arpicityandneed

[arpicityandneed]

Otherworldly courtship rituals got me like 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 IM FOAMING AT THE MOUTH

Tangled (#3)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. I don't know if there will be eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: About 6.9k.

Previous Chapter

The sea was dark and quiet, just as he liked it. The moon carved silver shapes on the surface, and below, he moved like a shadow, gliding through the currents. His muscles were relaxed after the hunt, and the taste of salt and blood was still sharp in his mouth.

But as always lately, his course curved toward the cliffs, toward the stretch of shoreline he shouldn't care about. His sharp eyes caught the faint glimmer of warm, golden lights breaking through the dark, leaking out from the lair perched above the rocks.

So. She was awake.

Bucky floated just under the surface for a long moment, and his tendrils gently shifted with the waves as he watched the flicker of the soft lights.

His gaze narrowed.

Why did he care? Why was he here, lingering under her cliffs like some lost pup?

But he couldn't shake it. Since the first time she sat by his shore, and even more, since she’d seen him -since she’d survived him- there was a thread of restless curiosity winding tighter and tighter around him.

She had been brave. Stupid, but brave. And now, against his better judgment, he was curious about her.

He shifted in the water, and his pale skin blended almost perfectly with the foam around him, only the inky tips of his tendrils betrayed his shape as they rippled through the waves.

His gaze lifted again toward her den.

There was where she hid when she left his cave. He had guessed, of course, watching the path she took to climb back up, sometimes seeing her form disappear behind the shrubs and stones. But now, seeing the lights, the proof of her human life so close to his domain, it tugged at something inside him he didn't want to name.

Why do you watch, like she’s yours to guard?

He huffed at himself, and the sound was swallowed by the wind over the waves.

Maybe it was because she had left something of herself in his cave, two somethings now, the odd square and that strange dangling creature of yarn, bobbing gently with the sea breeze.

Still, he should’ve scared her worse. Should’ve made sure she wouldn’t dare return.

But he hadn’t.

Because a part of him -the part that remembered too well what it was to be caged and hunted and scared- understood why she looked at him the way she did.

His gaze hardened again as he let himself sink deeper under the surface.

She wasn’t safe, lingering so close to his cave. And neither was he letting her. Still, he couldn’t quite make himself turn away, lingering there, watching the light dance on the cliffside, imagining her moving around behind those windows.

Finally, with a low rumble deep in his chest, he turned, cutting through the water and vanishing into the dark, but not before one last glance over his shoulder.

She was there. Still within reach.

And that thought should not make him feel anything.

Yet it did.

----

The morning air was cold as she made her way down the narrow road toward town, and the sea breeze still clung to her clothes and hair from the walk. Her muscles ached faintly, a reminder of the other day’s fall, and of everything that had happened after. She tried to tell herself it had been some kind of dream. Maybe she had hit her head harder than she thought.

So, today, groceries. Normal things. Things that didn’t include staring into dark pools and meeting mythological creatures.

And yet, as she passed by the tiny, cluttered craft shop, her feet slowed almost on their own, and her eyes flicked to the display window. There it was. That particular shade of blue, the color of shifting tides and ink-dark tentacles. She stepped in, the tiny bell above the door giving a cheerful chime that felt at odds with her thoughts.

"Back so soon, dear?" the old woman behind the counter asked, peering at her over her glasses with a knowing smile.

"Yeah," she said, managing to sound casual. "Ran out of some shades I need. And, uh, thought I might try something new."

The woman hummed, watching her too closely as she plucked up the skein of blue yarn. As she paid, she hesitated, then leaned her elbows on the counter, trying to keep her tone light.

"So… that cave by the cliffs," she began, letting her gaze wander to the dusty shelves as if she wasn’t too invested. "You told me to be careful around there, right?"

The woman’s eyes sharpened immediately, all pretense of nonchalance gone. "Mhm. And?"

She shrugged. "Just curious why. I mean, it’s a nice spot. A little wild, but… safe enough. So why the warnings?"

The woman leaned in, dropping her voice slightly. "Because nice spots sometimes hide the worst things, that's why."

She blinked, raising her brows. "What do you mean? Like, dangerous animals?"

The woman gave a short, humorless laugh. "Not animals, girl. Things older than that. Things that don’t take kindly to strangers poking around where they shouldn’t."

She felt her throat go dry but pressed on, giving a small laugh, trying to sound like she wasn’t fishing for specific information. "You make it sound like there are sea monsters down there or something."

The old woman’s gaze didn’t waver. "That’s what some would call them, I suppose."

Her fingers tightened around the paper bag as she straightened. "Monsters?"

"Old stories," the woman admitted, but her tone said she believed every word. "About creatures in the caves under the cliffs. I was a girl when some of the older men swore they caught sight of something down there. They never spoke much about what they saw, but..." She gave a meaningful pause. "People talked. About things that weren’t quite human. About folks who went missing near the water. Strange marks on the rocks, long grooves like claws or something worse."

Her heart gave a slow, heavy thump.

"Of course," the woman added, softer now, "the men who told those stories are gone. Some think they just drank too much. But others…" her eyes pinned her in place "know better."

"So... what? You think something’s still down there?"

"Mhm," the woman hummed, leaning a little over the counter, lowering her voice like someone might be listening. "Not just of creatures in the water, but of them coming up to shore. Walking around on two legs, like you or me. Posing as human. You’d never know, they say. Not unless you catch them wrong, or see 'em too close."

Her throat dried.

The woman gave a small, almost knowing smile, as if she had seen too much, or heard too many things that didn’t add up over the years. "Some say they’ve even lived among us from time to time. Took wives. Husbands. Some of those folks didn’t last long. Others…" she trailed off, her eyes darkening, "...never quite right again."

She tried to laugh it off, though it sounded thin. "You mean like… selkies? Mermaids?"

"Not like the pretty stories," the woman snapped gently, but firmly. "Not those sweet things in fairy tales. They don’t want to be found."

Her heart thudded hard in her chest.

As the silence stretched, she forced a small smile. "Right. Well... thanks. I’ll keep that in mind."

The woman’s gaze persisted on her, as if she wanted to say more, but she simply nodded. "You do that."

With a soft murmur of goodbye, she left, the bell chiming behind her as she stepped out into the open air.

Her feet carried her through town on autopilot, but her mind was spinning. They don’t want to be found. The words echoed in her head, loud and clear.

As she made her way down the next street, she ducked into a small general store to pick up candles, she had learned the hard way during her first week that power outages happened more often than she expected near the cliffs. And with her luck lately, she'd rather be prepared.

She grabbed a few groceries as well -easy stuff to cook, snacks, tea- anything to avoid another trip for a while. Her thoughts stayed fixed on what she now knew as she checked out and carried her bags toward home.

----

Bucky was already at the shoreline when she arrived a couple of days later. He had waited, half-expecting -half-daring- her to show up at his cave one of those mornings. But clearly, she wasn't that foolish.

Still, foolish enough to eventually come back. To her usual rock, as if nothing had happened.

By the time she reached her usual spot, her mind was made up. She wasn’t going to give up her place by the rocks. It was her spot. Well, maybe not technically, but she had been coming here since she moved into that cottage, snd he hadn’t seemed to mind.

It was only when she wandered into the cave -his space- that things had escalated. She could admit that now. She had trespassed. And still, in the end, he hadn’t hurt her.

So, her logic went: if she stuck to her usual routine and didn’t go poking around in places she shouldn’t, she had nothing to worry about.

Right?

Still… she packed carefully before leaving the house. Her yarn, of course -and, after some internal debate- a box of strawberries.

And now, here she was, sitting on her usual rock like she hadn’t had the weirdest, most terrifying, most fascinating encounter of her life less than one week ago.

Hidden among the darker shadows of the stones, he watched her settle down, expecting her to start with her usual threading ritual. But instead, she pulled something unfamiliar from her backpack, some kind of translucent box that strangely caught the light. He narrowed his eyes as she popped it open and reached in, plucking something small and red.

His head tilted slightly as she bit into it, chewing slowly, with her gaze fixed on the waves. Meat? He sniffed the air. No, not flesh. It looked like some strange kind of coral, but soft... not from the sea. The scent carried to him on the breeze, sweet and sharp, something he couldn't place. Inland fruit? Something that grew in the dirt, far from his world.

He kept staring as she bit into it, juices wetting her lips, as her eyes lazily followed the waves without any care in the world. But then, damn that sun. He was being reckless. A cloud slid aside and a beam of golden light poured down, catching him squarely and turning his pale skin stark against the stone before he could shift his pigments.

Her eyes snapped to him, and for the first time, she didn’t pretend not to see.

She stared right back, unwavering, like she had half expected him. And then, casually as if they were old neighbors passing each other on the street, she waved again.

His throat rumbled, and a low hiss slipped through bared teeth before he could stop it, flashing the sharp glint of fangs.

But instead of recoiling or fleeing like she should, she just rolled her eyes, as if he was nothing more than some territorial gull trying to scare her off. A very dangerous, very deadly gull, but still.

Then, to his confusion, she lifted the container and tilted it toward him, as if offering to share its contents. He didn’t move from his place, half-coiled near the rocks, eyes sharp and narrowed as he stared at her, unmoving.

Still, some small, stubborn part of him, buried deep under layers of instinct and distrust, couldn’t help but feel... curious.

“They are good, you know? No spells or tricks, since I’m already eating them,” she said casually, her voice carried by the breeze, soft and calm, too calm for someone talking to a creature like him.

Bucky’s jaw tensed. His sharp teeth pressed lightly against each other as he stared at her, unmoving, suspicious.

No spells or tricks, she claimed.

As if he should just believe that. As if she hadn't already wandered too close, already seen too much.

To her surprise -and, okay, maybe a little bit to her terror- he started moving.

Slow, deliberate. Tendrils sliding over rocks in smooth, predatory grace. Getting closer. She fought the urge to scoot back, refusing to let fear dictate her actions. This was a game of trust now, wasn’t it? He hadn’t hurt her when he could have. And she had kept his secret.

She tilted her head at him when he stopped, popping another piece of the red thing into her mouth, watching him with an unfazed expression. Like she thought offering him this strange food would be enough to pacify him.

And yet...

The scent wafted toward him again. Sweet, sharp, foreign. It was tempting. Not because he trusted her, but because he had never seen something like it. Never tasted anything that didn’t come from the ocean depths.

Every instinct in his body screamed danger, screamed that this was a trap, that humans never offered something for free unless they wanted something in return. His narrowed gaze slipped from her mouth to the box, to her hands. If she wanted to trick him, she wouldn’t be sitting there like that... right?

A quiet, annoyed hiss slid past his teeth. He could take her down in an instant if she tried anything. Crush her fragile body, pull her under the water, and let the waves claim her before anyone knew.

So why was he hesitating?

He pushed forward, slow and deliberate. First, a tendril, curling over a stone. Then another, pulling him closer with a smooth, powerful movement. The closer he got, the more she tensed -he could feel it- but she didn’t move away.

A small, reckless part of him found that amusing.

The water lapped quietly against the rocks, and he paused just a few feet away, looming half out of the water, with his tendrils sliding in the wet sand and over the stone. His pale chest glistened where droplets clung to his skin, and his dark hair hung heavy and wild over his shoulders.

He looked from her face to the box again, narrowing his eyes.

“What is it?” he rasped, low and rough from the disuse of his voice, but the words were clear enough.

She blinked, surprised that he spoke, but then smiled just a little.

“Strawberries,” she said softly, holding one up for him to see. “They’re fruit. Sweet.”

He stared. Fruit. Something from the land...

He shifted closer still, curling his tendril around the rock at her feet, flicking his sharp eyes between her hand and her face as if daring her to move wrong.

“…Try?” she offered, gently.

His gills flexed along his ribs, unsure. But he was closer now. And he was already here. A long pause, then one pale hand reached out, and plucked the small red thing from her fingers, careful not to graze her skin, though his knuckles brushed her wrist like the brush of seaweed in passing.

He held it up to his face, inspecting it, sniffing it warily. Soft. Strange. Smelled like nothing from the sea. Still watching her from the corner of his eye, he slowly brought it to his mouth and bit, sharp teeth slicing easily through the tender fruit.

Sweet. Tart. Strange.

His brows furrowed slightly, as though confused. But he didn't spit it out. He ate it quietly, and sat back on his tendrils, as though deciding whether he liked it or not. When he swallowed, his dark eyes returned to hers, searching.

“…More,” he finally said, rough, reluctant.

Her lips twitched in the faintest smile. “Sure,” she said, nudging the box toward him.

He took another, slower this time, watching her like a hawk. Because she was dangerous. He knew that. But, so was he.

----

He ate three more, and she began to wonder if maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to offer him fruit in the first place. After all, she had no clue what his body could handle. His digestive system couldn’t possibly be the same as a human’s, what if too much made him sick?

"Um... maybe that's enough for now," she said carefully.

His eyes snapped to hers, narrowing in a way that sent a chill down her spine. As if to challenge her, he deliberately plucked another one from the container and ate it, watching her like he was daring her to object.

"You may get sick," she tried again, frowning a little.

The moment the words left her lips, she saw his entire demeanor shift. His expression darkened, storm clouds gathering behind his eyes, and one of his tentacles smacked the water with a sharp thwap, making her flinch.

Clearly, he had taken that as a threat.

"No, wait! I'm not threatening you," she quickly clarified, raising her hands in a calming gesture. "You’ve never eaten this before... I’m just saying, maybe if you eat too much, it could..." she hesitated, searching for a word, "...hurt you."

His gaze focused on her, unblinking. She could almost feel him analyzing her words, weighing them.

Then, to her surprise, he pressed a hand to his stomach as if considering her warning. "Bad?" he asked, voice rough and uncertain.

She relaxed with some relief when she realized he wasn't angry anymore, just wary, like a wild animal trying to figure out if she was lying. "Maybe," she said softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about it when I offered. I guess I thought... I don't know, some pet fish eat fruit..."

Her attempt at explanation was met with a sudden outrage.

"No fish!" he snapped, slapping a hand hard against his chest in an unmistakable display of indignation. His eyes blazed, and he leaned forward like she had insulted him on a deeply personal level.

"Okay! Okay!" she blurted out quickly, raising her palms in surrender. "You're not a fish. Definitely not a fish.”

He kept glaring at her for another long second, as if making sure she understood the gravity of her mistake.

"I'm sorry," she added, softening her voice. "I didn’t mean to offend you. I just... I don’t know what you eat."

That seemed to deflate some of the tension. He clicked his teeth, almost thoughtfully, though she could see how his fingers kept turning the last berry over and over, inspecting it like it might reveal a secret.

"You eat...?" she asked, carefully, realizing it might be a loaded question.

He didn't answer right away, but his eyes sharpened, reading her easily, as though he could see the direction of her thoughts.

"Hunt," he finally grunted, jerking his chin toward the sea. "Meat."

Yeah. She had figured that much, but hearing him say it so bluntly still made her pulse jump a little.

"I just thought..." she tried to clarify, gesturing to the almost empty container of fruit. "Too much of this could make you feel bad. It's not meat. It’s fruit. A plant."

He seemed to consider that, glancing down at the berry he still held. With a low grunt, he flicked it into the water, watching as it bobbed away.

"Good," he muttered at last as if grudgingly admitting it.

Then he fixed her with a sharp look, touching his chest, and repeating firmly, "Not fish."

Her lips twitched in a faint smile. "No. Not a fish."

Something in his expression shifted, softening slightly, not quite a smile, but something that hinted at less hostility.

----

They looked at each other in silence, a strange quiet that neither seemed to know how to break. His eyes never left her, sharp and assessing, while her fingers fidgeted with the edge of the container, unsure of what to say next. Then, suddenly, something clicked in her mind. A small revelation that maybe, maybe, could help bridge the strange gap between them.

She extended her hand toward him, palm up, in a soft, tentative gesture that made him tense immediately, tendrils twitching warily against the rocks.

"My name is Y/n," she said clearly.

His eyes flicked from her hand to her face, confused.

"You're supposed to give me your name and shake my hand," she added with a small, nervous smile. "It's how we... humans, you know, introduce ourselves. To say we're not enemies."

Still, he didn't move. His gaze dropped back to her hand, watching it like it was a trap, like if he touched her, she would somehow bind him with her strange land-dweller magic.

She could see him thinking, the way his jaw tightened, how his pupils thinned as though weighing something dangerous. Names, she realized, were probably no small thing to him. Names held meaning. Names gave power.

But... she had given hers freely. She watched as slowly, very slowly, he seemed to come to a decision.

His hand, larger and rougher than hers, reached out. He wrapped his cool fingers around her smaller hand with a carefulness that surprised her, as though unsure how much strength to use.

"...Bucky," he murmured at last, voice hoarse and reluctant.

Her smile brightened, though she kept still, not wanting to spook him. "Hi, Bucky," she said softly, like a small victory.

He gave her hand a single, brief shake -awkward and stiff, but it was more than she thought she would get- before pulling away again, retreating slightly like he was unsure why he had agreed to it the first place.

"So..." she ventured, cautious but curious. "That’s how we do it. But what about you? How do your kind greet each other?"

For a moment, his brow furrowed, and the sharp line of his jaw tightened as if the question brought something heavy to mind. His kind. It had been so long since he'd seen anyone like himself if any were left at all. Still, after a moment of silence, he moved.

Slowly and deliberately, Bucky lifted his hand and pressed the palm gently to his chin, fingers brushing along the line of his jaw. Then he turned the hand outward, offering it to her, open.

She blinked, watching the fluid motion with growing fascination.

"Oh," she murmured softly, processing it. "Like this?"

She mirrored the gesture, touching her chin and then extending her palm toward him. A small smile tugged at the corner of her lips, almost playful but respectful.

His sharp eyes studied her, tilting his head slightly as if appraising her effort. Then, to her quiet surprise, the tension in his posture seemed to ease. They had shared something. Something old, something from his world.

Bucky gave a small, almost imperceptible nod of approval, though his tendrils still curled and flexed over the rock like restless cats' tails.

She let the silence stretch a little longer, watching as his gaze flicked out toward the horizon, where the sun was dipping low and painting gold over the waves.

"So... Bucky," she ventured softly, careful not to spook him, "how long have you... um, lived here?"

His eyes snapped back to her, sharp and unreadable. The question seemed simple, but something in it made him tense, tendrils pausing their slow movements. Still, he tried. His jaw worked for a moment before he rasped out, "Long."

She nodded, encouraging. "Long like... a lot of years?"

His brow furrowed, and his lips pressed into a tight line. His hand came up, spreading his fingers as if trying to measure something in the air before giving up with a small frustrated snort.

"Before," he said at last, voice rough. "Before... them."

Her brows drew together, but she didn't press on that yet. Instead, she offered a soft smile. "Okay. Before. Got it."

He watched her, weary, but there was a faint sense of surprise too, like he hadn't expected her to accept so little.

She decided to keep it light. "Do you always watch people from the water? Or am I just special?" she teased gently, tilting her head, trying to coax some response.

His eyes narrowed a bit, but not in anger, more like confusion, as if unsure if she was mocking him. "Watch," he said simply, tapping two fingers under his eye, then gesturing at her. "You... strange."

Her laugh escaped before she could stop it, light and breathy. "I'm strange?"

He tilted his head again, tendrils curling a bit tighter. "Sit alone. By sea. Make... things." His eyes flicked toward her bag, where her yarn peeked out.

"Oh... the crocheting." She smiled and reached to pull out a small ball of yarn, holding it up. "Yeah, I guess that's strange. Most people don’t hang out near creepy caves and make jellyfish coasters."

Bucky’s gaze followed her fingers, watching the yarn, but he didn't respond. His hands flexed slightly, and she wondered if it was nerves or restlessness.

"Why?" he asked abruptly, startling her a little.

"Why what?"

"Why... here?" His voice was low, and rough, as if dragging words up from somewhere deep and unused.

She blinked, then smiled softly, realizing this was the closest thing to an actual conversation they had.

"I like the sound of the sea," she admitted. "It’s... peaceful. Easier to breathe out here."

His head tilted again, studying her like she was a puzzle.

She took a breath, feeling a little braver. "And you? Why do you watch me?"

He hesitated. His lips twitched, but no words came out. After a moment, he glanced away, as if embarrassed. "Don’t know," he muttered finally waving his hand. "You... stay."

She blinked, unsure what to make of that. "Yeah... I stay," she echoed gently, offering him a small smile. "You noticed that, huh?" She hesitated, but curiosity pushed her forward. "Bucky... what do you call yourselves? Your kind, I mean. Not what humans say."

His expression darkened instantly, sharp as a blade. The calm manner in which he’d been watching her moments ago turned to something heavier, and his mouth pressed into a tight line.

"You call... ce-cecaelia," he said finally, like forcing the word out.

"Yeah, I know," she pressed gently, tilting her head, carefully. "But you. What do you call yourselves?"

For a heartbeat, she thought he might answer. His eyes flicked away, toward the water, the tendrils around him curling tighter, restless. Then, sharp and clipped, he growled.

"No."

The word cut through the air like a slap.

She froze, watching as his body tensed, and a storm brewed behind his eyes again. His gaze flicked back to her, colder now, as if warning her off the subject.

"Okay," she said quickly, lifting her hands in a soft gesture of surrender. "Okay. I won’t ask again."

The tension in his arms eased just a fraction, but the wall between them had been reinforced.

She sighed, realizing that, as much as they were starting to see each other, there were still oceans of distance between them.

Still, she stayed. And he didn’t make her leave.

----

"Well..." she said softly, reaching for her bag, "I’ll just work a little before I go."

Her voice was light, like she wasn’t sitting a few feet away from a dangerous creature, a creature who had just reminded her how little she knew about him and how much he could hide.

She pulled out her yarn and hook, choosing a soft neutral color this time, and set to work. Simple coasters, nothing fancy. Something she didn’t need to think too hard about, letting her hands work while her mind stayed alert to the figure near the rocks.

Bucky stayed where he was, watching her.

Conflicted.

Part of him felt… oddly disappointed. She was ignoring him now, turning away as if she didn’t care to know more. Well, it was him who made it happen. The questions stirred things in him he wasn’t ready to face. Memories that were better left at the bottom of the sea.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her. Her hands moved gently, with a cadence that was almost… calming. Familiar, even, in a way that tugged at something deep in his chest.

He didn’t realize how close he’d gotten until a stray tendril brushed the edge of her bag, curling just slightly before he snapped it back with a small flick.

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye but said nothing, as if pretending she hadn’t noticed.

Good.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to explain what he was doing there, watching her, hovering like some unsure shadow. Still, when her hands stilled for a moment to adjust the yarn, his eyes locked on them, fascinated despite himself.

So strange, these human rituals. But soothing to watch.

She felt it before she saw it, that subtle shift of the air, the faint scent of brine and salt-soaked skin. When she lifted her head, his face was right there, startlingly close, watching her hands work with a mix of curiosity and frustration.

Her breath hitched, and she blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by his nearness.

His gaze flicked from her eyes to her hands, then back again, and after a long pause, he tilted his head slightly and gestured at the yarn with a tendril that curled in the air, hesitant.

"...What?" he rasped.

"This?" she asked gently, holding up her half-finished piece so he could see.

He gave a sharp, impatient nod.

She smiled. "It’s a coaster. Something you put under a cup. To protect tables and stuff."

His brow furrowed. "Cup?"

She blinked, realizing that might not be something he had. "Um... to drink from?" She mimed holding a glass to her lips.

Understanding flickered in his eyes, though he still looked faintly puzzled.

She chuckled softly, glancing down at her work. "It's just... something small. Easy to make. Not dangerous, I promise."

He leaned in a little closer, inspecting it now, shifting his tendrils restlessly on the rocks beside her as if wanting to reach but not daring. For a long moment, he just stared at the piece of yarn art in her hands. Then, as if pronouncing the word was a battle, he murmured, "...Pretty."

Her eyes widened slightly, heat blooming in her cheeks at the unexpected compliment, or at least, what felt like one.

"Thanks," she whispered, meeting his gaze again, softer now.

His shoulders tensed, as though realizing he'd revealed too much, and he sat back a little, though not enough to create real distance. His eyes stayed on her hands, watching every movement like he was trying to decipher a language he used to know and had long forgotten.

"Want me to make you one?" she asked quietly, half-teasing but also a little serious, remembering what transpired in the cave.

At first, he didn’t seem to react to her offer. His gaze stayed fixed on her hands, following the slow dance of her fingers over the yarn. She thought he might not have understood, or maybe he just didn’t care.

But then, almost reluctantly, he gave a small nod. "Yes.”

She blinked, a little surprised. "Alright," she murmured, smiling faintly, "I'll make one for you."

As she worked, looping and pulling the yarn, she felt him shift beside her, and out of the corner of her eye, she caught the slow, deliberate motion of his tendrils stretching along the rocks.

At first, she thought he was just getting comfortable. But as minutes passed, she realized his long, powerful limbs were spreading out in a wide circle, inching their way around her. By the time she dared to glance up at him again, she realized she was nearly surrounded.

His tentacles lay sprawled on the rocky floor, not quite touching her, but close enough that she could feel the cool, coming off them. Like a living fence, fluid and silent, encircling her while she worked.

She swallowed, trying to keep her hands firm. "You are really into ignoring personal space, huh?" she muttered, half to herself, though her voice came out a bit more breathless than she wanted.

His eyes flicked to hers, tilting his head slightly, as if not understanding. Then, he just kept watching, unmoving, while his tendrils coiled loosely, some of them draping over the rocks just inches from her legs.

She licked her lips, glancing at his face. His expression was calm. Intense, yes, but not hostile. More like… he was studying her.

Letting out a quiet breath, she focused back on her work. "Okay, big guy," she whispered under her breath. She tried to keep her breathing calm, moving her fingers carefully as she worked, but he was impossible to ignore.

Her eyes flicked sideways again, taking in the way one thick tendril coiled lazily around a jutting rock, as the tip twitched slightly like it had a mind of its own. Another rested just near her ankle, close enough that if she shifted even a little, she’d brush against it. 'Okay... stay calm', she thought, focusing on looping the yarn, 'he hasn’t hurt you. He let you go from the cave, remember?'

After a while, she dared to lift her head, only to find that his face was much closer than before. Close enough that she could see the little constellation of freckles scattered on his cheek near his ear, the slight shimmer of seawater still clinging to his skin, and the way his eyes -sharp, intense, and curious- searched hers for something. Her breath caught for a second, and she instinctively leaned back, only to realize there wasn’t much room left behind her.

His tendrils sprawled wide, blocking most of her easy escape paths. "It seems you got all comfortable," she commented with a nervous little smile curling her lips. Still no answer. Just that sharp, unreadable gaze. "Okay then..." she whispered, returning her focus to the coaster, though her fingers stumbled once before picking up their rhythm again.

----

What she didn’t know was that, for once, he was content. Or as close to content as he could remember being.

Because she was making something for him, without him asking, without him demanding it. She had offered. And that small gesture of willful giving, rather than fearful compliance, stirred something in him he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He told himself it was just boredom. Just curiosity. It had been so long since he spoke to anyone, even longer since anyone sat near him like this, acting like he was something other than a monster, even his own kind. Sadly, she was human. Fragile. Foolish.

Still, there was something about her that pulled him, like puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. A part of it was her scent. Something that made his senses prick with restless curiosity. He tilted his head slightly, watching her hands move with that odd grace over the yarn before something in him decided he needed to understand what that scent was.

So he did what felt natural to him, he leaned in, slow but deliberate, until his nose was just a breath away from her head, inhaling deeply.

The reaction was instant.

She jolted with a startled gasp. His own reaction was just as quick, pure instinct snapping into place, tendrils shooting forward to wrap firmly around her wrists, pinning them against the rocky surface before she could even think to pull away.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Her breath came fast, her heart pounded under her skin, and his grip tightened fractionally before he realized what he was doing.

Narrowing his eyes, he growled lowly -more at himself than at her- but didn’t release her immediately. Instead, he watched her face closely, as if searching for something in her wide, surprised eyes.

"...sorry," she breathed out, though she wasn’t sure why she was apologizing when he was the one with the tentacles wrapped around her wrists.

Her voice seemed to break through whatever fog had overtaken him. Slowly, reluctantly, the tendrils loosened and slid away, though they remained close, coiled with barely restrained tension.

"You startled me," she managed to say. "Getting that close suddenly without warning." she exhaled sharply, shaking her head.

He tilted his head slightly as if weighing her words, and something about her tone seemed to click in his mind. She could see it in the way his shoulders loosened a bit like he understood, and let her wrists go.

"Alright," she sighed, glancing at him sideways. "But what… what were you trying to do, anyway?"

For a moment, he looked like a child caught with his hand in a jar, a flash of something vulnerable crossing his features before he quickly masked it, trying to appear unaffected.

He raised a hand, almost stiffly, and gestured to his temple. "Scent," he said simply, watching her closely for her reaction.

"Oh," she breathed out. Okay… scent. That made sense. A lot of animals use scent to learn things about others. Maybe his kind did too. She blinked at him, then offered a small, almost amused smile. "Alright, I get it. Scent is important."

He seemed to relax a fraction more, but there was still a tense curiosity in the way he held himself, waiting to see if she'd bolt or scold him again.

She tilted her head slightly in thought, looking at him, then -deciding to leap- she reached up, sweeping her hair to one side and exposing the curve of her neck. "Well… now that I’m aware of your intentions," she said lightly, quirking her lips  into a half-smile, "do you wanna try again?"

The offer clearly caught him off-guard.

His eyes widened, and his pupils dilated slightly, and, for a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Watching her like she was some strange, fascinating thing.

What she didn't realize, was that to him, this wasn’t just an invitation. The way she tilted her head, exposing her throat so casually, and shifting her hair aside, was a gesture of trust and vulnerability. And, among his kind, a subtle but unmistakable signal of courtship, offering one's scent in a way that said look at me, know me, choose me.

His teeth clicked together once, a sharp little sound he barely managed to suppress.

She caught the sound and blinked, uncertain. "What?"

He shook his head quickly, though his eyes were still locked on the tender skin of her neck. Slowly, as if testing how far she would let him go, he leaned in again. This time, there was a different air in his movements, they were careful, deliberate. His breath ghosted over her skin as he inhaled, and one of his hands, hovered like he was tempted to grab her but didn’t dare.

She swallowed and felt her pulse fluttering fast under his gaze.

His nose brushed lightly against her neck as he drew in another breath, slower this time. When he pulled back, his eyes had softened just a little, though they were still sharp, and curious and there was something else, something she couldn’t quite read.

She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

"Better?" she asked, a little breathless.

He nodded once, never breaking the eye contact.

"Better," he echoed, low and rough.

She exhaled slowly, toying absentmindedly with the yarn in her lap, but her mind was already spinning with the moment they had just shared. Then, before she could think better of it, she found herself saying, "Well… since you got to smell me, I think it's only fair I get to do the same."

His eyes widened, blinking at her like he wasn’t sure he heard right.

"I mean…" she shrugged, a crooked little smile pulled at her lips. "Seems like the polite thing to do, right?"

He stiffened. His head tilted slightly, with a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

She noticed it, of course. "What?" she asked, teasing to soften the moment. "Are you scared?"

At that, his gaze snapped back to hers, sharp and narrowed. "No," he grunted, frowning, but there was a flicker of something else.

She leaned a little closer, amused now, "C’mon… it’s only fair," she said softly, holding his gaze. "I let you get this close, didn’t I?" She gestured to her neck, and her cheeks warmed at the memory of his breath ghosting over her skin. "It’s not like I’m gonna bite you."

He huffed through his nose and then, with an almost reluctant grumble, he shifted closer, but slower this time.

She smiled gently, trying not to startle him. "Okay… your turn," she whispered, as if speaking too loudly would shatter whatever fragile thing had formed between them.

Tentatively, he tipped his head forward, lowering himself just enough for her to reach. His hair was still damp, smelling faintly of salt and something sharper, darker, like deep water and stormy tides.

She hesitated for a moment, but curiosity got the better of her. She leaned in, mimicking what he had done, and inhaled gently near the side of his neck, careful not to touch him. The scent was strange but not unpleasant, wild and raw but surprisingly human.

When she pulled back, she smiled, tilting her head. "See? Not so bad. It was the fair thing to do, after all."

He stared at her, with unreadable eyes. Then he nodded, the smallest of motions. "Fair," he murmured.

She chuckled, and that seemed to make him relax just a fraction. Inside though, her heart was still racing, because she couldn’t ignore the way something electric had passed between them, something unsaid but very tangible.

And it seemed neither of them quite knew what to do with it.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[arpicityandneed]

I am HYPNOTIZED BY THIS I'm in love with Bucky trying to speak 😍😍🤭🤭 this is such a slow burn and I'm here for it

Tangled (#2)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. I don't know if there will be eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: About 6.5k.

note: The Cecaelia is a mythical creature that's half-man, half-octopus, and that was the winning result of the poll about what kind of creature would be merman!Bucky. So yeah.

Previous Chapter

The next morning, she decided to switch things up. Maybe, going earlier would save her from another weird staring contest with the stranger from yesterday. So she packed her usual things -her project, a thermos, a snack- and threw on a light jacket before heading out. The air was crisp and salty, the sun still low and soft on the horizon, casting everything in golden light.

By the time she made it to her spot by the rocks, she was greeted by two small but satisfying victories.

First: no sign of him.

Second: the tide was low.

Very low.

The mouth of the cave yawned open before her, dark, cool, and tempting. She stood there for a moment, just listening to the rhythmic hush of the waves and the soft cries of seabirds above. The breeze tugged playfully at her hair as she scanned the shoreline, confirming what she had suspected, the tide was still receding. She had time.

Her gaze flicked back to the cave.

Maybe… she could finally take a proper look inside. If the locals were so set on being cryptic about the place, well, she could see for herself what the fuss was about.

Adjusting the straps of her backpack, she made her way carefully across the rocky terrain, taking her time to step only on firm, dry stones. Her shoes crunched softly against the pebbles as she went, and when she reached the cave’s entrance, she hesitated only briefly before ducking inside.

It was bigger than she thought.

Seawater pools clung to dips in the cave floor, catching the sunlight and scattering it across the rock like scattered coins. She trailed a hand along the rough wall, marveling at how nature shaped everything so perfectly.

God, this place was beautiful.

She wandered a few feet inside, careful to keep the brighter mouth of the cave within her sight, she wasn’t about to get herself lost in the dark, after all.

The deeper she went, the more she noticed little details, the way seaweed had been caught high in some places, as though pushed there by violent tides, the shimmer of shells wedged between stones, and even marks on the walls.

Scratches?

No… another kind of mark she couldn’t decipher.

----

Bucky was minding his business -lately, this meant trying to nap and failing- when the sound of footsteps echoing faintly through the stone reached his ears. His eyes snapped open, sharp and alert, and his pupils narrowed against the faint shaft of light filtering through the cave’s chimney.

Footsteps.

Too light to be a fisherman or some reckless teenager come to drink where they thought no one would find them.

No, this was different.

He pushed himself up slightly from where he’d been half-submerged in one of the deeper pools, and the water swirled softly around the dark coils of his limbs. His long hair, still damp from an early morning swim, clung to his shoulders as he turned toward the sound, tattooed fingers flexing against the rock's edge.

Then he heard it again, careful steps over the stones. Hesitant. Testing the ground like someone not used to walking there.

His jaw clenched. He knew who it was even before he heard the soft intake of breath that followed.

Her.

The one who kept coming to his shore. The one who dared to sit and hum and twist her strange threads in the sunlight like she belonged there.

He swore softly under his breath. What the hell was she doing now?

She’d never ventured this close. Never crossed into the mouth of his lair. Sliding silently beneath the surface, he moved closer to where the cave opened wide, staying in the deeper shadows, where the water was darkest and the light struggled to reach. Only his eyes remained above, sharp as a blade, watching her figure outlined against the sunlight spilling from the entrance.

She moved slowly, and wide-eyed, running her fingers along the walls  -his walls- studying the cave like she had every right to be there. He felt something twist low in his gut, a mix of annoyance and... something else. Something that felt dangerously close to curiosity.

Didn’t she realize how stupid it was to wander into places she didn’t understand? His dark tendrils shifting restlessly in the water, echoing his unease.

She paused by one of the shallow pools, crouching to look at something glinting in the rocks. Shells or maybe bits of drift metal carried in by the tides, small things he sometimes kept and sometimes destroyed when he was in the wrong mood.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he watched her expression. Not fear, not yet. She didn’t know she wasn’t alone. A flicker of guilt assaulted him, uninvited. She wasn’t armed, wasn’t threatening. She looked... curious. Innocent, even.

But he knew better than to trust a human face.

He was used to watching her from a distance. Used to seeing her hands dance over her threads, hearing the soft sound of her voice when she hummed to herself.

But now?

Now she was here. Too close.

And as she straightened up and turned deeper into the cave, following the patches of light that filtered through cracks and chimneys, Bucky felt his chest tighten. What was he supposed to do with her? His fingers dug into the rock, and his muscles tensed under dark, storm-hued skin.

Maybe it was time to show her this wasn’t a place to wander.

----

When she started moving toward that alcove, -the one where her little seashell square hung, swaying gently on its line- something sharp and possessive twisted in Bucky’s chest.

No.

That was his now.

Without thinking much about it, he slid from the deeper shadows of his resting pool, moving swift and fluid along the rocky edge, like a shadow swallowed by darker ones. His lower half gripped the slick stones as he glided over them, slipping noiselessly into another pool closer to her path.

Hidden beneath the surface, only his eyes above the waterline, he watched as she hesitated, scanning the alcove’s uneven walls with quiet wonder.

She was too close.

His fingers curled over the rim of the pond, the dark tattooed lines on his arm twisting as his grip tensed. And then, he hissed.

Low, sharp, and deliberate.

The sound slithered through the cavern like a living thing, bouncing off the rock, and gaining depth and weight as it echoed through the chambers. She froze mid-step. She turned around slowly, all wide eyes as she scanned the shadows, the pools, the craggy walls.

“Hello?” Her voice was soft, uncertain.

Bucky said nothing, keeping still as stone. She stepped back, brushing the cave wall lightly with her hand, as if for support. But that was all. She wasn’t running. She wasn’t screaming. Just standing there, scanning the dim light, with her mouth pressed in a thin line.

He stayed hidden, with his body almost perfectly blended with the dark water and stone. Watching. Studying.

She lingered another minute, wrapping her arms loosely around herself as if trying to convince herself that the hiss -that low, sharp thing slithering through the cavern- had been nothing. Just some natural sound of the sea moving through the rocks.

With a slow exhale, she wisely turned on her heel and started her march toward the exit, cautiously stepping over the slick stone.

But fate, of course, wasn’t on her side.

Her foot slipped on a patch of algae-slick rock, and before she could even yelp, she went down hard, landing with a splash in a pool she hadn't noticed before.

“Shit!” she gasped, as the cold water soaked her jeans instantly.

The splash echoed off the cavern walls, bouncing sharp and loud through the space. And that sudden, chaotic movement, the crash of her body into the water, the way her hands scrambled to push herself back up, startled something.

From across the pool, where the water dipped into shadow, the rocks seemed to shift. Her eyes caught on the movement, as the illusion of stone melted away, like mist burning under the sun. There, clinging to the rocks, was him.

Not a shadow. Not a trick of the light.

A man, pale and tattooed, with long dark hair plastered against his shoulders, and wide blue eyes locked on her with equal parts shock and anger.

But it wasn’t just a man.

Where legs should’ve been, his body changed, and thick limbs -deep blues and blacks shifting like oil- curled and rippled over the stones, some half-submerged, others coiled for balance. She could see suction cups running along the underside of a few, clinging effortlessly to the wet rock. The tips flicked and twitched, betraying tension and irritation.

For a long heartbeat, neither of them moved.

What-

He looked just as surprised as she was, like he hadn’t expected to reveal his position, to startle. Then, like a storm cloud pulling itself together, his expression darkened. He tilted his head slightly as if assessing how dangerous she was now that his secret was laid bare.

Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.

The creep in the waves, she thought, as her heart thudded painfully against her ribs. Only… not quite the kind of creep she’d expected. No, this was paranormal-weird. A fucking living, breathing fairy tale was perched just a few feet away, staring her down like she had personally eaten the last of his cereal.

They just… kept staring at each other.

She could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his tattooed arm flexed and braced against the rock like he was ready to launch himself forward. His inhuman lower half -those tendrils, massive and sleek in stormy blues and black- gripped the rock tightly, suction cups shifting and adjusting as if they couldn’t quite decide between holding steady or moving closer.

He was uneasy.

But she was very sure he could sense her unease too.

Her brain spun wildly, running in circles like a hamster in an out-of-control wheel. A male cecaelia? A fucking octopus man, just a short walk from her house? A goddamn myth glaring at her like she had just walked into his living room uninvited. Which, technically, she had.

Okay, okay… don’t freak out…

She swallowed thickly, trying to keep her face neutral, though she was pretty sure her wide eyes were betraying every last thought. She flicked a glance to the nearest rocks, desperately scanning for an escape route. If she could get up without slipping again, and if she could make it out before he decided to drag her back under…

Her stomach churned.

Because unlike a fish-tailed mermaid or triton, this guy didn’t need the water. Those muscular tendrils looked more than capable of hauling his heavy body across the rocks, and the way they were shifting now, gripping and testing, made her feel all kinds of not safe.

If he decided she was a threat -or worse, prey- she had no illusions about being able to outrun him on that slippery surface. He could snap her neck or trap her and pull her under the water before she even got to her feet.

Feigning death? Not an option. She wasn’t a possum, and he didn’t look like he’d fall for it.

Her thoughts tumbled in panic, but something in his eyes -that strange stormy blue, watching her so intently- made her pause. There was hesitation there. Like he wasn’t sure what to do with her, either.

So, she did the only thing she could think of.

The polite, and incredibly stupid thing.

She raised her hand -fingers trembling slightly- and waved.

“Um… hi there.”

Her voice cracked a little on the last word, but she managed to get it out.

Carefully, without taking her eyes off him, she pushed herself up to sitting, legs still half-submerged in the cold pool, and bracing her palms on the rocks to stop from sliding again. Her heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. But she kept her chin up, watching him watch her, waiting to see what the hell came next.

He didn’t move at first. He just stared, slightly narrowing his crystal-shaded blue eyes, with blown wide pupils in the dim light of the cave.

What… what kind of human waved at a creature like him? He understood her mistaking him for a man the day before, but now?

His sharp gaze swept over her face as if searching for something. Maybe she hit her head when she fell. Yeah, that had to be it. Otherwise, why would she be sitting there, soaked and trembling, but still raising a hand at him like they were having some casual chat over the weather?

His lips curled slightly, baring his sharp teeth, and a low, guttural hiss escaped his throat before he could even think about it.

She flinched -a visible, whole-body jerk- and Bucky felt a grim flicker of satisfaction. Good. Maybe now she realized what kind of danger she was in. But to his surprise, she didn’t scream. She didn’t scramble for the exit or try to throw something at him, both of which he would’ve expected.

Instead, she lifted her hands in a slow, careful gesture, palms out, like she was trying to calm a wild animal. Maybe she was.

“I- I mean no harm,” she said, with measured words like she didn’t want to spook him. Her hands stayed up, placating, trembling just slightly. "I’ll leave," she added, her gaze never leaving his, though he could see the rapid flicker of her eyes as they tracked the way his tendrils shifted and tensed against the rocks.

Bucky’s head tilted, sharp and predatory, watching her mouth as she spoke. He could understand her words. The meaning was there, swimming somewhere in the mess his mind had become.

But speaking back? That was another matter.

Once, long ago, he could speak like any human. Could hold conversations, ask questions, and give warnings. But now the words tangled, twisted up in the shadows of his mind, caught in the wreckage of what they had done to him. Thinking about them made something sharp and dark coil in his chest. His pupils narrowed.

Without meaning to, he slid forward a little, muscles rippling under pale skin as his tendrils dragged him closer, silent and smooth against the stone.

Her eyes widened slightly, and she instinctively leaned back, pressing her palms into the slick rock as if ready to push herself away, but she didn’t move. Not yet.

Every instinct in him screamed not to let her leave. She had found his lair, seen him. No human had gotten this close to him and walked away in… he couldn’t even remember how long.

Letting her go felt wrong. Dangerous. But…

Her eyes weren’t filled with the kind of hatred and greed he was used to, nor calculation. No net. No spear. No sharp weapons. Only those trembling hands and careful words. His gaze flicked to her legs, still half-submerged in the shallow pool. If he reached just a little further, he could drag her back, down into the water where she wouldn’t be able to run-

His claws scraped lightly against the stone, and the sound echoed faintly in the cave. He knew he was scaring her, could smell the sharp tang of fear on her skin. And yet… she wasn’t running away.

Maybe because she understood she couldn’t. But instead of scrambling away or begging, she drew in a shaky breath and tried something else.

"Look…" she started, "I didn’t mean to bother you. I didn’t even know you were-" She hesitated, darting her eyes briefly to his glimmering tendrils before snapping back to his face. "Here."

She swallowed and lifted her hands again, as if he needed more proof that she wasn’t a threat. "I wasn’t looking for you. I was just curious about the cave. You-" another pause, her brow furrowed, searching for words that wouldn't anger him. "You live here, right?"

Bucky’s jaw tensed, sharp teeth flashing for the briefest second as his mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a snarl but wasn’t friendly either.

He shifted forward again, slow and deliberate, and the water slid over his skin and tendrils with a quiet hiss. She stiffened as he moved, but didn’t retreat, watching him wide-eyed.

He tilted his head again, and for a moment she thought he might just keep glaring in silence. But then he opened his mouth as if to speak, and nothing came out but a low, broken rasp, like a breath caught on something sharp. His brows furrowed, frustrated, and his lips parted again, trying to form the words tangled in his head.

"Why..." It came out rough, the echo of a voice long unused.

He shifted closer, water dripping from his hair as he leaned slightly to one side, circling her, as if testing, watching how she reacted to every inch he gained.

"Why… here?" he finally managed. His voice was low and hoarse like it hurt to speak. His eyes pinned her, demanding an answer.

She blinked at him, surprised that he had spoken at all, but the question was clear enough.

"I-I just was curious about the place," she answered honestly, lowering her hands slightly now that she saw he was at least trying to communicate. "I moved to the cottage up the hill. I didn’t know this was your home."

Her eyes darted to the water where his tendrils swayed and curled with tension.

"I can stay away if you want," she added, softer.

Bucky watched her in silence, tilting his head slightly as if weighing her words. She could see his throat working, as though he wanted to speak again but couldn’t force the words out.

Still, he crept a little closer, tendrils rising slightly out of the water, black and blue slick shapes moving with that unsettling, liquid grace, like living shadows.

She swallowed hard, watching him shift, seeing the way his muscles moved beneath pale skin, the long dark hair falling over his shoulders in wet strands. He was... too close now. Close enough that she could see how the water slid off his skin, how sharp the lines of his jaw were, how inhumanly still he could go, like a predator assessing prey.

Her mind raced, trying to piece together anything that would make sense of this encounter. Maybe she could reason with him? Offer something, anything in exchange for her safe retreat?

Her fingers trembled as she carefully slid the backpack off her shoulder, keeping her movements slow, and deliberate, showing him she wasn’t reaching for a weapon.

“Um...” she cleared her throat, forcing herself to speak, though her voice was uneven. “I can give you what I brought with me... if you want.”

She opened the flap of the bag and hesitated for a heartbeat before reaching in. The colorful yarn spilled between her fingers, reds and oranges mostly, bright and warm against the grey light filtering through the cave’s chimney. She held it out awkwardly as if offering a peace token to some ancient god of the deep.

His eyes, flicked from her face to the yarn in her hand.

She tried to smile, though her lips felt stiff and dry. “You... want it?” she asked quietly. “You can have it. I’ll just... go.”

Stillness.

His gaze returned to her, dark lashes lowering slightly, as if thinking. Or weighing.

And then, he shifted. His body undulated with a slow, contained force as he slid a little closer, tendrils curling and uncurling at his sides like restless snakes.

Her breath hitched.

But instead of lunging or attacking, one of those black and blue limbs uncurled,  hesitating mid-air before reaching out toward the yarn.

She stayed very still, with her heart thudding painfully as she watched the tip of the tendril brush lightly against the threads.

Still, she took the chance to speak again, softer now, like trying to soothe a wild animal. “I don’t mean any harm,” she whispered. “I didn’t know this was your place. I’ll go, alright? I won’t bother you again.”

His gaze flicked from the dripping yarn in his grasp back to her, sharp and assessing.

She swallowed, holding herself still, watching as he studied the mess of threads. The yarn was already soaking wet, clinging to itself in limp strands, and for a moment he just looked at it, frowning slightly, as if puzzling over its nature.

Then, she saw the way his brows pulled tighter, as the realization dawned in his sharp gaze. It was useless like this, just raw material. His tendrils flexed, curling tighter and then unfurling in a slow, almost thoughtful motion.

When he lifted the dripping yarn again, something flickered across his face. A decision. He moved closer now -gliding with that unsettling, fluid grace- and she instinctively stiffened as the water rippled from his advance. But he didn’t lash out. Instead, he extended the yarn back to her, holding it out.

She blinked in confusion, hesitating before accepting it carefully, as though she was unsure if it was a trap.

Then came a sound, low, rough, like something long-forgotten being forced out of his throat. “…Make.”

Her eyes darted up to him, frowning slightly, unsure she had heard right.

“What?” she asked quietly, as if speaking too loud might break the fragile truce between them.

His tendril twitched, wiggling the yarn in her hand, insistently.

“…Make.” He said again, with a scratchy voice. She could see frustration flickering across his features, clenching his jaw as he struggled to articulate more.

“You…” she clenched her fingers slightly around the yarn- “You want me to craft something for you?”

The way his body stilled, then the sharp nod that followed -curt, and decisive- confirmed her guess.

But before she could say anything else, before she could even think of agreeing, his voice rasped out again, harsher this time.

“No... spi—spells.”

Her eyes widened slightly. His tendrils curled tighter, and she saw the tension in his body, as though even the thought of her weaving some enchantment into a craft unsettled him.

She lifted her free hand slowly, palms out in a placating gesture.

“No spells,” she promised gently, watching his reaction carefully. “Just…” she looked down at the yarn in her hand, “Just yarn. Nothing else.”

His eyes stayed on her for a long moment as if trying to read the truth through every line of her body. Then, with a sharp exhale that might’ve been a grudging acceptance, he let his tendrils slide back into the water, though he remained close, watching.

She swallowed again. “All right,” she said quietly, clutching the yarn to her chest as if that fragile agreement between them had some weight. “I’ll make you something.”

Still, he watched, unmoving, as though waiting to see if she’d keep her word.

And, maybe because she was reckless or because something in his gaze wasn’t entirely threatening anymore, she gave a small nod.

“I’ll bring it when it’s done.”

The moment the words left her lips, she knew she had said the wrong thing.

Because his eyes narrowed, sharp and unyielding, and before she could take a step back, he moved. Effortless, like a shadow sliding over stone, he surged forward, out of the water.

She gasped, stumbling a half step back as he rose up, tendrils unfurling and curling along the slick rocks as he dragged himself fully from the pool. Water streamed down the pale skin of his human half, muscles shifting under scarred flesh, and she couldn’t help but notice how solid he was, how much bigger than she had thought. If those massive tendrils below his hips were legs, and he stood at full height…

He moved with unsettling grace, positioning himself squarely between her and the only exit she had. The soft slap of his tendrils against the stone echoed ominously, and her heart was suddenly thundering in her chest again.

He was blocking her way out.

Her fingers tightened instinctively around the damp yarn, and her pulse raced as he stared her down.

“Here,” he hissed. His gaze was unblinking, cold as the sea.

She swallowed, watching as one of his tendrils lifted to tap the yarn, insistently.

“Make. Here.”

Oh, he didn’t trust her. Of course, he didn’t.

Why should he? She had wandered right into his lair, trespassed into the most private corner of his world. What reason would he have to believe she'd come back, or not run straight to town blabbering about a sea monster living in the cliffs?

She licked her lips, with her throat suddenly dry, her eyes darting from his looming form to the narrow path that led out, now completely cut off.

"Okay," she whispered, her voice a little shaky. "Okay. I get it." She kept her hands slow, deliberate, as she crouched down on a drier patch of rock, her gaze flicking up to him as if asking for permission.

He watched her like a hawk, tendrils shifting slightly against the ground as though ready to react to the smallest wrong move.

Her fingers fumbled slightly as she dug into her backpack for her hook, small and harmless, but she could feel the way his gaze latched onto it, tracking the glint of metal with suspicion.

“It’s… it’s just for the yarn,” she murmured, showing him the crochet hook in the flat of her hand before she picked up the sodden threads.

She exhaled, long and slow, trying to calm the tremble in her fingers as she looped the yarn and began to work, her mind racing even as her hands found familiar movements.

Crochet. Right. He wanted her to make something, here, now. She needed to make something fast. Something that looked impressive enough to satisfy him, but simple enough to be done before the tide decided to join them in the cave.

A jellyfish.

The thought flickered in her mind like lightning.

Last year, she had made dozens of them — some as little hanging decorations, some flat like coasters, cute and simple. The design was burned into her memory. Bright colors, curly tentacles. Easy.

Perfect.

She swallowed, adjusting her grip on the yarn and pulling her hook through the loops with more confidence now, as muscle memory took over. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him.

He was still coiled protectively between her and the exit, but now he seemed… fixated. Watching her hands, the way the thread looped and twisted under her fingers.

Her mind raced as her fingers worked the damp yarn, still feeling the weight of his stare, unrelenting, sharp, and far too close.

And then, slowly, he inched closer.

Closer.

Way too close.

By the time she was halfway done with the main body of the jellyfish, his face was mere inches from hers, darting his eyes between her concentrating expression and her hands. She tried to pretend her heart wasn’t slamming against her chest, but it was getting increasingly difficult to ignore the way his tendrils had crept silently over the rocks to surround her, some of them curling and uncurling near her feet, others bracing close to her sides like dark, living ropes.

For a creature that didn’t trust her, he clearly had no concept of personal space. She wet her lips nervously but didn’t stop working, feeling the heat of his gaze following every flick and twist of her fingers. “You know,” she murmured, not daring to look directly at him, “for someone so wary… you’re really not giving me a lot of room here.”

She risked a glance up, and for a fleeting second, she thought she saw a flicker of something in his eyes, amusement? Or maybe just sharper curiosity. His tendrils flexed against the rock, shifting slightly closer. One of them slid forward and she nearly flinched, but it didn’t touch her. No, it reached for the trailing end of yarn, brushing the thread lightly, as though testing the texture.

He made a low sound in his throat, almost like a hum, flicking his eyes from the yarn to her face and back again.

Her hands kept working, faster now, shaping the last round before starting the dangling "tentacles”: a few quick chains and curls, loose and wavy, the way jellyfish tendrils floated underwater.

"I’m making a jellyfish, by the way," she said quietly, filling the silence between them. "Not sure what you'll do with it down here, but-” She glanced at him, seeing how his brows furrowed slightly, as though trying to grasp her words. "But," she added gently, "you didn’t say what you wanted, so… this is what you’re getting."

Still, no answer. Just those sharp, blue, and way too focused eyes on her face. She tried to ignore how close he was. How she could see the faint shimmer of water on his skin, the way his dark hair clung to his temples. Almost done. Just a few more loops.

"If I finish this and give it to you," she murmured, working through the last stitch, "you’ll let me go, right?"

One of his tendrils curled slowly near her ankle, and she tensed before it retreated again, but he didn’t answer.

The final loop tightened under her hook, and she carefully turned the jellyfish over in her hands. It wasn’t her best work, but considering the circumstances? Pretty damn good. She held it up with slightly trembling fingers and finally met his gaze.

"Here," she whispered. "It’s for you."

For a long, heavy moment, he didn’t move.

Then one of his tendrils reached forward -slow, deliberate- and wrapped around the little yarn creature, lifting it gently from her hands. He held it delicately, looking at the bright red and orange yarn, wet but still vivid, which seemed almost to pulse in the dim light of the cave.

Her breath caught.

Was it enough?

His eyes flicked back to her, sharp and unreadable, before returning to the soft thing in his hold. Then, slowly, he brought it closer. He touched it with his hand, testing its weight and texture, making the curled tendrils bounce softly with his fingers. The way his clawed fingertips brushed over the loops of yarn was almost… reverent, like someone handling an unknown relic.

And when he lifted it to his face and sniffed it, she blinked in surprise. He made a low, thoughtful sound, something like a rumble deep in his chest, before glancing up toward the alcove where the seashell square hung. Not that she knew about it.

She didn't dare to move yet, holding her breath as his dark gaze returned to her, assessing, cold and sharp, and yet... there was something else there too.

Finally, with a rough, almost reluctant tone, he said, "Leave."

She didn't need to be told twice.

"Right. Leaving. Thanks," she mumbled, starting to push herself to her feet.

But as soon as she moved, pain shot up her leg and she stumbled with a sharp intake of breath, catching herself awkwardly on a slick rock. She heard him exhale a frustrated, almost growling sound.

And before she could even react, he was moving, fast and smooth despite his bulk.

Tendrils lashed out, wrapping around her waist, and before she could yelp properly, he hoisted her like she weighed nothing, slinging her over one broad shoulder in a way that knocked the air out of her lungs.

"What the-?! Hey!"

But he was already moving, crawling effortlessly across the rocks, with his powerful limbs and tendrils gripping surfaces with frightening ease.

She realized, squirming a little but not daring to struggle much, that he was carrying her toward the cave's exit, toward the open shore.

Despite the rush of fear and surprise, part of her brain registered the strength it took to lift her like this but he was using one arm and one tendril to support her, coiling firmly but not painfully around her, while he moved fluid and controlled.

When they reached the mouth of the cave, bathed in the cold morning light, he set her down, still holding her tightly with the tendril on her waist. She realized he wasn’t letting go. She barely had a moment to catch her breath before one strong hand cupped her face,pressing along her cheek and jaw, tilting her head to face him directly.

His eyes burned into hers, too close, too sharp.

"No one," he growled, like the sound of stones grinding together.

Her heart hammered.

"I- I won’t," she breathed, eyes wide.

His brow furrowed, searching her face for any sign of a lie, and for a long, tense moment, they simply stared at each other.

Then, with a final squeeze on her waist, -reminding her just how easily he could break her if he wanted- he let her go.

She stumbled back a step, watching him as he slowly retreated into the shadows of the cave, taking her jellyfish with him like a strange prize.

----

Once alone, he slipped back into the shadows, feeling the cool kiss of the water as he submerged into his favorite pond again.

But for once, the calm he usually found there didn’t come. The little jellyfish dangled from his hand, dripping seawater, with its soft yarn tendrils swaying gently with the motion of his arm.

He lifted it again, inspecting it closer now that the human was gone.

Red and orange, bright like the creatures that danced in the deep where no human dared to go. It shouldn’t exist here, among these dull coastal grays and browns, but maybe that’s why he liked it. It reminded him of things from the trenches of the sea, strange, delicate, and dangerous all at once.

With careful fingers, he turned it, watching how the thin tendrils curled and bounced with every shift, and for a moment he wondered, how did she know how these creatures were? And, did she guess what might catch his eye, or was it just luck?

His gaze drifted to the alcove where the seashell square still hung, weathered and faded from salt and air. Frowning thoughtfully, he slithered from the pool and grabbed another thin piece of fishing line. Working deftly, he tied the jellyfish, letting it dangle beside the square, and the breeze filtering through a vent stirred both pieces gently.

The tendrils danced, twisting and swaying as if alive, and something about that made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t understand or didn’t want to.

She had made this for him, even if coaxed.

And true to her word, it didn’t reek of magic, no strange tingling in the fibers, no shimmer of spells on its surface. Just simple human craft. He stared at it, folding his arms over the edge of the alcove and resting his chin on his wrist, watching the little creature spin lazily in the wind.

After a while, he found his thoughts drifting back to her, the way she’d stared at him, wide-eyed but trying to stay calm. The way she’d carefully spoken to him in a soft, and unsure voice.

Her face, her eyes.

Pretty.

He huffed to himself, irritated at the thought.

Pretty, for a human. Not that it mattered.

Still…

His brow furrowed.

Did she have a mate?

The question rose before he could stop it, crawling at the edge of his mind. Maybe someone waiting in that lair on the cliff? A male that would come looking if she didn’t return one day?

But then again...

If she had a mate, why would she spend so much time alone, sitting by his rocks, working with her strange threads? His tendrils twitched restlessly against the stone.

It wasn’t his business.

He firmly told himself that, squeezing the edge of the alcove a little too tightly. She was just a reckless human. One he should’ve scared off properly.

And yet, when the jellyfish spun again in the breeze, he watched it, and behind his eyes, he saw her hands moving, and her lips parting as she worked.

----

By the time she reached the cottage, her legs were trembling, partly from the cold of her soaked clothes, and partly from the leftover adrenaline rushing through her veins. The door slammed shut behind her, and she pressed her back to it, breathing hard, as if expecting him to have followed her all the way there.

But, of course, he didn’t.

She winced as she bent to take off her jeans, feeling the forming bruise at the base of her spine, joining the throbbing of her leg from where she’d landed in that stupid pond. "Great. Add that to my collection of regrets."

Once free of the wet clothes, she wrapped herself in a soft towel, padding barefoot to the bathroom to start the shower, replaying the whole encounter.

A cecaelia.

She knew the folklore. Old stories and whispered warnings of half-man, half-octopus creatures that lurked in the deep, dragging sailors under the sea, charming swimmers to their deaths, or seducing them into the dark.

Not that she ever believed those tales. Until today.

And God, even furious and unfriendly as he was, he was painfully, otherworldly handsome, in a way that made her stomach twist uncomfortably. She didn’t want to think how could it be to look at those features when they decided to charm instead of being hostile.

She turned her back to the mirror as she waited for the water to heat, rubbing absently at her bruised backside, but her mind wouldn't stop spinning. She could understand now why those old tales spoke of these creatures luring humans to them. There was something magnetic about him, even if she didn't want to admit it.

But...

If he really wanted to hurt her, he could have.

He could’ve crushed her throat, or dragged her under the water until she stopped breathing, hell, he had carried her like she weighed nothing at all. First slung over his broad shoulder, holding her tight with his arm, and then later, when his tentacles wrapped her waist and lifted her to her feet, holding her firm as if she were a doll.

But instead, he had trusted, and warned her off. No one, he said, the words harsh and rough on his tongue.

Because if she talked… if people knew something was living out there, how long before curious fishermen came with nets? Before reporters descended on the town, or researchers, trying to trap him, study him? Or worse?

All he wanted was to be left alone. And she -stupidly- had wandered straight into his home, poking around like some tourist in a forbidden place.

She sighed, finally stepping into the shower, letting the hot water pound her skin, washing away the salt and the fear. But even as the warmth soaked into her muscles, she couldn’t stop thinking of the way his tentacles had flexed when he watched her work, how close his face had gotten when he stared at her like he was trying to figure her out.

And then she wondered, what parts of the old stories were true.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[arpicityandneed]

I love you characters with metal arms

[arpicityandneed]

Cockwarming with Thor is overhelming, all you can feel is him throbbing inside you- stuffing you so full until you're not sure where he ends and you begin. You can't stop yourself from clenching down around him, gushing and trembling in his strong arms. Thor just smiles at you and nuzzles his nose against yours. "So delicate, flower. Just let me in." You manage to nod before hiding your face by his throat.

[arpicityandneed]

This... is haunting and beautiful like the sea because the way you get inside buckys head and characterization with such little dialogue and without giving away too much is awesome plus the dynamic with reader from a simple wave is already there because she just.. confounds him and yeah. I love this and hope you write more!!

Tangled

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. Future alusions to experimentation. I don't know if there will be eventual teratophilia.

Summary: Between fear and fascination, a solitary creature struggles to protect his hidden world -and himself- after an unexpected encounter with a curious human woman makes him question everything he thought he knew about trust, danger, and boundaries.

Word Count: About 7.1k.

note: The Cecaelia is a mythical creature that's half-man, half-octopus, and that was the winning result of the poll about what kind of creature would be merman!Bucky. So yeah.

The cottage looked even smaller in person. Nestled at the cliff's edge, with wild grass growing tall around it and the sea stretching endlessly beyond, it felt like it had been left there by the wind itself, forgotten when the summer tourists had packed up and gone.

She stepped out of the car, and the sharp tang of salt air rushed into her lungs when she took a deep breath. The doctor’s words echoed in her head, as they had for weeks now. "Sea air will do wanders with you. Get away from the city, and spend time outside. Let your lungs remember how to work without fighting for every breath."

It hadn’t been a hard decision, not really. When she’d called her cousin asking if the cottage was free, he’d been surprised but quick to offer it. “No one rents off-season,” he had said. “But if you don’t mind the quiet, it’s yours for as long as you want. Just keep an eye on the place. Cheap rent if you can manage that.”

She could. And she wanted the quiet.

The cottage itself was weathered, with paint peeling from the shutters, but it held a kind of charm. She smiled to herself, already imagining mornings spent with tea in hand, sitting on the porch, watching the sea.

In the back of her car, her yarn and crochet hooks were packed in baskets, along with pieces she could finish and post to her shop, small comforts for strangers who would never know how much she needed this place as much as they might need her work.

The door creaked as it opened, and she stepped inside, greeted by the scent of wood and sea salt that had seeped into the walls. It wasn’t perfect -there would be work to do to make it feel like home- but for now, it was enough.

She left her bag by the door, moving to open the back window that faced the cliffs. The wind rushed in immediately, lifting the thin curtains and filling the small room with the sounds of the ocean.

Leaning on the windowsill, she breathed in deep again, closing her eyes for a moment.

----

She left the unpacking for later. The sunlight, pale and golden as it dipped lower in the sky, felt too precious to waste. After days of grey city skies, it was strange and wonderful to see light glinting off the water like scattered glass.

Pulling on a scarf against the wind, she made her way down the narrow path that led from the cottage to the shore, boots crunching against damp stones. The beach was more rock than sand, dark stones slick with seawater, and the waves hissing between them in restless motion. She took her time, picking her way carefully over the uneven ground, pausing here and there to admire small tide pools that shimmered like glass bowls filled with fragments of sky.

Further down, the cliffs rose higher, jagged and dark against the softening sky. Tucked into the rock face was a cave, half-hidden in shadow. She felt a pull toward it, something about the way the waves crashed near its mouth, and the water slid back in swirling foam made her want to go closer. But the tide was too high, waves rushing to the edge of the mouth and spilling out in bursts of white spray.

She sighed, a little disappointed, and found a flat rock to sit on, far enough from the water’s reach but close enough to feel the mist on her cheeks. Pulling her knees up, she wrapped her arms around them and watched the horizon where the sky met the sea, silver and darkening.

She didn’t notice the way the water stirred beyond the rocks.

From the shadows of the cave, he watched.

Blue eyes, sharp and narrowed, fixed on the figure that had dared to step onto his shore. A female human, wrapped in thick clothes, clearly not afraid of being so close to the water. His gaze followed her movements, the careful way she sat, her eyes distant as if searching for something in the waves.

The sea shifted around him, dark tentacles stirring the foam as he rose slightly from the depths, blending with the shadows. The skin below his waist was marked in deep stormy colors: blues that bled into blacks, silvers that caught the light when he moved, like flashes of lightning underwater. His long dark hair clung wet to his shoulders, the strands caught in the shifting current.

His left arm was marked in heavy black ink, curling patterns that wound around the muscles like chains and waves, telling stories in lines and symbols only the ocean would ever understand.

He was used to people coming close in the summer, loud and careless, splashing in the water, never looking beyond what they wanted to see. But this one was different. She was quiet. Still.

That didn’t mean she wasn’t dangerous.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he slid closer to the rocks, letting the water conceal most of his form, moving his lower half with smooth, effortless strength beneath the waves. The great, coiled limbs of his true body remained hidden for now, shifting like shadows below.

His gaze darkened as he watched her. What was she doing there? Why now, when the cold months were setting in and no other humans dared to linger?

His jaw clenched as he sank a little deeper into the water, watching her as the sun dipped lower and painted the sky in bruised purples and oranges. He would wait. Watch. And if she meant harm to his waters, to his shore, he would know. But still, he couldn't help the way his eyes lingered when the wind caught her hair, or the way her small smile seemed soft and tired, as if she carried some invisible weight.

She came back.

The next day and the one after.

By the third sunrise, Bucky had already realized, with a sinking weight in his chest, that the human woman wasn’t just passing through. No, she returned, making her way down the narrow path from the cliffs, wrapped in her layers of soft clothes and her hair tousled by the wind. She walked the shore like she belonged there, like it wasn’t his.

It bothered him.

From the shadows of the rocks, half-submerged in the dark water, he watched her settle on the same stone each day, legs folded neatly beneath her as she sat with her back to the wind. Like clockwork, she always carried a bundle under her arm -sometimes a basket, sometimes a cloth bag- and inside were her strange tools.

At first, he'd tense every time she pulled them out. Metal glinting in the light, sharp and delicate. His eyes would narrow, watching the quick, precise movements of her fingers as she worked the thread -or was it wire?- into something he couldn't quite understand.

Was she weaving traps? Humans were clever like that, dressing danger in the shape of something pretty. His teeth would clench as he lingered close enough to see but far enough that the sea still wrapped him in its shield. Some days, he’d hover beneath the surface, letting the swell of the waves rise and fall over him, tentacles coiled and ready, just watching. Other days, when curiosity won out over caution, he'd pull himself closer to the rocks, blending with the dark stone, his body hidden in the foam, only sharp blue eyes peering from the shadowed cracks.

He couldn't understand her.

The tools -those thin, pointed things that glinted in the sun- moved quickly in her hands, pulling and twisting strands of colored thread into shapes. He watched her lips move sometimes, as if she were speaking to herself or singing under her breath, her voice too soft to carry over the waves.

What are you doing, human?

Some days, she worked with blues and greys that matched the ocean. Other days, softer colors: pale pinks, sandy creams, as if she were plucking the colors from the sunset and tying them into her thread.

His mind turned over the possibilities, dark and sharp as broken shells.

Offerings, maybe. Humans used to throw things into the sea, begging the water for favors. Had she come to his shore to offer something? And if so, to whom?

What was it like, to sit under the open sky, making something delicate with hands that didn’t know the weight of chains?

What did a human like her have to craft for?

He knew humans were dangerous. They made weapons and poison. They took and broke and never gave back to the sea. But watching her, with her small, careful motions and calm presence, Bucky couldn’t make her fit into the same mold.

Still, he kept his distance.

And watched.

She was a mystery, and Bucky had always known better than to trust a pretty mystery.

----

The sky was heavy that day, thick with clouds that churned low over the sea like a living thing, pressing the wind harder against the cliffs. The waves crashed louder, salt spray carried far beyond the rocks, and even the birds had gone quiet, hunkering down somewhere safer than the open air.

Still, she came.

Bucky saw her before she even reached the stones, her figure bent slightly against the wind, with a scarf whipped loose around her shoulders as she picked her way carefully across the slick path. He stayed hidden in the cave’s shadows, narrowing his eyes as he watched her approach, bracing himself as another gust sent the water lashing high against the rocks.

Foolish human. She had no business being here in this weather.

And yet, there she was, basket under her arm, as though her stubbornness could make the storm back down.

She didn’t stay long; that, at least, he could appreciate. The wind tugged mercilessly at her hair, whipping strands across her face, and even from his distance, he could see her frown as she tried to focus on her work. The little metal tools caught flashes of dull light, as she wrestled with thread that kept trying to fly away.

More than once, she nearly dropped the whole thing, muttering curses under her breath that the wind carried just out of his hearing.

Should’ve stayed home, Bucky thought darkly, though part of him -a part he didn’t want to examine too closely- felt a flicker of something like amusement at her stubbornness.

Eventually, even she had to admit defeat.

With a sharp breath, she shoved the tangled project and tools back into her basket, fighting to keep everything from slipping out as the wind ripped around her. Bucky watched as she stood, holding the basket close with one hand and pulling her scarf tighter with the other.

She turned to leave, but the basket’s lid wasn’t secure.

He caught the movement first, a small square of soft color, pale blue and cream, clinging to the edge until a sharp gust of wind tore it free.

The little piece of her work tumbled up into the air like a bird struggling against the gale, flipping and twisting wildly. She didn’t notice, too focused on her path back up to the cliffs, already moving away.

Bucky’s sharp gaze tracked the square as it flew, carried higher for a moment before the wind turned and dropped it like a wounded thing onto the rocks.

He slid closer, and the sea hissed against the shore as his dark form rose from the waves, blending with the churning water. His tentacles shifted beneath, curling and uncoiling lazily as he moved through the foam toward where the thing had landed.

For a moment, he didn’t touch it, only looked, tilting his head slightly as he studied the object. It was soft and tiny, patterned carefully in shifting stitches, with the center shaped like a seashell.

A seashell.

His brows drew together, a flicker of confusion sliding through his chest.

Was it… for him? An offering? A message?

His tattooed arm reached out, brushing the yarn with his wet fingers as if it might dissolve under his touch. He picked it up, holding it between his fingers, and turning it over. The colors were soft, like the sea on a calm morning, so unlike the stormy waters around them now.

He stared after her retreating figure, now nearly lost to the rising mist that curled along the cliffs. His fingers closed around the little square, and his chest twisted with something sharp and unfamiliar. Without thinking, he slipped back into the water, keeping the square safe in his palm as he sank below the waves, carrying it into the deep.

----

The cave had been his refuge for years now.

A place carved by time and water, jagged and vast beneath the cliffs, a labyrinth of dark stone and shifting pools. The ocean lived and breathed in its chambers, rushing in with the tides to flood the lower passages, pulling back to leave slick rock and pools deep enough for him to slide through.

Most humans never saw more than the yawning mouth of the cave, and even then, they gave it a wide berth, spooked by the way the waves churned and roared in its depths. But Bucky had made it home.

It wasn’t much. Dark. Cold. Safe.

Except now, it wasn’t just his.

He surfaced silently in one of the upper chambers, where the water only reached his hips before sloping into the damp rock. High above, a narrow shaft split the stone, letting pale daylight pour down like a spotlight. Even on cloudy days, it was enough to see by.

Holding the little square carefully between tattooed fingers, he studied it again as if it might reveal something new, some hidden meaning in its soft, woven loops.

It shouldn’t be here.

Nothing soft ever survived this place.

The sea that pounded the rocks outside was as ruthless as the men who’d once dragged him from it. His world was made of sharp edges and dark water. Things that survived here were hard, broken, and dangerous.

Not like this.

His lip curled slightly, though he wasn’t sure if it was at himself or the thing he couldn’t quite let go of.

He moved to the far side of the chamber where a heavy rock shelf jutted from the wall, slick with salt but high enough to stay dry when the tide rolled in. Above it, close to the light from the chimney, an old, rusted hook still hung from a crack in the rock, a leftover from some shipwrecked fishing gear he'd dragged in long ago.

He didn’t think much before reaching for a coil of fishing line he scavenged from the sea, along with other things lost by sailors who would never know what had become of them.

With careful fingers, he tied the little square to the line, knotting it securely, and hung it from the hook so it swayed gently in the faint breeze that slipped down through the shaft.

It turned slowly, spinning on the line, and its pale threads caught what little light filtered in, soft and fragile in a world of darkness.

Bucky leaned back in the water, resting his arms on the rocks behind him, watching it move. Something about how it danced, as if defying the cold stone and salt-heavy air, set his teeth on edge.

Why did she make things like that?

Was she offering pieces of herself to the sea? To him?

His gaze darkened as he thought of her again, sitting on his rock, unaware of the way she was watched, studied like a puzzle that didn’t fit. His eyes flicked to the square once more, to the soft seashell design at its center.

It didn’t make sense, but he didn’t take it down.

Instead, he stayed there for a long time, watching it turn and twist in the pale shaft of light.

----

The next morning, she sat on the couch, sorting through her project basket with a small frown tugging at her lips. The afghan was coming together beautifully, a tapestry of ocean blues, soft foamy whites, and sandy golds, all made of tiny, careful stitches. But something was off. She counted again, lips moving silently as her finger trailed over each square laid out in neat rows.

Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five…

She paused.

No, it wasn’t right.

She was sure she’d finished all the seashell tiles. It had been the last thing she worked on by the shore before the stormy weather rolled in. But now… she was one short.

Her brow furrowed deeper. Had she miscounted?

She rubbed her forehead, letting out a soft breath. Maybe she’d dropped one and didn’t notice. The wind had been fierce that day, tugging at everything: her hair, her scarf, her work, like impatient fingers.

Glancing out the window, where the sea glinted pale in the afternoon sun, she chewed her lip. She didn’t have enough yarn to do another. So, with a resigned sigh, she grabbed her bag and slipped on her jacket.

Maybe the little shop uptown still had that particular shade of blue left.

----

The bell over the shop door chimed as she stepped inside, bringing with her a breath of sea air. The shop was small, crammed with yarns of every color, stacked high on wooden shelves that smelled faintly of cedar and wool.

Behind the counter, an older woman -probably in her seventies, but with sharp eyes and quick hands- looked up from where she was rolling skeins into neat cakes.

“Well, well,” the woman said with a curious smile. “Don’t get many young folks around this time of year. Let me guess, lost a mitten?”

She laughed softly, shaking her head. “No, nothing like that. I just… moved to the cottage down by the cliffs. I need some blue yarn.”

The woman’s brows rose. “The cottage? Arthur’s place?”

She nodded. “He’s my cousin. Said I could stay off-season. I needed… a change of air, for my lungs.”

The woman’s gaze softened a little at that, but there was something else too, a flicker of something sharper in her eyes.

“Been walking the shore, have you?”

She smiled faintly. “Almost every day. It’s good for my health. And it’s… peaceful out there.”

The old woman’s fingers stilled on the yarn, and her gaze grew more serious. “You stay away from that cave, girl.”

The sudden shift in tone made her blink. “Oh? Is it dangerous? Flooding or… rocks falling?” She had wondered, more than once, about exploring inside; its dark mouth always tugged at her attention from afar.

But the old woman just shook her head slowly, pressing her lips on a thin line. “No. It’s not the rocks you should worry about.”

Her stomach gave a small flip, though she wasn’t sure why. “What then?” she asked, her voice lighter than she felt. “Ghost stories?”

The woman didn’t smile.

“Some folks say there’s something in there. Something that don’t take kindly to strangers.”

There was a long pause between them, filled only by the soft creak of the shop’s wooden floor as the wind rattled outside.

She gave a small laugh. “Well… I’ll be careful. No caves. Just sitting by the rocks, I promise.”

The woman watched her a moment longer, then reached to pluck a skein from the shelf, soft blue with the faintest shimmer of white, like sea foam.

“Here. This the color you’re needing?”

Relieved for the change of subject, she smiled. “Perfect, thank you.” Still, as she paid and stepped back out into the gray afternoon, the woman’s words clung to her mind like salt spray on her skin.

Something in there.

Superstitions. Nothing more.

----

She came earlier this time.

The sun was still high, cutting thin shafts of light across the rocky shore. The sea was calm for once, lapping lazily at the stones, though she could already see the tide creeping in, filling the gaps between the rocks like liquid glass.

Her backpack -her new companion for carrying everything- hung from one shoulder as she picked her way down the worn path, scanning the ground with a slight wrinkle of concentration between her brows. She wasn’t sure what she expected to find.

Maybe -if she let herself hope- the missing square would be there, caught between some stones or tangled in a patch of seaweed. It wasn’t likely. The wind had been fierce that day. More than likely, it was long gone, carried off to sea.

She wandered close to the cliffside, scanning the rocks and little pools left behind by the waves. Empty. Just rocks, water, and shells.

Eventually, her path curved nearer to the cave.

She paused when she reached it, its dark mouth yawning wide before her eyes. The tide had already crept in enough to flood the entrance, and the seawater glimmered like oil in the shadows, rising and falling with a deep, constant rhythm.

She stood there for a moment, resting her weight on one leg, with her arms crossed loosely over her chest as she gazed into the darkness.

The woman’s words floated back to her, “Something in there.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped her lips. "Right. Some kind of sea monster," she murmured to herself, glancing at the waves as they lapped at the rocks. Townfolk and their stories. She guessed every place had its own Nessie to keep tourists from wandering too far. Still, her eyes lingered on the shadows inside the cave.

Not that she believed in monsters.

She found a smooth rock nearby, flatter and more comfortable than her usual perch, and sat down slowly. For a while, she didn’t even reach for her yarn.

She just sat there, watching the sea. Noting how the light broke on the water, how the wind stirred small ripples that chased each other toward shore. It was peaceful, quiet.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she wasn’t alone.

Maybe it was how the waves broke oddly sometimes, like something moved beneath them. Or how the shadows seemed deeper at the cave’s edge.

Out of the corner of her eye, something shifted, a ripple where there shouldn’t have been one, a shape half-blurred by the surf.

Her head snapped around.

Nothing. Just rocks and waves, sunlight flashing silver on the water. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and rubbed her arms, shaking her head at herself. “Get a grip,” she muttered. “You’re gonna start seeing ghosts next.”

She wasn’t afraid; it felt more like a prickle at the back of her neck, like the feeling of being watched. She shivered despite herself and finally dug in her backpack, pulling out her yarn and hook.

Hands busy and occupied mind, maybe that would help.

And as her fingers worked the stitches, her eyes kept flicking now and then to the cave’s dark mouth, half expecting to see something -or someone- looking back at her.

----

Bucky stilled. He’d been resting half-submerged, lulled by the steady rise and fall of the tide against the rocks, when her footsteps crunched over the shore. The sound pulled him from the quiet calm of the water.

His eyes narrowed when he saw her wandering closer than usual, with a backpack slung over her shoulder, scanning the rocks like she was searching for something.

Closer.

Too close.

He stayed motionless as she approached the mouth of the cave, tilting her head slightly as he observed her, cool and calculating. So, she wasn’t content to sit on the same sun-warmed rock as always. No, now she was pressing into his territory, almost stepping at his doorstep.

Something in him bristled at that.

One thing was for her to perch at a distance, near enough to watch but far enough to ignore if he wanted. But here? Where he lived, where he slept? His jaw clenched, and his arms flexed subtly in the water. His blue gaze followed every move she made. What was she thinking, wandering so close to something she didn’t understand?

He chewed on the inside of his cheek.

She didn’t look dangerous, sitting there on the rock, folding herself into a soft curve against the sharp lines of the shore. But he knew better than to trust first glances. They never looked dangerous until it was too late.

Still, she didn’t carry herself like a hunter.

His gaze slid over her form, watching as she sat and stared out to sea, with her hands resting idle, for once. Something about the way she observed the water made his chest twist with something strange and tight, curiosity, maybe.

And then, her head turned.

He stiffened as her eyes swept toward the cave, sharp and searching.

Instinct surged up fast and cold.

No.

Before her gaze could settle, he shifted, and his skin rippled as the pigments in his body flared and blended, dark blues and stormy grays swirling into a perfect mimicry of the wet stone and shadows around him.

Camouflaged, he watched as her stare paused a second longer -too long- before she finally looked away, sighing softly.

Bucky exhaled, though the movement barely stirred the water around him. He kept his skin blended to the rocks. What was he supposed to do with her?

She didn’t seem dangerous. But danger didn’t always wear a sharp smile and bloodstained hands, sometimes, it came wrapped in soft eyes and gentle fingers. They had taught him long ago that humans, even the fragile-looking ones, could destroy a life without a second thought.

Still, she hadn’t tried to harm anything. Not yet.

His eyes flicked toward her bag as if he could see through it to the soft squares she wove. His fingers twitched faintly in the water.

He didn’t like her so close to the cave, but he wasn’t ready to drive her away either. So, for now, he would watch -hidden and silent- and wait.

Wait to see if she would prove herself a threat.

Or something else.

----

It was nearly sunset the next day when she came back. The wind had picked up again, sharp and salty, tugging at her hair as she made her way down to the rocks -his rocks- like she belonged there.

He should have grown used to her by now.

But today, she wasn’t carrying her usual stuff. No soft blues or pale greens in her arms, no ocean-colored threads to match the shore.

Instead, she carried something bright.

She sat down with a small sigh, tucking her legs beneath her, and pulled out a tangled mess of reds and oranges that caught the dying sunlight and burned in her hands.

His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t like her other work.

The colors were sharp, like warning signals in nature, like the poison coral and venomous anemones lurking under rocks.

He crept a little closer, careful not to disturb the water’s surface, watching as her fingers worked the thread, pulling and twisting, weaving patterns that made no sense to him.

A net?

The thought came unbidden, and he bristled at it. Was she making something to trap fish? Or… something larger, like him?

But even as his suspicion spiraled, he looked again, and his sharp gaze caught the way the fibers slipped through her hands, soft, pliable, delicate.

No.

No one would use something that fine and fragile to catch fish. His eyes lingered on the trailing end of the project, long, thin, and useless for holding anything.

Not a net, then.

But that didn’t ease his mind. If not for catching, then for binding? Some kind of restraint?

The thought set his muscles on edge. His arms tensed, and the tips of his dark tendrils stirred faintly beneath the surface.

And then she started humming.

Low, soft, like a tune half-forgotten, not loud enough to be a song, but enough for his sharp ears to catch.

He froze.

Was it… a spell?

His gaze darkened, trying to focus on the way her lips moved, though she didn’t speak any words. Just the soft melody, drifting on the wind, as her fingers worked and pulled the red and orange threads. Humans were strange creatures, and he knew enough to fear the things they could do with words and symbols.

Maybe she was weaving magic into that thread, binding spells, summoning songs. He had seen it before, felt it before.

Still, she didn’t look like a witch.

His eyes traced her face, calm and focused, with her brows slightly furrowed as she worked. There didn’t seem to be malice there, no sharp glances cast toward the water. But appearances were deceiving.

His gaze dropped again to the burning colors slipping through her fingers, and something in him twisted.

The questions tangled tighter in his chest, and he found himself slightly leaning forward, drawn to the movement of her hands and tools, to the colors, to her voice.

His eyes stayed locked on her until the sun slipped fully behind the waves, and she finally stood to leave, carefully folding the half-finished piece and tucking it away.

As she walked back up the path, she glanced over her shoulder, scanning the shore one last time, and for a breathless moment, Bucky wondered if she could feel him there, watching.

----

The rain had finally stopped.

Three days of relentless downpour had left the shore wild and restless, and the waves were breaking hard against the rocks, spraying foam high into the air. The sky still hung heavy with clouds, but at least the water no longer poured from it.

Bucky had spent those days deep inside the flooded parts of the cave, watching the storm churn from the shadows. Alone.

Not that he minded.

Or so he told himself.

But as the days dragged on, he became restless. Irritable. He kept glancing toward the cave entrance, expecting -hoping- to see her figure appear between the rocks.

But she never came.

And he hated how that bothered him.

So when the skies cleared and, late in the afternoon, she finally made her way down to the shore again, he felt something loosen in his chest, though he wouldn't name it.

From his usual hiding spot, half in the water, half behind a jut of rock, he watched her settle down, pulling her yarn and hook from her bag with the kind of familiar movements that made him… oddly content.

Maybe he'd gotten too used to her presence. To the soft sound of her humming and the rhythm of her hands working threads into strange patterns.

Maybe that’s why he wasn’t as careful today.

Maybe that’s why, when he leaned a little too far forward in the water just to get a better look at what colors she brought this time, the sunlight caught him at a wrong angle.

Whatever the reason, he was sloppy.

Her eyes snapped toward him. And he froze.

She furrowed her brows, tilting her head as she stared directly at him. Not the vague searching glances of before. No, this time she saw him.

His heart hammered in his chest, and his pulse was loud in his ears.

She seemed confused, narrowing her eyes slightly as they traveled over his form, and Bucky realized with a jolt that to her, he probably looked like… well, like a man.

A man swimming in the cold autumn sea.

Without a suit.

Without reason.

Her gaze flicked over the rocks, then back to him, as if wondering where the hell he had come from because there was no easy way down from town, and she'd have seen anyone arriving from the path.

Still, instead of looking frightened, she just blinked at him, hesitated for a breath, and then lifted her hand in a casual wave.

A simple, almost amused gesture.

Hi, weird stranger.

He had faced hunters, poachers, and worse. Humans who would sooner try to catch him than greet him. But here she was, waving at him like he was just another odd townie swimming where he shouldn’t.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move, staring at her with narrowed eyes.

And then, as if realizing he’d already messed up by letting her see him, he dipped slightly lower into the water, letting only his head remain above the surface, but didn't turn away.

She watched him for a moment longer, waiting maybe for a response, before shrugging to herself and returning to her work, pulling out a soft teal yarn this time.

Still, Bucky didn’t stop watching. His mind twisted over and over on what had just happened.

She had seen him.

Seen him.

And instead of running, instead of panicking, she'd waved.

What kind of human sat on the edge of danger and smiled into it?

He sank a little deeper into the water, his blue eyes never leaving her, as she began to hum again, soft and low.

Something about her was wrong.

----

She tried to focus on her work, crocheting the teal yarn on autopilot, but her eyes kept darting -against her will- to the corner of her vision, where he was.

Still there.

Still watching.

At first, she’d thought he was just some local oddball,  and God knew, every small town had at least a handful of those, but the longer she sat, the more her nervousness grew.

Who just stared at someone like that?

She shot another glance his way, careful not to turn her head fully.

Yup. Still there.

Still looking like he had nothing better to do than burn holes on her with his eyes.

Her fingers slowed. Okay. So maybe the old woman at the shop hadn’t been warning her about some spooky town legend. Maybe she’d been trying to warn her about him. Some town creep who liked to lurk around the cave and watch women from the water.

She frowned, looping the yarn tighter than necessary.

But if that were the case, wouldn’t the clerk have just said so? Something like “oh, by the way, steer clear of the guy who haunts the shore like a creep”?

Instead, she’d talked about danger in vague, almost superstitious terms. Like people did when they talked about ghosts or monsters.

Not flesh-and-blood men.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling crawling up her spine. Her fingers worked faster now, as if the act of crocheting could anchor her, steady her nerves. But her mind wouldn’t stop racing.

He didn’t look like some frail old hermit squatting in a cave.

No, he looked… fit. Broad-shouldered, all sharp angles and lean muscle, with dark hair slicked back by the sea water and something almost wild in the way he watched her. And handsome. Very handsome.

Wasn’t he cold?

It wasn’t summer out here. Even under the pale sun, the wind still bit, carrying the ocean’s chill. And there he was, bare, like it was nothing. She swallowed, slowing her fingers slightly as her thoughts tangled worse than her yarn.

Maybe he’s training? she tried to reason. Some kind of triathlete or swimmer. That would explain…

But her gaze flicked to him again, and this time, she caught the way his eyes followed the motion of her hands. Focused. Intense. Like a predator watching something small and unaware.

The back of her neck prickled.

Yeah, if this was training, it was training for something she didn’t want to be part of.

Still, she forced herself to stay put. She wasn’t going to let some weirdo scare her off from her favorite spot. But if tomorrow he was there, she might have to think about going somewhere else.

Or maybe ask around -casually- if anyone knew who the hell this guy was. Her hook slipped on a stitch, and she cursed under her breath. With a sharp sigh, she set the half-finished square in her lap and stared at the waves, refusing to let herself look at him again.

----

After a while observing her, he noticed she wasn’t as relaxed as moments ago, wasn’t humming under her breath or pausing now and then to watch the waves.

No, she kept glancing toward him. Not directly, but in those small, sharp ways people do when they know they're being watched.

Damn it.

He should’ve known better.

Should’ve realized when she saw him, when she waved at him like some clueless land dweller, that he should’ve backed off, and stayed out of sight for a while.

But no.

Instead, some part of him -the part that had gotten used to her presence, to the strange comfort of hearing her voice carried over the wind- had watched perhaps too much.

And now she was nervous.

He saw it in the way her shoulders tensed every time she shifted. In the way her fingers fumbled slightly, like her mind wasn’t really on what she was doing.

And worse, she was pretending he wasn’t there.

Why?

That worried him as he sank lower in the water, frustration twisting in his chest.

Why pretend? Why act like he wasn’t there when she clearly knew?

Was it some human game? Was she trying to ignore him to bait him into coming closer, or was she just scared and trying not to show it?

He scowled, flexing his claws against the rock. He didn’t want her to be afraid.

Or did he?

Wouldn’t that be better? If she feared him, maybe she’d stop coming here. His gaze drifted to the backpack at her side, the threads spilling out like a tangle of seaweed, as her hands worked almost feverishly.

What was she thinking?

Was she wondering if he was dangerous or if he would attack her?

Good.

She should wonder.

Because he wasn’t safe. Not by a long shot.

Still…

He ducked lower when she shifted, watching from behind a curtain of sea foam, blending his skin into the dark rock, but the damage was done. She knew.

And now that he’d seen that flicker of unease in her eyes, something ugly and cold twisted in his gut.

Why do you care? he snarled at himself. She was just another human. Just another threat.

But no matter how much he repeated it, his eyes stayed locked on her soft and tense form and the way her hands moved faster as if to drown out her thoughts.

Bucky let out a low hiss under his breath, more at himself than anything else.

He should leave.

He should let her be.

But he didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

And when she finally stood to leave, gathering her things and casting one last glance over her shoulder -wary, searching- he sank deeper into the waves, watching her go with a storm churning in his chest.

----

The first thing she did when she came home was head straight for the shower. The warm water rolled down her back, washing away the salt clinging to her skin and the tension from the strange encounter by the shore. She stayed under the spray longer than necessary, trying to shake the image of that man watching her with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

Once she was dry and wrapped in her softest clothes, she settled into the small nook by the window, with her laptop perched on her knees, and opened her shop’s page. There were a few new notifications: a sold pattern, a message from a customer asking about shipping times, and an inquiry about custom work.

She starting to reply to the messages when her phone buzzed suddenly, making her jump.

Arthur.

She huffed out a breath and picked up.

“Hey,” she greeted, leaning back against the cushions.

“Hey, you!” her cousin’s familiar voice filled the line. “Just wanted to check in. How’s the place? Are you settling alright?”

She smiled a little. “Yeah, it’s perfect, Arthur. Exactly what I needed the air’s doing wonders already.”

“That’s good to hear.” He paused, and she could almost picture him leaning on something, probably a counter or desk at his job. “You’re not getting too lonely, right? I know it’s kinda dead out of season.”

“I’m fine,” she assured him, glancing out the window at the gray sky, a reminder of the past days of rain. “Besides, I needed the quiet.”

There was a pause. She bit her lip, debating with herself, before blurting out, “Hey, listen… you wouldn’t happen to know if anyone in town trains for water sports, do you?”

Arthur blinked; she could hear it in the silence that followed her words. “What?”

She shifted, tucking one leg under herself. “I mean, like… open water swimming, or diving, or whatever. I saw someone today. Down by the rocks near the cave.”

Another pause. Longer this time.

“You sure? Maybe it was just a seal or something? You said the weather was rough.”

She sighed with irritation. “Arthur, I believe I still know how to differentiate between a grown-ass man and a fucking seal, thank you very much.”

“Alright, alright,” he said quickly, but she could hear the edge of worry in his voice now. “It’s just… no one goes swimming there this time of year, or at any season, really. Is not exactly a place for casual swimmers.”

“Well, this guy didn’t seem to care,” she muttered.

Arthur was quiet again. Then, more serious, he added, “Look, just… don’t go back to that area, okay? Stick closer to the cottage. There’s plenty of shore to walk on the other side, yeah?”

She hesitated, flicking her gaze toward her backpack near the door, still full from today.

“Yeah,” she finally said, though the word tasted like a lie. “Probably won’t go back.”

Arthur sighed, clearly relieved. “Good. You know how towns are. You don’t wanna get mixed up with some weirdo. Just… be careful.”

“I will,” she promised, softer this time.

But as soon as the call ended and she set her phone down, she leaned back and stared out the window again.

Probably won’t go back, she had said.

Yeah, right.

She hated walking near the parts of the beach where people gathered. The ones who stayed all year round, the teens with their loud music and bonfires.

She liked her quiet spot.

And if that strange man -or whatever he was- showed up again…

Well.

She’d figure it out.

Maybe.

Probably.

She reached for her yarn backpack with a sigh, pulling out another project to keep her hands busy. But her mind stayed restless, wandering back to the man with sharp blue eyes and the way the sea seemed to ripple around him.

dividers by @/strangergraphics

Taglist: @civilbucky

[arpicityandneed]

more of the stuckyxreader king series please?

Hello there nonnie!

I am currently working on the prequel of how they all got together, and then maybe a cute little epilogue for them all as well. Now that I'm on spring break I'm trying my best to get some personal writing done for once!

Thank you for your ask!

[arpicityandneed]

Captain America: The First Avenger (2011)

[arpicityandneed]

I'm in LOVE with this oh my god. Thomas is the cutest little boy ever and Bucky as a dad does things to my heart ❤️ this is a series I will be cherishing for a while 💓

Foundations (#2)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+. Slight Angst. Fluff. Possible Smut in the future.

Summary: Bucky is doing his best to build a stable life for his newfound son, rescued from the guts of a Hydra facility. As he struggles with unexpected fatherhood and his own circumstances, he meets someone who slowly becomes part of their lives, establishing a connection he never saw coming.

Word Count: 7.7.k.

note: In this universe Steve didn't leave, Tony doesn't know that the Winter Soldier killed his parents, and everything is relatively ok.

Previous Chapter

From Monday to Wednesday, Bucky didn’t take Thomas to kindergarten. He had been away on a mission with Clint, retrieving classified data from a transnational drug dealer organization in Canada before it could disappear for good. It had been a tense operation that required more patience than Bucky liked to admit, but they got the job done.

By Thursday, despite the pounding migraine drilling into his skull, he took Thomas to school. He was exhausted, but after three days away, he wasn’t about to keep the kid out of his routine any longer, and he didn’t want to burden Sam and Steve any longer.

As they approached the entrance, his gaze landed on her. She was holding several small gift bags, and just as he got closer, he saw another parent handing her a neatly wrapped package.

“…Really, thank you so much for taking such good care of Flore. We’re going to miss you,” the man said warmly.

Bucky blinked.

Oh.

Goodbye gifts.

It made sense. That was the polite thing to do, a simple gesture of appreciation. Good manners, acknowledgment of familiarity.

And yet, he had neither thought of it nor had the time to get her anything.

When he finally reached the door with Thomas, she greeted him with the same smile as always, showing no sign of expecting anything from him.

“Well aren’t you popular” he tried to joke.

“Being popular doesn’t pay the rent, but is nice.” She high-fived Thomas, ruffling his hair slightly before he ran off to join the other kids. Bucky watched him go, blinking a couple of times as he watched the child merge with the others.

When he turned back to her, she was shifting her weight slightly, grazing the strap of her bag with her fingers as if debating something.

Then, with a quick breath, she asked, “Are you alright?”

His brow furrowed slightly.

“Mr. Rog- Steve mentioned you were working when he dropped Thomas off these past few days, and-” she hesitated, scanning his face. “No offense, but you look a little… drained.”

His lips parted slightly, and something unreadable flickered behind his eyes. For a moment, he just looked at her, and she felt the creeping sense that maybe she’d overstepped.

“I’m sorry if-”

“Um, no.” He ran a gloved hand over his jaw, exhaling slowly. “It’s alright. I just have a migraine and I just…” He trailed off, as if even speaking was an effort.

Her expression softened, and before she could think twice, she was already rummaging through her jacket pockets. “Oh, that’s the worst. Here-“

She pulled out a pair of sunglasses and held them out to him.

Bucky squinted slightly at her, blinking like he wasn’t sure if she was serious.

“Do you have photophobia right now?” she asked, tilting her head as she studied him.

His mouth opened, then closed. “…What?”

“The light,” she clarified, nudging the glasses toward him. “Is it making it worse?”

A beat. Then, reluctantly, “Yeah.”

She stepped just a little closer, enough that he caught the faintest trace of something floral on her scarf. “Take them,” she said. “I won’t be using them until later, and you can give them back when you pick up Thomas.”

Bucky glanced down at the sunglasses hesitatingly.

“They’re unisex,” she added, a small teasing smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You won’t look weird.���

His fingers brushed against hers as he finally took them, and neither of them moved away for a second too long.

“…Thanks,” he murmured, slipping them on.

----

Bucky lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the pills to kick in. A blister and a half. He needed his damn metabolism to cooperate for once. Just this once.

He shifted to his side, his landing his gaze on the sunglasses resting on the nightstand.

You look a little drained, she had said.

And he was.

Years ago, he wouldn’t have fought it. He would’ve just rotted in his apartment, letting time blur, barely moving, barely breathing until the serum forced his body to reset. He wouldn’t have eaten, wouldn’t have showered, wouldn’t have cared. Just waited it out in silence, in the dark, until the worst of it passed.

But that wasn’t an option anymore.

Not with Thomas in the house.

He didn’t want the kid worrying about things he shouldn’t have to. He’d already seen how distressed Thomas got when Bucky was too hurt, how his small hands would clutch at his sleeves, how his big blue eyes would fill with silent fear when he witnessed one of Bucky’s episodes.

So, he sucked it up.

He couldn’t rely on Steve or Sam every time. If he was here, he was the only one responsible for Thomas’s care. That was the job. That was what mattered.

Which meant that in the few hours Thomas was at kindergarten, Bucky would do the only thing he could, lie here, breathe through the pain, and hope that by the time pickup rolled around, he’d be functional.

----

By the time pickup rolled around, Bucky had already forced himself out of the apartment. The migraine had dulled into something manageable, not gone, but tolerable. He could function. That was enough.

Still, instead of walking straight up to the gate, he lingered nearby, half-hidden as he watched the other parents pick up their kids, exchanging smiles and small talk. He let the minutes slip by, waiting until only a handful of them remained before finally making his way forward.

He lifted a hand in a small wave, keeping his distance. Thomas spotted him instantly, and his little face lighted up as he ran toward him.

She, however, hesitated. Her brows pulled together slightly as she noticed Bucky wasn’t approaching fully, like he was deliberately keeping himself at the edge of things. But, instead thinking too much into it, she turned back to say goodbye to the remaining children.

Eventually, she moved toward the entrance, ready to grab her things and head out, until Thomas’s voice rang out behind her.

She barely had time to turn before the kid came bounding up to her, gripping a slightly wild but lovely bouquet of daisies.

“These are for you!” he announced, a little breathless from the run.

Blinking in surprise, she knelt down. “For me?”

Thomas nodded eagerly, holding the flowers out with both hands. “We’ll miss you!” Then, with great importance, he added, “Daddy says that if you put an aspirnin-  aspren- aspirine in the water, they’ll stay fresher for longer.”

She let out a soft, surprised laugh before her gaze caught on something tucked between the stems. A small card, slightly crumpled from Thomas’s grip.

Thank you for everything. Barnes Family

“Thank you, sweetheart,” she said, pulling Thomas into a warm hug. The boy giggled, squeezing her back before darting off toward his dad.

She swallowed, glancing past Thomas toward the gate.

Bucky was still standing back, his gaze unreadable behind the sunglasses she had lent him that morning. When he noticed her looking, he gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

She smiled, tightening her fingers gently around the bouquet. Then she watched them go, and turned to walk inside, with slower steps.

The flowers had moved her more than they should have.

Almost every parent had given her a small farewell gift: a box of chocolates, a scented candle, a handwritten note. All sweet gestures, all appreciated. But somehow, this felt different. More personal. More thoughtful.

Maybe it was because Thomas had delivered them with such excitement, his little hands gripping the stems like they were something important. Maybe it was that it’s been ages since someone gave her flowers.

Or maybe… it was because he was the one who bought them. And, she liked the idea more than she was willing to admit.

----

Friday morning, it was Steve who arrived at the kindergarten gate with Thomas.

The boy clung to his uncle’s hand, his usual energy was dimmed, and when he saw her, he only offered a small wave instead of his usual eager greeting.

She crouched slightly, offering him a gentle smile. “Good morning, Thomas.”

He mumbled a quiet “Morning” back, shifting on his feet.

Steve exhaled, giving her an apologetic look as he handed over the sunglasses she had lent Bucky the day before. “He wanted to stay home with his dad,” he explained. “Bucky’s… indisposed. If he seems a little off today, that’s probably why.”

She took the sunglasses, brushing her fingers briefly against the frame before slipping them into her pocket. “Oh, is he sick?”

Steve hesitated, a fraction of a second too long. Then, with an tight smile, he nodded. “Still dealing with that migraine.”

It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. But it wasn’t the full truth, either.

The truth was more complicated.

Since coming back from the mission with Clint, Bucky had suffered a couple of seizures, probably triggered by stress and fatigue. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. Just another mark Hydra had left on his body, a collateral damage from years of forced resets in the chair.

The migraines, the memory lapses, the muscle spasms, Bucky had learned to live with those. But the seizures were the worst. They left him wrecked afterward, his body aching like he’d been through a fight he didn’t remember.

So no, he wasn’t just indisposed.

But Steve wasn’t going to tell her that.

Not when Bucky would rather chew glass than let people see him vulnerable.

----

Thomas was quieter than usual that day. He followed the routine, sat in his usual spot during storytime, and played alongside his classmates, but there was a certain way in his movements, like his mind was elsewhere.

During free play, as she helped a group of kids build a tower with wooden blocks, Thomas suddenly looked up at her, furrowing his little brows in thought.

“Um Miss…?”

She smiled. “Yes, sweetheart?”

“Do adults get more hurt than kids when they fall?” he asked, tilting his head. “Because they’re sooo tall?”

She chuckled at the logic. “It’s about the same for everyone,” she explained gently. “Sometimes kids bounce back quickly, and sometimes adults do, too. It just depends on how they fall.”

Thomas pursed his lips, considering that. Then, after a pause, he murmured, “Oh. That’s good. I was afraid Daddy was hurt.”

Something in her chest tightened.

She kept her voice even. “Why’s that, honey?”

Thomas didn’t seem to think much of the question, busy stacking blocks on top of each other. “’Cause sometimes Daddy falls a lot.” The words were so casual, so absentminded, that it took her a second to process them.

Her grip on the wooden block in her hand tightened slightly. “He does?”

Thomas nodded, completely unaware of the weight his words carried. “Not all the time,” he added quickly, as if to reassure her. “Just sometimes. And then he gets really tired after.”

She swallowed, keeping her expression neutral. “I see.”

Thomas hummed in response, satisfied with her answer, and went back to his building, already distracted by something else.

But she wasn’t.

She watched him for a moment longer, as her mind quietly turned over what he’d just said. Something about Thomas’s words unsettled her, but at the end of the day, it wasn’t really her business.

It would be weird to ask Steve, and even if she did, what could she say? Hey, Thomas mentioned his dad falls a lot, should I be worried? No. That wasn’t her place.

So she let it be.

But the thought kept occupying her mind. Especially because today was her last full class with the kids. The festival was over the weekend, and then that was it. Monday would come, and Jane would take over.

Maybe that was why, glancing around to make sure the other kids weren’t watching, she pulled two lollipops from her pocket. With a little wink, she placed them in his small hands. “Make sure your dady gets one, okay? And… I hope he feels better soon,” she said gently.

Thomas nodded, tucking the candies into his pocket. “Thank you, me too.”

----

Steve arrived to pick up Thomas just in time, jogging to the gate to greet the boy and ruffle his hair. Then he turned toward her. “How’d he do today?”

She smiled, though there was something… sad in it. “Pretty good, considering he was feeling a little down. I uh- hope James is recovering well.” she stuttered a little. Then, with a small smile, she added, “It’d be wonderful to have you both at the festival. Steve smiled. “But in case you can’t make it, and we don’t see each other again…” she fidgeted lightly with the strap of her bag before she continued, “I just wanted to thank you for helping us with the booths.”

Steve quirked a brow, puzzled.

That’s when she realized, he didn’t know.

Of course, why would he? It’s not like Thomas’s father would go out of his way to mention her to his friend.

“Oh, um… I’m just the substitute teacher,” she explained, suddenly feeling awkward. “The titular returns on Monday.”

Steve’s jaw ticked slightly. “Oh. Bucky didn’t- that’s a shame. After all these months, the kids must be super attached.”

She exhaled a little, nodding. “Yeah, it’s tough to leave them.”

He tilted his head. “Do you… have another school lined up?”

She shook her head. “Not yet. I’m still looking for openings. In the meantime, I mostly fill the idle time nannying.”

Steve’s brows lifted slightly like he was filing that information away. “Makes sense.” Then, with an easy smile, he clapped Thomas on the back and said, “Well, ma’am, I’ll definitely be coming tomorrow for those pies, Bucky or no Bucky. And who knows? Maybe I’ll bring some people along.”

There was something in his tone that made her blink, like he was already planning something she wasn’t in on.

She narrowed her eyes playfully. “Should I be worried?”

Steve just grinned. “Nah. Just keep an eye out.”

-----

Bucky shifted on the couch when Steve and Thomas entered the apartment,  resting his elbows on his thighs as he leaned forward. He offered the kid a tired smile. “Hey, bud. Go wash your hands and I’ll make you some cocoa.”

Thomas nodded obediently, padding toward the bathroom.

The second he was out of earshot, Steve dropped onto the couch next to Bucky. “So… Tommy’s teacher told me she’s leaving.” He stated casually.

Bucky’s jaw clenched and then grunted. A non-answer.

Steve’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You going to the event this weekend?”

Bucky exhaled sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “I should take Thomas, yeah.”

The blonde continued to watch him with intent, almost without blinking.

Bucky looked up, tensing his shoulders. “What?”

“Are we going to pretend it’s not the last chance to see her?”

Bucky’s expression hardened and his posture turned rigid as he looked at his friend. “You don’t give up, do you?”

Steve didn’t even blink. “You know it's not my forte.”

Bucky exhaled sharply. “Look, I appreciate this… need you have to push me forward, but I don’t need it, Stevie. I’ve got a lot on my plate right now.” there was an edge in his voice, a weight that made Steve’s shoulders drop just slightly.

“I know you do,” he said, his eyes never leaving Bucky’s face. “But maybe that’s why-”

“Don’t.” Bucky’s voice was firm and final. “Just… don’t.”

Steve sighed, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the couch. “Man, you are stubborn.”

Bucky’s eyes flashed, and his voice snapped low and controlled, careful not to carry to the bathroom where Thomas was washing his hands. “You’re overthinking something that isn’t even a thing.”

Steve’s calm expression didn’t change, which only made Bucky’s jaw clench tighter. “You know damn well my few attempts at dating were a disaster,” he continued, sharply. “And I only did it because you kept pestering me about it.”

Steve opened his mouth, but Bucky didn’t let him get a word in.

“You don’t get it.” His voice dipped lower, rougher.

His shoulders hunched just slightly, his gaze dropping. “No sane person would look at me and think… and she’s not into me. I’d know.”

Steve’s face softened, as he took in the slumped set of Bucky’s shoulders, the way his hand stayed fisted at his side like he was holding himself together by only force of will.

“Bucky…”

But he just shook his head, standing up abruptly. “Just drop it, Steve.”

And with that, he walked off stiffly as he moved toward the hallway.

-----

Saturday arrived, and the festival was bursting with people.

The courtyard buzzed with laughter, music, and the scent of baked goods wafting through the air. Families crowded the booths, with hands full of cupcakes, crafts, and raffle tickets. The children dashed between the stalls, their little faces painted with colorful designs, excited.

And, of course, a noticeable crowd gathered around three particular men.

Steve had shown up with Sam and Clint in tow, and Sam -being Sam- had tweeted about it. That was all it took to draw in curious onlookers and eager fans who wanted to catch a glimpse of the Avengers in civilian mode. Some were bold enough to ask for selfies, which Sam graciously agreed to with his signature charm. Steve kept it low-key, smiling politely while Clint grumbled but still posed when cornered by particularly persistent fans.

The buzz from their appearance did wonders for sales. The bake sale sold out twice, and the raffle tickets were gone in record time.

She watched it all from the distance, with a pleased smile on her face. It was turning out even better than she’d hoped.

Then, she caught sight of Steve talking with the director, shaking her hand as he discreetly handed her an envelope. Even from afar, she saw the way the woman’s eyes widened before her hand flew to her mouth, clearly struggling to keep her composure. It didn’t take a genius to guess whose name was on that check. Things were going well, better than well, and that was good. The festival was a success, the kids were having a blast, and the school would benefit enormously from the donations.

She was happy. Truly.

But… she also couldn’t ignore the twinge of disappointment she felt as the day passed by. She’d hoped to see him there. Maybe standing in a corner, lurking on the periphery with his hands shoved in his jacket pockets, and shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to take up less space.

But as the afternoon wore on and the sun began to dip lower, she had to admit to herself that it wasn’t going to happen.

She wouldn’t see him again.

Oh well. It was just an innocent crush, after all.

Nothing serious. Nothing life-altering. Just a harmless infatuation from observing and interacting with him on a daily basis, the same way she did with any other parent.

With the little difference that she didn’t go to work every morning wondering if any other parent would be wearing that blue henley that suited him so well. Or if his hair would be left loose, or pulled back in that short, neat ponytail that made his sharp features even more striking.

Or if maybe she might find an excuse to have some trivial physical contact. A casual brush of fingers when giving him a paper, a brief touch on her arm to get her attention.

Stupid, she chided herself, shaking her head as she moved to straighten the crafts table. It wasn’t like that. It couldn’t be like that.

----

Eventually, she found herself chatting with Steve and company before they took their leave.

They were… surprisingly normal.

Mr. Wilson -Sam- had a warm, easygoing demeanor. He complimented the cinnamon rolls with genuine enthusiasm and asked questions about the neighborhood, curious about the local community.

Clint, on the other hand, was… well. He made a big show of browsing the crafts table, holding up a knitted cat plushie with a serious expression. “So, if I get this for my dog… how long before he tears its head off?”

She stifled a laugh. “Depends on the dog, I suppose.”

He nodded solemnly, turning the plushie this way and that. “Yeah… Lucky’s got a soft spot for cat toys. Rips ‘em to shreds out of love, y’know?”

Steve rolled his eyes, muttering, “Pretty sure he eats them out of spite.”

Clint gasped in mock outrage. “How dare you accuse him of malice!”

They were good people. Easy people. And for a second, she understood how Thomas could be so fond of his father’s companions.

As they said their goodbyes, she almost asked Steve about him. The words were right there, hovering on the tip of her tongue. How’s James? Is he… alright?

But she swallowed them back.

----

After the Avengers trio left, the festival slowly quieted down. Without the crowd magnet that was Sam’s tweet, the streets grew calmer, and the noise of conversation softened as people trickled out. The streetlights flickered on, casting warm glows along the sidewalks.

She was absentmindedly rearranging a set of crocheted coasters on the table when a familiar voice sounded behind her.

Low, a little rough.

“How much for the coasters?”

Her heart gave a startled jolt as she turned around.

There he was, hands in his jacket pockets, hair pulled back neatly, the streetlight casting a soft glow over his tired features.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. “I- uh…” She cleared her throat, her smile slipping out before she could stop it. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Where’s Thomas?”

“He’s already playing with that girl… Fiona, or Flora,” Bucky replied, glancing toward the playground. “Apparently, she just got here. Same as us.”

She followed his gaze, watching the children chase each other, laughter echoing through the yard. “They get along well.”

“Yeah.” His eyes softened, lingering on the kids before he looked back at her. “Thank you for the sunglasses, by the way.”

Right. “Oh, it’s nothing,” she said quickly, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “I get migraines, too, so I know how it can be sometimes.”

His lips twitched, almost a smile. “Yeah. They helped.”

She rocked back on her heels, brushing the edge of the table behind her with her fingers. “I’m glad.” He nodded, dropping his gaze for a moment. “And-” She couldn’t suppress the smile that spread across her face, “thank you for the flowers.”

His lips twitched, just enough to soften his expression as he lifted his gaze toward her. “Not too old-fashioned, I hope.”

Her eyes widened. “No, I… loved them,” she declared, almost too earnestly. She felt a little silly, but the words tumbled out before she could stop them. “The last time I got flowers was… well, a friend brought them when I was in the hospital for appendicitis… like five years ago.” She chuckled lightly, brushing the edge of the table again, a nervous habit she didn’t even realize she had.

There it was. The opening he should have ignored.

But he didn’t.

“And… what presents do your boyfriend give you on special occasions then?”

The question came out more casual than he felt. He kept his posture relaxed, like he didn’t really care about the answer. But his eyes were locked on her, sharp and unwavering.

Her mouth parted, and her eyes widened as heat flooded her cheeks. She looked down, fidgeting with the table’s edge again. “Oh, um… I’m not… I’m not seeing anybody right now.”

Bucky’s jaw shifted, and his teeth clenched before he relaxed them. His body unconsciously leaned just a fraction closer. “Oh.”

She looked up then, and their gazes met. His were piercing, framed by dark circles that spoke of exhaustion, but seemed to intensify the blue.

So, not seeing anybody. His throat bobbed, and his shoulders stiffened. He hadn’t expected to get this far. He exhaled, slowly and measured. “Right.”

Her gaze flickered down, suddenly finding the space between their feet very interesting. A strand of hair slipped from behind her ear, falling across her cheek, and she pushed it back again.

Before either of them could say another word, Thomas came running, voice loud and cheerful as he yelled. “Miss Y/n! Look!”

They both turned, and the spell broke as the child waved a giant cookie with excitement. “Flora’s mom gave me this!”

She forced herself to laugh. “Wow, that’s huge! You better save some for your dad.”

Thomas grinned, already taking a big bite. “No way!”

Bucky huffed, as a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. “Figures.”

The kid then scampered off, cookie half gone before he even made it back to the playground.

The moment gone, Bucky shifted, and his body tensed when he realized how close he was standing. He took a step back, squaring his shoulders. “I, uh… better keep an eye on him.”

She nodded, finally letting go of the table. “Yeah… of course.”

Before he walked away, she hesitated but found her voice. “I’m glad you came.”

His posture stilled and he straightened himself before slowly turning to face her. His gaze softened, his always-present guarded look slipping just for a moment.

“…Yeah. Me too.”

----

After their conversation, Bucky found himself hovering on the edges while keeping an eye on Thomas, his gaze instinctively drifting back to her as she moved between the booths, helping kids pick out treats, chatting easily with parents, her laughter blending into the warm evening air.

He lingered longer than he meant to, always just a few steps away but never quite close enough. Every time he tried to approach her again, something got in the way.

A parent pulled her aside to thank her. A kid called out her name, needing help. Another teacher waved her over, asking her opinion on where to store the leftover banners.

Bucky’s mouth would open, half-formed words on his tongue, but then he’d shut it again, stepping back, tensing his shoulders as the opportunity slipped away. Time slipped by, and the evening grew cooler as the crowd began to thin. Booths were closing up, the parents gathered their kids, and the buzz of excitement slowly winded down.

Eventually, Thomas tugged at his sleeve, his small voice pulling Bucky from his thoughts. “Daddy… I’m bored.”

Bucky blinked, looking down at him.

The kid’s eyes were drooping, since the day’s excitement clearly caught up to him. “Can we go home now?”

Bucky exhaled, resigned. “Yeah, kiddo. Let’s go.”

Thomas nodded, and then looked back toward the crafts booth, scrunching up his face. “Wait… I wanna say goodbye to Miss Y/n.”

His throat felt dry. But he swallowed it down, nodding as he squeezed his son’s fingers back. “Alright.”

He straightened his posture, forcing his shoulders to relax, willing himself to push past the stupid, adolescent feeling twisting in his gut. This wasn’t about him. It was for Thomas. Just for Thomas.

So he took a breath and walked toward her.

She was at the crafts booth, boxing up leftover yarn and packing away the crocheted coasters. When they approached, she looked up, and her eyes widened before a warm smile softened her face. “Hey, Thomas.” Then her gaze flicked to Bucky, lingering for a second too long on him before she looked back at the boy. “And James.”

Bucky’s chest tightened again, but he gave a curt nod, unconsciously squeezing Thomas’s hand just a bit tighter.

Thomas stepped forward, and tilted back his head to look up at her. “You’re really leaving?”

Her smile faltered, and she crouched down, “Yeah, buddy. I am.”

Thomas’s face fell, and his lips curled into a sad frown. “But… who’s gonna read the stories now?”

Her eyes shimmered, but her smile stayed firm. “Miss Jane will. And she’s really good at funny voices, too.”

Thomas’s nose wrinkled. “But I like your voices better.”

A laugh broke through her lips, soft and warm. “You’re gonna be just fine, kiddo. And hey, maybe I’ll come visit sometime, okay?”

Thomas’s eyes brightened. “Promise?”

“Yeah. I promise.”

Thomas beamed, stepping forward and wrapping his little arms around her neck. She stiffened, just for a moment, before hugging him back, closing her eyes as she held him close.

Bucky’s chest ached. He looked away, trying to ignore the sting of it all. This was just for Thomas.

When she finally pulled back, she ruffled his hair. “Take care of yourself, okay? And be good for your dad.”

Thomas nodded, his smile wide and sincere. “I will!”

She stood up, drifting her gaze back to Bucky. “Well, again, I’m glad you two could make it.”

His shoulders tensed, and he flicked his gaze to the side. “Yeah. Figured Thomas would want to… y’know.”

She nodded, pressing her lips together, a shadow crossing her face. “Of course.”

For a second, the words were right there. The things he wanted to say, the things he knew he should say.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just gave a stiff nod. “Take care.”

Her smile faltered, and her hands fidgeted with the edge of the box. “You too, James.”

Thomas tugged at his hand, his little voice breaking through the moment. “Come on, Papa. I’m tired.”

“Yeah, kiddo,” Bucky murmured. “Let’s go.”

He turned around, guiding his son away.

He didn’t look back.

Not even when he wanted to.

-----

A couple of weeks passed, and their daily life settled into a certain rhythm. Thomas adjusted well enough to the new teacher. According to him, she was “nice” and “funny,” but then he’d always add, with a little pout, “But Miss Y/n was better.”

Bucky didn’t have much to say to that. He just ruffled his son’s hair and changed the subject, pretending like the kid’s words didn’t affect him.

He felt drained again. It was getting harder to balance parenthood, missions, and the neurological bullshit that seemed determined to make his life a living hell. The migraines were more frequent, and the muscle spasms in his shoulder were more stubborn. And there were days when the exhaustion sank so deep into his bones, that he felt like he was drowning.

His temper was shorter. His mood was broodier, and that was saying a lot.

Not in front of Thomas, of course. He forced himself to keep it together around the kid, to push down the irritability and the tension coiling under his skin. But that meant the rest of his social circle got the brunt of it.

Steve noticed. They all did.

And Steve -being Steve- decided to stage an intervention ambushing in his living room.

“You need to find a nanny,” he said one evening, firmly.

“No,” Bucky snapped, not even looking up from his coffee. “I’m not letting a stranger into my house.”

Steve’s jaw tightened. “Buck, you can’t keep this up. Eventually, you’re going to have to do something about it.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened, tightening his grip around his mug.

Steve’s voice softened, but his resolve didn’t waver. “We’re all here for you. But we’ve got our own responsibilities, too. Our own missions, our own lives.” He paused. “You’re not a burden. You’re not in this alone, but you’ve got to figure out a way to make things work, not only for Thomas, for you too.”

The words settled like stones in Bucky’s gut.

He knew Steve was right. He knew he was leaning on the team too much, burdening them with his fucked-up life and his chaotic mind. But hearing it out loud stung in a way that made him feel like a failure all over again.

----

That week, he had to travel with Clint to Canada for a mission. He had made arrangements with Steve for Thomas to stay at his place. It felt like another burden to drop on his best friend, but he didn’t feel he had another choice.

Things ended a day earlier than expected, and Bucky didn’t bother going back to his apartment first. He was bone-tired, dirty, and stiff from travel, but he just wanted to see his kid. Make sure he was okay.

He called Steve, but there was no answer. Not unusual, but still irritating.

Grumbling under his breath, he made his way to his place and rang the doorbell twice before he heard footsteps approaching.

The snarky remark he’d been ready to throw died in his throat the second the door swung open.

Because it wasn’t Steve standing there.

It was her.

Wearing a floral apron, hands dusted with flour, and a faint streak of it on her cheek as she blinked up at him in shock. Her mouth opened, then closed, her eyes wide.

Bucky’s brain shut down. His body locked up, as he looked at her, so familiar and yet so impossibly out of place. He barely managed a croaked, “What… what are you doing here?”

She blinked again, then straightened her pose, wiping her hands on the apron. “Oh- um… Hi, James.”

Hearing his name on her lips again made him feel things, and for a second, he forgot how to breathe.

She cleared her throat, glancing over her shoulder. “Steve had to run an errand, and he asked me to watch Thomas for a while.” Her eyes flicked back to his, “I… didn’t know you’d be back today.”

Bucky stood there, frozen in the doorway, his tired mind struggling to catch up. His voice was rough, edged with something he didn’t understand. “Yeah. Came back early.”

She shifted her weight, playing nervously with the edge of her apron. “Right… well, Thomas is inside. We… we were making cookies.” She hesitated, then added, “He said they were your favorite.”

Bucky’s heart did something stupid, something he didn’t like, and he had to clear his throat to shake it off.

“Yeah. He’s… he’s right.”

She smiled then, soft and warm, relaxing her posture. “Well… come in, then.”

He stood there for half a second longer than he should have, as his brain still struggled to process the fact that she was here, in Steve’s house, baking cookies with his kid.

“Where’s Thomas?” His voice came out rougher than intended, low and gravelly as he moved past her, already unfastening the straps on his tactical vest.

She blinked, momentarily stunned before she managed to answer, “In… in the bathroom.”

Bucky grunted, not even looking at her as he pulled a knife from his thigh holster, the blade catching the light before he tucked it into an old cupboard by the hallway. Then came another knife, a handgun, and an extra clip, all disappearing behind the tiny wooden doors.

She knew it was rude to stare. She knew it.

But it was the first time she’d seen him like this.

The tactical suit made his broad shoulders seem impossibly solid, and the black fabric hugged his body, emphasizing the lines of his arms, as the curve of his biceps strained under the worn seams. The vest molded against his chest, doing nothing to hide the muscular expanse beneath it, or concealing just how strong he was.

His thick thighs were framed by those dark cargo pants that clung to him as he moved. Even weighed down by holsters and utility belts, he moved with a lethal grace. And his hair -God, his hair- disheveled and muddy, framing his face and somehow softening the hard cut of his jaw.

There was dirt smudged across his cheekbone, and a faint bruise along his jaw, evidence of whatever fight he’d been in. His lips were pressed in a thin line giving him an edge of danger.

Danger.

That was the word. He looked dangerous. And damn, if that wasn’t… hot.

He ran a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but what are you doing here?” He turned to her, his blue eyes sharp and piercing. “Where’s Steve?”

She straightened, nervously brushing her fingers against the fabric of her apron before she crossed her arms, tightening her posture. “I don’t know, sincerely. He said he had things to do and asked me to babysit for a couple of hours.” Her chin lifted just slightly. “I told him the last time we saw each other that I’d be doing this until I found a spot in another kindergarten.”

Bucky’s shoulders tensed.

“He said he asked you for my number,” she added, just a touch defensive.

He shifted his posture, narrowing his eyes. “Did he now?”

She tilted her head, pulling her brows together. “Didn’t he?”

He didn’t answer and flicked his gaze to the side, jaw working as he realized what happened. That punk.

Steve must’ve swiped her number from his phone at some point since he hadn’t deleted the contact yet.

His teeth clenched, and his body went rigid. Of course, he had planned this. He could practically hear that self-satisfied voice in his head, calling him out for being stubborn.

“Um… is everything alright?”

Her voice broke softly through his thoughts. Her arms were still crossed, and there was a crease of concern on her brow, as she pressed her lips together while she watched him.

Bucky exhaled slowly, relaxing his stance just a fraction. “…Yeah. Everything’s fine.” For a second, he didn’t know what to do. How to stand. What to say.

Silence.

Awkward, heavy silence.

She shifted her weight from one foot to another, nervously twisting the apron’s hem. “Well, I’m… I’m going to check on the cookies.”

He gave her a stiff nod.

The moment she rounded the corner and got out of sight, he let out a slow, shuddering breath. His shoulders sagged, and his head dipped forward as he pressed his fingers to his temples.

Fuck.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t fantasized about the possibility of seeing her again. Hell, the way his chest stuttered when she opened the door was proof of that. But the fact that Steve had the nerve to call her without letting him know bothered him.

He knew this wasn’t accidental. Not by a long shot. Steve didn’t do accidental when it came to him. The punk knew very well about the nightmares. About the shitty migraines and the episodes that left Bucky feeling like his body was betraying him. About the way he was falling behind, failing to balance it all.

He had been on his case for weeks about getting a nanny, and now… this? Her of all people?

His fingers curled into fists.

Damn it, Steve knew. He knew, and he’d gone behind his back, meddling in things he had no right to touch. He’d give the punk a piece of his mind for this.

Just as soon as he could breathe normally again.

“Daddy!”

Bucky’s head snapped up just in time to catch Thomas barreling toward him, flinging his little arms around his waist with all the force his tiny body could muster.

The impact made Bucky stumble back half a step before kneeling and wrapping his arms securely around his son.

He let himself sink into the moment, holding Thomas close, shutting his eyes for a second longer than necessary. The kid’s head was buried against his chest, warm and solid, real.

He stayed like that, resting his chin on the child’s messy hair until the boy started chattering excitedly.

“Daddy, we made cookies! Y/n let me mix the dough and everything!” Thomas pulled back just enough to look up at him, with bright eyes. “Uncle Steve was busy, but she came, and it was so much fun!”

Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to smile, nodding along as Thomas continued to recount his afternoon. His little voice was so cheerful, that Bucky couldn’t help but soften, brushing his fingers through the boy’s hair.

“I’m glad you had fun, buddy.” His voice was calm, even if his thoughts were anything but.

Meanwhile, she was still in the kitchen, apron in hand, tracing absentmindedly the floral pattern with her fingers as she leaned against the counter.

She didn’t know how to face him. Not after that awkward, clipped conversation. Not after the way his body had stiffened, and his eyes had narrowed as he realized she was there.

There was definitely something going on.

When Steve called, his voice had been chirpy and casual. He’d said he remembered her mentioning she was open to babysitting, and he asked if she was available for a few hours.

She’d said yes without a second thought.

They set a day and time, and she showed up expecting to watch Steve’s kid, or maybe a relative’s. She never imagined that Steve lived alone in his apartment and she’d walk in and find Thomas there.

He had been vague -really vague- when she asked who she’d be watching. He hadn’t lied, exactly. But he’d definitely led her to believe it would be his responsibility she was taking on.

When she arrived, Steve explained to her that Bucky was away, and he was in charge of the kid for some days. But then, some important things came up -again, he’d been vague about the details- and he couldn’t leave Thomas with just anyone.

“So I remembered what you told me,” he’d said with a disarming smile. “and asked Bucky for your number. He instantly agreed to it, he was so thrilled when I told him you were the one watching after the little guy.”

It had made sense at the time. He’d seemed so sure, so confident when he’d explained it all. And of course, it felt good to see Thomas again.

But then Bucky showed up at the door, tactical suit half undone, weapons dropping from his holsters, and she realized he didn’t look thrilled.

His expression had been guarded, his body was totally tense and his words clipped and cold. Not exactly the reaction of someone who had agreed to this arrangement. But then again… why would she suspect anything when Captain America himself had stood there, looking her straight in the eye with that earnest, honest gaze of his, and told her everything was fine?

And now here she was, hiding in the kitchen, debating whether she should leave or stay until Steve came back, since, technically, he was her employer for the day.

And, well… she needed the money.

Her fingers tightened around the edge of the counter.

Perfect. Just perfect.

How the hell did she get herself into this?

She looked toward the hallway, hearing Thomas’s cheerful voice as he babbled to his father. She could just make out the low, rumbling sound of Bucky’s replies, his tone softer and calmer than when he spoke to her.

“Fuck,” she muttered under her breath, the word slipping out before she could stop it.

Her fingers trembled slightly as she started to transfer the cookies from the cooling rack to a tray, arranging them with a precision that bordered on obsessive. Anything to keep her hands busy. Anything to avoid thinking about the man who was currently standing just a few feet away.

Bucky heard her curse under her breath, quiet but unmistakable, and something twisted uncomfortably in his chest.

None of this was her fault.

He exhaled through his nose, raking a hand through his grimy hair, wincing as his fingers caught on a tangle. He needed a shower. He needed sleep. He needed to not be in this position, trying to smooth over a situation Steve had thrown them both into.

But here they were.

Steeling himself, he walked toward the kitchen, feeling ridiculously out of place in his tactical gear against the warm, homey scent of cinnamon and sugar.

She was still standing by the counter, transferring the cookies onto a tray, tense. So tense. He hesitated for a second before clearing his throat.

“Hey.”

She startled slightly but didn’t turn around.

He stood in the doorway, blocking some of the fading daylight, with his broad body.

“I, um…” He scratched at the back of his neck, brushing his fingers through tangled hair, already regretting how awkward this was. “Can you pass me a glass?”

Finally, she looked at him and nodded, moving to the cupboard and reaching up on her toes, grabbing one and handing it over without a word. Her fingers brushed his, soft and warm, and his grip tightened on the glass just a little too hard.

He filled it from the tap, taking a slow sip, using the seconds to gather his thoughts.

“I forgot…” He sighed, rolling the glass between his fingers. “Steve asked me for your number when I was out of the country. My mind was… elsewhere.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders relaxed, and the tension in her expression eased just a bit. Were her eyes a little glassy?

Oh, he was definitely going to strangle Captain Jerk the minute he saw him.

“Yeah… so, sorry if I was rude back there.” He exhaled heavily, setting the glass down on the counter. “I know it’s by no means an excuse, but I’m tired-”

“Don’t worry,” she cut in softly, with a gentle voice as she shook her head. “Really. It’s fine.”

His lips parted slightly, surprised at how easily she let him off the hook.

“I can’t even imagine…” She waved her hand up and down, gesturing at his disheveled state. The dirty tactical suit, the bruises blooming under his jaw, and his wild, tangled hair.

Her gaze lingered a little too long on the way the fabric stretched over his chest. Luckily, he didn’t notice since his gaze drifted toward the tray of cookies.

Her lips curved into a smile. “Want one?”

He looked up, his gaze met hers, and for just a second, she forgot how to breathe. His blue eyes were softer now, warmer.

“…Yeah.” His lips twitched, just slightly. “Yeah, I do.”

Her heart skipped, and her fingers trembled just a little as she tilted the tray toward him.

He hesitated just for a second like deciding which one to choose, then his eyes flicked again to her face. And there, sensing the warmth of his body standing so close to her, and his scent -sweat and leather, dust and something distinctively him- filling the small kitchen, she realized, with a sinking feeling, that she was in so much trouble.

Taglist: @lazyneonrabbitt @that-daughter-of-hephaestus @sebastians-love @vicmc624 @lucylovexx @ethereal-witch24 @wannabakewithsomebody @unicornqueen05 @ddrewcameron @danzer8705 @mcira

[arpicityandneed]

Kataryna Castle

[arpicityandneed]

After nearly my first month in grad school I've barely had time to write or read so I appreciate a piece that's a beautiful quick read with plenty to draw me in. I love Buckys internal struggle and how we see him balancing that with how much he loves reader. I love that he made dinner and that reader fully acknowledged his efforts and feelings. I just love their very tender and thoughtful dynamic. It is so wholesome to read and I need some wholesomeness right now. 🫶

City Lights and Mountain Hearts

Pairing: Lumberjack!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut. Unprotected sex.

Summary: Stuck in the city for Valentine’s week, Bucky grapples with old wounds, self-doubt, and the urge to escape. Luckily, even if he doesn’t know how to express it, he is not alone.

Word Count: 10.5k.

note: Part of the Roots and Branches AU

The soft pling of an incoming email pulled her attention away from the cheesy vampire novel she had been working on, pausing her fingers on the keyboard. She furrowed her brows at the notification in the corner of her screen, precisely at the subject line.

URGENT: In-Person Attendance Required – Feb 12–16

Her company rarely required in-person meetings, much less for an entire week. But as her eyes scanned the neatly written email, her heart sank. They were hosting a conference within the city, an important one, and all key personnel were expected to attend and be involved. No exceptions.

“Great,” she muttered, rubbing her temple. Of all the weeks.

She didn’t mind her job -she actually liked it most days- but this? This was just bad timing. Her first Valentine’s Day with Bucky, and instead of spending it in their little town, she’d be stuck in a place she hadn’t missed, surrounded by endless traffic, overpriced coffee, and the constant hum of people who never stopped moving.

She exhaled sharply, leaning back in her chair. Bucky. He wouldn’t say it outright, but she knew how he felt about the city. He barely ever talked about his time there, and when he did, it was with the same tight-lipped, wary expression he wore when someone brought up his past.

He was not going to be thrilled about this.

She had to tell him. The sooner, the better. Then they could figure out what to do, whether they’d spend the week apart or… maybe he could come. By the time the sun had dipped behind the trees, she had made up her mind. She couldn’t change the situation, but she could soften the news.

So, she set the table with two mugs of hot chocolate and cut a generous slice of apple pie for him. Lately, she had been making dinner later and later, caught up in work, but tonight, she wanted to be ready when he walked through the door.

The familiar sound of the lock clicking open made her stomach flip, slightly tightening her fingers around her mug. Bucky stepped inside, shaking off the chill as he pushed the door shut behind him. He slipped his jacket off, draping it over the back of a chair, and then he made his way toward the kitchen, drawn in by the scent of cinnamon and warm apples. He stopped in the doorway, tired blue eyes flicking between the waiting mugs and the careful way she was watching him. He knew that look.

Something was up.

But before he could ask, she gave him a small, hopeful smile and gestured toward the table. “I made pie.”

----

He sat there, munching the pie with his gaze glued to the plate. She knew he was turning it over in his head, weighing every part of the situation the way he always did.

He swallowed, took a sip of hot chocolate, then let out a slow sigh.

"Guess I'll have to go too."

Her brows lifted slightly. "Bucky, you’re not obligated. It’s totally okay if you-"

"I'll drive us there." His tone left no room for argument. "You’re not spendin’ Valentine’s Day alone. I know you’ve been preparin’ somethin’ for that day, even when I told you I didn’t really mind those kinda celebrations."

She watched as he swirled the chocolate with his spoon, his eyes still cast downward like admitting that cost him something.

"Well, um… yeah," she murmured, tucking her hair behind her ear. "That was when I thought we'd be here, and-"

"Sweetheart." His voice was softer now, and when he finally looked at her, there was something in his gaze, something that made her heart ache a little. "It’s okay. We’ll go together."

-----

The next morning when she woke up, Bucky was gone.

That was unusual. Saturdays and Sundays were slow mornings, mornings where he lingered in bed longer than he needed to, where she could coax him into staying even when he grumbled about getting up. But today, the space beside her was cold, like he hadn’t been there in hours.

She found the note on the dinner table.

Had some business to take care of. Be back later.

No explanation. No details. Typical.

She sighed, running a hand through her hair, but let it go. If Bucky needed space, she’d give it to him. Instead, she made herself breakfast, turned on her laptop, and got to work. The sooner she got ahead of things, the more time they’d have in the city. And she wanted them to have time, time to make it feel like something other than just another obligation.

-----

Bucky was in his spot in the woods, where the air was sharp and clean, where the only sounds were the wind through the trees and his own breathing. Where he didn’t have to think.

February wasn’t the best time for chopping wood, but he didn’t care. He just needed to move, to burn through the thing curling tight in his chest.

It had been over fifteen years since he set foot in the city. He had left with a full cast on his arm and never looked back. He should have gone back, just once, just long enough to get the damn thing removed properly. Instead, he’d let the local doctor handle it and told himself it wasn’t worth the trip. Told himself it didn’t mean anything.

Maybe it had. Maybe it had meant more than he let himself admit.

The axe came down with brutal precision, and the wood split instantly. He barely registered it, his mind still circling the same damn thoughts.

The city. He didn’t belong there.

Too many people, too much noise, too many eyes. He already could feel the way the stares would burn into him, the way his skin would crawl under all that attention. He could handle a few looks here in town, the occasional glance from curious folks, the gossip… but the city? That was different. In the city, people watched.

And the worst part? He knew what they’d see.

Some guy who didn’t fit. A man too rough around the edges, too quiet, too scarred.

The axe came down again, unrelenting.

He wiped his forehead with the back of his sleeve, exhaling hard. What the fuck was he even supposed to wear there? He barely had anything that would blend in. Just one pair of decent jeans and a couple of henleys that might keep him from looking like an uneducated stud.

Might.

-----

He returned just before lunch, the sharp bite of cold still clinging to his skin, the muscles of his arm aching like a bitch but in a way that felt more comforting than exhausting. Chopping wood had helped -somewhat- but not enough to shake the weight pressing down on him.

Then, he stepped into the house, and the scent hit his nose.

Tenderloin. Creamed potatoes.

His favorite.

His stomach grumbled in approval, and when he rounded the corner into the kitchen, he found her setting the last plate on the table. She glanced up at him with a smile, like she hadn’t just completely read his mind.

“You’re back just in time,” she said, brushing her hands off on a dish towel. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

Bucky huffed, shrugging off his jacket. She knows. Of course, she knew. She always knew.

By the time he sat down, the first bite was enough to make his shoulders loosen. He didn’t say anything, just focused on his plate, on the warmth of the food, on how damn good it tasted.

By the time he finished his third helping, he finally leaned back in his chair, exhaling through his nose. “Darlin’, you’re gonna have to roll me out of here if you keep makin’ stuff like this.”

She huffed a laugh, stacking a couple of plates. “You say that like it’s my fault.”

“It is your fault,” he muttered, lazily twirling his fork. “Cookin’ like this.” He shook his head, tone half-admiring, half-accusatory. “Unfair.”

She chuckled, wiping down the counter before glancing over at him. He looked content, a rare sight when something was eating him. That alone made her move closer, stepping into his personal space.

Bucky barely had time to react before her arms wrapped around him, pressing a warm hug against his side. His chest tensed -not because he didn’t want it, never because he didn’t want it- but because it caught him off guard.

She pulled back slightly, flickering her eyes down, and before he could ask, she reached up and wiped the corner of his mouth with her thumb.

“There was-” she paused, tilting her head. “Potato.”

Bucky stiffened.

His hand came up to his mouth a second too late, rubbing over the spot as a slow warmth crept up his neck.

She just grinned. “You’re cute when you’re flustered.”

He scowled, with the kind of embarrassment that made him shift in his chair and grumble under his breath.

“Not flustered.”

“Uh-huh.”

She kissed his cheek quickly, then stepped away before he could protest further.

Bucky exhaled, rubbing his jaw before dropping his hand with a quiet hmph. He didn’t argue, because what was the point? She was already moving on, making casual conversation as she tidied up.

Then-

“We should probably grab a few things for the trip,” she said lightly, not looking at him as she rinsed a plate. “I was thinking we could head into town tomorrow, and pick out a couple of things.”

Bucky hummed in response, but the food in his stomach suddenly felt heavier.

------

They sat at the kitchen table with a notepad between them, as they jotted down things they’d need for the trip. The list was simple: snacks, water, some groceries.

“I’ll make something for the road,” she said, tapping the pen against the paper. “Something easy to eat while driving. I’ll grab the ingredients tomorrow.”

He nodded, with arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair. “I’ll check the truck. Make sure the tires, oil, and water are good.”

She hummed, writing that down, but then-

“Toilet paper.”

She paused, blinking at him. “What?”

“For the glove compartment,” Bucky said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Her lips twitched. “Why?”

His ears went pink. “What d’you mean why? When you gotta go, you gotta go. Even if it’s the middle of the road.”

She pressed her lips together, trying really hard not to laugh. “I mean, fair point.”

Bucky grumbled something under his breath as she added it to the list, the color still lingering on his cheeks. But then she glanced up, chewing on the end of the pen.

“You’ll need to grab some clothes from your cabin.”

That was when the shift happened.

His body didn’t move, but something in his expression tightened, a flicker of hesitation crossing his features.

She noticed immediately.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Bucky exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Yeah.” He didn’t sound convinced.

She reached across the table, touching his arm, waiting until he finally looked at her. “One step at a time, alright?”

A beat passed. Then another.

“Yeah,” he muttered, finally. “Guess I don’t have much of a choice.”

She squeezed his arm before letting go, keeping her voice light. “Actually, while we’re on the subject… do you have enough clothes to bring along?”

He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I mean… I got stuff. But…” He hesitated. “I probably need some new things.”

She nodded slowly, reading between the lines.

He dreaded shopping. Trying things on, getting questioned by clerks, feeling pressured to buy things he didn’t even like.

“I can go,” she offered. “Pick some things up for you.”

Bucky glanced at her, skeptical. “And if I don’t like ‘em?”

“We return them first thing Monday morning.”

He exhaled, considering. “I don’t want anything fancy.”

“You? Fancy?” She smirked. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He rolled his eyes, and his shoulders eased the tension, just a little.

“…Something blue or black for the top,” he muttered after a pause.

She grinned. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

She could sense the weight still pressing down on him, so she steered the conversation into safer waters. “For the food, I was thinking… have you ever tried empanadas?”

Bucky’s brows lifted slightly. “Yeah, actually. Back in the army. One of the guys- his ma would bring ‘em when she visited. He’d share sometimes.”

Her eyes lit up. “Did you like them?”

He nodded, and a hint of a smile softened his features. “Yeah. They were good.”

“Well,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “I was thinking of making a meaty filling. Figured you’d like that.”

His lips twitched, an approving glint in his eyes. “Sounds great.”

She glanced at the clock, noting the time. “Alright, let’s head into town before the shops close. Almost no one opens on Sundays around here.”

Bucky let out a mock groan, pressing a hand to his stomach. “You sure you can get me outta this chair? Ate too much. You’re gonna make me gain weight at this rate.”

She laughed, standing up and stretching. “You’ll look very sexy. And I’ll have more of you to grab.”

That got him. His cheeks flushed a faint red as he ducked his head, suddenly finding the notepad very interesting.

“C’mon, big guy. Let’s go before the town shuts down on us.”

-----

Monday morning, they departed early.

He had insisted on driving, and she let him. Her meeting wasn’t until the afternoon, which meant they had time to get to the Airbnb, settle in, and for her to change before she had to leave. She had suggested a hotel -something nice, something easy- but he had shut down that idea pretty fast.

“Not stayin’ in a damn hotel,” he had muttered.

She knew why. It wasn’t just about avoiding people, it was about having a place that felt less like the city, a place that wasn’t sterile and unfamiliar, a place where he wouldn’t feel watched. An Airbnb was as close to a home as they were going to get in a place that felt otherwise hostile to him.

The trip itself was fine, though Bucky was quieter than ever. She didn’t push, didn’t try to fill the silence, just read her book, occasionally serving him coffee. She figured he needed to settle into his own thoughts and get used to the idea that they were going back to a place he had spent over more than a decade avoiding.

Eventually, she heard it, the low, unmistakable growl of his stomach.

She grinned, closing her book. “Alright, honey. Pull over.”

Bucky grunted. “M’fine.”

“Uh-huh.” She arched a brow. “Pull over. I’ll drive while you eat.”

He gave her a look but didn’t argue, pulling off in the curve. They switched places, and as soon as he grabbed the first empanada, she heard it, the almost joyful sound he made as he took the first bite.

She had eaten earlier, thank God, because somehow, Bucky managed to put away eight in one sitting. And an apple.

As he chewed, thoroughly pleased, she eyed him. “Bucky, are you sure you’re not pregnant?”

He paused mid-bite, squinting at her. “What?”

She grinned. “I mean, the way you’re inhaling those? You’re either growing a small human or preparing for winter hibernation.”

He swallowed, scowling. “They’re good.”

She chuckled, focusing back on the road. “Glad you like ‘em.”

She drove in silence, letting him be.

Bucky had eaten enough to put himself into a food coma, but that wasn’t the only reason he’d drifted off. She knew last night had been restless for him if he had even slept at all. He hadn’t said anything, but she’d felt it in the way he held her a little too long before bed, the way his breathing never fully evened out, the way he had been up before her.

So, when she glanced over and saw him slumped against the window, arms crossed, head tilted slightly, she wasn’t surprised. His chest rose and fell evenly, a few stray crumbs still clinging to his shirt.

She smiled a little and let him sleep.

For a couple of hours, she focused on the road, as the monotone hum of the tires and the quiet murmur of the radio filled the space. But as they got closer to the city, everything changed. The road widened, traffic thickened, and the sky was swallowed by looming buildings.

A sudden blaring horn cut through the quiet.

Bucky jolted awake immediately, sucking in a sharp breath as his hand twitched toward something. His seatbelt, the door, his hip. She wasn’t sure if he was reaching for a weapon or just bracing himself, but for a split second, his eyes were wild, darting around before finally landing on her.

She winced. “Sorry. City drivers.”

He exhaled hard, rubbing a hand down his face. “Should’ve woken me up. I could’ve driven.”

“And be cranky and starving while stuck in traffic?” She shot him a look before glancing back at the GPS. “Yeah, no thanks.”

He muttered something under his breath, but the fight had already left him. Instead, he turned his head toward the window, taking in the skyline, the crowded sidewalks, and the flashing signs. His fingers tapped restlessly against his thigh.

A few more turns, and she finally pulled up in front of their Airbnb. A modest little apartment, nothing flashy, but in a quieter area just ten minutes from where she needed to be.

She shifted into the parking lot and sighed, stretching her fingers. “Alright. Home sweet home.”

Bucky didn’t move at first, just stared up at the building like it might lunge at him.

Then, with a slow exhale, he unbuckled his seatbelt and reached for their bags.

-----

They didn’t need a key.

Instead, there was a digital lock with a number combination, which she entered easily after checking the confirmation email. The mechanism beeped, the door clicked open, and Bucky’s stomach twisted.

He didn’t like it.

A code? No actual lock? Who else had access to this thing? The owner, obviously. Maybe the cleaning crew. What if the code hadn’t been changed recently? How hard could it be to override it, to force the door open if someone really wanted to? What if-

Then he felt it.

Her arms wrapped around his waist, her body pressing into his back. A second later, a soft kiss against the space between his shoulder blades.

Bucky exhaled. Slowly.

“I’ll go change and then I’ll leave,” she murmured against his shirt. “Why don’t you take a shower and get comfortable? Or go for a walk if you want.”

He didn’t answer right away, just rested his hand over hers where it rested on his stomach, giving it a small squeeze. Not much, but enough to let her know he’d heard her.

She squeezed back before stepping away, leaving him standing in the doorway as she disappeared inside.

He took another slow breath, glancing at the lock one last time before finally stepping inside after her.

-----

The apartment was… fine.

Smaller than her place back home, but clean, modern. The furniture was sleek, everything in shades of beige and gray, the kind of aesthetic that looked nice in photos but didn’t feel like anyone lived there. Too polished. Too impersonal.

But it was quiet.

That was something, at least.

Bucky paced through the space, scanning everything the way he always did when he entered somewhere new. Windows locked. No weird creaks on the floor. The bathroom door was solid, good enough for some peace. The bedroom was decent -bigger than he expected- but the bedspread was stiff, too neat, too unfamiliar. The walls were bare, and the city noise outside was muffled but ever-present, like a dull hum beneath his skin.

He sighed, rubbing his face. It wasn’t home. But for the next few days, it had to be. He wandered back into the kitchen, running a hand over the smooth counters. It was nice, but something about it felt… unused. Like no one had ever actually cooked in here before.

Well. That was about to change.

Without really thinking about it, he decided he’d make dinner.

They had packed some groceries in a box in the truck’s back, just to be safe, in case they couldn’t find a store right away. He sorted through it, pulling out what he needed.

Dinosaur pasta.

She had laughed at him when he tossed it into the cart back home, but he didn’t care. It was easy and reliable. And this time, he’d give it a twist. She had taught him how to make pink sauce a while ago, and he’d actually paid attention. Figured he’d surprise her with it.

Or so he thought.

The hour of her return came and went.

Bucky stirred the sauce one last time, glancing at the clock. Then the door. No messages.

He exhaled, shaking his head. She’s busy. It’s fine.

But another half hour passed. Then another. The food sat untouched, already cold. His chest tightened. Not with anger, not really, but with something else. Something he didn’t want to name.

Eventually, he gave up. He microwaved himself a portion, eating in silence before rinsing his plate and heading for the bedroom.

He didn’t bother turning on the big lights, just flipped on the TV, letting it play something -anything- to fill the space. He lay back against the pillows, one arm behind his head, eyes on the screen but not really watching.

Then, finally, the sound of the front door opening.

Soft footsteps. A rustling of bags.

A pause.

“…Bucky?”

He didn’t answer right away, just listened. A quiet exhale. Then-

“My phone died,” she said, her voice carried down the hall. “I couldn’t message you. I- I’m so sorry.”

Bucky blinked up at the ceiling, with his lips pressed into a thin line.

For a second, he debated saying it’s fine. But it wasn’t, not really. He wasn’t mad, not exactly, but something swirled in his chest, something that made him feel stupid for waiting, for hoping for something as simple as dinner together.

So instead, he just said, “There’s food in the kitchen.”

A beat of silence. Then soft footsteps, getting closer.

She peeked into the room, eyes full of guilt. “You made dinner?”

Bucky shrugged. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

“You’re so thoughtful, darling,” she murmured, stepping closer. “I’m really sorry. I’m sure it’s delicious.”

He hummed, noncommittal, eyes flicking back to the TV. He wasn’t trying to be cold, but something in him was still knotted up, and he didn’t know how to untangle it just yet.

She didn’t push.

Instead, she peeled off the blazer she had been wearing all day, then unbuttoned her blouse, sighing in relief as she swapped it out for something infinitely more comfortable: one of his old henleys.

She had stolen it from his cabin months ago, claiming it as hers without argument, and at this point, he had just accepted it.

Bucky caught the familiar fabric from the corner of his eye, and for some reason, that tiny thing made his chest ache a little less.

She gave him one last look, a small, tired smile before disappearing into the kitchen to heat up the food.

-----

The hum of the microwave filled the kitchen, casting a soft glow over the countertops as she leaned against them, rubbing her tired eyes. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until now, as the scent of the warmed-up pasta made her stomach grumble.

She pulled the plate out, grabbed a fork, and settled at the small dining table. The first bite was perfect, creamy, and rich, with just the right balance of tomato and cream. Even after sitting for hours, it was still good. She smiled to herself. Of course, it was.

She heard a faint noise behind her, and she glanced up to see Bucky lingering in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her eat. He wasn’t brooding, not exactly, but there was something unreadable in his expression, something cautious like he was still holding onto whatever had crawled into his chest earlier.

She chewed slowly, then set her fork down. “You gonna stand there all night, or you wanna come sit?”

Bucky huffed through his nose but pushed off the doorframe, walking toward her with slow, measured steps. He didn’t sit, though. Just leaned against the counter, hands braced on either side of him.

She took another bite, then met his gaze. “It’s really good.”

He hummed like he wasn’t sure whether to believe her.

She frowned, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Then, without thinking too hard about it, she reached for his hand, lacing her fingers through his.

Bucky stilled.

She squeezed gently, running slow circles over the back of his hand with her thumb. “I hate that you waited for me and I wasn’t here.”

He let out a slow exhale, shifting his shoulders. “S’not your fault.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But I still hate it.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes flicked away like he wasn’t sure what to do with the feeling pressing against his ribs.

Then, finally, he squeezed her hand back. She smiled, tugging lightly until he sighed and gave in, pulling out the chair beside her and sitting down.

She took another bite, then set her fork down again. “You know I love this, right?”

He blinked at her. “What?”

She gestured to the plate. “You. Making dinner. Thinking about me. I know you don’t think it’s a big deal, but it is to me.”

Bucky swallowed, flexing his fingers around hers. “Yeah?”

She smiled, bringing his hand to her lips and pressing a soft kiss against his knuckles. “Yeah.”

He let out a slow breath for the first time that night, as something in his chest finally let go.

------

The next morning, they went out to walk around and make the most of their time before she had to head to her second meeting. The city was already alive with movement, people rushing to work, street vendors setting up, the noise of conversations and car horns blending into the background noise.

They grabbed something to eat at a small café, sitting by the window, watching the world go by. Bucky was quieter than usual, but she didn’t push. He had agreed to come with her and had stepped into a place he hated for her, and that was already more than enough.

After breakfast, they strolled down a quieter street, hand in hand. She had been enjoying herself -taking in the sights, pointing out things she thought were interesting- when she finally noticed it.

Bucky was stiff.

His jaw was tight, and his free hand curled into a loose fist by his side. But what really gave him away was the way his eyes moved, scanning their surroundings, tracking every person that passed by.

She squeezed his hand gently. “What’s wrong?”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “Nothin’.”

She arched a brow. “Bucky.”

His shoulders shifted, and after a pause, he sighed. “…I feel observed.”

Her heart clenched a little. She knew what this was, his self-consciousness creeping in, his social anxiety pressing against his ribs, telling him he didn’t belong here, seeing threats where there were none.

She rubbed her thumb over the back of his hand. “I don’t perceive it.”

He made a quiet, disbelieving sound, but before he could argue, she smirked. “Although, I do think there’s a bunch of women looking at you.”

That startled him. He blinked down at her. “What?”

“You’re too handsome,” she simply said, like it was a fact.

Bucky groaned, shaking his head. “‘Guess only you see that, darlin’.”

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Bucky, I’m gonna say this once, because I really don’t want you all cocky later, but… you are a gorgeous man.”

His brows pulled together, like the very idea confused him. Before he could brush it off, she pressed on.

“I know you don’t see yourself like that. Not anymore. But you are,” she said firmly, squeezing his hand. “So believe me when I tell you that probably six out of ten women we’ve passed would say yes if you asked them out.”

Bucky’s ears tinged pink, and his lips parted slightly before he clamped his mouth shut, looking away. He shifted his weight, clearing his throat like that would somehow push the embarrassment down.

“…That’s not a real statistic,” he muttered.

------

He sat on a park bench, stretching his legs out as she wandered over to a street vendor. She was buying caramelized peanuts, chatting with the old man behind the cart, moving her hands as she gestured about something.

He let his gaze stray through the park.

A pair of guys in army uniforms caught his attention as they strolled past, laughing easily, and moving with confident steps. One of them playfully nodded toward a group of girls sitting on a nearby bench, earning a few shy smiles in return.

Bucky’s chest stiffened.

Once upon a time, he had been one of those guys.

A menace on his days off, all easy charm and reckless energy making the most of whatever time he had before duty called again. He had forgotten, sometimes, what that version of himself looked like.

But then-

The unending campaigns. The things he had to do. The things he couldn’t take back.

His mind yanked him somewhere else, somewhere darker.

The storage house. The explosion. The searing heat of fire before everything went black, then worse, the crushing weight, the sickening snap of bone, the panic clawing up his throat as he realized he was trapped.

Dying buried alive.

Rainwater trickled through the cracks, dampening the dust, and turning it into mud.

His breathing fastened and his gaze dropped to the pavement, curling his fingers into his palms. The world around him dimmed, his body here but his mind there, stuck between then and now.

Then-

A touch. Soft. Soothing.

His head jerked up, with an unfocused gaze.

She crouched beside him, resting her hand lightly on his shoulder, with a concerned expression.

And when his eyes met hers, she sucked in a small, worried breath, because she had never seen that look in his eyes before.

Vacant. Haunted.

Lost.

-----

She didn’t let go of his hand the entire walk back.

Bucky didn’t protest, but he didn’t say much either. His grip was solid, but his steps were stiff, and his jaw was locked so tight she could see the muscle twitching. He kept his eyes forward, scanning the sidewalk, shoulders squared like he was bracing for something, though she wasn’t sure what.

She kept her voice soft. “Almost there.”

He hummed, barely acknowledging it.

She didn’t push.

The city noise surrounded them. The honking of cars, the chatter of people passing by, the echo of hurried footsteps against the pavement, but she barely noticed. Her focus was on him, on the way he was still somewhere else, even as they turned the last corner and the building came into view.

When they reached the door, she entered the code with one hand, still holding onto him with the other. The lock clicked. She pushed the door open, stepping inside first before turning to look at him.

Bucky exhaled slowly like he was only now allowing himself to breathe.

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “Come on.”

He didn’t move at first, flicking his eyes past her like he wasn’t sure he wanted to cross the threshold. But then, slowly, he stepped inside.

She shut the door behind him.

“Wanna lie down?” she asked softly.

Bucky didn’t answer right away, but then he nodded, just once.

She guided him toward the bedroom, with her hand still loosely curled around his. The moment they reached the bed, she lay down first, settling against the pillows. He hesitated for only a second before following, shifting until he found the place he always found soothing, his head resting in the valley of her breasts, arms wrapped firmly around her waist.

She exhaled, letting her fingers trace slow, lazy circles across his back.

He said nothing, but she felt it, the way his body, little by little, started to relax against her. The tension in his shoulders softened, his breathing evened out, and his grip on her went from holding on to simply holding.

The minutes passed on, and the only sound in the room was the soft tick of the clock.

“You’re gonna be late,” he grumbled, muffled against her body.

She hummed, drifting her fingers up into his hair, massaging his scalp in slow, soothing strokes. “Don’t care.”

Bucky huffed.

“They haven’t even deposited my travel allowance yet,” she added. “They can wait a few more minutes.”

He sighed against her, and she felt it, the subtle way he melted just a little more, sinking into the warmth of her touch, the safety of her body against his.

“Tell you what,” she murmured, still tracing slow circles over his scalp. “Since you’re so tense, I’ll give you a nice massage when I get back. What do you think?”

Bucky nuzzled against her chest, exhaling a breath that was just shy of a sigh. “I’d be real fucked up if I said no to that.”

She smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “Perfect.”

Her hands never stopped moving, going down to rub at the knots in his shoulders, then ghosting along the base of his neck.

After a moment, she shifted slightly beneath him. “Will you be okay alone in here?”

He nodded against her.

It wasn’t a complete lie.

He would be fine. The walls weren’t closing in, the noise from outside was manageable, and he had a place to retreat to, away from the chaos of the city. Technically, he’d be fine.

But deep down, he knew what was coming.

She would leave. The apartment would get too quiet. His thoughts -the ones he had been trying to push down since the park- would creep back in, crawling up his throat, and pressing against his ribs.

And that dark, familiar pull would be there, whispering its old, ugly promises.

It was one of his last dirty secrets.

One he was ashamed to reveal to her.

He had gotten better -so much better- but the temptation never really went away. Sometimes it was just a flicker, something he could ignore. Other times…

Like now.

His fingers twitched against her waist, resisting the urge to reach for his phone, to make the order before she even left. Just one bottle. Just to take the edge off.

“I won’t be gone long,” she reassured him.

Bucky swallowed. Nodded again.

“I know,” he murmured, hoping she couldn’t hear the lie beneath his words.

-----

The second the door shut behind her, the apartment felt different.

Empty.

He stayed in bed for a moment, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. The warmth her body had left behind was fading, replaced by the cool feeling of being alone.

He took a slow breath. Let it out.

Then he sat up, rubbed a hand down his face, and reached for his phone.

It wasn’t even a debate, not really. The thought had been there since the park, lurking in the back of his mind, and now, without her here to distract him, it clawed its way forward.

Just a bottle. Just a drink. Just to settle things.

His fingers moved before he could talk himself out of it. A few taps, an automatic confirmation. Done.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, but the knock on the door came quicker than expected. He stood slowly, crossing the room, hesitating just for a second before pulling the door open.

The delivery guy barely looked at him, just handed over the bag, muttering a quick have a good one before turning away.

Bucky shut the door and stared down at the weight in his hands.

For a long moment, he didn’t move.

Then, he walked into the kitchen and set the bottle down on the counter. He exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders before turning away. His muscles ached from how tense he’d been all morning

He’d take a shower first.

But the water didn’t wash away his thoughts.

His mind was on a battlefield, mud, blood, fire, and screams. The weight of debris pinning him down. The searing pain in his left arm, so sharp it had felt like his body was being torn in half.

And then… the hospital.

The look on the officer’s face when he was told, flatly, clinically, that he was expendable. That his sacrifice had been expected. Calculated. That they would move forward without him.

Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, pressing his forehead against the shower tiles. He had fought for his country. Given everything. And when he needed them most, they had tossed him aside like a broken weapon.

Then she walked away.

He tousled his hair, exhaling sharply as the memory crawled forward, uninvited.

She had grown distant. At first, it was subtle: longer pauses between messages, a clipped voice when she finally answered his calls. Then came the excuses. How busy she was. How complicated things werefor her. How she needed time.

Eventually, she stopped answering at all.

Her friend had been the one to deliver the final blow. “It was difficult for her,” she had said, carefully avoiding his eyes. “She’s not in a place to handle… your situation. She’s struggling too, you know.”

His situation.

His problems.

His disability.

He turned off the water, with a rough movement. He grabbed a towel, rubbing it over his face before wrapping it around his waist.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, his mind was still in shambles, raw and restless, like an itch he couldn’t scratch.

Then his eyes landed on the counter.

The bottle was still there, untouched. Waiting.

Bucky cursed under his breath.

His fingers twitched, and before he could think too hard about it, he grabbed the bottle and poured himself a glass. He stared at his distorted reflection on the smooth, amber-colored surface for a while.

But he didn’t drink.

Instead, he turned away, rubbing a towel over his damp hair. He needed boxers. Maybe if he did something -even something as simple as getting dressed- it would take the edge off.

He shuffled through his suitcase, pushing aside neatly folded shirts, a couple of henleys, and his new corduroy pants. No boxers. He frowned.

Then he remembered, she had packed them in hers.

With a sigh, he crouched next to her bag, unzipping it and rummaging inside. His fingers brushed against some fabric, then something firmer, a box.

Cardboard. Smooth.

Curious, he lifted it out.

It was a large, homemade chocolate box from Winnifred’s, the local baker back home. He recognized it instantly.

He swallowed hard, looking down at the box in his hands, tightening his grip around it while he walked to the living room.

She had planned this, before the trip. She had thought of him, of making this first Valentine’s together special, even when she knew he wasn’t the kind of guy who cared for fancy celebrations.

And he knew -of course he knew- she had probably planned something else, something back home. Maybe dinner at his cabin, decorated secretly while he worked, something small but theirs alone. But the trip had messed everything up, throwing them into this place that didn’t feel right, didn’t feel like home.

Still, she had brought a little piece of it with her, for him.

Bucky exhaled shakily, blinking hard. His gaze flicked toward the counter, to the glass of whiskey waiting for him, and the bottle looming beside it.

For a moment, he just stared.

Then he walked over, grabbed the glass, and dumped it in the sink. The sharp splash of liquid against metal filled the silence, followed by the pour as he emptied the rest of the bottle down the drain.

He didn’t watch it disappear. Just threw the empty bottle in the trash, turned, and sat heavily on the couch. Then, he opened the chocolate box with careful fingers, staring at the neat rows inside, hovering his index over them for a moment before he grabbed one.

This would do.

He took a bite, letting the rich sweetness melt on his tongue.

Yeah.

This would do.

-----

The first thing she saw when she stepped through the door that afternoon, was Bucky sprawled on the couch, snoring softly.

Her surprise chocolate box rested almost empty over his stomach, and his fingers -coated with a brownish glint- dangled near the floor. His towel had loosened slightly, barely hanging onto his waist, exposing just enough skin to make her stare longer than necessary.

She pressed her lips together to keep from giggling.

She almost took a picture.

Almost.

But then, she remembered.

The way he had been before she left, lost in his own mind, dealing with something he didn’t want to express. It wouldn’t be strange if he had some kind of oral anxiety attack, needing something -anything- to keep himself calm.

So instead, she tiptoed, lifting the nearly empty chocolate box from his stomach and setting it aside. Then, she grabbed a blanket, draped it carefully over him, and turned down the lights.

With a small sigh, she slipped into the bedroom and pulled out his old henley. Clearly, they weren’t going out for the day.

She then moved into the kitchen, rolling up her sleeves as she started pulling out ingredients for dinner. She wasn’t in a rush, just moving through things, deciding what to make while Bucky got his rest.

It didn’t take long before she felt it.

The familiar warmth of strong arms wrapping around her waist. A heavy, solid weight pressed against her back. The slow, hot breath against her ear.

“Isn’t it the massage lady,” Bucky murmured, sleepily.

Before she could respond, he pressed a lazy kiss to the side of her neck. Then another. Slow, unhurried, tasting her, feeling her warmth beneath his lips.

She shivered, tilting her head just slightly, giving him more access. “You’re supposed to be asleep.”

He hummed against her skin, tightening his grip on her waist. “Woke up.” Another kiss, just below her jaw. “Found somethin’ better to do.”

She exhaled a soft laugh, resting a hand over his. “That so?”

“Mm.” His lips dragged lower, pressing against the curve of her shoulder. “Still gotta cash in that massage.”

Her smile widened. “Oh, do you?”

“Mhmm.” He nuzzled against her skin, voice dropping to a rasp. “Feelin’ all sorts of tension, sweetheart.”

She smirked, reaching back to run her fingers through his sleep-mussed hair. “Well, we did say we’d make the most of our time here…”

Bucky hummed his approval, as his hands started to wander, and his breath blew warm and slow against her pulse.

Dinner could wait.

She turned in his arms, her body still glued to his. Her hands slid up slowly, threading her fingers behind his neck, playing lazily with the hairs at his nape.

“Well, mister,” she murmured, tilting her head. “You’re already in your birthday suit… where exactly are you aching?” she asked, playfully pressing herself flush against him, against the unmistakable evidence of his interest, thick and hard against her stomach.

Bucky let out a low, rumbling sound, tightening his hands around her waist. “You really gotta ask?”

She grinned, dragging her nails lightly over the back of his neck. “Mmm… just making sure. Wouldn’t wanna miss a spot.”

His grip flexed, pulling her even closer, grinding his erection against her. “Sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep and heat, “if you keep talkin’ like that, I’m afraid we’ll skip the massage.”

“Oh?” she hummed, trailing her fingers up the back of his neck, scratching lightly over his scalp. “And here I was, all ready to… work on you.”

She let her one hand slide between them, dipping lower, palming his cock through the towel.

Bucky inhaled sharply, and his whole body tensed as her grip tightened just slightly, teasing, testing. His head tipped forward, resting his forehead against hers.

“Darlin’,” he warned, with a strained voice

She smiled, leaning in just enough for her lips to brush his. “What?” she murmured, giving another slow, deliberate squeeze.

Bucky groaned, a deep, needy sound. “You’re real close to losin’ that henley.”

She grinned, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “That a threat or a promise?”

“Both,” he growled, then kissed her like he meant it.

His lips crashed against hers, slow at first, but that control didn’t last long. Not with the way her fingers kept working him through the towel, sending heat curling low in his stomach, making his knees damn near weak.

He groaned again into her mouth, slipping one hand down to grab a handful of her thigh, pulling her flush against him. The pressure of her palm massaging his cock, the way her body molded to his, it was too much and not enough all at once.

“Fuck,” he muttered against her lips, with ragged breaths.

She smirked, dragging her nails lightly down his back. “You’re so tense, baby,” she teased, voice dripping with false innocence.

He huffed a laugh, slipping his hands slipping beneath the henley, warm, coarsed palms gliding over the bare skin of her thighs, up to her ass. He gave a firm squeeze, pulling her against his aching cock. “Yeah? Pretty sure you’re the one causin’ the tension.”

She gasped softly, and he took advantage of the sound, catching her lips again, and swallowing every little noise she made as he pressed her back against the counter.

Her fingers hooked into the knot of his towel, tugging, loosening it, but before she could pull it away completely, he grabbed her wrist, stopping her.

“Oh, no,” he rasped, dragging his lips down her neck. “You first, sweetheart.”

Without another word, he slipped his fingers under the hem of her nightie and started sliding it up, as his mouth trailed lower, his breath hot against her skin.

“B-but the idea was to make you feel good,” she pouted, though there wasn’t much conviction behind it.

He chuckled, deep and lazy, vibrating against her skin. “Oh, trust me, sweetheart,” he murmured, dragging his lips up to her ear. “This is gonna make me feel real good.”

His fingers skimmed over her bare thighs, slipping higher, slowly and deliberately. Then he tugged the nightie over her head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside without a second thought. He leaned back just enough to take her in, pupils blown wide with hunger.

“Look at you,” he murmured, tracing a hand down her side, rough fingers ghosting over soft skin. “So damn beautiful.”

Her lips parted, her body already melting into his touch, but he wasn’t done yet.

Bucky bent slightly, gripping the backs of her thighs and effortlessly lifting her onto the counter. His hands slid up, spreading her knees apart as he stepped between them. He barely gave her a chance to breathe before his lips were on hers again, his hands gripping her thighs, keeping her close, keeping her his.

She shifted against him, pressing closer, brushing her bare skin against his, and fuck, he could lose himself in this.

In her.

After the kind of morning he had, after the things clawing at the edges of his mind, he knew he had been short with her. He hadn’t meant to be, she was one of the few good things he had since everything went to hell, and the last thing he wanted was to push her away.

And yet, she had still come to him. Still had covered him with a blanket, made sure he was comfortable and had started making dinner instead of being upset that he had shut down on her.

He didn’t deserve that. Didn’t deserve her.

Bucky exhaled against her lips, dragging his hands up her sides before dipping lower, catching the band of her panties between his fingers. “These,” he murmured, snapping the waistband lightly, “are in my way.”

She let out a breathless little laugh, lifting her hips just enough to help him. He wasted no time, sliding them down her legs, letting the fabric hit the floor before running his hands back up her thighs, spreading her open for him.

His mouth traced along her jaw, nipping at the skin just below her ear before whispering, “You really are too damn good to me, sweetheart.”

She sighed, tilting her head to let him continue his path down her neck. “Maybe,” she teased. “Or maybe you just deserve it.”

Bucky huffed, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he dropped to his knees.

His fingers dug into her thighs, holding her in place. He could lose himself here.

He would.

He didn’t wait for permission.

He pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate, feeling the way she shivered beneath his touch. He wanted to take his time, to savor, to make up for earlier, not just for himself. She deserved that.

One of his hands slid up, fingers spreading over her tummy, pressing gently as if to hold her steady. The other trailed lower, teasing along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, watching with satisfaction as her breath hitched.

Then, finally, finally, he leaned in.

He flicked his tongue against her, just barely, a featherlight touch that made her jolt. He smirked, gripping her hips to keep her still, then did it again, a little firmer this time. “Fuck,” he muttered against her, voice rough with want. “You always taste so good.”

She whimpered, as her fingers found their way into his hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp. That sent a shiver straight to his cock, and made him need to hear more of those sweet little sounds from her lips.

He licked a slow, teasing stripe up her slit, circling her clit with the tip of his tongue before pulling away just enough to blow cool air against her. The way she whined, the way her hips bucked up into his mouth, fuck, she was perfect.

He groaned, gripping her thighs as he dived back in, pressing his tongue against her pussy, stroking her just right, slipping lower to taste all of her before dragging back up to flick again her swollen, aching clit.

Her thighs clenched around his head, and he loved it. He wanted it.

He slipped a finger inside her, groaning at how warm and wet she was, at how she clenched around him, so tight and perfect. He curled it just right, adding a second, pumping them slowly, in time with the strokes of his tongue.

“Bucky-” she gasped, tightening her grip on his hair, legs trembling slightly.

That only spurred him on.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he murmured against her, voice thick with hunger. “Let me have it.” He pleaded, suckling at her clit with intent. He didn’t stop, not until she was moaning his name, arching against him, coming undone beneath his mouth, just the way he wanted.

Her thighs instinctively closed again around his head, rolling her hips, searching, chasing his mouth as she neared that blissful edge.

Her grip on his hair was tight, almost desperate, and fuck, he loved it. Loved the way she came undone for him, loved how she let go with him.

“Bucky! oh God-”

His name tumbled from her lips, breathless, wrecked, and that was all it took. Her thighs trembled, her back arched as the pleasure crashed over her, her walls clenching his fingers tightly as she came apart.

He didn’t stop. Not yet. He worked her through it, lapping up every little aftershock, basking in the way her body pulsed, how she shuddered against him.

Only when she whimpered, overstimulated, did he finally ease up, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss against her inner thigh.

He looked up at her, pupils blown wide. “Think that did more for me than it did for you,” he rasped, smirking as he ran his hands over her still-trembling thighs.

She blinked down at him, dazed, as she tried to catch her breath.

Then, with a lazy, satisfied smile, she tugged at his hair. “Get up here,” she murmured. “You’re not done yet.”

“No, I’m not,” he agreed, with dark intent.

Before she could even catch her breath, his lips crashed against hers, hungry, desperate, gripping her waist almost brutishly as he pulled her off the counter. She barely had time to register the shift before he spun her around, bending her against the cool surface.

A gasp left her lips as she splayed her hands against the counter for balance.

He groaned at the sight in front of him, before running his hands down her back, over the curve of her ass, squeezing once before nudging her legs apart with his knee.

“Look at you,” he rasped, pressing his chest to her back, letting her feel every inch of him, hard and aching against her. “So fuckin’ perfect.”

He kissed the back of her neck, trailing his lips down to her shoulder as one hand slid between her legs, fingers slipping through the mess he had made.

Still soaked for him.

“Goddamn,” he muttered, as he stroked her, feeling her jolt beneath his touch.

She whimpered, shifting back against him, pressing into his fingers, wordlessly pleading for more.

Bucky smirked against her skin. “You want me inside, sweetheart?”

“Y-yes,” she gasped, pushing back against him again.

That was all he needed.

He gripped her hip with one hand, guiding himself with the other, teasing her, just barely pressing in. Then, with a low growl, he snapped his hips forward, burying himself inside her in one deep, slow thrust.

A broken moan escaped her lips, fingers gripping the counter as he stretched her, filled her, claimed her.

Bucky clenched his jaw, trying real hard to keep it together, to give her a second to adjust, but fuck, she was so warm, so tight, squeezing him just right-

Then she pushed her hips back against him, wordlessly demanding more.

And who the hell was he to deny her?

Bucky growled, and set a brutal pace, determined to make her feel every inch of his cock.

He didn’t speak.

He just took.

His hands were bruising on her hips, gripping tight enough to leave marks, using the leverage to pull her onto his cock with deep, brutal thrusts. There was no teasing, no slow buildup, just raw, desperate need, pouring out of him with every snap of his hips.

Each stroke drove her forward, and her fingers slipped against the counter as she struggled to hold herself up. The force of his movements knocked the breath from her lungs, and made her whimper and moan, leaving her body pliant beneath his.

He was relentless.

He stretched her wide, filled her with every rough thrust, dragging against that sensitive spot inside her that made her keen. Her walls clenched down around him, and he responded with a ragged, guttural groan, tightening his fingers, as his pace grew even more frenzied.

He wasn’t holding back.

The obscene slap of skin against skin filled the kitchen, mixing with her gasps, and her breathless cries. He drove into her, each movement fueled by something dark and desperate, something he couldn’t put into words.

Because right now, he wasn’t thinking about anything except how good she felt around him, how perfectly she took him, how much he needed this, needed her.

Her legs trembled, and her body arched against him, as every hard thrust sent the pleasure curling up her spine. She was close, her breaths turning into sharp, broken moans, her body tightening around him. The delicious pressure and wet heat threatened to undo him, but he gritted his teeth, determined to make this last.

He didn’t stop.

Couldn’t stop.

His rhythm turned rougher, harder, as he chased the only thing that made sense, the feeling of her falling apart beneath him. One hand snaked between her sweat-slicked thighs to rub tight, hard circles over her throbbing clit.

When she came, she practically sobbed in pleasure, throwing her head back in a silent scream. Her walls clenched around him like a silken fist, massaging his throbbing cock and pushing him dangerously close to the edge. But he wasn’t done.

Not yet.

With a growl, he kept going, wrapping one arm around her waist to hold her up as he kept fucking into her, hard and deep, determined to wring every last bit of pleasure from her wrecked body, until all she could do was take it.

The countertop creaked beneath the force of his thrusts, and her body jerked with every sharp snap of his hips like a ragdoll. She was overstimulated, so sensitive, but she took it, let him use her, let him chase his own pleasure the way he needed to.

His fingers dug into her skin again, and his pace turned erratic, desperate, sweat slicking his chest as he buried himself inside her again and again. His breath was ragged, and his jaw clenched so tight it ached, while his head swam in her intoxicating warmth, the one thing that calmed him, that kept him from spiraling.

His grip bruised as he slammed into her one last time, burying his cock deep as his body seized. His breath caught, a strangled groan escaped his throat as he spilled inside her, grinding his hips against her rear, making sure every last drop was pumped deep inside her waiting body. For a long moment, neither of them moved, and only the sound in the space was their ragged breathing.

Then, finally, Bucky exhaled, loosening his grip just enough to press his forehead to the back of her neck.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t know what to say.

So instead, he just held her -his anchor, his salvation- until his heart stopped racing and the weight pressing down on his chest finally, finally lifted.

She stood there, trying to catch her breath, with her body still trembling as Bucky held her close, his chest rising and falling against her back. He was still nestled between her legs, slick walls cradling his spent, twitching cock.

She rested her forehead against her folded arms, as a shaky laugh escaped her lips. “Well, Buck… that was… something else,” she breathed out, trying to catch her breath.

Bucky huffed a quiet, almost satisfied sound. He hadn't meant to be so rough, so desperate, but something about what happened, about the way she let him have her, the way she took everything he gave, made it impossible to hold back.

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he finally murmured.

She smiled against her arm. “No. Far from it,” she whispered, turning her head just enough to catch his eyes, with a teasing glint. “I suspected it, but didn’t know you had that in you.”

His lips brushed the back of her neck, a quiet apology hidden in his touch. He wanted to say something, to tell her how much she meant to him, how much he needed her, but the words tangled heavily in his throat.

As Bucky carefully pulled out of her, a sharp gasp left her lips. His hands stayed on her hips, but his gaze dropped immediately to where they were still connected, to the way his cum slowly trickled down her inner thigh, glistening against her skin.

Something primal and possessive bloomed in his chest.

Before he could think twice about it, he reached down, swiping his thumb through the mess, gathering every drop before pushing it back inside her with slow, deliberate pressure.

She gasped, jolting, gripping hard at the counter. “Bucky-”

“Shhh,” he shushed, sliding his free hand up her spine, as his lips brushed the nape of her neck. “Can’t let it go to waste, sweetheart.”

Her breath came out in a shudder, and her legs shook as he pushed his thumb deeper, as if claiming her all over again.

Satisfied, he finally withdrew, fingers glistening as he traced lazy circles over her overstimulated pussy, smirking when she whimpered at the touch.

He was about to tease her -about how sensitive she was, how good she looked wrecked for him, slapping her softly- when her breathless voice cut through the haze.

“I take it as you liked the chocolates,” she teased, turning around in his arms and pressing a slow kiss to his sternum. “this was a very pleasant way of saying thanks”

His hands slid back down to her hips, gripping firmly, fingers pressing into the flesh he had spent the last half an hour worshipping. He hummed, satisfied, tilting his head as he looked down at her. “You wanted me to like ‘em, didn’t you?”

She sighed, pressing her face briefly against his chest, before pulling back just enough to cradle his face with one hand. “I’m glad you did,” she whispered.

He exhaled, leaning into her touch.

“And I’m sorry that we’re stuck here until Friday.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, flicking his gaze away for half a second before settling back on her.

“S’not your fault,” he muttered.

She pressed another kiss to his chest, right over his heart. “Still.” As she spoke, her fingers trailed up his arm, slow and deliberate, mapping the rough ridges and scarred skin that told stories of pain and survival.

Bucky tensed beneath her touch.

It was instinctive, something ingrained so deep in him he didn’t even think about it. His scars weren’t something he liked being noticed, much less touched. But she had never treated them like something to be ashamed of, never recoiled or hesitated.

And now, instead of pulling away, she leaned in, brushing her lips over the marred skin of his shoulder before playfully nipping at it.

His breath halted.

She grinned against his skin. “You know… I still owe you that massage,” she murmured, pressing her fingers into the firm muscle of his bicep, kneading it gently.

He exhaled sharply, not in discomfort, but in something else. Something warmer. She had a way of disarming him, stripping away the self-consciousness he didn’t even realize he was holding onto.

His lips twitched, as his hands found their place on her hips again. “You’re not gonna let that go, huh?”

She hummed, dragging her lips along his shoulder, hands working their way up to his neck. “Nope.”

A soft chuckle rumbled in his chest. His tension was gone, replaced by something softer. “Alright, sweetheart,” he murmured, squeezing her hip. “Guess I’m all yours.”

She took his hand, guiding him toward the bedroom.

As they walked, Bucky’s free hand reached for the nearly empty chocolate box on the table, smiling to himself.

She raised a brow. “Still hungry?”

His little smile deepened, something dark, wicked flickering behind his eyes as he squeezed her fingers in his.

“Somethin’ like that,” he murmured, winking an eye.

She swallowed, as heat prickled at the base of her spine, suddenly very aware that whatever he had planned… she’d be the one melting like chocolate before the night was over.

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[arpicityandneed]

I don’t know what this is but it’s content of sorts lol

[arpicityandneed]

Do you... write... Father X Daughter Marvelcest? ;3

Depends on the pairing tbh 👀👀 pls check my pinned post for who I write for!

[arpicityandneed]

my favorite fucking trope is chubby!reader living your life completely oblivious to the fact that the literal man of your dreams is in love with you and you're none the wiser.

like - you just traipse through life like "well he wouldn't like me back so it's wtv" all nonchalant and shit while the poor man is literally falling over himself trying to get it through your head that HEYYY that's not right??? i'm literally in love with you??? i worship the ground you walk on???? i'll do whatever you want????

and bless your heart, you see every single time he tries to hit on you as an act of kindness:

"awww, he got me (insert fav food here) cus i said i was hungry, what a nice guy!"

"he complimented my outfit! he must've liked the color of my shirt!"

"wow, he seems to be zoning out a lot, i hope he's okay!" (he's been staring at your lips for the past five minutes)

and he just... doesn't know what to do to make you see what he sees.

like you're so gorgeous and funny and why wouldn't he like you??

he's convinced that if he were to stand in front of you and tell you he loves you, you'd be like, "I love you too! you're such a good friend!"

(which has happened before and a little part of him died inside)

it literally takes him everything in his power to make you realize his feelings, and you just stand there for a moment, seemingly connecting the dots over the past few months, and all you can come up with is a small, dumb, "oh."

lord give him the strength.

[arpicityandneed]

“… sebastian, come on”.

[arpicityandneed]

steve rogers + punching fascists in the face

[arpicityandneed]

I'm thinking heavily about Daddy Dom Bucky and his sleeply little one who regresses into a ball of cuddly fluff. He can't get enough of how you rub your eyes when you wake up, the way you cling to him for cuddles during nap time, the way you are so trusting and vulnerable with him. It makes him feel needed and like he's worthy of protecting something so delicate.

[arpicityandneed]

Getting blindfolded and trying to figure out who's who when Steve and Bucky play good cop bad cop 👍