#lashes longer than mine

[blackgurlnhermoods]

He’s so pretty.. 😍

[widdlediddle2]

Me and my gf were talking about a lwa wing au and we both agreed that croix would be based off of this fucking bird

Look at how dramatic this bird is💀💀💀💀

[ryukatters]

its taking longer than i expected (had to pose my own ref so that took a while 😞) but i want to show u that ITS COMING ALONG!!! here’s gojo so far…

no hair no neck no glasses just head so far tho…. his kiss was interrupted 😚

Forest…he looks absolutely gorgeous

[julietsf1]

Post-Race Snuggles - Franco Colapinto x Reader

Summary: After an intense Singapore GP, Franco’s idea of the perfect cool down is snuggling up in his girlfriend’s lap; very fluff <3

warnings: possibly incorrect Spanish?

AN - I can't keep lying to myself I think I am not just on here to read anymore lmao, this one is just 1k but I have another longer story coming tomorrow or so! enjoy my lovelies

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

The sticky warmth of Singapore’s night air clung to me as I sat in Franco’s motorhome, waiting for him to return. I flicked through some post-race coverage on my phone, knowing how drained he must be after a race like that. The screen showed him smiling during the interviews, but I knew better—Franco’s green eyes gave away just how tired he was.

When the door creaked open, I glanced up and saw him there, looking utterly exhausted, his brown hair messy and damp from the heat. His race suit was unzipped, hanging loosely around his waist. Franco didn’t say anything—he didn’t need to. He walked over with heavy steps, wrapped his arms around me, and buried his face into my shoulder.

“Hi there.” I laughed softly, reaching up to run my fingers through his hair. It was fluffier than usual, curling slightly from the sweat and humidity. “Tough day?”

He let out a low groan, not bothering to lift his head. “Si…” His voice was muffled, and I could feel the exhaustion in the way his body leaned into mine. “So tired.”

I smiled softly, running my hand down his back, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the fabric of his suit. Suddenly, Franco shifted, pulling back just enough to take my hand in his. His eyes, though heavy with fatigue, met mine for a brief moment, and without a word, he gently tugged me down onto the couch beside him.

With a quiet sigh, he laid back, guiding my body to follow his until I was leaning into him. His head found its way into my lap as he settled in. I felt his hand resting on my waist first, a soft, grounding touch, before it slid down to rest comfortably on my thigh. His thumb moved lazily, tracing small circles, as if he needed to hold onto me even in his tired state.

“You want me to make you something? Mate, or a snack?” I asked quietly, brushing my fingers through his hair, feeling the warmth radiating from his skin.

He shook his head slowly. “No, just this. Esto es todo lo que necesito.” His voice was soft, the Spanish slipping out naturally as his eyes fluttered closed. His arms loosened slightly around my legs, his thumb brushing lazily against my thigh, the lightest touch, as if even that small movement required too much effort.

I chuckled, running my hand through his hair again, smoothing it down where it stuck up in odd places. “You did amazing today. P11! I’m so proud of you.”

A faint smile curved his lips. His breathing started to slow, the tension melting away as I continued stroking his hair. This was my favorite version of Franco—the quiet, soft one who didn’t need to be witty or flirty. Just the one who wanted to be close.

Franco’s weight settled fully against me, his eyes were shut now, his messy curls resting in my lap. His thumb continued its slow, lazy patterns on my leg, the sweet small gesture sending warmth through me. His skin was warm from the heat of the race, his hair slightly damp, and I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful he looked, even when he was this tired. His lashes were long, his green eyes hidden behind them, and his lips, parted slightly as he breathed, were soft, with the faintest smile still playing there.

“You looked so good out there today,” I whispered, knowing he probably couldn’t hear me in his tired state. “Fast, confident… and you know, kind of cute with all that sweaty hair.”

He let out a soft, breathy chuckle. “Most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

I grinned. “Don’t get used to it. I’m only nice to you when you’re too tired to remember.”

His lips twitched into a smile, but he didn’t respond, his breathing evening out even more. The motorhome was dimly lit, casting soft shadows, making everything feel even cozier. The sounds outside—people moving around the paddock, the distant hum of engines cooling down—faded away. It was just us, tangled up in the warmth of each other’s presence.

As I stroked his hair, I could feel him relax completely. His body was fully at ease, and I knew he was almost asleep. He looked so peaceful, his usual spark of energy tucked away for the night. I smiled down at him, my heart full. These moments, after the chaos of race days, were our little slice of quiet, where it felt like the world didn’t exist outside this motorhome.

Franco shifted slightly, nuzzling deeper into my lap. I thought he was fully asleep until his voice broke the silence, soft and raspy.

“Te amo,” he murmured, his eyes barely open, heavy with exhaustion.

My heart skipped a beat. He’d said it before, but hearing it now, with his defenses down, made it feel different. I glanced down, expecting to see him fully asleep, but instead, those green eyes peeked up at me through his lashes, tired but full of something deeper.

I felt a rush of warmth fill my chest. “I love you too,” I whispered, leaning down to kiss his forehead again, my fingers gently running through his hair.

His eyes fluttered shut at the kiss, his lips curving into a faint smile. “Más que a nada en el mundo…” he mumbled, his voice trailing off into sleep, the weight of his words lingering between us like a quiet promise.

I stayed like that, holding him close as he drifted off completely, my hand still in his hair, thinking about how easy it was to love him—especially in moments like this.

[alexiroflife]

friday nights.

satoru gojo

“hold still…”

your command comes as a soft murmur as you guide the wand of your white mascara over your boyfriend’s eyelashes. he tries to obey, though involuntarily his eyes twitch and his pink lips press together in a crinkled, tight smile as though he is holding his breath.

“please don’t stab me in the eye, their my best feature,” he hisses slowly, and you only lean in closer with intense focus, legs squeezing over satoru’s waist as your abdomen presses gently to his.

“relax, i know what i’m doing,” you whisper.

long fingers smooth gently over your bare thighs and to your waist, pressing in gently to hold you close and busy his restless urges. you keep a hand cradled to the pearly soft skin of satoru’s jaw as he breathes in and out calmly, crystal hues staring at your concentrated face as the first stroke swipes upward and over his already quite long lashes.

you dust a strand of snowy hair from his forehead that has snuck away from the band that holds his hair back from his face, freeing the space of his forehead and only accentuating the electricity of his model-esque features.

you feel satoru’s chest jerk slightly, a swift shot of air blowing from his nose and into your face, and when you look down you see his lips curling with laughter. “feels funny,” he explains quickly, hushedly as though he should not be speaking. “do i look prettier yet?”

“i’ve barely even started, toru,” you chuckle lightly, a flutter of heaven that hits your boyfriend’s ears and encourages the tender caress of his hand over your curved back.

“i know, but i wanna see what it looks like.”

“you will, just give me a second…”

“you do this every day?” he asks, blinking accidentally before popping his eyes back open widely when he realizes his mistake. you reel your hand and the mascara back an inch.

“most days, and i told you to be still,” you eye him. his eyes lock to yours, a dimple prodding into his cheek with the approach of a sheepish grin.

“sorry, keep going. i want you to make my eyelashes look just like yours.”

“baby, yours are much longer than mine,” you sigh, leaning back in and cautiously stroking the brush of white ink across his. “if anything, this’ll make you look like you have extensions.”

“i still like the way you do yours, princess,” he smiles. “they’re so pretty.”

“but yours are beautiful,” you counter. satoru gazes over you as you press yourself further into him, lips hovering over his as your brows furrow with the finishing touches you apply.

satoru’s eyes grow heavy, and he doesn’t even give you time to pull the wand away before pushing his head up gently to meet your lips with his. the wand, consequently, swipes lightly upward and over his upper lid.

he pulls back, head hitting the pillow again with a satisfied smile, three streaks of white lining over his skin. “satoru!” you cry, and he hums, sliding a hand to your cheek once you lower the tube from him.

“go ahead, pretty, do the other one.”

“you got mascara all over your eye,” you roll your eyes with a giggle. you set the wand down and swipe your tongue quickly over your thumb before rubbing it over the marks.

“ew,” the white haired man beneath you playfully cringes and you roll your eyes.

“shut up.”

satoru’s eyes crinkle with another laugh, hands settling back onto your upper thighs as you fix up the small error, the two of you soaking into one another’s closeness.

-> trying something new for the little thoughts i have that are too small for fics :) yay or nay to blurbs?

[suguann]

SAY YOU'RE MINE—GOJO SATORU.

✎.You shouldn’t elicit his attention more than any other Omega at the party—he doesn’t remember inviting that many—but he’s wondering how he let you slip by. | wc. 1.4k+

tags. fem!reader, age-gap, very shy reader, exhibitionism, reader wears glasses, a/b/o, 18+ only

masterlist

The big, awful truth nobody tells you about hosting your fortieth birthday is how the shine of the day wears off once you see your friends and acquaintances laughing with their loved ones, talking about their kids, showing off pictures of newborns swaddled in soft linens, and making plans for upcoming holidays. 

Gojo sips his drink, pretending to understand. He’s never given much thought to settling down, to take an omega as a mate and fill his big empty house with the sounds of pealing laughter and little feet racing down the many halls.

Forty years old, and he’s ready to admit that living the life of a bachelor doesn’t hold the same appeal as it once did. That returning from a two-week-long business trip might be better if there were somebody to go home to.

Forty years old.

Instead of cozying up in the living room with a family he longs to have, he’s going to spend the rest of his night picking up plates and champagne flutes after everyone leaves because he forgot to hire a cleaning company—all alone in his big empty house, wondering if his secretary remembered to pick up his dry-cleaning for the week.

An unmated Alpha—the reminder chafes as much as the fact he’s getting older.

He finally understands why his late aunt divorced and got married again twice in the same year, why people buy nice vacation homes on white sandy beaches that make the crow’s feet around their eyes worse, and spend too much money on sports cars even though they stay parked for three-fourths of the year. He gets it now.

It’s more or less an epiphany of a sad, pathetic truth that he swallows down with something cold and bitter.

In the middle of his backyard, standing between his neighbor and his pregnant wife, Gojo wishes he were anywhere else. Inviting everyone he knows within driving distance no longer seems like the well-thought idea he’d presumed it’d been.

He makes a few more rounds around the garden before sneaking inside, escaping another conversation about engagements and wedding dates to hide away in his study.

That’s until he sees you out of the corner of his eye, looking through the bookcases in his living room.

A pretty slip of a girl in your modest cocktail dress and wide-framed glasses slipping down the slope of your nose. An Omega, alone, just like him; your clean, sweet, floral scent sticking to the back of his throat like syrup until it settles in his stomach. Enough to make him dizzy.

You shouldn’t elicit his attention more than any other Omega at the party—he doesn’t remember inviting that many—but he’s wondering how he let you slip by. Not that it really matters because his back straightens, no longer wallowing in self-pity, and he studies you with interest.

After a few moments, you finally glance his way, only for you to hastily return your attention to the book you pulled down from the shelf. Cute.

Gojo adjusts the tie around his neck and feels his lips twitch.

“Sorry,” you say softly, long lashes fluttering against the top of your cheeks. “I didn’t mean—I was only—My friend invited me, and she—”

You are too busy working yourself up over an explanation that you don’t notice when he sidles up next to you and reads over your shoulder. "I have more in my office if you want to take a look.”

“E-excuse me?” You make this breathy, choked sound and peer up at him from under your lashes. This visibly timid type of girl who bashfully looks away at the sight of his smile. For some reason, that makes his mouth go dry—makes his teeth ache. 

It’s rare to be so driven by instinct and rarer to actually listen to that instinct.

“Books,” he says. “Do you want to see them?”

His words take a second to sink in, and he smiles when he sees liquid clarity in your eyes. You blink owlishly, scent spiking, pleased. He stands there patiently, finding how you start rambling endearing, a slight, private grin splitting across his face—silently amused.

He thinks you'd bolt if it weren’t for the fact that he’s probably standing much too close, trapping a mouse by the tail.

“I–I g-guess,” you finally stutter.

It’s too easy: You letting him usher you up the stairs toward his office. 

If Gojo were a better person, a less lonely Alpha—a better man—he might feel bad for how well it works.

It’s no small thing to work the tiny zipper at your back and watch your dress pool around your feet. He barely gets the top three buttons of his shirt undone before you are—delightfully, inexplicably—up on the tips of your toes, timidly pushing your hands through his hair, mewling into the hollow of his throat, close to where his gland sits.

By the time he has you pressed against his office window, you’re this flustered little mess with crooked glasses, fingers streaking the once pristine glass to keep your balance, and breasts sticky and wet with spit.

“Good girl,” he mutters, pulling back to look down at where he’s splitting you open. “Such a good little Omega for me, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer, and he crowds you closer to the window, grasping your chin and tugging your head up until you’re looking at him upside down. He squeezes your cheeks together, your pouty, supple lips pushed out, and kisses your mouth, tasting you—unimaginably sweet.

“Tell me—tell me what a good girl you are,” even though he knows you can’t with his fingers pressing into your cheeks, but you try anyway.

“U-uh but—people c-can see.” 

The base of his cock tingles as he catches a line of drool spilling from the corner of your lips. He makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, soothing, and you steadily melt against him when he slips that same finger underneath the elastic of your underwear, lightly nudging your clit with the tip of his finger until you’re shivering beautifully again.

“That’s it. Don’t worry about them,” he coaxes lightly, but it comes out muffled because he says it with his mouth wrapped around the gland at the base of your neck, teasing himself with something he’s never allowed himself to have. Not yet. “Just you and me, okay?”

Gojo doesn’t let up until your back arches and shoulders tighten, his knot caught inside your cunt until all he can do is grind the tip of his cock against that spot that makes you squirm and whine. 

He smiles to himself when you hide behind your hands after realizing you ruined his pants, and he carefully falls back into his office chair, pulling you with him so you’re both looking out across the garden, where his guests walk around wholly unaware of the breathtaking little Omega who made his birthday worthwhile.

“You’re a dirty little thing, aren’t you?” he muses, taking great pleasure in the way you start stuttering again.

On his forty-first birthday, he doesn’t throw his own party but still hides in his office, his pretty wife in his lap, flustered because he never turned the lights off this time. If anyone happened to walk by on this side of the house, they’d be able to see everything—his omega, soft and swollen from a piece of him taking root inside you.

Families are about making traditions, he thinks, and he’d like to start a few traditions of his own; leaving his party to fuck his wife in the quiet of his office being one of them.

[kingkat12]

art on art (eric draven x reader)

WARNINGS: 18+, piv sex, oral sex (female receiving), drug mentions, nasty fluff tihi

summary: why hasn't Eric reached out after leaving rehab yet, and how long does it take for marker ink to fade?

word count: 5,272 PART 1, PART 2, PART 3

a/n: this is part 3 of my Eric Draven fanfic draw you! thanks again for the overwhelming support of this series, and enjoy!!<333

Some broken part of me never expected to see Eric again. I knew that the previous men in my life would leave the second they got what they wanted out of me, so why should I hope for this one to be different?

I had been out of rehab for exactly two weeks now, and I knew this meant that Eric was out as well. He had my address, he had my number, and he weirdly enough also had my email address... yet I hadn't heard anything from him. Not a single thing. I wasn't quite sure why my heart was breaking at the realization I had been thrown away again-- I should be used to this.

In actuality, I knew exactly why my hopes were up.

The last time I saw Eric, had been right before I was about to leave rehab. We were standing in my room, the guards no longer watching me as I was technically excused and only there to get my stuff. I was packing everything into a big cardboard box, unable to meet Eric's green eyes as he sat on my bed-- he just looked so damn sad, I couldn't bring myself to watch. 

At the same time, I couldn't believe that he was upset about me leaving; no one had ever cared for me like that before. "Why do you look like that?" I eventually asked, stuffing his drawings into a book so that they wouldn't get ruined during the move. 

"Like what?"

"Like I'm about to shoot a puppy,"

Eric snorted, a slight smile finally forming across his lips. "Just thinking about how shit these next days are going to be without you here,"

I dared to gaze at him, watching his chest rise and fall in a long sigh. Even while doing the simplest act of sitting, Eric looked downright gorgeous. His dark hair had grown even longer during the time we had known each other, which allowed slight curls to form along his forehead. Draped in pink, tattoos peeking up from the collar of his jumper, green eyes soft with feelings-- the sight was almost enough to make my breath hitch.

"Oh, you won't notice I'm gone," I mumbled, trying to lighten the mood at the same time as I tried to be discreet about shoving my underwear down into the box. "Time will fly by, don't you worry."

Eric shifted, moving closer to the edge of the bed. He stopped me from picking up the next batch of my stuff, leading my hands into his as his rounded eyes sunk into mine. "You're saying that as though I won't miss you,"

I held my breath, unsure what to say. 

Eric noticed my hesitance, squeezing my hands; "I will miss you. Do you understand that?"

Oh, I most certainly did not understand that. Not at all. But it didn't stop my heart from swelling, beating harder than it probably ever had before. It also didn't get any better when Eric led me between his legs, letting go of my hands so that he could put his against my waist. He looked up at me through his thick, long lashes, clearly trying to make me understand the longing lingering in his body. "Will you miss me?"

There was no question in my mind that I would. I'd miss him every second of every day, as I already did. However, I wasn't sure whether it was smart to tell him this, or whether that would make him lose interest like my previous flings. But weirdly enough, something told me I could trust this guy-- or was that just his pretty face doing the talking? "I will," I said, taking his face into my hands, brushing my thumbs over his cheeks in a newfound sense of affection.

Eric's previously glossy look suddenly became a hopeful one-- he pulled me even closer, my hands going up into his hair as he buried his face against the crook of my neck. 

There was something so sincere about him, that I couldn't help but smile. Even now, as I remembered it. Was I stupid to imagine that it had all been real? That he hadn't acted like he would miss me just out of pity?

This was definitely my insecurity talking. I needed to get it all out of my head-- which is exactly why I ended up going out tonight, my friends by my side as we made our way into our usual spot at the club downtown. Being back in the darkness of this place, music blasting through my ears, brought a lot of memories back; specifically the dark ones. 

However, I wasn't drinking. I wasn't taking anything, and I wasn't planning on doing so. In the back of my mind, I kept imagining a scenario where Eric would finally reach out and find me relapsed... and that was certainly not ideal. Then he'd definitely not want to be with me.

Maybe I just needed to forget about him?

And so I began trying-- it didn't take long before I sat down next to some guy trying to tell me about his life story. I had never been this disinterested in my life, allowing him to put his arm around me as I stared up at the light-show on display across the roof, lost in thought.

I wondered where Eric was. What he was doing, who he was with, where he was. Whether he thought about me at all. It quickly hit me that being sober at a club took away all the fun, and with alcohol floating around right before my eyes, I wondered whether I should bother staying sober or not. I didn't exactly have anyone to stay clean for, as I thought I would. 

And just as I was about to ask the guy next to me whether I could have the tiniest sip of his beer, I spotted a familiar tall frame across the room. I blinked several times, straightening up in my seat as though I was a woman possessed. I was sure it was him-- I immediately knew the second I saw the tattooed poem on his back peeking through the top of his shirt.

As though I had heard a gunshot, I got up from the couch, my whole body tingling with unexpected excitement. This was an adrenaline surge unlike anything drugs could give me, and it only grew stronger as Eric seemed to be leaving. 

Panicked, I sped up into a light jog despite being in heels, making my way through the crowd on the dancefloor. It didn't take long before I caught up to him, grabbing the sleeve of his shirt.

Eric had a bewildered look about him as he frantically searched who it could be that had held him back from leaving. When his big, green eyes finally landed on me, they widened as he broke out into a look of relief. "There you are!" he exclaimed, his large hands grabbing my shoulders. "I've been looking for you all over!--"

I was sure I would've started crying if I hadn't reached for the collar of his shirt, tugging him down to my level to press my lips against his in the neediest kiss I had probably ever shared. I flung my arms around his neck as he pulled me closer, both of us letting out relieved sighs at our reunion. 

I wanted to stay like this forever, swimming in the bliss of being reunited with the man who had haunted my every waking thought. However, I couldn't let myself revel in the joy before I got the answer to my question; "You never called!" I said, my hands now at the sides of his face. "You never fucking called!"

Eric hummed, connecting our foreheads as he closed his eyes. "I did... just from a different number. You never answered, so I had to track you down all the way here,"

My thumbs stroked over his cheeks, my anger simmering down into a slow ache. The thought of Eric calling without getting a response made me feel worse than bad. "How?" was all I was able to say, leaning forward to kiss the tip of his nose.

Eric blushed a little before pulling away, and I was unsure whether the reason for my sudden dizziness was the loud music or his smile. God, he was gorgeous. "Our dealers are cousins," he said, wrapping his arms around my waist as we swayed on the dance floor. "And your guy told me I could find you here."

"I see," The loving look in Eric's eyes nearly made me melt— it was clear that he had missed me as well. But my questions kept coming to me; "Why did you get a different number? Is everything alright?"

With that, Eric's smile faltered just a little. His grip around my waist tightened as he brought one hand up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear in a loving gesture. "I... suppose there's a lot I have to tell you, now that I've come all this way,"

I could sense that this was serious— I had seen enough of those guilty eyes for one lifetime. "I see," I repeated, pulling him in for another kiss, reveling in the feeling of tasting him again. There was nothing I had missed more about rehab than this. "Let's talk it out somewhere else, then?"

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

It wasn't every day that I brought back men from the club— my policy was no men at my place at all, just in case I encountered a serial killer in disguise. But this thing with Eric was different; he could've moved in for all I cared. He could also proceed to burn it all down, rip me apart with his bare hands, and I'd let him.

However, the difference between Eric and the other men in my life was that I knew, deep down in my heart, that he would never hurt me; which is why I let him into my apartment.

I watched as Eric took a look around, his hands tucked into his front pockets as he whistled; "Quite the place,"

Shrugging, I made my way towards him as he towered over everything in my living room. "Sure is,"

Eric turned to me, a raised brow on display. "You're telling me you're loaded?"

I felt a bit embarrassed— I knew that once Eric found out the truth, he'd think of me just as all the other ones did. The spoiled girl who had nothing else to do but turn to drugs to get a high out of life. I couldn't help but grow nervous, unsure how to explain the truth to him; "Well... It's my parents' money,"

Eric nodded to himself, stepping towards me. "Are they around much? I didn't see them visiting you in rehab,"

The truth stung. "They don't want to look their biggest disappointment in the eye," I mumbled, my gaze falling to my feet. "But they make sure I'm still alive, I suppose. So it's not that bad."

There was a silence before I suddenly felt Eric's long, slender fingers beneath my chin, tilting me up so that I could meet his gaze. I wasn't sure what I was expecting to see, but it certainly wasn't this; compassion. "Their loss," he said, the emerald green of his eyes engulfing my being with unexpected kindness. "At least you got a great apartment out of it."

I let out a warm laugh, now keening against the palm of his hand as he placed it to my cheek. "I've missed you,"

As Eric smiled down at me, it was obvious that his heart fluttered at the sight of me. I had never thought someone would ever look at me like that. "I've missed you too," he breathed. "Thought about you during every waking moment of every day. You have no idea how glad I am that I found you."

I could barely believe this was real— didn't stuff like this only happen in movies? "If only I had known you called," I mumbled, placing my hand on top of his. "Being without you was just hell... What happened?"

Eric inhaled a sharp breath, an unintelligible emotion swimming in his eyes. "I want to be honest with you, but... I'm afraid you'll run,"

In a flash of desperation, I placed his hand against my heart. "I have nowhere else to run but to you,"

Eric's green eyes rounded out, his lips parting in confusion— was I maybe not the only one stunned by the confessions of complete and utter love tonight? "I— Fuck," 

With that, Eric's strong hands gripped my waist, pulling me towards him as our lips came together in a hungry kiss. The sheer force of it, along with the element of surprise, nearly had me stumbling a few steps back. But Eric only followed; I nearly moaned out as I felt his tongue against mine, my hands flying up into his dark locks and pulling him closer. I had missed him more than I had ever missed anything in the world, including drugs— all my swarming feelings of never-dying love had me pushing away all my needs for an answer from him regarding his phone, and I let my back hit the surface of the couch as Eric hovered above me.

"Missed you," he breathed in between kisses, a slight growl to his voice. Something told me Eric was trying to melt himself into me to make sure we would never be apart again— it only made my need for him stronger. I clung to him, my legs wrapping around his tall figure as I attempted to pull him even closer than he already was. 

Fuck, his lips were so soft. Deadly soft. The way Eric was nipping at my lower lip, occasionally sinking his teeth into it to draw out a whimper, was making a familiar knot form in my lower abdomen. I barely registered that my dress was gone before I watched him discard his shirt somewhere on the floor— now that we finally had time, I let my fingers run over his tattoos, smiling into the next kiss as I realized we would finally have that messy morning I was promised. I couldn't wait to lie in his arms, tracing every piece of art on his skin, taking it all in— this was heaven. Everything about finally being alone with Eric was heaven. 

"Missed you too," I eventually managed to moan out, feeling him grow hard against the apex of my thighs. "I don't ever want to be without you again." My breath hitched as Eric left wet kisses down jaw, neck, breasts, and stomach, knowing exactly where he was heading. I drew my hand towards my mouth, gently biting down to suppress a rather girly squeal. 

"You'll never be," Eric purred against my skin, sinking his teeth gently into my thigh to evoke a sound. "If you think we're ever going to be apart from now on, I need you to scour that pretty little brain of yours once more."

It was impossible not to smile, and I squirmed against the couch before Eric's big, strong hands grabbed my hips, holding me in place as he pressed a kiss against my clothed sex. However, I couldn't shake the feeling that he was doing this to avoid telling me what had happened in the moments we had been apart. Despite wanting to give in to the pleasure, let him tease me and keep me on the edge through the night, my mind wouldn't let me.

In the moment Eric threw my underwear to the floor, now kissing up my thighs and leaving me breathless, I propped myself up on my elbows; "Hold on," I breathed, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair in hopes of getting his attention. "Eric, wait--"

As he looked up at me through his brows, eyes wide with confusion as he paused for me, I didn't know whether I could go through with it. This moment was so damn precious, something I had been longing for ever since the moment I saw him; so why couldn't it wait? With a sigh, I laid back down. 

"You okay?" Eric asked, his thumb rubbing a soothing circle against my hipbone. "Wanna stop?"

That was definitely not it-- I let in a lazy breath, my eyelids drooping over my eyes as my body shivered at the feeling of his hot breath against my cunt. Everything about this situation was making my brain shut down. "No... I don't want to stop," My hands reached for his, and Eric let out a hum, his free hand now ghosting over my sex. "Just wondering whether you drew it or not."

"Drew what?"

"What we did in that stairwell,"

Eric's eyes sparkled with amusement as he laughed, placing a wet kiss against the inside of my thigh. "You bet I did,"

"Will you show me?"

He hummed against my skin; "Later... I'm a little busy here, as you see," Eric hooked his arms around my legs, dragging me closer to him as I yelped. I could only laugh, the realization that I had finally gotten all I had ever wanted hitting me just as I felt the warm trickle of spit running down my cunt-- my hips bucked up in surprise, my breath escaping me. I was about to prop myself up on my elbows for a second time, hoping to get a look at what the fuck he was doing, but as he ran his tongue up between my folds with a ridiculously soft touch, I could only whimper.

The memory of Eric saying he would take his time with me when we were out of rehab suddenly dawned on me-- I was in for the long run.

It didn't take long before he had me writhing beneath him, a whimpering, panting mess. With every swirl of his tongue around my clit, every time he sucked in my aching bud between his plush lips, I held back the urge to buck my hips up against him. It got increasingly hard to keep still, especially when Eric pulled away to simply breathe down on my sex, knowing exactly where he had me. 

"Fuck," I cried, reaching down to run my fingers through his hair-- I did my best not to tighten my grip, fighting the urge to use his dark locks as handles. 

I could feel Eric smiling against me, leaning down to press a soft kiss against my clit; my breath immediately hitched, bucking up against his mouth in an attempt to beg for more. His fingers dug themselves into my thighs, driving my legs further apart as he made space for his broad shoulders. I whined at the loss of friction when he tilted his head to look up at me, and a shiver ran up my spine at the look of his face, slicked with my arousal. 

A mischievous smile spread across Eric's plush, glistening lips; "Someone's impatient,"

I could feel my cheeks redden with embarrassment, lolling my head back down against the couch-- looking at him only made it worse. "Can you blame me? You're doing this on purpose," 

Eric hummed, one hand leaving my thigh to lazily rub soft circles around my clit, using my slick as a lubricant. It only made me squirm, letting out a shaky moan as my back arched slightly off the couch. Even worse, was that I started to feel a small tremble appearing in my hands. "Can't handle a little teasing?" he said, biting his lip as he watched me attempt to suppress my noises. "You keep saying you've waited for me... What happened to your patience?"

I held back the urge to simply kick him-- but that thought immediately slipped out of my mind the second Eric flattened his tongue against me, licking a stripe all the way up to my swollen clit. It was impossible to suppress the hitch of my breath, and the tug I gave his hair in response was purely instinctual. It surprised me further to hear him enjoy it; I decided to keep that observation stored for later.

I had a feeling Eric knew my mind was buzzing, that he wouldn't be able to toy with me much longer. There might've been a few giveaways that I was at my wit's end-- all of which left me feeling like an even bigger mess than I already was beneath him. "I- I can't," I whined, my words leaving me as Eric sucked me in once more. "Wait, please!--"

He hummed against me, now pressing his lips against the crease of my thigh as a chuckle built in his throat. "Fine, fine," he said, playfully sinking his teeth into my skin, his green eyes watching my every move. "I suppose I'm dragging this out... I don't know why I'm feeling nervous."

Nervous? Eric didn't look very nervous to me. "It's just me, though?" I tried, attempting to catch my breath as I laid my hand on top of his. My next words came out shakier than anticipated, especially now that he was kissing way back up my body; "You don't need to be nervous."

Eric hummed, his large, tattooed hands kneading my chest, kissing along the hem of my bra. "It's just... When you left rehab," he started, his lips pressing along my collarbones. "I realized it took me days to recover after a dream with you in it."

The rush of joy surging through my veins reminded me of a hit of amphetamine-- it was all-taking, consuming, and I wanted nothing more than to press him so closely that we'd melt together. "Eric--"

"I've drawn you over and over," he breathed, kissing up my neck with a toe-curling softness. "In every way possible. Imagined the way you'd look at me after waking up in the morning, how it would feel to kiss your pretty little face good night..." Eric's lips hovered above mine, our shared breaths hot and shaky against one another as he continued; "I want you to burn into me like warm glass, mold into one. It sounds insane, but... how else can I ensure we stay together?"

My eyes were wide, finding his, as my hands reached up to cup his face. Like this, I finally had the time to admire the tattoo above his right brow, the deep scar on his cheek, and the tattoo above it. I stroked my thumb over the ink, holding back from connecting our lips just yet; "If you think I'm ever leaving you, I need you to scour that pretty little brain of yours" I breathed, watching his pupils dilate as I bit back a smug smile. "Do I need to remind you that I'm all yours?" My fingers now ghosted over his lips, still wet with my slick, as an idea suddenly hit me. "Actually..."

Eric watched in confusion as I shifted beneath him, now reaching for the table right by the couch. There, I had left a marker which I had previously used to write a birthday card, and I took it into my hand before laying back down, looking up at the puzzled look on his face. "I'm not able to physically melt into you, but..." 

Eric's green eyes widened further, watching as I popped the cap and drew a tiny little heart on the peak of his shoulder.

I met his gaze, beaming up at him; "I can leave my mark,"

The most unexpected thing happened-- The sight of Eric welling up in tears was not something I had counted on when I let my impulses take the lead. For a second, I got genuinely worried I had overstepped all boundaries until he pinned my hand above my head and pressed a needy, passionate kiss against my lips.

I couldn't control the moan that escaped me, my hips bucking up against his, feeling his hard length grind down and brush up against my clit as our chests came together, pulling each other in as close as possible. The need I felt for Eric was undescribable, ravaging through my being-- I had never wanted anyone as bad as this. 

Mind dulled by anticipation and pleasure, I barely registered that he had managed to pry the marker from my fingers and pull it into his hand. Eric disconnected the kiss, pressing his wet lips against my cheek before propping himself up on his knees, scanning his canvas. "I'm definitely dreaming now," he whispered, mostly to himself, hovering above me as he drove the marker tip to the point where my ribs met on my chest. 

I could only smile, watching my favourite artist at work with admiration blossoming in my chest. Knowing I would be decorated with his work made me even more hot and bothered; I did my best to get a look at what he was drawing without disrupting his process. 

Eric drew a line down my chest, a few leaves scattered along it-- it dawned on me that he was drawing a rose. A beautiful, big rose, with that same scratchy style that I recognized from his previous creations. I watched him dart his tongue out, keeping it between his lips, focused; I couldn't help but find it endearing.

"Art on art," he breathed, pulling away to drink in the sight of what he had drawn on my body. Eric's green eyes found mine, his shy smile returning to his plush, glistening lips. "You're beautiful. You're so beautiful."

"So are you," I held back the urge to cry happy tears, my hands reaching out for him. "I love it, Eric. I'm scared of needles, so I won't be able to get this tattooed... Meaning you'll have to draw it over and over. Would you do that for me?"

Eric let out a choked laugh, eyes glossing over as he put the cap back on the marker, discarding it somewhere before returning to his place above me. "I'd do anything for you,"

I hadn't smiled so brightly in what felt like years. Like this, at this moment, I was sure this was it. He was it. 

Before I knew it, we were completely lost in the fiery kiss that ensued-- Eric's tongue against mine, hands lost around my waist as my fingers hooked into his dark locks, our chests heaving at one another. I was so gone, so dizzyingly aroused, that when I felt his thick cock pushing past my sopping entrance, I could only gasp. 

Eric let out a grunt, both of us moaning into the kiss at the immediate relief-- I could barely believe that this was real, that we were back as one. In a sense, this was the melting together that we had both craved so badly. 

My nails dug into his back, leaving crescent marks in their wake as I let him push further into me. Eric buried his face in the crook of my neck, letting out a breathy groan against my skin when he finally moved. His cock stroked my walls the same way it had that one evening in the stairwell, the exact feeling I had chased as I buried my fingers deep inside of me every night since-- I had forgotten how the real deal had felt. How mind-numbingly good it felt to have Eric in me.

I whimpered as I felt his cock throb upwards, immediately hitting my sweet spot, and I wrapped my legs around him, wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever. Knowing I bared his mark on my chest, knowing he had dreamed of this as well, only strengthened the electricity running all the way up to the tips of my fingers. I didn't know how I was supposed to last long at all, especially when I heard Eric moan out my name-- I shivered, pressing my lips against the heart I had drawn on his shoulder. 

I noticed a blush creep up his cheeks before he connected our lips once more, but it was hard to kiss properly when we were both in a heavy daze of pleasure-- we ended up mostly breathing against one another, Eric's green eyes watching as I let out a string of moans with every stroke of his cock. 

"You're everything," Eric rambled, nipping at my lower lip to suppress another grunt. "You're everything, you're-- Fuck!--" His hands dug into my hips, fucking me properly into the couch as he deepened his thrusts. 

My heart fluttered in my marked chest as I realized we were both looking down to watch our union-- the sight of Eric's cock pumping in and out of me, the wet sounds of our love filling the room, was almost enough to bring me over the edge. I also caught a glimpse of the petals drawn over my body, realizing I was admiring both the art and his body against mine. 

My back arched off the couch as Eric shifted, angling his thrusts upwards-- now, he was dead on pumping his cock against my sweet spot, which had me mewling out against his lips. "Eric, I-- I'm not gonna last, a-ah!--"

With glossy eyes, I watched a smirk spread across Eric's lips; "Let go if you need to," he cooed, his dark hair now kissing his forehead as he let out a laboured grunt. "We'll go again, baby-- hah, don't worry."

That was all I needed-- my heart fluttered, realizing we had all the time in the world to fuck all through the night. 

Forever, if we wanted to.

｡ﾟ•┈୨♡୧┈• ｡ﾟ

This was nice. Stupidly nice. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this moment.

The softness of his fingers running up my bare shoulder, the kindness with which he bathed me-- I didn't even know this existed before now. I looked up at Eric, my head nuzzled against his broad, tattooed chest as we lay in post-coital bliss. I reached out to trace the heart I had marked him with, and I wondered what else I could draw on his beautiful body.

However, I knew I had to ask the question he hadn't been willing to answer yet. I had to look past how heavy his beautiful lashes looked in his drowsy state, and how badly I wanted to reach out and trace the upward slope of his nose, to ask what needed to be asked. "Eric?"

He hummed, glancing down at me. 

It was incredibly hard to take my eyes off his kiss-swollen lips. "You never told me,"

"Told you what?"

It felt as though we'd had this conversation about three times now; "You didn't tell me why you changed your number. Or why you waited to reach out. Or, better yet, why you didn't just show up here... I even gave you my address," I couldn't stop the imminent pout appearing across my lips-- I had forgotten how upset I was about this. "I waited for you. I nearly drove myself crazy thinking I'd imagined it all."

Sighing, Eric's gaze diverted to the ceiling. "I'm sorry. I will tell you everything. Just... could I have one more day?"

"What?" Something told me that his secret was a lot more damning than I initially thought-- why was he so reluctant to tell me? Did he think it would change how I felt?

"One more day," he echoed, his tattoed hand mindlessly traveling up into my hair as his eyes glossed over.  "Just give me one more day..."

I didn't know what to say, at a loss for words. Instead, I popped the cap to the marker in my hand, realizing I wouldn't be the one to deny him his one wish. Eric closed his eyes with a sigh of relief as he felt the tip of the marker against his skin once more; time was a gift I was willing to give him.

I was willing to give him absolutely anything he'd ever want-- I just hoped it wouldn't be the death of me.

(a/n: PART 1 and PART 2 linked here<33 thank you for reading!!)

[princessbrunette]

i saw this tweet that said ‘if you’re bringing your man to girls night, can we fuck him?’ and it got me thinking about rafe.

he doesn’t originally insist on being dragged along to the bar with your friends, but he sees the length of your skirt and changes his tune, demanding you let your friends know that they’re just going to have to ‘deal with it.’ they had less of a problem with him tagging along than you imagined, they know what rafe’s like — and know better than to argue against it before he swipes you from the plans all together.

you’d already had a little to drink to pregame by yourself whilst you got ready, so when everyone starts drinking from the bar — you’re just that little bit more gone than the rest of your friends. it’s the reason you don’t seem to notice the way they’re fawning over him, leaning on their hand with gooey heart eyes when he tells a story, having loosened up. you don’t notice the way they stroke his thick arms or smack playfully at his chest when he makes a dumb joke. he’s honestly rather clueless to it at first too, especially due to the lack of reaction from you, his sweet thing sat on his leg at the table scratching at the back of his buzzed head, too drunk to care about anyone else.

he doesn’t wanna fuck ‘em. no way. he was obsessed with you, the thought wouldn’t even cross his mind. but he wouldn’t lie and say he didn’t like the attention a little bit. he’d entered this new phase of life, rafe cameron the man. the boss. having a bunch of girls surrounding him must’ve looked great, especially when they were practically whoring themselves out to him like this. thoughts of treating tannyhill like a playboy mansion briefly dusts his mind.

he agrees to drop everyone home, and has to wrangle them to his truck, a chorus of drunk girls giggling and stumbling just so he’d grapple them, because it was the polite thing to do. they’d even taken to calling him ‘dad’ when he did so, which he thought might’ve been the final straw for you — but still your eyes are on him, a hazy lustful smile and heavy lashes.

it’s only when they cut the act and beg you to let them come in and ‘play with rafe’ a little longer that you catch on, shutting the door in their face — the intoxication doing nothing to soothe your confusion and upset.

he reassures you by folding you like a pretzel and fucking you deep on the bed, all of your clothes and uncomfortable shoes discarded and he grinds you into the mattress.

“‘fuck you crying for, hm? clearly don’t want anyone else but my sweet girl. only ever gonna fuck this pretty little pussy. you understand?” it’s his version of reassurance and it does the trick, grabbing him repeatedly where you could just trying to draw him close.

“mine.” is all you can say, over and over.

“yeah, you’re damn right about that.”

[dollfacefantasy]

kinktober day 21 - sex toys billy butcher x fem!reader cw: nsfw (18+), smut, sex toys, daddy kink, brat taming

Schlick. Schlick. Schlick.

The sounds of pure torture echo between the four walls of your bedroom. Each wet squelch taunts you. You hate them. Loathe them. Despise them. All because they're not coming from you. No, instead they're coming from the piece-of-shit, fake, plastic pocket pussy your boyfriend was thrusting into above you.

"You're so mean," you whimper, tears threatening to spill over your lash line as you watch the flesh-colored sleeve hide his shaft.

Your sad expression garners no sympathy from Billy. He continues pumping himself into the fleshlight while straddling you. His pupils are dilated as he stares down at your form, limp on the mattress between his legs. His lips curl into that smug signature grin of his.

"Maybe just a bit. But you like that, don't ya?" he taunts, "That's why you were throwin' a tantrum in the first place. Cause you wanted daddy to get you back in line."

"But you're not, you're just like bullying me!" you cry. The tears are no longer potential as they roll down your heated skin, creating wet trails down your face. Your lip wobbles, on the verge of another fit.

"Oh, it's not bullying, love. Just a little discipline," he says, free hand reaching out to stroke down your jaw and lift your chin.

He keeps fucking that stupid little toy. Pumping into it like he should be pumping into you. It's fucked up. Evil, dare you say it. Just plain cruel. It's almost as if you can feel the phantom sensation in your cunt that rests a foot below where he's thrusting. The imaginary feeling of what should be happening makes reality so much more excruciating.

His head falls back and he lets out a moan. He barely ever moans for you. All you get are grunts and low groans, but he lets out that beautiful sound for something that isn't even real? You can't take it. A sob pours from your lips.

"Stop!" you wail.

"Oh, what's wrong, sweetheart?" he coos at you. You love that tone when it's sincere, but right now, it's mocking.

You don't even bother with an answer. You just keep watching him with your glossy eyes and constant sniffles.

He looks so good too which makes it hurt even worse. His face presents an image of peace, his chest shines with a light sheen of sweat. His abdomen twitches as his hips piston into the artificial orifice. You reach out to grab him and try to get the despicable item away from him, but he simply leans back and tuts at you.

"Ah ah. Move again, and I'll make this punishment a whole lot worse."

So you settle back into your collection of plush pillows and watch. In your mind, you did not deserve this. All you'd done was backtalk and tease him in front of the others a little. You'd just wanted a spanking or even a slap to the face or two. You didn't think he'd do something like this.

However, in his mind, this was the most effective form of correction he'd found for you yet. He knew you, and he knew you loved spankings. You loved when he tagged you across the cheek when he was balls deep inside you. Those weren't true punishments, and after the constant old man jokes and ever-present bratty attitude, in front of your friends no less, he was in the mood to properly put you in your place.

He groans as he continues working the fleshlight over his dick, the sticky noises persisting over the sound of your weeping.

"Feels so fuckin' good," he murmurs. A sigh leaves him, and his smirk deepens as he hears the whimper you let out in response. "So tight and soft."

Your crying picks up again. "It's not better than mine."

He huffs out a laugh while his fist keeps moving the toy. "I didn't say it was, did I?"

"You're acting like it," you accuse through tears.

"'m not. Just telling the truth," he breathes, "This thing feels fucking great. Think I should use it more often."

Anguish courses through you and you throw your head back against the satiny pillow case. "Then why don't you just fuck it all the time instead of me?"

His free hand grabs your chin and makes you meet his eyes.

"Watch the attitude. You're not bein' replaced. You were a bad girl, and now you have to deal with the consequences," he reminds you. He feels himself getting close and bites his lip.

You know that face. Normally, it'd bring you joy, but now it just intensifies your agony. "I'm sorry," you sob and cover your face.

"I know you are," he says, softening the tiniest amount. It wouldn't be noticeable to the untrained ear, but you catch it. The slight difference keeps you from toppling over the edge or blubbering out the safeword.

His hand knocks yours away from your face with a tender touch. "Eyes on me. A few more minutes and you're all done."

"Fine..." you pout.

You do watch, but you continue to cry. That wasn't against the rules. You watch as your boyfriend fucks that dumb waste of space and mentally wish death upon whoever it was that invented these things.

He growls. The sound he always makes when he's about to unload, and then his hips sputter and hot ropes of his precious cum shoot into the toy. You bite your lip and try not to glare too hard.

When he's done, he tosses the toy aside. He leans down over you, lowering himself so he hovers near your face.

"Think you've learned your lesson?"

You nod, pouty expression still plastered over your features.

"Good girl," he coos. The words feel like a victory after the series of losses you just suffered.

He kisses your lips, pushing his against you gently. "Daddy loves you. You're still his favorite," he whispers, voice slightly teasing.

[quimichi]

↳ ❝ [CALLING THE MONDSTADT BOYS YOUR GOOD BOY] ¡! ❞

Mondstadt boys x Creator!Reader

Dainseif, Diluc, Kaeya & Venti

Albedo's part here > ♡

Dainseif - What does freedom really mean, when demanded of you by a god?

"Please, come to me" you simply said, your voice echoing not only in the room, but also in his mind. Dainsleif doesn't hesitate for a moment.

He stands and crosses the distance between you without a second thought. His every movement is graceful and elegant. He would move through the ocean if it meant he could hold your gaze just a moment longer.

Now that he is close, he kneels once more. He wants to be on your level, he wants to be near you. "I am here, Your Grace." He stays on his knees, silent, waiting for you. If you want him to move, he will; if you want him to speak, he will; if you want him to simply be here, just within your presence— he will.

"Dain?" It only takes your utterance, your voice, for his head to snap in your direction.

"Yes, Your Grace?"

"You're my good boy aren't you?" The words are music to Dainsleif's ears. He loves nothing more than to hear you call him something so loving. "Yes," he whispers, the word a breath of reverence. "I am your good boy."

"And why are you my good boy?" His cheeks flush as he looks up to you, eyes glowing like a star. His lashes flutter against his cheeks as the thought of being your good boy floods him with happiness and contentment.

"Because I am yours and have always served you." His words are firm, with the certainty of one who has never strayed from his purpose.

"Mine?"

"Yes. I am yours."

"I exist to serve you, to serve your beauty, your kindness, and love." This is truth to Dainsleif. He cannot imagine himself being anything but yours. "And thats why youre my good boy, Dainsleif" "Yes, Your Grace." He smiles at you, joy and contentment overflowing inside of him.

"I am happy to be your good boy. I am proud and eager to serve you, to honor and adore you." His expression is loving, warm, and peaceful. Dainsleif stays on his knees, head cocked to the side. His blue eyes are shining with love and affection. "What would you like me to do for you?" He asks, eager to serve you with all his heart.

"I want you to stay with me forever..." "I would love to stay with you, Your Grace." Dainsleif would die a hundred mortal deaths if it meant living in your presence for even an hour. The very thought of being near you stirs something inside him; his heart leaps into the sky, his breath catches in his throat.

He is entirely devoted to you.

Diluc - Though it is still not enough, I will always face the darkness.

"Please, step a bit closer to me" such a simple request it is but your command startles him. He looks up at you, and his eyes go wide. He is utterly taken aback, but that is not an excuse. He is yours to command.Diluc complies, and steps closer to your side.

"Are you my good boy, Diluc?"

"Y-yes," he responds at once. He bows his head as he speaks but, if it were possible, he bows even further. His heart is thumping against his chest as if it wants to jump free. He is utterly devoted to you. Every inch of him yours. "I'm sorry i didnt quite heard you, could you repeat that?" You're teasing him, how could you not? Diluc is more than embarrassed, but it is not his will to refuse you. He is yours, after all.

"Y-yes," he says, and his voice breaks slightly from the embarrassment.

"Once more, please, for me?" the opportunity is to good to let it slide. "Yes!" he says once more, and the blush on his face spreads throughout his body. Embarrassed, thats what he is, embarrassed. Your smile alone makes his stomach jump like it's trying to escape. He cannot understand how you make him feel this way.

He is still shy about this ordeal, but he knows that he cannot look away. He is there to serve you, after all. "Good boy~

"Diluc smiles despite himself at your praise. He knows better than to be happy at this moment, but some part of him thrills at the feeling of your gaze on his skin. His heart has a mind of its own, however, and it seems like it knows no boundaries. "Thank you," he says, and bows his head yet again. His embarrassment remains, but it is balanced with the thrill of your praise.

Your good boy...

Kaeya - Life's greatest illusions are the ones we believe in ourselves

"Kaeya?" Kaeya glances up at you, but he doesn't move from his comfortable position— at least, not yet. In fact, he appears to have become more comfortable, resting his head against your thighs and taking small, deep breaths. He stares down at you and smiles, seemingly amused by the situation. "I'm not moving," he mutters. "I'm perfectly comfortable here."

"Oh? Is my good boy all comfy?" "...Mhm." Kaeya's smile is genuine. With one hand, he reaches up, brushing his thumb against your cheek. "...I love you, Your Grace." Please let me stay here. I don't ever want to leave.

Hes so enchanted by your presence alone, he seemed to not process every word you say. Kaeya takes them as they are..."Did you hear me? I said youre my good boy" You're just checking, thats what youre telling yourself. But und truth, you just want to see a reaction, hear how his voice changes with realization.

"Of course I'm your good boy." Kaeya closes his eyes now, nuzzling himself against your legs. "No one else could be, after all. They don't worship you like I do."

"Your devotion's a gift, you know." Kaeya's tone is one of playful teasing, though the compliment is very much sincere. "You know I wouldn't let anyone else here give me physical affection, but for you, I make an exception. Why? Well, for one thing, you're deserving of it." You notice that Kaeya's leg is twitching— he wants to move, but it's as if he physically can't manage it. This may just be the most comfortable Kaeya's ever been, even if he can't say it out loud.

"Isn't my boy nice, huh?" "What can I say? I'm at your service... always." Kaeya's grip tightens about your thighs slightly. "Your approval means the world to me... I'd do anything to keep in your good graces."

He pauses for a moment, his expression becoming almost solemn. "...You know what I most desire, Your Grace?" Kaeya keeps his eyes shut, as though he's ashamed to speak."I would very much like to be yours," he says quietly.

"I want you to choose me."

Venti - Videtis illam spirare libertatis auram

"Yes, your Grace."

Venti complies instantly, quickly moving to sit down on the seat beside you. As soon as his body settles down, he starts idly swinging his legs up and down as if he's a toddler waiting for his mother to take him to the playground.He doesn't say a word, instead contenting himself with simply smiling up at you.

"Good boy" such small words, but they hold a way bigger meaning behind them. As Venti hears your praise, he almost falls into a completely euphoric state. He is practically quivering with excitement, unable to control his emotions for even a second longer. He starts muttering to himself, unable to comprehend what he is feeling in the presence of your grace.

"Please— please, don't call me a good boy again... please, please, make me yours..." Venti flushes pinker than a rose. "I— I meant your worshipful servant!" His eyes are fixed on you adoringly and desperately.

"Your dog, even!" Venti is too lost in the moment to realize how awkward his words were, and he starts desperately scrambling to come up with something even more degrading to call himself.

"Your footstool, even! Your carpet, your chair! Even your floor...!" His words are garbled and desperate, his mind completely blank right now. "But Venti, you're my good boy, not my chair or my floor...my good boy"

Venti's eyes widen as he hears your words. His face is still bright red, but your praise is enough to make him lightheaded. "Am I— am I your good boy.." he mumbles quietly, but he sounds genuinely baffled. "Are you sure..?"

"Yes" Venti is practically panting with excitement now, having gotten the confirmation that he is yours. "Y— you really mean it.." Even when he speaks quietly, you can hear the excitement in his voice, the thrill in his heart.

"Then I really am your good boy, aren't I...?"

"Yes"

"Then I will do my best to be the very best good boy for you, your Grace," Venti whispers reverently.

Even in his excitement, Venti remains reverent towards you. To be your good boy... He can't think of anything he wants more.

[gghostwriter]

Hi was wondering if I could make a request?

I was thinking of a scenario where reader is a artist and Spencer catches her drawing him and willingly poses

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader Trope: Established Relationship; Fluff! Just fluff Warning: Tooth rotting fluff A/N: I think this would be the mushiest I've ever written, it's so cute. I hope you enjoy it! Main masterlist

Birds of a Feather. // Spencer Reid

There’s a common belief that states opposites attract and you’d say you and Spencer were a perfect example of this—he lives opposite your apartment, his career is part of the law enforcement industry while yours is from the creative industry, he’s a man of science while you’re a woman of art—to name a few. But all these were insignificant when you got to know him as a person. As Spencer Reid rather than SSA Dr. Spencer Reid. The same man who helped you carry boxes up to your floor when you first moved in. The same man who shyly accepted your dinner offer as a ‘thank you’, and the same man who tried his best to paint you a flower just to ask you out. 

All these small sweet nothings were what led to this lazy Sunday morning where the sunlight streams into your windows—the curtains softening its glow—hitting his brunette hair, turning strands into gold as he lounges on the sofa with a book in hand and as you hunch over your sketchbook, pencil scratching the paper, trying to capture this moment in time. 

Spencer was brought out of his riveting book on Quantum Physics when he felt your adoring gaze leaving and returning on him. He stealthily adjusted his position to take a peek at the sketchbook placed on your lap. 

He sucked in a breath when he realized what, or more specifically, who it was. 

“I-is that suppose to be me?” He clarified. 

You peeked at him through your lashes and nodded. “Yeah. Doesn’t it look like you?” 

“He’s too—pretty. Are you sure it’s me?” 

You giggled, catching on where he was going with it. “And you are! Derek calls you ‘pretty boy’ for a reason.” 

“That’s just him teasing me, Y/N.” 

You took his cheeks in your hands, minding the charcoal smudges on your fingertips. “Well I for one think you’re very pretty—inside and out.” You leaned in to give him a kiss. “So handsome, I can’t believe I get to call you mine.” 

Spencer melted under your affections. You always did have a way with your words in soothing his insecurities when they reared their head. Two years, six months, and eleven days of being together, you could read him like the back of your hand—an extension of you. 

“Sometimes I wonder—” he took your hands into his as the self-doubt started pouring out of him. “—how I got you to like me. We’re so different. You could have any man and—” he bit his lip. “—you still chose me.” 

“Hey, hey. Spence. None of that, okay? I’m the lucky one. I love your mind—” you placed a kiss on each side of his temple. “—and all the facts that you keep in it. I love your quirks—“ a peck on his left cheek. “—how you wear mismatched socks and always have an extra lipgloss in your bag since I lose mine. I love how you take care of me—” a kiss on his right cheek. “—how I’m the first person you talk to in the morning and the last one at night. And I love you—” a peck on his lips. “—in all of your entirety.” 

He cradled your head and leaned in for a longer kiss. It was as if he was communicating his adoration and devotion with each caress of his mouth on yours. He pulled away, noting the glassy look in your eyes and how swollen your lips looked. “I love you, Y/N.”

He looked down at your sketchpad. The drawing of him now messy and smudged in between your bodies. 

“That’s alright, Spence. I can always draw you again.” 

He placed the abandoned pencil back into your dominant hand. “Would you want—like me to pose for you?”

A smile blossomed on your face. The type backed by such delight and pleasure that he’d do anything for it to never go away. “You would?” 

He nodded, stunned with how you seemed to glow. 

“Okay, okay! You can just—” she pointed back to where he was a while ago. “—relax and continue reading.”

Following instructions, he lounged and open back his book—mindful of each movement that he made. As you were studying him—how the light casts a shadow on cheek, how graceful his neck looked. Spencer was also studying you—how each stroke of your hand was precise, how your tongue slightly peeked out when you concentrate, and how your cheeks would turn pink in color each time your gazes meet.

And although you’d like to believe that opposites attract, Spencer would like to believe that you and him were just ‘birds of a feather’. All the differences were inconsequential because he saw all the traits that you like to point out as his strengths—his empathy, his warmth, his brilliance, and even his beauty—in you, just infinity multiplied. 

And so on that very same day and minute, surrounded by the scratching of your pencil, the muffled noise of the city life outside, and the love that seemed to pour out of you like honey, he knew. He knew you were the one. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[mirohlayo]

GIRLY GIRL : YOUR LANDO'S

LIPSTICK MARKS

( Lando is often your art painting, especially when it comes to kissing him )

warnings : none just fluff

note : I loved the first girly girl writing and I decided to turn it into a little series of girly girl things

word count : 934

You weren't really the type to wear lipstick. Well, it even made you wonder if you often wore makeup. But if there was one thing you never forgot about your makeup, it was to beautify your lips not only for you, but also for someone else's face.

“Stay in my arms baby.” Lando whines as you deliberately try to escape from his embrace. “I would love to spend this day in bed too, but we have to get ready to join your friends.” You scold him gently, pulling the covers over your legs.

"I can cancel the outing. And stay with you." His dejected puppy eyes beg you to let him cuddle you in his arms under the soft blankets, and despite this adorable face, your brain has other plans in mind. You smile before placing a long kiss on his forehead. "We'll do this tomorrow. I'll go get ready."

Lando reluctantly lets you escape from his hold, while he watches with a sulky face you locking in the bathroom. You rush to wash and put on makeup, since it's already quite late and the morning is soon coming to an end. After getting out of the shower, you stand in front of the large mirror that adorns the wall to put on some light makeup.

You grab a brush lying around in your makeup bag to apply blush to your cheekbones, making your face softer and brighter. Your mascara is attached to your lashes and your liner is impeccable and symmetrical. All that remains is the final touch, the one you love above all else. Your lips.

You much prefer glosses to lipsticks, but today you decide it's time to change your habits. You rummage through your makeup bag until you come across the little tube of nude lipstick that you adore so much. And that Lando particularly appreciates too. You pass the product on your lips to apply a generous layer.

The bathroom door opens to reveal an enthusiastic Lando, perhaps still a little sleepy, but dazzled by the person standing before him. A huge smile takes place on his face as he wraps his arms around your waist. “Beautiful as always, princess” His lips brush the tip of your nose to place a soft kiss there.

“Thank you my boy. Now it’s your turn to get ready, I’ll leave it to you.” You smile at him one last time before moving away to leave him alone, but his arms hold you in place. You raise your head to meet his sulking gaze. "Ah-ah. I want my kiss."

A mocking smile spreads across your face as you subtly roll your eyes. But your boyfriend's face looks very serious and you can see that he is just waiting for your lips on his skin. So, leaning on his chest, you press your lips to his cheek. You stay like that a little longer than a simple kiss, to trace the mark of your lips on his cheek.

You pull back slowly, and Lando can't stop smiling like a silly child as he admires the trace of your lipstick on his skin. “Ohh, I love it.” You let out a laugh as you kiss him one last time, leaving the bathroom. And it's not long before he leaves the room as quickly as he entered it.

And on the doorstep, Lando won't be able to stop begging you for yet another kiss. “Baby, I need another lipstick kiss.” He literally begs you with his eyes. “Lando, you already have three on your face.” A laugh escapes your throat at the sight of your boyfriend, simply adorable with his lipstick marks all over his face.

"Yes, but I want to make sure everyone knows you're mine. My girl" He pouts a little, begging you again for one last kiss. And as you finish tinting your lips with your lipstick, you cup your boyfriend's face to press your lips to his temple.

And there's no need to describe Lando's euphoric expression when he looks at himself in the mirror by the door, happy to be covered in four pretty traces of your lips. "Now we can go out. Let's go baby." He wraps his hand in yours and finally closes the door behind you.

And on the way, you won't be able to help but admire him. His curly hair falling lightly on his forehead, and your lipstick marks on his cheeks and face. Oh sure, there's no one more adorable than this boy. But perhaps the most adorable thing is the way Lando cherishes your kiss marks.

Because for him, it's the best way to show that he belongs to you, that he is destined for you and that for nothing in the world he will replace you. That you are his and that he intends to repel every girl who approaches him because of your lipstick marks. Oh gosh, he could really die to be covered in these marks.

The way your lips press gently against his skin, delicately imprinting him with the nude color of your lip product. And the silhouette of your lips on his face. He'll probably never admit it, but it's one of his favorite things in the world. It might be a little too showy, but Lando doesn't care, because after all he'll never stop begging you for more.

And you can be sure that he is extremely proud of it, when he displays this grandiose smile in front of your friends "Those kisses? Oh, they come from the most beautiful and adorable girl on this earth. My girlfriend".

[katebishopsbow]

MISSING PIECE • F1 GRID

pairing: f1 grid x driver!reader (platonic)

summary: you have always taken pride in your ability to handle the press, until a journalist mentioned a sensitive topic that you had tried desperately to avoid – your estranged father. you struggled to give a response, and your fellow drivers showed no hesitation to jump in and defend you.

tags: angst, hurt/comfort, daddy issues, mentions of abusive parent, found family

word count: 3k

(image is not mine)

─────── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───────

Formula 1 journalists have always been known to be brutal – asking questions that teetered on the brink of privacy violation and unnecessarily hostile probing with the excuse of “providing insightful coverage” on the highly competitive sport.

That was why media training existed – to prepare drivers for the harshest, most demanding questions thrown at them and rewire their brains such that instead of lashing out, they would be able to gracefully divert the focus to something else while also preserving their pristine image.

You had always excelled at handling the media, and your ability to constantly remain level-headed even when they asked the most ridiculous of questions was something you took pride in – until a journalist purposefully asked about a subject you had desperately tried to avoid ever since your F1 career started.

The relationship you and your father had was rather difficult to explain. The two of you became distant since the day your parents divorced and you decided to walk away from his constant emotional unavailability and manipulation he so skillfully disguised as paternal love. He didn’t bother asking you to stay – well, he never bothered doing anything when it came to you. He called occasionally, only when he needed something from you and your mother, and sent birthday cards out of obligation a month late because god forbid he remembered your birthday if your mother hadn’t reminded him.

Then the calls became less frequent, and then they stopped altogether, and his empty promises of visiting became blatant lies that you no longer believed in. Your father gradually turned into a stranger, a missing piece, a clouded memory left behind in the childhood days of your life.

It was a hard subject for you to talk about, something you would much rather keep away from the limelight and scrutiny of the world. Unfortunately for you, secrets weren’t really a thing in F1, and the obvious absence of one of your parents on the grid and in all your victory celebrations had been noticed by the public’s watchful eyes.

So your secret was no longer a secret. All the drivers on the grid were aware of it, and a few closest to you had known the full truth of your strained relationship with your father, but they all avoided mentioning it as they knew it was a family matter you wanted to remain private. Most journalists were also respectful enough to avoid asking insensitive questions when interviewing you, phrasing their words like “How will you celebrate the win with your family?” instead of using the term “parents”, and you were more than appreciative of that.

So when the voice of a certain reporter who was known to be ruthless with his questioning echoed through the press conference, directing the uncomfortable and out-of-the-blue question toward you, you suddenly found yourself at a loss for words.

“Rumors have been circulating the Internet recently about you and your father. There are accusations against you claiming that you were ‘selfish’ and ‘ungrateful’ for cutting off ties with your parent, that a callous and unforgiving person such as yourself does not deserve a seat or to be the inspiration for young minds. What are your comments on such claims, and have you ever experienced regret for turning your back on your family – your very own flesh and blood?”

The sudden silence in the room was suffocating, and the only sound you could hear was the heartbeat that was drumming loudly in your ears as the colour drained from your face. The discussion revolving around your relationship with your father wasn’t anything you were unfamiliar with, but to hear it being brought up so directly in front of the press and all your fellow drivers, and all the demeaning names that people had called you – it had felt so demoralizing.

What happened between you and your dad was entirely private, people outside of your family who had never gone through what you had experienced should never have the right to make comments on your decision to leave. They didn’t know what it was like to have a father who was never there, who constantly let you down with his lies and broken promises, who subjected all his volatile temper and toxic outbursts to his daughter and wife.

You had enough of his bullshit and were simply sick of pretending to be the perfect little family, so you left with your mother and told yourself that you would never look back. It would be a lie if you said that you didn’t miss the presence of your dad every now and then – the palpable emptiness he left behind had and would continue to haunt you – but you also never once regretted your decision.

“I – I don’t think… these accusations… umm –” The composure you had always displayed in front of the media was long gone, and you struggled to find the right words to say in response to such an uncomfortable question. Every pair of eyes in the room was fixated on you while that journalist watched you with an inspective expression on his face, just waiting for the moment when you break – wanting you to lose control so that he could have the reaction he needed to write his article.

And all of a sudden, you were back in your childhood home, standing in the living room with your head hung low, fighting back tears as your father unleashed his wrath at you over the smallest, most trivial things. “What’re you crying for, huh? You want me to give you something to cry about?” he would say to you, his voice harsh and venomous as he screamed out insults that scarred your fragile little heart.

Then you were back in your grade school classroom, standing in front of the whole class and staying completely silent after your teacher assigned you the speech topic “My dad is my hero”. Your classmates looked at you as if you had grown a second head, confused by the way you were struggling to speak about a topic they could so easily blabber on for hours. You just couldn’t bring yourself to say anything – your dad was never your hero, he was a distant stranger who struck fear within you whenever he was around.

Then you were back in the bedroom at your new home, reading the birthday card that your dad had sent to you a month late. Written in the top left corner of the page was a scribble of your name, completely misspelled. You closed the card with tears brimming in your eyes, knowing that your existence was slowly beginning to fade from your father’s memories. You tried to remember what his voice sounded like, his calloused hands, his boisterous laughter on the rare days when he wasn’t screaming profanities at you and your mother, and then you realized that he was beginning to fade from yours, and it had felt so, so painful.

Blinking away the hectic memories, you were quickly dragged back to the reality of the press conference. Everyone was still waiting for your response, and the reporter continued to wait for you to crumble under pressure, but all you wanted to do was to run out of the room and hide from people’s blazing eyes, to not have the world criticize you on how you dealt with your family trauma.

“I think that is an absolutely unprofessional question to ask if I am being honest.” Max’s stern voice finally broke the silence, and you were still attempting to process the situation when he continued to chastise the overstepping journalist with an irritated scowl, “The focus of the press conference is to discuss the races and the drivers’ performances on the track, not to delve into people’s personal matter and bring up their family situations which clearly do not have any relevance to the sport.”

The Dutch driver had always been brutally honest, never afraid to speak his mind and call out the press for their bullshit, and this was no exception. Having a complicated relationship with his father himself, he knew the hardships of being in your situation and struggling with toxic family dynamics, and he experienced first-hand how the media loved exploiting such issues for the sake of a story. More importantly, you were his friend, and he would do anything to defend you.

You exchanged thankful glances with the driver next to you, feeling the warmth that blossomed over your heart when Max placed his hand over your trembling ones beneath the table, giving it a reassuring squeeze in a way that meant “Don’t worry. I got your back”.

Upon hearing what Max had to say, the reporter was quick to defend himself. “I was merely hoping to get some insights on whether or not the recent rumors had affected her performance on the track. That’s all,” he attempted to reason, trying to rationalize his intrusive question but was interrupted by another driver who frankly also had enough.

“I think everybody in this room is well aware that is not your intention,” Charles spoke up from his seat, staring at the lying journalist with a tight-lipped smile that was far from friendly. Being one of your closest friends on the grid, Charles was also no stranger to your father’s abusive tendencies and knew how tough it was for you to open up to him about such horrible memories. To see the press tried to take advantage of your vulnerability and blatantly lie about their ill intention sickened him, and he was not going to just sit and watch it happen.

The McLaren driver sitting beside him nodded as he let out a light chuckle, “Yeah I mean – I’m literally an idiot at reading the room but even I can tell that getting racing insights was not your only intention, mate.” The audacity some of these journalists and reporters had was astounding, thinking they could get away with asking disrespectful questions just because of their job titles. When it came to snapping back at their baleful antics, Lando did it once on camera with his iconic “Who are you?” and he would certainly do it again.

Carlos couldn’t help but smirk at Lando's cleverness – masking his reproval at the journalist with a self-deprecating joke. When his attention landed on the audience seated before him, he allowed himself to enjoy the caught-off-guard look on the journalist's now reddened face. “Serves him right for asking stupid questions,” Carlos muttered in a hushed voice just loud enough for himself to hear before turning his head to catch your eyes, shooting you a quick smile as a sign of support. You returned the kind gesture, thankful that your friends were standing by your side when you needed help.

As the journalist busied himself with trying to recollect his composure, an awkward silence hung upon the room once again. That was when Daniel perked up from his seat, the usual cheerful smile on his face as he proceeded to do what he did best – easing the tense atmosphere and diffusing the tension with a touch of humour. “Well, I can totally affirm that Lando can be an idiot sometimes,” he joked while grinning mischievously at the papaya driver, and the mood in the room visibly lightened as a few reporters laughed at his playful words.

“But on a more serious note though, I do believe it’s important to remember that drivers are also human beings, and we all have our own struggles and difficulties both on and off track. It’s crucial to respect drivers’ boundaries and not exploit their personal struggles, and our sole focus should always be on the sport and racing,” Daniel voiced out respectfully, emphasizing the one thing that people always seemed to forget – that drivers deserved privacy and owed nobody any explanations on their personal lives, even if they lived under the spotlight.

Oscar and Pierre who were seated at the further end of the table also nodded at Daniel’s resonating words, expressing their agreement on the importance of maintaining a respectful and uplifting environment for all drivers. “What are your thoughts, y/n?” A female reporter in the crowd raised the question, subtly giving you an encouraging smile as she steered the attention back to you, offering you the chance to speak your truth and address the situation directly.

The fear and dread within you slowly dissipated, replacing them was the heartwarming gratitude at your fellow drivers who showed no hesitation in defending you in the face of intrusive questioning. It was then that you realized you were never alone in this journey, that the other drivers on the grid were not only your competitors but your family who understood what you had gone through and would unconditionally have your back.

It was their reassuring glances, their wholehearted support, and their willingness to stand up for you that enveloped you with the strength and courage needed to finally speak up for yourself. “I would like to start off by thanking all the drivers here with me, and thank you to the journalist for that rather personal question,” you spoke clearly at your microphone, your voice emboldened by the newly found determination as you watched the journalist shift uncomfortably in his seat.

“While I do appreciate the public’s concern regarding my family issues, I would prefer to keep my personal life private. The decision to distance myself from my father to prioritize my well-being and emotional health is not something I regret doing, and it is not fair for people outside my family who don’t understand the complexities of our relationship to make assumptions on the matter.”

Taking a deep breath to gather your thoughts, you made the closing remarks to your statement, “Which is why I kindly ask for your understanding and space moving forward, to respect the privacy of not only me but everybody on the grid and allow us to deal with our personal matter privately, and ultimately create a respectful community within Formula 1.”

You looked around the room when you had finally finished speaking, meeting the eyes of your fellow drivers and the rows of reporters sitting before you. Your hands were still shaking from the nerves that pulsated through you, but a firm squeeze of Max’s hand pulled you back to the present before you could begin spiraling. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he said with a gentle smile.

The media training sessions had come in handy once again, and you managed to address the situation in a graceful manner without revealing more details than you were comfortable sharing while also highlighting the importance of personal boundaries in the world of motorsports. “Thank you, y/n,” the previous female reporter nodded at you with a proud smile, glad that you put those unprofessional reporters who had no sense of boundaries back in their place.

Among the sea of cameras and eager reporters who could so easily expose the vulnerabilities of the drivers with a simple flick of their pens, some suddenly found themselves becoming the subject of such exposure, called out for their prying questions and insatiable need to twist people’s words for a click-worthy story.

It was evident that what you and the other drivers said had struck something within them as they silently began reflecting on their roles and responsibilities as reporters, and perhaps remembering the reason why they had chosen journalism in the first place – to report the factual truth to the public, or to fabricate things in exchange for views and attention?

The press conference proceeded to continue, but the shift in the atmosphere was apparent when journalists asked their questions with more sensitivity and introspection, mentioning topics that genuinely mattered instead of blindly chasing exclusive headlines. When the conference finally ended, you and all the drivers collectively exuded a breath of relief, feeling a weight being lifted off your shoulders now that the far-from-enjoyable media day was over.

As you exited the room and were away from the cameras and people, you turned around and gave your friends an appreciative smile. “Thank you all… for standing up for me.” You must have sounded like you were close to tears because Daniel began cooing at you teasingly as if he were comforting a crying child, “Aww… don’t worry about it, kiddo.”

Charles leaned forward to ruffle your hair almost like what an older brother would, and he said to you tenderly, “We’re a team, and we’ll always have your back.” You were not going to cry initially, but now you weren’t so sure. At that moment, you had felt so loved, so supported, and it made you want to hide under the covers and bawl your eyes out from the rush of emotions that crashed over you.

Your friends, understanding the depths of your emotions, gathered around to offer you their words of encouragement and gentle pats on your back. “I love you guys, really…” you whispered quietly, looking at them with such sincerity and gratitude. How lucky were you to be able to have these people as your competitors, your friends, your found family?

“Who wants to go and eat because I’m actually starving,” Lando exclaimed as he began walking in the direction of the restaurants, and a few of the drivers tailed behind him as they joined in on the rant about how hungry they were. You watched them with an overwhelming sense of fondness, and when Max reached out his hand for you to take, you gladly accepted it.

Listening to the light-hearted banter and laughs that filled the air with your best friend right next to you, you knew that this was exactly where you belonged. Not in the tiny living room with your father screaming at you, not in the classroom with the kids who didn’t understand what you had been through, not in the bedroom where you cried over your fading memories with your father, but right here – with your favourite people who would always be there to fight your battles with you.

[bakugoushotwife]

kinktober day eleven: monsterfucking kink

>>> guys this one may be my fav day ngl...as you can tell by my blog's entire theme that this is my biggest and most violent fantasy i need dragon king bakugou in the worst way please oh my god please

>>> EDIT 10/11: MHA LEAKS OMFG THIS DROPPED THE DAY MHA LEAKS BAKUGOU IS BACK MY GLORIOUS KING!!!!

>>> starring: dragon king!bakugou x curvy!fem!reader >>> cw: monsterfucking, bakugou is a hybrid, no prep, creampie, breeding, biting, blood, dark content, kinda forced marriage? mating bonds, uh, i think that's it. >>>wc: 2.9k >>> event masterlist

it was the new king’s coronation day, and as tradition demands, he shall have his pick of the finest women in his lands. you were brought forth amongst a host of other ladies deemed pretty enough for the young king to choose from. you were the only one of them that seemed irritated by the prospect, all the other girls were tittering and combing their hair while discussing their chances of being picked to be the dragon king’s new bride. he examined you all in a line, sneering at all the smiling and fluttering lashes—sending them crying from the room. he pauses on you, his gaze was stern and fiery but you didn’t hesitate to square your shoulders and meet it. he’s surprised; you don’t smile or extend your hand for him to kiss. you challenge him, you tell him with that strong set jaw and steel stare that you won’t be easy. he feels a pull on his heart, something he cannot yet explain. he likes you. 

you tilt your chin up, almost like you’re the one sizing him up. you’re so regal and amusing to him that his mind is made up instantly, but he gives you a few more minutes of looking him over, hoping to see some semblance of interest on your face. king bakugou was a hulking form of a man, towering above everyone in the room. they always were bigger than the normal humans, but he was larger than any of the dragon shifters you had ever come across. the room almost didn’t seem big enough to contain him, and it was his castle. his burlap trousers balloon around his lower half, but it seems there were not shirts big enough to fit the new king of dragons, only a long fur cloak that fastened with a golden dragon broach stretching across the broad expanse of his chest. he was tanned and scarred from years of flight and battle, and muscled even more so. he had hints of sparkling scarlet scales trailing along his collarbones with pointy teeth that alluded to his other form. his biceps bulged as he folded his arms across his chest, admiring you as you admire him with a satisfied smirk on his face. you didn’t throw yourself at him like the rest, and he doubted you would yet still, but you weren’t shy to let your eyes linger on him. he likes you. 

he smirks your way, grunting his approval. you were the perfect match. you certainly were the most beautiful creature of his kingdom, and your womanly figure assured him that he would sire several successful heirs with you. you captivated him and you had not yet spoken a word, though the young king could feel that fierce tugging on his heart again, something he now recognizes to be his mating bond the longer he looks at you and the stronger the feeling grows. 

“mine.” he says simply, nodding at you in content. his right hand man and fellow dragon shifter steps closer, handing his friend and king a fur pelt similar to the one he wears before retreating back into the onlooking crowd. the king unclasps the matching golden dragon, swinging the covering over your shoulders and snapping the jewelry back into place with a surprising nimbleness. this was the first of many gifts the king would dole out for his mate and queen, but this is the first one to mark you as his. you’re shocked to be chosen, convinced he would take your surveying for disrespect and brutalize you here to send a message— but alas, the most explosive dragon ruler in all the lands chose you as his bride. “you are my mate. we will marry in two moons. dismissed.” 

he looks over your head when he says this, ending the celebrations in favor of alone time with his chosen. his gaze has a hint of boredom to it as it glides around the room, red and fiery with unspoken strength and power behind them. you straighten yourself under the weight of your new cloak, bowing your head out of respect, albeit so quick it made the king exhale heavily through his nose as if to chuckle. 

“you are amusing, mate.” he says, extending a warm battle-worn hand to push your hair away from your neck. he lets it rest against your shoulder, smirking at how small you were compared to him. it was overwhelmingly apparent that he could do anything he wanted to with you, and you weren’t necessarily opposed to the concept. you started this day with immense rage and dread at having to go before the king and be selected like a prize horse. but he surprised you, even being every bit as brute and brash as everyone said he’d be, his eyes sparkled when they came across you. he declared you his mate—-a huge deal for a dragon shifter, and shrouded you in the engagement cloak without so much as a second thought. there was no arguing with the king, nor his mating bond. your soul was created to nurture his, and vice versa. he felt this snap into place instantly, as a mortal, you probably wouldn’t feel the strength of your connection for several days to weeks. it was an honor, one you couldn’t believe was bestowed upon you—but you certainly weren’t complaining anymore. “i like you.” 

you feel your body warm a bit from something as simple as his touch. he’s rough around the edges, and certainly doesn’t know how to be gentle or verbose, but his statement makes you smile warmly anyway. “thank you, my king. i’m quite amused as well.” 

he lets his hand slide from your shoulder all the way to your hand, clutching it tight as he brings it to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss. your scent makes his heart skip a beat, and he wonders if he can make it through the next two months without ravaging his sweet maiden. 

the days pass, slowly, but they pass. your king brings you several gifts and trinkets, filling your new chambers with tokens of his affection and fondness for his mate. the dragons were known for this, and your mate was the brightest and biggest of them all. so never did he go out to fly without returning with a clutch of presents. he was always so proud of himself as he showed them to you, shoving all the perfumes and jewels in your hands with a boastful grin. 

“i found these for you. wear them.” he grunts, roughly pulling you into his arms for a crushing hug. he was working on it, but he manhandled you on accident a majority of the time, not used to interacting with women. you were getting used to it anyhow, only giggling and nodding your acceptance, cooing at how beautiful all the gifts were. he preens in your praise, eager to earn the deep affection that the bond produces. 

you couldn’t deny that the bond was starting to affect you, as if you needed any help falling for the monster of a man meant to be your husband. he was kind and loving to you, and you couldn’t ask for much more. he was feared and revered, if you were dumb enough to cross him or his kingdom—soon to be your kingdom, then you earned the punishment of his hellfire tenfold. you wouldn’t find yourself begging for lives to be spared as you stand in the crowd while watching the king dole out sentences. he was brutal, and scary, vicious and primal in every way. his servants tremored in his wake, and though his people loved his protection, they feared his wrath. you were truly the only exception, and it was mystical for everyone to see the fierceness that abounds for his soon to be wife, his forever mate, his queen. and they could only hope your loving tenderness would tame the wild king. 

he took meals with you, showed you around his dreary and plain castle, easily agreeing to your every decoration suggestion and insisting you do whatever you want—this is your home now too. he even took you on rides in his gorgeous dragon form, letting you see how beautiful the sun setting over the kingdom was, flying you to different nations, journeying close to the seawaters so you could feel the salty wind on your skin. he forced himself to sleep in his own quarters at night, trying and struggling to abide by common decency. 

when your wedding day finally arrived, the king was more than ready to make you his queen officially—and then cart you to bed where decency would be the last thing on his mind. the ceremony is gorgeous, the image of you in your wedding gown was never to be forgotten on him, even though he couldn’t wait to rip it off of you. his brain had already geared into the darker side of things by the time you were being shown to your now shared chambers, and he could not resist his mate any longer. 

you weren’t faring much better. however this mating bond usually affected mortal women, it had you ready to climb your king like a tree. as soon as the doors were closed, he was on you, shoving you backwards while hastily tearing at your dress. you assist him in getting it over your head with only minimal rips in the fabric. you can’t bring yourself to care as you fall back on the bed with his body covering yours like a blanket. he’s snarling, but he’s not angry, just eager and too impatient to think about all the lessons he’s learned in being gentle. he scoops you up and tosses you up towards headboard, and you swear you can see steam billow off his form as he eyes you down, watching you lay and spread for him. 

“it’s been hard…waiting for you.” he complains, unfastening his cloak and letting it fall to the floor. the moment is so intense, you can feel the air thicken, smell the need permeating the air. he’s breathing heavily already, tugging at the weaving strings keeping his pants closed. your breath hitches when you see his scales glisten in the moonlight, the outline of his cock pressing against the troublesome burlap material. you pant out and nod, knowing the growth before you was only the first hint of what he had to pleasure his mate with. dragon shifters are larger than mortal men in every way, reflecting their dragon status in several different physical markers along their bodies, scales along their collarbones and spines, long mane-esque hairstyles, and of course their cocks. he steps out of the clothing, his massive leaking dick slapping up against his abs with a loud smack, you moan. 

his ashy patch of hair and the scarlet scales glistening against his hip bones direct your attention to the monster cock you married. he’s long, thick, curved, lined with veins and a throbbing pink tip leaking his pre-cum in droplets on the bed. it was easily half the size of his thigh, both length and width wise. he fixes himself on the bed, shredding your panties with sharp talons and eyeing your tiny hole. he has all the intentions to stretch you a bit, to get you soaked to accommodate him but when he looks back up at you, you’re drooling. 

you can’t imagine how good that’s going to feel inside you. all the times you had touched yourself out of curiosity or even genuine horniness would hardly compare to this, to the man it’s attached to—the way he watches you like a predator tells you there was nothing in this world that would prepare you for what he was about to do to you–what you wanted him to do to you. “i know…” you say after taking a deep breath, reaching for his face. “i’ve had to wait just as long.”

you squirm in place, lidded eyes flickering from his endowment to his eyes and then back again. “just wanna feel my king…i know you’ll fill me up so well.” you coo, batting your lashes. 

he’s not in the right mind to banter with you, the only thoughts crossing his brain at the sight and scent of you was to ravage. he grips your hips tightly, trying to will himself to be stronger and give his new bride the treatment she deserves. he should prepare you like a gentleman, but unfortunately the young king is unable to will himself to be gentle. you seem to read his mind, nodding and spreading your legs a bit further, allowing him to get settled in the space you provide. he wastes no time in lining up with your entrance and bottoming out. he knows it’s sadistic that he enjoys the way your eyes cross at the sensation, the burning and splitting stretch ripping a sob from your throat. you clutch at his arms, the natural slick you produced just from your own anticipation aiding him in the glide. he stays still for a moment, letting you adjust to him so he can also adjust to the feeling of your virgin pussy gripping him like a hand-tailored glove. he can’t fight the groan that leaves his lips, mindfully keeping his talons retracted as he rakes his hands over your plush stomach and wide hips, stopping to paw at your thick thighs and fat ass. he’s already rendered speechless, only able to grunt and groan as he starts to move, putting your legs up to his shoulders as to not face any resistance. you cry out at the new angle, absolutely feeling the searing heat of him splitting you apart, but you love it. you move your hips against his, head digging back against the pillow at the newfound pleasure.

it’s so hard for him to go slow, especially as you fuck yourself into him and cry out for more. your body takes him so well, as it was designed to, but he still didn’t expect it to feel and look and sound so good. he can see himself in your stomach, the spikes along his base curling into you and hitting every spot so well. you didn’t even know it was possible to feel this good, his cockhead drilling into your womb so hard it has the corners of your vision turning white. 

he’s growling, unable to repress his animalistic side completely. he leans forward, snapping his hips to yours as your wanton moans fill the room. he lets his tongue lave over your neck, making you gasp out at the feeling. “mate–i need to mark–bite..” he rumbles in your ear, goosebumps rippling over his body when you whine out and nod. 

“please! bite me, got those teeth f’r a reason—” you plead, your small hand guiding his face to the crook of your neck. your eagerness makes his cock twitch, your enjoyment paramount to him just as much as claiming his mate for the first time. he abides by your wishes, sinking his teeth into your flesh and clamping down, feeling you do the same around his dick. you moan out, clawing at his back with your own kind of talons. he can’t stop, driving bruises and bloody spots all along your neck and chest. he’d never go too deep even in his lusty haze, his primal instinct to protect his other half would never allow him to cause permanent harm. he admires his work, “pretty mate, my teeth marks.” 

he grunts out, gripping your hips and roughly turning you over, grabbing a fistful of your hair to yank you into a deep arch. you scream at the new angle, some blood trickling down your neck and pooling between your breasts. he’s entranced by the shape of your body beneath him, how his hands take up your entire waist and the way your ass ripples as he hammers into you. you’re struggling to hold your body up under the force of his thrusts, gripping the covers beneath you for dear life. he reaches around your hip, locating the sweet bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs. your hips falter when he presses his touch to your clit, a little sob coming from your lips as you begin to fall apart. 

“pretty. coat my cock.” he grunts, cock jumping again as you nod and fall forward, your pussy spasming around him like crazy. he feels the rush of you, sending him shuddering towards his end too. “g’nna take my heirs.” he groans, slamming your hips back into his as he spills into you for the first time. 

he pulls out quickly to gather you up in his arms, laying on his back with you protected by the expanse of his chest. you’re incoherent as his seed trickles out of you, and as bewitching as the sight is, he wants you to give him several warrior princes and princesses. so he slides his hands between your legs and chuckles as you jerk when you feel his fingers stuffing his cum back inside. you whine, so sensitive but yearning for all of his touches. he grunts a bit, leaning over to smooth your tousled hair and gently kissing the bruises and shallow wounds he gave you. his kindness touches you, and you relax into his body with a grin, knowing he would hold you to his heart’s content and then have the servants run a bath for the new dragon queen.

[gladiatorcunt]

summary: leto atreides x afab concubine!reader

cw: daddy kink, pregnancy, power imbalance, dark fic coded, implication that the other concubines “disappeared”, overstimulation, body worship, i would do anything to be in reader’s position here i’m being so real, not included but got reader pregnant in the full nelson position, the smut is in a flashback, mention of the reader having hip dips, mention of leto with others but he realizes you’re the one after lmao, probably dune world/lore inaccuracies, reader’s a member of the duke’s breeding program, mention of choking, intended age gap but you can read it as otherwise

wc: 1k+

block & move on if uncomfortable !!!

do not repost, translate, or give ai my work

kinktober masterlist

“It’s to wake up, my love.”

Your eyes flutter open to see Duke Leto Atreides standing over your bed, one of his hands brushing back some of your hair away from your face. He smiles warmly when you tiredly meet his gaze, and holds out an open palm. You take it and let him help you sit up, though that’s as far as he’s willing to let you go. Leto hovers his hands over your baby bump, borderline paranoid about you doing anything that could jeopardize the health of the baby.

“I thought my appointment with the doctor wasn’t until next week, my lord…” You yawn, resting your hands on your belly as you fight off sleep. Being heavily pregnant was no easy task, and most days it feels like you have as much energy as a corpse.

“It is, I simply wanted to see you.” Leto answers, petting your hair and curling one arm around your lower back to support it. “When we’re alone, get rid of the ‘my lord’, what we have is more than the results of an obligation.”

You sigh, leaning into his touch as you consider his words. Months ago, you were just another member of the Duke’s harem. One of many meant to produce heirs until your body shriveled up. Your family was noteworthy but not noble enough to stay afloat, you heard that the Duke was looking for breeders and you left without looking back. Though you will admit that Leto Atreides is not the worst man you could’ve taken inside you. He was gentle and the way he kissed you suggested that he felt more than just gratitude.

You pretended to not mind the sounds and stories you heard from the other concubines in the beginning. You knew perfectly well what you were signing up for, the feelings came from nowhere, you swear.

Leto’s mannerisms during sex were impossibly adoring and intimate, and he would tell you were special every time in the midst of the afterglow. You stopped hearing heart dropping noises and nauseating stories, and the day after you found out you were pregnant you heard nothing at all. The Duke took longer than usual to meet with you that night.

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

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.” Leto calls out, wrapping his arms around you from behind as you get ready for bed.

You finish tying the strings of your nightgown and turn around to face him. There are strange little flecks of red in the wrinkles on his face, but they could be a trick of the light so you brush the curiosity off.

“I am always waiting for you, my lord.” You repeat the same thing you say everyday, noting the way the corners of his smile flatten in displeasure.

He cups your face and walks the both of you backwards towards the bed, shooting his hands out to keep himself from crushing you when you inevitably fall on it.

Time passes by in a blur, every moment filled with cries of “Daddy” and overzealous movement from him that punches the breath of your lungs. He’s not incredibly rough, just passionate enough to have tears dot your lashes and his thumb buried in your mouth. Every kiss is a hot swirling mess of saliva and tongues colliding that gets you so wet, you really believe it could kill you.

“Mm, your tongue feels amazing, clumsily chasing after mine.” Leto grunts at some point, rutting and slamming his balls against your ass with no rhyme or reason. “The tightest cunt i’ve ever had, fuck-“

You hum around his thumb, suckling on it like he’s your god and his thick fingers in your mouth are your only reason to live. He grinds his teeth together when you make eye contact, and you struggle to keep it up as you hollow out your cheeks around his coarse digits.

“Wanna make you proud, Daddy, gonna be so good for you.” The words are muffled past the point of comprehension, but your eyes allow him to get the gist.

If you were not already pregnant, the flood of fresh cum in your pussy would’ve done the trick. You clench around your lord’s fat cock and let yourself break, squirting all over yourself.

When you come to, Leto’s busying himself with latching onto your tits like a leech and bullying your battered pussy.

“These are already so sensitive, aren’t they? And to think that I made them that way…” Leto trails off, licking a broad stripe over your nipple and pinching your clit.

You jolt and throw your head back, “Yes, Daddy, you did.”

He groans at the frequently used name, pinching your clit harder and digging his fingers in deeper. You’ve had more orgasms than you ever thought possible in the last hour alone, but your lord was insatiable like this. His head is too high in the clouds with visions of his future family to calm down.

Your legs shake but he takes his hand away from your clit and smooths his palm over your thigh to steady you.

“It’s alright, you know i won’t be too rough honey, you can take it. You’ve already taken my seed beautifully, growing my son in your womb.”

You know there’s no chance of stopping until Leto’s sure that he’s kissed and lavished every inch of your delectable body in Daddy’s attention. He gives each of your buds a ‘Goodbye for now’ kiss and wipes down the dips in your hips with his tongue, soothing the love bites and caressing the necklace of bruises around your neck he left when he lost control.

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

The bed sinks with Leto’s added weight, and your cheeks warm as you come back to the present. You look down at your joined hands to see a box clenched tightly in his free one. Like he’s scared of dropping it. You gaze up at him questioningly and he smiles once again before softly kissing the skin between your eyes.

Next thing you know, Duke Leto Atreides is kneeling before you and opening the box to reveal a large ring. It’s magnificently crafted and all the details align with your taste perfectly.

“Will you marry me?”

[brunchable]

Winter King, Part Three : Cruel Summer. . .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You blinked, taken aback. “I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded slowly, unsure of how to respond.

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

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What exactly are you suggesting, Prime Minister?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your brow furrowed. “And why not?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No freedom. No voice. No choices.

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was time to take matters into your own hands.

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

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

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

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

“Your Majesty! What are you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

Not until you reached Annecy.

Not until you reached him.

× × × ×

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

You were free, if only for a fleeting moment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You don’t understand—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” you whispered. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × × 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“James—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × × 

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

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

But he had.

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

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

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

“Y/N, wait—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you coming?”

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

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

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

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

“I won’t.”

× × × × 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bucky—”

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

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

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

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

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

Even if it destroyed him in the process.

× × × × 

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

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

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

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

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

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

The corner of her lips twitched.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

× × × ×

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glance down at the garden below, where the maids are casting furtive glances up at the two of you, their curiosity barely concealed. A murmur rises among them, speculation sparking like dry kindling. You can practically hear the gossip spreading like wildfire.

“Is this... concern for my well-being or more... personal interest, Captain?” you ask, your voice laced with challenge.

He holds your gaze, his expression softening in a way that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Perhaps a bit of both,” he replies quietly.

A murmur rises among the maids, their eyes widening as they exchange knowing looks. Your gaze shifts briefly to them before returning to Steve’s, suspicion and confusion swirling in your chest.

“Captain Rogers, I—” You begin to speak but falter, unsure how to respond to this unexpected display of interest. 

He leans back slightly, his gaze never leaving yours. “It’s just... Your Majesty, you deserve someone who sees you. Not just the crown, not just the queen, but you.”

The maids’ murmurs grow louder, and you force yourself to smile, though it feels brittle on your lips.

“That’s very kind of you to say, Captain,” you reply, your voice steady despite the confusion roiling inside you. “But perhaps you should keep such thoughts to yourself. I would hate for anyone to misunderstand your intentions.”

“Misunderstand?” he echoes, his smile widening just enough to be noticed. “I’m not sure there’s any misunderstanding when a man speaks his mind.”

Your eyes narrow, a flash of irritation sparking behind them. What game is he playing? Before you can press further, one of the maids drops a basket of flowers, the sudden clatter drawing both your attention. The young woman quickly bends to pick them up, her cheeks flushed, but not before she casts another furtive glance at you and Steve.

“Let them talk, Your Majesty. Sometimes, a little attention is exactly what’s needed.”

“Attention for whom?” you ask, your voice dropping to a whisper, your suspicion growing. “For me? Or for... someone else?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “For whoever needs it,” he murmurs softly, the words thick with unspoken meaning.

You inhale deeply, holding his gaze as you speak. “I think it’s best if we don’t continue this conversation.”

With a quiet sigh, you carefully swing your legs over the branch and drop down, landing gracefully on the grass below. Steve follows suit, descending with a thud beside you, his presence lingering too close for comfort.

“Thank you for your... company, Captain,” you say quietly, smoothing down your skirts.

He dips his head in a respectful bow. “Of course, Your Majesty. I apologize if I overstepped.”

Without another word, you turn on your heel and make your way back to the estate, leaving him and his cryptic words behind among the watchful eyes and eager whispers of the maids.

The afternoon sun cast dappled shadows across the marble floors of the corridor as you made your way back to your chambers. Each step you took felt heavier, weighted down by the encounter in the garden, by Captain Rogers’ unexpected behavior, and the murmurs that had buzzed around you like a swarm of bees.

As you turned a corner, you caught sight of Scott—your valet—hovering a few paces behind. His presence was a familiar one, but something about it now felt... different. Obtrusive. You slowed your pace until you came to a halt, turning abruptly to face him.

“Scott,” you called softly, your tone edged with irritation and confusion. “Why are you following me?”

Scott, ever the stoic presence, dipped his head in a respectful bow. “Your Majesty, it’s my duty to attend to you.”

Your eyes narrowed as you took in the determined set of his shoulders, the way his gaze remained fixed just over your shoulder, never meeting your eyes. He’d been like this ever since you returned from Annecy—hovering in the shadows, always lingering close by.

“Yes, I know that, Scott,” you said slowly, studying him with a scrutinizing gaze. “But lately, you’ve been… hovering more than usual.”

His lips twitched, a fleeting sign of discomfort. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I merely wish to ensure your safety.”

“Ensure my safety?” you echoed, suspicion prickling at the back of your mind. You glanced around the empty corridor, a sense of unease settling in your chest. “Who ordered you to follow me around like this?”

Scott hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor before he glanced back up, his voice low. “It was the order of the king, Your Majesty.”

Your breath caught. Bucky? You frowned, confusion and frustration warring within you. Why would he do that? He hadn’t even bothered to see you, to speak to you since the night you confronted him. And yet, now he saw fit to have you followed?

“And… What of Captain Rogers?” you asked, your voice quieter now, a strange apprehension curling around your words. “Why does it seem like he’s been lingering around more often? Was that also at the king’s order?”

Scott shifted slightly, his expression remaining neutral, though there was a faint trace of something—sympathy, perhaps?—in his eyes. “Yes, Your Majesty. The king… he wanted to ensure you were… properly attended to.”

“Properly attended to?” You scoffed softly, shaking your head. The absurdity of it all threatened to choke you. “So, let me get this straight: His Majesty won’t speak to me, but he’ll send his best men to guard me as if I’m some helpless child in need of constant supervision?”

Scott stiffened slightly, but he didn’t respond, his silence speaking louder than any words could.

A bitter laugh escaped you, the sound harsh and brittle. “And here I thought I was being foolish for imagining things.” You looked back at Scott, your gaze piercing. “So, this—this is the king’s way of keeping me under lock and key?”

“It’s for your safety, Your Majesty,” Scott replied softly, his voice almost apologetic. “He wants to ensure nothing happens to you.”

“Nothing happens to me?” You shook your head, disbelief and anger simmering beneath your calm facade. “Nothing is happening to me. What does he think will happen to me? I’m not the one who’s running off and avoiding our marriage.”

Scott’s gaze dropped to the floor again, his silence confirming what you already knew. This wasn’t about your safety—at least not entirely. It was about control. About Bucky’s way of maintaining a grip on something he couldn’t seem to confront directly.

“Well,” you muttered, turning away sharply and continuing down the hall, your heart pounding in your chest. “I’ll be sure to thank him for his... consideration.”

Scott fell into step a few paces behind you, his presence a shadow that only deepened your frustration. With each step you took, the realization settled deeper into your bones.

Bucky might have ordered this, but he was still keeping his distance. Still choosing to watch from afar, rather than face you. And that, more than anything, was what made your heart ache.

You stopped abruptly, your irritation bubbling to the surface as you turned back around to face Scott, a sudden thought lighting up your eyes. 

“You know what?” you murmured, voice edged with determination as a small, dangerous smile curled your lips. “I think I’d like to shoot some arrows.”

Scott’s eyes widened, a look of surprise flickering across his face. He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting away before he cleared his throat. 

“Your Majesty, I—” he started, hesitation written in every line of his posture.

You raised an eyebrow, tilting your head as if considering his reaction. “Is there a problem, Scott?” Your voice remained calm, but there was a sharpness beneath it, the kind that could cut through any excuse he might offer.

Scott’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, struggling to keep his composure. “I, uh, I don’t believe it’s wise, Your Majesty,” he murmured carefully, his voice almost too soft, too placating. “Perhaps… a walk in the gardens or a relaxing moment in the music room instead? Or I could—”

“Scott,” you interrupted sharply, crossing your arms over your chest as you leveled him with a pointed look. “Are you refusing your queen?”

The tension between you hung heavy in the air as his shoulders tightened, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to find the right words to say.

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” he managed finally, though his voice trembled ever so slightly. “It’s just… your safety—”

“My safety,” you echoed dryly, the irritation you had been holding back spilling out now. “Tell me, Scott, how exactly do arrows pose a threat to my safety? Unless I plan on aiming at myself, I believe I’ll be fine.”

His mouth twitched, struggling between his duty to follow orders and the fear of displeasing you. “It’s not the arrows, Your Majesty,” he murmured, choosing his words carefully. “It’s just… we were instructed to keep you... away from—”

“Instructed?” you cut in, incredulity and frustration sharpening your tone. “Instructed to keep me away from what? Activities that make me feel like I have a shred of control over my own life? I can’t even invite Lady, Romanoff, Potts and Maximoff.”

Scott shifted uncomfortably, his gaze dropping to the floor as if it held all the answers. “No, Your Majesty, of course not. It’s just—”

“Just what, Scott?” Your gaze was unrelenting, your patience wearing thin. “If you’re so worried about my safety, then be a good valet and stand by as I shoot. Ensure that nothing happens to me, since that is your duty, after all.”

He blinked, clearly caught between his loyalty to the king and his loyalty to you. The silence stretched long, taut and crackling with unspoken defiance. Finally, he exhaled softly, shoulders slumping just a little in reluctant acceptance.

“Very well, Your Majesty,” he said quietly, though his eyes remained wary. “I shall arrange for the equipment to be brought to the archery range. But… might I suggest a different method for alleviating your frustrations?”

You raised an eyebrow, lips curving into a faint smirk as you glanced at him. “Such as?”

“Perhaps a ride through the woods?” he offered quickly, hope lighting up his eyes. “Or I could arrange for a music instructor, or even some time in the library. Anything that would allow you to... relax.”

You let out a soft, humorless laugh. “You think a music lesson or a book will do the trick, do you?”

Scott hesitated but nodded, his voice gentle. “You’ve had a trying few days, Your Majesty. It’s natural to feel… frustrated. But there are ways to—”

“Enough,” you interrupted, your voice firm but not unkind. “I appreciate your concern, but I know what I need. Fetch the equipment. I won’t be persuaded otherwise.”

He sighed softly, bowing his head in reluctant submission. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

You turned away sharply, your gaze fixed on the distant view through the windows. The truth was, this wasn’t just about shooting arrows. It was about the tightness in your chest, the simmering anger beneath your skin, the need to do something other than sit around like a caged bird. Bucky had placed you under watch, yet he refused to see you.

If no one else would let you be free, then you would take what freedom you could. Even if it was just the satisfaction of a well-aimed arrow hitting its mark.

× × × ×

You stood at the archery range, your fingers gently tracing the fletching of an arrow. You could feel every set of eyes on you—Scott’s gaze wary and apprehensive, the handmaids’ murmuring softly amongst themselves, the guards standing at attention with blank faces. But most notable was Captain Rogers, his presence a solid, quiet reassurance, yet even he stood back, watching you like a hawk.

Taking a deep breath, you nocked the arrow, the smooth wood and feather a comforting weight in your hands. You narrowed your gaze, focusing on the target ahead. The world around you blurred, leaving only the taut string and the distant bullseye. And then, with a practiced release, you let it fly.

The arrow sailed through the air with a sharp hiss, striking the target with a satisfying thud. A few inches off-center, but still well within the mark. 

“Not bad,” Steve commented, a hint of admiration in his voice. “For a first shot.”

You turned to him with a raised brow, a glint of amusement in your eyes. “First shot of the day, you mean.” Then, without breaking eye contact, you nocked another arrow, your movements smooth, effortless.

Steve’s lips twitched, almost forming a smile. He crossed his arms, stepping closer, though he kept a respectful distance. “Of course. I stand corrected, Your Majesty.”

Scott cleared his throat softly, stepping forward as if to remind everyone of the gravity of the situation. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice laced with concern, “perhaps it would be best to—”

“To what?” you interrupted, the arrow poised and ready. “Put down the bow and take up knitting? Perhaps have a nice cup of tea and read a dull novel while I bide my time?”

Scott blinked, his lips pressing into a thin line, but he said nothing. Instead, his gaze shifted to Captain Rogers, almost as if hoping for support.

“Let her be, Scott,” Steve murmured, his tone gentle but firm. “If she wants to practice, let her practice.”

With that, you turned your attention back to the target, drawing the string taut. This time, the arrow flew with a deadly precision, landing just shy of the bullseye. A small ripple of approval murmured through the handmaidens, but Scott merely sighed.

You tilted your head, a sly smile curving your lips as you glanced at him. 

“Scott,” you began casually, as if speaking of the weather, “do we keep any paintings of His Majesty around the manor? Perhaps one in full regalia?” Your tone was innocent enough, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

The handmaidens exchanged startled glances, a few stifling giggles behind their hands. Steve’s gaze shifted sharply to you, his lips twitching, but he said nothing, watching the scene unfold with a barely hidden glimmer of amusement.

Scott, however, did not find it amusing in the slightest. His eyes widened slightly, and he straightened, his voice dropping into a low, chiding tone. “Your Majesty, that is not a funny joke.”

“Isn’t it?” You tilted your head, feigning a look of mock surprise. “I find it quite humorous.”

A muscle in Scott’s jaw twitched, but he composed himself quickly, his gaze flickering to Captain Rogers as if asking for assistance.

But Steve merely shrugged, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “The queen does have a unique sense of humor,” he said lightly, his gaze still on you. “One might even say it’s… refreshing.”

You shot him a grateful glance before nocking yet another arrow, this time releasing it with a force that sent it whistling through the air. The arrow struck the outer ring of the target, and you clicked your tongue, feigning disappointment.

“Perhaps I need more inspiration,” you mused aloud, not bothering to hide the bitterness in your voice. “A better target. Or maybe something a bit more… personal.”

“Your Majesty,” Scott said warningly, stepping forward as if he might dare to take the bow from your hands. “This—”

You turned on him sharply, your expression hardening. “What?” you demanded softly. “This is my one small act of freedom. This range. These arrows. This target. Would you deny me even this?”

Silence fell over the group, thick and uncomfortable. The guards shifted uneasily, glancing at one another, unsure of how to proceed. The handmaidens fidgeted, casting worried looks in your direction. But Steve held his ground, his gaze never leaving you.

Scott swallowed, his eyes darting between you and Steve, then back again. “No, Your Majesty,” he said quietly, his shoulders slumping just slightly. “I would never deny you.”

“Good,” you murmured, lifting the bow again and taking aim, your gaze focused, unyielding. “Then let me have my small comforts, if nothing else.”

And with that, you released the arrow, the force of it reverberating through your arms. It struck the very edge of the target, just shy of missing altogether. You lowered the bow slowly, your heart hammering in your chest as you stared at the arrow, frustration coiling tightly within you.

“Perhaps next time,” you said softly, almost to yourself. “I’ll find a better target.”

Scott said nothing, his silence louder than any reprimand. But as you turned away, your gaze met Steve’s once more, and the warmth in his eyes—unspoken understanding, quiet admiration—was enough to dull the edge of your anger.

× × × ×

“Have you heard?” Lady Leah’s voice, soft but carrying the weight of scandal, broke through the hushed quiet of the drawing room. She leaned forward, her eyes wide with feigned innocence. “They still haven’t consummated.”

Lady Ravonna’s teacup paused halfway to her lips, a delicate brow arching. “The king and queen?” she murmured, as if the very notion were inconceivable. “How do you know?”

Leah’s lips curved into a smug smile. “People talk,” she said simply, glancing sideways at Sharon, who sat rigid, her fingers drumming against the arm of her chair. “And apparently, they talk quite a bit.”

“Seven days,” Lady Maya added softly, her gaze flitting between the women. “A week, and still… nothing?”

A delicate scoff escaped from Sharon’s lips, though her eyes were cold, calculating. “I’m not surprised. Our queen,” she sneered, the title dripping with disdain, “is too busy batting her lashes at Captain Rogers to notice she has a husband.”

The other women exchanged startled glances, shock and intrigue flaring to life in their eyes. Ravonna set her teacup down with deliberate care, her gaze narrowing slightly. “You’re saying there’s something between them?”

“I’m saying there’s enough for people to start talking,” Sharon replied coolly, her voice a low, dangerous purr. “You know how these things start—one whispered word, one lingering glance… and suddenly, there’s a story worth telling.”

Maya’s brow furrowed slightly, a hint of concern crossing her face. “But… the queen and the captain? It seems—”

“Impossible?” Sharon cut in sharply, “Hardly. The way he hovers around her, like she’s some delicate flower in need of protection… the way she looks at him, like he’s the answer to all her problems. It’s disgusting.”

The other women exchanged wary glances, sensing the venom simmering beneath Sharon’s words.

“Sharon, you should be careful,��� Leah murmured softly, her gaze darting nervously to the door. “If people hear you speak like this—”

“Like what?” Sharon snapped, her voice laced with bitterness. “Like the queen is nothing more than a conniving bitch?” Her lips curled into a cruel smile, her eyes gleaming with malice. “Because that’s exactly what she is. A lying, manipulative whore who thinks she can just—”

“Sharon!” Maya hissed, glancing around the room frantically. “You can’t say that!”

But Sharon continued, undeterred, her voice lowering to a dangerous whisper. “She’s a whore,” she repeated, the word dripping with venom. “Parading herself around like some saint, when she’s got Captain Rogers hanging on her every word. And for what? To make a fool of the king?”

Ravonna shifted uncomfortably, leaning forward to place a calming hand on Sharon’s arm. 

“Sharon, enough,” she murmured firmly, her tone gentle but insistent. “You need to calm down. Words like that will only bring trouble.”

Sharon’s gaze snapped to Ravonna’s, her eyes blazing. “No. Words like that will bring the truth to light. The truth about what she really is.”

“But you don’t know that for sure,” Maya whispered urgently. “It’s all just… whispers. Hearsay.”

Sharon let out a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “Whispers are all we need. Whispers will turn into rumors, and rumors will turn into truths, whether they’re real or not.” She straightened, her gaze steely. “I’ll make sure of it.”

The other ladies exchanged uneasy looks, their faces pale. But it was Leah who spoke up, her voice trembling slightly. “And what if this all backfires? What if the king doesn’t believe it?”

“Then we make sure he does,” Sharon said coldly, “We make sure everyone believes it. Because if she thinks she can just waltz in here and steal everything I’ve worked for… she’s got another thing coming.”

“What exactly are you saying, Sharon? What do you intend to do?” Ravonna frowned, her gaze skeptical.

Sharon’s smile was slow, almost sinister.

“Nothing. For now.” She leaned back in her seat, the picture of composed fury. “The court will tear her apart on its own, once they realize she’s unfaithful. Once they see her for what she truly is.”

“But… how?” Leah asked hesitantly, her brow furrowing. “There’s no proof. No evidence.”

“There doesn’t need to be,” Sharon said dismissively. “People love a scandal. And the more outlandish it seems, the more they’ll believe it.”

“But Sharon,” Ravonna murmured, her voice tight with unease. “You’re playing with fire. If the king finds out—”

“Let him,” Sharon snapped, cutting her off. “Let him see what his perfect queen is really like. A disloyal wife. A disgrace. He’ll thank me in the end.”

They exchanged uneasy glances, none daring to speak, none daring to question further.

Finally, it was Maya who broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper. “But… what if it backfires?”

“Then it backfires,” Sharon said coolly, shrugging as if it were of no consequence. “But it won’t. Because I’ll make sure it doesn’t.” Her gaze hardened, her expression fierce. “No matter what it takes.”

× × × ×

The grand council chamber in the main palace was abuzz with tension, the air thick with barely restrained impatience and worry. High-ranking noblemen lined the long table, each one glancing nervously at the Dowager Queen as she entered the room with her head held high, her presence alone commanding silence.

Queen Winifred took her seat at the head of the table, her gaze sweeping over the gathered men. Prime Minister Fury, seated directly to her left, leaned forward, his brows knitted in frustration.

“It’s been seven days,” he began, his voice carrying a distinct edge of impatience. “Seven days, Your Majesty, and they still haven’t consummated their marriage.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the room, voices low but urgent.

Lord Haynesworth, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, spoke up next, his tone carefully measured but no less troubled. “Your Majesty, the lack of consummation is… troubling, to say the least. The kingdom needs stability, and without a legitimate heir, we risk giving dissenters an opening to question the monarchy’s strength.”

“Indeed,” Duke Townsend of Lancaster agreed, his fingers drumming restlessly against the polished wood of the table. “There are already whispers. Rival factions are looking for any sign of weakness, and this... delay is giving them all the ammunition they need. We cannot afford to let them think the crown is vulnerable.”

Queen Winifred’s gaze narrowed slightly as she listened to their concerns, her face a mask of calm composure. She had expected this—expected the panic, the finger-pointing, the thinly veiled attempts to shift blame.

“And without an heir,” Lord Pierce added, his voice rising, “we’re risking more than just whispers. We’re risking civil unrest. There are already reports of some nobles openly questioning whether the king is... able to fulfill his duties.”

Another wave of murmured agreement swept through the chamber, the words laced with anxiety and fear. But Queen Winifred remained impassive, her fingers resting lightly on the arm of her chair.

“Gentlemen,” she said, her voice cutting through the noise like a blade, “you are all acting as if I do not understand why there needs to be an heir.” She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp and unyielding.

“You forget that I am the one who secured the throne for my son after the turmoil of his father’s reign. I am well aware of the consequences should there be no successor.”

A strained silence fell over the room as the noblemen shifted uncomfortably in their seats, chided by her words. But it didn’t last long.

“Then what is being done, Your Majesty?” Lord Haynesworth pressed, his voice lower now, but no less insistent. “The queen has failed to... inspire confidence in the king. If this continues, we may have to consider alternate measures.”

A tense murmur followed, the suggestion hanging ominously in the air. Queen Winifred’s gaze turned icy, her eyes boring into the man who dared to voice such a thought.

“Are you suggesting,” she said softly, dangerously, “that we undermine the queen’s position? That we destabilize her standing at court?”

Lord Haynesworth cleared his throat, looking away, but Prime Minister Fury leaned in, his voice grim.

“Your Majesty, we’re suggesting that you take action—swiftly and decisively. It’s clear that Queen Y/N is not—”

“Careful, Fury,” Queen Winifred interrupted, her voice low and lethal. “Choose your next words very carefully.”

The Prime Minister paused, visibly reining in his frustration. “Your Majesty, the queen’s actions have been... questionable. If she cannot perform her duties as a wife, how can we expect her to perform her duties as a queen?”

Another murmur of agreement rose from the table, the men nodding, emboldened by the Prime Minister’s words. But Queen Winifred’s gaze remained cold, calculating.

“There are still three days left before the period of seclusion ends,” she said firmly, cutting through their mutterings. “We will not resort to drastic measures based on impatience and rumors. The queen is more than capable of fulfilling her role, and I will not have her judged prematurely.”

“But Your Majesty—” Duke Townsend began, only to be silenced by a sharp glare from the Dowager Queen.

“Need I remind you all,” she continued icily, “that this entire situation was precipitated by the king’s absence and neglect? My son bears just as much responsibility for this situation, if not more. Do not lay the blame solely at the queen’s feet.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty.” A smooth, honeyed voice cut through the murmur of agreement, drawing all eyes to Lord Carter, seated near the middle of the table. He inclined his head slightly, his expression the picture of respectful deference. “We know the queen is… new to this role. As you said, she has shown great patience. But we must ensure she understands the gravity of her position.”

Queen Winifred’s gaze shifted to him, her expression cooling a fraction. “Are you implying that she does not?”

Lord Carter smiled gently, his fingers tapping lightly on the table in a rhythm that seemed almost contemplative. “Not at all, Your Majesty. I merely suggest that perhaps the queen might benefit from… additional guidance. From those more experienced in navigating the complexities of the court and the expectations that come with the crown.”

His tone was mild, even reasonable, but beneath the surface, there was an undercurrent of something dangerous, something quietly undermining. A subtle criticism wrapped in a layer of politeness, creating ripples of doubt with each carefully chosen word.

“And what sort of guidance would you suggest, Lord Carter?” Winifred asked, her voice deceptively soft.

He spread his hands, a faint smile touching his lips. “Nothing drastic, Your Majesty. Just… an assurance that she understands the full extent of what is at stake. We would not want any misunderstandings to arise, after all.”

Queen Winifred’s eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded once, her gaze never leaving his. “I see. Well, rest assured, Lord Carter, I will make certain that the queen is fully aware of her responsibilities. And I will remind all of you once again—there are three days left. We will revisit this matter then.”

The subtle warning in her tone was not lost on the gathered men. They shifted uncomfortably, casting uneasy glances at one another.

“Three more days,” she repeated, her gaze sweeping over each of them, daring them to argue. “Until then, I expect every one of you to refrain from spreading further discontent and to let me handle this matter. Is that understood?”

A chorus of reluctant nods and mumbled affirmations followed, but none dared to protest further.

“Good,” Queen Winifred murmured, rising to her feet with regal grace. “Because should any of you take matters into your own hands before the honeymoon period ends, you will find yourselves facing more than just my displeasure.”

With that, she turned on her heel and swept out of the room, leaving the noblemen in stunned silence. As the heavy doors closed behind her, the men exchanged wary looks, unease settling like a shroud over the council chamber.

“She’s defending the queen,” Lord Trenton muttered, disbelief etched into his features. “I never thought...”

Lord Carter, his gaze lingering thoughtfully on the closed doors, smiled faintly, his expression carefully neutral. “Three days,” he repeated softly, his voice carrying a measured tone. “We shall see if the queen can prove herself worthy of that defense.”

“Three days,” Duke Townsend muttered, shaking his head. “She expects us to wait three more days while the court fills with rumors and discontent. This cannot end well.”

“Waiting is no longer a luxury we can afford,” Lord Pierce interjected quietly, his gaze darting toward Lord Carter. “We’re already seeing signs of division among the lower houses. If this continues…”

Prime Minister Fury leaned forward, his voice a low, harsh whisper. “It’s not just the lower houses we need to worry about. Every day without an heir gives the rivals more time to gather support. We need stability now.”

“Then perhaps,” Lord Carter said softly, his tone calm amidst the brewing storm, “it is not the queen we should be questioning.” His words drew curious, cautious glances, and he smiled faintly. “There are two parties in a marriage, after all. If an heir is what we need, perhaps we should be focusing our efforts elsewhere.”

A silence settled over the group, heavy and charged with unspoken meaning.

“You mean the king,” Duke Townsend murmured, a slight frown pulling at his features. “But His Majesty—”

“—Is just as responsible,” Lord Carter finished smoothly, his gaze steady. “We’ve already seen how his absence affects the queen’s standing. Perhaps it is time we remind him of the consequences if he continues to... neglect his duties.”

“Careful, Carter,” Prime Minister Fury warned, his voice laced with tension. “Tread lightly. The queen dowager may have left, but her influence hasn’t. One wrong move, and you’ll have more than the crown’s displeasure to contend with.”

Lord Carter’s smile never wavered, but his eyes held a dangerous glint. “I assure you, Prime Minister, I am well aware of where the true power lies. But if the queen dowager wishes to protect the queen, she must remember that protection does not extend to inaction.”

The men exchanged wary looks, the conversation shifting into murmured agreement. The line had been drawn, the challenge subtly issued. And even as they debated, the weight of Lord Carter’s words lingered in the air, thick with intent and unspoken plans.

Three days. Three days to see if the queen would succeed… or if the cracks in the crown would deepen beyond repair.

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