#in the raw woods in the complete darkness and i jumped over a creek with a beer in my hand

[cryptickludovick]

Playing hide and seek at night in the park drunk off my ass with my guy friends >>>>

[chiwhorei]

𝐀𝐯𝐢𝐥𝐚

✞𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐨𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬: 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐈𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧✞

Pairing: Shouta Aizawa x Fem!Reader

Genre: Smut, Dark Content, 18+ MDNI

Word Count: 3,175 [Link to Ao3]

Tags: Darkfic, sacrelige, coercion, corruption, dubcon and noncon elements, intonations and parallels to incest, but not actual incest (ie. ‘Father’ Shouta), choking, age-gap, oral, Priest!Aizawa, Virgin!Reader

From Chiwhorei: Aizawa is where this all started, so it’s fitting he is the subject of my anniversary fic. To everyone who’s followed me along this journey despite the long bouts of radio silence, to everyone that’s participated and supported this collab, to all of my lovely, devious friends— truly, completely, thank you for this past year. Xoxo.

The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.

** ** **

There’s not a soul awake this late.

The rosary wrapped between twitching fingers feels like a hot lashing against the skin. The glass and metal itch in your hold, the devotional was a gift for your confirmation-- it holds a decade of sins.

Your family has been asleep for hours now. Slipping through the back door as soon as you’re sure. Nineteen. A legal adult. Yet the only way to leave in the middle of the night is in secret. The cool, summer air hits your cheeks, it’s still for a moment. It’s so quiet, you feel like you’ve mistaken the real world for a snow globe. Static— in the moments after all of the glitter settles, all of the quiet, iridescent tears laying at your feet. It waits, patiently, until someone comes by to shake it again.

Moving into a cramped dorm room a few hours away, your childhood home feels bigger every visit. It’s bigger because nothing fills the space inside. There’s nothing but tense words and the clatter of silverware against dinner plates. Your father reminds you of an old briefcase— stern, rigid leather, unmistakably empty; your mother’s rose garden smells like poisoned wine.

Roses and leather, the combination suffocating enough to repel you in the hours you should be unconscious.

The walk from your parent’s house to the church is the most familiar thing in the world. Down to the cracks on the sidewalk and mossy steps leading up to a set of large, cherry doors. So routine it almost feels good for you.

There’s not a soul awake this late, you decide, that must be why you’re here.

That must be why he’s up too.

Pushing open one ornate door just enough to peek inside, you’re met with that distinct waft of incense and dusty missals. It smells like every Sunday morning and Easter Vigil, it smells like home.

Only votive candles light the space around you, flickering with intentions from fellow parishioners. You wonder if there’s one burning for you.

You know where to find Father Shouta, and suspect he’s waiting. He can trace every step from your parents home to the front gate. You open the confessional booth and crawl inside, the wooden space around you is cramped. It smells like incense masking cigarettes. Kneeling into the leather cushion, you face the screen partition.

“Forgive me Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was,” the memory has you falter, “three months ago.”

You remember the last hollow confession like it was yesterday. You were back in town for spring break. After mass that Sunday, your dad told Father Shouta how deplorable it was that your friends had tried, in vain, to drag you to the beach a few hours away from campus. “A week of drinking and sex, not for my daughter.”

Shouta met with you that evening and you cried your sins to him. How you had been dared to kiss boys at a party during midterms week, how you drank who-knows-what mixed with cheap beer at a frat house. He consoled you then, he told you that God will forgive all transgressions. “Even the sins of a whore.”

The memory makes you want to cry all over again. Yet, here you are— knees pressed to the very same leather, face against the same dusty screen.

He’s so still, so quiet, you jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice, “What is it that you’d like to confess, my child?”

Your body aches, stiff and tense to the bone. You breathe in, shallow and suffocated, before you speak again.

“Father, forgive me I—” you can tell his posture is just as rigid, he’s only a shadowed outline and the slightest glimmer of color from his eyes. They warn you, but you ignore the familiar feeling on the back of your neck.

“I have been having impure thoughts. I’ve been thinking about a man,” one more deep breath in an attempt to keep your voice neutral, “a much older man.”

If you could hear a smile, Father’s creaks like floorboards.

His silence prompts you to continue, you knot your fingers together and hold them against your stomach, the Rosary tangled in between threatening to cut off circulation.

“The boys in my youth group, the ones in my classes— they’re all nice but,” you leave the second half of the sentence to rattle around in your mind, “but they aren’t you.”

“Impure thoughts are one thing, sinful, but,” his voice is indifferent, cold, “the true sins are ones of the flesh.”

“I- I haven’t,” you start to stutter, trying to defend yourself, “I haven’t done anything, Father.”

Despite himself, he laughs.

“It’s true Father,” you wonder why you hadn’t just stayed at home, “I’ve only ever kissed a boy— it wasn’t even a real kiss. I’m still a virgin.”

From the screen, you can only see him in fragments. Little cutouts of a dark figure and sickeningly bright red eyes. The color peaks through like pieces of a puzzle, chasing through the patterned wood before you can catch that he’s stepping out of his side of the confessional booth.

“It wasn’t a ‘real’ kiss,” each word is mimicked, emphasized by the tap of his shoes against the tiles below, “no, of course it wasn’t. Not with some boy.” Your legs are unsteady as you stand from the kneeler. There’s nowhere to hide, Father has you trapped in a toy box. Just for him to play with.

“Of course that wouldn’t have satisfied you.”

The door to your side of the booth creeks open just as your back hits the wall. You can see his face for the first time in months, you trace the features illuminated with candlelight. Father Shouta’s face is strong, even more sharp with his long, black hair tied back. His presence looms over where you’re sunken into the booth. Even standing and puffing out your chest, he’ll still be able to look down at you.

He bares his teeth. You know this by now, stupid little girl, you know he likes to play with his food.

Long fingers grip the small door frame and curl around the wood like an omen, his body slithers into your personal space until he’s only an inch away.

“Lust, greed, what is it that you want?” Each vowel cradles a hearty dose of poison, the consonants bite away and spit you out. Your skin feels raw under his attention, “You can’t atone for sins you’re not really sorry for.”

Those same fingers slide up either curve of your neck, he crawls from shoulder to jaw, slowly. So slowly it seems like he’s trying not to get caught. He holds steady against your skin, thumb rubbing lightly at your bottom lip. You must have just fallen asleep after your parents went to bed, that stale, poisoned house even lulling the restless. You must be dreaming right now.

“Don’t make me ask again.” His timber hits the three walls and brings you back to the present. There’s no rest for you, only a weak answer to his question. What is it that you want?

“I want to be a humble servant of our Lord.” Your voice shakes, battered against your throat on its way to meet the stiff air.

Father’s lips are on you, he traces the words of Luke over your trembling mouth, there’s only a breath of space between you,

“No one can serve two masters. For you will hate one and love the other; you will be devoted to one and despise the other,”

The hands holding your cheeks move down to circle your neck, each long finger lays a trap. He tightens around the skin, just enough to make you forget how it feels to breathe freely. He could do anything to you right now, and your cries for help would be swallowed by stained glass.

No one can serve two masters.

The scream caught in your throat meets his wicked smile, it fizzles into little more than a whimper. The small booth you’ve been trapped in is burning hot, you feel sweat beading on your forehead. The last ounce of courage, of restraint, tumbles out before you can catch it.

“Who do you serve, Father Shouta? God or the Devil?”

He answers you with a thick tongue finally pushing into your mouth. He smells like perfumed oils and votive candles, he tastes like sugar free gum and Seven Stars.

His grip around your neck is the only thing keeping you on your feet, you’re sure if he were to let go you’d melt into the floor below. Father’s lips against yours are a siren, dulling all other senses, rendering you malleable to his will. Whatever his will may be, whatever it is that he wants from you— you’d let him have it anyway.

He breaks away, the kiss that’s felt like hours disappears far too soon. Your body jolts forward of its own volition, trying to connect yourself to him again. You’re sure you look desperate, but you’re too intoxicated to care.

“I serve only myself.”

Father lets go of your neck and you’re allowed the first deep intake of breath you’ve had since walking into the church. You swallow hard, looking back up to him. He scares you, he always has, but that fear draws you towards him.

Does a moth know what the flame will do to it? Does the moth know their fate?

You feel like crying, really crying, but all that comes out are a few frustrated tears. Father leans over you once more, eyes trailing the tear waxing over your cheek, “You’re a wretched little girl.”

Is that why they fly towards fire, because they like the burn?

** ** **

You step forward in line, it’s almost your turn. Mother first, she’s always thought of Father Aizawa as such a “charming young man''. The notion always made you scoff, in reality he’s only a few years younger than your parents.

Your dad is behind you, he’ll give him a friendly handshake after the service and remark how beautiful the homily was. Today, he spoke of the devil tempting Jesus. You hung on every word.

Mother steps aside and makes the sign of the cross, you’re next. A sheep guided by the dutiful shepherd, a lamb onto his slaughter.

Your chin tilts upwards, eyes locked onto your part-time captor. He only has you for a few seconds this time, but his attention is a hallway— every door is a pitfall. Aizawa’s gaze turns red when he looks upon you again— a bright, bloody, captivating red. You’ve convinced yourself it’s a trick of the light. But you see them in the dark too.

“The Body of Christ,” his voice is a welcome mat in front of an asylum, holding out the wafer and obscuring one painfully beautiful eye.

“Amen.” You know you’re part, but you can’t hear your own voice.

Father watches as your eyes close and your mouth opens, a quiet obedience, nothing at all out of the ordinary. Your fingers tingle with how tight you’re holding them together.

He places the Body to your awaiting tongue. It tastes like a harsh nothing that will stick to the back of your throat for the rest of mass. You take Christ in pieces, letting it start to melt into the roof of your mouth.

Shouta brushes your bottom lip before retracting. It’s subtle, an accident— the smallest touch of chilling skin. No one notices, the earth doesn’t stop on its axis for anyone else. You step aside and follow your Mother back to the wooden pews like nothing out of the ordinary stirs in your heart.

You feel Father’s eyes on the back of your skirt. They feel red.

“Your sweet girl here has offered a helping hand getting prepared for a youth retreat the church is hosting next week.” After mass, the stop to shake Father’s hand is inevitable, a pleasantry every parishioner makes time for before shuffling out for Sunday brunch.

He speaks over your quiet, “Good morning, Father Shouta,” right as your family turns to leave, almost as if he had been mulling over whether or not it was worth a mention. He regards them with a veiled casualty, never once looking at you.

Father’s face is kind when he wants it to be, laying a hand in the middle of your shoulder blades, it's a feeling of comfort you can’t help but lean into, “We’re discussing how to remain chaste in a sinful world.”

The word ‘chaste’ is pinched into your spine and despite yourself, you smile. A heavy heart has found home at the bottom of your stomach, but you can’t let on to the sick churning in your gut. Your parents gleam with pride for their daughter. A perfect example of a good Catholic girl.

“I’ll have her meet at my office this evening, is six okay?” His question sounds like your dowry, talking past you and asking for your parents permission.

Your dad shakes Father Shout’s hand once more, delighted at how his diligent parenting must be the reason you’ve found yourself in holy favor. Said ‘parenting’ is definitely to blame, but not in the way your dad assumes.

*** *** ***

The walk through church and into the sacristy is like a meditation in fear, every step begging you to turn back, to run home like a scared child. You tread steady, feet searing on hot coals until you’re met with the sound of Father Shouta just beyond the threshold.

“You’re late.” Something sinister fills Father’s quarters as soon as you open the door. It’s scary how offhandedly he can lie. You’re at least ten minutes early, the evening toll of church bells will signal the hour. He wants to see if you’ll stutter, if you’ll argue. You stay quiet, busying your hands with the hem of your skirt, fingers lifting it slightly before you remember who owns the eyes sitting across the room. They look golden from here, a honey you could drown in. You cough at the feeling of sugar in your lungs before collecting yourself and awaiting instruction.

Seemingly pleased with your docility, he smiles wide and crooked. It’s bound into a book he will whisper into you page by page. It’s written in a language only he knows.

Shouta motions you farther inside, leaning back in his seat. He corrects you when you move to sit in the chair on the other side of his desk, waiting with little patience as you settle against his side instead. Your posture is stiff being this close, being this alone.

His facial hair is trimmed neatly, small scars litter his face, the most pronounced a jagged trail under his right eye. From the dim evening light, you see a shadow of loose hairs make a pointed crown around his head.

“St. Teresa of Avila,” Father starts, tapping his fingers against a small stack of papers, “what do you know of her?”

You’re disarmed, the question seems so innocent-- not a note of ulterior motive detectible. Even so, your guard remains high. His intentions need no subtext.

“St. Teresa of Avila, the patron saint of headache sufferers,” you’re struggling to see the point, but Father prompts you to continue, “she was a Spanish nun, she wrote about a prayerful life,”

After another moment of measured silence, you grow even more tense, “Father Shouta, forgive me, I don’t understand,”

You’re hushed with a laugh, the small collection of papers placed in your hands. The first leaf is titled with large letters, “The Life of Teresa of Jesus.”

“I’d like you to read the section I’ve highlighted.”

You shake, thumbing through until you find a block of text traced in bright yellow. You scan its contents, but are quickly interrupted by Shouta’s next request.

“Out loud.”

There’s no escaping the toy box.

His stare is unwavering, giving you no room for objection. They’re not soft like honey anymore, Father Shouta’s eye’s are harsh, bloody gemstones.

You know better than to keep him waiting, adjusting in your half sat position on the side of his desk, you begin reading with hoarse inflection, “In his hands I saw a long golden spear, and at the end of the iron tip I seemed to see a point of fire. With this he seemed to pierce my heart several times so that it penetrated to my entrails.”

Wincing, the words sound like a stranger in your ears. After every sentence, Shouta’s fingertips inch closer to the end of your skirt, right above the knee. You’d be stoned for this kind of hemline at home, but with Father it seems to be exactly the sacred skin he wanted to see.

His hands move, unwavering, as you continue with the annotated paragraph, “When he drew it out, I thought he was drawing them out with it and he left me completely afire with a great love of God.” Fingers stop their gentle assault before adding pressure to your inner thigh, he peels apart your legs with a wordless prompting to keep going.

“The pain was so sharp that it made me utter several moans; and so excessive was the sweetness caused me by this intense pain that one can never wish to lose it, nor will one’s soul be content with anything less than God.”

By the last several words, Father Shouta’s lips are centered in between your open thighs, you feel tears frozen in the duct. You want to pull away, to escape, but his lips hold something you’ve never been this close to.

“Piety is a virtue,” you can feel the hot breath against your most intimate planes of flesh, “but our God is one of pleasure too.”

His kiss feels like branding. An aimless, confused lamb seared with the mark of its owner.

You cry out, loud and broken, when his mouth meets the cotton covering your pussy. Shouta uses his pointer and middle finger to move the fabric away.

No one has ever seen these parts of you, kept locked away for your future husband until now, sitting in the heart of your family's church, writhing from even the slightest touch.Hips buck of their own accord, and you’re granted one last open-mouthed lave against your twitching cunt. His tongue peaks out slightly to catch your clit before pulling away.

You move as if possessed, falling to your knees in front of your Father. Your mouth opens, that same quiet obedience, and his finger brushes your lower lip again. “No one” you think, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of fingers wrapped into the back of your hair, “no one can serve two masters.”

“Body and soul, you’re mine.”

But there’s not a soul left in sight.

✞ 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞: All writing is chiwhorei’s original content, please do not repost or modify. Do no read my content as asmr. Do not recommend me on TikTok.©️

[avintagekiss24]

Piper’s Creek [4/10]

Pairing: Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Word Count: 2571

Warnings: language

Rating: M - language

Link: AO3

Summary: Sam Wilson is a simple man. He likes to do simple things, like going fishing on a warm summer day. Little does Sam know, this fishing trip will not only lead him to his soulmate, but into a world of ancient folklore.

Square Filled: U4 - knitting for @buckybarnesbingo​

B2 - Hugs for @stuckybingo2019

A/N: Once again, art is by the lovely @waltermittie. Let’s get acquainted with Steve, shall we?

“Ouch,” Bucky hisses, snapping his hand back from his knitting needles, “Shit!”

He sighs loudly, pushing a hot, irritated breath out of his nose. He sucks the tiny prick of blood from his finger before furrowing his brow and returning his attention back to Steve’s new, but completely unwanted sweater. His fingers start moving from memory, pushing and pulling the dark blue yarn around his needles. The radio plays softly in the background, some stupid country song, causing Bucky to huff loudly again. 

He stops momentarily, lifting his head and turning it slightly toward the front door of their hidden cottage. He sniffs the air quickly, registering the smell that shifted the atmosphere so suddenly and then returns his gaze back to his hands. He knits quickly, the pace of his fingers matching his racing thoughts as he starts to zone out once more. It’s been weeks since he’s seen Sam. He’s worried about him. He misses him. You scared him off, you prick. You gotta go slow! How many times do I have to tell myself this.

Heavy footsteps climb the wooden stairs outside but Bucky doesn’t budge. He jams his needle through the yarn and into his finger again, letting out a sharp, loud, “Fuck!” Steve pushes through the doors seconds later, one arm full with chopped wood, the other with grocery bags, “Wipe your feet,” Bucky says gruffly, not turning around to face him.

Steve rolls his eyes as he shuts the door and wipes his feet enthusiastically on the rug in front of the door, “Hello to you too, darling.”

Bucky grunts in return as Steve crosses behind him to place the bags on the kitchen table, He glances over his shoulder at the brooding Bucky, before moving toward the fireplace the sit the freshly chopped wood in its place, “You’re knitting again?”

“Is it that obvious?” Bucky returns flatly. 

Steve chuckles as he moves back into the kitchen and starts unpacking the groceries, “I have enough sweaters.”

“Well, you’ll have one more now, won’t you?”

Steve cuts his eyes toward his short tempered partner, “Have you eaten today?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Couldn’t catch anything.”

“Did you try?” Steve asks softly, keeping his eyes on the back of Bucky’s head. When he doesn’t answer, Steve takes a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs before he expels it, “I bought some salmon and trout from the store. Want me to make you something?”

Bucky shrugs, shaking his head lightly as he grabs his grey yarn and starts to weave it in, “I’m not that hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten in days,” Steve says softly, cocking his head to the side as his shoulders drop, “You gotta eat something, babe.”

It grows silent between the two again as Bucky actively ignores him. Steve taps his fingers on his hips, wracking his brain for some way to at least try and help Bucky relax. Bucky hisses again seconds later and slams his fist on the table angrily as he’s drawn another spot of blood on his finger. 

Steve moves toward him, leaning over his shoulder and grabbing the needles from his hands, “Take a break, seriously.”

“No, I need to finish this stupid fucking-” He mumbles, reaching for the needles, “Steve, come on,” Bucky pleads as he stands, swiping toward Steve’s hand as he holds the needles up over his head. 

He links eyes with Steve as he clenches his jaw. Steve’s eyes are soft, full of concern and worry, which pisses Bucky off even more. He sighs again, shifting his eyes back toward the front door, “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m worried about you,” Steve starts, dropping his hand to his side, “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

Bucky chews on the inside of his cheek as he keeps his eyes on the door. He doesn’t like being like this either. He doesn’t like making Steve worry even more than he already does, but he knows that he’s finally found him. He’s finally found his Sam and he wants him back. Steve drops the needles to the floor and inches toward the slightly shorter Bucky, wrapping his arms around his torso. 

Bucky nuzzles his head into Steve’s chest, closing his eyes as he wraps his arms around Steve’s waist. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting Steve’s natural scent fill his nostrils, “I’m sorry,” he states simply, squeezing Steve a little harder, “I’ve been awful.”

Steve chuckles lightly, kissing the top of Bucky’s head, “Awful is an understatement.”

Bucky laughs, “I’m a jerk, I know.”

“It’s okay. I know you’re upset.”

Bucky drags his hands up to Steve’s shoulder blades, hooking his fingers over his shoulders. He continues to chew on the inside of his cheek as he stares at the wall behind them, “I’m just worried about him,” he says after a moment. Steve leans back slightly, letting his eyes linger on the side of the Bucky’s face, “I just hope he comes back.”

“He will.” Steve asserts, “If it’s him, he will.”

“It is him. I feel it this time.” Bucky answers as he pulls back, “It’s him.”

Steve nods, smiling softly, “I believe you. You just gotta give him time, baby. This isn’t easy to deal with, especially nowadays.” Steve shrugs, resting his chin on the top of Bucky’s head.

Bucky laughs again before nuzzles his face back into Steve’s chest, “So you’re saying it was easier for you because it was 1942?”

“Uh, yeah. An American Werewolf in London hadn’t come out yet.”

Bucky slaps his arm jokingly, “Not funny, asshole.”

“That movie is terrifying, seriously.”

“Stop,” Bucky whines, stomping his feet like a child on the floor, drawing another laugh from Steve, “Stop making fun of me!”

“Okay, okay, okay,” Steve laughs, tightening his hug, “I’m serious though. This is rough territory. Just give him some time and some space, he’ll come around. I did.”

Bucky scoffs a little, a smirk playing on his lips, “It didn’t take you this long.”

“Eh, what can I say? I’m a sucker for blue eyes and naked men bathing in lakes.”

Bucky chuckles lightly, exhaling as he smiles. It grows silent between the two of them again as they hold each other in the middle of their small, warm cottage. Steve’s right, just relax. 

“I think you’ll like him.” Bucky says after a moment, dropping his hand to Steve’s wrist to rub his thumb over his imprinted name.

Steve smiles gently, “I already do. Seems like a smart guy to stay away from the two of us.” He smiles widely as Bucky starts to mumble and kisses his forehead, “How about some dinner, kid?”

“Trout sounds good.” Bucky relents.

“Cooked or raw?”

“Psssh,” Bucky scoffs, pulling himself from Steve and bending to grab his knitting needles again, “Cooked. What do I look like, an animal?”

-----

Sam holds his head in his hands as Wanda and Natasha move around him. Night has fallen fully, the sky dark, the stars twinkling, the crescent moon high. Natasha sets a glass of water in front of him, nudging him softly, before she sets the large salad bowl in the middle of the table, “Drink. It’ll help with the headache.”

She’s back in the kitchen before she can catch Sam’s heavy eye roll. He knows better though, he’s seen her angry. He takes a sip, and then another as Wanda leans over him, placing a plate full of steak, red potatoes, and asparagus in front of him. She places Natasha’s plate down and then takes her seat to Sam’s right, glancing back toward Natasha with impatient eyes. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” says Natasha, grabbing the wine and jogging back toward to table to plop to Sam’s left. 

After a quick blessing, they spend the first few minutes of their meal eating in silence. Sam eats his steak slowly, his eyes cast out of the windows in front of him and out onto the street. Natasha spears a potato and looks at Wanda, who chews on a piece of asparagus. They have a silent conversation with their eyes,  glancing over at Sam periodically. Wanda tilts her head towards him, but Natasha quickly shakes her head, knowing he’s had a long enough day as it is. 

Sam slides his eyes between the women as they quickly drop their eyes back to their plates. He leans back in his chair, releasing a deep sigh before lifting his glass to his lips, “I’m right here, guys.”

Natasha rolls her eyes as Wanda purses her lips, linking her fingers together and placing her chin on them, “I don’t like keeping secrets.”

“I told you earlier, it’s not a secret. I just think he’s heard enough for today, that’s all,” Natasha says with wide eyes, taking a sip of her red wine. 

“Then why did you bring him here, huh? To tell him half truths?”

Natasha drops her hands to the table, tilting her head as runs her tongue over her teeth, “Oh, now you wanna worry about half truths? What about earlier, huh? There may be evidence.”

“Then let me tell him now.”

“Mommy,” Sam says, turning toward Natasha and then toward Wanda, “Mommy, please don’t fight.”

“Shut it, Sam,” Natasha bites back, angrily taking a bite of her steak.

Sam laughs, leaning his head against the back of his chair and staring up at the ceiling, “Don’t fight, come on.” He rolls his head toward Natasha, a lazy smile on his lips, “I can handle it.”

Natasha rolls her eyes, grabbing her glass of wine again before falling into the back of her chair. She waves her hand toward Wanda, giving her the go ahead and rubs her glass against her lips, “Ok, so,” Wanda starts, not missing a beat, “You remember how I said Bucky has two soulmates?”

Sam nods slowly, turning his glass in slow circles on the table, “I do.”

“I think he’s found him already.” She jumps from her seat and hurries into the kitchen, grabbing another stack of loose papers and plopping back into her chair. She slides a printed picture of a young, small, blonde man. He has dog tags around his neck, his face sunken in, his arms skinny and frail, “This is Steven Grant Rogers, circa 1940.”

“He looks like he’s twelve,” Sam remarks, as he glances back toward Wanda.

“He was sickly. Chronic colds, high blood pressure, had scarlet and rheumatic fever when he was a child,” she waves her hands. “He was a mess, but, here is a picture taken a few weeks ago that popped up on a message board,” She slides a much newer, color picture toward him. 

He leans up and so does Natasha, staring at the man holding brown grocery bags in his hands. It’s a side profile, his blonde hair is long and slicked back, a thick beard covering his face. Sam shrugs as he studies the picture, “I don’t get it. Looks like every other yuppie in downtown Seattle.”

She slides the first picture toward him again, moving them side by side, “See it now?”

Natasha stands and moves behind Sam, leaning over his shoulder as they both examine the pictures before. Sam squints his eyes as the wheels in his brain turn. He snaps his head up toward Wanda, his mouth falling open as Natasha covers her mouth with her hand, “That’s-” 

Wanda nods slowly, “A few people on the message board think that this is Steven Rogers. I looked for more info while you were asleep but there is nothing on him, nothing recent anyway. No driver’s license, no vehicle registrations-”

“No bank accounts.” Natasha finishes for her, “Unless, he’s using a fake name, which, he’d be stupid not to for being a hundred year old guy whose soulmate is a werewolf.”

“After 1942, all traces of Steven Rogers disappears.” Wanda shuffles through some of her papers, tucking her hair behind her ear, “I can’t confirm it one hundred percent, but here’s a mugshot from the early two thousands of someone by the name of Andrew Tavers.” She says, sliding the picture toward them, “The similarities are striking between the three pictures, to say the least.”

Sam slides his eyes between the three pictures before pulling the mugshot of the man a little closer. His blonde hair is short, the beard gone. His lips are pressed into a hard line as he stares back at Sam with an icy glare. Sam tilts his head, sweeping his eyes toward the skinny dude and the lumberjack on either side of the mugshot. The eyes are the exact same, the nose… 

“This Andrew was arrested in a rural Texas town. He got into a fight with some redneck in a bar who claimed, and get this, that he had killed a large wolf while out hunting earlier that afternoon. The police report says that Andrew,” she emphasizes his name with air quotes, “Busted into the bar a few hours later and just started beating the shit out of this guy. Nobody knew him or had even seen him before.” 

Sam blinks as he remembers skimming his fingers along the large, jagged scar on Bucky’s side. Sam’s favorite scar. “What happened after that?” He asks breathlessly. 

“He bailed himself out of jail the next morning and was never seen again. The cops went out to the woods that following day to try and find the carcass of the wolf but it was gone too.”

Sam falls back into his chair, resting his hand on the table, “This is so… crazy.”

“I know, but it’s kind of exciting too,” Wanda smiles, “I mean, my god! Werewolves, immortal men, who are very easy on the eye, if I might add.” She giggles, pointing to the newest picture of Steve, “Maybe once you all get to know each other, you can mention that Nat and I are looking for a sperm donor.”

“Wanda Maximoff-Romanoff!” Natasha scolds, slapping at her shoulder.

“I’m kidding! But not really,” she whispers, wiggling her eyebrows toward Sam, “Seriously, this has to be Steve Rogers, which means that Bucky imprinted on him. He doesn’t look a day over thirty.”

“Not to mention the two hundred pounds of muscle he packed on,” Natasha says. “Sheesh.”

“See, changin’ your mind, huh?” Wanda asks as she pokes her wife’s side playfully. 

Natasha rolls her eyes with a smile on her face before placing her hand on Sam’s shoulder, “Are you okay, Sam? We shouldn’t be laughing, this is serious.”

“No, no, it’s,” He shakes his head and shrugs, letting out a soft chuckle himself, “Thank you, both of you, seriously. If you guys were taking this as seriously as I am, I would have jumped off of the nearest bridge.”

“So,” Wanda asks, grabbing Sam’s wrist with her hands and giving him a soft smile, “What are you going to do?”

Sam smiles back at her before dropping his eyes down the table. He’s not going to lie to himself. He’s terrified. But, something is pulling him back toward that Pipers Creek. Deep in the woods, beyond the trees and grass, there’s a heartbeat that just won’t leave him alone. He hears it every night and every morning. He smells him. He craves his touch, Bucky’s lips on his skin. His soulmate is out there, he just has to find the courage to go to him.