had. 

As you walked into your apartment building, you reminded yourself it was the blue level at the Inferno that allowed you to move out of the shitty, very dangerous block you used to live in and into this place. Which still was on the poorer side, but at least the entrance doors were locked and the intendant living on the ground floor was a very sweet, protective Beta who looked out for his tenants. 

You paused, after walking into your small apartment and closing the door. Something felt slightly shifted, as if a streak of something not quite familiar lingered in the air. 

You gulped, clutching your keyes between your fingers as you moved further inside. 

Nothing was moved, not even an inch. There was no one lurking inside as you turned on the lights. Even a few tiny leaves that dropped from your fern were drying on the same spot on the floor. 

You shook your head, accepting that your exhaustion and the unexpected interaction with the most powerful Alpha have simply made you more jumpy. 

Besides, you told yourself as you started taking off your clothes, Jake - the Beta intendant - wouldn’t let anyone break in. He was a sweetheart, but he once kicked the ass of a piece of shit wet cat Alpha who came drunk to harass his ex-girlfriend.

Placated by self-reassurance, you continued your usual routine. Snack, shower, sleep. 

For the next few weeks your life continued the same. At some point you even stopped longingly thinking of the magenta level, though it still popped occasionally into your mind when your knee acted up and reminded you that a doctor’s appointment or physiotherapy would be wonderful, if you could afford it.

Nothing suggested your life was about to change. Not in a big way. 

Until the evening two guards intercepted you at the employees entrance to the Inferno to relay the request that you go into Astoria’s office. Which in itself wouldn’t be much alarming, if they didn’t insist you give them your blue keycard. 

Were you being fired?

With your heart in your throat, you stepped into the office. Into an empty office. Astoria wasn’t inside. However, there was an envelope on her desk propped against a vase with a single white flower, with your name written on the back of the stationary. 

Inside was a simple direction to get into the private elevator. 

Surely, you wouldn’t be given permission and code to that elevator, if she wanted to fire you. Inferno had three elevators to take participants to each level - one was for employees, you included, a second one for the patrons, and the third one was for Astoria and possibly the four owners. 

With trembling fingers, you hit the provided code on the lock and walked into the elevator. The door slid shut behind you silently. Ominous semi-darkness engulfed you. Inside, there were no buttons, no panel to control where the elevator went, no way to stop it, or open it yourself.

There was, however, another envelope with your name on it attached to the wall. 

When you opened it and looked inside, your knees nearly gave away. 

The golden keycard glinted at you.

That one mysterious card, which you learned two months ago was best to never be given. To never desire it. 

“Oh God!” You cried quietly, dropping it onto the floor and huddling in the corner of the small space. 

The elevator was still going down. It felt like being dragged to the literal pit of hell. 

When it finally stopped and the door slid open, you stayed plastered with your back to the elevator wall. Perhaps, if you pretended you weren’t there, if you didn’t step outside, you’d be taken back upstairs. 

But the elevator remained open. Soft, dimmed light of the bottom floor didn’t feel inviting at all. Not to you. 

Long minutes passed and nothing happened. The elevator didn’t close, but also no one barged in to drag you outside. Restlessness increased, pumped by your growing nervousness and fear. You were scared of the rage that could greet you the longer you stayed hidden. And you became more convinced that the elevator wouldn’t be your return to safety. 

Maybe that floor would provide you a different route of escape?

After all, each level had three elevator shafts - private, for guests, and for employees. 

Swallowing nervously, you tried to remember at what angle the other two elevators should be once you entered the floor. If you ran fast towards one of them, you could get yourself to the ground floor and run the fuck outside. 

Your steps were hesitant as you shuffled to the exit and took first glimpses inside the lowest level of the Inferno. What you saw made your heart drop.

It wasn’t a grand, wide space like it was with all the other levels. 

It was a round chamber, with marble floor, stone walls reaching high to an intricate ceiling from which dropped a huge iron chandelier. There was a large round table in the middle of the chamber. Four chairs stood at it like four points on a compass, directing north, south, east and west.

Each chair had a different crest carved on it. 

Lion. Wolf. Bull. Serpent.

No other elevator shafts were visible. Only a closed double door above which a sign ominously warned:

Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch’entrate.

Abandon all hope, you who enter.

Though you thought your own hope to have evaporated as the elevator descended, the last remnants of it died this very moment. As you stared at the chamber with no visible escape route and the famous words of final doom. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop. You won’t be pushed through that door.” 

Your head turned to the side, only now noticing the familiar, imposing silhouette of the Alpha. Ari Levinson was leaning against the wall right next to the elevator, with his arms crossed over his chest and his head tilted to the side as he watched you tether on the edge of the floor. 

“The darkness behind it is not in my tastes,” he explained casually, like he was talking about not being a fan of whiskey compared to red wine. 

“Wh- why am I here?” You asked, twisting your fingers in front of you and eyeing him warily. 

“I didn’t apply for the golden card!” You rushed to express.

“No one does.” Ari shrugged. “Or, well, those who apply don’t ever get it. Only one person before got it, as you know, but that was because she dared to steal it.”

“So why?” You feared hearing horrifying promises of spilled blood in slow, painful murder. 

“Because you lured the beast.” His eyes ignited with dark hunger and you felt the lick of it between your thighs. 

Ari moved and you took an instant step back, slamming your back against the edge of the elevator door frame. But he wasn't prowling your way. Instead, he lazily walked towards one of the chairs. 

The one with the lion crest.

He draped his forearms against the backrest of the chair, intertwining his inked fingers in a loose grip. That's when you noticed the golden glint of his rings, from which one presented a lion's head.

“Four beasts rule this world.” His words could be a fascinating tale, if he wasn't speaking the dark, ugly truth of what laid beneath your reality.

“In Inferno we provide the opportunity for some to sate their desires, but we don't participate. Meetings in this chamber aren't focused on our personal lust, but on deciding whose blood to spill and which power to snatch.”

“However-” he paused to lick his lips and you couldn't help but chase that micromovement. “Each of us has cravings that we know would demand satiating at one point. Hence the golden card. It was never going to be earned. It's decided individually by each of us when to play that card, because it's a game that won't be repeated.”

“Won't be repeated?” You echoed, trembling as the terrifying vision of death loomed over you.

“Meaning, my innocent Snowdrop, that once one of us gets someone down here they never return to their previous life.” 

Tears welled in your eyes, your breath choking on a sob. Your life wasn’t grand, but you still liked it. You wanted it to continue, despite the hardships you endured.

“It means you're mine now.” Ari's voice deepened into a hungry growl. “Your virginity is mine to take and your womb mine to fill with seed.”

His words tipped your world on its axis. A hot wave of shame that his crude words evoked dropped into ice cold dread as you realized the fate he spun for you.

He wasn't going to murder you. But he was about to break you and bind you to him forever. 

“No!” You shook your head, clenching your hands into fists. 

Ari wasn't bothered by your reaction, like he knew it didn’t matter because he'd get what he wanted anyway.

“If it's your poor attempt to lie to me about your innocent state, I'll remind you I have free access to your medical file.” He sent you a knowing look.

Inferno provided Omegas with an annual check up that included gynecological examination. It wasn't because they cared for Omegas, it was to provide clients with the best quality entertainment. If Omega's results turned out bad, they were dropped immediately and left to fend for themselves. 

“If you're fighting the inevitable,” a dangerous smirk curved his lips, “I could give you a good, scary chase and fight. But, honestly, that's not my taste.” 

Slowly, Ari straightened to his full height. He rolled his shoulders and clenched his fingers around the corners of the sturdy, carved chair.

“I want you to give yourself to me. You're going to splay yourself on that table and welcome my fat cock into your tight, virgin cunt.”

Another spike of heat unfurled in your belly and chest, shocking and scaring you more than the Alpha's words did. 

Was his Alpha power influencing you so much, or was there a part of you that wanted his brutal promise to become reality?

“You wanted to get onto magenta level because it pays better.” Ari pointed out. “It's also why a golden card is a mad dream for many. ‘Cause they imagine the paycheck and comfort it could provide for them and their families.”

“But there won't be a one time pay for this. No more paychecks anymore. Instead, you'll have all the care and comforts daily. You'll have that knee of yours checked. Regular physio. Stocked fridge, nice clothes, your sister and her Beta husband's molded apartment dried.”

“All of that for being my good Omega, taking my cock and bearing me children.” 

Your core filled with heat as your mind bent under the weight of filthy images. Trying to shake it away didn’t work. Your usual numbness to Alpha’s presence and your own basic instincts was frayed at the edges, crumbling the more time you stood there trapped with the Alpha. 

What he promised for the doom couldn’t be overlooked, either. If not for your own health, then for your sister. They had a baby who was constantly sick, because of the moldy walls and malfunctioning heat. Levinson had near limitless resources, so fixing someone’s apartment would for him be like spending pocket change.

Unrushed, he moved from behind the chair to stand next to the table. He tapped his fingertips against the painted wooden surface. 

And waited, watching you with all the patience in the world. 

“It’ll happen, Snowdrop.” He said it with no malice, but there was an unyielding force behind it. As calm and soft he appeared to treat you, his darkness wouldn’t recede. No mercy awaited.

“And yes, it will hurt your virgin pussy when I split it on my dick.” You didn’t take your eyes off his face, so you didn’t see how his cock twitched in his pants at the mere thought of breaking you. “But if you make me go there for you and take what I already declared mine, it will hurt more. So be a good Omega and come here.”

You never liked pain. All your struggles, while you dealt with them, never honed you into someone immune to suffering. No, you were still very human and fragile, and if there were ways to limit your pain, you were going to take it. 

So despite sniffling on another sob, you shuffled your feet forward. Tiny step after another. Ari didn’t rush you. Quite the opposite, watching you walk to him heightened his hunger. It was like a foreplay increasing his arousal close to the tipping point. 

“ ‘Atta girl,” he praised when your toes touched his boots. 

Then big, strong hands were gripping your hips and hoisting you onto the table. One gasp of surprise transformed into a yelp when Ari gripped the fabric of your dress and ripped it apart with his bare hands. Your bra followed. Then your underwear. 

You were bared to him completely. Breath quickened and body trembling as he towered over you. 

“Lie back.” Ari ordered.

Your heart pounded in your chest, echo of it resounded in your ears and fingertips, pulsing wilder and wilder. The table beneath you didn’t feel that bad, but it was the Alpha in front of you, devouring you with his gaze that promised bad things happening. 

Bad, scary things, yet still some deep, primitive part of you roused at the prospect. There was an ache low in your belly, making your pussy walls clench as you watched Ari loom over you. 

A jolt made your body spasm when his fingers brushed your naked skin. A tender brush over your knees teasing upwards, along your thighs, over your belly, across your breasts. He skimmed them down again and back up, rousing your body into response beyond your control. 

“Spread your legs.” He growled another command, landing a slap to your thigh when you didn’t comply immediately. 

It was so humiliating. Baring your most intimate part to a ruthless Alpha. 

“Such a pretty pussy,” he splayed his hands on the inside of your thighs and rubbed his thumbs along the outline of your folds. “It’s going to look even prettier hugging my dick.” 

He didn’t outright stimulate your folds or clit, just teased the nerves around. Then his palms smoother upwards, fingers spread wide over the curve of your belly.

“You’ll be so full of me. Grow round with our children.” 

As he looked at your naked body in dark victory and hunger, you trembled at the image of his face glowing in malicious triumph when he stared at your pregnant form. 

Reduced to the object of an Alpha’s wicked desire, yet some deeply hidden satisfaction, almost rusted like a forgotten, ancient treasure, stirred from the shadows. 

Through the past century the designations have crumbled from the once admirable and coveted. As the world turned cold, jaded and brutal, certain traits started disappearing. Like the DNA of the people itself had receded, instead of evolving. Though, perhaps, it was an evolution towards the harsh reality you now lived in. 

Legends of Alphas’ instinct to protect and provide seemed laughable, since you hadn’t met a single Alpha who would even be kind. There were no alluring scents, unless someone soaked themselves in perfume. Ruts and heats have devolved - which was praised as something that rooted out primal behaviors, but on the other hand seemed to turn everyone unresponsive. 

You didn’t need to worry about going into an unexpected heat, or having to splurge on suppressants, but you never felt desired. Nor felt a craving so deep it messed with your own mind.

However, as you laid spread on the table like a sacrifice for the lion, a lick of something heady and scorching hot stirred the latent Omega inside of you. 

As terrifying Ari’s plan for your future sounded, a part of you snuggled into that prospect as if it was a safe cushion in the most luxurious bed. 

“Suck.” Ari tapped your lips with two of his fingers.

Your mouth opened instantly and his digits slid in, pressing against your tongue. Your pupils widened when a shot of intense pleasure zapped through your body and hardened your nipples as Ari’s purred, pleased that you started sucking instinctively.

“Such a good Omega.” He praised. “Keep sucking. You better get them really wet, since it’s going to be the only prep that you get before I give you my cock.” 

With his whole frame being so massive, you could only imagine how proportionate his dick was going to be. It would be a struggle if you were dripping, but with just a brief preparation he was going to tear you. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop.” Ari chuckled darkly, slipping his fingers out of your mouth and pressing them against your clit. “I can’t wait to turn you into a soaked mess with my mouth and fingers, but for our first time I want those sweet whines and cries as you stretch painfully around every inch.” 

Circling your clit a few times, to heighten the first stirring of fire, Ari used his other hand to unbuckle his belt and lower the zipper in his pants. He thrust a single digit into your channel, groaning obscenely at the tight resistance. 

“You’re going to feel so fucking good.” He growled, pumping his finger in and out of your pussy a few times.

He withdrew much too soon. You were wet, but definitely not enough for that first slide of cock to be easy. Which Ari evidently loved. His grin was predatory when he pressed the head of his dick at your opening and you couldn’t suppress the sharp whimper at the first inch opening you wide. 

Bracing one hand on your hip, Ari reached his other arm to curl his ringed fingers around the front of your neck. 

Then he began sliding in. 

A firm, languid stroke; merciless against the physical resistance of your inner walls. 

You tensed as the pain increased. It was confusing, too, because you expected excruciating pain. Instead, it was a new kind of suffering that ignited overwhelming, heavy pleasure. Nothing similar to the light, bubbly pleasure you felt when touching yourself. No, this was powerful and scary, but made you crave more. 

Still, tears welled in your eyes as Ari broke into you and rooted himself deeply. Your mouth opened on a helpless cry.

His gaze was hungrily focused on your face, delighted in the shimmer of your tears. But then, as he slowly withdrew, his eyes flicked down to where his cock was easing out of your pussy. 

“Fucking perfect.” He groaned in pleasure at the sight of dark pink smears - your virginal blood mixed with strings of your wetness.

“Your sweet cunt got a first taste of the cock that owns her now.” He pushed back in. “No one else will ever fuck it, or fill it. Only your Alpha.”

“Say it!” The hand on your throat tightened and he snapped his hips into you in a harsh thrust, causing your body to jerk.

“O-” you gasped, tears trickling from the corners of your eyes as pain and pleasure flared low in your belly- “Only you!” 

More tears flew with the next rough thrusts, but they began drying as sensations blurred into something intense and unrecognizable. Ari’s cock was splitting you with each slide, your pussy unable to adjust fully to his size, yet it was becoming addictive. A part of you hoped it would never end, chanting prayers for more torment. More pleasure. More dominance. 

For his cum.

Your pupils blew wide as your pussy clenched around Ari’s cock when that thought unexpectedly echoed in your head. 

“That’s it, Snowdrop.” Ari grunted, fucking you ruthlessly. “Show me how greedy that cunt is for my cock and seed.”

Ari’s sharp bark of laugh resounded at your pitiful whimper when you spasmed around his dick again. Shaking your head side to side (as much as Ari’s grip on your throat allowed), you scratched your fingers against the table. You shouldn’t be feeling like this! There should only be fear and disgust, not a warm fluttering of something soft and vulnerable beneath the primal arousal. 

Was Levinson’s Alpha power truly so apex that it drew out a response from a stagnant, latent particle of your Omega designation? 

On a particular rough thrust, Ari pressed against a spot that had stars bursting under your eyelids. Your body tensed and arched then suddenly the coil was snapping and you were coming with a hoarse cry. 

He fucked you through it, his pace never easing. The hand on your hip moved to splay low on your abdomen, thumb wedging between your folds to torment your clit. The zap of stimulation was borderline painful as you were still quivering in the remnants of climax and it brought more tears. It was too much!

You shook your head. Your fingertips barely reached Ari’s abdomen, your touch more of a caress to him then your attempted fight against the onslaught. 

“Fuck!” Ari groaned, moving his hand away from your clit. But only to use his hands to reposition your legs - placing both of your ankles on his shoulders as he bore more weight onto you.

His fat cock seemed to plunge even deeper and an unexpectedly lewd moan spilled out of your mouth. 

“Your pretty tears turn me on as much as your virgin blood staining my cock.” 

Ari swiped a streak off your temple before wedging his hand between your tightly pressed thighs, again aiming for your swollen clit. His low chuckle at your hitched cry when he started rubbing it anew transformed into grunts of pleasure when your pussy clenched around him so hard he could barely move. 

You thought he was unrestrained before, but your body’s reaction provoked the truly primal, unhinged side of the Alpha.

He snarled, teeth bared, as his hips snapped into you so hard you felt the jolt of it reverberate up your ribs. The table in the chamber was exceptionally sturdy, but it moved as the animal ravaged you. 

The growl he let out when he reached his own peak seemed to sink into your very bones, binding your cells to him on some incomprehensible level. 

And when the hot flood of cum filled you, a deepest, darkest particle in your brain ignited with a thousand lights. 

It was a new sensation. Not because you were a virgin who was never fucked and filled. As much as that filthy side had you embarrassingly turned on, that feeling regarded something else. As if there was a second entity beneath your skin and it was finally stirred awake. 

For over a century it was believed that designations have regressed so much there was nothing left of the former reactions, or even former physical traits like knots, yet you sensed (and feared) that somehow this Alpha has broken through the iceberg of latency and found the ruins of ancient civilization; stirring some curses to life. 

Your breath was ragged, each gulp intermixed with tiny gasps and whimpers as you felt Ari’s cock throb inside of you, spilling more and more. You never thought that a man could cum so much. It felt endless. And the longer it lasted the more it had your core tingling with need for more. 

Slowly, Ari eased your legs down. They hung limply over the edge of the table, bracketing Ari’s hips that were still pressed against you. Your arms dropped down, too. One onto the table, the other across your belly, a mere inch above where Ari’s hand was still resting on your lower abdomen. 

His hand on your throat loosened its grip. He swept his fingers through the remnants of the tears drying on your face, then down across your body.

“I stake claim.” Ari’s voice resounded firm and unyielding, sending a chill down your spine. 

His blue eyes were on you. His face slightly flushed, a vein in his neck protruding and pulsing from the pleasant strain. But his words sounded like they were directed at somebody else, not just at you.

Long seconds passed before you sensed the change in the air. A gentle current, as if a draft got in. You tensed, head turning to the side as you felt another presence in the chamber. 

Ari pressed his hand over your sternum and pushed you down when you made a move to get up. He pressed on your belly with his other hand, as well. Which not only served to keep you in place, but also reminded you that his softening dick was still inside you and his cum was overfilling your pussy. 

Your heart rate increased as you watched three silhouettes emerge from who the fuck knows where. Big, intimidating, undoubtedly Alphas. 

Probably the other three horsemen. Owners of hell itself. 

They were wearing dark silver masks. Each depicting an animal. Each matching the crests carved into the chairs at the table. A wolf. A bull. A serpent.

They took their places at the table and looked down at you. Then, as if you weren’t interesting, they lifted their heads to look at Ari. 

“What bond do you choose?” Asked the wolf. 

His voice was as cold as it was smooth; like a chill one might feel when walking into the woods late in the evening - comforted by it, but sensing impending danger creeping in to strike.  

“A brand,” came Ari’s swift reply. “My crest.”

They all gave their nods. Then the bull moved closer to where Ari stood between your spread legs. A flicker of blue flame from a lighter made you whimper in fear, but none of them reacted. The bull held the lighter in his tattooed hand, his wrist encompassed in a thick leather bracelet. Ari lifted one of his hands, closed it into a fist, and brought it to the flame.

They were heating up his ring with the lion’s head. 

His crest. 

“No,” a weak sound left your lips when you understood the intention. 

There was no fight left in you. Besides, you had no chances against Ari alone, much less against four Alphas. 

“Shh.” Ari cooed, keeping the hand on your chest in place and rocking his hips into you gently. “You’re already mine, Snowdrop. This will merely be a short sting. Just like your virgin cunt breaking on my cock.” 

His blue eyes returned to yours, holding your gaze as he pressed the hot ring to your abdomen. You cried out in pain as it seared your skin, burning a permanent brand on the belly that was marked from the inside with his seed. 

“Claim witnessed.” 

It was repeated three times, by three different voices, but it barely reached your consciousness as your mind fumbled with processing pain and sinking in unfamiliar contentment. 

Ari kept touching you, stroking your sides and your thighs softly as he continued to coo. There was an additional vibration to his tone every few shushing words, comforting in a way that had your body truly relaxing despite the terror it was just put through. 

Once you settled down, only looking up at Ari with tear-brimmed eyes, he leaned down. And kissed you. 

It wasn’t as soothing as the last few touches and sounds, but brand nearly as hot as the ring burned into your skin. 

He straightened, staring down at you as conqueror at the empire he just crushed and obtained. His gaze traveled down your body to where his mark scorched over your mound, then lower, to where your bodies were joined. 

Slowly, he pulled out and watched as your glistening pussy gaped and pulsed. A heartbeat later his cum trickled out. Dark hunger was still alight in his eyes. Perhaps, it would never leave. Not when it came to you and owning your body. 

You trembled, covering your face with your hands as you felt the mess leak out of you. You saw the sticky combination of your juices, his spend and your blood coating Ari’s cock, and couldn’t comprehend why that unnerving part of you was thrilled about the sight. It made no sense and warred with the appalled and terrified part of your brain. 

“Don’t worry, Snowdrop.” Ari sounded amused as he watched you. “I don’t mind the mess. I’ll fuck you so often and thorough that my seed takes no matter how much of my cum leaks out of your poor, little cunt.” 

He gripped your wrists and forced your hands away from your face, then placed them on his shoulders. He felt warm and secure under your trembling fingers. 

You hated how he anchored you while being the one to break you. 

Ari lifted you off the table and set you onto your feet to the floor. His hold remained on your waist for long enough moment that you didn’t topple down on your weakened legs. 

Yet, as soon as he was sure you wouldn’t drop down, he guided you onto your knees himself. Making you kneel in the sticky mess that dropped from between your thighs onto the marble floor. 

A hand slid into your hair, tangling it in a tight grip. He tilted your head back. 

“Clean your Alpha’s cock, Omega.” He ordered. “Open your pretty mouth and taste us.” 

You tried to keep your lips pressed, refusing to do something so lewd. There was a flash of displeasure at your defiance and you expected Ari to force your jaw open, or to pinch your nose closed so you had to gulp for breath. 

Perhaps he would do that, if your mouth didn’t open on its own volition when he tapped the head of his cock against your lips. Musky saltiness smeared on your bottom lip, somehow provoking an instant reaction beyond your control. It was that new part of you, unearthed by the brutal Alpha. 

She made you open eagerly, tonguing the underside of Ari’s thick cock as he pushed into your mouth. 

“Good girl, Snowdrop.” He praised, rubbing against your tongue in shallow thrusts. “Get it clean of all the mess you made. Do you like how your Alpha tastes?”

He wasn’t really waiting for your reply, but he enjoyed the garbled sound you made as you tried to deny it and he pushed deep in your throat, cutting off your denial. 

He held you there, staring down at you struggling and choking. He delighted in the tears reappearing in your eyes. 

“Swallow around it.” He was merciless. “Oh, I know it’s hard and scary, but be a good girl and swallow down my cock. Close that little throat around it, so I can come down it like I did your pussy.” 

Tears poured down your cheeks as you finally managed to swallow and it caused your throat to constrict so tight you nearly blacked out. 

Ari grunted loudly in pleasure. 

With his free hand he tugged one of your hands that was resting against his thigh and guided it under his cock. He made you cup his heavy balls, forced your fingers to tighten and massage them.

Spurts of thick, salty warmth trickled down your throat. You panicked, fearing you’re going to choke to death as you hurriedly gulped it down. 

“Fuuuuck.” Ari was watching you with his own lips parted and glistening with saliva. “I’d love to fuck your sweet mouth for hours, teach you how to suck and tongue, but having you just simply choke and cry on my cock might be my new favorite version of a blowjob.”

When he finally let you go, after making sure the very last spurt went down your throat, you were coughing and wheezing. Your hands clutched Ari’s thighs as you slumped forward, resting your head against his leg and breathing heavily. 

Naked, filthy and broken, you rested at his feet. Leaning into him like he was your lifeline. 

Ari caressed the top of your head then stepped away for a moment. You fell forward, bracing yourself on your hands on the marble floor. A few seconds later something very soft, very warm, and surprisingly heavy, was draped over your naked form. 

In your peripheral you saw a glimpse of white with streaks of silver. 

Ari covered you with it, then effortlessly picked you up into his arms. Defenseless, exhausted and confused, you simply sank into his embrace. Resting your cheek against his chest, you glanced at the softness wrapped around you. A white fur. 

Because you were his Snowdrop.  

[clancykolzig]

Simon Riley appreciates a healthy routine.

Neither Gaz nor Soap can quite tell what is stranger their Lieutenant declining to go for a pint after touching ground back on base or the sight of him furiously typing away on the cracked screen of his phone since they got some proper cell service.

They keep sitting in their respective seats on the plane, quietly observing Ghost and Captain Price for the past hours like they're some nearly extinct animals they shouldn't dare to startle; trying to gauge the latter's reaction, though that hint of a knowing smile barely hidden behind a coarse beard is only confusing them more.

It's as if Price has found the answer to a riddle that his Sergeants aren't even fully aware of.

Almost immediately, they lose sight of the sneaky Lieutenant as soon as the plane lands on the tarmac and once the tired soldiers receive permission to sign out for a long weekend after spending the last eight weeks deployed, travelling places no one else wants to go.

And of course, the lads think that Ghost has simply had enough of their bullshite, that the naturally aloof man is feeling too agitated and overwhelmed to linger, even though the mission was finished successfully. Perhaps he made arrangements with some working lady to get it out of his system (Soap's words, "Who else would the bloody geezer be textin' to, eh?"), or perhaps he's already being called in for a single op by Laswell.

They don't see the signs their Captain has picked up on a while ago when it comes to the closed-off Lieutenant.

The hushed phone conversations behind a closed office door, the more frequent rummaging for a phone that he usually didn't spare a glance at for hours on end, a spring in his step after suddenly spending more weekends off base, eating homemade biscuits from a Tupperware box that surely isn't his while doing his paperwork, pushing himself harder at the gym with a kind of natural energy that comes with higher testosterone levels, humming on his way back from a terrible training session with a squadron of rookies.

Yes, the signs are all quite obvious to a happily married man like John Price, because he remembers the honeymoon phase with his wife in the beginning of their relationship all too well.

Meanwhile, Simon manages the one hour long drive from base to your flat downtown in 37 minutes, and he takes the fact that he got caught speeding in stride. And what if he loses his driver's license? He's broken much worse laws in his lifetime than driving without legal documents.

The spare key to your home that you've gifted him with, feels heavier than all his tac gear combined as it rests in his jeans pocket heavy with meaning and responsibility, a reminder that he's found a new purpose in his life.

He sheds and leaves his gear and dirty fatigues in his truck, and he takes three steps at once as he rushes upstairs to your flat with single-minded focus, excitement and adrenaline equally coursing through his veins as if he's about to seize a hostile target by himself.

The familiar front door closes behind him with a soft click, and then he's greeted by peace and quiet.

Instead of finding fear or annoyance, Simon is met by raw happiness and adoration as he watches your eyes light up once you notice his presence all curled up and cozy on your couch.

"Hi!"

His socked feet make no noise as he approaches you over the carpeted floor.

"I didn't expect you for another hour," you tell him, even though he very well remembers what time he'd told you he'd arrive, though he had added two hours to that time frame just so he wouldn't disappoint you if he didn't make it.

"Your dinner is ah!"

Simon picks you up with practiced ease, and your little shriek of surprise dissolves in a fit of melodic giggles. Bulky arms wrap around your body and cradle you to his chest bridal style as he carries you towards the bedroom with simmering urgency.

The words he mumbles as explanation come out gruff and harsh, oafish even, but you can't help and feel utterly smitten by them: "Bed. Now."

You're dropped onto the mattress without warning, and the way you laugh again makes Simon's chest hurt with how hard his bloody heart flutters.

And then you're already reaching out for him right when he joins you, mattress dipping beneath his added weight as he drapes himself over the full length of your body; slotting his meaty thigh between your legs until he can lay down more comfortably on top of you like a weighted blanket.

"Can you rub my shoulders? Please?"

His voice is muffled as he nuzzles his flushed face in the crook of your neck. Sometimes, it still feels forbidden to ask for something so mundane from the person he would die for.

"Yeah, sure. Can I take off your mask?"

You can carve out his heart with a butter knife if you'd like, but he chooses to keep that to himself for now while the fact that you're asking for his consent again makes his head feel fuzzy and his arms tighten around your warm, welcoming frame reflexively.

Simon nods. "Aye, take it off f'me."

The cloth is gently removed when he manages to lift his head up before letting it drop back into the crook of your neck, and then your fingers card through his short, disheveled strands of dirty blonde hair; blunt nails scratching lightly at his skull until a full-body shudder runs along his spine.

It's heavenly.

It's more than he ever wanted and everything he never even dared to wish for.

It's a routine he's managed to build up with you from scratch.

Strangers to lovers, and he will never let you go now that he's sunken his sharpened claws into your willing flesh.

Yet he is but a tamed kitten in your tender embrace. Just a man enjoying and craving the simplest and purest form of affection right in this moment, stripped bare from his demons as you keep them off his back with your sheer, golden presence.

"You're safe now, Si. I missed you so much, baby," you coo into his ear, and his brain fills with cotton while he noses along your pulse point, breathing in your calming scent.

Then he feels the gentle press of your lips against his temple while your warm palms stroke and rub along his back, and he melts into a vulnerable puddle, exhausted eyes finally fluttering shut.

"Missed ya, too, pet," he murmurs gruffly, chapped lips brushing over your sensitive skin. "M'not gonna move f'a while, yeah?"

And Simon barely registers your answer when he's already drifting off into a dreamless slumber, allowing himself to cling to your body like a needy child while soaking up the warmth and comfort you're giving him oh so willingly.

He's home.

[clancykolzig]

kinda interested in #9 with Frankie or Joel hehe feel like it’s one you’d usually see with Javi so I’m going Frankie or joel!

frankie morales x f!reader

prompt: revenge sex

--

"Just a fuck," he called you last week, when you pressed to define what you were to each other. "Just having fun," he said.

Your stomach sank, but you didn't let him see it. Instead, you took that hurt and disappointment and turned it into calculating fury.

A fixture in their group since Benny had brought you along one night to hang, you got on fast that night with Will and Santi, but it was Frankie who held back; those dark eyes under the brim of his cap flitting over to you every now and then.

He was the quiet one that night at the bar, but he was far from quiet when you got him alone later.

It was all "tell me how you like it" and "fuck, you're so tight" and "you take it so fucking good". Filth poured out of his mouth until you were rung out and sprawled across his bed, his warm spend sliding down the inside of your thigh.

When being desperately manhandled and pounded into the mattress one night a week wasn't cutting it for you anymore, he pushed away your attempt at defining what you were to each other out of some sort of fucked up self-loathing. Forcing distance, "for the good of you".

Well if he wanted to play a game, you'd play it. If he wasn't going to stake claim on you, then you'd give someone else a shot.

Never mind that you didn't really want anyone but him.

You felt his eyes on your back when you sat at the bar instead of their usual table. You felt the heat of his constant, burning gaze when you were approached by a stranger. You felt the tension he radiated from the other side of the room every time you did your best fake laugh.

When you placed your hand on the thigh of the man who had been talking at you for the last fifteen minutes and when he responded with a sly smile of his own and an offer to pay the tab so you could get out of there, his vacated stool was immediately occupied by someone else.

"What are you doing?" he seethed, low, under his breath.

Your heart hammering at his proximity and your panties a damp cling at his warm, familiar scent, you kept your face cool and collected when you turned to meet Frankie's eyes.

"Just having fun," you replied, the picture of nonchalance.

His eyes flashed under the brim of his cap, and he leaned in closer.

"Does he know you aren't going home with him?" he pressed.

"Who says I'm not?" You pretended to pick a piece of lint off your jeans, and he snatched your wrist. His hold was firm, yet delicate enough not to hurt -- a picture of his entire personality.

He used his grip to tug you close.

"Me."

--

You don't know what happened to the man you left at the bar, and you don't care.

All you care about is getting Frankie's belt buckle open in your frantic fumbling, the rough fabric in the bench seat of his truck scratching your back, the hot, solid press of his body on top of yours and the slide of his tongue in your mouth.

He kisses you like he owns you, like he can't stop until he's consumed you, and with the anger simmering between your bodies, it ratchets the heat even higher. You claw into his shoulders, and he grinds his hips harder between your thighs. You dig your heels into his back, and he circles your wrists in a one-handed hold to trap above your head.

"Why do you even fucking care?" you pant between his kisses.

He groans deep when he tugs his zipper down, pulling the heft of his cock out. "Because you're mine. You go home with me."

"I thought I was just a fuck," you mock, your words losing their edge as he slides the thick tip of his cock along your soaked seam. "I thought --"

Pushing the air from your lungs with a filling surge forward, tandem sounds of pleasure sound through the small truck cabin, the air humid with lust.

"You thought fucking wrong, okay?" His confession should sound sterner, but the desperation in it pairs with the groan he lets out with every rock forward. "You're mine. This is mine."

"Don't say it if you don't mean it," you whine, your jaw clenching as he forces himself deeper. He's always a lot to take, but he's fucking you like he needs to merge your bodies together, like he'll die if he doesn't burrow under your skin.

He sucks on the length of your neck, scraping the delicate skin with his teeth. His hips never ceasing in their roll, you match his rhythm with your own, relishing the stretch of his cock inside.

"I'm sorry, baby," he confesses. His voice is softer, low, for your ears alone. "I didn't mean it before. I never should have -- fuck, you feel so good," his eyes clenched tight, "I never should have said that."

The words and the sentiment are more romantic than your location: the parking lot of a shitty bar, sprawled out inside the cab of his truck -- and yet it's his eyes that make you forget it all.

Those eyes. Those beautiful, doleful eyes, so full of depth from the very first time you met.

The previous anger in them has melted away, leaving behind hooded lust, rich with promise.

"You gonna come, baby?" His mouth presses along the center of your chest, and your fingers thread through his thick curls. His back rounds with every stroke of his hips, and you cling to him, opening your thighs wider. "My pussy gonna come for me?"

His.

It is his. It's been his since that first night, and it's his tonight.

"Yours?" you ask, the one-word question holding your heart and everything else along with it.

He makes sure your eyes are on his before he answers; a plead within his own one word response.

"Mine."

[clancykolzig]

This poor omega…she’s physically exhausted and now she’s going to be mentally exhausted trying to figure Curtis out. On another note, I would try Curtis’ pancakes any day of the week 😉😉😉

Enjoyed Part/chapter 2. Looking forward to the development of this story.

Still Life 2

Pairing: Alpha Curtis Everett x Omega Female Reader

Word Count: ~5.9k

Summary: Curtis has been volunteering as a foster alpha for three years now. He's never seen a case this bad...

Warnings: Heavy angst (with an eventual happy ending), past abuse (not Curtis), alpha/beta/omega dynamics, physical scarring, extreme sexism (both external and internal), adult themes, referenced past non-con (including but not limited to somnophilia, partner-sharing, and drugging), fear of non-con, the slowest burn I've done yet. All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me this time!

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Here am I, the angst fairy, coming to really bum you out right before Valentine's Day! You're welcome? 😂 But seriously, friends, this is a rough one, so please read the warnings and take care of yourself!

A huge thanks to @bigtreefest who talked through so much of this with me, and @stargazingfangirl18 who helped me figure out the particulars of how alpha/omega dynamics work in this world (both for this part and going forward)!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You should’ve expected this. It was exactly what they’d always said would happen. That the government abhorred personal freedom and one day they would come to try to take everything the alphas had built for themselves. They wanted to seize all the land and the guns and capture the omegas to sell them off to the highest bidder or put them in a breeding program. 

But before, whenever the topic came up, whichever alpha was ranting against big government, be it Franco, Wilford, or your father, would inevitably turn to what would happen when the government pigs came to take what was theirs. The mindless troops would be met with guns and fire and pure alpha might. And they’d learn what happened when you messed with true alphas.

But that wasn’t what happened, was it? No. That wasn’t what led to you standing in the middle of your new alpha’s house. You should count yourself lucky, you supposed, that you hadn’t ended up in a breeding program—horror stories about those programs used to keep you up at night as a teenager. Stories whispered among the omegas, a reminder of how lucky you all were to be safe in the compound.

You hadn’t felt safe for a long time, but you weren’t sure you’d ever been in this much danger. You were completely on your own, given away to one of the biggest alphas you’d ever seen. Much bigger than Franco or Wilford. You’d never be able to fight him. He’d be able to hurt you even worse than either of them.

That was all you could think about as he showed you around his house. You didn’t know why he was bothering. You were sure you’d only need to know where his bedroom and the kitchen were. 

But still, he showed you the living room, the bathrooms, a room he called his home office. It was outside of that room that he stopped and turned to you. “I work from home,” he said, his voice a steady rumble. “So I’ll be around if you ever need me. I just ask that you knock first before coming in if I’m working. Okay?”

“Yes, Alpha,” you said by rote, but your mind was racing. He would always be here. You’d never get a break. There’d be no way to hide anything from him. Even Franco had left the house every day to go about his business, whatever that was. Sure, you still had Martha trying to know all of your secrets, but as long as you did the chores and kept the pups out of her way, you could deal with her. And as much as you hated Franco’s First Omega, she was still better than him.

At the thought of your Alpha, you swore the mark on your neck throbbed. Where was he now? Locked up? Dead?? Did it even matter? He wasn’t actually your alpha anymore. He used to talk sometimes about how before civilization when it was everyone out for themselves in the wilderness and omegas were scarce, stronger alphas would kill weaker ones and steal their omegas, biting over the existing mark. He’d laugh when he described the ravaged state of an omega’s neck bearing mark after mark until she was finally captured by an alpha strong enough to keep her. He always looked at you when he said that last part, at your mark. 

But he hadn’t been strong enough to keep you, had he? Not in the end. None of them had been.

The alpha had moved on down the hall and you scrambled to keep up with him. He stopped in front of a doorway, blocking your view inside. “This is my room,” he said.

You took a deep breath. Okay. It was time then. You could do this. You could be a good omega. You waited for him to move into the room so you could follow, but instead, he gestured to the room behind you. “And that one’s yours.” 

It took you a moment to understand what he’d said. Then you slowly turned around, confused, to find a small bedroom. Without thinking, you took a few tentative steps inside. It was bright, the sun streaming in through the curtains. There was a bed in the center of the room, covered in a dove gray quilt with flowers stitched into it. There was a collection of dusty rose pillows covering the top third, in all sorts of shapes and sizes. A plush-looking chair in a similar color was tucked into the corner. There was a big window set into the far wall. Sheer curtains softly billowed over it. Two bins were stacked beneath it. Against the perpendicular wall, sat a short dresser made of dark wood, and next to it a small closet. Across from that, you could see a little ensuite bathroom. All of it was much nicer than the little room with the thin cots that you used to share with Martha and Emmy when any one of you wasn’t in Franco’s bed. You couldn’t understand why he was giving it to you. Just you. As far as you could tell, there weren’t any other omegas here. It was much too nice for you on your own.

You turned back to him, hoping to find some clues there, but he had the same vaguely soft look on his face he’d had since you’d first walked into the room at the center you’d first been brought to. You didn’t like that look, didn’t know what to do with it. It’d drop soon anyway. You knew it would. The waiting was the worst part.

You dropped your gaze when he cleared his throat. “There’s nesting supplies in those two bins under the window. With or without alpha scent. So you can go ahead and make yourself comfortable.”

You blinked at the two bins he’d gestured to. You didn’t understand what he wanted you to do, but you nodded anyway with a quiet, “Yes, Alpha.”

He hovered in the doorway, not taking even one step into the room. “Are you still hungry?” he asked.

You shook your head. He’d stopped and gotten you a breakfast sandwich on the way to his house and had let you eat it in his truck. You’d eaten it quickly so he couldn’t change his mind, extremely careful not to get any crumbs on his upholstery. 

He sighed and you were gripped by panic that you may have disappointed him. You had no idea how you might have done that but this wouldn’t be the first time that an alpha’s expectations had been unknowable to you. But he didn’t say anything about it or make any move to punish you. You kept a wary eye on him anyway.

“Well,” he said, taking a step back into the hallway. “I have some calls to make and a little work to do. I know you’ve had a long night, so I’ll let you rest for a bit. But please come get me if you need anything.” 

“Yes, Alpha,” you whispered, knowing for a fact that you would do absolutely everything you could not to disturb him. An omega’s job was to make her alpha’s life easier, to bring him pleasure. Omegas didn’t need things. They should never be that selfish. You would show this alpha how good you could be. To protect yourself, you’d do whatever you could.

He looked at you, a furrow between his brows, then just nodded and walked down the hall. You waited for a moment to make sure he didn’t come back. When he didn’t, you carefully made your way around the room. You placed your knapsack on the chair in the corner and took out the only other dress you’d managed to grab on your way out of Franco’s house to hang up in the closet. It looked pathetic, hanging by itself. You took off your shoes and placed them underneath it. Finally, you took the little friendship bracelet out of it’s hiding place at the bottom of the bag. You reverently set it on the dresser, the little ballerina charm Grace had managed to sneak into the house for you hanging off the wood. 

You turned towards the two bins against the wall. The alpha clearly wanted you to do something with them but you had no idea what. You gingerly opened the first bin and were immediately hit by the strong scent of cedar and leather and alpha, the same scent that had engulfed you in his truck and subtly permeated this house. But this bin was like being slapped in the face with it. You couldn’t breathe. You closed it as fast as you could. You were even more cautious as you opened the second bin, but you weren’t struck by any strong scents as you removed the lid that time. You looked inside to find a collection of blankets and pillows. You carefully touched one to find the softest blanket you’d ever felt. Without thinking, you brought it out of the box and buried your face in it, as tears pricked at your eyes. You didn't want to cry anymore. It wouldn't change anything. 

You pulled the blanket after you as you climbed onto the bed. You’d been awake for most of the last twenty-four hours and you could finally feel the adrenaline leeching out of you. The intense fear was still there, but it could no longer overpower your extreme exhaustion. You wrapped the blanket around yourself and quickly fell asleep.

You weren’t sure what exactly had woken you up, but your heart was already racing. Nightmares you couldn’t remember but could still feel were wrapped around you. You sat up and tried to force yourself to breathe. You weren’t in the compound anymore. You never would be again. You wished that could be a comfort to you, but now you were surrounded by unknown threats and dangers. You shouldn’t be so upset. This was just what happened to omegas. You’d been suddenly uprooted from your home before, dropped somewhere you didn’t know anything or anyone. It’d probably happen again. Especially if you didn’t do everything you could to please this alpha.

You wrapped the blanket tighter around yourself. It was one of the softest things you’d ever felt. You almost felt safe in this little cocoon you’d made yourself. Then you saw movement in the open doorway.

The alpha stood there, knocking softly on the door, something tucked under one arm. “Hey, I thought you might be awake,” he said, his voice quieter than you’d ever heard an alpha speak before. “Can I come in?”

“Yes, Alpha,” you said immediately, even as you felt that fear rising in your chest again. You didn’t know why he was asking.

He stopped and looked at you carefully, which made you shrink down as much as you could. He sighed with a small grimace. “On second thought, how ‘bout you come join me in the living room? Whenever you’re ready.” 

He took off down the hall, and, after you’d carefully put the blanket away, you followed him. He stood in the middle of the cozy room. “Sit wherever you’d like,” he said. 

You looked at the two plush couches and the recliner with panic. Was this a test? Was there a right answer? Where would he sit? You never would have sat before Franco. That would have gotten you in so much trouble. Was this alpha trying to trick you?

After a few moments, he softly called your name. “You can sit on that couch, if you want,” he said, gesturing to the larger of the two sofas. You let out a sigh of relief as you sat where he pointed. He sat on the other side of the same couch, giving you plenty of space, then took out what he’d been holding under his arm, revealing it to be a laptop, like Franco Jr used to have. He opened it and held it out to you. “You need more clothes. We have a stipend from the Center to get you the things you need so don't worry about the cost. Do you know how online shopping works?” You just sort of shrugged unsure of what the right answer was. You knew how to use a computer, but Franco had made sure none of his omegas ever had any access to his money, as was his right as the Alpha. “That’s fine,” he said, then showed you the buttons you needed to press to make an order. Then, inconceivably, he passed the computer over to you. “Pick out whatever you like, then if it’s all available at a local store, we’ll hopefully be able to get it delivered by tonight.” Then he sat back, giving you space.

You looked at the webpage in front of you, filled with dozens of pictures of models in different pieces of clothing. The title at the top of the page said Omega Loungewear, but as you scrolled down through the pictures, you couldn’t understand why. None of this was appropriate for omegas. There were leggings and shorts, t-shirts and tank tops, big baggy sweaters, something called bralettes that you couldn’t believe they were just showing pictures of right out in the open. There were some cotton dresses that might be ok, depending on what the alpha wanted, but he hadn’t told you. He wanted you to know. He wanted you to be good. To prove it. And everything was available in different colors and patterns and you didn’t know how many you were supposed to pick out or what he wanted or– 

You hadn’t realized your breathing had picked up until he was kneeling in front of you. “Hey,” he said very gently, his hands held out in front of him but not touching you, “hey, it’s okay. You’re alright. Can you please tell me what’s going on?”

You gulped. You were being a stupid omega. This was why omegas shouldn’t make decisions. You lifted the laptop up and passed it back to him. “I don’t know, Alpha,” you said very quietly, nodding to the computer. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no need for apologies, it’s totally fine.” He stopped to think, then with a grimace and a sigh, “Would you like me to pick out some things for you and order them?”

You slumped in relief. He’d know what was okay for you to get. You wouldn’t have to guess. “Yes, Alpha. Thank you, Alpha.”

“That’s another–” he shook his head sadly. “You don’t– You don’t need to address me as alpha. You can call me Curtis, or, or anything. You can call me whatever you want. Whatever makes you comfortable.”

That was definitely a trick. Calling him anything other than Alpha was 100% not allowed. You had the marks on your body to prove it. Omegas might have been stupid, but you were smart for your kind and you wouldn’t fall for this just to be punished. After everything that had happened, you had more self-preservation than that.

“Yes, Alpha,” you said, your eyes on the ground. 

He let out another heavy sigh. “Right,” he said, as he stood up. “I had lunch while you were sleeping, but I set some aside for you. Let me go get it, And then we can” he looked around, flaring his arms to the side, “I don’t know. Watch TV, I guess?”

“Yes, Alpha,” you said, quietly, still not looking at him.

He sighed again. This alpha sighed a lot. He was disappointed in you. He just stood there for a long moment. You could feel him looking at you. You sank back into the couch, trying to make yourself as small as possible. There was another sigh, then, “I’ll be right back.” He turned on the TV as he left the room, leaving the remote within your reach, but you didn’t dare touch it. Another trap.

Franco had had a big TV. He watched a lot of sports and news shows hosted by strong alpha men that talked about how the government was trying to strip alphas of their rightful power. Sometimes there were pretty blonde beta and omega women there to say the same thing. There were other news channels too, but they were all secretly owned by the government and only told lies. 

When Franco was gone, Martha used to sneak into the living room to watch her stories while you and Emmy did chores or took the younger pups outside. You never joined her; she and Emmy would just yell at you for being lazy if you tried. 

So, now, you did your best to ignore whatever was playing until a voice caught your attention. “On tonight’s Eyewitness News at 5, government agencies raid an alpha supremacist group calling themselves The Snowpiercer Collective–” You felt your heartrate pick up. On the screen were images of the compound—the storage barns, the meeting hall, Wilford’s house. Then video of the people in their tactical gear with initials you didn’t understand on their backs holding guns and–

You weren’t sure what had woken you up first, the dogs barking or the sound of guns being fired. Emmy was standing over you, her eyes wide with panic, while Martha screamed behind her for both of you to get your lazy asses moving and get the pups. You didn’t know what was going on. None of you had been in Franco’s bed that night, which meant your little room was full and you’d had to sleep on the floor while the other two claimed the cots. You were stiff and slow and confused as you tried to get moving, still half-asleep. As you cut through the living room to get to the pups’ rooms—you could hear the youngest ones sobbing—you saw that it was still pitch black out, but then the sky would briefly light up with a loud crack of whatever was being fired much too close to your home for comfort. What was happening? Who was there? Where was Franco? He’d left the night before to go play poker with some of the other alphas, so more likely than not, he’d passed out somewhere in the compound before he’d been able to drunkenly stumble home. It’d been a relief that night, but now it meant that you were all completely defenseless from whoever was attacking you.

The three of you gathered the children and tried to herd them out the back door, toward the entrance to the bunker that was about twenty feet behind the house. But as soon as you opened the door, you were met with a full SWAT team and everyone was screaming and their guns were pointed at you and–

“Shit!”

The alpha’s voice brought you back to the present. You were on the floor. You were in your new alpha’s house and you were on the floor. The TV was off and he was crouched in front of you, the remote still in his hand. Your face was wet, tears streaming down your cheeks. You weren’t in the compound anymore, but that didn’t make you feel any safer. He was trying to talk to you, saying something, his tone gentle, but you couldn’t process his words. You were scared and you were tired. And you knew it was bad, you knew it wasn’t what you should do, but you were out of energy and you couldn’t stop yourself from curling up into a ball on the floor and finally sobbing like you’d wanted to since you’d been put into the back of that SWAT van.

You weren’t sure if you woke up, so much as just came to. There was a blanket draped over you—it’d been on the couch, maybe—and a pillow pushed under your head. The alpha must have done it, but you couldn’t imagine him taking such care with you. You could hear the murmurs of a one-sided conversation coming from the other room. 

You slowly sat up. Your eyes hurt and your mouth was dry. You were making a very bad impression on your new alpha. What must he think of you? You would have to work very hard over the next few days to show him that you did actually know how to be a good omega. You would do better.

The alpha took that moment to appear at the entrance to the living room. He held a phone to his ear. “I gotta go, Tanya. I’ll talk to you soon.” He put his phone in the back pocket of his jeans as he took a few steps into the room, then stopped. He stared at you and you dropped your gaze to the floor. You did your very best to keep your breaths even. It was always the worst with Franco when you couldn’t predict him, and you had no idea what this alpha would do.

He cleared his throat. “How are you feeling?” he asked quietly. Before you were able to figure out the best answer to that question, he shook his head. “No, that’s– that’s a stupid question, I know.” He crouched down so he was closer to your level while still several feet away. “Look, I can’t even imagine what you’ve been through, but I want to help you, ok? However I can, I’m here to help you.”

Your mind was racing. Why would he say that? To trick you, a little voice inside you said. That had to be it. Wilford had done that too. Pretended to be friendly and kind and helpful. Until he stopped pretending and you learned who he really was. You shivered at the memory of him. You’d learned your lesson. You wouldn’t be surprised again.

He stayed like that for a few moments, while you kept your head down and didn’t move. Finally he stood up. “I ordered some food. It should be here soon. And your clothes came. So if you want, you could put them away while we wait, and then join me in the kitchen for dinner?”

“Yes, Alpha,” you said quietly as you made yourself stand up. He followed suit and walked into the kitchen where he picked up two canvas bags with the same logo on them and handed them to you. You peered inside. You couldn’t see the shape of the clothes yet, but you could tell there were many items, all in soft pastel colors. 

“I had to make some guesses on sizing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “And, uh, well. It looks like the clothes you currently have maybe don’t fit you quite right? So. So these might feel different.”

You ducked your head. The dress you were wearing had been Martha’s. Your shoes had been Emmy’s. They pinched your toes. Being third omega meant having to make do with what you were given. Even as a kid, everything you’d had had belonged to your older sisters first. You didn’t think you’d ever been the first person to wear something.

You clutched the bags to your chest and whispered, “Thank you, Alpha,” before hurrying down the hall to the bedroom you’d been given. You checked each item as you put it away. Leggings, t-shirts, sweaters, shorts, all made from some of the softest material you’d ever felt. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to spend actual money if it was just a trick or a test, would he? You’d done what you were supposed to, you’d let him choose, so even though these weren’t the clothes you were used to, it’d be okay to wear them, wouldn’t it? You worried your bottom lip. He’d picked them out. This was what he wanted.

At the sound of the doorbell, you hurried back out and arrived in the kitchen as he approached the small table with a short stack of flat, square boxes. “I hope pizza’s okay,” he said. “I got a couple different kinds, so hopefully there’s something you like.”

You didn’t respond. You were good at taking what was given to you. You stood next to the table and waited as he arranged the boxes and put a plate in front of each of you. You didn’t sit down until he did. He opened one of the boxes and gestured to its contents. “Help yourself,” he said. You kept your hands in your lap until he placed a slice on his own plate. Then you grabbed one from the same box. Once he took a bite, you started eating. It was so good. Much better than the frozen pizzas you would occasionally have at the compound. And as soon as you started eating, you realized you were starving. You hadn’t really had lunch, distracted by your ridiculous freakout. You inhaled your first slice, then stared at the box, wondering if it was worth the risk to try to take more. The alpha must have seen you looking because he took two more pieces from the box and placed them on your plate. “Have as much as you want,” he said. “There’s plenty to go around.” 

After a few more minutes of eating in silence, the alpha stood up abruptly, the back legs of his chair scraping loudly against the floor. You jumped in your seat and tried to make yourself small as he briefly loomed over you. 

He moved to the counter and came right back with the little cardboard box the Omega at the center had tried to give you. You shrank back as he held it out to you. “I almost forgot,” he said, “here are the suppressants if you want to start taking them tonight.”

You froze. You tried to force your hand to take the pills from him, but your limbs refused to move. You remembered the first time you'd been sent to Wilford, the High Alpha, the little white pill he'd given you. “To help,” he'd said. But it'd just made you feel tired, loose, disconnected from your body. Defenseless when he'd– Or other times, different pills, different colors and shapes, that'd made you feel like you were going into heat even though it wasn't time yet. That'd made you need things you didn't actually want. And the way Wilford had smiled at you and– 

Your new alpha was looking at you curiously, the pack of pills still in his hand, a mask of concern on his face. You needed to take it. An alpha was giving you something. You should take it. You should take it. You should take it. “What do they do?” you blurted out without meaning to. Oh god. You were in so much trouble. 

All he did at first was blink at you. “What do suppressants do?” he repeated back to you, looking slightly surprised. He withdrew his hand and sat down. “They stop your heats, is the biggest thing, for however long you take them.”

Why– Your heats belonged to your alpha. The whole point of them, of you, was to give your alpha pleasure. And pups. Why would he offer this to you? “You want me to take them?” you whispered.

“I–” He hummed and scratched his beard. “I want you to do whatever makes you feel most comfortable.” 

You looked at him as he made his face go completely blank. It was clearly another test and you weren't sure what the right answer was. Not just taking whatever pills he gave you was obviously bad. But if you had, you would have unknowingly denied him access to your heats, which was unforgivable. It was like you were being set up to fail. Maybe he was just looking for an excuse to punish you. Franco would sometimes do that too. You felt the flare of anger igniting in the pit of your stomach, but you took a deep breath to snuff it out. That would only get you in more trouble. You decided to commit to hopefully what was the lesser disobedience. “No, thank you, Alpha.”

He didn’t react for a moment and you were terrified you’d made the wrong choice. But his scent stayed mostly neutral and when he finally spoke, he just said, “Ok. That’s fine. But if you change your mind later, these will be here. And we can always talk about it again.”

You shook your head. You wouldn’t do that. You were good.

The alpha went to bed right after dinner, saying he was tired from having to wake up early to get you. You’d tried to apologize, but he looked at you funny, so you stopped.

Once he’d left you, you familiarized yourself with his kitchen, then did a thorough wipe down of the kitchen table, and swept underneath it.

When that was done, you retreated to the room he’d given you. There’d been some toiletries mixed in with the clothes he got for you, so you went into the little en suite and took a shower. It felt incredible, not having anyone banging on the door to get in next, or having to worry about using all of the hot water. For everything that was bad and scary about this situation, the chance at being a First Omega wasn’t one of them. Sure, you’d be the sole focus of your alpha’s attention, at least until he got another one, but it came with its perks too.

After your shower, you put on some of the new clothes. They were soft and cozy, cozier than anything you’d ever worn before. Then you climbed into the bed. You’d been so exhausted that morning that you hadn’t noticed much about it, but now, you felt like you were lying on a cloud. And it was so big, just as big as Franco’s bed. You’d be able to really stretch out in it when you were alone.

But would you be alone tonight? You got off the bed to peek out of the room to see that the alpha’s door was closed. You thought about closing your door, there was a lock on it, but if he really wanted to come in, all it would do was slow him down. And get you in trouble in the process. You closed it about three-fourths of the way. That wouldn’t technically be breaking any rules.

Not that you really knew what the rules were. Well, you knew the rules all omegas knew, but every alpha had their own as well. Your father did. Franco did. Wilford certainly had on the nights you had to be with him. But this alpha hadn’t bothered to tell you his yet. Another way to trick you into disobeying him.

You curled up on the bed, wrapping the soft blanket from the bin around yourself. You’d slept a lot of the day. Hopefully, that meant you wouldn’t need to sleep through the night. You wanted to be ready, when the alpha inevitably came for you. You wouldn’t fight him. The bite mark on your neck was proof enough that that wouldn’t do any good. But you just… you hated waking up in the middle of it. You’d rather know what was happening.

You turned over onto your side, trying to get comfortable, as you felt tears welling in your eyes. Again. If Martha were here, she’d yell at you for being a stupid child. You wondered where she’d ended up. Neither she nor Emmy had been shoved into the same van as you. Were they together? What had happened to their pups? You’d probably never see any of them ever again. You didn’t know what it said about you that you didn’t feel much of anything at that thought. Nothing good, probably.

You’d never see Franco again either. A good omega would feel grief at that. A good omega would miss him. Try as hard as you might, maybe you’d never been a very good omega. Maybe that’s how you’d ended up where you were.

You turned over again. You couldn’t get comfortable. This bed was too soft. You got up with a grumble, grabbing the blanket and one of the pillows and dragging them to the corner of the room. You were good at making yourself comfortable on the floor. That would be better. If he got upset that you weren’t waiting for him in bed, then at least you’d learn what his punishments were like.

You huddled into the wall and pulled the blanket tight around yourself, settling in to wait.

You woke with a start. You looked around, trying to get your bearings. You were in that little bedroom. The sun was streaming in through the curtains. Oh god, you’d fallen asleep! You hadn’t meant to do that. As you started to panic, you realized you were still curled up in the corner. Your clothes were still on. The door was exactly how you’d left it. He hadn’t come to take you in the night. You were filled with a strange mix of intense relief and something that felt a lot like dejection. Why hadn’t he come? It didn’t make any sense.

 You heard the clinking of dishware coming from another part of the house just as the scent of breakfast wafted in. Your head shot up, confused. Who was making it? Was there an omega here after all?

You got up and quickly got dressed in another pair of leggings and one of the big, slouchy sweaters. You followed the noise to the kitchen and came to a sudden halt in the doorway. The alpha was making pancakes. You had never seen an alpha cook, not even once, in your entire life. Alphas didn’t cook. That was omegas’ work. Was this his way of rubbing your face in the fact that you were already falling down on the job? Your first morning here and you’d already neglected your duties to the point that he had to cook for himself?

He turned around when he realized you were there and you braced yourself for whatever was coming. But instead of yelling at you, a wide smile overtook his face. “Hey, good morning! I hope you slept okay.” You couldn’t do much other than blink at him, but his smile didn’t falter. “Go ahead and sit,” he said, gesturing to the table. “This’ll be done in just a couple minutes.”

“I can finish it, Alpha” you tried, your voice timid.

He immediately shook his head. “No, no. You’re a guest. Sit down. It’s almost done.”

You did as he said and sat, not taking your eyes off him. This was the strangest alpha you’d ever met. You didn’t understand anything about him. How could you predict him when you didn’t understand him?

True to his word, it was just a few minutes later that he was setting a plate in front of you, along with some syrup. You gingerly poured it over your pancakes, as he sat across from you and did the same. As you carefully cut a small bite for yourself, you felt him watching you, even though he acted like he wasn’t. You took a bite and your eyes fluttered closed. These were the best pancakes you’d ever tasted. Much better than Emmy’s. Much better than yours. 

A small “mmm” escaped your lips. You opened your eyes, embarrassed, to find him still grinning at you. “That’s the first thing you should know about me,” he said, “I make really good pancakes.”

Tag List is open!

@yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @midnightramyeoncravings @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @steviebbboi @missaprilt23 @thiquefunlover63 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @stellar-solar-flare @alexakeyloveloki @kmc1989 @awkwardgiraffe726 @crazyunsexycool @littlelearningbrat @travelingmypassion @forgetmenotsilly @ashesofblackroses @lovinglimerence @veltana @venezsuwayla @rainporch @sinisterdispute @forcrybaby @hannah9921 @blogbog710 @moneybaby07 @jeremyrennermakesmesmile @brianochka @cookiesandwhimsy @ghoulsgraveyard @perdidosbucky-yyo @identity2212 @keiva1000 @saiyanprincessswanie @lokislady82 @gremlin-girly

[clancykolzig]

Puppy Love

Pairing: Curtis Everett x Fem!Reader x Jake Jensen Word Count: 2,566 Summary: With each passing day, you, Curtis, and Jake settle more and more into your new routine as a pack. Warnings: Explicit sexual content. Explicit language. A/B/O. M/F/M. Pet play elements. Lots of praise. Even more fluff. Also a ridiculous amount of hand holding. Vaginal fingering.   

A/N: I was pleasantly surprised that PT!Curtis & Jake won my recent poll! I hope you enjoy their next installment ❤️

POUND TOWN MASTERLIST

You angled the three pillows together, shaping them into an almost headboard. Taking an extra moment to fluff them in a way that made them look even more cozy, you lingered–uncertain–before finally stepping back. 

“How’s that?” you asked, shyly peeking up at Jake as he stood beside you in the master bedroom.

His smile was beaming, lighting up his whole face as he earnestly replied, “I think it looks perfect, omega.”

The happy chirp was quick to rise up your throat and bubble free, and Jake’s smile turned soft as he wrapped his free arm around your back and tugged you against him. 

“Are you sure I did it right?” you fretted as your judgmental gaze flickered back to the nest you had fashioned in your, Jake, and Curtis’ bed. 

“You did it just like the video tutorial,” Jake promised, holding up the tablet in his other hand that he had used to help you learn how to make a nest properly.

Like a good omega.

Because that’s all you wanted - to be a good omega, the best omega, because that’s what your new alpha and beta deserved. 

You had only been with them for about a month now, but you already felt like you truly belonged here with them. You also felt like you had stepped into an actual dream, as each day, Jake and Curtis treated you like the most precious, cherished gift. 

Like today, when you had shyly asked Jake if he could help you learn how to make a nest so you could surprise Curtis with it once he got home from work.

Jake hadn’t judged you or your request at all! He hadn’t made you feel stupid because you didn’t know how to do something so basic. In fact, Jake had seemed genuinely excited that you asked him for help to learn this new thing, and you were all the more smitten with him because of it.

“Maybe we could make some videos,” Jake muttered quietly.

“Huh?” you looked over at him, surprised to see his eyes wide and his face turning bright red. 

“Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud.” He gave a short laugh, before jostling you against him and pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Ignore my lizard brain, pretty girl, sometimes I can’t control it, especially when it comes to you.”

You felt your insides flutter at the use of “lizard brain.” That was something you had heard Jake say a few times now, usually when sex was involved.

It took a second, but you put two and two together, remembering Jake’s words and the video you had watched together a bit ago. 

“You want to make a video of us…doing…you know?” An embarrassed and excited kind of heat flooded your face at the very idea, and it looked like Jake wasn’t fairing much better.

“Uh…”

Before he could get much further than that, you heard the sound of the front door opening, and your heart skipped a beat. 

“Curtis is home!” you squealed, grabbing Jake’s hand and pulling him along with you as you hurried out of the bedroom and downstairs to greet your alpha.

Curtis had barely shrugged off his coat before you were pouncing on him and hugging him tight. You breathed in his scent so deeply that it made you dizzy, but you didn’t mind one bit as you popped your head up to meet your alpha’s warm, blue gaze.

“Hi, alpha,” you whispered. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too, sweet omega,” he rumbled back. Pressing a kiss to your forehead, Curtis smoothed a hand over your head, his amused gaze flickering to Jake, who was openly grinning.

Neither of them had actually commented on it, but they loved this trait of yours - how excited you got when one of them arrived home from being out. You were always so quick to greet them at the door with a hug and your warm gaze and quiet, “I missed you.” 

It reminded them both of a loyal, overexcited puppy, and they absolutely adored it. 

“Hey, bub,” Curtis greeted Jake. “Did you two have a good day?”

Because you sort of had a routine now. 

Jake worked from home, doing tech work for a company based out in California, so his days were usually flexible, and the remote work allowed him to stay home with you. 

As a railroad engineer, Curtis was usually gone for most of the day, and sometimes well into the night if he had to travel for his job, and as much as he seemed to enjoy his career, he seemed almost relieved–and very much at peace–once he was home with you and Jake.

“Yeah,” Jake shrugged. “My workload was light so we just hung out most of the day and…” he trailed off, realizing he didn’t want to spoil your surprise.

When his eyes met yours and he cocked his head in question, you immediately followed his train of thought, perking up with a happy, excited sound as you took a step back and eagerly grabbed Curtis’ hand.

“I have a surprise for you!” you were nearly vibrating as you bounced in place. “Can I show you? Please? Can I?”

Lips twitching into a smile, Curtis nodded, laughing quietly as you squeed and turned to pull him upstairs, Jake trailing you both.

Once you were in the bedroom, you stood close to Curtis' side, gazing up at him as his eyes took inventory of the nest you had crafted. 

“You made this for us?” he murmured, his eyes finding yours as his hand touched your back, warming the spot between your shoulders.

You nodded, feeling shy again as Curtis’ gaze returned to the bed. “Do you like it?”

“Sweetheart, I love it,” he smiled down at you. “It’s perfect, just like you.”

Your chirp escaped just before Curtis’ lips touched yours. The kiss was soft and tender, and had your belly somersaulting as you leaned into him more to return his affection.

Humming as he pulled away, Curtis rubbed your back, his eyes so fond as he met your floaty gaze. “Thank you for making us a nest, omega. I can’t wait to curl up in it tonight with you both.”

At the mere thought, a trill fell from your lips–the sound new, even to you–and it immediately had Curtis and Jake converging on you as one for a thorough smushing.

“God, she’s so sweet,” Jake murmured as he nosed along the crown of your head. 

The room began to grow heavy with all of your scents flooding the space, and after a long moment, Curtis sighed before straightening. “Alright, let’s order some dinner and get our sweet girl fed before we lose an entire night to…shenanigans.” 

He gave both you and Jake a faux stern look that had you giggling and Jake trying to look innocent and failing miserably, because the two of you were usually the cause for said shenanigans–most often of the sexual variety–and you both knew it. 

Wanting to obey your alpha, you took his hand in yours, your free one reaching for Jake. “What should we order for dinner?”

“Whatever you want,” Jake and Curtis answered at the same time, and you had to bite back a sound of joy as you allowed them to wrangle you between them and lead you downstairs. 

Even better than your daytime routine with Jake was your evening, pre-bed routine with both Curtis and Jake.

Because it included bath time, which was your absolute favorite. 

So, a few hours after dinner, when Curtis turned off the TV and took your hand to lead you upstairs, you were practically buzzing in anticipation as he led you into the beautiful bathroom just off the bedroom. 

Jake moved past the two of you, turning on the tub and adding your favorite bubble bath. The scent immediately began to fill the vicinity and had you chirping happily as Curtis gently held each of your hands in each of his, waiting.

Your eyes drifted from his beautiful face down to his neck, to where the imprint of your teeth was nicely healing and balancing out Jake’s own bondmark on the other side. Simply looking at your mark on your alpha’s throat had you becoming even more aware of the bond between the three of you.

All of the sudden, now that you were focusing on it, you were nearly bowled over by the feelings flooding through the connection you had with your alpha and beta. 

You could feel Curtis’ almost feral fondness for you, as well as the undercurrent of desire and attraction for you that was always there, a part of him now, just like you were a part of his life, and his pack. 

Jake’s energy was more excitable and uninhibited. You could feel his emotions ping ponging all over the place - joy to be here with both you and Curtis, excitement for bath time and to see you naked, how much he was looking forward to caretaking you in this way, and–much like Curtis–that underlying affection and lust for you always.  

Suddenly, the added heat at your back signaling Jake’s arrival had you blinking back to full awareness, and you shivered as your eyes flickered up to Curtis’. His gaze was much darker than before, and knowing. 

You realized that he could probably feel the way you were just probing your bond with them both–and reveling in it–still in awe that they were yours and you were theirs and you were all connected in this deep, eternal way now.

A pack.

Your pack.

You were sure that all of the feelings rising up within you, as well as slight embarrassment at being caught lost to the bond, was now flooding the bond, but it still didn’t deter your ever focused alpha from the task at hand. 

“Sweet omega,” Curtis husked, ducking down to kiss the tip of your nose. “Ready for your bath?”

You nodded so eagerly, it got a laugh from them both, and then their hands were moving as one. Jake tugged your cute little graphic tee over your head as Curtis pulled down your leggings. 

Your nipples pebbled hard when Jake let loose a happy hum once he undid your bra and tossed it aside. Gasping as his big, warm hands rounded your chest to palm your breasts, you blinked owlishly, catching Curtis’ gaze from where he was crouched down before you, slowly tugging down your panties. When his nostrils flared, you knew he was breathing in the scent of your cunt, and you couldn’t help but whine, your bath suddenly forgotten as your need for them hit you like a freight train.

“Not quite that kind of night, sweetheart,” Curtis winked at you, slowly rising to his feet. “Jake,” his voice was a little more stern as he said your beta’s name, and Jake’s hands instantly froze in their groping of your tits.

“Sorry, I can’t help it,” he pouted at your back before his touch slowly fell away.

Curtis chuckled. “I know you can’t, but let’s get her in the tub first, before the water goes cold.”

They moved as one again to get you settled into the tub, and you hummed at the way the hot water engulfed your body, soothing away all the bits of tension you didn’t even realize you carried until now. 

Jake got to the brightly colored loofah first, grinning at Curtis’ amused look as he reached for the bottle of body wash and squirted some onto the little scrubber. He was gentle as he began to clean you, his gaze lingering on your boobs, which were just visible above the surface of the bubble-filled bath water. 

You caught his gaze, smiling shyly at his attention, and then you were gasping out a quiet, “Oh,” as Curtis’ fingers were suddenly beneath the water and trailing up your cunt.

“Hey!” Jake squawked. “I thought it wasn’t that kind of night!” 

“It's not that kind of night, but this kind of night,” Curtis smirked. “Besides, we want our sweet omega to relax fully, don’t we?”

“Yeah,” Jake nodded without hesitation. His smile was encouraging as he eased you back against the tub wall, where the soft tub pillow was awaiting you. 

Without needing to be asked, you spread your legs to give Curtis more room to work with, a quiet keen escaping you when his fingers circled your clit and had what felt like electricity zipping through your entire body as a result. 

By the time two of his long, thick fingers were filling your cunt and curling to find that spongy spot that made you whimper, Jake had abandoned the loofah altogether to pluck and tug at your hard nipples with his fingers instead.

It took barely a few moments of their combined attention to have you cumming around Curtis’ fingers, your hand reaching for Jake and holding on tight as your body trembled and tightened with wave after wave of pleasure.

And, as per usual after orgasming, you were floaty and sleepy, having barely any recollection at all of your two loves rinsing you off before helping you from the cooling tub.

You could only blink owlishly, a small, dreamy smile curling your lips as Curtis coached you through brushing your teeth before leading you back into the bedroom and drying you off. Then Jake was before you, eagerly applying your moisturizing body cream before Curtis appeared from the walk in closet with a soft, cozy nightgown to dress you in.

You became a little more aware once they turned you toward the bed and your nest came into view. You smiled at them both before carefully climbing into the center of it, then turning your expectant gaze to them.

Sharing a soft smile, Jake and Curtis joined you in bed, one on either side of you, and for the very first time, you were sharing a real nest–made by you–with your alpha and beta.

“See, it’s perfect for us,” Curtis praised as he tugged your favorite blanket up to cover the three of you. 

“You did such a good job,” Jake murmured as he gently caressed your head. “Look at how well you’re taking care of us, giving us our very first nest ever.”

Happy tears blurred your vision as you snuggled between them, so beyond content and filled with joy, that you swore your heart was fit to burst. One of your hands reached for one of theirs, and you took a turn pressing a gentle kiss to each of their knuckles before hugging their hands to your chest as you sank further into the nest.

“I love you both so much,” you murmured sleepily, your happy scent flooding the space as Jake and Curtis shared a look of soft elation. “Thank you for picking me.”

As your heavy eyes blinked shut and stayed that way, your foggy mind descending closer and closer to sleep, you felt your two loves move even closer. Gently sandwiching you between their big bodies, they each echoed your declaration with one of their own before softly petting and caressing you until you fell into a deep, restful sleep. 

🥹🥹🥹 This was basically just pure fluff with a hint of horny, but I don’t think you’ll mind. Please take a moment to drop me some feedback! Thank you for reading! ❤️

—

I no longer do tag lists, but if you'd like to be notified when I post new writing, follow my side blog @‌sirisshamelesshoelibrary​ and turn on notifications to get pinged when I drop some new hoe fuel 😘

Please note that I do not give permission for my work to be translated, reposted, or published anywhere other than my Tumblr. I also do not give permission for my work to be fed into AI platforms. Reblogs are most welcome and encouraged though! ❤️

[clancykolzig]

Poor Bambi…she had no idea. I’ve never watched Snowpiercer but Curtis Everett is one of my favorite CE characters. And this one was so well written!

Luck Be a Lady

Pairing: soft!dark Curtis Everett x female reader

Word Count: ~10.1k

Summary: Desperate for money, you accept a job as a cocktail waitress at an underground casino. You think you know what you're doing, but when you meet Curtis, will you realize you're in over your head?

Warnings: Mob AU, violence, allusions to murder, explicit language, dubcon touching, noncon touching (not Curtis), willfully oblivious reader, SMUT - facefucking, dirty talk, light d/s dynamics, praise kink, other explicit sexual content. This is definitely on the darker end of the soft!dark spectrum, so proceed with caution! All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by @thecutestgrotto

Masterlist

A/N: And here it finally is! This is my first real attempt at soft!dark. I hope I did it right! 😂

This was inspired by two things: 1) me going to a rep screening of Goodfellas and spending the entire time wondering why I hadn't done a mob au yet and 2) @bigtreefest saying "enforcer!Curtis Everett and mob boss!Andy Barber" in my general direction. Thanks for the inspo, friend!!

And big thanks as always to @paperweight91 who not only came up with Curtis's name for reader but also offered heaps of encouragement and was a great sounding board. And thanks to @stargazingfangirl18 for helping me figure out how exactly we'd get to the smut. Thanks Siri!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. Please come scream at me about this! 😄 As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

You fruitlessly tug down your very short skirt as Holly talks at you. You’re both standing in the corner of the bar’s basement waiting for the night to start in earnest—your first night.

“Lloyd’s not so bad,” she says of your boss, the man who runs this little underground gambling ring. “You’ll have to split your tips with him at the end of the night, but he doesn’t take that much, and you’ll make enough that you won’t really notice. As long as you do that, he’ll mostly keep his hands to himself.”

You nod along, glancing at the mustachioed man conferring with the bouncer at the door. The interview process for this job had boiled down to a thorough once-over that’d made you feel naked in your jeans and t-shirt and a “You’re not too stupid to take a drink order, are you?” and then you had the job.

Holly had vouched for you. Neighbors for almost half a year, she’d come home early one morning last week and witnessed you trying to convince the landlord that you were good for your past-due rent. She’d taken you for coffee and told you she might be able to help if you were good at keeping your head down and mouth shut. And now you were here.

“The customers, on the other hand,” she continues, smacking her gum, “you’ll have to let them touch, at least a little bit. Within reason, you know? But if anything gets out of hand, you can just tell Jake at the door and he’ll take care of it.”

“Within reason?” you ask, voice shaking, just the littlest bit, as the pit that started forming in your stomach when you agreed to this grows a little more.

The look she gives you verges on exasperated. “Well, you want to make money, don’t you?”

Yes, you do. Very much so. It’s a need, not a want. So you nod and try to listen as she keeps giving you the rundown. 

Before you’re ready, the first patrons start trickling in and then you’re off to the races. It’s not too bad. No one’s orders are too complicated, mostly just bottles of beer and glasses of straight whiskey. The bartender, Colin, is friendly enough, although you learn that he’s another person you’ll need to split your tips with. 

As for the touching, there are hands on your hips, pats to your ass. But you’re rewarded with folded-up bills held up between fingers or tucked into the strap of your top. Or, twice, slid behind the waistband of your skirt. Once you realize that the majority of these bills aren’t ones or fives, but twenties, you care about the touching that comes with them much less. Plus, you’re too busy to really think about it that hard. 

You can’t believe how busy it is for a random Tuesday night, multiple games of poker, craps, and who knows what else all going at once. But when you mention that to Holly, she just laughs and shakes her head. “This is nothing,” she says. “On the weekends there’ll be three more of us and another one of Jake. Things get wild.” 

You don’t have time to decide whether that makes you nervous or excited before someone is signaling for your attention again. You manage to suppress your grimace when he slides his arm around your waist to tell you what he needs from the bar. You’re rewarded for your troubles by a wad of twenties. You aren’t sure who these men are to tip so freely, but you know better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s an hour or two later that Lloyd calls you over to where he’s speaking to a large, impossibly broad man, dressed in a soft-looking henley under a leather jacket with dark jeans. There’s dark ink all over his hands that disappears up his sleeves and reappears on his neck in intricate lines. He’s got close-cropped hair and a full beard that’s neatly trimmed. His deep blue eyes drill into you right away and you do your best not to shiver.

“Got a new girl tonight, Everett. Still learning the ropes, but she’ll take good care of you, won’t you, Cupcake?” 

“Yes, of course,” you say, before Lloyd wanders off to check on one of the poker games.

The man, Everett, lets his eyes rove over you. “Cupcake, huh?” His voice is deep, gritty, but there's something there that's much gentler than you expected.

You give him what you hope is a coy smile. “Sure. If you want.” Lloyd was treating him like he's important. You hope important means deep pockets.

He hits you with a penetrative stare, so strong you almost have to take a step back. “No,” he finally says. “I don't think so. I'll find something more fitting.” Then he turns and starts to walk away, before calling over his shoulder. “I'm gonna get dealt in. Bring me a whiskey once I'm settled.”

You watch him go for just a moment, and then head to the bar, asking for a whiskey. 

“This for Everett?” the bartender, Colin, asks. When you nod, he grabs a fancy bottle off the top shelf. “This is all he drinks. And he doesn't pay for it, alright? Don't ever think about giving him a bill.” 

You look back at the man in question, seriously looking at the cards he’s just been dealt. Who is he???

You collect his whiskey and move back to him. As you set it down, he turns to you. “How about this?” he asks as he holds up a crisply folded hundred-dollar bill between two fingers. Your eyes widen at the money. All you’ve done is bring him one straight pour. “There’s another one of these in it for you if you make sure I never see the bottom of this glass tonight. Sound good?” And then he folds the bill one more time in his thick fingers, before sliding it under the low-cut neckline of your blouse. Your skin tingles where he brushes against it.

“Yeah, you got it,” you just breathe out, a little shocked you’re able to form words. He gives you a smug smile that you can only describe as shark-like before turning back to his cards, and you understand it as the dismissal that it is. 

You move around the room, collecting empties, getting refills, trying to goodnaturedly accept unsolicited touches. The whole time you feel eyes on you, but whenever you glance Everett’s way, he’s focused on his poker game.

Eventually, a down moment finds you catching your breath against the wall. The moment Holly sees you standing still, she’s quickly making her way to you. “You need to be more careful around Curtis,” she hisses, lowly.

You look at her, confused. “Curtis?” Jake’s at the door. Colin’s behind the bar. You don’t know a Curtis.

“Curtis Everett!” You glance at the man at the poker table. He’s running a poker chip across his knuckles mindlessly. Then he looks up and you briefly make eye contact before you quickly look away. Holly is staring at you and she looks worried. But the name still doesn’t mean anything to you, so you shake your head and shrug. She groans as quietly as she can. “He’s Barber’s top enforcer!”

This whole conversation feels so out of the blue that it takes you a minute to catch up. Barber. Andrew Barber. The most feared mob boss in the city. Probably the state. Maybe even more. Ruthless and exacting was how the papers described him. He’d been the subject of multiple stings and taskforces and whathaveyou but nothing ever stuck. “He works for Andrew Barber?” you ask, shocked and a little appalled.

Holly stares at you in a way that you can only describe as dumbfounded. It takes her a few moments to find her words, then, “Bitch, you work for Andrew Barber!”

Everything stops. “What?” you gasp.

“Oh my god,” Holly groans. “This was such a mistake. It’s an underground card game in his city! Who did you think was running things?”

“I– I don’t know,” you stutter, stupidly. The god’s honest truth is that you’d never really stopped to think about it. You’d been staring down an eviction, struggling to afford groceries. Unable to make ends meet no matter what you did. When Holly told you about this job, all you saw were dollar signs. You didn't think about anything further. Of course, you’d known these games were illegal, but it seemed so minor in the grand scheme of things. You hadn’t connected it to anything bigger because you just hadn’t wanted to.

But now– Now that you know the truth, what are you going to do? You know what you should do. You should walk out the door right now. You should find some other legitimate way to pay your bills. It’ll be safer. It’ll be better. It’ll be so much harder.

As you bite your lip, trying to process all of this information, Holly continues. “Listen,” she says, “still get him drinks, be friendly, whatever you need to do. But keep your distance however you can. Don't encourage him. He's just– He's really dangerous. They don't call him Barber’s attack dog for nothing, ok?”

“Yeah,” you say. You start to look back in Curtis’s direction but stop yourself. You think about the hundred you already have and the one promised to you at the end of the night. You think of how empty your pantry is. But then you see the genuine fear in Holly's eyes. You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah. I got it. Thanks.”

“He doesn't even come in here that often. I'm surprised to see him tonight, so I'm sure it’ll be fine,” she says, but you can tell she’s nervous.

You nod, absently, finally letting yourself glance over at him. His drink is getting close to the bottom. “Shit,” you mumble. “I gotta get him his refill.”

“Do you want me to do it?” Holly asks. 

You should let her do it. You absolutely should. But you just can’t give up on that tip. You shake your head. “No, I’ll be fine. But thanks.”

You head back to the bar and grab Curtis’s top-shelf whiskey of choice from Colin, then make your way to his table. You set it down next to him, hoping to move away without him even noticing, he’s so engrossed in the game. But as you take a step back, his hand shoots out to grab your wrist. He holds it tightly until you meet his eyes. “Good girl,” he murmurs, and you can’t help the sharp intake of breath or the way you feel his words in your knees. He strokes his thumb down the inside of your wrist, then abruptly lets go, pushing his chips to the middle of the table. You step away, gathering yourself as subtly as you can, and get back to work.

The rest of the night goes quickly. The crowd gets a little rowdier as they drink more, but you find that it’s nothing you can’t handle. The reality of who these people are, what they’re connected to, never leaves your mind. But really, they’re not so bad. None of this feels so bad at all. And soon, people start heading out. You’re beginning to clean up, when a recognizable voice rings out, “Bambi!” You turn and lock eyes with Curtis. He crooks two fingers at you and you quickly make your way over to him.

“Bambi?” you ask.

He grins at you and it feels more than a little predatory. You’ll never admit how much you like it. You try to keep Holly’s warning at the forefront of your mind. “Wide eyes and just getting your legs under you,” he says. You instinctively duck your head at that, which earns a dark chuckle. “Here,” he continues, as he pulls a genuine, fat money clip out of his back pocket. You’ve never seen something like it in real life before. He peels off two bills and holds them out to you. “This is what good girls get,” he says, a low rumble in his voice.

You swallow as you take them from him. Two hundred dollars. Twice what you were expecting. “Thank you,” you say quietly. 

He shakes his head. “You earned it.” Then, after one last long look at you, he turns around and leaves.

You stand and stare after him. You don’t doubt anything Holly said, but three hundred dollars, just for bringing him drinks. He doesn’t seem that bad, not really. A little intense maybe, but there’s some sort of interest there, and it can’t be that bad to encourage it, just a little if it earns you these sorts of tips, can it??

Any hesitance you have about this entire endeavor completely disappears as you count your money at the end of the night.

Your first week flies by. You're starting to get the hang of the job. You get along with your coworkers. You get to know the regulars. You like it. Even Lloyd isn’t so bad as long as you give him his cut at the end of every night.

And you’re making so much money.

In your downtime, you pay your landlord what you owe him. You go grocery shopping without scouring for coupons first or calculating exactly what you can afford beforehand. You make a Pinterest board of what you want your apartment to look like now that you might actually be able to buy things to fill it. For the very first time, you’re thinking about things you actually want, not just desperately trying to figure out how you’ll pay your bills. You’ve never felt this calm, this relaxed, this free before. It’s an incredible feeling.

And Curtis. Despite Holly’s reassurances that you wouldn’t see him much, he seems to be there whenever you are, trying to capitalize on his winning streak at the poker tables, you assume. His tips are still insanely generous. You don’t think he carries anything less than hundred dollar bills. 

And there’s just something about him. The way he looks at you. The way he touches you. It’s not like the other men here. His touch is like fire, warming from the inside. There’ve been times when his hand on your hip has almost made your knees buckle. That doesn’t happen with anyone else here.

But you’re being smart and you’re being safe. You are. You’re going to set a savings goal, you think. And once you hit that number, you’ll be out of here, onto something more legitimate. And until then, you’ll just keep your head down and mouth shut, like Holly said. You haven’t even really seen anything. It’s a good plan. It’ll be fine.

She’s right that the weekends are wilder. Even with three additional girls working the room, you’re kept running. You do your best to keep an eye on Curtis’s drinks, but it’s much harder than on weeknights. And you aren’t really able to pause when you drop them off. It’s one of these times, as you’re pulling away from the table as soon as you’ve set his glass down, that you’re stopped short by his hand on you. He pulls you back in by the wrist and says, “They’re just running you ragged tonight, huh, Bambi?”

You smile and shrug. “It’s busy.”

He holds out a bill and you try not to smile even wider as he slips it into the waistband of your skirt. “For all your hard work.”

You bat your lashes a little. “You spoil me.”

“I like spoiling you,” he says, lowly. 

“You’re too sweet,” you say softly. Then, pulling your arm away with a wink, you add, “Gotta run,” and you’re onto the next table.

You’re getting good at this, figuring out what level of harmless flirting is just enough to keep the money flowing. And you’re having fun. You’d never expected that.

Holly and two of the other girls, Jane and Kristi, are congregated at the end of the bar, waiting for drinks, when you join them. They’re all watching you warily. “So, uh,” Jane starts quietly, “you seem to be getting pretty cozy with Curtis.” 

Before you can respond, Holly scoffs behind her. “I’ve tried to warn her but she won’t fucking listen.”

You roll your eyes. You’re tired of hearing this. “I seriously don’t get what the big deal is. He’s nice and he tips well. It’s harmless!”

Kristi just gapes at you. “He’s nice?!”

Holly slams the drinks she was waiting for onto her tray. “Whatever,” she grumbles. “It’s her fucking funeral.”

You shake your head as you watch her go. It’s fine. You can take care of yourself.

The rest of the night goes by in a blur. You don’t get much of a chance to talk to Curtis, but you feel his eyes on you before he disappears a little before closing.

At the end of the night, once you’ve helped clean up, you cash out with Colin and Jake and then go to find Lloyd in his office. You think it’s kind of ridiculous that you’re basically paying him to work there, but it is what it is. And Holly was right, you’re making so much that you barely even notice. 

Lloyd is sitting at his desk, looking a little more disheveled than you’re used to. He startles at your approach, which is also new. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, with slightly rounded eyes. “What can I do for you?”

You look at him, a little confused. “Just here with your cut,” you say as you hold out his money.

His hands immediately fly up to his chest, palms out. “No, no,” he says. “You made that fair and square. You just– you keep what you make from now on, Cupcake. Sound good?”

You swallow and nod, preparing yourself for whatever other price you’ll have to pay for keeping your job, mentally calculating what you’re willing to do. But Lloyd doesn’t do anything, doesn’t make any move to get closer to you. Just stays there at his desk, turning back to his work. “You have a good night,” he says, clearly dismissing you. 

You leave confused, but richer, telling yourself not to question it too hard.

Things go so smoothly for a few weeks that you’re a little shocked when the bubble bursts. 

It’s a relatively quiet weeknight. There are a few games going, but nothing compared to the weekend. The pace of the night feels leisurely. It’s nice.

It’s maybe the first night you haven’t seen Curtis there. It feels weird. He’s become such a part of this place for you. A fixture, like the bar or the carpet. Just one of the elements that make it what it is. But it’s fine. Of course, he doesn’t come every night. He probably has a whole life outside of this. He must’ve gotten bored of playing cards. Oh well. It was nice while it lasted.

You’re passing the time talking to one of the regulars at the bar, Vinny. He’s in his fifties, you think, with gray hair and laugh lines. He’d gone bust at the poker table (or maybe it was craps tonight) earlier and then had moved to the bar to drink away his sorrows and bad luck. That was how his nights tended to go.

He’s sitting on a barstool, his arm around your waist where you stand next to him. He’s a little close for comfort, but he’s always just been a friendly guy, so you’re alright. Which is why you’re so surprised when, in the middle of a story about the good old days of the Copa Cabana, his other hand suddenly finds its way between your thighs. You freeze. For just a second. Then you force out a laugh and try to push his hand away. “Bad boy,” you try to tease, your voice shaking. His hand will not move. What is happening? “Come on, let’s keep our hands to ourselves.”

Instead of doing what you’ve asked, his thumb briefly brushes the inside of your leg and then his whole hand begins moving higher. You stop breathing. You push again but he won’t budge.

“You’re such a pretty doll, aren’tcha?” he says. 

Tears start to gather in your eyes. You look around wildly to see if anyone’s noticing what’s happening. Colin’s busy making drinks. Jake and Lloyd are talking by the door. Everyone else is engrossed in their own business. “Vinnie, stop, please,” you whisper. You don’t know why you can’t get your voice to work, can’t get your body to move.

“Come on,” he cajoles, “I’m being nice, aren’t I?” 

Then his thumb brushes against your panties and your entire body jolts into action. You wrench your leg out of his grasp and take several steps away from him. Your whole body is shaking now. “I gotta–” you start, trying to keep your tone casual and failing miserably. “I gotta get back to work, Vinny.” Then you grab your tray off the bartop and walk away as fast as you can.

You don’t really have a destination in mind. You pick up a few empties as you wander between tables. You can feel his eyes on you, following you. You try to take a deep breath, calm yourself down. It isn’t very helpful. You look up to see Jake by himself now. You make your way over to him, Holly’s words on your first night in your ears. That was out of hand, wasn’t it?

He looks up as you approach. His big golden retriever smile on his face. “Hey, what’s up?” Then he actually takes you in and his smile drops. “What happened?”

“Um, Vinny, he, uh–” You feel a few tears fall down your cheeks and you just shake your head.

Jake’s face darkens. “Did he hurt you?” 

“No, uh, he– he just–” You shake your head again. “No, he didn’t hurt me.”

Jake doesn’t say anything for a moment, just looks at you. There’s something about the way he does it that makes you think he understands everything you just can’t say. He nods once. “Alright. I’ll take care of it. You go take your time in the back. Do what you need to do. He’ll be gone by the time you’re done.”

You let out a shaky breath. “Okay, thank you,” you say so quietly. Then you get yourself to the back room as quickly as you can.

It’s really more of a hallway than a room, small and narrow. All of the storage space for the building is in the legitimate bar upstairs. But there’s enough room for you to crouch down, your knees pulled up tight to your chin. You bury your face in your thighs and let the tears you’ve been holding in finally fall. You’re okay. You’re okay. You’re safe. You’re fine. 

You don’t know how long you’ve spent trying to calm yourself down when a large shadow suddenly looms over you. It takes you a moment to gather your strength to find out who it is. You hope it’s Jake telling you Vinny’s gone. You’re afraid it might be Lloyd, here to tell you to get back to work. There’s a slowly building terror that it might be Vinny himself.

After a deep breath, you look up to find Curtis staring down at you, concern on his face and fiery anger in his eyes. “What happened?” he growls.

You shake your head and turn away. He crouches down in front of you. “Are you alright?”

A humorless, uncontrolled laugh escapes you. Once you finally stop, you ignore his question and ask your own, “Why are you here?”

It takes him a very long time to answer. He just looks at you seriously for several moments. Then, finally, “Jake called me.” While you try to figure out why on earth Jake would do that, he continues, “I'm sorry I wasn’t already here.”

“Why?” you blurt out without thinking. 

He looks away without saying anything. You both just sit in the silence for a few moments. Then, you try to change tactics. “Where were you?” you ask out of morbid curiosity. You can't imagine what his life is like outside of here.

“Working,” he says curtly. He plays with a ring on his middle finger and the movement draws your eyes to his hands, specifically his knuckles. They're scraped and caked with dried blood. 

You swallow and you catch how his eyes track the movement. His eyes are always on you. He catches everything. 

“Someone touched you?”

“Lots of people touch me,” you say, flatly. “It's part of the job. You touch me.”

His eyes narrow at that. “But this was different.” It isn’t a question.

You look down at your hands in your lap and don't say anything. 

“Tell me who it was.”

“No,” you say instinctively, something about the moment feeling incredibly dangerous. 

He huffs in frustration. “Are you trying to protect him?”

“No!” you say, sharply. “I’m protecting myself.”

“You don’t have to do that. Not from me. Not ever.”

You don’t know how to tell him that every atom in you knows that that isn’t true. You can’t explain it, and it wasn’t until the moment he joined you in this little closet, but you’d swear that he’s a danger to you. You just can't articulate how, but you feel it in your bones. And still, here you stay.

At your silence, he grits out, “If you don’t tell me who it was, Jake will.”

Jake probably already has, that’s what you’ve figured. “Great,” you say. “Then you don’t need me to say it.”

“Bambi,” he lets out in an exasperated growl. “I'm trying to help you.” 

You just look at him and then figure you may as well ask the main question that's on your mind. “Why did Jake call you?” 

He ignores you and stands up. “Come on,” he says and extends his hand, “I'm taking you home.”

You just blink up at him. “My shift isn't over.” 

He shakes his hand at you impatiently. “It is now. Come on.”

You shake your head. “Curtis, this is my job. I can't just– Lloyd will–”

“I'll take care of Lloyd. Let’s go.”

You think about going home. About sitting alone in your small apartment. At least here you'll have something to do, things to focus on, to keep you busy. At home, there'll be nothing to think about other than that hand between your legs and– “No,” you say as firmly as you can manage. “I'm staying here. I'm finishing the night.”

His jaw ticks but he doesn’t say anything, just tries to stare you down. You stare right back. You will not concede this. 

Finally, he exhales through his nostrils, then growls out an unhappy “Fine. But I'll–” He's interrupted by his phone ringing in his pocket. He takes it out and glances at the caller ID and sighs. “I have to take this.” He steps away as much as he can in the tiny area and answers with a curt “Everett.” There's a slight pause. “Yeah, I took care of it.” Another pause that has him glancing at you. “No, something else came up.”

You don't wait to hear the rest of the conversation. You take the opportunity to go back to the main room and get back to work. 

You don't see Curtis again that night. You don't spare much thought to where he might've gone. You're too focused on getting through the remainder of your shift. When it's done, Jake insists on seeing you home. You don't ask why. You already know who's behind it.

The next few days are fine. You try to put what happened behind you, doing your best to ignore it. But that becomes impossible when three days after the incident you watch Vinny walk in. You can’t help the little burst of panic you feel as you warily watch him sit down at his usual table and get dealt in. 

As subtly as you can, you make your way over to Jake. You don’t even say anything before he’s looking at you, chagrined. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, but I had to let him in. I promise it’s all going to be taken care of. It’s just– You can ignore him tonight, ok? Just trust me. You don’t need to worry about him. I promise.”

“Ok,” you say reluctantly, trying to resist looking back at Vinny. “I just– I didn’t think I’d have to see him again.”

“I really think that after tonight you won’t,” he says sincerely.

You don’t really understand what that means, but you nod anyway. “Ok,” you say. “I, uh, I should get back to work then.” 

He just nods after you, looking a little concerned and a little sad. But the room is filling up, so you don’t have time to delve into it.

Sometime later, as you’re taking a brief moment to idle by the bar, a strange hush descends over the room. You’re facing away from the door, away from the rest of the room, but you see Colin take in whatever it is that’s caused this. His face pales and he lets out a quiet, urgent, “Shit.” 

You turn around to see what on earth could be going on and you immediately freeze. Curtis is here. But that’s not what’s garnering all of this attention. Well, not all. Because he’s not alone, there’s a man with him. A little shorter, not quite as broad. But you’d be able to feel the power radiating off of him, even if you didn’t recognize him. Soft dark hair, thick beard, an immaculately tailored suit. You’ve seen him in the papers, on the news, but in real life, he’s even more intimidating. Andrew Barber.

Barber leans in close to say something to Curtis, who nods, eyes scanning the room until they land on you. Your breath catches, but luckily Colin calls your name behind you and you have an excuse to turn around. He places two glasses of dark liquor on the bar. “Everett,” he says, gesturing to one, then “Barber,” while waving his hand over the other. “Got it?” You nod and place them on your tray. They’re identical to your eyes except for the fact that Barber's has a muddled black cherry at the bottom of the glass.

You carefully bring them over, trying to force yourself to breathe. Curtis intercepts you and grabs the drinks when you're a few steps away. “Thank you, Bambi,” he says, lowly. 

Barber perks up. “This is Bambi? Really?” He extends a hand and you have no choice but to take it. “Andy Barber,” he says with a disarming smile. “It's a pleasure to meet you finally.”

His handshake is firm, demanding. He is terrifying in his friendliness. And he knows who you are. Has known, for who knows how long. You glance at Curtis, but he's just calmly drinking his whiskey. You don't know what to say, what are you supposed to say?? So after too long a pause, you practically whisper, “Thank you, Mr. Barber.”

He chuckles lightly as he takes back his hand. To Curtis, he says, “You're right, Bambi does suit her.” Then he turns back to you and adds, “Andy, please.”

“O– Okay, Andy,” you say, with what you desperately hope is a benign smile. You look over at Curtis, you’re not entirely sure why, but out of these two dangerous options, he, at least, is familiar. “I should get back to work.”

Curtis is staring at you, but it’s Andy who answers. “Mmm, and we have a game to join, don’t we?” Curtis nods but still doesn’t break his gaze. Andy smirks, “No rest for the wicked.”

You have no idea what to do with that sentiment, so you take the opportunity and get out of there. You walk through the tables, checking to see if anyone needs anything, but the mob boss’s physical presence seems to have ground all action to a halt. The room is collectively holding its breath. 

You go back to the bar for want of anything else to do. Colin is standing ramrod straight, coiled in case he needs to spring into action. Lloyd is sitting down at the end of the bar, drumming his fingers, eyes moving all around the room. You settle next to Holly, who looks just as scared as she did that first night when she was trying to warn you off of Curtis. “Is this,” you start to ask, your voice shaking. “Is this normal? Does he come here a lot?”

“No, never” she shakes her head. “Why would he come here? He has real clubs and restaurants. He doesn’t need to hang out in a shit hole like this.” She shakes her head again. “He’d only come here for a reason.”

You turn your head back to the room and find that Andy and Curtis have settled at Vinny’s table, joining his game across from him. Your heart lands in your throat. That can’t– No. You’re just some cocktail waitress. Even with Curtis’s obvious interest in you, you aren’t important enough to bring the most powerful man in the city here. You’re nothing. He must have other reasons.

The room is quiet enough to hear a pin drop as everyone waits for something to happen, which is why when Andy does start speaking, you don’t have to strain your ears to pick up every word.

He looks at his cards carefully, then over at Vinny. “You know, Vinny, you’re a hard man to track down.” His voice is so calm, it sends a chill up your spine. “You don’t go home, we can’t find you at work. I was starting to get worried.” He runs a few chips through his fingers before tossing them into the center of the felt. “That’s why, when I heard you were showing up here, I sent my best man to investigate,” he nods towards Curtis, “just to make sure you were ok.” 

You don’t have a great view of Vinny from where you’re standing, but you can see how stiff he is, how silent. But he still calls when it’s his turn.

“You can imagine my relief when I found out you were alright. Except,” he raises again, a few more chips into the pot, “you’re losing a lot of money, aren’t you? Now, this upsets me. Not because you’re losing your own money. But because it’s mine, isn’t it?”

Vinny finally tries to pipe up. “Andy, hold on. I can ex–”

“You owe me $150,000, Vinny. With interest, that total’s climbing every day. And yet, you sit here and you just keep losing, don’t you? At my own game. What would you do if you won, huh? Would you really try paying me back with my own money? I thought maybe you’d at least have the smarts to cross the border and try this at one of Roger’s casinos. Huh? Paying me back with my enemy’s money, at least that I could respect. But no, it’s only me you think is stupid enough to fall for your bullshit. So now I’m here to give you the chance to fucking do it to my face.” With that, he violently pushes all of his chips into the center of the table. 

Everyone else has folded. It’s just Barber and Vinny now. You’re not sure Curtis even actually played. He’s just staring Vinny down, although occasionally his eyes will flick up and meet yours. You hate feeling like you’re a part of this, but you don’t know what else to do besides watch it play out.

Vinny is just spluttering, while Andy calmly looks on. It’s all the expected, cliche stuff you’ve seen in gangster movies. He’s got the money, he swears. He just needs a little more time. Andy has to know he’s good for it! You want to roll your eyes right along with Andy.

“Call, Vinny,” Andy cuts him off, sternly. “That’s $150,000 I just put in the pot. Call. And if you win, we’re even. Your debt’s erased. But if you lose, well then that’s $300,000 you’ll owe me. And you know I won’t be able to tolerate that. So call. And let’s find out where we stand.”

You can’t see what Vinny’s doing, but you can imagine the way his fingers must be hovering over his chips, his eyes moving down to his cards to check, one more time, if they’re as good or bad as he remembers. You know there’s no way out for him either way. He’ll have to call. He’s just delaying the inevitable.

You feel like you can't breathe as you wait for him to just finally do it, but Andy cuts in again. “The thing I can't understand, Vinny, is why you kept coming here after Curtis showed up. Either you're very stupid or really fucking greedy.” He looks at Vinny carefully. “Maybe a little of both. I hear you've been touching something that doesn't belong to you.”

You gasp. No one notices, but you do. He can't be talking about you. He can't. He can't. 

Vinny seems even more confused than you. “What are you talking about? I haven't touched anything!”

Andy continues to ignore him. “So you're stupid and greedy. That's why you aren't afraid of him like you should be. They call him my attack dog, did you know? Have you heard that? Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you think he’s some puppy that follows me around. You’d be stupid to underestimate him, underestimate me. But maybe you only do that because you've never seen my dog off his leash.”

Curtis springs into action, lunging across the table to grab Vinny by the collar, and then slams his head into the felt. Before there’s even time to react, he’s stood and he's picking Vinny back up and hurling him onto the floor. Curtis comes around the table to stalk after him and the look on his face has you gasping for breath. You've never seen Curtis like this. There's a glint in his eye that might be the scariest thing you've ever seen. Who is this man? What is he capable of?

Vinny is dazedly trying to crawl away, but Curtis catches him easily. He grabs Vinny’s collar and hauls him back up, delivering two punches to his face in quick succession. The sound it makes. There's no other sound in the whole room. No one's saying anything, no one's doing anything. Everyone's just watching, hypnotized. You turn away, your stomach churning. Your eyes catch on Andy, sitting back in his chair, placidly drinking the whiskey you brought him, completely relaxed, like he's watching anything else. You can't look at him either. 

The room is completely silent except for the crunching of bones, Vinny’s whimpers, and Curtis’s grunts. You look up again to be startled by eye contact with Curtis. His eyes are wild, unhinged. Feral. But there's something else in it, like all of this is for you. That all of you are there, everything is happening, because Vinny dared to touch you. It takes your breath away. It’s mesmerizing.

Andy finally stands and strides over to where Curtis is holding Vinny up in the middle of the room. He looks down at Vinny, then spits in his face. “I'm tired of trying to draw blood from a stone,” he says. Then he turns to Curtis and finishes, “Get rid of him.”

Curtis gives you one last long look, his face unreadable. You feel it in your knees. Then he drags Vinny out, leaving a bloody trail behind him.

The moment they're gone, it's like the entire room can breathe again. “Lloyd,” Andy calls out. “How ‘bout a round for everyone? On me.”

Lloyd nods to Colin who hurriedly starts pouring drinks. And you, so grateful for something to do, instead of just standing there, shaking, start loading the glasses on your tray.

As you begin to pass them out, Andy of all people, pulls you aside. “Bambi,” he says quietly, “I hope you know now, we take care of our own.”

You gaze at him, shocked. It feels like a comfort and a threat. But why? It's not so much the implication that this all had something to do with you, but you can't for the life of you imagine what you've done to get yourself to a place where Andy Barber might consider you his, however distantly. It can't just be that you work here. You can't picture him doing something similar for Holly or Colin. Once again, this all feels so incredibly dangerous. 

While you're struggling to come up with anything to say to that, he grabs a drink off your tray and downs it quickly. Then, with a wink, he turns and leaves. You’re left staring after him until someone calls after you and you're scrambling to pass out drinks again. 

The night ends quickly. No one seems eager to stay and drink and play after everything that's happened. Not when there's still blood on the floor.

You do what you can to help clean up, but when you stare at the stain helplessly, Lloyd tells you not to worry about it. He's got a guy.

Colin walks out with you so you aren’t in the parking lot alone. You're grateful. You're still so shaken. As you approach your car, your beater that you still don’t quite have the money to replace, you see someone leaning against it. You stop short, looking to Colin for help, but he just keeps walking to his own car, his head down. That’s when you know it’s Curtis. 

You take a deep breath and then force yourself to keep walking towards him. You can't begin to parse how you feel to see him now. Your keys are ready in your hand like you might just get in and drive off without speaking to him. You know you won’t.

When you reach him, his voice is rough as he asks, “Are you ok?” He’s cleaned up. There’s no more blood on his hands, his clothes have been straightened.

You open your mouth to answer, even though you have no idea, so instead what comes out is “Did you kill him?”

“Did you want me to?” is his immediate reply.

It stops you in your tracks as all sorts of feelings come bubbling up, ones you can not, will not examine. This is about his propensity for violence, how terrifying he became, not– No. “Did you?” you insist. 

He looks at you carefully then shakes his head. “I don't think you actually want me to answer that.”

“But you've killed before?” You can't stop yourself from pressing, from pushing. You don’t know why. 

He just sort of smiles, gently almost, in a way that is deeply unsettling. “You need to stop asking questions you aren’t ready for me to answer, Bambi.” And it’s the way he says the nickname, like you really are that babe in the woods, just born with no knowledge of the world around you, that has your hackles rising.

“Andy called you his dog,” you say, like he should be offended.

To your surprise, he laughs, his head thrown back. Then he takes a step closer to you, and you take the opportunity to sneak in behind him, get to your car. You realize your mistake immediately when he turns back around and cages you in, your back pressed against the driver’s side door. “Everyone calls me his dog. Because he’s the civilized man in the designer suit, and I’m the animal just begging for a reason to slip my leash.”

Your heart pounds wildly in your chest. You should get into your car. You should drive away as fast as you can. You should never come back. But you don’t. “You did it for him,” you say, mustering all the strength into your voice that you can. “You didn’t do it for me.”

He leans over you, the space between you shrinking rapidly. “Yeah, he asked me to do it,” he nods. “But if he hadn’t, I still would have done it. For you.”

 You try to shake your head, to tell him that that can’t be true, even as a wild, loud part of you starts to rise up and claw out of your chest. You try to tamp it down, deny it, but before you can, Curtis is leaning in further, his whole body pressing against you, and then he covers your lips with his.  

There’s a heat that comes up out of him that fills you, the instant his skin touches yours. His hands are on you, your neck, your hip. You can’t keep track, can only say that his hands are there, everywhere, that his body touches all of yours, that his lips and his tongue are demanding, unrelenting. You are burning up from the inside.

Too soon, but ages later, he pulls away. His eyes are on fire as he looks at you. Then he tears his gaze away, and hits the roof of your decrepit car twice, looking at it disdainfully. “You get home safe,” he says, then steps back to allow you the space you need to get into your car.

You do what he wants you to do. You get in your car, sit in the driver’s seat, and then stare blankly out the windshield. You’ve never felt so out of control in your life. How did this happen? You were flirting for tips, that was all! You encouraged it for money, that was it, and now– You press your thighs together, trying not to pant. You will not be unmoored. 

A slight movement in your periphery makes you notice that Curtis is still standing just to the side of your car, watching you. You turn your keys in the ignition and shift into drive.

It doesn’t mean anything it doesn’t mean anything it doesn’t mean anything, you chant to yourself all the way home.

It’s your next shift back, and everything seems to have changed. You don’t understand it. You keep doing laps of the room, keep sidling up to regulars you were so friendly with just a few nights ago, but now, they won’t even look at you, let alone touch you. No one’s ordering anything.

Or at least, they aren’t ordering from you.

Holly has been running around nonstop all night, basically having to take care of the entire room by herself. You watch man after man after man slip her little bundles of money. 

You want to scream. What the fuck happened? What did you do? What are you going to do?

You go to stand by the bar to wait for something you can do. Colin gives you a brief nod of acknowledgment but that’s it. He’s been cold, too. No. Not cold, distant. You don’t understand what’s changed.

You take a deep breath. It’s one weird night. Things will be better tomorrow.

Things don’t get better. The next night is the same. You’re starting to panic. This job was supposed to be your lifeline. Without it, without the money you were making, you’re not sure how you’ll survive.

Curtis comes in after a couple of hours of nothing. You could cry you’re so happy to see him. But terrified too. If he gives you the cold shoulder, this job really is over. But you have no idea how he’s going to act, not after what happened last time. You’re not sure how you’re going to act either. You can still feel his lips on yours.

You bring him his whiskey immediately and he greets you with an arm around your waist, pulling you in. “Hey Bambi,” he says quietly. Then he gets a good look at you. “What’s wrong?” 

You look at him carefully, not sure what to confide. You aren’t even sure what the problem is. You shake your head. “Not my best night,” you say with a tired smile. “But I’m fine.”

He stares at you for a moment, then stands up. “Come on,” he says, grabbing your hand and leading you to the little back room. You feel eyes on the two of you the whole way there.

Once he’s closed the door behind you both, he asks again, “What’s wrong?”

You sigh. “The last two nights have been weird here. I don’t– I don’t know. I’m just worried. I don’t know what happened but I’m not making any tips. No one’s treating me like they used to.”

“Mmm,” Curtis hums thoughtfully. “I think,” he says as he takes two steps closer to you, which in this small space is significant, “everyone else here has figured it out.”

It’s suddenly a little hard to breathe with him standing over you like this. His presence, his attention is always so much. “Figured what out?” you ask, confused.

“That I have lost my patience for watching other men touch you.” 

It hits you like a freight train. “What?” It comes out in a whisper.

“I’ve let this go on for too long,” he says, his voice is calm, casual. “I don’t want you working here anymore. This is done.”

“I– What? Curtis. What?! I have to work! I have to pay my bills! I don’t understand. I don’t–”

He takes one last step forward. You feel the heat coming off of him. “Shh,” he soothes, cradling your cheek in his hand. “It’ll be alright. I’ll take care of you. I take care of what’s mine.”

You pull your face away, even as the urge to nuzzle into him is so strong. You feel like you’ve missed something, a thousand things. You feel too many steps behind. “Curtis, I’m not– I’m not yours.”

Something comes into his eyes and you’re reminded of him standing over Vinny, covered in blood. His hand travels down from your cheek. He strokes your throat once, and then his hand closes around it. “Look me in the eye,” he growls, “and say that again.”

His hand is firm, snug, but it doesn’t tighten. But you can imagine so easily how it might. You look him in the eye. You open your mouth, ready to say it again. But then– then you see it. In the way he looks at you, the way he’s always looked at you. You feel it in his grip on you, now. You can’t deny it anymore. 

Curtis shoves you into his bedroom. You’re panting already. You need his hands on you, right now. You don’t have to ask for it. He gets you to the center of the room and yanks down your skirt, tearing it in the process. You step out of it and take your blouse off, throwing it on top of your skirt. Curtis’s eyes are cataloging your body, the swell of your breasts spilling out of your bra, your soft tummy, thick thighs. His gaze, as always, takes your breath away.

You reach out for Curtis’s shirt, but he grabs your hands. “I want you on your knees,” he growls and you immediately kneel for him. He throws off his shirt, revealing the expanse of his chest, the muted blacks and grays of his tattoos. You’re desperate to run your hands over them, trace the art, but instead, they just twitch at your side. He'll tell you what you're allowed to do.

He begins unbuttoning his jeans and your mouth drops open. He chuckles darkly. “Perfect little slut.” He takes his phone out of his back pocket and aims it at you, taking a picture as you gaze up at him under your lashes, your mouth wide open. “I've been dreaming of getting you on your knees for me.” He puts his phone on his dresser, then continues taking off his pants. “You ready to choke on my cock, baby?”

“Please,” you whine. You're practically salivating now. His bare thighs are as thick as tree trunks, the muscles corded. His abs ripple as he moves. His shoulders, his back. You want.

He frees his cock and rolls his black boxer briefs down his legs, stepping out of them. It's long and thick, just like the rest of him. Your breath catches. You don't think you've ever taken something that big before.

He takes a few steps so he's completely in your space, his cock bobbing right in front of your face. He takes it in one hand, the other firmly on the back of your head and slowly feeds the tip into your mouth. You taste his musk on your tongue. As he rocks into your mouth, going a little further each time, your hands come up to grasp his thighs. On his next thrust in, you run your tongue along the underside of his dick. His movements stutter just a little and then he looks down at you, a smirk overtaking his face. It's just a touch mean, in a way that has you soaking your panties. “You ready?” he asks, his voice rough. And then without waiting for the answer, he thrusts in all the way, making you take him deep in your throat.

You flail, slapping his thigh as you try to swallow around him, breathing frantically through your nose. After holding you there for a moment, he sets a brutal but steady pace. It takes you a moment, but you find your rhythm, your panic subsiding. Once you feel steady, you lift one hand from his thighs and bring it up to cradle his balls. “Fuck, Bambi,” he grinds out. “You're gonna– I– fuck!” His hand moves from the back of your head down to the back of your neck, which he grips firmly, pulling you off his cock. As you cough and splutter on the floor, he growls, “The first time you make me come is gonna be inside that perfect cunt.”

He helps you stand on wobbly legs, then shoves his hand between your legs, cupping your pussy over your panties. “Shit, fucking soaked just from deepthroating me?”

You let out a needy little whine, trying to push further into his hand, but he withdraws it, instead settling on your hip. “Well,” he grins, “if they’re ruined anyway…” then uses that hand to rip the black lace down the side, letting them fall to the floor. He makes quick work of your bra as well, then takes a step back and sighs, “Shit, Bambi, look at you.” It’s the reverence in his voice and on his face that has you launching yourself at him, unable to keep from kissing him any longer. He lets you, quickly taking control, letting you feel all his hunger, the want he’s kept barely bottled up since he first laid eyes on you. You understand it all now. His erection brushes against you, and now it’s his turn to whine, just a little. 

He pulls away, brushing a hand down your cheek, then says “Get on the bed, on your stomach.” You quickly comply, laying in the center of the bed with your knees pulled up and spread beneath you. He brings his hand down on one asscheek harshly and you can’t help the lewd moan that escapes you. He chuckles, “Oh, I will definitely remember that for later.” He grabs your hips and cants them up, then whistles at your exposed cunt. “I knew it. Absolutely beautiful.” Then he unceremoniously shoves two fingers into your hole and you choke on nothing. “Shh,” he coos. “You can take it. My cock’s gonna be a lot thicker.” 

As he starts scissoring his fingers inside you, you can’t hold it in any longer and start babbling. Mostly a combination of “please,” and “Curtis,” and “I need,” over and over.

“I know, baby,” he says as he pulls his fingers out of you. “I’ve got what you need right here.” You have a brief moment to feel the tip of his cock on your pussy lips before he’s thrusting it into you, as far as he can go without making it hurt. 

“Oh my god,” you cry, pressing your forehead into the mattress and balling his dark blue sheets in your hands. You feel so full. It’s so good. He’s working himself into you as quickly as he can, desperate now. You both are. Once he bottoms out, fully seated in you, he pauses. Then with one hand on your stomach and the other around your neck, he pulls you up onto your knees, your back flush to his chest. You cry out at the new angle; he’s somehow even deeper now. He starts thrusting up into you at a punishing pace. You’re bouncing up and down in his firm grasp. The hand on your neck turns your head to face him, his lips brushing against yours. He holds eye contact with you as the hand on your stomach snakes down your pelvis so his thick fingers can begin circling your clit. “Fuck! Curtis, please!” you shout. 

“Yeah, come on,” he breathes, “you can let go. You can do it. Come for me like a good girl.” It’s those words that send you careening over the edge, your cunt pulsing around his cock, squeezing him until he’s coming too with a grunt, filling you up until both your cum is leaking out around him. 

He holds you there, on your knees, as you both come down, your twin pants all you can hear.

You wake up slowly, the sun shining on you through the soft drapes. You start to shift then groan at how stiff you are. The night before comes back to you. Curtis took you two more times before you both collapsed in satisfied exhaustion. He’s still out like a light beneath you. 

You take a moment to look at him. It’s odd to see him so peaceful, so still. There’s nothing of the feral predator he projects to the world. It makes you feel oddly close to him, seeing him like this.

You carefully get up without disturbing him and begin collecting your clothes. You put on your bra, but there’s no saving your panties. Same for your skirt; it’s ripped along the seam. So instead you pick up Curtis’s t-shirt from last night and put it on. It smells like him. You breathe it in shamelessly knowing there’s no one to witness it.

You savor the soreness as you move out of the bedroom. It’s like you can still feel him inside you, how much he wanted you, needed you. It makes you feel a little powerful, having that effect on a man like him.

You make your way into his living room. You didn’t really have a chance to look at his house last night, as determined as he was to get you into the bedroom. If you’d ever thought to picture it, this wouldn’t be far off. It’s all rich blues and greens and grays, leather and dark wood. Masculine. It suits him. 

As you’re admiring the room, you hear footsteps behind you and then two big arms are encircling your waist, pulling you into him. “Good morning,” he rasps. 

You turn your head to him. “Good morning,” you say with a smile.

“Fuck, Bambi, you’re even hotter in my shirt than you were last night.”

You smirk at him even as your face heats. “Mmm,” you hum. “It’s comfy. You might not get it back.” He nuzzles into your neck as you continue. “I was hoping you might have something I could wear for bottoms, too. You destroyed my skirt.”

His beard roughly drags against your skin as he asks, “Why the hell would I let you wear bottoms?”

You laugh. “Because I have to leave the house, Curtis.”

“No, you don’t,” he says as his hand begins to move between your thighs.

You playfully swat him away, even as you feel yourself getting wet again from his attention. “I have to go home.”

“Why? You’re staying here.” It’s how certain he sounds that has you turning around in his arms.

“What?”

“I don’t like your building. It isn’t safe enough. Now that I finally have you, of course, I’m going to keep you here with me.”

Once again, you feel too many steps behind. You just blink at him, confused. How does he even know where you live??

He takes your chin in his hand, his fingers gentle. “I told you, Bambi, I take care of what’s mine.”

Tag list

@stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @midnightramyeoncravings

[clancykolzig]

😍😍😍😍

what is a simpy logan like?

Logan's hung up. He's not in a good mood. All these years carrying that torch for Jean and he's just plain tired. He's tired of all these new ones he has to train and all the things he has to hold inside. Everyone thinks he doesn't have a heart, but if he didn't he wouldn't be so miserable.

He sits and watches the new batch of mutants. He's not impressed. He takes out his cigar and wiggles it restlessly between his knuckles. As he pulls out his lighter, it catches on his pocket and slips from his grasp.

To his surprise, it doesn't hit the floor. Before him is a beaming smiley thing, holding his lighter in her palm. She offers it but not without a bubbly chirp, "smoking's bad for you."

He eyes her warily. He grunts in gratitude and takes the lighter. He flips it open but before he can light the stogie, she's gone. He looks around. He can't find her.

He sees her again later on. She's eating by herself. The other newbies are all together and chattering on. He doesn't see why she isn't with them. She seemed exactly the type to draw a crowd.

She looks up as if sensing him and waves, another smile. How can she smile when she's all by herself? Then there's a cluster of bubbles where she once was and the smell of lavender wafts over to him. She's gone again.

He hears that bubbling noise again later on. He's on the lawn under a tree, enjoying the shade. He's whetting his claws. The damn things can get dull. Bubbles float around him, this time the smell of cinnamon. And suddenly she's there. She plucks a dandelion and here eyes meet his as she adds it to her cluster.

"Weeds," he says.

"Pretty," she wiggles them at him before she turns to bubbles again, the flowers encased in one big orb as they float away. He tilts his head curiously.

The next time he sees her, he's passing by the east den but then something brings him back. She's scribbling in a notebook in a chair. He stops and leans inside the door frame, watching her.

"Whatcha drawing?" He asks.

She doesn't look up, "weeds." She holds up the sketch of flowers in a wreath. It's well done.

He doesn't know what to say. It's not that anyone ever leaves him speechless, he just doesn't have the energy, but with her, he's not quite sure.

He slowly enters and looks around. He doesn't often share the common spaces. He finds somewhere solitary. Quiet.

"I'm Logan," he says as stands behind another chair. "Bother you if I sit?"

"I know who you are," she smiles again. Here eyes shine like bubbles, translucent as they glow. "You can sit but you can't smoke here." She makes a fist in front of her mouth and coughs, bubbles flow out between her lips. "Everyone calls me Bubbly, if you wanna know."

He lowers himself into the chair and nods. His cheek dimples as he resists a smile of her own.

"Alright, bub," he says as he leans his head back and closes his eyes. He's really not the type to let his guard down but something about her is calming.

"Bub?" She laughs and it sounds like bubbles blowing all at once. "That's cute."

"Cute?" He opens one eye and arches a brow.

"Yes, Mr. Wolverine. Cute," she assures him and puts her pencil back to the paper. "Have you ever seen a real wolverine? They're adorable too."

"They're vicious," he argues.

"They protect the things they love and need," she shrugs. "Even if they keep to themselves."

He narrows his eyes. She better mean those damn critters. She blends with her fingertips and peers up at him.

"Do I have bubbles coming out of my ears again?" She reaches to rub her ear.

He chuckles and shakes his head. The thought of that is silly.

"Nah," he grumbles and closes his eyes again. "Sorry for staring."

"I don't mind so much. People like bubbles, even if they don't like me."

His mood dampens and he wonders, how could anyone not like someone like her?

[clancykolzig]

This is a great opening chapter-I’m addicted! Curtis is one of my favorites. I hope he can bring us out of our shell.

Still Life 1

Pairing: Alpha Curtis Everett x Omega Female Reader

Word Count: ~2.8k

Summary: Curtis has been volunteering as a foster alpha for three years now. He's never seen a case this bad...

Warnings: Angst (with an eventual happy ending), past abuse (not Curtis), alpha/beta/omega dynamics, physical scarring, extreme sexism, adult themes, explicit language, All of my work is 18+ - Minors DNI

Dividers by me this time!

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

A/N: Well, this is for all of you who thought you'd seen the worst angst I could possibly do. Sorry for how much this one's gonna hurt!

Big thanks to @paperweight91 and @bigtreefest who both read so much of this and helped with structuring and world-building. And huge thanks to everyone who showed so much enthusiasm for this idea. I'm so excited to share this story with you!

Any comment, reblog, or ask to let me know what you think will be greatly appreciated. And if you need to come scream at me, that's ok too!

As always, thank you so much for reading! 💜

Nzzzz Nzzzz Nzzzz

Nzzzz Nzzzz Nzzzz

It took a moment for Curtis to pull himself out of sleep enough to realize the incessant noise was his phone vibrating loudly on his nightstand. It took another moment for him to pull himself together enough to answer it. “Hello?” he croaked.

“Morning, Curtis,” a harried voice came through from the other end. “This is Yona from the Omega Welfare Center. I'm so sorry to call so early, but we've had kind of a crazy night here and we're in need of several emergency placements.”

That had him waking up. “What happened?” he asked, seriously, sitting up in bed.

She sighed, all of her exhaustion coming through. “A traditionalist compound a couple hours away got raided by the feds and ATF. They prepared for some omegas, but… There were a lot more. Kids too. It’s been all hands on deck at all five omega centers in the state. We’re over capacity, so we’re just trying to place anyone we can immediately.”

“Shit,” Curtis mumbled to himself. Traditionalist communities popped up on the news every once in a while, populated mostly by alphas on a power trip. But this one sounded bigger than most. He looked at his clock. It was just past five. “I’ve got room for one,” he said. “And I can be there in an hour.”

“Thank you, Curtis. I’ll see you soon.”

Fifty-five minutes later, Curtis was checking in at the center, his second coffee clutched in one hand. He’d been volunteering there as a foster Alpha for about three years. Mostly short-term placements. His longest one was just over a month. He provided safe touch, grounding, and a sense of security to omegas who needed to get back on their feet. He’d help them through heats when necessary, never knotting them, but whatever else they might need. Often, it was just his scent. It made him feel good, to be able to help these omegas, offer a positive alpha experience to omegas who hadn’t had many.

He’d worked with a few different case workers during his time. Yona had been the main one for the past year. He’d never heard her sound like she had that morning.

Even just at the front desk, he could sense how much more chaotic it was here than usual. He could hear babies screaming beyond the office door, endless anxious chatter. The entire building reeked of omegas in distress. It made his nose itch and his skin crawl.

After a few minutes of waiting, Yona came and got him. “How bad is it?” he asked the omega as she hurriedly led him down the hall. 

She showed him into a small meeting room as she answered, “Really, really bad. I’ve never seen anything like it. None of them are talking, but from what we can gather, most of them have spent their entire lives in the compound. No IDs, no papers. Figuring out who they are has been nearly impossible.  And as terrible as it may have been, their whole world was ripped apart in the last twenty-four hours. No one feels like cooperating. We hope you might have better luck as an alpha.”

“You think they'll talk to me?” 

She shakes her head. “Just the Omega we're placing with you. They've all been taught never to trust outsiders, but they've also been raised to see Alphas as the ultimate authority. So, it's worth a shot.”

He nodded, slowly. “What do you need?”

“Just basic identifying information for now. So we can see if she even exists in any sort of governmental system. Then we can go from there.”

“If you don’t have any information, what makes you think I’ll be a good fit for her?”

“Honestly,” Yona said, with a helpless shrug, “you only have room for one and she doesn’t have any pups. That’s it. Listen, I know this isn’t how we normally do things and I’m so sorry I’m just throwing you into it without any preparation, but we’re really desperate here. They’re all high needs, high risk. There’s no existing support network for them, and there are more of them than we have room for. So we called all of our most experienced, most dependable alphas first thing this morning so we can focus on the ones we have room to house here. I know it isn’t fair to you but–”

“Hey,” Curtis interrupted. “It’s ok, I understand. I’ll take care of her. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she breathed out, a small fraction of the tension she’d been holding bleeding out of her shoulders. “Ok, I’m gonna go bring her in.” 

She slipped through the door and Curtis leaned against the table in the center of the room as he waited. He took a deep breath and tried to focus on putting together a to-do list. He had two sets of nesting supplies always ready, one with his scent and one without. In the next few days, he’d try to figure out if there was anything else this omega wanted for the nest. He’d gone grocery shopping the day before, so his pantry was stocked, but he’d see if there were any favorite comfort foods he could grab in his next shop. He needed to rearrange his work schedule, push back some deadlines so he’d have time to get the omega settled. He had no idea what they’d be bringing with them, so a shopping trip for toiletries and clothes would probably be necessary. Depending on the omega's state, maybe he'd be able to get the shopping done on the way back to his house. He glanced at the time on his phone. Shit. Depending on what was open.

At movement right outside the door, he stood at attention. Yona came back in with you right behind her. He took a good look at you. You wore a rumpled long-sleeved floral dress that went down to your ankles. It was faded like it’d been washed too many times. Your eyes were fixed on the tennis shoes you wore, which had probably been white at one point, but now were discolored and looked like they didn’t fit quite right. 

There was a little hand-written number ten pinned to your dress. He wanted to raise a judgemental brow at Yona, but if none of you would say your names, he supposed Yona and her team had to come up with some way to keep track of you all.

He had to stifle a gasp when his eyes landed on your neck. There was a large bite scar over your mating gland. Unlike the neat and pretty, well-healed ones he was used to seeing, yours was deep and jagged, red and white, scar tissue bubbling up where your flesh had clearly been torn. This didn’t look like a mating bite. It was the sort of bite meant to inflict pain. What sort of alpha had you had??

Your eyes stayed on the floor, your expression blank but your scent said so much – panic, sadness, terror, relief all jumbled together. He wanted to reach out and touch you, his alpha instincts were going haywire, but he kept his hands to himself. 

“This is Curtis,” Yona said to you. “He's the alpha who's going to look after you until we can get all this sorted.”

You didn’t react at all, just stood there, stiff as a board with your eyes on your shoes.

He stayed where he was, conscious of giving you space. “It’s very nice to meet you,” he said, as gently as he could. Then, with a glance to Yona, “Can you tell me your name?”

Your face scrunched up and the fear in your scent spiked but you didn’t say anything. He sighed. Shit. He really didn’t want to have to use an alpha command with you right now. That could be disastrous for any dynamic he tried to build with you. But they needed this information. He really, really hoped you wouldn’t make him force you.

“Omega, what’s your name?” he asked as firmly as he could, hopefully without scaring you. “I need to know.”

You closed your eyes tightly and he thought he saw the smallest little head shake. There was another moment of silence and he looked at Yona nervously. But then, you said it. So quietly he almost didn’t catch it. But you said it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yona frantically scribbling it down, but his focus was completely on you.

He tried to keep his sigh of relief to himself. “That was so good. Thank you. You’re doing so well,” he said, keeping the praise soft, hoping you could scent how pleased he was with you. “When were you born?”

You gave up your birthday a little more easily, but you left off the year. 

“That’s great. Thank you. Do you know how old you are?” he asked, maintaining his gentle tone, knowing it was possible that you didn’t.

For whatever reason, it was that that finally got a reaction out of you. You looked up at him, so he could finally see your eyes, and snarled, “I’m not stupid!”

There was a beat when no one did anything. Curtis and Yona just stared at you in shock. The snarl was frozen on your face until it suddenly disappeared and your eyes got wide. Before he was able to process any of what was happening, you’d dropped down onto your knees. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry, Alpha. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Alpha, I’m sorry.” You just keep repeating that in a constant stream, your head tucked to your chest.

Repeatedly mixed into that jumble was a number. It took Curtis a few moments to realize it was your age. You were answering his question. He quietly repeated it to Yona, then dropped down to his knees as well so he could be closer to your level. “Hey, hey. You’re okay. You’re alright. You didn’t do anything wrong. You’re right. You aren’t stupid. I can already tell how smart you are. It’s okay. I’m not mad.” He wanted to reach out and touch you, wrap you in his arms, even, comfort you however he could. But he was too afraid that that’d make you panic even more. That was a boundary he couldn’t cross. Not yet. He stayed down there, whispering reassurances to you for as long as it took for you to stop apologizing, and a few extra minutes for your breathing to calm down. Once you seemed like you were back in the present moment, he moved to a crouch. “Think you can stand up for me, honey?”

You nodded, but you were back to keeping your eyes downcast. “Yes, Alpha.”

He wanted to tell you that you didn’t need to call him ‘Alpha,’ that ‘Curtis’ was just fine. But that could wait until you were a little more comfortable. Once he had you home, maybe. He could already tell that picking his battles was going to be important.

“Thank you,” he said as he stood up to his full height, and you did as well. “You answered my questions so well. You gave me exactly what I needed.” He looked to Yona to see if there was anything else.

“Do you have any questions for me or Curtis?” she asked you.

You shook your head, emphatically, hunching your shoulders. The room filled with the scent of fear again.

“Okay… that’s fine,” Yona said, and he could tell how much she hated this. “Well,” she turned to Curtis, “I’ll go get the paperwork and then you two can get home. I’ll be right back,” she said to you, then left the room. 

This was happening too fast. In normal circumstances, you would have already been at the center for a few weeks, at least, with access to mental health professionals, life skill classes, and support groups. He’d be the last step before going back to the real world. You’d be ready to spend time with an alpha. Ready to work through processing positive physical attachments. Ready to learn how to share space with someone who wasn’t a threat to you. You’d be ready to slowly take steps into the world, with him there to support you.

You had backed yourself into the corner now. He could see the way every single muscle in your body was trying not to cower. You weren’t ready. You were nowhere near ready. But with all the resources for at-risk omegas pushed to their limit by this raid, what would happen to you if he didn’t take you? As insufficient as it might be, his help could be all you’d be able to get. This wasn’t how it should be, but he’d do everything he could for you.

Yona came back in and he watched her take you in, sighing at your state. He knew she was thinking the same things he was. “Ok,” she said, handing him the packet of forms to sign. “No changes since last time. You know the drill.”

He nodded as he grabbed them and sat down at the table, getting to work signing where he was supposed to. As he did, he felt your eyes on him as the scent of your apprehension filled the room.

Yona called your name. “Let’s go outside for a minute while Curtis finishes up.”

You both left quietly. This, too, was part of normal procedure. She was asking if you were sure you were comfortable leaving with him, telling you you had the option to say no, getting your verbal and written consent, and giving you cards with all the emergency numbers on them. He was afraid this situation might stretch the legal definition of informed consent. Based on everything he’d seen so far, he couldn’t picture a scenario where you’d say no. 

Nothing about this felt good, but everyone’s hands were tied. And he knew that he’d do everything he could to keep you as safe as possible.

A few minutes after he’d finished signing the last page, you and Yona came back in. A worn knapsack hung from your fingers. It was small, confirming Curtis’s suspicions that you didn’t have much in the way of clothes. Alright, that was priority number one.

Yona had a thin folder in her hand that she immediately passed to Curtis. “The regular information, along with her schedule of appointments for the next few weeks, both doctor and therapist. And the card for the agent in charge of the investigation into the compound, in case anything pertinent comes up.” Then she turned to you with a small box. “I’ve got a couple packets of suppressants for you. Do you want them or do you want Curtis to keep track of them for you?”

Your eyes cut to him suspiciously then flitted back to the floor. “Alpha,” you muttered.

“Okay,” Yona said, handing the box to Curtis as well. Then she clapped her hands together, her face set in grim determination. “I won’t keep you any longer then. I’ll see you both next week.”

On the way out of the center, Curtis was all too aware of the way you walked exactly three steps behind him, one step to the left. That wasn’t just old-fashioned, it was archaic. He’d never seen an omega do it in real life.

At his truck, you looked at the truckbed in a way that made him worried you might try to ride back there, so he opened the passenger door for you and waited for you to get in. He resisted the part of his alpha instincts that wanted to buckle you in. And after a gentle request, you did it yourself.

As the two of you hit the road, he reached over to turn the radio on. He tried to move slowly, but you still flinched. “Want some music?” he asked quietly.

You didn’t respond, so he found an oldies station and left the volume low. His plan for the day had shifted a bit. You definitely weren’t ready to go shopping. That was fine. There was nothing that couldn’t be delivered.

About five minutes into the drive, the strong scent of your tears filled the cab. He looked over at you. You were huddled against the door, as far away from him as you could get. Your face was pressed against the window, so all he could see was the back of your head. But he could hear your sniffles and he could smell your distress.

It took everything in him to not pull over right now and reach over to comfort you. Pull you into his arms. Rub soothing circles on your back. But he knew that would do more harm than good. His touch wouldn’t be welcome. Yet. You weren’t ready.

And god, he wasn’t either. He wasn’t ready for any of this. But damn it, he was going to try.

Tag List is open!

@stargazingfangirl18 @yenzys-lucky-charm @thezombieprostitute @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory @bval-1 @km-ffluv @texmexdarling @ladyvenera @roxyfan14-blog @darkserenity24 @midnightramyeoncravings @whiskeytangofoxtrot555 @ronearoundblindly @brandycranby @steviebbboi @missaprilt23 @thiquefunlover63 @hisredheadedgoddess28 @stellar-solar-flare @crazyunsexycool @littlelearningbrat

[clancykolzig]

SIGH. 🥹🥹🥹🥹

Hold My Hand

Pairing: Bucky x reader

Word Count: 1,358

Summary: You’ve got a hand for Bucky. 

Author’s Note: So I recently visited one of my favorite vintage record stores and they sell all these old cds for you know like $1-$3 and I found Hootie and the Blowfish- Cracked Rear View and I was listening to it on my commute today and I was just like OMG NOSTALGIA haha!🥰 Anyway, that’s where this is from. I just wanna hold Bucky’s hand forever. I love holding hands. Here is the song if you wanna listen Thank you all so much for reading! Much love always! ❤❤❤ Jobean divider by the lovely @imerdwarf and heart divider by the lovely @skylightlantern​

Warnings: Softness and fluff, little angsty feeling but it’s all good- hand holding and kisses. 

Gif NOT MINE: Credit to @unearthlydust for this beautifulness, thank you bunches! 🥰

“Hey Sam! Have you seen Bucky?”

Sam looks up from his coffee and his lips dip into a frown.

“Just this morning when he came in to grab coffee.”

You give Sam a small smile and head down to Bucky’s room. With a light knock you press your ear to the door and wait.

“Yea?” Bucky’s gravelly voice answers.

“It’s me Buck, can I come in?” you ask.

Keep reading

[clancykolzig]

The number of grown ass adults that can’t fucking chew with their mouths closed is STAGGERING to me. goddammit!

[clancykolzig]

Tha same animal?

HI HI HI I JUST READ ALL OF BUCKY AND FAIRY AND I'M IN LOVE!!!!! If you're willing, I'd LOVE to see a time when Fairy had to fuck someone up (like Bucky did when Phil touched Fairy in 'Cruel') now that she's the queen of New York. But like after she does it, Bucky just thinks it's the hottest thing ever

omg yes

respect

18+

as bucky's new wife, you've inherited a lot - power, money, status. but there's one thing you're yet to gain: respect. and respect isn't something you can buy or marry into, it's something you earn.

content warning: mob!bucky x wife!reader, mature themes, dark themes, threat, violence, physical violence, mention of blood and injury, minor character death, reader is slightly unhinged, smut, breeding kink hehe.

series masterlist

"This isn't a good idea."

Ignoring Bucky's grumbles, you continue placing the expensive presents into the black and gold gift bag on the kitchen island. Tonight is the first big event you'll be attending as Bucky's wife, so you're determined to make sure you come across well.

"Don't ignore me," He cuts into your thinking with a cold tone.

Huffing, you look up at him from the Belgian chocolates. "You're just being negative, James," You say curtly. "I don't need that kind of energy right now."

"I'm being realistic," He corrects you pointedly, walking over to where you're leaning over the kitchen counter. "Accepting an invitation from the Brugias is a mistake. I don't trust that Aldo fucker."

"You don't trust any of them; that's the point of tonight!" You tell him, standing up straight. "Having them on side would make our lives a lot easier. As much as you hate them, they created a damn good encryption system, one which could give our operations another level of security."

Bucky raises a brow. "And you think eating a few hors d'oeuvres with them will dissolve years of conflict?" He asks you incredulously as he walks around the counter. "That is, if this isn't a trap?"

You fight the desire to roll your eyes and instead wrap your arms around him. "No, but it'll be a start," You say, looking up at him. "They've waved their white flag. Don't throw it back in their face."

His hands tightly squeeze your hips. "I told you when I married you that I'd do whatever you ask me," He reminds you lowly as his lips brush against yours. "Granted, I didn't have this in mind, but if it's what you want, then so be it." He gives you a soft kiss before his eyes slightly darken. "But if tonight ends in blood-"

You lightly hit his chest. "Jamie, you better not fight any of them," You say sternly. "They're extending an olive branch. I want you on your best behavior."

Bucky lets out a sigh. "I'll do my best," He promises. "But don't say I didn't warn you, fairy."

It's a forty minute drive in the limo to the Brugia estate. Bucky had an important business call to take so he's up front with the driver, while you pre-game with Sam and the others. They're in high spirits despite their wariness of the Brugias' intentions, but you're a little guarded. Though you're now Bucky's wife, and are treated by most of his people as such, you can't help but feel that there's something missing.

"What's got you down on a night like this?" Sam asks as he nudges your arm. "Need another shot?"

Shaking your head, you sit back in your seat. "I don't know, Sam," You reply. "I guess I thought that, after I married Jamie, things would change. Not drastically, but..."

"What's he done now?" He asks you with a frown, lowering his voice so the others can't listen in.

"No, it's nothing to do with him," You assure him quickly. "It's more to do with everyone else. They're polite, and all, but... they don't look at me the way they look at Jamie. It's glaringly obvious that, whatever pedestal they put him on, I'm not up there with him. I'm just an accessory he wears," You explain, feeling a slight weight leave your shoulders as you finally admit how you feel out loud to someone. "As if they don't think it'll last. Our marriage, I mean. Like I'm not worth the effort. They don't..."

"Respect you," Sam finishes before slowly nodding. A few moments pass before he turns his head to look down at you. "I ever tell you about when I started working with Bucky?" Once you shake your head, he continues. "I grew up with next to nothing, not even a name, until I was adopted. That wasn't much better, though. I was put to work early; doing drug runs and stealing money bags. It was rough, but it taught me a lot. I met Bucky when we were sixteen years old. His father had just passed and his uncle Jack refused to take charge, leaving Buck to take on the family business. He didn't always have the respect he has now - you know that, right?"

You nod, recalling the stories Bucky's told you about when he first took over. It wasn't simple, and he had a lot of people to win over.

"Well, imagine how little respect I was given. Some random little runt off the streets that Bucky seemed to believe in for some reason," Sam goes on to say. "Most of the people who work for Bucky worked for his dad. And their fathers worked for his grandfather, and so on. If you don't have that history, it's hard to be accepted."

"So, how did you do it?" You ask him. "How did you get their respect? I mean, I'd argue some of those guys respect you more than Jamie."

He chuckles at that. "They did what they do to anyone they don't trust- they tested me," He answers plainly. "They got one of their police friends to arrest me, to see if I'd rat on them. When I didn't, they welcomed me in with open arms."

Frowning, you look up at him. "Somehow, I can't see them doing that with me," You say flatly.

"Bucky would kill them if they tried anything like that on you," Sam says with a laugh. "Trust and respect aren't one in the same. You've been in Bucky's life a long time. They already trust you."

"But they don't respect me," You mutter. "How do I gain their respect? Make them fear me?"

"Fear and respect aren't the same, either," Sam points out. "Sure, there's a little overlap, and Bucky definitely has both those things."

"They should be afraid to disrespect me," You say bluntly.

"They are," He responds before adding, "Because they're afraid of what Bucky would do to them if they did."

You let out a huff. "What about what I would do?"

He raises a brow. "Tell Bucky?"

Offended, you hit his shoulder. "I don't just hide behind my husband," You claim firmly. "I can fight my own battles."

"Well, maybe one day you'll get the chance to prove that," Sam says with a shrug. "Respect isn't demanded. It's earned."

The talk doesn't make you feel much better, but it does make you more determined. You figure that, the more you get involved with Bucky's work, the more likely you'll get an opportunity to show his people that you're your own person who can defend herself.

It's almost midnight when you arrive at the Brugia estate.

Bucky holds your hand tightly as you walk up to the large doors. It's an impressive property, but a little tacky for your liking, with rows of brightly colored sports cars filling the front. The front doors open before Bucky has a chance to knock, and immediately, the loud music booms. A man stands there, a smile on his face, and he's wearing a purple, velvet suit. Two younger men stand behind him, the three of them looking too similar to not be the infamous Brugia brothers.

"Evening, Barnes," The eldest one in purple says, giving Bucky a wry smile. "I have to say, I was surprised when we received your RSVP. Aldo was sure you'd think it was a trap."

"Enzo," Bucky replies with a slight nod. "Admittedly, the thought crossed my mind. But my wife, Y/N, convinced me to give you a chance to say your piece."

Enzo's eyes light up at his words, and he takes your hand before placing a kiss to the back of it. Bucky instinctively tightens his grip on your other hand, which remains encased in his. "It is always a blessing for a man to receive a loving woman in his life," Enzo says, before releasing your hand and taking a few steps back. "Please, everyone, come on in."

After the initial introductions, Enzo and Carl - the eldest two - take Sam and Bucky to the side to discuss how they can work together. Bucky's other men do their best to look intimidating as they stand together. That leaves you with Aldo, which Bucky doesn't seem too happy with, but he knows you can look after yourself.

"I have to say, I was incredibly surprised to hear that you had accepted our invitation," He admits as he walks you over to the bar. "I didn't expect Barnes to be the type to grovel."

You're thrown by his wording but you do well to keep your face straight. "Grovel," You repeat lowly. Raising your voice, you glance over to Aldo and say, "Who said he's grovelling?"

Aldo doesn't answer. Instead, he asks the bartender for two shots of something you've never heard of before.

"What is it?" You ask, picking up the small glass of dark red liquid.

"Awakens the senses," He claims before clinking his glass against yours. "Saluti."

Deciding it's harmless, seeing as it's doubtful he'd try to poison you with your husband on the other side of the room, you shrug and take the shot with him. He looks pleasantly surprised, as though he expected you to refuse it.

"I never thought I'd see the day when Barnes had settled down," He says, looking you up and down. "Especially not with such a beautiful woman."

He may not have the balls to poison you in the same room as your husband, but he has no shame in flirting with you. "Yeah," You reply, looking around the crowded hall. "I never thought I'd land someone so beautiful, either."

Aldo hums, moving closer to you. "Barnes is a lucky man. And who knows? After tonight, he could become a lot luckier," He says cryptically.

"What are you talking about?" You wonder, frowning at him.

"I mean, if we were to align with him," He clarifies. "He'd be a much more powerful man with the Brugias on his side. Together, we could rule more than just New York."

"Right," You mumble, not enjoying the way he's staring deep into your eyes.

He moves closer still. "I know the type of woman you are. I know you want to prove yourself as worthy of being his queen," He says, his tone shifting from light and friendly to something darker. "As a woman, you need to establish your use, else he'll get bored and look somewhere else. Do you agree?"

You say nothing.

"Let me tell you something; Barnes is a traditional man, just like me," Aldo goes on to say. "He knows the kind of agreements men like us have. The things we trade with one another in return for allyship."

Narrowing your eyes, you wonder where he's going with this.

"It's just a part of the business," He states.

"What is?" You ask, sick of his vague statements.

"You're gonna let me fuck you," Aldo says bluntly, throwing you for a loop. "Barnes will let me use you as I see fit, and then my brothers and I will strike a deal with him. They might want a turn, too, and if that's so, you and Barnes will be more than happy to oblige. Do you understand me?"

Shocked by how brash he's being while saying the most abhorrent things, your lips part, and you take a step back. You turn around to see Bucky and Sam still talking to the older Brugia brothers. Bucky's hands remain at his side, so you doubt they're having a similar discussion to you and Aldo.

"This isn't the kind of thing men discuss over dinner," Aldo tells you. "It's a silent agreement. When I take you upstairs, Bucky will know what's happening, and he'll understand that it's necessary. Why else would he bring you here looking so beautiful? Now, are you ready to comply, or would you like another drink?"

Your mind is spinning. Confusion, surprise, and disgust swarm together in a flurry, blurring into one - and then, out of nowhere, a fourth contender joins. Anger. He's louder than the others, taking over until all you see is red.

For Aldo to assume you're nothing but a sex object that Bucky can use to gain advantage over enemies makes your guts churn. Is that how everyone sees you? Even Bucky's men, who claimed you as their Queen, do they see you as nothing more than a bartering tool?

Aldo's hand on your lower back pulls you from your thoughts.

"Take your hand off of me," You say firmly, giving him a warning glare.

His smirk only deepens and the position of his hand only lowers, until it's on your ass. "Don't be like that, baby," He mumbles. "We're all friends here. Right?"

Having had enough, and sick of the smug on on his face, you pull back your hand and punch him square in the jaw. A few of the guests immediately look over, shock on their faces. Aldo stumbles backwards, his eyes wide as he brings his fingers up to his bloody lip before he looks back at you, appalled. You don't give him a chance to say anything and punch him again, right in the same spot, making him groan in pain. This time, he looks angry. He takes a second to recover before stalking over to you and slamming his fist into your cheek.

This the point at which the kerfuffle gets the attention of Bucky. Him and the other men look over at the sound of gasps and shouts, only to see you on the floor at the feet of a bloody-faced Aldo. Immediately, Bucky begins to stalk over, Sam hot on his heels as each of them plan in their heads how they'll draw out Aldo's death to make it as slow and painful as possible.

You recover before they reach you, getting up to your feet. Aldo lets out a scoff, but you're on him before he can get a sly comment past his lips. You jab him in the throat with your fingers and lift your knee into his groin, making him double over with a groan. The burning pain on your cheek only pisses you off, driving you to continue hurting him. How dare he touch you? Does he not know who you are?

You kick him in the stomach and he falls onto his back, but he's no amateur. He's quick to get back up, aiming to grab your throat, but you dodge him. Sam and Bucky reach you but you push your husband back, shooting him a warning glare that says, stay out of this or you'll get beat, too. It takes a lot for Bucky to stand back, but when he sees you driving your balled up fist repeatedly onto Aldo's face, he knows you can handle it. He watches on in adoration - and a slight sense of intimidation - as your skin is spattered with Aldo's blood.

His brothers step forward, but Sam and Bucky keep them at bay. "Don't even think about it," Sam utters to Enzo, who holds his hands up in defence.

"Hey, this is between them two," Enzo says, him and Carl sharing a laugh.

Aldo falls to the ground, trying to kick at you but lacking the energy to land a real blow. You meet him on the floor as you sink to your knees next to him and continue slamming your fist into his face. At one point, you feel the bones in his nose crack.

"Alright, alright, you've taught him his lesson," Enzo calls out.

You look up to see a crowd has formed around you. Bucky and Sam look shocked as they stare at your bloodied hands. With heavy breaths, you slowly stand back up, unable to tell if this is a dream or if it's really happening.

Carl walks over with a smirk, kicking Aldo's still body. "C'mon, little brother, get up," He says, shaking his head. "Embarassing yourself in front of all our guests."

Slowly walking backwards towards Bucky, you feel his hand on the small of your back and allow it to help you calm down. "Fuck me, fairy," He mumbles, pulling you closer to him as he cups your cheeks and looks down at you. "Are you alright?"

"I think so," You whisper back to him.

His lip pulls up at the corner. "That was-"

"Fuck!" Carl suddenly yells from behind you.

You spin around to see him on the ground with his fingers pressed to Aldo's neck. "He... he's not breathing," He utters lowly as his eyes slowly roll up to land on you, nothing but pure contempt in them.

There's a beat of silence before at least twelve people pull out their guns, including Bucky, Sam, and the two remaining Brugia brothers.

"You killed him!" Carl yells, fury on his face. "You will pay for this!"

A second before bullets begin to fly, you feel yourself being dragged away. Your legs have no choice but to run with the person whose hand is tightly clamped around your arm, and amid the chaos you can barely see a thing. All you can hear is gunshots and screams.

It isn't until you get outside that you realise it's Peter that stole you away. He continues dragging you to the limo, only stopping once you're seated in the back. Peter takes his gun out and aims it towards the doors of the Brugia mansion, waiting for a threat to make itself present while you catch your breath.

"Fuck," You mumble, wondering if you've just got Bucky or any of his men killed. The thought of Bucky being hurt makes you spiral, and you lean out the door to grab Peter's shoulder. "We need to go back. We need to get Jamie and Sam back."

"It's not safe in there," Peter replies sternly. "They'll be okay."

"What if they're not?" You cry, turning back to the inside of the limo. Grabbing the small black case that lives under the back seats, you open it up and pull out the small pistol. You check that it's loaded before spinning back to Peter. "We can't just sit out here. We have to-"

Just then, you see some figures emerging from the front doors. Peter straightens his back and the two of you aim your guns, unable to decipher whether the men walking towards you are friendly or not in the dark.

You squint your eyes, trying to see clearer but failing. "Peter," You whisper shakily. "Who are they?"

"I don't know," He replies flatly.

Preparing for the worst, you stand up and leave the limo, taking a few steps forward. Peter doesn't stop you, which you're grateful for.

"Don't come any closer," You call out as the men arrive within earshot. "Not unless you wanna die."

"That's not very nice," One of them says, his voice instantly relaxing you.

Your shoulders fall and you let out a heavy sigh, and Peter lowers his gun, too. Bucky rushes over to you, with Sam and a few of his other men trailing behind. He grabs your hips and pulls you tightly into his body, enveloping you in his arms. You're filled with utter euphoria as you pat his back and shoulders, checking for wounds.

"You're okay?" You ask, pulling back and looking him up and down.

"I'm okay," He replies before he turns his head to the side. "Sam, round up the others and find another way home."

"What?" Sam hisses, but Bucky's too busy packing you into the back of the limo to respond.

"Jamie," You whisper as he gets in and shuts the door behind him.

He ignores you, pressing the button on the right side door, causing the partition to come down. "Take us home, Bobby."

Shit. He's pissed.

The driver turns his head and gives a nod, setting off while Bucky pulls the partition back up. He turns to you with a wild look in his eyes, the lighting in the limo finally allowing you to see the bruises and blood dotting his face. Half-expecting him to tell you how stupid you are for what you did, that you almost got him and the others killed, that you put yourself in danger, you brace yourself.

"What you did in there," He begins, placing his hand on your cheek. Here it goes. You almost wince, pre-empting his angry rant. He opens his mouth to continue. "I've never been so fucking hard in my life."

You suck in a short gasp, wondering if you heard him right. "What?" You ask with a small voice.

Bucky takes your hand and places it on his crotch, and low and behold, his boner threatens to burst through his pants. "You heard me," He mumbles, leaning in unless his lips are a mere breath away from yours. "I've never seen you like that. You were... gorgeous."

"Really?" You ask, your hand still on his clothed cock. "You're not mad?"

"Mad?" He repeats with a dry laugh, shaking his head. "Fairy, I'm in love."

You can't say anything else before he's on you, pushing you down onto the seats. He spreads your legs before leaning down to kiss you, hungry and wanting. Your dress is all but ripped off of your body as he moves his mouth down to your neck, sucking and biting on your skin. His hips can't help but grind and hump against you, his motions sending pangs of pleasure through your body.

"Fuck me," You whimper, running your hands through his hair. "Please, daddy."

He all but rips off his suit jacket and pulls down his zipper. You know he isn't about to take his time or be gentle or make love to you, and you've never been so excited. He pushes your panties to the side while rubbing his cock against your soft inner thighs, his precum staining your skin.

"You're the sexiest woman I've ever seen," He utters while sinking his cock into you. You throw your head back as you anticipate him filling you up, and he doesn't disappoint. Your pussy sucks him deeper into you and Bucky falls forward, his head in your neck. "Oh, fuck, baby."

Your nails dig into his shoulders through his shirt as he bottoms out. He lifts his head and brings his mouth to yours. His breath hits your lips. For a second, the two of you just stare into each other's eyes while his cock sits inside you. Then, with a clenched jaw, Bucky begins to thrust in and out of you. He quickly gains speed, his eyes still boring into yours.

"You're mine," He grunts, slamming into you. "You're all mine. Nobody else will ever get to fuck you like this. No-one."

"Just you, Jamie," You cry, your chest fluttering as pure pleasure overwhelms you. "I'm only yours. Forever."

"Forever," He repeats with a whisper, fucking you harder with his hand wrapped around your throat. "You're mine to own. Mine to fuck. Mine to breed."

His words make your eyes roll back. For a couple that have agreed they don't want children, you and Bucky can't help but give into your breeding kinks.

"Yes, daddy, yes!" You moan, placing a chaste kiss to his lips.

"That's it, good girl," He grunts, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. "So good at taking my cock, aren't you?"

Your heart races as your mind swarms with nothing but dedication to Bucky. The chaotic events that took place just moments ago can be thought about later; right now, all that matters is him.

"Fuck," He groans, resting his forehead against yours. He brings his thumb to your clit and rubs circles on it, making your legs tense up around his waist.

"Bucky," You breathe out. "I'm close."

"Yeah? You gonna cum for me, baby?" Bucky asks with a lazy smirk on his lips as he continues rubbing your clit. "C'mon, show me how good I'm making you feel. Cum for me."

A shiver travels down your spine with a cool trickle, ending with an explosion of ecstasy. You scream his name, at least you think you do- for a few moments, you can't hear anything. Then, slowly, Bucky's voice fades back into earshot as he chants your name, his cock twitching inside you.

"Take my cum, fairy," He groans, thrusting harder as he reaches his end inside you. "Just like that, my good girl, my baby."

You're breathing heavily as he collapses onto you, fully spent. His face rests against your rising and falling chest, his hands finding yours and linking your fingers together.

After a few moments of utter bliss as you both slowly float down, Bucky sits up. You remain on your back as you stare at the roof of the limo, listening to the sound of his zipper with a whisper of a smile on your lips.

Once you've fully recovered, you sit up too, and he pulls you onto his lap.

"Jamie," You begin, swallowing thickly. "Did he... is he really dead?"

His eyes flicker up to meet yours. He takes one of your hands and kisses your fingers before nodding.

You're expecting to feel something heavy at his confirmation. Guilt? Fear? Regret? You search for those things, but all you find is indifference. Perhaps that should scare you in itself.

"I killed him," You mutter.

"You did," Bucky says. "And, knowing you, I don't doubt for a second that he deserved it."

Just then, you find it - a tiny hint of doubt. Conflict in your mind. Did he? You replay the events of the night. His words. The way he touched you, as though you were just something to hold. Something to use.

You rest your free hand on Bucky's shoulder. "He did," You reply.

He kisses your fingers again, before taking your hand and placing it on his cheek. "You gonna tell me what he did?" He asks you with a quirked brow.

Your lips purse. "No," You decide. Knowing what Aldo said to you will only give Bucky anger, with nowhere to release it. He's already dead.

Though he wants to know, Bucky also knows that he won't enjoy hearing it. If you think he doesn't need to know, then so be it.

"Hey," He whispers, squeezing your thigh. "I love you."

"I love you," You return.

You recognize the glint in his eyes to be one of concern. And rightfully so; you just killed a man. You knew marrying Bucky would put you in a heightened position of danger, but it never once crossed your mind that you'd ever hurt anyone. The fact that Aldo deserved it makes it easier to swallow, but it's still shaken you.

But this is your life now. You can't crumble because you've done something you weren't expecting to - being Bucky's wife means you'll have to do some unsavoury things sometimes. You weren't forced to kill Aldo - you wanted to hurt him. You didn't want to kill him, but it happened.

Your lawyer brain wonders if you'd get away with it if the law was something you still had to worry about. "I'd probably be able to swing involuntary manslaughter," You find yourself saying out loud. "I mean, if I got arrested."

"You're not gonna get-"

"No, I know," You assure him. "I'm just saying. I have no priors- oh, except for that little fraud thing your uncle Jack framed me for. If I cried self defence, I'd probably get less than 5 years."

"Fairy, you don't need to think about that," Bucky says softly. "No matter what you do, you will always be safe with me."

"I know, Jamie," You insist. "I know I'm safe. I don't think a SWAT team are gonna barge into our bedroom tonight. I'm just... thinking. Processing."

"Okay," Bucky mumbles, giving you the space to process things the way you need to.

With a small smile, you can't help but release a little laugh. "Did you really... was that...?"

He frowns, gently rubbing your thigh. "What are you asking me, hmm?"

"Uh..." Your cheeks heat up and you look down. "That really turned you on?"

Bucky laughs before pushing your chin up. "You still get shy asking me stuff like that?" He wonders with a glint in his eyes. "You're my wife now, fairy. If you wanna make inquiries about my dick, feel free to."

"I just- I didn't know," You stumble, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. "You really... enjoyed seeing me like that?"

He stares at you for a few seconds, thinking to himself before speaking. "You're never quicker to get on your knees than when I'm covered in someone else's blood," He states bluntly. "We're the same animal, fairy."

You start to laugh, but the look on his face makes you stop. You realize he's right- you're just as deranged as him. There's very little about you that's different to Bucky - very little that separates you.

"The same animal," You repeat with a mumble, before he pulls you in for a deep, long kiss.

happy new year <3

bucky x fairy masterlist

buy me a kofi x

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.