The Language of Effort
Pairing: Cecaelia!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader
Tags: Established relationship. Fluff. Smut.
Warnings: Teratophilia.
Word Count: 11.7k
Summary: He could fight. He could hunt. But when Bucky discovered a human ritual he couldn't quite grasp -dates- he found himself trying to show his mate that he could be more than just a creature of instinct.
Note: Immediate follow-up story of Tangled.
The house smelled like her. Like wool and something he'd never fully managed to name, and no longer needed to, to recognize it as his.
Bucky was sprawled on the couch, legs stretched over the low table, and she was pressed against his side under a shared blanket, her feet hidden beneath his thigh. His hand had settled on her knee at some point, heavy and still, the way it did when she was near, and he was restless.
The screen flickered with one of those shows she watched. People acting out things that weren't real, to tell stories.
Humans were strange.
In the box, a couple sat across from each other at a small table, candles and glasses between them. The woman laughed at something the man said. He poured her wine. Flowers sat crammed into a glass jar at the center of the table, already dying but arranged to hide it.
Bucky frowned.
"Why are they there?" he asked, chin tipped toward the screen.
He watched the way the man's hand moved, deliberate, not reaching but inviting. The woman's smile shifted, softer. It wasn't the same as what he and she did. When they sat together, it was without ritual. Without this careful performance of interest.
She glanced up, following his gaze. "The dinner? It's a date."
The word meant nothing on its own, but the picture did. Two people, seated face to face, offering each other food and wine, suggestive words and intent body language. He knew of that, in another shape…
"Why?" he pressed.
"Why, what?"
"The purpose." His voice came out more demanding than he meant. "Of sitting like that. The food, the flowers. What are they after? Are they friends or is it a couple’s thing?" he still struggled to understand where the line was drawn between friendship and claim. It irritated him, the way they blurred what his kind made clear.
She laughed, not unkindly, more at the way he'd said it, like he was cross-examining a suspect.
"There's no big purpose, Bucky. It's just... getting to know each other. Spending time together. Showing the other person you care, that you put effort into the moment." She shrugged. "Sometimes it's at the start, when you first begin seeing someone. Sometimes couples keep doing it years later. So they don't lose that."
So they don't lose that.
Lose what? he wanted to ask. But his tongue felt heavy, suddenly too clumsy for the question forming in his mind.
He went quiet, eyes still fixed on the screen, where the fictional man tucked a strand of hair behind the woman's ear and produced a small box with some earrings.
The woman gasped, hands flying to her mouth. Bucky's fingers tightened on her thigh, irritated by the sound -too sharp, too rehearsed- but something else moved beneath his skin, older than annoyance.
Something felt wrong.
They'd shared breakfasts at the kitchen table, dinners, spent entire afternoons pressed together beneath blankets, talking, watching television until she fell asleep against him, but that wasn't the same thing.
Humans seemed to assign meaning to the circumstances rather than the act itself.
His own sought someone apt out once a year, met what the body demanded, and each returned to their own dark after, alone, needing nothing from the other until the next season.
What he felt about her, and her for him, had no name in his tongue. No protocol. No elder to ask how it was done right, how you kept a human who needed things he could not feel the need for.
He thought, suddenly, of the Valentine’s Day situation. The pink foil chocolate. The presents in the market. His own frustration afterward, lying alone beneath cold water while trying to understand gifts, offerings, and fish that carried stones to impress a mate.
He had not given her anything that day.
I could have, he thought bitterly. I could have found something, but I chose not to.
His jaw clenched.
The couple on the screen kissed. The camera pulled back, showing other couples at other tables, a room full of humans performing the same ritual with slight variations.
"We've never had one," he murmured.
She blinked. The hand that had been tracing lazy patterns on his chest stilled. "Never had... what?"
"A date." The word felt foreign, too small for the weight he was giving it. "What they are doing. The ritual. We've never..."
He didn't finish. Couldn't find the words for what they had done instead, afternoons on the beach, in the nest, the occasions when he held her through asthma attacks, and she held him through haunting memories. None of it had been framed. None of it had been for something.
She was quiet for a moment. Then: "Hmm that’s true. We never had one."
It wasn’t a reproach. Just acknowledgment. But he heard reproach anyway, or maybe he heard his own voice saying it for her.
He shifted, uncomfortable, his hand retreating from her thigh to grip the edge of the cushion beneath them. "Would you like to?" The question came out forced, scraped from somewhere low in his throat. "Having… this date thing."
She smiled. That smile that always seemed to know something he didn't. "Bucky, that’s not necessary right now. We are together-"
"But would you like to?" He interrupted her. Hated doing it, but the words not necessary had stuck him like a barb. As if what they had was sufficient, as if she was tolerating his lack of courtship abilities. "Not 'need to.' Like to."
She looked at him. And he saw something shift in her expression, the amusement becoming something more careful, more serious.
“That we go out in a more… human way?" she said, slower.
He nodded once. Rigidly.
She hesitated. Not long -a breath, maybe two- but he noticed it.
"Yes," she said. "I would like to."
He should have felt relief. He felt terror instead.
She must have felt something shift in him -the way his body went still, the way his hand had stopped its lazy path over her leg. She looked up at him, her head tilting slightly.
"Bucky?"
He forced his jaw to unclench. "Yes."
She studied him for a moment, then reached up and touched his cheek, her palm warm against the tension in his jaw.
"We don't have to do anything elaborate," she said softly. "I just... I'd like to do something with you. That's all."
He nodded. Didn't trust his voice.
----
She fell asleep against him eventually, the way she always did, her breathing slowing into the rhythm he knew better than his own heartbeat. He didn't sleep after turning the television off, just stayed awake, staring at nothing, his mind churning.
More human.
The phrase turned like a current, pulling him toward depths he didn't know how to navigate.
What could he offer that wasn't already given? his body, his time, his fierce and unwavering attention?
Money? He had none. Food? He could hunt, but most of the things he could bring her would probably be unfit. Besides, they had eaten together hundreds of times. Was a date simply "eating but with candles"? Was the candle what made the difference?
A restaurant. He'd seen a couple in town when he tagged along with her while shopping for groceries. Lights, tables, people sitting while others served them. The concept had seemed absurd then. It still did. But she had smiled at the screen when the couple entered.
His hand closed into a fist on the cushion.
Objectively -he forced himself to think it, because his kind was nothing if not objective about status- he was a worthy male. The mating mark on his arm proved it, the ink extending past what most achieved. He had survived capture, magic, the war they forced him to wage. He had dealt with those who attacked him while looking for Steve, alone, unarmed, with nothing but what nature had given him.
For his species, that was enough. More than enough, actually. It was superiority.
But she was not his species.
And when she spoke of "effort," of "showing you care," of "putting time into the moment", none of those things required physical traits or abilities. They required something he couldn't name.
Where did he fit in human standards?
He listened for hours while she spoke of things he barely understood: her customers, knitting patterns, shipping policies of some digital platform. He had learned to make toast, to tolerate shoes, to sit in a car that vibrated wrong against his nerves.
The sex was good, that was unquestionable. But she had said once, casually, that for humans sex wasn't enough.
He felt cold suddenly.
Because what else did he do, really? He couldn't buy her things. Couldn't take her to places. Couldn't give her the kind of life that humans built with houses and plans and futures that stretched beyond the next tide. What he could give didn't translate into human currency.
And he had seen what happened to males who couldn't provide in the ways their mates needed in other species. They were left behind.
She stirred against him, murmuring something unintelligible. His hand moved automatically to her hair, caressing it, soothing her back to stillness. The gesture was unconscious now.
That, he thought. That is effort. Learning her. Adapting to her.
But would she see it that way? Would any human?
He looked at the darkened television, then down at his mate sleeping against his chest, completely trusting, her body relaxed in a way no one ever had been with him.
She had chosen him. Was choosing him still, every day she came back to the shore, every night she let him into her house, her nest, her warmth.
I have never shown her that I keep choosing with a gesture. I have simply... stayed.
The thought sat heavy as stone in his chest.
He didn't know if that was enough.
But he knew he couldn't keep asking her to settle for what he didn't understand.
He would learn. He would watch. He would find out what humans needed from each other when they sat across a table with candles and flowers and offered each other their time.
Even if it felt like performing. Even if it made him feel like a creature wearing a skin that didn't fit.
Because she had said yes. And that meant he had to try.
----
A couple of days passed after that.
Not that she noticed anything unusual… not at first. Bucky still came to the cottage, still took up his space on the couch, helped with some things. But his mind was elsewhere, turning like an undertow, circling the same problem from every angle.
She had to sleep, eventually. He didn't always. And those dead hours, when her breathing slowed, and her body went slack against his in the bed, became his window.
The movies.
Not the ones she picked for them to watch together; those had complicated plots and dialogue he couldn't quite track. No. Bucky waited until she was asleep, then took the remote and searched for the ones that seemed to show what people did to impress each other.
The first two nights were frustrating. The movies showed men bringing flowers -he didn't know where to get flowers, or what kind- or reserving tables in places with dim lights – also he had no coin-, or saying things that sounded rehearsed and false.
Is that what she expects? That I pretend to be someone I'm not?
But on the third night, he found a different movie.
A woman walked along a beach at night. Moonlight silvered the water, and then the sea began to glow. Blue. A blue that moved with the waves, that lit up where her feet touched the shore.
Bucky sat up slowly on the couch.
That, he thought. I can do that.
There wasn’t a male there accompanying her, but the woman on screen laughed, spread her arms, spun in the darkness while the water around her flickered like the sea was alive.
He knew where to find that blue. He'd seen it before, floating on the surface like scattered stars.
He would need something to carry it back.
He could already imagine her face. The way her eyes would widen. The sound she'd make, that soft breath she let out when something surprised her in a good way.
He would make her make that sound.
----
The dairy aisle was cold enough to raise goosebumps on her arms, but she lingered there anyway, hand hovering over the butter display.
She grabbed one pack, then paused. Her fingers twitched. She reached for a second pack, then a third, then caught herself and laughed under her breath.
He's going to eat all of this in three days.
She tossed the extra packs into the cart anyway; the butter budget was just part of her life now. She pushed the cart forward, past the yogurts and the cheeses, but her mind had already drifted.
Four days now. She'd noticed a change in him, subtle but unmistakable. He was still there, still present, but something was different.
His silences felt heavier. His eyes would drift to the window when he thought she wasn't looking, and there was a tension in his jaw that hadn't been there before. His hand, which used to find hers instinctively, now rested still on his own thigh. Like he was waiting for something. Or preparing for something.
Four nights, she thought again, he hasn't reached for me first. And coming from him, that was practically a scream.
She'd asked him about it, of course. Twice.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure? You seem-"
"I'm fine."
The second time, he'd said it with enough finality that she'd let it drop. But she hadn't stopped noticing.
She turned down the next aisle, grabbing a box of tea, -a new strawberry blend- and put it into the cart.
Maybe she was overthinking it. He wasn't exactly a talker. He showed things through actions, through presence, and sometimes, words didn't come easily to him. They never had.
But this felt different.
It wasn't the closed-off silence of someone hiding pain, or the distant quiet of someone lost in old thoughts. It was more like... he was somewhere else.
She paused at the end of the aisle, leaning on the cart for a moment, staring at a display of crackers without really seeing them.
Maybe it's the sea.
The thought surfaced before she could stop it, and once it was there, it wouldn't leave. She knew -had always known- that the ocean was part of him in ways she couldn't fully understand.
Not just his home, but his blood. His nature.
What if the restlessness she'd been sensing was something biological pulling at him from the deep?
What if he was trying to figure out how to tell her he needed to leave?
To swim far and deep, to follow whatever instinct was whispering to him?
She remembered what he'd told her, months ago, before they'd become anything. My kind doesn't attach; everything has a purpose. And though he'd changed, though he'd chosen to stay, what part of that nature still pulsed beneath his skin?
Her stomach churned.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. You're spiraling. He said he was fine.
She grabbed a box of crackers at random, threw it in the cart, and forced herself to keep moving. The checkout line was short. She paid, bagged her groceries, and walked out into the cold afternoon air.
The ride back to the cottage was quiet. The sky was overcast, the sea a dull grey, and the wind carried the smell of salt and wet stone. She let herself drift, still thinking about him, still turning over the same questions.
She'd asked him, once, if he ever missed the deeps. The places where the sun didn't reach, where the pressure was so great it would crush a human body. He'd said yes, but he'd said it like it didn't matter. Like she was more important than the ocean.
She'd believed him. She still believed him.
But that didn't mean the sea had stopped calling him.
She reached the cottage door and fumbled with her keys, nudging it open with her hip. The house was empty when she stepped inside.
No Bucky sprawled on the couch, no heavy presence in the kitchen eating toast. He'd said something about the sea yesterday. Feeling the pull. Needing to swim.
She'd nodded, not questioning it. She understood that part of him better than he probably realized. The sea was his home. His body needed it the way hers needed air.
But now, standing in the quiet kitchen, she felt the absence more sharply than she expected.
She unpacked the groceries slowly, putting the butter in the fridge, stacking the tea next to the kettle, folding the reusable bags and tucking them under the sink. Her movements were automatic, her mind elsewhere.
What if he's really trying to figure out how to leave?
The thought hit her like cold water, and she had to stop, her hands braced on the counter, breathing through it.
No. That's not who he is. That's not what we are.
But she'd seen the way he looked at the sea sometimes. The longing in his eyes, even when he was holding her. He'd spent decades alone, wandering, surviving. What if that part of him was too deep to change?
She wrapped her hands around the warm mug a few minutes later, staring out the window at the grey sea, and tried to convince herself she was being ridiculous.
He wasn't going anywhere.
He'd told her, in his own way, that she was his home now.
She had to trust that.
----
The dock was quiet the night of the recollection.
He'd swum the distance, moving through the dark water with the efficiency that only came from being in his element, silent and fluid as a shadow.
The swim had been easy. Almost relaxing, compared to what he was about to do.
He surfaced near the pilings, his head breaking the water in a slow, cautious rise. His eyes swept the dock, the fishing boats, the shore beyond. Empty. Good.
The transformation came quickly, quicker every time he did it, a familiar twist of bone and muscle, his limbs retracting and reshaping, his skin pulling tight over a form he'd never quite learned to love.
He bit back the sounds that wanted to escape his lips, the low grunts and hisses that always accompanied the shift.
It hurt.
It always hurt. But he was used to pain, and he didn't have time to dwell on it.
When it was done, he was human again. Naked and cold. The night air bit at his bare skin, raising goosebumps along his arms. Disgraceful.
He'd considered bringing clothes. Briefly. But the swim had been long, and he had quite the feat to perform after leaving the docks.
Besides, he'd assumed the place would be empty.
He pulled himself up onto the wooden planks, his bare feet silent against the damp surface. The wood was rough and splintered beneath his soles, and he moved carefully, scanning the shadows for any sign of movement.
A few fishing boats bobbed at their moorings, dark and empty. The air smelled of fuel and salt and the faint, rotting sweetness of bait left too long in the sun.
His naked body moved carefully, scanning the ground, then froze.
A sharp sting shot up from his foot. He looked down. A piece of broken glass, glinting in the dim light, buried in the pad of his heel.
He hissed through his teeth, pulling his foot up to inspect the damage. Blood welled dark against his skin.
"Fuck," he muttered, the word still foreign on his tongue but satisfying somehow. That was a human word he'd learned well.
He pulled the glass free -a small piece, nothing too deep- and pressed his thumb against the wound until the bleeding slowed. It would heal quickly. It always did.
But the irritation lingered.
This wouldn't have happened in the sea.
He limped forward a few steps, testing the weight on his foot, then dismissed it. He'd had worse. Much worse. A piece of glass was nothing.
He found what he came for near the end of the dock, a stack of discarded plastic barrels, the kind used for storing fish bait or industrial fluids. They were empty, smelled clean enough, with sealed lids that would keep all inside during the journey.
He tested one. It was large. Heavy, even empty. Carrying two would be a challenge.
He dragged them to the water's edge, then paused, looking out at the dark expanse of the sea.
He slipped into the water silently and shifted again, his limbs spreading wide, tasting the currents, orienting himself.
The barrels floated beside him. He wrapped two tentacles around each, securing them against his body, and began to swim.
The current was against him tonight, but he was stronger. The town faded behind him, then the coast, then the shallows, until he was alone in open water, the stars above and the darkness below.
He swam for hours. Past the fishing grounds, past the drop-off where the seabed fell away into nothing. The water grew colder. The current shifted, then stilled.
And then he saw it.
A faint glow on the horizon, spreading across the surface like a slow dawn. Blue. Electric. Alive.
He slowed, letting himself drift, watching it approach. The light was thick here, so dense it seemed to pulse with its own heartbeat. Thousands upon thousands of tiny organisms, each one a point of light, gathering in the warm currents to perform their silent, ancient dance.
He floated among them for a moment, surrounded by blue, and felt something in his chest loosen. This was his world. This was what he could offer.
Carefully, he uncapped one of the barrels and dipped it beneath the surface. The algae flowed in, glowing faintly, swirling like liquid starlight. He waited until the barrel was full, sealed it, and repeated the process with the second.
The weight was immense. Each barrel was heavy with water, and the distance back was just as far. But he'd carried heavier things. Two barrels of glowing water were nothing.
He turned and began the long swim back, the blue light trailing behind him like a phosphorescent wake. For a while, he let himself feel the satisfaction of making an effort.
By the time he reached the cave, his muscles were burning and the sky was beginning to lighten. He dragged the barrels onto the rock, his muscles burning with exhaustion, and looked at the pools where he'd planned to pour the glowing water.
The tide would reach them in a few hours. If he poured the algae now, it would be washed away before nightfall. All that effort, wasted.
He cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound.
He thought about the alcove they used in mating season, and with a final surge of effort, he hauled the barrels there.
His arms trembled with the strain, and his limbs ached from swimming for hours and carrying impossible weights.
He was done.
He let himself slide down into the deepest pool, the cool water enveloping his tired body, and he didn't even have the energy to find a comfortable position. His limbs went slack, his eyes closed, and he let the darkness take him.
----
He woke to the sound of water dripping and the soft gray light filtering through the cave's chimney.
His body was stiff, and his muscles protested as he stretched, uncoiling his limbs one by one. The exhaustion from the night before had settled into a dull ache, manageable but persistent.
The light told him it was late afternoon. Almost evening.
He cursed and dragged himself to grab the containers. Then, he uncapped them and began to work.
Once the last remaining of glowing water was poured, he stopped, breathing hard, and let himself look.
It was… beautiful. He'd known it would be.
The pools glowed softly, even with sunrays still entering from the mouth and the vents. The light reflected off the wet stone and danced across the ceiling. The cave was transformed. It wasn't the kind of beauty his kind usually made: functional, purposeful, built for survival. This was something else. Something that existed just to be seen.
He hoped she'd see it the way he did.
He then moved through the cave, gathering what he needed.
From the alcove he pulled the blankets. The ones she'd brought from the cottage, stored in plastic bags. The ones that still smelled like them, and from time to time, they still used.
He carried them to a flat section of rock near the glowing pools, where the surface was smooth enough to be comfortable, and spread them out with clumsy hands.
It wasn't a bed. Not really. But it was soft, and it was theirs.
Also, some things from the cottage that he took before departing for the lights.
The tupperware with the strawberries that he'd seen her pack the other day, rinsing them carefully, patting them dry with paper towels before putting them on the fridge.
He had doubted. They were hers, and he was taking things from her only to give them back as a gesture. It felt... wrong. Like stealing. Like he was pretending to offer something he hadn't earned.
Then he remembered what she'd said, weeks ago, when he'd hesitated to take food from her pantry.
"Bucky, you live here now. Half the time, anyway. You don't have to ask. It's our food."
Ours.
So he took the strawberries. And the wine, too, a bottle of white she'd bought for a dinner she never ended up making, forgotten in the back of the fridge. He didn't know if it was the right kind. He didn't know much about human wine at all.
But he'd seen it in the movies; it seemed important, and he wanted to get this right, so he had snatched a cooler, ice, and the bottle and gone out before she came back from wherever she was.
----
He stepped back and looked at the glowing pools, the blankets, the food.
It looked like something from one of those movies. Something magical. Something that said I thought about you. I planned this. You matter to me.
He felt a flicker of pride. Small, fragile, unfamiliar in this context.
Then he thought about the logistics.
He shouldn’t be just there, waiting for her to appear through the mouth of the cave by inspiration.
He'd have to go get her. Bring her here. And hope that when she saw what he'd done, she'd understand what he was trying to say.
He slid to one of the pools, looking at his work, and waited for the right time.
----
He waited until the sun was low, just before it slipped beneath the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple that made the sea look as if it were burning.
He climbed the path to the cottage with his heart beating harder than it should have been. Ridiculous. He'd faced a lot of things trying to kill him. Walking up a hill to knock on a door shouldn't make him feel like this.
Once at the door, he took a deep breath and let himself in.
She was wearing something he'd never seen before. A dress -not the comfortable things she wore around the house, not the practical clothes she wore to town. Something softer. Her hair was different, too, in a way that made her look almost like a different person.
He just… stared.
Humans, he thought, do this on purpose. They change their appearance to signal something.
She smiled when she saw him. That was good. Her eyes looked brighter than they had earlier, when he'd left. He'd been gone for almost two days, and she'd clearly been busy preparing for something.
Maybe she expected me to come back.
He hadn't told her he would. He never did. Some days he just... left and came back when the sea had released him. She never complained. Never asked where he'd been. She'd just open the door and let him in, like it was natural. Like she knew he would always come back.
He'd never told her he would.
She has no reason to expect me tonight, he realized.
But she was dressed like she might meet someone.
"Hey," she said, closing the distance. "You're back."
"I said I would be."
He hadn't. But it felt true anyway.
She chuckled. A small, amused sound. "You didn't, actually. Still, I'm glad you're here." She glanced over her shoulder, into the house, and something in her expression flickered. "But… actually, I was just about to head out."
Something cold went down his spine.
"Head out?"
"Ian, Arthur's friend, the one from the town? He and his girlfriend invited me for drinks at the new pub. They've been trying to get me to go for some weeks now, knowing I don’t go out a lot." She shrugged, a little apologetically. "I figured I'd finally take them up on it. Since I didn't know when you'd be back."
Since I didn't know when you'd be back.
It was fair. Completely fair. He never told her. He never could tell her, because he didn't know himself. She understood that. She'd always understood that.
But right now, the understanding didn't help.
Because he knew that name. He remembered the half-eaten chocolate on her coffee table, the way his chest had twisted when he'd realized another male had given her an offering. On Valentine's Day. On a day meant for courtship.
He'd said nothing then. Had no right to say anything. They weren't anything. He'd told himself that over and over, had let himself drown in that denial for months.
But he remembered.
The one who gave her chocolate. The one who had a girlfriend, supposedly, but still gave offerings to another female. The one who, even now, was taking her out at night.
His jaw clenched.
"You're going out with him," he said. Flat. Controlled. The kind of control he'd learned to use when he was trying not to do something he'd regret.
Her brow furrowed. "With him and his girlfriend, Bucky. Both of them.
"You arranged to go out with him."
"I didn't arrange it. They invited me." She paused, and something in her expression shifted, a hint of wariness. "And I told you, his girlfriend is coming too. It's not-" She stopped, exhaled. "It's not what you think."
What I think.
He didn't know what he thought. Only that the name Ian had lodged itself somewhere in his stomach and was burning.
"The chocolate," he said. "On the human holiday. He gave you chocolate."
She stared at him. For a long moment, she didn't speak.
Then, slowly: "That was months ago, Bucky."
"I remember."
"That was different," she said quietly. "We weren't even-” she sighed. “Ian has a long-term partner," she repeated, firmer this time. "And I'm going out with both of them. Not just him. Both."
The emphasis was deliberate. He heard it.
But his blood didn't care. His blood was already moving, already readying itself for a fight that wasn't there.
He looked at her dress again. The soft fabric. The careful way she'd fixed her hair.
She dressed up for him. The thought came sharp and cruel. She dressed up to go out with the male who gave her an offering. Not for me.
And then, quieter: But I never gave her anything. Not on that day. Not when it mattered.
"You didn't tell me," he mumbled, "That you were going out with him."
"Because I didn't know when you'd be back. You don't have a phone, Bucky. You don't tell me when you're leaving or when you're coming back. I can't just sit here waiting; I have a life."
Again, it was reasonable. He knew it was.
But reason had nothing to do with the way he felt.
He'd been trying so hard to do the human thing. The date thing. The effort thing. He'd spent a day swimming and dragging heavy barrels through the sea, all so he could show her something beautiful, something that proved he'd thought about her, that she mattered.
And she was walking out the door.
The words left his mouth before he could stop them:
"I was going to give you a date," he said. The words came out rough, scraped. "Tonight. In the cave."
She went still.
"A date?"
"Yes." He forced himself to meet her eyes. "The human thing. The one we talked about. I was going to show you. But you are going out with him."
He couldn't say the name.
She stared at him. Her lips parted slightly, and something in her expression shifted. Surprise, then confusion, then something softer.
"You were planning a date for tonight?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Bucky." Her voice came out soft, almost careful. "You didn't have to-"
"Don't." He cut her off, rougher than he meant. "Don't say 'not necessary.' I know it's not necessary. I did it anyway."
----
She blinked.
The words hung in the air between them. His jaw was tight, his eyes fixed somewhere past her shoulder, and she watched the muscle in his temple twitch.
He's nervous, she realized.
Bucky. Nervous.
The man who'd faced down his own kind, who'd swum through dark water with nothing but claws and teeth, who'd looked at her like she was the most fragile thing he'd ever held, was nervous.
Because he planned a date.
She'd spent the last few days watching him drift in and out of the cottage, his silences heavier than usual, his eyes distant. She'd told herself it was the sea calling him. That maybe he was figuring out how to tell her he needed space.
And all along, he was planning a date.
She almost laughed.
Almost.
But the look on his face -the way he was bracing himself, like he expected her to tell him it was stupid, unnecessary, too much- stopped her.
"Bucky," she said with a soft voice. "You planned a date for us in the cave?"
His throat worked. "I- yes."
"And you've been working on this for days."
He didn't answer. But the way his eyes flicked away told her everything.
She stepped closer. "I've been thinking you were pulling away."
His head snapped back to her. "What?"
"The silences. The lost gazes. I thought-" She stopped, shook her head. "I thought maybe the sea was calling you. That you were trying to figure out how to tell me you needed… to go."
Something broke in his expression. His hand came up, not quite touching her, hovering near her elbow like he was afraid to make contact.
"No," he said, and the word came out hoarse. "No. I was-" He stopped, jaw working. "I was trying to give you something. The thing we talked about… when we watched that movie." He gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding into the motion. "I thought you deserved that. With effort. With-" He stopped, swallowed.
His eyes met hers, and for a moment, he looked almost lost.
She didn't think. She just moved.
Her arms came around him, pressing her body against his, and she felt the way he went rigid beneath her touch. Every muscle locked, his breath caught somewhere in his chest, held captive by whatever was still coiled tight inside him.
For a heartbeat, he didn't move at all. Just stood there, frozen, like he'd forgotten how to accept comfort.
Then, slowly, something in him gave way.
His arms came up, and she felt it, the faint shake of his fingers against her back. Then his arms closed around her, tighter than she expected, pulling her into his chest like she was the only solid thing in a world that had been shifting beneath him for days.
She felt the breath leave his lungs in a long, shaky exhale, felt the tension in his shoulders begin to loosen, increment by increment, like a rope slowly being untied.
"Okay," she murmured against his chest.
He didn't answer. Just pressed his face into her hair and breathed.
She stayed there, letting him hold her, letting him collect himself. Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers threading through the strands at his nape, and she felt him shiver. Not from cold.
"Okay," she said again, softer this time. "Let's go then. Show me what you prepared."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, his brow furrowing. "But you were going out-"
She almost smiled at the way he said it, all clipped and reluctant, like the words tasted bad.
"I was," she said. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. "And now I'm not."
He blinked, confused, as she unlocked the screen and opened the messaging app. She tapped the voice note icon and held the phone up to her lips, watching his face as she spoke.
"Hey Ian, I’m sorry, but something came up, and I won't be able to make it tonight. Nothing bad, so don’t worry. I’m so sorry for the late notice. Tell Hannah I said hi, and enjoy your drinks!"
She pressed send and slipped the phone back into her pocket.
"There. Done. It’s not like they need me as a third wheel."
"Third wheel?" he asked slowly, brows furrowed in confusion. "What would you do with a wheel in a pub?"
She laughed.
"That means you're the extra person when a couple goes out," she explained, caressing his back. "You're the third one. The one who's not part of the couple. It's a little awkward sometimes, because they're focused on each other and you're just... there."
His frown deepened. "Why a wheel? I don't see why it would be a third thing."
"It's just an expression." She smiled, stepping back just enough to take his hand. "I'll explain more on the way."
He didn't move at first, but then he gave a small nod, barely perceptible.
"Okay," he said.
She grabbed his hand and tugged him gently toward the door. "Lead the way. I want to see this date you planned."
As she followed him out into the cool evening air, she felt his fingers tighten around hers. She noticed, too, as they walked, that the tension in his shoulders had eased. His steps were steadier. His jaw, still set, had lost that sharp edge of worry.
There you are, she thought. There's my Bucky.
----
The path to the cave was familiar by now. She'd walked it enough times, in the golden glow of late afternoon and the gray hush of overcast skies. But tonight, something was different.
A faint glow spilled from the mouth of the cave, soft and blue, pulsing like a slow heartbeat against the darkening sky. She slowed, her hand tightening around his. The light wasn't harsh or artificial; it was gentle.
"What is that?" she whispered.
He didn't answer. Just watched her, waiting.
She stepped forward, drawn by the glow, and when she reached the entrance, she stopped.
The cave was transformed.
The pools that usually sat dark and still were now filled with liquid light. Blue and silver and white, shifting and swirling like captured stars, drifting in slow, hypnotic circles across the water's surface.
The light reflected off the wet stone walls, dancing across the ceiling in rippling patterns that made the rock itself seem alive. It was like standing inside a living constellation, like the night sky had decided to come down and make its home in the dark.
She couldn't speak. Couldn't find the words. Her breath caught somewhere in her chest, and she just stood there, drinking it in, letting the wonder settle into her bones.
Then she started moving, her feet carrying her deeper into the cave without conscious thought. The glow grew brighter as she walked, the light intensifying as she passed each pool.
Some were shallow, barely more than puddles of liquid starlight. Others were deeper, the blue so rich it seemed to have weight, like she could reach in and scoop it up in her hands.
And then she saw them, on a flat section of rock that overlooked the largest pool: a nest of blankets had been spread out. And on top of them, arranged with careful precision: a green Tupperware container, and beside it, a bottle of white wine.
She turned slowly, her heart too full for her chest to hold.
He was watching her. Standing just a few feet away, hands at his sides, his face unreadable but his body tight with tension, like he was bracing himself. Like he was waiting for her to tell him it wasn't enough. That he'd gotten it wrong. That she'd expected something different.
"Bucky," she breathed.
He didn't speak. His throat worked, a swallow he couldn't quite hide.
"It's-" She stopped, shook her head, tried again. "It's beautiful. It's so beautiful."
Something in his expression eased, a crack in the armor he'd been wearing for days. "I thought… you would like it," he said, and his voice was a little unsteady.
She crossed the space between them in three quick steps and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face into his chest. "I love it. I love it."
His arms came around her, and she felt it, the release of tension, the way his whole body seemed to exhale. The grip of his arms was careful, still testing, but the rigid wall he'd built around himself was finally coming down.
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, a smile spreading across her face. "You're the best mate ever."
He went still.
The words hung in the air between them, and she caught the way his jaw tightened slightly, the way his breath caught for just a fraction of a second. His pupils dilated, just a little, and she saw the muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.
"You're the best mate ever," she repeated, softer this time, and she watched him process the word. Mate. His word. His language.
His hand found hers, his fingers closing around her smaller ones, and she felt the slight tremor in them, barely there, but unmistakable. He squeezed gently, and pulled softly at her hand.
"Come," he managed. "Sit with me."
She hesitated a moment.
"Bucky," she said slowly, "don't you want to shift first?"
He stopped, and she saw the brief flicker of uncertainty cross his face. His mouth opened, then closed. When he spoke, his voice was careful, measured.
"I thought... the idea was a date, as a human thing. I assumed you would prefer-"
She reached up, brushing her fingers along his jaw. "I prefer you. Whatever way you want to be tonight. The date isn't just for me, Bucky. It's supposed to be for us. Both of us. I want you to enjoy it too."
He stared at her, processing, and she watched the conflict play out across his features. Then, slowly, a spark of his usual confidence flickered back to life.
"In that case..."
His hands moved to the waistband of his jeans, his fingers finding the buckle with deliberate ease. His eyes never left hers, and there was something in his gaze now, a hint of the old Bucky, the one who knew exactly what he was worth.
She stepped forward, her own hands reaching for his. "Let me help."
His breath caught, just slightly, when her fingers brushed against his, taking over the task of undoing his belt. Then she worked the button free, tugged the zipper down, and let the denim fall. He stepped out of them, and she pushed the fabric aside with her foot.
"You're not just saying that to see me undress?" he murmured, and his voice was low, amused, a hint of the teasing she'd missed.
She laughed softly, her hands sliding up his chest as she pushed his t-shirt up. "One thing is not mutually exclusive from the other."
He hissed as the fabric cleared his shoulders, and she took the opportunity to press her mouth to the curve of his neck, just below his jaw. He tilted his head back, a low sound rumbling in his chest, and her fingers splayed across the warm skin of his torso, feeling the way his muscles tightened beneath her touch.
Then his hands were in her hair, tilting her face up to meet his, and when his mouth found hers, there was nothing careful about it.
This kiss was hungry, deep, the kind that stole breath and made her forget where she ended and he began. His tongue swept against her lower lip, and she opened for him without hesitation, pulling him closer, her fingers digging into the firm muscles of his back. He tasted like salt and something darker, something that was entirely him, and she let herself drown in it.
His hands slid down her sides, gripping her buttocks, pulling her flush against him, and she felt the heat of his body pressed against her through the thin fabric of her dress.
She whimpered against his mouth, and he answered with a low groan, his teeth grazing her lower lip before he soothed it with his tongue.
When they finally broke apart, both of them breathless, his forehead rested against hers, his eyes still dark and heavy-lidded.
"Turn around," he said, his voice rougher now, quieter. "I don't want you to see."
She nodded, but before letting go, her hands slid down to the waistband of his boxers, her fingers hooking into the fabric. "These too," she murmured, “you aren’t a cartoon, and they are not cheap.”
He let out a low sound, almost a growl of surprise, as she slid them down his hips, working the fabric past his thighs until he stepped out of them. Her eyes dropped for just a moment -she couldn't help it- before he gently turned her, guiding her to face the wall. Then he pressed against her from behind.
His body was warm and solid against her back, one hand bracing against the stone beside her head, the other splayed across her hip. His mouth found her ear, breath hot against her skin.
"Now," he said, low and rough. "Stay like that."
She felt the word vibrate through her, felt the heat of his naked chest pressed against her, and for a moment, her body screamed at her to turn around, forget about the date entirely and just climb him like a tree. The thought made her fingers curl against the stone.
She took a breath, steadying herself.
Focus.
But his hand was still on her hip; he was still warm against her back, and the ghost of his breath still lingered at her ear.
It took everything she had to push those thoughts away, to remember that this moment -the cave, the lights, the blankets- was about more than just her wanting him.
She pressed her palms flat against the cool rock and waited.
Behind her, she heard him take a slow, steadying breath, and then he walked away.
Then the sounds began briefly after that. A sickening crack. Bone shifting, rearranging, finding a shape that wasn't meant to be seen. She flinched at the sound, her fingers pressing harder against the stone, and she heard him suck in a sharp breath through his teeth.
He was trying to be quiet. She could tell. He was holding back the sounds he didn't want her to hear.
Another crack, wetter this time, followed by a low, gritted grunt that he couldn't quite swallow. Her eyes squeezed shut. She focused on the texture of the rock beneath her palms, on the rhythm of her own breathing, on anything but the sounds of his body pulling itself apart and putting itself back together.
Then came the soft, wet splash of his limbs meeting the stone floor. One, then another, and another after that, uncoiling into the water, the sound of suction cups releasing and reattaching as he adjusted to his true form.
"Okay," he said, and his voice was lower now, richer.
She turned slowly.
He was half in the water, his torso rising from the dark surface, and his limbs -black and blue and gleaming- curling around him in familiar, graceful arcs. The bioluminescence cast his features in soft blue light, shadows flickering across the angles of his face.
His chest was still heaving slightly, and she could see the fine sheen of sweat on his skin, the evidence of what the shift had cost him.
But he was looking at her like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and that look made everything else fall away.
She crossed the space between them, her hand reaching for his. He took it, and she let him guide her to the blankets, settling onto the soft fabric with him beside her.
The moment they were seated, his limbs moved with a quiet, possessive certainty. One curled around her waist, another wrapped loosely around her calf, and a third settled across her thighs, heavy and slightly moving. He pulled her closer without a word, and she felt herself relax into his hold, the tension of the past days finally beginning to ease.
Then his nose brushed against her throat. A slow, deliberate inhale. She felt the subtle graze of his lips against her skin, and a shiver traced down her spine.
Her hands found the Tupperware container, and she opened it, the scent of strawberries rising up between them. She pulled one out, holding it up to his mouth.
"Strawberries," she said softly. "You're so damn thoughtful," she added, and she watched a faint flush creep across his cheeks.
It wasn't obvious. Not like a human blush. But she'd learned to read him, to see the subtle shift in his skin, the way his gaze dropped for just a second. It made her heart squeeze.
He reached for the wine next, his fingers closing around the bottle. He examined it, turning it over once, his claws finding the cork. He pulled, once, and it slipped. A low grunt of frustration. He tried again, angling his claw differently, and this time it came free with a soft, satisfying pop.
He looked at the bottle, then at her, then at the cave around them.
"Didn't think of cups," he admitted, and there was something almost sheepish in his voice. Like he'd studied so hard and still forgotten something essential.
She smiled and pressed a kiss to his jaw. "It doesn't matter. I don't need cups. This-" she gestured at the cave, at the glowing water, at the blankets and the fruit and him, "this is more than I could have asked for. It's perfect."
His eyes searched hers, like he was trying to see if she meant it.
"Seriously," she added, and she let her gaze travel across the cave, watching the way the bioluminescence danced across the wet stone walls. The blue light rippled and shifted, casting moving shadows that made the cave feel alive. "It's beautiful. How did you do this?"
His chest rose and fell with a breath. "I found something I could give you," he said. "Something only I could do."
That was all he offered. No details.
She wanted to ask. She could see it in the slight tension in his limbs, the evidence of what the task had cost him. But if he didn't want to talk about it, she wouldn't push.
Because she knew him. Knew that if he wasn't bragging about the effort, it was because it had been more than he wanted to admit.
So she let it go.
----
He watched her take another strawberry from the box, observed the way her fingers closed around the soft red flesh, and he felt proud. His mate liked it. What he'd made. What he'd done. She'd called it beautiful, called it perfect, said she couldn't have asked for more.
She held the strawberry out to him, and he leaned forward, taking it from her fingers with his mouth. Her skin brushed his lips briefly, accidentally and electric. She smiled at him, with a knowing smile, and he felt the satisfaction washing away the exhaustion.
In his world, you didn't press food into someone's mouth and watch them taste it, didn't wait for their expression to shift with pleasure. Didn’t indulge. It was not necessary. It was, plainly worthless.
She took a sip from the wine bottle, her lips wrapping around the glass rim, and handed it to him. He lifted it to his own mouth, tasting the warmth, the faint sweetness that lingered where her mouth had been.
They talked. Nothing important. She asked about the human form again, about the things he'd learned to tolerate. He told her about shoes -how he still hated them, how they felt like cages for his feet- and she murmured soothingly at him, a sound that made his limbs curl tighter around her.
And beneath all the merriness, he could smell it.
Her arousal.
It was subtle, buried under the sweetness of the wine and the salt of the sea air. But it had been there since they kissed, building as the night wore on, a slow, steady heat that made his skin prickle and his thoughts scatter.
He tried to focus on her words. He really did. But his limbs, traitors that they were, had begun to move on their own. One slid higher up her thigh, the suction cups grazing her skin. Another curled around her waist, pulling her closer. He felt the heat of her body through the thin cloth, felt the way she yielded against him, and his jaw clenched.
This isn't how it goes.
He'd watched the movies. The humans in the restaurants, the candles and the wine and the careful rituals, or the walks in the park, or the theatre.
They didn't do what he wanted to do.
They sat across from each other, kept their hands visible, their bodies apart. They talked. They laughed. And when the male escorted the female to the door, maybe they kissed, and maybe they didn't.
But they didn't -he was fairly certain- get distracted by the taste of their mate's arousal while they were still eating.
He could feel his control slipping. His concentration, sharp and focused moments ago, was fracturing. He tried to pull his limbs back, to give her space, to remember the ritual she deserved.
But she shifted against him, and one of his suction cups brushed her inner thigh, and he couldn't. He couldn't.
His mind was spinning, caught between the Thal'kyr part of him that wanted nothing more than to pin her down and fuck her, and the part that wanted to prove he could do this right.
He opened his mouth, tried to form words, tried to remember what she'd been asking him-
"-ucky. Hey."
Her voice cut through the haze, and he blinked, focusing on her face. She was looking at him, her head tilted slightly, a small crease between her brows.
"Are you okay?" she asked, and the question was gentle, but there was something in her voice... concern?
His jaw worked.
"I..." he started, and stopped.
She shifted again, adjusting her position on the blankets, and the movement pressed her thigh more firmly against the limb that had been creeping upward. A soft, involuntary sound escaped her throat -barely a breath- but he heard it.
Felt it.
The last thread of restraint snapped.
"I want to have sex," he blurted. His eyes met hers, almost obligingly. "But that doesn't… happen on dates." He scowled, frustrated. "In the movies, they don't-"
She started laughing.
It wasn't cruel or mocking, and she pressed her hand to her mouth like she was trying to stop it. "Bucky," she said, and her voice was warm, amused, "maybe you watched a very vanilla catalogue of films. It depends on the movie."
He frowned at her, knitting his brow in confusion. "What do you mean, depends-”
She waved a hand, still smiling. "Let's just say-" She leaned closer, her hand finding his, her fingers curling around his, and she looked at him with a gaze that was anything but innocent. "Not all dates end with sex. But plenty do."
He stared at her. She was looking at him with those eyes, her scent curling around him, her hand warm in his, and he felt the last shred of his careful composure crumble.
"Plenty," he repeated, and the word came out rough, hungry.
"Plenty," she confirmed.
She lifted her free hand, counting on her fingers as she spoke. "You brought me to a beautiful place you prepared with care. We sat down. We ate. We drank. We talked."
Her free hand traced a slow, deliberate path across his chest, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
"I think the date already hit most of the steps." Her fingers splayed flat against his skin, warm and certain. "Which means we could easily move on to the part you're so interested in."
She leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of his ear.
"With the added bonus that you don't have to walk me home."
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
Because she was looking at him like that, her scent thick and sweet in his nostrils, her hand warm on his skin, and every thought he'd been trying to hold onto scattered like fish fleeing a net.
He'd done well. He'd provided. He'd created something beautiful, something she'd loved, and now she was offering herself to him in return.
And he was going to take what she offered.
His instincts took control.
His limbs moved before he could think.
They wrapped around her, lifting her body, arranging her. One curled around her waist, another supported her back, and a third slid beneath her thighs, spreading them apart as he settled her onto his lap. She gasped, and then she was straddling him, her hands finding his shoulders for balance, her eyes dark and wanting.
He didn't need to lie her down. His limbs could hold her exactly where he wanted her, could maneuver her however he pleased, could keep her suspended and open and completely at his mercy.
And he wanted her exactly like this.
"Bucky-" she breathed, and he could feel the way her thighs tightened around him, the way her fingers curled into his shoulders.
He smiled. Slowly.
"I like you here," he murmured, his hands finding her hips, guiding her closer. "Right where I want you."
His limbs shifted beneath her, adjusting her position, spreading her wider. He could feel the heat permeating through the thin fabric of her underwear, and the knowledge that she was already so ready for him made him groan.
But before he could do anything else, her hands slid from his shoulders down his chest, her fingers trailing over his skin slowly. She leaned forward, her mouth finding the curve of his neck, and then she bit down, just enough to make him hiss.
His grip on her hips tightened.
"All night," he said, his voice low and rough, "I've been wanting to touch you like this."
Her teeth grazed his skin again, and she ground down against him, shameless and wanting. "Then stop talking about it."
He gently fisted her hair, throwing back her head.
"Patience, mate."
His mouth found her throat, and he breathed her in, slow and deliberate, letting her scent flood his senses.
"Bucky…" she breathed, and her hands came up to frame his face.
He pulled back just enough to look at her, and the expression on his face was pure, unapologetic satisfaction.
"You smell so good," he said, his lips brushing her jaw. "You've been like this all night. I could smell you while we were eating." A low sound rumbled in his chest. "You wanted me the whole time."
She opened her mouth to respond, but he didn't let her.
His mouth covered hers, deep and possessive, and her hands tangled in his hair, tugging; her hips never stopping the grinding against him. His limbs moved with purpose now, one sliding the hem of her dress higher, another finding the edge of her underwear.
He didn't rush. He savored. Every inch of skin he uncovered, he tasted. Every sound she made, he cataloged.
When his mouth finally left hers, trailing down her throat, she gasped his name.
"Tell me," he murmured as his lips grazed her cleavage. "Tell me what you want."
"You know what I want," she breathed, almost whining. "I want you."
His teeth grazed her skin, just enough to make her gasp. "Good."
One of his limbs found its way under her panties, the suction cups grazing the sensitive skin, and she arched against him with a soft cry. He watched her face, watched the way her eyes fluttered, the way her lips parted as he teased her wet, little pearl. He was in control now. He had her exactly where he wanted her.
His mouth found her ear, his voice low and rough.
"Does this happen on dates?" he asked, and there was amusement in his tone now, a hint of the teasing that had always been there beneath the surface. "Does the male do this-" his limb pressed down in a soft, deliberate stroke against her entrance, and she gasped, "-and the woman still eats?"
He pulled back to look at her face, heated and wanting, and he felt pure, unapologetic, masculine smugness.
"Because I don't remember seeing that," he continued, his teeth grazing her lower lip, "in any of the ones you showed me."
She chuckled, breathless, her hands tugging his hair hard enough to make him groan. "Told you, it depends on the movie."
His limb pressed higher, more insistent now, and she moaned against his mouth, her hips rolling desperately against him. Her hands slid down his chest, across his stomach, and he felt her fingers brush against the slit where his cock was still concealed. He grabbed her wrist and removed her wandering hand, with a hiss.
Not yet
"Then I think," he murmured against her lips, "you're going to have to show me that movie later."
His mouth found hers again, hungrier this time, and the rest of his limbs moved with purpose. One slid her dress higher, bunching the fabric around her hips. Another found the edge of her underwear, and started to tug it down with unhurried precision.
His free hand found the strap of her dress, dragging it down her shoulder with more patience than the rest of him seemed to possess. When her breast came free, he didn't reach for it right away, just looked at it, the way she'd looked at the glowing pools. Then his palm covered it, squeezing as a separate limb, uninvited, curled up along her sides to join it, sliding down the fabric covering her other breast, the ring of suction cups closing gently around her nipple.
She gasped at the double sensation -warm palm, cool pull- and he made a low sound, pleased with himself.
She was so wet. Of course she was. He'd been smelling it all night, had been tasting it in the air between them. But feeling it -feeling the slick heat of her against his suction cups- made something feral rise up in his chest.
"All night," he murmured against her skin, his lips trailing down her throat again, "you were like this. While you ate. While you talked to me." His teeth grazed her collarbone.
She opened her mouth, but whatever she'd been about to say dissolved into a moan as a suction cup of the limb between her thighs closed over her sensitive pearl and pulled.
"So desperate," he said, and his voice was low, rough. "Even when you were eating strawberries and pretending you weren't thinking about this."
She tried to shake her head, but he wasn't having it.
"Don't lie to me, mate," he murmured. "I can always smell it on you. When you want me to take you. When you want my limbs tasting your body. When you want my heavy seed dripping down your delectable thighs."
His limb teased her, sucking and pushing inside, and he reveled in the way her body arched into his touch, the way her hands found his shoulders, the way she moaned his name.
And then, when she was trembling, when her breath was coming in short, little gasps, almost there-
He stopped.
She made a sound of protest, her eyes flying open, and he smiled at her, knowingly.
"Bucky-"
"I want to feel you come around my cock." he said, and his voice was gentle but firm.
He hadn’t let his shaft free on purpose, forcing himself to wait, so as not to end things too fast even if he craved it. Now it was time, so he finally let his concealing slit relax, and his poor, aching shaft pulsed free against her skin.
He knew she felt it, heavy and throbbing against her belly, and shamelessly rubbed it up and down, wetting her sensitive skin, his eyes never leaving hers.
"You want it?" he asked, as he lifted her with his limbs, grabbing his cock and teasing her folds.
She just nodded. Couldn't speak.
He pressed his tongue against a fang and pushed into her, slowly as always, and observed her face as she took him. The way her lips parted, the way her eyes widened, the way her body yielded to him inch by inch. When he was fully seated inside her, he paused, letting her adjust.
"Fuck," she breathed.
He pressed his forehead to hers, his breath warm against her skin. "You feel so good."
He pulled back slowly, then pushed in again, and the sound she made -low, desperate- made his jaw clench.
"So perfect," he said, and his voice was rougher now. "My mate. My perfect mate."
She ground her hips against him, trying to take him deeper, to get friction, and he nipped her below her jaw.
"You like it?" he asked, finding a slow, deep rhythm. "You like me inside you?"
She nodded, breathless, and he smiled.
"I would usually ask you for words, mate. But since this is a special occasion, I’m not pushing you tonight," he murmured against her skin.
He started to move faster, harder, his limbs wrapped around her, holding her in place as he thrust up into her, teasing her little bundle of nerves with his limbs.
She was gasping, trembling, her fingers digging into his shoulders, and then he felt her starting to clench around him.
"Bucky-" she gasped.
"I know," he said. "I can feel you. I can feel you getting close."
He shifted the angle, pushing deeper still, and she cried out.
"I've got you, mate. I want to feel it. I want to feel what I do to you." He declared, the tip of a limb rubbing mercilessly against her clit as he fucked her.
She shattered around him with a cry, her body clenching, and he followed her over the edge, thrusting once, twice, before stilling and coming with a low, guttural groan.
For a long moment, he stayed there, buried inside her, his limbs wrapped around her, his face against her throat. His breathing was ragged, and he could feel her heart racing beneath his palm.
"Ok, that was-" she started, but she couldn't finish.
He smiled, satisfied.
"I know," he said.
He pulled out slowly, and she made a soft sound of protest. He felt a surge of warmth at the sound, at the way she still wanted him even now.
He settled behind her, his limbs curling around her, pulling her close. He pressed a kiss to her temple, and she sighed, pressing her back into his chest.
"That was a good date," he said after a moment, and she laughed, soft and tired.
"The best date ever." She conceded.
He felt his chest expand with something he couldn't quite name at the praise. Something deep and old.
"So I did good?" he heard himself ask anyway, his voice quieter now, more vulnerable.
She turned a little in his grasp to face him, her body still pressed against his, her limbs tangled with his. Her hands lifted, finding the line of his jaw, tracing along its edge before sliding down to his throat, that sensitive spot where she knew he loved to be touched.
He shivered, his eyes fluttering half-closed at the sensation.
"What do you think?" she murmured, her thumbs stroking slow circles along the column of his neck.
Her touch was deliberate, knowing, and he felt himself relax into it despite the question still hanging between them.
"I think," she continued, her voice soft, "you brought me to a place you made beautiful. You bring strawberries, the first food we shared. You gave me wine. You talked to me." Her thumb brushed over his pulse point. "You made me feel like I mattered."
He opened his mouth, but one of her hands reached his semi-hard shaft, giving it a playful squeeze, and he groaned, his hips jerking involuntarily into her grip.
"And then," she said, a small smile curving her mouth, "you proceeded to remind me exactly why you're the only one I want."
He felt the damn heat in his cheeks and knew he had blushed like an inexperienced pup. He found himself leaning into her touch like a creature starved for it, his eyes half-lidded, his breath coming in slow, uneven pulls.
"So yes," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "You did good. You did so good."
He didn't answer. Couldn't. Instead, his hands and limbs started to wander along her body, fingers tracing the curve of her hip, suction cups grazing the soft skin of her lower back, other limbs curled around her thighs. He pressed his face into her hair, breathing her in, and let himself feel the weight of her words in a language that didn't require saying things aloud.
