#a/b/o history

[pack-the-pack]

A Calling for all Omegaverse Blogs:

I'm gonna make a post about A/B/O creator history here on tumblr. If you're an old gen or even new gen blog, send me an ask (with your blog visible, anonymous ones won't be counted) or DM with either a screenshot of the very first A/B/O post you made (this being for Omegaverse focused blogs only) or a post of the same year if you can't find the very first, cause there's too many.

If you still can't find the one of the year you made your blog, just send me the oldest you can find and along with it say "I actually started in 20xx but couldn't find the first post".

For exemple: Although I started my consumption of Omegaverse/ A/B/O in 2016, my blog dates back to april, 2017. Here's my first post which was a reblog from my original tumblr blog (that I don't even have access to anymore. So if you ever find it, ignore everything in it hahahah I was a dumb kid).

Screenshot below.

Even if you can't find the exact first post, just send me the oldest you can find of the same year with your url visible as well as the date in the post. I don't actually need to know the content. If it has the word or tags: Omegaverse or A/B/O, it's a good enough qualifier.

Edit: You can also reblog with the screenshot if you don't want your main blog to be exposed.

[hawnks]

Alpha!Nanami/Omega!reader

Word count: ~2,800

warnings: a/b/o typical sexism, abuse of authority (from side character), mention of leg injury

……………………………………………………….

He brings the storm with him.

You learn him in whispers, along with a bevy of myth and rumor. He drifted here from the East. His clothing has been mended at least a dozen times, but his shoes are sturdy, expertly crafted. He makes no noise when he walks — hardly any noise at all. Rōnin, not samurai. And you can’t trust a man with no honor.

He killed his old master, I heard.

No, he was exiled.

Maybe he killed his master because he was exiled.

“He’ll be gone tomorrow once the rain lets up,” the innkeeper says, cutting off all further speculation. “Now, mind your work, not the guests.”

Beside you, someone grouses, “He chose a funny season to wander, if he’s afraid of the weather.”

…

The rain does not let up.

It puts everyone in a sour mood. The streets turn viscous and tacky, the air brutally cool. You draw the short straw, sent to fetch the days meat in the early morning, a long trek to the fishmonger that leaves you drenched down to your underwear.

It takes twice as long as usual — you lose your sandal a few times in the muck — and when you arrive the stand is vacant. The old man had come down with pneumonia.

Frustrated, you take the long way home. They can wait for the bad news, and you’re so soaked a few extra minutes won’t make any difference. You catch the eye of a few of the daimyō’s men, leering at you from beneath awnings, snickering as you walk by.

“Wanna hear a joke about wet omegas?” one of them calls to you.

You grit your teeth and keep walking.

You deliver the news about the fish to the innkeeper at the door to her room, so you can dart out again before she has a chance to say anything. God forbid she sends you out on another errand.

Soaking, furious, you change into your uniform, and begin your shift at the tavern.

The work is tedious, but decently lucrative. You like to talk to travelers, learn what’s happening beyond the boundaries of your town. It’s hard to put into words what you get out of this, hoarding information like you’re starved for it. Maybe the sheer notion that there is someplace else. That this town and its people are not the only things in the world.

The comfort of knowing away is still possible.

You expect to ask the rōnin the same, starry eyed questions, regardless of how the other server is avoiding him. It might even be enough to salvage this shitty morning.

But you don’t get a chance to ask him where he’s from, what he’s seen. You open your mouth to say something, and choke on air thick with the scent of wisteria.

He meets your gaze.

He won’t look away.

Your wet hair drips on his table.

You can’t feel your fingertips.

Shoving yourself away from the table so hard it rattles against the floor, you excuse yourself in a mumbled tumult. You recruit the other server to take over your tables for the rest of the morning. You must look as awful as you feel, because she doesn’t even question it as you retreat back to your room, throw yourself under the quilt. Close your eyes and pray for your heart to settle.

The one thing the gossip didn’t prepare you for — an alpha.

…

Another day of storms. Another morning you draw the short straw.

Another day you limp home through the mud, empty handed.

The soldiers don’t leer today. Instead, the daimyō is waiting for you. It feels like he’s always waiting for you, that he could swoop in any moment, as quick and ruthless as a hawk.

He’s said he could follow your scent straight to you, no matter where you’re hiding. Sometimes you believe it.

He’s leaning against a wall under an awning, but you know the casual stance is deceptive. He can be fast when he wants to be.

He calls your name, an inferred order to come.

You pretend you didn’t hear, keep walking.

He’s standing straight now arms at his side. Ready. Your insides feel leaden. It takes all your willpower to keep moving forward. To disregard an alpha is one, painful thing. To disregard the daimyō is simple insanity.

Water blurs your vision. You can’t tell from the corner of your eye what expression he’s making. Sometimes he finds your insolence humorous.

Sometimes not.

Just a dozen feet further and you’ll be at the bend in the road.

“You should greet me,” he says. Quiet, but you’re so hyper-vigilant, there’s no way you could miss it.

“Good morning, My Lord,” you whisper to your feet.

He doesn’t step out into the rain, but his voice follows you around the corner. Teasing, condescending. “That’s a good omega.”

He could kill you for your bad manners. A servant, ignoring their lord. No one would question it, no one would dispute it.

But then — he would be killing the only omega in the whole town.

As much as he resents your disobedience, he would resent the loss of you even more. An alpha must have an omega, he told you. That is his right.

Chin tucked and scurrying, you don’t realize you’re on a collision course until you’ve already run into the man. The impact sends you tumbling to the ground.

Through the buffer of the downpour, it takes you a minute to recognize him. His scent.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says. “I apologize.”

He bends to offer you a hand up. You just stare at his outstretched palm. Silent. Reeling.

You wait for him to give an order. Demand you take his hand, or that you come to stand on your feeble legs all on your own. It’s simply an alphas nature to wield their power like a cudgel, to bend everything and everyone to their will.

And now you have two of them to deal with.

Another moment of stillness. Your breath steams. Your pulse drowns out all other sounds.

He kneels.

Like this, on the same level, you can see the color of his eyes. So perfectly brown they’re almost black.

“Are you alright?” he says.

His voice is staid and calm. Not demanding. Not cruel. It — confuses you. You don’t understand what he wants from you.

You rise to your knees, shoving him with all your strength. He doesn’t budge. He remains solid and upright beneath your hands. You can feel the muscle, the innate strength. He’s warm, beneath the wet clothes. So incredibly warm.

You wonder if he could soothe your chill. You wonder if the touch of his bare skin would burn.

With a gasp, you tear away, appalled and mystified by your own reaction.

He stays kneeling as you rise and step away. He stays as you rush home, the scent of wisteria heavy in your lungs.

…

The innkeeper is displeased with your performance, of late. She gives you a stern warning that you shouldn’t let your “licentious nature” interfere with work.

“I don’t know why I agreed to take an omega on,” she sighs. “Not like you’ll be around for much longer, anyway.”

You wince. “Am I fired?”

The old woman laughs. “No, no. Not yet, anyway.” She waves at you, a full body gesture. A reference to the omega in you. “You’ll be wed to His Lordship soon, anyway. You won’t have to worry about the toil of work anymore.”

You excuse yourself shortly after.

…

The days are a monotony. Even the fear is so commonplace you lose track of it. The daimyō grows impatient with you. He calls to you from the shelter of the awning, each time a little bolder, a little less demure about his intentions.

“You know, I have a bad habit of breaking my things when I get bored of them,” he tells you. “I wonder what other tricks you have to keep me entertained.”

You hang your clothes to dry every evening, and the drip becomes a steady cadence, like the ticking of a clock.

This is your life.

The rain.

The rain.

The rain.

…

The decree is issued that afternoon. Marriage.

You’re to report to the royal estate before sundown, along with everything you own. You will not be coming back.

You pack your bag; you take the road out of town. With the city at your back, you’ll have to pass through the outskirt woods. Then across the river, a dangerous gambit when the water is this high, but that just means you won’t be followed.

You can’t imagine the consequences if they catch you.

The path grows looser the further you go, the mud deep, silt as slick as ice. Arduous and exhausting. And dangerous, too.

You don’t realize your footing is off until it’s too late. You slip, land badly. You cry out before you can stop yourself.

You struggle to your knees, get one of your legs beneath you. A shock of pain has you tumbling down again.

You can’t stand. You can’t run.

Just moments after you fall, a shadow overtakes you. And a man, looming, familiar, crouches before you.

“I heard your voice,” he says. “Can you walk?”

You shake your head, timid, overwhelmed.

“Pardon me,” he says, before hefting you up into his arms.

The ease he does it with is startling. An alpha’s superior strength.

He brings you to a small hunting cabin. Clearly abandoned, but decent enough. It’s dry, and a small fire is going in the hearth.

There’s no furniture except for a rudimentary pallet, which he sets you down on.

“May I?” he asks, hands hovering above your stockinged leg.

He takes your silence as answer enough, unrolling the material gradually, trying not to disturb your injury. He inspects it briefly, pressing carefully. You wince, he stops.

He reaches for his bag, retrieving a small tin. “Your ankle is sprained,” he tells you. “You should return to town in the morning.”

“I need to leave,” you return absently. “I have to get past the bridge.”

He frowns.

“The bridge has collapsed. The river is impassable.” He had tried to leave that morning, only to face the same dilemma. He considers you leg. “Besides, you won’t make it very far.”

The reality of your situation dawns on you, a slow tide of dread.

You missed your chance. You’ve lost your only opportunity at freedom.

You yank out of his grasp, dragging yourself across the floor, to the corner on the far side of the cabin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you—“

“No. No.” You gnash your teeth at him, feeling wild with fear, unable to see past the dark curtain of it. “I have to go. I can’t be trapped in here with you.”

He raises a hand, a placating gesture, but all you see is motion, canting toward you. An alpha. A threat.

You grab whatever is closest. You throw it at him.

The stick doesn’t even hit him, but that doesn’t stop you. You throw everything within reach.

He just waits for you to give up, but soon enough he realizes how stubborn you can be.

“Enough,” he says. His voice fills the shack, not loud, but indomitable. The undeniable command of an alpha. “I’m not going to hurt you. I would appreciate if you would offer me the same courtesy.”

You drop the stone you were going to hurl at him, suddenly incapable of aggression. You feel — groggy, but less terrified now. Very nearly calm.

His pheromones, you realize.

The notion that he’s using them on you should incense you, but you can’t muster it. You close your eyes, exhausted.

Eventually, after long minutes of tepid silence, he murmurs, “I was here first, you are aware of that, right?” His tone is almost — sullen.

And for some reason, that very human show of petulance is enough to thaw you.

You laugh.

You can’t stop. You laugh so hard it’s hardly laughter anymore. It’s so intense it makes your ribs hurt, brings tears to your eyes.

It feels like the first time you’ve been able to think clearly in weeks.

When you finally calm to a few soft hiccups, you lay down and throw your arms out. Passive.

“Alright, swordsman,” you say, “Fix me.”

He’s slow to approach you, cautious of another rock coming at him. But you remain still.

His touch is gentle, so soft it’s like he’s barely handling you at all. He retrieves the tin of salve you kicked out of his hand, and begins to apply it. It’s cool, slightly astringent. Beneath that, the scent of wisteria.

His fingers are just as warm as the rest of him.

It’s over before you can get used to the sensation of him touching you. He pulls away, returns the tin to his bag. “That will help with the swelling. You should still avoid putting weight on it until it heals.”

“Thank you,” you force yourself to say.

You think you hear him chuckle.

…

Night blooms, full and dark.

Despite your anxiousness, the waiting has grown tedious. Unbearably so.

“Is there anything in that bag to alleviate boredom?”

He glances at you for a moment. Hesitating.

Finally he reaches inside, pulls out a small binding. He passes it to you.

A book of poems. You recognize the shape of the sentences, some of the words. You wonder what use a swordsman has for literature, but the swordsman is full of surprises evidently.

Th pages are worn, the edges soft from thumbing.

“I can’t read,” you say. You look at him. Expectantly.

You hold the book out. He takes it, slowly, gingerly.

He reads.

He’s not much of a performer, although you didn’t expect him to be. It’s clear he’s not used to reading aloud, but he knows these passages well. He’s tone is even, with little inflection. The words come out perfectly paced.

They’re love poems. Not flowery or decadent, but earnest, gentle.

It seems at odds with what you know of him, what you’ve assumed from his status, both as a rōnin and an alpha. You’re not sure what to make of him anymore, how to reconcile the image you built of him in your head and everything you’ve witnessed here.

His swords are leaned against the wall beside him, sure proof of a history of violence.

The question comes, unbidden. “Have you ever killed someone?”

He pauses, glances at you. He searches your face for something, the fear that should accompany those words. But your expression is blank.

Silence, fraught with the tense memory of how you ended up here. What were you running from? Why? He must understand, to some extent. No one reaches desperation without pretext.

“Yes,” he says, simply.

“If I asked you to kill someone,” you murmur. “If I paid you…”

The implication feels enormous within the tight confines of the cabin.

“I don’t believe that’s what you want.”

“What do I want?”

“To not be put in a position where you have to make that kind of decision.”

That makes something in your chest feel tight, on the verge of snapping. Another thing you can’t wrap your head around. Another emotion you can’t name. Uncomfortable, but not frightening. Not like before.

You feel displaced, unmoored.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m not being nice,” he says. “You need help. I’m in a position to provide it.”

And that seems wrong to you. Just because someone has the means doesn’t mean they’ll offer them, certainly not freely. Especially not when someone is a such a burden.

“I’ve never met an alpha who’s kind to an omega just for the sake of it,” you say despite his denial.

He mulls that over for a moment, head cocked as he decides how to respond.

“I didn’t know you were an omega until tonight,” he says, quietly. “I had my suspicions, but…”

“Were my bountiful charms not enough to tip you off?” You snort at his blank expression, too polite to disrespect you with an answer. “Why now?”

“Your scent. It’s…subtle. Easy to miss, especially under these circumstances.”

“What do I smell like?”

He smiles, for the first time since you met him. It softens his severe features, makes him look younger. Less world-weary. “You smell like rain.”

He continues reading as the sky continues to churn, until you can hardly keep your eyes open, just barely holding on to the soft thread of words.

“Sleep,” he says gently. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Despite yourself, you believe him.

[mrskennedy]

John F. Kennedy and Jacqueline Kennedy stand with LBJ and Lady Bird Johnson as they arrive in San Antonio, Texas. November 21st, 1963.

[theficlistpodcast]

JUST ONE MORE WEEK UNTIL NEW YORK COMIC CON!!!! 🥳🥳

If you'll be there on Saturday, be sure to check out our panel! It's a discussion you do knot want to miss! 😏😂

Panel: (18+) Into the Omegaverse: A Long, Hard Look at Smutty Fan-Fiction When: Saturday, October 19 from 9:15-10:15 PM Where: Room 406.2

Featuring author and content creator/educator Berklie Novak-Stolz (aka @icaruspendragon), we'll be exploring and celebrating fan-fiction history and subcultures in all their queer, kinky, unhinged glory. This panel is rated E for Explicit.

[sarahowritesostucky]

Alpha, Beta (& Omega) Masterlist

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Tags: a/b/o, arranged marriage, domestic discipline, spanking, head of household, dom/sub elements, alpha Steve, beta Bucky, hurt/comfort, wedding night, alternate history, nobility/royalty au, Edwardian time period, m/f/m poly marriage, enemies to lovers

Summary: To save House Barnes from scandalous ruin, eldest son James must agree to a contracted marriage, accepting Lord Senator Steven Rogers as his Alpha, Husband, and Headship.

A contract of engagement. (Word count: 1066) Teen

A most untoward introduction. (Word count: 2368) Mature

A wedding eve's dinner. (Word count: 1619) Teen

A late morning wedding. (Word count: 1862) Teen

A wedding night. (Word Count 2411) Explicit

A honeymoon. (Word Count 2976) Teen

A honeymoon, cont'd. (Word Count: 3536) Mature

A consummation. (Word Count: 2817) Explicit

A fever (Word Count: 3619) Mature

A consummation, cont'd (Word count: 2928) Explicit

A school reunion (Word count 3449) Teen

A sojourn in London (Word count 2010) Teen

A public scene (Word count 3617) Teen

A Headship's rebuke (Word count 3627) Teen

A dream, a visit, a game (Word count 4823) Explicit

A tour of the continent (Word count 5652) Explicit

A homecoming (Word count 4286) Explicit

A settling In (Word count 5616) Teen

A courtship (Word count 3201) Explicit

An Inquiry (Word count 6883) Explicit

Masterlist

@openup-yourmind

[bonnieura]

loved the lighting

[ask-ciaphas-cain]

This is going to sound insane but bare with me:

When, exactly, did the transition from mpreg to ABO happen, and what fandom/societal trends moved fanfiction from "dude gets pregnant" to "we have invented a biological and social ecosystem to justify this cis man bearing children"?

I distinctly remember mpreg being a Thing on ff.net and Livejournal, with nary a mention of alphas or slick. I can definitely peg the rise of ABO to the beginning of AO3, but other than that I'm at a loss. Mpreg was definitely seen as just as weird and as much a subject of mockery as ABO is today, but like... The vibes were different.

Does anyone know more about the decline and fall of mpreg and the rise of ABO? I know this is such a weird thing to ask (I'm not even into ABO/mpreg) but it feels like an important part of fandom history.

[aryburn-trains]

Sixth Street Crossing

Pittsburgh commuter to Versailles 4 days before this line was relocated to eliminate 23 grade crossings McKeesport, PA May 1, 1970

[20th-century-railroading]

Illinois Central Gulf - Ash Street

A westbound ICG local freight approaches Ash Street crossing while a B&O transfer is on the connection track to the Santa Fe behind the tower, in April 1987.

[geminisee]

was about to get really mad that this scientific article my cousin shared doesn’t mention the omegaverse until i realized….

this scientific paper literally predates the concept of omegaverse

huh. why did i never know that the supernatural fandom started omegaverse.

[deus-ex-mona]

i miss her…

[ronanlynchbf]

see too many ppl still defending jdepp or running with the "mutual abuse" angle so here's a video presenting basically all the (publicly available btw! for anyone to be able to look up!) information on this case. Let it be known if you still support jdepp i am assuming you have never done a grain of research into this in your life and just ran with public opinion and misinformation

[mrskennedy]

The State Funeral of President John F. Kennedy. November 24th, 1963.

photographed: Jacqueline Kennedy, Jean Kennedy Smith, Lady Bird Johnson, Present Lyndon B. Johnson, Peter Lawford, and Patricia Kennedy Lawford.

[theficlistpodcast]

That's right, we're going back to New York Comic Con!!! And our panel is on SATURDAY!! 😱😱

Panel: (18+) Into the Omegaverse: A Long, Hard Look at Smutty Fan-Fiction When: Saturday, October 19 from 9:15-10:15 PM Where: Room 406.2

Featuring author and content creator/educator Berklie Novak-Stolz (aka @icaruspendragon), we'll be exploring and celebrating fan-fiction history and subcultures in all their queer, kinky, unhinged glory. This panel is rated E for Explicit.

We hope to see you there!

[moonythejedi394]

snippet of ch6 of my warlord/prince fic

Steve purrs and nuzzles into Bucky’s neck, seeking out his scent gland. Bucky tips his chin up to let him. Post-coital, Steve is drowsy.

“Nap, darling,” Bucky encourages. “I’ll wake you up in about an hour for the games.”

Steve nods and yawns. He snuggles closer to Bucky’s neck, but shivers a little. Bucky grabs a fur blanket and pulls it up, covering them. Steve sighs happily.

“Thank you, Daddy,” he mumbles.

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Steve dozes, content with the scent of his Alpha in his nose. Vaguely, he’s aware of Bucky slipping his cock from him at some point, after his knot released. Steve just presses closer, hands tucked between their bodies. 

Then, sometime after Bucky pulled out, Steve wakes to Bucky’s soft, deep voice.

“Time to get up, little one. We have games to attend.”

Steve yawns and nuzzles into Bucky’s scent gland. Bucky kisses the top of his head.

“You’ll enjoy watching,” he promises. “I’ll be in each fight.”

“Won’t get hurt, will you?” Steve asks.

“If I do, it’s the will of the gods.”

Steve scowls at that. He pushes up and catches Bucky in a kiss.

“If you get hurt, I’ll beat you,” he whispers boldly.

Bucky laughs, throwing his head back. Steve takes the opportunity to bite none-too-gently at his scent gland. Bucky laughs again and rolls them over to put Steve on his back, then kisses him soundly.

“Feisty little one, aren’t you?” Bucky purrs. “I swear, darling, I won’t get hurt. It’s bad luck, after all.”

Steve is satisfied by that. Bucky pushes up and pulls him into a sitting position, then lifts him off the bed. He puts Steve back on his feet, then picks up the discarded shift.

“Arms up,” he says.

Steve lifts his arms and Bucky pulls the shift onto him. Bucky then picks up the robe, unbuttons it the rest of the way, and helps him into it. Steve steps back into his slippers and Bucky puts back on his shirt and boots. Bucky guides him into the sitting room, and then out. They return to the first floor, then go through the grand front doors outside.

An arena has been set up in the courtyard. Spectators are already gathered, but the arena is empty. Bucky walks with Steve over to a tent, enters it with him, and they find Thor and Brunhilde waiting, wearing armor. 

“How was it?” Brunhilde asks with a grin.

“Oh, he’s a dream,” Bucky answers, swinging his arm over Steve’s shoulders. “Better than anyone I’ve ever fucked, and he has zero experience, even.”

Steve blushes. Thor and Brunhilde laugh.

“It’s the virginity,” Steve mutters under his breath.

Bucky, Thor, and Brunhilde still hear him and they all laugh again. Bucky yanks Steve against his side and kisses his braids.

Natasha then enters, her face painted with red warpaint and wearing armor, but no sleeves. Her armor is also decorated with teeth, but no human bones. 

“Looking forward to trying to cut you,” she says to Bucky. “But I’ve heard even demi-gods don’t bleed.”

“We don’t,” Bucky says with a feral grin.

Natasha snorts. Bucky crosses to a trunk and opens it, then, strangely, rips his shirt off. He dons the same sort of armor as the day before though without his shirt, and with a different vest that has less coverage; straps connecting metal-reinforced leather over heart, belly, and low back but exposing skin elsewhear. Steve is once again disconcerted by the jawbones that look very human. Bucky paints his face with black stripes and ties back his hair with a leather cord. He then reaches out for Steve and Steve immediately goes to him. Bucky grabs him by the waist and kisses him thoroughly. Steve forgets anyone else is in the tent and he whimpers, standing on his toes to press his clothed prick against Bucky’s tasset.

“He really is easy,” Natasha quips.

Steve jerks back and blushes, but Bucky laughs. He steps back and picks up a massive sword, made of black metal and sheathed in leather decorated with more animal teeth or claws, and gold. He straps it to his back, then picks up a helm made out of iron and a large, vicious looking skull, which he puts on. His eyes show through the empty sockets of the skull and the upper jaw frames his cheekbones. Bucky pauses, grabs Steve by the jaw, and roughly wipes his mouth with his thumb. It comes away black. Steve touches his lips.

“Good enough,” Bucky says. “Let’s go.”

They all exit the tent. The spectators see Bucky and cheer. Bucky raises a fist in triumph to them, then guides Steve to where his parents are standing, looking sour again.

“Spend a little quality time with your son,” Bucky says. “But not too much. I don’t want him distracted from the ring.”

Neither Sarah nor Joseph say anything. Bucky catches Steve’s waist and kisses him sharply but briefly, leaving more black on his mouth. He then turns and strides up to the arena, hopping the fence marking it. The spectators cheer louder. Bucky throws up both fists and circles the arena predatorily. He stops in the center, then throws his head back and howls like a wolf. The spectators fall silent.

“Let any who wish to challenge me cross the fence!” Bucky shouts. “By our laws, it is tradition I be put to the test before my mate before I wed him! Make it a good one, folks!”

The cheering starts up again. Immediately, Natasha jumps into the ring, drawing two short swords.

Bucky draws his greatsword, then the two begin to circle each other. The cheering doesn’t stop. Natasha and Bucky seem to be exchanging words, but they are not audible.

Suddenly, Joseph grabs Steve by the arm and hauls him close. Steve yelps and is startled, but Joseph slaps a hand over his mouth.

“Silence!” he hisses in Steve’s ear. “There is one thing left you are good for –”

He shoves a sheathed scian at Steve. Steve fumbles with it.

“Hide it,” Joseph growls in a command.

Steve finds himself obeying. He shoves it into his stockings and straightens up.

“Tonight,” Joseph continues to command, “you will rid us of this pagan usurper. Slit his throat and we will absolve your sins.”

Steve gasps.

“Silence!” Joseph commands. “You will not speak of this. You will do your duty by your people. When Barnes is dead, we can drive out his armies.”

Steve is distracted by Natasha charging on Bucky. Their swords collide and it rings in the air. 

“Do I make myself clear?” Joseph demands.

Steve just nods. He doesn’t know what to do.

Abruptly, he hears Bucky laughing. Natasha ducks under his sword and slashes at his legs, but Bucky jumps out of the way. Steve finds himself shaking. Joseph shoves him away again. Steve glances at Sarah, but she won’t look at him.

“But…” Steve whispers. “Isn’t – isn’t murder a sin?”

“You are already a sinner!” Joseph snarls. “You may find forgiveness after you do this. I will bite you so you do not suffer bondsickness. Then you will be sent away. Your mother will have another child.”

Steve looks at his mother again. She makes no expression. She’d only ever had one litter because it had nearly killed her and out of the the three pups she’d born, two were stillborn. He knows she’s refused to have another litter every time Joseph asked her to, which only worked because their personal physician recommended she didn’t try another litter. He can’t believe she’s caved to this.

“Speak no more,” Joseph demands. “Watch your… your Alpha,” he spits out.

Steve turns, shuffling. Bucky brings his sword down on Natasha and she catches it with both of hers, forming an X. Bucky then kicks her between the legs, but she darts back. Bucky charges on her and she ducks, circling around so Bucky puts his back to Steve. Steve, even from a distance, can see sweat dripping between Bucky’s bare shoulder blades. The two cross blades once more, then Bucky throws Natasha off and she stumbles. Bucky swings his sword and the tip catches her on the cheek. Blood immediately forms along the cut. She draws back, at once sheathing her swords.

The crowd cheers tenfold.

“FIRST BLOOD HAS BEEN DRAWN!” Bucky calls above the din, raising his fist to the air.

Natasha exits the ring. She’s followed by Brunhilde.

Steve shakes the rest of the morning. Bucky fights Thor, then Loki in trousers instead of his – their dress, then Rhodey, then even Wanda, and after her, a handful of warriors Steve doesn’t know the names of. Bucky wins each and every match, though Steve can tell his opponents are truly attempting to draw blood with how viciously they attack. The dagger under his robes is a heavy weight. Steve doesn’t know what to do.

The sun is high in the sky as Bucky jumps the fence again. He walks in a straight line to Steve and, still upset by the scian in his stocking, he lifts his hands for comfort. Bucky takes him by the waist, then lifts him and tucks him against his chest.

“To lunch,” Bucky says, a bit out of breath. “I’ve worked up an appetite.”

Steve nods. Bucky begins to walk again and Joseph and Sarah fall into step behind him. The captains including Domino  and chiefs and their partners then follow, and after them, the crowd of spectators. Servants open the front doors and Bucky strides through them. They go to the great hall and many people are already waiting. Bucky walks up to the high table, crosses behind it, then takes the center seat. Joseph sits at his left and Sarah beside him. There are nine seats, and beside Sarah sit Bruce and a woman Steve doesn’t know. On Bucky’s right, Natasha sits with Clint in her lap and Wanda, Darcy, and Jane at their right. Bucky pulls Steve across his lap and waves a hand. Servants stride up with food, then they serve it, holding each dish and putting food on their plates before going to the right to serve the next plate.

Bucky puts his hand on Steve’s leg and it lands on the knife.

“What’s this?” Bucky says, flipping Steve’s robe up. “Now, I didn’t give this to you, pet, where did you get it?”

Steve sucks in a breath. Joseph is staring straight ahead. Joseph had commanded him to tell no one, so he cannot speak. But Bucky’s word is his law. He feels compelled to answer.

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Alpha, Beta (& Omega)"

Rated: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6883

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Tags: a/b/o, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, nobility/royalty au, alternate history, dom/sub elements, beta bucky, anal sex, oral sex, hurt/comfort, first time, age gap, domestic discipline, spanking, head of household, wedding night, Edwardian time period, m/f/m poly marriage

Summary: To save House Barnes from scandalous ruin, James must agree to a contracted marriage, accepting Lord Senator Steven Rogers as his Alpha, Husband, and Headship.

Story Masterlist

20. An Inquiry

This Chapter: They’ve only been married for a matter of months, after all. It seems almost insultingly soon for the mothers of Society to be sending in their requests to make enviable matches.

As Congress enters its fall session, Steve gets very busy with work. He’s away from the house most of the time, leaving early in the mornings and staying at his office in the city until late at night. He rarely makes it home for lunch anymore, and many suppers are missed as well, the servants wrapping up a plate to be reheated hours later. 

In the mornings, Bucky hates waking up alone in their bed, the heat of Steve’s large body already faded from the sheets. He knows that his husband is a Senator, is important, but that doesn’t make lonely meals or going to bed by himself any easier. Steve never initiates sex anymore, and it’s almost hurtful, even though Bucky knows it’s because he’s so busy, so tired. There’s little opportunity for Bucky to try and initiate sex either. He’s a heavier sleeper than Steve. Oftentimes the Alpha will slip into bed one night and right back out the next morning, Bucky having slept soundly through both events.

All of a sudden, Bucky misses the intimacy that’d been growing between them as new husbands. He feels, well … neglected.

“I’m tired, Baby,” Steve will say, when Bucky does manage to wake up in the night, when he turns over and spoons up against his Headship’s sleeping warmth, tries to slip a hand over Steve’s waist and down the front of his pajama pants. “Tomorrow, Babe,” Steve will promise, and rearrange Bucky in his arms with a sleepy, close-eyed smile. 

But those promises never materialize, and Bucky still wakes alone more often than not.

It’s just the lifestyle, he knows. Steve is a Senator. He’s dealing with important bills, working hard on legislation and coalitions, all for the good of their country. He’s down to DC every other week, and Bucky knows that his husband hates the traveling, especially when it’s only for a day or two of endless bickering sessions and snail’s-pace progress. 

“Long train trips have a great way of pointing out how old I am,” he tells Bucky wryly, but he’s only thirty, and Bucky makes fun of him for complaining.

“Right, because you’re so ancient.”

“Hey, you don’t know,” Steve gives a lopsided smile. “The benches are godawful.”

“Come upstairs with me,” Bucky cajoles one morning, taken by Steve’s expression. The alpha is dressed for travel and surrounded by his baggage in the foyer, waiting for Jarvis to bring the car around to take him to Grand Central Station. Bucky grabs his hand and gives a pull towards the stairs. “Real quick? It won’t take ten minutes.” He’s envisioning Steve pressed up against their bedroom wall and Bucky on his knees, a hasty suckjob while he jerks himself off. He offers Steve a saucy wink as he tugs on his hand. “C’mon, I want to give you a proper send off.” 

Steve laughs and extricates himself from Bucky’s grasp, giving good-natured excuses about how he won’t be able to control himself from taking things further, and how he’ll most certainly miss his train. He brushes him off, and Bucky has to pretend that it doesn’t hurt his feelings when the only intimacy he receives from his Headship is a placating kiss on his cheek.

“Be good,” Steve says, turning for the door. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

Bucky pouts, put out. He supposes the honeymoon phase is over.

One of Bucky’s jobs as Steve’s Spouse is to sort through the daily mail. As a senatorial household, they receive quite a lot. Sharon brings it to him after lunch most days, and Bucky sits at a little writing desk that’s in the back parlor and sorts through it all. The bulk of the mail is business related for Steve’s position, and Bucky knows not to go opening that. He gives those sorts of things back to Sharon for Steve to open at his leisure.

Bucky receives letters from his mother weekly, and also a fair number of social inquiries. There are weekly requests from other Society betas and omegas, asking Bucky to attend their teas and luncheons, their garden parties and charities. Bucky wouldn’t know how to get through something as tedious as a garden party, finding the prospect of such frivolous events to be dreadfully irksome. He has contemplated joining a charity board or two, but the rest are all firm impossibilities.

He prides himself on the fact that he’s gotten quite good at penning the most eloquent and polite refusals, so it’s quite the occasion when he opens a letter one afternoon with a specific social request to which he has no idea how to respond. He’s just set the letter opener down after opening the blush stained stationary that’s been addressed to: 

The Beta Spouse of Capt. Senator Steven G. Rogers, Lord James B. Rogers.

At first he’s only wondering about what sort of person would select pale pink stationary on which to write their correspondence, but that thought is wiped from his mind once he actually reads what the letter has to say:

Dear Sir, My name is May Marceau. You do not know me. Indeed, we have never yet had the chance to meet. But I am hoping that may soon change. I am writing on behalf of my beloved nephew and ward, Peter Parker, a boy of fine character and genteel disposition whom my wife and I have raised as our own since he was very young. He is now an eligible omega of Society by way of my wife, whose family has served for three generations as the elected of New York’s congressional district fourteen (Queens).  Peter is a kind and obedient young man, with a keen wit and engaging demeanor. He is accomplished in both the fine arts and homemaking tasks, but is not overly fond of the events of the season where a young fellow such as he would be most likely to meet interested suitors. Given this, I have taken it upon myself to make inquiries on his behalf. I read of your marriage this past summer to Senator Rogers, and I do hope you received our family’s card of congratulations for you and your new husband. I hope married life is treating you both well. Personally, I know only a little of Lord Rogers and yourself, but I have seen you at Society functions, and have heard only the most flattering things about your Headship and how he comports himself with his work. My wife and I are in agreement that he is undoubtedly a good man, and we must deduce the same about you. That brings me to my long-delayed point, which is of course to ask that both you and your husband consider the prospect of my nephew Peter becoming your Third. He is a sweet and comely boy who would make a fine addition to an esteemed House such as yours. I do hope you will consider alerting Senator Rogers to this inquiry, and perhaps soon a chaperoned meeting might be arranged.  I will wait with much hope for your reply.  Respectfully, May Marceau.

Bucky sits there at the parlor’s writing desk, dumbfounded for quite a while. He rereads the letter multiple times, trying to make sense of his feelings about it. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised. This is the way that these things are done, after all. Bucky’s own mother would have sent a similar letter to Steve’s beta father, back when she first inquired. The idea of it brings heat to his face, as he thinks about how the beta man would’ve then brought the letter directly to Steve himself, as Lady Rogers had already passed away and Steve assumed the family’s Seat. Bucky figures he should be grateful, at least, that it’s tradition for these inquiries to be sent to beta Spouses. That means he’s seeing this first, instead of Steve. And, technically, he has discretion on what to do now.

He flips the stupidly pink envelope back over, rereading how it was addressed only to him. Not to Steve, not to him and Steve. Just to Bucky. But even so, the line reads: The Beta Spouse of Capt. Senator Steven G. Rogers, Lord James B. Rogers. Bucky is defined as belonging to his Headship, and he knows that he’s expected to tell Steve about this inquiry. Hiding it would be … sneaky at best, punishable at worst. And Bucky really isn’t over that one time Steve took his belt to him during their honeymoon, so …

He wonders what Steve will say.

Insecurity flutters in his stomach as he imagines Steve deciding that they need to be polite, that they need to arrange a chaperoned meeting with this omega named Peter. Marceau—Bucky isn’t familiar with the name, though that’s not a surprise. There are dozens of elected in New York, and they all have their own children. They aren’t common, but they certainly aren’t High Society like Bucky and Steve are. Congressional districts’ elected positions are frequently kept by the same family throughout generations, but they aren’t inherited like Senatorial Seats are, so the family names do sometimes change. It would be an exercise in futility to attempt to keep track of them all. 

Mrs. Marceau made sure to emphasize in her letter that her nephew has been raised in their household and is considered to be just like a son—which indicates to Bucky that the boy’s real parents must have been of common origins. That doesn’t truly matter to him, but he winds up thinking rather snotty things about it anyway, just because this is his Alpha that’s being inquired about, and he isn’t inclined to be generous in thought.

He wonders how old Peter is, what he looks like. Sometimes inquiries are sent with a little picture included as additional enticement (and good God, Bucky hopes his own mother hadn’t included a picture in her inquiry), but there is none here, not even when he curiously rechecks the envelope for something missed. Bucky purses his lips. Maybe Peter’s not as ‘comely’ as his aunt suggests.

It’s a shallow, bitter little snipe of a thought that makes Bucky feel petty and foolish as soon as he has it. He scoffs at himself and begins to stuff the paper back into the envelope, unsure when exactly he’ll bring it up with Steve. They’ve only been married for a matter of months. It seems almost insultingly soon for the mothers of Society to be sending in their requests to make enviable matches. Bucky wonders if Steve’s fathers had felt the same way, when House Barnes’ request was received just after Sarah Rogers had died and Steve assumed the family’s Seat …

Sharon clears her throat from right beside Bucky, nearly making him jump out of his chair. “Christ!” he hisses, feeling overwhelmed. He buries his face in his hand. “Sharon. Jeez.”

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all. She cocks her hip and holds out her hand. “Steve’s mail?”

Bucky sighs and grabs the pile of letters that he’s laid aside separately. “Here.”

Sharon’s eyes flit over the hastily re-stuffed pink envelope, but they don’t linger. “Hm,” she says, and walks away, likely headed for Steve’s office. Bucky wants to snap at her to act like a goddamn servant and not say “Hm” or raise her eyebrows like that or call Steve ‘Steve’ instead of his title. But he doesn’t say a thing. He knows he’s just being grumpy.

… And he’s pretty sure that Sharon would low-grade poison his meals if he talked to her like that.

The first time Bucky witnesses his husband pleasuring himself, he’s so shocked that he doesn’t know what to do. It’s in the evening—after dinner, but not so late as to be time to head off to bed. Steve had finished his meal at dinner and then left, requesting private time to work in his office and not be disturbed. But Bucky thinks that he might entice him into stopping his work for the evening and enjoying a nightcap together. Maybe they can even fuck in the office, on the rug in front of the fireplace.

That’s not what happens.

Steve is in his desk chair when Bucky opens the door. His eyes are closed, so he doesn’t notice Bucky, and Bucky freezes in place with his mouth agape. He can’t actually see anything, as Steve’s desk blocks his lower half from view, but it’s very obvious what he’s doing. His face is pinched and his jaw is slack, lips parted and shoulder moving in that telltale way …

Feeling his blood rush to multiple places, Bucky shuts the door and scampers away and doesn’t tell Steve what he walked in on. Then in the succeeding days he winds up feeling hurt, of all things. He convinces himself that it isn’t a very good sign, the way his Headship is behaving. First Steve turns his advances away each night, claiming stress and exhaustion, and now Bucky finds him resorting to harried self-pleasure! He fumes over it, worrying that perhaps it’s something to do with him, that something has changed and that Steve doesn’t want him sexually any more.

His frustration is compounded by the fact that he has to begrudgingly admit to himself that he was turned on by the sight of Steve touching himself like that. He shouldn’t find it so arousing, because Steve probably wasn’t even thinking of him while he did it. He was probably thinking of someone else, maybe one of their servants, or some delicate Society omega. Steve is clearly a good man and loving husband, but perhaps he’s oriented the same way Bucky’s father is. Perhaps he truly desires omegas, and Bucky is merely filling a spot for tradition’s sake.

He can’t bring himself to tell Steve about these fears. He feels silly and petty for having them. He decides to keep trying his best to be a good Spouse for Steve, as that’s all he can really do. He reconsiders the possibility of an engagement, thinking that maybe a Third in their marriage taking all of Steve’s attention would be better than the alternative of growing resentment and an eventual affair.

Bucky’s father had had lots of affairs, had even kept a household with a common woman. It’s an arrangement that many alphas in Society have, Bucky knows. An open secret that nobody talks about. Steve’s promised that he would never do such a thing, but alphas have needs, and Bucky is beginning to worry that he’s not enough to meet Steve’s. As long as he can keep Steve’s attentions contained well enough—enough to prevent an affair, to prevent something like what Bucky’s father had done—maybe Bucky can be satisfied. Maybe he’ll have to be. Steve has all the control in their marriage, after all. He might not give Bucky the choice.

Another night, after a dinner that they eat separately because Steve’s still working away in his office, Bucky sidles up behind him when they’ve dressed for bed and tries to entice him into some intimacy. “I miss feeling your touch,” he murmurs into the bend of Steve’s neck, inhaling his scent in a manner so obvious that Steve can’t possibly miss it. “Husband?”

Steve groans and turns around. He smiles tiredly and kisses Bucky on the forehead, the hug he provides far from what Bucky had in mind. “It’s been such a long day, Buck. Snuggle me instead?”

Bucky wants to scoff, but he can’t manage it. Steve’s too sweet in the moment, telling him that he loves him and coaxing him into the bed, both of their nightclothes on and no sex to be had. “Sorry, Honey,” he mumbles into Bucky’s hair. “Tomorrow, m’promise.”

But the next day, Steve’s back on the train to DC.

Bucky’s feeling morose and petulant and too much in his head when, two days later, the photographs from the wedding arrive.

It’s raining heavily outside and has been all day (a fitting match to Bucky’s mood), and Pietro comes into the parlor soaked to the bone. Bucky’s eyes widen but Pietro just waves off his attempt to get up from his moping and do something to help dry him off. “Don’t worry,” he says good naturedly. “Towels in the kitchen.” He lays his parcel down on the room’s coffee table with a smile. “Picked these up at the photographer’s studio.”

“What?” Bucky’s asking, even as Pietro hurries from the room, his clothes making sad, soggy sounds as he goes. Bucky sighs and gets up from his chair to go take a look at the package that Pietro somehow managed to keep dry. Inside the large envelope are over a dozen photographs, and Bucky’s heart beats a little faster as he realizes what he’s looking at.

It’s funny. He hasn’t really thought about the day of their wedding since it happened. He’s a very in the moment kind of guy, and with their weeks-long honeymoon and return to New York, setting up house and falling into a routine, Bucky hasn’t spent much time reminiscing about the actual day they got married.

The first photograph is of Bucky and Steve standing outside the front doors of the church, hands clasped and smiling. They both look shy in the picture, but Bucky doesn’t fail to notice how Steve’s smile, however small, looks more real than his own. Steve looks like he was genuinely happy in that moment. The idea that Steve had actually wanted the marriage, even back then, makes Bucky soften a little despite himself.

He sinks down onto the sofa and runs his thumb over the edge of the picture, looking at how his own timid smile looks far less convincing. Mostly Bucky just thinks he looks stressed in the picture, and that makes him set the first photo aside. He hates to think that his attitude that day might’ve ruined the pictures, that for the rest of their married lives, any time Steve wants to look back and reminisce, he’ll have to see Bucky’s pained smiles in every photo.

He flips to the next picture, which is a posed portrait with him and Steve and both of their parents. They’re arranged the way the photographer had told them to be, and Bucky likes this one a little better than the last, even though nobody’s smiling. They’d been told not to, as it isn’t customary for such a formal portrait, and therefore no sad or anxious emotions can be deduced on anyone’s face, let alone Bucky’s. He thinks that he actually looks quite handsome in his suit and well-styled hair. And Steve, well. Steve looks incredibly dashing. Bucky hums lightly and sets that photograph aside as well, being careful with his handling of the glossy paper. They’ll have to have all of these framed, he thinks; order copies, as his mother is sure to request some, perhaps Steve’s fathers as well. 

There are a few more of the formal style portraits, some of just Bucky and Steve, some with Bucky’s sisters included as well. Bucky is pleased to find that the photographer captured a few candid shots of their reception back at Steve’s parents’ house, everything less formalized and more jovial. Natasha is in two of them, and Bucky instantly misses her. He tells himself that he’ll have to arrange a visit soon. He hasn’t heard much from his friend since the wedding, and he wonders what she’s been up to.

Probably having more of a life than Bucky ever will. He tries not to be bitter about that. He cares deeply for Natasha and knows she deserves a full life. He promises himself that he’ll be happy for her, when she comes to visit and tells him all about her plans: what University she’s decided on, where her pre-university travels are going to take her, what subject she’s leaning towards for a future career path. Bucky won’t be bitter. He won’t.

The last photograph is another posed one, and Bucky’s struck by the keen memory of when they’d taken it. The photographer had directed him and Steve into the Rogers’ study, where there was a large portrait of Steve’s parents, posed in the traditional manner for a complete marriage: Sarah Rogers standing, Gregory Rogers seated in a chair at her side, and Joseph Rogers kneeling at both of their feet; Gregory’s one wristband on display as he reached up and lightly touched his wife’s arm, Sarah’s hand resting down on Joseph’s shoulder, her wedding rings right next to where his collar sat visible on his neck.

Given that the Rogers’ marriage had completed just over three decades ago, it’s a painted portrait rather than photographed. The three of them had posed solemn-faced, but still managed to look very happy. A satisfied triad. Joseph, in particular, looked very content in his kneeling position, expression close to beaming. Having met Steve’s two fathers and seen photographs of them with their late wife, Bucky knew straight away that it was an amazingly lifelike rendering. The artist had done well in capturing their love.

Of course, that’d only made it more awkward for Bucky on the day of his and Steve’s wedding, when they had to pose just in front of the portrait of Steve’s parents, directed by the photographer to echo the traditional positions of alpha and beta Spouse. Bucky remembers having had a few glasses of wine by then, and he’d been peevish at being made to sit in the chair next to Steve, at being ordered about and told to make sure his jacket sleeve rode up enough to showcase his wristband as he touched Steve’s arm.

“It’s just one photo,” Steve had admonished him at the time, imploring Bucky with his eyes to behave and just get through it. Bucky had acquiesced—but not without a good eye roll or two. Luckily, he’d schooled his expression properly before the photographer snapped the shot.

Now, Bucky bites his lip as he examines the photo of him and Steve. They look … like a suitably married couple. The intent of the photo is traditional: to highlight the lack of an omega Spouse kneeling at his and Steve’s feet. It’s a “one day” sort of photo, one that they’ll show to their future Third and hang next to the portrait that’ll be taken of all three of them, once their marriage is complete. They’ll smile and reminisce, and Steve’ll say things like, “Oh, look back at when Bucky and I first met. Can’t believe we didn’t have you, my Darling. Now we’re complete. Isn’t it so wonderful?”

That’s the idea, anyway. Couples are supposed to yearn for and search out their Third until they find them, then rejoice at having attained the domestic ideal of a Triad. Bucky decides he likes this photograph the very least of the bunch. He sets it aside and stacks all the others back on top of it, sliding them into the envelope and abandoning them there. He’ll show them to Steve when (or if) the alpha ever returns home from work on time. Steve practically lives in his office these days, so Bucky’s not exactly motivated to make it a priority to cater to him. He returns to his chair by the window and stares out at the rain, thinking about the inquiry from the other day, from May Marceau about her nephew.

If Nat were here, he could ask her to do some investigating, find out who the omega is, what he’s like. Natasha has a keen talent for such things. Bucky misses her all over again and wishes that she was there with him to hash out the issue. She’d commiserate, he thinks. She’d agree that it’s definitely too fucking soon for social climbing parents to be sending in their inquiries. Maybe she’d even back Bucky up on not telling Steve about it.

He hasn’t yet. He feels a little guilty about that, but pushes it away with a petulant reminder that it’s more Steve’s fault than his. The alpha’s never home to talk to anyways. Bucky sits there and grumps about it. He knows Steve has work, that he’s miles more important than Bucky is or ever will be, but surely he could at least make more of an effort to be close with one another? Surely if he tried harder they could have the occasional breakfast together, or dinner, or Steve could make an attempt to have sex with him like they used to. It’s been weeks.

Bucky wonders if Steve would make the effort if he had an omega waiting at home for him. That thought sits in his stomach like sour grapes, but Bucky can’t shake it. Would Steve be more eager if their marriage was complete? Bucky knows it’s something Steve wants one day. He knows his Headship wants a family with children. As a male beta, Bucky can’t give him that. But an omega could.

An omega like Peter.

Bucky thinks of maybe telling Steve about the inquiry, just to see what his reaction is, if his face lights up or not. Maybe Steve thinks about these things more than Bucky knows, maybe he goes into the city for work and sees omegas out and about with their chaperones and wishes that one of them were his. Maybe he thinks about making love to an omega, when he touches himself behind Bucky’s back.

Scowling at his sullen train of thought, Bucky shoves up from the sofa. “Snap out of it,” he mutters, because he’s had enough of himself. He really does need some company. He can’t keep sitting here idly day in and day out, overthinking everything. Even if he can’t stomach the tea parties and other insipid invitations of his fellow Society Spouses, there are other options. He’ll arrange a visit with Natasha, he decides, striding out into the hallway. And he’ll telephone instead of write. No sense wasting time with the post. His dour mood can’t take the delay.

The second time Bucky catches his husband pleasuring himself, he doesn’t back away.

It’s late. Bucky’s been woken from sleep by the sound of the bathroom door closing lightly. He sits up in the bed and blinks blearily, eyes adjusting to the darkness and then making sense of the shapes of suitcases he can see sitting on the bedroom floor. Steve is back. Sleepy as he is, Bucky’s heart quickens in excitement. This latest trip lasted longer than normal, almost five full days. He’s missed his husband and is eager to see him. 

A noise sounds, and Bucky’s eyes dart over to the bathroom door. It’s closed, but there’s a faint light coming from underneath, as though Steve has lit just one of the gas lamps inside the bathroom. Bucky slides out of bed and pads over to the door, intending to go in and surprise Steve with a hug. He only gets the door open part way before he’s freezing in place.

Steve is standing at the vanity, hunched over a little. He’s got one hand on the marble countertop, propping himself up, and his other hand is … oh. Bucky swallows heavily, his belly swirling and pelvis tightening in arousal at the sight of Steve touching himself. 

His eyes are closed and he’s breathing open-mouthed as he braces against the counter and pumps his cock in fast strokes. It’s all very frantic, hurried, like he’s trying to get it over with quickly. He’s still dressed, with his shirttail pulled loose and his collar undone, both sleeves pushed up to his elbows and his fly open in the front where he’s pulled himself out and is furtively jerking off. 

Bucky stares at the tight, focused motions of Steve’s fist working right at the head, appreciating his strong forearm, its dusting of hair and flexing tendons. It’s so sexy, so masculine. Steve’s got big hands, the veins prominent underneath the skin, his grip strong as he tugs on his cock. Bucky can’t peel his eyes away as he stands there and watches, a boner forming dizzyingly fast beneath his sleep clothes.

God, Steve’s beautiful when he’s feeling pleasure. And the spectacle of him giving it to himself has got Bucky hard within seconds. There’s an element of shame to this as well, though. This is private. Steve thinks he’s alone. He wants to do this alone. That hurts and confuses Bucky: that his husband hasn’t come to him for sex, would rather touch himself hurriedly and hushed in the dark. But Bucky can’t think about it now. He should be retreating back into the bedroom right now, he knows he should. But he feels frozen in place, unable to look away or make himself move. He fears that the slightest twitch or sound from him will alert Steve to his presence.

There are soft, barely-heard noises of Steve’s shirtsleeve rustling, of skin on skin. It’s hurried, what he’s doing, desperate and fast and forced-quiet as he strips his cock in the next room over from his supposedly sleeping Spouse. It’s as if he’s been waiting a long time to do this. Maybe things had been too hectic in DC, these past few days, maybe Steve’s been too stressed, unable to really let loose until now. Bucky’s cock throbs at the thought of his Alpha being so pent up that he has to touch himself like this. He’s been away in DC for four nights and hasn’t touched Bucky in nearly two weeks. There’s an anguished pinch between his eyes, his jaw slack from panting and lips shiny from how he keeps wetting them with his tongue. 

Bucky wants him so bad he can hardly stand it.

Then Steve makes a low, barely-there sound in his throat, and opens his eyes to look down at where he’s touching himself. Bucky’s heart leaps into his throat and he jerks in place, and the movement must catch in the mirror or something, because Steve’s head whips to the side in a flash. His hand freezes on his cock, eyes going wide. “Buck.”

Bucky is mortified, caught out watching his husband in such a private moment. He opens his mouth, trying to think of something to say. “I-I—”

“Shit.” Steve’s entire face is going red. He’s taken his hand off himself and is pulling at his shirt to cover in front. He’s stopping.

“Wait,” Bucky says, because he hates that, and his heart is still in his throat. “Don’t. Don’t stop.”

Steve’s eyes get wider. “What?”

Bucky pushes the door open the rest of the way. He takes a step past the door frame, inserting himself into the space where his husband had thought he’d had privacy. “I want to see,” he whispers, feeling absolutely wanton for saying it. “Keep … keep going.”

Steve’s color deepens even further, and he can’t meet Bucky’s eyes. “Buck, No.”

“Please?” Bucky says, taking another hesitant step in. He stops and waits until Steve looks at him. “Touch yourself. Let me watch.” He loves seeing how the embarrassment in Steve’s face gives way to cautious arousal. He’s surprised and maybe a little disbelieving at first, but that’s quick to fade, replaced instead with dark interest and heated, heavy-lidded eyes. He makes to move towards Bucky, but Bucky steps back. “No,” he says. “I want to watch. I want to watch you do it to yourself.”

Steve’s scent spikes, smokey and aggressive. If he were any less of a gentleman, he’d probably be growling by now. As it is, his eyes get dangerously keen, a glint to them that makes him look predatory, which is decidedly un-Stevelike.

Bucky’s belly clenches in desire at that look. The smell of aroused alpha winds into his senses and makes him feel that much more light headed by what’s happening. He feels like a child playing with fire, or poking a bear. “Steve,” he urges, voice coming out breathier than he means for it to. “Go on.”

Steve reaches for his shirt and begins to undo it deftly, staring Bucky down the whole time. Watching those strong hands working down the row of buttons is more erotic than it has any right to be—especially when Bucky’s just stood there and seen those fine tendons and long fingers working between his husband’s legs. He licks his lips, waiting with bated breath as Steve rids himself of the shirt completely

His cock is bared as soon as he does, exposed through the gape of his fly. It’s obscene. He’s fully hard and bobbing in the air, big and thick and shiny at the tip. He stands there and doesn’t touch himself for a long moment, letting Bucky look his fill as the tension builds between them. “You like it?” he finally asks in a voice gone raspy with arousal. He still manages to sound smug, as if he knows just how much heat is flushing through Bucky’s face right now. 

Maybe he does. Bucky’s never had much of a poker face.

“Yeah,” Bucky says quietly. He’s got to force himself to stand still, to not rush over and sink to his knees in front of Steve and offer his mouth for the taking. He knows exactly how good it would feel to have that thick cockhead resting against his tongue, filling his mouth, consuming his senses. And god, he wants it.

“Bucky?”

He inhales sharply through his nose, attention shooting back up to Steve’s face. Steve’s looking at him with amusement. He’s laughing at him. Bucky straightens his spine. “You heard me,” he says bossily, egged on by Steve’s Alpha ego and how fucking hot it is. “I want to see it."

“See what?” Steve taunts. “Say it.”

“You’re the one who’s been ignoring me for weeks,” Bucky snaps. “So go on: Touch yourself.”

The smirk slips right off Steve’s face. He takes a step towards Bucky, then seems to rethink it with the way his exposed cock bobs in the air. “C’mere,” he says, quietly but serious, like he might use his Voice next if Bucky doesn’t listen.

Bucky swallows thickly and steps closer, only a few feet away from the vanity and Steve and his exposed flesh. Steve closes the remaining distance between them and wraps an arm around his waist, pulling them together. Bucky inhales sharply at the sudden press of his husband’s warm body, the turned-on smell of him, the hard line of his cock that’s now wedged in between them. Bucky struggles to get any words out. “I—”

“You been feeling ignored, Sweetheart?” Steve murmurs, leaning in to press his face against Bucky’s neck. He starts kissing him in barely-there pecks, repeats the question, “You feelin’ lonely? Feelin’ needy?” against his skin, and it’s more his voice than the kisses that makes Bucky’s knees go weak.

“I … are you kidding?” he sputters. His eyes slip closed without his permission. “Of-of course! You’ve been—christ—you’ve hardly been here, and you never wanna …” He loses track of the sentence, because Steve has started tracing the shell of his ear with his tongue, and the feeling of it is just devastating, searing a line of heat straight down to his cock, turning his brain to mush. He moans and his hips stutter forward into Steve’s without his permission. “Oh.”

Steve chuckles darkly and steadies him. “Easy there, Doll.”

Holy f— Steve’s never called him that before. Bucky … Bucky likes it. He hums with his eyes closed as Steve starts nuzzling over where his scent gland is. He scrapes his teeth over the spot as if he’s thinking about biting it, and Bucky moans, “Steve.”

“Yeah?”

He whines and pushes against Steve’s chest. “Wasn’t kidding. I want you to do it. I want to see.” Bucky rarely makes sexual requests like this. Steve took his virginity months ago, and they’ve fallen into a routine of easy, instinctual, enjoyable sex. Bucky knows his face is flaming as he says it, as Steve locks eyes with him again and rumbles deep in his chest. Fuck. Bucky whimpers needily. Steve slides one hand up to the back of his neck and uses it to hold him in place. He reaches down between them and wraps his other hand around his cock.

Bucky’s heart is beating out of his chest, and he’s so hard it actually hurts not to be touching himself right now. Steve’s so close, right up against Bucky as he starts stroking himself off. Their feet are touching, breath mingling between them. Bucky’s erection is obvious beneath his sleep pants, the backs of Steve’s knuckles bumping it as he strokes himself off. “Christ,” Bucky whispers.

“Shh,” Steve murmurs. “Just watch.”

Bucky does. Steve’s fully hard, giving himself slow, tight strokes. He wrings his hand down the shaft, only going halfway down before he squeezes back up and twists his fingers roughly over the head, rubbing his foreskin and squeezing like he’s trying to milk more precum from the tip. Bucky’s mouth waters when he sees how wet his husband is getting, how dark and thick he is. “S-steve,” he says shakily, once again wanting so badly to sink to his knees. “Let me suck you.” He starts to move, but Steve’s hand tightens harshly at the back of his neck, holding him in place.

“Uh uh,” he grunts, authoritative and smug. “You wanted to watch. So watch.” Bucky whimpers and Steve chuckles darkly at him. “It’s what you would’ve done if I hadn’t seen you, isn’t it?” he asks. “Kept watching?” Bucky can’t bring himself to answer, but Steve doesn’t seem like he’s waiting for a reply anyway. “Yeah, you would’ve. Horny little boy. You would’ve stood there in the dark and watched.”

Bucky moves closer and changes his angle, pressing his clothed cock to Steve’s thigh. Just that slight pressure feels amazing. Steve hisses under his breath and squeezes his cock tighter, and Bucky has to ball his own hands into fists to keep from touching either one of them. “Fuck,” he grits out in a harsh whisper when Steve grinds his thigh forward with purpose. “Ugh, Steve.”

“It gets you hot, huh?” he says. “Watching me jerk off? Seeing how your Alpha likes to touch himself when he’s alone?”

“Yes,” Bucky breathes, staring between their bodies and clinging to Steve, not ashamed anymore. Steve’s hand is so big, his fingers so strong and thick around his cock—His cock that’s wet and near to purpling, it’s so hard. Bucky eyes the darker skin at the base where his knot is. He’s thicker now, not blown yet but getting there. Bucky desperately wants to touch it. “Steve please,” he begs, all dignity gone. “Please let me. Let me just touch. A little?”

Steve grunts and starts stroking himself faster, obviously turned on by Bucky’s desperation. He scruffs him with the hold he’s got on the back of his neck. “No,” he grunts. He lets go, uses that hand to hastily shove his own pants and underwear past mid-thigh. Bucky groans as everything is bared to him, and Steve growls a dark, possessive sound. “Get down on your knees and watch.”

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck everything in the world that makes Bucky want so badly to obey his husband. He sinks to his knees, Steve pushing him down as he goes. With his face at the level of Steve’s dick, it’s even harder to keep himself from toppling forward and trying to take Steve into his mouth. But Steve hasn’t stopped stroking himself to give him the chance. Bucky whines like he’s an omega in heat being denied alpha cock, and he shuffles as close as he can, pressing his face to Steve’s leg, cheek against his thigh and lips only centimeters from where Steve’s fisting himself. Bucky groans at the overwhelming scent of him. “Alpha,” he breathes, because he wants it so bad. “Oh, God. Let me.”

Steve moans and keeps going. He’s close. Losing the tight, measured control from before, stripping his cock faster and faster.

Bucky’s gaze slides down to his balls, so big and heavy and pulled up tight now, ready to release. “Shit,” he breathes, one hand sliding down between his own legs without thought and grabbing his cock through the fabric of his sleep pants. He squeezes and gasps, looks at how the dark skin of Steve’s knot is swelling, imagines what that added girth would feel like if they were having sex, how it would feel bumping against his rim, or even … even pressing inside …

“Fuck,” Steve grits out, close. Bucky’s eyes fly up and they connect gazes, and it is the hottest moment of Bucky’s entire fucking life. “Baby,” Steve gasps. “M’gonna cum.”

“Yeah.” Bucky takes his chance. He leans in and puts his mouth on Steve’s knot, taking as much as he can reach from his position. Steve makes a noise like the air has been punched from his body, and his stroking stutters. His free hand grabs Bucky’s hair without mercy, pressing Bucky’s face into his crotch hard as he shouts and jerks himself off into climax.

Bucky comes with barely a squeeze to his own cock, and the feeling of Steve’s knot blowing right against his lips.

Series Masterlist

Masterlist

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