arlana-likes-to-write

[arlana-likes-to-write]

YELENA BELOVA BLACK WIDOW (2021) / THUNDERBOLTS* (2025)

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Jagged Edges Meet the Light

Warning: scars, sort of implied self harm, body issues, Reader is a mutant, Yelena is down bad for the reader, angst with comfort, soft!Yelena, post Thunderbolts movie

Word Count: 1.7k

No one really blinked an eye. It was normal, a part of who you were. At first, Walker made jokes and pushed so hard to reveal your secrets. But you ignored him. The long sleeves and pants were part of you. No matter the season, the weather, or the occasion, you wore clothes that covered every part of your skin. Everyone knew this, and Yelena and Bucky made sure you had the tactical suits or dresses for missions in how you liked them.

However, there was a mistake or a lapse in judgment, or maybe it was intentional, but the outfit for your mission was a sleeveless dress that went to your mid-thigh. Valentina was in charge of this mission, and you knew it was why the dress wasn’t correct. It was like she had a vendetta against you.

You sat on the hotel bed and stared at the dress that hung on the bathroom door. It seemed to mock you. Each second that passed, your stomach grew into knots. You could call off the mission, pretend to be sick, or fake an injury, but the mission counted on you.

You were a new member of the team brought on by Valentina after the very public fight against Bob. The target had no idea who you were. “Shit,” you ran your hands over your face, and your legs began to bounce. This could not be happening. Perhaps one day you will be brave enough to show your skin; today was not that day.

The door to the hotel room opened. “Ugh,” Yelena groaned and used her foot to close the door behind her. “I hate stakeout missions.” The blonde was your backup. For at least a week, you would be stuck at this hotel pretending to be an up-and-coming investor. You would go to conferences, dinners, and parties. All to get information on Elias Carter. “Hey, should you be getting ready? You have a reservation at the hotel’s restaurant.”

“I can’t do it,” You said without taking your eyes off this god forsaken dress. Every dinner option had a similar cut, with no sleeves, being short, and highlighting every part you wanted to hide. Yelena walked over to you and sat on the bed.

“What do you mean?” Without looking at the blonde, you pointed to the dress. There was a beat of silence. “Oh,” Yelena huffed. “I am going to kill Valentina.” To your surprise, you barked out a laugh and shook your head. You played with the cuff of your sleeve. There was no time to get a new outfit. So it was either abandon the mission after weeks and weeks of work or suck it up. “Hey,” Yelena nudged your shoulder with hers. “You do not have to do it. We can figure something out.” Finally, you looked at Yelena.

She had a soft smile on her face. There was no pity in her eyes, but understanding, somehow, that made it worse. “You don’t even know why I’m like this.” Yelena shrugged.

“I don’t have to,” she said. “This is a boundary you have, and we should all respect that.” You smiled and leaned back on your hands to stare at the dress. “But you can tell me. I will never judge you. I have no right to.”

You wanted to believe her. So many people have said that to you, but they broke your trust. You couldn’t blame them. It was hard for anyone to handle, even for you. All your mirrors were covered, you had no photos of yourself, and most of the time you changed in the dark. “So you know how I can,” you wiggled your fingers. Yelena nodded. “There is a consequence to my power.”

It was a surprise to everyone that you managed to stay under the radar for so long. SHEILD, Xavier, and the Avengers were always looking for mutants to help with the cause. But you hated using your powers because of the scars that decorated your skin. Only extreme circumstances would you use them. One of those rare circumstances caught the attention of Valentina and the New Avengers.

You could summon chains to bind, drag, or crush anything you targeted. The chains were intangible to others unless you made them solid. The drawback was that each time a chain was summoned, a scar would be branded on your skin. The scars looked like chains. Small usage of your power could leave faint ring-like scars around your wrist or arms. At the same time, longer uses would leave long, dark scars. The chains you used to imprison others imprisoned you, too.

Slowly, you pulled back your sleeve. “They aren’t as dark on my arms and legs, but on my chest and back, it looks like I was burned.” With a gentle hand, Yelena traced the chain-like scars that she could see. You shivered, not used to someone’s touch on you.

“Do they hurt?” She asked and looked at you. Still, her hand was on your arm. It was soft and warm.

“No,” you answered. “They ache sometimes, and when they intentionally appear, they sting.”

“And they appear,” Yelena said slowly. “Every time you use your gift.” Gift, not power or ability, or weird magic trick, Walker called it. Yelena always called what you could do a gift.

“Every time,” you whispered. The blonde frowned suddenly.

“You should have told us. That every time you saved us, it was causing you pain.” You shrugged and pulled your arm back from her grasp.

“It’s a small price to pay if it means the team lives,” you pushed your sleeve down. Another benefit of your power was that you could use it from a great distance. In each battle, the team liked to test how far you could be. You’ve stopped buildings from collapsing, cars from hitting civilians, and captured enemies before the team arrived. “They are just ugly. An eye sore to look at.”

Yelena was quiet. Maybe she finally saw the truth. You were ugly, a freak, a disgusting monster. Those words. Those insults. You were numb to it all. “They are not ugly,” Yelena finally spoke. She stood up and knelt in front of you. She moved your chin to look at her instead of the dress that was taunting you. “They are a part of you, and I do not think you are ugly.” You frowned, eyebrows narrowing at the blonde.

“These,” she continued, rolling up both of your sleeves. “Are a reminder of everything you have sacrificed to save us and so many people.” Once again, her fingers traced over the scars she could reach. You tried to keep your body still, but you still flinched. Yelena was watching you intentionally, capturing every reaction.

There was a set of scars near your right elbow; you got them when you stopped a car from crushing Yelena. You remembered every way you got your scars. It seemed to be part of the curse. Yelena’s fingers dug into that collection of scars. They always seemed to ache, but now they felt good with the way Yelena was massaging them. “Why?” Your voice cracked. “Why are you touching them?”

“Do you want me to stop?” Her hand paused their movement, but they stayed on your skin. As much as the feeling caused anxiety to swirl in your stomach, you liked it. It was different, new, and exciting. You shook your head in a no. Yelena smiled and continued massaging them. “I think you would look amazing in that dress, by the way,” you honestly forgot about the dress and the mission. “But if you are not comfortable, we can figure something out, okay?” You looked at the dress.

A lot was riding on this mission. Weeks of stakeouts, countless meetings, and the information gathered from Carter could save countless lives. “I’ll do it.” You whispered. Before Yelena could protest or say anything else, you stood up and walked into the bathroom. You closed the door and turned on the lights. The light surprised you. It may be time to embrace the scars.

Slowly, you stripped out of your comfort clothes and stared at your reflection. The scars on your stomach were darker. At least there was a positive; the darker ones were the easiest to conceal. Sighing, you put on the dress and left the bathroom without another look in the mirror.

Yelena was sitting on the bed where you sat. Instead of looking at your scars, her eyes were locked on yours. Her smile was soft. “Like I said,” Yelena said. “Beautiful.”

Your body felt warm from the compliment. Rolling your eyes, you ran your hands over the dress and flattened it against your body. “Careful, Belova,” you smiled. “Keep giving me compliments like that, and I will expect them all the time.” Suddenly, she stood up. The blonde was shorter than you, so you looked down as she stood in front of you.

“I will compliment you till my dying breath.” An embarrassing squeak left from the back of your throat. Yelena chuckled. “That was cute.” You pushed her slightly, not hard enough, but she stumbled, as if to be dramatic. Maybe it was her laugh. Perhaps it was her smile or the way she looked at your scars with not disgust or pity but as if they were beautiful. For the first time, you began to believe it.

You weren’t sure who leaned in first but your lips were against her. They were softer than you expected. Her hand moved up your arm and gripped your jaw. Her hold on you wasn’t controlling or possessive. She held you like you were soft and precious. She held you like you were soft and breakable. Your hands found her waist, holding her tight. You could not believe this was happening.

Finally, you pulled away as air filled your lungs. “I’d better get ready,” you whispered. “Don’t want to keep Carter waiting.”

“Right, the mission.” Before she stepped away, she kissed you one last time. “I will be right there, watching your back.” You smiled.

“I know. Thank you.” When people discovered the scars on your body, they recoiled in disgust. You learned to conceal them and hide that part of yourself. But Yelena seemed to be different; she embraced them. The jagged edges finally meet the light, and there is no turning back. And you were going to be just fine.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Couldn't live without you, I guess.

NCIS: Tony & Ziva ↳ 1x01 - NO COUNTRY IS SAFE

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Would love a Yelena X shy fem!reader if possible 🧌

Trinkets

Warning: fluff, no angst, anxious and shy reader, Yelena is down bad for the reader, self-conscious, Reader does not like her family, no usage of y/n, a lot of pet names from Yelena

Word Count: 3.9K

It started with small things. A flower picked from the nearby park. A folded piece of paper into a heart, and notes written on scrap paper. Then it was a necklace for your birthday, a ring on a random Wednesday, and every morning there was a coffee and breakfast on your desk. Before, there was no name to claim responsibility, but now Yelena wrote her name on every gift. For months, she left you little trinkets that made your face bright red and your heart flutter. It made you feel special, nervous, and butterflies in your stomach.

You sat at your desk and smiled at the coffee and pastry. On the napkin, you saw Yelena’s handwriting wishing you a great day. Carefully, you put the napkin in your bag and sipped on your coffee. Perfect. Like always, she got your order correct. Not by asking, but by reading your reaction to past orders. She liked to give you new drinks and through a lot of trial and error, she helped you find your new favorite. “How is the drink?” You looked at the blonde, who was standing at the threshold of the office. She looked good, freshly showered, and in a tracksuit. You had no idea how she had time to get you coffee, deliver it, and make it in time for training. Your brain caught up with you, and you noticed you were staring at her.

“Uh, yes,” you looked away from her. “Thank you. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course,” you heard her footsteps walk the short distance to your desk. It seemed impossible, but you kept your eyes trained on your computer. “Do you know why I bring you coffee?” You shook your head. “So I can see your beautiful smile.” An embarrassing squeak left the back of your throat before you could top it.

“Belova,” thankfully, Pepper appeared out of her office. “Are you distracting my employee?” The blonde looked at the CEO with a smile.

“My presence is never a distraction,” she sent you a wink. “But I will take my leave. I will see you later, beautiful,” she waved at you as she walked away. You were stunned into silence, feeling your body heat up from the compliment.

“Unbelievable,” Pepper chuckled. She walked over to your desk. “I can ban her from coming over here.” You shook your head.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you said. “She’s not that bad.” Pepper looked you over, scanning you for any lies, and nodded.

“If that changes, let me know. I sent you some data that needs to be analyzed before my meeting.”

“Of course! Right on it.” This was what you were good at - organizing and analyzing data, taking notes for Pepper in meetings, and prioritizing her attention. You had been working with the CEO as her assistant for two years. With all the time spent together, you forged a relationship with her more than a boss and an employer. She looked out for you, especially when it came to you being so shy and soft spoken. You mostly faded to the background. In a room full of superheroes, you were obsolete. Yet somehow you captured the attention of a Black Widow.

You, a plain girl from the Midwest, applied to this position to escape her small town. You barely had said two words to the other members of the team. Somehow, Yelena saw you, and that scared you. She made your heart flutter, stomach twist into knots, and smile so big. But why you?

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

At the end of the workday, Yelena was waiting for you. It wasn’t uncommon for her to be here after your shift, but it was rare. Her hands were behind her back, and you eyed her suspiciously. “What?”

“Are you free tonight?” Hours spent talking to her in the morning, you began to pick up on her mannerisms. The always confident Black Widow was now nervous. There was a slight difference in her voice, a hitch that wasn’t usually there.

“Depends,” you answered slowly. “What do you want?” She took a few steps to close the distance and pulled her hand from behind her back. A single red tulip was behind her fingers.

“Let me take you out to dinner,” she said. “Tonight.”

“Oh,” you squeaked. You took the flower from her and looked in her eyes. Her green eyes were like leaves with golden sunlight shining through them. Some days, you found it impossible to hear what she was saying because you were distracted by the colors. “Why?” Her smile faltered, and she narrowed her eyes at you.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I do not understand what you asked.” You huffed and looked at your office window.

“Why me?” You asked again. “I am a nobody, just a random assistant.” For the first time, you saw a dark shadow cross her face, and it startled you. As quickly as it came, it disappeared.

“You are someone,” she whispered. “To me, at least, and I wish I could hurt whoever made you believe that.” You chuckled softly and bit your lip. You believed her. She was asking you out because she wanted to, not out of pity or a joke.

“Okay,” you sighed. “I’ll go to dinner with you.” Her face lit up like a Christmas tree, and you hated how cute it was.

“Perfect. I will pick you up at 6:30, okay?” You nodded. “See you tonight, beautiful.” Finally, you were left alone. What a whirlwind. Now you had to get ready for a date.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Your doorbell rang at 6:25. Leave it to Yelena to arrive early. You pressed your hands down your dress to smooth out the wrinkles and opened the door. There stood the blonde in a dark green two-piece pant suit. The top had a V-neck with her arms bare. It was truly unfair how good-looking she was in anything she wore. “You are staring, sweetheart.” You felt your body heat up.

“Sorry,” you mumbled. Behind her back, she brought out a bouquet.

“For you,” she smiled. “Beautiful flowers for a beautiful girl.” You were never going to get used to the compliments that flowed so easily off her tongue.

“Thank you,” you said as you took the flowers from her. “Please come in. I’ll quickly put these in water.” You stepped out of the way for Yelena to enter. Quickly, you made a beeline for the kitchen. You tried to keep your hands busy while Yelena looked around your space. As soon as you got home, you cleaned just in case she would come inside.

“Your home,” you looked at her as you placed the flowers in the center of the island. “It is warm.”

“Oh.” You weren’t expecting that word to describe the place you lived in. When you first moved to the city, you wanted your home to feel safe and lived in. Unlike your old house, where it felt cold. “Thank you.” You hated how your voice shook at the end. But Yelena only smiled at you. “I’m uh ready,” you grabbed your purse from the hook. You triple-checked that it had everything you needed - a cheap stick, wallet, keys, and phone.

“Let’s go.” When your door locked behind you, Yelena grabbed your hand. The feeling was different but not unwelcome. “Is this okay?” She questioned.

“Yeah,” you smiled. It was okay. Butterflies circled in your stomach, and your heart fluttered, but you liked the feeling of her hand in yours.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Yelena walked back to your door. “I had a really good time.” You said once your door was unlocked. Yelena booked a reservation at a small Italian restaurant. It was quiet, warm, and filled your belly with good food. Time was spent listening to Yelena talk about her time as an Avenger. She caught on early that you weren’t one to talk about your family, but you were happy to listen to her.

Her voice had a way of soothing your anxiety, which was rare. Usually, being the center of attention made your skin crawl. With Yelena, you graved it - wanted it more and more. “So did I. Thank you for saying yes.”

“Thank you for asking.” Now you weren’t sure what to do next. Should you invite her inside? When do you say goodbye? Was she expecting more from you? This was why you never went on dates.

“Well, I will see you tomorrow. Same time as always.” She winked before turning to leave down the stairs.

The only person you told that you were moving to New York right after school was your younger sister. She was the closest thing you had to a best friend. Her only advice was to ‘be brave.’ “Yelena,” she stopped and looked over her shoulder. She waited - patience as ever - for you to gather your bearings. Without thinking, you walked over to her. Her green eyes tracked you the entire time. Standing before her, your sister’s words danced in your head.

Be brave. Be brave. Be brave. Smiling, you kissed her cheek softly. “See you tomorrow.” Her eyes went wide as a blush covered her cheeks. The color looked good on her. Her fingers touched the spot that your lips touched.

“Yeah,” she cleared her throat. “See you tomorrow.” You smiled as she descended the stairs.

The following morning, there was a coffee and a muffin at your desk.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Date nights became more common. It was becoming more common to spend nights by yourself than with the blonde. Movie nights, walks in the park, dinners at small family restaurants, and every morning there was a coffee and breakfast on your desk. She treated you like a princess, and it was the happiest you’ve been.

Because of this thing with Yelena, you found yourself around the Avengers more. They were loud, energetic, but welcoming. They respected the fact that you were quiet and liked to stand on the outside of the party. It was why you became close with Bucky. Both you and the super soldier could exist in silence. Still, there were moments you wondered why she picked you. You continued to compare yourself to the heroes around you. But she saw you. No matter who else was in the room, her eyes were on you.

At this point, the voice on the phone was going on and on. It was an important meeting with potential partners, but the man was more interested in hearing himself speak than Pepper. You were there to take notes and send documents to Pepper to support her claims because these men never believed her. You had to give it to her. Pepper was holding her own and not getting frustrated.

You looked up at the sound of footsteps. Even seeing the blonde made you smile, but you held up your finger and pointed to the phone. Yelena understood and sat in the empty chair next to you. Her head rested on your fingers, and you ran your fingers through the loose strands of hair. Yelena smiled and wiggled happily in her chair. The action made you smile, and you focused back on the call.

Finally, it was done. You said your farewells and hung up. “Gods,” you mumbled and rubbed your temples. “I hate white men.” Yelena chuckled. Her breath on your skin tickled. But she moved her head and used her hands to dig into the knots on your shoulders. You melted. The tension left your body. “You have magically hands.”

“They can be magically elsewhere,” you heard the smirk in her voice. “But we have to keep it PG or Pepper will have my head.” Her suggestion was not lost on you. You pushed her away as embarrassment crept up your neck.

“I don’t like you,” you mumbled and rolled further away from her.

“Baby.�� You kept your eyes on your screen. “Beautiful.” Yelena’s hands were on your sides. “Sweetheart.” You huffed and looked at her. “Hi.” She smiled. Rolling your eyes, you couldn’t help but smile.

“What do you want, Lena?” You asked. “Shouldn’t you be at training?”

“I finished early, so I can come see you,” you raised an eyebrow at her. “And to ask you something.” There it was. “Kate is planning a night out with some of the younger members. They want you to come.” Oh. You weren’t expecting that, especially since clubs and bars weren’t really your scene.

“Do you want me to come?” You questioned.

“I always want you.” You huffed and rolled your eyes. Sometimes you felt small underneath her gaze. “But I understand if you do not want to. I could go for one drink and come see you after.” You frowned. As much as going out filled you with anxiety, it was something the team did regularly. You’ve listened to many stories from Pepper about how she had to save them from their drunken shenanigans. Now that you were dating Yelena, you were part of the traditions. Sighing, you bite your lip.

“I’ll go.”

“Oh. OH!” It was funny to watch Yelena try to school her features, but her excitement was pulsing off of her. “Amazing. We can ride to the bar together,” she stood up and kissed your cheek. “I will go tell Kate. See you later?” She questioned. You nodded.

“Bye, Lena.” The blonde waved goodbye, and she took off. You chuckled and focused back on your work. That Black Widow. She was going to be the death of you.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

“Just stay the night,” you told her behind your shoulder as you stepped into your apartment. “It’s late,” you heard the door close as you filled a glass of water. Your throat was dry from the few drinks you had and talking over the music. The night was fun. You spent a large portion of the night sitting at the table with Yelena’s arm wrapped around your waist. You sipped on the drinks that the blonde got for you and watched the members of the team dissolve into chaos. Kate even managed to pull you onto the dance floor. Lucky, Yelena came to save you.

“Are you sure?” Yelena asked. “I do not mind going back.” You smiled.

“I insist,” you said. “I have some clothes that you can wear and an extra toothbrush.” Yelena huffed, and the sound had you rolling your eyes. You placed the glass in the sink to be dealt with in the morning and walked over to her. Maybe you could blame it on the alcohol. But you felt bolder. You placed your hand over her heart. “Don’t overthink it. Just come to bed with me.” Yelena groaned and threw her head back.

“You can not say stuff like that, detka (babe),” you huffed. Before she could make another snarky comment, you grabbed her hand and led her to your bedroom. Your night routine was simple. Change out of the clothes. Wash your face, then brush your teeth. Finally, you lay under the covers as you waited for Yelena.

The mindless scrolling on your phone helped take your mind off the fact that Yelena was a room away and going to sleep next to you. The butterflies swirled in your stomach, but it was curved with excitement.

The bathroom door opened, and you looked at Yelena as you placed your phone on the side table. Her hair was in a loose braid, and she looked softer in the clothes you gave her. With a smile, you pulled the covers back to make space for the Black Widow. Her movement was slow, calculated, like she was giving you every opportunity to change your mind. Finally, she lay down and pulled the blanket over her. She moved to her side and faced you, arm bent at the elbow with her head in her hand. “Have I ever told you?” Yelena whispered. You were resting on your back so you turned your head to look at her. “You are the most beautiful girl in the entire world.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled and rolled your eyes. “You are just saying that because you are in my bed.” Yelena shook her head.

“I am saying it because it is the truth.” With her free hand, she took yours. Her lips gently pressed to the back of your hand. You gave her a shy smile.

“You are very special, Yelena,” you whispered. “Can you maybe hold me?” Her face softened.

“Yeah, of course, baby,” you turned over until your back was to her. Her arm went around your waist and pulled you flush to her. You felt her breath against your neck as goosebumps formed on your skin.

“Good night, Yelena.” Her lips grazed a spot on your shoulder not covered by your shirt.

“Goodnight.” It was the fastest you’ve fallen asleep.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Yelena woke up to a weight on her chest. As her eyes fluttered open to take in her surroundings, she realized she was not in her room at the tower. Before panic could settle in her stomach, the smell of floral body wash invaded her senses. Fast asleep on her chest was you. There was definitely dried drool on your cheek, and soft snores that escaped past your mouth made Yelena smile. This was the most at peace she’s seen you, and that made you ever more gorgeous. While you slept, it appeared you were finally able to let your guard down.

The few months of this ‘thing’, you were slowly becoming more open around her. You were shy; no one would argue against that. But the more time you spent around her, Yelena truly believed you made yourself smaller on purpose. Like you were afraid of the attention. But Yelena saw you when you thought no one was looking.

The smile you wore when you were engrossed in a good book. The way your eyebrows scrunched together while you concentrated on a task that Pepper gave you. On rare occasions, she would catch you laughing, and that sound would replay in her head. So, she began to leave you notes, then breakfast at your desk, and little gifts to see you smile. Finally, she got the courage to ask you out, and you said yes. Even though she was free from the Red Room, she finally felt like she was living when she was with you.

Sighing, she kissed the top of your head. You sighed happily in your sleep and nuzzled closer to her. The action made Yelena’s heart leap. For the longest time, she saw herself as a monster. So much blood soaked her hands that she hated the color red. When she was with you, she felt she was capable of being loved.

The clock on your nightstand read 8:15. It was Saturday morning, and neither of you had any plans. Still, Yelena wanted to surprise you with breakfast and coffee, which meant she had to leave the comfort and warmth of your bed.

With expert precision, she was able to untangle herself from you and slip out of the bedroom. Cooking wasn’t in her wheelhouse of skills, so she ordered food, but she could make coffee. While she waited, she walked around your apartment. Your space was welcoming. The walls were covered by local artwork. Pillows covered your couch, and there were half-used candles around. It was lived in, loved, and Yelena found herself feeling more at home here than she did in her own room.

As she was looking for a lighter to light some of your candles, she found a notebook with the Black Widow logo on it. More specifically, it was colored white against the dark green cover. It felt wrong, but Yelena picked it up and flipped it to the first page. Her stomach flipped. Glued carefully to the center of the page was a note, in her handwriting, that wished for you to have a great day. It was the first note she gave you. Now she was drawn to the contents of what else was hidden in the pages of the journal. Some pages just had a note or a flower she gave you that you pressed and saved. Other pages had little doodles or notes you wrote about your day. Every little thing you kept - down to the sticker of your coffee orders or the wrapping paper your gift was packaged in.

Truthfully, Yelena thought you threw the notes away, but you kept them and took the time and care to create this journal. A knock at your door caused her to jump. Quickly, she put the notebook back and rushed to the door. She thanked the deliveryman with a smile and closed the door with her hip.

There was a pep in her step as she grabbed some plates and poured coffee into mugs. “Did you cook?” Yelena glanced at you from where your voice was heard. You were leaning against the wall, your shirt a little lopsided, and you rubbed the sleep out of your eyes.

“No,” Yelena chuckled. “I ordered, but you were supposed to be in bed when I was done here.” You gave her a soft smile and walked the few steps towards her. “Good morning, beautiful.” Yelena would never get tired of complimenting you. You weren’t used to it. Your nose would crinkle up, and Yelena could see the heat rise to your cheeks. It seemed natural for Yelena to lean forward and capture your lips.

You were addicting. Every time you kissed her, her brain would turn to mush. It wasn’t her intention for the kiss to deepen, but your back was pressed against the counter. You ended it. Cheeks flushed and chest rising up and down as you stared at her. “What was that for?”

“Just wanted to,” Yelena smiled and handed you your coffee. “Better eat it while it’s warm.” Breakfast was eaten at the small table you had that faced the window. While you talked about the plans for the day, Yelena kept her hand on your thigh. She listened intently because she saw you just as you saw her.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

HIIIII

I love your writing sm!!

I was wondering if you could do one where reader is blackhill’s daughter and they got stranded on a mission and nearly frozen to death? And Nat or Maria are panicking and worried trying to find her and bring her home and trying to comfort/heal/look after her? Cause yk hypothermia lol. Just loads of comfort, loads of cuddling, and loads of angst pls?

TYSMMMMM

Mama, I'm Cold

Warnings: angst, angst with a happy ending, broken bones, hypothermia, fluff, near death experience, mention of death.

Pairings: Natasha Romanoff x Maria Hill, Blackhill x daughter!reader

Word Count: 3.2K

You’ve never felt this way before. This cold felt never-ending, seeping into your bones. The wind was harsh against your face. The fabric you used as a makeshift scarf provided very little protection. All you wanted to do was lie down and go to bed. But you kept walking through the knee-high deep snow and the blustering wind. Every step you took was getting you closer to safety, closer to seeing your moms again.

They kept you going. Memories of their hugs, their warmth, and their love kept the cold away. A pained laugh escaped your lips as you managed to picture your moms yelling at Steve and Tony.

The cold provided you with some relief. It numbed your broken arm that was cradled to your chest. That was the worst of your injuries, that you knew of at least.

Finally, you saw your salvation - a small cave. You quickened your pace and prayed to whatever God was listening that it was empty and dry. Natasha’s voice echoed through your head, ‘Breathe through it. Breathe through the pain, the panic, the fear. Keep breathing because that means you are alive.’

You breathed through the pain, the cold, and the fear. And you made it. The cave was dry, still cold, but at least you were protected from the wind. The chattering of your teeth filled the silence as you slid down the cave. Your fingers were numb as you pulled out your phone. Typing the number was muscle memory at this point, and you listened to it ring. She answered on the second ring, “Sweetheart.”

“Hi, Mom,” you winced, pain shooting through your leg. There was rustling on Maria’s end. You barely understood what she was saying, but you managed to hear, ‘I have her. She’s alive.’

“Princess,” Natasha’s voice made you smile.

“Hi, mama,” you answered.

“Agent, what is your position?” You weren’t expecting Fury to be in the meeting. On instinct, you straightened your back.

“About 15 clicks from the Randevu point,” you tried to picture the map you stared at for hours before the mission. “North-east, sir, I think.” Too much thinking was causing your head to pound. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain was becoming overwhelming. “I wasn’t followed, but I don’t know if anyone else survived.” There were more voices, talking over one another, but you allowed yourself to drift. You needed energy to survive.

Arm, broken. Concussion, possible. At least a bruised ankle. Hypothermia had not set in yet. You were cold, but you weren’t disoriented or confused. “Sweetheart,” your eyes closed on their own. You hummed. “Stark found the cave.”

Tony found the cave, which meant they were coming for you. You strained your ears. Natasha was yelling, not at you but the team. Your brain only picked up a few words. Severe weather. Storm. No fly zone. You were able to piece together the argument; it was too dangerous to send a rescue mission.

Fuck. You were so tired. The only sound was your breathing, which meant you stopped shivering. That was not good. Could you have slipped into moderate hypothermia so quickly? “M-mama,” you whimpered.

“Yeah, baby girl, I’m right here.” Your body felt heavy. Your head was limp to the side.

“M-mama,” you said again. “Mama, I’m so cold.”

“I know, baby, I know,” Natasha said. “Just keep breathing through it, and we will be right there.” You nodded. It was so hard to keep your eyes open.

“Mom,” you found yourself saying. “Can we get a dog?” The agent started laughing. The sound made you open your eyes.

“Of course, we can get a dog.” You frowned. Why would they want a dog? They were cat people. Cats. They were okay. You liked the ones on Uncle Clint’s farm. Oh! You wished you had some of Aunt Laura’s pasta. She was a great cook. Wait. Something was wrong.

“I’m tired,” you mumbled. “I’m going to bed.”

“No, princess,” Natasha said suddenly. “You can’t sleep. You have to stay awake.”

“Mama, I’m tired,” you whined. “Just wake me up when dinner is ready.” They were talking. Maybe there was yelling, but Maria was talking to you. But the exact words weren’t reaching you. There was a ringing in your ears. Black spots covered your vision. You were going to die in this cave, millions of miles away from your moms and the people you loved. You were oddly okay with it. Natasha and Maria gave you a great life. You loved them so much. You tried to tell them, wanted them to know.

Everything felt too heavy. A few minutes of sleep would be good. That was all you needed.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

The voices were muffled, but they woke you up nonetheless. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and glanced at the clock. It was 0930, a lot later than you usually would sleep in, but today was special. Today was your birthday, which meant no training, no meetings, and no mission reports.

You stretched your arms over your head and heard your shoulders pop. The training the past few days has been brutal. You were excited for this day off to rot. You slipped out of bed and walked out of your room.

The fresh smell of coffee drew your attention first. Instead of going over, you watched the scene in front of you. Maria was at the stove. Natasha had her arms wrapped around her waist, and every time the agent tried to escape, the Black Widow held tighter. The radio was on a classical music station that you hated, but Natasha loved. The redhead was moving Maria to the song that was playing.

Their love was beautiful. It was simple and sweet. Their love was something you wanted one day.

Finally, you noticed the wrapped presents on the counter. Weeks leading up to your birthday, they were on your case about what you wanted. You could never give them an answer because you had everything you wanted. “Princess,” Natasha finally noticed you. She was quick to pull you into a hug. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thanks, Mama,” you hugged her back.

“Breakfast should be done shortly,” Maria said as you managed to untangle yourself from the Avenger. You jumped to your spot at the kitchen island. “If your mama would stop distracting me.” The redhead gasped and poured some coffee into a mug. She made it how you liked it and put it in front of you.

“You love when my hands are on you.” Natasha kissed Maria with her hands on the agent’s lower back. You scrunched your nose. Yeah, you loved their love, but not like this.

“You know I do, just not in our kitchen in front of our daughter.” You chuckled at the pout on Natasha’s face. “Happy Birthday.” Maria finally said to you. You thanked her with a smile.

The food was simple: scrambled eggs with fruit and bacon on the side. But it was filled with laughter and love. Natasha was in charge of the dishes, and the presents were in front of you at the small coffee table in the living room. There was a total of 4 boxes - 3 were relatively the same size and one was smaller. “Two are from your mom and me, the smaller one is from Yelena, and the other one is from Melina and Alexei,” Natasha explained.

“You know,” you took the smaller one. “You didn’t have to get me anything.” Maria rolled her eyes.

“Please, you’ll have to get used to getting presents every birthday and holiday.” You smiled and ripped the wrapping paper off your aunt’s present. You were now holding a white jewelry box that you slowly opened. Inside was a ring. You took it out and placed it on your right hand. It was beautiful—a simple gold band with a purple gemstone.

“It’s amethyst,” you looked at the Black Widow, then to her right hand. An identical ring was on her finger. “To some, amethyst is a powerful stone used for protection. To deflect negative energy and promote spiritual healing.” She rolled her eyes slightly as if she had trouble believing it. “I have one, your aunt has one, and so does Melina.”

“I love it,” you smiled. “Can I open another one?”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

A sharp gasp of pain forced you awake. The line from your phone went dead even though you were still holding onto it. You dropped it and went to grab onto a necklace that wasn’t there. Right. Your mom told you to leave it in your room.

Maybe it wasn’t so far off that amethyst was used for protection. Perhaps if you wore it, you would live to see another sunset.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Sudden movement caused you to wake up. You tried to open your eyes, but it took too much energy. The cotton in your ears seemed to unclog. “We need to remove her clothes.” That was Natasha’s voice.

“Mama,” you mumbled. Your eyes were still closed, but you moved your head.

“Yeah, princess, it’s me,” Natasha’s voice was soft, warm, and loving.

“Am I-?”

“No,” her voice was stern as she cut you off. “You are safe, and your mom and I are getting you warmed up. Belova,” she called out. “We need more blankets.” Auntie Lena was here. She and Mama weren’t on the best of terms. Sometimes you heard her and Mom arguing about it. You tried to sit up.

“Sweetheart,” that was Maria. Her hand was gently against your bare chest. The warmth from her skin caused you to shiver. “I need you to stay down.” Finally, you were able to open your eyes. It took a few blinks to focus your vision, but soon everything came into view. You were still in the save. The wind was howling outside. A flash of red covered your vision as Natasha’s hair curtained around you. She placed something soft behind your head. When she sat back, her eyes locked onto yours. The relief was immediate.

“Hi, princess,” you looked to your right and saw Maria. There were snowflakes in their hair, and their skin was flushed from the cold. The sound of footsteps came to a rushing halt.

“Here,” Yelena threw the blanket at her sister. The soft fabric was warm and comforting when she placed it over you. “We need to stabilize her leg before we move her.”

“Unbelievable,” Maria mumbled. “I can’t believe she walked 10 miles with a broken leg.” Broken. No. That wasn’t right. Your ankle was just sprained. You were fine, and you tried to sit up to show them.

“No,” Natasha said firmly and pushed you back down. “Stay lying down and stop moving.” You whimpered as Yelena touched your leg.

“Sorry, little one,” the blonde smiled. “I will be quick, but you are strong just like your mamas.” You nodded. Your moms were the strongest people you knew. You could be strong like them.

But you must have lost consciousness again because you woke up on the jet, sandwiched between Natasha and Maria. Finally, finally, you were warm.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Natasha was not leaving your side. Regardless of whether Helen or anyone else on the medical team said your vitals were stable. Even when Fury or Steve wanted to yell at her and Maria for violating a direct order, they stayed. Sometimes they would lie in the extra bed that Helen brought them. Most of the time, it was in the chairs by your bed or cuddled up next to you. The only person she allowed to watch over you when she needed to shower was her sister, which was a surprise to everyone, including herself.

It has been 2 weeks since your mission near Fort Simpson in the Northwest Territories of Canada. You were a great agent, but Natasha still worried. It made matters worse when Maria told her they lost contact with your team. Tony’s drone found the wreck with dead SHEILD and Hydra agents, but you weren’t there. The storm covered your tracks, and they had to wait helplessly for any sign that you were alive.

Then your call came, and it gave Natasha a glimmer of hope. Until Fury dismissed a rescue mission because of the weather, and Steve sided with him. Natasha and Maria shared one look, and they left. She called her sister on the way.

Somehow, someway, you survived hypothermia, a broken arm and leg that required surgery, a mild concussion, and a gun fight that caused the car to explode. Natasha wasn’t a religious person, but she prayed when you were in surgery.

Now she lay in your hospital bed. Mindful of all the cords and cast that were helping you heal. Helen wasn’t worried about your two-week coma. Your body needed time to heal and recover, but Natasha was getting anxious. She was counting each breath you took and noting how many times your chest went up and down.

Maria sat in the chair, hand wrapped around your hand that wasn’t cast. She was asleep, head resting on your bed. The position was not comfortable, but at least she was sleeping.

It was like she jinxed it because Maria shot up suddenly. Eyes wide and breathing frantically. “It’s okay, my love,” Natasha reached for her hand over you. Maria took it. “Just a dream.” Her girlfriend nodded and kissed her hand, then your forehead.

“I need her to wake up,” Maria admitted.

“She will,” Natasha whispered. “She’s breathing, which means she’s still fighting.” The door to your room opened. She kept her eyes on Maria and you as she recognized the sound of her sister’s footsteps. There was the smell of spaghetti that caused her stomach to knot from hunger.

“Any update?” Yelena asked and handed her and Maria a plate. With her hands free, Yelena rested them on your cast. It was strange to see how soft you made the blonde. She wasn’t a constant in your life, but Yelena loved you in her way. Natasha carefully stood up and sat down to eat.

“Nothing,” Maria moved the food around her plate. “If her condition goes unchanged, Cho wants to do a CT.” Yelena frowned.

“At least she is home.” The blonde whispered. Home. You were home, but it wasn’t good enough for Natasha. She needed to see your smile, hear your laugh, and hug you until she was forced to let go. Yelena moved to the side she was on and pulled a necklace out of her pocket. Natasha recognized it right away. The ring Yelena got you for your most recent birthday was put on a chain. You weren’t the biggest fan of rings, but you would wear it as a necklace.

Carefully, Yelena lifted your head and placed the necklace around your neck. She was smiling down at you. “She is strong,” Yelena mumbled. “It runs in the family.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You weren’t sure what woke you up. There was a heavy pressure on your chest and fingers brushing through your hair. Maybe it was the warmth you were feeling. It was becoming uncomfortable. Slowly, your eyes opened, and you blinked away the drowsiness that blurred your vision. You weren't in medbay but in your parents’ apartment at the compound. The heavy weight on your chest was Natasha’s head. She asleep.

As you got older, you learned her breathing pattern to determine when she was asleep. It was easier to sneak into the kitchen that way.

Which meant it was Maria’s hand through your hair. How long were you out? Slowly, you moved your head to face your mom. Her stopped. Oddly, the gesture was comforting, and you missed it. “Sweetheart?”

“Mom,” you mumbled. “I’m warm.” Maria laughed, tears pooling in her eyes.

“Yeah, sweetheart, but it’s better than being cold.” You shifted slightly. The slight movement caused Natasha to bolt straight up. Her eyes flickered to Maria, then back to Maria, then back to you.

“Hi,” you managed. “Can I have some water? Please.” Natasha was frozen. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish. “Mama? Are you-?” Her hands were on you in a flash. Gently burning you into her arms for a hug. Her body shook against yours, but you felt no tears. It was as if she was finally breathing without pressure against her chest. “How long?” You asked. Natasha shook her head.

“It doesn’t matter,” she gently laid you back down. “All that matters is you’re awake and safe.” Maria brought a cup of cold water to your lips. You greedily drank it all.

“5 weeks,” Maria answered your question. Your head snapped to look at her. 5 weeks?! You were out for 5 weeks. Jesus. There was no way in hell your moms were going to let you go on a mission again.

“Shit,” you mumbled. That pulled a laugh from your moms. “I love you both.” Maybe it was the touch of death that was making you emotional or the way both of your moms had tears in their eyes. You’ve never seen them cry.

“We love you too,” Maria whispered.

“So, so much.”

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Helen came to visit you. She tested your lungs, removed the EKGS on your chest, and gave you clear instructions to rest and listen to your moms. She would schedule to remove the feeding tube in a few days.

Feeding tube. Surgery to fix your arm and leg. Possible tissue, organ, or respiratory issues due to the hypothermia, but it was too early to tell.

Right now, you were between Maria and Natasha. This time, it was your head against Natasha’s chest, listening to the sound of her heart. It was awkward, a little uncomfortable with your casts, but you felt safe. You broke the silence with a heavy sigh and a weird craving for pasta. More specifically, your Aunt Laura’s pasta. “What is it, sweetheart?” Maria asked.

“When I’m better, can we go visit Uncle Clint? I want some of Aunt Laura’s pasta.” Natasha chuckled.

“Of course, princess,” the Black Widow kissed your forehead. “You can have anything you want.” You smiled, snuggling closer to her, but you frowned. Something was nagging at you. You gasped, whipping around. Maria grunted when your cast came into contact with her stomach.

“Shit, kid, careful with that weapon.” Your eyes went wide.

“Oops, sorry,” you turned to face Maria. This time, be more careful with your cast. “You said we could get a dog.” Maria blinked at you, slowly, as if she was processing what you said.

“We’ll discuss it when you heal.” It was better than nothing, so you lay back down. You stared at the cast on your arm. It was signed by your moms, aunt, and other members of the team.

“There was a moment,” you started. “That I thought I was going to die in that cave.” You forced a small smile. “And I was okay with it because the life you gave me was something I could never imagine.”

“You are our missing piece.” Natasha pushed some of your hair out of your face.

“No matter the mission,” you turned your head to look at Maria. “No matter the danger, your mama and I will always find a way to you.” You smiled, grabbed their hands, and rested them on your chest. With your eyes closed, you fell asleep easily, knowing your moms were there to keep you safe.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

It´s nothing

pairing: yelena belova x fem!reader

summary: yelena is dragged into the medbay with a bullet wound in her hand and a bad mood to match. you’re the avenger´s medic. what starts as a simple check-up turns into something more as you slowly find your way into her heart.

word count: 2.7k

warnings: emotional vulnerability, minor injury, mentions of medical care and treatment, slight swearing

an: there are NOT ENOUGH YELENA FICS. why is it that I go to the tag and see every character but her?? this fic is my contribution to fix that injustice. also shoutout to the medics out there, i tried to do some research, but not sure if it´s correct:D

part one | part two

The doors to the med wing burst open. You glance up from your desk, pen pausing mid-note. It’s never good when someone enters like that.

"(Y/N)!" Kate Bishop’s voice rings out before you even spot her. She’s grinning, breathless, and flanked by Natasha Romanoff on one side and between them, a very scowly blonde with a bleeding hand.

"Please," the blonde mutters, "I can walk. I am not a potato sack."

"Could’ve fooled me," Natasha deadpans, barely breaking stride as she drags her by the arm, "you’re leaking all over the hallway."

"I’m fine."

Kate gestures toward the nearest exam table. "She’s not fine."

You raise an eyebrow and stand, already pulling on gloves, "what can I help you with?"

Before Romanoff can answer, the blonde, who you now recognize as Yelena, her sister, new Avenger and walking embodiment of resistance to medical care, answers flatly.

"Nothing. Thank you."

You blink once. Then glance at her arm, soaked glove, torn fabric, blood trailing down to her wrist. Then back at her unimpressed stare.

"…Right."

"Sit down," Natasha orders, giving Yelena a little shove toward the exam table.

"I said I’m-"

"Injured," you finish for her, calmly setting out antiseptic and bandages, "which is sort of my whole thing."

"I do not need your-"

"Sit," Natasha says again, this time with the terrifying big sister voice. Even you straighten a little.

Yelena reluctantly hops onto the table, muttering something in Russian under her breath. You’re ninety percent sure it translates to some swear words.

Kate leans against the counter beside you, arms crossed. "Mission in Riga went sideways. Some idiot with a rooftop sniper popped off early. We got the civilians out, but someone," she tilts her head toward Yelena, "decided catching a bullet was a solid tactic."

"I was covering your blind spot," Yelena snaps.

"And we love you for it," Kate sings sweetly, patting her knee.

You try not to laugh, biting the inside of your cheek as you clean around the wound. Yelena stiffens like you’re threatening to amputate. "I’m just cleaning it," you assure her.

"You’re poking at it."

"That’s how cleaning works," you say dryly.

She scowls harder.

You glance at the entry wound and sigh. "Few inches to the left and we’d be having a very different conversation, miss Belova."

That earns you an annoyed look. But she quiets. Not from pain, you sense, but from guilt. Silence spreads around, everyone just looking at Yelena´s arm and you stitching her up. But there is some tension you can´t really shake away. You can tell, especially from Yelena herself since her muscles are very tight.

"I ruined the mission," she mumbles.

"Yelena," Natasha says, exasperated. "You saved a kid from getting shot. The only thing you ruined was your suit."

Kate leans closer to you, whispering behind her hand. "She’s been dramatic about this for like twenty minutes. It’s kinda cute."

You smile, just a little, "like a dog before the vet?"

"Exactly!" Kate says, that makes you smile once again.

"I can hear you," Yelena grumbles.

You pat her wrist gently, "you were lucky. But let’s not make it a habit."

She doesn’t respond, but her eyes linger on your face a beat longer than necessary. You feel your heart flicker. Uh-oh. What- no.

You secure the last piece of bandage over Yelena’s palm with practiced ease. "There," you say softly, smoothing the edge with your thumb. "No nerve damage, just a clean graze. It’ll need a check-up in two days to make sure there’s no infection."

Yelena rolls her eyes, "I’ll live."

"That’s the idea," you reply with a faint smile. "Two days, miss Belova. Don’t make me hunt you down."

"She will," Kate chimes in, arms crossed again like she's giving a ted talk in the corner of your medbay. "I’ve been hunted."

You glance at her, amused, "you tripped on your own bowstring and fell from a second floor."

"It was one time!"

"Twice," you and Natasha say at the same time.

Kate scowls. "Betrayal. Anyway-" she turns back to Yelena, "You heard the medic. Been there, done that. If you don’t show up, Fury’s gonna kick your ass and make you file incident paperwork for the next six weeks."

Yelena frowns, "I do not do paperwork."

"Then let (Y/N) help you. She's very good at lying for us in the report," Kate grins. "Right, doc?"

You shrug, mock-innocent, "I don’t recall anything unusual. Miss Belova bravely sustained a minor injury in the course of protecting civilians."

Yelena’s eyes flick toward you again, slightly less stormy now. "You’re good at this."

You glance up, "patching people up?"

She holds your gaze, "making it not feel so horrible."

…Oh. You weren’t expecting that.

Kate, apparently catching the subtle shift in tone, chooses that moment to stretch. "Well! My work here is done. Nat, you owe me ten bucks, she didn’t bite anyone."

"I never agreed to that bet," Natasha says as she heads for the door.

Kate waves a hand, "details."

You follow them to the door, letting Yelena slide off the exam table behind you. She still holds her hand a little awkwardly, like it feels unfamiliar now.

"Two days," you remind her gently, "same time."

Yelena stops beside you, "okay."

...

You glance at the clock. She’s fifty minutes late. Not that you’re watching the clock or anything. Not that you’ve already replayed the conversation in your head once. Or twice. Maybe three times.

You’re starting to wonder if she bailed when the door finally swings open, just a little too hard, like it lost an argument on the way in.

Yelena steps inside, hoodie half-zipped, blonde hair slightly slicked back. Not dramatically injured. Just… tired.

You look up from your desk, "I was afraid you wouldn’t show up," you say lightly. "I almost started hunting you down."

She shrugs, gaze flicking to the floor and back again, "had to deal with something."

You nod, not pushing. But even if she hadn’t said it, you’d know. Something's off. Her whole posture is different, less sharp-edged and more… slouched in on itself.

"Come on," you say gently, and motion to the same exam table.

She sits without protest this time, but she doesn’t meet your eyes.

You unwrap the bandage and examine the healing wound. It’s clean, no signs of infection, the scab smooth and pink.

"Looks good," you murmur, carefully rotating her hand. "Healing fast. No swelling. I’ll rewrap it, but you should let it breathe a little at night."

Yelena nods, but doesn’t say anything.

You glance up again. Still that silence. Still that weight in her shoulders, like she’s wearing something too heavy for one person.

You clear your throat softly. "There’s some scar cream I can recommend. Stuff Nat probably never used, but it helps. I’ll print out a sheet with tips for minimizing scarring, heat, pressure, massage, all that."

Another nod.

You start to wrap her hand again, slower this time. More deliberate. Then you stop. "One more thing," you say gently, looking up at her. "Are you okay?"

That finally gets her attention. She lifts her eyes to meet yours. And something in them flickers, confusion, hesitation, like she’s not sure how to lie to you and not sure how to tell the truth, either.

Yelena exhales, sharp and shallow.

"The mission was stupid," she mutters. "And now I have pain in my ass from the people upstairs asking why I didn’t save three buildings while juggling a bunch of agents on my own. So. Just a total failure. Very exciting. Five stars."

You smile, but it’s a sad one, "sounds exhausting."

"They sit on their asses and yell about tactics from ten floors above ground," she mutters. "Like.... like it is chess. But it is not chess. It is people bleeding. People panicking. And I’m out there trying not to get everyone killed."

You don’t say anything right away. You just take her hand in yours again and finish wrapping the bandage, not rushed, not clinical. Careful. Gentle. Like someone seeing the person beneath the bruises.

"I’m sorry," you say quietly. "You don’t deserve that."

Yelena stares at you. Just for a second. Like no one’s ever said that to her before. Or like no one’s ever meant it. Yelena’s voice is quiet, barely more than breath, "thank you."

You glance up from her hand, surprised by the softness in her tone. But her eyes aren’t on the bandage. They’re on you. You nod once. A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, "anytime."

...

You’re sorting inventory when the door to the medbay opens. You don’t even turn around at first. "You’re early for your check-up," you call over your shoulder. "It’s not for another-"

You pause as you turn and see her. Her stance is stiff, and there’s something off in the way she’s holding her shoulder, slightly hunched, as if she's trying to pretend it doesn’t hurt while also not being able to stop it from hurting.

Your tone softens, "oh."

She doesn’t say anything. Just steps inside, closes the door quietly behind her, and stands there like she’s not sure if this was a good idea.

"What happened?" you ask gently, already reaching for gloves.

She shakes her head once, "It´s nothing bad."

You raise an eyebrow, "right. Paper cut is nothing bad,” you motion to the table. "Suit off. Let me see."

Yelena hesitates for just a second, then wordlessly begins peeling back the upper half of her tactical suit. You do your best not to watch too closely as the fabric shifts down her arm, revealing the bruising already blooming over her shoulder and upper bicep, deep, violet-pink, painful just to look at.

No gash this time. No blood. Just impact. Bone-deep and messy. You step closer and gently brush your fingers just above the bruise, testing the reaction without pressing.

"Not dislocated. That’s something. It’ll be sore for a few days. I’ll tape it for compression." Yelena nods, staying quiet.

You glance up at her as you begin preparing the wrap, raising a brow. "Are you getting hurt just to see me?"

That makes her head snap toward you.

Caught.

There’s a flash of something in her eyes... surprise, maybe. Embarrassment? It's hard to tell. But her cheeks color just slightly, like she wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud.

You give her a playful smirk, still wrapping her shoulder. "Because I doubt hero like you is this clumsy."

She stares at you for a beat, then mutters under her breath, "I’m not a hero."

You glance up again, meeting her eyes with calm certainty. "You’re jumping in front of civilians. Protecting your team. Saving the world. That sounds like the definition of a hero to me."

She scoffs softly, "well… says the medic."

You chuckle under your breath as you finish taping the wrap, "guess we’re both doing what we can."

There’s a quiet moment between you then. Not uncomfortable. Just… full of something unspoken.

You smile at her gently, "you can come by, you know. Even when you’re not bleeding."

Yelena tilts her head. "And do what? Let you lecture me about scar cream?"

You grin, "if that’s what it takes."

She huffs a laugh. And even though she doesn’t say anything more, she doesn’t leave right away either.

...

Once again Yelena slides into the medbay five minutes late for her check-up, hoodie pulled over her usual black tank top, hands stuffed in her pockets.

You glance up from your tablet and smile, "look who decided to show up."

She shrugs with her good shoulder, "told you I’d come."

You set the tablet down and gesture to the exam table, "hop up, Belova. Let’s see how that shoulder’s doing."

She climbs up without complaint, though she winces slightly as she rolls the hoodie off her injured side. The bruise has changed color, less angry, more faded, but still deep enough to make your brow furrow.

"How’s the pain?" you ask, fingers gentle as you palpate the joint.

She shrugs again, "it’s fine. Just a little sore."

"Mhm," you hum. Then you press just below the clavicle and watch her flinch. "Still sore?"

"It’s nothing. I’ve been resting."

You pause. Look her in the eye, "have you?"

"Yeah, yeah," she waves you off, looking away a little too quickly. "Totally."

You narrow your eyes, "Yelena." Her eyes flick back to yours. Innocent. Too innocent.

You sigh, stepping back, arms crossing, "you’ve been training, haven’t you?"

"... no"

You raise one eyebrow slowly.

" … lightly."

"Yelena, your shoulder still has inflammation around the supraspinatus. If you keep pushing it, you’re risking a rotator cuff tear."

She blinks, "that sounds bad."

"It is bad. And painful. And you’ll be benched for months, which, knowing you, would drive you completely insane."

"I don’t do benches."

"Exactly. So let it heal properly."

She grumbles something in Russian under her breath, and you hand her a gel pack.

"Use this tonight. No push-ups. No sparring. No throwing knives with that arm."

"Only with the other one," she mutters with a faint smirk.

You sigh, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your lips too. She hops off the table, wincing slightly again.

"You’re free to go," you say, trying to sound casual. "As long as you rest."

Just as she reaches the door, the calm voice of F.R.I.D.A.Y. fills the room.

"Miss Belova, you are required at the quinjet bay in fifteen minutes. New mission briefing in progress."

You freeze, "wait, what?"

Yelena pauses, like she hoped you didn’t hear that.

Your eyes widen, "oh, absolutely not."

Yelena turns slowly, "it’s just-"

"You’re injured."

"I’m fine."

You walk toward her, voice firm now. "You’ve got limited rotation in your dominant shoulder, you’re still bruising internally, and you just said it hurts. That’s not ‘fine.’ That’s ignoring medical advice."

You snatch your tablet from the counter, fingers flying over the screen. A few swipes and taps later, you enter a temporary hold on Yelena’s deployment clearance, medical evaluation pending. You barely finish typing the last line when your comms device buzzes.

You glance at the caller ID and sigh. Of course.

"Medbay, (Y/L/N) speaking," you answer, putting the call on speaker out of pure principle.

"Miss (Y/L/N)," comes the clipped voice of someone two floors up and far too high on the food chain to care about bruised shoulders, "I see you’ve just submitted an availability block on agent Belova?"

"She just finished her check-up with me five minutes ago," you reply, calmly but with steel under it. "Her shoulder is still compromised. She’s not ready for a mission... any type."

A pause on the other end. "That information should’ve been input prior to deployment call. You’ve now created a discrepancy in the field team manifest."

"I’m sorry," you say flatly, unapologetically. "But my priority is my patient’s well-being, not your paperwork."

Another pause. Slightly longer. Then, with clipped resignation, "fine. We’ll pull another name. But we will talk."

"Looking forward to it," you say sweetly, and hang up.

The moment the comm cuts, you realize how quiet it’s gotten. Yelena leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, impressed.

"Wow…" she says after a beat, voice half amusement, half awe. "Didn’t know you could order them around like that."

You glance over, shrugging with forced nonchalance. "I usually don’t have to. But I also usually don’t have Avengers trying to sneak into the field with half-functioning shoulders."

Yelena gives a low chuckle, then winces, "okay. Maybe quarter-functioning."

You tilt your head at her, not smiling, not scolding. Just looking.

"Why do you do that?" you ask softly. "Always willing to tear yourself apart for them?"

She shrugs, "that’s the job."

"No. That’s you." You soften. "But just for today, maybe let someone else carry the weight?"

Yelena studies you for a moment, "you always talk to your patients like this?"

You grin, "only the stubborn ones."

She lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh, eyes flicking to the floor, then back to you. You roll your eyes, but the smile lingers, "go rest, Belova. That’s a medical order."

She salutes playfully, smirk reappearing, "yes, doctor."

Thank you for reading:)

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Black Widow (2021), dir. Cate Shortland

[arlana-likes-to-write]

I Tried to Fight it

Summary: Growing up you were never loved the way you wanted to be. You figured you were broken and that type of love was never going to find you. Until Kate Bishop fell in your life.

Warning: Emotional neglected parents, touch starved reader, injury, fluff with small amount of angst.

Word Count: 1.4k

Everyone said you were broken. Damaged. Cold and cruel. These insults were thrown at you for as long as you could remember. The first hateful word was when you were 5. A game of tag was innocent enough until you accidentally tagged the girl a little too hard, and she fell. Her cries were loud, bone-chilling. All you could do was stare, not offering her a hand or an apology because you couldn’t understand why she was crying. The shove wasn’t that hard, and she landed in the grass. Why apologize for something that wasn’t on purpose? When you refused to, your teacher called you mean and sent you to a time-out.

After that, no one wanted to play with you anymore.

Emotions confuse you. You knew people had them, but there was no logic behind it. People who acted on emotion were irrational. Everything could be explained.

When people called you heartless or mean, they would never understand that the way you acted was because of how you were raised. Father was a doctor. Mother was a lawyer. The housekeepers and nannies raised you under the strict rule of no coddling. The first time someone hugged you was at 3. You stood there, awkwardly with your arms to the side because you weren’t sure what to do. You tried to study how your parents acted, but they treated their relationship as a business transaction.

They gave you everything. A great education. A healthy inheritance. Every door was open for you. Truthfully, all you wanted was their love.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Love was something you taught yourself. Every Christmas, you watched movies on the Hallmark Channel. You observed couples in Central Park as if it were your job. Even subjected yourself to annoying love songs on the radio. The conclusion you came to love was subjective. Subjective, adjective. Based on or influenced by personal feelings, taste, or opinions. To use it in a sentence, ‘his views were subjective.’

You were never going to find love. Well…until Kate Bishop fell into your life.

You and the archer had a unique meeting. You were leaving work late, and she was on a stakeout. One thing led to another, and she crashed on top of your car from 4 stories up. Logically, the impact should have killed her. But Kate liked to defy logic, and you stood there, looking at your destroyed car while a girl wearing purple, bow in hand, was groaning on top of it. “Shit,” she finally said. “I don’t think they’ll be able to buff this out.”

It was a poor attempt at a joke as she tried to defuse a rather tense situation. All you could say was, “My pudding cups were in there.”

“Bishop!” A voice from a nearby alley called out. It got the girl’s attention and sat up quickly, hissing in pain. Father was a doctor. There was a shortness in her breath. Coughing. Her ribs were no doubt broken. Somehow, she dragged herself off the car.

“I’ll make it up to you,” she said, limping her way to the alley, and the duo disappeared into the darkness. You weren’t sure how she was going to ‘make it up to you’ when you gave her no personal information. Now you had to figure out how you were getting home.

The next morning, there was a knock at your door. You opened it, and there was the girl from last night. She was smiling, with flowers and a box of pudding cups in her hand. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Kate.”

Kate. The name became woven into your life. She was like a pest you could not get rid of, and you tried. Somehow, someway, Kate slithered her way into your life and became a staple of it.

Kate was warm, bubbly, and unapologetically herself, so that she scared you. You were going to become a persecutor like your mother; nothing frightened you. Besides Kate, who took your dry humor and flat comments in stride, smiled at you like you meant something, and would rather spend her Friday night in your apartment than at the bar with her other friends. With all that, the archer was a touchy person. Her hand would go to your lower back as she walked past you. Her head seemed to gravitate towards your shoulder during a movie night. She always had to be touching you.

The problem was, you would flinch. No matter how soft or slight the touch, you recoiled as if the touch burned or stunned. You reacted as if her touch would hurt because it did. Kate never brought it up. Never called you broken or damaged. Instead, she became more aware of how she touched you. A quick hug when she left. Pinkies barely touching as you walked side by side. Fingers grazing as she handed you a mug.

As much as you wanted to hate, you enjoyed it. A warmth would hug your bones. Butterflies erupted in your stomach. It was a strange feeling, and you weren’t sure what to make of it.

It was Saturday night. A documentary was playing on the screen. You were tucked into the corner of the couch with Kate on your right. Somehow, your hand was in her lap as she traced the veins and lines on your palm. You tried to pay attention to the voice of the narrator, but there was static in your ears, and your body was stiff. You were afraid that if you moved or breathed the wrong way, it would ruin everything.

Kate broke the silence. “You are always so tense when I touch you.” It felt like instinct to pull your hand away from her, but she kept hold of it. The trail of her fingertips went up your arm and back down. Slowly. Carefully. Her movement seemed calculated. “Do you not like it?”

That was the opposite. You liked it too much. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “It’s strange. I can’t comprehend it.”

“What is there to comprehend?” She questioned. You huffed and focused on the TV. You let her question exist in the silence between you and her.

“Logically, it does not make sense,” you told her. “Why would you want to touch me?”

“Do I need a reason?” Everything had a reason. Every question was supposed to have an answer. That was how the world worked. “Maybe I just like to.” You frowned.

That made no sense. You were abrasive. Hard-headed. Cold. No one as soft and warm as her should like someone like you. “I don’t know what to do with that,” Kate giggled, and the sound caused your insides to go fuzzy and melt like molten lava.

“That’s okay,” she said. “We can figure it out. Together.” Her attention went back to your TV, but something felt missing, hollow deep within your chest. Slowly, you migrated closer to her and set your head on her shoulder. A soft sigh escaped from Kate like she was holding onto this and could finally let go.

“My mother and father never hugged me,” you admitted. “I think they loved me, but it felt very transactional. No matter how hard I worked, I could never earn their praise or affection.”

“You don’t have to earn love, sweetheart. It should be given with no strings attached. Love is unconditional.” You sighed and burrowed your face into the crook of her neck. You took a few deep breaths in and out. Kate’s scent engulfed you. She smelled of the floral perfume she always wore with the faint scent of linen.

“I think I’m broken,” you whispered against her skin. You saw goosebumps form from your breath. “It’s like my head and heart are divided.”

“You aren’t broken, babe, just very touch deprived.” You huffed. “Do you trust me?” You gave her a slight nod. “We will take this slow, okay? Whenever you feel uncomfortable, we can stop.” You weren’t sure what her plan was, but her arms went around you, and she began to lie down. Your body went with her until your weight was entirely on top of her. You tensed up. Her hands began to move up and down your back. The sensation was foreign, different, but not unwelcome.

“Just feel,” Kate whispered. “You deserve to be loved, to be held without judgment or fear that it will be taken away.”

Everything about this seemed wrong. You never understood feelings, could never make sense of them. When someone asked how you felt, you would stare blankly, unable to string together words to describe it. Just feel. Just feel. And you began too.

Her hands traced mindless patterns on her back. Her breath was warm against your skin. But Kate’s heartbeat was against yours. Slow. Soothing. Calm. You hid your face and whimpered. A sound like that was so foreign. But Kate did not comment. Instead, she held you tighter. “There you go,” she whispered. “You deserve this.”

And you believed her.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

I am currently obsessed with polytrix x reader ships....where ofcs somewhat cliche with demon reader....its my guilty pleasure and pain that I don't get enough of them 😔

I've been reading so much ploytrix on AO3 buttttt I do have an idea swimming in my head for a polytrix x reader.

That movie was so good. It honestly surprised me how good it was.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

OMG..im obsessed with Kpop demon hunter too....if you ever feel inspiration ever on writing something about them...I'll be waiting 😈

Okay.

You can not give me the to ahead to write for them. I will do it.

If you have anything specific you want to see let me know!

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Beauty in the Broken Glass

Part of the Family is More than Blood

Summary: Sometimes you hated what you saw in the mirror. Not because of what is there but what used to be there. The scars. The memories. All of it was to much.

Warnings: mention of past assault, Red Room trauma, body issues, Carol is a huge softie, scars, mention of past self-harm

Word Count: 916

Note: Anyone else addicted to the songs in Kpop Demon Hunter? No. Just me.

The color wasn’t the problem. You had complete faith in Natasha’s ability to pick a flattering bathing suit. The problem wasn’t the cut. It enhanced your curves, providing coverage where you felt a little insecure. The problem was your mind as you stared at your reflection in the mirror.

This vacation was Yelena’s idea, some time to step away, recharge, and spend some quality sister time together. The first night was you, Yelena, and Natasha. The day was spent laughing, reminiscing, and enjoying each other’s company. Day two was when the partners began to arrive. Kate was first, then Maria, and finally Carol. It was early in the afternoon when Yelena declared a beach day.

From your room, you could hear the waves and smell the salt from your open window. The house rented for the week was isolated and situated directly on the beach. Everything you needed was within these walls, away from being heroes, and to relax.

It seemed your brain was incapable of relaxing.

The serum that ran through your veins helped leave your skin nearly perfect. Still, a few scars fell through the cracks. But your focus wasn’t on the visible scars. No. Your attention was on the wounds that weren’t there, but you remembered.

No matter how hard you tried to forget, you couldn’t. They were engraved into you. Close encounters, missions gone wrong, scars from him or another man that thought they owned your body. The ones that burned the most were the ones from your hand.

Sometimes the guilt, the pain, and the darkness that surrounded you became too much. The only release was when you saw your blood pool to the surface. You were disgusting.

Not even the door opening pulled you out of your thoughts. Eyes glued to the mirror in front of you, you heard the distinct sound of your girlfriend’s steps as she walked behind you. Her movements were calculated so you weren’t startled. Her arms went around your waist, pulling you flush to her, and her hands covered yours that rested on your stomach. “We were beginning to wonder what was taking so long,” she mumbled against your skin. “Yelena was about to call the coast guard.” You chuckled at your younger sister’s antics. “Tell me where your head is, baby girl.”

You couldn’t answer right away. Not because you weren’t going to tell her, but no words seemed to do justice. Carol was patient. Always so patient. Sometimes you wondered what you did to deserve her. It had to be your past life. She held you tighter, humming a song that was on the radio during breakfast. “Do you ever hate what you see in the mirror?” You questioned. “Like everything you were is just on full display. There is nowhere to hide from it.” With Carol’s hands still on your stomach, you lightly traced the space on your skin where old injuries once stood.

There was a spot on your neck that caused you to pause. A target cornered you, pushed you against the wall, and bit down on your neck so hard you began to bleed. In a flash, you killed him and accepted the punishment back at the Red Room. The punishment wasn’t because you killed him. No, you were punished because you allowed that man to damage the merchandise. Your fingers traced the spot where he bit you.

Carol’s lips pulled you back to reality. They were soft against your skin, and you melted against her. “I can’t speak for everyone,” Carol whispered. “But I think we all critique our appearance. We need to see the beauty in the broken glass.” Finally, you tore your eyes away from the mirror to look at Carol.

“Cheesy,” you joked. Your girlfriend laughed, and the sound vibrated through you.

“You love it.” She was not wrong. “I think every part of you is beautiful.” Her breath fanned across your lips. “Every scar, imperfection is a part of who you are. And I love it. I love you.”

“Love you too,” you mumbled and kissed her. It seemed unfair how easily your thoughts turned off when she kissed you. Nothing else mattered.

“We should get to the beach,” Carol said. “Before she sends in backup.” You smiled and pulled out of her embrace. You grabbed one of her shirts to put on, and you walked out of your room hand in hand. Carol led you to the back door, onto the deck, and down the flight of stairs to the beach.

The sand was soft underneath your bare feet. The sound of laughter quickened your pace to reach where your sisters were. “Carol!” Yelena called out from the ocean when you got closer. “We are having a water breathing contest. Kate doesn’t think I can beat you.”

You saw the slight hesitation in your girlfriend. Gently, you pushed her towards the water. “Go,” you smiled. “I’ll be okay.” She kissed you before running into the water. Laughing, you sat on the towel next to Natasha.

“Will you?” Natasha questioned. “Be okay.” You fidgeted with the bottom of your shirt.

“Yeah,” one quick motion, you took the shirt off and basked under the sun.

“I knew it would look good on you,” you heard the smirk on Natasha’s face as you lay down.

“Shut up,” you giggled. Surrounded by your family with their joy and happiness, it was infectious. It seeped into your bones, into your soul. Yeah, you were going to be okay.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

From Pinterest

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Those are my bats.

also, have to give mad props to germany. after that loss to sweden, they bounced back and had an incredible run through the knockout rounds. special kudos to this lady, AKB, what a goalkeeper and what an outstanding performance. and the love and respect between her and esther is so special 🤩

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Acts of Service II

Summary: Yelena's undoing is firework. Most holidays where they are used to celebrate she drinks herself to the point of numbness to block out the noise. Today is different. Today she has you.

Set in the same universe as Acts of Service I but can be read as a standalone.

Warnings: fluff, anxiety, PTSD, small amount of angst, soft!Yelena, soft!reader, mention of Natasha's death, kissing, Yelena is in love. Post Thunderbolts, New Avengers area

Word Count: 1.1K

Another thing Yelena was learning was holidays. There were so many of them. Some were more popular than others, and everyone had a favorite. Yelena knew yours was Halloween. You hated Thanksgiving, and Christmas was okay. Easter fell into the category of ‘does not celebrate but likes the candy.’ Valentine’s Day fell in February, and St. Patrick’s Day was celebrated by wearing green and drinking. And Yelena enjoyed holidays and liked the idea that there were days throughout the year for joy. But she hated today. The 4th of July. It wasn’t just this holiday but every fucking holiday that used fireworks to celebrate.

Yelena could withstand gunfire, be near a building when it exploded, and not blink twice when she pulled the trigger to kill a man. But fireworks were her undoing. Usually, she would hide away and drink until her mind was numb enough to block out the noise. Today was different. The area around the newly renovated tower was blocked off for a block party. All of this was your idea.

The relationship between Bucky and Sam was on the mend, and to show unity, and that they were all on the same side, you proposed a block party to celebrate the 4th. It was a celebration of hope for a better tomorrow and a tribute to the legacy left behind by team members who are no longer with us. Yelena could feel her sister’s presence.

She liked to wonder what Natasha would have thought of you. She could hear the teasing from her - that you’ve made her soft. Yelena was okay with that.

With a half-empty beer in her hand, Yelena knew she should be mingling with the other team or shaking hands with public officials. But her eyes were on you. You were talking with Sam and Kate, arms crossed, and you were nodding along to whatever they were saying. There was no recorder or notepad because you weren’t working, but you were listening, just as if you were. It was who you were. When you listened, you made people feel heard.

Yelena smiled and finished the beer in one sip. Glancing up at the sky, the sun was setting, which meant the fireworks show was about to begin. Alexei was in charge of it with A LOT of supervision from Bucky, who she knew added more gray hair to the man. Sighing, she felt the anxiety grow into a pit in her stomach.

Then she heard your footsteps approaching her. She could pick out the way you walked out of 100 people. “Hi, baby,” you said with a smile. “Enjoying the party?” Yelena placed her bottle on the table and grabbed your hand to pull you closer.

“It is much better now,” you rolled your eyes fondly at her.

“I have a surprise for you,” you kissed her cheek. “Come with me.” You kept your hand in hers and walked towards the tower.

“Where are we going?” You giggled and looked over your shoulder to keep walking.

“Just trust me,” Yelena trusted you. It was something she had to learn to do. It was messy, complicated, and one of the hardest things Yelena had to do, but she trusted you with everything she had.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You brought her to an empty floor of the tower. With only six members on the team, a lot of the rooms went unused. “What are we doing?” Yelena asked. “The fireworks are about to start.”

“I know,” you confused the hell out of her sometimes. Still, she followed you and watched you open a door. The lights flickered on as you both walked in. At first, Yelena thought the room was empty, but then she saw a pull-out couch covered with pillows and blankets. There was a cooler on the ground, along with a table featuring chocolate-covered strawberries and cookies.

“What is this?” Instead of answering, you pulled back the curtains at the window. It was a fantastic view of the city, but the window faced the area where the fireworks were set to go off.

“Computer, active soundproofing,” the AI complied with your request. Smiling, you sat on the bed and held out your hand. “Join me.” Yelena moved without question, circling the couch, and climbed next to you. You grabbed the plate with the dessert on it. “Strawberry,” Yelena took one carefully.

“What is this?” Yelena asked again. You took a strawberry for yourself before placing the plate back on the table.

“This is where we are going to watch the fireworks. Just us, no loud noises, and just watching the colors.” Yelena frowned and looked towards the city. She couldn’t bear to look at you and see pity in your eyes.

“When did you figure it out?” She asked.

“I noticed it on New Year’s, pieced it together on Memorial Day, and I knew I wasn’t gonna let you suffer through it today.” Yelena bit into the strawberry angrily. It was unfair to take it out on the fruit. “Hey,” you placed your finger underneath her chin and gently turned her head to face you. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. You are not the only one that hates them because of your past.”

“It is so stupid,” she huffed. But you shook your head.

“No, it’s not,” you said. “Sometimes we can’t control what triggers us. But we don’t have to suffer through it alone,” You smiled and ate your strawberry. You took the green leaf from her and threw it away. “Not let’s cuddle.” You laid back and opened her arms for her.

Sometimes, Yelena wasn’t 100% sure you were real or that she deserved you. Because the way you looked at her wasn’t out of pity or that she was broken or in need of repair. You looked at her as if she were precious and worthy of love. Smiling, Yelena leaned down and captured your lips in a kiss.

The kiss was slow, and she savored the taste of you - chocolate, strawberry, and the lemonade you drank at the party. Your lips were covered in a balm. All of it created you, and Yelena was addicted to it. You sighed into the kiss. The sound sent a tingle down Yelena’s spine.

The first firework went off, and you both pulled apart. Yelena watched the colors light up the sky, and the AI system dimmed the lights in the room. Without the sound, Yelena found the fireworks beautiful. She laid against your chest with her eyes glued to the window. Your arms wrapped around her, and you kissed the top of her head. “Are you sure you do not want to be with the others?” Yelena was grateful for this space - to finally enjoy this holiday but she wasn’t going to keep you away from everyone.

“I’m right where I want to be,” Yelena closed her eyes for just a moment, just to remember this feeling. Here, she was safe, happy, and at home.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Lavender

Summary : The princess is engaged to her childhood best friend, though her true love is her royal guard, James Barnes.

Pairings : royal guard!Bucky Barnes x royal!reader (she/her) with a sprinkle of nobility!Bob Reynolds x Royal Guard!John Walker (Sentryagent)

Warnings/tags : Royal AU. Lavender Marriage AU, Medieval AU, Forbidden Love. Fluff, angst, domestic abuse, Cursing, Trauma. Implied sex. Alcohol and drug abuse, withdrawal symptoms. Death (Please let me know if I miss anything!!!)

Word count : 15k whoops

Note : For context, a lavender marriage is mixed-orientation marriage used to hide one or both partner's sexual orientation, in this case, it's Bob's. I have been way into Sentryagent lately lol. Enjoy!

You were eight years old when you met Robert Reynolds, the Viscount’s only son.

Your father, the King, had just finished praising the Viscount in front of the court. “A man of unwavering loyalty,” he said, “and discipline enough to raise a boy a family can be proud of.”

You hadn’t missed the way his eyes flicked toward you after that.

Because… you were a girl. A princess, yes, but not the male heir he wanted— not the warrior he’d dreamed of. So no matter how many languages you spoke or how well you danced, you were never enough.

So when your father summoned you one morning, with his signature stern eyes and stiff voice — “Dress properly. We’ll be riding to Viscount Reynolds’ estate this afternoon” — you obeyed without asking why.

—

The Reynolds estate was vast, but bleak.

The Viscount was a tall man with a voice like gravel and a handshake that left bruises. His wife barely spoke as she flinched at sudden movements and never met your eyes. 

And you met his son that day. 

He was two years older, pale and with bleached-blond hair and brown roots, standing rigid at his father’s side.

The Viscount’s hand clamped on the boy’s shoulder like a brand.

“This is Robert,” he said. “You’ll be seeing more of him.”

You glanced at your father, who nodded approvingly.

You were a child— you didn’t understand politics. You just knew the boy in front of you looked like he hadn’t smiled in a long time.

—

Over that summer, you saw more of Robert than anyone else.

The adults had their meetings and their wine-filled dinners. You and Robert would wander in the royal gardens and stables. You showed him how to sneak down through the servants’ path to the cliffside chapel. He brought you a book on war magic you weren’t allowed to read and took turns pretending to cast spells.

Over time, you became friends. And you noticed things.

You noticed how Robert always flinched when a door slammed too hard, how he never looked his father in the eye. How, sometimes, he would disappear for a week and come for a visit into the palace with bruises under his sleeves and say nothing at all.

One day, when your father took you to Viscount's estate for another visit, you found him hiding in the wine cellar, his hands shaking.

“He hit you again,” you said. It was a statement, and not a question.

He didn’t answer. You sat beside him on the stone floor, hugging your knees.

“My father gets angry too,” you whispered. “Mostly at me. Sometimes at my mother.”

Robert looked at you sideways. “He hits you?”

“No.” You shrugged looking down. “He just… looks at me like I’m a mistake.”

Robert didn’t know what to say, so you took his hand.

From that day on, you were his best friend.

He taught you how to throw knives, and you taught him how to braid hair (because you said, one day you’ll need to if you fall in love with a wonderful lady, and he had blinked and whispered something about never falling in love ever, ever, ever, especially not with a lady).

You cried into his shoulder the first time your governess slapped you across the knuckles and called you willful. He sat beside you until your hiccups stopped.

He came to the palace, bloodied and shivering the night his father beat him for refusing to spar with full force against a servant’s son. You cleaned his wounds with trembling hands. "I’ll be queen one day," You promised. "I could change everything."

He believed you.

—

When you were nine, the Viscount and King summoned you both to a formal supper.

For the first time in your life, The King — your father —  looked at you with a look eerily close to approval.

The Viscount smiled and said, “They’ll make a fine pair one day.”

You didn’t know what he meant then, mostly because you were too amazed to see your father proud of you.

You were ten when your mother told you they had begun properly discussing a union between the Reynolds and royal bloodlines.

You were eleven when she said, “It may not be romantic, but it will be useful.”

By then, you were too smart not to realise, and too loyal to Robert to protest.

Through the years, you and Robert stayed close. He snuck into your rooms during visits and left books under your pillow. You covered for him when he started sneaking wine from the cellars at fifteen. He held your hand when your mother collapsed from exhaustion at the spring festival, and you held him when his father broke two ribs and told him to “walk it off like a man.”

Over the years, you knew him better than anyone, but you didn’t love him like the storybooks said you should. But you did love him like a brother, like a shadow, like a tether.

—

You were a teenager when Robert told you his biggest secret.

That day, you found Robert on the balcony of the southern library during a ball.

He was leaning on the railing, half-drunk— and unhealthily so. Perhaps this was when he developed his drinking problem— but you didn't know better then.

He wasn’t wearing his court clothes. Just a loose shirt, half-open at the throat.

And when he turned and saw you standing at the doorway, he didn’t smile.

“Thought you’d be with the other ladies,” he said quietly.

“I’m never with the others.” You stepped closer, folding your arms. “They’re boring and I don’t like them.”

That earned a breath of a smile from Robert.

You tilted your head. “Why are you up here when you could be dancing downstairs?”

Robert exhaled slowly, taking another swig of his drink. “I… needed air.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Something’s wrong, is it?”

He didn’t answer.

“Robert?”

He gripped the balcony so hard his knuckles turned white. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You stepped beside him, leaned against the railing with your shoulder just brushing his.

“I…” he started, looking down. “I’m gay.”

There was a long silence.

He stared out at the horizon like it might collapse under the weight of it, like the word was taboo enough all by itself, it might cause lightning to strike.

And then, you snorted a very unprincess-like snort. “Duh.”

His eyes snapped to you. “What?”

You turned and grinned. “Robert, I’ve known since you were thirteen and said Prince Ramires from the southern isles had ‘remarkably sculpted calves.’”

His mouth opened in disbelief. You… knew?

“Also,” you added, ticking off on your fingers, “you’ve never once looked interested in the ladies they parade around at court. And you cried over that squire from Delphia when he got reassigned. And you almost fainted the first time John Walker walked by with his shirt off last summer.”

Robert groaned, covering his face. “Gods, I hate you.”

You laughed and tugged his hand down gently. “No, you don’t.”

He looked at you, and his eyes were glassy. “You’re… not angry?”

“Angry?” You blinked. “Bob, I’m relieved.”

He frowned. “What?”

You leaned back on the balcony, sighing up at the sky. “This marriage thing… We… we knew we were never going to work.”

He stared at you in stunned silence. You smiled, a little sad. “Not in the way mother and father wanted.”

“My…” He swallowed hard. “My father would kill me.”

You reached out and took his hand in yours and squeezed it tight. “He won’t. Not while I’m alive.”

He looked like he might cry, so you bumped your shoulder against his.

“Look,” you said. “You’re my best friend. I love you. If the only way to keep you safe is to pretend to be your loving future wife, then so be it.”

“You’d… do that?”

You gave him a smile that had more steel in it than warmth. “I’d lie to a kingdom to keep you safe, my friend.”

—

The court had been waiting for the royal wedding for years.

By the time you were seventeen, it was no longer a rumour but a certainty — The Princess and the Viscount’s Son. It sounded good on paper. It was, after all, strategic. The Reynolds line was loyal, wealthy, and popular with the merchant class. 

So the court waited. And waited. But the wedding never came.

Every year, you would find another excuse to postpone it. Every year, another season that just wasn’t quite right.

When you turned eighteen, the Queen’s secretary suggested spring nuptials.

But Robert had started disappearing into books and wine. He stood before the King and claimed he needed a year to properly study the kingdom’s laws before assuming such a duty.

Your father frowned. You shrugged and folded your hands, “That seems wise.”

At twenty, there was a grain crisis in the northern provinces — shipments delayed by corruption and an early frost that devastated the harvest. You took command of the response personally, traveling with advisors and outmaneuvering five noble houses trying to profit off the shortages.

You stood in court and said, “I cannot, in good faith, wear white while my people are starving.”

Your father clenched his fists. Your mother sighed.

Robert smirked, already halfway into a goblet of wine.

—

By the time you were in your early twenties, you had already postponed your wedding so many times the court stopped asking for dates.

This time you did not postpone it for harvest shortages, nor for diplomacy. This time, it was because the province of Eastmoor had fallen under siege. Foreign banners you didn’t recognise waved over cliffs that had once been the first line of defense to your kingdom. Mercenaries, warships, and whispers of colonisers taking up the coast echoed in the palace.

The court had plans, of course. 

Your father chose to wait. He wanted to negotiate. He wanted to let Eastmoor fall, then write strongly worded letters.

Your mother said it would pass. Your advisors said it was “too dangerous” for a princess to be involved in military strategy.

You stood in the council hall in full armour.

“I’m not asking for permission,” you said, “I am riding out there, now, because I cannot let my people — our people — die.”

—

You rode with the army before dawn, hair braided like a crown, and your royal seal tucked beneath your breastplate.

When you arrived in the fortress, no one expected you to last the night. After all, a princess in the first line of defense was unheard of. You weren’t supposed to lead, let alone fight. Generals twice your age scoffed at your orders and whispered behind your back—until you led two successful supply raids and personally pulled an injured soldier from the wreckage of a burning cart.

General Thaddeus Ross nearly had a stroke when he found you shouting orders in the trenches beside his lieutenants.

“What the hell is a royal doing here?” he roared, face red.

You didn’t even look up. “Winning your battle, General.”

—

That night, with blood under your nails, you ducked into the command barracks to meet the new reinforcements from the western provinces. You were expecting another tired unit, maybe another cluster of half-starved recruits.

You talked to some of them, and sent them to eat and rest.

That’s when you met… him.

He was leaning against the support beam, helmet tucked under one arm. He had broad shoulders, long brown hair tied in a bun, stormy blue eyes that tracked your every step like a puzzle worth solving.

He straightened as you approached. He bowed like a gentleman ought to, but his devilish smirk was absolutely insolent.

“You’re her, aren’t you?” he asked, cocking his head. “The princess. General Ross said you chewed out a colonel this morning.”

“Colonel Phillips tried to reroute medical supplies for his personal guard,” you said. “I chewed accordingly.”

He laughed. It was pretty. 

You paused, looking at the colours to discern his rank. “What’s your name, sergeant?”

“James Barnes,” he said smoothly. “Reporting for duty, though I wasn’t told duty came with quite such… royal company.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Flattery won’t get you promoted.”

“Good thing I’m not looking for a pay raise,” he reassured. 

There was a charm to him, old-school and effortless. You didn’t trust it, but your heart raced anyway.

“I’ve heard of you, Barnes,” you said. “You did the mission at Redwater Pass?”

His mouth ticked upward. “Word travels, huh?”

“They said you pulled eight survivors from a collapsed garrison under fire.”

“Well.” He looked away, like it embarrassed him. “Only seven made it out. But I’ll take the compliment.”

You studied him. “And they also said you flirt with anything that breathes.”

He chuckled. “Only the ones who outrank me and could order me executed."

“Be careful, Sergeant,” You tried not to smile, but failed. “That sounds dangerously like sedition.”

“Then I hope the punishment is merciful,” He took a step closer, voice dropping just enough to be felt. “Or at least memorable.”

You stared at him. Shifting against the sword across your back and your heart suddenly, stupidly aware of itself.

And then — like the gentleman he truly was — he stepped back.

“Permission to accompany you at tomorrow’s briefing, Commander?” he asked, properly now.

“Granted,” you said, clearing your throat. “But only if you behave.”

—

Three months later, you were still in battle

Eastmoor was still under siege. 

You were still in your armour, still in a fortress whose stone walls trembled at night with the echo of cannon fire.

Your sword arm ached in the mornings. You’d stopped flinching at screams weeks ago. The nights were colder now, so soldiers whispered of frostbite and horses died of exhaustion. The kitchens served hard biscuits and salt-dried meat. You lost five men last week to sickness and two more to grief.

But you endured.

Because you were the Princess. Because you promised your best friend you would protect this kingdom as long as he was in it.

And in the middle Eastmoor’s endless siege — James Barnes became your companion.

He was not a court ally. He was not a polished nobleman dancing around a title. He was not a childhood bond forged in trauma. Just… James.

He brought you food when you forgot to eat. He stood guard at your tent when the generals whispered seeds of doubt in your mind. He made you laugh on days when you thought you'd forgotten how.

And he introduced you to his two closest friends — Sergeant Samuel Wilson and Sergeant Steven Rogers. Sam had a quick mouth and a quicker wit. Steve was wise through and through, so when he spoke, it felt like stone tablets from a mountaintop.

They called him Bucky.

You didn’t.

You still called him James — because you liked the way it sounded in your mouth, and he never corrected you anyway. Because he always straightened his posture when you said it. Because it felt like something just between the two of you.

You and James became inseparable. You started sharing rations and maps. You shared stories late into the night when neither of you could sleep. 

You were close. But not like you were with Robert.

With Robert, it had always been a familial bond.

But James…

With James, it felt different. It didn’t feel… platonic.

He brought you extra rations when he could. He taught you how to dice potatoes with your knife when the cooks refused to make anything decent. He told you stories about the western border, about bar fights and river races and the time he got kicked by a duke’s prized racing goat.

He always flirted — always — but he never crossed the line. Not even when you leaned in a little too close, or let your hand brush his while passing a map, or looked at him too long, like he was a question you were too scared to ask.

Because James Barnes was a gentleman. And he, like everyone else in the kingdom, knew the Princess was betrothed to the Viscount’s son.

He never said it, or asked, or pried.

Even when he climbed into your cot one night, after you woke up screaming from a nightmare.

That night, he didn’t say a word. He just held you, chest to your back, both of you tucked beneath the coarse wool of your blanket. 

His hand was over yours, his breath was steady against your hair.

He didn’t kiss you.

But you felt him having to restrain himself. He wanted to, but wouldn’t.

Because you were promised to another.

And you couldn’t correct him. Couldn’t tell him that your betrothal was a lie — a necessary fiction to keep your best friend safe. You couldn’t out Robert like that. Not even for James. 

So you said nothing.

And James — Bucky — in his own tent, alone, never said a word.

He just curled his fingers around himself in the dark, thinking of you — and hated himself for wanting a woman he could never have.

—

One night, when you couldn’t sleep and the enemy was just beyond the ridge, you sat alone outside the tent with your knees tucked up and your nerves rattling in your bones.

James appeared beside you with two cups of hot tea in wooden cups, and said, “Didn’t think royalty drank with common soldiers. Thought you lot were made of marble.”

You whispered, “Marble cracks.”

He took a seat beside you in the dirt, his shoulder not quite touching yours.

“Didn’t seem like you were cracking earlier today,” he said. “You had three soldiers shaking in their boots.”

You let out a short laugh. “That was a performance. This…” You exhaled. “This is real.”

He looked sideways at you, but didn’t push.

“Truth is,” you said after a pause, “these last six months…. they’ve been my first real taste of combat.”

His brow rose in disbelief. “Seriously?”

You nodded. “I was trained in tactics since I was nine. Combat, too. Every royal child has to do it—it’s part of some ancient rite of passage. My father hated it and said it was unbecoming of a girl.” You glanced at him. “But I… I did it anyway.”

He was quiet for a moment.

“You’re doing really well,” he finally said. “I’ve fought with generals twice your size who couldn’t hold a line like you can.”

“Thanks.” You gave him a grateful smile. “I think my parents assumed I’d break down the first time I saw blood.”

“The king and queen don’t know you very well, then.”

You looked at him, a little startled by how certain he sounded.

He drank his tea and leaned back, his eyes distant. “I’ve been in and out of the field since I was seventeen. My first real command came just a couple of years ago. Too many of my men were older than me.”

You tilted your head. “That’s… You… I— I always thought you’re young for a sergeant.”

“Yeah,” he shook his head. “But when most of the older men die and you’re the one dragging the wounded out, someone puts stripes on your armour and tells you it’s yours now.”

You were quiet, and he went on.

“One of the worst was near here, at Dry Lake,” he pointed to the horizon, deep into enemy territory. “It was dead land. No real trees, just white stone and thorn bushes that hurt like shit.” His voice dropped. “We were outnumbered two to one. The palace sent no reinforcements. We fought in the dark for four days.”

“I…” you filtered in your mind for the battle of Dry Lake, and remembered one where your father refused to send help because they needed the money to redecorate the throne room instead. You had been mad, but had no real power to do anything. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” he shrugged, “We… I— survived.”

You looked at the horizon again, remembering the significance of Dry Lake when you realised…. “That’s where their supply lines are coming from now. Eastmoor intel just confirmed it.”

“Makes sense," He nodded. “It’s hard as hell to reach. But I know it.”

You leaned forward. “You know it?”

He nodded again, casually. “Like the back of my hand,” He confirmed. “I spent a month mapping it before that mission. There’s a blind spot on the southern rise— over the second hill. If you go quick, you can get in and out without being spotted.”

You turned fully toward him. “There’s a blind spot?”

He blinked, confused. “Yeah? Didn’t your scouts report—?”

“No,” you cut him off, eyes sparking into a flame. “They said it was impenetrable. But if there’s a weak spot—”

“We’d need a small unit,” he said, catching the shift in your tone. “Stealthy. No banners, no formal lines.”

You were already moving, setting your cup aside and crawling toward a patch of mud under the tent’s edge. You pulled a stick from the firewood pile and began sketching fast—outlines of the cliffs, the supply routes, the reinforcement paths, the pass to the south.

He leaned beside you, eyes flicking over the map. “Here,” he said, pointing to a sharp dip in the ridgeline. “This is the blind spot. Wind direction covers most of the sound. No direct line of sight from the southern watchtower.”

“And from here,” you said, drawing a curving line toward it, “we could reach the inner depot. Cut them off before they reach Eastmoor.”

James looked up at you with his brow raised. You looked back at him, eyes alight.

“This could turn the war,” you whispered.

He grinned. “Then I guess we’re going for a walk.”

And that night, the princess and the sergeant stayed crouched over a patch of earth and ash, building a revolution from dirt and memory.

—

The next morning, the war room smelled of ink, sweat, and desperation. Maps cluttered the center table, weighted down with daggers and metal pins. The commanders were already gathered when you entered, the scorched royal sigil stitched into the collar of your cloak.

James followed half a step behind, hands clasped behind his back. 

“Your Highness,” General Thaddeus Ross said with a strained nod, lips tight like he’d bitten into a lemon. “I trust you slept well. We have urgent matters.”

You moved toward the table. “Indeed we do.”

He pointed to a cluster of red markers near the front lines. “The enemy reinforced at the river bend. I propose we hit them at dawn with another wave of heavy infantry to scare them back. We press their flank and bleed them out.”

You heard James’s teeth clench beside you.

You inhaled slowly. “General Ross, with all due respect… we don’t need to send more people out to die.”

The room turned silent.

Ross scoffed. “This is war, Princess. Not a diplomatic summit.”

“No,” you said, stepping forward. “But we don’t win wars by throwing barely-trained boys into another wall of blades. We win by cutting off the enemy’s legs so they can’t stand at all.”

Ross straightened, his voice rising. “You’re not a general—”

“But I am your princess.” You didn’t raise your voice. You didn’t need to. “We need to take Dry Lake.”

James glanced at you with the faintest trace of a grin.

You reached down, plucked a quill from the board, and moved it with deliberate calm across the map’s surface.

“Dry Lake is the root of their supply chain. Everything—food, weapons, sanitation—flows from there. Our scouts have confirmed it. Sergeant Barnes fought there. He knows the terrain like the back of his hand.”

Ross’s brow furrowed. “You’re trusting a field rat over command?”

“He’s a field rat with more frontline experience than anyone in this tent,” you said, locking eyes with him. “And unlike half the men you’ve knighted for their performative tactics, he’s survived hell and brought others back with him.”

Ross scowled. “Even if what he says is true, the route is suicide.”

“There’s a blind spot,” you said. “We’ll move quiet and fast. In and out before they know we’re there.”

“And who do you suggest we send?” Ross sneered. “Another wave of children?”

“No,” you said simply. “I’m going.”

Ross barked a laugh that died the second he realised you weren’t joking. “You—?”

“I,” you repeated, “will go with a specialised unit. Sergeant Barnes will lead the team.”

James finally spoke. “I’ll take her royal highness, Sergeant Wilson, and Sergeant Rogers.”

Ross opened his mouth, as a murmur spread across the room.

Stephen Strange, the head mage who had been summoned to the camp a week ago to provide shielding spells to the troops, nodded approvingly. “It could work.”

Ross started again, louder this time. “This is highly unorthodox—!”

You held up a hand.

He fell silent.

You… shushed a general?

Then you turned back to the table, marking the Dry Lake pass with a line of soft red ink.

—

Hours later, you stood outside the supply tent, finishing your letter by the light of a setting sun. Your words were carefully inked, but you hastily added the last line.

‘I met a soldier. He’s charming.’

You paused, read it again, then folded the parchment and sealed it with the royal crest.

Peeking from behind you, you heard heavy boots crunched against gravel. 

James.

He stepped beside you. “You always write letters before near-suicide missions?”

You slid the sealed message into the courier pouch. “Only when I think someone deserves to know I’m still breathing.”

He nodded, then glanced at the wax seal. His sharp eyes flicked up. “Who’s it to?”

You hesitated. Then, said plainly: “Robert Reynolds.”

James went still.

You saw the flicker of recognition. Of course he knew it.  

And his eyebrows shifted—tightened—not angry, not jealous exactly… but you could tell he was… sad. Disappointed, maybe, not that he had any right to be.

“Oh,” he said in a low voice. “Your… betrothed.”

You looked away. “It’s not like that.”

He laughed under his breath, without humor. “Could’ve fooled me. You called him charming.”

You turned to him, and clearly, he only caught a glimpse of the last word. “I was not talking about him.”

“Who, then?” His brows furrowed.

“I said…” you bit your lip, “I said I met a charming soldier.”

That made him pause.

“Is that…” He blinked, brow furrowed. “Is that about me?”

“I didn’t name you,” you muttered, crossing your arms, but you couldn't bring yourself to deny it. 

“But it is,” he pressed, “And you’re writing that to the man you’re going to marry. So… forgive me if I’m trying to understand what exactly that means.”

You opened your mouth, but didn’t have the words. Because gods, it wouldn’t change anything, but you hated the thought of him getting the wrong idea.

Your voice softened. “It’s not a love match, James. Robert’s family. He’s… safe. That’s all.”

His lips twitched. “Safe. Right.” He nodded, looking away toward the horizon. “That’s a hell of a thing to be.”

You stepped toward him, just a little— but before you could speak, before you could answer—footsteps crunched behind you.

“Commander!” Sam Wilson’s voice broke through the moment, light and teasing. 

Behind him, Steve Rogers followed, far more buttoned-up. “All packed and ready.”

You stepped away from James and straightened your cloak. “Good. We ride in ten.”

Sam clapped James on the back. “Ready to be miserable together?”

“Always,” James said, though his eyes never left you.

—

The sun had barely begun its descent when you arrived at Dry Lake.

Once, it may have held water. But now, it was little more than a cracked bowl of dust and scattered fish bones, the perfect hiding place for the enemy’s supply cache. If you cut their supplies, they’d choke before they even reached the frontlines.

You, James, Steve, and Sam had come here to cripple their colonisation effort, to set fire to their grains and cloths and weapons. And you had succeeded. 

The flames had taken root fast, licking greedily up the wooden scaffolding, devouring sacks of food and rows of arrows. Their stores were gone. The next battle would be waged with hunger in their bellies.

The enemy noticed and came running. You four fought well enough as you made your escape until…

James fell to his side, his hand clutching the torn leather at his bicep, blood pouring fast. 

An arrow had pierced his arm, perhaps a vital artery. 

“Hell of a shot,” he muttered as he slumped to the ground.

You were at his side in an instant, your hands already working, pulling free the satchel at your hip. You pressed your body close, shielding him from the wind. “Don’t talk,” you said, more command than comfort. You tore through the cloth. The arrow was deep. If it hadn’t splintered on the bone, it would’ve gone straight through.

James met your eyes. “Is it bad?”

You bit back panic as your fingers pressed cloth against the wound, your other hand tightening a leather strap around his upper arm. 

“It’s not,” you said, even though you didn't believe it.

His breath hitched. “You’re a bad liar, your highness.” 

Behind you, Steve’s war cry echoed over the ridge, and Sam’s call followed after. They were buying time. 

You had to move.

You hauled James onto your shoulder, refusing to let him die. The ridge wasn’t far, and the horse waited beyond.

As you moved, James leaned against you. His head dropped near your ear. “I owe you a drink,” he whispered.

“You owe me your life,” you replied.

He smiled faintly. “That too.”

The enemy reached the blaze too late. Their supply cache was nothing but smoke and smoldering ruin, and the four of you were gone before they knew it.

—

You returned to camp just as the sun broke over the horizon. Cheers erupted as soldiers recognised your figures trudging through the haze—they saw the smoke of the supplies burning, after all. But the three of you— Sam, Steve, and you— barely looked up. James was still unconscious, slumped across your horse, fever bleeding into his skin. The arrow was gone, you had done what you could, but the wound had festered, spreading like angry red vines like fire beneath the bandages.

You didn’t care for the applause. You cared for the dying man in your arms.

You didn’t slow down until you reached the infirmary tent. 

Stephen Strange was already there, sleeves rolled to his elbows, spellwork coiling around his fingers.

“He’s burning up,” Sam said, his voice hoarse.

Strange looked once at James and nodded. “He won’t make it with the arm. The infection's already gone too deep. We have to take it.”

You didn’t hesitate as you helped strip James down, held his shoulders as Strange muttered the sedative spell. Magic laced through the air like incense, orange light brushing over James’s temple. He stopped writhing, his breathing steadying even as sweat drenched his hairline. He whispered your name just before the spell took him under.

You didn’t look away as Strange prepared the blade. If he had to lose a part of himself to survive, you’d be there for him.

The moment a small incision was made, a messenger burst through the infirmary tent, panting with rolled parchment clutched in his hand.

“Urgent dispatch for the Princess,” he gasped.

You didn’t turn around. “Not now.”

He stepped closer urgently. “It’s your mother. She says come home at once. The palace—”

“I said not now!” You snapped, never releasing James’s hand. You could feel the magic pulsing in his body.

The messenger tried again. “Your majesty, please.”

Majesty? You thought to yourself. You were princess. The appropriate title was your highness. 

“Go,” you gritted under your teeth.

“Please,” the messenger almost begged, “It’s your father. The king— he had fallen ill last week. Your mother begs for your return.”

Still, you didn’t move. Your voice was tight. “James will wake up disoriented,” you whispered, not caring about your father one bit. “If I’m not here when he wakes up—he’ll think I left him.”

“Your majesty,” the man said, emphasising your title now. “Your father is dead. He passed three days ago, just after nightfall. You are queen now.”

What?

You staggered, hand slipping from James’s for the first time. Everything inside you pulled apart at the seams. 

Queen. 

You were Queen. 

Steve stepped beside you. You didn’t realise you were trembling until he steadied your arm. “Go,” he said softly. 

“No,” you breathed. “No, I can’t—he needs—”

“We’ll tell him,” Steve promised. “We’ll tell him you were here.”

“We’ll find you,” Sam added, “But now, the kingdom needs its queen.”

Your throat tightened around a sob you didn’t allow to escape. You turned to Strange, wild, desperate. “Will he live?”

Strange didn’t look up from his work, but his voice was firm. “You have my word.”

Only then did you let go.

You kissed James’s brow, whispered an apology against his fevered skin, and turned toward the exit of the tent, where the world was already waiting for you to wear a crown.

As you mounted the horse that would take you away from him, you looked back once — not at the camp, not at the soldiers — but at the tent.

Where your heart still lay.

—

Two weeks had passed, yet it felt like years.

The first day back at the palace, you were crowned queen. Last week, you buried your father. 

You buried him in silence. He had not been a good man. He had been stern, proud, and cruel when it suited him. But he had also been your father, and that wound had no clean edges. 

Yesterday, you heard news that the siege of Eastmoor has ended. Steve, Sam, and the others had won. Dry Lake’s victory had turned the tide. The supply line was gone, the coloniser routed. 

Robert stayed beside you through it all. He drank every night, though, and did whatever drugs were available to him on the day. He offered, but you didn’t drink, you didn’t take anything that could inhibit your senses. The kingdom needed a leader, after all. 

The two of you sat in your chambers that evening. 

“We have to get married soon,” you said quietly, as if the words hurt your throat. “After Eastmoor, after my father’s death. The people will want stability. Perhaps a reassurance we can provide an heir.”

Robert didn’t answer at first. He only stared into his cup, swirling the wine before sipping. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing— that he was not capable of falling in love with you no matter what. This was a marriage of convenience. A lavender marriage. 

There were worse things to be in this world.

“You’re right,” he finally said. “And… I know it’s early, but when I’m royal, could I… Could I be assigned John Walker from your father’s old guard? I trust him.”

You turned to him, finally chuckling for the first time in days. You always found his crush on the blonde royal guard amusing. 

Then, you took the cup gently from his hand and set it on the table.

“You’ve been drinking too much, Bob,” you said with a warning. “If you keep it up, you’ll out yourself in public.”

He looked away, ashamed.

“And yes,” you added more gently. “John Walker can be arranged.”

Robert looked at you with a half-smile, the one he used when trying to be kind without overstepping.

“And you?” he asked. “What about that soldier you mentioned—the charming one? You haven’t said his name once since the coronation.”

Your heart flinched like a wound recoiling from salt. You looked out the window, where the clouds were bleeding pink into dusk.

“He’s recovering,” you said. “His arm is gone. But Strange kept his heart beating. I asked for a raven every morning. If one doesn’t come, I’ll know something’s wrong.”

Robert didn’t press. 

—

One morning, the raven did not come.

You waited and waited longer than you should have, but it still did not come.

Strange had said James was healing—recovering well, even—but now, there was only silence.

Your mother, the Dowager Queen now, entered your chambers quietly. She still moved like royalty, even when the crown no longer sat on her head, and she seemed all the better for it. 

Your mother can be cruel at times, but she was more bearable without your father hovering over her. Over the last week, you had started wondering if she was as much of a victim as you had been.

“There are three soldiers in the throne room,” she stated. “General Ross insists you grant them their promotions yourself.”

You stood stiffly. “Can’t it wait?”

She frowned. “No. He’s being insufferable about it.” She looked at you then, head tilted slightly. “I told him it was your decision. You are queen, after all.”

You sighed and rose, your steps growing slower the closer you came to the throne room—until the guards pushed open the great oak doors.

And then you saw them.

Steve. Sam.

And… James

Standing tall in worn uniforms, backs straight, shoulders proud.

Steve bowed first, followed by Sam. And then James— James, with his left sleeve rolled back, revealing… a metal arm? 

Etched into the steel were faint runes, still glowing with residual enchantment. It must be imbued with Strange’s magic— as the metal arm moved with fluidity, like it belonged to him, like it was him. 

He addressed in a bow, voice calm and clear. “Your Majesty.”

You stood frozen, unable to speak. The court watched silently as you stepped down the dais.

And then, without ceremony or hesitation, you pulled all three of them into your arms.

Sam laughed first, surprised. Steve chuckled under his breath. And James— James didn’t say a word, but you felt his human hand pressing lightly against your back.

Behind you, gasps rippled through the nobles, but you didn’t care.

You let the hug linger longer than was proper. “Come,” you said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We’ll talk somewhere private.”

And with a flick of your hand, you dismissed the court. Your mother raised an eyebrow from her perch beside the throne, but said nothing. Without awaiting approval, you turned on your heel and led them through the gilded doors, down the familiar halls, past tapestries of dead kings.

When you walked into the drawing room, the hearth was already lit. 

You gestured to the table and welcomed them to your couch.

As they sat, your guards posted themselves outside. The doors shut behind you with a soft thud.

When James smiled, and your lungs finally remembered how to work again.

“You didn’t think I’d let a little arrow stop me, did you?” he said.

You didn’t laugh. You reached across the table, wrapped your fingers around his metal ones. The Sorcerer’s guild sigil was branded on his palm— further confirmation that this was Strange’s work.

“Stephen didn’t send a raven,” you whispered, eyes misted.

He tilted his head, sheepish. “He wanted me to tell you myself.”

Steve poured the tea, Sam passed the cups.

And in that room, you allowed yourself—for the first time since you wore the crown—to breathe like a girl again, not just a queen.

You had survived the siege, and the best parts of it had survived with you.

—

The tea had long gone lukewarm, the cakes untouched.

The four of you talked about nothing and everything for hours. Sam had made some offhanded remark about the last skirmish near the Black Coast, and Steve had chimed in with a clever observation. The sun filtered through the tall drawing room windows, catching in James's hair, now streaked faintly with gray at the temples, though he was no older than you remembered. The war had just… aged everyone. It changed everyone.

You leaned back in your chair, eyes gleaming. “You know,” you said, swirling your cup a little, “I heard Ross recommended I promote all three of you to Captain and assign you to your own units.”

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I like the sound of Captain Wilson,” he tasted the title on his tongue, “Not bad, huh?”

“Thank you,” Steve chuckled. “Though I have some notes on the uniform.”

“Of course you do,” you rolled your eyes.

You turned to James, waiting for a grin, a snarky comment, something, anything.

But he shook his head slowly. “No,” he said.

What?

“No?” you echoed, incredulous.

He set his cup down, “I’d like to decline the promotion,” he reiterated..

“I— What?” you asked.

He straightened his posture a little, his metal arm twitching. “If it’s alright with you, Your Majesty, I’d like to request transfer to the Royal Guard. Specifically—” he looked directly at you now, “—as your personal guard.”

You stared at him. “You want…I…?”

“You saved my life,” James’s voice was smaller than you had ever heard it. “Let me spend my life paying that back.”

Your voice came out barely above a whisper. “James…”

His eyes flicked to Steve and Sam, then back to you. “I need to do this.”

You felt something shift inside you, perhaps a crack in the armour you’d built since the war ended, since you were crowned, since the weight of the kingdom had fallen onto your shoulders.

“You…” you took a deep breath, “You don’t owe me anything, James.”

He smiled— a little sad, a little stubborn. “I know. That’s why it matters.”

Steve, ever gentle, gave you a slight nod—no pressure, just support.

Sam leaned back in his chair with a low whistle. “Gotta admit, hard to top that kind of commitment.”

You stood, slowly, and walked over to where James sat. He rose with you, as a guard should. As he would.

You placed your hand over his heart, and felt it beating steady beneath your palm.

“You’re sure?” you asked him, one last time.

James nodded. “As sure as I’ve ever been.”

The others must’ve noticed the shift in the air. Or maybe they’d just known Bucky too long.

Steve stood, handing his teacup to a servant with a quiet “thank you.”

“Well,” he said with a stretch, cracking his knuckles. “We’ll leave you two to catch up.”

Sam followed, giving you a knowing glance as he passed. “Try not to promote him to Head of the Guard just yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Out.”

They laughed, and were gone.

You smiled, easing yourself into the seat next to him. 

The conversation resumed. It was so easy with him. The banter, the side glances, the way he leaned just a bit too close and you didn’t move away.

“Did you miss me?” you teased at one point, resting your elbow on the armrest, chin in hand.

He looked at you as though you were the moon itself. “Every day.”

“I missed you too,” you whispered. “More than I can say.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You shouldn’t say things like that, Your Majesty.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start to believe them.”

You didn’t answer. You sighed instead. Of course. Of course this was going nowhere. James Barnes was nothing if not a gentleman, and as long as he thought you were Robert’s, he would not touch you.

“Why didn’t you come to the palace sooner?” you said weakly.

“Stange took a while perfecting the magic on my prosthetic,” His eyes flicked to the fire. “I didn’t want to come back half a man.”

“You’re not,” you said fiercely. “You’re more than any man I’ve ever known.”

Your hand reached out and grazed his metal shoulder. His breath hitched.

You leaned in, too close to be proper, too close to pretend. His hand hovered near your waist.

Your eyes dropped to his mouth. His did the same.

And then….. It was almost.

He pulled away right before your lips touched his, like it burned him to be close to you. “No,” James whispered, almost to himself. “No. You’re promised to another.”

“James—”

He shook his head, rising to his feet now, his voice barely controlled. “Let me protect you,” he said, as though offering the only thing he had left. “Even if I can never have you.”

Your voice trembled. “But—this. You can’t deny this. Do you—” You hesitated, heart pounding. “Do you love me?”

His eyes closed, like the truth hurt to hold. “It doesn’t matter if I do.”

You wanted—so desperately—to tell him that Robert was your dearest friend and nothing more. That Robert could never love you the way James did.

But it wasn’t your secret to tell. So you swallowed it and watched him go.

As he reached the door, you spoke up, just loud enough for him to hear, “Welcome to the Royal Guard, James Buchanan Barnes.”

—

James’ first day as your Royal Guard was your wedding day.

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

He stood at your right, just behind the dais, dressed in newly tailored armor etched with the sigil of the Crown and a silver sash denoting his new position. The metal of his arm shimmered with runes. His hair was pulled back, neatly tied, but his jaw was clenched. He didn’t smile— he hadn’t since you’d told him the date.

Across the hall, John Walker stood at Robert’s side. His uniform was immaculate. John was loyal, just like Robert needed him to be.

The musicians began tuning, and the chapel buzzed.

Robert entered quietly through the back, his ceremonial jacket half-buttoned and hair slightly mussed. You found him in one of the side chambers, pacing, a flask of liquid clutched loosely in his hand.

You raised an eyebrow as he turned, clearly buzzing with whatever powder he'd just snorted— his eyes were dilated, mouth was twitching. “Bob.”

He didn’t look at you, as he tipped the small vial back into his pocket.

“Don’t start,” he whispered. “It’s my wedding too.”

You reached out and yanked the vial from his pocket, ignoring the startled glance from a passing attendant. You didn’t care.

“Be sober, Bob,” you snapped under your breath. “Just today. Please.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but you glared. Not as a queen, but his best friend.

He swallowed instead.

Your brows softened, reaching up to straighten the collar of his jacket. “You know I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t understand.”

He flinched at that, letting out a half laugh, half wounded bark. “Do you?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you’d seen the Viscountess Reynolds, his mother. She had arrived in velvet and pearls, beautiful as ever, but when she leaned in to kiss your cheek in greeting, the neckline of her gown shifted just enough to reveal fresh scars across her collarbone— the kind you only got from being dragged by the hair or shoved down stairs by his father.

Now, his hands trembled as he tried to do up the final clasp of his jacket.

“I can’t stand up to him,” Robert said quietly. “I never could.”

“You will be king soon,” You finished the clasp, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. “We will fix things.”

Robert only scoffed, looking down to his feet. Instead, he decided to change the subject. Robert glanced toward the door leading to the main hall and whispered, “Is that your James?”

You didn’t look. “He’s not mine,” you said flatly, though your voice wavered just enough to betray you.

“Sure,” Robert snorted. “And I’m straight.”

That finally earned a weak laugh from you, brittle around the edges.

“He asked to be my guard,” you finally said, eyes drifting at last toward the man in silver. James was standing unnervingly still, eyes tracing the exits, the crowd, your path. “First thing he did when he returned. He rejected a promotion. He didn’t even want gold. He just asked for… proximity.”

“Romantic,” Robert whispered, adjusting his cufflinks. “Dangerously so.”

“He thinks I’m yours,” you said, your fingers tightening around the silk in your hands.

“He thinks wrong,” Robert said under his breath.

You turned to face him fully, seeing through the crimson and gold and inherited guilt to the boy beneath it all. “What do you suggest we do to fix that, then?”

He froze. His mouth opened, then shut again, as if the answer was simple but impossible to speak aloud.

And then— he said nothing.

Because if you both told James the truth—that he wasn’t yours, that he’d never been yours,—and James let that slip to anyone…

Not that he would— James was loyal to a fault. But accidents happen, and the court whispers. 

And if his father found out, he would take it out on his mother.

Again.

So Robert could never come out. Not to James. Not to anyone but you. Not while his father was still alive.

And you… you would be breaking protocol if you married a commoner. So no, you had no choice either.

“I’ll let him believe what he wants,” you said quietly, reassuring that his safety was still your priority. “For now.”

—

Half an hour later, you were alone in the small antechamber just off the chapel, when James stepped inside. James knocked once—barely a courtesy—then shut the door behind him.

“I will escort you to the aisle,” he said. His voice was even, but his eyes never quite met yours. “It’s my ceremonial duty.”

You turned from the mirror with a small smile. “You just wanted to see me before everyone else did.”

His jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

“I’m told I make quite the vision in white.” You tilted your head, stepping closer, the hem of your gown whispering across the floor. “Though I assume you might prefer me in nothing.”

“Don’t,” he warned, eyes darkening.

You only smiled wider. “Don’t what?”

He didn’t move as his muscle twitched, the magic plates of his metal arm rippling. “You shouldn’t speak to me like that,” he said eventually, “You’re marrying another man.”

You winked. “I act as I please.”

“Even now?” His voice was hoarse. “Even here?”

You reached out, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on his lapel. “Especially here.”

He caught your wrist— gently, firmly.

“I signed up to protect you, to pay my debt,” he said, eyes finally locking with yours. “Not to want you.”

You tilted your head, letting the silence wrap around the two of you like smoke.

“So,” you whispered, “what now?”

He didn’t answer right away, but he looked at you like you were a blade he’d willingly fall on. “I will escort you down the aisle,” he said at last. “And I stand behind your husband while he vows to love you.”

—

During the wedding, James stood at the edge of the ballroom like a statue carved in restraint.

He had watched it all.

The vows. The way your fingers had lingered on Robert’s jaw.

You danced with your new husband like you loved him. And one way or another, you did, James could tell. Your fingers were on Robert’s collar, your lips brushed close when you whispered in his ears.

But then… you threw a smile over your shoulder when you noticed James watching.

He didn’t know when it had stopped being simple. He only knew he hated the way his stomach flipped when you looked at him too long.

And then, when Robert turned to talk to some merchants— you slipped away to a different room, and James followed.

You were waiting in an empty room, lit only by moonlight bleeding through the lace curtains. Your crown had been left behind, your heels discarded. You were barefoot on the marble, still breathless from the crowd.

“Dance with me, James,” you said when you closed the door. 

He stiffened where he stood, admiring your beauty, but objected. “Your husband—”

“Is busy,” you interrupted, taking a step toward him. “And besides—” You smiled, half-mischief, half-command. “I am your queen. I demand you dance with me.”

He flinched. He hated the game of it. Hated how quickly he folded when you pouted, like after months in the fortress together, you knew exactly how to gut him.

“Just this once, Your Majesty,” he caved.

Your smile deepened like you’d won a prize at a fair. You pulled him to you, hands on his shoulders, and began to sway to the muffled sound of a distant waltz leaking through the walls. 

Your bodies fit too well, your palms too warm on him. You rested your head just beneath his chin, your perfume threading into his nostrils like smoke.

“You hate this,” you whispered.

“Yes,” James said hoarsely.

“And yet…” You lifted your eyes to his. “You’re holding me like I’m yours.”

He said nothing. Just tightened his grip and closed his eyes.

And then his lips brushed your temple. “If I close my eyes,” he choked out, “I could almost believe…” EVen after all this, he couldn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t ask what. You knew.

So for that one dance, that one stolen moment in a room no one would remember—James pretended he was your bride.

What he didn’t know was that, just beyond the carved stone walls, out in the rose-wrapped garden, your new husband was secretly dancing, too— his hand in John Walker’s.

Everyone was pretending tonight.

—

You danced for far too long.

By the third song, your breaths matched. James held you like he forgot he wasn’t supposed to. You let your cheek rest against his chest, while his hand was on your waist, almost possessive.

The fourth was your undoing.

You looked up at him. Your lips parted as he looked down at your mouth.

Without thinking, you both leaned in. Not fast or sudden, but like magnets pulled across a field—like gravity finally had its say. Your noses brushed. His eyes flicked shut. His mouth was right there—

And then, “Oh. There you are.”

James tensed like a blade unsheathed.

Robert stood in the doorway, composed as ever. He held one glove in his hand and adjusted the cuff of his ceremonial coat like he’d just stepped out of a perfectly uneventful conversation.

“Our carriage is here,” he said casually. “Whenever you’re ready.”

James stepped back like he expected to be burned at the stake. His hands instantly dropped from your waist to his side. He didn't dare meet Robert’s —his king’s— eyes. 

You, on the other hand, tilted your head with that maddening calmness. “I’ll be along shortly.”

Robert nodded, gaze flicking to James only once. Instead of anger… The new king smiled at him before turning and leaving.

James didn’t breathe.

“What the fuck?" He said finally, confused that the king was not mad that his queen almost kissed another man on their wedding night. 

You looked back at him, eyes unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You—” His hand gestured toward the door. “Your husband just walked in on us—nearly kissing—and he just… said the carriage is ready?”

You shrugged. “It is.”

James took a step toward you, something like desperation leaking through his restraint. “Are you trying to make me lose my mind?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you leaned up and whispered in his ear, voice satin-smooth. “Go on, James. Return to your post.”

—

James followed at a respectful distance as the royal carriage rolled into the castle gates.

He wasn’t sure what he expected— perhaps he had to wait outside your door as you consummated your marriage to your new king-consort. Instead, he found silence. 

He and John Walker stood outside the great hall as the royal couple disembarked and strolled up the staircase—not hand in hand, not arm in arm, but side by side.

Robert was the first to speak. “I'm exhausted. Tell them to delay any council until after ten.”

“I’ll handle it,” you said, already unpinning the heavy jewels from your hair as you walked through the halls of the castle.

John gave James a look that said this is normal. James didn’t know whether to be relieved or more deeply disturbed.

At the top of the stairs, you paused. Your hand rested lightly on Robert’s arm— not intimate, but affectionate.

“Good night, Bob,” you said.

He gave a lazy, but genuine smile. “Don’t stay up plotting.”

“Don’t stay up snorting your vials.”

Robert gave a short laugh. “Yeah yeah. See you tomorrow.” And then he vanished down the east corridor.

You turned and disappeared down the west.

James stood frozen halfway up the stairs.

John Walker just raised an eyebrow at him. “Something wrong?”

James blinked. “They’re not even sharing a room?”

“Never have,” John shrugged. “Probably never will.”

“But… it’s their wedding night.”

John gave a chuckle and patted his chest, almost condescendingly. “Thought you’d have caught on by now.”

James stared after both vanished figures. His chest felt tight, but not from anger— Hope, maybe.

“You’re telling me there’s nothing between them?” he asked.

John leaned against the bannister. “There is love. But no—not like you think. She’s not his, and he’s not hers.”

James’ voice was barely a whisper. “Then who is?”

John said nothing.

—

Over the next couple of weeks, James watched from the shadows more than he dared speak.

At first, jealousy churned in his gut every time he saw you and Robert together. Every time you leaned toward him at dinner, every time you whispered in his ear, every time his hand sometimes rested on the small of your back — it all grated at James like sand under a gauntlet.

But the more he watched… the more your relationship fell apart.

There were no heated glances or lingering touches. The castle’s rumor mill spoke not of affairs, but of arguments. Of debates in the library, scoldings in the garden. You were often seen chastising Robert like a wayward brother, not a husband.

You and Robert read together most nights in the stone-walled library, the hearth crackling beside you. Robert preferred fantasy books, but you would much rather read books of battle, strategy, and old world histories. When Robert drank too much of the wine, or vanished for hours and returned glassy-eyed from powders he should never have touched, you gave him a long-winded speech about how he should confront his father instead of running. 

Then, James saw what you did when Robert stumbled through the courtyard one morning after a long night, barely able to walk straight. You didn’t run to him. You crossed your arms, nostrils flared, and you scolded him in front of his men.

“You smell like horse piss and ruin,” you hissed. “If John hadn’t dragged you back from whatever ditch you fell into, the court would lose their king.”

And Robert had winced, not at the words, but like a boy ashamed before a sister.

John Walker stood nearby, as he always did. If Robert was wildfire, John was the iron cage that kept it from spreading. Ever since he was assigned to the king, he was ever far from his side.

—

Eventually, you and James got close again, relearning how to find conversation without the siege echoing in the background.

It began with quiet moments in the library, when James stood silently behind you while you read, pretending to check the exits. 

You’d gesture to a passage you liked. He’d nod.

You offered him tea one night. He took it without a word.

And that was how it began again.

Then came the late-night walks on the outer walls, when neither of you could sleep. He'd fall into step beside you, boots echoing across the stone, the runes on that kept his metal arm going catching the moonlight.

One night, you vented to him. "I’m getting tired of cleaning up Bob’s messes," you said. “He drinks before the council meetings now. Half the court knows and he doesn’t even care. I can’t keep covering for him, and John can’t even pull him out of it anymore.”

James said nothing, but his human clenched.

You leaned against the cold stone wall, rubbing your eyes. “He used to just... disappear sometimes. And that was fine. But now, he stays. He stays and implodes. And I don’t know what to do. And John doesn’t know what to do”

You glanced at him — the man who had followed you through fire, siege, and now, into the palace, and waited for an answer that never came.

—

That night, a nightmare caught up with you

You were back in the fortress, seven months into the siege of Eastmoor— a battle that had taken a toll on your psyche.

In your dreams, your hands were red again. The sky was falling, and the enemy was inching closer to victory—

You woke up with a gasp. A scream, really. And then the door opened.

James stepped in, eyes scanning the room like a threat had breached it— as the royal guard ought to.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I, um—” You could barely breathe. “I– it was a nightmare.”

He took a few steps toward you but didn’t touch you, yet. “Should I get your husband?”

Your breath hitched. You weren’t thinking, not clearly. As far as your mind was concerned, you were still in the fortress in Eastmoor.

“No,” you said. “You. I want you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, James,” You patted the empty space in your bed meant for your husband, “Please.”

James didn’t ask questions, though he should have. Laying in the queen’s bed must be wrong, it must be unlawful. 

But he did not see the queen now. He saw the same princess he comforted during the siege.

So for you, he climbed into the massive bed like it was your tiny cot all over again. He pulled you close like no time had passed at all.

Your head found his chest, your arm wrapped around his waist. His metal arm curled protectively around you.

It felt like breathing again.

Eventually, in a whisper you probably shouldn’t have let slip, you murmured, “Your arm… it’s colder now against my skin. I like it.”

You felt him go still.

Then, slowly, his grip around you tightened just slightly. “It’s different now,” he said.

“I know,” you said, “back in the siege, you held me with human arms.”

“Back in the siege,” he murmured, “you weren’t married.”

Your chest ached. “Back in the siege— I was engaged,” in an act of defiance, you kissed his jaw, “Perhaps nothing had changed, James.”

Perhaps.

—

The night after that, you found yourself… lonely.

The ball had long ended. The music had faded into silence, and the castle’s golden corridors were empty, save for flickering candles and the occasional guard shifting on duty.

You stood in your chambers, half-undressed, your gown draped across the chaise and your corset still tight around your ribs. The ladies-in-waiting were gone — two bottles of plum wine between them and loud giggles all the way down the corridor to their quarters.

You didn’t need them. So you called for your personal guard.

James stepped inside with the same careful poise he always carried, metal fingers curled lightly at his side, eyes trained ahead.

“Your majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

You were standing at the mirror, your back to him. The corset was laced tightly, and your arms were too tired to reach all the way back after dancing and standing in pointless celebration for hours.

“I need help,” you said.

His brow twitched. “Should I fetch your ladies?”

“They’re drunk,” you replied, glancing over your shoulder. “They’ll lace me in a knot or put me in bed face-down. You're the only sober one I trust.”

He stiffened, still half in the doorway. “Shall I fetch your husband?”

Your eyes met his in the mirror. “I do not want my husband, James.”

He didn't move, so you clarified. “You know this: we do not love each other that way.”

His eyes flicked away, fist tightening. You could almost hear his metal arm creak as he shifted.

You tilted your head, turning around and motioning for him to lock the door. “James,” you said quietly, “please. Just take it off. Just… help me breathe.”

There was a long pause before he said. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

He moved closer. You felt him before you saw him — you felt the warmth of his breath just barely disturbing the curls at the nape of your neck. His metal hand ghosted up the edge of the laces, never quite touching his skin. You could hear the steady exhale through his nose, see the way his eyes stayed firmly locked on the ties, not the curve of your spine beneath them.

He was trembling, but one by one, he undid the laces.

Your breath eased with each loosened thread, your ribs finally expanding. The silk began to slacken, and the pressure lifted. When he reached the last tie, the corset slid down, and you let it fall to the floor.

James turned his head instantly, out of respect. He stared at the candlelit wall, his shoulders stiff. Because of course — of course looking at the queen’s bare skin was a punishable offense.

Even if he found you to be the most beautiful thing in the world. 

“Look at me, James,” you said.

He hesitated. Then slowly, almost painfully, he turned his head. “As you wish… Your Majesty.”

His eyes found you.

You watched it happen — his breath catching, the lashes fluttering, the pupils dilate just slightly. His eyes roamed, reverent and restrained all at once. He looked like a man on the edge of a cliff, unsure if he was meant to fall or fly. Like he was looking at both a dream and blasphemy.

“James,” you said, stepping closer. Your hand reached out, brushing his jaw, your fingers curling around the stubble there. “James, kiss me.”

He froze. And for a second, you thought he might flee, like he always did when the fire between you got too close to all-consuming.

But instead, he muttered the words again. “As you wish, you majesty.”

His lips met yours.

It was not a sweet kiss. It was not careful. It was earned. His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in deeper, and you melted into him. You surrendered into the safety, the tension, the want. His mouth was rougher than you'd imagined, hungrier, but his hands, both human and metal, trembled as he touched your waist, as though afraid you’d disappear.

You didn’t.

You reached up and pulled him with you toward the bed.

He hesitated for a heartbeat.

You could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tremor in his breath— how hard he fought to stay in control. Because even now, even now, half undressed and trembling with need, you were still the queen.

And to touch you like this? To see your bare skin, to hunger for you the way he did? Punishable by hanging. Maybe worse.

But you didn’t care.

Not when your body buzzed with the ghost of his hands. Not when your lips still ached from the heat of his kiss.

You stepped up to him again, bare and unashamed, and ran your fingers down the seam where his leather jerkin met his collar.

"James,” you murmured. “Am I so terrifying?”

His answer was hoarse. “It’s not you I fear.”

You smiled, mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Is it fear of what we’d do?”

He turned then, finally, eyes locking with yours—and your knees nearly gave way.

His gaze dropped to your mouth. Then lower. The line of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, the swell of your breasts rising with each breath. His hands flexed at his sides— like a man desperate to touch bound by chains of his own making.

You took his hand—the metal one—and placed it on your bare waist. His eyes widened. The muscles in his throat worked like he was swallowing back a cry.

“You won’t be hanged for worshipping my body, James.”

He tensed.

You leaned in, whispering against his lips, playful and wicked, “Trust me. My husband would be thrilled someone is taking proper care of his queen.”

That did it.

A choked sound escaped him. Half laugh, half groan.

His mouth was on yours again, and this time it was feral.

There was no more hesitation. His hands roamed palming your hips, dragging you closer like he needed to fuse your flesh to his. He kissed you like a starving man, tongue sweeping your mouth, devouring every gasp you gave him.

He kissed you until you were moaning into him, pressing yourself shamelessly against his body, feeling his arousal beneath his ceremonial uniform. When you ground against him, he gasped and grabbed your thighs, lifting you off the ground.

You wrapped around him like instinct.

Your back hit the nearest wall, and his mouth was on your neck, then your chest, worshipping like he’d die if he didn’t taste you.

"James," you whispered, dazed and drunk on him, "Lay me down."

He paused, but this time, it was only for a heartbeat.

You could feel it again— duty. The guilt trying to claw its way back in. His forehead pressed to yours, his chest heaving.

“If someone finds me here—”

You cut him off with a wicked smile and a roll of your hips that had him groaning into your throat.

“Then let them,” you whispered. “Let them see what it looks like when a queen is loved. Not paraded. Loved.”

Fuck.

So he carried you to the bed— careful and quick, like he couldn’t bear the space between you for another moment. He laid you down gently.

His gloves came off first, then the buckles, the straps. You helped, trembling fingers undoing each layer of leather until he was bare before you, all skin and battle-worn scars.

Your hands ran over his chest, his ribs, the scar near his hip.

“You’ve nearly died serving your country,” you whispered. “Let me serve you.”

He kissed you again, slower this time. But fuller.

And then he was on you.

Mouth on your throat, your breasts, your stomach. He trailed kisses down your belly like he was marking a path— one only he was allowed to take. 

When he settled between them, you gasped.

“Tell me to stop,” he said against your heat.

You laughed breathlessly and fisted his hair.

“Don’t you dare.”

“As you wish, your majesty.”

And then you were gone.

It didn’t end with one moment. Or two. It kept going— like time had broken and collapsed in over itself. The night stretched out like a rubber band. When he finally was in you, you gasped his name like a benediction.

That night, he made love to you like it was a promise.

And when your fingers gripped his back and your thighs wrapped around him, he whispered it again against your throat, your ear, your lips.

“As you wish, your majesty.”

By the time the candlelight faded and the moon began to dip, your bodies were tangled in sweat and silk. His arms held you tight, his lips pressed to the curve of your neck like he never wanted to move ever again.

—

The room was lit by dawn when you stirred.

Your body ached, but not unpleasantly. It was the ache of being wanted. Your limbs tangled with his, the sheets a mess. James lay beside you, face buried in your neck, human arm tucked tightly around your waist. His metal hand rested just beneath your breast, cold even in sleep, and your fingers laced through his hair, gently brushing the sweat-damp strands from his brow.

He looked younger in sleep. Not the decorated soldier, not the sworn royal guard. Just James. 

But then— Knock knock knock.

You heard a panicked voice behind the heavy door, “Your Majesty! Forgive me—there’s something wrong with the king!”

You were upright in a heartbeat, the sheets falling from your chest. James jolted awake, instantly alert, reaching for the dagger on the floor out of sheer instinct.

“What?” you called, voice tight.

The maid’s voice trembled. “He’s… he’s not making sense, your majesty. He asked for his love. Please—he won’t speak to the physicians.”

You swallowed hard, heart thundering. Your fingers gripped the edge of the sheet.

“I’ll be there shortly,” you managed to say, voice barely queen-like.

The footsteps retreated down the corridor.

James turned to you, one hand braced on the mattress, the other brushing your arm.

“Come,” he said quietly. “Let me help you.”

You nodded. 

He helped you up, his hands sliding over your hips as you stood. He retrieved your underdress first — the pale silk one — and held it out for you. You stepped in. His hands pulled it up, fingers brushing over the bruises he’d left on your thighs. 

You reached for your corset, and he laced it swiftly. 

The gown was next. Then the jewels. 

But just before he fastened your capelet, you muttered under your breath, half to yourself, half to him. “What the hell is wrong with my best friend?”

—

The doors to the King’s chambers slammed open.

The scent hit you first — bile, sweat, and something acrid underneath. Robert, once stately in the way statues were stately, was now hunched over a basin, retching. His skin was pale and waxy, the collar of his sleeping robe soaked in sweat. His fingers trembled as he gripped the carved edges of the bowl.

You ran to him, heedless of protocol, kneeling at his side.

“Robert—Bob! —what the hell happened?”

He groaned, barely able to lift his head. “Make it stop,” he rasped. “Gods, it hurts. My skin’s crawling—fuck, my bones—I can’t—I can’t—”

You caught him as he nearly collapsed sideways.That’s when he realised,  He asked for his love, not for you. “Where is John?!” You demanded. 

A maid jumped back, eyes wide. “H-he’s in the barracks, Your Majesty—”

“Then why in all the saints’ names did you fetch me?”

You held Robert in your arms, his body wracked with tremors, tears streaking his flushed cheeks. “He doesn’t need the crown right now. He needs John.”

Just like that, the maid fled in a hurry, skirts flying, tripping over her shoes in her haste.

Robert whimpered into your shoulder, fists tightening in the silk of your sleeve. “I stopped,” he said, voice raw and cracked. “Stopped the tonic. The powder. The drops. All of it. I stopped and I—” He broke off, gasping. “It hurts. It’s withdrawal, isn’t it?”

Your heart shattered.

“Oh, Robert…” you whispered. “Yes. It is.”

You stroked his hair. No royal physician had dared to question what he'd been taking nightly. The concoctions disguised as “meditative supplements.” It dulled the grief, and he was addicted to it. 

“You idiot,” a new voice drawled from the door.

John Walker stepped into the room, shirt half-buttoned, belt slung over one shoulder, hair wild from sleep.

And Robert—broken and barely conscious—lifted his head just enough to see him.

A smile broke through his tears.

“My love…” he breathed, slurring. “You came…”

My love? James, who had been watching, thought. 

You rose slowly, letting John take your place, letting him gather Robert into his arms like he’d done a hundred times before in the dark. Robert clung to him immediately, sobbing against his chest.

James watched it all— Robert unraveling in another man’s arms— and he understood everything.

This marriage… had never been about love.

It had been a shield.

And last night… last night, when you begged him to undress you, when you said you didn’t want your husband—he hadn’t truly believed it. But now?

Now he saw it.

You stood there in full regalia — crown still glinting in the sunlight, hands stained with bile,  — and James Barnes finally understood just how much of yourself you had sacrificed for your best friend.

You didn’t turn to him. Your eyes stayed on Robert and John, whispering to each other on the bed, the king sobbing quietly as his lover held him tight.

“Tell the royal apothecary to prepare valerian, black thistle, and willow bark,” you said quietly, “Nothing stronger. I want him monitored, but not sedated.”

James gave a short nod. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

—

Hours later, the medical chamber was dim, the heavy curtains drawn against the midday sun. It smelled faintly of chamomile, sweat, and burnt sage. The healer had finally left an hour ago, and John had gone to rest in the adjoining room. He hadn’t wanted to leave Robert’s side.

You had offered to keep watch. 

You sat at the edge of the bed, hands folded in your lap, crown replaced by a simple braid, your gown less ceremonial now. You watched Robert stir beneath the linen sheets, pale but no longer trembling. His lips were cracked, his cheeks hollow, but when his eyes blinked open and found yours, he looked… better.

“Hey,” you said softly, brushing hair back from his damp forehead.

He managed a small smile. “Hey.”

You offered a small smile. “You lived.”

He winced. “Barely.”

You nodded. “I…” you started “I’m proud of you.”

He blinked.

You said it again, firmer this time. “I’m proud of you for being sober last night.”

Robert swallowed hard. “I… I had to be,” he looked down in shame. “The void inside me was eating me alive.”

You didn’t speak. You let him say it — let him dig up his demons.

“Every time John looked at me, I could see— he worried. I’m afraid he'd realise that I wasn’t the man he—” His voice cracked, and he turned his face to the pillow. “I did it for him.”

You sat with that. Let it settle like dust in the silence between you. You only reached into the stack of papers on the bedside table. You handed him one sheet — rolled and ribboned — and waited.

He took and unrolled it slowly.

His brows furrowed. “This is… an arrest warrant?”

You nodded. He blinked. 

Then paled when he read the details. “It says… my father.”

“He will stand trial for domestic abuse and assault.” You nodded. “For what he did to you when you were a boy, and for what he did to your mother.”

Robert’s mouth opened, but no words came. His body seemed to freeze 

“I—how?” he finally whispered. “How could you…? Your father made sure he was untouchable.”

You leaned back slightly, lacing your fingers together. “Not anymore.”

He looked at you like he’d seen a ghost.

You smiled again before reaching into the pile again and handed him the second parchment. This one was thicker.

“A new constitution,” you said. “I’ve been working on it since the day I became queen. I’ve been rewriting the laws he built to protect himself — with loopholes and titles and bloodlines. ”

Robert stared at it. Then at you.

“This,” you said, quiet now, “was always the plan, remember? I was going to be queen and change everything.”

—

You found John in the garden that afternoon.

He was seated on the stone bench beneath the myrtle trees, sleeves rolled to his elbows, forearms resting on his knees, head bowed. The air smelled like rosemary and smoke, and the world was quiet save for the rustle of wind through leaves and the distant coo of doves on the chapel roof.

He looked up when you approached.

You sat beside him, leaving space in between. You watched the birds for a moment. “He loves you so much it’s practically carved into his bones.”

John let out a breath, mouth twitching. 

“He better,” he muttered. “I’m the only one stubborn enough to keep dragging his ass back from the edge.”

You chuckled softly. “He’s lucky.”

John was quiet again. Then, without looking at you. He said, “You’re a good queen.” He glanced sideways — really looking at you for the first time in weeks. 

That surprised you more than anything.

“John,” you mentioned, scooting a bit closer. “I promise we’ll figure something out. For the four of us.”

John nodded, because he knew a queen like you would keep her promises.

—

That night, you had a bath that had long gone tepid, but you remained sunk in it anyway, head resting against the marble edge, too exhausted to move. 

The guards had taken Viscount Reynolds into custody before sunset. You hadn’t even changed from your court robes before collapsing into the water. Robert was resting, John sleeping on the seat beside him.

You’d thought you were alone.

So when the door creaked open, you barely stirred. Perhaps you would have protested, but you knew who it was without needing to look.

“Your Majesty?” James’ voice was low.

He was supposed to be on patrol, but then again, after last night, you supposed James Barnes had started making his own rules when it came to you. 

“The maid let me in,” he said, stepping into the bath chamber, steam curling around his shoulders like fog on a battlefield. “She thought I was just... doing my rounds.”

You tilted your head toward him, wet hair clinging to your cheek. “You are.”

“I should’ve known,” he said finally. “God, I should’ve known.”

You blinked up at him, weary but curious.

He knelt beside the tub, close enough for you to see the flicker of guilt and realization behind those glacier-blue eyes. 

“All this time I thought…” His voice faltered. “I thought this marriage of convenience was for your sake.” A bitter smile touched his lips. “But you did it for him.”

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

He reached for the towel and extended it to you without a word. When you rose from the bath, bare and dripping, he didn’t ogle or avert his eyes. He looked at you like a man seeing sunlight after years underground.

He wrapped the towel around your shoulders, hands brushing your collarbones. His fingers grazing your throat. Then, his finger wandered lower, trailing the towel down your arms, over your sides, your hips.

“I should’ve seen it.” He whispered. “A lavender marriage. Of course. Of course.”

You turned toward him, now wrapped loosely in the towel, water still beading on your skin.  He stepped closer, his voice dropping to barely more than a breath. “And through all of it, you were alone.”

You nodded, just once. 

“I understood— why you could not tell me,” he said. “But I should have known.”

You choked on a breath. His lips brushed your temple, then your neck — where he kissed you slowly, his mouth dragging like an apology over your skin. 

You leaned into him, the towel slipping slightly as your body pressed against his. You didn’t care about propriety or adultery or the crown or the hundreds of walls you had built to survive.

Only him.

—

Nine months later, Audrey was born.

The storm had broken that night. The midwives whispered that thunder called powerful souls into the world. 

Robert was there. Sober, as he has been for nine months now. He was silent and respectful. You caught his eye once, mid-contraction, and he nodded. He knew his role.

But it was James, who never left your side.

James, who kissed your sweat-drenched forehead between each scream.

James, who whispered, "You’re doing so well.”

James, who wept the moment Audrey cried, like her first breath was drawn from his lungs.

And Audrey — little Audrey — was the most breathtaking creature the kingdom had ever seen.

The royal painters fumbled with their brushes. The nursemaids tittered behind gloved hands. Even the court astrologer dropped her polished stones when she saw the child’s eyes.

Because… no one could deny it.

Audrey’s eyes were not King Robert’s eyes. 

Audrey’s eyes were James Barnes’ eyes.

That piercing, impossible shade of sky blue. Not Robert’s deep-sea navy.

Her nose had that subtle tilt, just like James’. And when she furrowed her brow in sleep, it was unmistakable. She looked just like her father.

No one dared say it aloud, not even your mother, who was too blinded by the joy of the new heir to care whose it was.

After all, did it matter?

You were still queen. Robert was still king. And Audrey — Audrey was born of both your legacies, whether the blood aligned or not. 

But it was you and James who rocked her on the balcony. You and James who walked the palace halls at night with her bundled to your chest. You and James whispered lullabies while Robert and John, from a respectable distance, drank their tea and watched from afar, wondering if they would ever have the freedom to adopt one of their own. 

—

Captain Sam Wilson arrived three weeks after her birth, his hands gentle when he held her. He looked into Audrey’s eyes and smiled — not with surprise, but certainty.

Captain Steve Rogers came a day later. He took one look at the child nestled against James’s chest and clapped a firm hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “She’s beautiful,” Steve said.

James, uncharacteristically quiet, only nodded.

“Looks like someone I know, Buck.” Steve added, and then winked. 

Still, no one said the obvious. Not the Council. Not the court. Not the papers — who tiptoed around it with all the delicacy of men walking barefoot through a field of glass. They never once printed a whisper, though the resemblance was plain as sunlight.

Because Robert was fine with it.

And because Audrey — future Queen Audrey — would never know the coldness of being born of duty.

Only of love.

—

And three years later, no one questioned it when the court awoke to solemn news: His Majesty King Robert and His Guard, John Walker, had perished in a tragic carriage accident— down a treacherous cliff along the coast road.

No bodies were ever recovered. There were no state funerals.

Just an announcement and a wreath laid. Enough of a ceremony to satisfy the historians.

No one questioned the gaps in the story. Not the missing witnesses. Not the absence of grief in your eyes.

Because by then, no one dared question your rule.

You were the Queen who ended wars, who fed her people during famine, and who still found time to kneel beside her daughter’s cradle, plait her hair each morning, kiss her scraped knees, and hum old lullabies before bedtime.

No one questioned why you never remarried, because everyone already knew who your heart belonged to.

And though no one ever dared say it aloud, it became courtly knowledge— that when Little Princess Audrey climbed into the Queen’s Guard’s lap and called him Daddy, the Queen only smiled.

—

Audrey was eight now.

She stood on the cushioned bench beside the window, small hands pressed to the glass as the carriage jostled gently down the hidden woodland road. Her nose wrinkled at the fog on the pane, and she wiped it clean with her sleeve, eyes wide as the first trees of Eastmoor forest came into view.

“They’re gonna be waiting, Mama,” she whispered excitedly, bouncing slightly in her seat. “Uncle Bob always waits by the gate.”

You smiled softly from your place across from her. “Yes, sweetheart,” you said. “He’ll be right where he always is.”

James sat beside her, one arm curled protectively around her back, the other resting on the hilt of his dagger — always the soldier, even now. But when Audrey turned toward him and leaned her head on his shoulder, his posture relaxed instantly.

“You think they’ll have apple tarts again, daddy?” Audrey asked, muffled against the leather of his jacket.

“I think,” James replied, brushing a lock of her hair behind her ear, “that Uncle Johnny’s probably already burned the first batch and made Uncle Bob swear not to tell anyone.”

Audrey giggled. The carriage bumped over the hidden trail, veering off from any official road — the route known only to you, James, and a handful of trusted men who owed their lives to the crown.

You had managed to keep this trip off the books. No guards followed. No scrolls recorded it, nor was ever spoken of aloud in court.

But every year, when the leaves turned gold, you made this journey.

—

The house wasn’t grand — in fact, it was plain by royal standards. It was a weathered stone cottage with ivy crawling over its eaves, surrounded by a canopy of trees. Smoke curled from the chimney as chickens wandered freely through the grass and a horse whinnied lazily from the back stable.

And standing just beyond the crooked gate was Robert.

He looked different now — leaner, a little older, his once regal hair streaked with gray. He wore a simple tunic and boots caked in mud. When he saw the carriage, his face broke into a smile that could’ve lit the kingdom.

Behind him, John emerged from the doorway, sleeves rolled up, apron dusted with flour, laughing as he wiped his hands on a dish towel.

Audrey burst out the moment the carriage stopped, launching herself into Robert’s arms.

“Uncle Bob!”

He caught her, lifting her easily into the air and spinning her once before hugging her tight. “There’s my little rascal,” he exclaimed. “Eight years old already, huh?”

She beamed, clinging to his shoulders. “And I brought my history scroll so you can help me cheat on my essay!”

“Oh, bless the saints,” John groaned, laughing as he took her next, peppering kisses to her cheeks. “Don’t tell your governess I’m a bad influence.”

Audrey knew better than to tell the governess anything. After all, they were both, as far as the official documents were concerned, dead.

You stepped down from the carriage with grace, gown gathered in your gloved hands. James was at your side, his hand resting lightly on your lower back.

Robert met your eyes over Audrey’s shoulder.

“Still queen?” he chuckled.

“And you,” you replied, voice warm.

“Come in,” John interrupted, ushering you all toward the door. “I burned the first tart but the second one’s edible.”

—

That night, after Audrey had fallen asleep upstairs in the little loft she’d claimed as her own, you and James sat on the porch beside Robert and John. 

James was leaning against the railing, Audrey’s toy rabbit tucked under his arm. You were curled beside him, boots unlaced, your head resting on his shoulder.

“I still can’t believe you did it,” John said, sipping his sparkling water. “You faked our deaths. Got us out of the palace.”

“I said I would figure something out,” you replied.

Robert looked at you with the same grateful look he’d given you the day you’d handed him the arrest warrant and said, “I’ll never be able to repay you,” he whispered.

“You don’t have to,” you said, reaching across to squeeze his shoulder. “You’re happy. That’s all I ever wanted for you, ever since we were kids.”

“And you?” he asked. “Are you happy?”

You looked up at James, who kissed your temple without needing to be asked.

“Of course,” you said simply.

John raised his glass. “To promises kept,” he said.

“To peace hard-won,” Robert added.

James lifted his own. “And to love everlasting.”

You clinked glasses. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel like the weight of the kingdom laid on your shoulders. 

You were just four souls on a porch— while upstairs, the future of the throne slept soundly in her bed.

-end.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

i need a cocktail and a lobotomy.

[arlana-likes-to-write]

Hi Friends

Hope everyone is having a wonderful pride. I wanted to post this if anyone of have been where I've run off to and why I haven't been posting as much.

My partner, myself, and two of our friends have started a gaming channel called 'Chaotically Queer.' We are hoping to become more of a variety game channel but at the moment we've been playing a lot of Fortnite, Minecraft (mostly me and Tay), and for some reason Uno (yeah I didn't expect that one either).

It would mean the world to me if you'd give the Tik Tok and Youtube Channel a follow. Also the lovely and talented @sycamorelibrary754 designed the YouTube banner. It's just me posting and editing the gameplay so bare with me and I'm still learning how to edit.

My ultimate goal is to have other queer gamers join in our channel, post their own content, and join us in some multiplier player games like Minecraft, Ark, or maybe even 7 Days to Die. So if you are a gamer and are interested message me, maybe I'll create a discord.

Thank you all so much for the support! I found a new love for writing and I feel myself growing as a better writer with each story I post.

Much Love <3

Arlana