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Behind Closed Doors.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Tags: Established relationship. Light Angst. Regression Episodes. Emotional Dependency. Comfort. Pet names.

Warnings: 18+ only. PTSD. Regressive!Bucky. Mommy Kink. Praise Kink. Self-Soothing (Nursing). Comfort Sex. Past Self-Harm Mention.

Summary: Most days, Bucky is a functional, dependable, and even deadly man. Others, when the noise in his head gets too loud, behind closed doors, he becomes Jamie.

Word Count: About 5.5k.

notes: For the @avengers-assemble-bingo event, Kinky Bingo. The Prompt is Mommy Kink. Card number KB-014.

The door banged open hard enough to rattle the frame. Sam strode in first, glancing over his shoulder. "I told you to handle it like a grown-ass man."

Bucky followed, with a duffel slung over his shoulder and a deep scowl carved into his face. "It was handled," he muttered.

She stepped out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel, smiling without thinking, until she caught the flicker in Bucky’s eyes, the slight drop of his shoulders, the tension so tight under his skin it was a wonder he could move at all.

Still, he crossed the room like nothing was wrong, dropped the duffel with a heavy thud, and bent to kiss her in a short press. His lips were dry, and his hand felt cold against her hip through her pajama shirt. "Missed you," he said, like he meant to say more but swallowed it back down.

Sam snorted behind them. "Real touching, man. Now gimme the damn briefcase, lover boy."

She laughed under her breath; Bucky flipped him off without looking.

The briefcase was waiting by the couch, matte black, secure enough to survive a plane crash. Bucky kicked it closer with the toe of his boot.

"You know," Sam said, hefting it. "This wouldn’t even be necessary if a certain someone didn’t hulk out on Redwing."

Bucky shrugged, deadpan. "It was an accident."

"Bullshit," Sam barked, half-laughing. "You aimed at him!"

"He was in the way."

"He was flying surveillance, you jackass!"

Bucky shrugged again, more theatrical this time, and a sly twist tugging at his mouth. "Collateral damage."

Sam muttered something vile, but the edge was missing, worn down by exhaustion and familiarity. They circled each other like two old dogs too stubborn to admit they were friends.

"You owe me," Sam called over his shoulder, stepping through the door.

Bucky didn’t answer, just kicked the door shut behind him with a solid, decisive slam.

Three long strides, and he was in her space. He bent his head, digging his forehead into the curve where her neck met her shoulder, banding his arms around her like he could fold himself into her skin if he just held tight enough.

He shuddered once -just once- and then he went still, breathing her in like she was air after drowning.

Already feeling the shift in his mind -the slow melt of tension into something heavier, darker- she cupped the back of his head and murmured, "What's wrong, Jamie?"

His voice was a rasp against her throat. "Don't wanna talk about it, Mommy."

There it was. The tremor under the words. The old damage rising from the depths, thick as smoke, inescapable.

It was going to be one of those weeks.

Bucky was gone. Not dead, not disappeared. Just… buried.

His mind, fractured and fragile, bore scars deeper than any bullet wound. Years of physical torture, mind control, chemical sedation, and that damned chair had left behind something that could never be stitched whole again, only nurtured, only loved in all its brokenness.

"Alright," she whispered, smoothing her palm along the nape of his neck, tangling her fingers lightly in his hair. "You don't have to, sweetie."

Bucky clung harder and shifted his weight, nudging her backwards, steering her without words. The backs of her knees bumped the armrest of the couch, catching her off guard- and then he was pressing, urging, laying her down like something loved but urgent, needing her pliant and beneath him.

She let herself fall back, and her body sank into the cushions.

Bucky climbed after her, sprawling his massive frame above her, caging her in, shuddering like the weight of the world was slipping down his spine.

He buried his face against her chest, moving his mouth blindly, mouthing her through the thin cotton of her pajama top. Desperate, clumsy, a low whine slipping from his throat when the fabric denied him skin.

Frustrated, he nosed under the hem, catching it with his teeth, tugging upward -an animal trying to shed the barrier himself- and she lifted her arms in silent permission, helping him strip the top away.

"There you go, baby," she cooed, cradling the back of his head, guiding him.

Bucky latched greedily onto her breast the second he could. His tongue flicked rough and desperate, the suction was almost bruising, pulling at her with the kind of force that spoke of starvation, not hunger.

She cradled him close, slightly rocking them as soft, wet sounds filled the quiet room. The metal plates of his hand pressed cold against her waist as he shifted his hold, needing the contact. He suckled hard -harder than he usually allowed himself- losing himself in the mindless rhythm of the process, soothed only by her scent, her heartbeat, the feel of her skin in his mouth.

She only held him tighter, whispering into the crown of his head, "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

But it wasn't enough. She felt it, the restless grind of his hips against her leg, the low, helpless groan deep in his chest.

The tremors in his body grew worse. He needed more. More skin, more warmth, more of her wrapped around every broken part of him he didn’t know how to fix.

He whimpered around her nipple, the sound was pitiful, hungry, broken. His hips jerked forward in clumsy, desperate thrusts, rubbing his heavy cock against her leg, the friction too little, too clothed, too maddening.

One of his hands fumbled down between them, pawing clumsily at her waistband, frustrated when the fabric of her pajama shorts didn’t yield. She lifted her hips, helping, soothing, letting him peel the barrier away.

The second her shorts were gone, he was there, grinding harder, the rough denim of his fatigues rasping against the tender, slick heat between her legs. His mouth never stopped, suckling greedily and wet at her breast, the noises were animalistic, wet, and obscene. Her thighs fell open to give him more, to give him everything he was silently begging for.

"That's it, baby," she murmured against his temple, her voice thick with love and aching need. "Take it, Jamie. Take what you need."

He shuddered at her words, and with a low growl, he fumbled at his belt, nearly tearing it open in his frantic need. The sound of the zipper rasped loud in the thick, humid air between them, and then he was pushing his pants and boxers just far enough down to free himself, his cock flushed dark and leaking, throbbing with every erratic beat of his heart.

He didn't even line himself up properly at first, just thrusting blindly, rutting against her belly, her hip, lost in pure instinct. She reached down, gentle but firm, guiding him lower, dragging the head of his cock through her slick folds, and he gasped, a desperate, wounded noise, like she'd just torn open his chest and touched his heart.

He pushed forward in a single, shaking thrust, sinking inside her inch by inch, whimpering her name, clinging to her body.

"Mommy... Mommy, please..." he sobbed into her skin, fucking desperately into her, like he couldn't get deep enough, close enough, like he needed to crawl inside her and never come out.

She wrapped her arms and legs around him, holding him tighter, whispering praises and love into his hair, rocking her hips up to meet each frantic thrust, giving him everything, everything he needed.

Bucky's rhythm faltered almost immediately, embarrassingly fast, his whole body went rigid, and a broken cry tore from his throat as he came hard, pulsing deep and warm inside her.

Her fingers never stopped stroking his scalp, the curve of his neck, the tense line of his back where sweat glued his shirt to his skin. He whimpered low in his chest, a sound that made her thighs clench around his waist instinctively, holding him there, inside her, where he belonged.

"You did so good for me." she murmured again, threading the words right into his marrow, "filled me up so good, sweetheart."

His hips gave a weak jerk, as if his body was trying to answer even while spent. He nosed deeper into the crook of her neck, and his hands roamed frantically on her hips like he didn’t know whether to stay still or start again. A needy little whimper bled out of him, wet and desperate.

"Shh, you're perfect," she soothed, rocking her hips just the slightest bit, enough to make him groan, low and wrecked.

But Bucky needed more. Shame and hunger twisted together in his mind, his need to please her, to earn the sweetness of her praise. His hand scrabbled down her body, pushing his shaking fingers between them, seeking out where they were still joined, sticky and wet.

"I can-" he mumbled into her neck, his voice hoarse and cracked, "I can make you come, Mommy... lemme... please, lemme-"

She caught his wrist, soft but firm, guiding him, showing him without words. Her own fingers slipped down, spreading herself open for him, letting him feel the slick heat, her throbbing clit, how ready she was, how close she'd been even from his desperate rutting.

"Alright," she breathed, her voice breaking into a moan when his thumb brushed clumsily over her clit. "Let Mommy remember you how."

He chased every stuttered gasp, every little roll of her hips, with awkward but hungry movements, so eager to please that he trembled. He kissed her neck, her collarbone, and nuzzled helplessly against her, feeding off every moan, "Tell me, Mommy... wanna make you feel good... please..."

"You're doing so good, baby," she cooed, rolling her hips into the clumsy circles he traced against her swollen clit, feeling sparks skittering up her spine. "My big strong boy... that's it, sweetie, just like that."

His breath hitched sharply. She felt him throb inside her, half-hard but growing, so easily aroused by her praise.

"M- more," she whispered into his hair, guiding his hand with gentle, insistent pressure. "Mommy needs more, Jamie... you can give it to me, can't you, baby?"

A shattered little sound broke out of his throat. He latched onto her neck, sucking greedily, slipping his fingers faster, finding the rhythm she loved without even realizing it, simply because she wanted it, because she told him he could.

"Yes... yes, I can-" he gasped, nearly crying it, driving his hand harder against her, frantic, devoted.

She moaned shamelessly, grinding softly against his hand, feeling the wet slide of his cock thickening again between her slick folds. She angled her hips to grind against him, smearing herself all over him, and he nearly sobbed.

"Such a good boy," she panted, dragging her fingers across his scalp, tugging his hair just enough to make him moan. "Making me feel so good... my perfect boy..."

Bucky's whole body shuddered. He humped against her without rhythm, desperate, straining toward the heaven of her approval.

She was so close, the pleasure was burning tight and high, and when he whined brokenly, "Need you to cum Mommy, need it so bad," she ground against him harder, her and breath hitched. The tension snapped through her body as she came around his already hard cock, writhing, crying his name, clamping her thighs tightly around his waist.

His hips moved before thought could catch them, pure instinct, pure need. She gasped sharply, her body so sensitive, still riding her orgasm, and he let out a strangled moan, pressing his forehead hard against hers, as his arms shook where they caged her in.

"Jamie," she whimpered, reflexively wrapping her legs tighter around him, holding him there, where he belonged.

He groaned, trying to last, trying to hold back -but the heat of her body and the clutch of her inner muscles around him milked another low, broken cry from his throat.

"Can't-" he choked out, as his hips twitched. "Mommy, I- fuck-, I can't-"

"You don't have to, baby," she whispered against his lips, "Just let go."

The second the words left her mouth, Bucky shattered. His rhythm was frantic and short-lived, sloppy little thrusts, his whole body spasming, jerking helplessly. His face twisted into a tortured, beautiful grimace, mouth open in a silent cry as he came again, flooding her, so raw, so painfully intense it stripped the breath from his lungs.

She held him through it, both hands threaded in his hair, pulling his weight down onto her so he could sob against her throat, every breath a broken thing.

"Good boy," she murmured, cradling him, rocking him gently even as he trembled and gasped, as if the orgasm had unraveled something too dark inside him.

"My sweet, perfect Jamie..."

He clung to her, gasping, as the aftershocks racked his body. His cock throbbed weakly inside her, spent but refusing to soften, desperate to stay part of her, to never be alone again.

"Love you," he rasped, barely louder than a breath. "I love you so much..."

She kissed his temple, his wet lashes, the corner of his mouth. "I love you too, sweetheart."

He whimpered again, softer this time, more at peace, and his breathing began to slow down as she stroked his spine. It was a mindless comfort, just the warmth of her body, her scent, the surety of being wanted exactly as he was, no masks, no shame.

She felt him trembling against her, as small broken hitches of breath ghosted hot over her collarbone, and she knew he wasn’t done needing her yet. Gently, she threaded her fingers through his hair again, scratching lightly at his scalp until he made a soft, choked sound, half-whine, half-moan.

"Jamie, baby," she whispered, kissing his ear, feeling the damp strands of hair clinging to his temple. "I need you to sit up for me, alright? Just for a minute. Let Mommy take care of you."

He whined again, burrowing his face harder against her skin, refusing. His cock twitched uselessly inside her, spent but stubborn, like his body was terrified of losing contact.

She cupped his jaw, brushing her thumb along the sharp plane of his cheekbone. "Sweetheart, please. Just a little shift, then you can cuddle all you want. Promise."

That promise cracked through the fog in his mind. Bucky lifted his head, blinking slowly and heavy with glazed blue eyes, and his lip caught in his teeth in a desperate little bite. Wordless, he obeyed, pushing himself up on shaking arms and pulling out of her with a reluctant, shuddering moan.

She winced a little at the loss but sat up quickly, nudging his hips to guide him back onto the couch cushions. His tactical pants were still around his thighs, boots still muddy and scuffed from the mission, whole body a mess of tension and need.

She kissed his knee through the fabric, soothing him. "Good boy. Stay still for me, alright?"

He nodded, but his hands twitched like he didn’t know what to grab onto, finally fisting the fabric of her discarded pajama top like a lifeline.

With quick hands, she unlaced and yanked off his boots, tossing them without care. His socks followed, peeled off with a little tug. Then she shimmied the ruined pants down his thighs, down past his knees, ankles, freeing him completely.

Bucky whined low in his throat, and his thighs trembed where they spread for her, his cock flushed dark, twitching weakly against his belly, glistening with the mess of what they’ve made.

"There we go, baby," she murmured, stroking his trembling thighs, letting him feel her loving hands on him. "I got you."

He looked like he wanted to fold in on himself, humiliated and desperate, as his chest heaved.

She pressed a soft kiss to his navel, another just above his hipbone. "You did so well for me, Jamie. Gave Mommy everything she needed.”

He tensed beneath her mouth, breath hitching like he wanted to protest. “That’s not true, I couldn’t-”

She kissed the top of his thigh, firmer this time. “Shhh. No, baby. No more of that.” Her hand smoothed over his stomach. “You did. You gave me what you could. That’s everything.”

Her kiss, her words, seemed to reach him. She felt the tension in his grip easing, not gone, but yielding enough for her to slip from his hold.

“I’ll be right back, baby,” she murmured, brushing one last kiss to his thigh before pulling away slowly.

He gave a faint whimper but let her go, slumping back into the couch, with his legs still spread, and arms loose and heavy at his sides. Vulnerable. Waiting.

She moved quickly, finding a clean cloth and dampening it with warm water, squeezing it out until it streamed between her fingers. When she returned, he hadn’t moved, and his eyes were glassy, staring somewhere past the ceiling, lost somewhere she couldn’t follow, breathing slowly but not relaxed.

She knelt between his thighs and began wiping him with slow, tender strokes, the warm cloth gliding over his softening cock and the skin of his inner thighs. He let her do, as always.

Then, in a voice so quiet it was almost a breath, he said, "There was a chair."

Her hands froze for just a second before she moved again, softer now, like she was tending a wound she couldn’t see. He didn’t have to explain. That phrase -the chair- floated between them, thick and poisonous.

She kissed tenderly the inside of his knee and crawled up to straddle his lap without hesitation, wrapping him up in her arms. His flesh hand immediately latched onto her waist, the metal one curling over her back like he could mold her into himself.

"It was supposed to be another kind of mission," she said tentatively.

"The growing organization... Sam said... they were forming from scraps. Vestiges. Hydra info." His breathing hitched. "We thought... we thought there would be intel to scrap. Maybe... maybe a serum, old samples. Destroy it before it can spread. But they had it. They had the chair."

He choked the last word out like it tasted like blood.

She cradled his face between her hands. “They can’t hurt you anymore, sweetie. You’re free, remember? Remember how they made it all better in Wakanda?” he only nodded, hiding his face on one of her palms.

She threaded her fingers slowly through his hair, feeling the tension beneath his scalp like a live wire still sparking. “Are you hungry, Jamie?” she whispered against the shell of his ear.

There was a small, reluctant pause before he nodded against her chest. "Yeah. But... I can't-" he clutched her tighter, as if her body might dissolve if he let go.

"I know," she soothed. "Come with me, then. We'll stick together."

She coaxed him to stand, his heavy steps were sluggish, clumsy, almost childlike in his exhaustion. He shadowed her across the room, never more than an inch away, his hand curled tight at her waist. While she pulled things from the fridge and stacked a couple of fast sandwiches, Bucky wrapped around her from behind, big and unyielding, pinning her gently against the counter with his weight.

He buried his face in her neck, breathing her scent.

"I'm sorry I'm like this," he mumbled, with a raw, scratchy voice against her skin. "I’m sorry my head's so messed up."

She stilled her hands, the sandwich forgotten half-built, and cupped his forearm where it pressed across her middle, squeezing him hard.

"No," she said firmly, tipping her head back against his shoulder to make sure he heard every word. "You survived what would have killed anybody else. You’re not messed up. You're my Jamie. That's all that matters."

Bucky let out a low, broken sound, something between a sob and a sigh, and hug her tighter like he might fuse himself into her bones if he could.

"Now eat a little, sweetheart," she whispered. "Then I'll tuck you into bed, yeah?"

He nodded mutely against her neck, still clinging, letting her finish fixing the sandwiches one-handed while he melted against her.

"Need me to cut them small for you, or are you good to grab the knife?" she asked gently, tilting her head to catch his expression.

Bucky hesitated, and his eyes flickered uncertainly to the counter, then back to her. "I'll eat them whole," he said finally. "With my hands."

"That's so good, baby," she praised, brushing her fingers over his knuckles. "Wanna eat them on the bed?"

He only nodded, letting her gather the plate and then reach for his hand, guiding him through the hallway like leading a wounded animal.

"Alright. Shirt off, sweetheart," she murmured when they reached the bedroom, giving a little tug at the hem of his tactical top. "Don’t want that messy thing on the sheets."

"Sorry," he mumbled, brow crumpling. His fingers fumbled at the fabric, uncertain. "Should I shower too?"

"Do you want to?" she asked.

"The sheets-"

"Bucky," she cut him off. Not Jamie this time, but Bucky, to wise him up. His breath caught in his chest.

"Do you want to?" she repeated, slower, softer.

"...not right now," he confessed.

"Then get in the bed and eat the sandwiches," she ordered gently, brushing her palm over his stomach in passing.

He obeyed without argument, pulling the shirt clumsily over his head and leaving it crumpled on the floor. His body was flushed and tight with leftover adrenaline, his scars standing out against his skin. He climbed onto the bed, sitting cross-legged like a great, awkward boy, with the plate balanced in his lap.

She settled beside him, smoothing her hand up and down his back in slow, rhythmic strokes as he tore into the first sandwich with trembling fingers, chewing dutifully.

Every time he took a bite, she murmured something soft near his ear: "That's it, baby." "You're doing so good." "My sweet boy."

Bucky shivered every time, eating faster, desperate for her approval, for the tone of her voice wrapped around him.

When he finished, he wiped his hands clumsily on the sheet. She would’ve scolded him, but when he turned toward her, his eyes were huge and glassy, and desperate, his mouth trembling like he might cry if she said even one word wrong, she couldn’t.

Instead, she only smiled, lifting the plate from his lap and setting it aside.

"C'mere," she whispered, opening her arms.

She eased them down into the mattress, coaxing him to lie with his head against her chest. His hair -brushing past his jawline in dark, tangled waves- spilled over her skin. She threaded her fingers through it without urgency, combing gently through the snarls, almost worshipfully.

Bucky let out a low, shaky exhale against her skin, the sound was so raw it made her chest ache. Each slow stroke of her fingers through his hair unspooled knots buried far deeper than the ones at his scalp, memories of fists twisting in his hair to punish, to control, to bend him to grotesque, degenerate wills. Those hands had ripped at him like he was a mindless beast, but hers... hers just held, adored, cherished.

She waited, giving him time to soften under her touch, before she murmured, her voice barely a ghost against the crown of his head.

"Do you have to go tomorrow?" Her fingers combed slowly, untangling another small knot. "You just got here. Can't Clint count on someone else?"

He shook his head against her chest, dragging his hair across her skin in a silky brush. "They need me," he rasped, his voice hollowed out by guilt. "My strength. My hands. Can't just leave 'em hanging."

She kissed the top of his head, brushing her lips in the softest spot where his hair parted. "Rest then, handsome," she breathed into him. "I'll guard your sleep."

----

She woke slowly, feeling him before she even turned her head down. Bucky was draped half over her, his chest pressed to her side, with one heavy arm hooked around her waist. His face was nuzzled into her breast, his wet, warm mouth suckling in soft, absent pulses around her nipple. Not truly awake. Not truly dreaming. Just clinging. Needing.

Nuzzled in like a child too big to be held, too broken not to need it anyway.

She said nothing. Would never say anything. Just slid her hand through his long hair, slow and tenderly, letting him have whatever peace he could steal from her body.

Later, after he finally stirred with a grumble and a heavy, embarrassed sigh, she helped him to the bathroom, guiding him under the shower. She washed his hair carefully, then his body. Dressed him piece by piece in a fresh set of tactical clothing with a lover’s hands.

They sat side by side at the kitchen table, with their knees bumping occasionally, plates between them. Bucky picked at his toast, sluggish but obedient, while she fussed with a napkin, sweeping a streak of jam from the stubble along his jaw. He tilted his head toward her touch like a sleepy cat, eyes half-lidded, savoring every second. Then-

The doorbell rang, sharp and sudden.

Bucky stiffened immediately. His fork clattered onto the plate as he straightened, with a frown etching deep between his brows.

"Early," he muttered. "Wasn’t supposed to be here 'til later."

"I’ll get the door. Finish your breakfast," she said, squeezing his hand before rising.

As she crossed the living room, she could already hear Clint's muffled voice behind the door, some cheery nonsense about coffee and ‘no rest for the wicked.’ She shook her head fondly and reached for the handle, casting one last glance back at Bucky, still sitting hunched at the table, tense, his eyes dark with the weight of parting.

Clint stepped inside with a gust of morning air, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. He sniffed exaggeratedly, with a wide grin breaking over his face.

"Smells delicious in here. You mind if I munch on something? Didn’t have time at home, kids were playing tug-of-war with my socks."

Bucky froze for a breath mid-bite. Then, without missing another beat, the switch flipped, and he slipped the mask into place. His scowl was automatic, familiar, almost rehearsed.

"Comin’ early and stealing my food," he muttered, jerking his chin toward the table in a rough invitation.

Clint chuckled, taking it for what it was and flopping into the nearest chair.

She hid her little sigh behind a smile, moving to pour Clint some coffee and pulling extra toast and eggs from the warming plate on the stove. As she set them down in front of him, she cast a glance at Bucky.

The mask wasn’t how he lived day to day. Most of the time, he was a functional, competent, and reliable partner. Not the trembling boy who'd wept against her chest, mourning a harsh treatment he hadn’t had in years but still felt in his bones.

When something triggered the trauma, he regressed for days. And those days were… well, manageable inside the house. But when the outside world needed something of him, when he couldn’t just pass those days at peace, the mask appeared. He wore it every time he left home. To go on missions, to stand across from bureaucrats and therapists, to smile awkwardly when a stranger said "thank you for your service," but looking at him like he was a monster.

Now he lounged in his seat, with an elbow propped on the table, coffee in hand, boots crossed at the ankles, looking confident.

Clint wolfed down half a piece of toast, talking around it. "So, mission details got updated late last night," he said, crumbs flying. "Turns out the warehouse’s not just full of spare parts and wannabe Zemo cosplay rejects. They’ve got a shipment of experimental tech stashed in a sublevel. Pressure sensors on every door, that kind of shit. Trip one, and the whole place locks down."

Bucky barely lifted his brows. Sipped his coffee like Clint was telling him the damn weather. "I'll handle that alone," he said flatly. "You just focus on fucking up their electric system."

Clint grinned around his coffee mug. "Pfft. It's like you don’t even need me there."

Bucky gave him a slow, unimpressed look that said exactly that.

Clint clutched his chest theatrically. "Rude."

They bickered, sharp-edged and kind of amicably, but beneath the noise, Bucky’s left hand slid across the seat instinctively until his fingers found hers under the table.

He squeezed her, firm and self-soothingly. She squeezed back, not even glancing down, not making a big thing of it.

----

By the time Clint was asking for seconds, Bucky had drunk all his coffee and finished wiping his plate clean with a torn piece of toast.

"You should see what Lila pulled on Laura last week," Clint said between mouthfuls. "Whole laundry room filled with packing peanuts. Packing peanuts. I swear, that kid’s got a future in psychological warfare."

Bucky huffed -the closest thing he gave to a laugh most days- and leaned back in his chair. His hand didn’t leave hers under the table. Not once. When he stood, he tugged gently, silently asking her to follow.

"Be right back," she said casually to Clint, who just waved her off, too busy scraping jam onto another slice of toast.

In the hallway, Bucky didn’t speak. He just brushed his arm against hers, subtly, before nudging open the door to the gear room.

Everything was already half-packed, and she moved to help without him asking. Slid ammo clips into pouches, folded the spare jacket, and zipped compartments closed. Behind her, Bucky stripped off the sweatshirt he'd thrown on for breakfast, revealing the tight black compression shirt beneath it.

"Are you good on suppressors?" she asked, checking the side pouches.

"Yeah." His voice was rough, but controlled. "Packed two."

She smoothed her hand over the thick strap of his tac belt as she adjusted it on the table, brushing her thumb over a scuff mark near the buckle.

His body brushed hers again, slow and heavy, with a silent gratitude he never put into words.

From down the hallway, Clint's voice floated: "-and then she glued all my arrows together. Like some evil arts and crafts project-"

Bucky huffed another low sound, a little closer to amusement this time.

His arm bumped hers again.

He just kept finding ways to stay in her space, pressing close like something small burrowing under a blanket, chasing the comfort only she could give him.

She worked around him like a second skin, slipping the knives into their sheaths behind his waist, across his thighs, securing the flashbangs to the front clips.

He stood still for her, obedient, letting her dress him for war, like he couldn't do it himself.

Not today.

His hands twitched at his sides when she brushed too close to his belt, reaching for the magazine pouches. When she fastened the vest across his chest, his fingers tangled briefly in the hem of her shirt, clutching, small, desperate. She pressed a kiss just below his collarbone in answer, right over the faint scar where a bullet had once shattered bone. He exhaled roughly. Still trembling. Still pretending otherwise, because Clint was just down the hallway.

She buckled the side straps and slotted the heavier grenades at his hip. Checked the sidearm holsters, one after the other. He didn't even try anymore, just let her do it. Let her carry the ritual when he couldn't. It broke her heart every time, how he still wanted to be the strong asset everyone expected him to be, even when the man inside it had been splintered into pieces.

She knelt to strap his boots tighter, double-knotting the laces with a tug. When she stood up, Bucky was already sinking to his knees in front of her. He pressed his face against her belly, wrapping his arms around her waist in a crushing grip.

She just threaded her fingers through his hair, those longer, wild locks he never let the stylists touch, combing slow, soothing strokes from root to tip.

He breathed against her. Ragged. Needy.

A few years ago, when she'd found him curled in a corner after a nightmare so bad he couldn't even speak, she'd dared to ask him, "How did you deal with it… before?"

It had taken him three tries to answer. Finally, he'd muttered: "I... hurt myself. Until I could function again." Like it was normal. Like it was the best strategy. Damage the body to break the mind out of a loop.

Pain instead of panic.

She cradled him closer, stroking the nape of his neck with her thumb.

Never again. Not under her watch.

She motioned for him to stand up. "You’re geared up, Jamie," she murmured against his temple when he pressed his body against her again. He nodded but didn't move. Just hold her closer, breathing the scent of her skin, sensing the fabric of her shirt, the pulse of life he always chased in her when the world tried to smother him.

Only when she whispered, "Come on, handsome. Let’s not keep Clint waiting," did he finally push himself up with a soft grunt, rubbing his face against her like he could take a piece of her with him.

He took a deep breath, still trembling faintly, but standing straighter now.

Still fractured, but held together by her hands, her patience, and her love.

And that was enough.

It was always enough.

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vunblr · 14 hours ago

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Tangled (#10)

Pairing: Cecaelia! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Slight Angst. Fluff. Slow Burn. 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: 7.3k

Previous Chapter

He guided her to the cave’s mouth with the will-o'-the-wisps floating around them like quiet sentinels. Her hand was tucked in his, and the blanket draped over her shoulders. She paused at the edge, glancing back once, and the look in her eyes nearly undid him.

He didn’t kiss her again. Didn’t pull her close or ask her to stay. But his tentacles shifted restlessly, betraying the war raging inside him. When she climbed up the rocks toward the cliffside path, his whole body recoiled at the distance between them. His blood howled. Everything in him screamed to grab her, wrap her in his limbs, drag her back, and keep her in his lair until every last trace of the outside world faded from her scent. To prime her until she begged for his aching cock, and then take her again.

Instead, he submerged.

The cool water wrapped around his overheated skin, but it didn’t quiet the ache. He drifted deeper, curling into himself in the heart of the pool, trying to push back the clawing instinct that told him she was his now, that she belonged in the depths where no one else could reach her. It would’ve been easy -too easy- to act on it.

But he wouldn’t cage her.

Still, the thought of spending every night like this, hollow and alone while her skin cooled somewhere above the tide line, was unbearable.

He shifted, braced a palm against the slick cave wall, and rose slowly from the water.

There was another option. Risky. Precarious. But it might work.

Behind the main chamber, where the cave twisted deeper into stone, there was an alcove. Dark. High. Hidden. Above the tide line. It had been dry the last time he’d explored it. It wouldn’t flood, not unless the moon pulled the sea unusually high. It wasn’t much, but it was shelter. Private. Safe.

The only catch? She wouldn’t be able to climb in or out on her own. Not until the tide receded, and even then, he would have to help her get there.

He exhaled slowly, dragging both hands down his face.

It would have to be her choice. She’d have to agree.

If she said yes…

He could make it comfortable. Warm. Familiar. Maybe, if he showed her it wasn’t a prison, she’d want to stay longer. Maybe she’d come back -again and again- until he didn’t have to ask anymore.

Maybe he wouldn’t have to let her go every night.

----

By the time she reached her front door, the moon was already high and silvering the cliff path. She kicked her shoes off as soon as she stepped inside, dropped her bag by the door, and headed straight for the kitchen.

Her stomach growled the second she saw the stovetop. Yeah, okay. She was definitely starving.

Pasta would do. Something fast, something warm and filling. She filled a pot with water, set it on the burner, and lit the flame. Then, with a yawn and a stretch that pulled her sore muscles in every direction, she made her way to the bathroom to clean up while it boiled.

She flicked on the light and paused at the mirror.

There they were, tiny puncture marks at the curve of her shoulder where his teeth had broken skin. Not bleeding. Barely visible, but clear enough to know they weren’t her imagination.

He’d said the marks would fade quickly. That they weren’t meant to show, not really. What mattered was the chemical signature -his pheromones, or whatever passed for them in his biology- something injected through the bite that would linger on her skin for months. A signal to his kind, a warning. Taken.

She reached up, traced the edge of the mark with two fingers, and exhaled slowly. Her face flushed hot.

She turned the shower on and stripped out of her dress. Grimy, salty, still carrying his scent on her skin. Her thighs were sticky. The ache between her legs had dulled to a sweet, slow throb, but the evidence of what they’d done was... copious. And still there.

Heat rushed to her face again as she stepped under the spray.

She remembered the moment of the first push, the stretch, the way he held her like she was made of something precious and breakable while -as she had read in novels and chuckled- filling her to the brim. She felt how much there had been at the time, but she hadn’t quite realized how much until now. It was ridiculous. Wild. Completely outside the realm of any normal experience.

And she didn’t regret a single second.

Even with her head spinning and her body sore in places she hadn’t known could ache like that... she wouldn’t take any of it back. For all its strangeness, for all the things she was still wrapping her head around, it had been real. Gentle. Devoted, even in its hunger.

She leaned her forehead against the tile, and let herself smile.

God, she missed him already.

----

She had gone through her to-do list responsibly, printed labels, sent emails, and answered last-minute questions from a few customers who hadn’t read the descriptions. Her hands were busy all day, but her mind had been nowhere near work. Not really.

By the time the afternoon sun tilted low, she was already heading down the cliff path, with her backpack snug against her shoulders. The air was cooler near the water, and her boots made soft crunching sounds on the pebbled trail. She didn’t look anywhere but forward, toward the mouth of the cave.

What she didn’t know was that the moment her feet touched the stony edge of the beach, he noticed. Felt her. She was unaware of how still he’d gone in the shadows, tense, every sense reaching for her presence like it was the tide itself returning to shore.

She made it about four steps into the cave.

Then she was swept off her feet with a suddenness that knocked the breath from her lungs and startled her enough to cry out as tendrils wrapped around her waist, thighs, and arms in an all-too-familiar grip. She was hauled back against a solid chest, limbs sliding around her like silk cords.

He nuzzled his face into the side of her neck, humming low, as if to soothe her startled heart back into rhythm. His breath dragged warm over her skin, his lips brushing the place he'd bitten.

“Sorry,” he murmured, not sounding sorry at all. “You stepped into my cave. What did you think would happen?”

She huffed a breathless laugh, still half tangled in his limbs. “A warning would’ve been nice.”

“You want me to warn my prey now?” he teased, his cups fluttering teasingly over her hips. “Not very hunter-like.”

“You are such a brat,” she muttered, breath catching as she tried to slow her pulse.

He hummed against her skin, brushing the shell of her ear. “Whose fault is that?” he rasped. “You made me wait. Made me crave you during the one time of year when I’m barely more than a creature ruled by instinct.”

To drive his point home, he didn’t bother with pretense. A limb snaked down between her thighs, parting them without hesitation, another slick tendril slipping against the thin cotton of her underwear. Her breath hitched, a soft gasp escaping her throat.

“Oh, I thought you’d pretend to care for a little light conversation first,” she managed, a breathless joke as she leaned into the pressure without much resistance.

“Can’t.” His hands were already dragging her dress upward with ungraceful urgency, shoving it off her arms and over her head. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before coming wrapped in something that gives me easy access to your body.”

The garment was stripped off and tossed aside like it meant nothing. His hands came up, cupping her breasts through her bra, thumbs teasing at the fabric with growing impatience. He paused, and his expression twisted into something almost offended.

“What is this?” Before she could answer, he turned her roughly -yet with care- so she faced him.

“It’s not time for swimming.”

“It’s not…” she let out a breathy laugh. “It’s not a bathing suit. It’s called a brassiere. It’s just part of women’s clothes.”

“What’s its purpose?” he asked, wrinkling his nose as he tugged at the straps, clearly seconds away from snapping them in two.

“Wait, don’t break it! They’re not exactly cheap,” she warned, “It’s for… support. For the breasts.”

“Why?” His tone was flat, genuinely confused.

“Only someone with no breasts would ask that,” she muttered, smirking. “It’s for comfort. Also, depending on the material and the craft… they can serve to entice.”

He cocked a brow, clearly amused.

“They serve to be in the way,” he declared bluntly, and his eyes gleamed with hunger as his tendrils curled higher up her thighs again.

She gave breathless laugh and reached up, patting his hand when it tugged again at one of the straps with clear intent to rip it. “Okay, okay,” she murmured, tilting her head as if to scold him gently. “You’ll ruin it.”

He made a frustrated sound deep in his chest, a mix between impatience and disbelief.

“I got it,” she added softly, slipping her fingers behind her back. The clasp clicked open with a flick, and she shrugged the bra off her arms, letting it fall to the stone floor beside the rest of her clothes. Her nipples pebbled instantly in the cave’s cool air, and his gaze dropped dark and possessive.

“There,” she said, voice just shy of teasing. “Problem solved.”

He didn’t answer, not in words. One of his hands came up, cupping her breast with reverence this time, no fabric in the way to dull sensation. His thumb passed slowly over her nipple, and the soft sound that spilled from her throat made every one of his limbs tighten slightly around her body.

She leaned in, her breath ghosting across his mouth. “Still planning to skip the conversation?”

“I told you,” he murmured. “I can’t wait. Not when you smell like this. Not when you come to me like this.”

“Like what?”

He pulled her closer until their bodies pressed, her bare breasts against his chest, and her thighs caged between his curling limbs.

“Like you want me to take you at first sight.”

Her breath caught. The words hit deeper than she expected, maybe because they didn’t sound like some teasing flirtation.

But before she could reply, his mouth was on hers.

It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t slow. It was a hungry thing, tasting her with a determination that said mine in every flick of his tongue and the press of his lips. His tendrils flexed against her skin, some of them winding lower, tighter, slick pressure nudging against the curve of her ass, the crease of her thighs, exploring her without shame.

He pulled back just enough to breathe. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

Her reply melted against a gasp, as his mouth had dipped lower, trailing kisses down her jaw, her throat, his hands skimming down to grip under her thighs.

She felt her feet lift off the ground, and her thighs spread apart as tendrils held her effortlessly, guiding her back until her back met the cool wall of the cave. The contrast of stone against her bare skin and his heat pressed between her legs sent a fresh rush of sensation through her belly.

Her underwear was still on, barely.

“Please,” she whispered.

His eyes lifted to hers, dark and endless. “Say it again.”

“Please.” She bit her lip, rolling her hips into the tendril that had been teasing the damp cotton between her thighs.

A shiver ran through his body. He didn’t make her wait.

Her panties were slid aside with two strong limbs, and another curled underneath her, lifting her higher as his mouth dipped low again. Not to kiss. To taste.

She cried out softly, tangling her fingers into the soft waves of his damp hair, and her hips jerked as he licked a slow, deliberate stripe along her slit. He growled -actually growled- as if her taste overwhelmed whatever restraint he still clung to. Another tendril held her thighs open, gentle but firm, as his tongue worked her over with the kind of focus that made her toes curl.

She didn’t know how long he stayed there, but when he start fucking her with his long tongue as he rubbed her pearl, the tension in her belly built fast, sharp and sweet.

“I can feel it,” he murmured against her, huskyly, lips brushing her slick skin. “You’re close.”

“I-” She whimpered.

His lips moved again, and this time the tendrils around her thighs began to pulse and tighten in a rhythm that matched the way he sucked her clit into his mouth.

She came with a stuttering cry, her whole body shaking in his grasp.

----

She barely had time to breathe. Her thighs trembled in his hold, with her body still clenching in aftershocks when he finally lifted his mouth from her skin. Her vision was unfocused, but she still caught a sight of his lips, slick and swollen, the tips of his fangs peeking out as he looked up at her with something close to reverence. And hunger.

“Still with me?” he asked, with a hoarse voice, but his smile was smug. Too smug.

She let out a breathless, shaky laugh. “Barely.”

“You’ll need to hold on.” One of his larger limbs wrapped around her waist again, securing her as he moved forward, deeper into the cave, with her legs wrapped around him, her bare skin brushing against his.

She realized what he meant a second later.

Before she processed it, more of his limbs coiled around her, wrapping her wrists, her hips, her thighs, handling her like something precious and his. She gasped as he lifted her higher, pressing her back against the rough stone again, spreading her legs open, and suspending her entirely in his grasp.

He held her there, splayed and vulnerable, while his cock -thick, heavy and leaking- dragged slow, teasing passes over her soaked pussy.

"I missed you, mate," he rasped, curling one limb around her ankle to brace it higher, wider. Her eyes widened slightly, and her breath caught again as he nudged the thick head of his cock against her entrance. “You’re wet enough,” he rasped, full of strain. “But I’ll go slow.”

Then he pushed into her, slow, deliberate, overwhelming.

The stretch made her moan deep in her throat, pressing her nails into his shoulders as he eased inside her inch by inch. Her head knocked lightly against the stone, and her wrists flexed uselessly against the silk-tight binds of his limbs.

He went slow, at first. Every thrust was angled just right, to stretch, to adapt. The wet sounds of their bodies meeting echoed faintly off the cave walls, lost somewhere between the distant sound of waves and the ragged rhythm of their breathing. His suction cups latched onto her skin -her hips, her waist, her inner thighs- tiny, firm pulls that made her whimper. But it wasn’t just sensation. He was tasting her through every point of contact, drinking in her scent and flavor like he was starving for her.

He shuddered against her, panting harshly as he fed himself into her body, taking his time, savoring her. But once he ensured she was ready enough, any last thread of patience frayed.

The next thrust was brutal.

Her body jerked in his hold, and he caught her, adjusting his limbs instantly, cradling and securing her tighter while he fucked her with deep, claiming strokes. She was completely at his mercy, held open, held still, except for the tremors wracking her body.

He dropped his mouth to her breast, grazing his teeth lightly over the skin before one tendril slithered up to latch a suction cup directly over her nipple. The hot, tingling sensation made her cry out, sending a strange pull that went straight to her lower region.

"Bucky!-" she gasped, squirming, but he only chuckled, sliding a limb to tease between her legs.

Without warning, a small suction cup latched onto her clit.

She screamed this time and threw her head back, trapped and helpless as he pulsed it gently, firm enough to send sparks bursting under her skin, then easing off, then sucking again.

“So sweet,” he praised roughly, thrusting harder into her, forcing little sobs from her throat. “Such a good mate for me.”

The suction on her clit didn’t stop. If anything, it grew more rhythmic, timed with the snap of his hips as he fucked into her with deep thrusts.

She was already close again -too soon, too much- but she couldn’t stop it. His hips moved with such force, such hunger, like he couldn’t get deep enough, no matter how hard he tried.

“I- I’m-” she gasped, her voice breaking.

“I know.” his hips thrusted harder still. “Give it to me.” he panted, suction cups dragging wetly over her breasts, her thighs, her stomach. “Squeeze me, mate. Show me how ready you are to be bred by your male.”

She couldn't answer, her brain short-circuited. The sensorial overload and his crude words, possessive and primal, made her body lock tight around him. She shattered with a gasp, her whole body jerked in his hold, clenching around his cock, sobbing brokenly as the suction on her clit pulsed one last time before easing off, letting her ride the aftershocks.

He snarled -a raw, animal sound- and buried himself deep once, twice more, before he followed with a shuddering groan, throbbing inside her, spilling thick, heavy pulses that seemed to go on forever.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

He stayed buried inside her, his limbs loosening its grasp slightly but still wrapped protectively around her trembling body. He then nuzzled the side of her neck, as suction cups left lazy kisses against her skin. One last tendril traced lazily the underside of her thigh, a teasing, affectionate caress.

"You," he muttered, "are a dangerous creature ."

She gave a weak, giddy laugh, threading her fingers into the tangled mass of his hair. "You're the one who preyed on me," she managed to say, smiling dazedly.

----

Eventually, his hips jerked with a final, involuntary twitch, and he pulled out with a hiss, as the sensitive head dragged against her oversensitized walls.

She gasped softly at the loss, and then gasped again when an embarrassing amount of his cum spilled from her, wet and warm, dripping in thick ropes onto the stone floor with a lewd sound.

Her cheeks flamed. She buried her face against his shoulder, mortified.

He only rumbled a low, pleased sound in his chest, shifting his limbs to cradle her closer.

Still, she couldn’t help but mumble, “Is it… always like that?” She swallowed, clarifying quickly when he tilted his head. “I mean, so much-?” She made a meaningful expression as another squelch sound came from below them, cheeks burning hotter.

For a heartbeat, he just stared at her, unblinking.

Then, slowly, smugly, he preened. His arms tightened possessively around her waist, squeezing gently, while the slick pull of his suction cups grazed lazy, satisfied kisses over her hips and waist, leaving wet, tingling trails. One tendril even coiled lightly around her ankle, as if staking his claim.

“It’s mating season,” he said proudly, his voice a low rumble against her ear. “Makes us more... prolific.” He nuzzled into the sensitive skin of her neck, brushing his nose along the faint mark he’d left earlier, before pressing a slow, claiming kiss right over it. His mouth lingered there, breathing her in. “But don’t worry, mate. My seed is enough to meet any standard. Year-round.”

Her mouth fell open a little, and she blinked at him, dazed, tightening her fingers unconsciously in the tangled mass of his damp hair.

“Oh. Um. Okay.”

He drew back just enough to stare at her face, and his brow furrowed with sudden wariness. One of his limbs shifted behind her back in a restless motion, as if bracing for bad news.

“Is that... a problem?” His voice roughened slightly, defensive. Another limb tightened carefully around her thigh, keeping her cradled against him. “Would it disappoint you? If I’m less productive outside the season?”

Her gaze widened in alarm, and she instantly shook her head, feeling the heat climb her neck.

“No! No, it’s not- it’s not a problem at all,” she rushed to assure him, spreading her hands flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath his skin. “Humans don't really care about... semen quantity.” Her face burned hotter. “That's not -uh- that’s not important to us.”

He stared at her like she’d just said the sun wasn’t real.

"...It’s not?" he asked slowly, completely baffled, tilting his head a few more degrees to the side in open confusion. His limbs, which had relaxed slightly, now twitched faintly around her again, small, unconscious movements betraying his unsettled state.

“No.” She squirmed a little in his hold, wishing she could sink into the stone floor. “You don’t have to meet whatever gallon quota you’re imagining,” she insisted, mortified beyond belief. “I swear.”

There was a long pause.

He kept staring, like trying to memorize the exact shape of her words, the truth in them.

Then, with a slow, almost cautious movement, he tilted his head the other way, studying her from a new angle, frowning thoughtfully.

"Then what is important?" he asked finally, his voice dropping low, genuinely curious. His limbs shifted subtly again -brushing her skin with delicate, tentative strokes- not claiming this time, but as if seeking reassurance, a touchstone he could understand. "When you take a mate... what matters most when coupling?"

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, flustered, realizing how complicated human attraction was to explain.

“Well… it’s subjective,” she began, her voice still a little hoarse from everything they’d just shared. She shifted slightly in his hold, and his limbs immediately adjusted to support her, careful and responsive without needing thought. “Some physical traits are… more desired. But it’s not a strict rule.”

His brow furrowed deeper, and he pulled her a little closer against him, one large hand splaying possessively over the small of her back, pressing her to his chest.

“Such as?” he prompted, his voice low, almost suspicious.

She huffed out a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Well… some women prefer a certain size.” She made a vague gesture downward with her hand, cheeks burning again.

He tilted his head again, slightly narrowing his eyes, following the movement. “How much?” he asked bluntly, no shame in his voice, only serious, hungry curiosity.

She bit her lip, glancing down between them -where he was still slick and heavy against her inner thigh- and then back up to meet his intense stare.

“You’re… good on that department,” she said quickly, her voice rose a little in reassurance. She gave him a crooked smile, and his arms tightened briefly, a low, pleased hum vibrating against her chest.

He looked about five seconds from preening again.

“But,” she added, tapping lightly against his chest with one fingertip, “what’s even more desirable isn’t just size. It’s... being able to make the woman orgasm.” Her cheeks burned brighter. “Most women can’t get there just by penetration alone.”

His brows snapped together sharply.

“That’s not a physical trait,” he said, almost accusingly.

She snorted, leaning her forehead briefly against his shoulder, trying to hide her mortification. His suction cups slid gently along her spine, as if soothing her.

“No, but it complements it,” she said, laughing breathlessly. “You can be… endowed, but if the only thing you do is put it in and expect magic, it’s not desirable at all.”

He narrowed his gaze, thinking hard, as if trying to fit this unexpected information into his worldview. His limbs coiled and shifted around her again, adjusting his hold like he might need better leverage for more questioning.

"But it is important to produce offspring?" he asked slowly, testing the words.

She tilted her head, smiling crookedly.

“Well… yeah,” she said, a little sheepishly. “There’s a higher chance a woman can get pregnant if she orgasms during intercourse.”

He stared at her for another long second, then gave a short, satisfied grunt, like he’d just won a hunt. “Good,” he said simply, with such gravely serious pride that she had to bite back a laugh.

Still holding her, he shifted, moving them carefully so he could sit back on the stone floor, bracing his back against the cave wall. He settled her astride his hips, cradling her weight easily, snaking his limbs protectively around her legs and lower back.

His cock, still half-hard, twitched lightly against her slick, sensitive folds, but he made no move yet, just cupped her face in one broad palm, brushing his thumb over her flushed cheek, gazing at her with dark, intent eyes.

"As my mate," he said roughly, "your pleasure will always come first."

She quirked a teasing brow at him, resting her hands lightly on his chest. "Even if I can’t get pregnant?" she asked, voice lilting with soft humor. "You told me before… It’s not possible when you’re like this. So, with your point of view, it wouldn’t be necessary."

For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face -a brief shadow of longing- before he smoothed it away, drawing in a slow breath. His limbs clenched instinctively around her, almost like a hug.

"Yes," he said. "I still want my mate to feel good. To desire my touch... even if nothing will grow from it."

He paused, looking intently at her face, as if weighing whether to say more.

"It... could, though."

"What do you mean?"

He shifted a little under her, sitting straighter against the stone, tracing slow, soothing strokes along her bare back with one hand. "If we were to mate while I'm like you- as a landwalker… I could successfully breed you."

Oh. She hadn't even considered that.

Her mind raced, fumbling to catch up. Her fingers flexed slightly against his chest, and his suction cups clung softly to her skin in response.

"So, um..." she managed, a little breathless, "the resulting child would be... human?"

"Mostly," he said, tilting his head. "There would still be blood of my kind inside them. But they would be born walking on land. Breathing air." A faint note of something warmer, almost reverent, threaded through his voice. "They would look like you."

Her heart thudded painfully in her chest. There was so much wrapped up in that simple explanation, hope, tenderness, maybe even fear.

She licked her lips, realizing how carefully he’d worded it. If. Not when.

The choice would be hers.

She lifted one hand, brushing her fingers lightly along the rough stubble of his jaw, letting her thumb trace the sharp line of his cheekbone. His skin twitched under her touch -a small, instinctive shiver- but he didn’t pull away.

“Is it…” she started carefully, maintaining his gaze, “is it important to you? To have offspring?”

He was quiet for a moment, with his arms still secure around her, their bodies pressed close, heartbeat to heartbeat.

“Biologically,” he said finally, low and thoughtful, “yes. Mating season urges us to. The drive gets... hard to ignore.”

His gaze dropped for a moment to where her hand rested against his chest, then lifted again.

“But in reality,” he continued, “for my kind, males don’t stay involved. With the pregnancy or after the pups are born. We’re… detached.”

She blinked, a little frown tugging between her brows. “That doesn’t sound... responsible,” she said quietly, still caressing his jaw.

He huffed a faint breath -not quite a laugh- and leaned slightly into her touch.

“Mothers don’t raise their offspring either,” he said. “When a pup survives their first three winters, they’re sent to a communal settlement. Raised in groups, by elders or females who have never conceived. No one knows who their mother or father is.”

She stared at him, trying to imagine it, growing up without knowing your parents. It made her chest ache a little.

“That sounds... lonely,” she murmured.

He shrugged, a slow, rolling movement of muscle and limbs beneath her.

“It’s just how it is,” he said simply. “We survive better that way. No ties. No weakness.”

But the way his arms pressed almost imperceptibly around her, the way he tucked her a little closer to him, told a different story.

The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, soft, hesitant, hating herself even as she asked, "Do you... have descendants?"

His arms tensed slightly around her, and for the first time since their coupling, she felt him pull inward, retreating somehow without moving at all.

"No," he said after a beat, the single word gruff, too fast.

And for a moment -just a moment- he looked almost... ashamed.

Like he was lacking something vital. Like, for a male his age, it wasn't something desirable.

"I only ask because... it would feel strange. Knowing you have children out there."

She shifted in his lap, not quite able to meet his eyes. "Even if it’s your kind’s way -your nature- it would still feel... wrong. To know you didn’t... care for them."

For a beat, Bucky was very still.

He shifted, lowering his gaze to her collarbone, tracing the lines of her skin with his eyes as if he couldn't quite meet her stare. When he spoke again, his voice was careful, almost rehearsed.

"The mating seasons I spent with partners before..." his jaw clenched, "before my capture- they didn’t result in pups. It’s... it’s normal," he added quickly, almost defensively. "Young specimens often don’t."

The words tasted bitter to him, she could tell. His body language gave it away, the way his larger limbs flexed and coiled restlessly, the way his breathing thickened.

"My kind has a low birth rate anyway," he muttered, as if offering an excuse.

He shifted slightly beneath her, restless, the suction cups brushing idly, almost nervous patterns along her thighs.

"After I was freed..." he hesitated, searching for the words, "I chose to stay isolated. But even if I hadn’t, I’m... despised by most of my kind. Tainted."

He shifted again, adjusting her gently on his lap, curling his limbs a little tighter, like some part of him feared she might recoil.

"Some females still sought me out," he said after a moment. "Knowing I have desirable traits. Strength. Instincts. Good for producing strong pups." He shook his head slightly. "As far as I know, none conceived."

There was a flicker of something wounded deep in his eyes -quickly hidden- and she realized how touchy the subject must be for him. How deeply ingrained the shame must run inside him.

She bit her lip. She hadn't wanted to ask. And yet... some selfish part of her, was relieved.

Without thinking, she reached up, cradling his face between her hands. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the rough line of his jaw, then tucked herself closer into his embrace, her arms winding securely around his shoulders.

Bucky’s muscles relaxed by fractions under her touch, though the tension didn’t completely leave his body.

"I think you already know," she said against his skin, "but humans don’t really... have mating seasons. Not like you do. We have cycles year-round. And we don’t really have the need for lots of offspring anymore."

She felt his breathing slow a little against her.

"In fact, in most parts of modern society, people who don't have children aren't looked down on," she continued. "Not anymore. Some people choose not to have any at all."

Bucky made a soft, skeptical noise, and his tentacles flexed thoughtfully around her.

"Still," he muttered, "there are so many of you."

She smiled a little, nuzzling into his jaw.

"Humans don't have a low birth rate," she said, amused. "We’re... very good at multiplying."

He huffed at that, almost a sound of reluctant agreement, but his arms stayed tight around her, like he needed the physical reassurance.

For a moment, he was silent, and then she felt it, the slight stiffening of his back, the way his body tensed like he was bracing for something.

"...You don't think less of me, then?" he asked roughly, the words low and hesitant. "Because I don’t have any?"

She pulled back enough to see his face -the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips pursed against invisible fears.

She laughed softly, brushing her thumb along his jawline.

"No," she said warmly, shaking her head. "Not at all. Like I said before... even if it’s clearly something that matters to you-" she paused, "if I’m honest, I’m kind of relieved."

His brow furrowed, confused, almost disbelieving.

"I’m relieved you weren't out there abandoning pups left and right," the words slipped out before she could second-guess them.

Bucky’s gaze narrowed, sharp and assessing, like he wasn’t sure if she was joking or if he should be offended.

Before he could say anything, she smoothed her hands over his shoulders, pressing a quick, reassuring kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"It’s a big turn-off for any human female," she added with a grin, half teasing, half serious.

He blinked, suspicious but intrigued.

"In human society," she explained, "we're very gregarious. Family... it matters. A lot. Knowing someone would just disappear after conceiving-" she shook her head slightly, "it’s not desirable for a mate. Not at all. Being a parent, if you choose to be one, comes with responsibility. Staying. Protecting. Loving. Abandoning your own blood... that's one of the biggest betrayals you can commit. So even if it’s natural for your kind," she said gently, "for us... It would mean you’re not someone to trust."

For a long moment, he just breathed -rough and shallow- like he didn’t quite know how to carry the weight of her words. He hugged her tighter, almost desperate, suction cups kissing little patches of her skin as if he couldn’t bear the thought of letting her slip away.

He needed the reassurance, needed it in a way that went deeper than pride or mating instincts. He needed to know he wasn’t flawed. That he wasn’t less.

All his life, he had carried the shame of falling short. Of being too soft, too attached, too willing to bend the rules of his kind’s cold instincts. Taking care of Steve when he should have been selfish. Trusting humans when he should have stayed hidden, resulting in his captivity and later manipulation. Failing, over and over, to be the ruthless creature his blood demanded he be. And then, denying his kind the rise of their numbers.

And now, somehow, impossibly, the very thing that had once marked him as lacking was what made her look at him like he was something precious. Something worthy.

Maybe the witches were right, after all. Maybe some things did happen for a reason.

A low, shaky breath left his lips as he buried his face in the crook of her neck. "You’re mine," he rasped, voice cracked and raw, "you chose me."

"I did," she murmured, cradling the back of his head, pressing a kiss to his temple.

His tentacles shifted around her, tucking her in more protectively.

For a long while, he just held her. Held her and breathed her.

When he finally drew back enough to meet her gaze, his eyes were dark and glassy, something fierce and fragile thing shining behind them.

He meant to say it casually but the words slipped out, raw and urgent.

"I need to be close to you."

She smiled, playfully squeezing one of the limbs coiled around her waist. As she shifted teasingly in his lap, her thigh grazed his still semi-hard cock, drawing a soft grunt from deep in his chest.

"I think we are pretty close, mate," she teased, deliberately using the term for the first time.

He shuddered. Had to clench his jaw and squeeze his eyes shut for a heartbeat, fighting the overwhelming instinct to grab her, to take her again right there.

"I mean-" he rasped, "I need you physically close. At least for a few nights. Until the urges pass."

His gaze dropped briefly, as if ashamed of the admission.

"I know you have... your human things to do," he added stiffly, his tone threaded with a hint of resentment he didn’t bother to hide. "And the lair isn't... adequate for you to inhabit."

He glanced up, the frustration pulling tight at the corners of his mouth.

"But it's hard on me," he said. "The only thing I’ve been able to think about since the days grew warmer is this-" he gestured helplessly between them, "and now you chose me. It’s- it's maddening. It hurts."

Her heart twisted at the confession. She softened immediately, reaching up to brush a hand over his temple.

"Um... I'd be willing to," she said gently, "but Bucky... the cave fills with the tide, how-"

"Not all of it," he interrupted quickly.

He shifted her slightly in his lap so he could gesture more clearly, with certain excitement in his expression.

"There’s a hollow higher up, carved into the rock," he explained. "Dry, even when the tide comes. We could bring human things to lay on, to nest, to wrap ourselves with. And food, for you."

She bit her lip, thinking.

"So I’ll be... trapped inside?" she asked carefully.

He bristled visibly at the phrasing, his limbs clenching around her like he might somehow shield her from the idea.

"Not trapped," he said firmly. "When the tide lowers, you can leave. You can go back to your place. Do that work of yours. Then come back."

He look at her face, trying to read her hesitation, trying not to sound desperate.

"You won't be stuck. But while you’re here...” his voice dropped low, rough, "I need you."

She looked at him, at the faint desperation in every line of his body, at the stubborn hope in his dark eyes.

"Alright," she said finally, offering a small, tentative smile. "We can try. If you say it’s hard for you, and if it’s as simple as being together... I can see if we can make it work until your mating season ends."

He dipped his forehead to rest against hers, murmuring low, fevered things she couldn’t quite catch, his tentacles coiling around her binding them closer.

It should have been enough -this closeness, this promise- but now that she had agreed, now that she had said yes, something inside him unspooled, slow and trembling and unstoppable.

He shifted beneath her with a low, shuddering sound, the limbs around her clenching, adjusting her ever so slightly in his lap. His suction cups brushed along the soft skin of her thighs, and there, at the tender juncture of her legs, he stilled.

He could feel it. The faint, hidden bruising of her flesh where he had been too big, too deep, even though she hadn't complained once.

A low, broken sound rumbled from his chest. He tucked his face against her throat, breathing her scent, the guilt cutting through the haze of his desire.

"You’re sore," he rasped, his voice nearly unrecognizable.

She stiffened slightly, as if ready to deny it, to brush it aside, but he cupped the back of her head with one hand, cradling her gently.

"I can feel it," he murmured, suction cups kissing slow circles against her outer thighs, soothing, apologizing without words.

She felt her face suddenly hotter, caught between embarrassment and the instinct to comfort him. "I’m okay," she whispered. "Really."

Bucky shook his head against her neck, the motion small but fierce.

"I was too rough," he said hoarsely. "Didn’t mean to hurt you."

"You didn’t," she insisted, caressing the thick, slick limb wrapped around her waist. "A little soreness is expected, I guess, since... well." She glanced down meaningfully at the part of him pulsing heavily between their bodies.

Bucky followed her gaze, his pupils blown wide, his breathing uneven.

"We can do other things if you need to, um..." she murmured, her hand drifting lower to trace a light, teasing line along the black and blue shaft.

He hissed softly, and his hips gave an involuntary jerk.

"What things?" he rasped, voice thick with heat.

She quirked a brow. "I'm pretty sure you're versed in those other things," she teased lightly, grazing her fingertip through a pronounced ridge along his length, feeling the way he throbbed under her touch.

Bucky flushed darker, shifting beneath her. His brows knit slightly, confused and almost frustrated, like he was trying to solve a problem that kept slipping away from him. "But... what purpose does it have with you being here if not mating?" he mumbled, his tone almost a pout.

She bit back a laugh, her heart squeezing at how earnest he sounded.

"Purpose?" she echoed, leaning in until her forehead brushed his. "To make you feel good, of course."

He opened his mouth, about to protest, when she added slyly, "Don't tell me you've never touched yourself."

She could feel the way his whole body stiffened under her, could see the way his cheeks darkened in mortification. The proud, skittish, matter-of-factly Bucky, absolutely squirming at the subject.

His tentacles flexed uneasily at her hips, betraying the turmoil in his head.

"What I do alone-" he started stiffly.

A playful squeeze to the thick length between them made him break off with a low, guttural groan.

"Mate!" he chastised, scandalized.

"What?" she said, feigning innocence, delighting in his reaction. "Don't you like it?"

"It’s not that," he muttered, squirming again.

"So?" she pressed, stroking lightly up and down the gleaming, ridged shaft, feeling him shudder.

He exhaled heavily through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. In truth, the concept of seeking mere pleasure with another, without intent to reproduce, was alien to him. His kind were practical by nature. If one had a mate present, there was no reason to waste a drop of their seed outside of the female body. It was seen as careless. Unworthy.

"B-because," he said at last, voice strained, "it’s a waste of... male essence."

She laughed softly, nuzzling the side of his jaw.

"You’re having sex with me knowing nothing will happen. Isn’t that a waste, too?" she teased.

"No!" he said quickly, the word almost panicked, as if terrified of offending her. His tentacles gripped tighter in reflex.

"So?" she purred against his ear. "Are you going to sit here being miserable because we can’t have sex at this precise moment... or are you going to let your mate take care of you?"

Bucky opened his mouth again and found no argument. Only the heavy, pulsing need trapped between them. Only her hand, her warmth, her scent so close it blurred his instincts into something dizzy and hot and helpless.

Slowly, hesitantly, he nodded.

A slow, giddy smile curved her lips as she shifted in his lap, wrapping her hand firmly around him, feeling how his breath hitched sharply in his chest.

She kissed the corner of his mouth, murmuring low and sweet against his skin, "Good boy."

He immediately frowned, almost offended. "I’m not a boy. I have the mark on my arm. I hunted a-"

Another squeeze -firmer this time- cut him off mid-sentence, pulling a whimper from his throat, helpless and sharp like a pup's.

"I know," she soothed, stroking him slowly now, savoring the way he melted into her touch. "You really will have to learn not to be so literal. You’ll frown less."

"But-" he tried again.

She leaned in and kissed him, silencing the protest, as her hand never ceased its slow, merciless teasing.

And Bucky was left torn between pleasure and the sacred gravity of being allowed to be cared for, as the tide outside the cave crept in closer, cradling them both in the hush of water and stone.

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 @maryevm @kittieboo @otterlycanadian @queergalpal97

#thank you so much reblogging ❤️#he will in a oneshot

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vunblr · 15 hours ago

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omg tangled 10 is a-ma-zinggggggg. your always feeding is with this perfection of a story. These two really get me 🥹😭. And now after reading I need them to have offspring , want to see dad caecilia Bucky can you imagine 🥲 is it a possibility in your writing or not for THIS story? will still support , read and interact either way <3

Hi Anon!! I'm super glad you are enjoying the story! regarding your question :

Spoiler : They will have offspring, not in this story but in a later one-shot. I'm laughing in advance about a clueless, overprotective Bucky, overreacting to almost everything while she is pregnant. Don't walk too much, don't touch that, don't get close to people, they might get you sick, bringing hummungus -and gross- fishes pretending reader to eat them raw💖

#vunblr answers #Tangled

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vunblr · 16 hours ago

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Ahhh omg I can't with Tangled 10!!! He's so cute and honest and just a big puppy. Was also scared the story was gonna wrap up in this one and I'm SO excited we have at least another chapter!! Really hoping they can somehow make it work where she finds/builds a house right on the water or something so they can always be together. But so excited for wherever you take the story!!!

Hi Anon!! thank you for reaching out. I'm glad you like it, and yeah, I was planning on ending it on this one, but then I got some ideas, so I think there will be one or two more (and some oneshots later)❤️

#vunblr answers #Tangled

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vunblr · 18 hours ago