#james being helpless

[veesstar0555]

sometime in 1977

james: oh come on lover boy, one date?

regulus: stop following me potter.

james: of course not reggie, hogsmeade?

regulus: my answer hasnt changed regardless of you asking 100 times. shouldnt you being doing something useful?

james: unless your name is suddenly ‘useful’, then i don’t think so?

regulus: potter! your brain capacity is that of a levitating feather!

james: oh do keep on talking dirty, reggie!

regulus: james!!

james:

james: oh so im james now?

regulus: fuck.

james: dont make empty promises, love!

[ahopefulbromantic]

Mark 10, 35-40

Then James and John, the sons of Zebedee, came to him. “Teacher,” they said, “we want you to do for us whatever we ask.” “What do you want me to do for you?” he asked. They replied, “Let one of us sit at your right and the other at your left in your glory.” “You don’t know what you are asking,” Jesus said. “Can you drink the cup I drink or be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with?” “We can,” they answered. Jesus said to them, “You will drink the cup I drink and be baptized with the baptism I am baptized with, but to sit at my right or left is not for me to grant. These places belong to those for whom they have been prepared.”

So it's so obvious to me that the reason Jesus denies them is because in His ears what they are asking for is to be crucified alongside Him. Of course they don't know, they can't know what they're saying, but He does. And it's so telling, too, that these verses come just after Jesus talking about Himself being mocked, spat on, flogged, killed, and then risen from the dead.

Just thinking about how Jesus must've seen before His eyes a brief image of His beloved boys crucified, writhing in agony. How He probably immediately thought: "no, please, everything but that!" And when they told Him they could drink this cup, i wonder if He was touched because He knew they would, maybe deciding for a millionth time over that He wishes to die for them - or if He got angry, because how could they say that?! they don't know what they're talking about, He would never let them! - or maybe if He was too tired and fed up with everything to even argue with them cause they wouldn't get it anyway, they never did. I always thought it was the first one. That He looked at them fondly and said, "okay, you will drink the cup, how could I say no to you, I love you".

But see, here's what's been bugging me: Jesus tells both John and Big James that they will drink from His cup, but then according to tradition John is the only apostle NOT to get martyred? This plot hole leads some to believe that maybe our beloved son of thunder did in fact get killed but no one knows about it? Or there was something lost in translation? And it all didn't make sense to me until I realized something:

You know how we Catholics call Holy Mary the Queen of Martyrs even though She never shed a single drop of blood? That's because She was spiritually martyred when She watched Her Son die and this alone made Her suffering far greater than that of all the other martyrs. Which is honestly crazy, in the best way possible. And guess what? John was there, too, at the foot of the cross. And he, too, watched his beloved get tortured and die. In fact, he was the only apostle to do that.

He drank from the cup. He was martyred by watching his Jesus die. His heart died alongside Him, and if its flesh was not torn, did it really mean it was broken any less?

And i was also thinking, what if that was what was meant to happen to all the apostles, but they forfeited it by running away?

[seriousbrat]

Canon Lily does not have any character flaws though. We can argure it is because she was never fleshed-out character on her own in the books but neither was James and we got to see his good and bad qualities.

I disagree, I think we do see flaws in Lily even though they're fairly minor, as flaws go. (And Lily is more of a minor character than James imo.) Anyway, a character flaw doesn't have to be some HUGE abjectly terrible trait or behaviour like Sev or James might have. Most humans don't have some kind of obvious massive drawback to them lmao, most people are normal and their flaws/bad qualities are a bit more subtle than 'literally being a bully' and 'literally joining a fascist group.' When I say I think all characters should have flaws I don't mean they should all secretly be assholes or evil haha. There are ways to write realistic characters who are also good and kind people.

I have a post here about what I think Lily's flaws are. But I'll also add that the flaws she's shown to have in canon are the basis for the reasons people consider her to be selfish, judgmental, a bad friend, two-faced etc. It's realistic for everyone to have moments or parts of them that are selfish or judgmental, and it's realistic for people, especially teenagers, to be imperfect friends at times. The thing is that instead of people interpreting these flaws as fairly understandable and normal in a teenage girl, they jump to the worst possible conclusions and inflate them to a ridiculous degree, with a side of blaming her for everything the men in her life did.

If Lily wasn't shown to have those flaws, people wouldn't be able to jump to them in order to villainise her. It's so weird with Lily, either people believe she's a horrible irredeemable she-devil or else she's a way too annoyingly perfect mary sue virgin mother and badly written etc. It can't be both lol. Lily has a specific role in the story because it's told through Harry's perspective. Is it that weird for an orphaned boy to idealise his dead mother? No. It's not even that weird for a non-orphaned boy to idealise his alive mother. Personally when I read Lily's scenes in DH it doesn't feel to me that she was written as perfect, she just seems like a pretty normal, if notably kind young girl with normal reactions to things.

Her reading Petunia's letter from Dumbledore and using it as ammo in an argument seems realistic. Her telling Snape that he's being ungrateful because James saved his life seems realistic. Her blowing up at James during SWM seems realistic. Her remaining friends with Snape despite his actions, and falling for James despite his, seems realistic.

Is Lily the most developed character in HP? No, of course not, but that doesn't make her that criminally underdeveloped for her purpose in the narrative imo. She's literally dead for the entire story, why would she be as developed as someone like Hermione? It's true that because of her importance to the central mystery, we don't see much of her until the end. Yes that's a shame for fans of Lily, though I also think it works well for the reader (and Harry) to realise that Lily has more importance than we'd realised. Harry identifies with James because he's a boy, it's James he goes to follow in SWM, and the logical conclusion that his mother would also be there (he even sees her and just doesnt recognise her) doesn't even occur to him until she enters the narrative herself. Even then, she's an afterthought to the way Harry's feelings about James are bound up in his own identity.

It's meant to be that way, it's realistic for it to be that way, it's good foreshadowing for the way Lily later enters the narrative in an unexpected way, but anyway, I think even what we are given about Lily is enough to construct at least a rough outline of her character if you care to.

Nobody ever complains about characters like Grindelwald or Regulus being underdeveloped lol, because they're not actually present in the story, nor are they supposed to be, despite being important to other characters. I think there's some confusion since Lily is an important character in Marauders' era, but pls let's remember that all of this stuff that we talk about on here is just background to the main story of Harry Potter. Obviously there's characters who are going to be underdeveloped if you just take them as characters on their own, and yes, since I like Lily I wish we'd seen more of her, but also it makes sense that we didn't see that much because the story isn't about the Marauders' era lol.

Personally I think people judge Lily too harshly as a character. It's not that I think everyone has to like Lily at all, but I do find the standards she's commonly held to a bit ridiculous since they're never even remotely applied to male characters. If you're only interested in angsty dark mean men that's fine, if you're only interested in the characters that have more of a presence in the narrative that's understandable, but personally I don't think there's anything wrong with the mere existence of a female character who is a good and pleasant person haha

[starjunkyard]

A scene of foreman telling house in ep21 s8 that "persevering through pain for loved ones... isn't that what life is?" before being followed up by a scene of house screaming at taub in the middle of the hospital hallway that life is pain. Life is pain. His entire life is pain. How he wakes up everyday and thinks about ending it. And yet hes still fucking here and what is that if not a confirmation that house's entire life is lived for wilson

Its so like. Because from an outsider's perspective its so childish. Its so out of bounds though thats completely in character for house; you don't tell people whether they should live or die, least of all if they're diagnosed with a terminal illness you know will suck the life out of them every second they aren't in the ground. You don't get to tell people that you dont have that right but. But. but

House is here and house is in pain. He's hurting and he's been hurting and he wants that to end but its been an unspoken agreement for years that wilson would never forgive house if he just gave up. Wilson would never let him do that. He would never ever forgive house for that not ever

So house is here!!!!!!!!!!!!!! He is alive!!!!!!!!!!!! Because wilson is his best friend and house cannot live in a world where wilson hates him even if he isnt around to feel it. So house persevered through the pain he grit his teeth and just kept fucking Going because wilson hating him is a worse fate than any infarcture any perpeptual state of chronic pain, a fate worse than anything

Before stacy before cuddy before everything it was new orleans and wilson in that cell. House has been living for wilson. House's entire life past the infarcture and the pain and the pain and the pain has been for wilson. He has been living in unimaginable pain for 20 years because its been an unspoken agreement that i need you i want you you need me you want me. I need you here you cant go anywhere You cant leave me

20 years of being in a perpeptual unending state of chronic pain. Years of living under this unspoken agreement, being bound to this contract that keeps you screaming keeps you hurting keeps you gutted and emptied out but you never minded it, you never left. you let it take you because you love him. Because you love him he loves you and he lets you love him and thats enough

So can you imagine what a slap in the face it is to have him tell you outright that he wont live for you.

That his life, his death: it'll be about him. All this whilst your entire life has belonged to him. Your life your death everything you've ever done its been about him for him. For him. And you feel furious and cheated to tears because its then that you realise he never even asked. You gave it to him handed your bleeding beating heart warm and fresh to him on a silver fucking platter and he never even asked for it. But you're asking him now. You're actually asking him you're begging him, you are begging him you're telling him that you love him, and he's saying no? He's saying no?

Can you even begin to imagine-- just a fraction of that betrayal? That humiliation? I've fucking grit my teeth weathered 20 years of pain i stayed alive because i knew that you wanted me to-- because i knew that you loved me and you wanted me to stay, and that was fine, because i loved you too. And i never even made you say it. I never made you say the words because i thought it was something we both understood intrensically, down to the bone-- and still im telling you now that i need you that i love you and now the deal's just off?

I weathered through 20 years of pain because surely you would have done the same for me-- and you're telling me now that your life is going to be lived on your own terms? when my entire life has been lived for you? When ive been in hell for 20 years just so i could keep loving you? You; you looked at me in the eyes, led me on had the gall to keep me alive-- just to sit here now and tell me that the agreement ive lived my whole life around was a one-man deal? That you cant be bothered to stick your heels in the dirt a little, grit your teeth and go through a quarter fraction of the hell ive gone through so that you stay here! can be here Be Here and keep continuing to love me when ive been doing that wordlessly thanklessly for 20 years? How could you make me ask? How could you tell me no?

How could you keep me alive and breathing if you knew that this was even remotely in the realm of possibility? You kept me in the dark-- knew this whole time that leaving this friendship could actually be an option for you-- and you kept me alive?

[ddejavvu]

JAMES POTTER THE MAN THAT HE IS i wholeheartedly believe would spoil you so much and you’d make sugar daddy joke about him CONSTANTLY even if you were the same age

"Why has your aunt just told me I look too young to be your boyfriend?" James leans over to murmur against your ear, throwing a glance at your aunt who's currently indulging in another glass of wine that she doesn't need.

"I dunno," You shrug, "Older ladies are always saying things about the way people look for their ages."

"Your grandma frowned at me when I came in," James recalls with a groan, "Not necessarily angry, I don't think. Just confused."

"She's always confused," You scoff, "Don't worry James; no one else thinks I've robbed the cradle."

"Y/N," It's a cousin of yours this time, elbowing you hard in the shoulder and sitting down beside you like you're not huddled up privately with your boyfriend, "I thought the wallet you snagged was halfway to the grave already. 'This his son?"

"Wallet?" Your eyes narrow, nose crinkling at the accusation, "What are you talking about?"

"You said you had a sugar daddy," Your cousin scoffs, and realization hooks your stomach, dragging it down towards your feet through an ocean of blood, "We all thought you were gonna bring some war veteran tonight, this kid looks like he just graduated high school."

"I'm twenty-two," James rambles, scandalized, "Y/N, you told them I was your sugar daddy?"

"No! No, I told them ages ago - when we started dating, that I had a boyfriend but- I mean, I dunno, I've thrown around the term sugar daddy while showing off some of your more... extravagant purchases."

"Like the cruise," Your cousin helpfully supplies, "And the tennis bracelet, and the summer home."

"That was a rental," You hiss, "Jamie, I swear I've used boyfriend 90% of the time."

"We thought she was just being optimistic," Your cousin admits, a wrinkled grimace on their face as they rush to free themselves from the awkward conversation, "But- uh, good for you two, remember me in the will."

"Oh my god," James buries his face in his hands, "They thought I was ancient. They thought I was some pervert chasing after girls, throwing money at the ones who'd pity me enough to look my way."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry, Jamie," You croon, taking his face into your hands and shooing his own away. He leans in desperately to the soothing kisses that you stick to his face, looking for all the world like he might die of embarrassment right here right now. For all that he moans and groans, he's tucked himself into your hold like a helpless infant, and you're happy to oblige his neediness.

"No more using the word daddy." James instructs, though he's not in a position to make orders while nestled securely in your protective grip, "Not unless we decide to take a leap of faith in the bedroom. God, no wonder your grandma was so disappointed when she saw me- I don't have enough wrinkles for her."

[florsial]

think think think

Regulus sneaks off to the Potters to give Sirius a secret Christmas gift and gets caught by Sirius and James who convince him to stay a bit longer, and every time Regulus is like, "I have to go" and Sirius is like, "It's Christmas Reg, cmon just a little longer, you can say that I dragged you here against your will or whatever, just stay a little for a bit longer." And Regulus, being loki helpless against his older brother, just agrees. And he begins to bond with everyone.

Eventually, Regulus accidentally stays the rest of the day and when he gets ready to finally leave, Effie is like, "Would you like to stay the night? It's quite late" and Monty just straight up says, "Would you like to stay forever?"

And that's how Regulus ran away. (Accidentally)

[theonion]

In an ultimately futile act some have described as courageous and others have called a mere postponing of the inevitable, existentialist firefighter James Farber delayed three deaths Monday.

“I’m no hero,” Farber said after rescuing the family from a house fire on the 2500 block of West Thacker Street, and prolonging for the time being their slow march toward oblivion. “Like any other man, I am thrown into this world, alone and terrified, to play a meaningless role in an empty life. In my case, that role happens to involve charging through towering blazes to pull helpless individuals from a sea of flames before they suffocate or are burnt alive.”

Added Farber, “That hardly makes me a paragon of virtue.”

At 2:30 a.m. Monday, the alarm sounded at Farber’s station house, causing the despondent firefighter to emerge from a deep malaise and, though still absorbed by the sense of dread that has preoccupied him since youth, respond promptly to the request for assistance at the home of Stanley and Joyce Morgenstern.

According to department officials, Farber, a 13-year veteran of Ladder Company 8, climbed through a kitchen window and, despite carrying with him a heavy burden of alienation, managed to see all three members of the family to safety.

“He came out the front door with a body slung over each shoulder, and seconds later there was this big fireball and beams started falling and the whole thing caved in,” neighbor Judy Neal said. “When it was all over, he just sort of stood there emotionless and silent, as if nothing had happened at all.”

“I think I even saw him shrug,” she added. Full Story

[ellecdc]

Soooo, I'm not the usual requester of the poly!moonwater x reader, but I fell I love with them and the way you write them!

With that being said, could I request Mia and Monty taking in Regulus and reader, saving them from their cruel families, and the holidays being absolutely hectic with everyone there.

Maybe some Mia and reader bonding?

If not that's fine! All my love,

🦕

*gasps* thank you lovely! I'm so glad you've loved moonwater enough to submit a request!!! sorry this took so long, I had this half finished and couldn't figure out for the life of me how to wrap it up happily, and then I was like "of course! Effie!" - not so much chaos but a lot of hurt/comfort and fluff

~please note: my requests are currently closed as I work through my older ones~

poly!moonwater x fem!reader

CW: toxic/abusive family dynamics, mentions and insinuations of abuse, your parents suck in this - I'm sorry, but just call me Euphemia Potter because you're all my children now

Remus had to admit that he was getting increasingly worried about you and Regulus the closer it got to the summer holidays. It seemed that no matter how much brighter the weather became outside, clouds were determined to follow the two of you around.

Remus only knew why Regulus would perhaps grow tense at the thought of returning to 12 Grimmauld Place on account of Remus’ years’ long friendship with Sirius. But the youngest Black, since reconciling with his older brother, has staunchly refused to discuss family life. Remus could accept that; he understood the gist.

But you, he was at a loss with. Though, he would admit that your occasional flinch at a raised hand or sudden quick movements by either Regulus or Remus spoke volumes on that end.

So here you all were (being Remus, you, Regulus, Sirius, James, Peter, and Lily) sitting by the Black Lake and enjoying the sun on one of the last few days of the school year, and you and Regulus were nearly comatose in your melancholy. 

Lily and Peter were doing their best to pretend they didn’t notice any tension in the group as they busied themselves with a game of wizarding chess, but James and Sirius had no such qualms and were staring hard between Remus and Regulus. 

“I told you that you could come with me, Reggie.” Sirius said surprisingly softly for the oldest Black. Regulus’ jaw twitched as he stole a fleeting glance at James.

“You told me that a year ago. I wasn’t smart enough to go then, I don’t see why I’d deserve that option now.” He muttered, sounding disturbingly more and more like the aristocratic Pureblood he was raised to be.

“It’s not about deserving, Reg.” Sirius said at the same time Remus said, “of course you do.”

“Honestly,” James interjected, “at this point, my mum would be pissed if you didn’t come live with us.”

Regulus’ face appeared to remain impassive, but Remus knew better; there were signs. His jaw tightened, there was a small movement in his left eyebrow and a subtle glossiness in his eyes.

Suddenly his gaze flit to Remus, his eyes almost begging him to understand something he hadn’t yet voiced. Remus held Regulus’ gaze until his eyes turned to something else; to you.

But it didn’t appear that you had heard any of the conversation going on around you; your eyes pointed to some unmarked point in the horizon, your mind far away.

“I can’t leave her.” Regulus whispered once he knew you wouldn’t hear.

“What’s the point of both of you suffering, Regulus? You can’t help her from Grimmauld Place.” Sirius argued. 

Regulus finally groaned, and Remus’ heart clenched knowing how close he was to frustrated tears. Remus felt just as close, feeling completely helpless in this situation. But his parents struggled enough supporting him alone. He knew that if he asked, his mum would have the two of you in a heartbeat, but the Potter’s had the space and funds to do it far more easily. 

“Y/N can come too.” James said plainly.

“Hm?” You hummed quietly, turning your attention back to the group at the sound of your name.

Regulus grimaced slightly but James, either ignorant to body language or choosing to ignore it carried on. “I was just thinking, we’re inviting Regulus to move in with us for the summer. Perhaps you could join us?”

You stared hard at James without breaking eye contact and Remus grew more and more tense the longer you stayed silent.

“It’s good that Regulus is staying with you.” You commented, sounding nearly robotic.

“You could-” Remus began, but you cut him off.

“Don’t, Remus.”

“Amour.” Regulus pleaded quietly.

“Leave it.” You ordered before standing and walking away. 

Regulus sighed and buried his face in his hands. Remus couldn’t stand it anymore and moved to sit beside him, rubbing soothing swipes up and down his spine.

“Your brother is right, love. You’ll be more help to her if you’re safe at Potter Manor. You need to be brave for the both of you right now.”

“She’s never told me either, you know?” Regulus spoke from inside his hands. “I have no idea what happens when she leaves here.”

Remus fought back the tears that threatened to infiltrate his eyes. “You’ll be more help to her from Potter Manor.” He repeated.

You’d been avoiding the boys, that much was certain. And even if you weren’t avoiding them, it was like you weren’t even there when you were sitting right next to them. Remus hated to think that this was the note you were all leaving on, knowing you’d not see each other again until September first. 

Regulus had agreed to stay with the Potters, though he refused to discuss with anyone what was said to his parents (or, perhaps more importantly, what his parents had said in return). 

So, they stood there in Central Hall with their bags and school trunks; James and Sirius arguing over what they were going to do first when they got to the Manor (in an attempt to hopefully lighten the mood for Reggie's sake) while Remus stared at Regulus’ face without pretending that he wasn’t, as his boyfriend stood painfully rigid.

You appeared then, the strap of your duffle bag thrown over your shoulder and your school trunk trailing behind you. Remus didn’t think he’d ever seen you look so forlorn.

It was like a switch was flipped in Regulus, and he went from a soldier standing at attention to cooing over your shorter frame.

“Let me get this, amour. Did you get everything packed okay?” He asked you softly, pulling your duffle bag gently from your shoulder to throw over his own. You barely nodded in acknowledgment, eyes staring at the ground unseeingly. Remus felt sick to his stomach.

“Okay.” Regulus murmured at you quietly, giving Remus a quick shake of his head as he went to move to you. Remus had this overwhelming urge to pick you up and huddle you under his arm, not letting go until you were all the way to Wales – where your family couldn’t get to you.

But Regulus perhaps understood your mindset better than he did.  

“Can Rem take your trunk for you?” Regulus asked, mostly as a means to invite Remus into the conversation and less trying to get him to be your pack mule.

“No.” You said as firmly as you could manage in this fragile state. “I’ve got it. Thank you, though.” You said, finally looking up to make eye contact with Remus and Regulus. 

Regulus, for his part, managed to smile sadly at you. Remus was sure his discontent was written all over his face.

“Ready to get this show on the road? Look at me, sounding all muggle.” Sirius called. One would think he sounded indifferent to what was going on, but Remus (and Regulus) could see this for what it truly was: distraction.

“No.” You whispered.

“What is it, lovie?” Remus asked, turning his attention quickly back to you.

“I’m not, I-” you took a few quick breaths, face scrunching up painfully as your eyes filled with tears. “I’m not ready, I can’t. I can’t go. I’m not...”

“Okay.” Regulus said softly.

“I can’t go back, I can’t - I’m not ready.”

“That’s alright.” Sirius offered just as softly. 

You were disturbingly close to hyperventilating – surveying your surroundings like you were looking for a place to run, looking for a way out. “I can’t do it anymore, I can’t.” You cried.

“Then don’t, love.” Remus pleaded. And you broke down into sobs. 

Something inside Remus snapped and he made for you, enveloping you in a hug that was probably far too tight, but you nuzzled impossibly further into his chest anyway as if he could perhaps hold your pieces together as you fell apart.

He’d find a way to do it for you if that’s what you truly needed.

As your gasping sobs ceased and your breathing evened into only the occasional hiccup, James let out a theatrical “Phew.”

“What?” Regulus asked, voice somewhat taut from both protectiveness and frayed nerves. 

“I sort of told my mum she was coming to live with us, anyway.”

Remus could have kissed the sod right on the mouth at that moment. He opted to kiss the top of your head instead. 

“I don’t want-”

“-to be in the way. You won’t be, amour.” Regulus interrupted your train of thought, voice far softer than the one he’d used with James.

“Yeah, Regulus is far more inconveniencing than you are, dollface.” Sirius snarked with a wink, earning him a quick stinging jinx from Regulus. 

If Remus had thought that the hard part was over in Central Hall, he was very wrong.

You had settled not too badly as you all rode the wagons to the train station holding onto Remus’ hand like a vice, and Regulus appeared to be far more comfortable now that he was less worried about you. Regulus undeniably had some abandonment issues, and the thought of going to the Potter’s without you left him with the sense that he would somehow be letting you down. Remus supposed that at least before, the two of you could commiserate together knowing that whatever you were going through, so was the other.

But as the group travelled on, some of your own tension returned the closer you got to Kings Cross Station. 

“You don’t have to say anything to them, you can just leave with us.” Sirius said plainly as Remus reached to grab your bags from the overhead compartment.

“That’d be considered kidnapping.” You responded quietly.

You hooked your duffle over your shoulder and stood, looking through the compartment as if you could somehow see your family through the sheets of metal separating you and Platform 9 ¾.

“Would...would you like us to come with you? Stand by your side? How would you like to do this, love?” Remus asked, leaning back slightly so he could see your face directly. 

You seemed to ponder that for a few moments before returning his gaze. “Maybe...maybe you guys could just, stay a little behind me? Not close enough to say anything or for them to say anything to you, just...”

“Close.” Regulus finished for you. You nodded in response.

“Consider it done, dove.” Remus said and pressed a kiss to your forehead. 

James and Sirius spotted the Potter’s quickly after exiting the train and brought your bags and trunks to them so that the Potter’s elves could bring them to the Manor. You watched as your trunk disappeared with a pop; there was no going back now. 

“Y/N.” An indifferent tone called, causing you to stand up straighter, though you didn’t seem ready to turn your gaze towards it yet.

“We’re right here, amour. We’re not leaving without you.” Regulus insisted. Remus wanted to touch you, grab your hand, kiss your cheek, but he knew he’d have to wait until you felt safe.

Safe.

Soon you’d be safe.

True to their words, Regulus and Remus followed you towards your parents who stood poised like models in a Victorian Era portrait, staring down at you over their noses, though the two boys paused a good distance away as you had asked them too.

“I hate this.” Regulus murmured as you said hello to your parents. Your mother turned to leave before you asked them to wait.

“We’ll be able to take her home after this.” Remus placated, but it did nothing to soothe his own nerves either. 

“You’re doing what?” He heard your mother ask derisively. 

You repeated yourself, albeit quieter and more meekly than you had before. Remus wanted to hex her for making you feel so small.

“Absolutely not. Get your things.” Your father barked.

You raised your hand carefully, pointing towards the Potter’s to explain that they’ve already brought your things to their house.

“You insolent little witch. How dare you undermine me like this.” Your father spat and took a menacing step towards you. You stepped back quickly with a full body flinch, and that was it for Remus.

“We’re done. Let’s go.” Remus said authoritatively. “Come on, dove.” 

You needn’t be told twice, allowing Reg to steer you towards the Potter’s as Remus cast a quick muffliato around you to spare you from any trailing remarks your parents made. 

Remus and Regulus exchanged a worried glance over your head as you kept your eyes glued to the floor, letting yourself be guided blindly through the platform.

“Ready to go, dearies?” Euphemia Potter asked kindly, softly, as she beamed at the five students in front of her with Fleamont at her side. Even Remus felt like he had whiplash at the difference of atmosphere on this end of the platform; he couldn’t imagine how you or Reg were managing. 

“Hello, cariad!” Remus heard his mother call before any of you could answer Effie’s question. He turned his gaze to see his parents, Hope and Lyall Lupin, move through the crowds towards them.

“Gangs all here now!” Lyall called, and you tightened your hand currently enclosed safely in Remus’. He gave your three quick squeezes in return: a silent promise of safety. 

“This must be Regulus and Y/N!” His mum cheered, looking awfully close to embracing both of you. However, Regulus’ aristocratic upbringing appeared to save the day as he quickly stepped in front of you and stuck his hand out, bowing politely to her.

“Mrs. Lupin, it’s very nice to finally meet you.” He said, posh accent on full display.

Remus gave a pleading look to his family, knowing his mother was the kind to say “oh, I’m really more of a hugger.”

But apparently, one thing motherly love was very good at was reading the room, and his mum accepted the handshake before his dad, Effie and Monty all got one of their own. You nodded politely and exchanged a quiet ‘hello’ but opted to stay glued to Remus’ side.

He couldn’t say he minded that option entirely. 

Euphemia Potter was no stranger to troubled children showing up at her doorstep, but she couldn’t help but admit how different this time was.

Last year, Sirius showed up battered, beaten, bloodied, and bruised, not to mention completely scared out of his mind. And underneath all of that was this horrible fear for his younger brother’s safety, as well as an overwhelming sense of guilt for leaving him behind.

Sirius never really recovered from feeling like a burden, not last summer at least. He remained entirely too polite for Effie’s tastes, full of “thank you, Mrs. Potter”’s or “that really isn’t necessary”’s right up until the day she sent them off to Hogwarts.

“Now boys.” She said, giving the two troublemakers as stern a face as one Euphemia Potter could muster. “Though I would certainly prefer no trouble at all, can we at least promise not to get quite as many detentions this year? And for the love of Merlin – no more broken bones! I like that when people ask me how my sons are, I can at least say ‘well, at least they’ve got their health!’”

Effie was certain that the pressure behind Sirius’ eyes from fighting the tears must have been excruciating, but he held out for as long as he could before he launched himself into her chest. 

“Thank you, Effie.” He finally whispered through tears.

“Please, Sirius.” She whispered as she stroked the boy’s hair. “Call me mum.”

If last year was full of guilt, grief, and fear, this summer seemed to be full of caution, hope, and love.

Where James spent last summer trying to keep Sirius in as high spirits as possible, this year he got to simply play the role of host. Where Sirius spent last summer trying to stay out of the way and convince himself and everyone around him that he was completely fine, this year he got to show his brother what real family looked like.

And though he saw a lot of Sirius in Regulus, there was so much that was so distinctly him.

Regulus’ trauma came out in impeccable table manners, speaking in a manner far more suited to a member of parliament than a teenaged boy at a casual meal, and assessing the atmosphere in the room with the efficacy of a social weather man. 

But his personality was completely contradictory. 

He made jokes and comments that he didn’t seem to realize were funny until people around him laughed, which caused him to blush but let out surprised laughter of his own. Where Sirius�� jokes were performative and always for the sake of amusing the people around him, Regulus’ humour came naturally and unbiddenly. Where Sirius showed his love and excitement as loudly as possible in order to make sure everyone around him got to share in it, Regulus dutifully handed out his love and excitement in carefully curated doses. 

She loved them both beyond measure.

And you...well, Effie could certainly see how you managed to win over not one but two of her favourite young men. Your trauma seemed to come out in the form of fading into the background. Everything you did, you did quietly. You never asked for anything, whether it be for seconds at dinner, something to drink during the day, or to go into town to shop for supplies.

But even though you were clearly struggling, Effie could see how much you cared for those boys both actively and passively. Your body language seemed to change the second either of them entered a room, their presence’s easing any discomfort you may have been feeling nearly immediately; you smiled brighter, made more eye contact, and even contributed to conversations when one of them was around. Right now they were your confidence, your safe space. Effie hoped to get the chance to see it for herself one day, but she felt unbelievably lucky to get to see it in this way too. 

You always showed up with bottles of water when the boys were outside playing quidditch, somehow knowing Regulus was the kind to completely miss any cues his body gave him of thirst and predicting his needs. And you always brought sunblock out unprompted when Remus would fall asleep with a book over his face, ensuring he wouldn’t burn in the sun. 

She loved you so much.

It had been about two weeks since summer holidays started, and Hope and Lyall Lupin were going to be leaving their mini holiday at Potter Manor in a few days when Effie felt that you had made enough progress to broach the subject. 

“Y/N, dearie. Do you have a moment?” She asked as you and the boys walked in the back door after spending some time down at the lake.

Effie noticed a flicker of concern cross your features, though you readily agreed nonetheless. Remus smiled while Regulus promptly stood at attention.

“Hope’s going to be leaving in a few days, and I was thinking perhaps we could get a shopping trip in before she does.”

At this Hope looked over with a beaming smile. “Oh! I’d so love to go shopping! The shops are not nearly as posh in Cardiff.” 

You looked between the two women uncertainly but began nodding your head. “Erm, yes, sure. What...what are we shopping for?”

“Well, I thought we could go shopping for some clothes.”

You looked absolutely horrified at this. “I have clothes! I brought everything I had from school.”

Effie smiled encouragingly at you. “Yes, and what you had packed for school was appropriate for a Scottish autumn and winter, not for a summer in London.”

Sirius, never one to leave very well alone, piped up at this. “I want to go shopping! Can I come?”

Hope chuckled and ruffled the boy’s long hair. “I think it’d be better just us ladies, hm?”

Sirius pouted at that, but Regulus took pity on his brother. “You can come with me and Fleamont, Sirius.”

Sirius stood abruptly and planted a smacking kiss to the younger boy’s cheek. “You’re officially my favourite sibling.” He declared, earning him an indignant ‘oi!’ from James. 

“Get off of me, you sod.” Regulus grumbled, leaning further into Remus’ side. 

You looked at your two boys then; Remus was smiling at you with a look so full of love and pride it nearly rivaled Effie’s, and Regulus was smiling encouragingly and so sweetly, Effie was certain her blood sugar levels spiked just at the sight.

“That...that would be very nice. Thank you, ladies.” You agreed quietly. You nodded your head in decision, mostly to encourage yourself but Effie was thankful for the effort.

It was hard to imagine a time nearly eighteen years ago that Effie and Monty were heartbroken and struggling to finally have a child of their own. If only they’d know that seventeen years later, their lovely, lovely boy would bring home four more for them to love.

She was simultaneously sad for you, Regulus, and Sirius that you had to grow up in homes that didn’t love you the way you ought to have been, but she was so beyond grateful she got the honour to love you properly, now and for the rest of her life.

As long as Euphemia Potter lived, none of you would ever spend a moment being anything but loved.

[moonstruckme]

Ugh, Whimsical!reader x James (not together yet) where anytime she says something he just has the most lovesick look on his face and Sirius is like “we’ve lost him, boys” but then reader quips back with something about looking at those you’re comfortable and friendly with boosts your seratonin and you’re glad to have James look at you if it makes him happy

Thanks for requesting babe!

James Potter x whimsical!reader ♡ 932 words

“You seem like you’re feeling better today, Remus,” you say, passing him a cup of tea. You give one to Sirius, too, then James. It’s got a couple of little flowers floating on the top, James notices. Adorable. 

Remus looks a bit caught offguard. “I am, thanks. How’d you know?” 

“Your aura’s looking less gray than usual.” 

Sirius snickers. “Just like you to have a gray aura, Moons. Boring.” 

You settle on the couch beside James, crossing your legs underneath you. “I don’t think Remus is boring,” you say, voice soft and airy as dandelion fluff. “His color often just looks a tad sapped. It’s bluer today.” 

Remus seems to perk up a bit at your appraisal. He does look well, James thinks, but your noticing improves his color even more. Remus doesn’t like being viewed like a helpless, afflicted lamb, and you never have treated him like one, save whatever you put in his tea (it takes a few minutes longer to make than the rest of yours, though James pretends not to notice). 

James watches you watching Remus, and his heart gives a happy little throb. You’re so kind, considerate in ways which you play off as incidental, but he can see the effort you put into taking care of the people in your life. He doesn’t know how you know half the things you do, but you’re always looking out for them. He’ll be waiting for Sirius to come home late at night and you’ll text to ask if everything is okay, or Remus will be having one of his worse days and you’ll show up unannounced with chocolates and juniper bound with twine to “cleanse” their flat, whatever that means. Or when James was sick with the flu a few weeks ago, and Remus and Sirius both swore they hadn’t said a word to you but he’d woken from a nap to find you sitting beside him with soup and a very strong elderberry tea. He’s fairly sure your presence had healed him just as much as the sustenance. You have that effect on him. 

“Do we all have auras?” Sirius asks, and James comes out of his reverie to find his friend watching him with a poorly concealed smirk. He supposes he’s had that look on his face again. Lovestruck.

“Of course.” You give Sirius a funny smile, like this should be obvious. “Everyone has an aura,” you say, “we just can’t all see it all of the time.” 

“What’s yours look like?” James asks. 

Your lips part in surprise as you turn to look at him, your knee bumping his thigh. “I can’t see my own. I’d have to ask someone else.” 

“What about mine?” Sirius asks. 

You turn back to him. James feels the loss. “Right now, it’s mostly orange.” 

“Right now?” 

“Yours shifts a lot. A couple of minutes ago, it was pinker.” You tilt your head, considering. “You’re very sunset-y today, Sirius.” 

Sirius grins, and James knows that whatever his friend may think about auras, he’s going to carry that compliment with him for the rest of the week. “And what about our Jamesie? What’s his aura like?” 

“Oh, James’ almost never changes.” You look over at him with a small smile on your face. Maybe James is flattering himself, but he feels as though there’s a faintly secretive quality to it, like some part of your smile is just for him. “His is always yellow. Though I have been noticing a bit more red than usual lately.” 

James isn’t sure he can speak with your eyes on him like this. You’re so lovely it’s choking him. Thankfully, Remus comes to his aid. 

“Is that a good thing?” he asks. “It shifting, I mean.” 

You don’t turn away from James like he expects you’re going to. You hold his gaze, that smile broadening just slightly. It has all the soft radiance of moonlight. 

“I don’t think so,” you say. “It’s not making him any less himself, it only means that something has changed.” 

“Good god,” Sirius stage-whispers to Remus. “Look at him, we’ve lost him completely. Bet it gets redder every time he looks at her.” 

“It does, a little.” Your eyes flit upwards, presumably to colors which he can’t see but he imagines his face is starting to match. “It might be the serotonin boost. Looking at people you care about will do that.” You set a hand on top of his, thumb stroking over the knuckle of his pinkie finger. James’ mouth is a desert. “I’m happy to have James look at me if it makes him happy.” 

Sirius lets out a short laugh. “I’m sure it does, sweetheart. He’s—” 

Remus must elbow him, because he goes blessedly silent. 

“I’ve been wondering,” Remus says mildly, “do you give us different kinds of tea? They always look different from each other.” 

“Oh, yes.” You finally break your gaze away from James’, but your hand stays atop his. It’s hardly a whisper of a touch, and yet he’s very concerned you’re somehow absorbing every thought and feeling he’s having through some freaky osmosis. It doesn’t seem wholly out of the realm of possibility for you. “I make them with different ingredients for each of you.” 

Sirius quirks an eyebrow. “In that case, can I try a new one next time? This one tastes a bit like dirt.” 

You shrug, nonplussed. “If you like, but it might not do as much for you.” 

“What do you put in them?” Remus asks curiously. 

You take a sip of your own tea. “Just what you need.” 

[amiableness]

Dad!James Potter x Bsf!Reader (mentioned) ☼ 734 words

series masterlist ; main masterlist

“I can’t do this, James.” The mother of his child sighs, her arms crossed defensively over her chest as she leans back against the kitchen counter. Her eyes are filled with frustration and weariness. 

James looks up from where he’s scrubbing baby bottles at the sink, concern etched across his face. He rinses out the last bottle and places it on the drying rack before turning to face her fully.

“I know. I’m feeling tired too, love.” He says, trying to offer a reassuring smile.

“No.” She huffs, her irritation cutting through the air as she sends him a scathing look. “I can’t do this.” She gestures to the baby items strewn across their flat, her frustration evident. James follows her gaze, taking in the sight of baby toys scattered everywhere. The living room is a chaotic mess, with bottles, blankets, and tiny clothes strewn about. The once tidy space now looks like a whirlwind passed through, and the weight of their new reality settles heavily on his shoulders.

Her words hang heavily between them, the weight of her admission sinking in as James feels his heart drop. It’s silent as she stares at him, waiting for his response. 

“Listen, I know it’s been rough with a newborn but-” He starts out, scrambling to think of the right thing to say.

“Rough? That’s what you think it’s been?” James nearly flinches at the sharpness in her voice. “This is not what I wanted my life to be! I had dreams, James. And being a mum was never part of them.”

He considers asking her to lower her voice, worried about waking Henry, but he knows that would only escalate the situation.

“Becoming a father at 20 wasn’t part of my plan either, but I’m making the best of it. I think that if we—”

She cuts him off, “James, stop.”

“Darling—”

“I don’t want to hear how you never planned on becoming a father but now love it, or how Henry is the light of your life and should be mine too. I don’t want to hear any of it.”

“But I don’t understand what’s happening.”

She straightens, her tone final. “I’m leaving. He’s your responsibility now. I don’t want to be a mum.”

His voice trembles with uncertainty, and his eyes blink slowly as he tries to absorb her words, “My responsibility?”

“I’m giving up my rights as his mother.” She replies firmly.

James stares at her, his stomach sinking as her words register. Her expression was resolute, leaving no room for doubt. He wasn’t truly upset about his girlfriend leaving; their relationship had been strained for a while. His real concern was the daunting prospect of being a father on his own. The weight of responsibility pressed heavily on him, and he wondered how he would manage sleepless nights, endless feedings, and the overwhelming task of raising a child without support.

“I can’t—fuck, I can’t do this alone,” James collapses into a nearby chair, his hands running through his hair and disheveling his curls in frustration. “What is it they say? That it takes a whole damn town? How am I supposed to do this alone?” His voice cracks with desperation, and he can’t help but feel that she’s likely seeing him as weak and pathetic. She never liked when he cried.

She huffs, “That’s what you’re worried about? Not the fact your girlfriend is leaving you? Honestly James, you should’ve seen this coming sooner.”

James glances up as he hears the sound of her footsteps retreating. He watches in disbelief as she retrieves her luggage from the hall closet, a suitcase and a duffel bag emerging from behind the coat hangers.

“When did you—”

“I’ve been packing slowly for weeks.” She interrupts, her voice steady as she continues to methodically zip up the bags. The realization hits him with a pang; this wasn’t a sudden decision but a carefully planned departure.

He really was going to be doing this alone.

“Oh.” The word feels clumsy and inadequate as it escapes his lips. He doesn’t even bother to stand, just staring at her with a sense of helplessness as she stands by the door, sending him a blank look.

“Call Y/N and tell her you need her. You’ve never had a problem doing that before.” With that, she grabs her bag and slams the door behind her.

Henry starts crying immediately.

please reblog or comment with your thoughts! they are very appreciated and keep me motivated to keep writing! ���

[ethearecals]

Get Well Soon

Poly!Marauders x Fem!Reader Fluff

Summary; what happens when you catch a cold and can’t stop transforming into your kitten animagus whenever you sneeze, leaving the boys to attempt to nurse you back to health?

Warnings; None! i think there’s one cuss word but other than that it’s good! (; Just crazy fluffy!!

unedited, not proofread

“Does that feel any better, love?” Remus questioned sweetly, removing the cold towel from your forehead. “a little bit..” You mumbled, laying your head onto his shoulder. “I’m sorry you’re sick, baby” He pressed a sweet kiss on your forehead, “Sirius and James should be back soon, okay, bunny?” You nodded, you missed your boys, they were off at Quidditch practice so that left Remus to pick up the pieces. You always hated being sick, it made you feel so helpless and weak every time you were, and to make matters worse, you always felt guilty every time the boys had to get something for you, take your temperature, or even make you some food, but i you knew it was because they loved you and wanted you to get better, except this time, was different.

“I’m gonna go make you some tea, okay, baby?” Remus insisted he make you tea, it always made him feel a little bit better after full moons. “M’kay” You tried your best to keep your eyes open, you knew yourself, if you fell asleep you’d wake up feeling 20x worse than how you felt prior. You sniffed, feeling like you needed to sneeze, so you did, and naturally your sneezes were adorable, like a little kittens, per usual, but except this time.

*Poof!*

you were a kitten, not usual. You looked down at your tiny little paws, as you flopped over to your side, mewing softly in defeat, yet you sneezed again,

*Poof!*

and you were back to your normal self.

a quiet knock on the door, followed by your boyfriends quietly coming in, just incase you had fallen asleep.

“Lovie? you up?” a voice spoke softly, you could only imagine as your james, you poked your head up out of the piles of blankets covering your body,

“Jamie?” You mumbled, “Yeah, baby, it’s me..” He sat down next to you, stroking your arm, “You okay, lovie?” You nodded, even though you felt like shit but that was beyond the point, you were with your boys now. “Here’s your tea,” Remus handed you the cup, you sipped on it slowly. “Thank you..” you looked up from the cup, smiling softly. Merlin did they love that smile, “Would you like anything else, princess?” Sirius spoke up, hugging you from behind, shoving his face into your neck. “No, i’m okay, Siri” You put your chilly hand on the top of his head, patting it gently.

then— oh no.. not another-

“Achoo!” you squeaked

*Poof!*

You were a cat, again.

You flopped to your side again, mewing pitifully up at Sirius, embracing your embarrassment. “Aww.. she’s embarrassed for being the cutest little kitten..” James scooped you up in his hands, scratching the top of your head. “Moony! do you see this??” James squealed, he loved your animagus, he thought it was just adorable, like you. obviously you sneezed again, back to your normal self.

“S..sorry..” you apologized, feeling embarrassed. “Love.. that was the cutest thing I think i’ve ever seen” Sirius brushed his thumb over your cheek, “Don’t be embarrassed for being adorable” Remus spoke up, laying down, offering for you to join him, you laid your head on his chest as the others joined you. Remus stroked your forehead gently, wrapping his arms around you.

“Oi, Pads” James whispered, “M’yeah?”

“Is there some sort of spell that we can put on her that makes her always turn into the kitten when she sneezes?

[1d1195]

Dolcezza Extra II

Read Dolcezza here | ~2.4k words

From me: something sweet and sexy

Warnings: smut, oral, and nothing else except some fluffy bits

Summary: She's had a long day and Harry wants to make it better.

There was a knock on her door immediately followed by Harry’s key unlocking the door. Harry always knocked even though she assured him it wasn’t necessary. “Jus’ want you t’know s’me,” he shrugged when she told him. She glanced up from her desk to see Harry enter. “Hey Principessa,” he smiled tiredly. A double at the restaurant on a Saturday was brutal. But it was especially brutal during the holiday season when people flitted in and out between shopping for gifts and getting holiday dinners done with extended friends and family.

He looked exhausted.

She knew the feeling.

“Hi baby,” she smiled. Even if he was tired, he was still really pretty and lovely. She didn’t know he was going to come up after his shift. Sometimes after a double, he wanted to go home and shower. But today he seemed to be in need of some snuggles.

She was still working. Which made Harry a bit insane. On a Saturday night. She could see it in his eyes as he crossed the room. His exhaustion slowly replaced by worry for how much she was doing. What did she prioritize today that resulted in her being unable to do something she loved and had to catch up on work at a late hour? Did Emma have a math assignment she needed to look over? James and Ethan needed her help with cleaning? Or did her mom ask her for help booking a hotel for the family wedding in the coming month?

Harry hated his double shifts not only because he couldn’t see her, but because he couldn’t take her control (just a hair) so that she wouldn’t end up working at eleven at night on a Saturday. “Bad day?” She asked.

He rolled his eyes. He was tired, but it wasn’t a bad day. Honestly, he had fun at work. He and Niall worked well together so unless it was busy and understaffed, it never felt much like work. “No, kitten. M’annoyed you’re working.”

She dropped her gaze. “I like working,” she reminded him.

“Shouldn’t be working at eleven at night,” he reminded her.

“Well, I was going to read but then I was really into this plan I’ve created. I wanted to make sure I got it done before I lost my train of thought. The data I’m looking at has this really cool model and I was analyzing it, and it looked like it was trending down, but I think it’s actually trending up—” She stopped mid-sentence, her cheeks turning that beautiful shade of pink that Harry fell in love with. “Sorry, you’re tired.”

He smirked. “M’jus’ glad y’didn’t stress yourself doing stuff for your family.”

She looked at her lap. “Do you want me to be honest?” She sighed softly.

He sighed rubbing his hand over his face. “Principessa,” he tutted.

She frowned, fidgeting her fingers while Harry sat beside her. “They’re just so helpless Harry.”

“I know, kitten. But they’re all adults.”

“Barely,” she grumbled.

Harry sighed, pulling her into his lap and kissing the top of her head. He was glad all that had happened in this apartment didn’t deter her from living in it. Harry loved this apartment. Loved that it was right above him while he worked, that she was never too far away from him. “How much time do y’need?” He asked rubbing the back of his head. He didn't want to give her time. But he wanted her to be happy. Work did make her happy and he knew she would feel guilty if she didn't finish it and it would spiral into her worrying more anyway.

“Twenty minutes.”

“Twenty. I’ll take a shower. Then we can go t’bed, yeah?”

She nodded. “Sounds like a plan,” she pressed her hands on either side of his face and brought her mouth to his. “You made garlic bread and didn’t bring me any,” she frowned licking her lower lip.

He snorted. “Niall told me t’leave,” he shook his head. “He’ll bring some up when he’s done cleaning up.”

She smiled delightedly. “I have the best life,” she sighed dreamily, falling back into her swivel chair dramatically. Harry kissed her forehead.

“Don’t work too hard, Principessa.”

*

Harry enjoyed the warmth of the shower and felt a little more like himself when he returned to her in the living room. Her eyes still focused on her screen; the pinch of her brow puckered in complete concentration. “Um...any chance you’d be okay with like ten more minutes of me working? Emma called me because...well, I don’t want to bug you with the details, but she needed my help and—”

Harry knew whatever it was, she was putty to her younger sister’s request. She was too sweet, his pretty princess. “S’fine, but m’gonna help,” he turned her desk chair, so she spun to face him. She frowned.

“Hey, I was—”

He ignored her protest and lifted her from the chair to the desk lifting underneath her thighs. Harry was glad she was wearing her sleep shorts. The ones with an impractical slit on either side of her hips. A T-shirt that didn’t match swam around her frame. One that she bought because it was easily three sizes too big.

“Harry,” she tried again, steadying herself with hands on his arms as he gently pushed her laptop away from her reach followed by the notebook and pen she used to jot down her notes and to-do list. “I was—”

Harry watched her eyes and slid his hand up the inside of her thigh, through the leg opening, and pressed his fingers right past her underwear, between her folds, and directly onto her clit. Cutting her off with a gasp. “You were what?” He asked softly. Even if she wanted to talk she couldn’t. “M’jus’ going t’take care of you, Principessa. Y’do too much for everyone else. S’only fair.” Her heart rate was flying, and it mirrored the rapid fluttering of her eyelashes as Harry searched gently between the soft sensitive skin between her thighs. “S’that okay?” He asked.

She nodded breathlessly.

“Good,” he sighed. “Love t’take care of you,” he murmured and knelt down so his head was between her thighs. “Y’okay, kitten?”

She nodded again. “Please,” she whispered shyly.

“Aw, y’don’t have t’beg, Principessa. I’ll give y’anything y’want,” he winked, tugged the fabric that was in his way from between her thighs, and then pressed his mouth to her center. She gasped leaning forward, threading her fingers through his hair for balance. His locks were still damp from his shower, and she knew she would mess up the curls and flow from messing with it before it was dried. She hoped she could blame it on bed head.

She supposed in some ways it was bed head.

She moaned quietly as his mouth devoured her. Suckling and licking at her just the way she liked. Harry loved to be between her thighs. It was a regular part of their foreplay, and it never ceased to amaze her how deliriously good it felt. His lips and tongue were sinful. The man was so sweet looking and downright boyish with his cheeky sweet grin. For fucks sake he called her a princess in another language. “Y’can moan louder, baby. Y’know it’s soundproof,” he murmured kissing her thigh as he spoke to her before he wrapped his lips around her clit.

Just like that. Her sweet boyfriend was anything but sweet when he said stuff like that. When he swirled and lapped at her clit the way he was. It was dizzying.

She whined pulling on his hair to press him harder against her core. He moaned against her as she did. The vibration caused her body to react instinctively. Her thighs tightened around his head, and he moaned again. “That’s good, Principessa,” his voice was practically thoughtful. “So good, kitten. S’that feel good?”

She nodded. “Yes, yes, yes,” she whispered the repeated word as if it was all the same syllable.

“You’re so good, Principessa. Jus’ want t’make y’feel good,” he nipped at her inner thighs while he spoke his breath cooling off her wet skin. She was simply soaked between her arousal and Harry’s mouth. “All jealous ‘bout garlic bread," he teased, shaking his head. "Y’taste better than anything we make,” he mumbled and traced his tongue down her slit then back up, running a tantalizing circle around her clit again. Her eyes actually rolled back in her head. She thought that was only in books and for dramatic show in movies. She didn’t know Harry could really make her eyes look for the back of her brain. He sucked hard on her clit making an obscene slurping noise that would have embarrassed her if her place wasn’t soundproofed to near silence. Although she thought the moan she released could have broken the barrier. “Y’make such sexy noises, kitten,” he groaned and continued to torture her with pleasure.

“Harry,” she gasped.

“What Principessa? Y’close? Y’want me t’make y’come?” She nodded shamelessly; wanting it so bad she thought she would cry if he denied her (as if he could ever dream of denying her anything). “M’jus’ going t’touch—”

She cried out as he pressed his finger into her. His lips wrapped around her clit while his tongue continued circling around the sensitive nub. He rubbed his finger against her walls, once more feeling around expertly, the way she liked that made her toes curl.

The smug son of a bitch smiled against her as she clenched lightly around him. “That’s it, Principessa. Want you t’come all over me,” he moved his finger in and out at a faster pace timing it with his licks so that she was nearly worried she was going to pass out from pleasure.

“Oh fuck, yes,” she whimpered, and Harry groaned right against her.

“Keep going, baby,” he hummed fingering her and licking her like it was the only thing he planned on doing. “There it is, good kitten,” he praised which only made her melt into a puddle.

Her orgasm seemed to last way longer than she thought possible. Her thighs kept squeezing around him after it officially stopped. Like she was trying to hold onto the final waves of pleasure. “Do y’want another?” He inquired thoughtfully once more.

Another orgasm, especially of that caliber, would definitely make her pass out.

“No thank you,” she whispered.

He chuckled and kissed the inside of her thigh. He pulled her clothing back into the correct position and he sat in her office chair before he pulled her into his lap. She could feel how hard he was through the shorts he was wearing as she fell into his hold. He kissed her neck, wrapping one arm securely around her waist. The other hand found her inner thigh, slightly sticky with sweat, arousal, and Harry’s saliva. It was hot and messy, but Harry didn’t seem to care. Probably because he was responsible for the mess. Instinctively, she squeezed her thighs again, against his hand. “Y’sure, Principessa? M’happy t’make y’come again,” he offered kissing her cheek. “Y’seem a little turned on still?”

“Just... it felt really good. It’s,” she blushed and smiled at him shyly. “It’s lasting a while,” she mumbled and tucked her face into his neck.

His quiet laugh shook through his chest and her in his embrace. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured. “Especially when y’come.” She shook her head against him, but her thighs betrayed her again. “Let’s go t’bed, Principessa.”

She perked up a bit. Her eyebrows knitting together to meet in the middle of her eyes. “I think it’s your turn—”

“Oh no,” he shook his head. “Some other time. That was purely for you,” he stood, holding her legs around his waist. She blushed, giggled softly.

“Harry, you had such a long day. It’s hardly fair.”

“Not 'bout being fair. Plus going down on you s’by far one of m’favorite things t’do," he shrugged one shoulder.

Her cheeks still felt warm. “You’re pretty good at it,” she nodded in agreement.

Harry chuckled. “Cute.”

He walked to her bedroom, setting her on the bed. “I really needed to finish a few things—”

“It can wait ‘till the morning.”

She sighed. He was right. Harry was good at making sure she was doing more for herself. Although that usually entailed him doing stuff for her. Which didn’t seem like a good trade. Harry opened her main door briefly. He returned to the bedroom holding out the garlic bread immediately to her lips. With his free hand he cupped it below her jaw to catch any crumbs that didn't make it into her mouth.

“I really do have the best life,” she sighed, crunching on the bread. He smirked.

“Do y'want more?”

She shook her head. “I love you,” she sighed dreamily.

He laughed and kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”

Harry put the garlic bread in her kitchen, turned off all the lights, and came back to her bedroom. “Let me brush my teeth. Garlic isn’t pretty.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he assured her, cupped her face and kissed her as passionately as he could. Like it was their first kiss. Or the one they shared the first time they had sex. The kind of kiss she imagined would greet them on their wedding day, whenever that would be. He pulled away briefly, pecked her more softly, then kissed her forehead. “Delicious,” he promised, licking his lips cutely.

Harry went to the other side of the bed and pulled her to his body as soon as he was settled. His arms wrapped tightly around her, his lips on the back of her head, kissing her hair. “Are you sure you don’t want me to do something for you?”

“M’always turned on by you, Principessa. Don’t worry ‘bout it. Jus’ taking care of you.”

“But you had a long day.”

He shrugged. “M’feeling fine. Don’t worry ‘bout me, kitten. I promise.”

“I worry about—”

“I know,” he chuckled, squeezing her closer somehow. His body wrapped around hers like vine. “Go t’sleep, Principessa. Y’can go back t’being an angel tomorrow and taking care of everyone under the sun,” he sighed.

She shook with silent laughter. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me, kitten. I get jus’ as much pleasure out of that as you.”

“That can’t possibly be true.”

“If y’let me do it again, I’d definitely come,” he shrugged one shoulder and he kissed the back of her head then tucked his face into the crook of her neck. “I love you,” he reminded her.

“I love you,” she sighed.

“Sleep tight, Principessa.”

For a few moments there was no noise except their quiet breathing. “Harry?”

“Hmm?” She squirmed awkwardly. “Do you want another orgasm, now?”  She shook her head. “More garlic bread?” A swift nod. He chuckled untangling himself from her. “One minute, m’love.”

“God, I am the luckiest girl in the world.”

--

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[pretty-little-mind33]

dad!James Potter x wife!reader

Summary: When your eleven-year-old son comes home for Christmas break in tears, you and James are instantly worried.

Genre: Fluff, Hurt and Comfort

Warnings: mentions of blood-purity and prejudices, swearing, their son Henry is nicknamed as Harry ;)

happens in the same universe as Santa Baby

JAMES POTTER MASTERLIST

Your husband has always been dramatic, but when your oldest comes home from school in his first-year with frustrated tears streaming down his cheeks, James almost loses his shit.

Henry slams the door behind him and discards his shoes in the hallway, "Fuck," He mutters when he hears you call his name from the living room. You, James, and Emmie had been waiting for him to come home from the train-station. Emmie sits impatiently on your lap, making small gurgling noises as you bounce her on your knees. James had cooked (burnt) Henry's favorite dinner and he stands up, frowning when he hears his son curse.

"Harry?"

You stand up too, worried, as you hold Emmie in your arms. You hear Henry's footsteps run up the stairs. James looks puzzled as he looks back at you. You shrug and walk up next to him, handing him Emmie as she clings happily to his arms. "I'll talk to him," you pat James's forearm and walk up the stairs to Henry's room.

Gently, you knock on the door and then open it a little. Your heart shatters when you see Henry laying on his stomach, his arms around his pillow as he muffles his cries.

He's always been sensitive and you're cautious as you sit near him. "Honey? What's wrong? Can you tell me what's happened?"

Henry shakes his head, only turning it to mutter, "Go away, mum. I don't wanna talk."

Your eyebrows scrunch and you reach out to touch him, but hesitate and stand up. "Do ya' wanna talk to dad?" you ask, knowing Henry sometimes wants James instead.

Henry doesn't answer for a moment until he nods. You nod too, closing the door behind you as you make your way downstairs again. James is standing at the end of the stairs, Emmie on his hip, as he looks at you concerned. You reach him and take Emmie from him. "He wants you," you whisper.

James's eyes soften and he kisses your cheek, soothing a hand over your hair and down your cheek. You know it's usually a "man problem", as James calls them, when Henry wants James instead of you. Still, James knows your heart breaks when you can't help your baby boy.

James walks upstairs and disappears into Henry's room. You return to the living room and place Emmie down on her play-mat.

James and Henry don't talk for long as you hear hurried footsteps come down the stairs. "Honey?" you call, confused, and you stand.

He doesn't answer and just grabs his coat, his cheeks flushed a dark crimson. He looks beyond pissed. You turn to Emmie, you don't want to leave her unsupervised and she usually starts to cry when she sees her dad this upset so you know you can't carry her to him either.

"James!" you shout after him.

Henry runs down the stairs, his tears now gone as he follows James outside. "Henry!" you shout once more but neither of them listen to you. You feel helpless as you hear the car start in the driveway. You don't understand. You hold Emmie in your arms and sit on the couch, stomach in knots.

After what seems like an hour, the front door opens and Henry's laughter fills the room. You've put Emmie to sleep so you run to the door, hugging Henry to your chest as you tug a hand through his dark curls. James follows behind him, stopping dead in his tracks when he sees your expression.

"Where were you?" you say, narrowing your eyes at your husband.

"Oh, mum, you should have seen dad! The way he shouted at Liam's dad because of what he said at the station—it was awesome!"

"What did Liam say at the station, baby?" you ask him quickly.

"No, not Liam, his dad. He saw me come off the train and he made some comment about you, mum. About you being weird and how it must have passed on to me. He also called you a Mudblood but I didn't understand what that meant and dad won't— " James stops Henry with a hand on his head and you look up at your husband.

Your heart feels like it's beating hard. Weird. Mudblood. You've heard worse but something about it hearing it come from your son's mouth—knowing someone had said that in front of your son makes you ache.

Liam's dad went to school with you and James and he's always been a jerk, but that doesn’t make it excusable. James kisses Henry's head and sends him upstairs. You look at James, teary eyed as you try to find the right words. James just hugs you to his chest, his hand on the back of your head. "Shh," he whispers, "it's okay," he promises but you shake your head.

"It's not okay," you wipe at your tears, "Richard called me that in front of my son. It's humiliating," You bury my face in my hands. James's expression twists and he looks upset.

He cups your cheeks gently, kissing your nose. "I'm so sorry I left so quickly, my love, but he had to know I won't stand for anyone messing with my loves," he says sternly.

While his anger isn't directed at you by any means, it hangs in the air.

"I- I don't know what to say to Henry," you whisper, voice shaky, as you lean your head on James's chest. James's heart sinks at your tone and he holds you close.

He nuzzles his nose in your hair. "You don't have to say a thing, darlin'."

"Yes, I do," you pull away and look into your husband's eyes, "I'm his mother. I have to explain to him what that word means before he hears it at school again. Which, I'm surprised he hadn't already," you try to sound brave but James sees through you.

He always does.

"Hey, it's okay," he says as he runs a hand up and down your shoulders. He kisses your head gently and continues, "We'll talk to Harry, okay? Can you warm up dinner while I get him?"

Your shoulders relax a little and you nod. With your mind still fuzzy, you walk up to the pot where James had been making pasta and scrunch your nose. It's all burnt and cold by now. You glance at your wand on the counter, but instead, you decide a frozen pizza should do nicely.

After a few minutes, James comes back in with Henry hanging from his arm like he would as a little boy. Seeing you, your son jumps down and runs over. He hugs you and leans on his tip-toes to kiss your cheek. "I love you, mum," he smiles and your heart melts. Henry's smile widens when he smells the pizza in the oven.

"How many sweets did dad bribe you with to say that," you tease, ruffling Henry's hair.

Henry shoots James an unsure look but then smiles up at you, "None," he says confidently and you pretend to believe him. You look at James with a look that says, 'stop bribing our son with candy'. James just smirks and swoops in, resting his hand on Henry's shoulder.

"Harry, your mum and I wanna talk to you about something important, alright," he looks at you and pauses so you can take over.

You nod and crouch down to Henry's eye level. You hold his hands, "Honey, what Liam's dad said wasn't okay, you know that right?" Henry nods, listening intensely. "Mudblood is a very mean word that's used for witches and wizards who are Muggleborn—that come from muggle families—like me."

"I know you do—grandma and grandad don't understand magic," Henry grins.

James chuckles and smoothes his hand in Henry's hair and says, "Yeah, exactly, bud. But, you must never use that word, understand?"

Henry nods seriously and looks up at James. "What am I then? If mum's a Muggleborn and dad's family is—"

"In technical terms, you're a half-blood, honey," you say, standing and kissing his head gently, "It's all nonsense anyways. It really doesn't matter at all because you're a wizard. As long as you can do magic, then that's all that matters."

"Yeah, and you know your mum is way better at magic than I am," James says with a pretend pout, "so really, blood-status is a bunch of bogus," Henry looks at his dad and laughs at his dramatic display of feeling sorry for himself. You roll your eyes and push on James's arm, but you're secretly grateful for him lightening up the mood.

Once the talk is over and Henry is tucked into his bed, his stomach full of pizza, you finally exhale. You sit at your vanity, brushing your hair, and James is changing into his pajamas. He sits on his side of the bed and fiddles with Emmie's muggle baby monitor.

"I can hear you thinking, my lovely," he hums. He stands and makes his way over to you. He wraps his arms around your shoulders and kisses your cheeks. His hands caress up and down your arm as he whispers, "Henry understands. He's smart. You're raising him well."

"We're raising him well," you remind James as you turn to look him in the eye.

James chuckles. "I bribed him with candy. You taught him a valuable lesson."

You scrunch your nose and stand, wrapping your arms around James's torso as you hold him close. Your husband eagerly pulls you into him and inhales the scent of your hair. He leans his cheek on your head and you nuzzle into him.

As much as hearing other wizards and witches talk down on you hurts—like they've done all your life—one solace is that you have the most wonderful husband, who never cared about something as silly as blood-statues, and said wonderful husband gave you the most beautiful children you could have asked for.

"Thank you," you whisper, thanking James for being himself, "I love you." You've never meant anything more.

"I love you more," James finishes and kisses your head.

[anakinstwinklebunny]

thinking about a tied up james kelly 🤤

Author's note: that man whimpers 🔝

JAMES KELLY was wrecked. Absolutely, undeniably wrecked. Wrists strained against the silk ties binding them to the headboard, knuckles white as he clenched his fists in helplessness he had never felt. All his life he thought he was the one to keep things in control; in bed, in public life. But he did not thought about a possibility where you'd just straightforward hypnotize him, tying him up before he could even protest. Now his eyes were wide, as if frightened, looking at you as if you were his salvation..

You stood at the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a this twisted, proud of yourself smirk, savoring the vulnerable (for now) sight of him. His stormy eyes burned with frustration, flickering between your face and the soft curves of your body that he loved so much. Slowly, you climbed onto the bed, like a cat, straddling his thighs and running your fingers over his broad chest. His skin was hot under your touch, his muscles twitching.

“That mouth of yours, James,” you mused, dragging your nails down his torso until you reached the trail of hair leading to his cock. “Always running. Maybe I should’ve tied it shut too.”

He sighed a breath of turmoil inside of him, hips bucking up in a futile attempt to get some friction. “Untie me, baby,” he rasped in this begging tone. “Let me show you what this mouth can really do.”

You leaned in close, so your lips could graze over his ear. “Oh, no,” you whispered, grinding your wetness against his length, teasing him with every slow roll of your hips. “You’re not in charge here, James. I am.”

His breath hitched at the way you pronounced his name, a deep groan escaping him. “Fucking hell,” he muttered. “You’re so hot right now”

“Goddamn it,” he groaned as if he was both frustrated and in pain “Stop fuckin’ teasing and take it, baby. You know you need it as bad as I do.”

You laughed softly, kissing along the line of his jaw before pulling back to look into his desperate, hungry eyes with a smirk painted across your face. Sliding back, you positioned yourself above him, letting his thick cock press against your folds yet in a way that won't give him the satisfaction of fully sinking in. His head fell back against the headboard, a string of curses falling from his lips.

You tilted your head, pretending to consider his demand, before shaking your head. “You don’t get to give orders tonight, James,” you said, dragging the slick head of his cock through your folds, making him shudder. “You’ll get what I decide to give you. When I decide to give it to you.”

“Fuck, baby,” voice breaking. “Please, I’ll do anything. Just let me feel you.”

You smirked, finally sinking down onto him, inch by agonizing inch, until he was buried to the hilt inside you. His head snapped forward, jaw clenching as he watched you take him, his cock stretching you so perfectly it had you moaning aloud.

“aghh--uhhhg” he hissed, arms pulling uselessly at the restraints till veins were visible under his skin. “You’re so damn tight. Feels like you’re trying to milk me dry already.”

You began to move, slow and deliberate, grinding your hips as his cock hit every spot that made you see stars. James was a mess beneath you, his breathing ragged, his head thrown back as he fought to keep himself from losing it.

“Look at you,” you run your hands over his chest. “Big, tough James Kelly, being a pathetic boy"

“Don’t get used to it,” he ground out, voice strained, face flushing red. “Soon as I’m free, I’m flipping you over and fucking you until you forget your own name.”

You smirked, picking up the pace, the sound of your slick arousal and his choked groans filling the room. “Big talk for a man tied up and helpless,” you teased, dragging your nails down his abs.

James glared up at you. “Untie me,” voice dropping an octave. “I dare you.”

You ignored him, rolling your hips faster, leaning back to give him a perfect view of your body. His eyes locked onto where his cock disappeared into you, breath catching, mouth opening to let another set of moans and whimpers.

“Fuck" he gasped, eyes not leaving the scene unfolding before him "..look at this greedy little cunt,” he bit out, voice a mix of awe and frustration. “Swallowing me whole..just takin' me so good, baby. Damn..”

You threw your head back, moaning as you chased your soon-to-come release, the sight of James tied up and at your mercy sending you hurtling towards the edge. He watched you, jaw slack, and suddenly, as if he came up with something smart - he bucked his hips up to meet your movements as best as he could, just to make you as desperate and helpless as he was

“That’s it,” he rasped in this gaspy way, lifting his hips faster “Come on, baby. Let me feel you come all over my cock..”

His words pushed you over the edge, and you cried out, body trembling as you came, clenching around him. James groaned loudly, his hips jerking as he spilled inside you, filling you to the brim with his release, the liquids mixing in your body.

As you came down from your high, you leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “Good boy,” you murmured, reaching up to untie his wrists.

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[seriiousgiirl]

seriiousgiirl

𝐼𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 — 𝒢𝒽𝑜𝓈𝓉𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝑔

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ݁𝒿𝒶𝓂𝑒𝓈 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓍 𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓇!𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝑒𝓇.⊹ ₊ ݁.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. alternate universe - canon divergence, post-silent Hill 2, angst and fluff and smut, touch-starved, redemption, grief, mourning, psychological trauma and horror, mutual pining, James adopted Laura, age difference, smut, vaginal sex, rough sex, rough kissing, aftercare, daddy kink, James deserves his happy ending, James is desperate and pathetic, based on the Silent Hill Games and mostly the remake

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ 𝓈𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎 . ⊹ ₊ ݁. James is pathetic once again.

❛ Part 1 ⋅ Part 4 ⋅ masterlist ⋅ ao3 ⋅ requests ❜

➜ ┊ a/n: Hello dear readers, I hope everyone will love this new chapters! Once again, I don't have enough words to describe how touched I am for your support.

Also, I already said it, but my requests are open, and I love a lot of fandoms, so if you like my writing it would be with pleasure!

➜ ┊: chapter 5/?.

“How’s your new medical dose working, Mr. Sunderland?”

James stared down at the nurse, her voice breaking through his haze of memories. Her smile was wide and sweet, too sweet, as if she didn't know that every time he walked into this place, a little part of him withered. Her uniform was too bright, the walls too clean, the lights too harsh. Everything felt wrong in hospitals—had felt wrong ever since Mary and Silent Hill.  Mary had spent so much time in places like this, the sterile smell of antiseptic clinging to everything, the endless beeps of machines monitoring her slow decline. The sight of her frail body hooked up to wires, her once lively eyes dulled by pain and fatigue, haunted him. He’d hated watching her slip further and further away, hated how helpless it made him feel. 

The hospitals were a graveyard for hope. 

The nurse, unaware or uncaring of his inner turmoil, continued leading him down the long corridor. Every step felt like it was echoing in his head, like the ticking of some inevitable countdown. Her shoes clicked sharply on the polished floor, and with every click, James felt the weight of the place closing in on him. It wasn't just Mary anymore—it was him. He hated these appointments because they made him feel like he was in Mary’s place now, like the sickness had transferred from her body to his mind.

That’s what it was, after all. Mary had been physically ill, but James knew he was sick, too—mentally. 

And that scared him more than anything. 

He clenched his fists inside his pockets, trying to focus on something other than the tightening in his chest. The walls were lined with posters about health and mental well-being, all of them blurring together in a haze of meaningless words. James wasn’t sure how long he’d been feeling this way—restless, broken, angry. He was doing his best to hold it together for Laura. For her, he had to keep moving, keep showing up to these appointments, keep taking the medication that dulled his thoughts just enough so he didn’t lose control. 

He had to. Only God knew what he might do if he didn’t. The memories of Silent Hill still clawed at the edges of his mind, the weight of his actions, of his guilt, always there, just under the surface. 

They reached the end of the corridor, and the nurse stopped outside a door, turning to look at him with that same smile plastered on her face. He could feel her eyes on him, assessing, waiting. He hated it, hated feeling like a patient—like someone broken who needed fixing. “Mr. Sunderland?” she repeated, knocking gently on the door before turning the handle. “The doctor will see you now.”

James stepped inside, the familiar dread rising like bile in his throat. The doctor’s office wasn’t much different from the rest of the hospital—sterile, white, and cold. He could see the file with his name on the desk, his life reduced to a few pages of notes and medical jargon. He hated that, too—how clinical it all was. There was no way to explain what was wrong with him, not really. No dosage of medication could fix the things he’d done, the things he’d seen.

As he sat down, the doctor's soft murmur of greetings barely registered. James’s gaze drifted to the window, the gray sky outside mirroring the weight inside him. He wasn’t here because he wanted to be. He was here because he had to be, for the last piece of his life that still made sense. 

“James.” The doctor’s voice was calm but probing, pulling him back to the present. “How have you been feeling on the new dose? Any noticeable changes?”

James rubbed his palms against his jeans, trying to think of what to say. What was the point of explaining? The medication didn’t change anything, not really. Sure, it dulled the edges, kept him from spiralling too far into the nightmares, but the weight was still there. The guilt. The grief. The memories of Mary’s final days still haunted him, and now…now there was everything else.

“Same as always,” James muttered, keeping his eyes fixed on the window. “It takes the edge off, but...”

He trailed off, unsure of how to finish that sentence. It wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

The doctor nodded slowly, jotting something down in his file, and James felt that familiar frustration building again. None of this would help—like it hadn’t helped Mary. None of this would take away the memories or the guilt that gnawed at him like a festering wound. The doctor’s voice cut through his thoughts again, calm but firm. “You’re doing this for your daughter, right?”

“Yes,” James nodded slowly, the weight of the conversation pressing on his chest. "I need to be stable for Laura," he muttered, almost as if he were trying to convince himself as much as the doctor. He didn’t like talking about it. Didn’t like admitting how fragile his grip on things really was. 

But Laura—she needed him, and that was all that mattered… Right?

The doctor, however, leaned forward in his chair, his expression unreadable as he studied James for a moment. Then, in a calm but pointed voice, he interrupted, “Maybe you should be doing this for yourself first, James. Have you ever considered that?”

James opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He stared at the doctor, feeling caught off guard, like the ground beneath him had shifted suddenly. For himself? The thought sounded almost foreign in his mind. What was the point of doing it for himself? Why would it even matter?

His mouth closed again, his throat tightening with the weight of unspoken thoughts. The silence in the room stretched, the question lingering in the air. James hadn’t considered himself in a long time—his needs, his well-being. It seemed almost selfish, like a luxury he didn’t deserve. 

Apart from Y/n. 

He had taken everything from you.

“I…” he finally managed, his voice quieter now, hesitant. “I don’t know what good that would do.”

He shifted in his seat, discomfort gnawing at him. The idea of taking care of himself first felt wrong, unnatural even. His life had revolved around others—around Mary when she was alive, and now around Laura. He barely recognized himself anymore, much less thought about what he needed. The mere suggestion seemed ludicrous.

The doctor’s gaze didn’t waver, his calm persistence chipping away at the walls James had built around himself. "You’re still here, James. Still alive. That has to mean something, doesn’t it? You can’t help anyone if you’re not helping yourself." The doctor let out a long, tired sigh, leaning back in his chair as if the weight of this conversation had become too familiar, too routine. 

“It’s always the same with you, James,” he said, his tone gentle but edged with frustration. “I’ve been seeing you for years now, and there’s been so little improvement. It’s starting to become... alarming.”

James felt his chest tighten at the words, a cold ripple of anxiety spreading through him.Alarming. It echoed in his mind, drawing him back to another time, another place—the same hollow, clinical speeches they had made about Mary when it became clear she wasn’t getting better. That same hopelessness. That same finality.

His pulse quickened. The room seemed to close in around him, the doctor’s words blurring with memories of those sterile hospital rooms, the beeping machines, the pitiful way the nurses would smile at him as if they knew there was nothing left to be done. A lost cause. They had treated Mary like that toward the end, and now they were starting to look at him the same way. He couldn’t bear the thought of it.

James’ breath hitched, panic gnawing at the edges of his composure. He tried to stay calm, gripping the arms of the chair as if grounding himself physically would somehow stop the rising tide of fear inside him. But the more he tried to control it, the more his thoughts spiralled. The idea of being a lost cause, of being considered beyond saving—it was unbearable. It felt like a death sentence, only this time it wasn’t just physical. It was his mind. His soul.

“I’m not…” he started, his voice shaky, the panic evident in his eyes as he looked at the doctor. “I’m not dying. I’m not—" His thoughts raced, but the words wouldn’t come out right. He couldn’t find a way to explain how much that idea terrified him.

The doctor leaned forward, his expression softening as he noticed the change in James' demeanour. His brow furrowed with concern as he held up a hand, his voice gentler now. “James, it’s okay. Breathe.” 

James struggled to rein in the panic, his breathing shallow, his hands trembling slightly. He couldn’t get the thought out of his head—the idea of being doomed, of wasting away the way Mary had. It had consumed him once, and now it was rearing its ugly head again.

“I’m not saying you’re a lost cause,” the doctor said quietly, his voice firm yet reassuring. “I don’t think that. I don’t want you to think that either. You’re not Mary, James. This isn’t the same.” He spoke slowly, as if trying to guide James away from the edge of that dark spiral. “You’re not going to die like she did.”

The doctor’s words started to pierce through the fog of panic, though James still felt on edge, his heart pounding uncomfortably in his chest. He stared at the floor, struggling to push the thoughts away. 

“You’re here,” the doctor continued softly. “You’re still here, still trying. And that’s what matters. But you’ve got to stop thinking of this as something you can just push through without taking care of yourself.”

James nodded stiffly, still shaken, but the panic was beginning to ebb. He wasn’t entirely convinced, but the doctor’s words had slowed his racing mind. 

The doctor extended his hand, his palm open and expectant. "Your journal, James."

James hesitated for a split second before reaching into his bag and pulling out the worn notebook. It was a simple thing, its pages filled with his scribbled thoughts and confessions, the only place where he could vent the swirling chaos in his head without restraint. His hand shook slightly as he handed it over.

The doctor accepted the journal without a word, flipping it open to where James had left off. For a long, agonising moment, James just sat there, staring at him. The silence in the room felt heavy, the soft rustle of paper the only sound breaking it. James’ heart thudded in his chest, the anxiety from earlier still coiled tightly within him. The doctor’s brow furrowed as he read, his eyes scanning the pages carefully.

Then, suddenly, the doctor paused, his finger lingering on a particular entry. His eyebrow raised slightly, and James’ stomach lurched. He found it. The entry James dreaded anyone would see, the one where he had let his shameful thoughts spill onto the page like a confession he could never voice out loud. He had been reckless, letting the memory of you consume him to the point where he couldn't resist anymore. And now, it was there in the doctor's hands, in black ink.

The doctor didn’t look at James right away. Instead, he flipped back a few pages, then forward again, as if comparing something. Finally, he spoke, his tone neutral, almost clinical. “So, a new name has appeared,” the doctor remarked, glancing up at James briefly. “It’s always been Mary, Laura and you. But now… Y/n?”

James’ throat went dry. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting away, his hands curling into fists on his lap. He felt exposed, as if all his dirty secrets had been laid bare, the shame gnawing at him like a festering wound. His mind raced, remembering that entry, the way he had let himself go completely, jerking off to thoughts of you, and how disgusted he’d felt afterward. It was a moment of weakness, a release of the sexual frustration he’d kept buried for so long. And now the doctor knew.

James braced himself for judgement, for the inevitable look of disappointment or maybe even disgust. But when the doctor spoke again, it wasn’t what he expected. “Well,” the doctor said, leaning back in his chair with a hint of surprise in his voice, “at least you seem to be making some progress… when it comes to your sexual frustration.”

James blinked, caught off guard. He hadn’t expected that. He stared at the doctor, unsure of how to respond. Progress? How could that be considered progress? It felt like a violation, a betrayal of everything he had tried to bury deep inside. The doctor’s gaze softened, his expression more thoughtful than condemning. 

“You’ve spent a long time suppressing those urges, James. It’s no wonder they’ve started to come out in... different ways. But I don’t think it’s something to be ashamed of. Not entirely, at least.”

James opened his mouth, then closed it, unable to form a coherent response. The shame was still there, clawing at him, but the doctor’s unexpected reaction had thrown him. "Y/n..." James began, his voice rough, but he couldn’t find the words. He wasn’t ready to admit what you meant to him, not to the doctor, not even to himself.

"You’ve been carrying a lot, James. Maybe it’s time to stop punishing yourself for simply being human."

The doctor flipped through James’ journal again, settling on another entry. His eyes scanned the page before he began reading aloud, his voice even and steady. James’ stomach churned as he recognized the date.

“‘Y/n came over today,’” the doctor began. “‘I made some pizzas for Laura and her. Laura seemed excited—she always is when Y/n’s around. It’s like her presence lights up the whole room. I hadn’t seen Laura smile like that in a long time. Y/n… she’s good for her.’”

James shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his jaw tight as the doctor continued.

“‘It wasn’t just Laura, though. Y/n has this way of making everything feel... easier. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like just being near her makes things warmer. She laughed at one of Laura’s jokes, and for a moment, it was like the weight on my chest wasn’t so heavy. Like maybe things could be okay for a while.’”

The doctor paused, glancing at James. “She sounds kind. Thoughtful, even.”

James clenched his fists in his lap, his gaze fixed on the floor. He didn’t need the doctor to remind him of how good Y/n was. He knew. But that wasn’t the point.

The doctor continued, his voice a little softer now, as he read the next part. “‘I should’ve kept my distance, but I didn’t. After Laura went to bed, Y/n and I ended up too close. It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. I pushed her away before it got worse, but... I felt bad about it. Guilty, even. I don’t know why. Maybe because I wanted it. Maybe because I needed it.’”

Silence filled the room after those words, thick and suffocating. James’ heart raced, the memory of that night playing vividly in his mind. He had pushed you away, yes, but only after he’d let it go too far. Only after he’d felt the spark of something he knew he had no right to feel.

"It’s clear you care about Y/n, James. That much is obvious. But what’s more telling is the guilt you felt afterward. You’re punishing yourself for something natural—something human." The doctor commented. “You’re allowed to move forward, James,” the doctor said softly. “You’re allowed to let yourself feel, even if it’s difficult. You don’t have to keep punishing yourself for every moment of warmth you find.”

But James wasn’t sure he believed that. The shame ran too deep, tangled in his grief, his guilt, and his fear. 

The doctor leaned back in his chair, giving James space to breathe. “Y/n seems to care about you and Laura. That’s something worth considering.”

James nodded slightly, but his mind was far from convinced.

The doctor flipped to the most recent entry in James' journal, his brow furrowing slightly as he began to read. James could barely sit still, his chest tightening with every second that passed in silence. He knew what the doctor was about to find, and the shame weighed heavy on him.

“‘I can’t stop thinking about it,’” the doctor read aloud. “‘That night with Y/n… how I pushed her away after everything. It was too much. Too close. But now, I can’t stop feeling like I made a mistake. It’s eating me up inside. I felt like I had to push her away, but now... all I want is to bring her back.’”

The doctor’s voice remained steady, but James could hear the shift in his tone, the careful consideration of every word as he continued. “‘I felt guilty because it wasn’t supposed to happen like that. But I can’t pretend anymore. I need her. I can’t deny it—I want to be close to her. I’m tired of fighting it, tired of pretending that I don’t care. But what kind of man does that make me? I pushed her away, but now I just want to apologise. I need to apologise, because I need her, and I can’t keep pretending that I don’t.’”

The doctor let out a quiet sigh as he finished reading, closing the journal with a soft thud. James could feel his pulse pounding in his ears, every word of that entry now hanging in the air between them.

“You’re being honest with yourself here, James,” the doctor said, his voice gentle but firm. “You’re acknowledging your feelings, your needs. That’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s progress.”

James swallowed hard, his throat dry. Progress, again. That’s what the doctor called it, but all he felt was shame. How could needing Y/n feel like progress when it made him feel so weak? So desperate?

“But it’s the guilt,” the doctor continued, “the guilt that’s keeping you trapped in this cycle. You want to be close to her, but you’re punishing yourself for it at the same time. Why is that? Is it because of Mary?”

James flinched at the mention of her name, the familiar weight of her memory pressing down on him. “I... I don’t know,” he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. “Maybe.”

The doctor leaned forward, his gaze focused on James. “You need to figure that out, James. You’re allowed to need someone. You’re allowed to want someone in your life. But until you deal with the guilt you’re carrying, you’ll keep pushing her away, and you’ll keep punishing yourself for wanting something that’s entirely natural.”

James nodded, though his mind was far from settled. The words in that journal were raw, real, and terrifying. He couldn’t deny what he felt anymore—he was needy, desperate even, and he hated himself for it. For wanting something he couldn’t have. For needing you.

The doctor turned a few more pages, his hand pausing as he reached the end of the journal where the pages were blank. His brows knitted together, and he hesitated, his eyes flicking back up to James. “When do you think this last entry was?” the doctor asked, his tone soft but concerned.

James pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the frustration bubbling up. “I... I don’t know. Maybe three days ago?”

The doctor’s face hardened as he shook his head. “It wasn’t three days ago, James. It was six.” He sighed, closing the journal with a soft thud. “You’re losing track of time again, and that’s not good.”

James felt a heavy wave of dread settle over him as the doctor’s words sank in. Six days? He ran a hand over his face, trying to remember, trying to piece together the blurred fragments of the last week, but it was like reaching into fog. Time slipped through his fingers more often than he liked to admit, and here it was happening again.

The doctor leaned forward, his gaze piercing. “Tell me, James—what happened these last six days? Where have you been?”

James clenched his jaw, trying to pull something—anything—out of the haze in his mind. He remembered the hotel, remembered Y/n, remembered how he pushed you away again. And the guilt, it had been suffocating him since. But six days? What had he been doing in all that time?

“I don’t know,” James muttered, his voice low and strained. “I... I think I just stayed home. I’ve been looking after Laura, I think. Just trying to keep things together.”

The doctor’s expression remained stern, though there was a glimmer of understanding in his eyes. “It’s more than just keeping things together, James. You’re slipping, and we’ve been down this road before. You know that when you lose track of time like this, it means you’re dissociating again.”

James swallowed, his throat tight. He hated hearing it said out loud. Dissociating. It made him feel like he wasn’t even present in his own life, like a passenger watching from the sidelines while everything fell apart around him.

“And what about Y/n?” the doctor pressed gently. “You wrote about her, about how you wanted to apologise. Did you do it?”

James nodded slowly, his face showing deep struggle as he spoke, “Yes… I went to apologise. It was the day after class when Laura forgot her maths book.”

The doctor’s eyes narrowed slightly, urging James to continue. “And how did it go? How did you feel?”

For a moment, James hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It felt… good,” he admitted, almost reluctantly. “To apologise, I mean. I realised I had been acting like a jerk with her. She didn’t deserve that. And for a second, I thought maybe I could make things right.” The doctor nodded, waiting, but James’ expression shifted. His jaw tightened, and his voice dropped as he continued, “But then… then I took advantage of her.”

The words hung in the air like a heavy weight, the silence thick with shame.

“I pleasured her in the classroom,” James confessed, his voice barely above a whisper now. His fists clenched in his lap as he struggled to make sense of it, to come to terms with what he had done. “And with a second thought, I realise… I didn’t even ask for her consent. I just… I just did it.” James’ breath hitched, his mind racing back to that moment. He had been lost in the heat of it, the need to feel something, anything, to escape the crushing weight of his guilt. But now, looking back, he wasn’t sure if he had crossed a line.

The doctor’s eyes narrowed slightly, though he remained calm, taking in James' words carefully. "You... took advantage of her?" he repeated, the weight of James’ confession sinking into the space between them.

James nodded slowly, his hands gripping the edge of the chair, knuckles white from the pressure. "I didn’t even think. It just... happened," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. "I went to apologise, but then everything spiralled. I—God, I didn’t even ask her. I just... I didn’t give her a choice." His voice cracked on the last word, and he shook his head as if trying to shake away the guilt crawling beneath his skin. “I truly don’t know,” James muttered, his voice breaking. “I think she wanted it. She didn’t say no, but… but I didn’t ask. I didn’t stop to think. I just… I just took. And now, I feel like I’ve made things worse. Like I’ve dragged her down with me.”

For a moment, the doctor was silent, his fingers steepled as he watched James closely, the gravity of the situation settling between them. "James," he said, his voice firm yet still measured, "you’ve made significant progress in recognizing your actions, but this... this is dangerous. You’re stepping into territory that could destroy what little stability you’ve managed to build—for yourself and for Laura."

"It felt wrong," James admitted, his voice strained. "But at the same time, it was like... like I couldn’t stop myself. I needed her in that moment, and I just—" He broke off, clenching his fists as a fresh wave of guilt washed over him. "I hurt her, didn’t I?"

The doctor sighed softly, leaning back in his chair. "You crossed a boundary, James. And that’s something you’ll need to address, not just with her, but with yourself. You’re carrying so much grief, anger, and guilt—those emotions have nowhere to go, so they manifest in ways that are harmful to you and those around you. What happened with Y/n might have been about more than just desire. It might be about trying to fill the void you’ve been living with for years."

James nodded weakly, the doctor’s words ringing uncomfortably true. He thought about Mary, about the years of frustration and loss, about how much he had bottled up since her illness and death. And now, here he was, unravelling in front of Y/n, dragging her into his mess because he couldn’t keep his emotions in check.

"You need to confront what’s really going on inside you," the doctor continued. "You’re not just dealing with sexual frustration or the need for intimacy. You’re dealing with unresolved grief, anger at yourself, anger at the world... and it’s clouding your judgement."

James pressed his palms to his eyes, trying to block out the reality of what he had done. "I didn’t mean to hurt her," he said, his voice rough. "I didn’t—" James let out a shaky breath, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to face Y/n again, to admit the truth of what he had done. But the doctor was right—if he didn’t confront it, it would fester, eating away at him until there was nothing left.

James swallowed hard, his throat dry as he prepared to admit more. "That wasn’t everything," he said quietly, his hands fidgeting in his lap. "After that day… I didn’t stop. One day, I called her and booked a hotel, and then it just… started. We began seeing each other. Regularly."

The doctor looked at him thoughtfully before commenting, “Y/n must be very patient, James. She seems kind, and forgiving if she continued seeing you after that initial incident.”

But James shook his head. “That’s the problem. The more I saw her, the worse it got. I… I started having these nightmares again. Vivid. It’s that… that thing.” His voice trembled as he spoke, the weight of his confession dragging him down. "That red pyramid thing from my nightmares... it's back."

The doctor’s eyes flickered with concern as James pressed on, his voice thick with dread. "I would dream of that creature, taking advantage of her. Of Y/n. It would… it would hurt and abuse her, and I’d just be there, watching, unable to stop it." His hands clenched into tight fists, the memories of those nightmares making his skin crawl.

James paused, staring at the ground as if lost in those dark, haunting visions. “And the more I felt at ease with her, the more unbearable the dreams became. It felt like I was losing control, like I was watching her suffer in ways I couldn’t handle.” His voice cracked with the weight of his fear.

The doctor remained quiet, letting the words spill out of James, not interrupting him.

“Last time,” James continued, “I couldn’t take it anymore. I pushed her away. I acted like an asshole, rude and cold… just to make sure I hurt her feelings. I wanted her to hate me, to stop coming around, to make it easier for both of us.” His head lowered, his face twisted with guilt. “I left her there. She didn’t deserve that, but I couldn’t… I couldn’t keep dragging her into my mess. I thought if I made her leave, it would stop the nightmares. But it didn’t.”

The doctor exhaled slowly, his face softening with understanding. “James, what you're describing… it sounds like your subconscious is trying to confront something deeper. Maybe it’s not just about Y/n, but about control. Guilt. These nightmares could be your mind’s way of punishing you for feeling like you don’t deserve her.”

James nodded numbly, but inside, he was reeling. He had been doing everything he could to keep Laura safe, to hold it together for her. But now, it felt like everything was slipping out of his control. Y/n had been his one escape, his one comfort—and now, he had destroyed that too.

“I’m scared,” James finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper.

The doctor nodded, his gaze steady but compassionate. “Being scared is completely normal, James. It shows that you’re aware of what’s at stake, and that’s not a bad thing.” He paused, letting the words settle between them before continuing. “But let’s take a step back and rationalise this. Deep down, you’re a brave man. Braver than you give yourself credit for.”

James blinked, uncertainty in his eyes as he looked up. The doctor’s voice was firm but encouraging. “You know what you want, even if it scares you. Think about it—when you realised alcohol had taken hold of you, you made a decision. You stopped, cold turkey, because you knew it was dragging you down. And since then, you haven’t indulged. That’s proof of your strong spirit. Most people would’ve faltered, but you didn’t.”

James clenched his jaw, feeling the weight of those words. He hadn’t allowed himself to acknowledge the strength it had taken to quit drinking, but hearing it framed this way brought a flicker of pride, mingled with shame.

The doctor leaned forward, his voice softening. “But when it comes to your emotions, it’s different, isn’t it? There’s no simple fix. Still, you already know what you want deep down. You’ve made your decision, James, even if you haven’t fully admitted it to yourself yet.”

James swallowed hard, his heart pounding as he felt the truth of those words. He did know what he wanted, but the path to get there felt impossibly steep.

“The road ahead will be long and hard,” the doctor continued, his tone gentle but insistent. “Just like when you cut out alcohol. Guilt and grief have been your comfort for so long. They’ve been your constant companions, the last thread tying you to the past. Moving forward means severing that link, changing the routine. And it’s terrifying because it means letting go of what’s familiar, even if it’s painful.”

James stared down at his hands, his thoughts swirling. He had spent so many years cocooned in the comfort of his suffering, unable to envision a life without it.

“But moving forward also means sharing that vulnerability with someone else,” the doctor added, his words hitting like a quiet truth James had been avoiding. “And I think that’s where Y/n comes in. She’s been there, offering you something new. Something real. And it’s not easy for you to accept that, because it requires you to let someone else in, to share the parts of yourself you’ve kept locked away.”

The doctor let out a long breath, his expression softening further. “You’re brave enough to quit alcohol. You’re brave enough to do this too, James. But it’s up to you to decide when you’re ready to take that step.”

The doctor leaned back slightly in his chair, observing James closely. He could sense the internal conflict brewing beneath the surface, an invisible storm churning behind his stormy eyes. “You know, we talked about this woman, Maria, right?” he said, his tone steady but probing. “In our past sessions, we both agreed that she was—”

James swallowed hard, the name hanging in the air like a spectre, casting a shadow over the moment. “She wasn’t real,” he interjected, frustration colouring his voice. He felt a mix of resentment and acknowledgment rising within him. The doctor’s expression shifted to one of pleased understanding.

“Exactly,” the doctor replied, nodding with a hint of warmth. “She was a manifestation of your guilt, your grief—an anchor that kept you tethered to the past. And you’ve always pushed her away, never indulging in that fantasy. That shows remarkable strength, James.”

A flicker of recognition crossed James’s face, as if the doctor had peeled back a layer of his psyche to reveal something he had always known but hadn’t dared to acknowledge. He had fought against the allure of those internal fantasies, refusing to let them control him. But now, as the doctor continued, he felt the weight of a different reality pressing in on him.

“But now,” the doctor said, his voice gentle yet firm, “you’ve let Y/n take a part of your life. You’ve opened yourself up to her in ways you never did with Maria, and that’s a significant step forward. If you’re afraid of treating her like you did Mary or Maria, you have to remember this: Y/n is her own person, with her own desires and opinions.”

James’s brow furrowed, confusion and concern swirling in his thoughts. “But I—” he started, the words catching in his throat, a knot tightening in his chest.

The doctor held up a hand, silencing James gently. “You can’t know whether you deserve her or not. Your past experiences are not a reflection of who you are now. You’re not that man anymore, James. You’ve fought hard to break free from those chains, and you’ve come so far. Y/n is different, and she has the right to make her own choices in this relationship, just as you do.”

James's gaze dropped to the floor, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within him. Each word the doctor spoke felt like a mirror, reflecting not just his fears but also his hopes—hopes he had been too afraid to acknowledge. “What if I hurt her?” he finally managed, vulnerability seeping into his voice like ink spreading on paper.

The doctor leaned forward, his gaze unwavering, an anchor in James's turbulent sea of self-doubt. “What if you don’t?” he asked back, his tone softening. “What if you’re capable of giving her something real, something that’s not clouded by your past? You have to give yourself that chance. Otherwise, you risk losing out on something beautiful.”

James looked up, searching the doctor’s face for any hint of insincerity, any sign that this was just another platitude designed to comfort him. But there was none. Instead, there was understanding—deep, resonant understanding that penetrated the layers of fear and guilt he had built around himself.

“Every time you pull away from Y/n, you’re not just punishing yourself; you’re punishing her too,” the doctor continued, his voice steady. “She deserves to know you, the real you—not the shadow of the man haunted by his past. And you deserve to be seen for who you are now, free from those burdens.”

James felt a swell of emotion rising within him, a mix of guilt and longing. The thought of Y/n brought warmth to his chest, but it was quickly eclipsed by memories of loss and fear. “But what if she sees the darkness in me?” he whispered, the vulnerability spilling out like water from a cracked vessel. “What if she runs away?”

“Then she’s not the right person for you,” the doctor replied, his tone unwavering. “But if she chooses to stay, it means she sees something in you worth holding onto. You have to allow her the opportunity to make that choice.”

James leaned back in his chair, the weight of the doctor’s words pressing down on him like a physical force. The air in the room felt thick, saturated with the unspoken tension that had become a part of his life. He had spent so long living in a haze of self-imposed isolation that the idea of opening up to someone felt terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

“You’re standing at a crossroads, James,” the doctor said, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. “One path leads back to the familiar—the pain, the guilt, the solitude. The other leads to possibility, connection, and maybe even happiness. But it’s your choice. You have to take that first step.”

James nodded slowly, absorbing the gravity of the moment. His heart raced as he contemplated the risk involved in stepping forward. But deep down, beneath layers of fear and hesitation, a flicker of hope began to grow. Perhaps there was a way to reconcile his past with his present, a way to embrace both the light and the dark without being consumed by either.

Taking a deep breath, he looked into the doctor’s eyes, seeking reassurance. “I’ll try,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll try to make it work with Y/n.”

The doctor smiled, a mix of pride and encouragement evident on his face. “That’s all I ask, James. Just take it one day at a time. You’ve come too far to let fear dictate your choices now.” 

As they sat together in that small, sterile room, surrounded by the echoes of their conversation, James felt a shift within himself—a small but significant turning point. It was a long road ahead, fraught with challenges and uncertainties, but for the first time in a long while, he felt the weight of his past begin to lift, replaced by the flickering light of possibility.

───────────────

The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm, golden hue over the school grounds as children trickled out from their classrooms. James stood near the entrance, feeling strangely out of place, gripping a bouquet of flowers in his hand. He could feel eyes on him, parents chatting quietly while casting curious glances his way, and even a few teachers looked on with mild amusement. He swallowed hard, fighting the sudden urge to toss the bouquet and leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to move.

Then Laura appeared, bouncing out of the school building with her usual carefree attitude, her backpack slung over her shoulder. Her gaze immediately zeroed in on the bright burst of flowers in his hand, her brow furrowing in confusion as she approached. “Flowers?” Laura raised an eyebrow, her voice tinged with disbelief. “I never saw you buy flowers, James. Are they for me?” She stood in front of him, crossing her arms as if she already knew the answer and was daring him to say otherwise.

James felt his face flush with heat, utterly embarrassed. He hadn’t thought this through. His heart hammered in his chest, and he was all too aware of the curious stares of the people around him. He cleared his throat, avoiding Laura’s sharp gaze. "Uh, no," he stammered, shaking his head. "These… uh… these are for Y/n. To thank her for all her hard work, you know… teaching and stuff."

The lie felt flimsy on his tongue, but he pressed on, forcing a weak smile. Laura stared at him, her eyes narrowing, not buying his explanation for a second. He could almost see the gears turning in her little head.

“Y/n, huh?” Laura's tone was sceptical, her arms still crossed. “Since when do you give teachers flowers for teaching? You didn’t give Miss Roberts any when she was my teacher.” Her voice was dripping with suspicion, and James shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny.

He cursed silently under his breath. Laura had a way of cutting right through his defences with just a few words. He could feel himself faltering, unsure of how to continue without giving too much away. “I just… thought it’d be nice, that’s all,” James mumbled, trying to sound casual. “It’s nothing. Just… showing some of my appreciation.”

Laura’s eyes darted between the bouquet and his face, as if she could see right through him. “You’re acting weird,” she said bluntly, her tone matter-of-fact. “Is this about that time you made her cry or something? I heard you in your sleep…”

James’s chest tightened at her words, and he looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. It was a low blow, and even though Laura didn’t mean to hit him where it hurt, it still stung. He couldn’t forget that moment either—the way he had pushed Y/n away, the way he’d seen the hurt in her eyes when he acted like an ass just to protect himself.

“No, it’s not about that,” he said, more to himself than to her. He glanced down at the bouquet, the bright petals taunting him with their symbolism. It was supposed to be an apology of sorts, something small but meaningful, a way to show Y/n that he was trying, that he wanted to make up for how distant he’d been. But standing here, in front of Laura, it all felt incredibly foolish.

Laura huffed, clearly unimpressed with his explanation. “Whatever you say, James. But I think Y/n’s too smart to be won over by some dumb flowers.” She rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smirk on her lips, a sign that she was enjoying the awkwardness he was experiencing.

James sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” he muttered under his breath. He couldn’t help but feel a pang of anxiety creeping up his spine. Was he making a mistake? Would Y/n even want these flowers after everything that had happened between them?

Maybe the flowers wouldn’t be enough. Maybe nothing would. But he had to try, didn’t he?

The scent of the flowers seemed to mock him, filling his nostrils with their sweet fragrance, a reminder of the gesture he wasn’t even sure how to complete. But as much as he wanted to flee from the situation, he also knew he couldn't keep running from Y/n—or from himself. One way or another, he would have to face you. And this time, he would have to do it right.

He only hoped that it wasn’t too late.

James cleared his throat, attempting to sound casual. "Hey, Laura… could you wait for me out here? Just for a bit."

Laura glanced up at him with a knowing look, then cast a playful smirk his way. “Sure, James,” she replied, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Take all the time you need.” She settled herself on a nearby bench in the school courtyard, crossing her legs as she took out her colouring book.

He could feel his cheeks burn, and he barely managed to give a stiff nod in response. “Right. Just... won’t be long.”

Heat rose in his cheeks, and he quickly looked away, embarrassed by her intuition. His grip on the flowers tightened, and his palms felt slick against the bouquet wrapping. He took a breath, steadying himself, but as he turned toward the door leading to your classroom, his stomach clenched. Each step felt like a shaky stride into the unknown, his heart beating in his throat.

He took a steadying breath, glancing back at Laura. She was already focused on her drawing, making herself comfortable on the bench, entirely unbothered by his lingering. The reassurance of her casual support was oddly grounding, but it didn’t ease the jitter in his steps as he turned toward the school building.

His heart thudded heavier with each step down the hallway, his mind racing through what he might say. How do you even apologise for the way I’ve acted? For pulling you in close just to push you away? But whatever happened, he owed her this face-to-face, his presence rather than just empty words.

James hesitated outside your door, gripping the bouquet a bit too tightly. The rehearsed words played in his mind like a distant echo: “Apologise. Tell her it wasn’t fair to keep her at a distance.” He had played out this moment in his head, every word planned, his intentions set. But standing here, about to step into reality, his mind began to spin. Every inch of him felt on edge, like his nerves were stretched thin. 

He breathed deeply, hoping to quell the tension creeping up his neck.

Finally, he mustered the courage and opened the door, only to feel his heart drop. There you were, just as he’d pictured, a radiant presence that drew his gaze without effort. You were leaning over your desk, focused on some papers, your fingers lingering on the corner of a page. For a split second, he thought this might actually go well.

But then you looked up, and the way your brows furrowed in surprise made his confidence wither. There wasn’t the hint of warmth he had imagined—no welcoming smile. Instead, your expression was one of confusion, even discomfort, as though he had interrupted something important.

Before he could gather himself, his gaze followed yours, and he finally noticed the man standing beside your desk. The stranger turned, eyeing James with equal confusion, his posture suggesting he was someone used to having your attention. There was a brief silence as the three of you took each other in, the air heavy with unspoken questions. The stranger’s eyes narrowed slightly, the shift in his stance subtle but unmistakable. His gaze flicked to the flowers, then back to James, as though he were trying to piece together what was happening.

James felt his grip on the bouquet tighten, the carefully selected flowers (based on your favourites, Laura told him) suddenly feeling like a foolish gesture. He cleared his throat, struggling to keep his composure. The apology he’d rehearsed slipped away, buried under the awkward tension filling the room. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He felt out of place, almost intrusive, like he’d stumbled into a moment that wasn’t meant for him.

The man’s voice broke the silence, calm but edged with a touch of formality. “Mr. Sunderland. Can I help you with something?” he asked, looking at James with a polite, almost dismissive expression.

James felt his mouth go dry. “I—I just came to speak with Y/n for a moment,” he managed, his voice a little too soft, like he was tiptoeing over broken glass. He glanced at you, seeking some kind of reassurance in your eyes, but you only looked back, your face still unreadable. “But... I didn’t realise you were busy. I’m sorry if I’m intruding.”

There was a moment where the man looked at you, waiting for a cue, maybe some indication of how he should handle James. But you didn’t give one, your gaze darting between them, leaving James feeling even more adrift.

After a moment you sighed and stood up, glancing at the man in the room. “We can continue this discussion later,” you said, giving him a soft smile. He returned the gesture, nodding in agreement. As he turned to leave, James couldn’t shake the feeling that there was an intimacy between you two that cut deeper than mere familiarity. 

“See you on Sunday for the movie, right?” He said before leaving.

When the man’s hand lingered on your shoulder for just a moment too long, a surge of jealousy shot through James, startling him. It was a sensation he had long since buried, one he thought he had forgotten how to feel. His heart raced, and he felt a heat rising in his chest. The sight of you and this other man made his stomach twist, a painful ache spreading through him that reminded him he ever had a heart. He had almost forgotten how intense jealousy could be—the way it could claw at his insides, leaving him feeling raw and exposed.

It was unsettling, almost suffocating, to think about you being with someone else, sharing your laughter and moments with another man. The idea sent his mind spiralling, and he fought against the intrusive thoughts that begged to take hold. It had been so long since he’d allowed himself to feel anything for anyone—especially someone as captivating as you. 

As the door closed behind the man, the air felt charged, thick with unspoken words and emotions. “James,” you said, breaking the silence as you turned to face him. He could see the confusion in your eyes, but all he could think about was how that other man had made you smile, how easily you had interacted. A part of him ached at the thought of sharing you with anyone, even if it was just for a fleeting moment.

“Um, hey,” he finally managed to say, his voice sounding strained. Your gaze held his, and in that moment, he felt both grateful and envious. Grateful that you were here, that you were real, but envious of anyone who could have even a piece of you.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, your brow furrowing, and it made his heart race. 

“I, uh…” He hesitated, the bouquet of flowers suddenly feeling heavy in his hands. 

You shook your head, your expression turning serious, the playful smile fading quickly. “James, it’s really not professional to come to school with flowers. People might get the wrong idea,” you snapped, your voice sharp as you crossed your arms tightly over your chest. 

“And especially the way you made it clear that you wanted nothing to do with me”.

Your words stung, but it was the hint of anger in your tone that truly cut him. And James couldn’t shake the sight of the hickeys he had left on your neck as he took a glimpse of the delicious curve of your neck, a reminder of the intimacy that had turned into a mess of confusion and regret. But, the possessiveness igniting within him clashed against the storm brewing in your eyes. 

He cleared his throat, attempting to steady himself. “I’m here to apologise,” he asserted, forcing his voice to remain calm despite the unease bubbling up inside him. He needed you to see his sincerity. 

But before he could continue, you interrupted him, your frustration boiling over. “Apologise? You think that’s enough?” You stepped forward, fire in your gaze. “After everything? You can’t just come here with flowers and think you can sweep it under the rug! Do you even understand how hurtful that is?”

James felt his heart sink. The anger in your voice was palpable, filling the space between you with tension. “What do you want me to say?” he asked, his voice faltering. “I messed up, and I—”

“Damn right, you messed up!” you shot back, raising your voice—he never heard you like that, so angry and sad, it broke his heart. “You pushed me away, James! You treated me like I was nothing, and now you think a bouquet of flowers is going to fix it? It’s pathetic!”

The sting of your words pierced through him, and he felt a mixture of shame and regret swirling inside. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he managed, desperation creeping into his tone. “I just—I was scared.”

Before he could even process your words, your hand came up and slapped him across the face. The impact rang sharply in his ears, but it was nothing compared to the shame he felt. His head snapped to the side, and a silence fell between you both, charged with emotions neither of you could put into words The sting from your slap lingered on his cheek, and his throat tightened. He blinked hard, feeling his eyes water, not from the pain of the slap, but from the deep, aching remorse that welled up inside him. He deserved it, every bit of it, and he knew it.

“Scared?” you repeated incredulously, your eyes blazing with fury. “Scared of what? Scared of letting someone in? Scared of actually having to face your emotions? Because it sure looked like you were just fine when you fucked me like I was a whore!” Your voice shook with indignation, and James couldn’t help but flinch at your words.

He opened his mouth to respond, but the weight of your anger made it hard to find the right words. He could see you seething, your body tense with frustration. “I was trying to be nice to you, James! I wanted to help you, but you just pushed me away like I meant nothing!”

Your tone cut through him, and he felt the sting of guilt settle deep in his gut. “You’re right,” he finally admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “I treated you like crap, and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Fix it?” you echoed, incredulity dripping from your words. “You think it’s that simple? You can’t just decide to ‘fix’ things when you’ve already hurt someone! You have to earn that trust back, and you haven’t even started!”

James felt a wave of frustration well up inside him, mixed with a desperate desire to reach out and bridge the gap between you. “I’m trying! I really am! Can’t you see that?” 

“Trying isn’t enough anymore, James!” you snapped, your voice rising. “You can’t just show up with flowers and think it’s going to make everything okay. You’ve broken things, and it’s going to take more than just an apology.”

In that moment, you were a storm, fierce and unyielding. James could see the hurt behind your anger, the way you wrestled with the disappointment he had caused. It pierced through him, and he realised just how deeply he had let you down—and how much he deserved it. 

“I—I know it’s going to take time,” he said, trying to steady himself as his heart raced. “But I want to put in the effort. I care about you, and I don’t want to lose you.” 

Your eyes narrowed, scepticism etched across your features. “You care? After how you treated me? What’s to say you won’t just push me away again when things get tough?” 

The accusation hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, neither of you spoke. The tension crackled, and James felt the weight of your anger pressing down on him. He realised that he had crossed a line, and now he had to find a way back—if you would even let him.

James’s entire world narrowed to this moment, this fragile, painful second, where everything hung in the balance. The anger in your eyes seared him, a raw heat he knew he deserved, but it was the disappointment—cutting and profound—that struck him deepest. He hadn’t known it was possible to feel so exposed, like a light had pierced straight through every shield he had ever put up, and now he was forced to face what he really was.

Slowly, he opened his mouth, his voice raw and barely holding together. “I’m… truly sorry,” he began, struggling to find words to do justice to everything that had been roiling inside him since the moment he’d pushed you away. “Since that night, it’s like… I’m lost. Every single night, I lie there, alone, and all I see is you. All I think about is… how you feel beside me, the way your voice calms me, how much I want to be… better.” He choked slightly, but forced himself to go on. “And I know I hurt you. I see it. And I… hate myself for it.”

Each word was a weight being lifted, but it only uncovered more buried shame. His voice faltered as he said, “I don’t know how to be enough. Every voice in my head just… it keeps telling me you deserve better. That I’ll only end up pulling you down with me, that… I’m a broken man who’ll ruin anything he touches.”

He laughed, but it was hollow, dark—a laugh tinged with self-loathing. “I can’t even look at myself in the mirror anymore because all I see is a man who’s become… something ugly. Someone who doesn’t deserve to be around someone like you.” His voice wavered, thickening as his throat tightened. “All I see is a monster. Someone who’s past redemption.”

Then, as if he could no longer bear his own weight, James lowered himself to his knees before you. The gesture felt natural somehow, a desperate attempt to be as close to you as possible, even if it meant bringing himself to his lowest. He looked up at you, his eyes wide and filled with a pleading sorrow he couldn’t hold back, his gaze full of the vulnerability he’d fought so hard to bury.

“I… I can’t go on without you,” he said softly, his voice trembling. “Now that I know what peace feels like, even for a few moments, with you beside me… I can’t go back. It’s like you gave me a taste of something I thought was lost to me, and now the thought of not having you…” He swallowed, the words almost failing him. “It’s unbearable. I’m… begging you, just… don’t walk away. Don’t leave me in the dark. Please.”

He looked down, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white, and he whispered, “I want to be better. For you, Laura. For… myself, even, if I can figure out how. But I need your help, I can’t do this alone.” His voice cracked, and he looked back up, his eyes brimming with raw, pleading desperation. "Please let me prove to you that I can be the man you see. I want to be the man you deserve. Just… don’t leave me here, alone."

For a long, heart-stopping moment, James held his breath as you looked at each other in silence. He saw the faint, lingering shadows of hurt in your eyes, and in their depths, a softness—a glimmer of something he hadn’t dared hope to see. Then, slowly, you took a step toward him, and James let out a trembling breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

When he felt your hand gently find its way to his hair, a shiver ran down his spine. Tentatively, he pressed his cheek against you, leaning his head against your abdomen, as if finding solace in the very nearness of you. The warmth of your touch was a balm, easing the wounds he’d long hidden from the world, and in that moment, he let himself collapse into the comfort of your presence. His arms wrapped loosely around your waist, as he rested there, seeking the peace he’d once thought was lost to him forever.

The silence between you stretched, gentle and unhurried, broken only by his steady breaths. He could feel the weight of everything he’d been carrying start to slip away, piece by piece, as he nestled against you, his heart finally slowing to a gentle rhythm.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, you spoke, your voice soft but steady. “I don’t even know why I’m doing all this for you, James. I… I don’t think I even understand it myself.” Your hand moved gently through his hair, grounding him in a way he hadn’t thought was possible. “But… if I don’t, I feel like I’ll miss the biggest chance of my life.”

Hearing this, James closed his eyes, a warmth blossoming in his chest that was foreign and achingly tender. He nodded, his head nestling against you, soaking in the comfort of your words. In that moment, he felt like a lost soul, clinging to the only light in a world of shadows, and he held you just a little tighter, as if afraid that you might slip away. The sensation was almost childlike, and he felt a tear slip down his cheek as he gave in to that sense of safety, that warmth he thought he’d never feel again.

Snuggling closer, he let out a quiet, almost inaudible whisper. “Thank you,” he murmured, voice muffled against you, his tone layered with reverence. For the first time, he felt like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t as lost as he’d thought.

You let out a soft sigh, fingers still tangled in his hair, and looked down at him with a firm gaze. “James, if you ever push me away like that again, I swear, I’ll slap you harder.”

A flicker of humour and self-deprecation passed through his eyes as he nodded. “I deserved it,” he admitted, voice steady, acknowledging not just the slap but the wake-up call it had become. He pulled back, finding his balance again, and when he rose to his feet, you offered him a small smile before finally accepting the bouquet.

James couldn’t help the slight catch in his breath as he watched you, his heart lighter now, the weight of his earlier dread slipping away. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “Tomorrow, Laura and I… we’re going to the beach. It would mean a lot if you’d come with us.”

A blush crept up your cheeks, and he found himself captivated by it, warmth blooming under his gaze. The sight tugged at something deep inside him, something raw and tender. He had a sudden, powerful urge to lean in and kiss the flush on your cheeks, to feel the heat of it against his lips, to let it anchor him there, beside you. And when you nodded, accepting the invitation, his heart leapt.

A smile—a genuine, unguarded one—broke across his face, and before he could stop himself, he leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. He lingered there, letting the quiet moment say what he couldn’t put into words, and then pulled back, his eyes soft and warm.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he murmured, the promise of a new day, a fresh start, held between you.

[brunchable]

Winter King, Part Five : I Knew You Were Trouble

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × × 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × × 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × × 

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

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

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

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

There were inconsistencies.

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

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

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

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

What is that smell?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Monica?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, please. Quickly.”

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

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

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

But why? And for what purpose?

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

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

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

“Monica?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is Isaac up to?

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alternative solutions?”

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

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

The chamber fell deathly silent, waiting for his response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One by one, the lords exchanged wary glances.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Isaac’s gaze flicked between the two men, watching the way their eyes followed Lord Carter’s departure with almost predatory intensity. So, you’re paying attention, too.

He shifted his weight, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath. Then, with a deliberately casual air, Isaac pushed off the pillar and strolled forward, offering Loki and Pietro a languid, almost lazy smile as he stepped into the center of the room.

“Lively conversation, wasn’t it?” he drawled, his tone light, almost teasing. “I thought Lord Carter might have a stroke when you mentioned sacrifices.”

Loki raised an eyebrow, his expression inscrutable. “Oh? You were listening?”

“Hard not to,” Isaac replied, a hint of innocence in his tone as he shrugged. “It’s not every day we see the lords so…” He paused, searching for the right word. “Riled up.”

Pietro’s lips curved into a grin, and he inclined his head slightly. “A delicate subject,” he mused. “One that seems to strike a nerve.”

Isaac hummed thoughtfully, his gaze flickering briefly to the door where Lord Carter had vanished. “Yes, well, some people are more invested in the outcome than others, I suppose.”

“Indeed,” Loki echoed softly, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studied Isaac. “But what of you, Prince Isaac? You seem to be taking this all in stride.”

Isaac’s smile widened, a flash of mischief lighting his eyes. “Me? I’m just here for the show, gentlemen.” He inclined his head, a mockery of a bow. “And what a show it was.”

× × × ×

The moment the doors to their private chambers slammed shut behind you, Bucky stood in the center of the room, his shoulders rigid, his jaw clenched so hard it appeared as though he might shatter his teeth.

You faced him, your chest heaving as you struggled to maintain composure. You had walked straight into the lion’s den—into the council chamber where you did not belong—and spoken words that could not be taken back.

"I cannot believe you did that," Bucky growled, his voice low and dangerous. It was the voice of a man hanging on by a thread. "Do you have any idea what you have just done?"

"I know exactly what I have done," you shot back, your voice trembling with the effort to hold yourself together. "I did what was necessary."

"What was necessary?" Bucky repeated incredulously, taking a step toward you. His eyes were blazing, the blue of them almost electric. "Do you believe it is your responsibility to waltz in there and discuss choosing a consort as though you are deliberating the color of drapes for the dining hall?"

You flinched, but held your ground, lifting your chin. "What was I supposed to do? Stand there and allow them to tear me apart,, without uttering a word in my own defense?"

"You had no right!" Bucky roared, the words echoing off the walls. He took another step closer, his anger barely contained. "No right to enter there and—and agree with them. You do not defend our marriage by making it sound as though it is expendable."

"Expendable?" you scoffed, the sound harsh and bitter. Your voice dropped to a whisper, the pain in it cutting through the air like a blade. "Do you believe I desire this? To even consider such a possibility?"

"Then why say it?" he snapped, his hands flexing at his sides. "Why offer them the satisfaction of hearing you say you would choose a consort?"

"Because it was the only way to make them stop!" you cried out, your voice breaking. "They were never going to relent, Bucky. They would have continued pushing and pushing until—"

"Until what?" Bucky interrupted sharply, his gaze narrowing. "Until I gave in? Until I agreed to replace you as though you were a mere piece of furniture?"

Tears welled in your eyes, but you blinked them back furiously. "No, until they decided I was not worth defending anymore. Until they convinced you I was not worth defending."

Bucky recoiled as if you had struck him. His expression twisted into something raw, something almost wounded. "Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice thick with disbelief. "You think I would turn on you? Just like that?"

"I do not know what to think anymore!" you shouted, your voice breaking on the last word. "You scarcely speak to me. You gaze upon me as though I am some fragile thing you must keep at arm's length. You defend me to the council, and yet you cannot even look me in the eye when we are alone!"

"I defend you because you are my wife!" Bucky’s voice cracked like a whip, the force of it reverberating in the space between you. "Because I cannot bear the thought of them tearing you down. And all I have done for the past three months is fight for you—while you are in there, agreeing to throw it all away?"

"It is not that simple, Bucky!" you snapped, your voice trembling with anger and hurt. "You are not the one they scrutinize every second of every day, whispering that I am not good enough, that I am failing you. Failing the kingdom."

"And you believe this is any easier for me?" Bucky shot back, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Watching you suffer, knowing I can do nothing to help you? Knowing that every night we try—every night I fail—you are the one they blame?"

You flinched, the words striking deep. You shook your head, a tear slipping down your cheek before you could stop it. "Bucky, I..."

"I have been defending you since the day we wed," Bucky continued, his voice hoarse. "And do you know what hurts the most? It is not what they are saying. It is not the rumors or the accusations. It is you. It is that you do not believe I am on your side."

"That is not true!" you protested, your hands clenched into fists at your sides. "I know you are on my side, but I—"

"But you still walked in there and handed them the one thing they have been trying to take from us," he cut you off harshly, the fury in his voice barely leashed. "The moment you agreed to choose a consort, you handed them a victory. You handed me over."

You staggered back, the accusation hitting you like a physical blow. "No... Bucky, I was merely trying to��"

"To what? Save me?" He laughed, a bitter, humorless sound that sent a stab of pain through your chest. "Do you truly believe they will stop at a consort, Y/N? Do you believe they will be satisfied with anything less than taking you away from me?"

"I was merely... I was trying to make things easier for you," you whispered brokenly, the tears you had been holding back finally spilling over. "I did not wish to make you choose."

"Choose?" Bucky’s voice dropped, a dangerous softness creeping into his tone. "There was never a choice, Y/N. There will never be a choice. It is you. It has always been you."

His words hung in the air, the truth of them stark and undeniable. But there was no comfort in them—not in this moment, not when the damage had already been done.

The ache in your chest deepened as you gazed into his eyes, seeing the rawness there, the hurt and anger and love all twisted together in a knot that neither of you seemed able to untangle.

"Bucky..." you breathed, your voice trembling. "I cannot—"

"No," he cut you off sharply, his jaw clenched. "You do not get to finish that sentence. You do not get to stand there and pretend this is something you must shoulder alone."

"I am not pretending," you cried, your voice breaking on the words. "I know what this means. Do you believe I do not hear the whispers, that I do not see the way they look at us—at me? As if I am some failure, as if I am the reason this kingdom does not have an heir?"

Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, the fury simmering beneath his skin barely contained. "It is not your fault—"

"Then whose is it?" you interrupted, stepping forward, your hands trembling as they reached for his. "Every month that passes without an heir, it worsens. The pressure, the doubt... the guilt." You swallowed hard, trying to push back the sob threatening to tear free. "And now, because of me—because I cannot give you what they want—they are pushing for a consort."

Bucky’s hands were like iron around yours, his gaze blazing as he shook his head. "This is not on you. It is them."

You nodded, a bitter smile twisting your lips. "I know. But if it is not me, it will be you. They will twist everything until there is no option left but to..." You closed your eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. "Perhaps it is better if I just... step aside."

"Step aside?" The words were low, dangerous. "You expect me to stand by and allow them to replace you?"

"I am not saying you must stand by," you whispered, your voice cracking with the weight of it. "I am saying... I am saying I shall do it. I shall choose the right consort. Someone who will support you, someone who will not attempt to take the throne—someone who will give you an heir."

Bucky froze, his entire body going rigid as if struck. The silence that followed was suffocating, a heavy, choking thing that made your lungs burn. For a heartbeat, two, you thought he might turn and walk away—leave you to shatter in the emptiness you had just carved between you.

But then, slowly, Bucky’s hands tightened around yours, his grip bruising in its intensity. His eyes, when they met yours, were dark, filled with a kind of anguish that stole the breath from your lungs.

"You believe I would allow you to do that?" he asked softly, each word a deliberate, precise strike. "You believe I would permit you to choose another, allow them to take your place in our bed? In our lives?" He leaned closer, his forehead nearly touching yours, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I would burn this kingdom to the ground before I allowed that to happen."

Your chest hitched with a sob, tears streaming down your cheeks as you shook your head. "But they will make you, James. They will twist everything until you have no choice. If I choose—if I step aside—they cannot say anything."

"Do you not understand?" Bucky’s voice broke, raw and strained, reverberating off the cold walls of the chamber. His grip tightened around your arm, not in anger, but in desperation. "It will never be anyone else. You are my queen. You are my wife. And I care not if we have a hundred heirs or none—I will not allow them to take you from me. Not like this."

Your heart ached at the sight of him, the pain etched across his face. He looked torn apart, pulled in too many directions, and you knew—you knew you were one of the forces pulling him, tearing him at the seams. You glanced away, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. You could not afford to be weak now. 

"You are the King, Bucky." Your voice was steady, but it carried a hollow echo. You forced yourself to meet his eyes, even as your vision blurred. "I shall choose in the morning."

Bucky recoiled as if struck. His hand fell away from your arm, his expression crumbling into one of utter frustration and disbelief. 

"No." He shook his head, chest heaving with the effort to keep himself together. "No, I do not want a choice. I do not wish for you to have to make that choice."

But you merely stood there, unmoving, a pillar of silent resolve. "It is not about what you want, James. It is about what is best for the kingdom."

"Damn the kingdom!" he exploded, the words tearing out of him like a curse. His voice reverberated through the chamber, the force of it shaking the very air between you.

"I need you—do you not understand that?" His hands moved as though he wished to reach out to you again, but he faltered, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He looked down, squeezing his eyes shut as though trying to ward off the storm building inside him.

But it was too late.

A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through his skull, sudden and brutal. Bucky stumbled back, a guttural groan escaping him as he clutched his head. He tried to breathe through it, tried to force the pain down, but it only grew sharper, the pressure building until it felt like his skull might crack open.

"Bucky?" You stepped forward, your earlier resolve forgotten as fear tightened around your heart. You reached out, your fingers brushing his shoulder, but he jerked away as though your touch burned him.

"Stay away!" His voice was strangled, twisted, and not entirely his own. He staggered backward, the muscles in his neck straining as he fought against the change clawing at his mind. "Just—just stay away from me."

But you could not leave him. Not like this. "Bucky, please, let me—"

"No!" His roar echoed through the chamber, and then everything seemed to happen at once, "STAY AWAY FROM ME."

One moment he was there, staring at you with wide, tortured eyes. The next, his expression twisted, his features contorting into something savage, something unrecognizable. His arm lashed out, faster than you could process, and then you were flying back, your body slamming into the wall with a sickening thud.

Pain exploded across your back, and you gasped, the air knocked out of your lungs. The world spun, black spots dancing at the edges of your vision. But before you could even regain your breath, a vice-like grip closed around your throat, lifting you off the ground.

The Winter Soldier’s face loomed before you, his eyes dark and empty, his expression a mask of cold fury. The hand around your neck tightened, cutting off your air, and you struggled, your fingers scrabbling uselessly against the unyielding metal.

"B-Bucky…L-Let go. . ." you choked out, tears stinging your eyes as you tried to reach him, tried to break through the void in his gaze. But it was like staring into the abyss—there was no recognition, no flicker of the man you knew. Only the Soldier.

The edges of your vision began to blur, your lungs burning for oxygen as you clawed at his arm. But he did not flinch, did not even seem to notice your struggle. He just kept squeezing, his gaze locked onto yours, unseeing and merciless.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash as the door to the chamber burst open.

"Bucky! Stop!" Steve’s voice thundered through the room, filled with an urgency that made the air crackle. He was at the Soldier’s side in an instant, his hands closing around the metal arm with a strength that only Steve Rogers could muster.

"Bucky, let her go!" Sam’s voice joined Steve’s, and together, they pried at the Soldier’s grip. But it was as if Bucky’s strength had doubled, the force of his hold unrelenting. Your vision was dimming, your struggles weakening as the world faded around you.

"Let her go!" Steve roared, and with a surge of strength, he shoved Bucky back, the force finally breaking the Soldier’s grip.

You crumpled to the ground, gasping and coughing as precious air rushed back into your lungs. You barely registered Scott’s panicked voice beside you, his hands shaking as he tried to help you sit up.

The Winter Soldier staggered back, a snarl twisting his lips as he whirled on Steve. But Steve did not back down, his gaze locked onto Bucky’s, unflinching and determined.

"Come on, Buck," Steve murmured, his voice low and steady, meant for Bucky and Bucky alone. "You are stronger than this. Do not let it win."

For a moment, the Soldier paused, a flicker of something—something human—crossing his face. But then his expression twisted again, and he lunged, his metal arm swinging with brutal force.

Steve ducked, sidestepping the attack, his movements precise and controlled. "Sam, get Y/N out of here," he ordered, not taking his eyes off the Soldier.

"Got it," Sam replied tightly, his arm sliding around your shoulders as he lifted you to your feet.

"Bucky…" you whispered, your voice a broken rasp. You tried to reach for him, but Sam gently pulled you back.

"Not now, Your Majesty," Sam murmured, his tone soft but firm. "Let Steve handle this."

As you moved toward the door, you cast one last, desperate glance over your shoulder. The Soldier was still fighting, still lashing out with a mindless fury that sent shudders through you. But somewhere, buried deep beneath the violence and rage, you thought you saw a flash of blue—just for a second.

"Bucky…" you breathed, and then Sam was leading you away, your heart breaking with every step.

Behind you, Steve faced down the Winter Soldier alone, his voice a steady murmur as he tried to coax his friend back from the darkness.

"It is all right, Buck," Steve murmured, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "We are going to get through this. Do you hear me? We are going to get through this."

But the only response was a roar of fury as the Soldier lunged again, and the door slammed shut behind you and Sam, cutting off the sound of the battle that raged within.

"Your Majesty, please," Scott’s voice was shaking as he hovered beside you, his face pale with fear. "We need to get you somewhere safe."

But you did not respond. You merely stared at the closed door, your breath coming in short, painful gasps as the weight of what had just happened settled over you like a suffocating shroud.

It will never be anyone else.

His words echoed through your mind, a haunting reminder of what had been—and what might never be again.

× × × ×

The late morning sun filters softly through the delicate lace curtains of your private sitting room, casting a warm, golden glow that does little to dispel the chill clinging to the air. The room, usually filled with laughter and quiet conversations, now feels suffocatingly still. Monica, ever vigilant, hovers nearby, her gaze flicking between you and the door, as if expecting trouble to walk right in.

The soft click of heels on marble announces Sharon’s arrival before she even enters. With the same serene smile she always wears, Sharon steps through the door, a polished silver tray balanced perfectly on her palm. The teacup, filled with the familiar amber liquid, gleams invitingly under the morning light.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” Sharon greets smoothly, the warmth in her voice radiating false cheer. She sets the tray down on the small table beside the chaise where you sit, her eyes skimming over your face with a hint of concern. “I thought you might like your tea a little earlier today. I added extra herbs for relaxation—something to help ease the tension.”

Monica nods politely, her expression neutral, betraying nothing of the unease simmering beneath her skin. “Thank you, Lady Carter,” she says, her tone gracious. “Just leave it here. I’ll see to it that Her Majesty drinks it.”

You glance up, the movement slow and deliberate, and for a fleeting moment, Sharon’s smile falters. Your fingers absently rub at the base of your throat, where the skin has turned a mottled shade of purple. The faint bruises stand out starkly against the pale column of your neck, a reminder of the night before—of Bucky’s unrelenting grip and the darkness that had taken hold of him.

“Your Majesty…” Sharon’s voice softens, laced with a concern that almost sounds genuine. She takes a small step forward, as if she wants to reach out. “Are you… feeling all right?”

Your gaze drifts to the cup of tea, then back to Sharon. For a moment, there is something unreadable in your eyes—something sharp and wary. But you force a smile, though it’s strained and barely touches your lips.

“Just tired,” you murmur, your voice hoarse, almost painful to listen to. You wince slightly, your fingers still pressed gently against your bruised throat. “But the tea will help, I’m sure.”

Sharon’s gaze lingers on your neck for a beat too long before she catches herself, her smile brightening. “Of course. Please, do take your time. It’s a special blend—calming and soothing. I brewed it myself this morning.”

You nod, reaching for the teacup. Your fingers brush the delicate handle, the porcelain cool beneath your touch. But just as you begin to lift it, a gentle hand wraps around your wrist, halting your movement.

“Your Majesty,” Monica says quietly, her voice steady but firm. She doesn’t look at Sharon—doesn’t acknowledge the tension that suddenly crackles between you. Her eyes remain on you, a silent plea and warning all in one. “Perhaps it’s best to let it cool a little. You know how sensitive your throat is right now.”

You blink, taken aback by the interruption. You glance between Monica’s serious expression and the teacup still poised in your hand, feeling the subtle but unmistakable pressure of Monica’s grip. Slowly, reluctantly, you set the cup back down on the saucer.

“Right,” you murmur, your brow furrowing slightly. “I suppose… it might irritate it.”

Monica nods, releasing your wrist with a barely perceptible sigh of relief. “Exactly. We don’t want to cause more discomfort.”

Sharon’s smile tightens, though she quickly schools her expression back into something more pleasant. “If Her Majesty prefers, I could bring something else,” she offers smoothly, her eyes shifting to Monica with an almost imperceptible edge. “Perhaps a broth, or a different blend of herbs—something gentler on the throat.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Monica replies before you can speak, her voice calm and composed. “I’ll see to her comfort. Thank you, Lady Carter.”

For a moment, the air in the room seems to freeze. Sharon’s gaze lingers on the cup of tea, then flickers back to Monica, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. But she only nods, her smile never wavering.

“Very well,” Sharon murmurs, dipping her head in a graceful nod. “Please, do let me know if there’s anything more I can do for Her Majesty.”

Your fingers twitch toward the teacup once more, but Monica’s hand rests gently atop yours, stilling the movement.

“We appreciate your concern, Lady Carter,” Monica says evenly, the weight of her gaze finally meeting Sharon’s. “But as I said, I’ll take care of it from here.”

There is a beat of silence, thick and heavy, before Sharon’s smile widens, all teeth and no warmth. “Of course. I’ll take my leave, then.”

She turns, her movements fluid and unhurried as she makes her way to the door. But just before she steps out, she glances back, her eyes locking onto yours with a peculiar intensity.

“Please rest well, Your Majesty,” she says softly. “And remember, I’m always here if you need me.”

The door closes with a soft click, and the tension in the room eases slightly. You exhale slowly, your fingers still brushing the delicate handle of the cup.

“Monica…” you begin, but the older woman’s gentle but firm voice cuts you off.

“No, Your Majesty,” Monica says quietly, her hand still resting on yours. “Not today.”

You frown, confusion and fatigue warring in your gaze. “But it’s just—”

“Not today,” Monica repeats, her voice soft but resolute. She glances at the teacup, her expression darkening. “You don’t need that today.”

You stare at the cup for a long moment, then nod slowly, allowing yourself to be guided away from it. As Monica leads you to the chaise, your eyes linger on the abandoned cup—on the amber liquid that seems to shimmer ominously under the soft glow of the morning sun.

For the first time in weeks, the tea remains untouched.

× × × ×

The air in the study of the Carter estate crackled with tension, the grand fireplace roaring with heat, but the chill in the room was unmistakable. Lord Carter stood by the window, hands clenched behind his back, his frame rigid with barely contained fury. His gaze was fixed on the darkening horizon outside, the sky tinged with the last traces of sunset, but it was clear his mind was elsewhere—burning with rage.

Behind him, Sharon stood near the door, her head slightly bowed as if she could avoid the inevitable storm brewing in her father’s expression. She’d seen him angry before, but this was different—more intense, more dangerous. She could feel it in the air, thick and suffocating, as though the walls themselves were pressing in.

“She dares,” Lord Carter spat, his voice shaking with anger. “That wretched queen dares to think she has outsmarted me. After everything… she thinks she knows everything.”

Sharon flinched as the words hit her, but she said nothing. She had learned, long ago, that silence was sometimes the best defense against her father’s fury. He paced in front of the window now, his hand twitching as thought resisting the urge to break something. The study, usually an image of calm authority, now felt like a tinderbox waiting for a spark.

“She humiliated me in front of the entire council,” Lord Carter continued, his voice low but simmering with hatred. “James stands there like a whipped dog, defending her—that woman—and you…” His gaze snapped toward Sharon, and for the first time that evening, she wished she could disappear. “You promised me progress.”

Sharon’s stomach twisted. She opened her mouth to respond, but the words stuck in her throat. She had been so sure, so certain that her plan would work—that weakening the queen’s health would make her more compliant, more vulnerable. But now…

Her father’s voice cut through her thoughts like a knife. “How is the tea going, Sharon?” He asked the question quietly, too quietly, and that made her pulse race even faster.

Sharon swallowed hard, finally forcing herself to meet his gaze. “She hasn’t been drinking it. . .” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. “I was making progress, but… Monica is back. She’s been by the queen’s side constantly since her return.”

Lord Carter’s eyes darkened, his jaw clenched so tightly that the muscles in his neck strained. 

“Monica,” he hissed, as though the very name tasted of poison. He turned away, fists clenched at his sides. “I warned you, Sharon. I warned you not to let anyone get in the way.”

Sharon flinched again, instinctively stepping back. “Father, I’m trying—”

“You’re failing,” he snapped, rounding on her. His eyes flashed with an intensity that made her heart pound. “If Monica is back, then she’ll suspect something. She’s always been too clever for her own good. You should have handled this before she returned.”

“I didn’t expect her to come back so soon,” Sharon tried to explain, her voice trembling slightly despite her efforts to keep calm. “But I can still—”

“You can still what?” Lord Carter cut her off, his voice a dangerous growl. “This was supposed to be simple. A quiet weakening, a slow descent into illness. But now she’s refusing the tea, and Monica is back to interfere. You’re letting this slip through your fingers.”

Sharon bit her lip, her mind racing for some solution, some way to fix the mess that was unraveling before her. But no matter how much she tried, every path seemed blocked by Monica’s return.

Lord Carter turned away from her again, his fingers tapping against his chin as he stared into the flames of the fireplace. His silence was more terrifying than his anger.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke again—his voice low, cold, and utterly devoid of emotion. “Then you know what needs to be done.”

Sharon’s blood ran cold. “What do you mean?” she whispered, though she already knew.

Lord Carter didn’t look at her as he continued. “Monica has always been a problem. If she’s standing in our way, we remove her. Permanently.”

Sharon’s breath hitched, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “You want me to… to kill her?”

Lord Carter turned then, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous resolve. “You’ve already been poisoning the queen,” he said flatly, his tone as casual as if they were discussing the weather. “Killing Monica is no different. She is just another obstacle.”

Sharon’s eyes widened in horror, her breath catching in her throat. “W-What? Poisoning the queen?” she echoed, her voice trembling with disbelief. “You said it was just… just contraceptive, Father!”

Lord Carter’s gaze remained cold and unyielding, his lips curling in disdain. “And you believed that? You thought preventing an heir was all we needed? No, Sharon, it had to be more. The queen’s power had to be diminished entirely. You were simply too naive to see the bigger picture.”

Sharon’s heart pounded as she stood there, frozen by the weight of his words. She had done terrible things before—sabotaged, lied, manipulated—but this… this was different. This was murder.

Lord Carter’s expression softened slightly, but there was no warmth in it. Only the cold steel of a man who had long since buried any sense of morality. “You’ve come too far to back out now, Sharon. Either you do this, or you lose everything. Do you understand me?”

Her throat tightened, and for a moment, she felt like she couldn’t breathe. But then, slowly, she nodded. She had no choice. Not if she wanted to survive her father’s wrath.

“Good,” Lord Carter said, turning back toward the window. “And if anyone else stands in our way—Monica, the queen, anyone—remove them. We’re too close now to be stopped.”

Sharon’s heart pounded in her chest as she watched her father’s back, her mind racing with a thousand dark thoughts. She had always known her father was ruthless, but this… this was something else entirely. She wasn’t sure if she had the strength to go through with it.

But as the flickering flames cast shadows across the room, one thing became painfully clear: she had no choice.

× × × ×

Monica descended the stairs, her soft footsteps echoing faintly in the emptiness. She had just finished a late meeting and was heading toward her chambers, her mind lost in thought.

Above her, hidden in the shadows at the top of the staircase, Sharon stood, her pulse racing with every passing second. Her father’s voice echoed in her mind: “Monica must be removed. She is a threat to everything we've worked for.”

Sharon’s hands clenched tightly, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew she was running out of time. Monica’s constant presence by the queen’s side was unraveling her carefully laid plans. Tonight had to be the night. She couldn’t wait any longer.

The grand staircase was the perfect opportunity—isolated, with no one around to witness what was about to happen. Sharon had made sure the railing had been loosened earlier by a servant. But now, patience was no longer an option. Monica needed to be dealt with immediately.

Monica, unaware of Sharon’s presence, continued her descent, her steps steady. She reached the middle of the staircase when Sharon silently slipped out of the shadows, her movements quick and precise. Her breath came in shallow bursts, her heart hammering in her ears as she neared her target.

Without hesitation, Sharon surged forward, closing the gap between them. Just as Monica reached the next landing, Sharon struck. She placed her hands firmly on Monica’s back and shoved.

The push wasn’t strong, but it was well-timed.

Monica’s eyes widened as she felt the unexpected force behind her. Her arms flailed as she stumbled forward, desperately trying to grab hold of the banister. But the railing, already weakened, gave way with a loud, splintering crack.

A sharp gasp escaped Monica’s lips as she lost her balance completely. She tumbled down the stairs, her body slamming against the stone steps with brutal force. Her ankle twisted, and she could feel the sharp pain as her head hit the cold marble. She rolled painfully down several more steps before finally crashing at the bottom, her limbs sprawled awkwardly, her breathing shallow.

Sharon stood frozen at the top of the staircase, watching the scene below her. Monica lay still, her body motionless except for the faint rise and fall of her chest. Sharon’s heart pounded in her ears, her mind racing. She had done it. She had pushed Monica.

But then she hesitated—what if Monica wasn’t dead? What if she survived? Panic set in.

Monica stirred, a faint groan escaping her lips as she tried to move. But the pain in her body was too much. Her vision blurred as she attempted to sit up, the world around her spinning. She felt blood trickling from a wound on her forehead, the coppery taste filling her mouth. Her head throbbed, and before she could even process what had happened, darkness overtook her. She lost consciousness, her body slumping back against the cold stone floor.

Sharon’s breath caught in her throat, and her body tensed. This wasn’t the clean, easy accident she had planned. Fear surged through her, and without waiting to see if anyone had heard the fall, she turned and fled back into the shadows. She needed to get away before someone saw her.

Her footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor as she hurried away, her mind racing with panic. She couldn’t afford to be caught.

Moments after Sharon disappeared, two palace guards patrolling the nearby hallway heard the distant sound of something—someone—falling. Their footsteps quickened as they reached the staircase. At the bottom, they found Lady Monica lying unconscious, blood staining the side of her face, her body twisted painfully.

“Lady Monica!” one of the guards shouted, rushing to her side. He knelt down, feeling her faint pulse, relief flooding through him. “She’s alive. Quickly, get the physician!”

The second guard ran off, disappearing down the hall in search of help, while the first guard stayed by Monica’s side, carefully positioning her to avoid further injury. The grand staircase, usually a symbol of regal elegance, was now tainted with the scent of blood and the ominous aura of a near-tragedy.

× × × × 

After the incident where he lost control and harmed the queen, he had needed to leave—a necessity to keep you safe… from himself. Bucky lay in bed, his face pale and drawn from the relentless headaches that had plagued him for years. Isaac sat by his bedside, his expression grim, while Steve and Sam stood nearby, their eyes fixed on their friend with concern.

Bucky shifted slightly, trying to ease the pounding in his head. "What is it, Isaac?" he asked, his voice hoarse but lined with worry. Isaac had been unusually quiet since entering the room, a sign that something was terribly wrong.

Isaac exchanged a glance with Steve and Sam before leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "It is about Monica."

Bucky’s brow furrowed, his body tensing immediately. "Monica? What of her?"

Isaac took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair. "She fell… down the grand staircase earlier this night."

The words struck the room like a hammer blow. Bucky’s eyes widened in shock as he pushed himself up slightly on the bed. "Is she well?"

"She is," Isaac answered quickly, nodding. "She has only recently regained consciousness, but… there is something you must know."

Steve and Sam exchanged uneasy glances, stepping closer to the bed, sensing the gravity in Isaac’s tone.

"What is it?" Bucky pressed, his voice thick with concern.

Isaac hesitated for a moment, choosing his words with care. "Monica… claims she did not fall. She claims she was pushed."

The room fell deathly still.

Steve furrowed his brow, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. "Pushed? What do you mean, pushed?"

Isaac’s gaze shifted to Steve. "That is what she said. She recalls someone behind her… someone pushing her down the stairs."

Sam’s face darkened, and he stepped forward. "Why would someone do such a thing? Who would do this?"

Isaac shook his head slowly, the weight of the situation pressing down upon the room. "She did not see who it was. She lost consciousness after the fall. But she is certain—someone pushed her. This was no accident."

Bucky closed his eyes briefly, his jaw clenched in anger and frustration. "Could it be related to what is happening with Y/N? Could they be trying to reach her through Monica?"

Steve’s brow furrowed deeper, the tension in the room mounting. "It is possible. Monica has been by Y/N’s side since her return, caring for her… She has always been loyal. Perhaps someone views her as a threat."

Isaac suddenly let out a low, humorless laugh, shaking his head as though something had just clicked in his mind. The sound caught the attention of the others, and they turned to him, startled by the shift in his demeanor.

"Do you find this amusing?" Steve asked, furrowing his brow in confusion.

Isaac leaned back in his chair, still shaking his head, a dark smile curling his lips. "What a mess this is," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible but laden with realization. He looked up at Steve, his expression now serious. "And no, Steve. I do not find it amusing."

“Then why—”

Isaac’s eyes darkened, cutting Steve off before he could finish. “Because I may know who is behind this… and you had best pray it is not connected to the matters I have been investigating outside the palace walls.”

Bucky, still propped up on the bed, straightened, his brow creasing with concern. "What are you implying, Isaac?"

Isaac stood up, his expression hardening, determination visible on his face. “I must return to the palace tonight. There is more at work here than mere court politics. If this is tied to what I have uncovered, then the danger is far greater than we could have foreseen.”

Steve stepped toward him, his eyes searching Isaac’s face for answers. "Isaac, what exactly are you dealing with?"

Isaac gave Steve a brief glance but shifted his focus back to Bucky. The words were on the tip of his tongue, and they were too important to delay. He stepped closer to his brother’s bedside, his gaze sharp.

“Y/N is not safe within the palace,” Isaac said bluntly, his voice cold and honest. "And I do not mean solely because of those who plot against her."

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “What exactly are you saying?”

Isaac’s gaze flickered with a mixture of frustration and concern. “I am saying that even with you there, she is not safe. You cannot control what is happening to you, Bucky. We both know it.” His tone was brutally honest, cutting through the room like a blade. "What will happen the next time you lose control?"

Bucky’s face tightened, the memory of what he had done to you cutting deeper than any physical wound. He did not respond immediately, his breath catching in his throat. His mind flashed back to that dreadful day—your face pale with fear, your body fragile beneath his grip as the Winter Soldier surfaced. He had not meant to hurt you, but he had.

Isaac’s tone softened slightly, though his words remained firm. “I do not say this to hurt you, brother. I say it because you must face the truth.”

Bucky’s fists clenched, his knuckles turning white. “I would never—”

“You did not mean to,” Isaac interrupted, his voice steady but relentless. “But it happened. And what is to stop it from happening again? You battle yourself every day, and the more you seek to protect her, the more dangerous you become.”

The room was thick with tension, the truth of Isaac’s words hanging heavily in the air.

Steve’s face was taut with concern, but he remained silent. He knew Isaac was right—Bucky’s unpredictability, especially with the Winter Soldier still lurking deep within him, posed a constant threat. It was only a matter of time.

"I shall return to the palace," Isaac said decisively. "I will continue my investigation, but you must prepare yourself for whatever is coming. If Sharon—or anyone else—is behind this, then this is far from finished."

Isaac glanced briefly at Steve and Sam, his expression unreadable, before turning and heading toward the door.

As he reached for the handle, he paused, casting one last look at his brother. “I will do all in my power to keep Y/N safe. But we must be honest about the dangers we face.”

Bucky said nothing, the weight of Isaac’s words bearing down upon him. His heart ached with the memory of the moment he had lost control, the horror in your eyes. Isaac left without another word, the sound of the door closing behind him echoing in the silence. × × × × 

You sit at the grand desk, your fingers lightly tracing the edges of the parchment before you. On the table lies a list of names—potential consorts for Bucky—that Scott had handed you earlier. The sight of the names only deepens the pit of discomfort in your stomach.

Your eyes scan the names, but your mind is far from the task. Despite the formalities, the political pressures, and the expectations of the court, all you can think of is Bucky—of his absence and the aching space it leaves in your heart.

A soft knock on the door startles you from your thoughts. The door creaks open, and you glance up, your heart skipping a beat. For a moment, you think it’s Bucky. But as the figure steps further into the light, your breath catches.

It isn’t him.

It’s his twin brother, Prince Isaac. The resemblance is uncanny, though there is something sharper in Isaac’s demeanor—an edge that sets him apart from Bucky’s more familiar warmth. His presence fills the room in a different way, his dark gaze locking onto yours as he steps forward.

You quickly stand, smoothing the fabric of your gown as you try to compose yourself. You’ve seen Isaac around the palace, of course—always lingering in the background, watching but never approaching. But this is the first time you’ve spoken face to face.

"Your Majesty," Isaac greets with a formal bow, his voice smooth, yet carrying an undertone of something darker, something almost unreadable. "I hope I am not intruding."

You blink, recovering from your initial surprise. "Not at all," you reply, your voice measured. "I—" You hesitate briefly before continuing. "I thought you were Bucky at first."

A faint smile tugs at the corner of Isaac’s lips, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. "A common mistake," he says, his tone light, yet there’s an undercurrent of something heavier. "Though I assure you, the differences are far more than they seem at first glance."

You nod, still feeling slightly off balance from the unexpected encounter. You gesture toward the desk. "I was just reviewing… some matters of state." You don’t want to mention the list of consorts, as the topic feels both awkward and deeply personal.

Isaac’s gaze flickers to the papers on your desk, though he says nothing about them. Instead, he steps further into the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "I’ve been meaning to introduce myself properly, Your Majesty. It seems fate has delayed that until now."

You incline your head slightly. "Yes, I’ve seen you around the palace, but we have not had the chance to speak."

Isaac gives a slight nod, his eyes never leaving yours. "I apologize for that. Matters of… importance have kept me away from more formal introductions."

You sense the weight behind his words, though you’re unsure if you should press him on it. Instead, you decide to keep the conversation polite, at least for now. "You needn’t apologize. I am aware that you’ve been preoccupied with other affairs. I hear your work takes you far beyond the palace walls."

Isaac’s expression shifts subtly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he quickly masks it. "Yes. My duties are… varied." He pauses, his gaze growing more intense. "But my primary concern is always the safety of the royal family."

There’s something in the way he says it that makes you uneasy, though you can’t quite place why. You fold your hands in front of you, offering a polite smile. "I appreciate your concern, Prince Isaac."

Isaac’s eyes linger on you for a moment longer before he glances back toward the desk, where the list of consorts lies partially rolled up. "And how goes the selection of potential consorts for my brother?" he asks, his tone casual but his eyes sharp.

Your fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the table. You don’t want to discuss it with him—especially not when your heart feels so conflicted. "It’s… a process," you reply vaguely, trying to brush off the question. "One that requires much consideration."

Isaac arches an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. "Indeed. I can imagine it is a difficult decision. Though I am sure you will choose wisely." There’s a pause, and then he adds, more quietly, "I doubt anyone could replace you in Bucky's heart, though.

Your heart skips a beat at the mention of Bucky’s name, and you find yourself momentarily speechless. Isaac has touched on a truth you’re trying so desperately to ignore—that no matter who is presented to you, no one will ever replace the place you holds in Bucky's heart.

Isaac’s gaze softens slightly, though his voice remains firm. "The court may demand certain things, but the heart seldom aligns with such demands."

You look up at him, a flicker of vulnerability crossing your expression. "I... suppose you’re right."

Isaac steps closer, his presence looming but not oppressive. "If I may speak candidly, Your Majesty," he says, his tone quiet but steady, "I know my brother better than anyone. He left because he believed it was the only way to protect you."

You feel a lump form in your throat at the mention of Bucky’s departure. "He thought he was protecting me by leaving, that sounds about right." you murmur, more to yourself than to Isaac.

Isaac’s gaze softens further, though his eyes still hold that sharpness. "He lov— means well. That is why he left." He pauses, his voice lowering. "But you should know, running away from the ones we care about does not always keep them safe."

Your chest tightens at Isaac’s words. The weight of your decisions—of the future you’re supposed to secure, and the person you love who is far away—presses down on you all at once. You look down at the list of consorts again, your heart heavy with uncertainty.

Isaac takes a step back, his expression unreadable once more. "I shall leave you to your considerations, Your Majesty," he says, his voice formal again. "But if you ever need counsel… you know where to find me."

You open your mouth, words bubbling up as uncertainty grips you. "Wait."

Isaac pauses, turning back to face you, his expression unreadable. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

You glance at the list of names on the desk and then back at him. The idea of selecting someone to fill the void in Bucky's absence feels too heavy, too painful to do alone. "I… I need your help."

Isaac’s eyes narrow slightly in surprise. "You want my counsel in choosing a consort?" His voice carries a note of disbelief, as though he hadn’t expected this request.

You nod slowly, your voice soft. "Yes. I trust that you know Bucky better than anyone. I want to make the right decision, for him… for the kingdom."

For a moment, Isaac says nothing. He studies you, his expression unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes—a flicker of recognition, perhaps even sympathy.

"I understand," he finally replies, stepping closer once again. His tone has shifted, quieter, more serious. "I will help you."

Relief washes over you, though a lingering unease remains. You gesture to the list on the desk. "These are the names the council suggested. But I do not know some of them personally. I want someone who would truly support Bucky, someone who would not try to—" You hesitate, unable to finish the sentence, your heart aching at the thought of someone else standing beside him.

Isaac steps beside you, his gaze sweeping over the list. "These names," he says slowly, "are politically motivated. The council seeks alliances that strengthen their own positions, not necessarily what is best for my brother."

His words confirm what you feared, and you let out a soft sigh. "Then who would be the right choice?"

Isaac’s fingers lightly trace one of the names, his gaze thoughtful. 

Natasha Romanoff Carol Danvers Yelena Belova Wanda Maximoff Sharon Carter Ivanya Haynesworth Jane Haynesworth Ciara Pierce Alana Ross

"There are few here who would serve Bucky's interests. But I can tell you who to avoid."

You look up at him, your heart clenching at the dilemma before you. 

Isaac's gaze meets yours, and his voice drops to a whisper, firm and reassuring. "Bucky will return, and when he does, he will not care about a consort or the court’s demands. You know that, do you not?"

His words strike deep, echoing a truth you’ve been trying to ignore. You swallow hard, looking back down at the list, your voice barely audible. "I don’t know anymore."

Isaac places a hand gently on your shoulder, his voice steady and certain. "Trust me, Your Majesty. Together, we will ensure no one takes advantage of this situation. We will make the right decision, for Bucky and for you."

For the first time in a long while, you feel a flicker of hope. You meet Isaac’s gaze, nodding slowly. "Thank you," you whisper.

Isaac offers a faint smile. "You are not alone in this. I am here to help, Your Majesty."

You lean forward slightly, resting your hands on the edge of the desk, your gaze drifting back to the list of names. "Wanda… she’s kind and empathetic. I know she would be supportive of Bucky in the way he needs." You glance up at Isaac, searching for some reaction, hoping for guidance.

Isaac’s expression remains neutral, but there’s a flicker—so brief it’s almost imperceptible. His eyes soften just for a second at the mention of Wanda’s name, a subtle shift in his otherwise composed demeanor.

"Wanda is indeed… remarkable," Isaac says, his voice steady but with a weight behind his words that lingers. He glances away, only for a moment, as if guarding a thought he won’t voice. "She would be a strong choice, no doubt."

There’s a silence that follows, one you can’t quite place. You catch the faintest trace of something in Isaac’s tone—admiration, perhaps? It’s gone before you can fully grasp it, but the subtle hint lingers in the air between you. He composes himself again quickly, his gaze meeting yours, sharp and clear.

"But whether she would want this role, as we’ve discussed, is something to consider," Isaac continues, his tone once more composed, giving no further indication of the brief flicker you saw. "Her loyalty and strength, however, would make her an asset to anyone she chose to stand beside."

You nod slowly, feeling as though you’ve glimpsed something more, but unsure if it was truly there. The conversation shifts back to the list of names, yet the faint trace of Isaac’s earlier reaction stays with you, leaving you with the slightest suspicion that perhaps Wanda occupies a place in his thoughts beyond simple respect.

As the conversation with Isaac winds down, the weight of your decisions still presses heavily on your mind, though the subtle sense of clarity Isaac has provided lingers. You stand, smoothing the fabric of your gown, your gaze drifting once again to the list of names on the desk.

Isaac watches you for a moment, his expression thoughtful but unreadable. "If you need anything else, Your Majesty, do not hesitate to call upon me," he says, his voice formal once more. 

"Thank you, Isaac," you reply softly, offering him a small but sincere nod. "Your counsel has been invaluable."

Just as Isaac is about to turn and leave, you feel a sudden tug in your chest—a need for one last question, one that’s been lingering at the back of your mind since he arrived. Before he can reach the door, you take a breath and call out softly, “Prince Isaac?”

He pauses, hands on the door handle, and turns back to face you. His expression shifts slightly, as though he knows what you’re about to ask but has been waiting for you to voice it.

“How… how is Bucky?” you ask, your voice quiet but filled with concern. “In Annecy, I mean. Is he doing… is he all right?”

Isaac’s features soften, and the sharpness in his gaze briefly gives way to something gentler. He steps back toward you, his demeanor more personal now.

“He’s managing,” Isaac replies, careful to choose his words. “Annecy has been a place of respite for him. He’s doing what he needs to do, focusing on himself for now.”

You nod, though your heart aches with the unspoken worries swirling in your mind. “I just… I miss him. I want to be there for him.”

Isaac’s gaze lingers on you, understanding etched across his features. “He knows that,” he says gently. “And I believe he’ll return when the time is right. For now, he’s doing what he feels he must, but it’s not forever.”

A wave of relief mixes with the ever-present ache of Bucky’s absence. You offer Isaac a small, grateful nod, managing to keep your emotions steady.

“Thank you,” you say softly. “For telling me.”

Isaac offers a brief smile, dipping his head slightly. “Take care, Your Majesty,” he says, his tone formal again but still carrying a trace of warmth.

With that, Isaac turns and exits the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts. The door clicks shut, and you exhale slowly, the conversation lingering in your mind. You feel both reassured and uneasy, knowing Bucky is far away, but at least he's safe for now—so you hope.

You glance back at the list of potential consorts, but your mind is elsewhere, focusing instead on the people who matter most to you—those who’ve stood by you, offered their strength and loyalty. You take a deep breath, resolving that this next step must be handled delicately.

"Scott?" you call, your voice soft yet firm.

Within moments, Scott appears at the door, his posture respectful as always. "Yes, Your Majesty?" he asks, his tone deferential.

You offer him a gentle smile. "Please extend an invitation for tea. I would like to meet with Lady Maximoff. This afternoon, if she is available."

Scott nods immediately, his professionalism unwavering. "Of course, Your Majesty. I will deliver the invitations at once."

As Scott exits the room to carry out your request, you let out a quiet sigh, your mind already racing through the upcoming meeting. These women are not just potential allies—they are people you trust, whose opinions matter deeply to you. The thought of seeing them, of discussing the choices ahead, brings a small sense of comfort, despite the heavy decisions still lingering on the horizon.

You glance once more at the abandoned list on your desk, knowing that whatever lies ahead.

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