cas-only-angel

[cas-only-angel]

The Domestic Clause (#1)

Pairing: Congressman! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ just in case. Fluff. Slight Angst. Eventual Smut.

Summary: Bucky agrees to a discreet cleaning service to tend to his apartment while he’s away. He never expected the care of someone he’d never met to become the gentlest part of his daily life.

Word Count: About 5.3k.

He didn't want the cleaning service at first.

Too invasive, too fussy. Too awkward to let strangers enter a place that he was still learning to feel like a home. But his staff had insisted, gently but firmly. He was a public figure now. The service company came highly recommended as discreet and secure. No need for small talk or eye contact. Just clean surfaces and food that didn’t come in plastic bags.

The company had a key. They came while he was out. Twice a week, no more, no less. Floors scrubbed, bed made, fridge stocked with two fresh meals, laundry done and folded. Neutral. Efficient. He hadn’t asked for more.

Didn’t think he needed it.

And for almost two months, it stayed that way. Predictable and impersonal.

Then something changed.

It wasn’t obvious at first. Just a faint jasmine scent on the floorboards when he came in one Thursday. A softness in the towels that hadn't been there before. He didn't know what laundry soap she used now, but it remained faintly on his undershirts and stayed there, even under the starch and suits.

And the food. He didn’t remember requesting a change to "homestyle", but something about the new meals felt different. Simpler. Hearty. Less... curated. There were potatoes done the way his ma used to make them, string beans cooked soft and salted instead of bright and snappy. Meatloaf. Stew. Biscuits wrapped in a cloth napkin, like someone didn’t want them to go cold too fast.

He didn’t mind the change. In fact, he found himself looking forward to Tuesdays and Thursdays now. Found himself standing in the doorway just a little longer when he got home.

Found himself breathing deeper.

And he hadn't realized how much that mattered until the jasmine scent was gone, for two visits. A week without it. Like someone else had stepped in for the shifts and didn’t use her supplies. Whoever she was.

He didn’t ask the company about it. That would make it a thing. It wasn’t a thing.

But when it came back, subtle and soft under his front door, he realized he’d missed it.

----

It wasn’t supposed to be a long-term thing.

Just a stopgap. Something stable while she figured things out, something to get the rent paid, to keep food on the table, to keep her hands busy so her head wouldn’t spiral.

That was four years ago.

The flower shop had gone up with the smoke one winter night, an electrical fault, they said. Faulty fuse box. Nothing she could’ve done. And still, the insurance company found a way to wriggle free of every promise. Negligence was the word they leaned on. Cold. Precise. Final. She still dreamed of that smell sometimes, wet ash, scorched petals, the soil turning to a black sludge.

So she cleaned.

Her friend knew someone at the company and vouched for her. It was a clean-cut operation, specializing in silence, efficiency, and making life easier for the rich and important people without ever getting too close. Names weren’t shared. No questions asked. The job was: arrive, clean, cook if requested, and leave before the client came home.

Most were just properties, not homes. Untouched bookshelves, empty fridges, decor chosen by someone with a spreadsheet. She never lingered too much.

When Carla from the Thursday-Tuesday rotation quit -something about her kid and the commute- her boss messaged her directly.

“Solid client. Single guy. High profile. Interested?”

She said yes without thinking before asking for the address.

It wasn’t far. A decent building in a quiet street. She filled the product request form immediately, asking for the brands she liked, floor soap with jasmine, the laundry liquid that didn’t smell like hotel sheets, and the dried lavender flask. Her own little signatures. It wasn’t for them, it was for her. To stick with comfortable scents.

The first time she stepped inside the place, she noticed the simplicity. No clutter. No pictures. No smell of cigarettes. No designer furniture. Just white walls and clean counters and a coffee mug still wet in the sink.

A little lonely if you ask her, but simpler to maintain. She liked it.

Two hours later, the place gleamed, the fridge held two containers of stew, and the air smelled faintly of jasmine and lemon balm. She clicked the door behind her with satisfaction.

It wasn’t a dream job.

But it was good enough.

And after what she’d been through, good enough meant everything.

----

She hadn’t meant to snoop.

It was just a quick wipe-down of the table near the entryway, as always, a change tray, a small pile of unopened mail. Standard. Most of the time, she didn’t even glance at the envelopes, just moved them aside with the back of her hand.

But that day, one slipped, and she caught it without thinking.

Her eyes hit the name before she could look away.

Barnes, James B.

Blocky letters. Government seal in the corner.

Her stomach gave a weird little flip.

She held the envelope longer than she should’ve, her fingers still pressed against the smooth paper. Her eyes narrowed slightly.

James Barnes.

It couldn’t be-

But it was.

She’d watched the hearings on the news like everyone else back then, back when Zemo’s little show had dragged old ghosts into the daylight. A face all over every channel. “The Winter Soldier.” The monster in grainy Hydra footage, all blood, violence, and blank stares. She remembered digging deeper online, reading words she didn’t even want to say aloud, conditioning, assassination programs, cryogenic freezing, psychological mutilation.

And then the pardon came. The press cycle burned out. People moved on. Now, he was in a suit, making speeches with his jaw clenched too tightly, his voice low and unslick. Every opponent had tried to gut him with his past, throwing his record into the dirt, dragging out death counts like headlines. But he’d held. Barely. Visibly. A man trying not to bolt every time a flash went off.

And now here she was. Wiping his countertops.

A sharp breath escaped her lips. She looked around like the walls might suddenly see her differently.

So he was her boss.

It made sense now, the spartan apartment, despite the nice neighborhood. No trace of friends or family. The closed door at the end of the hall that was always locked, marked clearly on the service sheet as "no access."

She’d joked once, silently, looking at that door, that the guy had spy gear in there. Or was a serial killer, and the day she finds it casually opened and dares to enter… that is how scary movies started.

She placed the envelope back where it had been and straightened it.

He was just a man.

A man who’d been through hell, and wanted clean floors and warm food waiting when he got home. She stood there a second longer, her hand resting on the top of the table. Then moved on. Quietly, like always.

----

She didn’t tell anyone she’d figured it out. The company wouldn’t have liked it, and it didn’t matter anyway, her job hadn’t changed. Wipe. Sweep. Wash. Cook. Lock up. The routine stayed the same. But she didn’t.

Now that she knew who he was, really was, it changed how she moved through the apartment.

She caught herself slowing down near the closed door at the end of the hall, imagining what was behind it. She didn’t pry. Never would. But she started noticing the little things he did leave visible.

A stack of books on the coffee table. Nonfiction, history, psychology, one with bent pages about PTSD. The way he always left the light on in the kitchen window, like he hated coming home to a dark place. A blue coffee mug with a tiny chip on the handle that he still used every day.

And the food.

She started tweaking the meals. Small things at first. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. Slowly roasted chicken instead of grilled. Stew with more salt, more depth.

No complaints.

So she kept going.

On Thursdays, after she cleaned and cooked and made sure everything was just so, she started leaving something extra on the counter.

A small cake.

A batch of oatmeal cookies.

A little apple tucked into a glass container, still warm.

Never something fancy. Never store-bought. Comfort things. Something sweet to come home to.

----

It started with the pie.

He came home late that Thursday, later than usual, the suit jacket slung over his shoulder, tie half-pulled, his eyes prickling. He was tired. Not physically, he didn’t get tired, but mentally exhausted.

The apartment smelled like something sweet.

Not the jasmine, that was there too, soft as always. No, this was heavier. Baked. Warm.

He set his keys down and found it on the counter.

Pie. Still holding the faintest trace of oven heat. No label. Just there. Waiting. Like someone knew the kind of day he’d had. Like someone thought maybe a man like him deserved something that tasted like comfort.

He stared at it too long before putting it in the fridge. He didn’t eat it that night. Didn’t want to ruin it with his exhaustion.

But the next day, after a cold shower and half a night’s sleep, he sat at the kitchen island, bare feet on cool tile, fork in hand.

And it was good.

He didn’t tell the service anything. Didn’t leave feedback. Didn't know how. What was he supposed to say? Thanks for the pie?

But the next Thursday, there were cookies. Chewy centers, crispy edges, cinnamon that remained on his tongue longer than it should’ve. He ate them standing up, staring out the window.

By the third week -banana bread, nutty and dense- he started leaving that part of the counter a little clearer. No old mugs, no bowl with fruits. Just space, just in case something else showed up.

And it did.

Always something different. Never too much. Never presumptuous. Just… a simple gift. From someone he’d never seen, whose name he didn’t know, who folded his laundry and cooked his food and smelled like jasmine and something warmer he couldn’t describe.

He found himself trying to imagine her.

Not in a crude way. Not like that. Just- what kind of person did this? Left sweetness behind without asking for thanks? What kind of person looked at a stranger’s life, his particular, lonely life, and thought: he could use something soft?

He started looking forward to Thursdays.

Started coming home earlier, if he could.

And sometimes, on Wednesday nights, he caught himself wondering what she’d leave next.

----

He nearly stepped on it.

The soft clink under his heel made him freeze mid-step, one foot on the air, the other rooted to the floor. He looked down, expecting a dropped spoon maybe, or one of those damn loose buttons that always slipped free from his cuffs.

But it was a chain.

Delicate. Faintly tarnished. A single flower pendant in the center. Tiny petals worked in silver, something between a daisy and a wild rose. He crouched down slowly, brushing it carefully from the floor.

He held it up by the chain and watched it spin gently in the kitchen light.

Definitely not his. No one else had been here.

His mouth tugged into the barest line of surprise.

She must’ve dropped it. This invisible woman who moved through his home when he was gone, who left behind jasmine-scented floors and meals that tasted like someone gave a damn.

The pendant was feminine. A little worn at the edges. Something someone had owned for a while. Not a girl’s thing, not trendy. Something with history.

He found himself thinking: She must be older.

The food made sense now. So did the conditioner, the kind his ma used when he was young, not the chemical-heavy invasive crap most places sold now. And the way things were placed in soft order, not a strict pattern. Not hotel-precise, but thoughtful. Folded throw blanket on the couch. A corner of the towel lifted just so on the rack. She moved like someone used to making spaces feel lived-in. Comfortable.

He imagined her with silver hair twisted up loosely. Glasses maybe. Someone in her sixties. Maybe a widow.

He ran his thumb over the edge of the flower.

He’d return it, of course. Leave it on the kitchen island next visit, maybe tucked into a small dish so she’d see it. But for now… he pocketed it gently. Just for the night.

And for reasons he didn’t examine too closely, he kept it by his bed.

Just until Thursday.

----

She didn’t notice it was gone until she got home.

Her fingers went instinctively to her collarbone while she peeled off her sweater, reaching for the familiar curve of the chain, and touched skin instead. She froze. Then checked the hem, the collar, the folds of the fabric, like maybe it got caught somehow. But it wasn’t there.

She checked the pockets of her coat. Her bag. Nothing.

Her throat closed.

The pendant.

A silver flower, soft-edged with age. It had been her grandmother’s. A gift the day she opened the flower shop, “something to bloom beside you,” she’d said, pressing it into her palm with the fierce kind of pride old women had.

The shop was gone now. Ashes and soot. And now this, too.

She didn’t want to cry, but the grief crept up anyway, quiet and unwelcome. She sat on the edge of her bed and stared at her open hands like they might explain where she’d lost it.

It had to be today. It was clasped this morning. She was sure of it.

She hadn’t wanted to say anything. It was unprofessional, and the company discouraged personal contact. But after half an hour of chewing her lip and pacing the kitchen, she gave in and sent a message.

Hi, I think I may have left something at the Tuesday/Thursday apartment. A small silver pendant on a chain. Could you possibly reach out to the client to check if it turned up?

The reply came later. Too short. Too cold.

We’ll pass the message along, but please be more careful in the future. We cannot guarantee a response from the client.

That was it.

She didn’t know if they’d actually tell him. Probably not. He was important. A man like him had more to worry about than a necklace dropped by a service worker.

She sighed, rubbing the spot at her collarbone like she could will its shape back.

It felt stupid to mourn something so small. But it wasn’t about the chain.

It was about her grandmother’s hand on hers. The smell of peonies in the air. That little key they used to hang from the wall behind the register. The shop that had been her heart for six full years before it burned out.

Now that pendant would be somewhere in a trash bin, swept up with crumbs, or stuck to the back of a counter.

Almost poetic, really.

The flower shop was gone. Now the pendant was too.

----

He looked a it longer than he meant to.

He just… liked having it there. On his nightstand. In the quiet. It didn’t do anything, just caught the light in the mornings. But it felt like a presence. A reminder that someone moved through his life with gentleness.

When Thursday came, he gently polished the chain with a cloth, then neatly put it inside the dish where she usually left him the things she found on the floor, like buttons, coins, or a solitary cufflink. But it looked too bare like that. Too transactional.

He hesitated. Then grabbed his coat and headed down the street.

The corner market had a little stand, mostly overpriced bouquets, but he wasn’t after those. He scanned the selection until he found it, behind the roses and lilies. A single stem of fresia. Pale, almost white. Clean.

It reminded him of his ma’s apron pockets.

He took it home, trimmed the end with his pocketknife, and laid it next to the dish.

The necklace, and beside it, the flower.

No note. He wouldn’t know what to write. And she didn’t leave him notes either. He stepped back from the counter.

For a long moment, he just looked at it, this odd little shrine of softness in his too-empty kitchen.

For the woman who folded his shirts like with care.

For the food that tasted like memory.

For the silence that didn’t feel hollow anymore.

----

She wasn’t expecting anything.

By now, she’d accepted the pendant was gone. No one from the company had followed up. If they’d reached out to the client, she hadn’t heard about it.

Maybe she’d dropped it outside. Or it got tangled in the laundry and swept up by accident. Maybe it was meant to be. It was just another echo of the life she used to have. Another piece of the shop, of her grandmother, gone.

That Thursday, she came in like always. Hung up her coat. Tied her apron. She was about to drop to her knees in front of the cabinet under the sink to grab the spray and rag, but as she walked toward it, something caught her eye.

Not clutter -he never left clutter-. But something light. Pale. She stepped closer, curious.

It was a flower. It sat on the kitchen island like it had been placed with care. A single fresia stem. A little old-fashioned, but beautiful and with a wonderful scent. Her breath caught, but not because of what it was, but because of why it was there. Her pendant.

She reached out slowly, and her fingers remained at a brief distance just over the curve of the chain, like it might vanish if she touched it too quickly.

There it was. Pooled neatly inside the “found things” dish.

He’d found it.

She stood there longer than she meant to, with her hand still resting beside the little flower. It wasn’t just the gesture of returning it. It was the wayhe did it. With something lovely and thoughtful.

She decided to bake that lemon cake she loved for that day. The one with poppy seeds in the batter and the glaze. She had bought them to make it for herself, but she wanted to say thank you. So she reached for her purse and put the little bag with the seeds on the counter for later.

----

The apartment smelled faintly of lemon.

It swirled in the air differently than the usual jasmine. As he walked inside, he picked up the sugar, the warm scent of golden batch.

Not store-bought. Tangy-sweet and soft.

He moved toward the kitchen.

And there, right beside the dish, right where he’d left her fresia, A lemon cake, cooling on a small wooden board he didn’t even remember owning, golden, the white glaze still not dried.

He didn’t move for a second. Just stood there, looking at it.

He reached out and ran his index finger lightly over the glaze. It was tacky with citrus and sugar. Fresh.

He cut a slice in silence and sat at the kitchen island to eat it, the plate barely making a sound on the counter. He chewed slowly, letting the flavor unfurl, bright lemon, the crunch of seeds, the softness of something made from scratch.

It was the best thing he’d tasted in weeks.

And somehow, that mattered more than he wanted to admit.

The pendant had meant something to her. He knew that now. The flower had been his way of saying he saw it. And this cake, it felt like her way of saying thank you.

They still hadn’t met. Still hadn’t spoken, probably never will. But something was happening here, two people sharing a quiet room in mismatched moments of the day, still passing warmth between them.

He reached for a second slice.

And for the first time in days, he really smiled.

----

He should’ve checked the schedule.

The Capitol steps shone under his shoes as he stood there, blinking at the empty air where the aides and staffers should’ve been.

No session.

A recess day for constituent travel, or maybe one of those informal pro forma sessions that didn’t need his presence. Whatever it was, no one told him. Or maybe they had, and he hadn’t listened. Either way, he was there, alone, overdressed, and already caught by the click of a single paparazzi camera from across the street.

James Buchanan Barnes, rookie congressman, looking confused as hell.

He bit down a curse and didn’t give the lens anything else to work with, just turned on his heel and headed for the car, schooling his face into neutrality.

Halfway through the drive home, it hit him.

She’s there today.

He gripped the wheel tightly. He could turn around, kill time somewhere, a coffee shop, a walk in the park, or hit the gym even though he wasn’t in the mood. He could also disappear into the back room of his apartment without being noticed and pretend no one was in there.

But who was he kidding? He wanted to know her. The motherly voice behind the lemon cake. The gentle scent of dried lavender on the satchels she left inside his pillowcases, soothing, helping him rest. The woman who turned his empty apartment into something he trusted to come home to.

The elevator ride felt slower than usual. His pulse didn’t match the rhythm of the floor numbers ticking upward.

He reached the hallway.

He stepped in front of his door and heard it, the faint sound of music. Seemed like some kind of pop-rock thing.

Not what he had expected.

As he slowly walked in, he noticed that the music came from the kitchen, so he stealthily moved toward it. He didn’t want to stalk her, just… watch her a little without being noticed.

Baby, I'm preying on you tonight

Hunt you down eat you alive

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals

Ok. He didn’t expect that type of lyrics and the kind lady cleaning his house put together either. Curious, he reached the open door and-

Maybe you think that you can hide

I can smell your scent for miles

Just like animals

Animals

Like animals-mals

It wasn’t an old lady, that was for sure. No ache on her hips, since she seemed to undulate them following the rhythm, tantalizingly fine. Also, she seemed to know the song, since she sang it pretty well as she danced while wiping the counter.

A very suggestive prose, by the way.

He stared at her, and his brain tripped over the disconnection between the image he’d built in his head and the woman in front of him, completely unaware that she was being watched.

But I get so high when I’m inside you-

She turned.

Her yelp was half-squeal, half-breathless gasp. One hand flew to her chest. The other snatched her phone off the counter and slammed the music off with a panicked swipe.

Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun, but a few strands had fallen loose as she danced, brushing her cheek. She looked flustered, very much not the prim apron-and-hairnet matron he’d imagined all these months.

They stared at each other.

Heat gathered at the tips of her ears and along her cheeks. Not embarrassment, no, something different. Like her brain was already halfway through cataloging every second of what he’d just witnessed.

Then her expression changed, as if she had snapped out of the initial surprise. She straightened her posture, pulling professionalism over herself like a second skin.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” she said quickly, looking at the floor. “I-  I was supposed to be alone. If I’d known, I would never-”

“No, no,” he interrupted her, stepping forward instinctively. “It’s alright. I- uh. I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

It felt absurd, saying that in his own kitchen.

He cleared his throat. “Something came up, and I forgot today was your shift.”

The lie passed his lips smoothly.

She stood still, with her phone in her hand, every part of her body visibly tense, like one wrong move might get her fired. The cozy warmth from a few minutes ago was locked out behind a door of fear.

He didn’t want that.

He didn’t want her to feel that way at all.

She turned around, reaching for the dish towel she’d set aside, her fingers trembling visibly even as she tried to mask it. “I’ll be done in a few minutes, sir. Or if you prefer, I can return another day to finish-”

“No,” he said again, softer this time. “You don’t have to go.”

She glanced at him, faintly furrowing her brows.

He looked away.

The kitchen smelled like citrus cleaner and something hearty cooking in the oven. The kind of warmth he was craving to find in his nameplate apartment. And here they were, strangers, but he already felt her more familiar than she should be.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” he added, half-mumbling, and stepped back toward the hallway.

----

She didn’t move until she heard his retreating footsteps, and the door shut. The one she was told never to enter, the one locked every time she came.

Her heartbeat hadn't calmed down.

Not even close.

In four years with the company, she had never -never- crossed paths with a client. The contracts were built around that. No contact. No overlap. No room for awkwardness.

And now… this.

Congressman Barnes had just walked into his own home and caught her shaking her ass in his kitchen to a song about animalistic sex.

She exhaled hard through her nose and pressed the heels of her hands into the counter, trying to calm herself.

He didn’t seem mad. That was something.

Not a single sign of disgust or irritation. No barking orders. No tight-lipped reprimand about inappropriate conduct.

But that didn’t mean anything.

People in power didn’t have to scold you to ruin your job. They could just make a call. Ask for a switch. Flag you quietly. Label you unprofessional in one neat sentence.

Fuck.

She bit her lip and forced herself to move, grabbed the rag, and started wiping the faucet.

The pendant. The flower.

Those things had meant something. Or at least, she thought they had. A man who did that kind of gesture wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel.

But that was before this shitshow.

Before he saw her dancing around his countertops like a teenager with a hairbrush mic.

What if she got fired?

What the hell was she going to do?

The rent was due next week. Groceries were already thin. She didn’t even want to think about the dentist’s appointment she’d been rescheduling.

She wiped harder, moving her arms faster than they needed to, because if she didn’t keep moving, her hands would start shaking again.

And the thing that made it worse?

She hadn’t felt so seen in a long, long time.

And now all she wanted to do was vanish.

----

He tried to read the bill.

The same goddamn bill he’d opened five times this week and dropped five times more.

Something about infrastructure grants and zoning development for public parks in outlying districts. Important, supposedly. But it droned in his brain like static, paragraphs bloated with legal phrasing, clauses stacked like bricks in a wall he couldn’t make himself scale.

His eyes scanned the same sentence again.

Still nothing stuck.

Because underneath the words, under the dead weight of legislative jargon, he could hear her.

The subtle movements. Efficient. The soft drag of a towel over tile. The squeak of a cupboard hinge. Running water. Her steps.

She hadn’t fled.

But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t.

He rubbed his jaw with the back of his knuckles and leaned back in the chair, briefly closing his eyes, trying to block out the memory of her startled face, of how she froze, how quickly she apologized, how she’d looked at him like he was someone who could undo her whole life with a phone call.

He hadn’t meant to scare her.

He hadn’t meant to catch her, either. The music, the sway of her body. That bright little pocket of joy had been private. Intimate in a way he wasn’t supposed to see.

What if she requested a transfer?

What if she told the company he was intrusive or uncomfortable to work around? What if she disappeared, and the next time he walked through his door, the air smelled like ammonia and pine, the food tasted sterile, and there were no more dried lavender satchels tucked into his pillowcase?

He wouldn't complain.

He’d never say a word.

But it’d affect him more than he liked to admit.

He looked at the time and did some quick math.

She usually left at a quarter past four. Sometimes earlier if she finished ahead of schedule.

If he went out there at just the right moment, said something -anything- it might make a difference.

He didn’t want to corner her. Didn’t want to put her on edge. But he also didn’t want his apartment to go back to what it was before she came.

So he waited.

Just long enough.

Let the minutes tick by.

And when he heard the final rattle of a spray bottle being returned to its caddy, he stood up, cracked the door, and stepped out.

----

She rubbed a bit of cream into her hands, working it into the skin between each knuckle, then reached for her coat and bag by the door. Almost done. One more minute and she’d be out.

She heard the footsteps before she saw him.

She turned her head, and her heart lunched all over again.

He was in different clothes now. Every day stuff, a dark pair of jeans and a worn blue henley that pulled a little across his shoulders. If she’d passed him on the street, she’d think he was a normal guy. Quiet guy. Maybe one of those who always held the door open without making eye contact.

But she knew better.

She straightened her back and made herself speak.

“Is there anything you need, sir?” she asked, almost a murmur.

He stopped a few feet from her and looked up. Sir. He didn’t like how it sounded, it felt awkward. But he understood the boundaries.

He scratched the side of his neck. “I just wanted to say I, uh…” His gaze dropped briefly, then returned to her. “I liked the lemon cake. A lot.”

A beat.

“And I was wondering if… maybe you’d make it again sometime?”

He shifted his weight, slightly uncomfortable. “I’ll get the seeds. The ones you used, if you tell me what they are, and leave them in the cabinet with the spices and the other stuff.”

There it was. A quiet request.

Not only a I liked it, but also a I want you to come back.

The weight in her chest lifted enough to let her smile without thinking.

“Poppy,” she said. “They’re poppy seeds.”

He found himself smiling too. A mirror of hers.

“And sure, sir. I’ll do it again if you want me to.”

There was a pause.

His fingers grazed the back of his neck, like the words he was about to say needed to be coaxed out of him.

“I know about the politics,” he said quietly. “The rules. But… we already broke one.”

His voice was rougher now, gentler.

“Would you mind if we introduced ourselves?” A beat. “Since I don’t know. I feel it’s the proper thing to do.”

She blinked just once, surprised. Not by his tone, but maybe by the fact that he’d asked. Then the surprise changed to a soft smile again, and she gave him her name.

He nodded. “James Barnes,” he said, almost sheepishly. His hands stayed loose at his sides, like he didn’t want to risk making her uncomfortable again. “It was nice to meet you.”

Her answer came gently, but sure.

“Thank you, sir. It was nice to meet you, too.”

Next Chapter

Permanent taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @sophiemass @alagalaska @identity2212

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[cas-only-angel]

i’ve got five bots on private that have been sitting there for a month now and another three that haven’t been finished, feeling strangely motivated tonight so lets see how many more i can push out and release by next week maybe?

[cas-only-angel]

A Star Without a Sky (#5)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight angst. Comfort. Fluff. Slow Burn. Smut.

Summary: A wounded Sheriff Barnes seeks shelter in a young widow’s home, and finds himself wrapped in a warmth he no longer believes he deserves, and longing for something he thought long buried.

Word Count: 8.4k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The plan went smoothly into motion.

She began making the trips to town more frequently, as they agreed, three times a week, sometimes more. Always with a new errand in hand, never anything urgent. A thimble. A skein of thread. A tin of baking soda. The kind of things that didn’t look like much, but made it clear she couldn’t stay away.

And he was always somewhere at just the right time to offer his arm, to tip his hat low, to carry her things.

Sam had started calling them the town's slowest-moving scandal.

The first week passed without any noticeable events. She wore a new working dress with small flowers stitched at the hem and a ribbon she’d dyed to match. And her hair was no longer pinned in a bun but looped into a neat french braid.

He saw her like that for the first time, not at the office, but inside the bakery. She was already there when he stepped in for pie, her back to him, talking to Mrs. Marshall. He paused in the doorway a second too long, then stepped inside, boots scuffing against the boards.

“Morning, ma’am,” he said, voice tighter than it needed to be.

She turned with that practiced little smile, and her eyes twinkling. “Why, Sheriff. What a nice surprise.” She blinked up at him through her lashes, just as he’d coached her.

His ears turned pink. Before he could scrape together a response, the baker asked what he’d be having, saving him from his own damn silence.

After that, things shifted.

Every shared glance, every feigned brush of the hand, every time her fingers accidentally tugged a wrinkle from his coat, it all began to press against the rim of what they were pretending.

She played her part well. Maybe too well. And if there was guilt in how she leaned into it, looping her arm tightly through his on the street, letting herself walk pressed close to his side,  she didn't let it show.

Because it felt good.

Because, when else would she get to touch a man like that without shame?

She told herself it was harmless. That it was part of the game. But when his arm flexed under her hand as they stepped off the boardwalk… when he looked down at her like he was memorizing her lips… it didn’t feel fake. Not even a little.

He, on the other hand, was losing his mind.

He damn well knew it was his idea. Told her how to flirt, coached her through every step like a fool digging his own grave. He hadn’t expected to get buried in it.

What started as a passing interest, something small, born in the comfort of her home while she’d fed and stitched and sat with him, was no longer manageable. It had grown. Rooted itself somewhere deep.

Now she was always there. Sitting too close. Laughing too softly. Touching his sleeve in front of others like she had every right. She wasn’t his, but she touched him like she could be.

And he basked in it.

Because it felt good. Because it was all he was going to get.

But God help him, he needed to stop picturing her hands on him. Stop imagining how it would feel to kiss her just once. No game. No justification. Just… her mouth under his.

She had no idea.

And maybe that was for the best.

Sam noticed, of course. Teased him once -offhand, something about lawmen playing house in the office- and Bucky had nearly decked him for it.

The nights in the barn didn’t help.

Not sleeping much. Not with the wind rattling the door and her house glowing warm just a few feet away. Not with the memory of her voice in his head, of what we shared behind those walls.

He told himself it was part of the job.

Just like he told himself, he didn’t miss her every time she left.

----

She arrived just as he’d expected. Cart wheels crunching frostbitten dirt, mare snorting softly with the final pull. Bucky was already standing casually at the office’s door, arms crossed, leaning slightly on one boot without a care in the world. The truth was, he’d been watching the bend in the road like a man waiting for spring.

She didn’t see the way his shoulders relaxed when her cart came into view.

He straightened and stepped forward, slow, casual, calculated. By the time she pulled the reins, he was nearly to the wheel, ready to offer his hand.

Only she didn’t wait.

She gathered her skirt and moved to dismount, graceful as ever, except her boot caught in a patch of frozen mud. It slipped sideways, and she lost her balance before her hands could catch on anything. Her leg struck the side of the cart with a hollow thump, then she half-fell, half-slid to the ground with a stifled yelp.

Bucky reached her a beat too late, cursing under his breath. “Dammit! hey, hold on-”

“I’m fine,” she hissed, more mortified than anything else. “I’m fine-”

But he was already there, crouched beside her in the mud, his hands warm and firm on her arms as he checked her balance and her limbs. “You’re shakin’.”

“No, I’m just mortified,” she muttered, brushing at her coat and trying to rise.

Her face was contorted, and not from pain. From having fallen like some helpless town belle in the middle of the street, right at his damn feet.

He scooped her up without asking.

She yelped softly, “Bucky!”

“Hush,” he muttered. “Let me get you inside.”

He carried her like she weighed less than a sack of flour. The front door creaked as he pushed it open with his shoulder, warmth spilling out around them from the stove still glowing near the far wall. Sam wasn’t around. For once, thank God.

He set her down on the bench nearest the stove and knelt in front of her without thinking, scanning her face, her posture, like he was still not convinced she hadn’t broken something.

She waved a hand, breathing fast. “Told you, just hurt my pride.”

It was her leg that caught his eye. Fabric torn jaggedly at the side seam, a few inches of skin streaked with crimson. Mid-thigh.

The color drained from his face, just a little, and he hissed a low curse through his teeth. “You’re bleedin’.”

She followed his gaze and flinched. “It’s nothing. A scrape.”

“You don’t know that,” he said flatly. “Could be deeper than you think.”

“Bucky, I-”

“I need to look,” He was already standing, striding to the door. She twisted in place as he threw the lock, then yanked the heavy curtains shut. Shadows fell across the office.

“What are you-?”

“I ain’t gonna have someone come in here, see your skirts up and me on my knees, and jump to conclusions.” He turned back to her, hands already tugging his gloves off finger by finger.

Her breath caught in her chest.

He walked back to her calmly, then knelt again, his broad and warm hands gentle against her calf as he looked up.

“May I?”

Her throat bobbed once. She nodded.

With slow, deliberate fingers, he lifted the torn edge of her dress and pantalettes just enough to see the scratch. The skin beneath was reddened and streaked with a line of blood from where the wheel had scraped her. Not deep. But angry-looking.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

His hands didn’t shake. Not once. But the muscle in his jaw ticked as he stared.

“You’ll need it cleaned. Wrapped too.”

“I can do that at home.” She tried to dismiss.

He didn’t answer. Just let the skirt fall back into place and stood up, moving to grab the little wooden kit they kept in the back for injuries.

She watched him the whole time, her skin prickling with heat.

He braced her leg above her knee with one hand, steadying her as he reached into the kit with the other. Her skin was warm beneath his palm, softer than anything he had a right to touch. She shifted, just slightly, maybe from discomfort, but it was enough. That little movement, her thigh pressing deeper into his grip, went straight to his bloodstream like whiskey.

Christ.

He wasn’t thinking about her thighs, not at first. Not until he had one in his fucking hand.

He cleared his throat, narrowing his eyes as he uncorked the tincture. Doused a clean cloth and set to work, dabbing carefully, methodically, focusing on the scrap, not on the heat of her skin under his fingers. Not on the soft hitch in her breath when it stung her.

One of her hands gripped the bench edge tightly, knuckles white. The skirt was hiked indecently high, same as her underwear, bunched at her hips, her leg bare from knee to upper thigh. She had never sat like that in front of a man who wasn’t her husband. And even then, not like this. Not feeling exposed, not trembling slightly, not aching in places that had nothing to do with the wound.

“I told you I could’ve done this at home,” she said, but her voice wasn’t nearly as firm as before.

He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

“You were shakin’,” he muttered, rinsing the cloth, wringing it out with one sharp twist. “Didn’t trust you not to faint.”

“I don’t faint.”

“Still.” His jaw flexed. “Better safe than sorry.”

She didn’t reply.

The cloth dragged slowly down her thigh, the backs of his fingers brushing along her skin, as his palm held her firmly on the outer edge of her leg. She bit the inside of her cheek and looked anywhere but at him. The stove, the grain in the floorboards, the hem of her own dress.

It wasn’t even the touch that undid her, it was the tenderness. He moved with care. And it ruined her.

She hated the way her throat closed.

Hated that the only thought in her mind was if I reached out now, just to touch his hair, would he lean into it or flinch?

He finished, finally, and let the skirt fall back into place with more gentleness than necessary. Still didn’t look up. Just sat back on his heels, breathing like he’d run a mile uphill.

“Won’t scar,” he said, lowly.

“I’ve got others,” she murmured.

His eyes snapped up. Damn if he didn’t want to trace every mark she carried with his mouth. Map them. Know where she’d hurt and where she’d healed.

She noticed his stare. Could feel her pulse behind her ears, feel the warmth of where his hand had been like an imprint burned into her thigh.

And in that moment, she realized she didn’t want to be looked at that way just in passing.

She wanted to be seen like that again.

And again.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Just sat there. His hands on his knees now, hers curled in the folds of her skirt, both of them pretending they hadn’t felt what they felt. That her body hadn’t leaned into his. That he hadn’t held her like something precious.

“You should- uh,” he broke the spell, voice hoarse. “Wait a while. Warm up. You took a hit.”

She nodded, smoothing her skirt with a hand that trembled faintly. “Alright.”

She tugged at the torn hem of her dress, inspecting the gash that ran all the way through to her pantalettes. The fabric was frayed where the wheel axle had caught it, split like a mouth, and still damp with the mud of the street. She grimaced, more at the thought of walking around town like that than at the ache in her leg.

“I’ll need to stitch it,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Bucky was still standing by the stove, his arms stiff at his sides, and his hands flexed once, then again.

She reached for her satchel and pulled out the little tin that held her sewing kit. “You have someplace private?” she asked. “To mend it, I mean. I need to take it off.”

His jaw shifted. He didn’t look at her.

There was the back room -the one where the armory and ledgers were kept- but it was cold, all wood and iron and dust. It didn’t feel right. And if Sam came back, needing a rifle or looking for a report, well...

So he cleared his throat. Rubbed a hand along the nape of his neck. “You can use my room.”

She looked up. “You sure?”

He nodded once, curt. “Ain’t much, but it’s clean. Has a lock.”

That last part came out softer. Like maybe he meant safe, but couldn’t quite say it out loud.

She offered a small smile. “That’s plenty.”

He stepped toward the hallway that led to the quarters, his boots heavy across the worn boards. At the door, he turned the knob and pushed it open, gesturing with one hand without stepping inside.

She followed.

The room was simple. Spartan, really. A narrow bed tucked against the far wall with a gray wool blanket folded back neatly. A side table with a dented oil lamp, a drawer with a cracked basin, a shaving cup, a comb, and a folded hand towel. Nothing decorative. No framed pictures. No clutter.

But it smelled like soap and pine. Clean. Private.

“I’ll wait out front,” he said, still not meeting her eyes.

She stepped past him and gave a polite nod. “Thank you.”

----

She closed the door softly behind her and let the latch click into place.

The room was still, dim with the curtains drawn, and the air had the faint scent of soap, old wood, and something that was just him. She set her satchel on the hanger at the door and stood for a moment, taking it in.

It was so plain it made her chest ache. No pictures or paintings. No keepsakes. No color. Just the bare minimum, arranged with the kind of precision you only learn when you’ve lived long without the basics.

With the sheriff’s pay, he could’ve rented a modest place in town. A little cabin or a loft above one of the shops. But this room, tucked behind the office like an afterthought, was clearly enough for him.

And that, somehow, made her sadder than it should.

She undressed quickly, folding the torn dress over her knees as she sat on the edge of his bed. The wool blanket scratched a little against her bare thighs.

That realization made her pause.

She wasn’t a girl. She’d been married. She wasn’t supposed to get fluttery sitting in a man’s bed, especially not a man who’d never offered more than a few stilted compliments and a handful of careful touches for the sake of a charade.

But still, here she was.

Her cheeks warmed. She opened her sewing kit, forcing her hands into the rhythm she knew by heart. Needle through fabric. Pull. Knot. Tie off. Her fingers were quick, but calm, but her thoughts wouldn’t quiet.

She was sitting where he slept. She could picture him here, the long sprawl of his body across the narrow mattress, maybe one arm thrown over his eyes, boots kicked off, shirtless.

She wondered what he dreamed about.

She pushed the needle through the torn edge again and pursed her lips.

It was silly. She knew that. Foolish to let herself get carried away just because she could smell him on the pillow or see the careful way he folded his towel. But it was the first glimpse she’d had of his private life, and it hit her harder than expected.

The room screamed of a man who didn’t expect to stay. A man who’d never really unpacked.

----

His palm still remembered the shape of her leg.

Her warmth lingered on him like a brand. The curve of her thigh, the way her breath hitched -not from pain, but from surprise- as his fingers steadied her so he could clean the wound. He hadn’t meant for it to feel intimate. Wasn’t thinking like that. But the moment her body gave under his hand, pliant and warm and trusting, something lit low in his stomach and burned all the way down.

Now, she was in his room.

Naked.

Fixing a tear on her dress, needle and thread working in some quiet rhythm while he sat frozen behind his desk, pretending to focus on the reports in front of him. His eyes weren’t reading. Not really. The ink blurred, smudged. His thoughts were halfway across the damn building, behind that shut door.

She was naked. In his room. On his bed. Fixing what had torn when she slipped in front of him like some poor fool in a dime novel.

He ran a hand down his face.

And he’d carried her instinctively. Like she belonged in his arms.

His hand clenched slowly on the table’s edge.

Rumlow hadn’t made a move yet.

Not directly.

Hadn’t cornered her on the street. Hadn’t stopped by her house. Hell, hadn’t even looked her way when they passed by the feed store last week, but that meant nothing. That snake was patient. And smart. The kind of smart who smiled at you while holding a knife behind his back. He had eyes in this town, ears tucked into corners of the saloon and the smokehouse and the damn church pews, probably.

And every single one of them had surely seen the sheriff helping the widow down from her cart, brushing dust off her skirt, carrying her parcels like he had a claim.

His stomach soured.

Maybe it wasn’t boldness holding Rumlow back, but calculation. Waiting for the right moment. For proof, the woman he thought of as his had slipped out of reach. Bucky’s teeth ground.

She didn’t see it. That was the damn thing. She didn’t see him. Not the way a man like that looked at a woman alone for too long. She thought Rumlow was just… unpleasant. A little strange. Too forward in his apologies, maybe. But she hadn’t seen the way his eyes dragged over her. Like he was picking a cut of meat. Like he already owned it.

She didn’t see it. Because she wasn’t used to being hunted.

His jaw ticked. He’d known a lot of things in his life. Violence. Scarcity. The cold bite of loneliness. But nothing made him feel the kind of wrong he felt imagining Rumlow’s hands on her.

He leaned back in the chair and dragged a slow breath through his nose.

She was smart. Kind. Capable as hell. But too used to assuming that what didn’t feel like danger wasn’t. That because she’d survived worse -death, grief, loneliness- she could handle whatever came next.

But wolves don’t knock.

They wait. Circle. Smile with their teeth hidden behind words that sound an awful lot like help.

And right now, that wolf was watching.

----

The door to Bucky’s room creaked open softly, and she stepped out with her dress freshly mended, brushing one palm down the front like she could smooth the whole morning away. He looked up only once, just enough to make sure she was upright, not limping.

“Thank you for lettin’ me use your room,” she said, casually as she moved past him toward the stove. Like she wasn’t acutely aware she’d just stepped out of the place he slept, wearing nothing but her own skin, not ten minutes before.

He didn’t turn. Just shrugged one shoulder, eyes back on the papers he hadn’t read since she fell. “You let me use yours for much more than the time you needed to mend those clothes,” he muttered. “Reckon there’s nothin’ to thank me for.”

His gaze flicked toward her legs, then darted quickly back to the report in his hands.

“You shouldn’t be wanderin’ around if you hurt yourself. Why don’t you sit a while near the stove?”

She arched a brow, already reaching for the kettle. “I’ve been sittin’ on your bed for nearly half an hour. What if I want to make you some decent coffee? As a thank you. For carrying me. You shouldn’t’ve done that, could’ve hurt your back.”

He exhaled through his nose, slow and sharp, his shoulders pulling a little straighter. “I prefer if you sit down,” he said, deadpan. “And I find it insultin’ you think my back’s so fragile it’d give out from a few steps accommodatin’ you.”

He didn’t lift his head. But his ears itched red.

She tilted her head, leaning her hip against the edge of the stove. “Ok. What if I want a decent coffee?”

He muttered something low, unintelligible, and flipped a page with more force than necessary. “Woman, I know what you’re doin’. If you want a beverage, I can offer you a decent tea. Just keep your-” he stopped himself short, jaw twitching, “-yourself sittin’ there.”

She smiled behind her hand. “Decent tea? I could accept that.”

He didn’t answer.

Because his hand was already reaching for the little tin near the cupboard, rough fingers curling around the handle like maybe it was easier to serve her tea than admit he’d just pictured her ass in his bed for the second time that morning.

He poured for himself, too. It wasn’t every day he drank tea, but there were mornings it hit the spot, and this one had turned into something strange enough to warrant it. The tin rattled a little when he opened it. Baker Marshall had given it to him not long after he took the badge, after he caught some shit-stained teenager trying to make off with one of her trifles. She’d thrust the tin at him all stern-voiced gratitude, and it’d stayed in his drawer since, barely touched.

She took a careful sip from the enamel mug he’d handed her, then tucked her legs a little closer to the stove’s warmth. “So,” she said after a moment, casual but tight, “it doesn’t seem like Rumlow’s really interested in what’s going on between us.”

Bucky looked up, gaze unreadable.

“In all these days I came to town,” she went on, “I haven’t seen him once. And before, every time I passed by, he was always in my way.”

He set his mug down gently, curling his fingers loosely around the handle.

“And that don’t tell you anythin’?” he asked, in a low voice.

“The fact that people start seein’ somethin’ between us and he suddenly vanishes? That ain’t nothin’. That’s everything. It’s affectin’ him,” Bucky continued. “Man like that doesn’t just stop lurkin’. He’s either waitin’, or he’s recalculatin’. Tryin’ to figure how to handle a change he didn’t see comin’.”

She held her mug tighter.

“I can’t picture yet if he’s gonna take it out on me,” he added, “or if he’ll slip and try to take it out on you. Try to finish the job, scare you back toward his arms.”

The room went quiet after that. The stove hissed softly. Outside, boots crunched somewhere on the street, a dog barked once.

She looked at him over the rim of her mug. “I don’t think he’d-” she started.

“Don’t think,” Bucky cut gently. “Know. That man’s been playin’ a long game, and now that it ain’t playin’ in his favor, he’ll change tactics.”

Her voice was smaller when she asked, “And what do we do?”

He reached for the kettle again, refilled her cup before she could stop him.

“We keep goin’,” he said. “Let him stew. Make him think he’s losin’ ground.”

She wrapped her hands tighter around the cup, heat blooming in her palms.

“And in the meantime?” she asked.

He paused. Met her eyes.

“In the meantime,” Bucky murmured, “you stick close. And don’t go wanderin’ that prairie alone.”

----

The dress felt strange against her skin. Not ill-fitting, but unfamiliar. Ghost-heavy.

She hadn’t touched it in nearly two years. It was soft, cornflower blue, its buttons delicate as raindrops. Cole had picked it out at the fair before the fever took him. Said she’d look like spring itself in it. She had used it once, then folded it away, and let it sit in the box like it might lose its charge over time.

It didn’t.

She’d bought that other dress -the one that tore- just to avoid ever wearing this one. But now... maybe the tear had been the sign. Maybe things only waited so long to be chosen before choosing for themselves.

And now here she was, tugging it over her hips like it hadn’t sat folded beneath two years of dust and grief.

She rested the braid over her shoulder, settled her hat low on her head, and stepped onto the cart. If she looked in the mirror too long, she’d change her mind.

----

She wore a different dress that morning. Blue with little white flowers stitched along the bodice, and a line of faint embroidery just beneath the collarbone. Her hair was braided differently, too, somehow more... delicate. It looked like something chosen on purpose.

Bucky noticed all of it. Which was part of the problem.

They hadn’t said much when she pulled up with the cart. He’d stepped out of the sheriff’s office like he hadn’t been waiting by the window the last fifteen minutes, muttering to himself about keeping things professional. But when she hopped down and suggested lunch at the hotel restaurant -casual as anything- and he had to tie the reins with more force than needed just to keep his hands steady.

“You sure?” he’d asked.

She’d nodded. “Yeah. Thought we could change the scenery a little.”

But as they started walking, the silence between them stretched too thin. Not quite uncomfortable, but close enough to feel like it.

He didn’t look at her. Not directly. Not with that dress on, or that braid. Not when his thoughts were busy drowning him in a glass of water. What if he embarrassed himself at the restaurant? What if his manners betrayed just how far he’d lived from polite company?

Beside him, she glanced his way. Noticed the distance between their steps. The way his hands stayed stuffed deep in his coat, like he didn’t want them near her.

“Shouldn’t you offer me your arm to walk?” she asked lightly, though her eyes were sharp.

That pulled him up short. “What?”

She tilted her head, mouth drawing into something wry. “Sheriff, I’m a little at a loss here. This whole pretense, it was your idea, wasn’t it? But the way you’re carryin’ on since I got off the cart, feels like I’m pesterin’ you instead of being courted.”

It landed. Hard.

Bucky wanted to slap the heel of his hand to his forehead, but instead, he swallowed and shook his head, ashamed.

“Uh no,” he said quickly. “Just... got other things on my mind. Distracted. ‘M sorry.”

He moved then, awkwardly, and lifted his arm toward her.

She took it without hesitation, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

“There,” she murmured, her fingers warm through the leather. “Now it looks like we mean it.”

He didn’t trust his mouth to respond. Just gave a short nod and kept walking, even as every brush of her skirt against his thigh felt like temptation wrapped in calico.

----

They were shown to a small table near the window. The dining room was quiet at that hour, just the low murmur of plates and cutlery, a cough from the kitchen, the warm scent of meat stew and baked butter crust swirling in the air.

Bucky pulled her chair out before she could reach for it herself. Said nothing as she sat. Just adjusted his coat as he lowered himself into the chair across from her, resting his hat on his thigh.

A waiter drifted near. Bucky asked for two menus, not just one, like some men would’ve done. Like Brock had done, ordering for her without asking.

“Pick what you want,” he said, settling back against the creaking wood with a slow exhale. “God knows I’m starving, and since this... performance of ours was my idea, I’ll cover it.”

She blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, Bucky, I was the one who suggested we come today, but it wasn’t my intention to-”

“And I accepted,” he cut in, casual but firmly. “So it’s on me.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but he shook his head, tugging his lips into something dry and nearly amused. “‘Sides,” he added, with a small shrug, “not like I do much with my income. I can afford a damn plate at this excuse of a hotel.”

That pulled a huff of breath from her, halfway to a laugh. She tucked her hands beneath the napkin on her lap.

“W-well,” she murmured, glancing down at the menu but not reading a word of it, “thank you, then.”

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched her fingers fuss with the corner of the page like they didn’t quite know what to do with the gesture. She wasn’t pretending. Not with that tone. Not with that half-stammer and the biting on her lower lip. She wasn’t used to being taken out, that much was clear.

And something about that made a stupid warmth spread in his chest. Like pride. “Least I can do,” he muttered, busying himself with the menu. “‘Specially for my darling.”

Her head snapped up slightly. His eyes didn’t lift from the page.

“Your darling?” she asked, playing along but not unaffected.

“For appearances,” he said calmly. Too calmly. “Isn’t that what folks are supposed to think?”

She smiled, a slow, sideways thing. But it reached her eyes.

“Then I’ll have the roast,” she said, looking straight at him now. “Might as well order properly if it’s your money we’re spending.”

He grinned into his water glass and didn’t answer. Didn’t have to. The flush crawling up the back of his neck said plenty.

----

The food arrived with a soft clatter of plates. Across the table, Bucky had already picked up his fork, but his grip on it shifted once, then twice, like it didn’t feel quite right in his hand. His movements were slow and deliberate, every bite taken with too much care. He didn’t look up and barely spoke. He was always quiet, but today was on another level.

She watched him for a few more moments, then set her fork down gently.

“Are you feeling unwell?” she asked warmly, with concern.

His brow furrowed faintly. He paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Not at all. Why?”

She hesitated. “You seem… tense. While eating, I mean.”

His eyes dropped to the plate again. He swallowed. “Do I?”

She nodded slightly. “Kind of.”

Silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t the comfortable kind they’d shared before. She was already wondering if she’d overstepped when he finally exhaled through his nose.

“You know about my upbringing,” he said quietly, eyes still not lifting from the edge of his plate. “The… places I was in.”

She gave the smallest nod, her chest already clenching.

“They didn’t teach us much about table manners. I mean, they taught us how to stand in line. How to keep quiet. How to sit straight with a plate in front of you and eat fast before it gets taken. Like they already knew what we’d be used for. Not how to… act like we belonged in places like this.” He waved faintly at the table.

His voice dropped lower, almost a rasp. “Later on, workin’ ranches or bounty ridin’... you ate what you caught or what didn’t spoil. It didn’t exactly… polish anything.”

Her heart twisted a little in her chest. A sharp ache for the boy he’d been.

Bucky glanced away, tapping his fingers on the table’s edge before stilling. “I guess I taught myself some civil behavior over the years, but…” His mouth twisted. “Sometimes, in places like this, or even back at your house, those first few days… I get caught up in my head. Feel like I’m bein’ watched, like it’ll show. That I don’t know what I’m doin’. That I don’t belong.”

He looked up at her then, his river-glass eyes were unreadable but so damn open she could’ve wept for it.

“I know it’s stupid,” he muttered.

She slowly reached across the table and laid her hand over his.

Not for show. Not for Rumlow. Not for whatever roles they were pretending to play.

Just for him.

“It’s not stupid,” she said gently. “And for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing just fine.”

His breath hitched, subtle but real. His eyes widened a fraction, startled not by her touch but by how much it disarmed him. And before he could talk himself out of it, he turned his hand under hers, palm up, curling his fingers gently around hers, sweeping his thumb once over the ridges of her knuckles.

He didn’t speak. Just held on for a breath longer than he should’ve.

Then he cleared his throat softly and released her hand, reaching for his fork with a firmer grip this time.

----

They’d finished the meal in the kind of quiet neither of them seemed eager to break. Bucky wiped the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin, then folded it carefully, like buying time for a sentence he didn’t want to say.

“I should get back to the office,” he muttered, not quite looking at her. His fingers tapped once on the table before reaching for his hat. “As much as I’d rather be sittin’ right here, if folks catch me foolin’ around too long they’ll think I’ve forgotten the badge is real.”

He flagged the waiter and settled the bill without fanfare. Like it was just another part of his job, another duty to tend to.

She didn’t argue. Didn’t thank him, not right away. Not in front of the waiter.

He stood, took a step toward her chair, and offered his hand.

She hesitated, then slid her fingers into his palm. His grip was warm. He helped her up like he’d always do it, if given the chance.

Once they were outside, sun catching on the dusty street, she turned and looked at him thoughtfully. “Are you sure you don’t want me to cover my part?”

His eyes flicked to hers then, sharp and bright, his mouth twitched just slightly. “Told you already,” he said. “It’s the least I can do… for my darlin’.”

He said it like it wasn’t staged. Like the words had come out without permission.

Her heart kicked once in her chest. She didn’t smile. Didn’t laugh or tease. Just slid her hand through the crook of his arm when he offered it.

The sun lit the edges of his face as he glanced away, casting his eyes to something across the street. His profile caught in the light -riverglass blue and sharp edges- and she thought: damn it, I’m doomed.

“All right then,” she said, masking her. “But I’m not headin’ to the cart yet. Gotta stop by the fabric store. Finally settin’ my mind to makin’ new curtains.”

He nodded and slightly shifted his stance to guide her toward the corner. His arm tightened just a bit beneath her hand.

“Drop you there,” he murmured, voice a touch rougher than before. “Then I’ll head back.”

They walked in silence, not too close, not too far. Her fingers rested lightly against the thick fabric of his coat, and he didn’t look down at them, but he felt it. Every brush. Every point of contact.

He stopped outside the shop when she did, stepping aside just enough to let her pass, and held the door without needing to be asked.

She looked up at him once before going inside. Her eyes lingered, warm and unreadable.

“See you tomorrow?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said, already missing the way her hand felt on his arm.

He watched her disappear into the soft clatter of the store, then stood still a long moment. Then he turned, pulled low the brim of his hat, and walked back toward the badge like it weighed double today.

----

The bell above the shop door jingled as she stepped out, a neat bundle of fabric bolts balanced in her arms. She squinted at the late sun, as the wind teased a loose strand of hair from behind her ear.

She barely made two steps when a shadow fell over her path.

“Well now,” a voice drawled, smooth as molasses, slick as snake oil. “Didn’t think I’d catch you walkin’ around without your shadow today. Or any other day soon.”

Her chest thudded.

“Mr. Rumlow,” she greeted, polite as a preacher’s wife. “Didn’t know you kept such sharp eyes on my whereabouts.”

Brock tipped his hat with the slow smugness of a man too comfortable in his skin. “Just happened to be nearby,” he said, though she could smell the lie under the sweetness.

“I’m just buyin’ some cloth,” she said, shifting the bundles in her arms. “New curtains.”

“New curtains,” he repeated, like the phrase amused him. His gaze swept over her, from braid to hem. “You look nice today. The braid suits you. Thought about tellin’ you that last time you passed by, but…” He lifted his brows with that familiar insinuation, the kind that made her want to scrub herself clean.

“Thank you,” she said flatly, resisting the urge to look around. “Figured it was time for a change.”

His mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. “Sometimes change is good.”

Then he stepped forward.

Too close.

She didn’t move, not yet, but her grip on the parcels tightened.

Brock looked at her hands, made a show of tilting his head. “Well, look at me, standin’ here like a brute while a lady juggles half a store.” Before she could answer, he reached out and took the fabric from her arms without asking.

She stiffened.

“Let me help,” he said, all charm. “Ain’t no trouble.”

“T-thanks,” she muttered, glancing around the street again.

He stepped beside her, too casual, too sure.

They walked together a few feet, slowly, like nothing was wrong. But everything in her gut twisted.

“Used to be,” Brock murmured, voice dipping low, “you’d look folks in the eye. Smile easily. That was before the sheriff put you in his pocket.”

She stopped walking.

Turned to him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, tone even, hands still.

His smile sharpened. “No? Just seems like you used to be a lot friendlier. Now you’re walkin’ around like someone’s claimed you.”

She swallowed. “If that’s meant to be a question, you’ll have to speak plainer.”

He laughed once, low in his throat. “Don’t need to. Just sayin’, some of us have been lookin’ out for you a lot longer than he has.”

She blinked.

It wasn’t just the words, it was how easy they came to him. Like he believed them. Like it wasn’t slander, just a fact.

"Well," she said slowly, "I appreciate folks lookin' out for me without being asked. This town’s always been mighty generous like that." She tilted her head, the tone was pleasant but just sharp enough to carry a note of warning. “But maybe it’s time I let myself be looked after again. By a man I chose.”

A pause. Delicate as lace, taut as wire.

Brock’s smile never reached his eyes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you about him.”

“I appreciate-”

“He’s not good for you,” he cut in, voice low, hardening like cooled steel. “And you’re too naive to see it.”

Her spine stiffened.

“As I told you before,” he went on, softer now but colder somehow, “I always had the best intentions toward you. Always. I’m sayin’ this as a friend, someone who's watched you two foolin' around like children, for him to hit the saloon and fancy some whore the same day he helps you into a cart.”

The words struck like a slap.

Before she could answer, before she could gather breath or fury or anything in between, he went on.

“Ask about lil’ Lucy,” he said, quieter now, like he was offering a kindness instead of driving a blade under her ribs. “That petite blonde always smokin’ on the balcony. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”

He leaned in, and she caught the faint scent of tobacco, the crisp edge of his cologne. “I’d hate seein’ you sufferin’ again,” he murmured, almost sweet. “When you could just…”

A pause. A beat too close.

“…look in the right direction.”

And then, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t just tried to slip poison under her skin, he dropped her parcels into the cart and touched the brim of his hat with a smile that didn’t reach anything near decent.

Then he was gone.

She didn’t move.

Didn’t reach for the reins. Didn’t even blink.

Lucy.

It could’ve meant nothing. But his voice, God, the way he’d said it. She stared at the fabric in the cart. All it gave her was the echo of his voice, smug and thin and dripping false concern.

A part of her wanted to turn around. March after him and throw the words back in his smug face.

Another part, the quieter, more dangerous part-

She hadn’t meant to walk straight from the fabric store to the sheriff’s office, but somehow her boots had carried her there anyway.

Not for comfort.

Just for… well, she didn’t know what for. To confront him? To ask about something she had no right to even think about?

It could’ve been just another one of Rumlow’s lies. The man had a tongue like a snake and eyes that gleamed when they saw hurt coming. Stirring trouble with a whisper was probably how he fed himself.

And if she and Bucky really were courting -if this weren’t some stupid charade they cooked up over jam and damaged trees- maybe she’d have the right to be mad. Jealous. Hurt.

But they weren’t. Not really.

So should she ask? Could she?

She’d seen how some women in town looked at him. And she wasn’t blind, he was a man like any other, one who’d walked harder paths than most and likely taken comfort where he found it. The idea of knowing details about it, though? That made her stomach clench. She didn’t want to know. She really didn’t.

But if he was getting sloppy -if he was letting the mask slip while they played this game- then maybe he needed a reminder. Not for her sake. For the plan’s.

Still, the thought of it -him, being with some woman after walking her to her cart, after touching her hand, her waist, speaking softly like it mattered- bruised her chest in a way she hadn’t expected.

So, after too much pacing and too many second-guessings, she squared her shoulders and crossed the street stiff-legged, like she was stomping down the doubt with every step.

The town moved around her, same as ever. Someone’s horse whinnied near the stables. A pair of women passed her with quiet chatter and narrowed eyes.

The wood of the door gave a tired creak under her hand, and the warm smell of old paper and stronger coffee hit her nose like something familiar, damn it.

Inside, Sam leaned back in his chair with his boots up on the edge of the desk, whining about something. Bucky stood at the cabinet, holding a half-eaten roll, with a crease deep between his brows.

“-I said I’d bring you somethin’,” Bucky muttered, exasperated. “Didn’t mean I was gonna carry half the bakery in my coat.”

Sam gestured lazily with one hand. “You said lunch, not a crusty leftover like I’m your stray mutt.”

“You are a stray mutt.”

“Yeah, well, you’re the stray’s emotionally repressed cousin, so-”

The door thunked shut behind her.

Two pairs of eyes turned toward her. Sam’s stance didn’t falter, but Bucky’s whole body changed, his shoulders lifted, and his fingers pressed harder around the roll.

She hadn’t planned how she was going to do this. She never did when it came to him.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, lips curved into something polite. Her gaze stayed on Bucky. “Can I talk to you?”

Bucky blinked once, then again. Swallowed.

Sam stood, all mock offense melting into something more curious as he snagged his coat off the hook. “And that’s my cue,” he said, moving toward the door. “If y’all need sugar, flour, or the Lord’s forgiveness, I’m headed to the store.”

“Sugar,” she said calmly. “I’m out.”

Sam grinned widely. “Knew it. Deputy’s work is never done.”

He tipped an imaginary hat and slipped out, the door shutting with a final little thunk.

And then it was quiet.

She took a slow breath. Then looked right at Bucky.

“I wasn’t sure if I should come,” she said, voice even. “But figured, if we’re meant to be convincin’, I can’t just storm off after lunch without a word.”

He didn’t say anything, but the tick of his jaw gave him away.

“There’s a man in town sayin’ he’s seen you,” she continued, stepping forward. “After we... spend time.”

That got him. His head jerked up, brows pulled together.

“Said you visit the saloon. Regular-like.”

He blinked. His mouth opened, then shut again.

She held his gaze, even if it nearly burned to do it. “I ain’t your keeper, Bucky. Lord knows I ain’t got the right to dictate how you spend your evenings, and I don’t want details,” she said quickly. “Don’t want names or stories or nothin’. It ain’t really my business. But if folks are watchin’, and you’re makin’ rounds that don’t match the story we’re tellin’, maybe you should be more careful when takin’ a stroll.”

Still, nothing.

She crossed her arms. “Just thought you should know. And, the one-”

He licked his bottom lip. Voice low. “Who said it?”

“I was going to get there when you asked. The one who said it was Rumlow.”

And that was it.

His whole body language changed. His eyes narrowed, his free hand closed into a fist.

“Said I should ask you ‘bout ‘little Lucy” she cast her eyes down. Damn. She wasn’t planning on telling him that part.

His body stilled like a trap had just been sprung. The muscles in his jaw ticked once, twice, silent, tight fury winded through his frame.

“Did he, now,” Bucky said, voice flat as a dead road.

She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her arms stayed crossed over her chest, like she was bracing for something that hadn’t hit yet but sure as hell would.

He stared at nothing, his jaw working slowly like he was biting on a nail. “Lucy ain’t a name I’ve heard in months,” he said finally, rubbing his thumb hard along the desk’s edge. Like he meant to sand something down that wouldn’t smooth. “She was never-” he stopped. Shook his head once, sharply. “She ain’t important.”

“It’s alright…” she tried to shrug it off. “ain’t as naïve as you think I am, Sheriff. We ain’t nothin’. I know you’re a man. And as a man, you got certain-”

“I don’t want Lucy,” he cut her, quiet but clear. “Ain’t wanted her. Ain’t thought of her. Not once since the day I fucked her after reachin’ town.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t go touchin’ a woman after walkin’ beside you.”

She swallowed, and her arms dropped slowly to her sides.

“Yes, we are pretendin’,” he said. “But I’ll be damned if I ever let you think I’d treat you like that. Be that kind of man.”

He almost spilled all out. That she’d taken up space in his mind longer than he’d ever admit, twining through his hollowed spaces of like ivy creeping over ruin. That ever since the day she pressed a damp cloth to his fevered skin, she’d been undoing something in him he didn’t know how to hold together. That he wanted her, not politely, not like a neighbor tipping his hat.

But it wasn’t the time to exploit her vulnerability, with all that’s been happening to her, and he was sure as hell she deserved better than him.

So he bit down on it. Let it rot on his tongue.

A long silence stretched between them, thick with unsaid things.

“Alright,” she murmured at last. “Um- I just wanted… to tell you what he said, that’s all.”

She tried to sound casual, but the relief was stupid and obvious. Like some foolish part of her had needed to hear he hadn’t been out bedding a whore.

He cleared his throat. “Well. Seems our little game’s workin’, then,” he muttered. “If that snake’s feelin’ bold enough to show his teeth.”

The room felt smaller than it had a minute ago.

“Yeah… seems so.” She managed to say. The silence stretched. Her hands smoothed down the front of her skirt like she needed something to do. “I should go,” she said, glancing toward the door. “Before the sun drops too low.”

He gave a small nod, and she turned around, boots soft on the boards, reaching for the handle, but she didn’t make it that far.

The sound of his boots moved behind her, fast and quiet. Not a hand on her, not a word. But suddenly he was there, close. Too close. One palm pressed to the wood beside her head, the other, closing slowly around the knob, stopping her short. His chest hovered just behind her back, radiating heat.

And she felt him.

The scent of his body. Then his breath brushing a loose strand of hair near her cheek.

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

The world shrank to the space between them.

His jaw ticked once beside her ear. She heard it. Felt it.

He didn’t speak. Neither did she.

Seconds passed, slow and charged, until he exhaled hard through his nose, cursed softly under his breath, and let go of the handle.

He reached around her, opened the door, and stared somewhere past her shoulder as the wind cut in.

“Safe travel,” he muttered.

“Thank you.” She stepped out, heartbeat loud in her ears.

He watched her go. Stood in the doorway until she reached the cart. Only then did he shut the door. Then, he leaned his forehead against the wood and didn’t move for a long, long time.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @whitewolfluvr @webbedwonders @ddrewcameron @globetrotter28 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @maryevm @nojudgmentjustsupport @jaderabbitt @hi172826 @littlesuniee @lonelyghosts-stuff @vxllys @mrsalexstan @winter107soldier @muchwita @gentlelimerence @gotminho @alaskaloveposts @oldernotwiser26 @daylighthazzz @dollface-xoxo @danzer8705 @ana27qz @carrotlove @valyriantarg @mgchaser @kittieboo @buckysbbydoll @purplefluffycows @yes-ilovetowrite @greatenthusiasttidalwave @technicallytinyheart @y0urgrl @wintrsoldrluvr @neyr100 @shortlikerdj @alexfms97 @escapefromrealitylol @thedonswife13 @stop-stealing-the-good-usernames @identity2212

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[cas-only-angel]

[cas-only-angel]

alright guys i just walked out of Thunderbolts- no spoilers, I promise!- and i need everything you’ve got on my boy bob. now. pls and thank you.

[cas-only-angel]

supernatural

[cas-only-angel]

Tangled (#7)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. 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: 6.8k

Previous Chapter

A few days later, she ventured back to the rocky beach. No yarn this time. No hooks or half-finished projects to keep her hands busy. Just a hope and a little cloth bag swinging from her fingers.

She wasn’t sure if he’d be there. Maybe it was foolish to assume he would. Still, she went at the same hour she used to, settling on her usual perch with her coat pulled tight against the biting wind, scanning the dark water. Listening. Waiting.

But the cove remained silent.

Eventually, she stood and approached the cave’s entrance, calling his name. Her voice echoed in the air and came back empty.

Too cold to stay longer, she placed the red satchel just beyond the reach of the tide -some strawberries and an apple inside- and cast one last glance toward the waves before heading back. Her breath misted in the air as she walked, disappointed.

----

He surfaced just after dusk. The swim back had taken longer than he meant, he’d been cautious, doubling back, scanning the seafloor for any glint of metal or other trail left behind. Paranoia, maybe. But the wrong eyes had once found him too easily. He couldn’t afford that again.

He breached near the cave, glancing around. The water was quiet.

But then, something.

A flick of red caught his eye near the rocks.

Slipping closer, body low and cautious, his gaze narrowed at the small cloth bag tucked safely out of the tide’s reach. It looked soft. A human object.

He drew near and the wind shifted, and her scent hit him like a blow. He closed his hand around the bag and held it to his chest for a moment.

She had come.

And he hadn’t been here.

Inside, he found strawberries. An apple. Simple things, but they felt more personal than any grand gesture.

He looked out toward the cliff, where the shape of her cottage would be lost in the gray distance.

She had come.

And he had stayed away too long.

----

The next day, she made her way back to the rocky beach, with a cloth mat tucked under one arm, and a small thermos in her bag just in case she decided to stay a while. The weather had turned kinder, no harsh wind, and the sun timidly peeking through the clouds.

She settled into her usual spot, brushing sand and tiny pebbles off the rock before setting the mat and sitting cross-legged, scanning the shoreline with cautious hope.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Less than five minutes had passed when she saw movement in the water. Between two moss-darkened rocks, he appeared. Gliding, carefully, with his upper half rising above the water like the sea was reluctant to let him go.

She smiled, lifting her hand in greeting. She could’ve sworn -just for a second- he smiled back. A flicker, there and gone.

He didn’t come any closer than the waterline, where the shallows lapped gently against the lower half of his body. Only his human half remained exposed, gleaming wet under the muted sun.

“You’re not joining me today?” she asked, tilting her head.

Behind him, a tendril coiled upward, curling once before swaying side to side, almost like a cat’s tail twitching at the end of its patience.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, almost casually. Almost.

She opened her mouth, about to joke, but something in his expression stopped her. The way he looked at her wasn't teasing. It was... careful. As though he was bracing for the answer.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, softer now.

He didn’t answer at first. His gaze dropped, shifting his shoulders slightly like the water was colder than it really was.

“What’s with you?” she pressed, “Why are you all shy now?”

A pause, then a quiet, vulnerable murmur: “Maybe after seeing me like you… you forgot what I am.”

She frowned, and her teasing vanished like mist. “Oh. Bucky.” She leaned forward slightly. “Trust me. I could never forget what you are. That’s the version of you I met. The one I got used to watching from the rocks. The real you. Why would it be different now?”

“Because I want to touch you.”

“You’ve touched me before,” she said, carefully.

His jaw flexed. “Not how I want to.”

She arched an eyebrow, hiding a flicker of thrill. “And… how do you want to touch me?”

His expression didn’t change much, but something simmered beneath it, something old and raw and sincere. “As my kin do,” he said. “I stayed at your house as a human. I did things with you, helped, sat, and shared food. But… some things felt incomplete. I want to be familiar with you but… in my way.”

He glanced away, as if ashamed. “When I left, we hugged. I liked it. But it felt incomplete. I felt like something was missing. I want to be familiar with you, like I would be with someone of my own kind. But I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” she asked gently.

His tendrils stirred behind him again, slower now, uncertain.

“I’m afraid of what I’ll do if I recognize you.”

Her brow furrowed. “Recognize me?”

“My tendrils, when they sense you, your skin, your scent… the chemical taste of you in the air…” he paused. “It’s not just information. It’s a connection, and maybe I can get carried away trying to gasp all of it. I don’t know if that might scare you,”

“Would that familiarization entail something painful?” she asked gently.

His head jerked up. “No! never hurt.”

She didn’t move for a beat, her heart tripping in her chest. His uneasiness wasn’t from rejection or shame, it was fear of overwhelming instinct.

“It wouldn’t scare me,” she said, finally. “Not if it’s you.”

He stood still for a beat, with his chest rising and falling a little faster than usual, then seemed to gather himself, and finally began to come forward, slow and deliberate, like approaching a sacred place. His lower body emerged bit by bit from the water: slick black and blue limbs unfurled under him, glistening under the pale sun as he made his way up the damp sand toward her.

She waited, sitting cross-legged on the mat, looking at him calmly. When he was only a few feet away, she offered the gentlest greeting.

"Hi," she said, warmly.

He bit his lip, tensing his jaw for a split second before he lowered himself beside her. The movement was oddly elegant: tentacles settling around them both in wide, curling spirals. They stayed still at first, but the tips twitched, swaying ever so slightly, betraying the nerves he was trying to bury.

She watched them with open curiosity, then her gaze met his. His posture was still hesitant like he was holding himself back from bolting into the sea again.

"How does this work?" she asked softly, and there was no fear in her voice, just fascination. “The sensing. I want to understand.”

He swallowed. “I just… touch your skin and… feel you,” he said. “What you’re made of, what you feel like. You leave traces… your temperature, taste, all of it. It… lingers.”

A pause.

“Want me to touch you first?” she offered.

His breath caught briefly. His eyes dropped to her hand, then back again to her face. Finally, he gave the smallest nod.

Maybe that was better. Safer.

She reached out with care. Her fingers hovered for a breath before they made contact with the thick curve of one of his limbs. It was smooth and cold, the texture almost like satin soaked in seawater. Her hand glided slowly across the surface.

“So soft,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

He inhaled sharply. Not startled, but reactive. Like that small contact had sent something cascading through him he didn’t expect.

Encouraged, she let her hand trail lower, beneath the limb, until her palm met the underside, where two rows of suction cups twitched in anticipation.

“You said you sense with these?” she asked, meeting his gaze, searching for any sign she should stop.

He gave a short, curt nod. His whole body seemed tense with restraint now, like he was bracing against something internal.

She pressed her palm gently against the cups.

There was no immediate suction, just the delicate shifting of the muscle beneath, a subtle, almost shy pull against her skin. As if it were testing her shape.

And then two of the cups latched, gently, and released.

His breath caught audibly.

She didn’t move away.

"That tickled," she said with a soft laugh, watching the way the soft suckers twitched along the underside of his tentacle. Her voice broke the silence between them, but not the tension.

Encouraged by her reaction, he repeated the motion. The cluster of suction cups pulsed and flexed with deliberate care, touching her palm again, this time with full contact.

That brief, simple action was enough.

Her scent flooded him, clean skin, faint traces of citrus from her soap, or maybe the fruit she’d eaten that morning. Her warmth bled into his touch through the delicate skin of his limb. Her taste came next, something his kind would know as identity.

He shuddered.

The tentacle glided slowly, reverently, up her forearm under her sleeve, each cup engaging in turn, gripping lightly, then releasing. Some suctioned harder than others, tugging at her flesh in faint pulses like he could drag more information from each small patch of skin. Soft and strong, rhythmic and controlled… until it wasn’t.

He was too immersed, too hungry for input.

Her breath hitched and then came the sharp little yelp. “Hey!”

She startled, trying to pull her arm back, and the spell shattered.

He released her immediately, tucking the tentacle close to his body instinctively as it had bitten her. Which, in a way, it had.

She stared at her arm with wide eyes. A trail of faint marks dotted her forearm, already beginning to fade, but visible against the chill-raised skin.

“Well,” she said after a pause, half-laughing as she rubbed the marks with her free hand, “that felt like you were giving me a hickey.” She looked up at him with raised brows, clearly expecting a reaction. “There are better spots for those,” she added playfully.

The joke passed right through him. He didn’t respond.

Because he was horrified.

He stared at her arm with wide eyes. Her skin was marked. Marked. He knew human bodies didn’t change color as he did. If they did… it meant they were hurt. That they bruised, that they bled. His gut twisted.

“I-” he started, “I didn’t mean-”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said, sensing the shift in him. Her smile dimmed, not out of fear, but because she could see how fast he’d retreated inward. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’ve had worse from kitchen cabinets and sneaky coffee tables. See? There is nothing, it went away.”

But he barely seemed to hear. He was pulling away, not physically, but mentally, and emotionally, curling into guilt like a wave withdrawing from the shore.

He hadn’t meant to be rough. He’d wanted, wanted her scent, to feel her, wanted to understand her in his way, as his kind did. And he’d gotten carried away.

Her hand reached out, gently circling his wrist, trying to calm him.

“Hey,” she said softly. “Look at me.”

Reluctantly, he did.

“I’m okay. I promise.” Her voice softened. “Want to try again?”

She offered it like a gift, unafraid. But he didn’t reach for it. Didn’t reach for her. If anything, his body tensed in subtle retreat. Like he was already halfway back into the sea.

Her shoulders fell with a sigh.

So she reached out instead.

Her hand found his, cool and damp, curling her fingers gently around his palm. She gave it a squeeze.

“Hey,” she said, searching his gaze. “What happened to the grumpy sea cat that didn’t give a damn?”

His brow furrowed. “I’m not- What is a cat?”

That startled a laugh from her. “Nevermind.”

She waited a moment before lifting their joined hands a little. “Do I feel nervous to you? Afraid?”

He shook his head slowly. “No.”

“Then touch me again.”

His throat worked as he swallowed, parting his lips as if to argue, but the words never came.

“Another time,” he said at last.

“Bucky-”

“You don’t understand. I could get... lost in it.”

She tilted her head. “And what if I want to be found in it with you?”

That made his eyes snap to hers, startled.

You don’t have to be afraid for me. If anything happens, I’ll tell you to stop. But I trust you. And I know you want to do it again.”

“I do,” he admitted, almost in a whisper.

“Then do it,” she mumbled.

Still holding her hand, he shifted, and one tendril -thicker, darker near the base- slid across the sand and up beneath the hem of her sweater, gliding along the curve of her waist.

She gasped softly. “Oh. Okay. Someone feels adventurous.” A shiver trailed up her back. “And cold.”

His eyes fluttered closed, and his jaw slackened just slightly as the suckers latched onto her skin in a pattern that wasn’t random. There was intent behind each touch, drawn out, searching, collecting her. The tendril flexed and curled, dragging back and forth against her skin in a slow rhythm, and the motion made her breath stutter.

He tilted his head, parting his lips, brushing his tongue against the edge of a canine, like the sensation pulled something physical from him as it tasted like more than just her.

She couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even think of pretending to be unaffected. Not when his face looked like that, concentrated, absorbed, straining for control even as his body acted with instinct.

Her thoughts weren’t where they should’ve been. Not for an innocent reunion. Not in the open. But the heat spreading in her cheeks -and lower- didn’t care much for propriety.

“S–so?” she managed to squeak, slightly higher than she intended.

He opened his eyes, slow and heavy-lidded, and there was something wild behind them now. Something ancient and hungry and confused by its own longing.

His voice came out husky. “You taste… beautiful.”

She blinked, and her heart fluttered hard in her chest. “That’s… not something I’ve ever been told before,” she said, trying for lightness, but her voice trembled a little.

The tendril still rested around her waist, unmoving now, its suckers gently released, one by one, leaving behind only the faintest impressions on her skin. His hand was still in hers, large and cool, his fingers twitching slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to hold tighter or let go.

He seemed to catch himself then -like surfacing from a deep place- and slowly, with visible effort, pulled the limb back and curled it against his side.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, dropping his gaze again.

“You didn’t. It was... quite the experience"

His hand stayed in hers a moment longer, before slipping away slowly.

She adjusted her sweater with a small tug but didn’t move farther. Her eyes were still on him, curious and calm. Not flinching, or pulling away.

That didn’t help.

Or maybe it did, he wasn’t sure. What he was sure about was the low, aching thrum beneath his skin. A want that went beyond just touch. It crawled deeper, into instinct and memory, into everything he hadn’t let himself want for too long.

He swallowed hard, flickering his gaze down to her collar, her throat, the delicate rise and fall of her breath. His fingers twitched in his lap. The appendages at his back shifted and flexed in the sand as he tried to center himself, some curling, some spreading in frustration.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently.

He looked up at her. Her voice cut clean through the haze of want. He nodded, a little too quickly.

“I just…” He looked away, jaw tight. “I’m still feeling.”

She tilted her head, tucking her knees under her. “Do you always feel this much when you do that?”

He exhaled slowly. “No. With you...” His voice dropped even lower. “It’s like… everything I take in makes me want to take more.”

A breeze moved between them, cool and sharp against his damp skin.

She didn’t lean away.

“I guess I should take it as a compliment,” she said after a beat, smiling faintly. “But you don’t have to hold back so hard. I won’t break.”

“I don’t want to ruin what’s… gentle between us.”

She blinked, taken aback for a second. That sentence… something in the way he said it made her heart pinch.

“Well,” she murmured, “I don’t think you could.”

That made something inside him still.

One of his tentacles crept forward, slowly, cautious as a breath. It hovered just short of her knee, unsure. Testing. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. But after a beat, he slowly lowered it again, laying the appendage on the sand beside her instead.

“Talk to me,” he said, his voice a little rough.

“About?”

He gave a small shrug, eyes drifting away again.

“Okay,” she said softly. “I can do that.”

So she did. About nothing at first. About how the tide had reached higher than usual last week. About the gull she saw stealing someone’s sandwich and flying off victoriously toward the cliffs. And then, with a little smile curving her lips, she added, “I had fun when you visited.”

“Fun?” His brow furrowed.

She laughed under her breath. “It was gratificating.”

He looked a little sheepish. “I misbehaved. You got angry.”

Right. That.

“I know you didn’t do that on purpose. You told me,” She said gently. “It was kind of fun, showing you bits of my life. And, I got to cut someone’s hair for the first time. That’s not something I expected.”

He scrunched his nose and lifted a hand to tug lightly on one of his damp strands, inspecting the ends. “Your hair doesn’t grow?”

She stifled a laugh. “Pfft, no, it does. But some people cut and style hair for you, as a job.”

He blinked, clearly processing that. “We don’t… not like that. We just cut it with knives. Or sharp stones. Or shells.”

“I figured,” she said with a playful squint. “Now that you mention knives…”

His shoulders went stiff. A flicker of tension ran through his body, echoed in the subtle twitch of his closest tentacle.

“Do your kin use tools?” she asked gently, careful not to let her curiosity sound like an interrogation. “I mean, clearly you do weapons, since-”

She pointed, just lightly, to the faint scar that still cut across his side.

His eyes followed her hand, then dropped away, the memory darkening his face for a moment.

“But I mean… other things. Normal things.”

He curled his fingers in the sand beside him, considering.

“We make things when needed,” he said finally. “Blades, spears. We shape coral into bowls, carve driftwood, and sometimes string things with seaweed threads. But we don’t keep much. The ocean takes back anything not used.”

She nodded slowly, picturing it. “So, survival tools. Things with purpose.”

“Yes.”

She glanced at him sideways. “Not even something pretty? Just for the sake of it?”

He was quiet for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “Sometimes the shells are shaped… nicely. We pass those to small ones. Or wear them on cords. But if it has no use, it is lost eventually.”

“So… not jewelry,” she said, tilting her head.

“There are some who wear what’s found on sunken ships,” he admitted. “Shiny metal. Stones. They wrap them around their necks or arms.”

“I take it you don’t?”

He gave a faint shake of his head. “Things like that bring attention.”

Her eyes slid pointedly to his left arm. “You have a tattoo, though.”

“That’s different.”

“Why?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Every adult male has one.”

Her brows lifted. “Like a rite of passage?”

“Something like that.” He shifted slightly, tracing a small groove in the sand with one clawed finger. “The ones who have ink marks are the ones who can mate.”

Oh.

“And you got it with age?”

He shook his head. “You bring proof of your strength. Something you hunted. A jest. You offer it to the witch, who marks the skin in proportion to what you did.”

Her brows lifted slightly, drifting her gaze again to the intricate ink covering his entire arm and curling over the round of his shoulder. “So… the bigger the mark, the bigger the feat?”

He inclined his head in a slow nod.

“So, is yours… the expected size?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

There was the briefest pause, then he tilted his head, and something unmistakably smug passed through his expression.

“They usually don’t pass the elbow,” he said, with a low voice edged with pride.

Her mouth parted slightly, then curved into a wry smile. “Well… I guess that makes you quite the catch.”

He blinked, then frowned faintly. “I’m not a-“

“It’s an expression,” she laughed softly. “A compliment.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “Then… thank you.”

Her gaze traced the ink over the dark whorls etched into the skin, part tribal, part something older, curling like tide patterns. Without thinking, she reached out and let her fingers hover just above it.

“Can I…?” she asked, already brushing the tips of her fingers lightly across the design.

His breath caught -just a fraction- but he didn’t move away.

Her touch was gentle, and slow, tracing the raised edges of the tattoo. The texture surprised her. Not just a visual pattern, but something tactile, layered.

“It’s beautiful,” she murmured.

His eyes had gone half-lidded, but they never left her hand. His muscles clenched slightly under her fingers, not from discomfort, no. From restraint.

She followed a looping curve toward his shoulder, not knowing the path of her touch mimicked an old gesture, a courting touch, one that in his world meant intention. Interest. Trust. Desire, too.

“You’re… breathing differently,” she noticed aloud.

“You’re touching a mating mark,” he said quietly.

Her hand froze, mid-stroke.

“Oh.”

But he didn’t pull away. And she didn’t either.

“I didn’t mean- I just thought it just was-” she faltered.

“I know,” he said. “You didn’t know. Again.”

The moment stretched.

“Again?” she asked, already starting to withdraw.

“You… already gave your neck. And now your hand.”

She blinked. “I’m sorry, that sounds like I’m proposing to you and I don’t even know what it means.”

He looked away, the corner of his mouth twitching in the ghost of a smile. “It means something. But it’s not binding. Not unless… you keep doing it.”

She lowered her hand, resting it against her knee, with her heart thudding.

“I’ll try not to accidentally seduce you again, then.”

That earned her a real smile, small, but there.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing,” he said, just loud enough for her to hear.

She was still watching him out of the corner of her eye, unsure whether to laugh off his comment or run with it under her arm. But before she could say anything, he shifted, and his tentacle’s tips curled slowly against the sand like he was working something out in his head.

Then, softly “What do your kind do, when they want to bond?”

She turned fully toward him, blinking. “Bond? You mean like… relationships?”

He nodded. “Yes. That.”

She hummed, thoughtful. “It depends. Some people date, which is like… trying to figure out if you want to be with someone you met. Some stay friends and slowly become something more. Some just… fall in love and decide they want to stay together.”

“Fall,” he echoed. “You fall into it?”

She smiled at his puzzled frown. “It’s just a saying. It means you don’t always see it coming. One day, you look at someone and you know, oh. It’s them.”

He was quiet for a moment, still furrowing his brows.

“Is there… a mark? A ritual?”

She tilted her head, considering. “Sometimes. For us, it depends on the culture. A lot of people marry, which is kind of like a formal bond. There’s usually a ceremony, vows, rings, witnesses. You stand up in front of people and promise to stay together.”

He frowned slightly. “So others must see it happen?”

“Usually, yeah. Not always. Some do it alone or just sign a paper. But the idea’s the same, it’s a public choice. A promise.”

“A performance,” he murmured, half to himself.

She smiled faintly. “Sometimes. But it means something. At least, when it’s done for love.”

He nodded slowly. “So no mark on the body. No blood drawn. Just… rings?”

She lifted her hand, wiggling her fingers. “Sometimes. On this one.”

His tentacles shifted in the sand again, subtle, like ripples beneath still water.

“And if someone touches you where the ring should go?” he asked.

She gave a soft laugh, more breath than sound. “Then they might be flirting.”

That pulled a look from him, eyes slightly narrowed, confused, and intrigued. “Still, it’s not the place of the ring, per se. It’s the way someone touches you that’s considered flirting.”

He huffed softly, not quite a laugh. “So many rules,” he murmured, flicking his gaze back to her hand as it moved.

She shrugged, with a little smile tugging at her mouth. “We’re more complicated than your people.”

He watched her for a long second, and the corner of his brow twitched, but he said nothing.

The silence stretched between them, loaded.

“Did you eat the fruit?” she asked suddenly, cutting through the quiet.

He gave a short nod. “Yes.”

“Slowly, or you just-”

“It didn’t make me feel bad after,” he cut in quickly, defensively, as if bracing for disapproval.

She suppressed a grin. “I wasn’t judging.”

He blinked, then looked away, as if embarrassed by the outburst.

A moment passed.

Then he looked back at her. Something was searching in his gaze, something almost... resolved. He straightened a little. “Have your bag. I’ll go get it.”

She waved a hand, casually. “It’s not necessary. You can give it to me another time.”

But he was already turning purposefully, without another word, and sliding back toward the water.

She watched him go, shaking her head. Alone again, she let out a slow breath, glanced around, and then lifted her sweater, peeking at the spot where his tendril had touched her. Her skin was unmarked.

When he returned, his hair was damp, clinging to the sides of his face, and water dripped in lazy trails down his naked chest. He held her bag twisted in both hands, wringing it out with care before offering it to her.

“Thanks,” she said, reaching out. But the moment her fingers curled around the strap, she felt it, the weight inside.

Curious, she began to open it, but his hand darted out. He caught her wrist, gently, closing his cool fingers around her flesh with enough pressure to pause her.

“Later,” he said, his voice a little lower now.

Her brows rose. “Uh…”

His gaze skittered away, as if unsure how to explain. “Open it at your house.”

She watched him for a beat, her smile slowly spreading. “Oh? Like a surprise?”

He nodded once, stiff, like admitting that made him vulnerable.

“Well, thank you,” she said, shifting the bag into her lap. “You didn’t have to give me anything.”

“You bought me clothes,” he said, flicking his eyes to hers and then down again. “And crunchy fish.”

She laughed softly. “It wasn’t necessary to reciprocate, Bucky. But… thank you again.” She leaned forward slightly. “I’ll look at it at home.”

He saw her shiver, her shoulders giving a subtle twitch beneath her coat. A small frown formed on his brow.

“Go home,” he said quietly.

She quirked a brow. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

He shook his head once, firm. “You’re cold.”

“I can stay a little longer,” she said, brushing off his concern with a wave of her hand.

He shifted, and the ends of his tentacles curled slightly against the rocks as if unsettled. “You’ll get sick again,” he muttered. “You’re… weak.”

“Hey!” She pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “That was harsh. I’m not going to get sick from a little chill. I get sick like any human, just my symptoms are just a little worse, that’s all.”

He looked away, clearly regretting his choice of words. “I didn’t mean-”

“I know what you meant.” Her tone softened. “Just… work on phrasing.”

He gave a slow nod. Then, quieter: “Tomorrow. You can come earlier when the sun’s higher.”

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes with mock suspicion. “Tomorrow, huh? Is that an invitation?”

A flush crept over his cheeks, and he dropped his gaze, brushing the rock beside him with the tip of his fingers. “You were going to come anyway,” he murmured, trying to deflect.

----

She stayed by the rocks longer than she should have, with her hands tucked into her sleeves and her breath visible in the cooling air. But eventually, the wind picked up. The light dimmed. And she still had things to take care of.

So she said goodbye with a soft smile and slung the cloth bag over her shoulder as she headed back up the path.

By the time she reached home, she shrugged out of her coat and carried the satchel straight to the table. Then, she untied the knot and opened it, expecting… she didn’t know what.

But not this.

Four large pearls, luminous and warm-toned, sat nestled together in the folds of the fabric. Their soft peach hue glowed even under the dim kitchen light, catching hints of pink and gold as they shifted.

They looked like they belonged to a museum. Or an auction house. But there they were, sitting in the bag she’d used for groceries and fruit as if he’d gathered them like wildflowers and thought she might like them.

She reached out, running the tip of her finger along one pearl. It was cool and impossibly smooth. Each one was unique in shape, imperfect in a way that made them more beautiful.

But that wasn’t all.

Beside them, nestled with just as much care, were two conch shells. They were smaller, polished by time and sea, their curved surfaces were silky smooth and speckled with tiny brown dots. She ran a thumb along the edge of one, marveling at its texture, and the delicate spiral.

The pearls were priceless, true treasures from the ocean’s depth, the kind collectors paid fortunes to acquire. And yet… he’d placed the conches right alongside them like equals, no less important, no less offered. And somehow, that made the whole gesture feel even more intimate.

She let out a slow breath, touched in a way she couldn’t quite explain. To him, these weren’t just beautiful objects. They were tokens. Offerings. Chosen and given with care.

And she’d felt the weight of them in her hands.

With a small smile, she closed the bag again and held it to her chest, and then, tucked the pearls and one of the conch shells beneath a loose wooden plank in the kitchen floor, the one Arthur had once called his “secret savings place,” back when the house was his.

She left the other shell on a table next to the window. She already had plans for it.

Still moved by his gift, she poured herself a generous mug of milk coffee, the kind she made when she needed comfort and focus, and sat down with her half-finished projects. There was a lot to do, but her hands refused to cooperate.

Her gaze kept drifting to the conch on the table.

And from there, it was a short trip back to the beach.

To the way his tendril had wrapped around her waist, snugly and deliberately. To the way his suckers had pulsed against her skin, curious, careful, sensing her like no one ever had. To the look on his face, with his parted lips and eyes fluttered shut like he’d been drinking in something sacred.

It should’ve unsettled her. Maybe it had, at first. But the longer she sat thinking about it, the more her skin remembered the touch, and the more honest she had to be with herself.

It had been... enticing.

And she found herself wondering. Wondering how it would feel to have more of him touching her like that. Exploring. Suckling. Moving across her body with the same gentle hunger he’d shown at her waist.

Before she even noticed, her breath had gone shallow, and her panties were damp with heat.

She buried her face in her hands.

Was that normal? -no- Was it even possible to…

She shook her head, trying to will the thoughts away.

Maybe he was just being kind. Maybe it was his way of bonding, the way his people expressed trust. Maybe the gift was just gratitude, for the clothes and the fried fish, as he said.

But still… the way he’d looked at her in the general store. The way his body had blocked hers, how he'd moved between her and everyone else. That hadn’t felt friendly. That had felt-

Something else.

Possessive. Protective.

And that gift itself. Not just pretty tokens. They were rare. Beautiful. And she didn’t think he would’ve given them to just anyone. Her cheeks burned as she leaned back in her chair, pressing her palms against them.

Great. Now she was a weirdo fantasizing about a tentacled man.

Then again... from his side, she was the strange one. The one with “too much missing,” as he’d once put it. Fragile. Loud. And yet he looked at her like she was something worth seeing.

----

He floated low in the deepest pool of his cave, with his arms slack at his sides, and the tentacles splayed and heavy beneath him, curling faintly with each rise and fall of the water. His stomach was full, he’d hunted well earlier, a large fish, but the satisfaction hadn’t lasted.

Because his hunger wasn’t the kind that food could satiate.

Touching her had been a mistake. He’d known it would be. Knew it from the first second her hand brushed his skin, from the moment her voice dipped soft and coaxing with trust. And yet he had reached for her anyway.

Now he was paying for it.

He gritted his teeth and let his head loll against the cave wall, fluttering his eyes shut as he worked himself with rough, efficient strokes below the surface. Just enough pressure to drag the ache out of his body. Just enough friction to keep her scent alive in his mind.

She was still on him.

Her texture, her warmth. Her sweet skin that made his suckers twitch with craving. The ghost of her waist under his limb, the pulse he’d felt just beneath her surface. That delicate sound she made -half laugh, half gasp- when he grazed her with his cups. The noise hadn’t left his ears since.

It shouldn’t be like this. Not with a human.

Never in all his years -before the captivity or after- had he even thought to crave one. He used to mock Steve for it. Mocked the others who dared to chase that kind of soft, forbidden bond with land-walkers. Foolish, he’d thought. Dangerous. Weak.

Now look at him. Hiding in a pool like a feral pup, panting into the dark and rutting into his own palm over a human woman.

His hand moved faster, almost angry.

He hissed low through his teeth as the heat pooled in his gut. She’d be so small under him. So warm. And her softness -stars, her softness- he could maneuver her like nothing, press her down or hold her still while he tasted every inch of her body.

She’d feel everything.

So tight around him, trying to take it.

Body clenching-

The groan that escaped him was low and guttural, muffled by the water as his body seized with release. Muscles clenched, tentacles recoiled, and for a moment he felt as though the world narrowed to that one blinding pulse of pleasure.

Then-

Shame followed, sharp and immediate. He curled tighter, with one arm thrown across his eyes, and his chest rising and falling unevenly.

What the hell was he doing? He looked at the evidence of his actions swirling in the water and scowled, dragging himself to another pool. The tide will take care of it later.

----

Days came and went, carried by tides and wind. He stayed away from the cave mouth longer and sank deeper into the depths after each visit with her. And yet, no matter how far he retreated, she remained. In his thoughts. In his skin. In the taste that memory alone couldn’t erase from his mind.

She still came to the shore. Not every day, but often enough. As the weather cooled, she stopped bringing her yarn and projects, no longer setting up camp near the rocks with her bag and her tools. She simply came to sit, to chat, to exist beside him. She never asked why he didn’t touch her with his limbs again. Spoke gently. Stayed within reach, but never crossed that invisible line he’d drawn.

He kept his distance. Not in presence -he still came to her when he could, especially when the sea turned rough and rains swept over the coast- but in touch. No more curling tentacles. No more suckers on her skin. Only his hands now, brief and careful and human. Safer.

It should have dulled his hunger. But somehow, it made it worse.

In her little home, he learned things he never knew he wanted to know. She showed him movies, flickering light and color and drama on a screen that made his eyes narrow and his questions pile up. She told him stories, short ones, with simple morals or whimsical endings. And then asked about his.

So he told her. The old ones. The dark ones. The ones with blood and hunger and truths too heavy for children.

When he took his human form, he let himself get closer. Sat beside her on the couch, sometimes so close their knees bumped and neither moved. He helped her with little tasks and always, always ended up brushing against her. A shoulder. A back. Fingers grazing as they reached for the same thing.

She never pulled away.

One afternoon, sleepier than he meant to be after eating a questionable amount of food, he let himself sink down beside her on the couch. She was warm and soft and calm in that way that made him forget he didn’t belong in places like this. When she gently offered her lap, patting it, he hesitated only a moment before curling in, resting his head just above her knees.

He breathed her familiar scent deeply and exhaled slowly against her thighs.

Her fingers found his hair, warm and soothing. She threaded them slowly through his locks like she had all the time in the world just to touch him. And he let her. Closed his eyes. Let the tension bleed from his limbs. He hadn’t realized how starved he was for that kind of contact, not just closeness, but care.

It was his undoing.

Because after that day, every time he visited, he found himself looking for reasons to be near her. To help with something, to lean in, to shift close enough that the offer might come again. And it did. Again and again, until there was no need for excuses. No more tentative asks. He would simply wait for her to sit, and then fit himself into the space she made for him, laying his head in her lap, letting the warmth of her body cradle him, and her fingers work through the strands of his hair until everything else faded.

But then spring came.

And his visits thinned.

They met on the beach again, like they had before, with the wide sky above them and the sound of waves between them. But something had shifted. With the change in season came back the distance, the restraint. He didn’t rest his head on her anymore. He didn’t reach for her unless it was necessary. As though winter had never happened.

She wasn’t foolish, she noticed the change immediately. The absence of contact, and the silences that stretched just a little too long. And it hurt. She debated bringing it up, asking outright what had changed. But the fear of making him retreat further kept the words sealed behind her lips.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke @ladypncl @homiesexuallaj @kulteule @awesompawsum @killerwendigo @princessgriffin1998 @helen-2003 @nynxtea @alagalaska

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[cas-only-angel]

how sneaky!link!ben rewards you — SOLDIER BOY

WARNINGS: NSFW (18+) / fem!reader / finger sucking / boot humping / praise (f receiving) / light pet play: refers to reader as an eager pup / reader falling into a subspace LOVE NOTE: this is how i think ben might reward his sneaky link...

As a reward, SOLDIER BOY lets you suck on his fingers. Knelt before him, your mouth wide open with his fingers on full display, he gives you a curt nod while his lips twist in a satisfied smirk. Your brain felt as if it was floating away just from the idea of having his fingers in your mouth. With a glassy look in your eyes, you wrap your tongue around the tip of his thumb and suck it in. Hollowing your cheeks out around him, you greedily push your tongue against the pad of his thumb. “Like an eager puppy,” he’d tell you, his voice low and eyes fervidly fixated on the way your eyes flutter shut and your tongue works his fingers over.

All you could do was hum against him in pleasure, your mouth much too busy occupying his fingers. Licking up and down his thumb, greedily submerging his forefinger in your mouth in addition, you felt like you were in a completely serene state. Blissed out, soft suckling noises sound from you— wet, bubbly, and filled with a type of pleasure Ben has never seen you submit to. Almost like this is your natural state, being on your knees in front of him, the comfort of his calloused fingers in your mouth. 

Being more in tune with your body than he is with his own at times, Ben sticks his foot out, placing his boot directly in front of you. With your mind floating and your mouth salivating around him, you knew exactly what he was getting at. Hitching yourself over his boot, the cotton of your underwear the only article separating you from the dirty leather, you began to hump it like the pillow in your bedroom you had been acquainted with on multiple occasions. Shyly, your eyes flutter up at him, peering through your wet lashes. You hadn’t realized your eyes were tearing up from the pleasure until you noticed the wetness accumulating around your waterline. With his face contorted in a way that indicated you were doing everything right, you couldn’t stifle the vibration of the moans around his fingers.

“You’re such a good girl, you know that?” Ben grabbed your jaw, pressing his fingers against your tongue to stifle the sucking motion. Reluctantly, you paused the way your tongue moved around his fingers, letting him remove them without so much as a whine. Motioning for you to wrap your arms around his leg, he guided your face to his crotch, letting you nuzzle your nose over the fabric detaining his cock. “Go on then,” he lifted the front of his boot just enough to slide you forward, “take what you need from me.”

[cas-only-angel]

Sometimes i feel like younger queer kids are getting a bit to bold with openly talking to people they don’t know In The Context Of:

More than once i have had a younger/same age queer person come up to me in public settings and say something about “finding other gays” or clearly clocking me as nonbinary and I’m like :)))))))) hey buddy I’m here with my conservative parents can you fucking not out me :))))))))

Just say you like my outfit or hair and move on, fuck even tell me you like my shoelaces. Don’t call me gay and limp your wrist at me when you don’t even know me? Especially when there’s a bunch of ppl around?

[cas-only-angel]

“…this desire to be seen. To be... liked?”

"Me- I thought I hurt you bad," he added, almost apologetic, as if unsure if the words were even right.

“Eventual teratophilia.”

Tangled (#5)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. 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: 7.k.

Previous Chapter

It hurt.

The bite throbbed deep in her arm as a dull ache radiated up to her shoulder, and she was so cold. Once she started shivering, her body didn’t stop. Her wet clothes clung to her skin, heavy and chilled, sapping the little warmth she had left.

“I need...” Her teeth chattered as she spoke, breath puffing in short bursts. “I need to dry myself and change, alright? If not, I’m going to get sick.”

She wasn’t sure if he would understand, or if his mind was still fogged with the taste of her blood, but after a long pause, he gave a slow, reluctant nod and uncurled his fingers from her arm.

“Good,” she whispered, as much to herself as to him, before she pushed herself up and stumbled a little. Her fingers fumbled at her soaked shirt, peeling it off her skin with effort, since the fabric suctioned to her body.

Once she got it off, she quickly wrapped the towel around herself, but the shivering still wouldn’t stop. Her bra was next, the damp fabric was icy against her chest as she struggled to undo it with trembling hands.

She was dimly aware of his gaze following her every move. He didn’t look away.

But right now, she didn’t care. She was too cold, too lightheaded to bother with modesty.

Besides, her mind reasoned through the fog, his kind probably didn’t think much about nudity. Surely used to it, like creatures in the wild, like sirens and mermaids always told in stories, glittering tails, and bare skin, some accessories perhaps.

She told herself that again as she let the fabric drop and quickly scrubbed her skin with the edge of the towel, trying to rub some warmth back into her body.

But he kept watching.

There was a flicker of something in the way his eyes tracked her movements, a slow, deliberate study. His head tilted slightly as if seeing something he didn’t quite understand.

Because he didn’t.

Nudity for his kind -as she had guessed-, wasn’t special. Wasn’t private. It was natural. But in her… she was always covered. Always wrapped in fabrics and strange layers, and her softness was hidden from view. Seeing her now, vulnerable, nipples pert with the cold and her skin marked with his bite, it was different.

He stared longer than he meant to, drinking the sight of her body as if it were something forbidden. Something meant only for his eyes, though he couldn’t name why that thought nested heavy and possessive in his chest.

His tentacles shifted slightly against the stone, a faint echo of his thoughts, but he kept them to himself, restrained. He could still smell her. Her blood, yes, but also her, the scent that had first drawn him close. Now mingled with salt, with the faintest trace of fear and the iron tang of what she had given him. It curled inside him, deep and primal, stirring something that had little to do with hunger and everything to do with something else entirely.

She took a shaky breath, glancing sideways at him.

“Are you... feeling better?” she asked softly, voice hoarse from cold and strain.

His eyes locked on hers for a long moment, and then, finally, he gave a slow nod. She exhaled shakily and turned her attention to the first aid kit, moving clumsily but determined. "Alright," she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to him, "Let's fix this so I can dress and not drop dead of hypothermia." She grabbed the bottle of alcohol and, without giving herself time to think, poured it over the bite.

"Fuck!"

The sharp curse burst from her lips, echoing in the cave, and for a moment he startled, drawing his brows together in surprise. His head tilted slightly, watching her as she hissed between her teeth, muttering another string of crude words under her breath.

He hadn't expected such fire from her.

Still, he kept silent, observing as she wrapped the wound in gauze with trembling hands, muttering about how she "should’ve known better" and "what the hell was she thinking."

Once done, she finally slipped on a sweater, and her shivering eased just a little as the dry fabric clung to her chilled skin. "Alright," she breathed again. "A little better." But as she reached for her leggings, realizing they were plastered to her skin like a second, icy layer, she cursed again under her breath.

She tried to peel them off with some effort, pulling at the waistband and wriggling her hips to shimmy out of them, but they wouldn’t cooperate. The damp fabric clung stubbornly to her, twisting and resisting every tug.

And all the while, he kept watching.

His gaze had grown sharper, more focused. He was watching her legs with undeniable interest, tilting his head slightly as his eyes followed the movements. She noticed, of course. It was impossible not to, though she pretended to focus on the impossible task of freeing herself from the wet clothes. Still, her cheeks heated slightly.

He had seen legs before, of course. Summer was full of women running along the shore, with their bare limbs glinting under the sun. And when he shifted -when he took on the human shape he loathed- he had a pair of his own. But this was her.

And her legs...

They fascinated him. The smoothness of her skin, the way they parted as she moved. He shouldn’t stare. His kind didn’t stare. But he couldn’t quite stop himself.

By the time she managed to peel the leggings down to her knees and tug them off entirely, she was panting, sitting half-wrapped in the towel, glaring at the offending garment like it was to blame for all her troubles.

"Goddamn leggings," she muttered darkly, tossing them aside.

Only then, noticing the weight of his gaze, did she glance back at him.

“What?” she asked, more breathless than she meant to be.

He blinked, and his tentacles gave a faint shift, but he said nothing.

There was no need to.

The way he was watching her said plenty.

And despite everything -the blood loss, the cold- her heart gave a traitorous little flutter. "Well, for as much of a curious creature as you are," she said, exhaling sharply, "I have to change my underwear, so turn around."

His head tilted slightly, watching her with sharp eyes.

She sighed and gestured firmly at her soaked panties, sensing her cheeks going warm again. "I'm not taking these off in front of you."

That made something flicker in his gaze, a subtle shift of understanding. Of course, his kind had their own way of keeping things private -concealed, protected within their bodies- but for a heartbeat, maybe he had been curious if she would treat it as casually as she had her top.

Her brow furrowed, noticing that flicker. "Oh, come on, you know what I mean. You have the same idea of modesty, don’t tell me you don’t."

His lips pressed together in a thin line. A little twitch of a tentacle gave him away. He had been curious at first, but now he looked like a kid caught with his hand in the jar.

"For God’s sake," she muttered under her breath, rubbing her temple before fixing him with a sharp look. "You're not going to see my- that. So either turn around or close your eyes. I don’t care which. Just... respect, okay?"

He huffed through his nose, a sound that might have been a sigh. Then, rolling his eyes in a way that feigned complete nonchalance -though she wasn’t fooled for a second- he turned his back to her. His shoulders shifted with the effort, and his tentacles dragged slightly behind him in a slow, reluctant sweep.

"Yeah, thought so," she muttered to herself, a tiny smile pulling at the corner of her lips despite everything.

He was quiet, not peeking, though she noticed the way some of his limbs twitched, betraying that sharp attention he couldn’t quite suppress.

She worked quickly, fumbling with cold fingers to get her soaked underwear off and dry herself as best she could with what little she had left. The wetness was clinging to her skin, and she gritted her teeth as she pulled on something dry, shivering all the while.

Finally done, she hugged herself and sat down on the driest patch of rock she could find. "Alright," she called, her voice quieter, more tired. "You can turn around now."

He turned smoothly, fixing her with an expression that was just shy of smug, though she could see the glint of amusement in his eyes.

She looked properly at him, taking in the mess of torn flesh and deep purples that still marred his skin, but at least now he didn’t look dead. Not like before. His eyes followed her closely, sharp as ever despite the sluggish way his tentacles curled against the rock.

"I’m going home," she muttered, shivering as she hugged herself tighter. "I need... a hot shower and... and lie down."

He blinked at her, and the weight of her words sank in his brain as he noticed again how exhausted she looked, the way her lips trembled from cold. Right. Humans only threw themselves into the sea in summer, and even then, briefly. She was in no state to be standing, much less after what she gave him.

His gaze dropped to her arm, where his teeth had torn her skin, marking her. He swallowed hard, and the shame knotted heavy in his chest. Maybe he had taken more than he should, no, definitely more. His jaw clenched, and without a word, he reached out a hand toward her, palm up, curling slightly his fingers as if unsure if she’d accept the gesture.

"Thank you," he said, in a low and rough voice.

She looked at his hand for a moment, then reached out and took it, he noticed her grip weak, but warm despite the cold seeping into her bones. "I’m glad you’re fine," she murmured, and she meant it.

He gave a small nod, though something flickered in his eyes, something unreadable. He didn’t let go immediately, and his fingers stayed around hers as if trying to say something he couldn’t put into words.

She squeezed lightly before pulling back, swaying a little on her feet. A million questions were buzzing in her head -what had happened, who had hurt him, what kind of enemies could do that to something like him- but this wasn’t the time. She was half convinced she’d pass out right there if she pushed herself to stay longer.

He knew it too. Watching her stand there, weak and trembling, made something tighten painfully inside him. She had offered herself to him when his own kind had only wanted to see him dead. And now she could barely stand because of that. Because of him.

"I’ll be back," she said softly.

His eyes met hers, dark and deep. "Rest," he murmured, in a low rumble.

----

The first two days after she left him in that cave, Bucky barely stirred. He slept, as his body devoted all energy to repairing itself, mending his muscles, scarring the jagged wounds, and regrowing the piece of tentacle. The frozen fish she had brought wasn’t the same as the living, thrashing prey he normally hunted, but sustained him.

By the third day, he could move -slowly, carefully- and though his limbs ached, the worst of his condition was behind him. His skin had sealed itself shut, though angry scars marred now his sides and his arms. He traced them absently. He didn’t mind them. Scars spoke of survival. Of strength. A warning to anyone foolish enough to try again.

Still, she did not come.

Five sunrises and sunsets passed without a trace of her, neither at his cave nor her usual spot near the shore. His eyes scanned the waves every time he surfaced, but her figure never appeared.

The longer he waited, the more restless he became.

Was she angry? Had she regretted offering herself to heal him? Afraid of what she had done? -what he had done- Or worse, had he taken too much from her? And now…

The last thought pierced deep in his chest like a shard of ice. His claws dug into the stone as he remembered her weak, trembling form.

By the sixth day, the question haunted enough at him to make him decide. He had to see for himself. When the moon climbed high in the sky and bathed the waves in silver, he slid into the water and swam, silent and swift, cutting through the dark sea like a blade.

Reaching the cliffs where her lair stood far above, Bucky hesitated for a breath, then he braced himself.

His skin tingled first, like thousands of tiny needles pricking over every inch of his body. His spine arched in a weird angle as the transformation followed its course. He clenched his teeth, and a low snarl ripped out of his throat as his muscles pulled and twisted, and his bones reshaped and grew.

His lower half, powerful and fluid as the sea itself, writhed violently, tentacles snapping and curling in agony as they shrank, fused, and tore themselves into a new form. Flesh molded into legs, the sensation was like molten heat in his veins, like razors under his skin. His lungs strained as they adjusted, and a sharp burn flared in his chest.

By the time he stood in the shallow water near the rocks, the moonlight illuminated his pale, wet human form. His legs trembled under him, not used to hold his weight, and he cursed low under his breath, leaning against the cliff wall for support.

It had been too long since he walked on two feet. He hated it.

The jagged rocks bit into his bare soles as he stepped forward, slow and awkward, but he didn’t stop.

He took the narrow, winding road she always used, the one he had watched her walk countless times from the water, seeing her figure become small against the towering cliffs. Now, every step was a struggle. His legs, still weak and unsteady, burned as he forced himself up the steep path.

When he finally reached the top, his breath was ragged, and his chest heaved with the effort. Her den -house, he reminded himself- was farther inland than he had realized, nestled between wind-battered trees and rock.

His naked skin prickled under the cold night air, and for the first time in years, he truly felt what it was to be cold. The chill seeped into the bones of this fragile form and he cursed as he instinctively wrapped his arms around himself, tightening his jaw as he pushed forward.

When he finally stood before her door, he stared at it for a long moment, suddenly unsure. His hand, pale and scarred, reached for the handle,  but when he fumbled to turn it, it didn't give in. Locked.

He growled low with frustration. His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled and pushed at it again, as though it would suddenly yield to his desperation. But it didn’t. With a hissed curse, he stepped back and looked around, circling the building with a hunter’s eye. Every window was shut tight, covered with wood panels. No way in. No gaps.

The wind whipped around him, and his teeth clenched against the biting air as he made his way back to the door. He stood there, staring, then lifted his fist and banged against it. Once. Twice. Harder the third time.

Nothing.

His brow furrowed, and his heart pounded harder now, but not from the climb. He leaned in, pressing his palm flat against the wood, and then knocked again, slower. Please.

Still nothing.

“Hey,” he called out, voice rough and lower than he expected. He swallowed and tried again, stronger.

“Hey!”

Still no answer.

He hesitated, then called her name, soft at first, as if unsure it would be right to say it here. He knocked one more time, then leaned his forehead against the door, closing his eyes.

Maybe she was afraid. Of course she should be, he thought bitterly, as he leaned heavier against the door. Who in their right mind would open to a stranger pounding at their home in the dead of night? And yet, a part of him still hoped.

Then the faint shuffle of movement inside. His head jerked up. A sliver of light glowed under the door. Something stirred.

A sharp click of a lock being drawn back made his muscles tense, but he stayed rooted. The little spy door creaked open just enough for a pair of familiar eyes to peek out, wide and cautious.

They stared at each other. For a heartbeat, neither moved, only silence between them as if both were unsure this was even real.

She blinked fast, as if trying to clear her vision as if he might vanish if she looked too long. But he didn’t. He just stood there, pale and silent and very real.

With a rasp of metal, she unfastened the remaining locks and opened the door with a creak that seemed too loud in the quiet night.

Her nightgown hung loosely from her shoulders, soft and rumpled from sleep, socks drooping around her ankles in old slippers. Her hair was a mess, but her eyes, wide with surprise, roamed over him slowly, taking in every detail she could.

The salt clung to his skin, and streaks of sand still stuck to his legs, calves to thighs, like he had dragged himself straight from the shore without even bothering to shake it off. He looked like something that should be part of the sea but now stood shivering on her doorstep, with dark and tired eyes.

She didn’t even hesitate, just stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "Come in," she said softly, like her throat was too sore to be louder.

He moved past her, and the warmth of the house wrapped around him. She quickly shut the door behind them, wincing as a cough broke from her chest, deep and rattling.

He turned immediately, so close now, like he couldn’t bear to put distance between them. His body, tall and broad even in its human shape, nearly caged her against the door as he stared down at her, searching her face.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, in a hoarse voice, forcing her gaze to stay on his face and not slide down to- well, other human attributes he clearly hadn’t thought to cover before coming.

"You didn’t come," he murmured, in a low tone, almost childlike in its simplicity. His eyes were heavy with something like worry, something that twisted in her chest. "Me- I thought I hurt you bad," he added, almost apologetic, as if unsure if the words were even right.

Oh.

Her heart ached, just a little. He had come all this way, dragging himself in a form that clearly still pained him,  because he thought he was the reason she was gone.

She coughed again, sharp and cutting, leaning back against the door to steady herself. "I'm just sick," she said, trying to make her voice sound stronger than it felt. "I have-" she hesitated, knowing asthma meant nothing to him. "My lungs aren’t in good shape. And that dive... it didn’t do me any favors."

His eyes stayed locked on her, wide, dark, and so worried. All that cold sharpness she was used to seeing in him, was gone. He looked... lost.

"Normal people would just get a cold," she mumbled, trying to lighten it, but she could see that wasn’t helping. "I just feel worse, but I’ll be fine." Something in him seemed to crumble a little at her words, and she felt bad for it. "Let me..." she rasped, pushing herself upright. "Let me get you a blanket, alright? You’re freezing."

He opened his mouth like he wanted to protest, to say no, to be proud or stubborn, but his body betrayed him with a violent shudder as if all his strength was finally giving out now that he was inside, now that he was with her. With a small exhale that sounded almost like surrender, he stepped aside, giving her space.

She shuffled carefully toward the couch, holding onto the backrest for support, and grabbed one of the afghans draped over it, thick, soft, and worn from use. With a tired gesture, she motioned him over with her hand, a silent come here that he obeyed without question.

As he moved, still shivering slightly, she wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and, with a gentle but firm push on his chest, made him sit. He blinked up at her, surprised by how easily she handled him. She knelt in front of him, tucking the edges of the blanket closer around his body to keep him warm, and brushing her fingers against his chilled skin.

Only when he settled back against the cushions, adjusting to the warmth entering his body, did he notice the small, uneven squares stitched together in the fabric. His fingers ran lightly over the seams, following the path of color changes and shapes.

"You made?" he asked quietly, eyes wide with a kind of awe that made her blink in surprise.

"Yeah," she exhaled, sitting on the carpet, wrapping her arms loosely around herself as another wave of chills ran through her frame. "What I do on the shore... usually they're pieces of things. I finish them here, later. For me, or to sell."

His gaze lingered on the patchwork, gently rubbing a corner between his thumb and forefinger, as though the stitches themselves were something rare. "Pretty," he said after a pause, a faint, soft smile curving his lips, almost shy as if he wasn’t used to giving praise.

She smiled faintly, watching him, but his mind was already wandering. To sell, she had said. So she was a maker, a weaver of things. That much he had known, from all those hours watching her at the shore, seeing her hands moving fast with hooks and yarn. But now he understood that it was how she earned her living too.

His eyes drifted away from the blanket, scanning the room as if seeing it properly for the first time. Little pieces of her were everywhere; the curtains had a lace edging, delicate and clearly handmade. There were small woven mats on the floor, some with shells and stones embroidered in. Trinkets and small crocheted baskets on shelves, filled with things he didn't understand.

Her lair, he thought, amused for a moment at the word. A soft, safe place she had built for herself. And now he was sitting right in the middle of it, wrapped in her warmth. He wondered, idly, if she had more of these blankets in her nest. If she slept under them, bundled in soft, colorful things.

She stood up, grabbed another blanket, and wrapped herself in it, sinking onto the couch beside him with a sigh.

"You surprised me," she murmured after a moment, glancing sideways at him. "There were stories... but I didn’t know you could shift."

He just nodded, not offering more. His eyes flicked toward her, watching her face as she spoke, but his mouth stayed in a tight line.

"So you came because I didn’t show up," she continued softly, turning to face him more fully, "and thought something bad happened?"

He shifted uncomfortably, slightly hunching his shoulders, and gave a short, curt nod.

A small smile tugged at her lips, gentle and warm. "That was very nice of you. Thank you."

Nice.

The word caught him off guard. He had been called many things over the years, but nice had never been one of them. He didn’t quite know what to do with that word. His jaw worked, sharp teeth clicking softly in his mouth, an old habit when he didn’t know how to respond.

She noticed, but didn’t push. Instead, she shifted the conversation with a little grin. "Tell you what," she said, nudging his arm lightly. "If we don’t fix your situation, you’re going to be sick too. Why don't you get a bath, and I’ll find you some clothes to wear?"

He furrowed his brow, clearly confused. "Bath? I came... wet."

"Oh no, darling," she said, her smile widening just a bit, teasing but kind. "I mean a hot bath. Or a shower. To clean, and warm up your body. No offense, but you’re leaving sand everywhere."

His frown deepened, and his eyes narrowed slightly. "Shower?"

She raised a brow, tilting her head. So he could shape-shift but clearly hadn’t spent enough time as a human to pick up on basic things -or, he did it a long time ago when certain things didn’t exist yet-. "A water spray to wash your body," she explained patiently. "It’s nice, you’ll see. Like rain, but hot."

"Don’t like rain," he grumbled, and his expression soured at the thought.

She let out a low laugh, shaking her head. "You’ll like this!" Pushing herself up with effort, she extended a hand toward him, waiting. "Come on. I’ll show you how it works."

He stared at her hand for a long moment before reaching out with a quiet huff of breath through his nose.

She led him gently by the hand, still wrapped in the blanket, toward the bathroom. "Alright," she said, flicking on the light with a soft click that made him blink. "This the bathroom."

He looked around curiously, eyeing the strange room with its bright tiles and mirror.

“And this is the shower.” She opened the curtain and turned the handles, causing the water to rush out from above. He startled at the sound alone, tensing his body, and the second the water burst to life and sprayed downward, he jumped back with a sharp hiss, all wide eye and defensive.

"Hey, hey! it's okay." she soothed quickly, holding her hands up. "It's just water. See?" She reached in and let her fingers run under the stream. "It comes out warm. Or, well, you can make it warm."

He didn't move closer, but he didn't back away either. His eyes narrowed, still suspicious, and then he sniffed the air cautiously.

"Look," she added gently, reaching for the handles, "This controls how hot or cold it is. This one," she twisted slightly the one at the left “gives you hot water, and this one is the cold water."

Tentatively, he reached out, grazing the stream with his long fingers. His eyes widened a fraction, then narrowed thoughtfully. "Hot," he muttered, a little pleased as if this was something he could appreciate.

"Exactly." She picked up the soap and handed it to him. "This is to clean yourself. You rub it on your skin while the water runs, then rinse it off."

He turned the soap in his hand like it was a strange rock, sniffed it, and made a face. "Smells weird."

"Yeah, but it works. Trust me."

She turned to the shelf and picked up a bottle. "And this is shampoo. You use it for your hair. You rub it in and rinse it out. And this-" she lifted a second bottle "is the conditioner. For after the shampoo. Makes your hair soft."

He looked at her, then at the bottles, and back to her again, clearly overwhelmed. "Too much," he grunted, frowning.

"You'll figure it out," she said, softer this time, trying to sound reassuring. "Just... do your best."

His fingers tightened slightly around the soap before he looked at her again.

"You stay?"

Her lips parted, caught off guard. "Well… it's usually a private thing," she explained, suddenly hyper-aware of how small the space was.

He tilted his head slightly as if considering that. Then, his gaze flicked toward the shampoo bottle. "Help," he said simply, though the way his eyes glinted suggested he knew he was pushing his luck.

She exhaled, shaking her head. "Ok, I’ll stay here sitting on the toilet, if you need company," she relented. "But I am not washing your hair there, it's not proper."

Like a creature like him would give a damn about propriety.

"If you can’t figure it out, I can help you later in the kitchen sink. But-"

Before she could finish, he shrugged off the blanket and stepped into the shower, completely unbothered.

Her brain took half a second too long to catch up, and in that half-second, her gaze dropped and…

Oh my god

Heat rushed to her face as she promptly yanked the curtain closed between them.

There was a sharp hiss of irritation and she saw his hand tugging the curtain.

"No! Don’t pull that or you’ll splash water everywhere!" she called, catching the fabric before it slid open. "Just… do what I said, alright? I'm going to get you some clothes, and I’ll be back in a second."

There was a pause, then a small grunt in response.

She remembered a box of old clothes -possibly Arthur’s or the last tenant- in the upper section of the bedroom’s closet. It had been tucked away but now seemed like the perfect moment to rummage through it.

Kneeling, she flipped the lid open and sifted through the contents. Most of it was outdated or too stiff from being folded away so long, but eventually, she pulled out a red henley and a pair of black sweatpants. They smelled a little musty, the way fabric does when left untouched for too long, but she grabbed a bottle of fabric refresher, giving them a quick spritz to make them more tolerable.

She didn’t bother looking for underwear. Somehow, she had the distinct feeling he wouldn’t want to wear any.

With the clothes in hand, she returned to the bathroom, settling back onto the closed toilet seat. “Alright,” she called over the sound of the water. “I’m right here. When you’re done, just shut off the handles and wait for me to hand you a towel.”

A grunt of acknowledgment.

She sat there, listening to the water run, idly picking at the fabric of her sleeve. After a while, his voice broke the quiet.

"Done."

She had a split second to react before she heard the curtain shift.

Thinking fast, she grabbed the towel, snapped it open, and held it up just as the curtain was yanked aside. The thick fabric stretched between her hands, covering him from the ribs down, effectively shielding his modesty.

He blinked at her, slightly surprised.

"Here," she said, firmly but without meeting his gaze. "Wrap this around yourself, then go to the bedroom. You'll find clothes there."

She turned on her heel before he could say anything else, slipping out of the bathroom and pulling the door shut behind her.

Let him figure it out from there.

----

He did as she instructed, stepping into the dimly lit room where the clothes lay atop a large, soft surface. It was covered in layered fabrics -those stitched squares she seemed to favor- and… in something else.

Her scent. It was stronger here than anywhere else.

Her nest.

The thought sent a subtle ripple of interest through his body, especially as he realized no other scent clung to it. No lingering trace of another human, no competing claim. Just hers.

But the clothes�� those were different.

As he picked up the garments, an unfamiliar perfume clung to the fabric. Faint but there, something aged and stale, like it had been tucked away for too long. Beneath that, a lingering scent of an adult male, distant but undeniable.

Something in him bristled at the intrusion. His teeth clicked together in irritation, but he forced himself to put the clothes on. The scent was old and faded, and if he wore them long enough, his own smell would replace it, overwriting whatever trace of the other male that could linger on it.

He fumbled briefly with the fabric, getting a feel for it, but he wasn’t stupid, he figured out how to wear them well enough. The material was strange against his skin, it felt confining in ways he wasn’t used to, but it would do.

Once dressed, he went to the other room, finding her seated, coughing into her sleeve.

When she looked at him, two things stood out immediately.

One: Arthur’s clothes were definitely too small for him, stretching across his broad frame, and clinging in places she absolutely shouldn’t be staring at.

And two: his wet hair was a dripping mess, with strands clinging to his face, and the ends soaking into the too-tight henley, leaving a growing trail of water on the floor.

She huffed and grabbed a clean kitchen towel, stepping closer to drape it over his shoulders. He stilled at the touch but let her.

“That’s to keep you from getting everything wet,” she muttered, smoothing it down. “Did you even wash your hair?”

He looked at her, then simply said, “No.”

A pause. Then, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, “You do.”

She opened her mouth, then shut it. Technically, she had told him she’d help if he couldn’t figure it out. And since he was now standing in her kitchen, dripping on her floor, looking at her expectantly… she only had herself to blame.

“Alright, big guy…” She exhaled, gesturing toward the kitchen. “C’mon.”

He followed her as she led him to the sink, watching as she adjusted the faucet.

“It’s really long,” she remarked, barely brushing her fingers on his hair. “Doesn’t it get in the way? Feel heavy?”

He hadn’t thought much about it. It had been a long time since he last cut it, always with sharp shells, never bothering to care about evenness. It had simply been a necessity. But now, out of the water, yes, he could feel its weight. “Heavy.” He conceded.

She nodded. “I could trim it for you after we wash it if you want.”

His muscles tensed, just for a second. The thought of her holding something sharp near his neck sent a flicker of warning down his spine. He had lived a long time surrounded by danger, and he knew better than to let someone close with a blade.

But she had saved him. Given him her essence, cared for him when she had no reason to. If she wanted him dead, she could just have left him rot in that cave.

So, after a moment, he nodded.

She smiled, just a little, rolling up her sleeves. “Alright. Close your eyes,” she instructed as she guided him into place. “It might sting.”

He obeyed, and the next thing he felt was the warm rush of water over his scalp, and her fingers threading softly through his hair, untangling the knots with careful, patient movements.

----

She patted his shoulder when she finished rinsing the last of the suds from his hair. "Alright. Go sit," she instructed, nodding toward one of the chairs.

He did as she said, shaking off excess water before lowering himself onto the seat, with the damp strands clinging to his skin. He watched as she moved around the small space, opening a drawer, then a cabinet, before disappearing for a moment.

A cough echoed from the other room.

His jaw clenched. Right. She had gotten sick for helping him, and here he was, sitting there comfortably, being served like she was some kind of thrall.

When she returned, with brush and comb in one hand, and scissors in the other, he frowned and lifted one of his hands. "Rest."

She blinked at him. "What?"

He gestured vaguely. "You are sick. Rest."

A small, amused breath left her lips, though she tried to smother it. "I feel better," she reassured. "And cutting a little hair isn't going to kill me."

He didn't look convinced, and his sharp gaze flickered between her and the items in her hands.

She sighed, shifting her grip on the scissors. "How about this? Once I'm done, we can sit on the couch. And talk. Properly."

His brow furrowed. It felt like a bribe, one he wasn’t sure why she was offering. But she had already moved in front of him, kneeling slightly to meet his gaze. She held up the scissors, clicking them open and shut. "These are scissors. They cut through things, cloth, paper, hair. See?" She snapped them once more before setting them aside.

Then, she ran her fingers through his damp strands, gently working through some stubborn tangles. He stiffened slightly at the contact but didn’t pull away. She picked up the brush next, starting at the ends and working her way up in slow, careful strokes. "The brush gets rid of knots," she explained. "Makes it easier to manage the hair."

His lids drooped slightly as she continued, finding the rhythmic pull of the bristles oddly soothing.

Once she had smoothed out most of it, she switched to the comb, working through smaller sections. "This one makes sure everything's neat before I cut," she said absently, more focused on her task than his reaction.

He hummed low in his throat. This was... new. Different from his usual crude attempts at grooming.

She set the scissors down for a moment and ran her fingers through his now untangled hair. "How much do you want to cut?"

He considered, then lifted a hand to his shoulder.

"That’s a nice length," she commented.

Something warm bloomed in his chest at her approval, but he made an uninterested shrug.

She started cutting then, slow and methodically, with the snip of the scissors as the only sound in the room.

With each careful comb-through, and each precise trim, he felt a strange sense of weightlessness. His eyes grew heavier, as the gentle pull of her hands and the repetitive motions slowly lulled him. Before he realized it, his head had dipped slightly forward, and the sleep finally took over him.

She hesitated when she noticed, stilling the scissors in her hand. For a long moment, she just watched him.

The slight furrow of his brow had smoothed out. The corners of his eyes held the faintest wrinkles, softened by the rest, rather than tension. And the freckles, the small constellation near his ear.

Her gaze drifted lower, to the shape of his lips.

Handsome. So, so handsome.

She exhaled slowly, shaking herself out of it. Carefully, she made the last few cuts, finishing her work with a light touch to sweep away stray strands. Then, just as gently, she placed her hand on his arm.

He stirred at the contact, blinking groggily. His body felt oddly down by something unfamiliar, comfort. The notion hit him promptly. He had fallen asleep.

His breath hitched as he straightened, rolling his neck to ease the dull ache from the angle he had held his head. He had never allowed himself to such a vulnerable position before others, not on land, not in the depths of the sea. Yet, with her hands in his hair, smoothing, cutting, working with deliberate care, he had let his guard slip.

"All done," she murmured. pulling him from his thoughts. "If you want to see how it turned out, go check the mirror."

He sat there for a moment longer. Then, without a word, he pushed himself to his feet and padded toward the bathroom.

She watched him go, still brushing a few stray strands of his hair off her hands.

He hesitated just inside the doorway, eyeing the mirror with suspicion. It was strange, this human thing, a glass that reflected, capturing an image too perfectly. Some whispered that mirrors could steal a soul, trapping it within their depths.

The thought nagged his mind, but, she had one in her home, in a place she used daily. If it were so dangerous, why would she keep it so casually? And when he’d caught a glimpse earlier, nothing strange had happened. No shift in the air, no pull on his spirit.

Still, something in him resisted.

From behind, he could feel her waiting, watching, likely assuming he hadn’t understood her instruction. She had no idea of the war waging inside his head.

He exhaled sharply, steeling his resolve, then gave her a short nod before stepping inside.

He stared.

The face in the mirror wasn’t the shifting, distorted thing he had seen in water, nor the dull, vague glint of himself reflected in metal. This was clear. He could study himself the way he studied others.

His gaze traced his own features, the sharp cut of his jaw, the lines of his mouth. He bared his teeth slightly, then ran his tongue over one incisor.

His dark hair -shorter now- felt lighter when he moved his head. He cast it to the side, tilting his neck, watching the way the tendons shifted beneath his skin. He traced them with his middle finger. Would she find this appealing? Did it look… manly? He frowned, lips pressing together.

The mere thought irritated him. He shouldn’t care.

But he did.

Because that afternoon on the beach, before everything spiraled, before he had almost drowned in pain, she had let him sense her. Sensed him. And then, she even saved him with her own life force, offering herself freely. That had done something to him, crept under his skin like the tide creeping over the sand: slow, relentless, and impossible to ignore.

And now? Now, he found himself standing before this strange human glass, inspecting himself through her eyes, wondering if she would approve.

He tilted his head the other way, observing the length of his now-trimmed hair, and again, the sharp angles of his face, considering this unsettling, foreign feeling, this desire to be seen. To be… liked?

Then, her voice called out from the other room.

“Everything fine there?”

He blinked, startled, like he had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. One last glance at his reflection, then he turned away, stepping back into the warm light of her home.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @civilbucky @thatesqcrush @lonelyghosts-stuff @x-press-it @the-voice-beckons-below @angelilacsworld @dollface-xoxo @mcira @lazyneonrabbitt @vxllys @namjoohnie @sebastians-love @misspendragonsworld @thewriters64 @escapefromrealitylol @hi172826 @wintrsoldrluvr @reddesires @ruexj283 @buckvoidsyy @littlesuniee @kimberly-stocks @pandaxnienke

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[cas-only-angel]

Loving the idea that after cas gets back from the empty dean just becomes a stage 5 clinger

[cas-only-angel]

heard Carry on Wayward Son today mid-shift and legit had like war flashbacks as i was cleaning tables. like i got flashes of s3 Sam and Dean and then boom theres customers walking in asking how late we’re open. idk bro, don’t ask me questions when i’m thinking about the codependent brothers.

[cas-only-angel]

໑ৎ — thinking about SOLDIER BOY and his little spit–obsessed bunny girlfriend…

warnings: no plot smut, dry humping, daddy kink, use of ‘dad’ once, spit kink, teasing/mocking, lowkey pathetic reader (daddy!soldier boy x bunny!reader) 18+

࿐ ˚ 　· 　　 .

ben’s gone his whole life thinking he’s a sexual deviant, enjoying marking up his partners and taming them all into submission, loving the way he can get just about any woman to call him daddy.

but when he started seeing you, he found himself in new territory—unfamiliar territory.

ben didn’t realise how much he’d been missing out on until he met you. you’re filthy and just so unashamedly needy, unlike any woman he’s ever been with, and he just can’t get enough of it. the way you’re always begging for his fingers in your mouth with wide doe eyes or begging him to fill your mouth with his smokey, whiskey flavoured spit drives him wild. you’re insatiable, and it's like you’re his own personal slice of heaven, letting him use you in any way he pleases.

he loves the way you so shamelessly sit perched upon his lap, bouncing around in front of him, so needy and wanton, with your pretty pleading eyes, round and glimmering with anticipation, like a little puppy in need of attention.

you eagerly grind down onto his lap in just your t-shirt and panties, rubbing your swollen tumescent cunt against his hardened length. your puffy folds spread apart over the thick bulge, desperately searching for friction against his sweatpants. he watches you with a mixture of amusement and need, your filthy fucking antics setting his body on fire.

ben meets your eyes, seeing the way they’re already droopy. “bunny, don’t look at me like that,” he chuckles, the rough sound reverberating in his chest. his hips buck up to meet your movements, and you feel him rubbing the hard line of his cock against your slit. his large hands find your hips, grabbing ahold of them, his fingers digging into the plush skin, helping guide your movements.

your lips purse at his words, and ben rolls his eyes, his face gleaming in amusement at your little pout. he watches you open your mouth and stare right back at him with a childish petulant look on your face—waiting, watching expectantly.

ben’s face morphs into a cruel expression, a smirk that tugs up at his lips, making the corners of his eyes crinkle. a thick wad of his saliva lands on your tongue, filling your mouth with his taste. “swallow. now,” he says, his eyes boring into you. you do as you’re told and swallow, opening your mouth again to show him you’d done what he’d asked. your eyes search his with an eagerness that says, ‘i did it, look at me! tell me i did good!’

ben revels in the needy look you're giving him, so pathetic and desperate; it’s almost laughable, and as much as he wants to kiss you senseless and knock that eager little look off your face by shoving his tongue down your throat, his need to remind you of his power over you wins.

he’s quick to force his fingers into your mouth, his middle and index pressing against your tongue, instead of giving you the praise you’re so obviously yearning for. he ignores the way your face falls momentarily as your brain tries to catch up with the intrusion of his meaty fingers. “suck,” he commands, his voice low, watching as your lips gingerly wrap around his digits. “be a good girl.”

you hum with your mouth stuffed full, and you lap at them with your tongue, soaking up the lingering taste of tobacco smoke on his fingertips. your greedy mouth sucks around his fingers so fervently that drool manages to escape from the corner of your lips, but ben’s keen eye catches it, and he wipes it away with his thumb before bringing it to his lips and cleaning your mess off his finger. “mmm, taste so pretty, bunny,” he croons, his voice a low hum.

your lips pull into a smile around his salty fingers, and your hips continue to meet, rubbing your heat against each other, both of you getting more worked up as your panties grow wetter and wetter. ben’s cock dribbles out precum into his boxers, and the thin material of his sweatpants starts to darken from your arousal, leaving a little wet patch on his lap.

ben’s breathing gets heavier as he watches you engulf his fingers completely, doing just what he asked—submitting to him. the feeling of your tongue swirling around his fingertips sends all his remaining blood rushing south, only making his cock swell more. he slowly pulls his fingers out from the wet warmth of your mouth, his eyes locked on a string of saliva still connected to his fingertip and your lips.

“fuck, baby. such a messy girl,” ben huffs, slightly in adoration, slightly mockingly. his hand moves down to your throat, just resting on the side of your neck, feeling your pulse rapidly beat under his calloused skin. his thumb rubs over the column of your throat, letting his eyes flicker between yours and your mouth.

“daddy,” you whine, “please…”

your petulant little pout and the tone of your voice make ben’s dick twitch between your folds. it’s pathetic, the way he takes you apart so easily. “use your words, bun. c’mon. please what, huh?” he asks, the mockery still laced thick in his tone. his eyes glimmer with mirth and linger on the dribble on your lips and chin. he loves it, seeing you all wet and dishevelled for him. it drives him mad in the best fucking way.

he knows he’s whipped. and he doesn’t even fucking care.

“i want your tongue,” you tilt your head eagerly for him, your eyes searching his, silently pleading for something, anything; just a little gesture of softness, something to quell the burning need that pools in your core.

“oh, yeah? baby wants my tongue? for what?” he taunts, his warm hand giving your neck a squeeze, smirking as a soft noise bubbles up from low in your throat.

“ben—”

“try again,” he cuts you off, correcting you instantly.

“daddy,” you huff out sulkily, “kiss me.”

a calculated grin grows on ben’s lips at your whiny demand, the amusement written all over his face. “kiss you? darlin’, i don’t know if you deserve to be kissed.”

he has to hold back a laugh as he watches your face sullen even more, your sweet features pulled down by the expression. you look silly, your face all contorted and grouchy because he won’t give in, despite the both of you knowing he wants nothing more than to kiss you until you’re breathless.

“c’mon, babygirl. don’t give me that look. you’re too pretty to pout like that.” ben gives your neck another warning squeeze before letting go and gently grabbing your chin instead, tilting your face up to meet his head-on. his eyes fall over your face, analysing you, enjoying the way you reluctantly meet his intense gaze. he hums in thought, brushing his thumb over your pout, as if to soothe it away.

you take the small gesture in good faith and kiss the pad of his thumb softly, before gingerly taking it between your lips. your tongue laps at it with your sulky little puppy dog eyes watching him tentatively, like he’s going to pull away and tell you off. 

but ben lets you suck on his thumb, watching it pacify your needy behaviour. you’re such a damn baby, he thinks.

a groan rumbles up from deep in his chest, like you’ve yanked it straight from his lungs with your sweet ministrations. your droopy eyes stay locked on his in the most filthily deplorable way—like a little puppy begging for attention, sucking up to its owner in hopes of a treat. it’s so pathetic and pitiful, but it’s just how ben likes his women.

your tongue circles his thumb, teasingly so, like you're offering a show of what you can give him if he’d just play nice. a shameless moan escapes past your lips, hurling straight into his ears and landing down in his core. you feel ben twitch against your weeping heat again, the desire growing rampant between you.

“yeah, good girl. just like that. my sweet little slut knows just what to do, doesn’t she?” ben coos tauntingly, letting the smooth words fall from his mouth.

the friction from your grinding slowly builds a pressure in your lower stomach; a fiery heat simmers from your clit rubbing against him, your slick entrance squeezing around nothing. ben feels your pretty little cunt fluttering for him, and he huffs; he knows just how to get you open and ready to take his chubby cock.

the tension keeps growing between you, and so does the friction, as you salaciously suck his thumb, like it’s a pacifier or dummy, keeping your mouth busy instead of whining like he knows you’d be doing otherwise. your wide pleading eyes beg for more as you let drool spill from your mouth. his blown-out green eyes follow the spit, and he so badly wants to clean it up with his tongue, but he doesn’t. you’re such a needy little fucking tease, and yet, he refuses to give in to you.

when ben pulls his hand back, another petulant pout grows on your lips again. he tuts his tongue against his teeth. “be good, bunny, and maybe you’ll get that kiss, yeah?”

you huff in response and whine. “i am good,” you try to argue back, dying for his thumb back or tongue—hell, anything—to pacify your damn oral fixation.

ben lets out a hearty chuckle at your whinging, his eyes locked on your tongue licking up the stray saliva spilt around your swollen lips. “bun, you’re a tease. a brat who just can’t help herself. you’re lucky i think you’re so goddamn pretty, ‘specially with those twinkling cocksucking eyes of yours, sweets.”

your eyes light up at his foul words, and the pout on your lips dissipates a little, morphing into a small strange sheepish smile. ben watches the way you react, and he decides to let up a smidge, “alright, fine. c’mere. give daddy a kiss. a proper one. none of that goldfish peckin’ bullshit. i've taught you better.”

his words go over your head; you’re too in a state to care. you’re quick to attach your lips to his, parting them to allow his tongue to tangle with yours, letting him lead the dance in your mouth. your body continues to move itself, grinding your soaked cunt even harder into his lap. his sloppy kisses and the way he leads the kiss so dominantly send sparks flying throughout your body, making your pretty little clit twitch in your drenched underwear. you moan carnally into his mouth, not caring at how your attitude has faded into sheer desperation or how smug you know it’s making him.

ben rolls his hips up into yours firmer, his sensitive length nudging apart your pussy lips completely, rubbing against you in the most heavenly way. he takes over, one hand scrunched in your hair, the other on your hip, guiding you to hump his erection like the sweet bunny you are.

and so you roll your hips, meeting his, and your mind clouds over entirely, your whinging little girl act completely placated by ben and his thick fucking cock pressing against you. he grunts, feeling all self-satisfied, at how easily he’s managed to dismantle you—and your pitiful fucking attitude—just by kissing you and rubbing your clit a little.

you whine into the kiss, hastily humping your hips into ben’s. he doesn’t call you bunny for nothing. your body shivers as the coil tightens in your stomach, your needy cunt twitching and tightening around nothing, weeping into your panties, begging to be stretched out by the supe’s stupendous girthy length.

you’re so goddamn reactive to him; he feels your arousal drenching his sweatpants further, the same way your spit drools out of your attached mouths, coating the bottom half of your faces. you're a mess, and you just can’t help it.

he breaks the kiss, earning a grunt from you in protest as you chase his lips.

“mmm… bun, no,” he pulls his head back, panting slightly. “be a good girl. c’mon, make yourself cum on daddy’s lap. let dad see how good it feels, yeah?”

his vulgar words of mock encouragement send chills right down to your puffy little cunt. you rub yourself against him faster and faster, curling your fingers into his shoulders to keep yourself upright. the pleasure builds in your core; you’re so close to toppling over the edge. your jaw hangs open while your sweet noises bubble up your throat, and ben can’t help but think how adorable you are, how desperate and cockdrunk you look, and you’re not even bouncing on it like a good little bunny yet. you’re just such a good girl—exactly what a rough boorish man like him needs.

ben brings his hand to your throat again, though roughly gripping at it this time, like he’s helping squeeze out your sweet melodic sounds of pleasure. “yeah, bunny. look at you. s’that feel good, baby? rubbing on daddy like that?” he coos, the mockery still blatantly dripping from his tone.

his mean taunting words make your pretty cunt flutter. he tightens his grip around your neck, stifling your breath slightly, making your mewls sound choked and weak. your nails dig into his shoulders as you grind, and you wonder how he’s not losing composure the same way you are. you slowly nod in response to his question, like a good little doll, and try to meet his eyes through your heavy-lidded ones.

“yeah? c’mon, babygirl. show daddy what a sweet girl you are for me. cum, bunny, cum.”

he talks down to you like an owner speaks to their dog, but somehow, that does it for you and your cockdrunk hazy brain. a wave of pleasure crashes over you; your pussy clenches and twitches as you ride out your high, still humping his lap. what a good little bunny. your tired thigh muscles spasm, exhausted from the overexertion.

your sweet sighs of pleasure are music to ben’s ears. his dick twitches underneath you, completely soaked by your arousal and juices from your orgasm, drenching through his sweats and boxers, and his dick threatens to spill right there into his pants at the sight and feel of you coming undone, but he keeps himself from letting go just yet.

“there you go. jesus, that never gets old, does it? look at you, bunny. such a good girl for daddy. makin’ a mess on my fuckin’ pants, aye?” he laughs, watching your flushed face scrunch in ecstasy.

your twitching hips finally come to a still against his. you settle in the warm wetness of his lap, and the friction of your underwear against your sensitive clit makes you squeak. ben grins as the sound hits his ears, and he squeezes your neck, forcing more pretty sounds from you.

he seizes the opportunity and spits a wad of saliva into your agape mouth. it lands perfectly on your tongue, blessing your tastebuds with his sweet and smokey taste, and it's so disrespectful, but it still manages to make your eyes roll back into your head, which makes ben huff out a laugh, the sound low and winded.

“you with me, toots?” he asks, gently smacking your cheek with his free hand, ridiculing you for your lack of cognisance. “was just a little orgasm, doll. don’t be all pathetic now.”

“daddy,” you whine out, your voice hoarse from panting in and out of your open mouth. your rounded eyes blink up at him as his saliva spills out the side of your mouth before you manage to swallow it, still entirely too hazy to really fathom what he’s saying.

ben tuts at you. “wasting my spit again, bun? you know i don’t like that,” he huffs out, still slightly winded, and grips your throat harder, earning another surprised squeak from you.

you shake your head, meeting his eyes with your own blown-out droopy ones. “no, m’sorry. please give me more.”

ben narrows his eyes at you, weighing up his options in his head, but ultimately he decides you’ve been good enough, doing what he says and doing it obediently, and it makes him proud—he’s trained you well.

“open then, sweetheart,” he finally says, his gaze falling over your face and your swollen mouth.

your lips part instantly, and another glob of spit lands on your tongue. you roll it around in your mouth for him to see before you swallow, keeping your eyes locked on him. he feels the movement of your throat under his palm.

“atta girl, swallowing like that for daddy. my pretty bunny,” ben murmurs with his thick gravelly tone. a smirk spreads across his face as he pulls yours towards him, the motion rough and unforgiving. “my good little pet, yeah? you’re my good girl, always doing what i say. fuckin’ good little thing, you are. you know how to make your old man proud.”

fig yaps: is this weird? idk!!!! do i hate this? a lot!!!!!! not my finest work but i said i’d post it so here we are !! anyways girls with an oral fixation and a daddy kink stand up!!! this is 4 u! soldier boy + dry humping will forever be my go-to !!!!!!!

feedback and reblogs are welcomed and appreciated ofc! thank u!

⟡ taglist: @chevroletdean @fitxgrld @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4jackles @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @legalmente-loca @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @jensenacklesballsack @minettacreekk @winchester-whiskey @emeraldcrs @freyabear @daylighted @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @deansbeer @artemys-ackles @bluemerakis @star-yawnznn @ambiguous-avery @starzify @littlesoulshine @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @freeluigihesbae @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @lanasgirlfr @seven7lee @nymphet-quenn @rafessweetgirl @maeji-may @eternalssunshinee @blossomingorchids @benscumgluzzer @soldiersgirl @arcannaa @gibson-g1rl @vmiina @h8aaz + the rest in the comments sorry!

↑ comment to be added / removed (zero judgment) !

[cas-only-angel]

it’s been 16 days since i’ve been to the movies. i’m going to end up on the news if i don’t get to go soon.

[cas-only-angel]

“you get to bed, baby. i’ll cook you girls a big breakfast tomorrow. the ackles’ hangover special,” he mumbled against your hair, his hand still holding your face.

after a night out ࿓ best friend’s dad!jensen

intro to bsf!dad!jensen .ᐟ

summary: jensen catches you tipsy in his kitchen after a night out with your friends.

warnings: none tbh, yearning, teasing, soft touches, reader is tipsy, mention of kissing others (bsf!dad!jensen x reader)

✰ ༢ུ࿓

it had been a long night of drinking, dancing, kissing pretty boys against the sticky walls of the nightclub, and feeling absolutely nothing as their wandering hands groped and squeezed at your body.

a typical night out… to say the least.

your regular spot—the beanbag on the floor of your best friend’s room, accompanied by the various pillows and blankets—felt off. you were tossing and turning, overheating and dehydrated from all the alcohol, and overstimulated from your pyjamas twisting around your body and your unruly hair getting in your face.

you stood up with a quiet yet drunken huff of annoyance, rising to your feet in the darkness of the room, your best friend’s quiet snores filling the otherwise silent space. you closed your eyes for a moment, your head spinning a little as you found your bearings.

you managed to stumble out into the dim light of the hallway, your footfalls heavy on the wooden floor, highlighted by the silver moonlight peeking in from the windows. your feet led you down the familiar path to the kitchen. it was dark and silent, apart from the clock ticking on the wall.

you felt at ease just existing in the heavy silence of the night. your eyes squeezed shut in protest as you flicked on the overhead light, and a quiet groan escaped your throat, cutting through the quietude. you drunkenly rubbed your tired eyes, smearing the leftover mascara you’d failed to completely remove barely an hour ago.

after a moment, you stepped further onto the cold tiles of the kitchen floor and swung open the cabinet filled with the drinking glasses, grabbing one.

“oh.”

you jumped at the sudden voice behind you, your body flinching. you turned around. jensen stood in the doorway with a lazy smile spread across his face, his hair tousled, dressed in grey sweatpants and a black shirt that clung to the muscled expanse of his shoulders and arms. goddamn, that sight was going to be burned into your brain until the end of time.

“it’s you,” he commented quietly, taking in your appearance at the late hour, letting his gaze fall down your body before meeting your eyes. “you look a mess, sweetheart.”

you couldn’t help your lips from tugging into a reluctant, yet amused smile, or the way your cheeks heated up at his playful jab—exacerbated by the alcohol still flowing through your system. the combination made your cheeks aglow, and you lowered your head in embarrassment, trying to save face under his fixated gaze.

“feel even better,” you muttered jokingly in return, your voice hoarse from pounding back straight liquor over the course of your night out. you turned back towards the sink to fill up your glass, still avoiding his eyes, though you could feel them piercing into your back.

a small sound of amusement came from low in jensen’s throat. he stepped towards you, watching as you shut off the water. “told you girls not to drink so much… but you never listen to me,” he chuckled softly, the sound gentle but laced with that teasing undertone you’d grown so used to.

you sipped your water as you turned to face him once again and took a moment to stare at him, trying to find a quick response in the depths of your tipsy brain. however, you realised you’d been silent probably a fraction too long as the room filled with an awkward and undeniable tension, the only sound tick tick tick from the clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator.

jensen shifted on his feet and leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, basking in the discomfort radiating off of you. his green eyes bored into you, studying you with an almost calculated stare, waiting to see how you’d respond to his playful attempt at displaying his “authority” over you.

“didn’t drink too much,” you finally replied, leaning against the counter opposite him, trying to appear nonchalant, like your heart wasn’t racing from just his presence alone. you took another sip of your water, watching his smile quirk into a small smirk.

“oh, yeah?” he asked, his brows raising as he watched you. he tilted his head, the gesture challenging, yet filled with jest. 

his gaze shrunk you down, stripping you of all the defences you’d tried so hard to build up over the years since you first developed your stupid crush. you felt like he could see right through you, and you didn’t know why you weren’t completely mortified by that.

you shifted your weight on your feet and cleared your throat. “yeah,” you offered back with a shrug, trying to keep up your bravado of indifference.

“then what’s with the…“ jensen trailed off, raising a hand and gesturing to his face.

“what?” you scoffed out in a smile, now crossing your arms—a little in defence, and maybe a little in defiance.

“your eyes, little lady. y’got makeup all smudged under them, looks like you got punched in the eye. there’s no one i need to go out and knock on their ass for hitting my girl is there?” he smirked, this time not so subtly, letting his words linger in the air as that fucking expression shot straight down to your core. his girl. damn right.

your hands rubbed under your eyes after you’d placed your glass down, your heart thumping against your ribcage as you tried to wipe away the black smears. “no,” you huffed with a smile, “no fighting needed, jensen.”

“good,” he murmured, stepping towards you, “i’d be sad if someone was slinging fists your way, honey. y’too sweet to be gettin’ into fights.”

you blinked up at him, dropping your hands as he approached; your body language was open to him, welcoming his proximity as he neared closer.

“wouldn’t want to see you hurt. i’d hate that,” he continued, his voice still a soft murmur. he raised his hand, letting it linger just a centimetre from your skin, hesitating for a moment, before finally making contact. his thumb gently rubbed at the stubborn mascara under one of your eyes, his palm resting on your cheek. the feeling of his skin against yours was searing, setting the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. your breath caught in your throat for a moment; his touch felt good, like it belonged there.

your eyelids fluttered shut, silently submitting to his touch, and you felt his gaze deepen. it was intense and all-consuming, kind of like standing under a spotlight, but it was gentle at the same time, like it was one you’d been under a thousand times.

“mmm,” jensen hummed, “my messy girl.” his quietly spoken words made your heartbeat stutter. his. it’s like he knew exactly how to take you apart without even trying. the butterflies grew more rampant in your stomach, his words forcing goosebumps to grow on your skin. “at least this shows you had fun tonight though, right?”

your eyes flickered open, blinking up to meet his. your eyes locked, and his smile grew, making a warmth bloom in your chest. jensen’s thumb stilled under your eye, but he left his hand cupped against your cheek, the heat between your skin sending tingles down your spine, straight to your core. you had to fight off the urge to turn and place a kiss on his palm, or better yet, take his thumb into your mouth.

“yeah, had a lot of fun tonight…” you muttered with a soft smile, letting your eyes dance between his green irises, so deep and soulful you could just drown in them if he’d let you.

“yeah?” he asked, letting his hand slip down to grasp the side of your jaw. he rubbed his thumb along your cheek, his eyes sparkling with mirth, drinking you in, as you tried to not physically react to his touch. 

“yeah.”

“did you kiss any boys?”

you paused, your whole body tensing, completely thrown off by his question. you tried to not let the surprise show on your face, but jensen could see right through you.

“s’alright if you did, baby. you’re a pretty girl. lots of boys’d be lining up for a kiss, i’d imagine,” he purred out his words, and you felt like you could just melt right then and there.

your throat bobbed as you swallowed down the words you wanted to say. no boy would ever beat you, jensen. i want you first in line. every time.

instead, your smile grew sheepish, and your eyes darted away for a moment, fighting off the blush from staining your cheeks. an awkward chuckle bubbled up your throat, an attempt to diffuse the tension he’d built between you.

“umm,” you began, “yeah, i— i kissed a boy… or two.” your eyes met his once again, falling back into the trap of his unwavering stare. you searched his face, your heart beating as you waited for a response. you felt guilty. why did you feel guilty?

you caught the way the corner of his lip twitched, threatening to curl ever so subtly at your words, and the guilt intensified tenfold in your chest. why did you admit that to him? why didn’t you just lie?

“yeah?” he asked, letting his face fall back into a neutrally intrigued expression, guarded almost. “did you like it?”

your brows pinched together. 

“like what?” you asked, part of you hoping he’d just drop it. you didn’t think you could keep your face from flushing any longer; you didn’t want him to see you so flustered over a silly question.

“getting kissed?” he clarified, the words falling from his mouth like it was a totally normal thing to be asking you.

“i— it was—” you mumbled, trying to find the words. “yeah, it was… alright. i was drunk,” you finally concluded, hoping to cease any misinterpretations of your prior actions that night. they were just kisses; you were drunk.

“just alright?” jensen asked, tilting his head once again, still caressing your cheek. “you don’t need to lie to me, sweetheart. you can kiss all the boys you want and enjoy it if you like.”

“i know,” you said a little too quickly out of panic. you mentally smacked yourself when you saw his eyes narrow the slightest bit. fuck. that’s not what you meant to say. i don’t want to kiss anyone but you, jensen. only you.

“mm, doesn’t mean you should.”

the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock trickled out into the background, a new silence swallowing you whole. you stood staring up at him, your tipsy brain trying to scramble through the mess his words left in your head. doesn’t mean you should.

“i— it was just—” you sputtered out, suddenly feeling like a deer in headlights.

jensen shook his head and gently patted your cheek. “just be careful, sweetheart. want you looking after yourself f’me. don’t want a boy breaking that sweet little heart of yours. it’s too innocent, too good for this world. you deserve the best, you know that?”

your brain felt like it was seconds away from exploding and seeping out of your ears. you struggled to make sense of his words, trying to search between them as the silent seconds flew by.

but then suddenly

out of nowhere

he leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of your head. your eyes instantly fell closed, the breath from your lungs stilling for a moment as the world around you slowed down. this… this was new.

“you get to bed, baby. i’ll cook you girls a big breakfast tomorrow. the ackles’ hangover special,” he mumbled against your hair, his hand still holding your face.

you hummed; you didn’t trust yourself with words.

“sleep tight, sweet girl.” jensen finally pulled back and shot you a smile, the type of smile that makes your knees go weak. every. single. time.

all you could do was nod, your eyes grasping onto the micro-expressions on his face. god, he was so hard to read, so guarded when he wanted to be, so confusing.

jensen nodded in return. he took a moment to let the sight of you sink in, really sink in, before he turned on his heel and headed towards the door with a smile on his face.

your heart sunk to your stomach as the distance between you increased, missing the warmth of his hand against your cheek, his lips against your hair, his body cocooning yours against the counter, the smell of his cologne that you breathed in like it was fresh air.

a sigh escaped your lungs as he finally disappeared into the hallway. your legs felt like jelly, and that bloody aching sensation had grown between your thighs.

it was going to be a long night.

fig yaps: this felt… awfully restrained compared to my last post,, BUT i wanted to establish their dynamics before they go crazy sucking and fucking !!! anywhoooo thank u for the love on the og post !!! i feel like my inbox has been flooded, and all the kind (also kinda batshit) comments have made my week and made me so eager to write !!! love y’all freaks PLS keep sending me ideas i wanna start writing actual smut for this delicious man i just gotta plan it out omg

also thank u for 1.6k too !!!!!! 🤯

feedback and reblogs are welcome and encouraged as always! thank yaaaa <3

⟡ taglist: @chevroletdean @fitxgrld @jasvtsc @bluestrd @1-imbroglio @titsout4jackles @faithfulsofi @tortureddarkstar @abellmunsonmovie @legalmente-loca @theoneandonlystonedspiderman420 @manicjk @jensenacklesballsack @minettacreekk @winchester-whiskey @emeraldcrs @freyabear @daylighted @cosmopolitan-thedrink @jwritestuff @suhnisideup @spookyysinsanity @kimxwinchester @bleuatlas @deansbbyx @angelicjackles @deansbeer @artemys-ackles @bluemerakis @misatxox @star-yawnznn @ambiguous-avery @starzify @littlesoulshine @jays-bonnie-on-the-side @freeluigihesbae @bejeweledinterludes @lanasgirlfr @seven7lee @nymphet-quenn @rafessweetgirl @maeji-may @eternalssunshinee @deanswidow @psychicnatural @ghostlyaccurate @k-slla

↑ comment to be added / removed (zero judgment) !

[cas-only-angel]

FOR BEAU MAYBE WRITE ABOUT LIE A STRIPPER GF WHO GIVES HIS TOUCHSTARVED ASS THE TIME OF HIS LIFE

ask and you shall receive !

summary — beau discovers what he needed most in the last place he thought he would find it.

cw — stripper!reader x beau arlen, 18+ (mdni) mentions of drinking, exotic dancing, kissing, groping, YEARNING.

word count — 1,162 words

beau had driven as far out of montana as he could. honestly, he wasn't even sure which state he was in. all he knew was you and the way you worked your magic up on that pole to the beat of "cherry pie". what a cliché, but it was one of his favourites and nothing looked more heavenly than the cherry red lingerie that clung to your body, the way he wished he could.

with each wink of your luscious eyelashes, flick of your shiny hair and snap of your hips, he fell further into your trap and he wasn't looking for an exit anytime soon. other dancers came and tried to get his money and attention but it was all yours tonight. he couldn't stop imagining the way you would feel in his hands, on his lips, on his lap. on him.

he tried to distract himself by staring down the neck of his beer bottle, only for a second, to cool down and ease the growing, painfully ignored bulge in his worn denim jeans. before he knew it, the song had ended and your heels were click-clacking off stage backstage to refresh yourself and prepare for your next dance. he knew he had to strike now.

he sat in the darkened vip booth, draped with crimson curtains, red satin couches and matching tassel curtains. his hands itched and sweat decorated his brow as he waited for you. each second that passed only escalated his anxiety, excitement? he couldn't work out what he was feeling, but what he did know was that he longed for you and your soft touch.

what was he doing? god, he's a sheriff. he can't be doing this. he'd be the talk of town if they found out that he was going to strip clubs just to get attention. hell, he would be laughed out of town. god, what would his daughter and ex-wife think? he scratched the back of his neck and ran his hands over his face.

"fuck." he sighs to himself before going to grab his jacket to leave before he fell in deeper, but he didn't get very far. his eyes flickered up and there you stood in between the tassels with a small smirk and a raised brow.

"leaving so soon?" you pout as you glance between his shocked face and fleece denim jacket in his grasp. you let the tassels dance over your skin as you reach out and pull the jacket from his tight grasp and throw it behind you. "you already paid, i don't think you should waste your money. you look too clever for that." you winked as you pushed him back against the satin couches and sat on his lap. he's sure he's forgotten how his lungs work as your fingers danced over and caressed his crows feet, down his stubbled cheek and along his jawline, all with a soft smile on your painted lips. "first time?" you whisper as your hands travel down and rest above his heart, that he was sure was about to beat out of his chest.

"that obvious?" beau manages to say, his lungs finally refilling as he remembers to breathe. a small giggle escapes you as you nod and run your hands through his surprisingly, luscious hair.

"you look too sweet to be here." you breathlessly whisper. "but don't you worry, i'll take good care of you." before beau can even react, you readjust and straddle him as your hands connect behind his neck and your hips gyrate to the beat of whatever techno song is blasting in the background. he can't focus on anything but the sensation, smell, feeling of you. your sinful eyes never leave his widened ones as you smoothly grind against him before you throw your head back and reveal your chest to him. his hungry eyes trail down the smooth valley of your breasts and down to where your bodies mould together. his hands fly up to rest on your waist but you smack them away and, to his demise, climb out of his comfortable lap.

"rule number one. no touching." you smirk as you run your hands over your curves as you swivel on the spot, glide down to your knees and crawl towards beau. his tongue darts out to wet his lips as he tries to control his breathing. your hands glide from his knees to his thighs and he freezes. so close yet so far away from where he wanted you most.

"what's rule number two?" he mumbles, his brain flooded with you.

"don't fall in love with a dancer." you laugh as you clamber onto his lap again. behind his half-lidded eyes, he silently thanks god as you rest your back against his toned chest, throwing your head back and resting on his shoulder. you continue your previous grinding with a smirk as you feel him against you, loving what you do to him. how you're able to make a man like him weak in the knees and drunk of desire. you grab the older mans hands and let them trace the outline of your body before resting on your chest.

"but it's more fun if we break rules, isn't it?" you nibble at his ear and his whole world comes undone in that single moment. he is stuttering and stammering as he gropes and squeezes your tits as if his hands were trained to do so with your heated panting against his sensitive neck and relentless grinding on his clothed cock. for the next five minutes, beau was pretty sure he had gone to heaven as your hands and lips glided over one another as the techno-beat echoed in his eardrums.

this was one sin he hoped to never be absolved from.

eventually, you slowly untangled yourself from the handsome gentleman, caressing his cheek one final time before rewarding him with a slow, deep kiss. he tried his best to remember everything: the taste of your cherry lipgloss, the comforting feel of your supple skin beneath his calloused hands, your innocent eyes and dirty words. you pulled back and cocked your head, as if examining him.

"i get off in 1 hour. if you're interested." you play with the collar of his shirt, giving him a sly smile.

"i.. i can wait." he blurts out.

"good thing, sheriff. i'm not done with you yet." you lean in and press your soft lips to his collar, leaving a bright red lipstick stain on the pristine, white shirt.

"... sheriff?" he gulps, trying to play it off. "i'm not.. you've got me mistaken–"

"oh, mr. arlen. when a sheriff as handsome as you turns up, girls will talk. and girls will want." you wink. you give his cheek one chaste kiss before hurrying out and letting the tassels glide over your skin. beau thought becoming sheriff was the best thing to happen to him. he just figured out that he was wrong.

-`♡´- tag list: @bluemerakis @legalmente-loca @faiszt @vmiina @emeraldcrs @briiverse @figthoughts @sl33pylilbunny @jasvtsc @silverwoodlynx @kayleighwinchester @bejeweledinterludes @yooyieu @nperoconelcositoarriba @lanasgirlfr @velvetdandeli0n @iluvdeanwinchester @cowboysandcigarettes @daylighted @valjy @dulcescorderitas @mostlymarvelgirl @syrma-sensei @rositaslabyrinth (comment or inbox me to be added)

[cas-only-angel]

The destiel au gifsets that are about to be made.... welcome back 2012 tumblr