Underneath It All

I have never known what I am doing. I’m 31. This blog is dedicated to fanfiction. I reblog a lot of 18+. Many of the authors have repeatedly asked for no minors to read or interact with their work. Please respect that. My main blog is @rainbowconnection36

[tunetales]

I think you would eat up a who did this to you trope with Azriel 😛😛

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "Who did this to you!?"

Authors Note: Lowkey this may be one of my favourite tropes...

Training in the Illyrian camps had always been brutal.

You knew that long before you decided to train.

Bruises were common. Bloody lips happened. Even Cassian had once shrugged at a dislocated shoulder like it was a mild inconvenience.

But this?

This was different.

The male across from you circled slowly, wooden training sword spinning lazily in his hand while several others watched from the sidelines. The afternoon sun beat harshly against the training ring, sweat sticking your leathers to your skin.

“You’re distracted,” the Illyrian sneered.

You tightened your grip on your blade. “I’m fine.”

He smirked.

Then he struck.

Hard.

The force of the blow rattled down your arm painfully enough to numb your fingers. Before you could fully readjust your stance, he swept your legs out from under you which you tried to clumsily recover from.

Pain exploded across your cheekbone as the hilt of his weapon clipped your face hard enough to send you finally sprawling.

The world tilted sickeningly.

You hit the dirt hard.

A few males laughed nearby.

Humiliation burned hotter than the sting of your cheek.

“Get up,” he barked.

You did.

Again and again, he came at you too aggressively for a sparring match. Every strike was meant to hurt. To embarrass. To prove something.

And when you managed to land a decent hit to his ribs—

His temper snapped.

The next shove sent you crashing directly into one of the wooden posts surrounding the ring. The male hit you hard enough that your vision blurred.

You stumbled backward as his hand grasped the front of your leathers, boots skidding across the dirt as he dragged you away forcefully into the middle of the ring, before slamming shoulder-first into the ground once again.

Something cracked painfully along your ribs.

Pain exploded across your side and a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it.

The training ring went quiet for half a second.

The male looked almost satisfied.

“You’re weak,” he spat.

You swallowed hard against the pain radiating through your ribs. “I said I’m fine.”

But your voice sounded strained even to your own ears.

He eventually grew bored and wandered away.

You ignored the looks from the others as you left the ring, forcing your breathing steady while your side screamed with every step. You didn’t want pity. Didn’t want a scene.

You especially didn’t want Azriel finding out.

Unfortunately for you, the universe seemed personally committed to ruining that plan.

You had barely made it beyond the training courtyard when shadows curled around your ankles.

Your heart dropped.

Azriel stepped from the shadows directly in front of you.

He took one look at your face and froze.

His eyes took everything in.

Your split lip. The darkening bruise across your cheekbone. The rip in your leathers exposing bloodied skin beneath. The way you were holding your side like breathing itself hurt.

The world seemed to go silent around him.

Even his shadows stilled.

“Who did this to you?”

The words were terrifyingly calm.

You immediately straightened despite the pain. “Az, it looks worse than it is—”

“Who.”

You had heard him interrogate enemies with more warmth than that single word.

You swallowed hard. “It was training.”

Azriel’s gaze dropped to the blood soaking through your side.

Then to the trembling hand you were unsuccessfully trying to hide behind your back.

His jaw flexed once.

“Training,” he repeated softly.

The shadows around him began writhing violently.

You stepped forward quickly before he could vanish. “I’m alright.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“That does not comfort me.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word and suddenly the anger on his face looked dangerously close to panic.

Azriel moved toward you slowly then, like he was holding himself together by sheer force. His scarred hands hovered near your waist, hesitant—as though he was afraid touching you would hurt.

“Let me see.”

You winced as he carefully moved your arm from your ribs.

Blood stained his fingers instantly.

He went utterly still.

The kind of stillness that meant something terrible was about to happen.

You knew it immediately.

“Azriel,” you said carefully.

His hazel eyes lifted to yours.

Cold. Lethal.

“Who,” he repeated quietly, “hurt you?”

You hesitated for half a second too long, your eyes instinctively flickering over to the male in question.

That was all he needed.

His shadows surged violently around him as understanding settled across his face.

You grabbed his wrist immediately. “Please don’t kill him.”

His gaze snapped back to yours, and somehow that terrified you more because his expression remained perfectly calm.

“I need you to go inside.”

You blinked. “What?”

Rhysand’s mother’s old house sat just beyond the camp, warm light glowing faintly through the windows.

"Go inside."

"Not unless you come with me."

He didn't say anything for a moment, but eventually he nodded his head sharply.

You heaved a sigh of relief, as much as your ribs allowed you anyway.

Azriel guided you towards the house carefully, one hand firm against your back while shadows circled restlessly around both of you.

“Azriel, I'm fine—”

“You’re hurt. You can barely stand.”

That shut you up because unfortunately he was correct.

Pain stabbed sharply through your ribs with every breath now, your head spinning unpleasantly from whatever damage had been done to your face.

Azriel opened the door and guided you inside with startling gentleness compared to the fury radiating from him.

The moment the door shut behind you in your room, he turned toward the small wash basin, grabbing a cloth to press carefully against the blood at your side.

His hands shook, so slightly that anyone else may have missed it.

But not you.

That scared you more than the injuries.

“Azriel…”

His eyes flicked upward.

You softened immediately at the sheer rage and fear warring there.

“I’m okay,” you whispered.

Something painful crossed his face.

“No,” he said quietly. “You aren’t.”

He cleaned the blood from your cheek with impossible care, but every new bruise he uncovered only darkened his expression further.

When he touched your ribs, you inhaled sharply.

Azriel closed his eyes.

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

Then he stood.

You immediately grabbed his hand. “Don’t.”

His fingers curled tightly around yours for one brief second.

“You know I can’t let this go.”

“He was just a bit rough, that’s all—”

“He enjoyed it.”

Silence.

Because again—he was right.

Azriel crouched in front of you then, both hands cupping your face carefully despite the blood still staining your skin.

“You are not supposed to look like this after training,” he said softly.

The fury in his voice made tears sting unexpectedly behind your eyes.

You leaned into his touch instantly. “Please don’t kill him.”

A shadow of dark amusement crossed his face.

“I’m going to try not to kill him.”

“Azriel.”

His thumb brushed gently beneath your swollen cheekbone.

“I’m simply going to remind him,” he said softly, “that if he ever touches you like that again, training or not, they’ll never find enough of him left to bury.”

You stared at him.

He stared calmly back.

Oh, he meant business.

“Azriel—”

He leaned forward, kissing your forehead tenderly before you could continue arguing.

“Stay here.”

And before you could stop him, darkness swallowed him whole.

You groaned softly, dropping your head back against the chair. “Mother save that male.”

It was nearly an hour before shadows finally stirred near the fireplace again.

Azriel stepped from them silently.

Your head snapped up from where you’d been anxiously waiting wrapped in blankets.

He looked entirely uninjured.

Calm.

Too calm.

You narrowed your eyes immediately. “Did you kill him?”

Azriel paused mid-step like he genuinely needed to consider the question.

“No.”

Suspicion flooded you instantly. “Azriel.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

“I didn't kill him.”

“I don't believe you.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped him then as he crossed the room toward you.

The tension in your chest eased immediately despite yourself.

He was alive. He was safe. Most importantly, he was here.

Azriel crouched beside your chair, hands settling carefully around your waist as though checking you were still real.

“I merely reminded that filth,” he said mildly, “that training with you does not grant him permission to brutalise you.”

You squinted. “Define reminded.”

A pause.

“He will struggle to sit comfortably for a few days.”

“Azriel.”

“And perhaps his hand is broken.”

You stared at him in shock.

Azriel looked entirely unrepentant.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

The possessive fury beneath the quiet words made your stomach flip.

You sighed tiredly. “You’re terrifying.”

His expression softened instantly. “Not to you though, right?"

You smiled gently at him, brushing some stray hairs tenderly from his forehead. "Of course not."

The rest of the tension in his shoulders eased slightly.

His hands slid carefully up your arms, pulling you gently into his lap despite your quiet protest about your ribs.

Azriel ignored you completely.

He tucked your head beneath his chin, wings curling protectively around both of you while his shadows settled at last.

Safe.

You felt his lips brush softly against your hair.

“No one hurts you,” he murmured quietly, “and walks away unchanged.”

Taglist:

@nyxmoretti @itmekelpy @plants-w0rld @nebarious @delulustar @starinisstuff @totis-things @sparkyspiers @booksstarryskies @bxm-2121 @spookypersondinosaur @kuraemiii @karolamurdock @shadowmaurader @acourtofbatboydreams

[tunetales]

could i request prompt 11 with cassian please? :)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You're shaking."

The wind in the Illyrian camps is different from the rest of Prythian.

Sharper. Crueler.

It cuts straight through leathers and skin and bone until even breathing starts to ache.

By the time night falls, you’re exhausted.

The day had been long—training females who still flinched every time they made a mistake, quietly correcting stances when the males nearby muttered disapproval, pretending not to notice the glares burning into your back.

Cassian had been gone most of the afternoon, dragged from one meeting to another with camp lords and commanders already testing his patience.

You’d told him you’d be fine.

Now, standing alone in the small house assigned to you both, you’re beginning to regret that.

The fire crackles weakly in the hearth.

You’re still cold.

You sit curled near the edge of the couch, wrapped in a blanket that doesn’t help nearly enough, fingers tucked under your arms as you stare numbly into the flames.

Your body won’t stop trembling.

You’re so tired you don’t even realize the door has opened until—

“Sweetheart?”

Cassian’s concerned voice.

You look up slowly.

His expression changes the second he sees you.

“Gods,” he mutters, crossing the room instantly. “You’re shaking.”

You try for a smile. “It’s freezing here.”

“That bad?”

You nod once.

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes sweeping over you—checking for injury first, instinctively.

Then he kneels in front of you, large hands immediately finding your arms.

His palms are warm. So deliciously warm that you let out a small breath at the contact.

“How long have you been like this?” he asks quietly.

“I don’t know. A while.”

His frown deepens. “You should’ve sent for me.”

“You were busy.”

“I don’t care.”

The answer comes too fast. Too firm.

His thumbs rub gently up and down your arms, trying to coax warmth back into them.

“You’re freezing,” he murmurs.

“I noticed.”

That finally gets the faintest twitch of a smile from him.

“Smart mouth.”

You would grin back if your teeth weren’t threatening to chatter.

Cassian notices immediately and his face softens.

“Oh, honey.”

Before you can protest, he’s standing and pulling you up with him effortlessly.

You make a small sound of surprise as he sits first—then drags you directly into his lap, wrapping the blanket fully around both of you.

Warmth engulfs you instantly.

Cassian’s chest at your back. His wings curving forward around you like shields. His arms tight around your middle.

You practically melt against him.

“There,” he murmurs against your hair. “Better?”

“A little.”

He presses a kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek.

“You worked too hard today.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah, but I’m built for this weather.”

You snort weakly. “Show off.”

He huffs a soft laugh, tightening his hold slightly when another shiver runs through you. Without another word, one hand slips beneath the blanket to take yours.

Your fingers are ice cold.

Cassian actually winces.

“Gods above.”

He brings your hand to his mouth immediately, breathing warm air over your knuckles before pressing kisses to your fingertips one by one.

You blink, heart squeezing painfully.

“Cass…”

“What?” he murmurs, still rubbing warmth back into your hands. “Can’t have my girl freezing to death on me.”

“I’m not dying.”

“You’re dramatic enough that I can’t be sure.”

You elbow him weakly.

He catches your hand before you can pull it away, kissing your palm this time.

"You know, there is a quicker way I can get you warmed up..."

You snort. "Does it involve less clothes?"

Cassian's grin turns positively wicked. "Maybe."

You roll your eyes, though it lacks any real bite when you’re still curled against him beneath the blanket, half frozen and entirely too comfortable in his lap.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, tightening his arms around your waist, “you continue to keep me around.”

“Debatable.”

Cassian laughs before he says softly, “Come here."

As if you aren’t already practically inside his ribcage.

He shifts you more fully against him until you’re completely tucked into his chest, your legs draped over his, wings cocooning you both from the draft slipping through the old cabin walls.

His chin rests lightly on your shoulder.

You can feel the heat radiating off him now.

Steady. Safe.

“Meetings go badly?” you ask quietly after a moment.

Cassian groans dramatically into your hair.

“The worst males alive,” he mutters. “I considered throwing at least three of them off the mountain.”

You laugh softly.

“There she is,” he says immediately, smiling against your skin. “That’s the sound I wanted.”

You relax further into him.

Another shiver passes through you, smaller this time.

Cassian notices anyway.

He rubs his hands firmly along your arms beneath the blanket before pressing another kiss behind your ear.

“Still cold?”

“Not as much.”

“Good.”

Silence settles comfortably.

The fire crackles.

Snow taps softly against the windows.

And Cassian just holds you.

No teasing now. No games. Just warmth and steady affection poured into every touch.

After a while, he murmurs quietly:

“You know I’d leave every meeting in Prythian if you needed me.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“And next time,” he adds, voice gentler still, “tell me sooner.”

You tilt your head slightly, brushing your nose against his jaw.

“Yes, General.”

He snorts softly.

Then pulls the blanket tighter around you both anyway—

Like he can shield you from the cold through sheer stubbornness alone.

Taglist:

@nyxmoretti @itmekelpy @plants-w0rld @nebarious @delulustar @starinisstuff @totis-things @sparkyspiers @booksstarryskies @bxm-2121

[tunetales]

39. You almost got yourself killed.

with protective Azriel!!!

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: "You almost got yourself killed!"

The battle was over, but the smell of smoke still clung to the air thick enough to choke on.

Your ears rang.

Somewhere in the distance, soldiers shouted for healers. Metal scraped against stone. Wings thundered overhead as Illyrians landed across the ruined field, but all of it sounded muffled—far away beneath the frantic pounding of your heart.

Because Azriel was on his knees.

Blood soaked through the side of his leathers, one hand braced against the ground while shadows writhed violently around him, unsettled and feral. He looked pale beneath the splatters of dirt and ash, his breathing shallow.

And all you could see—over and over again—was the moment he'd shoved you out of the way.

The moment that spear which had been meant for you had skewered through his side.

You reached him before he could stand properly.

“What in the hell were you thinking?” Your voice cracked so sharply it startled even you.

Azriel blinked up at you.

You had never shouted at him. Not once. Not in all the time he'd known you.

Around you, a few nearby soldiers very wisely pretended not to listen.

“You almost got yourself killed!” you snapped.

The words tore out of you far louder than intended, shaking with panic more than anger. Your hands grabbed fistfuls of his leathers as though you needed physical proof he was still there.

“You—” Your breath hitched violently. “You threw yourself in front of it.”

Azriel’s expression shifted then. The surprise faded, replaced by something softer. Something worried.

"Why would you do that?!"

His face tightened slightly, as though he didn't understand why that part upset you.

“It was going to hit you,” he said quietly.

The sheer simplicity of it nearly broke you.

Your vision blurred. “So your solution was to die instead?”

“I wasn’t going to die.”

“You don’t know that!”

Your voice cracked again, and that—more than the shouting—seemed to hit him.

Because suddenly Azriel was moving despite the obvious pain, rising just enough to reach for you.

But you got there first.

You practically threw yourself at him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck so tightly he staggered a little from the force of it, and then he was holding you just as fiercely, one hand sliding into your hair while the other anchored around your waist.

You were violently trembling.

Azriel felt it immediately and his entire body softened.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.

The tenderness in his voice shattered the last of your composure.

“I thought—” Your words dissolved into a shaky breath against his neck. “I thought I was watching you die.”

Azriel went completely still.

The shadows around him quieted instantly, settling low and calm for the first time since the battle ended.

You buried your face against him harder, clutching at the back of his leathers. “Don’t do that to me,” you whispered brokenly. “Please don’t do that to me.”

His arms tightened.

You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. Strong. Steady. Alive.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

And Azriel almost never apologized for battlefield decisions.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, tears mixing with soot on your cheeks. “You scared me half to death.”

Something anguished flickered across his face then.

Not from his injury, but from you hurting. He hadn't even thought when he'd acted, it had been purely been protective instinct.

His thumb brushed beneath your eye carefully, reverently, as though he hated every tear he found there.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

“Because you’re an idiot.”

A tiny breath of laughter escaped him at that. Tired. Disbelieving.

You glared at him through wet eyes, which only made his expression soften further.

Then his forehead rested against yours.

“You are my life,” he said quietly.

The words wrapped around your battered heart and squeezed.

Azriel’s voice dropped even lower. “Every instinct I have is built around protecting you.”

“But not at the cost of you,” you whispered fiercely.

His eyes closed briefly, as though hearing that hurt him more than the wound in his side.

“You don’t understand,” he admitted softly. “If something happened to you—”

“You think I’d survive losing you?”

That finally made him open his eyes.

Real shock crossed his face then. Genuine, vulnerable shock.

You cupped his face with trembling hands. “Azriel, I love you. If you had died in front of me tonight…” Your voice faltered. “I don’t even know what would’ve been left of me after.”

For a moment he simply stared at you.

Like no one had ever said something like that to him before.

Then he kissed you.

Not gentle. Not careful.

Desperate. Relieved.

His hands framed your face like he couldn't bear even an inch of distance between you, and you kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring every ounce of terror and love and gratitude into it.

Alive.

He was alive.

When he finally pulled back, his breathing was uneven.

“Don't worry sweetheart, you’re stuck with me,” he murmured against your lips.

You let out a watery laugh. “Good. Because if you ever pull something like that again, I’ll kill you myself.”

A quiet chuckle rumbled from his chest.

Then he tucked you impossibly closer, pressing a kiss into your hair while his shadows curled lazily around both of you at last.

Safe.

Together.

Exactly where he intended to stay.

Taglist:

@nyxmoretti @itmekelpy @plants-w0rld @nebarious @delulustar @starinisstuff @totis-things @sparkyspiers @booksstarryskies @kuraeiii

[tunetales]

hii i love ur fics 😊 i was wondering if you could write something more about overprotective az hehe maybe a little jealousy 🤭

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Authors Note: As chosen by you all and as you requested! I hope I did this justice — I just go feral at the thought of an overprotective, territorial Az 😍

The morning light in Velaris was soft.

Golden. Warm. Lazy in the way that made it feel like the world wasn’t quite awake yet.

You were tangled in the sheets, half draped over Azriel, your head resting against his chest as his fingers idly traced slow patterns along your arm. His wings were tucked loosely behind him, one slightly curved around you like a habit he didn’t even realise he did anymore.

It was quiet, peaceful, the kind of moment you didn’t get together often enough.

Which was probably why your mind decided now was the perfect time to start thinking aloud.

“I’ve been considering something,” you murmured.

Azriel hummed softly beneath you. “That sounds dangerous.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shifting slightly so you could look up at him. “I’m serious.”

His gaze dropped to yours, warm but amused. “That doesn’t make it less dangerous.”

You nudged him lightly. “I mean it.”

“Go on then,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

You hesitated for a second—then said. “I think I want to learn how to use a bow.”

That got his attention.

Not sharply, or alarmed, but clearly surprised enough that his fingers stilled against your arm.

“…A bow?” He repeated.

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Why?”

You lifted one shoulder in a small shrug. “Well…history has proven I’m not exactly gifted at close combat.”

That earned you a quiet huff of amusement.

Azriel's hand slid from your arm to your waist, thumb brushing absentmindedly along your side. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

You narrowed your eyes slightly. "I am improving."

"You tripped over your own feet last time."

"That was your fault!"

"You tried to disarm me and ended up disarming yourself."

"That was—strategic."

He huffed again, this time clearly trying to keep his snickering at bay. "You nearly broke your wrist."

"I did not."

"We both know that's not true, sweetheart."

You pushed lightly at his chest. "You're insufferable."

"And yet," he murmured, voice dipping slightly, "you keep asking me to teach you."

You rolled your eyes - but there was a small smile tugging at your lips.

"That's my point," you said. "Close combat clearly isn't my strength. So I thought...maybe archery."

His hand still at your waist again.

You felt the shift this time.

Subtle, but there.

"I don't think that's necessary," he said quietly.

You frowned slightly. "Why not?"

Azriel's gaze softened - but there was something else beneath it now. Something firmer.

Because I don't want you anywhere near a battlefield.

But he would never say it like that. Instead, his fingers resumed their slow movement along your side.

"You don't need to fight," he said. "Not like that."

You propped yourself up a little more, studying him properly now. "That's not really your decision."

"It is if it keeps you safe."

There it was.

You sighed softly, but not in frustration - more like you'd expected this. You’d only managed to start initially training with him because he thought it would be good for you to learn some self-defence moves.

"I don't want to be helpless, Az," you said gently. "If something happens, I want to be able to help. Protect you. Protect our family."

His jaw tightened - just slightly.

"You do protect us," he said. "In other ways."

You shook your head. "It's not the same."

"It is to me."

Your expression softened a little at that, but you didn't back down.

"I'm not saying I want to run into battle," you added. "I just...want the option. To not be completely reliant on everyone else."

Silence settled between you for a moment.

Azriel studied you.

And gods, he understood.

Of course he did.

He knew what it meant to want control over your own safety. To not feel powerless.

But-

You. Hurt? In danger?

No.

His hand slid from your waist to your jaw, thumb brushing lightly along your cheek.

"You'd need to build your strength first," he said quietly. "A bow isn't easy to handle. It takes time. Training."

You perked slightly. "So you'll teach me?"

A flicker of something - amusement, fondness, deflection - crossed his face.

"I didn't say that."

"Az—“

He leaned in before you could continue, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Gentle. Affectionate. Disarming.

"You don't need it," he murmured against your skin.

You exhaled softly, already knowing you weren't going to win this argument right now.

"That's not a no," you muttered.

Azriel sighed. "Let me think about it."

You pulled back just enough to glare at him lightly. "Well how long will you need—“

You didn't get to finish, because suddenly, he shifted quickly and effortlessly.

And the next thing you knew, you were on your back, Azriel hovering over you, braced on his arms as his wings flared slightly behind him.

Your breath caught.

"Az—“

"I think," he said, voice lower now, something teasing creeping in, "you're thinking too much this morning."

You narrowed your eyes, though your heart had already picked up speed as he settled between your thighs. "I'm having a perfectly reasonable discussion."

"Mm," he hummed. "Debatable."

His hand slid down your side again, slower this time to the hem of your nightgown. His lips began to skim along your jaw.

He was distracting you.

"This is deflection," you accused weakly.

"Is it?"

"Yes," your voice came out breathless despite the accusation.

His lips began to ghost down your neck.

"You were saying something about needing to fight," he murmured.

You swallowed.

"...I was."

Your hands came up to rest on his shoulders. You couldn't help but run your fingers through the hairs at the back of his neck as he began to suck lightly on a particular spot he knew would make all thoughts from your mind completely evaporate.

You know you hadn't won, but you also knew this conversation was over.

For now.

-

A few weeks had passed since your conversation with Azriel.

Any time you tried to broach the subject again, he was conveniently busy, or too tired, or his head would end up buried between your legs so the only thing that came out of your mouth were cries of his name.

But Azriel knew he would have to talk to you about it again sooner rather than later.

Truthfully, he wasn't against the idea - he just hated exposing you to violence of any sort. He wanted to look after you. Protect you. But, he also knew you were stubborn and wouldn't drop the subject no matter how much he stalled.

It also warmed his heart to know that, despite his profession and hardened exterior, you wanted to try and protect him if that time ever came.

He promised to himself after returning from his latest mission, he would bring up the topic himself and grant you your request.

His brilliant, strong willed, beautiful mate.

The mission wrapped faster than expected. Cleaner than expected. And for once, instead of lingering, instead of double-checking every shadow and loose-end—

He came home.

To you.

He didn’t announce himself beforehand like he usually did.

He wanted to surprise you, so he followed the bond instead. The bond tugged faintly, warm and steady, guiding him towards the training ring.

Towards you.

The thought of you was enough to soften something in his chest after days of being the Night Court's infamous Shadowsinger and Spymaster.

Until he stepped inside, and he froze.

You stood in the centre of the ring, bow in hand.

Drawing. Focused. Determined.

And behind you—

Rhysand.

One hand guiding your elbow. The other one at your waist.

“Relax,” Rhys murmured. “You’re fighting the bow instead of working with it.”

Azriel went very still.

Shadows coiled tight around him, reacting before he could.

You released the arrow.

It struck the target—not perfectly, but close enough for your face to light up.

“Did you see that?” You laughed, turning slightly.

“I did,” Rhys said, smiling down at you.

From the sidelines, Cassian grinned. “Not bad. Give it another go.”

Azriel didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

Because this—

This was what you’d asked him for.

Now he was watching Rhys stand where he should have been.

Watching someone else guide your hands.

Your body.

Hearing your laughter - that laugh he loved so much - directed at someone else.

Something dark and sharp twisted low in his chest.

Mine.

The thought came unbidden. Unrelenting.

"Relax your shoulders," Rhys murmured, stepping even closer behind you. His hand came up lightly, adjusting your arm, the other still lightly touching your waist to steady you. "You keep holding tension here."

You exhaled, trying to follow the instruction.

"Better," he said.

Azriel's jaw tightened.

It was too close.

You didn't even notice his arrival. You were too focused.

"Draw slower," Rhys murmured near your ear.

The arrow released.

Closer again, but still not hitting the centre of the target.

"Ugh, why can't I get it closer?" You complained.

"Rhys, her stance is too rigid," Cassian chimed in, approaching the two of you now. "She needs to relax more."

Azriel's eye twitched as Cassian now loomed over you, taking your hand that was holding the bow in his and spreading your fingers to steady your grip.

"Take a deep breath," Cassian coached and you complied.

As you breathed in, your chest pushing outwards and your shoulders coming back slightly - your body almost brushed against them both you were so close. With Rhys standing behind and now Cassian in front of you, practically sandwiching you between them - his brothers -

It was too much.

Azriel moved.

He didn't think. He just reacted.

One second he was across the ring and the next—

He was there.

"Enough."

The word cut clean through the air.

Everything stilled.

You turned, startled.

"Az—?"

Relief and pure unadulterated joy spread across your face as you realised you weren't imagining him or his voice. He was here, in front of you.

You almost swung the bow at both Rhys’s and Cassian’s faces by accident in your haste as you threw yourself at him, wrapping your arms tightly around him.

"When did you get back? I didn't think you would be back for another day," you asked.

Azriel didn't answer immediately, but his arms wrapped instinctively around you in response.

His gaze flicked to Rhys. Then to Cassian.

Something in Azriel's expression went cold.

Both males noticed and slowly - deliberately - they took a step back.

Cassian was already grinning like this was the best entertainment he'd had all week.

"Well, well," he drawled. "Look who decided to—“

"Cassian."

Azriel didn't even look at him as he said it - but the warning was clear.

You pulled back slightly, noting Azriel's tone, your heart doing something strange. "Everything okay?"

His eyes snapped to yours.

And just like that - everything softened.

"You're using a bow," he said.

It wasn't a question.

You winced — it hadn’t really occurred to you that he might’ve been upset that you had started training without him.

"...Yes."

He noted the bow in your hands. On the way your fingers held it. Not quite right. Not how he would've shown you.

His jaw tightened.

"Give it to me."

You blinked. "What?"

"The bow."

Your grip loosened instinctively. You handed it over. He took it from you gently, despite the command in his voice.

Then he stepped closer.

"You want to learn?" He said quietly.

Your breath caught at his tone. "Yes."

Something in his gaze darkened. Possessive. Territorial.

"Then you learn from me."

It was a statement. Final.

Your heart skipped.

Azriel stepped behind you.

Closer than either Rhys or Cassian had been. He purposefully pressed up against your back, the curve of your ass sitting snugly against his hips as he almost curled around you to adjust your hold on the bow.

He repositioned you - almost manhandling you the way he wanted you. Not too dissimilar to how he positioned you in other ways.

Nudging your feet apart with his own to spread your stance wider. Pressing a hand to your lower stomach to coax you to stand straighter. Brushing your hair away from your neck so he could bend down and have clear access to your ear as he murmured instructions.

It was claiming.

And incredibly sexy.

Your breath hitched. Your body temperature rose.

His shadows slipped forward, curling around your arms, your shoulders - like they were wrapping you in him.

Marking you.

Mine.

"Draw," he instructed.

You did.

Your hands trembled slightly - not from the effort. From him, from how close he was.

You were aware of every point of contact.

"Slowly," he said.

His voice was steady, but tight, controlled.

"Release."

The arrow flew.

Dead centre.

You blinked.

"Oh—!"

A delighted laugh escaped you before you could stop it. "Did you see that?!"

"I did," Azriel said quietly.

But there was something softer in his voice now. Less sharp, more...pleased.

You turned your head slightly, beaming up at him. "That was so much better!"

"It was," he agreed.

Behind you—

Cassian made a choking noise.

Rhys didn't even try to hide his smile. "Fascinating," he mused, folding his arms. "It's almost like she just needed the right teacher."

You perked up immediately. "Exactly!"

Azriel went very still.

Cassian snorted. "Yeah, Rhys, clearly you were doing it all wrong. Maybe you needed to stand a bit closer—“

A warning rumble sounded from Azriel's chest.

You missed it, too busy nocking another arrow, excitement bubbling in your chest.

But Cassian and Rhys caught it. They shared an amused look between them.

You took a deep breath, taking aim again. Azriel's hands still very much on you.

You released. It struck dead centre again.

You practically squealed in delight.

Behind you, Cassian clapped slowly. "Incredible. Truly. A natural talent."

You beamed. "Right!?"

Rhys snorted. "Yes, clearly all she needed was...motivation."

Cassian leaned closer to him, stage-whispering loudly, "Or a six-foot-tall shadow with attachment issues glued to her back."

Azriel didn't react.

Didn't even look at them.

But his hand on your waist tightened slightly.

You missed it completely, too busy lining up another shot.

"Alright, one more," you said. "I think I'm getting the hang of it."

"You are," Azriel said, quieter now, but the pride in his voice was clear.

Cassian squinted at the two of you.

Then he grinned.

Rhys sighed, already knowing what was coming. "Cassian—“

"Let me help," Cassian said, stepping closer.

Azriel stilled as Cassian reached for you, all easy confidence. "Here, you should spread your fingers like this—“

His hand reached towards yours—

And that's when it happened.

A low, quiet, dangerous snarl. "Don't."

The word wasn't loud, but it cut through the air like a blade.

Cassian froze mid-reach, still grinning like an idiot.

"Oh?" He said, far too innocent. "Why can't I help?"

Azriel's gaze snapped to him. Sharp. Cold.

"Back off," he growled.

You blinked.

"...Az?"

Cassian's grin widened. "You know, I was just trying to help—“

"You've both done enough."

Rhys fully turned away at that point, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Cassian placed a hand over his heart. "Wow. We're just trying to help our dearest sister-in-law, Az."

You turned in Azriel's hold now, brows furrowing slightly.

"They were just helping me," you said, a little confused. "I asked them to."

Azriel's attention snapped back to you instantly.

And just like that—

All that sharpness? Gone. Softened.

"Because you were bored?" He asked.

You shrugged a little. "Well...yeah. You were gone. I wanted to do something useful with my time."

Something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Something closer to I should've been the one.

"I told you I'd teach you," he said.

You gave him a look. "No, you didn't."

A pause.

"...I implied it."

You snorted. "You absolutely did not."

Cassian barked a laugh. "I'm pretty sure you told me, Az, that you didn't want her to learn."

Azriel shot him a look that promised violence.

Cassian just grinned wider. "You can't get territorial after you refused the job, brother."

You blinked between them. "Wait — territorial?"

Azriel went very still.

Cassian pointed. "Oh, she doesn't even know."

"Know what?" You asked, now fully turning in Azriel's arms.

Because you were still very much in them.

One hand still at your waist, the other still loosely around yours.

He was close. Very close.

You looked down, finally noticing how close your proximity was now you weren't focusing on your aim.

"...You can let go now, Az," you said, innocently.

Azriel didn't even hesitate.

"No."

Cassian lost it.

Rhys outright laughed.

You looked back up at Azriel, trying very hard not to smile. "You do realise they were just helping me, right?"

"I know."

"Okay..."

"But they're not anymore."

Cassian wiped a tear from his eye. "Gods, he's unbearable."

You opened your mouth to say something else and suddenly—

The world tilted.

"Azriel—!"

You yelped as he effortlessly hoisted you over his shoulder.

The bow was gone from your hands in one smooth motion.

Your dignity?

Also gone.

"Az!"

Cassian doubled over laughing. "Oh, this is the best day of my life—“

Rhys crossed his arms casually, thoroughly entertained. "Going somewhere, Azriel?"

"Yes."

You smacked lightly at his back. "Put me down!"

"No."

"Azriel!"

"You're done training."

"I just got good!"

"You're done for the day."

You twisted slightly, trying to look at him. "They were helping me because you weren't here!"

A pause.

Then, quieter—

"I'm here now."

Your heart did something annoyingly soft.

Cassian called after you, "Don't worry, we can have another session tomorrow!"

Azriel didn't even break stride.

"Try it and see what happens," he said darkly.

You groaned, hiding your face in Azriel's back despite the very undignified positioned. "This is so embarrassing."

Azriel hummed, completely unbothered.

His grip on you steady, secure, and like he had absolutely no intention of letting you go anytime soon.

And he didn’t. Not until he got you back to your shared room.

If you knew that this would be the reaction you’d of received—

—you’d of asked Rhys or Cassian’s to train you sooner.

[tunetales]

just binged your stories & am obsessed! 😍 could you write something with eris?

Moments (Eris x Reader)

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: Moments with Eris.

Authors Note: I had a few requests for Eris’s version so here it is. Pre-established relationship below. Scenes aren’t in any particular order, but are simply inspired by different moments. No warnings below.

The moment the mating bond snapped into place and you crossed the threshold of the Forest House as Eris’s mate, the smokehounds decided something very important.

You were theirs.

Not in the way Eris was theirs — commander, master, High Lord.

No.

You were precious.

The first time you knelt to greet them, expecting wary sniffs and territorial growls, you were instead nearly bowled over by a wall of smoke and muscle. Massive heads shoved beneath your hands. Warm, dark eyes blinking up at you with startling gentleness.

Eris had stood there, stunned.

“They don’t usually do that,” he murmured.

One hound had promptly leaned its entire weight against your legs as if proving a point.

From that day forward, you were never alone.

If you walked the corridors, at least two shadows followed.

If you read by the hearth, one enormous body would curl at your feet while another rested its heavy head in your lap, rumbling softly when you scratched behind its ears.

If you so much as sighed in your sleep, a head would pop up from its resting place to check you were at peace.

Eris loved it.

Truly.

When duty pulled him from you — border disputes, court politics, Beron’s lingering messes — he left knowing that nothing short of an army would reach you without going through fangs first.

“You’re safer than I am,” he once told you dryly, watching three hounds rearrange themselves around your chair like sentinels.

But there were…downsides.

Like the fact that they had very strong opinions about sleeping arrangements.

Eris would return late, exhausted, craving nothing more than to bury himself beside you — only to find every available inch of mattress occupied by smoke and smouldering fur.

“They are in my spot,” he would say flatly.

You, barely visible beneath a tangle of limbs and blankets, would shrug. “They were here first.”

One hound would open a single eye at him in a lazy challenge.

He refused to admit he sometimes lost that battle.

Then there were the incidents.

Two of the hounds had decided to race each other down the corridor the exact moment you stepped out of a room. You’d barely see the blur of movement before you were on the floor, wrist twisted painfully beneath you.

The howl that followed had shaken the rafters.

Not from you.

From them.

They’d circled you immediately, whining, pacing, nudging you gently with their noses as if trying to fix what they’d done. One had even pressed its forehead to your shoulder in apology.

Eris had arrived seconds later, fire already flaring, only to find you half-laughing through the sting while two enormous beasts looked ready to exile themselves in shame.

“They didn’t mean to,” you insisted while he inspected your swelling wrist.

“I know,” he sighed, though he shot them a pointed look. “You nearly injured my mate.”

They hadn’t left your side for three days after that, not even when you went to the bathroom.

And then there was the one time with the sentry.

A young, overzealous fool, who grabbed your wrist during an argument — not roughly, but enough.

The reaction has been instantaneous.

Ferocious snarls.

A flash of teeth.

The sentry was on the ground before he could even register the mistake, two smokehounds practically mauling him while another bolted from the room in a streak of shadow.

Eris had felt the alarm through the bond before the hound even reached him.

By the time he arrived, the message was clear to every other fae in the Autumn Court.

Do. Not. Touch.

You’d been more shaken than hurt, and Eris had gone frighteningly still in a way that made even the hounds obey the snap of his fingers instantly to allow their master to enact his own punishment.

Afterward, when everything was settled, he’d found you seated on the floor with all three beasts pressed against you like oversized guards.

“They protected me,” you’d murmured softly.

“Of course they did,” he’d replied. “They love you.”

And that was the thing.

For all his mild exasperation — for the stolen spaces, they way they followed you around like smouldering ducklings — he loved that you loved them.

Loved that when he wasn’t there, you weren’t alone.

Loved that you laughed when one nudged a book from your hands demanding attention.

Loved the sight of you framed in firelight, a hound’s head resting trustingly on your thighs.

Sometimes, late at night, when he finally managed to edge one aside and slide into bed beside you, he’d press a quiet kiss to your temple and murmur:

“I’m glad they love you, otherwise I’d have to ship you back to where you came from.”

There was a well timed growl before one shifted closer, half squeezing Eris half off the mattress.

You snorted.

“I’d like to see you try.”

He’d grumble.

But he’d relent and stay.

Because they weren’t just his hounds anymore.

They were yours too.

And the way your smile softened when they curled around you?

That alone made every inch of stolen mattress worth it.

The House of Wind feels different.

Quieter.

Warmer in a way that has nothing to do with the fire burning in the hearth.

You’re seated on one of the plush sofas, carefully cradling Nyx in your arms while Feyre sits nearby with that luminous, exhausted new-mother glow. The baby is still impossibly small, despite being a few months old now, wrapped in dark fabric, tiny wings twitching in his sleep.

You were besotted.

Across the room, Rhysand stands beside Eris, both of them pretending not to stare.

Eris has seen battlefields without blinking.

He has faced Beron’s cruelty without flinching.

But this?

This makes him unnervingly still.

You adjust Nyx gently, murmuring something soft and instinctive. The baby’s hand curls around your finger and you beam at Feyre’s praise at how natural you are with him.

And Eris’s breath catches.

He doesn’t miss the way your expression changes — how your features soften into something almost reverent. Protective. Fierce in a quiet way.

Rhys notices it too.

“Careful,” Rhys murmurs, arms crossed, violet eyes gleaming faintly. “It appears your wife may be thinking of hiding my son under her cloak before she leaves.”

Eris arches an eyebrow. “It appears that way.”

Rhys smirks. “Ever thought about having any of your own?”

“No.”

The sudden, almost harsh, reply from Eris catches Rhys by surprise. He doesn’t miss the underlying tension however as Eris continues to watch you — regret perhaps, longing, apprehension.

After a moment, Rhys says quietly. “You’d be surprised what you’re capable of. When it’s yours.”

Eris doesn’t look at him. “You presume much.”

“Do I?” Rhys’s tone is mild. “You’re not Beron.”

The name lands like a stone dropped into deep water.

Eris’s jaw tightens — but he doesn’t snap.

Instead, he keeps watching you.

Watching the way you instinctively shift Nyx into a more comfortable position when he stirs.

Watching the way you smile as you carefully brush your fingers through the dark hair on top of his head.

Watching the warmth in your eyes.

“I thought,” Eris says after a long pause, voice lower than usual, “that I would never want one.”

Rhys hums. “And now?”

Eris is silent.

Because now…he isn’t imagining a child raised in fear, as he was.

He’s imagining you in the Forest House, sunlight through the autumn leaves, smokehounds sprawled like loyal guardians by your feet.

He’s imagining small footsteps in those halls.

He’s imagining breaking a cycle instead of repeating it.

“I think,” Eris admits quietly, “it depends on who the mother is.”

Rhys’s smirk turns softer. “It usually does.”

—

Later, you reluctantly hand Nyx back to Feyre. Eris is quieter than usual as you say your goodbyes.

Back in your guest chambers, you shrug off your cloak, smiling faintly. “He’s beautiful, isn’t he?”

Eris doesn’t answer immediately.

He’s watching you instead.

“Yes,” he says finally. “He is.”

You pause, noticing something different in his tone. “What is it?”

He steps closer, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear — a touch more thoughtful than teasing.

“I’ve been reconsidering something,” he says.

“Oh?” You reply lightly. “Should I be concerned?”

“Possibly.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Eris.”

He exhales once — steadying.

“For a long time,” he begins carefully, “I thought I would be a poor father.”

You blink.

That’s not how you expected this conversation to go.

“You wouldn’t,” you say immediately.

He huffs a quiet, humourless breath. “Beron made me believe otherwise.”

Your expression softens. “You are nothing like him.”

He searches your face, as if testing the truth of it.

“And if I were?” He asks.

“Then I wouldn’t be standing here with you if I believed that.”

The certainty in your voice stills him.

A beat passes.

Then, casually — far too casually — he says:

“Shall we make one?”

You choke.

“WHAT?”

Eris doesn’t have the decency to look apologetic. If anything, he looks amused at your spluttering.

For as long as you’d known him, you knew Eris had complicated feelings about children. It was something that you had never asked or pushed him about, content to spend the rest of your days just the two of you if that’s what he wanted.

“You’re insufferable,” you wheeze, coughing into your hand. “You cannot just — you cannot phrase it like that!”

He tilts his head. “How would you prefer I phrase it? Let’s fuck like bunnies until—“

“No!” You gasped, smothering the rest of his sentence with your hand. “Perhaps something less barbaric.”

His lips twitch as you pull your hand away.

He steps closer, hands settling at your waist, this time with unmistakable tenderness.

“I meant,” he says more softly, firelight dancing softly behind his amber eyes, “that I would like to try. With you. If you wished it.”

Your indignation melts into something breathless.

“You’re serious,” you whisper.

“Terrifyingly.”

Emotion flickers across your face — surprise, warmth, hope.

“You’d be a wonderful father,” you murmur.

He brushes his forehead against yours. “Only if they inherit your patience.”

You laugh quietly. “I have no patience for you thinking less of yourself.”

He considers that.

Then smirks. “Very well. But if they start commanding smokehounds before they can walk, that’ll be your fault.”

You smile, heart full, hands sliding up to rest on his chest.

“I don’t know about that, their father is very bossy.”

Eris narrows his eyes at you in a playful glare. “Oh, yeah? Get on the bed then, Mrs Vanserra.”

You almost choked again.

“Now? Eris, we can’t, this is Rhys and Feyre’s home—“

“Of course we can,” he says, beginning to walk you back in the direction of the large bed. “I see no reason for us to delay.”

“Eris Vanserra,” you basically shriek as the backs of your knees hit the mattress and you fall down on the bed.

He leers over you, smug warmth curling around you both. “Are you concerned about the proximity of Rhysand’s bedroom?”

“Yes!”

He considers that, then murmurs, “I’m sure the High Lord of the Night Court has heard worse.”

You swat his chest. “You’re unbelievable.”

He catches your wrist gently, bringing your knuckles to his lips.

“I am serious,” he says again — softer this time. “About wanting this. About wanting it with you.”

The humour drains just enough to let hit truth shine through.

Your expression shifts.

“You’re really ready?” You whisper.

He brushes his nose against yours. “I’m ready to stop letting Beron dictate what I believe I’m capable of, especially if you believe in me.”

That steals your breath far more than his earlier boldness.

You slide your hands up his shoulders. “We’ll talk about it properly,” you say gently. “When we’re home. In our own court. In our own bed.”

His eyes darken slightly at the last part.

“Very well,” he concedes.

Then, after a beat, he adds lightly, “We need to think of an emergency to get us back to Autumn.”

You snort. “You’re so impatient.”

“And yet,” he murmurs, pressing a slow kiss to your mouth, “the Mother chose you for me.”

You can’t argue with that.

Though as he pulls you closer, you hiss under your breath, “If Rhys or Feyre hear so much as a creak—“

Eris smiles against your lips, nipping them playfully.

“Then perhaps they should invest in thicker walls.”

The dream always starts the same.

Cold stone. Smoke thick in the air. Beron’s voice — low, disappointed, venomous.

He’s younger in the dream. Smaller. Less lean. Forced to kneel.

The first blow lands.

He doesn’t make a sound.

The second, third and fourth one, he grits his teeth to keep the sounds at bay.

Fire lashes his back, across his shoulders. The smell of burning fabric and skin punctuates his nose.

Beron circles him slowly. “Weakness,” his father says. “You reek of it.”

Eris says nothing — it was always better to say nothing.

“Let me show you what weakness does to a man.”

The doors open.

The guards drag someone in.

You.

Your wrists are bound. Your face and mouth bloody where you’ve clearly fought them.

A wrecked sound slips past Eris’s lips before he can help it.

He tries to move — to stand, to reach you, to protect you — but he is powerless.

Beron’s smile shifts.

“So this,” his father murmurs, stepping towards you, “is what you thought you could hide from me.”

“No—“ Eris chokes out.

Beron lifts a hand.

Flame curls around his fingers.

“Love makes you weak.”

The fire strikes you.

You scream—

Eris bolts upright in bed.

Your scream is still ringing in his ears.

For one horrible second, he doesn’t know where he is. His skin is damp with sweat, chest heaving, power crackling dangerously close to the surface.

He turns—

The space beside him is empty.

Cold.

The world narrows.

“—No.”

He’s out of bed before the thought finishes forming, bare feet hitting the floor hard enough to rattle the side table. Panic roars through him, primal and violent.

The bond is there — but fear distorts everything. Makes it distant and wrong. It clouds clear thinking.

He strides out of the bedroom, fire flaring instinctively along his arms.

He finds you immediately.

Curled up on the sofa near the low-burning hearth, wrapped in a blanket, a book resting in your open lap, a cup of tea on the table beside you.

Very much alive.

Very much unharmed.

You look up, startled at the sudden rush of heat and movement. “Eris?”

He doesn’t answer.

He crosses the room in long strides and drops to his knees in front of you like a man who has just outrun death itself.

You blink, confused and also concerned — and his hands are on you.

Checking.

Your arms. Your face. Your shoulders.

“Eris—“ you say again, softer now. You see the wildness in his eyes, the terror, and you understand.

Without a word, he gathers you up.

He lifts you straight off the sofa and into his chest like you weigh nothing at all.

You gasp faintly at the sudden movement, arms automatically winding around his neck.

He sits back down with you in his lap, one hand firm at the back of your head, pressing you against him as if he needs to feel you as close as possible to believe it’s real.

His breathing is still uneven.

“Hey,” you murmur gently, fingers reaching to brush into his hair. “What happened?”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Just holds you tighter.

After a long moment, his voice comes — rougher than you’ve heard in a while.

“I couldn’t find you.”

Your heart squeezes.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you explain softly, “I didn’t want to wake you, so I came out here.”

His jaw tightens at that —not in anger at you, but at the memory still clinging to him.

“I thought…” he swallows. “I thought he had you.”

You still.

“Beron?”

He nods once against your shoulder.

“It was him,” he says quietly. “It started how it always does, but this time they dragged you in. And he—“

His hand flexes involuntarily against your back.

You shift in his lap so you can see his face properly. There’s no mask right now. No court composure. Only lingering horror.

“It was just a dream,” you say gently.

“I know.”

His eyes avoid yours.

You cradle his face between your hands. “Look at me.”

He does.

“I’m here,” you whisper. “He will never touch me.”

His eyes flicker — some part of him wanting to argue that nothing is impossible.

So you press your forehead to his.

“And even if he tried,” you add softly, “you’re not that powerless boy anymore.”

Something in him eases at that.

Not fully.

But enough for now.

After a while, his breathing finally steadies and his fire dims back to a low warmth instead of a threat. He’s comforted by the feel of your heartbeat against his chest and the soft scratches your fingers make against his scalp.

“Do you want to go back to bed?”

He nods.

Without a word, he stands again — still holding you — as if the thought of you walking alone for a few seconds is unacceptable.

You smile faintly against his shoulder as he carries you back into your bedroom.

When he lays you down this time, he doesn’t leave an inch of space. One arm under your neck. The other wrapped securely around your waist. Your leg hooked over his.

Protective.

Anchoring.

You press your hand to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under your palm.

“I’m here,” you murmur sleepily.

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I know,” he replies.

And this time, when sleep takes him again, it’s quieter and peaceful.

Because you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Eris’s office in the Forest House is unusually quiet.

Which means one thing.

Eris is stressed.

You can tell by the why he’s hunched over his desk, papers scattered everywhere, quill scratching aggressively across parchment like the ink has personally offended him.

His advisors shoot you a look as they stand huddled by the door, clearly nervous to disturb him or face his wrath.

But you were his wife, his mate — and that’s why they had summoned you.

If there was anyone who could pry him from his mood, it was you.

So you did what you always do when the High Lord of Autumn looks like he might burn half the court down out of irritation.

You baked.

A chocolate cake, specifically. Rich, warm, slightly molten in the centre — easily one of your best yet.

You cut him a generous slice, place it carefully on a plate, and walk into his office with the kind of optimism only someone carrying cake possesses.

“Eris?” You say gently.

He doesn’t look up.

“Mm.”

“I brought you something.”

Still writing, he waves a distracted hand. “Leave it.”

You step closer and set the plate down near his elbow. “It’s cake, one of your favourites.”

That gets a reaction.

Just not the one you hoped for.

“I’m busy,” he says sharply, eyes still on the parchment. “Not now.”

The words snap through the room before he even realises how harsh they sounded.

Silence settles for a second.

You blink.

A single eyebrow raises.

You shrug, unwilling to let Eris’s temper dampen your spirits.

“Okay.”

You pick up the plate again, walk around his desk, and sit directly across from him.

Eris doesn’t notice at first.

He’s still scribbling furiously until—

A soft moan rings out.

“Mmm.”

He ignores it.

Then it happens again.

“Mmm—oh wow.”

His quill slows.

Across the desk, you take another bite of cake, closing your eyes dramatically.

“Oh gods,” you sigh happily, “that is so good.”

Eris’s eyes flick up.

You’re leaning back in your chair, savouring the bite like it’s the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

“Mmm,” you hum again, licking some chocolate from your fork. “I outdid myself.”

His eyes narrow.

You ditch the fork, instead using your finger to gather some chocolate frosting from the edge of the plate and licking it off.

Slowly, sensually, your finger making a small popping noise as your lips enclose around it. Your head tips back slightly as you let out an entirely unnecessary, exaggerated sound of appreciation.

“Mmm—“

The quill snaps.

You look up innocently.

Eris is staring at you now.

Really staring.

“What,” he says slowly, “are you doing?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“You know what you’re doing.”

You take another bite, maintaining eye contact the entire time.

“Mmm—oh, Eris,” you murmur. “—so good.”

His jaw tightens.

“Are you finished?” He asks.

“With the cake?” You say thoughtfully, “No, I’m savouring it.”

You drag your finger through the frosting again.

Eris watches the movement like it’s personally offending him.

“You’re making those sounds on purpose.”

You widen your eyes. “What sounds?”

Right on que, you lick your finger.

“Mmm.”

His chair scrapes against the floor as he leans back, crossing his arms.

“You’re insufferable.”

You shrug slightly. “You said you didn’t want any.”

“I said not now.”

“Well,” you say, swirling your fork around the plate, “now it’s mine.”

Another bite.

Another pleased sound.

His gaze drops to your mouth.

Then the cake.

Then back again.

You can practically see the moment his patience snaps.

“Bring the cake to the bedroom.”

You pause mid-bite.

“…What?”

Eris stands slowly from his chair, expression dark with something far more dangerous than stress now.

“I believe,” he says calmly, “you were trying to get my attention.”

You swallow. “Maybe.”

“Congratulations,” he murmurs. “Now you’ve got it.”

You lean back in your chair. “Are you done being grumpy?”

“Oh, I’m very done.”

You glance at the cake. “What if I want to finish it here?”

Eris walks around the desk with slow, predatory steps.

When he stops in front of you, he gently takes the plate from your fingers and sets it aside.

Then he leans down, voice low near your ear.

“I don’t want to get chocolate all over my desk.”

Your breath catches.

“You can keep making those sounds, just not over cake.”

Your face warms instantly, your body automatically tensing.

He straightens, smirking at the flushed look on your face.

“Bedroom. Cake. Now,” he says.

Mission accomplished.

The balcony on the House of Wind glows with soft laternlight, the air humming with anticipation as guests gather for Starfall.

You stood near the railing, glass of wine in your hands, watching the sky deepen into a velvety blue that promises the first stars will be falling soon.

Somewhere behind you, Eris is trapped in a conversation with emissaries from the Winter Court — also invited alongside Autumn to the annual Night Court celebration.

Diplomacy, allies, and the sort of polite posturing that comes with being the mate of the newly appointed High Lord of Autumn Court, was not your scene.

So you slipped away for a moment of quiet.

A mistake, apparently.

“Enjoying the view?”

You turn to find a very tall, broad Illyrian warrior leaning casually against the railing next to you, wings folded behind him. His grin is charming, confident, and entirely too familiar for someone you’ve never met.

Cassian, you believe.

“Very much,” you reply politely.

He steps closer, glancing up at the sky and then back to you. “First Starfall?”

“Does it show?”

“Only a little,” he says with a laugh. “Most people here pretend they’ve seen it a hundred times.”

You smile despite yourself.

“And you?”

“Oh, I’ve seen it plenty,” Cassian says easily. “But I’d say the company tonight might improve the tradition.”

He holds out a large hand towards you, flashing a charming grin at you. “I’m Cassian. What’s your name gorgeous?”

Ah.

So that’s where this is going.

You’re amused — also slightly flustered — did he not know who you were?

“(Y/N).”

You reach out and shake his hand.

“Which court are you visiting from?”

“Autumn, if the colours didn’t make it too obvious,” you lightly joke.

The deep burgundy dress you wore tonight was stitched with flowing layers and leaves that shimmered in the light — a dress for a lady of Autumn whilst honouring aspects of Night.

His eyebrows lift slightly — he didn’t hide the fact his eyes lowered to appreciate your dress before fixing on your face once again.

“It’s nice to see Autumn sending someone so lovely — you’ll have to thank Eris for me.”

You laugh softly.

“I’ll be sure to pass the message along.”

He grins wider. “Or you could stay in the Night Court. We treat our guests very well.”

“Do you?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “In fact, the beds are very comfortable—“

A warm hand slides around your waist.

Not subtle, or gentle.

Possessive.

You don’t even need to turn your head to see who it is.

Eris appears beside you like a flame taking shape.

Cassian freezes before he can finish his sentence.

Eris’s arm settles firmly around you, drawing you tight into his side. His fingers press hard into your hip, searing your skin through the layers of tulle, thumb brushing once in a silent claim.

“General,” Eris greets smoothly.

Cassian blinks.

“…Eris.”

You feel the faint rumble of amusement in Eris’s chest.

Cassian’s eyes flick between the two of you — your proximity, Eris’s hands, the way you’re not pulling away and settle against his side as if you belong there.

The deathly glare Eris is currently pinning on him.

Realisation dawns.

“Shit,” Cassian says slowly.

Eris tilts his head. “Yes.”

Cassian drags a hand down his face. “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

“For you,” Eris replies calmly.

You bite your lip to stop a laugh.

Cassian straightens, looking deeply embarrassed now. “I didn’t realise you were—“

“My mate,” Eris finishes.

Cassian winces.

Before the awkwardness can deepen, another voice drifts in.

“Well, this is interesting.”

You turn to see Rhysand approaching, violet eyes glinting with amusement.

He takes in the scene instantly.

“Cassian,” he says, “why are you trying to start a war with Autumn by flirting with their High Lady?”

“I didn’t know!” Cassian sputters.

Eris’s fingers tighten just slightly, and you knew his temper was beginning to simmer — the air around you started to swelter.

“No harm done, he was just introducing himself,” you say, trying to diffuse the situation. You press your hand to Eris’s chest, turning more into his hold. “Isn’t that right, my love?”

Eris’s eyes narrowed and you don’t miss the fiery undertone to his voice. “Yes, he was merely being…friendly.”

“Very friendly,” you add innocently.

Cassian points at you. “You didn’t tell me!”

“You didn’t ask,” you reply sweetly.

Rhys chuckles under his breath.

“Well,” he says, clapping Cassian on the shoulder, “Congratulations. Why don’t you go and flirt with Viviane now and start another diplomatic incident?”

Cassian looks like he might throw himself off the balcony as Rhys steers him away, laughing.

Cassian throws one last horrified look over his shoulder at you, “I’m sorry, I swear I didn’t know!”

The moment they disappear into the crowd, Eris exhales slowly through his nose.

You glance up at him, already smiling.

“Oh no,” you say lightly, “is the terrifying High Lord of Autumn pouting?”

“I do not pout.”

“You absolutely pout.”

His arms tighten around your waist in response, pulling you firmly into his chest.

“I let you step away for ten minutes,” he says, with mild irritation, “and an Illyrian general attempts to charm my mate.”

You laugh, resting your hands against his chest, adjusting the lapels of his jacket.

“Charm might be a generous description.”

Eris raises a brow. “You seemed entertained.”

“Well,” you say innocently, “it was amusing.”

His eyes narrow.

Your smile widens.

His hands slide from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you even closer — entirely unnecessary given how close you already are.

You tilt your head. “You’re being very territorial tonight.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

His thumb traces along your back.

“Perhaps,” he murmurs, “I’m reminding certain Night Court warriors who you belong to.”

You laugh, nudging him slightly. “He didn’t know who I was.”

“That doesn’t make it any less irritating.”

“Oh, come on,” you tease, “you should be flattered.”

“Flattered?”

“That your mate is apparently so irresistible.”

His gaze drifts slowly over your face.

Down your chest.

Then back up again.

“I am already well aware of that,” he says.

You try to maintain your teasing expression, but it softens under the weight of his attention.

“And besides,” you add lightly. “You arrived just in time to make your little dramatic entrance.”

“Good.”

“You enjoyed that part, didn’t you?”

Eris doesn’t pretend otherwise.

“Immensely.”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath.

His hand drifts again — this time settling at your waist with unmistakable familiarity as he leans down slightly to nip at your ear lobe.

“Though next time,” he murmurs near your ear, “I may simply throw him off the balcony.”

“You absolutely will not.”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether he tries again.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say fondly.

His expression softens slightly, though the possessive warmth remains as this thumbs traces slow circles at your waist.

“Stay close for the rest of the night,” he murmurs.

“Because you’re worried someone else might flirt with me?”

“No,” he says smoothly. “I’d much rather keep my hands on you.”

You couldn’t help the involuntary squeak as both his hands reach down to grab your ass. You lightly slap his chest, biting your lip to keep your smirk at bay.

“Possessive male,” you mutter.

“Hopelessly,” he agrees.

You roll your eyes, but lean back into Eris’s hold as he turns you so your back is pressed against his chest. His arms wind around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as a cascade of stars begins to fall overhead.

His hands refuse to leave your waist for the rest of the night.

Not that you’re complaining.

[belleeebelleee]

Bucky Barnes x fem!reader

Bucky thinks you're too young for him, despite the fact that he's already half in love with you.

The first time James Buchanan Barnes looks at you too long, he nearly walks into a glass door.

Sam laughs so hard he wheezes.

“Man, that is embarrassing,” Sam Wilson says around his grin.

Bucky scowls at him, rubbing his shoulder where it clipped the frame. “Shut up.”

Sam’s eyes slide toward you across the compound gym.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the mat with Alpine sprawled in your lap, completely unaware of the catastrophe you’ve apparently caused. One of the recruits is talking your ear off while you nod politely, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“You got it bad,” Sam says.

“I do not.”

“You walked into a door.”

“Poor design.”

Sam snorts. “Sure.”

Bucky ignores him. Mostly because there’s nothing he can say without sounding defensive.

Or worse.

Truthful.

Because the problem is this:

You’re too young.

Not immature. Not reckless. Not incapable.

Just young.

Young in the way sunlight is young. Like fresh starts and futures and people who still buy furniture instead of inheriting ghosts.

And Bucky—

Bucky is over a hundred years old with blood on his hands that will never come clean.

So no.

Absolutely not.

Not happening.

Unfortunately, his heart seems to have missed the memo.

You join the Avengers in the least dramatic way possible.

No alien invasions.

No secret prophecies.

No world-ending catastrophe.

You’re simply very, very good at your job.

You’re a trauma medic attached to a relief organization the Avengers occasionally partner with, and after patching up three agents, one diplomat, and Sam Wilson himself during a mission in Madripoor, Fury offers you a permanent position.

You say no.

Twice.

The third time, Pepper Potts calls personally.

By the fourth offer, you finally cave.

Which is how you end up living in the compound three floors beneath a supersoldier who actively avoids you.

At first, you assume he just doesn’t like people.

Natasha informs you otherwise.

“Oh, he likes people,” Natasha Romanoff says dryly over breakfast. “Just not many.”

You glance toward the empty seat Bucky abandoned the second you walked into the kitchen.

“…Did I offend him somehow?”

Natasha actually chokes on her coffee.

Across from her, Sam suddenly becomes deeply fascinated by his cereal.

“What?” you ask.

“Nothing,” Natasha says immediately.

“Absolutely nothing,” Sam agrees.

You narrow your eyes.

Neither elaborates.

You begin noticing things after that.

Little things.

Bucky always leaves the room when you enter it—but somehow your favorite tea always appears stocked in the kitchen.

You mention once that the compound hallways are freezing, and two days later there’s a thick knit blanket folded neatly outside your door with no note attached.

You complain about a stubborn cabinet hinge in your apartment.

The next morning it’s fixed.

No one admits responsibility.

But when you thank Bucky casually over dinner just to test a theory, he nearly inhales his drink.

“…Wasn’t me.”

You smile slowly.

“Okay.”

He stares at you like you’re dangerous.

Which is ridiculous.

You’re wearing bunny slippers.

The age gap becomes obvious one night during a movie marathon.

You, Sam, Peter, and Bucky are sprawled across the common room while some absurd eighties action movie plays on the screen.

Peter groans dramatically. “This CGI is awful.”

“It looked good at the time,” you argue.

Bucky turns his head.

“At the time?”

You freeze.

Sam bursts into laughter so violently he almost falls off the couch.

“Oh my God,” he gasps. “She thinks the eighties are ancient history.”

“They are ancient history,” you defend.

Bucky stares at you with something between horror and disbelief.

“You were born after the eighties?”

“…Yes?”

“The nineties?” he asks weakly.

“Yes.”

Peter pipes up helpfully. “She was born in 1998.”

Bucky looks like someone shot him.

You blink. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Sam says gleefully. “He is not.”

Bucky stands abruptly.

“I’m going for a walk.”

Sam loses it completely.

After that, Bucky avoids you harder.

Which would almost be impressive if he weren’t terrible at hiding the fact that he cares about you.

He watches you constantly.

Not in a creepy way.

In a protective way.

Like he’s making sure you’re breathing.

You catch it in fragments.

His eyes tracking you during missions.

His body subtly positioning between you and danger.

The way he relaxes when you laugh.

The way he goes still when someone touches you for too long.

You start understanding the truth before anyone says it aloud.

Bucky Barnes is in love with you.

And for some insane reason—

You’re falling for him too.

It happens slowly.

Then all at once.

You fall for his quietness first.

Most people assume silence means emptiness.

Bucky’s silence is full.

Heavy with observation. Care. Thoughtfulness.

He notices everything.

The exact way you take your coffee.

The songs you hum absentmindedly.

Which nightmares leave you restless.

You realize he starts leaving the compound gym earlier on mornings after you wake from bad dreams.

Like he’s trying to make breakfast before you get there.

Like feeding people is the only comfort he knows how to offer.

And God.

When he smiles?

Rare. Small. Crooked.

It feels precious.

Like discovering something hidden beneath ice.

The problem is that Bucky refuses to let anything happen between you.

The closer you get, the more distance he forces between you afterward.

You’ll spend hours talking on the roof at night—sharing stories and terrible coffee and quiet laughter—and then he’ll avoid you for three straight days.

It hurts more than you expect.

Because you know he feels it too.

One night, after a mission in Prague, you finally corner him.

He’s sitting alone in the hangar cleaning his weapons when you walk in.

“Did I do something wrong?”

His hands stop moving instantly.

“No.”

“Then why are you avoiding me?”

“I’m not.”

You fold your arms.

He sighs.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

“Bucky—”

“You should be out with people your own age.”

The words hit like cold water.

You stare at him.

“…What?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“You’re young. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”

“And?”

“And I’m not…” He swallows hard. “I’m not someone you build a future with.”

Anger sparks sharp and immediate.

“You don’t get to decide that for me.”

His jaw tightens.

“You think this is a joke?”

“I think you’re scared.”

That gets his attention.

Steel-blue eyes snap to yours.

“You don’t know what I am.”

“I know exactly what you are,” you fire back. “You’re kind. You’re loyal. You’re infuriatingly self-sacrificing. You bring me tea when I’m stressed and pretend you didn’t. You stay outside the medbay when I work late because you think I don’t notice.”

His expression fractures slightly.

“You deserve someone better.”

“No,” you say softly. “I deserve to choose.”

Silence stretches between you.

Raw.

Fragile.

Bucky looks wrecked by it.

By you.

“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I remember too much.”

Your anger fades instantly.

Slowly, carefully, you walk toward him.

He goes perfectly still.

“I know,” you say gently.

“You’re twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-eight.”

“That’s not helping.”

Despite everything, you laugh quietly.

His eyes close briefly like the sound physically affects him.

“You’re gonna wake up one day,” he says roughly, “and realize you wasted your life on an old man with too many ghosts.”

You crouch in front of him.

“James.”

He looks at you helplessly.

“You are not hard to love.”

Something inside him breaks.

You see it happen in real time.

Like a wall finally cracking after decades under pressure.

His metal hand flexes once.

“You shouldn’t say things like that to me.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to believe you.”

Your heart aches.

So you do the only thing that feels right.

You take his hand.

Both of them.

Flesh and metal.

Equally.

“I mean it.”

Bucky stares at your joined hands like he’s never seen anything so devastating.

Then he pulls away.

Not harshly.

Worse.

Carefully.

Like it costs him everything.

“I can’t.”

And he leaves.

You cry exactly once about it.

Natasha finds you sitting on the kitchen counter at two in the morning eating dry cereal from the box.

“You look terrible,” she says.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

She takes the cereal from you.

“…He said no?”

You nod miserably.

Natasha sighs the sigh of someone deeply exhausted by male stupidity.

“He loves you.”

“I know.”

“Unfortunately, he’s also an idiot.”

A startled laugh escapes you.

Natasha bumps your shoulder lightly.

“Give him time.”

Time, unfortunately, turns out to involve disaster.

Because of course it does.

This is the Avengers.

Nothing emotionally significant can happen without explosions.

The mission in Bucharest goes sideways fast.

An arms deal.

Bad intel.

Too many hostiles.

You’re there strictly as medical support, tucked safely in the quinjet several blocks away.

At least, that’s the plan.

Then the building collapses.

Your comms erupt with shouting.

“Medic down—”

“—need extraction—”

“Where’s Barnes?”

Dust fills the air.

You’re dragged from the wreckage half-conscious with blood running down your temple and your left leg trapped beneath concrete.

And then Bucky arrives.

You’ve seen the Winter Soldier before.

Cold.

Efficient.

Terrifying.

But this?

This is different.

This is rage.

Pure, horrifying rage.

He tears through debris with his metal arm like the rubble personally offended him.

Someone tries to stop him.

That person immediately regrets it.

“BUCKY—” Sam shouts.

Bucky ignores everyone.

His eyes find you.

And you swear the entire world stills.

“Hey,” you whisper weakly.

He drops to his knees beside you.

Hands shaking.

Actually shaking.

“Don’t move,” he says, voice rough with panic.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Your attempt at humor nearly destroys him.

You can see it.

Blood loss makes everything hazy, but one thing becomes crystal clear:

Bucky loves you so much it terrifies him.

He lifts the concrete slab like it weighs nothing.

The second you’re free, he gathers you against his chest.

Protective.

Desperate.

Your face presses against tactical gear and leather and the frantic pounding of his heart.

“You’re okay,” he mutters, like he’s trying to convince himself. “You’re okay.”

“I’m okay.”

His forehead rests briefly against your hair.

For one tiny moment, the world disappears.

No missions.

No history.

No fear.

Just him.

Just you.

Then your pain catches up.

You hiss sharply.

Bucky immediately pulls back. “Medbay. Now.”

The quinjet ride is chaos.

You fade in and out while Bruce works on your leg.

Bucky never leaves your side.

Not once.

At some point you wake to find him sitting beside your cot, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor like he’s praying.

“You stayed,” you murmur.

His head snaps up instantly.

“Yeah.”

“You hate medbays.”

“I hate hospitals.”

“Still counts.”

A faint huff of laughter leaves him.

Relief flickers across his face just hearing you joke again.

You watch him quietly.

Disheveled hair.

Blood on his gloves.

Exhaustion carved into every line of his body.

And underneath it all—

Love.

So much love.

“Bucky.”

His eyes meet yours.

“Come here.”

He hesitates.

Then obeys.

You shift carefully, making room for him beside the cot.

“Doll—”

“Please.”

That word wrecks him every time.

He sits carefully beside you.

You lean into him immediately.

No hesitation.

His entire body locks up.

Then slowly—

Slowly—

He wraps an arm around you.

Like holding you is both instinct and privilege.

You rest your head against his shoulder.

“I meant what I said before,” you whisper.

Silence.

Then quietly:

“I know.”

“You still think you’re too old for me?”

A long pause.

“…Yeah.”

You snort softly.

He looks offended.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You tilt your head back to look at him. “You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think you’re using age because it’s easier than admitting you’re scared someone might actually love you enough to stay.”

Bucky goes still.

Dead still.

The truth lands hard.

You see it.

And because apparently you enjoy emotional violence, you add gently:

“I think everyone leaves you eventually, and you’re trying to leave first.”

His breathing catches.

For a second you think he might walk away again.

Instead, he whispers:

“You make me want things.”

Your chest tightens painfully.

“What kind of things?”

“A home.” His voice is barely audible. “A future. Somethin’ normal.” He swallows hard. “Kids, maybe.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly.

Bucky looks horrified he admitted that aloud.

“You’d be a good dad,” you say softly.

He laughs once.

Broken.

“No, sweetheart. I wouldn’t.”

“You already are.”

His brows pull together.

You smile faintly. “You take care of everyone. Especially the people you love.”

The word hangs there.

Love.

He doesn’t deny it this time.

Instead, he reaches up carefully and brushes hair away from your face.

His fingertips linger against your cheek.

Warm flesh hand.

Not the metal one.

Like he still thinks the other might hurt you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

Your heart pounds.

“Why would I do that?”

His eyes darken with emotion so intense it almost hurts to look at.

Then finally—

Finally—

He kisses you.

Soft at first.

Tentative.

Like he’s waiting for the world to punish him for wanting this.

But the second you kiss him back, everything changes.

His hand slides behind your neck.

He kisses like a man starved.

Like he’s been holding himself back for months and doesn’t know how to do it anymore.

It’s not frantic.

It’s worse.

Careful.

Reverent.

Every brush of his mouth says something he doesn’t know how to speak aloud.

You pull back breathless.

Bucky’s forehead drops against yours.

“I’m in so much trouble,” he mutters.

You laugh softly.

“Because you kissed me?”

“Because I’m never gonna stop wanting to do it again.”

Dating Bucky Barnes is surprisingly domestic.

You expect intensity.

Drama.

Brooding declarations in the rain.

Instead, you get:

Quiet mornings.

His hand at the small of your back.

Shared coffee.

Movie nights where he falls asleep with his head in your lap despite insisting supersoldiers “don’t nap.”

You get Alpine deciding you’re her favorite human.

You get Bucky standing in the kitchen at midnight making grilled cheese while listening to you ramble about terrible reality television.

You get a man who loves fiercely but carefully.

Like your happiness is something precious he’s been entrusted with.

The age gap still bothers him sometimes.

Usually in small ways.

Pop culture references.

Technology.

The occasional existential crisis when you tease him about being born before penicillin.

“You are never saying that sentence again,” he informs you gravely.

You grin. “You were literally alive during swing dancing.”

“So were old people in the nineties.”

“You are old people in the nineties.”

He glares.

Then kisses you to shut you up.

Which honestly feels like a win.

The real turning point comes six months later.

It’s after a mission.

A bad one.

You wake in the middle of the night to find Bucky sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing.

Nightmare.

You recognize the signs now.

Without speaking, you move closer and press against his back.

His shoulders tense briefly.

Then sag.

“You okay?” you whisper.

“No.”

Honest.

Always honest with you now.

You wrap your arms around his waist.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Long silence.

Then quietly:

“I saw you die.”

Your chest aches.

“In the dream?”

He nods once.

You press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I’m still here.”

“For now.”

The fear in his voice destroys you.

You turn him gently until he faces you.

“You know what’s really unfair?” you murmur.

“What?”

“You think loving you is a burden.”

His eyes flicker downward.

“But loving you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

Emotion crashes across his face so openly it startles you.

You touch his jaw softly.

“I’m not going anywhere, James.”

And for the first time—

He believes you.

You can actually see it happen.

The shift.

The surrender.

His walls finally lowering completely.

Bucky pulls you into his lap and buries his face against your neck.

Holding you so tightly it feels instinctive.

Necessary.

“I love you,” he says roughly.

Not tentative.

Not fearful.

Certain.

“I love you too.”

He kisses you afterward like he finally understands he’s allowed to.

A year later, Sam finds Bucky in the compound kitchen staring at a jewelry website with naked panic.

Sam nearly drops his smoothie.

“Oh, this is serious.”

Bucky slams the laptop shut.

“Get out.”

Sam grins slowly. “You’re proposing.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re absolutely proposing.”

Bucky scowls.

Sam’s expression softens unexpectedly.

“You happy?”

Bucky glances toward the hallway where your laughter echoes faintly from another room.

His entire face changes.

Softens in a way that would probably terrify his enemies.

“Yeah,” he admits quietly. “Yeah, I am.”

He proposes on the roof.

No audience.

No elaborate setup.

Just the city lights below and cold evening air curling around both of you.

You’re rambling about something completely ridiculous when he interrupts suddenly:

“I wanna spend the rest of my life loving you.”

You blink.

“…What?”

Bucky looks nervous.

Actually nervous.

More nervous than when facing down armed mercenaries.

“I had this whole speech planned,” he mutters, frustrated. “Was supposed to be better than this.”

Your heart starts pounding.

He drops to one knee anyway.

“I know I’m older than you.”

You snort through sudden tears. “Slightly.”

“Brat.”

You grin shakily.

Bucky takes your hand carefully.

Reverently.

“But every good thing I have now started with you.” His voice roughens. “You made me believe I could still have a life after everything.”

Tears spill down your cheeks immediately.

“So yeah,” he says softly. “Marry me?”

You don’t even let him finish reaching for the ring box before you’re kissing him.

Bucky laughs against your mouth for the first time since you’ve known him.

Pure happiness.

Unrestrained.

“Yes?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yes.”

Again.

“Yes.”

He slides the ring onto your finger with shaking hands.

Then pulls you into his arms like he never intends to let go again.

And this time—

He doesn’t.

[drabblesandsnippets]

tw: sweet to spicy Soft!Bucky who was terrified of asking you out. Fumbling his way through the first few attempts until his intentions were finally clear enough that you took pity on him.

Soft!Bucky who spent hours getting ready for the first date. Picking the right outfit. Buying the perfect flowers. Meticulous backup plans to the backup plans in case anything fell through.

Soft!Bucky who agonized and researched small talk topics and safe subjects to keep the conversation flowing. Only to never seem to run out of things to talk about with you.

Soft!Bucky who took advantage of every comfortable silence to study you. To memorize signs that might one day warn him that you were growing frustrated. Or trying to hold back your enthusiasm for something you were clearly excited about.

Soft!Bucky who promised to never let you hide. Especially from him. New music that made you squeal had him spinning you around the living room to dance. Books that made you cry had him kissing away your tears, holding space for you to mourn characters that burrowed deep in your heart.

Soft!Bucky who holds your hand at every opportunity. Walks in the park. Cuddling on the couch. Standing in the kitchen, so he can wrap his arms around you. Bury his face in your neck and breathe you in. Comfort. Safety. Home. A warmth that settles deep in his chest, thawing out his frozen fears of never deserving love.

Soft!Bucky who would spend hours kissing you if you let him. Gentle brushes of his lips on your temple. Apple of your cheeks. Tip of your nose. The corner of your mouth to make you smile. Tender kisses against your lips to prove his devotion to you. Only turning hungry when you'd invite him in, tongues meeting in a slow dance that leaves you both breathless.

Soft!Bucky who never stops showing how much he loves you. Date nights, even years into the relationship. A vow of, "I'm never gonna stop spoiling you, sweet girl," kept from the very beginning. Fancy dates to go dancing that end with you making out in the back of a limo. Living room picnics with blanket forts and whispered secrets under fairy lights.

Soft!Bucky who only has eyes for you. Making it his mission to overwrite all your insecurities. Mapping every inch of your body with his hands. His lips. Tongue. Tracing your soft flesh until there's no doubt left that you're perfection incarnate.

Soft!Bucky who nearly came at the first taste of you. Trembling thighs spread open for him, glistening pussy all puffy and gorgeous. Begging to be devoured. He only lasted as long as you did. Tongue swirling around your clit, fingers buried deep, walls fluttering around his thick digits. The scream of his name making him lose his goddamn mind.

Soft!Bucky who apologized for coming so fast by having you ride his face. His cock aching and leaking again by the time you're grinding against his mouth, chasing your pleasure, thighs threatening to smother him. His rough grip never leaving you wondering if you're taking too much.

Soft!Bucky who doesn't let you go until you've nearly drowned him, smug face dripping with the evidence of his talents. Your mouth landing on his the moment you sink down on his thick length, tasting yourself as he bottoms out inside your slick heat.

Soft!Bucky who always lets you adjust first. Half-lidded eyes drawn to the pleasure contorting your face, your hands gripping his shoulders with each deliberate rolls of your hips.

Soft!Bucky who never stops praising you. Even when the pleasure leaves him breathless. Words stuttering out between harsh gasps of incoherent curses. Feel so good. Can't get enough of you. - Takin' me so well, baby, like you were made for me. - You're so fucking hot, sweetheart. Ridin' me like you never wanna stop.

Soft!Bucky who takes over the moment your muscles start to protest. Rolling you onto your back, his hands wrapped around the back of your thick thighs, encouraging you to just lay there and take it. Let him fuck you nice and deep until your tensing up again. Pussy quivering, trying to milk him dry.

Soft!Bucky who refuses to fill you up until he's tasted you again. Beard sure to leave you sore as he tongue fucks you towards oblivion. Nose bumping against your clit with each filthy thrust, mouth slurping against your dripping pussy while you grip his hair.

Soft!Bucky who takes his time to ease back inside you. Palms flat next to your ears, fingers flexing against the mattress, hips nestled between your still shaking thighs so he can savor this. Punctuating each of your whimpers with soft kisses along your neck, nose brushing sweat-slick skin, nostrils flaring at the intoxicating scent.

Soft!Bucky who doesn't pick up the pace until your sobbing against his throat, nails clawing at his back, encouraging his thrusts to turn sloppy. The exquisite wet slapping of flesh each time he bottoms out adding to the keening symphony filling the space around you. Hurling him towards the point of no return.

Soft!Bucky who needs to feel you squeeze his dick one last time. His free hand slipping between your heated bodies to give you exactly what you need. Direct pressure. Filthy praise. Guttural moans that have your velvet walls squeezing the last bit of sanity of out of him.

Soft!Bucky who, even while chasing the delicious friction and pumping you full of endless ropes of cum, is still careful with you. Most of his weight shifting to his limbs, tongue soothing the spot his teeth had started to sink into it, his fingers ever careful of squeezing the back of your neck where he was holding for leverage.

Soft!Bucky who scoops you up the moment his vision clears. Heartbeat still pounding in his ears, but at least he can check on you. Bring you out of your cock-drunk stupor with lazy kisses and targeted caresses, bypassing all your oversensitive spots.

Soft!Bucky who only breathes deep once you snuggle close, giggling about being worn out, body lax against his. Trusting him to take care of you in such a vulnerable state.

Soft!Bucky who isn't sure he deserves the peace you bring into his life, but has slowly started to learn not to question it as much. To just accept it. Appreciate it. Cherish it. Like he'll always do with you.

Banners by @cafekitsune

[mcrdvcks]

saw this tweet and got inspired that i wrote it at 3 am in the morning before going to bed, lol (insomnia my old friend).

warnings/tags: 2.1k words, soft!bucky, fem!reader, smut, soft sex, oral (f!receiving), fingering, unprotected piv, creampie, mention of brushing hair from face, aftercare (that gets interrupted by a certain little kitty)

You’re sprawled on the living room floor, arms tucked behind your head, watching Bucky knock out push-ups like it’s nothing. His hair is half-tied, sweat clinging to his neck, and every time he dips low above you, he presses a quick kiss to your lips.

“Twenty-seven,” he murmurs against your mouth. Another peck. “Twenty-eight.”

You try to keep still, to be good, but it’s hard when he’s hovering over you like that—shirtless, muscles flexing, eyes flicking down to your lips every few seconds like he’s starving. You arch a brow. “Are you actually counting or just making out with me between sets?”

His grin is unfair. “Multitasking.”

You roll your eyes. “Uh-huh.”

“Twenty-nine.” This time the kiss lingers—soft and warm and just a little bit… distracted. His lips move against yours like he’s forgetting the workout altogether, his body lowering a touch too far as his chest brushes yours.

Then, without warning, your hands slide up to grab his shoulders, pulling him down fully until he collapses over you with a huff of laughter.

“Hey,” he says, voice muffled as he nuzzles into your neck, “you’re interrupting my form.”

“Maybe I wanted a longer kiss,” you mutter, already trailing your fingers through the damp strands at his nape. “Sue me.”

His chuckle rumbles against your collarbone. “Gotta finish my reps, baby.”

You tilt your head, letting your lips skim his jaw. “Then consider this your new set.”

That does it.

He shifts, one metal hand bracing by your head, the other sliding down your side until his fingers grip your thigh. He parts your legs with his knee slowly, deliberately, slotting himself between them as his mouth finds yours again—deeper now, slower. Hungrier.

Your breath catches, your fingers tightening in his hair.

“Still multitasking?” you whisper against his lips.

Bucky smirks. “Not anymore.”

His mouth was warm on yours again, slow and deep this time, his tongue teasing at the seam until you opened for him with a sigh. Your fingers slipped under the band of his shorts, nails dragging gently over the curve of his lower back, the skin hot and damp with sweat.

"Fuck," Bucky murmured into your mouth. "This is a way better workout."

You laughed softly, but the sound caught in your throat when he rolled his hips down against yours—slow, measured pressure that made your breath hitch and your thighs tighten around him instinctively. You weren’t wearing much, just your sleep shorts and an old tank top, and he… he was hard.

Very.

"Jesus, Buck—"

"Mmh. That’s what happens when you lie under me bein’ all cute ‘n kissable." He mouthed along your jawline, his voice honeyed and rough. "You think I’m made of steel, baby?"

"Parts of you, maybe," you teased, rocking up against him. That earned you a low groan, and the sound raked straight through your core.

"Keep that up and I’m gonna fuck you right here on the yoga mat."

"Promises, promises," you breathed, pulling his mouth back to yours.

Bucky shifted, kneeling between your legs just enough to drag your shorts down, the fabric catching slightly on your thighs before he peeled them off entirely. His gaze dropped, metal fingers brushing down the curve of your inner thigh, warm and reverent.

"Goddamn," he muttered, like it physically hurt to look at you. "You’re fuckin’ soaked already."

"Wonder why," you whispered, hips lifting toward him in offering.

He didn’t dive in. Not yet. He leaned down again, pressing kisses along your belly, your hip, the inside of your thigh like he was trying to memorize the map of you. Then his mouth reached your cunt, and the first warm flick of his tongue made you arch off the mat.

"Ah—f-fuck, Bucky—"

"Shhh." He pressed your thighs open with both hands, slow and firm, tongue curling just enough to drag a ragged little moan from your throat. "I got you."

The strokes of his tongue were gentle at first—just long, unhurried laps that made your muscles twitch. But then he sucked, just once, right over your clit, and you damn near came off the floor.

"Bucky!" you gasped, one hand flying to his hair.

He groaned low at the sound of his name on your lips like that, like it meant something. Like you couldn’t help it. His tongue flattened against you again, slower now, savoring every twitch of your hips beneath him. You tugged at his hair—half encouragement, half desperation—and he smiled against your skin.

“That good, sweetheart?” he murmured, lips brushing your inner thigh.

You nodded, too breathless to speak, hips already chasing after his mouth when he pulled back just slightly to look up at you. Your chest was heaving, tank top twisted and barely covering you now, eyes glassy and dazed with want. He could’ve stared at you like that forever—completely undone for him.

“Jesus,” he whispered, almost reverent. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Then he ducked his head again. This time his tongue moved with purpose, working tight circles around your clit while his fingers slid up to tease at your entrance. You moaned when he pushed one inside, then two, stretching you slowly, curling just right until your back arched off the mat.

“B-Bucky—oh my god—”

“I know, baby,” he crooned. “I know. Feels good, huh?”

He fucked you with his fingers, steady and gentle, mouth never leaving your clit. You were soaked—slick and pulsing around him—and when your legs started to tremble on either side of his head, he only doubled down.

“C’mon, give it to me,” he whispered hoarsely. “Wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

Your release crashed over you moments later, your thighs squeezing around his head as you cried out his name. He kept going through it, coaxing every last tremble and twitch from you until your hand tugged at his hair again in a half-sob, overwhelmed.

He finally pulled back, lips slick, eyes dark with adoration.

“Hi,” he said softly, crawling up your body and pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek, then your lips. You could taste yourself on his tongue and it only made you whimper.

“Hi,” you breathed back, still trembling a little. “That was… not a push-up.”

He laughed, a warm rumble against your chest as he pulled you into his arms, cradling you like you were breakable.

“Nope,” he agreed. “That was cardio.”

You buried your face in his neck, giggling breathlessly. “God, I love your workouts.”

“Yeah?” he grinned, nudging your nose with his. “Good. ‘Cause I’m nowhere near done with my sets.”

You were still trying to catch your breath when he hooked an arm under your thigh and shifted—rolling his hips against you again, cock heavy and throbbing against your sensitive center. Even through the fabric of his shorts, the pressure made your body jolt with aftershocks.

“Bucky—” you breathed, voice catching. “Too soon…”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, slow and sweet. “Then let me be gentle, sweetheart.”

You didn’t have the strength to argue—not when he pulled back just far enough to shove his shorts down, revealing the thick line of him, flushed and dripping at the tip. He stroked himself once, then again, groaning low in his throat as he looked at you. Legs still spread, body flushed and trembling, eyes locked on him like he was something holy.

“Look at you,” he murmured, almost like it hurt. “You’re so fuckin’ pretty it makes me stupid.”

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing along the stubble on his cheek. “Then come be stupid with me.”

That broke him. He lined himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, slow and teasing until you whimpered and lifted your hips in a silent plea. Bucky groaned at the sound, bending down to kiss you as he started to push in—inch by inch, filling you until you gasped into his mouth.

“Shit, baby,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re so warm… always so tight f’me.”

He moved carefully at first, rocking his hips in smooth, shallow thrusts as he kissed you—your mouth, your cheek, the tip of your nose. Everything about him was overwhelming in the best way: the stretch, the heat, the love in his eyes as he watched your body take him.

You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him in, needing him close—all of him. His chest pressed against yours, heartbeat pounding through both your bodies as he began to move a little faster, a little deeper, letting the rhythm build naturally.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Feels so good, Bucky…”

“I know, baby.” His voice was rough and low, but gentle. “You’re doin’ so good for me. Always so perfect.”

Each thrust made your toes curl, the way he filled you just right—just enough pressure, just enough drag. He kept one hand tangled in your hair, the other gripping your thigh to anchor himself as he rocked into you, slow and worshipful.

“I love you,” you whispered.

That did something to him. His movements faltered for half a second, and then his mouth was everywhere—your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat—as he thrust deeper, groaning like he couldn’t bear to hold back anymore.

“I love you too,” he gasped against your skin. “So fuckin’ much, baby—don’t even know what to do with it.”

You were close again, the pressure building so sweetly it almost hurt. Your nails dug into his back, your breath coming in gasps, and Bucky felt it—knew it.

“That’s it,” he panted, lips brushing your cheek. “Let go for me. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

You came with a shuddering cry, clinging to him as he held you through it, whispering soft praises into your ear. A few more thrusts and he followed with a low, broken groan, burying himself deep as his release spilled inside you, warm and pulsing.

Bucky didn’t move for a while, just breathed with you—your heartbeats slowly syncing in the warm silence of the living room. The yoga mat was definitely not meant for sex, but the way his body covered yours, keeping you grounded and safe, made everything else irrelevant.

Eventually, he shifted just enough to look at you, brushing the damp hair back from your face with gentle fingers. “You okay, doll?”

You nodded sleepily, your legs still loosely wrapped around his waist. “Mmm. Might be dead, actually.”

He chuckled, nose brushing yours. “You’re not dead. You’re just well-exercised.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but you were grinning. “Your definition of cardio is criminal.”

He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “C’mon. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

You whined when he pulled out, hips twitching at the loss of warmth. He soothed you with another kiss, this one soft and lingering, before standing—naked and shameless as ever—and offering you his hand.

You took it with a dramatic groan. “If I can’t walk, I’m blaming you.”

“You say that like it’s a threat,” he smirked, helping you upright and into his arms. He didn’t even bother grabbing your shorts—just scooped you up bridal-style and padded down the hall toward the bathroom like you weighed nothing.

“Show-off,” you muttered, resting your head against his shoulder.

He just hummed and pressed a kiss to your hair.

The bath was quick, lazy, and full of sleepy kisses and wandering hands—but no more than that. He washed you gently, careful with every touch, even when you teased him for the way he cooed over your sore thighs. He even gave your forehead a little kiss after toweling you off.

“Such a sap,” you whispered, smiling into his chest as he wrapped you in one of his old T-shirts.

“Only for you,” he murmured, his voice low and sweet.

Back in the living room, Bucky tossed the rumpled yoga mat aside and collapsed onto the couch with you on top of him, arms wrapped securely around your waist. You nestled against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart, your fingers tracing the faint line of a scar near his collarbone.

Just when you were about to fall asleep, a soft meow broke the peace.

You cracked one eye open. “No.”

But it was too late.

Alpine jumped delicately up onto the couch, tail flicking, and immediately made her way across Bucky’s stomach like it was her designated nap zone.

“Alpine,” Bucky said, voice full of fake betrayal, “I just had her, baby, c’mon…”

Alpine responded by kneading into his abs and curling up in the most inconvenient position possible—smack between the two of you.

“She’s jealous,” you said sleepily, reaching over to scratch behind her ear. “You ignored her during your little cardio routine.”

“I was a little busy.”

“She doesn’t care.”

Bucky sighed dramatically, stroking Alpine’s back with one hand while the other curled tighter around your waist.

“Fine. Family cuddles it is.”

You smiled and nuzzled into his neck. “Best set yet.”

[mcrdvcks]

he was chaos, he was revelry

summary: Bucky tells you to go out and have a day at the mall and get whatever you want. When you only buy a $20 Squishmallow, he has to intervene. word count: 2.9k+ pairing: mafia!bucky barnes x fem!reader notes: if you don't know, i'm a sucker for mafia dark romance books. like literally a whore when it comes to reading them on my kindle. most of the time it's the female character spending thousands of dollars with the male character's money because it's enemies to lovers, but here's a little twist on it! <3 warnings/tags: mafia au, sweetheart!reader, shy!reader, bucky is the mafia boss and rich, fluff, bucky loves his girl

The sun barely filtered through the heavy curtains when you padded into the kitchen, the tile cold under your socks. The scent of strong coffee hit you first, followed by the low rumble of Bucky’s voice from the adjoining office.

You’d gotten used to it, mostly—the way his mornings started in one world while yours stayed in another. You could hear him through the cracked door, his voice sharp, all steel and threat. “If he thinks he can skim off my shipments, he’s got another thing coming. I want him handled by noon. Make it clean.”

A pause. The scrape of a chair. His tone dipped even lower. “And tell the Rosetti crew if they send another man sniffing around my docks, I’ll gut their operation and leave the bones for the rats. Yeah. That’s all.”

Silence followed, broken only by the soft click of the call ending. And then the door opened, and suddenly you weren’t in the world of the Barnes Syndicate anymore.

“Morning, doll,” Bucky murmured, his voice rich and warm like the coffee he carried. The sharp edges of his morning melted away the second he saw you standing there in your oversized sleep shirt, hair a little mussed, hands tucked in your sleeves. His whole face softened, like the violence of a few minutes ago was just smoke he could brush off his shoulders.

“Hi,” you whispered back, smiling shyly as he walked over and pressed a kiss to your temple. He smelled like cedar and the faint bite of cologne, a mix you’d long since decided meant home.

“Made your tea,” he said, nodding toward the counter. Sure enough, the mug was there, steeping just the way you liked. “Sit. Eat something for me, yeah?”

You obeyed, curling into the chair as he slid a plate with toast and strawberries your way. He perched on the edge of the table, still in his black dress shirt and vest from early meetings, his sleeves rolled up to reveal the gleam of his metal arm in the morning light.

“You’re free today, right?” he asked casually, as if he hadn’t just threatened someone’s life two minutes ago.

You nodded, chewing on a strawberry.

“Good. I want you to go out, doll. Shopping. Whatever you want. No limit.” He leaned in to kiss the top of your head, and you could hear the indulgent smile in his voice. “You’ve been holed up here too much.”

Your first instinct was to refuse. “Bucky, I don’t need anything—”

“Not what I asked,” he interrupted gently, but with the kind of authority that made your cheeks warm. “Humor me. Take Natasha with you. Let her carry the bags.”

You blinked. “Bags?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Plural. Go spoil yourself for me, sweetheart.”

---

Natasha Romanoff was the perfect bodyguard. Or maybe the scariest one. She leaned against the mall’s marble column in black jeans and a leather jacket, sunglasses hiding her sharp eyes. Everyone who glanced her way looked twice, then decided they had somewhere else to be.

Meanwhile, you hesitated at the entrance of yet another gleaming luxury store, feeling like a kid sneaking somewhere you didn’t belong. The displays were immaculate—handbags behind glass, shoes lined like art pieces.

“You can go in,” Natasha said dryly behind you, arms folded. “You’re the girlfriend of James Barnes. They’ll probably carry you to the register if you ask.”

“That’s… worse,” you muttered under your breath, earning the faintest twitch of a smirk from her.

You wandered inside anyway, letting the sales associates swarm. They started listing the merits of different bags and scarves, but your heart wasn’t in it. The idea of spending thousands of Bucky’s money on a purse that would just sit in your closet made your stomach twist.

After an hour of store-hopping, you had… nothing.

Natasha raised an eyebrow as you walked past a fountain, hands still empty. “You’re going to break his heart, you know.”

“I’m looking!” you insisted, cheeks warm. “I just… don’t need any of this.”

Then, as if fate had a sense of humor, you spotted it.

A wall of squishmallows.

You froze in the doorway of the toy store, heart stuttering at the sight of the soft pastel sea of plush animals. There, on the middle shelf, was the one you’d been eyeing for weeks: a fat little lavender bunny with floppy ears and a permanent sleepy smile.

You drifted closer, fingers brushing the soft fabric like it was spun sugar. Price tag: $20.

Behind you, Natasha sighed, long-suffering. “This is what gets her attention. Not the diamond bracelet. A… blob.”

“It’s not a blob,” you whispered defensively, hugging the smaller version in your arms first. It was only $9.99, which felt safer somehow, but after a long stretch of indecision—cuddling it, putting it back, and staring at the bigger one—you finally picked up the larger bunny.

It was so soft.

“Okay,” you mumbled to yourself, taking it to the register. Natasha trailed after you, shaking her head like she couldn’t believe this was her life now.

Hours later, back in the car, your entire “haul” sat on your lap: one squishmallow. The driver’s rearview mirror reflected the barest twitch of his mouth, like he knew exactly how Bucky would react.

You clutched the plush closer and sank into the leather seat, shyly happy in a way that didn’t need anything more than this $20 marshmallow bunny.

---

Bucky’s evening had been a blur of phone calls and quiet threats. He’d wrapped up a meeting in his office, loosening his tie as he sank into the leather chair and finally glanced at the credit card notifications on his phone.

He expected a list of designer boutiques, a jeweler, maybe that cozy little bookstore he knew you loved. He’d practically begged you to go wild, and he wanted to see the proof in numbers.

Instead, there was just… one charge. $20.48 – Playtime Toys.

Bucky blinked. He stared at it like it might rearrange itself into something sensible. “Twenty… dollars?” he muttered under his breath, scrolling to make sure the statement wasn’t glitching. That was it. The entire day out, with Natasha as your guard, and you’d spent less than a single steak at his favorite restaurant.

He called his driver first. “Where’d she go today?” Bucky’s voice was calm but suspicious.

The driver chuckled quietly. “Couple clothing stores. Looked around. Bookstore for a while. Stationery shop too. She didn’t buy anything. Just… looked.”

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “And the toy store?”

“She found a stuffed animal, boss. Held the small one for a long time. Put it back. Eventually bought the bigger one. That was it.”

Bucky sighed and ended the call. He sat there for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself. He could practically picture you, wandering the mall like a shy little ghost, falling in love with a plush toy instead of anything remotely expensive.

He wanted to be exasperated. But mostly? His chest ached with something warm and stupidly fond.

---

The penthouse was quiet when he returned, the only light spilling from a single lamp in the living room. His steps softened instinctively when he spotted you curled up on the couch, fast asleep.

You were on your side, hair falling over your face, the TV murmuring some late-afternoon sitcom rerun. And nestled against your chest, clutched in both arms like a lifeline, was a plump lavender bunny squishmallow.

Bucky froze in the doorway, the sight hitting him like a punch. God, he was ruined for this. His cold, lethal world fell away entirely as he walked closer. You’d tucked your cheek against the plush, and he noticed—when he leaned down—that faint, familiar scent. His cologne.

He huffed a quiet, disbelieving laugh, crouching beside the couch. “You sprayed my cologne on a marshmallow bunny, doll?” he murmured, brushing a knuckle over your soft hair.

You mumbled something sleepy, half-lost in a dream, nuzzling the squishmallow closer.

Bucky sat on the coffee table, elbows on his knees, and just… watched you for a moment. The only person in his entire world who could fall asleep clutching a stuffed animal while he had men stationed with rifles on the roof.

He finally, gently, tugged the bunny from your arms. You stirred with a tiny whine, lashes fluttering as you blinked up at him, bleary and soft. “Bucky?” Your voice was a whisper.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said, lowering himself onto the couch and pulling you into his lap with one smooth motion. You melted against him instantly, head on his shoulder, the residual warmth of sleep making you pliant. He pressed a kiss to your hair. “We need to talk about your… shopping.”

You perked up faintly, confusion knitting your brows. “Shopping?”

He held the squishmallow up like evidence. “This. This is all you bought?”

Warmth flooded your cheeks. “I… I didn’t really see anything I needed…”

“Doll,” he said, voice low and thick with amusement and a hint of frustration, “I told you to spoil yourself. I gave you a driver, Natasha, my card… and you spent twenty bucks at a toy store?”

You squirmed in his lap, shy and defensive. “I like it. And… it was enough.”

He stared at you for a long moment, then let out a slow breath and shook his head, lips twitching. “You’re killing me, you know that?”

“Sorry…” you whispered, eyes dropping.

“No, no, don’t you dare apologize.” His voice softened instantly, the steel melting into warm honey as he cupped your cheek. “I just… I want you to have things, doll. Pretty things. Comfortable things. Everything.”

“I don’t need everything,” you murmured, leaning into his palm.

He kissed your temple, his metal hand rubbing slow circles on your thigh. “Then I’ll just have to keep trying until you take at least something from me that costs more than a marshmallow.”

You giggled quietly, burying your face in his neck. “It’s a bunny.”

“Uh-huh,” he teased, hugging you tighter, the plush squished between your bodies. “My terrifying reputation out there, and at home my girl smells like sugar and sleeps with a bunny.” His thumb stroked along your jaw, and he whispered, “you’re mine, doll. And I’m gonna spoil you whether you like it or not. Starting tomorrow. No more twenty-dollar limits.”

“Bucky…” You whined softly, but your arms tightened around him anyway, secretly loving every second of his indulgent attention.

He chuckled low in his chest, already plotting which stores he’d personally escort you to next—because clearly, leaving you to your own devices had resulted in a lavender squishmallow and absolutely nothing else.

---

You woke to warmth. It was the slow kind—like sunlight through gauze, or fingers tracing your hip beneath the covers. The sheets were tangled around your legs, and your cheek was pressed into Bucky’s chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat under your ear.

His arm was slung low around your waist, all protective weight and heat, and you barely had time to stretch before his hand slid up to your ribs. “Morning, doll,” he murmured, voice still rough from sleep.

You made a soft noise in reply, pressing your nose to the crook of his neck. He smelled like expensive soap and the clean spice of his cologne—the same one you’d sprayed, just a little, onto the squishmallow now sitting like a sentry on the couch across the room.

His chest rumbled under your cheek. “You smell like that damn bunny again.”

You smiled sleepily, too warm and soft to be embarrassed.

“You gonna let me do this properly today?” he asked after a moment. His voice was lighter now, teasing, but there was a thread of something real beneath it. “Let me spoil you?”

Your hand found his shirt—half unbuttoned, likely from some midnight phone call you’d slept through—and you nodded against him. “M’kay,” you mumbled.

He pressed a kiss to your forehead, and it lingered. “Good girl.”

---

You’d never shopped with Bucky before. Not like this. Sure, you’d trailed beside him during quick errands or sat with him while he bought suits—but this was different. This time, you were the purpose. The focus.

You’d barely made it out of the car before the first store employee spotted him.

The shift was immediate.

People noticed him the moment he entered any space. Not because he made noise—he didn’t. Bucky moved with the coiled calm of someone who knew the world would part for him whether he asked it to or not. His arm slid around your waist as you stepped into the first shop, and just like that, every sales associate in the building looked like they were preparing for royalty and war all at once.

You leaned into his side instinctively. “I think they know who you are,” you whispered as a woman in a sharp black suit all but sprinted to the counter to alert someone else.

Bucky smirked. “That’s the idea.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sweetheart.” He stopped you with a gentle squeeze around your waist. “We are not doing the bunny stunt again.”

You flushed immediately. “It wasn’t a stunt—”

“Mm.” He leaned down and brushed a kiss behind your ear. “Start picking things. Or I’ll start picking for you.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already steering you toward the displays, one hand low on your back.

The boutique was quiet and spotless, everything sleek and expensive. You gravitated toward a soft knit sweater first—cream-colored, slightly oversized.

Bucky watched you run your fingers along the hem, then plucked it off the hanger himself and handed it to an assistant. “This one. In three colors.”

You blinked. “Three—”

“Cream, navy, and that soft pink. You’ll wear that one at home.”

Your heart gave a traitorous flutter. He was already moving on.

By the third store, you had a growing collection of bags hanging from his metal arm—cozy sweaters, soft linen dresses, a pair of boots you’d admired silently until he caught the look in your eye and made the purchase without blinking.

You tried to be subtle about what you liked.

He noticed everything anyway.

When you paused too long at a shelf of delicate hair clips, he picked out two and handed them to the attendant with a nod. When your fingers drifted toward a candle with a vanilla-peach scent, it was quietly added to the growing pile.

And when you looked guilty every time he paid?

He leaned in close, speaking low so only you could hear. “You don’t get it yet, do you?” he murmured, thumb brushing your hip. “All of this? It’s for you. Always has been.”

You swallowed hard and didn’t trust yourself to reply.

---

By noon, you had four shopping bags of your own and six more hanging from Bucky’s arms, none of which he’d let you carry. You insisted on at least holding one—and he handed you the smallest, lightest one with a smirk.

“I’m gonna have to build you a closet just for gifts,” he muttered as the two of you walked through the marble corridor of the high-end mall.

“I don’t need a closet.”

“You need shelves. A dressing room. Hell, a second apartment.”

You gave him a look. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“And you spent twenty dollars on a plush rabbit like I haven’t buried people for more expensive things.” He turned to face you, stepping into your path and backing you up gently against a column. His arms caged you in without touching, just the looming warmth of his body in that damn black jacket he looked so good in.

You blinked up at him, flustered by the attention—and the grin playing at the edge of his mouth.

“Let me take care of you,” he said, softer now. “Let me give you everything. You don’t have to be shy with me. Ever.”

Your fingers fidgeted with the edge of the bag you were holding. “I’m just… not used to all of this.”

“I know,” he said, leaning closer, his forehead brushing yours. “But get used to it. Because I’m never gonna stop.”

---

By the time you returned to the penthouse, you were exhausted, glowing, and more than a little overwhelmed.

Bucky insisted you go lie down while he had the packages brought in and sorted.

When you finally walked into the bedroom, the bags were neatly arranged in a corner—and your squishmallow was still sitting upright on the couch by the window, as if it had stood guard the entire time.

You smiled at it, then dropped into bed.

Moments later, the mattress dipped beside you, and Bucky pulled you into his chest with a content sigh. “You did good today, doll.”

“I bought stuff.”

“You let me buy stuff for you,” he corrected, arms curling tighter around your waist. “Progress.”

You tucked your face into his neck, voice muffled. “You still mad I only bought a bunny?”

“Still can’t believe it,” he said, chuckling. “But I’ll allow it.”

You let out a soft laugh, heart so full you didn’t know what to do with it. Outside this room, he was the head of the Barnes Syndicate—ruthless, respected, feared. But here, with you, he was the man who carried ten bags through a mall just to see you smile.

[thebolterx]

Divine

Pairing: Azriel x Female! Reader

Summary: Azriel is on his way to an important meeting, yet the moment he sees you bathed in warm afternoon light, he cannot tear his eyes away. You are utterly divine.

Words: 1,739

Warnings: None, just pure fluff and some neck kissing and Az being utterly smitten with you. English is not my first language.

He was on his way for a meeting – important meeting – when he found you in a library, slouched over the table working patiently on your latest map. You were focused and he noticed a little crease between your brows. You always had it when you were working.

Azriel knew he shouldn’t disturb you, and he himself had to hurry because Rhysand had said it was urgent but he couldn’t help taking his eyes off you. He never could. Not since the first time he saw you in the archives, stocking old maps in their proper places and laughing at something the older archivist had said.

His eyes wandered over your delicate form, bathed in an afternoon light creeping through the window in warm golden strands. They danced on your dress, your pinned-up hair and your nose.

And at that moment, Azriel felt like he was watching something divine.

He took a step in your direction and his shadows launched themselves toward you. They curled around your ankles and arms, making you gasp in a surprise. Azriel watched your shoulder relax when you realized it was him. It made him weak in ways he didn’t care to admit.

You turned around and smiled at him. It reached your eyes – and it made him long for something that was already right at his fingertips.

And yes. You were utterly divine.

He felt small tug in his chest, because how had he come to deserve that look in your eyes, when he never deserved to be seen by you at all? He felt an overwhelming need to touch you. To make sure it was real. Because sometimes it felt too good to be true.

So he forgot about Rhys for a moment and walked toward you.

Only when he was close — feeling your warmth, hearing your steady breathing — did his hands reach for your waist.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you said. Your hand reached for his cheek without hesitation, stroking his skin gently. Your thumb slid beneath his eye. His shadows shuddered, and he thought he would give you the world if you only asked.

You waited for him to speak but he only leaned into you, resting his forehead against your collarbone. He breathed your scent. Vanilla and sugar. You quivered a little because you were ticklish.

“Are you okay?” you ask, worry lingering in your voice. “Aren’t you supposed to be in a meeting with that important commissioner from another court?”

“It can wait.”

It was a lie, of course. It couldn’t really wait, and Rhys would have his head if he didn’t show up in his study in a moment. And he was going be late and his was n e v e r late.

But he didn’t seem to care right now. Not when he had you this close and he was breathing you. Not when he could feel softness of your body against him.

“Okay. Seriously” you tried again after a moment of silence. “Is everything okay?”

He sighted. You were always sweet with him and somehow it almost felt illegal.

“It’s okay now,” he replied eventually, burying his head further into the place where your neck met your shoulder. You laughed softly, tightening your arms around him.

He didn’t deserve you. He knew he didn’t. And when those thoughts began creeping in, your arms cradled him closer, as if you knew exactly what he was thinking. You seemed to possess a rare talent for reading him.

“I love you,” you said, as it was the easiest thing in the world. Loving him.

Your arms tightened around him even more, and he heard your short breath as you tried to press his whole body to yours.

“I love you this much,” you breathed out, trying to squeeze him.

You were impossible. You were cute and sweet and entirely too much. Azriel couldn’t help himself and he gripped your hip deliberately. You squeaked as if you were betrayed. He chuckled low, straightening slightly, his hand never leaving your waist.

“Traitor,” you huffed in mock seriousness. But your eyes betrayed you. They always betrayed you.

“I thought you were feeling sad but you just wanted to irritate me.”

You didn’t really look irritated at all.

In one swift motion, he lifted you onto the table, hands braced on either side of you. He nudged your knees with his thigh, and you opened them so he could stand between them.

Your body felt warm. It always did when he was close. Azriel softened when he saw your cheeks turning pink.

He reached for your hair, hooking a finger under the ribbon that held it back and gently pulling it free. Your hair fell over your shoulder.

“What are you doing?” you asked.

“Divine,” he murmured.

Your cheeks flushed deeper.

Azriel ducked to capture your lips, but you stopped him with your hand against his mouth.

 “No kissing unless you tell me what’s going on.”

You sounded firm, though your breath hitched when his hand returned to your hip. He loved the way your body responded to him. It was not cold and calculated. It was warm and very much alive.

“Nothing,” he said, using his other hand to tuck a loose strand behind your ear.

You narrowed your eyes at him.

He sighed.

“I just saw you standing there and couldn’t help myself” he said truthfully, his voice low and husky. “You look really pretty in afternoon light, you know?”

He cradled your cheek. You leaned into his scarred hand as if it were the safest place in the world, even that his hands have done a lot of ugly things. His first instinct was to pull back but he didn’t because even if his insecurities still lingered, it was easier now — with you — to silence them.

He was learning to accept what you were willing to give.

His thumb stroked your cheek – your eyelids fluttered and you tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his scarred palm.

Azriel’s heart slammed against his ribs.

The Shadowmaster unraveled before you – because of you. He was completely at your mercy. And he didn’t even know if you were aware of it.

“You really should go to the meeting” you mumbled against his hand. Shadows stired against his body.

“It doesn’t seem as appealing as this.”

You opened your eyes.

“Rhys is going to be pissed,” you said.

But Azriel didn’t seem to mind when he leaned on. His nose brushed the side of your throat first – barely there but he could feel you shiver under his touch. He smiled dangerously.

“Always so responsive” he murmured with lips against your skin and you felt your body flushing.

“Az-” you warned him, though it didn’t sound much as a warning to him. Not when he pressed and felt your pulse jumping beneath his lips. And that was the permission he needed.

His lips pressed just below your ear.

Not rushed, not demanding. Soft and slow.

His kiss lingered.

Your hand found his arm for balance.

“Az-“ you tried again but his mouth moved lower with another kiss. Warmer and firmer this time.

He felt the tremor that run through you.

He couldn’t help smiling into your neck. His voice dropped against your soft skin.

“You react like this every time.”

You tried to respond and failed. Your breath left you in a quiet sigh.

His lips found the sensitive curve where your neck met your shoulder and he took his sweet time kissing, pausing, letting his breath warm your skin before pressing another slow kiss there.

Your head tipped back instinctively, exposing more of your throat.

His hand tightened at your waist and a low, quiet sound left him.

You sighed again and just as Azriel leaned in to kiss your pulse once more, someone cleared his throat loudly.

Your eyes flew open. Over Azriel’s shoulder, you met Rhys’s violet gaze. He stood in the doorway, looking half amused, half irritated. You gasped loudly, feeling your cheeks go warm. Azriel stiffened but he didn’t turn. His breath still hovered over your throat and shoulders.

Rhys scoffed and you felt embarrassingly warm.

“Right!” you squeaked out, trying to push Azriel off of you but at the same moment, you realized in horror, that his lips found another point on your shoulder to linger. You almost gasped again. You wiggled against Azriel’s warm body and tried to free yourself from him.

“Az, please. The meeting.”

Azriel sighed into you and it was almost worse than kissing because you could feel his breath on your whole neck. You felt like fainting.

“Yes, Az,” Rhys said very calmly. “The meeting.”

“Go away,” Azriel said flatly and you made a mortified little sound and tried again to push away.

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“The meeting. Now” Rhys’ tone shifted. It was less teasing, more command.

Azriel’s jaw ticked.

“I’m sorry” you mumbled towards Rhys and he tried really hard not to tease you.

“I’m not,” Azriel said instead. Rhys rolled his eyes.

“You have a minute,” The High Lord commanded and left the doorframe.

Azriel rested his forehead briefly against your temple.

“I will be back,” he said quietly.

You smiled softly, still warm and a little bit embarrassed, as you brushed your fingertips along the collar of his shirt.

“I know.”

He lingered. His hazel eyes pinning yours.

“Az, please,” you gave out a breathy laugh. “Rhys is going to kill you.”

You tried again to push away. But he still lingered just one second too long. Then he pressed one final, deliberate kiss to your neck — slower than necessary.

“Oh,” you breathed.

Outside the door, Rhys repeated laudly:

“Azriel.”

Az appeared at the door with the expression of a male who has been deeply wronged.

Rhys took one look at him — slightly disheveled, shadows restless, eyes dark – then glanced at you, still seated on the table, flushed and luminous.

Rhys’ lips curved slowly.

Azriel’s wings shifted in warning.

Rhys lifted his hands. “Relax. I’m not commenting.”

Azriel ignored him.

Rhys leaned closer as they stepped into the corridor.

“You could at least attempt subtlety.”

Azriel didnt’t miss a beat. “I wasn’t trying to be subtle.”

Rhys laughed loudly despite himself as they disappeared down the hall.

Inside the library, you touched the side of your neck where Azriel’s mouth had been.

Still warm an still tingling.

Despite everything, you smiled to yourself – hiding your face in your hands before laughing freely.

[surprised-penguin]

This is literally everything. Like a gleeful warm hug.

[brunchable]

Speak Now

 ݈݇— pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!reader  ݈݇— themes: Regency Era, Pining, Stupid Misunderstanding, Jealousy, ChildhoodFriends-To-Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Confession. No use of y/n.  ݈݇— summary: He never looks at you. . .but you wished he did. Reaching adulthood has changed both of you. Too much expectations, too much matchmaking. And tonight he seems to be enjoying being in the company of another, and you have no right to feel this way when you're the first one who distanced yourself. Author's Note: IT'S BRIDGERTON SEASON OKAY?? Don't worry though, Bucky doesn't ask you to be his mistress lmao. Part of the Valentine's Day Specials.

You could still clearly recall that exact moment: how Bucky had leaned in closer, his mischievous eyes dancing, and waved his teacup at you and the poor, sincere young man hovering nearby. Two summers ago, it had happened at Lady Beckett's garden party, under a striped marquee filled with roses, laughter, and the sound of teacups clinking.

In front of your mutual friends, he had teasingly said, "I believe she and Mr. Storm will make a splendid couple."

It had been done with good intentions. It had been intended as harmless fun, as a sign of his goodwill and approval for you, as brotherly entertainment.

However, it felt as though something inside of you broke in that moment, as you stood there in the filtered sunlight, his laughter still echoing in your ears.

Because you suddenly understood, with terrible, blinding clarity.

You were not a woman in his eyes.

He saw you as he always had. As his childhood companion. His co-conspirator. His little stormcloud. Someone to be safely matched away to another man while he watched with unwavering approval and a clear conscience.

To spare Mr. Storm the humiliation of your silence, you had laughed then and concurred that Mr. Storm was quite agreeable and would one day make a woman very happy. You had even made fun of Bucky in return, saying something witty about his own admirers and how he should live up to his own advice.

He had never noticed the way your hands trembled around your teacup. He had never noticed the way your smile faltered when he turned away.

And so, quietly, without drama or accusation, you had begun to retreat.

You let others fill your dance card first. When he talked about how happy you would be with someone else, you learned to control your expression. You painstakingly taught yourself to look at him the way he looked at you: with love, with familiarity, and with nothing that would give away how much it hurt.

You told yourself it was sensible. You told yourself it was necessary. You told yourself that loving a man who so clearly did not love you in return was undignified, unwise, and bound to end in humiliation.

Better to step back while you still could.

Better to pretend you were merely growing up, growing distant and independent.

Better to break your own heart quietly than risk having him do it aloud.

Now, you stand at the edge of the ballroom, the heat of a hundred candles pressing against your skin, the air thick with beeswax and orange-flower water. The chandeliers glitter like frost above the swirling silks and satins, but your eyes find only one figure among the crowd.

James moves through the dancers as though the floor were made for him alone. His coat is midnight blue tonight, the colour of deep water cut so perfectly. He has grown into the promise of his boyhood: tall, dark-haired, with that same crooked smile that once belonged only to you. Now it belongs to everyone. To anyone who asks.

He is dancing with Lady Romanoff again.

You watch the way her gloved hand rests lightly on his sleeve, the way her red hair catches the light when she laughs at something he has whispered closely in her ear. They are beautiful together—striking, effortless, the sort of pair that makes mothers lean close and whisper about settlements and titles and future heirs. 

Your stomach twists, a slow, familiar ache.

He never looks at you.

Not once. Not even when you entered the room in the new gown your mother insisted upon—pale primrose silk that cost more than sense should allow. Not when you passed within three feet of him earlier, close enough to catch the faint scent of bergamot and cedar that always clings to his coats. He had been speaking to Lord Pierce about hounds or politics or some such manly thing, and his eyes had slid over you as though you were part of the wallpaper.

You have known him all your life. Your mothers decided you should be friends when you were still in leading strings, and so you were. You shared lessons, pony rides, scraped knees, secrets whispered under the old oak. He taught you to climb trees; you taught him which berries would not make him sick. 

When you were fifteen he sat beside you at the pianoforte in the music room at his father’s estate, his fingers guiding yours over the keys, his shoulder brushing yours, his voice low and teasing: “No—feel the music, don’t attack it.” You had felt it, all right—felt it straight through to your bones. You have never played the same since without remembering the warmth of his hand over yours.

You hate that memory now. You hate all of them.

You hate the way he still calls you “stormcloud” when he bothers to speak to you at all, as if you are forever the sullen twelve-year-old who once threw her embroidery hoop at his nose. You hate the way he talks of marriage so lightly—how any man would be fortunate to have you, how you will make some fellow excessively happy one day, how he will dance at your wedding and drink to your health and then go home to his own empty bed without a backward glance. He says it kindly, fondly, the way one praises a sister.

You are not his sister.

Your dance card hangs heavy from your wrist, half-filled with names you accepted only to have something to do with your hands. Lord Walker, Mr. Wilson, young Lord Reynolds—polite, eligible, perfectly unobjectionable. You will refuse them all later with headaches or twisted ankles or whatever excuse preserves their pride.

Across the floor, the music ends. Lady Romanoff curtsies; James bows. She says something that makes him laugh again—that low, warm laugh you used to collect like pressed flowers. He offers his arm; she takes it. They move toward the refreshment table, her head tilted toward his in easy confidence.

Your chest feels suddenly too small for your heart.

You turn away, pressing your fan against your mouth as though it might hold in the sharp, stupid tears that threaten.

That is when you hear them.

Two ladies stand just behind you, their voices lowered in what they clearly believe is discretion, their silk sleeves brushing, their heads inclined together like conspirators.

“It must be settled soon,” one murmurs.

“They are always together, are they not? Every assembly, every ball—Mr. Barnes never misses a dance with her.”

“Indeed,” the other replies softly. “My mother says it is only a matter of time. One does not parade a lady so openly unless one intends something serious.”

A pause. Then, with quiet satisfaction: “She will make a magnificent duchess.”

The ladies drift away, satisfied with their little exchange, unaware they have just undone someone.

Foolish, hopeless girl. 

You have spent years waiting for him to see you and he never does. You tell yourself not to look at him, but you do anyway; you feel like a moth to a flame.

And there he is—still smiling at Lady Romanoff, still leaning slightly toward her, still offering her that soft, attentive expression he never seems to have for you anymore.

You cannot bear another moment of it.

You turn sharply, skirts whispering against your ankles, and slip through the nearest door that leads to the terrace. The night air strikes your cheeks like cold water; you drag it in, grateful for the shock of it. The ballroom’s golden glow spills out behind you in a long rectangle of light before the door closes and leaves you in shadow.

You are halfway across the flagstones, aiming for the stone balustrade and the dark gardens beyond, when you collide with a solid, unyielding form.

A startled gasp escapes you. Strong hands steady your elbows to keep you from stumbling.

“Forgive me—” you begin, the apology automatic, then falter as you look up.

Mr. Storm.

He is dressed plainly by the standards of the ton; dark coat, modest cravat, nothing to draw undue attention—yet he has always carried himself with confidence, a man accustomed to being overlooked and content with it. Tonight, however, his brow furrows the moment he sees your face.

“My lady, are you all right?” he asks gently.

His hands release you at once, but his concern does not. His gaze lingers in unmistakable worry, as though he cannot help noticing the glassy brightness in your eyes, the way your breath stutters as you try to master it.

You swallow.

You straighten.

You summon what remains of your composure and arrange it carefully upon your features like a mask.

“I am perfectly well,” you say, too quickly. “I merely required some air.”

He does not look convinced.

“You look—” He hesitates, then chooses his words with care. “You look as though something has troubled you.”

The kindness in his voice nearly unravels you.

You are tempted to confess, to admit that your heart feels as though it has been crushed between polite smiles and whispered speculations, that you are unbearably tired of pretending you do not love a man who so clearly does not love you back.

But you do not.

You cannot.

“I assure you, it is nothing,” you reply softly. “I only wished to be alone for a moment.”

He studies you, clearly torn between pressing further and respecting your wish. At last, he inclines his head.

“Of course,” he says quietly. “Forgive my intrusion.”

You offer him a small, grateful smile—one that does not quite reach your eyes. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Storm.”

You step around him, silk brushing past his sleeve as you pass, and move toward the balustrade before he can say anything more.

Behind you, Mr. Storm remains where he is, watching with gentle unease as you retreat into the shadows, painfully aware that whatever troubles you is far beyond his power to mend.

You stand at the balustrade with both hands braced against the cold stone, staring out at the shadowed hedges and winding paths as though they might offer answers, or absolution, or at the very least some small distraction from the turmoil inside your chest.

Your shoulders are held too straight, your breathing too measured, every muscle locked into place by sheer force of will, as though composure itself might fracture if you allow it even the smallest crack.

The night air stirs.

A soft breeze moves through the gardens, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and roses and something else—something painfully familiar.

Bergamot.

Cedar.

Warm wool and leather.

Your heart beats violently in your chest.

You know that scent. You have known it since childhood, since borrowed coats on cold mornings and shared rides and stolen moments in quiet corridors. You have known it in every season of your life, woven so thoroughly into your memory that you recognise it before you recognise anything else.

Before you hear footsteps.

Before you feel his presence.

Before he speaks.

You remain where you are, fingers pressing the stone more tightly, as though the balustrade might anchor you against the sudden, treacherous surge of emotion that threatens to undo you entirely.

He stops close.

Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him at your back, close enough that the hem of your gown brushes the toe of his boot, close enough that every nerve in your body lights up in helpless recognition.

“Stormcloud,” he says at last, and his voice is rougher than usual, stripped of its easy teasing.

You stiffen despite yourself.

For a moment, you pretend you have not heard him, that if you remain perfectly still he might vanish again into the shadows, that this is nothing more than your heart playing cruel tricks on you.

But you have never been very good at lying to yourself.

Slowly, reluctantly, you turn.

The moonlight spills over you like silver poured from the sky, catching in the loose strands at your temples, glinting along the silk at your throat, outlining every fragile line of your face. You see his breath catch as he looks at you, see the way his expression shifts from guarded to stunned to something dangerously close to awe, and for a fleeting, treacherous instant, you wonder if you imagined all of it.

Then sense returns.

“Bucky,” you say quietly, because anything louder might shatter you, “what are you doing here?”

He hesitates.

You see it—the familiar pause, the instinctive search for something safe and untrue, the reflexive attempt to hide behind politeness and humour and half-truths. You have watched him do it for years.

“I was—” he begins, then falters.

The lie dissolves.

“To see you,” he admits softly. “Of course.”

Your eyes flicker, betraying nothing of the storm beneath. You nod once, small and careful, the way you have learned to do when you do not trust yourself to speak honestly.

“Is my father looking for me already?” you ask, already retreating behind courtesy. “Then I must return.”

You step around him, intending to pass, intending to escape before your composure collapses entirely, but your shoulder brushes his chest as you do so, and the contact is like fire through silk and wool and bone.

You barely make it two steps when his fingers close around your wrist. You halt and turn back, your gaze dropping first to where he holds you, then lifting slowly to his face, wary and questioning.

“Your father is not looking for you,” he admits quietly, forcing his grip to loosen even as every instinct urges him to hold fast. “Might I—would you walk with me in the gardens? Just for a little while. If it pleases you.”

You study him in silence.

The familiar lines of his face are drawn tight with uncertainty, his eyes oddly stripped of their usual confidence.

At last, you nod once.

You free your wrist with a neat, controlled motion, and he releases you immediately, watching with visible remorse as you absently smooth the faint marks his fingers left behind.

“Ladies first,” he murmurs, gesturing toward the steps.

You descend into the gardens, skirts whispering over stone, acutely aware of him following at a distance that feels both suffocatingly close and unbearably far.

The gravel crunches beneath your slippers and his boots as you walk in silence, the moon casting pale ribbons of light across the paths. You keep your gaze fixed forward, chin lifted, every instinct screaming at you not to look at him, not to weaken, not to remember how easily he once made you laugh.

Beside you, he is painfully aware of his own clumsiness, of how effortlessly he can charm rooms full of strangers and how utterly helpless he becomes when it is only you.

He glances sideways. And you, sensing his gaze like a physical touch, feel your pulse betray you.

He clears his throat.

“You look radiant tonight,” he says at last, clumsy and earnest.

“Thank you,” you reply softly, politely, because politeness is safer than truth.

Silence falls again.

Your hands brush as you walk, once, then again, then again, the backs of his knuckles grazing yours with every step, each accidental touch sending shocks through your system that you pretend not to feel.

He struggles desperately for something harmless to say, something that will not expose how tightly wound he is, how close he is to unraveling in your presence.

“I noticed your dance card was filling quickly,” he says, attempting a careless lightness that does not quite reach his eyes. Then, with a crooked half-smile meant to soften the remark, he adds, “Did you—ah—did you happen to leave a space for me?”

The words land far harder than he intends.

You turn your head slowly, one brow arching in that familiar, cool manner that has unnerved him since you were sixteen, the expression that plainly asks whether he has quite lost his senses.

“A space for you?” you repeat quietly, incredulity threading through your voice. “And pray tell me, Bucky, why precisely should I reserve a place on my card for a gentleman who never troubles himself to ask?”

There is no sharpness in your tone, and yet every syllable carries years of restraint and disappointment beneath it, years of standing politely aside while he danced with other women and spoke of your future as though it belonged to anyone but himself.

“If you wished to claim a dance,” you continue, composed and unflinching, “you might have considered requesting one. That is, after all, the customary method.”

He winces inwardly, the rebuke striking exactly where it was meant to.

He stops walking.

You take one more step before realising and turning back, the moonlight falling fully upon your face, illuminating the restrained hurt in your eyes that he has been too blind to acknowledge for far too long.

James draws a breath that feels like the first in years.

“Then, will you dance with me now?” he asks quietly.

Dance with him?

The words hang in the moonlit air between you, impossible and absurd. A quiet, incredulous laugh escapes you sharply and a little broken.

“Dance with you?” you echo, glancing around at the empty gardens, the silent hedges, the distant glow of the ballroom windows. “Here? We shall look like two perfect buffoons waltzing about with no music.”

Bucky gives a slight shrug of one broad shoulder. His expression holds firm; if anything, it deepens in gravity, those striking blue eyes boring into yours and twisting your chest.

“Yes,” he says simply. “No one’s watching.”

You should refuse. You should walk away. You should preserve what remains of your dignity and leave him standing alone beneath the moonlight.

Instead, you hear yourself whisper, “Very well.”

He steps closer.

One hand settles at your waist, warm even through layers of silk and stays; the other lifts to take your free hand, fingers threading through yours with reverent care. He draws you in until you are close enough to feel the heat of him, close enough to remember every foolish, dangerous dream you have ever had about being held like this.

He begins to lead.

A slow, unhurried sway at first, then the familiar steps of a waltz, guiding you across the gravel to music only he seems to hear. His gaze never leaves your face; you feel it like a touch, intense and unwavering. You fix your eyes on his cravat, on the midnight-blue edge of his coat, anywhere but him.

But then he twirls you—smooth, effortless—and when you come back to him, your body fitting against his as though it remembers every childhood dance in empty corridors, he exhales softly against your hair and murmurs, almost plaintively,

“You look at everyone else so easily. I cannot remember the last time you looked at me like that.”

There is no accusation in his tone. Only bewilderment but that is not how it sounds to you.

To you, it sounds like vanity; entitlement. Like the complaint of a man accustomed to being admired and offended when he is not. You hear only arrogance. The careless confidence of a man who believes every woman in the room owes him her attention.

You push away from him, palms flat against his chest.

“Look at you?” The words burst out, hot and trembling. “Do you truly need every woman in society to look at you, Bucky? Are you that vain?”

He blinks, startled, colour rising along his cheekbones. “I meant no offence,” he says quickly. “I did not mean it like that—”

But the hurt has been dammed up too long; it spills over now, reckless and cruel.

“Then pray continue whatever it is you have with Lady Romanoff, or whichever beautiful, accomplished woman has caught your fancy this week,” you snap in a flurry of words. “I am certain they hang on your every word and gaze adoringly enough to satisfy even your considerable pride. I have not the time for these games.”

You step around him, skirts swishing, pulse roaring in your ears.

His hand shoots out again—fingers closing firmly around your wrist just as you pass.

“What’s got you so agitated?” His voice is quieter now. “And do not make up an excuse. You have been avoiding me for months.”

You stop.

You laugh again, short and bitter, without humour.

“You’ve been quite clear about your enthusiasm in finding me a match, now that you’ve found yours,” you reply coolly. “I am merely getting out of the way.”

You tug sharply at your wrist; his grip locks harder, solid without causing pain.

“And what, precisely, are my interests, if not you?” he demands, irritation threading through the words. “Do be so kind as to lay them out for me, since you seem to know them better than I do myself. Because I assure you, you are ridiculously mistaken—”

You snort, utterly unladylike. You roll your eyes toward the darkened sky as though appealing to the heavens for patience.

“Me? Oh, for God’s sake,” you mutter. Then you look back at him, chin lifting, eyes blazing.

“If you are so very confused,” you say tightly, “then perhaps you ought to return to Lady Romanoff at once and spare us both this absurdity. You already dance with her at every assembly, escort her everywhere, and allow half the ton to plan your wedding for you. Pray, do not let me delay you.”

You gesture sharply in the direction of the ballroom, bitterness threading every word.

“Go on,” you continue, voice trembling despite yourself. “Marry her. Make her exceedingly happy. Make her your duchess and let society applaud you for your excellent judgment.”

Your voice drops, edged with exhausted contempt.

“Why are you here with me at all?” you demand. “Why interrupt my evening to interrogate me as though I owe you explanations, when you have already made your preferences so abundantly clear? So I’ll say it again, I have neither the time nor the inclination to entertain this performance, James. If you wish to play at courtship, at least have the decency to commit to your chosen partner.”

His expression tightens.

For a moment he looks genuinely taken aback, as though he had not expected the depth of your resentment.

Then his spine straightens. His shoulders square and his jaw sets.

You see it instantly—the reflexive armour sliding into place, pride rising like a shield, the familiar defences of a man who has never learned how to admit he is frightened.

“If that is truly what you think,” he says coolly, wounded dignity sharpening every word, “then perhaps you ought to consider that I have done nothing more than behave as a rational man in an irrational situation.”

You blink.

He continues, voice firm and controlled

“You withdrew from me without explanation. You avoided me. You filled your card with other men. You made it perfectly clear that you wished for distance. And now you accuse me of impropriety for respecting it?”

He gestures helplessly between you.

“I am not a mind reader,” he adds, more harshly than he intends. “If you wanted something different from me, you might have said so. You cannot expect me to stand idle forever, waiting for signs you never gave—”

Your free hand moves before thought, palm cracking across his cheek with a sound sharp as a pistol shot in the quiet garden.

His head snaps to the side. For a long moment he stays turned away, profile silvered by moonlight. He turns his face back a touch, just enough to look at you sideways, eyes narrowed and dangerous. The corner of his mouth curves in a slow, dark smirk that sends heat and ice chasing down your spine. He pokes the tip of his tongue to the inside of his reddened cheek, as though tasting the sting.

Your stomach flips traitorously.

You yank again; this time he lets you go.

He lifts a hand to his cheek, thumb brushing the mark. “Well,” he drawls in his deep voice, amused, “she can slap.”

A rush of heat fills your chest, hot and angry and long suppressed, and before wiser thoughts can intervene, you shove both palms against his chest, meaning to put space between you, meaning to reclaim the distance you have spent years forcing upon yourself.

“Do not,” you snap, voice shaking with restrained emotion, “do not stand there and make sport of this as though it were some amusing anecdote to recount later.”

He does not move an inch.

Your hands meet solid resistance, muscle and bone unyielding beneath his coat, his boots rooted to the gravel as though he has grown there. He absorbs the push without flinching, without retreating, without allowing you even the smallest victory of distance.

If anything, he leans into it.

Refusing to be moved.

Refusing to let you go.

Your breath catches at the defiance of it, at the way his nearness seems to multiply rather than diminish.

“You speak of signs,” you continue fiercely, hands still pressed to his chest, fingers curling into the fabric as though anchoring yourself, “as though I have done nothing but hide from you, as though I have never once given you reason to think—”

You laugh bitterly, the sound tearing itself from your throat.

“Do you remember that garden party?” you demand. “Do you remember standing beside me, smiling so easily, and telling me how splendid I would look with Mr. Storm? Do you remember how readily you matched me with other men, how comfortably you spoke of my future as though it had nothing to do with you at all?”

Your voice fractures, but you force it steady.

“You told me, again and again, that I was safe to give away. Convenient to admire. Suitable for someone else.”

You push at him again, harder this time, as though you might drive the truth into him through sheer force.

“So why,” you whisper fiercely, eyes blazing, “why would I make my regard plain to a man who was already arranging my happiness with someone else?”

He stares down at you, stunned.

The fight drains from his posture in visible increments, pride giving way to dawning horror as each word finds its mark.

“You stood there and praised every other man who dared to look at me,” you go on, voice trembling now despite yourself. “You jest about it. You encouraged it. You made it clear—so painfully clear—that I was never meant to be yours.”

Your hands slide up from his chest to clutch at his lapels, not in affection but in desperate emphasis.

“And now you dare to tell me I gave you no signs?” you murmur brokenly. “That I asked nothing of you?”

You release him abruptly, stepping back at last, chest heaving in uneven breaths.

“I learned from you,” you finish quietly. “I learned from you that loving you was something I was meant to do in silence.”

And silence falls between you.

Not the gentle, companionable sort, but the heavy, suffocating kind that presses in from all sides, thick with everything that has just been said and everything that has been left unsaid for years. 

You stand there for a moment longer, chest rising and falling unevenly. Then, you slowly straighten yourself.

Whatever fire has driven your words drains away, leaving only exhaustion in its wake.

You have said it. You have finally said it. And you are done.

Without looking at him again, you turn away, gathering your skirts with trembling fingers, intent only on putting distance between yourself and the man who has loved you badly and too late and in all the wrong ways.

“Wait.”

You do not stop.

He moves after you at once, long strides eating up the space between you, and his hand closes around your arm again in a desperate appeal.

“Do not walk away from me,” he pleads quietly. “Not after that. You cannot—God, you cannot say all of that and then leave me here without allowing me to answer you.”

You try to pull free.

“There is nothing left to say.” you say tightly.

“There is everything left to say,” he insists, tightening his grip just enough to keep you there, his thumb pressing lightly into your sleeve. “You think I have been silent all these years because I did not care. You think I stood beside you and matched you with other men because you were nothing to me. And I swear to you, if you walk away believing that, it will be the greatest cruelty you have ever inflicted upon me.”

You turn back then, anger flaring weakly through your exhaustion.

“Cruelty?” you scoff. “You—”

“I was a coward,” he interrupts fiercely.

The words burst from him without polish, without caution, without any of the careful restraint he has always wrapped himself in.

“I was terrified, I didn’t want to ruin our friendship,” he admits hoarsely. “I have been terrified of you since I was fifteen years old and realised that the girl who climbed trees with me and laughed at my stupid jokes could one day look at me and decide I was not enough.”

He breathes unevenly, eyes bright with emotion he has never learned to manage.

“Every time you smiled at another man, every time someone asked you to dance and you accepted, every time I imagined you belonging to someone else, it felt like being skinned alive,” he confesses. “And still I smiled. Still I jest. Still I pretended it was nothing, because the thought of you knowing how much power you have over me was unbearable.”

Before you can retreat into distance and pride and self-preservation, his hands close around both of your wrists with unmistakable strength and intention, anchoring you in place, holding you there as though he has decided—here and now—that he will sooner tear himself apart than allow you to walk away without hearing what he has to say.

You stiffen in startled protest, breath catching.

“Bucky—”

“I am in love with you!” he says suddenly.

The words are unpolished, unguarded, torn from somewhere deep in his chest before he can soften them or dress them up in propriety.

“I am in love with you,” he repeats, more hoarsely now, as though saying it once has only made the need stronger. “I have been in love with you for so long that I no longer remember what it is like to exist without you in every corner of my thoughts.”

His grip tightens almost imperceptibly, not to hurt you, never that, but to make certain you remain here, present, listening, unable to hide from what he is laying bare.

“You have ruined every other woman who has ever crossed my path,” he admits quietly, almost fiercely. “No matter whom I stood beside, no matter how lovely or accomplished she was, she will never be enough.”

His breath is uneven, his composure unraveling visibly, the careful restraint he has worn for years slipping through his fingers like sand.

“There is no peace for me in loving anyone else,” he murmurs. “You are the standard by which my heart judges everything, and nothing has ever come close.”

“But if you still wish to walk away,” he continues quietly, “if after all of this you decide that you cannot forgive me, that you no longer wish to choose me… then I will let you go.”

His thumb loosens almost imperceptibly at your wrist, his grip easing just enough to prove he means it.

“Right now,” he adds softly. “Without protest. Without pursuit. Without another word.”

The garden is silent around you but for your heartbeat thundering in your ears. You stare at him, mouth parted, the world tilting beneath your feet.

He waits, motionless, every line of him taut with dread, the proud, untouchable duke’s son reduced to a man awaiting judgment.

Tears rise hot and sudden, spilling over before you can dash them away. You press your hands to your lips to stifle the sound that wants to escape—a sob, or a laugh.

But you’re overwhelmed, and so you gather your skirts and turn, fleeing down the gravel path as though the hounds of hell are at your heels. You do not look back. You cannot. If you see his face again tonight you will either slap him once more or fall apart entirely, and you refuse to give him either.

× × × ×

A week later.

You sit at the upstairs window of the morning room, a piece of untouched embroidery in your lap, fingers idly twisting the pale blue ribbons that trim your simple muslin gown. The estate spreads green and serene below, but you see none of it. 

Your mother occupies the chair by the fireplace, sorting letters; your three younger sisters are bent over their embroidery frames, though their needles have been still for some minutes. They keep exchanging glances over your head, meaningful and exasperated.

At last Clara, ever the boldest, sets her frame aside with a dramatic sigh.

“I confess I do not understand why you are sulking,” she says. “Lord Barnes has confessed his heart to you. The handsomest man in three counties, and a future duke besides, and you sit there pulling ribbons to pieces as though he had insulted you.”

Victoria snickers behind her hand. Sophie only looks curious.

You do not raise your eyes from the ribbons. “You do not understand,” you say quietly.

“Evidently not,” Clara retorts. “Pray enlighten us.”

You lift your gaze at last, throat tight. “If he is so afraid to show his feelings that it takes years and a slapped face to wring them from him, can you imagine what marriage to such a man would be? Should I have to beg for every kindness? Coax every declaration from him as though it were a favour?”

Your mother sets down her letters with a soft rustle. “My dear,” she says gently, “you are perhaps too harsh. He has recognised his error, has he not? At considerable cost to his pride. A man who can do that may yet learn to speak more plainly. Why not give him the chance to prove it?”

Before you can answer, Clara grins wickedly. “Well, if you are determined not to have him, I am most happy to volunteer as tribute. I should not mind coaxing declarations from Mr. Barnes in the least.”

Victoria dissolves into giggles; even Sophie smirks.

You open your mouth to retort—something sharp about Clara’s forwardness—when the sound of hoofbeats reaches the open window. A single rider, coming fast down the drive.

Your breath catches.

He sits astride the great black hunter he has ridden since he was seventeen—coat flying, dark hair wind-tossed, every inch the impatient, determined duke’s son. 

You rise without thinking, pressing closer to the window, hands flat against the glass. Your sisters crowd beside you in an instant, Clara actually elbowing you for space.

Bucky looks up.

Even across the distance his eyes find yours unerringly. A slow, crooked smile curves his mouth and he lifts one gloved hand in a brief, deliberate wave meant solely for you.

Your heart skips.

Below, the front doors open; footmen spill out. Muffled voices drift upward—his, low and courteous; the butler’s deferential reply. You catch only fragments: “…if His Lordship is at home…wish to speak with him…matter of some importance…”

Clara and Victoria squeal in unison like girls at their first assembly. Sophie claps her hands over her mouth to stifle her own excitement.

The butler bows and gestures toward the house. James dismounts with fluid grace, tossing the reins to a groom. As he strides up the steps, he glances up once more—directly at you—and the look in his eyes is resolute.

Then he disappears beneath the portico.

Clara and Victoria bolt for the door without a word, skirts flying, clearly determined to eavesdrop from the gallery above the hall. Sophie hesitates, looking at you.

You remain frozen at the window, ribbons twisted hopelessly around your fingers, watching the empty drive as though it might offer some explanation for the sudden thunder of your pulse.

From the corridor below comes the measured tread of boots, the butler’s murmured directions, and then the firm click of your father’s study door closing behind James Barnes.

× × × × 

Your mother’s voice had been firm when Clara and Victoria returned, flushed and giggling, from their attempted dash to the gallery. 

“You will not eavesdrop,” she had declared, her tone brooking no argument. “A gentleman’s business with your father is private, and young ladies do not skulk about corridors like housemaids.” So you had all been marched back to the morning room, the door firmly shut, and there you remained—trapped in a polite prison of embroidery frames and uneasy silence.

The clock on the mantel ticks with agonising slowness. Sunlight has shifted across the carpet; the tea tray has gone cold. Little Sophie keeps stealing glances at you, Clara fidgets with her needle, and Victoria has abandoned all pretence of stitching, staring instead at the closed door as though willpower alone might open it.

At last Clara throws her frame onto the sofa with a huff. “It has been a full hour,” she complains. “What on earth can they be talking about? Papa’s hunts? The price of corn? Or is Mr. Barnes cataloguing every fox he has ever chased from here to Scotland?”

Victoria snickers. Sophie bites her lip to hide a smile.

Your mother sets aside her letters and regards you all with that calm, knowing look that has quieted you since childhood. She folds her hands in her lap.

“When a gentleman rides across the county to speak to a young lady’s father, it is seldom about hounds or harvests.”

Clara’s eyes widened. Victoria leans forward eagerly.

Your mother continues, voice gentle but pointed, her gaze resting on you a fraction longer than on your sisters. “Pride is a cold companion. It keeps us warm in the moment, but it leaves us alone in the end. I have seen many a woman cling to it too fiercely—refusing to bend, refusing to believe she might be mistaken—and spend years regretting the silence she mistook for strength. A good man, when he recognises his errors and seeks to mend them, deserves at least the grace of a hearing. Otherwise we risk losing what might have been the greatest happiness of our lives to the stubborn conviction that we were right to suffer.”

The words land softly, but they strike true.

You feel heat rise in your cheeks. You do not argue—you cannot, not when every syllable feels aimed straight at the raw wound you have carried since the garden. Instead you look down at the mangled ribbons in your lap and side-eye your mother, a silent acknowledgement that she has scored her point.

Clara opens her mouth, doubtless to tease, but the door opens before she can speak.

The butler stands there, impeccable as ever. “Lord James Barnes,” he announces, and steps aside.

Bucky fills the doorway, the riding coat and boots still dusted from the road, his dark hair slightly dishevelled from the wind. His eyes find yours instantly, the crooked half-smile nowhere in evidence today.

He bows politely to your mother. “My Lady.” Then, to you alone: “Might I speak with you for a moment? If it is convenient.”

Your mouth opens, but no sound emerges. Your heart is suddenly too large for your chest.

Your mother rises with remarkable swiftness.

“Of course,” she says smoothly, as though she has been waiting for precisely this. “Girls, come along. We shall see if Cook has those lemon biscuits you like.”

Clara protests with a small, wounded sound; Victoria looks positively betrayed. Sophie merely looks delighted. Your mother herds them out with the efficiency of long practice, her hand firm on Clara’s elbow.

You stand there, the morning room suddenly too small, the air too thick, as James closes the door with a soft click. 

He does not advance immediately; he lingers by the threshold, hat in hand, those blue eyes fixed on you with an intensity that makes the fluttering of your stomach misbehave. The silence stretches, heavy with the memory of the garden—of tears and accusations and the raw confession that has haunted your every waking moment since.

At last you find your voice, though it emerges sharper than you intend. 

“Why have you come, Bucky? Have I not made myself clear enough? I thought— I believed—if I turned away from you that night, you would leave me in peace. Are you not a man of your word?”

He inclines his head, a faint, rueful curve touching his mouth. He steps forward then, slowly, and you hate how your heart leaps at the nearness of him.

“I am a man of my word,” he says quietly, laced with that unshakeable conviction. “I promised that if you turned away from me in the garden, I would go—I would not follow you back to the ballroom, nor importune you with letters, nor impose my presence upon you these past seven days. I left you undisturbed, as you wished.”

He takes another step closer, close enough now that you catch the faint scent of fresh air clinging to his coat, the warmth radiating from him. His eyes never leave yours.

“But I made no vow,” he continues, softer still, “to exile myself from your life forever. Not when the matter between us remains so grievously unsettled.” A glint of mischief flickers in his gaze then, teasing, almost boyish—the Bucky of your childhood peeking through the man. “Tell me, little stormcloud—are you still angry with me?”

Angry? The word is laughable. You lift your chin, meeting his challenge. “Angry does not begin to describe it.”

His brows arch, inviting more, but you press on, voice trembling despite your efforts. “Then pray tell me…why did you speak with my father? What business could possibly require an hour of his time?”

Bucky’s expression shifts; serious now. He closes the remaining distance, guiding you gently back until you perch on the wide window seat where you had been sitting moments before. He does not take the opposite chair; instead, he sits sideways beside you, one booted leg bent, facing you fully. The proximity is dizzying—his knee nearly brushing yours, his broad frame angled toward you as though you are the only thing in his world.

He reaches for your hand then, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your knuckles, and the touch sends sparks racing up your arm.

“I spoke to your father,” he says, voice roughened with emotion, “because I asked for your hand. Without reservation or caveat.”

He pauses, as though steadying himself, his gaze never leaving yours.

“I told him that I have loved you for years,” he continues quietly, “that I was a fool and a coward to hide it, and that I wish to spend the rest of my days proving myself worthy of you, if you will have me.”

A faint, wry curve touches his mouth.

“I also told him,” he adds, more softly, “that I am well aware of what the ton will say. That they will whisper about Lady Romanoff. That they will speculate, and sneer, and assume I have led you on after parading another woman through half the season.”

His thumb stills briefly against your hand.

“And that I do not care.”

The words are simple yet the conviction is obvious.

“I told him that if choosing you means enduring gossip, suspicion, and every unkind rumour London can devise, then I will bear it gladly,” he says steadily. “Because none of it compares to the regret of letting you believe, for another moment, that you were anything less than my first and only choice.”

He leans closer, voice dropping.

“I asked his permission to court you properly. Openly. Honourably. With no ambiguity and no rivals. And if you will allow it, to marry you when you are ready.”

Your breath catches. 

The words hang between you, the sort that would make any woman’s knees weaken. He lifts your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers—lingering, apologetic.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs against your skin, eyes searching yours. “Sorrier than I can say—for the pain I caused, for the years I wasted in silence. Forgive me.”

You stare at him, this proud, beautiful man humbled before you, holding your hand as though it is the most precious thing he has ever touched. The thought of him leaving for good is suddenly unbearable, a void you cannot contemplate.

You hesitate deliberately.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him beneath your lashes, lips curving just enough to suggest mischief rather than dismissal.

“That,” you say softly, “was very thorough.”

Hope flickers in his eyes.

“And?” he prompts quietly.

You glance toward the window, pretending sudden fascination with the landscape, even as warmth floods your cheeks.

“I am… inclined,” you admit carefully, “to consider accepting it.”

His mouth twitches.

“Consider,” he repeats.

You nod solemnly. “It is, after all, a grave decision.”

A low chuckle rumbles from his chest—warm, relieved, utterly undone by you.

“As it should be,” he agrees. Then his grip tightens just a little, his voice dropping into something softer, more intimate. “Might I inquire what would persuade you?”

You risk a glance at him then, and immediately regret it, because he is looking at you as though you are every answer he has ever sought.

“I may,” you say lightly, “require… evidence of sincerity.”

His brows lift.

“Evidence,” he echoes.

“Mm,” you confirm. “I have been misled before.”

He laughs under his breath, shaking his head.

“You are cruel,” he murmurs fondly. Then his gaze grows intent, earnest beneath the teasing. “Very well. What form might this… evidence take?”

You pretend to think, tapping one finger thoughtfully against his hand.

“Well,” you begin, still not quite meeting his eyes, “I have heard it said that a gentleman who truly regrets his errors is willing to make certain… amends.”

His lips part slightly.

“Amends,” he repeats, voice rough.

You finally look at him then, eyes bright, daring.

“For instance,” you add softly, “he might demonstrate his remorse by requesting permission to do something he has evidently wanted to do for an unreasonable number of years.”

Understanding dawns slowly.

Then completely, causing a smile to break over his face

“Are you telling me,” he asks quietly, “that after pining for you since I was a teen and too terrified to act upon it, I am now being made to formally apply for the privilege?”

You lift one brow. “I should hate for you to abandon tradition now.”

He laughs softly, forehead resting briefly against yours.

“Very well,” he murmurs. Then he straightens, eyes serious despite the humour. “May I kiss you?”

You pretend composure.

“I suppose,” you say with elaborate nonchalance, “that would suffice.”

His breath hitches.

As the laugh fades, his grip tightens, and his voice drops to a husky whisper that sends shivers down your spine.

“God help me,” he whispers, smiling helplessly, “I am never going to recover from you.”

The words are barely out before something in you snaps. You cannot wait, not another heartbeat. You lean in first, pressing your lips to his, strong and firm, quick and utterly unplanned. All the blood in your body rushes to the point of contact; it is heady, intoxicating, the fulfilment of every secret dream you have harboured since you were fifteen.

You pull back a fraction, breathless, but he does not allow it. His free hand cups your cheek, drawing you back in, fusing his mouth to yours with a fervour that feels like lightning striking—blinding, brilliant and burning. It consumes you, filling every sense until nothing exists beyond him: the heat of his lips, the scrape of his stubble, the way his breath mingles with yours.

You are going to burn the room down around you.

He pauses for a breathless second, forehead resting against yours, voice low and strangled. “Do you feel that?”

“Yes,” you manage, the word barely coherent. Speech is unnecessary; you yank him back to you instead.

He groans—a deep, rumbling thunder in his chest—and surrenders to it. His kisses shift like a storm: hot and insistent one moment, soft and tender the next, as though he cannot decide which he craves more or perhaps he is savouring every variation, testing them all on you and you are more than willing to be his experiment.

Why, oh why, have you denied yourself this for so long? What a foolish woman you have been.

You move closer, needing more—needing everything. Your arms wind around his neck, fingers drifting up to tangle in the dark silk of his hair. He responds in kind, mouth slanting against yours, demanding your full attention. You abandon his hair to curl your fingers at the nape of his neck, pulling him impossibly nearer, as though closer is even possible.

His kiss is devastatingly thorough, primitive yet refined, fiery and shivery all at once. He draws back again—just enough to breathe—and you both pant, foreheads touching. “I need you to know that this is true,” he rasps. “I’m real.”

You rest your hands on his broad shoulders, feeling the tremor in him. “Yes, I can feel how real you are.”

“That’s not what I—” he starts, but you silence him with another kiss, moving your mouth against his until he shakes against you. Every response is yours to command: the murmured words lost against your lips, the growl in his throat, the thunder of his heart beneath your palm. The power of affecting him is dizzying.

His kisses grow exquisitely intense, overheating you, making the world spin. You are dizzy, floating, tethered only by his hands in your hair, his lips on yours. Oxygen seems utterly overrated.

Sensing your need—or perhaps his own—he trails his mouth to your cheek, feathering soft kisses along your cheekbone. You keep your eyes closed, lost in the spirals of sensation radiating through you, down to your quivering stomach, into your limbs.

“You are exquisite,” he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with wonder. “So soft, so perfectly lovely. I fear I shall never have enough of you—not in all the years granted to me.”

“The feeling,” you manage to whisper, the words scarcely more than a breath, for he has quite robbed you of coherent thought, “is mutual.”

He cradles your face, and your lips ache for his return. When you open your eyes at last, hazy and drugged, his gaze meets yours. There is something new in it—deeper than affection, fiercer than tenderness.

It is devotion. Utter, unwavering devotion. And it is yours.

He leans in again, slowly this time, as though savouring the permission in your eyes. His lips brush yours once, then again, deeper, and you melt into him, fingers tightening at his nape when a pointed, deliberate cough echoes from the doorway.

You both startle apart as though scorched—Bucky springing to his feet with undignified haste, you pressing a hand to your racing heart, cheeks aflame. 

Your father stands upon the threshold, one brow arched in mild enquiry, the picture of paternal innocence. He has clearly been there long enough to assess the situation, yet he affects perfect oblivion.

“I beg your pardon,” he says gravely, though a suspicious twitch at the corner of his mouth betrays him. “I merely wished to enquire whether the young people have reached an understanding.” His gaze moves from your shy countenance to James’s rather dishevelled cravat and back again. “It appears the matter is well in hand—literally, perhaps.”

James clears his throat, colour high along his cheekbones, and executes a creditable bow despite the circumstances. “Sir—”

Your father waves a hand, magnanimous. 

“No need for explanations, my boy. I am not quite in my dotage yet. The question remains: shall we observe the usual proprieties with a courtship, or—” his eyes twinkle with shameless mischief—“might we dispense with such formalities and proceed directly to reading the marriage banns? I confess I should not object to skipping the interminable calls and posies if the pair of you are so… eager.”

You make a small, mortified sound and hide your burning face in your hands.

James lets out a low, rueful laugh, raking a hand through his hair.

“I believe, sir,” he says, voice still husky, eyes slanting toward you with lingering heat, “that the lady’s wishes must take precedence. Though I confess I am not averse to expediency.”

Your father chuckles. “Wise answer. Very wise.” He steps fully into the room, closing the door once more—with deliberate care this time. “Then perhaps we had best summon your mother and father and settle the details before the entire household descends upon us in a frenzy of speculation.”

You peek through your fingers, heart still thundering, and find Bucky watching you with that same devoted gaze—now softened with helpless amusement.

The future, it seems, has arrived rather sooner than expected.

And you discover you do not mind in the least.

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[tunetales]

anything hurt/comfort i beg 🙏

Look at me (Azriel x Reader)

—————-

(Photos courtesy of Pinterest)

Summary: A training accident brings one of Azriel’s worst nightmares to life; and he can’t decide which is worse, the fact that you’re injured, or that it was his brother who hurt you.

Authors Note: Mentions of injuries and fighting below.

————-

The late afternoon sun cast long gold shadows across the Windhaven training ring, the snow glistening in every direction but trodden into slosh by hours of drills.

Cassian twirled his practice blade lazily. “Come on sweetheart-“ He called, grinning. “Put me on my ass, I dare you.”

You smirked and rolled your shoulders, matching him stance-for-stance. “I’ll whip your ass, how about that?”

“Will they ever stop?” Feyre asked.

Rhysand snorted from where he stood alongside her, Azriel on her other side. “They haven’t for years and I’ll doubt they’ll stop now,” he told her. “She’s going to kick your ass!”

“She usually does,” Cassian said cheerfully. “But today feels like a good day to humble a certain Mrs Shadowsinger.”

Azriel twitched slightly, his arms crossed as he watched you both, wings tucked in tight.

“You can try,” you answered.

Then you struck first.

It began like it always did - fluid, instinctual, impossibly synchronised. Cassian would lunge, you slipped beneath his guard. You spun, he pivoted. You parried in perfect rhythm, each anticipating each other with the kind of ease that only came through years of fighting together side by side.

Azriel continued to watch, his stance still tense as it always was when he watched you fight, but his shadows around him were loose, relaxed, enjoying the spectacle.

“You two are ridiculous,” Rhys called out again. “I’ve seen trained dancers with better coordination.”

Cassian barked a laugh. “Don’t be jealous - some of us were just born with superior skills.”

“You were just born loud,” you shot back, making him wheeze as you tapped him on the ribs with your blade.

You both moved faster. Strikes blurred. Metal sang against metal.

Then it happened.

During a backwards step, your boot landed on a small stone hidden beneath the snow. Your ankle twisted, your balance faltered - just enough.

Cassian, mid-swing and unable to stop the momentum, hit you squarely across the temple with the flat side of his blade.

The sound - dull and sickening - shut the world down.

You crumpled instantly, blood red blossoming into the snow underneath your head.

Cassian’s grin vanished instantly. “SHIT-“

He went to drop to his knees beside you, but Azriel was already moving.

One heartbeat he was at Rhys’s side. The next he was a blur of shadows, something feral ripping through the air. He hit Cassian so hard that the General was thrown backwards in the snow.

“AZRIEL!” Rhys barked.

But the Shadowsinger didn’t hear him, or maybe he did but just didn’t care to stop.

He was a storm taking shape, wings flaring wide, shadows whipping wildly around him as he crouched beside your still form.

Cassian pushed up on his elbows, breathless. “Az-she slipped, I didn’t mean to-“

“YOU HIT HER,” Azriel’s voice didn’t sound like his own. Low. Violent. Shaking. “You knew she off balance yet you still-“

“It was an accident!” Cassian snapped back, getting to his feet, though his voice cracked with guilt. “I would never hurt her. You know that.”

Azriel’s shadows surged forward, towards Cassian like they meant to tear him apart.

Rhys stepped in between them, power and authority radiating from him. “Azriel. Stop. Now.”

For a fraction of a second, Azriel didn’t.

Couldn’t.

His mated instincts were in complete overdrive. He had to protect. He had to kill-

Rhys saw this and tensed, his fingers curling as if to release some of his own power.

Then Azriel heard something - the faintest groan.

Your fingers twitched. Your breath hitched slightly.

He immediately dropped to your side so fast the show splashed. His hands trembled as he cupped your jaw, checking your pulse, brushing hair away from your face.

“Open your eyes for me, angel, please?” He breathed.

Cassian stood frozen in horror. Not even the gentle touch of his High Lady at his side able to remove the immense guilt from settling in his chest.

“She should be okay,” Rhys announced, from where he now crouched on your opposite side. “She’s breathing. The hit likely just stunned her.”

Azriel shot him a look of pure anguish. “There’s blood.”

“A scalp wound,” he explained softly. “They bleed more than they harm, you know that Az.”

You groaned again as Azriel gently manoeuvred you into his arms, cradling you against him.

Slowly, painfully, your lashes fluttered open and you blearily blinked up at your mate. “Ow…” you mumbled. “Did I…did I win?”

Relief broke through Azriel like a wave, his shadows fluttering above you and up and down your body like a flock of worried birds. His eyes shut, resting his forehead against your shoulder. “Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he whispered.

Cassian stepped forward, guilt twisting his voice. “I swear I didn’t mean to-“

A feral growl from Azriel stopped Cassian in his tracks.

You managed a weak smile, recognising your mate’s distress and need to protect you, but also knowing how guilty your friend was probably feeling. “I know Cass, it’s okay.”

Azriel shot him a deadly glare. “It is not okay. You hit her too hard.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Cassian snapped, equally shaken.

“You think I would ever try and hit Nesta that hard when we-“

Cassian’s own protective snarl at the mention of his own mate interrupted him. If Azriel wasn’t cradling you, you had no doubt that he had Cassian would be coming to blows right now.

Rhys did too.

“Enough, both of you,” he snapped. “Take her to my Mother’s house. I’ll be there shortly.”

Azriel didn’t wait a minute longer.

————

When you were winnowed to the house and safely tucked into Azriel’s old bed - healing already knitting your head wound closed - Azriel refused to leave your side.

He refused to let anyone touch you. Except Madja, who he demanded Rhys summon from Velaris to check you over just in case.

“My love, I’m fine,” you breathed, though your words still came out thinly layered with pain.

Azriel bristled at your words, still hovering around you, adjusting pillows and tucking your blankets around you. “You’re not,” he stated. “You weren’t braced for that hit. He caught you off balance and now you’ve got a concussion.”

“I stepped on a rock,” you said. “That’s not Cassian’s fault.”

His jaw tightened. “He should’ve noticed.”

You winced slightly as you adjusted to try and grab his hand as he continually flittered next to you, and his expression immediately softened - panic flashing through his fury.

“Does it still hurt here?” He asked, gesturing to where your wound was closing, voice suddenly rough.

“A little,” you admitted.

He swore under his breath, shadows curling tighter around you, wings angled protectively. “I’ll get Madja again-“

“Az,” you gently interrupted him, lifting a hand to him which he immediately took. You tugged him down to sit on the bed next to you. “Look at me.”

It took a second, but he did.

“You cannot go and beat Cassian half to death,” you told him softly. “As tempting at that may be.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “He made you bleed. He knocked you unconscious.”

“Because I slipped up,” you countered. “It was an accident.”

His breathing was uneven, control handing by a thread. “I watched you go down, because of my brother-“

“I know,” you whispered. “But Cassian will be punishing himself enough for the both of us, you don’t need to add to it.”

You slid your fingers into his, squeezing. “You don’t get to be angry on my behalf,” you added, teasing gently now. “If I’m telling you not to be.”

He rested his forehead against yours gently, eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t care about reason when it’s you.”

“I know,” you said softly. “But I do.”

A long breath left him, wings finally folding in, shadows retreating as his pulse steadies. But you could still feel the apprehension and barely contained fury within the bond.

“…Just one punch?” Azriel muttered?

“Az, no,” you gently scolded. “Madja will tell me off if I have to get in the way between you two.”

That earned you a quiet, broken laugh.

“Okay, no punching,” Azriel murmured, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “What about one kick?”

————

Later, on once the sun had finally set over Windhaven and after you’d finally let the sharp throb of your head lull you to sleep, Azriel stood rigid by the window, staring out into the dark.

His shadows whispered their approach before there was a gentle knock on the door. Despite expecting them, his muscles automatically tensed at the prospect of him coming near his mate again.

As the door opened, Cassian hovered in the doorway, Rhys beside him like a quiet anchor.

“Do I need to be here, or can I give you two some space?” Rhys asked, glancing between both brothers with a stern look.

Azriel genuinely contemplated whether that was necessary - just in case he lost control - but with his sleeping mate only feet away who he didn’t want to disturb, he nodded and Rhys took his leave, somewhat hesitantly. As he left, Azriel felt a gentle tap against his mental shields. Hear him out, he feels awful, Rhys spoke into his mind.

Cassian stepped inside alone.

Silence stretched.

“I’m sorry,” Cassian said finally, voice rough but lowered so as not to disturb you. “I should’ve noticed it, should’ve pulled back. I saw her stumble too late and-“ He swallowed harshly. “I hurt her.”

“A hit that hard could’ve killed her.”

Cassian violently flinched at his words, knowing they were true. “I know.”

More silence.

Cassian shifted his weight. “If you want to hit me, I won’t stop you.”

That earned a sharp laugh - brittle, exhausted.

Azriel’s eyes were blazing with something raw underneath. “I don’t want to hit you,” he said quietly. “I wanted to kill you in that moment. And that scares me.”

Cassian’s expression softened. “I understand.”

“Yes,” Azriel said, without hesitation. “Imagine how you would feel watching me, or Rhys, hurt Nesta like that? You would want to kill me too. But I didn’t,” he took a deep breath. “…Because you’re my brother.”

Cassian nodded, stepping closer. “I would never hurt her on purpose. You know that.”

Azriel studied him for a long moment - then let out a breath, shoulders sagging as the fury began to finally drain away.

“I know,” he said. “That’s why you’re still standing.”

Cassian’s mouth twitched, relief flickering through him. “I’ll grovel at her feet tomorrow, if she lets me.”

Azriel almost smiled. “I’m sure she will.”

“Next time,” Cassian muttered. “I’ll go easier on her.”

The look on Azriel’s face indicated that was the wrong thing to say.

“…Or no sparring together for a little while.”

“Try a long while, otherwise I may end up killing you.”

[heldbybarnes]

Okay, hear me out... reader who is overly clingy because her former partner never lets her express “too much” affection, but knowing that Bucky was okay with it, she wasn't scared to show it. but one day, he was tired af and just needed a little space. He took his frustration out on the reader, leading her to keep her distance to avoid another argument.

MY HEART

-------

You’ve always known you were a lot.

Too many touches. Too many words. Too much warmth, crowding space like you’re afraid it’ll disappear if you don’t hold it tight. Your last partner used to sigh whenever you climbed into their lap, peel your fingers away when you reached for them, tell you—gently at first, then sharper—that you didn’t need to be attached at the hip to prove you cared.

So when Bucky never flinched—when he let you curl into his side on the couch, your legs draped over his lap, your cheek pressed to his shoulder like it belonged there—you learned how to breathe again.

He’d kiss the crown of your head without comment. Let you lace your fingers with his while he read. Let you tuck your cold hands under his shirt just because you liked the way his skin felt warm and solid under your palms.

“You’re okay,” he’d murmur whenever you hesitated, hovering like you were waiting for permission. “I got you.”

So you believed him.

That’s why the night it breaks feels so sharp.

He comes back late—exhausted in that bone-deep way that makes his shoulders tight and his jaw locked, eyes dark with things he hasn’t said out loud yet. You hear the door and light up automatically, pushing off the couch to meet him.

“Hey,” you say softly, arms already lifting.

He stiffens the second you touch him.

“Not right now,” he snaps, shrugging you off harder than he means to. “Jesus—can I just have a minute without you hanging all over me?”

The words land heavy. Loud. Final.

You freeze.

“Oh,” you whisper, arms dropping back to your sides like they’ve been burned. “I—sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I’m tired,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face, frustration bleeding through his voice. “I just need space, okay? Just—space.”

It’s not cruel. Not really.

But it feels exactly like something you’ve heard before.

You nod quickly, swallowing past the tight knot in your throat. “Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’ll—I’ll give you space.”

He disappears into the bedroom without another word.

You stay where you are, heart pounding, chest aching with something you don’t have a name for. By the time he comes back out later, calmer, ready to apologize, you’re already folded in on yourself—quiet, careful, learning the old rules again.

Don’t touch first. Don’t crowd. Don’t ask for too much.

The next few days are… different.

You don’t curl into his side anymore. You sit at the opposite end of the couch, knees tucked up, arms wrapped around yourself. When he reaches for you absentmindedly in the kitchen, you step aside before he can make contact.

When he opens his arms for you in bed, you hesitate—then lie on your own side, back turned, pretending to be asleep.

Bucky notices.

Of course he does.

At first he thinks you’re just busy. Then he thinks maybe he imagined how close you usually are. But the distance stretches on, and it’s wrong in a way that makes his chest ache.

Finally, one evening, he can’t stand it.

“You mad at me?” he asks quietly.

You look up from where you’re sitting at the table, fingers fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve. “No.”

“Then why won’t you come here?” His voice is careful now. Gentle. Too gentle.

You hesitate, shoulders tensing like you’re bracing for impact. “I just… don’t want to bother you.”

His brow furrows. “You never bother me.”

Your laugh is soft and humorless. “You said you needed space.”

“I needed space that night,” he says, confusion creeping in. “Not—this.”

You finally look at him then, eyes glossy, expression guarded. “I know. I just—when you said it, it kind of… reminded me of things.”

Something twists painfully in his chest.

“What things?” he asks, already afraid of the answer.

You swallow. “My ex used to say that when I was being ‘too much.’ Too clingy. Too affectionate. I learned to back off so I wouldn’t upset them.” You shrug, small and brittle. “I figured you’d let me know if it was okay again.”

Bucky’s breath stutters.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispers.

He crosses the room in two steps and drops to his knees in front of you, hands hovering for a split second—waiting—before he cups your face.

“I messed up,” he says, voice thick. “I was exhausted and I took it out on you, and that’s not okay. I never meant to make you feel like you had to earn my affection.”

Your lower lip trembles. “I don’t want to make you tired of me.”

He shakes his head fiercely. “You don’t. You could cling to me like a damn koala and I still wouldn’t get tired of you.”

That earns a wet, broken laugh from you, tears spilling over.

He pulls you into his chest then, holding you tight, arms wrapped around you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he loosens his grip.

“You loving me loudly?” he murmurs into your hair. “That’s not a flaw. That’s you feeling safe. And I never want to be the reason you stop feeling that way.”

You cling to him instinctively, fingers fisting in his shirt. “You promise?”

“I promise,” he says immediately. “And if I need space again, I’ll say it better. I’ll say it without pushing you away.”

You nod against his chest, breathing evening out as he rocks you gently.

“Come back to me,” he whispers. “I miss my girl.”

And slowly—carefully—you do.

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Cold Eyes, Warm Hands

✦Read on a03! - Bucky Masterlist - Main Masterlist✦ ✦pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader✦ ✦summary: You know Bucky hates you. He's not secret about it. He hates you so much, he can't seem to stand you even getting along with an agent on a mission, and can't help but rush to your side when you need him. That's what hate is, right?✦ ✦warnings/tags: thunderbolt!reader, (not) enemies to lovers, pushy and creepy men, emotionally constipated Bucky Barnes, protective Bucky Barnes, light angst, fluff, pining, shameless smut, love confessions, (fingering, p in v sex, feral!bucky, possessive sex, softdom!bucky), no use of y/n✦ ✦author's note: Slight warning for creepy men being creepy. Not Bucky tho. My king would never. Also shoutout to @deanwinchestersunhappythoughts for convincing me to finish this one!✦

Everyone knows that Bucky hates you. 

It’s not something he hides, and if he’s trying to, he’s not doing it well. He leaves every room you enter, slipping out with a scowl and not a single word. If there’s a meeting, he sits so far across the table that it’s like he thinks you’re carrying the plague. Once he had to stand next to you in the back of a transport truck, and he spent the whole trip making a face like he was about to vomit. 

You try to ignore it. There’s not much else you can do. It’s not like you haven’t spent countless nights staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what you did to him. If it’s just your general face that he can’t stand, or your personality, of if you did something to deeply offend him the first time you met, and now you have no shot at even a friendship. 

You don’t think you did. There hadn’t been a bump in the elevator, or a misunderstanding in the lobby, or some time a while ago where you’d been in the same Subway car, and sneezed on him. You’d know by now, because you’ve replayed every single subway ride you’ve ever taken over and over in your head, looking for a flash of Bucky’s face. There, on the street, in a coffee shop or some random building where you might have told him to go fuck himself, and forgotten entirely. 

It seems unlikely. You don’t have a habit of telling people to go fuck themselves. 

That’s the whole reason you have this job in the first place. 

You’re the nice one. The diversity hire, who’s only there because she knows how to smile and not look like someone holding a gun to her head. You don’t run into conflict, and you always stick to the plan, and you don’t even like to leave a dirty dish in the sink for later, because you don’t want to force someone else to clean up after you. Let alone your grumpy, brooding roommates. 

It’s painfully stark, the difference between them and you. It’s only grown more apparent, as time has passed. You run training with Yelena, and she has to give you time outs every time you apologize for punching her in the face. You’ll eat dinner on the night that Ava cooks, tell her that it’s good—it’s not amazing, but it’s food, and you know she worked hard on it—and she’ll look at you like you just announced you were blowing your brains out after dessert. John has taken to covering your mouth with a hand during meetings, because you always try to offer motivation or sympathy with the targets, and none of them care about that. 

“You are weird little bird,” Alexei once told you, frowning at you from across the room. 

You’d laughed softly, folding the corner of your book between your fingers. “Yeah?”

“Yes. You smile.”

“You smile.”

“I am complex man. I live full of happiness and anger. You are only happiness.” He’d narrowed his eyes. “Is there silent anger, brimming below songbird’s surface?”

“Don’t call her that.” Bucky had muttered, and you’d blinked. You hadn’t even realized he’d entered the room. 

He’d walked over to the bookshelf, hands in his jacket pockets, not sparing you a single glance. Alexei had scoffed. 

“Bucky Barnes, I am doing investigation. This is serious business, do not mock-“

“I’ll mock, Alexei, when you’re doing something pointless. There’s nothing to investigate.” He’d grabbed a book, and turned to Alexei, his back firmly to you. “She’s clean. We’ve checked.”

He’d walked out without another word, and you’d bitten on your lower lip until you tasted blood. Of course it hadn’t been a real defense. Bucky doesn’t care enough about you to defend you. He just didn’t want Alexei to waste his time on something as pointless as you. 

So you know, that Bucky hates you. And he has no secret reason, because it’s just you. The rest of them got used to you after a few months, and even like you know. Yelena doesn’t bitch about the breaks, and lets you hold her guinea pig as long as you let her hold your crows. Ava sits with you while she reads, and doesn’t roll her eyes at every single thing you say. John once called you not entirely useless, which is John for incredibly important and useful.

Alexei made you a—rather poorly constructed, but very sweet—cake for your last birthday, and insisted everyone buy you at least one gift. They all put a shocking amount of effort into it as well, and it had been clear that you weren’t just Valentina’s happy, pretty invader anymore. 

Even Bucky had gotten you something, and you’d pretended it meant something. That it hadn’t just been because Alexei threatened to rip out his spine if he didn’t. 

It had just been a jacket. Thick and warm, shoved into your hands like he couldn’t let go of it fast enough. 

“You get cold.” He’d grunted. “On missions.”

 “I- I don’t-“

“Yes, you do. Your fingers shake, and your heart picks up. It’s dangerous.” He’d nodded to the jacket. “Wear that.”

You’d swallowed, as he’d walked away. 

And you do. Wear it. You’re the exact kind of over-emotional and pathetic fool he thinks you are, so you wear it on every mission, and look at Bucky to see if he’s noticed. 

He never has. 

The rest of them love you, but Bucky doesn’t. There doesn’t seem to be much you can do about it, but you don’t give up. You’re still nice to him, and it’s only a little in the pathetic hope that he might look at you one day and realize that he was wrong. Until then, you cling to the fact that the rest of them like you. That it was a long, natural curve to get there—given how you got here, and what you are—but they all genuinely like you. 

Of the team, Bob gets on with you the best. None of them question why—they likely assume you both just don’t like fighting—but you eat breakfast together every day, do the crossword puzzle, and go out for walks at least twice a week. 

You’ve seen Bucky glaring at you, when you get back. He might think you’re wasting time, or putting you both in danger by just going outside as superheroes. As if he doesn’t know that if anyone is least likely to be in danger of an attack, it’s you and Bob. Like you didn’t have your fucking GPS’ on the whole time, and he’s not your boss anyway.

“You’re going to catch a cold, if you keep goin’ out there.” He’d grunted once, as you’d made tea in the kitchen after. 

“That’s- Not actually how colds world.” You’d mumbled. “And I don’t get sick anyway.”

“Hm.” He might have been looking at you. You weren’t going to dignify it with a glance, because you’d see the loathing in his eyes, and your heart might split down your chest. 

He’d just walked away. You’d stood in the kitchen for about five minutes after, head bowed, taking deep breaths through your nose. 

Everyone loved you. 

It was the in your nature, quite literally, to have everyone love you. That’s why you’re here. Not to whine about your own problems, not to burden people with your pain, but to be the lighthouse. Your powers and sweetness smooth over the violence and anger of the team. Your presence calms down press events, because none of them are ever mean to you. If there’s hand to hand combat you’re entirely, hopelessly useless, but no one even throws a punch at you, so it’s not a problem. 

You’ve wondered if that’s why Bucky hates you. Because he thinks you’re messing with his brain, and he’s had enough of that for a lifetime. 

But you’ve told them. You turn it on and off, and you never use it on people you’re close to. 

Maybe Bucky didn’t believe you.

It doesn’t matter. He still hates you. 

And it hurts more, than if anyone else did. 

Because you’re an idiot, and you’ve had a crush on him since you were in fucking middle school. You watched all the Howling Commandos documentaries in history, and stared dreamily at him in the grainy footage. You’d liked his smile, and his loyalty, and his general, pretty face. When the news about Hydra, then Sokovia had broken, you’d had some friends mock you about your old man crush was a war criminal. When he’d been pardoned and ended up on the news with Captain America, you’d watch the footage maybe a little longer than you needed to. 

You’d never wanted to meet him. 

You’d never wanted to be a superhero in the first place. But college was fucking expensive, and the job market was shit, and you’d needed money fast. Valentina had offered it, as long as you used your powers. 

That was something you hadn’t wanted to do either. You didn’t want to do most things. Didn’t want to go places people could hurt you. Places you could mess up, or disappoint someone, or be seen. 

And this has been your greatest dream and worst nightmare. 

Everyone can see you. You’re in the public eye every day, and held up like a shiny diamond to be admired. 

They all love you. Last month a magazine ran a s hit piece about the New Avengers, and still called you The Princess, because you were all smiles and sweet words, lovely to look at and talk to, but not worth much in a fight. Compared to what they said about everyone else—calling John the Prince, because no one took him seriously, and he was a foolish ass for thinking they did, and Bucky The King, because he used fear from his past to enforce the New Avengers and their status now—they might as well have sent you flowers. 

People had even been mad online, that they’d ever say something mean about you. 

Bucky had heard that in the damage control meeting, and snorted. 

Your heart had turned to fractured, tiny piece of glass that cut at your stomach and hands. You’d felt sick, and hadn’t been able to do much for the rest of the day, as his cruel little snort played over and over in your head. 

He’d been your foolish dream, since you were a kid. You’d never wanted to meet him. 

Because exactly what you thought would happen, did. 

He hates you. 

Bucky Barnes hates you. 

And he doesn’t even care enough about you to do it behind your back.

 “I don’t want anyone arguing with me about this one.” He says in the jet, and you don’t bother to look up from your feet. 

You know he’s looking at you. You can feel it. And you don’t argue with him, not like the rest of them do. You just offer some ideas for how to improve the plan, or point out holes in his idea with polite words. He always looks at you like you spat up vomit on his suit. 

So you don’t say anything. 

That’s your goal for this mission. Be as nothing to Bucky as possible. Don’t let his glowers and cold words loop in your head for hours after, making you feel like you’re even less than you already know you are. Don’t think about if he’s looking at you, don’t try to be his friend, don’t indulge the fantasy of his attention. 

Any attention. Even if he’s sneering that you’re an insufferable brat who needs to be coddled, it would be attention. Even if he touched you with anger in his hands and hatred in his eyes, at least he’d be touching you. 

You’ve realized, that him hating you isn’t doing anything to make your crush on his go away. If anything, it’s making the whole situation worse, because apathy is harder to indulge than the idea of him slamming you against the wall and fucking you until all his frustration feels eased. 

Which is the exact type of thought you’re not supposed to be having. 

So you just keep staring at your hands. Bucky clears his throat, like he’s waiting for something, and you don’t give him the satisfaction.

He moves on. 

“I got us a connection with a mercenary in the area, who’s been hunting these people down for years. We’re working together, so everyone is going to be civil with him. Right?”

Ava raises her hand next to you. “What are we calling civil?”

“I don’t know. Use your judgement. Or- Actually-" Bucky sighs. “No name callin’, no yellin’, and- Try to act like you’re a damn adult for two days. Can we do that?”

“You name call all the time, Bucky-“

“I’m the oldest, Walker. I’ve earned it.”

John rolls his eyes, and Yelena jumps in. 

“Can we pheromone him?” She looks to you. “Can you pheromone him?”

“Um-“ You flush, your eyes instinctively shooting to Bucky. 

His jaw is clenched, hands braced on his hips, and glaring at you with the usual silent disgust. You swallow, heat crawling over your skin. You can’t tell if it’s shame, or just the usual hunger for him. It doesn’t really matter anyway.

“I technically can.” You mumble, ripping your gaze away from Bucky. “If we need it. But- Bucky says he’s on our side. I don’t think I need to, right?”

You look to Bucky again. His nostrils flare, the fury on his face almost leaking into the air. 

“Right.” He grunts, glare moving to Yelena. He launches into a longer brief, about the drug ring you’re going after, the agents details, but you don’t hear most of it. You’re too busy staring at the floor, hiding the tears brimming in your eyes. 

Useless.

You can’t even make a choice by yourself. Fucking useless. 

When you land, you’re first out of the jet. Your arms wrap tight around your stomach, head down, not glancing back to check if Bucky’s venomous glare is still trained on you. If it is, that’s fine. It’s fine. You’re fine, because it’s nothing new, nothing you didn’t expect, nothing you’re not just going to have to grow the fuck up about and get over- 

You’re too lost in your own self-pity to see where you’re going. 

You slam right into someone’s chest.

“Woah!” A deep voice laughs, big hands grabbing your shoulders and steadying you against a firm body. You squeak, trying to back up, but the hands just tighten. “Hey, are you-“

“She’s fine.” Bucky’s snaps from behind you, and whoever’s grabbing you stills.

“Barnes, you look like shit-“

“Six hour flight. We all look like shit. Let her go.” The man releases you, and you stumble back a few paces. Into Bucky’s chest. 

He grabs your upper arm, and your breath hitches pathetically. It’s the metal hand, and it’s solid and firm through your jacket, and your head starts to race with images of it running down your thighs with that same tight grip, sending shivers up your spine and molding you exactly how he’d want you-

He doesn’t want you. 

Bucky’s hand flexes like he can’t bear to touch you, and he moves you off to the side. You swallow down the shame. He doesn’t get the satisfaction, doesn’t get to see how he’s slowly fucking killing you. 

“What’s wrong with her?” The new man asks, and Bucky grunts.

“Told you. Long flight.”

You bite your lower lip, fingers curling on your side. If he didn’t just hate you, this might be considered cruel. It might be cruel anyway. But your skin is still burning where he touched it. And your heart still skips a beat when he says your name. 

“This is Mulder. Mulder, this is-“ “I know who this is.” Mulder cuts Bucky off with your name, and you blink up at him in surprise.

He’s not bad to look at. Same dark hair as Bucky, just beardless and a little more of a haircut. His eyes are blue as well, if not a little more gray. He’s got a strong jaw. Thick build, and a friendly smile. 

That’s directed at you. You return it tenitivly, and he laughs.

“Wow. You’re even prettier in person, sweetheart.”

You flush, standing a little taller. “Oh, um- Thank you?” “No problem. You’re my favorite, you know.” He winks, still grinning. “I like these assholes just fine, but you? Very excited to work together.” “I’m- Me too.” You offer, and Mulder opens his mouth—maybe to compliment you again, which you’re not sure you can emotionally handle right now—but Bucky cuts him off. “We have time for talking later, Mulder. You bring the car?” Mulder rolls his eyes. “Course I brought the car, Barnes. You think I’m a damn idiot.” Bucky doesn’t answer. When you risk a glance over, he’s looking at Mulder with a coldness in his eyes you’ve never seen before. Even when he glares at you, there’s some heat in the hatred. Like he’s trying to figure out what kind of fire will smoke you out, like he hates you so much it’s making him recoil and physically tense at your mere existence.  He’s tensed as he glares at Mulder, too. 

But rigid. Not a live wire set to snap. Something deeper, and less forgiving, that seems to be making his tongue sharper and words clipped. 

“You live in these… Woods?” Yelena asks as Mulder piles you into his truck, and he shrugs.  “No, just been here for years, trying to catch these bastards. They’re slick, keep figuring out how to avoid me, I’ve chased them half across the world. Who knew they’d be holed up in the backyard of my damn operation.” He chuckles, glancing over to Bucky. “But that’s how Hydra stayed underground, wasn’t it? Plain sight?” Bucky grunts. “Don’t know. Wasn’t exactly invited to all the strategy meetings.” Mulder laughs again, and you frown. Bucky doesn’t like to talk about his time in Hydra with anyone. And laughing about it makes your gut prickle wrong, your tongue aching to jump in and say something about how it’s not really anyone’s business anyway, let alone Mulder’s to comment about. But Mudler continues before you can. 

Probably for the best. 

The last time you defended Bucky at a press event, he didn’t look at you for a week. 

“We’re going to have to head into the city for a few days. Trace these asshole to their exact base, play it careful. I’ll send some of you in first, they know I’m looking for them. ‘Course, they’ll be thrilled to see me, but I’m trying to play it humble. Makes the attention I do give all the more exciting.” Mulder winks at you, and you flush. 

Bucky didn’t mention if this man had powers. If that comment was just a coincidence, of if he’d known what you’ve been thinking about Bucky. If he’s a mind-reader, that’s going to be a real problem. You don’t know how to guard against a mind reader, and all your thoughts are pathetic, and what if he tells Bucky about them- 

“How you know Bucky Barnes?” Alexei jumps in, staring at Mulder with almost open affection. “You go to pretty assassin school together? You take super solider serum?” “Nope.” Mulder laughs again. He does that a lot. “I worked with Wilson, a while ago. Back when he was just a normal guy like me. Trained in Shield, left to figure out where my life is going after the fall. I admire the enhanced, though. You’ve gotta be a good person, to go through that change and come out the other side a good person.”

Bucky, Ava, and John all tense across the Van, Alexei puffs out his chest, and you just shrink into yourself. 

Mulder says your name, still wearing that charming smile. “You especially, with what you can do? A worse person would abuse that.” “I- I don’t-“ “She barely uses it.” Bucky grunts, and your nails dig into your side.  “Wow, Barnes. Didn’t know you spoke for her.” Bucky works his jaw, and you really don’t understand what’s going on with him. He’s the one who said to play nice. 

The least you can do is try and play nice for him. 

“He’s right, Mulder.” You mumble. “It’s kind of- For emergencies only.” “Again. Admirable.” Mulder grins at you in the mirror. “And you can call me Jack.” You nod, still smiling, and glance back to Bucky. His face has settled into an almost unreadable stone mask. 

Almost. You’ve spent so much time silently staring at him that you can read. 

He’s furious.

You haven’t even started the job yet, and Bucky looks like he’s about to rip someone’s spine out. You don’t understand why—no one’s messed up, Mulder seems like a bit of an ass, but no more than the rest of you, and you haven’t done anything to piss him off yet—but you’re not foolish enough to ask. 

You just let out a slow breath, and tip your head back against the rattling wall of the truck. 

The mission is going to be long. 

And you’re going to be caught in the center of it, just trying to keep your head above water around Bucky, and be a little fucking useful to the team. 

To Mulder.

Because even if he’s an ass, you’re his favorite. And that makes the hair on your arms stand up, because what if you disappoint him. What if, when this is done, he decides that you’re not at all worth what you seem to be on paper. 

That, at least, is something you can try to prevent. You’ve already lost Bucky—though you know you never had him in the first place—so you don’t need to waste the mission worrying about if he’s seeing you. It’s going to be all about Mudler. 

“Jack,” he reminds you again, as you unload equipment in his makeshift base of a motel room. “You can call me Jack, sweetheart.”

You won’t mess this up. 

“Okay.” You smile at him. “Jack.”

He grins right back, and across the room, there’s a loud crack as something breaks. 

“Fuck, Bucky!” John shouts, and you look up to see him gaping at the mess of a computer on the floor. “What the hell, why did you-“ “It was weak.” Bucky grunts, and you can feel his glare on you again. “Just fuckin’ snapped when I picked it up. Not my fault.” Mulder laughs, giving Bucky another lazy grin. “Well, don’t go breaking any of my other shit. I might start to take offense.”

“Noted.” Bucky grunts.  He doesn’t even crack a smile. 

And you’ve seen him be grumpy on missions before. It’s almost his default setting, to act like a dad with a pack of unruly children who refuse to be house trained. But this is different. He looks like he’s seconds away from either breaking his own jaw, or slamming his fist into the wall. 

The next few days are spent gathering intel about the operation, taking what Jack already has and blending it with anything the rest of you can find. Alexei translates some Russian documents, because every time he’s thrown into a field like this he just ends up getting drunk with the gang members. Yelena and John track down a few of the inner circle members. Bucky and Ava grab them and drag some information out with questionable methods, before dumping them in the snow. You and Jack track down a few of the known bases, as well as some of Jack’s informants, and get whatever you can. 

“You should do your thing.” Jack mutters in your ear. He’s taken to standing rather close behind you. Close enough that you can feel the heat of his body. 

You don’t mind it. It’s just a little strange. “I don’t do my thing unless it’s an emergency.” You remind him softly, and he shrugs. 

“If you don’t do it, I’ll never get to see it, and we might have to be on this case for weeks.”

“Jack…” You sigh—this isn’t the first time he’s tried to make you do it, and it probably won’t be the last—but he shakes his head, cutting you off smoothly. 

“Actually,” his lips brush your ear, and you swallow. “Don’t do it. I want to stay on this case together.” 

You weren’t going to do it in the first place. But there’s not really any good response to that, so you just hum and laugh weakly. The man you were waiting for walks through the door, and you’re saved from the conversation.

When you get back to the motel room, Jack runs the team through what the man told you. And for once, Bucky isn’t glaring at you. He’s glaring at Jack.

He’s been glaring at Jack a lot. 

“We should reshuffle teams.” He grunts after a week, and Ava mock pouts. 

“Aw, you’re sick of me already, Barnes?” 

“No.” He snaps. “I just think it’s bad to stick to the same pattern on a mission like this. They’ll pick up on it.”

“Good point.” Jack nods, and Bucky shoots him such a withering glare you’re shocked it doesn’t actually kill him. “But it might be even better if we move into teams of three and four.”

Bucky opens his mouth, still glowering, but John cuts in first. “Can I be with you two? If Yelena keeps shit-talking me in Russian, I’m actually going to punch her.” Yelena snorts. “Walker, you could not lay a single little finger on me-“ “You wanna fuckin’ bet-“

“Hey.” Bucky snaps, and they both fall silent. “The hell did I say on the jet?” “Not to insult him.” Yelena nods to Jack. “There was nothing about each other.” “Yeah, Yelena’s right, we can fight, that’s our right as teammates-“ “John. Shut up.” Bucky rubs a hand over his face, letting out a low, long groan. 

His eyes flick to you, then away just as fast. He lets out a heavy breath like someone’s physically hurting him. 

“Fine. Whatever. John, you’re with them. Yelena, me and Ava.”

John grins, marching over to your side and raising his hand for a high five. You give it awkwardly, Jack a little more enthusiastically, and John flips off Bucky’s scowl. 

“Suck it, Team Loser. We’re going to grab those dipshits first.” You sigh, placing a hand lightly on his shoulder. “Not a competition, John.”

He rolls his eyes, grumbling something about how it could be, but drops it fast.  Bucky keeps glaring at you. You bite down the pain of it, same as always. 

There’s still a job to do. Jack still likes you enough to want you on his team. You won’t mess that up. 

The next few days pass in a blur. You’re closing in on the gang, Bucky’s still acting like everyone is insulting his mother to his face, and Jack hasn’t stopped trying to get you to use your powers. 

He just wants to see it, is what he says, over and over. Even John jumped to your defense at one point, but Jack just laughed again, and said that John’s luck enough to be around you all the time. He just gets this moment.

“Unless you want more.” He smirks at you, and you flush.  John groans. “Jesus, no wonder Bucky hasn’t been sleeping.” 

“Bucky hasn’t been what?” Your eyes shoot away from Jack, and John just shrugs. 

“We’ve been bunking together. And Alexei, but I’ve tuned him out, he snores like a fucking monster truck-“ “No, I- I know that. Why isn’t Bucky sleeping?”

“Oh. ‘Cause.” John waves a hand, then moves on down the hallway. You open your mouth to call after him, but Jack stops you with a hand splayed on your lower back. 

“Don’t worry about Barnes, sweetheart. I know how he can be.” 

You frown at him. Bucky can be a dick, but you can all be a dick. And he’s got a lot on his shoulders, and a lot of shadows behind him. It’s amazing he’s standing at all, let alone still fighting. He’s earned being a little bit of an ass, even if it rips your heart out of your chest every single time. 

“Bucky-“ “Come on.” Jack cuts you off, rubbing his hand up and down your spine. “Let’s go find this ass. So you can do the thing.” 

You smile at him weakly. You won’t do the thing. But Jack, also, doesn’t seem willing to give up on asking you.  It’s almost three weeks, when you finally have a solid lead. Three weeks of Bucky looking like he wants to shoot someone and Jack being stuck to your side, before you finally have an ending in sight. There’s a bunker in the mountains, that should have all the evidence you need to bring the gang down. 

You have one day, before a snowstorm blows in, and it becomes inaccessible for months. So you’ll move out in the morning, and spend the night doing what you do before every big move on a mission. 

Drinking. 

It’s a tradition they started before you joined. It’s time honored and well-kept, to the point that you’re pretty sure Alexei would throw actual tantrum if anyone forgot. You find somewhere with a pool table, a jukebox, and liquor. Everyone drinks until the room is spinning, and you’re all giggling and forgetting about your problems. The morning seems a million miles away, and the pain seems even further. It’s not drinking to celebrate. It’s drinking so that if tomorrow goes wrong, at least you were alive tonight. 

Then you’re up at the crack of dawn, and you finish the job. 

Usually, you spend the evening next to Yelena, having whatever she puts in front of you, giggling at stupid jokes, and pretending you’re not staring at Bucky’s handsome profile down the bar. He usually sits with Alexei or Walker, silent and annoyed by the whole thing, but slowly loosening up over the night. He’ll go play darts or chat with the bartender. If she’s lucky, he’ll be in a good enough mood to give some random girl a little attention, and you’ll go to the bathroom with your mouth tasting like bile. 

You’ll splash your face, remind yourself that he hates you and you have no right to be bitter about this, and try not to look at him for the rest of the night. Which usually means dancing, trying to learn how to play pool—it’s been two years, you’re nowhere close, no matter how much John yells at you—and turning in the moment you spot Bucky’s random girl sitting on his lap. 

But tonight, there’s no girl. A few of them have walked up to him, and he’s flat out ignored them. You feel a little bad for them, as they storm back to their friends. You understand, more than they could ever imagine, what it feels like. The sour sting of Bucky’s rejection, that feels like an open, infected wound. At least their’s will heal. You just keep poking at yours, until your guts are spilled all over the floor, and you can’t be bothered to pick them up.

You really are trying, not to look at him. To pay attention to what’s in front of you, because there’s no point. Bucky hates pity, even more than he hates you, and combining the two isn’t going to do anyone any favors. But he looks so sad. Still angry and hostile, but with a slump to his shoulders that tugs on your heart. Maybe now, if you just extended a slim, delicate olive branch—just an offer to listen, that will snap in half and take you with it—he’d accept it. 

That’s all you can think about. Yelena’s sliding drinks in front of you, and Jack is cooing in your ear, but you can’t see or hear anything but Bucky. His gloved hand is turning the glass, his gaze trained on the movement of the water inside. His chest heaves, jaw ticking and mouth setting in a thin line. Jack says your name, but it sounds far away, so you just hum in acknowledgment. 

“You’re gorgeous.” He murmurs in your ear, and you tilt your head at Bucky.  He’s oddly tense. Like he’s bracing for a fight. 

“And you smell like sugar.” Jack is still talking. Bucky’s stopped turning his glass, his head bowing lower than before. “Look like an angel. Do we know if God is real, yet? Did he send you?” “I dunno.” You mumble. Bucky’s spine just stiffened. Maybe there’s danger, and he just doesn’t want to worry anyone. 

Jack plays with a strand of your hair. “If you’re not an angel, you’re a siren. I mean,” he laughs. “Cheap joke. That’s your code-name. But shit, you really nailed it. So smart, too.” “She didn’t come up with her name.” Yelena says, some distance away. “Valentina did. She doesn’t like being called it, either.” “Hm. She doesn’t like using her powers, doesn’t like her codename.” Jack laughs. “Maybe she should retire. Come live with me, sweetheart, you’ll never have to worry about anything again.” You can hear Yelena respond something sharp, but you don’t really hear it. 

A new, brave girl approached Bucky. He’d looked her up and down slowly, expression almost unreadable. The same stone mask from before, but just a little heavier. 

He’s tired. 

And he looks to you. For a split second, Bucky’s eyes lock with yours. You stare at him, leaning a little further forward. Jack is still playing with your hair, and you can feel his hand slide up your spine. 

That pure coldness flashes through Bucky’s gaze, and he looks back to the girl. 

Smiles at her. 

He never smiles at you. 

“I’m going to bed.” You tell no one particular. You don’t want to keep drinking. You’ll just start crying. 

Jack volunteers to go with you. He keeps his hand on your back, as he walks you out of the bar. You can feel Bucky staring daggers at your back as you leave. 

You’re able to hide your tears, in the sting of the cold wind. If Jack suspects they’re anything else, he doesn’t say anything. He’s mostly just babbling about how long he’s been working on this, and what he wants to do after, and what he likes doing with his free time.

 “Do you like Vegas? You must be fun in Vegas.” “I’ve never been to Vegas.” You mumble, wiping your nose on your jacket. It’s the jacket Bucky gave you. 

Your throat hurts. He’s a good man. He’s a strong, good man who sits with Bob when he doesn’t feel well, and mocks John relentlessly but has his back in fights. He helps Ava with her suit upgrades, gives Yelena advice, and indulges all of Alexei’s stories about the Good Old Days, even throwing in a few extra facts if he’s in a good mood. 

It’s just you. 

You’re the only one who he treats like this. 

So, somehow, it must be your fault. 

“What the hell is up with Barnes anyway?” Jack says, and suddenly your brain decides to pay attention.  “He’s under a lot of stress.” You mumble, and Jack rolls his eyes. 

“We all are. You know, last time I met him he wasn’t like this, he must not have gotten laid in a year.”

You make a face, but don’t say anything. Jack rubs your back, sighing dramatically. “He’s such a damn ass to you, sweetheart. Can’t stand it. You deserve better than that.” You might. You probably do. You’ve told your heart that over and over, but it doesn’t seem to be willing to hear it. The rhythm of its beat falls in line with Bucky’s name. 

You’re starting to hate yourself for it. 

Jack doesn’t need to know that, so you only hum. 

“Have you tried your thing on him?” He asks, and your body recoils. 

You stumble away, eyes wide in disgust as a foul, sickening taste creeps up your throat. 

“No- I- No.” You shake your head frantically. “I would never- I don’t use it for anything like that, I’ve never used it for that, and I- Bucky isn’t- How could you say that?” “He’s just such a dick to you,” Jack says your name, taking a large step forward. Pressing you back against the wall. “Come on, you’ve at least thought of it-“ “No, I- I would never-“

“You don’t have to lie, it’s just me-“ “I’m not lying-“

“Sweetheart.” Jack coos, taking another step forward, leaving your back pressed against wall. “It’s not wrong, to have thought about it. I would have thought it. But I also,” he reaches up, tracing a hand over your cheek, and you shrink back into your body. “Would never be so mean to something as pretty as you.” 

You swallow, tears still burning at your eyes. Jack’s breath smells like liquor, fanning over your face, and it’s making the room feel like it’s flipping and spinning. Not in the pleasant, dizzying way that Bucky’s body near yours does. 

This feels wrong. 

“Can you please back up?” You whisper, and Jack chuckles.  “Why would I do that, sweetheart.” The tears slide down your cheeks. “Please?”

Jack shakes his head, his lips brushing over yours. You try to lean back, but there’s only the wall. 

You close your eyes. He did want to see it. He begged to. 

“Jack.” Your voice slips into the other one. The sweet, musical one that’s almost floats through the air. Less of a voice. More of a call. “Can you please back up?”

He’s frozen for a moment. You don’t dare to breathe, in case it breaks the spell. 

Then he vanishes. His hands near your head, his smell, his lips and the sticky, suffocating heat of his body. You pull your eyes open, and let out a shaking breath. 

He’s just standing. Face entirely void of himself. Nothing more than a puppet. 

You hug yourself tight, voice almost cracking as you speak again. “Walk away. And- Please don’t speak to me or look for me, until the morning.”

Jack nods slowly, and turns away. His eyes stare at the floor, and he almost glides down the hallway, away from your room.  

You swallow, and slip into your room without another word. It feels like there’s a thin layer of grime over your skin, but no matter how you rub at it in the shower, it doesn’t go away. You sink to the floor, pressing your face into your knees, and cry in the safety of the burning water. If the veil it offers, to mask the sound of your sobs, to hide you in the steam. 

You don’t know how long you just sit there. You know when you go to bed, you’re still sniffling. 

And when you fall asleep, it’s like the tide dragging you under. 

Impossibly pain in your chest. A feeling like you can’t breathe, as you fold yourself into the cushion. 

Then just black. And a long, heavy sleep. 

Bucky didn’t count himself a good man. 

It wasn’t just that he’d done bad things, and he’d done… A lot of bad things. The kind of bad things that people, apparently, made documentaries about. The kind of bad things he shouldn’t be forgiven for, no matter what Sam used to say about it not really being him who did it. 

It had been his hands. His body. 

His mind, that had caved to the programming. That hadn’t fought back against Hydra, and let them use him as a weapon. 

He might not have chosen to do the things, but he still did them. And it didn’t matter anyway. 

He still wasn’t a good man. 

It wasn’t about only his actions. It wasn’t about everything he did to repent, and how people now looked at him like he was a hero, when he knew the truth. That he was tricking them, and if they saw the ugly beast under the surface—the part of him that was barely better than an animal—they’d shoot him in the goddamn skull. 

Because he thought things. Craved things. Was hungry for things he had no right to desire. 

One thing. 

Really, it was just one thing, that drove him out of his mind every fucking night. That made him glare at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to drill it into his stupid head that he was barely more than a mutt, and had no right to ask for something so priceless. 

Her. 

Bucky wanted Her.

He had to right to even want anything at all. Wanting Her felt like a crime. 

She was made of soft things he’d long lost to the bottom of the ocean, swept smooth and empty with the water of time. She had the kind of shine Bucky had only ever been able to dull, and the kind of gentleness that did go well with biting guard dogs. Bucky was a weapon. She was stained glass, casting the light soft and gentle through his life. He’d been gone the moment Valentina had showed them the picture of the new hire. 

Then She’d walked into the room, smiling and bright eyed, and Bucky had known. 

He wanted Her on his arm during events, smiling mostly at him instead of the cameras—Her real smile, not the well-polished, overdone one she gave the photographers—then hanging off his body as they drank and whispered in the corner. She’d sit next to him on missions, his hand on Her thigh and her foot bumping his under the table. They’d hold hands and… Do whatever modern couples did. Go for walks and eat food. Not dancing, because he’d seen where people danced now and it was pretty damn loud, but maybe just sitting in the living room together. His legs over Her’s, Her head on his chest, talking about nothing at all. 

And he’d have Her in his bed. Fantasies of Her lips on his, bodies pressed tight together and whispers soft and teasing, it was what he thought of in the shower. In his own big, lonelier bed as he groaned Her name to the dark. 

Bucky wanted Her like he wanted to touch the sky, when he was a boy. 

So much he dreamed about it. 

Impossibly, and desperately, and knowing fully well that if he ever did, he’d never want to go back down to Earth. 

Bucky was never going to want anything as bad. 

And under no fucking circumstances should he be allowed to have Her. 

He set distances. Made boundaries, less to keep Her away and more to keep himself at bay. Whenever he accidentally touched Her, she’d mold into him, and he’d have to rip his hand away like it was burning. If he didn’t, it might mold into Her, and he’d never let go. Or worse, She’d rip herself away, and he’d have to remember what it was like to touch Her, then lose Her. 

It was a fate he could tolerate, to watch from afar. But holding Her, having all that sweetness in his hands then letting it slip through his fingers, he’d never forgive himself. He saw how soft She got, how deeply she took everything, how much She glowed under praise. He wouldn’t be able to live with breaking Her heart, because she’d shatter. Hell, She pouted to herself when Yelena so much as told her she misinterpreted some intel. Her actually crying, and Bucky being the cause of it, that might destroy him. 

And he wasn’t being arrogant. He wasn’t blind. He saw how desperately she smiled at him, heard the extra light in Her voice when she spoke to him, basked in the extra attention she gave him, because it was a sliver of Heaven he got to steal, and keep all to himself.  But She didn’t know what she was doing. She was young, She’d develop feelings, and they’d pass once She found someone better. 

Then Bucky would just sit here. Alone in the dark, torturing himself with what could have been. 

At least they’d be friends. Bucky could live with friends. He tried to be nice to Her—even if he hadn’t been sure how to do that, in at least a decade—and made sure to give Her respectable friend distance and words. He bit down every inappropriate or slightly wanting comment on his tongue. 

It was most of them. 

Almost all his thoughts around Her had slowly become that he wanted and needed Her, that she was beautiful and kind and maybe the best person he’d ever met, and they were lucky to have Her on the team, powers or not. 

He didn’t want to send mixed signals. Didn’t want to get Her confused about what he could give Her, because it wasn’t much. 

One day, She’d find someone who could give her everything, and Bucky would just be Her friend. 

He’d been ready for that.  He hadn’t thought it would happen this fast. 

Jack’s eyes had glinted, when they’d stepped off the jet. Bucky had known that look. He saw it in the mirror, every damn morning. And She’d smiled at Jack. Stuck with him the whole fucking mission. Bucky had felt like he was going to drive himself out of his goddamn mind. 

She wasn’t his. He had no fucking claim to Her. It was his own damn fault, that She hadn’t been talking to him at the bar. The he hadn’t been the one touching Her, wasn’t the one who walked Her out. 

Knowing that hadn’t stopped the creeping rage and disgust with himself. The ice-like, almost painful hated of Jack, festering into a vileness that curled his fists. 

At one point, it had gotten so intolerable that he’d suggested they switch up the teams. He could put himself with Her. Steal just a little bit more of Her attention. 

She’d been drawing away from him a little big before the mission as well. Bucky wasn’t sure what he’d done, but She hadn’t even been looking at him. He’d wanted to ask, to fix it, to do anything that would make things go back to normal. He might’ve asked the night they landed, if it wasn’t for fucking Jack. 

And now they might be in Her room. 

Which Bucky was fine with. They were adults. She was smart, and could make Her own choices, and he didn’t deserve Her anyway. 

He still lingered outside Her room for hours, thinking about going in. Shouting his love to Her shocked face, then watching Her turn away from Jack and run into his arms. 

The last part was just in his head. There was no way She’d do anything but throw him out of his ass, after he waited so long to tell Her. 

If Jack was what She wanted, she deserved to be happy. 

Bucky still didn’t sleep that night, his mind racing with the idea of someone else touching Her. Having Her, how he wanted. 

Jack wouldn’t treat Her as well as Bucky would. He’d treat Her like a Queen. 

Then lose Her. That kind of closeness was always something he lost. 

He had to haul himself out of bed in the morning. He didn’t want to see Her and Jack standing next to each other. Didn’t to live in the world that was coming, where Her pretty eyes glazed right over him, like he was nothing more than a potted plant. 

It was only to desire to get the hell out of this job, that got him moving. 

But when he got to the group, She wasn’t there. 

Not just late. 

Missing. 

Jack was there. When asked, he just shrugged. Bucky narrowed his eyes—the man had been fawning over Her last night, he’d had Her on his arm, and she was pretty damn hard to lose sight of—but Yelena just sighed and stomped off to go grab Her. 

 They waited awkwardly, shifting on their feet. 

“Storm’s coming.” Walker muttered, and Bucky shot him a glare. “What? I’m just saying, we should be heading out-“ “No.” Bucky grunted. “Team first, John.” Walker sighed, and gave him a flat look. Somehow he was the only person who knew. About a month into Her being on the team, Walker had cornered him and asked what the hell his problem was with Her. He didn’t let up, until Bucky shouted that he might have some feelings for Her. 

He’d, shockingly, kept the secret. 

That didn’t stop the silent mocking and pointed looks. Bucky had learned to ignore them. 

“She does not feeling well.” Yelena announced, storming back into the room. “She wants to stay here.”

Bucky frowned. “She looked fine last night.” “You were across the bar, Bucky Barnes. You could not tell.” Yelena grabbed her baton, moving on before Bucky could protest. “We have to beat the storm. She will wait, but I left her gun. In case someone tries to mess with her, she can-“ Yelena made a mock gun sound, and Bucky’s frown only deepened. She never missed a mission. Once he’d been forced to bench Her, because she had a fever and was trying to join the field work. Even then, She’d talked him into surveillance and intel. 

It was probably a good thing Yelena had checked on Her. Bucky would’ve caved to damn near anything She told him, long as it didn’t put her in danger. 

But She’d volunteered to stay. 

It didn’t sit right. Bucky didn’t have a choice but to let it happen—the wind was picking up, the sky turning gray—but it kept turning, in his skull. 

He knew almost everything about Her, because he listened and watched and memorized Her like a song he wanted stuck in his head forever. He knew that She loved animals, and got cold fast, and enjoyed those romance movies but always liked books better. She didn’t like to feel useless, so he tried to remind Her of things she did after missions, and she liked learning so he’d throw in suggestions for how she could improve.

She never used Her powers, even if they could let Her take over the world in an afternoon. 

And She never just sat out a mission. Especially not one that would be really damn useful to have Her for. 

“Would be useful, for songbird to be here.” Alexei echoed Bucky’s thoughts, dragged the guard they’d knocked out over to the thumbprint pad. “Her song, soothe angriest man.”

Bucky grunted an agreement, but Jack- 

Jack scoffed. And rolled his eyes. 

Bucky wasn’t the only one who caught it. Yelena’s eyes narrowed as well. 

“What was that?” Jack waved her off. “What was what?” “That face. The one that you just made.” Yelena mimicked it. “What was this?”

“Oh. Nothing.” “No, it was something. Say what.” Yelena wasn’t suggesting. She was ordering. And it was hard, to be stupid enough to defy her. 

“It’s not a big deal. Just,” Jack said Her name, and Bucky’s jaw clenched. He didn’t like the tone, like She wasn’t something holy, gracing their tongues. 

“What about her?” His voice was lower than he wanted it to be. The fury felt like it was boiling over inside of him. 

“Nothing. She’s- I don’t know, why all make such a big deal about her, when she’s such a bitch.” Bucky saw red. Jack was still talking.  “I mean, she used her powers on me last night.” Jack looked around between them, lips curled in disgust. “Isn’t that fucked up?” He expected sympathy. Bucky could read that, all over his ugly, about to be flattened face. 

But Bucky knew Her. They all did. 

She didn’t use her powers on people. 

Not unless she was forced to. 

For a moment, Bucky wasn’t thinking. His body was reacting, without needing his mind to command it. His fist flew up, and collided with Jack’s jaw. There was a sickening crack sound, as the man fell to the ground, but no one lunged to help him. 

Bucky turned. The red behind his eyes was turning white, turning from wrath into worry. She was just alone, after what Jack had done. No one there to take care of Her, no one she trusted to talk to. 

He’d would be there. Damn the mission, the rest of the time could work it out themselves, then leave Jack to be buried in the fast-falling snow. 

Bucky was going to be there for Her. 

It had gotten so cold, so fast.  You’d been lying in bed, when Yelena came to check on you. You’d mumbled that you didn’t feel like doing much today, and she’d let it go. She knew you wouldn’t ask if you didn’t really feel horrible. You’d gotten an awkward pat on the head, a feel better, and she’d left you to wallow alone. 

You’d twisted. Turned. Stared at the ceiling, then been unable to keep your eyes open to see your own body and flipped over. Your tears stained the pillow, so you flipped that over too, and the blankets on your body were suffocating but still couldn’t be heavy enough to make you feel safe and warm. 

Slowly, as the day stretches on, everything gets darker. Not just in your head, spinning around the hallway last night—Jack, Bucky’s apathy and cold stares, everything that had been bending all week set to snap any fucking second—but literally. It was 9am, when you had to turn a lamp on to see. There wasn’t any sunlight leaking through the curtains, and when you forced yourself up to shuffle over and check the windows, the world was gray. 

It was snowing. Snowing so heavily, you couldn’t see anything but the flurry an inch outside the glass. There was a chill on your face, just from being near the glass, and your fingers shook as you closed the curtains again. 

The team had left hours ago. The bunker was only an hour away, and if they did their jobs well, they’d be fine. 

There might be fifty percent chance they’re already dead. 

You drag out your personal computer, and turn on the local news to keep an eye for avalanches. You even keep your phone face up as you huddle in your blankets, in case they need to message you. 

The tears are still falling randomly and heavily, freezing on your cheeks like snowflakes and coming from a hollow in your chest. 

A part of you had expected that, from Jack. You hadn’t wanted to, when he’d been so nice to you, but people fascinated by your powers rarely seemed to care for you. For the weight of it on your shoulders, never able to understand that you weren’t just making people to do something.

You were stripping them down to puppet. 

You watched the person fade from their eyes, and become just a doll for you to move around. You could never bare it. The first time it happened, completely on accident, you hadn’t spoken for a week out of fear you’d do it again.

So you hate him for it. Hate Jack, for forcing you to use it, and hate yourself for not being able to find another way out. You could’ve said please again, could’ve shoved him, could’ve screamed. There’s no promise it would have worked—it probably wouldn’t have—but at least you would’ve tried harder.

He wasn’t doing something good. 

There’s an itch and crawl over your bones, because you did something worse.

This is why Bucky doesn’t want you. What you are. Deep in your core below the smiles and lies, you’re just a something Bucky would never want to touch, and you’re going to turn into a forgotten, hollow shell trapped in the cold, frozen in your own body and alone. 

You gather the sheets closer, pulling them up to cover your face. The news is nothing but a muffled mumble in the background, and your fingers are still shaking. 

Your phone buzzes, but it’s not Yelena. It’s a notification from the motel, informing you that the power has gone out and the heater is broken. They’re lighting a fire in the lobby. You can’t bring your legs to pick up and carry you out of bed. 

The sun is gone behind the storm, and time passes like snow melting. Slow and fast all at once, building up and up and up until you’re unable to move or dig yourself out. The skin under your nails is the wrong shade, and when you flip your camera on, so are your lips. You’re shaking under the layers, but it’s nothing to warm you up, and when you dig your fingers into your own sides, they’re like icicles. Maybe you’re still crying. Maybe your eyes froze, and you’re never going to be able to cry again. It doesn’t really matter because you can’t feel anything but that hollowness. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been more alone in your life. 

And your eyes are hooded and fluttering, when there’s bang on your door. 

Bucky’s voice calls your name, and a whine leaves your throat that’s too small to be heard. Maybe he wouldn’t even hear it if you screamed. You’re sure your voice would crack like ice, and he doesn’t even like you anyway. You’re not sure what he’s doing here at all. 

He calls your name again. He sounds urgent. 

Maybe you’re just dreaming. You’ve certainly had dreams like this before, where he swoops in and declares that he secretly loved you the whole time, and you laugh and kiss on a giant, floating pink cloud.

It’s more likely a nightmare. He’s going to storm in and turn to a monster, snarling and sneering about how useless and cancerous and wrong you are. 

He’s shouting now, and any second his voice with turn to a growl. You burrow further under the covers, another weak whine leaving your throat. 

Bucky slams against the door, and you cower. You’re too cold to even brace yourself, but at least you know you can still cry. 

It breaks open, and you’ve never heard Bucky use that tone before. It’s broken and desperate, strange for a man who can’t bear to look at you. He may think you’re dead, and is just upset nature got to you first.

He says your name again, and you feel strong arms wrap around you. He could just be trying to choke you out anyway or going to dump you out in the snow to preserve your body, because there’s no other reason for him to be lifting you up- 

“You’re- Why the hell are you so cold-“ He swears under his breath, and you feel the mattress dip down. 

He’s sitting. 

That can’t be right. 

“Can you say something, doll? Anything so I know you’re hearin’ me, ‘cause-“ A warm hand brushes over your brown, then lingers near your mouth. “You’re breathing. Shit, you’re breathing, but- Say something. Please.”

He asks so nicely. You pull a deep, ragged groan from your chest, and you feel him tense around you.

“Alright, that’s- Good. Can work with that.” He seems to mostly be talking to himself. “Basic hypothermia, nothin’ that’ll kill you. Not if I’m here, and- Gonna kill that ass, I swear- There are some tall building that don’t have very good safety nets, and- ‘m sorry about this, sweetheart.”

You want to frown and ask what—what could possibly be making Bucky sound frantic—but you can’t feel your tongue enough to move it. There are shuffling noises, and he disappears from your side. You curl further into yourself, trying both to dredge up a plea for his return, and shove it down so you don’t make a fool of yourself. 

Then suddenly, you’re cold, so so cold, so cold you think it’s going to drag you under something you can’t get out of-

And you’re warm.

The warm comes slower. You can hear muttered apologies, and shocks of warmth on your skin. You feel bare, and even colder, then there’s nothing but heat. 

It’s pure heat wrapping around you, tangling between your legs and dragging over your arms and spine. 

“Arm’s got a heater in it.” Bucky mutters, his voice somewhere near your head. “Wakanda, huh?”

There’s a dry chuckle, and your brain is slow to understand what’s happening. It’s dragging through the draft of the wind, the cold pushing back against you, and sometimes you’ll almost connect something, then the strings will fly out of your hands. 

But you get warmer and warmer, and there’s a pleasant sound that’s deep and vibrates near your chest, and- 

Bucky. 

Bucky’s in your bed. Stripped down, and holding you. You’re stripped, to nothing but your underwear, and in Bucky’s arms. 

He’s heating you up.

And this is a different kind of heat. It’s uneasy, staining shame for him having to do this for you. Shame and twisting guilt, for how you like it. You really have dreamed about this, and you’ve held sheets at night to pretend they’re the shape of his body, but it’s nothing compared to the real this. To the dips and curves of his chest near your cheek, the strength of his thighs and rippling arms around you. 

There’s shame for how the heat is pooling, slowly but steadily, near your stomach. It feeds the shame, and something in you likes the embarrassment—at least it means you have Bucky’s attention—and that just makes you more shameful, and it feeds into itself like a raging wildfire. 

You can speak again. You’re afraid to. 

You might moan. 

At last, breaking the silence, you pull the soft words from the hollow in your chest. 

“You came back.”

Bucky stops humming, then sighs heavily. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Jack. Knew he made you use your powers. Wanted to check on you.”

You frown against his skin. That doesn’t make sense. “Check… On me?”

Bucky grunts. “Make sure he didn’t hurt you.”

“He couldn’t-“

He says your name sternly, and your words die fast. “We both know you don’t just use your powers. Whatever he did to make you-“ Bucky cuts himself off, his voice straining oddly. “Are you alright.”

“Yeah.” You breathe out, voice still hung with confusion. “I- I’m okay.”

Bucky makes a low sound, and it rolls through your whole body. Between your legs. 

You shift against him, trying to relieve some friction. He holds you tighter. He smells good, like pine trees and something warm that’s just Bucky, and it’s intoxicating. You manage to twist so that you’re facing away from him, because being this close to him and keeping yourself from moaning—whenever his hand dips too low on your back, or his thigh flexes too close to your core—is almost impossible. 

“I punched him.” Bucky breaks the long silence.

“Who?”

“Jack.”

You swallow on a lump in your throat. That wants that to mean something, when you know it doesn’t. “You didn’t have to do that-“

“I did.” He grunts, and your lips press in a tight line.

“And then you… came back?”

He sighs, breath warm near your ear. Nods.

“Why?”

“I told you.” Bucky sounds heavy. It’s nothing compared to the weight of him on your ribs, over your heart. 

“No, I-” Your voice wavers. “Why for me? You- You don’t even like me.”

Bucky stills completely. His hands splay against you, branding your skin, and you can hear him lick his lips near your ear.

“What are you talkin’ about?” His voice is oddly rough, and you frown at the air.

“You- You don’t like me. Which is- It’s fine, you don’t have to, but-“

“I like you.” 

You blink, at the harshness of his words. “No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do, we’re-“ His voice is getting lower, like he’s trying to convince himself. “We’re friends.”

“No, we’re not?”

“Do you… Not like me?”

It’s so painful, the way the end of his sentence drops off. Hesitant. Unsure.

You really don’t understand what’s happening.

“I- I don’t-“ You’re stammering, heat flooding your cheeks. “That’s not- You don’t like me, so I-“

“Doll, I-“

“You don’t like me,” your voice is rising. It’s not helpful, to have his bare body so close to yours for him. “You don’t, you- You’re always glaring at me, and we don’t hang out-“

“We sit in the kitchen together-“

“Yeah, but- You never talk to me!”

Bucky’s fingers are digging into your sides. “Yes.” He grunts. “I do.”

“Only when you tell me how I fucked up a mission-“

“I’m givin’ you tips, and- Fuck-“ His voice caves a little again, until it’s only a rasp. “Do you really not think I like you?”

He sounds hurt. As if you did something wrong, you always do something wrong to him, and- 

You’re crying again. The tears stream silently down your cheeks, and you can’t stop yourself from turning your face into Bucky’s shoulder to hide it. Everything is still so cold, and there’s confusion and dread building in your stomach that you’ve twisted something all wrong, and he’s so warm and safe. 

His hand flies to the back of your head, and he rolls over you, shielding you from the worlds. A metal thumb comes to your cheek, wiping the tears then trying to angle your chin up. 

“This isn’t- Shit- Can you look at me?” Bucky says your name, and you try to twist away. “No, don’t- I don’t hate you. I don’t. I- Fuck, I’m not good at this, but- Look at me-“

Something hotter enters his voice, and your eyes snap up to his. Bucky looks at you with such open relief, you’re not sure you didn’t die. 

“Bucky…” You breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “I- I’m sorry, you-“

“Don’t.” He grunts. “Don’t, I’m not- You never gotta apologize. Not to me.”

You shake your head, because that doesn’t make any sense, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

“I like you, doll.” He murmurs, dropping his brow against yours. Like something impossible to hold is on his shoulders. “I like you. Always liked you, I- Fuck, I used to be good at this-“ 

He stares at you like you’re something priceless. You feel exposed, completely Bucky’s with nothing to show for it, and he’s looking at you like you’re priceless. His thumb brushes over your lower lip. His voice is so deep, you can almost feel it in your chest.

“I like you.” He mutters, thumb tracing the corner of your mouth. “I like you, please.”

Something in you snaps, at the pure, open vulnerability in his voice. At how fragile you feel, and how if his heat doesn’t melt you, it will mend you together. You surge up without thinking. 

Press your lips against his, harsh and fast. The timing is all wrong, and it’s nothing but a bumping of nose and smashing of lips. He doesn’t kiss you back, until the very last second, when you’re already pulling away. 

He dives down after you, then recoils. 

Glaring down at you, an expression identical to what you’ve seen so many times on his face. 

The only difference is his mouth hanging open. And his heartbeat, under your hand. 

Fast. 

He stares at you. You stare back, tears pricking back at your eyes, and- 

Bucky almost falls over you. And this kiss is just as sloppy as the first, but it’s anything but awkward. Bucky kisses you like he’s trying to tell you something, that nothing but his body can say. His hands wander, as his lips move relentlessly against yours. He angles his head, deepening the kiss, and all the built-up heat floods you like a wildfire. 

Your arms fly around his neck, as you kiss him back. Bucky groans, doubling his force, and you’re pinned between him and mattress. Your legs glide apart to accommodate his space, and you shiver as his metal hand finds the base of your spine, pushing you up into the muscle of his torso. 

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gasp, and he growls against your mouth. “Oh- Oh my-“

Your hips roll, because it’s too much to bear. How much you need him, how consuming he is, how happy you’d be to drown if it’s under him. Your legs drag wider, and Bucky starts a warpath down your throat, lips burning every bit of skin he can find. 

Your back arches into him, your fingers flying to his hair. It’s wet and messy, a painful pleasure when you try to chase him but find nothing. His teeth graze your neck, and it sends a shiver down your spine.  

“Please, fuck-“ You writhe below him, unable to keep still as he works you like an instrument. “More- I, I need you, so bad, Bucky, please-“

He crashes back up, kissing you until your toes curl and your head spins. 

“You are…” He pulls your head back, deepening the kiss. “Fuckin’ beautiful. You really didn’t know, did you doll. Just what you were doin’ to me, how much I wanted-“ He pulls your lip between his teeth, and you moan openly. “This.”

There’s a force, behind his kiss and his touch. It’s demanding, and you’re more than willing to give. 

Your legs are spread as wide as they can go, your hips humping up into Bucky’s body. His warmer hand slams down, right over your barely clothed core, pressing it back down into the bed. 

“Don’t do that. I’ve been tryin’ to keep it together, but if you-“ He groans, as he feels the damp spot on your panties. “Fuck, you- You’re-“

“Bucky,” you sound downright pathetic, lashes fluttering as you try to plea with him. “Need you-“

“No, you don’t-“

“Yes, I do.” Your voice breaks in a sob. He can’t just do this, then not give you more. He must really hate you, for him to torture you like that-

Bucky cuts your thoughts off with another, softer kiss. It’s impossibly sweet, making your heart flutter and a sigh escape your lips.

“Don’t cry, babydoll.” Bucky murmurs. “Nothin’ here to cry about.”

You disagree. “Please.” You whisper, holding his hooded gaze, and his tongue flicks over his lips. 

His hand presses harder, and a ruined moan escapes your lips. 

“James…”

You don’t know what makes you say it. But Bucky’s reaction is immediate. His breath catches, his eyes flashing, there’s almost a predatory focus on his face. He drags two fingers, slowly over the wet spot.

You shudder below him, moaning again, and his nostrils flare. 

“Say it again.” His words are firm, and you obey freely.

“James, please-“

Bucky kisses you again, cutting off your words into a moan. But this time, he builds up. His fingers apply a little more pressure, his palm rubbing back and forth against your clit. His tongue slides against yours, as he drags your underwear to the side, and teases his fingers over your pussy lips. 

You squirm below him, and he doesn’t break the kiss. 

“Be patient, pretty girl. Waited years.” He dips into your wetness, gathering it up before smearing it on your clit. “Gonna take my time.”

All you can do is scratch at his back and shoulders, trying to urge him on. Bucky just chuckles, rolling around your clit before moving back down, and notching his fingers right at your entrance. You aren’t strong enough, to move against him and pull him inside. Just blunt nails graze you, and your eyes roll back in your head. 

Then suddenly, he’s gone. 

It’s a split second, where your eyes fly open and you almost choke him, in an attempt to stop him from leaving. 

But he’s not even trying to. 

He’s just switching hands. 

The metal, now cool and biting against your skin, spanks your pussy lightly, and you go limp below him. 

“I’ve got you, doll.” He mutters against your lips, his eyes trained between your bodies. On where his hand is resting against your cunt. “So wet, for me. ’S for me?”

He glances up, and smirks when you nod. 

“I know.” He plants a mockingly sweet kiss on your lips. “Always knew, just thought you saw it. How much I dreamed about this, you and your pretty fuckin’ pussy-“

He slides a finger into you, and you clench tight around him, still managing to stare up at him and cling to his every word. He groans, as he pushes further in. Presses his cheek against yours, his breath hot on your ear. 

“Relax.”

You try to. You close your eyes, and let his body ease you down. Eventually you get it, and your body goes limp. You breathe heavy through your nose, as Bucky pushes his finger fully into you. Starts to pump it slowly, letting you feel him work open your walls, hitting that deep spot inside of you every time with ease. 

Bucky groans. “Knew you’d take me so good. Fuckin’- could smell when you got wet, smelled like candy, made me feel like a dog. I would’ve gotten on my knees for you, doll, but I like you like this, too.” He pushes up over you, finger picking up pace. Grins at your open, wanting expression, your arms wrapping around your stomach. “Wrecked on my fingers. Soakin’ the sheets,” he reaches up, brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “So damn needy, and mine.”

You moan, and Bucky smirks. His fingers pick up pace, and it makes you feel like you’re going to burst into starlight.

“Say it,” he grunts, and the glare is back. 

Not a glare of hate, you realize in your lustful haze. 

A glare of hunger. Desire.

And something dangerously close to adoration. 

“I- Bucky, fuck-“

“Say you’re mine,” he lowers himself back down, his lips brushing yours. “Please.”

He asked so nicely again. “I- I’m yours-“ You whimper, his thumb flicking against your clit. “I’m yours, Bucky, I’m-“

You moan into his mouth, as he kisses you open and desperate.

“I can’t believe you think I could hate you.” He mutters against your lips, and you swallow. 

“James-“

“Who the hell could hate something so beautiful?”

That does it. 

Heat rushes through you, and your vision swims as you cum hard enough to light you on fire. When you float back down, Bucky is still over you. His metal hand is stroking your thigh, and it’s so quickly clear. 

That’s not enough. 

He must see it on your face, because his brows raise. There’s the glare again. 

And a tension in his body, like he’s trying to hold himself back. 

“You need more, babydoll?” He mutters, searching your face. “You want-“

“Yes.” You moan, and you’ve never seen Bucky move so fast in your life.

He sheds his underwear like they were burning him, and in the split second you see him, your mouth falls open. He’s beautiful, but thick, and you don’t know if you can take it. 

Bucky makes it easy. He mutters a quick check about birth control, tapping his head on your clit. You nod, and he kisses your forehead, breathing raggedly as he slides into your dripping cunt. 

“Fuck…” He moans, fingers finding your clit to stop you from fluttering around him. “’S…  So good-“

Whatever suave words he had before are gone. Bucky bottoms out, and sits inside of you, chest heaving as he gives you a second to adjust. 

And when he starts moving, it’s controlled. Careful, pulling far out of you before slamming back in, his eyes fixed on the way your body reacts. He rolls his hips, grabs your legs and hikes it up, hitting a sweet, deeper angle that makes you see stars. 

A broken James falls out of your lips. 

And he snaps. 

Bucky grabs your hands, from around your body, and pins them over your head. His hips start to drill into you, his cock slamming against every deep and sensitive part inside of you. You can only blink up at him, too cock-drunk to speak, sparks seeming to fly up your spine as he fucks you into a wrecked, blissed-out oblivion. 

He’s trying to talk to you, broken praise falling from his lips, but it all comes out in feral sounds. You’ve never seen him like this, his brow pinched and lips parted, body flushed and movements sharp and wild. Almost nothing he says makes much sense, and every single grunt seems to mean the same exact thing that’s lost in the friction of your bodies.

Then his mouth lands over yours, his thrusts turning short and desperate. You’re so close, seconds from tipping over the edge, and- 

“Love you,” he chokes out your name, taking a deep breath as he ruts into your g-spot. “Love you so much.”

You cum around him, arching off the bed from the full force of it. Bucky groans, swallowing your every cry of his name with his mouth, and pulls out with a groan. 

He fists himself, the head of him still tapping against your clit, and he moans your name as he paints your thighs and abdomen white. 

Bucky leans down, the kisses sweet again. Soft. 

Taking time. 

You’re too boneless to do much but return them, one hand moving up to cup his face. He grabs it, and kisses the inside of your wrist. Stands and grabs a towel from your bathroom, cleaning between your thighs in a comfortable silence. You feel like you’re floating, somewhere higher than heaven. Your head is empty, except for his touch. 

You only really know two things.

It’s so cold, while he’s gone. 

But warm again, when he slides into bed at your side. 

Safe, and warm, and loved. 

“I don’t,” he mutters in your ear, voice still rough. “Hate you.”

You smile at the air, rolling over to press your face into his chest. 

“Okay.” You hum, wrapping your arms around his chest. “I believe you.”

And as he kisses your hairline, lips soft and delicate, you really do. 

✦End note: What is fanfic for if not indulging delusion.✦ ✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦ ✦Buy me a coffee!☕️✦ ✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦ ✦divider by @/kitsunecafe✦

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Fly Back Here, And Keep Warm

Main Masterlist - Bucky Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Bucky Barnes/Female Reader, smut (sharing body heat, p in v, fingering, praise kink), angst, light fluff, humor, no use of y/n, enemies to lovers.

Summary: Bucky hates you. He doesn't talk to you, or look at you, or linger in your presence for too long. But he's still saving you from the river. From the cold.

And maybe, if you're not losing your mind, he doesn't really hate you at all.

Author's Note: Doing the body heat fic. Had a lot of fun with it. We're post-Endgame but no one died, cause I am the god of my own emotional smut. Enjoy!

Word Count: 9.1k

There’s smoke in the air. Stars and smoke and a harsh wind that turns it all into a shifting, glimmering haze of cold.

You’re so cold. Frozen into your bones, blood stilled in your body, eyes blurring, because maybe everything around you has been plunged into ice as well, and the smoke has fogged the usual clarity of the glass.

The ice they put in drinks is always clear, like crystal. Smooth, see-through and glossy, a chill that’s welcome in the heat of crowds.

This isn’t that ice.

This is the ice that had been below your feet, only minutes ago. Clouded and thick and cracking in strange, dangerous places. And now it’s spreading through the world, and everything is fogged, and god, if you die here—somewhere high in the mountains where your bones will be eaten, and your grave will wash down the river in the spring—it will really fucking suck.

“Shit, God, Christ-“ Someone is swearing above you. A low voice that you recognize, but can’t put a name to.

You can’t really put a name to anything right now. Not when it’s so goddamn cold.

“Do not die on me, you got it. That’s an order, keep your eyes open and don’t die.”

You can put a feeling to that voice. A hot, feverish, wrathful feeling. There’s no name for the feeling, either, but it’s sparking in your blood and acting as jumpstart to your brain. Just enough to take a ragged breath.

“Thank fuckin’ hell.” The voice mutters, and your hands fist in a warm cloth. 

Your face quickly follows, when the cloth wraps itself around you, and starts to move your body. It’s awfully warm for just a cloth. In the dead of winter. Out in the wild.

Not a cloth. A person. Voices, you can remember now, usually belong to people.

“We’re getting you out of here.” The voice—person—mutters in your ear. “Just hold on.”

This cloth must belong to him. There’s a word for that, too, when a cloth is on a person, and it smells like them. 

This cloth smells like him. Your burning voice. The cloth smells like smoke—but a summer smoke, where wood becomes sweet from all the flowers and chocolate of the clear night—and a dried fruit, as well as something strong and spicy.

Your burning voice is strong. He’s holding you his chest like you’re nothing, and never breaking stride as he wades through something that might be a swamp. He’s not even grunting. Just speaking to you and moving a little more, useless warmth over your body.

“I told you not to step on the river. I said it would break, and you didn’t listen cause you’re trying to test if I can have a fucking heart attack, little dove. Trying to die on me, when I ordered you not to.”

You know who your voice is.

And he’s not your anything.

But no one else in the world calls you little dove.

It’s enough fire to clean off the daze from your eyes, and when you blink up, there he is.

Bucky. 

Floating above you, the smoke and mist of the mountains combining with the night sky to make it seem as if he’s found himself a halo.

He must have saved you, from the river. There’s a slight ache on your wrist—the numbness of the cold giving way to a rough, painful bruise—because that’s where he’d grabbed you to drag you out of the ice. The shirt smells like Bucky, and you’ve never been allowed close enough to feel his heat or smell his shirt, but now you can.

He’s invading your every dulled sense, and you can smell him, and it’s like a fucking drug.

You’re in pain. You’re so cold, and this might not even be real—you might already be dead—but you could swear that your ice-addled brain is starting to cling to the warmth and smell of Bucky Barnes the same way a patient clings to an opioid.

It won’t be good for you. If the world knows what’s good for you, they’ll take it away soon, because you can’t be trusted with it. 

Bucky himself has certainly never trusted you with it. 

You’re really not sure he did grab you. That you’re not still drowning in the river, and this is just some sort of reaper, wearing Bucky’s face, carrying you to hell.

Your hand is shaking, when you reach up to trace over his face. The stubble on his cheek feels what you always imagine. Soft and prickling and right against your fingertips.

Just to be safe, you still have to ask.

“Are you real?”

Sharp, blue eyes fall down to yours, burning right through your skin. “Course I’m real, I’m- Shit, we’re further than I thought. You need to keep talking.”

You hum, shaking your head and burrowing a little further into his chest.

Bucky never lets you this close. Usually he keeps you a safe pace away, as if you’ve been infected and he’s afraid you’ll rot him too. He always has, since you met, and you’ve always wanted to come closer, but that’s not your call to make.

You understand why he hates you. You can’t find it in yourself to hold it against him, or even to let it crush out your raging, white-hot wildfire for him that’s always burning where no one can see it.

And you try to be respectful. You really, really try to keep your distance, all the time, because Bucky shouldn’t have to organize and regulate his life to accommodate your existence. 

But your willpower is weakened. Every part of you is weakened. And your voice is only a shivering rasp, so you’re a threat to nothing at all, and it would be unreasonable not to steal as much warmth as possible from Bucky, while you have him.

You love him in secret all the time.

This can just be a little fuel to turn the wildfire into a hurricane, and then you’ll go back to secret once more. 

“You’re supposed to be talking, little dove-“

“‘M tired.” You mumble. “It’s cold, Bucky, I don’t wanna talk when it’s cold-“

“You talk all the time.” He grunts. “You were talking an hour ago-“

“Wasn’t cold an hour ago-“

“You still have to fucking talk.” He snaps, grip tightening around you.

You can feel his muscles flexing, hear the whir of his arm near your ear, almost in a perfect time with his heartbeat.

You can hear Bucky’s heartbeat, and it’s so fast, and you feel a little drunk. 

It might be the cold.

It might still just be Bucky.

“Your heart is pounding.” You frown against his chest, fingers tracing over the spot where you think it is. “It just skipped a beat.”

Bucky grunts. “I’m running. That happens.”

“Don’t run then. I’m oka-“ You start hacking before the word is even out of your mouth, and Bucky might leave more bruises on your body, with how he seems to be trying to fuse you to his chest.

“Convincing.” He mutters your name, and you feel like you’re going to cry, but all your tears have frozen in your eyes. “Talk.”

“I don’t have anything to say-“

“That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard out of your mouth, dove. Try again.”

You pause, your brain still not fast enough to come up with something interesting, something Bucky will actually want to hear, something that will make him maybe listen more, or even look at you, when all of this is done.

“Talk-“

“Steve ate bug.”

There’s a second where the wind and Bucky’s heart are the only sounds in the world, and you don’t know if he cares about that. Steve’s his friend, and the bug thing was pretty funny, but you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve seen Bucky laugh, so maybe he doesn’t find it all that important or amusing to hear about at all. Maybe he’s already sick of your voice and he’s going to drop you into the snow-

“Keep talking.” He grunts, and you take a shuttering breath.

When this is done, you’ll apologize in a million ways where you’re silent. Bucky never listens to you talk, and he shouldn’t have to now, just because you’d decided to be an idiot and fall in the ice. 

“It was a beetle.” You whisper into his chest. “A black one. And he thought it was a horsefly, so he freaked out, because you shouldn’t swallow a horsefly- Well, you shouldn’t swallow any bugs, but he was really worried about it being a horsefly, and I told him it was a beetle but he said beetles don’t buzz, and I said they can, and they can, Bucky. Beetles can buzz, anything that flies can buzz, but he was really freaking out, so he made me ask the beetle to come back up, and he still thought it was a fly, so I had to ask the fly to come back up, but it didn’t, cause it wasn’t a fly. Then I asked the beetle to come up, and it did, cause I was-“ You break out into a long yawn, and the air in your lungs is really starting to feel heavy. “’S a beetle. I was right.”

More silence. You can hear a birdsong in the trees, and maybe if you sing back, the eagles won’t pick your skin off your bones. 

“Steve swallowed a horsefly in the 30s.” Bucky grunts, and you blink up at him with wide eyes. “Back when he was still a twig. It nearly killed him.”

“I know.” You mumble. “I asked him after, cause he was really freaked out, and he told me. He said not to tell anyone.” You pause. “Oops.”

“I don’t count, doll. I already knew.”

“Oh.” Your smile returns, and you can’t tell if you’re losing your mind from the cold or just happy Bucky called you doll. “Right.”

“You’re not done talking.”

You shake your head. “‘m tired-“

“I- Shit, I know you are,” Bucky says your name, and tonight might be the most he’s ever said it. This might be the most he’s ever spoken to you.

You hope it never, ever ends. You hope that for the rest of time Bucky’s voice saying your name sings to you in the spaces between silence, his heartbeat keeping rhythm like a drum.

“You still need to talk.” Bucky’s voice is almost a growl. You feel kind of dizzy. “Fucking hell, little dove, just keep talking, first time you’re shutting up and it’s-“

“‘M sorry.” You’re definitely going to try now. Bucky doesn’t deserve this. “I know I talk a lot, I’m just-“ Another yawn. It feels like an iron is pressing over your brow. “I’m so tired-“

“I know, doll, I know.” Bucky lets out a long breath that ghosts over your skin, and the shivers up your spine are warm. “Just keep- Say fucking anything-“

“Tony fell off the roof.” You hum, letting everything that comes to your head slip out, just to ease what sounds like something close to pain in Bucky’s voice.

You really must be losing your mind. 

“He was doing experiments, and he fell off the roof, and then I got yelled at cause I didn’t catch him, but I was laughing, Bucky. It was funny, he yelped, and I didn’t mean to let him fall, but he still stole all my chocolate because he was angry, and that wasn’t nice, it was the expensive chocolate that Nat gave me-“

“From that place in Canada.” Bucky cuts you off with short words, and you nod a little stupidly. Everything is starting to blend and flow together, and there’s a numbness creeping up your spine you’re too tired to stop.

“Yeah, and she told me that you lost your favorite gloves on that mission, which sucks ass. But I-“ Another yawn. This one seems to be creeping into your eyes. “I can make you feel better, Buck, cause I’ve got a secret.”

Bucky grunts. “That right?”

You nod again. “I’ve got three secrets. ’S a lot of secrets.”

His chest vibrates slightly, and a smooth sound that’s better than anything sounds near your ear. “Three secrets is a lot of secrets. You want to share-“

“There’s someone who won’t listen to me.” You hum, playing with his shirt. “I know cause Nat said she got me the chocolate, but she’s a liar cause when I asked the box to open it said no, said I had to read the note first, and note said to give it to me, and it wasn’t in Nat’s handwriting. Then when I asked the box who got it, it said it wasn’t allowed to tell me. That it was a secret. Someone’s going around telling things not to listen to me, and that’s mean cause I’m not worth anything if people don’t listen. And then I asked Nat who gave it her, and she wouldn’t tell me either-“

You cut yourself off, and get a little colder as your words finally hit your own ears.

“I mean I asked, like, with my normal words. Nothing else.” You manage to look back up at Bucky, and he’s staring with a stone-like face out into the night. “I promise, Bucky, I didn’t ask, I don’t use it like that-“

“I know you don’t.” He mutters, his gaze flicking back down to yours, only for a second. “Your secret is that someone’s keeping a secret from you?”

“No, it’s-“ Yawn. This one is long, and the trees start to become a blur. “I’m keepin’ a secret that someone can resist me. Maybe they’re deaf. Can deaf people hear me? No, I mean- You know what I mean, Bucky-“

“I do. Second secret,” he says your name again. “Keep going.”

You nod, and you don’t even start this one before you’re yawning again, pulling your words together. “Sam has a girlfriend. He says she’s just a friend, but she’s a girl. And he’s fucking her, cause I walked in on them. Didn’t mean to. And I- Fuck,” you rock slightly in Bucky’s arms, trying to twist your body to look at him again. “I’m not supposed to tell you, Bucky. You can’t tell Sam I told you, cause then he’ll tell you my secret.”

Bucky frowns. “You just told me your secret-“

“’S Sam’s secret-“

“No, doll, the thing about your powers-“

“That’s a dumb secret. Mostly just stupid. This is my big secret.” You yawn again. You can’t really hear your own voice anymore. “You can’t know my big secret.”

“Well, now you have to tell me.”

You just shake your head, because anything else feels like it will drain you down to nothing. 

Bucky grunts your name, and suddenly you’re not as steady in his arms. It’s like he’s trying to jostle something from you. “Shit- You gotta keep fucking talking, I told you-“

“Why?” Your voice feels high in your throat. Hopefully, to Bucky’s ears, it’s not a whine. “You hate it when I talk.”

“No, I don’t-“

“Yeah, you do, and I’m sorry, but I’m-“ This yawn moves into your heart, and everything feels so slow. “I’m tired, Bucky. I’m sorry I fucked up, just please let me sleep-“

“No.”

“But you can keep going without me. You’ll be free.” You sigh, and you didn’t die before, but this feels heavier than sleep now. “You hate me, you hate listening to me-“

“I do not hate you-“

“’S okay, I hate me too, but least you can leave. I-“ Yawn. All the way over your skull, and anything but feeling the cold sounds perfect now. “’m stuck here-“

“You’re being delirious.” Bucky grunts, and you shake your head. 

You think you shake your head.

You can’t really think or feel anything beyond what’s falling out of your mouth, and the lingering, quickly dying warmth of Bucky.

Everything is so cold.

“Bucky?” You hope that was aloud. Based on the rumble of the last warm thing around you, it probably was. “I don’t wanna die here.”

“You- Fuck, you’re not gonna die, just keep goddamn talking-“

“Don’t let the birds eat me-“

“Nothing’s eating you-“

“And I’m sorry-“

“Stop apologizing and- Goddamnit, doll, you’re gotta be okay, just keep talking-“

You can’t keep talking. You can only let the last yawn sweep you away, and hope that—if it’s real—the last warmth of Bucky burns a little brighter in your body than hellfire.

———

Bucky didn’t know anyone at this party. Not in any way that mattered.

He knew Steve, but everyone knew Steve. Bucky wouldn’t be able to stand silently in a corner without being alone, because Steve had things to do. People to talk to. A show to put on that Bucky wasn’t ready to be a part of. 

Sam could stand with him, in his corner.

Bucky really didn’t want his only option to be Sam.

He’d tried to avoid this. First week back from Wakanda, he couldn’t possibly be expected to immediately become best friends with a whole team of people who’d tried to kill him, more recently than anyone seemed to be willing to admit.

“Tony’s apologized for that, Buck.” Steve had sighed. “And you just have to go in and walk around. It needs to be a good faith thing, so that you’re trying-“

“I am trying.” Bucky’s arms had crossed over his chest, his whole body bracing for a fight he knew wouldn’t come. “And Stark can shove it up his ass if he thinks I’m not-“

“He knows you are. We all know you are, but congress-“

“Who cares about congress.” Sam had leaned around the doorway, a shit-eating grin on his face. “I think you should come to the party for fun, Buck.”

Steve had shot the bird-fuck a glare, and it was a lot more generous than he deserved.

“You’re not helping, Sam.”

“I’m not tryin’ to help, Cap, but I do think it’ll be good for him. He can’t coast off our charismatic coattails forever-“

Bucky had scowled. “I’m not coasting, Wilson, I’m fucking adjusting-“

“And this’ll be great for adjustment.” Sam had shrugged. “You ain’t the only one here who’s done things they ain’t proud of, Buck. You don’t have a monopoly on brooding, and it’ll be good to bond with some people who don’t have an overt connection to your past. Proven method to movin’ forward after service is building those new relationships.”

Sam had, annoyingly, been right. That was exactly what Bucky’s therapist had told him, only without throwing in a comment after about how the ladies might go crazy for Bucky’s hair.

“A lot of people like us popped up during the Blip,” Steve had told him in the elevator, watching Bucky fidget with the cuffs of his shirt. 

It was too tight, and too loose, and felt like fire on his skin. He hadn’t earned nice things like a pressed shirt yet, but Stark would—apparently—get real damn pissed if Bucky showed up in anything less than proper cocktail attire. 

“I don’t care who popped up-“

“You will.” Steve had shrugged. “You’ll find someone you like enough to at least talk to, Buck, I promise.”

In the elevator, Bucky had rolled his eyes and bit his tongue, because grumbling that he didn’t need people to talk to right now wasn’t going to do anything but prolong the conversation.

Now, Bucky was really getting sick of his friends being right.

He’d found his corner, while Steve and Sam did the rounds. Right on the edge of the room, where the noise of the party was a little quieter, and most people weren’t going to try and ask him dumb questions about Hydra. The spider kid had been tolerable, and managed to distract himself, but the guy who got big and small kept trying to make small talk, and Bucky didn’t remember how to do that yet. Too many people—two—had already tried to touch his arm. The talking raccoon had been looking for him all night, and hopefully he wouldn’t think to find Bucky here.

Slightly behind a curtain, near an unoccupied balcony.

A previously unoccupied balcony. 

Someone was definitely out there now. 

Bucky could hear her. She had a soft voice that seemed to almost flow over and through the night and crowd, like a siren song that told Bucky everything was really, truly fine. 

She was talking to someone, though. And Bucky wasn’t sure he was even supposed to be listening to the conversation, but he couldn’t stop himself from leaning a little closer to the door, just to hear if there was a lull in the conversation. A chance for him to slip in, and be able to report back to Steve that he managed to do something besides brood all night.

That he, possibly, made a friend.

“I made pancakes yesterday morning.” She was saying. “They tasted horrible. I don’t know how to make pancakes. Natasha said she could help me, but I think I should try to do it myself. And it’s not because I’m trying to prove anything, it’s because I- They’ll trust me more, if I do things myself. I mean, I’m still a person, I think. I’m not sure. I feel like a person. I feel… Yeah, I feel like a person. And don’t tell Steve I’m worrying about this, because then he’ll tell me I should see a therapist, and I don’t need it.” She giggled, and it was the best sound Bucky had ever heard. Soft and light, almost shimmering, making his body relax further as he tried to follow the conversation.

This woman knew Steve. And Natasha. 

Bucky could be a third person She knew. One she liked.

“You won’t be able to tell Steve anything,” She hummed, and Bucky leaned a little closer to the balcony door. “You can’t talk. But you’re a really good listener, even if you, um, don’t mean to be. Most people here don’t know me, and I can’t really go up and introduce myself without a prelude, because then people freak out. Tony told me I was allowed to talk, but I don’t- I make people uncomfortable. I mean, they’ll hear me later anyway. I thought about hiring someone else to play the piano, but apparently it won’t be as impressive. I think that’s stupid. We have all the money in the world, and it’s not like I’m not already impressive. If I had half the money Tony has, I’d hire someone to follow me around and play different songs based on what’s happening. Give myself a score. I think that would be funny.”

It would be funny. And if whoever She was talking to couldn’t talk, Bucky could. He could be a good listener, as well, if that was all She wanted. He could listen to here say anything for a million years and never, ever get sick of it.

“I just- I dunno, I don’t want to only be the songbird. And if I ask you too, you could tell me what I should do, but I’m really trying not to do that. I can figure this out myself.” There was a pause, and when She spoke again, her voice was softer. “I’m going to try to make pancakes again tomorrow. And if they’re bad, I’ll ask them to be good, and I’ll give them to Wanda as a thank you for the dress. It’s a nice dress, right? Shit- wait-“

She cut herself off with a clear of Her throat, and Bucky was a goner.

Because She started to sing, and he didn’t recognize the song, but he knew that they didn’t really matter. Every note was clear, like crystallized honey, there was something running under every word that was asking someone to speak. Not Bucky, but someone else, and suddenly Bucky really wanted to be the person She was wanting things from.

She wouldn’t have to ask.

Bucky would just do it. Whatever She needed.

He rounded the corner, because he had to see Her. See the woman who made him want to talk. Maybe it would spur him into actually speaking, or he’d see that whoever She was already speaking to was a nobody, and Bucky could be someone-

She wasn’t speaking to nobody. Or somebody.

She was the most beautiful woman Bucky had ever seen—every feature looking like it had been crafted out of clouds and flowers and water and the night sky—and She was leaning on the balcony, talking to a dove.

The dove was looking at Her. Listening to Her as she sang.

And Bucky was goddamn jealous. Of a bird. 

She was looking at the bird.

Bucky wanted Her to look at him. Talk to him. Sing to him. He didn’t even know Her name, but he’d like to learn it, because it would probably be beautiful, and he’d have to practice saying it in the mirror to get it right on his tongue.

“Hey, Bucky, c’mon- Fuck!”

Sam stumbled back as Bucky’s human elbow slammed into his gut, and there was something close to guilt bubbling in Bucky’s stomach at the sight.

“What the shit, man-“

“You snuck up on me.” Bucky grunted, glancing back over his shoulder. The woman had stopped singing. Now She was just looking at the dove. “What do you want.”

Sam straightened up with a groan. “I got something for you see, man.”

“Pass.”

“You can’t pass, Bucky-“

“I just did.” He didn’t have time for this. The woman might be gone soon.

“C’mon, man, you’ll like it, I promise.” Sam jerked his head into the crowd. “You can leave this whole freakin’ party after, but Steve and I really think you’ll like it.”

Bucky glanced back to the balcony, and the woman had fucking vanished.

He had no clue where She’d gone. If She’d even been real at all. And asking Sam if there was a perfect goddess of a woman who spoke to doves anywhere around here would make him sound crazier than he already was. 

So Bucky sighed, and followed Sam into the crowd.

He wasn’t really paying attention, at first. There was nothing to pay attention to. He was standing between Steve and Sam—like they were trying to herd him into place, ensure that he didn’t book if for the exits the moment the lights turned off—and Stark was up on stage, giving some speech about the unity of the Avengers, and victory against Thanos, and how they had a very special performance coming up to show off their best new addition to the team.

Bucky didn’t care. I could be the tree kid growing plants, or that fiery space-lady showing off, or the sorcerer doing all his glowing magic tricks. Bucky really didn’t damn care, they were all here because they were ‘special’ in stupid, pointless ways, and he wanted to shove Sam and Steve away so he could go work out if he was just losing his goddamn mind, or if that woman had been-

She was real.

She was gliding onto the stage with a bright, sweet smile, and everyone else in the room could see Her, so she was real.

And when it wasn’t muffled through the glass, Her voice was even more enchanting than it had been before.

Bucky didn’t know what song She was performing, but he didn’t know most songs anymore. He didn’t know how She was making the keys of the piano move on their own, but he knew from the balcony that She hadn’t wanted to. He didn’t know exactly what Her powers were, but he knew that everyone in the room was just as entranced by Her song as he was, and that the windows were opening on their own so that more and more doves could fly over their heads in a perfect dance, and the fireflies from the summer night could fill the room.

He knew that vines and flowers were growing up the balcony from the forest, all the way across the compound, and that there was nothing in his body but peace. 

He knew that—risking a glance away from her for only a second—everyone else was at peace as well. Steve’s shoulders were relaxed. Sam was smiling in a gentle way that Bucky had never seen on his face. Even Nat, across the room, was slumping and looking almost dopey.

This woman was dangerous.

Bucky knew he didn’t care.

And he hadn’t been paying attention, and he’d missed Her name. 

He needed to learn, at least, Her name.

When the song ended, he was ready to damn it and ask. Sam could make fun of him. Steve could raise his brows. But God, Bucky needed to know Her name-

“Follow me, Buck.” Steve started through the crowd, and Bucky blinked for a second before jogging after him.

“Slow the hell down, punk, you gotta give me a warning-“

“You caught up-“

“Yeah, but you still could’ve waited-“

“Nothing to wait for. I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”

Before Bucky could protest that he didn’t want to meet anyone, he just wanted to know Her, Steve was pushing through a curtain and the words died in his throat.

There She was.

Fidgeting with the skirt of Her dress as she sat on the floor and wiping Her nose, looking up from Her phone with a wide, pretty smile.

The smile wasn’t for Bucky. It was for Steve.

Bucky wanted to figure out how to make Her smile for him, then make that smile brighter than this one.

“Hi.” She said, and goddamnit just that word was the best thing Bucky had ever heard.

He needed to pull himself together. He couldn’t slip that he’d been creeping on Her earlier. That he knew She spent her time talking to birds, and it was the most adorable thing he’d ever thought someone could do. That She was looking like some sort of angel to him, and he was a damned man, but he wouldn’t mind finding a river to clean himself in, for Her.

Then Steve said Her name, and it was just as beautiful as he’d thought it would be.

She looked like Her name.

She looked like She could be Bucky’s whole world, if he was allowed to make her so.

“This is Bucky Barnes,” Steve said, and Bucky felt himself stand a little taller under Her attention. Like some dumb kid, puffing his chest out to impress a pretty girl in school.

She was the prettiest girl Bucky had ever seen. It was a fair reaction, and now She was smiling at him, so it was worth it.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.”

He damn liked his name when She said it. It almost short-circuited his brain—as if he was the cyborg Sam teased him about being, and his only weakness was Her—and all he could do was grunt in response and stare.

He needed to do better than that. But before he could find the words, any words, one’s that were even half worthy of her, Stark pushed off the stage with a clap of his hands and a grin, and She looked away.

“Hey, Cap, you seen the Disney Princess-“

“I’m on the floor, Tony.” She cut Stark off with a dry tone, and Bucky was in love. “Can I please go home now-“

“Give me one more hour,” Stark said Her name with a fake pout, offering his hand to help Her up. She ignored it.

Bucky was going to marry Her.

“Do I have to sing again-“

“Not unless you wanna ask someone to do something-“

“I don’t do that.” She mumbled, shooting Bucky a look he didn’t understand. “I told you, I don’t use it on people-“

“Yeah, I know, just-“ 

“Tony.” Steve’s words were firm, and She looked more relaxed.

Bucky wanted to be the person who made Her relax.

“Stop pushing her.”

“Yeah, Tony.” She stuck Her tongue out at Stark. “Stop pushing me.”

Stark raised his hands in surrender. “I’m not pushing anyone, and I’d know if you were using it on people, everyone gets that bloody nose thing, I’m just saying-“ Stark paused, narrowing his eyes at her. “Your nose is bleeding right now, kid.“

“The performance was hard.” She snapped. “I had to ask the piano, and the animals, and the planets, and all your stupid guests-“

“Ha! You said you weren’t using it on people-“

“You told me to! And I-“ She looked at Bucky again, Her words almost frantic. “I was just asking them to relax, I promise, I don’t ask people to do things for me-“

It clicked in Bucky’s head.

She was a mind-controller, or plant controller, or object controller, or something. That was the song. That was peace.

That should freak him out. 

It wasn’t. 

She was still arguing with Stark about the party, nobody’s nose was bleeding anymore, and She was still the best thing in the world.

But She looked afraid of him. She probably knew what he’d been, and was worried about what he’d do to Her. 

She should never be afraid of him. She should be free and happy and flying around like all Her pretty doves. And Bucky would like for Her to land next to him every night, but as long as She was flying, he could just watch and listen until She asked him to sing back.

He’d just watch. She leaving to make last rounds with Stark, and still avoiding Bucky’s full gaze, and he could just watch. 

Whatever She needed, to trust him as much as She trusted her doves.

“Nice to meet you, Bucky.” She mumbled as She passed him, staring at the floor. 

She couldn’t even look at him.

He couldn’t stop his response.

“Have a good night, little dove.”

———

“You need to wake up.” There’s a warm breath ghosting over your skin, a strong voice saying your name, but you’re still so cold. “Shit, you just need to open your eyes for me, c’mon, shit-“

A high whine leaves your throat—you think it’s yours, everything is still sort of numb so you can’t really tell—and the world around you goes still.

Not the world.

Just a body. 

A big, warm body that feels kind of like the world, the same way that voice sounded like home.

“Goddamnit, dove, you’re so cold- hang on, I- I’m sorry about this, I swear I wasn’t planning it-“ The voice sighs, and that’s Bucky.

You don’t know why he’s sorry. He’s never done anything to you, and your love may be trapped in your body forever, but that’s not Bucky’s fault.

Your tongue is stuck to the roof of your mouth, though, so you can’t tell him that. You can only make a long sound of pain, and feel the warm body fold into you a little further.

“You’re gonna be okay,” Bucky grunts, and of course you are. He’s here. “I- Shit, I put my arm in the fire for an hour, and it’s cooled down now, but it should still be warm. When you wake up, I promise I’m gonna explain what’s happening, but you gotta wake up, doll. I- Fuck, I got secrets too. I got a lot of secrets, and I’ll tell you all of them if you just wake up.”

It would be nice to wake up. Bucky’s asking so nicely, but it’s still only a suggestion—no matter how much he makes it sound like an order—and he can’t make your body wake up. 

But his voice is starting to stoke your small, always burning want for him, and you think if you listen a little longer, it could sweep through your whole body and get you to move once more. At least to open your eyes. 

And Bucky’s never spoken to you this much.

So you’ll just listen.

“My secrets aren’t as interesting as yours.” He mutters, and you doubt that. Most things about Bucky are interesting. “I’ve been keepin’ a cat at my apartment, and Stark doesn’t know. You’d like her. She’d like you, too, but everyone likes you. That’s my second secret, I know you’re gonna say it’s not true, but I know everyone likes you. They’re planning a party for your birthday. Big party. I think it’s stupid, but not cause it’s for you. You deserve a party. I just don’t think you’ll like it. Big parties aren’t really your style, but when I tried to tell Nat that, she told me to shut up and grow some balls to talk to you before I talk about you.”

Bucky sighs, and your body seems to be lighting up one nerve at a time, because you shifting to be a little closer to the warmth all around you. 

You think it’s Bucky’s body. It’s a good guess, given how all his word seems to be rolling through your chest. How he grunts at your movement, and his grip tightens around you.

“Can you- Shit-” he mutters your name, low caution in his voice. “Are you awake?”

You hum—it’s all your voice can manage—and Bucky really seems to be trying to press himself into you.

“Thank Christ, alright- I’m gonna keep talking, okay? Is it helping?”

You press your nose right into his chest in response, and it’s warm, and now you can feel his voice even deeper.

“Uh- I’m not a good talker, dove, so- How about this. I’m pissed you fell in the river. I told you not to ask it to be more solid. You were shivering and your voice was already kind of going, didn’t think we could avoid a nosebleed, and goddamnit, it seemed like a good idea, but then you just looked sad, and you fell in- And I don’t hate you. You said I hate you.” 

There’s a long pause, and you can feel hands on your hips. They’re both warm hands, one of them bordering on burning, but you don’t really mind.

“And Sam and Nat both told me you thought that. That’s another secret, they figured me out a few months back. Both been telling me to do something about it, but I couldn’t. Didn’t wanna do that to you. But I- If I was in charge of the party, I’d get you some cake and watch whatever TV you want, then we could go to the planetarium, and I’d make you some pancakes.”

That sounds perfect. You wish you had the words to tell him that you’d like that far more than a party, but you don’t. Not yet. And you’re really not sure what’s happening overall.

“Here’s another secret. I got you that chocolate.” 

You roll slightly at that, your body seeming to understand what that means more than your thoughts, and Bucky’s chuckle rolls through your body.

“Thought that would get you. You like knowing things. You like- You like everything, and I don’t get it. I don’t like things like that, but I try to- Just, give it everything I got. And I’m, uh- I’m kinda running out of secrets, so if you could wake up and start talking, that would be nice.”

Another pause. You’re not sure if it’s the warmth of Bucky’s body, or his voice, but you almost have all your body and head back. Almost.

“I’ll listen. Just say anything, please-“ Bucky’s voice is growing strained, and he cuts himself off with a long breath. “And you’re worth more than people listening. You are. But for the record, I listen more than anyone. I like listening to you. I really don’t hate you, doll. Promise. Just, god, please wake up.”

That’s a command you can follow, just at the right time, as the words I really don’t hate you flow through your blood, and you feel… better.

Not warm. But better.

“Those are good secrets.” You mumble, and Bucky doesn’t laugh.

He just holds you tighter, and lets out a slow breath. 

And when you blink your eyes open, you realize why he’s so everywhere around you. 

He’s naked.

You’re naked.

Fuck.

“Bucky,” your voice is a hoarse, and when you tip your head back to meet his gaze, he’s looking at you like he’s afraid you’ll start running away.

You couldn’t if you wanted to. Most of your body is still frozen.

“We’re naked.” You whisper, and he swallows.

“I know. You were- The fire wasn’t doing enough, and you were turning colors people shouldn’t be, so I-“ He sighs, but doesn’t look away. “I’m sorry.”

“’S okay.” You force your body not to wiggle closer, because every part of it that can move really just wants to touch him. “Did you- are your secrets-“

“I meant them.”

“Oh.” You drop your gaze to his chin. “I- You never come near me, though.”

Bucky shrugs. “You never come near me.”

“Fair.”

“Yeah.”

There’s a beat, and then—before you can stop yourself—the words are falling out of your mouth in a flood of you need to know. Your brain is still too slow to piece things together, so Bucky just saying whatever the hell he seems to be getting at would be really helpful, because you need to know.

“Why’d you buy me the chocolate?” 

“Because I- Uh-“ Bucky clears his throat, his chin moving to rest on the top of your head. “You like chocolate.”

“Oh.”

“And I- Fuck, this is- I’m sorry, doll, I’m not good at this-“

“’S okay.” You curl your fingers on his chest, letting out a slow breath. “If you want to be friends, we can be. I, um, I love you, but friends is good. I like friends.”

Bucky tenses around you. You’re not sure what you said—everything flowing a little too quick and smooth around you—but it made Bucky tense, so you fucked up-

“You love me?”

Oh. You don’t remember saying that. “I- Fuck, Bucky, I’m sorry-“

“Do you?”

“Yeah, but I know you don’t want me like that, I mean, friends, maybe, but not that because I’m your worst nightmare, and you shouldn’t ever have to worry about losing control again. And I’m really sorry, cause I can’t stop my feelings, but that shouldn’t be your problem. And I do love you, I love you a lot, that was my big secret, and I should stop saying that but I can’t, I’m still really cold and I’m warmer now and thank you, for that, I mean, for not letting me die, but you really don’t owe me anything, Bucky-“

Your frantic words are cut off as Bucky tilts your head back with a tug of your hair, and kisses you.

He’s kissing you. Soft and slow, and his lips are little chapped but it’s nice. He tastes like salt and chocolate and that same warm smoke from before, and when he groans it rushes a whole new spark through your body, and he’s so warm-

“Needed to slow you down, little dove.” He mutters, nipping at your low lip. “Good that you’re talking again, but I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

You take a shaking breath, and when you lean back to apologize, Bucky’s grinning at you. All teeth and joy and adoration, that might be adoration in his gaze, and you don’t know what to do with it-

“Bucky-“

“And, just so we’re clear,” his nose bumps yours, and if you couldn’t feel him everywhere, you’d be certain you had died and somehow ended up in heaven. “That is not the type of control I’m worried about losing with you.”

You can feel the flush heat your face. You might move into bursting flames, if Bucky keeps looking at you, keeps running his hands up and down your back, the metal one is still so hot and it’s sending more, live-giving shivers up your spine-

“You’re still cold, doll?”

“Yeah, but-“

“Want me to warm you up?”

You blink at him, trying to read on his face if he’s serious, but all the right words to ask are still so far away. 

He looks serious. That’s his serious face—Bucky mostly only has a serious face—and there’s a fire in his eyes that’s brighter than usual.

His eyes have always been bright. Blue the same way stars are blue. The same way fire is blue.

And it’s burning right into you.

So you just move. Leaning up to press your lips carefully to his, and letting out a soft, happy sound when Bucky kisses your right back.

It starts gentle. Your hands gripping at his shoulders and his tongue carefully exploring your mouth, as if you wouldn’t offer him the world and every single piece of you if you asked.

Then you tug at his hair, his cock twitches near your thigh, and there’s the heat. Building in your core and looking for relief, making you start to grind into the sheets, into Bucky’s torso, until you can feel his cock pressing to your abdomen and if you’re ever going to be warm again, you need him now-

“Hold on.” 

Bucky’s grunt rolls through your body, and the second your arms wrap around his neck, he’s moving. Flipping you onto your back so your caged against the bed, devouring your squeak with a deeper, rougher kiss that’s just making you need him more. He’s playing with your tits and rolling his hips down above you, and you’re warm but you want to be on fire, and-

“Shit-“ You gasp as his hand drifts between your folds, his thumb finding your clit and start to rub slow, teasing circles all around it. “Bucky-“

He hums, sucking a small bruise into your neck, and his fingers start to rest right at your cunt, moving away every single you try to squirm into them.

“Fuck, please-“

“Tell me you want this.” He mutters, looking up at you with darkened, almost hopeful eyes. “I know I do, but you gotta say-“

You yank him back up in a borderline violent kiss, only pulling back to give him a full, toothy smile, and nod.

There’s something reverent, in Bucky’s gaze. You hope you can earn it staying there forever.

“I want you, Bucky.” You whisper. “I love you, and- God-“

That was all he needed. Bucky’s fingers push into you right as he dives back down into another hot, heavy kiss, and there’s too much pleasure building in your body to even really know what’s happening. Those two fingers in you pussy are pumping in and out at a brutal, perfect pace where he scissors that the exact right time, and crooks them right against the deepest, spongey and need part of your cunt, and you’re gasping his name and grinding down onto his hand, but Bucky’s not relenting. His kiss is only deepening as he takes every needy sound you throw at him as turns it into more, more, more-

“I’m gonna- fuck-“ You yank at his hair, and he groan into your mouth, and more- “Bucky, please, I’m-“

He pushes up, scanning over your open, sweaty features with a slight smirk, and seems to find whatever he’s looking for in half a second.

Bucky moves onto his knees above you, his metal hand pressing right over your clit and starting to rub-

“Cum, babydoll.”

There’s the fire. Relieving and washing through your whole body, burning you up from your core and making everything a new, better haze of Bucky.

He never looks away, as you shake below him, or clench around his fingers still buried in your cunt. 

Then he smiles, lowing back down over you as he gently pulls out, leaving a small slap to your pussy that makes your let out a soft, whimpering moan.

“You like that?” He asks, brows raised, and you roll your eyes.

“Obviou- Fuck-“

He repeats the motion, you wiggle under him—unsure if you’re trying to move away or closer—and Bucky’s grin might be able to power your heart for the rest of your life.

“You’re so beautiful.”

You flush, and that’s worse than the teasing. You might cum again from nothing at all. 

“Thanks.”

He hums, watching you carefully. “You like it when I tell you you’re gorgeous, little dove?”

You clench around nothing, your back arching slightly off the bed, and he sees it. 

Fuck. 

“Bucky-“

“How about if I tell you that you’re squeezing my fingers so good, I might cum before I even get my cock inside you pretty pussy?”

You moan, finding enough strength to reach up and whack his chest. “Shut up, I notice your hair-pulling thing-“

“Yeah,” Bucky shrugs, and whatever sheepishness had him muttering and struggling earlier seems to be gone now that he knows you love him. “But I can just do this,” your hands are suddenly pinned above your head, and Bucky scans over your body with an almost starved expression before looking back to you with a grin. “And my problems are solved, doll. You can’t escape me tellin’ you that you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, that you’re so sweet and kind and fuckin’ hot-“

You whine, grinding up into the air, and this is mean. You feel like you’re going to explode, and you can see how hard he is, but he’s just stroking himself between your bodies as you writhe beneath him, like the sight alone is enough to get him off.

“So pretty, babydoll, all wrecked for me-“

“I- Fuck me,” you try to vault your hips up into his, but you’re still a little weak from the cold, and it doesn’t nothing but make him laugh.

“I’m getting there,” Bucky drawls, and you’re going to fly out of your skin. “I just wanna take my time with my best girl, listen to all those pretty sounds you make, cause goddamnit, doll, you make some pretty sounds. Fell in love with your voice, before I even saw how gorgeous you are-“

Bucky cuts himself off with a frown, stilling above you, and you blink at him.

“What’s-“

“Forgot to tell you I love you.” He grunts, leaning down to press his brow to yours. “I do, little dove. Have forever. Just kind of got carried away-“

“I know,” you whisper, offering him another smile. “I love you too, and that’s amazing, but can you please-“

You grind against him once more, and his eyes widen. 

“Shit, right- yeah.” Bucky pushes back up, keeping your hand above your head as he lines himself up at your entrance. “Deep breath, doll, gonna go slow, alright?”

You nod a little dumbly, because there’s nothing else to do. Slow is good. He’s big, and you’re still sensitive, and slow—for now—is all you think you can take.

Then Bucky slaps his cock over your clit, and you squeak, shooting him a glare.

“Need words-“

“Slow.” You drop your head back, already too cockdrunk to make a proper, full sentence. “’S good.”

He chuckles again, and you’d reach up to shove him, but he pushes in, and every other though is gone from your head.

Bucky drops his head to groan into your shoulder as he guides himself in further, and it’s not enough. You’re slowly being split open on his cock, and you’re fuller than you’ve ever been in your life, but it’s not enough.

When he’s pressed right on that deep, needy spot without friction, you snap.

“More.” You whisper, and Bucky look up at you with a furrowed brow.

“Are you-“

“I told you to fuck me, Barnes.” You roll your hips, and Bucky’s nostrils flare as he twitches inside you. “Fuck me.”

He glances down to where you’re joined, back up to your desperate face, and gives a rough nod. 

“Yes, ma’am.”

You don’t think you’re ever going to go cold again. Not as Bucky fucks you into the mattress, pounding in and out of you with a brutal but careful pace, just enough to send you rocketing back up to the edge in a second, but not enough to push you over.

And he’s everywhere again. Burning you alive in the best way possible, and everywhere. Muttering more and more praise in your ear that makes you clench around his cock, then groaning down your throat and kissing you’re until you’re dizzy and drunk on him. On his taste, and free hand holding your hips still, and his dick slamming so deep into your that you can see heaven, and it’s all made of summer smoke and spice and Bucky-

“Gonna cum, babydoll.” He grunts against your lips, and you only nod, letting out another needy sound. “Where-“

“Inside.” You gasp, giving him your best, pleading eyes, and he groans.

“Shit, doll, you gotta be sure-“

“I’m sure, just, Bucky,” you arch off the mattress, throwing your head back into the pillow as he slams into that spot once more. “Please- Please-“

“Just- fuck- Hold on,” he moans your name, and that’s almost enough to set you off by itself.

But then you moan his name and his hips slam home inside of you, right at the same moment that he kisses you stupid into the mattress, and he pinches your clit one last time, and there it is.

You cum with a scream of his name, and there’s the stratosphere, and the sun, and everything warm and good is melting through your body and Bucky just keeps kissing you, reducing you to a moaning, oversensitive mess below him.

When he rolls you over, you stay caged in his arms, and his cock stays buried in your fluttering pussy, hot cum leaking down your thighs and onto him stomach.

Neither of you seem to mind, and this is just a little bit more of him you get to have, so you’ll stay like this as he allows.

Based on how the reverence on his face hasn’t faded—only seemed to bloom, growing into a hot, fervored ardor that could outburn the sun—he’ll let you stay here for a while.

“I love you,” you whisper, burying your face in his chest, and you can hear the grin in his voice as he responds.

“Love you too,” Bucky grunts your name, pressing a kiss to your brow, and if you do die, you’d like to do it here. “You warm now?”

“Yeah,” You smile, and hum against his skin. “I am.”

End Note: I get way too invested in writing the Bucky fics. Wish I had magic brain powers to write 50 things at once, so I could make all of these into big series. But alas, here we are.

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[underthewill0wtr3e]

Protective!Eddie Munson

Summary: A mix of headcanons and scenarios of Eddie being protective (with a side of jealousy) over you

Requested by: @nevermorexlee

Masterlist

A/N: sorry for the long wait! I kept wanting to add stuff and I still do but I wanted to post it too 🤷‍♀️💀

-Eddie Munson is loud about a lot of things. He’s loud about how D&D is superior to every sport ever invented. Loud about how Hawkins High is a breeding ground for conformity. But when it comes to you? Eddie Munson is quiet in the ways that matter. You notice it first in the little things. Like how he always positions himself between you and the rest of the world without making it obvious. In the cafeteria, he sprawls wide at the table, arm slung across the back of your chair like it belongs there and one his boots wrapped around the leg of your chair keeping you next to him. At parties, he’s suddenly leaning against the wall closest to you, eyes flicking up every time someone new enters the room and he always makes sure to walk on the outside of the pavement, closest to the road.

-Eddie never announces it. He never makes a big show. He just acts. You’ll be laughing with someone to closely when Eddie suddenly interrupts, throwing an arm around your shoulders and dragging you away with a dramatic, “Sorry sweetheart, band emergency”
There is no emergency. There never is. But later, when they’re gone, Eddie’s jaw is tight, eyes darker than usual. “Guy was staring” he mutters. You blink. “He was just talking” Eddie shrugs, trying to play it off, but his thumb keeps tracing circles into your shoulder like he’s grounding himself. “Yeah. Didn’t like how he was talking” he mutters while kicking the ground with one boot.

-The first time you realize how deep it runs is at a party, one of Steve’s, loud and crowded and full of people who don’t really understand Eddie but just about tolerate him anyway. You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, nursing a drink, when a guy you vaguely recognize from the basketball team slides a little too close. He’s smiling, but it’s the wrong kind of smile. “You’re Munson’s girl, right?” he asks. Before you can answer, Eddie’s voice cuts through the noise. “Hey” Not loud. Not angry. Sharp. Eddie appears at your side like he was summoned, hand settling on your lower back, fingers splayed possessively. His smile is easy, but his eyes? His eyes are warning. “She’s with me” Eddie says. The guy scoffs. “Relax, man. Just talking” Eddie tilts his head, grin widening just a fraction too much.
“Yeah” he says. “And now you’re done” The guy backs off luckily before too big of a scene is caused. Eddie doesn’t gloat. Doesn’t say anything else. He just turns to you, voice instantly soft. “You okay?” You nod, heart racing not from fear, but from the way Eddie looks at you like the world could burn and he’d still shield you with his body.

-Eddie Munson gets jealous, but hates that he does. He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like the way his chest tightens when someone makes you laugh a little too hard. Doesn’t like how his thoughts spiral when you mention someone else’s name casually. Doesn’t like that he knows he doesn’t own you. So he swallows it, most of the time. But jealousy leaks out of Eddie in strange ways. He gets louder. More theatrical. Suddenly he’s pulling you into his lap, draping himself over you like a human blanket. Suddenly he’s reminding everyone in the room, not subtly at all, that you’re his. And if you call him out on it? He scoffs. “What? I’m not jealous” Then five seconds later:
“So…you and Harrington talk a lot now, huh?”

-The worst part is when Eddie thinks he’s not enough for you. That’s when the jealousy turns inward. You catch it one night in the trailer park, sitting on the roof of his van, legs dangling while music hums softly from the speakers below. You mention someone, just in passing. A guy from class. Nothing important, something to do with homework. Eddie goes quiet. Not sulky. Not dramatic.Just very still, especially for Eddie. “You ever think” he says eventually, eyes fixed on the stars, “that you’d be better off with someone normal? ..someone that half the town doesn’t hate” Your chest aches. “Eddie-“ “Someone who won’t get you dragged into trouble” he continues, voice low on the verge of cracking from the tension he’s holding. “Someone who won’t make people look at you funny” You turn toward him, cupping his face, forcing him to look at you. “I choose you” you say firmly. “Every day” Something in Eddie cracks. He leans into your touch like he’s been waiting for permission, forehead dropping to yours, breath shaky. “Yeah” he whispers. “I know. I just…worry”

-Eddie Munson worries constantly. About you walking home alone, about people judging you because of him, about not being able to protect you from things he can’t control. He memorizes your routines without realizing it. Knows what time you should be home. Knows which routes you take. Knows the sound of your footsteps. And if something’s off? He’s already moving. Like the night you’re late, you come around the corner to find Eddie pacing, hands running through his hair, eyes wild with relief when he spots you. “Where the hell have you been?” he snaps, then immediately softens. “Shit- sorry I just- are you okay?” You explain. Lost track of time. Eddie exhales hard, pulling you into his chest, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. “Don’t do that to me” he murmurs. “I can’t-” He stops himself. But you hear it anyway.

-He’s not violent by nature, he’s dramatic, mouthy and sarcastic but when it comes to you, his instinct is comfort. When you’re upset, he doesn’t push for answers, he just opens his arms. When you’re scared, he becomes solid. Grounded. A wall at your back. When you’re hurt, emotionally or otherwise, he gets terrifyingly calm. The kind of calm that makes people back off without him saying a word. He’ll scream your name in victory. Write songs about you. Brag about you to anyone who’ll listen. But when it matters? He’ll stand between you and the dark without hesitation, he won’t run away from the danger if it’s you in harms way. He’ll watch your back without asking. He’ll choose you, even when he’s scared.

[utterlyazriel]

love will unravel me (so please keep your hands held tight)

sorry if ur seeing this twice !! i am a finicky gal and was tooo sad it didn't appear in the tags so forgive me for the repost <3 it's good ol' hurt/comfort

It's unnerving.

To know something is somehow... wrong and yet, not be able to put your finger on it. Something being off.

There had been something off since your return from the Illyrian Mountains. Like a scar you hadn't ever remembered getting, like a lump in your bed that hadn't been there before.

You had returned to the Night Court only the night before, far later than expected. It had been near twilight, yourself kept late in the war-camps dealing with the unpleasant likes of Lord Devlon. All you wanted to do was to crawl into your waiting bed.

But your bed wasn't empty.

The perfect shape of your mate, tucked beneath the blankets, is one you could recognize in the dark. Even then, you had felt the strange difference — a tickle along the nape of your neck, enough to make you shiver.

Drained of your energy, you carelessly ignore it. Chalk it up to the bad feeling you got every time you went back to those gods forsaken war-camps.

Beyond their terrible ways and nearly tyrannical leaders, your own mate's history there was enough to make you want to burn it to the ground. To scorch and salt the Earth so nothing could grow there for a hundred years as proof of the pain.

So, feeling weary, you crawl into your bed. Your eyes find Azriel sleeping beside you, silent as always, and you trace the delicate features of his face in the dark. Even in his sleep, his shadows, lazy and slow, greet you as a slumber begins to wash over you. The lull of dreams comes quick.

As does morning. But come morning, Azriel isn't there.

Not the most unexpected thing; there were early morning trainings frequently enough. However, Azriel loathed each time you were sent to monitor over those war-camps. He bristled silently each time you left and rejoiced in that quiet, tender way he did best when you came back home to him. A mission in Illyria usually guaranteed a morning in bed with your lover.

Today, the sheets are cold.

You frown as you push yourself up, the sheets pooling at your waist. Faintly, at the back of your neck, you feel it once again. The tickle. Frown deepening, you reached your hand up to scratch at the back of your neck absentmindedly. Your eyes fall on the door.

Like a mystical tug, you feel compelled to search for the Shadowsinger — slipping out of bed silently, the tiled floor is warm from the morning sun beneath your feet. You pull the door open an inch, wondering just where your mate has ambled off to this morning.

As you step through the door, drawn by your mysterious compulsion, you don't turn back to check behind you.

And even if you had, your eyes would glaze over the large Illyrian, still bundled up in your sheets, turning over in his sleep.

—

You find Azriel out on the balcony, not in training as you had suspected.

He's facing out towards the city, his hands braced on the marble, his strong wings held proudly behind him. Interestingly, his shadows have forgone him this morning. Not one of them is in sight. You sidle up to him, feeling more yourself already just seeing him.

"Abandoning me in bed this morning?" You begin, playfully. You reach out to loop a hand through his arm. "I thought you had promised me—"

Your words come to an abrupt halt as Azriel shifts before you can touch him, his arm pulled out of reach.

In fact, as he notices your presence and turns to you, he takes an entire step backward. His handsome face screws up, a frown set on his brow.

"Don't." He says severely.

Your chest pangs with hurt. Your eyebrows crowd together in your confusion, concern beginning to melt into your blood.

"Az?" You say tentatively. You want to step closer to him, to cradle his face in your hands like you do whenever he has that crushed expression on — but a greater part of you fears he may retreat from you again.

"Don't call me that." He say, voice lower. His head dips, turned away from you to hide his face. Your concern swells, a thousand alarms ringing inside your mind. The back of your neck tickles again.

"Azriel," You try again desperately, fighting to keep your voice even. "What happened? What's going on?"

Confusion paints every thought in your mind as it whirls and searches, hunting desperately for the cause of your mate's sudden iciness. Was it something you had done? Was it taking another mission to a place you knew he so despised you going to?

The Fae before you doesn't say a word.

"Azriel," His name comes out a plea, unable to help yourself. It only scratches deeper into your soul when he maneuvers again, quicker than you, purposefully evading your touch.

"Stop." He instructs, the word nearly a growl. His voice is alike to the bark he uses for talking down to unruly war-camp Lords. It's nothing like the soft, sweet tone you're so accustomed to. It makes his words sting even more. "Your touch disgusts me."

You reel back at his words, a sharp inhale shooting to your lungs. What? You could feel your mouth opening and closing, no words coming to fruition. Behind your eyes, you can feel the itch beginning. You will your tears away, confusion still the dominant emotion swirling inside.

"I—" You stammer. "I don't understand."

Azriel snorts, unamused. He crosses his arms across his broad chest, looking more intimidating than usual as he draws to his full height. He keeps his eyes on the ground but the expression on his face looks... bored.

"I've had a revelation."

Another ache resounds through your chest. Why is he being so cryptic? Since when... had disgust been something Azriel had ever associated with you? You shiver at the prickle that rolls down your neck. It's as though you had gone to bed and your mate had been switched in the night.

"Az, you're scaring—"

"Stop calling me that." He snarls, interrupting you. You jolt in surprise, your feet taking a step back. With the way he's leering over you, a hint of anger —anger you've never seen directed at you before— creeping into his face, something akin to fear grows within you.

Azriel is stronger than you and far more deadly. A fact that usually provides comfort, for the first time, only grows your unease.

"Don't you want to hear my revelation?" He asks, his growl barely reined in. He smiles down at you but it's not soft in the way you know. It's cruel.

You take a step back. Something is wrong— terribly, entirely and utterly wrong with the love of your life. Panic begins to bubble up, like waters rising in a sinking ship.

You need to find someone else. You need Cassian, need Rhys, need anyone else here to help because you are the worst person to help. Every word he says cuts deep to bone. You can feel your heart bleeding within your chest.

It has to be a trick.

That was all you could think. Your mind was stumbling over the sentence over and over, almost delirious in how it clung to the thought tightly. It must, it must —you hoped it was. Begged it to be.

You take another step back, ready to dash through the house and call for help — but Azriel takes another step toward you. Your fear spikes, looking up his snarled face, the power within him radiating off in waves.

"I came to realise that I don't—"

"—y/n?"

A voice cuts in. There's someone else on the balcony with you. Thank the Mother, you think to yourself, whipping around to find Cassian in the doorway. He's got a furrow in his brown, concern written all over his expression.

"Cassian," You breath his name in a sigh of relief. You step back again, hyper aware of how Azriel seems to take the exact same amount of steps as you, following you to the door. Your panic flares away, your breaths coming fast and short.

"Cassian, thank gods—" You begin.

"What's happening?" He interrupts urgently. His eyes are on you alone, never flickering across to Azriel out on the balcony. "Why are you— did you have another nightmare?"

"Nightmare?" You repeat, eyes wide as you stare at him in concerned bewilderment.

You're about to point out the very large intimidating Male staring you both down when Azriel speaks again.

"I said," He drawls out the word and your head snaps back to look at him. You fail to notice that Cassian doesn't even turn at all.

"I've had a revelation, my dear."

It all sounds so terribly sarcastic, such a far cry from your stoic, sincere mate. You cringe, already feeling how his next words will be made cut you down.

"I don't want you anymore."

"—what can you see?—" Cassian's voice speaks from beside you, fuzzy and out of focus. You stare at Azriel, your heart beginning to hum and fizzle, a thousand fissures breaking upon the surface.

An anguish so deep in your bones rattles through your body — and across the House of Wind, your real mate wakes up with a gasp at the feel of it.

"What?" You croak, unable to tear your eyes away from Azriel.

You can feel Cassian's hands on your shoulder, shaking you, but you can't— you won't look away. Something deep within you compels you to watch him break your heart and shred your soul. The back of your neck singes with heat.

"—What is it you're seeing?!—" Cassian's voice dips in and out. His hand sweeps your hair back, looking for any ailments causing this. He finds it in an instant. "Holy Cauldron, your neck. Oh, that's so not good. Rhys!"

He bellows for the Highlord right as Azriel, the real Azriel, bursts in through the door — following the taut agonizing pain in his chest, that connects you two together. His eyes snag on you and Cassian, out on the balcony, and his brother turns to him but you do not.

"Azriel," Cassian warns. "It's a Vesania Sigil."

Azriel pays him no heed, even as the words echo through him with a darkened dread. His stomach turns, bile threatening.

A Vesania Sigil— his knees nearly threaten to buckle beneath him.

A Vesania Sigil is a sinister curse, placed on people to drive them to the brink of insanity, minds scrambled to exhaustion.

In all the times Azriel has seen them in his long lifetime... they have all been on dead Fae, driven to the point of taking their own life. His shadows burst into a frenzied storm.

Your eyes are fixed somewhere out of the balcony, a glaze to them that tells Azriel you're seeing something different than he can. Softly, as gently as he can, he strides out and Cassian steps back to let him. Azriel steps down onto the balcony beside you, slowly, delicately reaching out to touch you.

You startle, head snapping around to see who's touched you. Except when you drag your gaze up and meet his face, you flinch hard. Azriel feels misery twist deep into his heart, some buried fear within him coming true before his eyes.

You take a step back, stumbling as you do. Then your head turns back out to the balcony—then back to him, back and forth.

"W—What?" You stammer out.

It takes Azriel only one second to realise why, and to feel the agony as he does; you're seeing double.

When you had said he's everything to you, you had truly meant it. He is both your greatest love and... your greatest fear.

Azriel can feel Rhys' arrival somewhere behind him, can even hear Cassian's concerned voice filling him in but his entire focus is locked onto you. You've stumbled back again, falling painfully on your backside, barely catching yourself on your hands but something— someone on the balcony keeps frightening you.

Something in Azriel screams; how can he fight an enemy he cannot see or touch?

He's on his knees before you in an instant. You're beginning to tremble, silent tears on your cheeks and Azriel's heart wails as you look upon him with a face for a fear. He can't tell what you're seeing but he just needs you to see him.

"My love," He says, voice quiet as to not spook you. You whimper at his words and something shrivels up inside Azriel's chest. He continues, noting how your eyes flick rapidly between his face and something over his shoulder. You shuffle back, too hesitant to trust him.

"My love, my moon," He murmurs, gently reaching out for you. His shadows zip forward, soothing along your skin. You flinch back again but Azriel holds strong, nudging forward until he's touching your skin.

You wince and screw your eyes closed and Azriel can feel the fear, the tormented pain that pours down the bond. He can see it now, this close, the seal that's burning against the skin of your neck. A fiercely protectiveness anger burns in his gut and he vows to tear apart whoever did this to you, limb by limb.

"I don't know what you can see," He say, soft as he can. He lifts his other hand and cradles the other side of your face. Your eyes peek open. "But it's not true. None of it."

Your lips are quivering, lashes sparkling with how they catch your tears. Azriel feels sick to his stomach again; he could do a thousand battles with countless weapons but this is something he's entirely powerless against.

"Azriel," Rhys speaks up from behind, voice cautious. Azriel ignores him, his thumbs stroking softly over your face.

"It's not real." He says with more urgency. Your eyes dart over his shoulder again and a whimper slips out your throat, your body tensing. Real, raw pain scratches it's way down the bond.

"Azriel, I can get it off her." Rhys voice again. "You just need to keep her still."

Azriel nods, but doesn't turn, doesn't take his eyes off you for a single moment. His heart squeezes and cracks, a thousand shards littered through his ribcage when you finally speak. Your glassy eyes have lost a little of their glaze, fixed on your mate in front of you with a desperate plea.

"He—" You begin, sucking in a harsh breath. Your breathing is too fast, your heartbeat too. "It- it fucking—it looks just like you."

"It's not." Azriel assures in an instant. He keeps his eyes fixed on yours, trying to be the picture of calm for you even as his heart warbles in agony at your pain. "It's not me."

Your eyes shift over his shoulder again and Azriel moves this time, blocking your view. "Don't. Keep your eyes on me. Look at me."

Silently, Rhys kneels at your side, his violet eyes blazing where they’re fixed on your neck. Undoubtedly, this was not such a personal attack but something to harm the inner circle. As darkness begins to swirl from Rhys' fingers, orbiting the sigil, you begin crying again, fresh tears spilling down your chests as little gasps wrack your frame.

"It—" You gasp, suddenly focusing desperately on Azriel now that you know who's who. "It— gods, it sounds so much like you."

"It might, but it isn't me." Azriel promises. He aches when your hands suddenly shoot up, eyes screwed shut as you clamp your hands down over your ears — like whatever you could hear was causing you physical pain. Rhys mutters something under his breath, his hands still working.

"Eyes on me.” Azriel urges, knowing you can hear him. You whimper and pitch forward, forehead bowing to your knees. His hands fall away as your head begins to give tiny shakes, side to side. His shadows swarm your shoulders, unsure how to help.

“Don’t—“ For the first time, Azriel’s voice falters with a wobble. He tries not to think of the countless warriors who have fallen beneath a sigil this strong and mentally roars at Rhys to move faster. “Listen to me, my love. Listen, listen to my voice, please.”

Your breathes are ragged, staggering inhales as you press your head between your knees. You entire body shakes and Azriel dares to steal a glimpse at the back of your neck — the intricate rune imprinted on your skin shimmering black as it slowly seals.

"Keep," Rhys grits out, his concentration still focused on his power. "her still."

Azriel's hands dart out, already apologising at how he has to force your head out of hiding. You gasp and sob, pulling back to resist but Azriel holds tight, his hands holding your face as tenderly as he can.

He pushes forward, crowding in, until his forehead rests against yours. He summons everything he can within himself, every ounce of devotion he holds for you and send its down the thread in his chest til everything burns white hot.

"Look at me, my love. Show me your eyes. Listen to my voice." Once the silent stoic type, Azriel lets everything that comes to mind fall out his mouth.

Your eyes crease open, flush with tears, and you shudder against him but Azriel feels it. The push back. The press of your skin against his, trying to get closer, trying to get to safety. Rhys curses for a moment, his dark magic still swirling and Azriel resists every urge to howl at him to hurry.

"Tellmetellmetellmetellme," You chant in a whisper, half delirious. You're flicking between his hazel eyes, your hands still half over your ears, body still wracked with quivers.

Tell me. Azriel's soul feels marred at the reveal of what is taunting you and he strokes his thumbs over your cheeks, drawing your attention to him.

"I love you," He says, voice sounding close to wrecked. "I love you and you're mine. I'm yours and you're mine."

You shudder violently, eyes crushing closed, right as Rhys pulls away with an exhausted sigh. It's gone. Azriel hears Rhys' voice in his mind but it's not even needed — not with the way you suddenly slump forward into him, like a puppet with its strings cut.

"It's okay, it's gone," Azriel murmurs lowly, gathering you up in his arms as much as he can. He can feel your body shaking against him, sobs still forcing their way up your throat. His wings wrap around you, an inky cocoon of safety, sealing you off from the world.

"It's gone," He repeats, his arms circling around you. He can feel the pitter-patter of your rabbiting heart, feel the remains of fear that hang around your system. Every cell in his body yearns at this injustice, the fabric of the mating bond sending his protectiveness into overdrive. But more than the urge to hunt and maim whoever harmed you is the overwhelming need to make sure you're safe.

"You're safe now, I swear. It wasn't real." His assurances continue softly, his body instinctively beginning a slow rock to soothe you. You sobs slow to cries, your hands twisted tightly into his sleep-shirt. "I love you. I love you."

By the time your breathing evens out and your hiccuping cries slow, it's some time later. Your face has been buried in Azriel's chest and when you finally dig it out, Azriel's heart disintegrates once more at your blotty skin, your tired eyes.

You don't even have to ask.

"Vesania Sigil." He says quietly, hazel eyes burning into your face.

You can feel his writhing worry through the bond, like a caged tiger, fiery hot and licking at your heels. You give a little sniffle. Open your mouth to speak and find not one word in your throat.

Azriel's moving deftly before you can think, his strong arm looping beneath your knees to scoop up you against his chest. You let yourself be coddled, thankful to the way he curls himself around you entirely, wings hiding your view — only a flash on the ceiling to be seen. You're not sure you can face the others just yet.

The door your bedroom opens as he nears and Azriel kneels on the edge of the bed, his strong thighs maneuvering you both up til he's rested up against the headboard. Pure exhaustion like nothing you've felt before creeps up from within you.

Yet even so, you feel your heart twinge. It's been chafed raw today. Your hands slither and squirm, til they're wrapped tight around Azriel's middle and he hums protectively, his wing draping over you like a blanket.

For a moment, there is only weary, tired silence.

"Tell me?" You ask in a whisper, your voice so, so small. Azriel aches at the pain in your voice, sending every assurance down the golden thread between you.

"You're mine," He says, voice hushed and yet doused in his love.

"I'm yours." You echo, voice a little stronger than before. He can feel the way you tug on the bond, as if checking its still secure— still unbreakable. "And you're mine?"

Azriel folds himself even closer and tugs back on the bond strongly. His scarred hand glides up to bury itself in your hair, massaging slow and sweet. His nose nuzzles in against your hairline, his lips pressing a kiss wherever they find skin.

"And I'm yours." He agrees.