bunny

“The scar is rather difficult to miss,” the woman sighs.

“Oh.” Sokka shrugs. “Right. Forgot about that.”

Behind him, Zuko lets out a deeply offended sound.

“I told you this was not enough!” Zuko snaps sharply, glaring at his friend while tugging irritably at the dark fabric around his shoulders.

“Hey, it matches your outfit, alright?” Sokka defends himself quickly. He gestures between the cloak and his own belongings as if making a brilliant point. “Just like my bag matches my belt.”

Zuko stares at him silently, already regretting allowing Sokka anywhere near this plan.

The mistress clears her throat loudly, cutting through the argument.

“How may I help the Fire Lord?” she asks, now directing her full attention towards Zuko alone.

For a moment, Zuko says nothing.

His jaw instantly tightened beneath the shadows of the hood. He had faced armies, faced his father,and the worst of all — faced Azula. Yet somehow this felt worse. Because lying to his uncle was so unfair… he knew his uncle would be happy either way with any decision in the end. Yet, he still felt guilty for not being able to make at least one of his wishes come true. He didn’t want for Iroh to die with a heavy heart.

Still, he forces himself to step closer to the desk, then he takes a deep breath before speaking.

“I need to find a woman to be my wife,” he says finally.

The words sound absurd the moment they leave his mouth.

The mistress blinks once... twice.

Her pipe slips from her fingers and hits the wooden table with a loud clatter. For several long seconds, she simply stares at him as though she expects him to laugh and admit it was some sort of joke.

But Zuko’s expression never changes.

And the woman’s surprised expression slowly fades into skepticism as she straightens in her chair.

“You came to a brothel,” she says carefully, “to search for a wife?”

Even Sokka winces slightly at how ridiculous it sounded aloud.

Zuko feels heat crawl up the back of his neck beneath his collar as he nods once.

“When you say it like that, it sounds strange,” he agrees.

“Because it is strange,” the woman replies without hesitation. Her sharp eyes narrow as she studies him more carefully now, suspicion mixing with curiosity. “Most men come here seeking pleasure, not marriage.”

“I am not looking for love,” Zuko says quickly, almost too quickly.

The woman hums softly, leaning back again. She watches him the same way one might observe a wounded animal deciding whether or not to bite.

“I am certain many noble women across the nations would gladly marry the Fire Lord,” she continues. “You could choose any daughter from any wealthy family and have a wedding arranged before sunrise tomorrow.”

“I know.” Zuko exhales heavily through his nose before closing his eyes for a brief moment. “That is exactly the problem.”

His voice lowers quieter after that. Less defensive — more tired.

“I do not want to promise devotion I cannot give,” he admits. “I do not have time to become someone’s proper husband. I barely manage to rule my own nation correctly some days.”

The woman’s skeptical expression softens slightly, though not entirely.

“And yet you are still searching for a wife.”

Zuko’s gaze drops towards the wooden floorboards.

“It is important to my uncle,” he says quietly. “He wishes to see me settled before…”

The sentence dies in his throat unfinished and a sudden understanding flickers briefly across the mistress’s face.

Still, she remains cautious.

“So,” she says slowly, “you want a woman willing to stand beside you, wear royal robes, smile for the court… while knowing the marriage itself is not real.”

Zuko nods once again.

“Yes.”

The mistress studies him for a long moment after that. Not with judgment anymore, but disbelief, as though she still could not decide whether the Fire Lord standing before her was foolish or painfully sincere.

“That is strangely noble of you, My Lord,” she says at last.

“Are you saying that so he will not feel guilty before giving you money?” Sokka interrupts suddenly.

The woman turns towards him with such a deadly glare that Sokka instantly raises both hands in surrender.

“What kind of woman are you searching for?” the mistress asks, ignoring him completely.

Zuko pauses. Truthfully, he had not thought that far ahead.

Mai had been the only woman truly present in his life before this. He had loved her once, in his own difficult way, but they had never understood one another fully. Half their conversations had ended in silence or frustration.

“Appearance does not matter,” Zuko says after a long pause. “I only need someone who will listen to me… and understand me.”

Sokka gasps loudly beside him, visibly emotional.

“Oh, Zuko,” he says dramatically while clutching his chest. “But I am right here.”

He throws himself forward for an embrace, only for Zuko to plant an annoyed palm directly against his face before he can get close.

The mistress watches the two silently before shaking her head with faint amusement and a hint of doubt. Rising from her chair, she gestures towards the narrow hallway deeper within the building.

“My Lord, I will bring you our finest women,” she says calmly, not fully believing he actually means his words, “come with me.”

Before Zuko can protest, a dull thud echoes somewhere in the back of the establishment.

All three of them immediately turn towards the noise only to realize nothing was there.

“Are there… you know, ghosts here?” Sokka asks under his breath while nervously scanning the shadows around them.

“None that I know of. Only rats,” the mistress replies dismissively. “They are always finding their way inside. Ignore it.”

Zuko gives a small nod before stepping past Sokka and following after the woman. The wooden floor creaks beneath his boots as he steps towards the hallway.

“Wait here,” he tells Sokka over his shoulder just before vanishing around the corner.

“Are you leaving me alone in here with rats? The possible Ghosts!?” Sokka asks scared, while looking around, but Zuko is long gone.

***

The room she brought him into was dimly lit by dozens of candles, their warm glow dancing against the deep red walls and golden details carved into the architecture. Expensive silks draped elegantly from the ceiling, and the scent of incense lingered faintly in the air. Every part of the room spoke of luxury and exclusivity.

This was clearly reserved for the wealthiest clients.

Or, perhaps, for the Fire Lord himself.

Yet despite the comfort surrounding him, Zuko felt restless.

His fingers tapped quietly against the arm of the cushioned seat beneath him before stopping abruptly. He exhales slowly through his nose, shoulders tense.

He disliked this.

He disliked sitting here, waiting to choose a woman as if he was selecting fine jewelry from a merchant’s stall. He had clearly asked for someone easy to speak to, someone capable of understanding him, yet the mistress had looked at him with obvious disbelief the moment he claimed appearance did not matter.

She had agreed politely enough.

But Zuko was not foolish.

A woman like her, one who had spent years surrounded by men and their desires, clearly did not believe him. In her eyes, men always wanted beauty first. Everything else came after.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the sliding door opening softly behind him.

“Forgive my late arrival, My Lord.”

The voice was warm and gentle.

Zuko turns with a slight frown, only to see a woman around his age bowing respectfully near the doorway.

You were dressed in flowing white robes that hugged your figure, the silk expensive enough to shimmer beneath the candlelight. Red fire lilies had been embroidered along the hem of your sleeves and near the bottom of your robes, their crimson threads standing out against the fabric. Your hair had been pinned up carefully, with a flower pin, exposing the elegant line of your neck, while your nails were painted a dark shade of red.

Zuko studies you quietly for a moment.

By your appearance alone, he could already tell you were likely one of the women the mistress had proudly spoken of earlier.

“Did the mistress send you?” he asks at last.

“Yes, My Lord,” you reply before bowing once more.

Zuko sighs quietly and lowers his gaze.

His reaction does not escape your attention.

Silence settles briefly between the two of you, heavy yet strangely calm. Then you lift your eyes towards him carefully.

“Is something troubling you, My Lord?” you ask hesitantly, noticing the shift in his expression, as you make small steps towards him.

Zuko offers a faint smile, though it does not feel real.

“Everything is troubling me,” he admits with another tired sigh. “The council. My generals. My advisors. Everyone is constantly telling me what I should do.”

You remain quiet for a moment before speaking again.

“If I may ask…” your voice softens further, “what is it that you wish to do?”

The question makes him still completely.

Zuko’s lips press into a thin line as his gaze slowly lifts back on you, unreadable confusion flickering across his face.

What did he want?

The question felt so simple, ordinary.

And yet… he could not remember the last time anyone had asked him that. Or anything that is.

All his life had been spent serving others. First his father’s demands, then his nation’s expectations, then the burden of restoring balance after the war that his nation started. People had always decided his path for him long before he could even think to choose it himself.

Nobody had asked whether he wanted to become Fire Lord.

It had simply become necessary for peace — for the world.

Nobody had asked whether he was strong enough to carry the shame left behind by his father’s actions. Nobody had cared how deeply his mother’s disappearance wounded him, nor how much Azula’s madness haunted him still.

Even now, sitting in this place, he was not here because he desired marriage. He was here because of Iroh. Because every time he looked at his uncle, guilt coiled painfully tighter inside his chest.

If he refused this final wish…He knew he would regret it forever.

The realization leaves him staring at you silently, almost startled by the emotions rising inside him from such a small question.

“My Lord?” you ask gently once more.

Another pause follows.

Then finally—

“I…” Zuko exhales shakily. “I do not know.”

The confession comes quieter than he intended.

“I never really considered that what I want matters,” he continues after a moment. “People have always decided those things for me.”

The words leave him before he can stop himself.

You look at him differently after that. Not with fear, nor admiration reserved for royalty, but with something softer and somewhat understanding.

Carefully, you lower yourself onto the other seat beside him.

“If I may speak honestly, My Lord…”

Your voice wavers slightly.

“I think what you are doing is honorable. Choosing the happiness of others before your own is something very few people can truly do.”

Zuko’s eyes shift towards you again.

“I think,” you continue carefully, fingers tightening slightly against your robes, “that perhaps you have sacrificed so much for everyone around you that choosing something for yourself now feels selfish.”

Your gaze lowers briefly.

“But I do not believe it is.”

There is something painfully personal hidden beneath your words. As if you understood the feeling far too well yourself and you your words weren’t shallow.

Perhaps you, too, had spent your life placing the desires of others before your own. Perhaps that was how someone like you ended up in a place like this — serving, smiling, listening, while quietly abandoning every want of your own along the way.

Zuko simply stares at you. For once, he feels understood.

Not as the Fire Lord.

Not as Ozai’s son.

Just… understood.

The silence between you becomes strangely comforting.

Then suddenly—

The door slams open harshly.

“What are you doing here, you insolent girl?” the mistress’ sharp voice cuts through the room immediately.

Your body jerks violently at the sound. Startled, you quickly turn your head towards the entrance just as the older woman storms inside, fury written clearly across her face.

You instinctively get up and step back, but she reaches you quickly. The mistress grabs your arm harshly before beginning to pull you towards the exit.

Zuko moves before he can fully think.

He rises abruptly from the cushions, crossing the room in only a few steps before catching your wrist firmly.

The mistress turns to him in surprise.

“Wait.”

His voice comes sharper than expected. His fingers remain wrapped around your arm protectively.

“What are you doing, My Lord?” the old woman asks, confusion and disbelief mixing together. “You cannot possibly be interested in her,.”

She gestures towards you dismissively, making you look down.

“I summoned the finest women in this house. Women even nobles compete for. She is nowhere near what I prepared for you—”

“I do not care about those things,” Zuko interrupts firmly. “I already told you that.”

The mistress lets out a humorless laugh.

“My Lord, I know men,” she says while narrowing her eyes. “I have watched them all my life. I know how ruthless and insatiable they become.”

“You do not know me,” Zuko replies immediately.

The mistress tightens her grip around your arm before offering Zuko a strained smile. One clearly meant to remain polite despite the irritation hidden beneath it.

“You are simply overwhelmed,” she says carefully. “This girl only got in your head. Allow me to present the others I prepared instead.”

You lower your gaze immediately, remaining silent as her fingers pull more insistently at your arm.

Zuko’s hold loosens slightly.

Not because he truly wished to let go… but because uncertainty suddenly settled heavily inside his chest.

Perhaps the mistress was right.

He barely knew you.

You had only spoken for a few moments, yet somehow your words had reached places inside him most people never managed to touch.

The mistress begins leading you towards the doorway.

You stumble slightly before regaining your balance, the silk of your robes brushing softly against the wooden floor. Then, just before disappearing beyond the sliding doors, you turn your head towards him one final time.

Your eyes meet his.

The look on your face is calm, yet there is something quietly wounded hidden beneath it. Not surprise. Not anger.

Just… disappointment.

As though you had allowed yourself to hope for something, only for it to vanish moments later.

Something twists painfully inside Zuko’s chest. His lips part slightly, the urge to stop you rising suddenly in his throat, but the doors slide shut before he can say anything at all.

Silence settles around him again.

And for the first time since entering this place, Zuko feels as though he has made a mistake.

***

The room feels colder afterwards.

Or perhaps emptier.

Zuko sits stiffly against the cushions, one elbow resting against the carved arm of the chair while his fingers press absently against his temple. Candlelight flickers across the gold details decorating the walls, while soft music drifts faintly from somewhere deeper within the establishment.

Then the doors slide open once more.

The mistress enters first, followed by five women.

Each one was strikingly beautiful.

Their robes shimmered with expensive silk and fine embroidery, colors rich enough to rival royal garments. Gold jewelry rested elegantly against their necks and wrists, delicate chains glimmering beneath the candlelight. Their hair had been arranged carefully, adorned with jeweled pins and fragrant flowers, while subtle makeup highlighted their features perfectly.

Every movement they made appeared graceful and refined.

Exactly what someone would expect beside the Fire Lord.

The women spread themselves carefully throughout the room, some pouring tea while others smiled softly towards him. One begins turning slowly before him, allowing the silk layers of her robes to fan beautifully, showing her figure. Another kneels elegantly nearby, adjusting a golden bracelet against her wrist as though making certain he noticed it.

Zuko watches all of it in complete silence.

He should have been impressed.

Instead, he only feels tired.

At one point, his gaze drifts absentmindedly towards the doorway where you had disappeared earlier. Without meaning to, he begins comparing them to you.

The realization unsettles him immediately as he finds himself comparing those women to you.

You had worn no heavy jewelry. No complicated hairstyle. No bright gemstones or elaborate perfumes. Your beauty alone was enough. Your robes had been exquisite yes, but simple compared to these women. And yet somehow… your presence lingered in his mind far more strongly than theirs.

One of the women settles beside him gracefully, offering him a sweet smile.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” she says softly, fingers brushing delicately along the sleeve of his robes. “These garments must be worth a fortune. The craftsmanship alone is extraordinary.”

Zuko glances down briefly at the dark fabric before giving a small nod.

“The royal tailors work very hard,” he replies politely.

“How many tailors serve within the palace?” she asks curiously. “I heard even the servants there wear finer silks than nobles from other nations.”

Before Zuko can answer properly, another woman speaks eagerly from across the room.

“The Fire Nation palace must be enormous,” she sighs dreamily. “I cannot even imagine living surrounded by such luxury every day.”

A third woman leans forward slightly.

“Do you truly possess treasure vaults beneath the palace?” she asks with visible interest. “I once heard the royal family keeps enough gold hidden away to feed entire kingdom.”

The women laugh softly among themselves.

Zuko forces a polite expression onto his face, though discomfort slowly tightens in his chest.

Every question sounded the same.

The palace. Wealth. Status. Luxury.

None of them looked at him as though he were simply a man sitting before them. Only the Fire Lord. Only the crown resting invisibly upon his head.

One woman begins speaking excitedly about royal ceremonies while another asks about banquets held within the palace halls.

Zuko barely hears any of it.

Instead, his thoughts drift unwillingly back towards you.

Back to the way your voice had shaken slightly while speaking to him.

Back to the understanding in your eyes.

Back to the simple question you had asked him.

What is it that you wish to do?

No one else here had asked him anything remotely close to that.

One of the women laughs softly beside him, touching his arm lightly to regain his attention.

“My Lord?”

Zuko blinks faintly, pulled from his thoughts.

For the first time that evening, he realizes he does not wish to remain in this room at all.

“Call the mistress,” Zuko says simply as he rises from the cushions.

The women pause immediately.

One lowers the cup she had been holding while another exchanges a confused glance with the others. The soft laughter filling the room dies almost instantly, leaving only the quiet crackling of candle flames behind.

Zuko remains standing near the center of the room, shoulders tense beneath his dark robes. His expression is unreadable once more, though exhaustion lingers clearly behind his eyes.

One of the women bows quickly before slipping outside to obey his command.

The silence afterwards feels unbearably long.

Zuko exhales quietly and turns his gaze towards the flickering candles lining the walls. He had tried. Spirits knew he truly tried to convince himself this was reasonable. Easier.

Yet every conversation left him feeling emptier than before.

His mind kept drifting back towards you no matter how hard he attempted to focus on the women standing before him now.

The mistress arrives only moments later.

The moment she steps inside, a pleased smile already rests upon her face. Her sharp eyes briefly sweep across the room, taking in the elegantly dressed women surrounding the Fire Lord. Clearly, she believed the evening had finally gone as expected.

That Zuko had simply needed time to remember what men truly desired.

And that he had long since forgotten about you.

But the smile falters almost immediately the moment her gaze lands properly on him.

Zuko looked neither entertained nor impressed.

He looked tired.

His face remained blank, though there was a heaviness lingering that caused the mistress’ confidence to slowly waver.

“My Lord?” she asks carefully now, the certainty from before no longer present in her voice.

“I would like to speak with the girl from earlier again.”

The room erupts in gasps and whispers from the women, while the mistress goes still. For a brief moment, genuine disbelief crosses her face.

“…her?” she repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

The answer comes immediately this time.

The mistress studies him carefully, as though still attempting to understand whether this was merely stubbornness or something else entirely.

“My Lord,” she says cautiously, “surely one of these women would suit your needs far better. They are accomplished, elegant, admired even among nobility—”

“I know.”

Zuko’s voice remains calm, but firmer now.

“They are all very beautiful.” His gaze briefly flickers towards the women gathered around the room before returning to the mistress. “But none of them have spoken to me as though I were a person.”

The words cause several uncomfortable glances to spread through the room.

The mistress narrows her eyes slightly.

“And that girl did?”

Zuko grows quiet for a moment.

His thoughts return unwillingly to the look in your eyes when you were dragged from the room. That small, wounded expression he could not seem to forget.

“…Yes,” he answers softly.

Something shifts in the mistress’ expression then.

Not agreement, but understanding.

The mistress remains silent for a long moment, her sharp gaze lingering carefully on Zuko’s face as though searching for hesitation. And she finds none.

Still, her lips press together slightly before she finally speaks again.

“My Lord… that girl is not exactly free to leave this establishment whenever she pleases.”

Zuko’s brows furrow faintly.

“What do you mean?”

The mistress folds her hands neatly before her robes.

“She owes this house a rather significant debt,” she explains carefully. “Food, clothing, training, accommodations… the amount spent over the years was not small.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “And unlike these women, she does not bring nearly enough profit to repay it quickly.”

His gaze lowers briefly towards the wooden floorboards.

Of course there was a reason.

Someone like you — quiet, thoughtful, strangely sincere — never truly belonged in a place like this. Yet perhaps belonging had never mattered. Perhaps you had simply never been given another choice.

Zuko slowly lifts his eyes again.

“Money will not be a problem,” he says calmly.

“My Lord…”

“I will repay whatever debt she owes,” Zuko continues. “In full.”

A quiet murmur spreads among the women still gathered around the room, though Zuko pays them no attention.

The mistress studies him carefully now, disbelief slowly replacing her earlier confidence.

“You would spend such an amount for a girl you spoke with only once?” she asks cautiously.

Zuko falls quiet.

Truthfully… he did not fully understand it himself.

Maybe it was because you had spoken to him without fear. Maybe because you didn’t see his wealth only, but his feelings too. Or maybe it was because, after years of being surrounded by demands and expectations, your words had felt painfully honest.

Whatever the reason was, he could not force himself to ignore it.

“Yes,” he answers at last.

The mistress exhales slowly, almost amused despite herself.

“You truly are a strange man, Fire Lord Zuko.”

He says nothing in return.

After another long pause, the mistress finally inclines her head slightly.

“…Very well.”

She turns towards the doorway before stopping once more.

“But before making such arrangements official,” she says carefully, “perhaps you should speak with her properly first.”

“That is exactly what I want,” Zuko replies immediately.

“I do not wish to force her into this,” he explains more quietly. “Bring her back. I would like to speak with her again… and ask whether she would even want to be part of my plan.”

Something unreadable flickers across the older woman’s face then, but she gives a slow nod.

“As you wish, My Lord.”

The mistress leaves the room soon after, the women following quietly behind her until Zuko is finally left alone once more.

Silence settles around him again, softer this time.

Zuko lowers himself back against the cushions slowly, his gaze drifting towards the flickering candlelight dancing against the walls.

Usually, he ignored what he wanted. Usually, he buried those feelings beneath duty, responsibility, and the endless expectations resting upon him.

But this time…

This time, he thinks he would rather listen to himself.

Azriel rolled off you, landing on the empty spot next to you in the bed. You looked over to him, catching your breath, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching yours. His eyes met yours, and you felt a blush creeping up on your cheeks, as if he was a small crush in the marketplace rather than someone who had just made you see the heights of pleasure.

“Had fun?” You asked, a smile creeping up on your face.

He looked over at you, rolling his eyes.

”Wonderful, as always.” He teased. His eyes trailed over the length of your body, covered only by a thin layer of your sheets. The sunlight of the late morning crept in from your balcony window, illuminating the twinkle in his eyes. You had to look away, entranced by the beauty of him. Here, in your bed. Lying here with him like this, it was easy to pretend. The world narrowed to the two of you in this room, together. Here, your past no longer haunted you, there was no trauma, no secrets, no pain. If you closed your eyes and focused on the way his bare arm brushed yours and the breathing from right beside you, it was as if all was as you imagined.

“I have a light workload today. I was thinking I could take Elain to the marketplace, or through the River House’s garden for a walk.”

The cocoon shattered. For just a moment, your breath caught in your throat, and a surge of shame and embarrassment rushed through you, down to your fingertips. Quickly, you grabbed a hold of yourself.

“Are you…sure that’s a good idea?” You asked, trepidation heavy in your tone.

“Why not? I’ve been busy recently. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he justified. “I wouldn’t want her to feel neglected.”

Ugly jealousy coursed through you, and you had the sudden urge to be alone.

You took a deep breath, willing your racing heart to control itself. “It’s just that Lucien will be in the city for dinner in two days.”

Defensiveness filled his expression, and you feared that perhaps you had made a mistake.

“So?” he started. “I’m not afraid of Lucien, Y/N.”

“I know that, but he’ll likely want to see her. You don’t want to start anything. Rhys will be unhappy. Maybe wait until after his visit.”

“Why are you being like this?” He asked. “Lucien can’t force her into anything, and I’m not going to refrain from seeing her just because of her so-called ‘mate’ visiting.”

You forced a teasing tone into your voice, trying to keep the mood light in spite of the knot in your stomach. “Az, he is her mate.”

He was silent for a moment, contemplation heavy in his voice. He rolled over onto his side, facing you. His wings shifted, and the sheet covering him from the waist down moved slightly. You forced your eyes up to meet his.

“What if…what if the Cauldron was wrong? What if he isn’t her true mate?”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Azriel.”

“I know. I know what you’re going to say, Y/N. But I just can’t help but feel like he doesn’t deserve her. She’s a Cauldron-made seer. He’s just an emissary.”

That sent a jolt through you. Just an emissary. In the logical part of your brain, you already knew that you weren’t necessarily special. At least, not in comparison to your chosen family in the Night Court. Feyre the Cursebreaker. Lady Death. The Shadowsinger. The Seer. And you were just an emissary. To your home court of Day that you once fled in fear, no less. You tried not to let that comment simmer in your brain for any longer.

“Doesn’t it make sense that she should be with someone else, someone who’s as exceptional as her?” he continued on. “She deserves better.”

He didn’t even seem to notice the effect those words had on you, the shock they sent through your system. For someone so observant, he never seemed to notice such things about you. Not with the comment he made, and certainly not with the fact that he was lying naked next to you, lamenting about his desire for another woman. You used to think him lowering his inhibitions so fully around you was a sign of his comfort. His innate relaxation in your presence, reflecting your own feelings. Recently, you’ve wondered if it was just a manifestation of how little he cared.

But Azriel loved you. If not in the way you’d hoped for, then as a friend. As a member of this family.

Didn’t he?

”Azriel, she has a mate.”

“I know that, but…”

“But nothing, Az,” you stressed. “You may want her, but it’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel remained still, but his wings shifted slightly. A tell of his exasperation. You always knew of his tells. You knew him better than anyone.

“Y/N, you wouldn’t understand. Mating bonds are difficult,” he sighed. “I should go.”

Azriel shifted up into sitting, silently as ever. The mattress dipped slightly as he turned his back to you, his wings dragging off to the side of your bed. He stood, and the emptiness of the other side of the bed was reflected in your chest.

“You’re right,” you said quietly.

But you knew about mating bonds. Knew them quite well, really. You knew what a mating bond felt like when a mate didn’t want you, and you felt for Lucien. He would take Elain any way he could have her, just as you did for your mate. Even if it hurt, even if it left your insides bleeding and yearning.

He paused his motions just slightly, as if sensing the poorly masked fatigue in your voice. Your gaze fixed on the sheets twisted between your fingers, unable to look up at his form moving about your space.

”I’ll see you later. Family dinner, tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Right. See you then.”

_____

You couldn’t really pinpoint when it started. The physical affair between you and Azriel had been unexpected, and you didn’t know exactly what it stemmed from. Loneliness, maybe. At first, you held out a little bit of hope that it would grow into something else.

“You’re not being serious, you did not.”

“I am not. I spilled wine all over him. It was mortifying!” You burst out laughing, and Azriel followed suit, the drinks flowing between you.

The two of you sat in the House’s study, illuminated only by the hearth in front of the room. The untethered mating bond hummed in your chest, filling you wholly with warmth. On a night like this, laughing with him sitting so close, it almost seemed silly to keep it a secret from him. He felt like home. Like the two of you belonged.

“I’m lucky that the High Lord of Day is such a flirt. He took no offense, and instead offered that I assist in bathing him.”

Azriel let out a barking laugh, inhibitions down in a way that made your cheeks heat. “Of course.”

The laughs died down, and for a moment the two of you just stared at each other, smiles lingering on your face. You couldn’t recall who moved first, but after another breath his mouth was on yours, and his hands wandered in places he had never dared touch before.

Through the haze of it all, a spark of joy burst within you. The mating bond sung within you, and fulfillment took over you in a way you’d never known before. It was happening, you’d thought. Finally.

Afterwards, the two of you lay in his bed, your head on his bare chest. His wing was underneath you, and warmth engulfed you from the tips of your fingers to your toes.

He was with you, and he was happy. It was an unconventional start to a relationship, but nothing about you and Azriel had ever been normal.

“I’m glad we can be like this, Y/N. Some…relief. No strings.”

Something within you broke, and the warmth of the mating bond grew cold.

“What are you thinking about?” A voice came from behind you, breaking you out of the memory.

You turned in your seat in the House’s kitchen to see Rhys approaching.

“Nothing, really.” You replied, taking a sip of the tea in front of you, Rhys taking a seat in the chair to your left. “Just thinking.”

”Hmm.” The High Lord started. “Does this have anything to do with a certain spymaster escorting my sister-in-law to the marketplace?”

You shot him a warning look. That bastard. “Rhys.”

“You can’t keep it a secret forever, Y/N. It isn’t fair to either of you, and I can only warn him off Elain for so long.”

Rhys learning of your mating bond had been a freak incident, the result of him catching onto a longing gaze last Solstice. He had agreed to keep it a secret, and to let you deal with it in your own way. You’ve had more than your share of men taking choice from you, and Rhys was not inclined to add to that list.

However, that didn’t stop him from meddling. He took every opportunity to encourage you to shout your bond from the rooftops, whether mentally at family dinners or through surprise check-ins. More recently, he had been more active in his intervention, barring Azriel from pursuing Elain. He claimed it was to prevent the Blood Duel. But from the moment Azriel relayed those events to you, you had seen right through it.

“I do not need you to warn him off Elain for me, Rhys. A mating bond will hardly change who he wants.”

“How do you know that?” Rhys stressed. “It can change everything. He deserves to know.”

The two of you have this conversation at least once every fortnight. It always ended the same way.

“Things would not change, and there is no point burdening him with a mating bond he will surely abhor.”

”It is not a burden. And you must know Azriel would never see you that way. It is a gift, to be mated to someone who is already so dear to your heart. One kiss, Y/N, could change everything.”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Letting the silence sit for a moment, you prepared yourself before speaking again.

“We have…done more than kiss.”

A beat passed between the two of you, before you spilled the details of the last eight months to Rhys, who watched with poorly contained shock. His eyes sat wide, and his mouth hung open. For the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, one could observe his ability to resemble a fish.

“This has been going on for nearly eight months,” Rhys repeated slowly, “And still he chases after Elain so brazenly?”

”He has never led me to believe this would grow into a romance. Any hopes are my delusion.”

Rhys covered his face with his hands, letting out a deep sigh, “It is not delusion. It is a natural response to a mating bond.”

“Perhaps, Rhys. But there is nothing I can do.”

Your fingers curled around the warm porcelain of your teacup.

“Nothing I wish to do,” you corrected, tone softening. “I do not want a mating bond that exists solely because he feels obligated to me.”

”You cannot truly believe that Azriel would see you as an obligation.”

”I think,” you said, “that if the Mother had some plan for him to joyously accept our mating bond, he would not leave my bed in the mornings with plans to pursue another female.”

—-

Family dinner was delicious, as always.

The aroma of perfectly roasted lamb and beautifully seasoned potatoes lingered throughout the River House, as empty plates signalled a meal well-enjoyed. Elain’s cooking was wonderful, but an ugly part of you couldn’t help but feel the weight of envy taking root in your chest.

Is there anything she can’t do?

Around the table sat you, Rhys, Amren, Cassian, Feyre, and Mor. Wine flowed generously as you discussed plans for a meeting with Lucien and Eris tomorrow. As a fellow Court emissary, you would be in attendance, so you did your best to focus on Rhys’ talking points despite the wine buzzing in your system. Luckily, your two most likely distractions were not here. Elain had excused herself to bed hours ago, and Azriel had left just moments ago to recon with some spies he had placed in Autumn. The table felt lighter without them here. All night, you had sat through Azriel sitting to the right of you, staring holes through Elain. It had been an effort not to burst out sobbing right there in front of everyone.

Recently, that had become a familiar feeling.

After seemingly hours of listening to Rhys drone on, making mental notes for later, you excused yourself to your room. You opted to crash at the River House, too weary to winnow to the House of Wind. Besides, you figured that a change of scenery might do some good. A futile attempt to chase the peace that had evaded you all week.

It didn’t matter that you’d be down the hall from Elain. You had no reason to be angry with her. Not really. She didn’t control Azriel’s overwhelming indifference to you. If he wasn’t focused on her, it would be Mor. Or someone else who met his standards. Someone special and outstanding and worthy.

Just an emissary.

Walking down the halls of the River House, you pondered on a future for yourself. Would you spend the rest of your life pining after a man who would never view you romantically? Would you ever tell him about the bond, wrecking a 200 year friendship and tying him to you in a way that could only lead to his misery?

The thoughts ruminated in your head until you heard the unmistakable rumble of Azriel’s voice.

Soft and low. Gentle in the way he speaks to you when you lay beneath him and you could pretend.

You looked up, eyes setting upon a slightly ajar door, moonlight filtering through.

Azriel’s room.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up to you. Rushing towards the doorway, you stood in the space of the open door before you truly knew what was happening. There stood Azriel and Elain, his arms just barely grazing upon her waist. They stood close, lips about to touch in a stance that you had been in with him just two nights prior.

Something was tearing in your chest. You tried to keep quiet.

But Azriel was an observant male. It was his job. Maybe not in the sanctuary of your bed, but certainly when he was tasked with protecting something as precious as Elain. His head snapped towards you in the doorway as if a fawn coming upon a faelight. His eyes widened slightly as he met yours.

The moonlight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and the sight of them made your own vision blur with sudden tears. And all Azriel did was stare.

One moment he stood frozen, his form blurry through your watery vision. The next, he jumped back from Elain as if her touch had burned him. His gaze never left yours, though his expression shifted to something raw, something almost terrified. It was a jarring change, especially for a male so stoic and controlled. Some instinct deep within you recognized the strangeness of his expression.

His shadows surged forward from the corner of the room, wrapping around his form. They curled up his back, peering over his shoulders towards you. His gaze never left yours, and Elain’s eyes shot rapidly between the two of you, confusion painting her beautiful face.

It was then that you felt it. A tug deep within your chest, reaching down into a place that you knew all too well. Something strong and ancient thrumming within you. Light surged in your soul. Never in your life had you imagined a fulfillment like this. As if the centuries of your life had been black and white, and now you’d seen the colors of the sky for the first time.

The sensation flooded your body, bright and overwhelming, dimmed only by the absolute fear and shock that spread throughout your body. The look on Azriel’s face matched the war happening within you.

Oh gods. He knew. He knew.

Another tug pulled through you. Then another. The silence of the room was overwhelming, and you willed him to say something. To get it over with. To reject you. To end it. But all he did was stare.

“Y/N,” he rasped out, voice heavy. “You…”

You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t bear the words he would inevitably say. The disgust he would regard you with.

The bond tugged once more in your chest. Azriel’s wide, wild eyes were on you.

You turned and ran.

—-

Two weeks.

You’d successfully avoided Azriel for two weeks before the inevitable confrontation. For his part, he had stayed away from your meeting with Lucien and Eris. Immediately afterward, you had left for Dawn to meet with Thesan. An emergency alliance negotiation.

In your mind, it was a blessing from the Mother. Perhaps a small act of repentance after the stunt she pulled revealing the bond to Azriel.

The journey back to Velaris felt far heavier than the one that had taken you away. Dawn had been bright, orderly, predictable. Everything that Velaris couldn’t be until you had settled this with Azriel.

Winnowing to the House of Wind, you headed straight for the kitchen, intending to grab a cup of tea and hide away in your room.

”You’re back.” The voice came from behind you.

The male had an innate talent for silence.

Mother help me.

You took a slow breath, then another. It was time, you supposed. You turned to look at him, wanting to memorize the exact details of his beautiful face. Once he rejects you, would you ever see him this closely again? Could you bear it?

“I’m back,” you said, keeping your voice light, moving towards the kettle on the counter.

Azriel stared at you intently, unspoken emotion deep within his eyes. As if he too, had been anticipating this moment. Dreading it.

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, thick with everything that had gone unsaid for two weeks. His eyes stayed heavy on you.

He finally broke the silence, tension laden in his voice. “You knew. Didn’t you?”

Your eyes slid shut “I did. I’ve known for almost a hundred years.”

The memory hit you hard.

“How’s the lemonade?” Azriel asked, taking a sip of his own in the chair across for you.

“You were right, this is delicious. Best I’ve ever tasted,” you took another sip of the sweet liquid, “How did I not know about this place?”

“It’s one of Velaris’ many hidden gems. You could live here for years and not know of every treat.”

“Well, I suppose I have much to learn.”

A laugh burst out of him, and you his eyes. It was full and deep and brought heat to your cheeks. His large form, wings brushing along the floor, seemed almost comical in this small, intimate cafe. For a moment, you just watched him. His beauty.

Warmth filled you, and you felt something snap within your chest. Like a key slotting into a lock, something had slid into place within your soul. Your mouth dropped open slightly, and all you could do was blink.

“You ok?” He teased. “Missing the Day Court?”

Your hands trembled slightly from the shock of the revelation. “I’m fine. Just…enjoying the lemonade.”

You gazed up at him, and his expression held shock, betrayal, a hint of anger. “A hundred years? You have known of this for that long?”

You nodded once, fixing your gaze somewhere over his shoulder.

Azriel leaned back slightly, as if the distance might help him process what you had just said. If anything, it only heightened the tension between you two.

“I-” he paused, swallowing before continuing. “Why have you not told me, Y/N?”

“I wanted to, at first. I didn’t wish for you to be disappointed, I suppose.”

He gawked. “Disappointed?” He took two steps closer to you, a smile barely there on his face. “Y/N, I am far from disappointed. I am…elated. But I cannot understand why you’ve hidden this so long.”

Your breath stopped. He took another step toward you. You tried to calm the panic in your brain. This is not what you were expecting. Not how you’d envisioned this moment at all.

”You don’t understand?” You parroted, a mocking tone creeping into your voice. He stood so close to you now you could see the faint crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw.

Something soft crept into his voice. “You truly believe that I would be disappointed to learn that the Mother chose you for me?”

Your laugh came out brittle. Disbelief flooded through you at his words. “The Mother may have chosen me for you, but you have never chosen me, Azriel.”

”What?”

You laughed again. Surely, anyone walking by would think you mad.

”When this bond snapped for you, you were ready to kiss another female, Azriel!”

”So this is about Elain?” He exhaled slowly. “Y/N, that was a misunderstanding. I believe she might be my mate.”

”She has a mate!” You were shouting now, your voice rising despite yourself. An overflow of emotions betraying you. In the past, you’d always thought this moment would be defined by his anger, his emotions towards such a disappointing pairing by the Mother.

“I understand the timing was awful. I’m sorry.”

”You’re sorry,” you deadpanned.

Azriel shook his head, speaking slowly. “I know…I know that I have failed you in many ways. And I can understand why you wouldn’t have told me.”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. It was a stark change from his usual directness. Your hands shook slightly, tears welling up in your eyes.

”Please. Please don’t cry, Y/N.” He sounded desperate, pained.

“So what happens now?” You posed. “Elain is not your mate, which anyone with half a brain could have told you.”

”Now you are my mate. Everything has changed, darling.”

”Don’t call me that.” Gods, why couldn’t you stop the tears? They streaked down your face, staining your cheeks. “Nothing has changed.”

Azriel only gaped at you. “How can you say that? We are mates. Elain does not matter.”

”Doesn’t matter?” It was your turn to stare at him like a fish out of water. “You have no feelings for me. And I am not interested in you pretending to care for me.”

”I- I would not be pretending.” He stuttered.

You stepped back immediately.

“Yes, you would,” you argued, insistence heavy in your tone. “Two weeks ago, you lay with me in bed and told me that you wish to be mated to another!”

You had to shut your eyes before continuing. “Do you think that I don’t know you? I have watched for two centuries how you look at women that you actually want.”

“I want you.”

”Because of the bond,” you shot back.

”No,” he said without hesitation. “Don’t say that.”

A bitter breath escaped you, “What would you have me say, Azriel? For hundreds of years, you have looked at every female but me. And when you finally-“ a sob cut through your words. “When you finally touched me, and I had hope, you broke that trust. Stress relief, isn’t that what you said?”

He flinched at the words. “I did not mean to imply-“

”You implied nothing. You said it quite clearly.”

”I thought you were happy with our…arrangement. You never asked for more.”

”So you assumed that I was happy with just sex while you pined for another?” You let out a scoff at that. You were being petty, you knew. But you found that you didn’t care. This was uncharted territory.

You’d never imagined that you’d be the one with the power in the situation. Here he was, and he seemed as if he wanted you. Desired you. But that couldn’t be right. There was no way. He was only trying to do right by you.

“Azriel,” you continued, “You have never desired me romantically. Physically, clearly. But do not stand here and lie to me.”

His shadows peered at you from over his shoulder, and his brow creased slightly with effort. As if he had to work to hold them back from you. “I am not lying to you. I have never lied to you, Y/N.”

“But you still do not love me.”

Azriel huffed. “How can you say that? You are my mate!”

”But you do not love me!” Your voice raised again. “This is why I never told you about the bond.”

”It isn’t like that,” Azriel tried, anguish heavy in his voice. “Please, let’s sit and we can talk about this.”

”There is nothing to talk about.” You sniffled, hand moving to wipe a tear from your cheek. “And we’re stopping our little…arrangement, if it wasn’t clear.”

”Ok,” he nodded, frantically. He moved to take your hands into his. “How about this? We’ll start over. No past.”

You shook your head, sniffling. “No, you don’t understand.”

His expression fractured. “Tell me then. Help me understand how to fix this. We’re mates. And that means something to me, Y/N. It can mean something to both of us. We just need time. I know I was awful to you. And inconsiderate.” He lowered his forehead down to yours, and you felt a tear drop from his cheek to yours. “Let me fix it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

For years, you dreamed of this moment.

”We cannot be together, Azriel. I won’t be your second choice.”

”You would not be my second choice. Never. We are mates.” He stressed.

”But that is the problem,” you stressed. “The bond has chosen me for you. But you would never do so.”

“That isn’t true, Y/N. The Mother has linked us. And that means something to me. We can figure this out.”

Gods, you couldn’t do this. Couldn’t face him as he attempted to placate you.

Here was Azriel, a male that you had dreamed of loving you since the day you met him. And now he was telling you he wanted you. As a mate. As a lover.

You broke out of his hold, maneuvering your hands away from him, “I spoke to Rhys before I left for Dawn. I’m moving back to Day.”

He froze. A beat of silence passed between you, then another. “What?”

Azriel rolled off you, landing on the empty spot next to you in the bed. You looked over to him, catching your breath, the rapid rise and fall of his chest matching yours. His eyes met yours, and you felt a blush creeping up on your cheeks, as if he was a small crush in the marketplace rather than someone who had just made you see the heights of pleasure.

“Had fun?” You asked, a smile creeping up on your face.

He looked over at you, rolling his eyes.

”Wonderful, as always.” He teased. His eyes trailed over the length of your body, covered only by a thin layer of your sheets. The sunlight of the late morning crept in from your balcony window, illuminating the twinkle in his eyes. You had to look away, entranced by the beauty of him. Here, in your bed. Lying here with him like this, it was easy to pretend. The world narrowed to the two of you in this room, together. Here, your past no longer haunted you, there was no trauma, no secrets, no pain. If you closed your eyes and focused on the way his bare arm brushed yours and the breathing from right beside you, it was as if all was as you imagined.

“I have a light workload today. I was thinking I could take Elain to the marketplace, or through the River House’s garden for a walk.”

The cocoon shattered. For just a moment, your breath caught in your throat, and a surge of shame and embarrassment rushed through you, down to your fingertips. Quickly, you grabbed a hold of yourself.

“Are you…sure that’s a good idea?” You asked, trepidation heavy in your tone.

“Why not? I’ve been busy recently. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” he justified. “I wouldn’t want her to feel neglected.”

Ugly jealousy coursed through you, and you had the sudden urge to be alone.

You took a deep breath, willing your racing heart to control itself. “It’s just that Lucien will be in the city for dinner in two days.”

Defensiveness filled his expression, and you feared that perhaps you had made a mistake.

“So?” he started. “I’m not afraid of Lucien, Y/N.”

“I know that, but he’ll likely want to see her. You don’t want to start anything. Rhys will be unhappy. Maybe wait until after his visit.”

“Why are you being like this?” He asked. “Lucien can’t force her into anything, and I’m not going to refrain from seeing her just because of her so-called ‘mate’ visiting.”

You forced a teasing tone into your voice, trying to keep the mood light in spite of the knot in your stomach. “Az, he is her mate.”

He was silent for a moment, contemplation heavy in his voice. He rolled over onto his side, facing you. His wings shifted, and the sheet covering him from the waist down moved slightly. You forced your eyes up to meet his.

“What if…what if the Cauldron was wrong? What if he isn’t her true mate?”

Your eyes widened slightly. “Azriel.”

“I know. I know what you’re going to say, Y/N. But I just can’t help but feel like he doesn’t deserve her. She’s a Cauldron-made seer. He’s just an emissary.”

That sent a jolt through you. Just an emissary. In the logical part of your brain, you already knew that you weren’t necessarily special. At least, not in comparison to your chosen family in the Night Court. Feyre the Cursebreaker. Lady Death. The Shadowsinger. The Seer. And you were just an emissary. To your home court of Day that you once fled in fear, no less. You tried not to let that comment simmer in your brain for any longer.

“Doesn’t it make sense that she should be with someone else, someone who’s as exceptional as her?” he continued on. “She deserves better.”

He didn’t even seem to notice the effect those words had on you, the shock they sent through your system. For someone so observant, he never seemed to notice such things about you. Not with the comment he made, and certainly not with the fact that he was lying naked next to you, lamenting about his desire for another woman. You used to think him lowering his inhibitions so fully around you was a sign of his comfort. His innate relaxation in your presence, reflecting your own feelings. Recently, you’ve wondered if it was just a manifestation of how little he cared.

But Azriel loved you. If not in the way you’d hoped for, then as a friend. As a member of this family.

Didn’t he?

”Azriel, she has a mate.”

“I know that, but…”

“But nothing, Az,” you stressed. “You may want her, but it’s not a mating bond.”

Azriel remained still, but his wings shifted slightly. A tell of his exasperation. You always knew of his tells. You knew him better than anyone.

“Y/N, you wouldn’t understand. Mating bonds are difficult,” he sighed. “I should go.”

Azriel shifted up into sitting, silently as ever. The mattress dipped slightly as he turned his back to you, his wings dragging off to the side of your bed. He stood, and the emptiness of the other side of the bed was reflected in your chest.

“You’re right,” you said quietly.

But you knew about mating bonds. Knew them quite well, really. You knew what a mating bond felt like when a mate didn’t want you, and you felt for Lucien. He would take Elain any way he could have her, just as you did for your mate. Even if it hurt, even if it left your insides bleeding and yearning.

He paused his motions just slightly, as if sensing the poorly masked fatigue in your voice. Your gaze fixed on the sheets twisted between your fingers, unable to look up at his form moving about your space.

”I’ll see you later. Family dinner, tomorrow night?” he asked.

“Right. See you then.”

_____

You couldn’t really pinpoint when it started. The physical affair between you and Azriel had been unexpected, and you didn’t know exactly what it stemmed from. Loneliness, maybe. At first, you held out a little bit of hope that it would grow into something else.

“You’re not being serious, you did not.”

“I am not. I spilled wine all over him. It was mortifying!” You burst out laughing, and Azriel followed suit, the drinks flowing between you.

The two of you sat in the House’s study, illuminated only by the hearth in front of the room. The untethered mating bond hummed in your chest, filling you wholly with warmth. On a night like this, laughing with him sitting so close, it almost seemed silly to keep it a secret from him. He felt like home. Like the two of you belonged.

“I’m lucky that the High Lord of Day is such a flirt. He took no offense, and instead offered that I assist in bathing him.”

Azriel let out a barking laugh, inhibitions down in a way that made your cheeks heat. “Of course.”

The laughs died down, and for a moment the two of you just stared at each other, smiles lingering on your face. You couldn’t recall who moved first, but after another breath his mouth was on yours, and his hands wandered in places he had never dared touch before.

Through the haze of it all, a spark of joy burst within you. The mating bond sung within you, and fulfillment took over you in a way you’d never known before. It was happening, you’d thought. Finally.

Afterwards, the two of you lay in his bed, your head on his bare chest. His wing was underneath you, and warmth engulfed you from the tips of your fingers to your toes.

He was with you, and he was happy. It was an unconventional start to a relationship, but nothing about you and Azriel had ever been normal.

“I’m glad we can be like this, Y/N. Some…relief. No strings.”

Something within you broke, and the warmth of the mating bond grew cold.

“What are you thinking about?” A voice came from behind you, breaking you out of the memory.

You turned in your seat in the House’s kitchen to see Rhys approaching.

“Nothing, really.” You replied, taking a sip of the tea in front of you, Rhys taking a seat in the chair to your left. “Just thinking.”

”Hmm.” The High Lord started. “Does this have anything to do with a certain spymaster escorting my sister-in-law to the marketplace?”

You shot him a warning look. That bastard. “Rhys.”

“You can’t keep it a secret forever, Y/N. It isn’t fair to either of you, and I can only warn him off Elain for so long.”

Rhys learning of your mating bond had been a freak incident, the result of him catching onto a longing gaze last Solstice. He had agreed to keep it a secret, and to let you deal with it in your own way. You’ve had more than your share of men taking choice from you, and Rhys was not inclined to add to that list.

However, that didn’t stop him from meddling. He took every opportunity to encourage you to shout your bond from the rooftops, whether mentally at family dinners or through surprise check-ins. More recently, he had been more active in his intervention, barring Azriel from pursuing Elain. He claimed it was to prevent the Blood Duel. But from the moment Azriel relayed those events to you, you had seen right through it.

“I do not need you to warn him off Elain for me, Rhys. A mating bond will hardly change who he wants.”

“How do you know that?” Rhys stressed. “It can change everything. He deserves to know.”

The two of you have this conversation at least once every fortnight. It always ended the same way.

“Things would not change, and there is no point burdening him with a mating bond he will surely abhor.”

”It is not a burden. And you must know Azriel would never see you that way. It is a gift, to be mated to someone who is already so dear to your heart. One kiss, Y/N, could change everything.”

You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Letting the silence sit for a moment, you prepared yourself before speaking again.

“We have…done more than kiss.”

A beat passed between the two of you, before you spilled the details of the last eight months to Rhys, who watched with poorly contained shock. His eyes sat wide, and his mouth hung open. For the most powerful High Lord in Prythian, one could observe his ability to resemble a fish.

“This has been going on for nearly eight months,” Rhys repeated slowly, “And still he chases after Elain so brazenly?”

”He has never led me to believe this would grow into a romance. Any hopes are my delusion.”

Rhys covered his face with his hands, letting out a deep sigh, “It is not delusion. It is a natural response to a mating bond.”

“Perhaps, Rhys. But there is nothing I can do.”

Your fingers curled around the warm porcelain of your teacup.

“Nothing I wish to do,” you corrected, tone softening. “I do not want a mating bond that exists solely because he feels obligated to me.”

”You cannot truly believe that Azriel would see you as an obligation.”

”I think,” you said, “that if the Mother had some plan for him to joyously accept our mating bond, he would not leave my bed in the mornings with plans to pursue another female.”

—-

Family dinner was delicious, as always.

The aroma of perfectly roasted lamb and beautifully seasoned potatoes lingered throughout the River House, as empty plates signalled a meal well-enjoyed. Elain’s cooking was wonderful, but an ugly part of you couldn’t help but feel the weight of envy taking root in your chest.

Is there anything she can’t do?

Around the table sat you, Rhys, Amren, Cassian, Feyre, and Mor. Wine flowed generously as you discussed plans for a meeting with Lucien and Eris tomorrow. As a fellow Court emissary, you would be in attendance, so you did your best to focus on Rhys’ talking points despite the wine buzzing in your system. Luckily, your two most likely distractions were not here. Elain had excused herself to bed hours ago, and Azriel had left just moments ago to recon with some spies he had placed in Autumn. The table felt lighter without them here. All night, you had sat through Azriel sitting to the right of you, staring holes through Elain. It had been an effort not to burst out sobbing right there in front of everyone.

Recently, that had become a familiar feeling.

After seemingly hours of listening to Rhys drone on, making mental notes for later, you excused yourself to your room. You opted to crash at the River House, too weary to winnow to the House of Wind. Besides, you figured that a change of scenery might do some good. A futile attempt to chase the peace that had evaded you all week.

It didn’t matter that you’d be down the hall from Elain. You had no reason to be angry with her. Not really. She didn’t control Azriel’s overwhelming indifference to you. If he wasn’t focused on her, it would be Mor. Or someone else who met his standards. Someone special and outstanding and worthy.

Just an emissary.

Walking down the halls of the River House, you pondered on a future for yourself. Would you spend the rest of your life pining after a man who would never view you romantically? Would you ever tell him about the bond, wrecking a 200 year friendship and tying him to you in a way that could only lead to his misery?

The thoughts ruminated in your head until you heard the unmistakable rumble of Azriel’s voice.

Soft and low. Gentle in the way he speaks to you when you lay beneath him and you could pretend.

You looked up, eyes setting upon a slightly ajar door, moonlight filtering through.

Azriel’s room.

Your feet moved before your brain caught up to you. Rushing towards the doorway, you stood in the space of the open door before you truly knew what was happening. There stood Azriel and Elain, his arms just barely grazing upon her waist. They stood close, lips about to touch in a stance that you had been in with him just two nights prior.

Something was tearing in your chest. You tried to keep quiet.

But Azriel was an observant male. It was his job. Maybe not in the sanctuary of your bed, but certainly when he was tasked with protecting something as precious as Elain. His head snapped towards you in the doorway as if a fawn coming upon a faelight. His eyes widened slightly as he met yours.

The moonlight caught the gold flecks in his brown eyes, and the sight of them made your own vision blur with sudden tears. And all Azriel did was stare.

One moment he stood frozen, his form blurry through your watery vision. The next, he jumped back from Elain as if her touch had burned him. His gaze never left yours, though his expression shifted to something raw, something almost terrified. It was a jarring change, especially for a male so stoic and controlled. Some instinct deep within you recognized the strangeness of his expression.

His shadows surged forward from the corner of the room, wrapping around his form. They curled up his back, peering over his shoulders towards you. His gaze never left yours, and Elain’s eyes shot rapidly between the two of you, confusion painting her beautiful face.

It was then that you felt it. A tug deep within your chest, reaching down into a place that you knew all too well. Something strong and ancient thrumming within you. Light surged in your soul. Never in your life had you imagined a fulfillment like this. As if the centuries of your life had been black and white, and now you’d seen the colors of the sky for the first time.

The sensation flooded your body, bright and overwhelming, dimmed only by the absolute fear and shock that spread throughout your body. The look on Azriel’s face matched the war happening within you.

Oh gods. He knew. He knew.

Another tug pulled through you. Then another. The silence of the room was overwhelming, and you willed him to say something. To get it over with. To reject you. To end it. But all he did was stare.

“Y/N,” he rasped out, voice heavy. “You…”

You couldn’t do this. Couldn’t bear the words he would inevitably say. The disgust he would regard you with.

The bond tugged once more in your chest. Azriel’s wide, wild eyes were on you.

You turned and ran.

—-

Two weeks.

You’d successfully avoided Azriel for two weeks before the inevitable confrontation. For his part, he had stayed away from your meeting with Lucien and Eris. Immediately afterward, you had left for Dawn to meet with Thesan. An emergency alliance negotiation.

In your mind, it was a blessing from the Mother. Perhaps a small act of repentance after the stunt she pulled revealing the bond to Azriel.

The journey back to Velaris felt far heavier than the one that had taken you away. Dawn had been bright, orderly, predictable. Everything that Velaris couldn’t be until you had settled this with Azriel.

Winnowing to the House of Wind, you headed straight for the kitchen, intending to grab a cup of tea and hide away in your room.

”You’re back.” The voice came from behind you.

The male had an innate talent for silence.

Mother help me.

You took a slow breath, then another. It was time, you supposed. You turned to look at him, wanting to memorize the exact details of his beautiful face. Once he rejects you, would you ever see him this closely again? Could you bear it?

“I’m back,” you said, keeping your voice light, moving towards the kettle on the counter.

Azriel stared at you intently, unspoken emotion deep within his eyes. As if he too, had been anticipating this moment. Dreading it.

Neither of you spoke. The silence stretched between you, thick with everything that had gone unsaid for two weeks. His eyes stayed heavy on you.

He finally broke the silence, tension laden in his voice. “You knew. Didn’t you?”

Your eyes slid shut “I did. I’ve known for almost a hundred years.”

The memory hit you hard.

“How’s the lemonade?” Azriel asked, taking a sip of his own in the chair across for you.

“You were right, this is delicious. Best I’ve ever tasted,” you took another sip of the sweet liquid, “How did I not know about this place?”

“It’s one of Velaris’ many hidden gems. You could live here for years and not know of every treat.”

“Well, I suppose I have much to learn.”

A laugh burst out of him, and you his eyes. It was full and deep and brought heat to your cheeks. His large form, wings brushing along the floor, seemed almost comical in this small, intimate cafe. For a moment, you just watched him. His beauty.

Warmth filled you, and you felt something snap within your chest. Like a key slotting into a lock, something had slid into place within your soul. Your mouth dropped open slightly, and all you could do was blink.

“You ok?” He teased. “Missing the Day Court?”

Your hands trembled slightly from the shock of the revelation. “I’m fine. Just…enjoying the lemonade.”

You gazed up at him, and his expression held shock, betrayal, a hint of anger. “A hundred years? You have known of this for that long?”

You nodded once, fixing your gaze somewhere over his shoulder.

Azriel leaned back slightly, as if the distance might help him process what you had just said. If anything, it only heightened the tension between you two.

“I-” he paused, swallowing before continuing. “Why have you not told me, Y/N?”

“I wanted to, at first. I didn’t wish for you to be disappointed, I suppose.”

He gawked. “Disappointed?” He took two steps closer to you, a smile barely there on his face. “Y/N, I am far from disappointed. I am…elated. But I cannot understand why you’ve hidden this so long.”

Your breath stopped. He took another step toward you. You tried to calm the panic in your brain. This is not what you were expecting. Not how you’d envisioned this moment at all.

”You don’t understand?” You parroted, a mocking tone creeping into your voice. He stood so close to you now you could see the faint crease between his brows, the tension in his jaw.

Something soft crept into his voice. “You truly believe that I would be disappointed to learn that the Mother chose you for me?”

Your laugh came out brittle. Disbelief flooded through you at his words. “The Mother may have chosen me for you, but you have never chosen me, Azriel.”

”What?”

You laughed again. Surely, anyone walking by would think you mad.

”When this bond snapped for you, you were ready to kiss another female, Azriel!”

”So this is about Elain?” He exhaled slowly. “Y/N, that was a misunderstanding. I believe she might be my mate.”

”She has a mate!” You were shouting now, your voice rising despite yourself. An overflow of emotions betraying you. In the past, you’d always thought this moment would be defined by his anger, his emotions towards such a disappointing pairing by the Mother.

“I understand the timing was awful. I’m sorry.”

”You’re sorry,” you deadpanned.

Azriel shook his head, speaking slowly. “I know…I know that I have failed you in many ways. And I can understand why you wouldn’t have told me.”

He spoke slowly, choosing his words carefully. It was a stark change from his usual directness. Your hands shook slightly, tears welling up in your eyes.

”Please. Please don’t cry, Y/N.” He sounded desperate, pained.

“So what happens now?” You posed. “Elain is not your mate, which anyone with half a brain could have told you.”

”Now you are my mate. Everything has changed, darling.”

”Don’t call me that.” Gods, why couldn’t you stop the tears? They streaked down your face, staining your cheeks. “Nothing has changed.”

Azriel only gaped at you. “How can you say that? We are mates. Elain does not matter.”

”Doesn’t matter?” It was your turn to stare at him like a fish out of water. “You have no feelings for me. And I am not interested in you pretending to care for me.”

”I- I would not be pretending.” He stuttered.

You stepped back immediately.

“Yes, you would,” you argued, insistence heavy in your tone. “Two weeks ago, you lay with me in bed and told me that you wish to be mated to another!”

You had to shut your eyes before continuing. “Do you think that I don’t know you? I have watched for two centuries how you look at women that you actually want.”

“I want you.”

”Because of the bond,” you shot back.

”No,” he said without hesitation. “Don’t say that.”

A bitter breath escaped you, “What would you have me say, Azriel? For hundreds of years, you have looked at every female but me. And when you finally-“ a sob cut through your words. “When you finally touched me, and I had hope, you broke that trust. Stress relief, isn’t that what you said?”

He flinched at the words. “I did not mean to imply-“

”You implied nothing. You said it quite clearly.”

”I thought you were happy with our…arrangement. You never asked for more.”

”So you assumed that I was happy with just sex while you pined for another?” You let out a scoff at that. You were being petty, you knew. But you found that you didn’t care. This was uncharted territory.

You’d never imagined that you’d be the one with the power in the situation. Here he was, and he seemed as if he wanted you. Desired you. But that couldn’t be right. There was no way. He was only trying to do right by you.

“Azriel,” you continued, “You have never desired me romantically. Physically, clearly. But do not stand here and lie to me.”

His shadows peered at you from over his shoulder, and his brow creased slightly with effort. As if he had to work to hold them back from you. “I am not lying to you. I have never lied to you, Y/N.”

“But you still do not love me.”

Azriel huffed. “How can you say that? You are my mate!”

”But you do not love me!” Your voice raised again. “This is why I never told you about the bond.”

”It isn’t like that,” Azriel tried, anguish heavy in his voice. “Please, let’s sit and we can talk about this.”

”There is nothing to talk about.” You sniffled, hand moving to wipe a tear from your cheek. “And we’re stopping our little…arrangement, if it wasn’t clear.”

”Ok,” he nodded, frantically. He moved to take your hands into his. “How about this? We’ll start over. No past.”

You shook your head, sniffling. “No, you don’t understand.”

His expression fractured. “Tell me then. Help me understand how to fix this. We’re mates. And that means something to me, Y/N. It can mean something to both of us. We just need time. I know I was awful to you. And inconsiderate.” He lowered his forehead down to yours, and you felt a tear drop from his cheek to yours. “Let me fix it. I’ll do whatever you want.”

For years, you dreamed of this moment.

”We cannot be together, Azriel. I won’t be your second choice.”

”You would not be my second choice. Never. We are mates.” He stressed.

”But that is the problem,” you stressed. “The bond has chosen me for you. But you would never do so.”

“That isn’t true, Y/N. The Mother has linked us. And that means something to me. We can figure this out.”

Gods, you couldn’t do this. Couldn’t face him as he attempted to placate you.

Here was Azriel, a male that you had dreamed of loving you since the day you met him. And now he was telling you he wanted you. As a mate. As a lover.

You broke out of his hold, maneuvering your hands away from him, “I spoke to Rhys before I left for Dawn. I’m moving back to Day.”

He froze. A beat of silence passed between you, then another. “What?”

While he waits, his shadows purr and preen, singing as they prepare to greet you, to reconnect with the lone tendril that's taken residence in your life.

It's fascinating, really. How much he looks forward to these moments. How the highlight of his weeks have become simply existing in your orbit— being around you. Around his child.

The words still catch him off-guard. He half expects to wake one morning and find it's all been some strange, unprompted dream.

But Azriel doesn't sleep enough to dream. Even on the rare occasions he surrenders to the night's delicate grasp, the only things he finds are nightmares.

His mind isn't kind enough to create something this special.

Wind gusts as you swing the door open. 

Your scent hits him first—gods, your scent—and Azriel's throat works around a swallow. You offer him a smile in greeting. It's tight and close-lipped, but your eyes are soft. The message is clear enough: whatever hesitancy is written into your features has nothing to do with him.

A black wisp floats above your shoulder. Azriel smiles, softly, at his shadow. The mass coiling around his form surges forward—circling you both, reuniting with Ink in a way that feels entirely too intimate. Two halves of himself becoming whole.

You take in the sight of the reunion. Azriel takes in the sight of you. 

The circles under your eyes have darkened. You're not sleeping well. The observation tightens something in his chest—half concern, half the temptation to ask, to know—but you meet his gaze and raise a brow.

A challenge and a warning in one. 

He gives you an understanding nod. "After you,” he says, and gestures down the hallway.

You step past him. He tests your door— locked—as you turn away. The movement sends another wave of your scent curling through the air.

His eyes flutter shut, just long enough to be indulgent. Maybe borderline inappropriate.

Every week it gets stronger. Sweeter. More familiar. A life he hasn't met and somehow knows intimately. Mixed with you—your skin, your shampoo, the soap you favor—it nearly buckles his knees.

The one downside of this new life is the confusion currently singing through his blood. A natural pull to you that has him questioning everything— his judgment, his boundaries, his own damned mind. He'd expected it would come eventually. This strange in-between. The blurred line between instinct and his growing closeness with you.

He just didn't expect to like it so much. To crave it the way he does. He's practically scenting the air like some feral thing.

His shadows brush his burning cheeks.

Insane, he tells himself, chastising. You're acting insane.

Hmmm, his shadows sing back, amused. Sweetness never hurts.

Traitors.

He blushes even more and sends a silent prayer of thanks to the gods that you haven't noticed, then catches up soundlessly.

As he descends beside you, his focus sharpens on the practicalities weighing heavier each week. The stairs in your building—worn edges, chipped corners, a railing that wobbles when he applies pressure. How long before it's irresponsible to let you navigate two flights? How long before your center of gravity shifts enough to make these steps a danger?

He doubts you'd accept being winnowed up and down. Doubts the babe would enjoy it either.

"I feel like a child being picked up for an appointment," you grumble.

His eyes land on you. "Technically, there is a child being picked up for an appointment."

"So I'm the transportation method?"

Azriel bites back his grin. "Sure."

"Like a horse," you scoff. "Lovely."

"Look on the bright side," Azriel says, holding the building's door open. "Everyone loves horses."

"I don't." You scowl at him as he falls into step. "Do you?"

His steps falter.

Azriel did, in fact, not like horses. And horses, he was confident, did not like him.

He'd only been around them a handful of times. Mostly with Mor. While he could appreciate their regal bearing, he'd never grown fond. They sensed something predator in him— something that made their eyes roll white with instinctive terror. His shadows made it worse. Always too curious, too desperate to touch.

Azriel never really cared. There’s no use for a steed when you have wings. Riding is near-impossible for any Illyrian anyway—the frustrating burden of attempting to maneuver wing positions.

He runs his tongue along his cheek. "That's besides the point."

You roll your eyes with your usual fondness. It's muted today, though. You chew at your bottom lip.

The habit's grown incessant throughout your pregnancy. Azriel stopped trying to correct it weeks ago. The last time he'd pointed out the bleeding, you'd sent him a glare so withering he'd wished Nesta could witness it—a true masterclass in silent fury. Another time, on a particularly rough day, you'd threatened to make his lips bleed if he kept pointing things out with his "creepily attentive eyes."

You'd apologized later. He'd found it hilarious. So had Cassian, when he'd recounted it during training.

So he just watches. Catalogs. Worries quietly. Then forces himself to focus on the walk.

Summer is ending now, and the promise of Autumn is creeping into Velaris slowly. 

It feels almost poetic, watching the city transform as your pregnancy progresses—both of you blossoming into something new. Time moves differently for Azriel now. Faster. More significant.

He sees life everywhere.

Birds gathering in preparation for migration. Leaves beginning their slow turn to amber and gold. Shopkeepers hanging garlands of dried flowers and wheat in their windows, the scent of cinnamon drifting from doorways.

A male walking toward you glances over, his gaze lingering on your face with obvious interest. It's the kind of look Azriel recognizes—appreciative, curious. He can't entirely fault him. You're beautiful. That much has always been true.

Truthfully, you've grown even more devastating over the past few weeks.

The male's eyes start to drift lower, toward your stomach, and something unfurls in Azriel's chest. Hot and immediate, like a blade drawn from fire.

Usually when walking through Velaris, Azriel makes himself small. Unintimidating. Wings folded tight, shadows leashed, offering polite nods to citizens brave enough to meet his gaze.

A weapon, yes. But a sheathed one. 

At least in their presence.

But now, he lets a few shadows drift forward. Lets them curl around his shoulders like smoke rising from a fresh burn.  A dark warning.

The male takes one look at Azriel's face and quickly crosses to the other side of the street.

Satisfaction flickers through him, but his jaw remains locked. The territorial instinct sits heavy in his chest, all that Illyrian possessiveness he's spent centuries learning to control, now stirred to vicious life by your changing scent. By the child you carry.

His child, some primitive part of his brain reminds him, and his breathing requires active management to keep steady.

You notice, of course. 

He catches the sideways glance that says you saw what happened. He waits for the sharp comment, maybe a lecture about scaring innocent citizens.

Nothing comes.

Azriel sighs. "I'm protective. Sue me."

"Protective is one thing." You raise a brow, amused. "That was borderline territorial."

Too close to the truth. "Is that a problem?"

You consider this, chewing on that poor bottom lip again. "Yeah. Maybe don't do that."

Then you're walking again, that subdued energy wrapping around you once more.

The lack of fight unnerves him.

You're more lively than this. You call out his nonsense. It's what makes this work—what makes the terror of impending fatherhood feel manageable. Enjoyable, even.

There's clear weight here. In these visits to Madja. Even the first appointment had been met with reluctance, despite it being a more-than necessary step.

He'd first thought it was an issue of environment. Things were more natural in Illyria. Births and healings happening in familiar spaces, surrounded by community. Yet, when he'd suggested home visits, as Madja had done for Feyre, you'd shot him down immediately.

Madja's insistence on frequent check-ups hadn't helped—residual paranoia from Feyre's pregnancy, though your situation bore no resemblance. Slightly unnerving, having their healer show visible anxiety, but Azriel supposed he appreciated caution over regret.

He watches the tension in your body language as you walk.

What troubles you? 

He shifts closer. Close enough that his shadows can navigate around soft sunlight. If he's lucky—and sly—perhaps your designated shadow, your sweet Ink, might peek out from its hiding place in the gap of your wing. Might whisper what's wrong so he can fix it.

The tendril retreats, almost chastising.

Azriel deflates.

Fair enough. He'd made a promise, after all. No spying. No shadows slipping where they don't belong.

Eventually, he tells himself, you'll open up.

It's just a matter of time.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The clinic smells like healing herbs and sterile cleanliness.

You settle into an oversized waiting chair, and Azriel takes the seat beside you, close enough that his knee nearly brushes yours.

"It'll be quick," he says. "Maybe afterward we can walk around. Check some things off your list."

Your brow rises. "My list?"

"The tailored clothes you mentioned. Warmer ones that'll accommodate both your wings and..." He gestures vaguely at your stomach, still fumbling for the right word. Your belly? The bump? The babe? Our baby? Everything sounds either too clinical or too intimate. "You need new boots. And that tea blend Elain recommended."

You stare at him. "Do you make a note of everything I mention?"

"I pay attention."

"Freak."

His mouth opens in mock offense. Your lips quirk up in amusement.

"Azriel." You lean closer. He fights the urge to breathe you in. "It's sweet that you're so worried about me. But your antsy energy is really unsettling. So, again, I'm okay. Seriously."

His ears burn. "I—"

"But yes," you continue, cutting off his deflection, "we can walk around a bit afterward." You shift with a small groan. "Not a ton, though. I'm not feeling the best today."

"Why?" The question escapes fast. He sits ramrod straight, shadows swirling. "Is something wrong? Is it the babe?"

You study his intensity, brow furrowing. Then you laugh—small, but genuine. "Just some soreness. My wings, my back." You roll your shoulders, wincing. "The usual suspects."

"Okay. Tell Madja."

You smile. The first real one today. Slightly mocking, but he doesn't care. "I know. I will."

Azriel knows his protectiveness may be, slightly, overbearing. But fatherhood has awakened a level of concern he didn't know he possessed. He's tortured people without flinching, walked into certain death without hesitation,  but the thought of you in danger, in pain—

It unmakes him. His hands shake at the thought.

Your smile eases the vise around his chest. A glimpse of you beneath the anxiety. For one fragile moment, he thinks maybe today will be different—

A new scent crashes into his awareness.

Male. Unfamiliar. Strong.

Every instinct snaps taut. His shadows stir restlessly as footsteps approach.

A figure appears in the doorway.

You stand immediately. Azriel rises with you, his hand finding the small of your back—steadying, possessive. When you don't pull away, fierce victory purrs through him.

Shame follows close behind. Guilt at the arrogant pride that now swells in his chest.

The male is tall. Well-built. Vitiligo traces patterns around his right eye, down his cheek. A stark streak of white through his dark hair, lashes and brows dusted pale. 

Appealing. Approachable. The kind of face that puts people at ease.

Azriel continues to catalogue every detail with predatory focus. The confident posture. A healer's build—strength tempered with gentleness. His scent carries herbs and fae magic, but nothing threatening.

Nothing that should make Azriel's jaw lock. Nothing that should make his shadows coil tighter around his arms like restraints. 

"Hi," the male says, voice warm. "I'm Adrin. You must be the one o'clock appointment."

You introduce yourself and the tension in your posture lessens. Not gone, but eased. Ice beginning to thaw.

It's exactly what Azriel wanted.

He hates it.

The healer is still smiling at you. There's no predatory calculation in his features. 

When Azriel smiles, it feels wrong. There'd been a time he stood in front of a mirror, desperate to master something as simple as a friendly expression. He'd practiced until frustration mounted into rage.

No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't reconcile the softness a smile required with the monster reflected back.

Adrin probably never had to practice. Probably never had to learn how to seem less threatening.

And you're responding to it.

Your shoulders have dropped now. Your breathing has evened out.

Is this what you would want? Someone easy? Someone safe?

But even Balthazar isn’t this docile. Even he carries violence in his bones. Do you want someone removed from it entirely?

The thought twists in Azriel's gut. He's not sure why he's entertaining it.

Azriel feels the brush of your wing against his side—calling his focus. He moves to introduce himself properly, but Adrin waves him off kindly.

"No introductions needed. Pleasure to meet you, Shadowsinger."

The casual familiarity grates. This male isn't remotely intimidated by him—usually something Azriel appreciates. Right now, however, it winds him tighter. 

Who is this person? Why is he so comfortable?

They've never met. Azriel is certain.

"Madja got called away for an emergency," Adrin explains, attention shifting back to you. "I'm afraid she won't be able to make your appointment today."

Your shoulders drop slightly. An almost imperceptible exhale that looks like relief.

Azriel's chest constricts. He's dragged you here for nothing.

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience," Adrin continues. "But since this was just a routine check-up, I'd be happy to do it, if you're comfortable. I'd hate for your time to be wasted."

Azriel opens his mouth—to decline, to suggest rescheduling—

"That would be great, actually. Thank you."

Your voice has completely shed that flat resignation. You’re happy.

You glance at Azriel, noting his stillness. "What?"

He forces neutrality into his expression. "Nothing. I'll be... I'll be out here."

"Okay..." Puzzlement crosses your face, but you're already turning to follow Adrin. "See you in a bit."

Ink perks up—practically dancing as it follows you down the hallway.

Betrayed by his own shadow. 

He can hear Adrin's voice as you disappear, already engaging you in easy conversation. The kind of professional warmth you never manage with Madja.

Alone in the waiting room, Azriel drowns in scent.

Your gradually relaxing signature mixing with Adrin's confidence. The clinical smell doing nothing to mask how your anxiety dissolves with each passing second.

Then—

You laugh.

Genuine. Surprised. The sound you make when someone delights you.

Azriel finds himself on his feet, pacing the small space like a caged animal. All predatory restlessness with nowhere to go.

His shadows swirl, offering comfort he can't process through the roar of whatever this feeling is. Jealousy seems too simple a word for this. Too intimate.

He realizes he's biting his knuckle—a nervous habit from centuries past. The urge to march back there, to insert himself, is so violent it takes every ounce of his thinning control to stay put.

He forces himself back into the chair, then does what he always does when his mind betrays him.

He traces the scars on his hands with careful fingers, following the familiar patterns of old burns, and lets his misery drag him down into memory—into the cold comfort of pain he understands.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel's jaw aches from clenching.

You walk ahead, and there's a bounce in your step. Has been since you emerged from the appointment, smiling and thanking Adrin with warmth. You'd even touched his arm in parting.

Casual. Friendly.

Azriel had wanted to deck him in the face.

While he wouldn't go as far as calling you unfriendly, you do hold a guarded quality to your demeanor that he'd found solace in. Recognition of someone perpetually on edge, perpetually aware, who often forgets to soften their face.

Your genuine, sweet smiles are rare. Precious, even.

Azriel had grown accustomed to them being mostly his now. Selfishly so.

Now he shares them. With Adrin.

And Balthazar, his shadows sing, apologetically. Balthazar gets them too.

Right. Balthazar. The Illyrian prince get them, too.

Azriel flinches at the bitterness of the thought. At its intensity.

He clenches his fists and catches up to you, breathing in deep. Velaris is alive around him— fresh bread from a bakery, flowers spilling from shop stalls, the river's clean mineral bite. He filters through it all for you. Your scent.

He's losing his mind. All of these strange feelings. Sensations. All muddled and overpowering. Inescapable. Consuming him.

The way Gwyn had.

The thought arrives before he can stop it.

Gods. When was the last time he actually thought of Gwyn?

Shame crashes through him immediately—hot and acidic.

This is perverse. Arrogant. Comparing the two situations when they're nothing alike. You're his friend. The mother of his child. Gwyn had been...

What had they even been? His shadows had sung for her. He'd thought maybe she was meant for him. That maybe, finally, he could be the kind of male who deserved gentle things.

And now he barely thinks of her at all. Only feels that longing, that pain, when he sees her and Balthazar. When he's reminded of what he lost. What he felt was taken from him.

Otherwise— there's just you.

There's only you.

And your child, driving him to distraction. Making his head swim. Making him irrational. Making him scare a citizen and hate a healer.

He can't seem to shove it back down. Can't stop his traitorous mind from circling back to the way you'd smiled. The way you'd looked so happy.

Azriel's heart does a stupid, painful lurch.

He's felt this before. This exact feeling. His mind is being cruel. Playing twisted games, maybe. Making him believe he's reacting to you the way he has with previous desires. Previous disappointments.

No. No.

This isn't that. You're carrying his child, blossoming with new life. You are his in the most natural, ancient way—to protect, to provide for, to care for. Primal Illyrian drive awakened by circumstance. His body responding to evolutionary imperatives as old as the Cauldron itself.

He needs facts. Logic. Something to anchor himself before this spiral drowns him.

Fact: You're carrying his child, which triggers biological responses in Illyrian males. Documented. Normal.

Fact: Proximity and your changing scent would make any male protective. It's in his blood.

Fact: The jealousy isn't jealousy at all. It's simply territorialism redirected. Annoying, but manageable. He's managing it.

Fact: You're his friend, and that's good. That's more than he deserves, honestly.

Fact: These feelings—whatever they are—will pass once the baby is born and your scent returns to normal. Everything will settle. Go back to baseline.

That last one sits wrong in his chest. Hollow. Empty.

He ignores it.

The rage when that male looked at you earlier? Pure instinct.

The jealousy watching you with Adrin? Territorial nonsense.

This pull that has him filtering through an entire city just to find your scent? Biology.

Base drive. Nothing more.

"What's wrong with you?" Your voice cuts through his spiral like a blade.

You've stopped walking and turned to face him, both hands on your hips. Brow raised, lips down-turned. "You've been weird all day. Are you having some kind of crisis?"

He closes the distance between you, pulling himself back to the present. "I'm fine."

"You're a terrible liar when you're distracted." You fall into step beside him, still studying his face with unnerving intensity. "Seriously. What's going on in that nightmare factory you call a brain?"

Despite everything—the frustration, confusion, self-loathing—his lips twitch. "Nightmare factory?"

"I stand by it." You gesture vaguely at his head. "Now talk or don't, but stop looking like you're contemplating murder. You're scaring the sweet-faced civilians."

He glances around and realizes he's let his shadows spread too far, let his expression settle into something grim. With effort, he reins himself in, softens his features into something more neutral.

"Better," you say, pausing. "Now let's go cross things off my list before I lose steam. I want new boots and I want them now."

Just like that, you're pulling him forward. Back to the present. Away from the dangerous spiral.

A talent you possess without even realizing it. One of many, Azriel anticipates.

He follows your steps and tries to ignore the way his heart skips when your wing brushes his arm.

It’s brief and probably accidental, but he's so completely fucked, either way.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

Azriel noticed the pain in your wings before you'd admitted it.

He’d picked up on the signs of discomfort quickly— grimaces at slight movements, heavy sighs you tried to muffle.

Watching you hurt unnerved him physically. Turned him into something desperate—a beggar at your altar, pushing you to see Madja. To make sure nothing was seriously wrong.

You'd shrugged off every suggestion. Every plea. That stubborn set to your jaw that meant you'd made up your mind and nothing short of divine intervention would change it.

Until Azriel admitted he'd already arranged an appointment.

With Adrin.

He'd discovered a new feeling after that confession. A terrible, twisting mix of relief, satisfaction, and utter despair, all fighting for dominance in his chest.

You'd softened immediately. Let out a breath that sounded like hope.

"Really?"

He'd only nodded.

You'd blinked. Nodded back. "Fine. I'll go." 

A pause. Then you'd smiled—brief but gentle enough he felt it in his bones. "Thank you. For your incessant worrying."

“Well,” Azriel said. "What are friends for?" 

The words had filled him with discomfort he couldn't name.

Friends, apparently, played cupid for the mother of their child.

At least he could say he was learning to share.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The appointment arrives too quickly.

Azriel glares at the autumn decorations scattered throughout the clinic. Reds and ambers making his gut curl—irritating redheads with flame-bright hair invading his thoughts when he least wants them there. He rolls his eyes, grumbling into his fist as he settles further in the waiting chair.

You emerge not even thirty minutes later.

The difference is stark. You're in far better spirits than he's seen in days, holding a glass jar of what he assumes is the reason of your bettered mood— some miracle powder. Relief hits him square in the chest.

Worth it, he thinks. Whatever this costs him, seeing you pain-free is worth it.

He watches you converse with Adrin. Easy and comfortable like the last time. 

But a new scent clings to the healer. Another fae's signature—fresh from last night. This morning, maybe.

Satisfaction tugs at Azriel's lips.

The pretty-boy healer is...involved.

Maybe The Mother loves him after all.

Not that it matters. Not really. Because you’re standing beside him now, your wings comfortable and free, and Azriel would endure a thousand moments of… whatever this feeling is, if it meant you weren't hurting.

His shadows brush against his scarred hands, murmuring gentle encouragement. 

Growth. The word they'd whispered last night when he'd lain awake, staring at his ceiling and wrestling with the uglier parts of himself.

Growth and discomfort. Good things. For her.

Azriel takes a deep breath and offers Adrin a smile— or something resembling one. "Thank you."

The words cost him. But they're genuine.

Warmth passes through Adrin's features—appreciation, understanding. He nods with respect. "Always happy to help."

His shadows hum in delight. 

Then he follows you out, letting himself bask—as he always does—in your scent. In autumn air. In the small victory of your pain-free wings.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The restaurant sits in a part of Velaris that Azriel doesn't often visit with the Inner Circle.

It’s less polished than the Rainbow. Rougher edges. Authentic charm from age and use rather than curation.

The first time you'd brought him here, guilt had twisted through him— sharp shame for having shunned part of his own city from instincts he's certain traced to his roots. Like most of his less favorable traits.

You're tucked in a corner now, pressed away from the crowd, shadows lazily dancing across the wrought iron table's scrolling patterns. Ink perches on the apex of your wing, watching people drift by on the street.

Azriel likes this. How you also appreciate being surrounded by life without participating. Near enough to observe. Far enough to remain separate.

Mor would've dragged him into the center with her bright laughter and iron grip, telling him to quit being antisocial. Elain might’ve sat closer to the sunshine, drawn to the potted flowers lining the patio's edge. That, or she’d want to ask the shopkeeper about spices and techniques. Engaging with everyone, making connections. And Gwyn—

Gwyn would've preferred someplace more homey, Azriel suspects. To-go options so she could curl up with a book, enjoy a meal in peace with her own entertainment.

But not you. 

You take a bite of your food, and Azriel's attention snags on your thumb catching the corner of your mouth.

His gaze lingers too long. Heat creeps up his neck. He looks away quickly, stabbing at his own plate, shadows now chattering with amusement near his wrists.

"I'm telling you," you say around a mouthful, gesturing with your fork, "those were the best chips I've ever had. I'm getting another bag before I go home. Don't try to stop me."

"Wouldn't dream of it." His lips twitch. "Though I reserve the right to judge your choices."

"You judge everything I eat anyway."

"Only because half of it gives you heartburn and then you complain about it for hours."

"It's worth it," you say with solemn conviction. Then you grin. "Besides, you like when I complain. Gives you something to fuss over."

He can't deny it. Not when you've seen through him so completely.

Comfortable silence stretches. Around you, the restaurant hums—conversation, laughter, clatter of dishes. But in this little corner, it all feels distant. Muted.

"I'm glad Adrin could help," Azriel says. "With your wings."

"Yeah." You brighten immediately, and his chest both warms and aches at your relief. "Miracle worker, honestly. He wants to see me again next week. Make sure the powder's working."

You extend your wing slightly, examining the membrane. There's a faint shimmer to it now—a subtle golden sheen catching light. The medicine was worked into the wing. With a touch that certainly wasn't yours. Too big of fingerprints, too light a hand.

Azriel goes very, very still.

"He..." His voice comes out rough. "He touched your wings?"

"Mhm." You're still examining, turning to catch different angles. Not looking at him. "Had to apply it directly. Work it into the membrane. The base too. It took a while, actually. He was very thorough."

Azriel's mind spirals.

Wings are intimate. Sacred. You don't let just anyone touch them—it's one of the first things Illyrian children learn. The sensitivity, the vulnerability. The trust is often requires.

You let Adrin—a male you barely know, who makes you laugh and smile—touch them for an extended period while you—

"Azriel? Did you hear what I said?"

You're looking at him now, brow raised in that particular way that means you've caught him being weird. Again.

“Yes.” He scrambles for something, anything to pull himself out of his own head. "Adrin seems pretty knowledgeable about wing anatomy."

"Yeah." You take another bite, completely unbothered by the crisis currently unfolding in Azriel's chest. "He's worked with many Peregyns. Not super familiar with Illyrian wings, though. Hence the follow-up. Just to make sure it's as effective as it should be."

Azriel nods. Forces himself to eat. Chew. Swallow. 

But his mind won't stop circling back. Another appointment. Another session of Adrin's tender, healer hands on your wings, working medicine into sensitive membrane. Learning the geography of you in a way that feels too intimate for the mother of his child, too—

Pull back, shadows murmur. Breathe.

He has no claim here. You're not his. Only the child you share.

"Sharing stories about your lives?" Azriel manages. "Should I be worried?"

"Yeah. I talked so much shit about you to my healer."

You're laughing, but Azriel's brain catches on one word.

My.

My healer. Not our healer. Not the healer. My healer.

The possessiveness shouldn't affect him. It's just a turn of phrase. Casual ownership of the kind everyone uses—my cobbler, my favorite tavern, my usual route.

It carves into his chest anyway, makes a nice little home there.

The implication. You like something enough— someone enough— to claim them.

And Azriel wants—

What?

What does he want?

He doesn't know. That's the problem. That's always the problem.

"Do you—" He clears his throat. Sets down his fork like he’s disarming a trap. "Do you want to switch officially? To Adrin?"

Your laughter fades. You study him, reading past whatever mask he thinks he's wearing. 

"Yeah. I would. Is that okay?"

"Sure. Why wouldn't it be?"

"I don't know. You're being weird."

He tries organizing the chaos in his head. The words are there— tangled and ugly and completely inappropriate. He knows he should swallow them down. Bury them with every other feeling he has no right to.

They claw up his throat anyway.

"I think we should be careful about mixing medical care with obvious romantic interest. It could complicate things."

You snort. "That's a good one."

He doesn't smile.

Silence descends. This one, however, is uncomfortable. He watches his words register—your eyes widening, posture going rigid.

His shadows still. Ink makes the smart decision of retreating into your wing.

You set down your fork. "You're joking, right?"

There's still amusement in your voice, but it's uncertain now. You're waiting for the punchline. He can't blame you.

He should backtrack. He has the opportunity. He should laugh it off and make it a joke and swallow down this writhing thing in his chest.

He can't.

"I'm just saying—"

"No, I heard you." Your smile is fading now, confusion creeping in at the edges. "I'm just trying to figure out if you're serious."

His jaw sets. "I am. It's something we should consider."

Your smile drops completely. "Azriel. Come on."

"If there's romantic interest involved with the medical care, it could—"

"Stop." You hold up a hand, and there's an edge to your voice now. "What are you talking about? Where is this coming from?"

Your scent is getting stronger as your emotions rise. It tangles his thoughts further. "I'm just concerned—"

"About what?" You lean forward, searching his face. "It's been two appointments. Two. What could have possibly—I mean, did I do something wrong?"

The question deflates him. "What? No. Of course not."

"Then what is this?" There's hurt creeping into your voice now, too. Mixing with building anger, confusion. "You think Adrin's unprofessional? That I can't tell the difference between medical care and—and whatever you're implying?"

"I'm not implying anything."

"Oh, please." Your wings tighten and you grimace. Fuck. He's brought your pain back. "You think my healer—who's been nothing but professional—is somehow compromised, and I'm too stupid to notice or too reckless to care."

His shadows writhe. This is spiraling. He says your name apologetically. "I didn't say that."

"If you think for one minute that I don't consider our child in every decision I make— you are sorely mistaken. Do you have any idea how insulting this is?"

The hurt beneath the anger is eating him alive. He doesn't think you're incompetent. Doesn't think you're careless. But he can't explain the real issue—these biological instincts. This territorial rage picturing Adrin's hands on your wings.

He still doesn't fully understand it himself.

It's stronger than anything he's ever experienced.

"Okay, I—" He takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. You're right. I shouldn't have said anything. Let's forget it."

"Yeah, no. Absolutely not." Your hand shoots out—you don't touch him, but the gesture stops him cold. "You don't get to question my competence as a mother and then hide behind 'forget it.' That shit might fly with your family, but it doesn't fly with me."

He deflates further. Chest tight with guilt. Embarrassment. Self-hatred. "I wasn't questioning you."

"Why do you even care if there was romantic interest?"

The question strips away the flimsy justification he's been hiding behind. "I don't."

You're staring now. Mind working. Piecing together puzzles. "Good. Because it wouldn't matter. I’m smart enough to make my own decisions. I’d talk to you about it, sure, but I’m a grown woman."

"I know that," he says tightly. "I'm very aware."

"Then why is it such a big deal?" You lean back in your chair, arms crossing. "If Adrin was interested in me, or if I was interested in Adrin, why would that be any of your business?"

He has no good answer. Not one he can say aloud.

It shouldn't be his business. You've established the boundary—you'd have conversations if things changed. Establish limits. Ask what he's comfortable with regarding the babe.

He knows this for a fact. It makes his feelings even more embarrassing. Even more irrational.

He remains silent.

You sit straighter. Frustration building in your shoulders, tightness around your mouth. "Okay. I'm— I'm so confused. What the hell is going on?"

"I don't—" He drags a hand through his hair. "I can't explain it."

Your hands clench on the table. "Too bad. Try anyway."

You sound hurt.

Maybe this was inevitable, Azriel thinks. He was always bound to disappoint eventually. A self-fulfilling prophecy.

"I don't know." Voice rough. "I don't—something's happening. To me."

"Something's happening? That's the best you've got?"

Pressure is building in his chest— confusion and all the things he can't name because naming them makes them real. His fingers dig into his temples.

"I don't know," he repeats, defeated "I don't know what's wrong with me."

You're quiet, watching him with unnerving intensity. When you speak again, your voice is softer. Less angry. "Then figure it out. Because you're making accusations you won't explain, and that's not fair to me."

He knows. He knows it's not fair.

"It's—" He stops. Tries again. "I have these reactions. I think your scent is triggering them. They feel almost primal. "

"Primal?" Your nose crinkles. "So, what? You're feeling territorial over your offspring?"

"Maybe. Yes." He's grasping for words now. Articulating chaos. "I don't know."

He can't even bring himself to look at you. Shadows writhe around him, agitated, concerned, and he can feel shame burning up his neck.

You're quiet for another long moment. Then your expression shifts, eyes widening slightly.

"Oh my gods," you say slowly, and your voice has changed. The irritation is still there, but more underneath. "Are you jealous?"

Azriel’s head snaps up. "What? No."

The crease between your brow softens. You sound almost bewildered. "You are."

"It's not jealousy," he insists, even though it rings hollow. "It's instinct. Stupid, Illyrian genes that a male feels when—"

"When what?" And now—now even the irritation is fading. Replaced by dawning understanding that looks like amusement. "When the mother of his child has a healer?"

"When the mother of his child is letting another male touch her wings," he snaps before he can stop. Azriel casts a cautious glance around the patio, relief flooding through his system when he notices the other patrons have since left.

"For medical purposes," you say slowly. "To apply medicine. For pain."

At his silence, your expression does some more complicated shifts—shock melting into realization into barely suppressed laughter.

"Oh my gods," Now there's a laugh breaking through. "That's it, isn't it? You're totally jealous."

"I—" He doesn't know what to say. Doesn't know how to explain the tangle in his chest. "No."

You’re laughing.

"I'm sorry," you say, still laughing, pressing a hand to your mouth. "I'm sorry, it's just—" Another laugh.

He doesn't know what to do with this. He'd been bracing for a fight. For your fury at his overstepping, his complete lack of boundaries, his inability to handle this situation like an adult. For you to tell him he's crossed a line he can never uncross. To go fuck himself, essentially.

But you're laughing at him. It's almost worse.

"I don't see what's so funny," Azriel mutters, heat crawling up his neck.

"It's hilarious." You're grinning now, eyes bright with amusement. "You're spiraling because a healer touched my wings to help with muscle pain. Do you realize how silly that is? Are you going to fist-fight Madja, next?"

"It's not—" He glances around sheepishly. "It's more complicated than you're making it sound."

"Is it though?  You're jealous. It’s biology and our Illyrian nonsense, but at the end of the day, you're still jealous."

The accuracy flays him.

"Fine," he bites out. "Fine. Maybe I am. Maybe it is jealousy. But I can't—I don't know how to fight it." He stops. Closes his eyes. "I don't know what to do with any of this."

When he opens his eyes, your expression has softened. The amusement is still there, but it's gentler now. 

"I don't want to make things weird," he murmurs. "I promise, it's not jealousy, jealousy."

You raise a brow. "You mean it's not romantic."

His chest tightens painfully. He nods, stiff. He needs you to believe that. Needs you to know that he's not developing inappropriate feelings for the mother of his child— because he's not.

He has to believe he's not that pathetic.

"Well, obviously," you say.

Impossibly, his chest tightens further.

Obviously— because it would be absurd to think otherwise. The idea of him having real feelings for you is unrealistic. Laughable, even. He repeats it in his mind.

It shouldn't bother him. That's exactly what he was trying to convey.

Yet the certainty in your voice, the slight strain beneath it, sits wrong. Makes him feel dirty.

But the conversation is shifting. He has the opportunity to salvage this disaster.

"I'm sorry." The words tumble out. "I shouldn't have said anything about Adrin. That was completely out of line. I'm struggling with these instincts and took it out on you and that's not fair. You haven't done anything wrong. He hasn't done anything wrong. It's all me and my head and I'm—" He stops, takes a breath. "I'm really sorry."

"Azriel," you say quietly. "I get it. The instinct stuff really is a bitch."

You sound as if you're speaking from experience. His mind wanders to what situations made you come to that conclusion.

What instincts trouble you?

Are any about him?

Your voice calls him back to reality.

"Thank you— for apologizing. I never want you to use our child as an excuse ever again. If you're struggling with instincts or whatever this is, we can talk about it. But don't frame it as concern for medical care when what you really mean is you don't like seeing me with another male."

The assessment is brutal in its accuracy. "You're right."

"And for the record—I'm not interested in Adrin. And he's not interested in me."

Relief floods through Azriel— so intense it's almost painful. Inappropriately so.

"Not that it’s any of your business," you quicky add, and his stomach drops, "But, you know. For the record."

"Understood." Azriel’s cheeks begin to ache from the repression of a smile. "Are we… are we okay?"

"Yeah." You hold his gaze. There are complicated emotions in your expression—understanding, frustration, fondness. "Yeah, we're okay. We can laugh it off now."

Azriel's blinks. "Really? That's it?"

You frown. "What? Do you want a longer lecture?"

He casts a glance to the side and shrugs sheepishly. You shake your head, dismissing the thought entirely.

"You already feel bad. You apologized. Lesson learned, right?" You tilt your head at him. "Our situation is already so weird. At some point we have to let its strangeness be entertaining instead of draining."

His heart does this stupid flutter in his chest. He doesn't bother pushing the sensation away.

He's almost tempted to believe his instincts are being sated by this. By you. By his gratitude. His relief. Maybe that's why his chest feels so warm right now, why the jealousy has finally quieted. His biology getting what it needed all along.

That makes sense. That has to be it.

He reaches for his fork, leaning forward toward food that's certainly cold by now, ready to move past this disaster—

But your demeanor shifts.

His brows furrow. You've gone quiet. Still. Not meeting his eyes anymore, your gaze fixed on the table between you.

Something's wrong.

"It was just nice," you say quietly, tracing idle patterns on the table's surface with one finger. "Having something to myself."

Shadows drift toward you. "What do you mean?"

"Everyone feels so involved in this pregnancy." The words come slowly, carefully chosen. "I'm carrying something precious to you. To your family." You finally look up at him, and your eyes seem tired. "I'm sharing your paycheck. Living in an apartment Balthazar got for me. Going to a healer that your entire family uses, who would absolutely break confidentiality if Rhys was worried enough."

You pause and swallow.

"I just... I liked having this one thing that was mine. Even if it was just a healer."

The words land like a stone between his ribs. The guilt that follows is brutal. 

Oh.

He'd been so caught up in his own twisted feelings that he'd been completely blind to what you needed. A piece of yourself in a situation where everything has become irrevocably tangled with his family, his money, his world swallowing yours whole.

"I didn't..." His throat feels tight. "I didn't realize."

"Yeah." Your smile is tired. "I figured."

"You should have whatever you need," he says softly, and means it with everything he has. "Whoever you need. I won't—" He stops. Regroups. "I’m so sorry– for not realizing. I'll do better."

You look at him for a long moment, and there's a shift in your expression—surprise, maybe. Relief.

"Thank you." Your voice is soft now. Genuine. "I should've told you. I guess I didn't know how to explain it without sounding ungrateful. I'm sorry."

"You don’t have anything to apologize for." The words feel crucial. "Not with me. Not with any of this. Ever."

Your smile returns. “What if I hit you in the face. Do I have something to apologize for, then?”

Amusement sings in his chest. “After today, I probably deserve it.”

You chuckle, then rub your lips together, leaning back into your chair. Mirth is back in your eyes, golden and alive.

"Finish your food," you say, pointing at his cold, half-eaten plate with mock severity. "Then we're getting those spiced nuts. And you're not allowed to make any comments about my choices."

"I'll try to restrain myself."

"You won't."

"No," he admits, lips twitching despite everything. "Probably not."

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

The follow-up appointment arrives even quicker than the last two.

Azriel gives you a small smile as you stand and follow Adrin into the back. His shadows are calm today. Settled. They drift lazily around his shoulders, content in a way they haven't been in weeks.

He understands now. What this means to you. Why you need it.

It doesn't erase the discomfort entirely—that still sits in his chest, a low constant burn he's learning to live with. But it's different now. Manageable. An instinct he can tame— no longer the sharp, consuming thing that had him spiraling in this very waiting room.

Growth, his shadows had sung. And for once, he thinks he might actually be achieving it.

Azriel's gaze immediately snags on the autumn decorations scattered across the waiting room—those offensive reds and ambers and burnt oranges that seem to have multiplied since last week. They've added small gourds now. Decorative corn. A wreath of maple leaves that looks aggressively cheerful.

His jaw tightens.

Gods, he hates autumn. The whole damned season and its association with that court and everything it represents. Fire and leaves and the smell of dying things pretending to be beautiful.

A tendril of shadow drifts toward the nearest decoration—a spray of amber-colored branches in a vase—and Azriel finds himself thinking, idly, that it wouldn't take much. Just a small tug. A gentle pull. 

Would anyone even notice if they... grabbed them? Knocked them over? Maybe shredded that particularly offensive wreath into tiny pieces?

It would take seconds. Would probably make him feel significantly better. He bites back a grin at the thought, shadows practically vibrating with anticipation. Waiting for permission.

"Well?"

Your voice cuts through his vindictive fantasy. He looks up to find you still standing in the hallway, hand on your hip, head tilted because you've caught him doing something weird.

...yet again.

Azriel furrows his brows.

"Are you going to come back with me?" you ask, slowly. "Or do you prefer to keep having a staring contest with a wreath?"

Azriel bites back the smile threatening to break across his face. He feels ridiculous—like a child being invited to something special, something he'd convinced himself he didn't deserve.

You're letting him in. Offering him this small, precious thing that belongs to you.

“Uh, yeah. Yes." he manages, standing perhaps a bit too quickly. His shadows are already rushing ahead, eager to rejoin Ink. "The wreath can wait.”

Amusement dances in your eyes as he approaches. "It was beating you anyway."

He laughs as he falls into step, gaze settled on you.

What good have I done to deserve this? he wonders as you push open the door. To be offered a future I never dared to dream of— to be raising a child with someone like you? 

Someone who saw his mess and his jealousy and his confused instincts— and instead of punishing him, the way he believes he should’ve been, invited him in. Offered him grace that makes him wonder if he's ever truly been forgiven for anything before in his life.

Adrin looks up when you both enter, and his expression shifts into something pleased. Welcoming. "Shadowsinger. Glad to have you."

"Adrin." Azriel nods, and the greeting comes easier than he expected. Natural, even. He tests his limits further and asks, "How have you been?"

"Busy, but well. An emergency back home kept me running, but nothing serious..."

The conversation flows, light and genuine, and Azriel lets himself sink into it.

Adrin can have your friendly smiles. Balthazar can keep your history.

Azriel has this.

✹ ✶ 𖧷 ✶✹ 

AUTHORS NOTE:

DEDICATED TO MY ADRIN LOVERS!!!!!!! ADRIN ANON 🗣️ for those of yall that don’t know, adrin is an actual love of my life and azs nemesis in every universe. love him, anyways!!!

writing azriels pov v readers is so funny. they deal with the same things (and think the same things, cough, cough) but azriel is fighting his thoughts in the most avoidant way ever while actively ragebaiting himself lmfaooo

also totally hilarious...that reader just wanted to write it all off as silly.....maybe theres stuff she doesnt want to think about either.... and shes also just hilarious like yesss laugh in his face!!!! queen

IMPORTANT: i won't be doing any more taglists! please follow me on my library blog and turn on notifs to be alerted when a new fic is posted! taglists age me 1000 years babies im so sorry i cannot do em anymore

permanent tag list (shall remain for now!) 🫶🏻

@rhysandorian @itsswritten  @lilah-asteria @georgiadixon  @glam-targaryen 

@cheneyq @darkbloodsly @yesiamthatwierd @azrielsbbg @evergreenlark 

@marina468 @azriels-human @book-obsessed124 @bubybubsters @starswholistenanddreamsanswered 

@feyretopia @azrielrot @justyouraveragekleemain @marigold-morelli  @mrsjna

@anarchiii @alittlelostalittlefound @melissat1254 @secretsicanthideanymore

@m4tthewmurd0ck @beardburnsupersoldiers @isnotwhatyourethinking @tothestarsandwhateverend @raginghellfire

@angel-graces-world-of-chaos @acoazlove @paradisebabey @inkedinshadows 

@paankhaleyaaar @curiosandcourioser @thisrandombitch @casiiopea2 @w0nderw0manly

Contents -

☆ One | The Calm Before the Storm | 2.9k words

☆ Two | How the Star Faded | 2.9k words

☆ Three | Where Smoke Lingered | 2.2k words

☆ Four | Falling Awake | 2.7k words

☆ Five | Breathing Room | 2.9k words

☆ Six | A Light to Follow Home | 2.5k words

☆ Seven | The Hurt We Carry | 2.4k words

☆ Eight | A Heart Laid Bare | 2.1k words

☆ Nine | Beneath the Silence | 2k words

☆ Ten | The Cost of Loving Her | 2.1k words

☆ Eleven | Ignite Me | 2.7k words

☆ Twelve | A Soft Return | 2.7k words

☆ Thirteen | Until You | 2k words

☆ Fourteen | A Thousand More | 2.3k words

☆ Fifteen | Written Among the Stars | 2.8k words

ACOTAR Masterlist

A/n - This series will include content warnings at the start of each chapter, so please be sure to read them before continuing. I'm so excited to finally share this—I already have a few parts written, so it’s just a matter of editing and posting from here on out.

Then

It’s Friday night and you’re on the couch, flicking through Tinder profiles to the soundtrack of a shitty reality show playing on your TV. You’re two glasses of wine deep and you’ve stopped scrutinizing most of the profiles and have settled for swiping right as long as they’re not holding a fish, a flag, or a baby.

You’ve had a shit week and you’re hoping to find someone to help you de-stress. If not, you’ll have to take care of things yourself (again) and while your vibrator is reliable (and doesn’t ask you questions about your investment profile like it’s foreplay), you’re craving something more. The weight of someone on top of you, the feel of them between your thighs, the rush of something new and exhilarating and hopefully satisfying.

The app dings, announcing a match between you and JB, 33. A message comes through shortly after.

JB: Are you okay?

You frown. Weird thing to ask in the first message. Surely it’s better to wait for the third date to ask something so personal.

Yeah, why?, you reply.

JB: Your profile says, “I need to be taken out. On a date or by a sniper.”

Don’t worry, it’s a joke. My therapist didn’t think it was very funny either.

JB: I’m pretty handy with a gun.

You snort.

Is that a euphemism for your dick?

JB: No, actually.

What a shame.

JB: I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk about my dick on here.

You click on JB’s profile and swipe through the pictures. He looks familiar and it takes your wine-addled synapses a few tries to make the connection but when it clicks you realize you’re looking at pictures of Bucky Barnes. As in, Captain America’s best friend, American prisoner of war turned Soviet assassin turned Avenger. You frown. There’s no way the Winter Soldier is on Tinder.

Swiping back to the chat, you begin to type.

You’re right. It’s much safer to talk about your gun.

JB: That sounds like sarcasm.

It definitely wasn’t sincere.

JB: Anyone ever told you that you have a smart mouth?

Anyone ever told you that catfishing people on Tinder with pics of an Avenger is a stupid idea?

At least pick someone who isn’t famous.

JB: Those are my pictures.

JB: And I’m not an Avenger.

Sure they are.

JB: Why would someone lie on their dating profile?

That does sound like something a 100 year old would say.

JB: 106.

You can’t help the laugh that bursts free, the sound bouncing off the walls of your tiny apartment.

If you’re really Bucky Barnes, then prove it.

JB: How?

Send a video of you waving in the mirror.

With the metal arm.

He doesn’t respond and for a while you think it’s because you’ve backed him into a corner. Whoever JB is can’t send you the requested video because he’s not Bucky Barnes and that’s the end of your excitement for the evening.

But then your phone pings with a new message from the app.

A video.

From JB.

You click play and the camera shows a tile floor before panning up to reveal a man’s reflection. His face is hidden by the phone but then he moves it a little to the right to reveal a chiseled jaw covered in stubble and pretty blue eyes, thick brows drawn together in either confusion or concentration.

He lifts a metal arm up in a wave and suddenly you’re desperate for the Earth to swallow you whole (maybe you shouldn’t say that — given the shit you’ve been through as a resident of New York, you can’t rule out the possibility of that actually happening).

You’re really Bucky Barnes, you finally manage to type.

JB: In the flesh. And metal.

So you are good with a gun then.

JB: I am. But I think I’d rather pick the first option.

You bite back a smile.

You want to go on a date?

JB: Isn’t that the whole point of the app?

You’ve got me there.

I’m free tomorrow.

JB: It’s a date.

Bucky asks you to meet him at a nearby bar the following night and you spend the day alternating between feelings of giddy excitement and nauseating anxiety.

You arrive a few minutes early to a quiet bar you never noticed in the years you’ve lived in your shoebox of an apartment a few blocks over. It’s all dark wood and moody lighting with booths along one wall and a stately bar taking up the other. There’s quiet jazz playing through the speakers and the bartender has an impressive handlebar mustache.

You choose one of the empty barstools and the bartender floats by to place a cocktail napkin and menu in front of you. You’re looking over your options when the door opens you look up to see Bucky entering the bar. He’s wearing a t-shirt that stretches across his impressive chest, highlighting his trim waist, a leather jacket and dark jeans that hug his legs.

He smiles when he sees you, a quick flash of teeth before he ducks his head and approaches you, taking a seat on the stool to your left. The bartender returns with another menu and napkin.

“Hey,” you say, voice cracking. Smooth. So smooth.

“Hi,” he replies. “Did you, uh, have any trouble finding the place?”

“No, not really. I’ve never been here, though. It’s nice.”

“Did you order already?”

“I was waiting for you.”

As if summoned by the conversation, the bartender returns to take your orders. Bucky opts for bourbon and you choose one of craft cocktails from the menu because you’re a sucker for a well made drink and Mr. Handlebar Mustache looks like he can deliver.

After one sip to calm your nerves (you were right, the man can make a damn good drink), a second for confidence, and a third for luck, you turn slightly on your stool, knees bumping Bucky’s beneath the bar.

“So,” you say, drawing out the single syllable. “I have to ask. Why are you on Tinder?”

He laughs. “Starting with the hard questions?”

“If you consider that one hard, I have bad news for you.”

“My therapist suggested it,” he admits. “Something about getting out of my comfort zone.”

“Well, they’re right about that. Nothing comfortable about online dating.”

“Right?” He takes a sip of his drink. “I’ve seen…a lot of shit and somehow I’m still surprised by some of the messages I got.”

“What’s the worst one so far?”

“A woman asked if the metal arm vibrates.”

You try not to laugh at the look of utter disappointment that flashes across his face. “Well? Does it?”

“No,” he deadpans. “But it is waterproof.”

“You might call that,” you wiggle your eyebrows, “handy.”

Bucky laughs and you watch him, the way he tips his head back and his shoulders shake with the force of it.

He has a nice laugh.

“That was terrible,” he tells you, but he’s wiping at the corner of his eye.

“Guess I won’t be quitting my day job to pursue my comedy dreams anytime soon.”

The rest of the evening is much the same, easy conversation and even easier laughter from you both. You steer clear of certain topics — superhero activities and pardoned war crimes among them. Your one drink turns into two and then you switch to water because Mr. Handlebar Mustache has a heavy hand and you don’t want to end up drunk enough that what little filter you have disappears entirely.

The bar has gotten a bit busier and you’ve drifted closer into Bucky’s orbit, your legs now tucked between his as you lean in close to be heard over the hum of a dozen conversations. You’ve caught him staring at your mouth with half lidded eyes more than once and it makes warmth pool between your thighs.

“It’s getting a little loud, do you want to head out?” You ask, a hand on his thigh, just above his knee. He nods.

Bucky takes care of the bill despite your objections and follows you out of the bar with a hand low on your back, just barely touching. On the sidewalk, he gently pulls you to the side, out of the way of pedestrians.

“I had a good time,” he says. “Best date I’ve been on since 1943.”

“Oh, yeah?” You step a bit closer, chest to chest. His hand grips your waist. “How did dates used to end back then, old man?”

He rolls his eyes. “Smart mouth. First, I’d walk you back to your apartment. Like a gentleman.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “Then what?”

“Then, you’d give me a kiss on the cheek.”

You tilt your face toward his, pressing your lips to his cheek. “Like that?”

“Just like that. But then, when you’re about to pull away—“ he reaches up, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck, “I’d pull you right back.”

You’re so close that you can feel his breath on your lips. “And then?”

“I’d kiss you.”

“You better start walking me home, Barnes,” you tell him. He smiles.

“Lead the way.”

The walk to your apartment is quiet but the tension between you is damn near corporeal and you’re practically buzzing with anticipation by the time you reach your building.

“This is me,” you tell him as you turn to face him. “I had a great time, too, you know.” You loop your arms over his shoulders. “In fact, I’m not sure I’m ready for it to end.”

“That so?” He asks, boyish smirk tilting the corner of his mouth.

You shrug. “If that doesn’t offend your delicate sensibilities.”

Bucky leans in and your eyes flutter shut just before his lips touch yours. The scent of leather and bourbon wraps around you and the rush of your blood in your ears drowns out the late night noises of the city around you. The kiss is sweet, gentle, until his teeth nip at your bottom lip and you gasp, giving him the opening to make it deeper, hungrier, an edge of desperation in the way his fingers curl against your neck.

He pulls away first, tongue darting across his lips like he’s trying to capture the faint taste of you on them.

“Wow,” you mumble. “That was…do you want to come upstairs?”

“But my delicate sensibilities,” he says, laughing as you smack him on the chest. He kisses you again, though it’s less of a kiss and more the two of you smiling against each other. “I’d like that.”

Bucky carves himself a place in your life.

His toothbrush next to yours on the bathroom counter. The coffee that he likes in your pantry. A book he’s been trying to read for a few weeks on your nightstand. A side of the bed that you consider his.

He brings you flowers from the farmer’s market and your favorite snack from the bodega down the street when he knows you’ve had a rough day. He makes you laugh so hard that your muscles ache with it.

You are so in love that your chest hurts just to look at him.

And then he disappears.

Now

Running into an ex-boyfriend at a coffee shop is already an uncomfortable enough experience. Add to it that your ex-boyfriend is Bucky Barnes, the devastatingly handsome face of the New Avengers, New York’s newest batch of superheroes, and you’ve got a recipe for the most awkward situation imaginable.

He’s waiting by the pick up counter, metal arm covered by his jacket and wearing a hat that you think it meant to act as some sort of disguise though it falls short of being effective, considering he has one of the most recognizable faces in the nation. You shuffle over to the same spot, keeping your head down and attention fixed on your phone, hoping he doesn’t notice you.

Despite the fact that he was there before you, the barista calls out your name first, placing your drink on the counter. Bucky lifts his head and looks around, a furrow between his brows. Then, as if the universe is playing a sick joke, another barista sets a second drink next to yours and calls out, “James!”

He doesn’t immediately reach for his drink and you just know he’s waiting to see if hearing your name called was just a coincidence. So, with a desperation for your caffeine fix and a healthy dose of feminine rage, you square your shoulders and march up to the counter, taking your drink without looking at him.

Bucky steps in front of you just as you’re about to make your escape and you look up into his familiar blue eyes, mouth going dry and stomach plummeting to the ground.

“Hey,” he says. “I thought that might be you.”

“Hi,” you reply tersely. “I knew it was you.”

He flinches slightly. “That’s…that’s fair. Uh, how’ve you been?”

“Pretty good. Well, except for that whole bit with the,” you wiggle your fingers near your head, “weird cinematic loop of traumatic experiences.”

“Right, right. That wasn’t great.”

“I’d ask how you are but I’ve already seen the headlines.”

Bucky sighs, taking off his hat to run a hand through his hair. “Look, I know—“

“Motherfucker,” you whisper, ducking your head down. Bucky frowns.

“What—“

Someone calls your name. Well, okay, not just someone. Your boyfriend, David, enters the coffee shop, walking up to you and wrapping an arm around your waist.

“I thought I was early enough to beat you here but I guess not,” David says, nodding toward the drink in your hand. He glances at Bucky, then does a full on double-take. “Holy shit, you’re Bucky Barnes.” He sticks his hand out toward him. “I’m a big fan.”

And Bucky, asshole that he is, looks you dead in the eye as he shakes David’s hand and says, “Thanks, man.”

“People used to tell me I looked a lot like you,” David continues, digging your grave of embarrassment deeper and deeper. “When you had short hair.”

“Is that so?” Bucky asks. “Yeah, I can see the resemblance.”

Which, okay, you understand how this looks. David does kind of resemble Bucky. He’s got blue eyes and a strong, square jaw and dark hair but it’s not like you went looking for a boyfriend that looked like Bucky.

You just have a type.

Besides, David was shorter than Bucky. There are definitely differences.

“I’m going to grab a drink. It was great to meet you,” David tells Bucky, shaking his hand again. “Be right back,” he says to you, leaning in for a kiss. You turn your head, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth.

“He seems nice,” Bucky says when David has taken his place in line across the room.

“Shut up,” you hiss. “You don’t get to judge.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You’re definitely judging.” You cross your arms. “Don’t you have superhero things to do?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Nice to hear the New Avengers offer a robust benefits package.”

“You still have a smart mouth,” he comments, voice dropping low. Your brain short circuits and in your moment of weakness he reaches for the phone still in your hand, plucking it from your grasp with ease.

“Hey—“ you start to protest, but he’s handing it back before you can even finish the sentence. The screen is open to his contact information and it looks like he’s updated his number. “What’s this for?”

“If you need me,” he says easily. “I gotta get going. It was good to see you.”

Bucky leaves with the last word. You curse his existence even as you watch his broad shoulders disappear through the door and out into the wave of New York pedestrian traffic. David returns with his drink in hand, looking at you curiously.

“What?” You ask.

“How do you know Bucky Barnes?”

You shift your weight from foot to foot, searching for the right response. “We have…history.”

“History,” David deadpans. “Platonic?”

“Well—“

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he interrupts. “You dated an Avenger?”

“He wasn’t an Avenger at the time!”

“As if that makes this any better!”

“Why is this an issue?” You ask with a groan. “It was two years ago!”

“Are you only dating me because I look like him?”

“What? No!” You lower your voice. “Can we please just talk about this later.”

He seems to realize that you’re both still standing in the middle of a coffee shop, a dozen curious stares turned to you. “Fine,” he acquiesces.

You leave together, shoulders brushing on your walk to the nearby park where you planned to have your coffee that morning before everything was interrupted by a ghost from your past.

Things with David only get worse. He digs for more details about your relationship with Bucky and you snap at him to leave it alone. He grows tired of asking and you grow tired of avoiding until finally, inevitably, you get a phone call from him a week later.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he sighs. “I think we should just call it quits.”

“Fine,” you reply. “I’ll get a box of your stuff together for you to come get.”

“Seriously? That’s it?” He asks. “You’re not even going to ask me why?”

You can’t help but laugh. “Because you’re insecure that I dated Bucky Barnes and won’t go into excruciating detail about my sex life and how you compare to him.”

He sputters indignantly before finally landing on, “You’re such a bitch.”

“Charming,” you reply. “I’ll text you when your shit can get picked up.”

You hang up before he has the chance to respond. Tears of frustration prick at the corners of your eyes. You’re not upset about the relationship ending, not really, you just hate that somehow, Bucky Barnes managed to be the reason.

You call your best friend and she makes the appropriate noises of sympathy, followed by empty threats of bodily harm to David, before suggesting the two of you go out to get your mind off of the breakup.

You probably should have declined the invitation and stayed home because now you’re staring into the mirror of the bar bathroom, clutching the sink like it’ll make the world stop spinning (it doesn’t). Your friend is nowhere to be found and you’re ready to go home but the thought of calling an Uber in this state makes your stomach roll.

You pull up your contacts, finger hovering over Bucky’s name. Before you can change your mind or drop your phone in the sink, you tap the call button.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Barnes,” he says. His voice makes your breath hitch.

“Hey…it’s me,” you reply, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately. You huff a laugh.

“I’m okay. Just…I’m a little drunk and I think my friend left and I could really use a ride but if you’re busy, I could call an Uber!” You’re rambling. Bucky, thankfully, puts you out of your misery.

“Where are you?” You give him the name of the bar. There’s a shuffling noise and then he’s telling you, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

You wait outside the bar on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around yourself. A blacked out SUV pulls up to the curb and Bucky steps out, turning heads as he rounds the front of the car to the sidewalk and looks around for you.

You take a tentative step forward and his gaze snaps to you, softening from mission mode in a way that makes your head feel fuzzy. He opens the passenger door for you, holds a hand out to help you into the seat, still a gentleman.

Your breath catches when he leans over, tugging the seatbelt across your chest and buckling it into place. He smells the same, you think, like leather and metal and mint. No bourbon, this time.

When you’re buckled, he shuts the door and walks to the other side of the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. You tilt your head back against the headrest, letting your eyes fall shut. It’s good to be sitting.

“You okay?” He asks.

“You already asked me that,” you reply, keeping your eyes closed. He sighs.

“Why didn’t you call Daniel?”

“David,” you correct. “We broke up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

You turn your head, opening your eyes slightly. “No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

And that shouldn’t make your heart beat faster, shouldn’t send warmth coursing through you but it does because it’s Bucky. You close your eyes again. This seat is very comfortable.

“You still in the same apartment?” He asks. The question sounds fuzzy.

“No,” you mumble. “Moved.”

“Can you give me the address?”

But you don’t hear that last question because you’re already asleep in the passenger seat.

You wake up in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar (but extremely soft) bed, tucked beneath unfamiliar sheets. Your mouth is dry and your head hurts a little bit but not nearly as much as you deserve given how much you drank. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand and a bottle of Tylenol. You crack the lid and pour out two capsules, throwing them into your mouth and chugging down the water until the glass is empty.

You slowly get up and make your way across the room, checking to see if one of the doors leads to a bathroom. You’re thrilled that you’re right and that there’s even a conveniently placed towel, unopened toothbrush, and new set of clothes waiting for you on the counter. You briefly wonder where the clothes came from but given the opulence of the bathroom you’re standing in, you imagine anything is available at the press of a button.

By the time you’ve finished in the bathroom, you feel about ninety five percent human. The other five percent is the part of you dreading the conversation to come.

Because you know Bucky is somewhere beyond the bedroom door and the thought of seeing him in the light of day, after calling him to come to your rescue, fills you with dread. You give yourself a pep talk in the mirror and lift your chin, ready to face what’s beyond your bubble of safety.

You peek outside the bedroom door and find the hall clear. There’s soft music playing from somewhere further in the apartment and you follow the noise to the kitchen, where you find Bucky at the counter, his back turned to you. He’s in a tank top, which gives you an open view of muscles that you haven’t seen in two years but definitely remember. In vivid detail.

Bucky turns to face you when you’ve stepped into the room. He has two mugs of coffee in his hands and he slides one across the counter separating you. He’s already made it the way you like.

Asshole.

“Morning, doll,” he says.

“You don’t get to call me that.” You take a sip of your perfect coffee.

“You used to like when I called you that.”

“That was before you made me fall in love with you and then you disappeared,” you tell him. “And the next time I saw you was on TV, announcing your run for Congress.”

He at least has the decency to look a little chagrined. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.” You raise your eyebrows but say nothing. “I was ready for normal but I keep getting dragged back into fights.”

“Are you dragged or do you answer the call?” You ask. He stays quiet for a minute, thinking, the muscle of his jaw ticking beneath the stubble on his chin.

“Both, probably,” he admits. “I’ve done so much bad that it’s hard to pass on the opportunity to do something good.”

A tiny fracture forms in the wall you’ve built. “If not you, then who, I guess. Right?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Something like that.”

Silence settles, thick with what needs to be said and, worse, with what should have been said two years ago. He abandons his mug on the counter, coming around to stand in front of you, close enough to touch. His dog tags hang in the middle of his chest and you reach up to tangle your fingers in the chain, like you used to. He smiles, a tiny, uncertain twitch of his lips.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “You have no idea how much.”

“You could have called,” you tell him.

“I didn’t know what to say.” His hand catches your. “You loved me?”

“I did,” you admit. “Still do, if we’re having an honesty hour right now.”

Bucky laughs, low and warm. God, you missed him. You didn’t realize the depth of it until he was within your reach.

“I did, too.” He wraps an arm around your waist. “Still do.”

“Yeah?”

He leans in close, lips ghosting across yours. Barely a kiss but every nerve ending lights up at the contact, making you feel like a live wire. He smiles.

“Can I call you doll now?” He asks. You act like you’re considering it, like the answer isn’t an immediate yes.

“Only if you’re going to make it up to me,” you tell him.

“How would you like me to do that?”

“Well, you are really good with your gun—“

Your response is cut off by your yelp when Bucky picks you up, one arm supporting your back and the other under your knees. You laugh as he marches back to the bedroom you woke up in, kicking the door open and tossing you on the mattress. You bounce slightly with the force of your landing.

“Someone’s eager,” you tease, lifting yourself up on your elbows. He smirks, crawling toward you on the mattress.

“You have no idea, doll,” he says, wrapping his metal hand around the back of your neck and pulling you in for a kiss that’s hungry and messy, a borderline desperate creeping in as he settles more of his weight on your body, hips cradled between your own.

His teeth dig into your lower lip, hard enough to make you gasp. He takes the opportunity to kiss your jaw, stubble dragging across your sensitive skin. He drifts lower, down your neck, sucking the skin over your pulse and making you squirm.

“So sensitive,” he teases, his hand working its way beneath your shirt, warm palm sliding up your belly. He pinches a nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, making you whine. “And so needy.”

Bucky pulls away, just enough to get both hands on your shirt to lift it up and over your head. Both hands cup your breasts and you arch into the sensation. You’ve always loved the difference in sensation between his hands, soft flesh and unyielding metal but the same reverent touch. He bends forward to pull one nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it until you’re writhing beneath him.

He drags his mouth lower, down your belly, until he reaches the leggings he left for you. His fingers curl into the elastic, dragging the fabric down your thighs until he can pull them off and toss them to the floor. You’re left in just your underwear and Bucky smiles beatifically at you.

“Already soaked,” he says, settling on his stomach between your thighs. He drags a thumb over your clothed pussy, circling the digit lightly when he reaches your clit. “All for me, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nod.

He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, before slipping his fingers beneath the gusset of your underwear and yanking the fabric to the side. He drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with broad, flat strokes.

“Bucky,” you moan, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, the vibration adding to the delicious torture of his mouth. “Oh, fuck.”

You lose the ability to speak shortly after that as Bucky lavishes you with attention. Two of his metal fingers join his tongue, sliding into your wet heat with ease.

“Christ.” He tilts his head against your thigh to watch you as he pumps his fingers in and out of you with an obscene noise. “Fuck me,” he groans, dragging out the syllables.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky.”

“Not until you come,” he says, curling his fingers and dragging them across that sensitive spot inside of you. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He slips a third finger inside of you and the stretch borders on painful, a slight sting that makes you feel like you’re on fire, ready to burst. When he returns his mouth to your clit, you’re a goner. Your orgasm crashes over you as you moan his name, grinding yourself up against his mouth and down onto his fingers.

Bucky eases you through it, waiting until your hips drop to the mattress before pulling away. The scruffy hair on his chin is shiny with your release, his blue eyes are dark with lust, and his hair is a mess from your hands.

“Open your mouth,” he commands, reaching up to slip his soaked metal fingers past your lips. “Clean ‘em real good, doll.”

You do as he says, keeping your eyes fixed to his. When he’s satisfied, he pulls his hand away and settles it at the base of your throat.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” He asks, squeezing gently. You smile up at him, bringing your hands to his forearm. “Yeah, you did. Bet you thought it about when those other guys fucked you, too.”

He releases your throat and gets off the bed only long enough to shove his pants to the floor. You get a brief moment to stare appreciatively, taking in the chiseled muscles and the old scars that you once had memorized.

“You’re so beautiful, Bucky,” you murmur. His expression goes soft as he crawls back onto the mattress and settles his weight above you, his cock dragging through the wet mess he’s made of your thighs.

He kisses you deeply, thoroughly, like he’s trying to erase any lingering memory of anyone who came after him. His hips flex against yours and you hitch your legs up, changing the angle of your body enough that the head of his cock dips inside of you, just slightly, just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He pulls back, staring down at you as he sinks deeper, stretching you in the most perfect way.

“That’s it, baby,” he says. “Just like that, huh?”

The only answer you can give is a desperate noise as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, his chest against yours. He starts an achingly slow rhythm that has stars bursting in your vision, your belly tensing with the first signs of release.

“You have no idea,” he mumbles against your neck, “how much I’ve missed you.”

“I think I have an idea,” you whisper, bringing a hand to his jaw. “Missed you so much, Buck.”

He bites at your pulse and moves his hips faster, driving you to the brink before pulling out completely. Your responding whine is cut short by his hands gripping your hips, twisting you beneath him until you’re flat on your stomach and he’s sliding back into you, the new angle making you feel impossibly fuller.

His weight settles on your back and he slips his metal hand around your neck, using it to lift your head up from the mattress. He squeezes your throat as he drives into you mercilessly, hips smacking lasciviously against your ass.

“You’re going to come on my cock, sweetheart,” he growls into your ear. “I need it so bad, come on, baby, finish so I can fill you up just the way you like, okay?”

Your second orgasm hits you like a lightning strike and your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your muscles tense and you squeeze around his cock. He moans a broken prayer of your name as his hips stutter in their rhythm and then go still as he comes, warmth pulsing inside of you.

Bucky collapses on the bed, careful not to drop his full weight on you. He gathers you up in his arms, holding you with your head on his chest. You listen to the beat of his heart as it slows from a frantic pulse to a smooth rhythm.

You tilt your head to look at him and he smiles. The whole scene reminds you of your first night together and a bubbly feeling blossoms in your chest.

“This won’t be easy,” he murmurs, bringing a hand to your jaw. His thumb rubs against your cheek. “I’m still fighting.”

“I know,” you reply. “As long as you come back to me after the fight, I think we’ll be alright.”

No, she struck you more as the encrypted-flash-drive-on-a-park-bench type, the kind of woman who appreciated mysteries with teeth. A custom leather jacket, stitched with the same precision she used to dismantle a glock. One of those sleek, low motorcycles. Not daisies. Not peonies. And definitely not whatever soft, pastel nonsense Bucky was currently handing over cash for.

You stood a few feet away, halfway hidden behind a sidewalk sign advertising oat milk lattes and gluten-free muffins, clutching a cardboard drink tray and a bag full of vegan pastries in a death grip. The barista had spelt ‘Bruce’ as ‘Broose’ again, and under any other circumstance, that would've made you laugh, but now it felt like the most irrelevant thing in the world.

You liked Natasha. You respected her. You just didn’t think she had it in her to giggle over roses like the girls in those sappy rom-coms Clint insisted he hated (right before he would watch three in a row, a beer in each hand). But there Bucky was, brushing pollen off a bouquet of pale pink ranunculus, face soft in a way you’d never seen during mission briefings or sparring sessions.

And suddenly, you were building a list in your head of all the things you were sure Natasha Romanoff would rather receive as a romantic gesture: a knife, balanced perfectly for throwing, an expensive bottle of vodka, a vintage chess set with hand-carved pieces, a bottle of expensive ink and a fountain pen with a sharp nib, cookies—messy ones—overloaded with chocolate chips, or simply just black coffee, straight from the pot, no sugar, no cream. Yet, as Bucky handed it over to the redhead, she smiled. Smiled. And suddenly you felt like you were witnessing a scene you were not welcome to. 

Truthfully, it stung. Maybe it stung a little more than what was appropriate. You’d been harbouring a quiet crush on the dark-haired, sullen supersoldier from the moment he joined the team. Fresh out of Wakanda, new vibranium arm in tow, and god, he was handsome. Not in the polished, television commercial way Steve was, but in a way that made your pulse skip and your thoughts stall mid-sentence. He had the kind of face you didn’t know how to look at for too long, sharpened jaw, stormy-blue eyes, and a mouth that always looked on the verge of saying something he’d regret.

There was something electric about his stillness. Like if you leaned in close enough, you’d hear the hum of danger beneath his skin. He walked like a man who never quite trusted, drifting through the tower like he expected a fight around every corner. He barely spoke, but when he did, his voice was low and gravel-worn, something that settled right in your gut and made its home there.

He never smiled. Not really. But sometimes—sometimes—you’d catch a flicker of it when Sam teased him, or when Steve nudged him just right, and it was devastating.

And yeah, maybe you had a soft spot for broken things trying to heal.

As the Avengers’ personal assistant, it was your job to keep everyone comfortable, informed, and running like clockwork. You were a one-person organisational machine, constantly juggling the chaos that came with managing a tower full of enhanced individuals with the emotional range of a brick wall to a nuclear reactor. Your days were a blur of colour-coded schedules, back-to-back briefings, and the never-ending group chats.

You coordinated mission debriefs, booked international flights with military clearance, and handled press requests that would make most people cry. You endured complaints when Thor overloaded the power grid again, trying to make toast, and even replaced the mugs he shattered before anyone noticed. You wrangled Clint’s kids when they came to visit, sourced obscure snacks from remote parts of the world because Sam liked those protein bars, not the other ones, and Steve wouldn’t touch anything processed. You replaced a record number of coffee machines, hunted down whatever special detergent could get oil out of Tony’s designer shirts. You knew which brand of muscle balm Banner preferred and how to order it without triggering a random Homeland Security check.

And then there was Bucky.

With him, it was always a little extra, whether he noticed or not. His schedule came first in your Monday morning rounds. You made sure the pantry was stocked with the Eastern European tea he liked but never asked for, and remembered the exact setting he preferred on the tower’s training room temperature controls. You adjusted group plans so he’d be paired with Steve or Sam, just in case the crowds and questions became overwhelming. When he disappeared for a few hours, you didn’t ask questions, but you made sure no one came looking. You even swapped out the scratchy tags in his mission gear with soft ones, because he never complained, but you noticed the way he fidgeted with them.

Every day, you’d beam at him like some hopelessly love-struck idiot when you handed over his usual coffee—black, two brown sugars, just the way he liked it—and in return, he’d offer little more than a grunt. A low, barely-there sound that most people wouldn’t even register as a greeting. But you did. Somehow, that grunt became the highlight of your day.

So yeah, maybe seeing him hand over flowers to Natasha broke something in you. Not just a hairline fracture, but a quiet, splintering break that left your chest aching in places you didn’t know could hurt. Still, you understood. Natasha belonged to his world, effortlessly cool, all smoke, shadows and secrets. Yet she was kind. Not cold or unapproachable, just… carved from something rarer than you. The kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be extraordinary, she just was.

And you? You were the sweet, well-meaning assistant who made people laugh in the kitchen, who fetched dry cleaning and remembered everyone’s birthdays. You were the one who labelled tupperware and chased down Clint’s kids with bandaids. You were an afterthought, the background noise in the buzzing hive which was the Avengers Tower. 

So maybe you could justify feeling jealous, but angry? No. Not really. They didn’t know. They couldn’t know. And it wasn’t their fault that you’d let yourself hope.

—

Two weeks later, and you timed it perfectly, like you always did.

Just as the door to Bucky’s apartment clicked open, you rounded the corner—folder in hand, clipboard tucked tight to your side. The hallway was quiet, save for the low hum of ventilation and the soft thud of your heels against the carpet. Bucky stepped out, his gym bag slung over his shoulder, hair tied back, and his hoodie sleeves shoved up just enough to show the gleam of vibranium. Predictable. It was routine, every morning just before six he would meet with Steve in the gym. On Mondays, you’d catch him just as he exited his apartment, unload the details for the week, a freshly printed schedule and all. 

“Morning,” you said lightly, handing him the week’s itinerary. His reply was his usual, a grunt. Not annoyed. Not grateful. Just Bucky. That gruff, barely-there sound that once felt like a small victory. The kind of grunt that used to warm your chest when he followed it with a question, even if you knew the answer was printed in the folder you’d triple-checked. You always answered anyway. You liked having his attention, even just for a few seconds.

You used to dress the folders up with care, multicoloured sticky notes marking key tasks (blue for meetings, yellow for reminders, red for anything urgent and green for personal events). You’d highlight sections like traffic lights, add stickers you thought might make him smile, sometimes even scribble little crooked cartoons in the margins with cheesy encouragements—seize the day! 

The folder looked rather sad today, just a plain manila folder packed with stapled papers. No colours. No stickers. No effort. Just the essentials. You didn’t let your fingers dawdle when he took it. Didn’t smile like you used to. Just handed it over and kept your gaze somewhere past his shoulder.

Bucky took it slowly, eyes flicking down at the cover like he was trying to spot something that wasn’t there. His brow pinched, barely, but enough for you to notice. His fingers lingered on the edge of the folder, like he thought maybe he’d missed a note tucked inside.

You nodded and turned to leave, forcing yourself to shift your mind to your next chore mentally, restocking med supplies in the Quinjet, cross-checking Clint’s revised travel forms, hunting down the coffee machine Tony had threatened to ‘repurpose as target practice’. You’d have to order a replacement before the morning debrief. Double-check everyone’s dietary preferences. Update Steve on the tech room schedule. Get maintenance to repaint the lines in the training room because someone (probably Thor) had scuffed them again.

You stayed busy. It helped. Kind of.

But the guilt still trailed you like a shadow.

It was probably obvious how abruptly you changed. The way your voice had lost its warmth. The way your gaze dodged his like it might burn you. You wondered if he noticed, if he thought you'd simply grown tired of him. Maybe he had. That was better than the truth that you couldn’t stand to be near him, not when every glance felt like pressing fingers to a bruise you’d caused yourself. 

You had made your choice, professionalism. The kind of cool, curated detachment you admired in Natasha, only it felt all wrong on you, like an ill-fitting coat. You knew it was for the better, not mixing up work and matters of the heart. You’d already let your little crush spiral too far, thinking maybe—just maybe—if you tried hard enough, you’d earn more than a grunt. That he might see you as something more than the charming assistant with her clipboard and her stupid stickers. But he didn’t. And he wouldn’t. And that was fine. It had to be.

You couldn’t afford to fall apart over a man who had no idea he’d broken your heart.

But it was Bucky’s voice, soft and unsure, that startled you from your thoughts. “Hey.”

You paused mid-step and turned, forcing a tight smile that didn’t quite meet your eyes as your fingers curled against the clipboard. “What’s up?”

He shifted his weight, clearly caught off guard by the fact that you stopped walking at all. He was rather devastating to look at when he grew all shy and unsure, fingers fidgeting against the edge of the folder like he didn’t know what to do with them. He didn’t quite meet your eye as his weight shifted nervously, like he hadn’t thought before he called out. 

“Uh. Nothin’. Just—” He raised the folder slightly, an awkward gesture. “You usually give me the rundown. Y’know… what everyone’s doing. Who’s where. Who I’m stuck with.”

You swallowed. Of course, he’d noticed. Of course, he’d grown used to your chatter about meetings and mission rosters, about who was off-world and who was due back, like it was the weather. The casual, effortless way you used to tell him what movie was playing, who cheated at Monopoly the night before, or which team member had stolen the last protein bar. You’d always done it to help, keep him grounded, and make him feel like part of the team, like he belonged. 

But after what you’d seen two weeks ago, you were sure he didn’t need that from you anymore. Natasha would look out for him now. She’d keep him balanced, keep him fed, keep him from slipping through the cracks.

“Nothing interesting’s happening,” you shrugged. “Just the usual.”

He didn’t move. “Well… there’s that dinner. On Friday.”

You gave a curt nod, tone clipped. “Yes.”

“Wanda’s dinner,” he added, as if you hadn’t already acknowledged it.

“Correct.”

He hesitated again, brows drawing together in a faint crease of worry. You could see him floundering, stuck in some internal scramble. It made your chest ache because you knew that look. You’d helped talk him down from that look more times than anyone else in the tower probably realised.

You sighed quietly through your nose, against your better judgment, against every wall you’d tried to build in the past week, you caved. He looked five seconds away from spiralling.

“It’s in there,” you offered gently, nodding toward the folder. “On your schedule.”

“Right. It’s just… for me, you usually…” His voice trailed off, frustration and uncertainty knotting in his brow. “Sorry. You’re probably busy—”

That felt like a punch to the gut. 

You shook your head and, before your pride could stop you, your feet were already moving back toward him. His eyes dropped as you reached into your pocket for a pen, scribbling ‘Wanda’s Dinner – Friday’ on a green sticky note. Green for personal events, always. You hesitated, then added a smiley face underneath. You peeled it off and stuck it neatly onto the folder in Bucky’s hands. 

His eyes dropped to it, finger brushing over the paper like he didn’t quite understand why it mattered so much. “Thanks.”

You just nodded, already stepping back, spine straight, pretending your heart wasn’t hammering in your throat.

“She said…” Bucky cleared his throat, clearly not done with the conversation. “Wanda said she’s going to do curry.”

You paused, unsure what to do with the information. Why was he telling you that? Why was he still talking?

“That’s nice,” you said carefully, not sure what to do with this strange, lingering version of him.

“Are you going?” he asked suddenly, and you frowned.

“I wasn’t invited—” You began, already covering from the invasive thoughts, already working to mask the sting. You didn’t want to imagine them next to each other over curry, leaning close, whispering in the way people did when they thought no one else was watching. It would only make the crack in your chest worse.

“You should go,” Bucky said quickly, cutting across your thoughts. “I’ll tell Wanda you’re coming.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll be busy that night anyway…” You lied through your teeth, heart thumping hard against your breastbone as Bucky’s face crumpled a bit. You cut in before he could argue any further.  “You’re going to be late. For the gym. It’s nearly six.”

“Right, shit, yeah. Sorry, I just…” He trailed off again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks. I’ll… I’ll see you around.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, unsure if you were more confused or stunned by his sudden jitters.

—

Before the whole flowers incident, you made it your unofficial mission to ‘accidentally’ bump into Bucky as many times as humanly possible in a day. Now? It was the opposite. Every hallway was a trap to avoid, every room a potential ambush. Navigating the Tower had turned into something between a tactical stealth op and a personal game of hide-and-seek.

Unfortunately, your strategy for quiet withdrawal hadn’t gone unnoticed.

In fact, Bucky had picked up on your sudden cold shoulder almost immediately. The folder debacle had only been the first of many increasingly awkward run-ins.

There was the time you’d practically sprinted away from the elevator when the doors slid open to reveal him standing inside, a brow raised and coffee in hand. Or when you turned a corner too fast and walked straight into him, muttering a rushed apology before disappearing again like you were being hunted. Then there was the silent, painful breakfast you’d shared at the communal kitchen counter, where you busied yourself with peeling an orange for ten minutes straight while he sat beside you, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to say something but didn’t know how to begin.

You’d even pretended to be asleep on the common room couch when he walked in one evening, piles of paperwork scattered, laptop still open, only for him to drape a throw blanket over you before quietly leaving again.

And yet, instead of giving you space like you’d expected and hoped for, he seemed to find any excuse to be around you. He trailed after you like some misplaced puppy whenever he wasn’t buried in a mission or holed up in a meeting.

You’d assumed that the moment you stepped back, he’d naturally gravitate toward spending more time with Natasha. It made sense. Why wouldn’t he want to be around her? They were obviously dating, even if they hadn’t made it official yet. Maybe it was one of those quiet, close things kept just between friends, like Steve and Sam. Who were you to come barreling in and expose their secret entanglement? You expected Bucky to be relieved to no longer be on the receiving end of your babbling, your perfectly-timed coffee deliveries, or the not-so-subtle gifts you littered around. 

But if anything, Bucky seemed determined to figure you out. Like your sudden shift had become his new pet project, and he was personally committed to cracking the case.

You’d taken the back hallway, the long, winding route that steered well clear of the gym on your way to the shared office. High-traffic areas were too risky now—too many chances to run into him. But clearly, Bucky had caught onto your little detours, because as you turned the corner, there he was, headed straight toward you.

You froze for half a second, pulse quickening. Turning around would be too obvious. Suspicious. He’d know exactly what you were doing, and then your carefully-constructed avoidance strategy would unravel entirely. If he suspected anything now, you were one panicked backpedal away from confirming it.

It was a nightmare. And a daydream.

A part of you, some soft, hopelessly romantic piece, ached at the sight of him, at the quiet way he seemed to look for you, worry always etched into his brow like you were some puzzle he couldn’t quite solve. But the rational part of your mind, the part that had dragged you into this self-imposed emotional lockdown, screamed that letting him get closer again would only undo all the fragile healing you’d managed to piece together.

So you steeled yourself.

Shoulders squared. Laptop and paperwork clutched like a lifeline. Eyes locked on an imaginary point just past his shoulder. If you kept walking and moved quickly, calmly, maybe he’d let you go. Perhaps he’d pretend not to notice how your pace picked up and your gaze carefully avoided his.

You nearly made it.

But of course, he noticed.

“Hey, wait—”

His voice was hesitant, just enough pressure to pull you to a stop. Your footsteps faded into the hush of the corridor, your spine straightening instinctively as you turned. Bucky stood a few paces behind, one hand lifted halfway between reaching and retreating, like he’d almost grabbed your arm but lost the nerve. 

He looked sheepish. Timid, even. It killed you.

You swallowed. “Yeah?”

He scratched the back of his neck, boots scuffing lightly against the floor. “Did I… forget to grab my coffee this morning? Or… did you not bring it?”

A pause. Too long. You could feel the beat of your pulse behind your sternum as you forced a casual shake of your head.

“No, sorry. That’s on me. Slipped my mind.”

The lie didn’t sit well in your mouth.

It hadn’t slipped your mind, in fact, it was still sitting on the corner of your desk, cooling beside a stack of unfinished paperwork. You’d brewed it, as always. Even used the brown sugar he liked. But then you’d walked away from it, deliberately, like some idiotic breadcrumb trail you hoped he might follow.

God, you were pathetic.

Your stupid fucking brain couldn’t even decide what it wanted anymore. One half of you was charting escape routes through the tower to avoid him, the other was fantasising about him pinning you to the nearest wall. From the way your thighs pressed together now, breath catching as his voice brushed over you, maybe the answer wasn’t distance at all. Perhaps you just wanted to taste him—

He didn’t move. Just stood there, one brow lifted, faint worry creasing the edge of his expression.

“You’re usually down by the gym by nine,” he said, his voice low. “It’s eleven.”

“I’m running a bit behind today.”

“You usually text me if you’re running behind.”

“Well,” you said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, “I didn’t this time.”

He paused, the silence between you laced with something dangerously close to concern. “Is everything alright?”

You forced a small laugh, trying to shake off how his low, worried voice made heat pool in your gut. “Yeah. Why?”

“You seem off.”

There it was. Soft, plain and far too knowing. He said it in that maddeningly sincere way that only he could manage. Like he actually gave a damn. Like this wasn’t unravelling you by the day.

Your shoulders tensed. “Off?”

“Yeah,” he said gently. “Just… I dunno. You’ve been quiet lately.”

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know about the hours you spent spinning in your head like a lunatic, trying to compartmentalise this crush until it shrank into something survivable. About the way you’d stared blankly at Tinder profiles, your phone clutched in your hand, wondering why no one else ever came close, why none of them were him.

Why you couldn’t stop thinking that if you’d just told him—confessed that stupid crush before Natasha did—maybe you wouldn’t be standing here now like some stray mutt, sniffing around for scraps of attention.

Maybe then he’d be yours.

Maybe then you wouldn’t be fantasising about quitting just to put yourself out of your own misery like some lame racehorse.

“I’ve just got a lot on my plate,” you finally mustered, tone strained. “Tony’s soirée. The fittings. Admin crap. Didn’t even have breakfast today.”

His brows furrowed further. “That’s not good.”

“I’ll survive.”

Would you, though?

Would you survive the heat that flared low in your stomach every time he got too close? Would you survive the ache that gnawed behind your ribs every time he glanced over at Natasha like you didn’t exist? Would you survive the constant, desperate craving to be touched by him? To be looked at like she was looked at?

He didn’t speak for a second, and for a moment, you were sure he could smell the reek of desperation on you.

“The oranges in the fridge are gone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“And the tea. The fancy one,” he added. “The one with the dried raspberries in it. You’re the one who always restocks them, aren’t you?”

You looked down, fingers clenching around your folder. “I’ll add it to the list.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, stepping forward a half-inch, enough to make your breath hitch. “I just… I didn’t realise it was you. Doing all of that.”

Of course, he hadn’t because you’d made it invisible. Seamless. That was the kind of care you practised—silent, anticipatory, never asked for, never returned. You had cared for him with a thousand tiny efforts, but he never noticed until you stopped.

You looked up, and the hallway felt suddenly too narrow. His face was open in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time. Gentle, confused, like he was trying to work you out and couldn’t quite bear not knowing.

You dropped your gaze. “I said I’ll do it.”

He paused. You could feel him thinking again.

Then, to your disappointment, he slowly nodded. “Okay.”

But he didn’t move. Not right away. He lingered like someone who hadn’t yet decided if leaving was the right call, like he was caught between concern and curiosity. 

“I’ll leave you to it, I guess.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You just nodded and turned, walking away quickly before he could see your face fall, before he could catch the naked want in your expression, the way your heart was clawing against your ribs, screaming for you to turn around and ruin everything.

—

If time travel were an option, you'd gladly launch yourself into a wormhole and strangle your past self for being stupid—no, lovesick—enough to organise this little errand. You deserve it, really. A swift kick to the gut from future-you for being this hopeless.

It had all started a month ago, when you, like a fool, volunteered to collect the tailored suits and dresses for some little soirée Tony Stark had decided to throw. Of course, in true Tony fashion, what was pitched as a ‘casual get-together’ had evolved into a full-blown, black-tie spectacle. The first warning sign? Tony footing the bill for everyone to have custom outfits made to their specifications. Translation…this was going to be a thing.

You’d spent weeks wrangling Avengers into fitting appointments, helping them choose fabrics and cuts, managing last-minute alterations and tracking shipments. It was exhausting but under control…until the catch. The aggravating, absurdly attractive, brooding catch currently sitting across from you in the tailor’s waiting room, his knee bounced like it was transmitting a detailed morse code manifesto on every possible way he planned to ruin your day.

The plan had been simple: grab an Uber, pick up the garments, pressed, stitched, and boxed to perfection and head back to the tower. But then you got the call. The one that told you Bucky Barnes had missed his final fitting, and that his suit needed some last-minute adjustments...

Of course he did.

Of all your perfectly laid plans, it only took one missed appointment to bring it all crashing down. Now here you were, stuck waiting beside the man who occupied far too much of your brain lately, silently praying the tailor would finish quickly so you could escape before your sanity, or your dignity, completely unravelled.

“I really am sorry,” Bucky said for what felt like the fiftieth time.

Between the brooding and the nervous leg tapping, he’d spent the last five minutes watching the side of your face with an expression so guilty it was practically carved into him.

“Like I said, it’s fine.” You replied, though it came out a little too tight, a little too forced, like you were speaking through clenched teeth. Which, maybe you were. Not that it mattered. Not when you could smell his cologne from how damn close he was sitting. God, you wanted to lean over and bury your face in his chest and just inhale—

You straightened abruptly, shoulders stiffening as the tailor entered the room, and mentally reacquainted yourself with the concept of boundaries.

It had been an hour—sixty minutes of waiting while Bucky’s suit got its final adjustments. An hour of you trying to distract yourself with work emails and unanswered texts, pretending the man beside you wasn’t single-handedly causing your emotional stability to nosedive. At least when he’d stepped away to get re-measured, you could breathe without risking spontaneous emotional combustion.

This wasn’t like you. You weren’t usually this wound up. Maybe it was the exhaustion, days of juggling your regular duties with Tony’s ever-growing list of soirée demands. Perhaps it was the heartbreak. Or the missed meals. Or the fact that you genuinely had no idea what day it was anymore.

“Would you like to try it on before we package it up for travel?” the tailor asked, her voice gentle. A measuring tape hung loosely around her neck, her pinned bun fraying slightly at the edges.

Bucky looked at you again, eyes flicking toward yours like he needed permission. You swallowed what was left of your pride and gave him a slight, strained nod.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly. “Go on.”

“I’m sorry—again—this is probably eating into your whole afternoon, I know how busy you are—”

“It’s fine. Really. Just go.”

He offered a sheepish smile before disappearing behind the velvet curtain, tugging it closed with a rustle. You pressed your fingers to your temples, let your head drop into your hands, and exhaled through your nose like it might stop your heart from trying to break out of your chest.

Across the counter, the tailor glanced up at you with a sympathetic look as she readied the boxes for the other garments. “Long day?” she asked gently.

You lifted your head, managing a tight smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Only going to get longer.”

You were still nursing the tail end of your sigh when the velvet curtain swished open again.

And then your brain stopped working.

Bucky stepped out in full formal attire, sharp navy suit, tailored within an inch of its life. The cut of it hugged his frame perfectly. Broad shoulders, tapered waist, long legs. A deep navy waistcoat peeked out beneath the jacket, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the light just enough to look expensive without being flashy. His tie was already perfectly knotted, like he’d done this a hundred times, and the sleeves of his shirt revealed just enough of the polished metal edge of his vibranium arm to make your mouth dry.

He cleared his throat softly, tugging at one cuff. “How’s it look?”

You blinked. Opened your mouth. Closed it again.

Words? No. Words were gone. Your vocabulary had packed up and left the building.

Bucky shifted his weight, clearly mistaking your slack-jawed silence for disapproval. “It’s weird, right? The waistcoat maybe doesn’t work, I told her I wasn’t sure about it—”

“No,” you said quickly—too quickly. “No, it’s… It’s perfect. You look… great. Seriously.”

His brows lifted slightly, a flicker of something you couldn’t quite place crossing his face. Relief, maybe? 

“Yeah?” he said, glancing down at himself, tugging slightly at the jacket hem. “I feel better about it now. The sleeves fit properly this time. Thanks for waiting.”

The tailor beamed from behind the counter, clearly proud of her work. “Wonderful. I’ll box it up immediately once you’re out of it.”

Bucky nodded, but the tailor turned to you with a friendly smile before he could disappear again.

“And for you, would you like to try your gown on as well before I pack it away?”

You blinked, suddenly snapped out of your holy-shit-Bucky-hot-hot-hot haze. “My what?”

She gestured toward the row of garment bags. “Mr. Stark sent over your measurements earlier this month. There’s a gown here for you.”

You frowned. “That must be a mistake. I’m just the assistant. None of those are for me.”

The tailor hesitated. “I don’t think so… He was very clear. Your name was attached to the order.”

Before you could argue, Bucky cut in smoothly, like he’d seen this train coming and stepped in to redirect it.

“Tony probably just wanted you to look the part, too,” he said, voice low and casual. “You’ve done all the work, he probably figured you deserved to enjoy the night a little. Might as well try it on, just in case.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t look smug or teasing. Just… earnest. Calm. Like he meant it. Which made it all the harder to protest.

“Fine.” You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face. “Just to check it fits.”

The tailor clapped her hands together. “Wonderful. It’s a beautiful gown, I promise.”

You gave Bucky one last side-eye before following her toward the changing rooms, the fabric bag already in her hands.

From behind, you could hear him chuckle under his breath.

“Just wait 'til you see her,” the tailor murmured to herself, and you weren’t sure whether to be flattered or deeply, deeply nervous.

The gown was heavier than you expected. Luxurious fabric slipped off the hanger like water, pooling in your arms as she handed it over with the kind of reverence usually reserved for wedding dresses.

“I’ll give you a minute,” she smiled, disappearing to finish boxing up the suits.

Left alone in the changing room, you peeled out of your clothes, letting the gown slide on over your hips, your waist, up past your ribs. It clung like it had been sewn directly onto your body, the bodice snug, the neckline just daring enough to make you blush. 

You twisted to try to reach the zipper at the back, fingers fumbling and straining, but the angle was impossible. You spent the better part of five minutes twisting in the mirror like a lunatic, trying to reach the zipper that refused to budge. Your arms ached. The corset bodice was half-fastened. You were flushed, annoyed, and far too aware of the sliver of bare spine still exposed.

You were about to peek your head out and ask the tailor for help when a low voice cut in behind the curtain.

“Need a hand?”

You flinched, fabric clutched to your chest. “Jesus, Bucky! Don’t sneak up on me like that!”

“Didn’t mean to scare you.” His voice was rougher than usual, like he’d just cleared his throat. “Heard you cursing. Tailor said she’d be a minute out back.”

You hesitated, and your voice came out thin. “Yeah. I—I can’t get it up.”

“Okay,” he replied, oddly determined. “Turn around.”

You cracked the curtain open a pinch. He ducked inside, too broad for the narrow space, his frame practically filling it. He was careful not to look at you directly, at least at first.

You turned slowly, presenting your back. “Just the zipper,” you murmured, barely trusting your own voice.

“Sure,”

A single fingertip, cold metal, dragged up from the base of your spine to the dip between your shoulder blades. It barely touched the skin, but you shuddered from the sensation. Bucky wasn’t even fastening yet, just tracing the line the zipper would follow. The sound you made was too soft to catch. 

The zipper came up slowly. Agonisingly. His knuckles brushed your skin every inch of the way, not by accident. No, this was too slow, too precise, to be innocent.

He was savouring it.

His other hand steadied you, palm ghosting just over your hip. His breath fanned warm against your shoulder.

“You’re trembling,” he commented.

You swallowed hard, unable to muster a response. 

When he reached the top, his hand didn’t fall away. Instead, he swept your hair off your shoulder completely, fingertips grazing the line of your throat as he let it fall over one side.

He leaned in. Not touching, but close. Mouth just behind your ear. The heat of his breath against your neck. 

“Should’ve let me help sooner,” he whispered, voice like a purr. “Would’ve had you dressed in seconds.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your lips parted slightly, breath caught somewhere halfway as your lungs deflated in shock. And maybe it was the gown. Or the silence. Or the way your thighs pressed together of their own accord, but you didn’t move. You didn’t step away.

You leaned in.

Only a fraction. Just enough.

He noticed.

You could feel it in the slight shift of his stance. The faint sound of him exhaling a chuckle through his nose. The way his hand brushed ever-so-slightly along the small of your back before falling away.

And then he was gone.

He stepped back like nothing had happened. Like the tension wasn’t choking the air between you. You turned toward the mirror in a daze.

The dress shimmered in the soft light. Deep, elegant, form-fitting. The neckline exposed the curve of your breasts, the slit at your thigh scandalous enough to make you self-conscious.

You caught his reflection in the mirror. He was watching you, but not with the restrained professionalism you were used to. It was only the sudden reentrance of the tailor that made him hesitate in whatever words were forming on his tongue. He stepped aside, finally giving you space to exit. And you did—legs shaky, palms sweating—like a deer walking straight back into the forest fire, pretending it wasn’t about to burn.

—

Your plan to avoid Bucky after the tailor incident had gone off without a hitch, maybe a little too well. You'd buried yourself in helping Tony pull together the final touches for his ‘soirée’ (which, if you were honest, was less soirée and more ‘black tie circus in a penthouse’).

You'd been so laser-focused on your tasks that you'd almost managed not to think about Bucky in that goddamn changing room. His fingers ghosting up your bare spine like a spark setting fire to dry kindling. You’d folded instantly. Your body betrayed you instantly while your brain screamed to keep it together. Pathetic.

The moral implications of whatever that moment had been were filed away for another day. Were you the other woman? Was Natasha going to slit your throat in your sleep? What was Bucky doing, touching you like that—in a public changing room, no less—when he had a bombshell redhead waiting for him back at the Tower?

No time for that now. Not when Tony’s precious ‘soirée’ was already in full swing upstairs and the caterers had somehow forgotten an entire section of the food. You’d scrambled together an emergency order from some overpriced restaurant Tony swore he was ‘basically family’ with, and by some miracle, they came through in the nick of time.

Now you were in damage control mode, hauling three boxes of overpriced canapés up to the penthouse. Your heels bit into your feet with every step, your dress clung too tightly to bend properly without your tits spilling out, and your patience was hanging on by a single goddamn thread.

You pressed the elevator button with your elbow and exhaled as the doors slid open.

Drop off the food. Grab a free drink. Drown your Bucky-related sorrows. Maybe, just maybe, keep the beast between your legs from waking at the mere sight of him.

The doors began to close. You shifted your weight, careful with the boxes balanced in your arms—

Then someone slipped through at the last second.

Him.

Bucky fucking Barnes.

Tall and devastating as usual in his dark navy suit, his tie loosened just enough to suggest mischief, or maybe carelessness. You weren’t sure which one made you feel worse.

Your breath hitched. Instinctively, your gaze dropped to the floor, feigning sudden, all-consuming interest in the stability of your precarious tower of hors d'oeuvres. But teetering stacks of overpriced finger food or not, Bucky didn’t seem inclined to play along with your avoidance act. Not now. Not when the elevator doors had sealed you in together, finally, and you were without escape.

You winced at the sound of his sharp inhale, the question already pressing past his lips before the elevator even jolted into motion.

“Did I do something to piss you off?”

You didn’t look up. Eyes fixed firmly on the floor, you muttered, “What?”

“I just…” His voice was rough. Tired. “It feels like you’ve been avoiding me.”

Shit.

He stepped forward slightly. Not enough to be invasive. Just enough to make your stomach flip.

“You hardly talk to me anymore,” he continued. “Won’t even look at me unless it’s about work. And even then, it’s like you’re somewhere else. Did I do something to offend you? Hurt you? Just tell me what I did so I can fix it.”

The elevator hummed to life beneath your feet, gliding upward smoothly. You shifted your weight, bracing against the cool metal rail, eyes stubbornly fixed on the buttons, anywhere but his maddeningly perfect face.

“You haven’t done anything,” you said quietly, the words tasting sour the second they left your mouth.

“Then why are you doing it now?” he asked, eyes searching yours. “Why won’t you even look at me?”

“Bucky…”

“Please. Just tell me.”

You hesitated. His hand twitched like he meant to reach for your arm, then faltered, falling back to his side. Your grip tightened on the containers, your fingers slick with sweat. “It’s not you,” you murmured. “It’s me… I just…”

He didn’t move. Didn’t even blink.

“Please,” he said again, quieter now. “Tell me the truth.”

And that was what did it. The tremor in his voice. The way his brow creased like he couldn’t stand not knowing. Something broke open inside your chest, raw and unhealed. The dam cracked, split, then gave way completely, and the truth came spilling out before you had the chance to swallow it back down. You were exhausted. Wound tight. Running on fumes and nerves and far too many feelings. You’d tell him, you decided. Then drop off the canapés, quit on the spot, and flee the country if necessary. Stark would write you a killer reference. You’d survive.

“Okay,” you said, breath hitching as a nervous laugh bubbled out, half-bitter, half-resigned. “You want the truth? Fine. You’re going to think I’ve completely lost it.”

He stayed quiet, letting you spiral.

“This is so stupid,” you muttered. “I like you, Bucky. There. I said it. I like you. And it was fine—manageable—until it wasn’t. Until I started imagining things. Thinking maybe… maybe you liked me too.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised but unreadable.

“I’ve had this massive, embarrassing crush on you since the moment I met you. And I know it’s weird, and probably unprofessional because you’re kinda my boss, but not. Technically, Tony’s my boss, but I basically manage everything around here, and—ugh, I’m rambling.” You squeezed your eyes shut. “I like you. And I’ve been avoiding you because it was getting out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. And it felt wrong. Especially since you’re dating Natasha, which just made everything worse—”

“What?” he interrupted, voice sharp. “I’m not dating Natasha.”

Your eyes snapped open. “That’s what you took from all of that?”

“No, I—wait. You think I’m dating Natasha?”

“Yes!” you burst out, cheeks flaming. “I saw you! At the Sunday market about a month ago with the flowers—”

His brow furrowed. “What flowers?”

“The bouquet you gave her.”

“I didn’t give Natasha flowers.”

You let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “I saw you. It was that dumb little market Tony makes me go to for those overpriced vegan pastries Pepper loves—”

Bucky stared at you, confused. And then, slowly, understanding clicked into place. His face contorted like he’d just remembered he’d left his stove on.

“Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “The flowers. Those weren’t for Natasha. They were for Wanda.”

Your heart stuttered. “What?”

“Vision,” Bucky groaned. “It was their anniversary. He was stuck on the phone trying to get a fancy reservation and begged me to pick them up. Natasha tagged along because she was hunting for jewellery for Maria’s birthday. That’s all it was.”

You blinked at him. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” Bucky replied earnestly. “I didn’t know you thought that. I swear, I’m not with Natasha. I never was.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh god.”

“Hey—”

“No. No-no-no.” You squeezed your eyes shut, wanting to sink straight through the floor. “This is mortifying. I literally thought you were in a secret relationship. I’ve been avoiding you like the plague. I’ve been thinking about moving cities. I googled how hard it is to change your name legally.”

He snorted. “You’re not serious.”

You opened your eyes, and the horror must have been plain on your face because Bucky’s expression melted into something far too amused. “Oh, you are.”

“I might never recover from this,” you mumbled. 

“Hey, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“I confessed my undying crush and accused you of being in love with someone else in the span of like, sixty seconds.”

His mouth twitched, lips threatening a smile. “You’re kind of adorable when you’re spiralling.”

“I’m going to chuck these hors d'oeuvres at your head.”

As if mocking your attempt at dignity, the elevator gave a slight mechanical whirr, nearly at the top floor. The distant hum of the party pulsed just beyond those sleek doors.

You straightened suddenly, panic creeping into your chest. “Okay, I’m going to deliver these and then I’m leaving. Possibly forever. Please never speak to me again.”

But Bucky, ever faster than you, stepped in.

And before you could react, he pressed the emergency stop button.

The elevator jolted to a halt. The tower of overpriced hors d'oeuvres wobbled dangerously in your arms. “Oh my god,” you gasped, teetering.

Bucky was already moving, steady hands catching the top box before it could topple, plucking the rest from your shaking grasp. He crouched to stack them on the floor carefully, then rose slowly, smirking as you stood frozen, mouth agape in pure horrified disbelief.

“Bucky, what the hell are you doing?”

“No more running,” he said simply, as if that explained everything.

You could barely breathe. “You stopped the elevator?”

“Didn’t want to risk the doors opening and you disappearing into the night,” he said, a little too pleased with himself.

“I hate you,” you whispered, eyes wide.

He leaned in, just close enough for you to feel his breath. “No, you don’t.”

You were going to die right here in a metal box. With your dignity in ruins and the man of your dumb, desperate daydreams giving you that look.

And somehow, somehow, you didn’t even want to stop him.

“I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer. “Don’t shut down. Please.”

You glanced up at him, finally meeting his eyes and immediately wished you hadn’t. They were dark. Hungry. That gaze alone could melt you to the floor.

He stepped closer again. And again. Until his frame caged in you, his arms braced on either side of your head, the heat of his body swallowing you whole.

“I like you too,” he said, low, rough, like it was pulled from deep inside. “Christ, I was so blind. I didn’t see it. It didn’t click until that day at the tailor, until I saw you in this damn dress.”

Your breath hitched.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmured. “I’ve been looking for excuses just to be near you. I keep the notes you leave me with the stupid little drawings. I like looking at them. Thinking about you.”

Your heart felt like it might crack your ribs.

“I smelled every shampoo at the store one day,” he confessed, almost sheepish, almost proud. “Hoped I’d find the one you use. Because you smell so fucking good. It’s been driving me crazy.”

“Bucky…”

“I don’t know. You make me feel special. Seen. Like I’m not some monster, like I’m normal. And then one day you were just… gone. I didn’t realise all the little things you did for me that I never noticed.” He groaned, somehow pressing closer. “I missed the sound of your voice… and it made it hurt even more… I lie awake at night, every night, thinking about you and how much I want to kiss you—”

“Bucky.” You interrupted, and he looked back at you with a barely contained hunger. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

And then his mouth was on yours.

Hot. Messy. Desperate.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed it whole, groaning as he pressed harder, deeper, hands sliding down to your thighs as he grabbed one and hitched it up around his waist. You clung to his shoulders, lips parted as he slotted himself between your legs, guiding you up until your ass was perched on the elevator’s handrail bar.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth. “Tell me that you want this, tell me that you want me.”

Your head fell back against the wall, lips swollen, breath shaking. His mouth travelled to your jaw, your throat, hands digging into your hips.

It was dizzying. Chaotic. Perfect. 

“I want you, Bucky.” You panted.

“Fuck,” Bucky muttered again, but this time it was different, lower. Hungrier.

His hand slid along your thigh, fingertips brushing beneath the hem of your dress. You panted as he kissed across your collarbone, his breath hot against your skin. His hands settled on your knees, then slowly, deliberately, he spread them apart.

“Bucky—” your voice was barely more than a whisper, a tremble of anticipation and disbelief.

But he didn’t answer. He dropped to his knees.

Right there. In the goddamn elevator.

You almost came on the spot at the sight, lips swollen and slick with saliva, pupils blown, the slight smudge of your lipstick on his chin. His hands slid up the back of your calves, kneading into the flesh like he was savouring the shape of you. Your dress inched upwards, his mouth suddenly pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee.

Your breath hitched. Your hands shot to the railing behind you, clutching tight.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice wrecked with want, “how long I’ve thought about this.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with something dangerous. Devotion, desire, something molten and drowning. Then his mouth moved higher.

Another kiss. Inner thigh this time. Then another, and another, slow, lingering, like he was memorising you. He disappeared until the fabric of your skirt, only the back of his head, dark locks messy peaking out from between the slit. 

You moaned, soft and involuntary, your hips twitching at the heat of his breath through the thin fabric of your panties. He nuzzled in close, his nose brushing against you, and his hands pressed firmly to your thighs to keep you spread.

“I’ve thought about how you’d taste,” he muttered, lips grazing the soaked lace. “How you’d sound.”

You whimpered.

And then, he peeled your panties to the side.

The groan that tore from him was obscene.

“Jesus,” he hissed, voice muffled. “You’re fucking perfect.”

And then, his mouth was on you.

Hot. Wet. Relentless. You cried out, one hand flying to his hair, tangling in it as his tongue licked into you with precision, with hunger, with something close to worship. He devoured you like he was starving. Slow circles, then quick flicks, his mouth dragging across your clit with maddening rhythm. You writhed against the rail, your leg still wrapped around his shoulder, the other trembling against the elevator wall.

“Oh my god—Bucky—fuck—”

Your words slurred together, breath coming in ragged gasps as he groaned into you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. One of his arms snaked around your thigh, pinning you in place, as if he thought you might try to escape. As if he’d let you.

His tongue slid down, dipping into you, then back up, his mouth latching onto your clit with a filthy, wet sound that made your spine arch. You were unravelling, fast, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He pulled back just enough to pant. “I could stay here all night.”

His mouth was merciless. His grip was unrelenting on your thighs, mouth working you over like a man possessed—

Bzzzzt.

A shrill, sudden buzz sounded from the elevator’s emergency panel, followed by a crackling voice.

“Hello? This is Tower Maintenance. We’re registering an emergency stop on lift three. Is there an issue?”

You froze. Every muscle in your body went rigid, as if someone had cracked open your spine and poured ice water down it. Dread spread like frost through your veins. Your heart thudded painfully in your throat, threatening to climb up and out entirely.

You could barely breathe. Could barely think.

This was it. This was how you died—legs spread, Bucky between them, and Tower Maintenance on the fucking line.

Bucky, in sharp contrast, did not freeze.

He groaned softly with wicked glee, his mouth still very much between your legs. The sound vibrated against the most sinful part of you, and then he doubled down. Mouth and hands working with infuriating, diabolical precision, like he’d just taken the intercom as a challenge.

You clamped a hand over your mouth, the other shaking as you reached blindly for the emergency call button, trying not to sound like you were seconds away from being ruined.

Your voice came out like a panicked squeak. “Hi! Uh—h-hi, yes, sorry! Must’ve been a—a small electrical fault. I’m fine! Everything’s… fine!”

Bucky nipped at your thigh in response.

There was a pause. You could feel the suspicion through the line.

“Ma’am, we’re not showing any electrical inconsistencies in that shaft. Did you press the stop button?”

You shot a wide-eyed glare down at the man currently devouring you.

Another wave of pleasure threatened to knock the air from your lungs. You were barely holding it together, every nerve ending aflame, skin flushed, thighs shaking. The cool metal of the elevator wall against your spine did little to ground you.

You cleared your throat, struggling to piece together something—anything—resembling human speech. “Oh. Oh, that—um, I must’ve bumped it. With my elbow. While holding a tray. It’s, uh—crowded. In here.”

Bucky chose that exact moment to suck hard, and you slapped your hand over your mouth to muffle the helpless sound that nearly escaped.

A longer pause. You could practically hear them frowning.

“…Right. Well, we’re releasing the stop now. Please remain calm.”

The line disconnected.

The elevator jolted slightly as it roared back to life.

Bucky gave a dark chuckle. “Crowded, huh?” Then—with zero mercy—he sped up.

“Bucky,” you gasped, head falling back against the wall, “I’m—I’m gonna—”

You shattered.

It hit hard, hot and blinding. You cried out, thighs clamping tight around his head as he groaned against you, mouth not stopping for a second, drawing it out, milking every twitch, every whimper. You barely had time to breathe, let alone moan, your hands flying to steady yourself just as the elevator dinged cheerily and the doors slid open.

Right into the penthouse. Packed full of people, who by some miracle, were utterly oblivious to your predicament. 

You staggered slightly as Bucky stood smoothly, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, one arm slipping around your waist to steady you while the other casually reached down and grabbed the stack of forgotten canapés off the floor like he hadn’t just—

“Evening,” he greeted a passing staff member, utterly unbothered.

You were glowing crimson, pupils blown, lips parted, trying hard to fix your face. Bucky guided you forward, his hand warm on your back, keeping you between him and the crowd as your legs trembled. You barely managed to set the tray on the nearest table before someone whistled.

“Well, damn,” came Sam’s voice from the drinks bar. He gave you both a once-over, a wicked grin spreading. “Buck, next time you’re gonna eat face in the elevator, maybe wipe the lipstick off your chin first.”

Bucky only smirked and licked his bottom lip slow, on purpose, you were sure of it.

You nearly combusted on the spot.

“Bathroom?” he murmured into your ear, low and gravelly.

You nodded quickly and wordlessly.

He guided you with all the smugness of a man who had no regrets, his hand just a little too low on your back to be innocent.

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