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rarephloxes · 3 years

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@lucienvanserraweek, free day!

I’m so happy to announce that this is a collab with my dear friend @ratabrasileira!!! Go show the beautiful drawing she did some love!!

rating: G

words: 2.2k

Elain searches the woods for flowers and finds more than she ever expected. Sleeping Beauty Au

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Elain left the cottage barefooted, the soft cushion of the grass comfortable and well known to her feet. The familiar and gratifying feeling of calm earth beneath her, steady and grounding, more than enough reason to forego any sort of shoes.

Roses, Feyre had chanted, the dreamy look in her sister’s eyes persisting ever since her chance encounter with a newcomer guard at the town square, the prettiest ones you can find, please?

Elain had not the courage to tell her younger sister that she had picked fresh flowers just the day before, funny-shaped pink blooms Elain found at the lip of the stream near the border.

So, she had picked her basket - the one Nesta had gifted her on her last birthday, handmade by her older sister herself; a beautiful, intricate thing done with the hard-earned love of the hardest Archeron - and left, a spring to her step and a tune brimming in her throat.

The woods, the townspeople said, were older than the village by unaccounted years, and therefore filled with deep, wondrous and dangerous magic.

Elain, as well as her sisters, was orphaned too soon. A wasting sickness that had scourged their village had taken away both of her parents, one after the other, leaving only a nearly of age Nesta, a doe-eyed Elain, and a tear-stained Feyre.

Many years had passed since, the nebulous, all-consuming pain of the absence of their parents soothed by time. Despite her grieving, it never escaped Elain’s thoughts how lucky she was to have such wonderful people in her life: her kind neighbors; the quaint, energized people of the village, who never missed a chance for celebration; the old grouch at the square who made wooden figures just as her father once had; Feyre’s laugh, her creativity and Nesta’s attentive strength.

The woods, magical and mysterious, were a source of peace in Elain’s little life, too. A balm made of soft sunlight, fresh, perfumed breeze, and the singing quietness of wildlife.

She walked, shawl hanging on her elbows to ward off the slightest of spring chills. Elain sang to her heart’s content, a lively lyric dancing on her tongue and bouncing on the leaves of the tallest of trees, her heart soaring with each note she presented to her loved woodland.

With Feyre’s wishes in mind, Elain followed a path towards a grove, the humidity at her destination perfect for the birth of deep pink roses which best complimented Feyre’s complexion.

She crossed the sturdy old bridge that allowed passage over the river, her cottage’s mill no longer audible from where she stood.

“Hello, Mister,” Elain greeted the white, wild bunny, its twitching mustache smelling the air twice before hurrying on fast jumps towards her, a cupped palm of berries awaiting the animal’s eager mouth, allowing her to scratch its head “You’re rather famished this morning, aren’t you?” she asked. The bunny agreed with what seemed like and affirmative ear twitch before her furry friend scampered away to a nearby bush.

Then, singing about poets and kings, Elain continued her path through the meandering trees, her basket filling with dark, juicy berries - a few of them already staining her lips red - and multicolored flowers.

A bold, red little bird landed on Elain’s extended finger and enchantingly sung with her. Its melodic chirping lacing and harmonizing to the girl’s sweet voice, their impromptu duet accompanied by the rustling leaves and the gurgling stream.

How wonderful Elain felt, surrounded by nature, connecting to the air around her as if it had birthed her itself, offering it her voice. Respectfully reaping the charming flora, she found on her way, breathing their scent, befriending the forest animals, and spinning on the tip of her toes on the soft soil.

As she stopped dancing, her skirts still swishing around her calves from the last of her twirls, Elain noticed a magnificent shrub of the blooms she had braved the woods for, jewel-bright pink petals shining under sunbeams, as if the tress had organized themselves to create a spot of light for such earthly beauty.

Right then, the strangest of things happened.

With her heart jumping to her throat, beating frenetically against her ribs, Elain noticed a beautiful horse. Saddled, with a gleaming chestnut coat, dark eyes downcast, calmly munching on the grass near its hooves.

It wasn’t unheard of, horses in the woods, wild or otherwise, they were not far from the main road, but that was not what made Elain’s skin prickle with alertness.

A well-taken care horse as such must have a rider nearby.

“Samson,” called a male voice “There’s not much left to go.” The horse shuffled his legs, huffing before turning its nose away, back onto the moss.

“There will be carrots,” the voice tried again, with a tone of simulated indifference.

Caught like a fish on a hook, the horse’s great neck snapped up, looking at its rider, as if expecting the vegetable all at once. Stoic as the pair of them seemed, Elain had the impression Samson was kindly spoiled.

Elain, who could hear the rich sound of the stranger’s voice, had not yet distinguished his form in the shade beyond the grove she entered, but following the stallion’s gaze she finally sighted him.

Oh, but what a beautiful man he was.

Stranger was tall and broad-shouldered, with an old, silvery scar marking the side of his face, slitting his brow and narrowly missing his eye - which seemed to be a disconcerting shade of brown. He had the most vibrant shade of red hair she has ever seen, dark like autumn leaves and silky like water.

He was the most beautiful human she has ever seen.

Stranger, however, had yet to notice her.

And as handsome as he was, Elain was clever enough to realize that a quick, silent escape was the safest option.

Slowly, she walked one step back.

The crunch of the branch beneath her foot echoed loudly, too loudly to be confounded by an innocuous wildlife sound.

Elain couldn't raise her eyes to look at him, attention glued to the sword holstered at his hip.

“Be not afraid, lady. I’ll take my leave in a moment,” Stranger said in a placating tone, palms deliberately upraised for her benefit.

The woods turned to music at the exact moment their eyes met.

A world-altering spark of recognition lighted in her mind.

A stranger in the woods, merry music, dancing fireflies, and singing birds, trees being led by the wind as if women in a ballroom, her vision spinning, and her body lighting up like fireworks. A hand on her waist, a choreography her body must have been made for performing, such ease it was to allow it to guide her away.

Dreams, she remembered, wonderful dreams which always kept her under her covers for a moment too long, always ending way too soon, leaving longing as a dent in her pillow.

Now he was right in front of her.

“I know you,” she whispered, words slipping through her lips like birds escaping a cage, her hands shaking.

He was dressed in well-made traveling clothes, dark pants, finely done knee-length boots she had only ever glanced upon whenever wealthier people crossed the town to check on their local businesses, but those deftly dressed gentlemen couldn’t have looked better than the man even with the priciest of fineries. Elain resisted the urge to press her hands to her cheeks, heated and pink from noticing Stranger only wore a thin, unruffled poet’s shirt, - his cape and hat using the nearby trees as hangers - its open laces revealing golden skin and wisps of red hair.

Elain had never felt self-conscious of her looks or clothes, the townspeople dressing similarly to her (even if Elain herself had one of the best sewing hands in their village). Her current outfit was a simple corset with boning made out of prepped hedgehog spikes, the plain fabric embellished with neat seams and picturesque figures Elain had stitched herself; a brown, light skirt - easy to wash and easier to hide soil stains - and, what now she deemed absurd due to the grime on her nails, no slippers.

“And I, you,” he answered as in a daze, hands falling limply at his sides.

“Do you hear it?” Elain made her voice firm, lifting he chin but with her knees slightly bent, ready to run.

“Yes, my lady,” he took a step, then two, until a stretch of his arm would land his hand on her shoulder.

But he didn’t move to touch her.

Elain swallowed, the breeze cooling her body, eyes downcast, legs now motionless and nearly failing her.

“Why won’t you let me see your eyes, my lady?” She couldn’t be sure, for she knew him not, but there was pleading in his tone.

“I’m afraid, my lord, that if I look at you, I’ll awake and leave this dream,” she whispered, surprised, but not fearful, of her words. “And you’ll fly away from my grasp,”

Suddenly shy of her newly found boldness, she turned her back to him.

“I’m-" She started, voice small.

“No, please.” Elain saw a shadow over her shoulder but wouldn’t dare to guess. “Forgive me for my requests, my lady, you need not give me anything, I-”

He sounded... embarrassed.

She found it endearing.

The song of the woods shifted to a village rhythm she knew well.

“Dance with me,” he called.

A gasp fell freely from her mouth, the ghost of a touch on her hand.

Slowly, she turned back to face him and realized her mistake.

His eyes were not brown, but a vibrant russet shade, complimenting his hair better. Elain had heard only the continent bred humans with the most varied and colorful bodies.

“I forgive you,” she mouthed, her throat no longer functional.

There were callouses on his palms if from holding reins or sword fighting, she couldn’t determine, but they were so gentle against her skin she barely put any mind to it.

A blast of sound surrounded them, as if the song recognized their meeting, rejoicing in their movements, magnifying their volume to ensconce the pair of them in a cloud of magic. Elain allowed her stranger to spin and lead her in the dance of her dreams.

She couldn’t help to laugh and smile and giggle as they swayed in impossibly rehearsed arrangements, his wide, carefree, delighted grin pouring sunshine into her chest.

Time turned to a growing bloom, following the natural, slow, unpreoccupied pace of life. A hundred dances thrummed with them while the small pointer of the square clock circled once.

At that time, the resounding, deep clang of the church’s bell chiming twelve times broke through the magic steering the couple.

Elain ceased her steps, the pang of reality downing on her face, awareness washing the enchanted fog in her mind.

She let go of Stranger’s hand, the melodies dimming to a quiet hum, tempting her as a distance siren song,

“I must go,” she told him, yet unable to move.

“So soon?” he asked earnestly, arms lovingly tightening around her waist, not caging, only a gentle embrace.

“Oh, please, I must have my leave. Your lordship certainly has somewhere to be. I don’t even know what to call you-“ she babbled in a rush.

Stranger pressed his nose to the sliver of skin above her neck line, as if he couldn’t help himself, as if she were a saint and he a devotee. Elain lost the breath in her lungs, head lulling back, her words cutting themselves short.

“It’s yours,” his lips brushed the slope of her neck, “My name, my heart, my soul. It’s all yours. I’m Luc-“

Hurriedly, Elain lifted his head and pressed her pointer and middle finger to his mouth, “You must not tell me your name,”

“I heard your voice,” he admitted, a portrait of hope in his face, gently grasping her wrist “I deviated from the road to look for the angel whose song I was lucky to listen. But the singing stopped, as it was never there in the first place,”

“The woods have a mind of their own” she whispered to herself, eyes roaming around as if searching.

“I found you once I let Samson rest for a moment,” he continued, uninterrupted, as though afraid she would vanish in a poof of light.

“Please, my lady. Can’t you see? One is never to deny a gift from the Gods,”

“Are you a believer, Stranger?”

“Now, I am,” he said, his gaze unfaltering, “Will you allow me to reveal my name to your Ladyship?”

“I’m no lady,” she said, taking her hand from the warmth of his, regretting it immediately, “I must have my leave,” How would she explain her tardiness to Nesta? Oh, how reckless she was acting.

“At least allow me to take you to your home, my lady,”

Elain knew deep in her gut as clearly as she knew the color of the sky and the name of her favorite flowers that he would never hurt her.

But her oldest sister warning echoed in her conscience, coiling its limbs around her, refraining her voice.

The universe, it seemed, understood her decision.

Samson let out a loud neigh, attracting her love’s attention for just long enough.

“I’ll see you in my dreams,” she promised as he turned around to watch his horse.

And ran away, deep into the woods.

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Thank you so much for reading! Reblogs, likes and comments make my day.

Special thanks to @moononastring and @silvergriff for hosting this awesome event, @separatist-apologist for being the kindest and most considerate beta reader I could ever hope for.

I’m building a tag list! If you want to keep up with my writing, let me know :))

I may or may not continue this? I really want to mesh this with a bunch of other ideas I have on my notes!!

#elucien #lucien vanserra week #lucien vanserra headcanons #lucien spell cleaver #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #elucien fanfic #elucie fic #elucien fanfiction #acotar #sleeping beauty

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shreddedparchment · 4 years

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Pseudo Princess Pt.28

A Dangerous Homecoming

04/08/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 5,529

Warnings: wounds, blood, language, fluff

A/N: We are in the home stretch my loves. The end is in sight. Hopefully I can speed up my momentum. I have the chapters outlined out but always seem to slow down when I’m near the end. I’ve done it with lots of my stories. And I am SORRY. Anywho, I hope you enjoy this chapter. If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work! xoxo

Consciousness isn’t something that Steve is often at odds with.

From that fateful day when his mother gave in to her most rabid of fears and made her deal with the Sun Witch. With Doctor Erskine’s enthusiastic encouragement and his own experimental flare, Steve’s fate was changed.

He was altered, irrevocably so. The man he might have grown up to be—or rather, the man he would have died as—had disappeared and in his place a new one was formed. One of drive but not ambition. One with the will to do good and now with the strength to do so.

Steve had been blessed with the body to fight, but now he understands that he was also cursed to drag everyone he loves into the darkness opposite his light.

He gasps, sweating into his expensive and ridiculously extravagant tunic. The dark blue, etched in delicate silver and blacks is nearly soaked through.

His dark gray undershirt clings to his wounded and bruised form.

His lungs struggle for breath as his fear mounts, choking him as silver steel eyes grow dark, black, and dangerous. A curtain of deep chestnut hair flutters around a pale but cold bitten face. There’s a gleam to this man’s left and a fist curls with a keening cry as metal bends.

Steve’s hands twitch. His lips part, dried blood crackling around the edges of his lips.

His fever rages, burning hotter than he’s ever burnt before. The wound in his side stings. The pain is consistent until suddenly it stops.

As the dark eyes charge forward, his weapon hand raised to strike, a soft dampness coaxes Steve away from the image. He gasps, death poised to strike only inches away, when a soft whisper pulls him out.

“Shhhh.” The whisper says and Steve lashes out.

His eyes open wide, his hand closed tight around muscle and bone.

“Ow.” You whisper, pained but also controlled.

Steve’s eyes search and find you to his left, right hand angled painfully away from his face with a damp piece of cloth in its grasp.

“You’re safe.” You tell him gently, trying to convince him. “You’re alright.”

The panic in his chest dissipates. His heart begins to slow. There’s a searing burn on his left side and he looks down to see his shirt and tunic pulled up to expose a long wound now stitched together and freshly cleaned.

“Steve…” You plead. “My hand.”

His panic returns and he drops your wrist. “Did I hurt you?”

He pushes himself up but stops as you place a restraining hand on his chest.

“Don’t get up.” You order.

And it is and order. No doubt about it.

Though Steve knows that you take your role as Queen of Broklin very seriously, he has never heard you use that very authority on him and it strokes it heartstrings like a harp.

He sits back, resting against what feels like sacks of grain. It isn’t exactly soft but it’s better than the ground. Beneath his is warm mattress, hay by the feel of it. Grass too probably.

With his senses returning, he takes a quick look around where you’ve brought him.

“Where are we?”

“My home.” You tell him, resuming the cleaning of his face. “Or it used to be.”

You gently massage away the grime from his skin. The blood caked on his scratches and cuts require a bit more pressure but you’re as gentle as can be.

While you work, he takes it in. Your once home.

It’s small. Only one room, slightly smaller than his study back in Broklin.

The floor is made of aged wood that creaks as you shift on your knees to reach the far side of his neck.

There are small holes and cracks, moldy spots of green in one corner. In another a vibrant yellow weed pokes through from the ground below.

The wattle walls have been painted to attempt a brighter interior. The paint is scarce. He can see how you tried your best to make this little room a home.

The windows, all without panes of glass and only shutters to keep out the cold in winter, have begun to crumble and splinter. A vine has begun to take over, weaving it’s way in and up into the leaky thatched roof.

“Sorry about the water. It started raining while I was in the village.” You explain and his eyes hone in on you.

“You went out alone?” He demands, fear beginning to grab hold.

“Just for a little bit.” You stop your cleaning, meeting his fretful gaze with what he knows now is a stubborn will to be independent. “I needed to get some food and clean scraps for your wounds.”

Steve frowns, hating that you'd gone anywhere without him.

He reaches up to place his hand along your left cheek, caressing your skin until his finger finds a small three inch pucker across your cheek bone.

“You’re hurt.” He hates it. He hates it so much his stomach begins to bubble with bile.

“It’s just a scratch, Steve.” You shake your head, then lean towards him again to resume your cleaning. “Luckily my old sewing box was still in the cupboard. I tended your wound as best I could but we should get it looked at properly.

“I don’t want you getting an infection.” You sigh.

Steve’s turns towards the cupboard beside the small table by the fire you’ve got going. There’s an old rusty pot resting just beyond, handle broken.

All of your furniture, including this bed that he’s laying on is of the poorest quality. With you gone and without your care, even though it’s been under a year, it has fallen into disrepair.

“I won’t.” Steve assures you, looking at the sewing box by your legs, resting on the tattered skirts if your once fine dress.

“That won’t work on me, Steve. You’re seeing a doctor as soon as we’re with father.” You frown.

“No.” He shakes his head, looking at your stubborn pout.

He could kiss you. He loves the way you are bot afraid to challenge him or show you care. You love him so openly. With no fear.

He’s never known this kind of love. Freely given with no thought of restraint.

“I mean, I can’t catch an infection.” Steve explains. “I’m already healing. Even my fever is already gone.”

You almost dive towards his cheeks, hand thrown out to feel his temperature. You press your little—well, little to him—palm against his forehead and wait.

Steve can’t help but love you in every moment that you are by his side.

Especially now as you teeter over him, face screwed up with concerned concentration. You’re a mess. Like him.

Skin broken in small places from rocks and the falls you took. Hair completely disheveled. Your crown, the smaller one he’d had made for your outdoor events, is gone. Lost somewhere in the crowd and amongst the fight.

He doesn’t dare bring it to your attention.

His eyes naturally follow the curve of your throat down to your chest, and then finally your stomach.

His calm glee at your fussing quickly fades as the small swell of your stomach—more noticeable to him day after day—grabs hold of his attention completely.

With two hands he cups the bump, wondering if he might somehow know how the little prince is in your belly. His son.

“How are you feeling?” He checks, meeting your gaze which calms as you sit back onto your ankles and place your hands over his.

“He’s alright.” You stroke his fingers, a gesture of comfort. “I was a little worried while we were walking. After the carriage flipped over, I didn’t feel him for a while, but he did wiggle a bit as we walked here.”

Steve feels a rush of relief, grateful to you for always being your shared son’s protector. He knows how much you love him already.

“That’s not what I asked.” Steve clarifies, eyebrows raised high as he waits.

“I’m fine, Steve. A little tired. Achy but that’s to be expected after today. And very worried.” You sigh, shoulders rising high and dropping low as you slouch with the weight of your grief.

Steve knows what you’re thinking about, because he’s been thinking about it too.

He thought about how far he needed to get you away from the city. And Bucky. He thought about his son and his health. And Bucky. He worried about his friends. And Bucky. He wished he could do more for the innocents he’d left behind. And Bucky.

“They’ll have subdued him by now.” Steve promises.

“How do you know? He was so…so lethal, Steve. I’ve never seen him like that. How is it even possible?”

Steve takes a slow breath, knowing that it’s time for this story. He would have preferred for Bucky to tell you himself, but this time…he’ll have to make an exception.

“There’s something you should know about Bucky.” He begins, but you nod.

“This has to do with him being taken a few years ago?” You offer, entirely more knowledgeable than he’d expected you to be. You never cease to amaze him. He shouldn’t be surprised.

You’re smart as a whip. Perhaps not by a Lady’s standards, but you know more than anyone knows. You’re observant and your common sense and instinct is unparalleled.

If you weren’t so important to him, so precious; if you weren’t his only love and the mother of his child, he would recruit you onto the team and find a way to make you impervious to harm.

Maybe find a witch to bewitch you the way they’d done him or even Peter.

“How do you-?”

“The other day when Nat and I spent some time together alone, she alluded to a story. She didn’t tell me, but she said she would. Later.” You explain and Steve can see the resignation of your all too special patience.

“I suppose it’s later.” Steve nods. “A few years ago, Bucky, Nat, Clint, and I were on a quest to find one of the secret Hydra camps in the Southern forests. The deep south. In the elder wood.”

He watches as you bring out your feet from under you and settle on the floor. He hates it, you on the hard surface while he’s on the soft bed…but if he asks you to sit with him, you’ll argue.

“He was gone for weeks. Nat was inconsolable. Clint did what he could but eventually they had to move on. They had things to attend to. Responsibilities. Thor had to go back to Asgard, Tony had to help Pepper run his own Kingdom, and although I—I should have gone back to ruling Broklin, but I couldn’t give up.

“Nat and I kept searching. How could we stop looking? Bucky is…he was my only remaining family. And for Nat…well, it would be like when I lost you. Knowing you’re out there with no way of knowing whether you’re safe, only we knew that Bucky wasn’t.”

“This was after Margaret’s death?” You probe carefully, fearful it seems in upsetting him.

He’s driven that fear into you and it upsets him that you feel you can’t be open with him about Margaret. It’s his own fault.

Steve nods. “Only just. It was so fresh. Her death…and I was grateful for the distraction; however painful it was. The thought of losing Bucky too after everything with Maggie…I couldn’t stand it. I was determined in finding him. As was Nat.”

Steve can almost sense his own desperation again. It was just as bad as when you were missing. He ignores the ache in his chest at both memories and instead presses on, pushing those bad times out of his mind.

You’re here, attentive and precious in front of him. He won’t waste another moment on the thought of you anywhere but at his side.

“When we finally found him, he’d been strapped to a wooden bed with no mattress in the lowest level of a ruined castle. It was damp but hot, as we were farther South than I’d ever been. Although Natasha knew the territory well and we were able to search it with ease thanks to her expertise.

“For the most part, Bucky seemed fine. He was a little tired when we pulled him out of that wretched cell, but he was happy to be with Natasha again.

“His arm…it was gone. Replaced by the one he has now. When we asked him what had happened to it, he said that he didn’t remember and that it did hurt, but not as much as he might have thought it would to lose an arm.”

“Weren’t any of you worried about what they’d done to him?” You ask in shock, voice tight and whispered. Steve can only guess at what has you so spooked but he’s certain it’s the loss of Bucky’s arm. Here was no grand tale of him losing it in battle.

One day it was there, the next it was gone.

“Yes. Of course. Nat and I more than the others because we couldn’t understand why they would take him only to do that to his arm. So, we kept a very close eye on him. We secluded him to one room in the castle with guards at his door day and night.

“Tony was also very suspicious. Only Tony…Tony wanted to do more than just keep an eye on him.” Steve says, voice dropping low and his eyes going dark at the memory of Tony’s panic, the fear in his eyes as he looked at Bucky laying unconscious as he recovered.

A perceived threat. But to Steve, it was Bucky. His friend and brother. Like hell he was going to let anyone hurt him any more than he’d already been injured.

As Steve can’t fight his anger, with his brow furrowed, you seem to realize suddenly that this must have been what drove your Father and Steve apart. This was what had needed your marriage to bridge the divide in their relationship.

“He wanted to lock him up permanently.” You say, not surprised one bit, but a little disappointed? “Or worse…”

As Steve’s gaze meets yours, you read his eyes like no one else in his life can and realize that Tony had actually tried to do something about it, not simply wanted to.

“What did he do?” You barely manage to say.

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, I fought for Bucky. Nat did too. We were split, though Thor and Bruce weren’t there for the fallout, everyone else was.

“Peter was the only one who managed to balance both sides even though he initially fought with Tony. He realized what this would mean and helped mediate a stop to our quarrel. At least for a while.

“Tony and I didn’t speak again until we arranged a marriage between Morgana and myself with the full intention of having it end before we could ever truly consummate the marriage. That’s where you came in.” Steve sighs, feeling a surge of gratitude for you.

He doesn’t even plan for it to happen, but his voice becomes softer as he reaches out to stroke the curve of your chin. Caressing you whenever he has the chance. How long will you allow him to show you his affections?

He cannot be touching you always, despite his desire to do so. He must maintain some form of decorum in front of his friends and subjects.

However, here in the dimly lit home of your past, he can be as free with his love as he pleases.

You catch his hand and release a held breath, looking appeased and happy to feel the heat of his skin, just as he relishes in yours.

“So, Bucky never showed any signs of mental manipulation until today?” You wonder.

“No. Nothing until today. When nothing happened, we assumed he was fine.” Steve sighs heavily, the weight of his fight with Bucky weighing heavy on his shoulders. Had he missed some sort of clue? Had there been an indicator of what was to come? Had he been blind because of how close he was with Bucky. “It’s been more than two years…”

As if that might ease his strife. It doesn’t. It only makes him worry that maybe there is more to come. What if it isn’t over? What if they’ve turned his friend into someone dangerous permanently?

Steve pulls you a little closer and you shift for him, moving where he wants you. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you even closer. He isn’t satisfied until you’re right against his side, your hands pressed against his chest where your fingers take to restlessly twitching against the loose threads of his shirt.

He watches you, so grateful that you’re safe. You’re as lost in thought as he is. Reliving the terrible day just as he is, no doubt.

Steve’s arm tightens again, and you look up to meet his eyes. Your own worry seems to dissipate as you see the stress in his.

As much as he loves Bucky. He can’t help but think how close he came to taking you from him today. How easily his life might have changed again. For the worse.

With a small quiet sigh, you reach up towards his cheek and begin to wipe at the smudged dirt there but stop after two swipes, eyes going wide as you stare into Steve’s storm blues.

“What?” Steve asks, seeing the shift in your expression. “What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t tell you, because I didn’t think it was important.” You begin, and Steve can hardly breathe.

“Didn’t tell me what, flower?” He coaxes, adjusting on the bed to sit up a little straighter.

“I…I think I know what happened. What set Bucky off today.” Steve begins to speak but you’re quick to shake your head to silence him and he obeys you, shushing if that is what you wish. “I didn’t think it was real. I was just waking up in the carriage when I saw it. I was drifting in and out, but I found it odd and even asked father about it.”

Steve’s impatience begins to prod at him, but he bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet for you.

“Now that I think about it, I didn’t see him any other time except for that moment.” You shake your head, shutting your eyes as you struggle to pull the image together in your mind it looks like, so Steve reaches up to cup your cheek.

“Tell me.” He pleads gently, forced but willing.

When you meet his eyes again, he can see the terror there but also the absolute certainty.

“I saw Lord Pierce across the square, getting out of a carriage. Bucky was there with him. Looking upset, I think. Then Lord Pierce leaned in and whispered something into Bucky’s ear.

“He went a little stiff, his face went blank, but then I must have gone under for a moment and when I opened my eyes, Bucky was gone. Lord Pierce was gone too.

“Even then, my heart was racing. I knew that what I saw wasn’t good, but I could have been dreaming it. And when I asked father if Lord Pierce was in attendance at the procession, he said that he wasn’t. That he’d made sure to exclude him purposely. So, I put it out of my mind.”

Steve’s hands are claws against your back, the rage within him is nearly choking. He wants to scream. To destroy. If he weren’t injured, he might have even torn your house apart with his bare hands.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, he assumes because you can feel his upset.

“No.” He manages to say, voice deep and quaking with his anger. “No, Y/N. You did right to tell me now. I don’t blame you.”

“But I should have said something.” You fret.

Steve looks down at your belly, the agony of almost having lost both of you today eats at him and helps calm him. It levels him out and he breathes in slowly, then releases the breath but pulls you to him in a soft embrace.

“You’re safe.” He shuts his eyes, really letting himself feel you there in his arms. He trails one hand down to rest on your stomach, tracing the shape of the small curve. “You both are. That’s all that matters.”

“What does this mean for the kingdom? For Lord Pierce? For Bucky?” You ask him, looking to him for a response to this new crisis.

Steve doesn’t often feel as if he is a king with people who depend on him.

Though he knows that he does indeed have a responsibility to his people, he doesn’t often feel as if he’s looked on for leadership. Those moments when someone is truly waiting for him to make a decision.

In your eyes he sees devotion and respect. He sees a genuine intention to follow. And yet he knows that even with this willingness, you would easily disagree with him if you felt it were important.

Everyday you are proving to him that you are not only the woman he loves, but the Queen he has needed at his side.

With you beside him, he truly feels as though he could rule his Kingdom with confidence, with grace, and with a will to do better. For you. For his son. And for all of the people who depend on him.

“I will issue a warrant for his arrest.” Steve declares, confident in his decision. “I will state his crimes clearly so that everyone may see what a snake he is. It will ruin his name and he will have no choice but to either turn himself in for trial or run.”

“What if he runs?”

“Then we will follow.” He nods. “He’ll pay for what he did to Bucky. He’ll pay for what he’s done to you.”

You lift your chin, filled with what he hopes is belief that he can do it. That he can bring Pierce to his knees.

“No one hurts my family and gets away with it.” Steve declares. “No one.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“What are you doing?!” Natasha shouts, shoving herself between Tony and Bucky, fully intent on punching if the need should arise.

The beautiful pale stones of Tony’s castle are a stark contrast to the horrors on the bed behind her.

Natasha glances back at Bucky, wary of the amount of blood he’s losing from the countless wounds to his torso.

What tortures her further is the knowledge that she was the one that put three of those stabs into his side.

She’d been careful to avoid his most sensitive spots, but after he’d woken up on the way home, he’d tried to fight his way out.

It took a hard hit from Tony to the back of the head to knock him out completely and he hasn’t woken up since.

“I need to remove the metal of his arm.” Tony replies exasperated with Natasha’s meddling.

“I needs to wait.” She says.

“It can’t. Bruce said I need to remove it immediately. He’ll have to treat that wound too to prevent infection.

Natasha licks her lips, her green eyes blazing with fear.

“Nat…Let me fix him.” Tony pleads.

“I don’t trust you.” Nat replies, brow crinkling with distrust.

“I know.” And Tony can’t blame her. He’d made a bad impression the first time Bucky had shown up altered. Now here is the results of what he’d always feared but he knows better now about what he’s willing to lose by taking certain precautions.

Bucky is irreplaceable to Natasha and Steve. He must respect that if he’s going to keep not only you but the team in his life.

“But you have to.” Tony argues, holding his hands out for her, his tools held tight as he waits for her to move.

Natasha turns around to look at Bucky once more, her face contorted with indecision and grief and reluctantly moves aside.

Tony lunges for Bucky and works quickly on his arm while Natasha cuts away Bucky’s clothing to tend to his other various wounds.

~~~~~~~~~~

“He’s stable for now.” Bruce declares, wrapping up Bucky’s arm recess where before there’d been shredded metal.

“Will he wake?” Tony asks, trying to keep his voice down for Natasha’s sake.

She’s only just fallen asleep, sitting in a large cushioned chair with a high back. Her hand firmly wrapped around Bucky’s scuffed up right hand.

“What did you give her?” Bruce asks, ignoring Tony’s question for a moment as he also looks to Nat to see her sleeping so peacefully.

“Just one of Agatha’s herbs. She’s a witch with herbs.”

“Or just a witch.” Bruce says quietly, fixing Tony with a wary look.

“I’ve been thinking so too. But she’s devoted to keeping Y/N safe so she’s a good one, as far as I’m concerned.” Tony moves to the wall to pull the call. Somewhere in the castle, he’s sure a bell rings.

“She’s going to be upset when she wakes.” Bruce points out.

“She needs the rest. Thor, Clint, and Peter are out searching. Sam has gone back to Broklin in case they head that way.” Tony assures his friend. “We’ll find them.”

“Y/N is going to be upset that you’ve got Sharon helping Samuel.” Bruce teases, a small awkward smile playing on his lips.

“She’ll deal with it. Finding them is most important right now. Not jealousy.” Tony argues.

Bruce huffs a small laugh, turning to seal Bucky’s bandage before checking on the wounds that Nat had tended to just to be sure they were sealed well.

“You are aware that Sharon snuck into Steve’s room to try and seduce him, and your daughter caught them in bed together, right?” Bruce asks, turning a knowing look to his friend.

Tony blinks, hands clasped at his front before he begins to fix his shirt.

“I am now.” Tony admits. “I’m sure she didn’t let them get away with it. And they seem fine now.”

Mind racing with what might have happened after finding Steve and Sharon like that, he resolves to give Steve a scolding when he sees him.

When. He will find you both if it’s the last thing he does.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks, voice groggy from sleep.

You’re uncurling from his side, moving to his removed tunic to rifle along the front at his expensive baubles and medals.

“To get us some food and something less conspicuous to wear. We don’t know if we’re being pursued. We must lay low.”

“And going into the village to buy things isn’t the opposite of laying low?” Steve asks.

You shake your head. “I’ll only be half an hour and I know the people here. They won’t hurt me.”

Most of them…

“Let me go.” Steve begins to get up, but you frown when he groans.

“No.” You insist, moving to him with a handful of jewels and silver.

You push him back down onto the bed and fix the ratty blanket you’d used to use over him.

“Stop arguing with me.” You chastise him. “I’ll be faster. You’re still wounded.”

“I don’t like you going out there alone.” Steve argues.

“Steven, please. Don’t fight me on this. I will be as quick as I possibly can. I’ll be as invisible as I was before I left. You’ll see. No one will pay me any mind. I was an insignificant orphan. No one will care that I’m here.” You assure him.

“You’re Queen of Broklin.” Steve argues. “And you look like her now, whatever you may think. You don’t look like the girl that came to my castle nearly a year ago.”

“What do I look like then?” You wonder, stripping off your dress before pulling on an old ratty set that you’d had here in the house from before.

It’s thin and meant for summer. Does little to shield the cold but it’s better than your regal, however torn up it might be, gown.

“Even in that you look like an angel.” Steve says.

You can’t help it. You laugh.

“Don’t you think you’re a little biased?” You ask him.

He frowns at you.

“Steve, I’ll be fine.” You move back to him and he welcomes you despite the terrible clothes you’re wearing.

He pulls you in suddenly, no warning as he kisses you hard.

You gasp, hands tense on his shoulders as his lips crush yours painfully.

When he pulls away, he does so slowly, his kiss shifting into tenderness.

“What-?”

“Please be cautious. Don’t talk to anyone that you don’t have to. Turn my cloak inside out and take it. I will not have you and our child freezing.” He worries.

“Why weren’t you this annoying when we first got married?” You tease him and he shuts his eyes, head falling forward to rest against your chest.

You chuckle and stroke his dirty hair, smoothing it out despite the blood and grime still caked into it.

“Please be safe.” He begs, looking up at you again. “I don’t know what I would do if I lost you, Y/N.”

“You’d go on. Because you’re strong. And you have a whole Kingdom that depends on you.”

Steve sighs. “I don’t want to be rational. I’d gladly follow you into the end.”

“Then I guess I’d better not meet my end.” You decide.

Getting up, you move to his cloak and turn it inside out as he wished. It’s plain gray on the underside. Still a fine fabric but less ostentatious in its stitching. It makes it much warmer in this clothing and it smells like Steve still.

“Stay quiet.” You tell him, then pick up his shield and put it beside him. “I’ll be right back.”

You slip out into the early morning freeze. The wheat fields are barren and give you no cover as you trek across the cold semi-frozen mud. It sticks to your shoes, much too nice for the plain peasant dress you’re wearing but with the cloak they’re somewhat hidden.

You’re tired by the time you reach the edge of the village and take shelter in the smithy’s doorway. He’s already open, an older man who had tried his best to ignore your hunger plight often. Many of the wealthier villagers had made the very conscious decision to pretend you didn’t exist.

You can’t blame them. You were a child in need of care and many of them, though richer than you, still struggled to make ends meet. They had no way of caring for a whole other mouth to feed.

He’s working inside, too busy making his living to care that you’re resting on his doorstep.

It takes you fifteen minutes to walk across the village make your purchase with only a somewhat lingering look from the tailor who must be the only one to notice your absence in the village as you’d always been a bit of a pain to.

You had offered to mend clothing at a cheaper cost and so stole most of her mending business.

“Haven’t seen you around here.” She states, wrapping up your new dress and the clothing and shoes you’ve purchased for Steve.

“I’ve been travelling.” You say quickly. Offering no further explanation.

“You look different.” She says, pushing the parcel over the counter towards you.

Fucking Steve.

“Do I?” You take the package and throw a silver pin on the counter worth six times as much as she’s charging you for the clothes.

Her eyes go wide at the sight, but you don’t wait for her to say anything and instead leave as quickly as you entered.

You buy some food from the bake, just something to tide you both over until you can go hunt something up and pay with a small ruby.

You’re gone before he can respond to the payment.

With both errands out of the way, you make your way back towards your cottage, eager to be back by Steve’s side.

Your trek is quick across the barren fields, pace increasing the closer you get.

It’s just beyond this slope, beyond the windmill.

As you curve around it, smile stretching your lips, you gasp as a large stocky man blocks your way.

Your free hand drops to your stomach protectively as your eyes take in the only threat to you in this village.

“Well, hello, hello, hello. If it ain’t tha little mouse.” He says.

As you take in his pale skin, a messy array of vibrant red curls on his head, your mind provides you with several excruciating memories of his large beefy body pinning you against the tavern wall. His hands tearing away at your clothing. Ripping your skin as angry tears stained your cheeks.

Both times you’d been able to fight him off. You’d been lucky.

As he devours you with his eyes, you can see the wheels in his mind turning.

“You’ve been gone a long time, little mouse.” He grins. “I’ve missed you.”

#king!steve x reader #king!steve x you #steve x reader #medieval au #royal au #medieval fantasy au #steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers x reader fanfiction #steve rogers x you #avengers x reader #buckynat #marvel au #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #pseudo princess #pseudo princess pt28

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ofjanuaryembcrs · 5 years

Text

BASIC INFORMATION

FULL NAME: Beverly Martha Marsh

NICKNAME(S): Bev, Bevvy (do not fucking call her that, it reminds her of her dad and that is not something she wants to think about), Beaverly, Slut

AGE: 18

DATE OF BIRTH: February 13th, 1976

HOMETOWN: Derry, Maine

CURRENT LOCATION: Derry, Maine

ETHNICITY: English, Irish, Scottish

NATIONALITY: American

GENDER: Cis female

PRONOUNS: She/her

ORIENTATION: Biromantic bisexual, though she’s never really discussed it with anyone. She kissed a few girls at parties back in Portland, but she’s never gone further than that. She does like girls though.

RELIGION: Agnostic. No one in her family has ever been really religious - her father and aunt were raised Catholic, though, while her mother was raised Methodist.

POLITICAL AFFILIATION: While she definitely has left-leaning beliefs, she doesn’t follow politics enough to have a specific opinion on every issue. She identifies as a liberal democrat though.

OCCUPATION: Student, a clerk at the fabric store in the strip mall

LIVING ARRANGEMENTS: Bev currently lives with her aunt in a tiny, two bedroom apartment near the one she used to live in with her dad. It’s older, but Bev’s never been one to complain as long as she’s got a roof over her head.

LANGUAGE(S) SPOKEN: English

ACCENT: Maine

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: Sophia Lillis (younger), Abigail Cowen (older)

HAIR COLOUR: Red

EYE COLOUR: Blue

HEIGHT: 5′7″

WEIGHT: 120 lbs

BUILD: Slim

TATTOOS: She has a collection of seven small birds on her rib cage. Bev got it on her eighteenth birthday - before she and her aunt moved back to Derry. At the time, she wasn’t sure why seven felt like the right number, but now she knows that there’s one for each of the losers.

PIERCINGS: Bev’s had her ears pierced for as long as she can remember. When she was sixteen, she got her cartilage pierced. A few weeks ago, she also pierced her nose because it’s the 90s and everyone’s got a nose piercing.

CLOTHING STYLE: Okay so fashion is actually Beverly’s favorite thing in the world. Growing up, her father always restricted what she could or couldn’t wear and now that he’s dead, she wears whatever the fuck she wants. Bev’s style is eclectic; some days she’s in a black, ripped crop top with a bright red plaid skirt and combat boots, and then the next day she’s in a soft summer dress with sandals and a flower crown. Beverly makes most of her own clothes, or she tailors and alters things she finds at the thrift store. She does wear makeup, mostly because it’s fun to put on.

USUAL EXPRESSION: Her lips are almost always turned up in a soft smirk like there’s some sort of joke or secret that only the two of you are in on. Her dark eyes are warm and loving unless you give her a reason why they shouldn’t be.

DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: Freckles scattered across her face, shoulders and arms, as well as a scar on the palm of her hand.

HEALTH

PHYSICAL AILMENTS: None

NEUROLOGICAL CONDITIONS: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (undiagnosed)

ALLERGIES: None

SLEEPING HABITS: Beverly is usually more of a night owl than an early bird. She sometimes struggles with falling asleep, which means she usually stays up listening to music or flipping through magazines until she gets tired. If she’s really restless, she’ll sneak out and visit a friend or go to the quarry to look at the stars.

EATING HABITS: Honestly, Bev’s eating habits aren’t great. Her aunt works ridiculous hours and Bev is horrible when it comes to cooking, so she lives on a diet of takeout and meals that are quick and cheap to make. She does try and eat a balanced meal most of the time, though, and she doesn’t go crazy with sweets. Junk food isn’t something she gorges herself on, really.

EXERCISE HABITS: She doesn’t work out regularly really, but Bev walks or bikes most places. She does run sometimes if she’s feeling stressed or upset, but her stamina isn’t great due to the fact that she’s smoked cigarettes since she was twelve.

EMOTIONAL STABILITY: Pretty high. Beverly still has nightmares about different elements of her childhood, but usually, she can calm herself down afterward. She’s not too distressed most of the time, at least on the outside. Bev’s good at letting things go, or at least ignoring them until they’re a serious problem.

SOCIABILITY: High. Bev’s a very social person. She doesn’t like be alone, really, and tends to surround herself with people she loves and cares about. Making new friends isn’t her strongest suit, but she’s okay at it. Bev’s kind to strangers, and can usually make small talk with people.

BODY TEMPERATURE: Bev’s usually cold, even when it’s pretty warm outside. She tends to wear layers just for this reason.

ADDICTIONS: Cigarettes. She picked up the nasty habit when she was twelve and hasn’t been able to quit for longer than a month since. It’s not something she’s proud of, but she also can’t seem to let it go.

DRUG USE: Recreational marijuana use, though she only smokes it with friends. It’s not her favorite stress-reliever, but it’ll get the job done.

ALCOHOL USE: Beverly is a social drinker; if her friends are drinking, so is she. She’s a giggly drunk who can sometimes be a little flirty, and she rarely throws up. Her hangovers can be pretty brutal, though.

PERSONALITY

LABEL: The Empath

POSITIVE TRAITS: Compassionate, Forgiving, Creative, Loyal, Tenacious, Brave

NEGATIVE TRAITS: Impulsive, Stubborn, Sarcastic, Distant, Rebellious

GOALS/DESIRES: More than anything, Beverly wants to work in fashion. She loves designing and creating her own clothes, and would love to do that on a larger scale once she graduates. It’s unlikely that she’ll get a scholarship to any school, but she’s still applying to places with fashion design programs. If she manages to get in one, she’ll take out loans to go.

FEARS: Her father, though she does have some peace of mind now that he’s dead. Anyone that majorly reminds her of him scares her a bit too. Beverly’s aware of the way men stare at her, and that troubles her a lot too. Sometimes she can use their leering to her advantage, but most of the time, it just creeps her out.

HOBBIES: Bev likes making her own clothing. She spends a good deal of her time at her sewing machine, making new things from scratch or altering things she’s found at a thrift store. She also makes things for her friends, for holidays or their birthdays. Most of the time, she doesn’t have money for a gift, so she makes them something instead. Sketching out designs for her own clothes takes up a portion of her time too. If she’s bored in class, Bev will begin drawing out a new dress or skirt or something that she wants to make one day. When she isn’t working on clothes, Bev can be found reading. She developed a love for poetry when she moved to Portland, though she didn’t understand why until she moved back. She also likes murder mysteries and true crime books. Weirdly enough, gruesome stories fascinate her. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism.

HABITS: Beverly plays with her hair a lot. She’s kept it short ever since she was thirteen, though now it falls to her shoulders. If she’s stressed or nervous, she’ll play with it even more than normal. Smoking also helps calm her nerves. If she’s trying to quit, she’ll chew a lot of gum.

FAVOURITES

WEATHER: Overcast weather is Beverly’s favorite. Sunshine is nice sometimes, but she thrives in cloudy, slightly chilly weather. That’s why Fall is her favorite season. She loves being outdoors when the air is crisp and you can taste the rain.

COLOUR: Bev loves pink. There is absolutely nothing wrong with being feminine, and Beverly will make sure you know that. She loves red a lot too, though.

MUSIC: Bev loves both pop music and alternative stuff. She loves Whitney Houston (though no one can love her as much as Eddie), and she used to be really into Madonna. Now, she listens to Green Day and some girl bands. She likes some rap too.

MOVIES: Honestly, Bev can watch pretty much any movie; she loves romantic comedies, though. Because she’s friends with the losers and the party, she’s developed a taste for sci-fi and adventure movies. Bev also likes horror movies, but only if they’re slasher movies. When the antagonist is human, she’s fine.

SPORT: Sports aren’t Beverly’s thing. Her lungs are terrible after smoking for so long, so she can’t really play much. But, she’s in the stands at every game Mike or Ben are playing in. She wouldn’t miss that for the world.

BEVERAGE: Coke or coffee

FOOD: Pizza with green peppers, mushrooms and sausage

ANIMAL: Bev’s always liked otters a lot. They’re adorable, and they hold hands to stay together. What’s not to like?

FAMILY

FATHER: Alvin Marsh, an actual piece of shit (Deceased)

MOTHER: Elfrieda Marsh, not a great mom when she was alive (Deceased)

SIBLING(S): None

PET(S): A kitten from Richie the Cat’s litter, given to her by Mike Hanlon

FAMILY’S FINANCIAL STATUS: Bev has lived with her aunt since she was thirteen. They manage to make ends meet, but they certainly are far from being wealthy. Bev doesn’t like to talk about it, but she’s definitely poorer than most of her friends. She can’t always afford to go bowling or go to the movies every week, but she never wants her friends to feel sorry for her.

EXTRA

ZODIAC SIGN: Aquarius

MBTI: ENFP

ENNEAGRAM: Type 1w2. Bev wants to make a difference, but she also wants to help others.

TEMPERAMENT: Sanguine

HOGWARTS HOUSE: Gryffindor

MORAL ALIGNMENT: Chaotic Good

PRIMARY VICE: Wrath

PRIMARY VIRTUE: Charity

ELEMENT: Air

#( I WANT TO RUN TOWARDS SOMETHING | MUSE )

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