#i should know how to tamp that down by now!

[protectorcraft]

playing sky really brings out the shy, skittish animal in me. ill be noticed by someone and immediately get so flustered i cant think. this never happens in real life. why.

[adhdphilosopher]

im so full of anger every day that it makes it hard to function. what do i do

[moonlightcycle571]

Lantern Corps and a 10 year old Child

In a last post, I said the Lantern Corps would love Captain Marvel because he’s omni-lingual (and there’s so many different species so it makes sense that they would feel comfertable around a guy who can speak their mother tongue, no matter how obscure it is).

And then it came to me in a glorious vision, the Cores would LOVE or absolute HATE Billy Batson, be it as a kid it as Captain Marvel.

First on the Love Captain spectrum:

Red Lantern: that’s the corps that’s the most insistent. Man’s fights littéral Wrath and demons alike on a weekly basis. Man’s go to weekly poker night with Satan and other Wardens of Hell. Why? Because he has his own prison dimension in th Rock of Eternity, who also holds the strongest demons.

Yellow Lanterns: as champion of magic, he holds a lot of weight. Especially for magic users. One flick of a wrist and boom, your magic is gone. The whole concept of ‘The Champion’ is enough for most to fear him. That and one does not play poker with The Devil from The Bible and other figures from various religions, and just have a normal presence. He’s terrifying when he wants to be. In his Cap form, he needs to actively tamp down to appear more family friendly, and not the eldricht horror he knows he could easily look like.

Green Lanterns: Homeless Child Superhero dealing with horrors must adults can’t handle. That takes willpower. Even before Captain, I’m pretty sure off willpower alone he could qualify. But what’s the real ringer is his imagination. The Rock of Eternity has access to magical dimensions that no amount of crack could dream up. Man’s had to learn how to use Looney Toones Logic irl and it works. Man’s got a while Disney Dimension with Ballerina Hippos with their Croc partners. Mans has debates about files with littéral walking talking dinosaurs. Billy is hella creative, and who knows what would be made with a ring.

Blue Lanterns: do I … do I need to explain? There are the lantern corps of Hope, I think the rest is pretty self explanatory. I will say though, he was close to accepting when he found out they got a Corgi. Even closer when Dex Starr, the red lanterns cat got a

Orange Lantern: bro fights the physical manifestations of the Seven Deadly Sins , including Greed on a regular basis. By right of conquest, he really should be wearing the ring rn. They be trying to put a ring on it for ages.

Black Lanterns: he once revived Freddy and or Mary by reconnecting them to the rock, and since then is considered a ‘nécromancer’. Also (similar to the Avatar State) he has memories of past champions, including death, so one can argue he’s in a life and death loop.

White lanterns: same reasons as the Black Lanterns. They’ve been trying to get Billy to also out-do said Black Lanterns (who in turn try to recruit him some more). It’s just one vicious snowball effect now.

Now for the Hate Captain spectrum:

Star Sapphire Corps: The thing about Billy is that he’s AroAce. Very Aro and Very Ace. So those who draw power from love and try to flirt are met with the disgusted face of someone who’s famously nice. It was a devastating blow to the whole corps. At some point Hal decided to hide behind Cap to escape another Star Sapphire who fell inlove with him, and they just, lost their power. No longer had the ability to fly and everything. He’s Ace-ness is crippling. And it did bring memes. The Ace community was winning.

Indigo Tribe: he’s too autistic for them. And while being the warden of multiple dangerous beings fits their MO and all, they ain’t touching the bullshit magical logic with a ten foot pole. That, and the first time a ring was sent to him to recruit him to keep the evil ones in line, he roasted their whole system, their ugly ass uniforms (that particular shade of indigo clashed with his Hero Outfit way to much) and ended with a comparison to them with a guy called ‘King Kid’ and the fucking ‘Easter Bunny King’ that somehow did a much better job at Machiavellic while also being uhly. They never sent a second one. The red lanterns sent more.

Ultraviolet lanterns: again, man’s fights the Seven Sins on the regular, is their warden along with other sick evils, lies to the Justice League on the regular and plays poker with Demons (and wins) despite being one of the most honest people there is. That and he’s so dad shaped, it counters their power of daddy issues.

Bonuse:

It’s not uncommon for various JL members to receive lantern rings. They just don’t want to. So the standard procedure is to find your local lantern, and give them rings. At some point all the Corps made a lantern offers chart (and maybe the JL got a bit competitive).

Problem, that screen was using old alien tech that didn’t have colour. So they knew Cap had the most lantern offers, but they didn’t know which colours. Until it got fixed.

J’le looking at the rainbow that’s Captain Marvels Ring List: …

Batman: Captain, why is there so many red ones?

Billy, sweating: …

Hal, not comfy with the amount of yellow: I… I need to make a few phone calls.

John, the one who’s been receiving all of his rings: Uh, don’t remind me. I’ve been getting cramps with the amount of times I had to input the different colours.

Dinah: I don’t think even I’m qualified for the amount of therapy everyone is going to need.

WonderWoman: How to you have Negative Pink Rings??? You can’t get a negative number in a list

Billy, inputing the Zeta Tube: haha, it’s so weird

John: … do I need to add AroAce as a weakness for the Sapphires???

Bonus points if the results are open to the galactic public, and just wonder who tf are and ‘Billy Batson’ and Captain Marvel and why they are dominating the top ranks. What is in the Terra city Fawcette.

Extra Bonus Point if the JL go: Who tf is Billy Batson, and why is he ranked above Captain Marvel.

I’ve been waiting to do this one for a while. But never got the motivation. Let me know if I missed any, and feel free to write fanfic (please tag me if you do, I wanna reeeeead).

Final note, I want to give a certain someone a comment of appreciation.

@wonderjanga you are my favourite person on this app. You are the reason I decided to get out of my procrastination slump. Thank you for you content, it’s always so creative and I deeply enjoy it.

For those who don’t know them, I recommend checking out their content. It’s genuinely inspiration for me to start writing again. I don’t think I’ll be writing on ao3 soon, but maybe one day.

[mintmatcha]

Inevitable Things : chapter twelve

aizawa x reader fic

cw: aizawa x reader, cisfem reader, office AU, no quirks, fingering

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Sticky and wet. Your pants are sticky and wet. 

Pulling your panties up while still damp was a big mistake, you think as you walk back through the restaurant. The water you spilled in the restroom is all down your ass and is quickly cooling to an uncomfortable temperature, not to mention the absolute mess of cum and spit that's currently in the gusset of your panties-

And yet none of it manages to ruin your mood. 

Really, you should feel bad. Guilty, at the very least. You should be feeling bad about doing this to Touya, doing this in a public fucking space--

But, you don’t. Not in the slightest. No, you feel good. Better than you have in a very long time. There’s a levity in your step that you don't think you've ever had. It takes effort to tamp down your smile as you slide back into the table, adjusting your hair just in case. Your whole body is buzzing with post orgasm bliss, but you can't let Hizashi know that. 

“Oh my god, there you are!”  Hizashi slams his hands down and groans. “I thought you got lost!”

You never even got to pee. That’s a bit of a bummer, but you think it’s a worthy sacrifice. Fuck, you’ll never pee again if that's the alternative.

“There was a line,” you dismiss. God, you need to cum more often. This is great. Maybe you can masturbate tonight when you get back to the hotel room-

A tingle thrills up your spine as you remember the fact that you won't be alone tonight. No, Aizawa is coming back with you, putting that talented fucking mouth of his to good use. You should have tried this years ago; it certainly would have made work more tolerable. It would have made Aizawa more tolerable too.

 Fuck, you wish you could tell Hizashi that he was right; having fun is great. You had almost forgotten that being in love could be fun. 

Not that you're in love. That would be criminally insane. You're just high off of post orgasmic bliss. 

“Where did Aizawa go?” you ask, casually. Hizashi quirks a brow as he takes a sip of his drink. 

“Taking a call. Manufacturing had an issue, apparently.” 

“Again?” 

Manufacturing is always having an issue; it comes with the territory for biomedical companies. Production of the products is actually outsourced, including the computer chips needed for the bed. Most of the time, issues can be dealt with internally, but there are also times that it has to be elevated all the way to engineering. It’s a good lie, in theory, but Aizawa is going to have to explain why they are contacting a lead engineer and not someone lower on the food chain.

“Um,” you shift in your seat. The excitement inside you needs to come out or else you might explode.  “I got a text from the guy from last night.” 

“Shut up-- that’s why you were gone so long, huh? Sexting in the bathroom?”

Oh, he’d die if he knew the truth. Absolutely die.

“We weren’t sexting.” Not a lie! “But, I think I'm going to invite him over to my room tonight.”

Hizashi tilts his head down so he can look at you from over his glasses. It's a very Nemuri move, complete with her little smirk. 

“Are you gonna just make out again, or…?”

You tap your heels against the floor.

“No,” you hum, as innocently as possible. 

“No?”

“No, I--” Oh, you have to literally bite your tongue to kill your smile. It's like being sixteen again, giddy and giggly over nothing-  “I think I wanna do more.”

With a mouth like that, you might just let Aizawa do whatever he wants. Hell, you had asked to go slow, but now that you've had a taste, you don't know if you can keep the brakes on. You had forgotten how good it feels to be wanted, to be craved, to be touched… and Shouta seems determined to give you everything you need. 

 Hizashi physically reacts by grabbing the table and shaking it with a slack jawed amazement.

“Yes! Yes!” You have to grab your drink and Aizawa to stop them from spilling, but you're laughing all the while. “Good for you!”

“Hizashi, the waters!”

“Who is this guy?” Hizashi asks. “Is he cute? Is he nice?”

Is Aizawa cute? Not really. He's more… handsome than cute. Hardened, but soft. And he's certainly not nice. In fact, you’d label him as very not nice. Mean, even. Though, he did get you that sandwich this morning, which was really sweet. And he has those cats, which makes him a little softer than you first imagined-

“He's okay, I guess,” you settle on. 

Hizashi nods, a bit too solemn. It sets you on edge, the way he clams up as he watches you, eyeing up and down over and over. You can practically see the gears turning in his brain as he thinks.

“Shut up.”  He leans in on his elbows, sternly.  “It's Shouta, isn't it?”

Don't panic. You're pinned down, like a bug under glass, but you can't panic. Luckily, your brain is still stupidly swimming, so you're able to fight your institution and just stare back at him with what you hope is a bewildered glare.

“What.”

The man leans back and scoffs, then scoffs again, louder. His hand lies over his heart as if you've slapped him, indignant. The restaurant suddenly isn’t loud enough; you need the music to be turned up or for the crowd to get thicker to hide what’s about to come out of this man’s mouth.

“Oh my god, it's totally him! You’re totally boning!” 

Fuck. Double fuck. 

“I mean, you both just disappeared at the same time-”  Hizashi jolts up mid sentence. “Did you guys just fuck in the bathroom?! Oh my god, good for you! Is he good? He’s gotta be good-”

Oh, shit. Oh, damn. The room might be closing in on you actually. It's time to do what you do worst: lie. You push away from the table with a snort, lip curled up the way Aizawa's does.

“That's disgusting , Hizashi.” Oh, there’a vitriol in that. You almost smile out of pride, but you keep your cool. You have to-- you can't ruin this thing between you before it's even really started. “In a bathroom? With him? I'd rather die.” 

Your charade doesn’t seem to affect him.

“Oh, come on-” he laughs. “You're telling me you two don't have something going on? You both just magically found other people last night?”

“I wouldn't sleep with him if he was the last man on earth,” you insist.  “Aizawa is awful! Awful! Why would I ever-?”

A figure looms over you. “What did I walk into?”

Triple fuck. From someone who stomps most of the time, Aizawa certainly has a quiet step today. You swivel around, trying to flash a panicked look. Somehow, Aizawa seems to understand. His brow flickers up for a brief second, then returns to the usual unimpressed spot. Should you be worried that the two of you have figured out lying this easily? Usually, Touya just lies to you, not with you.

“Hizashi thinks we're sleeping together.” You wave a hand dismissively. You hope that no one else notices that Aizawa’s face is noticeably damp-- freshly washed.

“Ugh.” He rolls his head back as if he’s been slapped, sliding into the seat beside Hizashi. His foot bumps against you and you question if it’s on purpose. Is.. was that his good leg? Or the bad one? Maybe he’s kicking you accidentally.  “Her? What's wrong with you?”

Oh, ouch. That. Huh.

Logically, you know it’s just part of the lie you’ve started, but it still somehow stings. Rejection, even fake rejection, makes you ache. It falls too close to home, too close to Touya. (Not that you’re thinking about Touya tonight. No-- you’re allowing yourself to have fun. You’re forgetting him the same way he’s probably forgotten about you--)

 Swallowing down your pride, you adjust yourself in your seat, pulling on your still soaked pants-

“You aren't a prize either.” Again, your own bite surprises you. “I've been dealing with your shitty attitude for years and-”

“My shitty attitude? You're the one who stomps around when your boyfriend gets fired.”

Your jaw falls slack. Okay, you should be offended, but… there’s an edge of something attractive in the way his dark eyes narrow. The grit to his voice reminds you of moments ago, how he talks to you when you’re alone-

“That’s rich.” You’re watching his face. Oh, that sting? It’s changed. Now, there’s a simmering want inside you, begging to be fed. You need him mad, need him angry, need him riled up- “Where’s your girlfriend?”

There’s a freeze. Both men have mirrored expressions of surprise. Aizawa blinks, then tightens his expression. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, that’s right.” You lift your glass and pretend to inspect the liquid inside.  “You’ve been single since I’ve met you.”

Stunned, Hizashi opens his mouth to say something, but Aizawa beats him to the punch. He bends over the table with a glowering expression, those dark eyes boring into you. It reminds you of the fights you two had in office, but now that expression thrills you instead of terrifies.

“Oh, fuck you,” he seethes. “Sorry that I’m not whoring myself over the office with the interns.”

Oh, you kind of want to suck his cock right now. Obviously, you’ve always had a thing for red flags, but this is kind of ridiculous. He must have done something fucking magical or satanic to you pussy to make you act like this. Are you acting insane? You might be acting insane.

“Excuse me?” you ask through your teeth.

Oh, he’s riled up now, his eyes narrowed into slits. “ I saw those bruises you sucked into Kaminari.”

That steals a genuine laugh from you. Is that a genuine concern for him? You certainly hope not; Denki is… well, he’s Denki. He’s a sweet guy in his own regard, but you wouldn’t touch him with  a ten foot pole. He’s young and, clearly, you prefer older guys.

(Huh. That’s a new revelation for you. Touya is your age, but… There’s something unbelievably sexy about the grey at Aizawa’s temple, the wrinkles next to his eyes-)

“You think I’m fucking that kid? Fuck you.”

“Fuck you.”

Oh, you hope he does. You hope he absolutely ruins you. 

“Fuck-”

“Okay, okay,” Hizashi interrupts you, arms spread as if keeping you both from leaping over the table. “You people! What happened to the truce?”

“You happened!” 

Somehow the rest of dinner goes well. Hizashi makes sure the conversation steers towards work and his plans for the night. You do have to give the wait staff an extra big tip-- Hizashi may have said ‘butt plug’ a bit too loudly for the poor guy’s comfort.  

Occasionally, Shouta looks your way. He ponders a bit too long on your features, has a bit too much of a smile on his face. His leg bumps against your again, a silent reminder that he’s there. Honestly, thank god that Hizashi was convinced by your lies, because this man is being obvious.

And frankly, you’re living for it. 

You’re still vibrating with excitement by the time you all leave together. He’s coming back to your room tonight, coming back for more. You might be getting addicted to this feeling, addicted to being wanted, to cumming on someone’s tongue-

Maybe you should throw caution to the wind and fuck him.

Oh, that thought sends a chill up your spine. It’s been so long since you’ve been filled. Sex always came with anxiety before, but now, you might be excited. Especially when Aizawa’s cock seems so fucking thick-

“You all ready for tomorrow?” Hizashi’s voice shocks you out of your thoughts. God, you’re worse than him! One orgasm and you’ve devolved into a needy pervert. 

Aizawa groans, pressing his thumbs into his temples. The hotel lobby buzzes with life as you all enter. The tiles seems to get more dazzling at night, blue illuminated by the dangling chandeliers and air of excitement. 

 “No. It’s going to be a long night.”

Hizashi elbows his friend’s side. “No mysterious girl for you tonight, huh? Too busy studying?”

Aizawa is starkly quiet for a long moment, mouth screwed tight as if the question upset him. You almost worry that he’s considering it-- that he’s going to go back to his room  without you, and dread sets into your bones. The need has already built back up inside you, anticipation tingling all the way to your fingers. It’s a little alarming, how quickly you’ve gotten addicted to the idea of fucking him, to cumming with him-

Aizawa shrugs away your worries. “I’ll find time.”

Internally, you cheer.

“Aw, you dog. Now- Do I need to supervise you two?” Hizashi teases as he turns on his heel, walking backwards into the hall.  “Escort you to your rooms so you don’t murder each other in the elevator?”

“I think we’ll manage,” you say as you press the button. Hizashi leaves and the two of you are left in silence.

The elevator door rumbles closed behind you two after you both set in. Aizawa shifts back against the wall with a sigh, barely audible over the gentle muzak. He looks tired, but in a different way than usual: a gentle, content exhaustion, one that wears well on his features, but doesn’t deepen the creases on his brow. It suits him much more than the usual, miserable look he has. 

“I should stop by my room before-” Aizawa starts.

You press off of the wall and close the distance between you. It doesn't matter what he was going to say, because you weren't going to listen anyway. Instead, you press yourself up on to your toes and catch his lips mid sentence, moving fast and sure enough that you catch him completely off guard. You can feel his surprise in his inward gasp as you force him back against the cold steel wall. There's a moment of hesitation -shock, you realize gleefully- before he caves into you, hands on your waist dragging you in until your hips press against his. 

The quiet gives you space to enjoy the tiny moments he gives you: the hitch in his breath when you hold him tighter, the rumble in his chest when your teeth close around his lower lip, the sound of fabric against fabric as his hands drift lower and his hands grip your ass- 

“You really piss me off,” he mumbles into you. “You get off on lying, don’t you?”

Only with him, you think. Only with you. The door dings open and you loosen your grip, but Aizawa holds firm, holds tight. 

“Aizawa,” you mumble into his lips, but he just keeps going. “Ai-”

Another peck shuts you up for a moment. 

“Shouta!”

Finally, he reacts and lets you go, his touch trailing on you for just a moment longer. You have to jut out an arm to stop the door from closing again.

“Listen-”  he exhales. “I am going to my room. I’m going to shower, brush my teeth, then come to you. Okay?”

More than okay. Perfect. Excellent. Ideal. 

“Okay.” You try to play it cool, but his nose wrinkles in delight at the tremble in your voice. “I’ll be waiting.”

 Stepping out of the elevator, you glance behind one last time. It feels like you should say something, give him a goodbye, but instead you just watch the doors close in silence. His eyes never leave you, staring with a silent, hungering desire.

You might have to fuck him. 

Back in your room, you do the same as him. You brush your teeth, rinse the day off of your body, and contemplate yourself in the fogged reflection of the mirror. The buzzing in your skin is either anxiety or excitement, maybe a bit of both, but you can’t stop riding the high that comes with them. Being wanted feels good, too good, impossibly good- so good that you’re afraid it’s about to be taken away.

Logically, it will be. This… thing must have a terminating point somewhere. There’s no possible way that the two of you continue this into the workplace, is there? Everything ends at some point, everyone leaves eventually-

No. Focus. Have fun. Focus on having fun.

You didn’t pack any perfume, so you hope the hotel body wash smells alluring enough. Your hair still looks okay enough that you don’t need to bother styling it- but you still try to, just a bit. It’s normal to want to look nice, to smell soft, to be soft, but there’s also an embarrassment to wanting to be pretty. You hadn’t felt it before, but now, you’re suddenly concerned about the curves of your body and how it sits differently than you want. He’s seen most of you before, and yet you’re now caught up in the imperfections. Which underwear did you pack again? Nothing sexy, that’s for sure. Only skin tone bras too. Fuck-- you don’t actually know if you own anything enticing. 

Do you even own anything sexy?

What clothes should you even wear for him anyway? I’d be strange to put your clothes back on, right? What about pajamas? What will he be wearing? Hopefully not that fucking yellow sweatshirt he works in. You find yourself pacing around the room in only your towel, tidying up and trying to decide what the best option is. Maybe just a shirt? Like Winnie the Pooh?

No, that’s stupid. Ugh, you wish you were someone like Nemuri, someone bold and sexy and confident--

What would Nemuri do?

The dreaded knock at the door stocks you from your worry. You make a quick decision; turning out all of the lights, you tiptoe to the front door and peer out the peephole. Yes, it’s him, dressed in a simple white shirt, dark hair freshly washed. His expression is unreadable, as usual, but perhaps on the brink of anxious. 

Why would he be nervous? The thought makes you giggle. Maybe, just maybe, he’s just as jittery as you are over this-

But you doubt it.

Before you lose your nerve, you open the door, still in your towel. Aizawa’s eyes widen just a bit, then narrow with a keen excitement.

“Am I too early?” he teases.

“No,” you reply, “Just in time.”

And you let your towel drop.

A beat passes before he reacts. Aizawa’s jaw literally drops. Before you can revel in the satisfaction, he’s crowding you again, hands ghosting over your body as if he can’t decide where to touch first. His shirt is rough against your bare skin and you’re suddenly very aware of how your nipples have pearled up. The hotel’s air conditioning is rolling, much colder than you’d ever make your home, and your skin is goosepimpling under it, but you’re still so hot, so warm-

“Oh god,” he whispers, breathy, barely sane. “Look at you.”

The first kiss is wild, breath stealing, rough- it forces you back a step, just far enough that the door slams closed and leaves you in the dark. His touch has settled on your chest, cupping your tits up between his fingers in a boyish way, one that's so much less precise than his usual way of loving you. 

“God-” he says again. “God-”

Suddenly, his lips are gone and you can feel him hunched over you, breath hot against your tits. The gentle tug of teeth scares a gasp out of you, then floods your body with heat.

“I want to see you,” Aizawa's mouth closes around your nipple for a second, his spit cooling almost instantly. ”I want to touch you-” 

His hand wraps around your thigh and squeezes. Your body burns hot, your core tight, cunt wet- Hotel darkness, with the curtains drawn, feels deeper than home. Only the red numbers of the clock illuminate the nightstand. You can't see how he moves, how he looks, but you can feel it--

And you want to feel more, more, more, as much as he'll give you.

“Touch me,” you beg. “Please.’

He drops to his knees with a quick, labored exhale. Fuck- his leg. He’s already kissing the lower round of your stomach, trailing down to the curve of your mons, taking his sweet, sweet time. 

“Aizawa-” Your hands run through his hair and gently urge him back, but he just presses on, pulling your knee over his shoulder- “Your leg-”

He's not listening. He's too busy nudging your legs apart, bumping his shoulder into your knee until it gives to him. For the second time that night, Aizawa puts his mouth on you. This time, he inhales, embarrassingly deep. 

“Ah-” the sound escapes you involuntarily. “Don't-- don't smell me.” 

The hot press of tongue ignites something inside you, something innate. Your hips buck on their own, the ridge of his nose bumping against your still swollen clit. After earlier, your pussy is still puffy and well loved, and the pressure sends your spine straight. 

“I should have shaved-” you babble. His arm has looped around your supporting leg.  “I'm sorry, I should have-”

In the dark, every touch feels more. More powerful, more potent, more smoldering: his hand is drifting up, under your ass and in, in, in-

When his fingers join his tongue, spreading your cunt open wider from behind.

“God-” Your brain is soup, stewing in its own electric pleasure. You can feel the chill of his inhales again and it's all you can do to whine, to push away his forehead- “God, don't smell me-”

“Shut the fuck up.”  He rips his mouth away from you and you can feel his eyes staring up in the dark. “Just-- shut up and take it.”

Your jaw clamps shut. Aizawa’s back on you, huffing and sucking greedily. Every muscle in your body is perking and clenching, your knee wobbling. His hand digs into your ass, dragging you so firmly against him that his nose bridge digs into your skin. The way he kisses at you is overwhelming; it feels like he’s pulling pleasure out of you, dragging it out hand over hand like it's attached to a string-

You want to cry or plead or curse or something. but Aizawa’s stolen your words from you, so all you can do is silently whine. 

It's too much, it's not enough, it's-

His free hand is suddenly on your cunt, a finger pressing up and into you. The sensation shocks a gasp out of you. It's not a lot, but it's been so long since anything been inside you; the sensation only worsens your needs, tightens the want-

A second finger slides in. There's a stretch and you suddenly feel drunk, like the room has tilted on its axis. 

You're going to fuck this man. You have to fuck this man. You might go insane if you don't get that cock inside you.

When you cum, it flushes every inch of your skin with a lumbering heat, like he's raking you over coals. It's ugly and brutal, it almost brings you to your knees, but Shouta holds you steady. He doesn't miss a beat, still lapping at your folds like he needs you to live.  

It's horrendous. It's torturous. The air punches out of your body as he strokes your already overworked clit. Tension bunches in every muscle, pulling you over him, hunched and panting. Your fingers claw at his scalp, tug his hair, but Shouta doesn't stop.

“I came-” you protest, voice climbing higher than ever. “I came, I came-- aa--”

He pulls away to speak.

“I know.” His fingers curl and press into you again, right against a deep spot. “Do it again.”

And he's on you again.This time, he’s more forward, aggressive with how he licks and suckles. It's no longer hungry-- it's mean. It doesn't coax pleasure from you, it forces.  

“I can't,” you whine. Every flick of tongue shocks more pleasure from you, burning through your cunt deep into your gut. You're boneless, you're stiff, you're wobbling-

 “I can't, I can't-”

Aizawa rests his cheek against your thigh, his fingers working harder and harder. It’s much more intense in the dark, where the only thing you can focus on is the feeling and the sound of his fingers squelching into you.

“You can-” He insists into your skin. He kisses the crease of your leg.  “Let go.”

“I can't-”

Oh, a pressure is building inside you, one that's rolling and rabid. You think you might literally be drooling, but you can't tell anymore; all you can think about is his fingers drilling into your pussy, urging faster-

“I can't.” 

He's not telling you to shut up anymore. He just says, firmly: “You can.”

And you do. 

It's a lift, that moment where gravity forgets you when the roller coaster crests the hill. There's nothing, blissful nothing, a weightless second where you can finally pull in a full breath. Maybe this is it, maybe you’ll never fall-

Then, it crashes. 

You think you might have gone blind for a moment. Stars flicker over your vision and your brain just can't keep up. Earlier, he compared it to a computer resetting and you suddenly understand exactly what he meant like that: your body slumps over as if he's pulled your batteries out. Aizawa has to pull his hands from you and brace to stop the both of you from tumbling over. 

“Hey now,” he grunts. “Do not fall.”

“Shut--shut up,” you manage to say, still all twitches and kicks. There’s… you’re.. There’s a lot going on right now and you can’t pull your brain together enough to process any of it. For a blissfully long time, you just are: no thoughts, no doubts, no worries. 

When you finally catch yourself, Aizawa’s still down on his knees, patting your flank in silent support.

“Are you alright?” His cheeks are dreadfully wet with you, caught in his stubble 

“No,” you whine. “I think I died.”

He pats the side of your thigh again. “You're fine. Help me up.”

Oh, shit. His leg. You pull yourself together enough to stand on your own. Your thighs rub together with their own wet and you’re horrified at the amount of it all. It’s down to your fucking knees. God, you didn’t even think you could do that. Blindly, you reach into the dark and take Aizawa’s hand, hoisting him off of the floor.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

“Peachy. I’m just old.” He pulls on your hand and brings you closer. When his lips find yours, your own taste shocks a gasp out of you. His face is as wet as your legs, stubble gritting against your chin. It’s surprisingly gentle and affectionate, as if he didn’t just change your fucking life with his tongue.

“I should get you a towel or something,” you say as you pull away.

Aizawa snorts, his grip on you only tightening. You try to imagine the look on his face. Maybe he’s licking the ridge of his teeth, maybe he’s glowering. Maybe he’s smiling, looking down at you with that almost loving affection.  “You don’t think we’re done, do you?” 

Uh oh.

Uh oh.

In the dark, he pushes you backward, both of you blindly bumping into walls and the edge of the tv stand.  Each bump and bruise steal a giggle out of you and him, but the laughter does nothing to diffuse the want you feel emanating from his touch. Eventually, the back of your legs hits the soft down of the bed and you pause, trying to hold him a bit farther away and failing. You had forgotten that he’s still fully dressed; his belt buckle is frigid against your skin.

“Shouta, my legs are shaking.” Your hands find the bottom of his shirt, fumbling with the edge. Maybe you can distract him, give yourself time to recover. “I can’t take anymore.”

Shouta is mirroring your motions, running his fingers across the soft of your stomach. The touch makes you feel shy and you wiggle away from the touch. Technically, he’s seen you completely naked, but touching feels like a deeper sense of knowledge, especially in the dark. 

“Two orgasms?” He squeezes your side again. “That’s really all it takes?” 

“Three…” you remind.

“Two.” He’s firm. “The second one doesn’t count.”

The air conditioning rushes back on and you nearly shiver. The heat of your orgasm still warms your cheeks, but you’re still naked, still exposed. “Why not?”

“Wasn’t big enough.”

“Felt big.”

He clicks his tongue against his teeth.  “You poor, neglected thing.” 

Hands find your shoulders and push, knocking you back on to the mattress with an ‘oof’. The bed shifts under his weight and you can feel him there, hovering over you in the dark, just a breath away. All you can do is lay there and try to make out the shapes of him. The red glow of the alarm clock catches his eye and you suddenly know he’s watching you, probably searching for your way in the same way.

“What-?”  you breathe. “What are you gonna do with me?”

You don’t know what you want the answer to be, but you aren’t expecting a chuckle. 

“I’m going to do-”  Shouta breathes, deep and dark and hungry, closer to a growl than a whisper. “Whatever I want.”

[4suke]

return.

tsukishima kei x reader oneshot, fluff/angst, exes to lovers crossposted on ao3 as higashikatas.

his undoing first came in the form of a thick white envelope stamped in curlicues of golden ink.

SHIMIZU KIYOKO WEDS TANAKA RYUUNOSUKE! reads the stiff card inside and he allows a small smile to appear on his face, before opening his messages and congratulating them both. he won’t deny that he’s happy for them; they’re the only high school couple he knew that ever truly worked out. never mind the fact that it felt vaguely like a slap in the face when he thought about his own first romance.

now, kei’s thinking to himself that maybe he should have been a dick and not shown up. the wheedling and whining of all his ex-upperclassmen would have been preferable to the scene unfolding before his eyes right now.

it was stupid of him to not consider that you would be here too… but wasn’t that the point of the last seven years? the amount of time it had taken for him to forget about you felt pathetic in itself. the amount of time it took for all that work to be undone was even worse.

you were laughing. head tilted back, eyes crinkled and your hair cascading down your back. he doesn’t know why he’s surprised to see that it’s grown longer- a lot changes in seven years, he has to remind himself. you’re being twirled around by hinata, who’s own beaming face only seems to amplify your joy. the lighting hitting both of your faces made things worse. kei felt like a side character now- which he supposed he was now. the chapter about the two of you had long been shut.

he doesn’t know how long passes before the song comes to an end. hinata bows low over your hand, pretending to bite your finger instead of kissing it, and you both start giggling all over again. you glance away from hinata for a second, collecting your breath, and your gaze slides onto him.

it’s like time has stopped (as cheesy as it feels) and neither of you have changed and grown and matured; he’s still the sharp-tongued, short-tempered high school boy and you’re still the beautiful, perfect high school girl who would playfully place daisy chains in his hair before a game and grin when he took them off and tucked them protectively into his backpack. the same girl who intertwined hands with his during video games just to mess with him and crow over his loss. the same girl who kissed his swollen eyelids on the rare occasions he let himself cry. the same girl who told him you loved him every single night without fail.

your grin falters and the facade is broken. nodding in response to something kageyama is saying, you duck your head and slip away.

kei doesn’t blame you in the slightest.

the rest of the afternoon seems to pass like a blur. he vaguely remembers sugawara cackling about ennoshita being the one to catch the bouquet and yamaguchi hovering by his elbow for a few minutes talking animatedly before wandering off with yachi, until he ends up at a table alone watching everyone else on the dance floor.

“i know being a bitter asshole is kind of your trademark, but could you try to tamp it down a bit?” you side eye him while taking a sip from your drink, passing him an identical glass. “it’s a wedding. be nice. don’t scare the children.”

he’s not sure if he jolted with the surprise, but can you blame him? the last time you spoke was the five minute video call seven years ago when he’d ended the horribly optimistic and unrealistic long-distance relationship the two of you had vainly kept up almost half a year into college. the shitty wifi connection had done nothing to hide the wetness in your eyes and he’d stared at the blank screen for almost an hour afterwards trying to convince himself that he’d done the right thing.

compared to the last version of you he remembers, the you that is now coolly surveying him over the rim of your glass seems almost scarily calm. some of his thoughts must have shown on his face, because you sigh and almost roll your eyes before sitting down opposite to him.

“so what have you been up to?”

he scoffs. “really?”

“really.”

he fiddles with his cuff. “i graduated.”

you nod. “tadashi showed me pictures. your hair was longer.”

“yeah. i’m working at the museum now.”

“just like you’d always wanted,” you murmur, smiling. it doesn’t reach your eyes.

all i’ve ever wanted is you, kei wants to cry out. instead, like the coward he is, he manages a weak nod and watches you take another sip of your wine.

the silence stretches awkwardly and you make to get up, murmuring something about going to get another drink.

he can’t have that. he knows if you walk away now, he’ll never see you again, so he grabs your wrist desperately. “what about you?”

you stare at his hand, an indecipherable look in your eyes. “i graduated.”

“yamaguchi didn’t show me any pictures.”

“yeah. he and shoyo also made me block you from seeing them. they said i should let you die of curiosity while i moved on and that it was what you deserved for being a jerk.” your voice tapers off awkwardly and kei feels like he’s been dunked in an ice bath.

“you and hinata… are you…” he can’t bring himself to say it.

you raise an eyebrow. “this is none of your business, but no.”

“i know,” he says a little too quickly. “sorry.”

“i’m working at that firm, by the way,” you continue. “just like i-”

“-always wanted,” you both say in unison. you give him a faint smile and he tentatively loosens the grip on your wrist, moving to intertwine his fingers with yours. you don’t stop him.

he doesn’t make an effort to continue the conversation from there, terrified of ruining something and making you leave all over again. meanwhile, the party is slowly dying down- the speakers are blaring progressively less aggressive music, and most of the dance floor has split up from larger dance groups to couples swaying together in each other's' arms. he watches as your eyes follow tanaka and shimizu (except technically she’s a tanaka too now) smiling softly at each other in the middle of it all.

the last dance is announced, and kei clears his throat. “do you want to…?”

you turn back towards him, raising an eyebrow. “you don’t dance in public.”

“a lot changes in seven years.”

“fair enough.” you let kei lead you between the dancers, hand never leaving his, and curl your other one around his shoulder. his other hand finds itself gently on your waist, unsure of the exact amount of distance to be putting between the two of you. this brings another hint of a smile to your face, and you effectively close the gap. your head is almost leaned on his chest and he’s sure you can hear his heartbeat as you take a deep inhale.

“was there anyone else?” you ask suddenly, and he almost trips.

“just one,” he says carefully. “girl in anthropology named miyawaki all through junior year. and some one night stands. you?”

you hum. “engineering guy named nakamura for a year and a half. that was all.”

was he better than me? he wants to ask. handsomer? funnier? kinder? what was it that made you stay with him for almost two whole years? most of all, he wants to know why you broke up. apparently you’re thinking on similar lines, because you beat her to the question.

“so why did you end it with her?”

“why did you end it with him ?” he doesn’t mean to rebuff your question with another one- his defense mechanisms are kicking in.

you shoot him an unimpressed look. “why do you think?”

he nods, smiling slightly. “me too. i think.”

“crazy.” your smile reaches your eyes this time. “still in love with me after all this time.”

“how could i not be?” he shifts you closer to him, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his hand tighter around yours.

“why’d you do it, then?” you mumble into his jacket.

“do what?”

“tsukki.” you graze his knuckle with a sharp nail tip.

he sighs. “it would’ve been hard. i was just trying to stop it before it got too hard.”

“selfish,” you mutter. “considering how it was harder for me without you.”

“it was harder for me too.” he swallows, holding you even closer. “and i’m sorry.”

you don’t respond, but he feels the hand on his shoulder curl tighter into the fabric of his jacket, and allows himself to smile a little.

“you still know me better than anyone else,” you say. “and we’re both never getting over each other.”

“you’re saying you want to…” he can’t finish the sentence, terrified of having misread the room horribly.

“yeah.” for the first time, he hears some nervousness leak into your voice. “maybe we had to grow apart before we-”

“-came back together,” you say together, him finishing your sentence for the second time that afternoon.

you tilt your head upwards, brushing noses. “and i know you better than anyone else too, tsukishima kei”

“can i kiss you?” he murmurs, hand coming up from your waist to cup your face gently. you don’t even respond, simply going up on your tiptoes to meet his lips.

seven years and two broken hearts and oceans of what-ifs and broken promises later, he’s still a boy in love with the same girl. if he imagines it just right, it’s exactly like your first kiss on the steps of the volleyball team’s gym, the warm summer breeze and bright stars above the only witnesses. like then, it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him, the one thing he knows he’ll never get tired of.

neither of you notice your upperclassmen breaking out into frenzied whoops, money exchanging hands, pictures being taken. but none of that matters- because right here in your arms, he’s never felt more complete. when you pull away, he knows you, the only other person that knows kei more than anyone in the world, who knows exactly how he feels with a single look into his eyes, feels exactly the same way.

beaming like the sun itself, you kiss him again.

[miriellesandthegiantpeach]

A Conversation | Rewrite of 8x06 Bucktommy

“You’d end up breaking my heart. And I - I don’t think I can deal with that,” Tommy looks to the ceiling, feeling the tears well at the bottom of his eyes. He blinks and looks at Buck. His brows are furrowed; his face is a mixture of disbelief and confusion. Tommy swallows, “I should go,” he whispers and heaves himself off the chair.

This can’t be happening. How did this go downhill so fast?

Buck is quick to get up and grab Tommy’s wrist as he turns his back. “Whoa whoa. Hey, what’s going on right now? What just happened? Sit back down,” Buck gently commands and pulls Tommy back to the stool and scoots his own closer so their knees are interlocked. ”This sounds a lot like a break up.”

Tommy sniffles, “it’s for the best, Evan.”

“For who? We’re happy. We have a great thing here and you want to throw it away? How does that make sense?”

”You’re not seeing me for who I am. The guy you admire? The one that ‘paved the way’ is not me. Never was,” Tommy explains.

”Okay,” Buck says and he can see where he put Tommy on a pedestal. “I’m sorry I made you out to be this gay mentor for me to idolize. You’re not. You’re my boyfriend. I still admire my boyfriend. I still think you’re confident and capable.”

”I never felt confident, I’m always feeling like a fraud.”

Buck takes a moment to let Tommy breathe, he takes Tommy’s hands in his and holds on tight. “You are confident. It takes confidence to fly like you do, to come out in his line of work, to kiss a guy who didn’t even know about his own bisexuality,” Buck laughs. “Honey, sorry to break it to you, but you are confident.”

“But this isn’t about me,” Tommy says.

”Isn’t it though? You self sabotaging in some weird way of protecting yourself,” Buck says, trying to tamp down his frustration.

Tommy looks struck, he looks like he’s about to bolt out the door. Buck hit the exact wrong nerve. “Because I’ve been there. I’ve been through it more than once. With you it’s different. You actually give me hope for a future, but if it ends, like it inevitably will, it’s going to destroy me.”

“So that’s it, huh? You just get to decide our fate and walk out of my life?” Buck asks and takes a deep breath. He can sympathize with Tommy in some sense; he felt that fear of heartbreak when he started dating again after Abby. “And you know, this isn’t my first relationship. It’s not even my first serious relationship.”

“But it’s your first with a man,” Tommy tries, but Buck scoffs.

“Why should that matter?” Buck’s voice gets low and intimate. He leans even further into Tommy’s space trying to catch his eyes. “Tommy. Why do you get to decide something that I feel? I can even say I’ve been in love before. But it wasn’t like this.” Tommy’s breath hitches. “With you, it’s easy. Easiest it’s ever been. And that’s not something I’m willing to give up on. I love you. And I’m sorry I jumped the gun asking you to move in before saying that. I don’t love you because this is my first queer relationship. I love you because you’re you. I love your patience, your attentiveness, your dry humor, your warmth, your heart. There are a lot of reasons that don’t have to do with your gender. Although I do love your rugged face and your dick,” Buck adds with a laugh and that makes Tommy smile. “If I had to bet I’d say you love me too.”

Tommy nods and breathes deep then ducks his head, focusing on Buck’s hands holding his. “I do. I’m just so scared.”

A tear falls down Tommy’s cheek and Buck reaches up to catch it on his thumb. He cups Tommy’s stubbled jaw and caresses his cheek. “Why are you breaking your own heart, baby?” Buck whispers. That makes more tears spill out. Tommy really wishes he knew.

“Can we take a step back? No moving in, no Mach speed. I can slow down. Is that what you need?”

“I-I don’t know,” Tommy says shakily. “It would help I think.”

“Okay. Then we do that. We take our time. But please do me a favor?” Tommy meets Buck’s earnest eyes with still tearful ones. “You have to trust me with your heart. We’re in this together. I’m scared too and just as invested.”

“I’ll try,” Tommy promises. “I love you.”

A beaming smile threatens to split Buck’s face in two and pulls Tommy in for a deep kiss. He stands up, still connected to Tommy’s mouth as both hands move to land on either side of his neck. They kiss like that for a few minutes with Buck standing as close as possible in between Tommy’s spread knees and bent over at an awkward angle to keep kissing him.

“I think we should skip the movie, we’re late anyway,” Buck says against Tommy’s lips. “I’m gonna take you upstairs and get you out of your head.”

“Okay,” Tommy agrees and makes a mental note of trusting that Buck knows what’s best for him. How lucky is he?

[sotwk]

Not A Bad Thing (Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader)

Inspired by the song lyric: "Don’t act like it’s a bad thing to fall in love with me." Not a Bad Thing by Justin Timberlake

Word count: 1.7k Genre tags: romance, hurt/comfort, love confession, pining, idiots in love, friends to lovers Rating: Teen Content Warnings: Brief mentions of implied abuse. Tons of sap with a side of cheese. It's indulgent, okay? ;) To Read on AO3: LINK

Not A Bad Thing

Bucky Barnes x Reader

“May I come in?” he asked with gentility borne from manners of a bygone era. On top of that, he observed the etiquette of the digital age, and texted you that morning to ask first whether he could drop by for a visit. 

Maybe saying yes had been a mistake. Maybe you should have heeded logic instead of gut reaction. But after last night, your mind remained too cloudy to process logic.

The vibe between you was suffocating as you settled into the living room, even with the TV on in the background to drown out the silence. As though this was your first time alone in a room together. Never mind the many all-nighters spent hanging out over boxes of Thai takeout, you pounding out thesis edits on your laptop while he snorted and guffawed at his latest survival show binge--a ritual developed over the course of a year that finally helped you cross the finish line to your Master’s. If only you had discovered sooner that the solution to your crippling focus and anxiety issues lived just two floors above you. 

“I want to make sure you're okay,” Bucky finally said. Never one to hedge around a difficult conversation, one of the most refreshing things about his friendship. As he studied your face for answers his eyes were soft, not judging. Nonetheless, you couldn’t help but duck behind the rumpled curtains of your unbound hair.

“I’m fine.” You inhaled a bracing breath and tugged the cuff of your sweater past your wrist. “It’ll be fine.” You’ve been repeating that to yourself all day, and were just about convinced of it. 

“It will be,” Bucky agreed. “As long as that asshole doesn’t show his face around here.”

You straightened up abruptly. “Don’t say that--”

“I’m serious. If I run into him in this building again, or see him within a hundred feet of you, there will definitely be a problem.” You saw his gloved hand clench into a fist, and a conflicting mix of worry and satisfaction swirled in you. Preston had threatened to do the same to your oblivious neighbor multiple times, never realizing that it didn’t matter that he was a taller and bigger man and a self-crowned Alpha who always got his way. Bucky would have him eating carpet before he could take a swing. 

“He’s not worth getting yourself into trouble over.” 

“He’s not. But you are.” His calm tone was cracking, his demeanor darkening with each word. “He owes you an apology. He should be on his knees begging for forgiveness he doesn’t even deserve to get.”

“It was an argument.” You tugged on your sleeve again. “A bad one, the worst one. But the last one. He and I are done.”

Bucky said your name, sternly but gently, spoken in a way that seemed to pry off the shield you had flung up to keep him from the truth. Your pulse quickening, you dropped your gaze to the floor. “I don’t know how much you heard last night--”

“I heard all of it--and more,” he said. “I know last night was one of many. I know how he’s been treating you for weeks now. I hate myself for never saying a word about it.”

The admission should not have shocked you. Superhuman hearing would pick up regular conversations from the next building over, much less a couple of floors away, and Preston had taken to unloading his frustrations at increasingly high volume on his more recent visits.

“The way he spoke to you, the things he called you--” Bucky stopped short, his jaw tight with rage that he needed a moment to tamp back down.

Bitch. Whore. Despite the sting of Preston’s words, you felt a wash of relief that your now ex-boyfriend had taken off before Bucky appeared at your door last night to check on you. You wondered at the restraint it had taken your friend to hold off as long as he did, and to let you turn him away, if he truly had overheard everything. 

Because of the other half of the story. The other things that Preston and you were yelling at each other about; the primary cause of all those escalating fights. 

“It was my fault.” The statement jumped from your mouth, escaping you in your weakness.  “He--he was already drunk and upset, and I made him even angrier. He was SO angry…”

You sniffled and pressed the heels of your palms against your welling eyes. Suddenly Bucky was crouched right in front of you, clasping two hands around your forearm. His ungloved thumb brushed lightly, but purposefully, over the bruised muscle underneath your sweater. He knew. Of course he did.

“Don’t put this on yourself,” he said. “Nothing excuses his behavior. Not even…”  There was a pause, only for the second it took him to push through his hesitation.  “....not even if the things he said are true.”

Your whole body stiffened in flight response, and when you pulled your arm away, he released his grip, again proving he was the exact opposite of Preston. Again demonstrating exactly how he had stolen your heart away from the guy you’d been with since high school, with you barely noticing.

“You did nothing wrong,” Bucky continued. “Neither did I.  But I wanted to… I…” He laid his hand briefly over his mouth, a half-hearted attempt to stuff back in the cat already out of the bag. “I was tempted to. So, so badly. Even just to say something.” 

“You wanted to warn me about him,” you said miserably. 

Bucky shook his head. “I clocked his jealousy the day I met him, but I couldn’t blame him for that. Any guy with a brain should be scared of losing you. But after a while, I started to realize he did have a serious reason to worry.”

Realizing where this was heading, you felt a nauseating twist in your stomach. “I can explain. It--I didn’t mean to--” You bolted to your feet and stepped around him, propelled by the need to run from your own embarrassment. You moved as far away from him as possible before the wall stopped you.

Where should you start apologizing for this mess?  For calling on him regularly to spend late nights, sometimes overnight, at your apartment, appointing him your “study buddy” as though you were some middle-schooler? For declaring him your “good luck charm”, making him feel obligated to keep coming? For ignoring the fact that you’d been spending far more time with the handsome neighbor than your own boyfriend, maybe as a subconscious retaliation for said boyfriend always choosing the company of his Goldman-Sachs colleagues over yours, while simultaneously accusing your grad studies of eating into “his” time? Or perhaps, the cherry on top that sent Preston over the edge: inviting Bucky to join last night’s celebration for the completion of your thesis, “just for the pre-dinner drinks”.

“The only thing I want to know is whether any of the stuff that guy went on like a lunatic about is true. Was he right?” Bucky pointed to you, then himself, in a back and forth gesture. “You and me…do you… are we--”

“Wait, wait.” He threw up both hands. “Don’t answer. If I make one more dumb mistake, I’d be just as much of a pig as he is.”

He strode forward, and there was just something in his approach that not only kept you from skittering away, but drew you in. Even as you stared at the toes of your socks, you shuffled a few steps closer.

“If you hadn't kept asking me to come over and keep you company, I would have found some way, any excuse, to invite myself,” he said. “The nights I've spent with you have given me peace I haven't felt in a hundred years. I was never going to give that up.”

As soon as he was close enough, he reached for your hand. Slowly, making sure you showed no resistance. The touch of his bare hand against yours for the first time sent tears flooding from your eyes, now that you could accept the fact that you've been so hungry for it this whole time. 

“I should have said something the minute I saw things weren't right between you two. I knew you were too good for him, but I was a coward. I didn't know if I could handle not being able to convince you to choose me instead. I didn't want to risk losing you as a friend, even though I always wanted to be more. And have more of us, more of you.”

“Bucky.” Your voice was so small and tight in your throat you could barely hear yourself. “You're the one who's too good for me.”

He snorted. “No offense, but that's the biggest load of crock I've ever heard.”

“I handled everything wrong! I used you, I used Preston…”

“What else is a man supposed to do but make himself useful to the woman he loves?!” he exclaimed suddenly. “How else will you decide which one is worth your time?”

“But Preston--’”

“...he hurt you when he thought he might be losing you.” Bucky said. “While it killed me everyday to know you were with him. But if he’s what you wanted, I was willing to take what little piece of you I could have.”

“That's what drove him crazy,” you whispered. “He noticed you weren't holding just a little piece of me.”

His tense expression broke into a grin, and when you glanced up at the right time to see it, his gaze locked onto yours. You sniffed, swept your free hand over your splotchy cheeks, and smiled back.

“God…” he muttered, sliding his hand from your wrist up to your elbow, tugging you a bit closer. “You’re so beautiful.” For a second, he looked embarrassed. “Sorry. There’s a lot of things I’ve been holding back from telling you, and now the dam’s finally burst.”

“A lot of things?” Your hand ascended his shoulder to curl around the collar of his jacket. “Funny, I have only one thing to say.”

“I’m listening.” The arm he wrapped around your waist was impossibly gentle for something made of literal steel.

“I’m pretty sure I’m in love with you.”

“And that’s a good thing, right?” This close to yours, his eyes were strikingly blue with intensity. “That makes you happy?”

“You’ve always made me happy.”

What little space remained between you disappeared in the circle of his arms, and he paused long enough to chuckle against the corner of your mouth. “And to think I’m finally just getting started.”

Want more Bucky? SotWK's MCU Masterlist

[mrs-elsie-barnes]

Omega Ours - Part 1 | Alpha!Cassian x Alpha!Nesta x Omega!Reader| Short Series 2.7k

After fighting your way out of every potential mating offered to you, your village sends you off with the High Lord. Rhysand, tired of dealing with the Alphas living in the House of Wind, gifts you to Cassian and Nesta in the hopes that it'll settle all three of you down.

Warnings: 18+ sexual content, language & themes. Omegaverse dynamics including Alpha & Omega and the sexist assumptions/implications that go along with it, heat/heat cycles, forced proximity, d/s themes, only one bed (and only one chaise), lots of tropey tropes! No use of YN but liberal use of pet names.

Divider by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources

Cassian & Nesta - from Pinterest

Created for @polyacotarweek - prompt 5 faveourite tropes (Omegaverse, only one bed, forced proximity, sort of insta-love)

Part 2 will be posted on the 13 (Free day!) follow @illyrianlibrary for updates ❤️

Part 2 | Masterlist | Poly Fics | Cassian

The only way to describe the couple stood before you was - handsome. 

The High Lord and Lady who’d brought you here were beautiful, elegant. But this couple could only be described as handsome, strong, Alpha. 

You knew them, of course. General Cassian of the Nightcourt and his mate, Lady Nesta. Lord of Bloodshed and Lady Death, they’d called them in the camps that circled the Illyrian villages like pilot fish on a shark.  

“I’ve brought you a present,” Rhysand drawled, pointing at you. “Well, it’s a favour and a present. The last unmated omega of the season. She's  from the Western Isles, I thought it might help to tamp down your behaviour if you two had a project.” He grinned and you turned to look at Nesta and Cassian again. 

It was true, you’d rejected every mate offered to you, bitten some of them, in your desperation to get away, and that’s how you’d lost your freedom. Fighting the boys from the village was one thing, fighting an Illyrian was another. They’d hauled you into the camp in front of the High Lord on his last visit and demanded compensation. 

Rhysand, ever flush with jewels and gold, had paid them and then had a set of cuffs and leathers made for you. Nightcourt black velvet, red stitching and silver buckles. But restraints were still restraints, no matter how soft they felt against your wrists and ankles. He’d had new clothes made for you as well, traditional sheer panels of matching blood red that hung in gossamer curtains down your legs, pooling around you as you were forced to your knees in front of the Lady and General. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” Nesta studied her nails, her air bored but her eyes kept flickering towards you. 

“Come now, Nesta, we both know you and Cassian caused quite the stir the last time you were both in heat.” 

You were right then, you could smell it on them anyway, that raw power and strength that designated them as Alpha. 

“Still -  you want us to take care of your problems?” Nesta huffed. 

“Of course not, she’s a gift, for you and Cass, if you happen to tame her enough that she stops mauling my men then that’s a bonus.” 

You looked between them, it was undeniable how attractive they were. Better than the mud caked idiots from the village at least, but you still railed against the hand that dragged you back to your feet. 

Cassian kept his hand under your elbow, pinching your cheeks with his other hand. “Come on, Nes. She’s cute, isn’t she?” He angled your face up towards his mate. 

Nesta shrugged one shoulder and you snarled, snapping at Cassian’s fingers. 

“Feisty,” he gave a deep chuckle, “I like that, that’s how Nes and I got together.” He hauled you over his shoulder, your legs and arms dangling, the panels of your dress slipping dangerously. 

“Put me down!” You beat your fists on his back. 

“Should have thought of that before you tried to bite me,” he teased, jostling you. 

You scowled at Nesta, who followed, laughing, through the halls of the palace and then tried using the only knowledge you had about the Illyrians. You reached out and grabbed his wing, squeezing as tightly as you could. 

He growled back, the sound travelling up through his chest into yours, vibrating your very core. 

“You want to play rough? Good.” 

Cassian shouldered a heavy door open and suddenly the sweeping corridor was gone and a dark, warm room wrapped itself around you. 

The walls were an oxblood red with thick velvet curtains that lay heavily in front of the eternally open windows. The soft jasmine breeze that circulated through the house was mixed with the cleaner scent of mountain air and the crackling of a fire, rich and inviting. 

The general set you down, his gaze travelling slowly down your figure. He clenched his jaw and then instantly turned to his mate, cupping her cheeks in his large hands and kissing her roughly. She growled in response, leaning into his embrace and allowing him to lift her against his body. You watched as he carried her across the room to an open archway, almost hidden behind a large tapestry, and then they vanished again. 

Tentatively, as much as you could with the thin chain connecting your ankles, you crept across the room to the curtain, now brushed back and curling heavily on the polished floor. 

Nesta and Cassian were tangled on the bed, the heady scent of their arousal lay thick in the air, the bedsheets already rumpled as if they’d been interrupted before, the room in disarray. 

On both bedside tables there were stacks of books of various genres, a pitcher of water on one and dagger on the other. 

“Either come in or go,” Nesta groused from the bed, hair messy, one of Cassian’s hands still tangled in the long golden-brown strands. 

“Play nice, Nes.” The general laughed, biting at Nesta’s earlobe. “You can join us or you can sleep,” he said over his shoulder. 

Sure enough there was a small chaise made up with blankets at the end of the bed. You shuffled over, and fell heavily onto the soft cushions listening to the sound of their love making. Each grunt and moan made you press your thighs together harder. Each stifled sigh had your hands twitching, itching for something more. You may have rejected every attempt at a mating, but you weren’t completely without feeling, without desire and needs and lust. 

You lifted your hands to cover your ears, the chain between them digging into the bridge of your nose, and fell into a confused sleep. 

 You awoke to the sound of moving bodies and cloth dragging on the floor. 

“She’s asleep, let her rest, Cas.” 

“What if she’s cold?” The footsteps came closer and you tensed on instinct. The steps stopped, but a gentle weight floated down on you, a large cotton blanket, awash with their scent, settled. 

“I’m going to wash,” Nesta’s voice faded as she walked away but there was no other movement. 

“I know you’re awake.” His voice was loud in your ear, closer than you’d expected and you jumped again, almost sliding from the chaise. Cassian’s arm caught you, tight around your waist and his bareskin was so warm against your own. You cracked one eye open and looked around the room as best you could with his wings blocking out the faint candlelight.

His arm was speckled with tiny scars that twinkled against his tan skin, the hair that decorated his forearm was as dark as the long tendrils that brushed over his shoulders and this close, his chin almost resting on your own arm, he smelt heavenly. That mixture of his own scent and Nesta’s even stronger in his proximity and, no doubt, enhanced by their earlier activities. 

“If you want, you can borrow some clothes.” His voice was a sleepy rumble and you resisted the urge to let your omega instincts take over and push yourself back into his chest, seek out that warmth, that comfort - but you didn’t respond. 

The sound of running water in the other room stopped, replaced with the gentle pad of Nesta’s footsteps and then she was in front of you. Surrounded by them again you had to fight back every urge to give in to her wicked mouth, her lips plump and kiss bitten. 

“We’ve left you some things on the chair, choose what you will. If you want to join us on the bed, you can.” Nesta moved away taking Cassian with her and you assumed from the gentle rustle of sheets they were back in bed. 

The chair that sat opposite their grand fireplace was strewn with clothes, silky looking negligees and billowing linen shirts, some cotton leggings and a pair of woollen socks. 

Waiting a moment, hoping they weren’t looking, you rose from the chaise and rushed for the chair. The translucent dress the High Lord had had you wear left your skin cold and bare, exposed and vulnerable. Cassian’s shirt was a welcome relief, covering your body from view, although the two slits in the back for his wings did feel slightly odd. The socks were warm and fluffy, long enough to reach almost to your knees. Redressed, you turned to return to your chaise and tugged the blanket up to your chin. 

You didn’t really want to spend the entire night there, but you also refused to give in to the ridiculousness of the situation. No one chose your mate, or mates, for you and you’d rather sleep on the tiny chaise that allow anyone to take that choice from you. 

Thankfully, Nesta and Cassian had turned away, the Illyrian’s large wings spread over the bed,. Shielding his mate from view? Or stopping her from following you around the room with her silver stare? You weren’t sure, but you were grateful as you closed your eyes. 

It was only as you were falling asleep that you realised you were snuggled into the shirt, inhaling Cassian’s scent, and by then it was too late, you were tumbling into your dreams. 

The next morning Cassian and Nesta were gone, but someone had left a tray of food, a pot of tea and a stack of books on the table. The doors to the balcony were open and the jasmine wind blew the curtains back so invitingly you couldn’t resist. 

You were halfway through one of the books they’d left, something by Sellyn Drake that had far more smut in it than you were anticipating. A slice of buttered toast was stuck halfway to your mouth as you stared transfixed at the page, when the door opened. Cassian held the door for Nesta, taking a long sword from her hand and placing it on the table that was perpetually strewn with weapons. His own sword and daggers followed and the two of them began to strip out of their leathers. 

There had been a rumour that Nesta trained alongside the Lord of Bloodshed and the Shadowsinger, trained with other women as well, but you hadn’t thought to believe it until now. 

Her leathers were tight against skin, a sheen of sweat making her sparkle, her long hair was tied up in what was now a messy ponytail and, most surprising of all, she was smiling broadly at Cassian. He returned the smile, cupping her cheek and pulling her in for a kiss, his hands wandering down to the buckles and clasps that held her fighting leathers together. 

Cassian looked equally as powerful, his own armour dark against his tanned skin, his tattoos flowing under the leather before appearing again at his collar bone and trailing over his shoulders towards the vast wings at his back. You set the book down slowly, the lust filled scene already had you feeling hot under Cassian’s shirt even before they appeared. 

The movement caught his eye and he turned, taking Nesta with him and pinning her against his chest. They way they looked at you, like the most delicious prey, had you pressing your legs together. You wouldn’t give in to this, especially not when it was exactly what that smug prick of a High Lord wanted. 

“Good morning, sweetheart,” he cooed, “Would you like to join us?” 

It was Nesta who held her hand out, crooking her finger to coax you forward. “We’re going to bathe, the tub is large enough for three, come.” It was more a demand than a question and, though you longed to see how far down Cassian’s tattoos went and how Nesta would look covered in bubbles, you resisted again. 

With a shake of your head you went back to your book, trying to ignore the sound of them together through the wall. 

You fell into a rhythm, the three of you. Nesta and Cassian continued as they were, training, working in the library and attending meetings, and inviting you to join them whenever they were together. 

Your nights on the chaise were becoming increasingly uncomfortable, but you refused to be worn down by their requests, preferring to stay silent and read alone either on the balcony or by the fire. No amount of reading could drown out the sound of their love making, though. If you could call it that, judging by the bruises both of them sported proudly and the way their headboard banged against the stone wall. 

Despite your protests their allure was difficult to ignore, their playful banter, the care and attention they showed each other, even the way they whispered in bed, dissecting the day's events and, on a few occasions, discussing you. 

This only happened when you were pretending to sleep heavily, breathing slow and steady as you wished for dreams to take you. 

“Nes, did you see the way my shirt fit her today, rolling up her thighs-” Cassian had made a deep, guttural noise, only to be shushed by Nesta. 

“Yes, Cas, stop, she’s right over there.” Nesta hissed in return. 

“I know, God, she’s so fucking close, don’t you think she smells good?” 

“You know I do.” The sheets rustled and you heard Nesta whimper as a wave of arousal flooded you. They could smell you, you knew it and you couldn’t stop it. 

Sleeping in their room, bathed in their scent every day, surrounded by their things, it was like a huge nest and the longer you lingered here the more you wanted to give in and climb into their bed, to be between them and allow them to care for you.

You knew something had changed when you woke up drenched in sweat. As usual, Nesta and Cassian had already left the room, your breakfast arranged in its spot, clothes laid out for you. They’d started adding some new things, items that smelt like neither of them, clean linen and lavender, but you were still drawn to their items the most. Perhaps, it was the way they smiled when they saw you cuddling into one of Cassian’s shirts or standing on the balcony in one of Nesta’s dresses. But you refused to confront that feeling. 

Despite your long, cold, bath you still felt hot and uncomfortable. It was mid way through stripping off your linen trousers that Nesta reappeared. She moved with a preternatural grace that you were sure existed well before her sister’s ascent to High Lady. A smoothness to each turn of her hand, or extension of her arm, she made walking seem like a dance and you were transfixed.  

Nesta stopped as soon as she saw you, her nostrils flared, almost imperceptibly.

“Are you okay?” she asked in that cool, silvery voice. 

“Yes,” your voice felt hoarse. You barely spoke and had gone days without saying anything to either of them, merely existing in their presence. But now, locked by her gaze, there was no escaping. 

“You seem -” she weighed her words carefully, “unwell.” 

“I can assure you, I’m fine.” You took a half step towards the balcony doors, hoping the breeze would cool your skin. 

Nesta hummed, surveying you from head to toe. “I’d feel better if you got into bed.” 

You knew this was as persuasive as Nesta could be, a simple request made in the lowest of tones, an argument not worth having. 

“I-” 

“The bed.” She crossed the room swiftly and turned you towards the large, velvet draped bed that took up a large portion of the room. Since your first entrance into Nesta and Cassian’s suite, you’d done your best to avoid even looking at it. Now there was no escape.

Your hands were shaking, a tingling heat rising from your spine and coiling in your stomach. On this occasion, just once, you’d listen to her. “Fine.” With great difficulty, you pulled the shirt over your head and dropped it to the floor. You were so tired. When had you become so tired?

Nesta’s deft fingers grasped your chin, holding you still so she could look at your pupils, large and frightened. “Get in bed and go to sleep,” she insisted, and you obeyed. 

Part 2

[thewritetofreespeech]

hello! i know there's a lot of jealous astarion x tav stuff out there, but could you do a jealous tav x astarion scenario please? maybe also make it spicy??

Astarion x jealous!reader

There were very few moments for all of you to relax and take a breath these days. With the quakes getting stronger, the cult getting closer, and just Gods knew what else around the corner, it was difficult to find some time to recharge. But, you all always seemed to eventually find the time.

Down at one of the taverns, you and the group decided to break loose and have some drinks for the night. Gale and Halsin didn’t want to come. Halsin still abstain from alcohol, along with his vague comments on ‘past mishaps and making a fool of himself’ (which honestly just made it all the more intriguing), and Gale just wanting to turn in early for the night. With everything going on with Mystra recently, more and more he had been pulling back to think by himself, but assured you he would be himself again soon enough.

Karlach usually tagged along, but just wasn’t feeling crowds at the moment. It would be more strange for Laz’el to come. And Wyll had come for the start of the evening but left after one drink as he was a responsible young man.

All that was left was you, Shadowheart, and Astarion.

“This wine tastes like cat piss.”

“You’ve tasted cat piss?” You clip back. Wittier than usual now that you had a few drinks.

Astarion gave you a dull, “ha ha,” before he got up and headed for the bar to get a different vintner offering from the bar keep. “Maybe I’ll splurge a little a spend a whole 3 gold to get something a little better than the swill the rest of you are used to.”

“How people ever found him charming enough to be lured to their death will always be a mystery to me?” Shadowheart remarked before taking a sip of mead from her cup.

You chuckle at her joke and watch as Astarion made his way to the bar. Weaving in between the crowd like he was made more of mist & air, rather than flesh and blood.

Alone, you and Shadowheart chat quietly at your table before she finished her drink, dabbed her lips, and announced, “I’m going head back and turn in with the others. I trust that you and Astarion will make it back alright on your own?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Well…I wouldn’t judge if the two of you wanted to spend sometime alone. We’re usually in such close quarters together that I’m sure it’s hard to be alone with someone special.” You blush at Shadowhearts comment. Not nearly as blunt as Laz’el but also not at all subtle. “Although, perhaps he has other plans for the evening?”

You follow her eyes over to the bar. Finding Astarion instantly, but also the pretty human girl hanging on his every word; and nearly him. Astarion, for his part, not seeming nearly as put off as someone in a relationship should be by her flirtation.

“I’ll take my leave now. I don’t want to be in the middle of whatever this is turning into. If it turns out for the good, be safe and have fun. If it turns out for the worse, well…try not to get us all arrested by morning.”

She gave a small way and saw herself out of the bar. Leaving you there with your thoughts, warm ale, and a stewing feeling of dread in your gut. You try to calm yourself. But you weren’t exactly the best at tamping down your impulsive thoughts. They had gotten you this far, hadn’t they? Perhaps they could take you a little further as you went up to the bar. “Shadowheart went home.”

Astarion and his new playmate both turn to you in surprise. The former looking genuinely surprised, while the woman looked more annoyed than surprised by your interruption. “Oh. Was she feeling alright? It’s rather early.”

“Yes! The night is still young.” The woman’s hand landed on his arm, and you glare daggers at the spot it landed. Wishing for real daggers. “But, if your friend isn’t feeling well, maybe you should go and check on her.”

She was trying to muscle you out. Eliminate the competition. As far as she knew Astarion wasn’t attached, or maybe she didn’t care, so your presence is an obstacle to her goal of claiming the handsome stranger. You had to admire her boldness. You don’t think you could ever be so confident to just ‘lay claim’ to a man you had only just met and make your stance known. If it had been anyone else she claimed you would have been impressed and supportive. Women helping women. Problem was this was your man and she was competition that needed to be eliminated.

“I think I’m going home too.” You pressed further.

“But I just ordered my wine.” Astarion quipped. Seeming not to get your hint at all. But the woman did.

“Yes. We’ve just freshened our drinks.” The vampire turned his gaze to the woman with a sharp arch of his brow. Clearly communicating ‘who is this ‘we’ you speak of’ with no words at all. “Why don’t you run after your friend and he’ll see you later. Perhaps tomorrow morning?”

“Oh….”

“I’m out of here.” You didn’t bother listening to whatever excuse, silken words, or outright lies Astarion was going to tell this hell cat to get out of the hole he just dug himself, but you weren’t interested in watching him dig.

Slamming your empty mug on the counter, you turn and head for the door. Everyone parting ways for you with the mood you were in. The cold air to your face was sobering, literally, and you shrug your shoulders in as you head down the dark streets towards the inn for the night. If you walked fast enough maybe you could actually catch Shadowheart on the way.

“[Y/N]! Wait!”

You turn to look over your shoulder as Astarion called your name. Coming out of the tavern with a skid and dashing over to meet the space between you. “Where are you going? Are you really going to leave?”

“Would you rather I sit there and watch that woman paw all over you?” You jab back. But Astarion didn’t seem wounded.

“Oh that. Yes. Rather forward for a lady wasn’t she?”

“So why didn’t you stop her??”

“I don’t know.” He replied with a shrug. “Old habits.”

You huff and pull your arms in tighter against the cold. Maybe you had been wrong in assuming that Astarion thought of ‘loyalty’ the same way you did. You trusted him with your life, but maybe you couldn’t trust him in a bar. You didn’t genuinely think that he would go off with her, but even the hint of implication made your blood boil. “I get they might be ‘old habits’ but if you could not flirt with people, I would appreciate it.”

A grin slithered up on Astarion’s face. “Are you…jealous, my love?”

“No!” You snap back quickly. But his grin just gets bigger.

“Hmm…I guess it’s understandable. This wouldn’t be the first time I’ve started a cat fight in a bar, you know? I just never thought you of all people would be swayed by such petty emotions.”

“I’m going home.”

You turn your back on him again, which was the worst thing to do on a vampire, and you felt him snatch you before you were suddenly in a dark alley all alone together. “I get jealous too.” He told you. Almost like a whispered confession. Able to be quiet now that you were away from the crowd, and the streets, and the noise. “I get jealous seeing you with the others. The attention you give them. It should be for me.”

“They’re just friends.” You whisper back to Astarion. Feeling as if any louder and you’d break this spell between you in the moment. You didn’t know what kind of spell it was, but you were transfixed in it.

“I get jealous of all the strangers you want to help. Literally anyone who needs help, you help them. That big heart. Where will I be, if you keep opening it up to others?”

You gasp when you felt his hand drift over your ‘heart’. “I’ll always have space for you Astarion. You shouldn’t be worried about that.”

“I get jealous of your bedroll.” His words caught you off guard. Almost as much as his teeth at your ear. “Curled up with you. Holding your body all night. Keeping you warm. It should be me.”

“You’ve never mentioned it.”

You can’t feel your breath come out in a little pant as you spoke. Enamored by Astarion and his weight against you and the wall. “We should…find some place private.”

“Here is private.”

You couldn’t see his face, but you could hear his grin and it made your knees quiver. “Someone could see us.”

“No one will see us.” He assured you. “I’ve used this alley before.”

It was probably not the best time to bring up his past conquests when you had just had a conversation about jealousy. Or perhaps it was. Instead of feeling angry like earlier, you suddenly felt the incredible urge to erase every memory Astarion had of this alley, this place, those people, and fill him with only thoughts of you. That there were no other conquests until he claimed you.

Jealousy seemed quite the aphrodisiac. It might not have been the ‘privacy’ Shadowheart had mentioned when she made her comment. But it was fun. And no one got arrested.

[brunchable]

Winter King, Part Three : Cruel Summer. . .

Pairings: King AU Bucky Barnes x Out of place Queen Reader Words: 17.4K Themes: Royaltycore AU, love and power, Arranged Marriage, georgian/regency era misogyny, profanity, Eventual Smut. Summary: Y/N finds herself struggling to prove that she’s more than just a pawn in this dangerous game of power. But when Winnifred demands answers, it’s not just Y/N’s loyalty to the king being tested—it’s her resolve to carve out a place for herself in a world determined to see her fail. A/N: Inspired by Queen Charlotte. I must say I love the chase scene between Steve and Y/N here HEHEHE. Let me know what's your fave scene? I'm actually curious about what ya'll want to see next ;) credits to the gif owners, it ain't mine.

Your fingers played nervously along the rim of your teacup, your gaze flicking to the tall windows that overlooked the estate gardens. It should have been a peaceful view. Instead, it only reminded you of how small you felt within the grand expanse of this new life.

Opposite you, the Dowager Queen, Winnifred Barnes, was the very picture of feminine authority. Even in the soft light, she seemed to carry the shadows of experience with her, the weight of a crown long set aside but never truly removed. Her eyes, a steely blue that seemed to pierce through all pretenses, were trained on you with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” you murmured politely, dipping your head in a respectful nod as she took her seat.

“Y/N,” she acknowledged with a curt nod, her gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary. She motioned to the staff, who swiftly poured the tea and set delicate plates of pastries before you both. The clinking of porcelain was the only sound in the room until the servants exited, leaving you alone in silence.

Winnifred took a slow sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving your face. “I thought it best we have breakfast today,” she began, her tone measured but holding an edge that made your heart quicken. “After all, there’s much to discuss following last night’s... eventful proceedings.”

You tried to keep your expression neutral, but the knot in your stomach tightened. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

She set her cup down, her gaze on you sharpening. “How did you find your first night as a married woman?”

It was a simple question, and yet difficult to answer. You hesitated, unsure how much to reveal. The truth of it all was still a bitter pill to swallow—that you’d spent your wedding night alone, while Bucky had left for his estate in Annecy. A flash of disappointment coursed through you, but you tamped it down, forcing a polite smile.

“It was... different,” you said cautiously, choosing each word with care. “We still have much to learn about one another.”

Winnifred’s brow arched ever so slightly, a glimmer of disapproval, or perhaps curiosity—lighting in her gaze. 

“Different, is it?” She leaned forward slightly, her voice lowering to a deceptively soft tone. “You mean to say that he left.”

Your breath caught, but you nodded, refusing to drop your gaze. “Yes, Your Majesty. He thought it best, given the circumstances.”

For a moment, the Dowager Queen was silent, her eyes studying you. Then, slowly, she tilted her head, the corners of her lips curving into something that might have been a smile—if it weren’t so sharp. 

“And you... let him go?” she asked, each word pronounced with a chilling clarity that made your chest tighten.

You blinked, taken aback. “I—”

“You didn’t make him stay?” she pressed, her tone holding a note of challenge. “You are his wife now, Y/N. The Queen of this realm. It is your duty to keep him by your side.”

The words struck like a lash, the implications behind them sinking deep. You opened your mouth, struggling for a response that wouldn’t sound weak or defensive. 

“I... I didn’t think it was my place to—”

“Your place?” Winnifred interrupted, her voice cutting through the air like a knife. “Your place is precisely what you make of it. Do not expect him—or anyone else—to show you the respect you deserve unless you demand it.”

Her gaze bore into you, and you felt yourself shrinking. There was no malice in her words, no cruelty—only a harsh kind of truth that left you reeling.

“I didn’t want to—” You paused, taking a steadying breath. “I didn’t want to force him. We... barely know each other, Your Majesty. I thought it best to give him space.”

Winnifred leaned back slightly, her eyes never leaving your face. “Space?” she echoed, her voice low. “You have given him space, Y/N. Now watch how quickly it turns into distance.”

She was right, of course. Bucky’s absence already felt like a chasm between you, one that you weren’t sure how to bridge.

“You are a queen now,” Winnifred continued softly, the steel in her gaze tempered by something gentler—something almost like understanding. “But more importantly, you are his wife. And being a wife means more than simply standing by his side in public. It means holding your ground in private. Pushing him when he needs to be pushed. Because if you don’t...” 

She trailed off, her eyes searching yours. “If you don’t, then others will step in to fill that space you so graciously allowed.”

The implication hung in the air like a warning, and you swallowed hard, the reality of her words washing over you. This was about more than just Bucky leaving for the night. It was about control, power, and the dynamics that would shape your marriage—and the kingdom.

You straightened your spine, meeting her gaze with as much resolve as you could muster. “I understand, Your Majesty. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

Winnifred’s lips curved into a faint smile—one that was both approving and calculating. “Good,” she murmured. “Because while my son may be king, it is the queen who sets the tone of the court.”

She lifted her teacup once more, taking a measured sip. “Now, tell me what else happened last night. Did he say anything that would suggest his intentions regarding your marriage?”

You hesitated, recalling the heated exchange with Bucky, and a message passed on to you shortly after he left. “He... spoke about needing time,” you said quietly. “Time to adjust. But he assured me that I am the only one he’s loyal to.”

“Did he now?” Winnifred’s gaze darkened, but there was a glimmer of something like pride in her eyes. “That is a start, at least. But loyalty is not the same as affection.”

You nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond.

“Listen to me, Y/N,” Winnifred continued, her tone soft but unyielding. “He may keep his distance now, but do not let it remain that way. You must find a way to close that gap. The sooner you do, the sooner the court will fall in line. Show them that you are a force to be reckoned with—both as a queen and as his wife.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Winnifred’s gaze softened just a fraction, and she set her teacup down gently, fingers tracing the delicate handle as if recalling a distant memory. 

“There was a time,” she began, her voice quieter now, “when I, too, thought loyalty was enough. When I believed that if I simply did as expected—kept quiet, remained the dutiful wife—things would naturally fall into place.”

You blinked, surprised by the sudden shift in her tone. Winnifred rarely spoke of herself, of her past. It was as if every part of her life before the crown was locked away, buried beneath layers of duty and decorum.

“But I learned,” she continued, her eyes taking on a distant, almost wistful look, “that being quiet, being passive, only serves to diminish your place in the marriage. To let others dictate your worth.”

She leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking onto yours with a newfound intensity. “So, I stopped being passive. I took control—not just for myself, but for the kingdom. And for him.” Her expression softened, but there was a sadness there, too. “Because even kings can falter. Even kings need someone to remind them of their place. Their worth. Their responsibilities.”

You stared at her, feeling as though you were seeing the Dowager Queen in a new light—a woman who had fought for her own place in a world determined to silence her.

“What I’m saying, Y/N,” she murmured softly, “is that you cannot let James dictate the course of your marriage. You must stand firm, push him if need be, and make him see you. Truly see you. If you don’t, you will always be the girl who stood in the shadows, watching others take your place.”

You swallowed hard, the force of her words settling deep within you. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I won’t forget that.”

Winnifred nodded, a small, approving smile playing on her lips. “See that you don’t. Because once you have his attention—once he realizes the strength you hold—he will never let you go.”

She straightened, the softness in her gaze receding, replaced once more by the composed authority of a queen. “Now, eat, my dear. You’ll need your strength for whatever comes next.”

And as you reached for your fork, her advice settled over you like an invisible crown—one you’d have to wear with as much grace and power as you could muster. Because from now on, this marriage would be yours to shape, yours to control.

× × × ×

High ceilings of the grand council chamber stretched above, adorned with elaborate chandeliers that cast glittering reflections onto the polished marble floors. The long, gleaming table in the center of the room was flanked by dark wooden chairs, each occupied by men whose expressions were masks of restrained curiosity and barely concealed tension.

The Dowager Queen, stood at the head of the table, her regal posture unyielding as she faced the most powerful men in the kingdom of Montelune. Prime Minister Nick Fury, with his one good eye keenly observing every subtle shift in the room, sat closest to her, his fingers steepled thoughtfully. Around him were the Duke of Hanover, Lord Pierce, and Lord Rumlow—all high-ranking noblemen with a vested interest in the stability and future of the crown.

The men exchanged uneasy glances, their eyes occasionally flickering toward the dowager as if uncertain how to broach the subject that loomed over them like a dark cloud.

Finally, it was Fury who cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “Your Majesty, I trust you are well-rested?” His voice was smooth, but the weight of unspoken questions hung heavy in the air.

Winnifred’s gaze was cool as she regarded him, one eyebrow arching ever so slightly. “Rested enough,” she replied crisply. “Thank you, Prime Minister.”

Another awkward silence settled over the room, and the noblemen shifted uncomfortably in their seats. There was something almost comical about seeing men of such power and influence falter in the presence of a single woman, but Winnifred knew the source of their unease. It wasn’t just her title or her presence that made them wary—it was the nature of the matter at hand.

Lord Pierce leaned forward, his mouth opening and closing a few times before he finally managed to speak. “Your Majesty, we... we thought it prudent to gather today to, ah... discuss certain affairs.”

The Dowager Queen’s lips twitched in a faint semblance of a smile. “Affairs?” she repeated softly, her tone laced with just enough amusement to make him squirm.

“Yes, well,” Pierce continued, his face reddening slightly, “it is... as you might understand, a rather delicate matter. One that pertains to... er, ensuring the continuation of the royal line.”

Winnifred’s eyes narrowed, and she tilted her head, considering him with a look that could cut glass. “Are you inquiring whether the consummation of the marriage has taken place, Lord Pierce?” she asked bluntly.

The man’s flush deepened, and he coughed awkwardly. “Well, not in so many words, Your Majesty, but—”

“Say what you mean, Pierce,” Fury interjected dryly, his gaze unwavering as he looked between the dowager and the other noblemen. “We all know why we’re here. There’s no need to dance around it.”

“Indeed,” the Dowager Queen agreed, a steely edge creeping into her voice. “And let us dispense with the niceties, shall we? The answer is no. Nothing happened last night.”

Her words fell like a stone into a still pond, sending ripples of shock and discomfort through the room. The men exchanged uneasy looks, clearly taken aback by her directness.

Fury’s gaze remained steady, though his jaw tightened. “That is... concerning, Your Majesty. Considering the importance of securing the royal line—”

“Considering the importance of the king’s reputation,” Lord Rumlow cut in, his voice low and gruff. “If word gets out that he didn’t—”

“That he didn’t perform his marital duties?” Winnifred finished for him, her voice cold. “Yes, I am aware of the implications, Lord Rumlow.”

The silence that followed was almost suffocating. The men seemed at a loss, unsure how to proceed with such a delicate subject in the presence of a lady—no matter that the lady in question was the Dowager Queen herself.

Lord Pierce cleared his throat again, clearly floundering. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, there are... reasons for the delay. A need for time, perhaps, to... adjust?”

Winnifred’s gaze turned icy. “Time is not a luxury we have, Lord Pierce. Nor is it a cure for whatever holds my son back.”

Fury leaned forward, his expression thoughtful. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, if His Majesty is reluctant... might there be another way to ensure that the matter is handled discreetly? Some form of... encouragement?”

“Encouragement?” The Dowager Queen’s voice was deceptively calm, but there was a dangerous glint in her eyes that made the noblemen stiffen.

“What exactly are you suggesting, Prime Minister?”

Fury held her gaze, unfazed. “I’m suggesting that perhaps His Majesty needs to be reminded of his responsibilities. He must be made to understand that this is not merely about him and his bride—it is about the future of Montelune. The stability of the crown.”

Winnifred’s expression did not soften, but she gave a single, sharp nod. “I am well aware of that, Prime Minister. But James—” She paused, catching herself, and then continued more firmly. “The King has always been... stubborn.”

“Then perhaps he needs a push,” Lord Rumlow muttered under his breath.

Winnifred’s gaze snapped to him, and he immediately looked away, his bravado fading under her scrutiny.

“A push?” she echoed icily. “Do you honestly believe pushing the King of Montelune will achieve anything other than further resistance?”

The men fell silent, and Fury’s shoulders tensed, his expression tight with frustration. “What would you have us do, Your Majesty? If the King refuses to—”

“The King does not refuse,” Winnifred interrupted, her voice ringing with authority. “He hesitates. There is a difference.” She paused, drawing herself up to her full height, her gaze cutting across the room like a blade. “But as I told you, this matter has already been addressed. The Queen will handle it.”

There was a collective pause as her words sank in. The Queen? Their glances darted back and forth, disbelief and confusion clear on their faces. It was Lord Pierce who finally voiced what they were all thinking.

“Your Majesty, the Queen is... well, she’s rather—”

“Inexperienced,” Rumlow supplied curtly, a hint of disdain lacing his tone.

“Meek,” Pierce added, though he looked apologetic.

The Dowager Queen’s gaze hardened. “You underestimate her.”

The Prime Minister’s lips pressed into a thin line. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, the Queen is still unproven. This court is filled with those who would tear her down the moment they sense weakness. To place this matter in her hands—”

“Is exactly what needs to be done,” Winnifred interrupted, her voice like steel. “She is not a child. She is a queen. And she must learn to wield her power—now, not later.”

The noblemen exchanged uneasy glances, clearly unconvinced. The silence that followed was thick with skepticism, and it was all too clear that they did not share the Dowager Queen’s confidence in Y/N.

But Winnifred stood her ground, unflinching. “Mark my words, gentlemen,” she said softly, a dangerous edge to her voice. “You may doubt her now, but she will prove you wrong. She will make you see her strength.”

“And if she doesn’t?” Lord Pierce asked quietly.

“She will,” Winnifred replied, the certainty in her voice absolute. “Because I have seen it. I know what she’s capable of.”

Another tense silence fell over the room, the men still wary but unwilling to argue further.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” Fury said at last, his tone resigned but respectful. “We will... defer to your judgment. For now.”

“Good.” Winnifred’s gaze swept over the room once more, as if daring anyone to question her again. “Now, unless there are other matters to attend to, I suggest we all turn our focus back to ensuring the stability and prosperity of Montelune. The rest... will be handled in due time.”

With that, she rose gracefully from her chair, the noblemen following suit. And as she left the room, her back straight and her gaze unflinching, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the Dowager Queen was a force to be reckoned with—one who would see this matter resolved, no matter what it took.

Once the door closed behind her, the men shared a look of relief mixed with lingering anxiety.

Lord Pierce let out a shaky breath. “I don’t envy the queen one bit,” he muttered.

Fury nodded slowly, his gaze still fixed on the door. “No, I don’t imagine many would,” he murmured. “Because if there’s one person who can push her to act, it’s the Dowager Queen herself.”

× × × ×

It had been five long days since you’d last seen Bucky, and the estate that was meant to be your new home felt more like a gilded cage with each passing moment. Every day unfolded like clockwork, precise and unchanging, as if someone had wound up a porcelain doll and set it down to perform its routine.

You would rise from your cold, empty bed, get dressed in yet another resplendent gown chosen by the maids, and eat breakfast alone in the grand dining room. Lunch, the same—only the time of day changed, the vast silence swallowing every bite of food, every clink of porcelain against silver. Dinner was no different, the emptiness of the long table a stark reminder that you were isolated, adrift in a sea of marble and gold with no anchor in sight.

Even your attempts to fill the hours felt hollow. Books, once a source of comfort, blurred into meaningless words on a page. The piano keys beneath your fingers, no matter how delicately or forcefully you played, only echoed through the cavernous halls, sounding less like music and more like a lament. You’d tried wandering the estate, but at every turn, there was a servant or guard with polite words and unyielding eyes.

“You mustn’t go out, Your Grace. It’s for your safety.”

Your safety. The words grated against you like sandpaper, their false concern suffocating. Safety from what? From whom? No one would say. No one ever did. And every day, you could feel your sanity slipping, unraveling thread by thread, as the confines of the estate closed in around you.

And now, standing at one of the grand windows overlooking the manicured gardens, you turned abruptly, spotting Scott lingering nearby as always. The man had become a constant presence, a shadow, his careful attention both protective and irritating. You narrowed your eyes at him, frustration bubbling up like a storm.

“Scott, I want to invite Lady Natasha, Lady Wanda, and Lady Pepper for tea tomorrow morning,” you stated, your tone clipped and firm, already expecting resistance. “Make the arrangements.”

Scott’s expression shifted, a mixture of unease and hesitation. He lowered his gaze briefly before speaking, his voice quiet but unwavering. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Your Majesty.”

Your brow furrowed. “And why not?”

“My Queen… you’re still within the period of your honeymoon.” He chose his words carefully, as if speaking too freely might shatter the fragile peace that lingered between you. “It’s traditional for the queen to remain in seclusion during this time.”

“Traditional?” The word tasted bitter on your tongue, like bile. You let out a derisive laugh, shaking your head incredulously. “What, precisely, is there to seclude myself for? The king is nowhere to be found, and I—” You broke off, swallowing the sharp edge of your anger. “I am not permitted to invite anyone into my own home?”

Scott straightened slightly, his discomfort plain as day. “It’s not a matter of permission, Your Majesty. It’s simply how things are done. You are to stay within the estate until the period of seclusion ends.”

“Customary.” You echoed the word again, as if tasting its bitterness for the first time. You let out a short, sharp laugh that was entirely devoid of humor. “The king can do whatever he pleases while I am expected to sit idly and await his return. Is that what you mean?”

Scott’s mouth opened, but no words came. He simply stared at you, his gaze flicking nervously to the maids who were also watching, wide-eyed and tense.

You took a step closer, your voice softening into a dangerous whisper. “Tell me, Scott—how long is this period of seclusion supposed to last?”

“Until the tenth day after the wedding, Your Highness,” he murmured, lowering his gaze respectfully. “It is meant to provide you time to acclimate to your new role and… to reflect upon the responsibilities that come with it.”

“Reflect,” you repeated bitterly. “All I’ve done is reflect, Scott. Reflect on how little control I have over my own life. Reflect on how I have been shuttled around like a prized possession instead of a human being. Reflect on the fact that I have no voice, no say—no freedom.”

Silence fell over the room, the weight of your words hanging in the air like a dense fog. Scott shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting to the floor.

“Your Majesty,” he said quietly, “these traditions are not meant to confine you, but to protect you. To ensure your position as queen is established and—”

“Stop,” you cut him off, your tone ice-cold. “If you’re going to say one more thing about traditions or customs or protection, I would rather you not speak at all.”

Scott’s mouth snapped shut, and he gave a small, stiff nod. “As you wish, my queen.”

“Good,” you murmured, turning back to the window, your gaze hard and unyielding. “Leave me.”

You didn’t look back as Scott and the maids slowly withdrew from the room, the door closing softly behind them. The silence that followed was almost suffocating, and you stood there, staring out at the gardens that were just as closed off to you as the rest of the world.

No freedom. No voice. No choices.

× × × ×

Later in the evening, as you sat restlessly by the fireplace, staring at the flames that offered no warmth, the door to the drawing room opened, and Captain Steve Rogers stepped inside. His tall frame seemed to fill the space, and for a moment, you allowed yourself a flicker of hope. Perhaps he’d brought news, or perhaps—just perhaps—he’d come to take you away from this unending monotony.

“My Queen,” he greeted formally, bowing his head slightly.

“Captain,” you acknowledged, trying to keep the edge of desperation from your voice. “It’s good to see a familiar face.”

He offered a small, sympathetic smile as he approached. “I apologize for not visiting sooner, Your Majesty. Things have been... busy.”

Busy. The word sent a fresh wave of bitterness through you. Busy for everyone but you, it seemed. You forced a smile, gesturing for him to sit. “No need to apologize, Captain. But tell me—where is the King? I haven’t heard from him since I arrived.”

Steve’s jaw tightened imperceptibly, his gaze flickering toward the floor before meeting yours again. “He’s still in Annecy, My Queen.”

“I see.” you said softly, the name foreign on your tongue. “How exactly is Annecy?”

“It’s about a quarter of a day’s ride south, through the forest and along the main road,” Steve explained, his voice careful, measured. “It’s a secluded place, one he visits often when he needs to... reflect.”

The way he spoke made something inside you snap, your control fraying at the edges. 

“Reflect,” you murmured, the word a bitter taste in your mouth. All this time, he had been in Annecy, brooding and reflecting, while you languished here, alone and forgotten. The distance between you felt more like an abyss.

“How would one get there, exactly?” you asked, feigning nonchalance. “Just in case I wanted to... send a letter, perhaps?”

Steve’s brows furrowed slightly, suspicion flickering in his blue eyes. “It’s not safe for you to travel alone, my queen. The roads can be treacherous.”

“I’m not asking for permission to travel, Captain. Merely inquiring out of curiosity,” you replied, your tone light but your heart pounding in your chest. “If I were to send a messenger, I would need to know the way.”

He hesitated, but then sighed, relenting. “It’s a straight path through the eastern gates of the estate, then along the main road until you reach the first fork. You’d take the left path, following it through the forest until you cross the river at the stone bridge. From there, it’s just another few hours until you reach the edge of Annecy.”

You nodded thoughtfully, your gaze dropping to the floor, committing his words to memory. “Thank you, Captain. That’s... very helpful.”

Steve shifted uncomfortably, his eyes narrowing slightly as he watched you. “My Queen, if you’re considering—”

“I’m not considering anything,” you interrupted smoothly, your lips curving into a placating smile. “I’m merely... curious.”

He didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded nonetheless. “Very well. If you have any other questions—”

“Actually,” you cut in, your voice suddenly brighter, almost too casual, “I was wondering if I might step outside for a moment. The fresh air might do me good.”

“My Queen, it’s already quite late,” Steve said carefully, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “Perhaps it would be best to wait until morning.”

A flicker of frustration flared within you, but you forced yourself to remain calm, nodding graciously. “Of course. . .of course. You’re right, Captain.”

Steve’s shoulders relaxed slightly, but his gaze remained watchful as he bowed his head. “Goodnight, Your Majesty.”

You offered him a demure smile, waiting until he turned to leave before your expression hardened, determination flaring to life in your chest. You watched him leave, each step of his boots echoing down the hall, the sound growing fainter until you were sure he was gone.

And then, moving swiftly, you slipped into your chambers and changed into a riding outfit, the dark fabric molding to your form like a second skin. Your heart pounded in your ears as you quietly made your way through the estate, avoiding the servants and guards as you made your way to the stables.

It was time to take matters into your own hands.

The stables were dimly lit, the smell of hay and leather filling the air. You slipped inside, your footsteps quiet as you glanced around—and then you saw it: Steve’s horse, a powerful white spotted stallion, already saddled and prepared for his return journey. He must have left it ready to go, just in case he needed to leave in haste.

A thrill shot through you as you crept closer, your fingers trembling with both fear and excitement. This was your chance. You stroked the stallion’s neck gently, murmuring soft words of reassurance before swinging up into the saddle. Steve’s horse shifted beneath you, but you steadied him, your resolve hardening.

You turned the stallion toward the eastern gate, your heart hammering with a mix of exhilaration and dread. The estate was still and silent as you urged the horse forward, guiding him through the gates and onto the open road.

Just as you reached the edge of the estate grounds, you heard a shout—Captain Rogers, his voice laced with both alarm and disbelief. 

“Your Majesty! What are you doing?”

But before he could reach you, you dug your heels into the stallion’s sides, sending him into a gallop. The wind whipped past your face, the thrill of freedom and fear mingling as you urged him faster, faster—

“Damn it!” Steve’s curse echoed behind you, and you risked a glance over your shoulder to see him sprinting to the stables.

Within moments, he’d mounted another horse, spurring it forward with a sharp command. “Your Majesty, stop! You can’t just—”

But his words were lost to the wind as you rode, your stallion’s hooves pounding against the dirt road. For the first time in days, you felt alive, the adrenaline coursing through you like fire.

Steve was gaining on you, his horse closing the distance quickly. You could hear him shouting your name, the words muddled and frantic, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t stop.

Not until you reached Annecy.

Not until you reached him.

× × × ×

The night was alive with the sound of hoofbeats thundering down the narrow, moonlit road. The crisp air bit at your cheeks as you leaned low over the stallion’s neck, the wind whipping past your ears in a deafening roar. The exhilaration coursing through you was intoxicating—a reckless thrill that washed away the numbness of the past days.

You were free, if only for a fleeting moment.

But behind you, not far off, you heard the determined pursuit of another horse—a powerful, steady rhythm that only a seasoned rider could command.

“Your Majesty!” Steve’s voice rang out over the pounding of hooves, a mix of frustration and exasperation lacing his words. “Stop, damn it! You’ll get yourself hurt!”

You clenched your jaw, pushing the stallion faster, your heart racing with equal parts fear and defiance. Let him chase me, you thought stubbornly. You weren’t turning back now. Not when you were this close to escaping.

The darkened forest loomed ahead, the path winding and treacherous beneath the canopy of towering trees. Shadows stretched and twisted, the moonlight barely penetrating the thick branches. But you didn’t falter. You knew how to handle a horse, knew how to navigate even the trickiest of trails. You just had to stay ahead.

A glance over your shoulder revealed Steve, his broad form hunched low over his mount, his expression tight with concentration. His horse was closing the distance, its powerful strides gaining on you inch by inch. A thrill of panic shot through you, and you urged your stallion forward, digging your heels in as you veered off the main road and plunged into the woods.

Branches clawed at your sleeves and hair, the underbrush thick and uneven beneath the horse’s hooves. But you pressed on, darting through the narrow gaps between the trees, your breath qyickening. You could hear Steve’s curses behind you, the snapping of twigs and the rustle of leaves marking his relentless pursuit.

“Your Majesty, this is madness!” he shouted, his voice closer now. “Stop now, before you hurt yourself!”

“Go back, Captain!” you called over your shoulder, the thrill of the chase making your blood sing. “I’m not turning around!”

“Damn it, woman!” Steve growled, unable to hide his frustration with you. “You’re going to regret this!”

The path ahead narrowed even further, the trees pressing in on all sides. Your horse stumbled slightly, its hooves slipping on the loose soil, but you quickly regained control, urging it onward. You could feel Steve’s presence like a shadow at your back, his horse matching yours stride for stride, the sound of their breathing harsh and heavy in the cool night air.

And then, with a burst of speed, Steve’s horse surged forward, drawing up beside yours. You stole a glance at him, your eyes meeting his briefly in the dim light. His gaze was fierce, determined—and utterly unyielding.

“Pull up, My Queen,” he commanded, his voice low and dangerous. “Now.”

You shook your head, setting your jaw stubbornly. “No. Not until I see him.”

Steve cursed under his breath, his hand darting out to grasp at your reins. “I’m not letting you—”

You yanked the reins sharply, steering the stallion to the right and away from his grasp. The horse whinnied in protest, but you held firm, pushing it onward. Steve swerved to avoid colliding with you, his horse skidding on the loose gravel before regaining its balance.

“Damn it!” he shouted again, his voice raw with a mix of anger and concern. “This isn’t a game!”

“No, it’s not!” you shot back, your voice rising with the intensity of the chase. “It’s my life, Steve!”

Something flickered in his eyes—something that looked almost like pity—but he didn’t relent. He tightened his grip on the reins and urged his horse forward, drawing up alongside you once more.

“I’m not letting you go,” he ground out, his jaw clenched. “Even if I have to drag you back myself.”

“Try it,” you dared, the words slipping out before you could think better of it. “Just try.”

His eyes flashed, and for a moment, you thought he might actually do it—might tackle you right off your horse and force you back. But instead, he gritted his teeth, his knuckles white where they gripped the reins.

“Fine,” he bit out. “You want to do this the hard way? We’ll do it the hard way.”

And with that, he urged his horse even closer, the two animals almost neck and neck now. He reached out again, his hand brushing against your arm, and you tensed, your heart hammering wildly.

But instead of pulling you back, he yanked sharply on the reins of your stallion, forcing the horse to slow and swerve, breaking your pace. You let out a cry of protest, your grip tightening on the reins as you fought to keep control. Steve’s horse blocked your path, cutting off any chance of escape.

“Let me go!” you shouted, your voice trembling with a mix of fury and desperation.

“Not happening,” Steve growled, his eyes blazing as he leaned in closer. “You think I’m going to let you ride off into the night alone, to God knows where, just because you’re stubborn?”

“You don’t understand—”

“I understand perfectly,” he interrupted, his tone harsh. “I understand that you’re hurting. That you feel trapped. But this—” he gestured to the dark woods around you, his voice rising with exasperation—“this isn’t the way to fix it.”

You glared at him, your breath coming in short, furious gasps. “And what would you know about it, Captain?”

“Enough to know that if you keep pushing like this, you’re going to get yourself hurt,” he shot back, his voice cracking slightly. “And then what? Do you think that’s what he’d want? For you to risk everything like this?”

You stared at him, your chest heaving, and for a moment, the fight drained out of you, leaving you hollow and aching. He was right. You knew he was right. But the thought of going back—of returning to that empty, suffocating house—was unbearable.

“I just... I need to see him, Steve,” you replied, your voice breaking on the words. “I need to understand.”

His expression softened, his grip on the reins loosening slightly. “I know,” he murmured. “But not like this. Not alone.”

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy with unspoken words. And then, slowly, hesitantly, you nodded, the fire inside you dimming to a flicker.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

Steve released a breath he seemed to have been holding, his shoulders relaxing. “Good,” he said quietly, his voice rough with relief. “Let’s head back.”

But as he turned his horse, you saw your opportunity—a split-second chance—and before he could react, you kicked Steve’s horse into a gallop, the sudden burst of speed propelling you forward, back onto the path.

“Princess—Queen—Y/N!” Steve roared, the sound of his curses following you as you tore through the woods, the wind whipping past you.

This time, you didn’t look back. You couldn’t afford to. You had to reach Bucky. You had to know why he’d left you there—alone and abandoned.

Steve’s shouts echoed through the night as he raced after you, his horse’s hooves pounding against the ground like thunder.

“Stop, damn it!” he bellowed, his voice raw and desperate.

“Enough!” you shouted back, your voice cracking with the force of it. “Stop telling me what I should and shouldn’t do!”

Steve’s horse pulled up beside yours again, his face tight with worry and anger. “This isn’t safe, Y/N!”

“Don’t you dare!” you snapped, your eyes blazing as you looked at him. “Don’t you dare tell me what’s safe. You can’t keep me locked up like a caged bird just because it’s easier for you to watch over me!”

Steve’s mouth opened as if to argue, but you cut him off, your voice trembling with fury. “I’m not turning back, Steve. Not this time. So either let me go... or help me.”

He stared at you, the conflict clear in his eyes. For a moment, it seemed like he might refuse, might force you to return despite everything.

But then he let out a harsh breath, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “Damn it, Y/N... fine.”

“What?” you breathed, barely daring to believe it.

“If you’re going to do this, then I’m coming with you,” he ground out, his jaw clenched. “Because I’m not letting you ride off into the night alone.”

You swallowed hard, the fight draining out of you as his words sank in. Slowly, you nodded, a shaky breath escaping your lips.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the horses’ hooves.

Steve’s gaze softened, and he gave a terse nod. “Just... try not to get us both killed, all right?”

A faint, breathless laugh escaped you, and for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt a small flicker of hope.

With one last glance at each other, you turned your horses toward the open road, the path to Annecy stretching out before you.

× × × × 

The cold night air nipped at your cheeks as you and Steve rode side by side, the rhythmic gallop of the horses’ hooves creating a steady, almost soothing cadence in the darkness. The road ahead was long, the path winding through the forest illuminated only by the pale light of the moon, casting everything in a muted, silvery glow.

Despite the tension simmering between you, there was something almost... peaceful about it. The silence that stretched between you and the captain wasn’t oppressive like before.

Steve’s gaze slid sideways, lingering on your determined profile. He wasn’t sure what he expected when he’d first seen you at the palace, but it certainly wasn’t this. A princess—no, a queen—in every sense of the word, but also something else entirely. Impulsive, stubborn, unrelenting in your resolve to push forward no matter what stood in your way. Every action you took seemed to defy the expectations of your station.

And yet, here you were, riding through the wilderness in the dead of night, your chin lifted high as if daring the stars themselves to challenge your resolve.

The corner of his mouth twitched in grudging admiration. “You ride well,” he offered, breaking the silence.

You turned to him, arching a brow. “Are you surprised?”

He chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Maybe a little. I didn’t expect a queen to handle a horse like that.”

Your lips curved into a small, almost wry smile. “My father made sure I knew how to ride from a young age. I learned when I was six.”

Steve blinked, his gaze sharpening with curiosity. “Six? That’s... early.”

You shrugged, your expression turning thoughtful. “I suppose it is. But in my country, it wasn’t unusual. There was a lot to navigate, and horses were a necessity for both travel and safety.”

Something in your tone—a flicker of something distant, a shadow—caught his attention, and he studied you with newfound appreciation. He’d thought you reckless before—impulsive, driven by raw emotion. But perhaps he’d underestimated you. There was more to you than he’d thought, more beneath that composed surface you kept so carefully guarded.

“You’re more capable than most people give you credit for,” he murmured, his voice almost contemplative.

You glanced at him, your gaze sharp and discerning. “They don’t see what they don’t want to see, Captain. I can read, too, you know.” A dry chuckle escaped you. “I can speak three languages, play music, excel in archery. I know more about strategy and history than some of the advisors who sit in the council chamber.”

Steve’s eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he quickly schooled his features, nodding slowly. “That’s impressive.”

“Is it?” you asked softly, a hint of bitterness creeping into your tone. “It’s not impressive if no one cares to know.” You shook your head, letting out a sigh. “No one’s ever bothered to ask. Not even James.”

His chest tightened at the way you said it, the quiet hurt that laced your words. He looked down at the reins in his hands, feeling a pang of guilt. You were right. No one had asked. Steve certainly hadn’t. He’d only ever seen you through the lens of a title, a role. He hadn’t seen you—not until now.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, the words sounding inadequate even to his own ears. “I should have... I didn’t realize—”

“It’s not your fault, Captain,” you interrupted gently, your voice carrying a tired acceptance. “I’ve had to learn to hide things. If I didn’t, I’d be seen as a threat—or worse, a failure. Women aren’t supposed to read, to know things beyond sewing and dancing.” Your lips twisted wryly. “But I never liked being told what I could and couldn’t do.”

Steve couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. “I can see that.”

You rolled your eyes, though the gesture was light. “I’m serious, Captain. No one sees me for who I am, only for what they want me to be. And if they did see the real me... I wonder if they’d be disappointed.”

The raw honesty in your voice cut through him like a blade, and he swallowed, a knot forming in his throat. He couldn’t imagine anyone being disappointed by the fierce, unyielding woman riding beside him. If anything, he was completely, utterly astounded by you. Your strength, your determination—it was unlike anything he’d ever encountered.

And yet, you spoke as if it were something to be ashamed of.

“I doubt that very much,” he said quietly, his gaze steady and sincere. “If they could see what I see, they’d realize just how wrong they’ve been.”

You blinked, surprise flashing in your eyes before you looked away, your lips pressing together. “Thank you,” you murmured, the words barely audible over the sound of the horses’ hooves.

He nodded, his chest tightening again. “You deserve to be seen, My Queen. All of you.”

Silence fell between you again, but this time it was different—softer, gentler. The tension that had wound itself around you began to ease, loosening its grip ever so slightly. You stared ahead, your mind still spinning, but something in his words soothed the ache inside you, if only for a moment.

“Just... try not to run off on me again, all right?” Steve added after a moment, his tone lightening. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up at his exasperation. “No promises, Captain.”

He shook his head, a reluctant smile on his lips. “Of course not. You’d never make it that easy for me, would you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you teased, and for the first time since you’d left the estate, the tension in your chest began to loosen, the weight of it lifting just a little.

Steve glanced at you, his gaze warm and admiring. “You really are something else, my Queen.” He paused, his expression turning thoughtful as he murmured, “Bucky has met his match, it seems.”

Your smile softened, a faint flush rising to your cheeks. “And you, Captain Rogers, are far too kind.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, I’m just speaking the truth.”

× × × ×

The flickering glow of torches cast the estate’s front steps in a soft, golden hue, and a figure stepped forward from the shadows. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and his eyes, narrowed and assessing, were locked on you as if you were an intruder. The guards flanking the entrance straightened, their hands subtly tightening on the hilts of their swords.

“Who are you?” the man asked, his voice carrying an edge of command.

You instinctively straightened in your saddle, your gaze meeting his. “I am the queen.”

His brows rose ever so slightly, a flicker of something—surprise, perhaps—passing through his expression. But he didn’t step aside. Instead, he squared his shoulders and planted himself more firmly in your path, his jaw set.

“And why is Her Majesty arriving at such an hour without an escort?” His tone was polite, but there was an undercurrent of steel that made your pulse quicken.

Before you could respond, Steve cleared his throat, guiding his horse a step forward, his gaze fixed on the man with an unflinching intensity. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Sam.”

Sam glanced at Steve, recognition sparking in his eyes, but he didn’t move. “Captain Rogers,” he said evenly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Didn’t expect to see you standing in the way of the queen,” Steve shot back, his tone calm but firm. “I suggest you step aside.”

The man—Sam—hesitated, his gaze sliding back to you, lingering with a mixture of wariness and something else... respect? Curiosity? You couldn’t quite tell.

“Your Majesty,” Sam said slowly, his voice measured, “I’m under strict orders to keep the estate secure.”

You squared your shoulders, lifting your chin as you met his gaze head-on. “I have come to see my husband. I am certain his orders do not extend to preventing me from entering.”

Sam’s lips twitched, as if he were fighting back a smile. For a heartbeat, you thought he might refuse again. But then he stepped aside with a graceful nod, sweeping his arm toward the entrance.

“Welcome, Your Majesty. Forgive me for the delay.” His eyes shifted to Steve, a knowing look passing between them before he turned back to you. “Shall I announce your arrival?”

You hesitated, glancing at Steve, who merely shook his head. “No,” you said softly, feeling a strange surge of determination. “I’ll find him myself.”

With a nod, Sam stepped back, gesturing for the guards to lower their weapons. As you dismounted, handing the reins to a stable boy who had appeared from the shadows, you felt Steve’s steady presence beside you—a silent pillar of support.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” he murmured under his breath, his voice barely audible over the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

You nodded, squaring your shoulders. “I didn’t ride all this way to be turned back now, Captain.”

He gave you a small, tight smile, his eyes flicking briefly to Sam before returning to you. “Then let’s go find him.”

The grand entrance of the estate opened before you like the maw of some great beast, its stone walls and towering pillars casting deep, ominous shadows. As you stepped inside, the air seemed to change—thicker, almost suffocating, like a place that held too many secrets. The floors gleamed under the flickering light of candles set in wall sconces, the polished surfaces reflecting the nervous tension tightening in your chest.

Steve followed closely behind, his hand hovering near his sword, his gaze scanning the dimly lit corridors with the sharp, alert intensity of a soldier on high alert.

“He’s this way,” he murmured, gesturing with a tilt of his head.

You nodded, your heart pounding louder with each step. The estate was grander than you had expected, the hallways long and winding. For a moment, you felt disoriented, as if you’d stumbled into a labyrinth. But you forced yourself to focus. You were here for a reason—to speak to James. To confront him, to demand answers.

After what felt like an eternity, you reached a heavy wooden door, slightly ajar, warm light spilling through the crack. Steve slowed, his hand coming up as if to stop you, but you shook your head. You needed to do this alone.

Taking a deep breath, you pushed the door open gently, stepping inside.

The heavy door creaked shut behind you as you stepped fully into the observatory. Your gaze swept over the large telescope set up at the far end, its towering structure silhouetted against the backdrop of the star-strewn sky. 

You saw him—standing beside it, a shadowed figure against the soft glow of the evening, the faint town lights far below barely piercing the darkness up here. His fingers traced the metal frame of the instrument, the careful precision of his movements almost reverent. It was unexpected—seeing him like this. Vulnerable, focused, his usual air of authority and distance replaced by something quieter, more human.

“Why are you here?” he asked, his voice clipped and cold. The question sounded more like an accusation, his grip tightening on the edge of the telescope.

“I think you know why,” you replied, your words as sharp as the air between you. “You can’t just keep sending me away like I’m some piece of unwanted baggage.”

He exhaled harshly, his shoulders shifting, but he still didn’t turn to face you. “You’re supposed to be at the estate. This is not—”

“Not what?” you cut in, your own frustration spilling over. “Not where I’m supposed to be? I’m your wife, James. Is it not my right to stand beside you, wherever you may be?”

Finally, he turned, his jaw set, eyes hardened as he stared at you across the room. “You’re making everything more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Complicated?” The word tasted bitter, and you threw it back at him like a weapon. “Complicated is this entire charade of a marriage you’ve thrown me into. You can’t even be in the same room as me, can’t look at me without acting like I’m some burden you’re forced to carry.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze never wavering. “You knew what was expected from the very beginning. I never misled you.”

“Never?” you shot back, stepping closer, heat rising beneath your skin. “What about everything you said that morning in the garden? You made me believe—” You stopped yourself, anger tightening in your throat. “You led me to believe there was more. You looked me in the eye and made promises without saying a word.”

Bucky scoffed, shaking his head sharply. “You’re twisting things, Y/N.”

“Am I?” Your voice rose, matching his, the words bursting out like they’d been waiting for this fight. “You led me on, made me think there could be something real between us. Did you really mean it? All those sweet words? Or am I just another woman you can disregard?”

His expression didn’t soften, didn’t waver. He took a step forward, eyes burning into yours. “You’re not just another woman. You’re my wife. And that’s exactly why I’m telling you to go back where it’s safe.”

You laughed, a cold, hollow sound that felt like it echoed through the observatory. “Safe. You keep saying that. But you know what’s unsafe, James? Being married to someone who treats me like a ghost. Like I’m here but not really here. Like I’m nothing more than a title to you.”

“You don’t understand,” he snapped, his voice dangerously low. “You think this is about you? It’s not. It’s about—”

“Don’t you dare tell me what this is about!” you interrupted, your anger roaring back to life. “You’ve been pushing me away since the day we married. You send me to that estate like I’m some delicate flower who can’t handle the truth. You won’t even give me the courtesy of honesty.”

“I am being honest,” he growled, his voice vibrating with suppressed rage. “You just refuse to accept it.”

“Then tell me why you shut me out!” you demanded, taking another step closer, refusing to back down. “Tell me why you can’t even bear to look at me!”

“Because it’s easier that way!” he exploded, the words crashing between you like a thunderclap. “Because every moment I spend with you, every look, every touch—it makes it harder to keep my distance. And I need that distance, Y/N. I need it.”

“Why?” The single word felt like a challenge, a dare, as you stood your ground. “Why do you need to keep your distance?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild with something you couldn’t quite decipher. “Because if I don’t, I’ll—”

“You’ll what?” you pressed, your voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “You’ll feel something? You’ll actually let yourself care?”

“Damn it, stop twisting my words!” he snapped, his voice echoing off the walls. He pointed toward the door, his hand trembling slightly. “This conversation is over. Go home.”

But you didn’t move. Instead, you square your shoulders, staring him down with a determination that only seemed to make his fury burn hotter. “You’re just a coward, James.”

“What did you say?” His eyes darkened, the heat in his gaze scorching.

“I said you’re a coward,” you repeated, your voice unyielding. “It’s not about protecting me, is it? It’s about protecting yourself. You can’t handle feeling anything real, so you shove me away and pretend it’s for my sake—”

“Enough!” he roared, slamming his fist down on a workbench. The sound reverberated through the room, you flinched, but didn’t back away. He took a deep, shuddering breath, his voice a raw growl when he spoke again. “I’m commanding you to go home, Y/N. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“And what if I don’t?” you shot back, your heart hammering in your chest. “What if I stay here and make you face me?”

He took a step forward, the distance between you closing until he was towering over you.

“You want me to be honest? Fine. I’m being honest now.” He leaned in, his voice a dangerous whisper. “Go. Home. Because if you stay, I can’t promise I won’t hurt you.”

The threat hung in the air, his gaze blazing with a warning you knew he meant. But even then, you didn’t move. You held his stare, refusing to look away, refusing to give in.

But then something shifted in his eyes—something dark and final.

“Leave,” he bit out, each word a sharp command. “Go back to the estate. This is not up for debate.”

“James—”

“Go.” His voice cut through the room like a blade, and for the first time, you felt the full force of his resolve, the cold, impenetrable wall he had built around himself.

Slowly, you stepped back, your eyes still locked on his, the ache in your chest spreading like a poison.

“You really think you’re protecting me?” Your voice wavered, the frustration and pain that had been building over the past five days bubbling to the surface, spilling out like a torrent you could no longer contain. “But all you’re doing is pushing me away. You think that sending me back to that estate, is what’s best for me? Locking me up like some prisoner while you hide away here?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing, his expression an unreadable mask of ice.

“Every morning I wake up in that empty bed, wondering if today will be the day you finally show up. If maybe, for once, you’ll decide that I’m worth more than a few fleeting words, worth more than some shadow you keep at arm’s length.” Your voice shook, but you pressed on, refusing to let the lump in your throat silence you. 

“I eat alone. I read alone. I play music for walls that don’t listen. I’m trapped in that place, surrounded by people who refuse to let me leave, because you’ve ordered it. ‘For my safety,’” you scoffed, the bitterness heavy in your tone. “But safety from what, James? From whom?”

He flinched, just barely, but you caught it. You saw the way his fingers twitched at his sides, the way his gaze flickered with something—regret, maybe—before he buried it beneath that cold, stony facade.

“Your silence is worse than anything else. Worse than the gossip, the rumors,” you continued, each word sharp, slicing through the air. “I didn’t marry a title, James. I married you—or at least, I thought I did. But the man I met in the garden… the man who promised me something more… that’s not who I see now.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze unyielding, his stance unrelenting.

“Fine. If you want to let this crumble to dust, then fine. But don’t you dare think that you’re doing it for me,” you spat, turning on your heel and heading for the door. “You want me to leave? I’ll leave.”

With that, you stormed out, slamming the door behind you, the echo of it reverberating through the silence he left behind.

And in that silence, Bucky stood alone, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes fixed on the door you’d just walked through, the words he didn’t say choking him from the inside out.

× × × × 

You stormed down the spiral staircase until you arrived at the hallway, each step punctuated by the echo of your boots against the stone floor. You barely registered the curious glances of the servants or the soft rustling of skirts as maids darted out of your path. Everything was a blur of color and sound, your heart pounding in your ears like a war drum.

You reached the grand foyer, your breath coming in ragged, furious gasps. You hadn’t meant to let him get to you—hadn’t meant to let his coldness, his indifference, chip away at the fragile hope you’d nurtured.

But he had.

And now the hope was gone, replaced by a searing anger that burned hot and unforgiving in your chest.

“My Queen!” Steve’s voice called out urgently somewhere behind you. You didn’t stop, didn’t even glance back. “What happened? Did he—”

“I do not wish to talk about it, Steve,” you snapped, not breaking stride as you pushed through the front entrance. The cold night air hit you like a slap, the sharpness of it biting into your skin, but it was a welcome relief—anything to douse the fire raging inside you.

“Y/N, wait—”

But you ignored him, striding toward the stables where your horse was already saddled and waiting. A stable boy jumped at your sudden arrival, his eyes wide with uncertainty as you approached.

“Bring my things. I’m leaving,” you ordered, your voice taut with barely contained fury.

“But—Your Majesty—” the boy stammered, glancing nervously between you and Steve, who had followed you out.

“Do as she says,” Steve murmured, his tone resigned, though there was a hard edge to his gaze as he watched you mount the horse.

“Y/N—” Steve tried again, his hand lifting as if he might reach for you, stop you. But you jerked the reins sharply, cutting him off.

“Are you coming?”

He fell silent, his shoulders slumping slightly as he watched you, the conflict clear in his eyes. He looked like he wanted to say something else, wanted to protest—but then his gaze flicked back toward the darkened silhouette of the estate, and he let out a low, frustrated sigh.

“Yes,” he muttered, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. “I’ll escort you back to Byron—but allow me to have a word with the King.”

“Do whatever you want,” you bit out, the bitterness in your tone making his jaw clench. 

Steve approaches your horse, looking up at you with a hardened look, “Do not leave without me.”

“I won’t.”

× × × × 

Bucky stood in the center of the room, the soft, amber glow of candlelight casting deep shadows across his features. His breathing was labored, each inhale and exhale scraping through his lungs like broken glass. He stared at the closed door, his hand still clenched around the edge of the workbench, his knuckle white with the force of his grip.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, his voice a harsh, broken sound in the empty room.

The door creaked open suddenly, and Bucky’s gaze snapped up, his eyes blazing with a dangerous mix of anger and fear.

Steve stepped inside, his expression tight, his shoulders squared. For a moment, the two men simply stared at each other, the air crackling with unspoken tension.

“What the hell was that?” Steve demanded, his voice low and fierce, like the growl of an animal poised to attack. He took a step forward, his gaze never leaving Bucky’s. “What the hell did you say to her?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he turned away, his shoulders stiff. “That is no concern of yours.”

“Like hell it’s not,” Steve shot back, his voice rising with barely contained fury. He took another step forward, his eyes blazing. “She came here for you. She rode all the way from Byron—alone, at night—just to see you. And you turn her away like she’s nothing?”

“Watch it, Rogers,” Bucky warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. “This is between me and her.”

“Bullshit,” Steve spat, his fists clenching at his sides. “She is my queen. You may be her husband, but you are not acting as such. You are simply pushing her away—”

“Watch how you speak to me, Captain,” Bucky warned further, his voice low and simmering with barely controlled rage. He turned back to face Steve, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, unyielding intensity. “I am your King before I am your friend. Don't you ever forget that.”

But then Steve’s expression hardened, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he took a deliberate step closer, refusing to be cowed.

“You may be my King,” Steve ground out, his voice tight and edged with anger. “But that does not mean I will stand by and watch you destroy yourself. I know why you’re doing this. And it’s tearing her apart.”

“I’m doing what I have to,” Bucky interrupted sharply. He stepped forward, his hard gaze latching onto Steve’s. “Do not presume to know what is best for her, Steve.”

“And you do?” Steve challenged, his voice dripping with contempt. “Because from where I stand, it seems you are doing everything in your power to hurt her.”

Bucky’s expression twisted, a dark, bitter smile tugging at his lips. “You think I wish to cause her pain?”

“I think you’re terrified,” Steve replied quietly, his voice calm and unflinching. “You’re scared of what you feel for her, afraid of getting close—because losing her would destroy you. But this… pushing her away, pretending you don’t care… that’s just cowardice.”

Bucky’s eyes flared, his hand darting out to grab the front of Steve’s coat, yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Then explain it to me,” Steve demanded, his voice low and unrelenting. “You are sabotaging yourself and tearing her down in the process—I am done watching you destroy the one good thing you possess.”

For a moment, they stood there, locked in a silent, seething battle of wills. Then, slowly, Bucky released his grip on Steve’s coat, his shoulders slumping as if the fight had drained out of him.

“You should leave, Steve,” Bucky muttered, his voice thick with exhaustion and defeat. He turned away, his gaze falling to the floor. “Go take her back to Byron. Make sure she’s safe.”

“Bucky—”

“Just go,” Bucky bit out, his voice rough and ragged. He didn’t look back, didn’t give Steve a chance to argue.

Steve’s gaze lingered on him for a long, tense moment, a dozen words hovering on the tip of his tongue. But then he turned sharply on his heel, his boots echoing through the silent observatory as he left, the door slamming shut behind him.

And then, slowly, he sank down onto the nearest chair, his head dropping into his hands, his shoulders shaking with the force of emotions he couldn’t quite suppress.

But no tears fell. He’d learned long ago how to bury them deep, how to lock them away where they couldn’t hurt him—or anyone else.

Because this was the price of keeping you safe. The price of keeping his distance.

Even if it destroyed him in the process.

× × × × 

The maids moved quietly, arranging fresh flowers and setting a delicate porcelain tea set on a polished table. Queen Winifred sat gracefully in her high-backed chair, sipping her morning tea, her posture as rigid and refined as ever.

She barely looked up as her lady-in-waiting, Lady Harriet, approached hesitantly. There was a slight shift in the atmosphere—something unspoken crackling between them. Harriet glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot, before leaning in closer.

“Your Majesty, I thought you should be informed… the Queen…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “Last night, she left the estate. Captain Rogers accompanied her.”

The Queen Dowager’s hand stilled, the delicate teacup hovering just inches from her lips. “She did what?” she asked, her voice even but laced with incredulity.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lady Harriet continued, her voice dropping lower as if speaking the words any louder would make them more scandalous. “She rode all the way to the King’s estate in Annecy. It caused quite a stir among the staff, even with Captain Rogers by her side.”

For a moment, a thick silence settled in the room. The Queen Dowager’s eyes narrowed slightly, as though considering the implications of such an audacious act. But then… something unexpected happened.

The corner of her lips twitched.

Lady Harriet blinked, surprised, as a soft chuckle slipped past the Queen Dowager’s lips—a sound so rare, it seemed to startle even her own maids. Winifred set the teacup down gently, a wry smile spreading across her face as she tilted her head in quiet amusement.

“She rode to Annecy,” she repeated, a hint of disbelief mingling with a spark of admiration in her eyes. “With Captain Rogers…” She shook her head slightly, as if she could scarcely believe it herself. “That girl…”

Her chuckle grew a little louder, a quiet, knowing sound. Lady Harriet exchanged a glance with one of the other maids, clearly perplexed by the Queen Dowager’s reaction. This wasn’t the disapproving reprimand they’d expected.

The Queen Dowager leaned back in her chair, her gaze turning distant as she stared out the window. 

“So, she did listen after all…” she murmured to herself, almost as if speaking the thought aloud would make it more real.

Lady Harriet hesitated, unsure whether to continue or to remain silent. “Your Majesty?”

The Queen Dowager waved a hand dismissively, still smiling to herself. “It’s nothing, Harriet.” 

She took another sip of her tea, a thoughtful look crossing her face. “The Queen may have more steel in her spine than I initially thought.”

“Should we… take any action regarding her behavior, Your Majesty?” Harriet asked tentatively, still clearly baffled.

Winifred’s smile widened, a gleam of something almost like pride flashing in her eyes. “No, Harriet. Leave her be.”

She glanced down at her teacup, swirling the liquid gently. “Let her make her bold moves. Let her surprise them all.” She lifted her gaze, the hint of a satisfied smirk tugging at her lips. “It’s about time someone shook things up around here.”

Lady Harriet shifted, still looking uncertain. “But Your Majesty, if Captain Rogers was with her, it might imply—”

“Captain Rogers may be a steadfast soldier, but he does not dictate the queen’s actions. She made her choice.” Winnifred paused, her smile deepening. “And if I’m not mistaken, that girl has enough fire to make any man, king or captain, follow her lead.”

And with that, she returned to her tea as if nothing had happened, the faintest smile lingering on her lips—a smile that spoke of a plan unfolding, of something more significant simmering beneath the surface.

Yes, the queen was proving to be quite a force, indeed.

× × × ×

You sit perched on a thick branch of the grand oak tree, high above the garden path. The cool breeze plays with the hem of your skirts and rustles the leaves around you. A delicate porcelain teacup is balanced carefully on a knot beside you, the matching saucer nestled securely on a branch above, where a glimmer of sunlight catches the floral patterns. 

Below, the world feels distant—removed. From this height, you can watch the maids flit about like little insects, pretending to ignore you while stealing glances up at your odd choice of seating.

Your book lies open in your lap, but you haven’t turned a page in a while. The words blur together as your gaze drifts away from the text, caught instead by the blue expanse of sky peeking through the foliage, your thoughts miles away.

It has been two days since you rode to Annecy in the dead of night. Two days since you confronted your husband, demanding answers he seemed unwilling—or unable—to give. And now, silence. Not a single word from him. Not even a letter. The ache of that silence lingers in your chest, tightening every time you think of him.

With a sigh, you look back at the pages, willing yourself to focus. But even now, the ache of anticipation tugs at you. A soft crunch of boots against gravel draws your attention. From your elevated position, you glance down and find Captain Rogers standing beneath the oak, his brow furrowed in a curious frown as he peers up at you.

“Your Majesty?” His voice carries a note of genuine confusion and surprise. “How did you get up there?”

You blink, taken aback, before a smile tugs at your lips. “I climbed, Captain Rogers.”

His eyes widen slightly, and then he glances at the tree trunk, scanning the branches as if trying to piece together the puzzle of how a queen—of all people—managed to scale a tree like a child escaping her governess.

“Climbed,” he repeats, disbelief tinged with admiration. “And no one stopped you?”

“No one saw me until I was already here,” you reply, a faint note of mischief coloring your tone. “And by then, what could they do? Order their queen to come down?”

The corner of his mouth lifts in a reluctant smile as he steps closer, his gaze still on you. “Well, I can’t say I expected to find you up a tree, but… may I join you?”

You raise an eyebrow, looking down at him as he places one hand on the trunk, testing his grip. “Do you think you can get up here, Captain?”

“Only one way to find out,” he murmurs.

You watch, surprised and a little amused, as he hoists himself up, his powerful arms making easy work of the climb. He’s not quite as graceful as you’d been, but soon enough, he’s straddling the branch in front of you, facing you, his legs on either side of the limb to keep himself balanced. The limb dips ever so slightly under his weight. The closeness between you makes the air seem charged, a tension simmering beneath the surface.

“Impressive,” you say softly, tilting your head to regard him. “For a soldier, you climb trees like a schoolboy.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “I suppose that’s one way of putting it.” He shifts his position slightly, leaning forward, his hands braced on either side of the branch, bringing him closer, his gaze holding yours with unsettling intensity. “But what are you doing up here? Escaping the palace? Or just trying to find some peace?”

“Perhaps both,” you reply with a small sigh. “The view is nice up here. It gives me a different perspective.”

“Perspective,” he repeats thoughtfully. “Or maybe it’s a place to hide.”

Your gaze snaps to his, a flash of irritation rising at his too-accurate guess. “And if it is?”

“Then I understand.” His voice is soft, devoid of the teasing lilt he’d used earlier. “But sometimes… sometimes what we’re running from follows us, no matter how high we climb.”

His words strike something deep within you, and you avert your gaze, looking out at the horizon instead of meeting his eyes. “What do you want, Captain? Surely you didn’t climb this tree just to talk about running away.”

He shifts closer, his knee brushing against yours, the rough bark digging into your skirts as he leans forward slightly. His proximity is dizzying, his eyes searching yours with a kind of determination that makes your pulse quicken. “I thought… perhaps some company would be welcome. It’s a lovely day, and you seem… alone.”

“Alone, but not lonely,” you lied, the words almost a whisper. “Still, I appreciate the thought.”

“But you shouldn’t have to handle things alone,” he counters gently, his gaze softening as he watches you. “Sometimes, it helps to share the burden. Or at least… know there’s someone willing to share it.”

You glance down at the garden below, where the maids are casting furtive glances up at the two of you, their curiosity barely concealed. A murmur rises among them, speculation sparking like dry kindling. You can practically hear the gossip spreading like wildfire.

“Is this... concern for my well-being or more... personal interest, Captain?” you ask, your voice laced with challenge.

He holds your gaze, his expression softening in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Perhaps a bit of both,” he replies quietly.

A murmur rises among the maids, their eyes widening as they exchange knowing looks. Your gaze shifts briefly to them before returning to Steve’s, suspicion and confusion swirling in your chest.

“Captain Rogers, I—” You begin to speak but falter, unsure how to respond to this unexpected display of interest. 

He leans back slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s just... Your Majesty, you deserve someone who sees you. Not just the crown, not just the queen, but you.”

The maids’ murmurs grow louder, and you force yourself to smile, though it feels brittle on your lips.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Captain,” you reply, your voice steady despite the confusion roiling inside you. “But perhaps you should keep such thoughts to yourself. I would hate for anyone to misunderstand your intentions.”

“Misunderstand?” he echoes, his smile widening just enough to be noticed. “I’m not sure there’s any misunderstanding when a man speaks his mind.”

Your eyes narrow, a flash of irritation sparking behind them. What game is he playing? Before you can press further, one of the maids drops a basket of flowers, the sudden clatter drawing both your attention. The young woman quickly bends to pick them up, her cheeks flushed, but not before she casts another furtive glance at you and Steve.

“Let them talk, Your Majesty. Sometimes, a little attention is exactly what’s needed.”

“Attention for whom?” you ask, your voice dropping to a whisper, your suspicion growing. “For me? Or for... someone else?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “For whoever needs it,” he murmurs softly, the words thick with unspoken meaning.

You inhale deeply, holding his gaze as you speak. “I think it’s best if we don’t continue this conversation.”

With a quiet sigh, you carefully swing your legs over the branch and drop down, landing gracefully on the grass below. Steve follows suit, descending with a thud beside you, his presence lingering too close for comfort.

“Thank you for your... company, Captain,” you say quietly, smoothing down your skirts.

He dips his head in a respectful bow. “Of course, Your Majesty. I apologize if I overstepped.”

Without another word, you turn on your heel and make your way back to the estate, leaving him and his cryptic words behind among the watchful eyes and eager whispers of the maids.

The afternoon sun cast dappled shadows across the marble floors of the corridor as you made your way back to your chambers. Each step you took felt heavier, weighted down by the encounter in the garden, by Captain Rogers’ unexpected behavior, and the murmurs that had buzzed around you like a swarm of bees.

As you turned a corner, you caught sight of Scott—your valet—hovering a few paces behind. His presence was a familiar one, but something about it now felt... different. Obtrusive. You slowed your pace until you came to a halt, turning abruptly to face him.

“Scott,” you called softly, your tone edged with irritation and confusion. “Why are you following me?”

Scott, ever the stoic presence, dipped his head in a respectful bow. “Your Majesty, it’s my duty to attend to you.”

Your eyes narrowed as you took in the determined set of his shoulders, the way his gaze remained fixed just over your shoulder, never meeting your eyes. He’d been like this ever since you returned from Annecy—hovering in the shadows, always lingering close by.

“Yes, I know that, Scott,” you said slowly, studying him with a scrutinizing gaze. “But lately, you’ve been… hovering more than usual.”

His lips twitched, a fleeting sign of discomfort. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I merely wish to ensure your safety.”

“Ensure my safety?” you echoed, suspicion prickling at the back of your mind. You glanced around the empty corridor, a sense of unease settling in your chest. “Who ordered you to follow me around like this?”

Scott hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor before he glanced back up, his voice low. “It was the order of the king, Your Majesty.”

Your breath caught. Bucky? You frowned, confusion and frustration warring within you. Why would he do that? He hadn’t even bothered to see you, to speak to you since the night you confronted him. And yet, now he saw fit to have you followed?

“And… What of Captain Rogers?” you asked, your voice quieter now, a strange apprehension curling around your words. “Why does it seem like he’s been lingering around more often? Was that also at the king’s order?”

Scott shifted slightly, his expression remaining neutral, though there was a faint trace of something—sympathy, perhaps?—in his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. The king… he wanted to ensure you were… properly attended to.”

“Properly attended to?” You scoffed softly, shaking your head. The absurdity of it all threatened to choke you. “So, let me get this straight: His Majesty won’t speak to me, but he’ll send his best men to guard me as if I’m some helpless child in need of constant supervision?”

Scott stiffened slightly, but he didn’t respond, his silence speaking louder than any words could.

A bitter laugh escaped you, the sound harsh and brittle. “And here I thought I was being foolish for imagining things.” You looked back at Scott, your gaze piercing. “So, this—this is the king’s way of keeping me under lock and key?”

“It’s for your safety, Your Majesty,” Scott replied softly, his voice almost apologetic. “He wants to ensure nothing happens to you.”

“Nothing happens to me?” You shook your head, disbelief and anger simmering beneath your calm facade. “Nothing is happening to me. What does he think will happen to me? I’m not the one who’s running off and avoiding our marriage.”

Scott’s gaze dropped to the floor again, his silence confirming what you already knew. This wasn’t about your safety—at least not entirely. It was about control. About Bucky’s way of maintaining a grip on something he couldn’t seem to confront directly.

“Well,” you muttered, turning away sharply and continuing down the hall, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’ll be sure to thank him for his... consideration.”

Scott fell into step a few paces behind you, his presence a shadow that only deepened your frustration. With each step you took, the realization settled deeper into your bones.

Bucky might have ordered this, but he was still keeping his distance. Still choosing to watch from afar, rather than face you. And that, more than anything, was what made your heart ache.

You stopped abruptly, your irritation bubbling to the surface as you turned back around to face Scott, a sudden thought lighting up your eyes. 

“You know what?” you murmured, voice edged with determination as a small, dangerous smile curled your lips. “I think I’d like to shoot some arrows.”

Scott’s eyes widened, a look of surprise flickering across his face. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting away before he cleared his throat. 

“Your Majesty, I—” he started, hesitation written in every line of his posture.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head as if considering his reaction. “Is there a problem, Scott?” Your voice remained calm, but there was a sharpness beneath it, the kind that could cut through any excuse he might offer.

Scott’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, struggling to keep his composure. “I, uh, I don’t believe it’s wise, Your Majesty,” he murmured carefully, his voice almost too soft, too placating. “Perhaps… a walk in the gardens or a relaxing moment in the music room instead? Or I could—”

“Scott,” you interrupted sharply, crossing your arms over your chest as you leveled him with a pointed look. “Are you refusing your queen?”

The tension between you hung heavy in the air as his shoulders tightened, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the right words to say.

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” he managed finally, though his voice trembled ever so slightly. “It’s just… your safety—”

“My safety,” you echoed dryly, the irritation you had been holding back spilling out now. “Tell me, Scott, how exactly do arrows pose a threat to my safety? Unless I plan on aiming at myself, I believe I’ll be fine.”

His mouth twitched, struggling between his duty to follow orders and the fear of displeasing you. “It’s not the arrows, Your Majesty,” he murmured, choosing his words carefully. “It’s just… we were instructed to keep you... away from—”

“Instructed?” you cut in, incredulity and frustration sharpening your tone. “Instructed to keep me away from what? Activities that make me feel like I have a shred of control over my own life? I can’t even invite Lady, Romanoff, Potts and Maximoff.”

Scott shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor as if it held all the answers. “No, Your Majesty, of course not. It’s just—”

“Just what, Scott?” Your gaze was unrelenting, your patience wearing thin. “If you’re so worried about my safety, then be a good valet and stand by as I shoot. Ensure that nothing happens to me, since that is your duty, after all.”

He blinked, clearly caught between his loyalty to the king and his loyalty to you. The silence stretched long, taut and crackling with unspoken defiance. Finally, he exhaled softly, shoulders slumping just a little in reluctant acceptance.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” he said quietly, though his eyes remained wary. “I shall arrange for the equipment to be brought to the archery range. But… might I suggest a different method for alleviating your frustrations?”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curving into a faint smirk as you glanced at him. “Such as?”

“Perhaps a ride through the woods?” he offered quickly, hope lighting up his eyes. “Or I could arrange for a music instructor, or even some time in the library. Anything that would allow you to... relax.”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You think a music lesson or a book will do the trick, do you?”

Scott hesitated but nodded, his voice gentle. “You’ve had a trying few days, Your Majesty. It’s natural to feel… frustrated. But there are ways to—”

“Enough,” you interrupted, your voice firm but not unkind. “I appreciate your concern, but I know what I need. Fetch the equipment. I won’t be persuaded otherwise.”

He sighed softly, bowing his head in reluctant submission. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

You turned away sharply, your gaze fixed on the distant view through the windows. The truth was, this wasn’t just about shooting arrows. It was about the tightness in your chest, the simmering anger beneath your skin, the need to do something other than sit around like a caged bird. Bucky had placed you under watch, yet he refused to see you.

If no one else would let you be free, then you would take what freedom you could. Even if it was just the satisfaction of a well-aimed arrow hitting its mark.

× × × ×

You stood at the archery range, your fingers gently tracing the fletching of an arrow. You could feel every set of eyes on you—Scott’s gaze wary and apprehensive, the handmaids’ murmuring softly amongst themselves, the guards standing at attention with blank faces. But most notable was Captain Rogers, his presence a solid, quiet reassurance, yet even he stood back, watching you like a hawk.

Taking a deep breath, you nocked the arrow, the smooth wood and feather a comforting weight in your hands. You narrowed your gaze, focusing on the target ahead. The world around you blurred, leaving only the taut string and the distant bullseye. And then, with a practiced release, you let it fly.

The arrow sailed through the air with a sharp hiss, striking the target with a satisfying thud. A few inches off-center, but still well within the mark. 

“Not bad,” Steve commented, a hint of admiration in his voice. “For a first shot.”

You turned to him with a raised brow, a glint of amusement in your eyes. “First shot of the day, you mean.” Then, without breaking eye contact, you nocked another arrow, your movements smooth, effortless.

Steve’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. He crossed his arms, stepping closer, though he kept a respectful distance. “Of course. I stand corrected, Your Majesty.”

Scott cleared his throat softly, stepping forward as if to remind everyone of the gravity of the situation. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice laced with concern, “perhaps it would be best to—”

“To what?” you interrupted, the arrow poised and ready. “Put down the bow and take up knitting? Perhaps have a nice cup of tea and read a dull novel while I bide my time?”

Scott blinked, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he said nothing. Instead, his gaze shifted to Captain Rogers, almost as if hoping for support.

“Let her be, Scott,” Steve murmured, his tone gentle but firm. “If she wants to practice, let her practice.”

With that, you turned your attention back to the target, drawing the string taut. This time, the arrow flew with a deadly precision, landing just shy of the bullseye. A small ripple of approval murmured through the handmaidens, but Scott merely sighed.

You tilted your head, a sly smile curving your lips as you glanced at him. 

“Scott,” you began casually, as if speaking of the weather, “do we keep any paintings of His Majesty around the manor? Perhaps one in full regalia?” Your tone was innocent enough, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

The handmaidens exchanged startled glances, a few stifling giggles behind their hands. Steve’s gaze shifted sharply to you, his lips twitching, but he said nothing, watching the scene unfold with a barely hidden glimmer of amusement.

Scott, however, did not find it amusing in the slightest. His eyes widened slightly, and he straightened, his voice dropping into a low, chiding tone. “Your Majesty, that is not a funny joke.”

“Isn’t it?” You tilted your head, feigning a look of mock surprise. “I find it quite humorous.”

A muscle in Scott’s jaw twitched, but he composed himself quickly, his gaze flickering to Captain Rogers as if asking for assistance.

But Steve merely shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “The queen does have a unique sense of humor,” he said lightly, his gaze still on you. “One might even say it’s… refreshing.”

You shot him a grateful glance before nocking yet another arrow, this time releasing it with a force that sent it whistling through the air. The arrow struck the outer ring of the target, and you clicked your tongue, feigning disappointment.

“Perhaps I need more inspiration,” you mused aloud, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your voice. “A better target. Or maybe something a bit more… personal.”

“Your Majesty,” Scott said warningly, stepping forward as if he might dare to take the bow from your hands. “This—”

You turned on him sharply, your expression hardening. “What?” you demanded softly. “This is my one small act of freedom. This range. These arrows. This target. Would you deny me even this?”

Silence fell over the group, thick and uncomfortable. The guards shifted uneasily, glancing at one another, unsure of how to proceed. The handmaidens fidgeted, casting worried looks in your direction. But Steve held his ground, his gaze never leaving you.

Scott swallowed, his eyes darting between you and Steve, then back again. “No, Your Majesty,” he said quietly, his shoulders slumping just slightly. “I would never deny you.”

“Good,” you murmured, lifting the bow again and taking aim, your gaze focused, unyielding. “Then let me have my small comforts, if nothing else.”

And with that, you released the arrow, the force of it reverberating through your arms. It struck the very edge of the target, just shy of missing altogether. You lowered the bow slowly, your heart hammering in your chest as you stared at the arrow, frustration coiling tightly within you.

“Perhaps next time,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “I’ll find a better target.”

Scott said nothing, his silence louder than any reprimand. But as you turned away, your gaze met Steve’s once more, and the warmth in his eyes—unspoken understanding, quiet admiration—was enough to dull the edge of your anger.

× × × ×

“Have you heard?” Lady Leah’s voice, soft but carrying the weight of scandal, broke through the hushed quiet of the drawing room. She leaned forward, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. “They still haven’t consummated.”

Lady Ravonna’s teacup paused halfway to her lips, a delicate brow arching. “The king and queen?” she murmured, as if the very notion were inconceivable. “How do you know?”

Leah’s lips curved into a smug smile. “People talk,” she said simply, glancing sideways at Sharon, who sat rigid, her fingers drumming against the arm of her chair. “And apparently, they talk quite a bit.”

“Seven days,” Lady Maya added softly, her gaze flitting between the women. “A week, and still… nothing?”

A delicate scoff escaped from Sharon’s lips, though her eyes were cold, calculating. “I’m not surprised. Our queen,” she sneered, the title dripping with disdain, “is too busy batting her lashes at Captain Rogers to notice she has a husband.”

The other women exchanged startled glances, shock and intrigue flaring to life in their eyes. Ravonna set her teacup down with deliberate care, her gaze narrowing slightly. “You’re saying there’s something between them?”

“I’m saying there’s enough for people to start talking,” Sharon replied coolly, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “You know how these things start—one whispered word, one lingering glance… and suddenly, there’s a story worth telling.”

Maya’s brow furrowed slightly, a hint of concern crossing her face. “But… the queen and the captain? It seems—”

“Impossible?” Sharon cut in sharply, “Hardly. The way he hovers around her, like she’s some delicate flower in need of protection… the way she looks at him, like he’s the answer to all her problems. It’s disgusting.”

The other women exchanged wary glances, sensing the venom simmering beneath Sharon’s words.

“Sharon, you should be careful,” Leah murmured softly, her gaze darting nervously to the door. “If people hear you speak like this—”

“Like what?” Sharon snapped, her voice laced with bitterness. “Like the queen is nothing more than a conniving bitch?” Her lips curled into a cruel smile, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Because that’s exactly what she is. A lying, manipulative whore who thinks she can just—”

“Sharon!” Maya hissed, glancing around the room frantically. “You can’t say that!”

But Sharon continued, undeterred, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “She’s a whore,” she repeated, the word dripping with venom. “Parading herself around like some saint, when she’s got Captain Rogers hanging on her every word. And for what? To make a fool of the king?”

Ravonna shifted uncomfortably, leaning forward to place a calming hand on Sharon’s arm. 

“Sharon, enough,” she murmured firmly, her tone gentle but insistent. “You need to calm down. Words like that will only bring trouble.”

Sharon’s gaze snapped to Ravonna’s, her eyes blazing. “No. Words like that will bring the truth to light. The truth about what she really is.”

“But you don’t know that for sure,” Maya whispered urgently. “It’s all just… whispers. Hearsay.”

Sharon let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Whispers are all we need. Whispers will turn into rumors, and rumors will turn into truths, whether they’re real or not.” She straightened, her gaze steely. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The other ladies exchanged uneasy looks, their faces pale. But it was Leah who spoke up, her voice trembling slightly. “And what if this all backfires? What if the king doesn’t believe it?”

“Then we make sure he does,” Sharon said coldly, “We make sure everyone believes it. Because if she thinks she can just waltz in here and steal everything I’ve worked for… she’s got another thing coming.”

“What exactly are you saying, Sharon? What do you intend to do?” Ravonna frowned, her gaze skeptical.

Sharon’s smile was slow, almost sinister.

“Nothing. For now.” She leaned back in her seat, the picture of composed fury. “The court will tear her apart on its own, once they realize she’s unfaithful. Once they see her for what she truly is.”

“But… how?” Leah asked hesitantly, her brow furrowing. “There’s no proof. No evidence.”

“There doesn’t need to be,” Sharon said dismissively. “People love a scandal. And the more outlandish it seems, the more they’ll believe it.”

“But Sharon,” Ravonna murmured, her voice tight with unease. “You’re playing with fire. If the king finds out—”

“Let him,” Sharon snapped, cutting her off. “Let him see what his perfect queen is really like. A disloyal wife. A disgrace. He’ll thank me in the end.”

They exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak, none daring to question further.

Finally, it was Maya who broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper. “But… what if it backfires?”

“Then it backfires,” Sharon said coolly, shrugging as if it were of no consequence. “But it won’t. Because I’ll make sure it doesn’t.” Her gaze hardened, her expression fierce. “No matter what it takes.”

× × × ×

The grand council chamber in the main palace was abuzz with tension, the air thick with barely restrained impatience and worry. High-ranking noblemen lined the long table, each one glancing nervously at the Dowager Queen as she entered the room with her head held high, her presence alone commanding silence.

Queen Winifred took her seat at the head of the table, her gaze sweeping over the gathered men. Prime Minister Fury, seated directly to her left, leaned forward, his brows knitted in frustration.

“It’s been seven days,” he began, his voice carrying a distinct edge of impatience. “Seven days, Your Majesty, and they still haven’t consummated their marriage.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, voices low but urgent.

Lord Haynesworth, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, spoke up next, his tone carefully measured but no less troubled. “Your Majesty, the lack of consummation is… troubling, to say the least. The kingdom needs stability, and without a legitimate heir, we risk giving dissenters an opening to question the monarchy’s strength.”

“Indeed,” Duke Townsend of Lancaster agreed, his fingers drumming restlessly against the polished wood of the table. “There are already whispers. Rival factions are looking for any sign of weakness, and this... delay is giving them all the ammunition they need. We cannot afford to let them think the crown is vulnerable.”

Queen Winifred’s gaze narrowed slightly as she listened to their concerns, her face a mask of calm composure. She had expected this—expected the panic, the finger-pointing, the thinly veiled attempts to shift blame.

“And without an heir,” Lord Pierce added, his voice rising, “we’re risking more than just whispers. We’re risking civil unrest. There are already reports of some nobles openly questioning whether the king is... able to fulfill his duties.”

Another wave of murmured agreement swept through the chamber, the words laced with anxiety and fear. But Queen Winifred remained impassive, her fingers resting lightly on the arm of her chair.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade, “you are all acting as if I do not understand why there needs to be an heir.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

“You forget that I am the one who secured the throne for my son after the turmoil of his father’s reign. I am well aware of the consequences should there be no successor.”

A strained silence fell over the room as the noblemen shifted uncomfortably in their seats, chided by her words. But it didn’t last long.

“Then what is being done, Your Majesty?” Lord Haynesworth pressed, his voice lower now, but no less insistent. “The queen has failed to... inspire confidence in the king. If this continues, we may have to consider alternate measures.”

A tense murmur followed, the suggestion hanging ominously in the air. Queen Winifred’s gaze turned icy, her eyes boring into the man who dared to voice such a thought.

“Are you suggesting,” she said softly, dangerously, “that we undermine the queen’s position? That we destabilize her standing at court?”

Lord Haynesworth cleared his throat, looking away, but Prime Minister Fury leaned in, his voice grim.

“Your Majesty, we’re suggesting that you take action—swiftly and decisively. It’s clear that Queen Y/N is not—”

“Careful, Fury,” Queen Winifred interrupted, her voice low and lethal. “Choose your next words very carefully.”

The Prime Minister paused, visibly reining in his frustration. “Your Majesty, the queen’s actions have been... questionable. If she cannot perform her duties as a wife, how can we expect her to perform her duties as a queen?”

Another murmur of agreement rose from the table, the men nodding, emboldened by the Prime Minister’s words. But Queen Winifred’s gaze remained cold, calculating.

“There are still three days left before the period of seclusion ends,” she said firmly, cutting through their mutterings. “We will not resort to drastic measures based on impatience and rumors. The queen is more than capable of fulfilling her role, and I will not have her judged prematurely.”

“But Your Majesty—��� Duke Townsend began, only to be silenced by a sharp glare from the Dowager Queen.

“Need I remind you all,” she continued icily, “that this entire situation was precipitated by the king’s absence and neglect? My son bears just as much responsibility for this situation, if not more. Do not lay the blame solely at the queen’s feet.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty.” A smooth, honeyed voice cut through the murmur of agreement, drawing all eyes to Lord Carter, seated near the middle of the table. He inclined his head slightly, his expression the picture of respectful deference. “We know the queen is… new to this role. As you said, she has shown great patience. But we must ensure she understands the gravity of her position.”

Queen Winifred’s gaze shifted to him, her expression cooling a fraction. “Are you implying that she does not?”

Lord Carter smiled gently, his fingers tapping lightly on the table in a rhythm that seemed almost contemplative. “Not at all, Your Majesty. I merely suggest that perhaps the queen might benefit from… additional guidance. From those more experienced in navigating the complexities of the court and the expectations that come with the crown.”

His tone was mild, even reasonable, but beneath the surface, there was an undercurrent of something dangerous, something quietly undermining. A subtle criticism wrapped in a layer of politeness, creating ripples of doubt with each carefully chosen word.

“And what sort of guidance would you suggest, Lord Carter?” Winifred asked, her voice deceptively soft.

He spread his hands, a faint smile touching his lips. “Nothing drastic, Your Majesty. Just… an assurance that she understands the full extent of what is at stake. We would not want any misunderstandings to arise, after all.”

Queen Winifred’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded once, her gaze never leaving his. “I see. Well, rest assured, Lord Carter, I will make certain that the queen is fully aware of her responsibilities. And I will remind all of you once again—there are three days left. We will revisit this matter then.”

The subtle warning in her tone was not lost on the gathered men. They shifted uncomfortably, casting uneasy glances at one another.

“Three more days,” she repeated, her gaze sweeping over each of them, daring them to argue. “Until then, I expect every one of you to refrain from spreading further discontent and to let me handle this matter. Is that understood?”

A chorus of reluctant nods and mumbled affirmations followed, but none dared to protest further.

“Good,” Queen Winifred murmured, rising to her feet with regal grace. “Because should any of you take matters into your own hands before the honeymoon period ends, you will find yourselves facing more than just my displeasure.”

With that, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving the noblemen in stunned silence. As the heavy doors closed behind her, the men exchanged wary looks, unease settling like a shroud over the council chamber.

“She’s defending the queen,” Lord Trenton muttered, disbelief etched into his features. “I never thought...”

Lord Carter, his gaze lingering thoughtfully on the closed doors, smiled faintly, his expression carefully neutral. “Three days,” he repeated softly, his voice carrying a measured tone. “We shall see if the queen can prove herself worthy of that defense.”

“Three days,” Duke Townsend muttered, shaking his head. “She expects us to wait three more days while the court fills with rumors and discontent. This cannot end well.”

“Waiting is no longer a luxury we can afford,” Lord Pierce interjected quietly, his gaze darting toward Lord Carter. “We’re already seeing signs of division among the lower houses. If this continues…”

Prime Minister Fury leaned forward, his voice a low, harsh whisper. “It’s not just the lower houses we need to worry about. Every day without an heir gives the rivals more time to gather support. We need stability now.”

“Then perhaps,” Lord Carter said softly, his tone calm amidst the brewing storm, “it is not the queen we should be questioning.” His words drew curious, cautious glances, and he smiled faintly. “There are two parties in a marriage, after all. If an heir is what we need, perhaps we should be focusing our efforts elsewhere.”

A silence settled over the group, heavy and charged with unspoken meaning.

“You mean the king,” Duke Townsend murmured, a slight frown pulling at his features. “But His Majesty—”

“—Is just as responsible,” Lord Carter finished smoothly, his gaze steady. “We’ve already seen how his absence affects the queen’s standing. Perhaps it is time we remind him of the consequences if he continues to... neglect his duties.”

“Careful, Carter,” Prime Minister Fury warned, his voice laced with tension. “Tread lightly. The queen dowager may have left, but her influence hasn’t. One wrong move, and you’ll have more than the crown’s displeasure to contend with.”

Lord Carter’s smile never wavered, but his eyes held a dangerous glint. “I assure you, Prime Minister, I am well aware of where the true power lies. But if the queen dowager wishes to protect the queen, she must remember that protection does not extend to inaction.”

The men exchanged wary looks, the conversation shifting into murmured agreement. The line had been drawn, the challenge subtly issued. And even as they debated, the weight of Lord Carter’s words lingered in the air, thick with intent and unspoken plans.

Three days. Three days to see if the queen would succeed… or if the cracks in the crown would deepen beyond repair.

tags: @theendofthematerialgworl @httpb3a @spiidergirlsworld @sebastians-love @stevesbbgorl

@targaryenhues @almosttoopizza @scott-loki-barnes @brckenmemories @vicmc624

@classicrebound @nommingonfood @greatenthusiasttidalwave @railmesebstan @annawilk

@landoslutmeout @winterslove1917 @missvelvetsstuff @s0kovianwitch

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Amy Maxmen at KFF Health News:

Keith Poulsen’s jaw dropped when farmers showed him images on their cellphones at the World Dairy Expo in Wisconsin in October. A livestock veterinarian at the University of Wisconsin, Poulsen had seen sick cows before, with their noses dripping and udders slack. But the scale of the farmers’ efforts to treat the sick cows stunned him. They showed videos of systems they built to hydrate hundreds of cattle at once. In 14-hour shifts, dairy workers pumped gallons of electrolyte-rich fluids into ailing cows through metal tubes inserted into the esophagus. “It was like watching a field hospital on an active battlefront treating hundreds of wounded soldiers,” he said. Nearly a year into the first outbreak of the bird flu among cattle, the virus shows no sign of slowing. The U.S. government failed to eliminate the virus on dairy farms when it was confined to a handful of states, by quickly identifying infected cows and taking measures to keep their infections from spreading. Now at least 875 herds across 16 states have tested positive.

Experts say they have lost faith in the government’s ability to contain the outbreak. “We are in a terrible situation and going into a worse situation,” said Angela Rasmussen, a virologist at the University of Saskatchewan in Canada. “I don’t know if the bird flu will become a pandemic, but if it does, we are screwed.” To understand how the bird flu got out of hand, KFF Health News interviewed nearly 70 government officials, farmers and farmworkers, and researchers with expertise in virology, pandemics, veterinary medicine, and more. Together with emails obtained from local health departments through public records requests, this investigation revealed key problems, including deference to the farm industry, eroded public health budgets, neglect for the safety of agriculture workers, and the sluggish pace of federal interventions. Case in point: The U.S. Department of Agriculture this month announced a federal order to test milk nationwide. Researchers welcomed the news but said it should have happened months ago — before the virus was so entrenched.

“It’s disheartening to see so many of the same failures that emerged during the covid-19 crisis reemerge,” said Tom Bollyky, director of the Global Health Program at the Council on Foreign Relations. Far more bird flu damage is inevitable, but the extent of it will be left to the Trump administration and Mother Nature. Already, the USDA has funneled more than $1.7 billion into tamping down the bird flu on poultry farms since 2022, which includes reimbursing farmers who’ve had to cull their flocks, and more than $430 million into combating the bird flu on dairy farms. In coming years, the bird flu may cost billions of dollars more in expenses and losses. Dairy industry experts say the virus kills roughly 2% to 5% of infected dairy cows and reduces a herd’s milk production by about 20%. Worse, the outbreak poses the threat of a pandemic. More than 60 people in the U.S. have been infected, mainly by cows or poultry, but cases could skyrocket if the virus evolves to spread efficiently from person to person. And the recent news of a person critically ill in Louisiana with the bird flu shows that the virus can be dangerous.

Just a few mutations could allow the bird flu to spread between people. Because viruses mutate within human and animal bodies, each infection is like a pull of a slot machine lever. “Even if there’s only a 5% chance of a bird flu pandemic happening, we’re talking about a pandemic that probably looks like 2020 or worse,” said Tom Peacock, a bird flu researcher at the Pirbright Institute in the United Kingdom, referring to covid. “The U.S. knows the risk but hasn’t done anything to slow this down,” he added. Beyond the bird flu, the federal government’s handling of the outbreak reveals cracks in the U.S. health security system that would allow other risky new pathogens to take root. “This virus may not be the one that takes off,” said Maria Van Kerkhove, director of the emerging diseases group at the World Health Organization. “But this is a real fire exercise right now, and it demonstrates what needs to be improved.”

[...] Curtailing the virus on farms is the best way to prevent human infections, said Jennifer Nuzzo, director of the Pandemic Center at Brown University, but human surveillance must be stepped up, too. Every clinic serving communities where farmworkers live should have easy access to bird flu tests — and be encouraged to use them. Funds for farmworker outreach must be boosted. And, she added, the CDC should change its position and offer farmworkers bird flu vaccines to protect them and ward off the chance of a hybrid bird flu that spreads quickly. The rising number of cases not linked to farms signals a need for more testing in general. When patients are positive on a general flu test — a common diagnostic that indicates human, swine, or bird flu — clinics should probe more deeply, Nuzzo said. The alternative is a wait-and-see approach in which the nation responds only after enormous damage to lives or businesses. This tack tends to rely on mass vaccination. But an effort analogous to Trump’s Operation Warp Speed is not assured, and neither is rollout like that for the first covid shots, given a rise in vaccine skepticism among Republican lawmakers.

KFF Health News reports on how America lost control on containing the bird flu that could set the stage for another pandemic. If we see another COVID-level or even Ebola-level pandemic, America will be in for a world of hurt, thanks to the rise of anti-public health sentiments.

See Also:

CNN: How America lost control of the bird flu, setting the stage for another pandemic

[floofyroro]

To Be Held

Pairing: Crosshair/Reader

Words: 682 (fic vignette)

Tags/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, semi-established relationship

Summary: In a quiet moment together, you inquire about Crosshair's scar.

A/N: Many drabbles sit untouched in my notes app. I'm getting tired of staring at my longer WIPs and I think I just need to share something at this point. Please accept these crumbs and let me know if this resonates with you. 🙏 Part 2 is here.

Your touch is feather-light against his temple. He allows his head to lay limply across your lap and despite how intimate it feels, he can’t find any reason to care. Not when your fingertips trail back and forth from his cheeks to his neck. When they reach his shoulders, you press into him, making quick work of any lingering tension.

“What’s the story behind this scar?” 

He goes rigid and you must notice because you pause your minstrations as a result. 

“I’m sorry.”

A pause. 

“I… we don’t have to talk about—“

“Bracca,” he interrupts you, causing you to quiet. 

“It happened on the planet Bracca while I was still serving the Empire.”

His voice feels hoarse from disuse. When your touch resumes, albeit with more hesitance, so does he.

“I was… targeting my brothers and Omega. But I was facing an ion engine when it ignited. I... couldn’t get away in time.” 

The breeze picks up once more, the curtains billowing in the background. Crosshair welcomes the salt-licked sensation that’s brought in by the wind, finding that it contrasts nicely against the rise of his own internal body temperature. 

His body seems to remember the moment far too well. Crosshair has to tamp down against the rising fear, the rising anxiety that threatens to overtake him. He feels it all creeping over his shoulders but this time…

This time, your touch is already there to combat these ghosts. It takes your lithe fingers, your dexterous thumbs to press into him and he finds that maybe he can move on from these moments, these ghosts. 

If only while by your side.

While you remain silent, he reassesses.  Perhaps with time, you’ll come to find that he isn’t worth the commitment, that his baggage is too daunting to carry. With each layer that he bares before you, he finds that his confidence in being vulnerable is challenged. Will continue to be challenged. He wonders that with time, it’ll ease.

You sigh. 

He waits, anticipating a form of rejection. He wonders if looking up into your eyes would reveal a look of disgust.

You don't give him much time to ponder further.

Your hair trickles against his nose before he registers that you’re leaning down to cradle his head to your chest. Soft hands support him, and the sound of your heartbeat thrums against his cheek, his temple. 

It’s a rather nice sound. 

“You have been through so much.” 

It takes him a moment too long to parse the meaning of your words. These aren’t words that should be directed towards him. No, not with the mountain of sin weighing heavily on his shoulders. 

Instead of accepting them, he focuses on your heartbeat, the sound a balm for these thoughts.

It’s a soft, lulling thing.

But your caress against his temple, his scar, is what brings him back to you. 

He doesn’t know what to say to that. He… 

His chest tightens because yes. He can admit that he has gone through enough. An arm snakes around you in his own attempt to return the embrace, the action surprising yet natural. 

You tighten your hold on him in response. 

“I’m sorry, Crosshair. But I’m so glad you’re here now,” and he opens his eyes to find that his gaze is clouded, his cheeks dampening as he tries to inhale steadily, “here, where you’re safe. Here, with me.”

There’s a crack in your voice and it causes his heart to stutter. He isn’t used to this. This.. feels too good to be true. Is he dreaming? The rational side of him berates such a thought because obviously he’s awake and he’s here, with you, with kind words directed towards him, their meaning a nectar which he feels drawn to, finding that he’s ravenous for more.

Instead of speaking, he uses his palm on your back to pull you closer, the pressure of your chest against him welcome and grounding. Without a second thought, his fingers brush against your spine, your shirt catching against the callouses on his hands.

He’s never been good with words anyway. 

Masterlist

[luveline]

Hi jade I have a hotch request! But u can do with any of the other boys too if you prefer! It's a bit personal but a few years ago someone kissed and then groped me without my consent and now I'm too anxious to kiss anyone even when it's someone I like :( would be willing to write a cute lil hotch comfort fic where may be he goes to kiss reader and she seizes up and just hotch being so patient but also angry on her behalf

Hotch sees you, and he gets this unshakeable happiness that starts in his hands and moves its way through him. He feels young, like he could take you dancing, or send you drinks from across the bar. 

You might accept them. You’re smiling at him from around the stem of a cherry, the corners of your eyes crushed together in a dark smudge of lashes. He waits a beat before taking the stem and pulling against your lips, where it snaps. This is hilarious to you —you giggle infectiously behind your hand, turning away from him and back again, almost like you’d wanted to do something and thought better of it. 

He’s doing that all the time lately. He wants to kiss you more than anything, feel the bubble of your laughter on his lips, and taste the sweetness of your drink where it lingers. Your mouth is stained black cherry as you swallow, and touch his arm in thanks. 

Now, he thinks to himself carefully, is the time. There’s no better time to kiss you than this. You’ve said yes to the date, teased him in the car about his being the nervous one, and you’re smiling at him with that slight sparkle of excitement. He assumes it to be an invitation, and it’s his mistake. 

Hotch takes your cheek into his hand, too focused on remembering how it feels to want to kiss someone to realise the look on your face until you’re turning into his hand. Not just turning, hiding, angling your shoulder away from him, and then pulling away from his hand completely. 

Hotch thinks, oh. Thinks, fuck. Thinks he should’ve asked first, because now you’re trembling, the most minute of shakes wracking your arm where it’s still on the bar, your fingers white wrapped around your glass. He caught you off guard. He’s missed something big. 

Hotch drops his hand from your face. For a moment, there’s a raw quiet between you, like you’re trying to decide who should talk first but neither is brave enough to actually decide. 

He knows this might be wrong again, but he touches your arm, resting his fingers flat and gentle against your skin. Slowly, he rubs a line over your skin and the fine hairs on your wrist. “What’s wrong?” he asks quietly. It can’t be about him. Hotch is confident in his ability to profile emotion even if he’s messed this up, so he knows it’s not necessarily him. You’re upset. “Are you okay?” 

“Fine.” 

“I’m sorry,” he apologises without reluctance. Even if your reaction isn’t purely from his action, it is him who spurred it on. 

You touch his wrist with your pinky finger. He doesn’t know if it’s purposeful or accidental. 

“Honey, are you alright? You’re shaking.” 

You don’t talk for a while. He can almost see you putting your words together, blushed lips parting before you speak. “A few months ago, this man I’d never met kissed me, and then he grabbed me. I mean, he groped me,” —you mumble the last part, eyes steadfast on his chest— “so I don’t think you’re gonna do that to me, but I get stressed out sometimes.” 

“You’re anxious it will happen again.” 

“It wasn’t fun.” 

“No, I wouldn’t think so.” 

He cares about you beyond wanting to kiss you, and hearing someone’s hurt you makes him furious, but it also makes him sorry. He has to tamp down the urge to hug you. He reminds himself to ask. 

“Honey, can I hug you?”

“Sorry, I’m being awkward,” you say. He shakes his head. You take a half step forward. “Please.” 

Hotch is careful to hug you kindly. No squeezing or rough hands, just a hug. “I’m sorry for trying to kiss you without asking. I thought you… I read the situation wrongly.” 

“No, Hotch, I did want you to kiss me. I still do.” You curl your hand at his side. “Sorry. I just need some warning.” 

“I can tell you days in advance,” he promises. 

“You aren’t mad?” 

“Of course not. Not at you… I don’t suppose you know the man who assaulted you?” 

You pull away from him ever so slightly, bringing your gaze to his face with a similar shade of tentativeness. “Does it matter?” 

“Only if you wanted me to do something about it,” he says. “But otherwise, no, it doesn’t matter. I’m sorry either way. You deserve to be treated with dignity and respect and it’s not fair that that happened to you.” 

“Kind of heavy for a first date,” you laugh. 

To his relief, it’s a real laugh. He thinks he might’ve said the right thing, and he’s glad for it, his arm still held carefully behind your back, the lights of the bar hot against his neck. This would’ve been an unfortunate time and place to have upset you worse, and to express his regret.

“I really am sorry. Let me know if there’s something I can do.” 

You lift up on your toes to kiss his cheek. “Thank you. I’d love another drink, if that’s okay.” 

He orders you another cherry vodka sour with extra cherries, and after a warm half an hour in which he tries to prove he can be trusted to treat you gently, you fold your arm behind his back.

[ultravioletbrit]

“museum” - Jegulus microfic - @into-the-jeggyverse - 542 words

 

Part 2 of “flawed” microfic for those that requested!!

“French food, crème brûlée, the museum, ice-cream, tapas and the stars.”  

James once again finds Regulus in the library and sits down across from him.

“What?” Regulus questions the random string of words.

“Those are the reasons you should let me take you on a date.” James says trying to sound confident.

“There’s not much info in that list, now is there?” Regulus tells him.

“Well, you didn’t let me explain, now did you?” James fires back but immediately recoils when Regulus shoots him a glare. 

James is silent for a long moment, so Regulus prompts him to continue.

“So…?”

“Oh, right, so, I thought we could start with lunch at that fancy new French restaurant. And I know lunch may not seem as good as dinner, but I know you like to have a bigger meal for lunch and something smaller for dinner. And you love French food, but only when it’s really good, and based on my research this place is already getting rave reviews. And I hear the crème brûlée is to die for and that’s your favorite dessert.”

Regulus hums, doing his best to look uninterested while trying to keep his heart from beating right out of his chest. James did research? On things he knows Regulus likes? He tamps down a smile and urges James to continue.

“After lunch, I thought we could go to the art museum. And I know you’re a member and have been there countless times. But I also know you like to show people your favorite paintings and exhibits. And I love how passionate you get about the things you like, and I want to learn and listen and be able to appreciate the art like you do. And that will probably take more than one day, so I’m also trying to ensure more dates in the future. Plus, you have a beautiful voice that I could listen to for hours… Okay, the museum is starting to sound like it’s more for me, but I swear it’s for you.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow with what he hopes is a blank stare. He would go to that museum everyday if he could. And James wants to go with him? And learn about his passions? And listen to him talk endlessly about art? Regulus is trying very hard not to swoon.    

“After the museum, it’ll depend what time it is, I thought maybe we could get ice-cream and walk around town a bit. Or if it’s late enough, there’s this really amazing tapas place that I think would be perfect for dinner. Amazing food, but not too much. Then I’d love to walk you home through the park so we can look at the stars.”

James finishes and Regulus just stares at him. He’s not sure what would come out if he opens his mouth, but it would most certainly be undignified, so he remains silent.

“That’s it… That’s the date… or, well, the reasons I think you’d like to go on a date with me.” James says nervously.

Regulus says nothing, just packs up his books and stands to leave, stopping beside James on his way out.

“I’ll think about it.” And try as he might, he wasn’t able to hide his smile from James any longer. 

[deadlynavigation]

Pretty & Pink

Warnings: swearing

Author’s Note: request from @cecebabs !! school has been kicking my ass lately so just bear with me yall 🥲

Navigation

**gif is not meant to be a representation of what reader looks like**

Opposites attract—or at least, that’s what they said. Wednesday had never put any stock into the saying until he met you.

You were a bright little thing, full of happiness and hope and all the other disgusting emotions. But Wednesday endured, because at the end of the day, you held his heart in your manicured hand.

Every once in a while, though, he’ll question what he’s doing. Like tonight, for instance. It had been a long day. The errands that had been piling up over the week were finally accomplished a few hours ago, and it was exhausting. So exhausting that all he wanted to do was collapse in the nearest bed, no matter the owner or location. And since you didn’t want your partner to end up in some alleyway mattress, you dragged him over to your apartment, where he was currently camped out on your bed.

“You doing okay in there, sweetie?” You call to him from your bathroom, hands dripping with water as you rinse your cleanser off.

“Yes, my love. Are you done yet?” Wednesday calls back. He knows his question is in vain, though. Your skincare routine is a long ordeal, and you’ve only just started.

He hears your soft laughter float through the air. “I’ll be right out.” You respond, picking up a serum.

Wednesday decides he can’t wait, heading into the bathroom and settling behind where you stand. You greet him with a smile, picking up the next step of your routine to show to him.

“It’s a new moisturizer I got today,” You explain. “It’s supposed to be good for dry skin, and with all the nasty weather lately…”

Wednesday doesn’t hear the rest of your rant, focusing instead on those pretty eyes of yours. Oh, how he longs to drown in them. To sink into their depths, seeing the world from your hopeful view. Unpacking all your thoughts, understanding and empathizing.

Listen to him. He’s practically a puddle of mush. What have you done to him?

“...Wednesday, baby?” You tilt your head as Wednesday snaps back into reality. “Were you even listening?”

He takes one more second to stare at you before sheepishly shaking his head. “Deepest apologies, cara mia. There are simply too many pretty parts to you, I cannot focus on every one of them at once.”

You giggle, a blush tinting your cheeks. “Maybe I should turn away, then. Stop distracting you with my wiles.”

Wednesday smirks. “Turning away from me would entice me even more, Y/n. You really want to play that game?”

“Oh my god. Ok, I’m not facing you anymore. You’ve lost that privilege.” Your cheeks are on fire now, and if you maintain eye contact any longer, you’re worried you might burst into flames. True to your word, you pivot to face the mirror. Then, using your arms, you hop up onto the counter, climbing into the sink for an optimal view.

Wednesday nearly has a heart attack as you jump. His hands fall into place, ready to catch you or save your head from a nasty bang should your acrobatics go wrong, but once you’re in place, he sighs loudly.

“Must you do that, my love?” His seriousness is ruined by a smile creeping onto his face.

“Sorry, can’t hear you. This moisturizer requires my full attention.” It’s hard tamping down your own smile, but the teasing seems to be worth it as Wednesday’s stare darkens.

“The moisturizer gets your attention, hm? That’s a dangerous game, cara mia.”

You don’t respond, instead dipping your finger into the container and dotting it on your cheeks.

“Come down from that sink so we can see who really has your attention right now.” Wednesday taunts you. After a couple seconds, you give in, closing up the product and carefully setting it down before jumping back down onto the floor. Within seconds, Wednesday takes a step and sits on the edge of the bathtub, grabbing your hands and gently tugging you along at the same time. Before you know it, you’re sat on his lap, a smirk on his face and a shocked look on yours.

“Attention still on skincare, love?” Wednesday teases.

You give up on the facade. “No,” You breathe, leaning in. “But what if I share my attention with it?”

Wednesday’s eyebrows furrow as you get up, reaching into the bottom drawer of the counter and coming back to him with a small package. You sit back down, ripping it open and tossing the top in the trash.

“Want a face mask?” You ask.

“Is that one of those grotesque concoctions that spreads all over your face? The one that looks like a death mask?” Wednesday questions, but you’re already reaching into the package.

“Exactly, baby. Want one?”

“...Sure.” What’s the worst that could happen?

Twenty minutes later, and Wednesday is set up on your bed with no intention of moving. A green substance covers the majority of his face, making him question why he doesn’t let you do this more often. He feels more relaxed than he has in weeks, settled in amongst your many pink throw pillows and cherry blossom sheets. You’re settled in too, resting your head on his chest while trying to sync your breaths with the steady thumps of his heart. Your manicured fingers etch random shapes into his skin, tracing the hard lines of muscle and adding a heart or two every so often.

Eventually, though, the both of you become restless.

‘Wanna start a movie?” Wednesday asks, looking down at your comfy self with adoration.

You look up, meeting his eyes with the same love. “Can I choose?”

“Of course, Y/n. Anything for you.”

An hour later, and Wednesday is ready to commit homicide. Of all the movies you could have picked, you went with Mean Girls. Your defense? “It’s the feminist movement at its finest, Wednesday.”

“It’s… very pink.”

“Yeah, that’s the best part! All the decorations and outfits are amazing. They were actually part of what inspired this room’s decor.”

Wednesday looks around at the brightly colored walls, the pastel curtains, the cute pillows, and even the pink pens scattered across your desk. “I never would’ve guessed, my love.”

You stick your tongue out at him. “You’re just jealous.”

Wednesday chuckles. “Yes, very.” He agrees sarcastically. You don’t dignify him with a response, instead choosing to lay back down on his chest and go back to watching the movie. You don’t get to stay there for very long, though, because a minute later, the timer on your phone goes off.

“Mkay. Time to take this off, babe.” You poke his face mask. Wednesday rises without complaint, heading to the bathroom while you grab some water and a cloth. Internally, though, he’s begging you not to. It feels so nice, and having you apply it was one of the best feelings in the world.

As you start working through the layers of the mask with water and a gentle hand, though, Wednesday revises his thoughts—never mind the application. This was the best feeling in the world.

As you work, Wednesday leans into your hands. He would have fallen asleep if it weren’t for your whispered promises of comfy beds and pillows and cuddles.

*****

The next morning, Wednesday gets up much earlier than usual. The sun is just barely up, peeking through your pastel curtains and coating the bed in a buttery yellow. You’re burrowed into his arms, tucked safely into his chest with the messy blankets surrounding you. He takes a minute to absorb your cuteness, smiling down at you as he slowly wakes up.

“Good morning, Y/n.” He whispers, not yet wanting to wake you. You’ve reminded him time and time again that the blinking digits on the clock right now are not digits you ever want to be awake to see, and he’s taken that to heart. But he still has to kill time until you wake–maybe a run? He could drop by the gym just down the street that he really likes. Or maybe a chore? The dishwasher still needs to be unloaded.

But those all sound like too much work for this early in the day, so Wednesday settles on just getting you a coffee. A nice five-minute walk and your drowsy smile to greet him when he gets back. Perfect.

Within minutes, Wednesday is up and out. He strolls down the street, taking his time to enjoy the soft sunlight. That’s new, he suddenly realizes–and probably your doing, as well. You’re a fan of tilting your face to the sun, soaking in the warmth, and claiming the rays cheer you up. Maybe you’ve passed that onto him.

A couple more minutes tick by, and Wednesday reaches your regular coffee shop. He enters the place with a little jingle as the door opens, and is immediately greeted with the scent of dark coffee and light chatter.

“What can I get for you this morning, sir?” A too-happy employee asks him as he walks up to the counter.

Damn, what was that drink you really liked? Something with pink in it, he’s sure of it.

“Just two medium coffees, one black and one with that pink flavor, please.” Manners with normies–that’s another thing you’ve unknowingly reinforced with him.

“Our pink velvet flavoring?” That sounds right.

“Yes, that’s it. Thanks.” Wednesday pulls out his card, handing it to the guy.

“Awesome. Name?”

“Addams.”

“We’ll have those coffees right out for you, sir.”

“Brilliant.” With that, Wednesday finds an isolated corner to haunt until his name is called, quickly grabbing the coffees and exiting the building. It’s an even quicker walk back with the warm drinks providing some heat on this chilly morning.

It’s a bit of a struggle, but Wednesday manages to buzz into the building, climb the stairs to your apartment, and work the keys until your door clicks open, all with his hands full. He’s greeted with the sight of you half-asleep on the couch, the news playing softly in the background.

“What are you doing up, love?” He questions, setting the coffees down on the coffee table and kneeling on the floor.

“Wanted to see you,” you mumble, grabbing for his hand and interlocking it with yours. “Was cold in the bed without you.”

Wednesday practically melts. How can one girl be so sweet and caring? So happy?

“I’m sorry, my love. But look, I got you that coffee you like to make up for it.” He gestures to the beverages with his free hand before resting it on your head. He goes about stroking your hair, lulling you back into a dreamlike state.

“Don’t do that, I’ll fall back asleep,” you bat at his hand, trying to get it out of your hair. You were up to see him, not to fall asleep on him.

“And I will still be here when you wake up, cara mia. Go back to sleep. You’re safe here. I love you.”

[dean-winchester-is-a-warrior]

Every Fucking Time

Summary: You want to help Dean, but he knows you can't.

Warnings/Explicit 18+: Lots of angst! Smut! Unprotected PinV sex. Slightly rough sex. Dean being an asshole. Dean being a broken boy. Hurt/comfort.

Pairings: Dean x Reader (You)

Word Count: 2,737

A/N: So, I just rewatched 13x18, Bring 'Em Back Alive, and the scene at the end never fails to break my heart. I just wanna make Dean feel better! 😫 But it got me thinking about how unlikely Dean would be to accept that help, and how his anger might manifest. Anyway, this is what spilled out of my brain as a result.

A/N 2: The title is a reference to Dean's line, "Every time we get close, it all falls apart. Every frickin' time." I have changed it to the non-network TV version because we all KNOW that's actually what Dean said.

You just wanted to help. You needed to help. You needed to make it better for him. 

Dean had slipped back home through the rift barely an hour earlier, talking about the apocalypse world Charlie and how he'd left her and Ketch behind, promising he would come back with reinforcements.

Then you, Cas and Sam had given him the bad news; no one could go back, you couldn’t send reinforcements. Gabriel was gone, taking all his archangel grace with him.

“So if it’s gone, then that means that we can’t open that door again. If we can’t open the door, then I shoulda never come back!” He'd shouted.

He'd tried to tamp down the rage and anger that simmered just behind his forced calm. Nevertheless, it exploded out of him making you all jump.

“Son of a bitch!” He'd screamed, sending books and papers crashing to the ground as he swept them from the table. “Every time!”

You could feel his frustration and pain like it was your own as his voice dropped, defeated and broken for the millionth time. “Every time we get close, it always falls apart…every fuckin’ time.”

When he walked away, looking as though the weight of the world was once again on his shoulders, you’d tried to follow after him, but Sam had grabbed your arm gently, holding you back.

“Leave him for now, Y/N. He needs time.”

You should have listened to Sam, but you could feel Dean’s pain like a lance in your side and you were desperate to heal him. So less than an hour later, you went looking for him. But he wasn’t in his room, or the Dean cave. The kitchen was empty and so was the garage. 

You finally found him in the infirmary. He was sitting on one of the beds, sewing together a nasty looking bullet wound.

“Dean!” You called out worriedly as you rushed down the steps. He glanced up at you but then went back to stitching himself up. “Why didn’t you tell us you’d been shot?” You reprimanded him.

He shrugged his unwounded shoulder. “No big deal. Ketch patched me up on the go, just didn’t have time to sew it up properly.”

You watched him silently for a moment, wincing every time the needle pierced his inflamed skin. He’d taken his shirt off so he could tend to his wound, and you couldn’t help but take an inventory of his other numerous scars. Jagged knife cuts, more round bullet holes, and a few waxy looking old burns, all marred his otherwise perfect, lightly freckled torso.

Some of the scars were very faded, barely noticeable, while others were newer; some of them were still red and angry looking. They were a patchwork of pain - a tapestry of more than thirty-five years of hunting, fighting, falling, getting up, and fighting again. 

It made you exhausted just to see it; it made your bones ache.

You stepped a little closer to him, but he kept you at arm’s length with an aura of silent, repressed anger that you could practically see pulsing off of him.

You wanted to help him so badly.

“Dean, I’m so sorry.”

He shook his head, not looking up from his work. “No, let’s not. I don’t wanna talk about it.”

You let out a small sigh. Of course you don’t. You thought with a flash of frustration.

You were quiet another minute as he finished the last few stitches. Then you smiled a little, trying a different tactic. “So, there was a Charlie over there? That’s amazing. What was she like? Was she the same as our Charlie?”

Dean didn’t answer right away. He snipped the thread he was using and tossed the small silver scissors back into the first aid kit he had open on the bed beside him. He took some rubbing alcohol and poured it onto a gauze pad, holding it to his wound and sucking in a breath through gritted teeth before answering.

“Yeah sure, she was like our Charlie.” His voice was a growl of pain. “She was a badass, determined to fight injustice, sticking up for her friends, risking her life for them. And yeah, just like our Charlie, I left her on her own to be butchered.”

Tears pricked your eyes. “Dean that’s not true…you didn’t-”

“Seriously, Y/N. Just fucking don’t.”

You were silenced again, watching him clean up and toss the bloody bandages into the trash as he stood up from the bed. He reached for his flannel and tried to put it on, slightly hampered by his newly bandaged shoulder. You stepped forward to help him with it, and when it was on, but still unbuttoned, you slid your hands inside, down over his ribs.

You kissed his chest gently, and felt him twitch slightly. 

“Y/N.” He said quietly and you could hear the warning in his tone. 

You knew he was in a bad place, and the two of you had only recently begun to move your relationship out of friendship and into something more, so sex was still new between you. But you felt the overwhelming, screaming need to help him, to hold him close and let him feel your love shine through. You’d been in love with him for a long time, but you’d never told him. You suspected he didn’t love you back, though you hoped he might someday.

For now, though, you’d settle for being a soft place to land, if he’d just let you.

“Dean.” You said softly, kissing his chest again. “Let me help you.”

He pushed you back and turned away. “I don’t need help.”

You persisted, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind. “We all need help from time to time, Dean.”

“Y/N!” He said again, louder this time, his earlier anger resurfacing. “I told you, I’m fine. Just drop it.”

But you couldn’t. You wanted to help him, whether he accepted it or not.

You moved around him, so you stood in front of him again. “Dean, you’re not fine. I just wanna help you.”

Dean scoffed. “Well you can’t fucking help me, Y/N. You can’t make it better.”

“I could try.” You cupped his cheek, but he pulled it out of your grasp, turning his head. You stood on tiptoe to try and kiss him. “Let me try, Dean. Let me try to help you.”

Dean grabbed your wrists from around his neck, glaring down at you, eyes blazing. “You fucking can’t, do you not hear me? You can’t help me, no one can help me! Because all I do is fuck up; all I do is leave my friends and family to die. And fucking you isn’t gonna change that; unless you have some kind of magical cunt that can open portals to another dimension, you can’t fucking help me!”

You felt your stomach drop, and an immediate ache started, high in your gut, clenching your insides and making you feel short of breath. You stepped back from Dean and swallowed convulsively, trying not to let go of the tears that clogged your throat. But it was a losing battle and they were soon coursing down your cheeks.

You nodded slightly. “K, yeah.” You didn’t know what else to say, turning away just as remorse began dawning in Dean’s emerald eyes. “Sam was right…I shouldn’t have come.”

You took off, bounding up the stairs as Dean called out to you. You ignored him, desperate to get away before you collapsed completely. 

You heard Dean following you, chasing you down the bunker hallway and you sprinted away. You got to your room just in time to slam the door and lock it just as Dean skidded to a halt outside.

He banged on the door, but you just moved over to your desk, dropping into the chair and swiping at your tears over and over, unable to make them stop.

“Y/N, come on! Open the door. Look, I didn’t mean that, okay? I just...just let me in.” He banged again. When you wouldn’t open it, he just kept banging. Finally he yelled at you through the wood.  “You know, I can just break down the fucking door! Let me in!”

He slammed his hammer like fist against the door again, rattling it in its frame. You jumped up and ripped open the door just as he was about to start pounding again. So his fist was raised and his features were twisted in a snarl as you looked up at him. But you were calm, even though tears still leaked from your eyes.

“Enough.” You said quietly. “Look, I shouldn’t have kept bugging you, you made it very clear you didn’t want me there and that I couldn’t be of any help. So, it’s fine. I’ll leave you alone now, and you can please stop raging at me and trying to smash down my door.”

You swallowed tightly and then nodded at him. “Goodnight.”

You closed your door softly and walked back to slump onto the end of your bed. You dashed your tears away as quickly as they fell, trying to dash away Dean’s angry words too, but failing miserably. 

After nearly half an hour your tears finally dried up and you decided to get ready for bed, sadness and hurt making you slow and sluggish. As you pulled your big sleep shirt on over your head, however, a noise caught your attention just outside your door. 

You walked softly to the door in your bare feet, cracking it open an inch to look out into the hallway. What you saw made brand new tears cloud your vision.

Dean was sitting across from your door, his back against the wall. His knees were bent slightly with his elbows resting there and his feet planted on the floor. His eyes were shut, his head leaning back against the wall with tears streaming silently down his cheeks. Or almost silently. As you watched, his face spasmed with pain and his breath seemed to catch in his throat, making the muffled sound you’d heard; it sounded like his pain was choking him.

You opened the door wider and Dean sensed you, his eyes springing open. At first it seemed like he might bolt, but then he shook his head as he stared at you. “Baby, I’m so sorry.” His voice was a harsh whisper. “I swear to god, I didn’t mean to hurt you like that. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me.”

He thumped his head back against the wall twice. “I just break things. Everything.” He punctuated the word by slamming his elbow back into the wall as well, hard enough that you were worried he’d break the bone.

You hurried forward to kneel on the floor in front of him, squeezing in between his knees. You pulled his hands into yours as you tried to reassure him. “Dean, that isn’t true. You don’t break everything; you fix things, save things. It’s in your DNA to try to right all the wrongs in the world, but sometimes you just can’t.”

He stared at you intently and once again you found yourself desperate to try to ease the bottomless ache you could see in his mossy green eyes.

His voice was barely a whisper as he reached out to run his thumb across your cheekbone. “Did I break us?”

You took a deep breath. “Your words hurt me.” He closed his eyes and nodded. “But…”

You were quiet a moment before deciding it was worth taking a chance, so you just said it. “But I love you, and my love doesn’t break that easily, even if my heart does.”

You took his hand from your cheek and held it against your chest, over your heart. “Not ever. No matter what the future holds, my love is unbreakable, even when you try to smash it to pieces with both hands.”

Dean’s expression was closed off, and you couldn’t see through it to his thoughts. After a moment he shook his head. “Don’t love me, sweetheart. I can’t…I can’t protect you if you love me. Something will come and take you from me - use you to hurt me somehow.” He closed his eyes again and repeated his words from earlier in the evening. 

“Every time I get close, it always falls apart.” He opened his eyes slowly and stared intently into your soul. “Every fucking time.”

He gazed at you for a long time, and you let him, hoping he could see that you weren't afraid to love him, and you weren't going to be scared away.

Suddenly he reached out to yank you into his lap and slam his mouth down on yours. You gasped into the kiss and then whimpered as he clutched you tight to him.

He pulled away from you, breathing harshly. “Am I forgiven? Because I was such a liar. I do need you.” He dipped his head to nip at your pulse point and flick his tongue against your salty skin. “I need you so fucking bad.”

You nodded, flushed and aching for his touch. “You’re forgiven.”

He crushed your lips with his once again, standing up without letting you out of his arms. He pushed you backwards through your bedroom door and closed it with a soft click, as he yanked your t-shirt off over your head, getting you naked in one quick motion.

You pushed his open flannel down his arms, being careful not to aggravate his newest injury. You fumbled with the button on his jeans for a moment, hands trembling, as he palmed your breast and squeezed, pressing his hard, blunt fingertips into your yielding flesh.

You threw your head back as he pulled your nipple into his mouth and bit it gently. You sank your hands into his short hair, tugging sharply and moaning loudly. He pulled away, just far enough that he could spin you around to face the wall. With a hand against your upper back, he bent you over slightly and lifted your arms, so that you braced them against the brick.

Then he raised your right leg, wrapping his forearm over top of it and spreading you open. You felt the knuckles of his other hand brush over your dripping wet core as he unbuttoned his jeans. Seconds later, you felt his tip pressing against your entrance and then you let out a scream of pleasure as he slammed into you hard and fast.

As he fucked up into you, he pulled you open even wider, reaching down with his free hand to rub circles into your clit with his calloused fingertips.

Eventually he dropped your leg, and pushed your feet apart while he pulled your hips back towards him. He never faltered or slowed his pace, just manhandling you into the positions he wanted.

You were bent at a ninety degree angle now, hands still braced against the wall, with your head hanging between them as Dean continued to pound into you so deep that he was almost lifting you off the floor with each thrust. 

He clamped his hand on the back of your neck, using it as leverage to piston his hips forward like a jackhammer. He tilted your pelvis forward slightly and suddenly he was perfectly, relentlessly hitting your g-spot over and over until you were screaming out his name and crashing into a hard wall of pleasure. You shook with your climax, but Dean didn’t stop, riding you through your first orgasm and into several more.

Your throat was hoarse from shouts of pleasure before Dean finally cursed loudly, shouting your name and surging into your body. With one last driving push,  you could feel him spurting into you hot and thick. He rocked his body against yours a few more times as his cock continued to twitch inside you.

Finally he stilled, both of you breathing harshly now, bodies slick with sweat. He laid his chest against your back, his arm still wrapped around your waist, keeping you close, keeping himself locked inside your slick warmth.

“Y/N.” You could hear the thick emotions even in his soft whisper. “You know, you save me. Every time I think I can’t recover, every time I think I won’t get back up. You make me think I can. You tell me I will.” 

He paused and his voice was velvety and warm as he breathed out across your skin. “You save me.” He kissed your shoulder gently. “Every fucking time.”

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