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brunchable · 2 months ago

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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

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absolutely-esme · 1 year ago

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What if Tim was the Ghostliest Bat

Lots of DPxDC crossover writers have Tim Drake being the one non-liminal Bat, or becoming liminal late in the game. This is probably due to the fact that most of them have died and come back and Tim hasn't.

It makes sense, but, hear me out, what if Tim was actually the most liminal and had been liminal for the longest.

The other Bats had a more standard type of death and resurrection. Afterward, they are simply living people.

Tim's parents are archeologists and bring back artifacts from all over the world. At least some of these artifacts are kept in the house. It wouldn't be too much of a stretch to think that some of them have something ghostly to them.

The specifics could vary. Perhaps the artifacts just steadily release ectoplasm into the environment. Perhaps they thin the veil in places and Tim wanders in and out of the Ghost Zone, getting as much socialization from ghosts as from the living, if not more. Heck, maybe one of those artifacts was meant for travel between realms and Tim accidentally opens a portal on himself and becomes a halfa at a young age.

However it happens, Tim grows up exposed to ectoplasm day in and day out. He adapts to the environment he spends his formative years in. He gradually becomes more ghostly. No one notices for a while because no one around him recognizes the signs and Tim is a quick study at keeping up appearances, at least to surface-level observation.

Tim knows how to behave around strangers and distant acquaintances. That said, he doesn't necessarily realize that his more ghostly tendencies are abnormal and not simply something that etiquette dictates is not shared with strangers.

Tim pays relatively little concern to his own safety because some part of his subconscious knows that he's already assured an afterlife that's familiar and comfortable to some part of him, though he is still conscientious and considerate of the health and safety of others.

He obsesses over The Bats, follows them around and takes pictures. Ghosts tend to be fairly intense about what's important to them, so it doesn’t seem wrong to him. After all, he's not trying to force himself into their lives, and he makes a point to be unobtrusive with his photography so as not to impact them at all. By ghostly standards, he's being quite reserved by keeping his distance and taking care not to bother them, and his human social knowledge doesn't extend far beyond surface level.

He doesn't interact with the Bats at all until Batman's mental health becomes a public safety issue, and even then he tries to get them to resolve the matter internally, first. He only begins directly inserting himself into their lives after recieving express permission from a member of the family.

Once he does become one of them, however, he is intense and unreserved about it in the way that ghosts tend to be about everything that's important to them. He pays close attention and remembers everything. He goes above and beyond with anything they might ask of him, and even with some things they don't ask for but seem to need. He cares in a way that's just a bit uncanny.

No one talks to him about some of his more extreme tendencies. Maybe they just don't have the emotional bandwidth because they're still grieving. Maybe the Bats refrain from commenting on Tim's stalking and general over-the-top-ness because stones and glass houses.

Tim doesn't understand what went wrong in his relationship with Steph because human behavior standards and boundaries are not intuitive to him, nor has he been taught about them. Grief-stricken Bats are not a good resource when it comes to behavioral norms. For all that she's certain he'd never intentionally hurt or upset her, Tim is creepy. Sweet and caring, but creepy.

He also doesn't freak out when Steph comes back and pretends to be a hallucination. The deception doesn't work at all because his subconscious ghostliness means that his brain doesn't automatically reject the idea of a dead comrade being back. He just goes straight into "Hooray, you're back!" mode without stopping to question it. Steph doesn't take the deception any further because he's already caught onto it and he's so happy to see her.

They remain friends.

Jason comes back from the dead and Tim immediately latches on. He doesn't care if Jason is attacking him. Jason is one of his, and he's back. He grins and keeps his banter friendly and gushes about how happy he is to have Jason back through the entire beatdown at Titans Tower. He doesn't actually start sounding worried until Jason begins walking away after writing on the wall with his blood. Tim begs him not to go. The whole experience freaks Jason out.

Tim initially has a bit of an issue with Damian, not because of the murder attempts (which Tim doesn't especially care about), but because of Damian's insistence on not allowing Tim to remain in the family, and because his apparent goal of being Batman's only family member makes him register as a threat to others Tim cares about. Eventually, things settle a bit once it's made clear that Damian isn't going after anyone else and will not be allowed to kick him out.

The other Bats are equal parts wary of Tim (because he's creepy and unsettling in ways that are difficult to define) and worried for Tim (because he doesn't seem to have a sense of self preservation).

Lots and lots of Tim being spooky without realizing it and freaking everyone out with no explanation. No one understands what, exactly, is so off about Tim that makes him so unsettling, until Sam Manson gets dragged to a gala in Gotham and immediately clocks him.

Do with this as you will.

#dpxdc #dcxdp #Prompt #Liminal Tim Drake #Halfa Tim Drake

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mikavlcs · 1 year ago

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Not On My Mind

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Summary: You leave school for a trip, and Wednesday doesn’t miss you. Not even a little bit.

Warnings: soft/ooc!wednesday but she’s like...in denial about it, my writing

Word count: 2.8k

Notes: this is kinda messy, but cute. nothing else to add tbh. hope you guys enjoy<3

Masterlist

Wednesday Addams was not soft.

She simply wasn’t. She never had been, and she never would be, for as long as she drew breath. The word didn’t even exist in her vocabulary.

Because she, Wednesday Addams, was a singularity. Unlike any other lowly mortal, she was not born from a womb, but forged in the hottest, most ferocious flames of hell by Lucifer himself. She was pure menace and dread given a small, but formidable physical form.

A vile miscreant equipped with a smile that could make even the purest of angels scream in terror and a glare that could make the devil shed tears of despair. Judge, jury, and executioner—someone capable of horrors beyond even your worst nightmares.

(Well, not executioner since she was unfortunately not yet a murderer, but she would be someday. It was the only incomplete task on her bucket list.)

So, no, Wednesday Addams was not soft. Nor could she ever be capable of such abominable behavior.

And yet…here she was displaying signs of this weakness. Because of you.

You were going on a family vacation. An event which, to Wednesday, sounded like a particularly gruesome method of torture, but you were positively buzzing with excitement about the trip.

Either way, you were going away with your family for a week. An entire seven days without you constantly at her side, chattering in her ear between classes, and lounging around her room in the evenings.

This, in theory, should have been great news. Lucifer knew how much more writing she could get done without you dragging her out to Jericho after classes or trying to read over her shoulder despite her threats of bodily harm. But it wasn’t great news. In fact, the information brought forth an odd sort of discomfort. A dull ache in her chest she’d never experienced before.

It was disgusting, it was vile, and it would certainly stain her reputation if it ever got out.

She supposed her reputation had already been defiled by the fact that her roommate and self-appointed best friend was the human embodiment of a rainbow, but this? This was a new low.

Her shamefulness was all she could think about while she watched you pack from her place on your bed. Well, “pack” was a generous way to describe it. You were actually just frantically grabbing clothes and other various items from around your room and throwing them into your suitcase and duffel bag, much to the disapproval of the meticulously organized Addams.

You insisted that you had a system, a method to your madness. Wednesday disagreed but didn’t bother voicing it.

From the ground, your voice rose, sounding far too winded for someone doing so little exercise. “Can you hand me that box on the dresser, Wends?”

Wednesday exhaled sharply. She came here to see you off, not help you pack last minute. Still, she obeyed, not without sending you a scathing glare that you promptly ignored.

The box in question was easy to find, already open atop your dresser where you directed her. She took a passing glance inside to survey the contents within—a bunch of mismatched jewelry that sparked vague recognition but no interest.

Just as she was about to close it, something caught her eye. A ring, sitting in the corner of the box. It was a simple, visually unobtrusive black band with silver engravings wound throughout. She recognized it as one of your most frequently worn pieces of jewelry, but it had never captured her attention before now.

She was overcome with the sudden, overwhelming urge to take it. Wednesday very nearly stifled it, but she figured since you were subjecting her to these horrific feelings, she was entitled to a settlement of some kind.

Swiftly, she pocketed the ring and snapped the box shut, venturing back over to you, none the wiser as you messily stuffed clothing into your suitcase. She held the box out to you, eyes narrowing in condemnation at the messy state of your things below.

“Why are you taking the entire box?” Wednesday asked neutrally.

“Because these dorms are not the most secure,” you answered, taking the box from her hand with a smile and placing it on top of your clothes. “And I would hate for something to get stolen while I was gone.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched. “Yes, that would be unfortunate.”

Soon enough, you were finished packing and ready to go. Almost. For some reason, you were struggling to carry both your duffel bag and suitcase at the same time. It was quite humorous, watching you struggle, but she took pity on you knowing you were on a schedule.

“You’re weak,” she grumbled as she snatched the duffel bag from your hand, slung it over her shoulder, and stepped around you to open the door.

You followed closely behind, flashing her a grateful, slightly sheepish grin while closing the door behind you. “Thanks, Wends.”

She said nothing, just kept walking, finding amusement in the sound of you fumbling to catch up. When you found your footing, you took your usual place at her side, shoulders brushing while you easily fell into step with her.

The whole way down, you chattered on and on about what you were excited to do on the trip, but Wednesday wasn’t tuned in. Her attention was on the way her stomach fell further with every step closer to the waiting car outside and the pit she could feel forming for seemingly no reason at all.

She despised it, this ever-growing weakness you unwillingly made her develop.

Walking out, you found the car parked right by the curb outside, Principal Weems already leisurely resting against it while she waited for you to arrive.

The tall woman greeted the two of you with a smile, to which you offered a wave in return while Wednesday just stared. She came to collect your luggage and went to put it in the back of her car, leaving the two of you to say your goodbyes.

You turned to her, rocking back on your heels, clearly unsure of what to say. Wednesday, though she’d never admit it, was in a similar predicament, without the slightest clue of what to do now.

She didn’t know why, but she was tempted to pull you back into the school and drag her back to her dorm. The urge was utterly ridiculous, yet grew more powerful by the second, nagging at her as she watched your agonizingly slow internal debate.

“I guess I’ll see you in a week,” you finally said, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth. “It’ll be over in a flash, and I’ll be back to talking your ear off before you know it.”

Wednesday gave you a firm nod in lieu of a verbal response. You sent a sideways glance to the principal’s car, clearly remembering you had a flight to catch.

“Bye, Wends,” you said, then added, “Please don’t kill anyone while I’m gone.”

“No promises,” she deadpanned, earning a laugh from you.

After another moment of indecision, you pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, feather-light and entirely too quick for her tastes. But she didn’t voice that embarrassing thought, just watched you walk off and enter the vehicle with her arms crossed.

As the car pulled off, you turned and waved to her out the back window, and she lifted her fingers from her forearm slightly in response. The smile you gave her got smaller and smaller with distance.

Wednesday stayed standing there until the car was out of sight, the unidentified pit in her stomach never abating.

—

The week that followed was…weird.

It was the same as any other week at Nevermore, yet entirely different.

She was indeed able to get much more writing done, but it wasn’t as triumphant as Wednesday imagined. The silence in her room was refreshing for all of twenty minutes before the tone of it shifted, and the quiet felt empty. It didn’t impede her workflow—if anything, it increased it—but it just felt wrong.

There were a number of notable happenings throughout the week as well.

Bianca suffered her 47th defeat at the hands of Wednesday during their weekly fencing practice (she was very excited to get to 50), Eugene somehow got six bees stuck in his hair and, in a show of true incompetence, Xavier managed to spill an entire can of paint on himself. Something he would never, ever live down as far as Wednesday was concerned.

In all of those instances, she found herself looking to her right to see if you were smiling or laughing. Until she was met with the empty space you would’ve occupied, and she remembered. You weren’t here. It made a certain hollowness settle in her chest, making her mood drop ever so slightly.

It was pathetic, honestly. It made her want to self-lobotomize herself to attempt to determine just how much damage you’d done, to see if it was reverible.

Still, she mentally cataloged the events to recount for you upon your arrival. Only so she wouldn’t have to deal with your whining about her not telling you anything once you inevitably heard it from Enid.

Throughout each day, your ring accompanied Wednesday everywhere she went. Slipping it on right before leaving her dorm and taking it off just before bed quickly became her new routine.

She had never fully understood the obsession that people had with rings as the only hand jewelry she ever enjoyed wearing was brass knuckles, but she was beginning to get it now. The light weight on her hand was somewhat soothing, especially in moments when your absence was particularly potent.

She hoped that no one would notice it. Most wouldn’t have even known it belonged to you, but your shared group of friends (acquaintances on Wednesday’s end) would likely recognize it since you wore it so frequently.

Knowing this, Wednesday did her best to take it off in group settings, slipping it into her blazer pocket to put back on after, but it was harder to remember during classes. This oversight ended up being her undoing.

It wound up taking three days for someone to notice the ring. And, of course, that someone was Enid.

They were in Botany, listening to Miss Thornhill drone on about some rare carnivorous plant. Enid was in the seat next to her to “fill in the void” you left behind in your absence with her peppy, prismatic presence.

Entirely unnecessary, but so were most things Enid did. Wednesday had long since learned not to question her anymore.

Wednesday, having already known everything there was to know about the plant, had finished taking her notes five minutes after class started, but Enid wasn’t even trying to take notes. She was instead doing seemingly everything in her power to irritate Wednesday. Incessantly doodling, clicking her pen, constantly fidgeting and shifting, drumming her fingers against the desk.

It was positively maddening. And not in a good way.

In an effort not to snap at her, Wednesday occupied herself with your ring. Tracing the engravings and twisting it around her finger. It was soothing. Enid, nosy as she was, glanced over at the movement and paused her pen clicking.

“Hey…” she started, and Wednesday immediately knew she would hate where this was going. Enid leaned over, making Wednesday lean back in turn. Her eyes narrowed then widened moments later with a soft gasp. “That ring, isn’t that—"

“None of your business? Absolutely,” she gritted out, sending her a scathing glare. “Now, perhaps you should actually pay attention. Maybe then you’ll have a chance of finally getting something higher than a 70 on the next test.”

Her roommate looked like she wanted to say more but eventually conceded with a disgustingly wide smile and a mumble that sounded awfully like that’s so cute of you, roomie.

Wednesday swore that if it were anybody else, she would’ve finally completed her bucket list that day.

—

After what seemed like an eternity and many more tests to Wednesday’s patience (almost exclusively from Enid), seven days passed and the time for you to return to Nevermore arrived.

It had actually been longer than seven days—170 hours and 17 minutes, to be exact—but who was counting? Certainly not Wednesday.

The principal’s car pulled in just as the sun began to set, and Wednesday was there, standing off to the side of the school’s entrance. Not because she was waiting for you, she simply had matters to attend to in the courtyard around that time.

You stepped out the car moments later and your eyes found hers instantly, expression brightening. Bags in hand, you ran over to her but stopped just short of her, excitement fading into uncertainty.

Wednesday stared at you, then, with an audible sigh, stepped forward. Your smile returned, increasing tenfold as you dropped your bags and wrapped your arms around her, careful not to squeeze her too hard. If you questioned the way she barely leaned into your embrace and turned her face just slightly into your neck, she would say it was entirely in your head.

“Did you miss me?” you asked once you pulled back, hands coming to rest on her shoulders.

“Not for a second,” she answered. “I was able to get twice as much writing done without your constant prattling and distractions.”

“Uh-huh.” The sly smile on your face told her that you definitely weren’t buying it, but you plowed on before she could confront you. “Y’know, you could have texted me if you had a phone,” you persuaded, fixing her with a look she’d become intimately familiar with since you’d started dating. “I could always get you one.”

Wednesday blinked, shot you a dubious look. “You’re broke.”

Your shoulders fell dramatically, but your tone remained light. “Damn, Wends, you didn’t have to say it like that.”

She didn’t dignify you with another response. Knowing you would need time to unpack before dinner, she slung one of your bags over your shoulder and took off in the direction of your dorm, leaving you to catch up.

It wasn’t long before you were by her side, matching her pace easily. And, of course, you had more to say.

“Do you wanna hear about my trip?”

“No,” she said. A beat. Then, “But you may tell me while you unpack. I know you like to run your mouth while completing tasks anyway. I have things to tell you as well.”

“Really? Thanks, Wends,” you grinned brightly. Wednesday shot you a glare, and if you noticed that it was softer than usual, you didn’t comment.

Unable to keep your mouth shut, you started ranting about the traffic you hit on the way back to the airport, or something related to that. Wednesday wasn’t quite listening. She was instead taking in the unfocused drawl of your voice in her ear, the strides perfectly matching hers, the light brush of your shoulder against hers—just appreciating the familiar presence at her side once more.

It had only been a week, yet it felt like a lifetime since she had last experienced this.

Without thinking, her hand drifted to fiddle with your ring, and your eyes caught the movement. You stopped suddenly, prompting Wednesday to come to a halt as well with a questioning look.

Gently, you grabbed her hand and brought it closer to your face to inspect the band around her finger.

“This is mine, isn’t it?” you asked, brows knitting together. “I’ve been wondering where it went, I swore I packed it...”

Wednesday snatched her hand away. “I have no idea what you’re talking about but grab my hand like that again and yours will be swiftly removed.”

“But—” you started to protest but stopped abruptly. She watched, curious, as your expression smoothed over into something even she couldn’t quite read. You nodded, smiled. “Yeah, I must be confused, sorry.”

Wednesday narrowed her eyes but accepted the apology with a nod.

The rest of the walk was spent in silence. It was odd. Wednesday stole a few glances to see if you were upset, but you seem to be. If anything, the opposite.

Still, the silence stretched on even when you both arrived at your destination, and you were pulling the door to your dorm open for her. She strode inside, trying to find a way to broach the subject without sounding too concerned.

But there was no need.

Just after the door closed, you put a hand on her shoulder and leaned over into her space. She gave you a startled glare but didn’t move away, ignoring the way her ears burned at the sight of your soft smile and the equally soft whisper that followed.

“I missed you too, Wednesday.”

—

everyone @ wednesday while reading this:

anyways happy pride to my fellow loser gays 🥳🏳️‍🌈

#wednesday 'i'm not like other girls' addams is canon btw #wednesday #wednesday addams #wednesday addams x reader #wednesday addams x female reader #wednesday addams x you #wednesday addams imagine #jenna ortega #she's a loser<3

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junedenim · 3 months ago

Text

still a trace

the heat to melt the cold

warnings: cheating, piv, handjob, blowjob, etc.

word count: 5.5k

You pat the snow off your coat. The ice is sticking to your gloves and your snow boots shuffle away at the doormat. Alex is somewhere in the house, maybe in the kitchen. You can hear the murmur of his music that muted your entrance. You're freezing but the house is warm. You slip off your shoes and roll your gloves into your coat pocket before hanging it on the rack.

The tips of your fingers are frozen numb so you stick them under your armpits. You follow the trail of music into the kitchen where he stands cutting tomatoes at the counter, his back to you.

You think about sneaking up on him but he has a knife in his hand and it's better to stand in the archway and watch him than risk either of you getting cut. He hums to the music and there's a slight sway in his hips. He's wearing a ribbed sweater on which he's rolled up the sleeves. He taps his foot, sock-clad and fuzzy, on the tiled floors, where you can feel the chill through your socked feet.

It's not often you can look on at him unobtrusively. There are little slivers in the late night and early morning but you can rarely stare at him unknowingly with the lights still on. The last time you were able to be this observant was when you first met.

It was at a wedding. You'd never crossed paths before. He was close friends with the groom and you were a distant relative of the bride. Somehow that meant you ended up at the same table. You were lonely, your date ditching you, and sat beside Alex. You were drunk and he was good-looking. Then, he went up to the open bar and you stared and stared and stared. He came back, two drinks in his hand and a breath that smelled like whiskey, and you talked and laughed. You can't remember ever laughing that much even with alcohol.

At the end of the night, he offered to walk you to your hotel room. You were drunk. He was drunk. You had sex. Unplanned and quick and it was a mess. The whole thing was a mess. And now you're here watching him cook dinner.

He began to whistle to the music and that's when you had to laugh, covering your mouth with your hand but it proved no use. He turned around at the noise. "Ay! You surveilling me now?"

"I'm just admiring," you choke out in laughter. "Do you often whistle while you work?"

He shakes his head like he can't believe the sight. "Hush, you. How long have you been watching me?"

You shrug, arms crossed. "Only a few." He's smiling, deep and wide. It's coming home without actually being home. Or maybe this is home now? A place of comfort that has been your place for far longer than you want to admit.

"How long are you going to keep me waiting?" Alex asks.

You raise your eyebrows. "For what?"

He puckers his lips and taps his finger on his bottom lip.

"You could come here for that."

Alex points to the stove. "I gotta watch the pot." He stirs as the flame burns bright, blue ripples of fire.

You slowly walk with a small foot tap on each cold tile. He's impatient, taking a big lunge forward, and wrapping his left arm around your torso, the other still stirring the pot. It's the greeting kiss, deep and hard like always. A message of making up for all that lost time you've been separated for.

Your arms are stuck between you two, squeezed between your chests. Your cold hands touch down and make him hiss at the frigidness. He pulls away, grabbing your hands. "We gotta warm you up, babe." He rubs his two warm hands over yours, sitting palm-to-palm. He holds them over the pot, the proximity to the stove fire provides heat.

He lets go and you keep them steady there. One of his hands goes back to stirring and his other reaches up and pushes a chunk of loose hair—wet from the snow—behind your ear. "How was the walk over?"

"It's snowing," you simply say. You watch the pot, waiting for it to reach its boiling point.

Alex lightly chuckles. "I can tell. Dinner will be ready soon. You want some tea?"

You nod and take to watching him again. He reaches to the very top shelf, his body stretched, a fragment of his pale winter skin showing. It pleases you that you're familiar with the sight of his bare skin. It distresses you how much you long to touch.

He grabs your mug, hidden behind all the others. He grabs his mug from the front, a big A on it. The first time you slept over, he grabbed it and said, "It's A for Alex." It has always been easy to love him, that's what has scared you so much. His childish wisdom and his need to explain everything but the big things. The way he kisses you on the cheek when he walks by to the kettle. Especially that.

The mug is exactly what your hands need if you can't hold Alex's heated touch. You sip away, sitting at the kitchen table, watching him. You talk and he nods along that humming continuing softly. The glow in the room melts all the coldness away, everything that was dark and freezing is lost beneath this incandescent light.

He brings your plates over to the table and you grab the wine glasses. When you try to open the wine, he offers, "No, no, I can do it."

You giggle at his chivalry but insist, "I can uncork a bottle, Al." You pour each of you a glass and sit the bottle between the two of you. His chair is meant to be across from yours but he's moved it closer so your knees touch one another. There are hidden glances, even though here in his house just the two of you, there are no secrets to be kept.

"This is delicious," you compliment the dish. It's soothing going down your throat, the perfect relief. This whole evening heals an illness you didn't even know you had.

He kisses the back of your hand. "Perfect. I was thinking maybe Friday you could come over again."

Your smile drops and it feels like the lights have dimmed slightly. Not in that sensual kind of way but that annoying office lighting that puts you to sleep. "I can't. You know."

Alex nods in perfect understanding. "Alright. You let me know."

You nod in return. He stands to clear the plates but you beat him into picking them up, demanding that you wash them. "You could, at least, let me clean."

He smirks. "Does that mean I get to watch you now?"

You shrug playfully. "Maybe." It lifts the demeanor of the room but not back to its former state.

The dishes are easy to clean. Dinner wasn't very messy but you take your time cleaning them. The water feels nice on your hands and you zone out at the sight of falling specks of snow. They stick to the window pane, slowly clumping together and growing in size. It's easy to get lost in them.

Whether intentional or not, Alex copies you, sneaking up behind you. His chair pushing out, his figure approaching you, and his feet hitting the ground all went unnoticed by you until his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling your back to his chest. You jump at the touch. He chuckles into your neck. The vibrations are sent down your spine. "Did I scare you?"

"I just wandered off in my head," you explained. "Sorry."

His head sits on your shoulder, peppering the lightest kisses to your neck. "That's alright." His grip is tight on you, so fearful of you floating away. He reaches around you, shutting off the flow of water from the sink. "Come on, let's go to bed."

"What about dessert?" You ask seriously. It's a deflection thing. You don't care too much about whatever cookies he bought at the store. You just can't outrun your thoughts no matter how hard you push.

He pushes hard against you. "We have to work off dinner first," he jokes. You hate that you aren't laughing. He knows you, recognizes this shift in you, and knows exactly what to do. His hand brushes up your side and you have craved that touch so much. "Let's go to bed, love."

Alex pulls back, his touch gone leaving the cold to spread all through you. You look behind you, his back to you walking away. His hand touches the railing and he stalls for a moment at the bottom of the steps. You think he's about to look up but he doesn't, he just climbs up the stairs.

You're left in the kitchen, now silent and cold. You could stand here and think about your shame for another hundred years or you could join him upstairs in a warm bed. You wait, minutes pass by. You hear him shower all alone. You hear the shower shut off. You dry your hands on a towel and join him upstairs.

He's in bed, back against the headboard, a book in his hand. You wonder if he was actually reading it or if he's thinking too. He looks up in a slow rush, staring. Both of you, back-and-forth staring.

"You got me an extra blanket," you comment at the fluffy cotton on your side of the bed.

Alex looks down at it. His gaze is so tender that it breaks you in half. "God knows you'll need it."

You're standing in the doorway, not yet crossing the threshold. His eyes don't leave you, looking in tightly at you. It's always been the hardest and easiest thing to give yourself over to him. It's routine for you to stand here and eye that side of the bed.

"You coming to bed?" It isn't sweetly said like it was downstairs. It's desperation now. A question that was lodged in his throat and is now lodged in you. You will never get rid of the sound of his voice, replaying every syllable in your head.

You place your hand on the wall. Your eyes drift to him. His eyes steady, directly on you. It's unforgiving. You never feel like he is judging you but he's pleading for you, begging for something you can't fully give him. But you can go to bed with him and that's what you want.

"Yeah. Just gonna brush my teeth first." You walk to the bathroom but look back first, attempting to alleviate the air, telling him, "Don't fall asleep on me."

"Promise," he swears.

And when you come back out, dressed for bed and clean breath, he's in the same place, reading. At the sight of you, he shuts the book, placing it on his nightstand. His hair has roughly dried from the shower and his eyes now stare brutally, requesting a different kind of bedding from you.

It's easy to slip under the covers into the fire below them. Nothing is suffocating about this smoke as he takes you into his hands bringing that heat back to your body accompanied by a kiss that shoots right through your core, down into your center. You get completely lost in each other and it's impossible to ignore this. You don't understand how anyone could ever reject this. Sometimes it feels like the reason your blood keeps flowing.

His hand chases up your thigh and you could die. Die right here in this corner of the world, rot here with him. You'll long for him forever, even when you're reaching down into his pants and taking him into your hands. He warms you up and you cool him down and there's nothing that can make you feel like this ever again.

In the halting of time, clothes escape both his body and yours. You rub him in your hand and he mouths at your boob, but it's clear the rabid need for more. The need to be inside one another, to feel the other completely.

He is your moon, bright and pulling you into him with the kind of gravity you can’t fight. The kind you never want to fight. You feel like waves as you rock against him. Your hands move up his back, his neck, are in his hair, and you make this desperate whining sound. He cradles you close and you hide in his neck. Sometimes the want overtakes the need, but this feels more like the latter. Alex moans, letting himself, not fighting it either. His grip tightens on you because you like that and he knows it, uses it, puts a palm on you, and strokes the column of your throat with his thumb as your head tilts back. He leans down to kiss your neck. Your pulse jumps and skips against his mouth. “Alex,” you breathe out.

Alex looks down at her, his chest heaving, lips parted. You both like it like this when they’re face to face and you can feel all of him against you, skin warm and smooth. When he moves you onto your stomach you grip the sheets with this satisfied grin. Behind you now, sternum to curved spine, he grabs your hips and pushes inside of you.

He trails his one hand up your chest to stroke your breast and you gasp. He is deliberately slow with every roll of his hips just to drive you crazy, to rile you up. Wants that, wants you begging, wants to take his time because being inside you is sacred even if fucking each other feels like a sin.

He finds that spot that always untames you that only he has ever been able to find. It has you biting down on something to muffle the sounds you can’t help making. At that he changes the cadence, hands on your ass, all need, pulling you up and against him. You whimper and your head tilts when he moves to kiss your neck again, but it’s all tongue and teeth this time, biting and licking because if you want it rough and raw this way, he’ll give it to you.

You shiver as his lips trail up to nip at your earlobe and suck at that secret place behind it. You moan out, "Fuck yes," and he’s very much inclined to agree. He gives you a hickey on your collarbone but you can't think about that. He keeps stroking your breasts and moving inside you until you crash in his arms. You feel like glass shattering and he cradles the broken pieces just as much of a wreck as you.

You both end up panting against the pillows. You shift to face him, shaking, goosebumps everywhere as he skims his palm from your thigh to your ribcage. Your mouth curves up into a shy, small smile. "You're pretty good at that."

"Yeah?" He asks softly, matching her expression. He moves closer until the tips of your noses are brushing. "I like being good for you. That's all I want."

You reach down to cover his hand with your own, palm pressed to your warm skin. He strokes his thumb over your smooth skin and your eyelids flutter shut with a more vulnerable kind of pleasure. "What time do I have to leave tomorrow?"

He sighs. You know he doesn't want to talk about it and you don't either but it's the unavoidable. It's the obstacle that has been standing in your way ever since you got together. Whatever "together" is. "She comes back at noon."

You turn onto your back and nod, your hair rustling against the pillow. "I'll leave at 10."

Alex looks over at you but your eyes remain up on the ceiling. "You don't have to leave so early."

You spare a glance he knows all too well. "Yeah, I do."

He falls onto his back and those touches from before are gone. It's stiff, raw, and cutting now. Nothing keeps the cold from entering. Everything quills the fire. "He's coming back tomorrow." You nod, ceiling stare. "That's why you can't come over Friday."

"Yeah."

It's empty and all the love that was made before is negated. This often happens after you do it the first time. The questioning pounds in each of your heads reflecting what you just did. The betrayal that felt so right and understandable a minute ago has given way to guilt. You've been feeling that more and more lately, swallowing up your insides. Maybe that's because he's coming back tomorrow.

"God," Alex breathes out. You aren't sure if he's praying or begging. It feels just the same. The hope of forgiveness that is drowned out by lying naked next to a man who isn't your husband.

Husband. The word makes you dizzy and it hammers nails into your head. You feel like you're going to be sick but you don't move. It's too cold to move. It's overwhelming the overflowing you're feeling and something has to give so when the dam breaks, it's not unexpected. You cry.

"The fuck am I doing?" You weep. You turn over into his pillow that smells like his girlfriend's shampoo and you cry your heart out. His thawing touch lands on your back, stroking it up and down but you can feel the shake of his hand. The panic in his movements. You aren't sure if it's over his girlfriend finding out or you leaving. You don't ever want to know the answer.

You take breaths, deep breaths. You steady out to soft cries and slowly lift your body, turning onto your back. He isn't looking at you. He's sitting up, uncomfortably hunched over with his head in his hands. "Can we not talk about that now?" His tone is unstable, muffled by his hands over his face.

"Then when?" It's been a ball that has been kicked down the road for years. You've fought about it but you're not going to be unmarried anytime soon but you don't want to stop this ever. The arguing died down when Alex got a girlfriend, something he didn't have when you first fucked. You can't help but think how cruel it is that she was brought into a relationship where her place was unknowingly already taken. But it's a topic Alex refuses to talk about.

You saw her picture once on his desk and commented on how beautiful she was, a completely loving remark, no threat to it. He came over and shoved the picture in a drawer. You haven't seen any pictures of her since.

Alex looks over at you, eyes red. The cruelty this has all brought to every party rips you up inside. Your husband, while vicious and brutish, has always looked after you and it eats you alive how ungrateful you've been for that. Alex's girlfriend, who excitedly came over and taught him how to cook, unknowingly did that for you, making every dish taste of shame now. And your poor Alex, who isn't even your Alex, who would have never even got a girlfriend if you just figured your shit out, sitting with his wet eyes and turbulent stare, storms breaking in them.

"Can't I just..." He's trying to find the words. He licks his lips like he'll be able to taste them there. "Can I just look at you tonight?"

You want to sit up. You want to touch him. But it would feel like you're torturing him if your hand grazes his cheek. As if you are bringing the ice inside and making him feel it, covering him in it. "You're looking at me now and you're crying."

He turns away, running his hands roughly through his hair. "I can't—this can't—it can't be the—it shouldn't be it." You sit up, unable to hold back, touching your hand to his bare shoulder. He turns back with a dysphoric look. "I'm not ending this and I'm certainly not ending it with you sobbing into my pillow. I deserve better than that. You," his finger taps hard on your exposed chest, "deserve better than that."

His touch, even the tip of his finger, brings you warmth you don't deserve. You bundle up the sheets pulling it over you, covering your breasts, covering your back, covering your shoulders. "We're lucky enough they haven't found out yet." Delusion, it's an easy solution.

His brows furrow hard. "Lucky?" He spits out like it's a toxin. "You've got a twisted mind." He stands up like he can't stand your touch. He walks away, standing at the foot of the bed, still naked but in the most hurtful way.

"What we're doing is twisted!" You argue back. "You can call it making love all you want, Alex, it's cheating! It's an affair and it's an ugly one."

He's pacing around the room like wearing a hole into the floor will wear one into his brain and give him a solution. "Maybe that's what you're doing but it's not what I'm doing."

"It's an affair whether you're married or not. We're cruel people and we shouldn't be doing this to them."

"What's done is done," he insists. "We can't change what we did."

You cross your eyebrows. "So, what's the point of stopping now? Alex," you shake your head in disbelief, "we can't go on like this forever."

"I know. I know." He ruffles his hair even more, a perfect mess.

"What did you plan on?"

He snaps his head over, finally looking at you in the eye. "I planned on more time. If I knew that I would have planned something..."

Your face softens. "What? A going away party?"

Alex lets out a wet chuckle, looking down at his feet, hands on his hips. "Don't make me laugh. Not now."

You frown. You're stuck. You want it back. Back before you got into your own mind. You want to go back to when you were drunk at a wedding reception and the cute guy next to you made you laugh and your husband was nowhere to be seen, not in your presence and not in your thoughts. "It was never going to be nice. Maybe it's best we just rip off the Band-Aid and leave this for what it was."

He shakes his head, biting his lip. You can tell he's trying not to cry. "Uh-uh, I'm not doing it. You can't make me."

"Alex—"

"I'm not letting you leave and never seeing you again."

"We'll see each other again."

"What? Across the room from each other at some baby shower. We're never going to talk again. You leave and we'll never talk, we'll never laugh, we'll never see each other again."

"We'll talk," you insist.

He scowls. "What? Like we're going to go on some double date. You're ridiculous."

"This is all ridiculous. These trysts, these hideouts. It's not a relationship, Alex—"

"Well, it's better than whatever else I'm going to get and you know that."

"She loves you."

"What? Like he loves you. Give me a fucking break. Don't lie to yourself to make it seem like you're doing a good thing. We already did the bad thing. Going back to him, not telling him, you're just making it worse."

You don't speak. You don't feel like you can. You hug your knees to your chest and duck down your head. You can't bear to look at him.

You feel him sit at the foot of the bed. His hands touch your feet over the covers. His thumb traces your ankle joint. He squeezes it repeatedly and then lets go. "Just give me a night, okay?" He whispers. You lift your head slightly, his brown eyes looking straight up into you. He begs for your touch. He's the only one who has ever been able to handle it.

You lean forward, placing your hand on his chest. His hand lands on top of it, so fearful you'll remove it. But you flip your hand over and squeeze his warm one, intertwining your fingers. "Course." You brush back his hair and lean down with a kiss, one you hope stays permanently.

You touch him for real now, moving down his chest. Your noses brush, but you don’t kiss. Instead, you bow your head to take him into her mouth. He reaches up, grabbing a fistful of your hair in his grasp, rasping, "Fuck."

You suck him off for a little while, playing, teasing, tongue against his tip and moving it carefully, deliberately, trying to give everything you can while you still have the chance. He pulls your head off of him. You look up at him so clearly and he looks down at you, vision blurry.

You sit up and straddle him, sinking down onto him with a little whimper that has him almost losing it right off the fucking bat, gripping your waist and closing his eyes, heart pounding. When you roll your hips forward it’s too soon, he’s too close to the edge, and he moans when you keep rocking, can’t help it, feels his pulse everywhere and even inside her.

You reach back and grip the headboard for leverage to ride him, and he digs his nails into your hips, feeling the heat of it, listening to the way your breath catches, the way you sound together. You keep lifting up and moving back down, taking him into you all over again and crying out when he finally finds the right angle, that spot that drives you crazy. "Yes," you moan, rolling your hips again, chasing it, your pace quickening.

Alex, with more of a handle on himself, reaches up to grab your head and pulls you down to him. Kisses your neck raw while you set a slick rhythm. He puts his other hand between your legs to tease you, making you gasp and moan. When you come, you're stunned by it, like you've never had it so good before, except every other time you've done this.

He’s not done though, and he pushes you down so he can set the pace this time. You're all sensitive, singed nerves, and his every movement has your head tilting back. Your knees at his ribs, him braced over you and gripping your thigh, your eyes on his and your lip between your teeth. Alex winds you up again, fucking you deep and hard but there's a tenderness that has never been there before and you know you'll never feel again. You can feel that hole inside your heart opening up and you know you'll feel it every day from now. It burns like he took a cigarette to it and burned it out right on the flesh.

Your spine arches and you cry out, feeling the friction, and he keeps going until you're gripping the sheets and moaning his name. He comes, all erratic movements that match yours, everything hot and electric and alive. The lights are still burning for the last show.

Your heart is pounding. He can feel that. It takes you both a second to catch your breath. When Alex manages to lift his head it’s an exhaustive motion. He uses both hands to push your hair from your eyes and cradles you while he kisses you, soft, on her nose and chin and lips. Each one stings you. It all hurts so much.

But, like what usually happens after the second time you do it, he falls onto his back and wraps his arms around you. He smiles down, satiated, and you return it up at him. You hum as his mouth moves to the place between your brows. "I'm tired," you tell him.

He nods. "Let's go to bed." He shuts off the light for the last time.

In the morning, right after the sun rises, you wake up. He's not in bed, you can hear him rattling away in the bathroom. You slide your arms under your pillow, waiting for him, watching the bathroom door.

The door clicks open and he walks away, unaware of your gaze. He's slipped his pajama pants back on to combat the cold. His eyes are swollen from sleep and emotion. His hair is roughed up, puffs of fluff that you want to fall asleep with your hands in. This often happens in the morning. The regret of ending things but you're committed to making this goodbye even if you've said it before. But last night was raw and you feel like there's no chance of going back on that. You've severed it and you can't attempt to reattach it.

"Quit watching me, alright," he says. He crawls back under the covers with you, his arms moving tight around your bare back.

"I can't help it," you say.

He smiles down at you, so close you can barely see the smile that spreads across his face. "Okay," he whispers. You're adjusting to the idea that if you ever do see him again, you're in for a lifetime of staring.

And then it's the last time. It's gentle and calms that overwhelming dread. You hold on tight to him as he crawls over you. His kiss isn't rough, it's a soft touch. His hands are warm and tender and you wish to hold them tight in your hands but you let them scale your body instead.

You reach down and yank his pants down, he kicks them off the rest of the way. You play with him, feeling him get hard in your hand. His kiss travels down to your neck. His hands reach your stomach, one reaches down to your center. His fingers slip through your folds and your grip on him tightens making him groan.

"I want you inside me," you tell him. "Okay?"

He nods, kissing your neck. He enters you slowly then all at once. It's tender, so tender it eats right through you, he chews away at you, taking bits for himself and you happily let him. He delicately moves, not wanting to rush it. He takes it step by step like he's having sex for the first time.

He is delicate in every sense. His touch and his demeanor. You want to reach up and touch his face but you worry he'll shatter then you'll shatter. It leaves you chanting in your head. This is the last time. This is the last time.

You try to ignore it but you can't. It keeps pounding. He thrusts quicker into you, holding every inch of you and you feel like grains of sand escaping from his grasp. "Fuck," he mutters quietly. You're not sure if it's the sound of release or despair.

You itch away at him as that bundle inside you bursts and you crash around him. It's too much. This is all too much and he's slipping. You can feel it. You hold his hands down on you, needing him to keep his heat there. He bucks into you once more before collapsing, deep in you.

He hides his face away and you can't let him do that. You need to look at him for as long as you can. You take his head in your hands and hold onto him. "I love you," he says. "I just need you to know that."

Your whole body feels choked up. You nod slowly and his hand rubs on your cheek. "I love you too," you whisper. If you speak any louder, you think your voice will ring in this room forever. You sit up slowly. "I should probably go. It's getting late."

He follows you. "Okay."

You turn around as you pull your underwear on. "Let me walk myself out. Okay?" The tears in your voice are evident. There's no ignoring it. "Please."

He nods, staying under the covers, in that heated glow. You slip the rest of your clothes on and lean down, not able to make eye contact with him and kiss him. "Sorry," you utter. There’s nothing left to say and you feel like you’ve said nothing.

Alex squeezes your hand but you can't look at him. You have to stare at the door. "Don't be. Get home safe."

He lets go of you and you're gone back into the snow, in that deep cold. There's no escaping it.

She comes back at noon and it's different for Alex. Everything has been different in the hours since you've left and he wonders when he’ll feel normal again. If he'll ever be able to act properly again. He wonders if she's picked up on his different behavior just like he's wondered if she's ever noticed before.

If she's noticed her mug tucked on the top shelf behind all of the ones they share. The store-bought cookies went uneaten. How there are two dishes and two wine glasses from last night's dinner sitting on the drying rack. Does she smell you in their bedroom? He changed the sheets but he's now sleeping on the pillow with your scent.

When they go to bed that night, he doesn't want to have sex, but she doesn't question it. She used to question it, but now she doesn't. He thinks she knows.

a/n: i quite like this. other than, you know, the whole affair thing.

#alex turner fic #alex turner x fem!reader #alex turner x oc #alex turner x reader #alex turner x y/n #alex turner x you #alex turner #alex turner smut #junedenim

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maidflowery · 4 months ago

Text

Fortified Wager ♧♧♧ 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 ５

♦︎♦︎ Aventurine x Reader ♦︎♦︎ 𝕀𝕝𝕝𝕦𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕕

🄱🄰🄲🄺 🅃🄾 【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ４】

𝕋𝕒𝕓𝕝𝕖 𝕠𝕗 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕟𝕥

𝗗𝗲𝗲𝗽, 𝗺𝗲𝘀𝗺𝗲𝗿𝗶𝘇𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝘆𝗮𝗻-𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝗯𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗲𝗽𝗹𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗮𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗼𝘄𝗻𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝗹𝗼𝘄𝗹𝘆 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗴𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗼𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂. 𝗔𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁, 𝗶𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝗳 𝗵𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗴𝘂𝗶𝘀𝗲—𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴. 𝗦𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗼𝘀𝗲 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗿𝗮𝘄 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗯𝗮𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗰𝘁𝘀, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗲𝘄 𝗶𝘁, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝗵𝗶𝘀.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝗼𝗹𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘀 𝗼𝗳 𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝘅 𝘄𝗿𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮𝘀 𝗔𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗲 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗶𝘁 𝗰𝗹𝗼𝘀𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗼 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝗽𝘀. 𝗟𝗼𝗰𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗲𝘆𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝘆𝗼𝘂, 𝗵𝗲 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗲𝗱 𝗮 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻.

“𝗠𝗮𝘆 𝗜 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗻𝗮𝗺𝗲?”

╔══ ≪ ♤♢♤ ≫ ══╗

The four of you moved to a secluded spot near the entrance, as far from the bar section as possible.

Upon arriving there, none of you said a word. Instead, you were transfixed at the wallet and the phone on the table.

It wasn’t just make-believe—the “Big Baddie” was real, and he was currently playing poker against Aventurine. A brief glance on the ID card inside the thick wallet, bursting with visa cards and stack of bills, pretty much confirmed that.

Children saw things in black and white. Teo, who worked hard for them, was the “Hero”—whereas Billy, who extorted their brother, was the “Big Baddie.” The Hero would be rewarded for doing good things, whereas the Big Baddie would be punished for doing bad things, because such was justice. That concept was probably as natural as the sun rising in the sky to these children.

And yet, none of that happened that night.

It was the twins’ birthday that day, and they hoped to celebrate it with their older brother. So, they went to his workplace in hopes of bringing him home. There, they saw for themselves how their brother had to work endlessly into the night just to pay the loan shark. Meanwhile, the man their brother missed their birthday for wouldn’t stop wasting money on the gambling table.

Ultimately, no justice was served.

How did they feel at that moment?

You couldn’t know for sure, but one thing was certain.

They felt angry, disappointed, betrayed, and sad enough to take matters into their own hands. To them, what they did was the “right” thing, even if it was “wrong” in itself. All for the sake of their brother.

Now, the results were staring at you.

When the twins said they had “taught him a lesson,” they meant they had stolen from him. They had stolen what were arguably the most important things to a person in this day and age. A wallet with personal identification and financial cards, along with a phone containing all kinds of personal data and delicate information.

During your time working at the family restaurant, how many times did a customer come back frantically looking for their phones because of the data stored inside?

‘Can’t you just apologize and return it or something?’

Seeing the look on Teo’s face made you swallow that question.

“...He’s Billy Burnett, an infamous loan shark around here. My family is in debt, so he’d come to pay us a visit from time to time... A loud guy, often woke the kids...”

Perhaps in an attempt to organize his thoughts, Teo blabbered on. He was holding the hands of both twins excruciatingly tightly, making them fidget restlessly.

“—What’s going on here?”

The two of you turned to the direction of the voice, and saw Marius making his way through the crowds with two other female staff members. They moved so subtly and unobtrusively that nobody paid them any heed.

Then, his dark blue eyes found you. Oh, there they were, the scowl™ and the dead fish gaze™. Simply nostalgic.

“...You again? What did you do?”

“Pffft—!”

Before you could get annoyed at his rude accusation, the pink, kitty-themed Band-Aid on his left cheek stole your attention, and you snorted.

“Tsk.”

Marius immediately covered his cheek and looked away. At least he wasn’t concealing a bruise this time.

“Marius... We have a situation...”

Teo’s weak voice brought you back to the situation at hands.

You stood nearby with a female staff as Teo spoke to Marius. The twins were entrusted to the other female staff, but they were adamant on staying. The female staff member stood with them at a distance, preventing them from overhearing the conversation.

In contrast to Teo, who was shaking like a leaf as he recounted what happened, Marius’ expression didn’t change the whole time. His dark blue eyes were trained at the wallet and the phone.

“...Marius, I’m really sorry about this, especially after the recent incident...”

“What’s done is done. We have to think of a way to rectify this situation.”

Not wanting to intrude their conversation, you turned to the curly-haired female staff beside you. On her chest was the nameplate ‘Christy.’

“...Uh, is this ‘Billy Burnett’ a scary fellow?”

Also, what is this recent incident Teo is talking about?

“He is—!” Christy answered in a shrill voice, not trying to hide her panic. “We always dread it whenever he comes! He’s so vulgar, rude, and always nitpicks his order! In fact, just two days ago, a staff quit because of him—”

“—Don’t say anything unnecessary, Christy.”

Before Christy could continue, however, Marius’ stern voice cut her off.

Then, Marius glanced at you. He didn’t even try to hide the fact that he found you a bother.

“A third party should stay out of this.”

R-right.

Besides, it was nothing new. Every restaurant and nightclub had that one problematic customer, right? Let the staff members and the manager deal with it. It wasn’t like there was anything you could do, anyway.

You began to turn on your heels.

“I’ll take care of this.”

“Manager, please don’t! He remembers your face! He’ll just take advantage of this situation to do something even worse to you!”

“Marius, no! Besides, this is my fault... it’s my responsibility...”

When Marius declared firmly, both Christy and Teo were appalled. You also halted.

“It’s my responsibility as the manager. Also, why are you still here, Teo? Didn’t I give you a half-day off today?”

“You’re kidding! Who’s going to make all those drinks?!”

“Tsk. None of this would’ve happened if you had just gone home and celebrate your siblings’ birthday.”

“...Anyway, I’ll take care of this, Marius. ...Just, just take Jonah and Ann home, please. I can’t let them see what’s going to happen next.”

“...Alright. I’ll make sure they get home safely.”

You couldn’t bear to listen to that bleak conversation anymore!

“—Listen, can’t you just, like, pretend that you are giving them back after he accidentally dropped them?” You butted in.

“Two days ago, Judith and I were serving his table. He specifically asked for a spoon, so we brought him one. But then, he got mad, saying he wanted chopsticks. He accused us of looking down on him.” Christy, who was deadly pale, told you about the recent incident.

“That’s just unreasonable...”

But that wasn’t the end of it.

“Judith politely told him that he must’ve forgotten. He flew into rage, saying that she was calling him senile. Then, he threw a punch at her. If Marius hadn’t stepped in at the time—”

“—That’s enough, Christy!”

Marius suddenly interjected and stood between the two of you.

As you glared at the bruise hidden under the kitty-themed Band-Aid with renewed respect, Marius spoke in a cold voice.

“In case I wasn’t clear enough, this doesn’t concern you. Stay out of it.”

He crossed his arms, not even bothering to hide his derision.

“I-I was just trying to help...” You meekly answered.

“How? And why?” Marius asked provokingly.

“H-how about dumping the wallet and phone somewhere far away?”

“And get my entire staff implicated because that guy lost his wallet and phone right after visiting this place. Very good.”

Your alternative solution was shot down mercilessly. On a second thought, it wouldn’t work anyway.

You recalled the phone brand. It was the most expensive brand out there, but most thieves avoided it like a plague. Why? Because of the GPS and the security system. That phone could’ve fallen into hell, and you could still track which circle it landed in.

“Then I guess it leaves me no other choice... Let’s make it so that it never happened!” you said, bouncing back.

Marius didn’t seem the slightest bit impressed.

“Why?”

Without warning, he took a step toward you. The man, who was slightly shorter than you, suddenly looked so daunting.

“W-well, there won’t be any culprit if it never happened to begin with! And nobody will get punched!” you stammered, trying to hold your ground.

“Why would you go this far?”

Deep blue eyes bore into you, seething with distrust and suspicion.

“I consider all of you friends, so I thought—”

At that moment, Marius reached for his left cheek, or more precisely, for the Band-Aid. He ripped it off and tossed it on the ground. Before you could react, he stepped on it, crushing it underfoot.

“We are not, so scram.”

Just as you were about to say something, the twins suddenly peeked out from either side of you.

“—Did we cause Brother a huge problem?” Jonah seemed about to cry.

“Big Bro shouldn’t apologize! It’s none of his fault! We’ll apologize!”

Ann was a sobbing mess. As she spoke, big droplets of tears fell from her eyes.

“NO!!”

Teo panicked and rushed to hug his siblings, preventing them from doing anything rash.

After all, if Billy Burnett could punch an innocent woman, what would he do to two kids who were clearly guilty? The siblings of the person he had been harassing as a loan shark, on top of that.

“Ah, hey!”

You took the chance to grab Marius’ arm and lead him somewhere a bit far away, where the twins couldn’t hear you.

Marius seemed about to protest, but you stared straight into his eyes.

“Those twins look up to Teo and care for him a lot. As if I’ll let them watch their brother—their Hero—get beaten for it!”

“...! Well, they wouldn’t. I’ll be taking them home soon.”

Despite his callous words, you saw how Marius subtly shifted to the side, averting his gaze.

“Do you think that’ll be enough?! They will—no, they already know something’s up! Even if he hides it well, how long will that last?! Once they find out, what will they think?!”

“That’s... either way, it’ll teach them not to steal from someone again.” Marius replied weakly.

He could’ve just dismissed you right off the bat. The fact that he was wavering told you that he disliked this as much as you do. In that case, all you had to do was press on.

“No, it won’t. They’ll only blame themselves for putting their brother in harm, and you know that!”

“Then what do you suggest I do?! Some things just can’t be helped!”

You were taken aback when Marius suddenly raised his voice. He had lost his cool, finally appearing like the youth he was—but only briefly.

“...There’s no use arguing over this,” Marius spoke while tidying his tuxedo. In no time at all, he had reverted to his usual demeanor. His icy cold gaze pierced you.

“Also, let me warn you about something. We've only recently allowed people like you into our prestigious nightclub, letting you mingle with our esteemed regulars as if you were one of them. That might have gone to your head.”

The stoic and levelheaded manager of Primavera was back, exuding ten times more coldness and rejection than before.

“...”

You stayed silent, mulling on your next words.

“Need I remind you what kind of authority they have? A single word from them could ruin the lives of many. I wouldn’t care if you’re the only one affected, but I also have something to protect, so stay in your lane.”

After Marius was seemingly done, you began to speak.

“...I suggest we reverse pickpocket him. Make it so that it never happened.”

“—We’re done here.”

With a look of disappointment, Marius turned on his heels, about to go on his way.

“Then do me one last favor.”

You spoke firmly, making sure it could still reach him amidst the bustling crowd. Marius halted, but you know it wouldn’t be for long, so you kept it brief.

“Check your pants pocket.”

Marius annoyedly slid his hand into his right pocket.

“No, no, the other one.”

“Such a waste of time—huh? This... how?”

After fishing something out of his pocket, he glanced at a certain spot on the floor. The thing he had ripped off his cheek was no longer there. Then, he turned around to meet your gaze.

“Since when did you...?”

In response, you smirked, staring at the crumpled kitty-themed Band-Aid in his hand.

“There, as if it never happened, right?”

🂡 🂠 🂣 🂠

You smugly walked back to the siblings, half-dragging the complaining Marius behind you.

Upon arriving, you saw the twins struggling to break free from Christy and the other female staff, trying to chase after Teo.

“Now, Ann, Jonah... don’t trouble Sister Christy and Sister Tasha like that. Brother will be back home in a flash, okay?”

“No! Brother! We’re going with you!” “Big Bro, you can’t leave!”

...Apparently, you returned at the right time, just as Teo was about to sacrifice himself to the Big Baddie.

“Hey, Teo! You’re going way overboard with this surprise! I feel sorry for your siblings!”

You shouted at then, smiling dashingly like nothing ever happened.

After all, how were you supposed to reassure everyone that everything was okay if you didn’t look fine yourself?

“A-a surprise...?” “Big Bro was...?”

The twins blinked at you in confusion.

“I did...?”

Actually, Teo was just as at a loss as they were, but you winked at him—hard—forcing him to keep his mouth shut.

“I-I guess I did...” Teo meekly affirmed.

“Yes! I’m actually one of the staff here!” You went on.

“Hey! I’ve heard none of this! You still owe me an explanation!”

It was Marius’ turn to be confused.

It seemed that he utterly disliked being blindsided, and had been demanding an answer from you ever since. Briefly, you wondered if something happened in his past—but either way, this worked for you.

You glanced at him from your shoulder.

“I will once you let me finish speaking. ...Also, can you stop looking at me like that?”

Marius was seething with suspicion. His eyes said it all.

‘Who are you? Is this your first time stealing? How many times have you done it? Was it in my nightclub? Should I ask my staff if any of their belongings is missing? I knew it! I shouldn’t have welcomed these beggars in our luxurious nightclub!’

...Seriously, who hurt you, man?

Although, this time, his suspicion was kind of warranted. Anyone would praise a talented singer, but not a skilled thief. But you weren’t a thief, though... and it wasn’t exactly “stealing,” either...

“Haa...” You sighed.

Explaining this was going to be troublesome. Besides, you didn’t have much time. So, you decided to wrap this up in one go. You fished for a coin from your waist bag.

Then, you recited a line that you had memorized a long time ago.

“—Ladies and gentlemen, please focus on the coin in my hand."

“Huh...?” “Eh...?”

The twins were stunned, but it took no time for them to recognize that line.

“Don’t blink, or you might miss the magic!”

Their eyes widened as you tossed the coin into the air, before catching it with your other hand, twirling it between your fingers. The coin fluttered from your hand to another, as if dancing. Until finally, you closed both of your palms with a snap.

By that time, the sheer distress on their faces had been replaced by sheer excitement.

“Now, guess which hand has the coin! The one who gets it right will receive a present”

Like children their age, the notion of “present” got them flocking to your hands.

“I actually know which one it is. But as the older one, I have to concede. I choose this one!” Jonah smirked and picked your left hand.

“This!” Ann eagerly picked your right hand.

“Okay, so you’ve made your choice! No take-backs?”

Both twins shook their heads.

“No take-backs! Here’s the catch, though. The coin can also choose! It will appear in the hand chosen by a good kid!”

“...!” “...!”

The twins gulped at that. They stared meaningfully at each other, looking unsure.

“—Sim Salabim, Abracadabra!”

You pretended not to see that and even chanted because kids liked it. Sure enough, they leaned forward on their tiptoes, full of anticipation.

“Okay, here goes nothing!”

You opened both palms and revealed... nothing.

“Huh?! I was so sure—” “Where did it go??”

The twins were dumbfounded.

“—How?! Just how?!”

The one who yelled that, full of disbelief, was Marius. But let’s just ignore him.

“Oh no... the coin didn’t choose anyone in the end... No way, have the two of you been bad lately? Did you... steal from someone, perhaps?”

In response, they both hung their heads, looking obviously guilty. Even their shoulders were shaking. If anything, they looked like they needed someone to listen to them. Children shouldn’t be carrying so much guilt and stress, anyway.

“That guy...! He always thrashes the whole house! Money is all he ever talks about! It wasn’t our debt to begin with, but our good-for-nothing dad!”

“He even barged in during our mother’s death anniversary!”

“Reporting that guy is of no use! Whenever we mentioned his name, everyone got scared! They won’t do anything about him!”

“Unlike those weak adults, we did something about it! We’re stronger!”

“Yes, we are strong! We’ll protect our brother!”

“—By doing the same thing he did to your brother? How is that strong, exactly?”

Amidst Jonah and Ann’s cries, your firm voice rang clearly.

“T-that’s because...” “H-he...”

Jonah and Ann, who were caught off-guard, tried to defend themselves amidst their sniveling. But you already knew what they were going to say.

“‘Because he deserves it’ or ‘to teach him a lesson’? Did you know? Whenever that Big Baddie does something awful to others, he probably tells himself the same thing.”

“Huh...?”

“Do you know how someone turns evil? It’s when they keep excusing their wrongdoings until they’re convinced they did nothing wrong. Eventually, they’ll start believing they can do no wrong, and that’s when someone turns into a Big Baddie.”

“...”

You knelt to match the eye level of Jonah and Ann. They were still crying, and their noses had turned bright red.

“Do you want to become like him? When you look at what you’ve done, can you honestly say that you did the right thing? Do you think your brother will be happy with this?”

“N-no...”

“There are many definitions of 'strength' out there. But to Big Sis, being strong means staying true to yourself and holding on to your beliefs no matter what, without being afraid of doing the right thing. You know that stealing is wrong, right? You aren’t so weak that you can’t admit your mistakes, are you?”

“...What we did was wrong.” “We were wrong...”

Their voices were muffled because they were wiping their tears with their sleeves, but it made you smile all the same. Behind them, Teo was watching with a look as if he was about to cry.

Alright, let’s figure out how to take care of that Big Baddie later.

“Do you promise to never steal again?”

“W-we promise...” “Promise...”

“Great—oh no! What is this power surging through me?!”

You grasped your trembling right hand, making a display of panicking and not knowing what was happening.

“I-I can feel it! The coin is about to return...!”

Their tears didn’t stop them from staring closely at your hand.

At last...

“Ta-da—! Presents for good children—!”

You opened your palm, showing two colorful gummies.

“WOW!!” “WHOAH!!”

“Happy birthday to you!”

Immediately, the twins burst into a smile. Even though it was actually your snacks, they took them and started jumping around as if they were the world’s most precious treasure. They even showed them off to the two female staff members and Teo, who smiled happily alongside them.

...Aah, this reminds me of why I took that side gig with the troupe to begin with.

Yes, that was right. You were never a thief, just a magician-in-training.

At first, you only applied as a prop maker for extra cash. But then, by chance, you had to assist the magic show. The looks of genuine excitement on the children’s faces made you decide to try it out. After practicing hard for it, you finally made it on stage! You performed with flying colors. Unfortunately, that was also your last performance. The wandering troupe was scheduled to travel somewhere else after that...

It’s definitely worth it, though...

“Big Sis, Big Sis! Show me more magic tricks!” Ann tugged at your sleeve.

“Of course. Marius, bring me some colorful papers.” You ordered the guy looming behind you.

“Why should I—ah, whatever...”

The guy left and returned with some colorful papers. They were high-quality, too. As expected of Primavera!

Okay, this was where your skill as a prop maker came in!

You started making something out of the papers. Then, your magic show started again.

“Wow! Where did that rose come from?! Big Sis is so amazing!” Ann clapped her hands.

“This is nothing.”

“Show me, munch, something cool, munch...” Jonah asked you while chewing on the gummy.

“Sure. But it’s bad manners to talk while eating, Kids.”

“Whoa! The flags! There are so many! They just won’t stop coming out! Awesome!” Jonah started jumping again.

“I know, right?” You grinned.

“...Would you be interested in working with us? I might be able to hire you as our clown.” Marius asked hesitantly in a low voice.

Since you couldn’t possibly say profanities in front of children, you just silently raised your middle finger to him.

“Why?! Your meals will be taken care of! You also don’t need to worry about salary!”

Huh? He’s actually being serious?

“T-this is actually my first time watching a live magic show... Uh, if possible, can you make more of those paper roses appear?”

“Oh, Christy, you’d like some too? Of course!”

“Wow! How wonderful! The folds and cuts are so clean!”

“I practiced hard for that.”

“Me too, me too!”

“Okay, Tasy—WAIT, WE DON’T HAVE TIME FOR THIS!!!”

🂥 🂠 🂧 🂠

“...Are you sure about this?”

You and Marius stood side by side, gazing at the table where the two gentlemen were seated from afar.

Aventurine was enjoying himself as usual, casually sipping champagne while holding a few cards. Across from him, sat a giant who could only be described as a cross between a bull and a gorilla.

...Try as you might, that was the best and only description you could come up with.

So, that’s Billy Burnett, the loan shark...

His hair was slicked back with so much gel it looked almost plastic, with a bald top. Glossy brown overcoat, with red, tiger-striped shirt underneath. Sparkly gold jewels—so many of them, from his nose, his neck, his arm, his wrist, his fingers... The man screamed “gaudy” from top to bottom, as if he felt the need to constantly remind everyone that he was filthy rich.

You began to worry about Aventurine. To be precise, for his eyesight. After all, every time the flashing lights hit that gorilla, he shone brighter than the sun.

Maybe you should wear your shades again, Aventurine...

—But anyway, Marius was asking if you’d like to back down.

“One hundred percent serious.”

Of course, you had your doubts. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have entertained the thought of leaving everything to the staff back then. The moment you turned back and rejoined them, you decided to see this through.

“Even the slightest mistake may cause your life to be turned upside down. Once he bites, Billy usually won’t let go. You may end up regretting this.”

“I'll regret it even more if I run away when I could have done something about it.”

“...Blind confidence? Savior Complex? Either way, I’ll never get a reckless idiot like you. I also don’t get why I’m trusting said idiot to begin with. More importantly, Billy will just tell you to get lost if you approach him looking like that.”

“Thanks for that. It’s exactly what I didn’t need to hear.”

You subconsciously reached for the black butterfly mask covering half of your face. You crafted it on the last minute. Usually, a magician would wear some kind of a mask, wouldn’t they? Other than looking the part, it’d also help in hiding your identity. See? You weren’t that suicidal.

“—Manager, I brought the uniform.”

All of the sudden, Christy arrived behind you. The curly-haired female staff smiled at you, before handing Marius a set of uniform.

Marius received it and began explaining. “Wear this. For tonight, you’re one of Primavera staff members.”

Wow, an actual help from Marius!?!?

Marius scowled when he saw how flabbergasted you are. “What’s that look for? You think I’ll just sit back and relax and let a random stranger do all the work? Teo is one of my staff members, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe.”

...Whoa.

Again, you saw Marius in a new light. You reached for the uniform with a sense of pride, only for him to retract his hand. You stood there grasping at air like an idiot, feeling a sense of déjà vu.

???

“...?”

Marius continued in a lower voice. “And that goes for you, too.” His cool, deep-blue eyes were focused on you.

“Huh?”

“Did you forget what I said already? For tonight, you’re one of my staff. If you sense that things are getting dangerous, just run. It doesn’t matter if you fail. Safety is of utmost priority. I’ll handle the rest.”

“!”

Marius...

“The rest goes as we previously discussed. Any questions?”

“O-out of curiosity, how are you going to ‘handle the rest?’” You asked wistfully.

To be honest, you were really nervous. No mistake was allowed—this operation had to succeed no matter what. Hence, knowing there was a Plan B would help calm your nerves immensely.

Marius flashed you his flawless manager smile.

“I’ll personally tell Billy that ‘we made sure to fire this obnoxious staff on the spot and charge her under the suspicion of theft. She’ll have to pay for it for the rest of her life.’”

“—So, you’re just turning me into a scapegoat!!!”

Yeah, I can’t. I still hate this guy.

Marius tilted his head. “Why does it matter? You aren’t foolish enough to tell him your true name, are you? Or maybe I’m mistaken? In that case, might as well invite him over to hang out.”

“N-no, actually... that does make sense...”

Either way, I’m only a “staff” for a night, so it’s the same as being fired.

Also, did he just praise your intelligence by saying that you “aren’t foolish enough”? You were about to giggle bashfully until you realized that was just a low blow, far from bare minimum. Dammit! Hanging around this sadistic manager caused your standard bar to fall on the floor!

Then, you finally received the uniform. At the same time, something shiny fell.

“Oh, sorry about that...”

Christy crouched to retrieve it. It was a silver hairpin.

“Sorry, Judith must’ve forgotten this...” She smiled awkwardly, before whispering to you. “Manager’s just bluffing! For now, just do your best! If he said he’ll take care of the rest, he’ll definitely do so! ...In fact, that was why Judith quit... Even though he got injured because of her, he still treated her so well. In the end, she couldn’t stand the guilt...”

“I see...”

You stared wordlessly at the premium black uniform in your hands.

“Older Sister!” “Big Sis!”

Jonah, Ann, and Teo appeared in tow.

“Older Sister, are you really going to that Big Baddie’s place?” “Big Sis, are you going to be okay?”

The twins asked you with concern.

“Of course! Big Sis is going to cast the spell of love, peace, and friendship on that guy! Hopefully, he’ll change for the better!” You showed them a huge grin.

Translation: you were going to secretly return his stuffs so he wouldn’t have any reasons to be angry! But still, gotta set a good example for these kids!

Teo smiled timidly at you. “I can’t thank you enough. I won’t forget this. We’ll pray for your safety.”

“S-sure...”

G-guys, can you please stop already? Why do I feel like I’m being given a final send-off?!

...And so, it was the deciding moment.

🂡 🂠 🂣 🂠

You walked toward the now sanctified gambling table in the main dance venue.

In your hands was a wide silver tray. Its glossy surface, polished to perfection, reflected the colorful stream of lights from time to time. Although it was empty, it still felt heavy and solid. It could probably withstand force several times greater than its weight.

Seeing your attire—the authentic uniform of Primavera, and a butterfly mask, everyone naturally scooted away. Honestly, it was probably the mask. Hence, the walk was short—or should’ve been.

The table was right over there, just a short distance away. But to you, it was as if there was a distance of a few miles away separating you. You were dragging your feet, after all.

...N-no! I have to hurry!

Reportedly, the Big Baddie was burning through his suitcases of money. No wonder, his opponent was Aventurine, after all. Once he ran out of money, he’d probably reach for his wallet, or phone, or both.

“Ugh,” You sighed.

The entire walk there was a certified Walk of Shame.

As you brushed past the crowd, all kind of thoughts loomed over you.

Just how did this happen?

Where did you go wrong in life?

Even though you steeled yourself to help Teo, when it came time to do it, all kinds of pessimistic thoughts and doubts hit you full force. You just wanted to get this over with.

You didn’t remember feeling this nervous during your first performance with that wandering troupe. You even looked forward to it. Well, of course. You’d be performing in front of children who were also excited to see you. Right now, you were just going to make a fool of yourself and make enough distraction until you achieved your goal.

Finally, the table was only a few steps away. Two gentlemen sat across each other, surrounded by a crowd of people. The moon and the stars shining outside the tall windows beside them also bore witness to their game.

Ba-dum! Ba-dum! Ba-dum!

Your heart was kicking in your chest as you gripped the tray tightly. In your moment of distress, your eyes instinctively searched for solace—then, you found him...

Aventurine looked as breathtakingly dashing as ever, even more so from up-close. He sat on the glossy red velvet sofa, gracefully resting his long leg on top of the other. At such a distance, you could see how each and every single jewel that studded his coat glimmered under the light.

Forest-green emerald. Navy-blue sapphire. Coupled with the tosca, cyan, green, and gold accents of his attire, he looked like an embodiment of an elegant and majestic peacock.

But something wasn’t right.

Aventurine was staring listlessly at the cards in his hand. No, it was as if he was looking through them. His cyan-violet eyes were also dull. Rather than smiling, his lips seemed frozen in a shape that resembled a “smile.”

But unlike that night, he didn’t seem sad.

He looked like... how do you say this, like one of your classmates who couldn’t be more done with class. Ah yes, dead bored.

This whole time, when you sat in the farthest corner in that venue, you were always under the impression that he was smiling and rejoicing about his win. Yes, just like the night when he first treated everyone.

You wondered why.

Even though he has won this big...

There was a pile of iron suitcases on each gentleman’s side. Suffice it to say, Aventurine’s side was taller.

With only a meter and a half left, you took a step forward, then another, and another...

“—!”

Suddenly, you halted, hugging the tray close to your chest.

Perhaps sensing your presence, Aventurine lazily lifted his gaze from the cards and threw a brief glance at you, before quickly returning his attention to where it had been.

But just as you were thanking every god in the universe, he hastily turned back at you.

In such a close distance, there was no way you’d miss it—that look of utter disbelief and shock on his face...

...or how that pair of cyan-violet eyes lit up instantly, regaining their luminosity.

Brighter than the moon or the stars. Prettier than any gemstones. Richer in color than the flashing lights that illuminated the entire place.

“—WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?!”

A gruff and angry roar snapped you out of your trance.

Gah!!! That surprised me!!!

Thankfully, you were too shocked to scream.

You shot a look at his opponent—the Big Baddie, also known as Billy Burnett, and saw how he had almost completed his transformation into a bull. The guy was snarling, his face bright red, as he glowered at you, totally nailing the part of a “vulgar” and “rude” customer.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t scared. In fact, your initial instinct was to run away.

Quick! You needed to think of a way to appease him! Otherwise, you could forget of ever returning the wallet and the phone!

...At the same time, you made a mental note that, due to his humongous build, his pants pocket was practically gaping at you.

Hoh! Nice! That makes it easier—almost like putting a basketball into a waist-high hoop!

But looking at his current state right now, which was mad pissed, an impromptu magic show was probably the last thing he’d want to see. Still, you needed to get this show on the road!

Then, as you desperately racked your brain...

“—Now, that’s no way to treat our new friend?”

Someone could be heard saying in a lighthearted voice. Yet, the words were heavy enough to make both of the Big Baddie’s giant shoulders sink.

“A-ah! I see, so you’re one of Mr. Aventurine’s friends! Sorry if I scared you! It’s just that the nightclub is loud, you know? That’s why I screamed!” Big Baddie forced a smile and made up an excuse on the spot.

The raging bull from earlier now looked like a domesticated gorilla.

The pathetic sight tickled you. Rather than a loan shark, anyone would think that this guy owed Aventurine a massive debt.

Placing his cards face down on the table, Aventurine shifted in his seat to face you, smiling all the while.

“The night is starting to get dull, so I welcome the new face. But...” His multicolored eyes swept across the empty tray you were holding, before narrowing slightly. “...I was certain I didn’t place any order, and I was right. To what do I owe the honor of your presence?”

Courteous words, spoken with a hint of amusement, topped off with that charming smile...

Just how did he manage to strike a perfect balance between frivolousness, playfulness, and elegance!?

Had this been your first meeting, he’d have you at hello.

If only you weren’t on a mission right now—ah, right!! You were on a mission!!

Without missing a beat, you curtseyed to him as best as you could.

“Good evening, esteemed guests. We've noticed how long you've been with us, and as you mentioned, the night is getting dull! So, I was sent to hopefully stave off some of your boredom! It’s a pleasure to serve you tonight!”

You just spouted the most plausible-sounding words that came to mind.

At the very least, Aventurine didn’t seem to doubt you.

“Is that so? How nice of you. How about a handshake?”

Deep, mesmerizing cyan-violet eyes bore deeply into you as the owner slowly extended his gloved hand toward you. At that moment, it was as if he had seen through your guise—through everything. Something about those eyes seemed to draw out your base instincts, and before you knew it, your hand was in his.

The coolness of latex wrapped your hand as Aventurine brought it closer to his lips. Locking eyes with you, he asked a question.

“May I have your name?”

A harmless and trivial question. Your real name almost escaped your lips until you realized that was what he wanted you to think.

“I— ...My name is Aschenputtel.”

You answered with a slight stutter, subtly trying to retract your hand, but to no avail. His grip, as gentle as his smile, was equally unwavering.

“What a gorgeous name. The pleasure is all mine, Ms. Aschenputtel.”

Then, while maintaining eye contact, he placed a chaste kiss on the back of your hand. The warmth of his lips contrasted with the coolness of his latex glove.

!#@!#&@!#!#!*!@&#&!@#&!#!#&!(!&!&&

Something inside your head exploded.

“—puttel. Ms. Aschenputtel? Is something the matter?”

A few seconds later, you were brought back to reality by none other than Aventurine. The guy who was responsible for putting you in that kind of state tilted his head innocently.

...Also, your alias smoothly rolled off his tongue, sounding like a unique and beautiful, rarely used word of X language. Even though you picked it because it was tricky to both pronounce and remember...

“N-nothing! Right, so, allow me to present a touch of magic for your enjoyment!”

You forcefully brought back the main subject and pried your hand off his.

“Magic? As in, a magic show?”

Then, after briefly staring at his now empty hand, Aventurine asked you with obvious curiosity. Whether or not he was acting, you really couldn’t tell...

“Yes! That’s right!”

“Go on, then.”

🂡 🂠 🂣 🂠

Thus, despite facing a few small bumps along the way, you managed to carry out the operation.

“This one is dedicated to you, Mr. Big Ba—ahem, Mr. Billy Burnett. We always appreciate how sharply-dressed you are. So fiery, you stand out wherever you are.”

Since your target was and always had been Big Baddie, you naturally started with him. Aventurine watched on the side with interest, while you tried not to mind him as much.

“Hoho! Astute judgment! Did you know? This shirt alone cost more than all the wages of the staff here combined!”

True to your previous assessment, Big Baddie thrived on being complimented on his looks and wealth. At first, he was only half-listening to you, but that changed once you took out a few sheets of red paper.

“—I can only think of one flower to symbolize you. Would you like to guess what is it?”

You made a display of crumpling those papers in your fists.

“Ahaha! I don’t care about some grasses, so you tell me!”

“Of course, Sir! It’s right within my hand!”

However, the next time you opened both of your palms, they were empty.

“Oh, no...”

With your back facing the crowd, you could hear some astonished gasps here and there.

“Huh—?! Where did they go—?! Are you trying to make a fool of me—?!”

Instead of taking it as part of the act, Big Baddie took offense from it. But you had predicted that.

“Of course not, Sir! The flower is just shying away because of the man you are!”

You almost choked saying that.

“Huh...? Is that so...?”

“Yes! How about checking your pocket? It might be hiding there?”

“...Now that you say it, my pocket feel heavier than before.” Big Baddie went to check his pant pocket. “There’s nothing here. Only my phone and wallet.”

With a smirk, you told him, “Then, how about inside of the wallet?”

Big Baddie giddily opened his wallet and saw something red inside.

“Ooh—!”

When he pulled it out, he found out that it was a stalk of paper rose.

“How did it get there?! Especially when you never took out my wallet!”

...Simple, cause’ you put it in before returning that wallet.

Instead of answering, you took that rose from the Big Baddie’s hand.

“Still... one rose is far from enough, isn’t it? To match up with your awesomeness, maybe two—no, five? Ten?”

As you spoke, the paper roses in your hand multiplied with each flick of your wrist, corresponding to your words. The crowd behind you began murmuring in awe.

“Wow!”

“How did she do that?!”

“That’s so amazing!”

In the corner of your eye, Aventurine was silently clapping his hands.

“—The answer is: simply infinite!”

You threw the paper roses into the air, and they scattered into red petals, fluttering gently as they fell down, concluding your performance.

Everyone immediately burst into clapping.

“Hey, how did you do that?!” Even the Big Baddie was still reeling from it. He was grinning from ear to ear, a repulsive light flickering in his eyes. “That was so amazing! I like you! Your name is Ashpuddle, right?! Can we—”

“—What about me?”

The Big Baddie was about to grab a hold of you when Aventurine suddenly interjected.

Resting his chin on top of his hand, Aventurine asked you with the same smile as before. But dare you say... there was a hint of dismay in his gaze?

‘Crap! I was overly focused on the Big Baddie that I completely forgot about Aventurine!’

Just kidding.

Of course you had something prepared for him. You just didn’t expect you’d actually get the chance to perform it.

You smiled back at him.

“—Last but not least!”

“Oh?”

Upon hearing that, all trace of dissatisfaction disappeared from his face. He seemed pleasantly surprised.

A curtain had fallen on your previous performance, but now the curtain had risen for yet another one.

One that was close to your heart, and also contained way less lies.

You took out a few sheets of paper. This time, the color was pristine white.

As a waiter, you had learned body language to an extent.

The entire time you were performing, Big Baddie didn’t even turn to look at you. Perhaps, he was preoccupied with the amount he had lost that night. Either way, it helped you immensely.

However, Aventurine was something else. He shifted his position so that he was sitting directly facing you. Multicolored eyes followed each of your movement with eagerness.

Those eyes stared at you, and only you, as if the cards, the towering iron suitcases, and the crowd had never existed to begin with.

Not to mention, he was also friendly! He always responded to any of your questions! Such a great fanservice this was! You could see why he was popular!

“Mr. Aventurine, what is your favorite color?”

“Aventurine is fine. Hmm... that’s a tough one.”

You couldn’t help but laugh when you saw the look of deep contemplation on his face.

“Ahaha, you don’t know your favorite color?”

“I never really thought about it... until recently, at least. You see, a certain color has caught my eye.”

Aventurine spoke while staring into your eyes.

Unlike a certain Big Baddie, he was also keeping eye contact! He was truly outshining that guy in every aspect! ...Though, in reality, it wasn’t that difficult of a feat.

“What about you?”

“Hm?”

“What color do you like? Is it white?”

“The answer is right here.”

With a smile, you presented your closed palm to him.

“A lead-up question, I see.” Aventurine stared at your hand before placing his open hand directly underneath it.

Then, out fell a paper flower with unique-shaped petals. The color—or colors—were blue, purple, and navy.

Similarly colored eyes gazed at it for a moment before turning back to you.

He studied your face, examining your expression as if searching for something. Then, something stole his attention—

—namely, the bouquet in your hands, consisting of a dozen or so of those flowers, seemingly pulled out of thin air.

“To your beautiful eyes, Aventurine.”

“...!”

You smiled in satisfaction, having achieved your personal goal.

Did Aventurine ever stop smiling? As far as you knew, he was an all-smile type of guy.

...And yet, when it fully dawned on him that you had especially made that bouquet for him, the smile he showed was truly unprecedented. That all of the sudden, you recalled a certain line spoken by your friend, Celine.

"... It was as if there were two starry skies—both in the sky and on the ground."

Except this time, the starry skies were in his eyes.

Once again, you found your cheeks burning up.

“May I have that?”

Suddenly, Aventurine pointed at the bouquet you held close to your chest.

“Huh? Y-you mean these paper flowers?”

“Yes. I’ll be sure to cherish it.” He said, trying to reassure you.

“N-no, I wasn’t afraid that it might be ruined, but...”

You stared at him, and then at the paper bouquet. His beauty certainly couldn’t be compared to it. You began to feel self-conscious again.

Dammit! I should’ve asked Marius to bring me real, freshly cut flowers!

Then, Aventurine had a look as if an idea had just flashed in his mind.

“Ah, of course... How thoughtless of me.”

He started fishing for something out of his jacket for some reason.

“It’s a handcrafted piece. You put effort into making it. And there’s only one of it in this whole world. In that case, you should be paid—”

“—NO, NO, NO! You can have it!”

The moment you saw that black card peeking out of his coat—only owned by a few people in this whole world—you immediately gave that bouquet to him.

Aventurine blinked, perhaps finding your sudden change in behavior odd. Still, he gladly accepted your gift.

“Thank you.” Aventurine thanked you, immersed in the bouquet.

“Y-you’re welcome.” You answered sheepishly.

Phew! What a hard day’s work! In the end, everything went smoothly!

You wiped imaginary sweat off your forehead and began to turn on your heels, about to leave.

“—Leaving so soon?”

Just then, you felt something wrap around your waist, pulling you back.

“Huh...?”

You were about to resist until you heard the next words.

“Stay for a bit more. I haven’t complimented you about your stunning sleight of hand.”

‘Sleight of hand,’ he said...

As your field of vision turned upside down, you couldn’t help but dwell on the latter half of his sentence.

That was right. Sleight of hand, instead of magic trick. As if, as if...

In the next moment, you were staring directly into his cyan-violet eyes. They were so close, you felt as if you might be drawn into them.

As you sunk into his lap, you saw his eyes narrowing into the shape of crescent moons. He confirmed your doubts, whispering softly into your ear.

“It’s amazing, what you did with the phone and the wallet.”

“!!”

Just like that, you found yourself on top of the notoriously undefeated hot gambler, known for his endless stroke of good luck.

╚══════╝

🄾🄽🅆🄰🅁🄳 🅃🄾 【Ｃｈａｐｔｅｒ６】

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