#it uses up one of your daily attempts EVEN IF YOU FAIL

[crehador]

this last quest on the last start dash board i have is so deeply fucked because it requires you to clear 15 NEW quest missions and i already

cleared most except the hella hard ones before the last board unlocked 😔

[ittybittyfanblog]

Only You, Darling (Only You, Babe)

Summary: There were orders for your abduction. You were made to be the bait by a rival gang to get to the elusive head of Onychinus. Sylus doesn’t take it too well. Word Count: 4.8k Tags: mc x sylus, fem!reader x sylus (use of she/her pronouns), depictions of violence (it gets a little graphic), reader gets abducted and injured, strong language, protective!sylus, he’s a little unhinged here, self-indulgent! A/N: I can’t believe this game pulled me out of a three-year creative rut LMAO. I’ve been doing fanarts, now I’m writing again?? The power these pixelated men hold over me, man.  Anyway, enjoy!  This version of Sylus is probably a little OOC idk idk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

It was close to midnight, and you're being followed.

On your six, a stocky man in an unassuming dark suit has been tailing you since you left the dingy bodega a little over a mile away from your apartment for about, three? five minutes– no, maybe even longer.

Shit, you mouth silently. Sloppy. You should’ve noticed him sooner, and the two other lackeys now closing in from up ahead. They’re armed too, if the hands hidden inside their jackets were any indication.

As if things aren't looking bad enough, you’ve decided tonight would be the perfect night to go weaponless, deciding against bringing your handgun with you since it was supposed to just be a quick run to the store for supplies. Namely, the late-night cravings sort of supply.

You clutch the wrinkled paper bag containing your coveted jalapeño Cheetos tightly.

This is what greed does to you, a mocking voice echoes in your head. Since when did your inner voice of reason sound masculine and oh-so-familiar? 

Exhaling quietly, you try to calm the rising beat of your heart and appear to be clueless of your surroundings. Walk at a normal pace. Look unaware of the men with the intention to… What even was this? An ambush? Good, old, regular robbery? No, it doesn’t seem like they were in it for something that insignificant. They wouldn’t even bother to be this cautious if it were. 

But then, what were they here for? The dangers you were more familiar with are of the monstrous kind in the literal sense of the word; entities that you face on a daily basis as a Deepspace hunter. Not the regular threats posed by mankind – which in this particular situation, suddenly feels more foreboding.

While racking your brain for ideas on how to slip away from their sight without escalating the situation, you fail to notice a fourth person hidden behind the dumpster inside the narrow alleyway on your left until you feel the cold, hard edge of a pistol gun hit your temple.  

With a shout, your hand shoots up in an attempt to yank the gun away from the hand holding it but the sudden burst of pain from the impact has left you feeling dizzy and off-kilter. The moment you throw your fists up to block your face, heavy fists strike you directly in a flurry of hits, colliding with your forearm and your unguarded ribs.

You let out a pained grunt as you stagger backwards, trying your hardest to keep yourself from falling back on your ass and ward off the next incoming attack. 

A sinister laugh alerts you of the others, now surrounding you in a circle. Shit!

You hastily shift your legs into a crouching position, bracing yourself as you attempt to sidestep the one in front of you before making a run for it. You spring into action, but before you can even take another step, an arm shoots out and coils tightly around your neck like a noose. A cloth that reeks of something distinct is slapped over your mouth and nose, rendering you unable to do anything but struggle. 

“Now, now– the boss wants her in one piece, John,” The stocky man, who’s apparently larger and more jacked up-close, pipes up. John tightens the limb circling your throat, preventing you from breathing, before slightly loosening his grip. 

 “I’d advise you from struggling too much, sweetheart. But if you insist on making this harder for yourself,” the man talking suddenly grins, revealing rows of crooked, silver teeth. “He ain’t said nothin’ about a couple of bruises.” 

You give him your dirtiest glare, trying to pull away from the death grip the burly man called John had on you, but you feel your muscles slowly becoming heavier and your vision starting to blur. 

Ch-chloroform?

You make a muffled shout, a scurry that earns you a heavy hit on the stomach, one last futile move to free yourself, but the inevitable effect of the potent substance starts to overpower you. 

“After all, we need to make sure that the big bad boss of Onychinus actually comes for his bitch, don’t we?”

Rendered completely useless, the men start to make quick work to restrain your arms and legs in a hogtie before carrying you down the street, to a shaded corner where a large, gray van is parked.

The barn doors open, and you’re tossed in carelessly to the back, landing painfully on the cold, hard floor. An involuntary whimper escapes your lips, feeling like one big bruise; splotches of red and blue start to form like a violent watercolor on your skin. 

The engine revs. Before completely losing consciousness, you think you hear a faint caw.

The car drives off the beaten path, into the night, leaving not a trace of evidence of what transpired mere minutes ago aside from a discarded brown paper bag and a deflated bag of chips. 

-

-

-

From a distance, flying towards the hazy skyline, a mechanical bird crows a bad omen. 

_____

In the dead of the night, the head of Onychinus sits as a spectator; a towering presence at the head of a table inside a private room, obscured in plain sight, in an unremarkable establishment far east of Linkon City. 

Unassuming as it may be, the room’s occupants are men of great renown, both in influence and notoriety. The CEO of a chain business in Azure Square, a regional manager of a well-known bank in Linkon, the head of a weapons trade representing a faction in the N109 zone… All held significant power, all held ulterior motives.

A meeting of minds; the type held only in the secrecy of the night, gone in the break of dawn. 

Sylus has half the mind to listen in on the droning exchange of fake pleasantries and plastic smiles as the men deal trades in nature that of weapons and favors. A number of hungry, beady eyes cast him furtive glances, fearful yet devout. Some cautious in the hope of earning his approval. 

“–the package will be en route to the agreed-upon address by the end of the week,” a stout man in spectacles finishes off, clearing his throat. Beads of sweat start to form at the back of his neck as red eyes bore into his, assessing. Deliberating. “O-or if Richard’s able to give me the go-ahead in advance, I’ll make sure it arrives by Friday,” a gulp–then, “sir.” 

All in reverence. 

He hums, his switchblade dancing idly in his hand, deliberately stretching the tension that hangs heavy in the air. He delights in this power to unsettle, savoring the authority that his mere presence commands—a demand for absolute deference. 

“Make it half that time, will you, Raymond?” Sylus responds amicably, not as a question. The man, Raymond, sputters. 

“That won’t be pos–” Sylus tilts his head, eyes shifting into something more dangerous. “Please, I’ll try to cut the time shorter but there won’t be any assurances.” 

The pale-haired man sighs in acquiescence. “I guess that will have to do.” Raymond lets out an exhale of relief, but catches his breath as Sylus continues, “Any later than Wednesday, and I’ll come to claim it personally.” 

Raymond, more nerves than man, starts to blabber something in response–but stops when something black suddenly appears in a blaze of dark energy, near the shoulder of the intimidating man he’s trying to appeal to. 

Sylus raises a hand, and a large crow lands on his pointer finger. 

He caws, once. Twice. And shows a projection. 

The inhospitably cold room suddenly went glacial. 

All conversation halts to a stop as an overwhelmingly suffocating aura starts to emanate from the man–no, the being at the head of the table, making all that are in the vicinity freeze in fear. 

The devil posing as the leader of Onychinus abruptly stands up, and Raymond thinks, Oh I’m going to die here.

Without a word, the man disappears in a Stygian haze.

_

Five minutes later, only after they felt like death was no longer looming over their heads, did anyone dare to move a muscle.

_____

Your head hurts, and your mouth tastes of rust. 

Having been awake for longer than your captors were aware of – two (?) of which bickering near a barred slate of metal that you assume is the door after taking a quick peek from beneath the mess of hair concealing your face – you try to get your bearings together without arousing the suspicion of your present audience. 

“–bet it’s gonna take a while ‘fore that guy arrives. You think she’s enough to get him to show his face?” 

“Damned if I know. In any case, we got a pretty, li’l plaything on our hands,” a snort. “Make her worth the effort.” 

Where were you? From what it looks like, you’ve been transported into a nondescript underground bunker of sorts, dank with a hint of mildew and rot in the air; a rumbling air vent on your left masking any noise that escaped your mouth when you woke up. The area is poorly lit, save for the flickering bulb hanging precariously above your head as your main source of light – good for casting shadows to hide your bruised face, bad for the pounding headache you’re pretty sure is a concussion. And with your back seemingly close to a wall, you arrive at the conclusion that there are no other entryways, no way to leave, but the guarded door in front of you. 

In short, you have no idea where you are. 

Fuck–this is bad, you swear to yourself internally, trying to control the rising panic swelling up your chest. You never thought your nightcap would lead to this mess. Nobody knows about your current predicament, and it’ll take more than a day before your absence raises any alarms, so right now, you’re on your own. 

Think, think! What can you do?

What can you do? You have nothing on you, nothing you can use as a makeshift weapon to defend yourself with, and your hands are tightly bound behind your back by a thick, heavily twined rope with no give. The situation is slowly turning bleaker by the second, and it isn’t even your fault that you’re here in the first place! You were made a pawn, a mere bait in this messed-up dick-measuring contest between a crazy, sadistic, self-proclaimed head honcho and Onychinus’s own crazy, sadistic–

Wait a minute. Sylus. 

You send a strong prayer to anyone above that’s listening, and an angry telepathic shout for good measure to the one who’s unaware of his involvement – but nonetheless the source of your ruined night – in this attempt at kidnapping a perfectly law-abiding citizen of Linkon.

Sylus, as much as I hate your unfortunate tendency to stalk me through means that, honestly? Eludes the hell out of me, I really, REALLY hope that you’ve been keeping tabs toni–

“Hey, boss! I think this one’s awake!”

Fuck. No use pretending anymore. 

You hear heavy footsteps from outside the room before the corroded metal door swings open to reveal a large man, easily standing above six feet, sporting a neatly trimmed beard and an unsettling smile. His arms are covered in tattoos– overlapping, almost undecipherable. A gnarly scar runs from the side of his mouth to just above his brow bone; his right eye a cloudy gray, most likely a morbid souvenir from the sustained injury.

His functional eye zeroes in on your pitiful form, and his smile widens into a hostile grin. 

“Well, well. It seems like our esteemed guest is finally ready to join in the fun,” His voice sounds like gravel, with a mocking intonation. “I hope my men weren't too rough with you on the way here.” 

You let out a breath through your teeth, blinking a few times to try and rid the blurring in your vision. You have to bide your time– “Why am I here? What do you want from me?” 

The man cocks his head to the side, smile still in place. “I assume you already know. But I’ll indulge you your little questions, why not?”

He crosses the space separating the two of you with just a few, languid steps before he’s in front of you. He leans forward, brushing the messy locks of hair – dried with blood – away from your face in a deceptively calm manner. “The devil needs to pay his dues, but it’s been rather difficult to get a hold of him, you see,” he sighs in exaggerated disappointment. ”I intend to collect, so I waited patiently for the right moment, for an opening. For an opportunity. 

And here, the opportunity presents herself.” 

You sneer, moving your head back to let your hair fall from his creepy hold. “I’ve no clue what you’re talking about, mister, but I’m pretty sure you’ve got the wrong idea.”

He barks out a laugh before gripping your chin tightly between his fingers. “You’ve got a smart mouth on you. Maybe we can find a better use for it.” 

You feel it before you hear it. 

“Perhaps not.” 

Something vicious saturates the air, something intense and terrifying and wrong. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and some sort of primordial response deep within your brain is telling you to get away from it.

But then, the paralyzing fear melts away to something akin to hope when you realize the source of this new disturbance.

Relief washes over you when familiar ink-and-red tendrils materialize behind the man in front of you. The dark wisps dissipate like smoke as soon as it comes and in place, your savior – sporting an expression that could only be described as downright murderous – stands before you, all six feet of unadulterated rage.

Several things happened so fast, it was almost simultaneous.

A cacophony of shouts came loudest from the two men who had been on guard duty but screams also echoed from outside the room. You saw flashes of red, twin laughter, and blood spurting from the necks of the now headless guards, and then a symphony of bullets and a lot of things breaking rang across the room. 

Suddenly— 

Deafening silence. As if something has put an abrupt stop to the noise. 

Amidst all the chaos, the scarred man in front of you had no time to make a move before savage whips of crackling energy engulfed him, leaving only his head free from the smothering darkness. 

His expression betrays something wild and manic as he tries twisting around to look at the figure behind him. “You—”

Sylus pays no mind to the breathing, dead fool—lower than dirt on his feet, with the nerve to harm what is most precious to him—as he keeps his gaze solely on you; his eyes darting up and down as if taking inventory of all the bruises and scrapes you sustained from the abduction. 

You meet his eyes. “You came.” 

An indecipherable look passes his face, gone as quickly as it came. “A little too late. I apologize.” 

You weakly huff out a chuckle, wanting to shake your head but decide against it lest it aggravates your concussion. A prickling sensation, then the rope around your wrists falls off with a quiet thud. 

“Luke. Kieran.” 

“Everything’s all accounted for, boss,” Kieran announces, suddenly appearing beside your right, along with Luke who’s on your left. Both look no worse for wear.

 The latter gives you a sympathetic look. “Oh, man. They got you good, little crow.” 

“Caught me off-guard, s’all,” you insist half-heartedly. 

A sigh. “Transport her directly back to base. Attend to her critical injuries once you arrive, and keep her awake. I’ll handle the rest once I get back,” Sylus instructs the twins in a tone that brooks no argument.

They nod in sync and start making a move to carry you out, but you protest.

“Wait, you’re staying behind?” For some reason, the thought of being separated from him, even for a short amount of time, makes you feel ill. Well, worse than your current state at least. 

Sanguine eyes soften when he hears the tremble in your voice. The offending man in front of you, reduced into something less threatening than a cowering dog in comparison to your rescuer, is forcibly pushed aside to make room for Sylus as he steps closer. 

He crouches low so that you’re looking down on him instead of up. One large hand covers both of yours, mindfully avoiding the fresh rope burns on your wrists, his thumb rubbing soothing circles on the unmarred part of your skin. 

“This will be quick, sweetie. I’ll be back by your side before you know it,” he exhales, closing his eyes for a moment. “I swear to you.”

You swallow, but nodded reluctantly. “Come home soon.” 

“I will.”

With that, you let yourself be carried out of the claustrophobic space you were confined to, into a larger room littered with unmoving bodies that you're frankly too tired to care about at the moment, up three (rickety) flights of stairs where you exit into what looks like the inside of an empty shipping container, before finally, finally getting out. 

A gust of salty wind hits you and you ask, “Are we near the docks?” 

“Yeah,” Kieran answers, carefully putting you down on the backseat of Sylus’ car. “Mephisto trailed after the van they stuffed you in before reporting back to the boss. We followed soon after.” 

Luke frowns as he inserts the key in the ignition. “We weren’t aware that they had eyes on you for a while now. An oversight on our part, won’t happen again,” he assures you. “Gotta give them props for that, at least.” 

Kieran, now getting in the passenger side of the vehicle, shoots him a look. 

“Anyway, we’re glad we got to you before they did anything… worse,” Kieran continues, then winces in a show of mock sympathy. “Can’t say the same to that fucker back inside. Haven’t felt Sylus’ bloodlust this strong in a long while.” 

You try to focus on their words, but you feel yourself nodding off as the remaining adrenaline slowly leaves your body. You know you should feel more worried about what the two were insinuating, but your mouth still tastes like you swallowed a bunch of coins and you just want a soft bed to sleep in for an entire day. Or three. 

“Oi, no sleeping. Doctor’s orders,” A snapping finger in front of your face forces you awake. 

You blink your tired eyes open in an attempt to stay lucid, the pulsing pain in your head becoming more prominent as soon as the threat of danger has passed. 

“This is gonna be a long night,” you sigh, wishing that Sylus will keep his word and be quick about… whatever he’s planning to do with your abductor. 

–––––

There hasn’t been much left of the man who proclaims to be the new head of an arms syndicate Sylus had dealt with in the past. He recalls the history of his relationship with the cartel being less than cordial, but nothing that would warrant his ire. Except for tonight.

He usually doesn’t leave a trace when doling out punishments; no, not anymore. Not in recent years. He prefers to be efficient about his killings, dissipating any evidence in thin air after reducing them into fine paste, rather than make a big show out of it. Quick and precise.

Except today… Someone had the arrogance, the absolute audacity to steal directly from the dragon’s nest.

The contents of which have always been kept in strict confidentiality. What is known, only chosen individuals bound to secrecy are privy to, and a lot of people would kill for. 

But unbeknownst to anyone else but its owner, only one thing in this hoard of secrets truly matters to the dragon. One solitary treasure alone he would burn planets for—and someone has tried to steal it.

Harm. the treasure. To get to him. 

It seems as if the new bloods needed a reminder of who, exactly, they’re stealing from. 

One who dwells deep within the underbelly of the cities both monster and men inhabit, that even the most heinous of sinners seeking solace in the dark, are afraid of. 

And what retribution tastes like to those who are foolish enough to bite more than what they can chew.

The poor soul unfortunate enough to be the first one to discover the carnage will witness that what was left of the man that had wronged the Onychinus kingpin is now stuck on the walls, the floor, and the ceiling of a basement where the treasure was held captive. They will find that the man’s innards are deliberately hung in a haphazard fashion, in all corners of the room like bloody, sinewy tinsel. 

And the centerpiece of this bloodbath is none other than the man’s decapitated head, forcibly attached to the hanging light in the middle of the room. A bulb crudely drilled past his cranium, while blood dripped down the floor in slow, ominous rivulets. 

They will understand in dawning horror that the one responsible for this... gross butchery, has left the head swinging. That the man’s mouth will forever remain agape in an eternal scream to immortalize the exact moment he realizes the gravity of his sin.   

Yes, Sylus is more than glad to remind them. 

_____

You arrive a quarter past four AM. 

Barely taking a step past the foyer, the twins immediately whisk you inside to perform an ‘emergency patch-up.’ Luke’s words, not yours.

“We’re your personal CNA while waiting for the head nurse to take over,” he explains cheerfully, wrapping another layer of gauze around your wrist. You hiss when Kieran dabs a cotton ball on the gash on your temple, peroxide fizzing as it comes in contact with the dried-up blood. Muttering out a “sorry!” Kieran does quick work in cleaning the injury and covering the affected area.

In no time at all, all visible wounds are bandaged and disinfected. The worst of your head wound had to be stitched up, but other than that, nothing seems to require immediate medical attention. There’s nothing left for you to do but to bear the aches that came along with the bruises – especially on your tender midriff – and to pop a tylenol for your throbbing headache.

You offer them a sincere, “Thanks. No, really.” before they leave you in Sylus’ room, after multiple reminders to “not sleep before the attending nurse arrives for the final diagnosis.” 

(You think they might have enjoyed playing caretaker a little too much.) 

With a lot more effort than you care to admit, you painstakingly remove your bloodstained clothes until you're down to your underwear, before draping yourself in a large, red, silk robe. A hot shower sounds heavenly to your sore muscles, but the soft mattress is calling to you more so you head straight to bed. 

With nothing else to occupy yourself with, you prop your head on a mountain of pillows – to keep yourself relatively upright – and let out a sigh. 

Tonight had been a shitshow. All you wanted was something to snack on while you binge through the last season of the show you were watching back at your apartment; you never thought a late-night run to the store just a few blocks away would result in… this. If not for Sylus’ intervention, you’re sure you'd be leaving with a lot more than a couple of scrapes. If not worse.

You're lost in your own thoughts when short, successive raps on the door catch your attention. It swings open before you have the chance to pipe out a, “come in!”

Speak of the devil.

Sylus enters the room, not a hair out of place. You notice that he’s changed into a casual, brown sweater and a pair of dark-washed jeans. His eyes meet yours, tightly-controlled expression relaxing as he crosses the room towards the side of your bed, wasting no time.��

“How are you feeling?”

“Still pretty sore, but Luke and Kieran already handled the worst of my injuries,” you answer, making a move to sit up. Sylus tuts disapprovingly, gentle as he puts a hand on your chest to prevent you from moving any further. He sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, careful not to jostle you. Once fully settled, he let out a deep sigh.

“You had me worried for a moment there, kitten.” He admits, a slightly rough edge to his voice as emotion seeps into it. He regards you intently, like he’s trying to convince himself that you’re here, safe. 

Your hand reaches out towards his face. Without missing a beat, he leans in to nuzzle your palm, eyes closing shut. He reminds you of a big wolf, unbridled fire simmering beneath the surface, yet tame in the presence of his handler. 

“I’m fine now, thanks to you,” you assure him with a lopsided smile. “Give my thanks to Mephisto, as well. Tell him he gets a pass on the stalking this time.” 

Sylus opens his eyes, a hint of amusement and something else you can’t identify flickering through. “Oh, sweetie. You’ll be lucky if that bird gives you the privacy to bathe alone after tonight,” he jokes. 

He’s joking. Right?

You eye him for a moment before deciding to let it go. You're too tired to argue.

Instead, you cautiously ask a question you aren’t sure you even want the answer to. “What happened after we left?” 

Sylus expression doesn’t change except for the upward tick on the corner of his mouth; the same peculiar glint in his eyes coming across a little stronger. “They won’t be bothering you anymore. You don’t need to worry about anyone coming for you.”

“That’s not what I asked.” 

He hums. “Do you really want to know?”

You stare at him, and he stares back at you placidly. 

You purse your lips and look away. “Maybe not.” 

Sylus breathes out a laugh. He gently grasps your chin between his forefinger and thumb, guiding your head to meet his gaze once more. A softer look on his face, inching closer to yours.

Your heartbeat slightly picks up. In your vulnerable state, you feel a welling desire to bare your feelings to the man in front of you. You want to tell him how relieved you felt when you saw him in that cursed basement, how he was able to quell your fears with just his presence alone the moment he appeared in a familiar haze of black and red. Like your own, personal, vindictive guardian. 

Instead, you close the distance between the two of you, your lips meeting his. 

Sylus groans quietly, a hand cupping your face as he leans closer to deepen the kiss. Your eyes flutter shut, savoring the feeling of contentment from being this close to him. You feel, more than you see, how his taut body loses the remaining tension from the events that transpired just mere hours ago, how he finally relaxes as he loses himself in you.

Very carefully, he eases you further down, cradling your head with one hand until it rests on a pillow. His lips drift to the corner of your mouth, trailing soft kisses up to the apples of your cheeks, your forehead, then to your nose. 

He pulls back slightly, chuckling when you make a sound of discontent. When you open your eyes, you see him looking at you—half-lidded and tender. 

In a low voice, he instructs, “Rest. You need it.”

The feeling of exhaustion pulls you in, but before you surrender to it, you remind Sylus, “I’m not that fragile, you know. You don’t have to worry too much.” You poke his cheek and he catches the offending digit to bite it affectionately. “I’ll be up and running in no time.”

He doesn't speak for a minute, considering your words. His mouth sets into a thin line before letting out a sigh.

“And if you get hurt again? What then?" He whispers so quietly, seeming as if he's talking to himself.

"I'll get hurt again, that's for sure," You tell him, matter-of-factly. "But really, that’s just an occupational hazard. I’m sure you realize."

“Love — what a terrible, little thing,” he muses, half-forlornly, half in jest. "I’d rip this cold heart out and throw it in flames if I could.”

While speaking, his hand finds its way into the tangles of your hair, gently running his fingers through the strands in a lulling manner. His lips landing on the crown of your head softly. Reverently.

You hum sleepily.

“Of course you would, Sy.”

_____

“You’ll be glad to know that the artifact you had your eye on back at the auction will be arriving this Wednesday.” 

“Huh? But I thought it was already sold to someone else?”

Sylus shrugs. “I made a counteroffer.” 

“You didn’t have to. I told you it was fine.” 

“I know. But I also recall a certain someone telling me how much they wished they had placed a bid on it on our way back,” he pinches your cheek fondly. “Don’t worry about it, kitten. It’s yours.”

“Oh. Well– thank you,” you yawn in response, leaning your head to rest against his palm.

His thumb strokes your cheek. “Anything for you.”

[alexiroflife]

sukuna takes a while to learn how to treat you with softness…

fluff, soft sukuna strikes again, vague mentions of suggestive themes

ask

🥀🥀🥀...

at first, sukuna's instinct is to reject you. he finds you to be rather too clingy for his taste, ogling him as though you are bound by a love spell to his will. he believes you to even be stupid, that hazy look in your round eyes growing heavier as you take him in, a dopey smile stretching across your face and pinching your cheeks. he doesn’t know why he entertains you at first. he thinks perhaps he can find your devotion useful in some way, considering the fact that you would have severed your own ten fingers yourself if he had ordered you to do so

as time goes by, however, your attachment to him grows to be a pestilence in his eyes. there is nowhere he can step without you stepping on the same path just behind him, nothing he can say without you nodding in eager agreement at his side, and nothing he can think without you reading his mind, voicing his inner thoughts before he has a chance to verbalize him. he’s glaring at you more often than he’s humoring you, attempting to puzzle who exactly you are and what your deal is. he’s seen worship under his authority, but not in the way you do so. you’re so… spritely, so happy to even look at him when he has accustomed himself to soldier-like obedience and fear-stricken loyalty

what he finds specifically confounding is that you don’t fear him. despite all the things you have seen him do, the obscenities that fall from his mouth, the humans like you that he has torn limb from limb, and the lack of mercy and sympathy he withholds within his bones, you still turn to him excitedly. as though he is some kind of savior to you when he should have been the very thing making you run for the hills

and you're so... innocent. at least, you behave in such a way. you carry a brightness about you, one that shines into the darkest aspects of his world and almost blinds him with your beam. you seem far too light to be associated with himself, yet he knows you aren't completely innocent because you spend your time in his company, allowing him to do to you as he pleases

despite how often sukuna brushes you away when he is not physically indulging his needs by means of you, you are nothing but chirpy greetings, heart-shaped eyes, and polite requests to sit in his lap and kiss his cheek. sukuna denies all of this at first, but the more your persistence proceeds, he finds himself allowing you to get away with more. he keeps a blank face as you press your warm, soft lips to his cheekbone and wind your arms tightly around his neck, giddily bouncing on his thigh with glee when he doesn't push you away. his body goes limp rather than turning from you completely when you throw yourself into him, tightening your arms around his midsection and pressing your warm cheek to his chest. he even ducks his head for you wordlessly when you reach a hand up to fix his hair mindlessly, threading your fingers through silky salmon locks with your face aglow with pure adoration. while his gaze elsewhere looks hard, you know he is warming up to you nonetheless

sukuna knows something is wrong with him when he starts waiting for your affections, bringing you around him more often to sit nearby and keep him company. any time you fail to greet him with a huge grin and wide, inviting arms (which only really happened once mistakenly), he's glowering at you harshly, brows ticked downward and lips set in a firm, tight scowl. he's in a crabby mood, but he doesn't say anything or mention it to you, refusing to show in any way that he has begun to look forward to your daily interactions with him

he's cold for the next few minutes until you're pressing your palm to his broad shoulder, looking up at him curiously with loving eyes. you ask him if he's alright, to which he responds with a grunt and the twitch of his arm away involuntarily. you blink, yet do not take his bitterness personally, and smile kindly

you tilt yourself up onto your tip-toes, palms meeting either side of his face, and press a gentle kiss to the corner of his lips. he stills, expression faltering slightly though his arms remain crossed over his chest and his crimson eyes stare ahead. when you pull away, grinning, he visibly softens and attempts to hide so. his teeth grind together and he snaps his gaze to you out of the corner of his eye, frowning. you walk off without another word, hand lingering on his arm when you turn away mentioning something about fixing him tea, and his eyes follow your fading figure calmly

as much as you enjoy bestowing your affections upon the king of curses, he struggles to understand that you in turn desire the same affections that he is previously incapable of providing. you, ever the foolishly kind woman, never complain or express your needs to sukuna, but he begins to observe a shift in you when your arms cling around yourself for comfort or your hand runs tenderly over the back of your own neck, a tired glint in your normally shining eyes

naturally, instead of speaking to you, sukuna seeks uraume for assistance, who knows far better about the human race and their conditions than sukuna cares to recall or learn himself. though he does not at all understand what the purpose of giving you such attention is when he never asked for it from you in the first place, something within him is itching to satiate your needs, to bring you contentment and peace the way you do him. he wants to put this feeling off as a burden, but internally, he knows that you and this blooming desire are anything but. still, he doesn't make knowing this easy

his reciprocation starts with him opening one of his arms slightly when you approach him, welcoming you into his side. he feels odd doing so, but once he catches the way your eyes burst with joy and that breathtaking grin of yours appears, a flutter in his chest tells him that he is on the right track, though he truly hasn't even done anything

he slowly transitions to nodding his head over to you, beckoning you over to sit with him, or having the servants make you whatever meal you tell him that you are craving when he asks. it's difficult for sukuna not to take completely to only showering you with material gifts as a form of reciprocation, for displays of affection are very rare for him to come by. it's even harder for him to understand that he can't be as rough with you as his subconscious encourages him to

a sort of cuteness aggression often takes hold of him when he is with you, the urge to squish your cheeks in bruisingly or smack your ass so hard it leaves a bruise (which he actually has done a couple times) as you walk away consuming him, but uraume reminds him that you are breakable - still a human, and a human who favors soft affection at that

he finally gets the gist one night when you are tangled up against his bare body, nose tucked into the crook of his neck with your arms thrown around him, the very action serving as your sole source of comfort

sukuna keeps a hand over your waist and the other just under the plush of your bum, holding your thigh. you twitch against him, weak from your previous indulgences of lustful hunger, when you murmur something into his skin. sukuna turns slightly, quirking a brow down at you. "what? speak up," he demands, his voice soothingly low.

you hum and shift, pushing yourself further into him. "can you massage my head, please?"

sukuna's lips turn up, befuddled. "what for?" you're silent for a moment.

"dunno. i think it would feel nice." when sukuna fails to respond, you're quick to add: "but you don't have to. this already feels good."

sukuna exhales, now faced with a task he did not comprehend. how fast did you want him to go? how hard? how soft? did you want the top of your head massaged or the lower part, closer to your neck? what if his fingers are too sharp?

despite the questions that flow through his head, sukuna does not desire to leave you hanging. especially so after you've tried to reel back in on your request, and you hardly ever ask him for anything but his time and presence in the first place. the salmon-haired curse clicks his teeth. "do not tell me what i can and can not do," he orders, and he feels you smile against him.

"yes, my lord."

slowly, sukuna raises his hand from your thigh to tuck through your hair, fingers sliding into your scalp. you exhale softly, relaxing further against his chest as he gently scratches at your head in gradual, calming circles. your lashes flutter in contentment, heat lifting to your face and gentle hums of satisfaction falling from your lips. blood-red eyes keep themselves pointed down into your back, his other hand smoothing over your spine.

"kuna," you murmur, and for a moment the said being believes you are going to tell him to stop, that he is harming you in some way.

"what is it now?"

"...a little lower please?"

he scoffs. "needy," he remarks, though obeying mindlessly and sliding his hand down further, pressing his fingers tenderly into the back of your head and caressing meticulously. "i'm only doing this because you have manners."

you hum again, your thigh rising over his torso as you curl into him, the sensation of his fingers in your hair alleviating any tension in your body and rendering you to putty in his embrace. "thank you," you whisper, a coat of goosebumps dotting over sukuna's skin in reaction to your gentle breath.

you sound so grateful, so humbly in love that it tears away at sukuna's hardness, and he suddenly wants to massage all of you until you're thanking him again and again, over and over, and the honey-drenched sweetness of your voice soaks him in its honesty.

he thinks he gets it now as he turns his head into you, lips brushing the shell of your ear. skin to skin, heart to heart, sukuna shivers at the realization of what you are to him and the proper place softness how has in his life when it comes to you.

from then on, sukuna's at your beck and call whilst pretending, very poorly, not to care about you. he presses his lips to your temple swiftly when you hug him, he picks you up and throws you over his shoulder to carry you along with him to wherever he decides to go, he brushes pieces of hair from your neck on hot days to reduce your discomfort, and he holds his arms tightly around your waist when you sit with him on his throne, his chin tucked to your shoulder and that same stern expression on his face

he lets you do as you please, holding his hand and dragging him out to the garden with you, bringing him to sit beside you when you eat lunch, and asking him to help you with little mundane things that he would have never bothered doing before

your clinginess to him has grown contagious, for suddenly he can not imagine you failing to be by his side, and frankly, he does not want to. he anticipates your kisses, learns how to cradle your palm gently, figures out all your likes and dislikes and interests and desires and has his servants work twenty times as hard to make you happy, though all you really need to be happy is him

he still doesn't get how someone like you managed to fall in love with him, nor how he managed to return those feelings just as strongly, but he now stubbornly holds onto you, refusing to let you out of his sight for any reason. you are his, now, his alone, and he would burn the world for you if you only asked with that soft politeness in your tone that entertains him so much

sukuna is a hard being, with a hard exterior and an even harder heart. he's a sadist, a murderer, a king of demons and all chaos and misery that roams the earth

but you... you bring him down to a wordless, tranquil being of action who has taught himself how to care for you with the same gentleness that you care for him. his roughness, of course, has not been stripped away. he still fucks you with intense vigor and speaks to you with the same firm haughtiness in his tone, but even so, for you, he has become lighter. quieter. handsier. easier. softer.

[2kiran]

Hi‼️ lurker here‼️ just wanna say that your works are awesome‼️‼️ and that your dash always looks so cool and pretty every time I come around to check up on you‼️ your works are so good and you’re such a talented writer‼️

also… can I…can I ask for a tired reader being surrounded by a very demanding and needy 141? Like I’m not all that creative like the other anons but like I just really like the reader satisfying the 141s in any way his tired form can‼️ whether it’s by letting them ride his dick until they’re satisfied or having them being cock warmed as reader falls asleep‼️

sorry for this‼️ just thoughts and brain worms are weird rn and I thought that you would carry these out well… back to lurking now‼️

p.s. the ‼️ are just here to show excitement not to be scary or anything I’m sorry

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: bottom 141, top male reader, consensual somnophilia, cowgirl position, cockwarming, fingering, dividers

The weight of the missions and daily tasks being distributed made your limbs slack, eyes droopy, body boneless and desperate to pass out for even a week. You’re dozing off the second you sit down or rest against a wall, jerking awake when shaken by your mate. It isn’t your fault that you’re hardworking when needed, and everything was becoming a necessity to put your full attention on.

You need a break.

On the other hand, your team doesn’t seem to agree.

They’re clingy, more than usual. When you’re in a room with them, it seems as though their presence is the only thing that matters. Unabashedly acting like animals in heat, they’d sometimes even gently rut against your thigh.

Their excuse? You’ve been neglecting them, rarely glancing or facing towards their direction. Sometimes, you’d fail to acknowledge them in passing which evidently piles up their frustration and need to turn the source into the outlet.

And you’ll let them. They know you will.

Soap is the first one to snap. The man’s too needy for his own good. He can’t stop thinking about you, your hands wandering along his body, allowing him to take a sniff of pleasure before you’re shoving him away. But now? Now you’re doing it unintentionally.

He’s concerned, knowing damn well that he shouldn’t bother you. And yet, he can’t keep it within his pants. You’ll be good for him, right?

“Shit, tha’s it, love...” Soap groans, face contorting with blissful relief. He rolls his hips, desperate to feel every inch of your cock - the one that had him dreaming about it, waking up with his boxers damp, and hole twitching from being so empty - “Y’can get some shut-eye, ‘s alrigh’.”

You’re hanging onto your consciousness by a mere thread, the promise of slumber darkening the edges of your view while simultaneously heightening the sensation of slick, twitching warmth wrapped around your length. Small moans left him, thick brows knitted together in concentration.

Soap cannot remain still for the life of him. He sinks further down, enveloping you in his tight heat and squeezes you with it. His jaw hung open, mouth agape, and his thighs are quivering in a poor attempt not to fuck back against your cock with his desperate hole.

-

The second is Price. He may be a responsible and patient captain, but he’s still a man with lustful requirements. He needs to let off stream, you know?

“Hhang... that’s a good man.” He ruts his hips against yours, the plushy thickness of his scarred thighs rippling with each bounce. If you’re comfortable with it, he’ll take a drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke slip through his teeth as a breathy moan rasps from his throat.

God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the feel of you. Your tip meeting the spot that has him high with squelchy smacks, the scratchy stubble spread on his chin making the firm muscle of your shoulder raw whenever he angled himself forward to make you pound into him deeper.

Such a good soldier, you are. “Stay still, m‘fuckin’ close.” He huffs. Your cock twitches in response, and his lips curves in a self-satisfied grin. It has him riding you harder, rim taut, his pace fast and it makes the both of you dependent on chasing that point.

The Captain isn’t afraid to milk you for all you’re worth, either. It’s your own fault for making him needy. – “C’mon, you’ve got more in you, don’t you?”

-

Gaz is the next one. He heard your ‘interaction’ with the other men, smelled how Soap and Price practically reeked of well-deserved sex. It has arousal pool in his lower belly, dick twitching to life at the possibility of finally being satiated by you.

He’ll praise you for it; “Good boy, letting me use you like this.”, “Th-thank you, my love. Fuckin’ me so well.” and “Shh, I know. Go rest. I’ll just suck your pretty dick off, yeah?”

You think he’ll prep himself because you’re melting into the sheets to nap? No, you’re terribly wrong. He’d grip your wrist firmly, lubing your fingers up, and gently make them breach his tight hole. He gasps, immediately clenching from how intense it felt.

Gaz smiles fondly at how you seem to battle sleep, nodding mindlessly. When you do succumb to the urge, he’s biting his lip to contain his pathetic noises. You look so peaceful, and here he is fucking himself on your fingers. He’s holding onto your forearm, guiding you back and out. The murmurs of slick ringing through the room as he throws his head back.

“Fuckkk...” He’d mutter, fisting his own cock with rough jerks. Leaning down, he peppers kisses all across your jaw. He’s unbelievably turned on, rocking his hips to take in your digits completely. He’s getting desperate, but he will wait for you to wake up before he shoves your cock down his throat.

-

Ghost corners you. Sure, he’s got better self-control than the rest of the men. But hey, he’s still a human with very human needs.

Doesn’t matter if you’ve got a broader and hulking figure or a shorter stature, he’s guiding you with his frame until your knees hit the edge of a bed or a threadbare seat and your aching back is laying down. His mouth twitching in a mock snarl to have you submit. All with your consent, of course.

One of his favorite things to do to tease you? He loves to keep on asking you “This okay, luv?” and “Hmm? Y’want me to touch ya here?” until you’re begging him to finally fuck himself on your leaky dick that he’s been either playing with his roughened digits or warming with his inviting heat the entire time.

Rides you so slowly, hips rocking ever so slightly, and his soft walls pulse as they give way to your length. And it’s all to keep you awake, tightening up when you’re about to fall asleep on him. He wants you to be completely aware when he’s in the heights of arousal and he has you balls deep inside of him.

“Wake up, swee’art. Fuck– eyes on me, yeah, there we go.” / “Oh, you like tha’? Uh-huh? Good boy, you do.”

–

Or you have Price behind you, one of his arms slung around your waist as he thumbs at your slit until it’s coated in your pre. Soap’s tugging at your shaft, his fist enclosed and tight, consistent and oh so whiny like you’re inside of him. “Ye can fuck me harder, (rank), jus’ like this.”

Gaz on his knees, his tongue flicking at your sensitive veins. They’ll be toying with your cock as you lean back against the captain, letting sleep overtake you until you feel someone familiar climb into your lap. The other men supporting Ghost’s weight as he takes your dick in his skull-gloved hand, guiding the head to meet his rim and he sinks down with a low groan.

[littlemissshoei]

SHUT UP AND LISTEN

Sylus (LAD) x fem!reader 18+ ; NSFW CONTENT

story synopsis: While you didn't get along at first, you started seeing Sylus in another light after a chain of events, though, you couldn't help but wonder if the change in his attitude had something to do with feelings or the fact he wanted to resonate with you. Once he finds out about your worries, Sylus is determined to prove you wrong.

content warning: angst, comfort, slight story spoilers, overthinking reader, mention of Rafayel, body worshipping, cunnilingus, marking, sex in front of a mirror, reverse cowgirl, dom!sylus, sub!reader, praise, pleasure!dom sylus, creampie, angst with happy ending. (Sylus might be a little ooc)

THERE WAS SOMETHING STRANGE about Sylus that you simply couldn't put your finger on. Something so familiar yet distant at the same time. It was hard to decipher what you truly felt about the Onychinus' leader. He was a cold hearted man, a psychopath at that. He was weird, had a big ego and never took you seriously. Yet, you couldn't help but wonder why he kept you alive, you were his "prey" — it would only be normal for him to eliminate you right there and then, so why?

Then it all fell into place after you found out about his plans: Resonating with you. Each attempt ended up failing though, and you didn't understand what was going on, neither did he. So now you were stuck in his big, lifeless mansion until he found a resolve. Countless of failed attempts only fueled his irritation, and your only company was that of the twins that worked for him: Kieran and Luke. Unlike Sylus, the men were extroverted, teasing you at any given attempt, brightening your day with their wits, stupidity and smugness.

Ultimately he brought you to a middle aged shopkeeper, ready to use different methods to get the resonation working, not giving a shit about how you felt. He was a heartless man, one that cared about nothing but himself. He was prepared to experiment on you, until the shopkeeper pointed out something that caught his attention. Your evol was linked to your emotions — as long as you had ANY sorts of disgust, hate or uncertainity about the person you want to resonate with, it will not work. You remember the strange look in his eyes, the sigh he let out before nodding and dragging you out of the shop, and the quiet ride back to his house.

From that day on, something in him changed. It was strange. He was the same man as before, just a little bit nicer. He helped you get to the Aether core, protected you, all in his own ways. It was hard to explain what his behaviour did to your heart, because no matter how much you tried to hate him, to push him away, you couldn't.

You went back to Linkon city after finishing up your business, still a little pissed off at the way your and Rafayel's plan took such an unexpected twist. You thought it was gonna be a little fighting, maybe some more, but you never expected to stand eye to eye with the Onychinus' leader. Alongside that, even he wasn't safe to be around. The amount of assassination attempts on him and the rioting within the organisation was baffling to say the least.

TALKING TO SYLUS BECAME part of your daily routine, and you couldn't help but notice the shift in his attitude. It wasn't all too evident, but it was there. He seemed more interested in getting to know you, while maintaining the same, cocky attitude like before. Whenever you guys would see each other face to face, he wasn't as insufferable as he was, and even seemed to turn to physical affection at times.

Sometimes he'd brush aside strands from your face, eyes watching your expressions oh so intently. His fingers would linger on your face, touch warmer than you'd like it to be, sending shivers down your spine. He'd leave soft, heartfelt kisses on your forehead, keep his arm around your waist whenever you went out, and wiped away the food left on the corner of your lips.

The more time passed, the kinder his actions became, and you had a hard time staying away from him. The way he made you feel was special, it felt genuine. But that didn't mean it actually was. Whenever you'd sit cuddled up on his couch, his arms wrapped around your waist, your head seated in the crook of his neck as the faint sounds of the television could be heard in the background, your mind wandered in places it shouldn't. It would wonder just how much of this he meant, just how far he was willing to go to emotionally manipulate you to give him access to the resonation.

Those thoughts always haunted you, turning your mood sour. Deep down you hoped they wouldn't be true, but he was Sylus, the fearless leader of the Onychinus. The man that wasn't afraid of getting his hands dirty, the man that would do anything in his power to get what he wants.

So, you distanced yourself.

SYLUS COULDN'T UNDERSTAND WHY you were acting the way you were. Everything was perfect until now, so what made you take three steps back and resume the cold, dismissive attitude? Each attempt at affection got brushed off, each compliment got ignored, and quality time got shut off.

The silver haired male liked pretending that he didn't care about her attitude. That she was just another prey he should discard of soon, but he couldn't. He cared for her to the point his heart ached watching her be so distant. These stupid feelings were driving Sylus crazy, he had to do something about them.

You didn't expect Sylus to call you to his room in the middle of the night. The place was off limits, the only time you managed to catch a glimpse of it was when you tried to locate the brooch he challenged you to find.

The door creaked open, and there he was, sitting on the edge of his bed, his exposed chest bathing in the moonlight that somehow managed to bring out every detail more perfectly. You closed the door behind you, standing a safe distance from the man before he gestured for you to come closer.

"Yes, Sylus. Did you need anything?"

"I certainly do. Won't you come a little closer?"

You couldn't tell what was going on, but there was nothing you could do. Nodding, you walked towards him, stopping right in front of the Onychinus' leader. He looked up, patting his thigh.

"Huh?"

"Are you stupid or what?"

Your cheeks heated up at his words, gulping as you oh so slowly took a seat on his lap. He wasted no time snaking one arm around your waist, while he turned his chin towards you with his other hand.

"What's up with you, sweetie?" He asked. You couldv'e sworn there was a hint of concern lacing his voice, but nothing else could betray any trace of emotions on his face.

"[name], I'm talking to you." He insisted, brows furrowing at your attempts to look away from him. "Sorry Sylus I'm.. tired?" you replied, trying to get out of the unfortunate situation, but he wasn't having it.

"I wasn't born yesterday. Tell me what is going on this instant." He said sternly, his crimson eyes piercing into your own [eyecolor] ones, swallowing you whole. You thought of the last thing that could help your case. Your hand grabbed his from your chin and intertwined your fingers.

"We should resonate now!" You suggested, ready to distract him with the one thing you knew he wanted. But before you knew it, your back hit the soft matress of his bed and he was hovering over you, seated in between your legs with a disapproving scowl on his face as everything got pieced together.

"So that's what it is hm?" He said, voice dropping dangerously low as his lips grazed your ear. "You silly girl, getting worked up over nothing." His warm breath sent jolts down your spine.

Sylus couldn't believe such unnecessary thoughts crossed your mind. Yes, he had to admit, at first he only cared about resonating with you. But over time, he grew to care for you, and his intentions were honest. The thought of hurting you made his stomach twist and turn. Hell, who cared if it took years for you guys to resonate, as long as you were by his side that was enough!

He watched your expressions oh so intently, the way your lips parted slightly and gasps escaped your lips as his hand traced down your body. "I..it's true though! Why else would y—" "Did I give you permission to complain, hm?" You gasped when his hand slipped under your shirt, palming your bare skin, his touch electrifying and warm. "You still don't believe me? Very well."

YOU DON'T KNOW HOW much time had passed since those words had left Sylus' lips. You felt feverish, and the hot touch of his fingers tracing your body wasn't helping with it at all. You were almost fully exposed to him, his eyes feasting on your beautiful body, drinking in every nook and cranny. He left trails of open mouth kisses and marks on your neck, collarbone and dangerously close to your chest. You were a whining mess as his calloused hands squeezed the soft skin of your breasts, groping and playing with them as he pleased. His mouth wrapped around one of the nipples, tongue swirling around it until the little sensitive bud was hardened and sensitive before he let go of it, the lewd little pop making you shut your eyes close.

"Look at how responsive you are.." He whispered, hot breath fanning across your skin as he pried your legs a little more open, dragging your soaked panties down your legs painfully slow. "S..Sylus!" You whined, hand tangled in his hair. "What? I'm just trying to show you some love.." He cooed, almost mockingly. "Can't handle it hm? Shouldn't have had those stupid thoughts. I'm gonna have to fuck those out of you now, don't I?"

His featherlight kisses trailed down your stomach, to your inner thigh. He started marking the skin up, leaving trails of bitemarks and purple in its wake. "Oh, sweetie. You're so wet for me.."

Soon enough you found yourself moaning out his name as his tongue prodded in between your folds, thumb delicately rubbing your clit as he devoured you. The sensation was overwhelingly good, so good to the point you slotted your legs around his head, leaving him no way to escape — not like he minded that though. —

Your whines, the way you tugged at his hair, the desperation in your eyes, it all drove him crazy.

His tongue worked his way, sending the feelingsbof immense pleasure as you blabbered on and on.

"I'm gonna.. Sylus, don't I'm go—" But he had none of that. The male was determined to have you come undone by his tongue, and there was nothing gonna stop him from doing so. He continued his merciless attack on your dripping core, until he felt you reach your release. Satisfied, he licked you clean, licking his lips as he raised his head with a cocky grin playing on his lips. You just stared at him, dumbfounded, cheeks slightly rosy.

"We're not done yet, sweetie." He said as he distanced himself from your naked body, unzipping his pants. You snapped back to reality at the sound of them hitting the ground, eyes widening as you saw his hot, throbbing cock with precum leaking from the tip, eager to devour you once again. "Tsk, tsk. Not like this." He said, clacking his tongue as he lifted you up, sitting down onto the edge of the bed before placing you onto his lap

Your back was flushed against his chest, feeling every little muscle of his solid, chiseled abs. His hardened lenght was in between your legs, throbbing painfully.

His hand reached for your chin, making you face forwards. You were confused at first, before you realized what was in front of you: A full lenght body mirror on his closet's door. The lewd reflection portraying your unholy activities, and the smirk on his face didn't make it any better. He rubbed his cock in between your thighs for some friction, almost desperately before he lifted you you, aligning his member with your dripping, tight cunt.

"Make sure to look, [name]. See what you do to me?" He whispered in your ear, rubbing his reddened tip in between your folds, ocassionally poking at your entrance. "I'll show you just how much I like you, yeah?"

Without further warning he started pushing in, the tightness causing you to hiss and dig your nails into the skin of his thighs that you so desperately clutched onto. He slowly sank you onto his length. Your head leaned back against his shoulder as you tried to adjust to how full you felt, having Sylus balls deep inside you.

"I told you to keep looking, beautiful." He groaned, one hand keeping your face up to look at the mirror while his other rubbed your side, waiting for you to give the start.

Once you finally nodded his hand slid off your chin, using both of them to guide you up and down his cock. The feeling of your warm, gummy walls drove him insane, the way they took on his form, the way they squeezed him so tightly. You were a drooling mess for him, exactly what he wanted. The delicious feeling of his cock kissing your inner parts, hitting the deepest spots.

The sound of skin against skin contact, heavy breathing and murmurs filled the air. It felt overwhelmingly good, his actions and his praise. You were quick to forget any worries about his true intentions once his cock bullied into your sopping wet entrance.

"You're close, aren't you sweetie? 'ts okay, you can cream on my cock, you're doing so good.. so pretty.." He cooed, encouraging you. It wasn't long before you came once again, coating his hard member with your juices. As you rode out your orgasm, he kept pumping into you, groaning and murmuring into your ear about how good you were for him, how you were MADE for him.

"You're gonna let me come inside, won't you?"

"Yes please.." You managed to breath out, feeling his pace fasten. "Good girl.." his words were quickly followed by his release, splurting his hot seed into you, painting your walls white and claiming you whole.

You sank back onto his length, panting, chest heaving with each breath as he pushed away a few strands of your hair from your with sweat coated face.

"Is that enough proof?"

"Yes, Sylus."

"Good.." He replied, smiling softly — something you've rarely seen him do. "Let's stay like this a little."

[cinnamonest]

Beleaguer

"Failed escape attempt" yandere series - Diluc

WARNINGS: dark content, fem reader, noncon, captivity, belting/spanking, manhandling, humiliation, darling has a somewhat defined personality, hair pulling, implied forced impregnation at the end, forced fem/housewifization + thinly veiled if not wholly unveiled misogyny, swearing, there's a lot going on here and none of it is holy

--------------

‘Fill cap to line. Causes intense drowsiness and loss of motor function within 5-10 minutes. Soluble. Do not operate heavy machinery if taken within the last 24 hours.’

You blinked a few times, focusing your vision. Your mind could be deceiving you, after all. But when you looked again, the vial in your hand read the same words as it did moments before.

You'd merely gone to set the oil back into the cabinet when the force of pushing one knocked over another further within, coming across the bottle in the very back in the process of fixing the mishap.

You grasped it firmly in your hand, merely blinking in disbelief as you read over the words again and again.

“Oh my God.”

You spoke aloud to yourself, standing alone in the spacious kitchen, the words slipping out on their own in a low whisper.

Daily life as you now lived it brought a sort of mind-numbing stillness to it. Life was repetitive and uneventful. You woke at the same time, performed the same mindless tasks, the same chores, the same interactions. You said hello and good morning to the same maids every morning (you'd lost the willpower to continue being cold to the staff a long time ago), you came down and went through the same routine, wore the same clothes, had the same conversations.

The only thing that ever changed was a few different foods on rotation from week to week and the names and faces of the strangers that came in and out of the lower rooms - although they were all one and the same to you, their attitudes and the way they treated you and looked at you was as though each was the same individual with merely a different face.

And consequently, you'd reached a state of numbness, you went through the tasks mechanically, without thinking, perhaps intentionally shutting down your mind to make acceptance easier. Disconnected, unreal, everything melted together and the days and the people were all one long continuous sequence of occurrences.

It was easier that way. Resisting brought anger, frustration, tears, misery. Allowing the numbness to take over allowed some escape from the reality itself.

Which was likely why reading the words themselves felt like a shockwave through your body, as if suddenly the world regained its colors, you could feel your heart beating and your lungs fill with air. Like a sharp and sudden awakening from an endless, empty, dreamless sleep.

You felt a sudden wave of shame immediately following the shock, chastising yourself for even allowing that numbness to take over, like you might have felt angry with yourself in the past for oversleeping or spacing out and missing something important.

You recognized the handwritten label stuck to the bottle, having gone to the same place for something or another in the past — the alchemist’s lab in the city. That essentially meant it had to be highly effective.

Not only that — the fact that the seal was broken and about a third of the liquid gone, would mean it was very likely the same substance used on you more than once. If so, “drowsiness” was an understatement — it would knock you out cold for hours at a time.

You heard yourself breathing in ragged, quick breaths, you stumbled and steadied yourself against the counter, looking up and around you, suddenly aware of the world around you, everything felt real. The emotions came flooding back — humiliation, resentment, fury.

This was a way out. A miracle.

In your sudden awakening, your mind, sprung back to function, as if the wheels were once again turning, took only a mere minute to formulate a plan. It wasn't really difficult at all — in fact, there was perhaps not a single moment more perfect for you to have stumbled across this opportunity. You were, after all, just about to fill glasses, the final step in your meal preparation.

You set the vial down and ran over to the other cabinet — wiping your hands on your apron to rid them of any residue from cooking — and opened it up, swiping a bottle of juice and returning to the center of the kitchen. The corners of your mouth pulled upwards beyond your control into a grin as you went about the process.

Have a taste of your own medicine, bastard.

You smirked even wider, practically beaming as you popped a tablet out of the packaging, dropping it into one of the glasses. It made a fizzing sound as it grew smaller and smaller, and you watched with wide eyes as it disappeared. Just to be certain, you bent your head down and gave it a sniff, but there was no distinguishable smell or color that would give it away.

And you were certain that, if this was in fact the same drug that you'd consumed, there was nothing about it that tasted unusual.

And once it was complete, for yet another moment you merely stood, staring, grinning and trembling, processing this sudden turn of events. It would be easy, right? The sun was already about to set, the staff were no longer in the fields except for a few security guards that patrolled here or there. It would be easy to spot and avoid them.

You just had to get Diluc to drink this, wait for him to pass out, and run, right? Sure, traversing the road barefoot might be difficult, but that would probably be the extent of your hardships, provided you could get out.

Get out, get on the road, make a straight shot for Mondstadt, go straight to the knights and tell them everything that had happened to you. Maybe you could steal one of the horses they kept for plowing to make your getaway. Your chest burned at the thought of getting your revenge — no, your justice. You deserved this, you deserved freedom — and he deserved whatever consequences would come his way.

…No. You realized, albeit with frustration, that getting revenge wasn't really an option. He had power and money, and you knew all too well how good such people were at evading consequences.

You would just have to run. Staying in Mondstadt certainly wasn't an option. You'd just go… somewhere. Specifics didn't matter as long as you got away from here.

And sure, you'd made a few attempts to get out before, quickly foiled and harshly punished. But you'd never had an advantage like this before. He couldn't chase you down if he was out cold.

You took deep breaths, trying to calm down. It would all be over soon.

You finally managed to wipe the mischievous grin off your face. You knew you couldn't afford risking him getting suspicious if you were too outwardly giddy. Instead, you tried to maintain only a small smile, the numb, dopey smile you'd trained yourself to wear. Nonetheless, you shook your head and settled the plates and glasses onto a tray, carrying them out to the little table that sat tucked away in an alcove in the hallway connecting the main hall to the kitchen. He preferred to eat here when it was just the two of you, with plain cups and plates, rather than the massive dining room with all its ornate tableware — that was only for formal occasions, you'd discovered, whereas this was out of sight from the constantly-bustling staff.

You set the food and drink out — careful to be mindful of which cup was which — then stood, returned the tray to the kitchen, then the vial to the cabinet and, with a spring in your step, turned and made your way down the hall.

You were careful to make sure everything was as it was supposed to be. Straightened your posture, ran your hands down the front of the dress to smooth it out.

You began the short journey from the kitchen to the study, footsteps light and soft, short steps that slowed your pace. No heavy steps that thumped against the hardwood, no letting your weight fall onto each foot all at once, and no slouching. Nor any other such improper, inappropriate behaviors.

It really was a beautiful building, though, so you thought to yourself as you glanced up at the ornate windows. You'd been here before, on your own volition, back long ago, of your own volition. You'd walked by it plenty of times, and once or twice had taken a moment to stroll around the vineyard, figuring it would do no harm, as you were never noticed.

Now, it was a sort of beautiful prison, such an elegant architecture for such a suffocating place.

Upon reaching one particular door, you raised a hand up and gave a gentle knock. A voice came from behind the door.

"Mm?"

You took another deep breath, calming yourself down, trying to mentally switch the ‘on’ button for your sweet obedient wife act you hoped you had mastered well enough by now, complete with an upward shift in octave and sing-song-y touch to your voice. "It's me."

You heard a chair scoot backwards, heavy footsteps, and the door opened. "...Hey." A hand rested on your head. "Food ready?"

"Yes sir." You gave a soft smile.

"That's good... thanks." He patted your head, and seemed to stifle a yawn. His voice was drained, nearly a mumble.

"Are you ok?" You tried your best to make your voice sound soft and concerned, furrowing your eyebrows in a way you hoped looked worried, pushing your lower lip out a bit.

"Just tired. Lots of work today. I'll just eat and then we'll go to sleep."

Oh yes, you will.

Fighting the urge to grin, you slowly made your way back together down the hall — remembering to keep your footsteps light, forcing a sort of soft, feminine gracefulness to your manner of walking, lest you be reminded to do so.

Every little second, every step, every word was practiced and poised. Now, having reawakened to your resentment and defiance, just acting it out made you feel sick.

There was, nonetheless, a residual sense of dread, a nagging pit in your stomach that went deeper than the surface-level nervousness.

There was a major disadvantage — this would not be the first time you tried something like this. Granted, not with this particular substance, but you had once managed to make him horribly sick for well over a day with rat poison, and once again with liquid pesticide meant for the vineyard. Both incidents were purely for the purpose of amusement and spite, which you’d reveled in despite the unfortunate consequences you’d suffered.

The first time, he'd been totally unsuspecting, and the second time he'd been too distracted and busy to notice anything even if you had let something slip. You could curse yourself now in hindsight — if you hadn't committed those first two offenses out of sheer spite, you'd be able to pull this off much more easily. But now, he’d learned you would do something like that, and if the slightest thing was wrong in the taste or appearance of it, he'd get suspicious immediately. You weren't even sure if a single sip was enough to do anything, considering how diluted the substance now was. You’d just have to hope he’d drink the whole thing.

You did your best to make idle conversation as you walked, talking about whatever you did that day, as if it was ever any different from any other day. Your nerves felt electrified, your body tense and stiff as you sat back down and took a bite of this and that, trying to contain your anticipation, trying to look at him out of the corner of your eye rather than directly. He didn't say much, but that wasn't abnormal, only slowly taking in bites of this and that. It felt like an eternity of waiting.

Come on, get thirsty, drink it...

Finally, his hand reached out to the juice. You felt your breath hitch.

Come on, come on!

You stopped moving, anxiously waiting for him to drink.

So caught up in your excitement that you didn't realize you were letting it show on your face, that you had ceased your own motions to stop and stare intently.

It took him stopping and looking up at you with confusion in his expression, for you to feel a spike of panic as you realized the mistake.

"...Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Hm?" You immediately tried to correct the behavior, going back to cutting at something on your plate with a smile, hoping the way you stiffened wasn't visible. "Sorry, I just… I spaced out a second, what did you say?"

He was silent for a moment.

"...Nothing."

Ok. Good save.

You popped a bite of food into your mouth. Besides, despite being an overall intelligent man, he had a tendency to be rather dense sometimes, surely he wouldn't pick up on something like that.

You were fine for now— what is he doing.

You noticed an odd look spread across his features, eyebrows furrowed a bit, as if thinking something through.

Then, he stood up, glass in one hand, and grabbed yours with the other.  He swapped your drinks and sat back down, looking up at you with a neutral, cold stare.

Oh.

His gaze didn't falter. He set his elbows on the table, and rested his head on interlocked fingers. "Is there a problem?"

Oh no.

"N-no, I was just... why did you...?" You felt your body go cold, and try as you might not to, you knew panic must be showing on your face.

"It's the same thing, isn't it? So it's fine."

You couldn't miss the suspicious tone to his voice even if you'd tried to ignore it.

"...Right." You smiled, but you felt your lips tremble a bit. You could save this, for now, even if it didn't work out in your favor. You looked at the food, but you could still feel his gaze on you, so, hoping to pacify his suspicion, you brought the cup up to your mouth and tilted it as if you were drinking, closing your upper lip to the glass so that none of the juice actually got in your mouth. Then, after a moment, you pulled it away, swallowing to further the deceit.

He seemed satisfied by the action — right? It looked like he bought it, right? — and looked back down, resuming eating. There was a tense, awkward silence, so you attempted to fill in the empty space.

"D-did you, um, do anything fun today?"

"I wouldn't call anything I do 'fun,'" he muttered. "Just met with a bunch of people, one after the other... there's lots of business partnership contract renewals around this time of year, so they have to come here for that process."

"Mhm." You couldn't care less, but feigned interest. You knew Diluc well by this point, and knew how to appeal to the things that would soothe him the most. One of the most important factors in that was listening to whatever it was he had to say, no matter how boring (which, really, most things having to do with his work were). He liked to feel listened to, didn't have anyone else to go to, you supposed. Lots of stress, high expectations, and no solid support figure probably was the root of his psychological issues. — said issues were something you had spent a lot of time contemplating and trying to figure out in your spare time, given their now inherent effect on your own life.

But you presumed that most men without stress and some kind of serious issues generally did not go around abducting women they barely knew and forcing them to live in their homes. At least, not to your knowledge.

You had often wondered why someone like him wouldn't choose someone who was already that ideal, someone who already exemplified those traits… but as time went by you began to understand that that simply wasn't good enough.

That there was an allure to someone like you, to someone like him. That your very existence as you were on your own upset the man — you'd noticed that within the first few minutes of interacting with him, back when you first started coming to that damn bar you now wish you’d never set foot in. The displeased expression and dismissive tone at your vulgarity and defiance and aggression. You'd thought, back then, that the man disliked you —and he did, in a way.

But for someone who seemed to have such distaste for you, he sure did fail to ever leave you alone. There was some impulsive need to say something to you at some point in each encounter, as if he couldn't allow you to go about your night without at least one look of disdain or passive-aggressive comment. The only thing that seemed more irksome to him than your existence, was the fact that you always bit back, always said something in return, and thus your interactions had only fueled your and his disdain for each other further and further.

The mistake you'd made in your original assessment of him, that you’d slowly come to understand with time, was that he was not a person who simply avoided things he disliked, like most people — he was hellbent on fixing whatever irked him, remediating whatever was perceived as wrong.

You had not been an exception.

Now in the present, as you tried to focus on maintaining your calm act, he kept on talking about this or that. Some people who came by today, some guy who keeps trying to get him to sign some agreement he doesn't want to, this isn't a particularly good crop this season, but he's seen worse, blah blah, nothing you cared about.

You continued eating, which soon turned out to be a mistake — your throat was dry, food wasn't helping, and you desperately wanted something to drink, but you could do nothing but raise your glass up and pretend you were actually drinking your juice. You thought, for a moment, he seemed to look at the glass, and fear he realized the amount wasn't going down ran through your mind, but you tried to calm yourself. If you started imagining things in your paranoia, you'd only increase the chance of him noticing your panic.

There was obvious suspicion a few minutes ago, sure, but there had been plenty of times he had falsely suspected you of things in the past, and was generally willing to believe you once presented with contrary evidence, even once becoming, albeit reluctantly, apologetic when realizing you'd done nothing wrong.

Finally, although you were suppressing the urge to cough at the dry scratchiness of your throat, you finished eating, and, like you knew you were supposed to, stood with a forced little smile and grabbed your plate, extending a hand for him to give you his as well, and took them both back to the larger kitchen area through the open doorway, barely hearing his ‘thanks’ as you scurried off.

You set the plates down, immediately turning on a faucet and cupping water in your hand, before drinking it down to soothe your throat.

Alright, so things didn't turn out quite like you were hoping, but that was ok. There was plenty of the substance left. Just wait a few days, do it again, and control yourself better next time so as not to strike any suspicion. Easy.

The maids would take care of washing plates off, but you needed to dispose of the remainder of your drugging attempt just in case. There was only droplets of juice left in his, and, of course, yours was full. You washed his — well, originally yours — out first, running some water over it, thinking it would be odd if one was washed out and not the other, and you didn’t want to take any chances.

You heard him walk into the kitchen behind you, and unease creeped back up into your chest. But that wasn’t so bad, right? He’d think you were trying to help the staff out, and he’d think that was good, wouldn’t he?

You hummed a bit, and set his glass upside down in its proper place, reaching out to yours and preparing to pour it down the sink drain, when his hand latched around your wrist. You went stiff.

"You should finish it."

Any confidence that you had successfully eased his suspicions might as well have been poured down the drain as well.

"...Hm?" You forced a smile, albeit twitching. “O-oh, I just didn't... finish all of..." You were painfully aware that your voice trembled, and, in a last effort to appear like you weren't nervous, forced yourself to turn your head and look at him.

"You didn't drink it at all." His face was flat and cold, eyes ever so slightly narrowed, but his voice was dark, quiet, knowing. "It's good for you. Don't let it go to waste."

You couldn't argue that you didn't like it — it was the same thing you drank every single night. Nor could you confess why you didn't want to do so. Of course, drinking it was technically an option. You'd just pass out and be forced to deal with the consequences once you woke up — although the cynical part of your mind thought maybe passing out wouldn't be too bad right about now.

Now, the expression on his face grew darker, fully obvious as a look of accusation, and the tone that followed matched.

“Unless there's something wrong with it.”

Your mind scrambled, unable to think of a way out. Your smile widened and twitched, and your body shivered, trying and failing to force a look of happiness, but the crushing feeling of defeat was beginning to settle in. "I... ah, hah, I, um..."

His expression and voice didn't waver, in contrast to your cowering. Looking down on you with something like frustration, perhaps disappointment. There was the slightest edge of a quietness in it, as he continued, "If there is, then tell me."

The last two words came out firm. A command.

"I... I..." You swallowed, visibly shaking, no longer able to hide the fear on your features. You bit your lower lip, and, feeling your eyes burn, your resolve broke.

You hung your head, and replied in a quiet voice, wavering on the verge of tears.

"...I'm sorry."

He released your hand, but snatched the glass out from it, immediately dumping the mixture down the sink. You reached up, wiping away the watering in your eyes that were threatening to become tears.

"Where is it?"

You stiffened at the firmness in his voice. You tried your best to look up, questioning in a pathetic whimper. "...Hm?"

"The— I don't know, whatever you put in there. Where is it?" There was a rising frustration in his tone.

You hadn't thought about that part. Of course, how could you not realize he'd do that if he found out? There wouldn't be another opportunity to try again. That realization left a sting of despair in your chest, you chastised yourself for not saving a smaller portion hidden away. If you'd been smart, you would have prepared for this possible outcome, and saved some so that he would think he'd taken it all. Dammit.

For a moment, you were silent.

"Tell me."

You tensed up, biting your lip.

You were afraid, but it also made you angry. The commanding, authoritative tone, as if he owned you, as if he had any right to tell you what to do. There was a time where you would have responded to anyone who spoke in such a way to you with equal aggression, if not outright violence. Your pride swelled in your chest, digging its heels in at the thought of being obedient, sickened by the notion of giving in.

At your hesitation, he said your name.

It was a low tone, a clear warning in response to your defiant silence. You jolted, and scurried over to the other side of the kitchen, trying to bite your lip, hands trembling as you opened the cabinet and pulled out the container and turned around, hanging your head and standing stiff with fear and humiliation as he took it from your hand and read the front of the package.

He sighed, but as he did, some of the tension seemed to roll off his frame. "...Oh. That." He caught the confused expression you had at those words, and elaborated. "I thought it would be—” he cut off and took another heavy breath, whether out of exasperation or relief or both, you weren't sure. “I thought you were trying to poison me again… or kill me.”

"No," you shook your head rapidly. “I wouldn't… do that…” Granted, you may have very well have chosen take the chance if it was an option, but such honesty would be ill-advised when your current objective was to deescalate the situation you'd landed yourself in, and hopefully quell any further anger before it emerged.

Yes, this was practical, you told yourself — and more importantly, told your wounded sense of pride. You were just being practical, strategic.

Besides, the sedative was the only thing you had available, anyway… well, had had available, since it was now certainly going to be taken from you.

You stood perfectly still as he moved, pulling a key out of his pocket, mumbling something about how he had no idea how that even got there, as he unlocked what you had come to refer to in your mind as the "forbidden" cabinet  — where all the various dangerous things lay, such as knives, skewers, rat poison (moved there after the previous incident), bleach even.

You were aware that he and all the staff members possessed a key, as you'd sometimes catch maids or other workers accessing it for various purposes, so you assumed it was there solely to keep those things out of your reach. It had started out as a few knives, but the collection had slowly built over time due to your creativity with what remained at your disposal.

“And here you were actually starting to improve,” he mumbled. The words were heavily laden with exhaustion, frustration.

You clenched your fists. The words crawled under your skin, bothered you viscerally, knowing there was truth to them. Thinking back, over the past few weeks, you'd become more complacent and behaved than you'd ever been prior — part of it had been an act, sure, but a creeping dense of paranoia made you wonder if you’d been settling into it, if it had been starting to become natural. You rejected the thought, insisting otherwise to both him and yourself.

“That's— that's only because I've been here so long… you're wrong…”

Even though the words were spoken weakly, the mere act of disagreement was not within the boundaries of complacency and acceptable behavior. It was not normal for your good wife act. The defiance was slowly bubbling up to the surface, and you could tell from the way you say you saw his jaw visibly clench, that he noticed that as much as you did.

He narrowed his eyes as he turned his head towards you, before shaking his head and returning to putting the offending substance away. He was moving some of the things around to make space for the new object, placing it inside before locking the doors shut again, back turned to you.

But then, there was only more silence as he reached up to rub at the side of his temple with one of his hands.

You hoped for the best, that perhaps the lack of murderous intent on your part would serve to significantly lessen his anger, or that due to contrast, he would view trying to sedate him as a petty offense. Trivial. Overlookable.

“But why would you even want to knock me out…?” He trailed off, looking to the ground in pensiveness. And then, the worst thing you feared happened — the exact intent seemed to click with him.

Your gaze cast to the floor, you could just see him move out of the corner of your eye, walking back towards you, but in fear, you couldn't bring yourself to look up. You saw his feet facing yours as you looked down, and a shadow cast over your hanging head. He was standing right in front of you, and, perhaps out of pride, or perhaps accepting it was inevitable anyway, you forced yourself to look up, eye-to-eye, his own narrowed with disdain.

“…You were going to put me to sleep so you could run off again.”

You stiffened. “No,” you immediately rushed to your own defense. “I just—”

“Yes, you were. Don't—” he huffed, finishing his sentence with gritted teeth, “don't lie to me.”

“I'm not!” Your words that time came out more angry than fearful, your own frustration with everything beginning to balance our your fear.

“I just said—” he cut his words short and took a deep breath, reaching up to rest his face in his hand in a gesture of exasperation. His next words were not as intensely angered, more of a tired frustration laden in them. “You really never learn, do you.”

The words, simple as they were, had a strong effect.

Your fear and anger dwelled in your heart in a state of coexistence — you’d been tamed enough that avoiding pain and consequence was your usual priority, with the anger, the inherent defiance in your spirit, taking a secondary place. But with the right choice of words, the right circumstances, that same defiant spirit that he so very much hated, that he worked so hard to erase, would come bouncing back. A routine you’d been through more than once by now.

That same spirit of defiance had slowly been rising, had been your whole reason for your attempt, but with that, the switch flipped. Your hands balled into fists at your side.

“Learn what?!” Your voice came out louder than before. “Goddammit, I—”

The irritation on his features grew. “Don't raise your voice. And for the millionth time, watch your mouth.”

“I'll do what I want!” You leaned your upper body forward in exertion. “You’re the one that never lets me go anywhere! I wouldn't have done it if you didn't keep me locked up like an animal!”

His head snapped up fully at your voice, eyes narrowing into a glare.

“Don't get an attitude with me.”

Your eye twitched. That was one of your many rules that you so despised, the one you were most frequently found guilty of violating. Commands you were held to for no other reason than the desires of someone else, a projection of an ideal you were so brutally forced to conform to. Don't raise your voice, don't get a bad attitude, don't walk so loud, don't slouch, don't curse, don't make that face, don't talk back. The “don't” commands were bad enough, but the expectation of the inverse, the image you had to conform to, was even worse. To be nice, to sit there and smile and do whatever was instructed without so much as a complaint. Those were the good traits that you were supposed to have, that you were to be instilled with — as if a wild animal to be caught and domesticated.

A dam holding back your emotions seemed to break. You finally raised you voice fully, nearly yelling.

“It's your fault for making me stay in here in the first place, you bastard!” You snarled. “You keep acting like this is normal and it's not! You kidnapped me, dammit! You're mad at me for breaking your stupid rules when you're the one committing a fucking crime!”

You were speaking with such forceful anger you leaned forward with the exertion, panting heavy breaths, hands curled into fists. Your fury reached a peak, throwing aside all regard for whatever line your next words may cross.

"And you know what? I don't belong to you, I'm not your — I'm not anyone's goddamn dainty little fucking housewife! I don’t have to listen to a damn word you say, you bastard, you—”

You hesitated to finish your sentence, about to deliver another onslaught of curses, but stopped short when you tilted your gaze up, and your eyes met.

His eyes narrowed, staring at you with something like abject disgust, irritation, exasperation, but the silence was what amplified your dread the most. A single second of heavy, tense quiet passed, and then you saw him reach down to his waist, grasping at the front of his belt and unfastening it before pulling the other end, rapidly pulling the whole thing out of the loops.

“Come here.”

A very firmly-spoken command. Your stomach felt as if it flipped over on itself, a sudden cold feeling across your flesh, a learned response. You took a step back, drawing your hands up to your chest in a defensive reflex.

You hesitated, feet spread apart as if to move, but in what direction you weren't certain. Your eyes darted to the left and right, and froze as your gaze settled on the arch leading to the hallway.

Which he must have noticed, given the look he shot you. His voice grew quieter, more foreboding. “Don’t you dare run. Come here. Now.”

You had not yet fucked up quite this badly before, not done something to this magnitude — poisoned him, yes, and had outbursts, yes, but never back-to-back, the offenses stacking on top of each other. That outburst just then was the most vicious one you'd had since you woke up here, and you would be given far less lenience now than then. The thoughts of past punishments for even mild transgressions crossed through your mind. The blood drained from your face, your heartrate picked up faster.

It was stupid, really. So, so stupid, so futile, and had you really thought about it, you would know how pointless it was. But in the moment, you weren't operating so much on reason, so much as the dread in your gut and instinct.

For that reason, you turned in the opposite direction, bolted through the door to the hall, and took off running.

"Wh—” You heard the sound in his throat cut off as you bolted, clearly taken aback by the choice of action, but soon followed by a throaty groan of frustration you could hear all too well.

You didn't even really know where you were going. Nor what you planned to accomplish. The building was large, there were plenty of hallways to run down and turns to take — you turned left at the end of the room, then took and immediate right, unable to remember the structure enough to coordinate any plan of action as to where to run, just following the need to run away.

The doors were always locked from the inside and out now, one set of locks to keep intruders out and the other to keep you in. Breaking glass windows was a risk you didn't want to take, and it would alert anyone nearby to your location immediately and would only serve to greatly increase any potential consequence. Thus, for the time being, perhaps you were looking more for a place to hide. Maybe if you could just do that, find a place to cower and wait out the brunt of his anger, he would calm down by the time you came out.

Well, really, you knew that probably wasn’t doable, but it was nice to at least think for a moment.

And a moment was all you got.

You hesitated as you reached a spot where the hall split into two different corridors, and that one moment of hesitation was enough to close the gap between you. You squealed and flailed as a hand forcefully grabbed at your hair, pulling you back.

“Ow!” You squirmed, the balls of your bare feet thumping on the hardwood as they stumbled to regain your balance. “Let—let me go! Ow, ow, that hurts—”

“Hold still.” The command was firm, a foreboding voice that made your heart race.

The fabric around your torso pulled taut against your skin as he took a fistful of the back side of it, other arm harshly wrapping around your waist before you felt your weight lift upward, feet leaving the ground.

You thrashed, but even doing so to the best of your ability had no effect. His grip didn’t budge.

You grunted as you were effectively slung over his shoulder. He started moving forward, footsteps heavy and frustrated. “Gh!” You squirmed, flailed, all to no avail.

Your resistance began to falter in realization of the futility of fighting the now-inevitable, groaning in miserable anger and weakly bringing your clenched fists down on his back as you were, with seemingly little effort, carried down the hall, taking a turn and ascending up the staircase. It was only a short distance from the top to the bedroom door, which opened in a swift, furious motion, likewise slamming shut behind you.

You grunted as you were thrown down onto the mattress. You put your hands down and pushed yourself upward, beginning to try and crawl away, but a hand caught you by the back of your shirt again, pushing your upper body down. You made a rough, irritated noise in the back of your throat as you squirmed, but soon your hands were pinned behind your back, leaving you face down with your hips in the air.

You inhaled a sharp gasp of air and stiffened when you felt the skirt end if the dress hike up, the waistband beneath pulled down, cool air on your bare flesh.

“Wait wait, no, I'm sorry—”

You instinctively jerked forward, squirming, heart beginning to pound in your chest. You had had enough experience to know that this was far more painful on bare skin, as if the humiliation ritual of it all wasn't bad enough.

You felt like a petulant child, begging and whimpering. You tried to move, but the hand pushing down and your knees being positioned right on the edge of the bed effectively forced you into holding the position, with no way to move.

“Then you should have thought about that before you decided to do what you did.” There was no trace of mercy or empathy in his voice. “This is entirely your fault.”

“But I—”

You cut off with a squeal, body lurching forward as sharp pain came down on the sensitive skin on your ass, the smacking sound echoing in your ears. Your jaw clenched, muscles tensing. He wasn't holding back either, one strike was enough to make your eyes begin to water.

“This wouldn't have to keep happening—”

Another strike on the enunciated word. You hissed a sharp breath through clenched teeth and groaned, hips reflexively jerking forward in an attempt to pull away, to no avail.

“—if you could just—”

Another strike. You winced and stiffened, groaning and straining your muscles pulling against the firm hold forcing you in place.

“—give it up—”

And yet another.

“—and learn to behave.”

Another and another and another, three in quick succession. You yelped and jolted at each, a miserable sound coming out of your throat. Unable to maintain enough pride to hold them back, tears streamed down your face.

“Stop, stop…” you whimpered. “It hurts…”

But the only reply you got was calloused and merciless.

“It’s supposed to.”

The next strike was harder than the previous ones. You squealed, taking deep, gasping breaths. Your legs trembled.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry, please, I won't do it again—”

“You said that last time.”

Your heart sank. You didn't have any reply other than to whimper in misery and anticipation, turning to a throaty cry of pain as you were struck again.

“It's for your own good. You would be happier if you just give in. But you insist—”

The leather came down hard. Your shoulders wracked with a sob, completely breaking the last of your resolve to hold back your reactions.

“—on being stubborn.”

The belt came down again, your body jolting and face contorting with the pain once more.

It was the final strike to drive you over the edge.

"I'm sorry!"

You couldn't speak further for a moment, having to take a few heaving gasps. Your shoulders jerked with a sob, sniffling, tears streaming down your face.

The only thing outweighing the stinging, striking pain itself was the tight feeling in your chest of humiliation and bitterness. It was intended as such, of course, to hurt not only your body, but your pride as well.

Your body trembled, heaving breaths and whimpers filling the following quiet. Perhaps your misery was finally deemed worthy of mercy, as despite your tensing in anticipation, no further sudden pain followed, only the lingering, hot sting on your bare flesh.

There was only a heavy sigh.

“Are you done being a brat?”

You sniffled, nodding your head against the sheets. “Mmhm…”

There was a momentary pause, perhaps giving you the opportunity to catch your mistake on your own. After you failed to do so within a few moments, the hand around your wrists tightened, a wordless threat. A brief panic surged through your mind, but you realized where you'd erred within a second.

Still, even though you opened your mouth, taking a breath to speak, some last little spark of stubborn pride flickered up, bitter and spiteful, and for a moment, you refused to give in to it, the one rule you so deeply resented more than any other.

And then he said your name — a foreboding, low tone, a warning.

Thus the brief moment of dignity was extinguished in a single word. You practically blubbered out the words, distorted by your sniffling and slurring.

“Y-yes sir…”

Finally, the grip on your wrists released.

“Good.”

You slumped forward, trembling hands reaching out to pull yourself further onto the bed before you went limp on your stomach and still, head spinning and exhaustion setting in as you came down from the high of the expense of so much energy and stress. As your head cleared, you became aware of the discomfort of wetness on your face, reaching up wipe your cheeks with the back of your hand. The sting was bad enough that you didn’t even bother pulling your clothes back into place to cover yourself, not wanting the fabric to brush against the now-sensitive skin.

There was a long moment of quiet. You weakly turned your head, seeing the pensive look on his face, eyebrows furrowed and looking at the ground. Something about it felt ominous, made your stomach shaft to churn.

“This keeps happening in a cycle,” he muttered, a low voice, almost as if speaking more to himself than you. “You start to improve, and then you regress again.”

Had you not been so utterly weary, not to mention bearing the lingering sting to your backside, you might have gotten defensive, snapped at him over referring to succumbing to the spiritual torment of your life as improvement. But now, spirit already broken as it could be for one day — at least, so you believed in that moment — you only closed your eyes, trying to ignore him. Maybe you could rest your body, at least a little, before the inevitable disturbance of a different form of exertion.

But when you squeezed your eyes shut, as always, the thoughts came rushing through your mind, emotions and recollections all at once, too intense for you to bear. Thinking through everything over again, your mistakes that led you to where you were now — not so much the events of the last hour, and more the grand scheme of things, how much you regretted ever making eye contact with him, or ever setting foot in that damn tavern.

Each and every day, you replayed the final conversation you two had had, sitting there in his own bar after everyone else had gone home, with you insisting on drinking more until you were content. After so much time — or perhaps due to the effect of the drugs, or the alcohol — you'd forgotten what the whole of the conversation was even about, only your response to one of those half-muttered comments about how this or that behavior of yours was unattractive, how you'd never get married if you kept it up, or any of the other things he said that irked you so.

You'd glared, snapping at him.

What makes you think you get to tell me what to do?

The only other thing you remembered — no, it was perfectly burned into your memory, crystal-clear despite your intoxication at the time — was the way he'd frozen, the look on his face when you'd said it, the glimpse you'd caught of it for a mere second. Slack-jawed, eyebrows furrowed, staring down at you with some amalgamation of disbelief, fury, and pure, unadulterated disgust.

Well, it wasn't the only thing you remembered — he'd walked away for a moment, you'd nearly drifted off in drunken haze, and something was shoved into your hands, you drank it without question (like an idiot, you often reprimanded yourself) and then, the next memory was waking up in his bed.

It played over, and over, and over, as you lay there shivering, cold and exhausted. As much as you resented him, you couldn’t help but feel enraged with yourself, each time you thought back to each interaction. That you didn’t recognize that something was wrong, that the degree of quiet malice he seemed to hold for you was unnatural, obsessive, dangerous. You’d just shrugged it off as just being his nature. Such an idiot, you thought to yourself. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

A heavy sigh pulled you out of your thoughts.

“…”

Whatever he was actually now thinking, though, he didn’t say aloud.

Instead, predictably, his hands grabbed at your thighs, pulling you back across the bed. The same familiar knot of dread began to twist in your chest again.

You groaned, a sound of combined exasperation, pain and exhaustion. Your voice came out weak. “N-no, don’t… it’ll hurt too much…” Despite your verbal protest, you couldn’t actually summon the will to do much more than a weak squirming with your body as the dress was pulled up. Your attempts to hold your arms down proved futile as they were easily grabbed and maneuvered to allow him to pull the clothing off entirely, throwing it onto the mattress.

“It’s not going to hurt you,” was his only reply, an assured and matter-of-fact tone, like it was an objective, predetermined truth that you were foolish to contest. His hands moved to your hips, pulling on them to pull you back into your prior positioning. “It only hurts because you don’t relax enough.”

You might have remarked that the two back-to-back statements were quite the contradiction, but in the moment you were too lost in a combination of daze and panic to be too sarcastic. The pull jolted your mind back into full clarity. You tried to push yourself up on your hands, but his hand pressed to your back again, holding you in place.

“Wait, wait—”

You cut off in a shrill wail, toes curling and legs kicking out reflexively as the sting of the stretch set in. Your back arched in a reactive attempt to get away from the sudden intrusion that felt like it was splitting you apart, cleaving your body in half.

"Just—just hold still," his grip on your wrists tightened as your hands attempted to jerk back. He moved one hand to the other, taking both your wrists in one hand so he could reach down to your hips with the other, grabbing at one with a bruising grip and holding you still in place before sliding out, then back in, a second time, then a third.

You gritted your teeth, tears forming in your eyes anew as your body tensed up. The friction burned, the stretch ached. "It hurts," you whimpered, speaking through your teeth gritted in pain. "You-you're tearing me apart..."

"Just relax. You’re too tense.”

“I can’t just—gh!”

His arm shifted from pressing you down to wrapping around your torso, pulling your upper body back up from behind, while also preventing you from pulling yourself forward, and instead pulling your body closer against his, bouncing you back and forth on his cock. Each movement brought your ass bouncing back against his hips, a harsh sting on still-sensitive flesh.

"A-ah, ah…” you clamped down on reflex, trembling hands reaching behind you to push him back, but you were so weak it did nothing. “Wait, wait…” Your words came out slurred and strained.

Suddenly, to your surprise, the movement actually stopped. There was a moment of pause, and for that moment, you actually believed maybe you were receiving whatever semblance of mercy the man was capable of.

You heard his heavy breathing in your ear, felt him let his head fall downward for a moment, as if in thought.

Then, his hands moved once more — this time, one grasping at your waist, forcing your back into an arch, the other reaching up, palm against your throat and his fingers curling to grasp your jaw.

“Fight me off.”

With that, he pulled back, and slammed forward again. You squealed, every muscle tensing and spasming at the ripples of sensation it sent through your nerves.

“What? I don't— what are you—”

Another harsh, slamming thrust cut you off.

“Remember what you said before? When you first came here?” His words were spoken in a low, dark tone, dripping with vengeful spite. His fingernails dug into the flesh of your face. “You told me you didn't need anyone.”

The hand on your hip tightened its grip as you pulled your hips forward, jerking you back as his own hips snapped forward, the motion ramming into you in full all the way down to the base, the flesh of your ass pressed up against his hip bones.

“You said you were strong, that you didn't need protection.” The grip tightened, painfully pressing down. “You said you could take care of yourself.” His fingers curled further into your skin. “Remember that?”

Even in such a flat tone, his voice felt utterly mocking. The defiance you'd thought he'd already drained from your spirit began to surge back up in full force, a burning rage filling your chest.

“If you're so strong,” he continued, words muddled with heavy panting breaths, bouncing you back and forth with increasing pace, “then you should have no problem—” he took another heavy breath, next words coming out as half-spoken, half-hissed through clenched teeth, “fighting me off.”

You stiffened, eye twitching, a rough throaty sound of fury coming from your mouth as you began to squirm, to no avail.

“Come on. Prove it.” His voice grew more intense, lower, harsher. “Push me off. Do it.”

You practically growled, an animalistic sound, savagely reaching up to claw at the hand gripping your jaw, pulling your body forward with all the strength you could muster.

But it was nothing by comparison. As if fueled by your resistance, he only slammed into you faster and harder. At that point, the fluids leaking from your body lubricated the movements, the pain ebbing away, replaced by a warm, tight sensation, pressing against the spots in your body that made you melt, the sheer stretch becoming pleasurable.

“Or maybe you're wrong.” He jerked your head back to the point that the side of your face touched his, his heavy panting warm against your ear. “Maybe you should accept that you're weak.”

The grip on your jaw caused his palm to dig into your throat, not enough to choke you fully, but enough to cause discomfort.

“You need someone to— you need me.” His head titled ever so slightly downward, his hair brushing against the back of your neck.

Trying to turn your head away proved futile, the iron grip keeping it just as firmly locked in place as your body.

“You're so naive. The weak are supposed to be self-aware.” He spoke through clenched teeth, intense anger seeping into his voice. “But you had to go and act so tough—”

A harsher thrust than any of the ones preceding it, so hard you gagged on air, unable to even scream.

“—and be so goddamn mouthy all the time.”

Your strained, animalistic noises continued, pulling your body forward with every single ounce of strength you were physically capable of.

You didn't move. It felt as if you were trying to pull yourself out of steel chains, pure futility. Your arms trembled with the strain, and yet you didn't budge.

“As if I couldn't just reach over and break you any time I felt like it.”

Your toes curled, muscles tensing in pleasure-pain, each movement ramming into a spot that sent sparks of pleasure up your spine, whilst also causing the flesh of your backside to slap against his hips, sending jolts of pain through your body all at once.

“As if any of those guys you were such a little bitch to couldn’t have done the same.”

Sweat coated your skin, running down your back. The bed creaked, violently slamming against the frame. He pulled you so close that your shoulder blades pressed to his chest.

“Do you have any idea how easy this is? I'm not even trying.”

The words felt like a knife to your chest. In the past, you'd been irritated by you inferior physical strength, but admittedly you hadn't stopped to really think more deeply about the matter of your inability to free yourself, in the bigger picture of things.

A heavy, cold feeling began to seep out of your heart, through your chest, into your blood. A dawning realization of your total powerlessness, of your weakness. It was harrowing, brutal, and unforgiving.

You took heavy, gasping breaths. The intensity of every sensation was too much, driving you to a brink of what felt like madness. The ache in your body, the chill in your blood, the pleasure and the sting and the despair.

Your resolve broke. You went limp, panting, eyes watering with bitterness and fury, hot tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes, weak voice coming out as a blubbering whimper, broken up by the incessant thrusts jerking your body back and forth.

“I-I’m, I'm so, sorr-eee…”

The only reply you got was a single word.

“Good.”

You closed your watery, burning eyes. If you couldn't escape in reality, you could at least escape in your mind, desperately trying to block out the thoughts and the shame and the bitterness, trying to focus on sensation, feeling, the way you trembled at the pleasure. The way the sharp sting and the heat of the pleasure began to blur together, the pain itself only intensifying the rising tight, warm feeling inside.

You threw your head back to rest against his chest, whimpering like an animal. Your hands now only weakly reached behind you, grasping at his torso, neither pulling nor pushing. Each movement grew move intense, somehow even harder and harder still, inhumanly fast, flesh slapping against flesh, the sound amplified by the slick and sweat that coated the skin where your bodies conjoined. Your body began to quiver.

The climax that came over you was not the strongest you'd ever had — your body was far too exhausted and pained to even summon such a thing — but the high shot through your body nonetheless, waves of intensity rushing throughout. You let out a long, high-pitched sound as it peaked and ebbed away, mind slipping into a state of nothingness, a fog so thick you might as well have been unconscious.

You barely felt the motions stop, the way you were lowered down to rest on your stomach. Your attention was only briefly pulled to the surface of your consciousness with the sudden sensation of emptiness, the way your insides spasmed to clench on empty space, the chill that set in as the sweat began to cool over your body, and finally the shifting of the mattress as weight settled onto the other side, sitting beside your limp form.

And then, as your consciousness swayed, one faint little thought kept you from slipping away.

Something was different. You were limp and numb from the stupor, mind lost in a haze, but a faint sense of alarm slowly drug your consciousness back to alertness. Something was different, something was wrong.

You shifted, muscles reflexively clamping down on the now-empty space, and stiffened as you felt something fluid ooze out of your slit, drooling down your flesh and onto your thigh.

“Did… did you… cum… inside me…?”

You turned towards the figure blurred by the residual tears and dizziness. You could make out him sitting there, the bright red hair and the flesh tone of his unclothed upper body, see him running his hand over the top of his head, pushing sweat-drenched strands of hair back.

Your stupor had left your eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, but they immediately snapped back fully open as the next words registered with your ears, spoken in a fully nonchalant, matter-of-fact tone.

“This will be good for you.”

You sat up — a movement that took effort, nearly falling back down on hands still trembling with aftershock, and looked up at him with panicked confusion plastered on your face. “…Huh… what?”

Now you could make out his eyes, looking into yours, continuing on in the same blunt voice, as if speaking of a trivial matter.

“…I was waiting. I thought it would be a bad idea to give you a kid before you showed some improvement.” After a moment of pause as he sat more upright, he continued, “But thinking about it, that could be part of the reason you're so badly behaved to begin with. You're… imbalanced or something.”

He held a hand out palm-up in a casual gesture.

“So, it will calm you down.”

You stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed in disbelief and horror.

“That's—” you twitched. Your voice was hoarse, each word hurt, as if dragging broken glass down your throat. “You're insane. You can't— you can't do this to me. I can't do that!”

“You're being overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?!” You pushed the heels of your hands into the mattress to propel yourself backwards, crawling away from him as if it would do any good. “No, you don't understand, I… I can't…!”

Your breathing began to speed up, right alongside your heart rate. Panic consumed your train of thought. The implications of the very notion were, for you, world-ending — it would change everything, it would debilitate you and any hopes you had of ever leaving. Even beyond that, just the mere thought, the mental image the idea created, made you shudder.

You looked down. Between your legs, some of the cum had begun to ooze out onto the sheets.

Right, you could extract it all, to the best of your ability, and hope for the best. Your legs were trembling so badly you weren't certain if you could support your own weight, but nonetheless, you tried to make your way to the edge of the bed.

“No, no, I… I need to go wash off—”

“No, you're not.” His hand latched onto your arm, roughly pulling you back. You fell onto your side with a grunt.

You stiffened and whimpered as you felt two of his fingers wipe the inside of your thigh, collecting the semen that had slipped out with gravity and your movement, and pressed the fingers back inside of you, not wanting any to go to waste.

“Don't move around so much.”

Panic turned into aggression, like a cornered animal. Your nose wrinkled up with the furious expression that crossed your face.

“There is no way in hell I'm—”

Your words cut off once more as his hand latched onto your jaw, eyes narrowing.

“…Do you want to do this over again?” He tilted your head up, forcing you to look him in the eye. “Because I have no problem with that, if you keep mouthing off.”

You froze up again. The despair took hold. You didn't have any more fight left in you. It wasn't worth it, you couldn't handle another round with the belt.

You bit your lip, shaking your head. It wasn't until he sighed, and gave you an irritated look that you recognized your mistake once again.

“…No, sir…”

He closed his eyes, seemingly content with the rectification. “Good.” He pulled you down further, until you were lying on your side. “It's late enough to go to bed. You need sleep.”

You lay motionless, aside from the still-lingering shivering, watching as he shuffled off the remainder of his clothes and turned off the nearby lamp, plunging the room into near-darkness, before laying back down, turning back towards you, pulling you close.

His arm wrapped around your back, keeping your body pressed to his. Your face rested against his collarbones.

He shifted a bit, causing his hand to just barely brush over your backside — you stiffened, sucking a sharp breath in through your teeth.

“Mm, sorry.”

The half-hearted, sleepy mutter was all you got — an apology you knew was only for the momentary accidental touch and not the pain itself. That would be deemed deserved and justified, should you ever complain, and would probably earn you the same punishment again.

Your face scrunched up with misery, as if about to cry, but your body couldn't produce any more tears.

“Night.”

You felt the rumbling in his chest against yours. You swallowed the lump in your throat before you replied, voice barely more than a whisper.

“…Goodnight…”

There was still a little bit of light coming in through the window — it wasn't even really fully dark yet, the last few rays of purplish twilight visible in the sky.

You wondered if you'd ever see it from any other view than the estate ever again — but pushed the thought away, as you didn't like what you thought might be the answer, nor the way it made you think of the conversation that transpired moments prior.

You closed your eyes, shifted around a bit and — wincing at the fluid that drooled down your leg — tried your best to rest.

[brunchable]

Winter King, Part Five : I Knew You Were Trouble

Pairings: King AU Bucky Barnes x Out of place Queen Reader Words: 19K Themes: Royaltycore AU, love and power, arranged Marriage, georgian/regency era misogyny, profanity. Warning: Implied poisoning, murderous intentions. Summary: The court pressures James to consider a consort, while Y/N takes control by offering to choose the consort herself, leading to a heated arguement with James, who refuses the idea. A/N: Soryy it took so long, I had rewrite the plot multiple times until I was satisfied ;___;

Over the past three months, things have shifted in subtle yet deeply unsettling ways.

It began innocuously enough—a shared cup of tea, offered with a bright smile and grace, becoming a fixed part of your daily routine. Morning and evening, without fail, Sharon appeared in the gardens or your chambers, her manner gentle and unobtrusive as she poured the fragrant liquid. What had once been a sporadic, almost ceremonial gesture slowly evolved into something far more rigid and persistent—a ritual that seemed to encompass your every waking moment.

“I thought I’d try something new today,” Sharon would say with a smile, handing over a new blend of tea. Each time, the liquid carried a faint floral aroma mixed with something unplaceable, something slightly bitter that lingered at the back of your throat. But you forced yourself to accept it, convinced it was meant to calm your fraying nerves.

At first, you accepted Sharon’s presence without question, appreciating what seemed like genuine concern and support during a difficult time. But as the days bled into weeks, and the weeks slipped into months, something began to change. It started as a faint dizziness, an inexplicable haze clouding your thoughts. Then came the irritability, creeping in like a shadow at the edges of your mind. The slightest inconvenience sets you on edge. The frustration of being unable to conceive—each failed attempt at another wound on your pride and your heart—gnawed at you, leaving you brittle and raw.

“Perhaps we should take a break,” Bucky had suggested softly one night, his hand resting gently upon yours. His eyes, though filled with understanding, held a trace of helplessness. “You are placing too much pressure upon yourself.”

“No!” The word snapped from your mouth like a whip, sharp and venomous. You pulled your hand away, fingers trembling.

“A break?” you nearly shouted, your voice rising in pitch. “A break is something we cannot afford! Do you believe this is some trivial matter that we can simply abandon until we feel ready to face it again?” You stood abruptly, your hands clenched at your sides as you glared at him. “How can you even suggest such a thing?”

Trying to conceive had once been an exciting endeavor—one filled with passion and hope. Every night you spent together had been charged with anticipation. But now, it felt clinical, almost like a job you were both obligated to fulfill. The intimacy you shared seemed tainted, weighed down by expectation and the pressure to produce an heir.

“Because I am afraid of losing you,” Bucky replied quietly, his gaze steady despite the tremor in his voice. “If this continues as it is… it will break us apart.”

“Losing me?” you repeated, incredulous. “You will not lose me because I am tired or upset, Bucky! You will lose me because you have given up! Because you refuse to endure what I must endure every single day!”

“That is not true,” he murmured, shaking his head. “I have never given up—”

“Then what would you call this?” you interrupted, gesturing wildly. “This pathetic attempt to avoid conflict? To ease your own guilt?” Your voice turned icy, each word sharper than the last. “You want to take a break, Bucky? Fine. Perhaps you should not have married me in the first place if you lacked the strength to handle what it truly means to be a husband.”

Bucky’s expression faltered, pain flickering across his face. He opened his mouth to respond but closed it just as quickly, his jaw tightening. He took a slow breath, looking at you as if searching for something—some trace of the person he knew beneath all the hurt and anger.

“Very well,” he said softly, his voice strained. “I see… I see that you need space.”

He stepped back, shoulders tense and jaw clenched, struggling to keep his composure. “I shall leave you for now. But we will speak of this again.” With a final, lingering glance, he turned and walked away, the soft sound of his footsteps echoing in the silence.

You watched him leave, the room feeling colder and emptier without his presence. The sting of regret tugged at your heart, but the anger was still too raw, too fresh, to let go of.

Since then, there had been a distance between you—one neither of you seemed able to cross. He’d reach out to comfort you, but you’d shrink away. And on the rare nights he could muster enough strength to join you, something always seemed to come up—an intense headache or exhaustion that rendered him unable to even speak.

Your frustration grew, not just with Bucky, but with everyone around you. Even Sharon, whose constant presence had begun to grate on your nerves in a way that was impossible to ignore. One afternoon, as Sharon approached with a familiar smile and a steaming cup of tea, you felt something inside you snap.

“I don’t want it,” you said sharply, surprising yourself as much as Sharon.

Sharon blinked, her expression smoothing into one of mild concern. “I just thought—”

“I said I don’t want it,” you repeated, your voice rising slightly. “Thank you, but… I’m fine.”

For a moment, Sharon simply stood there, her eyes flickering with something too quick to name. But then, with a gracious nod, she set the cup down on the table beside you and stepped back.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Sharon murmured, her voice soft, soothing. “If there’s anything else I can do—”

“There’s nothing,” you cut her off, turning your gaze away.

The small rebellion felt both liberating and hollow. The tea, left untouched, sat there until it grew cold and lifeless. After that incident, you found yourself spending more time away from the palace, seeking solace in places that offered you a semblance of peace.

Whenever you felt the walls closing in, you would steal away to the grand oak tree at the edge of the garden—a place that had become your sanctuary. There, you would climb up to one of the higher branches and settle in, surrounded by the rustling leaves and the gentle sway of the wind. It was a place where you could breathe, away from prying eyes and the weight of your title.

Other times, when the frustration grew too overwhelming, you would escape on horseback, galloping through the meadows beyond the palace grounds with Steve riding at your side. The wind in your hair, the thundering rhythm of hooves pounding against the earth—it was the closest thing to freedom you could grasp. Steve’s presence, though silent, was a comfort. He never asked questions, never pushed you to speak when you didn’t want to. He simply rode beside you, his steady gaze offering a quiet reassurance that you weren’t entirely alone.

And yet, even Steve’s presence came with its own peculiarities. Every time Sharon handed you a cup of tea, Steve’s demeanor would shift. Without fail, he managed to spill or knock over the cup—his hands suddenly clumsy and uncoordinated in a way that seemed almost unnatural for a man of his precision and strength.

“Steve, honestly!” you had laughed one morning after he’d accidentally brushed against your arm, causing the cup to tip precariously before shattering on the stone path. “Has guard duty made you clumsy?”

“Maybe,” Steve had replied lightly, his eyes scanning Sharon’s face for the briefest flicker of something—anything—that would give him a clue. But Sharon only smiled indulgently, bending to pick up the shards with the utmost care.

“No harm done, Captain,” she murmured, her gaze lifting to his with a flash of what looked like irritation. “I’ll make sure to bring another cup.”

The accidents became so frequent that you found yourself wondering if he was doing it on purpose, but Steve never offered an explanation. Instead, he stayed close by, his eyes never straying far from the cup or from Sharon herself.

In the shadows of the palace, Isaac had been moving quietly, digging deeper. His investigations started with whispers—rumors and innuendos that pointed to something far more sinister than mere court gossip. There were mentions of deals made in hushed voices, promises exchanged behind closed doors, and the growing influence of certain factions within the court. But each lead only raised more questions, leaving him grasping at shadows.

“It’s not just about the queen’s reputation,” Isaac had told Bucky one evening, his voice low and urgent as they spoke in the confines of Bucky’s study. “There’s something bigger here, something coordinated. The rumors are just the surface. Someone’s trying to destabilize the throne.”

Bucky’s gaze had sharpened. “Do you have any names?”

“None yet,” Isaac had responded, frustration lacing his words. “Whoever’s behind this, they’re covering their tracks well. There are a few lords who seem to be involved—whispering in the council, making moves that don’t add up. But I can’t connect them to anything concrete yet.”

Bucky had nodded, the tension in his shoulders visible even beneath the tailored fabric of his coat. His headaches, which had plagued him for years, were worsening, often rendering him unable to focus or hold conversations for more than a few minutes at a time. The sessions with Doctor Zemo were becoming more frequent, more intense, and each time, he left the basement chamber pale and drawn, barely able to stand.

The timing couldn’t have been worse. The pressure to conceive an heir, your growing emotional turmoil, and his own inability to perform his duties as a husband and king—it all weighed heavily on him. More often than not, he found himself standing at a distance, watching you with a mix of longing and frustration, unable to bridge the gap that seemed to widen between you with each passing day.

And all the while, Sharon continued to smile and pour her tea. Morning and evening, every day without fail.

Something was happening. Something dark and insidious that reached beyond the typical political machinations of the court. And with each passing day, as Sharon’s presence grew more prominent and your health seemed to falter, Bucky couldn’t shake the feeling that time was running out.

× × × × 

The days leading up to the Queen Dowager’s 60th birthday ball passed in a blur of decisions and preparations. The grand ballroom echoed with the clatter of servants arranging tables and hanging elaborate floral displays. The scent of roses and lavender filled the air, but even that failed to soothe your frayed nerves.

“Your Majesty, should we add another string quartet or leave it to the chamber orchestra for the opening?” an attendant asked, hovering nearby.

“The chamber orchestra will suffice,” you murmured absently, your gaze drifting up to the ceiling’s intricate carvings. “Save the quartet for the dining hall.”

The attendant nodded and scurried off. You turned back to the table before you, staring at the neatly arranged seating chart. Every name, every position had been carefully planned, yet as you looked at it now, a hollow emptiness settled in your chest.

“You are managing admirably,” Lady Natasha murmured, stepping up beside you. Her voice, though soft, held a firmness that always made you feel seen. Lady Wanda and Lady Pepper were nearby, inspecting the floral arrangements and occasionally gesturing to the attendants. Nat’s eyes lingered on your face, a hint of concern in her gaze. “But you need to rest, if only for a moment. You’ve been exerting yourself beyond reason.”

You offered a faint smile. “I assure you, Nat, I am well. I just wish for everything to be as it should be.”

“It already is,” Lady Wanda added, joining the conversation with a small smile of her own. “But that does not mean you must work until you’re spent. We’re here to assist, and everything is progressing splendidly.”

“Wanda speaks true,” Lady Pepper agreed as she approached, a resolute glint in her eyes. “You have overseen every detail; pray, allow us to take up the mantle for a while. It is time for you to step back.”

You nodded, though the gesture felt hollow and stiff. They meant well, you knew that. Yet, the truth remained—this meticulous planning, this tireless organizing—was the only thing anchoring you in a world that seemed ever on the brink of slipping from your grasp.

“Thank you,” you whispered, casting your gaze once more upon the chart, your eyes blurring ever so slightly. “I’m feeling well, I assure you.”

Lady Natasha exchanged a quick glance with Wanda, who took a step closer. “We know it has been… arduous,” Wanda murmured gently. “And it is no shame to relinquish a little control. We are more than capable.”

“Yes,” Lady Pepper agreed softly, her voice laced with understanding. “Take a breath. Trust that all will be as you envisioned.”

You swallowed against the tightness in your throat, the ache in your chest growing sharper with every word of encouragement. It was exhausting, pretending everything was fine. Smiling when all you wanted to do was scream.

Forcing your gaze back to the seating chart, you nodded again. “Just a few more adjustments,” you murmured. “Then I shall heed your counsel and rest, I promise.”

But as you looked down at the list of names—each one meticulously placed according to rank and favor—familiar doubts crept in. Would any of this make a difference? Would this small victory in the face of so many challenges bring any peace? Or would it all be overshadowed by what you couldn’t control?

The thought lingered, bitter and cold, but you swallowed it down. Smiling tightly at your ladies, you straightened your shoulders. “Thank you for standing by me,” you said softly, meaning every word. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

Natasha’s gaze softened, and she reached out, squeezing your hand gently. “You don’t have to carry this alone, Y/N.”

× × × × 

The morning hustle in the palace hallways had a different energy today—a curious buzz that lingered in the air as servants whispered excitedly to one another. After months away, Lady Monica Rambeau, head of your ladies-in-waiting, had finally returned. It was an unexpected homecoming, and though grief hung over her like a heavy shroud, she carried herself with the same grace and authority that had always marked her presence.

Monica’s heart beat faster as she approached the Queen’s private quarters. Her hands tightened around the edges of her dark mourning shawl, the fabric stark against her vibrant, rich complexion. She’d hoped—prayed, even—that during her absence, things would have gotten better for you. That the strain of court and the pressures of producing an heir would have eased. That she’d return to the same bright, resilient queen she’d left behind.

But the moment Monica stepped into your sitting room, her breath caught in her throat, and her heart clenched painfully.

You were seated by the window, a pale stream of sunlight casting an ethereal glow over you. You wore a flowing white gown that seemed to blend with the light, making you look almost ghostly. Your hair, which had always been meticulously styled, fell loosely around your shoulders, as if the care and attention that had once been given to it had been abandoned. 

The most striking change, however, was your eyes—once vibrant and full of life, now dulled by a weariness that had etched itself into every line of your delicate features.

“Your Majesty…” Monica whispered, the words falling from her lips in a breathless rush as she took a step closer.

Your gaze lifted slowly, and for a moment, it seemed you didn’t recognize Monica. Your eyes lingered on the familiar face, a faint smile tugging at your lips. But it was weak, fragile, as if even that small gesture took too much effort.

“Monica,” you murmured, your voice soft and thin. “You’re back.”

Monica swallowed against the sudden tightness in her throat. The queen looked so different—so much thinner, almost brittle. The sight made her heart ache. She took another step forward, lowering herself into a graceful curtsy. 

“Yes, Your Majesty. I’m so sorry it took me so long to return.”

“Don’t apologize,” You said quietly, the words seeming to drift through the room like a fragile breeze. “You were with your mother. She needed you.”

“Yes,” Monica whispered, blinking back tears as she straightened. “But I’m here now. And… I—” Her voice broke, and she inhaled sharply, steeling herself. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I should have been here. I should have—”

“Monica,” You interrupted gently, holding up a hand. “Please. You did nothing wrong. You did exactly what you needed to do.” There was a flicker of warmth in your gaze—brief, but real. “I’m glad you could be there for her.”

Monica nodded, but the guilt still gnawed at her insides. She should have been here, at your side, through whatever had happened to bring you to this state. The queen she remembered had been strong, vibrant, with a light that could cut through even the darkest of times. But now…

“Your Majesty,” Monica said softly, her voice trembling. “What has happened in my absence?”

Your smile faded, and you glanced out the window, your gaze distant. “Nothing worth worrying about,” you murmured. “Just… the usual struggles.”

Monica’s heart twisted. She didn’t believe it for a second. She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a gentle murmur. “Please, my queen… let me help. Tell me what’s going on.”

You remained silent for a moment. Then, slowly, your shoulders slumped, and a sigh escaped you—a sound so weary, so defeated, that it nearly broke Monica’s heart.

“They’re all waiting for me to fail, Monica,” You whispered, your gaze still fixed on the horizon beyond the window. “Everyone. The council, the court… even the people. They whisper that I’m incapable, that I’m… barren.” your voice caught on the word, as if it tasted like ash on your tongue.

Monica’s breath hitched, and she reached out instinctively, her fingers brushing lightly against your arm. “No, that’s not true. They’re just—”

“They’re right, Monica,” you interrupted softly, your voice hollow. “It’s been months, and still… nothing. I can see the disappointment in Jame’s eyes, even if he doesn’t say it. What if I can never give him what he needs?”

Monica’s grip tightened, her heart aching with every word. “My queen, you are more than enough. You are everything. Don’t let those vipers make you think otherwise.” Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper, filled with a determination that burned like a fire. “You are not alone in this, do you hear me?”

You turned your head slowly, your gaze locking onto Monica’s. A crack appeared in your carefully constructed mask, and a tear slipped down your cheek, glistening in the pale morning light.

“Sometimes, I feel like I am,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the last word.

Monica’s breath hitched, and before she could stop herself, she pulled you into a tight, fierce embrace. “No, Your Majesty. You are never alone. I’m here now. And I swear, I won’t leave you again.”

You trembled in her arms, but she didn’t pull away. You let Monica hold you, let her warmth and strength seep into your tired bones. And for the first time in what felt like forever, you allowed yourself to lean on someone. 

“I’ll stay with you,” Monica murmurs, her hand resting lightly on your arm. “Every step of the way, until you’re strong again.”

The words are a promise, one that sends a faint spark of warmth through your chest. For the first time in weeks, you feel a glimmer of hope.

You open your mouth to respond, but the door to your chambers swings open suddenly, the handle clicking softly against the wood. Both you and Monica turn at the intrusion, surprise and wariness mingling in the air.

Sharon steps inside, a porcelain tray balanced in her hands, her expression calm and composed—until her gaze lands on Monica. Her eyes widen just a fraction, surprise flashing across her face before she quickly smooths it away. But it’s too late; Monica already seen the flicker of shock that she tried to mask.

“Lady Monica,” Sharon says slowly, the words measured and careful. “I… I didn’t realize you were back.” She hesitates for the briefest of moments, her gaze darting between you and Monica, then down to the tray she carries. “I was just bringing some tea for Her Majesty.”

Monica’s posture stiffens beside you, though she quickly masks her reaction, offering a polite smile. “Sharon,” she replies, her voice light but steady. “I returned just this morning. I wanted to surprise Her Majesty.”

There’s an edge in her tone, something protective and firm that makes you glance between the two of them uncertainly. You’ve always known Monica to be fiercely loyal, but right now, she seems almost… guarded. As if Sharon’s mere presence sets her on edge.

“Of course,” Sharon murmurs, the smile on her lips tightening just a fraction. She shifts the tray slightly, the delicate porcelain teacups clinking softly against the polished wood. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. I thought the queen might enjoy a fresh cup of tea. It’s the blend she’s grown fond of lately.”

You glance at the tray, recognizing the familiar, subtle fragrance wafting up from the cups. It’s the same tea Sharon has been bringing you for months now, the one she claims promotes relaxation and balance. You’ve grown accustomed to it, its soothing properties a small comfort amid the turmoil of court life.

But something about the tension in the room has you hesitating. Monica’s presence beside you, her shoulders squared and her gaze locked on Sharon, makes the space feel suddenly charged.

“Is that so?” Monica says lightly, her tone carefully neutral as she steps forward, gesturing toward the tray. “How thoughtful of you, Lady Sharon. It’s always a comfort to know Her Majesty’s needs are being attended to so diligently.” 

Without waiting for a response, Monica reaches for one of the cups, the steam curling gently in the cool morning air. “I’m sure Her Majesty appreciates the gesture.”

Sharon’s fingers tighten on the tray, her smile faltering for just a heartbeat before she carefully sets it down on the low table beside you. 

“It’s nothing, really,” she murmurs, her voice smooth and controlled once more. “I just want to ensure the queen’s comfort, as always.”

“Then leave it here,” Monica says gently, turning to face Sharon with a polite but firm expression. “You’ve done your part, Sharon. Her Majesty and I have much to discuss, and I’m sure she would appreciate the privacy.”

Sharon’s gaze flickers toward the cups, and she hesitates—just for a second. It’s barely noticeable, but Monica catches it. You see the subtle shift in Monica’s posture, the way her lips press together almost imperceptibly as if sensing some deeper undercurrent in Sharon’s reluctance.

“Oh, but…” Sharon’s voice trails off as she glances between the two of you. “I’d be happy to stay and pour. It’s no trouble, really.”

“Leave the tea, Sharon,” Monica repeats softly, a slight edge to her words now. The shift in her tone is almost imperceptible, but it’s there—a quiet authority that brooks no argument.

Sharon’s smile tightens, and she inclines her head, her gaze dropping briefly. “Of course, Lady Monica.” She straightens, smoothing the front of her dress. “I just wanted to ensure it was to Her Majesty’s liking.”

“It always is,” Monica replies, her gaze never leaving Sharon’s. “But I’m more than capable of attending to Her Majesty now. I believe you have other duties to see to, don’t you?”

The words are light, almost offhand, but there’s an underlying firmness in them that makes Sharon’s shoulders tense. You watch, confused by the sudden shift in the atmosphere, unsure what to say or how to ease the strange tension that’s settled over the room.

“Of course,” Sharon murmurs, forcing a smile as she steps back from the table. “If there’s anything else you need, Your Majesty, you have only to ask.”

You nod slowly, offering her a faint smile. “Thank you, Sharon.”

With a final curtsy, Sharon turns on her heel and moves toward the door. But just before she reaches it, she pauses, glancing back over her shoulder at Monica.

“It’s good to see you again, Lady Monica,” she says softly, her gaze lingering on Monica’s face for a beat too long. “I’m sure Her Majesty is glad to have you back.”

Monica’s smile is polite, but there’s no warmth in it. “Yes, I’m sure she is.”

Sharon dips her head one last time, then steps out of the room, the door closing softly behind her. The instant the latch clicks shut, her practiced smile crumbles, the polished facade slipping away like a mask tossed carelessly aside. Her jaw tightens, and she sucks in a sharp breath, struggling to contain the simmering vexation roiling just beneath the surface.

She walks away briskly, each step measured and precise, though there’s a tension in her posture that betrays the emotions clawing at her insides. Her fingers tighten around the empty tray, knuckles turning white as she makes her way down the corridor, past the guards stationed discreetly at the queen’s door.

Her gaze remains fixed ahead, but her thoughts whirl in a storm of anger and frustration. She hadn’t expected Lady Monica’s sudden return—hadn’t anticipated the way the queen’s loyal lady-in-waiting would insert herself between them, throwing her off balance just when everything had been proceeding so perfectly.

Damn her, Sharon thinks viciously, teeth grinding together as she rounds the corner. Damn that meddling woman for reappearing now, of all times.

Her steps quicken, heels clicking sharply against the marble floor as she disappears into the shadows at the far end of the hall, seething in silence.

Sharon turned sharply at the end of the hallway, her gaze fixed on the floor as she tried to will away the burning frustration coiling tighter and tighter in her chest. But in her haste, she collided solidly with a broad, unyielding chest. The sudden impact jolted her, and she stumbled back, eyes widening as a hand shot out to steady her.

“Careful there,” a low, smooth like honey voice drawled, laced with a hint of amusement.

Her head snapped up, and she found herself staring into the shrewd, calculating gaze of Prince Isaac. His brow arched slightly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips as he studied her with unsettling intensity.

“Prince Isaac,” she breathed, dipping into a quick, reflexive curtsy. “My apologies, I didn’t see you—”

“Clearly,” Isaac murmured, his grip on her arm gentle yet firm. He tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing as they lingered on her face, taking in the flush of her cheeks, the tight set of her jaw. “You seem… distracted, Lady Carter.”

Sharon’s heart hammered against her ribs as she forced a polite, if strained, smile. “Just preoccupied with my duties, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to—”

“Preoccupied?” Isaac echoed, his tone deceptively light. His gaze flicked briefly to the empty tray she still held, then back to her face. “You know, it’s curious… I’ve seen people carrying all sorts of emotions through these halls—anxiousness, pride, even fear. But you, Lady Carter… you’re wearing something quite different.”

He took a step closer, leaning in slightly, his gaze sharpening. “What is it? Anger? Frustration?” His smile widened, though there was no warmth in it, only a keen, dangerous interest. “You look as though you could tear something apart with your bare hands.”

Sharon stiffened, her grip tightening around the tray until her knuckles turned white. “I assure you, Your Highness, it’s nothing of the sort. Merely… overwhelmed by the responsibilities of the day.” She forced her expression to smooth out, letting out a carefully controlled breath. “I didn’t expect Lady Monica’s return so soon. It’s taken us all by surprise.”

“Has it now?” Isaac murmured, his gaze lingering on her face a moment longer before he finally stepped back, releasing her arm. “You know, I’ve found that surprises can either be delightful… or deeply inconvenient, depending on one’s perspective.”

He paused, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. “And I’d wager you’re finding this particular surprise to be quite the inconvenience, aren’t you?”

Sharon swallowed hard, struggling to maintain her composure under the prince’s piercing scrutiny. She dipped her head slightly, offering a tight, controlled smile. “As I said, Your Highness, I’m simply adjusting to the changes. But I assure you, I will continue to fulfill my duties to the queen to the best of my abilities.”

Isaac’s lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile, his eyes glittering with a dark amusement that sent a shiver down Sharon’s spine. “I’m sure you will, Lady Carter. But a word of advice—” His voice lowered, taking on a soft, almost dangerous edge. “Be careful how you react to… unexpected obstacles. You wouldn’t want to show the wrong people just how easily they can rattle you.”

His gaze held hers for a heartbeat longer, then he stepped aside with a graceful, sweeping gesture. “After you, Lady Carter.”

Sharon dipped her head once more, murmuring a stiff, “Thank you, Your Highness,” before hurrying past him, her heart pounding as she walked away, his words echoing ominously in her mind.

Isaac watched her go, the smile never quite leaving his lips. Interesting, he mused, his gaze lingering on her retreating figure. Very interesting indeed.

× × × × 

The palace’s kitchens, usually a hub of bustling activity, were relatively empty at this hour—most of the staff having moved on to other duties now that breakfast had been served. Only a few cooks remained, murmuring quietly as they prepped for the midday meal.

Lady Monica Rambeau stood at the long wooden counter, her gaze fixed on the delicate porcelain teacup that Sharon had left in Y/N’s chambers earlier that morning. It looked innocent enough—a simple white cup with a floral motif, the faint remnants of tea staining the bottom. But there was something about it that held Monica’s attention.

She hadn’t thought much of it initially—Sharon’s insistence on Y/N drinking it in her presence had seemed overly protective, but perhaps the lady-in-waiting had merely been concerned for her queen’s well-being. After all, Y/N’s health had taken a visible decline over the past few weeks. It’s just tea, she had told herself, dismissing her unease.

But then, Monica had taken a closer look at Y/N’s medical records that the physician had shared upon her request—records she wouldn’t have normally questioned. She’d noticed a pattern in Y/N’s symptoms that didn’t quite fit.

There were inconsistencies.

A persistent lethargy. A delayed cycle that had seemed to worsen over time. And then there was the most telling clue—Y/N’s sudden aversion to certain herbal remedies that had once brought her comfort. Remedies that, now that Monica thought about it, seemed strangely similar to the blend Sharon had been bringing.

That realization had made something click in Monica’s mind, the unease blossoming into full-blown suspicion.

Her fingers hovered over the cup, hesitation flickering across her face. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgement, she chided herself silently. But even as she tried to dismiss it, the unease remained.

She glanced around, ensuring she was alone, then carefully lifted the cup. The faint aroma of the tea lingered, delicate yet strangely medicinal. Monica’s brow furrowed as she inhaled again, a soft, thoughtful hum escaping her.

What is that smell?

The scent wasn’t entirely unfamiliar. It was floral—light and sweet with a hint of something sharper beneath. Chamomile, perhaps. Maybe a touch of lavender. But there was another note, barely detectable, that made her pause.

Gingerly, she brought the cup closer, inhaling deeply. Her senses prickled with recognition, and her eyes narrowed. It was subtle—so subtle that most wouldn’t have noticed it at all. But Monica had spent years studying apothecary arts, learning the properties of herbs and plants, both medicinal and otherwise. Her mother had been an apothecary before her, and Monica had learned to identify even the faintest traces of herbs.

She set the cup down gently, her mind racing as she tried to place the scent. It was almost… bitter. Faintly astringent, like a hint of nettle or mugwort. But that alone wouldn’t cause concern. She needed to be sure.

Without another thought, Monica crossed to the corner of the kitchen where a neat row of jars and vials lined the shelves, each meticulously labeled. She scanned the contents quickly, selecting a small vial of dried herbs that she knew well.

She returned to the counter, pulling the lid off the vial and holding it beside the teacup. As she breathed in, the similarities between the two scents became more pronounced. Her eyes widened slightly.

“Silphium leaves,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

It was a common enough herb in the right hands—used to soothe headaches, ease tension. But in higher doses, or combined with other herbs…

Monica’s heart began to pound. No, it couldn’t be…

She glanced around again, her gaze sharp and assessing. No one seemed to be paying her any mind. Steeling herself, she lifted the cup once more, this time dipping a clean finger into the remaining liquid. Carefully, she brought it to her lips, tasting just a drop.

The bitter edge hit her tongue immediately, followed by a faint numbness that made her stomach twist. She spat it out hastily, her expression darkening.

“Damn,” she muttered under her breath, her pulse thundering in her ears.

Silphium on its own was relatively harmless in small doses. But this… this wasn’t just Silphium. There was something else mixed in—something that caused that peculiar numbness, something that could only have one purpose.

She massaged her head, trying to keep her breathing steady. She needed to be sure—absolutely certain before she took this to Y/N. But if her suspicions were right…

“Monica?”

She jumped, spinning around to find one of the head cooks, a kindly older woman named Greta, watching her with a curious frown. “Is everything all right, my lady?”

Monica forced a smile, though it felt strained. “Yes, Greta. Everything’s fine. I’m just… inspecting this tea.”

Greta’s brow furrowed, and she stepped closer, eyeing the cup warily. “Inspecting? Is something wrong with it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Monica replied carefully, her mind still whirling. “But I need to run a few more tests.”

Greta nodded slowly, then leaned in, taking a cautious sniff of the tea herself. Her nose wrinkled slightly, and she pulled back, shaking her head. “It smells… odd.”

“Exactly.” Monica’s gaze sharpened. “Tell me, has anyone else seen this tea?”

Greta shook her head. “No, my lady. It was brought directly to the queen’s chambers this morning by Lady Sharon. But she’s been bringing tea regularly, hasn’t she? For weeks now.”

Monica’s grip on the cup tightened. For weeks.

“Greta,” she said slowly, keeping her voice calm and even. “Do we have a testing kit for foreign substances in the herbs storage?”

“We do,” Greta confirmed, her concern deepening. “Shall I fetch it for you?”

“Yes, please. Quickly.”

Greta nodded and hurried off, leaving Monica alone once more. Monica turned back to the teacup, her mind racing.

If Sharon has been bringing tea regularly… if it’s been laced like this for weeks…

The implications made her blood run cold. It would explain everything—Y/N’s increasing fatigue, the irregular cycles, the constant lethargy, irritation. It wasn’t a natural decline. It was being induced.

But why? And for what purpose?

Monica swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. She needed proof—solid, undeniable proof. Only then could she confront Sharon, could she protect Y/N from whatever sinister plot was unfolding right under their noses.

As she stood there, waiting for Greta to return, the door to the kitchen swung open abruptly. A figure stepped inside, moving with grace of someone accustomed to navigating unfamiliar spaces.

Monica’s gaze snapped up, her breath catching as she recognized Isaac Barnes. His keen eyes flicked to her immediately, taking in her tense posture, the cup in her hand, the look of determination on her face.

“Monica?”

She spub around to find Prince Isaac Barnes standing in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted by the morning light streaming in from the corridor. He arched an eyebrow at her, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Your Highness,” Monica stammered, dropping into a quick curtsy before straightening. “What are you doing in the kitchens?”

Isaac’s gaze drifted to the cup of tea, then back to Monica’s face. His smile widened ever so slightly, a glint of curiosity sparking in his eyes. “Just exploring, my lady,” he replied, his tone light. “And you? I wouldn’t have expected to find you here, of all places.”

Monica’s eyes narrowed slightly, though she kept her expression polite. Isaac’s answer was deliberately vague, but she knew better than to press him for more. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder what had brought him here, now of all times.

“I’m… just checking on something,” she replied cautiously, then gestured toward the cup on the counter. “Lady Sharon left this for Her Majesty earlier, and I wanted to make sure it’s… suitable.”

Isaac’s gaze lingered on the cup, his expression unreadable. “I see.” He took a slow step forward, his eyes flicking to the various jars and vials scattered across the counter. “Quite the collection you have here. Does something seem off about the tea?”

Monica hesitated, then nodded slowly. “There’s a… bitterness to it that shouldn’t be there,” she murmured, choosing her words carefully. “I’m not certain yet, but I need to conduct a few tests.”

Isaac’s smile softened, though there was a hint of something serious in his gaze. “Well, then,” he said quietly, “I trust you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he glanced around the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the shelves and simmering pots with a casual air. But Monica caught the subtle way his eyes lingered on certain areas—the vials, the herbs, the jars lined neatly on the shelves.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Your Highness?” Monica asked, curiosity threading through her voice.

Isaac’s smile widened slightly, and he shook his head. “No, Lady Monica. I think I’ve found what I needed.” His gaze returned to hers, his expression open yet somehow… guarded. “But thank you for the offer.”

Monica nodded, still feeling the faint stirrings of unease as she watched him turn toward the door. Just before he stepped out, he paused, glancing back at her over his shoulder.

“Good luck with your tests,” he murmured, his voice low and almost conspiratorial. “I have a feeling they’ll be… enlightening.”

With that, he disappeared into the corridor, leaving Monica standing there, her heart racing. She stared after him, her mind buzzing with questions.

What is Isaac up to?

She shook her head, focusing on the task at hand. Whatever his reasons for being in the kitchens, she couldn’t let herself be distracted. There was something wrong with that tea—something that could be harming Y/N. And until she knew exactly what it was, she wouldn’t rest.

Stay focused, she told herself firmly, her gaze hardening as she turned back to the teacup. She needed proof—solid, irrefutable proof.

Because if her suspicions were right, then someone very close to the queen was playing a dangerous game. And Monica would make sure that, when the time came, the truth would be revealed.

With grim determination, she set to work, the faint scent of herbs and deceit hanging heavy in the air around her.

× × × ×

The grand council chamber was cloaked in an almost suffocating stillness. The light filtering through the tall, arched windows cast long shadows across the polished marble floors, and the faint murmur of voices fell silent as Bucky took his place at the head of the table. A heavy mahogany door creaked shut behind him, sealing the room from the rest of the palace—and from those who had no place within.

He stood, shoulders tense, expression unreadable. To his left, Steve stood at attention, his sharp gaze sweeping over the gathered lords with an air of silent authority. To his right, Isaac leaned against the back of his chair, looking every bit the disinterested observer, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest in a restless rhythm.

Bucky’s gaze drifted, focusing somewhere in the distance beyond the walls of the council chamber, the voices around him merging into a low hum of meaningless sound. He blinked slowly, the heaviness in his skull dulling his senses. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours in the past week, each night plagued by the unrelenting pain behind his eyes and the growing anxiety of the throne slipping through his grasp.

“And what of the queen’s health?” a voice broke through the haze, the sharpness of it pulling Bucky back to the present.

He blinked, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the source—Lord Pierce, leaning forward with a concerned furrow on his brow that did nothing to mask the cunning glint in his eyes.

“We’ve heard concerning reports that Her Majesty has been… indisposed as of late.” Pierce paused, his gaze sweeping the table, ensuring he had the attention of every lord present. “It’s been three months now, and still, no progress has been made in producing an heir.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. The question, though veiled as concern for Y/N, was nothing more than a thinly disguised attack on their marriage—on his ability to rule. The unspoken words hung in the air: Without an heir, your position on the throne is not secure.

Steve shifted slightly, his gaze flickering to Bucky with a trace of unease. Isaac, however, only sighed, his eyes rolling skyward as if to express how utterly predictable this line of conversation had become.

“Are we really going to discuss this again?” Isaac drawled, his voice low and edged with impatience. “We’ve already established the queen is under care and following every recommendation from the royal physicians. What more do you want—an announcement every time she sneezes?”

A ripple of murmured protest rose from the gathered lords, but Isaac’s pointed stare silenced them quickly enough.

“We are simply saying,” Lord Haynesworth interjected smoothly, his tone deceptively placating, “that the matter of succession is a pressing concern. If Her Majesty’s health is truly hindering the—”

“She’s not ill,” Bucky snapped, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. The entire chamber stilled, all eyes turning to him. Bucky took a slow breath, reigning in his frustration, but his eyes burned with a warning as they swept over the faces of the council. “My wife is not ill.”

Lord Carter, who had remained silent until now, leaned forward, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. His gaze was calm, almost pitying, as he regarded Bucky. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, no one is questioning the queen’s capabilities. We all wish for the royal family to flourish. But in the event that her condition does not improve—”

“Condition?” Isaac echoed, pushing off the chair and crossing his arms, his tone edged with mockery. “What condition, exactly, are you implying, Lord Carter? Do enlighten us.”

Lord Carter’s lips curved in the slightest smile, as if he’d been anticipating this confrontation. “We must consider the stability of the throne. Should Her Majesty continue to face difficulties in… fulfilling her role, the council must be prepared to suggest alternative solutions.”

The blood roared in Bucky’s ears, drowning out the whispers that erupted around the table. He forced himself to breathe evenly, his vision narrowing on Carter.

“Alternative solutions?”

Carter’s gaze was steady, unflinching. “If, in a few more months, there is still no heir… it may be prudent to consider the option of a consort. Someone who could—”

The rest of his words were lost in the rush of anger that surged through Bucky, the very air around him seeming to vibrate with the force of it. A consort. Another woman. The very idea was an insult, not just to Y/N, but to him—to everything they’d fought to build together.

The chamber fell deathly silent, waiting for his response.

“Absolutely not.” Bucky’s voice was low, a deadly calm washing over him. ”

A few lords shifted uncomfortably, but Haynesworth leaned forward, his gaze critical as he regarded Bucky with a frown. “Your Majesty, with all due respect, the role of a consort is not merely a matter of convenience. It’s a tradition as old as the crown itself, woven into the very fabric of our history. Even your father had consorts—”

“My father is dead,” Bucky cut in, his voice sharp and final. “And so are the traditions for consorts.”

Murmurs erupted around the table, half of the lords exchanging incredulous looks. Lord Pierce’s gaze darted toward Carter, a flicker of triumph in his eyes at Bucky’s seemingly reckless declaration.

“Your Majesty, tradition is not something that can be discarded on a whim,” Carter interjected smoothly, his voice dripping with feigned patience. “It is a foundation that keeps the kingdom steady. Without it—”

“Without it, we’d be free to build something better,” Lord Tony Stark interrupted, his voice laced with disdain as he glanced pointedly at Carter and Pierce. “You speak of tradition as if it were sacred law. But tell me, how many traditions have been cast aside in the past century alone? Were those changes not necessary?”

“And who decides which traditions are necessary to change?” Haynesworth countered, his tone rising with indignation. “You, Lord Stark? Or perhaps you, Your Majesty?”

“Traditions are nothing but the opinions of dead men,” Lord Laufeyson drawled from his seat, a bored smile playing on his lips as he toyed with the silver ring on his finger. “They only hold power as long as the living allow it. If the king says consorts are no longer needed, then they aren’t.”

Carter’s jaw tightened, his gaze flickering to Laufeyson with a flash of irritation. “You would so easily dismiss centuries of precedence?”

“Precedence?” Lord Pietro Maximoff scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “If you’re so keen on maintaining ‘precedence,’ then why aren’t you suggesting more consorts for your sons, Haynesworth? Why isn’t your house volunteering to uphold this glorious tradition?” The young lord’s smirk was infuriatingly smug, his silver eyes gleaming as he cast a sideways glance at Lord Carter. “Or perhaps it’s only a tradition when it benefits certain families.”

“That’s enough!” Haynesworth barked, his face flushing an angry red. “This isn’t about personal gain—”

“No, it’s about power,” Lord Odinson interjected, his voice like thunder in the tense silence. He stood from his seat, his imposing frame casting a shadow over the table as he fixed Haynesworth and Pierce with a steely gaze. “And you’re using the absence of an heir as an excuse to push for changes that would weaken the crown’s authority.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the lords aligned with Stark, Laufeyson, and Maximoff. Bucky could see it—the lines of division forming along the table, the alliances and rivalries that had long simmered beneath the surface now bubbling up to the fore.

“Enough of this,” Bucky growled, the low, dangerous tone of his voice cutting through the clamour. “There will be no consort. No matter what you call it—tradition, necessity, or whatever else you think to dress it up as—it won’t happen. My wife is my queen, and she will remain so.”

“Your Majesty,” Carter began again, his voice coaxing, but before he could continue, Isaac’s dry laughter filled the chamber.

“Do you not understand plain speech, Lord Carter?” Isaac said lazily, his gaze flicking over the gathered lords with thinly veiled contempt. “Or do you need the king to draw you a picture?”

“You should mind your tongue, Prince Isaac,” Lord Pierce warned, his tone dark. “You speak too freely.”

“And you speak too much,” Isaac shot back, his smile cold and predatory. “All this talk of tradition and stability… it’s starting to sound like you’re questioning my brother’s authority.”

The tension in the room shifted palpably, a collective breath held as all eyes turned back to Bucky. He remained still, his gaze locked on Lord Carter, a predator sizing up its prey.

“I won’t repeat myself,” Bucky said, his voice like a blade cutting through the silence. “There will be no consort. If the council’s time is to be spent arguing over dead traditions, then this meeting is over.”

For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then, slowly, Lord Stark nodded, a faint smile curving his lips as he leaned back in his chair. “Well said, Your Majesty. The council should be focusing on more pressing matters. There’s no point in entertaining these… outdated notions.”

“Agreed,” Lord Laufeyson murmured, his gaze never leaving Lord Carter’s face. “Perhaps it’s time we turned our attention to what truly ails the kingdom.”

A ripple of grudging assent swept through the room, but Bucky’s gaze remained hard, unyielding. He would not bow to pressure, nor would he allow anyone to question his wife’s place beside him.

“Good,” Bucky said softly, his voice cutting through the air with an edge of finality. He leaned back slightly, casting a withering glance around the table as he continued, “Then let us move on—"

The door to the council chamber swung open with a sharp crack, and every head snapped toward the sudden sound. There, framed in the doorway, stood the queen, your chin lifted high, shoulders set with a defiance that dared anyone to challenge your presence. Scott hovered just behind you, his face pale and eyes wide with a mix of fear and guilt.

“Your Majesty, please,” Scott implored, his voice a desperate whisper meant only for your ears. “It’s not wise—”

“Enough, Scott.” Your tone was quiet, yet it cut through the air. You didn’t spare him a glance, your gaze fixed firmly on the room beyond.

The lords scrambled to their feet, chairs scraping loudly against the marble floors. Uncertainty flickered across their faces, and a ripple of discontent moved through the room as they exchanged uneasy glances.

“Y/N?” Bucky’s voice was low, the surprise evident in his gaze as he half-rose from his seat. “What are you—?”

But you didn’t look at him. You turned instead to face the gathered lords, the light catching the gleam of determination in your eyes. For a moment, there was only silence—an oppressive, suffocating silence that seemed to stretch on forever, the lords standing like soldiers before a battle.

“If you’re all so desperate for an heir—so willing to throw around the idea of a consort,” you said, your voice clear and ringing with a strength that made even the most brazen lord falter, “then I will choose the consort myself.”

The words fell like stones into the silence, echoing in the shocked stillness of the chamber. The lords stared at you, their expressions shifting from disbelief to outrage to confusion in a matter of seconds. Isaac straightened, his brows lifting in interest, while Steve’s gaze sharpened, his entire body tense as if ready to intervene.

“Your Majesty—” Lord Pierce started, his voice wavering slightly, but you silenced him with a sharp look.

“You think I don’t know what you’re all doing?” you continued, your gaze sweeping over each of the lords in turn. “You think I’m blind to the whispers, the rumors, the little games you play? You may talk of ‘concern’ and ‘stability,’ but all you really care about is securing your own power, making yourselves indispensable to the throne.”

Lord Carter’s face tightened, a flicker of something dark passing through his eyes. “Your Majesty, this is highly improper—”

“What’s improper,” You shot back, your voice rising with each word, “is discussing my marriage as if it’s some business transaction, as if I’m not even a part of it!” You took a step forward, your fingers trembling slightly as you drew yourself up to your full height, daring any one of them to speak. “But if you want a consort so badly, then I will choose her.”

“Y/N, No—” Bucky began, his voice strained, but you cut him off, turning to him for the first time since entering the room.

“Yes,” You said softly, but there was no softness in your gaze, no weakness in her stance. “If this is what they’re going to keep pushing for—if they want to undermine us at every turn—then I will take that choice away from them.” You glanced back at the council, a bitter smile twisting your lips. “I’ll pick someone none of you have power over. I’ll pick a woman who won’t be swayed by your schemes and bribes. You’ll get your heir, but it will be on my terms.”

“Your Majesty, with all due respect,” Lord Haynesworth interrupted, his voice tight with thinly veiled anger, “you cannot simply decide something of this magnitude on a whim. The council—”

“The council,” you spat, the word laced with scorn, “seems to forget that I am not a doll to be moved around at your convenience. You may think you have a say in this, but you don’t.” Your eyes burned as they locked onto each lord in turn. “Not when it comes to my husband or to my family.”

“Y/N—” Bucky’s voice was quieter now, but you shook your head, a fierce resolve radiating from you.

“I won’t let them dictate what happens in our marriage, James,” you murmured, but loud enough for all to hear. “If they want to discuss consorts, then let them. But they’ll do it under my terms, with my rules.” You turned to the council, your smile now a razor-sharp edge. “And if you push me on this, I promise I’ll choose someone who will make your lives a living hell.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Lords shifted uncomfortably from where they stood, glancing at one another with unease. It was one thing to murmur about a consort behind closed doors; it was another entirely to have the queen confront them head-on with a promise to turn their own weapon against them.

Pierce cleared his throat, his voice strained. “Your Majesty, no one is questioning your authority or your—”

“Good.” Your tone was crisp, “Then we won’t need to have this conversation again, will we?”

No one dared to answer.You held their gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment before turning on your heel, your skirts sweeping behind you as you strode toward the doors. The lords remained standing, unsure whether to sit or move, their eyes locked on you retreating form with a mix of wariness and resentment.

As you passed Scott, who hovered anxiously at the entrance, you glanced back at Bucky, your gaze softening—just for a fraction of a second.

“Scott,” you said quietly, without turning to look at him. “Have someone compile a list of eligible bachelorettes from every house in the kingdom. I want it on my desk by morning.”

Scott’s eyes widened in shock. “Your Majesty, but—”

“Just do it,” you whispered sharply, your voice carrying the weight of all the suppressed emotions swirling within you. “Please.”

Scott hesitated only a moment longer before bowing his head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

You didn’t wait for his response, didn’t look back as you continued down the hall, your steps steady and sure. But with each stride, the reality of what you’d just promised—what you’d committed yourself to—settled deeper into your bones.

The door to the council chamber closed behind you with a soft thud, sealing you away from the heavy silence of the room, and the questions burning in Bucky’s eyes.

Back inside, the lords shifted uneasily, their voices hushed as they exchanged tense murmurs. Isaac let out a low whistle, a grin tugging at his lips as he glanced at Bucky.

“Well, that was unexpected,” he drawled, arching a brow. “Didn’t think she’d take the whole consort suggestion so… personally.”

Steve shot him a warning look, his jaw clenched. “Isaac, now’s not the time.”

Bucky’s eyes were still locked on the door through which you had vanished, his expression frozen in a mask of strained calm. But there was no hiding the storm brewing behind those blue eyes—the anger simmering just beneath the surface, the tension thrumming through his frame like a tightly wound wire.

One by one, the lords exchanged wary glances.

Lord Pierce shifted to his seat, clearing his throat lightly as he dared to break the silence. “Your Majesty… we only have the kingdom’s best interests at heart.”

His attempt at placation fell flat, the words ringing hollow in the wake of Bucky’s unflinching stare. Another exchanged look between Lord Carter and Pierce—a fleeting, unspoken conversation passing between them.

Lord Carter leaned forward, his brow furrowing with a hint of uncertainty, the carefully maintained mask of composure slipping ever so slightly. “Perhaps, Your Majesty, if we could—”

Bucky’s gaze snapped back to the gathered lords, eyes blazing with barely restrained fury. “Enough,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that seemed to reverberate through the very air. “I’ve made myself clear.”

There was a collective shift among the lords, shoulders straightening and spines stiffening, as if they were preparing for the storm that was Bucky’s wrath. But not one of them dared speak again.

Instead, they exchanged more guarded looks, wary glances laden with questions and uncertainty. This time, no one stepped forward. No one dared push any further.

The subject of a consort—their audacious suggestion—hung in the air like a bitter aftertaste, a tension that thrummed like the final, discordant note of a song that hadn’t ended quite right.

But Lord Carter’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. The faintest twitch of his lips betrayed the simmering rage he kept tightly leashed, his gaze drifting to the door where you had disappeared moments earlier. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped, revealing something dark and dangerous beneath the surface.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepling beneath his chin as he exhaled slowly through his nose. “We hear you, Your Majesty,” he murmured, the words carefully measured, lacking the usual oily charm. “I simply fear that… certain sacrifices may be necessary, given the circumstances.”

A subtle dig—aimed not at Bucky, but at you.

Loki’s eyes, sharp and knowing, flickered briefly to Lord Carter, his lips curling ever so slightly in faint amusement. Pietro, lounging near the end of the table, raised an eyebrow, his keen gaze catching the fleeting look of disdain on Lord Carter’s face.

“Sacrifices,” Loki echoed softly, his voice a low purr that seemed to coil around the room, drawing attention like a magnet. His gaze shifted lazily between Bucky and Lord Carter, his expression a mask of feigned curiosity. “An interesting word choice. I do wonder… whose sacrifices are you referring to, my lord?”

Lord Carter’s eyes darted to Loki’s, a flicker of annoyance crossing his features before he schooled his expression back into something more neutral. “The sacrifices of the crown, of course,” he replied evenly, though his tone carried an underlying edge. “The sacrifices one must make for the good of the realm.”

Pietro let out a soft snort, his fingers tapping idly against the table. “Ah, yes. The sacrifices of others—always easier when one’s own comfort is preserved, isn’t it?”

A few of the lords shifted uneasily, the corners of their mouths twitching as they tried to suppress small, furtive smiles. Bucky, however, wasn’t smiling. His gaze remained fixed on Lord Carter, unblinking, assessing.

“Do you have something more to say, Lord Carter?” Bucky’s voice was deceptively soft, yet it carried an unmistakable weight—a warning.

Lord Carter’s eyes flicked to the other lords, his jaw clenching as he forced a tight smile. “No, Your Majesty,” he said slowly, each word clipped and deliberate. “I only meant to remind the council that time is of the essence. We cannot afford to wait forever.”

“Then stop wasting time,” Bucky bit out, his tone slicing through the room like a blade. “This discussion is over.”

The finality of his words reverberated through the chamber, leaving no room for argument. Yet the flash of anger in Lord Carter’s eyes lingered, hidden just beneath the surface. He bowed his head slightly, his expression placid and composed once more.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” he murmured.

But as the council members began to rise, murmuring their goodbyes and shuffling toward the door, Loki’s gaze lingered on Lord Carter, curiosity sparking in his eyes.

× × × ×

Isaac, now leaned casually against the pillar near the council chamber’s entrance, his posture relaxed, almost bored, as he watched the scene unfold. From this vantage point, he looked every bit the disinterested observer—a younger brother with no real power, no real role. But anyone who looked closely would see the slight narrowing of his eyes, the faintest twitch of his lips as he listened intently to every word exchanged between Bucky and the council members.

“Then stop wasting time,” Bucky bit out, his voice hard and edged with authority. “This discussion is over.”

Isaac’s gaze drifted lazily to Lord Carter, whose expression remained impassive, though the subtle clench of his jaw betrayed the fury simmering beneath the surface. Isaac suppressed a smile. There it is.

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Lord Carter murmured, bowing his head in acquiescence.

But it was Loki’s soft, almost offhand remark that caught Isaac’s full attention. The trickster’s voice carried through the room with a hint of sardonic amusement. “For someone so concerned with sacrifices, you seem rather… invested in the queen’s inability to produce an heir.”

Isaac watched, his gaze sharp and curious, as Lord Carter’s face tightened imperceptibly. A fleeting shadow of irritation crossed the man’s eyes before he composed himself, forcing a tight, practiced smile. He inclined his head to Loki, then turned on his heel, his movements clipped, precise.

“You’re really testing the waters, aren’t you, Loki?” Isaac murmured under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching as he took in the scene.

Lord Carter’s exit was abrupt, but Isaac noticed the way his fingers flexed at his sides, knuckles white with suppressed rage. Isaac shifted slightly, his gaze following Lord Carter’s retreating figure. So much for keeping up appearances.

Loki’s and Pietro’s soft exchange reached his ears, but Isaac kept his face carefully neutral, feigning disinterest. He straightened slightly, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve as if to give himself something to do, something to focus on—anything to maintain the illusion that he wasn’t paying the slightest bit of attention.

“He’s furious with her,” Pietro muttered, a dangerous gleam in his eyes as he leaned closer to Loki.

“Indeed,” Loki murmured, his voice low and smooth. “And that, dear Pietro, is what makes him so very interesting.”

Isaac’s gaze flicked between the two men, watching the way their eyes followed Lord Carter’s departure with almost predatory intensity. So, you’re paying attention, too.

He shifted his weight, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. Then, with a deliberately casual air, Isaac pushed off the pillar and strolled forward, offering Loki and Pietro a languid, almost lazy smile as he stepped into the center of the room.

“Lively conversation, wasn’t it?” he drawled, his tone light, almost teasing. “I thought Lord Carter might have a stroke when you mentioned sacrifices.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, his expression inscrutable. “Oh? You were listening?”

“Hard not to,” Isaac replied, a hint of innocence in his tone as he shrugged. “It’s not every day we see the lords so…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Riled up.”

Pietro’s lips curved into a grin, and he inclined his head slightly. “A delicate subject,” he mused. “One that seems to strike a nerve.”

Isaac hummed thoughtfully, his gaze flickering briefly to the door where Lord Carter had vanished. “Yes, well, some people are more invested in the outcome than others, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Loki echoed softly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Isaac. “But what of you, Prince Isaac? You seem to be taking this all in stride.”

Isaac’s smile widened, a flash of mischief lighting his eyes. “Me? I’m just here for the show, gentlemen.” He inclined his head, a mockery of a bow. “And what a show it was.”

× × × ×

The moment the doors to their private chambers slammed shut behind you, Bucky stood in the center of the room, his shoulders rigid, his jaw clenched so hard it appeared as though he might shatter his teeth.

You faced him, your chest heaving as you struggled to maintain composure. You had walked straight into the lion’s den—into the council chamber where you did not belong—and spoken words that could not be taken back.

"I cannot believe you did that," Bucky growled, his voice low and dangerous. It was the voice of a man hanging on by a thread. "Do you have any idea what you have just done?"

"I know exactly what I have done," you shot back, your voice trembling with the effort to hold yourself together. "I did what was necessary."

"What was necessary?" Bucky repeated incredulously, taking a step toward you. His eyes were blazing, the blue of them almost electric. "Do you believe it is your responsibility to waltz in there and discuss choosing a consort as though you are deliberating the color of drapes for the dining hall?"

You flinched, but held your ground, lifting your chin. "What was I supposed to do? Stand there and allow them to tear me apart,, without uttering a word in my own defense?"

"You had no right!" Bucky roared, the words echoing off the walls. He took another step closer, his anger barely contained. "No right to enter there and—and agree with them. You do not defend our marriage by making it sound as though it is expendable."

"Expendable?" you scoffed, the sound harsh and bitter. Your voice dropped to a whisper, the pain in it cutting through the air like a blade. "Do you believe I desire this? To even consider such a possibility?"

"Then why say it?" he snapped, his hands flexing at his sides. "Why offer them the satisfaction of hearing you say you would choose a consort?"

"Because it was the only way to make them stop!" you cried out, your voice breaking. "They were never going to relent, Bucky. They would have continued pushing and pushing until—"

"Until what?" Bucky interrupted sharply, his gaze narrowing. "Until I gave in? Until I agreed to replace you as though you were a mere piece of furniture?"

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back furiously. "No, until they decided I was not worth defending anymore. Until they convinced you I was not worth defending."

Bucky recoiled as if you had struck him. His expression twisted into something raw, something almost wounded. "Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice thick with disbelief. "You think I would turn on you? Just like that?"

"I do not know what to think anymore!" you shouted, your voice breaking on the last word. "You scarcely speak to me. You gaze upon me as though I am some fragile thing you must keep at arm's length. You defend me to the council, and yet you cannot even look me in the eye when we are alone!"

"I defend you because you are my wife!" Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip, the force of it reverberating in the space between you. "Because I cannot bear the thought of them tearing you down. And all I have done for the past three months is fight for you—while you are in there, agreeing to throw it all away?"

"It is not that simple, Bucky!" you snapped, your voice trembling with anger and hurt. "You are not the one they scrutinize every second of every day, whispering that I am not good enough, that I am failing you. Failing the kingdom."

"And you believe this is any easier for me?" Bucky shot back, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Watching you suffer, knowing I can do nothing to help you? Knowing that every night we try—every night I fail—you are the one they blame?"

You flinched, the words striking deep. You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. "Bucky, I..."

"I have been defending you since the day we wed," Bucky continued, his voice hoarse. "And do you know what hurts the most? It is not what they are saying. It is not the rumors or the accusations. It is you. It is that you do not believe I am on your side."

"That is not true!" you protested, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. "I know you are on my side, but I—"

"But you still walked in there and handed them the one thing they have been trying to take from us," he cut you off harshly, the fury in his voice barely leashed. "The moment you agreed to choose a consort, you handed them a victory. You handed me over."

You staggered back, the accusation hitting you like a physical blow. "No... Bucky, I was merely trying to—"

"To what? Save me?" He laughed, a bitter, humorless sound that sent a stab of pain through your chest. "Do you truly believe they will stop at a consort, Y/N? Do you believe they will be satisfied with anything less than taking you away from me?"

"I was merely... I was trying to make things easier for you," you whispered brokenly, the tears you had been holding back finally spilling over. "I did not wish to make you choose."

"Choose?" Bucky’s voice dropped, a dangerous softness creeping into his tone. "There was never a choice, Y/N. There will never be a choice. It is you. It has always been you."

His words hung in the air, the truth of them stark and undeniable. But there was no comfort in them—not in this moment, not when the damage had already been done.

The ache in your chest deepened as you gazed into his eyes, seeing the rawness there, the hurt and anger and love all twisted together in a knot that neither of you seemed able to untangle.

"Bucky..." you breathed, your voice trembling. "I cannot—"

"No," he cut you off sharply, his jaw clenched. "You do not get to finish that sentence. You do not get to stand there and pretend this is something you must shoulder alone."

"I am not pretending," you cried, your voice breaking on the words. "I know what this means. Do you believe I do not hear the whispers, that I do not see the way they look at us—at me? As if I am some failure, as if I am the reason this kingdom does not have an heir?"

Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, the fury simmering beneath his skin barely contained. "It is not your fault—"

"Then whose is it?" you interrupted, stepping forward, your hands trembling as they reached for his. "Every month that passes without an heir, it worsens. The pressure, the doubt... the guilt." You swallowed hard, trying to push back the sob threatening to tear free. "And now, because of me—because I cannot give you what they want—they are pushing for a consort."

Bucky’s hands were like iron around yours, his gaze blazing as he shook his head. "This is not on you. It is them."

You nodded, a bitter smile twisting your lips. "I know. But if it is not me, it will be you. They will twist everything until there is no option left but to..." You closed your eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. "Perhaps it is better if I just... step aside."

"Step aside?" The words were low, dangerous. "You expect me to stand by and allow them to replace you?"

"I am not saying you must stand by," you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of it. "I am saying... I am saying I shall do it. I shall choose the right consort. Someone who will support you, someone who will not attempt to take the throne—someone who will give you an heir."

Bucky froze, his entire body going rigid as if struck. The silence that followed was suffocating, a heavy, choking thing that made your lungs burn. For a heartbeat, two, you thought he might turn and walk away—leave you to shatter in the emptiness you had just carved between you.

But then, slowly, Bucky’s hands tightened around yours, his grip bruising in its intensity. His eyes, when they met yours, were dark, filled with a kind of anguish that stole the breath from your lungs.

"You believe I would allow you to do that?" he asked softly, each word a deliberate, precise strike. "You believe I would permit you to choose another, allow them to take your place in our bed? In our lives?" He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I would burn this kingdom to the ground before I allowed that to happen."

Your chest hitched with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks as you shook your head. "But they will make you, James. They will twist everything until you have no choice. If I choose—if I step aside—they cannot say anything."

"Do you not understand?" Bucky’s voice broke, raw and strained, reverberating off the cold walls of the chamber. His grip tightened around your arm, not in anger, but in desperation. "It will never be anyone else. You are my queen. You are my wife. And I care not if we have a hundred heirs or none—I will not allow them to take you from me. Not like this."

Your heart ached at the sight of him, the pain etched across his face. He looked torn apart, pulled in too many directions, and you knew—you knew you were one of the forces pulling him, tearing him at the seams. You glanced away, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. You could not afford to be weak now. 

"You are the King, Bucky." Your voice was steady, but it carried a hollow echo. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, even as your vision blurred. "I shall choose in the morning."

Bucky recoiled as if struck. His hand fell away from your arm, his expression crumbling into one of utter frustration and disbelief. 

"No." He shook his head, chest heaving with the effort to keep himself together. "No, I do not want a choice. I do not wish for you to have to make that choice."

But you merely stood there, unmoving, a pillar of silent resolve. "It is not about what you want, James. It is about what is best for the kingdom."

"Damn the kingdom!" he exploded, the words tearing out of him like a curse. His voice reverberated through the chamber, the force of it shaking the very air between you.

"I need you—do you not understand that?" His hands moved as though he wished to reach out to you again, but he faltered, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He looked down, squeezing his eyes shut as though trying to ward off the storm building inside him.

But it was too late.

A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his skull, sudden and brutal. Bucky stumbled back, a guttural groan escaping him as he clutched his head. He tried to breathe through it, tried to force the pain down, but it only grew sharper, the pressure building until it felt like his skull might crack open.

"Bucky?" You stepped forward, your earlier resolve forgotten as fear tightened around your heart. You reached out, your fingers brushing his shoulder, but he jerked away as though your touch burned him.

"Stay away!" His voice was strangled, twisted, and not entirely his own. He staggered backward, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought against the change clawing at his mind. "Just—just stay away from me."

But you could not leave him. Not like this. "Bucky, please, let me—"

"No!" His roar echoed through the chamber, and then everything seemed to happen at once, "STAY AWAY FROM ME."

One moment he was there, staring at you with wide, tortured eyes. The next, his expression twisted, his features contorting into something savage, something unrecognizable. His arm lashed out, faster than you could process, and then you were flying back, your body slamming into the wall with a sickening thud.

Pain exploded across your back, and you gasped, the air knocked out of your lungs. The world spun, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision. But before you could even regain your breath, a vice-like grip closed around your throat, lifting you off the ground.

The Winter Soldier’s face loomed before you, his eyes dark and empty, his expression a mask of cold fury. The hand around your neck tightened, cutting off your air, and you struggled, your fingers scrabbling uselessly against the unyielding metal.

"B-Bucky…L-Let go. . ." you choked out, tears stinging your eyes as you tried to reach him, tried to break through the void in his gaze. But it was like staring into the abyss—there was no recognition, no flicker of the man you knew. Only the Soldier.

The edges of your vision began to blur, your lungs burning for oxygen as you clawed at his arm. But he did not flinch, did not even seem to notice your struggle. He just kept squeezing, his gaze locked onto yours, unseeing and merciless.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash as the door to the chamber burst open.

"Bucky! Stop!" Steve’s voice thundered through the room, filled with an urgency that made the air crackle. He was at the Soldier’s side in an instant, his hands closing around the metal arm with a strength that only Steve Rogers could muster.

"Bucky, let her go!" Sam’s voice joined Steve’s, and together, they pried at the Soldier’s grip. But it was as if Bucky’s strength had doubled, the force of his hold unrelenting. Your vision was dimming, your struggles weakening as the world faded around you.

"Let her go!" Steve roared, and with a surge of strength, he shoved Bucky back, the force finally breaking the Soldier’s grip.

You crumpled to the ground, gasping and coughing as precious air rushed back into your lungs. You barely registered Scott’s panicked voice beside you, his hands shaking as he tried to help you sit up.

The Winter Soldier staggered back, a snarl twisting his lips as he whirled on Steve. But Steve did not back down, his gaze locked onto Bucky’s, unflinching and determined.

"Come on, Buck," Steve murmured, his voice low and steady, meant for Bucky and Bucky alone. "You are stronger than this. Do not let it win."

For a moment, the Soldier paused, a flicker of something—something human—crossing his face. But then his expression twisted again, and he lunged, his metal arm swinging with brutal force.

Steve ducked, sidestepping the attack, his movements precise and controlled. "Sam, get Y/N out of here," he ordered, not taking his eyes off the Soldier.

"Got it," Sam replied tightly, his arm sliding around your shoulders as he lifted you to your feet.

"Bucky…" you whispered, your voice a broken rasp. You tried to reach for him, but Sam gently pulled you back.

"Not now, Your Majesty," Sam murmured, his tone soft but firm. "Let Steve handle this."

As you moved toward the door, you cast one last, desperate glance over your shoulder. The Soldier was still fighting, still lashing out with a mindless fury that sent shudders through you. But somewhere, buried deep beneath the violence and rage, you thought you saw a flash of blue—just for a second.

"Bucky…" you breathed, and then Sam was leading you away, your heart breaking with every step.

Behind you, Steve faced down the Winter Soldier alone, his voice a steady murmur as he tried to coax his friend back from the darkness.

"It is all right, Buck," Steve murmured, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "We are going to get through this. Do you hear me? We are going to get through this."

But the only response was a roar of fury as the Soldier lunged again, and the door slammed shut behind you and Sam, cutting off the sound of the battle that raged within.

"Your Majesty, please," Scott’s voice was shaking as he hovered beside you, his face pale with fear. "We need to get you somewhere safe."

But you did not respond. You merely stared at the closed door, your breath coming in short, painful gasps as the weight of what had just happened settled over you like a suffocating shroud.

It will never be anyone else.

His words echoed through your mind, a haunting reminder of what had been—and what might never be again.

× × × ×

The late morning sun filters softly through the delicate lace curtains of your private sitting room, casting a warm, golden glow that does little to dispel the chill clinging to the air. The room, usually filled with laughter and quiet conversations, now feels suffocatingly still. Monica, ever vigilant, hovers nearby, her gaze flicking between you and the door, as if expecting trouble to walk right in.

The soft click of heels on marble announces Sharon’s arrival before she even enters. With the same serene smile she always wears, Sharon steps through the door, a polished silver tray balanced perfectly on her palm. The teacup, filled with the familiar amber liquid, gleams invitingly under the morning light.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Sharon greets smoothly, the warmth in her voice radiating false cheer. She sets the tray down on the small table beside the chaise where you sit, her eyes skimming over your face with a hint of concern. “I thought you might like your tea a little earlier today. I added extra herbs for relaxation—something to help ease the tension.”

Monica nods politely, her expression neutral, betraying nothing of the unease simmering beneath her skin. “Thank you, Lady Carter,” she says, her tone gracious. “Just leave it here. I’ll see to it that Her Majesty drinks it.”

You glance up, the movement slow and deliberate, and for a fleeting moment, Sharon’s smile falters. Your fingers absently rub at the base of your throat, where the skin has turned a mottled shade of purple. The faint bruises stand out starkly against the pale column of your neck, a reminder of the night before—of Bucky’s unrelenting grip and the darkness that had taken hold of him.

“Your Majesty…” Sharon’s voice softens, laced with a concern that almost sounds genuine. She takes a small step forward, as if she wants to reach out. “Are you… feeling all right?”

Your gaze drifts to the cup of tea, then back to Sharon. For a moment, there is something unreadable in your eyes—something sharp and wary. But you force a smile, though it’s strained and barely touches your lips.

“Just tired,” you murmur, your voice hoarse, almost painful to listen to. You wince slightly, your fingers still pressed gently against your bruised throat. “But the tea will help, I’m sure.”

Sharon’s gaze lingers on your neck for a beat too long before she catches herself, her smile brightening. “Of course. Please, do take your time. It’s a special blend—calming and soothing. I brewed it myself this morning.”

You nod, reaching for the teacup. Your fingers brush the delicate handle, the porcelain cool beneath your touch. But just as you begin to lift it, a gentle hand wraps around your wrist, halting your movement.

“Your Majesty,” Monica says quietly, her voice steady but firm. She doesn’t look at Sharon—doesn’t acknowledge the tension that suddenly crackles between you. Her eyes remain on you, a silent plea and warning all in one. “Perhaps it’s best to let it cool a little. You know how sensitive your throat is right now.”

You blink, taken aback by the interruption. You glance between Monica’s serious expression and the teacup still poised in your hand, feeling the subtle but unmistakable pressure of Monica’s grip. Slowly, reluctantly, you set the cup back down on the saucer.

“Right,” you murmur, your brow furrowing slightly. “I suppose… it might irritate it.”

Monica nods, releasing your wrist with a barely perceptible sigh of relief. “Exactly. We don’t want to cause more discomfort.”

Sharon’s smile tightens, though she quickly schools her expression back into something more pleasant. “If Her Majesty prefers, I could bring something else,” she offers smoothly, her eyes shifting to Monica with an almost imperceptible edge. “Perhaps a broth, or a different blend of herbs—something gentler on the throat.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Monica replies before you can speak, her voice calm and composed. “I’ll see to her comfort. Thank you, Lady Carter.”

For a moment, the air in the room seems to freeze. Sharon’s gaze lingers on the cup of tea, then flickers back to Monica, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. But she only nods, her smile never wavering.

“Very well,” Sharon murmurs, dipping her head in a graceful nod. “Please, do let me know if there’s anything more I can do for Her Majesty.”

Your fingers twitch toward the teacup once more, but Monica’s hand rests gently atop yours, stilling the movement.

“We appreciate your concern, Lady Carter,” Monica says evenly, the weight of her gaze finally meeting Sharon’s. “But as I said, I’ll take care of it from here.”

There is a beat of silence, thick and heavy, before Sharon’s smile widens, all teeth and no warmth. “Of course. I’ll take my leave, then.”

She turns, her movements fluid and unhurried as she makes her way to the door. But just before she steps out, she glances back, her eyes locking onto yours with a peculiar intensity.

“Please rest well, Your Majesty,” she says softly. “And remember, I’m always here if you need me.”

The door closes with a soft click, and the tension in the room eases slightly. You exhale slowly, your fingers still brushing the delicate handle of the cup.

“Monica…” you begin, but the older woman’s gentle but firm voice cuts you off.

“No, Your Majesty,” Monica says quietly, her hand still resting on yours. “Not today.”

You frown, confusion and fatigue warring in your gaze. “But it’s just—”

“Not today,” Monica repeats, her voice soft but resolute. She glances at the teacup, her expression darkening. “You don’t need that today.”

You stare at the cup for a long moment, then nod slowly, allowing yourself to be guided away from it. As Monica leads you to the chaise, your eyes linger on the abandoned cup—on the amber liquid that seems to shimmer ominously under the soft glow of the morning sun.

For the first time in weeks, the tea remains untouched.

× × × ×

The air in the study of the Carter estate crackled with tension, the grand fireplace roaring with heat, but the chill in the room was unmistakable. Lord Carter stood by the window, hands clenched behind his back, his frame rigid with barely contained fury. His gaze was fixed on the darkening horizon outside, the sky tinged with the last traces of sunset, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere—burning with rage.

Behind him, Sharon stood near the door, her head slightly bowed as if she could avoid the inevitable storm brewing in her father’s expression. She’d seen him angry before, but this was different—more intense, more dangerous. She could feel it in the air, thick and suffocating, as though the walls themselves were pressing in.

“She dares,” Lord Carter spat, his voice shaking with anger. “That wretched queen dares to think she has outsmarted me. After everything… she thinks she knows everything.”

Sharon flinched as the words hit her, but she said nothing. She had learned, long ago, that silence was sometimes the best defense against her father’s fury. He paced in front of the window now, his hand twitching as thought resisting the urge to break something. The study, usually an image of calm authority, now felt like a tinderbox waiting for a spark.

“She humiliated me in front of the entire council,” Lord Carter continued, his voice low but simmering with hatred. “James stands there like a whipped dog, defending her—that woman—and you…” His gaze snapped toward Sharon, and for the first time that evening, she wished she could disappear. “You promised me progress.”

Sharon’s stomach twisted. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words stuck in her throat. She had been so sure, so certain that her plan would work—that weakening the queen’s health would make her more compliant, more vulnerable. But now…

Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. “How is the tea going, Sharon?” He asked the question quietly, too quietly, and that made her pulse race even faster.

Sharon swallowed hard, finally forcing herself to meet his gaze. “She hasn’t been drinking it. . .” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was making progress, but… Monica is back. She’s been by the queen’s side constantly since her return.”

Lord Carter’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck strained. 

“Monica,” he hissed, as though the very name tasted of poison. He turned away, fists clenched at his sides. “I warned you, Sharon. I warned you not to let anyone get in the way.”

Sharon flinched again, instinctively stepping back. “Father, I’m trying—”

“You’re failing,” he snapped, rounding on her. His eyes flashed with an intensity that made her heart pound. “If Monica is back, then she’ll suspect something. She’s always been too clever for her own good. You should have handled this before she returned.”

“I didn’t expect her to come back so soon,” Sharon tried to explain, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to keep calm. “But I can still—”

“You can still what?” Lord Carter cut her off, his voice a dangerous growl. “This was supposed to be simple. A quiet weakening, a slow descent into illness. But now she’s refusing the tea, and Monica is back to interfere. You’re letting this slip through your fingers.”

Sharon bit her lip, her mind racing for some solution, some way to fix the mess that was unraveling before her. But no matter how much she tried, every path seemed blocked by Monica’s return.

Lord Carter turned away from her again, his fingers tapping against his chin as he stared into the flames of the fireplace. His silence was more terrifying than his anger.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke again—his voice low, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion. “Then you know what needs to be done.”

Sharon’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?” she whispered, though she already knew.

Lord Carter didn’t look at her as he continued. “Monica has always been a problem. If she’s standing in our way, we remove her. Permanently.”

Sharon’s breath hitched, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You want me to… to kill her?”

Lord Carter turned then, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous resolve. “You’ve already been poisoning the queen,” he said flatly, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. “Killing Monica is no different. She is just another obstacle.”

Sharon’s eyes widened in horror, her breath catching in her throat. “W-What? Poisoning the queen?” she echoed, her voice trembling with disbelief. “You said it was just… just contraceptive, Father!”

Lord Carter’s gaze remained cold and unyielding, his lips curling in disdain. “And you believed that? You thought preventing an heir was all we needed? No, Sharon, it had to be more. The queen’s power had to be diminished entirely. You were simply too naive to see the bigger picture.”

Sharon’s heart pounded as she stood there, frozen by the weight of his words. She had done terrible things before—sabotaged, lied, manipulated—but this… this was different. This was murder.

Lord Carter’s expression softened slightly, but there was no warmth in it. Only the cold steel of a man who had long since buried any sense of morality. “You’ve come too far to back out now, Sharon. Either you do this, or you lose everything. Do you understand me?”

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. But then, slowly, she nodded. She had no choice. Not if she wanted to survive her father’s wrath.

“Good,” Lord Carter said, turning back toward the window. “And if anyone else stands in our way—Monica, the queen, anyone—remove them. We’re too close now to be stopped.”

Sharon’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched her father’s back, her mind racing with a thousand dark thoughts. She had always known her father was ruthless, but this… this was something else entirely. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to go through with it.

But as the flickering flames cast shadows across the room, one thing became painfully clear: she had no choice.

× × × ×

Monica descended the stairs, her soft footsteps echoing faintly in the emptiness. She had just finished a late meeting and was heading toward her chambers, her mind lost in thought.

Above her, hidden in the shadows at the top of the staircase, Sharon stood, her pulse racing with every passing second. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: “Monica must be removed. She is a threat to everything we've worked for.”

Sharon’s hands clenched tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew she was running out of time. Monica’s constant presence by the queen’s side was unraveling her carefully laid plans. Tonight had to be the night. She couldn’t wait any longer.

The grand staircase was the perfect opportunity—isolated, with no one around to witness what was about to happen. Sharon had made sure the railing had been loosened earlier by a servant. But now, patience was no longer an option. Monica needed to be dealt with immediately.

Monica, unaware of Sharon’s presence, continued her descent, her steps steady. She reached the middle of the staircase when Sharon silently slipped out of the shadows, her movements quick and precise. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her heart hammering in her ears as she neared her target.

Without hesitation, Sharon surged forward, closing the gap between them. Just as Monica reached the next landing, Sharon struck. She placed her hands firmly on Monica’s back and shoved.

The push wasn’t strong, but it was well-timed.

Monica’s eyes widened as she felt the unexpected force behind her. Her arms flailed as she stumbled forward, desperately trying to grab hold of the banister. But the railing, already weakened, gave way with a loud, splintering crack.

A sharp gasp escaped Monica’s lips as she lost her balance completely. She tumbled down the stairs, her body slamming against the stone steps with brutal force. Her ankle twisted, and she could feel the sharp pain as her head hit the cold marble. She rolled painfully down several more steps before finally crashing at the bottom, her limbs sprawled awkwardly, her breathing shallow.

Sharon stood frozen at the top of the staircase, watching the scene below her. Monica lay still, her body motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her chest. Sharon’s heart pounded in her ears, her mind racing. She had done it. She had pushed Monica.

But then she hesitated—what if Monica wasn’t dead? What if she survived? Panic set in.

Monica stirred, a faint groan escaping her lips as she tried to move. But the pain in her body was too much. Her vision blurred as she attempted to sit up, the world around her spinning. She felt blood trickling from a wound on her forehead, the coppery taste filling her mouth. Her head throbbed, and before she could even process what had happened, darkness overtook her. She lost consciousness, her body slumping back against the cold stone floor.

Sharon’s breath caught in her throat, and her body tensed. This wasn’t the clean, easy accident she had planned. Fear surged through her, and without waiting to see if anyone had heard the fall, she turned and fled back into the shadows. She needed to get away before someone saw her.

Her footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor as she hurried away, her mind racing with panic. She couldn’t afford to be caught.

Moments after Sharon disappeared, two palace guards patrolling the nearby hallway heard the distant sound of something—someone—falling. Their footsteps quickened as they reached the staircase. At the bottom, they found Lady Monica lying unconscious, blood staining the side of her face, her body twisted painfully.

“Lady Monica!” one of the guards shouted, rushing to her side. He knelt down, feeling her faint pulse, relief flooding through him. “She’s alive. Quickly, get the physician!”

The second guard ran off, disappearing down the hall in search of help, while the first guard stayed by Monica’s side, carefully positioning her to avoid further injury. The grand staircase, usually a symbol of regal elegance, was now tainted with the scent of blood and the ominous aura of a near-tragedy.

× × × × 

After the incident where he lost control and harmed the queen, he had needed to leave—a necessity to keep you safe… from himself. Bucky lay in bed, his face pale and drawn from the relentless headaches that had plagued him for years. Isaac sat by his bedside, his expression grim, while Steve and Sam stood nearby, their eyes fixed on their friend with concern.

Bucky shifted slightly, trying to ease the pounding in his head. "What is it, Isaac?" he asked, his voice hoarse but lined with worry. Isaac had been unusually quiet since entering the room, a sign that something was terribly wrong.

Isaac exchanged a glance with Steve and Sam before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It is about Monica."

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his body tensing immediately. "Monica? What of her?"

Isaac took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "She fell… down the grand staircase earlier this night."

The words struck the room like a hammer blow. Bucky’s eyes widened in shock as he pushed himself up slightly on the bed. "Is she well?"

"She is," Isaac answered quickly, nodding. "She has only recently regained consciousness, but… there is something you must know."

Steve and Sam exchanged uneasy glances, stepping closer to the bed, sensing the gravity in Isaac’s tone.

"What is it?" Bucky pressed, his voice thick with concern.

Isaac hesitated for a moment, choosing his words with care. "Monica… claims she did not fall. She claims she was pushed."

The room fell deathly still.

Steve furrowed his brow, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. "Pushed? What do you mean, pushed?"

Isaac’s gaze shifted to Steve. "That is what she said. She recalls someone behind her… someone pushing her down the stairs."

Sam’s face darkened, and he stepped forward. "Why would someone do such a thing? Who would do this?"

Isaac shook his head slowly, the weight of the situation pressing down upon the room. "She did not see who it was. She lost consciousness after the fall. But she is certain—someone pushed her. This was no accident."

Bucky closed his eyes briefly, his jaw clenched in anger and frustration. "Could it be related to what is happening with Y/N? Could they be trying to reach her through Monica?"

Steve’s brow furrowed deeper, the tension in the room mounting. "It is possible. Monica has been by Y/N’s side since her return, caring for her… She has always been loyal. Perhaps someone views her as a threat."

Isaac suddenly let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head as though something had just clicked in his mind. The sound caught the attention of the others, and they turned to him, startled by the shift in his demeanor.

"Do you find this amusing?" Steve asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

Isaac leaned back in his chair, still shaking his head, a dark smile curling his lips. "What a mess this is," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible but laden with realization. He looked up at Steve, his expression now serious. "And no, Steve. I do not find it amusing."

“Then why—”

Isaac’s eyes darkened, cutting Steve off before he could finish. “Because I may know who is behind this… and you had best pray it is not connected to the matters I have been investigating outside the palace walls.”

Bucky, still propped up on the bed, straightened, his brow creasing with concern. "What are you implying, Isaac?"

Isaac stood up, his expression hardening, determination visible on his face. “I must return to the palace tonight. There is more at work here than mere court politics. If this is tied to what I have uncovered, then the danger is far greater than we could have foreseen.”

Steve stepped toward him, his eyes searching Isaac’s face for answers. "Isaac, what exactly are you dealing with?"

Isaac gave Steve a brief glance but shifted his focus back to Bucky. The words were on the tip of his tongue, and they were too important to delay. He stepped closer to his brother’s bedside, his gaze sharp.

“Y/N is not safe within the palace,” Isaac said bluntly, his voice cold and honest. "And I do not mean solely because of those who plot against her."

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you saying?”

Isaac’s gaze flickered with a mixture of frustration and concern. “I am saying that even with you there, she is not safe. You cannot control what is happening to you, Bucky. We both know it.” His tone was brutally honest, cutting through the room like a blade. "What will happen the next time you lose control?"

Bucky’s face tightened, the memory of what he had done to you cutting deeper than any physical wound. He did not respond immediately, his breath catching in his throat. His mind flashed back to that dreadful day—your face pale with fear, your body fragile beneath his grip as the Winter Soldier surfaced. He had not meant to hurt you, but he had.

Isaac’s tone softened slightly, though his words remained firm. “I do not say this to hurt you, brother. I say it because you must face the truth.”

Bucky’s fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. “I would never—”

“You did not mean to,” Isaac interrupted, his voice steady but relentless. “But it happened. And what is to stop it from happening again? You battle yourself every day, and the more you seek to protect her, the more dangerous you become.”

The room was thick with tension, the truth of Isaac’s words hanging heavily in the air.

Steve’s face was taut with concern, but he remained silent. He knew Isaac was right—Bucky’s unpredictability, especially with the Winter Soldier still lurking deep within him, posed a constant threat. It was only a matter of time.

"I shall return to the palace," Isaac said decisively. "I will continue my investigation, but you must prepare yourself for whatever is coming. If Sharon—or anyone else—is behind this, then this is far from finished."

Isaac glanced briefly at Steve and Sam, his expression unreadable, before turning and heading toward the door.

As he reached for the handle, he paused, casting one last look at his brother. “I will do all in my power to keep Y/N safe. But we must be honest about the dangers we face.”

Bucky said nothing, the weight of Isaac’s words bearing down upon him. His heart ached with the memory of the moment he had lost control, the horror in your eyes. Isaac left without another word, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the silence. × × × × 

You sit at the grand desk, your fingers lightly tracing the edges of the parchment before you. On the table lies a list of names—potential consorts for Bucky—that Scott had handed you earlier. The sight of the names only deepens the pit of discomfort in your stomach.

Your eyes scan the names, but your mind is far from the task. Despite the formalities, the political pressures, and the expectations of the court, all you can think of is Bucky—of his absence and the aching space it leaves in your heart.

A soft knock on the door startles you from your thoughts. The door creaks open, and you glance up, your heart skipping a beat. For a moment, you think it’s Bucky. But as the figure steps further into the light, your breath catches.

It isn’t him.

It’s his twin brother, Prince Isaac. The resemblance is uncanny, though there is something sharper in Isaac’s demeanor—an edge that sets him apart from Bucky’s more familiar warmth. His presence fills the room in a different way, his dark gaze locking onto yours as he steps forward.

You quickly stand, smoothing the fabric of your gown as you try to compose yourself. You’ve seen Isaac around the palace, of course—always lingering in the background, watching but never approaching. But this is the first time you’ve spoken face to face.

"Your Majesty," Isaac greets with a formal bow, his voice smooth, yet carrying an undertone of something darker, something almost unreadable. "I hope I am not intruding."

You blink, recovering from your initial surprise. "Not at all," you reply, your voice measured. "I—" You hesitate briefly before continuing. "I thought you were Bucky at first."

A faint smile tugs at the corner of Isaac’s lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. "A common mistake," he says, his tone light, yet there’s an undercurrent of something heavier. "Though I assure you, the differences are far more than they seem at first glance."

You nod, still feeling slightly off balance from the unexpected encounter. You gesture toward the desk. "I was just reviewing… some matters of state." You don’t want to mention the list of consorts, as the topic feels both awkward and deeply personal.

Isaac’s gaze flickers to the papers on your desk, though he says nothing about them. Instead, he steps further into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "I’ve been meaning to introduce myself properly, Your Majesty. It seems fate has delayed that until now."

You incline your head slightly. "Yes, I’ve seen you around the palace, but we have not had the chance to speak."

Isaac gives a slight nod, his eyes never leaving yours. "I apologize for that. Matters of… importance have kept me away from more formal introductions."

You sense the weight behind his words, though you’re unsure if you should press him on it. Instead, you decide to keep the conversation polite, at least for now. "You needn’t apologize. I am aware that you’ve been preoccupied with other affairs. I hear your work takes you far beyond the palace walls."

Isaac’s expression shifts subtly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he quickly masks it. "Yes. My duties are… varied." He pauses, his gaze growing more intense. "But my primary concern is always the safety of the royal family."

There’s something in the way he says it that makes you uneasy, though you can’t quite place why. You fold your hands in front of you, offering a polite smile. "I appreciate your concern, Prince Isaac."

Isaac’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer before he glances back toward the desk, where the list of consorts lies partially rolled up. "And how goes the selection of potential consorts for my brother?" he asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the table. You don’t want to discuss it with him—especially not when your heart feels so conflicted. "It’s… a process," you reply vaguely, trying to brush off the question. "One that requires much consideration."

Isaac arches an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Indeed. I can imagine it is a difficult decision. Though I am sure you will choose wisely." There’s a pause, and then he adds, more quietly, "I doubt anyone could replace you in Bucky's heart, though.

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Bucky’s name, and you find yourself momentarily speechless. Isaac has touched on a truth you’re trying so desperately to ignore—that no matter who is presented to you, no one will ever replace the place you holds in Bucky's heart.

Isaac’s gaze softens slightly, though his voice remains firm. "The court may demand certain things, but the heart seldom aligns with such demands."

You look up at him, a flicker of vulnerability crossing your expression. "I... suppose you’re right."

Isaac steps closer, his presence looming but not oppressive. "If I may speak candidly, Your Majesty," he says, his tone quiet but steady, "I know my brother better than anyone. He left because he believed it was the only way to protect you."

You feel a lump form in your throat at the mention of Bucky’s departure. "He thought he was protecting me by leaving, that sounds about right." you murmur, more to yourself than to Isaac.

Isaac’s gaze softens further, though his eyes still hold that sharpness. "He lov— means well. That is why he left." He pauses, his voice lowering. "But you should know, running away from the ones we care about does not always keep them safe."

Your chest tightens at Isaac’s words. The weight of your decisions—of the future you’re supposed to secure, and the person you love who is far away—presses down on you all at once. You look down at the list of consorts again, your heart heavy with uncertainty.

Isaac takes a step back, his expression unreadable once more. "I shall leave you to your considerations, Your Majesty," he says, his voice formal again. "But if you ever need counsel… you know where to find me."

You open your mouth, words bubbling up as uncertainty grips you. "Wait."

Isaac pauses, turning back to face you, his expression unreadable. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

You glance at the list of names on the desk and then back at him. The idea of selecting someone to fill the void in Bucky's absence feels too heavy, too painful to do alone. "I… I need your help."

Isaac’s eyes narrow slightly in surprise. "You want my counsel in choosing a consort?" His voice carries a note of disbelief, as though he hadn’t expected this request.

You nod slowly, your voice soft. "Yes. I trust that you know Bucky better than anyone. I want to make the right decision, for him… for the kingdom."

For a moment, Isaac says nothing. He studies you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of recognition, perhaps even sympathy.

"I understand," he finally replies, stepping closer once again. His tone has shifted, quieter, more serious. "I will help you."

Relief washes over you, though a lingering unease remains. You gesture to the list on the desk. "These are the names the council suggested. But I do not know some of them personally. I want someone who would truly support Bucky, someone who would not try to—" You hesitate, unable to finish the sentence, your heart aching at the thought of someone else standing beside him.

Isaac steps beside you, his gaze sweeping over the list. "These names," he says slowly, "are politically motivated. The council seeks alliances that strengthen their own positions, not necessarily what is best for my brother."

His words confirm what you feared, and you let out a soft sigh. "Then who would be the right choice?"

Isaac’s fingers lightly trace one of the names, his gaze thoughtful. 

Natasha Romanoff Carol Danvers Yelena Belova Wanda Maximoff Sharon Carter Ivanya Haynesworth Jane Haynesworth Ciara Pierce Alana Ross

"There are few here who would serve Bucky's interests. But I can tell you who to avoid."

You look up at him, your heart clenching at the dilemma before you. 

Isaac's gaze meets yours, and his voice drops to a whisper, firm and reassuring. "Bucky will return, and when he does, he will not care about a consort or the court’s demands. You know that, do you not?"

His words strike deep, echoing a truth you’ve been trying to ignore. You swallow hard, looking back down at the list, your voice barely audible. "I don’t know anymore."

Isaac places a hand gently on your shoulder, his voice steady and certain. "Trust me, Your Majesty. Together, we will ensure no one takes advantage of this situation. We will make the right decision, for Bucky and for you."

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of hope. You meet Isaac’s gaze, nodding slowly. "Thank you," you whisper.

Isaac offers a faint smile. "You are not alone in this. I am here to help, Your Majesty."

You lean forward slightly, resting your hands on the edge of the desk, your gaze drifting back to the list of names. "Wanda… she’s kind and empathetic. I know she would be supportive of Bucky in the way he needs." You glance up at Isaac, searching for some reaction, hoping for guidance.

Isaac’s expression remains neutral, but there’s a flicker—so brief it’s almost imperceptible. His eyes soften just for a second at the mention of Wanda’s name, a subtle shift in his otherwise composed demeanor.

"Wanda is indeed… remarkable," Isaac says, his voice steady but with a weight behind his words that lingers. He glances away, only for a moment, as if guarding a thought he won’t voice. "She would be a strong choice, no doubt."

There’s a silence that follows, one you can’t quite place. You catch the faintest trace of something in Isaac’s tone—admiration, perhaps? It’s gone before you can fully grasp it, but the subtle hint lingers in the air between you. He composes himself again quickly, his gaze meeting yours, sharp and clear.

"But whether she would want this role, as we’ve discussed, is something to consider," Isaac continues, his tone once more composed, giving no further indication of the brief flicker you saw. "Her loyalty and strength, however, would make her an asset to anyone she chose to stand beside."

You nod slowly, feeling as though you’ve glimpsed something more, but unsure if it was truly there. The conversation shifts back to the list of names, yet the faint trace of Isaac’s earlier reaction stays with you, leaving you with the slightest suspicion that perhaps Wanda occupies a place in his thoughts beyond simple respect.

As the conversation with Isaac winds down, the weight of your decisions still presses heavily on your mind, though the subtle sense of clarity Isaac has provided lingers. You stand, smoothing the fabric of your gown, your gaze drifting once again to the list of names on the desk.

Isaac watches you for a moment, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. "If you need anything else, Your Majesty, do not hesitate to call upon me," he says, his voice formal once more. 

"Thank you, Isaac," you reply softly, offering him a small but sincere nod. "Your counsel has been invaluable."

Just as Isaac is about to turn and leave, you feel a sudden tug in your chest—a need for one last question, one that’s been lingering at the back of your mind since he arrived. Before he can reach the door, you take a breath and call out softly, “Prince Isaac?”

He pauses, hands on the door handle, and turns back to face you. His expression shifts slightly, as though he knows what you’re about to ask but has been waiting for you to voice it.

“How… how is Bucky?” you ask, your voice quiet but filled with concern. “In Annecy, I mean. Is he doing… is he all right?”

Isaac’s features soften, and the sharpness in his gaze briefly gives way to something gentler. He steps back toward you, his demeanor more personal now.

“He’s managing,” Isaac replies, careful to choose his words. “Annecy has been a place of respite for him. He’s doing what he needs to do, focusing on himself for now.”

You nod, though your heart aches with the unspoken worries swirling in your mind. “I just… I miss him. I want to be there for him.”

Isaac’s gaze lingers on you, understanding etched across his features. “He knows that,” he says gently. “And I believe he’ll return when the time is right. For now, he’s doing what he feels he must, but it’s not forever.”

A wave of relief mixes with the ever-present ache of Bucky’s absence. You offer Isaac a small, grateful nod, managing to keep your emotions steady.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “For telling me.”

Isaac offers a brief smile, dipping his head slightly. “Take care, Your Majesty,” he says, his tone formal again but still carrying a trace of warmth.

With that, Isaac turns and exits the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The door clicks shut, and you exhale slowly, the conversation lingering in your mind. You feel both reassured and uneasy, knowing Bucky is far away, but at least he's safe for now—so you hope.

You glance back at the list of potential consorts, but your mind is elsewhere, focusing instead on the people who matter most to you—those who’ve stood by you, offered their strength and loyalty. You take a deep breath, resolving that this next step must be handled delicately.

"Scott?" you call, your voice soft yet firm.

Within moments, Scott appears at the door, his posture respectful as always. "Yes, Your Majesty?" he asks, his tone deferential.

You offer him a gentle smile. "Please extend an invitation for tea. I would like to meet with Lady Maximoff. This afternoon, if she is available."

Scott nods immediately, his professionalism unwavering. "Of course, Your Majesty. I will deliver the invitations at once."

As Scott exits the room to carry out your request, you let out a quiet sigh, your mind already racing through the upcoming meeting. These women are not just potential allies—they are people you trust, whose opinions matter deeply to you. The thought of seeing them, of discussing the choices ahead, brings a small sense of comfort, despite the heavy decisions still lingering on the horizon.

You glance once more at the abandoned list on your desk, knowing that whatever lies ahead.

Tags: @theendofthematerialgworl @httpb3a @spiidergirlsworld @sebastians-love @stevesbbgorl

@targaryenhues @almosttoopizza @scott-loki-barnes @brckenmemories @vicmc624

@classicrebound @nommingonfood @greatenthusiasttidalwave @railmesebstan @annawilk

@landoslutmeout @winterslove1917 @missvelvetsstuff @s0kovianwitch @lveegsoi

@suckerfordylansstuff @daydream-believer19 @shadowzena43 @itsshellzy @decaffeinatedjellyfishduck

@melsunshine @barnesxstan @singsosworld @kitsunetori

@im-normal-about-characters @hayleythecannibal @tallaennatargaryen

[twst-drabbles]

Heartslabyul 8

Summary: Ace and Deuce are fighting again. You watch from the window how the rest of the plant nymphs handle this, because you’re kinda in pain from a not so good fall, and horrible sleeping posture.

(Every time I imagine these little plant nymphs, I always imagine a kazoo playing in the background. Specifically for Ace and Deuce.)

While you’ve been slowly upping your daily activity, your body is by no means a tough one. Years upon years of just isolating yourself in your house and rarely venturing beyond the needed groceries really put a number on you. You’ve only started hiking, but even with the best safety measures, it was only a matter of time before you ate shit.

It was just real unfortunate that it was your knee that took the brunt of the fall. Never have you despised moist weather and mud more. You did hobble your way back home, and at first it wasn’t really all that bad, but then after a day of rest, the pain just got worse. It’s not enough to warrant a hospital visit, but you definitely can’t stand to put much weight on it.

Today is a day of suffering for you. If you didn’t want to do things before, you definitely don’t want to do anything now. You don’t even want to go outside to do your usual sun bathing routine.

Haa… you’re going to have skip Riddle’s tea party. He’s not going to like that. You really don’t want to do anything.

Which is why you didn’t bother getting up from the sofa when you saw Deuce pounce on Ace’s head. Ace screamed and ran around as a distressed chicken would, arms flapping and trying to pry Deuce off, but Deuce continued to whale on him.

You tapped your cane on the window’s edge. “Hey!”

But they didn’t listen, too caught up in whatever plant nymph arguments they’re having.

You shrugged. Oh well. They’ll probably solve it eventually. It’s happened before, where Deuce tried to use Grim as a steed but ended up crashing into Ace’s tulip garden project. At least this time, they’re not biting each other.

Off to the side, you heard a loud leaf whistle. So loud that it even temporarily stopped Ace and Deuce’s fighting. There was shuffling, lots of shuffling, and then there was a storm of Cater’s, all packed together and kicking up dust as they ran towards Ace and Deuce.

Trey, atop the shoulder of the front most Cater, looked very focused, as though on a hunt to take them down.

Oh. Oh, Ace and Deuce probably did something bad huh?

“Oh wow.” You turned off the TV and adjusted yourself, wincing when your knee twitched. It isn’t as swelled as it could be, but ugh, the muscles within hurt. The burning was horrible when you woke up this morning, but at least it’s stopped now.

To your right, there was a set of sharp clicks and clanks. You take a look and found Riddle to be there besides you, his little table and chair right next to your elbow as he set up his tea set.

Riddle attempted to return your gaze with grace and poise, but the stiffness of his body and the slight frown on his face told you all. He’s grumpy. And annoyed, but is trying so hard to keep it all in via that prince-like attitude.

You chuckled then pointed to the flattened Ace and Deuce after failing to fight off the stampede. “Aren’t you going to do something about that?”

When Riddle looked towards them, both Ace and Deuce’s head popped up and looked upon their main flower with dewy, watery eyes.

Riddle blinked, thinned his eyes, then sat himself on his chair and sipped on his tea, fully and completely ignoring them.

“Guess not, huh?”

Ace and Deuce flattened further, practically sinking into the grass beneath them, probably drowning in misery now.

Oh they definitely did something. Whatever they did, it wasn’t against Riddle but probably Trey or Cater. Or both of them. Either way, Trey is looking down upon them with crossed arms and eyes full of disappointment, now that the battle-fire vanished from him.

Riddle, with the help of his root system, set down your own teacup. One of the newer cups you’ve recently bought and placed in the shelf inside the shed. At the bottom of the teacup, there was an image of a hedgehog, napping the world away.

It was soon filled with Riddle’s own tea mixture. Riddle has stopped sipping his and stared unblinkingly at you. He’s watching, waiting for you to drink it all up. He’s not very good at hiding his concern for you.

You sipped, nice and slow, and laughed when two Cater’s carried off Ace and Deuce towards the little bathtub spring they’ve recently built. Trey followed with his brushes, and comically sized toothbrush on his back.

Riddle sighed and all the tension on his little shoulders left him.

“I’ll be fine.” You relaxed as well. “I just need a few days. I just took a really bad fall, is all.”

There was a light hum from Riddle as he sipped his tea. He grumbled a little, but fell silent upon you lightly patting his head. He huffed in embarrassment, but ultimately didn’t stop you.

[newkatzkafe2023]

Hey, bestie! Ok so you know that one scene from how to train your dragon where toothless is trying to woo the lightfury and instead of being head over heels or swooning, she’s just looking at him like he’s insane while hiccup is in the background hiding hyping toothless up?

Imagine that scene with our monkey boys trying to impress a certain fem y/n(but she is very distant and to herself) while Nesha, MK, Lin, whoever is trying to help him but he just ends up making an ass of himself. He may or may not get slapped….or whacked with his staff……again🤭. But who knows, maybe we secretly like it in the end….

Seriously have you even talked to a girl??-Norm the Genie

(Lmk Wukong) His jaw was on the floor when he went with Mk and his friends on the beach. You were sunbathing in your white two pieces Wukong chirps, uncontrollably with heart eyes, Mk noticed you too and decided to help Wukong out. Mk decided to hype up Wukong to win you over, but he acted like a huge clown in front of you, and it quickly became annoying. So you left him, but unfortunately for you, he doesn't give up that easily he had tried many methods of wooing you but it wasn't working. Then one day Wukong had made you a gift that showed a painting of you, you looked shocked as it was beautiful. With a light smile, you kissed his bright red face and accepted his courting ritual.

(MKR Wukong) He was as red as a cherry, as he stared at you at a market you were looking at fruit trying to decide which one to buy. While the monk was preying at another buddha temple(again🙄) and Wukong decided to head over and woo you. Yeah, that ended badly, and you b*tch slapped him for scarying and bothering you as you tried to pay. Unfortunately, that just fueled Wukong's desire for you, so wherever you go, he would have some kind of method to try to win you over. Some didn't go so well as the would lead to him getting beat up by you, but then he started to do things that were genuinely sweet you even Witness him father A fruit chi. You came up to him one day and officially accepted his courting request. To say he was stooked is a huge understatement

(HIB Wukong) Oh god, he's like those divorced dads in sitcoms who are awkwardly returning into the dating pool, but he had to do it because you caught his eye. Wukong is nervous as he'll because god, you were beautiful and like you would ever talk to him. Though you secretly found him to be very attractive and can feel his kind soul from where you're sitting, so it was you who walked over to him and looked him over. Wukong had a dangerously red face and felt frozen in place, but with Luier and Silly girl chatting you up and telling you that my dad, Has a huge crush on you" This made you giggle and tell him to pick you up at 7 at your place. The look on his face was priceless.

(NR Wukong) This clown was asking for a restraining order like seriously. He is starting to creep you out. He kelp flirting with you at this nightmare club you were trying to drink in peace, but he wouldn't leave you be. He would flirt and use pick-up lines on you. You had hissed and slapped his face away from you. Wukong frowned and soon started sharing his little dilemma with Li. After a few weeks, Wukong had won you over with a cute bracelet he made for you he gave Li and thumbs up as you both hugged.

(Netflix Wukong) I'll be honest you would bust a gut laughing at his attempts to get you to notice him. It's just so all over the place, and it's super cute and funny to you. Soon, he became so desperate that he actually went over to Lin's house and asked for help on you. The next morning, he came by your home with a large bouquet of your favorite flowers, making you smile, and grant him your affection.

(BMW Wukong) Oh man, did you want to kill this man because he is a compete ass. You beat him up on a daily basis with his overconfidence ass, as hot and sexy as it was. Wukong wanted you to like him. So after many failed attempts, he decided to do the one thing he never does.......... Ask for help. Erlang had kind of a fields day with this he gave some decent advice and did what he was told. After a bit, where you both chatting and learning about each other, and it seems you both have a lot more in common than you thought.

(Destined one) As usual, he's got a better chance of winning your heart, then all the others Desperate Degenerates. He was Is quiet soft and sweet and didn't piss you off as much. Your favorite activity together is cuddling and chatting. Well, it mostly you speaking about many things while the destined one listens, and with you guys being the shy and quiet couple together. It all worked out in the end, and the start to a wonderful relationship.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG

[fiddleyoumust]

So, the reality series The Boyfriend has eaten a large chunk of my brain recently. I'm not usually a huge reality TV person, but this show is scratching my brain so well, and I think it's mostly because it's very communication focused. So we get a lot of these men being exposed to different ideas and perspectives, different ways of communicating and problem solving, and most importantly, different ways of being in intimate relationships.

Shun is not my favorite person in the house, but I do find him the most fascinating to watch navigate these new relationships. He's extremely low energy, moody, introverted, outwardly calm, and reflective. He very obviously does not trust his own instincts about love and relationships, which is understandable given what he's revealed about past partners.

There is obviously a lot going on with Shun below the surface, and I get the feeling he is an extremely emotional person who has gotten very good at masking those emotions because he's never had anyone who cared about him enough to unmask them. We show our emotions to others because we want something in return - validation, comfort, understanding, etc. But we are able to show those emotions because we have an understanding with the people we are showing them to, that we will get something in return, that they care enough to give us something back for being open about our feelings.

Shun, an orphan who spent his entire childhood in an orphanage and who has had mostly toxic romantic relationships, hasn't had anyone he could trust enough to share his emotions with, so he is very closed off, even though he has a good understanding of his emotions and is a very good communicator when he needs to be. I think Dai (the guy Shun is most interested in) is a great fit for him, even though Shun hasn't fully realized it yet. Dai is ready to be that person for Shun, and his desire for Shun to trust him, his desire to be Shun's safe space is palpable in every move he's made to get closer to Shun.

In one of the most recent episodes, Shun passes up the opportunity to spend time with Dai simply because Shun's in a bad mood. He immediately feels bad about it because he knows his rejection hurt Dai's feelings. When Dai gets back from the daily mission, Shun makes a failed attempt to explain himself.

The conversation is so interesting because Shun is making a case for why not going with Dai was his perogative and Dai, who is just a really excellent person, and who has really tried hard to meet Shun where he is emotionally, is 100% not interested in having that conversation. Because he doesn't actually care if Shun wanted to go or not go, it's Shun's disregard for Dai's feelings that he's upset about. It's being taken for granted. They are not having the same conversation. But Dai also doesn't want to tell Shun how to fix it because he wants Shun to care about him enough to figure it out on his own.

They leave that conversation with Shun feeling worse than when he went into it. He goes off to sulk with a bottle of wine. Then Taehon, another contestant, joins him, and they have one of the best conversations I've seen on a reality show.

Shun talks about why he didn't go on the daily mission with Dai and how he doesn't feel like he had to volunteer to go, even though he likes Dai a lot. Taehon validates Shun's feelings, and here is the part that really hit me, and the part that I really hope Shun remembers later because he's revealed a bit about his past relationships and it seems like he was very much a person who got obsessed and lost himself to the whims of the men he's been interested in.

Shun tells Taehon, "I'm not obligated to go with Dai. We're not even dating yet." And Taehon replies, "Even if you were dating already, you're still not obligated to go." And MY GOD I hope those words stay with Shun for the rest of his life. That was something someone like Shun NEEDED to hear. You do not have to bend to the whims of your romantic partner. They are not entitled to drag you beyond your boundaries, and it is 100% okay to set boundaries and demand your romantic partners respect them.

Shun goes on to wonder if he wasn't wrong, why does he still feel so bad about what happened. Taehon tells him maybe focusing on right and wrong isn't what's important here, and Shun all on his own realizes what he feels bad about is hurting Dai's feelings, and even if hurting Dai wasn't intentional, and even though Shun had the right to not spend time with Dai, he should still let Dai know he's sorry that his choice caused Dai pain.

So, Shun apologizes for hurting Dai, and Dai is very happy, and the two of them get back on track. The entire show is so emotionally satisfying because you get to see in real time the ways people communicate, the intricacies of navigating new relationships, both romantic and not. If you enjoy watching people in all their odd, frustrating beauty, I highly recommend checking out The Boyfriend on Netflix. It's delightful.

[pondlilies00]

Happy Holidays @argyros! I was your santa for the @natsume-ss exchange! I thought a roleswap would be funny so here's Natsume as a yokai and Nyanko is a normal cat he follows around. I really liked this idea so I've got some headcannons and silly doodles exploring this AU under the cut :)

Natsume is an extremely powerful yokai that was sealed away

Nyanko accidently releases him

Normally, this is when Natsume would offer a wish so he won’t be indebted but being a cat, Nyanko can’t speak

With no way to pay off his debt, Natsume is forced to follow Nyanko around in hopes of a situation happening where he’s able to save Nyanko and be released of his debt

… Except the chance never happens. Nyanko ate weird food off the floor? He’s not human, he doesn't get sick. Nyanko fell out of a tree? Cats always land on their feet. An unknown, possibly dangerous, human approaches? Nope, the only ones that approach are cat lovers, the other humans are put off by the “ugly” cat with the weirdly large head

You know how some cats trick multiple people into thinking that they're the cat's owner so they can get food? That’s 100% Nyanko

Officially, he’s the Fujiwara’s but he’s visit Taki and Tanuma enough that they have cat beds and bowls for him

Natsume loves watching the Fujiwaras. There’s a warmth to them that is so alien yet comforting to him. Sometimes, he imagines what life as a human would be like. He would have loved to be their son

The first time Natsume followed Nyanko over the Tanuma’s, Tanuma sensed Natsume and freaked out. His cat is haunted?!?! Natsume feels bad and shows himself to the human to explain the situation

Taki also ends up meeting Natsume when he accidentally steps into one of her circles. She too freaks out about her cat being haunted

The exorcists are aware of Natsume escaping his seal but Natsume is the strongest yokai they’ve ever met

For now, the exorcists are allowing Natsume to follow the cat. Their predecessors were only able to seal him out of sheer luck so they have no way of getting rid of Natsume currently

All past attempts to exorcize him failed because Natsume would just punch his way out, didn’t even use yokai magic, just sheer fists

I like to imagine that in the normal Natsume Yuujinchou universe, there's an urban legend in Natsume’s neighborhood about a humanoid figure floating through the sky. In reality, it's Natsume flying around on Nyanko’s back. Like we know humans cant see Nyanko’s true form but Natsume doesn't have that luxury. Surely some has to have spotted him

Anyways, the roleswap au has a rumor going around about a floating cat which is in reality, Natsume carrying Nyanko around

By the time Natsume realizes how weird it must look to humans, Nyanko has already gotten use to being carried and demands to be lifted

The Dog’s Circle is now the Cat’s Circle. Hinoe is a crazy cat lady

The Book of Friends is now The Book of Cats Nyanko Has Beef With. It’s Natsume’s journal where he logs Nyanko’s daily life

[milkypompon]

The Blind Bet

pairing: Miguel x reader | Inspired by The Bet by guardianangelcas

summary: “One month, you and me. No sex, no touching yourself, no orgasms.” Miguel grins as if he’d already won the bet.

content: Miguel knows exactly how to wind you up and break you down... teasing, enemies to lovers, semi-public touching, fingering, sextape, recording, masturbating... he's watching hehe

wc: 4.5k

How?

How in the hell was it possible that the chances of avoiding this situation were slim to none in the vast multiverse? Annoyingly called the Archno-Humanoid-Poly-Multiverse by the very same man who roped you into a challenge that deprived you of the only good thing after coming back from a grueling mission. 

Gone were the nights of unzipping your Spidersuit to toss it into the hamper before taking a hot shower leaving your skin raw and vulnerable. Then hastily patting yourself dry with a towel that was soon to be repurposed as a rag for under your thighs — in an attempt to catch your or chosen companion’s cum before it seeped into the mattress.

Looking back, Miguel fucking O’Hara crafted his words to reel you in. Hook, line, and sinker. 

–

One month ago.

“I know you’ve been using the interdimensional gizmo at night to visit your… friends.” Per usual, he was nonchalant, scrolling through anomalies on his platform, now touching the ground (a habit you noted when you were in the office with him). As if he didn’t reveal that he’d been tracking your movement with Lyla’s help, who was just as eager to know what you were up to the late hours when any other normal person would be awake. 

But that was the problem in itself, you weren’t human and neither was Miguel. The stupid machine by Alchemax was to blame. Not only the incident result in both of you needing a bump of Rapture daily but it also required a quick fuck to satiate the burning feeling teetering between pain and desire at the pit of the stomach. 

You didn’t reply for a few beats, which was a mistake because the dead air was suffocating. There was no sound other than the occasional beeps from the monitors and dashboard. Even with your heightened senses, Miguel’s breathing was quiet. If his back weren’t turned to you with his shoulders slightly lifting up and down, you would think he was breathing at all. 

“Don’t you have better shit to do than checking my coordinates, O’Hara?” You steal your voice into some semblance of superiority but fail terribly at gaining control over the conversation. 

It was a constant push and pull between you two. Who would tap out first? Who would shoot the first web? Who would sink their teeth in first? Figuratively, you suppose, but also literally because your canines are starting to itch beneath your gums, threatening to unsheathe themselves into fangs. 

“That watch is company property. A company that I happen to own. Therefore, I have the right to know where it is.” Miguel releases an unamused laugh. “I’m not using it to stalk you, you narcissist.”

“Says the one who replaced his dead alternate so he could fuck his wife—” 

Miguel grimaces at your comment before cutting you off, “And it happened to be in a particular universe that wasn’t yours. Care to explain? Or maybe you can just simply confirm my suspicions with a simple yes or no because you don’t seem to be articulate with your words… according to last night.”

Oh.

You forgot to turn off your watch after your debriefing with Miguel. And he heard everything. You had half a mind to tug his shoulder and turn him around just to punch the smirk off of him that you knew was contorting his face. So, you did, or close to at least until he caught your fist and encapsulated it with his own.

“Play nice, nena” Miguel mutters under a slight tug of his mouth. 

The bastard found it amusing, listening to the sounds you made while you were pushed down into the mattress with a man who knew how to use his dick. Or at least good enough to help you sink deep into a dreamless sleep after a day of beating anomalies into a pulp and tossing it through the swirling vortex. 

But you did dream that night, so maybe the nameless man wasn’t as good at maneuvering himself inside of you as you thought. Your mouth went dry as you recollected vivid events in the dream. Of course, it was about your boss. 

You shake your head to ground yourself. “You fucking recorded it! I bet you sat your ass down on your chair and jacked off to me moaning. You disgusting—” 

“The gizmo records everything so I can playback the content to observe the…” Miguel grimaced when he realized he was making the situation worse. “That’s beside the point. I deleted it already.” 

You step back, letting your arms fall to your side but you still keep your hands balled up — the only way to stop yourself from engaging your talons. 

Miguel looks at you with a blank stare, almost bothered. “Did you really think I would’ve saved the video?” 

You scoff, “I wouldn’t put it past you.” You didn’t mean it of course, but something fiery licked at your throat to demolish him in a battle of wit and snarky comebacks. 

Although the man didn’t have a running streak of good morals considering his long-standing chase with the 15-year-old boy who wanted to save his father, Miguel drew the line there – somewhere between not breaking canon and the depravity of voyeurism through a sextape.  

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. “Whatever, just don’t let it happen again.” 

Again?

That means Miguel has thought about the chances of this situation reoccurring with your head against your pillow, eye-rolling back, muttering incoherent chatter of pleasure, recorded on his company property gizmo. An open welcome for him to display it on his various monitors, big or small, the video would be the same, you split open by a lucky bastard that wasn’t him.  

You wet your lips, feeling his eyes drift down to the pink tip of your tongue. He wants your mind twisting to read between the lines, treating you the way he draws information out of anomalies wreaking havoc. Little do they know Miguel plays just as dirty, creeping into their heads. 

You grimace, “Stop.”

“Stop what?” Miguel hides a chuckle under the guise of clearing his throat. He saunters over to his work chair, leveled closer to the ground more than usual, and makes himself comfortable. 

Any other person would’ve relished the idea of gleaning over his broad figure, but it was a false sense of dominance on your end. He knew it and so did you. You have to give it to him because it would be working if you didn’t know him so damn well.

If you weren’t warming up beneath your Spidersuit, you would’ve been insulted by his attempt to reel you in… 

Into what exactly? 

“That!” You shoot your arms toward him and almost whine. “This is your second time trying to set me up and make myself look like an idiot!”

“Oh, so you’ve been keeping track?” Now there was a full-blown grin on Miguel’s face. “Just like how you keep mental tick marks of how many people you’ve had sex with this week?” 

At this point, you weren’t entirely sure what you felt, but it was between a fever and a cold sweat. Your cheeks burned with color or were devoid of it with the way he said ‘sex’ to you or even asked the question – as if he wanted to know what you had for breakfast this morning before the debriefing took place.

Miguel was no holy virgin either, so he wasn’t one to talk. He was a ravenous lover, not in the sense of intimacy, but in carnal desire. There was not much to blame other than how his DNA was altered to contain spider genes, hence creating the need to let off some steam with anyone who could bear his child. 

But he had morals and an even amount of self-restraint. He wasn’t about to hop into a dimension with brothels to fulfill his needs. No matter how glaring or bothersome it was to feel his hard-on against his suit.

Instead, Miguel had a ‘roster’, as Peter B. liked to call it. It was a list of Spiderpeople he rotated throughout the week. The arrangement was a simple act of mutualism. He could rely on them to simulate the chosen partner being filled with his seed, while he helped them get their rocks off for the night. 

You had a similar routine, Miguel observed, considering that you had the same canon event as him. Not to mention, you happen to log off from the watch on the dot.

Except for last night, when you’d left it on.

 “You’re one to talk, O’Hara.” You dig your heels into the ground, watching his brows sit above his dark eyes. “Swinging your ass around Nueva York as if you haven’t fucked at least a quarter of the women in this compound.”

“So, you do keep count. Not of your escapades but of mine.” Miguel leans back into the chair. 

“Mm, right because everything is about you,” You snarl and take a stride between his thighs.

“Fine, then let’s make it about you. You can’t control yourself if your life depended on it,” He says in a low voice, a timbre that makes shivers run down your spine.

Poets, or in your case, blind idiots, say that the third time’s the charm. And although this was his third time trying the make you an idiot, there was nothing particularly charming about it. 

He knows you wouldn’t pass up on the opportunity to one-up him in a challenge. It didn’t matter if it was about who could wrap up an anomaly case the fastest or in indirect ways of seeing which new batch of Spiderpeople under your or his supervision would improve the quickest, it never got to the point of this. 

It was an act of chalking up your sex life to simply win another challenge and gain bragging rights.

The better, more mature part of you should walk away from the situation, but there’s a seedling of a dark fantasy that was determined to see if Miguel would play along. 

Maybe it wasn’t even about winning anymore, but you’d rather choke on your own tongue than admit that. To see him breathe when you breathe was palatable enough. 

“One month, you and me. No sex, no touching yourself, no orgasms.” Miguel grins as if he’d already won the bet.

–

Present Day

In the canteen, You grip the tray housing your lunch, a blue Spiderman 2099 burger with a side of fries shaped like webs. The mindless chatter of your coworkers was comforting until there was one whose presence stood out the most. So much so that the figure garbed with a pink, fluffy robe and baby carrier snatched your peripherals.

“Heyyy!” Peter B. drawled and lightly bounced the furious curls of red attached to his chest.

“Pretty patty,” Mayday giggled and pointed to the burger.

“Little Red’s been watching Spongebob.” He grins and settles onto the seat across from you, careful of sitting too close for Mayday’s chubby hand reaching over for a fry. “Speaking of which–”

You bring a finger up to your lips, successfully shutting him up. After years of working under the Spider Society, you made sure there was a carved-out section of your schedule to discuss missions. At the canteen with a hot meal in hand wasn’t the time and place.  

“You’re just like him. When there’s food around, the rest of the world disappears.” Peter plucked the fry from Mayday’s hand. “Big no, no. Mama won’t be happy if you eat greasy num nums. 

He proceeds to pop the greasy num num into his mouth and you roll your eyes with a small smile.

“Wonder how ya don’t get along with him, kid. Miguel, I mean. Almost clawed my face off when I went into his office while he was eating empanadas,” He remarks.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, why are you here? Haven’t seen you in the canteen since you’ve been eating lunch with MJ and Little Red back in your universe,” You note.

“Right, right. About that.” Peter takes a pregnant pause. It was just enough time to pick up what he was about to ask.

You groan in frustration. “I am not gonna switch shifts with you again. You always manage to set up your dates with MJ when you have the worse missions.”

Peter pouts. The grown man has the audacity to pout. But, you can’t help but sigh and slowly nod because it reminds you of when Mayday motions towards your webslingers, hoping to persuade you. 

“Fine, but I’m doing it for Red.”

He snaps his fingers. “I owe you one, kiddo.”

A gruff voice that’s all too familiar calls out to him, “Peter–” 

He fidgets with the straps of the baby carrier before standing up. The sound of the metal screeching against the floor makes you wince. Somehow, he sidesteps Miguel and grins at him.

“Don’t miss me too much, O’Hara. Got a date night with the wife, but you’re in good hands tonight.”

And just like that, Peter pats Mayday’s head and steps through the portal without another word. You and Miguel stand there without a sound while watching the rip through the multiverse sew itself shut.

You shift your weight from foot to foot and decide to break the silence. “Does Peter know?”

Miguel shakes his head. “‘Bout the bet? Of course not, keeping this stupid thing between us to my grave.”

“One that you made by the way.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” He mutters. Miguel hates how quickly you snap back into place to shove a knife deep in his gut to get a reaction out of him. It’s a habit, practically second nature now. 

He rakes his eyes over your face as if etching every single slant and angle to his mind. A few flecks of salt from the fries were sprinkled along the curve of your lips. He wonders how it’d taste if he licked it before dipping his tongue into your mouth, licking the sweet saliva pooling there, waiting for him. 

Or how it’d seep out as he guides his cock into your mouth. He almost groans at the thought.

Lyla materializes his watch and bounces to your shoulder. “Hey, pretty lady! I saw Peter swap his name for yours for tonight.”

You steal Miguel’s words. “Thanks for the reminder.”

He turns his back to you and throws his head over with a nod. “C’mon, back to my office. I need to fill you in about the anomaly.”

You trudge behind him because walking beside him seems too intimate and leading the way would show the slight tremble of your legs. Besides, opting to fall a few feet after him gives you a good view of his ass. Not that you were looking.

Lyla imitates your strides despite floating above the ground. “Whatcha thinking about, babes?”

You run a hand over your face to cover the flush. “Thinking about how to catch the anomaly.”

She giggles in a foxy tone. “I haven’t said anything about the mission.”

“Oh, right–” 

You’re met with a firm back pressed onto your chest.

Miguel juts his chin over to the display monitors. “Take my seat. I’m gonna need some coffee for this job. You?” 

With a silent laugh, you shake your head at his offer. Working with him for, god knows how long, introduced you to his quirks. One of them is how he takes his coffee. It was a deep black that light barely penetrated. On rare occasions it did, you could his constant frown reflected on it.

Miguel O’Hara was as bitter as his coffee. Go figure. 

You slide into the chair, surprised by how comfortable the cushion is. It was probably engineered to keep his ass snug for hours on end as he monitored the universe to make sure it didn’t collapse, or something along those lines.

A few feet behind you, he waved his hand. “Lyla, the explainyinfo thing.”

Her heart-shaped glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose. “Gotcha, bossman.” 

In front of you are displays of Adriano Tummino, better known as the Vulture from the Renaissance era. He nested inside an abandoned warehouse, trying to make sense of the world that was no longer dipped in sepia and scribbles of ink.

“Don’t know how he managed to get out the first time.” Miguel sips his so-called coffee. Should’ve just chewed on the beans, you thought. 

“Crafty man,” You quip, earning you a short puff of air from his nostrils.

He grabs the back of the chair and swivels it for you to face him. You pressed yourself against it, trying to take up as little room as possible, but he was close. Your legs fall limp on either side of his thighs as he leans down to your height.

Deja vu hits you, then replaced by swirling vertigo. 

You and Miguel were in this exact position a month ago albeit in reverse. 

“That crafty man needs our undivided attention during the stakeout. Prepare yourself however you need to.” His warm breath, stained with the scent of coffee, caressing your lips.

A few beeps and flashes of light bounce off from his watch. It catches your eye as your name pops up above arcs of lines that rose.

“Careful, nena. Your heart rates spiking.” Miguel’s fangs poked out from the edge of his lip, giving you a small smile. Your neck itched at the thought of feeling it sink down into your jugular before he lapped up at the twin holes. 

To make sure neither of you cheated on the bet, you suggested giving both ends of the party access to each other’s heart rate monitors on the watch. Because of his snarky remark, which could’ve been a serious suggestion now in hindsight, about setting up a camera feature. It made you scoff… and turned on.

“Breathe in and out slowly. Even out your heartbeat.” Miguel warned.

There was nothing more you wanted to grab the back of his neck and shove his face into your pussy. That’ll shut him up.

And get you off.

You reach the tip of your toes onto the ground and give it a hard push, sending you rolling back a good few inches. The short distance was still suffocating, but it was enough to let you press your thighs together – the seams of your Spidersuit rubbed against your clit, sending small pulses throughout your body.

But stopping before his watch indicated another spike in your pulse. You’re aware of his eyes on you until he rips it off.  

Miguel straightens himself up before the Spiderman mask wraps around his face. He tried to hide the grin under it but the amusement slipped through. 

Alerts resounded on his gizmo. For a good second, you thought it was about you. That alone would’ve sent you into cardiac arrest. But it was simply a detection of the Vulture’s universe. 

He was on Earth-616B. 

Peter B.’s universe.

Funny.

You fiddle with your gizmo, a bright shower of neons bounced off of you as the portal opened up. Adrenaline coursed through your veins. It wasn’t ideal to have jitters when the mission was to birdwatch the Vulture next to the man you were deprived of. 

Miguel headed in first with you in tow. The sun was about set over the building both of you were perched on. He couldn’t help but think about how Peter ditched him to go on a date with MJ on a night like this.

“There,” You snapped him out of his thoughts. Below you was a crumbling building surrounded with shards of glass from the shattered windows. It was easy to keep an eye on the Vulture while he wrote chicken scratches on the floor – plans of creating primitive technology. 

He grabbed your wrist and tugged you down next to him. With a finger to his lips, he indicated to you to keep quiet.

You whisper-shouted, “I’m not your subordinate.”

“You saying that just proved you wrong.”

That shut you up for a few hours. It was dark out by now. The sky was empty of stars, but the city lights sparkled enough to keep you entertained for a little while longer.

“Can’t we just grab him and go? What’s the whole ‘stake out’ plan for?” You airquoted. 

Miguel pressed his shoulder against yours to keep a low voice. “If he was able to bust out the first time, we need to figure out what he’s making to combat his machine.” 

You hated that he was right but your muscles were starting to cinch together from crouching. If you stood up to stretch, the Vulture would spot you through his goggles. So, you opted to roll your head back a few times.

In Miguel’s peripheral, he saw the expanse of your neck covered by the skintight spandex, stretching as you shifted. It looked small, he thought. How easy it would be to wrap his hand around and gently squeeze it to keep you quiet. Instead, he clamped it around your waist, pulling you to rest your back on his chest. It was loose enough to let you wiggle out of his grasp while still feeling the warmth crawling down to where you needed it most. 

“Quit moving.” 

The past few weeks without any form of release between your legs was agonizing. This was quite the most you’ve been touched in a while. If his fingers crawled a few inches down, he’d feel the damp fabric slick with your arousal. 

“Y-You’re cheating, O’Hara. Don’t you fucking dare–” You snarl in a low whisper.

“Ay coño… Fuck the bet,” He mumbles close to you, his clothed length pressing against the curve of your ass. There was a moan threatening to bubble up if he put on any more pressure. It was too much and yet not enough. “Did you really think Peter was too busy to do this damned stake-out with me tonight? He’d bring out his baby just to be a part of a mission.”

You threw your hands over the railing, trying to stabilize and ground yourself with what little resilience you had left as you were nestled on your knees with him close to rutting up to you. You knew he didn’t have the balls to do it, not because he’d lose, but because he wanted you to fall apart in his hands. 

“Off… Get off.” You swallow. Every part of you was trembling, but you couldn’t bring yourself to take what he was willing to hand out. And all you had to do was–

“Just ask, nena.” The drawl of his voice made you dizzy, your head fell back to his shoulder. “Ask me to sink my fingers in that pretty pussy of yours. Come on my fingers and I won’t count it against you.” He offers you a slight reprieve with the olive branch.

You chew your bottom lip in contemplation, a million thoughts dipping in and out of your mind.

Fuck this. Fuck the bet. Fuck him… up, down, and around. You want Miguel in every single way. 

You arch your back, the plush of your bottom rubbing up against his clothed cock. 

It takes everything in him to stop your movement. “Easy, easy, yeah? Use your words. It’s just you and me,” He murmurs deep into you.

“And Big Bird on steroids below us!” You try to snap back, but your voice shakes with embarrassment. 

“Stupid bird’s not gonna see us as long as you behave.” Miguel moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue. He was choking on the thought of laying you down on his bed to taste every last drop you’ll give him, then fuck you senseless. But this awkward position with your back pressed against his chest while both of you kneeled toward the railing would be enough. 

You reach to the back of your neck where the zipper for the Spidersuit dangled at every attempt of pulling it down. Miguel was of no help, his fingers idly tapped a rhythm on your hips. You felt him vibrate with amusement at your expense.

You toss your head back to rip your mask off and glare at him only to be met with his mask. 

With a last chuckle, he tugs the zipper down, watching the spandex pool around your waist. 

“Careful. Not everyone is a billionaire with infinite tech–”

It wasn’t enough. He gave it one last pull past the curve of your ass. 

You’re about to scold him again but you hear him swallow. Despite not being able to see his face, you could already imagine it.

“Ay… Not even wearing panties under this,” Miguel breathes, grabbing a handful of the plump skin. 

“Gets itchy,” You protest.

You can feel him molding the tender flesh into his palm. “Fuck– I know I see you wearing your suit every day, but… God, this is—”

Miguel’s suit retracts, exposing his skin just below his wrist bone. Something in your core bubbles up, a mixture of dread and arousal because you knew deep down that if he started now, you’d find yourself crawling back for more. Back into his office. Back into his bed. With his warm hand cupping over your pussy on the roof of an abandoned building it didn’t matter where he dragged you along. 

“You’re dripping, dios mío— all over my fucking fingers. You’re so wet. Just for me, huh?” Miguel digs his nose into the crook of your neck, his breath leaving you hot. “Working hard every day to save the universe. Not a single person stopped to give you gratitude. You just need someone to take care of your little cunt.”

And god, you want him to do it. 

“Well, too bad. This is a thankless job.” He slaps your bare sex with a shlick, his fingers grazing your clit ever. 

No matter how much you jut up to encourage him to do anything, his grip on your waist was too strong. There’s nothing to do but follow his pace and feel whatever he is willing to give you. 

“Down, take it easy. And stay focused, I still need you to keep an eye on the anomaly.” Miguel cranes his cheek down to nuzzle you. It was a poor attempt to coo your overwrought body, how did he expect you to remember what you came here for?

“Fine,” You say in a gruff voice.

“Good girl.” Miguel pulls the lips apart with two fingers, coating it with you before pressing it in. Each knuckle made you suck in a deep breath. It feels like you’ve run out of air. Floating now, you think. But the moment he curls his fingers to that spot, you’re reeling back onto earth. “There, isn’t it?”

He slides out of you, flurries of curses are caught in your throat. He knew how to drag this out. He brings the slick to the edge of your mouth. “Open for me.”

He groans as he shoves his fingers into your mouth. He wanted to taste you, but he wasn’t going to. Not yet. It didn’t feel right if it wasn’t right from the source, but that’ll have to wait. He wants you to collapse in on yourself first before he does anything else.

“Miguel.”

“I know, nena.” 

[deathbxnny]

OKAAAAAYYYY!

After some careful deliberaing on the two options currently at my disposal, I have come to a decision!

(Takes place a number a weeks after the magic show secret debacle to be decided at your discretion!)

The stars have seemingly aligned. Unexpectedly, for what feels like the first time in forever, there's a lull in Arlecchino's typically chockful schedule. Sure there's a small amount of paperwork, but otherwise... her day schedule is weirdly... empty.

So, she decides to use the freetime that the fates had granted to take you on a date, considering how long it'd been since you'd last done something like that as couple (plus, she secretly does feel kind of guilty for embarrassing Lyney after the look you gave her. But she's much to proud to admit that to your face, plus she still at least partially feels like her actions were still "necessary"). Considering how "Mother" doesn't like being away from the House for long periods of time, Arlecchino elects to make it a sort of "stay at home dinner date" with House servants and the Children serving the dishes.

Now most of the children might not notice it, but Lyney, Lynette and Freminet can sense it all too well. There's this indescribably "tension" between the two of you, one so intense, it could be cut with one of the steak knives at your disposal. Conversation is stiff, and even though you're sitting not even a foot away from each other, there seems to be nigh uncrossable distance between you two.

It would appear you’re still a bit upset about the previous weeks events...

X Anon

Blood in the water. | Arlecchino x Fem!Wife!Reader

Find the other parts to this in my genshin master list!!

Sorry for the long wait, X Anon, and thank you once more for your great requests! I hope you'll enjoy this, since I had fun writing it... it also turned out way more angsty than I thought, so uhhh... I'm sorry in advance...😭

Content: Wife reader, heavy angst, trauma, spoilers to Arlecchino's past, established romantic relationship, gaslighting, sfw

Reader is afab and has she/her pronouns.

((Not fully proofread))

Your body shifted in your seat uncomfortably under her intense gaze, eyes lingering on the golden wedding band on your finger that didn't glint as proudly anymore. Everything has dulled in the last month following the failed show. And despite your son's reassurance that he didn't mind and figured he must've done something wrong to anger his Father, you very much disagreed. Mainly because you knew better than to believe that it was nothing short of pettiness.

Which led you to now, seated at your dinner table with your wife, as the children rushed around to serve you as perfect maids and butlers. It was supposed to be a beautiful date, one that you had been wishing for for months. Yet due to her busy schedule, you only now got around to it... right after the incident.

Terrible timing indeed.

Weeks ago, you may have sat here with a girlish giddiness that was rare to find in your daily lives. But faced with uncertainty in the face of potential doom by the calculating hand of your wife, you found yourself feeling empty instead. Small smiles still forced themselves onto your lips whenever your children came by as you were unwilling to show your disdain in front of them. Thankfully, they didn't seem to notice... or at least most of them didn't. Lyney was nervously hovering around the room every so often, attempting to act like a sly waiter, yet the sweat on his forehead and the slightest quiver in his grin still gave him away.

Quite frankly, you didn't want to participate in any of this tonight. Your excitement for such dates had long melted away due to your frustration about everything lately. She pretended not to notice, simply moving on with her day as if she wasn't beginning to rip the family apart. You were so angry, so sad. But you held it together for the sake of everyone in the house and her. Even if she didn't feel deserving of it anymore.

Glancing up at her briefly, you watched as she idly drank from her glass of wine, blissfully unaware of the plight you were in, although you knew better than to believe it. The tension was thick and suffocating. And the silence was ringing in your ears at this point. She was the one who suggested this in the first place, so why couldn't she put more energy into this? Why did you have to do everything for her?

When did you start resenting her so much?

Good question. Admittedly, you couldn't exactly pinpoint a moment where it might have begun to go downhill, but it kept you up at night. Was it perhaps when you took over the orphanage together? She was always so adamant about doing things differently than Curcabena, which is why she took on the title of "Father" that day... but your title as "Mother" wasn't as easy to reclaim. She was vehemently against it at first, nearly letting it slip that she found you too incompetent for the role, that only she should have the power over the house and the upbringing of the children. Yet you pushed through and eventually were allowed to play your role, too... although the path there was exhausting due to Arlecchino's unrelenting wrath.

"Is there something on your mind, my love?" Her voice cut through your thoughts like a knife, her tone dousing you in ice cold water. Oh, she certainly didn't sound as jolly as she should at your presence. Not that she ever did. "You didn't say anything to me all day, despite this date being your idea, dear." You replied before quickly downing some food in case things got out of hand. Never have you ever spoken to her in a condescending tone. It wasn't in your nature. But tonight, things were different.

Far more different.

Lyney and his two other siblings nervously glanced at each other from behind the dining room door at the sound of your voice. Yep, you were definitely very much still angry despite claiming you weren't. The tension was suffocating them every time they stepped into the room, but somehow, they were also the only ones to notice that. Sighing, Freminet played with the hem of his frilly shirt. "This... isn't good. Mother isn't pleased." "Ahaha... I'm sure they'll solve the disagreement soon and get over it like always! You know how they are!" Yes, the boy did, and that's why he was worried.

People often mistook you as a docile yes-man who did whatever her Harbinger wife asked of her. At the beginning of the House of Hearth, that may have been very true... until it wasn't. You eventually split apart due to your different ideas on parenting yet still tried to work together on most days. On others, it turned into cold wars like these, in which both of you refused to budge on your opinion, Father more so than you. You at least tried to compromise when needed, but you refused to adhere to her every command. Especially when many, many, many of your children started to die.

The image of the family's graveyard came to mind, which made him cringe away further from the door. It was really just a matter of time until you finally exploded. Thankfully, Lynette seemed to agree as she crossed her arms and shook her head. "This isn't going to end well, Lyney. This is... probably not going to be solved." The young man's forced smile faltered, and she was therefore quick to add the next sentence. "And it's no one's fault."

It was no secret that Lyney was partially blaming himself for your falling out, as he racked his brain to figure out what exactly he had done wrong. He wanted to prove to his father for so long that he was worth the title of "King", yet this felt like a set back and he now had to deal with the fear of the house falling apart. If only he was better, then maybe none of this would have to happen now.

Sensing her brother's discomfort, she gently pressed a hand against his shoulder, eyes turning to glance back at the creaked open door in silent worry.

"Hm... My apologies. I simply have a lot on my mind." The conversation was stiff and rigid, yet the chaotic, raging energy was beginning to brew below the surface, and so was your temper. "Oh really? Are you thinking about which child of ours you should humiliate next?" Arlecchino looked up at you, the glint in her unique eyes warning you of the dangerous game you were playing. But you ignored it, as you pretended not to notice either. Of she wanted to be petty and ignorant, then you can be too.

"... I see you're still upset." "How can I not be? You punished my son for no reason. In his own show at that." Your voices were calm. Too calm. It sounded as though you were speaking of the weather. It was depressing that this is what your relationship had turned into. "Our son, love." She corrected you idly, as though scolding a small child for a mispronunciation. "And I did no such thing. I believe you're just imagining things again." A cruel jab to the delirious state you once were in when Curcabena still had a terrible hold on your mind. She haunted you at every step and looked over your shoulder in disgust at every "mistake" you made. She is why you had to suffer so badly when reclaiming your title.

For Arlecchino to use that against you not only proved that her patience was wearing thin, but that she also would do anything to keep you chained to her. You had long moved on from your past, unwilling to be caged by it any longer. But in her quest to do the same, Peruere became the cage itself. She locked the door to yours and your children's freedom tightly, unwilling to ever let you especially go. Was it envy that she couldn't escape fate? Or did she really still love you as purely as she did back when you were children?

The buzzing in your ears was getting louder, and you knew better than to stay seated. You were used to her games, but you wouldn't let her do this to you again. You refused to suffer when your children needed you the most. "You know what, Peruere? I think you are just angry that your legacy isn't yours. That the boy that you raised turned into his Mother's image instead-" You stoo up, hands resting against the oak table with a thud. Your words made her gaze harden and reconfirm your long-standing suspicions. "-He is so kind. So soft. So strong. You don't have the ruthless king you wished for. The one Crucabena would've loved to have-" "-Don't you dare finish that sentence."

Her breathing was heavier, a little uneven, something that never typically happened. But you too knew her perfectly. You knew what buttons to press, even if you never wanted to press them to begin with. "... what happened to you? Why can't you be happy with us? Why are you hurting me?" These questions are impossible to answer, which you knew of course. But the look on her face made you suddenly reel away from the table and flee the room in disbelief.

This wasn't the woman you fell in love with so many years ago as children. This wasn't the woman you married. This wasn't the woman that you raised children with.

This was the Knave. A ruthless Harbinger that must've purged the last of your wife's humanity... or was it perhaps Curcabena who was still following you after all?

Whatever the case may be, you let out a broken sob once you pushed past the three frozen children and escaped to your shared room, unable to handle the heartbreak any longer.

[chaoticbardlady99]

I Don't Wanna Be Your Friend (Astarion x GN! Reader)

  This man has a chokehold on me and I have been plagued by this idea for about a week.

Title inspired by the song "i wanna be your girlfriend" by girl in red

CW: Mentions of violence and gore (not descriptive), bit of angst, comfort

(Not my photo. I believe it belongs to Daily Gaming)

Synopsis- You and Astarion are in the middle of a war to prove who can set the best traps. However, a lack of rules seems to have gotten you into a predicament neither one of you had anticipated.

Sometimes you take it a smidge too far. 

 You would love to tell people you are some cunning, daring rogue, but the reality is that you are consistently flying by the seat of your pants. Occasionally it works really well- this was not one of those times.

    You never felt the need to prove anything to anyone.

Well, until you met Astarion. Within the first three days of traveling with him, your confidence and patience began to wear thin. He would make snide comments when watching you attempt to unlock a chest or when you scare off your prey by tripping over a bush. Then he would smirk at you- with that stupid, beautiful smirk.

He enjoys adding salt to the wound by taking on the task you failed at; usually lock picking, sneak attacks, and Gods only knows what else he could make fun of you for. You are very aware that you are not some fancy rogue and it never bothered you until now. You had accepted long ago that you are just a street urchin moving up in the world after teaching yourself the trade.

  The final straw had been when you had placed traps to catch dinner. Your traps had been successful (naturally- traps were your thing) and you brought back three bunnies for Gale’s stew.

Oh, but of course Astarion had something to say. He always has something to say.

  “Oh look at that- how cute. I’m sure sheerluck was on your side,” he quips, “You’ll get better eventually.”

 Thus began the war of all wars.

It started with small traps- nuisances really. Tripwire, a laughing or sleep rune well hidden, and traps that release horrible smells. Then it quickly took a turn for the worst; what were once harmless pranks turned into trip wires that release a swarm of bees, simple pits began to get deeper, and blasting traps that would send either one of you flying into a nearby object. It was never truly life threatening, just questionable.

  Well, except for the bees. The bees were not the greatest thought in hindsight; considering both you and Astarion had to help each other with the bee stings- Shadowheart refusing to be involved. You both laughed and he even complimented you on your cleverness. You swore you could have exploded in that moment.

   You have a massive, childish crush on the man and maybe the competition was your subconscious way of getting closer to him. However, your other companions were getting sick of it pretty quickly. 

  They had all hoped after the Tiefling party that the two of you would put your silly competition to rest so that you could all travel together in peace and they would just have to deal with PDA.

What a silly thing for them to think. PDA hasn't happened, but the pranks did become less risky and less frequent.  You were okay with this change.

   You feel like you and Astarion have become close friends. Even though your tryst didn’t lead to a romantic relationship as you had hoped, you were happy to have Astarion in your life in any capacity. If that was just as a friend- then so be it. 

  Which brings us back to the beginning- when you realize that your ‘trap war’ had paper thin rules and the lack of rules just might be the thing that actually kills you on this journey.

  All you wanted to do was clean yourself off. It had been one last relaxing day before you set off to the Creche, but you had thought you might treat yourself. Baths were rare and far between these days and you want to enjoy it while you have it. However, you were not planning for a simple snare trap to foil your entire evening. 

  You get hoisted up into the air, slammed against the tree, and drop all of your belongings- including the knife you brought ‘just incase’. You glared at the knife and put your hand to your blood fountain of a nose.

 “Traitor,” you whisper with a pout as you look for a way to escape the trap.

  Suddenly, you freeze as instincts kick in. You hear the Gnolls before you see them. Your bloody nose from the impact of the tree had led them to you. They attempt to claw at you- trying to rip you down from the tree. You feel their claws tear into your back, the side of your arms, and one of them even manages to take a swipe at your abdomen as you scramble to escape. The cuts weren't life threatening, but they hurt. A LOT.

  You manage to use the rope to pull yourself up onto one of the tree limbs; allowing you to hide some of your body from the Gnolls, but you now have an arrow protruding out of your right thigh so obviously that isn’t working well either.

  You bite back tears, frozen in fear. You really did not want to die this way and you certainly didn’t want it to be because of Astarion’s trap. You have a feeling he wouldn’t be able to forgive himself if you died because of him. 

  You can imagine the blame and anger the rest of your companions would direct at him if the worst happened. You imagine the bloodshed- knowing full well that everyone (minus Karlach) would not forgive him for accidentally killing you. Lae’zel would be the first one to put a stake in his chest- her fondness for you is no secret. 

   Your heart thumps painfully at that thought and your resolve hardens. You will not die because you will not let that happen to Astarion. 

 You look around, your arms and legs shaking still with the residual shock and fear. You look for any sharp branches, a forgotten knife lodged somewhere, or even something you could cast a cantrip on to distract them. You have no such luck. 

 You resign yourself to your fate- the tears making a reappearance. 

 Unless one of your companions finds you first- you are going to either have to wait for the Gnolls to get bored and leave or they are going to kill you.

You pray to every God you can think of that you will survive the night.

_________________________________________________

 Astarion is trying to not look so desperate as he reads the first page for the hundredth time. 

  You had walked off a little over two hours ago- Lae’zel is on watch while the rest of your companions sleep soundly in their bed rolls. 

 The longer your bedroll remains empty, the more the pit grows in his stomach.

He didn’t know how to navigate your relationship after the tiefling party.

His feelings for you are confusing. The sex had felt different, he enjoys your company immensely, and he likes how warm he feels around you.

Instead of talking to you like a normal person or taking a moment to reflect, he decided to find some common ground- something you could laugh and talk about later. Normalcy.

He set up a snare trap close to the river you were all using to clean off and then a laughter rune trap somewhere on the path to the Creche. Hypothetically, they are very safe traps.

Unless he rigged them wrong? What if you ran into one of them and….

  No, I am sure they are just fine.

 He doesn’t even believe his own lie.

After about another five minutes, the anxiety rolling in his stomach becomes unbearable so he grabs his daggers and sets off in the direction you had gone two hours earlier.

  He walks quickly through the forest, checking his surroundings and looking for evidence that you were close by. As the minutes pass, he feels the hope of finding you safe shrink.

The wind hits his nose and he becomes stock-still.

He smells your blood- an alarming amount of it-in the air as he gets closer to the river. He fears the worst as he goes to look at the trap- hoping you will forgive him- that you are alive. Safe.

 He peers through the bushes and his eyes grow wide as the scene before him unfolds. 

  You are stuck up in the tree- his trap is still around your ankle. You are holding onto the branch like your life depends on it. It probably does since there are five Gnolls circling the tree like vultures.

  He can hear your soft broken sobs as arrows fly over you or hit the tree. He notices the arrow in your leg and watches as a second one lodges itself into your calf. You wince and close your eyes tightly- unknown to you that Astarion’s vision is clouded in red and his whole body fills with destructive, hot rage. He also feels fear, but he pushes it away, not ready to explore the why. 

  He lunges forward, slashing at the Gnolls with so much force that they are practically in half by the time they hit the forest floor. He is a man possessed as he carves his way through all five gnolls and then he climbs up the tree to you. 

His chest aches as he looks at you. He will never be able to forgive himself for causing you so much suffering.

  “Darling,” he says softly.

    You whimper in response and when you look at him- he feels all the air leave his lunges. If he needed air, he would have passed out right then. Your eyes were glassy with traces of fear, sadness, and loneliness- all emotions he is all too familiar with. Then you see it’s him and the biggest smile crosses your lips and you look at him with so much affection he almost feels ill. This was not the plan and he almost made you a midnight snack for a group of Gnolls.

  “You found me,” you say in a raspy, raw voice, “I thought I was going to be stuck here all night until Karlach or Gale found me. Or I was going to die.”

 You chuckle, but Astarion can’t get himself to share your same enthusiasm about his rescue mission as he cuts the rope. 

  He helps you down the tree and safely back on the ground. Astarion winces as you pull the arrows out of your leg. You find a healing potion amongst your things and chug it.

He collects your stuff for you. You give him another one of those brilliant smiles and Astarion tries to smile just as brightly back. You furrow your brows, but he turns away before you can keep analyzing him. 

  “We should head back,” Astarion mumbles.

______________________________________________

  The silence hangs in the air as Astarion walks with you back to camp. After about 15 minutes, you are back at camp and the tension in the air is suffocating.

 “Astarion.”

  Astarion freezes, turns on his heels, and looks everywhere but your eyes. He couldn’t bare to see you smile at him again- look at him like that again- not after he almost killed you.

  You maneuver yourself so you are looking in his eyes.

 “It’s not your fault,” he begins to protest when you shush him, “we didn’t set any rules and the trap itself was harmless. We didn't account for Gnolls when we started this whole thing.”

  “I almost got you killed.”

 “But you didn’t. It easily could have been you in that situation and me saving you.”

  “Will you please stop being so Gods damn forgiving,” he huffs with exasperation as he feels tears prick his eyes, “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I put your life in danger. I almost-”

 Lost you. He chokes on the words. The fear from earlier begins to come back to the front of his mind. Watching you cling to that tree, crying, and in pain had made him realize that you just might be more important to him than he cares to admit. However, that’s a conversation for another time- once he sorts out what that feeling in his chest is whenever he looks at you.

  You look at him sharply, your eyes raw with sadness, “Stop that right now. I am okay. I lived. It was a mistake and I know your intentions were not bad. You don’t have anything to worry about Star.” 

He doesn’t say anything and you hang your head.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness. I- I should go-“ Astarion pauses as you interrupt him.

“Please don’t leave,” you whisper, “I rather enjoy your company.”

  You look at him with tears welling in your eyes. He stares at you in stunned silence, searching your face for any sign of deception, but he doesn't find it. His body moves before his brain can process what he is doing. 

 Astarion gently cradles your face in his hands and kisses you slowly, softly. He smiles despite himself when a gasp leaves your lips. You're alive and safe. When the warmth in his chest begins to spread throughout the rest of his body, he pulls away and steps back. Your face is flushed, a beautiful blush spreading across your cheeks. You look at him with wide, unblinking eyes before you shyly smile. Astarion could have melted in that moment. He finds himself smiling too.

 “Well I’m assuming that means you are going to stay?” 

  “I suppose I’ll stay,” he says while tapping his chin, “you do need someone to make sure you aren’t getting into trouble like that again.”

 You feign hurt and scoff, “Are you suggesting that this was my fault?”

 “Maybe if you were better with traps that wouldn’t have happened,” Astarion teases.

  You narrow your eyes at Astarion and you try to hold back a smile. You roll your eyes and stick your tongue out at him.

You start towards camp before you pause and turn around. Astarion gives you a confused look.

You run over to him and place a kiss on his cheek. He tenses for a moment before relaxing again. You look at him sweetly, a soft smile on your lips.

 “Good night Astarion.”

  As you saunter towards your respective tents, Astarion takes one last glance at your tent- at you- before he lays down with his book. Except he still can’t get past the first page- he is too anxious for the sun to come up so that he can see your smile again.

[gatitties]

Hellooo! Im so happy you opened your request 😩Can i request something for platonic Yandere strawhats (zoro and luffy really) with a teen! Reader who acts snarky and bold but they’re scared of everything form a butterfly to a emperor of the sea so they refuse to join the crew? If possible could you include law as well. Tyy💕

─Yandere!Strawhats (Luffy & Zoro) & Law x teen!reader (Platonic)

─Summary: you are a stubborn teenager and you refuse to have extra 'protection', bad luck for you…

─Warnings: manipulation, death, mention of gutting someone, blood, unjustified obsession, toxic behaviors, yandere stuff...

─ Are you an idiot? Affectionate question that these two ask each other when they meet you.

─ You are brave and stubborn enough to get hurt during a fight but you run away if you see a butterfly because bugs are ugly and scary according to you.

─ And on top of that you deny his offer to be on his crew? Your pride is going to make these two men bald, they are doing all this for your good, you should be more aware of their actions.

─ Luffy is by your side day and night repeating over and over again that you are part of his crew, he will refuse to leave the island without you, you are too young, inexperienced and afraid to survive on your own even if you have family who can take care of you.

─ In fact, Zoro already took care of that, definitely if your family members didn't exceed his expectations, which to no one's surprise, they didn't, they wouldn't be able to protect you like he would.

─ It took them at least a week to persuade you enough with some manipulation, with the help of Robin, and even when you were half convinced to leave in search of not-so-desired adventures, they ended up kidnapping you because you were still stubborn.

─ So you found yourself glued to two idiots against your will, playing games with Luffy that even at your age wouldn't find fun, watching in silence as Zoro flexed his muscles while he trained.

─ And if you thought that someone from the crew was going to help you get out of that spiral of obsession you were very wrong, if they weren't threatened, they would also be somewhat obsessed with keeping you safe after spending some time by your side.

─ They will take advantage of how scared you are, literally anything would make you jump two meters off the ground, once you were scared of your own shadow, everyone will take advantage of it to scare you and make you hug them.

─ No matter how much you fight, Luffy needs at least one hug daily and will wrap his rubber arms around you completely suffocating you, Zoro is not that fussy, but he will use you as a stuffed animal to hug during his naps.

─ Don't even think about seeking comfort from anyone other than them or at least part of the crew when you're scared, they are the only ones who can help you, understand, the others only want to use you and won't take care of you as well as they do.

─ Many failed escape attempts, either because you have been caught or because you were just sailing through waters infected with sea monsters, you always end up locked up overnight as punishment.

─ If necessary, they will knock you out so that you do not put yourself in danger, your sarcasm and sometimes bad temper can put you in dangerous situations and they are not going to go through that, they would have to kill someone again.

─ He was just passing by, your island was in a small fever pandemic and Law was just helping the whole town a little, however you seemed so out of it when you were sick, so lost and hurt, you reminded him of his sister.

─ He simply took you away to, supposedly, cure you since he had better equipment on the submarine, you couldn't even fight against this because seriously, it seems like you have one foot in the grave when you're sick.

─ He got rid of all your discomforts, but he also discovered that you were a big mouth, but hey, no one likes to be kidnapped so he got a good dose of irritating adolescence.

─ It was difficult to make you see reason that you would be much better off with him and that your island was potentially dangerous, it's not like you came to reason but he forced you to listen to him and collaborate with some threats.

─ He was quite surprised when one night you asked him to sleep with him because you saw a spider prowling around your room, even though you were a very sarcastic and sassy person, you were very scared and he used that as an advantage.

─ Do you want to get out of the submarine? It's okay, just hold his hand and you can go anywhere, do you want to go outside alone? No way, do you know about the insects, contagious diseases and monsters that can wait for you out there? Of course not, you're just a teenager.

─ He always makes excuses that something that terrifies you is hanging around the islands where you stop.

─ Maybe if you get too annoying or whiny about not being able to go out on your own, he'll let you go on your own for a bit… although it only gives you a false feeling of freedom since you always have one of the crew members watching you closely.

─ No teenage romance, he is not going through that time, if necessary he will show you the person you like dissected to scare you enough to think twice about trying to escape.

─ Consider all escape attempts a failure because Law has everything really calculated and the crew is too afraid at this point, they were the ones who had to clean the mutilated corpses of the people who were on the blacklist.

─ Because Law wrote down each of the people who have done something to you that he considers bad or harmful to you.

─ He has already lost a sister, he's not going to lose another even if you are not related to him by blood.

[devildomditzy]

Wincing, you continue to wrap the mess of bandages around your damaged hand. Sure, you weren’t new to teleportation, and you can't even begin to count the times where Solomon failed to remind you to “stick the landing”, but you’re not sure if teleportation through time played by the same rules.

You’re lucky. Mammon caught you before you could hit the ground, because of course he does. Hell, just last week he caught you before you could trip your clumsy ass down the stairs in the hallway. Even in non threatening situations, his intuition to protect you over all else shone through his tough guy façade.

You instantly clung to him, because well, it’s him. Once you both landed, you leaned into his embrace. Though by now you were used to random cases of danger invading your daily life in the Devildom, plummeting from the sky unexpectedly is still enough to shake you up.

You let out a stuttering breath.

“Thanks, Mammon. I have absolutely no idea how I teleported up there. Maybe I don’t have as good a grip on my sorcery as I thought.”

You look up at him with a small smile, the one you know drives him crazy.

He returns it with a blank stare.

“How’d ya know my name?”

Something was clearly wrong.

“Not to be facetious, but I could heal that for you, you know. You could heal that for you.”

You glare up from your spot on the bed to make eye contact with Solomon.

“Gee, thanks for the reminder.”

His lips purse together in a thin line in a valiant attempt to hold back his laughter as he steps closer to you.

“You’ve got to admit, though unexpected, this turn of events is quite humorous, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m thousands of years in the past, my friends and boyfriend don’t recognize me, and I’ve only got you to keep me company. Hilarious.”

His lips upturn in a devious smirk. You hate that smirk.

“Aw, is it so bad to have to live with me? We’ve got all of Cocytus Hall to ourselves. I could wake up everyday and cook breakfast-"

“Please don’t.”

“We can divide up the chores, it’ll be like we’re newlyweds.”

Your wrapping halts so that you could look up at the pain in your ass. You need to ensure he sees the way you scrunch up your face in disgust.

“If I wasn’t in so much pain I’d slap you, but I won’t, consider it a favor.”

You continue wrapping the roll around your palm tightly, just like Mammon had taught you, as he did once before, right after you’d just met. A moment you remembered fondly, one of the first times that he hinted that he might see you as more than a friend. Even if he had a weird way of showing it. The thought makes you smile.

“Well, can we consider it a favor that I followed you all the way out here to ensure your wellbeing?”

You roll your eyes so hard he could probably hear them moving in your skull.

“Oh please, it’s you we’re talking about. There has to be some ulterior motive.”

He seems to pretend to ponder for a bit before tilting his head to the side.

“Ah, was I really that obvious?”

“Of course you were. 'Solomon the Wise' is anything but subtle,” you say, jeering his silly little nickname in a mocking tone.

A small chuckle shakes his head. “Well, I do really want to keep you safe, and return us back to our time with minimal temporal damage, but I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t interested to see what this time period had in store.”

You stop once again to give him a confused side eye. “Didn’t you already live this time period?”

His eyes seem to look a little far off, as they typically do when he’s lost in thought. “It was so long ago, I truly don’t remember much of it.”

“Hmm,” you hum finishing up the last of the wrapping and securing it in place. You attempt to flex your hand to the best of your ability. You swear you heard a pop. Your eyes begin to well up.

“Why aren’t you letting either of us heal you again?”, he questions after seeing your pained expression.

“I told you," you frown looking down at your sorry excuse for first aid. "I need a reminder that this isn’t some convoluted dream, or one of Levi’s weird games.”

“The fact that the brothers don’t remember you isn’t reminder enough?”

You know he’s joking, but Solomon always finds a way to get right under your skin in the worst way.

The tears that once threatened to bubble over begin to fall silently, streaking your face as you purposefully avoid eye contact.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it, truly.”

You’re both quite for a moment. Surprisingly, the air in the room isn't awkward. It's just... solemn.

He breaks the silence first.

“I know how hard this must be for you, considering how close you all are. To be honest, I'm kind of jealous. So many people care for you so fiercely across all realms.”

You sniffle, wiping your face with the back of your hand.

“You didn’t see the way he looked at me, Sol. It was like I was nothing to him. He didn't even look at me like that the day I met him. ”

He sits down beside you on the bed, pulling an arm around you, allowing you to collapse into him.

“He only looked at you like that because here he doesn’t know you yet. In case you've forgotten, you weren’t exactly born yet,” he teases.

He gets a small chuckle out of you with that one.

As you calm down, you begin to really reflect on what you know, and what he’s told you so far.

“Wait, you mentioned temporal damage before. What did you mean by that?”

“That’s a tricky one. to explain. But I guess to put it in layman's terms; You cannot, no matter what happens, tell anyone that you and I are from the future. Doing so could have dire consequences.”

“Like, it could change how things happened in our time?”

“Precisely.”

“And doing so would cause-”

“Temporal damage, yes.”

You give a dejected sigh. “Doesn’t even matter if I tell them anyway, they’d never believe me.”

“On the off chance that any of them do, or you convince them of the fact, our original timeline could fall apart.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you might never get to go back to the brothers you know today.”

You can’t hide the worry that flashes on your face, even if it was just for a second. You’re the two most powerful sorcerers the world has seen for a very long time, and yet you feel so powerless.

“I-I can’t really feel them anymore. Their pacts, I mean. They’re so faint. B-But, it worked on Satan! So they have to still be in tact, right?”

Solomon smiles at the little glimmer of hope lighting up your face.

“Yes, it’s true that you haven’t formed your pacts yet in this time period, but you’re still the same you from the present. The invisible bonds you share between yourself and the brothers are still connected.”

“How is that even possible?”

“MC," he sighs, trying to figure out the best way to explain. " You didn’t die in our timeline. You didn’t leave, you didn’t cast any spells or trigger any curse. You were just gone. There only thing I could trace was this slight time distortion, so I went off the only lead I had. I’m glad I did.”

“I’m glad too, or I’m afraid I would be dead by now.”

“If I didn’t go after you, I’d be dead by now too”, he laughs, “The brothers aren’t too forgiving when it comes to you.”

The notion fills you stomach with a warm feeling. A warm, thick, bittersweet feeling.

You still have the boys, but they don’t know you yet.

You still have your magic, but not nearly as strong.

You’re not alone, but neither of you have any inkling on how to get back.

Meanwhile in a place in time thousands of years from where you sit now, seven panicked demons are tearing their realm apart high and low to try to find any trace of you.