crossfandomslut

[crossfandomslut]

Just fabulous 👏👏👏

bergamot

chapter summary: You haven’t seen Bucky in almost two months because you’ve been away on a mission for the UN. Bucky is miserable—the team has only known him for two weeks, but they can already tell that something on his phone is making him smile. word count: 8.2k+ pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!reader notes: here is the request that inspired this! i had a lot of fun writing this. i just wanna curl up with bucky (and hold onto his arms like a koala) and run my fingers through his hair, and— warnings/tags: reader works for the UN, mention of reader having wet hair, soft!bucky, clingy!bucky, loverboy!bucky, fluff, thunderbolts, yelena is suspicious, light violence, mention of injury, references to tfatws, post-thunderbolts

Alexei leaned back in the couch, gesturing broadly with a half-eaten pretzel. “So there I was, hanging from the side of the Khrunichev rocket, no harness, only my teeth and a stubborn cable—”

“Again with the rocket story?” Ava muttered, phasing a hand through the coffee table on instinct. Bob perked up, wide-eyed, as though picturing the whole scene.

Bucky barely looked up from his phone. A grin tugged at the edge of his mouth as his thumbs flew over the screen. Yelena caught it immediately. She nudged Ava’s ankle and jerked her chin at Bucky. “Did the Winter Soldier just smile?”

Ava arched a brow. “Maybe Alexei’s comedic timing has finally evolved.”

John, propped against the doorway, snorted. “Pretty sure that’d require the universe bending its own rules.”

Alexei glowered. “You Americans have no appreciation for true heroism.” When no one rose to defend him, he sighed and continued anyway. “Point is, the launch director screams, ‘you will die, Red Guardian!’ and I—”

Bucky’s phone chimed again. He angled the screen away, shoulders hitching in a short laugh before catching himself. Yelena’s eyes narrowed like a laser sight. She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Barnes, who’s making you look like a Golden Retriever with a new squeaky toy?”

“No one.” He tapped the screen off, expression settling into its usual guarded set. Too late—the damage was done.

Ava kicked her feet up on the table. “Is ‘no one’ some kind of new social app?”

“Or a codename?” Bob asked, genuinely curious.

John cleared his throat. “Leave him alone.”

Yelena’s gaze snapped to him. “Why so defensive, Walker? Do you know something?”

“Don’t drag me into it,” John said, folding his arms. “Some of us respect privacy.”

“Some of us are lying,” Yelena shot back. She rose and sauntered toward Bucky’s armchair. “Come on, Barnes. Two weeks living in the Watchtower, we’ve seen you brood, we’ve seen you pace, we’ve seen you out-bench the gym equipment. But a genuine smile? That’s new content. Share with the class.”

Bucky pocketed the phone and stood. “Getting coffee.” He pushed past her, metal fingers clinking softly against the mug rack as he filled one.

Ava phased through the counter to peer at him from the other side. “Is the coffee machine texting you too?”

He exhaled through a tight grin. “It’s just... a friend.”

“What kind of friend?” Yelena pressed.

“The kind who doesn’t need to be part of story time.”

Bob’s voice drifted from the couch. “Do you think they like rockets?”

“Bob,” Yelena said, “focus.”

Bob nodded, solemn. “Focusing.”

John pushed off the doorway, intercepting Yelena. “Seriously. Drop it. We’ve got enough on our plates without interrogating Bucky’s social life.”

“His social life is our plate now,” Yelena argued. “Trust is key to team cohesion.”

Bucky set his mug down with a soft clink. “I trust you, Yelena.”

She perked up. “Then tell me.”

He hesitated, thumb brushing the rim of the cup. The phone buzzed again. The grin resurfaced—small, private, and impossible to hide.

Yelena’s eyes widened. “You’re impossible.” She pointed two fingers at her own eyes, then at him. “I’m watching you, Barnes. One day, I will know.”

“Good luck,” he said, taking his coffee and heading for the exit. “Alexei, finish the rocket story without me.”

Alexei puffed out his chest. “As I was saying—”

The automatic door slid shut behind Bucky, muffling Alexei’s booming voice. In the quiet hallway, he pulled the phone back out.

You: Flight got moved again. Landing tonight after all. Can’t wait to see you.

Bucky’s shoulders softened. He leaned against the wall, thumb hovering for a beat before he typed.

Bucky: Counting the hours, doll. I’ll be there.

He stared at the message until the screen dimmed, that rare smile lingering. Then he slipped the phone away, squared his shoulders, and headed back toward the lounge—mask firmly in place, ready to fend off Yelena’s next round of questions.

---

Of course, his luck was having a meeting with Valentina he couldn’t get out of at the exact time you were landing.

You promised him it was okay, that you were going to go to the apartment and take a nice shower after spending three and a half weeks in Guinea-Bissau with only four bucket showers.

The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and fresh paint when you stepped out of the bathroom, damp hair shoved into a towel‑turban. Your suitcase still yawned half‑open in the bedroom, shoes sticking out like protest signs after the forty‑hour trip home. You tugged one of Bucky’s sweatshirts—soft navy cotton you’d stolen months ago—over your head and padded toward the kitchen.

Keys scraped the front lock.

You froze, toothbrush still in hand, the door cracked open just wide enough for a familiar metal fingertip to tap against the frame.

“Doll?” Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost cautious.

“Bathroom’s on the left, Sergeant,” you called, grinning. “But fair warning—hot water’s depleted.”

The door swung wider. Bucky stepped inside wearing a charcoal henley rolled to his forearms and a pilled cardigan that made his shoulders look unfairly broad. The cardigan hit the floor the second he saw you.

He crossed the room in three strides, pulling you straight against his chest. His nose tucked into the damp bend of your neck. A low, shaky breath escaped him. “You’re here,” he mumbled. “You’re actually here.”

“Last time I checked.” You squeezed his waist, feeling muscle tremble under the fabric. “Thought you had a debrief.”

“I threatened to walk out if Val kept talking.” He nuzzled closer, the words muffled. “She got the hint.”

You laughed. “That might be a new record for shortest Barnes‑Fontaine meeting.”

“She shouldn’t schedule anything on your landing day.” His flesh hand slid up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing water droplets from your jaw as though they offended him. “You good? Flight okay? Anyone sneeze on you?”

“Only everyone in coach.” You tapped his chest. “I lived.”

He lifted your left hand in both of his, studying the calluses on your fingertips like they were precious intel. Then he laced your fingers with his human ones and didn’t let get, even when he tried to flip the kettle on with his metal hand without releasing yours. He misjudged the angle, and bumped the counter.

“Bucky,” you laughed, tugging gently, “two hands are useful for tea.”

“Fine.” He let you go… for half a second. Then his palm found the small of your back, guiding you nowhere in particular, just touching. “Missed you.”

“Month and a half,” you reminded. “I kept count.”

“Thirty‑nine days,” he corrected softly.

Your heart stuttered. “You counted hours too, didn’t you?”

“Two thousand. Give or take.” He swallowed, shoulders hitching as though the admission cost him. “When you were in the field and comms went dark that first week… I—”

You reached up and brushed hair from his forehead. “I’m here now. And I’m not leaving anytime soon.”

He nodded, but the tension didn’t ease. He bent suddenly, hooking an arm behind your knees and lifting you. You yelped, toothbrush clattering onto the countertop.

“James Buchanan—”

“Shush.” He settled onto the couch with you cradled sideways, both hands banded around your ribs. “Grounding exercises, remember?”

Your brows lifted. “Thought that was when you were having nightmares.”

“They’re preventative tonight.” His metal thumb tapped a light rhythm against your spine. “Body heat. Your heartbeat. Works better than any breathing drill.”

You exhaled, letting muscles uncoil. His chest expanded under your cheek with each slow inhale. After a minute his pulse evened out, but he still didn’t loosen his hold.

“I should order food,” you murmured.

“Later.”

“Brush my teeth?”

He pressed a kiss to your hair. “Mint’s overrated.”

You tilted your head back to look at him. “What about bathroom breaks?”

“I’ll escort you.” The deadpan delivery cracked you up, and the faintest smile curved his mouth—one that actually reached his eyes. “Not letting go yet, doll. I need another minute.”

“Take five. Or fifty.”

He sighed, forehead dropping gently to yours. “Gonna need more than fifty.”

“Take all night.”

A soft noise—half laugh, half relief—escaped him. The kettle clicked off behind you, steam curling upward, ignored. Outside, city traffic whooshed three stories below, but inside the apartment everything had narrowed to the weight of his arms and the solid, steady drum of two heartbeats syncing after far too many hours apart.

Bucky brushed his lips across your knuckles. “Welcome home.”

---

The bedroom was gray with winter light when your alarm buzzed. Before you could reach for the phone, Bucky’s arm tightened, hauling you the last inch across the mattress so your back fit the curve of his chest.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled, voice sanded rough from sleep.

“You’re due at the Watchtower at nine,” you reminded, twisting enough to see him. His hair was everywhere, soft and ridiculous. “And I’ve got a briefing at the UN.”

“Virtual.” He kissed the top of your shoulder. “Can do it from here.”

You laughed. “Pretty sure Val expects you in person.”

“That’s her problem.” His grip didn’t loosen. “Could stay like this forever.”

“Barnes.” You nudged his metal fingertips where they were splayed over your stomach. “Breakfast.”

“She can brief John first.”

“John will murder you.”

“Let him try.” He pressed his face into your hair. “Smell better than flapjacks anyway.”

“Flattery isn’t protein.” You jabbed an elbow—gently—into his ribs. “Up.”

He groaned but finally released you. Sort of. He followed you down the hall like a very large, slightly sleepy puppy, his hand sliding back into yours before you’d even crossed the doorway.

---

You cracked eggs into a bowl while Bucky stood behind you, both arms caging you in against the counter while still managing to breathe down your neck.

“Need a whisk,” you said. He fetched it—without letting go—so your joined hands performed an awkward baton pass to the utensil drawer. “Buck, I need two hands.”

“Negative.” He kissed the side of your temple. “One hand’s enough. I’ll be your sous‑chef.”

“My sous‑chef usually chops, not holds hands.”

“Multitasking.” He reached around you, grabbed a spatula with his metal hand, and flipped a pancake. Terribly.

You bit a smile. “That’s the cutting board, champ.”

“Details.”

---

Laptop open on the coffee table, your UN briefing countdown read T‑23:04. You tried to review bullet points while Bucky tried to fuse himself to your side. His sweater sleeve pooled over your fingers where they stayed laced.

You nudged the trackpad with your free hand. “Can’t scroll like this.”

He scooted nearer, draped his arm across your lap. “Dictate. I’ll scroll.”

“You don’t know the acronyms.”

“Then you’ll have to brief me first.” His thumb stroked the veins at your wrist like he could memorize your pulse.

You went for stern. “James. I have to appear competent in twenty‑three minutes.”

“You’re always competent.” He lifted your hand, kissed the back of it. “I just need contact.”

“You were literally on top of me twenty minutes ago.”

“And it was great.” He kissed your knuckles again. “Just… humor me, okay?”

The quiet plea in his eyes melted whatever resolve you’d been pretending to hold. You exhaled. “Okay. But if I bomb this call—”

“I’ll hack their email and delete the recording.” The grin he flashed was boyish mischief carved onto a war‑worn face. “Relax, doll. I’ve got you.”

---

The ring lights were on, and you had a blazer shrugged over Bucky’s sweatshirt that you had borrowed. You were live with six UN security advisers, none of whom could see the six‑foot supersoldier crouched just out of frame, one hand wrapped around your ankle like a magnetic cuff.

“Current intel indicates the smuggling corridor shifted west,” you said, clicking to the next slide. Bucky’s thumb traced slow circles above your sock line. “We’ll need to re‑route surveillance assets accordingly.”

A message pinged at the top corner of your screen.

Bucky: Proud of you.

You pressed your heel lightly into his palm in reply. He squeezed once, grounding himself—and you—in the silence between your words.

---

After the call ended, you ditched your blazer and grabbed your backpack. You reached for the door handle but Bucky’s fingers hooked your belt loop.

“Walk me downstairs?” you asked.

“Farther.” He shrugged into a heavy coat, still holding you. “All the way to First Avenue.”

“That’s two blocks past the subway.”

“Exactly.” He laced your fingers again, gaze skimming your face like he expected you to disappear in a puff of smoke. “Need every extra minute.”

You brushed his sweater collar flat. “Meet me for lunch? Midtown. One o’clock.”

“Done.” He kissed you quick, chased it with another slower one like a punctuation mark he didn’t trust. “Text me when you get through security.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

He groaned. “Why’s that hot?”

“Because you’re impossible.” You opened the door. He tightened his grip anyway, escorting you down the hall as though the space between heartbeats was hostile territory.

Halfway to the elevator, his phone buzzed.

Yelena: Barnes. Where are you? Walker’s making Bob recreate a latte art swan and it’s getting weird.

Bucky typed back with one hand.

Bucky: Running late. Focus on team cohesion exercises.

“Team cohesion,” you echoed, trying not to laugh.

He kissed your hand one last time before the elevator doors slid open. “You’re my cohesion.”

“See you at one.”

The doors closed. Through the sliver of glass, you watched him press his palm to the metal until the cab whisked you out of sight. In the cab, your phone buzzed.

Bucky: Counting minutes already.

You shook your head, smiling like an idiot all the way to work.

---

Alexei was still mid‑swan demonstration when Bucky slipped through the sliding doors. Espresso foam mottled Bob’s chin, while Yelena perched on the counter like an irritated gargoyle, phone in one hand, and an evidence board of possibilities in the other.

“There he is,” John called from the coffee machine. “Barnes, you’re officially twenty‑one minutes late.”

“Traffic,” Bucky muttered, heading straight for the fridge.

“Traffic of what?” Ava asked, phasing a spoon through her cereal. “You’re the only person I know who can hop rooftops to work.”

Yelena narrowed her eyes. “I tracked five separate rooftop cameras. None caught your signature.”

Bucky’s neck stiffened. “You’re tracking my—”

“Team cohesion,” she sing‑songed. “We covered this.”

Bob looked up. “I thought cohesion was about lattes.”

“Everything is about lattes if you do it right,” Alexei said, still sculpting foam. “Observe the curvature—”

John rolled his eyes. “Enough. Barnes, you got Val waiting.”

“Already briefed her by phone,” Bucky replied, retrieving bottled water. The collar of his cardigan smelled faintly of your shampoo and he tugged it closer. “Any actual emergencies?”

“Just boredom,” Ava said.

“And speculation,” Yelena added. “You smell like bergamot.”

Bucky froze. “I switched laundry detergent. That illegal now?”

Yelena hopped off the counter, blocking his path. “Who was the text from this morning?”

“Not your business.”

She grinned. “So it was someone.” She opened her mouth to press further, but John cut in.

“Leave it, Belova. Val wants us in the gym in ten.”

Yelena’s eyes flicked between them. “Fine. But mystery texts will be solved.”

Bucky brushed past her, metal hand flexing. “Good luck.”

---

You chose a corner booth facing the door, laptop bag tucked beneath your feet. The place smelled of rosemary focaccia and printer ink from the little receipts machine. At 12:59 exactly, the bell jingled and Bucky ducked inside wearing a black baseball cap and a gray wool sweater that might have belonged to a Norwegian fisherman in a past life.

He spotted you, exhaled relief, and crossed the room so fast the waitress startled. The cap hit the seat first, followed by Bucky, who slid in beside you instead of across. His arm settled behind your shoulders, and his fingers immediately laced with yours on the table.

“Made it with a minute to spare,” you said.

“Fifty‑four seconds,” he corrected, gaze already soft. “Missed you.”

You tilted your head. “We parted three hours ago.”

“Still counts.” He kissed your temple. “How was the briefing?”

“Half of them think increased drones will solve everything. The other half wants a task force.”

“Let me guess—the drone faction has no ground intel.”

“Bingo.”

He squeezed your hand, thumb stroking the base of your thumb. “Tell me what you really need.”

“More eyes in Dakar. And you.” You nudged his knee. “But Val would weaponize that.”

He huffed a laugh. “She already is.”

The waiter approached and Bucky ordered two grilled‑chicken salads without looking at the menu, eyes locked on you. After the waiter left, Bucky’s flesh hand rose to brush your forehead gently—a habit. You watched the knit lines of tension between his brows ease as he touched you.

“Sleep okay?” you asked.

“Better than the last thirty‑nine nights,” he said softly. “Woke up every hour just to make sure you were still there.”

“And?”

He ducked his head, almost shy. “You were. Every single time.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Planning to disappear at lunch?”

“Try it,” he murmured. “I dare you.”

The salads arrived and Bucky lifted your fork first, twirling lettuce like pasta before offering it to your mouth. You laughed, cheeks heating.

“This is not ergonomically sound,” you said around the bite.

“Fine.” He set the fork down—only to pick up your hand again. “Needed the tactile confirmation.”

“Bucky, eat.”

He kept hold of your fingers with his metal hand and maneuvered his fork with the other, awkward but determined. You shook your head, amused, and chewed.

Across the room a teenager whispered, eyes widening at Bucky’s metal arm. Bucky clocked it, then shrugged out of the sweater sleeve to cover the vibranium. You slid closer, pressing thigh to thigh.

“Hey,” you whispered, “they’re staring at the arm, not us.”

“Doesn’t matter.” He squeezed your knee. “This is my safe zone.”

You smiled into your water glass. “Safe zone has croutons.”

“And bergamot,” he added, nose brushing your cheek. “Missed that smell in the tower. Everything there reeks of disinfectant and Alexei’s cologne.”

“He probably bathes in that stuff.”

“Trust me, he does.” Bucky took another bite, chewed, and tried to drink without relinquishing you. “I ever tell you what happened when he sprayed Ava by accident?”

“No. But it sounds riveting.”

He chuckled and told you the story. You ate, laughed, and wiped a stray breadcrumb from his beard. All the while, his grip never faltered, as though letting go would trigger another world‑ending void.

---

The elevator doors slid open with a chime. Bucky stepped out, cap tucked under his arm, expression so relaxed it looked out of place against the glass-and-steel interior. His phone vibrated before he thumb‑typed a quick reply, shoulders shaking with a silent laugh.

Ava phased through the adjacent wall, bowl of grapes in hand. “Look who’s finally smiling again.”

Bucky pocketed the phone, deadpan back in place. “Afternoon, Ava.”

“Don’t do that,” she said, falling into step beside him. “The neutral face after the happy one—it’s creepy.”

“Take it up with my face.”

They rounded the corner into the lounge. Alexei, sprawled on the sectional, tossed a foam stress ball toward the ceiling like a bored teenager. Yelena hunched over the coffee table, assembling what looked suspiciously like a color‑coded conspiracy web. John perched on a barstool, drinking black coffee straight from the pot. And Bob sat cross‑legged on the floor, building an elaborate domino maze out of coasters.

Alexei noticed Bucky first. “Hello, little comrade! Good lunch?”

“Fine.” Bucky headed for the fridge.

“Define ‘fine,’” Yelena said without looking up.

He grabbed a water bottle, cracked the seal. “Edible. Quiet.”

John’s brows rose. “That why you’re thirty minutes late?”

“Traffic,” Bucky answered. He took a long drink, then caught himself smiling again. He turned away too late—but Yelena saw.

“Aha,” she declared, pointing a red string at him like an accusation. “Mystery texter strikes again.”

Bucky capped the water. “String theory usually requires facts.”

“I have facts.” She tapped a sticky note. “Fact one: you left this morning smelling like bergamot. Fact two: you returned smelling like rosemary.”

Alexei sniffed the air theatrically. “I smell none of this.”

“Your cologne killed your nose in 1984,” she snapped. Yelena turned back to Bucky, “who serves rosemary at lunch?”

“A lot of cafés, Belova.”

“Which café?”

“Downtown.”

“Name.” She flicked the string.

“Not relevant,” he said. “What is relevant is that Val wants us in the gym at fifteen‑hundred.”

Bob accidentally toppled a coaster, setting off half the maze. “Fifteen‑hundred is three o’clock, right?”

“Yes,” Bucky answered automatically, still staring at his phone. The screen lit with a new message—the grin came back, small but unmistakable. He swiped it away and pocketed the device before Yelena could pounce.

John set the coffeepot down. “Let it go, Yelena.”

“Never,” she muttered. “Cooperation is built on transparency.”

“Trust works both ways,” John shot back, folding his arms.

Bucky ignored them, rolling his shoulders as he moved toward the corridor. “I’m hitting the range before sparring. Anyone joining?”

Ava shrugged. “Sure, I’ll watch you obliterate paper bad guys.”

Bob raised a hand. “Can I finish my dominos first?”

“Ten minutes,” Bucky said. He started down the hall. Halfway there he paused, pulled the his phone out again, and typed.

Bucky: Made it back. They’re insufferable. Text when you’re done at the embassy.

A second bubble appeared before he could lock the screen.

You: Speech in 20 min. Survive your teammates.

He smirked, slid the phone into his back pocket, and continued, metal fingers flexing like they still held yours. Life at the Watchtower suddenly felt a lot less claustrophobic.

Behind him Yelena’s voice carried down the corridor: “We’ll figure it out, Barnes!”

“Good luck,” he called over his shoulder, tone almost playful.

In the armory he set out fresh magazines, checked the sights on his pistol, and let the rhythmic clack of loading rounds drown out the team’s chatter. Every third breath he felt the phantom press of your palm against his—clean, steady, grounding. The clingy ache eased, replaced by a quiet anticipation. Fifty‑one minutes until the embassy reception ended. Fifty‑one minutes until another message, another small confirmation that you were still on the map.

He’d counted less forgiving seconds.

Bucky clicked the last magazine home and holstered the weapon. “All right,” he muttered under his breath, allowing himself one quick smile at the thought of you before the mask slid back into place. “Let’s get this over with.”

---

When he got back to the apartment, the first thing he noticed was a vinyl playing old jazz music—a record you got him for his birthday last year. The second thing was the smoke detector going off.

Bucky dropped the grocery bag and sprinted for the kitchen. You were fanning a dish towel under the screeching smoke alarm, half‑laughing, half‑coughing.

“Surprise,” you said, waving at the haze. “Dinner’s… toasty.”

He tapped the detector with his metal hand; the shriek cut off. Jazz filled the silence, soft trumpet and scratchy vinyl. Bucky’s gaze flicked from the charred skillet to the table set for two—candles, fresh flowers, a folded letter.

“You okay?” he asked, stalking closer, hands already mapping your arms for burns.

“Minor smoke inhalation, major embarrassment.” You tugged his cardigan sleeve. “Come here.”

He stepped into your space, you hooked fingers in his belt loops, and pulled him closer until his chest hit yours. His arms wrapped tight—one flesh, one vibranium—locking you in place.

“Missed you,” he murmured against your hair.

“I saw you five hours ago.”

“Too long.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “What’s all this?”

You slipped a slim envelope from your back pocket and held it between you. “Official UN notice. Two‑month leave, effective immediately.”

His eyes lit, quicksilver joy. “You’re kidding.”

“Figured we could use a stay‑cation. Or, you know, any‑where‑cation.”

He didn’t take the paper. Instead, he clasped your hand around it, sealing both of your palms between his. “Best news this apartment’s heard in years.”

“You mean besides the ‘no more bucket showers’ update?”

He chuckled, but the sound wobbled. “I thought you’d be gone again by next week.”

“Not leaving.” You squeezed once. “Val’ll have to fight me for you.”

“She can try.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your knuckles, then another to your wrist, working his way up like a man starved of contact. “What’s for dinner—besides charcoal?”

“Option A: order Thai. Option B: salvageable garlic bread if you scrape the tops.”

“Option C.” He turned off the stove, slid the skillet aside, and laced your fingers together once again. “We forget dinner, dance to Duke Ellington, and order Thai after.”

“Music first?” You arched a brow. “You, Sergeant Barnes, requesting a dance?”

He tugged you toward the living room where the record spun. “Can’t lose track of you in take‑out chaos.”

You laughed, letting him guide your hands to his shoulders. His palms found your waist, thumbs drawing slow circles through the thin cotton of your shirt. Trumpet crooned as he swayed, small steps, no real technique—just motion. You settled into the rhythm, noses brushing.

He exhaled. “Grounded.”

“Yeah?” You rested your cheek against his sweater. “How’s the altitude?”

“Perfect.” He closed his eyes, holding you a little tighter. “Don’t plan to land anytime soon.” The song faded into soft vinyl crackle, but he didn’t let go. He brushed your lips with his, slow and certain as your fingers threaded through his hair, and he melted, knees bending just enough to press you deeper into the sway. “Two months together,” he whispered. “I’m not wasting a second.”

“You’re the clingiest supersoldier on record,” you teased.

“File the report.” He captured your hand again, spinning you once before pulling you flush. “Now, about option C…”

A fresh jazz track crackled to life. Bucky smiled—the soft, private one nobody else got to see—then set his cheek against yours, heartbeat steady, grounding both of you as the city hummed beyond your windows and the smoke curled harmlessly toward the vent.

---

The blinds still cast gray stripes across the bed when you heard the closet door whisper open. Bucky moved on bare feet, trying to sneak a shirt over his head without jostling the mattress. Fail. The hem got stuck around his shoulders and he muttered something about faulty cotton.

“Morning,” you croaked, rolling toward him.

He froze halfway through the maneuver. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You did.” You sat up, tugging his bunched henley down for him. “Tower day?”

“Val wants drills at eight.” He glanced at the clock like it might bargain on his behalf. “I can call in ‘emotional support leave.’”

“Pretty sure that’s not a thing.”

“Could be.” He dropped onto the edge of the bed, palm automatically finding your thigh. “Two months of you and nine‑to‑five superheroing don’t mix.”

“You’ll survive.” You stroked his jaw. “I’ll hold down the fort. Maybe fix last night’s skillet.”

His lips twitched. He leaned in, kissed you slow—until the alarm on his phone trilled. 06:45. He cursed softly against your mouth.

“You’re gonna be late,” you warned.

“Worth it.” Another kiss, then he stood, finally threading the henley right‑side‑out. “Coffee?”

“Please.”

---

The moka pot hissed. You buttered toast while Bucky hovered, hand at the small of your back even while reaching for mugs. “Barnes, I need elbow room.”

“Compromise.” He slid closer but kept his palm resting lightly against your hip. “Still counts.”

You set two travel cups on the counter. He filled them, then laced his fingers with yours while the coffee settled. “You’ll text?” he asked.

“Every hour on the hour,” you teased.

“Every half if you’re bored.” He took a breath like he might say more, but his phone buzzed again—07:05, Depart. His shoulders slumped.

You cap‑handed him his coffee. “Go save the world. I’ve got laundry.”

“Call if the detergent fights back.”

You walked him to the door. He kissed you once, stepped into the hall, then pivoted, and came back for another. And a third. Finally he groaned, resting his forehead to yours. “This separation thing is crap.”

“Bucky.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re actually going to be late.”

He huffed, gave a final squeeze, and forced himself down the corridor. You watched until the elevator doors shut, then exhaled, heart doing tiny gymnastics.

---

Yelena circled Bucky like a shark as he wrapped his fists. “You’re smiling again.”

“Drop it,” he warned.

She flicked a glance at Alexei on the treadmill. “He hasn’t seen daylight since 1987 but you, Barnes, look freshly sun‑kissed. Explain.”

“No.”

Ava leaned over the railing from the mezzanine. “He came back smelling like toast.”

John’s eyebrow shot up from the bench‑press station. “Toast?”

“Bergamot two days ago, rosemary yesterday, now toast,” Yelena listed, ticking fingers. “Either he’s dating an aromatherapist or he’s turned into a bakery.”

Bob piped up from the corner, arranging kettlebells by color. “I like bakeries.”

Bucky slid his phone into the locker, screen still lit with your recent text—Made pancakes. Missing ingredient: supersoldier. He shut the door, spinning the code. “Focus, team. Val wants sparring pairs.”

John clapped once. “Barnes with me. Maybe I can punch the perfume right out of you.”

“Bring it,” Bucky said, rolling his shoulders. He felt lighter even as he stepped onto the mat. The cling was a steady itch at his palms, but your hourly update already hovered on the horizon.

The first bell rang before John lunged. Bucky blocked, pivoted, mind half on the bout, half on the image of you in his sweatshirt icing a ruined cake you’d probably claim was “rustic.” A grin slipped and John nearly caught his chin.

“Head in the game, Barnes,” John barked.

“Working on it.” Bucky deflected another strike. “Just… motivated.”

“Must be some motivation,” Ava called.

Yelena’s conspiratorial smile widened. “Operation Mystery Texter continues.”

Bucky threw a roundhouse that sent John skidding, then shook out his wrist. “You’ll never figure it out.”

“I will.” She shot back.

“Good luck,” he said, and meant it. Because for once every secret, every code, every hidden life led to something good—someone good—waiting in a sun‑lit apartment with jazz spinning and pancakes cooling. He’d count the hours, the minutes, the seconds, until he could fold himself back into that warmth.

The bell rang again. He reset his stance, vibranium palm open, already anticipating the next contact—on the mat now, but later, when it really counted, wrapped around your fingers where it belonged.

---

Rain slicked the rusted cargo containers. Bucky crouched behind a forklift with John and Yelena while Ava scouted through the walls up ahead. Bob hovered by the jet, humming nervously.

“Target bunker’s twenty meters,” Ava’s voice crackled through comms. “Three armed. Thermal says two more in back.”

“Copy.” Bucky flexed his metal fingers round the grip of his sidearm. “Yelena, flank left. John—”

“On your six,” Walker answered.

They moved. Two steps from cover, a pipe‑bomb arced out of nowhere. Bucky shoved Yelena aside, but the homemade charge hit the forklift mast near his shoulder. The blast rippled hard—enough to rattle vibranium. The shockwave threw him into a crate; pain spider‑webbed through his right side.

“Barnes!” Yelena slid beside him, checking for holes. “You bleeding?”

“Just ringing.” He pushed upright, but his flesh shoulder protested with a nauseating crunch. He kept his voice steady. “Got it.”

John’s shield clanged as he slammed an assailant to the deck. “Cover secured. Yelena, status?”

“Barnes is hit,” she reported.

“I’m fine,” Bucky snarled, standing too fast as the world tilted. “Finish sweep.”

Ava phased through the last container and waved. “All clear. Perps zip‑tied.”

Valentina’s voice sliced in over comms. “Asset report.”

“Minor soft‑tissue injury,” Bucky answered, grinding words through clenched teeth. “Nothing med‑bay can’t patch.”

“Negative, Sergeant,” Val said. “Your vitals say otherwise. Stand down—Walker takes command. Barnes, return to base for eval.”

Bucky rolled his shoulder, white sparks burst behind his eyes. “Copy,” he bit out. “Walker, bag evidence. Yelena, back him up.”

John approached, expression tight with worry. “You’re riding home with Bob.”

“I can fly.”

“Not with that shoulder.” John kept his voice low. “Look, just… let someone take care of you for once, okay?”

Bucky glared but didn’t argue. Pain radiated in hot pulses, every beat reminded him of you waiting two boroughs away.

---

Bob settled Bucky into a jump seat, buckling him with exaggerated care. “Does it hurt like nine out of ten, or six out of ten? I need scale.”

“Seven.” Bucky hissed as the strap brushed bone. “Thanks, Bob.”

Bob nodded solemnly. “Pain is temporary, but cookies are forever. I will bake later.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Bucky tapped his earpiece off, then thumb‑typed one‑handed.

Bucky: Took a hit. Shoulder’s out. Coming home.

Three dots appeared almost instantly. You: I’ve got ice packs and soup. ETA?

He exhaled and the ache loosened. Bucky: Wheels up now. 20 min.

Another bubble. You: Door’ll be open. No heroics on the stairs.

He allowed himself the smallest smile, then slid the phone into his pocket and let the hum of take‑off blur everything but that waiting warmth.

---

Dr. Adler snapped Bucky’s shoulder back into place with a wet pop. He didn’t flinch—much. “Ligament strain,” Adler pronounced. “Sling, ice, thirty‑six‑hour rest. No combat.”

“Copy.” Bucky tugged his jacket over the brace. “I’ll recover off‑site.”

Yelena leaned in the doorway, arms folded. “Off‑site meaning… mystery apartment?”

“None of your business.” He brushed past.

“You know secrecy only fuels my curiosity,” she called.

“Happy hunting.” He headed for the exit, clutching his slinged arm to his ribs.

---

John intercepted him at the bike rack. “Need escort?”

“Got one.” Bucky swung a leg over his old Ducati, wincing. “Thanks, though.”

John studied him. “They must be something special.”

“More than you know.” Bucky kicked the engine alive, visor down. “See you tomorrow—if Val lets me out of bed.”

“Take two days. I’ll cover.”

Bucky nodded once, throttled, and sped into the falling dusk—toward vinyl crackle, soup steam, and the only pair of hands that could make the throbbing ease faster than any med‑patch.

---

The front door was propped with a slipper just like your text promised. Bucky eased the Ducati’s helmet off with one hand, nudging the door open with his boot. Steam from soup met him in the hallway, mingling with the faint hiss of the jazz record you’d forgotten to stop.

You appeared from the kitchen in socked feet and one of his Henleys that hit mid‑thigh. “Right arm’s grounded, Sergeant.” You pointed at the sling. “No sudden heroics.”

“Was planning none.” He leaned down; you met him halfway, bracing the back of his neck as he kissed you, slow and a little shaky. The scent of rosemary shampoo—yours, not his—settled the knot in his stomach. “Missed you.”

“You’re a mess.” You thumbed a smudge of oil off his cheek. “Come sit before you keel over.”

He let you steer him to the couch. The minute he sat, his good hand found yours, fingers linking tight. You brought a heavy bowl of chicken noodle, a spoon already plunged into the broth. Bucky attempted to angle it with his left hand and winced.

“Gimme.” You settled beside him, shoulders pressed. “Open.”

He grumbled, but opened. You fed him a spoonful; he chewed, then ducked his head in embarrassment. “Feel ridiculous.”

“Rule one of dating a UN liaison on leave,” you said, scooping another bite. “We weaponize bedside manners.”

“Didn’t realize that was classified.”

“Level seven.” You smirked and offered the spoon again. “Swallow, soldier.”

He did, then tipped his forehead to yours. “Thank you.”

The phone in his pocket buzzed. He ignored it as you raised a brow. “Work?”

“Yelena tracking my GPS again, probably.” He pulled it out, and glanced at the notification: Unknown Location Request. “I’ll disable it later.”

You set the bowl down and unfolded a blanket over his lap. “Think they’ll break down the door?”

“They can try.” He pulled you closer, even with one arm out of commission. “Stay.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He exhaled through his nose, the tension melting as you tucked into his side. His vibranium thumb stroked your knuckles in a steady pattern. The record skipped once, then slid into softer brass.

“How bad’s the pain?” you asked.

“Manageable.” He kissed your temple. “This helps.”

“Clinginess as analgesic?”

“Doctor‑approved.” He squeezed your fingers. “Don’t let go.”

“Wasn’t planning.” You hooked your ankle over his shin, completing the pretzel of limbs. “Movie?”

“Anything.” He closed his eyes, letting your heartbeat set cadence. “Pick something with zero explosions.”

“Musicals?”

He groaned but didn’t argue. You queued Singin’ in the Rain. As the opening credits rolled, his breathing evened. Ten minutes in, he drifted, forehead pressed to your hair, spoon forgotten, and soup cooling on the table.

You answered the buzzing phone once more—Yelena, again—and texted back without waking him. Bucky: Barnes is asleep. Shoulder fine. No house calls tonight.

Three dots popped, then: Yelena: Who dis?

You smirked, locked the screen, and nestled deeper under his arm. On the TV, Gene Kelly twirled an umbrella. On the couch, Bucky held your hand like the world might tilt if he loosened grip. You listened to the sync of his breaths with the horn section and decided the universe could wait until morning.

---

Valentina’s hologram flickered over the conference table. “Barnes forgot to pull last night’s telemetry. The secure drive needs courier delivery—signature required. Who’s closest?”

Ava raised a brow. “Could overnight it.”

“Not fast enough,” Valentina snapped. “Barnes has forty-eight hours downtime. He can review while he’s iron-slinging his shoulder.”

Bob’s hand went halfway up, then Yelena slapped it back down. “I’ll drop it,” she said, voice too casual. “Fresh air, chance to stretch my legs.”

John shot her a wary look. “Stretching your interrogation muscles, you mean.”

Yelena blinked innocence. “He might need soup.”

“Pretty sure he’s covered,” John muttered.

Valentina didn’t care. “Fine. You have two hours. Use the gray SUV—tracking only, no comm chatter. Out.” The projection blinked off.

Alexei clapped. “Field trip! Want company?”

“No,” Yelena answered too quickly, already pocketing the encrypted drive. She headed for the elevator. “Be back soon.”

---

Yelena adjusted her leather jacket, eyeing the apartment numbers until she found 3C. Rain pattered on the stairwell windows, muffling her footsteps. She knocked twice then leaned back, notebook ready for mental observations.

The door opened a crack. You peeked out, barefoot, drowning in an oversized navy sweater that clearly belonged to someone built like a fridge. Your hair was a post-shower tangle; steam curled past your shoulder.

“Uh… can I help you?” you asked.

Yelena’s assessment gears spun. Not a neighbor—tone was too guarded. Not a delivery driver—no handheld scanner. Definitely not a random roommate given the Rolex peeking from your sleeve, likely a gift. She smiled, just a shade predatory. “Package for Sergeant Barnes. He in?”

“He’s resting.” You tightened your grip on the door edge to stop it drifting wider. “What kind of package?”

“Classified intel.” Yelena held up the drive. “Signature required. I can come in, or you can sign for him.”

You hesitated. From the living room Bucky’s voice drifted—rough with sleep. “Everything okay, doll?”

Yelena’s eyebrows nearly left her forehead. Doll? Her grin widened. “Sounds like he’s alive.”

You cleared your throat. “James, it’s just a delivery.”

Thudding footsteps, then Bucky appeared behind you wearing gray sweats and a sling. His hair stuck up on one side. A flush climbed his neck the instant he saw Yelena. “Belova. What are you doing here?”

“Bringing homework, obviously.” She dangled the drive. “Val says you forgot to download.”

He shot a look at the sling, then at you, silently apologizing for the ambush. You squeezed his good hand in reassurance—tiny gesture, not tiny at all to Yelena’s sharp eyes. “I’ll sign,” he said curtly.

“Actually,” Yelena drawled, “protocol says the courier gets visual confirmation of the recipient’s workspace. Prevents data mishandling.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched. “Since when do you follow protocol?”

“Since this morning.” She swept past before he could object, gaze flicking over the apartment: jazz vinyl spinning, soup bowls drying on the rack, and an ice pack abandoned on the couch. She whistled. “Cozy.”

You shut the door, hugging the sweater tighter. Yelena offered the tablet for Bucky’s signature. As he signed it, she pivoted to you. “I’m Yelena. Teammate. And you must be…?”

“Y/N,” you supplied, calm but firm. “James’s partner.”

Bucky’s ears went pink. Yelena’s grin reached Cheshire levels. “Pleasure. Always nice to finally meet the classified files Val forgot to mention.” Mission satisfied, she backed toward the door. “I’ll tell the others you’re alive, Barnes. Expect… questions.”

“Tell them nothing,” he warned.

“Of course,” she teased, slipping into the hall. “My lips are sealed—mostly.”

Door closed, Bucky exhaled like he’d run ten blocks. You tapped his chest. “That went well.”

He groaned. “They’re never letting me live this down.”

You rose on your tiptoes, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Guess you’ll need extra grounding tonight.”

His hand tightened over yours. “Not letting go, doll.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

---

Ava clicked through drone footage on the holo-wall while Bob built a domino maze on the coffee table. Alexei bench-pressed the couch again—because apparently it counted as “functional training.” And John stood at the espresso machine, timing a perfect shot.

The elevator pinged. Yelena strode out, swinging her leather jacket like a trophy.

“Mission accomplished,” she announced, dangling her empty courier bag. “Also—news flash. Bucky Barnes is not single.”

The room froze.

Alexei dropped the couch mid-rep. It thudded. “Impossible. He is brooding, therefore single.”

Bob’s eyes widened and a domino toppled. “Is she a double agent? Maybe he’s undercover dating.”

Ava leaned one shoulder against the whiteboard, marker poised. “Name.”

“Y/N,” Yelena said, savoring each syllable. “Lives with him. Wears his sweater. Very pretty. Nice toenail polish.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Hold up—Y/N? As in Y/N L/N? That name rings a bell.”

Ava uncapped the marker. “Spell it.”

John set his espresso down. “I met someone with that exact name during the Flag-Smashers operation. Helped Sam and Bucky chase Karli. Intel liaison—sharp as hell. But there’s no way it’s the same person. Barnes was hitting on her the whole time, she rolled her eyes like he was a mosquito.”

Yelena smirked. “She is now a mosquito whisperer, apparently.”

Bob tilted his head. “Maybe rolling eyes was spy code for ‘call me later.’”

Alexei pointed at Yelena. “Describe her.”

“Wet hair, smelled like shampoo, zero visible weapons. But the way she sized me up? Definitely trained.” Yelena tugged a sticky note off the conspiracy board and slapped it dead-center. “New subject: Mrs. Mystery Barnes.”

Ava scrawled Y/N? in bold letters. Underneath she drew two columns—Civilian? and Spy?—adding tally marks beneath each as Bob rattled off theories.

John folded his arms. “Look, even if it is her, there’s no guarantee they’re dating. Maybe she’s the roommate.”

“Wearing his sweater,” Yelena reminded.

“Laundry day,” John tried.

“Called him James,” she added.

Alexei let out a low whistle. “That is intimacy level eight.”

Bob flicked another domino. “So… not a spy?”

Ava tapped the marker against her chin. “Could be deep cover. We need data. John, pull the State Department file on Y/N L/N.”

John’s expression tightened. “If she is who I think, that file is classified past my clearance.”

“Then we hack it,” Yelena said, already flipping open her tablet.

“No,” John shot back. “We respect privacy until Barnes tells us otherwise.”

Yelena’s eyes glinted. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Where’s the trust?” John countered.

Bob cleared his throat. “Could bake them welcome muffins.”

Alexei perked. “Muffins and interrogation—classic Soviet hospitality.”

Ava started a flow chart branching from your name: Possible Covers: Analyst / Assassin / Accountant. She glanced at John. “Come on, Walker. You’ve got at least level four clearance.”

John sighed, rubbing his temples. “Fine. I’ll request a redacted summary. But if Val finds out—”

Yelena snapped her fingers. “She won’t. Because we are stealthy.” She pointed at Ava. “Build the suspect board. Bob, muffins. Alexei, locate champagne. We’ll need it when Barnes admits defeat.”

John grabbed his espresso. “I’m telling you, he flirted with her and got nowhere. It cannot be the same woman.”

Yelena grinned, unsettlingly pleased. “Yet it is. And our Winter Soldier is currently cuddled on a couch with her somewhere in Brooklyn.”

Bob clapped, sending dominoes scattering. “Love mission!”

Alexei cracked his knuckles. “We assemble care package. Thunderbolts style.”

Ava scribbled a final line: Objective: Confirm Relationship Status. She capped the marker with a snap. “Operation Bergamot is a go.”

John pinched the bridge of his nose. “We need a better codename.”

“Fine,” Yelena said, eyes sparkling. “Operation Golden Retriever.”

Ava laughed, Bob cheered, and Alexei bellowed approval. John just prayed Bucky’s shoulder healed fast—he was going to need both arms to fend off this circus.

---

The jazz record had looped for the third time when the intercom buzzed. Bucky groaned, tightening his arm around your waist. “Ignore it.”

You shifted under the blanket. “Could be takeout.”

“Didn’t order any.”

Buzz. Buzz.

Bucky sighed, pushed to his feet—still slinged. He tapped the screen. “Yeah?”

Bob’s cheerful face filled the tiny monitor. “Delivery for Sergeant Barnes!”

Behind him, Yelena waved a bakery box. Alexei squeezed in, holding champagne like a trophy. Ava lurked at the edge, phone out. John stood dead-center, arms crossed, glaring at the camera as if to apologize in advance.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course.”

You bit a smile. “Invite them up. Better than them camping in the hall.”

“If they scare the neighbors, it’s on them.” He buzzed the door, then turned, shoulders tense.

“Relax.” You straightened his sweater collar. “We knew this was coming.”

“Didn’t think it’d be today.” He grabbed your hand, lacing fingers. “Ground me.”

“Always.”

A rapid knock. He opened the door and five Thunderbolts piled in like an ill-timed clown car. Bob thrust the muffin box forward. “Carrot walnut, low sugar!”

Alexei brandished champagne. “For pain management!”

Yelena beamed. “Recon mission complete. Hi again, Y/N.”

John blinked twice, disbelief morphing into exasperation. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

You lifted a hand in greeting. “Hi, Walker. Shoulder doing better?”

He ignored the question, pointing at you like a prosecution exhibit. “She shot me, you know.”

Bucky didn’t let go of your hand. “You deserved it.”

John scoffed. “It was a bean-bag round—point-blank—right after I wrestled a Flag-Smasher off a truck.”

You tilted your head. “You were about to tase Sam.”

“Semantics,” John muttered, then jabbed a thumb at his ribs. “She also stabbed me in Riga. Still got the scar.”

Bucky’s smile was unapologetic. “She was being generous. Could’ve been a kidney.”

Yelena clapped like it was a reality-show twist. “So the tough UN liaison and the grouchy supersoldier are a thing. Adorable.”

Ava rolled her eyes, snagging a muffin. “I give it three days before Val adds this to our security clearance forms.”

Bob balanced a tray of paper cups. “Cranberry kombucha for everyone. Celebratory probiotics.”

Alexei tried to pop the champagne with his hands but you plucked it away. “Cork, first. Sofa, second. No glass shards.” He pouted but relented.

John shook his head. “Two years and no one noticed?”

“Three in November,” Bucky corrected, thumb stroking your knuckles.

Yelena whistled. “Barnes keeping secrets—what else is new?”

You squeezed his hand. “We kept it quiet for work reasons. Global politics, covert ops, the usual.”

Ava leaned against the fridge. “So how clingy is he, exactly?”

Bucky answered by sliding his arm around your waist, tugging you closer until your back met his chest. “Define ‘clingy.’”

Alexei laughed. “You look like octopus. Very muscled octopus.”

Bob offered a muffin. Bucky grasped it—still one-handed—then fed you the first bite while holding eye contact with the team like a dare. Crumbs dusted your lip; he wiped them with his thumb, and kissed the same spot before stepping back half an inch—no farther.

John exhaled. “Unbelievable.”

You smiled at him. “Want coffee?”

He opened his mouth, thought better, then nodded. “Please. And maybe an explanation for the knife thing.”

“Later.” Bucky guided you toward the kitchen, fingers still locked with yours. Over his shoulder he tossed, “no interrogations until I’m off medical.”

Yelena lifted her phone. “We’ll settle for pictures.”

He shot her a look that promised retaliation. She grinned wider.

In the small kitchen you filled mugs, Bucky hovering so close his sling brushed your side. Under the counter’s edge, his vibranium fingers traced calming circles on your palm—tiny grounding sparks only you could feel.

“Doing okay?” you murmured.

“Now that you’re here,” he answered, eyes soft. Then louder, to the team: “Nobody break anything. Deposit shoes by the door. Alexei, that includes boots.”

Alexei sighed but complied, unlacing loudly.

Ava sniffed the air. “Anyone else smell bergamot and smoke?”

Yelena grinned. “The scent of romance—and burnt skillet.”

John raised his mug in mock salute. “To the happy couple.”

Bucky squeezed your hand once more, holding on like the room, the day, and the world could spin as it pleased—as long as this point of contact stayed fixed.

[crossfandomslut]

No notes. Chef's kiss 💋

tell me what happened?

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

warnings: brief wound description, first aid, tiny angst (could not be smaller), canon typical pain/gore

summary: you think you can hide a stab wound from your husband? yeah, okay, good luck with that

author notes: cheeky little short thing hahah I wrote this out of nowhere pls enjoy its very fluffy, very sweet, bucky is very soft here lowkey kinda ooc but I feel like if he was healed completely this could be accurate anyways do enjoy

word count: 1.8K

The door inched closed with a tentative click as the lock turned, your hand falling from the gold doorhandle. Safety. You were home, that was the important thing. Not the searing pain in your head and abdomen, part of your sleeve pressing against the wound. Fucking idiot had a knife. You didn't expect him to have a knife. It wasn't deep. Probably. Okay, it could have been way worse. You weren't going to bleed out and that was good enough for you. Whether it was enough for him was another question, but he would be asleep. You'd be able to sneak into the bathroom and patch yourself up before he ever knew you were even stabbed.

You had to pass the bedroom to make it to the bathroom. It was typical of Bucky when you went on missions like this to keep the bedroom door swung wide open for when you got back. He'd done that tonight, the darkness spilling into the corridor of your home.

Slipping past the door, you thought you had made it. Listen, you were trained spy. You could get past any situation, you could step as quietly as a mouse. You could steal things from people so that they forgot they had the item in the first place. And yet, you weren't able to make it past your own bedroom door without catching your foot on an uneven floorboard and hiss at the pain of a wrong move against your wound. You knew you were done for when the bedsheets shuffled and the 6-foot-something man sat up, eyes heavy with sleep and donning fresh bed-head.

If you hadn't just been caught, you would have smiled at how purely adorable he looked.

Because he wasn't the Winter Solider in these moments. He wasn't a spy or a super solider, or any form of weapon. He was your James. With a boyish grin and a need to have his arms around you at all times, whether you liked it or not. Though, you always did like it.

He grunted, breathing air through his nose and attempting to adjust to the light shining in from the corridor. "Doll?"

"Hi, honey." You smiled towards him, leaning against the doorframe as a way to shield and distract him from the way you were holding your side. He grinned at you when he fully came around. "I'm just gonna go wash up, then I'll come to bed."

Bucky nodded sleepily. "M'kay, sweetheart. See you inabit."

When he trailed off and dropped back against his pillow, you let out a silent sigh of relief and continued your movement in the direction of the bathroom. Light switch on, you dragged the aid kit from the cabinet below the sink and works on patching it up. Luckily the bleeding had ceased and the cut wasn't deep enough to need stitches. Antiseptic to clean the wound came first, teeth gritted together in a hiss that echoed against the white tile as the alcohol cleaned but pained you simultaneously. Then just a simple patch placed over the wound, which now looked a lot less intimidating now that it was clean and wasn't seeping blood seemingly endlessly.

While it would sting if you moved it in the wrong way, it was covered and in a much better condition to heal, so you were happy. With the light switching off, you followed your own path back towards the bedroom, entering this time and silently moving over to the dresser, pulling out one of Bucky's old t shirts that smelt like him and dragging it over your head.

The bed was warm as you slipped into it, the ends of your fingers still freezing from the November cold and shivering as you drew the covers over your body. More warmth came over you as your beloved turned in his sleepy state and pulled you towards him, flesh arm wrapping around your waist and pressing your back flush against his chest. His metal arm moved to under his pillow, leaning his head forward to press against the back of your neck and breathe in your scent. A sense of comfort, a reminder of home, because you were his home and he loved you so much.

As your eyes fluttered shut, he mumbled. "Mission go well?"

It was just his usual check in, same as always. You always told him the truth, no matter what had happened, because he deserved to know, and you knew he would react in the exact way you needed him to in that moment. "Yeah." You murmur back, nodding softly, even thought you knew his eyes were closed. "Got all the intel with no casualties."

"That's m'girl." A flush crept up onto your cheeks.

Sighing into the skin at the back of your neck, his hand wandered, needing to feel you around him, safe, home, his. From the dip of your waist, to the curve of your hip and tucking under your his shirt. He knew you would be cold, without you having to even shiver. On any other day you would welcome the warmth of his flesh hand against your bare skin, the comfort and clarity warming you up. But the further upwards his hand moved, the closer he was getting to the gauze patch just above your hip bone. He hadn't been able to feel it through the thick fabric of his shirt — there was no avoiding it this time.

Then, just as you were about to shuffle tiredly he reached it, flesh brushing over the rough fabric. His fingers paused, just hovering slightly above the wound now. To you, it hadn't been a very large patch because the wound hadn't been that big, but to him, the love of his life had gauze stretching across her abdomen — it didn't matter how big the wound was. You had frozen, eyes squeezed shut, pushing it down and praying he would ignore it. Of course, he wouldn't.

His lips parted — he pulled his metal arm from under his pillow and propped himself up on it, able to look down at you, eyes now open and furrowed at you. "Sweets?"

"Mhm?"

"Can I ask why you've got a gauze patch on your hip?" He was calm with it, being forced to be so due to the sheer tiredness painted on his face, the urge to fall asleep almost taking him over. But no, your safety was more important to him.

You turned, taking the path of acting like there was nothing wrong. Gaslighting? You suppose. "There's not a gauze patch on my hip, Buck." He raised a sassy eyebrow at you, hand dipping to the hem of his shirt and pulling it over the curve of your hip. He didn't need to say anything else for you to realise there was no getting out of this now. You hummed, grazing your finger over the wounded area. "Yeah. That's not my hips, baby, that's above my hips."

"Must think you're so funny." He mumbles, taking your hand and entwining his fingers with yours. "You're hurt, probably in a lot of pain and you're just joking around like that. Hurts me, doll."

Snorting, it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. "Don't act like you don't do the same."

He stayed silent at that. Got'em. Your smug thoughts were silence as Bucky moves down your body, removing your hand from the patch and instead replacing it with his lips, softly pressing against the fabric, warming the area. Slowly, he wandered your body, lips following every movement, pressing against every possible patch of skin, murmuring sweet nothings underneath each breath as he did so, warming your body and your heart. Once he reached your shoulder, he mumbled against the skin. "Tell me what happened?"

"It was just some guy, Buck." You murmured, turning to fully face him and reaching your hand up to press against his cheek and letting your thumb rub against the stubble there. "With a knife, didn't see him coming, he managed to get through my defences and lightly stabbed m—"

"Stabbed? You were stabbed!" The words had his voiced raised, eyebrows rising just as much as you realised that the man was now, wide awake.

"Lightly." You tried to croon, comfort, maybe settle some of the anger he was feeling.

But Bucky was having none of it. "Baby, no." He spoke, his voice as soft as ever, externally showing his care and worry for you over the internal battle inside his brain telling him to go and find whoever did this to you and make their life a living hell. Then again, he knew you, he trusted you and with your skill, you had probably already killed him even after being stabbed in the abdomen.

Leaning upwards just a little, so as not to strain yourself, you pressed your lips against his cheek. "I'm okay, I swear. I'll heal, I always do."

"Someone still hurt you though."

"And he's got what's coming for him." You shrugged, clearly not as put off by this whole situation as much as Bucky was. You were strong — he knew that more than anybody. That doesn't mean it didn't pain him to see the gauze patch against your skin. Skin, of which, he had an unbreakable habit of kissing at any and every possible moment. "But I'm alive and I'm not going anywhere."

Bucky grumbled, hand at your hip, thumbing over the tender skin next to the wound. He wasn't happy with just leaving it be, but the two of you needed sleep, you needed to heal and he needed to just… hold you for a bit. In his arms, under the warmth, a reminder that you were strong, and safe, and his. "M'kay, I'll drop it. On one condition."

"Go on, honey."

"Promise me you tell me next time you come home hurt?" The words crushed you just a little. You should have told him, but he'd been so tired recently, and you didn't want to bother him. He continued. "I'm your husband, doll, I'm here to protect you and help you. I can't do that if you don't tell me."

Knowing he was right, you nodded. "I promise, Bucky, I will."

He smiled, leaning down a leaving a kiss in your hairline. "Thank you. All I ever want is to know you're safe and alive. Now come on, sleep will help you heal and you're almost definitely tired from the blood loss."

You hummed, turning over and letting him press his chest against your back, curling slightly to fit better against him. With a warmth settled in your heart and the feel of his warm fingers splayed across your stomach, making sure you weren't going anywhere, the two of you drifted off together into the best sleep you'd had in a while. You knew you were safe with him, and he knew that you were warm and alive, shielded by him even in the throes of an unconscious sleep.

a/n: hope you enjoyed <3

[crossfandomslut]

AHHHH the babies are back and they made up and omg the perfect amount of angst and tension I'm obsessed

lessons in lovemaking [part five]

marvel au bucky x blackwidow!reader

You and Bucky Barnes go undercover as a married couple, but when a fake kiss gets too real, he unexpectedly finishes in his pants—leaving you both stunned.

Tags: 18+ content minors dni, smut, fingering, kissing, making out, kitchen sex/foreplay???, reader guiding bucky, praise, fem reader, panic attacks, bucky is touch starved, mentions of previous sa, stake-out mission, wow! they're actually doing their jobs this chapter!!, ex black widow reader, very consensual, safe words, bucky barnes needs a hug, angst, bickering, reader is lowkey not doing good, trauma, mentions of past violence and death, no use of y/n, gif does not represent reader's appearance, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 13.9k

A/N: it's finally here! this was... a fucking beast to write. only took a month of agony. this got so, so long, i ended up cutting an entire scene near the start so hopefully it doesn't jump around too much. let me know if you enjoy! on a more personal note, just wanted to give you all an update. i had put a few posts mentioning how i've been very unwell mentally and physically. it's made it really hard for me to write while also studying full time. but um yeah basically i was diagnosed with a?? kinda scary?? chronic disease lol?? which explains why i've spent the last 6 years of my life exhausted and feeling awful, and turns out my depression/anxiety is likely a result of this. but yeah, after all these years of dismissal and misdiagnosis, i know what's wrong so i'm getting medicated for it. i'm hoping it gives me a big energy boost to juggle uni and my hobbies (like writing) more efficiently. anyway, this authors note is so long, if you have any questions or thoughts on this chapter, reblog or send me an ask! thank you all so much. as always, sorry for any typos!

main masterlist | series masterlist

Bucky didn’t respond at first.

His jaw ticked, throat bobbing as he swallowed hard. From the way he shifted, feet planting wider, shoulders drawing back just enough that you almost suspected he was bracing. Not for a conversation, but for a hit. As if he expected you to launch across the balcony, heels and all, and pummel your fist directly into his face. 

As absurd as it was, it almost didn’t surprise you. You’d become strangely used to his defensive reactions, the expectation of raised voices and violence, the way he always prepared his body for pain, like he expected even you to punish him.

And maybe the worst part was that deep down, he thought he deserved it.

Maybe you could’ve hit him. Pounded against his chest or disarmed him with words, if nothing else. You could’ve demanded, snarled questions as to why you were some secret mistake he didn’t dare let anyone see. Why are you ashamed to be around me? Why are you embarrassed?

Do you even care about me?

Do you care about me in the same way I care about you?

The ache in your chest flared thinking about it. Deep down, you knew the answer. 

So, you held yourself back. Quiet, still, observing. Not because you weren’t angry, not because you weren’t hurting, but because you had become disturbingly good at packing that raw pain into tidy boxes and sealing them away. 

Bucky adjusted the wrist of his leather glove, tugging it tight like it gave his hands something to do other than shake. You lifted your chin.

“Alright.” He spoke finally, voice a little hoarse, and for a split second, you wondered if he had been crying. “Talking… that’s usually where the trouble starts, isn’t it?”

His attempt to be light-hearted, to gauge your reaction, was short-lived. You met him with silence, exhaling slowly from your nose as you looked him up and down. He immediately folded, metaphorical throat bared as he met your gaze with his signature puppy-dog eyes.

For all your guilt, for the sadness and longing you had felt these past weeks, you still had enough self-respect to keep it together. You’d spent too many years of your life making excuses, compromises for those around you. For once, you would stick up for yourself, for once, you’d let someone other than yourself know you were hurting. You weren’t sure if that was a strength or a weakness. You were sick of being the one who met insults with sarcasm, tired of being the one who shouldered every blow and sting for the sake of others' comfort.

For once in your life, you would take the teeth you were born with and learn how to bite.

“You hurt me.” 

Bucky’s fidgeting stilled instantly, face taut, his eyes searching yours already wide with creeping dread. “I—”

“Let me finish.” You cut over him, and his mouth clamped shut.

“I know this…whatever it is between us is complicated. There isn’t exactly a rulebook for this stuff. I know it’s messy, I know we never defined anything, and maybe we should’ve talked more…” Your body shuddered as you sighed, hesitant as you decided on your slow wording. “But what I understood, what I thought we both understood, was that there was trust. If there wasn’t anything, there was always trust… and what you said, that broke it.”

You paused, trying to steady your voice. Bucky had gone deathly still across from you. You watched his expression crumble. Guilt bled into every crease on his face, each of your words weighing down on him.

“I know that I lied to you about Nat, and I’m sorry. I know I should’ve said something, but I was scared that you’d react badly. That you’d react in the way that you did. I’ve never pretended to be easy to be close with. I know that I can be guarded, cold, or distant but…” You hesitated, sucking in a sharp breath. 

The words burned behind your teeth.

“I always cared. I do care.” Your voice softened momentarily, despite the bile rising in your throat. “I gave you my time, my trust, I took you seriously, Bucky, I told you things I haven’t even really told anyone, not even myself, I—”

You crossed your arms over your chest, fingers digging into your sides. You could feel that stone in your gut, tears pressing just behind your eyes. You wouldn’t cry, not here, not now. You’d say your peace, lay it all out before him and see what he did with it.

“I get that you’re scared. I get that you feel shame, shame that you don’t quite understand. I understand that you have an instinct to protect yourself, to control how others see you because you’re afraid to push it too far, afraid to upset anyone…” The words tasted bitter, but they kept coming like a flood, hot and vile even as Bucky looked across at you like he was seconds away from crumpling to the floor. “But what you said was cruel. It hurt me. I just need you to understand that. I need you to understand that whatever it is we’ve been doing, friendship, lessons, whatever… It was never a joke to me.”

As you met his gaze directly, he flinched, jaw clenching so tightly that a muscle in his cheek twitched.

“You acted like I was beneath you, like you needed to downplay all that has happened for the sake of saving face. I understand you want to keep things private, I respect that, but a desire for privacy is very different to belittling me in front of Steve.”

Bucky’s shoulders slouched, his entire body shrinking in on itself. You half expected him to drop to his knees then and there from the way his eyes locked onto the balcony, too ashamed to meet your eye.

“I can be your secret, I can help you, but we are equals,” you muttered, quieter now. “I won’t chase after you, begging for scraps of decency. I’m not going to accept you pretending I’m invisible, that you’re disgusted by me the second someone important walks in the room.”

You looked away, breathing deeply through your nose as you willed the weight pressing on your chest to leave. “I’m not asking you to be perfect, god knows I am anything but that. I just need you to understand that I’m… I’m sick of making myself smaller just so other people can feel comfortable. I’m sick of the constant judgment, the way people don’t think I realise. I’m sick of all of it.”

When you finally looked up again, he looked like he had been punched in the gut. Not physically, but in that hollow, breathless way that left someone stunned and struggling to stand upright. Like every word you’d laid out between the two of you had knocked the air clean out of him.

His mouth parted, but no sound came. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, staring past you without actually seeing. You could see it written across his face, the guilt, the lingering panic, the way his whole body trembled. It was the slight hitch with each inhale, the way his shoulders rolled tight beneath the strain of his suit jacket like he wanted to crawl out of it, crawl out of his own skin.

He was close. Too close, seconds away from spiralling into the kind of anxiety that devoured everything in its path.

So, you gave him space. Silent and steady, let him work his own way through it. 

The breeze stirred around you, catching a few strands of loose hair. They tickled against the nape of your neck. Below you could hear the hustle and bustle of the city nightlife, the chatter, the cars. The muffled sound of the party music just beyond the glass windows separating the balcony from the rest of the tower. 

Bucky’s chest rose, then held, then he released it slowly. You watched him, silent, as his eyes flicked around. One smell, two things he could feel, three things in his line of sight. Good. He was grounding himself.

You watched without interfering, letting him work and find his own rhythm. You could practically read his mind now, how the cogs turned, each minuscule mannerism telling you which step he was at. You’d coaxed him through enough of these moments to know the signs. And maybe there was something bittersweet about it, the fact that he was steady enough to guide himself, no longer dependent on the comfort of your voice to guide him through.

“You’re right,” Bucky said at last, the words rasping out like they had been lodged in his throat for hours. “You’re right, I hurt you. And I hate myself for it.”

His hands flexed at his sides, fists curling and releasing as if unsure of what to do with them. A flicker of movement crossed his face, a wince, maybe, and then he lifted his eyes.

“I was a coward.” He continued, voice hoarse. “I’ve been replaying it in my head every day since. Over and over and… thinking about you. About how I made you feel.”

He took a half-step forward, caught in the pull of wanting to close the gap. His foot faltered mid-air, stopping him. He planted it back on the ground, shoulders locked, as if he was worried you’d dash if he closed the distance between you.

“I should’ve apologised that day, the second it left my mouth,” he muttered, words almost lost to the breeze. “I should’ve followed you instead of hiding and hoping it would fix itself.”

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “And I know it’s not an excuse… I was just so afraid.. Afraid that I had fucked up so badly that I would lose you. Guess it didn’t matter in the end because I lost you anyway—”

“You didn’t lose me,” you cut in, firm but soft. “I’m right here.”

He blinked hard at that, as if he couldn’t believe what you were saying. His chest trembled as he dragged in a sharp inhale.

“I’m sorry.”

There. That was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, the thing you’d needed from the very beginning. Not grovelling, not guilt, not the sight of him unravelling, just understanding. You hadn’t wanted to watch him spiral or flinch beneath the weight of his own remorse. That was never the point. You only wanted to be seen. For him to see you, the ache you’d swallowed, the silence you’d worn like armour.

You weren’t the kind of person who held pain like a weapon, who dangled forgiveness just out of reach. But you were tired, bone-deep tired, of being stepped over, of shrinking yourself to keep the peace. Tired of wearing humour like a mask, sharp and dry, to cover the bruises he couldn’t see. All you’d wanted was for him to get it. And now… now he did.

All you ever wanted was for someone to listen to you. Truly listen. 

“Yeah?” Your voice cracked slightly despite yourself. 

“Fuck,” he breathed. “I’m so sorry. I’m not embarrassed by you, if anything, I’m embarrassed about how I acted—”

“Bucky…”

“And don’t you dare say it’s okay,” he interrupted quickly, almost desperate. “Because it isn’t. I should never have said that, never have even thought that. After all you’ve done, after all the kindness and patience you’ve shown me, and I repay you by shaming you—”

“Repayment…” You cut over him, rolling the word slowly over your tongue, head shaking. “You don’t owe me anything, remember? That’s how it works with us, yeah?”

He exhaled hard. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Handle all this so gracefully…Have such a pure heart despite everything.”

“If I were to describe my heart,” you said with a dry little huff, “it would not be pure—”

“You’re killin’ me here—” Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face in exasperation, and for the first time in days, the edge of your mouth twitched into a smile. Sly, wicked, and entirely involuntary.

His gaze caught it instantly, and his breath stilled.

You took the initiative, closing the distance between you in a handful of steps, until his breath hitched slightly, his eyes locking onto your face.

“I am sorry.” He murmured, voice less desperate now. “Seriously. I don’t expect forgiveness, hell, I don’t want forgiveness unless you really mean it, and you’re not just saying it to spare my feelings—”

“Bucky—”

“No, don’t say it—!”

“Bucky.” You breathed his name. Your hands found the front of his tie, fingers curling around the black silk. You wondered if it was the same tie you had blindfolded him with, if he had subconsciously chosen it to feel closer to you. You nearly smirked at the thought, a warmth in your belly despite the surprised expression flooding his features. You tugged gently, and he didn’t resist. He leaned into the pull, breath catching again as you drew him in close, close enough for your foreheads to nearly touch, for your breath to ghost across his lips. “I forgive you.”

His eyes fluttered shut, like the words had struck him physically. “I don’t know if I deserve you—”

“Bucky.” You hummed, almost scolding. “If I’m honest, I forgave you weeks ago.”

His eyes opened, a spark of confusion flickering.

“I was just… sabotaging myself,” you admitted, voice quieter now. “Because that’s what I do when things get complicated. I cut people off, I burn bridges, I destroy my own life. I convinced myself that you hated me, because I lied to you about Nat.”

He quickly shook his head. “I could never hate you.”

And there it was.

You exhaled, something soft breaking inside you, not the kind that shattered and left shards punctured into your heart and lungs, but the type of crack that let the light in. Your hand slid from his tie to his chest, resting lightly over his heart. Beneath your palm, it thudded unevenly and wildly. 

“Stop looking at me like I’m not real,” you muttered.

“I’m not—”

You shook your head with a snicker, fingers tracing across his shirt to the lapels of his suit jacket. You tugged at it, and he stiffened in surprise, but didn’t stop you as you twisted around him, easing the jacket from his shoulders. He shrugged it off wordlessly, leaning into your guidance, and you knew he was secretly relieved to be rid of the thing. 

“I know you hate these things,” you murmured, voice teasing. “Can’t move properly, too tight around your shoulder ‘cause Tony never gets them tailored right.”

Bucky blinked at you, lips parting slightly, some of the tension still lingering in his brows.

“You remembered that?”

“Of course,” you smiled faintly, smoothing the sleeve as you folded it over your arm. “You know, at this point I think I remember more about you than I do about myself.”

His lips curved at that. “Tell me something then?”

“Like what?”

“Something I don’t know about you. Something you’ve never told anyone.”

You blinked, caught off guard. For a long moment, you just stared at him, stunned into stillness. No one had ever asked you that before. Not really. Not with that quiet, open curiosity. Not like they actually wanted to hear the answer. People were always eager to talk, to fill the silence with their own stories and needs. But here he was, waiting, willing to listen.

It left you a little breathless.

There were still entire corners of your life shrouded in fog, moments you hadn’t unpacked, parts of yourself you hadn’t dared to explore. You’d spent so long watching others, peeling back their layers, learning what made them tick. It was instinctual how you kept yourself safe. Quietly observant, always listening, always careful. You didn’t mean to be secretive. It wasn’t some deliberate act of mystery. It just… never came up. No one had ever made space for you like that. No one had ever lingered long enough to want something beyond the surface.

Until now.

“I don’t know.” You mumbled, gaze dropping. “I guess… I guess pick at my nails when I’m nervous?”

He let out a soft, almost fond huff of laughter. “Yeah, I picked up on that one months ago.”

“Shit. That obvious?” You glanced down at your hand, suddenly extra aware of the damage. The nailbeds were raw and uneven, the skin around them puffy and inflamed from restless fussing.

Then Bucky did something unexpected. He reached out, slow and careful, the soft creak of his leather gloves barely audible. His gloved fingers brushed against yours first, the cool and smooth material almost foreign in feeling. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he gently threaded his fingers between yours.

“Maybe a little,” he murmured with a quiet snort, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

Without a word, he began to tug a glove off, leather resisting slightly before giving way. You swallowed and helped him, pinching the fingers and easing them free, and then repeated with the other side. 

His bare fingers closed gently around yours again, his palm warm and calloused. Your jaw snapped shut as he traced his thumb over the jagged cuticles in a comforting, rhythmic motion.

You didn’t pull away. Instead, you breathed in, sharp and shallow, and shrugged in a small, embarrassed motion. “Well… I don’t know, then, I’m probably an insomniac who relies too heavily on coffee to get by.”

That earned a proper laugh from him, and warmth pooled in your belly like sunlight breaking through the clouds.

“You and me both,” he said, eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You hesitated then, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek as your faint smile faltered. Your mind turned inward, digging past the surface, searching through the fog for something true, something buried a little deeper. Your brow furrowed as your gaze dropped again, fingers twitching faintly in Bucky’s grasp like they wanted to pull away but didn’t quite make it.

“I’m claustrophobic,” you admitted at last, so quietly you didn’t think he had heard you.

His laughter cut off mid-breath, a soft sound dying on his tongue. The stillness that followed was immediate. His hand stopped mid-motion, thumb frozen against your knuckles

You forced yourself to keep going. “I don’t like small spaces. Feeling… trapped. It’s why I never take the elevator. It’s why I… freaked out on you at training the other week.”

“I’m sorry—” he began, voice already thick with regret.

“It’s okay.” You shook your head quickly, eyes flicking away. “You didn’t know. It just… it just reminds me… reminds me of things I’ve tried to bury.”

His free hand rose then. You didn’t flinch as his fingers brushed your chin, tilting it upward with such deliberate tenderness that it made your breath catch. His touch was featherlight, and when your eyes met his, the air sucked out of your lungs.

“I understand.”

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “I’m sorry that I freaked out on you. I should’ve—”

“No.” His tone deepened, firm but gentle. “It’s okay. You don’t apologise to me for that. Ever.”

His voice was low now, so low it vibrated in his chest, a soft rumble that thrummed through the narrow space between your bodies. “You never have to apologise for setting boundaries.”

The words hit you square in the chest, like the impact of something you didn’t see coming. Your knees weakened, just slightly, and you gripped his wrist to steady yourself, though whether it was to anchor you or to keep from moving closer, you weren’t sure.

For a moment, everything else faded, the hum of the distant city life, the soft swish of the breeze, even the bass from the party. All that remained was him, warm, close and achingly sincere.

A part of you wanted to kiss him. Badly. The urge bloomed like heat in your chest, climbed up your throat, burned behind your lips. But then your gaze flicked, just briefly, to the giant pane of glass windows behind him, floor to ceiling, offering a clear view into the party beyond. You were almost certain Steve and Nat were watching from somewhere, probably with popcorn.

So instead, you smiled, small and almost rueful, and didn’t move. Didn’t lean in.

But he did.

His hand, still cupping your chin, shifted just slightly, tilting your face upward with a touch so gentle it barely registered as pressure at all. His eyes searched yours for a heartbeat longer, as though committing you to memory, as though asking are you sure? without even speaking a word.

And then his lips met yours.

Every nerve in your body buzzed, and his lips were warm and plush against yours. You could feel the way he held himself back, like he was afraid of falling too deep into hunger. 

His hand hovered at your waist, fingers brushing your side, hesitant to pull you closer unless you gave him a sign. The other remained at your jaw, thumb stroking the hinge of it in a gentle rhythm, anchoring you. His breath mingled with yours, sweet with the faintest trace of spearmint, his chest rising and falling unevenly against the few inches that still lingered between you.

When you finally pulled back, your eyes blinked open as though waking from something half-dreamed. A breath of laughter broke from your lips, soft and stunned, and you shook your head slightly. Still, you didn’t move far, fingers tangled loosely in his tie. “People could be watching, you know—”

You were beginning to think that none of it mattered anyway, not when he looked at you like that.

“Let them.”

You didn’t even flinch as he pressed in again, slow and exploratory, the faintest drag of his lower lip over yours, testing the shape of your mouth with a tenderness that sent a ripple down your spine.

But something in him had shifted, restraint thinned, weeks of built-up tension bleeding into a desperate need. 

His mouth moved with more certainty, lips parting yours just slightly, enough to deepen the kiss without taking too much. He coaxed rather than claimed, a subtle tilt of his head aligning you closer, a soft press of his tongue just barely tasting the seam of your mouth. 

Your fingers curled tighter back into the front of his tie, tugging him closer as that familiar rush of heat flooded your chest and belly. You responded, parting for him, letting him in, and the reward was a low, pleased hum from deep in his throat, vibrating through his chest and into yours.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and dazed, the slick warmth of his mouth lingering, his gaze was heavy-lidded, pupils dark, lips parted just slightly. A faint smear of your lipstick sat crookedly above his upper lip—evidence, as obvious as a lovebite

You blinked at him, lightheaded, dizzy in the best way, like the floor had dropped out from under you and all that held you upright was him. And then, to your own surprise, you giggled. Actually giggled, breathy and unguarded, a sound you hadn't heard from yourself in far too long.

“They’re going to be insufferable now, you know that?” you said, grinning against the glow that refused to leave your cheeks.

He tilted his head, lips quirking. “Who?”

You gave him a pointed look. “Steve and Nat.”

“Because their little scheme worked?” He snorted. “Shit, you’re probably right.”

“I’m already bracing myself,” you muttered, mock-exasperated. “Nat gets this tone in her voice when she’s feeling particularly smug. It’s the worst, she doesn’t even try to hide it. Drives me crazy, I swear—”

“Sam knows too,” Bucky said, a little too casually, but his voice dipped just enough to betray him, quiet like he almost hoped you wouldn’t catch it.

Your smile faltered. “Oh?”

He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking briefly away. “Yeah… after the little, uh… slip-up in training, he knows everything now.”

“Everything?”

Bucky winced, shoulders hunching slightly. “Yeah. I may have told him and Steve the whole story.”

You gaped at him a moment, speechless, before you found the sense to speak up. “The full story… as in, lessons and everything?”

“Maybe…” He gave you a look so sheepish it bordered on boyish. “Do you wanna know what Sam said when he found out?”

You groaned, almost too afraid to ask. “What?”

“‘That sounds like an HR nightmare.’”

You broke into laughter, a real, bubbling laugh that rose out of you before you could stop it. “Shit. We’re in deep now.” 

He watched you, fondness etched into every line of his face. His expression had softened again, that rare, open version of him shining through. You pulled back enough to look up at him properly. His eyes were gentle, amused, but earnest—so goddamn earnest it made your chest ache. 

“I feel… good about this,” he said, and the quiet conviction in his voice struck you deep. It rasped low, his tone threaded with a sort of rough certainty that made your stomach flutter.  “For the first time in… I don’t know. I feel good.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and a little dazed. Warmth bloomed steadily in your chest, curling beneath your ribs and climbing up your throat. It spread like honey through your limbs, soft and molten, loosening something inside you that had been wound tight for far too long.

“Careful, Bucky.”

“I’m tellin’ the truth, doll.” His hand brushed your arm, knuckles grazing like static, his eyes trailing down your body as if you were committing you to memory, curve by curve, inch by inch.

“Keep talking like that,” you murmured, “and I might kiss you again.”

His smile curled slowly, crooked and dangerous. “Oh yeah? Just kissing?”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze drop to his mouth. “Maybe more… if you’re lucky.”

He laughed, a low, husky sound that vibrated through you. Then he took a single step closer. You leaned in and pressed a kiss to his cheek, once, then again, just to see the way his expression shifted. Bucky let out a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan, one hand snaking around your waist as he pulled you in again for just one more kiss.

—

After the disaster that had been the training session—where you and Bucky had gone so hard it probably qualified as attempted murder in at least three jurisdictions—Steve, Natasha, and Sam had clearly smashed their heads together and prayed they could cook up a plan to get you two talking again. The infamous balcony had been plan B, and to their endless delight (and your mutual dismay), it had actually worked. But that small victory left them scrambling, because now they had to try to cancel the other contingency plans they’d set in motion, like overexcited matchmakers who’d gone past their pay grade. 

God only knew how many schemes they’d cooked up. From your current predicament, it seemed they’d well and truly scraped the bottom of the barrel. Because here you were, wedged into the backseat of a car far too small for three muscled idiots, on what was technically a stakeout, but what felt more like slow torture. You were hours into waiting for some crypto-genuis kid, Karpin’s pet money launderer, to finally come home. And the whole reason you and Bucky were here at all? Steve and Sam had begged Fury to approve your presence on this op, convinced this was plan C, the masterstroke that would fix things between you two if the balcony gambit failed. 

But the balcony hadn’t failed. The balcony had worked spectacularly, and now Steve and Sam were left trying to undo their apparent meddling, scrambling to pull you off the mission. Too late, Fury had signed off, likely with one of his signature scowls and a clever quip. Everything was greenlit. No take-backs. 

You’d managed to pry this information out of Steve within the first three hours, much to the absolute dismay of Sam. Now both of them were currently avoiding your gaze like their lives depended on it, and you were simmering, imagining at least five creative ways to end them before the kid even showed up. 

“So this was your brilliant plan C, huh?” you hissed, exasperation curling through every word as you craned your neck forward, arms braced on the back of Steve’s seat, peering between him and Sam in the front. The centre console dug uncomfortably into your ribs, but you hardly noticed over the heat pricking across your skin. “Cram us into this metal coffin and hope the awkward tension does the trick?”

Steve still kept his eyes stubbornly fixed on the street ahead, knuckles white on the steering wheel like he might snap it in two if he had to endure one more minute. The muscle in his jaw ticked, but he said nothing. Sam, slouched in the passenger seat, had perfected the art of looking like he wasn’t there at all, staring out the window, face blank, like maybe if he wished hard enough, he could astral project somewhere far away from this cramped nightmare. 

Beside you, Bucky had sunk so low in his seat you half expected him to disappear into the upholstery. His arms were crossed tightly, his long legs awkwardly angled to avoid pressing too much against yours. Though your thigh and shoulder still touched, the contact was warm and sticky. Secretly, you didn’t mind it that much. 

“Are you gonna bring it up and whine about it every 5 minutes or—” Sam finally drawled, and you leant over to smack the back of his seat in warning. You could’ve sworn the jolt made his eyes roll harder. 

“It wasn’t my first choice—” Steve spoke at last, voice strained, and you scoffed, flopping back into your seat. You shot a glare up at the rear-view mirror, where Steve steadfastly refused to meet your eye. You resisted the urge to kick the back of his seat. Sam’s lip twitched, and you weren’t sure if he was fighting a smirk or a grimace. 

“Yeah, yours was the training session, wasn’t it?” you muttered, shifting in your cramped seat, your thigh brushing Bucky’s. “The one where we nearly killed each other?”

“That wasn’t my fault,” Steve protested.

“You paired us against each other—!”

“I thought it would help work out the tension—!”

“Oh, genius move, Cap. Almost as subtle as the balcony stunt. Remind me…” You said, glancing between the two of them with an exaggerated patience. “How much money did you lose to Nat over us making out within twenty minutes?”

Bucky choked on air beside you. 

“Nope,” Sam cut back, smirking, eyes on the windshield but clearly enjoying himself. “She made me promise not to spill what she put down.”

“She cleaned up, didn’t she?” you said, grinning despite yourself.

“Let’s just say I owe her a drink…or five,” Sam muttered.

“And you two just went along with it. And when that actually worked,” you went on, voice rising as you gestured vaguely at the cramped space around you, “you didn’t think to, I don’t know, maybe… cancel this mission?”

Steve gave a long-suffering sigh, “I already said we tried—” 

You blinked, turning to Bucky, who was doing his best impression of a statue. His ears were pink. God help him, he was blushing. “Are you hearing this?”

“Loud and clear,” he muttered, rubbing a hand over his jaw, eyes fixed on the upholstery like it was the most fascinating thing in the car. “I’m starting to think we’re the mission, not the kid.” 

Sam barked a quiet laugh at that, then immediately tried to hide it behind a cough. 

You smirked, leaning back just enough to make your knee knock into Bucky’s. “At least someone finds this funny.” 

“Oh, I do,” Sam didn’t even try to hide his grin now, eyes glinting in the rearview mirror. “You know, Buck folded like a lawn chair after that training room mess. Didn’t even need to interrogate him, he just started confessing.”

You blinked, glancing sideways at Bucky, and sure enough, his shoulders tensed, jaw tight, face flushed red. Yeah. You’d heard about that. After you and Bucky had practically torn each other apart during that disaster of a sparring session, it hadn’t taken long before Bucky caved. All it took was one pointed look from Steve, and he’d apparently spilt everything. The lessons. The gala mission. The whole messy, complicated truth. He hadn’t wanted to hide it anymore, and they hadn’t judged him. If anything, they’d been supportive, but god, had it given Sam and Steve endless material to work with.

“I didn’t fold,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face, trying to hide the red creeping up his neck.

Sam’s grin widened. “Oh no, you practically snapped in half. ‘It’s not what it looked like! I swear!’”

Steve, who had been studiously pretending to focus on the rows of beach houses, finally let out a quiet snort.

Sam continued his onslaught. “He was trying so hard to be chill. Said something about ‘It’s not like she was giving me sex lessons or anything!’ Swear to god, I thought you were about to write us both a formal apology letter.”

Your brow shot up, heat blooming warm and easy in your chest. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can we not—”

“So…” Sam began, tone too casual to be innocent. He swivelled half around in his seat, arm slung over the headrest. “What exactly do these lessons involve?”

Bucky shot him a glare that could have melted steel. “Not talking to you about this.”

“Right. Right, of course.” Sam nodded solemnly, lips twitching. “Just curious. Is there, like… a syllabus? A final exam?”

Sam looked over to you, and you rewarded him with a blank, unbothered expression. All of his attempts to get under your skin so far had fallen flat. 

“I swear to God, Sam—” Bucky huffed. 

“Okay, okay!” Sam laughed, hands raised in surrender. “Damn, Barnes. Touchy!”

Bucky grumbled, scrubbing a hand over his face as if to physically wipe away the heat creeping across. He exhaled through his nose, visibly trying to collect himself, jaw working like he was biting back another groan.

The moment stretched, the car settling into a beat of silence.

Then Bucky leaned back, voice dry as bone, as if he was looking for punishment, “I still haven’t forgiven you for not packing snacks, by the way.”

It earned a sharp bark of laughter from you before Sam twisted around, indignation written all over his face. “You were supposed to pack snacks!”

“You’re the reason we’re here in the first place!” Bucky shot back, arching a brow, the edge of a smirk threatening his mouth.

Sam groaned, tipping his head against the headrest like a man resigned to his fate. “God, please. Can you just shut up—?”

“You’re the one who has been talking this entire time—”

“Eyes up.” Steve’s voice cut through the bickering, sharp enough to snap the tension like a taut wire. His grip tightened on the steering wheel as his gaze fixed out the windshield.

You straightened instinctively, pulse kicking up, the lingering humour of the quarrel evaporating as your attention followed his line of sight.

A sleek, silver car, a little too flashy for the neighbourhood, rolled up the driveway of the house you’d been watching for hours. The low purr of its engine smothered the quiet hum of distant gulls in the air. The driver door swung open, and out stepped a kid who looked like he belonged more at some overpriced frat party than tangled up in Karpin’s operation. Early twenties, hair artfully messy, sunglasses pushed back onto his head like he thought he was some kind of tech mogul already. His clothes screamed new money, designer labels, logo-heavy, just subtle enough to look casual if you weren’t paying attention.

From the back of the car, the trunk popped, and a scruffy golden retriever leapt out with a thump, tail wagging like mad as it bounded up to the kid, nearly bowling him over. The kid laughed, ruffling the dog’s ears, before slinging a backpack over one shoulder and heading toward the front door.

“Target’s home,” Steve muttered, already shifting into command mode. His voice went flat, but with that edge of anticipation that always crept in when the waiting was over.

Sam sat up straighter, his earlier grin gone, eyes sharp. “Finally.”

Bucky leaned forward, his knee brushing yours, the tension humming back into his frame like a coiled spring. “What’s the play?”

Steve didn’t take his eyes off the house. “We move in quietly. Sam, you cover the back in case he spooks. Buck, I’ll need you two with me at the door. No heroics. We’re here to talk, not smash up his house.”

You gave a tight nod, hand already sliding to the door handle. “Copy that.”

“Let’s move,” Steve said, and the car doors clicked open almost in unison, the stale warmth of the vehicle giving way to the salty breeze as you slipped out into the early afternoon air.

— The dog’s tongue lolled out of its mouth as it bounded after the tennis ball you lobbed down the yard for what had to be the fiftieth time. The poor thing was all enthusiasm and no aim, skidding through flowerbeds and trampling what was clearly someone’s expensive landscaping project. You didn’t have the heart to stop him. The quiet thunk of the ball hitting the fence made you sigh, shading your eyes with one hand as the retriever scrabbled to chase it down.

The house loomed behind you, modern, sleek, soulless, and through the open patio doors, you could hear muffled voices. Mostly Steve’s, low and steady. Occasionally, Sam’s sharper edge cut through, exasperation bleeding into his tone. You couldn’t make out the words, but you didn’t need to. This was dragging. Of course, it was dragging.

You glanced at the sky. How long had it been? Too long. Definitely too long. 

The dog trotted back, panting, ball slimy with slobber, and you took it with a grimace, wiping your palm on your thigh before tossing it again.

The screen door creaked, and you turned just in time to see Bucky step out, rubbing the back of his neck. His jacket was off, henley sleeves rolled to his elbows, expression carved from tired frustration.

“Well?” you asked, arching a brow, catching the ball one-handed as the dog dropped it at your feet.

Bucky exhaled, dropping onto the steps beside you. “It’s not going well. Kid’s a wreck. Just keeps freaking out, throwing out half-baked lies, hoping we’ll get bored and leave him alone.”

You smirked, tossing the ball lazily. “He doesn’t know those two very well then, does he?”

Bucky’s lips quirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’re trying for a good cop, bad cop thing… don’t think it’s going too well.”

You dusted off your hands, straightening. If this dragged on any longer, it would be nightfall, you were entirely sure there was a better and faster way to get the kid to spill. “It’s my turn to play cop, don’t you think?”

Bucky looked up at you, wary. “You sure? He’s on the verge of passing out.”

“All the more reason to cut the bullshit.” 

The living room was too clean, not lived-in, just staged, like everything else in this house. The kid sat on the edge of the pristine white couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, wringing his hands so tightly his knuckles had gone white. His chest hitched, breathing fast and shallow. Steve was standing nearby, voice soft, like he was talking him down from a bridge. Sam loomed near the window, arms crossed, scowl in place.

You didn’t bother asking. You just dragged a chair across the floor, the legs screeching deliberately against the polished hardwood as you flipped it around and straddled it, resting your arms along the back. The kid’s red-rimmed eyes snapped up at the sound, wide with panic, sweat beading at his temple.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take a breath.”

Steve shot you a sceptical look, brows knitting together like he wasn’t sure if you were serious. Sam, arms still folded tight across his chest, arched a brow, glancing at you like, really? The kid—Brandon, that was his name, you remembered now—just looked outright bewildered, as if the suggestion was the most alien thing he’d heard all afternoon.

“One deep breath. All of you.” You spoke pointedly, daring a glare over at good cop and bad cop respectively. You dragged in a slow inhale through your nose, filling your chest until your ribs ached, then let it out in a long, audible exhale. You exaggerated it, not for theatrics, but to show there was nothing complicated about it. Just air. Just calm.

Steve, bless him, always the good soldier, mirrored you next, drawing in a slow breath like he was trying to set an example. Sam followed reluctantly, like he hated admitting that maybe you had a point. His chest rose and fell, but he kept side-eyeing Brandon the whole time.

Brandon hesitated, his gaze flickering between you all like he was waiting for someone to yell gotcha! His knee bounced erratically, fingers twitching. You half expected the kid to bolt—not that he’d make it far, you were sure either of the three men would take absolute delight in tackling him to his shiny, expensive floors.

“C’mon, Brandon,” you coaxed, leaning forward just slightly, head tilting. “You’ll feel a whole lot better. Just one breath. Try it.”

For a beat, you thought he might refuse, too locked in his panic to even try. But then his shoulders sagged a fraction, and he sucked in a shaky breath, a wet, uneven sound that hitched halfway through. He let it out in a rush, but it was something. 

“There we go,” you murmured. “Better, huh?”

Shit, maybe you were good cop. 

He stared at you, wide-eyed, chest still shuddering from the uneven breath he’d managed. Like he couldn’t quite believe the panic hadn’t immediately swallowed him whole. 

You didn’t rush him. Instead, you took another slow, deliberate breath, and with just the faintest glance to the side, you caught Steve doing the same. Bucky too, silent and steady at the doorway, setting the rhythm without a word. Even Sam, though he tried to look like he wasn’t following your lead, let his shoulders loosen as he exhaled through his nose.

“Good,” you murmured after another long beat. “Let’s just stay right here for a second. Was getting far too tense in here, wasn’t it?”

Brandon sucked in another breath, still ragged, but at least it wasn’t the frantic gasping from before. His hands were still trembling on his knees, but they weren’t clenched into fists anymore.

“Okay. Let’s rationalise this, yeah? One step at a time.” Your voice dropped low and warm, the kind of tone you’d use with a skittish animal. The type of tone you used with Bucky when he was spiralling. 

“Do you know who he is?” You tilted your head toward Steve.

Brandon hesitated, but his eyes flicked to Steve, and he gave the smallest nod.

“Say it out loud for me,” you urged gently, fingers drumming softly on the back of the chair.

“H-he’s Captain America,” Brandon whispered, voice weak, almost like he wasn’t sure if saying it would make it more real.

“That’s right,” you said, offering a small smile. “Good. That’s good, Brandon. You’re thinking straight.” You pointed with a lazy flick of your finger at Steve. “And do you really think Captain America of all people is going to hurt you?”

“No.”

“Good. But those other two—” you jerked your thumb toward Sam and Bucky, your voice dipping into dry humour, “—those ones you wanna watch out for. Absolute wildcards.”

It earned you a quiet snort from Sam, and Bucky’s mouth twitched, but Brandon let out a breath that was almost a laugh. His face was pale, but some of the sheer panic had started to ease at the edges.

But the hyperventilating wasn’t gone. His chest was rising too fast again, his eyes darting around the room like he couldn’t help it.

“Hey, hey. Just breathe.” Your voice stayed patient, casual but focused, like you had all the time in the world. “I just need to ask you a few questions. Can you handle that?”

Brandon’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His wide eyes glistened beneath the overhead light, flicking between you and the silent figures of Steve, Sam, and Bucky like a cornered animal. Though, it wasn’t the wild panic of a man about to bolt. It was something else. Defeat, maybe. The heavy, sinking weight of realising he was out of moves.

His mouth opened, shaky. Closed. Opened again. He wet his lips, voice barely a whisper.

“They’re gonna kill me if I snitch—”

“Who’s gonna kill you?” Steve’s voice cut in, instinctively taking a step forward.

You lifted a hand, a silent hold up, and Steve froze mid-stride, eyeing you warily but ultimately submitted to your lead.

You exhaled slowly, studying Brandon, the trembling hands on his knees, the sheen of sweat at his temple, the way his leg bounced like he might still have been weighing the odds of making a run for it. Your head tilted, voice dropping just a hair softer.

“How about this,” you hummed thoughtfully. “I tell you what we know… and you help me fill in the gaps, hm?”

Brandon blinked, uncertain, but you saw the subtle slump of his shoulders. “O-okay…” he croaked.

“You’re from a middle-class family. Did well in school. Kept your head down. Got all A’s in college, IT, tech stuff, right?”

His eyes widened. He glanced at Sam like maybe he’d confessed those details without realising. Sam just arched a brow, impressed despite himself.

“You got into cryptocurrency to make a little money on the side…” You continued, your tone easy, conversational. “And that’s when Karpin found you. Asked you to help him move his money until it was basically untrackable. Paid you more than you’d ever seen in your life to keep quiet and work with his buyers.”

Brandon’s mouth parted, but nothing came out. 

“You probably don’t even know what he’s really selling,” you added, shrugging lightly. “Just that it’s illegal. Because you’re smart, you could see it a mile off. But you didn’t ask. Why would you? You’re making more money than you ever dreamed of.” Your gaze swept the room, the expensive furniture, the sleek floors, and the view of the ocean just beyond the windows. “Beachfront property? At your age? You’re making more than most people see in a lifetime.”

Brandon gave the faintest, almost imperceptible nod.

“But now you don’t want to talk. Not to us. Not to anyone. Because Karpin’s dangerous, right?” You softened the words further. “Because he told you as much, because you know you’re in deep…Because he threatened you. Maybe even people you care about, said if you ever ratted him out, it wouldn’t end with just you?”

That hadn’t been in the brief, but you’d spent enough time in Karpin’s club, in his VIP rooms, hanging off his arm like his latest pet to know his game.

You didn’t even need to hear the confirmation from Brandon, just one look in his glassy eyes told you the truth. You were right. Your eyes flickered over to Sam and Steve, watching as they exchanged a look.

Bucky hadn’t moved, leaned quietly against the doorway, face carefully neutral. But his eyes—oh, his eyes tracked every word, every shift of your body. And though his mouth was set in a firm line, there was something under it. A shameless flicker of pride. That soft, secret warmth, like he was quietly glad to see you work your magic.

Brandon’s breath rattled, his fingers fisting the fabric of his shorts. His wide eyes darted from you to Steve, then to Sam, as if one of them might swoop in and end this interrogation—or maybe mercifully his life. His voice cracked as the words tumbled out in a rush.

“I didn’t know, I swear! I mean, I knew—I knew it had to be something illegal, but not this illegal! I thought it was just drugs or something!” His chest heaved, breath coming fast again, panic starting to claw its way back up his throat.

“Hey.” Your voice cut through the rising spiral of his fear, leaving no room for argument. “We’re not here to decide if you’re guilty or not. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about one of the buyers, the one Karpin does the majority of his sales to. Do you know who I’m talking about? The Russian?”

Brandon hesitated, throat working as he swallowed. “Yes…”

“Good.” You hummed, slow and encouraging. “I need you to tell me anything you know about him. A name, a bank number, an address. Anything you can give us.”

Brandon’s shoulders hunched, his head shaking, wild-eyed. “I can’t—”

“Why?” you pressed.

“Because… because they’ll kill me!” He burst out, breath hitching again. “If it’s this bad, if it’s really this bad, I know they’ll hunt me down if I say anything—”

“They’re not going to be able to reach you, Brandon.”

His head snapped up, desperation shining in his eyes. “How can you guarantee that?!”

You sat a little straighter, drawing in a slow breath yourself. You knew the feeling currently roaring through Brandon’s veins, you recognised it like an old enemy. The panic, the sick weight of fear coiled tight beneath your ribs. The terror of the unknown. It was like wading blind through pitch-dark water, searching for a foothold, for anything solid to cling to, with no promise of light ahead. You’d felt it too many times before, felt it in your bones, felt it define you. And like every time before, your mind scrambled to make sense of it, to wrestle the chaos into something you could control. But how could you, when you didn’t even know the shape of the fight you were facing? How could you rationalise the storm without knowing where it might end, or if it ever would?

If only, you thought bitterly, if only you’d had the foresight back then. The knowledge. The map that would’ve let you navigate those shadows instead of stumbling through them, bruised and broken.

You knew exactly what the kid needed to hear.

“Do you want me to explain what’s going to happen to you after this conversation?”

Brandon nodded wordlessly.

“The police are going to come.” You reassured, recognising the instant dread in the kid’s wide eyes. “They’re going to arrest you, not hurt you. They’re going to keep you in custody while Karpin and his buyers are investigated, tracked down, and arrested. You’ll be safe. No one can get to you inside.”

“You’ll hire a lawyer,” you continued, voice even, matter-of-fact. “And that lawyer is going to tell you to take a plea deal. That means you’ll testify against Karpin. The deal might mean you walk free under witness protection, or maybe you serve a few years, but nowhere near as much trouble as if you stonewall us now.”

You smiled softly, leaning forward, lowering your voice to a comforting hum. “Brandon, all you need to do is cooperate with us.”

He blinked hard, tears threatening now, though he fought them, swallowing against the lump in his throat. “I’ll be protected? Will my family be protected? You’re sure?”

“If you help us?” You shrugged, glancing at Steve and Sam. “You’ll be protected. So will your family. By the people we work for. There’s no shame in having made a mistake, Brandon. You think we’re innocent?” 

Your grin tilted, dry and a little wry as you thumbed toward the guys. “These three destroy half of New York every other week, and you think people are just fine with it?”

Sam gave a short huff of laughter, shaking his head. Steve smirked faintly, arms crossed over his chest, watching the way you worked with no small amount of admiration.

“We can do what we do because we have the right friends in the right places,” you went on, gaze locked steady on Brandon’s. “If you tell us what we need to know, we’ll make sure you and your loved ones are protected. That’s a promise.”

Brandon let out a shaky breath, the tension bleeding from his frame, if only slightly. He swiped the back of his hand across his damp face, voice rough as he finally nodded.

“O-okay. Okay. I’ll help.”

—

The mission had wrapped up without much fuss once Brandon finally cracked. A little breathing room, a few well-placed reassurances and the kid had spilt more than you’d hoped for. And after a long morning of waiting and watching, the team had been cleared to stand down. The beach house, a backup in case the op had dragged on, was yours for the night. No one had expected things to go so smoothly, but no one was about to complain either. 

Now, with the sun bleeding gold over the horizon and the promise of an early flight hanging over your heads, you were determined to steal a few hours of peace. 

You lay stretched out on a sunbleached towel at the base of the porch, toes buried in the warm sand. The last of the afternoon rays bathed the world in honey light, glinting off the waves as they lapped the shore. The ocean breeze lifted your hair and carried with it the brine of the sea, the faint tang of salt settling on your skin where the sweat had dried in the heat. You tilted your face up now and then, soaking in what little warmth was left, letting your eyes fall half-shut.

The beach house itself was small and sweet, worn blue paint with white trim, seashells lining the windowsills, wind chimes and catchers swaying and singing softly in the breeze. The kind of place that felt like it belonged to the sea as much as to the people.

On the porch steps, Bucky sat like a man trying to blend into the scenery. His arms rested heavily on his thighs, his boots planted solidly on the wood. There was tension in him, subtle but sure. He watched the waves, mostly. Sometimes he watched you. His gaze would flicker your way when he thought you weren’t looking, then back out to the horizon like it could give him answers. He’d tried the sand once, made it a few steps before muttering something about not wanting it grinding into the plates of his arms. The steps were his compromise, close enough to be near you, far enough to avoid what unsettled him. 

Steve and Sam had gone into town, promising a dinner worth eating—something fresh, not from a takeaway joint or gas station, which was the usual menu for missions, especially stakeouts—before you all shipped out at dawn. The house, the beach, the world itself felt hushed in their absence. Just the occasional cry of gulls, the gentle crash of waves, and the music of chimes above. 

It was Bucky who broke the quiet first. His voice was almost tentative, as if he’d been sitting with the thought some time before letting it out.

“You were good with that kid today.”

You cracked one eye open, shading it with your hand from the sun. The breeze caught his hair, tugged at the soft cotton of his shirt, ruffled the hem where his sleeves strained over the gold and black glint of vibranium. 

“You’re good at talking to people,” he went on, not looking at you now, but at some fixed point beyond the waves. “Understanding them.”

A soft, tired huff escaped you. You let your eyes fall closed again, the sun warm on your cheeks. “What I understand about people is that everyone wants kindness. That’s all. They want to be seen, heard, given a little grace.”

You let your head loll to the side, gaze following the slow roll of the sea. His eyes were on you again, you could feel it, watching, like he was trying to piece you together, to see past the practised ease of your words. 

“How did you know all that?” he asked after a beat, quieter now. “About lawyers, plea deals, witness protection?”

Your lips curved, a wry, sad little smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “I lied.”

You felt him shift. His boots creaked against the steps, his spine straightening. “You lied?”

You rolled onto your back, brushing the sand from your skin, fingers playing idly at the tie of your bikini. “I told him what I knew he wanted to hear. That’s all. A kid like that, scared, cornered…He responded well to knowledge. It doesn’t matter if I don’t know what they’re gonna offer him, maybe they will offer him a plea deal, but at least he won’t feel like he’s in the dark.”

The breeze tugged at the chimes again, the gentle clatter filling the quiet that followed. Bucky didn’t speak, just watched you, thoughtful, a crease between his brows. His gaze was steady now, no longer flickering away like he was seeing something in you that you didn’t want him to.

“I just…” His voice was gentler now, but insistent. “I just think that version of you, the one who talked that kid down, the version I know... sometimes I think it’s the real you.”

You turned to him properly then, one hand propping you up, the other shading your eyes against the glare. “The real me—Jesus. Are we doing this right now?”

Bucky didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. 

“I think they’re still in your head,” he said simply. “The same way… the same way H.Y.D.R.A is still in my head. You just wear the mask better. Pretend better. It took me too long to see it, but now I do, and I can’t unsee it.”

The air left your lungs like you’d been tackled from behind, a cold rush tearing through your veins, leaving you sick and hollow at the centre. H.Y.D.R.A. Bucky almost never said it aloud. That name lived in the shadows. But now he had given voice to it, like he was fucking invoking it.

You stared at him, heart tight, the sincerity in his voice cutting deeper than you expected. He was right. Of course, he was right. There had been far too many occasions where he had seen through you, seen through the walls, the humour, the deflection—and for what? For you to be afraid, to continue to pretend, to deny him entry to the truth you both knew he had already discovered?  

“What are you trying to say, Bucky?”

He hesitated, just for a breath, as if he was weighing his following words before he went all in. “Why are you still in this job?”

Your pulse spiked.

“Because it’s what I’m good at?” you snapped back, a little too fast, a little too brittle. 

“Bullshit.”

You sat up fully now, towel forgotten beneath you, heat rising to your cheeks. Whether it was anger or shame, you weren’t too sure anymore. 

“What do you want me to say?” Your hands lifted, fingers splayed in frustration. “This is all I know, this is what I was trained for. There is no other alternative, and you of all people should understand that.”

There was a pause. A longer one than you expected. 

“Do you know what Sam said to me after today?” His eyes met yours, sharp, intent, almost fierce in their focus. It pinned you where you sat. “He said, ‘I think I finally get what the hell those lessons were about’. He saw it. He saw you. The way you connect, the way you see people. I think you’re far more than what you limit yourself to.”

You let out a breath that tasted of defeat, bitter at the back of your throat. Or maybe it was a laugh. You couldn’t tell anymore. “I do this job because I want to make a difference, Bucky. Maybe I want to make a difference because no one ever tried to help me, or Nat or Yelena. We had to help ourselves.”

“And you think the only way to do that is by tearing yourself apart in the process?”

You snorted, shaking your head, though the motion felt heavy. “Tough words coming from you.”

He huffed his own small laugh, but there was no humour in it. 

“I just…” His voice was lower now, the edge of frustration softening into something that sounded almost like pleading. “You really plan on doing those missions forever? The ones where you use your body to get information? I see how it weighs on you. How it tears you down piece by piece.”

You dug your fingers into the towel beneath you, staring at a seashell half-buried in the sand—anything to avoid the look in his eyes. 

“What am I supposed to do instead, huh?” Your voice was tight, controlled, though you could feel the cracks forming, the storm just below the surface. “I’m good at what I do. That’s why I do it. I know how to get what the team needs. I know how to play the part, no one expects me to be anything else. So I stay in that box, because it works. End of story.”

Bucky was shaking his head before you had even finished your stubborn spiel. 

“I think you have more potential. I think you get people. Really get them, in ways none of us do. You always say the right thing, know how to calm a room, and make people feel seen. I think you’re wasting that, wasting you, because you’re too afraid to ask for more.”

You forced a laugh. “Bucky, just because I’m nice to you doesn’t mean I’m good with people—”

“Steve told me what you said that day,” Bucky cut over you, quiet but unyielding. “What you said when he walked in on us. He told me how genuine you were. How much you cared. Said he never expected it, not from you.”

For a moment, your throat closed up tight as your mind skidded, fishtailing toward anything that might sound coherent.

“This all just sounds like you’re the one who’s got a problem with my line of work,” you said finally, trying for lightness, humour, anything to take the weight out of his words. “What, you jealous or something?”

But the joke fell flat between you. Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. His voice carried an assured edge like he was giving up hiding behind anything. “No. I think you have a problem with it.”

Your breath snagged, ribs pressing in tight like you’d sucker punched.

“I think you’re destroying yourself,” Bucky went on, tone stripped bare, nothing left but truth. “I think, deep down, you’re punishing yourself. And I don’t know why. Or what for, but I know the signs, doll. Because I do the same damn thing.”

You stared at him, heart hammering. The wind stirred between you, the gulls cawing above and the hush of the surf. The world felt too still, too intimate, like the air itself was holding its breath.

“Where is this coming from?” you managed, voice smaller than you intended.

He let out a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe because watching you today, watching you work, impressed me. I know it impressed Steve and Sam. Maybe it just got me thinking about how things could be. How things should be.”

“I don’t want things to change,” you said, too fast, too sharp. “I like it how it is now.”

“Oh yeah?” His gaze still unflinching. “And what about all this makes you so happy?”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Swallowed hard. 

“You,” you said quietly, bitter as the ocean air. “You make me happy. I like helping you and talking things out with you. I like lessons, or when we just hang out.”

Your voice softened, as if that could make it truer. “I’m comfortable. I’m happy.” But even as the words left your lips, they curdled. They felt wrong. Hollow, like smoke in your mouth, like ash on your tongue. And you knew—God, you knew—he could see it. He could see right through it, through you.

Deflect. Deny. Subvert. The old playbook. Your armour, your sanctuary. The instinct that came too easily, a reflex honed by years of keeping the world at bay. You reached for it like a lifeline, tried to wrap it around yourself before he could press further, before he could dig up what you’d buried so deep even you barely dared look at it. Anything was easier than letting him see the soft, frightened parts. Anything was easier than letting him reach them.

You sat still for a heartbeat longer, the weight of his gaze heavy as a hand at the base of your throat. And then you moved. You pushed up from your towel, brushing sand from your palms as you crossed the short distance to where Bucky sat, stiff and watchful on the porch steps, his eyes lifted to yours, wide and unsure, as if he wasn’t sure if you’d strike him down or pull him in. 

You lowered yourself, just enough to meet him, just enough to cage his face between your sand-dusted hands. You knew the grit would drive him a little mad, would catch in his stubble, smudge across his cheekbones, probably lodge itself somewhere in the joints of his vibranium arm. But you did it anyway. You did it because it was the only way you knew how to say what wouldn’t form on your tongue.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” you murmured, voice low, breath hitching in your chest. The wind tugged at your hair, lifting it from the damp heat of your neck. Your thumbs traced his cheekbones, light as the breeze. “Is that okay?”

His lips parted, maybe in a silent plea. “Yes.”

It wasn’t neat or gentle. It was messy, hungry, your mouth slanting over his, tongue sliding past his lips as he groaned low in his throat. His hands came up, tentative at first, like he didn’t know where to touch you. Then the dam broke, and his fingers threaded through your hair, pulling you closer, his other hand bracing your hip. The taste of him was salt and heat, the faint bitterness of coffee from earlier lingering on his tongue. Your breath mingled, quick and uneven, as you poured everything into it, the frustration, the fear, the need.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathless, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. The windchimes clattered softly, like they’d been eavesdropping on the whole thing.

You gave him a look—part promise, part challenge—and turned, heading inside. You knew it was wrong. Christ, maybe he knew it too. Knew that this was what you did when the truth got too close, when his gaze stripped you bare and the panic rose sharp beneath your skin. You’d reach for what you knew worked. The kiss, the heat, the distraction. Anything but the raw honesty of what was unfolding between you. 

Your bare feet padded across the worn wooden floors, the little beach house warm with the last of the sun’s heat. You shook out your towel by the door, brushed sand from your legs and arms as best you could, then made for the tiny kitchen, rinsing your gritty hands under the tap. 

You were just reaching for a towel to dry your hands when you felt him behind you, the silent, solid press of his body, the familiar weight of his hands wrapping around your waist. His fingers splayed across your bare skin, like he wasn’t sure how close he was allowed to be but couldn’t stay away. His breath was warm against your ear, his nose brushing along the curve of your neck as he nuzzled there, the stubble of his jaw rough but welcome.

“I’m not trying to upset you,” Bucky murmured, voice low and earnest, the words vibrating against your skin. “I’m not trying to argue. I just care about you.”

“I know.” The words barely made it past your lips as you turned in his arms.

His hands framed your face, his mouth on yours. His thumb brushed your cheek, his other hand slipping down to your waist like he knew the shape of you by heart. The scent of salt air clung to him, to you. The kitchen felt impossibly small, the world shrinking down to just this. Just him, just now.

When he finally pulled back, breath warm against your lips, his forehead rested lightly against yours. “You make me happy too, you know,” he murmured, an honest confession. “More than I think you even realise.”

Your heart gave a traitorous lurch, and you swallowed hard, your hands still resting at his sides, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. “Don’t say things like that,” you whispered, but there was no bite to it, no real protest.

“Why not?” His mouth quirked into a soft, crooked smile. “’Cause you might believe me?”

You let out a breath, half laugh, half sigh, leaning into him. “Hmph…”

His mouth found yours again, slow and searching. His thumb kept stroking your cheek, tenderly, while his other hand slipped lower, fingers curling around the curve of your hips as if to steady himself as much as you.

The worn floorboards creaked softly beneath you both as you shifted, as he nudged closer, fitting his body to yours like a puzzle piece. The scent of him—spearmint, sea salt, the faint leather tang of his jacket still clinging to him—filled your senses, dizzying in its familiarity.

Your hands slid up his chest, fingers splaying over the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft cotton. His heartbeat thudded steadily and sure beneath your palm.

Without thinking, without planning, you found your back hitting the edge of the counter. His hands followed the movement instinctively, guiding, steadying, as you hitched yourself up onto the worn wood.

Bucky stepped in, between your parted legs, his hands finding your thighs, thumbs tracing slow, absent circles over your skin. His lips sought yours again, deeper now, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you let him, you gave yourself over to it, to him. Your fingers threaded through his hair, pulling him closer, greedy for his touch, his taste.

The kiss deepened, your breath mingling, your pulse thundering in your ears. Your hand skimmed lower, a slow, teasing path along his stomach, until your fingers brushed under the edge of his waistband, intent on taking control the way you always did, the way that felt safe and predictable. A soft sound escaped you, half a plea, half a groan.

He stopped you, catching your wrist gently just as your palm began to slip beneath the fabric. When you looked up, his blue eyes met yours, dark with heat, yes, but steady. Sure. 

“No,” Bucky said, voice low, roughened by want, thumb brushing your wrist. “I want to make you feel good.”

You stilled.

Pure, unfiltered, raw panic slammed through your gut like a punch you didn’t see coming. It rose fast, too fast, thick and all-consuming, choking the breath in your throat. The edges of the kitchen blurred, vision tunnelling to just him. The closeness of his body, the heat of him, the solid press of the cabinet at your back—

You dragged in a breath, but it scraped through your chest ragged and raw. Metallic fear coated your tongue, your pulse roaring too loudly in your ears to even think.

Your free hand twitched, half-formed in the start of that signal—the three taps. You could feel the ghost of it against his arm already, your fingertips itching to retreat into that small mercy, that lifeline you’d always given each other without question.

But you didn’t. God, you didn’t.

Because if you did, this would change. He would see. He would know. And then the questions would come, the soft ones, the careful ones, the ones that peeled you open in ways that scared you more than anything. And what then? What would become of you?

No. No, you couldn’t let that happen. The thought made your heart pound harder, made your throat burn. You needed to do this. Needed to show him, show yourself, that you were fine. That you weren’t broken. This was different. He was different. That you could be the person he saw when he looked at you, brave, whole, unflinching.

Even if inside you felt like you were unravelling at the seams.

Your breath shuddered as you forced it deeper, trying to steady the wild beat of your heart. You blinked hard, trying to clear the haze creeping at the edges of your vision, trying to quiet the voice in your head screaming. And you clung to him, to Bucky—

Your Bucky.

He could never hurt you. 

You swallowed hard, trying to drown the panic, trying to push it down where he couldn’t see. You could do this. You would do this. You trusted him. More than anyone.

“Can I make you feel good, doll?” His voice was soft, low, threaded with something that almost sounded like hope. His palm glided slowly up your forearm, warm and steady, the rasp of his calloused skin grounding. He didn’t see the storm behind your eyes, didn’t feel the stone lodged deep in your gut.

“Is that what you want?” You whispered, your voice hoarse.

“Yes.” The word came out on a breath, “more than anything.”

And for a moment—just a moment—fear loosened its grip.

Your mind spun back, unbidden, to all the nights you’d lain awake wanting this, wanting him. The ache of it. The sleepless hours where your hand found your own skin, your own heat, and you pretended, just for a heartbeat, that it was his touch. You thought of the months you and Bucky hadn’t spoken, how that want had burned hotter because of it, how his absence had left you hollow and restless.

And now here he was. His body so close, his hands gentle where they held you. And you remembered every time he had touched you. His hesitance, his tenderness, his devotion hidden in the brush of knuckles, the graze of fingertips.

It stirred a molten heat in your gut, one more welcome than panic. 

“Yes.” The word tore from you roughly, your forehead tipping to his, your eyes fluttering shut as frustration and need coiled tight inside you. 

You felt his breath hitch, felt the tremor, the hesitation in his hands even as they touched you, almost shy as they smoothed along your exposed thighs. His breath was warm against your cheek, his lips hovering just near your jaw, like he wasn’t sure he had permission to go further, like he didn’t trust himself to do this right.

“Bucky…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his hair, coaxing him to look at you. His gaze flicked up, blue eyes wide, the vulnerability in them making your heart squeeze. His palms were broad and heated where they held you, but they trembled ever so slightly, like the weight of wanting was almost too much to bear. “Are you sure?”

“I—” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, his thumb tracing slow circles just above your waistband. “I just don’t want to mess this up.”

The honesty in his voice, the way it cracked around the edges, nearly undid you. You cupped his face, feeling the prickle of stubble under your palms and the tension coiled in his jaw.

“You won’t,” you murmured, stroking softly beneath his eyes. “You can’t. Just… touch me. However you want. I’m right here.”

Something within him eased, you felt it against your mouth as you leaned in, trying to pour every bit of reassurance into the slide of your lips. His hands roamed more boldly, exploring the dip of your waist, the curve of your thigh. It felt like worship the way he took his time, mapping your skin, committing it to memory.

The heat built between you, slow and consuming, and the edge of panic drowned out. You arched into him as his mouth followed, kisses pressing into the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, down the line of your neck. The small kitchen disappeared, the world narrowing again until it was just him, just this. His hands moved as if guided by instinct now, though there was still that delicious edge of hesitance that made every touch precious. His hand skimmed lower, calloused pads slipping beneath the thin band of your swimsuit bottom. You gasped, fingers fisting in his shirt. 

And for the first time in far too long, maybe in your entire life, fear didn’t spike. You didn’t choke, you melted—

His breath stuttered, and he froze just over your mound. His forehead rested against your shoulder, his voice uncertain. “Tell me what to do, doll. I want to—I just… I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled, the kind of soft, private smile only he ever got to see. Your fingers found his wrist gently, guiding his hand down, slipping it fully beneath the fabric, where you were already warm and wet for him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. You’re perfect. Just… slow. Start slow.”

You saw his lips part, saw his pupils blow wide, felt the tremor in his fingers as they touched you where you wanted him most. His gaze flicked to yours, awed, wrecked.

“That’s good,” you breathed, the words tumbling out on a shaky exhale as your heart thundered against your ribs. Your hips moved instinctively, chasing his touch, tilting into him, desperate for more. “That’s so good, Bucky…”

His fingers trembled, tentative but eager as he explored. He traced the slick heat of you, learning every reaction, every way your body responded to his touch. Your hand slid over his, guiding him gently.

“Here,” you whispered, voice thick with want. His breath stuttered as his fingertips grazed your clit. “Feel that? That’s where I want you.”

A shaky breath left him, and he followed, so careful it made your heart ache. Your own nervousness forgotten, you arched a little, legs falling open wider, encouraging him. “You’re not gonna hurt me. I promise. I want this. I want you.”

That seemed to steady him. His fingers slid through your slick heat, finding your clit again. You shivered. But still, he hesitated, waiting, watching your face.

“Circle it,” you murmured, voice low and pleading, your hand tangling in his hair, fingers threading through the soft strands as you gently urged him on. “Gently. Like this…” You rocked your hips, showing him the rhythm, slow and steady, letting him feel how you moved beneath him. And God, he followed, so tentative at first, testing, learning, then growing surer as he felt your breath hitch, your body tense, your pulse race beneath his hands.

“That’s it,” you gasped, pleasure building, slow and deep, coiling low in your belly. “Good. Fuck, that’s good Bucky.”

The praise tumbled from your lips, and it only seemed to fuel him. His fingers moved with more purpose now, every breath, every sigh from you making him more confident. His thumb found a rhythm, steady and sure, as two fingers slid inside you, filling you, and the low groan that broke from him when he felt you clench around him made the heat bloom hotter, deeper.

He buried his face against your neck, nose brushing your skin, breath warm and ragged in your ear. You kept guiding him, your voice cracking as a pleasured sob bubbled in your chest. “That’s good—Please just…You’re doing so well, Bucky. So well.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself just feel. Let him take control, knowing he would never misuse it.

Every time you gasped or sighed his name, you felt him react, his body pressed closer, his kisses growing hungrier, his fingers more confident. His vibranium hand anchored at your waist, holding you steady as he worked you. His mouth brushed your ear.

“You’re… so beautiful like this,” he managed, voice rough, as if the sight of you unravelled him.

Your head fell back, eyes fluttering shut, the world outside the two of you blurring to nothing. The kitchen, the sea breeze, the clatter of seashell chimes, all of it faded, lost beneath the crash of pleasure building inside you. His thumb kept that perfect rhythm, his fingers filling you, stroking you. Your hips rolled, chasing him as you found yourself already trembling on edge.

You tried to keep guiding him, tried to tell him how perfect it was, how right, but the words blurred as the pleasure built, as he guided you through every tremble, every sharp breath, every subtle roll of your hips. 

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice wrecked, lips brushing your jaw, your ear. “So fuckin’ good like this…”

And then you couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything but hold on as he pushed you over the edge, his name falling from your lips in a broken moan, toes curling, back arching, body trembling apart under his hand. Your breathing was ragged as Bucky’s fingers kept moving, slow and sure, guided by every gasp, every shiver he coaxed from you. His forehead pressed to yours, fingers gentle now, soothing you through the aftershocks. His focus was absolute, blue eyes darkened, intent, watching you like you were the only thing in the world worth seeing. And you were. To him, you always had been.

“I think I get it now,” he murmured, voice rough-edged, low like a secret.

Your lashes fluttered, your mind hazy with the pleasure he so patiently built inside you. “Hm?” you managed, head tipping forward. You opened your eyes to find him watching you, like you were the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.

Then, softly, with that mix of wonder and affection that always, always undid you, he spoke.

“Why you like watching me finish.” His voice was a rasp, reverent and wrecked all at once. And before you could reply—before you could even think—you watched as he brought his fingers to his mouth, slow and purposeful, tasting you, sucking his fingers clean with a soft, satisfied hum.

It was obscene. 

Your body nearly gave out. You gripped the edge of the counter for support, chest rising and falling, heart pounding so hard it drowned out the sound of the sea and the chimes.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, dragging a shaky hand through your salt-tangled hair, trying to catch your breath. The strands clung to your damp skin. Your bikini bottoms were twisted at your hips, darkened with wetness, your thighs still trembling from the slow burn of his touch. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

---

hello! thank you for reading, let me know your thoughts! i no longer have a taglist because it got too long and was reaching the tag limit. if you want to keep being notified of my updates please follow @artficlly-updates and turn on post notifications! <3

[crossfandomslut]

OH MY GOD 😭😭 this was a beautiful conclusion to such a fun well written story !! Sexy and heartfelt and just so so good. I'm going to miss sheriff bucky 🥹💕

A Star Without a Sky (#7)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

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

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

Word Count: 11.2k.

note: And the story reached its end. Thank you to all of you who read and interacted in this journey. It took me a little more than expected to write it due to known circumstances, but here it is. Love you all🧡

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

She woke up with her cheek resting on his shoulder, and one arm still draped across his middle. The bandage beneath her hand rose and fell with his breathing, slow and stable.

He was still asleep.

For a long moment, she just lay there, watching his face, so rarely at peace. The bruise on his jaw had bloomed darker overnight, and the cut on his brow was an angry slash of red, but even with all that, he looked younger somehow. His lips were parted just slightly, the faintest crease between his brows, like he was frowning in a dream.

Her gaze remained on his mouth, and she remembered the kiss.

Gentle at first, then hungrier. The way he’d held her, the press of his hands on her waist. How he’d whispered her name like a secret.

She almost reached out to touch his cheek, to brush her thumb beneath the bruise, to tuck that stray piece of hair behind his ear. But stopped herself. Let him rest. He needed it.

So, she slipped quietly from under the quilt, careful not to jostle him. Her bare feet barely made a sound against the floorboards as she padded into the kitchen. The fire in the hearth had gone to embers, so she fed it kindling and coaxed it back to life, warming her hands while it crackled awake.

Outside, the world was still frosted in white, but the light was changing. Sam would arrive before long, and when he did, they’d need to haul Rumlow back to town. Sort it out. Make it official.

She turned toward the stove, set the kettle on, and pulled down the tin of coffee. Bacon would follow, and bread. They’d need the strength. Her hands worked quietly, while her mind was still tangled in the warmth of the bed, in the rasp of his voice when he’d asked her to stay.

---

Behind her, in the silence of the bedroom, Bucky stirred once and sighed.

It took him a few seconds to recognize where he was.

Comfortable mattress. Warm bedding. The faint smell of pine salve and faint traces of her, lavender, and something sweet. His body sank deeper into the mattress for one blissfully blank second-

And then the night came back like a hammer.

The barn. Rumlow. Blood. Her voice. Her hands. Her kiss.

He blinked at the ceiling, groaned low, and tried to shift.

Pain lanced through his side, sharp enough to draw a curse through clenched teeth. Rolling in the frozen mud while trading punches did that to you. Not to mention-

He tilted his head and looked down at his bandaged flank. The stab wound was still there. Of course it was. A dull throb pulsed just under the clean wrappings. Not deep enough to threaten his guts, but nasty all the same.

“Goddamn snake,” he muttered to himself, eyes narrowing.

He caught the faintest sounds of movement from the other room. He threw back the covers with a grunt, already regretting it as cold air hit his bare skin and the dull ache in his side sharpened like a hot poker.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, swinging his legs over the edge.

The room spun once. Then stilled. He blinked hard, braced a hand on the nightstand, and cursed again when he caught sight of the frayed seam in his old drawers.

Great.

Just great.

She’d seen that last night. Probably seen worse, sure, but still, he was a grown man with a badge, not some drifter with holes in his underthings. He scowled as he reached for his trousers, dragging them up with effort, each movement tugging at the stitched flesh of his side. Shirt next -buttons half-done, collar crooked- took him a full minute longer than it should have. But he managed.

Mostly.

He limped down the hall, slow and quietly, keeping one palm flat against the wall when the floor creaked or tilted under his feet. The smell of coffee and wood smoke was stronger here. Comforting. Familiar.

She was at the stove, back to him, humming something low and tuneless. Her hair was still down, loose over her shoulders, and she was barefoot. He watched her for a second longer than he should’ve.

Then she turned, and jumped.

“James Barnes! What the hell are you doing up?”

He flinched theatrically, one hand going straight to his side. “Ah! shit, ow-”

She gasped and was at his side in two steps, wide eyes full of concern, fluttering her hands near his arm, his waist, trying to see where it hurt.

“Let me see -sit down- what the hell were you thinkin’, getting out of bed like that, you damn mule-”

He caught her.

One arm wrapped around her waist, the other around her shoulders. Pulled her in tight, burying his face in her neck, ignoring the flare of real, deep pain that came with it.

She stilled in his arms. Her breath caught.

“I needed this,” he mumbled into her hair.

“I thought you were-”

“Hurts like hell,” he admitted. “Still worth it.”

She didn’t push away. Just let herself press against him, soft and warm and real.

His nose brushed the crown of her head, his grip on her eased just enough so she could breathe, but not enough to let her go.

She shifted slightly in his arms, still tucked against his chest, one hand absently resting over the fabric of his shirt, like she hadn’t quite decided if she was going to scold him again or not.

He tilted his head, murmuring roughly against her temple. “Ain’t I gettin’ a good mornin’ kiss?”

She leaned back just enough to look up at him. Her eyes were wide, unreadable. A little wary. “That’s different,” she murmured.

He let his hand smooth over her back once. Slow. Gentle. “Different how?”

“You were hurt last night,” she said softly. “And it felt like… I don’t know. It was a moment-.” She swallowed, her cheeks warming. “This… this is just morning.”

“That right?” he asked, voice low and coaxing. “Seems to me morning’s the perfect time for one.”

She hesitated. He saw it, the flicker of doubt, the shy downturn of her mouth. But she didn’t pull away.

“Come here,” he said, barely above a whisper. His hand lifted, brushing his thumb along her jaw. “Ain’t askin’ for more than you want to give.”

That was the thing with him. He didn’t push. Didn’t press.

He just… waited.

So she rose a little on her toes and closed the distance, pressed her lips to his slowly, softly, and uncertainly. It wasn’t like the night before, all pain and heat and feelings. This was gentler. A little clumsy.

When she pulled back, her voice was almost breathless. “Alright, that was your kiss.”

He gave her a look. One that made her stomach flip, even with the bruises on his face. “Only one?”

"Well, if you are not satisfied, I think maybe you should take it yourself."

His eyes darkened just a touch at that, something slow and deliberate swimming behind them.

He leaned in, bracing one palm on the table beside her hip, careful not to crowd her, but close enough she could feel the heat of his body, the way his breath ghosted over her cheek.

“Oh?” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and something else. “You givin’ permission, then?”

She arched a brow. “I said maybe.”

“That’s all I need.”

He closed the last inch, brushing her nose with his before his lips found her mouth again, slower this time, a little deeper. Not demanding, but sure. Her fingers grabbed the fabric of his shirt before she could stop herself.

When he finally pulled back, there was a ghost of a smirk on his face. “That was me takin’ the offer.”

She was still catching her breath. “Alright then,” she managed, eyes darting away before settling back on him. “Now sit down before I melt the damn coffee kettle.”

He did, lips still twitching, fixing his gaze on her like he couldn’t quite believe any of this was real.

----

As they settled into breakfast -steam curling from her enamel mug and the stove cracking low behind them- Bucky cleared his throat, lowering his eyes to the edge of his plate.

“I’ll go with Sam,” he said calmly, like he was mentioning the weather.

She blinked. “Go with Sam where?”

“To town. With Rumlow. When he comes to haul him in.”

Her fork paused mid-air. “You what?”

He looked up then, slowly and evenly. “We’ll need your cart.”

“You’re not serious.”

“Dead serious.” He took a bite of biscuit, chewed, and swallowed. “Can’t send Sam on his own. Man like Rumlow? He won’t go quiet.”

“And you-” she set her fork down sharply, brows drawn. “You were stabbed. Bucky, you’re stitched together. You should be resting.”

He shrugged one shoulder, slowly from the ache. “Ain’t made of porcelain.”

“You’re not made of porcelain,” she echoed, folding her arms. “But you’re still held together with some thread I had to stitch.”

He looked up at her from beneath his lashes, one hand already reaching for the fork. “You did a fine job.”

“Don’t butter me up,” she huffed, but the corner of her mouth twitched. “You shouldn’t be going anywhere.”

He chewed, then swallowed. “When we met, I was half-dead. Shot, fevered, couldn’t stand on my own. This,” he said, nodding toward his side, “this ain’t that. I’m sore. Not broken.”

She looked at him long and hard, and the line between her brows deepened.

He went on, gentler now. “I can’t hide under a skirt in a warm kitchen every time I catch a scratch. I wear the badge. Can’t mean nothin’ when it’s easy and get dropped the minute it’s not. Folks count on me.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just stood, took his empty plate, but before turning, narrowed her eyes. “But if you tear those stitches-”

“I’ll get the blunt needle,” he finished with a faint smirk.

Her mouth twitched despite herself. “Exactly.”

As she moved to the counter with his empty plate, he shifted in his chair, wincing slightly but keeping his voice even.

“Hey,” he said, stopping her mid-step.

She turned, and raised he brows in quiet question.

“When Sam gets here,” he went on, tone lower now, firmer than before, “and we get that son of a bitch out the barn... I don’t want you outside.”

Her head tilted, but he didn’t let her interrupt.

“Don’t want him layin’ eyes on you again. Not even once more.” His jaw worked. “He doesn’t get that. He doesn’t get a look at you, or a word, or a damn thing.”

She looked at his face, with something flickering in her gaze, surprise, maybe. Maybe something else.

“You understand?” he asked, voice softer now, but still stern.

She nodded slowly. “Alright.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

He nodded once, like her promise had quieted something ugly in his chest, then reached for the mug she’d just refilled.

“I’ll telegraph once I arrive in Town,” he muttered, blowing gently on the surface before taking a sip. “The jail’ll have a cell ready for Rumlow. One with a good lock and no window view.”

She leaned against the counter, drying her hands. “Not the cell at the office?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t want him sittin’ there like he’s some regular drunk soberin’ up. And I’m sure as hell don’t want anyone payin’ him visits. Not Pierce. Not some courier with a coin purse and a smile. Not takin’ any chances.”

She crossed her arms loosely, watching him. “You’re not takin’ him yourself, are you?”

He snorted once, and winced at the motion. “What do you take me for, a fool? I ain’t that eager to be back in a saddle today.” Then, more seriously: “Sam and Walker’ll handle it. I trust them enough to see it through.”

“You trust Walker?”

He shrugged. “Enough to escort a tied-up bastard to a locked box.” His eyes flicked up, and something like a shadow of amusement crossed his face.

----

Sam showed up right on time, just as the shadows had begun to shorten and the frost gave way to a thin sheen of melt on the rooftop. The echo of hooves announced his arrival before the knock did. She met him at the door with her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders.

Sam tipped his hat, giving her a once-over with narrowed eyes.

“Mornin’. You alright?”

“I am,” she replied. “Come in. Coffee’s hot.”

He stepped inside, shedding the cold with his coat, and his gaze landed on Bucky, still sitting at the table.

“You look like hell,” he muttered plainly.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are.” Sam shot back, then looked between the two of them. “Mind explainin’ what happened last night?”

Bucky exhaled slowly through his nose. “Rumlow came ridin’ up like he owned the place,” he started. “Knocked on her door, asked to be let in. Told her he saw men near the property, figured she needed lookin’ after.”

Sam’s brows crept up. “And?”

“I was in the barn,” Bucky continued. “Saw him. Came out before he could start pressin’ her more. And he didn’t like bein’ turned away.”

“That before or after you brawled in the mud like a couple’a feral dogs?”

Bucky ignored the comment. “Had a blade up his coat. Got me on the side.”

Sam swore and took a sharp step forward.

“I’m alright,” he cut in before the deputy could fuss. “It’s deep but clean. She took care of it.”

Sam glanced at her. “Of course she did.” Then back at Bucky. “So where is he?”

“Tied up in the barn. Secured. I want him taken straight to jail,” Bucky said. “Can’t risk him in our cell where any of his friends could sneak by or try somethin’ stupid. I’ll ride in the cart with you, send a wire from the office, and arrange it with the jailkeeper. Then you and Walker take him the rest of the way.”

Sam gave a short nod, already checking the edge of his coat for his gloves. “You sure you’re up for the ride?”

“Was stabbed, not shot. I’ll survive the damn cart.” He sounded more like himself now. Grim. Determined.

“Alright, then,” Sam muttered. “Let’s load him up before the sun climbs higher. You wanna stay inside?” he added, glancing her way.

But it was Bucky who spoke, eyes locked on her, jaw clenched again.

“She’s not comin’ out.”

Sam raised a brow.

“I don’t want that snake layin’ eyes on her,” he said, low. “Not even once more.”

She turned around. “I’ll get you something warm for the road,” then added, already fixing something in the pan.

Neither of them thanked her. But they didn’t need to.

----

It had been a couple of weeks since Rumlow was hauled off to jail, tied up with enough charges to keep him from circling her doorstep ever again. The town had already moved on. Talk faded fast when nothing scandalous came of it, and folks just settled into the idea that the sheriff and the widow were sweet on each other.

Which -by then- wasn’t exactly wrong.

Now he sat behind the sheriff’s desk again, shirt tucked neatly but sleeves rolled, squinting at a stack of forms that never got any shorter. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of the herbal sachet she’d left, lavender and cedar, neatly sewn, with tight and fine stitches. It smelled like her. Or maybe he was just starting to think of that scent as hers, because she always carried it in the folds of her skirts.

Sam leaned against the desk, arms crossed, watching him with that infuriatingly knowing look.

“You know,” he said, “I thought the fake courtin’ was bad enough, but now that it’s real, she’s settin’ up camp.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “She ain’t settin’ up camp.”

“Man, she brought you a thicker blanket, a rug for your cold-ass floor, a new mug ‘cause your old one had a crack the size of Kansas, and now she’s leavin’ sweet-smellin’ bags in your drawers. What’s next? Mending your shirts? Darning your socks? You think she’s doin’ charity?”

Bucky shot him a look sharp enough to skin a deer. “She’s just… makin’ things comfortable.”

“She’s featherin’ your nest,” Sam drawled.

“She’s not-” Bucky cut himself off. The denial died on his tongue because even he knew how foolish it’d sound, especially since the office smelled more like her each day. Since he’d found a spare hairpin tucked behind the basin in his bunk room. Since she’d started folding his damn shirts without a word.

His gaze dropped to the sachet. He ran a thumb across the seam, ears burning faint pink. “…Ain’t complainin’.”

Sam grinned. “Didn’t think you were.” Then, he cleared his throat. “So… she knows that with your sheriff’s pay you could be livin’ like a decent man, not a friar in a broom closet ‘cause you’re broke, right?” he asked, leaning back on his chair, one boot scuffing the floor. “That it’s a choice, not a circumstance.”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Suppose.”

Sam raised a brow. “’Cause from where I stand, it’s lookin’ like she’s dotin’ on some orphan boy who can’t tie his own boots.”

Bucky stopped writing.

Lifted his eyes just enough to meet Sam’s, cold and clear. The comment stuck somewhere it wasn’t meant to dig in. It wasn’t that he minded her small kindnesses. Hell, they undid him. But the way Sam framed it, like she saw him as someone in need of care instead of someone who could give it in return…

He dropped his eyes back to the paper. The ink bled slightly in the margin under his grip. “I can take care of her,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

Sam didn’t grin this time. Just nodded once, easy. “Didn’t say you couldn’t.”

Silence stretched between them, broken only by the scratch of the pen again as Bucky went back to the paperwork like the chat hadn’t touched a nerve.

----

She was in the middle of scrubbing the pot she’d used for stew the night before when it hit her, she was humming. Just some silly thing her mother used to sing while doing chores, something light and forgettable, an old tune she hadn’t heard in years. She rinsed the pot slowly, smiling.

It had been weeks now.

Weeks since the night Bucky bled on her porch and they kissed.

Since Rumlow had been taken off her land in irons, his voice silenced by bruises and the weight of charges no backdoor deal could wash away.

Bucky hadn’t been back to the house since then. First, because the wound needed tending and no saddle was kind to healing flesh. Then, because the new judge was a paperwork fiend and seemed to think Bucky’s badge was sewn from parchment.

So she went to him. To the office with its bare cot and cold walls. She’ll drop by with pie, claiming she was already headed to the general store. Taking the opportunity to leave little things… A thicker blanket. A rag rug for the edge of the bed. Bundles of dried herbs to keep the drawer linens from the clothing moths.

It wasn’t anything extravagant, just the kind of small comforts she figured no one else had ever thought to give him. There was something about that cold little back room that unsettled her. It looked like a place a man passed through, not one he was meant to stay in.

And he didn’t comment on any of it, not directly, but he used them. The blanket stayed on his cot. The sachets didn’t move. His coffee cup, the new one she brought in to replace the one with a crack, was always on the desk.

Still, their time together was scarce. Sam gave them moments when he could, but he had a job too. They made do. Bucky found excuses to get close, his touch was never crude or bold. An arm around her waist under the guise of needing to reach past her. Grazing her fingers when he passed a cup. Adjust her shawl, like it needed adjusting, and let his knuckles brush her jaw. He liked to stand behind her when she read something at the desk, close enough that his chest hovered near her back but never quite touched.

And one afternoon, when the sun was pouring through the slats just right, when Sam was off running errands, he kissed her properly. No awkward lead-up. No pretense. Just reached for her, pulled her in, and kissed her like he’d been thinking about it for days.

He wasn’t a talker. He showed things with his hands, with actions. And she didn’t mind. In fact, she liked that about him. Liked the way his touch had grown more comfortable -more confident- in the little moments they had. Like he’d decided it was allowed now.

She dried her hands, wiped them on the apron tied to her waist. Maybe she’d head to town after lunch. Said she needed to check on flour, but really, she just missed him.

----

She was half-wrestling the clean sheet over the mattress in the spare room when the knock at the door startled her. Firm enough to be polite. Not urgent.

Her breath caught.

It couldn’t be Rumlow. He was gone, locked up where he belonged. Still, her heart picked up as she wiped her hands on the side of her skirt and padded toward the front window. She pulled the curtain just enough to peek.

There he was.

Bucky stood on her porch, shifting slightly like he wasn’t sure whether to knock again or turn around. He had his hat in one hand, the other inside his coat. The clothing he wore was clean but road-dusted, like he’d come straight from the edge of town without stopping to brush off.

She didn’t bother hiding her smile as she opened the door. “Well,” she said, “this is a surprise.”

His mouth twitched. At first, he just nodded his head a little stiff, like it was the polite thing to do. But when she arched a brow at him, he stepped forward and pressed a quick, chaste kiss to her lips.

“Was thinkin’ about that window in the spare room,” he said after a beat, clearing his throat as she stepped aside to let him in. “The one that won’t shut right.”

She gave him a look. “Mmhm.”

“And… figured I oughta take a look at the back roof too. The bathroom one. You said it leaked when it rained last.”

He didn’t meet her eyes when he said it. Just scratched the back of his neck, glanced briefly at the floorboards like maybe they’d give him something better to say.

“So,” she said slowly, trying not to smile too much as she shut the door behind him, “you rode all the way out here because of a drafty window and a leaky roof.”

He shrugged, fidgeting a little with the brim of his hat before setting it down on the side table. “Had time,” he muttered. “Thought I’d make myself useful.”

She leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, crossing her arms. “I think you just missed me.”

His ears went pink.

She didn’t push. Just nodded toward the kitchen. “Coffee’s hot. Or I can warm up lunch if you’re hungry. Your call.”

He almost said yes to lunch. She saw the flicker of temptation in the way his eyes lingered on the stove, the shift of his shoulders like he was weighing manners against appetite. But then he looked to the window, at the slant of light across the floorboards, and shook his head.

“Best look at the roof while there’s still sun,” he said. “Don’t want to be up there squintin’.”

She nodded. “At least take some water, then.”

He hesitated a moment longer before nodding. “I’ll take that.”

She poured it into one of the heavier glasses, and he took it with a soft murmur of thanks, tipped it back, drained it in three long swallows, and handed it back. His fingers brushed hers, rough and warm.

“Sure you don’t want help?” she offered, though she already knew the answer.

He shook his head, half a smile in his stubble. “I’ll manage.

She didn’t press. Just stood at the door for a second as he slung his coat across the railing, and started baking.

It was what you did when someone came over and worked under your roof, someone who’d bled in your kitchen and slept in your bed and whispered things to you in the dark that made your breath catch. Someone who kissed you like it cost him something.

By the time the pie was in the oven, the kitchen already smelled like sugar and butter and cinnamon. She wiped her hands on her apron and glanced at the ticking clock. He’d been up there a good while.

Grabbing another glass of water, she stepped outside.

And there he was.

Perched on the slanted edge like it was nothing, straddling the peak above the bathroom. A handful of nails held between his teeth, sleeves rolled, arms flexed just enough with each slow, methodical movement.

The shirt clung to his back, damp from sweat, dusty where it brushed against the shingles. His suspenders hung looser now, one strap fallen halfway down an arm.

She didn’t say a word at first. Just stood there and watched him work.

He moved, adjusting his stance, and spotted her below.

“You need somethin’?” he asked around the nails, pulling them free one by one and setting them between his fingers.

She held up the water. “Thought you might want more.”

He reached for it with a murmur of thanks, then handed it over. As she started to turn back, he caught her eye again. Her gaze remained too long on the curve of his back. On his sleeves rolled to the elbow, dirt streaked across his scarred forearm.

When her eyes found his, he arched a questioning brow. She took a breath and let it go slowly. “Just enjoying the view,” she murmured, like it didn’t matter. Like her cheeks weren’t warming already.

His hammer paused for a beat.

And then he chuckled, low and dry.

“You bakein’ somethin’ in there?” he asked without looking down.

“Maybe.”

“Figured. Smells like trouble.”

She smiled and turned back toward the house, his low laugh still drifting down behind her.

Damn man made a roof look like a postcard.

----

He stepped onto the porch and dusted off his shirt with a few hard swipes, then bent to slap the dried grit from his trousers. He shook out his sleeves, ran a hand through his hair, and finally exhaled through his nose like a man ready to face a firing squad instead of a kitchen.

The door creaked as he opened it.

She glanced up from the stove just as he hovered in the threshold, half-shadowed, boot heels planted like they might root to the floorboards.

“All done,” he said. “Shouldn’t be any more leakins’. Found the spot where the water slipped through, patched it with what you had, and sealed it tight. Needs a new shingle or two come spring, but for now, it’ll hold.”

She nodded, pleased, but when she turned fully toward him, he still hadn’t moved past the doorframe.

“What are you doin’ standin’ there like a statue?” she asked, arching a brow.

His eyes flicked up, then back down. One hand rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m all dusty,” he muttered. “Sweaty too. Didn’t wanna get your kitchen dirty.”

The way he said it -quiet, almost sheepish- made her chest clench. Like he was waiting for someone to tell him he didn’t belong in the nice parts of a home. The way a boy might be scolded for tracking mud through a front parlor that wasn’t his.

She stepped around the table and crossed to him without a word. Took his hand, his big, warm hand, and tugged gently.

“You just finished an honest day’s work, one you weren’t asked to do, and did anyway. Who gives a damn about dust and sweat in a kitchen,” she said, firm but warmly.

He just blinked at her, but let himself be led.

She walked him right over to the basin and pointed.

“Wash your hands.”

He obeyed, silently.

“And sit down after,” she added, already cutting into the pie. “You’re gettin’ a slice before you so much as look at the spare room window.”

He tried to argue. “You don’t have to fuss-”

“I ain’t fussin’. I’m feedin’. Sit.”

He did, with the faintest twitch of a smile. When she set the plate in front of him and turned to grab a fork, his gaze followed her. She wasn’t looking at him then, but if she had, she would’ve seen it:

That soft look, like a man seeing something he hadn’t let himself hope for.

----

She watched him polish off the last bite of pie, scraping the fork gently against the plate. He leaned back slightly, not quite slouched, and set the fork down with a soft clink.

“Want another slice?” she asked, already reaching for the knife.

He gave a slow nod. “If you’re offerin’, I’d be a fool to say no. That’s the best thing I’ve had in months.”

Her mouth twitched at that, trying to hide how that praise made her feel nice in her chest. She turned to cut him a second helping, and when she was about to take his plate, he had already started to stand.

“‘Scuse me a minute,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll be right back.”

She nodded absently, already sliding the pie knife back into the tin.

----

Bucky stood over the basin, with his hands braced on either side of the chipped porcelain, breathing tightly. The shirt clung to his back with sweat and dust, a reminder of how he must look -and smell- after hours straddling a damn roof like a fool. This wasn’t the bunkroom behind the office. Wasn’t a saloon with flickering lamplight and no one who gave a damn if you were clean. This was her home.

The thought alone made his gut twist.

He’d barely tasted the first slice of pie before the awareness of it set an itch he couldn’t reach. The way her eyes flicked to him when he stood in the doorway, hesitant to cross into her kitchen. The softness in her voice when she told him to wash his hands. The warmth of her palm guiding his calloused fingers. It was all too much and not enough at once.

He pulled the shirt over his head, and the cool air hit his skin and made him hiss. He didn’t want her to see the sweat-soaked cotton, the trail of grime down his neck and arms from lying in hay and crawling across a wooden roof. Not when she’d taken the time to bake him a pie.

“Christ,” he muttered under his breath, reaching for the bar of laundry soap.

He wet a rag and rubbed until it lathered, dragging it across his chest, under his arms, down the sides of his neck. He scrubbed perhaps harder than intended to feel clean again. Respectable. Like the kind of man who could sit at her table without leaving a mark behind. The smell of the laundry soap, faint and piney, clung to his skin.

Then he splashed water onto his hair, putting some soap foam on it and rinsing the best he could, combing it with his fingers through the mess he had made. He didn’t have a proper comb -never thought to carry one- but he flattened it the best he could and slicked it back behind his ears. It’d have to do.

Looking into the mirror above the basin, he saw a man he didn’t quite recognize. Still tired. But... presentable. For her.

He muttered a curse, ran the rag once more across his face, and pulled the shirt back on with a grimace. Still damp, but at least it didn’t stink so much now. He rolled the sleeves to the elbows again, adjusted the fall of the hem, and gave himself one last glance before stepping out.

The scent of pear pie greeted him first. She didn’t look up right away. But when she did, he caught the flicker in her gaze, the way it dipped to his collar, lingered, then softened.

She didn’t say a word about it. Just passed him the plate, and busied herself with pouring coffee so he wouldn’t see the way something in her melted a little at the thought of this rough, solitary man splashing himself clean with her laundry soap in her little washroom just to sit at her table and feel right in it.

----

They’d been sitting across from each other for maybe fifteen minutes, forks scraping gently against ceramic, the scent of pear and butter still clinging to the warm kitchen air. She said something about the orchard, but he didn’t quite catch it. Not really. Not with the way her mouth curved when she spoke, not with the way she’d just licked a smear of pie filling from the tip of her finger like she hadn’t done a damn thing.

And he was starving, sure. But not for pie.

She’d caught him staring once or twice already, and each time he’d dropped his gaze like a kid caught with his hand in the sugar jar, fixing his attention sharply on whatever was closest. A stain on the table. The little flowers painted on the plate. His coffee.

She’d been watching him right back, he could feel it. And when her eyes caught his again, she didn’t let him look away easily this time.

She tilted her head a little. “Alright,” she said quietly, but pointed. “What is it?”

He blinked, dragging his eyes to the mug in his hand, buying a beat of time. “Hm?”

“You’ve been starin’ at me like you’ve got somethin’ on your tongue and don’t know if it’s worth sayin’.”

He scraped his thumb along the edge of his cup. “Ain’t somethin’ to say polite.”

That made her brows lift. She leaned slightly forward, bracing her elbow on the table, cheek in her hand. Calm. Curious.

“Oh? What is it then?”

Shit. His ears heated. She wasn’t even trying to tease him, not really, which somehow made it worse. He thought about lying. Thought about brushing it off, saying he was sick in his gut or something like that. But something in her gaze was expectant and open, so he set the mug down and looked her in the eyes.

“I’ve been starin’,” he finally said, voice a little roughened, “because it’s been a long damn time since we’ve been alone in a room without someone hoverin’ nearby. Because that dress makes me think about things I probably shouldn’t at your kitchen table. Because you’re here, and I’m here, and we’re courtin’ but I still don’t know when’s the polite time to stop bein’ gentlemanly and just… put my hands on you the way I want to.”

Her lips parted slightly, but her gaze didn’t drop.

“And now you’ve got me sittin’ here, wonderin’ how much longer I gotta pretend to enjoy this damn pie when all I want is to come around this table and see if you taste sweeter than you bake.”

He exhaled, like he’d held that inside him for too long.

“Sorry,” he added after a beat, rubbing a hand across his face. “Didn’t mean to make things-”

“You didn’t,” she cut him, then reached out and set her hand over his where it rested on the table. “And what way,” she went on, soft but with intent, “is it that you want to touch me?”

Bucky looked down at his plate. Then back up. Then down again, because her voice had dipped, and there was a lilt to it now, something careful, but not shy. His heart thudded in his chest like it had been caught doing something wrong.

He licked his bottom lip, flicking his eyes to where her thumb brushed the back of his hand. Slowly, his own thumb moved to meet it. A slow stroke. Testing.

“Not like a man tryin’ to get his hand under a skirt in a shadowed alley,” he said finally, voice rough with restraint. “But not like we’re sharin’ coffee in a parlor neither.”

That earned him the smallest tilt of her mouth. Not quite a smirk. Not quite a smile. Something warmer.

“I see,” she murmured.

“No,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly, gaze dropping again. “You don’t.”

She quirked a brow at that. Sat back slightly, still touching him, but eyeing him now, like she was searching for the line between teasing and truth.

“I know I’m not the most experienced woman you’ve encountered in your life, Bucky,” she said after a breath. “But I’m not precisely a debutant either,” she reminded him, slightly lifting her chin. “I’m not as dense or naive as you think me to be.”

“I- I know you’re not,” he stammered, his eyes darting up to her face, then down again. He didn’t say virgin. Couldn’t. “It’s not that.” He sighed. “It’s just… you’re a proper woman,” he went on, voice rough and uncertain now. “And there are times for everything, for what’s right. What’s… decent. I don’t always know the steps to that. Ain’t familiar with the dances of it. And I don’t want to -hell- don’t want to disrespect you.”

He sounded torn in two, one part the man who’d stared her down in the middle of the kitchen like he meant to devour her, and the other, the quiet, weatherworn boy who still hesitated to meet a gaze in case someone saw too much.

That version of him -that orphaned ache- was always there under the surface, and it pained her every time it showed.

She stood up, slow and sure. Circled the table with measured steps.

He didn’t look up at first. Not until her hand came to rest lightly on his jaw, and her thumb brushed the scruff on his cheek like she was handling something fragile and precious.

“Well,” she said gently, “given that it’s been stated I’m not precisely a debutant… that we are, in fact, courting… and that I’m willing for you to touch me…”

Her fingers moved, slowly and certain, tangling into the damp strands of his hair behind his ear, drawing his gaze to hers.

“I can assure you, dear,” she whispered, voice low and warm, “I won’t feel disrespected if you touch me.”

His breath hitched faintly.

Her thumb stroked across the edge of his cheekbone, and his hands came up slowly, still uncertain, resting lightly on her waist like he was still asking permission even now. She didn’t step back. Didn’t speak. Just kept that soft look on her face like she was waiting for him to do what they’d both been wanting for weeks.

“C’mere,” he rasped.

He eased her closer, then sat back slightly, guiding her gently to his lap with a slow pull. Her skirts settled around them, her knees bracketing his thigh.

His hand came up slowly to her neck, tracing the thick braid that lay against her chest.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he murmured, tugging just enough at the end of it to tilt her face toward his. “Too damn long.”

Then he kissed her.

Not soft, not careful. But Deep and slow. Her hands grabbed his shoulders, and he groaned low in his throat, sliding one hand up to rest just below the swell of her breast. He didn’t push. Didn’t grab. Just touched, with his wide and warm palm over the fabric of her dress.

She pressed in closer, and he kept tasting her, the tug on her braid keeping her tilted just so, mouths brushing and catching again until both their chests rose in uneven rhythm.

She pulled back just enough to look at him, lips flushed, braid loosened near her throat, eyes flickering between his mouth and his eyes. Her breath ghosted over his cheek when she spoke.

“What if I tell you, I do want you to touch me like a man tryin’ to get his hand under a skirt in a shadowed alley?” she asked.

For half a second, he froze.

His brain went blank, stunned, like he wasn’t sure he heard her right. Like every part of him stalled just to replay her voice in his head.

But then, she shifted. Just subtly, her thighs adjusted against his, her weight rolling against his leg, her fingers pressing tighter into the fabric at his shoulders.

And all pretense of decorum flew clean out the window.

He swore under his breath.

His hand slipped from her side to her back, dragging her into him with a need he didn’t bother hiding now. The one cupping the side of her face slid lower, down the line of her neck to her collarbone, brushing the edge of the braid like it burned him. His lips were on her jaw, her throat, her pulse, hungry now, claiming the taste of her skin.

His voice was ragged against her. “Then you better hold on, sweetheart. ‘Cause I’ve got a whole damn alley’s worth of want backed up in me.”

He didn’t wait for a reply, because she’d already given it, in the way she shifted closer, in the way her breath hitched when his mouth trailed along the hollow of her neck. In the way her hands slipped from his shoulders to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling a little, like her fingers couldn’t keep up with the want.

He tugged the braid again, just enough to angle her mouth to his, to kiss her with a groan buried in his throat, and her soft gasp only spurred him on.

When she tugged his shirt from his waistband, he let her, let her hands roam up his chest, then the sides of his torso.

And then her hands slid lower.

His head dropped forward, resting his forehead against hers. She reached for the hem of her dress, and he stilled her hands, not to stop her, but to help. Pulled the fabric up her thighs, bunched it at her hips so he could finally feel the warmth of her skin against his trousers. His hand cupped the back of her thigh, dragging up his fingers slowly until she shivered against him.

“You sure?” he asked, voice barely holding together.

“I’m still here, aren’t I?” she murmured.

He stood with her still on his lap, her legs instinctively wrapping around him, and his hands gripped under her thighs, broad palms against the shape of her rear as he carried her toward the bedroom.

She blinked. “Bucky?”

His jaw ticked. “I’m not doin’ this rushed. Not with you.”

The bedroom was dim, the afternoon sun cutting soft lines across the sheets she’d changed earlier. He nudged the door shut with his foot and laid her on the bed like she was something to be unwrapped. Then stood at the edge, looking down at her, breath uneven.

Her hair was loose now, lips already kiss-swollen, skirt bunched at her thighs. She watched him with eyes wide and hungry. Her hand reached for the buttons of her dress, but he caught it gently, shaking his head.

“Let me.”

And so he did. Unbuttoned her slowly, brushing the fabric away inch by inch. He peeled the dress down her shoulders with reverence, baring her gradually, and by the time she was left in nothing but her stockings and the thin cotton chemise, his own shirt had joined the pile on the floor. She reached out to him, caressing his chest, the flat of his stomach, the long lines of muscle traced with old scars she hadn’t seen up close until now. He stilled under her touch, eyes fluttering shut.

When his hands reached the hem of her chemise, he paused, pressing his fingers at the edge. He didn’t look at her, not at first. Just stared at the fabric between his knuckles, the delicate cotton.

Then his eyes lifted.

“Can I?” he rasped, voice scraped raw with restraint.

She nodded, slow and sure.

His hands slid up her sides, lifting the chemise inch by inch. Her arms lifted instinctively, letting him tug it over her head, and then it was gone, left somewhere on the floor. She lay there in nothing but her stockings, the soft hem of them hugging her thighs.

Bucky froze.

His gaze dragged over her, pupils blown wide, lips parted like he had words but forgot them all.

When he climbed over her, she thought this was it. That this was what came next. It was all she’d known: some kisses, bodies together in the dark, fumbling hands and quiet sounds. Familiar. Sweet.

But Bucky leaned down, kissed her again -slow, deep- then his lips began to move lower. Over her jaw. Down the slope of her neck. Across the curve of her shoulder. Lower still.

His mouth pressed to the edge of one breast, then the other. Nuzzled warmly into her skin before brushing his lips, carefully, over one nipple.

Her breath caught.

His tongue flicked gently. Just once. Her back arched, and a soft sound escaped her throat, half surprise, half something deeper. He closed his mouth over her then, suckling with care, patient and deliberate until her toes curled against the mattress.

Another gasp. Her hands rose instinctively, clinging to his shoulders, digging her nails into solid muscle as he moved to the other side. Warm tongue, reverent lips. One hand trailed lower, slowly over her belly, as if to say stay with me, while he took his time learning every inch of her.

“That... that felt good,” she whispered, breathless.

He looked up at her then, hair falling across one cheek, lips damp. “You ain’t felt nothin’ yet,” he said, voice rough with heat.

And then he started to move down.

He kissed his way along her belly, her hip, stopping to linger at every patch of skin. One hand slid under her thigh, tracing his fingertips over the top edge of her stocking, and then he kissed the inside of her leg, close -too close- to where she throbbed for him.

She bolted upright on her elbows, all wide eyes, heat flooding her cheeks.

“What- what are you doing?”

His voice was low, and warm. “What you deserve.” He gently parted her thighs, brushing his mouth over her skin like he had all the time in the world. “Gonna make you feel good. Just lie back, honey.”

“But I- I’ve never-” She didn’t know how to finish. Her cheeks burned hot.

He met her eyes “Then I reckon you’ve been shorted. ‘Cause this?” He kissed just higher, lips barely grazing her skin. “This is how a man loves a woman proper.”

Her breath stuttered.

And then she did exactly what he asked, lay back and let him show her.

He saw the way her fingers clenched at the sheets, how her thighs tensed slightly under his hands, torn between modesty and anticipation. She wasn’t stopping him. She was just flustered, overwhelmed.

So he slowed.

His mouth pressed another kiss to the tender skin of her inner thigh, then another, until she exhaled slowly, and her body eased into the mattress inch by inch.

“Good,” he murmured against her. “Just like that.”

When he finally let his mouth brush over her folds, she shivered, a soft gasp leaving her lips as her hips twitched up involuntarily. His hands steadied her, one large palm splayed against her belly, the other smoothing over her thigh. And then he did it again, circling, teasing, suckling. His tongue moved with purpose. Slowly. Rhythmic. Reverently.

Her head tipped back.

One of her hands gripping the sheet found its way to his hair, tangling her fingers on his locks as her breath became quicker. She wasn’t quiet, not anymore. Soft sounds escaped her lips, startled at first, then shameless, open.

Bucky groaned low when he felt her start to tremble, the sound vibrating against her in a way that made her cry out softly.

“Bucky-” she gasped, hips rolling against his mouth, helpless.

“That’s it,” he rasped between strokes, “Let go for me.”

And she did.

With a stuttering gasp and her legs trembling around his shoulders, she came against his mouth. She wasn’t shy about the way her body jerked under him, or the way she whimpered his name like a prayer when it ended.

He stayed there, kissing the soft inside of her thigh again, his stubble rough and tender all at once. His hand stroked her hip as her breathing slowed.

When she finally looked down at him again, his mouth was slick, eyes dark, lips swollen from use.

“You…” she tried, dazed. “That was…”

“Been wantin’ to,” he said, voice like dusk. “Since I saw you in that kitchen apron the week I stayed here. Didn’t even know what hit me, just… knew I’d give up anything to put my mouth on you like that.”

She reached for him then and pulled him up, dragging him by the shoulder and the back of his neck until he was back over her, his chest brushing hers.

He hissed softly as his new scar tugged his skin, but didn’t stop. Not when she kissed him, slow and deep, tasting herself on his tongue. Not when her fingers started to fumble with the buttons of his trousers.

Her cheeks were flushed, sure. But her voice wasn’t shy when she murmured, “Come on, Sheriff. Now take your time gettin’ inside me.”

His breath caught, more startled by the words than anything else. Heat rushed up his neck. Hell, he’d heard things said in saloons that’d make most men blush, but coming from her? His proper woman with proper manners? He cursed under his breath, low and ragged.

“Well,” he muttered, “I’d be a damn fool not to listen to an order like that.”

He helped her ease down the fabric of his trousers. This time, the underthings were newer. Still plain, but not frayed and shameful like last time.

The moment they came off and her eyes flicked down, her gaze widened just a little, not precisely with fear, but something like stunned curiosity. She had seen it before when tending him, but resting.

He saw her expression and chuckled dryly. “Hope you’re not disappointed.”

She didn’t laugh.

Instead, her lips parted, and she said quietly, “Not precisely disappointed. Just... uncertain.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth tugging into something like a smile. “Didn’t hear complaints before, sugar.”

Her eyes met his, lips still parted from her soft confession. He leaned over her then, kissing her gently, slowly, as his hand trailed down her waist.

“You’ll be good,” he murmured against her mouth.

He shifted between her thighs, parting them with reverence, and guided himself along her slick heat with slow, deliberate strokes meant to coat, not press, not force. His breath was already ragged from restraint, from the warmth of her body against him, from the knowledge that this moment was no longer imagined. It was real. And when he finally eased his hips to line himself up, the resistance surprised him.

She tensed slightly beneath him, gripping the quilt with her fingers. “It’s been a long time,” she murmured, voice barely more than breath, holding his gaze.

“‘S alright,” he rasped, dropping his head to kiss her temple, then lower, the bridge of her nose. “Ain’t in no rush.”

One of his hands trailed down between them, and he slid a finger inside her, gently, slowly, then added another, curling just enough to make her back arch. She gasped, hips twitching, and he whispered again, “I said we’d go slow. Let me take care of you, honey.” His voice was velvet. There was no hunger in it, not yet. Just patience. Just care. He watched her body respond, her thighs loosening, her breathing hitching, her hips moving faintly in search of more.

“There,” he murmured, brushing his lips over her cheek. “There you go. That’s it.” His thumb circled her clit tenderly as his fingers worked her open, coaxing softness from tension, wetness from hesitation.

Only when she sighed and shifted did he pull his hand back, guiding himself again with careful pressure, watching her face the whole time. “If it’s too much, you tell me. You say stop.”

She nodded and braced herself with both hands on his shoulders.

He pushed in slowly, and his breath caught as her body welcomed him, tight and hot and trembling around him.

“Jesus,” he hissed, shutting his eyes for half a second. “You feel- God, darlin’…”

She felt impossibly full. Stretched around him, her nails sinking into his shoulders as he sank in inch by inch, with gritted teeth, like each second tested his restraint to its limit. He was breathing through his nose, harsh and shallow, a vein throbbing at the side of his neck.

“You alright?” he murmured, voice barely held together.

She nodded, “Yeah, jus’... a lot.”

“I know,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her brow, then her cheek, then lower, nuzzling the corner of her mouth. “You’re takin’ me so goddamn good.”

And then she exhaled, a full-body release of tension, her back softening beneath him, her hips rising just a little, inviting to move.

He felt it.

And let go.

Slowly at first, testing the motion. She gasped, one hand flying to grip the bedsheet, and he groaned deeply.

“You’re squeezin’ me like you never been fucked.” he muttered, grazing her neck with his teeth.

She whimpered -raw, helpless- and he began to move in earnest now. Smooth strokes that rocked her against the mattress, bracing his weight on his forearms, pressing her body down with his in the best kind of way. Her legs wrapped tighter around his waist, thighs trembling, and when he angled just right-

“Oh-” she choked out, eyes flying open.

“There?” he rasped, pulling back and driving in again, watching her shudder. “That's what you like?”

She nodded frantically, lips parted, soundless moans catching in her throat.

He fucked her harder then, rhythmic, relentless, still careful but with weight behind each stroke, hands planted beside her shoulders, hair falling loose and wild around his face.

“Look at me,” he muttered.

Her lashes fluttered.

“C’mon, sweetheart, eyes on me while I fuck you.”

The words shocked her, raw and filthy.

Her gaze met his.

And God, he looked ruined, cheeks flushed, lips bitten red, blue eyes dark and blown wide. He rocked into her harder and saw her mouth fall open on a silent cry.

“You feel this?” he whispered, leaning in until their foreheads touched, his hips grinding deeply. “Every inch of me inside you, sugar. Wrapped around me like you were made for it.”

She whimpered, rising her hips to meet his now, chasing the friction.

“Been thinkin’ about this since the day you let me touch you,” he went on. “Thinkin’ about stretchin’ you open on my cock, makin’ you mine for real.”

Her fingers clawed at his back.

That voice. Those words.

He didn’t speak like that. Not around her. Not ever.

He was always so careful with her, measured, quiet. Even when angry, Bucky Barnes spoke like a man with his fists tied behind his back, every syllable tempered, every word weighed before it left his mouth.

But this, this wasn’t the sheriff.

This was the man beneath it.

The one who lived too long in rooms with no doors, the one whose wants were so repressed they came out raw when he let go. And hearing that voice, coarse and low, saying filthy things… things no one had ever dared say to her-

It made her wetter.

“You’re mine, aren’t you?” he hissed. “You’re my woman. Tell me.”

She swallowed a sob. “Y-yes- yes, Bucky-”

And the way he groaned then, she’d never forget that sound. Never.

Then, without a word, he shifted his weight and spread one of her thighs wider with his hand, planting it firmly against the mattress. The other slid between their bodies, pressing his fingers hot and sure against the bud of nerves he hadn’t yet touched.

She gasped -half breath, half cry- startled all over again, like she hadn’t known she could feel that much, that sharply, all at once.

He noticed.

Oh, he noticed.

The way her body tensed under him, her mouth parted in stunned pleasure. And it clicked, something carnal and furious dawning in his brain: no one had ever done this for her. No one had ever taken the time to show her what her body could do while fucking, what it deserved to feel.

The thought made his rhythm falter, almost spilling inside her.

He gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow as he worked her in time with his thrusts, the soft, wet sounds between them growing louder. Her hands scrambled up his back again, nails sinking in, her hips twitching against his hand.

“God,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “You never- have you never been touched like this?”

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Her whimpers were enough answer.

“Christ,” he growled, dropping his forehead to her shoulder.

Her walls clenched around him, and he felt the tremble in her thighs.

“You’re gonna come on my cock,” he said, voice like gravel, “like a good little wife-”

The word slipped out of his lips raw and unfiltered.

She moaned, louder this time, startled again, her eyes fluttered shut in ecstasy.

He caught her chin in one hand, fingers still working her, hips grinding deeper.

“Look at me,” he ordered, low and rough. “Eyes on me when you come. Let me see it, darling.”

She shattered with a cry she didn’t recognize, trying to look at him but failing when her eyes rolled back with pleasure, clenching around him so hard he lost rhythm, cursed, and buried himself as deep as he could go.

His release hit a moment later -violent and staggering- his whole body bending over hers as he grunted and spilled inside her, gripping the sheets tight enough to almost tear them.

For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing, uneven, gasping, tangled in each other like the whole world had narrowed to this bed, this room, this moment.

“…Jesus,” he breathed against her neck.

She didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Not with the way her heart was still trying to find its rhythm again, not with the way her thighs still trembled faintly where they wrapped around his hips. Her hand lay limp on his shoulder, her fingers twitching like she’d forgotten they didn’t need to hold on anymore.

He stayed inside her for a long moment, both of them still catching up to themselves. The only sounds were their breaths and the fire cracking softly in the next room.

Then, slowly, he drew back with a hiss through his teeth. She winced too, not from pain, but from the strange aching feel of being left suddenly empty. His softening cock slipped free with a wet sound, a trail of his spend slipping after it, hot and messy between her thighs.

She let her eyes close.

And then he was moving again. He lay down on his side, and without asking, without hesitating, he dragged her against him.

One arm hooked low under her hips, the other winding firm around her shoulders, sinking her to his chest like afraid she'd vanish if he loosened his grip.

She let him. Felt good being tucked against his sweat-damp skin, her legs tangled with his, her cheek rested against the spot where his heart pounded slow and steady again.

He didn’t speak. Just exhaled long and quietly into her hair, moving his hand over her back like he was still testing that she was real.

Like letting go wasn’t even a consideration.

----

They didn’t move for a while. The sheets were tangled, their skin sticky with sweat.

It was late afternoon.

Bucky’d have to go soon. He sighed, deep and reluctantly, and she felt the rise and fall of his chest against her cheek before he shifted slightly, propping himself up on one elbow.

He looked down at her, her hair mussed, lips still kiss-swollen, lashes casting shadows on her cheek.

“I should head back before it gets too dark,” he murmured. But he didn’t move.

She didn’t say anything. Just nodded a little.

His fingers found her arm, then slid down to her wrist, and curled gently around it. “…Wanted to say thanks,” he added. “For the things you left at the office. The blanket. That sachet. The new mug.”

She blinked, turned her head slightly to look up at him. He wasn’t looking at her, just somewhere past her shoulder.

“I’m not really good at… keepin’ myself. Always figured if I had a roof and a bed, that was plenty.” He exhaled through his nose. “Never really thought about comfort. Not the way you do.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just leaned up a little and pressed her lips to his jaw, slow and softly.

The quiet after that stretched.

He wasn’t making a move to leave yet, and she… well, her mind kept circling back. Back to the way he’d spoken to her not long ago, his voice rough and unraveled with need. You’re gonna come on my cock like a good little wife.

She knew he cared. That much was clear. The whole damn town knew about them now, this time for real. But there was still a difference between being sweethearts and… something else.

She hated herself a little for bringing it up. But she didn’t like guessing games. Didn’t like not knowing where she stood.

“Can I ask you something?” she murmured at last, watching his profile in the soft light.

His gaze shifted to hers. “Anything.”

Her cheeks warmed, but she didn’t back down. “Earlier, when we- you said somethin’.”

He frowned slightly, scratching the back of his neck. Dammit. He already knew. Knew exactly what she meant. He had run his mouth talking to her like a common whore and probably she was rethinking her life choices right now.

“I said a lot of things,” he drawled, trying to play it down, even as dread pressed down in his gut. “If I said somethin’ crude, I-”

“You called me your little wife.”

He went still. Heart stuttering, throat dry. Yeah, he did. He’d gone and said it, a damn boyish dream spit out in the middle of heat and skin and her sweet voice in his ear.

“I… I didn’t-” He started, stumbled. “I didn’t mean- I mean, I did, but not like-“

Her shoulders tensed slightly. She gave a tiny nod, dipping her gaze to the quilt between them.

“It’s alright,” she murmured quickly, too quickly. “I was just curious, that’s all. You don’t have to explain, I know it was just-”

“No,” he said, sharper than he meant to. Her head jerked up.

He dragged a hand down his face. “No,” he said again, lower this time, more like himself. “That ain’t what I meant. I just- I wasn’t expectin’ to get called out on it. Thought it’d stayed in my damn head where it belongs.”

She blinked, unsure.

Bucky exhaled hard through his nose, then met her eyes and made himself speak.

“I said it,” he muttered. “Because I think about it more than I oughta. ‘Bout you. ‘Bout what it’d be like. If you were mine, for real. If I had a house to walk back to, and you were there. I-” he looked away for a second, then back again. “I didn’t say it like a filthy thing.”

He swallowed hard. “Truth is, there’s things I’ve been meanin’ to take care of before askin’ you proper. Wanted it to be right. Wanted to give you more than just, this.” His thumb brushed over her knuckles. “More than just a man who means well but sleeps in a damn cot behind a desk.”

He let out a low chuckle, dry, self-mocking. “And yet here I am, talkin’ about it with my ass naked, instead of askin’ like I should, when I should. Seems I couldn’t even manage that part right.”.” His voice turned hoarse, and his mouth became a thin line. Embarrassed. Ashamed, maybe, like some part of him still thought he didn’t deserve to want things like that.

But she shifted closer without hesitation, her bare legs brushing his beneath the sheets. One hand slid up his chest, over the solid beat of his heart, and her thumb made slow, soft circles there like she could soothe the old ache.

“You want to marry me?” she asked softly.

“I do,” he said. Plain and quiet.

She smiled warmly then, and leaned forward, brushing his cheek with her nose, then kissed the corner of his mouth tenderly. “Well,” she murmured, “I guess I’ll wait to hear you ask proper, then.”

Bucky didn’t smile, not exactly. But something in his eyes warmed. Like maybe that part of him that had always braced for rejection had finally found a place to rest. Just drew her in a little closer, resting his chin on her head.

“I will,” he said finally, quiet against her hair. “Not today. But soon.”

She hummed and nodded slowly. Like it was enough.

Her fingers trailed over his chest, then stilled to lazily trace the edge of an old scar just beneath his ribs. The pad of her thumb circled there, slow and aimlessly, and his breath caught a little from how good it felt.

Outside, the wind shifted the trees. Inside, the only sound was the slow, matched rhythm of their breaths.

She pressed a soft kiss to the hollow of his throat, then let her cheek rest there, right over the thrum of his pulse. “Bet this wasn’t what you pictured when you came to fix the roof,” she murmured.

He huffed, mouth quirking against her temple. “Didn’t even get to fix the damn window.”

“Well,” she said, eyes already drifting closed, “guess you’ll just have to come back.”

He smiled into her hair, his arm pressing just a little harder around her, like he didn’t want to let even an inch of her go.

He pressed a kiss to her hair and let his lips remain there.

“Didn’t think I’d ever get somethin’ like this,” he murmured.

She tilted her face toward him, brushing her nose along his jaw, her fingers resting over his heart. “You did.”

His free hand found hers beneath the covers, intertwining their fingers tightly.

“Then I’ll try real hard not to lose it.”

FIN

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @whitewolfluvr @webbedwonders @ddrewcameron @globetrotter28 @homiesexual-or-homosexual @maryevm @nojudgmentjustsupport @jaderabbitt @hi172826 @littlesuniee @lonelyghosts-stuff @vxllys @mrsalexstan @winter107soldier @muchwita @gentlelimerence @gotminho @alaskaloveposts @oldernotwiser26 @daylighthazzz @dollface-xoxo @danzer8705 @ana27qz @carrotlove @valyriantarg @mgchaser @kittieboo @buckysbbydoll @purplefluffycows @yes-ilovetowrite @greatenthusiasttidalwave @technicallytinyheart @y0urgrl @wintrsoldrluvr @neyr100 @shortlikerdj @alexfms97 @escapefromrealitylol @thedonswife13 @stop-stealing-the-good-usernames @identity2212 @unicornqueen05 @bakugouswh0r3 @ladyvenera @starkglory @amanda-says @crowwclubb @mortallydistinguishedwolf @scorpiosaintt @remuslupinisdaddyasf @crossfandomslut @ifuckwithyouanyday @highhopes1008 @wandabillywrites @folkkmar @fantasticcoffeepeanut @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @opheliadynah @perdidosbucky-yyo @buckyssbestgirl @stormy-stardust @whisperingwillowxox @coutureisart @oceansandblackhearts

Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[crossfandomslut]

My poor emotionally constipated bucky 😭🫶

for better or for worse (5) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, heavy angst, mentions of torture

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 3.5k

author's note: hi sweethearts! we are at chapter of this series and oh my gosh, i am so excited to get the last 2 chapters out because i am debating between the type of ending i would like this series to have! your feedback is always welcomed 💌 love ya guys and stay safe out there! 💕

series masterlist

The penthouse was excessive.

It was the kind of wealth that laughed at subtlety—the kind that didn’t whisper its power, but screamed it. It assaulted the senses in every direction, a crystalline fortress carved into the sky, perched at the top of Monaco’s most elite tower. 

Glittering chandeliers hung like jagged ice sculptures from mirrored ceilings, casting fractured rainbows across floors of polished ivory marble. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and money.

A wall-to-wall aquarium stretched across one entire side of the room, aglow with bioluminescent fish imported from some private reef halfway across the world.

Even the water shimmered like it had been distilled from diamonds. Every inch of the space screamed exclusivity, opulence, danger. 

You could feel it in your skin—like silk suffocating you.

Beyond the towering glass windows, the Monaco skyline glittered against the velvet night. Yachts drifted below like ghosts, their lights blinking lazily on the dark sea.

And at the center of it all was Raskovic.

He was built like a war—not a man, but a monument. Thick-necked, wide-shouldered, a towering frame that made the tailored lines of his suit look stretched and choked. 

He radiated the kind of threat that didn’t need to be spoken. Every guard in the room flinched just slightly when he turned his head—a glance carrying the weight of a command.

You’d seen powerful men before. But this… this was different. Raskovic didn’t just own power. He embodied it.

His face was carved in hard lines, his mouth twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile. It didn’t soften him. It made him look sharper. Hungrier. Like a lion watching dinner stumble straight into the den.

“Mr. and Mrs. Barnes,” he said, voice smooth like old leather and too much vodka. He didn’t stand, just gestured lazily for you to join him at the long glass table set in the center of the room.

Bucky was close behind you. His hand slid to the small of your back—part of the act, of course. But his fingers pressed in slightly harder than they needed to. Like a warning, like reassurance. You didn’t know which one you needed more.

“We’re honoured,” you said smoothly, your voice polished and poised, as if the glittering tension didn’t make your skin itch. Bucky gave a nod beside you, his eyes tracking every guard, every movement.

The table had been laid out like an art piece, foie gras resting atop toasted brioche with violet fig compote, lobster bisque in impossibly thin porcelain bowls, and Duck à l’orange carved so precisely it looked painted. 

Surrounding the spread were polished silver utensils and deep-red wine glinting in faceted crystal flutes, poured with care by servers in floor-length black gowns.

You sat, and the moment your body touched the chair, something in your gut twisted hard.

It wasn’t anything obvious. 

No flashing lights, no sudden danger. Just instinct—a whisper at the base of your skull that grew louder with every breath you took. The way the servers didn’t meet your eyes. The way Andrei leaned in the shadows of the far wall, watching, waiting.

You knew. Something was wrong.

Raskovic took his wine in hand and swirled it lazily. “So. I heard from Andrei…” He turned those cold eyes to you. “You know me?”

Bucky didn’t even blink. “Who wouldn’t?”

A smile crept across Raskovic’s face. “A good answer.”

He chuckled and sipped his wine, exuding the confidence of a man surrounded by his kingdom. You let the conversation glide around you like smoke, lips curved just enough, playing your part. 

Andrei hadn’t moved from the wall, but you could feel him, gaze heavy, predatory. You didn’t trust the shadows here—they belonged to him.

“And what do you specialise in?” Raskovic asked, breaking off a piece of bread with delicate fingers. “Explosives? Biochemical toys? Or are you more... traditional?”

Bucky leaned back in his chair, casual on the surface but coiled beneath. “Mostly smart-range pulse rifles. Electromagnetic scatter rounds. Some Stark-modified EMPs, the kind that make your eyes bleed if you’re standing too close.”

Raskovic laughed, low and genuine. “Ah, Stark. Yes. He did have flair.” He lifted his glass. “To creative destruction.”

You raised yours to match. Glasses clinked. The wine shimmered.

You hesitated. Then drank.

And regretted it instantly.

You blinked. Swallowed. Your hand tightened around your glass as you turned slightly in your chair.

“I—I don’t… feel so—”

Your words fell apart, slurred and sticky. Your throat closed. The room twisted violently beneath your feet. Bucky was on his feet before your head even dipped forward.

“What the hell did you do?” he snarled, voice tight.

Raskovic didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Andrei moved like a shadow—fast, precise, and cruel. You barely saw him before his arm wrapped around your body, dragging you upright as your legs gave out beneath you.

One thick arm locked around your chest, yanking you back against him, while the cold edge of a knife pressed into the delicate line of your throat.

You whimpered—not from the pain, but from how far Bucky suddenly seemed.

He surged forward. “LET. HER. GO!”

But the guards were faster than he was.

Two lunged first, catching him at the arms. Then another. Then two more. They tried to hold him down, to pin the fury inside the soldier’s body—but he was already gone. 

Not Bucky. Not James.

The Winter Soldier raged, and the man underneath him broke.

His scream tore through the air—raw, unfiltered. “DON’T TOUCH HER!”

He fought like a beast, like he was tearing out his own soul to get to you. Every muscle locked and screamed with effort as he dragged the men across the polished floor. His eyes were wide, burning blue, locked on yours like they were the last thing tethering him to sanity.

You could see it—the pain in him. The terror.

“Get off me!” he shouted, slamming his elbow into someone’s face with a sickening crack. “You touch her again, I’ll kill you—I’ll kill you all!”

“Try something, Barnes,” Andrei hissed into your ear, his knife pressing harder into your skin. A thin line of blood slipped down your neck. “Give me a reason.”

“STOP,” Bucky roared, his voice shredded and frantic, “PLEASE—please, take me instead—just let her go—”

But Raskovic only leaned back in his chair, amused. “Look at you,” he said, voice like rot. “The infamous Winter Soldier. Look what they turned you into.”

Bucky thrashed harder, dragging three men with him as he reached toward you, fingertips almost brushing yours before another slammed into his gut. He coughed, staggered, and still tried to crawl.

“Let her go!” he screamed again. His voice cracked this time—a break in the steel.

You could barely keep your eyes open, your limbs like water. But you turned your head—just slightly—enough to meet his gaze.

And even through the fog choking your mind, you knew what you saw in him.

Rage. Fear.

“I’m sorry,” you mouthed.

“No—no, don’t—” His eyes widened, frantic. “Please—don’t—don’t leave me.”

“Go. Please.” you managed to choke out.

And then you fell. Andrei’s arm caught you, yanking your limp body back as you slipped into unconsciousness.

The last thing you saw—or maybe only imagined—was Bucky’s face as he screamed your name like a prayer no god ever answered.

You came to with the sharp sting of blood in your mouth and the icy ache of metal biting into your wrists.

At first, it was hard to tell what was real—the room swam at the edges, spinning in slow, nauseating waves. 

Your head throbbed. Your lips were cracked and dry. And your shoulders screamed from the strain of your arms wrenched behind your back, cuffed so tight that you could already feel the skin splitting beneath the metal. 

Cold concrete bit into your ankles where they were tied to the chair legs. Your knees burned and your spine howled with every twitch of movement.

The drug was still in your system—not fully, but enough to slow your thoughts, to fog the corners of your brain like frost on glass. You blinked, trying to force focus into your vision.

The room was dim, windowless. Cement walls scarred with water stains and age. 

It smelled like damp stone and blood and the metallic tang of old air. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling on a rusted chain, swaying with each low hum that vibrated through the floors—generators, maybe. Or worse.

You were underground. You were alone.

And then you realised—you weren’t.

A figure sat in front of you, legs spread, hands resting loosely on his knees. Like this was casual. Like he was waiting to chat over coffee.

Andrei.

But he wasn’t smiling this time. Not exactly. The amusement from the dinner—the smug, showman’s flair—was gone now. What was left behind was leaner. Sharper. Hungrier. 

He looked at you like prey.

“Tough girl,” he said after a long silence, his voice low and smooth. Too calm. “Didn’t even scream when I hit you.”

He stood slowly, circling the chair. His footsteps were soft, deliberate. You followed him with your eyes but didn’t move your head—your neck was too stiff, and you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

“Trained well,” he murmured, coming to stand behind you. You could feel his breath at your ear, warm and intimate and rotten. “Let me guess. Romanov?”

Still, you said nothing.

Silence was all you had left. Silence and the rhythm of your heart, pounding slow and hard in your chest. 

One beat for every second Bucky wasn’t here. One beat closer to whatever came next.

Andrei exhaled, circling around again. He crouched low in front of you, arms braced on his thighs, and looked up at you like you were something he’d found crawling under a rock.

“Almost believed your little act,” he said. “Almost. You were very good. And he—he was damn near convincing. Protective. Devoted. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say Barnes might actually care about you.”

The corners of your mouth curled in a humorless smile. “He doesn’t fake things well.”

Andrei raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re not wrong.”

He stood again, restless energy leaking into his movements now. Pacing. Turning. Talking more to himself than you. “But Layna—sweet girl, fucking dumb, but she has good memory. Told me she saw you before. You were blonde, standing behind a Swedish diplomat during a black-tie in Prague.”

You stiffened.

That op had been burned. Buried. There should’ve been no trace left.

Andrei’s grin returned, sharp and self-satisfied. “Told you. Almost.”

He drifted to the side of the room, plucking something off the metal tray on the workbench behind him. You couldn’t see what it was at first—until the low light caught the blade. Polished. Thin. Surgical.

Your blood ran colder.

“You know,” he said casually, running his thumb down the flat of the blade, “I’ve dealt with a lot of spies. A lot of agents. They’re all the same when you strip them down—arrogant, mouthy, trained to suffer but everyone breaks eventually.”

He turned toward you again. His boots scraped slightly across the floor as he came closer, blade gleaming.

“But you,” he said, voice lower now, almost admiring, “you’re different, so impressive. So decorated. Partner to Steve Rogers, mentored by the Black Widow."

He crouched again, placing the knife under your chin—just enough pressure to tilt your head up, to meet his eyes.

“But look at you now,” he murmured. “All alone.”

You glared at him, breathing hard. Your ribs ached with each inhale.

“You’re still not gonna get out of this,” you rasped.

Andrei gave a soft, mocking sound—almost a laugh. “Still fighting,” he said. “I love that.”

He pulled the knife back. Then his hand—the same one holding the blade—cracked across your face.

Your head snapped to the side. Fire bloomed in your cheek. Your vision spun again, and for a moment, you tasted nothing but copper and heat.

You forced your head back up. Stared at him. And then spat blood on his shoes.

His expression twitched—not anger, not quite. But it changed. Shifted. Amused and annoyed all at once.

“So dramatic,” he muttered, straightening up. “Barnes really married a firecracker.”

You smiled, lips cracked and bloodied. “Yeah. He has excellent taste.”

He turned his back to you. You didn’t trust what that meant.

“You know,” he said, picking up something else—a cloth, maybe. “When I first saw the two of you, I thought it was a clever front. Pretty couple, good chemistry and such an easy cover.”

He turned.

“But then I saw his face when we took you.”

Your heart lurched.

“I saw the way he screamed for you. Like he’d rather die right there than let you go. And that,” Andrei said, walking back toward you, “told me everything I needed to know.”

You went still.

“And now,” he said, crouching once more, “we find out just how long it takes to make you scream.”

You didn’t flinch.

But somewhere, deep in your chest, you whispered a prayer.

Not to be saved. But that Andrei would get out alive.

Because you knew Bucky was coming.

And if he didn’t find you soon— He’d tear this whole place apart.

Yelena slammed a fresh mag into her pistol with a sharp click that echoed through the hangar.

“I’m done,” she snapped. “I’m done waiting around like a fucking headless chicken."

Her vest hit the open duffel with a thud, followed by two extra mags, a smoke grenade, and a roll of wire.

Her hands moved fast, efficiently, but her face—her face was all fire, controlled only in the loosest sense of the word.

“Val said to hold,” Ava said from across the room, but even her voice sounded unsure. Her fingers were curled too tightly around the hilt of her blade. “It’s too risky for an extraction.”

Yelena’s jaw clenched as she zipped the duffel shut with a savage pull.

“Bullshit,” she cursed. 

“She said their cover was still good!” John yelled suddenly, pacing across the cracked concrete like a caged animal. His voice cracked from frustration, boots striking hard with each step.

“Cover’s blown, Ava. Raskovic’s got them. We saw that footage from the drone feed. You think Bucky screams like that when things are fine?”

No one answered. The silence that followed was deafening.

They had all heard it— the live feed that cut out halfway through, but not before they heard your slurred voice, the scrape of a chair, and—

Bucky’s scream.

It wasn’t just your name.

It was a sound torn from the center of him, ripped out like something primal—like grief, rage, and helplessness all wrapped into one brutal, broken cry. A roar that echoed through the comms with so much pain it made Ava flinch and John go deadly silent.

It didn’t even sound like a name by the end. It sounded like a man being ripped in half.

“Val’s still trying to assess options,” Ava said finally, quieter. “Wants to keep it clean. Low profile. Wait for the opportune moment.”

Yelena turned sharply. “She wants to wait until there’s nothing left to save.”

“(Y/n)'s not dead,” she added, voice lower now, shaking. “Not yet.”

Across the room, Alexei tightened the last strap of his tac vest and let out a heavy grunt from the loading ramp of the jet.

“Then we go,” he said simply. “Fast. Before is too late.”

It was Ava who moved next. She didn’t say anything.

Just unsheathed her blade, slid it into the thigh holster, and grabbed her gear. 

Bob passed her the radio jammer without a word.

John pulled a second glock off the weapons table, racked it with a sharp motion, and tossed a rifle to Alexei.

“You’re flying.”

Alexei caught it mid-air. “Da. And if Val calls mid-flight?” he added, raising an eyebrow.

“Ignore it,” Yelena muttered, strapping her vest down tight. “Unless you want to hear more bureaucratic bullshit while someone guts her open.”

“Val have our asses for this,” Ava said flatly, though she didn’t slow her pace as she climbed into the jet. “You know that, right?”

John snorted. “What’s new?”

The engines roared to life behind them—a deafening hum of rebellion.

Back in the jungle of halls and locked doors, Bucky was losing his mind.

He had already taken down four men—maybe more. He couldn’t keep count anymore, it was all a blur of fists and fury, of red-soaked sleeves and splintered bone. His knuckles were split wide open, blood running down his fingers like oil, blood that he didn’t even know was his own. 

The once-pristine black suit he’d worn to dinner, tailored, pressed, immaculate was in ruins. The white shirt beneath was streaked with blood. Buttons missing, collar torn, cufflinks long gone.

He looked like a ghost dressed for a funeral.

Yours.

Somewhere behind him, alarms blared in a shrill, endless loop. He had triggered them when he shattered the keypad on the security gate with his bare hand. 

Somewhere ahead—locked doors, concrete walls, goddamn silence.

He didn’t know where they’d taken you.

And that not knowing—that not knowing—was what was killing him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice rasping, barely human. “Fuck, fuck—”

He stumbled sideways, shoulder crashing into the wall. The cold bite of cement anchored him for a second, but not enough. 

He was unraveling. Frantic. Adrenaline wearing thin.

He reached for the comms, blood-slick fingers fumbling with the dial, all he heard was static, it was dead, no signal.

His breath hitched in his throat.

“No—no—come on—” He hit it harder this time, palm slamming into the casing with a sickening smack. Blood smeared the plastic. His hands were shaking.

“Come on, come on—please—”

A crackle. Static. Then—

“—arnes?”

Yelena’s voice.

His knees almost gave out.

He pressed himself back against the wall, clutching the comms like it might vanish if he let go.

“I got out,” he breathed. “I got out, I’m—I can’t find her.”

His voice broke. Shattered.

“I can’t—I don’t know where they took her. They drugged her. He had a knife at her throat—I couldn’t fucking stop it—”

He swallowed a sob. Tried to breathe, and failed.

“I should’ve seen it. I should’ve known. She knew. She felt it in her gut. And I just let her get taken.” He pushed off the wall, stumbling forward down the corridor, every door a dead end, every hallway too quiet. 

The sound of his shoes—black dress leather, scuffed now, stained red—echoed down the sterile concrete like a countdown.

And he was running out of time.

John’s voice came through next. 

“We’re in the air. Twenty minutes out. Hold tight, Bucky. We’ve got you.”

But the brunette wasn’t listening anymore.

He stopped in the middle of the hall, chest heaving like he’d just sprinted through fire. He leaned forward, bracing his hands on his knees, blood dripping to the floor beneath him.

“She was scared,” he whispered. “She told me to go. Begged me.”

The words tasted like glass in his mouth.

“She looked me in the eye like it was the last thing she would ever say to me. And I fucking left her. I left her there.”

His voice cracked again. Barely a sound.

“I can’t lose her.”

His hands curled into fists — raw, trembling. “I can’t.”

He slammed his fist into the wall—vibranium meeting concrete in a sickening crunch—and staggered forward. He was pacing now, wild and cornered and coming undone.

“I know I screw things up. I know I push people too hard. Say the wrong thing or nothing at all. I don’t... I don’t let myself feel shit unless it’s already too late.”

He pressed a shaking hand to his mouth, dragged it down his face.

“But (y/n), I—”

A pause. A beat of silence.

“Every time she disobeys me on a mission, I yell. I chew her out like she’s reckless. Like she’s careless.”

He swallowed hard. Blinked. Focused on the darkness ahead.

“It’s not control. It’s not protocol. I just—fuck, I’m scared she won’t come back.”

He stopped, spine against the wall again. Voice low, almost fagile.

“That I’ll lose her. And it’ll be my fault. Because I never told her what she really means to me.”

Yelena’s voice crackled through the line again. “Then don’t stop.”

A pause.

“You find her.”

His jaw tightened.

“I will,” Bucky said.

The tone in his voice changed—gone was the shaking, the hesitation.

“I swear to god, I’ll find her.”

His steps quickened. He pushed through the next door like it owed him something, storming into a stairwell, eyes wild, movements sharp. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop.

“Even if I have to burn this whole fucking place down.”

And he meant it.

He’d burn the compound, the mission, the goddamn world to the ground.

He was coming for you.

a/n: and that's chapter 5!! i hope you enjoyed, and please drop a comment or a reblog, it genuinely gives me so much motivation to give you guys my best! love y'all!

[crossfandomslut]

This series NEEDS to be more popular !!!!!!!! The plot is so original and soooooo fucking good I am DYING FOR MORE 😭💕

A Hand in the Dark Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Suicidal thoughts (neither Bucky nor Reader). Canon-Typical Violence.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Status: Ongoing.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[crossfandomslut]

AHHHHHAHAHAHHHH IM DYING THIS CHAPTER HIT ALL THE RIGHT SPOTS 😭🫶

A Star Without a Sky (#6)

Pairing: Sheriff! Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

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

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

Word Count: 5k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

The next night was Bucky’s watch.

He sat motionless in the barn loft, hunched in the hay, one knee raised, and a thick blanket draped over his shoulders like a second skin. The air was cold enough to make the wood groan, and his breath came out like smoke. His rifle lay across his lap.

Then he heard it.

A faint thump of hooves. Slow. Measured. A single rider cutting through the dark.

He leaned forward just enough to part the slats in the wall. He couldn’t make out the face -the rider had a dim lamp strapped to the front of the saddle, throwing just enough light to blur details- but the figure was upright, confident. Not cautious like a traveler. No hesitance. Whoever it was, they knew exactly where they were going.

Bucky shifted, every muscle tensed under his coat.

He already knew.

----

Inside, she was letting her hair loose, getting ready for bed, when she heard a knock on the door.

Not loud or frantic.

Her brow furrowed. It was strange, Sam and Bucky had been taking turns keeping watch from the barn, sure, but neither had ever knocked. Not once. Not even when the snow fell harder or the wind cracked against the shutters. They stayed at a distance, watchful and respectful.

This was different.

She reached for her shawl, pulled it over the thin cotton of her camisole, and padded barefoot to the door.

Another knock. Still no voice.

Her hand paused over the latch. “Yes?” she asked cautiously.

No answer.

She frowned. Crossed to the side window, pulled back the curtain with two fingers, and leaned just enough to peek.

The light of the lamp she held in her hand was dim, but she knew that silhouette.

The slouch of the shoulders. The stance that was too familiar, too casual. A smirk, even without seeing his mouth.

Brock Rumlow.

Her heart stuttered.

“Hey there,” he rasped, his voice muffled by the door.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Rumlow?” she asked.

He shrugged casually. “Was heading back from Pierce’s land. Took care of some things for him, figured I’d check on ya. Saw some fellas on the road lookin’ like they didn’t belong. Thought you might be in need of… neighborly concern.”

She didn’t answer.

“Now don’t be rude,” he went on, “Least you can do is let a man in, out of the cold when he’s gone and worried over you.”

“I’m fine. Thank you. But it’s very late.” She stated.

His voice dropped. “I came all this way...”

She gripped the shawl tightly around her chest. “And I appreciate that. But again, there’s no trouble here.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, and the word rolled like oil. “Open the door. Don’t make me think you’ve forgotten your manners.”

Her bare heel met the floorboard behind her. The lamp in her hand trembled just slightly, the flame swaying inside the glass.

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” she said, voice quieter now. “But I don’t open my door at night for uninvited company.”

Silence. Heavy on the other side of the door.

Then a slow, deliberate exhale. “So that’s how it is now?” Rumlow huffed. “Sheriff got you playin’ house so good, you forgot who your neighbors are?”

She swallowed. “I think you should leave.”

“I think I should come in.”

A pause. The latch clicked. Not by her doing.

Her eyes widened. Spun toward the back of the room, but before she could panic, another sound cut through the dark.

The porch boards groaned beneath a sudden weight. Rumlow stepped back instinctively, only to find himself eye to eye with a silhouette stepping up out of the night like a goddamn ghost.

Bucky.

Black leather coat framing his body, rifle on his back, the look on his face -calm, deadly- could’ve stopped a stampede mid-charge.

“Evenin’,” he said coldly.

Rumlow’s hand twitched by his side, but didn’t reach for anything. “Sheriff,” he greeted with a nod, too slow to be polite. “Didn’t see you.”

“Clearly.” Bucky didn’t blink. “You lost?”

Rumlow’s mouth ticked. “Just checkin’ on the widow. Heard there might’ve been trouble. Figured I’d help.”

“She’s got help,” Bucky said. “You’re not needed.”

Rumlow’s jaw ticked. His eyes flicked to the door. Then Back to Bucky.

“Y’know,” he muttered, sniffing as he cocked his head and spat off the edge of the porch. “I really didn’t wanna believe she was spreadin’ her legs for you already. Figured she was just playin’ at bein’ proper, but turns out she’s just another Jezab-”

He didn’t finish the word.

Bucky’s fist cracked across his mouth so fast and brutal that it sounded like bone striking bone.

Rumlow stumbled backward off the porch, boots sliding in the frost, blood blooming across his teeth before he even registered the hit.

He looked up, stunned for a second, with a hand pressed to his mouth and wild eyes, and Bucky was already stepping down after him.

Silent. Deadly.

Rumlow reached for his belt, too slow.

Bucky slammed him against the hitch post before the steel even flashed, a forearm across his chest, pinning him like a nail to a beam. His voice was low. “Try to finish that sentence, and you won’t leave this property with all your teeth.”

Rumlow moved fast.

Too fast.

There was a flash of steel glinting in the moonlight, and then pain. Hot, sharp, and sudden.

The son of a gun had a knife. Small, hidden. Slipped low from his belt and driven into Bucky’s side.

He grunted and staggered a half-step, but didn’t let go.

Didn’t scream.

Instead, he surged forward.

The knife pulled free in the motion, and Rumlow tried to twist out of his grip, but he was already slamming him into the dirt, his full weight driving them both to the ground with a sickening crunch.

They rolled in a mix of mud, frost, fists, and blood.

No rules. Just rage.

Rumlow hit Bucky below the ribs, trying to take advantage of the wound. But he didn’t yield. He never had.

Instead, he caught Rumlow’s collar, yanked his head down, and drove his forehead into the bridge of the other man’s nose with a dull crack.

Blood sprayed between them. Rumlow cursed, blind now, swiping wildly.

Another punch. Bucky’s shoulder screamed with pain, but he didn’t stop. Not until Rumlow’s breath stuttered in his throat.

“You think you can touch her,” he rasped, with clenched jaw and red knuckles, “run your mouth like that?”

Rumlow snarled, dragged them over again, slamming a knee into Bucky’s thigh, but Bucky’s hand found the knife where it had dropped nearby.

He drove it into the earth just beside Rumlow’s head. A warning.

It could’ve been his throat.

Could’ve ended it all.

He leaned close instead, with blood dripping from his brow. “You come back here -so much as breathe in her direction- I’ll bury you so deep, even Pierce hounds won’t find what’s left.”

Rumlow spat again. Didn’t speak.

Bucky pushed off him with a hiss, clamping a hand to his bleeding side, breathing hard. Rumlow limped mere feet away, wiping the blood from his split mouth with the back of his hand, stumbling toward his horse.

“You got no idea what you just done,” he slurred, spitting red into the dirt.

“Keep talkin’. I’ll knock out what’s left of your damn teeth,” Bucky mumbled, half-doubled now by the pain.

Rumlow tried to climb into the saddle, swayed once like a drunk, then clicked his tongue and turned the horse around.

Bucky didn’t move. And then he heard it.

The creak of leather. The familiar click of a revolver.

“Fuckin’ bastard,” Rumlow’s voice muttered like poison, barely audible.

Bucky moved just as Rumlow drew, and this time there was no hesitation.

One second the gun was rising, the next, he had closed the gap and struck him clean across the jaw with the butt of his rifle. Rumlow’s hand jerked, the revolver fired once into the dirt, then went skittering across the ground.

This time, Bucky didn’t stop, didn’t slow down.

Fist met flesh. Once. Twice. And again.

Rumlow went still.

Then he knelt beside him, bleeding, panting, rage burning through the pain, and struck him once more. “Seems to me,” Bucky rasped, shaking out his hand, “you’ll want a cozy accommodation in the jailhouse, you son of a bitch.”

He leaned back, breathing hard, slick hair falling in his face. His palm pressed harder to his ribs. Blood soaked the side of his shirt.

He didn’t care.

Not yet.

He’d get him locked up first. Then maybe he’d fall apart.

----

She’d been watching.

The minute Rumlow stilled in the mud, she stepped outside. Not frenzied, not screaming.

Just fast.

If living out here had taught her anything, it was that when men started swinging, you stayed out of the way ‘til one of them stopped moving. And then you acted.

She hadn’t seen the knife in the dark. Just the blur of limbs, the wet thud of fists into flesh, the crunch of boots in the snow-packed mud. But she saw Bucky now, standing like the wind might knock him over, a hand clamped to his side, and blood seeping between his fingers like rust.

Her bare feet padded across the porch. The white of her nightgown glowed under the moon, her loose hair moved with the wind like something out of a fever dream.

“Are you alright?” she asked, already reaching for him. “What did he do?”

“Go back inside,” he muttered, with ragged breath, not meeting her eyes. “You’re gonna get sick.”

“And you’re gonna bleed out in front of my goddamn house.” She was already at his side, her fingers brushing his, trying to lift the fabric at his side. “Let me-”

“Just-” He winced, jaw clenched. “Go cover yourself, put on some shoes.”

Her mouth opened. Shut.

“I reckon I need a hand,” he forced out, eyes flicking to Rumlow’s limp form. “Tying this snake up ‘fore he wakes. Lock him in the barn ‘til morning.”

Her jaw ticked once. She nodded.

Didn’t argue.

She stepped back toward the house just long enough to grab the shawl again and dress her feet, no more. Then she returned, with her sleeves rolled and her lips pressed tightly, all quiet fury and fire, already a rope in hand.

And he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his life.

----

They worked in silence, in the the snow-bitten yard.

Bucky didn’t need to speak; the way his hands moved said enough. Quick, efficient, looping the rope around Rumlow’s wrists, chest, and ankles like he was tying down an unruly steer. Not one knot was wasted. Every pull was tight. Brutally.

She stood beside him, holding low the lantern, the light catching the sweat still clinging to his hairline. He was pale. Shaking. But his hands didn’t falter, not once.

When the last knot was finished, he stood with effort. She didn’t comment on that, just stepped aside as they each took a side of Rumlow’s limp body and dragged it toward the barn.

Once inside, she held the lantern high while Bucky patted Rumlow down, roughly, thoroughly, unapologetic. Pulled a bootknife from one boot, then a thin little thing tucked in the back waistband. Then he tied the last length of rope around the post behind the man’s back and gave it a final jerk that made him groan softly in his stupor.

“Won’t be slicin’ through nothin’ now,” Bucky muttered.

“I’ll get his horse.” She said.

“You don’t gotta-” he started, but she was already walking, camisole swaying with purpose.

She turned once at the barn doors, her hair whipped loose by the wind. “I’m perfectly capable of guiding a horse into my own stable, Bucky,” she said, arching a brow. “And I don’t much fancy draggin’ your half-dead ass into my house again.”

That caught him short. He blinked, jaw half-slacked. Then, slowly, a soundless huff of something close to a laugh pushed through his nose. It hurt -he pressed a hand to his side- but the corner of his mouth lifted just enough.

“You’re bossy when you’re worried,” he rasped.

“And you’re stubborn when you’re bleeding,” she shot back, disappearing into the snow-dusted dark.

----

The fire was going strong now, throwing shadows over the floorboards. The lamp on the table burned low and steadily. Bucky sat stiff in the wooden chair near the hearth, his coat gone, shirt soaked through at the side. His fists were clenched on his thighs, trying not to tremble, trying not to look.

She moved calmly, a bowl of steaming water set on the table beside him, a needle and thread already laid out like a promise.

He watched her out of the corner of his eye. How her bare feet padded softly across the wood, how the lamplight traced the shape of her body through the thin cotton of her camisole that had slipped off one shoulder.

He turned his head, clenching his jaw.

“I’ll take care of it,” he rasped, reaching for the buttons at his shirt with one blood-slicked hand.

“No, you won’t,” she said gently, stepping in front of him, “You���ll sit there, and let me do it.”

He went still.

She reached for the buttons, and he flinched.

“I ain’t gonna bite you, Bucky.” Her voice dipped softly. “Or steal your dignity.”

He cleared his throat. “Ain’t that. Just… I can undress myself.”

That made her pause and sigh.

“I already saw all of you, remember?” she murmured. “Bathed you while you were unconscious. Got blood, sweat and piss off places you probably don’t even wanna know. Only difference now is you’re awake to be embarrassed about it.” The smile she gave him wasn’t a teasing one.

He didn’t move. Just stared, no less mortified.

“And I know you’re tryin’ real hard not to look at me right now,” she added, softer still, her fingers still working the buttons of his bloodied shirt, “so I’m tellin’ you, it’s alright. I ain’t scandalized by you.”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t dare.

She glanced up, caught the flicker in his jaw.

“You’ve already seen me like this before. Camisole’s the same as a working dress, less fabric maybe, but same job. No need to act like I’m sittin’ here in the flesh.”

She leaned back a little, not stepping away, just giving him space to meet her eyes if he could. “We’re adults. It’s only weird if you pretend it ain’t happenin’.”

He still didn’t look at her. Not fully.

Because the problem wasn’t that he didn’t look at her to not seem socially improper. The problem was that every time he caught even the edge of her body -the skin between her collarbones, the sway of her hips beneath that soft cotton- his hands itched to do things he shouldn’t. To reach. To fist her hair. To drag her into his lap and trace every inch of her skin with his mouth.

“I’m lookin’ enough,” he muttered, voice thick. “Trust me.”

The edge of her mouth twitched, just a hint of a smile. Then she peeled the shirt open with care, pulling it away from the wound with gentle fingers. He winced when the fabric tugged at the flesh, and she soothed the sting with her palm on his uninjured side, then turned toward the cupboard and pulled out the small glass vial he already hated on sight.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Yes,” she said back, her tone not leaving room for argument.

“That’s turpentine.”

“And this is a stab wound.” She uncorked the bottle, not even looking at him now, focused on pouring a clean cloth full of it. “You’d rather fester? Want the doctor to carve your side open in a week and scoop out the rot?”

His jaw clenched. He said nothing.

“Thought so,” she added, and came back to him, with the soaked cloth in her hand. “Now hold still.”

He didn’t. Not quite. His whole body jerked when the cloth hit his skin, the breath shoving out of his chest like a curse. One hand fisted on the edge of the table hard enough to make it creak.

“Jesus-”

She pressed firmer, not unkindly, but without relenting. “Burns like hell. That’s how you know it’s workin’.”

She dabbed until the bleeding slowed and the angry red around the gash faded to a cleaner pink. Then, pulling her sewing kit closer, she threaded a needle.

“It’s clean through the flank,” she muttered, half to herself, testing the knot. “Didn’t get deep enough to gut. We stitch.”

Bucky gave a single grunt of agreement.

His flesh pulled under her touch, but he didn’t flinch again. He just watched the way her brows knit, the way her lip tucked inward as she tied the last knot. Then she wiped the area again with what was left of the turpentine and stood up.

“Stay there,” she ordered, already crossing the room. “I’ve got pine sap near the stove.”

He leaned back slightly, resting one elbow against the edge of the table, watching her grind the resin down in a small mortar. She added a few drops of oil -linseed, maybe- and what looked like a spoonful of honey, mixing it into a soft paste.

He squinted at it. “Is all that really necessary?”

She paused, lifted her eyes to his like she couldn’t quite believe him. “No. I just like playin’ apothecary while men bleed out in my kitchen.”

His mouth tugged at one corner, but before he could respond, she went on, “How in God’s name did you live this long, if your concept of wound dressin’ is whiskey and spit?”

He gave a little huff, glancing away. “Didn’t say spit.”

“Didn’t have to.” She crossed the space slowly, the little bowl in one hand. “That blush gave you away.”

“I ain’t blushin’,” he muttered.

She knelt beside him. “You are,” she said softly. “And you’re not used to this.”

He didn’t answer.

“Let me take care of you,” she said, quieter now. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me.”

She dipped two fingers into the salve and then brushed his side. It was cool when it touched him, but her hands were not. They lingered. Just a second longer than they had to.

Her gaze flicked up briefly, and their eyes met.

She didn’t speak. Just smoothed the last of the resin gently across his side, her fingers skimming close to the line of his ribs, then down. He was breathing harder now.

His hand twitched on his knee. Like maybe he’d reach for her.

But he didn’t.

She reached for a fresh bandage and began wrapping it carefully, perhaps more carefully than necessary.

“You’re doin’ it again,” he rasped.

“Doin’ what?”

“Touchin’ me like I’m somethin’ that might break if you press too hard.”

Her fingers slowed. Then stilled.

She didn’t apologize.

Didn’t pull away.

“Well, maybe,” she murmured, “you’re not as unbreakable as you think you are.”

He swallowed once. His voice, when it came, was rougher than before.

“Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll forget I got a knife wound.”

She looked up.

Her eyes met his and then flicked, just for a heartbeat, to his lips before rising again to the pale blue of his stare.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” she asked. Softly, a little breathless. But not playing dumb. Not teasing.

He exhaled slowly. His gaze dropped to her hands still resting near his ribs, then climbed back up, fixing on her face.

“Means that I’m tired of pretendin’,” he said. Voice low. Rough. “Tired of actin’ like your hand on my arm don’t feel like mercy. Tired of sayin’ it’s for show when I wait by the office door knowin’ the hour you’ll come. Tired of sittin’ composed across from you like my thoughts ain’t always further along than my manners.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came out. He didn’t wait for one.

“I’m tired of the game,” he said, quieter now. “And now it’s come to an end. Rumlow’s done.” His gaze flicked to the bandage she’d just wrapped. “Can’t pin the orchard on him. But what he tried today… I’ve got enough to hold him. Trespassin’, attemptin’ to kill an officer.”

Silence stretched between them. He ran a thumb over the bandage at his side, then set his gaze on the floor.

“We don’t need to be seen in town anymore, don’t need to keep puttin’ on a show. Just wanted you to know I ain’t been fakin’ a damn thing. Ain’t touchin’ anyone else. Ain’t thinkin’ of anyone else. And I ain’t expectin’ anything back from you, just…” He shook his head, pressing his lips into a thin line. “I couldn’t leave that unsaid.”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t dare.

She didn’t fidget. Just watched him like she was trying to memorize every line of his face while he looked away. Then, slowly, she slid a hand just enough to rest over his, where it lay in his lap, brushing his battered knuckles like the answer she hadn’t found words for.

“I thought I was the only one playin’ pretend-,” she said, “that you didn’t affect me the way you do.”

That made him look up. Slowly. Carefully.

“I feel real foolish for bein’ a grown woman scared to want what’s been sittin’ right in front of me.”

His gaze widened a fraction, and his hand twitched under hers, like he meant to reach for her, but then, he didn’t move. Not quite. That hesitation slipped in on him again.

“I ain’t got much to offer you,” he mumbled, voice barely there. “Ain’t… as educated, or gentle as I oughta be. And I-”

He didn’t finish.

Because she leaned in.

Pressed her lips to the corner of his mouth. Then to his cheek. His temple. His split brow.

Tiny, reverent kisses that scattered across his skin like blessings, like he was something worth worshipping.

“You’re tired,” she murmured against his jaw. “And bruised. You’ve bled for me. And you still think you gotta sell yourself like a horse with bad teeth?”

He let out a shaky breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. His eyes closed, as if her mouth near his skin was too much to bear.

“You don’t gotta offer me anything, Bucky,” she murmured. “You already gave me more than I knew to want.

He turned then, slowly, and looked at her properly. His hand finally moved, lifted to touch her wrist, her cheek, the line of her jaw. Like, he didn’t believe she was real. Like he might wake up and find himself bleeding in the snow again, with only the wind for company.

“Tell me this ain’t pretend,” he said hoarsely.

She leaned forward again, brushing the corner of his mouth with her lips once more, firmer this time. Slower.

“It ain’t.”

His eyes didn’t move from hers. Not even when she pulled back just enough to breathe.

He was the one who closed the distance this time.

The kiss wasn’t rushed, not at first. Just the press of his mouth to hers, careful and uncertain, like he was asking permission. She answered him with a tilt of her chin, a sigh against his lips, her hand sliding from his cheek to his nape to keep him close.

Then it changed.

Turned hungrier. Needier. Deeper.

She tasted like tea and honey and something warm he didn’t have a name for. His hand slid to her waist, digging his fingers through the thin cotton, and she gasped softly into his mouth. Her own hand slipped up under his shirt, grazing the hot line of skin just above the bandage.

He hissed -barely- but it was enough to break the spell.

She pulled back instantly, with her palms braced against his chest, eyes wide with concern.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, through ragged breath. “Just- keep goin’.”

“James Buchanan,” she said flatly, hands still on him, “you just got a knife in the side less than an hour ago.”

He had the decency to look sheepish.

“I swear,” she muttered, standing up, fussing with the mortar like she needed something to do with her hands. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you liked being bled.”

“I don’t,” he rasped, but his mouth quirked a little. “But it’s a hell of a thing to finally have you kissin’ me.”

She paused, just long enough to meet his gaze.

Then- “Come on now. Bed.”

“I’ll sleep in the chair.”

“No you won’t.”

“It’s fine, I don’t want to-”

“You already slept there,” she cut him off. “And the roof didn’t fall on top of you. Come on, help me get you to the room.”

He muttered something that sounded like a protest but let her slip her arm beneath his and guide him, slowly, down the hallway.

Once inside, she nudged the door shut with her hip and turned down the bed.

“Alright, come on,” she murmured, reaching for the waistband of his pants. “Ain’t puttin’ those muddy things on my sheets.”

Bucky froze like a weed caught in a sudden frost. “I can -uh- handle it.”

She gave him a look. “You got a knife wound, and your hands are still tremblin’. Let me.”

He winced, and not from pain this time. She helped him ease the garments down and revealed his drawers. A worn pair, with a half-unraveled seam at one hip.

She paused, then huffed softly. “Well. Someone’s gotta talk to the mayor about raisin’ the sheriff’s salary. We can’t have the lawman of the county runnin’ ‘round in frayed underthings.”

He gave her a long, slow look from under his lashes, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or die.

“Well, I wasn’t plannin’-” he muttered a curse. “They are warm.” He mumbled as he helped himself onto the bed.

She tucked the quilt up his chest after he settled in, then smoothed the edge with care.

And then he said it, so soft it barely made it past his lips.

“…Will you stay?”

Her fingers stilled over the edge of the blanket.

He wasn’t looking at her. Couldn’t. His ears were pink again like he was ten years younger and askin’ some girl to contra-dance.

Her heart squeezed.

“Yeah,” she murmured, brushing hair from his brow. “I’ll stay.”

So she blew out the lamp and climbed in beside him, close enough to feel his warmth.

----

After a while, her voice stirred the silence.

“How are you gonna deal with him tomorrow?” she asked softly. “I can lend you the cart, but if he’s awake and resists…”

Bucky shifted slightly against the mattress, just enough to turn toward her. The motion pulled at his side, and he winced, his breath catching. She moved instinctively, ghosting a hand toward him, but he caught her wrist lightly before she touched his skin.

“I’m alright,” he murmured. “Just gotta move slow.”

She didn’t pull her hand back. Let it rest against the mattress, warm between them.

He exhaled.

“Sam’ll be here by midmornin’,” he added, keeping his voice low. “We talked it through. If the one on duty doesn’t show up at the office by a certain hour, the other comes lookin’. No questions. Just comes.”

She nodded in the dark. “Good.”

They lay quiet again, listening to the fire crackle in the other room, to the soft gusts of wind tapping against the shutters. Then-

“He’s not gettin’ near you again.” It wasn’t said with bravado. It was a promise, not a boast.

She shifted closer. “I know.”

Then, unable to stop herself, her hand rose between them, slow and sure, and brushed the rough line of his cheek. Her fingers moved gently, like she was mapping every edge of his jaw, every patch of stubble.

"Instead," she whispered, her thumb ghosting the corner of his mouth, "I get you close."

Bucky closed his eyes at the contact. His Adam's apple bobbed. He let her touch linger and didn’t move, didn’t breathe more than necessary. His fingers curled in the quilt. A quiet, nearly strangled curse slipped from his lips.

Because she was there, right there, all softness and warmth, and he couldn’t even pull her in, couldn’t roll and pin her beneath him the way his whole damn body was begging him to.

He turned his head slightly, eyes still closed, trying to shield himself from the sight.

She caught it. The retreat. The stiffness.

“A penny for your thoughts?” she asked.

His jaw tensed. “They ain’t proper,” he muttered.

A pause. Then her voice again, low, right against his ear.

“If it helps,” she said, “I’m not having proper thoughts either, Sheriff.”

The way she pronounced his rank curled over her tongue like a sin and went straight to his groin. He groaned, tipping his head back into the pillow.

“No,” he rasped, “it doesn’t help to know that.”

Her hand began to retreat from his cheek, slow as if unsure. "Should I leave?"

His bruised hand caught her wrist before he even thought to move. “No. Fuck. No, just-”

He eased himself down onto his back again, gritting his teeth when the wound pulled again. A low curse hissed from between his lips.

As if taking a cue, she shifted closer, the mattress dipping with her weight. Her head found his chest, and her hand settled just beneath the bandage, warm over the plane of his stomach, like she belonged there.

He felt her hesitate, then press herself against his uninjured side with careful intent.

"You should sleep," she murmured.

He almost fired off some crude reply, some road-worn jab about what he’d rather be doing than sleeping, but caught himself before it left his mouth. She wasn’t some saloon girl or roughneck buddy from the trail who wouldn’t have blinked if he bled out. So he swallowed it.

Instead, he grunted. Low. Noncommittal.

But his body slowly started to register everything at once now that the adrenaline had burned off. The throb at his side. The bruise on his ribs. The ache along his jaw. The pulsing at his brow. The ghost of her hand pressed into him. The softness of the bed beneath him. The clean scent of her hair. The warmth of her body beside his.

Maybe sleep didn’t sound so laughable after all.

Next Chapter

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Dividers by: @/strangergraphics

[crossfandomslut]

pov: I find a good smut fic but it includes a daddy kink

[crossfandomslut]

So It Goes...

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x mate!reader (Reader is apart of the Dawn and Night Court), former lover x reader

T/W: Sexual themes and allusions to sex

Walking out onto the balcony, [y/n] was met with an expectant sight. Tall, handsome but not dark. 

“I didn’t need your protection from that mongrel brute.”

Mother save her from the ego of males, she silently prayed as her eyes rolled.  “Why don’t you admit that you like me?” 

Her traitorous heart skipped a beat as she realized she fell into his trap. His proud challenging gaze and devilish smirk were evidence enough. “You first, Firefly.” 

She supposed she could but was this the time? Leaning on the balcony’s balustrade, she took in the night before her. The balcony held an autumn warmth despite the chill that had set across Day’s desert terrain. 

However, her words of gratitude died on her lips as a touch grazed her upper arm. His heat spread across the lines of her bandages, the only evidence left of the failed assassination attempt. “Why was this not properly healed? Was Thesan too cock drunk to help his childhood friend turned Court emissary?” 

“Do not talk about Thesan that way!” Ripping her arm from his hold, she glared at him. But the outburst was more out of anger for herself than Eris. Anger towards herself for failing to be there for her childhood friend when he had only ever been there for her. Even when she was a traitor to her Court while she helped her family in the Night Court. “The blade was covered in Aspidistra.” She sighed, “He did all he could, but sometimes things need to heal naturally.” 

“And the bodyguard?” The edge to Eris’ voice was not lost on her. She felt the same way when Thesan suggested it. Despite her protests, she knew her friend would only let her attend this meeting if she brought Jax. Beautiful, blonde broad Jax whose smile rivaled the sun. Who only ever wished to shine that light onto her. 

“As a general myself, I didn’t know suffocating you counted as his job.” Eris snidely commented. He knew that this was dangerous, that she was dangerous to both himself and his plans. And yet, he couldn’t stop. Damn the Mother and this female. 

“Am I interrupting something?”  An unapologetic voice spoke, breaking the tension.“Please tell me no because I surely want to join. I would love nothing more than to be between your twin flames.” 

“Lord Helion.” Returning Helion’s smile, [y/n] exhaled the breath she was holding.

“I had to fight your soldier to get in here [y/n].” Joining the pair on the balcony, Helion curiously eyed the fireling heir. “How did you get in here Eris?” 

Eris took a moment to consider. Or rather pretend to consider, his cryptic smile offering no truth. “As lord of this court, you should know of the many doors in this hall.” 

“Yes,” Helion began matching Eris’ smile before glancing at [y/n].  “Especially the ones left purposefully open.” 

As if tired of Eris games, Helion turned his attention fully to [y/n]. Bridging the gap between them, Helion took her hand in his.  “A little flower told me you’ve left your soldier quite unsatisfied in recent months.” 

“My Lilli telling you sordid stories amidst the throes of passion?”  She asked, her tone amused. How it related to her best friend’s fun with Helion she didn’t dare or care to guess. But she didn’t mind that her best friend spoke of her and Jax. She and Jax were a thing of the past and Lord Helion the diary of fae pleasures. 

“Well if you joined us, you could have done it yourself.” As he kissed the back of her hand, [y/n] realized she was wrong. Helion hadn’t been tired of Eris’ smoke and mirrors but rather was toying with Eris. Toying with the intention to figure them out. She wondered if Eris knew. 

With a clearing of his throat, Eris decided he was tired of this farce. He knew it would show weakness but the choice was between a throat clear or ripping Helion’s throat out. 

At the sound of the interruption, Helion’s eyes swept across Eris’ figure. A knowing smile spread across Helion’s face as if the Lord of this Court wouldn’t know what was brewing between them.  

Dropping [y/n]’s hand and stepping back, Helion put his hand over his heart in mock deference. “Forgive me, I’ll leave this healing salve on the table for you [y/n].”  But turning once more back to them, Helion offered a final smile, “Though selfishly,  I did very much enjoy the scent of your arousals.” 

Once Helion was gone, Eris allowed himself the moment to roll his eyes. With his gaze on [y/n], on the soft planes of her face and beautiful eyes, he knew Helion was right. If this was a taste of the smell, he would never survive this. He knew he would never survive them. 

“What?” She demanded, rueing his gaze. “What, Eris?” 

“Nothing,” Moving in closer, Eris traps her between his body and the balustrade, a pregnant space between them. “I just find it curious that he has been left unsatisfied since after the Mountain.”  With a step forward, their bodies almost touch. “Is it because of me?” 

Eris was shameless for her truths. Shameless in knowing that the bond, an ancient and primal thing, demanded nothing but clear devotion from them both. No matter how hard they fought it. 

Looking into his amber eyes, the gold flecks within them seemed to shimmer. The breath she took, didn’t steady her heart as she hoped. Instead, it made her realize how she was a hostage to her feelings in his gold cage. “A lot of things happened after the Mountain.” 

Watching her, Eris realized denial never looked so good on anyone as it did on her. 

“Mmhm,” The sound was a deep pleasant hum, and his lips tilted up teasingly. “And yet your gaze tells me differently.” 

“And what of yours?” She threw it back at him, “You are not above it all Eris. I saw your envy in Jax’s hand on my back, in Cassian’s hug, in Rhysland’s hand kiss, in Helion’s -“ 

His gaze hardened with each mention of a name until the words burst out of his mouth. “I do not need you to remind me of the casual touches you so willingly allow those males.” 

“Why? Say it.” The conflict in his eyes did not dissuade her from pressing further. “The choice is yours, Eris.” All the hardness in her voice softened, “I am yours to keep or I am yours to lose.”

“Vulnerability from the indomitable [full name]?” Eris’ deep voice fell into a conspiring whisper as he softly gazed at [y/n].  

Holding his gaze, [y/n] kept her voice steady. “Sensitivity from the unconscionable Eris Vanserra?” As his name left her mouth, his warm hand cupped her cheek. With each gentle caress, she found herself momentarily obnoxiously frozen beneath his touch.  

Neither of them knew who leaned in first. All they knew was that there was a space between them and then it was dwindling. Knew that they were gazing at each other and then suddenly their eyes were closed as their noses brushed against each other. Knew that they had had their own breaths and then suddenly they were sharing one as their lips brushed against each other’s. 

“We can’t do this.” [y/n] murmured breathlessly, as her fingers brushed the visible skin by his collar. The smooth warm expanse of skin was the only temptation she would give herself as all her strength went to not crushing her lips against his. 

“I know.” Eris wantonly replied, tilting her head to the side allowing him the reprieve of getting closer to her. Of allowing him to nuzzle his nose against hers as he tested his self control of her lips being a fraction of a space away. 

“We must be careful. If anyone were to find out, it would be disastrous.” He forced himself to not think of how sweet she felt in his hands. 

“Yes.” She forced herself to not think of how fast his heart was beating against her hand. 

Neither of them moved from their shared proximity despite those evident truths. With their foreheads leaning against each other, she supposed it would paint quite a pretty picture. She could see it now, Freye would call it ‘The Mating Bond: A Choice’. 

As if the Mother knew neither of them had the strength to separate, the door to her suite opened and closed. While the intrusion was not welcome, it was necessary. 

“Lord Eris.” Like a sunbeam breaking through a cloud, Jax watched out onto the balcony.  “I wasn’t aware sneaking into places was your thing.” 

[y/n] never quite understood when people spoke of a ‘sexy smoldering look’, how can burning slowly be sexy? But a flash, a flash spoke of uninhibited and unconscious things, of involuntary sparks that fan a fire. 

Like the flash of frustration across Eris’ face and the clench of his jaw from this interruption further sparking the flame of arousal burning inside of  her. 

She knew she could rationalize it all away. Maybe it was their placement in the Day Court. A court known for its prioritization of love and pleasure that had kept her in a constant state of arousal since her arrival. Having nothing to do with her brush with death a day ago nor arriving and seeing Eris. Eris who swaggered in looking like a man with nothing but free time to tease her. Or maybe, it was her close proximity to her former lover who once brought her immense pleasure and would do it again, if she only asked.

Or maybe, it was more primitive than that. Maybe having two handsome generals fighting over her and their constant snips for possession of her were going to drive her to insanity. Death by lust, she wondered how many beings died this way. 

“I think it speaks more about your skills than  mine when you left such a wide window of space.” Eris’ derisive tone was a stark contrast to his polite smile. 

Laughing mirthless, Jax clapped his hands behind his back. “Or maybe I let you ‘sneak in’.” 

“Did you?” 

Sensing this would only end badly, [y/n] stepped in between them. “I think it’s time to retire.”

Agreeing with the sentiment, Jax extended his right arm toward the door. “You heard the lady, goodnight lordling.” 

Stepping closer to [y/n] once more, Eris held Jax’s gaze as he leaned in to whisper in [y/n]’s ear.  “You should know by now that I always play to keep. Never to lose, Firefly.” 

And like a flame extinguished, Eris Vanserra winnowed away. Leaving [y/n] cold and short of breath by the implication. When the bond snapped, he called it a game but his words now spoke of intention. An intention to not run or reject the bond. She understood why many spoke of the mating bond as a blessing and a curse. 

“You need to be careful. I trust you, and your decisions but I don’t trust Eris. Why was Eris here? The assassination attempt very well could have been from Autumn, Beron is unpredictable. Or even Rhysland, we don’t truly know the motives of the Night Court.”

More like you don’t know the Night Court motives, she thought as she turned toward the balcony’s view. “Jax, I know Thesan sent you to watch me but I take very good care of myself. The assassin was literally dead before anyone even noticed he was there. You can relax and think of this as a vacation.”

“This is no vacation. You don't even believe that.” He joined her against the balustrade. 

“You’re right,” She sighed, wrapping an arm around herself. “We don’t know a lot, which is why we are here.” It was another pretty lie. 

Placing his hand over hers, Jax spoke with utter devotion. “I am here because I want you to be safe.” 

“Thank you.” It would be so easy to cup his face and enjoy the brush of his scruff against her hand. Easy to accept the offer of marriage sitting on the tip of his tongue. But it would all be a lie. It was after the Mountain. Now his sunshine burned and suffocated her. Now, she craved the warmth from a roaring fire and not a strong sunbeam. “I’m going to bed. If the couch is too rough, you can always take the suite next door.”

“This is Day, [y/n].” He called after her, watching her retreating figure. “These couches are made for comfort.”

A/N: Feedback is always appreciated! This is partly inspired by the song So It Goes by Taylor Swift and the show My Lady Jane

[crossfandomslut]

Me trying to convince everyone that Eris isn't this masculine, Colleen Hoover li looking guy, and that he actually looks like Cardan but with red hair and whiskey eyes:

[crossfandomslut]

I just reread this series and fell in love all over again this author is so wickedly talented !!!!!! Crying over my soft sweet Eris ❤️❤️❤️

chapter xxv – gust & flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Eris Vanserra has been a prisoner in his own home since the day he was born. He has done what he had to in order to survive and protect the few he loves. And he is playing the long game. Waiting, waiting, and waiting for the right time to make his move, to usurp his wicked father and become High Lord of Autumn Court. But things become even more complicated when a human girl drops into his life. Perhaps Eris can wait no longer to take his throne.

Word Count:  4,100+

masterlist

Y/N wanted to wake up to Eris’ warmth wrapped around her, to have his autumn scent taking over her senses once again, and his strong arms reminding her that she was protected, safe. 

But Eris had left hours ago – and so stealthily that Y/N had no idea when. 

Instead, Y/N had shot up in bed breathing heavily. 

There had been a surge of power. So strong that it jolted the witch from her deep sleep. 

Both her movements and the surge woke Ronan up, growling as if there was danger in the bedroom. 

“Eris,” Y/N breathed. 

Somehow she knew the power had erupted from him. 

Something was wrong – very wrong. Even the night Eris had defeated Beron, even the night Y/N followed him deep into the forest to test his new strength…she had never felt such power come from Eris. 

If he were using it now, then he was under some sort of attack. 

Y/N jumped out of bed, flinging off her nightgown and threw on trousers and a tunic – quicker than worrying herself with a dress or a damn corset. 

If she was off to battle, she would order a sentry to fetch her the same armor Eris had forced upon her before. 

But Y/N needn’t look far, for as soon as she flung the door open, she was met with a handful of sentries standing guard outside her chambers.

Amongst them were all of Eris’ smoke hounds. And as soon as they heard their master’s mate open the door, they had shot to their feet and whined with anticipation. 

Y/N’s eyes raced amongst the sentries, half expecting Lucien to be with them.

But Eris’ brother was nowhere to be found, which meant he was surely with him. 

“Where is the High Lord?” She asked curtly. 

“There was rebellion in Drumenthoul,” the highest ranking responded quickly. She recognized him well enough to know his name: Captain Respen. 

Her brow furrowed. “Lord Muiris’ demesne?” 

“Yes, my lady. It is one of Autumn Court’s largest cities. Its subjects attacked the manor of the late lord, after they heard of the attack on you. His son retaliated, using what was left of his father’s army to wreak havoc on his own people. But it appeared to be an attempt at a trap.” 

Y/N’s stomach dropped. “Walk with me,” she ordered all of them. 

Instantly, they fell into step with her. 

“Ready my horse with my weapons,” she continued. One of the sentry rushed ahead to do as she asked, making his way to the stables. “I must go to him.” Then she looked at Captain Respen and silently told him to continue.  

“Before the attacks started, Lord Muiris’ son had called for reinforcements...from any Lord who did not agree with the High Lord’s usurping.” 

“They knew Eris would aid his people and they used that to lure him intro a trap with a bigger enemy than he could have anticipated,” Y/ noted aloud. 

“Precisely, my lady.” He didn’t hide how impressed he was with her intelligence. She had the makings of a High Lord's wife, despite her mortal and witchling upbringing.

“Do not fear though, Lady Y/N. Eris anticipated such an attack. He brought his best infantry.” Respen hesitated before he added, “And he has gained much power since becoming High Lord.” 

Y/N knew Respen was trying to calm her, to assure her Eris couldn’t be in danger. But no words would calm her.

“And you were left behind to guard me?” Annoyance was clear in her voice. 

“Protecting the High Lord’s mate is no lowly task, Lady Y/N. It is a great honor. The High Lord will take no chances at you being attacked while he is preoccupied with civil war. It would be the exact time for an assassination attempt.” 

When they reached the courtyard, Aengus was indeed ready, with her sword, bow, and satchel of arrows attached to the saddle.

But Y/N suddenly remembered that Drumenthoul was on the north coast of the court.

She had included cardiography in her Autumn Court studies. And it would take days to reach. 

Why had no one said anything?

“Can someone winnow me?” She asked. 

All the soldiers shifted uncomfortably, not meeting her gaze. 

Captain Respen was the one who broke the silence. “We are under strict orders to do no such thing.”

He at least had the decency to look guilty about it. 

That was why no one had questioned her orders to grab her mount: she would never get close to the danger in time.  

“Lucien is with them?” She asked quietly. 

He nodded. 

“So I am to just wait here?” 

Before anyone could answer her, there was another surge of power. 

Between the courtyard of the Forest House and the outer gates, there was a half mile. 

But despite the distance, Y/N could see him – no – she could feel Eris. And she sensed that something was not right. 

The next second, she was jumping onto Aengus, and digging her heels into gelding. The horse needed no other signals to throw him into a run. 

“Accompany Lady Y/N,” was the last thing Y/N heard before she was in the forests and meadows between the courtyard and outer wall. 

When she was close enough to take in her mate, she noted that while Eris was walking on his own, his entire body was tense. 

A gust of wind hit her. “He is injured…faebane…faebane…faebane.”

Another gust of wind. “He took…his beastly form.”

Y/N had heard of the High Lord’s beast form from a night of drinking with Cassian. He tried to scare her by sharing the murderous creatures she could stumble upon in the Prythian wilderness. 

“But none are more terrifying than the beasts of High Lords," he had whispered to her for dramatic effect. Then went into great detail of the few times in his centuries when he witnessed Rhysand’s own beastly form. 

Y/N still didn’t know much about them, but she did know it drained one's power. It was no parlor trick, but a skill that only a powerful High Lord could wield – and use sparingly. 

That must have been the blast of power that had woken her up. 

When she was just a few yards away, Y/N swung her leg over the side of the saddle and jumped while Aengus still cantered and had yet to come to a stop. 

“Eris!” Y/N gasped at the sight of him. 

Though he walked on his own, Lucien watched his eldest brother with caution a few steps behind him.

And now Y/N could see that Eris had at least twenty arrows sticking out of his back. 

Then she heard the galloping of her guard catching up to them. 

As soon as Eris’ spotted them, his posture straightened even more. 

He does not want to appear weak in front of his men, Y/N realized. 

“The infantry?” Y/N asked the two of them. 

“Only a handful lost,” Lucien told her. “But many injured. They are being winnowed. The rest will return on horseback.”

Y/N turned to her guard. “Ready the infirmary tents! The injured will be returning any moment. Have a female alert the human women that I will need their help. They will know what to prepare.” 

Captain Respen barked orders at the others, but he and another lingered. 

“Leave us,” she ordered them, more harshly than she ever would if the situation did not call for it. 

Respen eyed Eris. 

“Do as my mate demands, Captain.” The High Lord finally spoke.

Y/N was surprised by how strong his voice sounded, when it was becoming more and more clear to her how much pain he was in. 

Respen and his lieutenant nodded before galloping back to the Forest House. 

Once they were out of eyesight, Eris fell to his hands and knees. 

“Eris!” Y/N whispered, not wanting any fae senses picking up their panic. 

“For Cauldron’s sake!” Lucien growled as he helped his brother off the ground with Y/N. 

Y/N carefully put one of his arms over his shoulder, while Lucien did the same with his other arm.

“How bad?” She hissed.

“I shall live,” Eris muttered. 

His pale skin was not its usual glow, but sickly looking. His hair was covered in mud and blood – and she could only hope most of it was not his. 

“It’s the faebane,” she acknowledged. 

Eris and Lucien looked at her with surprise. But she ignored them. 

“Can you ride?” She whispered to Eris. 

He gave her a shaky nod. “Behind you,” he clarified. 

She nodded and whistled for Aengus. “Lucien, help me get him in the saddle.”

Y/N climbed on first, and pulled him up as Lucien lifted from the ground. 

Eris growled at the pain, making her heart race with panic. 

As soon as he was sitting, Y/N gave orders. “Lucien, get a cot brought to my witchery.  Do it yourself and tell no one. Discretion is key.”

Lucien nodded and winnowed to the Forest House. 

“You want to show them how strong you are, then show them,” Y/N muttered before she urged Aengus into a gallop. 

When they got closer, she softly urged him. “Take the reigns.”

Eris did as she said. 

Y/N knew why Eris did not winnow back into the Forest House on his own. She knew why he would not show pain, despite his back being littered with faebane-poisoned arrows. There were those who still questioned his power. Therefore, he would not show weakness. 

Instead, it looked like two lovers returning after sharing a relieved embrace. 

Y/N jumped down from Aengus and handed the horses to a stableboy, making sure not to watch Eris with worry as he dismounted on his own. 

“Make sure all the healers have been alerted,” Eris told his sentries. Then he looked over his shoulder of the forest and meadow they had just come from. 

With the wave of his hand, a hundred tents appeared out of nowhere. Healer tents for the injured that would soon be brought back. 

“Come,” Y/N offered her hand to her mate. 

Eris didn’t hesitate, taking it and letting her lead him into the Forest House. 

——

Y/N had offered Eris a pain relieving tonic, but he refused it. 

Not having time to argue with him, she fluttered about her witchery, brewing a potion and cutting herbs. 

All while Eris sat patiently on the cot Lucien had snuck in.

Within minutes, Y/N had a healing paste ready. 

“The arrows,” she gulped. “Shall I remove them one by one or all at once?”

Eris met her gaze over her shoulder, “All at once.”

“I will help,” Lucien offered. 

“Touch me with your grimy hands and I will set you alight,” Eris growled in warning. 

Y/N ignored the outburst. “Ready?” She whispered. 

He nodded. 

But Y/N moved in front of him and crouched before him. She took both of his hands in her own, squeezing them lovingly.

She closed her eyes and started chanting a spell.

And Eris immediately felt his back start to heat. 

Even as a bystander, Lucien felt the witch’s power fill the room. 

Eris almost forgot he was about to suffer, too enamored with watching his mate take over with her magic. 

Y/N’s eyes snapped open, but they looked at no one and nothing. 

Lucien watched as they glazed over in white, which they had all put together was only when she was stretching her magic to new and powerful heights. 

And then, as if there was an invisible lasso around all of the two dozen arrows in his back, Y/N’s spell got louder and then abruptly stopped. Along with her spell ending, the arrows were all ripped from Eris’ back in one pull. 

But the only noise that came from the High Lord was a low growl. 

Y/N gasped at the exertion of power, and was quickly trying to catch her breath. 

But her eyes had returned to normal. 

Lucien leaned over to look at Eris’ back. “Well, you sure got all of them.” Then he bent down to pick up the fallen arrows from the ground, burning them in his palm until they were ash. 

“You better clean that up,” Y/N warned as she saw it flutter to the floor. 

She turned her attention back to Eris. “Alright?”

He just nodded. 

“I must clean the wounds individually now,” she told him gently. “Some will need stitching, but not many.”

Silence filled the room as the real work began. Y/N treated Eris’ wounds as if he were made of glass. She was gentle and kind, always giving him a moment when his body tensed with pain. But he never complained and barely made a sound. 

“It was not…it was not how it should be,” Lucien finally spoke after some time. He was sitting on the ground now, knees propped up as he watched from the corner.

“What do you mean?” Y/N asked with confusion. 

Lucien watched Eris, who would not meet his gaze. “Beron’s beast form was that of a multi-tailed fox – still a tremendous size – and with the wings of an owl. Smaller than the beasts of the other High Lords, but still ever so deadly.” 

Y/N’s eyes narrowed. “And…?”

But Lucien didn’t speak. 

“I was something else,” Eris finally answered, trying to pass through the subject. 

“Something more,” Lucien corrected darkly. 

“I don’t understand,” she admitted quietly. 

But Eris just stared at the ground, his face emotionless. 

Lucien cleared his throat awkwardly, but continued. “He too turned into a fox, but that of a bear – something to rival even Tamlin. He had the antlers of our court’s stag. And the flames…he was engulfed in flames.”

Was it fear in Lucien’s tone... or awe? Y/N couldn’t figure it out. 

Lucien finally finished with, "The arrows you pulled from his back are just those of hundreds that failed to take him down.” 

“Then I shall thank this beast when I see him,” Y/N snapped. “For he seems to be the reason that Eris returned alive.” 

That was her only warning to Lucien to stop his antics. 

“Leave us,” Eris ordered his youngest brother. 

He didn’t need to be told again. 

“I will check on the injured,” Lucien announced to no one in particular. 

He closed the door louder than necessary, making both of them roll their eyes. 

The only sound to be heard was the crackling of the fire in the witchery. 

“How do you know how to treat faebane?” Eris’ tone instantly switched to the softness that was only reserved for his mate. 

“I shall tell you when you tell me why you ran into battle without waking me," she countered grimly. 

Eris was smart enough to look guilty, even though she couldn’t see his face as she worked on his back. “I did not wish to worry you.” 

“And being woken up by your surge of power was not more worrisome?” 

“I did not realize you would sense my magic in such a way,” he admitted. 

Y/N paused her healing and walked around to look down at him. “You could have been killed, Eris. And I never would have even said goodbye.” 

Without hesitating, Eris reached up and gently grasped the back of her neck, pulling her down until her lips crashed to his. 

She was sure the movement did not feel good for his back. But one would never know from the way his body only tried to pull her in further.

The subject was lost for a few moments, while their lips moved together.

Eventually, they pulled apart. 

“You are right,” Eris told her, voice raspy. 

“I am right?” She questioned, suddenly forgetting what they had even been talking about before he kissed her. 

“I should have woken you before I left,” he clarified. 

Then he smirked. “But I knew you would have tried to come.” 

“Of course I would have!” She admitted with a playful glare. 

His eyes darkened in warning. “You cannot rush into battle alongside me every time there is danger I must face, Y/N.”

“And why not?”

“Because I need you safe. Do you forget why you are here? And because these are not your battles to fight."

Y/N looked into his eyes before she answered, “They would be if I accepted the bond.”

She yelped when she was suddenly sitting across Eris' lap. He had pulled her so swiftly that there was no stopping it. 

“Do not tease me with such things, witch.” 

His body felt so hot, it was as if there was fire itself beneath his skin.  

Y/N swallowed. “I need to finish healing your back, High Lord.” 

Eris watched her before allowing her to get up. 

A tension filled silence settled in the room. 

“Will you let me see your beast form?” She finally asked him, her tone innocent. 

Eris smirked, only because he knew she couldn’t see it. “Why, so you can make me your pet, like Ronan?”

“I think it would be rather hard to cuddle a grizzly fox that was immersed in flames…” She thought aloud. “Cuddles would be much easier when you are in this form.”

Y/N had finished with her spells and healing salve, and was now wrapping Eris in gauze to keep it in place and protect the mending. 

“Where is this torment coming from?” Eris asked as he slowly stood. 

Y/N stepped to him, her eyes seemingly innocent. 

Then she suddenly kissed him again, but pulled away only after she bit the corner of his lip, making him hiss – not from the pain, though it did sting – from arousal. 

“For not waking me,” she answered, as if it were obvious. 

She stormed out of the witchery and threw open the door to his bedchambers that were next down the hall. 

“Also, I put a sleep tonic on my lips. So you will want to get in bed in the next few minutes, or you will be passing out on the cold, hard floor. And if you ruin my hard work from that, I shall punish you even worse.” 

Eris looked at her, utterly stunned. 

“You poison your High Lord?" His eyes narrowed playfully. “Finally, your true self is revealed: you are an evil, little witch after all.” 

She ignored his teasing. “To bed, now.” 

Eris sauntered past her into his personal bedchambers. 

She waited until he sat on the bed, then she slammed the door behind her. 

Instantly, she started chanting a protection spell. 

Yes, she had just knocked Eris out, which left him even more vulnerable than he already was with his injuries and exertion of power from using his beast form. 

Therefore, she would not leave him unprotected. 

She knew his guards would be lingering further down the hall. Lucien would have ordered to give the two of them space until further orders. 

All of them straightened to attention when they saw her round the corner.

“The High Lord is to stay in his rooms and rest,” she explained firmly. “If he comes out, do not engage. One of you is to inform me immediately. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Lady Y/N.” They all said in unison. There was no mockery or questioning; their tones held only respect and understanding. 

—🍁—🍁—🍁—

Eris awoke feeling much better than he probably should – and he knew he had Y/N to thank for that. 

It was dusk now. And he’d left for battle before the sun had risen that morning. So he must’ve been asleep for quite some time. 

Y/N’s poison had knocked him out so quickly that he hadn’t even bathed since battle. Though she had cleaned his wounds, he probably smelled of sweat and blood. 

Eris quickly went to his bathroom and bathed, finally ridding himself of the battle filth. 

Then he threw on a simple tunic and trousers, and rushed out of his chambers. 

His sentries were waiting for him and bowed immediately. 

“The injured?” He asked, getting straight to the point. 

Captain Respen stepped forward. “Tended to, High Lord.” Then paused before he added, “More were lost, their injuries to dire. The healers did all they could.” 

Eris frowned, but gave a slow nod. 

“Where is my mate?” 

All the sentries behind their captain shared a look, silently communicating. 

“She insisted that you are to stay in your bedchambers and rest,” Respen explained.

Eris ignored that. “Where is she?” 

——

Eris entered the grounds where all the healer tents had appeared. He expected to hear moans of pain or tears of grief. But there was a subtle peace amongst the camp. 

The sun had just passed the horizon, leaving the forest and sky with a unique mixture of faded blues and oranges. 

“This way, High Lord,” Captain Respen nodded in a direction past the tents. 

Servants had erupted countless fire pits to both warm the camp and make visibility easier for everyone, despite faelights glowing inside each healer tent. 

Eris’ walk slowed when he heard the giggling and laughter. 

It was not a common sound in Autumn Court.

Once they walked past the last of the tents, Eris halted. 

Y/N, ran around with the mortal children they had been sheltering. It appeared they were playing a game of tag. But every time one of them got away from her grasp, a gust of wind would tickle them, causing a fit of giggles. 

“She has been running around all day, aiding the healers in any way she can. She has saved many lives today.” Captain Respen told him quietly. “When someone finally managed to get her to take a break, she came to entertain the children whose mothers were still helping the wounded.” 

Eris didn’t respond, just watched his mate, who looked utterly exhausted, yet smile and played with the children despite it. 

“Will she stay?” Respen dared to ask his High Lord the question that all of Autumn Court had come to wonder. 

Eris ignored him, but the clenching of his jaw was visible. 

He stepped towards his mate, purposely making noise to bring attention to his arrival. 

The children’s laughter stopped immediately at the sight of the High Lord. Some of them even eyed him with fear. 

“It is alright,” Y/N assured them.

Then she beckoned Eris closer, to her. 

He did as requested, following that invisible string attached to his heart.

“Is it true you turned into a beast?” One of the brave children asked hurriedly. 

Y/N bit back her smile. 

“Can you show us?” Another cried out before Eris could even answer. 

“I do not think your mothers would appreciate that,” Eris told them. 

“I don’t have one. So can you at least show me?” Another begged. 

“Now, now,” Y/N playfully scolded them. "The High Lord is far too powerful to show off his gifts like some court jester.” 

“Awww!!!” They all whined in unison. 

But Eris kneeled before them, pausing dramatically to get their attention back. 

The children leaned in, believing they changed his mind. 

With a subtle and small flick of Eris’ wrist, his palm twisted to the sky, and fireworks erupted above them. 

The children cheered and jumped underneath the fireworks as they continued to erupt in every color they could ever want, some even turning into little animals before exploding. 

They tried to catch the falling light in their hands. But it would always disappear before they could, creating a new game for the children. 

Y/N moved to her mate’s side to join him in watching the new joy.

“Neat trick," she told him.  

Eris gave her a shy smile. “I used to do the same for Lucien when he was a child. Sometimes it was the only thing that could stop his crying fits after father… reprimanded him.” 

But they both knew it was more than reprimanding.

Eris sighed. “It has been so many centuries, I almost forgot about it entirely...until now. 

“How are you feeling?” Y/N asked him. 

“I am fine,” he answered too quickly. 

She sighed, but didn’t push. 

“My guards say you have not rested since tending to me,” he pointed out. 

She shrugged dismissively. “There were many injured. And the healers were overwhelmed. I helped as much as I possibly could.”

“And I am grateful for it.” He countered. “But for someone who does not wish to join this Court, you certainly care about its inhabitants.” 

“Shhh,” she warned. “None of that. I am quite tired.” 

The next second, Eris had scooped Y/N up in his arms. 

“Eris!” She admonished. “Your injuries!”

“My injuries are healing – thanks to you.”

Eris passed his guards, who had been watching over them from a distance. “Once the fireworks finish, make sure the children return to their mothers and caretakers.”

“Of course, High Lord. The children will be looked after.” Captain Respen bowed. 

When they were at the doors of the Forest House, Eris locked eyes with one of the footman who stood at the ready. 

“Bring dinner to her bedchambers,” he ordered. 

The footman nodded and rushed off. 

Eris looked down to see that Y/N had closed her eyes and rested her head in the crook of his neck. 

“Are we too tired for a bath?” He asked quietly. 

Without opening her eyes, Y/N mumbled. “Never too tired for a bath.”

Eris huffed a laugh. “Good. It is my turn to take care of you.” 

“Will you promise that I will wake up next to you tomorrow morning?” 

“I promise, Y/N.” 

-----------

Thank you thank you thank you for your patience. I'm sure no one will read this...but work was really terrible around the holidays. I was trying to find a new job, but the job market is so terrible. So my mental health just took a real hit. I've also really gotten back into reading, so that because my thing unwind after work, instead of writing. I had also been doing a lot of different personal art projects – painting, editing, and photographing. And those started feeling better than writing for me.

Anyways...thank you for those who stuck with me and were patient and supportive.

[crossfandomslut]

Shut the fuck up right now

You are so gorgeous, it makes me so mad

For @elucienweekofficial Day 7: Tension/Healing

I wanted to illustrate a bit of what I think their banter will look like. I think Lucien’s rakish charm will drive Elain mad (in the best way).

Enjoy the little comic of Elain trying to stay mad at Lucien but getting a bit distracted by his lips🫦

[crossfandomslut]

Good morning to everyone who loves Eris Vanserra and who will love Eris Vanserra in the future.

[crossfandomslut]

So fucking good I can't

Help Me, Help You - Part Seven

Fenrys x F!Reader

Summary- With help from a certain prince, Fenrys and Y/n go into Antica to search for Vaughan.

Warnings- Arguments, a bit angsty

Series Masterlist

Part Seven

Y/n felt warm when she woke, it didn’t feel like the unbearable heat of Antica’s days, but the warmth of the fireplace in her little cabin back home.

It took only a moment to remember what had happened the night before, to know where she was, to realize who’s arms were wrapped around her waist, holding her close to his chest, her cheek resting just above his heart.

Everything played in her mind, over and over, the conversation with Hasar and Renia, the disappointing search for her brother, the nightmare caused by both.

She’d ran straight to him, her terrified mind somehow deeming the male as safe, she’d told him, of the dream, of the memories, of her fears. And she’d begged him to stay, to lay beside her, he did, and now she was nestled on his chest.

She froze completely, even as it felt like her skin had lit on fire. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could do nothing but lay there, barely even able to breathe.

“Please don’t claw my face off, kitten.”

His voice jump started her heart, the low gravely tone telling her he’d just woken up as well.

She lifted her head to look up at the male, finding his gaze already on hers. His eyelids were still heavy with sleep, and his lips were curled into a lazy smile that had her heart racing. She wondered if he could feel it where her chest was pressed up against his skin, wondered if his own was beating just as fast.

“Who knew you were such a cuddler,” Fenrys laughed.

The teasing somehow brought her back to her own mind, she needed to get off of him, to go back to her own damn room.

She glared halfheartedly at the male a soft hiss leaving her lips as she tried to pull away. Only for Fenrys to hold her to him, one arm still wrapped around her waist, the other lifting to rest against her cheek.

“How are you feeling?”

The question was so soft, his touch so gentle, that Y/n froze again. His onyx eyes pinned her down, searching her gaze for the answer to his question. He wouldn’t find it, she hardly even knew, especially not now, not with him staring at her, not as she laid practically on top of him.

“I’m fine,” she said finally.

He gave her a look, “Kitten-“

“Mostly fine,” she interrupted him, giving him a hesitant smile, “I’ll be okay, I promise.”

She didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on her lips, nor the way his thumb brushed the corner of her mouth.

Fire, everywhere their bodies met, pure fire. Terrifying, the way she burned with it, the way he seemed completely oblivious to it.

“I should go,” she said, hastily pushing against his chest to free herself from his grip.

He let go without protest, as if he finally realized what he was doing to her. The blankets fell off of her, exposing her skin to the soft breeze floating through the room.

She cursed the stupid little nightgown, cursed Altan for laying it out for her, cursed the onyx gaze that fell down her body, cursed her own gaze for dipping down to Fenrys’s exposed chest.

“Y/n,” Fenrys breathed.

“I’ll see you at breakfast,” she said carefully, no heat, no anger, nothing.

It took everything for her not to run away, to force herself to walk towards the door and slip into the hallway beyond. It was then that she collapsed against the door, head thrown back, eyes firmly shut, taking a deep breath to steady her racing heart.

“Fun night?”

Her eyes snapped open, finding the future empress of the Southern Continent grinning wildly at her.

She pointed at the woman, “Not one more word.”

Nesryn laughed, pointedly looking at the tiny little nightdress Y/n wore, at the door behind her.

Y/n only hissed like the feral animal she was.

Fenrys could admit that it was pathetic that he hadn’t stopped thinking of her since the moment he’d woken with Y/n laying there, nestled on top of him, peacefully sleeping, like a house cat curled up on his lap, he’d laughed to himself when he’d made the observation.

He could also admit that he’d been a creep, just silently watching her, that’s how he’d known the exact moment she’d woken up, the moment she’d realized where she was, who she was with, when the panic had set in.

He’d expected her to react badly, to go back to hating him after the momentary lapse in judgment from her nightmare had passed, to hiss those four words again.

Do. Not. Touch. Me.

He’d readied himself for it, for the physical pain in his chest when she said it, when she struck him down with her tongue, but she didn’t.

She’d been nervous, he realized quickly, her skin flushing with it, she’d even smiled at him, a soft, shy smile, that had nearly taken his breath away.

And then she’d stood up, gods she stood up and he hadn’t been able to stop his eyes from dropping to that gods forsaken dress, hadn’t been able to stop the plea of her name on his tongue.

She’d left, and Fenrys had only been able to lay there, staring at the door like a fool, hoping she’d walk right back in. She didn’t.

So he’d forced himself to get up, to dress, to walk down to the large dining hall where breakfast was already served. Y/n was already there, a small portion of fruits and pastries on her plate.

The seat beside her wasn’t empty, he noted with some disdain. Instead occupied by Prince Kashin, who was angled towards the female, as if she was far more interesting than his breakfast.

Y/n was speaking to the prince, her eyes observing the man casually, even from this far away, Fenrys could see the shine of curiosity in them.

“You’re clenching your fist like you’re going to punch my poor brother with it.”

Fenrys didn’t bother looking at the crown prince, which only caused Sartaq to laugh loudly, drawing the attention of several people, including the prince he had been staring at, and the female beside him.

Kashin gave Fenrys a simple nod, nothing in his expression saying he either noted, or cared for Fenrys’s death stare. Y/n on the other hand, gave him a look of confusion, obviously noticing his current disdain for the prince, but having no idea the reasons why.

“I thought you said nothing was going on between you two,” Sartaq said much softer, the words only for Fenrys.

He dragged his gaze from Kashin, “It is nothing.”

“This doesn’t look like nothing, friend,” Sartaq replied smugly, “Come, sit with us.”

Fenrys found Nesryn sitting on the other side of the room, a matching grin to her husband’s on her face.

“I shouldn’t leave her alone-“

Sartaq cut him off, “She’s seems fine enough.”

His gaze found the female again, found her smiling at the prince beside her, that same smile he’d been struck by this morning. It felt like her elbow driven into his gut, the air escaping his lungs through the wound.

Kashin seemed to have a similar reaction to Fenrys, only staring at her smiling lips, entranced. Y/n noted the stare, her smile faltering under his gaze, she ducked away, shyly hiding behind her hair.

“Come on.” Sartaq clapped him on the shoulder, “I have some news about your little bird friend.”

Even with the prince dangling Vaughan in front of his face, Fenrys found it difficult to turn away from her, to leave her under the appreciative stare of a prince.

Kashin said something then, leaning forward so that the words were only for Y/n, whatever it was had her lifting her eyes to the man, her smile so bright it hurt.

“What news?” Fenrys ripped his attention away, turning to walk beside the crown prince.

Sartaq was grinning from ear to ear but he wisely kept his thoughts on the scene behind them to himself.

“A healer from the Torre said she may have seen him,” Sartaq said, “He was getting supplies for a trip supposedly. She gave me a list of things he’d requested, seemed like a simple first aid kit.”

Not surprising, the male had always been the most prepared out of them all. Fenrys had needed the male’s help on more than one occasion, Vaughan had silently stitched him up and left without a word each time. Perhaps in another life, Vaughan would have been a healer instead of a warrior.

“When was this?” Fenrys sat down across from Nesryn, “He could still be around.”

“Two days ago,” Sartaq answered, “He may still be supplying for whatever trip he’s planning on.”

Fenrys hoped so, “I’ll go to the Torre today and ask some questions, see if Vaughan is still hanging around.”

“Will you bring Y/n with you?” Nesryn had her brow raised at him, “She seemed skittish about the Torre. I didn’t want to pry and ask.”

Fenrys didn’t either, he’d seen the way her eyes had flitted over the building several times that first day, but he’d been to preoccupied with his own excitement at seeing his friends to really question it.

“I can check myself,” Fenrys decided, “I don’t want to get her hopes up for nothing.”

He looked back at her then, saw her sitting there, still with that small, shy smile. Kashin talking to her, his eyes roaming over her.

The gown her servant had picked out for her today was gorgeous, pale lavender silk that loosely hugged every curve of her body, he couldn’t fault the prince for his wandering gaze.

Like she felt his eyes on her, she looked at him, and Fenrys found his heart stopping dead in his chest when her smile widened, when she spoke to Kashin before standing, turning her back to the prince and walking straight to Fenrys. Revealing a slit in the fabric of her skirt that rose nearly to her hip.

“Close your mouth,” Sartaq chuckles beside him, “You’ll get drool all over my table.”

Fenrys didn’t have the time to snap at the man before Y/n was before them, sliding into the free seat beside Nesryn.

“I hope my brother didn’t chase you away,” Sartaq said, “His time spent with his soldiers has been wearing on his manners.”

“No, no, the opposite really,” she said, “He’s actually quite the gentleman.”

Fenrys wanted to laugh, the way the prince had been watching her was less than gentlemanly, especially when she’d walked away from him.

Though, Fenrys knew he was no better, worse perhaps. He hated to admit it, but his mind had drifted back to that first day, to the image of her standing before him with only a towel to cover her.

“Kashin actually had some good news,” she continued, “One of his soldiers recognized Vaughan down in the markets near the Torre.”

Fenrys briefly wondered why the prince was even looking for the male.

Nesryn turned to look at Y/n, “Oh? When did he see him?”

“Yesterday evening,” Y/n replied, “Kashin offered to come look with me after breakfast.”

“Of course he did,” Fenrys couldn’t help but grumble.

Y/n raised a brow at him, her expression unguarded, like the thought of her brother being so close had smashed through the walls she kept around herself, or maybe the prince had knocked those down.

He saw the confusion, the concern in her eyes, right next to the hope. It shined brightly, the hope that her brother was close, that she could finally talk to him, to make things right between them after so many years apart. Fenrys wanted nothing more than be the one to help her achieve that.

“Well, if you’re done eating.” Fenrys stood abruptly from his chair, “I’ll grab Kashin and we can go.”

He didn’t give her the chance to respond, didn’t stop to look at his friend’s smug faces as he stalked towards Prince Kashin, who was already standing, grinning at Fenrys like he knew exactly what was going on in the male’s head, even though Fenrys hardly knew himself.

“Let’s go,” he said shortly.

Kashin’s grin only widened, and it took a lot of Fenrys’s self control to not snarl at the man.

Y/n could barely keep her pace steady as they walked towards the Torre. The proud tower looming over the nearby markets where her brother may well be.

“Batu spotted him closer to the Torre,” Kashin said beside her, “Clearly stocking for a trip, a long one. Dried meats, cheese, warmer clothes, if I had to bet, he may be heading straight for the Tavan mountains themselves.”

Fenrys stood on her other side, “Are there any inns nearby that he could be staying in?”

Kashin looked at the male over her head, she felt insignificant between the two massive bodies.

“I have a few of my men searching the area,” he said, “Sartaq mentioned Vaughan stopped by the Torre?”

“More supplies,” Fenrys nods, “I was going to go ask the healer he’d seen some questions, see if he mentioned anything of use. You could meet up with Batu and Y/n and I can try the healers.”

Y/n let her eyes drift to the white stone tower, she’d felt its presence lingering over her the entire time they’d been there.

“I’ll go with Kashin,” she said quickly.

Fenrys stared at her for a moment, “Okay, I’ll- I’ll meet you here in a few hours.”

She tried not to wince at the disappointment in his tone, tried not to stare at him as he quickly turned from her and started towards the Torre’s main entrance.

“Batu should be nearby,” Kashin said behind her.

Y/n turned, seeing the prince with his arm offered to her. She stood there for a moment, felt the weight of eyes on her back, she knew she would turn and find onyx watching her every move. And when she took Kashin’s arm in her own, that weight lifted, and did not return.

Either her brother was in a hurry to reach his destination, or he was deliberately hiding from her. They spent hours in the scorching heat, searching through the markets, the inns, the surrounding neighborhoods, her, Kashin, Batu and even more of the prince’s soldiers, nothing.

It was like Vaughan was a ghost, drifting through the world and disappearing the second they got to close.

As the day went on, it seemed more and more likely that Vaughan was already well on his way out of the city, it would be a miracle to catch him now.

Y/n wanted nothing more than to keep looking, but even the prince looked exhausted. So they’d parted with Kashin’s soldiers, Batu promising to keep his eyes and ears open for her brother, and they went to meet up with Fenrys.

“You’ll find him,” Kashin told her, patting the hand that hooked around his forearm.

She gave him a halfhearted smile, “Thank you, I really appreciate your help today.”

The prince grinned back at her, “Of course, we’ll keep looking. He’ll show up wether he wants to or not.”

She chuckled, “Not many have been able to make my brother do something he did not want to do.”

“Well,” he nudged her gently, “I’ll just have to be one of those few.”

Y/n felt his presence before she saw him, she felt his gaze like onyx stone dropped on her shoulders.

Fenrys was leaning against the wall they’d designated as their meeting spot. His eyes were narrowed, completely black in the shadows as he watched them approach.

Something about that stare made her uneasy, something was wrong with him.

“Fenrys?” She dropped Kashin’s arm to move towards the male, “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” he snapped, pushing off that wall to step past her.

Y/n reeled for a moment, turning to find him already stalking towards the palace. Kashin was watching the male with his brow raised curiously, a small grin on his lips.

“Hey!” She quickly caught up to Fenrys, “What’s wrong with you? Did something happen?”

Fenrys didn’t spare her a glance, “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” she caught his arm, forcing him to stop, “Don’t start this.”

Fenrys glared down at her, “Start what?”

“This,” she gestured to his scowling lips, his clenched fists, “The brooding male crap.”

Fenrys only stared at her, and for a moment she saw his gaze softening, his hands relaxing. But then his gaze flickered past her, and his glare turned near leathal.

“I’ll see you back at the palace.”

“Fen-“

But he was already walking away from her, leaving her. Y/n was half tempted to find the nearest object and hurl it at the back of his golden head.

“Hey,” Kashin’s voice was soft, “Are you alright.”

Y/n whirled towards him, finding the prince watching her with genuine concern, his hand outstretched like he wasn’t sure if she’d want his comfort.

“I’m fine,” she lied, “I- we should go back.”

“Is that what you want?” He glanced behind her, no doubt at the retreating form of Fenrys, “We can stay away a little while longer if you need it.”

Stay away, hide away, give Fenrys the space he so clearly desired. Would he even talk to her if she knocked on his door, would he leave her, alone, again and again, like she’d been her entire life.

“Where would we go?”

Kashin’s face lit up, “Have you ever been riding before?”

She hadn’t come back, not for lunch, not for dinner, and neither did Kashin.

He’d tried, and failed for most of the day to rid his mind of the image of her holding onto the prince’s arm, smiling up at him. Fenrys wondered if Kashin felt the same way he had, when she’d laid on his chest only that morning, smiling shyly up at him.

And then his traitorous mind had brought even worse things, images of her laughing with the prince, sighing his name, laying on his bed, moaning.

By the time dinner had been cleaned up, Fenrys was fuming over nothing. Even Sartaq had put aside his teasing and gave Fenrys a pitying smile before leaving for bed.

“Suffering in your own misery won’t help anything you know,” Nesryn said as she followed her husband, “And shoving her away won’t protect your heart.”

He didn’t have it in him to respond, he barely lifted his hand to wave at her. Nesryn only shook her head as she left him there, with only the glass in his hand as company.

She still wasn’t back by the time he got sick of wallowing in his liquor, when he went back to his room, when he’d collapsed into bed, when his eyes had involuntarily closed.

Fenrys wasn’t sure if minutes, or hours had passed when he woke, all he knew was that it was still dark outside, and Y/n was finally back.

Her laughter had woken him, from the hallway beyond his door. Muffled by the wood, he still recognized it, even if she’d so little shared it with him. Yet she easily laughed with Kashin.

Fenrys felt that truth like a knife to his heart, felt himself bleeding out on his sheets as he strained his ears to listen. He heard their mumbled voices, heard heavy retreating footsteps, heard the soft click of her door.

He was moving before his brain could catch up, already in the hall, already pounding his fist on her door before it did, before it took reins of his body and forced him to stop, too late.

She hadn’t made it far, the door swung open in seconds, revealing a wide eyed Y/n, her hair a tangled mess around her head, her beautiful silk dress rumpled and dirty.

Fenrys saw it all, each thought more insane than the last, all coated in the red rage. The way the prince touched her, pleasured her. His fae instincts wanted him to find the prince, to gods damned kill him.

“Fenrys?”

She was looking at him with pure confusion, eyes wide and questioning. She searched him, like she’d be able to see into his mind, see the bloody red images that assaulted him from every angle.

He stepped past the threshold of her door, without invitation, forcing her to take a step back, to let go of the door which he slammed shut behind him.

He saw the words in her eyes, do not touch me. Had she said the opposite to Kashin, begged him to do exactly that? Was Fenrys so revolting to her?

“What is wrong with you?” Her tone turned furious, “What-“

“Where have you been?” He cut her off, taking another step towards her, his voice lethally soft.

She didn’t step back this time, only glaring up at him, “None of your gods damned business. Not if you’re going to act like this.”

Another step, and they were standing toe to toe, she had to tilt her head back to keep her glare on him, her wild mess of hair cascading down her back. Fenrys found himself wanting to wrap the strands around his fist.

“Where have you been? He asked again. “Where did he take you? What did he do to-”

She hissed, cutting him off, “Fuck off.”

He wanted to snarl, to snap his teeth at her, to yell at her, to beg her to tell him, to grab her and shake the answers out of her, to kiss her.

He staggered backwards with the thought, like it had physically struck him.

“Fenrys?” Confusion, anger, concern, “What the fuck is happening with you?”

Jealous, he was gods damned jealous. That realization hit him even harder.

He’d gone half crazy with it over the past few days, the first night with the imaginary servants, now with Kashin, and he’d been so damned oblivious to it.

“I- Fuck,” he groaned, “I should go.”

He turned, fully intent on leaving, on hiding away in his room for the next day, maybe even the day after that. Y/n didn’t let him, her hand wrapped around his arm, nails almost digging into his skin.

“No,” she hissed, “You don’t get to just barge in here, snarling at me like a damned dog and then run away with your tail between your legs.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, tugging his arm from her fierce grip.

“Sorry? You’re sorry?” She laughed, it lacked any humor, “You fucking left me with Kashin, and then you have the nerve to force your way in here, demanding to know where I’ve been, what I’ve done?”

What she’s done, it all hit him again, the jealousy, the anger. He couldn’t stop it all from washing over him, it was pathetic really. He was pathetic.

“If you really must know,” she snarls, “He took me riding. I’ve never ridden a horse before, so Kashin was teaching me because no one else has ever bothered.”

She’d been riding, her hair tangled by the wind, her dress dirty from the stables, her laughter from having fun, not from bedding the damned prince.

“Now,” Y/n continues, “You are going to tell me what the fuck your problem is today.”

What was he supposed to say, that he’d been going insane since the moment she’d gone with the prince instead of him, that he wished she’d taken his arm instead of Kashin’s, that he’d imagined the worst of her and the prince together.

Fenrys shook his head, “I can’t.”

Y/n was seething, not a wall in sight to hide that anger from him. She looked half close to clawing his eyes out, he’d let her if she did.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

“No,” he replied.

She took a step closer to him, poking him harshly in the chest, “Tell me.”

“No,” he snapped.

Another poke, “Tell me.”

They were toe to toe again, both of them glaring into each other’s eyes, both of them refusing to back down.

He growled, “No.”

She hissed, shoving his chest with her whole hand, “Tell. Me.”

Her strength surprised him, he took a single step back, “No.”

Another shove, another hiss, “Tell me.”

Fenrys kept his balance this time, catching her wrist, “Stop it.”

“Just tell me,” she snaps, her free hand slapping his chest.

He groaned, “Kitten, stop.”

She struck again, and again, repeating the words, “Tell me, you fucking coward.”

He caught her fist, tightly restraining her arms even as she thrashed in his grip. She reared back, like she was about to knee him in the groin.

“Damnit,” Fenrys snarled, he wrenched her towards him, pinning her to his chest so she had no room to move.

“Let go of me,” she hissed.

“Stop trying to hurt me,” he snapped back.

She glared at him, those keen eyes burning into his skull, “What is your problem?”

“My problem?” Fenrys felt his resolve crack, felt it shatter to pieces, “You’re my problem! You and that gods damned prince.”

“Me and Kashin?” She gave him an incredulous look, “What the fuck are you-“

“I’m fucking jealous!”

His outburst was too loud to his ears, leaving them ringing, leaving him breathless. Y/n seemed to be in a similar state, blinking at him like she hadn’t quite processed what he’d actually said.

“I’m jealous,” Fenrys said again, “I turned into a pissy little shit because I am gods damned jealous.”

“I- I don’t,” she stuttered, “Jealous?”

Fenrys saw the look in her eyes, saw the words she said last time he’d seen it.

Do not touch me.

He let her go like she’d burned him, put some distance between them so he could breathe without scorching his lungs.

“Why?” She asked, staring at him with wide eyes, scared, “I don’t understand.”

Fenrys laughs mirthlessly, “I don’t either, kitten. I didn’t even know that I was until now, until I realized that I wanted to-“

He stopped abruptly.

“You wanted to what?” Y/n asks, keen eyes searching his own.

Fenrys shook his head. He couldn’t tell her, couldn’t say that he wanted to gods damned kiss her when she had made it clear she didn’t even want his touch. She’d rather fall into the arms of a stranger, into Kashin’s, than his.

“Don’t,” she said, stepping closer, “Don’t shut me out.”

“Y/n, I can’t,” he pleads, “I can’t ruin this more than I already have. I can’t have you hate me more than you already do.”

“Fen- I don’t hate you,” she said, “I don’t, why would you think that?”

The way she was looking at him, confused, angry, hurt, heartbroken, he hated it, wanted it gone. Wanted to fix this, to pick up the pieces of their broken and shattered friendship and put it back together again. Wanted to go back to this morning when she’d lain on his chest, when she’d been to shy to look into his eyes, when she’d smiled at him. Wanted to kiss her then and there, before this day had gone by, before he’d ruined everything.

“Please,” she begged, and there was the smallest crack in her voice, “Please don’t shut me out.”

It broke him entirely, everything he was and is, the scars and wounds that never truly healed, ripped open, and there was nothing he could do about it, no way to staunch the bleeding.

It felt like when he’d broken the blood oath, that deep, ancient pain, unavoidable, nearly incurable, only this time, there was no one here to give him another oath, to demand him to live.

Fenrys was a dead man anyway, maybe that is why he took that step towards her, why he reached for her, why he took her face between his hands and tilted her face up, why he gently kissed her.

Just one small kiss, the light press of his lips against hers, the final wish of a dead man. He lingered for only a moment, caressing her face in his hands, savoring the softness of her lips again his, before he pulled away, his hands dropping to his sides.

“I’m sorry, kitten,” he choked, “I’m so fucking sorry.”

DO. NOT. TOUCH. ME

He expected her to yell it at him, to claw at his face, to throw him out and never speak to him-

“Again.”

He stared down at her, not sure if the word had been hers or his own, “What?”

The was a raw emotion simmering in her eyes, a different kind of pain, doubt, fear, longing. Fenrys felt the echo of it in his own soul, the hurt, the terror, the desperation.

“Again,” she breathed, “Kiss me again.”

Fenrys surged forward the same moment she did, they collide, lips and bodies moving as one. Her hands on his chest, his face, his hair, everywhere she touches feels impossibly warm, like fire, like she was branding the shape of her into his skin.

His hands cling to her waist, snaking up to wrap her hair in his fist and tug, exactly how he’d imagined during their fight. She gasps and he’s able to taste her fully, to devour the noises that slipped past her lips, to claim her fully.

Y/n clings to him desperately, the hand in his hair moving to his cheek, right over the scar below his eye. Warm, so incredibly warm, like the fire of a hearth in the middle of winter, like the sun peaking through the clouds on a rainy day, like magic pouring into him.

Fenrys pulled away, just enough to look at her, watching the way her heavy lidded eyes flutter, so caught up in the moment that it took her several seconds to come back to earth. And when she did, her eyes searched him, landing on him, on the hand on his face.

“Gods,” she gasps, pulling away so forcefully she fell backwards.

“Shit!” Fenrys caught her around her waist, keeping her up right, “What the fuck, kitten?”

She kept staring at him, at where her hand had been, her eyes blown wide like she’d seen a ghost.

“What’s wrong?” He searched her face for an answer, “Y/n what’s wrong?”

She reached towards him, like she’d touch him again, but she hesitated, staring at his scar.

His scar, Fenrys realized, she was staring at his scar. The monstrous wound that Maeve had left him, the permanent scar he’d kept as a reminder, as torture for himself, as punishment for what happened to his brother, as a way to stop seeing Connall everytime he looked in the mirror.

He moved involuntarily, hand lifting to hide it from her, he’d never been ashamed of it, not until now, not when she’d been left so speechless from it.

Everything stopped when his fingers met his skin, met the smooth warm surface where rough scar tissue should have been.

“What-“

“Fen I’m sorry,” she finally choked, “I didn’t mean to.”

He moved, towards the wardrobe identical to his own. Wrenching the door open to find the mirror he knew would be sitting there.

She stood behind him, he noticed first, tears streaming heavily down her cheeks, crying, choking out the words.

“I’m sorry, so fucking sorry.”

And then he saw himself, where he’d expected to see his face, onyx eyes, one peering out from the vicous scar, he saw his brother.

He saw smooth golden brown skin, glowing and unmarked, healed, he was healed. She, she had, she was-

Fenrys found himself gasping the words, “You’re a healer.”

Tag list -

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[crossfandomslut]

Crying tears of joy for once

All other lifetimes

All lifetimes

46 years old

It was finally your favorite day of the year: Starfall. You had just woken up and prepared for the extremely long wait until the evening arrived.

You simply couldn’t wait.

You jumped out of bed and had just gotten dressed in a black dress with a dark blue jacket when you heard a knock on your door.

“Come in,” you sang.

You turned around as the door opened and immediately froze.

“Azriel,” you whisper yelled. “You know you can’t be here! If the high lord finds out you-“

“He won’t find out,” Azriel assured you. “I asked your mother for help.”

Your parents were the only two people that knew about your mating bond. How your mother found out, you never knew, but you had told your father in a hope that he would let you out of the marriage he arranged for you.

A smile big grew on your face as you realized just how supportive your mother was.

“We have to go now though, we only have a few hours.” Azriel continued.

“Where are we going?” You asked, but you didn’t actually need to know. You trusted him completely.

“It’s a surprise,” he answered with a smile as big as yours.

You flew together up to the mountains. Sometimes intertwined, sometimes beside each other, but most important as close to one another as possible. Not because you were scared, but because you two always felt better, calmer, being close.

As you landed, you saw a picnic he had arranged. With a blanket to sit on, your favorite flowers and some of your mother’s food.

“Wow,” you said in awe. “It’s beautiful.”

“I wanted us to at least have a day to pretend,” Azriel said quietly.

“Let’s make it the best day ever,” you whispered, holding back tears. “No arranged marriage to separate us.”

He took your hand and guided you towards the picnic. You sat down and started to eat. You ate mostly in silence. It was a while since you had been together and you always loved spending time just being in each other’s presence.

The mating bond hummed stronger and stronger the longer you sat together.

“What would our life be like?” You asked Azriel.

You sat in between his legs, resting your back on his chest and your head on his shoulder. He sat with his hands behind him, holding you up. His shadows were playing with your hair.

“I’d like for us to stay in Velaris,” he answered after spending some time thinking. “Maybe not in the middle of the city, but close to everyone.”

“I’ve always wanted to live in a small cottage,” you told him. “It would be just big enough for me and you. And a few little ones if we wanted to.”

Azriel’s shadows left your hair and you turned your head to look at him. You were filled with his many emotions of both surprise and happiness, but also worry and sorrow.

“You’d want to have kids with me?” he asked looking into your eyes.

You sat up and turned so that you could see him better.

“Of course!” you exclaimed. You reached and took his hands in yours. “I’d love to have your kids. To watch them grow and look like a mix of both of us. To teach them how to fly and take our first flight together as a family. We would have to have at least two, of course. No Y/N can grow up without a Rhysie.”

You held back tears once more as you finished. Azriel’s thumbs brush over your hands.

“What else have you thought about?”

You sat up straighter as you spoke.

“I want us to have a big garden with many flowers and also a lot of grass for us to relax in. Enough space at the table for our entire family, Rhysie, Cass and Mor included of course.”

“A place that smells like us, where we do not have to hide,” Azriel added. “Not that we needed to push our smell onto everyone else.”

“I want you for myself, but our cottage would definitely be a place where the two of us could be free. Just the two of us.”

“It sounds amazing and exactly how I’d want it to be,” Azriel told you.

The two of you laid down on the picnic blanket and looked up to the sky.

“I don’t want to marry the heir of Spring.” You were no longer able to hold back tears. No longer able to ignore the truth of your life. You would never have your perfect life with Azriel. “I want you.”

Azriel turned to his side and his shadows tried to comfort you by playing with your hair.

Azriel took your hand as he said: “I want you too, Princess.”

His eyes stared deeply into yours and he tucked your hair behind your ear and cupped your face with his hand.

“My beautiful mate. I am the luckiest male in all of Prythian even if I can’t have you in this lifetime.”

As the tears started to leave his eyes, you started to cry even harder. You hated that you had to hurt him by being with someone else. However, you also knew that you didn’t have a choice. Not in this life.

You let go of his hand and held up your pinky finger.

“All other lifetimes?”

Even though it was a question, you meant it as a statement. You would be his in every other life.

Azriel didn’t hesitate as he intertwined his pinky finger with yours.

“All other lifetimes,” he answered determinedly.

Two identical tattoos wrapped around your fingers.

You spent some time just watching him. Taking in every feature of his face. The small scar on his forehead, the shape of his eyes and ears, the color of his lips, the way his lips trembled when a tear escaped his eye, how his lips moved as he breathed out.

Before you even realized you had leaned in, his lips met yours.

The kiss was soft, but suddenly everything seemed right in the world. You felt like you could to anything, be anything, because Azriel were kissing you.

You had thought of this since the day you realized what kissing was. You had dreamed about it since the mating bond snapped.

Finally, the day had come.

You needed more. The mating bond was humming like never before, but it was only calming, not the stressful and anxious screaming the bond usually caused you when you were apart.

You deepened the kiss. Your lips met and soon your tongues did too. The salty taste of your tears mixed with the hope from your kisses.

“I want you,” you told him in his mind so that you didn’t have to stop kissing him.

Azriel’s lips left yours.

“Are you sure?” His voice trembled.

You didn’t even need to think. If anyone should be your first, it should be your mate. You decided it a long time ago, and realizing Azriel was your mate only made you want it more.

You would never feel safer than what you did with him.

“I’ve never been more sure about anything in my entire life,” I answered and kissed him once more.

*********************************

56 years old

And then you finally heard the door open and in walked your beautiful, sweet, majestic, mysterious and wonderful mate, your Azriel, ready for you to accept the bond.

He hesitated at the door.

“You are sure you want to do this? If you’re not 100% we can just have a normal two weeks off,” he said looking concerned at you.

Just stood up walked towards him. As soon as you stood before him, you raised onto your toes and kissed him deeply.

“I’m 100% sure, Az,” you told him. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve been sure since the day the bond snapped, love.”

You had to hold back your squeal and you ran towards the apple pie that stood on the cabin’s kitchen table.

You cut a slice and put it on the plate you had prepared earlier.

You then pulled out a chair and urged Azriel to sit down.

Your eyes met as you sat the pie slice in front of him.

“You make me the luckiest male in Prythian,” Azriel told you, still meeting your eyes. “I will make sure you always know that. I love you more and more for every day we spend together in this life.”

You almost glowed with happiness. The day was finally here.

“I love you too, Azriel.” You held up your pinky. “All lifetimes?”

His smile grew ten times bigger as he intertwined his pinky with yours.

“All lifetimes!”

You pushed the place closer to him.

“Now,” you said. “Please eat. I want to ravish you.”

Azriel laughed as he picked up the fork and took a big bite out of the slice.

*********************************

170 years old

You were dying.

You felt your legs give out, but the shackles held you up.

You had no way of getting any rest. If you passed out, they would just wake you again and continue the torture.

“Answer the question, Shadowsinger, and we will stop torturing her,” one of your captors told your mate.

What was supposed to be an easy mission turned out to be a trap. An ambush where 30 soldiers were against you and Azriel. You didn’t stand a chance, even though you took out about half of them.

“You have one last chance,” the captor continued.

You weren’t even sure Azriel was conscious. Your eyes were blurry from tears, sweat and blood.

The captors had tortured one of you to get the answers out of the other. They would keep going until you were on the brink of death and then give you a small break before they started again.

You screamed as you felt the tip of the knife go into your leg. It burned, the knife was definitely laced with poison.

“You’re doing great, princess.” You heard your mate’s shaky voice. He must be in bad shape, since let the captor hear his voice that desperate. “Please just hold on a little longer.”

You weren’t sure you could. It had been three days. You weren’t sure if you had a uncut place on your body.

“I’ll carve an K here I think.” You felt the knife on your upper thigh.

“Don’t you dear,” Azriel threatened, but both of you knew he couldn’t do anything.

“If you just tell me where I can find your High Lord’s most used estate, I’ll stop.”

He gave Azriel some time to answer before he carved a K deep into your left thigh.

You tried to get away, but it only made him cut you deeper.

“Stop it, please. It burns,” you cried out hating yourself for showing weakness.

Your captor only laughed. “If your mate only loved you enough, he would have stopped it.”

“Don’t listen to him,” you heard Azriel say. “I love you. I love you. I love you, Y/N.”

Your ears started ringing and was soon louder than the words from your mate.

“Please hold on, Y/N.” Was the last thing you heard before you passed out again.

You laid in Azriel’s arms as you woke. His bloody left wing was covering you, the other one had a pole going through it. He was barely awake.

“Thank the caldron,” he whispered and kissed your head.

You then heard footsteps.

“So she’s still alive,” your torturer said as he walked into your cell. “Can’t have that can we?”

“Don’t you touch her,” Azriel replied, his voice weaker than ever. His wings tightened around you, but it didn’t help.

You were ripped out of his embrace and before you knew what happened, you felt the knife entering your stomach.

“We don’t need you two anymore.”

You heard Azriel’s restrains unlocking and then you were back in his arms.

“Stay with me, love. Look at me. I’m here. I’ll get you home.”

The captor only laughed. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, giving false hope now too?”

He grabbed the two of you and winnowed.

You landed harshly on the forest floor beside Azriel. A pained scream left your lips.

“Have a good death.” The captor left you.

You turned your head to see your surroundings. You were in a clearing not far from Velaris. If your family was looking for you, they definitely could find you, but you didn’t dear to hope for it.

You were dying.

You turned your head to look at your mate.

He laid on his stomach, the pole still sticking out of his wing. Luckily for you, you had been laid on your back, so that the knife didn’t stick further into your stomach.

Azriel weakly scooted closer to you. He spread his wing out and covered you.

“Stay awake, love. Please don’t leave me.” His voice was weak and you knew he was as tired as you were.

With the last of your energy you moved your hand towards his. Your pinky finger found his. Neither of you needed to say anything. You both knew what you meant.

You’d meet again in the next lifetime.

Azriel’s eyes closed and you felt the bond between you two going further and further away.

As your eyes grew heavier and your body gave out, you felt talons in your head as you heard: “stay where you are, we’re coming.”

You opened your eyes and blinked to get used to the light. You looked around and realized you were in your old room in the House of Wind.

Azriel

You immediately stood up from your bed.

Where was he?

You felt nauseous as you started to walk towards the door.

No no no no no no. Why can’t you feel him?

You walked out to the corridor outside your room. You were going to his old room. He had to be there.

You felt drunk as you made your way down a flight of stairs.

You hadn’t gotten far when you felt a hand around your wrist and another around your waist.

“Y/N,” your brother said.

“Rhysie?”

“Come here, you shouldn’t be out of bed.”

“Where is he?”

Azriel was all you could think about.

“I’ll go get him. Let’s get you back into bed, you’re hurt.”

The mating bond was screaming inside your chest.

“Where is he?” You asked desperately.

“Please, Y/N, you-“

“WHERE IS HE?” You screamed at your brother.

Rhys let out a sigh.

“His in the kitchen. He’s alright.”

You ripped your wrist out of his hand and rushed towards the kitchen.

As you went down another flight of stairs you felt them. His shadows. They were swirling all over your entire body, checking for injuries. As they noticed the wound on your stomach they gathered round your waist to keep you stable.

You had just stepped on foot onto the floor the kitchen was on as the kitchen doors flew open.

His hazel eyes met yours. You broke down with a sob.

He ran towards you and immediately wrapped his arms and wings around you.

“It’s okay. I’m here. We’re home. We’re safe,” he whispered into your ear and his hand rested on the back of your head. “You’re okay. You’re alive. We’re both alive.”

You finally felt the mating bond that connected you together and the overwhelming feeling of relief hit you.

“Let’s get you into bed again, love,” he said. “I won’t leave you. I’m yours in all lifetimes.”

*********************************

532 years

“I’m going in,” Azriel said.

“No,” both you and Rhys snapped at him.

You stood in the middle of the battle against Hybern.

He spread his wings and you almost whimpered at the sight of the bruises.

“Chain me to a tree, Rhys,” your mate said in he’s beautiful soft voice. “Go ahead. I’ll rip it out of the ground and fly with it on my damned back.”

You heard the determination behind his voice and knew that it was nothing you could do.

You heard the horn and felt the terror together with your family as the rest of Hybern’s army sailed towards you. You swore. There would be no way all of you made it out alive.

In the midst of it all, Azriel moved to stand besides you.

His pinky finger wrapped around yours as he said your most important saying: “All lifetimes.”

He whispered so that nobody else could hear it.

“All lifetimes,” you answered.

“Azriel,” Rhys said quietly, but his eyes met yours. “You lead the remaining Illyrians on the northern flank.”

You saw the guilt and fear in your brother’s eyes as he gave the commands, but you knew that he did the right thing.

Azriel turned to you, held his left hand on your back and gathered your hands in his right one. He pulled you into what must have been the most passionate kiss of your lives.

He let go and before you could say anything, he shot into the sky with unhealed wings to help your chance to win this war.

You have never been prouder and more scared at the same time as you walked back into battle.

You stumped towards your brother. You were fuming with anger.

He turned towards you and you raised your hand and slapped his cheek.

“You’re an idiot, Rhysand,” you told him with tears running down your eyes. “You knew you would die, knew you would leave us, and still did it? It’s your worst idea ever. You can’t always be the one sacrificing yourself!”

Rhys let you finish speaking before he stepped forward and embraced you.

“I’m sorry, little one,” he said. “Thank you for surviving.”

“Thank you for coming back to life.”

He kissed the top of your head.

“I have to go help Miryam, but you can yell at me later okay?”

You started to seek for your mate. You knew he was alright, but you hadn’t had time to talk, just a quick kiss in between helping all the hurt survivors getting to the healers.

You hadn’t walked far before you felt his shadows wrapping around your waist and soon also Azriel’s arms were holding you.

He nuzzled his head into your neck and hair. Talking some time just smelling you.

“You alright, love?” You asked him.

He held you even tighter. You felt all kinds of emotions down the bond. Relief, happiness, love was some of them, but you also felt exhaustion, pain and anger.

“I’m not ready to finish this lifetime with you,” he said.

You felt your heart shatter as you realized what he meant. He thought you would die and he wasn’t ready.

“Neither am I,” you replied. “Let’s have a few more centuries, shall we?”

You felt his smile growing.

“We absolutely should.”

You turned your head and kissed him softly.

******************************

536 years old

You sat down on the couch next to your mate. You were holding your daughter, Cassandra, and he held your son, Rhyland. Both 6 months old.

Both of the twins were screaming their lungs out and had been doing that the last our.

“We should switch,” you suggested. “We all know she’s a daddy’s girl.”

You put down your daughter as you picked up your son. Azriel picked up Cassie.

They immediately shut up.

Both of you had to hold back a laugh. You loved learning about their big personalities.

“You know,” Azriel said. “I can’t imagine a lifetime better than this one. I think this will be our best one.”

You felt warm with love. Holding your son, watching your mate hold your daughter.

You were the happiest you had ever been.

“As long as you are in my lifetime, it’ll be the best one.”

[crossfandomslut]

I'm not usually big on AUs but this one slapped

half algorithm, half deity - (Mafia AU) Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Fem!Reader (Rhysand’s Sibling)

Summary: You try to date other people, but in truth you’ve only ever wanted Eris Vanserra.

Tags/Warnings:

Explicit (18+, MINORS DNI), SMUT with plot, Angst, Modern Mafia AU, Established FWB, Mentions of past Tamlin x Reader (brief), Mentions canon typical violence, Mentions of minor character death (Rhysand’s mom and other sister)

Alcohol, Oral (M & F receiving), Rough but make it tender & loving too, Hair pulling, P in V, Overstim if you squint (please lmkif i missed anything)

Word Count: 6.5k

Links: Masterlist | My Art

Despite your father’s best efforts, you didn’t inherit your family’s propensity for violence. 

You drink your wine and remind yourself of that fact for the umpteenth time tonight. But if this male gives you another backhanded compliment or, Mother forbid, another unsolicited criticism, you might reconsider that fact. Rhys had made sure you knew how to gut a man in just three moves and you remember each precise stroke as effortlessly as a breath.

To dissuade yourself from such thoughts, you take another generous gulp of wine - your only saving grace as you listen to him drone on and on about his most recent business acquisition. For the past forty-five minutes, the man has managed to recount his entire genealogy, his academic history and recited what felt like an itemized list of all his professional accomplishments. This is supposed to be a date, you’re tempted to remind him, not a chance to whip out his dick and measure it. 

He has yet to ask you anything about yourself, of course, entirely preoccupied with stroking his damn ego. You’ve stopped trying after the fifth cycle of appropriately timed ‘ooh’s and ‘ahh’s, seeing he doesn’t seem to need you to continue his tirade. Your pointed glares and longing glances at your wristwatch remain unnoticed too. The number of drinks you’ve had seems to be an entirely different story, however. 

"You know, you should really slow down," he remarks, his sardonic smirk exposing a set of eerily straight white teeth.

“And why is that, exactly?” You ask before taking another long sip of wine with deliberate slowness. His jaw clenches ever so slightly, his smile little more than a collection of clenched teeth. 

“You wouldn’t want to be too drunk for later.” He makes a show of raking his beady eyes over your form. The predatory glint in his eye makes your skin crawl and your hackles raise in equal measure. 

“Bold of you to assume there would be a later,” you drawl, your eyes narrowing into slits, nostrils flaring in silent outrage. 

“Oh, there will,” he declares with an impressive amount of unearned confidence. “How else are you going to pay me back for this meal, sweetheart?” He says it as though it’s a given, like your body is something he’s owed for this paltry display. Fuck, if you don’t leave now, you’re sure you’ll end this night behind bars, probably charged with manslaughter. Rhys would get you out of it, of course, but he’d be incredibly smug about it and you couldn’t have that. 

The man makes another show of tracing his slimy gaze over your body, making a pleased sound in the back of his throat. “I must say, I wasn’t a big fan of the dress - too revealing to be classy, in my opinion - but I suppose it wouldn’t matter when it’s on the floor of my penthouse.”

You admit that you don’t try very hard to hold back a gag. Without even dignifying him with a response, you hail the waiter and gesture for the bill in the hopes that the expression on your face is enough to convey the urgency you feel. To her credit, it only takes her a minute to rush to the table in all black and white salvation, the bill in hand. 

With haste, you pull out the cash from your wallet and slam it down the table. It should be enough to cover everything, even the tip. You give the man one last scathing glare before you rise from the table. A fish out of water - that’s what he looks like, wide-eyed with his mouth opening and closing, probably on the cusp of claiming to everyone in the room that you’re crazy, that you’re overreacting.

Before he can do any of that you pivot sharply towards the exit, ignoring the man’s indignant sputtering. Your feet protest beneath you, your new stilettos digging painfully into your skin with every step. Only when you’re five blocks away from the restaurant do you let yourself slow to a stop. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes, undoubtedly ruining the makeup you spent such a long time putting on earlier that night. 

Suddenly, the dress you felt so confident in now feels suffocating. The fabric clings to your skin fat too tightly, constricting your every movement. The silken garment you had thought to fit you like a glove now surrounded you like a cage. You tug at the neckline, trying to find some relief, but the discomfort only intensifies.

Frustration bubbles in your gut as you collapse onto the nearest bench to catch your breath. You feel so stupid. Although you don’t want to admit it, you’ve been looking forward to a nice night out after an entire week of slogging through work. Instead, you ended up sacrificing what little free time you have to satisfy some asshole’s vanity. 

The city continues in indifferent chaos around you. The fluorescent streetlights overhead and the headlights of passing cars slice through the night. People bustle past, absorbed in their own lives, oblivious to your existence. At this moment, you’ve never felt more alone. 

Seeing Feyre and Rhys fall in love has been an eye-opening experience. You’ve watched them gradually find happiness in each other, watched them build a life together. There’s also Nes and Cass, Viv and Kal - all so utterly content, so in painfully love. It is a relief to know that love is possible despite the kind of lives you live. After what happened - your gun slotted in between those bright forest eyes, finger frozen at the trigger; the stumbling string of sorries, of depthless regrets; white marble tiles stained crimson by blood - happiness hadn’t seemed like a possibility. All you’ve had since then are inconsequential flings and ill-conceived dalliances, nothing that could lead to anything more.

It’s difficult to admit that you want something more.

But since you’ve started seeing other people, it’s only been a series of disappointments one after the other. What made basic empathy and human decency such a scarce resource these days? In all honesty, you’re starting to lose hope, starting to think that maybe that love just isn’t in the cards for you. 

You cared for Tamlin in your own foolish, fumbling way. He was solid ground, he was stubborn certainty. He clung to control so tightly that his nails left angry red indents on his palm. In many ways, you were his antithesis, his unmaking. He tried to be good but the both of you hadn’t been good for each other. Perhaps the two of you had been too lonely, too stubborn, too fucking young to realize not all forms of love were healthy.

Eris Vanserra is an entirely different matter. He came to you as a flicker of flame in the darkest night. He was a breath of fresh air - a lungful of ember and possibility - setting you alight from the inside out. More importantly, Eris understands you the same way one side of a coin knows the other. That, however, didn’t mean you could be together. 

Perhaps in some ways, knowing made the longing worse.

Your hand clenches around air, around the vestige of a memory you can’t seem to let go of. Your fingers itch to dial the same set of numbers you’ve deleted from your phone time and time again. You remember it anyway, though. Your mind has faithfully cataloged every memory of him - silky red hair brushing against your cheek, amber eyes crinkling in mischievous delight, arms wrapping around your body, making you feel safe for the first time in your life. 

Your body moves before your better judgment can catch up. Before you know it, the familiar set of numbers is staring accusingly at you from your phone screen. Droning rings of an outgoing call pierce the silence. On the third one, Eris picks up. 

“Firefly.” That word. You can hear the amusement in his tone. You refuse to acknowledge the hint of relief you sense there too, the note of near manic joy. It’s been months since you’ve last seen each other, since you told him that you needed something more - more than stolen moments, more than simply falling in and out of each other's beds only to be nothing but mere strangers come morning. 

You say nothing, trapping unsaid words behind teeth clenched so tightly it’s a wonder you don’t break your jaw. 

“Cat got your tongue?” Eris laughs, smooth, sensual, and utterly addicting. The sound sends a shiver down your spine. You fight the sudden urge to feel his lips shape the words with your own, to feel the vibrations of his laughter with the tips of your fingers. 

“Tell me where you are,” he tries again. You can hear him lean back on his office chair, undoubtedly working late yet again. To anyone else, he would’ve sounded perfectly calm. 

“I don’t know,” you sniff, fighting back the traitorous tears. “I’m near the Moonstone Palace.” It’s the overpriced restaurant you had been in earlier, the reason you’re going to have to struggle with rent this month. You could always ask Rhys, but you’ve long since divorced yourself from your family’s wealth.

Eris exhales, and you hear a suspicious amount of rummaging in the background. “Could you send your location to me?” He suggests, and you can make out the faint sound of a door opening and closing. 

“Okay.” It comes out as a resigned sigh. 

Before he hangs up, he makes sure, “Are you safe?”

“I am.” 

“Give me fifteen minutes.” 

Eris arrives in ten.

You’re slumped on the bench, clutching your purse to your chest as the frigid night air rushes past you. In your haste, you completely forgot to retrieve your coat before rushing out of the restaurant. But then, the low growl of an engine captures your attention. You turn to find a sleek black Benz gliding into view before coming to a halt right in front of you. 

The window rolls down to reveal Eris’s smug face, familiar and foreign all at once. His bright fiery locks, longer now, have been tamed into a braid behind his back. Loose strands frame his sharp features, highlighting the severity of his beauty. He looks paler than usual, freckles now barely visible across his cheeks. 

Eris grins, voice laced with far too much delight. “Didn’t I tell you, Love? You wouldn’t be able to stay away.” 

Your nostrils flare involuntarily, equal parts irritation and wry amusement warring in you. When he notices the redness of your eyes, however, his smile banks. The only reason you can tell he’s worried is because you’ve spent an inordinate amount of time learning his tells, mapping the meaning behind the slivers of genuine emotion that sometimes slip through his carefully constructed mask. You’ve got it down to a science, interpreting him the same way astronomers find reason in the depths of the cosmos.

Without another sly remark, he steps out of the car and slips out of his coat as he strides toward you. When he moves to wrap the garment around your body, you try to protest. “That won’t be necessary.”

“You’re freezing,” he insists before dropping the surprisingly heavy coat over your shoulders. The effect is immediate. Eris is a walking furnace most days and traces of his heat still linger on the cloth, thawing the ice that has gathered beneath your skin.

You groan in relief despite yourself, finally acquiescing and pulling his coat tighter around you. Eris smirks, and you shoot him a perfunctory glare in response. Thankfully, though, he doesn’t comment on the way you bury your face in the upturned lapels, inhaling a lungful of his cinnamon and woodsmoke scent.

“Fun night?” He asks once you’ve plopped down the passenger seat. 

“Obviously,” you reply, words thick with sarcasm. “I had the time of my life, really. Nothing like a date with another entitled, self-involved trust fund asswipe to liven up my Saturday night.” Eris looks entirely too pleased with this information. 

He shrugs. “Your dates can’t compare?” He shoots you a knowing look. You resent the implication, but can’t entirely deny it either. 

The truth of the matter is that you’ve never truly gotten over Eris. As brief as your explosive affairs may have been, the male has found a way to burrow beneath skin, to etch himself onto the surface of your mind. There is no washing him off you. In these last few months, all you’ve done is find fragments of him in faceless men. 

“Can’t compare to your arrogance, maybe,” you retort a beat too late.

 

“Oh Firefly, you know you love it,” the smug bastard shoots back smoothly. 

“You think you know me so well,” you grumble, crossing your arms defensively.

“Well enough.” Eris’s smile widens, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Well enough to know those men you’ve found aren’t worth your time.”

You roll your eyes, trying to ignore the fact that he is at least vaguely aware of your failed attempts at dating. Embarrassment coils in your gut, betrayed only by the steadily rising flush of your cheeks. “Maybe one day I’ll find someone who doesn’t make me want to scream.”

“Maybe,” he agrees, a hint of mischief lingering in his eyes. “But where’s the fun in that?” He leans toward you, face hovering over yours. The intensity of his gaze feels dangerous, almost like a threat, a promise that he could easily tear down all your walls if he pleased. Memories flash - of him devouring your mouth with his own, of bare bodies intertwined on soiled sheets, of him greedily drinking in each moan from your mouth as you clench tightly around his length - playing on torturous repeat in your mind. 

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” Your breaths come short, voice trembling. Eris’s smile widens, canines glinting beneath the warm light - a well-honed predator to and through. 

Eris chuckles. “And yet, here you are.”

You sincerely can’t tell whether you want to clock him in the jaw or pull him down for a kiss. But then, in a rare show of mercy, Eris withdraws. He simply pulls your seatbelt down and fastens it beside you before turning back to the wheel. You release a breath you don’t realize you are holding. 

The engine roars beneath you and Eris begins to maneuver the car back onto the highway. You slump further down in your seat, only to have several objects dig into your ribs. You jolt up, patting down his coat for the offending items. In your search, you produce a stiletto hidden in the inner lining and a Glock 19 in one pocket. 

“Really?” You quirk your brow at him as you drop another knife on the car floor.

Amber eyes dart towards you for the briefest second, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, before turning his gaze back to the road. You don’t doubt Eris has more hidden on his person, maybe even in this car. 

“Can’t be too careful,” he replies with a shrug, his hand flexing on the wheel. You follow the movement with rapt attention, transfixed by the rhythmic contractions of the muscles beneath, by the faint blue of the veins that run in webs up his forearm. 

Eris, the bastard, catches your preoccupation with his body. Of course, he does. 

His smirk widens into a full grin, his eyes glinting with amusement. "Enjoying the view?"

You snap your gaze back to his face, feeling the heat rise to your cheeks. "Keep your eyes on the road," you remind him, stalling, trying to regain your composure. “Perhaps you should put up a show for me, and I’ll decide then.” 

Eris chuckles at the challenge, a deep, resonant sound that never fails to send shivers down your spine. 

The rest of the drive to your apartment is spent in comfortable silence, Eris content to leave you in your corner, brooding and bundled up in his coat. You lean your head on the window, letting your thoughts drift by at the same pace the scenery slips away from view. You don’t realize you’ve dozed off until you feel Eris tucking strands of your hair behind your ear.

“We’re here.” 

Your eyes flutter open, reality reluctantly coalescing into focus in front of you. There's an amused expression on the redhead's face as he watches you wake. A part of you is tempted to curl back into a ball, content to pretend at peace just a little longer. Eris has no such qualms, however. He undoes your seatbelt and tugs you out of the vehicle. His arms remain loosely wrapped around your waist, though, even as he closes the door to the passenger seat.

“I should go.” He is so close his hot breath brushes against your cheek, the scent of mint permeating the air between you. 

“You should.” 

But none of you move to part. Your hands remain tightly fisted on his otherwise pristine shirt, while his arms create a cage around you, his body pressing you against the cool metal of the car. 

“Why did you call?” Eris asks instead. His cheek rests on your temple, his nose buried in your hair like he can’t quite help but gravitate towards you. Your grip on him tightens the same way the sun pulls celestial bodies into its orbit, completely, inevitably.  

“You know why.” 

“Tell me anyway.” He pulls back just enough to look straight into your eyes, molten amber burning into you. 

“I want you.” You confess. I’ve only ever wanted you, your mind further supplies. His gaze is searching, as if scouring for all the ways he can turn over your words in his head if the new angles would reveal some hidden meaning.

“I want to forget.” You continue, tugging him down by the collar. He follows willingly and rests his forehead on yours. Lips hover over your own, breaths mingling in the scant space between you. His mask turns translucent. Joy, pain, and regret flash in quick succession across his face before you can even parse their meaning.

“As do I, Love.” 

The moment you step into your apartment, all traces of tenderness dissipate. 

Eris has you trapped between the wall and the firm line of his lithe body. He easily towers over you. With one thigh wrapped around his slim waist, only his firm grip on your hips and his thigh slotted between your parted legs keep you upright. Your remaining leg stands precariously on the tips of your toes, teetering dangerously in whichever current Eris pulls you in.

His mouth is latched onto your neck, leaving blooms of red in his wake. You should tell him to stop, tell him not to leave any visible marks. But all words and reason are lost to you when his teeth scrape against the sensitive skin in time with a particularly well-timed roll of his hips. 

“Eris!” You keen, clawing at his back in a vain attempt to find purchase. But there is no safe harbor to be found, not here. Eris is a force of nature. He is the living embodiment of wildfire, burning brightly, holding you so firmly, that it’s as though he intends to fuse your bodies together.

“What is it, Firefly?” He whispers the words against your ear, right before he catches your lobe in between his teeth. You can feel his lips curl against your skin. “What does my pretty girl want?”

“You.” It comes out as a demand, a desperate plea. 

“Use your words, love.” His movements settle into a languid pace, excruciatingly slow, pulling a whine from your throat. His single hand encompasses your entire jaw. Pads of his fingers press against the joint, his grip firm but gentle. Eris turns your face so you’re looking straight into his burning eyes. “Let’s try again, shall we? Tell me, how do you want me?” 

“I need your cock in my mouth,” you whisper your want against his lips, confessions you’d never be able to make in the light of day. Amber eyes roll back at the image your words evoke. Eris forces his eyelids shut as you continue to speak. “Then, I want to feel you inside me, fuck me into the mattress, until your name is the only word in my mind, until I can feel you for days after.” 

“Firefly.” With his face in the crook of your neck, he groans like you’re torturing him. You allow him a few short moments to gather himself - heavy heated breaths blown onto your nape - before tugging him by the hair insistently. His braid comes loose and a river of red falls in delicate curls over his freckled shoulders. Eris is an entirely different person when his head snaps up to meet your gaze.

“On your knees.” 

Electricity crackles through the air between you at the sheer command in his voice. Obediently, you sink to his feet, gazing up at him with wide hungry eyes. To his credit, Eris’s expression remains impassive, his ardor betrayed only by the tension in his jaw and the glint in his eyes. With his thumb, he presses down on your bottom lip. 

“Suck.” 

Your mouth parts to welcome him, until you feel the cool press of his signet against your lips, a welcome contrast. You swirl your tongue around the digit, bobbing your head for a few beats. Eris clenches his jaw, the pad of his thumb lightly digging onto your tongue as he pulls it out. You release it with a pop of your lips.

“Good.” 

Eris tilts his head, a silent permission to continue. While you gradually slip off his belt and undo the zip of his trousers, Eris gathers your hair in his fist. With a single push, his impressive length is revealed to you, long and heavy. Anticipation sparks in your chest, eager to feel his weight on your tongue.

“Go on then.” 

So you do. You flatten your tongue against the base of his cock, licking a stripe to the tip. There, you take the head into the wet heat of your mouth and suck. Eris makes an involuntary thrust, despite the tight leash he normally keeps around himself.

“Fuckin’ Hel,” he groans, grip now deliciously digging into your scalp. You moan your appreciation against him, and the male shudders in response. For a few moments, you simply alternate between lazily bobbing your head and swirling your tongue against him as best you can. Your hand twists in tandem to accommodate the remaining length of him. 

“You’re a damned tease,” he accuses. “A demon.”

With wide eyes, you blink innocently up at him from beneath your lashes. Eris scoffs, rolling his eyes, but allows the torturous cycle to continue. When you sense his movements grow more erratic, his muscles tensing beneath your palms, you slow your movements just in time to deny him his release. At the third time of doing this, Eris looks close to breaking.

“Enough.” He growls, the command reverberating through the silent room, through every fiber of your being. 

You still immediately, the intensity in his voice sending a thrill through you. He adjusts his grip on your hair, winding the strands around his knuckles and tugging lightly as if to test his grip. You groan at the bite of pain, your arousal dripping from you.

“I’m gonna fuck your pretty face now, Firefly.” He whispers with such disorienting tenderness. “Tap my thigh twice if it becomes too much, understand?” 

“Yes.” Your too-eager reply draws a lopsided smile from Eris’s otherwise stoic demeanor. “Please,” you add as an afterthought as you brace your hands against his thighs.

Eris tilts his head once more, and you take that as your signal to proceed. Your lips wrap around him, cheeks hollowing out, tongue curved around his length. His thrusts begin tentatively, but it doesn’t take long for him to find his rhythm. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat with each thrust, his firm grip on your hair directing each movement. You will yourself to relax, angling yourself to take him better, deeper. For a while, all your thoughts evaporate, your entire focus simply on breathing through your nose and watching the look of ecstasy unfold across his face. 

“You feel amazing around me.” Eris pants as he pushes impossibly deeper. You struggle to take him, throat spasming around him. “My good girl,” he coos, his thrusts stuttering. You groan against him when one stroke allows him to bottom out completely. Nose nuzzling the thin line of red on his lower stomach, tears bloom in your eyes. You look up, only to find him already gazing at you. His amber eyes were wide with want, transfixed at the sight of you taking him completely. 

“I’m about to come, Love. You’ll be a good girl and take it, won’t you?” A drawn out mhm is all the permission he needs. “Every. Last. Drop.” Each word is punctuated by a thrust. 

Then, on his final advance, Eris holds you there by the head until the very last moment, until the fire in your veins has spread into each lobe of your lungs. When you swallow around him, he chokes, rolling his hips into your mouth. Your fingers curl into claws against his thighs but you don’t tap out. He moves once, twice, then he’s gone. Eris allows you a bit of reprieve by retreating into your mouth as his length pulses the rest of his release onto your tongue. 

“Fuck.” He rasps. Then, with a single tug, he pulls you off of him and onto your two wobbly legs. Eris only gives you a few seconds to catch your breath before his mouth crashes against yours for a kiss. He groans as he tastes himself on your tongue. 

“So perfect for me, made to take me.” His hands roam your body as though eager to discover every square inch of exposed skin. This is Eris in his rawest form, you realize, all control turned into liquid flame in his hands. He practically tears your dress from your body, pushing down the silk until it pools on the floor. 

“Yesss,” you hiss, clawing at his shirt and shoving it off his broad shoulders. “Only you.” Heavy thunks follow soon after - the gun holstered at his side, the knife strapped to his thigh.

“I fucking love you.” He growls in between breaths. Without giving you a chance to reply, he sucks your bottom lip into his mouth, nipping at the raw flesh. 

You don’t even realize he’s corralled you into your room before he pushes you onto the bed. He pulls you to the edge by the ankle. Eris stands tall before you, rendered in sharp angles and steady lines, softened only by the warmth in his amber eyes. Then, slowly, he kneels between your parted thighs like a supplicant before their God and your body is the only conduit of worship he knows. 

“You okay?” He asks this while his head is pillowed on your thigh, as though he hadn’t just blown your mind. Eris, you’ve discovered, is a collection of contrasts - rough one second, and painfully tender the next. No amount of studying him could let you predict the direction of his passion. You don’t mind, though, you’d happily be carried away in his current.

“Perfectly.” 

“You remember your word?” He removes your stilettos, brushing over the raw skin where the straps have dug in.

“I do.” 

“Say it for me.” He lines your heels neatly at the foot of your bed. 

“Ember.”

“Good.” Eris begins his meandering path up your legs. A kiss on your ankle, lips ghosting over your leg. Once his lips reach your thighs, he starts to nibble and suck on your skin. The simple declaration of possession shouldn’t please you as much as it does, but it only deepens the pool of desire and anticipation in your gut. 

“Eris,” you whine, breathless, as he pauses at the seam of your thigh. His smirk only grows at your increasingly desperate pleas and the erratic movements of your hips.

“Use your words, Firefly.” Eris reminds you beatifically. “Tell me what you want.”

“Your mouth,” you begin, already struggling to form a coherent string of words. “Please?” 

“My mouth?” He asks, pretending to consider it. “But I thought you said you wanted my cock?”

His taunting jolts you out of your reverie, always rearing to meet his fire with your own. You come up to your elbows to level him a raised brow. “Well, you’re already on your knees, aren’t you?” Despite knowing you’ll pay for your words later, you try to inject as much bravado into your voice as you can. The effect is dulled by your obvious desperation though.

Eris chuckles, shaking his head as if in disapproval. “What to try that again, Firefly?” He blows a hot breath towards your core, the sudden sensation sending a jolt of electricity down your spine. “I’m sure you can do better than that.” 

You clench your teeth, a vain attempt to keep the pleas trapped within your mouth. Eris remains steadfast, of course, staring you down with obvious amusement. His lips travel a languid path, teeth teasing, mouth nipping, veering closer and closer but never close enough. This is a battle you’ve already lost from the start. 

“Please?” You grit out. “Can I please have your mouth?” 

“You’re a greedy little thing aren’t you?” Eris laps at the marks he’s left, just a few millimeters from where you want him to be. Practically vibrating with need, you dangle on the sharp edge of anticipation. The bite Eris plants on the soft flesh of your thigh is what pushes you off the precipice.

“Please,” you plead, each syllable dripping with need.  “Can I please have your mouth?”

“Well, since you asked so prettily,” Eris drawls, entirely indulgent. He places your leg over his shoulder and dives in. First, he runs the flat of his tongue over your flimsy thong, lapping at your slit. You shudder at the sensation, melting against the sheets as he continues.

“You taste divine.” He growls, the vibrations making you tighten around nothing. Then, closes his mouth over your slit and begins to suck. You throw your head back, heel digging into his back, hips arching towards the pull of his mouth. Your arousal seeps into the cloth. A heartbeat, a fraction of eternity, then Eris licks the lace greedily like a man starved.

“I can’t get enough of you.” He mouths against the fabric. You feel the truth of his words as surely as the growing flame in your gut. Then, he slides your undergarments down one thigh, keeping it wrapped around the other, a mockery of a wedding garter. Finally, his lips close around your clit as he slides one long finger in you, then two, scissoring them inside. You release a choked sob. His fingers are much thicker than your own, but the stretch is a burn you’ve been craving for far too long. 

“Fuck, Firefly, you’re so damn tight.” He murmurs against your skin. He begins thrusting his fingers in and out of you, making it a point to curl his digits in just the right spot. The precision of his movements is enough to drive you out of your mind. Eris shifts between murmuring sweet nothings against your heated skin and drawing precise circles around your clit.

At some point, Eris’s free hand finds yours, intertwining your fingers with his own. It doesn’t take long for you to climb that familiar high. Hurtling over the edge so fast, you don’t even realize you’re cumming until you’re overtaken by a wave of pleasure. It saturates your senses until the only thing that makes sense is Eris, Eris, Eris. 

He doesn’t stop. His fingers hit that torturous angle, while his tongue laps at your bud. “One more,” he demands and you whine in protest. “Just one more, Love.” 

“‘S too much-“ you try to say, but your words crack into a sob. “I c-can’t-“

“You can,” he coos. “My good girl, my lovely little Firefly.” The praise does more for you than his hands could. “Always so perfect for me.” 

Desire is a living thing inside you, an inferno building beneath your skin. You crush his fingers in your grip, while the other threads itself through his silken locks, needing something to anchor you unspool for him.

“Eris, I’m-“ your voice cracks, reality blurring around you as you spasm around him, hips gyrating, driven only by pure primal instinct. He groans, as though your pleasure is as good as his own. His fingers speed up, his tongue licking your bud to and fro with dangerous precision.

“Cum for me, Firefly.”

You do. You break into flames with his name on your lips, back bowing, eyes trained to the unseen sky. You barely even register when Eris climbs into bed with you, too preoccupied with reacquainting yourself with your body. Only when he pulls your pliant form over his chest do you meet his gaze. 

“Are you alright?” There is concern in his gaze, and you wipe the worry from his face as you run your knuckles over his cheek. 

“Perfectly.” An invisible tug calls you to dip your head and taste yourself on his lips. Eris licks the seam of your mouth and waits patiently until your lips part for him. 

Without breaking contact, you wrap your hand around his girth and begin stroking him to full hardness. Your tongues meet, and you relish the trace of your taste in his mouth. Once his cock is ready, you line him up with your entrance. 

You lower yourself onto him, slowly, inch by inch, until you’re fully on his lap. For a moment, you simply stay like that, with him seated deep within you, lips locked in a languid ebb and flow. When you begin to move, you do it together, rising and falling in question and answer to the other. You wonder if there will always be this constant compulsion to have Eris near, the need to feel his skin against yours, to feel his beating heart thump in step with your own. Somehow, against all reason, he’s managed to worm his way into your life, to make a home for himself within the chambers of your heart.

Eris becomes the ruined wreckage of a man as you slide off him up until only the tip remains, before slamming back down. Eris keeps his gaze on you as though he’d rather die than miss a single moment of this. He groans, meeting each and every single one of your movements. His one hand grips your hip, guiding and grinding, fingers digging into you. The other cups your breast, his thumb tracing over your nipple. When your thighs begin to ache, legs quaking, powered only by desire and desperation, Eris easily flips you over. 

“Harder,” you choke out, “deeper.”

“So demanding,” Eris teases but seems happy enough to comply. He places a pillow beneath your hips. You almost whine at the pause, but Eris doesn’t give you a chance. He begins with an unforgiving pace, pistoning in and out of you with abandon. The new angle is torture specifically designed to tear your remaining sanity into shreds. Your legs lock around his waist, hands clasped tightly with his own. His lips hover over yours, drinking in each whimper, each moan, like it's ambrosia and you’re the sole source. 

“Are you about to cum for me, Love?” Eris breathes. And you nod frantically.

“Tell me, Firefly, who’s making you feel good, hm?” He punctuates the sentence with a hard thrust that has your eyes rolling to the back of your head. 

“You are,” you rasp, convulsing around him as his cock nudges the perfect spot inside of you.

“My name,” he demands.

“Eris.” It comes out as drawn out moan, a plea, a promise.

“And who do you belong to?” The force of each slam has you seeing sparks, and when he begins to circle your clit with his thumb? You’re gone, utterly defeated and consumed by the flame. 

“You!” You scream, repeating his name over and over and over. 

“That’s right,” he purrs. Your thighs shake, back arching completely off the mattress. The world breaks apart around you, reality melting into a flash of blinding light. He slows down and fucks you through the throes of rapture, extending seconds into eons while you flutter around him. With one last grind of his hips, you feel his cock throb as he spills deep inside you. 

Eris collapses on top of you, surrounding you in his scorching warmth. For a long while, only your shared breaths exist in the silence. He nuzzles deeper into the crook of your neck, as though unable to help himself.

Eris doesn’t tell you he loves you again. He shouldn’t, for both of your sakes. But you feel it in the featherlight kisses he leaves over your shoulder, his gentle touch as he traces each curve, line, and ridge of your body. He does it with such ease, as though it’s an art he’s perfected through the years, through lifetimes. 

Instinctively, you begin to run your hands over his back, fingers running over the lattice of faded scars there. Anger is a flaming arrow through your chest. Beron is not an easy father to have. Eris, as the prospective heir to his empire, receives the brunt of his brutal scrutiny. What you’d give to have the opportunity to tear that old bastard’s head from his shoulders.

As if sensing your sudden agitation, Eris’s roaming hands become more insistent, kneading away all the tension from your muscles. “Relax,” he whispers against your ear. 

Although he rolls off of you, he doesn’t go far. Without letting you out of the cage of his arms, he curls beside you like a cat, each plane of your bodies perfectly aligned. With his head resting over your heart, a rumble of contentment escapes him.

It’s startling to think that to anyone outside of this room, Eris is a villain, as well-versed in savagery as his father. But you know him, seen parts of him the world would never know. You and Eris have always been two sides of the same coin. 

He understands what it’s like to endure and inherit a father’s rage, to house a mother’s bottomless grief, to be saturated with so much shame it steals your every breath. The two of you are so different and yet are hewn from the same ore, forged from the same fire. Although there are a multitude of reasons why the both of you can’t be together, it feels as though Eris is the only one who's ever truly seen you as you are. 

But self-denial is a circus act you and Eris perform with practiced ease. You’ve already fucked up before and it wasn’t you who ended up paying the price. No, it had been your mother and your sister. Their blood will stain your hands for the rest of your life. 

You won’t make that same mistake again. 

Two twined heartbeats, breaths released and taken in unison, Eris drifts off as your fingers card through his hair. You drink him in, long lashes fluttering as he flits into sleep, faint freckles like stars scattered over the ridge of his nose, and his face, for once, open and devoid of that familiar mask. You map its planes with the tips of your fingers, cataloging each detail and etching them onto the back of your mind. 

Eris will be gone come morning. He always is. The only proof of his presence would be the ache between your thighs and his scent still lingering on your sheets. But for now, though, he is yours, as fleeting as this moment may be. 

This is enough, you tell yourself. 

AN: hello this is my first smut fic in a while & this is a bit different from my usual thing so i was a bit nervous about posting this one. Let me know what you guys think!

Dialogue and banter aren’t my strong suit but i tried my best ;u;

This started as pwp fic but now there’s plot and I’m invested. I’ve got a few ideas and I kinda want to do a series of one-shots for these two.

English isn’t my first language. If you see any mistakes please let me know thru DM! Thank you 💙

[crossfandomslut]

Love love love

Cauldron-born

Pairing: Azriel x fem reader

Word Count: 1.7K

Summary: When an unexplainable energy pulls the Inner Circle to barge into the Day court, they're all shocked at what they find. But it's Azriel who can't help wonder if his dreams have finally been answered.

“I hadn’t meant to hide this from you Rhysand,” Helion’s usual warm tone was replaced with something sterner, bolder— unwavering.

A breeze pulled on your skirt, the floaty material rippling under the wind. It was always warm in Day, but now, with the appearance of uninvited guests, there was a coldness in the air you hadn’t experienced before.

A bite that pulled at your skin raising goosebumps across your arms.

You guessed this reaction wasn’t a rare occurrence when facing the Night Courts Inner Circle.

Helion shifted his weight, his body stood in front of yours in a protective manner. A nervousness emitted from his energy, an emotion that actually seemed strange to even be associated with him. 

Helion wasn’t the nervous type. Charming and flirtatious, bold and defiant— not nervous.

Helion pushed his shoulders back, his stance flexing against the shadowy group that had just arrived. 

They had shaken him. 

Perhaps you were naive to think these people wouldn’t, naive to believe you could live your life quietly. Slip through the cracks. Go unnoticed. No you were not destined for that, as much as your dear friend may have wanted that for you.

So if a quiet life was not meant to be, then you would at least claim it as yours. 

With a light step you moved from behind Helion to his side, coming into full view of the group who had appeared unannounced in the courtyard. Your hand came to Helion’s gently, giving him a soft squeeze and light smile that stretched to your eyes.

How they had gotten through Day Courts shields didn’t come as a surprise really. Helion had divulged how powerful the High Lord of the Night Court was. That if he really wanted to take them all down, then Helion suspected in that unrelenting pit of power Rhys probably could.

But despite this power, Rhys had never ravaged control over the land. Helion was fond of Rhys and his family, they were allies. Perhaps he would even consider them friendly.

And yet Helion hadn’t told them about you.

Energies and rhythms rippling from their bodies, all with their own melody of colours unique to them floated toward you. Your eyes scanned over their features quickly, reading their expressions, the tight lines their faces made before one look pulled you to a hasty stop.

A hazel lock held you tightly as a males gaze ensnared you. 

Golden rays broke through a midnight blue aura, trapping you in a moment that seemed to expand and retract all at once. He was the most beautiful male you’d ever laid eyes on, and it took every ounce of will power to pull your gaze from his.

There was a simmering at the pit of your stomach, something familiar and warm, and you swore you could hear singing—

“She is like us.” A girl from the back of the crowd spoke, beautiful and sweet. Elain, you assumed. Her aura, one that resembled sunlight radiating in golden flicks. If you hadn’t known who she was you’d had assumed she was a Day court resident from her glow alone.

Elain stepped forward, another girl stepping beside her as if they’d both been pulled by the same magnetic pulse to the front of the group.

This girl. This girl was Nesta. You were sure of it. That silver flickering aura licked at her skin, an energy so similar and yet so different to her sisters.

“Hm..no not exactly like us…” Elain seemed to mutter, more to herself than anyone else. Her eyes scanning you as she tried to get a read, try and decipher what had pulled her here in the first place. 

Why you had pulled them here.

“Something other.” Nesta spoke.

You don’t think she’d actually intended for it to sound so venomous, but the words had snapped like poison. You noticed how for a split second there was a softeness in her energy. Whether she was regretful of her tone or not, you had flinched at the word.

Other.

Hm. Perhaps that was the best way to describe you.

Elain glanced at her sister, her face not changing as she digested Nesta’s words. There was a shuffling behind them, only slight and small. Would barely be noticeable if it wasn’t so hard for you not to notice.

Him.

His scarred fingers twitched at his sides, shadows swirling around them as they peered over those giant black membranes that were drawn in at his back. A tattoo creeped up the side of his neck, peeking through his shirt as you followed up to his jaw. Black leather’s covered his body, blue siphons shimmering under the setting sun. You tried so hard not to let your eyes wander back, but as though you had no control you gaze landed on his again. 

Only to find he was already staring.

Azriel.

Helion had mentioned him to you before and you recalled how you had rolled the name a few times in your mouth. The name feeling so foreign and familiar all at once.

“Not cauldron-made, no not quite.” Elain had turned her attention back to you.

You had stepped forward now, stepped out from the shadow of Helion.

Stepped out to face what you had been avoiding. 

“You are Cauldron-born.” 

✵

“Would you like to join us for some tea?” Your response had been after Elain’s heavy statement.

Your words coming out in a flurry to cut through the heaviness in the air. Despite being outside it felt stifling. Several eyes piercing into you. You could almost hear the way they were trying to decipher you— breakdown what Elain had said. 

You hadn’t allowed them the time. Quickly offering them tea, as you glanced at the small set up you and Helion had come to the courtyard to enjoy.

It was only a matter of moments before more furniture was erected and began the awkward silence while the piping pot of tea began to simmer to a cool.

Your hands were scrunched up in your skirt, fists full of fabric on your lap being an obvious tell of unease to those who knew what to look for. A strained smile was forced to your lips, expression light and brows arched in apprehension as you watched the uninvited guests silently take sips of tea. 

With a quick sideways glance you gave Helion a nervous smile, your lips wobbling as you took a sharp inhale. Helion responded with a gentle pat of your head, his large hand coming to ruffle your hair while a lazy smiled adorned his lips.

His energy finally shifting to one you recognised more, warm and teasing. He was relaxed again. Whatever shock the inner circle had originally caused, Helion now seemed...somewhat nonchalant.

That should have been reassuring, but the tension in your muscles didn't want to relax.

“This is y/n,” Helion finally spoke, addressing the people who had barged into his court. 

At the revelation of a name, the inner circle cast their attention solely on you. 

“These are my friends y/n, I’ve told you about them already. We had anticipated your arrival at some point,” he continued giving a knowing look to Rhys.

Your eyes scanned the expressions of the five people in front of you. 

Rhys, Amren, Nesta, Elain and of course Azriel. Not the whole inner circle, no there were members missing. But Helion had done such a great job at explaining them to you, that it really wasn’t difficult to figure out who was who.

“It’s l-lovely to meet you all,” you managed out, voice falling softer than you had hoped. Your own eyes gently moving across them all before flitting to the shadowy presence that remained stood behind the Night Courts High Lord. 

Azriel.

Spymaster and Shadowsinger of the Night Court.

You couldn’t seem to stop yourself from looking, among all the noise he sung the sweetest. His energy, amongst those swirling smoke coloured tendrils was the most beautiful display you had ever seen. Not the most powerful by any means, Rhysand and Helion’s outshone his aura in many ways but his was the most enticing— at least to you.

Composure wasn’t something Azriel usually lacked, but after hearing the softness of your voice fill the warm evening air he had to collect himself entirely.

From the moment he’d set his eyes on you, he couldn’t ignore the feeling in the depths of his chest. Maybe if you hadn’t been the cause of it, he’d have assumed there was something wrong with his heart. 

Azriel noticed the way your fingers nervously picked at your skirt, fists tight with the material as you sat up straight beside Helion. As if your posture would bring a confidence you were clearly lacking. 

He could sense it, your unease, nervousness. Picked up on it before even his shadows could whisper it to him.

Nervous, nervous, nervous.

He blinked them away. He already knew. 

Pretty. 

Another whispered. He already knew that too.

Pretty was putting it plainly though. You were breathtaking. 

Azriel wanted to reassure you. Comfort the anxiety he could tell you were drowning in. It was such a strange sensation, to feel this connection so deeply with someone he’d never met before, that Azriel couldn’t help but question why.

Azriel allowed himself to consider that perhaps something he’d been dreaming of for so long was finally his. 

That feeling, the ache in his chest you caused— was almost painfully lovely. He swore this was exactly how his brothers had described it to him.

Azriel found himself allowing the smallest curve spread to the edge of his lips, a gentle, secret smile. Just for you.

A smile that softened your own forced expression to something more relaxed and genuine. 

For a moment it felt as though it was just you two. The noise and vibrations of everyone else seemed to fade. An embrace of cobalt and hazel filling you with a warmth that felt so familiar.

“But Elain is correct. Y/n is cauldron-born.” Helion’s voice broke the trance you both seemed to be in.

Your nervousness from before simmering hotter.

“It cannot be,” Amren declared, disbelief tinging her tone as her gaze pierced into you.

“You think I lie?” Helion challenged. 

“How do you know for sure?” Rhys pressed back, an uncertainty in his tone.

“Because I know you all feel it too,” Helion’s voice was deep, a gleam in his eye as he turned to you proudly.

“She is the Mother’s daughter.” 

A statement. Even more bold than Elain’s settled a silence across the courtyard. This time it wasn’t stifling, their energy shifting to something of awe, admiration and then devotion.

In one quick movement a figure dropped to their knees. Head pressing to the cool stone ground.

Amren had bowed before your feet. 

And Amren bowed to no one.

a/n: Okay I know this a whole lot more of elusive-ness and I'm sorry, I just thought sharing this little bit more is better than nothing at all. I wanted to flesh this first out properly so here's the full part one! I've been so swamped with work and inspiration struck this evening so I quickly wrote this in my notes. I promise I will eventually finish it, even if it's just little updates here and there. I'm hoping maybe 2 more parts, so it'll be a nice little mini-series!

I also took it upon myself to try and tag everyone who commented and reblogged because you all seemed very invested so didn't want you to miss this installment even if it is tiny<3

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