#I still remember where I was the DAY they announced these. I was at dinner and a little Jaden Yuki came up on my watch | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

badathumanemotions · 2 months ago

Note

Hey, would you be able to write a nsfw fic with spencer but maybe where a few of the team members decide to play poker at Rossi’s and it turns into strip poker with like a bit of truth or dare and you end up sat on Spencer’s lap with like barely any clothes on or smt. And then like later they end up having to share a room at rossi’s and then yk..

High Stakes

Spencer Reid x Fem Reader MDNI Master List Category: Smut CW: Strip Poker, Half Naked Lap Sitting, Grinding, Dry Humping, Oral Sex, Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Creampie, Face Fucking, Dirty Talk. WC: 5,799 I have no idea how to play poker. (Not Proof Read)

"Alright, who's up for a round of poker?" Derek Morgan announced, his eyes scanning the table.

You looked around at the weary but smiling faces of your teammates. After a long, successful case, dinner at Rossi's had been the perfect way to unwind. The aroma of his homemade lasagna still lingered in the air, mingling with the sweetness of their dessert.

"I think I'll pass," Aaron said, pushing back his chair with a stretch. "It's been a long day. I'd love to join you all, but I better get home to Haley and Jack." His eyes crinkled at the mention of his wife and son.

Rossi nodded, understanding. "Alright, I'll walk you out." They disappeared into the hallway, leaving the rest of the team to rearrange the furniture in the den.

You felt a hand on your shoulder. "You in?" Emily Prentiss asked, her eyes gleaming with mischief.

You nodded, trying to hide your nerves. "Sure, I'm in. It's been a while since I played, but I'll give it a shot."

The table was soon set up with cards, chips, and drinks. You took a seat next to Spencer, who was already shuffling the deck with a focused intensity that was a little unnerving.

"Okay, everyone," Rossi called out as he re-entered the room. "Let's get this game started." He took his place at the table, his eyes showing a hint of fatigue. "But remember, I'm only playing a couple of hands. It's been a long day and I need my beauty sleep." His comment was met with laughter from the others.

The first hand of poker began, with Spencer dealing the cards with a swiftness that spoke of his years of experience playing the game. His eyes darted around the table, reading the subtle tells of his teammates. You took a deep breath and picked up your cards, feeling the smooth edges against your fingertips.

As the hand unfolded, the banter grew more playful, the stakes rising with each round of betting. You watched as Derek Morgan's face remained unreadable, his poker face firmly in place. Meanwhile, JJ's occasional glances at her cards betrayed her excitement, while Garcia's fidgeting with her chips was a clear sign she was bluffing.

Spencer's eyes narrowed slightly as he studied his cards, his mind racing through probabilities and possible outcomes. When it came down to the showdown, he laid out a full house with a smug smile. "Well, well, well," he said, collecting his winnings. "It seems like Lady Luck is on my side tonight."

The room buzzed with good-natured groans and teasing. "How does he do it?" JJ jokes, shaking her head.

A couple more rounds went by, the tension rising as the pot grew. Each of you played strategically, the air filled with anticipation and the clinking of chips. Prentiss leaned back in her chair, her arms folded as she studied the table.

Finally, after one particularly intense round, Rossi rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Alright, I think I've had enough fun for one night. I'm going to call it quits and head upstairs." He glanced around the table. "If anyone wants to crash here tonight, the guest rooms are all yours. No need to drive home if you're feeling too tired."

The team bid him good night, their eyes lingering on the chips and cards as they continued to play. With Rossi's departure, the atmosphere grew slightly more competitive. You felt a thrill as the game went on, the camaraderie of the team mixing with the cutthroat nature of poker.

Morgan leaned back in his chair, a devilish grin spread across his face. "You know what would make this night even better?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"What's that?" Prentiss asked, her interest piqued.

Morgan's grin widened. "How about we spice things up a bit?" He suggested, his eyes sparkling with excitement. "Strip poker, anyone?"

The room fell silent for a beat before bursting into laughter. You felt your cheeks heat up, surprised by the proposal. Prentiss's smile grew wicked. "Now that's a twist," she said, her gaze flickering to JJ.

JJ caught your eye and noticed your hesitance. She leaned forward, placing a reassuring hand on the table. "You know, we can always play truth or dare instead," she suggested, her voice low and soothing. "It's less… risky."

Morgan's smile grew. "How about both?" he proposed, raising the stakes. "You can opt to either take a piece of clothing off or complete a truth or dare from the group." The room buzzed with excitement and a little trepidation. You swallowed hard, trying to decide if you were ready for this.

Garcia squealed with delight. "I'm in!" she exclaimed, her cheeks already pink.

You took a deep breath, the adrenaline starting to pump through your veins. The thought of playing strip poker was a bit intimidating, but the alternative rule of truth or dare had its own thrill. You found yourself nodding in agreement. "Alright, why not? Strip poker with a twist it is."

The game continued, the stakes now higher in more ways than one. Garcia was the first to go, losing a shoe to a bad bluff. She giggled, tossing it aside and taking a shot of tequila.

JJ's eyes widened slightly as she had to remove her sweater, revealing a tight tank top underneath. The room was getting warmer, and not just from the heat of the game. The tension grew palpable as each player weighed their options: fold and risk embarrassment, or push on and hope for the win.

You felt your heart race as the game continued. With each round, the pile of clothing on the floor grew. Before you knew it, you were down to your last few pieces of clothing.

The next hand was dealt, and you picked up your cards with trembling hands. You had a good hand, but the idea of losing was now more than just about the game. You studied the faces around the table, looking for signs of who might be bluffing.

Morgan leaned in, his gaze intense. "You're looking a little flushed, Y/N," he teased. "Is it the game or the thought of what's next?"

You couldn't help but laugh nervously, feeling the heat in your cheeks spread down your neck. The game had indeed taken a turn, and you found yourself in a situation you never would have imagined when you accepted the dinner invitation. You had continued playing, the excitement and the thrill of the game keeping you in your seat until you were down to just your bra, skirt, and panties.

The hand began, and you focused on your cards. You had a decent hand, but not a sure win. The betting went around the table, each person raising the stakes. You looked around, trying to read their faces, their body language, looking for any hint of what they might be hiding.

As the final round of bets were placed, you felt the weight of the moment. If you won this hand, you could keep your skirt on. If not, well, the thought sent a shiver down your spine. You placed your bet, trying to keep your voice steady.

Morgan called, his smile never wavering. Prentiss folded, a knowing look in her eye. Spencer studied you closely, his cards held tight to his chest. Garcia bobbed in her chair, her curiosity and excitement palpable.

As the tension grew, so did the distraction of your state of undress. You noticed Spencer's eyes darting to your chest every few seconds, the effort he was making not to stare becoming more and more obvious. You couldn't help but feel a thrill of power at the sight of him so flustered. The others had also caught on. They knew Spencer's intense focus was split, and they hoped to use his distraction to their advantage.

The final card was flipped, and you watched in horror as Morgan revealed his winning hand. The room erupted in cheers and whistles, your heart sinking as you realized you had lost your last piece of lower body clothing. With a dramatic flourish, you stood and dropped your skirt to the floor.

Spencer's eyes traced down your legs, his cheeks reddening when he realized he'd been caught staring. He quickly looked away. The room fell silent for a moment before the laughter and clapping began again.

Others had invoked the truth or dare clause here and there, but you hadn't yet. Each time someone chose dare, it seemed to push the boundaries a little further. Garcia had to sing a karaoke song, JJ had to do a sexy dance, and Prentiss had to tell a steamy secret from her past. Each moment had been met with laughter and cheers, but you couldn't shake the feeling that the real fun was just getting started.

The next hand was dealt, and your heart pounded in your chest as you realized you had nothing. You didn't want to remove your bra, so you knew what you had to do. You took a deep breath and announced, "Dare." The room grew quiet, all eyes on you.

Morgan's grin grew wicked. "I dare Y/N to sit on Spencer's lap for the rest of the night." A chorus of laughter and cheers erupted around the table. Spencer's eyes widened in shock, his cheeks burning.

You felt your own cheeks rouge at the suggestion, your heart skipping a beat. Being that close to Spencer, especially in your current state of half-dress, was both thrilling and terrifying. But the excitement of the game and the desire to keep playing overrode your nerves. You nodded, trying to appear nonchalant. "Fine."

Spencer's body moved back before he even had time to process the words. His chair scraped against the wooden floor, creating a sharp sound that echoed in the tension-filled room. He looked up at you, his eyes wide, his expression a mix of surprise and something else that you couldn't quite decipher.

You took a deep breath and slid onto his lap with more confidence than you felt. His body was tense beneath you, his muscles rigid as he held himself perfectly still. You could feel the heat from his body, the warmth of his skin seeping through his shirt and into you. Your heart was racing so fast it felt like it might leap out of your chest.

The others smirked as they shuffled the cards for the next round. They could see the electric tension between you and Spencer, and it only added to the excitement of the game. Prentiss began to deal, her eyes glinting with amusement as she took in the situation.

The next few rounds, Spencer's focus was undeniably scattered. His usual poker face was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a constant battle to not look at you sitting on his lap. His hands fumbled with his cards, and his bets were erratic. It didn't take long before the team noticed and capitalized on his distraction.

"Looks like someone's lost their mojo," Prentiss teased, placing her cards on the table with a smirk. You tried to ignore the smug looks from the others, focusing instead on the way Spencer's breath hitched every time you shifted slightly.

The next hand was dealt, and you could see the determination in Spencer's eyes as he picked up his cards. This time, you noticed the way his thumb brushed against your bare skin as he held his cards, and the electricity that shot through you was anything but calming.

You tried to keep your focus on the cards in your hand, but Spencer's proximity was making it near impossible. His breath was warm against your neck, and you could feel his heart beating rapidly beneath you. You thought you had been careful hiding your cards, but apparently, not that careful.

"You're holding your cards too tight," he whispered into your ear, his voice low and gentle. "It's giving you away." You felt a shiver run down your spine, and you couldn't help but lean into him slightly. His scent filled your nose and it made your head swim.

You took a deep breath and tried to loosen your grip, his words sinking in. The whispers continued, his breath warm against your neck as he pointed out small tells from the others at the table. His voice was a comforting rumble, guiding you through the game.

Slowly, the closeness didn't feel so awkward. In fact, there was a strange sense of comfort in having him so near. You found yourself leaning into him slightly, his arm wrapping around your waist in a protective embrace.

As the game went on, Spencer's whispers grew more frequent. He noticed every little detail about the others' playing styles, sharing his insights with you in hushed tones. "Look at how Garcia's thumb is pressing down on her chips," he murmured. "She's bluffing." His voice was low and calming, his words of advice a secret shared between the two of you.

You followed his lead, and slowly, you saw your luck begin to change. You won a couple hands, the pile of chips in front of you growing. The warmth of his body, the steady beat of his heart, and the gentle guidance of his whispers had a surprising effect on you. You felt more relaxed, more confident. The daring glances and smiles you exchanged with him grew more frequent, hinting at the thrill you both felt.

Then it happened. As you readjusted yourself higher on his lap for better comfort, you felt it. The unmistakable pressure of Spencer's erection against your backside. A blush crept up your neck, and you froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. His breath hitched, and you knew he was just as aware of it as you were. The room's temperature seemed to rise a few degrees.

You wondered how long he had been like that and how you hadn't noticed it before. His arm tightened around your waist, and you felt a low groan in his chest. You felt yourself start to get wet, the heat and the thrill of the moment making your body react despite the situation. You took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself.

Without realizing it, your hips had begun to slightly rock against him, the friction sending waves of pleasure through your body. You could feel his cock growing harder with every movement. The others at the table were too engrossed in the game to notice, but you were acutely aware of every little sound and sensation.

Spencer's breathing grew shallower. His hips made the tiniest of movements, pushing back into you in a silent bid for more. You bit your lip, trying to keep your breathing steady, but it was getting harder by the second.

The game continued around you, but the world had narrowed down to just the two of you. Each time his hips rocked against yours, it sent a jolt of desire through your body. You could feel your own breath quickening, your chest rising and falling more noticeably with every shallow breath.

You tried to keep your poker face, focusing on the cards in your hand, but it was difficult when you could feel his hardness pressing into you. Spencer's whispers grew softer, his voice a gentle rumble that made your skin tingle.

Suddenly, Garcia broke the spell, standing up from the table with a dramatic yawn. "Alright, I think I've had enough for tonight," she announced, her cheeks still flushed from the alcohol. "I'm going to crash in one of the guest rooms."

Her declaration created a domino effect. One by one, the others began to nod in agreement. The energy of the game dissipated as they all started to collect their scattered clothing. You felt a strange mix of relief and disappointment as Spencer's arm loosened around your waist.

Reluctantly, you slid off Spencer's lap and began to gather your clothes from the floor. The fabric felt cold against your skin, which was now sensitive from his warmth. You couldn't help but feel the loss of his touch as you dressed, the excitement of the moment fading into a confusing mix of arousal and awkwardness.

"Thank you for a… memorable game," Spencer said, his voice strained as he stood up. His eyes darted around the room, avoiding yours.

You tried to ignore the wetness between your legs as you helped the others clean up, focusing on the mundane task of gathering the cards and chips. Your body was still humming with the tension that had built up during the daring rounds of poker. The room felt too small, too hot, as you tried to act like nothing had changed.

The group chattered about who would take which guest room, the conversation light and easy. Yet, you couldn't help but feel the weight of the moment lingering in the air. The way Spencer's arm had felt around your waist, his erection pressing into you, was etched into your mind.

"Dibs on Morgan!" Garcia exclaimed, slapping a hand on Derek's arm playfully.

You laughed along with everyone else, trying to shake off the lingering tension.

"Alright, let's all head upstairs," Prentiss suggested, breaking the spell. "Three guest rooms, and we're all adults here."

You nodded, eager to escape the charged atmosphere, and followed the group up the stairs. You felt Spencer's gaze on you, and you couldn't help but wonder if he was thinking the same things you were.

Without a word, Emily and JJ claimed the first room they saw. Garcia and Morgan didn't waste any time either, disappearing into the room across the hall. That left you and Spencer, the silence between you heavy with unspoken tension as you both stared at the last guest room at the end of the hallway.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. Spencer's eyes darted to the room before meeting yours. "Looks like we're sharing," he murmured, his voice low and filled with a hint of something that was definitely not disappointment.

With a sudden burst of courage, you grabbed his hand, your pulse quickening. He looked surprised but didn't resist as you led him to the last open guest room.

Once you closed the door, you pushed Spencer to sit at the edge of the bed, his eyes widening as you straddled his lap. His arms instinctively wrapped around your waist, holding you in place.

"Do you want this?" you whispered, your breath hot against his ear. His eyes searched yours for any sign of hesitation or doubt, but all he saw was the same hunger reflected in his own.

"God yes," he replied, crashing his lips against yours with a fervour that stole your breath. The heat between you was undeniable as your bodies collided, his hands gripping your hips tightly. The kiss was deep and hungry, his tongue delving into your mouth as if he could devour you whole.

You grind against his lap, happy to feel that he was still semi-hard. His grip on you tightened, and you could feel his cock growing harder with every movement of your hips. The feeling was intoxicating, and you couldn't help but moan into his mouth.

Breaking the kiss, you leaned back, panting heavily. Spencer's eyes followed your every move as you stood up and began to strip away your clothing, until you were left in your underwear.

You sat back down onto his lap, this time with a sense of purpose, your legs straddling his. He groaned into your neck, his hands roaming over your bare skin as you kissed along his jawline. His touch was gentle yet firm, leaving a trail of heat wherever he went.

Spencer's fingers slid up the outside of your thighs, his touch feather-light, sending shivers of anticipation through you. His grip tightened as they reached your ass, cupping you firmly. He pulled you closer, aligning your hips with his, and you gasped as his erection pressed against you.

You rocked back and forth, the friction building between your bodies. His breath was hot against your neck, his kisses leaving a trail of fire along your collarbone. You wrapped your arms around him, your nails digging into his shoulders as the pressure grew.

Suddenly, the angle was just right. Your clit rubbed against his erection with just the right amount of friction, and you felt yourself teetering on the edge. The sensation was intense, your eyes rolling back in your head as you bit back a moan.

With every grind, you grew closer to the edge, your breath coming in short gasps. Your nails dug into his shoulders, your body trembling with the effort to stay in control. Then, with a final, desperate thrust, you climaxed, your body shuddering in his embrace.

Spencer watched you, his eyes hooded with lust. He could feel your wetness soaking through the fabric of your panties, and it was all he could do to keep from tearing them off.

With a surprising show of strength, Spencer picked you up, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. You gasped as he laid you gently on the bed, his body hovering over yours. He paused for a moment, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation, but all he found was desire mirrored back at him.

His hands traced the line of your underwear, his thumbs hooking under the waistband. Slowly, so painfully slow, he began to lower your panties. You watched as he pulled them down, revealing your wetness to the cool air of the room. Instead of tossing them aside, he folded the damp fabric and tucked it into his back pocket with a smirk.

He spread your legs wide, taking in the sight of you with a hunger that made you blush even deeper. His eyes roamed over your bare skin, lingering on your most sensitive spots. He leaned in, his breath hot against your folds, and you shivered.

Without further teasing, Spencer's tongue darted out, licking a slow path up your slit. You gasped, your hips bucking involuntarily. He took his time, savouring the taste of you. His tongue was soft and insistent, lapping at your clit and dipping into your entrance.

You grabbed fistfuls of the bed sheets, your back arching off the mattress as he worked you into a frenzy. The feeling of his mouth on you was heavenly, his skilled tongue flicking and pressing in just the right places. You were so close, your body tightening in anticipation of another orgasm.

But just as you were about to tip over the edge again, Spencer paused, leaving you panting and desperate. He slid a finger into your wetness, and you could feel him smiling against your skin as he found your g-spot with ease. The addition of his fingers sent a new wave of pleasure crashing through you, making your legs quiver.

As his tongue danced over your clit, his fingers began to move inside you in a rhythm that was both torturous and heavenly. He knew exactly how to hit that spot, his movements measured and precise, as if he had studied your body's every response. You moaned, your body begging for more as he continued to explore you with his mouth.

Spencer's mouth grew more urgent, his tongue lapping and sucking on your clit messily. He was too desperate to care about the wet sounds he was making, too lost in the taste of you to be self-conscious. His teeth grazed your sensitive flesh, and you gasped, your nails digging into his scalp as you held him in place.

He could feel your orgasm building, the way your muscles tightened around his fingers. With one final, deliberate thrust, he pushed you over the edge, his tongue never leaving your clit as you came hard against his mouth.

As your body trembled with the aftershocks of pleasure, you felt a surge of energy rather than exhaustion. The orgasm had been so intense that it seemed to have recharged you. Without warning, you sprang up from the bed, a mischievous grin playing on your lips as you turned to face Spencer.

You reached behind your back and unhooked your bra, letting it fall to the floor. Spencer's eyes widened, his gaze drinking in the sight of your breasts. Your nipples harden in the cool air.

Standing before him, you began to strip Spencer of his clothes. Once down to his last article of clothing you knelt before Spencer, your eyes never leaving his as you gripped the waistband of his boxers. His eyes darkened with anticipation as you began to pull them down his legs, revealing his cock, which stood at full attention. Your heart raced as you took in the sight of him, the anticipation of what was to come making your own body respond in kind.

You reached out and gently touched his cock, feeling the heat and hardness of it. Spencer's breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as you explored his length with curious fingers. The tip was wet with pre-cum, and you couldn't resist leaning in to taste him. Your tongue flicked out, a soft and tentative touch that made him jerk in surprise.

Encouraged, you took him fully into your mouth, his length stretching your lips wide. You could feel his hands tighten in your hair as you began to suck, your mouth moving in a steady rhythm. Spencer moaned, his hips forward to meet your eager mouth. You took him deeper, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, making you gag slightly.

You paused for a moment to adjust, then took him as far as you could, holding yourself there and swallowing around his tip. The sensation was overwhelming for Spencer, his eyes rolling back in his head. His hips bucked slightly, pushing himself deeper into your mouth, and you could feel his muscles tightening beneath your fingertips.

Finally, you pulled off of him, licking your lips to catch the last drops of his arousal. Looking him in the eye, you whispered, "Use me." It was a simple request, but it held a world of meaning. You wanted him to take control, to show you the full extent of his power over you.

Without hesitation, Spencer grabbed the hair at the back of your head and guided his cock back into your mouth. You moaned around him. He began to move his hips, fucking into your mouth with a gentle rhythm that grew more urgent with every passing stroke. His grip on your hair tightened.

Your eyes peered up at him, watering slightly from the effort to keep up with his pace. You could see the desire in his gaze, the way his pupils had blown wide with lust. It was a heady feeling, knowing you had this powerful, intelligent man at your mercy, reduced to a trembling mess by your touch.

But Spencer had other plans. He pulled out of your mouth with a soft groan, his hand still tangled in your hair. "Not yet," he murmured, his voice husky. "I want to feel you first."

With surprising strength, he offered you a hand and pulled you up from the floor. Your legs were shaky, but he held you steady. You climbed onto the bed, feeling the cool sheets beneath your knees. You positioned yourself on all fours, the soft mattress sinking slightly with your weight.

You dropped from your hands to your elbows, arching your back and sticking your ass up in the air. You couldn't help but wiggle your hips back and forth, a silent invitation to Spencer.

He moaned at the sight, his eyes glazed over with desire. He scrambled onto the bed behind you. His hand reached out to cup your ass cheeks, the heat of his palms searing into your skin.

Spencer spread your pussy lips apart with his thumbs, revealing the glistening wetness that leaked from your swollen entrance. His groan was low and guttural, a sound that sent a thrill of pleasure through your body. His thumbs traced slow circles around your opening, teasing your sensitive flesh.

With agonizing slowness, you felt the tip of his cock nudge against you. He pushed in gently, the head of his erection parting your folds. You gasped, your muscles clenching around the unyielding intrusion. Spencer waited, giving you a moment to adjust.

Inch by inch, he filled you up, his cock stretching you deliciously. You could feel every ridge and vein, his length sliding deep within you until you were fully impaled. He didn't move for a moment, letting you get used to the feeling of being so completely filled.

Then, once he felt you relax, Spencer set a punishing rhythm, his hips slamming against your ass. The room was filled with the sound of skin on skin, the rhythmic slapping echoing off the walls.

You whimpered, your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to process the sensation. It was intense, overwhelming, but you didn't want it to stop. Spencer's hands gripped your hips tightly, guiding you back onto him with each thrust.

The scent of sex and desire filled the room as he claimed you, the sound of skin slapping against skin mixing with the wetness of your pussy. Each time he pushed into you, your nipples scraped against the soft cotton of the bed sheets. The friction was maddening, making your already sensitive breasts feel like they were on fire.

Spencer's hands moved to your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh as he adjusted his angle. He threw his weight into each thrust, the force of his hips pushing you further into the bed with every movement.

Then he slid one hand down your body, his fingertips skimming over your stomach and pausing when they reached the apex of your thighs. He found your clit, swollen and sensitive from his earlier attention, and began to rub it in gentle circles.

The combination of his deep strokes and the pressure on your clit was too much. You felt yourself climbing again, the pleasure building to a crescendo. You began to moan, the sound muffled by the pillow you had buried your face in.

Spencer leaned over, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you like that?" he whispered. "Do you like it when I fuck you like this?" He grunts out.

You nodded, too lost in the haze of pleasure to form coherent words. His whispers grew more explicit, describing every little sensation he felt, every way your body was responding to his. "You're so tight, so wet for me," he continues. "Your pussy is squeezing my cock so tight."

With each thrust, he whispered about his desire for you, how long he had fantasized about this moment. "I've wanted to fuck you like this for so long," he groaned. "To feel you this way, to hear you like this." His words were like a drug, leaving you craving more.

"Remember when you were on my lap downstairs?" Spencer panted, his hips never slowing. "How badly I wanted to rip your panties off and bury my cock inside you?"

You moaned, his words painting a vivid picture in your mind. The thought of him wanting you that badly, of him fighting his urges while everyone else played the game, was an aphrodisiac.

As Spencer whispered about how he had imagined watching you bounce on his cock in the middle of the poker game, your orgasm crashed over you. You couldn't hold back the moan that tore from your throat as your pussy clenched around him, the muscles spasming with pleasure.

It was wet and messy, your juices coating his cock with each withdrawal, only to be pushed back in with a slick sound on his next thrust. Your thighs were sticky with your arousal, and the scent of sex grew stronger.

You felt your body tightening around him, your pussy pulsing with each stroke. Your orgasm was still fresh, but the relentless pace Spencer had set had you spiraling towards another peak. His breath was hot and ragged against your ear, his whispers of filthy confessions only fuelling the fire within you.

As Spencer spoke of his fantasies, his hand never ceased its torment of your clit. The pleasure grew unbearable, your body a live wire. Then, as if on cue, another orgasm washes over you, making your legs shake uncontrollably. You cry out, your voice a high-pitched whine.

His thrusts grew erratic, his own need for release becoming apparent. You felt your pussy flutter around his cock, the walls tightening and releasing in time with your racing heartbeat. It was this feeling, the tightness and the warmth of you, that pushed Spencer over the edge.

With a final, powerful thrust, he buried himself as deep inside you as he could go. You felt his cock twitching, and then the warm flood of his cum filled your pussy. He groaned your name, his hips jerking as he emptied himself into you, his orgasm intense and uncontrollable. The sensation was intoxicating.

Panting, you both collapsed onto the bed, your bodies entangled in a mess of limbs. You clung to him, your chest rising and falling in time with his, your breaths mingling in the quiet room. Spencer's arms wrapped around your waist, holding you close as if afraid to let go. You felt his heart racing beneath your cheek. You were both thoroughly exhausted, the passionate frenzy leaving you drained yet content.

After a moment, you lifted your head and met his gaze. His eyes searched yours, seeking reassurance, a silent question hanging in the air. You offered a soft smile, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. The tension dissipated, replaced by a gentle warmth.

As your breathing evened out, you leaned in to capture his mouth in a slow, sensual kiss. The taste of yourself still lingered on his lips. Spencer's arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss.

Your hands roamed his body, tracing the contours of his chest and shoulders, the feel of his skin smooth and warm beneath your fingertips. He mirrored your movements, his touch gentle and exploratory, as if committing every inch of you to memory.

Spencer's lips trailed down your neck, peppering kisses that sent shivers down your spine. You nuzzled closer to him, your breathing slowing as the weight of sleep began to claim you. "With how loud we were, we're definitely sneaking out before the others wake up, right?" you whispered against his skin.

He chuckled, the vibration running through you. "Right," he murmured, his voice thick with exhaustion. You could feel his smile against your shoulder. His hand traced lazy circles on your back, the gentle pressure lulling you closer to slumber.

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yanderefarm · 2 months ago

Text

yandere cultist but its omegaverse

cw; religion, cults, yandere themes, omegaverse

ill post the introduction for him later too. ive had this idea for a minute i thought it was fun. u always see yandere cult leaders wheres the yandere followers who act the way they do because they're following what they were told. wheres the yandere cultists who have been convinced that you're their chosen soulmate and will do anything to prove it to you.

also i got the dominant thing from a yaoi manhwa i dropped i don't remember what it was called but im sure this trope isn't original to the verse i just put my own spin on it

you're what's called a "dominant" alpha, it's not anything to do with your role in the bedroom and more the strength of your traits. rut inhibitors and scent blockers have no effect on you while you struggle with interest in typical omegas. but because of the rarity of the condition it wasn't often taught about in schools. trying to find a "dominant" omega on normal dating apps was practically impossible.

that's why you turned to more conservative dating apps. less likely to find people who thought dominant omegas meant strap ons and muzzles and more likely to find people who thought the term dominant omega was a sin. while you don't agree with them an omega is a whole lot easier to reason with.

thats how you met him. he was a beautiful boy with long blue hair and lovely floral dresses. all his pictures were either clearly church pictures or candid shots of him working on a farm. all you really needed to see was the marked off dominant omega trait at this point but him being a cutie was a bonus.

you checked to make sure he was what he said he was and then you two hit it off immediately. he was shy but he used the cutest emojis, lots of hearts and sparkles. you found yourself talking to him every second of every day, completely enamored by the sweetheart he was.

so when you asked if you could finally go on a date in person you were surprised to find your stark differences reared their head. you had to meet his dad before you could go on a date. sure. he's made it no secret that he's a sheltered religious boy. the comment he also added about ensuring his purity was intact was unneeded but you could get past it. he's a good person.

he's a good person who happens to live in the same Happy Homes compound you had just watched a video essay about. you were surprised... and horrified. still as creepy as the place was you were too attached to him at this point to just abandon him here. if he couldn't be convinced to leave that's one thing but you hadn't even tried yet.

his family was warm and welcoming, a few uncomfortable comments and his eldest brother wouldn't stop glaring at you but that's not unique to them. it was a relatively normal farm house surrounded by identical farm houses. what could go wrong?

you had dinner with them and they even invited you to church with them. you knew you weren't about to be convinced to join the cult so you agreed. his father let you borrow some nice clothes and you ended up taking your boyfriend, his mother, and one of his sisters in your car.

the sermon was. boring. nothing uniquely offensive that you wouldn't find in any conservative religious church. the surprising part came with the announcements. the pastor, a beta dressed in white ushered your boyfriend and 4 other omegas onto the stage.

he talked about a plan, a calling each of them had from god. they were each supposed to bring wayward alphas to the church to join them in the house of god. yeah, you could get the gist and before you could even try to stand up one of the other boyfriends did so. he was talking about how this was bullshit and he didn't buy into this crazy crap. and then he collapsed. you watched as 2 others joined him in either death or unconsciousness.

the pastor ushered you onto the stage and your boyfriend's brother dragged you up by the arms. your heart was pounding in your ears and the lights above were glaringly bright. you barely noticed when your boyfriend's arms wrapped around your own.

"and you too shall enter the happiest homes. may god bless you."

you felt your mind go numb and the next thing you knew you were on the floor.

#top male reader #dom male reader #male reader #yandere ideas #yandere x male reader #sub yandere #yandere oc #yandere omega #yandere cultist #alpha reader

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prettyfastcars · 11 months ago

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As sweet as blood-red jam | Mob!Lando

Summary: Lando could be many things given the nature of his job. Mean, commandeering, a control freak. But when he came home to you and the kids, he was the sweetest man you’d ever met. Your marriage to him was arranged of course, because that’s how things worked in the world you were both from. But love eventually grew between the two of you, and it did not stop growing.

Themes: dad!Lando, fluff, smut, arranged marriage, domestic!mob!Lando, mild mommy/daddy kink (nicknames only), praise kink, housewife!reader, breeding kink

“They’re sleeping.”

He announced cheerfully, shutting the door behind him as he walked into your library where you had been reading in silence for the past half an hour.

You were a stay-at-home mom so the twins, your son and daughter, were under your care all day. And so Lando insisted that you get the evening off the moment he got home. He read to them and tucked them in for the night each night. It was part of his routine and he loved it.

You placed your wine glass down and picked up the drink you made for him, handing it to him as he came over to sit down next to you on the large sofa.

His eyes lit up at the sight of the well-deserved drink. “Oh you’re perfect, baby.” He kissed your forehead before getting comfortable next to you, sighing as he leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a brief moment.

“They’ve been running around all day, they went to see the horses,” You said, thinking about how energetic your kids had been during the day, “I thought they would pass out after dinner but they wanted to wait for daddy.”

Your husband smiled, looking a little tired as he took a sip of his drink. You caressed his cheek with a gentle hand as he turned to give you a soft look with those gorgeous eyes of his.

He looked more relaxed and comfortable like this, wearing nothing but dark sweatpants. As opposed to the authoritative figure he is during the day in his expensive, dark suits. Him in casual clothing like this made you realise that he was in fact just a young man, barely 25, who shouldered a lot of weight alone.

Responsibilities, expectations, risks, reputation, legacy, and now his own family. You’d come a long way, the two of you. Only a couple years ago you were just strangers being introduced at a gala. And now you were young parents.

You still remember the night you met him for the first time. How gently he held your hand and danced with you. How your engagement was announced only a few months after and the wedding happened quicker than you thought.

You always thought that you would forever be strangers living under the same roof. Especially given his reputation of being a workaholic which made him such an influential figure in his line of work.

But Lando proved you wrong. He actually took the time to get to know you early on in your marriage, he cared, he listened. He was good to you. Then a year later, you had the twins and Lando had been perfect. Perfect partner, perfect dad.

“What are you thinking about, mama?” He asked softly, his hand leisurely caressing your exposed thigh. That golden chain on his neck shining in the dimmed lights of the library. No shirt so you shamelessly ogled his defined abs and muscles. He let you, with a smirk on his handsome face.

You put the book aside and leaned a little closer to him, cupping his rough chin in your hand. He’d been growing facial hair lately and you liked it. “You work too hard,” You said softly.

He smiled, leaning into the warmth of your hand as he said, “Just wanna give you and the kids everything you want and need. You deserve it.”

He had given you everything. Houses, cars, chauffeurs, chefs, private planes, private trainers, cards with no spending limits, vacations. You and the kids were well taken care of.

You sighed, sliding over and ending up perfectly on his lap. Lando finished his drink, placed the glass aside and grabbed you by the waist to pull you closer. “But we have everything we could ever want or need.” You suggested, “Take a day off. Or two. I’m taking the kids shopping tomorrow, come spend the day with us.”

Lando gave you a faint smile, “Can’t right now, baby. Some important shipments are about to come in. I can’t afford a day off until it gets here.”

You rolled your eyes, making him chuckle and pull you closer. “But I barely see you.” You murmured. “The last time we had a date night was like, weeks ago.”

Your face got really hot just thinking about it. Not just the date, but what happened after in the car on the way home…

Lando smirked, surely also thinking about the same thing, grabbing you by the hips and gently moving you on his lap, rubbing you against his growing erection. You hissed in pleasure as he did. The soft, silky night dress you were wearing bunched up around your upper thighs, allowing you to feel everything. The shape of him, the warmth.

“If you wanted a lovesick romeo who writes you love notes every morning then you shouldn’t have agreed to marry a man like me.” He taunted, teasing you and pinching your thigh.

You reached out and grabbed his gold chain, tugging on it playfully, knowing how much he liked it when you did. “Unfortunately I like my men a little more corrupted,” You whispered, “Bonus points if they work all the time and don’t have time for me.” You sassed.

Lando chuckled, leaning in to kiss along your jaw. “Aww, what is it?” He cooed, “You miss daddy? Hmm? Does mommy need some extra love from daddy tonight?”

You nodded.

“Come here, baby,” He pressed his mouth to yours as his hands caressed your inner thighs. He kissed you like he was starving, while your hands reached down in between your bodies and eagerly lowered his sweatpants to free his cock.

You whimpered into the kiss, against his lips as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking his hard cock, making him groan into the kiss before he pulled away and said, “Daddy missed you too.” He murmured, looking down to watch how your hand touched him just how he liked it. “Fuck,” He sighed, “That feels good, baby…”

His praise gave you enough confidence to stroke him harder, making him groan and moan. You loved the sounds he made. And you wanted to keep hearing those moans so you carefully lifted your lower body off his, pulled your underwear to the side and slowly lowered yourself down on his cock, earning louder moans out of his sinful mouth as you sank down on him.

You were wet enough for his cock to slide in, but your body still resisted just a little bit, enough for him to have to thrust up the tiniest bit to fully fill you up. You cried out as he did.

His soft lips parted just a little, and you couldn’t resist leaning in and sliding your tongue into his mouth. You whimpered against his lips, stroking the top of his mouth as you lifted up and sank back down on his cock, making him growl into the messy kiss.

“That’s it, baby… fuck yourself on daddy’s cock…” Lando’s hands rubbed up and down your thighs again as he gently thrust his hips up each time, setting a pace that had you both moaning and wanting more of each other.

Your fingers slid into his hair, scratching his scalp and down his neck as the tip of his cock reached sensitive places inside you.

Lando chuckled when he felt you clench around him. “We’re not using protection again, mama…” He spoke against your open mouth, breathless as you were, “You’re gonna give me another kid, huh?” He sounded cocky as he said it, like it filled him with pride. “Gonna let me fill you up again till you walk around all nice and swollen with my baby in you, hmm?”

You whined, feeling him stretch you out each time you moved up and down his cock. “Lando… please,” You gasped as his hand slipped between the two of you and found your clit, he rubbed it lazily.

“Answer me,” He demanded, “You’re gonna carry another one for me?” His voice sent chills down your back.

“Yes,” You whimpered, moving faster, impaling yourself down on his cock and whimpering shamelessly as you felt him filling you up completely each time, feeling him reach deeper into you with each thrust. Your lips brushed against his each time you moved up and down his cock, feeling him stretch you out as you stared into his ridiculously pretty eyes. You couldn’t help but speak the thoughts of your lust-drunk mind, “I want you to fill me up again,” You mumbled, feeling yourself getting high up there gradually.

Lando laughed, also lust-drunk, “I can’t wait…” He said, “Can’t wait to come home and find you dripping wet for me.” His voice gave away that he was thinking back to how needy you were for him all throughout your previous pregnancy.

You whimpered, thinking about it as well. Some evenings he’d come home and you dragged him to the bedroom immediately. Some days you even called him and asked him if he could come home for an hour or two. Lando happily agreed each time of course.

“Remember how sensitive you’d get? How needy?” He teased, holding you close. “How you almost cried each time I made you come?” He smirked, male pride all over his face. “Some of the best months of my life those were.”

You whined, “Please…” You stared into his pretty eyes.

“Come for me.” He growled in that cold, menacing, erotic voice. “Come for daddy…”

And you did. Whimpering, squirming and whining. You didn’t slow down as you felt your orgasm wash over you, and Lando kept thrusting his hips up into you as your eyes rolled back and you moaned out loud as you came hard, feeling your walls squeezing and clenching around him.

Lando came right after you, moaning and spilling inside of you, filling you up as you trembled and squirmed on his lap. You leaned forward, pushing your face into his neck to catch your breath while he held you against him, kissing the side of your face softly.

“You okay, baby?” He asked after a few minutes of you two just cuddling there on the sofa.

You nodded, “Mhmm, don’t wanna get up.” You murmured, sighing in bliss as you snuggled into his warm chest.

He chuckled, “Okay.” He kissed the stop of your head. “I love you,” He whispered.

#lando norris #lando norris smut #lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #mob!lando #f1

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harrysfolklore · 10 months ago

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30th birthday

i just can’t believe harry is 30 and this is my way to cope, i hope you like this 🥲

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

The calendar marked February 1st as the date, which meant that it was finally Harry's 30th birthday.

You woke up earlier than him, in order to make him his special birthday breakfast that was a tradition by now, and as you stood alone in the cooking in the kitchen, you couldn't help but reminisce about all the previous birthdays you've celebrated with Harry.

From celebrating his birthday at a restaurant with his brand new band mates and friends after a day of The X Factor rehearsals, having big parties thrown for him with celebrities in attendance, flying off to Japan to celebrate there and throwing a concert to spend his special day with his fans, you couldn't believe Harry was turning 30 and you were able to grow up by his side.

"Love, where are you?" his raspy morning voice made its way to your ears, and you couldn't help but smile.

"Over here, in the kitchen!"

You turned around to see Harry stumbling into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes sleepily. His hair was tousled, and he was wearing an oversized t-shirt that you recognized as one of your favorites.

"Morning, birthday boy," you greeted him, leaning in to give him a soft kiss.

"Morning," he replied, his eyes still half-closed. "What's all this?" Harry gestured towards the spread of pancakes, eggs, and bacon you had prepared on the table.

"It's your special birthday breakfast, as always," you pecked his lips again.

"You know, you could've woken me up with a 30 minute long blowj-"

"Harry!" you cut him off before he could finish his sentence, "Every single year, you say the same thing! When will you stop being a menace."

"Can you blame me?" Harry shrugged, "You still look as hot as you did when we first met fourteen years ago."

"Fourteen, huh?" you said, tilting your head, "How does it feel to not be a twenty something anymore? You're basically an old man now."

"I feel good, honestly," he said sincerely, his eyes locking with yours, "I mean, I'm happy and healthy, I have the job of my dreams, a family that loves me, supporting friends and the best girlfriend in the world, I'm a very lucky old man."

"You're too cute," you kissed him again, "Now eat your breakfast, we have a lot of celebrations to do today."

The day went by smoothly, Harry answered a couple of calls and texts from friends and family and you spent the afternoon cuddling up before it was time for his birthday dinner.

Harry wanted something small and intimate, with just a handful of close friends and family invited, so you decided to host the birthday dinner at your home. As the evening approached, the house was filled with the delicious aroma of the special dinner you had prepared for him.

Jeff and Glenne were the first ones to arrive, carrying a homemade cake that Glenne insisted she had baked all morning. Sarah and Mitch came next with their baby boy who giggled and clapped as Harry made silly faces, clearly enjoying the attention from the famous Cool Harry, because he refused to be called uncle.

"Damn mate, I can't believe you're 30 now," Jeff said, wrapping his arm around Harry's shoulders, "I still remember when you were twenty and my parents basically adopted you, I feel so old."

"You feel old? Imagine how I feel, that's my baby brother!" Gemma chimed in, entering your house with her boyfriend Michal and Anne, "Happy birthday, H."

"Thanks, Gem," Harry smiled, hugging his sister tightly. "And thanks for reminding everyone that I'm officially old now."

As more friends and family arrived, the laughter and chatter of loved ones filled the air, the dining table was adorned with candles, flowers, and a beautifully set dinner that everyone enjoyed.

Once your bellies were full, Mitch opened the champagne bottle Harry Lambert brought with him, filling everyone's glasses to make a toast.

"Alright, everyone, gather around," Mitch announced, holding up his glass, "To Harry, on his 30th birthday, may this year be filled with even more success and love. Cheers."

Everyone clicked their glasses, smiles on everyone's faces.

"I think the missus should give a speech!" Gemma teased, pointing at you.

"Not a missus yet, still no ring," you teased back, raising an eyebrow at Harry and hearing the whistles from his friends.

"Well, uh, maybe we'll have to do something about that soon." Harry chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his head.

The room erupted in laughter and even more whistles, and you couldn't help but blush and roll your eyes with affection.

"Alright, alright," you began, holding up your glass, "Here's to the man of the hour. Harry, you've filled my life with so much joy, laughter, and love all these years. It's been an incredible journey growing up with you, I still remember when we were just kids, celebrating your 16th birthday before you became the star that you are today, I'm so proud of you and living life by your side has been the best thing that has ever happened to me. Happy 30th birthday, my love. May this year bring you everything you desire."

Harry couldn't help but melt at your words, standing up and hugging you tightly and kissing your lips.

"Thank you, everyone," Harry began, his voice carrying a hint of nostalgia, "I can't believe I'm standing here, celebrating my 30th birthday. It feels like just yesterday I was a wide-eyed 16-year-old auditioning for The X Factor, not knowing what life had in store for me," he paused, glancing at each person in the room with watery eyes, "But here I am, and I couldn't be more grateful for each and every one of you. To my family, who has been there from the start, and to my friends who have become family. And to this incredible woman right here," Harry said, placing his hand on your waist, "who has been with me since I was I was an annoying teenager, growing up by my side."

"You're still as annoying as a teenager," Jeff interrupted him, making the entire room laugh, "But we love you, mate. And we're grateful for you."

As the night continued, the homemade cake adorned with candles was brought out, and everyone in the room sag "Happy Birthday" together, Harry made a wish and blew out the candles, surrounded by the people he loved the most.

After the cake-cutting and more chatter, everyone decided to call it a night and head home, leaving you and Harry at me comfort of your house.

"Thank you for everything," Harry whispered, wrapping his arms around you.

"It's your day, love. I'm just happy I could make it special for you," you replied, resting your head against his shoulder.

"You always make every day special," he murmured, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead.

You stood wrapped around each other for a few minutes, enjoying the final moments of his birthday.

"This has been one of my favorite birthdays ever," Harry admitted, breaking the comfortable silence.

"I'm glad you think so," you smiled, snuggling closer. "And, by the way, the 'no ring yet' comment earlier, totally just teasing."

"Oh, really? Because I was serious, maybe it's time," Harry smirked, giving you a playful look.

"Don't tell me you're about to propose, not on your own birthday, Harry!" you said nervously.

"Not right now love, but soon enough," he winked and you let out the breath you were holding, "I love you."

"I love you more, Harry. Happy birthday."

#harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles writing #harry styles fluff #harry styles fake instagram #harry styles one shot #harry styles blurb #harry styles x reader #harry styles x you #harry styles headcanon #harry styles fic #harry styles au #harry styles fake social media #harry styles story #harrysfolklore #harry styles masterlist #harry styles fic rec #harry styles brithday #1k

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heich0e · 1 year ago

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suna's parents divorced when he was eight.

he doesn't remember a lot of the finer details as he's gotten older, mostly just that there used to be a lot of yelling, but he does remember the two piles of belongings that stacked up in the empty living room of his childhood home: one consisting of his father's and his own, and the other comprised of his mother's and his little sister's. their entire life, their entire family, packed up into cardboard and then divided down the middle.

the apartment he moved into with his father was always too quiet. it was in aichi, far enough away from where he spent the first decade of his life that he didn't have to be reminded of it every time he left the house, but since his father worked so much it still left him with plenty of time to think. to grieve. though maybe he didn't recognize it as that at the time. he played video games his father bought for him after school. ate convenience store bentos or whatever leftovers were set aside for him in the fridge for dinner. he put himself to bed at night. it wasn't a bad life, though maybe a bit lonely.

he was scouted to play for inarizaki when he was 14.

the lonely apartment turned into a lively dorm. he had new friends (his teammates) to play video games with. his convenience store bentos were replaced with hot meals from the meal hall. the loneliness of the apartment in aichi was a distant memory, but still lingered.

"i'm home."

rintarou drops his training bag in the genkan as he toes off his shoes, calling into the apartment to announce his return.

"welcome home!" you call back from further in the apartment, and the sound makes him smirk a little to himself.

you've been coming over to his place a lot lately, ever since he gave you his spare key. he's not upset about this in the slightest, but it doesn't mean he won't take every possible opportunity to tease you for it. he plans how he's going to make fun of you as he pads into his home towards the sound of your voice. he almost has it all planned out—his delivery on the very tip of his tongue—when he falters to a stop.

"how was your day?" you ask him without looking up from what you're doing.

and suddenly, anything rintarou may have wanted to say—joke or otherwise—is beyond him.

he watches as you set a plate of food down on the already full table just off his little kitchen. the food that covers the surface is still hot enough that steam curls up into the air above it, its preparation perfectly timed to his arrival home. his apartment is warm, and smells good, and there's music playing from your cellphone on the other side of the room that you must have been listening to while you cooked.

his chest feels tight.

you turn to look at him when he doesn't respond to your question.

"rin?" you ask again, a lilt of worry in your tone. "you okay?"

"what's all this?" he manages to ask, nodding towards the table where the meal you prepared is still waiting.

"oh, i've been craving my mom's recipe for the past few days, i just thought i'd make it for dinner," you say, tugging at your fingers nervously. your entire countenance is a bit different now, strained like you're worried you've done something wrong. "hope that's okay?" your words lift at the end like a question.

rintarou's never seen so much food on his table. can't remember the last time he even sat there to eat a meal—let alone a home cooked one. his face feels hot, and his eyes sting, and he just can't bring himself to look at you.

"yeah," he says, and if you notice how his voice is a bit croaky, you're nice enough not to tease him about it. "'course it's okay."

you smile, and you look relieved. "wash your hands then, it's getting cold."

you eat your dinner together and talk about your days. you take a shower while he cleans up the dishes. you fall asleep tangled up together on the couch with a movie playing in the background.

his home isn't quiet anymore. he isn't lonely.

and it's thanks to you.

#suna x reader #suna rintarou x reader #hq drabble #hq writing

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mokulule · 1 year ago

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Take Out for Dummies - part 1

Ship: Dead on Main

“Excuse me?” Jason asked in disbelief.

��How would you describe your ideal date?” the man repeated the question calmly as if he hadn’t snuck up on Red Hood on a rooftop in the middle of the night and didn’t have two guns pointed at him by said surprised vigilante.

Jason had no idea what to think, it was absurd. Only one thing made the smallest bit of sense. After all some reporters would do anything for a story.

“Is this an interview for a gossip magazine?”

The man blinked. “No, this is for personal use only.”

Okay. That was even weirder. With that thought he holstered his guns, grabbed his grapple instead and jumped off the building. He could move his patrol elsewhere for tonight.

Oo o oO

It had been a few days, the strange encounter forgotten about as he’d quickly come across a shipment of unsanctioned drugs entering his territory; Black Mask was making moves towards Crime Alley again. Red Hood had to nip that bullshit in the bud. Just because he was more vigilante than crime lord these days didn’t mean he’d gone soft.

So, Jason had forgotten about the strange man on the rooftop and was wholly unprepared when once again he was standing on a rooftop taking a small break in his patrol and someone spoke:

“So I assume dinner is out what with the whole helmet deal, but what about chocolate?”Jason spun around heart in this throat, guns pointing towards the direction of the voice. It took a moment for him to even find him. This time he was sitting on top on the slanted roof of the stairwell.

“What the-“

“A box of chocolate could be enjoyed later, would that be a suitable gift?”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Too many things to remember off the top of my head.” The man jumped down and walked towards Jason, once more showing his absolute disregard for the guns pointing at him.

“Do you have a death wish?”

That for some reason brought a smile to his face.

Somehow, Jason was the one taking a step back despite being the one holding the guns. That at least stopped the man’s advance and he raised his hands in surrender.

“Sorry man, I guess this whole showing up on a rooftop in the dark is kinda creepy.” He scratched the back of his head sheepishly. “It’s just with you being you, I don’t know where else to catch you.”

Jason felt an incoming headache, and he was feeling increasingly silly pointing his guns at the man when he didn’t react to them at all.

“How about you explain who you are and what you want?”

“Oh!” He slapped his forehead as if he couldn’t believe he’d forgotten. “I’m Danny, and I’ve been hired to take you out.” He smiled brightly.

Jason stared in disbelief. Who in their right mind just announced they’d been hired to kill someone, to the person they intended to-

No…

It couldn’t be…

He’d been asking about dates and chocolate. He couldn’t possibly have misunderstood take out Red Hood as take out Red Hood on a date. Nobody would be that stupid…

“Why would someone hire you to take me out on a date?”

Danny, if that was his real name, shrugged. “Maybe they thought you were stressed and needed a nice evening? I don’t know. I don’t ask questions. I just do odd jobs for money, keeps the lights on, you know?”

Jason didn’t respond. He couldn’t believe this.

“And like this job pays extremely well for some reason, so like I’d like to do a good job of it hence the questions?”

Of course it payed extremely well, it was meant to be a freaking hit! Still could be of course, but then it was the oddest way to go about it that Jason had ever experienced and he’d taken out quite a few would-be assassins in his time.

Danny’s face fell at Jason’s continued non-responsiveness. He sighed. Then brought out a notepad and scribbled something down, before ripping off the paper and holding it out to Jason.

“Look,” he said, when Jason made no move to take the paper and still just kept his guns trained on him, “here’s my number if you change your mind. If you haven’t called back in three days, I’ll return my advance and tell them I can’t do it - no matter how sad I’ll be to see that money go.” He looked pained at the admission, but then looked back up at Red Hood with determination.

“Still please reconsider, Mr Hood, I promise I’ll show you a good time if you agree to a date.”He looked expectantly from his hand with the paper to Jason’s helmet. Jason sighed. Holstering his right hand gun he took the paper. It was indeed a phone number, above the number it said Danny with a little smiley face drawn after the name.

Danny’s face brightened into a smile.

“Have a good night then Mr. Hood, I hope to hear from you.” Danny walked backwards with a wave and promptly tripped on an empty bottle someone had left.

“Woah!” His arms windmilled and he only just saved himself from falling back and hitting his head by sheer luck as he caught himself in the sort of gravity defying pose that would win him most limbo games. He laughed sheepishly as he put a hand down and turned around to push himself back up.

“So that was embarrassing. Should look where I go, huh? Never know when you’ll be assaulted by littering…” his voice trailed off as he walked away. He threw a last wave over his shoulder before jumping onto the fire escape and beginning his climb down.

Jason was left standing on the rooftop, paper clutched in one hand, trying to comprehend the whole baffling conversation. Also there was a distinct curl of embarrassment that he’d actually felt threatened by the guy at one point.

Yeah, he wasn’t gonna unpack that. He put the paper in a pocket of his utility belt and took a running leap to the next rooftop.

Oo o oO

Jason could not believe he was actually doing this.

It was three days later. In the mean time he’d asked around his old enforcers if they heard about a guy named Danny who did “odd jobs” as he’d called it.

As it turned out, there was indeed an odd-job-Danny, sometimes just called odd-Danny, with an increasing reputation on the streets of Gotham for doing all sorts of jobs - everything from helping old ladies carry groceries home for pennies and a pat on the cheek to heavier lifting by the docks. When he asked one of the street kids about him, he was told he also helped look for lost pets for pretty rocks or whatever the kids had in their pockets at the time, and he could fix just about anything - which had to be an exaggeration, but then again the street kids weren’t prone to overly positive opinions about adults, so he’d certainly made quite an impression on them.

Yet despite a lot of people knowing about him, apparently nobody knew a last name or where he lived. It was a mystery.

All that to say that Jason was curious… and apparently doing this.

He looked down at his phone, where he’d already put in the number. His thumb hovered over the call button. He still could not believe he was doing this. If this was a trap he was apparently walking in.

With a sigh he pushed the button.

It rang three times before it connected.

“Hello?” A hesitant voice asked.

“Is this Danny?” “Who’s asking?”

“You ask me on a date and you already forgot, I’m hurt,” Jason deadpanned hoping he would catch on to it not being wise to mention Red Hood’s name on an unencrypted line.

“Oh! So is that a yes?” He piped up excitedly.

Urgh, why was it charming that that he sounded so genuinely excited?

“Yes.”

“Sweet. Did you consider my questions?”

“Nope,” Jason popped the p and found himself smirking, “gonna have to impress me all on your own.”

Danny huffed. “Have it your way. I’ll show you a good time, you’ll see. How does… Sunday afternoon work for you?”

“’s fine.”

“Meet you in front of the building we last met, at 2 pm? Also unless you wanna take the bus, maybe bring your bike? I don’t drive.”

Jason scoffed. Letting some stranger hired to kill him close to him on his bike was a recipe for disaster. Still he found himself answering:

“Sure.”

“Great! I’ll see you Sunday then.”

With those words the call ended.

Jason looked down at his phone. He couldn’t believe it. Jason, no, Red Hood had a date for this Sunday. A giddy feeling bubbled up in his chest and he couldn’t help laughing. Red Hood going on a date. It was fucking ridiculous.

Yet, he was kinda looking forward to it. -

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#take out for dummies #dead on main #dp x dc #this is mostly just silly #but there is also some plot #because it assaulted me in a dark alley #anyways #hope you enjoyed

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halfvalid · 1 year ago

Text

the blade daughter, pt. 1

ABOUT

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3

alternate title: dracule mihawk cures your daddy issues!

rating: mature

characters: live action!roronoa zoro | fem!reader | live action!dracule mihawk | live action!straw hat ensemble

pairing: live action!roronoa zoro x fem!reader

word count: 23.6k total | 8.3k this part

description: as the daughter of dracule mihawk, you've been living alone at home, unwilling to go out and find a life of your own due to the belief that your father needs you around. but when he sends you off to buy him a jacket, you end up running into a pirate crew—and a particular swordsman—that end up changing how you feel.

tags: mihawk's daughter!reader, female reader, canon-typical violence, cursing, no use of 'y/n', pet names per mihawk ('dear', 'darling', 'sweetheart', 'little hawk'), emotional hurt/comfort, sexual harassment (from nameless OC), slow burn

author’s note: finally she's here! i'm posting it spaced out because i don't want to overload you all with a 23.6k fic in one post... IMPORTANT NOTE: i did some research from the animanga for mihawk's personality, weapons, and home, but this is still very much only a fic for OPLA and not the other iterations of the material.

the fic is not exactly only a romance; it focuses a lot on the reader's personal character development along with her relationship with mihawk too. i hope you guys don't mind! i kind of lost the plot lol.

reader is mihawk's biological daughter, but is stated to take after her mother and doesn't bear similarity to mihawk. so the fic is poc reader friendly!

Your dad was late to dinner again.

To be fair, Dracule Mihawk didn’t exactly follow a schedule. He was fickle—back when you’d been a girl, he’d been around all the time, because although he was a lot of things, Mihawk was not an absentee parent. But as you’d grown older, he started being less strict, leaving you alone for days and weeks until you’d finally matured into an adult. Mihawk spent most of his time away from the house, now—but you agreed to have dinner together every week, no matter what part of the ocean he was in.

And he was late.

You’d started cooking the meal early, only for Mihawk to not show up when everything was ready. Or after everything was ready. Or even when everything had cooled, and you’d eaten your fill, and waited in your chair for him to arrive. He finally showed up a quarter past two in the morning, the doors of the dining room bursting open to announce his entrance.

You cracked an eye open from where you’d been dozing in your seat. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Mihawk said, taking his hat off and bowing with a flourish. He pressed a kiss to the back of your hand. “I got a little busy. Garp had me deal with a pirate in the East Blue.”

You made a face at him as he sat down to eat. “Could’ve at least let me know. Den den mushi exist for a reason.”

“Ah, well, my apologies.” Mihawk sighed, dramatic as ever—you couldn’t find it in you to be mad at him for more than a few minutes, though, something he knew well. “It would’ve gone quickly had some upstart not challenged me to a duel. So I had to spend the night.” He tsked, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “And then I went to visit an old friend. Red-haired Shanks.”

“I remember him.” You got up from your seat, moving to the kitchen to rifle in the icebox for a popsicle. “Another duel? What’s this week’s body count?”

“You know I don’t tally such trifling matters, sweetheart,” Mihawk said. You shrugged, leaning against the doorway of the kitchen to watch him start eating. “This pasta is cold.”

“Wasn’t cold four hours ago,” you said, languidly licking at your popsicle. “No sympathy here, dad.”

“Fine,” Mihawk said. “Anyway, I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the man. Tall, green hair, three swords.” He wrinkled his nose. “Said people called him the Demon.”

“Roronoa Zoro,” you affirmed, slipping into the chair beside your father. “Scariest pirate hunter in the East Blue. You killed him?”

“Clearly not much of a pirate hunter, considering he’s a pirate now,” Mihawk said, the scrape of his knife and fork ringing around the room. “Joined the man I Garp sent me after, this little boy in a straw hat. And no. I let him and his crew go.”

You paused, voice faltering as you registered the words. “You let him live?”

“Yes. He was rather interesting. I expect he’ll come find me later,” Mihawk answered. You stared at him, still baffled. Your father was a lot of things, but a man of mercy was not one of them. Your earliest memory of him exacting his power over others was when you’d been two, watching from your crib as he speared the nanny for calling you a brat. A touching gesture, for certain, but still. “But enough about work. How have you been, little hawk?”

“Bored,” you said with a sigh. “It’s so dull on this island.”

Mihawk looked amused. “You could leave. I’m not restricting you here anymore.” Back in your teen years, Mihawk hadn’t let you leave the house—something about enemies wanting to kill his daughter or whatever else nonsense. He’d trained you personally, though, so you were nearly as fearsome as your father—able to beat anyone in combat in the blink of an eye. “You don’t have to stay.”

“The house would get all dusty,” you protested, lips tugging into a line. And it wasn’t like you hadn’t done any exploring. Mihawk had taken you to all four seas throughout your adolescence, and you’d taken vacations to everywhere of importance. You just—didn’t have much of a point to leave, really. You very much preferred not to, something tying you firmly to the island, to your castle. “And besides, where would I even go?”

“I hear the East Blue is interesting this time of year,” Mihawk said. “You could venture around here, but…” He shrugged. “The Grand Line is dangerous.”

You made a face. “I’ve lived here my entire life. I can take care of myself.”

“Certainly,” Mihawk agreed easily. “But it’s simply not worth it. You really should get out more, dear. It’s not good for your health.”

“Maybe,” you said, but you weren’t very enthusiastic about it. “Here, I’ll clean Yoru for you while you finish eating.” You moved around the back of his chair, lifting his sword off the jacket he hadn’t bothered to shed from his back. You grimaced upon seeing a line of dried blood along the blade. “Dad.”

“Sorry, dear,” Mihawk said, and you rolled your eyes, carrying the sword over to the living room. You set Yoru down with a heavy thud, pulling out a box of materials. Mihawk came over to watch you, one arm propped against the doorway as his aureate eyes gazed down as you worked.

Compared to your dad, you looked relatively normal. You’d always taken after your mother—a mysterious woman you barely had any memories of—and the relation between the two of you was never immediately obvious. The fact your eyes were plainly normal instead of bearing the golden hawk eyes Mihawk had was another factor added to that, too.

You pulled out a bottle of oil, pouring it generously over Yoru’s blade before grabbing a cloth to carefully wipe it with. “Where in the East Blue?” you asked abruptly, not looking up. Mihawk’s fork clinked along the ceramic of his bowl, presumably surprised you’d actually consider the offer of leaving.

“Well, I could send you out to run some errands if you wish. I’ve got some things to attend to,” Mihawk optioned. “There’s this one store in Loguetown with a rather nice jacket I’ve had my eye on.”

You shot him a disbelieving look. “You want me to go to the East Blue to buy you a jacket.”

Mihawk shrugged. “My birthday’s coming up.”

“No, it’s not.” You slid your rag along the edge of Yoru’s blade, folding it in half before wiping the entire thing again to ensure there was no grime left. “Finished. Maybe I’ll just stay—”

Mihawk gave you a look.

“Fine. Loguetown it is,” you said with a sigh. “Don’t give me a crew. I’ll just take one of the sloops. I’ll get your dumb jacket for you.” You got up, tossing the cloth over a shoulder to hand wash later. “I’ll leave later today.”

Mihawk clicked his tongue. “You’re so enthusiastic, darling. I can practically see the excitement oozing off of you.”

You rolled your eyes, moving past him to go up to your room. “Short trip,” you said. “No more than a couple of days.”

“The little hawk, so incited to leave the nest.”

“Shut up.”

Mihawk had complied with your wishes, as when you woke up the next morning, he had already prepared a sloop for you to board alone. You packed some of your things, not being too fussy about the clothing or other objects, knowing that the boat was already well-stocked on its own. Mihawk waited to send you off, though you knew he probably had affairs to attend to by now.

“Be good, darling,” he said, while you were loading up the last of your stuff. Just like your father, you preferred to wear your sword on your back; a present he’d given you at the age of thirteen. “I’ll call you. I’ve got business in the South Blue.”

“Have fun,” you said, and he kissed the back of your hand before pushing you off.

Loguetown was just how you’d remembered it, buzzing with civilians and pirates alike. The stores were plentiful, and filled to the brim with customers—it was all a little overwhelming compared to the peace and quiet you were used to. Still, it wasn’t a bad place to stay for a few weeks, and you might as well take your time there.

You slung your coat on as you exited the docks, glancing around the town in search of something to do first. Since you weren’t especially interested in retrieving a jacket for your father just yet, you beelined to the nearest tavern to grab something to eat. It was a lot easier traveling without Mihawk at your side—as much as you loved him, he had the habit of attracting both trouble and fear wherever he went, and he was near impossible to go out with.

The tavern was full, but not too crowded, and you managed to slip over to the bar without much trouble. It seemed to mostly consist of pirates—rough men with flowing jackets and holsters of guns and swords at their hip, clustered together in groupings that clearly proved their alliances with each other. You were one of the only patrons who was alone.

You gestured for the barkeep, and she bustled over from where she was serving a particularly ragtag group of pirates. They were mismatched, colors oddly paired—a girl with neon orange hair, a short man with a straw hat, one wearing a flowery shirt and goggles and the last man dressed in clothes far too formal for a bar. “What can I get for you?” she asked, a thick brogue dragging down her words.

You told her your drink order, still eyeing the group. The barkeep followed your vision and let out a sigh. “Don’t bother. Three men have already tried to capture him for the bounty. Broke half my furniture. And we got a rule here, anyway—no fightin’.”

“Does he have a bounty?” you asked with a frown. She scoffed.

“Does he ever. Thirty million berry, child. Highest in the East Blue.” She shook her head. “That crew won’t let anyone touch ‘im. Hell, I think his first mate’s still outside cleaning up the bodies.” She sighed again. “Well, I’ll have that drink out for you in a moment.”

You nodded, slipping into the closest available chair. Now that you were paying attention, you could see practically every pair of eyes fixed on the group—specifically, on the man in the center wearing the straw hat.

Before you could ask another question, the door to the tavern opened, and a lean, green-haired man filled the doorway. You glanced over at the barkeep, a flash of recognition in your eyes. “That’s Roronoa Zoro.”

“Aye,” she said, setting your drink in front of you. “If there’s someone who might be able to cash in that bounty, it’d be him. But believe it or not, he’s with the Straw Hat.”

You watched as the pirate hunter made his way to the table the others sat at. The glint of his famed three earrings reflected off the tavern lights, and the sword on his hip swayed as he walked—but there was only one rather than the three you’d heard tales about. “Yeah, my father said something of the sort.”

The barkeep hummed, turning to attend to a pirate who’d taken a seat at your left. “And who’s your father, lass?”

“Dracule Mihawk.”

The pirate beside you raised his head, turning towards you in almost alarm. Beside him, his crew quieted, and the barkeep glanced up to meet your eyes. “Dracule Mihawk?” she repeated incredulously.

“He sent me to buy him a coat,” you said. “I don’t suppose you know where any shops are around here?”

“Er, there’s a shop off main you might want to see,” the barkeep said, eyes flickering over to the pirate crew that had changed their focus to you. “Anything else for you, then?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you said, taking another sip of your drink. She nodded, leaving the bar in favor of moving over to another table. The pirate beside you turned slowly, stool scraping against the floor as he sneered down at you.

“Dracule Mihawk’s daughter, eh?” he asked. “Care if I buy you a drink?” Behind him, the rest of his crew tittered. You just sighed.

“Sorry, my father doesn’t let me go out with anyone who hasn’t bested me in combat.” You knocked back the rest of your drink, glancing up and down the pirate’s figure. He didn’t look like much—two pistols strapped to the hip, a longsword on the other, a raggedy leather jacket with a hat to match.

The pirate scoffed. “Please,” he said, though you could see his skin turning rapidly crimson. “I doubt you’re even related to him. No hawk eyes or nothing.”

You met his gaze, lips tightening into a line. “I take after my mother.”

“Biggest lie I ever heard, aye, crew?” The pirate turned back towards the rest of his men, and they cheered in agreement. You huffed out a sigh, trying your very best not to turn combative—despite everything, you were proud of your relationship with your father, and anyone trying to call you a liar for your lineage just left you vexed and angry. Before you could step away, though, the pirate turned towards the rest of the tavern, apparently having had a bit too much liquor. He raised his voice, practically yelling now. “Oi! This girl thinks she’s the daughter of Dracule Mihawk!”

Out of your peripheral vision, you saw Roronoa Zoro look up, the rest of his crew glancing over at you at the words. You were distracted within a second, the pirate shoving your arm. “Hey, don’t look away, girl. I’m trying to—”

You grabbed onto his wrist, nails razor-sharp as they embedded into his skin. “Don’t touch me.”

“Oh, you think you’re tough, do you?” The pirate yanked his hand out of your grip. “Did your daddy teach you how to fight, huh? Think you can beat me?”

“I know I can beat you,” you answered. The pirate reached for his sword, then, fingers tightening around the hilt.

“Alright, let’s make it a bet then. You beat me, I believe your claim about being Mihawk’s daughter.” His lips curled back into an ugly sneer, and you debated stepping out of the conversation and just going off to find that shop for your dad’s coat anyway. Fights like these were never worth getting into, and you really didn’t want to break any more of the barkeep’s furniture after she’d let out her annoyances to you.

Before you could, though, the pirate opened his big mouth once again.

“I beat you, and you go to bed with me.”

You were whipping your sword out before you could even think, red flashing in your vision as you scraped your blade out from the holster on your back. The metal gleamed under the lights, white steel bright as day as you leveled it in your hand. It wasn’t the largest weapon, a perfectly balanced cut-and-thrust spadroon with a golden hilt wrapped in white ribbon. You tightened your grip on the handle.

“I beat you,” you hissed, voice low, “and you’re dead.”

He lunged for you, pulling his sword out in one solid stroke and meeting yours in a loud clang. You shot an apologetic look towards the barkeep, spinning on your back leg and kicking the pirate away. The force caused him to stumble, sword skittering to the side as you shoved it off your blade.

One of his crew members had cocked a gun to your head, and you spun your swords toward him, blade cutting through the metal like it was butter. The rest of the crew stepped back, one or two of them lunging for you. You parried all of their attacks, shoving them to the ground until they stopped trying to fight.

The captain had gotten up, a fierce snarl upon his face as you slammed your blade down towards him. He blocked it with his sword, and then went for various attacks towards your figure—you dodged each one of them, parrying them easily as you moved backwards. At the last one, you used your weight to buck the sword back in his direction, and he stumbled again.

You ducked down, sweeping him off his feet with a well-aimed kick to his shins, and he fell, sword clattering out of reach as he dropped flat on his back. You towered over him, pointing the edge of your blade at his throat.

“You want me to go outside to kill him?” you asked. The barkeep sighed.

“If you don’t mind, lass.”

“Not at all.” You bent over, grabbing firmly onto the pirate’s shirt and yanking him upwards. His crew made a move towards you, but you just shoved your sword in their direction, and they stepped away. You spun your sword’s hilt around in your hand with a flourish, then started dragging the captain out the tavern door.

“No—wait—let me go,” the pirate begged, once you dropped him to the gravel outside and moved your sword to his throat again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I didn’t mean it—you’re a pretty girl, that’s all—”

“I don’t date men who can’t beat me in combat,” you said coolly. “Lower your expectations.” With that, you spun your sword again, sliding it back on the holster of your jacket. “I’ll let you live just this once. If you ever make any comments towards a woman again—”

“I get it. I’m sorry,” the man said, scrambling to his feet. You just eyed him.

“I need another drink.”

The tavern was dead silent when you returned to your seat, gingerly sitting back down on the stool you’d first occupied. “Another drink, if you don’t mind,” you said to the barkeep, and she nodded. A moment passed as she filled your mug, and then she asked—

“Is Dracule Mihawk really your father?”

“Unfortunately,” you muttered, taking the drink she offered and taking a swig. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see the Straw Hat pirate and his crew muttering amongst themselves. One of them nudged Roronoa Zoro in the side, and he grimaced, the loose shirt he wore parting with the motion. You caught a glimpse of bandages, wound tight with blood seeping through a familiar line. Yoru’s doing.

Zoro stood up, making his way over to the bar beside you. He propped his elbows on the table, but he didn’t sit, nodding at the barkeep. “Another round for my friends,” he said. His voice was quieter than you’d expected; a low mutter and almost soft in timbre. He glanced over at you, eyes flickering down and up again before he spoke. “I tried to kill your father.”

“Yeah, he told me,” you said. “Roronoa Zoro. What happened to your other two swords?”

Zoro scoffed. “Your dad.”

“He can be a little dramatic sometimes,” you said apologetically. He glanced over you again.

“You don’t look much like him.” He paused. “Figured I’d know if Mihawk had a daughter.”

“I take after my mother, and he’s very overprotective,” you said, getting just the slightest bit annoyed about everyone questioning your parentage. The barkeep returned then, sliding five beers across the table over to Zoro, and you stood up. “Now if you’d excuse me, I have some shopping to do.”

You exited the tavern after paying your tab, wandering around the streets of Loguetown to find the closest clothing store. Your father’s style was ridiculously grand, so it’d be something in the nicer branch of the city—you had just entered your best guess when you pulled out a shell phone, pushing the little snail into your ear and calling your father’s number.

He picked up on the first ring. “What is it, darling?”

“Did you have a specific coat in mind?” You glanced through a row of black leather, trying to find one that’d match Mihawk’s liking. “I’m at this place called Lady Tide’s Dressing Boutique. It’s the bougiest place I could find.”

“Lady Tide’s would be correct,” Mihawk said. “I trust your taste. Pick something I’d like.”

“You better be paying me back for this,” you threatened, turning the corner as you spoke. You jumped back in surprise, letting out a squeak as the Straw Hat pirate from before appeared right in front of you, a grin stretching up his face.

Mihawk’s laugh crackled through the line at your surprise. “Get startled, dear?”

“The pirate Garp sent you after is stalking me,” you deadpanned. The Straw Hat pirate’s grin only widened. “I’ll call you back.”

You hung up, taking the den den mushi out of your ear and back into its case. “What?”

“You’re a really good fighter,” the Straw Hat said brightly. “I’m Monkey D. Luffy, and I’m going to be King of the Pirates. You should think about joining my crew!”

��I—” you stared at him in disbelief, mind reeling from the whiplash of his words. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m not a pirate.”

Luffy tilted his head to the side in question. “But your dad is Mihawk.”

“That doesn’t make me a pirate. I just stay at home for the most part,” you said. Luffy continued following you around the store, however, even as you stepped past him to browse more jackets. You glimpsed the rest of his crew hanging around the store, though none seemed to do any actual shopping. You figured Lady Tide’s was probably out of their price range. “Why are you still following me?”

“I think you should join my crew,” Luffy repeated. “Have you ever been to the Grand Line? That’s where we’re headed next.”

You gave him a look. “I live in the Grand Line.”

“Whoa,” Luffy breathed. “Well, you must know all about it, then!”

You turned away from him, picking a jacket off the rack in front of you and appraising it. Golden buttons, long tailcoat, wide lapels—not really Mihawk’s taste. You set it back. “Not really,” you finally answered. “Like I said, I stay at home for the most part. Haven’t done much exploring.”

“Don’t you want to?” Luffy asked, taking a step closer to you. You flinched. “Your dad’s one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea! You should be going out and adventuring, not just staying at home and doing whatever Mihawk tells you to!”

“Don’t,” you snapped, voice low. “I stay home because I want to. Not because my dad forces me to.” Your words bore no lie, but still, there was a rumble of uncertainty deep in your gut. Mihawk had always been supportive, but pirating had always been his thing. You preferred the solace of your own home, and there was no point in adventuring when Mihawk had seen it all before.

“I’m just saying, what do you even do all day?” Luffy asked with a quirk of the lip. “Stay home and clean? Go out once in a while to buy groceries or get stuff for your dad?” He gestured at the coat you were holding, and you flushed, shoving it back onto the rack. “Isn’t it boring? Don’t you want more than such an average life?”

“I’m perfectly happy with my life right now, thank you,” you snapped. “Go preach to someone else.”

Luffy had stopped walking, then, looking at you with an almost sympathetic expression on his face. “Living isn’t the same as thriving, you know,” he said. “You should go out. Find adventure. Aren’t there things you want to know? Questions you want answered?”

“Luffy.” You turned to see Roronoa Zoro move to his captain’s side, head dipping as he spoke to him. His tone was quiet, but you could still overhear— “Leave her alone. We’ve got business.”

Luffy looked dejected at that, but he agreed, bowing his head towards you before turning to the rest of his crew. They’d gathered by the mouth of the store, engaged in their own various activities as they waited. You watched Luffy turn to leave, words climbing up your throat even as you tried to swallow them down. “Wait!”

Luffy turned, that bright smile reappearing on his face. “What?”

“I want to know one thing,” you said, taking a step closer to the captain and his first mate. You glanced up at Zoro, who met your gaze. His face seemed carved of steel, skin bearing no grimace, eyes betraying nothing. “Why did my father let you live?”

Zoro looked away, and you realized he probably didn’t know the answer himself. Before you could speak again, though, Luffy interrupted.

“Because Zoro’s the best,” he declared, capturing your attention away from the injured swordsman. He slapped Zoro’s bicep with a heavy thud, and you were surprised when the other man didn’t even flinch. “And he’s gonna be better than Mihawk one day. He’s going to defeat him in a duel and take his title and become—”

“The world’s greatest swordsman,” Zoro finished. The words were muttered under his breath, clearly to himself rather than intending for you to hear.

You watched them for a moment before finally turning away. “Okay,” you said. “Good luck with that.”

Luffy stared at you for a moment longer, but Zoro was already turning away and walking towards the rest of the crew. There was an unsettling feeling in your gut, one you tried to squash. Whatever—you had better things to do than worry about some Straw Hat pirate and a retired pirate hunter.

You returned to your browsing, looking through various jacket designs until you finally fell across one you were certain your father liked. It was ridiculously expensive, but your father’s taste had always been so—you purchased it without a second thought, slinging it across a shoulder and returning to your sloop for the rest of the day.

To your great disappointment, the Straw Hat pirate’s words continued to echo throughout your head. His demeanor was off-putting, to say the least—the extreme amounts of candor and cheeriness he had made for a disorienting combination. Even as you tried to stop thinking about his terrifyingly honest words, you couldn’t. Don’t you want more than such an average life?

You sighed, mood irritable from the day's events. You’d returned to your sloop and hadn’t done much of anything for a few hours—past having a meal and cleaning up your boat, there was nothing to do. You mulled over your options, wondering if you shouldn’t just start the journey back home. But Luffy’s words came back to you.

“I need a drink,” you muttered, donning your coat and leaving to attend the first bar you could find.

You went someplace ritzy this time, near the peak of Loguetown where neon lights glimmered in the dark hour. It was crowded, and music blasted through the bar, pounding bass nearly making the floor reverberate. You slipped inside without much trouble, squeezing through the crowd and making way for the bar at the other end of the room.

You bought yourself a drink, knocking it back in just a few gulps. There were marines patrolling around in the building, although none of them seemed too keen on completing any of their duties. Pirates walked around freely too, but these ones were more dignified than the ones you’d seen in the tavern at town.

“You hear Straw Hat Luffy’s here at Loguetown right now?” someone muttered to your right. You glanced over with a furtive gaze to see who was speaking—two men, dressed in fine silks and coats. Swords dangled from their hips. Pirates, maybe, or pirate hunters. “His ship’s docked over by south port.”

“You’re not going to try and nab him, are you?” the other pirate hunter asked, fingers pinched around a thin glass of something. “That bounty’s hefty, but fighting them’ll be…”

“I’m getting a bunch of hunters together,” the first one said. “We’ll split the bounty. At midnight, once the whole crew’s asleep. I followed the navigator; seems they’re not leaving until the morning.”

“Thirty million split between many isn’t much.”

“Well.” The hunter made a vague gesture, a smirk playing at his lips. “I doubt we’ll all be alive by the end of the night, if you know what I mean.”

“Right.” The second hunter downed the rest of his drink. “I’ll be there. Where’s the rendezvous point?”

“Slip forty at south port. Come at midnight,” the first one replied. “My boat. Theirs is at fifty-two.”

You turned away, knocking back the last of your drink before setting the glass back down on the counter. Your mind reeled, and you pulled out a pocket watch to check the time. Nearly eleven. Only an hour left.

“Another drink,” you called, but you stopped after that one. Logically, you knew the Straw Hat crew would be able to handle themselves. Your father wouldn’t have let Zoro go had he not been an impressive fighter—and Luffy certainly had to have some tricks up his sleeve, having such a high bounty and all. But an ambush was an ambush.

You needed to go home.

You paid your bill and slunk outside, taking the long road down to the port. You were docked in the east, but you found yourself wandering towards south port, hands shoved in your pockets and sword heavy on your back.

There was no logical reason to get involved with pirates, you tried to tell yourself. That was Dracule Mihawk’s area of expertise. That was Dracule Mihawk’s life. Not his daughter’s. You were not a pirate—there was no point in being one. Mihawk has done everything already.

You stepped onto the pier of south port, the wooden ramp trembling under your feet. They were shoddily constructed; oak on water, with pegs every few feet or so and ropes thrown casually across the walkways. It was overcrowded with boats, too—ships of every kind and size, smushed into spots not big enough for them depending on how much you paid the dock men. The moon shimmered on the surface of the East Blue. She was calm today, waves lapping at the edges of the docks, tranquil in the night.

You checked your watch again. Nearly midnight.

Dock forty moored a relatively small ship, but it was crowded with men—ten or fifteen, maybe, and you knew they’d be killing each other when the fight was through. Thirty million berry divided between so many people was barely worth it. You slunk past them, counting the numbers of the boat berths.

You knew the boat before you looked at the slip number based on appearance alone. It was large in size, a caravel sporting a gigantic goat figurehead. You stared at it, brows furrowed, jaw slack. Well, it was certainly a ship. There was a large sail boasting the ship’s jolly roger—a crudely designed skull and crossbones sporting the same straw hat their captain wore.

With a sigh, you pulled yourself onboard, careful to not make a sound as you landed on the deck. It was quiet, but you doubted the crew didn’t have at least one lookout for trouble. You tiptoed around the mast, moving towards the foredeck.

You were just about to step a foot on the staircase when a gleaming katana came to your throat.

“What are you doing here?”

Roronoa Zoro was as calm as ever as he held a blade to your jugular, posture perfectly straight, eyes tilted in your direction. You glanced down at the blade, registering the smooth metal. It was the white-handled one; upon seeing it closer, you could better register its quality. It must’ve been insanely durable, more so than his other blades considering Yoru hadn’t shattered this one in battle—one of the strongest blades in the world.

“What’s the sword’s name?” you asked.

Zoro ignored your question. “What are you doing here?” he repeated.

You sighed, turning towards him, although you were careful not to touch the sword. Zoro’s grip didn’t budge. “There are pirate hunters coming here,” you answered. “At midnight. An ambush.”

Zoro still didn’t move. The night sky cast his entire face in shadow, the only light on board being a trembling lantern by the interior doors. You could just barely see the gleam of one eye, yellow light shining on his cheekbone. “Why would you come?”

“Honestly, I don’t know,” you answered coolly. “My father let you go for a reason. It’d be a shame if you died before you realized why.” It was an easy lie—because the real reason was one you didn’t want to think about. Because Luffy’s words struck something in you. Because they rang true.

“We don’t need your protection.”

You shrugged, only one shoulder moving upwards before relaxing again. “Just a friendly warning.”

Carefully, Zoro lowered his blade, the steel scraping along the edge of its scabbard opening before he slid it closed. “The Wado Ichimonji.”

Your eyes were still on the sheathed katana. “Hm?”

“The sword. Its name is Wado Ichimonji.”

You tilted your head back, angling it towards the sword strapped to your jacket. “Hiru,” you said. “That’s mine.”

“Day,” Zoro translated. “You have matching swords with your father?”

“Just matching names,” you answered. “It’s a spadroon, not a kreigsmesser. Much smaller than Yoru. Birthday present. When I was thirteen.”

Zoro eyed you. “I’ll wake the rest of the crew,” he said. “You can go.”

You made no move to, consulting your watch as Zoro rang the ship’s bell. Five minutes to midnight. You could already hear the near-noiseless patter of footsteps on the pier.

The orange-haired woman was the first out, fingers wrapped around a short wooden rod. She exchanged a look with Zoro, and he nodded towards the pier. She somehow knew exactly what he meant from that, dodging back inside the ship and returning, dragging a dark-haired man out.

“Uh, what’s going on?” the man asked, stifling a yawn as he fiddled with a slingshot. Both Zoro and the woman shushed him. “Jeez, okay.” He noticed you then. “Oh, hey, you’re the hawk dude’s kid—”

“Shut up, Usopp,” the woman snapped. She’d moved by the boat’s side, ducked under the rim. The footsteps were getting louder.

The blond man came out next, hands shoved casually in his pockets and dressed in clothes you genuinely did not think functioned as sleepwear. “Hunters,” the orange-haired woman said. “Ambush.”

“Isn’t that lovely,” the blond man murmured. He caught your eye, and a smile lit up his face. “Well, hello there.”

Both Zoro and the woman rolled their eyes. Before the blond could say anything more, though, the hunters’ footsteps abruptly stopped.

The orange-haired woman spun up from her crouch, wooden stick extending into a long staff as she whipped it out. She slammed one end of the staff into an incoming hunter’s gut as he leapt aboard the ship, forcing him off the side of the vessel.

Everything happened all at once, then—you heard the slick shing! of Zoro unsheathing his katana, and the blond was up and running towards another gaggle of hunters within the second, legs flying in an assortment of well-placed kicks.

You reached over your shoulder, tugging Hiru out of its straps. The blade shone bright under the moonlight, and you caught an incoming hunter’s sword with the lick of it, shoving him backwards as you spun.

“Why’s Mihawk’s girl here?” the blond called, as he slid across the deck, leg raising up into a spinning hook. “Not that I’m complaining, of course. Pleased to make your acquaintance.” He met your eyes and winked, leaving you staring in utter disbelief until another hunter distracted you. “I’m Sanji!”

“Okay?” you asked blankly, letting out a huff of exertion as you whipped your sword toward the hunter. He’d pulled out one of his guns, wielding his blade one-handed as he fumbled with the trigger. You breathed in, recalling your father’s words from the thousands of hours spent training. Take advantage of any imbalances, sweetheart. Focus on the center of gravity.

You aimed a sliding kick at the man’s gun, using Hiru to push against his blade. The pressure caused him to fling halfway across the ship, body thudding against the mast before falling to the ground in a heap.

“Impressive,” Sanji whistled from his spot across the ship.

“Shut up,” Zoro and the orange-haired woman said in unison. Zoro was beside the fallen hunter in a second, katana slashing cleanly through his torso before he spun and shoved the blade straight into an incoming man’s stomach. Sanji just scoffed.

“Show-off,” he said accusatively. Zoro rolled his eyes, turning towards Sanji to argue, when you glimpsed someone at his back. You lunged for the man, sword cutting cleanly through his jugular before he fell across the deck, decollated.

Zoro turned, glancing over his shoulder at the body and then up at you. “You’re welcome,” you said, flicking Hiru to the side. Spatters of blood dripped off its blade.

“...Right.” The number of hunters had considerably thinned, only three or four left. The orange-haired woman was still fighting two of them, placing hits of her bo staff along two mens’ skulls. Usopp had crouched by the forecastle, firing pellets off with his slingshot. Sanji dusted off the final two men, until only the ringleader was left.

“Wait, wait.” The hunter backed away until he ran into the ship’s railing. He scrambled for his pistol, but as Zoro, Sanji, and the orange-haired woman advanced on him, apparently realized the idea was in vain. “We—we can talk about this.”

“I don’t think we can.” You turned at the new voice, watching as Luffy slipped out from the captain’s chambers. His hand came up to adjust his hat, crowned atop his head as always. “You came aboard my ship and tried to hurt my friends.”

The hunter’s jaw fell slack, mouth drying over as Luffy came to stand in front of him. The rest of the crew had parted to allow him space, and Luffy titled his head up, the lick of light from the lantern shining against his skin. A crescent-shaped scar under his eye glowed bright, the skin paler than the rest of his face.

“Gum gum…” he started, voice steadily rising in volume as he extended his hand backwards, fingers curled into a fist. To your surprise, his arm just kept stretching back, limb getting longer and longer with a distinctly rubbery stretch until it was all the way at the other side of the ship. “Pistol!”

His arm snapped back all in one, knocking the hunter straight in the jaw and shoving him off the ship in one, devastating blow. You stared at his flailing body, watching as he dropped straight into the ocean ten or so meters away with a loud plop.

You turned towards Luffy, one brow arched in question. “You’re a Devil Fruit eater?”

“The Gum Gum fruit,” Luffy said brightly. He adjusted his hat once more, fixing it atop his head before reaching an arm out to pat you on the shoulder. “Thank you for warning us. You’re a good person.”

“Don’t mention it.” You glanced down at Hiru. “Have anything I can clean my blade with?”

“Sure! Let Sanji cook you something while you’re here,” Luffy said. “It’s the least we can do.”

“Of course,” Sanji said with a little bow. “What would you like? Name anything and I’ll make it.”

You eyed him. “…Anything.”

Sanji let out an exaggerated sigh. “So uninspired. Meet you in the kitchen, then. We can leave the mosshead to clean up the bodies.”

The orange-haired woman just rolled her eyes. “I’m going back to bed,” she declared. She glanced over at you, appraising you in one solid sweep up and down your body. “I’m Nami.”

With that final word, she departed, snapping closed her staff and slipping back into the boat. Luffy, Usopp, and Sanji shuffled into the boat, presumably the kitchen. Zoro just sighed, setting his katana to the side to start cleaning up the corpses left after the battle.

You made no move to follow the others inside, watching as Zoro easily lifted up one of the hunters. The lines of his biceps strained as he climbed off the ship, still hefting the body before finally placing it down on the pier.

“Just toss them into the ocean,” you called. Zoro glanced over his shoulder, registering you standing there. He picked another body up.

“I don’t want to block our slip,” he answered.

“Fair enough. Any oil around here?” You wandered to the ship’s side, glancing through the boxes fixed to the deck. Zoro gestured in some direction that harmed more than it helped, really, but you dug through some boxes before unearthing something you could clean Hiru with.

You worked in silence, slicking the blade with the oil and rubbing off all the blood and mess that had gotten onto it. Zoro was quick, piling up all the corpses and barely-alive bodies by the dock. He shoved a few of them awake with his boot. “Go find a doctor,” you heard him mutter under his breath. You suppressed a laugh.

Eventually, Zoro climbed back on board, searching for his sword only to find it in your hands. You carefully polished off the last of the blade, then presented it to him. “You’re welcome.”

“…Thanks,” Zoro said, sheathing it in one smooth swipe.

“The cut,” you said, glancing down at his torso again. His shirt was covering the bandages, but you knew they were still there. “It was Yoru that did it. Not Kogatana.”

“The big one, yeah,” Zoro answered. You watched him thoughtfully, although you didn’t say a word. He seemed to get impatient by that, and was speaking just a moment afterwards— “Why?”

You gave a quick shake of your head. “Nothing,” you answered, the lie slipping easily off your tongue. But your mind churned with thoughts, the mere brain activity making your stomach curdle. It hadn’t clicked before, but now—your father didn’t use Yoru on anyone who wasn’t worthy. And letting Zoro live—letting the entire crew go, against Garp’s orders?

This was a more interesting group than you’d anticipated.

Zoro eyed you for a moment as you were lost in thought, though he didn’t say anything to interrupt you. Once you finally looked up, he adjusted, clearing his throat. “Should go inside to make sure the waiter isn’t burning down the kitchen,” he said, straightening.

You stood up, sliding Hiru into its scabbard on your back. “The… waiter?”

Zoro shook his head. “Long story.” He gestured with his head, nodding towards the double doors. “Kitchen.”

You followed him, the soft aroma of garlic and meat wafting around the room the instant you stepped foot inside. Everyone was crowded around the kitchen island, propped on chairs and staring as Sanji prepared a meal before them. You joined the group, glancing over Usopp’s shoulder to watch.

There was a stir-fry on the stove, garlic and onions joined by various other vegetables. Sanji drizzled soy sauce along the pan, scraping it around once with his spatula before turning down the heat. He added in some rice—leftover, it looked—along with some battered eggs, mixing it all together.

“Vegetable and chicken fried rice,” Sanji said, turning off the heat once everything had cooked through and starting to distribute it into servings. “I went for something universal because I don’t know what you like.” He met your eyes, flashing a giant, warm smile again. You took the bowl he offered, fingers wrapping around the warm ceramic.

“Thank you,” you said. The four of you stood in silence, and you had the feeling that you were intruding. The crew was a tight unit, that much was certain—wound tightly around each other, ropes intersecting in delicate knots and bows. You turned your attention to your meal. You hadn’t had a real supper, so the food was a welcome surprise, and it was damn near close to the best thing you’d ever tasted.

“So,” Luffy started, “Not to bug you about it a hundred times, but…” You glanced up. His expression was earnest as he met your eyes, lips tugged upwards in an encouraging smile even as he spoke. “Are you joining us?”

“Am I—? Oh,” you said, realizing what it was Luffy was referring to. “Is the offer still standing?”

“Always,” he answered brightly. “You’d be a good fit for our crew, you know.”

Would you really? There wasn’t much of anything special about you besides your parentage. You were as skilled a swordswoman as any, but there were hundreds better and stronger than you. There was no one thing you truly excelled at. “I’ll think about it,” you said hesitantly.

“Well, think quick. We leave at dawn,” Luffy said. “Meet us back here at blue hour if you’d like to join up.” He smiled again, all unassuming, and it was hard to believe a boy so pleasant had a thirty million berry bounty hanging suspended over his head. He yawned, stretching out his long limbs. “Well, I’m off to sleep. Sanji’s next watch.” He glanced over at Zoro. “Why don’t you walk her back to her slip, Zoro?”

Your brows furrowed, about to object, but Zoro was already standing up. He opted to say nothing, leaving you to set down your empty bowl and say your goodbyes in a hurry to follow him out.

The bodies on the pier had thinned, the alive ones presumably having dragged themselves to town to find a doctor. Zoro stepped over the heap of corpses, and you followed suit, walking in silence down south port. “I’m a little far,” you said. “You might lose your way heading back.”

“I’ll be fine,” Zoro dismissed. “I’m… sorry about Luffy. He can get overly enthusiastic.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” you said with a shake of your head. “Are the rest of the crew open to me joining, though? It didn’t seem like he consulted any of you.”

Zoro’s brows lifted at that, though you weren’t certain why. “We’re all fine with it,” he said eventually. “Luffy wouldn’t invite someone who wouldn’t fit.” He hesitated, the plod of your footsteps creaking against the dock walkway for a few paces before he parted his lips again. “I’m going to fight Mihawk again, you know.”

“I figured,” you answered. You could feel Zoro’s eyes on you, scraping along your skin like they were blades themselves.

“You’re not upset by that?”

“Everyone wants to kill him for some reason or another,” you said. “You’re not the first.” Though there was something undeniably special about him. The fact he was still alive, for one. “I figure you’re a long way from that, so I’ll have a father for a few years more until you try to kill him again.”

There was something in the way you phrased your words that sounded so very ironic, and Zoro couldn’t suppress the light grunt from escaping his lips. It was dry, brittle—but closer to a laugh than a scoff, you could tell. “Is that your blessing?”

“Sure,” you said. “I, Dracule Mihawk’s daughter, hereby allow you, Roronoa Zoro, to murder my father in a duel.” The lightness in your tone dropped. “If you don’t mind me asking…” you took in a light breath, letting the taste of the words melt on your tongue before slipping them out. “Why do you want to, anyway? Defeat him, I mean?”

“I made a promise to someone a long time ago,” Zoro answered. His footsteps slowed as you reached your slip, the small sloop you’d sailed all the way to Loguetown calm as ever where it was moored. The black sails—vague, nondescript—sucked away all the light the moon attempted to cast on it, so it was even darker than the rest of the surroundings. “I told her I would become the world’s greatest swordsman.”

“That’s heavy,” you remarked, turning to face your companion. His skin was waxy and dull under the moonlight—aftereffects of the injury he still hadn’t fully recovered from. Zoro just shrugged.

“Maybe. It’s my life’s dream.”

“He’s a good father,” you said. “I think he’d like you.” You paused. “Well, he does. He wouldn’t have let you live if he didn’t.”

Zoro stiffened, the lines of his body tightening, spine pulling up just slightly. You noticed the change—you always did. Observation had always been one of your biggest strengths. Maybe you hadn’t gotten the golden irises your father had, but you had hawk eyes of your own in that way. Never missing a thing, picking out all flaws and details in a scene. “I’m not sure if I want him to like me.”

“He doesn’t feel hatred for a lot of people,” you said. “Just disdain. Though I’m fairly certain he’d have skewered that drunk at the bar earlier if he’d been with me.”

“The one who—” Zoro looked distinctly uncomfortable as he remembered what the pirate had offered you. He made a vague gesture instead, just mildly vulgar in motion. You suppressed a laugh.

“Exactly,” you agreed. “He doesn’t have patience for that sort of thing. He also feels no man who’s weaker than me in combat isn’t man enough to be with me, though I have questions about that particular rule.”

Zoro snorted. “You could definitely do better than the drunk pirate.”

“Right.” You glanced up at the moon, watching the steady silver glow of her face along the edge of the horizon. She was full, round and white, soft powder creasing the dents and shadows of her face. “I’m out for the night, then. Thank you for walking me.”

Zoro shrugged. He didn’t say anything, so you turned away, stepping onto your sloop without another word. You ducked into the interior room, closing the door firmly behind you so you could finally relax.

You had only a handful of hours of rest ahead of you, after all.

pt. 1 | pt. 2 | pt. 3

i'll be making a taglist for this series; just comment if you'd like to be added!

#opla zoro #opla roronoa zoro #opla #roronoa zoro #roronoa zoro x reader #roronoa zoro x you #reader insert #x reader #one piece live action #one piece netflix #one piece live action x you #one piece live action x reader #opla fanfic #opla fanfiction #dracule mihawk #opla zoro x reader #kiki writes!

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mrsoharaa · 4 months ago

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Imagining Miguel going through Gabriella's teen years. Being an "overprotective" dad the moment she goes on a date!

You, were obviously okay with it, knowing she's just entering her ripe ol' age of curiosity and teenage normalcy of dating. But for Miguel. That was an entirely different aspect.

The sound of Gabriella's bedroom closes almost too enthusiastically, blaring and alarming everyone (in which case, was just only you and her at the moment, thus Miguel being away at work) in the cozy home of her excitement and thrill for her date tonight.

When you contently hum to yourself, readying dinner for the three of you, you can hear her weighted footsteps of joy prance through into the dining room/kitchen vicinity. A lifted giggle spilling from her lips as she gazes over her phone.

You turn to meet your daughters giddy expression, acknowledging that familiar delight and glee sprawl all over that gleaming face.

"Someone's excited for tonight" you smile happily at your grinning little bundle of joy (or at least, that's what you still call her since she is technically still your baby). Gabriella places her phone down for a second, practically hopping and throttling with pure exhilaration and eager.

"I really am mama! tonight is going to be so much fun! he's taking me out to that new nice restaurant that just opened up down the street! you know, the one by that one cafe you really like?! across the street from them!" She announces with pure elation, angling her phone as she glances through the reflection of her device to fix the little gorgeous strands of familiar dark mahogany from her adoring face.

"Oh lovely! sounds like fun! do you want me to put away some food for you later, mija?" you smile at her. ("Daughter")

"Sure, thank you mami!" she excitedly whips back.

The sound of a warping buzz elicits from the living room, a hulking, brooding stature of a 6'9 suited man, shuffles his self through the vast yellow portal that immediately dissipates behind him the moment he steps into the living space.

A weighted sigh expels from behind the dark maroon and navy mask that hid his beautiful face. He retracts his stiff shoulders, murmuring something under hefty grumbles. His attention quickly turns to your direction, noting the cutely attired and heavily anticipated daughter sitting onto one of the stools by the kitchen's island.

He dissipates his mask, thick brows raised in curiosity and confusion, heavy, tired lids of ruby stroll back onto you.

"¿Qué pasa aquí?" he tilts his head, still rotating his aching shoulders to try to rid of the pulsing, nagging weight pinching at his muscles from a long strenuous day. ("What's going on here?")

"Our daughter has a date tonight honey, isn't that exciting?" you grin coyly at the frowning man looming over next to Gabriella.

"She — what?!" Miguel's scowl quickly qwhips over to his daughter, watching her roll her eyes and head with a low giddy sigh.

"I already told you papa, remember? yesterday? before you dropped me off at school?" Gabriella twirls her phone in her hand, watching her fathers face twist with mixed emotions. Particularly one, to be precised — disapproval.

"I don't recall having this conversation with you, Gabriella" he states dryly, uncertainty clinging to his gruff voice.

You turn in his direction, eyeing him for his sudden disapproving tone.

"Yeah, I did! I told you right as you pulled into the schools front parking lot! you really have that bad of a memory dad?" Gabriella shrugs, watching her father glare over at you. Noting the head tilt and stern eye contact the two of you shared.

He groans inwardly, annoyed profusely by the fact that his little girl is going on a date. That he, oh so never recollected on, hearing about.

"Who is he? where does he live? What's his phone number? Where are you two goi- Miguel" you chuckle lightly, fully facing his direction as you met with his furrowed gaze.

"...Right right" he sighs defeatedly, glimpsing back over to his beautiful child as he smiles more tender heartedly. Takes a step closer towards her and embraces her with long, warm open arms. Easily engulfing her into his taller stature, one hand nestled around her comfortably as the other brushes over her hair. Places a gentle kiss on top of her pretty tresses.

"Just...be safe for me mija, make sure he doesn't try kissing you" Miguel mumbles into her hair, Gabriella simply laughs as she returns a squeezing embrace back to her doting, grumpy father.

"Miguel" you warn once again with a lenient smile, the three of you chuckle in unison.

Gabriella pulls away "I promise I'll be so safe papa! I'll call you if anything happens, I promise!" she leans on her tip toes to give her father a soft peck to his right cheek, he rumbles a relaxed grumble.

"Esa es mi chica, ve a divertirte mija" he gives her another head kiss, feeling her reel from his embrace and rush out the door, waving to her loving parents. ("That's my girl, go have fun daughter")

The sound of the door slamming close grates through Miguels ears, the familiar same scowl from before returning back onto his churning face.

With your back facing him and your attention drawing back to your cooking, you could feel the searing burn of his dim eyes peer at the back of your head. A simple hum dwindles from your pursed, curled lips.

"So, she's dating now? since when?" he finally flushes the thickening air, leaning over the island, eyes strictly focused on you.

"She's a teenager Miggy, you have to let her go through these things" you insist, peppering the seasoned chicken breast in the bowl in front of you.

The sound of his teeth lowly ticks through the air, his retracted claws tapping amongst the marbled tile of the island he leaned over.

"She'll be fine my love, you and I both raised that little girl right...she knows how to defend herself" you peek over your shoulder to wave an irate Miguel one of your reassuring smiles. The very same one that always made his heart melt and feel at ease.

You can see the tensity of his body softly, hardly, unwind, his dim lidded irises softening to your tender gaze. He emits a long sigh.

"I know I know...I just...worry about her is all" he exhales, watching you take a step back and bend over to place the bowl into the oven.

A feeble giggle lilts off your lips, straightening yourself up and walking over to your overly exerted husband, you cup your hands onto his cheeks and brush your thumbs gingerly along the warm, supple flesh. A deeming smile weaving onto your cheeks.

"And that makes you such an exemplary father, baby" you softly cooed, feeling his head lean into your homely touch instantly. Almost purring to the welcoming feeling of your smooth skin caressing his hardened face.

"She'll be okay Miggy, I promise" you lift up onto your toes and place a soft kiss to his full lips, smirking as you feel him lean downward to keep his lips onto yours, growling lowly as he feels you pull away from his pursed, needy plush of skin.

"You remember what it was like when we were teenagers, don't you?" you coy, playing with the plump silken flesh that formed into that familiar pout you had grown to love and adore.

"How we use to sneak out of our parents houses at night to meet...take your fathers car to come pick me up and drive through the city after midnight...going on starry night dates and peaceful drive ins, before you became Spider-Man" your heart practically swoons through your fluttering chest from the recommencing loving memories flooding through your head.

Miguel nearly feels his heart thrashing violently against his chest, pupils dilating widely as you sigh dreamily.

"Wait — she's sneaking out of the house now? that I DON'T KNOW ABOUT?! SINCE WHEN?! ¡Oh, por el amor de Dios!" Miguel snarls, you burst into a fit of laughter, holding and pulling his face back down to meet your level. Carefully planting your head against his, as you continue to smooth his cheeks with your fingers. ("oh for fucks sake!")

"No no baby! of course not! I'm just saying!" you chuckle lightly, reeling him into your subtle massage amongst his face. His body relaxes, breaths steadying out as he lowers his enraged eyes, gently gazing down at you.

Hums at the supple touch of your hands slowly drifting down to his broad shoulders.

"She's going to be alright honey, you just have to trust her...trust me" you feel his weight slowly ease further into your touch, the pulling, tantalizing pressure of your fingers massaging at his stiff shoulders basking him in a trance of relaxation and tranquil. He sighs softly, leans forward to plant a sweet kiss onto your forehead, then your nose and finally your lips.

"I trust you...I trust the both of you more then anybody"

"I know you do Miggy...now come, let me help you relax, your shoulders feel very stiff and stagnant" you lull him into another kiss, giggling cunningly as you pull away and listening to him rumble another irritated grumble from your swaying motion from his lips.

A shorten, pitched yelp cranes from your lungs as you feel your body abruptly being pulled back to his body. Your own being hoisted and pinned against his, his arms wrapping your legs around his slim waist as he nuzzles into your chest, resting his chin onto the comforting mounds.

"Those can wait, seems like my wife wants to keep pulling away from my kisses...I think a punishment is in order, no?" he grins slyly, wickedly as he cups your rear with his large hands, adoring the upbringing fluster pooling into your cheeks.

"M-Miguel no! I have dinner to tend too!" you chirp with a giggle, feeling his wide hands playfully smack at your voluptuous bottom, quickly smoothing over the rounded clothed flesh. Leans up to kiss your chin.

"Dinner will be fine cariño...It won't take long anyways...maybe" he nuzzles beneath your chin, laughing at your adorable resistance to his cheeky advances.

#PROTECTIVE PAPA MIGGY?? I THINK TF YES!!#ohh this gave me sooo many butterflies ngl!#love me some domestic dotting overprotective papa Miggy! 😍😩💞💗🫶🏼👏🏼#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara #atsv

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essjujutsu · 2 months ago

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CHAPTER Ⅰ: SUPRISE!

( the gc is in yuji's perspective! )

knock

damn, did yuji already forget your coming? you told him like..two hours ago!

just then, the door swings open and your brother opens the door.

"yn!! your here!"

yuji says enthusiastically, opening the door wider so you can fit your suitcase inside.

"where's sukuna? is he home?"

"nah, he went to the grocery store. he said we didn't have enough food in the house 'cause i ate it all or something."

"oh, thats..nice of him."

you set your suitcase down on the living room floor, flopping down on the couch. you're definitely glad to be home.

"one of your friends texted me, nobara—she seems really nice."

you announce as yuji sits down on the couch aswell, nodding in response.

"yeah, everybody's nice—trust me! they'll all like you."

you give him a smile, watching him go back on his phone to do who knows what. you really do hope they all like you—you may have stalked some of their instagrams once or twice, but that was just because yuji tagged them and you were curious!

a couple minutes later you head the front door open behind you—you look up from the couch and see your uncle sukuna standing there with a few grocery bags. he still looked pretty much the same, face tattoos and all. you remember back when he first gained custady of you, yuji and choso—sukuna was pretty scary for a elementary schooler, but he was nice...in his own way at least. but you never really got to know him like yuji did, since you had already planned to leave for boarding school.

"oh, you're home. hey kid."

he spoke, coming over to the living room where you and yuji sat. though before you even got to respond, yuji interrupted.

"sukuna, whats for dinner! ooh can i help make it? i wanna show yn my amazing cooking skills!"

"since when can you cook, yuji?"

you ask in response, raising an eyebrow.

"uhm! since like, forever! sukuna taught me and not to brag but im pretty good."

"he's alright."

you laugh in response, as yuji darts off to the kitchen—followed by your uncle. you smile as you get up from the couch to, walking over to follow them.

you smile slightly as you walk into the kitchen, now you only had one thing to worry about—your first day of your new school tomorrow.

A/N: wooah first chapter! if you see any grammer mistakes im sorry LMFAO , second chapter will be up by wednesday!

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queers-gambit · 9 months ago

Text

Let the Bodies Hit the Floor

prompt: what happens when Tangerine's little lady is targeted in their home?

pairing: Tangerine x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Bullet Train

word count: 9.1k+

note: this got away from me. like wtf is this plot, Cherry?

warnings: author still runs with Tangerine's name being Aaron and Lemon's being Brian. inspired by GIF, established relationship, Russian Mafia vibes, physical violence / assault, blood, character injury, small angst, mostly hurt and comfort, Tan and Lem standing on business.

The skirt of the designer dress fanned around your thighs when you turned swiftly from the stovetop to a separate counter in order to collect the chopped vegetables. Light music filled the space between the sizzling of different dishes cooking, bare feet sticking to the linoleum floor of the kitchen.

"Right," your sweetheart, Aaron, announced as he jogged down the glass stairs while fixing his cuff link, entering the shared space, "know I hate t'do this, love, but I promise we won't be long."

You smirked, "Uh-huh, and where have I heard that before? Oh! That's right, when you - "

"Oi, oi, oi, you know I ain't mean to disappear in fuckin' Kyoto for 6 weeks, love," he repeated in exasperation, "please, stop holdin' that against me."

"I'm not," you sang in a singsong voice, dropping the vegetables to the stir fry you were preparing, "but you know, you say you won't be long, and then you disappear for random amounts of time."

"You know why," he sighed, buttoning his suit jacket as he closed the distance between you, "and you know it ain't my choice."

"Yeah, yeah, job first, girlfriend second."

"Not even close t'what my priorities are," he smirked, snatching your hand to twirl you around and tug you closer to face him. You grinned up at him, hands landing on his chest; letting his arms lock around you to keep you pressed against his impeccably sculpted body. "You look so beautiful tonight," he whispered, eyes flickering over you, "just love you in this dress. Could ravish you right here, right now."

"Yeah?" You cooed, "Recognize it?"

"Hm, feels rather expensive," he pet around your hips and waist, cheekily moving them around to grip both arse cheeks; causing you to gasp lightly, "thinkin' I must've gotten it for yah. Huh?"

"From Paris last month," you chuckled.

"Ah, yeah, I remember. Lemon was right hacked off we spent so much time shoppin', but no way was I gonna come home without something for yah." He sniffled and patted one hand in a gentle smack on your bottom, continuing, "Now, listen, sweetheart, I know tonight's real important to yah, so, I promise, Lemon and I will be back before the main course, yeah?"

You tisked, "Don't fucking call him that, you know I hate it."

"Apologies, lovely girl. Listen, I won't have my phone on, so, you need me, call Brian - "

"'If I need you'? See, now it's sounding like you're gonna disappear again, Aaron," you complained. "What the hell's this job anyway?"

"Nah, don't worry 'bout nothin'," he promised, "'cause we'll be back in time for your li'l dinner party."

"You know tonight's important for us - both of us!"

His eyes rolled, "Yes, yes, t'finally get your father's approval, right?"

"More like my whole family," you reminded with a roll of your eyes. "Goddamnit, I knew you weren't gonna take this seriously - "

"No, hey," he soothed, squeezing his hands to gently jostle you into silence, "tonight's very important to me, darlin'. I swear it, yeah? We'll be back in time, promise you."

"Good, you better."

"But in case, call Brian - "

"Aaron!"

He grinned, watching your own lips spread, "Jesus Christ, can't take a joke no more, can yah?"

"Maybe on less important days."

"Duly noted." The apartment's buzzer sounded, your boyfriend sighing, "Right, then. That'd be Lem - aht, ahem, Brian." He frowned, "Feel bad skippin' out on yah like this, but duty calls, baby."

"Mhm," you hummed, lifting on your toes to peck his lips. "Just be careful, please."

"I always am."

"You literally crashed a Bullet Train into an entire village - "

"Told yah, that was the Ladybug twat!"

"You also got shot! A centimeter to the side and you'd have bled out your fucking jugular."

"Again, the Ladybug twat."

"Potato, po-ta-toe."

Aaron chuckled, kissing you again, his mustache tickling your skin; groaning in annoyance when the buzzer sounded again - but for a prolonged time. "All right," he pulled back only to peck your lips again, "I'm off but I'll be back real soon. Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good without me?"

"I have to be," you teased, petting the lapels of his suit jacket and readjusting his tie. "Go, before you give your brother a fucking aneurism."

"Right," he chirped, pecking your forehead with a loud smooch. Swiftly, Aaron reached over to pluck a carrot from the wok, hissing from the heat, "oh, hot, hot, hot!" You swatted his bottom as he stepped away, eating the veggie, knowing you hated when he sampled your cooking while in the midst of actually cooking. "Mh! Tastes divine, sweetheart, maybe a bit more garlic. Love you!" He called over his shoulder, dropping a quick wink.

"Love you," you repeated, smiling; feeling lucky in love. You watched him go; his curls slicked back, classic navy blue suit on to make the crisp white button-up stand out, his shiny dress shoes winking at you. With a sigh, you focused again on prepping an admirable meal for the evening, planning on hosting both your divorced parents, their partners, and three older siblings.

Obviously, as the youngest kid, any and everyone you dated fell under heavy scrutiny.

The plan was to shmooze them into accepting Aaron as your lover, something your father and eldest brother were specifically vehemently against. But you weren't a little girl anymore, they couldn't dictate who you loved, but you could do your part to make your contract killer boyfriend more appealing to your kin. Easier said than done, but tonight was about at least trying.

So, you cooked a series of dishes to present on the grand dining table your boyfriend had furnished your apartment with, yet never utilized. Humming to the music, you hopped around the cooking space, and about an hour later, the apartment's buzzer was sounding in an obnoxious echo.

Dusting your hands off, you rushed to the comms system and pressed the big green button that unlocked the door building's front door. You left the door to your flat unlocked for easier access, rushing back to the kitchen to finish plating dinner. Not a minute later, the door opened and in walked your family; bottle of wine in your father's hand and a bouquet of flowers in your mother's.

Your father, Edward, had his newest wife on his arm; in the tallest heels you ever saw and a dress made of sequins, being far too short for this kind of event.

You mother, Linda, powered walked ahead of everyone with her boytoy of the month kept a close distance to the matriarch. He was probably just a few years older than you - but you were dating a contract killer agent, there was no room for judgement.

Your eldest brother, Robert, or better known as Bobby, entered with an aurora of arrogance; instantly looking around and judging your home unfairly. You sister, Mabel, just looked stony and stoic; completely bored of that night already. Lastly, your brother older by just a single year, Jonathan, or John, or John Boy, followed behind your siblings, wearing a thick gold chain against a classless wife beater.

"Oh, I'm so glad you made it!" You squealed, opening your arms and practically skipping close to greet your parents and their partners. "About time, don't you think?" You smiled at your father, hugging him first and kissing his cheek.

"Well... Guess better late than never," he begrudgingly agreed. "You remember my wife, Crystal?"

"Of course," you tried to politely smile and offered the fake-blonde a greeting kiss to her cheek, "lovely to see you again."

"Thanks for the invite," her tired voice drawled; indicating she'd rather be literally anywhere else.

"Mum," you moved along, hugging and kissing her cheek, too. "You're look fit."

"Thank you," she sighed.

Looking to her boyfriend, you greeted, "Thanks for coming, Keith - "

"It's Toby."

You blinked, "Huh?"

"Name's Toby," he explained.

"Right, right, Toby, my fault," you apologized, ignoring the look he sent your mother as you greeted Bobby, Mabel, and John Boy.

After, your father stiffly asked, "So? Where is he? This boyfriend you want us all t'like so much, huh? Not even out here to greet us?"

"Running an errand, but he and his brother will be back for dinner."

Bobby scoffed, "So, we do all this for him and he's not even home? Wow... Real stand-up guy, innit he?"

"You're also here to see me, aren't you?"

"We see enough of you, we're here for your dumbass boyfriend you're so enamored with that you missed Christmas last year."

"Bobby," you warned, taking your mother's flowers and heading back into the open-concept kitchen to locate a vase and fill it with water. "You're gonna play nice tonight or I'm gonna be really pissed," you warned your family, "and I'll cancel the New Years trip."

"Woah, hang on," your sister, Mabel, interjected, "let's not be hasty, the night's only just beginning - no need for threats."

"I know," you smirked at her, "it's called incentive."

"Truly your father's daughter," you mother scoffed and rolled her eyes. Edward just mocked her and handed over the wine bottle; making your mother snip, "No drinks to offer us? Not a very diligent hostess, are you, darling?"

Her sickly sweet tone gave you a cavity, but this was simply how your mother behaved when around her ex-husband - all passive aggressive and holier than thou.

You pointed, "There's an entire cart behind you, there. Help yourself."

"Hm," she hummed, nodding, turning to make herself a hefty bourbon with Toby right behind her.

"Um," Crystal hummed, "do you have seltzers?"

You almost laughed but managed not to, "No, no, just win and whatever liquor's on the cart."

"It's a nice place you've got, love, if not overly expensive," Linda cut off anything Crystal might've said; complimenting you stiffly, looking around as the amber liquid was poured, "bit empty, though, innit? I don't see one single family photo, not a personable damn thing."

"Oh, well, Aaron and I just like the minimalistic aesthetic," you deflected; the truth being, Aaron was constantly on the move for his job, there was no real time or reason to decorate the flat. You began transporting the large dishes on the kitchen counters to the table, your other brother, John, springing into action to help.

To say it was awkward was the simplest way to put it. After pouring herself a second drink, Linda started to trade insults with Edward; both telling the other how pathetic it is to find younger lovers. Mabel rolled her eyes but listened carefully, ever the quiet mouse who opted to observe rather than be seen. Bobby was snooping through anything he could get a hand on; attempting to know Tangerine without outright meeting him yet. John Boy didn't care this way or that, happy to just be involved and set the table for you.

"Chow's on!" You announced, leading everyone to the table and take whatever seat they liked.

"You know," Bobby started, "think it's a bit weird."

"What is?" You asked, handing Mabel the steamed sticky rice.

Bobby gestured around, "The whole thing. I mean, I'm almost tempted to believe you've made this Aaron character up. What kinda man skips out on a family meal like this?"

"A man who has a very demanding job," you snapped, the table still passing dishes around to take their fill. "I didn't ask you guys here to fucking harp on him, I asked you to just give him a chance and get to know him."

"Why should we even bother?"

"Because he's important to me!"

"You honestly think this is gonna last?" Bobby scoffed, shaking his head and passing the vegetables.

"Of course I do, I know how strong my relationship is. What the hell do you expect me to say, do, think, or feel if Aaron and I get married, and my family's feuding with the groom - "

"I beg your pardon?" Edward snapped, making the table go silent. "You're gonna marry this bloke?"

"No, Daddy, he hasn't proposed or anything, but we have been together almost 7 years" you explained. "I just used it as an example. Aaron's going to be in my life for a long time, I'd really appreciate everyone getting along."

"I think that's reasonable," Crystal smiled.

"Oh, shove it, nobody asked you," Linda sneered.

"Could you maybe not be a raging bitch for five minutes?" Edward snapped, dropping the cutlery with a loud clatter. "Don't talk to her like that - "

"The trollop doesn't get an opinion on family affairs!"

"Now that we're married," he held up his left hand, golden band visible, "she does get an opinion. It's your newest toy that shouldn't talk!"

"I didn't even say anything, mate," Toby scoffed.

"I'm not your 'mate', silly boy - "

The table erupted in a busy and loud argument, you slumping back into your chair; listening to your siblings attempt to resolve the feud. You thanked yourself for making the conscious decision to have this little dinner party at home instead of a restaurant; knowing Linda and Edward were never able to resist a good screaming match, even if in public. You sipped your wine mutely, eyes darting back and forth between either sides of the table.

However, they were silenced when there came a pounding at your front door. Three distinct, punctuated knocks of a fist, your mind instantly jumping to thinking it was the police - nobody else knocked like that. You went rigid instantly, brow furrowing, your father asking, "Expecting more company, honey?"

"No," you shook your head, already out of your seat and heading for the door - when suddenly - it was kicked in. Your scream was shrill from shock. The force of the violent entry splintered the doorframe; knob colliding with drywall, indenting it from the jarring movement. You yelped in shock, trying to back up, but there came a flood of armed men that instantly rushed you. You were only briefly aware of chairs scraping on hardwood floor as your family leapt up in shock.

Long gone was the argument, your family mutually screaming in fear.

These intruders yelled in Russian, fanning out to gather you and your family in harsh grips; shoving everyone into the living room. You were forced to sit down, at least one armed man posted for each of you, the others spreading out and searching the flat.

"What's happening? What the hell is happening!?" Mabel squeaked through her huffy breath, the men exchanging a few words before one stepped forward with his gun drawn at the ready. "Please, there's some mistake! Please, please, why are you - what is happening!? You can't do this! We only - "

"You," one of the intruders spoke with a heavy accent and a thick, pointed finger, "quiet." From his utility belt, the Russian produced several zip ties, demanding, "Hands. Hands, together! Now! You understand, eh!? Hands! Your hands! Now! Right now!"

Another henchman barked in Russian, telling you to comply or things would get messy. "Just do what they say," you whispered, pressing your wrists together and presenting them. They were secured tightly, your parents, their partners, and siblings enduring the same, and by the time the last zip was tied, the other henchmen returned.

You identified what was reported: "He's not here, no trace where he went."

"No, hmmm," mused the man obviously in charge, "well, that's all right, his girlfriend is right here." Your eyes widened as the Russian turned to look at you with a sadistic smirk. "Heard he's real protective of you, likes you a lot. Huh? Heard he once broke a man's collarbone for just looking at you - must be very important, yeah. What do you think he will do when he finds you - ruined?"

"You're not gonna do anything," you seethed between gritted teeth, "because you know he'd kill you all. Now, there's been no harm done so far, so there's time to walk away and I'll guarantee he or his brother won't come after you."

The Russian chuckled, "Oh-ho! Hear that, boys? Good old Tangerine's domesticated now. Takes orders from his bitch, and boy, she likes to bark!" Other henchmen chuckled, a few picking at the abandoned dinner. "I think it's time we send him our message, no?" The leader grinned to his men, earning a chorus of agreement.

Your eyes widened when the man lunged forward and yanked you to your feet, yellowed teeth gnashing in your face. "Whole family can watch!" Another intruder barked, curating a wave of laughter, "Call it, uh, bonding? Trauma bonding?"

"Oh, I like that," the leader of the kill squad grinned.

You gasped when the Russian balled his fist and socked you directly in the diaphragm; winding you, bending you at the waist, and giving him the vantage point to rocket his fist upwards into your nose. There was a sickly snap, you whimpering when a different Russian shoved you from behind and forced you to your knees; three different men joining the relentless and savage beating. You were kicked, punched, breaking several bones, being spat on, shoved over, and made to bleed your own blood. Though you hadn't wanted to, wanting to appear strong and unfazed, you cried out when the pain became too much; heaving for breath and praying the next kick to the head was enough to knock you unconscious.

But you weren't so lucky and wishful thinking was simply that: wishful, not applied or actual. Your family begged and pleaded for mercy, flinching when you spat blood on numerous occasions; shoes squeaking when they stepped in the globs. Everyone helpless and powerless in the current predicament, no hero to swoop in and save the day; your family knowing they were yelling into thin air and their words fell upon deaf ears. They could only watch and listen as you took the brunt end of three angry Russian's brute strength.

The leader had lit up a cigarette, watching his men physically assault you with an air of entertainment and aloofness. This went on for several long, agonizing minutes; you eventually going limp. "Hm," he waved his hand through the smoke, inhaling nicotine, "enough, boys, that's enough. She gets it, she gets we mean business." His men complied and backed away from you, letting the leader kneel at your head on blood-smeared hardwood floor. "You tell Tangerine and Lemon who did this, huh? Yeah? You tell them for me."

You spat blood in the Russian's face, smirking in satisfaction when it hung off his nose in a humiliating display of your stubbornness.

"Ah, I see," he wiped the blood clear, regarding it on his hand before bare-knuckle punching your head back into the ground. You were instantly dazed, groaning, the man continuing, "Now that you got that out of your system, you will remember my name. Huh? Ivan, yes? You remember that? Ivan. Fucking Ivan Kostka, you tell Tangerine and Lemon Ivan Kostka did this."

"The fuck does it matter who you are!?" You whimpered, eyes burning and being kept screwed tight. "You're a deadman walking, nobody cares about your fucking name except whoever inscribes your tombstone."

"Because your fruity boyfriend and his twin took something very valuable from me," the Russian leered, "and I have come to collect it back into my possession. You tell them, Ivan did this to you. I want them to know they are not untouchable - not to me. Not to my men. Tangerine can try to protecting you all he wants, but there will always be a time and place to act." Then, he laughed, "Know how easy it was for us to get here? Huh? Bit too easy, I admit. See, we picked up Tangerine's trail and followed him here. All we had to do was be patient for our opportunity."

"Who the fuck is Tangerine?" John was heard whispering to the others, a series of shrugs replying. The Russian gave a new command and several men divided to use their weapons to wreck the flat you called home; tearing up pillows, smashing spider-web cracks to the windows, tossing plates and mugs, overturning a bookcase, throwing expensive crystal glasses to watch the shards scatter.

Ivan continued to explain, "Your stupid fucking family talk so loud, eh, it is miracle they are not in witness protection, huh? We see them at your door, and when you opened for them, oh, it was easy to, ehhh, just follow them inside. Yeah? And now, here we are," he smirked. "I am sorry about this, though. You've such a pretty face, I almost don't want t'taint it," he pet a finger down your bloodied cheek.

"Go to hell!" You hissed.

"Oh, I will be when the Reaper comes for me. Remember, tell Tangerine it was Ivan... Ivan Kostka did this," he gestured to your tattered form, "and that I want my Faberge Egg and little sister back or this will get a lot worse for everyone involved."

You coughed as the man stood, whistling sharply and commanding his men to follow. The moment they were gone, as your family erupted in panicked screams, Mabel raced for the kitchen and snatched up a knife from the counter. Returning, your sister carefully uncut everyone's ties, your mother gasping and dropping to her knees when freed.

"What have you gotten us into, you stupid girl!?" She cried, massaging her constricted wrists.

You manage to mumble before passing out, "Call Brian."

Tangerine and Lemon had been on their own stakeout, tracking a gang of Russians accused of money laundering. He had forgotten to put his phone on the charger the night before, it dying and being left behind at his flat; so when there came a vibration, he knew it was Lemon's phone.

He hate the sound of the vibrations in the cupholder. "Oi, gonna fuckin' answer that?" Tangerine snapped, staring out the windshield.

"Uh, bruv?" Lemon turned the phone for Tan to see, guessing, "It's for you, I'm sure." The contact name displayed your home number.

Tangerine sighed and accepted the call with it on speaker, "Yeah, hello? Love? That you?"

"A-Aaron?"

"Linda?" Tan questioned in curiosity, hearing your mother's soft sob. "What's goin' on? What's wrong? Why're you calling? Where's Y/N?"

"Th-There's been an accident."

"What kind of accident?"

"The kind that involve angry Russians looking for some egg and someone's little sister? I don't know - "

"Oh, fuck me! Don't move, we're on our way," he rushed, hanging up. "Oi, fuck this, mate, get us back home," he barked at his brother, "we gotta get back now. Like right fucking now!"

"We can't just - "

"What? Leave our post?" Tan snapped. "Brian, you know where we are right now?"

He glanced outside, "Uh... Little Italy?"

"Fuckin' wanker," Aaron snapped. "No, this shipping yard is owned by the Kostka's - Russian crime family. You heard Linda, means the tip tonight was a set up t'get us away from the flat. They probably moved while we were absent. Now, c'mon, fucking hustle!"

Lemon connected the dots and started the engine, peeling away at a dangerous speed to navigate the city back to the high-rise apartment you and Tan shared. He couldn't explain why, but Tangerine could feel his heart in his throat; a sick feeling taking over at the thought of the Russians setting this entire thing up.

Why send he and Lemon to stakeout the shipping yard? Why remove them from the equation?

Upon arriving at the shattered front door, both men in pressed clothes came to a jarring halt, taking in the sight. The flat was a wreck, literal feathers from pillows still floating in the air, their dress shoes cracking over shattered glass.

Tan caught sight of your hunched body sitting on the couch. "Right, the fuck is this, then?" He demanded, striding up to where your family had surrounded you. "The hell happened? Swear t'God, I'll put a bullet... In... Whoever..." He trailed, pausing when he saw your state. Tangerine slowly squatted in front of you, gently trying to coax your chin up, "Lemme see, darlin', c'mon, c'mon, lemme see, c'mere."

When you met his baby blues, you could only watch as tears filled them - knowing they'd never fall. "I'm sorry," you whispered, throat soar from the beating; making you sound a lot hoarser than ever before.

"For what? You did nothing, love, nothing - couldn't have deserved this, now could yah?" He rushed to comfort, caressing your jaw in both hands to look you over. There was a long gash in your hairline that dripped racing drops of blood down your face. "This is my fault, I know it is, God fucking damn it. Who the fuck did this? Hey? You remember, darling? Remember anythin' 'bout these men?" But you were silent from shock. So, he addressed the room by barking, "Does anyone? What the hell happened here, tonight!?"

Your father cleared his throat before knocking back the last swig of his whiskey. "These Russian fuckers," Ed answered. "Big lot of 'em, too, all with scary lookin' tattoos and fucking guns. Some were automatic." He eyed your boyfriend, "Associates of yours?"

"Fucking hell," Tangerine looked up at his brother, "think they want the Faberge back?"

Lemon frowned, "Possibly, but that's only if - "

"Ivan," you whispered suddenly, Tangerine and Lemon both looking back at you in mild shock. "He said his name was Ivan and he wanted you two t'know there was no hiding from him. He wants back whatever it is you two took."

"Yeah, they want the fucking Egg," Tangerine's jaw flexed as he glared at the floor, sighing deeply, and then looking back at you. "Hey," he whispered, "I'm just glad you're alive and well-enough. Yeah? You're my priority, sweetheart, nothing else matters."

You sniffled, "I'm okay."

"Like hell you are," he shook his head, gently prodding around your bruised face and sighing, "look at yah. You're definitely not okay, sweetheart. Right, then, listen, we'll go to a safe house for the time being - "

"A what?" John asked incredulously.

"A safe house," Lemon repeated, "you know? Somewhere not on record to let us hide discreetly?"

"I know what it is - but why go?"

"Can't stay here, mate, it's compromised," Tan answered with a hardened tone. "Now, you gonna fuckin' stand there, questioning me, or go be useful and get ready to leave?"

"Tan," his brother offered softly, "lay off, they just watched our girl get the shit kicked outta her."

Tan nodded and looked back at you, "Yeah, all right, sorry, love, just a bit on edge. But I'm gonna fix this - "

Robert (or Bobby, he's also known as), scoffed a sarcastic laugh, arms crossed, approaching you and Tangerine. "You takin' the piss? Your fuckin' job is leadin' men t'my sister, breakin' in her own home, givin' her a beatin' meant for you, yah fuckin' twat! Yet that's all you got to say to us? That you're on edge?"

"What'chu want, then, bruv?" Tan snapped, standing to face Bobby. "Huh? Call it an occupational hazard, but just 'cause you wanna bring it up, know that we ain't never had no situation like this before. All right? Excuse us for tryna piece it best together."

"My fuckin' sister's still bleedin', and you're, what? Makin' it up as you go?" Bobby snarled. "You owe us a plan! Somethin'! Fuckin' anythin'! How the fuck are you gonna rectify this situation?"

Tan's mouth opened, ready to retort.

"All right, all right, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, no, no, quit it, cut it out, yah fucking ninnies!" Lemon stepped between them and forced distance between the two men. "That shit ain't gonna help us right now. We all need to think clearly, so let's try not to wind one another up. Yeah? Fair?"

"Fuck you," Bobby spat, "fuck the both of yahs, you're both responsible! Puttin' my sister in harms way! Fuckin' look at her!" He snarled and pointed, "Shakin' like a fuckin' leaf!"

"Yeah, all right, you what, mate?" Tan sneered.

"I'm not your mate."

"I'll just fuckin' handle this on my own - "

"Like hell you are," His brother interrupted. "They fucked with our family, ain't nowhere for them to hide."

Tangerine nodded, then asked, "How many men were here would you say? Ballpark number." It was quiet. "Someone better answer me!"

Linda sneered, "Some 12 or 15 men, most of whom carried assault rifles. Anything you wanna tell us, Aaron? Huh? Why were these men searching for you? What'd you do that was so bad, they hurt my little girl?"

Your boyfriend nodded and looked to his brother, stiffly nodding and stoically demanding, "Let's get fuckin' Biblical, then, yeah?"

Brian clicked his tongue and winked at his brother in agreement, Crystal handing you a bag of frozen peas to hold against your head.

"You're sure it's safe?" You whispered, holding onto your boyfriend like a crutch as you exited the elevator.

"They didn't want our protection, love, 'cause the Russians are after us," Tan answered. "Easy does it," he whispered, opening the door to the safe 'house' he and Lemon kept in downtown London - not terribly far from your actual flat. "At's a good girl, slowly - slowly," he kept one arm around you, the other holding the door for Lemon, who carried several duffels. "Right, see? Nice, ain't it?"

You nodded, still relatively drugged from the hospital you just left. After begging them to come with you, your family outright refused, saying Tangerine and Lemon were bad news and they wanted no part in whatever bullshit was happening; even though it meant leaving you alone. So, Lemon packed up the flat while Tan took you to the hospital, meeting again at the skyscraper that doubled as a fortress.

"Here we are," he sighed, lowering you to the couch; left wrist in a cast, a brace on your ankle, concussion, bandages and gauze stuck to random open wounds that required stitches. "Right," he knelt in front of you, "you saw the lobby, yeah? Ain't nobody gettin' in here without clearance, you're safe. Yeah?" He pushed a strand of hair from your face, hating how it was still crisp from dried blood.

"Okay," you whispered with a nod.

Aaron sighed, "I'm so sorry, love."

"Not your fault."

"But it is," he frowned, "'s all my fuckin' fault."

"Did you really take a Faberge Egg?"

"It's what our employer wanted, so... Yeah. Apparently, it was a right dime piece, thought lost in one of the wars. Very exclusive - "

"Most expensive Egg made," Brian added, dropping a couple of the duffels. "And it's not in our possession anymore, love."

"Fuck would we do with Faberge?" Aaron rolled his eyes.

"Hock it," his brother answered, bringing grocery bags into the kitchen and setting them on the counters.

"And the sister?" You asked, eye once being nearly swollen shut now just red and irritated; looking at him with profound sadness. "What happened to Ivan's sister?"

Aaron sighed, wiping a hand down his face, "She was placed in witness protection, she's an informant f'MI6 and Interpol. They want her 'cause she's been spillin' secrets, gettin' business all topsy-turvy."

"They wanna kill her?"

"Seems so," he nodded, smoothing his hands over both your thighs, "but don't you worry 'bout nothin', yeah? We'll handle this."

"How?"

"We've got a couple calls to make," he alluded, standing to his full height but bending at the waist to kiss your forehead gently. "Try to rest, love, we'll be here a bit."

You nodded and watched him stride out of the living room, grabbing one of the duffel bags Lemon had dropped and brought it to the glass dining room table. He ripped it open as you sunk into the plush fabric of the pillows, but perked up when Brian came into sight. "Here, darling," he set a mug of tea to the granite coffee table in front of you, "just a bit of something for your nerves, yeah? You all right? Need anything? A pain pill, maybe? You look uneasy."

"I'm all right," you promised, trying to smile, but it came out as a grimace.

"Mhm," he sent you a look, grabbing the pharmacy bag. "Don't be a hero, just keep yourself afloat. Here," he handed you a little, round, white pill and the tea. "Bottoms up, huh?"

You half-chuckled and did what he said, settling again as he grabbed a blanket and tossed it over you. "How often are you two here?" You asked.

"Ah, usually when we're doin' recon," he answered, handing over the remote. "All the streamin' you could want," he winked, pointing at the TV.

"Oi, mate," your boyfriend called, "thinkin' we should call Kiwi?"

"To stay with her?" He asked, caressing the top of your head affectionately; grabbing another duffel and meet his brother at the table. The London Eye was visible from the window, creating a picturesque scene.

"Yeah," Tan answered, "she's good company, ain't she? Handy with a gun. Usually shoots first, asks questions later."

Brian shrugged, "Couldn't hurt. But I think we need t'call Moss... See what he and The Agency can tell us 'bout Ivan."

"On it," Aaron agreed, rapidly typing on a nondescript laptop. But he paused suddenly, looking up and asking, "You gave her a pain pill?"

"Yeah."

"She should eat with it..."

"I'm right here, you know!" You snapped. "I can hear you!"

"I know, doll, sorry," Aaron sighed, going to the kitchen and grabbing you trail mix - knowing opioids gave you the munchies. "Here, love, just wanna make sure you stay all right," he handed the bag over, dropping to the spot beside you with a heavy sigh. "Listen, uh, we're gonna have some of the lads come over t'help."

"Who?"

"Well, Kiwi's a lass, but she works with us sometimes. She's handy t'have 'round inna pinch. That all right?"

"I'm not one for much company right now," you frowned.

"Nah, don't worry, she'll entertain herself," he chuckled slightly, eyes darting around to take in your appearance. In a low whisper, he breathed, "I'm so sorry this happened."

"You've said that," you half-smiled, placing an M&M at his lips. He accepted the treat. "We knew something was bound to happen eventually, right?"

"Not like this, this ain't acceptable," he shook his head. "Lookit, Ivan's one of them nasty fuckers, traffics narcotics into the country using a series of shipping yards. He's got a whole army at his fingertips, plenty of money t'sustain an all out war if he wants."

"When was the last time you dealt with this guy?"

Lemon joined you two, sitting on the other side of the L-shaped couch. He worked on the laptop now, but sent a look to Aaron that begged him to lie. But often, Tangerine never could to you, so, he told the truth, "Last we saw him was some 6 years ago."

Your head cocked, "That's when we first started dating."

"Yeah," he smirked, stretching his arm around you to bring you in close for both your comforts. "Remember that week you couldn't get ahold of me? I told yah I was on some bloody fishing trip?"

"Mhm."

"We were in Colombia, fuckin' up part of his operation."

Your eyes widened, "Colombia? You mean, this Russian's in league with South America? The cocaine capital of the world?"

"Yeah," he sighed, "but it's taken him apparently this long to get shit straightened out - else he would've come sooner."

"Or he was waitin' until our guard was down," Brian chimed in, rapidly tapping on the laptop. "Intel says... Ivan's been in the country 'bout 3 months."

"And before that?"

"Uh... Looks like... Ah, fuckin' hell, he was in Spain, Portugal, Nicaragua, even fuckin' Trinidad."

"Sounds like he's made some friends," Tangerine frowned. You nestled a little closer, his arm contracting to squeeze you tight. "Send word t'Kiwi and Moss, ask Moss t'bring only The Jailbird."

"Who the fuck - you know what? I don't want t'know," you whispered.

"The Jailbird is a brutal fucker," Lemon chuckled, typing faster, "took out an entire fright train by himself with a single shotgun and only a couple rounds of ammo."

"Brian," Tan warned, shaking his head.

"What? 'S not like she's gonna say shit, you picked the most loyal girl in the world," he grinned, winking at you. "Right, love?"

"Mhm."

"That pain pill kicking in yet?"

"Not yet," you yawned.

"Right," your lover chuckled, handing over the mug of tea, "we've got some work t'do, you sit tight. Need somethin', anythin', just ask. Please," he frowned, "don't try t'get up."

"All right," you whispered, lifting your chin slightly with intent. He smiled and met you the rest of the way, pressing a gentle kiss to your split lips.

The lads went back to the glass table, setting up a network of tools and technology, muttering to one another as they did what they knew to gather as much information as possible.

About an hour later, there was a knock at the door that made you flinch. "It's all right," Tangerine rushed, but pulled his gun in hand, "probably Kiwi - "

"It's me, fuckers!" A female called from the other side.

Your boyfriend checked through the peephole and sighed, holstering his gun and opening the door. "Kiwi," he greeted.

"Tangerine," she rolled her eyes, strolling into the flat with her arms full of food. "I brought lunch! Know you fuckers aren't payin' attention to time and shit. Oh!" She grinned when she saw you, "Oh, my word, you're her! Wow, you're even prettier in person! You know, Aaron's told me all about you - "

"Fuck off," Tan snapped.

"Fuck you," she sent right back, "been askin' t'meet your lady for years now, now I finally get to."

"I wish it were under better circumstances," you offered softly, watching the lass with stark white hair round into the living room to set coffee cups and paper bags down.

"Oh, hi, hello, you gorgeous girl," she grinned, sitting next to you and hugging you softly. You were shocked, eyes wide, but hugged her back. "Oh, it's real nice to meet yah, heard all about'cha!"

"Really?" You asked when she pulled back, "'Cause I didn't know a thing about you until an hour ago."

"Makes sense," her eyes rolled, "them two never talk 'bout shit. Makes 'em good agents, but shit lovers. Huh?"

"I'd have to disagree," you smiled softly, defending your love.

"Yeah," she grinned, "knew I'd like you. Lemon!" She greeted in a cheer, standing swiftly to set one coffee cup out for you and take the rest over to the table.

"Hi, Key," he chuckled, offering her a hug. "Lookin' fit, aren't yah?"

"Just got back from a 6 month stint in the DR," she nodded.

"R&R or mandatory?"

"Rehab," she shrugged casually, "but not for me."

"Makes no bloody sense," Tan rolled his eyes.

"I was there, cozyin' up t'fucking Francisco Juarez."

"No fuckin' shit," Lemon laughed. "How was that?"

"The man's mental, but shit, he's got some balls of steel."

"Jesus Christ," Tan groaned. "Can we focus, please? Where's Moss? Anyone heard from him?"

"Mh," Kiwi nodded, swallowing a mouthful of coffee as you gingerly reached for your own; trying not to strain the shattered ribs you earned. "He called me on my way here, said he was on his way, just had to pick something up."

Lemon and Tangerine shared a look as Kiwi practically skipped back over to you. She happily struck up a conversation, telling you all about how she first met Aaron and Brian on some recon mission in Moscow - the three apparently all tracking Ivan. So, no wonder she was asked to assist on this little mission.

The man named Moss arrived not long after, dropping another duffel in the foyer and silently approaching Tangerine and Lemon. Kiwi waved the behavior off, whispering, "That's one of the bosses. Not a man of many words, just a man of action, yeah?"

You nodded in understanding, accepting the Tylenol she handed you and answering her 20,000 questions. You heard the three men muttering together, papers shuffling over the tabletop and the laptop dinging every time there was new information.

"Oh, holy shit," Lemon gaped at the screen, earning everyone's attention. "You lot aren't gonna believe this."

"What's wrong?" Moss asked, moving to his shoulder and peering over to look at the laptop. "Well... Ain't that interesting?"

"What?" Kiwi asked.

"Looks like Ivan's here for some wedding..." Lemon muttered, tapping on the return key repeatedly. "No shit!"

"WHAT!?" Kiwi snapped, making you flinch. She instantly apologized, "Oh, shit, sorry, sorry, sorry, love, I get a bit excited when outta the loop."

"Ivan's sister's gettin' married," Moss reported, "to the Minister of Defense."

It was quiet for a long moment, the agents stewing in shock. "Well, that can't be good," you whispered to Kiwi.

"Not entirely, just means our jobs got a helluva lot more exciting, though," she grinned, dropping a wink.

Three days. Three bloody days, you've been confined to the safe house. You were under strict orders not to leave out of fear of retaliation, so you remained for Aaron's peace of mind.

Moss, Tangerine, Lemon, and Kiwi were preoccupied focusing on their plan of attack. They figured there be an altercation at the engagement party, designing a trustworthy team to help them infiltrate and keep an eye. The day of the party, you were curled up in bed, reading to pass the time, and when you noticed Tangerine leaning in the doorway, your book snapped shut.

"How long you gonna keep me here?" You asked. "Some of us have day jobs they need to get back to."

He smirked, "I covered for yah."

"How?"

"Said you had a funeral t'go to in the States," he eased, pushing off the doorframe and approaching your side of the bed. He grunted as he sat, sighing deeply, "Listen, sweetheart..."

"Oh, that's never good."

"Just listen," he smirked. "Tonight's the engagement party, so we're gonna make our move."

"Are you sure Ivan's gonna be there? That this is what needs done?"

"We got it worked out, love," he promised. "Just need yah t'stay here with Kiwi. Keep safe, yeah?"

You stared at him for a moment, cocking your head slightly, "Been meaning to ask - why refer to each other's codenames when alone, like we are?"

"Good habit t'have," Aaron shrugged, caressing your head and then petting a finger down your cheek softly. "Hate leavin' you like this, but I'm gonna kill the fuckers that dared touch you."

"I'm not usually one for violence or revenge, but in this case, go crazy."

He nodded and stood with a smirk, stooping slightly to press his lips against yours. There was a solemn tension in the air, foreheads pressed together to breathe the same air, him whispering, "Love you, darlin'."

"Love you, too," you answered instantly. "Just make sure you come home, yeah?"

"As quick as I can," he swore.

You learned that day, you hated waiting. You despised being out of the know, having no connection to tell you what was happening on Aaron's side of things. Kiwi was a great distraction, though. She was chipper, talkative, wildly animated; sharing a joint with you, ordering take out that a security guard brought up, and making you watch all her favorite movies.

She checked her phone several times, eventually, you begging, "Any word?"

"Nah, don't worry," Kiwi smiled, "they usually don't give updates when on the job."

Unknown to you, on the other side of town, Tangerine and Lemon were changing into suits the hotel waiters would wear to serve the engagement party. Moss was in a nondescript white van, working surveillance, informing in the headset, "The Jailbird's in position."

"So are we," Lemon reported, nodding at his brother. "Ready, bruv?"

"It's gonna get messy," he nodded, cracking his neck and leading the charge into the event room with trays of champagne. He surveyed the room subtly, seeing The Jailbird working the catering table in a matching suit, and when the couple of the hour entered, it was showtime. However, before springing into action, the trio of trained and paid assassins had to wait for the first move else they'd blow their cover and alert Ivan they were onto him.

The future bride's name was once something traditionally Russian, now choosing to be Veronica, and her soon-to-be-husband, Gerald, was the very man who had established her witness protection. It was romantic, in a way, that the two fell in love; being naughty and a little forbidden, yet still tantalizing. Their families filled the room with the groom's colleagues, security lining the walls - yet being unable to do anything if the Russians decided to attack.

However, the moment Tangerine saw Ivan, he went rigid with anger. "Mate, hang on, don't do it - we have a plan for a reason," Lemon tried to warn, but sighed hotly when his brother stormed off. Into the comms system, he warned, "Heads up, lads, Tangerine's on the move. 'S bouta get real sticky, people, stay sharp."

Tangerine surged up behind Ivan, who was dressed similarly and indicating he, too, was undercover at this event. Tan felt his face redden with anger, tapping Ivan's shoulder, and when the Russian turned, he didn't hesitate to pull his fist back and launch it directly into Ivan's nose. It was the first punch thrown (literally) that spurred the other Russians into action.

People shrieked, heels clattered to flee, and security guards rushed to cover their employers; not knowing who the desired target was. Luck didn't seem on their side that evening as security managed to get Gerald out of the hall, but his fiancé, Ivan's sister, was separated in the stampeding crowd; gunshots making patrons scream in concern.

In their comms, Moss barked, "Veronica! Someone cover Veronica! She's the informant - get to Veronica!"

The Jailbird flipped the catering table to reveal several heavy-duty guns strapped for this very moment. He and Lemon made their selections, Tan preferring his fist; someway, somehow, missing getting shot by Ivan's men. But the Russian gangster was just as angry, fending off Tangerine and even getting a few punches in himself. All for nought, though, because Tangerine had the power of his anger propelling him; your face conjured in his mind, bloodied, making him hit harder - and harder - and harder.

"You! Dirty! Fuckin'! Scum!" Tan punctuated each word with a blow of his fist, keeping Ivan in his grip like a vice. "C'mere! You've done it now, haven't yah, you fuckin' bastard? Fucked up by touchin' my woman! I'll fuckin' gut you!"

Ivan's elbow cracked Tan's nose, making him stumble back a few steps. The Russian grinned, blood outlining his teeth, "She was real pretty, wasn't she, eh? I tried to leave her face for yah! Didn't wanna fuck that up too bad!"

"C'mere!" Tangerine roared, knuckles bloody. However, as he was winding up for another hit, one of Ivan's men tackled Tan from the side and knocked him into a banquet table - collapsing it.

The Russians were in an abundance, yet stood no chance when Tangerine got ahold of a handgun. The Jailbird preferred the larger shotgun, blowing gargantuan holes in people's chests; Lemon keeping it simple and just doing his job by taking out the enemy. It was Tan who was absolutely feral, sprayed in the blood of his enemies and sparing no life he came across; the party's occupants screaming in terror and trying to flee the event hall between gunshots.

"Tan!" The Jailbird barked, pointing off at someone, and when he looked, Tan locked onto Ivan again. The Jailbird located Veronica, trying to save her, but being unsuccessful when a Russian got to her first - disappearing from his line of sight as the chaos rampaged.

Growling, Tangerine started firing single shots to the heads of anyone in his way of his main target, but this time, the Russian saw him coming and was plenty prepared. The blade Ivan used cut Tan deep, filleting flesh; but did not stop the man wanting to avenge his love.

Bodies hit the floor left and right as Tangerine's anger swelled, there not being a single force in the world that could stop him now. Whatever Tan could get his hands on turned into a weapon, finding every single Russian responsible for what happened to you - the love and light of his life.

The engagement party was decorated with white table cloths and white roses, now stained and splattered in blood the longer the fight went. The musicians of the live band had fled, security encountering the Russian that had Veronica and shooting him dead, food covering the walls. Moss had tapped into the security cameras, informing his men when more Russians were racing towards the room; grunting when he threw off his headset, grabbed a gun, and left the van to take out anyone trying to get inside.

Lemon did his best to cover Tangerine's six, but the Russians kept coming in waves; far more prepared than they were that evening. Yet it didn't matter, their numbers might've been high but the anger Tangerine and Lemon felt was a gift from God Himself, spurring them to work harder and smarter.

Once inside, Moss brought The Jailbird to higher ground and strategically shot down their enemies while Lemon and Tangerine operated on the ground. When face-to-face with Ivan, Tan seethed, "You waited 6 years for a shot at me, would've thought you'd try harder."

"Don't need to," Ivan laughed, "I already got you!"

"Didn't get shit - "

"That why your girl's all alone? Don't worry, lad, I sent some boys to go deal with her. C'mon, then!" Ivan taunted, waving Tan in an antagonizing motion, weilding the 6-inch blade. As the two exchanged blows, Ivan laughed, "Never told me! Did you like my li'l gift? How I left your girl?"

Tangerine grit his teeth and used a chair to bash the Russian over his head. "I'll fucking gut you for touching her!" He shouted, people still squealing and screaming in fright.

"You stole my inheritance! That Faberge Egg's been in my family for generations!" Ivan roared, "And my fucking sister! If not for you," he grunted, taking a hacking swipe and missing, "she never would've opened her mouth!"

"Your sister, mate, fuckin' hates your guts!" Tan barked, kicking Ivan back and sending him crashing through a table. "She would've spoke even if we hadn't picked her up!"

"Bullshit!" Ivan snarled, swinging and his blade catching Tan's bicep, slicing shirt and flesh. "My sister knew loyalty! Until you rotten fucks showed up, kidnapping her, confusing her! Fucking brainwashing her!"

"She's the one who hired us, mate!"

"Liar!"

Tangerine earned the upper hand by flipping Ivan onto his back, dropping to his knees, and wailing his fist into the Russian's face. He kept hitting him, even when Ivan stopped moving; flesh tearing, meat flying, bones breaking, and blood spurting in every which direction.

Blood painted his face, droplets racing down to create streaks.

At the safe house, Kiwi was making tea when there came a series of distant banging from outside the flat's door. She met your worried eyes and pulled out a gun, holding a finger to her lips to indicate you to stay quiet. She checked the in-house security system, spying a few Russian Mafia members fighting through the security guards and getting closer.

"Right," she rushed, helping you off the couch, "you gotta hide and stay quiet, love, I'll handle this quickly."

"Handle what? What's going on?"

"They're here."

"A-Are we safe?"

"For now."

"Are the lads!?"

"We'll find out!" Kiwi stuffed you inside one of the closets, assuring, "No worries, I'll handle them, you just stay here. Aaron would kill me if he knew something happened to you on my watch."

You didn't even have time to register that she used his real name; finding no choice in the matter as she shut the doors, and through the slats, watched her brandish a gun. You flinched when you made out the sounds of a struggle and then several gunshots, not knowing who fired them, who was being shot at, or what was happening.

Tears of fear filled your eyes, holding your breath and just waiting with trembling appendages. You hated waiting. You hated not knowing. You hated the tension, the fear, the cultivation of stress.

When the doors ripped open, you gasped shrilly and stepped back into the wall, but calmed when you realized it was only Aaron. And then you realized - it was Aaron!

"Baby," you gasped, leaping into his embrace out of sheer relief; arms wrapping around his neck and being dampened with blood. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, you're okay - you're okay, you're really okay."

"Yeah, 's all right, love," he rushed, one arm holding your waist, the other petting the back of your head. "I'm all right, 's all right, I'm here. I've got yah, love, I'm here now. They're all dead, they're all dead, my love, we got 'em all, you're safe, it's all right. Nobody will touch you again - never again, sweetheart."

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" You sniffled, pulling back to take both his cheeks in hand and frowning, "Is this blood!?"

"Yeah," he whispered, gently taking your wrists to pull your hands down. "But it's all right, 's not mine. I'm not hurt." He didn't let you answer, rushing, "Are you all right? Hey? Not hurt?"

"No, no, Kiwi - she protected me," you nodded, sniffling. "Where is she? Is she all right!?" You suddenly panicked, but Tangerine shushed you gently.

"She's fine, love, she's safe. Not a single scratch on her. Had most of the Russians down and out by the time we got back."

"And Brian?"

"Lemon's fine," he promised softly, "just cleanin' up in the other bathroom. Which," he smirked gently, "we should probably do the same. C'mon."

You agreed, hating the sight of blood on your man. When in the shower together, you got a look of the cuts and bruises he earned that night; knowing that despite him being the reason you were attacked, he was also the man who would protect you from anything and anyone. No matter the cost.

There was nowhere you were safer.

Watching you wash his wounds in spite of your own, Tangerine realized he didn't need to ask your father for permission - he was gonna marry you. Come hell or high water, there wasn't anything or anyone - be it Edward or Ivan - that could keep him from loving you the rest of his life.

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Winter King, Part Four : Afterglow [18+]

Pairings: King AU Bucky Barnes x Out of place Queen Reader Words: 25.6K Themes: Royaltycore AU, love and power, arranged Marriage, georgian/regency era misogyny, profanity. Warning: Sinister intent (Drugging, Sabotage). Torture, mentions of blood. Sexual Content - Losing Virginity, unprotected piv sex, Oral (F). Big size difference. Summary: After a tumultuous separation, Queen Y/N receives a desperate letter from King James Bucky Barnes, pleading for her presence in Annecy. Reluctantly, she agrees to meet him, only to be confronted with unresolved emotions, simmering tension, and a fragile hope for reconciliation. Amidst grand dinners and intimate revelations, Bucky strips himself bare—not just of his regal façade but also the deepest scars of his past. In the midst of courtly games and political intrigue, will their love survive, or will it be another casualty of the crown? A/N: Inspired by Queen Charlotte. I'm sorry it's so long lol. I hope you enjoy the SMUT SCENES. . . what do you want to see next? credits to the gif owners, it ain't mine.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention away from the window, where you had been staring absently swaying trees on this windy day. Scott’s familiar presence hovered by the door, his posture stiff, yet there was something… cautious in the way he approached you. His gaze darted around before finally settling on the envelope in his hand.

“A letter for you, My Queen,” he announced, extending it toward you. “From His Majesty.”

You blinked, your heart giving an unexpected flutter at those words. Bucky? He had finally reached out. But you quickly tamped down the unwelcome swell of hope, narrowing your eyes at the innocent piece of parchment.

“Leave it on the desk,” you instructed curtly, turning back toward the window, fighting to maintain your composure.

Scott hesitated, his gaze lingering on you as if contemplating whether to say something more. But he gave a sharp nod, placing the letter on the desk beside you before withdrawing quietly. The door clicked shut, leaving you alone in the quiet, with only the letter as company.

You stood there staring at the creamy white envelope as if it were a serpent poised to strike. It sat there, mocking you with its pristine perfection, the royal seal pressed into the wax glinting in the dim light.

With a huff of frustration, you snatched it up, breaking the seal more aggressively than necessary. The wax crumbled beneath your fingers, the crackling sound oddly satisfying. Unfolding the letter, your eyes skimmed over the familiar scrawl of his handwriting—precise and strong, just like the man himself.

My Dearest Y/N,

I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve pushed you away. But I need to see you—to speak with you without anger clouding our words. Please, come to Annecy this evening. I need to see you, if only for a few hours.

Yours, James

You stared at the words, a myriad of emotions rushing through you. Anger, for how easily he thought he could summon you. Resentment, for the pain he had caused. But beneath it all, it made the ache in your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“‘If only for a few hours,’” you muttered, reading the line again, your lips pressing into a thin line. “As if one meeting could fix everything.”

But even as the angry words left your mouth, you knew you would go. Damn him, for knowing that you couldn’t resist this fragile olive branch he was extending. A chance to see him, to hear him—to finally understand what was going on inside his head.

You glanced outside again, noting the dusky sky deepening into twilight. The evening was already upon you, and if you were to make it to Annecy by nightfall, you would need to leave soon.

With a resigned sigh, you turned back to the letter, your fingers brushing lightly over the words. You didn’t want to admit it, but a part of you—the part that still remembered the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name—yearned to go.

Maybe… maybe this time, you’d get some answers.

“Scott,” you called, your voice steady despite the turmoil swirling inside you.

He appeared almost instantly, his expression expectant.

“Prepare the carriage,” you ordered, folding the letter and slipping it back into the envelope. “We’re going to Annecy. Tonight.”

Scott’s eyes widened in surprise, but he bowed quickly, masking his reaction with a swift nod. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll have everything ready at once.”

As he hurried out of the room, you took one last look at the letter, then slipped it into the pocket of your gown. The anger simmering in your chest hadn’t completely vanished, but it was no longer the driving force behind your actions.

You would go to Annecy tonight. And you would hear what he had to say. But you would do so on your terms, with your walls firmly in place.

× × × ×

The carriage rolled to a slow halt, the rhythmic clatter of hooves fading into silence as you glanced out of the window. The familiar grounds of Annecy stretched out before you, shrouded in the soft glow of twilight. Lanterns flickered to life along the pathways, casting a warm, golden light that danced across the cobblestone and neatly trimmed hedges.

A footman stepped forward to open the door, offering his hand as you descended. The hem of your gown brushed against the ground as you took in the estate—the sweeping lawns and carefully sculpted gardens, and the imposing silhouette of the mansion against the evening sky.

But there was no sense of awe, no appreciation for the beauty that surrounded you. Your chest felt tight, anger simmering just below the surface as you squared your shoulders and lifted your chin, determined to keep your composure.

“Your Grace,” Scott murmured quietly from beside you, his voice tentative. “Shall I accompany you inside?”

You shook your head, barely sparing him a glance. “You can,” you ordered, your tone clipped and curt. “I won’t be long.”

Scott’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering in his eyes, but he nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

You turned away from him and began your ascent up the grand staircase, the soft rustle of your skirts and the distant chirping of crickets the only sounds accompanying you. Two guards flanked the massive double doors leading into the mansion. They bowed as you approached and opened the entrance for you, revealing a grand foyer lit with chandeliers and brimming with quiet opulence.

The steward appeared almost immediately, bowing low. “Your Grace, His Majesty is awaiting you in the dining hall.”

You nodded stiffly, following his lead as he guided you down the long, silent corridor. The air was thick with anticipation, the echoes of your footsteps reverberating off the marble floors. Each step you took felt heavier, the anger you had tried to keep at bay during the ride flaring up with every second that passed.

Finally, the steward opened a pair of gilded doors, stepping aside to let you pass. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself as you stepped into the room.

The scent of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and baked pastries filled the air—an exquisite spread laid out over a long, polished table. Plates gleamed under the candlelight, and goblets of fine wine shimmered like liquid rubies.

But all of it—the decadence, the beauty, the carefully curated feast—turned to ashes in your mouth the moment you saw it.

Your steps faltered, eyes widening as they took in the elaborate arrangement. An intimate dinner for two, set with painstaking care. It was as though someone had plucked the image of a perfect evening out of a dream and tried to force it into reality.

You turned sharply, refusing to take another step inside.

Bucky, who had been standing at the opposite end of the table, his expression hopeful, froze as you spun back around, your face pale with restrained fury.

“Y/N, wait—”

“What is this?” you demanded, your voice cold, your gaze sweeping over the table again before landing back on him. “What are you trying to do?”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “I… I wanted to have dinner with you. To—”

“Dinner?” The word burst out of you like a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “You dragged me all the way here for dinner?”

His mouth opened, but whatever he had planned to say fell silent at the look on your face. You could feel your body trembling with the effort to hold back the wave of anger surging inside you, anger that had been simmering since he had begun this dance of hot and cold, sweet words followed by crushing silence.

“Prepare the carriage,” you bit out to Scott, who had followed behind, your voice leaving no room for argument.

“Your Majesty?” Scott glanced between you and Bucky, uncertainty creasing his brow.

“Now, Scott,” you snapped, your heart pounding in your chest. You could feel Bucky’s gaze boring into your back, and you kept walking, your gown billowing behind you like a storm cloud—refusing to let him see the emotions simmering just beneath the surface.

“Y/N, wait,” Bucky called out, the confusion in his tone sharpening. You heard his footsteps quicken, the soft thud of boots against marble as he closed the distance between you. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you,” you said through gritted teeth, your pace never faltering. “Back to the estate. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Wait—stop walking this instant!” Bucky’s voice rose, a hint of desperation breaking through. He reached for your arm, his fingers brushing against your sleeve, “Please, listen to me.”

You whirled on him, eyes blazing.

“Stop? Stop?” The word left your lips in a hiss. “What could you possibly have to say to me that you haven’t already made abundantly clear, James?”

Bucky’s hand fell to his side, at the way you spat his name. You’d never used it like that before—like a weapon, sharp and cutting. He drew in a shaky breath, his gaze flickering over your face as though searching for some way to reach you through the storm of emotions.

“Please, Y/N, just—let me explain. I’ve been… distant, I know.” he said, his voice softening, pleading. “But I didn’t know how to—how to show you that I… that I care.”

“Care?” You laughed again, short and humorless, “Is that what you call it? Ignoring me for days, leaving me in silence, only to send a letter and expect me to come running whenever you deem it convenient?”

“I know,” he whispered, stepping closer, his fingers twitching at his side as if resisting the urge to reach for you again. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I need you to be here. I needed to see you.”

You shook your head, struggling to keep your composure. “Then say that, James. Say what you want, what you feel. Stop hiding behind these—these grand gestures and empty words.”

His eyes darkened with a flicker of frustration as you threw his words back at him. He closed the distance between you in two swift strides, the sudden nearness of him making your breath hitch.

“I’m trying to,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “I’m trying to show you, Y/N, because I can’t say it in a way that does justice to how I feel. Words… they fall short. I’ve said so many things wrong, pushed you away with every damn word I’ve spoken. So, I’m done talking.”

You stared up at him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. “Then what are you going to do?”

His hand, hesitant and shaking, reached for yours. Slowly, he turned your palm upward, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your wrist, tracing the frantic beat of your pulse.

“Please… stay,” he murmured, his voice breaking on the word, “I need to show you.”

“Then show me.”

The word barely left your lips before Bucky stepped past you, his hand trailing away from yours, and headed toward the hallway. For a moment, you hesitated, rooted in place as you watched him stride away, his posture tense, yet determined. And then, as if caught in some magnetic pull, your feet carried you after him, heart pounding furiously in your chest.

The walk was silent, the click of your heels against the polished floor echoing softly. Bucky’s pace was quick, his shoulders set, each step purposeful. You followed in his wake, your mind racing with questions, frustration, and the unrelenting hope that he might finally give you the answers you sought.

He led you through the winding corridors of Annecy Estate, past servants who discreetly looked away, past grand rooms shrouded in shadows, until you reached a pair of large, double doors. The heavy wood gleamed in the dim light, their surface intricately carved with the Barnes family crest.

Bucky pushed the doors open, not looking back as he stepped inside. You faltered, the sight of his private chambers—a place you’d never set foot in—sending a shiver of uncertainty through you. But you took a deep breath and followed, crossing the threshold into his space.

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both in a cocoon of silence. The room was spacious, yet felt intimate. A large bed dominated one side, its dark, plush coverings pristine and untouched. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, trinkets, and objects that seemed to whisper secrets of who Bucky was—who he had been before all this.

The air itself seemed heavy, saturated with his presence, his scent—a mix of cedarwood, leather, and something uniquely him—wrapping around you. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and made it hard to think clearly.

Bucky stood a few steps away, his back still to you as he exhaled slowly. Then, without a word, he shrugged off his jacket, letting it slide from his shoulders to land carelessly on the bed.

You stiffened, your eyes widening as he reached up, his fingers deftly undoing the cufflinks at his wrists. The small, metallic clinks of the cufflinks being set aside reverberated in the quiet room. A sense of disbelief warred with your anger and confusion as he moved with ease—removing the barriers of clothing one by one.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, your voice wavering despite your best effort to sound unbothered.

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms corded with muscle and veined from tension. But as the fabric fell away, you saw it—his left arm gleaming under the soft light, the sleek, dark metal reflecting the flickering glow of the candles.

A lump formed in your throat as you stared, mesmerized by the sight of his vibranium arm. The intricate lines, the smooth surface… It was both a masterpiece and a reminder of something darker buried deep within Bucky’s past.

He caught the look in your eyes, the way your gaze lingered on his left arm, and his jaw tightened, vulnerability crossing his features.

“What I should have done at the start,” he murmured. With each unbuttoned piece of his attire, your pulse seemed to stutter, your chest tightening with the unfamiliar, heady sensation. He unbuttoned his shirt, the fabric parting to reveal the chiseled lines of his chest and abdomen, the faint scars that traced paths over his skin like echoes of battles fought and endured.

You swallowed hard, your gaze locked on him, helpless to look away. There was something achingly intimate about this—watching him undress not in a way that was seductive or calculated, but almost like he was shedding his armor, piece by piece.

“Bucky,” you began again, the name trembling on your lips. “I—”

He let the shirt fall to the ground, the fabric pooling at his feet. Standing there, bare-chested and exposed, he seemed both vulnerable and unbreakable. Then, he turned fully toward you, his gaze piercing as it held yours.

“Do you remember? I vaguely told you about this arm?” he asked softly, his voice strangely calm, almost detached. “It was not by choice. I was seized, shattered—my mind reconstructed piece by piece—starting with this.” He lifted the vibranium arm, his fingers flexing ever so slightly, the metal catching the dim light. “They mentally dismantled me until all that remained was this… weapon. Something to be wielded, something to be governed by another’s will.”

He paused, his gaze shifting away from you, staring down at the arm as if it were some loathsome thing, some cursed appendage that didn’t belong to him. “The arm became a reminder that I was no longer human—just a tool. Something to be wielded by others.” He exhaled sharply, a shudder running through him. “Even now, with the arm being mine again, I still feel… trapped by it.”

He stood in silence, his breathing slow and measured, his chest rising and falling with each deep inhale. For the first time, you were able to truly take him in—the strength in his body tempered by the vulnerability in his posture, the contrast of metal against flesh, the scars etched like battle lines over his skin.

But what struck you most was the look on his face—head turned slightly to the side, his eyes downcast, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look at you.

And it was then that you realized.

He was ashamed.

Ashamed of what he’d become. Ashamed of what had been done to him. Ashamed of showing you this, of letting you see him like this—so utterly exposed, not just in body, but in everything he’d tried to hide from you.

The sight of him—stripped of every defense, every guise—stirred something deep within you. This man—the one who had wounded you, driven you away, barricaded himself from you—was now baring himself before you in a manner that spoke of desperation, a yearning to be seen, to be understood.

“Who else. . . knows of this?” You asked carefully.

“A selected amount of trusted people.”

Though you longed to speak more, to utter something that might soothe the tempest raging in his eyes, words faltered on your tongue, trapped by the gravity of the moment. So instead, you remained silent, allowing yourself to absorb the image of him—each line, each imperfection, each fragment of who he was.

Slowly, tentatively, Bucky lifted his gaze. His eyes met yours, searching, imploring, as if hoping—begging—that you might see beyond the anger, beyond the hurt, and glimpse the man he truly was. The man he was trying to be.

He took a hesitant step forward, then another, until he was standing just a breath away. His hand twitched at his side, you thought he might reach for you. But instead, he did something that stole the breath from your lungs.

Without a word, Bucky sank to his knees before you.

The sight of him—this proud, indomitable man kneeling at your feet, his head bowed low—rendered you momentarily breathless. He appeared utterly defeated, his broad shoulders slumped as though bearing the weight of the world itself. His gaze remained fixed upon the floor, his hair falling forward, shrouding his face in shadow, concealing him from view.

And then he spoke, his voice so low, so raw, that it scarcely rose above a whisper.

“I beg for your forgiveness, my Queen.” he murmured, the words trembling with a pain so profound it caused your chest to tighten. “I apologize for every moment I made you feel as though you were isolated. For distancing myself from you when you were the only thing that kept me whole.”

Your hands tightened at your sides, the urge to reach out, to touch him, to offer solace warring with the resentment that still simmered beneath your skin. Yet you remained still, your gaze unwavering as you listened, waiting.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing with the movement, and his head dipped lower, as if the act of speaking these words cost him more than you could fathom.

“I’ve hurt you,” he continued, his voice fracturing. “I have distanced myself, not out of want, but out of fear—fear that you might perceive me for what I truly am—a shattered, ruined man who knows not how to be a husband. Nor a king.”

He lifted his head slightly then, his eyes glistening as they found yours once more. There was a desperation in his gaze, a pleading that cut through every barrier you’d tried to put up.

“I cannot undo the things I have done,” he whispered hoarsely. “I cannot alter what I have become. I desire to be better—for you. For you deserve nothing but the best.”

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening painfully as you stared down at him, the tears that had been burning at the back of your eyes threatening to spill over. This was James, laid bare before you—not the king, not the soldier, but the man who had been so afraid of his own darkness that he’d let it swallow him whole.

And now, here he was, kneeling at your feet, offering up his broken pieces in a desperate plea for forgiveness.

“Please,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “Please… tell me I haven’t lost you.”

Seeing him like this—so utterly stripped of every layer of pride and pretense—was something you could not bear to witness. Slowly, you stepped closer and you reached down, your fingers brushing gently against his shoulder.

“Rise, James,” you whispered, your voice soft yet firm, a command veiled in gentleness. “Stand.”

He hesitated, the weight of your touch sending a shiver through him. His gaze faltered, lingering on your hand as though it were a treasure beyond his worth. But when he finally looked up, the confusion and uncertainty in his eyes were laid bare, and for a moment, he seemed like a lost, wounded creature—hesitant, unsure of himself.

“Stand up,” you repeated, your tone stronger now, a note of steel beneath the tender veneer. “You are a king. A king kneels for no one.”

His brow furrowed, the wariness in his expression unmistakable as he continued to search your face. Your gaze held him steadily, refusing to let go, refusing to allow him to sink back into the shadows. Cautiously, he rose to his feet. Your hand, still resting lightly upon his arm, guiding him until he stood at his full height. He seemed even taller now, towering above you to the point where the top of your head barely reached his shoulders.

You stepped closer, the space between you vanishing, your head tilting back as you looked up at him. Even though he loomed over you, his presence larger than life, the vulnerability in his eyes made your chest squeeze.

“Look at me,” you murmured, lifting your free hand to his face. Your movements were unhurried, as though you were giving him the chance to retreat if he so wished. But he remained still, his breath catching as your fingers grazed his cheek, tracing the strong line of his jaw before cupping his face with a touch that was achingly gentle.

“Y/N—” he breathed, his voice scarcely more than a murmur, the broken plea within it tugging at the deepest parts of you.

Your gaze softened, and with a tenderness that startled even yourself, you leaned in, the distance between you shrinking further until your forehead rested against his. His breath mingled with yours, uneven and labored, as if it were a struggle for him to simply remain standing.

Your thumb moved in a slow, careful caress against his skin, brushing away a single tear that had slipped past his defenses. He exhaled a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders ebbing as you held him close, his presence anchoring you as much as you were anchoring him.

“I see you,” you whispered softly, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth contained within those three simple words.

His eyes closed for a fleeting moment, as if he were savoring the sweetness of your words, letting them seep into the deepest, most wounded parts of him. When he looked at you again, there was something different in his gaze—a depth of emotion that was almost too raw to bear.

“What is it that you see when you look at me?” he asked quietly.

You inhaled slowly, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the fragility that lingered beneath the surface of his strength.

“I see a man who has faced battles no one should ever endure,” you murmured, your fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone with exquisite care, “a man who carries the weight of a crown and the burden of his past with more grace than he knows. I see the courage that others overlook, the goodness that still remains—hidden beneath the scars and the sorrow. I see the man you are, and the man you wish to become.”

A tremor ran through him, and he bowed his head, his forehead brushing against yours, the closeness of your bodies rendering words unnecessary. You felt the warmth of his breath against your lips, tasted the unspoken promise in the air between you.

“Tell me I am not lost to you,” he whispered, his voice breaking as if he were speaking through a pain too profound to voice.

Your hand, still cradling his face, tilted his head upward, forcing him to meet your gaze. You held him there, your eyes burning with a fierce intensity that matched the storm within your own heart.

“You are not lost to me,” you vowed, your voice a quiet, resolute promise. “But I do not forgive you. . .yet.”

A breath of relief escaped him, a sound so soft and unsteady that it made your heart clench.

“Yet…” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word on his tongue, a spark of hope flickering in his eyes. “Yet is good. Yet is hope.”

“Perhaps.”

A single tear slid down his cheek, and you brushed it away, your touch as light as a feather, a quiet acceptance in your gesture that left him breathless.

“I see you,” you whispered again, the words a balm to both your wounds. “All of you. And I am not afraid, I will not look away.”

A shuddering breath escaped him, his shoulders sagging as if a weight had been lifted from his soul. In this moment, there was no king and queen, no titles or formalities—just two people standing in the quiet aftermath of pain and sorrow, holding on to the hope of something more.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a broken whisper that reverberated through the stillness around you. “Thank you… for seeing me.”

You nodded slowly, the barest of smiles curving your lips as you let your forehead rest against his once more. And in that shared silence, amidst the chaos of emotions and the stillness of the night, you both found a measure of peace—however fleeting it may be.

You could feel it in the way his breath mingled with yours, in the way his hands shook ever so slightly as they hovered, uncertain, at your waist.

“James…” you breathed, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a plea.

Something snapped within him then, the fragility giving way to an onslaught of need, desire—days of yearning and pain and longing surging forward all at once. His fingers tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, his lips crashing against yours with a fervor that stole the very breath from your lungs.

His lips were searing and desperate, and it had set your entire being aflame. He kissed you as though he were trying to brand his very soul onto yours, as if he were afraid that if he let go, you would vanish into the darkness that had claimed so much of his life.

Your hands tangled in his hair, fingers threading through the dark locks as you held him close, every ounce of your own longing and sorrow pouring into the kiss. His hands moved restlessly over your back, your sides, seeking to memorize the feel of you beneath his touch. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing you open, deepening the kiss until it felt as if you were drowning in him—lost to the overwhelming heat and passion of his embrace.

You gasped against his mouth, the sound swallowed by his fervent kiss, his lips trailing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the delicate skin of your neck. He pressed open-mouthed kisses there, each one reverent and almost frantic, as if he were both worshipping you and punishing himself for the times he had pushed you away.

“I have longed for you,” he murmured hoarsely, his voice a broken rasp against your skin. “Dreamt of you… even when I tried to bury it, to banish the thought of you from my mind… you were always there. Always.”

“Show me,” you whispered, your own voice trembling with the force of your emotions.

And with a low, guttural sound, he obeyed, his hands gripping you tighter as he captured your lips once more. This kiss was slower, deeper, a languid exploration that felt like the unraveling of every barrier, every wall you had erected between each other. His mouth moved over yours with a tenderness that belied the intensity of his grip, as if he were pouring every unspoken word, every apology, into the kiss.

Your hands slid down to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm, each pulse a testament to the life that still burned fiercely within him. You felt yourself sinking into him, the world narrowing until there was nothing but the feel of his lips on yours, the warmth of his body pressed against you. He kissed you until your lungs burned, until every thought melted away, leaving only the heady sensation of being entirely, irrevocably consumed by him.

When you finally pulled apart, gasping for air,

the room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth in the corner and the faint rustling of fabric. Bucky’s hands had found the lacing of your dress, his fingers pausing there as if he were making some silent vow to himself.

“James…wait.” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness. He remained unmoving, his fingers trembling slightly against your back, his breath fanning warmly against the nape of your neck.

“Do you wish me to stop?” he murmured, his tone strained, a mixture of longing and restraint warring within it.

Your throat tightened at the question, and you shook your head slowly, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. “No, I just. . . This is my first time bedding a man.”

Bucky froze, his hands stilling where they rested against your bare skin. His gaze, sharp and searching, locked onto yours.

“We don’t have to do this,” he murmured, voice soft yet firm, his breath mingling with yours as he leaned close. “Not if you don’t want to.”

You swallowed, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. He had every right to you, every reason to expect this, and yet there was no demand in his eyes.

“But we must,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, a strange mix of conviction and uncertainty. “It’s our duty to consummate—”

“Fuck duty,” Bucky interrupted, his tone gentle yet edged with steel. He lifted your chin, holding you there, making sure you saw the truth in his eyes. “I don’t care about duty, or obligation, or what anyone else expects of us. The only thing I care about is you.”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the raw intensity of his gaze.

“Tell me what you want,” he continued softly, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “Tell me if this is something you desire, if this is what you need. Because if it’s not—” His thumb brushed over your lower lip, his expression unyielding, determined. “Then we’ll stop right here.”

No one had ever given you this power, this choice. Not when so much rested on this union—on you fulfilling your role as his wife. And yet here he was, offering it all to you as if he didn’t care about anything but your comfort.

“James,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the word. You shook your head slowly, blinking away the sudden prick of tears. “I do desire this.”

His shoulders relaxed, the tension melting away as a soft, relieved smile curved his lips. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and soothing on your skin.

“Then it’s only us,” he murmured, his voice a promise, a vow. “Tonight, it’s not for duty, not for the crown—just for us.”

You nodded, your hands sliding up to cup his face, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath your palms. His lips brushed yours in the lightest of kisses, a tender affirmation of everything unspoken between you.

“Turn around,” he said softly.

Your heart raced as you complied, turning your back to him. His fingers, tentative at first, began to pull at the ribbons holding your gown together. Each tug loosened the fabric, releasing the tension along your spine. His knuckles brushed your skin as he worked, the contact igniting a fire beneath your flesh.

With each ribbon that came undone, the dress loosened further, slipping lower until it barely clung to your shoulders. You watched his reflection in the mirror—the way his eyes were fixed on you, his expression intense, almost reverent.

His hands hesitated at the last knot, his gaze lifting to meet yours in the mirror. The question in his eyes was clear: Are you sure? You gave a slight nod, your breath catching in anticipation.

Slowly, his hands moved upward, tracing the path of your spine until they reached your shoulders. With a gentle, deliberate motion, he slid the gown off your shoulders, the fabric gliding down your body until it pooled at your feet, leaving you exposed before him.

A shuddering breath escaped him. “You are… breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice hushed, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile intimacy of the moment.

His fingers lingered at the small of your back, his touch light but firm as though grounding himself. The heat of his gaze roamed over you, burning in its intensity. He dipped his head lower, brushing his lips over your bare shoulder, sending a ripple of sensation through you.

“Turn around,” he whispered, his tone filled with both command and entreaty.

You turned to face him, pulse racing. The look on his face—so raw, so utterly captivated—made your breath catch. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he hovered just above your skin. When he finally touched you, his palm resting gently against your waist, you could feel the restraint coiled within him, the careful control he was exercising.

“James, I…” You struggled to find the right words, but before you could speak, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally, to the corner of your lips.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his breath mingling with yours. “But if this becomes too much, if you want me to stop, just tell me, and I will.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, the words escaping you unbidden, honest.

His hands tightened on your waist, and with a careful, reverent touch, he lifted you slightly and guided you back to the bed. The thin chemise you wore shifted as he moved you, baring more of your skin, his eyes following every inch of exposed flesh.

His hands moved over you with a kind of restrained urgency, his touch both firm and achingly gentle. He leaned down, his mouth ghosting over the delicate skin at the base of your neck, his fingers tracing the path of your collarbone, your shoulder, your waist.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice strained, roughened with need.

You nodded, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. “I’m sure, James. Just… be with me.”

His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was slow and deep, a deliberate exploration that left you breathless. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of you—the taste of his lips, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, the steady, unrelenting need building between you.

He eased you back onto the bed, his weight a comforting presence above you. With a tenderness that made your chest ache, he began to kiss his way down your neck, your shoulder, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, resonant hum that sent shivers through you.

“It’s not,” you whispered, your voice a breathless sigh as your hands roamed over his back, the hard planes of his chest. “You’re perfect.”

He smiled against your skin, his breath hot and unsteady. “No, my queen. You’re the perfect one.”

He captured your mouth in another kiss, deeper this time, his hands cradling your face with a gentleness that felt like worship. And as he moved against you, every touch, every kiss a testament to how much he cared, you felt yourself falling, losing yourself in the man who was giving you everything—his heart, his soul, his very breath.

There’s something so surreal about what’s happening that your mind can’t fully process it. It feels like you’re watching a play—like it can’t possibly be you in this situation.

You’re lying on your side, facing him. His hands are on your skin—slightly rough, callused. Warm against your chilled flesh. Strong, though he’s not using that strength right now. He could subdue you with ease, but there’s no need.

He kisses you again, his lips lingering as his hands move over your arm, your back, your neck, your outer thigh. His touch is gentle, yet firm, each caress feeling like a exploration. It’s almost as if he’s giving you a massage, except you can feel the sexual intent behind his actions.

He dips his head lower, his mouth finding the sensitive spot where your neck and shoulder meet. His teeth graze your skin lightly, and a shiver runs through you at the pleasurable sensation. Your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed by the unexpected tenderness. It’s disarming, this gentleness of his, but at the same time, you feel… cherished.

One of his hands slides down, resting on your backside, kneading the soft flesh with a touch that’s both possessive and comforting. His other hand travels upward, skimming over your belly, tracing the curve of your rib cage. When he finally reaches your breast, he cups you in his palm, squeezing lightly—just enough to make you catch your breath. Your nipples are already hard, and his touch feels good, almost soothing.

Each movement, each touch, feels like a silent vow—a promise to show you everything he’s capable of giving, as if he’s trying to communicate with you through every caress. And you let yourself get lost in it, in the heady sensation of being completely, utterly his.

You keep your eyes shut as he gently rolls you onto your back. He’s partially on top of you, but most of his weight rests on the bed. He doesn’t want to crush you, you realize, and a sense of gratitude washes over you. He lowers his head, placing tender kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder, your stomach. His mouth is hot, and each kiss leaves a moist trail on your skin, setting it aflame.

Then he closes his lips around your right nipple and sucks lightly. Your body arches instinctively, a wave of tension pooling low in your belly. He repeats the action on your other nipple, his mouth warm and demanding, and the tension inside you deepens, intensifies. He senses it—of course, he does—because his hand moves lower, venturing between your thighs and feeling the slick evidence of your desire.

His fingers explore gently, and you can’t help but let out a soft gasp as your body responds to his touch, the pressure building, tightening. Every sensation blurs into the next, leaving you helpless under his slow, deliberate ministrations.

“Does it feel good, my queen?” he murmurs, stroking your folds with maddening precision.

A whimper escapes your lips as his mouth travels lower, the tickle of his hair brushing against your heated skin. You know what he intends, and your mind blanks out when he reaches his destination. For a moment, instinct makes you try to resist, but he effortlessly pulls your legs apart, spreading you open to him.

His fingers part your folds gently, exposing you completely to his gaze. Then he lowers his head and kisses you there, sending a jolt of electric heat through your entire body. His skilled mouth licks and nibbles around your sensitive clit until you’re moaning, your fingers clutching at the sheets. Then he closes his lips around it and lightly sucks.

The pleasure is so intense, so unexpected, that your eyes fly open in shock. You don’t understand what’s happening to you, and it’s terrifying. You’re burning from the inside out, throbbing between your legs. Your heart is racing so fast you can barely catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you find yourself panting, gasping for air.

“B…Bucky, am I supposed to feel this way?” you ask, your voice trembling with a mix of innocence and confusion.

His only response is a deep, throaty groan against you, the sound vibrating through your core and making your breath hitch. The gentle puffs of his breath against your slick skin make you shiver, and when you instinctively try to pull away—overwhelmed by the intensity of his mouth—he tightens his grip, holding you steady. His hands are strong yet careful, firm but tender, keeping you in place with ease.

“You’re close my queen, I’ll take you there.” he murmurs against your flesh, his voice low and rough, filled with a dark, sensual promise.

He doesn’t relent, his tongue working you with maddening speed, teasing and tasting, drawing out soft whimpers and gasps from your lips. The pleasure builds higher and higher, a wave crashing over you, making you feel like you’re on the verge of shattering. His hands keep you grounded, his touch both possessive and gentle as he guides you through every pulse, every tremor of sensation.

You cry out, your body twisting and arching, but he holds you steady, not letting you escape the overwhelming pleasure that has you unraveling beneath him. It’s too much, too intense, and yet you don’t want it to end—you can’t imagine it ending.

“Let go for me,” he breathes, the words a command and a plea all at once, his mouth never stopping its sinful work. “Just let go, I have you.”

The tension inside you is building, coiling tighter and tighter, until it feels unbearable. You’re squirming against his mouth, pushing and pulling at the same time, your body caught in a desperate dance. Each flick of his tongue, each graze of his teeth, sends you spiraling closer to some elusive, dangerous edge.

And then, with a soft cry, you go over it.

Your entire body tightens, muscles locking as you’re overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure so intense that your vision blurs. Your toes curl, your back arches off the bed, and you feel your inner muscles pulse in rapid, uncontrollable spasms.

You realize, in a dazed, breathless haze, that you’ve just had an orgasm, your first. Your limbs feel like jelly, your skin flushed and trembling as the aftershocks ripple through you.

He doesn’t move away immediately, his mouth lingering, pressing soft kisses to your sensitive flesh as he murmurs soothing words, guiding you gently back down from the heights of ecstasy.

The first orgasm of your life. And it was at the hands—or rather the mouth—of your husband. Your open your eyes again. But he’s not done with you yet. He crawls up your body and kisses your mouth again. He tastes differently now, salty, with a slightly musky undertone. It’s from you, you realize. You’re tasting yourself on his lips.

A hot wave of embarrassment rolls through your body even as the hunger inside you intensifies. His kiss is more carnal than before, rougher. His tongue penetrates your mouth in an obvious imitation of the sexual act, and his hips settle heavily between your legs.

One of his hands is holding the back of your head, while another one is between your thighs, lightly rubbing and stimulating me again. You don’t really resist, although your body tenses as the nervousness returns. You can feel the heat and hardness of his erection pushing against your inner thigh, and you know it’s going to hurt you.

“J-James,” you whisper, opening your eyes to look at him. “Please take it slow . . . I’ve never done this before—”

His nostrils flare, and his eyes gleam brighter. “Of course, my queen,” he murmurs softly. His voice is low and soothing, yet it carries a promise—a vow to be careful, to go at your pace.

With trembling hands, he hastily undoes his trousers, pushing them down just enough. When he shifts back slightly, his length springs free, standing thick and proud between you. Your eyes widen as you take him in—long and intimidatingly hard, the sight making your heart race with a mixture of anticipation and fear.

He notices your gaze and the way you bite your lower lip, your apprehension clear as your eyes trace every inch of him. Swallowing hard, you try to reconcile how something that large could possibly fit inside you.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He reaches out, gently brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers, grounding you with the softness of his touch. “You have my word.”

Your gaze flickers back to his, and despite the nervousness thrumming through your veins, you nod slowly. “Don’t stop, I want this.”

Then he shifts his hips slightly, using one hand to guide himself to your entrance. You gasp as the tip of his cock nudges against your slick folds, then slowly, carefully, begins to push inside. You’re wet, but your body tenses, resisting the unfamiliar intrusion. You saw how big he is, but the sensation of him stretching you now feels overwhelming—impossibly large as he inches his way into your body.

Pain flares, a sharp burning that makes you cry out, your hands flying up to press against his shoulders. His eyes, dark and intense, lock onto yours, his pupils blown wide with the effort of holding back. Beads of sweat form along his brow, and you realize he’s straining to keep himself under control.

“Relax, Y/N,” he whispers harshly, his voice taut. “It will hurt less if you relax.”

You’re trembling, body taut like a bowstring, unable to follow his advice because you’re too nervous—too overwhelmed by the pain. It’s too much, having even a little bit of him inside you. You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers digging in his skin as your body fights to accommodate him.

But he’s relentless, his jaw clenched tightly as he continues to press forward, his thick girth stretching you inch by agonizing inch. Your flesh gives way slowly, reluctantly, the resistance in your body fierce, but he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. Each slow push is a battle, and the pain sharpens, your eyes squeezing shut as you sob quietly, nails scratching at his back.

“Shhh, breathe for me, my queen,” he murmurs, his voice strained. He’s trembling too, every muscle in his body tense as he’s fighting against himself.

He pauses for a second, buried halfway inside, his breath coming in ragged pants. A prominent vein pulses near his temple, his face contorted with effort. He looks like he’s in pain—suffering even—but you know the truth. This is pleasurable for him, this act that’s hurting you so much. The realization makes your chest tighten, but before you can say anything, he lowers his head, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, his voice breaking. And then, before you can process his words, he pushes forward again—firmly, unyieldingly—tearing through the thin membrane inside you with a single thrust.

You almost black out from the pain.

A cry bursts from your lips, the pain flaring white-hot as he stills, his full length now buried deep within you and it’s the most agonizingly invasive thing you’ve ever experienced. He doesn’t move, his hips pressed firmly against yours, his breath coming in harsh, unsteady gasps above you.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice strained but soothing as he keeps himself perfectly still, letting your body adjust around him. He’s so much larger than you, so much stronger. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, his entire being focused on not moving an inch.

Your chest rises and falls in ragged breaths, your body trembling beneath him. The pain is sharp, throbbing, but there’s something else now—a sense of fullness, of being completely joined with him. His fingers slide down to entwine with yours, holding your hands as though anchoring you both.

“Just… breathe,” he whispers again, his voice barely more than a ragged breath.

It’s a long, aching moment before the pain begins to ebb, your body slowly, tentatively adjusting to the size of him. You open your eyes, meeting his gaze, and in that instant, you see it all—his struggle, his desire, and his absolute devotion to you.

“James… you can move,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing briefly in relief. “Are you sure?”

You nod, squeezing his hands. “Yes. I… I want you to.”

Slowly, carefully, he withdraws an inch, then pushes back in, the movement sending a jolt of sensation through you. It still hurts, but there’s something else now—something warm and electric, something that has your breath catching in your throat.

Initially, his movements only make it worse, each thrust adding to the agony as your body struggles to accommodate him. The pain is sharp, your muscles instinctively tightening around him, and it’s all you can do to keep from crying out. You grit your teeth, your breath hitching as he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that feels both impossible and overwhelming.

He watches you closely, his eyes never leaving your face as he moves again, each slow thrust careful, controlled. The pain begins to blur at the edges, each movement bringing with it a new kind of pleasure, subtle but building with each careful stroke.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, his voice rough and hushed. “I’ll stop. Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

But you shake your head, your body slowly relaxing beneath him. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, your voice trembling but resolute. “Please… don’t stop.”

And so he doesn’t, his movements becoming a little deeper, a little steadier as he pulls you both into a rhythm, a dance of slow, aching intimacy that leaves you breathless.

Sensing your discomfort, he pauses, his brow furrowing in concern. His hand slips between your bodies, finding your sensitive clit. He strokes it softly, his finger moving in slow, gentle circles. The sensation is startling, a ripple of unexpected pleasure that momentarily distracts you from the pain. You whimper, your hips shifting reflexively as he keeps his touch light and steady, his thumb brushing over your swollen flesh with expert precision.

“Focus on this,” he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper. “Just this, love.”

You try, your mind grasping onto the pleasure he’s coaxing out of you. It’s small at first, a subtle flicker against the backdrop of pain, but it grows stronger, more insistent as he continues to tease you. His hips resume their slow, steady rhythm, moving your body in tandem with his hand, each thrust pushing you against his fingers.

The tension begins to gather inside you again. The pain is still there, but it’s changing, being slowly overtaken by the pleasure. Your breath hitches, your body responding despite itself, and you feel a flush spread across your skin. It’s almost maddening, how he manages to draw both pain and pleasure from you at the same time, your body caught in the push and pull of conflicting sensations.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice strained, as if he’s fighting against something deep within himself. “You’re doing so well, Y/N… so beautiful like this.”

You’re writhing beneath him now, every muscle trembling as he moves with agonizing slowness, his hips rocking against yours. The pressure builds, the friction of his length inside you both painful and electrifying. You let out a soft cry, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

And then something shifts in him. His control falters. He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest as his movements change—becoming less measured, less restrained.

“Yes—Oh, my God—James,” Your hands travel down until they settled on his bottom, urging him to plunge into you harder. His thrusts deepen, the careful rhythm faltering as he pulls back only to push back in harder, the motion sending a jolt of pleasurable sensation through you.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fights for control. “You’re so tight, my queen, it feels so good.” His voice is rough, the words almost guttural, and you can feel the tension radiating off him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as if he’s trying to hold himself back.

But he can’t.

With a shuddering breath, he shifts again, his hand stilling between your legs as both of his arms come up to cradle your body. He draws back, just enough to look at you, his gaze fierce and dark, filled with a hunger that takes your breath away.

“I can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t—” His voice breaks, and then he’s moving again, harder this time, his control slipping completely.

“It feels good, James—keep going.” You reassured him, through a needy whimper.

His hips snap forward, his pace increasing as he pushes into you with a force that has you crying out. Each thrust is deeper, harder, driving the air from your lungs, and the pain flares, bright and searing. But underneath it, the pleasure grows—an insistent, throbbing heat that coils low in your belly.

Bucky’s losing himself, the careful restraint he’d shown before unraveling with every push and pull of his body. You can feel it in the way he holds you, the way his breath comes in harsh, uneven gasps against your skin.

“James…!” you sob, your body arching beneath him as he drives into you. He grunts in response, the sound raw, almost animalistic. His pace is relentless now, his thrusts coming faster, harder, each one dragging a mixture of pain and pleasure from you that has you trembling, gasping.

“Fuck, you’re perfect… you’re taking me so well,” he groans, his voice strained and desperate. His hands move to your thighs, lifting them slightly to angle you just right, and then he’s pounding into you with strength that leaves you breathless, your fingers scrabbling against his back.

“God, you’re so tight, so wet—” His words are a growl, his teeth grazing your neck as he buries himself to the hilt, his body shuddering against yours. “Can’t hold back… can’t—”

He pulls almost all the way out, back hunching, and then slams back in, the impact sending a shockwave through you. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, but he doesn’t stop. He’s completely lost now, his hips snapping forward with a brutal, punishing rhythm that has you writhing beneath him, the world narrowing to the feel of him inside you, the way he’s filling you so completely.

“James, please—” You don’t know what you’re asking for, your mind a blur of sensation as he drives you higher, closer to that precipice.

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice a rough command in your ear. “I need to feel you—need to feel you fall apart around me.”

He reaches between your bodies again, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing it with just enough pressure to push you over the edge. The pleasure crashes into you like a tidal wave, your body seizing, muscles clamping down around him as you scream his name.

Your orgasm tears through you with blinding intensity, your inner walls fluttering, clenching around him as the world dissolves into darkness. You’re only dimly aware of him groaning above you, his hips jerking as he follows you over the edge, his release pulsing deep within you. He holds himself there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling as he spills into you, his voice a raw, broken sound in your ear.

Slowly, the tension eases, the fire burning through your veins gradually fading to a warm, languid glow. He pulls out carefully, his movements gentle, and you wince at the sudden emptiness. But before you can say anything, he’s gathering you into his arms, rolling to the side and pulling you close.

His chest rises and falls against your back, his breath still uneven as he wraps himself around you, holding you tightly.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, his voice rough and full of concern. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your cheek, his hands stroking your hair soothingly.

You nod weakly, leaning into his embrace, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your release. “Yes… I’m okay.”

He lets out a long, shaky breath, his grip tightening for a moment before he relaxes, his body curving protectively around yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, his voice soft and broken. “I didn’t mean to hurt you… I tried, but I couldn’t—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you interrupt gently, reaching up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, his forehead resting against yours. He holds you close, his warmth and presence surrounding you.

× × × ×

The soft, predawn light filtered through the heavy drapes, casting a muted glow over the bedchamber. The air was still, the quiet broken only by the faint rustle of sheets and the soft murmur of voices.

You lay nestled against Bucky’s chest, your fingers idly tracing patterns along the ridges of his muscles, your body relaxed and warmth from the shared intimacy of the night before.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, his gaze tender as he watched you, his hand absently stroking your hair. “Did I mention that you’re even more beautiful in the morning?” he murmured softly, his voice still rough with sleep.

You gave a soft, breathless laugh, shifting closer until your nose brushed against his. “You’re not too bad yourself, Your Majesty.”

The playful response earned you a gentle kiss, his lips brushing against yours with a adoration that made your heart flutter. What started as a brief caress deepened, his hand sliding to the small of your back, holding you close as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable.

The world beyond the room felt like a distant memory—a place that no longer mattered. There was only the two of you, cocooned in the warmth of the bed, the connection between you forged anew in the quiet hours of the night. His presence, once a source of confusion and pain, had become your anchor, steadying you amidst the swirling uncertainty that had defined your marriage until now.

His lips moved against yours, tender and sure, conveying what words never could. You sighed into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you allowed yourself to get lost in him once more. He responded with a low hum of approval, his hand slipping beneath the sheets to settle against your bare skin—

And then the door to the chamber swung open.

“James, I have told you time and time again that you must learn to prioritize your du—”

“Your Majesty!” a voice interrupted suddenly—Captain Rogers. He stepped into the doorway, eyes wide with alarm as he held out a hand, trying to stop the Queen Dowager from taking another step. “Wait! Please, I—”

But it was too late. Queen Winifred breezed past him with a sharp frown, completely oblivious to his warning. Steve barely had time to avert his gaze, he’d caught a glimpse of you and Bucky in the bed, your figures entangled in a state of undress. The faintest hint of a flush crept up Steve’s neck as he clenched his jaw, his discomfort visible as he hastily stepped back, turning his head away with an almost comical speed.

The shock on her face was unmistakable, her eyes wide as she took in the sight before her—Bucky leaning over you, the two of you tangled together, the sheets barely covering your exposed skin. Your hair was tousled, your eyes still half-lidded with the lingering haze of sleep and intimacy.

“Mother—” Bucky choked out, his own shock quickly replaced by a fierce protectiveness. He moved in a flash, yanking the covers higher, shielding your body from view even as his gaze flickered with annoyance and embarrassment.

Your heart leapt into your throat, your face burning with mortification as you tried to hide behind the blankets, only partially successful. But the Queen Dowager had already turned to her back, her back ramrod straight, her shoulders tense as she stared resolutely at the doorframe. One hand clutched at the delicate fan she carried, the edge of it trembling slightly, the motion so subtle it was almost imperceptible.

“I—good heavens,” she stammered, uncharacteristically flustered. “I… I had no idea—”

Bucky shifted beside you, his voice strained but composed. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable, Mother.”

The sarcasm in his tone was enough to snap the Dowager Queen out of her daze. She cleared her throat, her fingers tightening around the fan as she lifted it to shield her face, the delicate lace trembling as she snapped it open.

“I… I came to speak with you about your lack of action at your own honeymoon, but… clearly, this is not the appropriate time.”

“No,” Bucky agreed, a trace of amusement lacing his words now. “It is not.”

“Right. Well.” The Queen Dowager’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the fan even tighter, holding it as if it could somehow ward off the awkwardness of the situation. “Carry on. I… I shall speak with you later, James.”

And without another word, she turned around sharply, retreating from the room, her face hidden behind the fan as she passed a mortified Steve, who did his best to look anywhere but at his queen or king.

As Winifred left the room, Steve allowed himself one final glance before swiftly stepping aside, his gaze meeting Bucky’s for just the briefest moment. The look of sheer exasperation and embarrassment on Bucky’s face made Steve fight the urge to smirk, though he wisely kept his expression neutral.

Instead, he took a step back, cleared his throat awkwardly, and called out, “I’ll, uh… ensure no one else disturbs Your Majesties.”

“See that you do,” Bucky muttered dryly, shaking his head as he turned his attention back to you.

Steve quickly retreated down the hallway, disappearing around the corner, leaving the two of you alone once more.

You stared at the closed door, your mind struggling to process what had just happened, the lingering haze of sleep and the afterglow of intimacy shattered in an instant. Slowly, you turned to Bucky, who was staring at the door with a bemused expression, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

“I suppose that’s one way to inform her we’ve consummated the marriage,” he remarked dryly, his gaze sliding back to you, a wicked glint in his eye.

You gaped at him, incredulous. “You find this amusing?”

He shrugged, the movement causing the sheets to slip down, exposing more of his bare chest. “I find it… effective.”

Despite yourself, a startled laugh bubbled up, the absurdity too much to ignore. You shook your head, your shoulders shaking with silent mirth as the tension dissolved.

“I don’t know whether to be mortified or relieved,” you admitted, pressing a hand to your flushed face. “She’ll never look at me the same way again.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and he reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “I doubt she’ll ever stop looking at you as the formidable woman who dared to march to Annecy in the middle of the night just to confront me,” he murmured, his gaze filled with warmth and something deeper, something that made your heart ache in the most wonderful way. “But now… she’ll see you as something more. As someone who has claimed what is rightfully hers.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, the taste of him sweet and familiar. “And that, my queen, is nothing to be ashamed of.”

You smiled against his lips, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest, savoring the feel of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“No,” you whispered, “it’s not.”

And with that, you pulled him back down to you, the Queen Dowager and the world outside forgotten once more.

× × × ×

The grand marble steps leading up to the main palace seemed to stretch endlessly as you and Bucky ascended side by side. The palace loomed above you, its spires piercing the sky, but there was a comfort in its familiarity, a sense of returning home. Guards and servants bowed low, murmuring, “Your Majesties,” as you both passed. Bucky’s hand rested on the small of your back, steady and sure, his thumb absently brushing over the silk fabric of your gown.

The Great Hall is bustling with activity, the murmur of voices rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore. Citizens from all walks of life fill the space—farmers, merchants, artisans, and healers—each awaiting their turn to approach the king. Bucky sits on the gilded throne, his posture regal, yet his gaze is softer than usual, focused not on the people but on you seated beside him on a smaller chair.

One by one, the citizens present their concerns—requests for land disputes, grievances with local laws, petitions for aid after a particularly harsh winter. Bucky listens attentively, his expression thoughtful, but more often than not, his gaze shifts to you.

“What do you think, my queen?” he asks, his voice steady and genuine.

The first time he did, you hesitated, taken aback by the sudden attention. But Bucky’s eyes were reassuring, filled with the unspoken message that he trusted your judgment. So you spoke, and your advice—though tentative at first—was well-received.

Now, you sit straight-backed, exuding a quiet confidence as you consider each matter carefully before responding.

The citizens have begun to murmur among themselves about your growing role in the king’s court. Whispers of admiration mingle with doubt—some marveling at your wisdom, others wondering if the king’s indulgence will lead to reckless decisions.

The ripple of tension becomes tangible when Lord Carter steps forward, a calculating smile tugging at his lips. He bows low to Bucky, the motion exaggerated, then turns his attention to you, his eyes gleaming with thinly veiled skepticism.

“Your Majesties,” he begins smoothly, his tone dripping with courtesy, “it is a pleasure to see our king back on the throne. And to witness our gracious queen actively participating in the affairs of the realm… It is most intriguing.”

You return his smile with politeness, though you can feel Bucky stiffen beside you. Lord Carter is known for his silver tongue, and his words are never as benign as they seem. “I am merely assisting where I can, Lord Carter,” you reply, keeping your voice even.

“Of course, of course,” he agrees with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And yet, I wonder if Your Majesty’s counsel might not be too… idealistic?” He pauses, letting the word hang in the air. “Take the recent suggestion to provide seeds to the farmers affected by the blight. While generous, such a proposal could strain the treasury and set a precedent for the crown to supply every failed harvest. Perhaps the wiser course would be to consider less costly alternatives.”

Murmurs of agreement and disagreement spread through the hall, eyes shifting between Lord Carter and you, waiting to see how you would respond.

You keep your composure, though you feel the heat of scrutiny pressing down on you. “I appreciate your concern for the treasury, Lord Carter,” you say, your tone calm and measured. “However, a stable food supply is the backbone of our kingdom’s prosperity. If we let the farmers struggle, they will plant less next season, leading to higher prices and unrest among the lower classes. The cost of seeds is an investment in our future, one that will yield far more than it costs us now.”

Lord Carter’s eyes narrow, his smile tightening. “An investment, indeed. But how do we ensure that the investment is not squandered? Some farmers may take advantage of the crown’s generosity, and others may fail despite our aid. What then?”

You do not falter. “We will monitor the situation closely, sending representatives to oversee the distribution and usage of resources. We will also encourage local communities to form cooperative groups, ensuring that each village has a stake in its own success. This way, we not only provide aid but empower our people to be self-sufficient.”

A ripple of approval spreads through the hall. Even those who had been skeptical seem impressed by your thoughtfulness. Bucky’s gaze never wavers from you, pride shining in his eyes as you calmly hold your ground.

Lord Carter, however, is not finished. “And what of the well that dried up in Westport? Your suggestion to dig a new one may seem like a straightforward solution, but have you considered the possibility that the source may have been permanently depleted? If that’s the case, no amount of digging will restore it. Should we not consider relocating the village instead?”

Gasps of shock and disbelief echo through the hall. Relocating an entire village is an extreme measure, one that would displace hundreds of families and disrupt countless lives. Your hands tighten around the armrests of your chair, but you force yourself to remain calm.

“Relocation should always be a last resort,” you reply firmly. “The engineers we send will first conduct a thorough survey to determine if the well’s depletion is a result of temporary shifts or a permanent change in the water table. If it is found to be permanent, then we can discuss the feasibility of relocation. But I will not uproot our people without exhausting every option to preserve their homes.”

For a moment, there is silence. Then, a slow clap echoes through the hall.

Lord Carter’s smile is sharp, predatory. “Well said, Your Majesty. It seems you have given this more thought than I assumed. I only hope your efforts yield the desired results.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens, and he leans forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Lord Carter. “I trust my queen’s judgment, Lord Carter. She has proven herself more than capable of understanding the intricacies of governance.” His voice is low, but it carries an unmistakable warning.

Lord Carter inclines his head, the smile never leaving his lips. “Of course, Your Majesty. It was never my intention to suggest otherwise. I merely wish to ensure that our realm remains strong and our resources wisely managed.”

With a final bow, Lord Carter steps back, leaving you and Bucky to exchange a glance. There is a question in Bucky’s eyes—Are you all right?

You give a slight nod, your lips curving into a determined smile. Yes, you seem to say without words. I am.

Bucky’s fingers brush against yours once more, a silent vow of support and solidarity. “Then let it be known,” he announces, his voice ringing out across the hall, “that from this day forward, Queen Y/N will sit beside me in all matters of governance. Her voice is to be heard and her counsel considered as equal to mine.”

The hall erupts into applause and murmurs of approval, but the hard gleam in Lord Carter’s eyes does not fade. He bows once more, his smile inscrutable, and turns away.

You watch him go, your heart steady. Whatever games Lord Carter intends to play, you are ready.

And you will not lose.

× × × ×

The grand council chamber now buzzed with tension, the gathered noblemen exchanging wary glances as Bucky faced them from the head of the long table. Prime Minister Fury, Lord Pierce, and the representatives of House Stark, House Romanoff, House Maximoff, House Odinson, House Quill, and House Carter were all present, each of them bearing the weight of their house’s influence and expectations.

It was a subtle standoff, a test of authority cloaked in polite words and thinly veiled demands.

You hadn't meant to overhear—you had only been wandering the halls when you stumbled upon the slightly ajar double doors and the raised voices inside. But something kept you rooted in place, your pulse quickening as you realized who was speaking.

Prime Minister Fury broke the silence first, his gaze sharp and unrelenting as it settled on Bucky. “Your Majesty, forgive our persistence, but it’s been weeks since your marriage, and… the court is rife with speculation.”

You leaned closer, eyes narrowing as you strained to hear. You couldn’t see Bucky’s face from where you stood, but the tautness in his voice was unmistakable.

“Speculation?” His voice was low, a dangerous undercurrent running through it. “What sort of speculation?”

A murmur rippled through the room, and Lord Haynesworth, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking. “There have been… questions, Your Majesty. Questions regarding… well… whether the marriage has been properly consummated.”

Your heart lurched at the word, heat rushing to your cheeks in a mix of embarrassment and anger. Was that what this was about? They were discussing your private life as if it were some kind of public spectacle, something to be scrutinized and judged.

“Do not make us ask the question outright, Your Majesty,” Prime Minister Fury said finally, his tone edged with steel. “But we must know. The stability of the Crown depends on it. If the marriage has not been consummated, the legitimacy of the union—and of any future heirs—could be called into question.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy. You could practically feel Bucky’s gaze sweeping over each lord, daring them to press further.

“This is not your concern,” he bit out finally, each word clipped and seething with frustration. “This is my marriage. My business.”

“Your marriage is our concern,” Fury countered, leaning forward slightly, his gaze unflinching. “It’s palace business, Parliament business, the business of the entire country! You cannot pretend otherwise.”

“The king’s marriage must be above reproach,” Lord Pierce interjected, his voice low but firm. “Without a legitimate heir, the crown’s stability—”

“Do not speak to me of stability!” Bucky snapped, his voice like a whip crack through the chamber. You jumped at the sound, your breath catching in your throat as the tension in the room thickened. “You told me I had to marry her for the sake of the Crown. I did.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy.

“You told me I had to charm her, to win her favor, to make her compliant to the needs of the Crown. I did that too,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl.

“Then you told me to keep her at arm’s length, to keep her from knowing me, because a king must always protect the secrets of his realm.” He let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “I have followed every command, every directive, without fail. And now, you dare to demand this?”

The room seemed to shrink under the intensity of his gaze, the noblemen exchanging uncertain glances but remaining silent.

“You want to know if I’ve bedded her?” Bucky’s voice was soft now, deadly. “Yes. I have. Does that satisfy you?”

Prime Minister Fury held his ground, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his discomfort. “We must be sure, Your Majesty. The matter is not only about what is done but also about what is seen to be done. You must—”

“I must?” Bucky’s voice rose, the sound reverberating through the chamber like thunder. “I have done everything you’ve demanded of me! From the moment I took my first breath, it was hammered into me that my life was for the happiness or the misery of this great nation. That I must act, speak, feel in accordance with the needs of the Crown!”

His breathing quickened, his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled to contain the rage boiling within him.

“I am the image of duty,” he yelled, voice shaking with barely contained fury. “The Crown is embedded in me, lodged like a blade through my heart. You do not need to remind me of what is at stake.”

Lord Haynesworth shifted uneasily, his gaze flickering to the others before speaking cautiously. “Your Majesty, we are not questioning your dedication. But if the queen is not—”

“Do not speak of her.” Bucky’s tone was a low, dangerous growl. “She is my wife. Her worth is not for you to decide.”

A murmur of surprise swept through the chamber, the lords exchanging startled looks at the vehemence in his voice. They hadn’t said a word against the queen, yet Bucky’s defense of you was fierce, unwavering. As if the mere thought of anyone questioning you sent a surge of anger through him.

“Your Majesty, we only ask—”

“I have done my part,” Bucky interrupted coldly. “I will continue to do it, no matter the cost. But if any of you dare question her again, you will regret it.”

You stared, wide-eyed, at the scene unfolding before you, your heart beating loudly in your chest.

“Your Majesty, we’re merely trying to ensure the Crown’s safety. If the queen does not—”

“Enough!” Bucky roared, the sound echoing through the chamber, making the noblemen flinch. “I have bedded her. I have fulfilled my duty. That is all you need to know.”

He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling behind him as he stalked toward the doors. Just before he reached them, he paused, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.

“This meeting is dismissed.”

You stepped back quickly, heart racing as he stormed out, his expression thunderous. As the heavy doors closed behind him, you glanced back through the narrow gap, your heart still pounding.

A murmur of voices rose, low and uncertain.

“He has finally done it, then,” Lord Haynesworth muttered, a hint of relief in his tone.

“Good,” Lord Pierce nodded, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the table. “Then there’s still hope that we can secure an heir.”

“We need to tread carefully,” Prime Minister Fury agreed. “But with the consummation complete, it’s a step forward. We must focus now on ensuring that an heir is conceived swiftly.”

A ripple of murmured agreement passed through the room, the tension easing just slightly as the weight of this particular matter began to lift.

Lord Carter, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat softly, a thoughtful smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Gentlemen, let us not forget… they have only just begun their marriage. We must allow time for nature to take its course.”

The other lords exchanged cautious nods, the relief growing as they considered his words.

“Quite right, Lord Carter,” Lord Pierce agreed. “We have time yet. If they continue in this manner, an heir will follow soon enough.”

Prime Minister Fury’s gaze lingered on the closed doors, his expression inscrutable. “But if this proves to be the only victory… if no heir is conceived…”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Lord Carter interrupted smoothly, his smile widening ever so slightly. “For now, we should be pleased that the matter has progressed this far. Let us not trouble ourselves unnecessarily.”

As the lords exchanged nods and the tension began to dissipate, Lord Carter’s smile widened ever so slightly. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood of the table. It was a small, almost dismissive gesture, as though he were content to let the matter lie.

But not everyone in the chamber seemed convinced.

Lord Stark, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, watched Lord Carter with a scrutiny that went unnoticed by most of the others. There was something in the smooth way the man spoke, the casual ease with which he guided the conversation, that set Stark’s teeth on edge. He’d seen men like Carter before—men who wielded their influence like a blade hidden beneath velvet.

He glanced to his right, catching Lord Thor Odinson’s gaze. The two exchanged a wordless look—Thor’s brow furrowing ever so slightly, as if he too sensed the undercurrent of manipulation threading through the discussion.

“Lord Carter speaks wisely,” Stark said slowly, his voice carefully measured as he turned his gaze back to the man in question. “We must be patient.”

Lord Carter’s smile widened at the praise, his eyes gleaming with a hint of something unreadable. “Of course,” he murmured, inclining his head slightly. “After all, it is in patience that we find clarity.”

Tony held his gaze for a beat longer, the polite smile never quite reaching his eyes. “Indeed,” he said softly, a hint of irony threading through his tone. Then he leaned back, crossing his arms as if to signal that he was done with the matter.

Thor, still watching Lord Carter closely, let out a low hum, his expression thoughtful. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The wary glance he shared with Stark spoke volumes.

Lord Carter either didn’t notice, or he pretended not to. He gave a gracious nod, the smile still playing at the corners of his lips, and then shifted his gaze to the other lords, effectively dismissing the silent exchange between Stark and Odinson.

But the suspicion lingered.

As the lords continued their murmurings, Lord Stark’s gaze never left Lord Carter’s face, his mind working rapidly. He didn’t know what game Carter was playing, but he knew one thing for certain—whatever it was, it was more than just a matter of marriage and heirs.

There was something else at stake. Something that Lord Carter was keeping hidden beneath that affable smile.

And if there was one thing Stark couldn’t stand, it was a man who played games with stakes he didn’t lay on the table for all to see.

× × × ×

The private study in the main palace was dim, thick curtains drawn to keep out the harsh afternoon sun. The air was heavy, and Bucky’s frustration filled the room like a storm cloud. He stood near the window, staring out at the sprawling gardens, his thoughts a tangled mess of anger.

“Your Majesty?” Sam’s voice broke through the silence, calm but edged with concern. He kept his distance, watching the way Bucky’s shoulders tensed with every breath he took. “Might I suggest taking a seat? You appear… troubled.”

Bucky didn’t move, his gaze still fixed on some distant point beyond the glass. The pressure behind his eyes had been building steadily since that damned meeting ended. A dull ache that was rapidly growing into something sharper, more dangerous.

“Your Majesty?” Sam pressed gently, stepping forward. “If I may, I think it best—”

But before he could finish, Bucky stumbled back, his hand flying to his temple as the pain exploded in his head—white-hot, blinding. He gritted his teeth, a strangled sound escaping him.

“Your Majesty!” Sam was beside him in an instant, his hands hovering just above Bucky’s arms, unsure if touching him would only make it worse. “Shall I summon Doctor Banner? Or Zemo?”

Bucky shook his head sharply, the motion only sending another stab of pain through his skull. His breath came in ragged bursts as he tried to fight it back, trying to push it away.

“No,” he managed through gritted teeth, his voice tight. “I’m… I’m fine.”

But the pain didn’t ease. It only intensified, and Bucky’s knees buckled, forcing him to grab the edge of the desk for support.

“Bucky, please,” Sam urged, his voice low but firm. “You’re getting the symptoms. You need—”

“Get Banner,” Bucky ground out, the words barely more than a rasp. “Now.”

Sam nodded briskly. He moved Bucky to a nearby armchair, easing him down with the care of a man who had done this before. “I’ll bring him right away. Please, just… try to hold on.”

Bucky’s eyes closed, his hand pressing harder against his temple. “Y/N?” he muttered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “Is she—”

“Her Majesty is well, sir,” Sam assured him gently. “She is perfectly safe.”

Relief washed over Bucky’s face, easing some of the tension from his features. “Do not let her see me like this,” he whispered, his voice rough and strained. “She… she can’t see this.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Sam replied softly. “I’ll see to it.”

With one last, concerned glance, Sam turned and hurried out of the study, his footsteps echoing down the corridor as he went to find Bruce.

Left alone, Bucky slumped back in the chair, his breathing uneven as he tried to regain control. The pain continued to pulse through his head, but he forced himself to focus, to keep his mind anchored to something—anything—other than the agony.

And all he could think of was you.

× × × ×

The candle flames flickered in the study of the Carter estate, shadows dancing along the richly paneled walls. Lord Carter stood before the grand fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the fire as it crackled and hissed. Sharon paced the length of the room behind him, the soft rustle of her silk gown the only sound breaking the silence.

“Her virtue,” Sharon spat, her voice cutting through the stillness. “Is that truly what they care about? Whether or not she’s pure enough to produce an heir?” She stopped pacing, whirling to face her father. Her blue eyes, so like his, burned with fury. “They should be more concerned with how unfit she is for the role. She’s weak—completely and utterly useless.”

Lord Carter didn’t turn, didn’t even flinch at her outburst. He simply stared into the fire, his expression cold, unreadable. “You will set aside your petty resentments, Sharon.”

She blinked, the unexpected harshness of his tone pulling her up short. “What?”

“You heard me.” His voice was low, but it carried an unmistakable edge, each word falling with the weight of command. “Your emotions are clouding your judgment.”

“My emotions?” Sharon let out a humorless laugh, but there was a note of disbelief in it, tinged with bitterness. “I’m the only one who sees her for what she is—a pretty little figurehead propped up beside him, with no real power. If you would only—”

“Enough.” Lord Carter’s voice was sharp, final, cutting through her words like a blade. He turned then, his gaze locking onto hers with a look that made her take an involuntary step back. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? How you’ve been conducting yourself?”

Sharon’s lips parted, but no sound came. She stared at her father, feeling the heat drain from her face as his gaze bore into hers.

“I see everything, Sharon. Every sideways glance, every whispered word of ‘concern’ for the queen’s image in front of the council.” He took a step toward her, his eyes dark with anger. “You’re so focused on tearing her down that you’ve forgotten the larger picture.”

“The larger picture?” Sharon echoed, her voice rising with indignation. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked! I’ve sown doubt, spread rumors—”

“Yes, and you’ve made a spectacle of yourself in the process,” Lord Carter snapped. “The other lords see your bitterness, your jealousy. They wonder if you’re motivated by politics or by personal vendetta.”

Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “I’m not jealous.”

“Then start acting like it.” His tone softened just a fraction, but there was no kindness in it. “If you continue to act out of spite, it won’t be long before they dismiss you as a scorned woman and ignore you entirely.”

Sharon stiffened, the words landing like a slap. “Father—”

“You will listen to me.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper. “You will set aside your personal feelings toward her and start acting strategically. No more open hostility. No more scathing remarks.”

Her throat tightened, a flush of anger rising up within her. “And what am I supposed to do? Smile and play the obedient daughter?”

“No,” Lord Carter said slowly, his gaze piercing. “You will do something much more valuable.”

He turned his back on her and moved closer to the fire, watching the flames as if they held all the answers. “You will make sure she never produces an heir.”

Sharon blinked, confusion creasing her brow. “What? How am I supposed to—”

“Contraceptives,” he interrupted, his voice low and calm. “Subtle, untraceable. Something you’ll slip into her tea—every morning, every evening. She’ll never know.”

Her mouth dropped open again, shock flashing across her face. “You want me to poison her?”

“Not poison,” Lord Carter corrected, his gaze hardening. “Prevent. The council is growing impatient, and so is the king. All this talk of producing an heir has everyone on edge. If she remains barren, if there is no child… it’s only a matter of time before they turn on her. The king will have no choice but to seek a solution elsewhere.”

Sharon stared at her father, a mix of horror and awe flooding her chest. “You’re going to sabotage her chances of ever having a child.”

“Yes,” he said simply, the flames reflecting in his eyes like a promise of destruction. “And when the time comes, the council will demand he take a consort. Someone more capable. Someone who can give him what she cannot. . . and I will have you as a candidate.”

Sharon’s heart pounded, her mind racing as the full scope of his plan unfolded before her. “And if they find out—”

“They won’t,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “The contraceptives will be untraceable, with no lasting effects. And by the time anyone realizes what’s happened, it will be far too late. The damage will already be done.”

Sharon swallowed hard, her throat tight as she forced herself to nod. “And what do I do until then?”

“You remain discreet,” Lord Carter said, turning to face her fully now. “You keep to the background. No more rants, no more public displays of resentment. Let them think you’ve stepped back, that you’ve accepted your place.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction. “The queen trusts the palace servants—use that. When she’s distracted, add the contraceptives to her tea. Once it’s in her system, she’ll be unable to conceive, and the king will have no heir—you need to be consistent. . . otherwise it won’t work. And with every passing day, the council’s discontent will grow.”

Sharon nodded slowly, feeling the last traces of defiance melt away, replaced by cold determination. “I understand,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” He turned back to the fire, his voice distant and calm. “And remember, Sharon—this isn’t about you. This is about securing our family’s influence and power. Don’t let your emotions ruin it.”

She nodded again, throat tight as she turned on her heel and left the study, his words echoing in her ears like a dark mantra.

Slip the contraception into her tea. Make her unable to produce an heir. And when the queen finally falls, the Carters will be there to take their place at the center of the kingdom’s power.

As she stepped into the dimly lit hallway, Sharon exhaled slowly, smoothing her hands over the front of her gown. She would do what needed to be done.

And when the queen finally fell, Sharon would be there to make sure she never got up again.

× × × ×

The room was filled with the sound of ragged breaths, heavy pants mingling with the low, needy moans that escaped your lips. The air was thick with heat, every whisper of movement, every shift of fabric, adding to the maddening tension that enveloped you both.

You clutched onto Bucky’s shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, using it as leverage as you rode him with a rhythm that left you trembling. The dress, though still draped around your frame, felt more like a cage now, the layers of fabric bunched up and tangled around your waist, trapping the heat between your bodies.

Bucky’s hands, strong and possessive, roamed over the curve of your buttocks, slipping beneath the folds of your gown, fingers kneading the soft flesh as he pulled you down against him, urging you to move faster, harder. The friction of his trousers against your bare thighs sent shivers of pleasure coursing through you, and you gasped, your head falling back as you lost yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him filling you so completely.

“God, you feel…” Bucky’s voice was a rough rasp, his words breaking off into a groan as you shifted, the change in angle drawing a deep, guttural sound from his throat. His hands gripped you tighter, almost to the point of pain, but it only heightened the pleasure, the sensation of being utterly consumed by him. “So tight… so perfect… just like that, my queen.”

You moaned in response, the sound echoing in the quiet room, your body moving with a desperate, primal rhythm that matched the erratic beat of your heart. Each roll of your hips, each slide of your body against his, sent waves of pleasure crashing over you, building higher and higher with every pulse of heat, every brush of his skin against yours.

The feel of him inside you, hard and filling, drove you to the edge, your entire being attuned to the way his breath hitched, the way his grip on you tightened each time you moved. You could feel every ridge, every inch of him, stretching you, filling you, making you ache in the best possible way. The sensation of being so utterly full, so completely claimed, was intoxicating, a heady mix of pleasure and pain that had you gasping for breath.

“James…” You whimpered his name, your voice a breathless plea, your nails raking down his chest as you arched against him, desperate for more, for everything he could give you. Your movements grew more erratic, more frenzied, each thrust of your hips meeting his in a clash of heat and desire that left you both trembling.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice low and rough, his gaze fixed on you with a possessive intensity that made your heart stutter. “Ride me like you were made for it… you’re taking me so perfectly. So beautiful.”

His words sent a surge of heat through you, your body tightening around him in response, drawing a strangled curse from his lips. He shifted beneath you, his hips bucking upwards to meet your movements, each powerful thrust driving you higher, the pleasure spiraling out of control.

“Please… don’t stop,” you panted, your voice breaking on a moan as he shifted again, his grip on your backside tightening as he pulled you down harder, his gaze never leaving your face. “Don’t… God, James…”

“I won’t,” he growled, his voice a dark promise, his eyes burning with a feral hunger that sent a shiver through you. “I won’t stop… not until I feel you shatter around me. Not until I’ve had you again… and again… until you can’t think of anything but this. But me.”

His words, the low, heated tone of his voice, sent you spiraling, your body tensing as the pleasure built to a dizzying crescendo. You could feel it coiling deep within you, an unstoppable force gathering strength, tightening, ready to snap.

Bucky’s grip shifted, one hand moving to your waist, the other sliding up your back to fist in your hair, pulling you down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss that sent you over the edge, your body convulsing around him as you cried out, the pleasure crashing through you in relentless waves.

He swallowed your cries, his mouth devouring yours as he thrust up into you, each movement drawing out the sensation, prolonging the ecstasy until you were shaking, trembling in his arms.

“James!” You gasped his name, your entire body quaking as the pleasure crested, the intensity of it leaving you breathless, boneless, completely at his mercy.

And still, he didn’t stop. His hands continued to guide your movements, his hips driving up to meet yours in a relentless rhythm that left you gasping, your entire body thrumming with the aftershocks of your release. The feel of him inside you, still hot and hard and so very, very present, sent another shudder through you, and you whimpered, your head falling to his shoulder.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough and unsteady, his breath hot against your ear. “Taking everything I give you… aren’t you?”

“Yes, my king.” you breathed, your voice a broken moan, your body pliant, yielding to his every touch, his every word.

“Then take a little more,” he growled, his hands tightening on your hips, holding you still as he thrust up into you one last time, his body going rigid beneath you as he found his own release, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat.

You felt him shudder against you, his body trembling as he buried himself deep, the sensation of him pulsing inside you sending another wave of heat coursing through your veins. He thrusted into you over and over until he was spent, having given you every ounce of come he had. And then, slowly, reluctantly, he relaxed, his grip on you loosening as he exhaled a shuddering breath.

The room was quiet once more, save for the sound of your ragged breathing, the rapid thrum of your heart slowly easing as you clung to him, your body still quivering in the aftermath.

He kissed you again, slow and languid, savoring the taste of your mouth like a man starved. His tongue swept against yours, coaxing another soft moan from your lips. The kiss deepened, his hand tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer, like he couldn’t bear to let you go, like he needed to drown in you just a little longer.

But just as his lips found that tender spot at the corner of your mouth—

A sharp knock echoed through the room.

You froze, your breath hitching as the sound cut through the haze of desire that still clung to you both. Bucky stiffened beneath you, his gaze snapping to the door, frustration flashing across his face.

“Not now,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He turned back to you, his eyes blazing with the need to continue what had been so rudely interrupted. His fingers tightened on your waist, drawing you closer as if to shield you from the intrusion.

“Your Majesty—” came a hesitant voice from the other side of the door.

“Go. Away.” Bucky bit out, his teeth clenched. He pressed a lingering kiss to your lips, his grip on you remained.

But the voice persisted. “It’s urgent.”

With a deep, frustrated sigh, Bucky forced himself to pull away, his lips brushing against your forehead one last time before he moved to stand. He reached for his trousers, yanking them up with an annoyed huff, the fabric whispering as he buttoned them hastily. He tucked his shirt back in, smoothing out the wrinkles with brisk, jerky movements. His fingers worked quickly to adjust the waistband, every action brimming with irritation.

You watched, your pulse still pounding in your ears, as he deftly fastened his belt, the clink of metal ringing sharply in the quiet room. His jaw was set, his brow furrowed in concentration as he straightened his attire, each movement sharp and precise, trying to regain control over himself.

Bucky ran a hand through his tousled hair, pushing the disheveled strands back in place, then tugged at his shirt collar, tucking it in properly with a final flick of his fingers.

The urge to reach out and pull him back to you was overwhelming, but you forced yourself to stay still, your eyes tracing the rigid line of his shoulders as he turned toward the door.

“Come in,” he barked, his tone sharp and impatient.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing Sam, his expression caught somewhere between anxious and apologetic. His eyes darted briefly to you, taking in your flushed cheeks and Bucky’s still-wrathful demeanor before he quickly looked away, clearing his throat.

“Your Majesty,” Sam began, his voice careful, “forgive the intrusion, but… there’s an issue that needs your attention immediately.”

Bucky’s gaze darkened, his jaw clenching as he fought to rein in his irritation. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, smoothing out the fabric one last time. “And it couldn’t wait?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably, swallowing hard. “No, sir. It’s—well, the council is in an uproar. They’re demanding to speak with you. It’s about the queen.”

Your heart squeezed at his words, and you glanced up at Bucky, your fingers tightening instinctively around the edge of your gown. He turned to you, his expression softening ever so slightly as he took a step forward, his fingers brushing gently against yours.

“I’ll handle it,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Stay here, Y/N. I won’t be long.”

You nodded, though the worry gnawing at your chest refused to ease. Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he turned away, his posture tense, his expression shuttered. He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort to remain composed.

“Let’s go,” he muttered to Sam, his voice low and dangerous. He cast one last glance back at you before striding purposefully toward the door, the soft click of it closing behind him echoing through the room like a finality.

And as the silence settled once more, you exhaled slowly, your mind swirling with unease. Because whatever awaited Bucky out there, you knew it was only the beginning of something far more complicated.

× × × ×

Bucky strode through the double doors, the faint murmur of his boots against the polished marble the only sound breaking the oppressive stillness. All eyes turned to him, a mix of wariness and expectation filling the room.

Prime Minister Fury cleared his throat, stepping forward with a respectful bow. “Your Majesty, we thank you for joining us so swiftly.”

Bucky’s gaze swept over the gathered lords, his expression cold and unyielding. He took his place at the head of the long table, eyes narrowed as he regarded each council member in turn.

“Why have I been summoned?” His tone was clipped, betraying the simmering irritation beneath his composed exterior.

Lord Haynesworth, always eager to play the voice of reason, leaned forward. “Your Majesty, there have been… troubling whispers circulating the court.” He glanced at the other lords for support before continuing cautiously. “Whispers regarding the queen and Captain Rogers.”

“Whispers?” Bucky’s voice was low, dangerous. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as his gaze sharpened. “What kind of whispers?”

A murmur of unease rippled through the room, the lords exchanging wary glances. Finally, Lord Pierce spoke up, his voice carefully measured. “There are rumors that the captain’s… interest in the queen is more than that of a mere guard.”

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Bucky’s eyes darkened, the air around him seeming to crackle with barely restrained fury. “And what proof do you have to support these allegations?” he asked softly, his voice a lethal whisper.

The lords hesitated, each one glancing at the others, clearly caught off guard by the question.

“There is no… direct evidence, Your Majesty,” Prime Minister Fury admitted reluctantly, his gaze faltering. “But the captain’s presence around the queen—”

“Presence?” Bucky cut in sharply, his voice rising. “His presence is at my command. I ordered him to stay by her side. So I ask again—what evidence do you have that my orders have been misconstrued?”

Silence met his words. The lords shifted uneasily, the tension in the room thickening as Bucky’s gaze bore into each of them.

“Nothing?” Bucky’s voice was deceptively soft, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “You summoned me here based on nothing more than baseless gossip?”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Carter ventured cautiously, his voice smooth and conciliatory. “The concern is not just the rumors themselves, but the impact they may have on the queen’s reputation, and by extension, the Crown. If the people begin to believe—”

“Believe what?” Bucky snapped, his voice cracking like a whip through the chamber. “That the queen is a woman of loose morals? That she would dishonor me and this crown with one of my most trusted men? The mere suggestion is an insult not only to her but to me as well.”

The lords exchanged anxious glances, the king’s rage palpable in the air.

“Your Majesty, we meant no disrespect,” Lord Haynesworth said quickly, his tone placating. “But these rumors—”

“Are a disgrace,” Bucky finished coldly, his gaze turning to steel. “And I want to know who started them.”

The council stilled, shock rippling through the room.

“Find the source of these whispers,” Bucky ordered, his voice firm and unyielding. “And when you do, bring them to me. Whoever has dared to spread lies about my wife and Captain Rogers will face the full weight of the Crown’s wrath.”

“Your Majesty,” Prime Minister Fury interjected cautiously, his gaze flickering with unease. “Surely we can handle this matter discreetly. There’s no need to—”

“Do you think I am playing, Prime Minister?” Bucky’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper, his gaze icy. “I want them found. And I want everyone to know what happens when they seek to undermine my authority with petty gossip. I will not tolerate anyone questioning my wife’s honor.”

A tense silence fell over the room, the council members exchanging wary looks.

“Is that understood?” Bucky demanded, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they murmured in unison, heads bowing in reluctant acquiescence.

“Good.” Bucky straightened, his expression hard. “And one more thing.”

The lords held their breath, waiting.

“Any man caught speaking against the queen without proof—any man—will find himself stripped of title and position. Do I make myself clear?”

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions taut with apprehension. But they knew better than to argue.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they echoed again, the words heavy with resignation.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer, his expression a mask of cold fury. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the doors, his cloak billowing behind him.

Just as he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And if any of you doubt my resolve,” he said softly, his voice like ice, “remember this moment. Because it will be the last time I allow such disrespect to go unpunished.”

The silence that followed Bucky’s last, chilling words was thick, oppressive. It hung in the air like a noose, tightening around the lords as they exchanged uneasy glances, knowing they had overstepped, but uncertain how to make amends.

Just as Bucky turned back toward the door, a slow, mocking clap echoed from the far end of the room, the sound startling in its suddenness. Heads whipped around, eyes widening as they spotted the figure lounging in the shadows.

A man stepped forward, his movements unhurried, his posture casual yet carrying an undeniable authority. His dark hair fell loosely around his face, and a smirk curved his lips—a smirk that spoke of mischief and danger in equal measure. He moved with a feline grace, each step deliberate, as if he were completely unfazed by the tension gripping the room.

“Brother,” he drawled, his voice rich with amusement as his eyes—glinting with an almost feral light—fixed on Bucky. “Now that was a performance worth every second.”

Bucky’s gaze hardened as he turned to face the newcomer fully. “Isaac,” he acknowledged curtly, his voice devoid of warmth. “What are you doing here?”

Prince Ikarus, or Isaac as he likes to be called was Bucky’s younger twin brother—known to the court as a wild card, a force of nature as unpredictable as a storm—tilted his head, his smile widening as he glanced at the assembled lords, his eyes glinting with something dark and dangerous.

“I was just passing through,” he said lazily, his gaze sweeping over the noblemen, who stiffened under his scrutiny. “And I couldn’t help but overhear this… charming little gathering.”

He stopped a few feet away from Bucky, his smile fading slightly as he took in his brother’s tense stance, the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface.

“You looked like you could use a bit of… support,” he added, his voice softening—just a fraction, but enough for Bucky to notice the hint of concern hidden beneath the teasing façade.

The lords shifted uneasily, clearly unsettled by Prince Isaac’s sudden appearance. His reputation as a man who thrived on chaos, who delighted in pushing boundaries, was well known. And now, faced with both brothers—one an unyielding king, the other a dangerous enigma—they found themselves caught between the hammer and the anvil.

“Support?” Bucky repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of support, exactly?”

Isaac’s grin returned, sharp and gleaming as a blade. “Oh, you know, just a little reminder of what happens to those who speak out of turn.” He leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting lazily over the lords before settling back on Bucky. “For instance, I hear the scold’s bridle is quite effective at silencing loose tongues.”

A ripple of shock ran through the room, several lords exchanging horrified glances. The scold’s bridle—a cruel, medieval punishment used to silence women accused of gossiping or speaking out—hadn’t been mentioned in court for centuries. The very suggestion of bringing it back was enough to send a chill down the spines of even the most hardened noblemen.

“Prince Isaac,” Lord Pierce began hesitantly, his voice strained. “Surely you jest—”

“Do I?” Isaac interrupted smoothly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Because I’m not entirely sure I do, Lord Pierce. The idea of seeing a few of you donning that particular accessory…” He trailed off, his smile turning almost feral. “Well, it does have a certain appeal.”

“Enough, Isaac,” Bucky said sharply, his gaze never leaving his brother’s. “We are not bringing back barbaric punishments to deal with petty gossip.”

Isaac’s eyes flicked back to Bucky, his smile fading into something more serious, more thoughtful. “Oh, but this is no ordinary gossip, is it?” he murmured softly. “They’re questioning your authority. Your marriage. Your wife’s honor. I would think that calls for a rather… memorable response.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he held his brother’s gaze. For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them.

Then, slowly, Bucky’s lips curved into a smile—one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I appreciate your… enthusiasm, brother,” he said quietly, his voice steady but carrying an edge of warning. “But I am perfectly capable of handling this matter.”

Isaac studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then, with a slight shrug, he stepped back, his hands raised in a gesture of mock surrender.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, the smile never leaving his lips. “I’m merely here to… observe.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer before he turned back to the lords, his expression hardening once more.

“Find the source,” he ordered coldly, his voice carrying the weight of an unbreakable command. “And if I hear one more word—one more whisper—about my wife, or Captain Rogers, or anything else that questions my authority…”

He glanced back at Isaac, his gaze turning icy. “I may not bring back the scold’s bridle, but rest assured—there are other ways to silence a tongue.”

The threat hung in the air, chilling and unmistakable. The lords nodded hurriedly, their faces pale, and the chamber fell into a tense, uneasy silence.

Satisfied, Bucky turned and strode out of the room, his cloak billowing behind him. Isaac watched him go, a thoughtful expression on his face.

As the doors closed behind the king, the lords finally released the breaths they hadn’t realized they’d been holding.

Lord Haynesworth swallowed hard, his gaze darting nervously to Isaac. “Your Highness, you… you can’t be serious about the scold’s bridle, can you?”

Isaac’s smile was slow, almost lazy, as he turned his gaze to the trembling lord. “Oh, I never joke about punishment, Lord Haynesworth.”

The lords exchanged wary glances, clearly unsure of how to respond. But Isaac’s gaze had already drifted away, his mind elsewhere, as if the conversation had already ceased to interest him.

“Let us hope,” he murmured softly, almost to himself, “that no one is foolish enough to test the king’s patience further.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strolled out of the chamber, leaving the lords staring after him, their minds racing with fear and uncertainty.

Because one thing was clear: whether it was Bucky’s iron fist or Isaac’s unpredictable cruelty, those who sought to undermine the Crown would soon learn that the Barnes brothers were not to be trifled with.

As the heavy doors closed behind the Barnes brothers, the lords exchanged uneasy glances, the atmosphere thick with barely restrained tension. The king’s fury had shaken them, but the presence of Prince Isaac—his dark humor and thinly veiled threats—had left them truly unsettled.

Lord Haynesworth was the first to speak, his voice tight with anxiety. “By God, the king truly lost his temper this time.”

“We should have expected as much,” Lord Pierce murmured, shaking his head slowly. “The king has always been fiercely protective of those he cares about.”

Lord Carter leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Yes… but it seems the queen is more valuable to him than we anticipated.”

“Valuable?” Lord Stark interjected, his gaze sharp as he regarded Lord Carter with open suspicion. “The queen is not some pawn to be valued and assessed. She is the king’s wife—and more importantly, she’s been a steady hand in the chaos we’ve created.”

Lord Thor nodded firmly beside Stark, his broad frame leaning forward, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the table. “Stark is right. She is proving herself capable, and that is what matters. And as for Captain Rogers—” he paused, his eyes narrowing as he glanced around the table— “he’s done nothing to warrant these accusations.”

“Of course, Lord Thor,” Lord Carter agreed smoothly, his expression deceptively innocent. “But perception is everything, is it not? The court’s perception, the people’s perception—these things shape the strength of the Crown.”

“Perception is shaped by those who whisper in the shadows, spreading lies and stoking fears,” Lord Romanoff interjected coolly, his gaze locking onto Carter. “I wonder who benefits most from such whispers?”

“Indeed,” Lord Stark added, his voice like a blade. “Who stands to gain from undermining the queen’s position?”

The room fell silent, all eyes on Lord Carter, who merely smiled, a picture of calm amidst the storm. “Gentlemen, I assure you, I have nothing but the stability of the Crown in mind.”

“And yet, you seem quite at ease stirring the pot,” Lord Loki murmured, his voice a low purr as he leaned back, his gaze shrewd. “One might almost suspect you enjoy watching it boil over.”

A ripple of tension passed through the room, but Lord Carter merely shrugged, his smile unwavering. “I am only concerned with ensuring that the Crown is safeguarded against any… potential vulnerabilities.”

“And what vulnerabilities might those be?” Thor demanded, his tone dangerously low. “If you have evidence to support these accusations, speak it now. If not, then perhaps it’s time we stopped entertaining idle speculation.”

Lord Carter’s gaze flicked to Thor, the faintest hint of a challenge in his eyes. “If the king himself is ordering an investigation, who am I to contradict him?”

“You’re a man who clearly wants to see how far he can push his influence,” Lord Stark retorted sharply. “But I’ll tell you this, Carter: I’ll not stand by while you tear down everything we’ve fought to build. And that includes our support of the queen.”

“Is that so?” Lord Pierce murmured, his gaze flicking to the others. “Are we all agreed, then, that we trust the queen’s intentions and see no fault in the captain’s presence?”

There was a murmur of assent from Thor, Loki, Stark, and Romanoff, their loyalty to Bucky and his chosen allies clear.

But the hesitation from the other lords was palpable, their eyes darting nervously to one another before settling back on Carter, whose smile widened ever so slightly.

“Loyalty is admirable,” Carter said softly, his voice smooth as silk. “But loyalty, when misplaced, can be… dangerous.”

A chill swept through the room, the lords shifting uneasily as they digested his words.

“Enough of this,” Fury interjected firmly, his voice cutting through the rising tension like a knife. “The king’s orders are clear. We are to find the source of these rumors and ensure that this matter is put to rest once and for all.”

“Agreed,” Lord Pierce said quietly, his gaze thoughtful. “But let us not forget what Lord Carter said earlier. The king’s loyalty can be a double-edged sword. If we push too hard… we risk losing his favor.”

“Or perhaps,” Loki interjected softly, his gaze lingering on Carter, “we simply risk revealing who truly holds sway over his decisions.”

Carter’s eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous, but his smile remained intact. “You seem rather… invested in this, Lord Loki.”

“Only in seeing justice done,” Loki replied smoothly. “And ensuring that no one with ulterior motives takes advantage of a situation already fraught with tension.”

“Ulterior motives?” Lord Haynesworth echoed uneasily, glancing between Carter and the other lords.

“Yes, ulterior motives,” Lord Stark cut in, his gaze never leaving Carter’s. “The only question is, whose motives are they?”

Carter’s smile finally faded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “Careful, Stark. You wouldn’t want to find yourself on the wrong side of this conversation.”

“Is that a threat?” Tony asked, a sharp edge to his voice.

Carter’s smile returned, colder this time. “A warning. To all of us. Because if the king is willing to defend the queen so fiercely now, just imagine what he’ll do if he thinks we’re working against her.”

Thor’s fist slammed onto the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber. “Enough! We’re here to protect the Crown, not tear each other apart. This is exactly what those spreading rumors want—discord, infighting. I will not be party to it.”

A murmur of agreement followed his words, the tension easing just slightly as the lords shifted, reassessing.

“We will follow the king’s orders,” Fury said firmly. “But we do so with caution. We need to keep our eyes open—for every possible outcome.”

“And for every possible enemy,” Loki added quietly, his gaze still fixed on Carter.

The room fell silent once more, each man lost in his own thoughts, the weight of unspoken suspicions and half-formed alliances pressing down like a heavy shroud.

And as the lords finally began to file out, exchanging wary glances, one thing was clear: the battle for influence over the king—and the queen—was far from over.

× × × ×

Bucky stood at the head of a private chamber adjacent to the grand council room, the heavy wooden doors sealing him away from the prying eyes of his advisors. The room was lit up by a single chandelier overhead, his gaze was fixed on a map spread out on the table before him, but his mind was far from the ink and paper. He wasn’t brooding—no, brooding suggested indecision, and he couldn’t afford that luxury.

Isaac lounged against the far wall, his usual air of nonchalance nowhere to be seen. He’d been silent for some time now, eyes trained on his brother with a sharpness that few ever glimpsed beneath his playful facade.

“You knew,” Isaac said quietly, breaking the silence. It wasn’t a question, but a statement—a challenge even. “You knew it would come to this.”

Bucky’s lips twitched in the semblance of a bitter smile. “Of course, I did.” He glanced up, meeting Isaac’s gaze with a calm, unflinching stare. “The moment we stood in front of the council with no heir to speak of, I knew there’d be whispers. That’s why I ordered Steve to stay close to Y/N.”

He shifted his weight slightly, fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of the table as he continued. “I wanted to see who would be the first to take those whispers and turn them into weapons. And I wanted them to feel confident enough to move. That’s the only way to draw them out.”

Isaac’s brow furrowed, his lips curving into a slow smile. “So you’ve been using Captain Rogers as bait?” His voice carried a hint of admiration, laced with a trace of something darker. “You’re more ruthless than I thought, brother.”

Bucky shrugged, his expression hardening. “I needed to know who would dare. And I know they’re out there.”

Isaac raised an eyebrow, intrigue sparking in his eyes. “Who?”

Bucky glanced down at the map, his gaze sweeping over the names marked along the edges. Each one belonged to a noble house, a prominent family in the realm—a member of his council. Men who wielded power not just through their titles, but through their influence, their alliances.

“Whoever they are,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone, “they’re part of the council. I’ve seen the way they exchange glances, the careful way they speak around me—like they’re testing the waters, seeing how far they can push.”

He leaned over the table, his fingers brushing over the marked names—each one a potential traitor, a possible conspirator. “But I don’t know who yet. Not for certain.”

Isaac’s grin widened, a hint of excitement glinting in his eyes. “So, what’s your plan?”

“Let them think they’re gaining ground,” Bucky said softly, his gaze darkening. “Let them believe I’m too distracted, too burdened by the pressure of producing an heir to notice their scheming. They’ll grow bolder, make mistakes.”

Isaac tilted his head, studying his brother with newfound respect. “And when they do?”

Bucky’s eyes sharpened, his voice hardening with resolve. “I’ll be there to catch them. All of them.”

Isaac’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming. “So, what’s my role in this little drama?”

Bucky regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. “You’re going to dig deeper—under the table. Quietly. Find out who’s speaking to whom, what promises are being made, and to whom. Leave no stone unturned, no matter how small.”

Isaac straightened, a gleam of something dangerous sparking in his gaze. “And when I do?”

Bucky’s expression didn’t waver. “We’ll tighten the noose around their necks. But only when I’m ready.”

A silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. Isaac nodded slowly, pushing off the wall and taking a step toward the door.

“I like it,” he murmured, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his lips. “But you know I’ll have to get creative. This sort of under-the-table investigation doesn’t lend itself well to… conventional methods.”

“I don’t care how you do it,” Bucky said evenly, his voice carrying a weight that brooked no argument. “Just make sure no one traces it back to us.”

Isaac inclined his head, his smile widening. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

He turned to leave, but paused just as he reached the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “You know… I haven’t met the queen yet,” he said casually, the statement laced with an edge of mischief. “Does she even know I exist?”

Bucky’s gaze hardened, his voice low and firm. “You’ll meet her when the time is right, Isaac. Until then… stay focused.”

Isaac’s eyes glinted with something unreadable, but he merely nodded, pushing the door open and stepping out into the corridor beyond.

As the door closed behind him, Bucky exhaled slowly, his shoulders straightening as he turned back to the map on the table.

But Isaac’s question still hung in the air, and Bucky glanced back at the closed door, his thoughts spinning.

He didn’t know who the traitors were yet. But he could feel them circling like vultures, waiting for him to falter, to stumble. They were careful—too careful. And that caution was telling. Only men who feared exposure behaved so cautiously.

Bucky’s fingers tapped against the table, his gaze narrowing. “It’s not just one,” he muttered to himself, his voice low, a dark edge lacing each word. “It’s a group.”

He let out a slow breath, his gaze sweeping over the council’s names once more.

“They’re part of the council,” he murmured, a humorless smile curving his lips. “Hidden among the men I’m supposed to trust.”

But trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not now. Not until he knew exactly who was behind the shadows cast over his reign.

Straightening, Bucky turned away from the map, his expression hardening once more. “Let them think they’re winning,” he murmured softly, his gaze distant and calculating. “Because when the hammer falls… it’ll fall hard.”

He glanced back at the door one last time, his expression resolute. He would not be a weak king. He would not be a pawn in his own court.

He was the King of this realm. And he would crush anyone who dared to forget it.

× × × ×

Next day.

The late afternoon sunlight streams through the tall windows of the palace drawing room, casting a soft, warm glow over the intricately decorated space. You sit near the hearth, your attention shifting between Wanda, who speaks animatedly, and Nat, who lounges back in her chair, a faint smile playing on her lips as she listens.

Pepper moves gracefully around the room, setting out a fresh tray of delicate pastries and refilling teacups. Laughter bubbles softly as Wanda recounts a recent diplomatic visit.

“—and you should have seen his face when I suggested the princess of Cerion join us for the ball,” Wanda says with a sly grin. “He looked as though I’d asked him to dance with a bear!”

Nat chuckles, shaking her head. “The princess or the bear would be equally entertaining. Can’t say I’d blame him either way.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips, warmth flooding your gaze as you glance at Pepper, who rolls her eyes with an affectionate sigh. “Really, Wanda. You shouldn’t be toying with poor Lord Bateman like that. You’ll give him a heart attack.”

“Serves him right for underestimating us,” Wanda replies with a mock huff. “Maybe next time he’ll think twice before making such… colorful remarks about the queen.”

Your smile falters for just a fraction of a second, but Nat notices. She leans forward, resting a hand gently on your arm. “He’s just a pompous idiot. His words mean nothing.”

You nod, grateful for her support, but before you can respond, the grand double doors to the drawing room swing open, and Sharon Carter steps inside.

Conversation stills instantly, the soft laughter fading as all eyes turn toward her. She stands framed in the doorway, her expression carefully composed but tinged with an emotion you can’t quite place. She hesitates just long enough to be noticeable before taking a deep breath and stepping forward, closing the door softly behind her.

“Your Majesty,” Sharon greets quietly, a hint of uncertainty in her tone. She glances at the other women, nodding respectfully. “Wanda, Natasha… Lady Potts.”

“Sharon,” Wanda replies, a brow arching ever so slightly as she leans back in her chair. “What brings you here?” Her voice is light, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath the politeness.

You straighten slightly, exchanging a glance with Nat, who gives a subtle nod, as if to say Let’s hear what she has to say. With a cautious smile, you gesture to one of the empty chairs. “You’re welcome to join us, Sharon. Is something on your mind?”

Sharon swallows, her fingers twisting together in a gesture that almost looks like nervousness. She steps further into the room but keeps her distance, her gaze focused on you.

“I wanted to speak with you, Your Majesty. To apologize,” Sharon says, her voice steady but quiet. “For the way I’ve behaved in the past.”

Wanda and Nat exchange quick, skeptical glances, while Pepper’s hand pauses over the teapot, her gaze flicking to Sharon with measured curiosity.

“Apologize?” Pepper echoes softly, setting the teapot down with a gentle clink. “That’s… unexpected.”

Sharon nods, taking another step closer, though still keeping a respectful distance. “Yes. I know my actions and words have been… less than kind.” She pauses, eyes dropping to the floor as if gathering her thoughts. “I’ve let my emotions get the better of me, and I’ve judged you unfairly, Your Majesty. I’ve spoken out of turn, assumed the worst, and for that… I am truly sorry.”

You blink, surprise flickering across your face. You’ve heard countless apologies in your time at court—some genuine, others dripping with false sincerity. But there’s something in Sharon’s tone, in the way her voice almost trembles, that gives you pause.

“People say things they don’t mean when they’re hurt or frustrated,” you reply carefully, your voice measured. “But what brought this on, Sharon? Why now?”

Sharon swallows again, glancing up with eyes that seem brighter than usual. “I… I’ve had time to reflect on my actions. To see the impact my words have had—not just on you, but on everyone in the court. I let my emotions guide me because… because I was angry and felt overlooked. I thought I had a right to be resentful, but…” She shakes her head, gaze dropping again. “I see now that I was wrong. I was unfair.”

Wanda’s eyes narrow, her fingers drumming lightly on the arm of her chair. “And you expect us to believe this sudden change of heart?”

“No,” Sharon says quickly, looking up again, her expression earnest. “I don’t expect you to believe me—not right away. But I want to try to make amends, to show that I’m sincere.”

You exchange a glance with Nat, then Pepper, who gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Your gaze softens as you turn back to Sharon. “What is it that you’re asking for, then?”

Sharon hesitates, then takes a step forward, dropping into a graceful curtsy. “I’m asking for the chance to help. To be of service in whatever way I can. I know I’ve been… difficult to work with, but I want to change that. I want to prove that I can be an asset to you, Your Majesty.”

Nat scoffs softly, crossing her arms over her chest. “And how exactly do you plan to do that, Sharon?”

Sharon glances at her, then back at you. “I’ve been at the palace more often, observing how things work, learning the routines. I thought… I could help with some of the smaller tasks. Things that don’t require much trust—yet.”

“Tasks like?” Pepper prods gently, her gaze never leaving Sharon’s face.

Sharon bites her lip, looking almost sheepish. “Like assisting with the morning tea service, helping with correspondence, perhaps just until Lady Rambeau gets back from her leave?”

Pepper’s brow furrows slightly, surprise flickering in her eyes. “You want to help… with tea?”

Sharon nods earnestly. “Yes, anything that would let me be useful, even in a small way. I just want to prove that I can change. That I can be someone worthy of serving you, Your Majesty.”

The silence that follows is heavy, tense. You can feel the weight of everyone’s gaze on you, waiting to see how you’ll respond. You study Sharon’s face, searching for any hint of deception, any trace of the bitterness that had so often colored your interactions.

But Sharon’s gaze is steady, her expression open and… vulnerable.

Finally, you let out a soft sigh, a small, tentative smile tugging at your lips. “Very well, Sharon. I’ll give you the chance to prove yourself.”

Wanda and Nat both shoot you incredulous looks, but you hold up a hand, silencing them. “Everyone deserves a chance to change. And if Sharon is sincere, then I’m willing to see where this goes.”

Sharon’s shoulders sag with visible relief, and she nods gratefully. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I won’t let you down.”

“Start by joining us for tea,” you suggest, gesturing to the table. “We can discuss more about how you’d like to help.”

Sharon hesitates, glancing around at the women, then nods and moves forward. Wanda and Nat’s eyes follow her every move, but Pepper, ever the gracious hostess, hands her a cup of tea with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Sharon murmurs, her fingers trembling slightly as she accepts the cup. She looks up at you, a tentative smile on her lips. “This means a lot to me.”

“I hope you’ll make the most of it,” you reply softly, though there’s a note of caution in your voice. “We all want what’s best for the kingdom.”

Sharon nods fervently, lowering her gaze as she sips from the cup, the picture of humility and contrition.

And as the conversation resumes around her, she glances down at the tray of tea—her eyes lingering on your cup—before quickly looking away, a satisfied smile ghosting across her lips.

The first step has been taken. And you will never see what’s coming.

× × × ×

You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the tension lingering from Sharon’s unexpected visit. Her apology had sounded genuine—almost too genuine—and now it’s left you more conflicted than ever.

As you turn to head toward your chambers, soft but purposeful footsteps echo behind you.

“Queen Y/N,” Natasha calls quietly.

You glance over your shoulder, watching as she approaches with that guarded expression she often wears when something’s weighing on her mind. Before you can even ask, she gently places a hand on your arm and steers you toward a small alcove, away from the passing servants and prying eyes.

“Nat?” you murmur, a hint of concern threading through your voice. “What’s wrong?”

Instead of answering right away, Natasha’s gaze sweeps the corridor, ensuring the two of you are truly alone. When she finally meets your eyes again, there’s a seriousness there that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Listen to me,” she begins softly, her voice low and calm, but carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. “About Sharon’s apology today… don’t let it sway you too much.”

The words land like a stone in your chest. You blink at her, trying to push back the confusion—and the small flicker of hurt. “You don’t think she was being sincere?”

Natasha shakes her head slowly, her grip tightening ever so slightly on your arm. “It’s not about sincerity. Sharon may very well believe everything she said. But even sincere apologies can hide other motives.”

A deep sigh escapes you, and you lean back against the wall, letting the cool stone steady you. “Then what am I supposed to do? She’s already offered to help with small tasks. Turning her away now would seem—”

“No, don’t turn her away,” Natasha interrupts, her gaze softening just a fraction. “Let her help, let her do exactly what she’s offered. But don’t give her more than that. Don’t give her information she could use—anything you wouldn’t want to become court gossip or twisted into something else.”

You close your eyes briefly, trying to reconcile what you know about Sharon with what Nat’s saying. “She looked so sincere, Nat. For the first time, it felt like maybe—”

“Like maybe you could have a friend in her?” Natasha finishes gently, her tone understanding. She takes a step closer, her voice dropping even lower. “I understand, my queen. You want to believe the best in people. You want to give them chances. That’s what makes you… you. But you have to be careful. Just because someone’s smile looks real doesn’t mean their intentions are.”

“But what if she’s telling the truth?” you ask softly, meeting Nat’s steady gaze. “What if she’s genuinely trying to make amends?”

Natasha’s lips curve into a faint, almost sad smile. “Then she’ll prove it, over time. But don’t give her your trust all at once. Make her earn it, piece by piece.”

You swallow, nodding slowly, but the doubt lingers. “Do you think she would really try to… to hurt me? Even now?”

Natasha doesn’t hesitate. “I think people are capable of doing a lot worse than we think when they’re desperate.” She reaches out, lifting your chin gently until your eyes meet hers. “I’m not saying she’s dangerous. I’m saying she’s unpredictable. And that’s enough of a reason to be wary.”

You nod again, this time more firmly. “I understand. I’ll be careful.”

“Good.” Nat’s fingers brush lightly against your arm before she steps back. “And remember—you’re not alone. We’re watching her too. So just… be smart. Guard your words around her.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips despite the heaviness in your chest. “Thank you, Nat.”

She nods, a hint of warmth breaking through her stoic expression. “Anytime. Now, get some rest. You need to be sharp for tomorrow.”

As she turns to leave, you watch her retreating figure, the worry etched in her posture speaking volumes. With a sigh, you lean back against the wall, letting your head fall back as you stare at the ceiling.

You want to believe Sharon. You want to believe in second chances. But Nat’s words echo in your mind like a warning bell.

“People are capable of doing a lot worse when they’re desperate.”

Slowly, you push off the wall and head toward your chambers, Natasha’s parting words circling in your thoughts.

Genuine doesn’t always mean safe.

When you finally reach your door, you hesitate, casting one last look down the empty hallway. Your fingers curl around the handle, and you take a deep breath.

You’ll let Sharon prove herself. But you’ll do it on your terms—step by cautious step.

Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned in the palace, it’s that trust is a fragile thing, easily shattered and dangerous to wield.

And you’re not about to risk everything on someone who may still be hiding a knife behind her back.

× × × ×

It was late—far too late for visitors. But a soft knock at the door drew your attention, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Who is it?” you called gently, setting aside the book you’d been attempting to read, the words blurring together in your tired mind.

“It’s Sharon, Your Majesty,” came the reply from the other side. Her voice was soft, tentative, carrying a note of uncertainty.

You hesitated only for a heartbeat before responding, “Come in.”

The door opened slowly, and Sharon stepped inside, a silver tray balanced perfectly in her hands. The fragrant scent of roses and chamomile filled the air, the delicate aroma wrapping around you like a soothing embrace. She offered you a soft smile as she approached.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted, bowing her head slightly. “I thought you might appreciate something soothing to help you relax before bed. It’s a new blend I had prepared, meant to ease tension.”

Your eyes flicked to the elegant porcelain teapot and matching cups on the tray. A small smile tugged at your lips despite the lingering exhaustion. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Sharon. You didn’t have to go out of your way.”

Sharon’s smile widened just a fraction, her gaze lowering almost shyly. “It’s no trouble at all, Your Majesty. After everything you’ve done for me—giving me a chance to prove myself—I wanted to offer a small gesture of my gratitude.”

You nodded, the sincerity in her voice wrapping around you like the warmth of the fire crackling softly in the hearth. “Thank you, Sharon. But if I’m to enjoy such a thoughtful gesture, I’d like you to join me. It’s late—no reason for either of us to drink alone.”

Sharon blinked, a flash of surprise crossing her face before she schooled her features back into that calm, deferential smile. “Oh, no, Your Majesty, I couldn’t possibly intrude—”

“Please,” you interrupted softly, gesturing to the empty seat across from you. “I insist. I would be more at ease if you joined me.”

She hesitated for a heartbeat, the slightest flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. But then she nodded slowly, lowering herself gracefully into the chair opposite you. “Of course, Your Majesty. If it would make you more comfortable.”

Sharon set the tray down on the small table beside you, lifting the teapot and carefully pouring your tea. The pale golden liquid shimmered in the low light, steam curling up to mingle with the scent of fresh flowers.

You accepted the cup she handed you, holding it delicately between your fingers. “Thank you,” you murmured, inhaling the calming aroma. “It smells wonderful.”

Sharon smiled, her eyes watching you closely. “It’s a special blend—rose petals, chamomile, and a hint of mint. All meant to soothe and relax.”

You glanced at the cup in her hand, then back at your own. “It sounds lovely. Why don’t you pour yourself a cup too?”

The words were casual, almost lighthearted, but the look in your eyes was steady, unwavering. Sharon’s smile tightened just a fraction, and for the briefest moment, her gaze flickered—almost as if she were weighing her options. She poured herself a cup and she nodded, lifting the cup to her lips. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

You watched carefully as she took a sip. Her movements were smooth, no hesitation, no sign of discomfort. When she set the cup down, she smiled, the expression soft and genuine.

“It’s delicious,” she murmured, her tone light. “I’m sure you’ll find it very soothing, Your Majesty.”

Relief washed over you, and you allowed yourself to relax, lifting your own cup to your lips. The first sip was everything Sharon had promised—light, floral, with a subtle sweetness that lingered on your tongue. The warmth spread through you like a gentle wave, easing the tension from your shoulders.

You smiled, setting the cup back down. “It really is lovely. Thank you, Sharon.”

Her eyes brightened, and she nodded eagerly. “I’m so glad you like it, Your Majesty. You seemed so tense earlier—I thought this might help.”

For a few moments, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the tea’s calming effects wrapping around you like a soft blanket. Each sip seemed to pull you further into a state of ease, your lingering worries melting away.

But then Sharon shifted slightly, her gaze dropping to the cup in her hand. “Your Majesty,” she began softly, lowering her voice. “I wanted to apologize… again. For everything.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Sharon, you’ve already—”

“I know,” she interrupted gently, her eyes lifting to meet yours. There was an earnestness in her gaze, “But I want you to know that I mean it. Truly. I was wrong to speak against you, to doubt your strength. You’ve shown more grace and patience than I could ever deserve.”

The words were spoken softly, her voice laced with emotion. And as you looked at her—really looked at her—you couldn’t help but feel a small pang of sympathy.

“Sharon, we all make mistakes,” you murmured, your voice gentle. “What matters is what we do to make amends. And you’ve been making a genuine effort.”

A faint blush colored her cheeks, and she ducked her head, smiling shyly. “Thank you, Your Majesty. That means more to me than you know.”

You nodded, taking another sip of the tea. The warmth continued to spread through you, a sense of lightness settling in your chest. It was comforting. Reassuring. And yet…

Something tugged at the back of your mind, a tiny voice urging you to look closer. But you pushed it away, reminding yourself that trust needed to start somewhere.

“I’m glad we can put the past behind us,” you said softly, your voice carrying a note of finality.

“Yes,” Sharon agreed, her gaze lingering on your face. “And I promise, I’ll continue to prove myself worthy of your trust.”

You offered her a warm smile, leaning back in your chair as you took another long sip of the tea. “I appreciate that, Sharon. I truly do.”

Sharon’s smile widened as she lifted her own cup, taking a delicate sip. You watched, waiting for any hint of hesitation, any sign that something might be amiss. But she continued to drink, her expression remaining calm and serene.

The two of you continued to talk, your words coming slower now, your thoughts softening at the edges. The tea’s warmth wrapped around you like a cocoon, soothing every frayed nerve, every lingering worry.

You chatted for a while longer, until the cups were nearly empty and the candles burned lower. By then, any lingering doubt had melted away, replaced by the comforting haze of peace the tea seemed to bring.

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Sharon,” you murmured drowsily, a soft smile curving your lips. “I feel better already.”

“I’m so glad to hear that, Your Majesty,” Sharon replied, her voice carrying a note of quiet satisfaction.

As you leaned back, letting your eyes drift shut for a moment, you missed the flicker of triumph in Sharon’s gaze. The tea may have tasted the same for both of you, but the effects would be vastly different.

And with each sip, the future Sharon envisioned—one without an heir to solidify your reign—crept ever closer.

× × × ×

The comforting haze of the tea still lingered in your mind, warmth radiating through you even as the echo of Sharon’s parting words faded into silence.

You barely noticed the gentle click of the door closing as Sharon took her leave, her footfalls soft and measured as she made her way down the hallway, the silver tray held steady in her hands.

She moved with the same graceful poise as always, her face composed, the hint of a satisfied smile lingering at the corners of her lips. But as she turned the corner to leave, she froze—just for a fraction of a second—her gaze catching on the tall figure who’d appeared at the end of the hall.

Captain Rogers.

Steve stood there, his broad frame casting a long shadow under the dim lantern light, the familiar, stoic set of his jaw making him look almost like a statue—unyielding and immovable. He’d arrived to relieve the guard outside your chambers, his presence a steadfast barrier between you and the dangers that lurked in the night.

But as his eyes locked onto Sharon’s, something shifted—something tense, wary.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did she. They simply regarded each other in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken questions and guarded suspicion.

Steve’s gaze dropped briefly to the tray Sharon held—the empty cups, the elegant teapot glinting softly in the low light. His brows furrowed, just slightly, the faintest sign of curiosity etched onto his face.

Sharon’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the tray’s handles, but she maintained her polite, serene expression. She gave him the barest of nods, a silent acknowledgment of his presence, then turned on her heel and continued down the corridor, the soft rustling of her skirts trailing behind her.

Steve watched her go, his gaze never leaving her retreating figure. Even after she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, he remained still, his eyes narrowed in thought.

A faint clink echoed from where she’d been moments before—the sound of the tray shifting ever so slightly, betraying the tension in her grip. It lingered in the silence that followed, a tiny, insignificant noise that somehow felt… wrong.

Steve’s jaw tightened, and he glanced back at the closed door to your chambers, his posture stiffening.

He hadn’t seen Sharon’s face during any of the council meetings, but he’d heard whispers about her—rumors and murmurs that drifted through the palace like a subtle breeze. Whispers of bitterness, of a deep-seated resentment that no one quite understood.

And now, here she was, slipping away in the dead of night with a tray of empty cups.

He took a slow, measured breath, then turned to the guard he was relieving, nodding curtly. “I’ll take over now,” he said, his voice low and firm.

The guard nodded, giving a quick salute before stepping back and marching down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Once alone, Steve shifted his gaze back to the corner where Sharon had vanished. He remained still, listening to the silence that filled the hall. Then, with a barely perceptible shake of his head, he turned back to your door, his expression guarded.

Whatever had transpired inside your chambers, whatever had passed between you and Sharon, it would have to wait until morning. For now, he would do what he’d always done: stand sentinel, watch, and ensure your safety.

But even as he settled into position outside your chambers, the image of Sharon’s face—calm, composed, and just a touch too serene—lingered in his mind.

And deep down, in a part of him that had always been more instinct than thought, Steve knew:

Something wasn’t right.

× × × ×

A few hours before.

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the stone basement in Annecy, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows against the damp walls. Bucky’s breaths came in short, sharp huffs, his chest heaving as he strained against the leather restraints that bound his arms and legs to the wooden chair. Every muscle in his body was tensed, veins bulging under his skin as he braced himself for what was to come.

Doctor Zemo stood across from him, meticulously adjusting a series of metal probes and needles connected to a brass device on the table. The contraption hummed ominously, wires sparking to life as Zemo calibrated the dials, his expression blank, methodical. Cold.

“This will hurt,” he stated, not out of warning, but as a detached observation.

Bucky didn’t respond. Sweat dripped down his face, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. His gaze flickered to the side, catching a glimpse of Steve and Sam standing just beyond the iron bars separating them from the room. Their expressions were twisted with anguish, eyes betraying their helplessness.

“You don’t have to do this, Buck,” Steve whispered, his voice strained. His hands were gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Sam, standing beside him, looked away, his jaw clenched.

“I have to,” Bucky ground out through gritted teeth. His voice wavered, but his eyes held a fierce determination. “If this is what it takes to stop it…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but they all knew what he meant.

“Begin,” Zemo ordered, ignoring the exchange. With a flick of his wrist, he activated the machine.

The first jolt sent Bucky’s body arching off the chair, a strangled scream tearing from his throat. His metal arm thrashed violently against the restraints, the vibranium whirring and sparking as the energy surged through it. Zemo watched impassively, his gaze fixed on the way Bucky’s eyes rolled back, the pain so intense it nearly swallowed him whole.

“Stop it—God, Zemo, stop!” Steve shouted, his voice cracking. He made a move toward the door, but Sam caught his arm, holding him back.

Bucky’s screams filled the room, reverberating off the walls. Every second felt like an eternity, each new wave of pain forcing a deeper, more guttural sound from his chest. The muscles in his neck strained, his face contorting with agony. He gasped for breath, his back slamming against the chair as the electric current ceased for a brief moment.

Steve turned his face away, his shoulders shaking. Sam’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as he stared at the floor, unable to bear the sight.

“Why are you doing this?” Sam hissed, his voice barely audible. “This is torture.”

“It is necessary,” Zemo replied coldly, not even sparing them a glance. “To sever the Winter Soldier from James Barnes completely, I must isolate the root cause. It’s the only way to stop the episodes.” He turned a dial, and the machine buzzed louder, casting an eerie, blue light across the room.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing as the current tore through him again. Blood dripped from his nose, his eyes red and wild.

“Make it stop!” Steve shouted, his voice breaking. “Please, Zemo, stop!”

But Zemo remained unmoved. The torment continued, relentless and unyielding. Bucky’s screams gradually faded into hoarse cries, his voice giving out as his body sagged against the restraints, utterly spent. His head hung low, sweat and blood mingling, dripping onto the floor. But even then, his fingers twitched, the tremors of pain echoing through him.

“Enough,” Zemo finally said, his tone clinical. He turned off the machine, the hum dying down to silence. The air was thick with the aftermath, Bucky’s ragged breaths the only sound in the room. Zemo approached him slowly, removing the needles and probes with steady hands. “It is done. . .for now.”

Bucky’s head lifted weakly, his eyes glazed over but still defiant, still fighting. He looked at Steve, then Sam, a flicker of something unbroken in his gaze.

“It’s okay,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “I can take it.”

Steve’s chest tightened, tears slipping down his cheeks despite his best efforts to hold them back. “You shouldn’t have to,” he whispered, voice trembling.

But Bucky’s lips twitched into the faintest shadow of a smile, the kind of smile that spoke of years of pain, years of enduring and surviving.

“I can take it.”

Tags: @theendofthematerialgworl @httpb3a @spiidergirlsworld @sebastians-love @stevesbbgorl

@targaryenhues @almosttoopizza @scott-loki-barnes @brckenmemories @vicmc624

@classicrebound @nommingonfood @greatenthusiasttidalwave @railmesebstan @annawilk

@landoslutmeout @winterslove1917 @missvelvetsstuff @s0kovianwitch @lveegsoi

@suckerfordylansstuff @daydream-believer19 @shadowzena43 @itsshellzy @decaffeinatedjellyfishduck

@melsunshine @barnesxstan @singsosworld @kitsunetori

@im-normal-about-characters @hayleythecannibal

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fortheloveoffanfic · 3 months ago

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Bad Habits Are Hard to Break When I'm With You.

Thomas Shelby x reader

Author's note: what is my obsession with Tommy having a mistress? 😭

Masterlists

Summary: Thomas can't seem to stay away from his wife's new friend, and even if he could, neither of them would want him to.

Warnings: SMUT/NSFW, angst, infidelity

She’s like a bad habit- the worst of them. He could drink himself to oblivion, smoke until his lungs turn to marsh and drown his system with opium and she'd still be the worst habit- the worst addiction- he has. Thomas doesn’t recognize himself when he’s around her; it's like she enters a room and he’s entranced.

Under the control of a siren song or some enchantment.

She ruins him, makes a mess of him. Because Thomas thinks that even when she isn’t around, he’s completely and utterly in ruins at the thought of her. Her. Y/n. A recent friend of Lizzie’s, the object of his wildest and most lewd fantasies. He never even had time to be perplexed by the odd pair they made before being totally consumed by the very thought of her; Y/n, her expensive education and even more expensive London apartment and Lizzie, who he knows is only still married to him out of convenience. At this point, he can’t even remember where or how Lizzie met her, just that she was in his drawing room one day, sipping gin and wearing lips so red that he swore they’d been painted with the juices of fresh, spring berries.

Since then, he’s kissed those lips. Tasted their sweetness, been intoxicated by their saccharine flavor.

And his wife hasn’t suspected a damn thing- at least, he thinks she hasn’t. If she has, Thomas hasn’t noticed, and that may be because his interests have been lying elsewhere.

And now he’s sitting so close to her that he swears that her perfume floods his senses with every inhale. Thomas knows that he can just reach over and lay his hand on her thigh, but what kind of husband does that right in front of his wife? The worst kind. Thomas knows that he’s probably amongst the worst of the worst, the type that would reach over and splay his hand under Y/n’s skirt while they dined with Lizzie but Y/n is as good of a friend as she can be given the circumstances and would give him an earful if he did something like that.

So he’ll keep his hands above table and try to contain himself for as long as necessary.

Dinner seems to drag on, though. There’s an eternity between the moment the first drink is laid before them to the moment Francis announces that dessert will be served shortly. Thomas swears that he’s gone gray by the time the meal is over, and by then, the tension is enough to stifle him.

“Oh, Tommy,” Lizzie knocks off the ash from her cigarette, “I forgot to mention, Y/n is staying over tonight. The drive back to her place is so long, and her driver asked for the rest of the night off.”

“I hope it's no imposition,” Y/n interjects after a long sip of her wine, and the sparkle in her eyes when she says it is telling of something more. Of course, Thomas already knows she’ll be staying over, she’d already detailed her and Lizzie’s arrangement to him when they saw each other the day before, at a hotel in the city, where four walls had cocooned them for a few precious hours. “My driver is taking his wife to dinner for her birthday, but if its any trouble, I can try to make other arrangements.”

“No trouble,” Thomas shrugs, holding her gaze, “Anything for a….friend of my wife.”

At that, Lizzie scoffs a chuckle, “Well that’s a first,” she jokes brashly, polishing off her wine before reaching over to pour herself another glass.

Y/n chuckles too, and the sound is so melodious that he thinks he’s never heard something sweeter, “I must be special then,” she teases.

In response, Thomas huffs, and its only because he can’t say anything that won’t give them away. But in truth, Y/n is special; she’s the first woman to ever make his knees feel like they’re buckling every time with just a look, he has to pocket balled fists when he’s around her just so the tension coursing through his body has somewhere to go and he hangs on to every word she says.

She’s the only reason he’s still at that table; he and Lizzie rarely have dinner together, much less drinks afterwards. But Thomas can’t stand to let Y/n out of his sights. He wants to see the way her lips stain those minty, imported cigarettes that she enjoys and be privy to those moments when she casually runs her fingers along her collarbone.

It's possible that she’s worse than an addiction - Y/n is an obsession, and he is nothing but a fiend.

The rest of their quiet evening passes with her and Lizzie dominating the conversation, with Thomas only enduring the whole thing so he can be in Y/n’s orbit. Afterward, they separate; Lizzie decides to show Y/n to her room, and he steals away to his office under the guise of having to work. Though, while there are a series of documents that require his attention, it's impossible for Thomas to focus while she’s in the room over his head. Probably peeling off that stunning silk dress, exposing ample breasts and perfect curves while the smooth fabric skims down thighs that he’s tasted the inside of and legs that have locked around his hips more times than he can count. And because of that, the excuse of having to work is just that, an excuse. A way to bide time until he’s certain that Lizzie is their room, hopefully deep in a wine induced slumber.

When the house finally goes still, Thomas deserts his suit coat and heads upstairs, passing his own bedroom and pausing in front of the guest room where the yellow glow of a lamp seeps out from under the door. Without knocking, he turns the knob and pushes the door open slowly, hoping to quiet the pesky creek that accompanies the motion.

Thomas finds Y/n on a chair near the window, which she has opened. The tall lamp is positioned over her shoulder, and in her hands, she clutches a novel with a name he doesn’t recognize past the title being obviously in French. “What’re you readin’ eh?”

Marking her page, she sets the book down in her lap, freeing the view of her chest, clad in a rayon nightie that doesn’t do much to hide the fact that she isn’t wearing a bra. “A book. It's French.” Y/n hums.

“I can tell,” He huffs, and Y/n laughs softly.

Deserting the chair, she stands and proceeds to cross the floor. Her steps are practically inaudible on the lacquered floors, possibly because she isn’t wearing shoes. “Its……romantic, in its own way,” when she reaches him, Y/n looms her arms around his neck and Thomas instinctively takes firm hold of her hips, the warmth of her skin permeating the thin fabric. “You wouldn't get it.”

“Callin’ me stupid?” Thomas arches a brow.

Y/n giggles, a sound so thrilling that Thomas struggles to not come apart right there. “Oh, I would never,” the tips of her fingers caress his nape so gently that they feel like butterfly wings beating against his skin. “It's about the devil. And a man.”

Thomas searches her eyes, “And what does the devil do to the man, eh?”

“Falls in love with him. Follows him around disguised as a woman and tries to seduce him,” Y/n offers simply, and Thomas pauses, “It reminds me of us,” she adds in a more hushed tone.

He squints a little, trying to understand what she could possibly be trying to say, “Why? Am I the man or the devil?”

At that, she laughs a little louder, “Well you're hardly a virgin boy,” leaning into him a bit more, Y/n continues, inching her lips closer and lowering her tone, breath fanning his neck, “Perhaps we're both the devil.”

“Oui,” he offers humorously, Burmie accent muddling his pronunciation.

Licking her lips, she stands on her toes to bring them closer to his, and at this point, her breasts are pressed firmly to his chest, “Mon cher Belzébuth, je t'adore,” (my dear Beelzebub, I adore you). Y/n’s accent is the perfect product of a well-educated and widely traveled woman, and he can practically taste her words as they send the most pleasurable tingle up the center of his back.

“Maybe I should read that book,” Thomas suggests.

Y/n’s hand starts creeping downwards, first grazing his shoulder, then his chest, passing over his stomach before finally settling on the bulge in his trousers. There must be a spark when her fingers curl against him because that would be the only reason for the hitch of his breath. “Perhaps you should do something else,” she gives him a purposeful squeeze, and Thomas mirrors the motion by tightening his grip on her hips.

“Yeah?” He rasps, pressing his forehead to hers.

“Yes,” Y/n hisses. His lips come down on hers, and she readily relinquishes control. Her mouth is, just as he remembers, soft and warm. Y/n’s lips are sweet from the wine and he can taste the mint from her last cigarette. When he curls his fingers around the back of her thighs, hoisting her up into his arms, she gasps.

“You never said if I was special,” her breathy words punctuate their hungry kisses.

“Really?” He breathes, walking forward until her back hits the nearest wall, eliciting a soft ‘omph’. “Well sweetheart, let me show you.”

Caressing his nape, Y/n bucks her hips, “Please.”

Securing her against the wall, Thomas shoves the hem of her nightie up Y/n’s thighs, feeling the contrast of her warm, silky skin under his rough, calloused fingers. “All night,” he rasps between fervent, open-mouthed kisses, “You’ve been a fuckin’ distraction,” he squeezes her hips so tightly that his fingers might leave bruises, “What are you doin’ to me woman? Eh?” He groans when she bites his lower lips, “You’re a fuckin’ drug.”

If there's anything worse than opium, it's probably her.

Y/n giggles softly, “Am I now? Drugs are intoxicating.”

In his arms, he carries Y/n over to the bed, unceremoniously dropping her onto the perfectly made sheets. Clamoring onto the mattress, Thomas quickly positions himself between her spread legs and undoes his shirt, casting it off to the side before leaning over her, so their faces are a mere inch apart. “So are you,” he smirks, sealing his words off with a searing kiss.

“Thomas,” Y/n croons when his lips travel to the column of her neck, hips bucking towards his in an unspoken plea. His response is a low hum as he nibbles on her skin. “Please,” she begs again, and he revels in her insistence; he’s had women long for him, but its different with Y/n. With Y/n, everything else fades to black, and they’re the only two people in the world. With Y/n, his reciprocated desire for her will always doubled;

No person has ever longed for another the way he yearns for Y/n.

“Patience,” he teases, hands taking their time as they appreciate the topography of her curves. By now, he can probably draw a map of her from memory; Thomas has a million pictures of her stowed in his mind and his fingers know the shape of her even when she isn’t in the room. There isn’t another body- or anything else- that he’s committed so well.

He can single out her laugh in a sea of chatter. Smell her perfume the minute she walks into a room filled with fragrant flowers.

Y/n’s glossy, burgundy nails dig into his back, leaving crescent shaped marks in their wake, while her bare heels press into his thighs. When Thomas’ lips reach her chest, he sucks purplish bruises into the swell of her breasts causing goosebumps to litter her otherwise silky skin.

His own desire strains against the rough fabric of his trousers, making them so tight that its hard to ignore. But Thomas’s determination to prolong his time with her triumphs all else; it's always been so peculiar to him, how half the pleasure of being with her came from just being with her. In her orbit, knowing she’s in the same room with him, touching him - choosing him when millions of other men would probably fall at her feet at a moment’s notice.

“Thomas,” she croons when he pushes her night dress up so his kisses can travel to the plane of her stomach. His fingers maintain a white knuckled grip on the fabric, and its probably the only thing keeping him sane enough to completely debauch her.

“Mmm?” he hums, mouth lingering right above her public bone, “Tell me what you want, darling.”

“You,” Y/n heaves, hips lifting off the bed, only for Thomas to force them down with a bruising grip. Her fingers, lithe and warm, thread through his hair, “I just want you.”

After peppering a series of feather-light kisses to the inside of her thighs, he works his way up her body again, eventually peeling the fabric over her head. “What?” She breathes when Thomas pauses, one elbow sunken into the mattress, holding him up over her while he cups her cheek with his free hand. He marvels at the softness of her skin beneath his touch, the way it feels like she's been conjured up by some combination of Japanese silk and gypsy magic. With every exhale, he can feel the tops of her bare breasts touching his chest, and Thomas can taste the wine from earlier on her breath.

She's real, she tangible, she's there.

And yet, most times, he can't believe that she's in his life.

“I'd do anythin’ for you, you know that?” He'd kill for her - he'd live for her.

His words make Y/n smile a little, that little twist of her full lips that makes his heart tick a little quicker. “What a politician you are,” reaching up, Y/n's thumb gently caresses the scar near his eye.

There's a little voice in his head that aches to argue; he would never use that hollow, politician's charm on her. He can't. Her eyes make it difficult to lie to her. But he's too concerned with….other endeavors to try to change her mind. Instead of arguing, Thomas catches her lips in a heady kiss, while Y/n clumsily reaches between them to undo his trousers, before using the front of her feet to shove them, along with his pants, down his legs

Unable to hold himself back for any longer, Thomas lines himself up with her entrance and pushes in. There's a moment of euphoria; a low groan that probably filters out of the room and a lewd moan that makes no effort to hide what they're doing.

Simply put, she feels like the closest to heaven he’ll ever get, and Thomas is perfectly fine with that.

If her body is the pearly gates, if her lips are Eden's fruit. If her fingers tracing patterns on his skin is grace from a god that has otherwise forgotten him, Thomas will take it with pleasure. In fact, he'll pray for it. To it.

“Fuck,” Thomas grunts, stirring a rough, albeit controlled, rhythm. With one arm curled around his back and the other hand clinging to his shoulder, Y/n presses her face to the side of Thomas’, alternating between kissing his jaw and drawing in audible, hitched breaths. The little noises that he’s able to extract never fails to inch him closer to release.

Simultaneously, the feel of him filling her up so well that it almost burns is exhilarating. Y/n can feel every vein running along his shaft, and each stroke ensures that Thomas hits the perfect spot. The friction he creates with each thrust makes her toes curl tightly and her hips reach for his, eager to match his pace.

Dragging her nails along his back, they tickle his nape before settling on the top of his head, so she can thread her fingers through his hair. “Thomas…..” she pants, breathless, “I'm-”

He doesn't let her finish, instead snatching her lips in a searing kiss. Her skin is hot, and Y/n’s legs, still wound around his hips, start tightening. Her vision goes white and her mind is reduced to a muddled mess when it happens;

Complete and unparalleled bliss.

No one can make her feel what Thomas does, wield her body the way he does.

Their mouths are still locked when she moans softly and he feels her walls clench around him.

Thomas’ strained grunt is accompanied by the rhythmic roll of his hips lapsing into harsh, jerked movements. Sliding his free hand down her side, he takes a bruising hold of her waist. He can feel her body quaking while his goes rigid. His ragged breaths tumble into her mouth between messy kisses and noses pressed together. As Thomas pours himself into her, every sound she makes is amplified, panting that matches the heavy rise and fall of his chest, the pitch in her inhale at the moment her back curves gracefully, and the slow rustle of sheets as she gives them a grounding tug.

Spent, Thomas gingerly detaches himself from Y/n and rolls onto his back, but not without his arm curled around her shoulders. She settles in the space between his arm and chest and stretches her arm out to drape it across his mid. He raises his hand to lazily thread his stocky fingers through her hair, and her eyes slip shut at the comforting sensation.

Oh, the things she’d give to fall asleep like that every night.

They stay tangled up like that for a while, but still not for nearly as long as either of them would prefer. The clock, in some odd corner of Thomas’ vast abode eventually reminds them of the late hour at the stroke of midnight, its familiar sound traveling to even the home’s most private quarters. With a sigh, Y/n shifts and presses her forehead to his side, “You should go,” she whispers.

Thomas’ response isn’t much, a rough hum of acknowledgement and his fingers trailing from her hair to stroke the center of her back. The pads of his fingers aren’t anything akin to the men that she usually surrounds herself with, they’re harsh and worn from having clawed their way out of Small Heath – and fighting to stay out.

“Go to sleep,” he eventually rasps, and she feels his lips on the top of her head for a moment. Y/n wants to protest; she likes to be awake when he leaves, if only so she can savor every last second of his presence. Soak him up, sear the image of him into her mind lest it be the last time she lays her eyes on him.

Because what they share is so fragile and so marred by recklessness and immorality that its a wonder its lasted so long.

Perhaps they're lucky. Or just too selfish to habour even a thread of guilt.

Thomas, on the other hand, usually prefers to slip away when Y/n is asleep. It's easier, he thinks, not having her arms tight around him when he reluctantly deserts her embrace, not having to look at her as he inches the door shut. He can maintain apathy when her hold is limp and her hair has fallen over her face; he can pretend she’s just another tryst and not the woman who has completely beguiled him. The one he’d swear himself to at a moment’s notice.

“Go,” Y/n urges after a stretch of steady, comfortable silence, “before she goes looking for you.”

Instead of making a move to get out of the bed, Thomas tightens his embrace, “I don’t care,” he returns in the same hushed tone, “let her look.” Let her do whatever she wants, its not like their marriage can get any worse than it already is.

“I care,” Y/n sits up, pulling the sheets over her chest. Freeing one of her hands, she touches the side of his face, and Thomas leans into her palm, “Lizzie is my friend. She’s a good friend.”

Licking his lips, Thomas sits up against the headboard, “if I told you to choose, would you?”

Y/n searches his eyes, trying to determine how serious he’s being. “In a heartbeat,” she promises earnestly, tipping her chin slightly before leaning forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips. She pulls away before Thomas can deepen it, but his fingers return to her hair, keeping her face close to his. “But you don’t want that.”

“You always know what I want, eh,” Thomas scoffs sarcastically, rolling his eyes. “I should go,” he determines, fingers curling in her hair slightly. When they kiss again, Y/n drops the blanket, pressing one hand to the center of his chest while her other lingers on his face. His arm goes around her back against, hand splayed on the center in a bid to keep her close. The kiss is deep and quickly devolves to a messy affair. His tongue slips past her teeth, exploring her mouth, and she's melting into him.

Neither of them are sure who pulls away first, but the moment is taunt with painful reluctance. His hand leaves her hair so Thomas can ghost his thumb over her plump, lower lip. “I should go,” he determines again, and Y/n shuffles away so he can get out of bed. Slumping against the tufted headboard, she watches as he gets dressed, pulling on articles of clothing as he finds them, before finally collecting his shoes in his hand. He doesn’t say anything as he leaves. In fact, Thomas doesn’t even look at her; he thinks if he does before he gets to the door, he simply won’t leave.

“Goodnight, Tom,” Y/n offers softly as he eases the door open, careful to not let it creak.

When he’s safely in the corridor, he peers at her through the four inch crack, “‘Night, Y/n.” He swears her eyes tun glassy as she holds his gaze, but he can’t be sure that isn’t just his hope that she wants him to stay as much as he wants to.

The door is finally shut with the most subtle of clicks, and Thomas spends the next handful of seconds staring up the hall, checking that the door to the master bedroom doesn’t open. It's really for Y/n, because he’s been on the receiving end of Lizzie’s threats long enough for them to roll off his back. Satisfied that he's in the clear, Thomas offers the door to the guest room one final, backwards glance before setting off on quiet steps, practically forcing himself to press forward.

There's a hollowness residing within him that yawns wider every time he leaves her, like a grave that gets deeper or a valley that stretches open. It's almost as if Y/n fills and overfills that gaping emptiness within him, and then, when she’s gone again, Thomas is worse off than before.

He needs her more than he did before.

Gripping shoes a little tighter, he summons the same resolve that kept him alive in the tunnels, and trudges to his room. The walk towards his room is long, and he swears he may need blinders, the type riders put on horses, to stop him from looking back. He just wants to see if she’s poking her head out of the room, the way she watches from the window when he leaves her flat. While he doesn’t think he can bear her eyes tonight, Thomas doesn’t want to miss the chance to look into them one more time, either.

When Thomas finally gets to the master bedroom, just as he opens the door, he gives in. He looks – but she isn’t there. Instead, he catches a glimpse of the door being pulled shut, the soft click echoing off soaring walls.

She’s gone, and now he must wait. For the next fix. The next hit. The next time she’s willing to lend him her time.

#thomas shelby #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x you #peaky blinders #cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #Cillian murphy x you #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction

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rinniessance · 1 year ago

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TEENAGE FEVER ༊*·˚ - suguru geto x fem!reader x satoru gojo

SUMMARY. you, satoru and suguru have been taking care of the fushiguro kids and the twins since your teenage days. after your latest mission, you reminisce about the beginnings of your little family. and during an impromptu trip, unspoken feelings finally come to a boil.

꒰ warnings: pure fluff! idiots in love. friends to lovers, mutual pining, family dynamics, non-canon compliant, megumi calls you mommy once ♡ // word count: 11.6k ꒱ ꒰ notes: another repost from my old account .ᐟ.ᐟ just really wanted to have this piece on my new blog <3 ꒱

sometimes you wonder why you agreed to be a part of madness that is the geto/gojo/you in a co-parenting throuple (you internally scream every time you remember how nonchalant satoru was about that description. what? i think that’s kind of adorable. you and suguru did not agree; somehow the name still stuck around). you would think that a pair of strongest sorcerers would be able to handle four first graders yet dozens of notifications that finally came through to your phone prove otherwise. your left eye twitches.

[ groupchat notifications: co-parenting throuple ] ‘toru /ᐠ. ᴗ.ᐟ\: girl dinner ! ‘toru /ᐠ. ᴗ.ᐟ\: [picture] sugu ₍ᐢ⑅ᐢ₎: im sorry i wasn’t there to prevent the disaster sugu ₍ᐢ⑅ᐢ₎: shall i prepare the casket?

messages are stamped two hours ago, and you’re too afraid to open the picture, dozens of different scenarios popping up in your head at the speed of light. when you finally unlock the messages, you think suguru was considerate enough to even suggest a casket because once you’re done with satoru gojo, there will be no body to bury.

you: you fed them cake for dinner ?? toru /ᐠ. ᴗ.ᐟ\ responded: it’s sunday! they deserve a little treat! sugu ₍ᐢ⑅ᐢ₎ responded: it’s a 12-inch cheesecake you responded: satoru, i know what you want to say, zip it. you’re in so much trouble already.

you: and why is it only you with the girls, where is megumi???? toru /ᐠ. ᴗ.ᐟ\ responded: and ‘gumi ate regular dinner like a child-man he is :< you responded: it’s called a man-child satoru… toru /ᐠ. ᴗ.ᐟ\: responded: no, megumi is a child-man because he has a soul of a man trapped in a body of a seven year old sugu ₍ᐢ⑅ᐢ₎ responded: so you’re calling him benjamin button? you responded: that’s why he doesn’t like either of you.

the frustration you felt towards satoru mere two minutes ago dissipates and gives space to something much warmer; the feeling that was tugging at you the whole weekend as you travelled to korea, sent away on a mission (you found yourself missing your little family more than you expected); the feeling that made you treating exorcising curses with utmost care because for the first time in a while, you want to come home safe. with a simple reminder of how lucky you’re to have satoru and suguru protecting the little piece of safe haven you carved out for yourselves; all the anger is gone as if it was never there in the first place.

you’re about to scroll through the earlier messages but flight attendant announces that the passengers are finally clear to get off the plane, so you shove the phone into your bag, grab your carry-on and hurry out. security check is surprisingly fast, and you’re riding a taxi back home in no time. you send a quick message to the group chat that you’re on your way and close your eyes.

quiet hum of the radio, steady movement of the car, and familiar surroundings immediately bring you peace – you’ve been feeling restless during your whole weekend trip, and now that you’re almost back with people you want to be with the most, you cannot help but smile. you’re being lulled to sleep by something pleasant playing on the radio, and your thoughts drift back to the day you found that being teenage parents can come in different forms.

3 years ago

you sigh again as you look at your watch. 4:23pm, satoru was supposed to be here 23 minutes ago. not only that, but he’s been ignoring your calls, not responding to your messages and did not tell anyone where he’s suddenly gone off to. suguru cannot be reached either, you know he has a mission today, so now you’re stranded in the middle of shibuya, your least favorite place to be, alone. you think this is the day you finally stab satoru gojo because he has the absolute nerve to beg you to come to this new dessert cafe, the one that just opened. supposedly, it was so good, you just have to try it - satoru convinced you to join him, knowing that you hate being in overcrowded spaces, only for to him to ghost you.

buzz of your phone brings you out of your thoughts.

[ incoming call: toru /ᐠ. ᴗ.ᐟ\ ]

“i swear to god, satoru, you better have to save half the planet as an excuse or —”

“where are you?”

“what? what do you mean where am i? in shibuya, where we were supposed to meet almost 30 minutes ago!”

“we’re going back to the school now, come back as soon as you can.”

and then he hung up. you blankly stared at the screen of your phone like it would somehow explain what just happened. with a deep sigh, you put the phone away and massage your temples, feeling the headache coming. satoru gojo might be the one who’s getting migraines from having six eyes but he always makes sure you have one too, just for the company.

ride back to the school is quick and easy – thankfully you’re in time to beat the rush hour, and currently, you’re standing in front of tokyo high. now that you’ve had time to calm your anger and frustration down, you realize that gojo would’ve at least texted you if he was late. something must’ve happened, and you feel panic start spreading its icy tentacles all over your body. picking up the pace, you almost run through the courtyard, pass the temple decorum and straight to doctor’s office – you assume he would be there if something happened.

you finally stand in front of the door: your breathing is heavy and you’re dizzy from how fast you sped up. the horrors of last year’s mission flash before your eyes, painting it blood, sorrow and anger, and you pray to every god known that it’s not a repeat of that failure. you almost lost suguru to the darkness that preyed on him, stalking his shadows, seeping through his skin – you are still haunted by how hollow his eyes became. you’re sure seeing him like this again will break you instead this time. you try to steady your breathing and knock.

“you can come in.”

of course satoru would know you were here. pushing the door and walking into the room, you are met by two little girls sitting on each suguru’s side on the hospital bed. satoru is standing next to them and observing his best friend who is gently murmuring something to the twins. both of them look unharmed which means shoko already worked her magic if it was necessary. it seems none of you want to bring up the elephant in the room so you just take a sit in the chair next to the desk.

“what happened?” your voice sounds loud in the hushed murmurs bouncing off the wall, and all four pairs of eyes are directed at you. it seems you startled the girls as they grabbed onto suguru’s sleeves – you cannot help but stretch your lips in a pretty smile, waving to them. “sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” you tell them in a hushed tone this time, “would you tell me your names if i told you mine?”

brunette twin shakes her head for the both of them, and you introduce yourself. same girl responds to your curiosity.

“i am mimiko, and we’ve never met our parents but i know i am older by 5 minutes. and this,” she points at the girl on the opposite side of suguru, “is nanako. she is always a little shy so i make sure to talk for the both of us!” blonde girl curls a little more into your friend, and you finally make eye contact with him. you’re a little lost by what you see – hurt, anger, tenderness, confusion, he looks so defeated yet relieved at the same time. you’re turning to look at satoru instead but he only shrugs his shoulders.

“don’t look at me, he didn’t really share any details with me either.”

you hum in response and get up from the chair, walking to where the hospital bed is and squat to face them, extending your hand.

“well, it’s really nice to meet you, mimiko and nanako,” and as you get a little closer to their face, you whisper as it’s meant to be a secret, “i think we’ll become really good friends.”

from what satoru told you, it seems that him and suguru hadn’t had a chance to talk yet – girls looked very attached to dark-haired man already, it’s most likely they wouldn’t leave his side and whatever gojo wanted to discuss was not meant for children’s ears. you’re too scared to overstep the friendship boundary you just started building with the girls but you know the look on your friends’ faces, and they tell you they need to have a serious and most likely unpleasant conversation (not too hard to guess what about). standing up, you tentatively reach out your hands to nanako and mimiko.

“have you ever tried crepes? there is a very good place that sells them nearby. what do you say if we go and grab some dessert, just us girls?”

you could see their eyes lit up as they looked back at suguru, looking for a confirmation you’re safe to go with. he smiled at them (that smile that sometimes makes your heart skip a beat and makes you yearn for something you know you could never have), making wrinkles appear in the corner of his crescent-like eyes.

“she is my friend, you can go with her. i’ll meet you in a little bit,” and as he looked back at you, he mouthed quiet “thank you”. you only smiled in return: suguru never needed to thank you, not after the near escape to hell you guided him away from; not after the sleepless nights you spent keeping him a quiet company on the rooftops of jujutsu tech because silence was everything he needed in those moments; not after tight embraces you had to hold him in when you witnessed a sliver of panic attack creeping up on him when he least expected it. in the year that followed the disastrous star plasma vessel mission, you were the light that guided suguru back to himself, back to satoru, back to you. geto didn’t need to say thank you, at least not to you, not anymore.

grabbing two little girls by their hands, you lead them out of school.

“i promise you we will have the best time.”

present

the particular rough bump of the car brings you back to the present moment. you look at the time on your phone, display showing 11:23pm, and you smile looking at the picture on your lockscreen: it’s a picture of satoru with nanako and mimiko, their mouths stuffed full of crepes.

after suguru decided to take the girls in, you and satoru made it a habit of coming over and helping him take care of them. geto and gojo used to be inseparable but the rift that broke in between them in the year that followed amanai riko’s death was a surprise. being close to both strongest sorcerers, you knew why it was there, you knew the sheer trauma of it for both of them. so you stayed with gojo when he needed you to keep reminding him that his shoulders do not have to carry the weight of the whole world, and you’re here to share it. and you stayed with geto when he was plunged into the coldness of heart-wrenching guilt and needed you to pull him out from under the deep. after suguru adopted nanako and mimiko, you were the bridge that crossed a seemingly bottomless crevice between the two of them.

making satoru see what he was missing with suguru’s behavour at the time and asking suguru to understand why satoru was seemingly oblivious to it in the first place – the confusion, the pain, the loss of innocence, and everything unsaid that went on between them – was almost as difficult as being a sorcerer in the first place. by a miracle, you stopped being their overpass as they started rebuilding their bridges themselves. yet, the connection you weaved with the sacred geometry of your hands between the three of you created a special bond that prevailed until this day.

unlocking your phone, you scroll through the earlier messages in the chat: messages that kids already miss you (sent 30 minutes after your plane took off on friday), stories about their successful disneyworld trip on saturday (traitors, you think, you’ve been begging them for a family outing there for months now), and cake-baking adventures today (you internally dread the mess that will have to be cleaned up in the kitchen). looking back at you from your home screen is the picture of megumi and tsumiki on their first day of school, proud suguru holding both their hands (megumi refused to hold satoru’s hand so he refused to be in the picture – sometimes you wonder who is the older out of the two). warmth takes over your entire being once again, and you allow yourself to recollect the memories of how the last pieces of your family all came together.

2 years ago

“i am going to meet with that kid fushiguro was talking about before he, you know,” and satoru dramatically slashed his neck with his finger, poking his tongue out, imitating a dead face. nanako and mimiko laughed from the opposite side of the table while you kicked him on the shin.

“please, satoru, i didn’t sign up to babysit three kids. eat your breakfast, i need to get girls to pre-school, we can talk about it once i’m back.”

“what if i drive you? and then we can go grab kikufuku from the new place that opened near shinjuku station, i heard it’s really good.”

“satoru, it’s 7am in the morning. unlike you, i am a normal human being who cannot possibly consume that much sugar this early. and,” you lean in closer and whisper so the girls cannot hear, “please don’t say stuff like this in front of the twins, they will think it’s normal to be asking for dessert at this ungodly hour.”

satoru thinks it’s adorable, how you huff and puff at the girls like a mother hen. ever since the girls started living with suguru, you made it your mission to come over at least once a week to make sure they have everything they need – and nanako and mimiko, as they once confessed to geto, love your presence. after everything they’ve been through, the girls learned to recognize the intention behind people’s auras, and yours only gave them peace. and, unbeknownst to them at this tender age, they have craved peace for a very long time. so he bites his tongue and keeps the snarky remark he wanted to say, instead quietly whispering “sorry”, and you appreciate the gesture that may seem small to another, but speaks volume to yourself.

“fine. we will be leaving in,” you look at the watch, squinting and thinking about how much time you have left, “30 minutes, make sure you’re ready or we’re leaving without you.”

you let the twins finish their breakfast and rush both of them to brush their teeth before you prep their outfits. suguru was sent out on a mission for the whole week (you worry; satoru tells you that with how much you worry about everyone and everything, you’ll be grayer than him in couple of years) and asked you to stay with the girls until he returns. you won’t lie – you’ve grown attached to them within the short amount of time you’ve been helping taking care of them so you agreed to babysit in a millisecond.

you didn’t expect that a third child will be living with you all this week too.

“why don’t i get my outfit chosen for me?” you feel satoru before you can even hear him, the never-ending reach of his limitless tingling your senses, rushing the goosebumps up your spine (this is totally normal, right? friends make other friends feel like this, right?). and you wish he would only be the omniscient presence that makes your knees weak because as soon as he opens his mouth, you want to roll your eyes and smack the back of his head. you learned to treat him like a child, if he wanted to behave like one.

“because mommy is busy and you’re old enough to do it on your own.”

satoru did not expect you to say that, sudden blush rushing to his face making his thoughts drift in a direction incredibly inappropriate for a friend. great. you’re so gross, satoru. he suddenly turned away and rushed out from the bedroom (if you had more time, you would’ve asked him what his deal was but alas, you were already running late). then he proceeded to stay quiet the whole morning: while you were getting nanako and mimiko dressed, while he was driving all of you to school, while you waved goodbye to the girls and made your way back to the car. the phrase kept running through his mind the whole time until you cleared your throat and looked at him with your brow raised.

“what’s gotten into you? you’ve been suspiciously quiet the whole morning. didn’t you want to talk about something?”

he forced all the wrong thoughts to stay hidden for now, patted them away like crows nibbling at the forbidden nerves of his sudden need. he cleared his throat and started driving away from the school, not knowing where he was taking the two of you yet.

“uh, yeah. i was telling you that i am going to meet with the fushiguro kid tomorrow.”

“okay… and?”

“and what?”

“what are you going to do?”

megumi fushiguro was discussed among you before, but no concrete decision was ever reached. what if the kid doesn’t even want to go with him? he won’t be able to drag him by force unless he wants to be accused of child abduction.

“i don’t know. if he does want to come with me, i have the resources to keep him out of whatever deal his father cooked up for him with the zen’in clan. but if he doesn’t… by the time he realizes what zen’ins are, and if he ever wants to leave, it’ll be too late,” satoru clicks his tongue at the mention of one of the three big families. it’s no secret gojo clan has not seen eye-to-eye with zen’ins for a long time now but for satoru, it’s personal.

“you know, if you decide to take him in, it’s not like one more child will really make a difference. you’ll just have to stop coming around and it’s like nothing changed,” the words come out of you with such levity, satoru sometimes thinks you don’t even realize that your presence alone can make a wilted flower spring back to life.

he can only laugh in response. you haven’t even met the kid and you already welcome him like it’s nothing to worry about. gojo always wanted to compare you to the sun, the stars or any other celestial being that shines so brightly, they illuminate every shadow in their reach. but as the time passed, he realized that he didn’t want you to be a sun, or a star – then he will have to share your light with everyone else. no, you’re a flame in the home’s fireplace, warm and inviting to anyone who’s welcomed into your humble abode but lost to everyone else.

“you say that now. let’s see what happens when i show up with two kids instead of one.”

present

the memory makes you chuckle. sometimes you wonder if he knew megumi had a sister because when he did show up with two kids instead of a promised one, you swore he looked as smug as ever.

as the time went on, spreading yourself thin between going to university (you said you wanted to finish your degree in case your career as a sorcerer doesn’t work out), helping out geto and gojo on their missions when they asked you, and helping take care of both suguru’s girls and fushiguro siblings was proving to be too much. so satoru, for all his seemingly unlimited resources, decided that buying a house and living all together will be better. you knew that it was easier to move a mountain than change gojo’s mind once it’s been set on something so you didn’t argue. to no one’s surprise, living together for all of you came as naturally as breathing. who said a family cannot be three barely functioning not-even-yet adults and their four adopted children?

the familiar silhouette of home comes into view, and you sigh with relief. when the cab stops, you pay the driver, grabbing your things and rushing our the car. it’s the moments like this you envy satoru’s teleportation ability though you will never admit it to him out loud, lest you inflate his ego even more. you’re barely able to step away from the gates when the front door to the house swings open and you see the person you were just thinking about poking his head out.

“need a hand?”

gojo is as cheerful as ever, and you cannot help but smile back, lips stretching in that tired way he finds almost domestic, and he feels something prick inside him. not now. you want to say something back, but you’re interrupted by the sound of little footsteps running past satoru, towards you.

“you’re back, you’re back!” nanako and mimiko are the first rushing to greet you, with tsumiki hot on their tail. you see megumi standing in the doorframe trying to pat away satoru’s hand resting on top of his head as he comes out to greet you as well.

“oh my god, ‘toru, what are they still doing up, it’s past 12am!” you redirect your attention to the kids instead. “what are you little rascals still doing up, uh? just because you don’t have school tomorrow doesn’t mean you don’t have a sleeping schedule anymore!”

“gojo-san and geto-san said we can stay up today!”

“3 years later and you’re still the only one they call by your first name,” you hear suguru before you can see him: he is standing on the opposite side of megumi, letting the kid hide behind his leg to get away from gojo’s assault on his hair. you smile at them and decide there is no point of staying mad at them any longer.

the men help you to bring your bags inside, and you collapse on the couch as soon as you pass the threshold of your home.

“how was your trip?” megumi asks as he slowly crawls to sit on your right side. out of all the kids, megumi was the hardest to read �� for a child his age, he was overly perceptive and did feel almost like an adult at times. what did satoru call him? a child-man, that’s right.

“it was good, ‘gumi. ‘m just tired now. how was your weekend? i saw someone took you to disneyworld when i was asking for it the whole time,” you said, raising your voice at the later part of the sentence so it can reach gojo and geto’s ears from where they were in the kitchen. you could only hear a light chuckle back.

“it was so fun! mimiko was scared of the ride we went on, but i was so brave!” nanako’s eyes twinkled with so much joy, you really wish you witnessed the moment yourself. satoru was right all those years ago, you were a mother hen back then, you’re a mother hen now.

“no, i wasn’t! tsumiki was scared more!”

“why are you lying? no, i wasn’t!”

“ay, ay! i’m sure all of you were equally brave. now, can you tell me why you stayed up this late?” you finally sit everyone down, satoru and suguru joining you with freshly brewed tea, and think this is the most at peace you’ve ever felt.

“we were waiting for you…” tsumiki shyly confesses on behalf of everyone.

“oh,” your vision gets blurry and you feel pearly beads of tears pool in the corner of your eyes before quickly blinking them away.

“ughhh, you cute little puppies, i just want to eat you up,” you say before anyone can question your tears and pull all of the kids into a bear hug. time is late, however, so you make a quick work of tucking everyone into bed now that they’ve seen you. you say your goodnights and leave their rooms.

“do we not get a hug now?” satoru asks, wearing his signature smirk, and you want to clap back with a retort of your own, chastise them for letting the kids eat cake for dinner and stay up past midnight, or remind them that they are not seven years old anymore; but the car trip and the memories you revisited bring out something nostalgic in you making you slowly walk up to satoru and hug him instead. he is taken aback at first but gojo has always been good at recovering from momentary stupor so he’s pulling you back into a hug in no time.

“you two are rude,” comes from suguru’s side and as soon as you’re untangling yourself from gojo, you’re walking up to the raven-haired sorcerer to do the same.

“i missed you two idiots.”

“we missed you too.”

the silence stretches across the room but it’s comforting and inviting, like an old friend who hasn’t visited in a while, enveloping the three of you in its embrace. you look at the clock on the wall, showing you 1:05am, and suddenly your whole body feels heavy.

“sorry guys, i think the trip is finally showing its signs… i am so tired, don’t even have energy to take a shower,” you say and groan in disgust. you hate going to bed without washing the grime of the day off your body but the fatigue is clinging onto your skin like humid air. “i’m going to bed now, see you guys tomorrow.”

“good night.”

“sleep well.”

and if you paid closer attention, you would’ve noticed the deep seated longing in the men’s gazes, the one that you sometimes have to hide from them too; you would’ve noticed how suguru’s hand is following yours long after you’re out of their sight, and how satoru’s tongue darted out to wet his lips when you were pressed against him, even if for a second; you would’ve noticed that the feelings you’ve been trying to push deep down for your two best friends are reflected all the same somewhere in the constellation of their eyes.

next morning you wake up as a result of someone laughing your name and jumping on your bed. sunlight is peaking through the curtains, making sun bunnies dance on the walls of your room and kiss your cheeks. you try to open your eyes but your head feels heavy like you’ve just fallen asleep and you struggle to make out your surroundings – feeling disoriented first thing in the morning is definitely your least favorite thing. you groan softly and finally force yourself to lift your eyelids – as you do so, you’re met with two little girls using your bed as a make-shift trampoline.

“wake up! wake up! gojo-san and geto-san told us we will be leaving to go to the sea in an hour!” and they swiftly left, just as quickly as they had come in, leaving you to stare up at the ceiling in confusion.

“uh?”

once the words really settled in, you’re getting up from the bed in record time and putting on the first clothes you lay your eyes on. you find the strongest duo already up and ready. all of the kids, worryingly, also look like they are ready to leave the house, and there are bags near the door with both satoru and suguru looking too smug not to be suspicious about it.

“what is going on here?” you ask from the doorway that connects the hallway leading to your rooms to the kitchen. “why am i hearing that we’re going to the sea, and why are you dressed like this?”

“well,” satoru starts, “because we are going to the sea so we’re wearing appropriate clothing. you’re the only one who’s still not dressed.

you close your eyes and massage the bridge of your nose. mentally you douse whatever feelings you were having for these idiots yesterday.

“why am i hearing about this only now?”

“surprise?..”

“i know it’s last minute, but satoru made a promise to drive so you can relax in the car while we’re on the way there. just get ready and we can leave right after,” suguru says from his place on the couch, and you cannot help but sigh deeply and return to your room to shower and quickly pack.

when you’re out of earshot, geto shoots gojo a look.

“what are you planning, satoru?”

“why would i be planning anything? she’s been really stressed recently, and then the higher ups have the audacity to send her away for a whole weekend and give you a mission that took your whole sunday at the same time she was sent away. i was overworked the week before that. sometimes it feels like they are doing this on purpose. so maybe we should all disappear for a couple of days with no way of contacting us, maybe they’ll stop pestering us like we’re the only sorcerers available.”

“very mature of you, ‘toru.”

“yeah, yeah, whatever.”

the two of them finish packing the last of the food that gojo bought in the morning while waiting for you. reserving a spot this late in one of the most popular vacation spots in japan was hard, but nothing is impossible when you’re satoru gojo.

you’re ready in record time, and the kids are all yelling and arguing about who is going to sit where. you need to intervene and say you will be sitting in the back of suv with nanako and mimiko, while mugumi and tsumiki agreed to sit in the middle row; suguru is riding shotgun and satoru has agreed to be your driver for the ride. unsurprisingly, not even an hour out of the city, the car is filled with snoring as the kids fell asleep shortly after you started driving. you feel yourself getting drowsy, closing your eyes and swearing you will only sleep for a moment. however, the next time you open them, you’re informed by suguru that all of you are already halfway through the trip.

“oh my god, i can’t believe i slept for that long,” you mumble through a voice heavy with drowsiness. “i think it’s best if we stop somewhere now, i’ll wake the kids up so they can eat quickly and pee. i suggest we all do it.”

“yeah, i think it would be best, i don’t know if we will have the opportunity to stop any time soon,” satoru agrees with you, and the drive continues for 20 more minutes until you’re stopping at the gas station. you gently wake the kids up and let them know that they need to have a snack and go to the restroom (time is 11:20am and they should be able to fall asleep again with no issues after that).

“how much longer do you think we have to drive?” you ask satoru as he is refilling the gas tank. you’re watching suguru watch the kids where they are running around nearby.

“maybe 2.5-3 hours, depending on the traffic.”

“did something happen during the weekend?”

“no, why would you ask?”

“hm…” you quickly hum, “this is all too sudden for it to be spontaneous.”

“oh, common, don’t be like that. i just think the little family of ours needs a mini vacation, that is all.”

as soon as the words leave his mouth, gojo can feel the blush creeping up all the way to his ears and he clears his throat, walking away. you don’t know what makes you giggle more – the way he admits that whatever it is you have, he also sees it as a family, or the way the confession makes him feel embarrassed. you observe him preparing to get into the driver’s seat – sometimes you wonder what is happening in that handsome head of his. you glance at suguru and wonder if he would have a better guess.

gojo lets you know that you’re good to depart again. the second part of the trip is as chaotic as you would imagine it go and you give up on trying to make kids to go back to sleep. instead, you’re breaking up the fights between almost everyone: nanako and mimiko argue about their friendship bracelets across from you; you keep having to remind gojo that he is indeed an adult in this situation while he wants to continue arguing with megumi; and suguru somehow breaks the AC so the last 30 minutes of the drive everyone is suffering in silence.

once you finally pull up to the little vacation house gojo somehow procured at the last moment, you’re already feeling at your limit: you need the sun and to dive into warm water before you start losing your hair.

geto helps you with the bags while gojo unloads everything into the kitchen – you’re not sure how long you’re staying here for but the amount of food they brought will last you a nuclear winter. the children are excited about their rooms, and you must keep reminding them to be careful and to not run into any corners despite their enthusiasm. you help them unpack and choose outfits for the day – it’s been decided in the car that you will be going to the beach as soon as you’re settled.

everyone is ready in half an hour – you helped the girls get into their swimming suits, while megumi insisted he can do it himself (you suggested geto or gojo help him, but he closed the door in their faces and didn’t come out until he was done). both men were already waiting by the door with the picnic bags and beach essentials – you had to admit they looked a little too good, making a knot twist in your stomach.

satoru was dressed in a simple white button up that matched his hair and a pair of navy swim trunks. maybe he was right, this trip was long overdue for all three of you, as gojo looked more relaxed and at peace than you’ve seen him in a while. his lips were stretch into a lazy smile and his eyes, unobstructed by the glasses or a blindfold, had a glint of mischief that reminded you of a 16 year-old boy you met all those years ago. he tried his best to style his white unruly hair but the surrounding humidity only made it frizzier.

gojo makes it seem almost effortless, with how good he looks, and maybe part of it is true – despite never admitting it out loud, you know he won the genetic lottery when it came to his appearance. but you also know that satoru has an unrelenting skin care routine (because you buy your products together); that he asks what you think about his outfits even though you keep repeating you should be the last person he asks for fashion advice (don’t worry about it, princess, your opinion is the only one that matters anyways and you hate how your heart clenches at these words); and that he spends 45 minutes taking his showers. but what gojo doesn’t know is that you adore him the most first thing in the morning – eyes so sleepy he can barely keep them open, voice gruff and low asking what’s for breakfast, wearing his sleeping gray sweatpants and nothing else. and he will never know lest you want to ruin everything you’ve worked so hard to build between the three of you.

you moved your eyes away from gojo to where suguru was leaning on the door. he was wearing a blue hawaiian shirt with the three top buttons popped off, paired with simple black swimming shorts. his hair was put into a perfect manbun, however, unrelenting bangs always make themselves known untangled from the rest of his locks. you noticed it back when you were teenagers and got used to carrying bobby pins for him – he somehow always leaves them at home (you will never admit but you love the fact that he always forgets them – it gives you another reason to run your fingers through his hair) – and this habit stayed with you all the way into adulthood. while satoru was handsome in a regal way, suguru was all sharp edges that made him look almost dangerous – pronounced jaw, pointy nose, almost cat-like eyes; the kind of beauty that always makes you weak in the knees.

“see something you like?” satoru’s voice takes you out of your daydream and, shamefully, you realize you’ve been standing in the corridor doorway, gawking at them like it’s your first time seeing their faces. you only groan in response and roll your eyes, trying to hide the blush that adores your neck and flushes your cheeks red.

“if i saw something i like, i would’ve told you,” and you stick your tongue out. liar.

“are you feeling well? you look a little red, maybe you got a fever?” comes from suguru’s side now as he tries to reach for your forehead but you swat his hand away.

“ugh, i hate both of you.” liar. they only laugh when you rush past them, megumi and nanako on either side of you holding your hands while tsumiki sits on satoru’s shoulders and mimiko takes her rightful place on suguru’s back.

“whatever you say, sweetheart.”

the way to the beach is short and sweet, your attention is fully dedicated to megumi and nanako as they re-tell you the stories from their weekend. ‘gumi won a plushy and gave it to mimiko because she asked him to play in the first place, and tsumiki, apparently, had the highest score in the game where you punch a bag to see how strong you are. nanako says that helping satoru bake the cheesecake on sunday was her favorite part of the weekend, and you make a mental note to let her help you the next time you do it.

from behind you, geto and gojo observe your interactions with the kids, each of them in their own thoughts, yet both mulling over the same thing – you, letting tsumiki and mimiko chat between themselves.

neither of them thought you would become a constant in their lives when they decided to take in the kids – after all, none of you were in a relationship, despite their feelings for you, and you had no obligations to be giving them so much of your time. but as the time went on, all three of you fell into a comfortable routine that was both a blessing and a curse – they couldn’t confess that the boyish crush they had on you in your teenage years not only endured but blossomed into something so much more. that something kept growing inside their ribcages, weaving and building a home there, rooting itself so deep, they forgot what life was like before you offered them your light.

satoru and suguru only discussed this once between each other. the unspoken feelings they had not only for you but also for each other made already complex situation even more complicated. the fear of damaging the carefully built dynamic between the three of you was overwhelming - so overwhelming in fact, both agreed to never speak of this again. pandora’s box was sealed, and only you behold the power to open it. the strongest duo knows why this little box of wonders needs to be locked far away from them - however, it’s moments like this, when megumi asks to be carried in your hands (even though he’s getting too big for that) while nanako clenches your hand harder and you indulge both of them without a moment’s delay, that make them wish you knew: knew how much suguru adores the little tilt to your head when you’re confused about something, knew how much satoru loves smoothing out the wrinkles on your head when you’re deep in the thought, knew how both of them yearn for your laugh after a long day.

the cute white bikini you’re wearing is definitely not helping the ever-running thoughts two men are trying so hard to push down. it’s not the first time the absolute indecency of their desire is sparked by the slight bounce of your tits and the swing of your hips. memories of countless times they had to take an extra shower in the morning because you would show up in the kitchen in one of their shirts, without a bra, nipples hard and visible through a thin fabric, should make them feel embarrassed, yet the shame never comes. when did the longing for you start feeling so right?

as the years progressed, this dance the three of you did around each other became familiar, and none of you dared to switch the melody.

sometimes you wish you were brave enough to do it.

“look, look, we’re finally here!” mimiko yells from suguru’s back and then instructs him to put her down. nanako lets go of your hand as tsumiki’s climbing down satoru’s shoulders, and three girls run away towards the sea.

“be careful! you still need to put your sunscreen, don’t run away too far!” you move your attention to the little boy you released from your hold as you entered the beach, “‘gumi, you’re not going with them?”

you wiggle his arm back and forth (his hand is so tight in yours, gripping now harder than before) but he refuses to look at you so you don’t push.

“did you forget he doesn’t know how to swim?” satoru says from behind you, and you shoot him a look. god, was he purposefully trying to rile megumi? fushiguro only digs his fingers further into your hand, and you honestly want to bite satoru’s head off.

“that’s okay, baby, i’m sure your dad needed support of his whole clan when he was trying to learn how to swim.”

“he is not my dad.”

your brain goes blank for a second, and you hope satoru did not hear what you just said (he did; but he thinks he’ll spare you the further embarrassment; he also doesn’t want to admit that it makes his stomach turn in a way he wish it wouldn’t).

“you’re right, dummy like him could never be your dad.”

you find the spot not too far from where the girls are playing, and you help geto and gojo set up the blankets and umbrellas. while they are making sure none of it flies away with the first gust of the wind, you search for the sunscreen in your bag.

“girls! come here, we need to put sunscreen on you!”

you hear the tatter of 6 feet rushing towards you, trying to get first in line so they can all get back to playing in the water. you hand satoru and suguru two other tubes you brought.

“help me to put this on them. i think if we don’t do it in the next minute, they will actually explode,” you say, smiling at how impatient tsumiki is being in front of you as she keeps bouncing on her legs. before you start on the sunscreen, you turn her so her back is facing you and let her hair out of the ponytail as you try to retie it. she winces a bit and lets out a small ouch.

“’m sorry baby, didn’t meant to hurt you, you okay?” you ask as you rub on the roots of her hair.

“yeah, i’m okay!” she exclaims loudly, making you giggle. once her bun is all set in place, you quickly put the sunscreen on her whole body, finishing with the face, and boop her nose. tsumiki scrunches it in her adorable way, and you feel your heart swell with joy and love.

once the girls run off again, suguru comes up to you with the tube of sunscreen in hands.

“don’t you think you need a little help too?”

the smile adorning his face is so sweet, he doesn’t realize the summersaults it’s making your heart to do. and when you think about those hands on your shoulders, on your back, going lower where you want them most, you realize you actually might be burning up. but you can’t come up with an excuse fast enough not to let him do it so, without any words lest you’ll be embarrassing yourself, you just turn around and present him your back.

geto start slowly with your shoulders, squeezing the tube and spreading the sunscreen on your soft skin. you swear you can hear him sharply inhale, and your heart involuntarily skips a beat. you let yourself wonder, just for a second, how these hands would feel on the parts of your body where you want them most, if geto would be as gentle squeezing your breasts and tugging at your nipples. and when his hands start travelling lower, caressing the space between your shoulder blades and running his fingers down your spine, you wonder if his long digits would reach the spot inside your gummy walls that you’re unable to find yourself. you absolutely lose yourself to the indecent thoughts when he starts massaging the sunscreen into your lower back. that man, you think, if only he knew what he was doing. it takes all of your willpower to prevent yourself from moaning out loud and not tremble at his mere touch. you want to lean back and tilt your head to the side so geto can leave a trail of wet kisses on the side of your neck, following the curve of it to your jaw, and capture your lips in a way that only lovers can.

you can feel your skin grow hot and your white bikini better not show how embarrassingly wet you got from your best friend’s touch. you’re so sick, you think to yourself and before it becomes any worse, you’re untangling yourself from suguru’s arms and call out for megumi.

“i… uh… will go swim with him, don’t want him to get bored,” you breathlessly whisper as if too afraid to speak any louder, and call out to the boy.

“‘gumi, common! grab your floaties and we’ll go play a little further away from the girls,” you wait for him to grab his stuff, and you notice one of his rare smiles – he never hid the fact that you were his favorite out of three adults, and he always feels a little smug when your undivided attention is on him. satoru shoots him a knowing look which megumi successfully ignores, clinging to you.

you pass the girls as you show them the direction you’re taking megumi in and they all say “okay!” at the same time like it’s rehearsed. mimiko, nanako and tsumiki are in a competition to see who can gather the most seashells and are left under the attentive gaze of gojo and geto. you help megumi put his floaties on and gather him into your arms so you can walk a little deeper: once you’re satisfied with the distance, you try to let him go but he is attached to you like a baby koala.

“common ‘gumi, i promise i won’t let you go, okay? i’ll be right here in case you need help, and i’ll be also holding onto you the whole time.”

fushiguro only violently shakes his head, not wanting to be in the water by himself. you wonder where this fear comes from and think you’ll have to revisit it later. you don’t push any further, and hug him closer, running a smoothing hand on his back while he puts his head on your shoulder. you squat a little to help him get adjusted to the temperature, and he shrieks from the sudden rush of water above his waist while hugging you tighter, almost choking you. laughter bubbles in your throat but you don’t want to make megumi feel worse than he already does so you try your best not to let it out.

“hey, baby, it’s okay. i am holding you, yeah?” and as you say that, you try to push him away from you one more time, to let him experience the ocean by himself but he only tightens his hold as a sign he is not moving away. so you resign to gently swaying with him in the water, letting the salty waves wash around you. you can feel the sunlight dancing on your skin, warm breeze carrying all your worries away, if just for a moment, and you close your eyes allowing yourself to take all of it in. megumi’s head is pleasantly heavy on your shoulder, and you walk little bit further away from the beach until you bump into someone.

“oh, i am so sorry!” you instantly apologize and turn around. what you don’t expect is to be met with the pair of the most beautiful green eyes you see (your mind involuntarily goes to gojo and how even these emerald eyes pale to comparison to the infinity carried by his gaze). you think if your heart didn’t belong to the two most annoying human beings you’ve ever had a pleasure of encountering, you would’ve fallen head over hills right here, right now.

“please, no need to apologize.”

surprise number two: this stranger is not only handsome, but also has a voice that makes you want to do whatever he asks you to, as long as he keeps talking to you. and again, you think how unfortunate of you to fall in love with two people you can’t have when men like this walk around for free.

he smiles when his attention falls to megumi - little boy appears not to be happy with this encounter. who does this man thinks he is? maybe megumi didn’t want to learn how to swim, it doesn’t mean that he is willing to share you when he just got you away from two men on the beach (he is not old enough to rationalize that what he is feeling is jealousy; you never noticed but, geto and gojo excluded, he never liked how other men talk to you in the first place).

a handsome stranger doesn’t seem taken aback by the attitude from megumi, and for a seven-year-old, your little boy has a mean death stare.

“he is very cute, what is his name?”

“he’s megumi,” you give him your name as well and extend the arm for introduction. before a man can even respond, megumi is tugging your arm away and whines, speaking loud enough for satoru and suguru to hear, who, unbeknownst to you, have been watching the interaction this whole time (spoiler – they are not very happy about it but proud of the kid, truly an oscar-worthy performance).

“mommy, i want to learn how to swim now!”

you think you heard him wrong – he has never called you this before. if it happened any other time, you think you would’ve cried tears of happiness. now it only makes you feel stupor. how does he even know to call you mommy in this situation? megumi has always been the most well-behaved one out of all four kids, the disbelief at his attitude is written all over your face. what is he playing at?

“oh, i’m sorry, i didn’t realize he was your kid,” the man says but hurries to add, “i adore children though; i work at a pre-school. hi megumi, my name is rei.”

the boy looks at the outstretched hand the man offered like it personally offended him. all of a sudden, he points to the beach where satoru and suguru seat and announces, yet again loud enough for them to hear.

“my daddies are just right there!”

what happened to “he’s not my dad?” you think in panic.

you’re not sure if gojo and geto can hear the full conversation, but they wave back at you anyways. rei moves his gaze from you to megumi to two men on the beach, trying to decide if he should believe it or not. you, on the other hand, are speechless and currently wishing someone would be kind enough to curse you right now, or for the ground to split and swallow you whole with how hot and embarrassed you feel. megumi is so grounded today. you can feel the inner temperature rise to the inappropriate levels, feeling like a kettle that is about to overheat – you don’t wait for rei’s response while saying awkward “bye, nice meeting you!” and rushing away.

“welcome back, mommy,” satoru teases when you settle back at your spot. megumi is sitting on the opposite side of you, munching on the watermelon like he didn’t just make an absolute fool out of you in front of a random man. you try your best to ignore satoru, but his comment only makes you groan, sound almost bordering a sob.

“please, for the love of everything holy, don’t say another word. i bet it was you who put this idea into his head.”

“you know as well as we do that you can’t make megumi do anything he doesn’t want to,” gojo responds with the knowing smirk, and you only sink into yourself further. your face is burning up, and now you think it’s not because megumi’s whole afternoon mission was apparently to embarrass you in front of a stranger but because of what he said. the shock of the moment is finally dissipating, instead giving the space to indescribable tenderness. you will have to cry about it later on your own so to save yourself further shame, you hide your face behind your hat and lay down, contemplating how this one simple word somehow turned all of your insides upside down.

what you fail to notice is the proud smile satoru shoots to megumi, mouthing “good job” and suguru passing him his favorite candy knowing he’s not allowed to eat it before dinner.

you feel absolutely drained. after the incident with megumi, you stayed in the same position until the kids started complaining that they were hungry. the sun is getting low, painting the skies ochre and pink, giving everyone its glowing kiss. you dare to peek at satoru and suguru, and they looked almost ethereal – sunshine dancing on satoru’s white eyelashes as he dries tsumiki with a towel and nodding enthusiastically at the collection of shells she is showing him, while suguru tries to untie nanako’s wet hair so he can wrap a towel around it. mimiko slowly drags her legs towards you, poor girl absolutely exhausted, and as soon as you open your arms to embrace her with a towel of her own, she plops against you and almost momentarily falls asleep.

suguru offers to carry her home, but you wave him off, asking to grab megumi’s hand instead.

“i am not cooking once we get home, we better buy food now or we can drive into the city.”

“ugh, i don’t think i have the strength to drive,” satoru whines like he is the youngest out of the bunch. “let’s just buy something here, it smells pretty good.”

suguru only hums in agreement, listening to nanako and tsumiki argue about who got the most shells (both fail to count their shells correctly), and with that, your dinner plans are decided with satoru ordering your food from the stall nearby.

“what do we say when someone gets you food?”

“thank you, gojo-san!” three little voices echo each other, and you’re surprised even megumi joined in. the way back home is quick as you’re standing in front of your door in no time.

“oh my god, my legs are killing me,” you complain as you pass the threshold of the house. mimiko has been sleeping in your arms the whole way back, and you don’t know if you should wake her up and ask her to eat, or if you should just let her sleep. you can still smell the ocean on her skin, and you decide it’s best for her hygiene and your peace of mind that she is clean before she goes to bed too so with a heavy heart, you’re gently shaking her awake once you sit down on the couch.

“hey sweetie, we’re home. let’s eat, bathe and then i’ll put you back to bed, yeah?” her eyes are unfocused as she opens them, and she’s letting out a long yawn before slowly nodding her head and getting up.

“okay, everyone, go wash your hands, dinner will be ready soon,” suguru says from where he already stands in the kitchen, and all four pairs of legs excitedly hurry away.

“i hope the adventure today is enough to put them all to sleep right away,” you wistfully say.

“with their tummies full, i’m sure they will pass out in no time,” suguru says back while satoru circles around him to grab the plates from the overhead cupboards. you want to get up and help but looking at them like this, all domestic and familiar, the side of the strongest sorcerers only you get to see, makes you stall for a second to appreciate this moment for a little longer. the dull ache in your chest starts throbbing again as if someone’s picking at the rough edges that never seem to fully heal, and you wonder if you could have it all if you were a little more selfish. you shake your head banishing all unnecessary thoughts from your head.

the dinner is eaten quickly, everyone so hungry, you barely exchange any words. you can see the children are struggling to keep their eyes open, tsumiki almost falling face first into the plate, so you make a quick work of their unfinished dinner and hurry them into a bathtub. megumi insists he is old enough to take a bath separately from the girls so you ask either satoru or suguru to help him (megumi makes it known who he prefers by grabbing suguru’s hand and dragging him to the second bathroom). bath time is also surprisingly quiet, low energy in the room being an indicator of just how exhausted everyone is.

with the kids finally tucked into bed (megumi apologized for misbehaving, and you think about how far you’ve come with the boy who wouldn’t utter a full sentence to you for the first 6 months), you grab the beer from the fridge and make your way onto the patio where satoru and suguru are already engaged in conversation.

they turn their heads toward you once you step outside and offer you the space between them which you gladly take. you can see suguru is nursing his own beer, while satoru opted out for a bottle of virgin mojito.

“did neither of you really ask megumi to call me “mommy” today?” you wonder out loud as you’re looking out into the horizon, where the last rays of sun melt into the ocean, clearing the canvas for the stars to spark to life.

“nah, you know how stubborn that kid is,” satoru drawls as he takes another sip of the drink; you scrunch your nose just imagining how sweet that concoction is but smile, nonetheless. “plus, it was nice being called a dad.”

both you and suguru turn to look at him, but he stubbornly keeps staring forward. you snort, seeing geto’s smile in your peripheral vision, but there is no malice behind your action. both you and suguru always knew that gojo cared in the same capacity as the two of you for the kids, he was just a little more stubborn about admitting it. you can see it in the way he handles them after they wake up from nightmares (because he knows the same thing haunts him), how he packs them lunches to school when neither you or suguru are able to do it (i know i am not as great of a cook as those two but it’s better than buying stuff from the store), how he allows them to have sweets from his secret stash when everyone else (even you and geto) are not permitted to even think about it. the two of you always knew how much he cared – satoru just needed a little push to say it out loud.

you’re about to say something witty but suguru speaks up first.

“would you have continued flirting with that man if it wasn’t for megumi?”

“flirting? i wasn’t flirting with him!”

“whatever, talking,” geto waves a hand at you like it’s all unimportant details. “would you?”

the air suddenly feels charged with electricity, years of longing and yearning threaten to rip everything at the seams. you tried so hard to move past them, move past your silly little crush, failing miserably. not that dating other people was an option for you anyways – you are sure anyone, upon hearing that you take care of four small children at only age 21, will run away in the opposite direction. it’s a good thing it didn’t matter to you either way – the kids became an integral part of your life, and you would not give them up for anything. but sometimes, just sometimes, when the loneliness creeps into the parts of your bones that have no space for it, when the heart becomes a little too big for your own chest trying to escape through rushed beats, when you tremble from how longing encompasses your whole being, you wonder how it would feel if romantic love was made for you too.

you tilt your head to look at suguru, trying to find something in his face. he doesn’t know why he asked that question – maybe it’s the sun rush of the day, the good mood he’s been in recently or how that man looked at your body – but it felt right. and he knows he’s being selfish without discussing it with satoru beforehand, but he’s so tired of hiding, so tired of pretending like he doesn’t dream of waking up next to your warm bodies, so tired of thinking about what ifs and could haves - asking that question only felt right.

“no, i don’t think i would’ve returned his sentiment,” you simply state and hope that they would leave it at that. you know they never do.

“why?” it’s satoru’s turn in this interrogation, and he looks at you in a way that makes your pulse pick up its pace.

“because…” you don’t know what you’re supposed to say. because you’re in love with your best friends? have been since you were 16 years old? you’ve been carrying the weight of unrequited love for so long now, you think you’re afraid what will happen to the space it occupies if you confess. you hope you know them enough to realize they will not make fun of you for your confession, at most making lighthearted jokes about how they always knew you were not immune to their charms, but your palms are getting sweaty just anticipating their reaction.

“because?” satoru nudges you again, and you dare to steal a glance into his baby blues. satoru’s eyes have been compared to the most prized sapphires, an ocean that will never be fully explored, the skies that are bigger than life itself – all the metaphors that describe him to the outside world perfectly. however for you, his eyes are the color of blueberries that he painstakingly picks out of tsumiki’s desserts and gives to megumi; they are the color of his favorite shirt that is more gray now than blue with how much he washed it but refuses to throw away; it’s the blue ribbons he picked out for nanako’s and mimiko’s hair for their first day of school. you look into his eyes and see a sparkle of something familiar, something you’ve seen in your eyes times and times before, staring back from the reflection in the mirror.

unexpectedly, you feel dizzy and don’t know if it’s the summer breeze that makes your head feel heavy, the alcohol swimming in your veins, or the present company, but you’re brought back to when you were all 16 and innocent, to the moment before the steady ground was violently ripped from right underneath your feet. you think about amanai and that she still loved and cared despite knowing how all of it would end for her. you think about haibara, and how he was full of promise and life and so, so much love, you almost feel sick again.

you’re quiet as you contemplate, and the men don’t interrupt your train of thoughts. memories flash before your eyes like snapshots of old cameras, making them wonder where you have gone off to.

but then you think about how it ended, for the both of your friends, in blood and violence and guilt, their life threads cut short before either of them knew what life even is. amanai and haibara didn’t get enough time to figure it all out: have they loved anyone the way you love satoru and suguru? would have they have had time to figure it out if it was a fair world?

you can feel your best friends’ body heat wrap around you, encapsulating you in their scent and presence, and you decide you’d like to stay like this forever. you think about everyone who didn’t get to spend another hour with someone they love, and you realize you’d regret it your whole life if something happens and they didn’t know how they make you feel. and with the life you lead, something can happen at any moment. you steady your hands and take a deep breath, reading yourself. now or never.

“because i am in love with you two, and i have been since we were 16.”

you close your eyes, waiting for the laugh to come, for them to say oh, you little silly girl, to chastise you for falling for the only two people that will never be yours. you wait and wait but nothing comes. instead, you feel someone’s knuckles brushing lightly against yours and gasp, opening your eyes. what you didn’t expect to see is your two best friends looking at you as if they are seeing you for the first time, their lips stretch in smiles so wide, it looks like it’s supposed to hurt. and eyes, their eyes, say so much without them needing to say anything at all.

“so… what you’re saying is that we’ve been blue balling each other since we were 16?”

“ohmygodsatorupleasestop,” words leave your mouth all jumbled up, you’re sure they didn’t understand what you said. gojo might be a little crude but the meaning behind his childish metaphor is not lost on you – three of you have been oblivious to each other’s feelings for five years now, and a pang of regret shoots through you. how different would everything be if you were brave enough to confess all those years ago?

“have both of you really known since you were 16?”

“yes.”

both of them say it with such conviction, you feel yourself get lightheaded. you don’t want to cry but tears are pooling in your eyes involuntarily, and you sniff a little into satoru’s shoulder.

“aw, why are you crying? i thought we all finally agreed to be happy,” suguru coos at you from the side. the warmth of your hand in his still feels unreal – like it’s someone else’s arm attached to him, and he‘s just observing as a passer-by. he brushes your knuckles with the pads of his fingers and it feels right, how your digits perfectly intervene with his and how your head fits just right into the crook of satoru’s neck, and how your lips look so perfectly kissable and shiny right now. but he doesn’t want to rush the fragility of the moment, so he only squeezes your hand tighter.

“because we could’ve had this all this time… if we were just a little braver.”

“don’t you think we are already brave enough, all the time?” satoru asks this time. “maybe it’s okay for us to be a little cowardly, even if it’s not entirely good for us. we have next memory to look forward to anyways.” gojo lifts your head and looks into your teary eyes – you’re so beautiful, it almost hurts. he let his daydreams to be full of you and your lips and your touch, that it takes everything in him not to cross the distance in a searing kiss. but he knows it’s not the right moment, so he just swipes your tears away and kisses you on the forehead. behind you, you can feel suguru’s lips gently touch your exposed shoulder.

and just like that, all worries dissipate like sand through the cracks between fingers. what is the point of worrying about the past when you have future full of love in front of you? you don’t know what tomorrow holds for three of you with your souls now bare for each other, but you have the time to discover it together. for now, you’re content with this moment, salty ocean breeze dancing on your skin, the warmth of suguru’s palm in yours and satoru’s shoulder lulling you to sleep, and you think that maybe you’ve always meant to end up here, between them.

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