Summary: Azriel had spent centuries mastering control until the moment he saw you. A bond he couldn’t ignore, an act he couldn’t undo— not that he would want to. But now he’s left with the fallout. Political and personal. Because the mate he risked everything to save never wanted saving in the first place.
Word count: 3.5K
Warnings: Violence, abuse, mentions of slurs
The mortal palace was beautiful in the way a predator was beautiful. Striking yet chilling– the kind of beauty you’d rather appreciate from a distance.
Oceans away Azriel thought, wishing he was back in the Night Court. In Velaris under those familiar stars with the rest of his family–away from these traitors.
Azriel hated being here.
Being in this palace, on this land, breath’s away from the queens who almost destroyed everything he held dear.
Every column in the hall gleamed like a polished fang, chandeliers hung with a gaudy display of gold. It felt almost desperate, that all the embellishment of the room was covering up how the mortal queens were actually so far away from any kind of true class, but instead overindulgent, greedy and simply trying to overcompensate for what they lacked.
There was music murmuring somewhere, a quartet playing something meant to sound elegant, but instead sounded wounded and tight. The air was still, the kind that was brittle and had Azriel’s shadows twitching against his back.
Azriel really hated being here.
Rhysand stood at the bottom of the royal stage, Mor to his right while Azriel flanked them on the left. He stood close to one of those pearly white columns. His shadows discreetly moved around him, settling by his feet on the floor and curling over his shoulders slightly displaying themselves just enough to remind his hosts exactly who he was and what he was capable of.
The Night Court was building an alliance– albeit a fake one– but it still went against every instinct Azriel had.
These surviving queens, the ones who had aligned themselves with Hybern and then Koschei, had endangered his entire family. To even entertain this idea, even if it was all a facade made his skin crawl.
Perhaps that was why he felt so on edge. His gloved fingers twitching at his side, jaw clenching. Maybe it was the garish decor, but there was something about this room that made him feel sick.
Rhysand, charming and poised, voice as smooth as silk. Somehow stirred his way through conversation elegantly. Mor beside him, smiling in a way that almost fooled the Shadowsinger that the Night Court truly was in its era of forgiveness.
He didn’t know how they did it. Azriel wasn’t good at fake smiles and false pretences. He guessed that’s why he was the spymaster and assassin, here as muscle not to form political relationships.
“Now while your attendance is noted, and your gifts…” the oldest of the queens sat centrally, glanced over to the large chest of Velaris jewels that sat at the bottom of the stairs. A bribery, perhaps even slightly too obvious, fitted in quite well with the pathetic flash of wealth this room displayed. “Your gifts are appreciated…but the proposition of an alliance isn’t just something that can be bought.” Her tone was cold, and matter of fact. Laced with a wobble that spoke of the years she had lived and where her voice had worn. Yet she didn’t appear weak, instead hardened by her years on the throne.
The other two queens either side of her. The one to the right, dark long unruly hair, fingers covered in jeweled rings with a mundane bored expression that didn’t seem to match her sense of style. To the left was the youngest queen, still a girl really. There was a slight innocence that came with her younger appearance but Azriel noticed her haunting eyes, sharp and sinister as they scaled over their audience.
“Tell me, why should we trust you now, when your kind has done so little for us on the Continent since the war and even before?” The eldest queen spoke again, her voice louder this time, challenging.
Azriel wanted to scoff, these queens weren’t just cowardly– they were delusional. Entitled. Wholey believed that they were deserving of some kind of retribution.
Azriel. Rhys warned him in his mind.
Azriel hadn’t even realised the snarl he was showing. How his gaze had darkened from the shadow he stood in, teeth showing slightly in disgust. Rhysand’s warning wasn’t up for debate. Azriel schooled his expression before any of the queens even noticed.
Azriel could feel Rhys’s smile without seeing it. That particular practiced curl meant he was seconds from saying something convincing and motivating– something that would get Rhys the exact outcome he’d come here for.
“Because, Your Majesties,” Rhys said smoothly, “we’ve learned that cooperation is the only way you and your people can survive what’s to come.”
The room stilled for a moment. Rhys’ words settling across the room.
The younger of the three queens' eyes widened slightly, inexperience pooling her face as she glanced towards her matrons. Rhys had sounded sweet, but the real implications of his words were still clear.
Rhys had threatened them, in a somewhat charming way. But it was still a threat nonetheless.
One of the queens scoffed then, the one sat to the right with the dark wavy hair. She was a ruler of one of the northern kingdoms, her kingdom managed the mines on the Continent, her reign falling over mountainous terrain that made her kingdom especially fruitful. The jewels that were mined there glimmered in the light, stacks and stacks of detailed designs embedded in stone adorned her fingers. Azriel briefly remembered Rhysand mentioning exactly what jurisdiction the queens fell into, one was of the mines, the other– the youngest he thinks managed the prison. But he couldn't recall any of their names. Didn’t particularly care either.
“And what is to come, High Lord?” she then asked, tone lilting and bored. Twisting the ruby red ring on her forefinger. “You speak as though you see the future. Is this one of your many magical abilities Rhysand?”
The question was loaded. These particular queens had only survived due to their pure disdain for magic– despite the mortal queens all aligning with Hybern and Koschei– these three had kept to their kingdoms to avoid physical conflict. It ultimately saved them from their deserved endings.
Magic was not favoured in their realms, they loathed it. This idea that those not of royal blood could be more powerful. They didn’t allow it, had laws and regulations to avoid it, dampen it— even cull it.
The Night Court had taken note of the civil unrest among magic beings on the Continent. Azriel’s spies had been reporting for months acts of rebellion from magic kind, half-fae and mortals against the monarchy.
It was the perfect ploy for Rhys to get what he wanted, he needed access to these queens archives and leveraging that civil unrest to get in the favour of the Queens was a sure way to do it.
Nevertheless, the queens still sported magic relics on their garments and even this palace was dressed in ancient wards.
The hypocrisy wasn’t lost on Azriel.
There was a shift in Azriel’s shadows, as though they were picking up on something happening rooms away.
Something was wrong– no different–no…something was coming. As though instinct and intuituaion was sending a message to Azriel’s very bones.
Mor’s voice pulled him from his thoughts, “We know of the rebellion, the unrest in your kingdoms” she said with a slight smirk, her blonde hair cascading in front of her like an armour.
“You don’t need magic to know that,” the oldest spoke again, “although I wouldn’t call it a rebellion, simply a tantrum.”
It was the youngest queen who spoke next, an eerie tone to her voice “Like a toddler throwing their toys when they don’t get what they want. They just don’t always understand yet…the way the world works. That those smaller, weaker…don’t always get what they want.” She finished her words with a smile. Sickeningly sweet.
Strange girl. Mor thought, her words sharing across to Azriel and Rhys.
Azriel couldn’t agree more. There was something sinister about that queen, perhaps it was why her kingdom managed the prison. You had to be a specific type of evil to run those torture traps. There was something about all of the queens that didn’t sit well with him. Had his shadows wringing round him tightly.
The dark haired queen spoke again then. “You come in here like we need your help…but we can assure you that couldn’t be further from the truth.”
The conversation was taking a turn, politics always did but it was unsettling Azriel tonight. There was this sense of foreboding again, his shadows were nervous. The air felt electric, buzzing with anticipation. He swallowed hard.
And then the doors slammed open.
The sound shattered through the large room.Two guards strided in, dragging a woman by her arms between them.
Azriel’s head turned then, instincts sharpening, every sense focusing. While the guards dragged the limp body to the base of the royal stairs, her legs dragging on the floor behind her.
The mortal queen — the oldest of them — did not so much as flinch.
This was planned Azriel realised as he watched the blood stain smear across the marble floor from the body they dragged in.
The dark haired queen who had seemed so uninterested till now, finally seemed intrigued as she rose from her throne with a smirk. The youngest of the queens raised to join her in their descent down the stairs, bunching her dress up so she could move more swiftly— she was eager.
The eldest remained on her throne.
The guards had dragged the prisoner to the centre of the room. Right between Azriel and the queens.
“Ah,” she said from her throne, her voice gravely. “It seems our special guest has arrived.”
The woman they dragged in— you— was filthy. Blood soaked into torn clothes. A bruise bloomed along your cheekbone, a smear of dried blood at your temple. But even in this state, you somehow managed to hold yourself upright, refusing to bow.
Azriel’s jaw locked.
Azriel had seen worse—had inflicted worse— but there was a tightness in his muscles that was foreign to him. Something about seeing you in front of him had him unsettled.
“Who is this?” Rhysand’s tone was light, but Azriel knew the warning in it.
The youngest queen moved then, glided as she circled you. Every step felt deliberate as though she was eyeing up her prey. That sinister demeanor was settling among her with delight.
“A traitor…” the eldest queen spoke from her throne.
“A nuisance…” the other queen muttered nonchalantly.
“A nobody…” the youngest queen sing-songed.
Azriel was struggling to listen to them though. As he watched you heave against your injuries. The guards had released you. Arms hanging hung limp in front, but still tied together in chains. Azriel could almost feel the ache and pain himself just from watching how your breathing shuddered under your injuries, he watched as your blood slowly pooled by your knees…yet you still didn’t bow. Your head remained upright and strong.
Brave.
It was his shadows that whispered to him. Azriel didn’t know the reasoning for why this female was chained and beaten. She could well be a criminal, but despite that, Azriel struggled to look at the sight before him.
Struggled to understand why it was so hard to look at the sight before him.
He had been on battlefields, been there when the wars settled. When all was left was dismembered figures and soldiers fighting for their lives. But this was hard to look at.
He hadn’t even been able to see your face yet. His gaze staring into the back of this defiant person, who didn’t seem to buckle under royal scrutiny or torture.
It was Mor that spoke next.
That natural confidence she always carried purring out, “A nobody wouldn’t get such a greeting.”
Azriel almost smirked, his gaze looking to his blonde friend for a second at her remark. He swore he saw the corner of your lips twitch too.
But the youngest queen stopped her prowl round the prisoner then, face forming into a scowl at being corrected by Mor.
Mor was right. A “nobody” wouldn’t get such a display, such attention especially from the monarchy. Which begged the question of who you were.
“That is true,” the eldest queen replied. Her gaze steady on the prisoner that had been brought in. “This one isn’t a nobody…oh but she is a traitor. And quite the nuisance. Her and that little rebellion have been a pest for quite some time now.”
Her choice of words were interesting to Azriel. Somewhat downplayed. Everything Azriel had learnt about the rebellion was so much bigger than that— it was more than just mice in your home eating all your pantry— this rebellion was powerful.
What this female was a part of was so much more than just a nuisance. But maybe that’s why you didn’t bow or cower. Maybe that was why you didn’t seem to break under the blows, because you knew that.
Knew you stood for something more, despite it being minimised.
And that was something Azriel could respect—admire even.
The words seemed to urge the queen to stand, slowly and steadily she moved down the stairs. Each step she took had Azriel’s heart beating louder. Every move made closer to you had his shadows stirring more.
This was a performance. All of this, just theater. A play, that even he was partaking in.
The guard tried to shove your head down with the push.
“Bow,” the guard breathed, bringing his lips close to your ears. A sickening gravel scratched along your eardrum as he spat out the command. The notion almost had Azriel move from his place. Watching the guard grab you had him losing composure in a way that was so unlike him.
Your silence was absolute though. You didn’t budge, if anything your back only grew straighter, shoulders more squared as you stared the queens dead on.
“We’ve been after this one for years. Always, somehow managed to slip through our fingers,” there was almost a tone of respect in the queen’s voice as she stepped in front of the you.
The other queen spoke then, twisting her finger around her curly hair bored. “She’s supposed to be some kind of symbol of what was it? Pathetic resistance? A little spark of delusion? The rallying of-“
“—Hope.”
The room stilled.
You had spoken.
Azriel’s breath got caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected you to speak. Hadn’t expected you to sound like that either. Unwavering and strong, slightly pained too…and yet your voice sounded like a soft song to his ears.
A song he was familiar with, a song he had always known but for a brief moment had somehow forgotten the words.
The queens tried to gather their thoughts, their words.
They had this whole thing planned out. As though a script had been written beforehand and suddenly the antagonist, you, was improvising.
Voice calm, you continued. “I believe the word you were looking for is hope…a symbol of hope.”
You were met with silence again. One of the queens mouths dropped open in shock.
“But little spark of delusion definitely has a ring to it,” Azriel could hear your smile when you spoke, wished to see it as his own lips turned alight upwards. There was this dry sarcasm that laced your tone. Made you all the more braver, that even in this moment you were taunting them.
You were goading the mortal monarchy. Azriel was impressed, despite it being completely reckless, he couldn’t help but admire your daring boldness.
The dark hair queen scoffed again in disbelief, clearly agitated but trying to disguise it under nonchalance.
It was the youngest queen who reacted viscerally. That innocence long gone, but inexperience screaming as she couldn’t contain her emotions.
A slap rang out, sharp and echoing.
Azriel flinched. Azriel never flinched.
Rhys glanced at this friend for a moment, a question probing into Azriel’s mind. Was everything okay?
The queen curdled out a slur with such venom that it ricocheted across the room.
Azriel hadn’t heard that particular slur in a long time. That kind of derogatory language wasn’t favoured in Prythian, and the venom in her words had his shadows skittering.
You didn’t fall though. Didn’t flinch beyond a brief jerk of your head.
Azriel’s shadows stilled entirely though.
Because he could see you more now. And Azriel couldn’t breathe.
Something was clawing at his chest.
Azriel’s fingers twitched where they rested on the hilt of Truth-Teller.
Still, he said nothing. Still, he watched.
Until the young queen bent, wrapped a hand in your hair, and yanked your head back.
The motion revealed your face fully.
And the world stopped. Azriel’s world stopped.
Your eyes. So defiant, wild, bright, even through the pain.
And your smile. It was wide, mad, challenging— beautiful.
Azriel tried to swallow hard but his throat was dry. His shadows were whispering but he couldn’t hear.
The young queen was spiralling, power going to her head. Spewing slurs and insults. Your goading had triggered her, perhaps this was the exact reaction you had hoped for.
One of the queens rolled her eyes, now uninterested in this turn of events. The eldest looked as though she wanted to shake her head in disappointment, but began sending a signal to the guards.
You laughed then. Laughed at something the flustered queen had said, it only angered her more.
But your chuckle was soft, taunting, teasing— fearless.
And then you glanced over to your audience, to Rhys, Mor, the guards.
To Azriel. Met his eyes, your smile only wider.
Something deep in his chest snapped.
Not broke. Snapped. Like a bowstring pulled too tight, releasing all at once.
The world rushed in, too loud, too bright. Every sound, every scent, every breath from your lungs was his.
Mate.
Rhys’s voice was a distant hum, he was speaking now. Mor’s breath barely registered. All Azriel could hear was your ragged breathing, all he could feel was the bond unfurling — furious, desperate, alive— and angry.
And when the eldest queen lifted her hand, another signal. One he recognised— execution— your execution. Azriel moved.
Faster than thought. Faster than the shadows could follow.
The hall exploded into chaos.
But it one quick movement, Azriel wrapped his arms around you. Desperately so. And he removed you from danger.
***
Azriel’s mind was spinning.
A whirlwind of chaos and noise- all his own thoughts- and his shadows.
But the one thing anchoring him was you.
His mate.
Here, with him. And safe.
You were safe. He had made sure of that.
Transporting you both to a off-grid location. A place only he knew of.
His shadows began to disperse around you both, Azriel’s hands steadily releasing you from his hold.
Azriel could take a moment to look at you properly now. The lines of your face, curve of your lips that had him swallowing hard. The depths of your eyes had the bond burning so bright he could have groaned.
But there were the bruises and blood. Marks that you shouldn’t have to bare that pained him.
He could see the terror in your eyes, your brows furrowing—
“What the fuck did you just do?”
Azriel blinked. You were shocked. He could feel it, the confusion. Understandable. “It’s okay, you’re safe now” he assured.
“What—“
Azriel tried to ease out a soft smile. Coaxing his shadows to settle as they vibrated off the pulse of the bond that was currently coursing through his body.
He wanted to touch you again. He was desperate to. Desperate to soothe the aches that were evident across your form, desperate to calm whatever nerves you held, desperate to comfort you in a way only a mate could—
Gods. His brothers hadn’t explained how truly consuming a bond was. Sure, to a degree they had. But their words had not truly explained the depth of how the bond burned so viscerally. How it felt as though it could only be tempered and yet ignited by his mates touch.
This felt like a lot…this felt like everything he’d ever wanted. It was everything Azriel had ever wanted.
His hand twitched as they hovered by your sides, but he pulled them away.
“I saved you. We’ll be safe here, they can’t find you here—“
“I don’t understand,”
Azriel let out a breath, “I know it’s a lot to take in, but they were going to kill you, hurt you… and I couldn’t—“
“No.”
You cut him off. Quick and sharp. Your frown turned into something that resembled more of a glare. There were feelings running down the bond that he was so desperately trying to farse out. Too many feeling, and all consuming— and confusing.
He could feel your adrenaline, anticipation, anger— it mixed with his longing and desperation.
“They were not going to kill me.” Your tone was so sure and firm.
“They were,” Azriel struggled to deliver the words. He knew it. Knew if he hadn’t intervened then, that moment would have been the first and last time he saw his mate.
But you scoffed at his words.
Actually scoffed.
The action throwing Azriel off guard for a moment. Not that he had expectations from his mate. He had seen from his brothers experiences, that when a bond snapped there shouldn’t be any expectations.
But Azriel had hoped for some kind of gratitude for saving your life, mate or no mate.
He moved an inch closer to you then, subconsciously- as though the proximity would make you understand. But you stepped back, your tone steady. Not scared, only sure as you looked into Azriel’s eyes.
“You have ruined everything.”
And Azriel felt it. From your words and in the bond. He really had ruined everything.
a/n: well well well…looks whose back starting another fic when she has loads still incomplete 🫢 I’ve had this idea for ages, and I’ve honestly been writing it forever. Ask @illyrianbitch she’s knows how much I’ve struggled to get this out. Hoping posting this first part will get me out of my writing slump! But anyway my loves - enjoy xx
Summary: Fleeing his family after Jesminda's execution, Lucien faces his eldest brother one last time at the Autumn Court border.
Warnings: grief, trauma, depictions of violence, blood, choking, details of execution, brotherhood at its ugliest :D
Word Count: 2.6k
FOR @lucienweekofficial DAY THREE ✶ BROTHERHOOD
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
Jesminda's screams are still wet in Lucien’s ears.
The pitch of them, how they went high and thin at the end. They sounded animal. Afraid. Something akin to the rabbits his brothers used to hunt when they were children, long before they graduated to more interesting prey.
Jesminda. Jesminda. Jesminda.
Her name is the only coherent thought in Lucien's head, a gaping wound that won't stop bleeding. Everything else is a blurry, dizzying mess: the sound of her cries and the smell of her pyre. It won't leave him. It's in his clothes, his hair, his skin. He tastes her death in the back of his throat, and the autumn in him sickeningly purrs at the decay.
He falls to his knees and faces the earth below him, imagining it's hungry mouth. He wants to claw his way down into her core. Bury himself. Be done.
Fog curls low between the trees, autumn-thick and smelling of rot. Lucien tenses as a set of hounds approach— catalouging the sounds of their panting, the press of their paws on fallen leaves. He doesn’t bother to lift his head. He stays kneeling in the dirt, hands loose on his thighs, staring at nothing. Feeling nothing. Being nothing, at all.
Soon, he thinks with an ache. Soon I’ll be with you, Jesminda. And I’ll beg for your forgiveness.
Hot breath ghosts against his neck, bringing with it the overwhelming scent of smoke and dog. Lucien closes his eyes and waits to meet his maker.
It's what he deserves, after all. Jesminda's blood is on his hands despite never having laid a finger on her—guilt by inaction, by survival, by breathing when she cannot.
"Sit."
Eris’s voice cuts through the gray fog in Lucien’s head. The hounds obey immediately, settling on either side of him. One of them whines— eager, hungry, perhaps— and the sound scrapes against something raw inside Lucien.
Eris walks past, surveying the tree line. He stops a few feet ahead. Turns.
"Well," Eris says. A pause. "This is disappointing."
Wind dances through the dead trees. Lucien says nothing. There's nothing to say. She's dead. Charred and incomplete, pieces of her scattered like the trail of roses he once left before her doorstep.
She's dead and Eris held him down. Made sure he couldn't look away, couldn't fight, couldn't do anything but scream until his voice gave out. Even then he kept screaming, silent and airless and usless.
Eris steps closer, the view of his pristine boots settling into Lucien's view.
"Look at me."
Lucien doesn't move. He's not sure he can. There's nothing left in him to move with. His body is a vessel with a draining soul.
"Lucien." His brother's voice is sharper now. A command from the voice of a general. "I said, look at me."
Slowly— so slowly— Lucien raises his head. The fight is gone from him completely, scraped out somewhere between the execution and collpasing in these woods.
He is empty, and hollow, and he foolishly hopes his brother will kill him immediately. Quickly. A mercy, perhaps, after what they'd done to Jesminda.
Eris doesn't make a move. He stands still, examining his nails.
Lucien stares at his brother's cruel, beautiful face. The weak Autumn sun makes a halo of his red hair. He looks fit to be sitting for a portrait, if not for the faint smear of blood at the corner of his mouth.
Lucien's doing.
Evidence of the fight he once held in his body, when he'd thrashed and fought as he was held down. When he'd begged— please, please, take me instead, she's done nothing— and Eris had only held him tighter.
"Well?" Eris drawls. "Aren't you going to run? Or beg?"
The casual cruelty is dehumanizing in its efficiency. Lucien is just another hunt. It should ignite something. Fear. Rage. The basic animal drive to surrive.
Any other day, it might have. But there's nothing in Lucien anymore. No instincts to appeal to. He's a shell of the male he once was— the shedded skin left behind when the true Lucien followed the light in Jesminda's eyes to whatever darkness waited beyond.
"Just get it over with," Lucien says, and his voice is flat. Empty.
Eris tilts his head, studying him. "No."
"Do it."
"No," Eris repeats, firmer now.
Lucien's hands curl into fists. He knows his brother. He hates that he does, but he knows him. Knows the tone of his voice, the gleam in his eye. Eris is interested in something besides Lucien's death.
"What do you want from me?"
Eris crouches down until they're eye level. "I want to know if there's anything left worth killing."
Once again, Lucien knows the words should have an impact— they should hurt. Anger him. They don't. He's moved beyond the reach of scorn.
One of the hounds shifts closer to Eris, pressing its head against his leg. Eris's hand drops to its neck absently, fingers scratching behind its ears while he watches Lucien with cold assessment. He's searching for something. For whatever is of such interest to him. Lucien isn't sure what, but he's too tired to care.
This is one thing he won't miss. The constant need to decipher the language of his family from movement alone, learning to read them like predators in the wild. Like the brutal, animalistic things that they are.
"Our brothers wanted to track you together," Eris says conversationally. "Make a game of it. I told them I'd handle you myself." He pauses. "They were disappointed. We compromised on me having a head start."
"Sorry to ruin everyone's fun."
"You should be." Eris clenches his jaw. "Five miles, Lucien. That's all you managed before collapsing. I've seen wounded rabbits put up better fights."
Lucien takes a deep breath, and his chest aches with the motion— bruised and battered ribs shifting like broken pottery beneath his skin. Let them come. Let it end. There's nothing worth running for.
"I'm not running," Lucien says.
"No?" Eris cocks his head and narrows his eyes. "You'd rather I set the hounds on you here? Tear you apart while you kneel in the dirt like a coward?"
Lucien doesnt answer. Eris studies him for another long moment. Then he moves, fast and fluid, to circle his little brother once more. Within seconds, his boot is between Lucien's shoulder blades, shoving him down into the scorched earth.
"Oh, Lucien." The words are almost soft. "Do you know what Father said after you ran? That you were always the weakest. A coward."
His boot presses slightly heavier, and Lucien instinctively plants his hands on the earth, trying to push up, give his battered ribs space to breathe. He's lucky Eris isn't putting his full weight on him. His other brothers surely would have by now.
In fact, they would've killed him on sight. Whatever Eris is doing, Lucien is tempted to think its even crueler.
How strange to think that once upon a time, he'd admired this very brother. The eldest. His example. The male he wanted to be.
Lucien's fingers dig into the dirt. "Then he's right."
"Is he?" Eris fights against Lucien's push, planting him flat against the forest floor. His chest compresses with the pressure and his ribs begin to scream.
"It's over, Eris!" The words spill out, startling the dirt beneath Lucien's cheek. He needs Eris to understand even though he knows— knows— it won't matter. "You've taken her from me. You held me down, you made me watch, you—"
"Now, let's be factual. I didn't do anything. Father—"
"You!" Lucien snarls, and he twists beneath Eris's booth with sudden, desperate strength. Bucking up and back, using the leverage to unbalance his brother just enough. Eris's boot slips and Lucien surges to a stand, gripping Eris's collar in his bloody fists. Red soaks throughout the pristine fabric of his coat. "You've broken me. I am done. Kill me. You win."
Something flickers across Eris's face. A hairline fracture in his mask, there and gone so fast Lucien might have imagined it.
Maybe his brother is still in there. Somewhere. The ghost of the male who used to ruffle Lucien's hair and teach him to ride and promise they'd always fight for one another because thats what family did.
Lucien holds his breath. Waiting. Hoping. Needing.
Then Eris's jaw tightens. "Don't be stupid, Lucien."
"I loved her—"
"I know." Eris grabs Lucien's wrists and wrenches them off his collar. Before Lucien can react, Eris is on him—hand around his throat, driving him back and up until his spine cracks against a tree.
The pressure on his windpipe is precise enough to make every breath a struggle. Heat blooms against Lucien's skin where Eris touches him—not quite burning, but close. A warning held in check.
"I loved her." Eris says, pitching his voice high and mocking. "I needed her. She was everything." His grip tightens fractionally, and the heat intensifies for just a heartbeat before cooling again. "You sound like a child."
"Do not—" Lucien chokes out, the words strained and thin. "—talk about her."
"I'm not talking about her at all." Eris leans in closer, and Lucien can almost see himself reflected in his brother's eyes. An image of something small, pathetic, and ruined. Eris releases him suddenly and steps back, brushing dirt from his coat with theatrical disgust. "She's not worth the breath."
The word land while Lucien is still gasping for air, sagging against the tree. Maybe it's the brief loss of oxygen, or the version of himself he'd seen in those cruel, amber eyes, but the words stir something in Lucien's gut.
The flicker of a flame being lit. Eris Vanserra believes Jesminda isn't worth the breath. Jesminda, who is everything Eris will never be—kind where he is cruel, warm where he is cold, good where he is rotten. Jesminda who no longer is, but was.
Lucien's hands shake, his chest rattling with his deep breaths. He stares at the stranger before him, wearing his brother's face. A monster their father created and polished and perfected over centuries.
He realizes with sickening clarity that Eris Vanserra, the brother he'd once foolishly loved, has been dead for centuries. What stands before him now is a beautiful corpse walking, animated by their father's poison and his own biting ambition. A willing participant in the decay that came with Autumn's magic.
It's obscene, grotesque even, that this thing wearing his brother's face would dare speak about Jesminda with anything less than reverence.
Something inside Lucien splits wide open. A rage he didn't know he still possessed—hidden and buried beneath the numbness of his grief—suddenly ignites. The fire of a Vanserra, yes, but compelled by the one virtue none of his brothers can claim: love.
It makes him stronger than all of them.
Lucien pushes himself to his feet and swings before he knows he's moving. His fist connects with Eris's jaw—a solid, satisfying crack—and Eris's head snaps sideways. Blood blooms at the corner of his mouth.
He doesn't retaliate. Lucien swings again, and again, and again. By the fifth swing, Eris blocks, lazy and bored, and it makes Lucien's grief worse. Makes the fury hotter.
"Fight me!" Lucien says, landing another hit. "You owe me that, you bastard!"
"I owe you nothing." Eris snarls, catching his wrist mid-swing. He pushes Lucien back. They stare at one another for a moment, chests heaving. Lucien's in pain and rage, Eris's, seemingly, in annoyance. Inconvenience.
"What happened to you?" Lucien asks, face twisted in disgust. The question is small and broken and young. He sounds like a child. Like the little brother who used to follow Eris around, who trusted him more than anyone. "You used to—" He grits his teeth. "What have I done to make you hate me so deeply?"
Eris goes still and the forest holds its breath— it's wind dying, leaves settling. A hound whines from behind him. Lucien's face nearly softens, but then Eris laughs, cold and sharp, and the moment shatters.
"You really are pathetic," Eris says, his tone almost bored. "I don't care enough to hate you, little brother."
Lucien is eight again, looking into Eris's eyes as he teaches him to throw a ball for the hounds. He's nine and copying his stance as he fights. He's twelve and learning how mean his brother can truly be.
In the distance Lucien can make out individual voices woven between the sounds of Autumn—his other brothers, whooping and calling like they're on a fox hunt.
Lucien is the fox—a predator made prey, clever and quick and the only creature that has ever managed to slip through Vanserra claws.
The rage crystallizes. Hardens into something sharp and unbreakable, calcified in his chest where his heart used to be. Eris thinks he's something to be toyed with. Beron thinks he's weak. His family expects him to be their evening entertainment. To run, to fail, to lie down and die. To lose, in their endless game of power and cruelty.
But Lucien Vanserra does not lose. Not in love, not in loyalty, and certainly not to the monsters he shares blood with.
He refuses to give them the satisfaction of his death.
"I'll give you thirty seconds," Eris says finally, running a finger along the blood leaking from his nose. "Then I release the hounds. If they catch you before you cross the border—" He shrugs. "Well. At least you tried."
"Why not kill me now? Take the glory?"
They hold each other's gaze across the small space between them— brothers, strangers, a connection broken between them that will never be whole again.
"Because I want the chase." Eris's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Where's the fun in easy prey?"
"Fuck you," Lucien says, and the words taste like ash and fury and life. "I hope Beron kills you. I hope you suffer before you make it near that crown."
Fire flickers in Eris's eyes—genuine emotion, for once. Grief and fury have made Lucien delirious, because he's almost tempted to believe his brother is delighted by his words. Biting back a proper smile, even. That this reaction is exactly the thing he'd been searching for.
"He'll have to get in line." Eris gestures toward the direction of the border with one elegant hand. "Thirty. Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight—"
The rage that now floods Lucien's veins is the only warmth left. He'll be damned if he lets it go. Jesminda deserves better than him dying in the dirt like an animal. His mother deserves better than to lose the only good thing she's created.
"Twenty-five. Twenty-four. Twenty-three—"
Lucien looks around, taking in the sight of his court one last time. The burnt orange leaves in their slow suicide, the copper light filtering through skeletal branches, the colors he once loved now tainted with ash and blood. He will never be the version of himself that died here today. That male is gone, buried alongside Jesminda in the scorched earth.
He locks eyes with Eris once more.
There's blood on both of them now, the same cursed line that binds them to this place, to each other. It occurs to Lucien, with the bitter clarity of the already-damned, that Eris is the last thing his beloved Autumn will offer him. The face in so many of his earliest memories.
Eris raises a brow, almost curious. What is it you're seeing, Lucien? What have you come to realize?
Well, what do you want to be when you grow up? Asks Eris, in an echo from childhood.
I don't know, the ghost of Lucien replies, barely four feet tall.
Well. Do tell me when you decide.
I've decided, Lucien thinks. Sharp, and certain, and far too late. Anything but you, brother. Anyone but this.
"Nine—"
Lucien turns and runs straight into Spring.
✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹
AUTHORS NOTE: gasp... no x reader. ive been writing a lot of lucien content for my own characterization purposes and i thought this was a good time for me to share some
something something eris goading lucien back to life through mockery and cruelty. doomed siblings i love you forever and lucien vanserra i love you even more
RE TAGLISTS: i don’t do any more taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! 😋
pairing: bucky barnes x reader
summary: bucky’s still finding his footing in the new avengers—getting into a relationship is the last thing he has time for. it’s a good thing that you’re alright with a slow burn.
tags: new avengers!reader, bucky yearns for you obvi, mutual pining, slow burn (as the title suggests), coworkers to lovers
warning(s): gender neutral reader, brief mentions of reader not having family/community growing up, suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy)
word count: 9.6k
note: partially inspired by my favourite kacey musgraves song!! i just feel like bucky is so slow burn coded, he would really need to ease into things after everything he’s been through. also i kind of struggled with this one so i hope it feels cohesive and not as jumbled as it was in my mind 😭
masterlist
The Quinjet still smelled like smoke, scorched metal, and something distinctly chemical, which was never a good sign after infiltrating an actual chemical plant. You wanted water, a shower, and maybe to never hear the word vat again.
“Just so we’re all clear,” John called from the pilot’s seat, his voice carrying over the steady drone of the engines, “none of this was my fault.”
Of course it wasn’t, at least according to him.
“Oh my god,” Yelena groaned, collapsing into the seat across from you. She tugged her hair tie free and re-braided her short hair with quick, violent tugs. “You blew our cover in under two minutes. Two. I’ve had longer conversations with my dentist.”
Leaning your head back against the seat, you closed your eyes, letting the vibration of the jet rattle through your skull. If this turned into another hour-long blame-fest, dental work might have sounded preferable.
“I didn’t blow our cover,” John snapped, twisting in his seat. “Alexei’s the one who knocked over the vat.”
“Vat was unstable,” Alexei boomed, sitting up straighter. “Do not put this on me.”
Yelena pressed both palms to her face, groaning. “You are a giant red man in a tracksuit. Everything is on you.”
You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to laugh. Ava didn’t even try. Her corner reverberated with a sound that could have been laughter or the slow death of her soul.
“Excuse me, assassin peanut gallery,” John fired back, swivelling fully around now, “but at least I didn’t phase halfway through the floor when the alarms went off.”
Ava’s head shot up. “And I came back for your sorry arse, didn’t I? You’d still be zip-tied to a pipe if I hadn’t.”
“I could’ve gotten out.”
“You were whimpering.”
“I was trying to find a strategy.”
“Oh yes, very strategic crying,” Yelena muttered, rolling her eyes. “Terrified henchmen everywhere.”
That was it. You couldn’t hold it in. The laugh burst out of you before you could smother it, loud and unguarded. The others turned toward you like they’d just remembered you existed.
“I’m sorry,” you managed, wiping at your eyes, “but if we’re passing out blame, we shouldn’t skip over John trying to intimidate the guards by bringing up all his varsity football accolades.”
John’s ears went red. Ava choked on a laugh. Alexei slapped his knee and barked so loudly the seats vibrated. Yelena gave you a nod of approval, almost like you’d earned a stripe.
And then, the smallest thing: across the aisle, leaning against the bulkhead with his arms folded, Bucky’s mouth tilted upward just barely. The kind of smirk you could miss if you weren’t looking, though you always were.
Warmth flared in your chest. Nobody else got that smile. For John, there was disdain, Yelena a put-upon tolerance, Alexei saintly patience. But sometimes, when the timing was right, Bucky smiled at you.
You forced your gaze away, but when you flicked back a heartbeat later, he was already watching you. He didn’t look away.
“It wasn’t bragging about football,” John sputtered, dragging you back into the noise. “I was improvising!”
“Yes,” you said, resting your chin against your hand, “and now three men in hazmat suits think you’re trying to get a football scholarship to live out your dreams.”
Another round of laughter erupted, though John only groaned and turned back to the controls, muttering curses under his breath.
You sank into the hum of the Quinjet, exhaustion pressing heavier as adrenaline faded, leaving your muscles sore and your thoughts sluggish. Bob would’ve hated this. Too much shouting, too many near-misses, and too much uncertainty. He was still learning to trust his Sentry powers, still flinched when he lost control. It was probably better that he hadn’t been here.
This was the New Avengers: loud, messy, one snarky remark away from mutiny. Somehow both a disaster and a family, and somehow yours.
“So what exactly was the plan out there?” Ava asked finally, sitting up straighter. Her tone was calm, but the spark in her eyes made it clear she was happy to keep mocking the others.
“Welcome to working with America’s Most Wanted Rejects,” you said dryly.
John sighed theatrically. “I don’t know why you people think you’re so much better than me—”
“Because we are,” Yelena cut in at the same time you said, “because we didn’t get tied up or almost cause a chemical spill.”
The overlap earned Ava’s first real laugh of the night. Alexei chuckled like it was the punchline of his favourite joke. Behind it all, you felt Bucky’s gaze brush over you again, steady, weighty, like he was already cataloguing the exact words you’d said.
You still weren’t entirely sure how you’d ended up here; on paper, your résumé made sense: black ops, missions that never made the news, orders that left more scars than medals. You’d been efficient and forgettable when you wanted to be; the kind of asset someone like Valentina could polish and tuck neatly into her collection of broken toys.
But under all that, you’d never been the same brand of chaos. Yelena and Alexei wore theirs on the outside, Ava carried hers like a blade, and John was a walking PR problem with an identity crisis. You’d always been softer, patient in ways the others weren’t, maybe because years of drifting never let you belong anywhere.
The New Avengers felt like the family you hadn’t realised you were starving for, handed to you in a bunker full of misfits.
Bucky had been the last thing you expected. The fact that he said yes when Valentina dangled leadership in front of him. That he chose to stay. That he chose you, in a way, simply by sticking around long enough for your paths to tangle. And somewhere in the middle of it all, you started noticing the glances he didn’t mean to send your way, the ones that lingered just a little too long.
It wasn’t an instant spark. That had been there, sure, but tentative. Now it was a quietly building warmth, a recognition of each other under all the noise and chaos of this team. Enough to know it wasn’t just imagination.
The Watchtower loomed ahead when the Quinjet touched down. It was dark when you stepped off the quinjet, boots heavy against the hangar floor. It always looked too big when you first got home, with wide hallways and high ceilings.
“Welcome back,” came a soft, sheepish voice.
Bob stood waiting by the door in his robe and slippers, hair mussed like he’d just woken up from a nap. He wrung his hands together, looking like a kid caught staying up past curfew.
“Sorry,” he blurted. “I didn’t get to the dishes yet. I tried, I swear, but I—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug before he could spiral. “Don’t worry about the dishes. It’s good to see you.”
Bob went still for a moment before letting out a quiet breath and hugging you back. The tight line in his shoulders eased. When he stepped away, he actually smiled.
Yelena groaned, throwing herself onto the sofa like she was claiming territory. “Finally. Home. I never want to move again. Somebody order a pizza.”
Ava dropped next to her with a sigh that could’ve been exhaustion or contempt. Probably both.
“Great,” John muttered, following them in. “Get mud all over the upholstery. That’s exactly what we need. A filthy couch.”
“Who cares?” Yelena shot back without opening her eyes. “You made us filthy in the first place.”
“You tripped,” Ava corrected before John could argue.
You sank into an armchair on the edge of the chaos, watching them volley accusations back and forth. The noise didn’t bother you. You liked the sharp edges and too-loud voices filling the space. When the arguments petered out and the room dipped into quiet, you didn’t rush to fill it. You let yourself rest in the stillness, hands folded loosely in your lap, heartbeat finally slowing.
That’s when Bucky moved.
You sensed him before you saw him, the deliberate weight of his footsteps across the floor. He didn’t make a show of it, but he came to stand beside your chair, leaning a little closer than necessary.
“Good work tonight,” Bucky said, low enough that it was almost private. Almost.
The words caught you off guard. Not because of the praise, but because of the way his voice softened around the edges. You looked up at him, surprised, and found him looking back like he hadn’t realised how close he’d drifted.
For a heartbeat, the room went silent. Yelena cracked one eye open. Ava tilted her head. Even Alexei paused mid-chew in the kitchen.
This wasn’t another glance he hadn’t meant to send. This was deliberate. And everyone saw it.
Bucky cleared his throat, straightened, and crossed his arms again, back in the familiar scowl. But it was too late. The shift had been noticed and filed away by the team.
You fought the urge to smile. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you’d never hear the end of it if the others caught it. Instead, you leaned back in your chair, letting the quiet settle again, pretending your pulse wasn’t hammering at the simple fact that Bucky Barnes just said you did a good job.
Later, as you wrapped a towel around yourself and tugged the shower curtain back, you nearly leap out of your skin at the sight of Yelena leaning casually against the sink.
“Jesus!” you shrieked, fumbling to hold the towel in place.
Yelena rolled her eyes like you were the one intruding. “Can you not scream in my ear? I don’t want to lose my hearing before dinner.”
“What are you doing here?” you demanded, heart still racing.
“Don’t change the subject.” She tilted her head, a smirk tugging at her lips. “What was that back there? Barnes, giving you compliments.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks before you could stop it. “It was nothing,” you said quickly, which was the wrong thing to say because Yelena’s smirk only sharpened.
“You’re a terrible liar,” she sing-songed, stepping past you like she owned the place. “Trust me, I know liars. And I saw the way you looked at him. Like little cartoon hearts were about to pop out of your eyes.”
You groaned, reaching for your clothes while she flopped dramatically onto your bed. “It wasn’t like that,” you denied.
“It was exactly like that,” Yelena countered, arms tucked behind her head. “Don’t worry, I think it’s cute. A deadly assassin and a grumpy centenarian soldier. Very romantic comedy.”
You shot her a look over your shoulder. “If this is your way of pitching me your next spy rom-com script, I’m not buying it.”
Yelena grinned, unfazed. “Fine, but I am keeping the title. The Winter Soldier and the Clueless One Who Was Terrible at Pretending Not to Love Him Back.”
“Terrible title,” you muttered, pulling a shirt over your head.
“Terrible denial,” she shot back immediately.
You turned to point at her. “For the record, he was just being nice. That’s it.”
“Mm-hm.” Yelena made a show of examining her nails. “And then you stared at him like he invented buttered toast. But sure, polite.”
You huffed, sitting on the edge of the bed to tug on your socks. “You’re relentless, you know that?”
“Of course.” Yelena leaned up on her elbows, her tone dropping just slightly out of pure mischief. “It’s a gift. But I’m not wrong. Bucky looked at you like he was seeing something he didn’t think he’d ever get to have. And you looked back like you might actually let him.”
That silenced you. Not because Yelena was teasing this time, but because there was a trace of honesty in her voice, sharp enough to slip past your defences.
You’d felt Bucky’s eyes on you, sure. You’d felt that subtle warmth in your chest when he’d noticed you in a way others didn’t. But hearing Yelena put it into words made your heartbeat stutter.
You pressed your palms against your cheeks, trying to cool them. By the time you pulled on clean clothes, Yelena was still lounging there like a cat in a sunbeam, watching you with far too much amusement.
A knock rattled your door. “Pizza’s here,” Bob’s voice called. There was a pause, and then, with impeccable timing: “By the way, what was that back there with Bucky?”
Yelena cackled so hard she nearly fell off the bed.
“Not you too, Bob,” you groaned, covering your face with your hands.
From the hallway, Bob sounded far too pleased with himself. “Hey, I’m just saying. Guy’s got it bad.”
The Watchtower mellowed on Friday nights when everyone got together for movie night. It was Bob’s turn to pick, and he’d gone into the main common room to peruse his options with a grin like a kid getting his favourite toy.
Yelena, however, was having none of Bucky’s absence.
“No,” she declared, arms crossed, perched on the edge of the couch. “Absolutely not. This is unacceptable.”
Ava and John exchanged glances, a silent communication that spoke volumes. “There’s no chance he’s showing up,” Ava insisted.
“It’s just a movie,” John said, his voice flat. “He can sit out. He’s got… whatever it is he does with his metal arm and politics. He doesn’t have to—”
“No,” Yelena cut in sharply, as if this were a personal affront. “Bob will assume he didn’t come because of the movie choice. He’ll feel bad and think he failed his only duty in the team. He’s too polite to say anything, but you know he’ll spiral.”
“You’re being very intense about a movie,” Ava said, though her tone wasn’t entirely unconcerned.
“I’m being considerate,” Yelena replied.
“Okay, well, what are we supposed to do?” you asked from your spot on the couch. You were upside down with your head dangling off the cushion and your feet propped on the backrest. “There’s nothing we can do to make Bucky attend movie night.”
The room went strangely still.
You blinked at the sudden silence, then narrowed your eyes at the collective smirks on your teammates’ faces.
“What?” you demanded. “Why are you all looking at me like that? Stop. Stop with that face.”
Ava tilted her head. “There’s nothing we can do, sure…”
John folded his arms, his smirk widening. “But you might have a shot.”
You sat up properly, frowning. “Excuse me?”
Yelena was already nodding vigorously. “You can talk to him. He listens to you. You have… whatever it is he likes about you.”
“‘Whatever it is’?” you repeated, incredulous. “That’s not a plan. That’s—”
“It’s a very good plan,” Yelena argued, her eyes gleaming. “And it will work.”
“So I’m supposed to… what?” you asked in disbelief. “Bribe him? Threaten him?”
“Convince him,” Yelena corrected you. “You can do it. You have charisma, charm, those sweet eyes that make people want to make you smile.” You raised an eyebrow at the odd compliment. “He likes you. Use it against him, flirt a little. I know he’s old but it won’t give him a heart attack.”
Ava and John snorted simultaneously.
“Yeah, good luck with that,” John said. “He’s not showing up. If I had anything worth betting, I’d bet it.”
Yelena leaned closer, eyes glinting with the thrill of manipulation. “You’re going to get him to go, and Bob will never know you twisted his arm.”
“And if I fail?” you asked, throwing your hands out in the universal shrug of exasperation.
“You won’t,” Yelena said firmly.
You pinched the bridge of your nose, letting out a long breath. “Fine,” you said finally. “I’ll go find him. Happy?”
Rising from the couch, you felt a twinge of apprehension.
Bucky didn’t attend any of the ten movie nights you’d had so far. Convincing him wasn’t going to be a matter of casual chat. He was disciplined, careful, and annoyingly immune to half the world’s attempts at persuasion, charm, or threats.
You made your way down the corridor, muttering every bad line: Hey, movie night? Too casual. Bob picked it, don’t make him sad? Too guilt-trippy. Yelena said you have to? Too honest.
By the time you stopped outside his door, you still had nothing better. You knocked, and the door cracked open after a short pause.
Bucky filled the frame in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants, barefoot, hair mussed from repeated hand-runs. He looked tired in that irritating way where tired made him look better, not worse.
His blue eyes landed on you, faintly startled, before they softened into suspicion.
“Hey,” you said, leaning on the doorframe. “What are you up to?”
“Not watching a movie,” Bucky said flatly.
You grinned. “Funny, that’s what I’m here about.”
His brow tugged into the tiniest crease. “They sent you.”
“Sent is a strong word,” you said, spreading your hands. “Think of me as the diplomatic envoy.”
That got you the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth. If you hadn’t been staring, you’d have missed it. “Still not going,” Bucky said.
You huffed, pushing off the doorframe and stepping into the room before you could second-guess yourself. “Not even for Bob?”
That made him sigh. Bucky shut the door behind you and watched as you helped yourself to the trinkets scattered across his bookshelf. He always crossed his arms like that. It was as if he thought nobody would notice how much he was paying attention if he folded himself up tightly enough.
“You’re seriously going to make me the bad guy who crushed Bob’s spirit?” you asked. “Because Yelena says if you don’t show, he’ll never pick again. He’ll think you hated it. You’ll ruin movie night forever. Do you want that on your conscience?”
Bucky grinned. “You rehearsed this,” he accused.
“Obviously,” you said, not bothering to deny it. “I practice all my guilt trips to maximise emotional manipulation. What am I, an amateur?”
The laugh that slipped out of him was quiet, rasping at the edges. It lit his whole face for a second—brightening his eyes, loosening something in his jaw—and you nearly forgot how words worked.
You blinked fast, pretending your stomach wasn’t flipping.
“Anyway,” you said quickly, “Bob will be crushed if you don’t come. And then Yelena will be crushed. And then John will be—well, John doesn’t care. But Alexei will try to make Bob feel better, and that will inevitably make all of us feel a lot worse.”
Bucky tilted his head, studying you. The thing about his gaze was that it didn’t skim. He looked right at you, steady, like he could pull you apart molecule by molecule if you stood there long enough.
“You really want me to come?” he asked quietly.
The question landed heavier than it had any right to. You swallowed. “Yeah. I do. It’d be nice to see you participate in the team bonding stuff.”
For a beat, your pulse thudded a little too loud in your ears. You were hyper-aware of how close Bucky had gotten, how his arm was just an inch from yours.
Then Bucky smirked, a flash of old-school charm, and said, “You trying to sweet-talk me, darlin’?”
Oh, perfect. Flirting. Casual, easy, like it was no effort at all for him. Because that was totally fair and not at all distracting.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you managed, though your voice betrayed a hint of warmth. “I’m just here to stop Bob from crying into his popcorn.”
“Sure,” Bucky said. His smirk deepened. “And you barged into my room to keep your midnight snack dry. That’s the only reason?”
You gave him a flat look. “Wow. You’re actually trying to flirt with me.”
That earned you a low laugh, but this time he looked down, shaking his head. For half a second, the cockiness slipped just enough for you to notice the faintest pink dusting across his cheeks. You didn’t mention it; some things were better left unprodded.
Instead, you wandered over to his desk and tapped a finger against one of the neatly stacked mission reports. “Look, to be honest, they all want you there. You’ve known them for a couple months now, all they know is emotional repression. Trust me, they want you there.”
Bucky huffed a quiet laugh, glancing up through his lashes.
You softened your tone. “I’d like you to be there. That’s it. No tricks, no guilt trip. Just me saying it.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. His arms were still folded tightly, but his shoulders had eased, and the sharpness in his eyes had dulled into something uncertain. Then he exhaled, the corners of his mouth tugging up in the barest smile.
“Alright,” Bucky said. “I’ll be there.”
Relief loosened your chest. You grinned, trying not to look too smug about it. “Good. Bob will be thrilled. And I’ll get to avoid Yelena’s dramatic sighing for one whole evening. Everybody wins.”
Bucky shook his head, still smiling faintly, as if he couldn’t quite believe you’d managed to talk him into it.
You started for the door, pausing with your hand on the handle. “Oh, and for the record? You don’t have to flirt to get invited to movie night. But bonus points for effort.”
His laugh followed you into the hall, low and warm. You didn’t see the way he leaned against the door after you left, arms finally uncrossing, his expression caught somewhere between disbelief and something softer.
When everyone piled onto the big sectional in the common room that night, Bob was practically glowing. He clutched the remote in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other.
“Alright, everyone. Prepare yourselves for the greatest cinematic masterpiece of all time,” Bob declared. “Toy Story.”
Everyone applauded his movie choice.
Alexei had outdone himself with snacks. Three bowls of popcorn lined the coffee table, plus a suspiciously large jug of something fizzy that Yelena had already claimed for herself. Ava had curled into one corner with a blanket pulled up to her chin, John sprawled like he owned half the sofa, and you were on the love seat with an oversized blanket of your own.
The room felt warm, chaotic in the way only shared comfort ever was. Then the air shifted because Bucky walked in.
Conversation stuttered, the crunch of popcorn fell still, and six pairs of eyes swivelled toward him. He didn’t acknowledge it; he didn’t even falter. He crossed the room with calm, even steps and lowered himself onto the love seat at your side like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Your heart did a weird little kick. You masked it with a smile, lifting the edge of your blanket in quiet invitation. Without looking at anyone else, Bucky slid beneath it, the faint brush of his shoulder against yours sending a wave of warmth through every nerve.
The heat of him contrasted with the cool metal of his arm between you. Every movement—the flex of fingers, faint scrape of fabric—made your pulse trip over itself.
“What are we watching?” he asked, voice low enough that it felt like the question was meant just for you.
You leaned in, your smile tugging wider. “Toy Story. Trust me, you’ll love it.”
For a second, Bucky studied you, and you could feel that unblinking intensity of his gaze. He had a way of looking that made you want to fidget, like he was cataloguing every flicker of expression you couldn’t control. Then he gave the subtlest nod, lips twitching in what might have been the beginning of a smile.
The movie started, and the room carried on as though nothing unusual had happened.
The kitchen was quiet in the way you liked best. The low hum of the fridge filled the emptiness, and the soft clink of bowls and measuring spoons grounded you in the rhythm of it all. There was comfort in the precision of baking and the simple act of making something sweet you could share.
You were rolling neat balls of dough between your palms when you heard quiet footsteps padding into the kitchen. “Didn’t think anyone’d be awake,” a smooth voice commented.
You looked up, startled, and nearly dropped the dough. Bucky was standing beside the fridge, holding a cold bottle of water, shadowed in the dim kitchen light. His broad shoulders filled the space, hair a little mussed like he’d given up on sleep.
You noticed how quietly he moved, like a shadow in combat boots.
“You scared me,” you said, pressing the dough onto the tray. “Don’t sneak up on people unless you want a wad of cookie dough to the face.”
His mouth tugged into that almost-smile. “Noted.” He stepped closer, glancing at the counter. His scent hit you faintly. Soap and something sharper, metal and clean air, like winter caught on fabric. “What’re you making?”
“Snickerdoodles.” You reached for the cinnamon sugar, rolling a ball through it until it was evenly coated.
Bucky took a sip of water. “Never had one.”
You dropped everything with an exaggerated gasp. “You’ve never had a snickerdoodle? Aren’t you, like, a hundred years old?”
“Technically, yes.” He leaned back against the counter beside you, the heat of him radiating at your shoulder. “The name always sounded made up to me.”
“Bucky.” You stared at him in horror. “You’re from Brooklyn. They have some of the best cookies in the city. This is unacceptable!”
That earned you a low huff of laughter, the kind he probably hadn’t meant to let slip. You caught the way his lips pressed together right after, like he was trying not to give too much away.
“Come here,” you ordered, pointing toward one of the empty trays waiting to be filled with cookie dough. “You’re officially on cookie duty. You need to have a snickerdoodle as soon as possible, non-negotiable.”
Bucky raised an eyebrow but obeyed, turning around to face the counter. His metal fingers tapped once against the surface before stilling.
You moved the bowl of cookie dough between the two of you, suddenly aware of how near he was standing. “Have you ever baked before?”
“Not unless you count field rations on a hot car hood,” he said, chuckling quietly.
“I do not.”
“My Ma used to bake a lot growing up, but I spent a lot of time out of the house,” Bucky added, shrugging.
“Well, I’m giving you a crash course.” You held up the dough ball, then extended your hand toward him. “Roll it in the cinnamon sugar, make sure it’s covered.”
Bucky hesitated a beat before taking it from you. His touch was careful, as though he thought he might crush it by accident.
“It’s not a grenade,” you teased, lips twitching. “Don’t worry, it’s actually kind of relaxing once you get the hang of it.”
His eyes flicked up to meet yours. For a second, neither of you moved, the sugar dust clinging to his fingertips. His gaze was steady. He rolled the dough in the bowl until it was coated, then set it on the tray as if it were something immensely delicate.
“There,” Bucky said, his tone dry but fainter than usual.
“Look at you.” You slid the tray you’d completed into the preheated oven, trying not to smile too much at the faint pride in his voice. “You’re a natural. I think we’ll make a baker out of you.”
“Don’t spread that around,” he muttered. But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching upward. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”
You noticed the way his shoulders seemed to ease, just a fraction, when you grinned at him. “Your reputation as what? The grumpy recluse with murder eyes?” you teased.
“Exactly.” He set another sugared dough ball on his tray, his movements gentle despite his words.
You bumped his shoulder with yours, casual but deliberate. He felt warm and steady against you. “Your secret’s safe with me,” you promised.
The two of you worked in silence for a while, aware of the fleeting brushes of fingers and shoulders, the quiet tension threading between you.
Bucky tilted his head toward the glass of the oven, watching the first tray you’d slid inside. “How long till they’re done?”
“About ten minutes. Thirteen if we want them a little crisper.” You dusted sugar off your palms onto a nearby towel. “Patience is part of the process.”
“Not my strong suit.” He smirked faintly.
You nudged the sugar bowl closer to him. “Then focus on the important part. Like not dropping sugar all over the kitchen.”
Before you could tease him further, you noticed how Bucky’s eyes strayed to your cheek. He reached over instinctively, brushing away some flour. His thumb grazed your skin; soft, careful, fleeting. His expression didn’t betray any emotion, but there was something unguarded that made your breath catch.
“There,” he said quietly when he was done.
“Thanks,” you murmured. You busied yourself with replenishing the cinnamon sugar bowl, partly to have something to do, partly because your heart wouldn’t settle otherwise.
“So, what made you decide to bake five trays of snickerdoodles instead of getting some sleep?” Bucky wondered, still rolling dough balls.
“I like baking at night,” you admitted, tone lighter than the words felt. “It feels like the only time the place is mine. It’s quiet. No shouting, no chaos.”
Bucky glanced sideways, curiosity in the cut of his gaze. “You do this a lot?”
“Whenever I can’t sleep. Which, considering what we do, is often.” You lined a third tray with baking paper. “It makes me reconnect with myself, I guess. I like reminding myself I exist outside of missions and training and whatever else. It’s simple, but—” You laughed under your breath. “I sound ridiculous.”
“You don’t,” Bucky said quietly, earnest. “It doesn’t sound ridiculous at all. I wish I was better at doing that.” His sincerity tugged at you, that delicate ache you always tried to smother with jokes.
You shifted against the counter, meeting his gaze. “I never really had a family growing up. Not the way most people do, anyway. I always felt like I was just trying to survive on my own. So being here with the team is great. It’s loud and messy, but it’s family. And sometimes being alone is the only way I know how to feel like I belong in it.”
Bucky nodded. “Makes sense.”
You tried to smile, but it wobbled. “Guess cookies are cheaper than therapy.”
That drew a small, bold laugh from him, warmer than anything else in the quiet kitchen.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I get what you mean about family. Not having it, then finding it in pieces.”
He wasn’t looking at you, eyes distant, the oven light catching the lines around them.
“I was close with my Ma and Pop. My sister, too. But that feels like someone else’s memories most days,” Bucky confessed. “Steve was always there. Then I had those Winter Soldier years, and Steve left when I finally felt close to normal again. I guess I never fully let myself be part of anything after that.”
You rested a hand lightly on the counter beside his, knuckles nearly brushing. The air felt weighted, delicate. What caught your attention was the quiet honesty in his voice, and how much it cost him to hand it over.
“That sounds lonely,” you said softly.
Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Guess I got used to it.” His impossibly blue eyes flicked toward you, and for a heartbeat, you couldn’t look away.
“And now?”
“I’ve got Sam. Didn’t think I’d ever get used to that, either. But he doesn’t let me keep walls up for long. Drives me crazy.” A small huff of laughter escaped him, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Truth is, sometimes I’m afraid I’ll mess it up. Say the wrong thing, push too hard. I don’t exactly have the best track record keeping people close.”
With a small smile, you nudged his arm with your elbow. “For the record, you’re doing fine here. No complaints so far.”
He chuckled, low and surprised. “Guess that’s something.”
“You know, survival used to be the only thing I thought about, too. It gets in your bones, that mindset.” You rubbed your thumb along the edge of the counter, fighting the urge to put your hand over Bucky’s. “But after everything, I want to use what I’ve got for something good. Otherwise all the years of scraping by don’t mean anything.”
Bucky’s eyes burned as he studied you. The attention felt heavy, but not in a way you wanted to run from. “I know what you mean.”
When his fingers brushed yours on the counter, lingering just a moment too long, your chest tightened. You stayed still, unwilling to be the first to pull away.
Neither of you moved until the oven beeped. By the time the last tray was ready, the first batch was resting on a cooling rack, cinnamon-sugar crusts glinting perfectly.
Bucky’s fingers brushed yours lightly as you shifted. His heat was subtle but steady, and you leaned in slightly, testing the warmth between you.
“So,” you said softly, taking off the oven mitts, “if you keep this up, I’m going to have to start requesting your help full-time.”
He cracked a small smile. “I’d be honoured,” Bucky replied, steady and quiet.
You tried not to notice the way his gaze lingered on your hands as you plated the first cookies, or how close he leaned when he reached for the last tray.
“Don’t eat them all at once,” you teased, stepping slightly back to give him room at the counter.
“No promises,” Bucky retorted, grinning widely. His blue eyes held yours a beat longer than needed, and your heart skipped.
You lifted a cooled cookie to your mouth, then offered another to him. He glanced at you, checking your reaction, before taking a bite. The moment his teeth sank in, his shoulders relaxed, and a grin broke across his face, genuine and wide.
The Watchtower elevator doors slid open to chaos. The message you received when you were waiting for the team to return said the mission hadn’t gone well. Ava and John half-carried Yelena between them, her arm pressed tight against her ribs where a blade had nicked her deep. The med team rushed forward, voices brisk and clipped, and you hung back, giving them space.
Your stomach twisted, anger bubbling beneath the worry. Things should never have gone that far. You’d seen too many close calls turn permanent, and the sight of her doubled over nearly made your chest cave in.
You stayed long enough to see Yelena disappear into the med bay, Ava close on her heels, John barking about Yelena’s vitals and other wounds. The tension in your shoulders didn’t ease until the doors swung shut behind them.
You exhaled slowly, already replaying the mission radio in your head. You wondered what you would have done differently if you hadn’t been assigned a solo mission yesterday and been given the day off.
Only when the dust settled did you notice Bucky, leaning against the wall, left hand braced, right shoulder stiff. He was standing a fraction too straight, like holding himself upright by force of will. His breaths were shallow, measured, as if careful not to let pain slip through. A shallow gash ran across his collarbone, blood drying dark against the black fabric of his shirt.
The shot of panic hit sharp and sudden. How had you missed Bucky bleeding quietly in the corner?
“You’re hurt,” you said quietly.
He shrugged one shoulder, the movement tight. “Not bad. She needs the medics more.”
You inched closer. “Doesn’t mean you don’t need looking at.”
Bucky gave you a half weary, half amused look that said he’d rather wrestle a bear than let anyone fuss over him. “Are you offering an alternative to med bay?”
“Yeah,” you said before you could think better of it. “Me.”
One of Bucky’s brows arched, though his shoulders stayed tight with pain. “Not necessary. The serum’ll take care of it.”
“Right,” you said, folding your arms. “And what? You’re going to bleed all over the Watchtower corridors until it does? That’ll look great for morale.”
It came out sharper than you meant, but you couldn’t help it. Bucky could joke about the serum all he wanted, but bleeding was still bleeding.
A flicker of laughter escaped him, fading as he winced. His eyes softened—lashes lowering, mouth easing—a tiny surrender that made your stomach flip.
“Come on,” you said gently, stepping closer. “Just humour me, please?”
For a long moment, Bucky didn’t move. Then, with a weary sigh, he let you hook a hand lightly around his wrist and lead him back to the elevator to go to your floor.
Your room was quiet when the door clicked shut behind you. The buzz of medics and the echo of boots in the corridor were gone. It left only the hush of Bucky’s ragged breathing and the dull throb of adrenaline fading.
“Bathroom,” you directed, nudging the door open. The space was small but tidy, pale tile reflecting the warm light overhead. You dug under the sink for your emergency kit, trying not to notice how he filled the doorway, tall and heavy-shouldered, braced as though standing too long hurt.
“Sit,” you told him, pointing at the counter.
Bucky gave you a long, unimpressed look that might have worked on anyone else. But he pushed himself up with a quiet grunt, settling onto the marble. He perched there stiffly, one knee bent against the cabinet, one hand pressed to the counter for balance. His breath came shallow, as though he didn’t want you to see how badly he was hurt.
Of course, he’d rather stand there bleeding than admit he wasn’t invincible. Typical Bucky.
“Shirt off,” you demanded, washing your hands and opening the first aid kit.
That earned you a wry smirk, but he obeyed, tugging at the hem of the black fabric. He hissed when it caught against the wound, jaw clenching as he stripped it over his head. The shirt hit the counter beside him in a dark crumple, and your breath stuttered at the sight he left bare.
The gash wasn’t catastrophic, but it was messy, a long, angry line stretching across his collarbone. Dried blood clung to the edges, seeping down toward muscle already crowded with old scars. You swallowed, forcing yourself to focus on the wound, not the breadth of his chest or the heat radiating off his skin.
“I’ll try to be gentle,” you promised, dampening a cloth with warm water.
Bucky smiled faintly, though his shoulders stayed tense. The way he said it—casual, because he’d been through so much worse—did something in your chest. It was a reminder that he carried pain like second nature, and you hated how normal it sounded in his voice.
You stepped between his knees, counter pressing into your thighs as you lifted the cloth. Your other hand steadied him lightly at the edge of his ribs. The first swipe drew a sharp breath through his teeth, his muscles tightening under your touch.
“Sorry,” you murmured, softer now.
His gaze found yours, startlingly steady. “Not your fault.”
It wasn’t fair, the way Bucky looked at you. It was as if he’d decided you were the only thing in the room that mattered. Like your hands on him weren’t just necessary, but wanted.
The quiet nearness, and the way his eyes didn’t leave you, made your pulse trip. You focused on careful movements, wiping away the dried streaks until his skin came clean. But every time your fingers brushed him, you felt him shudder.
“You should’ve said something sooner,” you said, rinsing the cloth.
Bucky let out a low hum. “Didn’t want to make a fuss. Yelena needed the medics more.”
He made it sound so simple, like bleeding out in silence was just good manners. You wanted to shake him, and maybe also wrap him in bubble wrap forever.
“That doesn’t mean that you should bear your pain silently,” you reminded him.
For once, he didn’t argue. He just looked at you, eyes burning blue and unguarded.
You reached for the antiseptic, twisting the cap with careful hands. “This’ll sting.”
Bucky nodded, though the muscle in his jaw ticked as the antiseptic touched raw skin. His breath stayed controlled, but you felt the slight tremor when your fingers pressed too close.
“You’re shaking,” you said quietly.
His mouth tugged upward with sardonic humour. “Maybe it’s cold.” The smile lingered longer than the joke did, his eyes tracing your face like he was making note of every reaction.
“You’re also a terrible liar,” you accused.
That startled a small laugh from him. He leaned unconsciously into your touch as you taped a bandage across the worst of the gash, the tilt of his head brushing his hair against your wrist. The faintest sigh escaped him then, almost inaudible, but his lashes lowered for a heartbeat in something close to surrender. You lingered a second longer than needed, heart skittering as you tied off the last strip of gauze.
There was a moment when his hair fell forward and covered his forehead. Without thinking, you brushed it back, fingertips sliding across his temple. Your hand paused there, thumb hovering near the angle of his jaw.
Bucky didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers found the hem of your shirt and began to fidget at it, as though he hadn’t realised he was touching you at all.
“There,” you said, voice hushed. “All better.”
Bucky’s chest rose and fell in slow, deliberate breaths, and your hand still hovered near his shoulder. “Thanks,” he said, equally quiet.
You stepped back an inch, just enough to breathe, but his eyes followed you.
“You don’t usually let people help you,” you said softly. “That much is obvious.”
“I don’t usually let people touch me,” Bucky amended your statement. He paused, then added, quieter still, “But I trust you.”
The words caught you off guard, landing warm and heavy in your chest. You wanted to say something witty or cute to defuse the weight, but it felt small and stupid in the face of his honesty.
Instead, you said, “I trust you too.”
Something eased in his shoulders then, like a weight shifting. He studied you with a softness that made your breath falter, eyes dropping to your mouth and back again.
Butterflies rioted in your stomach, but you forced a crooked smile. “Well, you’re not out of the woods yet. You have a couple other cuts that need tending to, so sit still.”
You worked in silence for a few minutes, adjusting bandages, pressing Band-Aids into place. Each time you leaned close, Bucky’s breath brushed your hairline. Once, when you smoothed a Bluey Band-Aid along the edge of his shoulder, your thumb grazed bare skin.
Your brain screamed to pull back, but your traitorous body betrayed every feeling to Bucky without your consent.
Bucky shivered again.
“Ticklish?” you teased lightly.
“Not exactly.” Bucky’s eyes locked on yours, and the raw honesty in them made you avert your gaze for a breath.
You could’ve drowned in that look if you’d let yourself. Which was why you dropped your gaze like the coward you were.
You swallowed hard, stepping back to check your work. “Done.”
“Looks good,” he said, still watching you like you were the only thing keeping him upright. “Thank you.”
“Any time.” You packed away the last of the kit with fumbling fingers, acutely aware of his attention on you.
Finally, Bucky broke the silence with a low murmur. “You’re good at this.”
“Patching up reckless idiots?” you teased.
His smile grew, soft and rueful. “Something like that.”
And there it was again; that little tug in your chest that made it hard to remember which one of you was supposed to be bleeding right now.
You laughed under your breath, the sound easing the tension by a fraction. “Well, lucky for you, I don’t mind.”
Bucky studied you as if he were recording the way you said things. The tilt of your mouth, that easy sarcasm that lived just under the surface. Then his voice softened. “Don’t know what I’d do without you sometimes.”
The words landed heavier than he intended; you saw it in the way he immediately glanced down, like he’d given too much away.
You felt your chest ache, heat sparking low in your stomach. “Good thing you don’t have to find out,” you whispered.
He leaned forward slightly, fingers finding the edge of the counter as if to steady himself. You reached out and tucked a stray bit of hair behind his ear, fingertips resting against his skin for a beat longer than necessary. His eyes dropped to your hand, then up, and there was a fragility there.
“Careful,” Bucky said, voice teasing. “I’m starting to think you’re making moves on me, darlin’.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” you replied, though your voice came out softer than you meant.
He let out a laugh, small and genuine, as he pushed himself up slowly with one hand braced on the counter. Instead of tugging his shirt back on, he tossed it over his uninjured shoulder.
Then he leaned down and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your cheek.
Your breath caught, eyes fluttering shut for half a heartbeat, heat flooding your chest before you forced yourself to steady. When you opened them again, Bucky was watching you with a reverence that was devastating in its quiet intensity, something warmer and more open than you’d ever seen him let slip.
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. “You can stop worrying about me now. I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah?” You crossed your arms, trying for sternness and failing because your mouth was already curved. “Because I have a strict policy of making sure the men I patch up don’t ruin my handiwork.”
A flash of fondness crossed Bucky’s face. “Lucky for you, I can follow rules,” he guaranteed.
Bucky gave you one last smile before turning toward the door. Just before he stepped out of your room, you caught the subtle motion of his hand rising and brushing his mouth, lingering there like he was trying to memorise the feeling of your cheek against his lips.
You shuffled down the hall in your pyjamas, already planning to apologise to the first human unlucky enough to meet you before caffeine did its work.
Bucky stood in the kitchen, sleeves pushed up, hair a little messy, stubble scattered across his face. He was leaning casually against the counter, bulging biceps on display, and in front of him sat two mugs of coffee. Steam curled lazily upwards from both.
Your half-asleep brain couldn’t compute it. Bucky was waiting there, coffee ready, as if he did this every day. Your heart stuttered before your mind caught up.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you croaked, which was the closest you could manage to good morning.
Bucky lifted a mug and held it out towards you, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Morning, sunshine. This one’s yours.”
You blinked at him, then at the mug. You knew just from the smell that it was exactly how you drank it; the right strength and the perfect amount of milk. Even the sugar count was perfect.
You tried for sarcasm, something to cover the way your pulse was suddenly rattling. But all that came out was, “You memorised my coffee order?”
“Wasn’t hard,” Bucky said, eyes lingering just a little too long on your face. “You’re predictable in the morning.”
It was nothing, just coffee, but it wasn’t nothing at all. Nothing, except your hands were trembling faintly as Bucky watched you like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
You reached for the mug, and his fingers brushed yours. Just a graze, skin against skin. Nothing worth remembering, except your body disagreed. Heat sparked at the point of contact, shooting up your arm with the speed of lightning. The mug was warm, but Bucky was warmer.
His hand didn’t drop immediately. Bucky lingered half a second too long, and you felt the faintest twitch of his fingers as if he had to stop himself from holding on. When he finally let go, his shoulders shifted in the smallest, betraying way. It was as if he’d felt the spark too and didn’t trust himself not to show it.
“Static,” you managed, your voice an octave higher than usual. “That’s what that was.”
Bucky’s mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “If you say so.” His voice had that gravelly scrape to it, like he’d been up all night.
He lifted his own mug, taking a casual sip like he hadn’t just short-circuited you with one brush of his fingers.
You narrowed your eyes at it. “What are you drinking? Because if that’s decaf, I’m staging an intervention.”
“Herbal tea.”
You made a face. “And yet you’re standing there, completely conscious? I can’t string two words together until I have coffee.”
The corners of Bucky’s mouth lifted, almost too small to notice if you weren’t watching him the way you always did. “Don’t worry,” he said quietly, “I’m wide awake now.”
You froze, mug halfway to your lips. It took a second for your brain to catch up, to realise Bucky didn’t mean the tea, or the hour, or anything else except you. Because you were finally awake, finally with Bucky.
Your grip on the mug was barely steady, and for one insane moment, you thought about asking if herbal tea was super-soldier code for: I’ve been in love with you this whole time.
Bucky didn’t look any steadier. Every brush of his gaze, the tilt of his head, made it impossible to think straight.
He swallowed once, throat tight, and when his gaze flicked down to your mouth before snapping back up, it wasn’t an accident. His jaw shifted as if holding himself back took actual effort. And you knew that feeling well, because you were doing the exact same thing.
You forced yourself to take a sip, partly for the caffeine, mainly to keep from blurting out something mortifying like kiss me right now or I’ll die. The coffee was hot, rich, perfectly made, and entirely useless at cooling the heat prickling your skin.
“So tell me,” you said, lowering the mug just enough to peek over the rim, “do you always get up at military o’clock?”
Bucky’s mouth twitched, the faintest ghost of a smile. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. Force of habit.”
Your heart did something embarrassing in your chest, like it was trying to vault straight out. Bucky said sweetheart so casually, so easily, like it had been sitting on his tongue waiting for an excuse, and suddenly your knees felt suspiciously weak.
You tried to laugh it off. “Force of habit, right. Meanwhile, I’m still negotiating with gravity before eight a.m.”
“That’s why I made the coffee.” Bucky’s eyes flicked down briefly to your mug, then back up. “Someone’s gotta keep you upright.”
You pressed a hand to your forehead like a starlet in an old film. “My hero,” you crooned, putting a faux-sultry lilt on the words. “How can I thank you?”
The joke should have broken the tension, but only wound it tighter.
Bucky’s breath hitched slightly, and you noticed the way his voice had dipped without him meaning to. “You being here with me is enough, darling.”
He was standing just a fraction closer than strictly necessary, and suddenly the kitchen didn’t feel large enough for both of you and the pull between your bodies. Every detail of him felt magnified: the rasp in his voice, the scent of soap clinging to his skin, the way his body seemed so close, like he’d closed the distance without moving at all.
On a reckless impulse, you reached over and plucked the mug from Bucky’s hands. “Hmm,” you murmured, tipping it just enough to take a sip. “So this is how you live, huh?”
He didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch. He just watched, eyes locked on your mouth, and your stomach did that ridiculous flip that felt like it might unseat your ribs.
“You always gotta tease me, huh?” Bucky’s voice was low, teasing, but threaded with something intense, a subtle tremor that you recognised immediately.
“Guess you’ll just have to stop me.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt, but only just.
The words hovered in the air like a dare.
That was it. Something snapped between you; the tension, the heat, the waiting. You both leaned in, and there was no pause, no hesitation. Just the inevitability of months of glances, touches, and unspoken confessions spilling over into one, all-consuming kiss.
His hands found your waist, bracing, pulling you closer, and you dropped the mug on the counter beside you before grasping his shoulders, smiling against his mouth. It was fire and softness at once, everything neither of you had dared to say aloud before.
You deepened the kiss, and Bucky groaned low in his throat, a sound that made something inside you lurch. His fingers splayed along your spine, pulling you impossibly closer, and you couldn’t resist sliding your hands up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him shut his eyes. A low groan escaped him that made your chest tighten, and you could feel the rapid thrum of his pulse under your hands.
You pressed against him, and his body heat spread through you, making your stomach flutter. His hand traced the curve of your hip, the warmth of his palm searing, while yours roamed over the broad plane of his shoulders, down to the dip of his lower back. Each brush of skin against skin made you whimper softly.
Bucky’s breath came faster, hitching between soft curses and little whines that mirrored the ragged ones tumbling from your own lips. You moved with him, both of you greedy for the closeness you’d denied for so long.
Little moans and soft laughs, each hitch of his breath against yours, made the world shrink to the heat of him, the rhythm of your pulse, mirrored perfectly in his. Your tongue traced his, and he hummed, a vibration against your own mouth that made your chest ache.
When you pulled back just enough to catch your breath, you grinned. “You’ve been making me wait for this forever,” you teased.
Bucky let out a shaky laugh, his voice low and rough, “Maybe that’s why I can’t keep my hands off you.”
You grinned, breathless, teeth grazing his bottom lip in a tease he didn’t resist. “Good thing I don’t want you to.”
Your hands slid under the hem of his shirt, grazing the skin of his abdomen, memorising the muscles and scars you’d admired from a distance for far too long. Bucky shivered under your touch, letting out a low, ragged sound that made your pulse spike. His thumbs traced light, teasing paths along the curve of your back, making you shiver and press closer.
His hands stayed on your waist at first, then tentatively roamed higher, thumbs brushing over the curve of your back as if checking you were really there. He dipped his head to your neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. A soft laugh escaped your lips as his teeth grazed gently. Each breath he stole made your head spin, every shiver and hitch of his breath mirrored your own.
Your hands travelled freely over him, exploring the strength beneath the surface you’d only ever glimpsed. Every brush of skin, every press and sigh, made it painfully clear how long you’d both been denying this. He groaned and reconnected your lips, meeting with a hunger that he’d been smouldering for months.
You pressed chest to chest as he lifted you onto the counter, legs wrapping around his waist. Just as your fingers tangled in the nape of his neck and his hands pressed possessively at your hips, the elevator doors opened. You jumped, Bucky tensed, and then the chorus hit.
“Finally!” Yelena shouted, hands on her hips like she’d been waiting her whole life to say it. “We thought you two would combust before actually doing it!”
“We are witnessing a miracle!” Alexei added, voice booming as he leaned against the doorway.
You groaned, burying your face against Bucky’s chest, and he muttered something in the back of his throat that sounded like he wanted to kill them all.
“We’re hungry,” John said, arms crossed, smirking like he wasn’t part of the chaos. “We don’t care that you’re finally enacting your mutual wet dreams in the kitchen.”
Bucky’s hands shifted on your waist, tightening just slightly. “Give us a minute,” he said in a low voice.
“Not happening,” Ava chirped. “We want pancakes.”
“And orange juice,” Bob agreed.
“And updates on the kiss that has been long overdue,” Yelena said happily.
You squeaked, feeling Bucky’s hands lift you higher effortlessly, your arms instinctively clutching his shoulders as he carried you off the kitchen counter. He grinned, declaring, “I think I have a better idea.”
Bucky strode toward his room, unbothered by the team’s protests. Even as he walked toward his room, your bodies stayed flush, and he pressed the occasional kiss to your lips and cheek.
“Breakfast can wait,” Bucky said quietly, “But I’ve done enough waiting.”
summary: After being hurt very badly in a mission, you imagine you and Bucky living a better life together.
warnings: angst, light fluff, but the angst is real, mention of wounds, needles
word count: 1.5 k
a/n: this is based off of the song “Final Lullaby” by The Weeknd because I’m absolutely in love with that song and I felt like writing! I know it has been literally so long but I’ve been so up and down mental health wise and finally am gonna start using my blog again sooooo here’s to new beginnings! I hope you all enjoy :)
“F.R.I.D.A.Y. read vitals, now!”
“Vitals unstable, Mr. Stark.”
“Shit,” Tony mumbled under his breath. After going on seemingly simple mission, you were now lying in the back of the quinjet fighting to stay alive. You tried to speak but only sputtering coughs of blood came out, most likely due to the bullet that had collapsed your lung.
“Shh, don’t speak. J-Just try and breathe,” Bucky stuttered as he looked down at your bruised face. He was holding back tears as Steve and Tony injected you with anesthetics, and he cupped your cheek with his flesh hand. “Everything is going to be just fine, I promise, doll.”
You nodded your head and he half smiled at you, but the smile faded as he looked down your body that was covered in blood. You felt your eyelids growing heavy, but you knew that if you closed them, Bucky would break down completely. You tried your best to keep them open as Natasha and Wanda came up to the table you were lying on, and you watched as your two best friends scanned over your wounds with increasingly worried faces.
This is a summary of college only using two pictures; expensive as hell.
That’s my Sociology “book”. In fact what it is is a piece of paper with codes written on it to allow me to access an electronic version of a book. I was told by my professor that I could not buy any other paperback version, or use another code, so I was left with no option other than buying a piece of paper for over $200. Best part about all this is my professor wrote the books; there’s something hilariously sadistic about that. So I pretty much doled out $200 for a current edition of an online textbook that is no different than an older, paperback edition of the same book for $5; yeah, I checked. My mistake for listening to my professor.
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Telekinetic Reader
Prompt: Cheap Sunglasses
Word count: 4,551
Warnings: Gambling, some nasty crimes (all off-screen), and mild smut in part 2.
Summary: You and Bucky have spent a lazy two weeks at Tony’s villa in Monaco. He suggests a night out, and you aren’t entirely sold. Then the tables turn (pun intended).
Written for @barnesrogersvstheworld‘s Marvel kiss writing challenge! Thank you so much for hosting!!! This was so SO fun to write I had to continue it into three parts lol.
My Masterlist
Fata Organa. n. a flash of real emotion glimpsed in someone sitting across the room, idly locked in the middle of some group conversation, their eyes glinting with vulnerability or quiet anticipation or cosmic boredom—as if you could see backstage through a gap in the curtains, watching stagehands holding their ropes at the ready, actors in costume mouthing their lines, fragments of bizarre sets waiting for some other production.
Spreading your fingers along the marble railing of the balcony, you let your eyes wander across Port Hercule as the late afternoon sun glistens a thousand colors against the lazy swells of the sea. Dozens of small, white fishing boats are gliding into the port, and the twinkles from distant buildings on the hills are the first sign of nightfall. There are strains of music from nearby cafes, just audible over the rush of faraway traffic.
Tony really knew how to pick a view.
“You out here daydreaming?”
A shiver crawls up your spine, and you smile lazily to yourself as you feel Bucky’s arms wind around your waist from behind. His nose buries in the sweet spot on the back of your neck along your hairline, and you feel his body behind yours heave in a low, contented exhale.
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