#so i finally sat down and powered through this piece

[mangoshorthand]

A Hargreeves Christmas Carol | Five Hargreeves/ F Reader | Ch5 Final Chapter!

SUMMARY: Luther is the sort of idiot who goes around with a 'Merry Christmas' and a goofy smile on his lips. In your opinion, he should be roasted with his own turkey and buried with a stake of holly through his heart. Who better to teach you the error of your ways than Luther's brother, the man who holds the power of Christmases Past, Present, and Yet to Come in the palm of his hand? Info/Announcement Post

<< Read Chapter Four

Chapter Five (Rated E, 4.9k words)

The End of It

You awoke on Christmas day with a feeling of unreality. Was any of it real? Was this real?

Yet the bedsheets were your own, the bed was your own, the bedroom was your own. And, as what happened solidified in your mind, you realised that, best and happiest of all, all the time ahead of you was your own. 

Time to make amends, time to build some bridges, time to live your life. 

Today, you had three things to do. As you jumped in the shower, you imagined each of them with a smile. The first was so simple, the second so overdue, and the last so needed. 

The first two could be completed almost immediately so, fresh out of the shower, you immediately set about choosing a nice outfit for the day. 

As the wardrobe door creaked open, you smiled again. It was a beautiful wardrobe, big enough for a grown man to hide in before taking you on the trip of a lifetime. For that, you’d love it as long as you lived.

Dressed, you cantered into the living room intent on another piece of furniture. The old bureau had been left virtually untouched since the apartment passed into your name. You laid hands on it, smile trembling with emotion, and felt beneath your palms before you unlocked it.  

There it all was: keepsakes and framed photographs stacked or stowed away in inner drawers. Your hand went automatically to the topmost drawer, where you knew you’d find what you were seeking. You remembered carrying it numbly back from the hospital and locking it up tight; locking away the fact she was gone.

You picked up her necklace and held it to the light. The silver encrusted with rhinestones still looked like diamonds to your eyes. It sat on her collarbone, twinkling in the light day after day. The pendant was one snowflake-delicate flower hanging from another, leaf detailing leading off them to form Y shape up each side of the chain. 

It was her all over, and you kissed the pendant in your hand. 

“I love you, Grandma.”

Your heart fluttered with the small moment of feeling, and then soared as you fastened it around your own neck. It was like a talisman: with its comforting weight against your chest, you could honour the past, live for the present, and look with new eyes towards the future. 

The first of your three tasks done, you set about the second, pulling out your phone and sitting down to compose a message to Robbie.

When you rang their doorbell later that morning, intent on your third task, you bounced nervously on the balls of your feet, bottles clinking in the stuffed-full bags by your sides. 

Sloane answered, and you faltered, remembering what you heard her say yesterday, but when you looked at her face, she seemed more surprised than anything.

“Happy Christmas,” you said, smiling a little awkwardly.

She returned your greeting with a slightly cold smile. 

“Is Luther in?” you asked, “He invited me today, but I was pretty rude to him so…”

You tailed off, and her expression softened slightly.

“I brought booze.” you joked tentatively, “A peace offering.”

Sloane smiled then.

“Come in, it’s cold out there. He’s in the kitchen.”

“Cooking since five AM I bet?”

She gave a surprised chuckle.

“Yes actually. They’re been working their asses off. Just let me go get him.”

You gave her brief thumbs up and she walked briskly towards the kitchen.

You looked around affectionately at the Academy’s entrance hall. Far from being intimidating, it now felt like an old friend. 

Only a few seconds later, hurried footsteps announced Luther’s arrival.

“You came!” he cheered, bounding towards you. 

He was wearing an expression of pure, unbridled joy on his face and a comically tiny apron embroidered with poinsettias and adorned with frills. You held out your arms and hugged him.

“Happy Holidays. I’m so sorry about yesterday,” you said fervently, “I was such an asshole.”

“Forget it,” Luther replied, sounding as if life could afford no greater promise for the day than to have you here, “water under the bridge.”

“I don’t deserve you.” you said, hugging him harder, “Thank you so much for putting up with me.”

“I don’t put up with you, I like you.”

When you broke apart, you briefly hugged Sloane too.

“You’ll stay all day, right?” she asked, “And sleep over. We have so many spare rooms.”

Apparently her dislike of you wasn’t so deep that a decent apology couldn’t undo it all, and you were glad for that fact. You knew from Luther that Sloane was his perfect match, and you hoped to find a friend in her too.

“If you’ll have me, I’d love to stay.”

“Gladly,” said Five’s voice.

You broke apart from Sloane to find Five standing in the doorway, clad in his own frilly apron tied over his new sweater and drying his hands on a dishtowel. 

Though you said goodbye to him only a few hours ago, it felt like much longer. You felt renewed, joyful, and invigorated, and with it came a new perspective. Every person was a fellow passenger onwards through time, but only you and Five were united in having seen the destination and decided to change it.

Luther and Sloane exchanged a significant look as you and Five moved towards each other.

“Happy Christmas,” you said. 

The consciousness of what passed the previous night crackled between you, and you exchanged conscious, conspiratorial smiles.  

“Happy Christmas.” he replied, tucking the distowel in his apron pocket, “Nice necklace.” 

“Thanks. Nice apron.”

He gave a self conscious smile, and his arms gave a strange sort of twitch outwards, hands hovering uncertainly at his sides as if he wasn’t sure what to do with them.  

You took pity on him and hugged him, which he gladly returned. 

So far, most of your touches had been unconscious, unconsidered, or instinctive. This time, you made a conscious decision to kiss him on the cheek. It was platonic enough, but that didn’t stop Five’s grip almost imperceptibly tightening around your upper arm as shivers ran down his spine. 

The four of you entered the living room, where you were finally introduced to the people you’d seen last night. Viktor and his girlfriend Annabelle, visiting for Christmas for the first time; Klaus all smiles in his sequins; and Lila and Diego, joined at the hip. 

“You’ve been cooking with him?” you said to Five in an undertone the moment you got an opportunity, “That’s sweet.”

One corner of Five’s mouth rose in his lopsided smile.

“He’s a surprisingly good cook, actually. Taught me a thing or two.”

“I’m glad for you.”

“What are you two whispering about?” asked Lila, honing in on an interesting dynamic with the precision of a sniper. 

Five turned to her with the air of a father holding his patience with a bratty child. 

“Just making a pact to grin and bear it when one of you idiots inevitably suggests Charades after dinner.”

“Ooh! Charades!” Lila said, boisterously, “Yeah, great idea!”

“Uh. Charades?” grumbled Diego.

“Shut up, Diego,” she scolded, slapping him on the arm, “don’t be a killjoy.”

The day progressed as most family Christmases do: there was Christmas meal in which the potatoes were slightly overcooked (Five’s fault), little squabbles breaking out over the gravy, (Diego and Luther’s fault), and one serving platter broken in the production-line of dishwashing (a mortified Annabelle’s fault).

Afterwards you all retired back to the living room and, while Viktor piled up the fire and the family began to chat, someone mentioned drinks.

“I brought some stuff with me from Maggie’s,” you said, eagerly, “I thought I could say thank you for inviting me by making a few cocktails, if you’d like that?”

“You sure?” asked Luther, looking at you doubtfully, “I don’t want you to feel like you’re at work.”

“I’d love to actually,” you said, earnestly, “mixology never feels like work to me.”

You caught Five’s eye, but continued speaking as if to Luther.

“And I’m taking a step back in the New Year anyway. I’ve asked Robbie to manage the place for me.”

“Really?” Sloane asked, surprised, as you went to grab your supplies from the entrance hall. 

“Mm-hm,” you said, re-entering the room, “It’s long overdue. Robbie’s always wanted to manage, and I need to reevaluate what I want in life.”

“Good for you,” said Five, quietly.

You couldn’t help but look at him then. His approval felt good. Very good. 

“I wanted to try out a recipe idea I had.” you said, again deliberately addressing anyone but Five, “Tell me what you think: it’s whisky, cinnamon, maple syrup, egg white, and a dash of lemon.” 

You turned to catch Five’s eye as you finished, eyes practically sparkling with mischief: 

“I call it the Ebenezer Splooge.”

There was a polite chuckle around the room, and Five’s face worked very hard not to draw attention to himself. There was a blush high on his cheek, and his mouth gave a violent twitch.

“Hence the egg white?” he asked, careful to keep his voice steady.

“You’re a quick learner,” you replied.

Five bit his lip, the line bringing back the memories you’d deliberately evoked; that night back in March when you turned his drunk ass down. It hit something inside him. 

Up until last night, he’d been content with masochism: drinking in your little touches whenever he could get them, enjoying the flirting and quietly dying inside every time you so much as poured a drink with that elegant poise of yours. 

He couldn’t do it anymore, not when he knew what it was to hold you in his arms, to feel your lips on his skin, to be party to your grief and revelations. It was better to look to love that he could have rather than pining after yours. It felt so near sometimes, yet, whenever he reached for it, it was inaccessible. 

The promised game of charades came and went. The booze flowed, and the atmosphere got livelier. It was all a whirl of caterwauled Christmas songs, champagne, and late-night turkey sandwiches. 

They were a friendly group, and it felt good to be among them. This was what Christmas was supposed to be, spending time with people who made you feel loved and welcome.  

By this stage, all of you had been dancing, and you flopped down on the couch beside Five, a stitch in your side. 

“I’m going to have to go to bed,” you said, grinning at him, “Klaus is going to tire me out!”

“He has that effect.” Five remarked, glancing fondly at his brother, “Want me to show you to a guest room?”

“Yes please.”

You said your goodnights, and when you were both out of earshot in the entrance hall, Luther turned to Sloane:

“I bet you fifty dollars Five doesn’t come back downstairs.” 

“It’s about time,” Sloane replied, grinning, “he’s been hung up on her for months.”

“How about you and I go upstairs?” he said, with a sly smile. 

“Soon, sugarplum,” she promised, and kissed him gently.

“So you’re taking a step back from Maggie’s?” Five said, as you mounted the stairs together.

“Yeah,” you said, with a gentle smile, “I woke up this morning and I just knew. I don’t want to sell the bar, but I don’t want to spend my life chained to it either.”

“So what’s your plan now?”

“The plan is no plan,” you beamed, “I’m just going to build my bridges, follow my heart, have some fun, and see where it leads. I’ve got some catching up to do.”

Five was silent for a few moments. 

“And where’s your heart leading you now?” he asked, uncertainly. 

“No idea. I guess we’ll see.”

He stopped and opened a nearby door.

“Does this room work for you?” he asked, casting an eye around to check its suitability. 

“Are you in love with me?”

He blinked once at the unexpected question, and then answered without hesitation or preamble, as if he was simply giving you the time.

“Yes.”

Your arms, legs and sex tingled with the admission.

This was it. You were done with self denial and done with pushing people away. Five was everything you wanted right now, and you wanted to pull him as close as two people could be.

“Then spend the night with me.”

His mouth fell open, and he let out one or two disbelieving breaths. You took each of his elbows and pulled him closer to you.

“This is…unexpected,” he said, and swallowed. 

Your eyes immediately flew appreciatively to his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, and when you raised your hand to touch his face, you were surprised to see a hard expression there. 

“I don’t want to be a one night thing for you.”

“You won’t be.”

“I don’t believe you.” he replied, resentfully, “You just said that your plan is ‘no plan’. You’re just throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks. I’m not going to-”

You silenced him with a kiss, pulling him to you by the collar. It was one you’d been holding back for as long as he had, and when your lips connected with his, you felt your body wanting to melt, permeate his skin and sink into him.

You could taste his last scotch on his lips, you could smell that maddening cologne. 

But he took you by the upper arms and pushed you away, firmly. 

“Five,” you pleaded, “Five, please. Please.”

“No. I’m not going to be some experiment for you. I’ve wanted you for too long to just be some no strings fuck. I’m done.”

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted you?” you pleaded, shaking him slightly by the front of his sweater, “Pretty much since you first came into Maggie’s!”

There was a needy, beseeching tone in your voice. It would have embarrassed you before, but now it just felt good to wear your heart on your sleeve. He opened his mouth to object, but you spoke over him:

“I’ve been hiding from my feelings for years: hiding from Grandma dying, hiding from how I feel about you, and I’m done hiding!”

Five looked down at you, at your pleading face. 

To think you were literally begging him for sex - the stuff of his wildest fantasies - and he was turning you down.

He bit his lip again and looked up at the ceiling, away from you, and tried to think. 

This didn’t help quell your desire, finally released from its bounds after years of repression and cold showers. His neck looked unbelievable, all stretched and arched that way, and it took some restraint not to dive forward and taste his skin. 

“God, Five. I need you.”

He let out a little growl of frustration. 

“No. I need to know we have a chance at a future!”

The fragile note in his voice broke through your fever. Guiltily, you loosed your hold on his sweater and backed off. 

You closed your eyes for a second or two, and then spoke again:

“Okay. I understand. I’m sorry I kissed you like that.”

“It’s fine,” he croaked, sounding far away.

You put a hand on the spare bedroom door frame, signalling your intent to leave him alone. 

“I’m going to go to bed, but let’s talk in a few days, okay?”

He nodded, opened his mouth to speak, and then closed it again.

“Maybe we’ll go for dinner?” you added, tentatively, “We can take it slow. You’re worth the wait.”

He flushed at this, and his fingers moved restlessly at his sides.

You gave him an understanding smile, and then, echoing his leavetaking of the previous evening, you took one of his hands, raised it to your lips, and gave two delicate kisses to the backs of those fingers. 

“Goodnight,” you said, tenderly, “Thanks for today. And last night. Thanks for everything.”

With that, you retreated into the bedroom. 

But before you could close the door, he was over the threshold.

“I won’t last long,” he said, voice low. 

And, before you could process what he meant, he kicked the door closed behind him with a bang, pulled his sweater over his head and cast it away from him. 

If his voice smoldered, his eyes were aflame; being the object that gaze felt like being scalded by hot honey. It seared your skin. 

With a rush from your toes upwards, you threw yourself at him, sending him falling back against the door with another loud bang.  

His tongue was in your mouth: plunging, searching, tasting; teeth clashing against yours with the urgency of desire. You moaned into his mouth and sagged, weak with the feel of it, and he grunted in displeasure. His hand came to the back of your head and held you fast, pressing your face harder against his. 

Though you initiated the kiss, though it was you pressing him against the door, though it was you begging for this only a few moments prior, it was his passion that won out, leaving you wilting in his arms, eyes helplessly closed. 

At last he came up for air, loosening his hold on you and breathing hard.

He looked too full of lust for words, eyes were darting all over you, teeth exposed. You could relate, your pussy aching like a tuning fork struck too hard. 

You dropped immediately to your knees, hands coming up to fumble at his waistband.

He groaned in anticipation, head hitting the door as he slumped back against it, the mere prospect of being sucked almost undoing him. 

“You shouldn’t -” he gasped, sounding a little embarrassed, even through the lust-induced haze. “I’ll come. It’s been a long time, I’m already-”

But he gasped again when you took him, hard and heavy, into your hand. It was clear that he hadn’t been exaggerating; his white underwear and pink cockhead were already moist with leaked arousal.

His cock was thick, uncut, and long enough to exceed your grip by half. His shaft was curved and sculptural like his forearms; veins standing out attractively. It twitched invitingly in your hand and, as a little more precome dripped from the slit, you felt yourself gush into your panties.

“I want to taste you,” you said, looking up at him.

“And I want to give you a good time,” he said, fretfully.

“You will.” you smirked, lips an inch away from his tip. 

He answered only with another sound, and when you tasted him, he hissed, and bucked his hips immediately into your mouth.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpered, “it’s hard to control.”

You only smiled and took him back into your mouth, tasting the salt of his arousal, the delicate musk of his cock, and yet drinking in his whines more greedily than either. 

“Oh fuck,” he choked. 

He was perfect: sensitive and desperate. He writhed, cursed, tensed, and whimpered: one fist contracting in your hair and the other against the door handle as he fought fiercely against the need to come.

You took pity on him then, content with having had him in your mouth for the few moments he could manage.

“You’re going to kill me,” he said, breathlessly.

You grinned up at him. 

“Then eat my pussy and calm down.”

His cock twitched, and he gave another small cry. 

“That didn’t help!” he yelped, agonized. 

You chuckled mischievously and stood, just he started to unbutton his shirt, kicking the pants and underwear off from around his ankles. 

Even this momentary delay to getting some part of your body back on some part of his was too much, and you cast your dress away as roughly as Five had his sweater. Meanwhile, he was wriggling out of his shirt, swearing as his wrists caught in the cuffs. Your fingers shook as you unclasped your bra and, as you struggled, his eyes fed on you.

“Can I take off your panties?” he asked. 

No sooner had you answered in the affirmative, finally succeeding in removing the cursed bra, Five was on his own knees, shimmying your panties down your legs, and helping you to step out of them.

“Against the wall,” he growled, cock protruding invitingly between his legs and bobbing with his movement. 

No sooner had you obeyed than his mouth was inches away from your pussy, helping one leg up onto his shoulder to give him better access.

He looked at you for a moment, fascinated.

“Holy shit,” he said, awed, “you’re so wet.”

“I’ve been wet since the hallway!” you breathed.

With that same expression of fascination, he dragged a single finger between your labia, from your hole all the way to your clit, collecting your juices, and then put it in his mouth. 

He let out a low moan as he sucked his finger clean, one hand darting lower to gently roll his foreskin back and forth. 

He looked up at you with a cocky grin at the effect he’d already had on you, the appearance of even more thick fluid evidence enough that you liked what you saw. 

He leaned forward, nose less than an inch away from you, and lingered there.

“Please!” you said, desperately. 

“Call this payback for the Ebenezer Splooge,” he said, playfully.

“No! Please!”

He took another, momentary pause, and then mused:

“You do sound good when you beg.”

His tongue protruded, his breath hot and torturous against your inflamed, excited pussy… and then he paused there, tongue tip millimeters from your clit.

Just as one of your hands came to urge him forward by means of his hair, he gave your clit two or three experimental licks. 

You squeaked, hand finding a grip in his hair anyway, and he dragged his tongue deliberately up and down. 

“Oh fff-fuck.”

He hummed delightedly against you, and started to eat you out in earnest, kissing your labia, slipping his tongue inside you, and alternating between nudging your clit and sucking on it. 

You urged him on, trying hard not to moan too loudly, stroking his thick hair, and trying hard not to surrender too much of your weight to the wall as your supporting leg went weak. 

His face wormed its way further between your thighs, and his mouth closed around your clit, lips and tongue at work against you, eating you like a ripe fig; sucking your juices down his throat with a snarling, feral sound. 

As it turned out, Five didn’t need to worry about his lack of stamina: he might not last long, but neither did you. With only a few minutes of concerted licking, tongue swiping side to side, he only had to introduce a finger for you to keen, shout, and then come. 

You flailed and cursed as the pleasure slammed through you like a wave smashing you against the rocks. It floored you, and then that hot-honey was back, engulfing all your senses in a thick, shimmering molasses haze. 

As the feeling subsided, Five slowed his licks, kissing your pussy lips and easing you out of the orgasm with increasingly gentle attentions, mercifully avoiding your over-sensitive clit. 

When your breathing was back to normal, you unhooked your leg from his shoulder, and he looked up at you, face wet with your juices. 

“Good?”

You didn’t need to answer him, your fucked-out haze of an expression was enough. 

He smirked and stood so that you were on a level once more. He kissed you deeply, hands coming to cup and fondle each of your asscheeks and holding you up as you slumped bonelessly against him. 

“We need a condom.” you said, breathlessly. 

“Right,” he agreed, distractedly, setting you on your feet and bending to locate his wallet from his pants pocket. 

“Still in date,” he said, sounding slightly surprised as his trembling fingers located the rubber and opened the package, “I haven’t needed one in a while.”

“You can’t get STDs from the cable porn ladies,” you quipped.

“Shut up,” he smiled, rolling the condom down his shaft and leading you to the bed.

He sat down on its edge and looked up at you. 

Ride me,” he said huskily, “I promise I won’t take long.”

Though already exhausted from your orgasm, the need to have him inside you overwhelmed it, and you nodded. He guided you onto his lap facing him, your thighs around his waist and his arms around your own.

As wet as you were, it was still a slow, tight slide down onto his cock. Five buried his head between your breasts with a strangled moan at the sensation, intense even through the condom. When you started to ride him, he was beside himself in no time at all, feet planting on the floor and pushing helplessly up and into you. 

It felt good; full and intimate with your arms wrapped around each other, eyes and mouths occasionally locked as you thrust into one another, meeting the other’s body and pushing as deep as you could go. 

It was his face that made your nipples harden, the feel of his strong, lithe body between your thighs that made you bite your lip, and his pelvis moving against yours that made you bend to finally taste his neck. 

“Fuck,” he said, roughly, “Gonna come already. Been too long - thinking about you - can’t believe we’re - oh sh-iii-t!”

He came with a yell, surging upwards in the grip of his orgasm, head thrashing and arms tightening reflexively around you. His thrusts became disorganised, messy and uncontrolled, eyes screwed up, teeth gnashing against the air, and neck once more arching in that delicious way. 

He collapsed onto the bed, panting, and you leaned forward to give him a final kiss before climbing off him and wriggling into bed beside him.

You stroked his hair idly as he came down from the high, regaining his breath and dealing with the condom. For a few moments afterwards, he just stared at the ceiling. 

“That was amazing,” you said.

“Yeah,” he replied, distractedly.

“All okay?”

“Yes,” he said, sitting up but not turning to face you, “I’m gonna go get cleaned up, but I’ll be back, okay?”

Sitting in his pajamas on his own bed, Five plucked another hair and inserted it into the briefcase on his lap. 

He’d get over you. If that really was a quick fuck while you rediscovered yourself, then that would suck, but he could face it and survive. What he couldn’t face was becoming that lonely man with the child-molester mustache. 

He had to know that it wasn’t inevitable. Because if that wasn’t inevitable, then it proved that the power really was still in his hands.

And maybe it even proved that he had a chance to make you love him back.

He set the briefcase to the same date as last night, braced through the static of time travel, and then immediately regretted not putting on shoes.

Snow was soaking through his socks. 

“Great,” he grumbled.

He was standing in the front yard of a little house, alone on a snowy country road, and a quick glance at the briefcase proved to him that it was the same night as before: Christmas Eve, ten years from the present. 

It was different, that was for sure.

He hurried as quickly as possible off the snow and onto its covered doorstep, where the light from the front window drew him to it. With a strange sense of deja vu (shouldn't he be standing beside an azelea?), he looked through. 

There was a small but cozy living room, a lit wood fire, a Christmas tree with wrapped gifts beneath, and himself. 

He was wearing the same sweater Klaus got him for this Christmas, his socked feet up on the coffee table and a book in his hand, reading contentedly. Instead of the pedo ’stache, he sported only a little scruff around his jaw. 

It was all he needed to see, and Five let out a deep sigh of relief. 

Alone he might be, but with that many presents beneath the tree, he at least had family coming.

It was almost perfect, he thought, as he set up the briefcase for the return journey.

But then something caught the periphery of his vision.

There you were, entering the room and handing him what had to be a glass of Ebenezer Splooge, garnished with a twist of orange zest. 

“Hi,” he whispered, climbing back into the guest bed beside you.

“Hey,” you replied, sleepily, shuffling up beside him and laying your head on his shoulder. 

For a few moments, he just enjoyed the warmth from inside and out. 

“Thank you for tonight,” he whispered, “that was amazing.”

“It was a long time coming,” you mumbled, “and when we wake up, we’re doing it again.”

“Good,” he said, breathing in the smell of your hair.

His future was all here in the here and now: his family downstairs, you held here in his arms, and his resolution to deserve it all by being good to you all.

And he’d do it too. He’d be better than his word. He’d be as good a friend, as good a brother, and as good a man as he could. Perhaps his siblings might laugh to see the change in him - all loved up and cheerful for once -  but he found he didn’t care. His heart sang: and that was quite enough for him. 

As he drifted off to sleep, the woman he loved in his arms, he barely heard your sweet voice as it observed:

“Your feet are fucking freezing!” 

The End

A/N: Did you think I was ending this without smut? Have you met me? Thank you for all your lovely comments and reblogs throughout this fic and all my others this year. They really do make the difference and constitute roughly 80% of my self esteem. Happy Christmas to all who celebrate, and here's to a better 2025, (slim hope, but bring on the revolution etc etc).

Scrooge and Bob Cratchit, or The Christmas Bowl by John Leech, 1843 in Dickens' A Christmas Carol, first edition (1843).

Dickens' A Christmas Carol full text available here.

Read it! It's a much better than this, and you can see how many lines I stole verbatim or clumsily referenced.

Dividers used in this series by @bernardsbendystraws (garland) and @strangergraphics (lights)

Taglist: @nevbrooke-555, @fiannee, @abeeabee6969, @chalametabingbong, @lolawassad, @icantpickanamefromonefandom @thebearmage @kaybreezy3000, @starlitflora (comment to be added or removed)

Megalist

Request info + rules

I take Five requests, I'm fairly versatile in what I write (fluff, smut, angst, psychological character study- I'll try it all) but I will consider them on a case by case basis. See request info + rules for request status and more.

[shittybundaskenyer]

song of flame

[pukicho]

What's the weirdest dream/nightmare you've had?

Pukicho story time???

This happened in 2004, I lived in Ireland. I had one very particular dream that I still often think about to this day:

It started in an unusual flat, somewhere up high. It was modern for the time, it felt decidedly Y2K. Every piece of furniture, the walls, the lamps, they were all bright pink. It was so trendy that it almost felt like a parody of itself, but I was a kid, and my mind wasn't clever enough for the act of parody. I would've simply forgotten this flat ever existed if the latter-half of the dream didn't leave such a permanent mark on my memory - now I can recall every last detail.

I asked a stranger to use the restroom. The toilet was downstairs, so I opened up the door to a utility stairwell and began heading down, alone.

I could look through the center of the staircase column, it was pitch-black and there was no visible bottom. I remember going down the staircase for hours, literal hours - A dark, oppressive hum from pipes and vents blinded my ears and shook the inside of my stomach with its volume. I remember thinking how long the dream felt in this moment, I recall getting consciously impatient, but I kept going. My eyes couldn't adjust to the nearly invisible-darkness surrounding me so I put my hand against the walls and handrail for guidance and shuffled downward like a blind man without his walking-stick.

Finally, only a moment before the tension would have juddered me awake, I found the door to the bathroom. I opened it up; to my relief there was light. The room was rectangular, on one end was a boxed-shaped shower with fogged glass, on the other end, a toilet. The floor and wall were decorated by the same beige tile - it all looked hastily plastered. I sat down to do my business. At this moment, the ballooning anxiety I had felt outside had dissipated almost entirely. I sat in silence - I remember acknowledging the sheer contrast in volume between the AC-hum in the bathroom to the oppressive roar from the stairwell.

It was good to be sitting there. I remember feeling as though the dream had slowly turned into a nightmare - but consciously, everything felt right again. Nothing happened for a long time. It grew so boring and tame that my mind stopped focusing on the dream entirely, and I began fading into memoryless sleep. And then the lights went out.

At this point, sitting in a darkness even blacker than the one I had just emerged from, not even a hum could be heard. The only noise I could hear, and just barely, was my own brain-matter hitting against the sides of my ears, bellowing a deep subharmonic hum from within my own skull. Suddenly, every semblance of safety was ripped from my chest, and I sat there, feeling in greater danger than I ever had before. I felt a pressure so omniscient that it choked me -- but nothing came, nothing happened. I waited for minutes - minutes where each second could be counted down in scrutinizing specificity, but nothing happened.

Suddenly, and with no presumption, I felt coarse electricity pumping through my chest. I wrangled with myself in my own bed, feeling what felt like infinite pain pass through me. I could feel myself yelling from within the dream through the vibration of my lungs. A cacophonous buzzing bled into my ears as thousands of people screamed from within my skull. The cries of a falling choir ran-through their screams, like angels falling from heaven.

At the very same moment, a body appeared in the shower. It glowed yellow, so bright and irradiated I could hardly look directly at it. It caressed itself, clawing into its body like it was reeling from immeasurable pain. It moved unnaturally, squirming and spasming as if fast-forwarded. The glass blurred its details, but it did nothing to mask its energy. It was as if it held the sun inside of its own stomach. I felt as though an intruder entered my own mind and I had no power to stop it. Just being near it was enough to kill me, and I was already dying.

The wall of sound lasted not even one full-second - and then - a piercing zap shot me up from my bed, and that was it. I can't remember anything past that point, but I assume I went back to bed shortly thereafter, forgetting what had just happened, if only for that one night. I must have had a vapid dream, worthless and memoryless, unknowing that I had just lived a dream so dreadful that it'd stick to my psyche like tar for the rest of my life.

No other dream has ever felt that way since. It was as if a second-soul decided to visit me, a soul stronger and more omnipotent than mine. Surely a dream is just a dream, regardless of the feeling it gives you, but now I go to bed every night, wishing I'll be the only soul residing within its story.

End!!

[andypantsx3]

BY THE BOOK : MIDORIYA IZUKU X READER

SUMMARY: When your pro hero boyfriend comes home to find you studying, he suddenly takes a great interest in helping out. You find his methods... questionable. TAGS/WARNINGS: nsft, hysterical literature (reading out loud while sexually stimulated), pro hero deku, deku still has ofa, support tech grad student reader, slight intelligence kink, gn + afab reader, cunnilingus, established relationship, aged up characters, fluff (3k) NOTES: Hi guys! I have been in survival mode as of late and the writing has been slow going; my sincerest apologies for how long it’s taking me to burn down my @ficsforgaza backlog. But I finally had the time & energy on my hands this weekend to work on this one and I had such a blast!! I hope I’m not too rusty—and if I am, I hope you enjoy it as much as I loved writing it regardless lol. Love you and thank you always for your patience. Happy Holidays!!

Sometimes, you thought you could tell your boyfriend was near, even before you heard his key in the lock.

It was something to do with his power, you’d always suspected—as a support engineer unduly interested in other people’s capabilities, you’d spent hundreds of hours turning it over in your head. It was the unnatural immensity of other people’s powers, you thought, pulling and coiling just beneath the surface of Izuku’s skin. In close proximity, after prolonged use, its presence felt like a shiver up the back of your neck.

You felt the barest hint of it now, an unsettled feeling creeping into the marrow of your bones, and you sat up on the couch just as you heard the scratch of Izuku’s keys at the door.

One For All fit cleanly into Izuku’s own unwavering intensity somehow, like the last piece of his puzzle. Though one would certainly never think so looking at him as he spilled through the door, pink-cheeked from the cold, all bright eyes, sweetly angelic features, and a riot of wild green curls. He looked windswept from the biting winter breeze. He also looked too kind to be carrying the sort of power he did—too sweet and eager and lovely.

“Look what the wind blew in,” you grinned at him over the back of the couch, after assessing he was well. Your eyes tracked the sinuous movement of those broad shoulders as he yanked his mouthguard over his head, the flex and pull of his bicep as he hung it beside the door. He was moving without pause, no sign of injury or muscle strain , and his suit was intact. Ordinarily you didn’t mind if there was a bit of shredding about the abs as long as he came back to you whole and hale, but in the winter you didn’t like him wandering about risking the chance of frostbite.

Your heart fluttered when Izuku returned your smile with one of his own, so beautiful and bright, chasing away the cold he’d tracked in like a warm sliver of sun.

“Lots of small, easy fights today?” You guessed, judging from his intact suit but clear whiff of power about him.

Izuku scrubbed a hand through that riot of curls, exposing the reddened shell of a cold ear. “I only had to use blackwhip a couple of times,” he said as he shouldered the door closed behind him, the muscle of his thighs flexing enticingly as he stepped out of his boots.

You gestured at the pot of soup you’d left warming on the stove, and the veritable pile of crusty bread beside it. Warmth and carbs, exactly what you would have wanted if you were a pro hero fresh off a long day of patrolling in the snow.

Izuku’s eyes fixed on it with an obliging amount of interest, and he almost tripped over himself in the genkan in his haste to get to the kitchen. “I love you,” you heard him say, muffled through a mouthful of bread, heard the clatter of the silverware drawer and a bowl being placed on the counter.

You smiled and turned back to the book in your lap, a particularly dry, knotty text on robotic imitation learning that had had your eyes drifting closed for the better part of an hour. It was the last you’d need to get through for your Wearable Technologies graduate course, and something you were deeply interested in incorporating into your design practice. You could train a piece of equipment on how an individual pro hero moved and deployed their quirk, and use predictive modeling to deploy assistance functionalities within milliseconds if you got it right—such as immediate cooling in pro hero Shouto’s temperature vest the moment he ignited an arm.

The implementation was going to be so cool—but the theory was so mind numbing.

You felt the couch sink in beside your feet, and Izuku peered interestedly at the title in your lap.

“Introduction to Robotic Imitation Learning,” he echoed, and you could hear the note of excitement in his voice. You suppressed a fond smile, knowing he was already thinking through the same applications you had—he was just as much of a nerd as you were.

“Introduction to Snoozing and Napping,” you grumbled, turning back to your page. “There are only so many words on the Kalman filter framework a brain can handle before the human mind shuts itself down.”

Izuku hummed in interest around a spoonful of soup, propping himself up against your leg. The exterior of his suit was still cool from the outside, and he groaned with relief from the warmth of your skin, even as you hissed at the chill.

You knew he wanted you to go on, so you generalized for him. “It’s an algorithm used for robotic motion planning—you not only take measurements of the thing you want to model but you account for uncertainties to predict the probability that something is going to happen.”

Izuku nodded, taking another spoonful of soup, gesturing for you to go on.

You summoned up the willpower to explain joint probability distribution, pleased when Izuku easily managed to follow—he’d always been a quick study, especially of anything that could be employed in the service of heroics. You’d long thought if he hadn’t been gifted his quirk, he would be an insane support engineer.

He managed to finish his entire bowl of soup in the time it took you to explain, and housed another two slices of buttered bread with the sort of alacrity you’d only ever seen in pro heroes and professional athletes, making you smile while you spoke.

His spoon clinked softly against the edge of the bowl as he set them aside on the coffee table, and he hooked his chin over your knees as you finished explaining. In the setting sun from your windows he looked especially lovely, the kind, angular planes of his face brushed in gold, softening the spots of his freckles.

His eyes were especially bright, the way they always were when something in particular had caught his interest, and he smiled at you again over the tops of your knee caps.

“I admire how smart you are,” he told you, in the simple, straightforward way he always gave out compliments. It was like a shot to the heart every time, and you could feel your face warm with the praise even after years of receiving similar compliments.

You reflexively flapped a dismissive hand. “Not smart enough to have internalized it all! I have mostly been falling asleep to it,” you promised him.

He tilted his head, a green curl falling into his eyes. “I know you won’t have a problem when you’re awake.”

You shifted your legs with embarrassment, and a long fingered hand came up to cup the front of your thigh, as Izuku turned more fully towards you. You could feel the warm, hard planes of his chest against your shins, the line of his jumpsuit’s zipper pressing insistently just below your knee.

“Gotta try to impress you somehow,” you joked, your skin prickling as Izuku’s fingers absent-mindedly drew a pattern across your thigh. You could feel the heat of his hand through the thin material of the leggings you’d lounged around in all day, the chill finally chased away from his skin now that he’d come inside and warmed up.

“You do impress me,” he said in his soft, gentle tone. Which made your cheeks and nose burn hotter.

You knew you did, and the steady faith Izuku had in the people around him was one of your favorite things about him. It still made you feel like a middle schooler with a crush to think about, though, the intensity of your feelings too much for one body to handle.

“I will study hard to live up to your faith in me,” you promised, unable to help the goofy smile you knew you were giving him.

Izuku’s chin shifted against the tops of your knees, and he pressed his mouth to the knob of your left one, leaving a smiling kiss. “Tell me more?” he asked, fingers still sliding softly over your thigh.

“I’ll read it to you as I go, then,” you said, turning back to the brick of a tome, propping it up more firmly on your stomach as you adjusted yourself against the couch arm. Izuku’s eyes watched you over the top of the pages, that emerald gaze tracking your face closely.

“‘The algorithm works via a two-phase process: a prediction phase and an update phase’,” you began, trying to turn your attention away from Izuku and back to the text. “‘In the prediction phase, the Kalman filter produces estimates of the current state variables, including their uncertainties. Once the outcome of the next measurement (necessarily corrupted with some error, including random noise) is observed, these estimates are updated using a weighted average, with more weight given to estimates with greater certainty.’”

Izuku’s long fingers traced firmer lines across your thighs, almost like he was taking notes. He layered another kiss along the line of your knee, eyes glittering at you as you read.

“‘The algorithm is recursive,’” you continued, “‘It can operate in real time, using only the present input measurements and the state calculated previously and its uncertainty matrix; no additional past information is required.’”

You almost jumped as Izuku’s mouth trailed lower, into the space between your knees, leaving kisses along your inner thigh. His fingers gently pulled one thigh away to make space for him in between, and you cleared your throat, trying to return to the text at hand.

“‘Optimality of Kalman filtering assumes that errors have a normal–that is, Gaussian–distribution,’” you read on. “‘The following assumptions are made about random processes: Physical random phenomena may be thought of as due to primary random sources exciting dynamic systems. The primary sources are assumed to be independent gaussian random processes with zero mean; the dynamic systems will be linear.’”

Izuku let out a soft breath, insinuating himself further between your thighs. Your own breath came out a little uneven as he bent over you, mouth tracking dangerously towards the inseam of your leggings.

You paused, but Izuku fixed you with a look of his slightly-darkened eyes. “Please—keep reading,” he said, his tone a little lower than it had been a minute ago.

You swallowed in shocked understanding, skin tingling. You felt yourself nod, as Izuku’s fingers strayed to the waist of your pants, dipping below the band.

You let him slowly peel your leggings down, your underwear with them, adjusting as needed to make it easy for him, even as you tried to return your attention to your textbook.

“‘Regardless of Gaussianity, however, if the process and measurement covariances are known, then the Kalman filter is the best possible linear estimator in the minimum mean-square-error sense,’” you quoted, nearly squeaking when Izuku pressed his mouth to your hip, his curls tickling the skin of your belly. His hands gripped either side of your thighs, palms square and rough against your skin, and you tried not to shiver with the feeling.

“Um—‘Although there may be better nonlinear estimators’,” you said, then nearly jumped out of your skin when Izuku pressed his mouth to the core of you, only the strength of his grip stopping you from accidentally kicking him in surprise.

“Oh my g—uh! It—um—‘It is a common misconception perpetuated in the literature that the Kalman filter cannot be rigorously applied unless all noise processes are assumed to be Gaussian,’” you managed, before your cut off into a groan as Izuku layered a hot, sweet kiss over you, tongue dipping carefully between your folds. “Ah-–Izuku—”

Izuku petted a thumb gently over the top of your thigh to show he was listening, even as he swiped his tongue over you again, a long, firm stroke that had your thighs flexing in his hold. He laved over your clit, sucking ever so slightly, and your grip almost tore the edge of your textbooks as it tightened.

“Keep going,” he urged briefly, then did it again, punching a groan out of you.

“Extensions—oh—‘Extensions and generalizations of the method have also been developed, such as the extended Kalman filter and the unscented Kalman filter which work on nonlinear systems,’” you read on, voice shooting up nearly into a squeal when two of Izuku’s long, firm fingers pressed into you, as his mouth moved over you again.

“Ah! Oh my god—the—um, the basis—-” you said, breath growing short. Izuku’s fingers unerringly found the spot inside you that made you twist in his grip with the ease of long practice, and his jaw worked as he kissed you so shockingly filthily. You could feel something already starting to build up behind your navel, a fluttery lightness, an insatiable insistence on more.

“‘The basis a hidden Markov model—oh, fuck—such that the state space of the latent variables is continuous and all latent and observed variables have–ah!--Gaussian distributions,’’’ you recited, your voice tripping up further into a register that sounded more like begging than reading.

Izuku’s fingers worked you, long and thick and perfect inside you, as his tongue drew unrelenting circles around your clit. Stars seemed to spark in your vision, and your eyes squeezed shut, losing your place on the page as your hips flexed into his face. You felt suddenly very floaty and lightheaded, and not at all in a position to keep going.

Still, you tried to refocus your attention.

“‘K–Kalman filtering has been used successfully in—oh—multi-sensor fusion—ah, ah!--and distributed sensor networks–fuck, please, Izuku—to develop distributed or consensus Kalman f-filtering,’” you said, your tone nearly a cry.

Izuku groaned softly, sucking gently as his fingers curled inside you. It made your veins spark under your skin, your legs shaking in Izuku’s hands. You abandoned your grip on your book to seize the arm of the couch, clawing desperately at the fabric.

“Please, Izuku,” you cried, hips bucking towards his mouth.

The book tumbled off your stomach but you hardly noticed, gaze refocusing on the way his eyelashes fluttered as he licked you. His fingers played gently within you, a maddening press that was simultaneously too much and not enough, and his other hand came up to slide under your sweater, plucking gently at your nipple.

You lost yourself to the feeling—caught between the mind-melting curl of his fingers, the delicate suction of his mouth, and the careful pinch of your nipple. A delicious heat curled through you, waves of unbearable pleasure, and you could hear yourself babbling nonsense—garbled syllables of Izuku’s name, and every entreaty you could think of, a hundred thousands mores and oh pleases.

Izuku abandoned your nipple to pull you more firmly against him with a strong arm curled under your thigh, pressing you even harder into his mouth.

You muffled a scream in the sleeve of your sweater as he sucked you harder, tongue laving over you in loving strokes. Only his terrible strength held you down as you writhed beneath him, and then his fingers twisted in a way that had your vision whiting out—and you were suddenly thrown out over the edge of your pleasure.

Izuku licked you through it as you squirmed and begged and cried out his name, your climax seeming to last for eons.

You were panting hard when you finally slumped into the cushions of your couch, the ceiling seeming to swim in and out of focus before your eyes. When you gained enough control of your body again you looked down at Izuku, finding him watching you with a satisfied, almost shy curl to his mouth.

“You’re beautiful,” he told you, emerald gaze glittering with sincerity. “You’re so smart.”

Impossibly you felt your heart swell with even more love for him, and you seized his shoulder, dragging him up over you so you could kiss his mouth. The taste of yourself on him was embarrassing yet thrilling, and you petted a pleased hand through Izuku’s wild mess of curls as you kissed him.

“Well you are amazing,” you told him, swiping a thumb over his cheek fondly, smoothing over his freckles. A gorgeous watercolor of pink washed over his cheeks and nose at the proclamation, and you could hear his fingers flex in the cushion beside your head.

The sight of him flushed and waiting over you like another small something inside of you, like a pilot light, and you let your mouth pull into a wry grin.

“I hope you know I learned nothing though,” you said casually, your plan for your next steps already forming in your head. You let a hand trail carefully down Izuku’s flank, tracking towards his waist. “I think maybe I might need a few rounds for it to really sink in.”

Izuku’s ears went red against the green of his hair, and you felt your smile widen. “Maybe you could read it to me this time?” you asked, guiding him to roll under you, retrieving your book from the floor as you did so.

You settled yourself on the tops of Izuku’s thighs, feeling the hard press of him against your core, as you placed your textbook into his waiting hands.

Izuku’s answering smile was all the permission you needed. You directed him to start from the beginning of the chapter, and he did so in that soft, lilting tone of his you so loved. And then your fingers trailed up to the zipper at his collar.

It was time to return the favor—wholeheartedly.

REFERENCES: Kalman Filtering (Wikipedia) I took the passages our Reader recited from here because I do not actually understand Kalman filtering at all and could not organically come up with feasible text for her to read through. Sorry in advance to the author of this page lol.

[kayewrite]

At the same time, I wanna hug you

(...I wanna wrap my hands around your neck)

seungmin x reader!! enemies to lovers troupe!! genre; fluff. word count: 10.7k (long but still not enough)

summary; if you have teleportation powers you would bring seungmin in the middle of ocean and dump him there. that's how much you hated him. but wait.. why he was suddenly cool?

an: you dont know how much i went crazy seeing seungmin in uniform! like babe! why are my classmate not like him? and.. this was a birthday present cause this man just turn half 50 minus 1!! anyways enjoy reading

Kim Seungmin.

You hated that very name.

You hated his existence.

You hated his smirk.

You hated that he breathes.

You hated how he never failed to make your blood boil.

Like now.

You were practically crawling into the classroom, late again, knowing full well the teacher wasn’t going to let it slide this time. Slowly and quietly, you slipped through the back door, hoping to go unnoticed, but your hopes were dashed when Kim Seungmin turned in his seat and caught your eye. His face slowly morphed into that all-too-familiar smirk.

You already knew your fate.

"Ma'am, someone’s late again."

You clenched your fists, resisting the urge to punch him as the teacher ordered you to stand and endure a scolding. You stood there, bowing your head like a guilty child while Seungmin chuckled at your misery.

You hated him. You hated him so much you wished for teleportation powers—just so you could dump him in the middle of the Pacific Ocean and teleport back home.

The worst part? You were seatmates. In the one subject that made you contemplate dropping the class every week just to escape him. But no, you wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. You’d endure, just so he wouldn’t win.

"Why were you late again?" he leaned over, asking in the most casual, condescending way possible.

“None of your business,” you rolled your eyes and shifted your chair further away from him.

“Actually, it is my business.” He smirked again, lifting the attendance sheet. “I’m in charge of marking who’s here today, and guess what? I don’t see your name yet. Got a good excuse for me?”

Damn.

You glared at him, wishing your stare could send him straight to the hospital. “I hate you.”

“Oh, I love you too,” he teased, laughing at your frustration.

--

You were minding your own business, erasing the board, when out of nowhere, a crumpled piece of paper hit you square on the head. Annoyed, you turned sharply, searching for the culprit. Your eyes quickly landed on Kim Seungmin, who very obviously averted his gaze and started whistling—like that wasn’t the biggest giveaway ever.

Glaring at him, you felt your temper rise. Without thinking twice, you grabbed the nearest weapon of choice—the chalkboard eraser—and hurled it with full force.

"Hey—!" Seungmin barely had time to react, his hands flying up to shield himself. The eraser still hit him, sending a cloud of chalk dust everywhere.

Minutes later, there he was, sitting in the clinic, sulking like he’d been gravely injured. You stood over him, arms crossed, rolling your eyes at the ridiculous situation.

“You’re such a kid,” you teased, watching as he winced dramatically. “Crying over a tiny little scratch.”

He glared at you, clutching his arm like he’d survived a battle. “Tiny? You nearly broke my arm!”

You smirked, “If I wanted to break your arm, Seungmin, I wouldn’t have used an eraser.”

You and Seungmin fought like kids, constantly bickering and annoying each other to the point where even your classmates didn’t bother stepping in anymore. They’d seen you two nearly throw punches at each other too many times to care.

One day in the cafeteria, you were finally enjoying a moment of peace, savoring your lunch, when Seungmin suddenly plopped down in front of you. He smiled, but there was something odd about it. Well, Seungmin was always odd, but this felt extra weird. He wasn’t even touching his food; he just sat there, staring at you.

"What are you looking at, ugly?" you asked, scowling.

He leaned back casually. "My friends are coming, and we're sitting at this table. It’s up to you if you wanna leave or not."

You blinked, taken aback. "What?! I got here first!"

"Yeah, well," he shrugged nonchalantly, "I don’t care."

Before you could argue further, the cafeteria exploded with noise. His friends had arrived—there was no mistaking it. They were loud, famous, and had an almost cult-like following at school. You could practically hear the high-pitched squeals from the “fandom” as they entered. Without even turning around, you knew it was them.

Your frustration mounted as they surrounded the table, chattering loudly. You weren’t exactly fond of crowds, for that matter. Sitting there, sandwiched between Seungmin and his friends, you felt like a deer caught in headlights.

Hyunjin—yes, that Hyunjin—suddenly leaned over, flashing a bright smile. "Hey, what’s your name?"

You nearly choked on your food. Of course, the universe had to pick this moment to be cruel. Before you could respond, Seungmin cut in with a smug grin.

"She’s no one. Don’t mind her," he said, not even sparing you a glance.

Your face flushed with embarrassment and annoyance. You stood up abruptly, knocking over your chair. "I’ve suddenly lost my appetite," you muttered awkwardly before storming off, desperately trying to escape the humiliation.

Why does this always happen to me? you groaned internally. I hate Seungmin. And I hate myself for embarrassing myself in front of my crush… Hyunjin.

If I see that KIM SEUNGMIN later, I’m going to kill him.

Later in class, your chance for revenge came. Seungmin was called on for an oral recitation, and—poetic justice—he stood there, stuttering and completely clueless. You couldn’t help but laugh under your breath as he floundered, finally getting a taste of the embarrassment he loved dishing out.

Justice had never tasted so sweet.

---

"I hope lightning strikes him," you muttered, glaring at Seungmin from a distance as you hugged yourself, shivering from the cold. You were stuck in a waiting shed, the afternoon bringing with it a torrential downpour that looked like the start of a typhoon. The weather had been perfect this morning—sunny, with not a cloud in sight. You'd made the mistake of leaving your umbrella at home, thinking it would only weigh down your bag. Now, you regretted every bit of that decision.

Across the street, Seungmin stood dry under his big, obnoxiously bright umbrella, almost laughing as he caught sight of you. His smug grin was practically glowing, and as if to rub salt in the wound, he waved at you.

You flipped him the finger.

‘When will his time come?’ you wondered bitterly. Why am I always the one who ends up miserable?

The shed's roof was doing a terrible job of keeping the rain out. Water dripped from all angles, splashing around you and soaking your clothes. You glanced up at the leaky ceiling and groaned. When will this stop? you thought—both about the rain and Seungmin.

If the two of you were friends, and if he weren’t the spawn of Lucifer himself, you might’ve swallowed your pride and asked to share his umbrella. Your house was literally just a block away. But no! You would not—under any circumstances—lower yourself to envy his dry, smug self.

You would never give him the satisfaction. Even if it meant sitting here the whole night, soaked and miserable.

Seungmin started walking toward you, his big umbrella swaying with each step. He stopped in front of you with the most annoyingly sarcastic smile.

"You wanna share?" he asked, eyes twinkling with amusement.

You rolled your eyes. "No thanks."

"You sure? The news said the rain’s stopping… tomorrow."

"Even if it never stops for a whole week, Kim Seungmin, I would never!" you snapped, glaring at him.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your misery. "You sure? Last chance."

"Yes!" you practically shouted, arms crossed in defiance.

"Okay." He shrugged, stepping back. "One word is enough for me."

And with that, he turned on his heel and continued on his way, leaving you alone in the rain.

"I won’t regret it!" you yelled after him, though your voice sounded far less confident than before.

Ten minutes later, you were drenched and shivering, cursing under your breath. Regret started to creep in. You glanced down the road—completely empty. Not a single taxi in sight.

"Where are all the taxis when I need them?" you groaned, looking up at the dark, stormy sky.

And so, your day ended just as it began: with Seungmin somehow managing to ruin it.

--

It was Friday, and your first class of the day happened to be the one where your seatmate was none other than him.

Determined not to be late, you arrived twenty minutes early. The classroom was nearly empty, with only a handful of students scattered around. Feeling groggy, you slumped over your desk, letting the quiet atmosphere lull you into a light nap.

Of course, peace never lasted long when Seungmin was involved.

A sharp knock on your desk pulled you from the brink of sleep. You cracked one eye open to see Seungmin settling into the seat beside you, a smug grin already plastered on his face.

"Oh, you’re early today. Were you looking forward to sitting next to me?" he teased, leaning back comfortably as if he hadn't just ruined your peaceful moment.

"It’s still early, Kim Seungmin," you muttered, closing your eyes again. Not today, you thought. You weren’t going to let him ruin your morning. Not this early.

He glanced at his watch with a chuckle. "Well, it’s 10 a.m., and that’s not exactly early, is it?"

"Seungmin, if you’re bored and looking to annoy someone, talk to my hand." Without even opening your eyes, you lazily raised your hand in his direction, palm out.

Just then, Yuna, who sat in front of you, arrived. She took one look at the two of you, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "Why are you guys always fighting the moment you see each other?"

You opened one eye, giving her a pleading look. "Can you please let him annoy you instead?"

Yuna just laughed. "Oh, Seungmin wouldn’t annoy anyone else but you." She gave you a knowing smile. "He likes you."

Your eyes shot open at her words, and you squinted at Seungmin, who was now smirking as if he knew exactly how to get under your skin. "Yeah, likes to annoy me," you huffed, narrowing your eyes in suspicion.

Seungmin shrugged, leaning in a little closer just to provoke you. "Well, yeah, I like it sooo much," he laughed, clearly amused by your reaction.

Yuna, now used to your bickering, just shrugged and turned her attention to the front of the classroom, leaving you to deal with him.

You let out a sigh, hoping that Seungmin would leave you alone for at least a minute. "Is there any chance you’ll be quiet today?"

He pretended to think for a moment. "Hmm, nope."

You groaned, dropping your head back onto your desk. "Why do you even sit next to me?"

"Fate," he said casually, glancing over as if he hadn’t just said the most ridiculous thing ever.

You shot him a disbelieving look. "What?"

"It’s fate," he repeated with a smirk. "Out of all the seats in this entire classroom, I ended up next to you. Don’t you think that means something?"

"Yeah, it means I’m cursed."

He laughed, the sound annoyingly cheerful, and leaned in closer. "Maybe, or maybe you’re just lucky to have me next to you."

"Lucky isn’t the word I’d use."

Before he could respond, the classroom started filling up, and the teacher finally arrived. You sent a silent prayer of thanks, hoping class would be a break from Seungmin’s endless teasing.

“…you will do this assignment by pairs. To speed things up, partner with your seatmate.”

It was nothing new to be stuck with your enemy, but when you realized that the activity involved a short roleplay drama, you felt a surge of panic. Acting alongside him was nowhere on your bucket list of things to do—if you even had a bucket list.

“Maam, can I exchange my partner?” you raised your hand, desperation evident in your voice.

“Ouch, you hurt my feelings!” Seungmin clutched his chest dramatically, feigning offense.

“What’s wrong with your partner?” the teacher asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sometimes you wondered why everyone seemed to love this annoying dog sitting next to you.

With no choice left, you begrudgingly held the script with a scowl. When would you ever have a peaceful day in class? Why did you have to pretend to be in love with this guy?

“Come on, read your line!” Seungmin demanded, his annoyance bubbling over.

Of all the choices in your teacher's fishbowl, you’d drawn the romantic scene everyone praying not to get. You would have preferred a horror script over this.

“I don’t want to!” you protested, crossing your arms defiantly.

“Well, you have to! It’s your fault for picking it!” he shot back, a glint of mischief in his eyes.

“I told you to pick it!” you replied, frustration mounting.

“And then I’d be the one to blame? We don’t have a choice but to do well.” He leaned back, crossing his arms smugly.

“Ugh! I hate you so much!” you exclaimed, slumping back in your seat.

“Well, you have to love me now.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying your misery.

“What did I do in my past life to deserve this?” You groaned, reading the lines again.

“Probably killed someone,” he quipped, shooting you a knowing look.

You glared at him, and he immediately raised his hands in mock surrender, laughing.

“Oh, apologies. Let’s practice! You don’t have a choice; it’s either fail or just accept it.”

“I hate you.”

“I accept it, Juliet.” He grinned, clearly relishing your frustration.

Thankfully, the teacher had given you a week to prepare, which meant you never took practicing seriously after that.

“We’ll practice tomorrow,” Seungmin stated, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“I have something to do tomorrow,” you said nonchalantly, hoping to deter him.

“I have things too, but I want good grades, so you have to come.” He started packing his things away.

“Hey, Seungmin!” You both turned at the sound of his friend’s voice. It was Hyunjin, accompanied by Felix and Jisung. You straightened up, suddenly conscious of your appearance.

“Let’s go somewhere!” Jisung draped an arm around Seungmin’s shoulders.

“I have important things to do,” Seungmin replied, and Jisung pouted in response.

“Oh, it was you in the cafeteria the other day,” Hyunjin said, looking right at you. It took you a moment to process that he was talking to you.

“Um…” Your voice faltered. “Yes?”

Hyunjin smiled at you, and you felt your heart race.

“Guys, wait for me outside. You just sneaked into my classroom,” Seungmin laughed, and his friends complied, heading for the door.

You were still catching your breath from the interaction when Seungmin turned back, grinning at you. “So, Hyunjin is your crush?” he asked, his tone teasing.

Oh no! Seungmin had caught on!

“Of course, I’m not!” you blurted out, feeling your cheeks heat up.

“Why are you saying ‘I’m not’ in such an awkward way?” He laughed, clearly enjoying this new revelation. “Then it is true!”

“Please don’t tell him!” You pleaded, realizing you were losing this battle.

“Of course I won’t…” He smiled coyly, “…I won’t do what you ask.” Then, with a laugh, he tossed his bag over his shoulder and dashed out the door.

“Oh, damn…” You froze in your seat, panic setting in.

“See you at practice tomorrow!” Seungmin waved annoyingly from the doorway, clearly aware that you had no choice but to comply.

As the door swung shut behind him, you sank back into your chair, contemplating your fate. Tomorrow was going to be a nightmare.

--

You arrived at his house and rang the doorbell repeatedly, knowing he would probably just hear it and take his sweet time.

“You’re late,” he said with a smug smile when he finally opened the gate.

“I’m not,” you insisted, holding your wrist up to show him your watch, the sleek silver face gleaming in the sunlight.

“You’re late by 58 seconds,” he replied, crossing his arms as if he were judging your punctuality.

“What?! It’s not my fault you opened your gate late!” You rolled your eyes, frustration bubbling beneath the surface.

He chuckled at your annoyed expression, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth. “Come in.”

“Not like I have a choice,” you muttered, stepping inside.

It was your first time in his house, and you weren’t surprised by how nice it was. The exterior was already immaculate, and the inside was just as polished—walls adorned with family photos and art that hinted at a cozy atmosphere. But you would never admit that to him.

“My parents aren’t home; they have work,” he said, glancing around the living room as if to check for any potential chaos.

“No one asked,” you shot back, feeling a mix of annoyance and amusement.

“Just wanted to let you know in case you try to kill me; there’s a CCTV camera around,” he said, half-serious.

“Oh, great. Just what I need,” you replied dryly, shaking your head.

He headed to the kitchen, presumably to get something to drink, giving you a moment to explore. You took the chance to glance at the pictures displayed throughout the room. One photo caught your eye—him as a child, beaming with joy as he played in a park.

When he returned, you pointed to the picture near the TV. “Is that you?”

“Obviously,” he said, rolling his eyes, his tone laced with playful sarcasm.

You squinted at the picture, then turned to him, suddenly serious. “I mean… will there ever be a time for us to stop bickering, even just for a bit? I'm trying to start a normal conversation here”

“Will there be?” he countered, sitting beside you with a teasing grin, his body relaxed as he leaned back.

“Yeah, right. Never,” you replied, smirking despite yourself.

He handed you the printed script he’d prepared, the edges slightly crinkled. “Why are we putting so much effort into this? It’s just reading the script, not really acting it out.”

“Because I have a goal grade, unlike you,” he said matter-of-factly, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Have you forgotten I’m an achiever too?” you shot back, crossing your arms defiantly.

When would this bickering ever end?

“Hyunjin is coming,” he announced suddenly, the air in the room shifting.

“No one asked--” You paused, then asked, “Wait what?!”

“So you should behave if you don’t want to scare him off,” he added, the grin still plastered on his face.

“Seungmin, why would you do that?!” You lightly slapped him on the shoulder, half-exasperated, half-amused.

“Because… I can?” He laughed, shielding himself playfully. “I mean, what’s wrong with inviting a friend? He's good at acting he can help”

“I hate you so much,” you groaned, exasperation creeping into your tone.

Hyunjin had been your crush for as long as you could remember, and the thought of him being in the same space as you made your stomach flutter with nerves. He was perfect in every way—charismatic, charming, and completely out of your league.

“Why? What’s wrong?” Seungmin teased, leaning closer with that infuriating grin. “Oh, I forgot—you like him, right?”

You responded by giving him another light shove, your cheeks flushing with embarrassment. It was always like this between you two—endless banter, lighthearted teasing, but the presence of Hyunjin added a layer of awkwardness you couldn’t quite shake.

You both settled onto the couch, the printed script between you. Seungmin glanced at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Okay, let’s get this over with. You read Juliet’s lines, and I’ll read Romeo’s,” he said, smirking.

“Fine, but don’t mess it up,” you replied, trying to maintain your composure.

You started reading through the script, your voice steady but laced with a hint of nervousness. “O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright! It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiope’s ear.”

Seungmin rolled his eyes dramatically. “Wow, so poetic. Just make sure you don’t faint from all that romance.”

You shot him a glare. “Shut up, Romeo.”

Just then, the doorbell rang. Your heart raced. Hyunjin was here.

“See? You should behave,” Seungmin teased, nudging your shoulder.

You threw him a playful glare, then he rushed to open the door. There stood Hyunjin, looking effortlessly cool, his smile warm as he greeted you both. “Hey! Ready to practice?”

“Uh, yeah! Come in!” you said, trying to keep your cool but feeling the heat creep into your cheeks.

Seungmin sauntered over, clearly relishing the moment. “Hyunjin! Glad you could join us! We were just getting to the juicy parts.”

You shot him a warning look, hoping he wouldn’t embarrass you. Hyunjin, however, seemed unfazed. “Nice! I can help you both with the romantic scenes if you want.”

You nodded eagerly. “That would be great! I need help with… you know, acting like I’m in love.” You winced at how obvious that sounded.

Hyunjin grinned, moving to sit across from you. “Alright, let’s try a scene. Here’s the famous balcony part. Juliet says, ‘O, for a falconer’s voice to lure this tassel-gentle back again.’”

You felt your heart flutter. “I’ll try,” you said, taking a deep breath. “O, for a falconer’s voice to lure this tassel-gentle back again!”

Hyunjin smiled, then gestured for you to continue. “And then Romeo responds with, ‘I would not for the world they saw thee here.’”

Seungmin picked up the line, and you both began to read, the atmosphere shifting as you focused on the scene. You felt a playful energy in the air, the tension of performing lifting your spirits.

“‘I would not for the world they saw thee here,’” Seungmin said, his voice low and earnest.

You replied, “Then there’s no need to be ashamed,” trying to put as much emotion into it as possible.

Hyunjin clapped after your line. “That was great! You both looked really good together!”

You and Seungmin exchanged a quick look. “No!” you both said in unison.

Hyunjin chuckled, clearly entertained by your synchronized denial. “Really, it’s just acting! But seriously, you guys have good chemistry.”

“Thanks!” you said, feeling a mix of embarrassment and pride.

“Alright, let’s keep practicing!” Hyunjin suggested, eager to dive back into the script.

You focused on the lines, the playful banter keeping the atmosphere light. As you practiced, you couldn’t help but enjoy the moment, the camaraderie making the task feel less like a chore and more like fun.

With Hyunjin guiding you, you felt more confident as you delivered your lines, ready to tackle the performance together.

--

The days passed in a blur as you and Seungmin practiced again at his house. You settled into a routine, the playful banter punctuating your rehearsals, and surprisingly, you started to enjoy the time spent together.

Finally, the day of the presentation arrived. As you stood in front of the class, you felt a mix of nerves and excitement. When it was your turn to deliver your lines, you poured your heart into the performance, channeling every emotion.

To your surprise, Yuna leaned over after the presentation and whispered, “It wasn’t like you were entering each other’s nerves at all!” Her compliment made you beam with pride.

Seungmin, too, impressed you with his serious demeanor. For once, he seemed genuinely focused, and seeing him so dedicated made you realize how much he cared about doing well. You couldn’t help but feel a swell of pride for both of you.

After the applause died down, your teacher announced, “I’m pleased to inform you all that I have chosen actors for the upcoming school play, and I choose…” She paused dramatically, glancing between you and Seungmin, “…you two!”

A wave of excitement surged through you, quickly followed by a burst of playful competitiveness. “See? You should thank me for picking a role that suits us both,” you teased, nudging him playfully.

Seungmin raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Oh, I’m grateful, alright. I forgot for a moment how you despise your pick. In fact, I’m so happy I’m going to treat you to cake and coffee.”

“Yes!” you replied enthusiastically, unable to hide your grin. “I deserve a treat after all that hard work!”

“Sure, but only because I can’t let my scene partner go hungry,” he said, winking.

As you both headed out, the bickering continued, light-hearted and familiar, but beneath it was a shared joy that made the moment all the more special. You couldn’t help but feel that maybe, just maybe, this experience was bringing you closer, even if you would never admit it.

At the café, the atmosphere buzzed with chatter and the rich aroma of coffee. You and Seungmin settled into a cozy corner, the tension from earlier melted away as you both began to chat more easily.

“So, do you actually love acting?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee.

“Absolutely!” you replied, a grin spreading across your face. “I’ve always idolized Emma Watson. I mean, come on, I look just like her!” You struck a dramatic pose, fluttering your eyelashes.

Seungmin looked at you, clearly unconvinced, with a “Are you kidding me?” expression. You burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the café.

“Okay, maybe not exactly like her,” you admitted, trying to catch your breath. “But a girl can dream, right?”

“Sure, if dreaming means torturing the rest of us,” he shot back with a smirk.

You rolled your eyes. “Anyway, I’m planning to major in acting when I get to college. It’s my dream!”

“Nice! I like acting too, but I’m thinking about majoring in music,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

“Wait, you? You know how to sing?” You raised an eyebrow, unable to hide your skepticism.

“Wanna hear?” he challenged, a playful glint in his eye.

“Please no!” you teased, dramatically placing your hand on your heart. “I’d rather sleep forever than listen to your singing.”

Seungmin laughed, shaking his head. “You’re so mean! I think it would be the opposite”

“Mean? I’m just saving you from embarrassment,” you shot back with a grin. “You should thank me!”

"you'll regret what you're saying when I become famous."

As you exchanged playful banter, you realized that this was your way of connecting. The teasing and light insults had become second nature, and somehow, the hurtful words didn’t sting anymore. Instead, they felt like an essential part of your friendship, a comfortable rhythm that made you both laugh.

“Seriously though,” you said, softening a bit, “I think it’s awesome that you’re into music. We’ll be the dynamic duo of arts!”

“Absolutely! Just don’t expect me to duet with you anytime soon,” he joked, raising his cup in a mock toast.

“Deal!” you laughed, feeling lighter than you had in a long time.

--

As the practice for the play approached, your schedule became packed, leaving little time for anything else. Excitement bubbled inside you, especially since Hyunjin, a year ahead of you, was also in the cast. You could hardly wait for the next rehearsal.

One day, while waiting for practice to start, you found yourself lost in thought, staring at Hyunjin as he chatted with some friends. Seungmin, ever the observant one, caught you in the act.

“You look like a lovesick puppy,” he teased, a playful grin stretching across his face.

You quickly snapped out of your daydream, narrowing your eyes at him. “Shut up! I’m not!” You playfully punched his arm, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your point.

“Uh-huh, sure,” he laughed, clearly enjoying your reaction.

“You’re just jealous that I’m not staring at you like that!”

As partners playing lovers in the play, you often imagined being paired with Hyunjin. But the teacher had chosen Seungmin, and surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as you expected. You’d gotten used to the banter, and the awkwardness faded as practice continued.

Days passed, filled with rehearsals that drew you closer to Seungmin. The bickering remained, a constant source of amusement.

During one practice, while the two of you were warming up, Seungmin leaned over to Hyunjin, a mischievous smile on his face. “Hyunjin, have you already eaten? This monkey here asks,” he said, pointing at you as if you were some sort of pet.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t help but laugh. “I am! Thank you for asking!” you replied, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Yeah, and she also said you were handsome,” Seungmin added, clearly enjoying the moment.

You felt your cheeks flush, and in a mock fit of outrage, you dashed toward him. “Seungmin!” you yelled, but he was quicker. He took off running, his laughter echoing through the practice room.

When you finally caught up to him, you wrapped your arms around his neck in a playful hug, making him squirm. “You’re such a tormentor!” you laughed, shaking him lightly.

From across the room, Hyunjin watched the whole scene unfold, a smile playing on his lips. “Are you sure they hate each other?” asked the director, who was shaking his head in disbelief.

Hyunjin just nodded, clearly entertained. “Definitely yes!” he replied, chuckling at your playful dynamic.

As you and Seungmin continued to tease each other, you realized that despite the playful bickering, there was an undeniable comfort between you—something that made every rehearsal just a little bit brighter.

---

The rain poured down in relentless sheets, and there you were, standing under a shed, glaring at the gray sky as if it were personally responsible for your soaked shoes. You had forgotten your umbrella—again.

As you waited, shivering slightly from the cold, you spotted Seungmin in the distance, standing confidently under a bright yellow umbrella. He was teasingly waving it over his head, a smirk plastered on his face as he called out, “Looks like someone forgot their umbrella again!”

You rolled your eyes and shot him a finger. “Very funny, Seungmin!”

He sauntered over, his grin widening with each step. "You wanna share?"

You rolled your eyes. "No thanks." you replied, crossing your arms defiantly.

“Okay, then. One word is enough for me.” He turned to leave, an exaggerated pout on his lips.

You hesitated for a moment, watching him walk away. “Wait!” you called out, and he turned back, an annoying smile in his lips. “Fine! We can share!”

Seungmin’s face broke into a triumphant grin as he rushed back to your side, positioning the umbrella over both of you. As you walked together, the atmosphere shifted from frustration to lightheartedness, laughter spilling out between the two of you.

“My shoulder is now wet,” Seungmin complained, feigning annoyance as he brushed water off his shirt.

“Is it my fault that you work out so much? Your shoulders are just too broad!” you shot back, unable to suppress a grin.

“Did you just compliment me?” he asked, his eyes lighting up with mischief.

“Ugh, it wasn’t a compliment!” you retorted, trying to keep a straight face.

“Then I’ll just have to embrace this wetness!” he said cheerfully, adjusting the umbrella with exaggerated flair. Before you knew it, he leaned closer, and water dripped off his shoulder, splashing onto you.

You burst into laughter, shoving him playfully. “You idiot!”

Seungmin laughed too, chasing after you as you dashed away, your heart racing with excitement. The rain seemed to fade into the background, the only sound being your giggles and the splatter of water against the pavement.

“You’re going to pay for that!” he yelled, laughter echoing through the downpour.

Just as you turned to look back, he splashed a wave of water right at you, soaking you completely. You retaliated, grabbing a handful of rainwater and splashing it back at him.

The playful battle raged on, and soon both of you were drenched, shivering yet exhilarated.

---

It was two weeks before the big play, and you were laser-focused on perfecting every detail. The pressure was on, and you found yourself spending more time practicing than ever. You wanted everything to be perfect, especially with the role you were playing. Seungmin, of course, was your partner in most scenes, so you had to rehearse together.

But as you delivered your lines, standing face-to-face with Seungmin, it became harder and harder to stay serious. Seungmin kept pulling funny faces behind his lines, causing you to break character and burst into laughter.

“Direct, please, punch him or something!” you whined dramatically, throwing your hands up. “He won’t stop!”

The director, seeing your exaggerated reaction, just chuckled. Meanwhile, the rest of the cast erupted in laughter.

"I’m serious now! I promise!" Seungmin said, shrugging off his antics.

You tried to continue, but the minute you looked at his serious face, you couldn’t hold back your laughter again. His deadpan expression was just too much.

“Okay, okay,” you said, wiping away a tear from laughing too hard. “Let’s take five. I need to compose myself.”

You sat down in the corner, still laughing. Seungmin joined you, shaking his head with a grin.

“Why are you always like this?” you asked, playfully slapping his arm. “We’re supposed to be professional!”

“Hey! I’m doing great! You’re the one laughing!” he protested with a smirk.

You couldn't deny it—something had shifted between you and Seungmin lately. There was this playful, easygoing dynamic now, and to your surprise, you liked it. You weren’t exactly sure when it happened, but the tension between the two of you had somehow dissolved, leaving behind a strange sort of camaraderie. And it felt... right.

---

Late again. You were quietly crawling your way toward your seat, praying that Seungmin wouldn’t notice. Maybe, just maybe, he’d be too preoccupied to see you sneaking in. But no such luck. Just as you thought you were in the clear, you saw Seungmin glancing in your direction, that infamous smirk already forming on his face. You knew that look all too well—he was up to something.

Desperate, you shot him a pleading look, mouthing a dramatic “Nooo,” and shaking your head in an exaggerated fashion. But the smirk only widened as he raised his hand.

“Ma'am!”

You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing yourself for the inevitable scolding. This is it, you thought. I’m done.

But instead, Seungmin’s voice rang out casually, “I forgot to give you the assignments I collected from the class.”

Your eyes flew open in shock. What?

“Oh right! Thank you, Seungmin, for the reminder.” The teacher smiled at him, clearly appreciating the help.

Seungmin stood up, cool as ever, handing over the pile of papers. He sat back down, a faint smirk still on his lips as if nothing unusual had happened.

You slid into your seat cautiously, your heart still racing. You glanced over at Seungmin, who met your gaze with a quick wink before turning back to his notebook. That was... new, you thought, utterly confused.

--

Practice resumed as usual, and you started to get into the flow of things. You liked rehearsing for the play more than you thought you would, especially with the creative freedom you were given. The only downside? Seungmin never missed an opportunity to get under your skin.

As you entered the practice room, sporting your freshly cut hair, Seungmin immediately took notice.

He eyed you up and down, a teasing grin already forming on his lips. “You know,” he began, casually leaning back in his chair, “short hair doesn’t really suit you.”

You rolled your eyes, knowing exactly where this was headed. “What are you talking about? I look pretty in it,” you shot back confidently, placing your hands on your hips.

Seungmin raised an eyebrow, the playful grin still firmly in place. “Pretty? More like you look like a monkey who tried to give itself a haircut.”

“Excuse me?” You gasped, pretending to be scandalized. “I do not look like a monkey.”

“Sure, whatever helps you sleep at night,” Seungmin shrugged, clearly enjoying how flustered you were getting. He leaned closer, dropping his voice dramatically. “But just so you know, if we ever put you in a zoo, you’d fit right in.”

You gasped again, this time more dramatically, then pointed at him with a mock serious expression. “You’re just jealous because I’m out here looking cute and you can’t handle it.”

“Cute?” Seungmin laughed, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Keep telling yourself that.”

“Whatever, I know the truth. You’re just afraid to admit that I’m rocking this look,” you teased back, refusing to back down.

“Yeah, yeah. Keep dreaming, monkey,” he said, chuckling softly as you narrowed your eyes at him.

--

Another day in class, you were erasing the board when something hit the back of your head. Startled, you spun around, spotting Seungmin sitting there, whistling innocently. It was the most obvious thing ever—he didn’t even try to hide it.

You glared at him, trying to keep your cool. ‘Let it go’, you thought. ‘Don’t give him the satisfaction’. But then, another paper ball hit you.

"Seriously?" you muttered under your breath, turning to give him a sharp look.

This time, Seungmin didn’t bother pretending. He smiled and pointed to the paper ball on the floor. “Read it,” he said, nodding toward the crumpled note.

You raised your hand, ready to throw the eraser at him with full force.

“Wait!” Seungmin said quickly, holding up his hands in surrender. “Just read it, will you?”

With a dramatic sigh, you picked up the paper, unfolding it. Written in his messy handwriting were the words: “Let’s eat. My treat.”

Before you could react, Jisung, who had been quietly observing the whole scene, burst into laughter. “What kind of lame drama am I witnessing?” he cackled.

You whipped around and threw the eraser at him instead, hitting him square in the shoulder. “Mind your own business, Jisung!”

“Hey! I’m just saying!” Jisung grinned, clearly enjoying the chaos.

Later that afternoon, you and Seungmin found yourselves at a seafood restaurant. Well, it was supposed to be Seungmin’s treat, but somehow the two of you ended up bickering over who would pay. Cause you wanna pay too.

“Let’s settle this the mature way—rock, paper, scissors,” Seungmin proposed, holding out his fist.

“Fine,” you agreed, thinking you had a good chance.

You both threw out your hands, and you won.

“Yes!” you exclaimed, triumph coursing through you for about five seconds. But then Seungmin began to order.

He grinned, shaking his head. “You’re gonna regret that.”

You frowned, confusion creeping in as the waiter approached. Seungmin rattled off an absurd number of dishes—enough to feed an entire village.

“Seungmin,” you hissed, eyes wide in disbelief, “do you really need to order enough food for 30 people?”

Seungmin leaned back in his chair, completely unfazed. “You said it was your treat. I’m just taking full advantage.”

You pouted, crossing your arms defiantly. “This isn’t fair. You’re evil.”

“Evil? No way,” he laughed, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I prefer the term ‘strategically gifted.’”

As the waiter left with the long list of orders, you grumbled, “You should’ve thought about that before challenging me.”

In the end, Seungmin ended up paying for most of it, but you insisted on contributing, stubbornly pushing a few bills his way. He didn’t argue too much, shaking his head with an amused smile. “You’re relentless, aren’t you?”

“Of course! If I’m going to be broke, I might as well be happy about it,” you retorted, a grin spreading across your face.

Seungmin laughed, clearly entertained by your determination. “Fair enough. Next time, I’ll just let you win without a fight.”

“Deal! But only if you promise not to order enough food for a small army,” you teased, raising your glass in a mock toast.

“Challenge accepted,” he replied, clinking his glass against yours, both of you laughing at the absurdity of it all.

--

Another rehearsal, and you were sitting on the sidelines, legs crossed as you watched your classmates perform. You had just finished your scene and were still buzzing from the energy of it all. The lights cast a warm glow on the stage, and you found yourself quietly admiring the atmosphere, the stars of the production shining brightly in your eyes.

Suddenly, the director's voice broke through your thoughts. “Seungmin, can you step in as the main character for a bit? Our lead’s absent today.”

“Sure,” Seungmin replied, standing up with an easy confidence. He made his way to the center of the stage, and you prepared for him to be awkward or hesitant. Instead, he surprised you.

As he took his place, he transformed. His movements were smooth and assured, his voice resonating with sincerity. You couldn’t help but lean forward, captivated. He moved across the stage effortlessly, delivering his lines with an authenticity that made you forget you were watching your friend.

Wow, he was really talented.

You shook your head slightly, trying to push the thought away. No way could you think Seungmin was handsome. That was just absurd.

Then came a scene where he had to hug the female lead. As he pulled her into a gentle embrace, your heart gave a small, inexplicable flutter. The warmth of his presence seemed to radiate even from where you sat, and you felt an unfamiliar tightening in your stomach.

You tried to shrug it off, focusing on the performance, but the feeling lingered, swirling with an odd mix of admiration and something else entirely. Watching him, you realized you were seeing a different side of Seungmin—one that was undeniably charismatic and captivating.

The rehearsal continued, but you found it harder to concentrate, your thoughts drifting back to the way he had held her, how effortlessly he embodied the character. What was happening to you? You glanced away, trying to regain your composure, but the strange flutter remained, echoing in your mind long after the scene ended.

You were still lost in thought about the rehearsal when Hyunjin sat down beside you. “You look really pretty with your hair like that,” he commented with a smile.

You blushed at the compliment, glancing down. “Thanks! Seungmin said it doesn’t suit me.”

Hyunjin chuckled softly. “Seungmin? He’s just teasing you. That’s his way of telling you he likes it.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Definitely,” Hyunjin replied with a smirk. “He wouldn’t bother teasing you if he didn’t like it.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “He always tease me.”

Hyunjin leaned back, still smiling. “How did you two meet, anyway?”

“We’re neighbors,” you explained. “Since elementary school. We were always competing—who could get the best grades, who could finish their homework first. It’s been like that forever.”

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow. “Do you hate him?”

You laughed, thinking for a moment. “If I could push him off a cliff, I probably would.”

Hyunjin grinned. “Would you really, though?”

You hesitated, suddenly unsure. “...yes,” you admitted, half-joking.

Hyunjin chuckled, clearly sensing something. “Well, I hope I don’t hear about you two pushing each other off cliffs anytime soon.”

You shrugged with a playful smile. “No promises.”

--

Later, you were eating peacefully in the cafeteria, minding your own business, when Seungmin plopped his tray down across from you. He sat down without a word, digging into his food.

You raised an eyebrow, already knowing what was coming. “Let me guess... your friends are coming?”

Seungmin glanced at you lazily, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. “No, they don’t wanna see you.”

You pouted, pretending to be offended. “I miss Hyunjin.”

“Then ask him out,” Seungmin replied lazily, taking a bite of his bread.

You paused mid-bite, your eyes narrowing as you stared at him. “You think I have a chance with him?”

Seungmin smirked, shaking his head. “No, he hates monkeys like you who throw erasers at people.”

You gasped, glaring at him. “I do not look like a monkey!”

“Sure, whatever helps you,” Seungmin teased, his grin widening. “And for the record, Hyunjin’s probably just being nice.”

You frowned, “He said I was pretty with my new haircut.”

Seungmin scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “Do you know how much he lies? He probably tells that to everyone.”

You didn’t bother arguing. Instead, you decided to change tactics. “Help me get him to go out with me, then.”

Seungmin snorted. “Do it on your own. You’re big enough for that.”

You groaned dramatically, leaning across the table toward him. “If you help me, I’ll buy you something. Anything you want.”

Seungmin looked at you, considering it for a moment before shrugging. “Buy me a house."

You rolled your eyes, giving him a deadpan stare. “Never mind. I’ll do it myself.”

He smirked, clearly enjoying how easily you gave up. “Good luck, Juliet.”

--

It was Friday again, and somehow, you found yourself seated next to Seungmin—again. This time, however, you arrived early, a full thirty minutes ahead of your usual time. Feeling tired, you laid your head on the desk, hoping to catch a quick nap.

Just as you were dozing off, you felt a sharp knock on the desk, startling you awake. You looked up to see Seungmin grinning down at you, clearly enjoying your misery.

“Missing me that much, huh?” he teased. “You’re thirty minutes earlier than usual.”

You groaned, rubbing your eyes. “We basically see each other every day. I’m already sick of it,” you replied with a shrug.

Seungmin chuckled, settling into his seat beside you. “You’ll survive. Anyway, I need to copy your assignment.”

You blinked, sitting up straight. “We had an assignment?”

“Seriously?” Seungmin raised an eyebrow, holding back a laugh. He reached into his bag and pulled out his own paper, handing it to you. “Here, just copy mine before Ma’am shows up.”

You took the paper from him, still confused. “Wait, I thought you said you didn’t do the assignment either?”

“I forgot that I had,” Seungmin said casually, smirking. “Now hurry up before it’s too late.”

Rolling your eyes, you grabbed your pen and started copying the assignment, scribbling quickly while glancing at the door every few seconds to make sure the teacher wasn’t close. As you worked, you couldn’t help but notice the shift between you and Seungmin. There was a time when you would’ve refused to help him—or worse, argued with him endlessly. But now? It felt... different. There was a weird sense of comfort in these small moments.

"What now? does our fighting over who finish assignments first done?" you laugh,

"Then give me back my paper. I've changed my mind."

You didn’t hate it. In fact, you kind of liked it.

--

 Seungmin was sipping on his water bottle backstage when Hyunjin approached him, all casual as ever.

“Seungmin,” Hyunjin started, leaning against the wall beside him. “Do you like her?”

Seungmin paused mid-sip, glancing sideways at Hyunjin with a raised brow. “What are you talking about?”

Hyunjin gave him a knowing look. “I’ve known you for years, dude. I know when you like someone.”

Seungmin snorted, trying to brush it off. “Why would that matter to you?”

“Well,” Hyunjin said with a mischievous glint in his eyes, “if I asked her out, would you get mad?”

Seungmin’s eyes widened slightly before he quickly masked it, his expression turning nonchalant. “Why would I care?”

Hyunjin tilted his head, smirking as if testing Seungmin’s reaction. “Really?”

Seungmin waved his hand dismissively, though his jaw tightened slightly. “What am I, a matchmaker for you two? Why are you even asking for my opinion? I don’t care.”

Hyunjin chuckled and slung an arm around Seungmin’s shoulders. “Thanks, bro. That’s all I needed to know.”

As Hyunjin walked away, Seungmin clenched his water bottle a little too tightly. He wasn’t sure what irritated him more—the fact that Hyunjin seemed interested in you, or the fact that you two were making him feel like some kind of third wheel. Whatever it was, it was starting to get under his skin.

--

Seungmin was making his way back to the classroom, balancing a small box of milk he’d grabbed for you from the cafeteria. He'd overheard you mention wanting one earlier, so without a second thought, he picked one up, hoping to surprise you.

As he neared the classroom door, he paused when he heard your voice. You were deep in conversation with one of your friends, and for some reason, curiosity got the better of him. He stood just outside, hidden by the doorframe, listening.

"Why do you hate Seungmin so much, anyway?" your friend asked.

Seungmin’s ears perked up at the question, his grip tightening around the milk carton. He wasn’t sure why he was still standing there, but he couldn’t move. He just waited.

You sighed before answering, "He's so annoying. Always teasing me, always acting like he’s better than me. He’s infuriating."

Each word hit him harder than he expected, like tiny jabs that made his heart sink deeper and deeper. He already knows this what you felt for him but he doesn't know why it still hurts. He could feel his chest tighten, his breath coming out a little shallower as he stayed rooted to the spot.

But then you added something else, something he missed. A quieter tone followed the harshness of your earlier words. It was softer, almost like you were reflecting on something.

"Lately though... I don’t know. I guess I’ve started to see that maybe he’s not that bad."

But Seungmin didn’t hear those words. He had already turned away, stepping back before he could catch the change in your tone. His heart, now heavier, urged him to walk in the opposite direction, so that’s exactly what he did. The milk, once meant to be a small gesture of kindness, now felt pointless in his hand.

PE class rolled around, and with no rehearsal scheduled, you entered the gym, spotting Seungmin as usual. You both ended up being partners again—something that had become routine at this point. There were no protests, no over-the-top objections. Just quiet acceptance.

The first activity was jogging, but you immediately noticed something was off. Normally, Seungmin would be teasing you the whole time, making snarky comments about how slow you were. But today, he was silent.

"One minute," you said, reading his time on the stopwatch. Normally, this would prompt a laugh from him, followed by some sarcastic remark about how you'd be the first one caught in a zombie apocalypse.

But today, he just nodded and moved on to the next activity without a word. Weird.

The next exercise was push-ups. You barely managed four before collapsing, groaning in exhaustion. Seungmin, on the other hand, breezed through twenty without breaking a sweat. You tried to compliment him in a lowkey way, but he didn’t react—just kept going like a machine.

What is up with him?

Then came the sit-ups. You held down Seungmin’s toes, though it didn’t seem like he needed any help. His form was perfect, and he didn’t even look your way. The proximity of the exercise made you search for his eyes, but every time you tried to make eye contact, he avoided looking at you.

When it was your turn, you felt exhausted by your fifth sit-up, and Seungmin held your toes firmly in place. This time, he watched you more intently, though you couldn’t see him since you were focusing on the exercise. Only when you glanced up did he quickly avert his gaze.

After class, you caught him trying to leave and stopped him in his tracks.

“Seungmin, what’s going on with you?” you asked, planting yourself in front of him.

He gave you a blank look. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re acting... weirdly weird today. Did something happen?”

Seungmin sighed, clearly not in the mood for a conversation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said flatly, brushing past you.

You caught his arm before he could fully walk away. “Hey, you can talk to me. If something’s wrong, just tell me.”

He paused, looking at you for a moment with an unreadable expression before saying coldly, “Why would I? We’re not friends.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. You froze, watching as he walked away, feeling a strange pang in your chest.

Later, you sat next to Hyunjin, watching Seungmin perform his scenes on stage. He still ignored you, going through the motions of his role flawlessly, but there was no denying the distance between you now. The way he looked past you, as if you weren’t there, made you feel... sad.

“What’s up with him?” you muttered to Hyunjin. “He’s been acting strange all day.”

Hyunjin smirked. “He’s probably mad about what I told him.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What did you tell him?”

Hyunjin chuckled softly, leaning closer. “I told him I like you. And that I was going to ask you out.”

You blinked in surprise, staring at him. “Wait... what?”

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Why else would he be jealous?”

“Jealous?” you repeated, confused. “Why would he be jealous?”

Hyunjin let out a soft laugh. “I don’t know if you and Seungmin are both idiots, or if you’re just blind.”

“Ouch,” you said, feigning offense, though your mind was spinning. Jealous? Seungmin?

Hyunjin’s laugh faded into a small smile, and after a moment of silence, he sighed. “Wow, my confession really flew under the radar, huh?”

You looked at him, feeling a little guilty. Oh... right. His confession.

You smiled awkwardly. “Wait, was it serious? Or were you just joking?”

Hyunjin rolled his eyes. “You think I’m a joker like that puppy?” He nodded toward Seungmin, who was still on stage.

Normally, this would be the moment where you’d blush, stammer, and lose your mind. But something didn’t feel right. There was something nagging at you, something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

“I...”

Before you could respond, Hyunjin raised a hand, cutting you off. “Actually, you know what? Don’t answer me yet. I’ll wait until after the play presentation.”

He smiled, and you smiled back, though it felt forced.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I’m just getting my water bottle,” Seungmin’s voice broke the moment as he stepped between you two, grabbing his bottle.

You opened your mouth to say something, but he was gone before you could. You stared after him, feeling more confused than ever.

-

In the past, this type of bickering was normal between you two. You had always gotten on each other's nerves, and usually, you'd be happy to ignore him, savoring the peace and quiet. But this time felt different. Why were you so affected by his silence? Why did it feel like a hollow pit had formed in your chest, waiting for him to fill it? You hated him, didn’t you? You used to hate him—right? But now, all you felt was a growing sense of confusion and frustration, like you were waiting for something that never came.

Seungmin had been avoiding you for three days now, and at first, you brushed it off, assuming he had something on his mind. But as time went on, the weight of his silence pressed harder. It wasn’t just affecting the play—it was affecting you. His avoidance felt more personal than it ever had before, and it gnawed at you until you couldn’t ignore it anymore.

"Seungmin, let's talk." You caught up to him backstage, your voice firmer than usual, trying to mask the vulnerability you were starting to feel.

"Why?" he responded coldly, not even looking in your direction.

You blinked, taken aback by the sharpness of his tone. "What do you mean, 'why'? We obviously need to talk about something."

"I don't want to," he replied like a stubborn child, folding his arms defensively.

You groaned, frustration bubbling inside you. "Stop giving me that bratty attitude, Seungmin. Let's just talk, okay?" Without thinking, you grabbed his wrist, dragging him toward the exit door for privacy.

Once you were both outside, you turned to face him, still gripping his wrist. "Are you angry at me?" you asked softly, though the edge of desperation in your voice betrayed you.

Seungmin pulled his hand away from your grasp, shrugging. "We're normally angry at each other," he muttered, staring at the ground as if avoiding your gaze would shield him from the conversation.

You furrowed your brows, trying to make sense of what he was saying. "Seungmin, we both know something has changed between us. We’re… sort of friends now, right? Why are you acting like this?"

He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. "Why? This is normal. We’ve always been like this. Why are you suddenly acting like something's different?"

Your chest tightened, and you swallowed hard. "So I’m still just an enemy to you?" The words slipped out, raw and vulnerable, and you hated yourself for how much it hurt. You could feel tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back quickly. "Because for me—" Your voice wavered, but you forced yourself to continue. "For me, things changed. I’ll be honest with you. I hated you so much before, Seungmin. I mean, if I could’ve thrown you into the fire pit, I would’ve done it in a heartbeat." You laughed bitterly, trying to lighten the mood, but your heart ached as you realized the truth. "But now, I see you as a friend."

Seungmin's breath hitched at your confession, and for a moment, his walls seemed to crack. But then his jaw clenched, and he shook his head. "No."

You stared at him, bewildered. "No? What do you mean 'no'?"

His voice was strained, like he was forcing the words out. "Why are you doing this to me? Why can’t you just focus on Hyunjin and pretend like I’m not even here?"

"Why would I do that?" you asked, confusion lacing your words.

Seungmin's expression darkened, his eyes narrowing in frustration. "Because you like him," he bit out. "You like Hyunjin, and you’ve hated me since the day we met."

You stepped closer, lowering your voice, "Seungmin… I told you. We're past that stage of hating each other."

His laugh was hollow, bitter. "You’ve hated me since we were kids. Do you have any idea how much that hurt? But you know what? I preferred it that way. I’d rather you keep hating me than whatever this is."

You were silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. It hit you hard—the realization that Seungmin had always been more affected by your feelings than you’d thought. And now, he was clinging to the past because it was easier to accept your hatred than deal with the uncertainty of whatever you were becoming now.

"But I don't hate you anymore," you said softly, your voice gentle but firm.

His gaze flickered up to meet yours for the briefest second before he looked away again, a storm of emotions brewing behind his eyes. His fists clenched at his sides, and for a moment, you thought he might say something, but instead, he shook his head, taking a deep breath.

"Then what do you feel now?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

It was a question you hadn’t fully answered yourself. What did you feel? What had changed between you two? The hate had faded long ago, replaced by something warmer, something deeper. But how could you put it into words when you weren’t sure what those feelings even were?

"I don’t know," you admitted, your voice trembling. "But I know I don’t want to keep ignoring it. I don’t want to keep pretending like we’re still stuck in the past. I care about you, Seungmin, and I—"

He cut you off, his voice sharp but shaky, "Stop. Don’t say it. Please."

His plea was laced with fear, and you could see it now—the fear of getting hurt, of being vulnerable. Seungmin had always hidden behind his teasing and sharp words, but now, as he stood before you, walls crumbling, you realized just how much he had been protecting himself all along.

"Seungmin..." You took a step closer, your hand hesitating before reaching out to touch his arm. "You don’t have to push me away."

He closed his eyes, his shoulders tense, and for a moment, you thought he might pull away again. But then, he sighed, the weight of his emotions too heavy to bear alone anymore. "You don’t get it," he whispered, his voice raw. "I’m scared. Scared that if you don’t hate me, you’ll realize… I’ve liked you for so long, and I don’t know how to handle that."

Your heart skipped a beat at his confession. The tension, the unspoken words, all of it finally made sense. You felt your chest tighten as you processed his words, the vulnerability behind them cutting deep.

Seungmin liked you.

And somehow, deep down, you’d known.

-

The day of the play had arrived, and for the first time, a tight knot of nerves twisted in your stomach. You'd performed in front of people before, but this time felt different. This time, you weren’t just performing in front of a crowd—you were performing in front of him.

As you paced backstage, waiting for the curtain to rise, you couldn’t help but glance around anxiously, searching for Seungmin. The others were already in place, getting ready for the opening act. But Seungmin… he was nowhere to be seen.

Your heart raced as minutes ticked by. What if he didn’t show up? What if his feelings, the tension between you, had driven him away? You shook your head, trying to focus, but the anxiety clung to you like a second skin.

The stage manager called for the cast to take their places, and you stepped toward the stage, dread settling deep in your chest. The lights dimmed, the curtains rustled, and the play was about to begin. But Seungmin—where was he?

Just as the opening music started and your heart sank, you heard footsteps behind you. You turned and saw him. Seungmin, slightly out of breath, his eyes locking with yours as he walked into place. He gave you a small, reassuring nod, and you felt a rush of relief. He had made it.

You took a deep breath, letting his presence calm you, and when the curtains finally rose, you stepped into your role. The lights blinded you for a second, and the sound of the audience rustled in the background, but none of that mattered. Your focus was on one person.

Seungmin.

You went through your lines, heart pounding in your chest. The audience faded away, and it was just the two of you on stage. But when you looked into Seungmin’s eyes, delivering your lines, it felt too real—like every word you spoke wasn’t part of the play but something deeper.

And then came the moment. The pivotal line.

As you reached the climax of your scene, Seungmin stepped closer, his gaze steady and intense. “I love you,” he said, his voice clear and sincere.

Your breath caught in your throat. The weight of his words, delivered in that moment, felt electric. It wasn’t just a line; it was a declaration that cut through the scripted lines and went straight to your heart.

Tears pricked at your eyes, threatening to spill over. You weren’t supposed to cry here—not in this scene—but it was impossible to hold back the emotion. The intensity of the moment, standing before him as he revealed his feelings, overwhelmed you.

Seungmin’s gaze softened, and for a second, the audience faded away. It was just you and him, wrapped in a moment that felt like the truth finally breaking through.

You tried to respond, but the weight of his confession hung in the air, filling the space between you. You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly to keep the tears at bay.

The play continued, but all you could think about was Seungmin’s words. He had spoken them as part of the script, but they felt so real, so genuine. Something shifted in the atmosphere between you two—something undeniable.

As the final act came to a close, and you took your bow, the audience erupted in applause. But even then, your eyes were only on Seungmin, wondering if he felt the same shift in the air between you two. Something had changed. Something profound. And while you weren’t sure where it would lead, for now, you were content just to hold on to the moment, letting it linger as the lights dimmed and the curtains closed.

For now, the stage had played its part, but what came next was something only time would tell.

-

a reblog, like, and comment is very much appreciated to keep me going. thanks for reading, love!

sorry for being inactive lately and not responding to any of your messages i appreciate you all love you sm!!

part 2 here!

[greengoblinswifey]

i was the one that asked if you writw dark stuff. and tysm for replying, you are so incredibly sweet💕🎀

So, could you write a dark fanfic with Nicholas or Father Charlie (you choose lol) with noncon and maybe dv? like, reader meets him and one of her family members owns him something and he like? uses her instead? if thats okay, could u do it rlly darkkk?

tysm and ily!!! 💕💞

Nicholas Chavez x Fem!Reader

summary— your father fucked nicholas over and he kidnaps you to get his payback.

warnings— EXPLICIT CONTENT. kidnapping, manipulation, extreme degrading, praise kink, face slapping, male masturbation, crying kink, face fucking, CNC, unprotected sex, knife play, death threats, violence, bondage, mentions of bruises, choking, double penetration with knife handle, anal, breeding kink, stockholm syndrome.

a/n— i think this is quite…dark and thank you🫶🏽hope you guys enjoy, def stepped out of my comfort zone for this, requests are open!

Nicholas had always known your father was a powerful man, a producer and director with the kind of influence that could turn anyone into a Hollywood legend. They had made a deal, Nicholas would land two starring roles that would launch his career to the next level. The first film had given him some visibility, but no real money, thanks to your father’s manipulation of the contract. The second role was supposed to be his ticket to true fame and fortune. But then, it all fell apart. Your father broke his promises, cutting Nicholas out in favor of his own friend, Cooper Koch. Worse yet, he’d seized some of Nicholas' property as “leverage” during the filming, draining him financially and leaving him furious and betrayed.

Your father had underestimated just how deep Nicholas’ anger would run. He wanted what was rightfully his, and if he couldn’t get it through negotiations or agreements, he’d find another way. That’s when he learned about you—the daughter your father doted on, especially since the loss of his only son, your older brother, who was meant to be the family heir. But Nicholas wasn’t here for empathy. He wanted revenge, and he knew exactly how to get it.

You agreed to go on a date with Nicholas, the rising star you had met and grown fond of, without a second thought. But as you sat in his car, something felt off. He was silent, his gaze hard as he gripped the steering wheel, ignoring your attempts at small talk.

“Where are we going?” you asked, noticing that he’d missed the turn toward the restaurant.

He didn’t answer right away, his jaw clenched tightly. Finally, he murmured, “Change of plans.”

You felt a prickle of unease and glanced around, trying to piece together where he might be headed. The buildings grew sparse, and the trees thickened on either side of the road, casting shadows as the sun dipped lower. “This doesn’t look like the way to any restaurant,” you said, your voice faltering.

He turned to you, eyes cold. “It’s not.”

A chill ran down your spine. Panic set in as he accelerated, the car speeding down a winding road that led into the dense woods. “Nicholas, stop the car,” you demanded, reaching for the door handle, but he locked it before you could react.

He didn’t look at you, but his voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “You think your father can cross me and get away with it? That he can just toss me aside like I’m nothing?” His grip on the wheel tightened. “This isn’t a date, sweetheart. This is payback.”

Your heart pounded as you pulled at the door, the lock refusing to budge. “You don’t have to do this! Whatever he did-”

“He took everything from me,” Nicholas snarled, his eyes darkening as he drove deeper into the woods. “Everything I worked for. The fame, the fortune, my properties, my pride. And now? I’m taking something from him.”

In a desperate attempt to escape, you kicked at him, your fists pounding against his arm. He barely flinched, his focus unbreakable as he finally pulled up to a secluded cabin, hidden by towering trees and thick brush. You barely had time to scream before he leaned over, his hand covering your mouth.

“Quiet,” he hissed, his voice cold as he tightened his grip. “You’re going to make this harder on yourself sweetheart.”

With a swift motion, he hit a spot on the side of your head, and darkness began to cloud your vision. The last thing you saw before losing consciousness was his dark gaze.

When you woke, your hands were bound to a bed frame in a dimly lit room, and your head throbbed. The dim light filtered through the cracks in the cabin walls, casting eerie shadows. He was there, leaning against the doorframe, watching you with a look that was almost satisfied.

“Comfortable?” he asked mockingly, tilting his head.

You struggled against the ropes, glaring at him. “You’re fucking insane! My father won’t just let this slide!”

He laughed, the sound sharp and humorless. “Your father will do exactly what I want, or he’ll never see you again.”

As you struggled against the ropes, glaring at him. “My father won’t stand for this. He’ll ruin you,” you spat, words filled with venom. “You think your career’s over now? It’s nothing compared to what he’ll do when he finds out what you’ve done.”

His smirk faded, his gaze darkening. In a flash, he crossed the room, sending a chill through you. He leaned down, his face mere inches from yours as his hand struck yours with force, the impact whipping your head to the side.

“Careful with that fucking attitude,” he hissed, his voice low and dangerous. “If you want to get through this in one piece, you’d better be a good little girl and play along.” His mouth curled into a mocking smile as he added, “Maybe I’ll let you go if you can manage that.”

A spark of hope flickered across your burning face, but his mocking laugh snuffed it out. “Oh, don’t look so hopeful,” he sneered. “I own you now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be for you.”

The next few days, Nicholas seemed almost amused by your resistance, feeding off your energy as he reminded you just how little control you had. You played along in the way he wanted you to, letting him hold you close as he told you about the disgusting things he wanted to do to you and your father and whatever other sick games he had in mind. Whenever he would see you cry and resist him, your acrylics digging in his back and leaving welts, you noticed the prominent bulge it left in his pants.

One morning, he threw down a newspaper, its headline blaring the news of your disappearance and the national search underway. Your father’s influence had reached every corner of the country, and law enforcement was relentless. Nicholas caught your glance, raising an eyebrow with a smirk. “Guess Daddy dearest is worried,” he taunted, feigning innocence. “How touching.”

You burst into tears, unable to hold it in any longer, you missed your father and you wanted to be away from the psycho standing in front of you. He laughed in your face, slowly taking out his impressively long and hard cock, pumping it as you cried harder. Disgust filled you as you watched him moan the harder you cried. He was getting off to your pain and somehow—deep inside, watching him get off to you turned you on.

“Keep fucking crying sweetheart, you’re gonna make me cum so hard.” Disgusted, you turned your head away, refusing to look at the sight before you but he just chuckled. You opened your eyes feeling the bed dip and you looked up at him, seeing him with his cock above you.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he growled, his stroking become more frantic.

“You’re disgusting,” you spat. He stopped stroking his dick to slap you in the face with it, earning a soft whimper. Obeying him, you opened your mouth, squeezing your eyes shut at the man before you shoved his length into your mouth, thrusting, before he shot his load down your throat.

“Fucking hell, that’s a good fucking whore, take all my cum,” he groaned, grabbing a fistful of your curls and bucking his hips.

As soon as he let you go, your head snapped to the side, shame filling you.

Nicholas leaned in, his expression cold. “You’re mine now,” he said, his voice steady and unyielding. “You’ll make up for every single thing your father took from me. And once I’m done, once I’ve taken back what’s rightfully mine, he’ll be begging for my mercy.”

You glared back, forcing yourself to hold his gaze despite the fear tightening in your chest. “You’re delusional if you think you can control me or him,” you said, your voice shaking with defiance.

Nicholas laughed, unphased. “We’ll see. By the time I’m finished, you won’t even want to go back to that man.” He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “Because I’n going to break you like a bitch and you’ll be begging to stay with me.”

He watched your expression, almost amused, as you struggled to maintain your composure. “You’ve done well so far, taking my cock down your throat,” he continued, his tone dark but oddly approving. “Maybe it’s time I marked you as mine.”

You swallowed, your mind racing. No matter how much you fought, the lines between fear and something you didn’t want to admit were beginning to blur. He seemed to sense it, a satisfied smirk crossing his face as he leaned back, leaving you to confront the uncertainty.

A gasp left your lips as he gripped your throat, tearing your dress off you. He was a predator and you were his prey. His eyes scanned your almost bare body, licking his lips as you quivered in fear. If your hands weren’t bound to the bed you would’ve tried concealing yourself.

“Please stop,” you whimpered.

“Shut the fuck up,” he snapped, “don’t make me gag you, better yet I won’t, I want to hear you beg me to stop then I want to hear your little moans when you realize I’m making you feel good.”

Your lips quivered as you fought back tears, refusing to give him the satisfaction he wanted.

“Now, I’m going to untie you and you’re going to take off your underwear like a good little bitch. If you try anything stupid, I’ll fucking kill you, understood?” he said, reaching for your wrists.

Slowly, you nodded, the threat rising fear inside you but a sharp smack to the face jolted you. “I said do you fucking understand me?”

“Y-yes Nicholas.”

He untied your wrists, and you looked down to see them black and blue. Slowly, you carried out his request, only having to take off your underwear as you unfortunately went to the ‘date’ not wearing a bra.

“Now spread those legs.”

A soft whimper left your lips and you complied, knowing exactly what the psycho would do to you if you refused. “Good girl.” He reached for the bedside table, taking out a sharp knife from the drawer. “Now, once again, if you think of doing anything stupid, I’ll slit that pretty throat and still fuck it.”

He held the knife lightly against your throat, his fingers dipping between your legs as you trembled. “If you’re so fucking scared and I’m a psycho, why are you soaked? Why the fuck are you wet?”

Shame overtook you, and you squeezed your eyes shut, just wanting it all to be over. You thought about your father, your dead brother, anything to take your mind off what was about to happen.

“It’s gonna be okay princess, I’ll take good care of you if you take good care of me.” He knelt on the bed, making sure you were mouth level with his cock. “It’s time to take good care of me, open up that mouth and I swear to god if you use teeth, I’ll use the knife to knock out every last one of them.”

Reluctantly, you opened your mouth, and he slowly pushed his big cock into it. Your mouth was wide open and you were gagging on it, trying your best to breathe. He began snapping his hips forward, his cock continuously going down your throat and through it all, he kept the knife pressed against your throat.

“Fuck, you really have a mouth on you,” he chuckled, “you’re suck a good cock sleeve, I’m going to enjoy using you like the whore you are.”

His thrusts became rougher and you could hardly breathe and soon, he held you by your curls, pushing your head all the way down until your nose was on his pubes. “I’m gonna cum bitch, swallow my fucking load, don’t let it go to waste.”

You couldn’t even spit it out if you wanted to. He released down your throat, the action making you cough around his dick as he made sure to milk every drop inside your mouth. “You did so good for me baby, I know you’re enjoying this.”

You shivered as he used the cold handle of the knife, rubbing it up and down your folds. Shame bubbled inside you as you heard the unmistakable sound of squelching noises telling you exactly how soaked you were.

“What a disgusting slut, your pussy is practically gushing for me, are you seriously enjoying this?” You looked away embarrassed, heat rising in your cheeks.

A gasp left your lips as you felt the handle sink into your pussy. “Nicholas, please, no,” you begged, disgusted at the sight below you.

“What the fuck did I tell you? Shut the fuck up!” he screamed at you.

Your pussy clenched around the handle as he began fucking you with it faster, the pain soon subsiding and being replaced by pleasure. Trying to hold back your moans seemed futile as he began rubbing your clit and the handle hit a certain spot inside you.

“You’re getting off on this? Fuck, you’re much more of a whore than I thought. If you cum on the knife’s handle I’ll know for sure you were just asking for my cock, you’re fucking asking for it,” he chuckled, darkly.

Hearing his words, you pressed your lips together, containing your moans and trying your hardest not to cum. He only chuckled at your attempts, the handle speeding up inside you and the squelching noises becoming louder and louder. You wished you were deaf in that moment, at least you wouldn’t have to endure the shame of knowing being manhandled by your kidnapper was turning you on.

“Cum for me whore, I know you want to, you won’t be able to stop yourself forever.” Your body betrayed you and as soon as the words left his lips, you soaked his hand and the handle inside you.

“Oh my fucking god, you’re disgusting,” he laughed, looking down at his soaked hand, “did you really just squirt from me fucking you with a knife blade?”

It felt like your world was crumbling as he laughed mockingly and your pussy twitched, slowly gushing.

“Well then, that was easy, I think you’re ready for this big, fat cock to fuck that tight pussy.” He dragged you by your legs, pulling you flat on your back and rubbed the tip up and down your pussy.

“Nicholas, you don’t have to do this, my father will give you back everything he took, I promise. Y-you can let me go, please, I won’t tell.”

“Oh shut up,” he said, slapping you on the mouth, “you don’t get it do you? I own you now. You’re mine. He took everything away from me and I’ll take and use you instead.”

Not giving up, you tried to beg more, “Please don’t, I’m begging you.”

“If you didn’t want me to fuck you, you wouldn’t have squirted for me. You wouldn’t have been soaked like a whore from my touch. Surely you want this, surely your body knows you better than your dumb little brain does. Just lay there and take it, you’ll like it.”

Maybe he was right. If you didn’t want it, why else would you have been wet? Why did you cum? Your body would’ve refused him. Maybe this wasn’t so bad, maybe he just wanted to make you feel good like he did before.

A scream erupted as he pushed his thick cock inside you, giving you no time to adjust. “That’s it bitch, scream for me.”

Your gasps and screams grew louder as he began pounding into you, the bed frame smacking against the wall and your tits bouncing. He took up the knife and traced it along your jaw, admiring how you looked taking him. He brought it down to your tits, increasing his pace and making you moan and scream even louder for him. The intensity of it all was unbearable and you could already feel the impending orgasm.

“I need you to remember you’re nothing but a pussy for me to fuck, a cock slut. You feel so fucking good clenching around my dick.”

He began using the wet handle to rub your clit and you knew it was over for you. Gripping on to his toned biceps, your jaw fell open, loud moans leaving you as you came all over his raw cock inside you. Curse him for not at least using a condom.

“That’s it, let it all out, let out those slutty moans too. You should be a bitch in porn with the way you squirt and moan,” he laughed breathlessly.

He swiftly flipped you onto your back, but instead of pulling your ass up to him, he pressed a bit of his body weight onto you as you lay flat on the bed, slipping his cock inside your pussy once more.

“Spread your pussy for me,” he demanded.

He began pounding into you as you shamefully had your hands on your ass spreading yourself for him. “You should see just how wet you are, but I’m sure hearing it tells you all you need to know.”

You felt so full with him pressing down on you, thrusting roughly, having no regard for the mix of pain that accompanied the pleasure. But, deep down, you were enjoying it. You enjoyed the way he manhandled you, the way he spoke to you like you were nothing, the way he was fucking you like you were just a flesh light.

“Oh god your pussy is just sucking me in, clenching so tightly around me, cum for me again bitch.”

Unable to spread your pussy for him any longer, you gripped the sheets as you came hard around his cock. He continued fucking you through your high, making sure you felt everything. Making sure you knew who was fucking you and who gave you such an intense orgasm.

“My turn. I’m gonna cum inside you, breed this pussy. You’re gonna be all swollen and pregnant, then that baby is gonna be my lucky ticket to yours and your father’s fortune,” he laughed.

“Please, no, I can’t— I’m not on birth control,” you cried out.

“Oh fuck, do you feel my cock throbbing? That’s even better.”

Your protests proved futile and he filled you to the brim. The warm feeling of his load inside you making you moan in content.

“See? You’re just a slutty bitch who likes getting her pussy fucked. You know what else needs to be fucked? That tight little ass.”

Horror spread across your face. No one had ever fucked you in the ass before. He spat on your asshole then used your juices and his cum from your pussy to lubricate it, pushing it in with his fingers. You winced at the unusual intrusion. He continued fingering your ass, shoving the lubricants inside and prepping you for his cock.

“Couldn’t stop looking at that tight asshole when you were spreading for me. I just had to have it. You were practically begging for it.”

Maybe he was right, why else would you have spread yourself? Of course he would’ve seen your tight ass and wanted to fuck it too. How could you be so stupid?

“Get ready bitch.”

“Please—”

Your pleads fell on deaf ears and he pulled your ass up to him, pressing his hand into your back so you could arch for him. Slowly, his big cock began slipping inside your ass, inch by inch. He was more generous with it than your pussy.

“Fuck baby, this ass is so fucking tight, I know for goddamn sure I’m the first to fuck you in it.” He was right.

He began pounding harder as your ass opened up for him. You felt so full, you didn’t know you could feel more full until he pushed the handle of the knife into your pussy.

“Oh my god,” you moaned, the intensity making you see stars. All that was in your head was pleasure and cumming again.

“There she is, that’s my girl,” he beamed, “now bounce that ass back on my cock and this knife.”

Obeying immediately, you bounced your ass back. Your moans were so loud, the whole woods could probably hear. You didn’t care anymore. You couldn’t deny how good he was making you feel, how he was hitting all the right spots inside you. His thrusts met your ass and he rammed the handle inside your pussy over and over.

“Squirt for me baby, squirt and I’ll fill this ass up.”

You nodded frantically, still throwing your ass back to him and you screamed, your orgasm overtaking you like you’ve never felt before.

“Good girl, that’s my bitch, now beg, beg for me to cum inside your ass.”

“Please, fuck— please cum inside my ass, I need you to, please do it,” you begged.

He smirked, throwing the knife on the bed and slapping your ass as he groaned loudly, his load spurting in your ass. He held you in place and soon pulled out, watching as his cum leaked out of both your holes. He ruined you. You were his.

As he pulled out and fell beside you, you instinctively snuggled into his side, a million degrading thoughts running through your head.

[casualhedonists]

✩ it don’t need your loving, it just needs attention ✩ (chapter two)

pairing: Coriolanus Snow x reader

chapter: 2/?

MASTERLIST

warnings: NSFW (18+), snow being snow, themes of sex work (not the reader), cuckolding, eventual smut, fake relationship, unprotected sex, themes of voyeurism & mild exhibitionism, murder mention (but no actual murder) (not yet at least?), MAJOR manipulation/gross power dynamics + generally darkish themes, some power play, oral sex, thigh riding, eventual piv, i’m new to full on smut bear with me here (and pls tell me if i forgot anything!)

i do not give permission for my work to be reposted/translated anywhere, under any circumstances.

a/n: first off, THANK YOU for the love on chapter 1. wasn’t sure how I’d fare since I’ve done a lot of writing in my life but little to no smut. with that said! longer chapter incoming. also I just know he’d give insane head okay i just do,the guy looks like he fucks and he definitely does

You weren't sure exactly how you slipped away from Snow’s room that night, but you could somewhat piece it together in flashes. First a head rush, then the fire in the pit of your stomach practically having gasoline thrown on it.

You remembered a quiet gasp escaping your lips, then panic, a flash of white, and suddenly you were stumbling away, head spinning as you tried to catch your breath, pacing unevenly down the hallway, any chance of a stealthy escape long thrown out the window.

Back in your room, once the door was bolted and your back was against it, making sure nobody could get in if they tried, you had your first shot at clear-headedness since you’d heard heels scuffing the hardwood.

You’d soaked your panties through and were dripping down your thighs, but you’d be damned if you could get into the headspace to take care of it. Panic flooded your veins, ice-hot as you tried to catch your breath. you slid down the door and sat there, legs numb against the cold wooden planks.

Who was she? A million questions filled your head all at once. Was she from the Capitol? Could she be one of Snow’s friends, one of your friends? The thought made you sick. What if you’d dined with her before? Talked to her? How long had this been happening? Who knew about it? Were you being played?

Had he seen you watching him?

Unable to help yourself, your one-track mind took you back to the way he’d groaned your name, though you were half sure that had been a fever dream of some kind. Still, you kept replaying it. Over and over, like a broken record.

It didn’t make any sense, you were so fucking confused. All this time you’d been hoping he would make a move, you’d practically begged him to. Why hadn’t he? When you were clearly on his mind, and yet he made you believe he didn’t think of you that way at all. Was he just respecting your agreement?

You fiddled with the lace on the hem of your slip as you mulled it over. You stayed sat like this for almost an hour, trying unsuccessfully to wrap your head around it. When you ended up right back where you started, and you were sure enough time had passed that if someone was coming to get you, they would’ve already, you finally stood up. Your caution led you to drag a chair from across the room, propping it up by the door to jam the handle. That left you with the sliver of peace of mind you required to shower off this cold sweat you’d formed.

The next morning, you dreaded breakfast. But you knew you had to face him, as well as the fact that this could very well be your last meal. You should at least try to eat well.

You made your way downstairs, a few minutes later than usual, enough for Coriolanus to already be sipping coffee, a few pages through his newspaper. You’d not got fully dressed yet, not wanting the contrast to be too obvious, but you’d wrapped a silk dressing gown around you so you were a little more covered up. You knew one thing for certain, you wouldn’t be trying any more of your tricks until you knew just what you were dealing with.

He didn’t look over at you, which you took as a good sign. The urge to hide from him, from what you’d seen and what you now knew, overwhelmed you. You didn’t say a word, and picked silently at your breakfast, but despite your best efforts, not managing to keep more than a few bites down.

“You’re quiet today.” He muttered, and you started.

“Um.”

He lowered his paper.

“Something wrong?”

How about everything?

“Oh, no, I’m okay. Just uh…” you glanced up at him, and met his sharp gaze. Fuck. You’d hoped you’d go unnoticed. You felt like a deer in headlights, like he could read your mind.

“Well?” He prompted, gaze unwavering. You blinked.

“Headache.” You managed to breathe, faking a small, pitiful smile.

He brought his paper back up in front of him, crisply turning the page. You both thanked the new barrier between you for cutting off his stare, and resented it as you looked at the tiny printed words you couldn’t make out from where you were sitting.

“I’ll have Lucille bring you up something.”

“Thank you.” you said quickly, almost too quickly, and you feared he might lower his paper again to watch you as you stumbled over another excuse. But you fell lucky this time.

The week seemed to pass in a blur, Monday’s gala being one of the only times you really left your room when Snow was around, other than meal times, which you spent in a similar state as that first breakfast. You cursed yourself for throwing out your longer dresses, and settled for the least suggestive of them, the white one you’d been thinking of pitching to Snow as a backup plan in your panicked state outside his bedroom. That all felt worlds away now. What you’d seen had shifted the tides, marking a solid, definitive line in your head between the before and after.

The gala went as well as it could given the circumstances. You danced, Snow was charming to you in front of the guests, but held your gaze no longer than usual. It was simultaneously terrifying and thrilling to feel his hands on your waist, knowing what you knew. It felt like you’d been tapped with a cattle prod and had to hide it every time his hand brushed yours on top of the dinner table, as unsuspecting guests smiled at you, the happy couple.

If only they knew that in the same breath, you were scanning the crowd, wondering who the blonde could’ve been, how close she was to Snow, if at all, and hating the way every touch he placed on your hands and waist served as a reminder that he’d been touching her instead of you.

Your stupid brain had formed a highlight reel of what you’d witnessed behind Snow’s door, and it tortured you with every passing moment. To know he was thinking of you. To think that maybe, he wanted you there instead. It put a strange sense of possessive pride into you, that weaved between your jealousy. Because yes, you’d seen another girl on her knees with her mouth around him, but you hadn’t heard any name other than your own while it happened.

You carried this strange hope, dwindling to start off, and then building each day that you were left un-hanged and very much alive, slowly chipping away at your fear of the worst. And yet, you knew the game, unbeknownst to Snow, had been fundamentally changed. You’d stopped your antics altogether, now barely meeting his eye as you passed each other in the hallway, covering up more at breakfast, and only talking just enough to avoid another interrogation. Avoiding touch, and conversation, and all-around keeping yourself away from him.

You were quieter still at night in your room. After a few days, you’d finally felt safe enough to move the chair away and sleep with the door locked as you normally would. But while your games had stopped, your want for him had only been amplified. Fuelled by jealousy and frustration, you had to bite down on your hand so that not even the slightest noise made its way out as you pictured him, not as you used to in your fantasies, but as you’d seen him that night, undone with your name on his lips. It was much easier, in your head, to picture yourself as the one on your knees. Any other fantasy just failed to make the cut now you’d seen the real thing.

Thursday rolled around and you’d made a new habit of pacing the downstairs library when Coriolanus was out of the house. That way, if he got home and stepped inside, you could pretend to be lost in a book. But the hours seemed to stretch out and you became bored, and with no Snow in sight, you decided to head down to the servants’ quarters.

This wasn’t a common occurrence, but it wasn’t unheard of. You were known for your gentleness among the house staff, less harsh than Snow, but firm nonetheless. It had led you to a respectful friendliness with the maids and servants, and once every so often you’d check in on them.

Today’s objectives, however, were purely self-motivated. You found Lucille, who dressed you, at the kitchen table, chopping vegetables.

She stood upon seeing you, and curtseyed (Snow was rather old fashioned that way). You nodded, then took a seat at the foot of the table.

“Do you need any help with that?” You glanced at the cutting board.

Lucille’s eyes widened. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Ma’am.”

You laughed. Lucille chopped and diced, and you asked questions. At first, they were after her family, her brother was sick and despite your offers, she wouldn’t accept help. So instead you listened, and slowly but surely, your questions got a little more directed toward the object of your interest.

You were good at playing the long game, so you started by asking about the company he kept. What she thought of them, with the promise that it would stay between the two of you, cross your heart.

She wouldn’t say much but she knew a little more than you; Snow kept very similar company as you did, and rarely went out for social visits. Any trips were strictly work-related, and when you eased into the topic of his past, Lucille mentioned, in very polite terms, that he had left a small trail of women heartbroken after a short period of time. That not all of them had been pleasant, and that she was pleased you seemed to have a positive effect on him.

She knew about your arrangement, practically the whole staff did, but they were kept on a very tight leash and were thoroughly reminded to not say a word acknowledging it, not even to you. It was with a knowing glance that Lucille told you she was happy you’d stayed around.

You smiled. Knowing that was likely all you were going to get for now, you let her be. By then, it was late enough to have gone dark, and you headed up to bed.

You awoke to creaking outside your door, and the shadow of footsteps from underneath it. You’d been tossing and turning for the last - you checked your watch - two hours. Excellent. You rolled onto your back wondering who it was, and then you heard it again. At first you wondered if it was just a sleep-deprived hallucination, or a sense of deja-vu, but then you focused, and there it was. The sound of heels. Again.

You sat up in bed, pushing your hair out of your face. You were enraged the first time, but if this was becoming a Thursday night tradition, it would be a serious problem. You were tired, you reasoned, you could just try to go back to sleep. Ignore it. Not let him have this power over you, a power that he didn’t even know he had. All the more reason to ignore it, and make it tomorrow’s problem.

But you just couldn’t let sleeping dogs lie, no matter how hard you tried. Your mother used to say it was a problem, always sticking your nose in places it didn’t belong. But it had got you this far, hadn't it?

You knew you were going to follow her to Snow’s room again, it was just a matter of time. You had to at least pretend you had an ounce of self-control, whereas really your head was thrumming and you knew it would take getting hit by a high-speed train to send you back to sleep now.

So you held off. Five minutes passed. Then ten. You had to know, at least, what they were doing. Maybe you could get a look at her face, see who it was, and answer some of the questions you had.

So you went. With a purpose this time, knowing full well what and who you’d end up seeing, trying to take steady breaths and focus on your plan. Check who it was, then leave.

You’d never been that great at execution. Call it hedonism, call it a morbid fascination, or living vicariously, but when you walked up to the door - which was ajar again, strangely even more than last time, by at least an inch or two - you looked inside, and your feet planted. The last shred of your self-control allowed you to take in the room first, the desk and chair that was right within your sight, and as you tucked yourself into the room, half hidden behind the door, you finally looked back at the bed where you’d seen Snow with his blonde girl last time.

Neither of them were sitting now.

Thirty seconds ago, you would’ve believed the hottest thing you’d ever seen was what played out in this room last week. But that was before you saw Snow turned away from you, still fully dressed with his sleeves rolled up, stomach on the bed and face between the blonde’s thighs, eating her out like he was on death row and she was his last meal.

You’d gotten head before. You knew it felt good, but the boys you’d slept with before your arrangement with Snow were selfish and inattentive. They would try, but they were far more interested in getting their dicks wet than showing you a good time. But Snow - you’d never seen anything like it. You didn’t know it could feel that good, or at least, not as good as the blonde girl - who you noted in the back of your mind, wasn’t anyone you recognised - was making it look. Her hips were bucking so hard he was having to pin her down with both hands around her waist.

She was just moving so much, wriggling and crying out and gasping and - you didn’t think you’d ever truly known jealousy until that moment. You couldn’t look away, knees weak and hands shaking, letting yourself get sucked into this headspace again, losing all trace of rationality. You’d think she was playing it up for him, but you knew what that sounded like. You’d faked enough orgasms to know if she was, but this? This was real. As she got close, grinding into him, writhing, running a shaky hand through his hair then getting louder, you managed to snap out of your trance.

In a flash, you ran back down the hallway.

If you thought you were avoiding Snow before, this week was about to give you a run for your money. You took breakfast in your room, and kept only to the parts of the house you knew he never entered. You only touched yourself in the shower, silent cries washed away by the water and steam, paranoia backing you into a corner.

You feigned illness the one time Snow sent a maid to inquire after you. Nothing too major, but enough to put him off. When he left the house, you snuck into the library to smuggle books back to your room, a pile forming as you tried ceaselessly to distract yourself.

You wrote home, you studied art and history. You attempted a few terrible sketches. You tore apart your room, then put it back together.

Before you knew it, Thursday rolled around again. On longer days like this, when Snow had been away working for hours at a time, you’d doubled down on your efforts to get information, and after chipping away for just long enough, you finally managed to squeeze some tidbits out of Lucille. Namely that there was a certain gentleman’s club in the city that he used to frequent before his election as President. Snow’s old driver might know its name, she said.

“But that was long before he met you, ma’am, rest assured.” She added hurriedly.

“Of course. Thank you, Lucille. I think I’ve kept you for long enough. Goodnight.”

Snow had been gone for the whole day, and you weren’t sure if he’d come home yet, so as you headed up to your room, you quietly wandered a little further down the hallway, to check if there was any light beneath his door. There wasn’t. Good. You were glad he wouldn’t be continuing this routine of his. Maybe this Thursday night, you could sleep peacefully.

With a sigh, and mulling over what you’d learned today, you returned to your room, poured a drink, then collapsed into bed.

This night was as sleepless as the rest, and you’d been drifting - not uncomfortably - in and out. A storm was brewing outside, and the sounds of howling wind began to keep you alert. You rolled onto your back and stared at the ceiling, then glanced towards your door. Snow must’ve come home at some point, and very late at that, because dim lights had been turned on in the hallway. Paranoia crept into your mind, slowly poisoning your thoughts and turning you inside out.

It didn’t take long before the feeling pushed you to roll out of bed, slide on a dressing gown, and crack open your door. This time, you couldn’t hear footsteps, or anything that might arise suspicion. You closed the door again. Waited. Then looked around your room, at the messy sheets and the half finished glass of liquor on the nightstand. You rarely drank alone, but these past few weeks had been getting to you, fucking with your head. Coriolanus Snow had driven you to this.

The wind got louder, and you knew you were too wired to sleep, so you stood by your window and finished the glass.

You’d never been good with mysteries. You wanted to know everything, all the time. Know who had power over you, know precisely how to take it away. Know exactly what was happening around you at any given moment. But most of all, you didn’t like being played for a fool.

And sure, the ethics of it had never been discussed between the two of you. Your business was strictly professional, but when you weren’t allowed to sleep around, why could he?

In fact, how dare he?

You poured another glass, straight whiskey. Downed it, pacing your room, back and forth between the door and the window, running your fingers along the ridges of the crystal glass. You thought about him, comfortably in his room, not a care in the world.

How dare he.

You weren’t sure if it was the drink or the buildup of your situation that had your blood boiling, but it didn’t matter. You were incensed. His behaviour was an insult to your name, to your family’s name. Sure, this relationship was a sham, but all the more reason for him to act with basic fucking respect. Sleeping with - and very obviously, at that - a whore, who had a bad habit of leaving the door cracked open, was unacceptable.

You were running hot, and if you knew one thing for certain, it was that when Snow met with fire, he was going to melt. You’d make sure of it.

Your feet took you into the hallway, with the decidedness that this would be the last time.

You rushed down the corridor with a tightly bottled rage that was about to burst, words hot on your tongue and demanding to be spoken, until you turned the corner and saw Snow’s door half open. You stopped in your tracks. Reassessed, then stepped closer, slowly, steadily. Remembering what you were there for.

Then, as you got close enough to see inside - right there, without you even having to step past the threshold, were the two of them, lit by a table lamp, Snow sat on the desk chair as the girl rode him to high heaven, obscene noises getting louder. As you approached you saw Snow’s face again, eyes shut, breath laboured, and you couldn’t believe that anyone just walking by would be able to see this. They were fucking like animals, out in the open. You didn’t know how or why you drew closer still, closing in on them. The girl’s head was dropped down to his shoulder, back facing you, and couldn’t see you unless she turned, but Snow? He was practically facing the door, almost as if he’d been…

No. It couldn’t be. Could it?

But you didn’t have time to think it through, because Snow’s eyes blinked open, and you knew. He was looking right at you, blue eyes piercing into yours, sharp and dangerous like he was going in for the kill. You stood there, jaw dropped, unable to look away. In what world could you walk in on someone like this, and feel like they held all the cards, and you none? That was how he looked at you; like you’d been there watching the whole time, and this was all a show, playing out exactly as he’d planned it. Like somehow, despite all your best efforts, he’d landed on top.

It was like he read your mind, because he wet his lips, unblinking as the blonde writhed on his lap, and fucking smirked.

a/n: can’t wait for them to hate fuck after this (oh sorry forgot i’m the author for a sec) thanks for reading &lt;3

taglist: @superchatnoir07 @itsrainingreid @nycweb-slinger @lookclosernow @etfrin @resibunn @serving-targaryen-realness @harmfulb1tch @demonsnangels @superb-icarus @julesandro @gracieroxzy @slyhersophia @shadowsepiphany @ben-has-arrived @unclecrunkle @zerotwo-sciencequeen @itsleniiilosers @thesiriusmap @ooooglymoooogly @darkqweenn @going-through-shit @loverw1tch @stinkii-boii

if you’d like to be tagged, please leave a comment on the masterlist!! 💌

[ckret2]

Chapter 55 of human Bill Cipher finally having a little fun for the first time in over a month of captivity in the Mystery Shack:

Bill does his level best to teach Mabel everything he knows about everything as fast as possible (while Ford eavesdrops). In the process, he finally reveals something about his home dimension!

But not everything about his dimension.

"Did you have rainbows in Flatworld?" Mabel had started drawing her shapesona again at the bottom of a fresh piece of paper. The heart was holding out one hand with several strips of glue shooting in a beam out from the palm; Mabel started shaking glitter onto the glue strips to make them rainbow.

"Not natural ones."

"Awww!"

"We could make them with flashlights and prisms, though."

"That's something." Still, it wasn't as cool as a real rainbow. She started carefully drawing Bill floating above her shapesona. (She probably should have drawn him before she put down glitter. She had to push up her sleeve and lift her wrist to avoid smearing the glue.) "When's the first time you saw a real rainbow?"

Bill didn't answer.

Mabel glanced at him. He had a hard look in his eyes. "Bill?"

####

For the first time in his life, the triangle was up—up but not north—in space, in the third dimension, looking down but not south at the plane where he'd spent his entire existence. It shuddered and rippled and cracked, contracting, as the entire universe crunched together around him.

Great walls of pale blue flame half a googol light years wide erupted into third dimensional space, where stars were caught and crushed between the quickly collapsing cosmic tectonic plates. He hadn't known his flat universe had stars of its own.

His home world shattered and crumbled, shrapnel and rubble spraying out, stone instantly pulverized into dust. Distant oceans rode the waves of the convulsing universe, flinging billions of gallons of water into space in a fine thin spray, glittering in the sunlight.

As the triangle watched, a great flickering rainbow ring formed in front of the ejected ocean, like the hollow eye of a hostile god staring at him in judgment.

He stared back.

And he felt himself fill with more and more and more power.

####

"Bill?"

"Sorry, I was trying to remember!" Bill sat back, laced his hands behind his head, and shrugged, "It's not coming to me. But I'm sure it was after I took charge of Dimension Zero. From time to time planets with weather systems would fall in through a wormhole, I must've seen a rainbow on one of them!"

"Oh." The answer disappointed her, but she couldn't quite put her finger on why. She puzzled over it as she drew a fireball shape around Bill's hands in glue and shook on pale blue glitter.

Bill nodded at the page, "So what are we up to?"

"Fighting evil! With rainbow lasers and... whatever that magic fire thing you do is!"

"Hey, superheroes! Sounds fun. Who are we killing?"

"Superheroes don't kill people!"

"Fine. Who are we sending to the hospital with third degree burns?"

"I don't know, I haven't made up a villain yet." She almost asked Bill what kind of monsters existed in his world; but the question died in her throat. That might be too depressing a question. She added a heart-shaped glue outline around her shapesona and shook on a glitter rainbow, and set the picture aside to dry. She grabbed a fresh paper and tried to imagine what a two-dimensional butterfly would look like. Would it just have flat little stick wings since that was more aerodynamic? That sounded boring. She started drawing a two-dimensional squid instead.

Bill studied Mabel's latest finished work—the glitter-outlined heart, the glitter rainbow laser, the glitter fire, and the plain him. After a moment, he casually mentioned, "I used to wear body glitter."

She blinked at him. "What?"

"Earlier you asked me about glitter in my dimension," Bill said. "Body paint was makeup to us. I wore it when I went dancing."

"WHAT!"

"And I'd cut open glow sticks to paint my arms and legs!"

"What color glitter did you wear?!"

"Usually gold."

"What?! Bill!" Mabel laughed. "You're already yellow!"

"But I didn't glitter. That's important!"

"You're boring."

"Shut up! I was gorgeous and I knew it! Why mess with perfection?!" He gestured down at himself, perfection, as though he'd momentarily forgotten what body he was in. "Listen, club fashion gets repetitive. If you've seen one equilateral in cutesy primary color gradients, you've see 'em all. There's beauty in simplicity—not a lot of shapes can pull off a solid color with a little light highlighting and still look flashy!" He'd sat up straighter, chest puffed out proudly, as he talked about how pretty he thought he'd been. "Buuut sure, sometimes I highlighted my points for fun. And to keep from stabbing people—it's hard for other people to judge distances with strobe lights on."

"What colors."

"Usually red, blue, or purple. You know—nice contrasts with gold."

Mabel grabbed another paper and started drawing Bill dancing. He leaned closer, elbows on the table, watching with more interest now. Mabel asked, "You had clubs with strobe lights?"

"Of course we did, we aren't barbarians." Bill picked up yellow and black markers out of Mabel's supplies, leaned over to her drawing in progress, and started adding a decorative border around the nearest edge of the paper in dots and dashes.

"What kind of music did you listen to?"

"It was... It's closest to the music in— You've never been to that dimension. Well, it kind of sounds like... I'll never hit those notes with human vocal cords." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Hold on. Let me get Questiony's piano."

####

It turned out that Flatworld club music sounded kind of like a broken tornado siren.

"It doesn't sound very good on a human piano," Bill said, giving the electric piano balanced on his knees a disapproving look. "The intervals between notes are tuned wrong, it's about four octaves short, and it's missing that tympanic membrane shredding tremolo when the treble jumps."

Mabel regarded the piano with some dismay. "Do you know how to play anything else?"

Bill sighed.

He played "Don't Start Un-Believing" for her. He even did that cool thing where you drag a finger up half the keyboard at once.

####

By now, Bill seemed a lot happier to answer Mabel's questions about his world; but she quickly worked out which ones he'd actually give a direct answer. He was the most free with science-y questions, hit or miss on the fun cultural questions, and instantly evasive when asked about his own life or uncomfortable political issues.

When she asked if shapes and their houses just kinda floated unattached to anything because they didn't have a home planet, Bill said they did have a home planet—hundreds of miles below, marking south by its gravitational pull—and they lived in the sky in between their planet and its rings. When she asked what kind of clothing they wore, Bill said they usually didn't wear anything, unless it was for practical purposes (gloves for gardening; goggles for chemistry; elbow-, knee-, and corner-pads for spelunking), and when she asked about his top hat he said slyly, "You mean my telescope?" and gleefully refused to explain further.

But when she asked if it was true that equilateral triangles were the lowest rung you could stand on before getting knocked off the social ladder altogether, Bill said that was a pretty rude question to ask a triangle. And then he said his world didn't have ladders.

When he casually let slip that he'd been able to see the third dimension when nobody else could, she asked how that was possible. He'd paused, looked up from his seventh completely incomprehensible drawing of an animal (she'd asked him whether Flatworlders had pets), and, with an eager gleam in his eye, he asked, "How much time do you have?"

####

Ford heard Bill's voice the moment he opened the door—"All right, star girl, pop quiz, let's see how much of that you kept in your noggin."

"Oh, I'm so ready!"

Baffled, Ford leaned in the living room doorway. The room was absolutely plastered in crayon-covered papers—illustrations, lists, mathematical and scientific diagrams—stars, cells, planets, vehicles. At the moment Bill was pointing at six papers taped together with a diagram on them that Ford thought was a Punnett square that had been expanded into a four-dimensional tessaract. "A polygon's sides are determined by...?"

"Genetic inheritance!" Mabel announced, the proud student who knew all the answers. "You have however many sides your parents have genes for!"

"And the idea that polygons increase by one side each generation...?"

"Is propaganda! Because if everybody hides their kids without enough sides, and they only talk about the kids that did go up a side, it makes everyone think that's what always happens and their family is the only one that's failing!"

"Perfect! And the highest natural amount of sides a shape can have?"

"Twelve! Decadoggins!"

"Close enough, dodecagons! But this isn't Greek class, I'll give you full points. So, any shapes with more sides than that got them through—?"

"Random mutation!"

"Correctamundo! Meaning the only way to get shapes with hundreds of sides is..."

"Crazy bonkers inbreeding! Because the same rich families just keep marrying each other!"

"With consequences including—?"

"Um..." Mabel puffed out her cheeks as she thought. "Skeletons getting all crackly, having a hard time making babies, and high—uh—infant morality!"

"Mortality."

"Lots of dead babies."

"Yes! And remember: when a mutation makes a body produce so much more of something than it needs that it starts harming the body, that's called...?"

"Cancer!"

"Meaning circles are...?"

"Tumors!"

"And what do we do with tumors?"

"EXECUTE THEM!"

"YES!" Bill ripped the Punnett tesseract off the wall. Behind it was a piece of paper that read, in blood red crayon, ANTI-MONARCHIST ANARCISM. "You're ready to man the guillotines! A+, star girl! Give yourself another sticker!"

"Yes!" Mabel peeled a sparkly purple star off a sticker sheet and stuck it on her cheek. Her face had over twenty star stickers.

Ford leaned against the living room doorframe, watching the scene inside with wonder. He was more than a little iffy about the political lesson—he, personally, was incredibly opposed to the idea that it was morally imperative to execute anybody with extra body parts, nobility or not—but the presentation of it was certainly captivating. It had been a long time since Ford had seen Bill like this. (It had been a long time since Ford would have trusted any lesson out of Bill's mouth.)

"Now let's get back to biangles." Bill picked up a fake crystal ball that he'd drawn various lines and shapes on with a marker.

"Awww, again?!"

"Hey. Listen," he said firmly. "I believe in you. You'll get it this time, I know it."

Ford looked around the room, taking in the scene more fully. The floor was scattered with drawings of aliens. A few of them were various polygons—regular and irregular, with the irregularities further broken down by whether they otherwise showed radial or lateral symmetry—each with thin limbs and an eye on a corner. Most were fantastical alien animals, a few that Ford had seen or been warned about on other worlds. Some had been scribbled out and redrawn when Bill's limited artistic capabilities didn't live up to his unknown standards; a few were in Mabel's art style, meaning Bill must have described them to her while she drew.

Twenty pieces of paper had been taped together on the wall behind the TV, with a drawing of a planet surrounded by a circular ring of small blobs—a planetary ring?—and a moon further out. The empty atmosphere between the planet and the ring was filled with squares and rectangles, which were grouped together in red blobby circles that were each labeled by letter: "Country △," "Country B," "Country C," "Country D (communists)," etc. A badly-drawn sea serpent slithered along the outside of the ring with the words "Here There Be Monsters" written over it.

A tall column of taped together papers was covered in examples of alien writing systems—some of them Ford recognized from his travels through other dimensions. From the ones he understood, it looked like the words were demonstrations of Mabel's name in dozens of alien writing systems. Sometimes Bill spelled her name Maybell or Mabelle.

And there were so many papers scattered around the room with little graphs and symbols and arrows Ford couldn't make sense of. And in the center of it all, Bill, alive, energetic, his full attention enthusiastically focused on his student.

Bill had to be up to something; but Ford couldn't imagine what, based on the bizarre assemblage of information in front of him. What nefarious purpose could be behind showing Mabel how to spell her name in alien languages? Unless his goal was to so enchant her with tales of other worlds that he could persuade her to help him open a new portal...? No, even for Bill that felt like a stretch. 

He looked at the wall again. Surely, that wasn't Bill's homeworld. Ford had spent years of his life trying to find the world Bill was from; surely Bill hadn't just drawn it in the middle of Ford's living room. Had he?

"Okay, let's start with spherical geometry from the top," Bill said, polishing the crystal ball on his leggings to rub off the marker lines. "Don't tell anyone I can do this." He held up the ball, tapped it twice on the bottom, and it hovered in place when he let it go, freeing up both his hands to hold a ruler and marker. (How long had he been able to do that? Had he even noticed Ford was standing right outside?) He drew a line across the surface of the ball, "Pretend it's a planet. If you draw a line on a sphere, it's obviously curved, right?"

"Right," Mabel said.

"But now pretend you're on the planet. The surface of the world is a flat plane to you. From your perspective, you can walk in a straight line from point A to point B."

"But it's actually a curve. From space."

"Now you're catching on. That's what makes spherical geometry a little weird: when you're on the sphere you treat everything around you like it's 2D even though when you're off the sphere you can see it's 3D." Why in the world was Bill teaching Mabel about spherical geometry?

Bill drew two more lines to connect to the first. "So! You can draw a triangle on a sphere, no problem, right?"

"Right."

"And something you can only do in spherical geometry... is... pretend this is the North Pole and the South Pole..." Bill carefully rotated the ball under his marker as he drew a straight line from one "pole" to the other, and then drew a second straight line from pole to pole next to it. "Ta-da! If a tri-angle has three angles, a bi-angle has two angles. You've got yourself a two-sided polygon. Right?"

Mabel hesitated. "Right."

"You with me so far, Shooting Star?"

"So far," she said, with a tone that suggested she expected that to change very soon.

"But if you try to transfer that shape from spherical geometry to Euclidean geometry—" Bill turned to an expanse of still partially-uncovered white papers taped to the wall like a makeshift whiteboard, drew two points, and drew two straight lines, red and blue, between the points, "—it just doesn't work. You can't see a biangle in a flat world."

And now Mabel was squinting suspiciously at him.

Bill said, "I lost you."

"But where does it go!"

Bill shrugged. "You lost it when you lost the third dimension."

"But you said when you're on the sphere it's two dimensional!"

"From your perspective it's two dimensional, but there's still a third dimension enabling the sphere to exist."

"Then from my perspective when I'm on the planet shouldn't a biangle look like that?" Mabel pointed at the two straight lines on the piece of paper. "Since everything looks all 2D to me? But it doesn't! It's like flying from the North Pole to the South Pole through America and then flying back through China! China and America don't just squish together into the same place just because you're going in a straight line on a sphere!"

"I'd kill to hear you give a geography lesson to a Flat Earther convention."

Mabel gave him her best angry scowl.

"It was a compliment! I think you'd inspire some hilarious arguments, that's all!" Bill put two dots on the paper and offered Mabel the marker. "Look, try it for yourself! Draw a biangle."

Mabel took the marker and, after a moment of thought, drew two curved lines between the points, making a football shape.

"Those aren't straight lines, kid."

"Argh!" Mabel pulled the paper off the wallpaper, bent it into a curve, and shakily drew a straight line between the two points; but no matter how else she twisted or bent the paper, she couldn't find a path that would let her draw a second straight line between the points without overlapping the first line she'd drawn. She crumpled the paper, tossed it on the floor, and whispered, "It's witchcraft, Bill."

He burst out laughing. "I could name a few horror writers that felt the same way about non-Euclidean geometry."

"But whyyy does the biangle disappear when it goes from a sphere to normal flat paper."

"Because..." Bill groped for an explanation he hadn't already tried. He crossed an arm across his chest and tapped a knuckle just under the bow tied in his hoodie's draw strings the way some humans might tap a hand to their chin, his eyes narrowed in thought. How many times had Ford seen him make that exact same face in his true triangular form, whenever Ford was struggling to understand a lesson on portal physics and Bill was struggling to find a way to translate it into concepts Ford had encountered in his human education? "Let's try this another way."

The scene made Ford ache.

Look past the paper and the crayons, and the graph- and figure- and writing-covered walls looked so much like the advanced physics lessons and blueprints that Bill had coated Ford's starry blue dreamscape in during his sleep. Look past the flesh and bone, and Bill moved and gestured and spoke the way he had when he was teaching Ford how to build a bridge between worlds.

It was the first time since Bill's death that Ford had seen 100% of his personality shining—unhindered by grief, secrets, or a disdainful human audience. It was the first time in decades that Ford had seen Bill at his best.

In that moment, for a split second, Ford forgot how to hate Bill. He couldn't see Bill the traitor, Bill the invader, Bill the homicidal party animal. The only person in that room with Mabel was Bill Cipher the Teacher, Mentor, and Muse that Ford used to know so long ago. Like an ancient god who'd chosen to spend a day roleplaying as a giddy professor—Bill was holding back a tsunami's worth of vast, ancient, unintelligible alien knowledge so that he could drip out revelations at a faucet's pace, slow enough for his student to catch each drop in her hands.

Over thirty years ago, there had been moments when this Bill peeked out behind the above-it-all façade—and that had been the Bill that Ford was happiest to see, the Bill that Ford had thought of as a friend rather than a mere teacher... but each time, it hadn't been long before Bill seemly caught himself and turned off the faucet for the night.

Because he couldn't let Ford learn too much, or he would have seen through Bill's ruse.

Hatred tiredly crept back in.

"I've got it!" Mabel triumphantly flung her hands in the air. "It's like orange slices!"

"Orange slices?" Bill repeated.

"Be right back!" Mabel zoomed to the kitchen, shouting, "Hi Grunkle Ford!" as she passed.

Ford watched her go, then looked back at Bill; Bill had glanced at him for the first time. But all he did was frown and mutter, "I don't remember inviting you to audit this course."

Before Ford could decide whether to retort, Mabel charged back into the living room with an orange and a sharp knife. "Okay! If you draw a triangle on the orange," Mabel said, doing so with a marker, before cutting into it with the knife, "and then you—you cut it out all the way to the center..."

"Be careful with that," Ford said. Mabel was holding the orange in one palm and stabbing into it from the opposite side.

Bill said, "Lay off, Six Fingers. I'm keeping my eye on her, she's not gonna hurt herself."

"I'm being careful!" Mabel was struggling to get an even wedge cut all the way to the center of the orange; she eventually gave up and  dug into the orange with her fingertips to tug out a messy mangled handful of fruit, attached to a roughly equilateral patch of orange peel about two inches to each side. She shook orange juice off her fingers. "Pretend I cut that out better."

"I dunno what you're talking about," Bill said. "It looks flawless."

She pointed at each corner of the peel triangle. "Okay so, these are the three corners of the spherical triangle, right?"

"Right."

"And if you want to make a regular flat triangle, you can... try to cut a straight line between the corners, like..." She squeezed the rest of the orange between her knees, held the edges of the triangular peel with her fingertips, and sawed off the orange pulp underneath, trying to cut a flat level plane as near to the triangle's corners as she could. Ford almost warned Mabel about the knife again, but glanced at Bill's face and his expression of unworried, keen curiosity, and kept quiet. Bill reached out and caught the sawed-off chunk of orange pulp before it hit the ground.

Mabel held out the peel slice. "There! Right? Spherical triangle on top and flat triangle on the bottom!"

Bill considered that, one hand on his hip. He popped the orange chunk in his mouth. "All right. So far so good."

"But if you make a biangle..." Mabel drew two lines between the top and bottom of the remaining orange, and cut a wedge free. "There isn't anything extra to cut off to let you make a flat shape. There's just a straight line between the two points!"

"Ha! Okay, all right, that works! Brilliant! What do you need me for? You just taught yourself the whole lesson!" Bill ruffled her hair so enthusiastically that he knocked her headband askew.

She shoved him away, laughing, and straightened out her headband. "Bill!"

"What did I say! Didn't I tell you you'd get it?" Bill was beaming at her, impressed, delighted, proud. "Congratulations, you've just mastered college-level geometry."

"Wh—What? Are you serious? This is college stuff?" She shook her head. "No way, you're lying."

Bill pointed at Ford without looking at him. "Tell her."

He felt a little like a dog being commanded to bark; but he said, "He's right. I didn't start studying spherical geometry until my second semester in college." He was sure he could have studied it sooner, if his high school had offered it; and he doubted Mabel had absorbed an entire semester's worth of spherical geometry; but he didn't see any reason to point any of that out when Mabel's face lit up in excitement.

Bill said, "There you have it! Way to go, star girl! Two big stickers."

"YES!" Mabel peeled off two jumbo-sized star stickers with smiley faces and stuck them onto her earrings. "So does that make a biangle a girl or a boy?"

And Ford was immediately lost again.

"No," Bill said.

Mabel sighed loudly and tried again. "Does that make a biangle a line or a polygon?"

"Still no, but for a different reason. Externally, they look like lines to anyone who isn't psychic. Internally, their anatomy usually functions like a polygon's. But socially, you've gotta ask. Some of 'em consider themselves lines, some polygons, some claim biangularity is neither linear nor polygonal. Personally, I say they're whatever they say they are. Because," he said grandly, "I'm just that open-minded and accepting."

Ford stifled a derisive snort. But Bill's self-aggrandizing aside, Ford's mind was reeling trying to keep up—spherical geometry, the (gendered?) socialization of shapes, Flatworlder anatomy—what did psychics have to do with anything? Ford's fingers itched for a pen. He wished he had his journal with him.

Bill grabbed several papers off the floor and the floating crystal ball and climbed on top of the wooden TV cabinet. He left the ball hovering behind him seven feet up in the air, tossed aside several papers he'd already used both sides of to let them flutter back to the floor, and taped the rest to the wall with their blank backsides turned out. "Now back to remote viewing." He drew a grid in blue lines on the papers, said, "Toss me that triangle wedge," used a marker to draw an eye on the triangular orange peel, tapped it twice like he had the crystal ball, and stuck it against the grid, where it sat unmoving.

And the entire time, Ford watched with his arms crossed tightly.

Almost a month ago, Bill had given Ford his manipulative trap of a birthday gift, a miniature grimoire, five pieces of paper, margins filled, two rows of text per line, packed with as diverse an array of magical spells and occult knowledge as Bill could fit. It wasn't a gift, it was a boast and a taunt: look at everything I know that you don't; look at what I could teach you if you let me live. 

It was something Bill could have given him all along—effortlessly, with no cost to himself—but didn't, until Bill wanted something from him. 

On his birthday, Ford had wondered, furiously: when this was what Bill could have been—gift-giver, wish-granter, teacher, guide, friend—why did he choose not to be?! It was an internal scream of rage, the howl of a wounded victim at the condemned criminal as he was marched to the gallows: you monster, you monster, you monster, when it would have been so easy for you to be something better, why instead are you a liar, manipulator, torturer, murderer, life-ruiner, world-ender? Answer for yourself: why are you this instead of someone better? How dare you?

It had made Ford want him dead even more.

This was the exact opposite of the grimoire.

The question in Ford's head wasn't a scream of rage anymore. It was grief. It was a plea. It was one last desperate attempt to understand:

Instead of being who he was, why couldn't Bill have been this person? This charismatic, energetic, ecstatic muse who ruled like a king over a classroom he'd constructed himself, eager to share a trillion years of collected wisdom with a fragile mortal mind, lighting up with joy whenever she grasped something that was trivially simple to him? This guide to the vast wonders beyond Earth, competent and encouraging and funny, delighting in the weirdness of the wide wide universe? The Bill that Ford had once liked so much—the Bill that he'd called his friend?

"Okay," Bill said, all sunshine and excitement, "Back to how to view the third dimension from the second dimension—"

Mabel said, "Can you view the fourth dimension from the third?"

Bill hesitated a split second, but said, "Sure! You can view any dimension from any dimension! You've just gotta bend your eye the right way to see higher ones!"

"What does the fourth dimension look like?"

"Well—hm. Imagine the way that the third dimension looks different from the second, and that's the way the fourth dimension looks different from the third."

Mabel stared at Bill.

"Eddie wrote an entire book about a square meeting a sphere because that was the closest he could get to telling other humans what seeing the fourth dimension is like! If I could still visit dreams, I could just show you, but..."

"Isn't the fourth dimension time? Blendo showed us the time stream! Is that what it looks like?"

"Nnn—close! You're close. The fourth dimension isn't time, but time is in the fourth dimension."

"How's that different."

Bill pointed at the floor. "If the carpet's the second dimension and the lamp's shining on it, the third dimension isn't light, but light is in the third dimension."

"Ohhh." Mabel gasped. "That's why you called some weird thing flying around in a higher dimension an eclipse! Because eclipses were in a higher dimension in Flatworld!"

Bill's face lit up in surprised delight. "All right, skip three lessons ahead, why don't you! In a week's time you'll be teaching people how my dimension works." He turned back to his papers and started drawing a branching river. "So! That time stream you saw isn't time itself! It's a visual metaphor being generated so humans can see time too—sort of a hologram projecting from the fourth dimension into the third—have I explained that the universe is a hologram yet—"

Why weren't you this person, Ford wondered. Why did you choose not to be this person? When it was so easy for you to be this? When this made you happy, too?

Why couldn't you have been this person?

Why are you only like this now, when you're about to die?

####

(Hope y'all enjoyed Infodump: The Chapter. This is one of those chapters with something hidden in it that'll unravel the whole fic if you happen to find it, so have fun searching for that. Let me know what you thought of this week's chapter! And get excited—we've got Big Things coming up... soon.)

[nanamis-baker]

"Let me have my fill, Sweetheart"

Summary: Gojo wants to have his fill of you before leaving.

Content: Smut (Rough+ choking), some fluff, different positions, different locations.

WC: 6.3k (and only around 6k is pure smut lol)

The gentle clinks of dishes echoed in the quiet space. Satoru stood at the sink, his silhouette bathed in the soft, golden light of the overhead fixtures. The air carries the faint scent of lemon-scented dish soap as he carefully washed and dried the last of the plates, the soft glow casting a halo around his figure.

A smile graced your lips as you watched him, clad in his off-white t-shirt that hugged his broad frame perfectly, the way his sweatpants sat low on his waist. His hair, usually tamed by the blindfold, cascaded freely across his forehead, inviting you to run your fingers through it, gripping the soft strands.

Drawn to him like a moth to a flame, you crossed the kitchen to envelop him in your embrace, relishing the warmth of his body against yours. Your lips pressed against his t-shirt-covered shoulder blade, planting a soft kiss.

“When is your flight again?” you inquired softly. Satoru paused for a moment before responding.

“Around 4:30 in the morning,” he replied.

You nodded against his back as your hands roamed up and down his toned chest, teasing him slightly, relishing the feel of his muscles under your touch “So only a few hours, huh?” you sighed.

Finally done with the dishes, he turned to face you. Your chin rested on his chest as his arms wrapped around you, his touch firm yet gentle as he flattened his hands on your lower back, pulling you closer, his body pressing against yours. His cool knuckles brushed a stray hair from your cheek, tucking it behind your ear, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Gotta make the best use of these hours, right?” Satoru asked, his voice low as his lips lingered near the shell of your ears.

Without wasting a moment, his lips moved to your shoulder, pushing aside the fabric of your shirt to reveal a sliver of soft skin. He placed a gentle kiss there, a slow, deliberate press of his lips that sent a spark through your body. He made his way towards your neck, his warm breath tickling your skin as he trailed kisses up to the sensitive area behind your ear.

"Tell me, love," he began, his voice low and husky, "why do you look so guilty?" He asked, as his lips grazed the soft skin under your ear.

You hummed, “I had the last piece of the brownie- although I didn't realise it was the last one” you admitted.

Satoru tsked playfully, pulling away a little to look into your eyes, the heat in them mirroring yours. He found that spot again under your ear, sucking it, as his teeth grazed your skin, causing you to moan softly. His strong hand moved up and down your back, keeping you anchored to him.

"I was really looking forward to something sweet before flying away," he murmured, his voice brushing against your ear like a secret. "Now, what should we do about that, huh?" The rumble in his voice ignited a fire of desire that burned hotter with each passing moment.

His hands moved away from your back, slowly trailing down your sides before dipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His thumbs traced circles just above the waistband of your shorts, the touch a delicious reminder of his power over your senses.

Your eyes fluttered shut for a moment, giving him the satisfaction he craved. A lazy smirk stretched across his lips as his hands trailed up higher, brushing against your ribs just under the swell of your chest.

He leaned in as his lips brushed against yours with a teasing lightness, leaving you breathless and yearning for more. His hands were under your shirt, strong and sure as they skimmed over your stomach and back.

“You are such a tease” you murmured as you reached up, your fingers tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, brushing against his undercut as you trailed kisses up his jaw and behind his ear, reaching for that spot that always drove him crazy. A sharp breath hitched in his throat, and you smiled against his neck, knowing you'd found your target.

Satoru's thumb hooked into the fabric of your shorts, giving a gentle tug, silently seeking your consent.

You smiled up at him as one of your hands left its place on Satoru’s nape, finding his hand under your t-shirt and giving it a reassuring squeeze.

He didn’t need to know anything else. Satoru knelt before you, his movements deliberate as he slid your shorts off your legs.

The tips of his fingers traced a feather-light path from your ankles, calves, the underside of your knee, and over your thighs. His touch was an urgent whisper, sending shivers down your spine with every caress. “God, you are so perfect,” he said, his voice a rough whisper.

His soft lips followed the same path, trailing kisses up your legs, each one a slow, deliberate tease. His lips reached your thigh, nibbling, planting hot kissing, as he made it to your inner thigh. He lingered there, the heat of breath a tantalizing promise against your core. You arched your back unconsciously, pushing into him, yearning for more.

So close. He was so close to where you wanted him.

His eyes, dark with desire, locked on yours. A slow smirk spread across his lips, and he leaned back, leaving you breathless and yearning.

A strangled cry caught in your throat. So close. Why was he stopping now? Your hand fisted in his hair, a silent plea for him to continue, but in one, swift movement, he was back on his feet, standing in front of your breathless form, smirking.

“Satoru don’t-” you started, but before you could finish Satoru leaned forward, lips crashing for a searing kiss that stole your breath away.

He cupped your face, his thumb brushing against your cheek. His touch was demanding, causing you to moan. Satoru placed his other hand on the nape of your neck, tilting your head up.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, the texture soft, like water flowing between your fingertips. Your other hand slipped under his thin t-shirt, fingertips grazing the warm skin of his back, pulling him in, and causing him to groan.

His grip on your neck tightened slightly, sending a thrill through you.

Your back brushed against the kitchen counter, the cold marble so different from the heat of Satoru’s body. The world seemed to fade away, everything reduced to the desperate press of his lips and the frantic beat of your heart.

Satoru’s body pressed against yours, urging you to sit on the counter, but you had different plans.

He blinked, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as you broke this kiss. “What are you doing, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice breathless.

Ignoring his question for a moment, you dropped to your knees in front of him. You met his lustful gaze, a challenge glinting in your eyes, as you made your intention clear.

You held his gaze as your hands skimmed up his thighs, your fingertips exploring the firm muscles beneath his sweatpants. You didn't waste time with teasing - After all, you didn’t have Satoru’s patience.

Instead, your hands dipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, and with a single, swift motion, you tugged the garment down, leaving it pooling around his lower thighs. “I just want a taste,” you said, your voice needy.

The muscles in his legs tensed beneath your touch. He met your gaze, desire burning in his eyes. “A taste, huh?” he said, his voice a rough rasp. “Go ahead then, love.”

Your eyes returned to his still-clothed cock, straining against his boxers.

You did not have the same patience as him, but that didn't mean you could resist teasing him. You gently grabbed him through his boxers, teasing him as you placed a kiss on his clothed head. Satoru gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, his cheeks flushing pink as he looked down at you.

"Don't tease, baby," he said, his voice carrying a rumble that made you smirk.

Your fingers trailed down his length, the cotton of his boxers clinging tightly to it. Each stroke sent a jolt through him, a hiss escaping his lips as you lingered near the sensitive spot near his head, the fabric providing delicious friction. “Keep doing that and I’ll edge you till you are crying, love,” the warning was clear in his voice.

At last, you decided to put him out of his misery. With a slow, deliberate movement, you pulled down his boxers, revealing his cock, which now rested against his lower stomach. A gasp escaped his lips as the cool air hit his sensitive skin.

Your hands roamed up his thighs, fingers brushing against his balls, causing him to shudder. Finally, you wrapped your hand around his cock, guiding him into your waiting mouth, while the other hand rested on his thigh for some semblance of control.

With every movement, you try and take more of him into your mouth, coating him with your saliva, your hands stroking what you can’t fit… yet.

“Fuck, your mouth feels so good” Satoru breathed out.

Unable you respond, you hummed around him, causing a shiver to rack down his body. His slender fingers grazed through your hair, the touch lingering for a moment before dipping down to the nape of your neck. His grip tightened, sending a wave of anticipation through you.

Satoru moaned as you continued taking him in. Finally, after some time, you managed to bottom out, your nose pressing against his pelvis.

“Fuck. You’re doing so good, love, taking me all in,” he encouraged. A mixture of spit and his pre-cum coated your lips, trickling down your chin.

You started to move your head back and forth, your tongue teasing the slit of his head, tracing the veins of his cock. Satoru shuddered whenever your tongue brushed his sensitive head, a hiss leaving his lips.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze that was already fixed on you. Strands of his hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. A flush bloomed across his cheeks and spread down his neck, mirroring the warmth that bloomed in your own chest. His pupils were dilated, his eyes bright, glittering with pleasure that mirrored the delicious ache building in your body.

You could barely breathe, but seeing him like this was totally worth it.

Satoru's hand cupped your cheek, his thumb tracing a gentle circle over your cheekbone, “Breathe through your nose, love,” he said, though he sounded breathless himself, “Although you look so pretty, choking on my cock like that.”

His words caused you to moan as you moved your head faster, savouring him - the taste, the texture, everything that he had to offer. Satoru threw his head back in a gasp of pleasure, a guttural sound escaping his lips as he felt your teeth lightly scrape his length.

His chest heaved with each breath, the muscles straining with visible effort. Groans ripped from his throat, growing louder and more desperate with every passing second. You could tell he was getting closer.

You gasped around his cock as his grip on your hair tightened, a sharp tug pulling your head back, locking it in place.

Satoru started moving his hips, fucking your mouth, each thrust deeper and more hurried than the last one. Your hand gripped his thighs for support as he thrust into you, testing your limit.

He was so close. You could tell by his ragged breaths, his hurried pace, and the way he pulsed over your tongue. But, just as he was about to cum, his fingers twisted in your hair, pulling you away, leaving his cock coated in your saliva.

Confused, you looked up at him, but he just offered you a lazy smirk, “Not now, love. Got a big night planned ahead of us.”

He grabbed your hand, pulling you up, pinning you between his body and the counter before his lips found yours. His hands slipped under the hem of your t-shirt. His thumb circled your nipples, driving you crazy but never giving you what you wanted.

He grabbed your ass and lifted you onto the counter effortlessly, causing you to lean back on your arms for support. His lips sucked the skin on your jaw and neck gently, drawing soft gasps from you.

He was taking his sweet time, determined to make this last.

You clenched your thighs together, needing some friction, but Satoru’s knees parted your legs as he settled between them. A frustrated groan left your throat, causing him to smirk.

That fucker was enjoying this.

Finally, he removed your t-shirt, lifting it over your head before tossing it somewhere. The cold air of the kitchen enveloped your skin, giving rise to goosebumps all over your body.

Satoru took a step back. His eyes were dark with desire as his gaze boldly swept over you. Admiration clouded his eyes as he took you in - The goosebumps on your skin and the flush of your face - all enough to drive him wild.

Satoru reached for your exposed collarbone, measuring its length with his lips. He moved down, his lips tracing a searing path down your body, while his featherlight fingers roamed all over you, causing you to shudder.

His hot breath danced against your skin, so different from the cool air that surrounded you.

After what felt like a lifetime, he made his way towards your lower stomach, sucking and biting, leaving his mark. You arched your back, desperate for more, but Satoru paid it no mind.

His lips brushed against the waistband of your underwear, “You look so good in them…” he began hoarsely, “but unfortunately, they are in my way,” he finished, tearing off your underwear.

He sucked hard on your inner thighs, biting them, making you squirm before his finger finally reached where you had been aching for them.

Without a warning, he pushed two fingers inside you, your wetness coating them immediately. “God, you’re soaked,” he rumbled against your skin as his thumb teased your clit, drawing a gasp from you. Oh, the effect this man had on you.

For a moment, Satoru just watched you, his eyes savouring your reactions before his lips latched onto your clit, causing you to moan loudly.

One of his hands pumped into you, while his other hand flattened against your lower back, pushing you into his eager mouth and locking you in.

Your hand reached for his hair, tugging and pulling, as his fingers and tongue worked into you. Your other hand desperately gripped the counter, as loud moans left your lips.

Satoru withdrew his finger, only to replace it with his tongue before you could even process the loss of touch. His thumb drew tight circles over your clit, his tongue curling inside you, reaching all the right spots as you groaned, your back arching almost painfully.

You could feel your orgasm building as Satoru continued like a man starved, his fingers replacing his tongue, “Just like that, love, cum in my mouth.”

His words pushed you over the edge, and Satoru’s fingers continued to pump into you, drawing out your orgasm.

You slumped against the counter, breathing hard, but Satoru’s fingers did not stop even after your orgasm. In fact, they were pumping into you faster than before.

“Toru, it’s too m-much,” you moan out as you reach down to push him away, but his hand just grabs your hand. His fingers intervened with yours, almost tenderly, as he pinned your hand to your side, his hold strong.

Despite your words, you found yourself wanting more- more of his touch, his mouth, whatever he offered. Breathless whimpers escaped your lips as he added a third finger, stretching you out, pushing you towards the edge, your orgasm building rapidly.

Your eyes closed as you were ready to fall over the edge, but Satoru’s fingers spotted abruptly, causing you to cry out. His fingers left your core as he stood up, his lips and chin glistering under the soft glow of kitchen lights, “Patience, love,” he said, offering you a lazy smile as he reached for the hem of his t-shirt, pulling it over his head, revealing his toned, muscular chest.

In the same breath, he removed his sweats and boxers, stepping out of them to stand in front of you. Satoru’s skin was almost translucent, with a map of veins running all over his body.

You wanted to trace them with your eyes, your fingers, and your lips like you had done so many times in the past, but before you could do any of those things, Satoru grabbed your waist, pulling you off the counter and spinning you, so your back was pressed against his chest.

One of his hands wrapped around your waist, pulling you against his hard chest, while his other hand reached up, teasing and rolling your nipple in between his thumb and fingers. You gasped as you felt his breath against your ear, and you could almost feel him smile at your reaction.

He slowly pushed you down, bending you over the counter till you were pressed against the marble, sandwiched between Satoru’s heat and the cold of the counter - a heady combination.

His fingers, rough against your skin, slowly traced lazy patterns along your neck and shoulder, moving your hair aside, deliberately exposing that sensitive area to his touch.

His kisses started tender, feather-light explorations that left your skin tingling. Then, they turned harder, nips and sucks that sent desire coursing through you. He trailed a hot path down your spine, his lips lingering on the small of your back before continuing their descent. Soft moans escaped your lips as goosebumps erupted across your skin due to his touch.

You felt his erection brush against your skin, causing you to groan in frustration, “Satoru, just fuck me already.”

He chuckled. That bastard chuckled.

Frustrated, you pushed yourself up from the counter, your palms flat against the hard material, but before you could fully rise, Satoru’s hands reached for your wrists, grabbing them and pinning them against the small of your back, his large hand holding them in place.

His other hand grabbed a fistful of your hair, softly pushing your face down towards the cool counter, trapping you beneath him as he finally, finally pushed himself into you in one go. A strangled cry escaped your lips when he did not stop, pushing until he was completely inside you.

“Fuck, you feel so good” Satoru breathed out as he began thrusting into you. He started slow, going in and out of you lazily, drawing out moans from your lips.

It wasn’t long before he picked up the pace, pounding into you, as choked gasps left your throat. You could not move, trapped between Satoru and the counter, his hands pinning you into place. You couldn’t do anything but take his cock.

And you wouldn’t trade this for anything else.

His pace changed. He pulled out of you almost all the way out, before trusting into you again, making you gasp from the force.

His grip around your wrist tightened, and the hand that was holding your head down moved in front of you, cupping your jaw as he lifted your head, his lips hot against your ear, “enjoying this, huh?” he gritted out, “tell me how much you like it when I pound into you, love”

His hand moved to your throat, gripping slightly. “A lot, Satoru” you gasped out, “Don’t stop, please”

“Oh, I am not planning to” a hard thrust, deep inside you, “Not anytime soon”

You could feel your orgasm building, and you were sure Satoru could feel it too, as his pace quickened. His thrusts were getting sloppy - he was close too.

You came, your knees bucking as loud moans left your mouth, but Satoru’s hold kept you from falling. Soon, he followed, hissing and groaning as he came, his thrusts turning deep and slow, burying his cum deep inside you.

Satoru released his hold on you, and the two of you collapsed against the marble, the coolness a welcome relief from your heated skin. His finger reached up, tenderly brushing away the hair that was sticking to your face.

You met his gaze, the intensity still lingered, but it was the hint of tenderness that sent a warmth blooming in your chest. His eyes looked so bright, despite the desire swimming in them. Damp strands of hair clung to his forehead, framing a face flushed. You reached out, a soft touch brushing against his cheek, mirroring his caress, causing him to smile.

God, he wasn't just beautiful - he was captivating - a pleasant sight for sore eyes.

You smiled back at him, but just then you felt him move as he picked you up. Wetness, a mix of his cum and yours trickled down your inner thigh.

“What are you…” You began, as Satoru carried you towards the bedroom.

"You thought we were done?" he chuckled, a playful smirk on his lips. He dipped his head, his breath warm against your ear. "I will be gone for a week- maybe more, let me have my fill, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice sending a fresh wave of desire through you.

Satoru dropped you on the bed, and without missing a beat, he was on top of you. His body rested on his elbow as he covered your body partially with his. The muscle of his arm flexed under his weight, his other hand brushing against your cheeks.

You brushed his hair away from his eyes, And Satoru held your hand, kissing your knuckles, his eyes closing briefly. “But Satoru, I’m spent,” you say, despite the heat building in your stomach.

Satoru’s eyes darkened, a flicker of knowing recognition crossing his features as he heard the need in your voice. "Are you though, hmm?" he murmured. Before you could answer, he captured your lips in a searing kiss. His hands cupped your jaw, his long fingers sending shivers down your spine as they brushed the delicate skin behind your ear.

You responded instantly, wrapping your hand around his neck, your fingers digging into the tight muscles there. A soft moan escaped your lips as you hooked a leg around his waist, pulling him closer, the need for his touch overwhelming. Satoru’s familiar scent surrounded you, filling your senses, so familiar and intoxicating. The air crackled with desire as the kiss deepened.

He pulled away, breaking the kiss. You saw a hunger in his eyes, a raw desire that mirrored the blaze raging within you. His pupils were dilated, his gaze flickering from your lips to your flushed cheeks before locking with yours. His tongue darted out, a slow, deliberate lick across his lips, probably tasting you on them.

God, it was going to be a long night.

He moved to your neck, tracing a familiar path with his lips, a path that always left you breathless. You didn't need a mirror to know you were flushed and the marks he had left were etched on your skin.

A soft moan escaped your lips as Satoru shifted, his lips hovering tantalisingly close to your lower stomach. His hand moved to wrap around your midsection, the warmth a delicious contrast to the coolness of the sheets. He lifted your body slightly, pulling you closer to his touch. As his lips met your skin, a spark ignited within you.

Your knuckles turned white as you clutched the sheets, the fabric bunching in your hand. Your gaze followed Satoru as he made his way up your body, slow and deliberate, placing kisses all over your skin. Your other hand brushed against the nape of his neck, over his undercut before massaging through his scalp, causing him to groan softly.

He made it to your chest, taking one of your nipples in his warm mouth, sucking and biting, as his teeth scraped against them, while his hand played with the other nipple, pinching and rolling it. You felt his soft strand brushing against your jaw and neck, tickling you slightly.

Finally, He devoured your lips in a kiss, swallowing your moans and stealing your breath as he pushed himself into you. This time, his thrusts weren’t slow or kind, they were relentless, almost brutal, determined to take whatever he needed.

You were a moaning mess, and you reached for him, clawing his back, to pull him closer- to push him away- you didn’t know. All you knew was that you needed him.

Your nails roamed down his back, leaving a trail of scratches as he rammed into you, and just when you thought he couldn’t get any deeper, he grabbed one of your legs, lifting and hooking it over his shoulder, your thigh pressing against your stomach. Somehow, he felt even deeper in this position.

His hand took hold of the ankle that now rested on his shoulder. With a slight turn of his head, he brushed his lips against the sensitive skin of your calf. A searing trail of kisses followed, each one hitting you like waves of pleasure. You couldn't help as your breath hitched, a soft moan escaping your throat as his hot breath tickled your ankle. His gaze never left yours, a flicker of something dark gleaming within them. It wasn't just his dominance that drove you wild; it was the way his touch ignited a fire within you, a fire he seemed determined to stoke.

Your nails continued digging into Satoru's back, sending shivers down his spine. He groaned - a low rumble that vibrated against you. Satoru reached for your hand, removing it from his back, before pinning it roughly beside your head. His fingers softly intervened with yours.

It was almost romantic - if he wasn’t fucking you like there’s no tomorrow.

Satoru continued pounding into you, his thrusts unrestrained, consuming you rapidly.

It was all too much. You felt too much. The intensity of his gaze held you captive, his eyes blazing with a desire that mirrored the fire raging within you, the feel of his lips against your heated skin, his rough hand that pinned yours, the weight of his body and his brutal thrusts. It was all too much for you.

Yet you craved more.

Because it all felt so good. “You’re doing so good baby, so good for me,” he said through gritted teeth, as his hand reached between your bodies to play with your clit, rolling and pressing it with his finger. It was enough to push you over the edge, but Satoru had a different plan, as his fingers slowed.

“Hmm, tell me love, why should I let you cum?” He asked, his expression morphing into mock curiosity. His thrusts had slowed too- he was barely moving now. You wanted to scream.

“Gojo I swear to God-” You began, but his voice cut you off.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, and you remembered how much he hated being called by his family name- especially in bed. “You know what?” he began, his thrusts finding their pace again, “Forget about not cumming. I am going to fuck you till all you can scream is my name” His voice was a dangerous murmur, filled with promise.

His fingers resumed, circling your clit, finishing what they started.

Orgasm, a searing wave, crashed over you, buckling your knees. Your body arched reflexively, every nerve ending flared with exquisite intensity. A strangled sound escaped your throat - or maybe you were silent- you didn’t know You were lost in a tide of sensations, your body singing in response to his touch.

You were a trembling mess, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The intensity of your orgasm had left you breathless, unable to catch your breath for what felt like an eternity.

Without giving you a chance to recover, Satoru grabbed your waist and flipped you over, so you were on your stomach. His body pinned you down as he reached up, grabbing a handful of your hair in a ponytail and tugging it. His other hand rested on your back, between your shoulder blade, pushing you into the mattress, leaving your ass in the air as he entered you again from behind, this time almost effortlessly.

“Satoru...” you almost sobbed- it was all too much, but the man behind you wasn’t deterred. He stroked your hair, gently caressing it, “You are doing so good sweetheart- taking it all so well.” He breathed out, encouraging you. He was panting too, and you could tell he was close.

Your thoughts were cut off as his grip tightened on your hair again, further pushing you into the mattress, cutting you off, but not suffocating you.

He continued pounding into you at an inhuman pace, his groans and grunts sending a shudder through you. His pace was unpredictable-mixed. Some were hard and shallow, and some we deep and slow. You didn’t know what was next, and the unpredictability of his actions made everything even better - hotter.

Surprise shot through you as his hand left your back, only to be replaced by a surge of anticipation as he reached for your throat. His fingers curled around your skin, firm and urgent, as he pulled you up. Your back arched instinctively, your body meeting his halfway. He angled your face towards his with a possessive hold, his gaze burning into yours. The space between you vanished as his lips met yours in a rough, demanding kiss that ignited a fire within you.

Your head was spinning- you were so close to another orgasm- your third? Forth? You didn’t know, but the way Satoru twitched around you told you he was close too, “Don’t stop Satoru, p-please don’t stop,” you cried out, your voice so desperate.

“Oh sweetheart, not planning to,” he repeated his words from earlier, his voice laced with satisfaction, probably because of the state you were in.

“That’s it, love, you’re handling it so well” he praised against your lips, his thrust getting impatient and sloppy.

His lips left yours as he reached for your neck, hovering over that one spot. He sucked, hard and you came all over his dick “That’s right baby, cum all over my cock.”

Your mind exploded, as white-hot pleasure shot through you, making your eyes roll back as you screamed, barely paying any attention to what left your lips.

Satoru kept driving into your overly sensitive pussy, chasing the orgasm that finally came to him. He groaned, loud and shamelessly. You felt him shudder as he came inside you, filling you up again.

Wetness trickled down your thigh. It was such a mess as Satoru kept driving into you, fucking you through the last of his orgasm, before pulling away with a pained hiss.

A wave of blissful exhaustion washed over you. Every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy, yet completely relaxed. Satoru settled beside you, his touch grounding you in the afterglow of your shared pleasure. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back, sending shivers down your still-heated skin. Despite the languor in your limbs, a contented smile played on your lips.

Your eyelids felt heavy as you turned to face him, but Satoru's gaze held a spark that contradicted any fatigue. His eyes narrowed slightly, a mischievous glint dancing in their depths.

That could only mean one thing - “How does a shower sound, sweetheart?” - he wasn’t done yet.

And you knew it wasn’t a question, just a statement disguised as a question. Still, you tried to protest, “Satoru, I am so tired,” you said. You felt drained, the exhaustion clutched to your limbs, but Satoru just picked you up, throwing you over his shoulder, “I know baby, but you have got one more in you,” he put you down in the shower, his hands around your waist, supporting you, “Two, if we really tried,” he smirked.

He turned the tap as the warm water enveloped you both, washing away the afterglow of your orgasm. The bathroom filled with steam, swirling around you like a fragrant mist. Satoru's hands remained on your waist, his touch a steady anchor as the hot water relaxed your tired muscles. You leaned into him instinctively, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

The water flowed down his body, highlighting the sculpted planes of his chest and the definition of his arms. His head tilted back slightly, eyes closed in a moment of pure peace as water flowed through his hair, down his face and over his body. In that moment, he looked breathtakingly vulnerable, and a wave of tenderness washed over you.

You turned around and reached for the washcloth and body wash, your back facing Satoru, when a hand suddenly grabbed your neck from behind, pulling you back and forcing you to turn around as Satoru’s lips slammed onto yours.

Your hand held onto his body as your legs gave out, knees buckling under his touch. His hands trailed down your back, finally gripping your ass and hooking your legs up, wrapping them around his body and he pressed you against the cold bathroom tile, his cock resting against your core.

His thumb traced your bottom lips, “Trying to get away from me, love?” he asked, and without giving you a chance to respond, his lips found yours again.

He moved, kissing and licking the drops of water away from your jaw, shoulder and chest, before he lined himself with you, burying himself deep in you.

Your orgasm started building all too soon. “Not now, love,” he said - of he could tell, he knew your body like the back of his hand. He reached between your bodies to play with your clit, “Only when I tell you to,” he smirked.

That fucker was challenging you, making it difficult for you. His cock kept brushing against all the right spots, while his fingers stimulated your clit. And if that wasn’t enough, his hand created a path all over your body, while his lips traced over that path. “Can’t you handle it, baby?” he asked, the amusement clear in his voice as his smirk deepened.

He wanted you to fail.

“I can-fuck- I can handle this,” your voice was breathless, but you were determined to finish this game with him.

You could feel his cock twitching and saw the way his brows furrowed. He was close.

Finally, he said the words you’ve been waiting to hear, “Come for me, love,” and your body took his command like an oath, as another orgasm hit you like a truck. You could feel every single nerve of your body come alive, singing praises for him. You didn’t know anything - didn’t feel anything - except that you were screaming his name.

He soon followed you, his cum filling you, leaking down your thighs, mixing with water. His hands rested beside your head, supporting his weight, as the orgasm took over him, a hiss escaping his lips, his breathing laboured.

He held you, your legs still wrapped around him, and you were thankful for it because you had lost control over your body.

Finally, after catching his breath, he said, “Let’s get you cleaned up, Huh?”

A coarse cotton towel, barely concealing the sculpted planes of his chest, hung low on Satoru's waist. He took a fluffy white towel, the soft fabric gently drying you. His touch lingered on your back, sending shivers down your spine as he brushed the towel over your sensitive skin. The steam from the shower still hung in the air, a gentle mist that swirled around you. You let out a long, languid yawn, your eyelids drooping as a wave of exhaustion washed over you.

Satoru looked up, his smile melting your heart. "You did so good today, sweetheart," he murmured, his voice husky. "Took me so well." You didn't have the energy to respond, but a sleepy smile played on your lips.

He scooped you up in his arms, the warmth of his body a delicious contrast to the coolness of the air. You wrapped your arms around his neck instinctively, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. Despite your exhaustion, a sense of contentment bloomed within you.

Satoru carried you effortlessly from the bathroom, the rhythmic thud of his footsteps a comforting lullaby. He navigated the bedroom with ease, his gaze never leaving yours. The room was bathed in the soft glow of a bedside lamp, casting long shadows that danced on the walls.

He gently settled you onto the soft comfort of the bed, the crisp sheets sending a cool caress against your skin. Reaching down, he pulled the duvet up, its fluffy warmth enveloping you like a cocoon as he cuddled with you. You sighed contentedly, burrowing deeper into the covers, the delicious scent of his cologne and laundry detergent lingering on the fabric.

"Aren't you gonna sleep?" you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper.

Satoru's hand tightened around your body as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "No, I have to leave soon," he said, a touch of regret in his voice. His hands brushed through your damp hair, fingers brushing over your back. "Maybe I'll sleep on the flight." Truthfully, though, he just wanted to hold you close while you slept, to memorize the way you fit perfectly in his arms.

You barely registered his words, your mind already drifting off. "Wake me up before you leave, 'kay?" you mumbled, your eyes fluttering shut.

You felt Satoru smile against your forehead as he whispered, "Of course I will," his voice laced with a promise.

a/n: God I am really nervous about this, but I hope you enjoyed it! If there was any mistake, I apologise. I proofread this 2-3 times but honestly, my brain reads what it wants to read but not what is actually written. 😭

I wrote this after my conversation with @lostfracturess about how Gojo would be in bed lmaoo. This is mainly inspired by what she writes!

Also, @whereflowerswenttodie had a sneak peek of this and helped me figure out some stuff!

But yes, please please please let me know what you thought of this, it would be greatly appreciated!

Dividers by @/cafekitsune

[moonlightazriel]

Love Sick ///Aemond X F!Reader

Summary: Alys Rivers had a vision about the prince’s arrivals, using her charm to lure him, she haven’t anticipated you, his new wife. So a little something might help him see who he truly belongs.

Warnings: SMUT

Word Count: 1,8K

Notes: I have read a lot of love potions fics and decided to give it a try. So here we are.

Main Masterlist

Alys Rivers always had visions, the flames would always tell her their secrets, this made it easier for her to survive. Yet, one vision kept appearing for her, a Targaryen Prince, dressed in his battle gears, long silvery hair tied to his back, a scar across his beautiful face.

She anticipated his arrival at Harrenhal way before it was even decided he should go. So when she heard the roar high in the skies, and saw the huge dragon landing in her home, she knew her time had come.

She had tended to him since he stepped his foot in Harrenhal, preparing his bath, serving his food, and occasionally flirting with him, she noticed how he looked at her, she was a pretty woman, long black hair and emerald green eyes, she was sure that it would just take a couple of days and he would fall for her.

Whoever, what Alys Rivers haven’t seen in her visions, was the Baratheon beauty arriving a week later. Lord Borros' third daughter, known for her breathtaking looks and even more impressive brain.

Lady Baratheon strolled through the front door, guards behind her as she walked through Harrenhal. And Alys watched with horror as the woman entered the dining room, giving a little smile to the Prince before slowly making her way towards him.

“Lord Husband.” She greeted, kissing his cheek and squeezing his shoulders, Aemond gave her a small nod and gestured for her to join him.

“How was your journey, my lady?” He inquired as the servers prepared her a plate, she politely thanked the maid before taking a piece of green bean with her fork.

“Quite exhausting, I am happy to finally settle down.” She bites her food. “Your dear mother was right, it feels good to be away from the Keep.” Aemond chuckled.

“Do not remind me of all that chaos.” She smiled at him, Alys kept in the corner watching the exchange in silent anger.

“Queen Helaena sent her greetings to you, my dear.” He held her hand.

“Did she talk to you?” Y/N nodded.

“Just a few words, but she seems better.” Helaena was still grieving the loss of her children in the hands of Daemon’s assassins.

“More wine, my Prince?” Alys intervened, her voice low and sensual, the prince turned his eyes to her, lifting his goblet. She could be his wife, but Alys knew what desire looked like, perhaps the prince just needed a little help.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Prince Aemond was in his study room, book in hands as he took some time off. Alys knocked, hearing his powerful voice commanding her inside.

“I brought some tea, my prince.” She placed the mug with the hot tea on his desk.

A simple love potion, she knew that he had feelings for her, so this would simply amplify them, make them so unbearable that he wouldn’t have any other choice than to go looking for her. He would claim her as his, as it should’ve been.

Alys excused herself, going straight to her room in the servants wing, she needed to get ready for when Aemond Targaryen knocked on her door and took her in his arms.

She had cleaned her room, and then, took a long shower, rubbing a scented soap on her skin, making herself look flawless. She sat on the bed and waited for him.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Y/N brushed her hair, Harrenhal was quite hot, so she asked the maid to run her a bath, she didn’t plan on leaving her chambers, so a silky nightgown covered her body while she took care of her hair.

The door was abruptly opened, making her jump in her seat. Her husband, without his coat and with four buttons of his linen shirt open, looked at her, a smirk on his lips as he entered the room.

“You know, dear wife?” He closed the door, walking towards her. “It was always you, when I went to Storm's End that day, it was you I had in mind.” His tone was slow, like he had been drinking.

He grabbed her hand, removing the brush and placing it on the desk. His other hand brushed her shoulder, pulling the straps down just a little.

“So beautiful, such a smooth skin. I know I had to have you.” He pulled her up, spinning her around until she was facing him, her hands splayed on his chest while he held her close by the waist. “You smell so good.” The prince said, smelling the skin of her neck.

Y/N felt her cheeks flushed at the attention, heating pooling in between her legs, forcing her to close them for some friction, as Aemond started to kiss her neck.

His touch was delicate, his lips cold against her hot skin. Kissing, licking and biting, making her whimper at the sensation spreading across her body.

“A-Aemond.” She half spoke half moaned, making the prince grow impossibly harder, his cock painfully restrained by his pants.

“You sound divine when you moan my name.” He said, getting away from her and walking towards the bed. He sat down, still looking at her, his shirt was messy and fully opened now. “Come here, my dear wife.” She made a move to walk to him but he stopped her. “Take it off.” He ordered.

She shivered as she saw the lust on his gaze, with shaking fingers, she undone the laces holding her nightgown in place, letting it pool at her feet, standing there completely bare to his hungry eye. His pink tongue darted out, wetting his lips as he eyed her up and down.

“You’re a goddess, I cannot wait to see you choke on my cock.” He grabbed her hand as she got close, pulling her straight to his lap. He kissed her, tongue exploring her mouth, hands cupping her ass.

She reached for the eyepatch, throwing across the room, she hated that damned thing, covering his beauty from her.

“You’re so beautiful, my prince.” She breathed, his lips attached to her breasts. Sucking the nipple in his mouth and moving his tongue in circles, making her squirm in his lap, brushing his hard cock.

He squeezed her flash, kissed her like he was going to die in the next second, and she moved her hips against his clothed cock, making it very hard to keep controlled. He never felt that kind of lust before, but he was ready to give in.

Y/N got up, and slowly kneeled in front of him, she had heard the ladies in court talking about the pleasures the mouth could bring to a husband, and despite the lack of experience, she wanted to try.

She reached for his belt, removing it and opening his pants, he lifted his hips just enough for her to slide all the pieces of clothes he was wearing down, freeing his dripping cock from its cage.

She swallowed hard, hesitantly grabbing it in her hands, earning a hiss from him. She moved her hand up and down, slowly, taking encouragement in his groans, the pleasure growing in him as she gently stroked him.

In a more bold move, she lowered her head, giving it a lick in the tip, Aemond shivering as she did so, she looked at him, giving him a small smile that could be the death of him. Then, she took him in her mouth, bobbing her head and masturbating what she couldn’t fit in her mouth. Aemond closed his eyes, buckling his hips and enjoying the sounds of her choking on his cock whenever she went too deep.

She hummed, sending vibrations down his cock, making his balls tight and the orgasm wash over him, his cock twitching, sending hot cum down her throat. She removed her mouth, coughing a little.

“You look so beautiful, kneeling in front of me.” He praised, his thumb caressing her cheek, making her blush as he looked at her. “Allow me.” He said, pulling her up and laying her down.

He got in between her legs, his breath fanning over her hot core, he circled the back of her legs, squeezing her skin and pulling her thighs apart. Smirking at her glistening cunt, he sank there, lapping at her folds, collecting all of her juice as she arched her back, moaning his name like a prayer.

He kissed her clit, rubbing circles with his tongue, making her see stars. Freeing one of his hands, he inserted two fingers inside her cunt, pumping them inside and out, in the same ruthless pace as his tongue. She moaned his name loudly enough to echo around the walls, feeling the knot in her belly grow until it was ready to snap. Driving her over the edge, her walls clenching around his fingers and closing her shaking legs around his head.

Aemond smirked against her, feeling her recover from her orgasm, he looked at her, sweat coating her forehead and panting, her chest moving up and down rapidly.

“Do you want more, my goddess?” She looked at him, smirking at her like the devil and she nodded. In a second, Aemond was on top of her, without any clothes and his cock ready for a second round.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

Alys tapped in the bed frame, growing restless as the potion should be working in this exact moment but Aemond was nowhere to be seen. She got up, grabbing a robe and sliding it over her shoulders.

She walked towards the Prince chambers, forcing the door open just a little, she gasped as she peeked inside.

Lady Baratheon was facing the door, her eyes closed and mouth slacked open as she moaned loudly for him. “Do not stop!” She begged, her voice hoarse from all the screaming.

She was on all fours, her ass high in the air as Prince Aemond pounded inside her from behind, moving so fast that her breasts bounced back and forth.

Alys wanted to move but she was rooted in place, the potion had clearly worked but with the wrong person.

“Please, Aemond. I am going to cum.” She whined, and the prince pulled her hair behind, forcing her to look at him.

“And i am going to stuff you full with my heirs, make you swell with my seed and birth my children.” His tone so raw that Alys felt her cheeks hot in embarrassment, Lady Baratheon moaned his name, her body convulsing as her orgasm crashed down on her again, followed by him spilling inside her.

Alys watched as the prince removed himself from inside her, his hands stuffing his cum back inside her cunt. “I love you.” He breathed, pulling her by the hair again and kissing her with all he had.

“I love you too.” She replied, face flush red as she tried to recover from the amazing sex.

Alys walked backwards, running away from the scene, knowing that no matter what she did, she could never break the bond the two shared.

[leah-lover]

Entangled desires. Leah Williamson x Alexia putellas x reader.

Part 1

“ Fuck me!” You semi yelled at your TV.

“Only if you beg me for it.” Said your girlfriend with a smirk on her face. You were both laying on the couch. She was laying on your lap reading a book, while you were watching the Arsenal vs Chelsea game. Chelsea have just broke through the backline and scored a goal. In their defense the goal was pretty incredible, but you hated that your team got scored against.

“ I would love for you to fuck me amor but not now, I am too busy “ you joked. “You have been stressed for about 50 minutes now. I think you need a release.” She said sarcastically, The book is now laying on her chest. “ Mi Reina, this game is so important for my sanity right now.” you respond. She didn't talk after that, she just turned on her side, her head still on your lap. She put the book aside and focused on the game.

The rest of the match was pretty exciting. There were some missed shots from both teams, a goal from Arsenal, some decent shot blocks from the Arsenal defense, and just overall a lot of tension. Alexia stood up from your lap by the time the final whistle blew. She was alert and satisfied. You were more than happy with Chelsea's defeat since you were a die hard Arsenal supporter. As a result, in celebration, you kissed your girlfriend. The kiss was soft and filled with passion. You then pushed Alexia on her back, straddled her lap and kissed her hard. You didn't want any space between you two. You were hungry for her, needy for her, all you wanted was her touch. The adrenaline from the game took over your body. Suddenly, it all went away and was replaced by tiredness. “ It's okay baby it happens.” She confronted you because you pulled out of the kiss and sighed loudly.

“ I am so sorry.” You apologized. “ Let's go cook dinner instead. Then we can finish later.” She added, a small smile on her face.

At the dinner table you sat opposite each other. You were both comfortable in the silence.

“ That arsenal defense was really good today.” She said, breaking the silence.

“Yeah, most of them are lionesses, so they are pretty good.” You answer.

“ Leah Williamson, the center back, is the captain of England right?”

“ She is the captain, she also captained the team today. She is pretty good.”

“ She was excellent today, made some pretty good deflections.”

“ And?”

“ What do you mean?.”

“ Mi Reina, tell me what you think.”

“ Well she is kind of attractive I guess. If you tell this to someone you won't like your punishment.”

“ Baby relax,I won't. I promise. Now let's go finish what we started after the game.”

“ What do you think about her?”

“ Leah ? Well I agree with you she is hot.”

—----------------

Tonight was one of the best nights of the year. The fifa best awards. This night was special because you were being awarded the best female player in the world which made you very proud of yourself. You were also proud of your girlfriend who made it into the best starting 11 in the world along with you and a few legends of the game.

You and Alexia got ready in the same room. You decided on an emerald green corseted dress that highlighted your chest and your brown hair. Alexia decided on an all black 3 piece suit paired with a red lip and her hair down.

The day leading to the ceremony had nothing out of the ordinary. You did your media duties, got ready, and left for the red carpet.

You and Alexia looked like a power couple, all the cameras were on you two, two of the most awarded and talented footballers. The ceremony was no different either. Kelley Smith presented you with your award and you thanked the most important people in your life in your speech. You talked to a few people but that was it. All the fun started at the after party.

While you were at the bar getting drinks your girlfriend was far from you talking to some people.

“Can I get two vodka sodas please?” You asked the bartender.

“Can you please make that tree?” Said a British voice from behind you. You turned around to find that the voice was Leah's.

“ Vodka soda is the athlete's best choice of drink right? ?“ she asked.

“ I guess so.” you respond.

“ I am Leah Williamson.” She added.

“ I know who you are. You are pretty recognizable.”

“ Not as much as the woman of the hour. Congrats on your award by the way. Spanish football is lucky to have you.”

You blushed at her words, that's when your drinks were ready. You wanted to talk to her more.

“ Why don't you join me and Alexia at our table?.” You asked hoping to get a yes

“Only for a little while I have my own people to tend to.” She responded.

You proceeded to guid Leah to your table. On your way there you passed alexia who said goodbye to the people she was with to join you too.

“ Ale this is Leah williamson. Leah, this is my lovely girlfriend Alexia.” you introduced the girls.

“ It's very nice to meet you alexia. We should have met a long time ago.” said Leah

“ I am glad we met too. How are you finding the night.” said Alexia. You knew your girlfriend well to know when she is nervous and right now she was clearly nervous, other people wouldn't spot it very well.

“ it's pretty boring actually. This is the most exciting thing that happened tonight.” responded Leah.

Your relationship with Alexia was common knowledge. However, Leah was flirting with the both of you for the better part of the hour and a half that Leah stayed with you. Throughout this time you talked about everything from football to your childhood. Several compliments and flirtatious attempts were made by all 3 of you. Leah’s phone was ringing for most of the time but she didn't answer. She then got a text saying that her teammates left and that she should go to the hotel because the party venue was almost empty. You didn't realise the time that passed, you were too immersed in the fun all of you were having. You were sitting on a couch, Alexia’s hand on your thighs occasionally caressing them, and Leah sat opposite you on a chair.

“ I can't believe they left without me.” she complained.

“ Well they did call you several times but you blew them off.” you responded.

“ but still how am i supposed to talk to them and miss out a second with you two.”

“ You can come with us. We are staying at the same hotel right?” suggested Alexia.

“ yeah but I don't want to intrude.”

“ nonsense, consider it an extension of this lovely night.” you added.

You then got out of the venue. You held Alexia’s hand while Leah walked to your other side.

The car ride was quiet. “ I would kill for a burger right now.” you whispered in your girlfriend’s ear because you were nuzzled in her neck. She then ushered for the driver to change direction to the nearest fast food chain.

“ one quick stop before we release you.” you apologized to leah running you hand on her thigh quickly.

“ No, not at all. I really want this to go on forever.” she responded.

The car stopped, you got your order, Leah and Alexia got a meal too after you provoked your puppy eyes.

You were now blissful on the hotel floor, and eating your burger with Leah Williamson and Alexia putellas. You were focused more on leah than on your burger.

“ shit i dont have my key card. I left it with Keira. God i am such a fucking idiot. ” she said after she finished.

“ Don't ever say that about yourself.” said Alexia who was quieter than usual.

“ what she means is it's fine you can stay here. it's too late to wake her up.” you corrected.

“ No, I can't do that .” she said frantically.

“ Yes you can and you will. It's too late to do anything. Plus we can hang out more. And we can put it to a vote and we both want you here.” said alexia before taking the last bite of her burger.

“ Alexia I can't. There is something. I just can't.” she said before heading towards the door.

Alexia got up and stopped her by her wrist. “ Look, it's alright, stay. Please. “ she said softly.

“ alexia almost never says please.” you added.

“ There is this unresolved tension in me. I can't hide it anymore.” she added, now looking at the floor.

Alexia lifted her head up by her chin, and at that moment we were all nervous. We all shared a look with each other, then looked at the floor, then at each other again. The silence was deafening. We all were thinking the same thing. It was just the matter of who starts.

[jeyunhos]

Reputation | jyh

pairing: professor!yunho x college student!fem!reader cw: power dynamics, professor x student, cunnilingus, 18+ minors do not interact. Summary: Your creative writing professor is so hot you're about to fail his class. Dying to help you, the both of you figure out a new method to increase your penmanship. A/N: glasses yunho is driving me crazy, you hear me, CRAZY

You ever had a teacher with a sort of reputation? The crazy one, the smelly one, the strict one... There's probably a repertoire of clichés and boxes you could fit every single one of this semester's teachers in, but recently, you had grown fond of one particular class: Creative Writing, with professor Jeong Yunho, the dreamy one.

Yunho had a reputation alright, a reputation as the one teacher every girl fell for. Leave alone his absolutely stunning looks, he was kind, patient, and gentle, an all-rounder of a teacher who could instruct a rock on how to write wonderful pieces if he put his mind to it.

One problem, you didn't care for his class at all. Sure, it was fun to try but you were close to failing due to your enormous crush on the man, and you figured your were doomed to continue that way, since the only way to get over him, was to get under him.

You were busy daydreaming about being tied to his office chair as you walked the corridors when you heard your name bounce off the walls and a light trotting behind you. You were snapped back to reality and turned around only to see professor Yunho himself joining you with a huff of his cheeks.

"Phew! I got to catch you." he said excitedly, panting lightly from the sudden outburst of energy he had used.

"Professor" you started, trying to hide your delight and surprise "Is something wrong?" you asked, wondering what he would probably need you for.

"Do you have ten minutes before you head home? I've got to talk to you about your recent piece." in between his large hand he wiggled a foldered set of printed sheets with your most recent submission written on them.

"Sure, right here?" you asked, looking around at the vast prying eyes around you.

He answered with a shake of his head "Join me in my office for a bit."

You followed behind the man through the crowded maze that your school was, he was fast due to his long legs, and hence you were walking slightly behind him. The breeze would carry a bit of his cologne into your nose whenever it blew, heightening the infatuation you already held for him.

Rumors were also true, he was a complete gentleman. The second you got to his office he opened the door and moved aside to let you past and held the chair out for you to sit.

"So," he started as he fixed his suit jacket the moment he sat down "I'm worried about your final grade." Yunho went straight to the tone, which let you know that whatever fantasy you were having about being bent over the desk was not happening.

"What do you mean?" you feigned innocence, knowing damn well that you were close to repeating the class. Well, not that you would mind staring at him for another whole semester, but it wasn't exactly something you could afford.

"Yes, however..." he started, pulling the file open to look at the printed version of your work "Despite having submitted every assignment, your scores have been constantly low and that's because," he cleared his throat, as if trying to find less harsh words to describe your work "the pieces are just not good."

You felt a blush, proof of your embarrassment, creep around your face through your neck, your sight lowered in shame, something he immediately noticed. Your final project was writing a short story about romance, with a twist, and an ending of your choice.

"Let's go over some lines slowly" he said with a gentle, charming smile "For example, this one 'in that moment they felt they were falling in love'" he explained. "Do you see what is wrong with that line?"

"They weren't falling in love?" you asked innocently, not really sure of what he wanted you to answer.

Your little joke caused him to laugh in the form of a chuckle. He was mostly amused by the hardness of your head. He leaned backwards and looked up at you.

"Have you ever been in love?" he asked nonchalantly, as if he was asking 'how have you been?' to an old friend.

With you, you thought to yourself, but of course that couldn't leave your lips.

"Not exactly sure." you admitted finally.

He let out a sigh and nodded mostly to himself .

"In writing, you don't really want to tell the audience what the characters are doing or feelings are experimenting, it reduces imagination to a mere instruction." he explained "You want to tell them about everything else but the actual feeling. So, say, if the characters were falling in love, instead of saying it straight out, you want to describe the way their hearts raced, or how they couldn't pry their eyes from each other despite the chaos around them, or how they longed for something so much more than a mere graze of their lips." he tried to explain to you, but in your face he could see you were not grasping it. "But I guess that's hard if you've never experienced it first hand."

You nodded along with every bit of his explanation, and there was a hint of disappointment and hurt on your face when he finally finished his sentence.

Picking up on this, he gently tapped his hands on the desk and reincorporated himself to lean forward "Let's try something else." he proposed, catching your attention "I'll give you a week, rewrite the thing, but don't do romance, do erotica instead." he asked with a smile on your face.

"Erotica?" you inquired, quite surprised by this new task.

"It's hard to say we have experienced love" he said "But we've all been aroused, it's in our programming as mammals" with a grin, he handed the folder over to you "All my notes are there, write some erotica, send it to my e-mail, and we can talk about your final grade, alright?"

With a swipe of his hand, he ended up dismissing you. You obliged and left the office, albeit reluctantly since being alone with him had been a delight, and headed home to begin working.

Not that you were foreign to fantasizing about sexual scenarios, especially involving him, but putting them into words was a whole other ordeal. 'We all have been aroused' these words resonated in your head, and so, you got all hands on deck.

Four days later, your final manuscript was in his inbox, and only a few hours afterwards you got another e-mail:

jyunho@school.com: Please meet me at 8:00pm in my office to discuss the grade.

8? That was kind of late, but you figured he was in a rush since the semester was ending soon and all the final grades had to be uploaded to the school online system. Plus, it's not like you were exactly in the position to refuse anything, your passing grade was at stake.

You dolled yourself up a bit right before the agreed time, just in case you figured, and went on your merry way. The university halls were creepily abandoned due to the late hour save for some offices with the lights still on, part of being the end of the semester you guessed, and it made you feel uneasy; said feeling disappeared almost immediately once you reached the right door. "Professor Jeong Yunho" it read.

"Come in" you heard a raspy voice call after you knocked.

He himself was a sight to behold. Hair slightly disheveled, suit jacket laid over the back of the chair, black turtleneck shirt on. He looked tired and felt like so.

"So?" you said with a cheery voice, trying to lighten the mood, as you approached the chair.

He let out a sigh, similar to last time but now more exasperated "Still not good." he blurted out.

You could tell his guard was down, because the Yunho you knew as your teacher wouldn't talk so roughly, yet there was something thrilling about said demeanor, something inherently hot to seeing him so worked up.

"You keep describing the actions, this is even worse than the romance one." he added some salt to your wound "'they kissed roughly and she was pinned down to the bed'? This is not a report, this is supposed to be exciting, where's the erotism, the magnetism, the-" as he was ranting on his own with you sitting across his desk, looking amiss of words to be honest, he stopped himself half way when he came to a sudden realization.

"The...?" you tried to ask once he was staring at you in utter silence.

"Close your eyes." he ordered.

"What?" despite your eagerness to obey him, almost naturally, you had to double check that you were listening correctly

"We're going to do a little exercise, close your eyes." he said once more.

You finally obliged and shut your lids. You weren't entirely sure what was happening around you, but promptly you felt a presence behind you.

"I'm going to do a couple of things, I want you to describe to me how you feel when I do them." you could tell he was the presence you had felt from the direction of his voice.

Fuck. You had to be careful, this was getting dangerous. Despite your eagerness to be his little toy, you knew if you didn't tread lightly you could find yourself reported or expelled if he didn't feel the same. So, you made a mental note to actually pay attention and figure out if this little predicament could work out in your favor.

As you were conjuring your evil plan in your brain, he began to work on his own. You felt the tip of his fingers on the back of your hands, slowly crawling up through your forearms, your biceps, and finally your shoulders.

"Talk to me" he urged when you didn't respond "How do you feel?" he repeated himself.

"Warm." you said out loud, your eyes still shut.

It's not like you weren't trying, really, but his touch had wiped your mind blank effectively.

His head shook firmly in disappointment, there was no getting through to you no matter how complex the method he was using, and how certainly... risky. But he couldn't deny this new way was getting him excited, possibly in ways it was not exactly code-of-conduct-appropriate.

"I'll help you." he leaned over further to repeat the movement he had done seconds before, his head hovering next to your ear. "When I touch your hand your skin feels soft, almost silk-like. I grow curious, so my hands travel further up, your forearm is delightful, it sets within me a hunger I can only sasiate with the subtle violence of a bite, but I can't bring myself to do it, not just yet, there's so much I want to explore, so I continue my path until I get to your neck."

His words were beyond arousing to you. The way his hands and body mimicked everything he spoke of was setting your skin ablaze. You wanted him badly, and you had made it your resolve to finally get him to sleep with you, you didn't know how, but you were determined to lead him where you wanted.

"Try again." he instructed, his hands moving away from your neck. "Tell me how you feel."

You were slightly disappointed at the lack of contact, and you were worried you might have missed your window. However, something else entirely caused a gasp out of you. His lips were now grazing the base of your neck and you could feel the hot breath that came out of his mouth straight onto your skin.

"My skin feels like crawling with heat," you began to say "A tingle travels from my hand, following your touch all the way up to my neck; my expectations grow and I wonder just how far you will take this. Your lips wake the goosebumps whenever they touch, and I crave to feel them over my body."

As you spoke, you could lightly hear his breath hitch and, for a second, you could swear he was going to do it, he was going to kiss your neck, but he stopped.

"Seems like you got it" he said as he pulled back after clearing his throat. He moved from behind your chair to lean against his desk, his rear almost laying on it; his arms were crossed over his chest once you opened your eyes.

"Hardly" was all you could say, and you stole a glance at how his pants seemed to have gotten tighter on the front.

"Hardly?" he asked, his head tilting "Is there anything else you're struggling with?"

It was going to be like that, huh? He was not going to drop the teaching charade. Well, you knew a thing or two about playing the student in despair.

You stood up from where you were sitting and walked over to Yunho, your hands hidden innocently behind your back. He was getting a kick out of it, you could tell, perhaps Mr. Jeong was a lot more sinful that he looked at bare glances; well, you'd indulge him.

"Kisses, for example, how do you go from 'looking at each other' to 'kissing' without saying something lame like, I don't know, 'they kissed'?" now you were guiding the situation to where you wanted it to go, you figured.

"Well, with kisses you want to start slow, not quite jump right to it." he began to explain, still keeping his intellectual facade "Like..." he continued, his hand slowly raising to land on the back of your neck, his fingers playing lightly with the back of your hair. His eyes landed on yours and you could finally feel the desire that had been pooling between your legs mirrored in the darkness of his pupils "...this."

Once he finished his sentence he leaned in closer, his lips brushed yours and you tried to close the gap, but he pulled back the slightest. 'Fuck' you thought, but the second you wanted to pull back the hand that was holding your neck forced you otherwise.

Your lips melted together with his almost immediately and he had to inhale a sharp breath; it was only innocent for a couple of seconds, because after his free arm snaked around your waist, his palm to your lower back, all logic fell off the window. From both parts.

The chaste, educational kiss faded quickly and was replaced by his tongue brushing against your bottom lip in attempt to ask for entrance, a permission that was granted immediately. He was exploring the entirety of your mouth, ravishing on the taste of your tongue against his.

It wasn't long before both of you were consumed by the unmistakable desire to break one sacred rule, of diving into unexplored taboo of sleeping with your teacher. He picked up on it rather quick, and shortly he was pulling away.

He bounced himself off his desk and his hands guided you by the hips to turn around, flipping your positions. His hand was certainly gentle, but with such sturdiness you wouldn't even dare disobey his silent commands. One of them held your hair and pushed it down, bending you over his desk with your clothes still on.

This last statement didn't remain true for long, as his needy fingers quickly dived on your lower garments, dipping roughly inside the waistbands and pulling down altogether.

His lips pursed at the sight of your bare ass and cunt all laid down for him, his right thumb trailing your slit and clit teasingly.

"I don't have to narrate what happens next, do I?" he asked. It was his own version of asking for consent.

"I'll still take notes." you teased back, looking over your shoulder.

He let out an amused chuckle and you saw him begin fumbling with his zipper. There was a rumor that he was packing down there, and you were now confirming it with your own eyes. Not ginormous, but certainly a bit above average.

From his pocket, he pulled out a condom which he carefully ripped open to roll it over his shaft; once securely wrapped, he positioned himself on your entrance and slowly began to push it. The slightly painful stretch was delightful, poetic almost, to you.

"You okay?" he grunted under his breath, trying his best to not start pouding right away.

You simply replied with a positive hum and that was everything he needed. With enough force he began to thrust into you, deep and sensual at the beginning, and you could feel him gradually getting rougher.

You were smart enough to keep your moans at bay, but when he started to push all the way in to the point it felt like rearranging you, it became harder and harder. He couldn't be sure that there weren't other teachers around, since it was still around eight thirty, so he had to help you somehow; one of his hands as kept on your hip as grip and the other one had to be pressed up against your mouth. The palm was so wide it almost covered your nose too, and he was extra careful not to accidentally suffocate you.

As a result, your head was pulled back and slightly to the side where he was pressing from, leaving an area of your neck free to his admiration. His thrusts continued to pick up the pace and roughness, and at some point they became so strong the desk began to slide backwards, making an annoying, dragging sound with every thrust.

Yunho was forced to let go of your hip and bend over to hover over you. He was tall enough that his head reached yours and his hand was able to hold the other edge of the desk to stop it from dragging on the floor. As a consequence, your skin was near his lips once more, and he decided to give in to his previous temptation and bite down gently on your skin, leaving a hot mark behind but not a bruise.

"I can't hold back much longer." he said into your ear in an almost apologetic tone.

Your agreement was muffled by his hand, but you let him know it was okay. He continued to grunt and pant heavily against your skin with rough, powerful thrusts into your cunt, but the rhythm was more erratic, and you could tell he was close.

Finally, with a moan of your name that he muffled with your neck, he came.

Being honest, you were a little disappointed that you hadn't gotten to orgasm yourself, but having fucked him was already prize enough, you were not about to get greedy on an already wrong and thoroughly enjoyable sexual encounter.

As you were sunked in these thoughts, he pulled out from you and began fixing his clothes rather quickly. Following his lead, you leaned back up and reached down to pick up your own until his voice stopped you.

"Woah, woah, what are you doing?" he asked, reaching quickly after putting himself back in his pants to avoid you from putting your own back up. "No, no." he continued quickly, his free hand bending you over once more. "Rule number one of erotica: the woman is never left unsatisfied."

You weren't sure what he meant by that, was he going to fuck you again? Maybe, but you weren't sure he could just right away, sure he was young but.. oh.

The long lap at your clit from behind surprised you greatly and caused a long, quiet moan out of you. You could feel him lapping and sucking at your slit with renewed energy, and it was driving you insane just how well he was eating you out.

As he continued his ministrations with his tongue from behind, one of his thumbs reached for your clit, circling it slowly and deliberately, he knew pretty damn well where everything was and he was not about to be shy about it.

Your legs began to tremble, and he was moaning into your womanhood with every taste of it which only added fuel to the fire within you. It wasn't long before you started to feel the familiar tingle on your stomach., and seconds later you allowed yourself to cum against his mouth.

Satisfied with his performance and having reached his goal, he helped you with your clothes back up and walked over back to his chair with you still bent over the desk as you regained your composure. His head tilted so his cheek was almost touching the wooden surface and he could be eye-level with you.

"I expect your story by tomorrow, okay?" he said with an innocent smirk.

"Yes, professor" you said in between pants before you raised to your feet again "And thank you, this was very useful." you added.

That night, you went back to your home and began writing in extreme detail everything that man had done to you; all while changing names, locations, and times, of course. Nothing more erotic than keeping a secret, after all.

The story came out naturally and easily, with a newfound talent that you could have sworn was not there before, somehow Jeong Yunho had managed to fuck it out of you, and so, when you began to struggle with the last lines of your work, the image of his smiling face gave you a strike of genius:

'..and as the young girl hardly waddled out of the room, feeling refreshed, brought anew, she came to the realization that some men really do live up to their reputation."

[satinestales]

❝between truth and desire❞ | armand x fem!reader

pairing: armand x fem!reader, 4k+ words

summary: As you and Armand recount your shared history to your old friend Daniel Molloy, your words falter, and your memories blur under the weight of time and emotion. Later, Armand ensures you remember exactly how it truly happened—or at least, how he wants you to.

warnings: armand's manipulative gremlin ass, sexual tension, mind control?, unrealistic version of top armand, blood play, blood-sucking as a form of oral sex, not proofread, mention of claudia's death, english is not my native english

For the past three hours, you’ve been reminiscing about your life in 1940s Paris with your old friend, now a successful journalist. It’s been surprisingly easy, sharing those memories of joy and excitement, especially with Armand by your side. Daniel’s sarcastic comments make you laugh, keeping the mood light even when the stories dip into something more bittersweet.

Armand’s hand rests on your thigh, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles. That small, familiar touch pulls you back into the past, and for a fleeting moment, it almost feels like you’re there again—back in Paris, on your very first date.

You shared stories about the Théâtre des Vampires, describing its grandeur and eerie charm in vivid detail. Armand never interrupted, just sat quietly beside you, listening. Every so often, he’d chime in, adding little details you’d forgotten, his voice soft and steady. It felt natural, the two of you piecing the memories together like a story only you could tell.

Every eye in the room was on you, the silence in the mansion broken only by your voice. It was steady, serious, as you recounted those final days in the coven—when the air grew colder and the others fell quiet. You remembered how Louis had sensed it first, even before Claudia or Madeleine. And you remembered it too, that creeping tension, the way it lingered unspoken.

But here and now, you spoke of it clearly, without a single stutter.

"It was a cold night when I woke up," you began, your voice calm despite the weight of the memory. "Louis was already gone, and I couldn’t find any trace of Claudia." Armand’s hand rested gently on your thigh, comforting you, while Daniel’s sharp gaze seemed to pierce straight through you. "I assumed they’d gone out together," you continued, glancing down for a moment, "since I’d spent the last few days with my love."

You felt Armand shift beside you, his lips curling into a faint smile as he tilted his head, studying you with that quiet intensity. Even after all these years, that look still had the power to make you blush.

"About four hours later, there was a knock at our door," you said, your voice wavering between fear and sarcasm. "I hadn’t invited anyone, so I figured it was Armand dropping by for one of his unannounced visits. But when I opened the door..." You paused, your eyes narrowing slightly at the memory.

"Santiago was standing there," you continued, "and behind him were Celeste and Estelle, both wearing those ridiculous judges' wigs." The words spilled out, edged with a dry, bitter humor that couldn’t quite mask the unease curling in your chest.

You couldn’t help but hear Daniel’s chuckle at the mention of the wigs, but it didn’t faze you. You pressed on, even though you felt Armand’s gaze shift, no longer warm or affectionate. It had become something colder, sharper, something you couldn’t quite place.

“I woke up in the theater, on the stage,” you continued, your voice steadier now, the weight of the memory pressing down. “Claudia, Louis, and Madeleine were next to me. Our Achilles’ heels torn, so we couldn’t run.”

You felt the silence stretch, thick with tension. Even Daniel’s amusement seemed to fade as your words lingered in the air, heavy with the truth of what had come next.

Daniel raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “I assume they put you on trial? For what, exactly? Killing Lestat, I presume?”

You could only nod, the memories flooding back in a rush. You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, trying to push them back, but they lingered like a shadow, heavy and impossible to ignore.

“And where was your love, Armand?” Daniel asked, now turning his gaze to Armand, who hadn’t shifted an inch. He was eerily still, his eyes fixed on you, unreadable and unblinking.

The silence that followed was thick, like a fog that refused to lift. Armand’s presence filled the room, and you could feel the weight of his attention pressing against you, more suffocating than comforting.

"I have to jump in here," Armand’s voice broke the silence, smooth and almost mocking. "I think my love's memory is a little foggy."

You were forced to look at him, his words pulling your gaze like a magnet. His lips curled into a crooked smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes—dull, black, devoid of warmth—stared at you with an unsettling calm, as if he were carefully rearranging the pieces of a puzzle you didn’t fully understand.

"I know how the trial happened," you said, forcing a smile at him, trying to reclaim some control. "You don’t have to speak for me."

Armand’s hand, which had been lightly resting on your thigh, stilled. The tension between you thickened, but he didn’t back down.

"I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important," he replied, his voice smooth, though the undertone of something darker lingered. "But if we want the people to know the truth, we should give it to them. Don’t you think so?"

He tilted his head again, studying you with a gaze that felt both tender and unsettling. He reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair away from your ear. His touch, so gentle, pulled a reaction from you before you could stop it. You leaned into it, feeling the warmth of his hand against your skin, despite the coldness in his eyes. It was a comforting, familiar warmth, but it made your heart skip nonetheless.

"So what exactly happened?" Daniel asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he waited for an answer, his eyes flicking between you and Armand.

Before you could respond, Armand’s voice sliced through the air, gentle but commanding, as though he had already decided the direction this conversation would go.

You wanted to speak, to reclaim the words, but your mouth wouldn’t move. It was as if your mind had sealed your mouth shut, leaving you unable to break the silence Armnd had claimed. You sat frozen, a quiet tension building, unable to shake the feeling that the answer would come from him and not you.

"I want to apologize for the false answer you were given," Armand said, his voice smooth and reassuring, though there was an underlying edge to it. "Nobody can blame her. It’s been a few decades, after all."

His thumb began to trace gentle circles on your thigh, an attempt to soothe the growing tightness in your chest, but his words felt like a weight on your heart.

"I was aware of the coven's plan," he continued, his gaze never leaving you, "and went to warn my dear American friends. But when I arrived, I could find only mon cœur."

He turned to you then, a soft smile curling at the corners of his lips. The warmth of it washed over you, but there was something distant in his eyes, as though he were pulling you into a memory you couldn’t quite grasp.

You didn’t remember the way he described it, not at all. But as he spoke, you couldn’t help but wonder—maybe, after all these years, it was easy to forget.

It took another three hours before Daniel finally asked for a break, suggesting that the conversation continue the next day. You didn’t object; in fact, you welcomed the pause. Armand, as always, was by your side, leading you toward your bedroom.

As he walked behind you, his hand resting lightly on your lower back, the tension in the air was palpable, thick enough that you could almost cut it with scissors. You’d made a mistake today, one that almost painted Armand in a bad light. You couldn’t say you were scared—not exactly—but you weren’t thrilled either.

The quiet weight of his presence behind you was enough to send a shiver down your spine. You weren’t sure what to expect once the door closed behind you, but you knew it wasn’t going to be an easy night.

You expected Armand to speak once the door was closed and locked, but he remained silent, allowing the quiet to settle between you. The stillness wrapped around both of you as you went about getting ready for bed, the only sound was the soft rustling of fabric and the distant hum of the house.

But as you changed into your bedrobe, you felt it—his gaze, heavy and unwavering, burning into your back. His eyes followed the curves of your body, lingering on every movement, never once leaving you. It was unnerving, that constant watchfulness, like he was cataloging each detail of you, and yet, somehow, you couldn’t bring yourself to look back.

It wasn’t until you lay back on the bed, stealing glances from where you sat, that you watched Armand get comfortable in the robe you’d bought him. He didn’t rush, moving with a natural ease that always seemed deliberate, as though every gesture was meant to be noticed.

He was beautiful in a way that never stopped catching you off guard. Like when his hair fell in loose waves, brushing just over his eyes, and even the slight crook of his nose added to his charm, making him seem more real, more human—if only just. You couldn’t help but admire him, even after all this time.

He knew it. Of course, he did. The faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips gave him away. He didn’t need to meet your gaze to know you were watching. He always knew when your attention was on him—and he soaked it in like sunlight.

"The conversation almost got out of control today," Armand said, his voice breaking the silence. He turned to face you, his head tilted in that way he always did, his eyes slowly scanning you from head to toe.

"I'm sorry," you said with a soft chuckle, your gaze warm as you looked up at him. As he stepped closer, his presence seemed to fill the room, his figure towering over you in that quiet, commanding way of his.

"Guess I got the facts wrong," you continued, your tone light but unsure. "Even though... I can’t quite recall the version you described to Daniel."

He stayed quiet for a moment, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made you shiver. It felt like he was trying to see right through you, to penetrate your thoughts and mind with nothing more than a look.

You knew he could. He was an ancient vampire, after all, with gifts far more powerful than most could comprehend. But even as the thought crossed your mind, you pushed it away. Armand would never take advantage of that, not with you.

You loved him too much to doubt him, even for a second. And perhaps, deep down, you knew that was exactly what he wanted—to be loved without question.

"My dear," he said softly, a small smile playing on his lips as he slowly bent his knees, kneeling in front of you. His hands rested lightly on your ankles, grounding you as you propped yourself up on your elbows to meet his gaze.

"It’s been decades," he continued, his tone gentle, almost comforting. "It’s only natural to forget or mix things up. After all, I was there to correct you. Nothing bad happened." His lips curved into a smirk, the words flowing sweetly, meant to soothe.

But as his gaze lingered on you, you couldn’t help but catch it—the faint spark of coldness in his eyes. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, sharp as a blade hidden behind silk.

"I’m always going to be there," he added, his voice barely above a whisper. His hand moved slowly, trailing up from your ankle to your knee, the touch light but unyielding.

He never broke eye contact, his gaze locking you in place. There was something possessive in the way he looked at you, something that sent a shiver down your spine. It wasn’t fear—not exactly—but the weight of his promise, the intensity of his presence, was enough to make you quiver.

"Good," you said with a nod, doing your best to ignore the warmth swirling in your stomach. Even after seventy years, he still had that effect on you. You chuckled, a playful smile tugging at your lips. "Because I’ll hunt you down if you ever dare to leave."

Your tone was light, but the weight behind your words was anything but. You meant it. Armand had his secrets, just as you had yours, but one thing you shared was an obsession—an all-consuming need for each other.

You couldn’t imagine your life without him; in truth, you could barely remember the life you had before him. as though the years before he arrived had been erased. Every memory you held close revolved around him, around the two of you together.

And you were determined to keep it that way. Forever.

"I would never," he said softly, a small smile gracing his lips before he leaned in and pressed them to yours. The kiss was brief but filled with warmth, meant to reassure you, to steady the swirling emotions inside.

As he pulled back, his face lingered close to yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered, "I didn’t tell Mr. Molloy the whole truth. When I went to warn you... I left out some things."

Your brow furrowed in confusion, your heart pounding as you hung on to his every word. "What’s that?" you asked, your voice soft, as you reached up to gently place your hand on his cheek.

He looked almost unreal, like a sculpture of a devil—sinful, beautiful. The candlelight bathed him in a warm glow, casting shadows that only deepened the beauty of him. His dark skin seemed to drink in the light as if he were made of something otherworldly.

You had seen angels before, in your long life, but none could compare to the beauty of the devil kneeling between your legs. The one who had always held you in his thrall. The one you could never, ever escape.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his presence fill the space between you, his body slowly overpowering yours. With a gentle but firm push, he guided you onto your back, the weight of him settling above you, dominating yet tender. His lips found the crook of your neck, pressing soft, lingering kisses against your skin, while his hands drifted down to your waist, pulling you closer.

A quiet moan escaped your lips as his lips traveled to your collarbone, each kiss sending shivers of electricity down your spine. His touch was slow, deliberate, and as his fingers slid to the top of your robe, you could feel the tension in the air tighten around you.

"After you opened the door and I came to warn you about the coven’s plans..." His voice was low, almost a whisper, as his hand lingered at the top of your robe, barely brushing your skin. He moved his lips over your neck, your jaw, finally finding yours in a deep, searching kiss. "I couldn't prevent it."

His kiss grew more intense, and you wanted to ask him why—why didn’t he stop? Why hadn’t you left? But before you could, his lips silenced you, pressing against yours as his other hand slipped beneath your waist, pulling your body flush against his. The warmth between you overwhelmed everything else, leaving you breathless and speechless, caught in the weight of the moment.

Your hands instinctively wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. You needed him in that moment, more than anything else in the world. Everything else—the journalist in your house, the unfinished conversation, the looming threats and dangers—disappeared. None of it mattered.

The only thing that existed was him—his touch, his lips, the warmth of his body pressing against yours. Your mind raced with thoughts of him, drowning out every other sound, every other thought. Nothing else mattered. Just him. The feeling of him. The weight of his presence. That was all there was.

You felt his hand pull away from your chest, and a soft, frustrated sound escaped your lips in protest. But before you could voice more, he guided his wrist to your mouth. His eyes never left yours, dark and full of unspoken intentions.

You knew exactly what he wanted—what both of you craved. His pulse throbbed beneath your lips, and without hesitation, you sank your fangs into his wrist, the familiar, cinnamon taste of his blood filling your senses. It was intoxicating, overwhelming. The warm droplets fell from your chin, tracing down your neck and chest, as you drank deeply, savoring every drop. His blood was always sweeter than you remembered, more potent, more familiar than anything else.

It felt like home.

You couldn't stop. Every drop of his blood filled you with a rush of heat, the world around you starting to blur as your senses sharpened. Your eyes closed instinctively, your head tilting back as pleasure coursed through you. His blood was intoxicating, and you were lost in it, unable to think of anything else.

The soft moans and whimpers escaping from Armand only pushed you further, each sound making you crave him more. You heard his voice, faint and distant, but it barely registered as you kept drinking, the taste of him flooding your senses. His hands gripped you, but you hardly noticed, lost in the sensation of him.

You wanted more. Needed more. His blood, his presence, it was all that mattered. And for a moment, everything else faded away.

You didn’t know how long it had been—minutes, hours, maybe just seconds—lost in the feeling of his blood coursing through you. All you knew was the way his face shifted when he gently pulled his wrist from your mouth, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. His blood still lingered on your tongue, warm and intoxicating, slowly dripping down your chest as you let go of him, your body humming with the aftermath.

He loomed above you, but now his head rested against your chest, seeking solace in the warmth of your skin as his breath steadied. You stroked his hair, fingers threading through his dark curls, trying to ground him as much as yourself.

Your fingers traced the mess on your chest, and without thinking, you brought them to your lips, savoring the last lingering taste of him. The warmth, the sweetness, it felt like the only thing that mattered, and you couldn’t stop yourself.

As Armand rested on you, his breath warm against your chest, the fog in your mind began to clear, just a little. Flashes of the past few hours started to resurface—his visit, the warning about the coven, the tension in the air. It all felt distant, like you were trying to grasp a dream you couldn’t quite hold onto, but there it was. A few more pieces of the puzzle fitting together, the edges blurring into something you could finally begin to understand.

You couldn't remember how many times he'd done this—how many times he'd stepped in to help, to keep you from slipping into that haze, to save you from the things you couldn’t hold onto. Each time, he was there, gently piecing you back together, never asking for much in return. A small knot of guilt twisted in your stomach. Maybe you hadn’t realized how often he’d carried this weight for both of you.

But then you felt his hand tighten around your waist, his presence anchoring you, and that guilt faded away, swallowed by something deeper. It wasn't just about him fixing your memories. It was how, despite everything, he made you feel like you were never truly lost. Like you were still whole, still his.

"Je t’aime chaque jour davantage, Arun," you whispered, the words flowing from your lips like a secret you'd been holding onto for eternity.

Armand lifted his head to meet your gaze, his dark eyes searching yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter. He was so consumed by you, so focused on every word, every look you gave him, that even the smallest detail, the evidence of your connection, went unnoticed. And for some reason, that made you smile.

"Je t’aime moi aussi, mon cœur," Armand murmured, his voice soft, reverent, as he rested his chin against your chest. His eyes, those dark pools of mystery, were half-lidded, and for a moment, you could see the rawness of his desire in the way his flushed cheeks caught the candlelight, his waves of dark hair falling over his forehead like a veil. The world outside of him and you ceased to exist.

You ran your fingers through his hair, losing yourself in the softness of it, in the way he seemed to melt against you. He was so beautiful, every inch of him a reminder of the eternity you'd spent together. He was warmth and darkness, light and shadow all at once—an enigma you couldn’t unravel, no matter how many lifetimes you lived.

Eternity would never be enough, not when it came to him. You needed him, needed to consume him. To become one with him in every sense of the word. Your lips ached to kiss him, not just his mouth, but his very skin, every inch of him, to touch the bones of him.

And he wanted the same.

You could see it in his eyes, feel it in the way his body pressed against yours, as if his very soul was entwined with yours. What you two shared wasn’t just love. It wasn’t just desire. It was an all-consuming need—an obsession that humans could never truly understand. It was a bond that reached beyond anything they could comprehend, an unspoken language of the heart and mind. You didn’t need to say it; you both knew.

There was no end to it. Only the now. Only him.

"I'm starting to remember," you murmured after a few quiet moments, feeling Armand settle closer beside you. His fingers lazily traced the fabric of your robe, a soft touch that made you feel safe, anchored. "When you came to warn me. It's still a little foggy, but it’s there. I’m sorry I doubted you."

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his gaze on you, calm and steady. The fragments were falling into place, his words reassuring you, reminding you of things you hadn't been able to fully grasp. His version of the events felt so right, so natural, and you couldn't help but let the memories shape themselves around what he had shared. You trusted him completely. And yet, beneath it all, a quiet whisper in the back of your mind wondered how easily you’d forgotten things before. But that thought was fleeting, disappearing as quickly as it came, leaving you only with the certainty of what Armand had guided you to remember.

"I'm glad you're remembering now," he whispered against your neck, his fangs grazing the delicate skin. "But if you ever forget something, I’ll always be here to help restore your memories."

A smile tugged at your lips as his hand slid beneath your robe, his fangs sinking into your neck, tasting your blood. The sensation was beyond anything you had ever imagined, a pleasure that consumed you completely. You leaned into his touch, surrendering to the feeling of his fangs, the weight of his presence, and the rhythm of his hunger.

With each kiss, each bite, your memories grew clearer. You could recall every detail of that night. Yes. He had come to warn you, just as he had said. Santiago was responsible for Claudia's death, and Lestat had helped orchestrate it. The truth was finally clear to you. You could only trust Armand. Everyone else had betrayed you, deceived you. In his arms, you found safety. On his tongue, you found clarity.

You would never let him go. He was yours, and you were his.

For all eternity.

[3igbootyl0ver]

who hurt you? [iv]

pairing: tara carpenter x reader

summary: Tara finally finds the courage to open up and seek help.

word count: 4610

warnings: mentions of abuse, violence, angst

a/n: guys I lied this is NOT the last part. I realized how much I have to write lol but the angst is over, the next part should be just fluff and tara's recovery. this is the longest I wrote so far lol so I hope its not too draggy

part [i] | part [ii] | part [iii]

Tara felt her phone buzz multiple times in a minute. It took her a moment to gain the courage and look at her notifications. 5 missed calls and missed texts from Amber herself. She felt a shiver run down her spine, not sure if it was from the chilly breeze or her fear of Amber coming to get her. Her fingers hovered over the screen, debating whether to respond or power off the phone and ignore the reality of her situation.

Amber

Tara, where are you?

I told you to meet me behind the bleachers.

You just can’t listen, can you??? 

(Missed call from Amber)

Answer your damn phone.

Seriously? Was this about that day? I barely touched you, it was a joke. Don’t be so dramatic

You know I only do these things because you push me. If you didn’t act like this, I wouldn’t have to.

Just get here.Now. 

Tara felt her chest tighten after reading the texts, afraid of what could happen to her, her consequences. “You deserved it anyways,” was what Amber would say to her after she got hurt. At first, Tara had fought against those words, clinging to the belief that she was worth more, that she wasn’t the problem. But over time, the constant barrage of blame and cutting remarks chipped away at her resolve. Amber’s voice had become a whisper in her mind, louder than her own, until one day Tara caught herself nodding in agreement. Maybe she did deserve it. Maybe everything that happened was her fault.

Her breathing grew shallow as the weight of the messages and memories bore down on her. Her phone slipped from her trembling hand, landing on the floor with a soft thud, but she barely noticed. Her chest heaved as panic clawed its way through her, each breath feeling harder than the last. Her vision blurred, and the world around her faded into a distant hum, drowned out by the cruel echoes of Amber’s voice in her head. She clutched her knees, trying to ground herself, but her thoughts spiraled uncontrollably. What if she’s right? What if I deserve everything coming my way? The questions suffocated her, and she felt like she was drowning in her own mind, unable to surface.

Her breath hitched when a familiar face entered her blurry field of vision, concern etched deeply in your furrowed brows. You raised a hand slowly, your movements deliberate and gentle, pausing as if asking for silent permission. When she gave a weak, trembling nod, you knelt down and rested your hand over hers, the warmth grounding her in the chaos of her spiraling thoughts. Your voice followed, soft and steady, cutting through the haze as you spoke words of comfort and reassurance.

“Tara, hey. Look at me. I’m here, okay? You’re safe now. Take a deep breath with me. Let’s do it together—breathe in…and out. Nice and slow. Just like that.” Tara listened to your instructions, slowly gaining back her bearings before tearing up again, overwhelmed by her feelings.

“I’m sorry—I’m such a burden—“ “Hey, I want none of that right now, okay? You’re not alone in this. Whatever’s happening, we’ll handle it together. You’re stronger than this—always have been. It will pass, I promise.” 

It took Tara a while to piece together what happened and where she was. She just had a panic attack. You were there. The softness of your bed beneath her and the faint scent of your room finally grounded her. She blinked a few times, her gaze settling on the familiar surroundings, and the realization hit—she was safe.

You sat beside her, your voice calm as you spoke. “I texted Chad and Mindy to come over,” you said gently. “I thought having some company might help. They’re on their way now.”

Tara nodded slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. The thought of familiar faces brought a small flicker of relief amidst the storm swirling inside her.

-

As soon as the doorbell rang, you hurried to open it. Mindy wasted no time, wrapping you in a tight hug before you could say a word. Her embrace was warm and reassuring, a silent way of saying, We’re here for you. The moment she stepped back, Chad pulled you into his own firm hug, his hand patting your back in solidarity. Their presence immediately lightened the air, filling the space with a sense of comfort and support.

“We won, by the way. There was a party after, but it wouldn’t be the same without you.” Mindy commented, slightly smug about how she scored the winning goal. You’ve never doubted her once; you knew she could do it. 

If Tara was being honest, she was afraid to meet the twins—afraid that she would be posed as the bad friend that avoided them, that she was weak and fragile. The thought of their disappointment, the way they might look at her with concern or pity, sent a wave of anxiety through her. It felt easier to stay away, to hide, than to face the questions and the judgments she imagined they’d have.

Tara took a deep breath, steeling herself as Mindy and Chad walked into the room. The moment Mindy stepped forward, she pulled Tara into a tight, almost desperate hug. Tara froze for a second, then allowed herself to melt into the embrace, feeling the warmth and safety that came with it. Mindy’s voice was soft but firm when she pulled away.

“You don’t have to apologize, Tara. We’re here,” she said, her tone full of concern.

Chad, a few steps behind, offered a reassuring smile before pulling her into his own hug, his hand gently patting her back. “You’re not alone in this,” he murmured, his voice calm and steady. Tara nodded, the overwhelming weight of her anxiety not quite lifting, but at least softened by the comfort of their presence.

As they settled around her, Tara felt an unexpected wave of guilt. If she were being honest, she was afraid of meeting them again—afraid that they would see her as the bad friend who had avoided them, that they would view her as weak and fragile. The thought of disappointing them, of facing their concern or pity, made her stomach turn. It felt easier to stay hidden, to avoid the inevitable questions they would ask about where she had been, why she’d pulled away. But now, as she sat between them, she realized that the fear of their judgment was nothing compared to the warmth of their unwavering support.

Tara took a deep breath, her heart pounding as she finally began to speak, her voice trembling with the weight of the words she’d kept locked inside for so long. She glanced at Mindy and Chad, their faces filled with concern and unwavering support, and it made her feel a little less alone. She told everyone in the room how she started dating Amber; and how things went downhill. By the time Tara ended, she was sobbing uncontrollably, your arms wrapped around her to calm her down. She looked at Mindy and Chad, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve come to you sooner.” Tara said tears still streaming down her face, but her voice stronger than before.

Mindy’s expression softened as Tara spoke, her eyes filled with both sadness and empathy. “Tara, you don’t deserve any of that,” Mindy said, her voice gentle but firm.

“None of it was your fault. Amber had no right to treat you that way, no matter what she said,” Mindy said, her words steady and filled with conviction. “You’re not broken, you’re strong. You’re still here, and you’re fighting. That’s what matters.” Mindy reached for her hand, squeezing it gently.

Chad nodded in agreement, his expression serious. “Mindy’s right. You don’t have to face it alone, you have us.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in. “Tara, you should think about reporting this. What happened to you wasn’t just a mistake—it was abuse. And abuse needs to be taken seriously.”

“I know it’s scary, and I know you’re probably thinking about what Amber might do or say, but we’re here for you, every step of the way. Reporting this to the police isn’t just about getting her in trouble—it’s about protecting yourself and making sure this doesn’t happen to anyone else. You’re not alone in this. We’ll be with you, no matter what you decide.” You added, gently rubbing your hand along her arms, making her relaxed.

Tara sat in silence for a moment, her mind racing with the idea of taking that step. She had never imagined herself going to the police, but now, with Mindy, Chad, and you by her side, it didn’t feel quite as impossible. It was terrifying, but maybe it was the first step toward finally finding peace.

-

A few days later, Tara found herself sitting in a quiet room at the local police station, her heart pounding in her chest as she looked down at the paper in front of her. She had made the decision—she was reporting the abuse. The officer sitting across from her was kind, patient, but Tara could still feel the weight of every word she spoke. She told them everything. About Amber’s manipulation, the slaps, the pushing, the hurtful words. She didn’t leave anything out, though every sentence felt like it ripped open a wound she’d tried to bury for so long. She even included photos of her bruises she would take pictures of throughout the relationship. The officer appreciated it, it adds more evidence even when there’s a big yellowish blotch on her face that didn’t need any more explaining.

When the officer assured her that her report would be taken seriously, Tara couldn’t help but feel a tiny flicker of relief, even though fear still lingered in her chest. She had done the right thing. She hoped. But as Tara walked out of the station, the reality of her decision began to settle in. She had taken a step that could never be undone, and she knew Amber would eventually find out.

And it didn’t take long.

It was the following afternoon when Tara received a call from an unknown number. Her stomach dropped, the familiar anxiety creeping back into her veins as she hesitated for a moment before answering.

“Hello?” Tara’s voice was barely above a whisper.

“Tara,” came Amber’s voice, cold and filled with venom. “I know what you did.”

Tara’s heart skipped a beat, and she instinctively took a step back, as if she could escape the phone call that had already settled deep into her chest.

“You went to the police, didn’t you? You really think you can get away from me that easily? Blocking my number didn’t do anything, did it?” Amber’s tone was almost mocking, but beneath it was a layer of pure rage. “You’re nothing without me, Tara. Do you really think they’ll believe you? Do you really think I would hurt you? You’re a liar.”

Tara’s grip on the phone tightened, her voice shaking with fear but laced with a newfound resolve. “I’m not lying, Amber. I’m done. You don’t control me anymore.” Amber’s laughter came through the phone, sharp and cruel. “We’ll see about that.” And then the line went dead.

Tara stood there, the cold air biting at her skin, her heart racing in her chest; feeling the fear creep back in, until you called her downstairs for dinner. Ever since you found her during the finals, you managed to convince Tara to stay over at yours for awhile, considering she would’ve been alone at home and you wouldn’t want anything to happen to her.

You went up to the guest bedroom Tara was staying in to see her staring at her phone, slightly taken aback. You could sense her breathing getting shallower and sharper, realizing that she was having an asthma attack and quickly took her inhaler that was placed on the drawers.

She gasped again, but her breath wouldn’t come. Panic began to set in, her heart rate quickening, and she coughed uncontrollably, the sound rough and wet in her chest. The tightness in her throat made it harder to exhale, a wheeze escaping as she forced the air out. It felt as though the very act of breathing had turned into a struggle, and the more she tried, the harder it became. Your hand was already passing the inhaler to her trembling fingers. Tara’s breath hitched, struggling to move as her hands shook, but you placed your hand over hers, steadying it.

"Here, just... take a slow breath in. You can do it," you encouraged, your voice steady as you helped her press the inhaler to her lips. Tara obeyed, inhaling shakily, and within moments, she felt the familiar cooling sensation spread through her chest. The tightness loosened just a little, and she gasped for air, the wheezing beginning to subside.

“Good. Just like that,” you whispered, your hand resting on her shoulder, grounding her. Slowly, Tara's breathing steadied, each inhale coming a little easier than the last, the panic beginning to melt away as the medicine took effect. You stayed by her side, never letting go, just silently offering the comfort she desperately needed.

-

You were starting to get used to the sight of Tara struggling with both panic and asthma attacks throughout her stay at your home. It was a constant ebb and flow, moments where she seemed like she was almost back to herself, only for the anxiety or her breathing to hit her again without warning. At first, it was overwhelming—watching her gasping for air, feeling helpless as she trembled and shook—but over time, you learned how to respond.

You kept her inhaler close, always within reach. You knew the signs now, the way her chest would tighten, the shallow breaths, the subtle shift in her expression that meant her panic was escalating. You knew how to talk her down, how to ground her when the anxiety became too much, and how to steady her when she couldn’t catch her breath. The routine of it had become familiar: gently helping her breathe in through the inhaler, guiding her hands to her chest to ground her, reassuring her with calm words that she wasn’t alone.

But each time it happened, it still broke your heart. You could see the fear in her eyes, the fear of not knowing if she would get through it, the lingering dread that she wasn’t safe. You never left her side during those moments. No matter how many times it happened, you were there—watching, waiting, helping her through it until she found her breath again.

And while it was exhausting, both for her and for you, there was a certain quiet comfort in knowing you could help. Tara was stronger than she gave herself credit for, and you were proud of her every time she pushed through, even when it seemed like too much. With each attack, she seemed to hold onto that strength a little longer, even when she didn't see it herself.

-

After a few weeks of rest and recovery, Tara made the decision to go back to school. It wasn’t easy—every step toward the building felt like it weighed a ton, and her heart would race at the thought of seeing people again, of facing the memories that lurked in every hallway. But she couldn’t hide forever, and despite the anxiety swirling in her chest, Tara knew it was time to take that first step. The news spread like wildfire rippling both in Woodsboro and Blackmore. Everyone seemed to have their own version of the story, but the narrative was clear: Tara and Amber’s relationship was no longer just a private matter—it had become public, and with it, a storm of judgment.

Amber wasted no time in twisting the truth, claiming that Tara had fabricated everything. She told anyone who would listen that Tara was just seeking attention, painting herself as the victim of a lie. Amber played the part of the heartbroken, misunderstood girlfriend, while Tara was cast as the unreliable, dramatic ex who couldn’t handle their breakup. The accusations were swift, harsh, and relentless.

But amidst the gossip, there were small moments of clarity. She still had people who believed her—people like Mindy and Chad, who stood by her side without question. And you. You were her anchor. Every time the rumors swirled, you were there, offering her a steady presence, a reminder that her truth mattered, no matter what anyone else said. The world around her might have been filled with noise, but with your support, Tara began to find her voice again. Even if it took time, even if it was hard, she wasn’t going to let Amber’s lies define her.

The night before, she barely slept, tossing and turning in her bed, replaying the worst-case scenarios in her mind. What if Amber showed up? What if people asked questions she wasn’t ready to answer? But when morning came, you were there to reassure her once more, helping her gather her things and offering quiet encouragement.

“Just take it one step at a time,” you told her, giving her a gentle smile. “You don’t have to face everything all at once. We’ll get through it together.”

As Tara walked through the school gates, she felt a mix of nervousness and determination. She had her inhaler in her pocket, just in case, and a deep breath to calm the jittery nerves that clung to her. There was no going back now, but with each step forward, she could feel the weight on her shoulders lifting just a little bit. She wasn’t alone. Not anymore.

“Hey, Tara!” Serena, a classmate called out, her voice piercing through the crowded hallway. At the sound of her voice, you immediately tensed, a protective instinct kicking in. You weren’t sure if Serena was going to confront Tara, maybe join in the whispers and rumors that had been circulating. But as you glanced at Tara, you could see the hesitation in her expression. She was unsure what to expect from Serena now.

Without thinking, you gently pulled Tara closer, positioning yourself as a shield, ready for whatever was about to happen. Tara stiffened at first, but then she relaxed into you, seeking comfort in your presence. She wasn’t ready to face any more hostility or doubt—not from anyone.

Serena approached, her steps slow but determined. The usual confidence she carried was gone. Her face was softer, almost apologetic, and there was a sadness in her eyes that Tara hadn’t expected. She stopped just in front of you both, looking down at the ground before lifting her eyes to meet Tara’s.

“Tara,” she said quietly, avoiding your eyes. “I owe you an apology. I should’ve believed you from the start. Amber—she did the same thing to me.” Tara blinked, surprised. “You were with Amber too?” Serena nodded, her voice trembling.

You could feel Tara’s grip on your arm tighten, the weight of the moment sinking in. It was clear that this wasn’t just an apology—this was Serena reaching out to Tara, extending a hand to show her that she wasn’t alone, that there was someone who understood the pain.

 “She manipulated me, made me feel crazy, like I was the problem. I didn’t see it until I left her. I saw how she treated you and… I didn’t speak up. I’m sorry for that.” Tara stared at her, processing her words. “I didn’t know… I thought it was just me.”

“I know. I should’ve been there for you,” Serena said. “But I believe you, Tara. Amber’s abuse wasn’t your fault.” Tara’s shoulders slumped, relief and confusion mixing in her eyes. “Thank you. I.. I’m glad you’re saying this.”

Serena gave a soft nod. “I’m here for you, anytime. You’re not alone.”

As Serena walked away, Tara exhaled deeply, her grip on you loosening. The weight wasn’t gone, but knowing Serena understood made the burden a little lighter.

-

It’s been a few weeks since Tara had the courage to start attending school again, and while the halls still felt heavy, there was a noticeable shift in her. The whispers had faded to a dull murmur, and the judgmental stares were fewer, replaced with something a bit more tolerable—curiosity, or maybe even a touch of guilt from those who had doubted her.

Tara had slowly begun to rebuild herself, day by day. With Mindy, Chad, and even Serena’s unexpected support, she had started to find the strength to face the world again. But every step forward came with its own challenge. Some days were harder than others, and the scars from Amber’s abuse weren’t so easily erased. Yet, Tara was determined to keep moving forward, and even though she wasn’t sure what the future held, she knew she wasn’t as alone as she once believed.

There were still moments of fear, of panic, but each time she faced them, it was a little easier to breathe. With you by her side, offering quiet support, she was starting to believe that maybe—just maybe—she could reclaim her life.

Tara knew she had to go back to her house to retrieve a few things. Her mind raced with memories of Amber, of the chaos and control, but there were still some items left behind that she needs—it would be a mixture of both closure and necessity. The thought of stepping foot inside her old home made her stomach turn, but she knew she couldn’t leave everything behind forever. Tara had spent too long running, too long living in fear. It was time to take those final steps—gathering her things, locking the door behind her, and finally letting go of the past that still haunted her.

She wasn’t sure if she could face it alone, but she didn’t want to burden anyone. Still, the idea of returning to the house she once called home left her feeling vulnerable and anxious. She looked over at you, a soft vulnerability in her eyes, unsure of how to ask for help without seeming weak. “I... I need to go back to my house, just to get a few things. I don't think I can do it by myself."

You immediately reassured her, “You don’t have to do this alone. I’ll go with you.” Tara let out a quiet breath of relief, her shoulders relaxing. “I didn’t want to ask, but I don’t think I can handle it by myself.”

“I’m here for you, always,” you said, offering a gentle smile. “We’ll go together, take whatever you need, and leave. You don’t have to face it alone.”

Tara gave a small nod, her nerves still present but now softened by your support. “Okay. Let’s go.” And with that, the two of you set out, ready to face the past together, step by step.

Several minutes later, you both arrived at Tara’s old house. The familiar sight of it made her pause, a knot tightening in her stomach. The house that once felt like home now felt like a prison—a place filled with too many memories she wasn’t ready to face. You could sense the vulnerability in Tara’s posture as she stepped into the house, the weight of the moment settling over her. You didn’t want to intrude on something so private, so important to her, but you also wanted to be there if she needed support.

“I’ll stay in the car,” you suggested softly, giving her space. “Take your time. I’m right here if you need me.”

Tara glanced back at you, her eyes filled with gratitude, though the fear was still there. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice shaky. “I don’t know if I can do this, but... I’ll try.”

You gave her a reassuring nod as she stepped inside, the door closing softly behind her. You remained in the car, your heart with her, knowing that no matter how long it took, you’d be here when she was ready to leave.

Just as she left the walkway, you saw a sketchy black car across the street. The engine was idle, and a chill ran down your spine. You couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. You quickly glanced at the house, knowing Tara was inside. Your protective instinct kicked in. Without thinking, you got out of the car and headed toward the house, your pace quickening.

Inside, Tara was gathering a few of her things when she heard the faint sound of footsteps behind her. She turned, her blood running cold when she saw Amber standing there, leaning against the doorway with that familiar, malicious smirk on her face.

“You didn’t really think you could get away, did you?” Amber’s voice was low and taunting. She stepped into the room, her eyes glinting with a dangerous edge. “I still have a key, remember?” She stepped forward, her fingers tracing the edge of the doorframe where she had forced Tara to give her the spare key long ago

Before she could react, you burst through the door, your body tense with fury. “Get away from her!” you shouted, stepping between them. Amber’s eyes widened in surprise, but she quickly sneered, taking a threatening step forward. But you didn’t give her the chance. In one swift motion, you grabbed her by the wrist, slamming her hard against the wall with a sickening thud. Amber gasped, her eyes wide with shock, but you weren’t done. Your fist shot out, connecting with her jaw in a brutal punch that made her head snap back, her body jerking from the force of it. You stomped on the leg that you injured a few weeks ago, making her groan in agony.

Tara gasped, her eyes wide, but the sight of Amber recoiling, clutching her cheek, was like a weight lifting off her chest. You didn’t wait for Amber to recover; you shoved her roughly back against the wall, your hand still gripping her wrist.

“Stay the hell away from her. I don’t care who you think you are,” you growled, your voice cold and deadly. Amber’s eyes flickered with fury, but she was too stunned to fight back properly. Tara stood frozen, watching, feeling a strange mix of fear and relief. Amber spat, her glare venomous. “This isn’t over,” she hissed, trying to regain her composure, but you tightened your grip and stepped closer, your gaze unflinching.

Amber’s breathing grew heavy, but she knew she was outmatched. With one last look of hatred, she wrenched herself away and stormed out of the house, limping while slamming the door behind her. As the house grew quiet again, Tara exhaled shakily, still trembling from the confrontation. You turned to her, your chest heaving, but you gave her a steady, comforting look. 

“She’s gone. Shit—I’m sorry, I knew I should’ve—“ Before you could complete your sentence, Tara rushed into your arms, wrapping her arms tightly around you. She buried her face into your chest, her body shaking, her breath uneven.

“No,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Don’t apologize. I... I needed that.” Her words were muffled against you, but you could feel the tension leaving her as she clung to you. “I was so scared... but now... I don’t feel so alone.”

You held her tighter, your hands gently rubbing her back as you spoke softly, “You’re not alone, Tara. I’ll always be here. Always.”

Tara nodded, her grip loosening slightly but her face still pressed against you. The world outside felt distant now, the past they’d just confronted fading into the background. What mattered now was the quiet, steady promise that she was safe—here, with you.

-----------

a/n: I'm kind of forcing myself to write longer fics, and I hope this isn't too draggy and boring for u guys. feedback is appreciated :)

[brunchable]

Winter King, Part Four : Afterglow [18+]

Pairings: King AU Bucky Barnes x Out of place Queen Reader Words: 25.6K Themes: Royaltycore AU, love and power, arranged Marriage, georgian/regency era misogyny, profanity. Warning: Sinister intent (Drugging, Sabotage). Torture, mentions of blood. Sexual Content - Losing Virginity, unprotected piv sex, Oral (F). Big size difference. Summary: After a tumultuous separation, Queen Y/N receives a desperate letter from King James Bucky Barnes, pleading for her presence in Annecy. Reluctantly, she agrees to meet him, only to be confronted with unresolved emotions, simmering tension, and a fragile hope for reconciliation. Amidst grand dinners and intimate revelations, Bucky strips himself bare—not just of his regal façade but also the deepest scars of his past. In the midst of courtly games and political intrigue, will their love survive, or will it be another casualty of the crown? A/N: Inspired by Queen Charlotte. I'm sorry it's so long lol. I hope you enjoy the SMUT SCENES. . . what do you want to see next? credits to the gif owners, it ain't mine.

The sound of footsteps drew your attention away from the window, where you had been staring absently swaying trees on this windy day. Scott’s familiar presence hovered by the door, his posture stiff, yet there was something… cautious in the way he approached you. His gaze darted around before finally settling on the envelope in his hand.

“A letter for you, My Queen,” he announced, extending it toward you. “From His Majesty.”

You blinked, your heart giving an unexpected flutter at those words. Bucky? He had finally reached out. But you quickly tamped down the unwelcome swell of hope, narrowing your eyes at the innocent piece of parchment.

“Leave it on the desk,” you instructed curtly, turning back toward the window, fighting to maintain your composure.

Scott hesitated, his gaze lingering on you as if contemplating whether to say something more. But he gave a sharp nod, placing the letter on the desk beside you before withdrawing quietly. The door clicked shut, leaving you alone in the quiet, with only the letter as company.

You stood there staring at the creamy white envelope as if it were a serpent poised to strike. It sat there, mocking you with its pristine perfection, the royal seal pressed into the wax glinting in the dim light.

With a huff of frustration, you snatched it up, breaking the seal more aggressively than necessary. The wax crumbled beneath your fingers, the crackling sound oddly satisfying. Unfolding the letter, your eyes skimmed over the familiar scrawl of his handwriting—precise and strong, just like the man himself.

My Dearest Y/N,

I know I’ve hurt you. I know I’ve pushed you away. But I need to see you—to speak with you without anger clouding our words. Please, come to Annecy this evening. I need to see you, if only for a few hours.

Yours, James

You stared at the words, a myriad of emotions rushing through you. Anger, for how easily he thought he could summon you. Resentment, for the pain he had caused. But beneath it all, it made the ache in your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

“‘If only for a few hours,’” you muttered, reading the line again, your lips pressing into a thin line. “As if one meeting could fix everything.”

But even as the angry words left your mouth, you knew you would go. Damn him, for knowing that you couldn’t resist this fragile olive branch he was extending. A chance to see him, to hear him—to finally understand what was going on inside his head.

You glanced outside again, noting the dusky sky deepening into twilight. The evening was already upon you, and if you were to make it to Annecy by nightfall, you would need to leave soon.

With a resigned sigh, you turned back to the letter, your fingers brushing lightly over the words. You didn’t want to admit it, but a part of you—the part that still remembered the way his gaze softened when he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he said your name—yearned to go.

Maybe… maybe this time, you’d get some answers.

“Scott,” you called, your voice steady despite the turmoil swirling inside you.

He appeared almost instantly, his expression expectant.

“Prepare the carriage,” you ordered, folding the letter and slipping it back into the envelope. “We’re going to Annecy. Tonight.”

Scott’s eyes widened in surprise, but he bowed quickly, masking his reaction with a swift nod. “Of course, Your Grace. I’ll have everything ready at once.”

As he hurried out of the room, you took one last look at the letter, then slipped it into the pocket of your gown. The anger simmering in your chest hadn’t completely vanished, but it was no longer the driving force behind your actions.

You would go to Annecy tonight. And you would hear what he had to say. But you would do so on your terms, with your walls firmly in place.

× × × ×

The carriage rolled to a slow halt, the rhythmic clatter of hooves fading into silence as you glanced out of the window. The familiar grounds of Annecy stretched out before you, shrouded in the soft glow of twilight. Lanterns flickered to life along the pathways, casting a warm, golden light that danced across the cobblestone and neatly trimmed hedges.

A footman stepped forward to open the door, offering his hand as you descended. The hem of your gown brushed against the ground as you took in the estate—the sweeping lawns and carefully sculpted gardens, and the imposing silhouette of the mansion against the evening sky.

But there was no sense of awe, no appreciation for the beauty that surrounded you. Your chest felt tight, anger simmering just below the surface as you squared your shoulders and lifted your chin, determined to keep your composure.

“Your Grace,” Scott murmured quietly from beside you, his voice tentative. “Shall I accompany you inside?”

You shook your head, barely sparing him a glance. “You can,” you ordered, your tone clipped and curt. “I won’t be long.”

Scott’s brow furrowed slightly, concern flickering in his eyes, but he nodded. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

You turned away from him and began your ascent up the grand staircase, the soft rustle of your skirts and the distant chirping of crickets the only sounds accompanying you. Two guards flanked the massive double doors leading into the mansion. They bowed as you approached and opened the entrance for you, revealing a grand foyer lit with chandeliers and brimming with quiet opulence.

The steward appeared almost immediately, bowing low. “Your Grace, His Majesty is awaiting you in the dining hall.”

You nodded stiffly, following his lead as he guided you down the long, silent corridor. The air was thick with anticipation, the echoes of your footsteps reverberating off the marble floors. Each step you took felt heavier, the anger you had tried to keep at bay during the ride flaring up with every second that passed.

Finally, the steward opened a pair of gilded doors, stepping aside to let you pass. You took a deep breath, steeling yourself as you stepped into the room.

The scent of roasted meats, fresh herbs, and baked pastries filled the air—an exquisite spread laid out over a long, polished table. Plates gleamed under the candlelight, and goblets of fine wine shimmered like liquid rubies.

But all of it—the decadence, the beauty, the carefully curated feast—turned to ashes in your mouth the moment you saw it.

Your steps faltered, eyes widening as they took in the elaborate arrangement. An intimate dinner for two, set with painstaking care. It was as though someone had plucked the image of a perfect evening out of a dream and tried to force it into reality.

You turned sharply, refusing to take another step inside.

Bucky, who had been standing at the opposite end of the table, his expression hopeful, froze as you spun back around, your face pale with restrained fury.

“Y/N, wait—”

“What is this?” you demanded, your voice cold, your gaze sweeping over the table again before landing back on him. “What are you trying to do?”

His brow furrowed, confusion flashing across his face. “I… I wanted to have dinner with you. To—”

“Dinner?” The word burst out of you like a bitter laugh, devoid of any humor. “You dragged me all the way here for dinner?”

His mouth opened, but whatever he had planned to say fell silent at the look on your face. You could feel your body trembling with the effort to hold back the wave of anger surging inside you, anger that had been simmering since he had begun this dance of hot and cold, sweet words followed by crushing silence.

“Prepare the carriage,” you bit out to Scott, who had followed behind, your voice leaving no room for argument.

“Your Majesty?” Scott glanced between you and Bucky, uncertainty creasing his brow.

“Now, Scott,” you snapped, your heart pounding in your chest. You could feel Bucky’s gaze boring into your back, and you kept walking, your gown billowing behind you like a storm cloud—refusing to let him see the emotions simmering just beneath the surface.

“Y/N, wait,” Bucky called out, the confusion in his tone sharpening. You heard his footsteps quicken, the soft thud of boots against marble as he closed the distance between you. “Where are you going?”

“Away from you,” you said through gritted teeth, your pace never faltering. “Back to the estate. I shouldn’t have come.”

“Wait—stop walking this instant!” Bucky’s voice rose, a hint of desperation breaking through. He reached for your arm, his fingers brushing against your sleeve, “Please, listen to me.”

You whirled on him, eyes blazing. 

“Stop? Stop?” The word left your lips in a hiss. “What could you possibly have to say to me that you haven’t already made abundantly clear, James?”

Bucky’s hand fell to his side, at the way you spat his name. You’d never used it like that before—like a weapon, sharp and cutting. He drew in a shaky breath, his gaze flickering over your face as though searching for some way to reach you through the storm of emotions.

“Please, Y/N, just—let me explain. I’ve been… distant, I know.” he said, his voice softening, pleading. “But I didn’t know how to—how to show you that I… that I care.”

“Care?” You laughed again, short and humorless, “Is that what you call it? Ignoring me for days, leaving me in silence, only to send a letter and expect me to come running whenever you deem it convenient?”

“I know,” he whispered, stepping closer, his fingers twitching at his side as if resisting the urge to reach for you again. “I know I don’t deserve it, but I need you to be here. I needed to see you.”

You shook your head, struggling to keep your composure. “Then say that, James. Say what you want, what you feel. Stop hiding behind these—these grand gestures and empty words.”

His eyes darkened with a flicker of frustration as you threw his words back at him. He closed the distance between you in two swift strides, the sudden nearness of him making your breath hitch.

“I’m trying to,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “I’m trying to show you, Y/N, because I can’t say it in a way that does justice to how I feel. Words… they fall short. I’ve said so many things wrong, pushed you away with every damn word I’ve spoken. So, I’m done talking.”

You stared up at him, your heart pounding wildly in your chest. “Then what are you going to do?”

His hand, hesitant and shaking, reached for yours. Slowly, he turned your palm upward, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin of your wrist, tracing the frantic beat of your pulse.

“Please… stay,” he murmured, his voice breaking on the word, “I need to show you.”

“Then show me.”

The word barely left your lips before Bucky stepped past you, his hand trailing away from yours, and headed toward the hallway. For a moment, you hesitated, rooted in place as you watched him stride away, his posture tense, yet determined. And then, as if caught in some magnetic pull, your feet carried you after him, heart pounding furiously in your chest.

The walk was silent, the click of your heels against the polished floor echoing softly. Bucky’s pace was quick, his shoulders set, each step purposeful. You followed in his wake, your mind racing with questions, frustration, and the unrelenting hope that he might finally give you the answers you sought.

He led you through the winding corridors of Annecy Estate, past servants who discreetly looked away, past grand rooms shrouded in shadows, until you reached a pair of large, double doors. The heavy wood gleamed in the dim light, their surface intricately carved with the Barnes family crest.

Bucky pushed the doors open, not looking back as he stepped inside. You faltered, the sight of his private chambers—a place you’d never set foot in—sending a shiver of uncertainty through you. But you took a deep breath and followed, crossing the threshold into his space.

The door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both in a cocoon of silence. The room was spacious, yet felt intimate. A large bed dominated one side, its dark, plush coverings pristine and untouched. Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, trinkets, and objects that seemed to whisper secrets of who Bucky was—who he had been before all this.

The air itself seemed heavy, saturated with his presence, his scent—a mix of cedarwood, leather, and something uniquely him—wrapping around you. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and made it hard to think clearly.

Bucky stood a few steps away, his back still to you as he exhaled slowly. Then, without a word, he shrugged off his jacket, letting it slide from his shoulders to land carelessly on the bed.

You stiffened, your eyes widening as he reached up, his fingers deftly undoing the cufflinks at his wrists. The small, metallic clinks of the cufflinks being set aside reverberated in the quiet room. A sense of disbelief warred with your anger and confusion as he moved with ease—removing the barriers of clothing one by one.

“What are you doing?” you whispered, your voice wavering despite your best effort to sound unbothered.

Bucky didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms corded with muscle and veined from tension. But as the fabric fell away, you saw it—his left arm gleaming under the soft light, the sleek, dark metal reflecting the flickering glow of the candles.

A lump formed in your throat as you stared, mesmerized by the sight of his vibranium arm. The intricate lines, the smooth surface… It was both a masterpiece and a reminder of something darker buried deep within Bucky’s past.

He caught the look in your eyes, the way your gaze lingered on his left arm, and his jaw tightened, vulnerability crossing his features.

“What I should have done at the start,” he murmured. With each unbuttoned piece of his attire, your pulse seemed to stutter, your chest tightening with the unfamiliar, heady sensation. He unbuttoned his shirt, the fabric parting to reveal the chiseled lines of his chest and abdomen, the faint scars that traced paths over his skin like echoes of battles fought and endured.

You swallowed hard, your gaze locked on him, helpless to look away. There was something achingly intimate about this—watching him undress not in a way that was seductive or calculated, but almost like he was shedding his armor, piece by piece.

“Bucky,” you began again, the name trembling on your lips. “I—”

He let the shirt fall to the ground, the fabric pooling at his feet. Standing there, bare-chested and exposed, he seemed both vulnerable and unbreakable. Then, he turned fully toward you, his gaze piercing as it held yours.

“Do you remember? I vaguely told you about this arm?” he asked softly, his voice strangely calm, almost detached. “It was not by choice. I was seized, shattered—my mind reconstructed piece by piece—starting with this.” He lifted the vibranium arm, his fingers flexing ever so slightly, the metal catching the dim light. “They mentally dismantled me until all that remained was this… weapon. Something to be wielded, something to be governed by another’s will.”

He paused, his gaze shifting away from you, staring down at the arm as if it were some loathsome thing, some cursed appendage that didn’t belong to him. “The arm became a reminder that I was no longer human—just a tool. Something to be wielded by others.” He exhaled sharply, a shudder running through him. “Even now, with the arm being mine again, I still feel… trapped by it.”

He stood in silence, his breathing slow and measured, his chest rising and falling with each deep inhale. For the first time, you were able to truly take him in—the strength in his body tempered by the vulnerability in his posture, the contrast of metal against flesh, the scars etched like battle lines over his skin. 

But what struck you most was the look on his face—head turned slightly to the side, his eyes downcast, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look at you.

And it was then that you realized.

He was ashamed.

Ashamed of what he’d become. Ashamed of what had been done to him. Ashamed of showing you this, of letting you see him like this—so utterly exposed, not just in body, but in everything he’d tried to hide from you.

The sight of him—stripped of every defense, every guise—stirred something deep within you. This man—the one who had wounded you, driven you away, barricaded himself from you—was now baring himself before you in a manner that spoke of desperation, a yearning to be seen, to be understood.

“Who else. . . knows of this?” You asked carefully.

“A selected amount of trusted people.” 

Though you longed to speak more, to utter something that might soothe the tempest raging in his eyes, words faltered on your tongue, trapped by the gravity of the moment. So instead, you remained silent, allowing yourself to absorb the image of him—each line, each imperfection, each fragment of who he was.

Slowly, tentatively, Bucky lifted his gaze. His eyes met yours, searching, imploring, as if hoping—begging—that you might see beyond the anger, beyond the hurt, and glimpse the man he truly was. The man he was trying to be.

He took a hesitant step forward, then another, until he was standing just a breath away. His hand twitched at his side, you thought he might reach for you. But instead, he did something that stole the breath from your lungs.

Without a word, Bucky sank to his knees before you.

The sight of him—this proud, indomitable man kneeling at your feet, his head bowed low—rendered you momentarily breathless. He appeared utterly defeated, his broad shoulders slumped as though bearing the weight of the world itself. His gaze remained fixed upon the floor, his hair falling forward, shrouding his face in shadow, concealing him from view.

And then he spoke, his voice so low, so raw, that it scarcely rose above a whisper.

“I beg for your forgiveness, my Queen.” he murmured, the words trembling with a pain so profound it caused your chest to tighten. “I apologize for every moment I made you feel as though you were isolated. For distancing myself from you when you were the only thing that kept me whole.”

Your hands tightened at your sides, the urge to reach out, to touch him, to offer solace warring with the resentment that still simmered beneath your skin. Yet you remained still, your gaze unwavering as you listened, waiting.

He swallowed hard, his throat bobbing with the movement, and his head dipped lower, as if the act of speaking these words cost him more than you could fathom.

“I’ve hurt you,” he continued, his voice fracturing. “I have distanced myself, not out of want, but out of fear—fear that you might perceive me for what I truly am—a shattered, ruined man who knows not how to be a husband. Nor a king.”

He lifted his head slightly then, his eyes glistening as they found yours once more. There was a desperation in his gaze, a pleading that cut through every barrier you’d tried to put up.

“I cannot undo the things I have done,” he whispered hoarsely. “I cannot alter what I have become. I desire to be better—for you. For you deserve nothing but the best.”

Your breath hitched, your chest tightening painfully as you stared down at him, the tears that had been burning at the back of your eyes threatening to spill over. This was James, laid bare before you—not the king, not the soldier, but the man who had been so afraid of his own darkness that he’d let it swallow him whole.

And now, here he was, kneeling at your feet, offering up his broken pieces in a desperate plea for forgiveness.

“Please,” he murmured, his voice barely more than a breath. “Please… tell me I haven’t lost you.”

Seeing him like this—so utterly stripped of every layer of pride and pretense—was something you could not bear to witness. Slowly, you stepped closer and you reached down, your fingers brushing gently against his shoulder.

“Rise, James,” you whispered, your voice soft yet firm, a command veiled in gentleness. “Stand.”

He hesitated, the weight of your touch sending a shiver through him. His gaze faltered, lingering on your hand as though it were a treasure beyond his worth. But when he finally looked up, the confusion and uncertainty in his eyes were laid bare, and for a moment, he seemed like a lost, wounded creature—hesitant, unsure of himself.

“Stand up,” you repeated, your tone stronger now, a note of steel beneath the tender veneer. “You are a king. A king kneels for no one.”

His brow furrowed, the wariness in his expression unmistakable as he continued to search your face. Your gaze held him steadily, refusing to let go, refusing to allow him to sink back into the shadows. Cautiously, he rose to his feet. Your hand, still resting lightly upon his arm, guiding him until he stood at his full height. He seemed even taller now, towering above you to the point where the top of your head barely reached his shoulders. 

You stepped closer, the space between you vanishing, your head tilting back as you looked up at him. Even though he loomed over you, his presence larger than life, the vulnerability in his eyes made your chest squeeze.

“Look at me,” you murmured, lifting your free hand to his face. Your movements were unhurried, as though you were giving him the chance to retreat if he so wished. But he remained still, his breath catching as your fingers grazed his cheek, tracing the strong line of his jaw before cupping his face with a touch that was achingly gentle.

“Y/N—” he breathed, his voice scarcely more than a murmur, the broken plea within it tugging at the deepest parts of you.

Your gaze softened, and with a tenderness that startled even yourself, you leaned in, the distance between you shrinking further until your forehead rested against his. His breath mingled with yours, uneven and labored, as if it were a struggle for him to simply remain standing.

Your thumb moved in a slow, careful caress against his skin, brushing away a single tear that had slipped past his defenses. He exhaled a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders ebbing as you held him close, his presence anchoring you as much as you were anchoring him.

“I see you,” you whispered softly, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth contained within those three simple words. 

His eyes closed for a fleeting moment, as if he were savoring the sweetness of your words, letting them seep into the deepest, most wounded parts of him. When he looked at you again, there was something different in his gaze—a depth of emotion that was almost too raw to bear.

“What is it that you see when you look at me?” he asked quietly.

You inhaled slowly, taking in the breadth of his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell with each labored breath, the fragility that lingered beneath the surface of his strength.

“I see a man who has faced battles no one should ever endure,” you murmured, your fingers tracing the line of his cheekbone with exquisite care, “a man who carries the weight of a crown and the burden of his past with more grace than he knows. I see the courage that others overlook, the goodness that still remains—hidden beneath the scars and the sorrow. I see the man you are, and the man you wish to become.”

A tremor ran through him, and he bowed his head, his forehead brushing against yours, the closeness of your bodies rendering words unnecessary. You felt the warmth of his breath against your lips, tasted the unspoken promise in the air between you.

“Tell me I am not lost to you,” he whispered, his voice breaking as if he were speaking through a pain too profound to voice. 

Your hand, still cradling his face, tilted his head upward, forcing him to meet your gaze. You held him there, your eyes burning with a fierce intensity that matched the storm within your own heart.

“You are not lost to me,” you vowed, your voice a quiet, resolute promise. “But I do not forgive you. . .yet.”

A breath of relief escaped him, a sound so soft and unsteady that it made your heart clench.

“Yet…” he repeated slowly, as if tasting the word on his tongue, a spark of hope flickering in his eyes. “Yet is good. Yet is hope.”

“Perhaps.”

A single tear slid down his cheek, and you brushed it away, your touch as light as a feather, a quiet acceptance in your gesture that left him breathless.

“I see you,” you whispered again, the words a balm to both your wounds. “All of you. And I am not afraid, I will not look away.”

A shuddering breath escaped him, his shoulders sagging as if a weight had been lifted from his soul. In this moment, there was no king and queen, no titles or formalities—just two people standing in the quiet aftermath of pain and sorrow, holding on to the hope of something more.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a broken whisper that reverberated through the stillness around you. “Thank you… for seeing me.”

You nodded slowly, the barest of smiles curving your lips as you let your forehead rest against his once more. And in that shared silence, amidst the chaos of emotions and the stillness of the night, you both found a measure of peace—however fleeting it may be.

You could feel it in the way his breath mingled with yours, in the way his hands shook ever so slightly as they hovered, uncertain, at your waist.

“James…” you breathed, his name falling from your lips like a prayer, a plea.

Something snapped within him then, the fragility giving way to an onslaught of need, desire—days of yearning and pain and longing surging forward all at once. His fingers tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, his lips crashing against yours with a fervor that stole the very breath from your lungs.

His lips were searing and desperate, and it had set your entire being aflame. He kissed you as though he were trying to brand his very soul onto yours, as if he were afraid that if he let go, you would vanish into the darkness that had claimed so much of his life.

Your hands tangled in his hair, fingers threading through the dark locks as you held him close, every ounce of your own longing and sorrow pouring into the kiss. His hands moved restlessly over your back, your sides, seeking to memorize the feel of you beneath his touch. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, coaxing you open, deepening the kiss until it felt as if you were drowning in him—lost to the overwhelming heat and passion of his embrace.

You gasped against his mouth, the sound swallowed by his fervent kiss, his lips trailing down to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the delicate skin of your neck. He pressed open-mouthed kisses there, each one reverent and almost frantic, as if he were both worshipping you and punishing himself for the times he had pushed you away.

“I have longed for you,” he murmured hoarsely, his voice a broken rasp against your skin. “Dreamt of you… even when I tried to bury it, to banish the thought of you from my mind… you were always there. Always.”

“Show me,” you whispered, your own voice trembling with the force of your emotions. 

And with a low, guttural sound, he obeyed, his hands gripping you tighter as he captured your lips once more. This kiss was slower, deeper, a languid exploration that felt like the unraveling of every barrier, every wall you had erected between each other. His mouth moved over yours with a tenderness that belied the intensity of his grip, as if he were pouring every unspoken word, every apology, into the kiss.

Your hands slid down to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath your palm, each pulse a testament to the life that still burned fiercely within him. You felt yourself sinking into him, the world narrowing until there was nothing but the feel of his lips on yours, the warmth of his body pressed against you. He kissed you until your lungs burned, until every thought melted away, leaving only the heady sensation of being entirely, irrevocably consumed by him.

When you finally pulled apart, gasping for air, 

the room was quiet, save for the soft crackle of the hearth in the corner and the faint rustling of fabric. Bucky’s hands had found the lacing of your dress, his fingers pausing there as if he were making some silent vow to himself.

“James…wait.” you whispered, your voice barely audible in the stillness. He remained unmoving, his fingers trembling slightly against your back, his breath fanning warmly against the nape of your neck.

“Do you wish me to stop?” he murmured, his tone strained, a mixture of longing and restraint warring within it.

Your throat tightened at the question, and you shook your head slowly, your heart pounding so loudly you were certain he could hear it. “No, I just. . . This is my first time bedding a man.”

Bucky froze, his hands stilling where they rested against your bare skin. His gaze, sharp and searching, locked onto yours.

“We don’t have to do this,” he murmured, voice soft yet firm, his breath mingling with yours as he leaned close. “Not if you don’t want to.”

You swallowed, the weight of his words hanging in the air between you. He had every right to you, every reason to expect this, and yet there was no demand in his eyes.

“But we must,” you whispered, your voice trembling slightly, a strange mix of conviction and uncertainty. “It’s our duty to consummate—”

“Fuck duty,” Bucky interrupted, his tone gentle yet edged with steel. He lifted your chin, holding you there, making sure you saw the truth in his eyes. “I don’t care about duty, or obligation, or what anyone else expects of us. The only thing I care about is you.”

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the raw intensity of his gaze.

“Tell me what you want,” he continued softly, his fingers tracing the line of your jaw. “Tell me if this is something you desire, if this is what you need. Because if it’s not—” His thumb brushed over your lower lip, his expression unyielding, determined. “Then we’ll stop right here.”

No one had ever given you this power, this choice. Not when so much rested on this union—on you fulfilling your role as his wife. And yet here he was, offering it all to you as if he didn’t care about anything but your comfort.

“James,” you whispered, your voice breaking on the word. You shook your head slowly, blinking away the sudden prick of tears. “I do desire this.”

His shoulders relaxed, the tension melting away as a soft, relieved smile curved his lips. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against yours, his breath warm and soothing on your skin.

“Then it’s only us,” he murmured, his voice a promise, a vow. “Tonight, it’s not for duty, not for the crown—just for us.”

You nodded, your hands sliding up to cup his face, feeling the roughness of his stubble beneath your palms. His lips brushed yours in the lightest of kisses, a tender affirmation of everything unspoken between you.

“Turn around,” he said softly.

Your heart raced as you complied, turning your back to him. His fingers, tentative at first, began to pull at the ribbons holding your gown together. Each tug loosened the fabric, releasing the tension along your spine. His knuckles brushed your skin as he worked, the contact igniting a fire beneath your flesh.

With each ribbon that came undone, the dress loosened further, slipping lower until it barely clung to your shoulders. You watched his reflection in the mirror—the way his eyes were fixed on you, his expression intense, almost reverent.

His hands hesitated at the last knot, his gaze lifting to meet yours in the mirror. The question in his eyes was clear: Are you sure? You gave a slight nod, your breath catching in anticipation.

Slowly, his hands moved upward, tracing the path of your spine until they reached your shoulders. With a gentle, deliberate motion, he slid the gown off your shoulders, the fabric gliding down your body until it pooled at your feet, leaving you exposed before him.

A shuddering breath escaped him. “You are… breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice hushed, as if speaking any louder would shatter the fragile intimacy of the moment.

His fingers lingered at the small of your back, his touch light but firm as though grounding himself. The heat of his gaze roamed over you, burning in its intensity. He dipped his head lower, brushing his lips over your bare shoulder, sending a ripple of sensation through you.

“Turn around,” he whispered, his tone filled with both command and entreaty.

You turned to face him, pulse racing. The look on his face—so raw, so utterly captivated—made your breath catch. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he hovered just above your skin. When he finally touched you, his palm resting gently against your waist, you could feel the restraint coiled within him, the careful control he was exercising.

“James, I…” You struggled to find the right words, but before you could speak, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, then your cheek, and finally, to the corner of your lips.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmured, his breath mingling with yours. “But if this becomes too much, if you want me to stop, just tell me, and I will.”

“Don’t stop,” you breathed, the words escaping you unbidden, honest.

His hands tightened on your waist, and with a careful, reverent touch, he lifted you slightly and guided you back to the bed. The thin chemise you wore shifted as he moved you, baring more of your skin, his eyes following every inch of exposed flesh.

His hands moved over you with a kind of restrained urgency, his touch both firm and achingly gentle. He leaned down, his mouth ghosting over the delicate skin at the base of your neck, his fingers tracing the path of your collarbone, your shoulder, your waist.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice strained, roughened with need.

You nodded, your fingers tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. “I’m sure, James. Just… be with me.”

His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that was slow and deep, a deliberate exploration that left you breathless. The world seemed to narrow to just the two of you—the taste of his lips, the warmth of his body pressing against yours, the steady, unrelenting need building between you.

He eased you back onto the bed, his weight a comforting presence above you. With a tenderness that made your chest ache, he began to kiss his way down your neck, your shoulder, his lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, resonant hum that sent shivers through you.

“It’s not,” you whispered, your voice a breathless sigh as your hands roamed over his back, the hard planes of his chest. “You’re perfect.”

He smiled against your skin, his breath hot and unsteady. “No, my queen. You’re the perfect one.”

He captured your mouth in another kiss, deeper this time, his hands cradling your face with a gentleness that felt like worship. And as he moved against you, every touch, every kiss a testament to how much he cared, you felt yourself falling, losing yourself in the man who was giving you everything—his heart, his soul, his very breath.

There’s something so surreal about what’s happening that your mind can’t fully process it. It feels like you’re watching a play—like it can’t possibly be you in this situation.

You’re lying on your side, facing him. His hands are on your skin—slightly rough, callused. Warm against your chilled flesh. Strong, though he’s not using that strength right now. He could subdue you with ease, but there’s no need. 

He kisses you again, his lips lingering as his hands move over your arm, your back, your neck, your outer thigh. His touch is gentle, yet firm, each caress feeling like a exploration. It’s almost as if he’s giving you a massage, except you can feel the sexual intent behind his actions.

He dips his head lower, his mouth finding the sensitive spot where your neck and shoulder meet. His teeth graze your skin lightly, and a shiver runs through you at the pleasurable sensation. Your eyes flutter shut, overwhelmed by the unexpected tenderness. It’s disarming, this gentleness of his, but at the same time, you feel… cherished.

One of his hands slides down, resting on your backside, kneading the soft flesh with a touch that’s both possessive and comforting. His other hand travels upward, skimming over your belly, tracing the curve of your rib cage. When he finally reaches your breast, he cups you in his palm, squeezing lightly—just enough to make you catch your breath. Your nipples are already hard, and his touch feels good, almost soothing.

Each movement, each touch, feels like a silent vow—a promise to show you everything he’s capable of giving, as if he’s trying to communicate with you through every caress. And you let yourself get lost in it, in the heady sensation of being completely, utterly his.

You keep your eyes shut as he gently rolls you onto your back. He’s partially on top of you, but most of his weight rests on the bed. He doesn’t want to crush you, you realize, and a sense of gratitude washes over you. He lowers his head, placing tender kisses along your collarbone, your shoulder, your stomach. His mouth is hot, and each kiss leaves a moist trail on your skin, setting it aflame.

Then he closes his lips around your right nipple and sucks lightly. Your body arches instinctively, a wave of tension pooling low in your belly. He repeats the action on your other nipple, his mouth warm and demanding, and the tension inside you deepens, intensifies. He senses it—of course, he does—because his hand moves lower, venturing between your thighs and feeling the slick evidence of your desire.

His fingers explore gently, and you can’t help but let out a soft gasp as your body responds to his touch, the pressure building, tightening. Every sensation blurs into the next, leaving you helpless under his slow, deliberate ministrations.

“Does it feel good, my queen?” he murmurs, stroking your folds with maddening precision.

A whimper escapes your lips as his mouth travels lower, the tickle of his hair brushing against your heated skin. You know what he intends, and your mind blanks out when he reaches his destination. For a moment, instinct makes you try to resist, but he effortlessly pulls your legs apart, spreading you open to him.

His fingers part your folds gently, exposing you completely to his gaze. Then he lowers his head and kisses you there, sending a jolt of electric heat through your entire body. His skilled mouth licks and nibbles around your sensitive clit until you’re moaning, your fingers clutching at the sheets. Then he closes his lips around it and lightly sucks.

The pleasure is so intense, so unexpected, that your eyes fly open in shock. You don’t understand what’s happening to you, and it’s terrifying. You’re burning from the inside out, throbbing between your legs. Your heart is racing so fast you can barely catch your breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you find yourself panting, gasping for air.

“B…Bucky, am I supposed to feel this way?” you ask, your voice trembling with a mix of innocence and confusion.

His only response is a deep, throaty groan against you, the sound vibrating through your core and making your breath hitch. The gentle puffs of his breath against your slick skin make you shiver, and when you instinctively try to pull away—overwhelmed by the intensity of his mouth—he tightens his grip, holding you steady. His hands are strong yet careful, firm but tender, keeping you in place with ease.

“You’re close my queen, I’ll take you there.” he murmurs against your flesh, his voice low and rough, filled with a dark, sensual promise.

He doesn’t relent, his tongue working you with maddening speed, teasing and tasting, drawing out soft whimpers and gasps from your lips. The pleasure builds higher and higher, a wave crashing over you, making you feel like you’re on the verge of shattering. His hands keep you grounded, his touch both possessive and gentle as he guides you through every pulse, every tremor of sensation.

You cry out, your body twisting and arching, but he holds you steady, not letting you escape the overwhelming pleasure that has you unraveling beneath him. It’s too much, too intense, and yet you don’t want it to end—you can’t imagine it ending.

“Let go for me,” he breathes, the words a command and a plea all at once, his mouth never stopping its sinful work. “Just let go, I have you.”

The tension inside you is building, coiling tighter and tighter, until it feels unbearable. You’re squirming against his mouth, pushing and pulling at the same time, your body caught in a desperate dance. Each flick of his tongue, each graze of his teeth, sends you spiraling closer to some elusive, dangerous edge.

And then, with a soft cry, you go over it.

Your entire body tightens, muscles locking as you’re overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure so intense that your vision blurs. Your toes curl, your back arches off the bed, and you feel your inner muscles pulse in rapid, uncontrollable spasms.

You realize, in a dazed, breathless haze, that you’ve just had an orgasm, your first. Your limbs feel like jelly, your skin flushed and trembling as the aftershocks ripple through you. 

He doesn’t move away immediately, his mouth lingering, pressing soft kisses to your sensitive flesh as he murmurs soothing words, guiding you gently back down from the heights of ecstasy.

The first orgasm of your life. And it was at the hands—or rather the mouth—of your husband. Your open your eyes again. But he’s not done with you yet. He crawls up your body and kisses your mouth again. He tastes differently now, salty, with a slightly musky undertone. It’s from you, you realize. You’re tasting yourself on his lips. 

A hot wave of embarrassment rolls through your body even as the hunger inside you intensifies. His kiss is more carnal than before, rougher. His tongue penetrates your mouth in an obvious imitation of the sexual act, and his hips settle heavily between your legs. 

One of his hands is holding the back of your head, while another one is between your thighs, lightly rubbing and stimulating me again. You don’t really resist, although your body tenses as the nervousness returns. You can feel the heat and hardness of his erection pushing against your inner thigh, and you know it’s going to hurt you. 

“J-James,” you whisper, opening your eyes to look at him. “Please take it slow . . . I’ve never done this before—” 

His nostrils flare, and his eyes gleam brighter. “Of course, my queen,” he murmurs softly. His voice is low and soothing, yet it carries a promise—a vow to be careful, to go at your pace.

With trembling hands, he hastily undoes his trousers, pushing them down just enough. When he shifts back slightly, his length springs free, standing thick and proud between you. Your eyes widen as you take him in—long and intimidatingly hard, the sight making your heart race with a mixture of anticipation and fear.

He notices your gaze and the way you bite your lower lip, your apprehension clear as your eyes trace every inch of him. Swallowing hard, you try to reconcile how something that large could possibly fit inside you.

“Tell me to stop, and I will,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. He reaches out, gently brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers, grounding you with the softness of his touch. “You have my word.”

Your gaze flickers back to his, and despite the nervousness thrumming through your veins, you nod slowly. “Don’t stop, I want this.”

Then he shifts his hips slightly, using one hand to guide himself to your entrance. You gasp as the tip of his cock nudges against your slick folds, then slowly, carefully, begins to push inside. You’re wet, but your body tenses, resisting the unfamiliar intrusion. You saw how big he is, but the sensation of him stretching you now feels overwhelming—impossibly large as he inches his way into your body.

Pain flares, a sharp burning that makes you cry out, your hands flying up to press against his shoulders. His eyes, dark and intense, lock onto yours, his pupils blown wide with the effort of holding back. Beads of sweat form along his brow, and you realize he’s straining to keep himself under control.

“Relax, Y/N,” he whispers harshly, his voice taut. “It will hurt less if you relax.”

You’re trembling, body taut like a bowstring, unable to follow his advice because you’re too nervous—too overwhelmed by the pain. It’s too much, having even a little bit of him inside you. You clutch at his shoulders, your fingers digging in his skin as your body fights to accommodate him.

But he’s relentless, his jaw clenched tightly as he continues to press forward, his thick girth stretching you inch by agonizing inch. Your flesh gives way slowly, reluctantly, the resistance in your body fierce, but he doesn’t stop. He won’t stop. Each slow push is a battle, and the pain sharpens, your eyes squeezing shut as you sob quietly, nails scratching at his back.

“Shhh, breathe for me, my queen,” he murmurs, his voice strained. He’s trembling too, every muscle in his body tense as he’s fighting against himself.

He pauses for a second, buried halfway inside, his breath coming in ragged pants. A prominent vein pulses near his temple, his face contorted with effort. He looks like he’s in pain—suffering even—but you know the truth. This is pleasurable for him, this act that’s hurting you so much. The realization makes your chest tighten, but before you can say anything, he lowers his head, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, his voice breaking. And then, before you can process his words, he pushes forward again—firmly, unyieldingly—tearing through the thin membrane inside you with a single thrust.

You almost black out from the pain.

A cry bursts from your lips, the pain flaring white-hot as he stills, his full length now buried deep within you and it’s the most agonizingly invasive thing you’ve ever experienced. He doesn’t move, his hips pressed firmly against yours, his breath coming in harsh, unsteady gasps above you. 

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice strained but soothing as he keeps himself perfectly still, letting your body adjust around him. He’s so much larger than you, so much stronger. His forehead rests against yours, his eyes squeezed shut, his entire being focused on not moving an inch.

Your chest rises and falls in ragged breaths, your body trembling beneath him. The pain is sharp, throbbing, but there’s something else now—a sense of fullness, of being completely joined with him. His fingers slide down to entwine with yours, holding your hands as though anchoring you both.

“Just… breathe,” he whispers again, his voice barely more than a ragged breath.

It’s a long, aching moment before the pain begins to ebb, your body slowly, tentatively adjusting to the size of him. You open your eyes, meeting his gaze, and in that instant, you see it all—his struggle, his desire, and his absolute devotion to you.

“James… you can move,” you whisper, your voice shaking.

He lets out a shuddering breath, his eyes closing briefly in relief. “Are you sure?”

You nod, squeezing his hands. “Yes. I… I want you to.”

Slowly, carefully, he withdraws an inch, then pushes back in, the movement sending a jolt of sensation through you. It still hurts, but there’s something else now—something warm and electric, something that has your breath catching in your throat.

Initially, his movements only make it worse, each thrust adding to the agony as your body struggles to accommodate him. The pain is sharp, your muscles instinctively tightening around him, and it’s all you can do to keep from crying out. You grit your teeth, your breath hitching as he fills you completely, stretching you in a way that feels both impossible and overwhelming.

He watches you closely, his eyes never leaving your face as he moves again, each slow thrust careful, controlled. The pain begins to blur at the edges, each movement bringing with it a new kind of pleasure, subtle but building with each careful stroke.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs, his voice rough and hushed. “I’ll stop. Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

But you shake your head, your body slowly relaxing beneath him. “Don’t stop,” you whisper, your voice trembling but resolute. “Please… don’t stop.”

And so he doesn’t, his movements becoming a little deeper, a little steadier as he pulls you both into a rhythm, a dance of slow, aching intimacy that leaves you breathless.

Sensing your discomfort, he pauses, his brow furrowing in concern. His hand slips between your bodies, finding your sensitive clit. He strokes it softly, his finger moving in slow, gentle circles. The sensation is startling, a ripple of unexpected pleasure that momentarily distracts you from the pain. You whimper, your hips shifting reflexively as he keeps his touch light and steady, his thumb brushing over your swollen flesh with expert precision.

“Focus on this,” he murmurs, his voice a rough whisper. “Just this, love.”

You try, your mind grasping onto the pleasure he’s coaxing out of you. It’s small at first, a subtle flicker against the backdrop of pain, but it grows stronger, more insistent as he continues to tease you. His hips resume their slow, steady rhythm, moving your body in tandem with his hand, each thrust pushing you against his fingers.

The tension begins to gather inside you again. The pain is still there, but it’s changing, being slowly overtaken by the pleasure. Your breath hitches, your body responding despite itself, and you feel a flush spread across your skin. It’s almost maddening, how he manages to draw both pain and pleasure from you at the same time, your body caught in the push and pull of conflicting sensations.

“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice strained, as if he’s fighting against something deep within himself. “You’re doing so well, Y/N… so beautiful like this.”

You’re writhing beneath him now, every muscle trembling as he moves with agonizing slowness, his hips rocking against yours. The pressure builds, the friction of his length inside you both painful and electrifying. You let out a soft cry, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

And then something shifts in him. His control falters. He growls low in his throat, the sound vibrating through your chest as his movements change—becoming less measured, less restrained. 

“Yes—Oh, my God—James,” Your hands travel down until they settled on his bottom, urging him to plunge into you harder. His thrusts deepen, the careful rhythm faltering as he pulls back only to push back in harder, the motion sending a jolt of pleasurable sensation through you.

“Fuck,” he grits out, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fights for control. “You’re so tight, my queen, it feels so good.” His voice is rough, the words almost guttural, and you can feel the tension radiating off him, the way his hands tighten on your hips as if he’s trying to hold himself back.

But he can’t.

With a shuddering breath, he shifts again, his hand stilling between your legs as both of his arms come up to cradle your body. He draws back, just enough to look at you, his gaze fierce and dark, filled with a hunger that takes your breath away.

“I can’t… I’m sorry, I can’t—” His voice breaks, and then he’s moving again, harder this time, his control slipping completely. 

“It feels good, James—keep going.” You reassured him, through a needy whimper.

His hips snap forward, his pace increasing as he pushes into you with a force that has you crying out. Each thrust is deeper, harder, driving the air from your lungs, and the pain flares, bright and searing. But underneath it, the pleasure grows—an insistent, throbbing heat that coils low in your belly.

Bucky’s losing himself, the careful restraint he’d shown before unraveling with every push and pull of his body. You can feel it in the way he holds you, the way his breath comes in harsh, uneven gasps against your skin.

“James…!” you sob, your body arching beneath him as he drives into you. He grunts in response, the sound raw, almost animalistic. His pace is relentless now, his thrusts coming faster, harder, each one dragging a mixture of pain and pleasure from you that has you trembling, gasping.

“Fuck, you’re perfect… you’re taking me so well,” he groans, his voice strained and desperate. His hands move to your thighs, lifting them slightly to angle you just right, and then he’s pounding into you with strength that leaves you breathless, your fingers scrabbling against his back.

“God, you’re so tight, so wet—” His words are a growl, his teeth grazing your neck as he buries himself to the hilt, his body shuddering against yours. “Can’t hold back… can’t—”

He pulls almost all the way out, back hunching, and then slams back in, the impact sending a shockwave through you. You cry out, your nails raking down his back, but he doesn’t stop. He’s completely lost now, his hips snapping forward with a brutal, punishing rhythm that has you writhing beneath him, the world narrowing to the feel of him inside you, the way he’s filling you so completely.

“James, please—” You don’t know what you’re asking for, your mind a blur of sensation as he drives you higher, closer to that precipice.

“Come for me,” he demands, his voice a rough command in your ear. “I need to feel you—need to feel you fall apart around me.”

He reaches between your bodies again, his fingers finding your swollen clit, rubbing it with just enough pressure to push you over the edge. The pleasure crashes into you like a tidal wave, your body seizing, muscles clamping down around him as you scream his name.

Your orgasm tears through you with blinding intensity, your inner walls fluttering, clenching around him as the world dissolves into darkness. You’re only dimly aware of him groaning above you, his hips jerking as he follows you over the edge, his release pulsing deep within you. He holds himself there, buried to the hilt, his body trembling as he spills into you, his voice a raw, broken sound in your ear.

Slowly, the tension eases, the fire burning through your veins gradually fading to a warm, languid glow. He pulls out carefully, his movements gentle, and you wince at the sudden emptiness. But before you can say anything, he’s gathering you into his arms, rolling to the side and pulling you close.

His chest rises and falls against your back, his breath still uneven as he wraps himself around you, holding you tightly.

“Are you okay?” he whispers, his voice rough and full of concern. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then your cheek, his hands stroking your hair soothingly.

You nod weakly, leaning into his embrace, your body still trembling with the aftershocks of your release. “Yes… I’m okay.”

He lets out a long, shaky breath, his grip tightening for a moment before he relaxes, his body curving protectively around yours.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, his voice soft and broken. “I didn’t mean to hurt you… I tried, but I couldn’t—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you interrupt gently, reaching up to brush your fingers over his cheek. He closes his eyes, his forehead resting against yours. He holds you close, his warmth and presence surrounding you.

× × × ×

The soft, predawn light filtered through the heavy drapes, casting a muted glow over the bedchamber. The air was still, the quiet broken only by the faint rustle of sheets and the soft murmur of voices. 

You lay nestled against Bucky’s chest, your fingers idly tracing patterns along the ridges of his muscles, your body relaxed and warmth from the shared intimacy of the night before.

Bucky’s lips curved into a small smile, his gaze tender as he watched you, his hand absently stroking your hair. “Did I mention that you’re even more beautiful in the morning?” he murmured softly, his voice still rough with sleep.

You gave a soft, breathless laugh, shifting closer until your nose brushed against his. “You’re not too bad yourself, Your Majesty.”

The playful response earned you a gentle kiss, his lips brushing against yours with a adoration that made your heart flutter. What started as a brief caress deepened, his hand sliding to the small of your back, holding you close as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable.

The world beyond the room felt like a distant memory—a place that no longer mattered. There was only the two of you, cocooned in the warmth of the bed, the connection between you forged anew in the quiet hours of the night. His presence, once a source of confusion and pain, had become your anchor, steadying you amidst the swirling uncertainty that had defined your marriage until now.

His lips moved against yours, tender and sure, conveying what words never could. You sighed into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his hair as you allowed yourself to get lost in him once more. He responded with a low hum of approval, his hand slipping beneath the sheets to settle against your bare skin—

And then the door to the chamber swung open.

“James, I have told you time and time again that you must learn to prioritize your du—”

“Your Majesty!” a voice interrupted suddenly—Captain Rogers. He stepped into the doorway, eyes wide with alarm as he held out a hand, trying to stop the Queen Dowager from taking another step. “Wait! Please, I—”

But it was too late. Queen Winifred breezed past him with a sharp frown, completely oblivious to his warning. Steve barely had time to avert his gaze, he’d caught a glimpse of you and Bucky in the bed, your figures entangled in a state of undress. The faintest hint of a flush crept up Steve’s neck as he clenched his jaw, his discomfort visible as he hastily stepped back, turning his head away with an almost comical speed.

The shock on her face was unmistakable, her eyes wide as she took in the sight before her—Bucky leaning over you, the two of you tangled together, the sheets barely covering your exposed skin. Your hair was tousled, your eyes still half-lidded with the lingering haze of sleep and intimacy.

“Mother—” Bucky choked out, his own shock quickly replaced by a fierce protectiveness. He moved in a flash, yanking the covers higher, shielding your body from view even as his gaze flickered with annoyance and embarrassment.

Your heart leapt into your throat, your face burning with mortification as you tried to hide behind the blankets, only partially successful. But the Queen Dowager had already turned to her back, her back ramrod straight, her shoulders tense as she stared resolutely at the doorframe. One hand clutched at the delicate fan she carried, the edge of it trembling slightly, the motion so subtle it was almost imperceptible.

“I—good heavens,” she stammered, uncharacteristically flustered. “I… I had no idea—”

Bucky shifted beside you, his voice strained but composed. “Your timing, as always, is impeccable, Mother.”

The sarcasm in his tone was enough to snap the Dowager Queen out of her daze. She cleared her throat, her fingers tightening around the fan as she lifted it to shield her face, the delicate lace trembling as she snapped it open.

“I… I came to speak with you about your lack of action at your own honeymoon, but… clearly, this is not the appropriate time.”

“No,” Bucky agreed, a trace of amusement lacing his words now. “It is not.”

“Right. Well.” The Queen Dowager’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the fan even tighter, holding it as if it could somehow ward off the awkwardness of the situation. “Carry on. I… I shall speak with you later, James.”

And without another word, she turned around sharply, retreating from the room, her face hidden behind the fan as she passed a mortified Steve, who did his best to look anywhere but at his queen or king.

As Winifred left the room, Steve allowed himself one final glance before swiftly stepping aside, his gaze meeting Bucky’s for just the briefest moment. The look of sheer exasperation and embarrassment on Bucky’s face made Steve fight the urge to smirk, though he wisely kept his expression neutral.

Instead, he took a step back, cleared his throat awkwardly, and called out, “I’ll, uh… ensure no one else disturbs Your Majesties.”

“See that you do,” Bucky muttered dryly, shaking his head as he turned his attention back to you.

Steve quickly retreated down the hallway, disappearing around the corner, leaving the two of you alone once more.

You stared at the closed door, your mind struggling to process what had just happened, the lingering haze of sleep and the afterglow of intimacy shattered in an instant. Slowly, you turned to Bucky, who was staring at the door with a bemused expression, his lips twitching with suppressed laughter.

“I suppose that’s one way to inform her we’ve consummated the marriage,” he remarked dryly, his gaze sliding back to you, a wicked glint in his eye.

You gaped at him, incredulous. “You find this amusing?”

He shrugged, the movement causing the sheets to slip down, exposing more of his bare chest. “I find it… effective.”

Despite yourself, a startled laugh bubbled up, the absurdity too much to ignore. You shook your head, your shoulders shaking with silent mirth as the tension dissolved.

“I don’t know whether to be mortified or relieved,” you admitted, pressing a hand to your flushed face. “She’ll never look at me the same way again.”

Bucky’s expression softened, and he reached out to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing lightly over your skin. “I doubt she’ll ever stop looking at you as the formidable woman who dared to march to Annecy in the middle of the night just to confront me,” he murmured, his gaze filled with warmth and something deeper, something that made your heart ache in the most wonderful way. “But now… she’ll see you as something more. As someone who has claimed what is rightfully hers.”

He leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, the taste of him sweet and familiar. “And that, my queen, is nothing to be ashamed of.”

You smiled against his lips, your hands sliding up to rest against his chest, savoring the feel of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips.

“No,” you whispered, “it’s not.”

And with that, you pulled him back down to you, the Queen Dowager and the world outside forgotten once more.

× × × ×

The grand marble steps leading up to the main palace seemed to stretch endlessly as you and Bucky ascended side by side. The palace loomed above you, its spires piercing the sky, but there was a comfort in its familiarity, a sense of returning home. Guards and servants bowed low, murmuring, “Your Majesties,” as you both passed. Bucky’s hand rested on the small of your back, steady and sure, his thumb absently brushing over the silk fabric of your gown.

The Great Hall is bustling with activity, the murmur of voices rising and falling like waves crashing against the shore. Citizens from all walks of life fill the space—farmers, merchants, artisans, and healers—each awaiting their turn to approach the king. Bucky sits on the gilded throne, his posture regal, yet his gaze is softer than usual, focused not on the people but on you seated beside him on a smaller chair.

One by one, the citizens present their concerns—requests for land disputes, grievances with local laws, petitions for aid after a particularly harsh winter. Bucky listens attentively, his expression thoughtful, but more often than not, his gaze shifts to you.

“What do you think, my queen?” he asks, his voice steady and genuine.

The first time he did, you hesitated, taken aback by the sudden attention. But Bucky’s eyes were reassuring, filled with the unspoken message that he trusted your judgment. So you spoke, and your advice—though tentative at first—was well-received.

Now, you sit straight-backed, exuding a quiet confidence as you consider each matter carefully before responding.

The citizens have begun to murmur among themselves about your growing role in the king’s court. Whispers of admiration mingle with doubt—some marveling at your wisdom, others wondering if the king’s indulgence will lead to reckless decisions.

The ripple of tension becomes tangible when Lord Carter steps forward, a calculating smile tugging at his lips. He bows low to Bucky, the motion exaggerated, then turns his attention to you, his eyes gleaming with thinly veiled skepticism.

“Your Majesties,” he begins smoothly, his tone dripping with courtesy, “it is a pleasure to see our king back on the throne. And to witness our gracious queen actively participating in the affairs of the realm… It is most intriguing.”

You return his smile with politeness, though you can feel Bucky stiffen beside you. Lord Carter is known for his silver tongue, and his words are never as benign as they seem. “I am merely assisting where I can, Lord Carter,” you reply, keeping your voice even.

“Of course, of course,” he agrees with a dismissive wave of his hand. “And yet, I wonder if Your Majesty’s counsel might not be too… idealistic?” He pauses, letting the word hang in the air. “Take the recent suggestion to provide seeds to the farmers affected by the blight. While generous, such a proposal could strain the treasury and set a precedent for the crown to supply every failed harvest. Perhaps the wiser course would be to consider less costly alternatives.”

Murmurs of agreement and disagreement spread through the hall, eyes shifting between Lord Carter and you, waiting to see how you would respond.

You keep your composure, though you feel the heat of scrutiny pressing down on you. “I appreciate your concern for the treasury, Lord Carter,” you say, your tone calm and measured. “However, a stable food supply is the backbone of our kingdom’s prosperity. If we let the farmers struggle, they will plant less next season, leading to higher prices and unrest among the lower classes. The cost of seeds is an investment in our future, one that will yield far more than it costs us now.”

Lord Carter’s eyes narrow, his smile tightening. “An investment, indeed. But how do we ensure that the investment is not squandered? Some farmers may take advantage of the crown’s generosity, and others may fail despite our aid. What then?”

You do not falter. “We will monitor the situation closely, sending representatives to oversee the distribution and usage of resources. We will also encourage local communities to form cooperative groups, ensuring that each village has a stake in its own success. This way, we not only provide aid but empower our people to be self-sufficient.”

A ripple of approval spreads through the hall. Even those who had been skeptical seem impressed by your thoughtfulness. Bucky’s gaze never wavers from you, pride shining in his eyes as you calmly hold your ground.

Lord Carter, however, is not finished. “And what of the well that dried up in Westport? Your suggestion to dig a new one may seem like a straightforward solution, but have you considered the possibility that the source may have been permanently depleted? If that’s the case, no amount of digging will restore it. Should we not consider relocating the village instead?”

Gasps of shock and disbelief echo through the hall. Relocating an entire village is an extreme measure, one that would displace hundreds of families and disrupt countless lives. Your hands tighten around the armrests of your chair, but you force yourself to remain calm.

“Relocation should always be a last resort,” you reply firmly. “The engineers we send will first conduct a thorough survey to determine if the well’s depletion is a result of temporary shifts or a permanent change in the water table. If it is found to be permanent, then we can discuss the feasibility of relocation. But I will not uproot our people without exhausting every option to preserve their homes.”

For a moment, there is silence. Then, a slow clap echoes through the hall. 

Lord Carter’s smile is sharp, predatory. “Well said, Your Majesty. It seems you have given this more thought than I assumed. I only hope your efforts yield the desired results.”

Bucky’s jaw tightens, and he leans forward slightly, his gaze fixed on Lord Carter. “I trust my queen’s judgment, Lord Carter. She has proven herself more than capable of understanding the intricacies of governance.” His voice is low, but it carries an unmistakable warning.

Lord Carter inclines his head, the smile never leaving his lips. “Of course, Your Majesty. It was never my intention to suggest otherwise. I merely wish to ensure that our realm remains strong and our resources wisely managed.”

With a final bow, Lord Carter steps back, leaving you and Bucky to exchange a glance. There is a question in Bucky’s eyes—Are you all right?

You give a slight nod, your lips curving into a determined smile. Yes, you seem to say without words. I am.

Bucky’s fingers brush against yours once more, a silent vow of support and solidarity. “Then let it be known,” he announces, his voice ringing out across the hall, “that from this day forward, Queen Y/N will sit beside me in all matters of governance. Her voice is to be heard and her counsel considered as equal to mine.”

The hall erupts into applause and murmurs of approval, but the hard gleam in Lord Carter’s eyes does not fade. He bows once more, his smile inscrutable, and turns away.

You watch him go, your heart steady. Whatever games Lord Carter intends to play, you are ready.

And you will not lose.

× × × ×

The grand council chamber now buzzed with tension, the gathered noblemen exchanging wary glances as Bucky faced them from the head of the long table. Prime Minister Fury, Lord Pierce, and the representatives of House Stark, House Romanoff, House Maximoff, House Odinson, House Quill, and House Carter were all present, each of them bearing the weight of their house’s influence and expectations.

It was a subtle standoff, a test of authority cloaked in polite words and thinly veiled demands.

You hadn't meant to overhear—you had only been wandering the halls when you stumbled upon the slightly ajar double doors and the raised voices inside. But something kept you rooted in place, your pulse quickening as you realized who was speaking.

Prime Minister Fury broke the silence first, his gaze sharp and unrelenting as it settled on Bucky. “Your Majesty, forgive our persistence, but it’s been weeks since your marriage, and… the court is rife with speculation.”

You leaned closer, eyes narrowing as you strained to hear. You couldn’t see Bucky’s face from where you stood, but the tautness in his voice was unmistakable.

“Speculation?” His voice was low, a dangerous undercurrent running through it. “What sort of speculation?”

A murmur rippled through the room, and Lord Haynesworth, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking. “There have been… questions, Your Majesty. Questions regarding… well… whether the marriage has been properly consummated.”

Your heart lurched at the word, heat rushing to your cheeks in a mix of embarrassment and anger. Was that what this was about? They were discussing your private life as if it were some kind of public spectacle, something to be scrutinized and judged.

“Do not make us ask the question outright, Your Majesty,” Prime Minister Fury said finally, his tone edged with steel. “But we must know. The stability of the Crown depends on it. If the marriage has not been consummated, the legitimacy of the union—and of any future heirs—could be called into question.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy. You could practically feel Bucky’s gaze sweeping over each lord, daring them to press further.

“This is not your concern,” he bit out finally, each word clipped and seething with frustration. “This is my marriage. My business.”

“Your marriage is our concern,” Fury countered, leaning forward slightly, his gaze unflinching. “It’s palace business, Parliament business, the business of the entire country! You cannot pretend otherwise.”

“The king’s marriage must be above reproach,” Lord Pierce interjected, his voice low but firm. “Without a legitimate heir, the crown’s stability—”

“Do not speak to me of stability!” Bucky snapped, his voice like a whip crack through the chamber. You jumped at the sound, your breath catching in your throat as the tension in the room thickened. “You told me I had to marry her for the sake of the Crown. I did.”

Silence fell, thick and heavy.

“You told me I had to charm her, to win her favor, to make her compliant to the needs of the Crown. I did that too,” he continued, his voice dropping to a low, menacing growl.

“Then you told me to keep her at arm’s length, to keep her from knowing me, because a king must always protect the secrets of his realm.” He let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “I have followed every command, every directive, without fail. And now, you dare to demand this?”

The room seemed to shrink under the intensity of his gaze, the noblemen exchanging uncertain glances but remaining silent.

“You want to know if I’ve bedded her?” Bucky’s voice was soft now, deadly. “Yes. I have. Does that satisfy you?”

Prime Minister Fury held his ground, though the tension in his shoulders betrayed his discomfort. “We must be sure, Your Majesty. The matter is not only about what is done but also about what is seen to be done. You must—”

“I must?” Bucky’s voice rose, the sound reverberating through the chamber like thunder. “I have done everything you’ve demanded of me! From the moment I took my first breath, it was hammered into me that my life was for the happiness or the misery of this great nation. That I must act, speak, feel in accordance with the needs of the Crown!”

His breathing quickened, his fists clenching at his sides as he struggled to contain the rage boiling within him.

“I am the image of duty,” he yelled, voice shaking with barely contained fury. “The Crown is embedded in me, lodged like a blade through my heart. You do not need to remind me of what is at stake.”

Lord Haynesworth shifted uneasily, his gaze flickering to the others before speaking cautiously. “Your Majesty, we are not questioning your dedication. But if the queen is not—”

“Do not speak of her.” Bucky’s tone was a low, dangerous growl. “She is my wife. Her worth is not for you to decide.”

A murmur of surprise swept through the chamber, the lords exchanging startled looks at the vehemence in his voice. They hadn’t said a word against the queen, yet Bucky’s defense of you was fierce, unwavering. As if the mere thought of anyone questioning you sent a surge of anger through him.

“Your Majesty, we only ask—”

“I have done my part,” Bucky interrupted coldly. “I will continue to do it, no matter the cost. But if any of you dare question her again, you will regret it.”

You stared, wide-eyed, at the scene unfolding before you, your heart beating loudly in your chest. 

“Your Majesty, we’re merely trying to ensure the Crown’s safety. If the queen does not—”

“Enough!” Bucky roared, the sound echoing through the chamber, making the noblemen flinch. “I have bedded her. I have fulfilled my duty. That is all you need to know.”

He turned on his heel, his cloak swirling behind him as he stalked toward the doors. Just before he reached them, he paused, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper.

“This meeting is dismissed.”

You stepped back quickly, heart racing as he stormed out, his expression thunderous. As the heavy doors closed behind him, you glanced back through the narrow gap, your heart still pounding.

A murmur of voices rose, low and uncertain.

“He has finally done it, then,” Lord Haynesworth muttered, a hint of relief in his tone.

“Good,” Lord Pierce nodded, his fingers tapping thoughtfully against the table. “Then there’s still hope that we can secure an heir.”

“We need to tread carefully,” Prime Minister Fury agreed. “But with the consummation complete, it’s a step forward. We must focus now on ensuring that an heir is conceived swiftly.”

A ripple of murmured agreement passed through the room, the tension easing just slightly as the weight of this particular matter began to lift.

Lord Carter, who had been silent until now, cleared his throat softly, a thoughtful smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Gentlemen, let us not forget… they have only just begun their marriage. We must allow time for nature to take its course.”

The other lords exchanged cautious nods, the relief growing as they considered his words.

“Quite right, Lord Carter,” Lord Pierce agreed. “We have time yet. If they continue in this manner, an heir will follow soon enough.”

Prime Minister Fury’s gaze lingered on the closed doors, his expression inscrutable. “But if this proves to be the only victory… if no heir is conceived…”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Lord Carter interrupted smoothly, his smile widening ever so slightly. “For now, we should be pleased that the matter has progressed this far. Let us not trouble ourselves unnecessarily.”

As the lords exchanged nods and the tension began to dissipate, Lord Carter’s smile widened ever so slightly. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming lightly against the polished wood of the table. It was a small, almost dismissive gesture, as though he were content to let the matter lie.

But not everyone in the chamber seemed convinced.

Lord Stark, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly, watched Lord Carter with a scrutiny that went unnoticed by most of the others. There was something in the smooth way the man spoke, the casual ease with which he guided the conversation, that set Stark’s teeth on edge. He’d seen men like Carter before—men who wielded their influence like a blade hidden beneath velvet.

He glanced to his right, catching Lord Thor Odinson’s gaze. The two exchanged a wordless look—Thor’s brow furrowing ever so slightly, as if he too sensed the undercurrent of manipulation threading through the discussion.

“Lord Carter speaks wisely,” Stark said slowly, his voice carefully measured as he turned his gaze back to the man in question. “We must be patient.”

Lord Carter’s smile widened at the praise, his eyes gleaming with a hint of something unreadable. “Of course,” he murmured, inclining his head slightly. “After all, it is in patience that we find clarity.”

Tony held his gaze for a beat longer, the polite smile never quite reaching his eyes. “Indeed,” he said softly, a hint of irony threading through his tone. Then he leaned back, crossing his arms as if to signal that he was done with the matter.

Thor, still watching Lord Carter closely, let out a low hum, his expression thoughtful. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The wary glance he shared with Stark spoke volumes.

Lord Carter either didn’t notice, or he pretended not to. He gave a gracious nod, the smile still playing at the corners of his lips, and then shifted his gaze to the other lords, effectively dismissing the silent exchange between Stark and Odinson.

But the suspicion lingered.

As the lords continued their murmurings, Lord Stark’s gaze never left Lord Carter’s face, his mind working rapidly. He didn’t know what game Carter was playing, but he knew one thing for certain—whatever it was, it was more than just a matter of marriage and heirs.

There was something else at stake. Something that Lord Carter was keeping hidden beneath that affable smile.

And if there was one thing Stark couldn’t stand, it was a man who played games with stakes he didn’t lay on the table for all to see.

× × × ×

The private study in the main palace was dim, thick curtains drawn to keep out the harsh afternoon sun. The air was heavy, and Bucky’s frustration filled the room like a storm cloud. He stood near the window, staring out at the sprawling gardens, his thoughts a tangled mess of anger.

“Your Majesty?” Sam’s voice broke through the silence, calm but edged with concern. He kept his distance, watching the way Bucky’s shoulders tensed with every breath he took. “Might I suggest taking a seat? You appear… troubled.”

Bucky didn’t move, his gaze still fixed on some distant point beyond the glass. The pressure behind his eyes had been building steadily since that damned meeting ended. A dull ache that was rapidly growing into something sharper, more dangerous.

“Your Majesty?” Sam pressed gently, stepping forward. “If I may, I think it best—”

But before he could finish, Bucky stumbled back, his hand flying to his temple as the pain exploded in his head—white-hot, blinding. He gritted his teeth, a strangled sound escaping him.

“Your Majesty!” Sam was beside him in an instant, his hands hovering just above Bucky’s arms, unsure if touching him would only make it worse. “Shall I summon Doctor Banner? Or Zemo?”

Bucky shook his head sharply, the motion only sending another stab of pain through his skull. His breath came in ragged bursts as he tried to fight it back, trying to push it away.

“No,” he managed through gritted teeth, his voice tight. “I’m… I’m fine.”

But the pain didn’t ease. It only intensified, and Bucky’s knees buckled, forcing him to grab the edge of the desk for support.

“Bucky, please,” Sam urged, his voice low but firm. “You’re getting the symptoms. You need—”

“Get Banner,” Bucky ground out, the words barely more than a rasp. “Now.”

Sam nodded briskly. He moved Bucky to a nearby armchair, easing him down with the care of a man who had done this before. “I’ll bring him right away. Please, just… try to hold on.”

Bucky’s eyes closed, his hand pressing harder against his temple. “Y/N?” he muttered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. “Is she—”

“Her Majesty is well, sir,” Sam assured him gently. “She is perfectly safe.”

Relief washed over Bucky’s face, easing some of the tension from his features. “Do not let her see me like this,” he whispered, his voice rough and strained. “She… she can’t see this.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Sam replied softly. “I’ll see to it.”

With one last, concerned glance, Sam turned and hurried out of the study, his footsteps echoing down the corridor as he went to find Bruce.

Left alone, Bucky slumped back in the chair, his breathing uneven as he tried to regain control. The pain continued to pulse through his head, but he forced himself to focus, to keep his mind anchored to something—anything—other than the agony.

And all he could think of was you.

× × × × 

The candle flames flickered in the study of the Carter estate, shadows dancing along the richly paneled walls. Lord Carter stood before the grand fireplace, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the fire as it crackled and hissed. Sharon paced the length of the room behind him, the soft rustle of her silk gown the only sound breaking the silence.

“Her virtue,” Sharon spat, her voice cutting through the stillness. “Is that truly what they care about? Whether or not she’s pure enough to produce an heir?” She stopped pacing, whirling to face her father. Her blue eyes, so like his, burned with fury. “They should be more concerned with how unfit she is for the role. She’s weak—completely and utterly useless.”

Lord Carter didn’t turn, didn’t even flinch at her outburst. He simply stared into the fire, his expression cold, unreadable. “You will set aside your petty resentments, Sharon.”

She blinked, the unexpected harshness of his tone pulling her up short. “What?”

“You heard me.” His voice was low, but it carried an unmistakable edge, each word falling with the weight of command. “Your emotions are clouding your judgment.”

“My emotions?” Sharon let out a humorless laugh, but there was a note of disbelief in it, tinged with bitterness. “I’m the only one who sees her for what she is—a pretty little figurehead propped up beside him, with no real power. If you would only—”

“Enough.” Lord Carter’s voice was sharp, final, cutting through her words like a blade. He turned then, his gaze locking onto hers with a look that made her take an involuntary step back. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing? How you’ve been conducting yourself?”

Sharon’s lips parted, but no sound came. She stared at her father, feeling the heat drain from her face as his gaze bore into hers.

“I see everything, Sharon. Every sideways glance, every whispered word of ‘concern’ for the queen’s image in front of the council.” He took a step toward her, his eyes dark with anger. “You’re so focused on tearing her down that you’ve forgotten the larger picture.”

“The larger picture?” Sharon echoed, her voice rising with indignation. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked! I’ve sown doubt, spread rumors—”

“Yes, and you’ve made a spectacle of yourself in the process,” Lord Carter snapped. “The other lords see your bitterness, your jealousy. They wonder if you’re motivated by politics or by personal vendetta.”

Her breath hitched, her fingers curling into fists at her sides. “I’m not jealous.”

“Then start acting like it.” His tone softened just a fraction, but there was no kindness in it. “If you continue to act out of spite, it won’t be long before they dismiss you as a scorned woman and ignore you entirely.”

Sharon stiffened, the words landing like a slap. “Father—”

“You will listen to me.” He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a dangerous whisper. “You will set aside your personal feelings toward her and start acting strategically. No more open hostility. No more scathing remarks.”

Her throat tightened, a flush of anger rising up within her. “And what am I supposed to do? Smile and play the obedient daughter?”

“No,” Lord Carter said slowly, his gaze piercing. “You will do something much more valuable.”

He turned his back on her and moved closer to the fire, watching the flames as if they held all the answers. “You will make sure she never produces an heir.”

Sharon blinked, confusion creasing her brow. “What? How am I supposed to—”

“Contraceptives,” he interrupted, his voice low and calm. “Subtle, untraceable. Something you’ll slip into her tea—every morning, every evening. She’ll never know.”

Her mouth dropped open again, shock flashing across her face. “You want me to poison her?”

“Not poison,” Lord Carter corrected, his gaze hardening. “Prevent. The council is growing impatient, and so is the king. All this talk of producing an heir has everyone on edge. If she remains barren, if there is no child… it’s only a matter of time before they turn on her. The king will have no choice but to seek a solution elsewhere.”

Sharon stared at her father, a mix of horror and awe flooding her chest. “You’re going to sabotage her chances of ever having a child.”

“Yes,” he said simply, the flames reflecting in his eyes like a promise of destruction. “And when the time comes, the council will demand he take a consort. Someone more capable. Someone who can give him what she cannot. . . and I will have you as a candidate.”

Sharon’s heart pounded, her mind racing as the full scope of his plan unfolded before her. “And if they find out—”

“They won’t,” he said sharply, cutting her off. “The contraceptives will be untraceable, with no lasting effects. And by the time anyone realizes what’s happened, it will be far too late. The damage will already be done.”

Sharon swallowed hard, her throat tight as she forced herself to nod. “And what do I do until then?”

“You remain discreet,” Lord Carter said, turning to face her fully now. “You keep to the background. No more rants, no more public displays of resentment. Let them think you’ve stepped back, that you’ve accepted your place.”

His gaze softened, just a fraction. “The queen trusts the palace servants—use that. When she’s distracted, add the contraceptives to her tea. Once it’s in her system, she’ll be unable to conceive, and the king will have no heir—you need to be consistent. . . otherwise it won’t work. And with every passing day, the council’s discontent will grow.”

Sharon nodded slowly, feeling the last traces of defiance melt away, replaced by cold determination. “I understand,” she whispered. “I’ll do it.”

“Good.” He turned back to the fire, his voice distant and calm. “And remember, Sharon���this isn’t about you. This is about securing our family’s influence and power. Don’t let your emotions ruin it.”

She nodded again, throat tight as she turned on her heel and left the study, his words echoing in her ears like a dark mantra.

Slip the contraception into her tea. Make her unable to produce an heir. And when the queen finally falls, the Carters will be there to take their place at the center of the kingdom’s power.

As she stepped into the dimly lit hallway, Sharon exhaled slowly, smoothing her hands over the front of her gown. She would do what needed to be done.

And when the queen finally fell, Sharon would be there to make sure she never got up again.

× × × × 

The room was filled with the sound of ragged breaths, heavy pants mingling with the low, needy moans that escaped your lips. The air was thick with heat, every whisper of movement, every shift of fabric, adding to the maddening tension that enveloped you both.

You clutched onto Bucky’s shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, using it as leverage as you rode him with a rhythm that left you trembling. The dress, though still draped around your frame, felt more like a cage now, the layers of fabric bunched up and tangled around your waist, trapping the heat between your bodies.

Bucky’s hands, strong and possessive, roamed over the curve of your buttocks, slipping beneath the folds of your gown, fingers kneading the soft flesh as he pulled you down against him, urging you to move faster, harder. The friction of his trousers against your bare thighs sent shivers of pleasure coursing through you, and you gasped, your head falling back as you lost yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him filling you so completely.

“God, you feel…” Bucky’s voice was a rough rasp, his words breaking off into a groan as you shifted, the change in angle drawing a deep, guttural sound from his throat. His hands gripped you tighter, almost to the point of pain, but it only heightened the pleasure, the sensation of being utterly consumed by him. “So tight… so perfect… just like that, my queen.”

You moaned in response, the sound echoing in the quiet room, your body moving with a desperate, primal rhythm that matched the erratic beat of your heart. Each roll of your hips, each slide of your body against his, sent waves of pleasure crashing over you, building higher and higher with every pulse of heat, every brush of his skin against yours.

The feel of him inside you, hard and filling, drove you to the edge, your entire being attuned to the way his breath hitched, the way his grip on you tightened each time you moved. You could feel every ridge, every inch of him, stretching you, filling you, making you ache in the best possible way. The sensation of being so utterly full, so completely claimed, was intoxicating, a heady mix of pleasure and pain that had you gasping for breath.

“James…” You whimpered his name, your voice a breathless plea, your nails raking down his chest as you arched against him, desperate for more, for everything he could give you. Your movements grew more erratic, more frenzied, each thrust of your hips meeting his in a clash of heat and desire that left you both trembling.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his voice low and rough, his gaze fixed on you with a possessive intensity that made your heart stutter. “Ride me like you were made for it… you’re taking me so perfectly. So beautiful.”

His words sent a surge of heat through you, your body tightening around him in response, drawing a strangled curse from his lips. He shifted beneath you, his hips bucking upwards to meet your movements, each powerful thrust driving you higher, the pleasure spiraling out of control.

“Please… don’t stop,” you panted, your voice breaking on a moan as he shifted again, his grip on your backside tightening as he pulled you down harder, his gaze never leaving your face. “Don’t… God, James…”

“I won’t,” he growled, his voice a dark promise, his eyes burning with a feral hunger that sent a shiver through you. “I won’t stop… not until I feel you shatter around me. Not until I’ve had you again… and again… until you can’t think of anything but this. But me.”

His words, the low, heated tone of his voice, sent you spiraling, your body tensing as the pleasure built to a dizzying crescendo. You could feel it coiling deep within you, an unstoppable force gathering strength, tightening, ready to snap.

Bucky’s grip shifted, one hand moving to your waist, the other sliding up your back to fist in your hair, pulling you down to capture your lips in a bruising kiss that sent you over the edge, your body convulsing around him as you cried out, the pleasure crashing through you in relentless waves.

He swallowed your cries, his mouth devouring yours as he thrust up into you, each movement drawing out the sensation, prolonging the ecstasy until you were shaking, trembling in his arms.

“James!” You gasped his name, your entire body quaking as the pleasure crested, the intensity of it leaving you breathless, boneless, completely at his mercy.

And still, he didn’t stop. His hands continued to guide your movements, his hips driving up to meet yours in a relentless rhythm that left you gasping, your entire body thrumming with the aftershocks of your release. The feel of him inside you, still hot and hard and so very, very present, sent another shudder through you, and you whimpered, your head falling to his shoulder.

“Such a good girl,” he murmured, his voice rough and unsteady, his breath hot against your ear. “Taking everything I give you… aren’t you?”

“Yes, my king.” you breathed, your voice a broken moan, your body pliant, yielding to his every touch, his every word.

“Then take a little more,” he growled, his hands tightening on your hips, holding you still as he thrust up into you one last time, his body going rigid beneath you as he found his own release, a low, guttural sound tearing from his throat.

You felt him shudder against you, his body trembling as he buried himself deep, the sensation of him pulsing inside you sending another wave of heat coursing through your veins. He thrusted into you over and over until he was spent, having given you every ounce of come he had. And then, slowly, reluctantly, he relaxed, his grip on you loosening as he exhaled a shuddering breath.

The room was quiet once more, save for the sound of your ragged breathing, the rapid thrum of your heart slowly easing as you clung to him, your body still quivering in the aftermath.

He kissed you again, slow and languid, savoring the taste of your mouth like a man starved. His tongue swept against yours, coaxing another soft moan from your lips. The kiss deepened, his hand tangling in your hair as he pulled you closer, like he couldn’t bear to let you go, like he needed to drown in you just a little longer.

But just as his lips found that tender spot at the corner of your mouth—

A sharp knock echoed through the room.

You froze, your breath hitching as the sound cut through the haze of desire that still clung to you both. Bucky stiffened beneath you, his gaze snapping to the door, frustration flashing across his face.

“Not now,” he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He turned back to you, his eyes blazing with the need to continue what had been so rudely interrupted. His fingers tightened on your waist, drawing you closer as if to shield you from the intrusion.

“Your Majesty—” came a hesitant voice from the other side of the door.

“Go. Away.” Bucky bit out, his teeth clenched. He pressed a lingering kiss to your lips, his grip on you remained.

But the voice persisted. “It’s urgent.”

With a deep, frustrated sigh, Bucky forced himself to pull away, his lips brushing against your forehead one last time before he moved to stand. He reached for his trousers, yanking them up with an annoyed huff, the fabric whispering as he buttoned them hastily. He tucked his shirt back in, smoothing out the wrinkles with brisk, jerky movements. His fingers worked quickly to adjust the waistband, every action brimming with irritation.

You watched, your pulse still pounding in your ears, as he deftly fastened his belt, the clink of metal ringing sharply in the quiet room. His jaw was set, his brow furrowed in concentration as he straightened his attire, each movement sharp and precise, trying to regain control over himself.

Bucky ran a hand through his tousled hair, pushing the disheveled strands back in place, then tugged at his shirt collar, tucking it in properly with a final flick of his fingers.

The urge to reach out and pull him back to you was overwhelming, but you forced yourself to stay still, your eyes tracing the rigid line of his shoulders as he turned toward the door.

“Come in,” he barked, his tone sharp and impatient.

The door creaked open slowly, revealing Sam, his expression caught somewhere between anxious and apologetic. His eyes darted briefly to you, taking in your flushed cheeks and Bucky’s still-wrathful demeanor before he quickly looked away, clearing his throat.

“Your Majesty,” Sam began, his voice careful, “forgive the intrusion, but… there’s an issue that needs your attention immediately.”

Bucky’s gaze darkened, his jaw clenching as he fought to rein in his irritation. He adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves, smoothing out the fabric one last time. “And it couldn’t wait?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably, swallowing hard. “No, sir. It’s—well, the council is in an uproar. They’re demanding to speak with you. It’s about the queen.”

Your heart squeezed at his words, and you glanced up at Bucky, your fingers tightening instinctively around the edge of your gown. He turned to you, his expression softening ever so slightly as he took a step forward, his fingers brushing gently against yours.

“I’ll handle it,” he said quietly, his eyes never leaving yours. “Stay here, Y/N. I won’t be long.”

You nodded, though the worry gnawing at your chest refused to ease. Bucky’s gaze lingered on you for a moment longer before he turned away, his posture tense, his expression shuttered. He took a deep breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort to remain composed.

“Let’s go,” he muttered to Sam, his voice low and dangerous. He cast one last glance back at you before striding purposefully toward the door, the soft click of it closing behind him echoing through the room like a finality.

And as the silence settled once more, you exhaled slowly, your mind swirling with unease. Because whatever awaited Bucky out there, you knew it was only the beginning of something far more complicated.

× × × ×

Bucky strode through the double doors, the faint murmur of his boots against the polished marble the only sound breaking the oppressive stillness. All eyes turned to him, a mix of wariness and expectation filling the room.

Prime Minister Fury cleared his throat, stepping forward with a respectful bow. “Your Majesty, we thank you for joining us so swiftly.”

Bucky’s gaze swept over the gathered lords, his expression cold and unyielding. He took his place at the head of the long table, eyes narrowed as he regarded each council member in turn. 

“Why have I been summoned?” His tone was clipped, betraying the simmering irritation beneath his composed exterior.

Lord Haynesworth, always eager to play the voice of reason, leaned forward. “Your Majesty, there have been… troubling whispers circulating the court.” He glanced at the other lords for support before continuing cautiously. “Whispers regarding the queen and Captain Rogers.”

“Whispers?” Bucky’s voice was low, dangerous. He leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest as his gaze sharpened. “What kind of whispers?”

A murmur of unease rippled through the room, the lords exchanging wary glances. Finally, Lord Pierce spoke up, his voice carefully measured. “There are rumors that the captain’s… interest in the queen is more than that of a mere guard.”

The words hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Bucky’s eyes darkened, the air around him seeming to crackle with barely restrained fury. “And what proof do you have to support these allegations?” he asked softly, his voice a lethal whisper.

The lords hesitated, each one glancing at the others, clearly caught off guard by the question.

“There is no… direct evidence, Your Majesty,” Prime Minister Fury admitted reluctantly, his gaze faltering. “But the captain’s presence around the queen—”

“Presence?” Bucky cut in sharply, his voice rising. “His presence is at my command. I ordered him to stay by her side. So I ask again—what evidence do you have that my orders have been misconstrued?”

Silence met his words. The lords shifted uneasily, the tension in the room thickening as Bucky’s gaze bore into each of them.

“Nothing?” Bucky’s voice was deceptively soft, his anger simmering beneath the surface. “You summoned me here based on nothing more than baseless gossip?”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Carter ventured cautiously, his voice smooth and conciliatory. “The concern is not just the rumors themselves, but the impact they may have on the queen’s reputation, and by extension, the Crown. If the people begin to believe—”

“Believe what?” Bucky snapped, his voice cracking like a whip through the chamber. “That the queen is a woman of loose morals? That she would dishonor me and this crown with one of my most trusted men? The mere suggestion is an insult not only to her but to me as well.”

The lords exchanged anxious glances, the king’s rage palpable in the air.

“Your Majesty, we meant no disrespect,” Lord Haynesworth said quickly, his tone placating. “But these rumors—”

“Are a disgrace,” Bucky finished coldly, his gaze turning to steel. “And I want to know who started them.”

The council stilled, shock rippling through the room.

“Find the source of these whispers,” Bucky ordered, his voice firm and unyielding. “And when you do, bring them to me. Whoever has dared to spread lies about my wife and Captain Rogers will face the full weight of the Crown’s wrath.”

“Your Majesty,” Prime Minister Fury interjected cautiously, his gaze flickering with unease. “Surely we can handle this matter discreetly. There’s no need to—”

“Do you think I am playing, Prime Minister?” Bucky’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper, his gaze icy. “I want them found. And I want everyone to know what happens when they seek to undermine my authority with petty gossip. I will not tolerate anyone questioning my wife’s honor.”

A tense silence fell over the room, the council members exchanging wary looks.

“Is that understood?” Bucky demanded, his gaze sweeping over the assembled lords.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they murmured in unison, heads bowing in reluctant acquiescence.

“Good.” Bucky straightened, his expression hard. “And one more thing.”

The lords held their breath, waiting.

“Any man caught speaking against the queen without proof—any man—will find himself stripped of title and position. Do I make myself clear?”

The lords exchanged uneasy glances, their expressions taut with apprehension. But they knew better than to argue.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” they echoed again, the words heavy with resignation.

Bucky’s gaze lingered on them for a moment longer, his expression a mask of cold fury. Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and strode toward the doors, his cloak billowing behind him.

Just as he reached the threshold, he paused, glancing back over his shoulder.

“And if any of you doubt my resolve,” he said softly, his voice like ice, “remember this moment. Because it will be the last time I allow such disrespect to go unpunished.”

The silence that followed Bucky’s last, chilling words was thick, oppressive. It hung in the air like a noose, tightening around the lords as they exchanged uneasy glances, knowing they had overstepped, but uncertain how to make amends.

Just as Bucky turned back toward the door, a slow, mocking clap echoed from the far end of the room, the sound startling in its suddenness. Heads whipped around, eyes widening as they spotted the figure lounging in the shadows.

A man stepped forward, his movements unhurried, his posture casual yet carrying an undeniable authority. His dark hair fell loosely around his face, and a smirk curved his lips—a smirk that spoke of mischief and danger in equal measure. He moved with a feline grace, each step deliberate, as if he were completely unfazed by the tension gripping the room.

“Brother,” he drawled, his voice rich with amusement as his eyes—glinting with an almost feral light—fixed on Bucky. “Now that was a performance worth every second.”

Bucky’s gaze hardened as he turned to face the newcomer fully. “Isaac,” he acknowledged curtly, his voice devoid of warmth. “What are you doing here?”

Prince Ikarus, or Isaac as he likes to be called was Bucky’s younger twin brother—known to the court as a wild card, a force of nature as unpredictable as a storm—tilted his head, his smile widening as he glanced at the assembled lords, his eyes glinting with something dark and dangerous.

“I was just passing through,” he said lazily, his gaze sweeping over the noblemen, who stiffened under his scrutiny. “And I couldn’t help but overhear this… charming little gathering.”

He stopped a few feet away from Bucky, his smile fading slightly as he took in his brother’s tense stance, the barely restrained fury simmering beneath the surface. 

“You looked like you could use a bit of… support,” he added, his voice softening—just a fraction, but enough for Bucky to notice the hint of concern hidden beneath the teasing façade.

The lords shifted uneasily, clearly unsettled by Prince Isaac’s sudden appearance. His reputation as a man who thrived on chaos, who delighted in pushing boundaries, was well known. And now, faced with both brothers—one an unyielding king, the other a dangerous enigma—they found themselves caught between the hammer and the anvil.

“Support?” Bucky repeated, raising an eyebrow. “What kind of support, exactly?”

Isaac’s grin returned, sharp and gleaming as a blade. “Oh, you know, just a little reminder of what happens to those who speak out of turn.” He leaned back slightly, his gaze drifting lazily over the lords before settling back on Bucky. “For instance, I hear the scold’s bridle is quite effective at silencing loose tongues.”

A ripple of shock ran through the room, several lords exchanging horrified glances. The scold’s bridle—a cruel, medieval punishment used to silence women accused of gossiping or speaking out—hadn’t been mentioned in court for centuries. The very suggestion of bringing it back was enough to send a chill down the spines of even the most hardened noblemen.

“Prince Isaac,” Lord Pierce began hesitantly, his voice strained. “Surely you jest—”

“Do I?” Isaac interrupted smoothly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Because I’m not entirely sure I do, Lord Pierce. The idea of seeing a few of you donning that particular accessory…” He trailed off, his smile turning almost feral. “Well, it does have a certain appeal.”

“Enough, Isaac,” Bucky said sharply, his gaze never leaving his brother’s. “We are not bringing back barbaric punishments to deal with petty gossip.”

Isaac’s eyes flicked back to Bucky, his smile fading into something more serious, more thoughtful. “Oh, but this is no ordinary gossip, is it?” he murmured softly. “They’re questioning your authority. Your marriage. Your wife’s honor. I would think that calls for a rather… memorable response.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek as he held his brother’s gaze. For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around them.

Then, slowly, Bucky’s lips curved into a smile—one that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I appreciate your… enthusiasm, brother,” he said quietly, his voice steady but carrying an edge of warning. “But I am perfectly capable of handling this matter.”

Isaac studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching. Then, with a slight shrug, he stepped back, his hands raised in a gesture of mock surrender.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” he said smoothly, the smile never leaving his lips. “I’m merely here to… observe.”

Bucky’s gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer before he turned back to the lords, his expression hardening once more.

“Find the source,” he ordered coldly, his voice carrying the weight of an unbreakable command. “And if I hear one more word—one more whisper—about my wife, or Captain Rogers, or anything else that questions my authority…”

He glanced back at Isaac, his gaze turning icy. “I may not bring back the scold’s bridle, but rest assured—there are other ways to silence a tongue.”

The threat hung in the air, chilling and unmistakable. The lords nodded hurriedly, their faces pale, and the chamber fell into a tense, uneasy silence.

Satisfied, Bucky turned and strode out of the room, his cloak billowing behind him. Isaac watched him go, a thoughtful expression on his face.

As the doors closed behind the king, the lords finally released the breaths they hadn’t realized they’d been holding.

Lord Haynesworth swallowed hard, his gaze darting nervously to Isaac. “Your Highness, you… you can’t be serious about the scold’s bridle, can you?”

Isaac’s smile was slow, almost lazy, as he turned his gaze to the trembling lord. “Oh, I never joke about punishment, Lord Haynesworth.”

The lords exchanged wary glances, clearly unsure of how to respond. But Isaac’s gaze had already drifted away, his mind elsewhere, as if the conversation had already ceased to interest him.

“Let us hope,” he murmured softly, almost to himself, “that no one is foolish enough to test the king’s patience further.”

And with that, he turned on his heel and strolled out of the chamber, leaving the lords staring after him, their minds racing with fear and uncertainty.

Because one thing was clear: whether it was Bucky’s iron fist or Isaac’s unpredictable cruelty, those who sought to undermine the Crown would soon learn that the Barnes brothers were not to be trifled with.

As the heavy doors closed behind the Barnes brothers, the lords exchanged uneasy glances, the atmosphere thick with barely restrained tension. The king’s fury had shaken them, but the presence of Prince Isaac—his dark humor and thinly veiled threats—had left them truly unsettled.

Lord Haynesworth was the first to speak, his voice tight with anxiety. “By God, the king truly lost his temper this time.”

“We should have expected as much,” Lord Pierce murmured, shaking his head slowly. “The king has always been fiercely protective of those he cares about.”

Lord Carter leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Yes… but it seems the queen is more valuable to him than we anticipated.”

“Valuable?” Lord Stark interjected, his gaze sharp as he regarded Lord Carter with open suspicion. “The queen is not some pawn to be valued and assessed. She is the king’s wife—and more importantly, she’s been a steady hand in the chaos we’ve created.”

Lord Thor nodded firmly beside Stark, his broad frame leaning forward, fingers drumming thoughtfully against the table. “Stark is right. She is proving herself capable, and that is what matters. And as for Captain Rogers—” he paused, his eyes narrowing as he glanced around the table— “he’s done nothing to warrant these accusations.”

“Of course, Lord Thor,” Lord Carter agreed smoothly, his expression deceptively innocent. “But perception is everything, is it not? The court’s perception, the people’s perception—these things shape the strength of the Crown.”

“Perception is shaped by those who whisper in the shadows, spreading lies and stoking fears,” Lord Romanoff interjected coolly, his gaze locking onto Carter. “I wonder who benefits most from such whispers?”

“Indeed,” Lord Stark added, his voice like a blade. “Who stands to gain from undermining the queen’s position?”

The room fell silent, all eyes on Lord Carter, who merely smiled, a picture of calm amidst the storm. “Gentlemen, I assure you, I have nothing but the stability of the Crown in mind.”

“And yet, you seem quite at ease stirring the pot,” Lord Loki murmured, his voice a low purr as he leaned back, his gaze shrewd. “One might almost suspect you enjoy watching it boil over.”

A ripple of tension passed through the room, but Lord Carter merely shrugged, his smile unwavering. “I am only concerned with ensuring that the Crown is safeguarded against any… potential vulnerabilities.”

“And what vulnerabilities might those be?” Thor demanded, his tone dangerously low. “If you have evidence to support these accusations, speak it now. If not, then perhaps it’s time we stopped entertaining idle speculation.”

Lord Carter’s gaze flicked to Thor, the faintest hint of a challenge in his eyes. “If the king himself is ordering an investigation, who am I to contradict him?”

“You’re a man who clearly wants to see how far he can push his influence,” Lord Stark retorted sharply. “But I’ll tell you this, Carter: I’ll not stand by while you tear down everything we’ve fought to build. And that includes our support of the queen.”

“Is that so?” Lord Pierce murmured, his gaze flicking to the others. “Are we all agreed, then, that we trust the queen’s intentions and see no fault in the captain’s presence?”

There was a murmur of assent from Thor, Loki, Stark, and Romanoff, their loyalty to Bucky and his chosen allies clear.

But the hesitation from the other lords was palpable, their eyes darting nervously to one another before settling back on Carter, whose smile widened ever so slightly.

“Loyalty is admirable,” Carter said softly, his voice smooth as silk. “But loyalty, when misplaced, can be… dangerous.”

A chill swept through the room, the lords shifting uneasily as they digested his words.

“Enough of this,” Fury interjected firmly, his voice cutting through the rising tension like a knife. “The king’s orders are clear. We are to find the source of these rumors and ensure that this matter is put to rest once and for all.”

“Agreed,” Lord Pierce said quietly, his gaze thoughtful. “But let us not forget what Lord Carter said earlier. The king’s loyalty can be a double-edged sword. If we push too hard… we risk losing his favor.”

“Or perhaps,” Loki interjected softly, his gaze lingering on Carter, “we simply risk revealing who truly holds sway over his decisions.”

Carter’s eyes flashed with something dark and dangerous, but his smile remained intact. “You seem rather… invested in this, Lord Loki.”

“Only in seeing justice done,” Loki replied smoothly. “And ensuring that no one with ulterior motives takes advantage of a situation already fraught with tension.”

“Ulterior motives?” Lord Haynesworth echoed uneasily, glancing between Carter and the other lords.

“Yes, ulterior motives,” Lord Stark cut in, his gaze never leaving Carter’s. “The only question is, whose motives are they?”

Carter’s smile finally faded, his eyes narrowing slightly as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur. “Careful, Stark. You wouldn’t want to find yourself on the wrong side of this conversation.”

“Is that a threat?” Tony asked, a sharp edge to his voice.

Carter’s smile returned, colder this time. “A warning. To all of us. Because if the king is willing to defend the queen so fiercely now, just imagine what he’ll do if he thinks we’re working against her.”

Thor’s fist slammed onto the table, the sound reverberating through the chamber. “Enough! We’re here to protect the Crown, not tear each other apart. This is exactly what those spreading rumors want—discord, infighting. I will not be party to it.”

A murmur of agreement followed his words, the tension easing just slightly as the lords shifted, reassessing.

“We will follow the king’s orders,” Fury said firmly. “But we do so with caution. We need to keep our eyes open—for every possible outcome.”

“And for every possible enemy,” Loki added quietly, his gaze still fixed on Carter.

The room fell silent once more, each man lost in his own thoughts, the weight of unspoken suspicions and half-formed alliances pressing down like a heavy shroud.

And as the lords finally began to file out, exchanging wary glances, one thing was clear: the battle for influence over the king—and the queen—was far from over.

× × × ×

Bucky stood at the head of a private chamber adjacent to the grand council room, the heavy wooden doors sealing him away from the prying eyes of his advisors. The room was lit up by a single chandelier overhead, his gaze was fixed on a map spread out on the table before him, but his mind was far from the ink and paper. He wasn’t brooding—no, brooding suggested indecision, and he couldn’t afford that luxury.

Isaac lounged against the far wall, his usual air of nonchalance nowhere to be seen. He’d been silent for some time now, eyes trained on his brother with a sharpness that few ever glimpsed beneath his playful facade.

“You knew,” Isaac said quietly, breaking the silence. It wasn’t a question, but a statement—a challenge even. “You knew it would come to this.”

Bucky’s lips twitched in the semblance of a bitter smile. “Of course, I did.” He glanced up, meeting Isaac’s gaze with a calm, unflinching stare. “The moment we stood in front of the council with no heir to speak of, I knew there’d be whispers. That’s why I ordered Steve to stay close to Y/N.”

He shifted his weight slightly, fingers tapping rhythmically against the edge of the table as he continued. “I wanted to see who would be the first to take those whispers and turn them into weapons. And I wanted them to feel confident enough to move. That’s the only way to draw them out.”

Isaac’s brow furrowed, his lips curving into a slow smile. “So you’ve been using Captain Rogers as bait?” His voice carried a hint of admiration, laced with a trace of something darker. “You’re more ruthless than I thought, brother.”

Bucky shrugged, his expression hardening. “I needed to know who would dare. And I know they’re out there.”

Isaac raised an eyebrow, intrigue sparking in his eyes. “Who?”

Bucky glanced down at the map, his gaze sweeping over the names marked along the edges. Each one belonged to a noble house, a prominent family in the realm—a member of his council. Men who wielded power not just through their titles, but through their influence, their alliances.

“Whoever they are,” Bucky murmured, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone, “they’re part of the council. I’ve seen the way they exchange glances, the careful way they speak around me—like they’re testing the waters, seeing how far they can push.”

He leaned over the table, his fingers brushing over the marked names—each one a potential traitor, a possible conspirator. “But I don’t know who yet. Not for certain.”

Isaac’s grin widened, a hint of excitement glinting in his eyes. “So, what’s your plan?”

“Let them think they’re gaining ground,” Bucky said softly, his gaze darkening. “Let them believe I’m too distracted, too burdened by the pressure of producing an heir to notice their scheming. They’ll grow bolder, make mistakes.”

Isaac tilted his head, studying his brother with newfound respect. “And when they do?”

Bucky’s eyes sharpened, his voice hardening with resolve. “I’ll be there to catch them. All of them.”

Isaac’s smile widened, his eyes gleaming. “So, what’s my role in this little drama?”

Bucky regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before speaking. “You’re going to dig deeper—under the table. Quietly. Find out who’s speaking to whom, what promises are being made, and to whom. Leave no stone unturned, no matter how small.”

Isaac straightened, a gleam of something dangerous sparking in his gaze. “And when I do?”

Bucky’s expression didn’t waver. “We’ll tighten the noose around their necks. But only when I’m ready.”

A silence settled between them, heavy with unspoken understanding. Isaac nodded slowly, pushing off the wall and taking a step toward the door. 

“I like it,” he murmured, a wicked smile playing at the corners of his lips. “But you know I’ll have to get creative. This sort of under-the-table investigation doesn’t lend itself well to… conventional methods.”

“I don’t care how you do it,” Bucky said evenly, his voice carrying a weight that brooked no argument. “Just make sure no one traces it back to us.”

Isaac inclined his head, his smile widening. “Understood, Your Majesty.”

He turned to leave, but paused just as he reached the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “You know… I haven’t met the queen yet,” he said casually, the statement laced with an edge of mischief. “Does she even know I exist?”

Bucky’s gaze hardened, his voice low and firm. “You’ll meet her when the time is right, Isaac. Until then… stay focused.”

Isaac’s eyes glinted with something unreadable, but he merely nodded, pushing the door open and stepping out into the corridor beyond.

As the door closed behind him, Bucky exhaled slowly, his shoulders straightening as he turned back to the map on the table.

But Isaac’s question still hung in the air, and Bucky glanced back at the closed door, his thoughts spinning.

He didn’t know who the traitors were yet. But he could feel them circling like vultures, waiting for him to falter, to stumble. They were careful—too careful. And that caution was telling. Only men who feared exposure behaved so cautiously.

Bucky’s fingers tapped against the table, his gaze narrowing. “It’s not just one,” he muttered to himself, his voice low, a dark edge lacing each word. “It’s a group.”

He let out a slow breath, his gaze sweeping over the council’s names once more.

“They’re part of the council,” he murmured, a humorless smile curving his lips. “Hidden among the men I’m supposed to trust.”

But trust was a luxury he couldn’t afford. Not now. Not until he knew exactly who was behind the shadows cast over his reign.

Straightening, Bucky turned away from the map, his expression hardening once more. “Let them think they’re winning,” he murmured softly, his gaze distant and calculating. “Because when the hammer falls… it’ll fall hard.”

He glanced back at the door one last time, his expression resolute. He would not be a weak king. He would not be a pawn in his own court.

He was the King of this realm. And he would crush anyone who dared to forget it.

× × × × 

Next day.

The late afternoon sunlight streams through the tall windows of the palace drawing room, casting a soft, warm glow over the intricately decorated space. You sit near the hearth, your attention shifting between Wanda, who speaks animatedly, and Nat, who lounges back in her chair, a faint smile playing on her lips as she listens.

Pepper moves gracefully around the room, setting out a fresh tray of delicate pastries and refilling teacups. Laughter bubbles softly as Wanda recounts a recent diplomatic visit.

“—and you should have seen his face when I suggested the princess of Cerion join us for the ball,” Wanda says with a sly grin. “He looked as though I’d asked him to dance with a bear!”

Nat chuckles, shaking her head. “The princess or the bear would be equally entertaining. Can’t say I’d blame him either way.”

You feel a smile tug at your lips, warmth flooding your gaze as you glance at Pepper, who rolls her eyes with an affectionate sigh. “Really, Wanda. You shouldn’t be toying with poor Lord Bateman like that. You’ll give him a heart attack.”

“Serves him right for underestimating us,” Wanda replies with a mock huff. “Maybe next time he’ll think twice before making such… colorful remarks about the queen.”

Your smile falters for just a fraction of a second, but Nat notices. She leans forward, resting a hand gently on your arm. “He’s just a pompous idiot. His words mean nothing.”

You nod, grateful for her support, but before you can respond, the grand double doors to the drawing room swing open, and Sharon Carter steps inside.

Conversation stills instantly, the soft laughter fading as all eyes turn toward her. She stands framed in the doorway, her expression carefully composed but tinged with an emotion you can’t quite place. She hesitates just long enough to be noticeable before taking a deep breath and stepping forward, closing the door softly behind her.

“Your Majesty,” Sharon greets quietly, a hint of uncertainty in her tone. She glances at the other women, nodding respectfully. “Wanda, Natasha… Lady Potts.”

“Sharon,” Wanda replies, a brow arching ever so slightly as she leans back in her chair. “What brings you here?” Her voice is light, but there’s an unmistakable edge beneath the politeness.

You straighten slightly, exchanging a glance with Nat, who gives a subtle nod, as if to say Let’s hear what she has to say. With a cautious smile, you gesture to one of the empty chairs. “You’re welcome to join us, Sharon. Is something on your mind?”

Sharon swallows, her fingers twisting together in a gesture that almost looks like nervousness. She steps further into the room but keeps her distance, her gaze focused on you.

“I wanted to speak with you, Your Majesty. To apologize,” Sharon says, her voice steady but quiet. “For the way I’ve behaved in the past.”

Wanda and Nat exchange quick, skeptical glances, while Pepper’s hand pauses over the teapot, her gaze flicking to Sharon with measured curiosity.

“Apologize?” Pepper echoes softly, setting the teapot down with a gentle clink. “That’s… unexpected.”

Sharon nods, taking another step closer, though still keeping a respectful distance. “Yes. I know my actions and words have been… less than kind.” She pauses, eyes dropping to the floor as if gathering her thoughts. “I’ve let my emotions get the better of me, and I’ve judged you unfairly, Your Majesty. I’ve spoken out of turn, assumed the worst, and for that… I am truly sorry.”

You blink, surprise flickering across your face. You’ve heard countless apologies in your time at court—some genuine, others dripping with false sincerity. But there’s something in Sharon’s tone, in the way her voice almost trembles, that gives you pause.

“People say things they don’t mean when they’re hurt or frustrated,” you reply carefully, your voice measured. “But what brought this on, Sharon? Why now?”

Sharon swallows again, glancing up with eyes that seem brighter than usual. “I… I’ve had time to reflect on my actions. To see the impact my words have had—not just on you, but on everyone in the court. I let my emotions guide me because… because I was angry and felt overlooked. I thought I had a right to be resentful, but…” She shakes her head, gaze dropping again. “I see now that I was wrong. I was unfair.”

Wanda’s eyes narrow, her fingers drumming lightly on the arm of her chair. “And you expect us to believe this sudden change of heart?”

“No,” Sharon says quickly, looking up again, her expression earnest. “I don’t expect you to believe me—not right away. But I want to try to make amends, to show that I’m sincere.”

You exchange a glance with Nat, then Pepper, who gives a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Your gaze softens as you turn back to Sharon. “What is it that you’re asking for, then?”

Sharon hesitates, then takes a step forward, dropping into a graceful curtsy. “I’m asking for the chance to help. To be of service in whatever way I can. I know I’ve been… difficult to work with, but I want to change that. I want to prove that I can be an asset to you, Your Majesty.”

Nat scoffs softly, crossing her arms over her chest. “And how exactly do you plan to do that, Sharon?”

Sharon glances at her, then back at you. “I’ve been at the palace more often, observing how things work, learning the routines. I thought… I could help with some of the smaller tasks. Things that don’t require much trust—yet.”

“Tasks like?” Pepper prods gently, her gaze never leaving Sharon’s face.

Sharon bites her lip, looking almost sheepish. “Like assisting with the morning tea service, helping with correspondence, perhaps just until Lady Rambeau gets back from her leave?”

Pepper’s brow furrows slightly, surprise flickering in her eyes. “You want to help… with tea?”

Sharon nods earnestly. “Yes, anything that would let me be useful, even in a small way. I just want to prove that I can change. That I can be someone worthy of serving you, Your Majesty.”

The silence that follows is heavy, tense. You can feel the weight of everyone’s gaze on you, waiting to see how you’ll respond. You study Sharon’s face, searching for any hint of deception, any trace of the bitterness that had so often colored your interactions.

But Sharon’s gaze is steady, her expression open and… vulnerable.

Finally, you let out a soft sigh, a small, tentative smile tugging at your lips. “Very well, Sharon. I’ll give you the chance to prove yourself.”

Wanda and Nat both shoot you incredulous looks, but you hold up a hand, silencing them. “Everyone deserves a chance to change. And if Sharon is sincere, then I’m willing to see where this goes.”

Sharon’s shoulders sag with visible relief, and she nods gratefully. “Thank you, Your Majesty. I won’t let you down.”

“Start by joining us for tea,” you suggest, gesturing to the table. “We can discuss more about how you’d like to help.”

Sharon hesitates, glancing around at the women, then nods and moves forward. Wanda and Nat’s eyes follow her every move, but Pepper, ever the gracious hostess, hands her a cup of tea with a small smile.

“Thank you,” Sharon murmurs, her fingers trembling slightly as she accepts the cup. She looks up at you, a tentative smile on her lips. ��This means a lot to me.”

“I hope you’ll make the most of it,” you reply softly, though there’s a note of caution in your voice. “We all want what’s best for the kingdom.”

Sharon nods fervently, lowering her gaze as she sips from the cup, the picture of humility and contrition.

And as the conversation resumes around her, she glances down at the tray of tea—her eyes lingering on your cup—before quickly looking away, a satisfied smile ghosting across her lips.

The first step has been taken. And you will never see what’s coming.

× × × ×

You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the tension lingering from Sharon’s unexpected visit. Her apology had sounded genuine—almost too genuine—and now it’s left you more conflicted than ever.

As you turn to head toward your chambers, soft but purposeful footsteps echo behind you.

“Queen Y/N,” Natasha calls quietly.

You glance over your shoulder, watching as she approaches with that guarded expression she often wears when something’s weighing on her mind. Before you can even ask, she gently places a hand on your arm and steers you toward a small alcove, away from the passing servants and prying eyes.

“Nat?” you murmur, a hint of concern threading through your voice. “What’s wrong?”

Instead of answering right away, Natasha’s gaze sweeps the corridor, ensuring the two of you are truly alone. When she finally meets your eyes again, there’s a seriousness there that makes your heart skip a beat.

“Listen to me,” she begins softly, her voice low and calm, but carrying the weight of an unspoken warning. “About Sharon’s apology today… don’t let it sway you too much.”

The words land like a stone in your chest. You blink at her, trying to push back the confusion—and the small flicker of hurt. “You don’t think she was being sincere?”

Natasha shakes her head slowly, her grip tightening ever so slightly on your arm. “It’s not about sincerity. Sharon may very well believe everything she said. But even sincere apologies can hide other motives.”

A deep sigh escapes you, and you lean back against the wall, letting the cool stone steady you. “Then what am I supposed to do? She’s already offered to help with small tasks. Turning her away now would seem—”

“No, don’t turn her away,” Natasha interrupts, her gaze softening just a fraction. “Let her help, let her do exactly what she’s offered. But don’t give her more than that. Don’t give her information she could use—anything you wouldn’t want to become court gossip or twisted into something else.”

You close your eyes briefly, trying to reconcile what you know about Sharon with what Nat’s saying. “She looked so sincere, Nat. For the first time, it felt like maybe—”

“Like maybe you could have a friend in her?” Natasha finishes gently, her tone understanding. She takes a step closer, her voice dropping even lower. “I understand, my queen. You want to believe the best in people. You want to give them chances. That’s what makes you… you. But you have to be careful. Just because someone’s smile looks real doesn’t mean their intentions are.”

“But what if she’s telling the truth?” you ask softly, meeting Nat’s steady gaze. “What if she’s genuinely trying to make amends?”

Natasha’s lips curve into a faint, almost sad smile. “Then she’ll prove it, over time. But don’t give her your trust all at once. Make her earn it, piece by piece.”

You swallow, nodding slowly, but the doubt lingers. “Do you think she would really try to… to hurt me? Even now?”

Natasha doesn’t hesitate. “I think people are capable of doing a lot worse than we think when they’re desperate.” She reaches out, lifting your chin gently until your eyes meet hers. “I’m not saying she’s dangerous. I’m saying she’s unpredictable. And that’s enough of a reason to be wary.”

You nod again, this time more firmly. “I understand. I’ll be careful.”

“Good.” Nat’s fingers brush lightly against your arm before she steps back. “And remember—you’re not alone. We’re watching her too. So just… be smart. Guard your words around her.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips despite the heaviness in your chest. “Thank you, Nat.”

She nods, a hint of warmth breaking through her stoic expression. “Anytime. Now, get some rest. You need to be sharp for tomorrow.”

As she turns to leave, you watch her retreating figure, the worry etched in her posture speaking volumes. With a sigh, you lean back against the wall, letting your head fall back as you stare at the ceiling.

You want to believe Sharon. You want to believe in second chances. But Nat’s words echo in your mind like a warning bell.

“People are capable of doing a lot worse when they’re desperate.”

Slowly, you push off the wall and head toward your chambers, Natasha’s parting words circling in your thoughts.

Genuine doesn’t always mean safe.

When you finally reach your door, you hesitate, casting one last look down the empty hallway. Your fingers curl around the handle, and you take a deep breath.

You’ll let Sharon prove herself. But you’ll do it on your terms—step by cautious step.

Because if there’s one thing you’ve learned in the palace, it’s that trust is a fragile thing, easily shattered and dangerous to wield.

And you’re not about to risk everything on someone who may still be hiding a knife behind her back.

× × × × 

It was late—far too late for visitors. But a soft knock at the door drew your attention, pulling you from your thoughts.

“Who is it?” you called gently, setting aside the book you’d been attempting to read, the words blurring together in your tired mind.

“It’s Sharon, Your Majesty,” came the reply from the other side. Her voice was soft, tentative, carrying a note of uncertainty.

You hesitated only for a heartbeat before responding, “Come in.”

The door opened slowly, and Sharon stepped inside, a silver tray balanced perfectly in her hands. The fragrant scent of roses and chamomile filled the air, the delicate aroma wrapping around you like a soothing embrace. She offered you a soft smile as she approached.

“Your Majesty,” she greeted, bowing her head slightly. “I thought you might appreciate something soothing to help you relax before bed. It’s a new blend I had prepared, meant to ease tension.”

Your eyes flicked to the elegant porcelain teapot and matching cups on the tray. A small smile tugged at your lips despite the lingering exhaustion. “That’s very thoughtful of you, Sharon. You didn’t have to go out of your way.”

Sharon’s smile widened just a fraction, her gaze lowering almost shyly. “It’s no trouble at all, Your Majesty. After everything you’ve done for me—giving me a chance to prove myself—I wanted to offer a small gesture of my gratitude.”

You nodded, the sincerity in her voice wrapping around you like the warmth of the fire crackling softly in the hearth. “Thank you, Sharon. But if I’m to enjoy such a thoughtful gesture, I’d like you to join me. It’s late—no reason for either of us to drink alone.”

Sharon blinked, a flash of surprise crossing her face before she schooled her features back into that calm, deferential smile. “Oh, no, Your Majesty, I couldn’t possibly intrude—”

“Please,” you interrupted softly, gesturing to the empty seat across from you. “I insist. I would be more at ease if you joined me.”

She hesitated for a heartbeat, the slightest flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. But then she nodded slowly, lowering herself gracefully into the chair opposite you. “Of course, Your Majesty. If it would make you more comfortable.”

Sharon set the tray down on the small table beside you, lifting the teapot and carefully pouring your tea. The pale golden liquid shimmered in the low light, steam curling up to mingle with the scent of fresh flowers.

You accepted the cup she handed you, holding it delicately between your fingers. “Thank you,” you murmured, inhaling the calming aroma. “It smells wonderful.”

Sharon smiled, her eyes watching you closely. “It’s a special blend—rose petals, chamomile, and a hint of mint. All meant to soothe and relax.”

You glanced at the cup in her hand, then back at your own. “It sounds lovely. Why don’t you pour yourself a cup too?”

The words were casual, almost lighthearted, but the look in your eyes was steady, unwavering. Sharon’s smile tightened just a fraction, and for the briefest moment, her gaze flickered—almost as if she were weighing her options. She poured herself a cup and she nodded, lifting the cup to her lips. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

You watched carefully as she took a sip. Her movements were smooth, no hesitation, no sign of discomfort. When she set the cup down, she smiled, the expression soft and genuine.

“It’s delicious,” she murmured, her tone light. “I’m sure you’ll find it very soothing, Your Majesty.”

Relief washed over you, and you allowed yourself to relax, lifting your own cup to your lips. The first sip was everything Sharon had promised—light, floral, with a subtle sweetness that lingered on your tongue. The warmth spread through you like a gentle wave, easing the tension from your shoulders.

You smiled, setting the cup back down. “It really is lovely. Thank you, Sharon.”

Her eyes brightened, and she nodded eagerly. “I’m so glad you like it, Your Majesty. You seemed so tense earlier—I thought this might help.”

For a few moments, the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the tea’s calming effects wrapping around you like a soft blanket. Each sip seemed to pull you further into a state of ease, your lingering worries melting away.

But then Sharon shifted slightly, her gaze dropping to the cup in her hand. “Your Majesty,” she began softly, lowering her voice. “I wanted to apologize… again. For everything.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Sharon, you’ve already—”

“I know,” she interrupted gently, her eyes lifting to meet yours. There was an earnestness in her gaze, “But I want you to know that I mean it. Truly. I was wrong to speak against you, to doubt your strength. You’ve shown more grace and patience than I could ever deserve.”

The words were spoken softly, her voice laced with emotion. And as you looked at her—really looked at her—you couldn’t help but feel a small pang of sympathy.

“Sharon, we all make mistakes,” you murmured, your voice gentle. “What matters is what we do to make amends. And you’ve been making a genuine effort.”

A faint blush colored her cheeks, and she ducked her head, smiling shyly. “Thank you, Your Majesty. That means more to me than you know.”

You nodded, taking another sip of the tea. The warmth continued to spread through you, a sense of lightness settling in your chest. It was comforting. Reassuring. And yet…

Something tugged at the back of your mind, a tiny voice urging you to look closer. But you pushed it away, reminding yourself that trust needed to start somewhere.

“I’m glad we can put the past behind us,” you said softly, your voice carrying a note of finality.

“Yes,” Sharon agreed, her gaze lingering on your face. “And I promise, I’ll continue to prove myself worthy of your trust.”

You offered her a warm smile, leaning back in your chair as you took another long sip of the tea. “I appreciate that, Sharon. I truly do.”

Sharon’s smile widened as she lifted her own cup, taking a delicate sip. You watched, waiting for any hint of hesitation, any sign that something might be amiss. But she continued to drink, her expression remaining calm and serene.

The two of you continued to talk, your words coming slower now, your thoughts softening at the edges. The tea’s warmth wrapped around you like a cocoon, soothing every frayed nerve, every lingering worry.

You chatted for a while longer, until the cups were nearly empty and the candles burned lower. By then, any lingering doubt had melted away, replaced by the comforting haze of peace the tea seemed to bring.

“Thank you for sharing this with me, Sharon,” you murmured drowsily, a soft smile curving your lips. “I feel better already.”

“I’m so glad to hear that, Your Majesty,” Sharon replied, her voice carrying a note of quiet satisfaction.

As you leaned back, letting your eyes drift shut for a moment, you missed the flicker of triumph in Sharon’s gaze. The tea may have tasted the same for both of you, but the effects would be vastly different.

And with each sip, the future Sharon envisioned—one without an heir to solidify your reign—crept ever closer.

× × × × 

The comforting haze of the tea still lingered in your mind, warmth radiating through you even as the echo of Sharon’s parting words faded into silence.

You barely noticed the gentle click of the door closing as Sharon took her leave, her footfalls soft and measured as she made her way down the hallway, the silver tray held steady in her hands.

She moved with the same graceful poise as always, her face composed, the hint of a satisfied smile lingering at the corners of her lips. But as she turned the corner to leave, she froze—just for a fraction of a second—her gaze catching on the tall figure who’d appeared at the end of the hall.

Captain Rogers.

Steve stood there, his broad frame casting a long shadow under the dim lantern light, the familiar, stoic set of his jaw making him look almost like a statue—unyielding and immovable. He’d arrived to relieve the guard outside your chambers, his presence a steadfast barrier between you and the dangers that lurked in the night.

But as his eyes locked onto Sharon’s, something shifted—something tense, wary.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did she. They simply regarded each other in silence, the air between them thick with unspoken questions and guarded suspicion.

Steve’s gaze dropped briefly to the tray Sharon held—the empty cups, the elegant teapot glinting softly in the low light. His brows furrowed, just slightly, the faintest sign of curiosity etched onto his face.

Sharon’s fingers tightened imperceptibly around the tray’s handles, but she maintained her polite, serene expression. She gave him the barest of nods, a silent acknowledgment of his presence, then turned on her heel and continued down the corridor, the soft rustling of her skirts trailing behind her.

Steve watched her go, his gaze never leaving her retreating figure. Even after she rounded the corner and disappeared from sight, he remained still, his eyes narrowed in thought.

A faint clink echoed from where she’d been moments before—the sound of the tray shifting ever so slightly, betraying the tension in her grip. It lingered in the silence that followed, a tiny, insignificant noise that somehow felt… wrong.

Steve’s jaw tightened, and he glanced back at the closed door to your chambers, his posture stiffening.

He hadn’t seen Sharon’s face during any of the council meetings, but he’d heard whispers about her—rumors and murmurs that drifted through the palace like a subtle breeze. Whispers of bitterness, of a deep-seated resentment that no one quite understood.

And now, here she was, slipping away in the dead of night with a tray of empty cups.

He took a slow, measured breath, then turned to the guard he was relieving, nodding curtly. “I’ll take over now,” he said, his voice low and firm.

The guard nodded, giving a quick salute before stepping back and marching down the corridor, his footsteps fading into the distance.

Once alone, Steve shifted his gaze back to the corner where Sharon had vanished. He remained still, listening to the silence that filled the hall. Then, with a barely perceptible shake of his head, he turned back to your door, his expression guarded.

Whatever had transpired inside your chambers, whatever had passed between you and Sharon, it would have to wait until morning. For now, he would do what he’d always done: stand sentinel, watch, and ensure your safety.

But even as he settled into position outside your chambers, the image of Sharon’s face—calm, composed, and just a touch too serene—lingered in his mind.

And deep down, in a part of him that had always been more instinct than thought, Steve knew:

Something wasn’t right.

× × × × 

A few hours before.

The sound of metal scraping against metal echoed through the stone basement in Annecy, the dim candlelight casting flickering shadows against the damp walls. Bucky’s breaths came in short, sharp huffs, his chest heaving as he strained against the leather restraints that bound his arms and legs to the wooden chair. Every muscle in his body was tensed, veins bulging under his skin as he braced himself for what was to come.

Doctor Zemo stood across from him, meticulously adjusting a series of metal probes and needles connected to a brass device on the table. The contraption hummed ominously, wires sparking to life as Zemo calibrated the dials, his expression blank, methodical. Cold. 

“This will hurt,” he stated, not out of warning, but as a detached observation.

Bucky didn’t respond. Sweat dripped down his face, pooling in the hollow of his collarbone. His gaze flickered to the side, catching a glimpse of Steve and Sam standing just beyond the iron bars separating them from the room. Their expressions were twisted with anguish, eyes betraying their helplessness.

“You don’t have to do this, Buck,” Steve whispered, his voice strained. His hands were gripping the bars so tightly his knuckles had turned white. Sam, standing beside him, looked away, his jaw clenched.

“I have to,” Bucky ground out through gritted teeth. His voice wavered, but his eyes held a fierce determination. “If this is what it takes to stop it…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but they all knew what he meant.

“Begin,” Zemo ordered, ignoring the exchange. With a flick of his wrist, he activated the machine.

The first jolt sent Bucky’s body arching off the chair, a strangled scream tearing from his throat. His metal arm thrashed violently against the restraints, the vibranium whirring and sparking as the energy surged through it. Zemo watched impassively, his gaze fixed on the way Bucky’s eyes rolled back, the pain so intense it nearly swallowed him whole.

“Stop it—God, Zemo, stop!” Steve shouted, his voice cracking. He made a move toward the door, but Sam caught his arm, holding him back. 

Bucky’s screams filled the room, reverberating off the walls. Every second felt like an eternity, each new wave of pain forcing a deeper, more guttural sound from his chest. The muscles in his neck strained, his face contorting with agony. He gasped for breath, his back slamming against the chair as the electric current ceased for a brief moment.

Steve turned his face away, his shoulders shaking. Sam’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as he stared at the floor, unable to bear the sight. 

“Why are you doing this?” Sam hissed, his voice barely audible. “This is torture.”

“It is necessary,” Zemo replied coldly, not even sparing them a glance. “To sever the Winter Soldier from James Barnes completely, I must isolate the root cause. It’s the only way to stop the episodes.” He turned a dial, and the machine buzzed louder, casting an eerie, blue light across the room.

Bucky gasped, his body convulsing as the current tore through him again. Blood dripped from his nose, his eyes red and wild. 

“Make it stop!” Steve shouted, his voice breaking. “Please, Zemo, stop!”

But Zemo remained unmoved. The torment continued, relentless and unyielding. Bucky’s screams gradually faded into hoarse cries, his voice giving out as his body sagged against the restraints, utterly spent. His head hung low, sweat and blood mingling, dripping onto the floor. But even then, his fingers twitched, the tremors of pain echoing through him.

“Enough,” Zemo finally said, his tone clinical. He turned off the machine, the hum dying down to silence. The air was thick with the aftermath, Bucky’s ragged breaths the only sound in the room. Zemo approached him slowly, removing the needles and probes with steady hands. “It is done. . .for now.”

Bucky’s head lifted weakly, his eyes glazed over but still defiant, still fighting. He looked at Steve, then Sam, a flicker of something unbroken in his gaze. 

“It’s okay,” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “I can take it.”

Steve’s chest tightened, tears slipping down his cheeks despite his best efforts to hold them back. “You shouldn’t have to,” he whispered, voice trembling.

But Bucky’s lips twitched into the faintest shadow of a smile, the kind of smile that spoke of years of pain, years of enduring and surviving. 

“I can take it.”

Tags: @theendofthematerialgworl @httpb3a @spiidergirlsworld @sebastians-love @stevesbbgorl

@targaryenhues @almosttoopizza @scott-loki-barnes @brckenmemories @vicmc624

@classicrebound @nommingonfood @greatenthusiasttidalwave @railmesebstan @annawilk

@landoslutmeout @winterslove1917 @missvelvetsstuff @s0kovianwitch @lveegsoi

@suckerfordylansstuff @daydream-believer19 @shadowzena43 @itsshellzy @decaffeinatedjellyfishduck

@melsunshine @barnesxstan @singsosworld @kitsunetori

@im-normal-about-characters @hayleythecannibal

[exactlyyoungchaos]

Loss of my life.

(ex) husband Simon X f!Reader

Part 2.

CW: divorce, hurt, angst, mentions of emotional cheating, trauma. let me know if I missed any, enjoy!!!!

(Don't mind the mistakes.)

If you know it in one glimpse, it's legendary

You and I go from one kiss to gettin married

Still alive, killing time at the cemetery

Nobody prepares you for something like this. What do you do when someone you loved more than your own life, rips apart your soul in pieces? What do you do when the one person you trusted your heart with, leaves you to gather scraps of whatever is left of it?

It's been months since that day. The day you found out that the man you love loved someone else. You moved out the next day, he didn't try and stop you, didn't try to argue or make you stay, he just stood in the corner and watched as you packed up your whole life in a suitcase and left.

When your lawyer served him divorce papers, he didn't hesitate. he signed it immediately as if he was trying to get rid of you, or maybe he was. you don't know, you don't know anything anymore.

When you were young, you were scared to be in relationships because the idea of trusting somebody with everything and giving them the power to hurt you was ridiculous. you always thought love was a sham, just something for romance books and movies.

it was when you met Simon you realized it was all real. the chemical reaction inside your brain that makes you want to stay with someone forever. Laughing at their stupid jokes, waking up next to them, love them was all real. Or maybe it wasn't.

now all you recall, was how you almost had it all. how it all just slipped from your hands without warning.

maybe it was your fault. maybe you weren't enough. maybe you didn't know how to love properly, maybe you were unlovable.

maybe, maybe, maybe.......

Or perhaps it was a sign that a prophecy in your name had already been written. you are not meant for love, you were sent here to be alone, to be betrayed by whoever you trust, to be unworthy. so others would know what not to be.

You sat on the bed of your new apartment, looking at your wedding ring that was still on your finger. you couldn't get yourself to take it off. your heart wasn't ready to accept what your brain already knew.

You couldn't cry anymore, your tears were gone, and all that was left was a deep ache of loss in your chest.

Why? Why did he do this to you? why did he make those vows when he never meant to keep them? you wanted answers, that you knew you'd never get.

If your parents saw you in this state, they would be ashamed of you. you're ashamed of yourself. you can't eat, you can't get out of your bed, because something counterfeits dead.

The house you once called home is haunted by the ghost of lies and deceit. How long has it been going on? how many times did you lay with him in your bed and he wished it was her instead of you?

You were driving yourself crazy. Day by day you were losing your sanity as you combed through your whole life trying to find where it all went wrong.

you've been getting calls from your friends, and messages that you keep ignoring. What were you going to tell them? They bought his lies too.

He said forever and you bought it.

And the worst part is, you miss him. You miss your life, how it used to be filled with laughter, love, and light with him. How he used to hold you when you broke down. How he caressed you when you were in pain, how he made love to you.

Now you're sitting in a cold, dark, and empty apartment on another continent, you don't know who to call and ask for help.

All of your things remind you of him. Do you throw all of the things you built together or keep it? you were tired, mending your gashes on your own. He dealt a final blow and left you to deal with it.

And he doesn't care. He's already with her. he already replaced you. Nothing you two had was real.

But then why do you feel like dying? Why was it that you can't feel anything anymore? Is this how it will always be? Will you ever be okay enough to want to live?

all of these were very big questions you weren't ready to ask yet, or maybe you never will be.

you needed a distraction and you needed it fast.

you picked up your phone for the first time in the day and went straight to the one person you knew who could give you a reprieve from yourself.

Laswell.

You felt numb as you dialed her number as if a switch had been turned off in your brain. She picked up on the third ring.

"Sparrow,"

She still called you by your code name. Your first team that you were assigned to as a rookie medic gave it to you.

"I need a job," is all you said.

AN: SOOOOO!! DID WE LIKE IT? THOTS? I might have shed a tear or two writing this. don't mind me.

@ssc7514 @rrtxcmt

If you want to be tagged in the next part do tell me.

Until next time sugarplums.

ALI-💋💋💋