I'm so happy to have @lilmissnia's Moondrop Glitch shirt! It just came today hehe ❤️

Pseudo Princess Pt.23

Worry Wart

01/14/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 6,494

Warnings: Language, fluff, angst

A/N: I hope you enjoy this chapter. It was such a struggle to write with all my styes these past two weeks, but I’m better now, hopefully for an extended period of time, please! Thank you, Universe! If you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work!

“Your Majesty, you must calm down. This isn’t good for the child.” Nat’s hand hasn’t stopped stroking your back, gentle circles to soothe your sorrow.

“He h-hasn’t opened his eyes in three days.” You sob, unable to stop crying. When you aren’t crying, you’re pacing. When you aren’t pacing, you’re sitting at his side, stroking his hand. Full of anxiety.

“He’ll be alright, Y/N. I promise you.” Nat says.

“She’s right.” Bucky interjects. “He’s come back from worse.”

You look at Bucky then look at Nat. Behind Bucky is Sam, who sits looking almost as forlorn as you do and definitely more worried about Steve than Nat and Bucky seem to be.

“I never get used to it either.” Sam tells you, holding your gaze as you watch him lean forward, elbows on his knees.

He’s left the tie at the neck of his white linen shirt undone. No tunic, untucked. He’s been just as stressed as you have.

Your lip trembles.

“He does get better.” Sam assures you, nodding. Solemn and honest. He means what he says.

“He lost so much blood.” You whisper, voice weak and tired.

Sam blinks slowly. Knowing that there isn’t much that will calm you.

“Peter got him help in time. You stitching him up was a good idea.” He nods, impressed with you again as he had been when Peter had recounted your instincts for him.

“You should have seen her. By the time I got here, she was already cleaning his wound and when I came back with the doctor, she’d already stitched up one side of his injury. His back the doctor did.”

Why anyone would be impressed with such terrible work…Your hands had been covered in his blood. He’d been so pale.

You turn to look at Steve, shunning their praise because the only thing that matters is that he isn’t awake. His breathing is so unsteady. He’s so…how can someone so strong look so frail?

You take hold of his left hand with your own two, clutching him tightly before pressing it to your brow as you shut your eyes and try to take a breath.

“Please…Please, wake up for me, my love.” You kiss it then rest your cheek against it. You lay your head there, feeling him beneath you. He’s warm now at least. Wrapped in blankets and the fire burning bright.

You’re sweating but you don’t care. Bucky looks just as uncomfortable with the heat as Sam but he’s not sweating like you, Nat, and Sam.

Suddenly you realize that something is different about these two childhood friends. Steve and Bucky…there’s something more to them.

The wound below Steve’s breast would have killed any other man. You’re sure. You’ve seen wounds like it before. A sword. All the way through. In one side, out through the other.

He should be dead.

You sob.

Nat's soothing increases in pace. Bucky sighs heavily.

“Have you eaten?” Bucky asks, and you scoff, almost angry.

“I can’t eat right now.” You force yourself to focus the irritation inwardly.

He’s only worried for you. It’s kind.

“You should eat something.” Bucky insists. “When Steve wakes up, he won’t be happy that you did not take better care of yourself.”

He’s right of course…and…you appreciate very much that he said when Steve wakes up and not if.

Nat seems to know when you relent as she quickly sweeps to the cord by the hearth and pulls it. In the distance you imagine there’s probably a bell being rung. As you wait, Nat moves back to stand beside you, stroking your shoulder gently.

“How about a bath after you’ve lunched?” She probes.

You want to say no, but Bucky’s word ring in your ears still.

You nod.

“I know you’re worried, Y/N. But you can’t stop taking care of yourself. With Steve like this, the Kingdom turns to you for its strength.” She caresses the back of your head, smiling down at you softly when you meet her gaze with a furrowed brow.

You hadn’t even thought of that. If something should happen—it won’t!—then you will be Queen of Broklin, alone. No King. You will be expected to take control.

“Me?” You gasp, squeaking the word as untold pressures begin to settle on your shoulders.

Terrified, you get up, still clutching Steve’s hand when a sharp pain in your stomach has you hissing and doubling over.

“Your Majesty!” Bucky exclaims.

“Y/N!” Sam and Nat cry.

All three of them hurry to your side. Nat wraps one arm around your waist to support you.

“Alright. That is enough. You are taking a break from his bedside.” Nat chastises.

“No.” You gasp, holding your lower belly with one hand, fingers stroking the thick pale gray linen of your dress that surrounds your stomach.

“You’re sweating.” Nat observes. “You’re overstressing yourself.”

“Natasha is right.” Sam agrees. “A break is just what you need.”

“No!” You say more firmly.

It’s the first time you dare use your authority as Queen with them, but you mean it and it rings stern in your voice. It does what you need it to. They quiet and listen.

“I won’t leave his side.” You insist. “I’m sweating because this dress is too hot.”

You look at the caped sleeves, lined with snowy white weasel fur. The purfelle around the square neckline, the slits on its side. It’s a lot of warmth in addition to the fire still blazing that you refuse to put out. Steve's usual temperature is still not right.

“Shall I fetch you a new one?” Nat asks, eager to help.

You sigh, so tired of the fussing but also simply frustrated with Steve’s condition. You’re so…

As you look at her, you sway, hand still clutching your tummy.

“Your Majesty?” Bucky checks, reaching out for you too now.

“Nat…” You manage to whisper as the heat overcomes you and you slump backwards into her arms.

Bucky is there too, helping her support you.

You can still hear them and you’re not unconscious. Just dizzy and so exhausted. You’ve slept two hours today and maybe another two the night before.

Suddenly, you’re weightless.

“Put her on the bed beside him.” You can hear Nat saying.

Gently you’re lowered, soft mattress embraces you.

“I’m fine.” You say, weak but strong enough that your assurance helps temper their worry. “Just…I need to eat.”

Being off your feet helps and you begin to feel normal again. Just sleepy.

“Your food is on its way.” Nat nods. “And we’ll get you out of this dress.”

“Have you got her?” Bucky checks.

“Yes. But send for Grandmother. Just in case.”

Bucky nods. “I’ll send one of the squires. Oh, and the doctor will be here in two days. The council has settled on one and-”

Nat shakes her head. Frowning a little at her intended. “Not now. She has enough to worry about.”

“What?” You ask confused. “Wait, what doctor? I told you, I’m fine.”

“Don’t worry, Y/N. We’ll discuss it when you’ve had some rest. Let me get the back of your dress.” Nat promises and helps you sit up.

Sam and Bucky leave, a young maid brings you a tray of meat pies and tarts, leaving them on the small table you and Steve had been eating on the past two weeks when the two of you refused to leave it.

As soon as the dress is removed, you breathe in deeply, your skin pimpling from the rush of fresh air.

“Better?” Nat asks, helping you strip.

You nod.

“Good. I’ll get your nightdress. You’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow.” She frowns, looking at your hand still somehow clutching at your bare belly now that she’s taken your dress and undergarments.

“Does it still hurt?” She asks, eyeing your hand as she pulls out a long cotton gown with a ruffled neckline that will fit loosely around your shoulders and cinched sleeves at the wrist, more ruffles laced with pale blue ribbons.

“No.” You rub your tummy, hoping the pain was really only induced by stress. “We’re alright.”

“You’re lucky Steve isn’t awake. He would be going mad with worry at any sign of distress in your pregnancy.” Nat sighs.

“I know.” You nod, holding out your arms as Nat comes with your gown ready for wearing.

Outside the wind whistles, thrashing the cottage’s stone walls violently. A cold breeze seeps through the cracks that you cannot see, and the room drops in temperature for a moment.

Nat quickly pulls down your gown then hurries to stoke the fire as it shifts with the burst of wind.

“If it goes out, ring for a servant to come and remake your fire. You cannot be in here without one. This cottage is old and can get very cold very fast.” She explains.

“He’s still so cold.” You worry, reaching over to take Steve’s right hand. “For how he normally feels.”

“Y/N…” Nat begins, sitting on your bedside as she reaches to remove your hand from his so that she can hold both of yours in her own. “I promise you-”

She ducks her head, trying to grab your attention and when you finally meet her eyes, she smiles.

“-I swear, he will pull through this. You were very smart to think on your feet, but Bucky is right. Steve has come back from much worse.”

You frown. “Why didn’t he tell me he was the Freedom Knight?”

“The Captain, actually.” Nat corrects you. “I know that the common folk have taken to calling him the Freedom Knight, but he prefers the Captain.”

Your mind is suddenly in a frenzy as you connect countless stories that you’d heard in your village about The Captain and the Freedom Knight. Both thought to be separate entities all rolled into one. He’s saved so many people, so many villages. Done amazing things and at times taken excruciating beating all in the name of those he protects.

“All of that was Steve?” You gasp, turning your eyes back on your husband.

“It’s unusual for a king to be so modest.” Nat nods. “Your father is more like what Steve would be expected to be.”

Your father, the Iron Man as he too prefers to be called instead of the Iron Knight as many you’d known had called him, is indeed the very type of King that is unabashedly brazen of his accomplishments.

“I didn’t know.” You whisper, reaching over to take his hand again.

“And he wanted it that way. But he was going to tell you. He wanted a little more time with you where he was only Steven Rogers, King of Broklin.” Nat explains.

“Did he think I would be angry? Disappointed? Impressed?” You ask, feeling hurt that he’d kept it from you after you’d exposed your true identity right away after you began to grow close.

“I think he was worried that you might see him differently. There is more to his story that he will have to tell you himself.” Nat moves to grab you a plate of food, serving a small amount first to see if you’ll be able to keep it down.

She knows you so well.

When she sits back down, you’re clinging to Steve’s hand harder.

“It only makes me love him more. And worry more.” You sigh.

“As I told him you would. Perhaps that’s also why he hesitated?”

She holds out a fork, fancy with a twisted handle, and you take it. Eating is slow. You’re wary too, in case your sickness should come back and you can’t keep the food down, but you find yourself devouring it instead.

You finish everything, including the crumbs left from your tarts.

Nat watches you proudly. Happy to see you eat so well.

The food makes you feel better and with that need met, you can focus on Steve more easily.

“I will let you rest. If you need me, I will be nearby.” Nat assures you, taking your plate back to its tray and taking the tray with her as she leaves. “Might I ask a favor, your Majesty?”

She turns to look at you from the door as you lay yourself back down beside Steve, eyes glue to his face which as slowly regained a bit of color.

“Of course, Nat. Anything.” You look for her, resting on your elbow as you rub your belly with your other hand, fearful of the pain you’d felt before.

“Will you let him tell you? About being the Captain and why he didn’t tell you? I’d hate to rob him of that when he’s been desperate to tell you but fearful as well.” She genuinely looks worried to have stepped on his toes.

You nod. “Of course. I want to hear it from him anyway.”

Nat smiles and gives you a quick curtsy, then leaves you alone with Steve.

Settling under the thinner blanket you’d left for yourself in favor of wrapping up Steve in the thicker ones to keep him warm, you edge yourself closer to him. Carefully you lift his right arm over your shoulders and settle it over you, nestling into the space beneath his arm. With one hand on your tummy and the other clinging to his blanket, you shut your eyes and listen for the steady beat of his heart.

It sounds strong again and that gives you hope that soon you’ll have your husband back and he can yell at you for neglecting yourself because you’d rather he be angry with you than to have him like this, unmoving, unspeaking, and unconscious.

~~~~~~~~~~

Hot. It’s hot.

Steve is hot. He’s sweating. And he rarely sweats.

He shifts, and a dull pain just beneath his left breast freezes his movement. He groans.

As he makes noise, to his right there is a tremble.

Startled he tries to sit up, pushing through the pain and lifting his right arm as his mind simultaneously catches up with where he is and why he’s hurting. On his right, the trembling thing is you.

You’re curled up, tucked into his side, your body shivering. The fire has gone out and although he is hot, wrapped up in what feels like several thick winter blankets, you are barely covered by one singular much thinner sheet.

Suddenly frenzied, he hurries to extricate himself, kicking and shifting with disregard to his wound.

The movement startles you and Steve stops moving as you spring up and push him down by his shoulders. You can’t overpower him, but he lays still for you.

“Stop. No.” You order him groggily.

Then you shiver.

“You’re cold.” Steve says, his voice surprisingly smooth. He feels as if he’s been sleeping for a while.

“Please desist. You’ll injure yourself.”

“But-“

“Hush!” You nearly yell at him, a look of slight annoyance on your face for a moment.

He goes still, watching as you tuck him back in.

“I’m sweating.” Steve fights, frowning as your skin pimples.

You look up at him and reach out to touch his cheek with the back of your hand.

Steve leans into it on instinct, missing your touch after being away from you for nearly two days.

Your beautiful lips part in a sigh and you loosen his blankets before yanking them back completely. After you gather them at the foot of the bed, you hurry off the bed and race to the fire. Stoking it, Steve hears a hiss and crackle.

You’re visibly shaking, and he hates it.

“Come back to bed. I will stoke the fire.” Steve reasons.

“Steven Rogers, if you get off that bed, I swear…” You threaten, leaving it open for him to interpret.

The worst thing he can think of is that you’ll leave him to sleep alone again. He doesn’t want that. So, he settles back in and watches you struggle with wood and pile it on. It takes you a few minutes of gentle grunts before the fire is filling the room with heat once more.

He smiles as you place the poker back then his heart nearly stops as you gasp with pain. You fall forward slightly, your hand placed on the stone mantel.

Your threats be damned. His wife is in pain?!

Silently he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your waist as his other takes hold of your hand to support you as he takes you back to bed.

“Why are you out of bed?” You gasp, glaring up at him with an unyielding anxiety.

Steve is sure you see the same expression on his face.

“Are you in pain?” He asks, turning you around to sit you down. “Lay back, here.”

He quickly helps you get your legs up and then pulls one of the larger blankets from his side over to you to wrap you up.

“Is that better?” He checks, tucking your legs in.

“Steve…” You sigh. “Please, please get back in bed. You’re not healed yet. You lost so much blood.”

Steve hates to see that grief in your eyes. He sits beside your hip, reaching up to caress your cheek.

“I’m alright, my love.” He smiles at you, stroking your chin before he leans in towards you.

You pull back, and the gesture is so unfamiliar after two weeks of constant affection, relished touches, tempting kisses…you pull away from him and his heart stutters.

“You cut was deep.” You shake your head. “You can’t be alright.”

Steve’s expression firms, a look of serious contemplation before he reaches down to pull up at the bottom of his shirt. He lifts it until he exposes what is now just a bright red scar. The skin still looks a little thin, but it cannot be reopened.

He watches you reach forward, gentle fingers stroking the shape of the harsh line.

“It will fade by the morning.” He says, and watches as your eyes dance up to meet his.

“How?” You wonder, sounding more curious than terrified which gives him hope that you might still see him as he is.

Steve takes your hand but then thinks better of it and scoots closer, placing his hands on your stomach.

“You’re in pain?” He worries, looking up at you as you lean back against the padded headboard.

He likes that. He likes you relaxed.

“No.” You shake your head.

Frowning at you, he sees a sparkle of that ease that he’s grown used to in the past two weeks. A small curve at the corners of your lips. He’s missed you so much. He wants to kiss you.

He won’t just yet.

“I’m not.” You assure him. “At the moment.”

“Then when?” Steve probes.

“I…Earlier this morning. And just now. I’ve been fine otherwise.” Your sincerity is true, but it also rings with your urging to calm him.

Steve’s frown deepens. He looks down at your belly and shakes his head. “Is this my fault?”

“No!” You deny it, though he knows it’s true.

“I shouldn’t have gone.” He sighs. “I should have sent Bucky and Sam. I’m hurting you.”

“Steve, no.” You assert, stern. “You’re not hurting me. Don’t say that.”

“Well, I’m sending for the old woman.” Steve moves to get up but you quickly grab hold of his sleeves and you pull him back down onto the bed.

He doesn’t dare pull away from your gentle grip.

“She’s already been sent for.” You promise him and he can see that you’re not lying.

“Tell me what you need.” He renews one hand to your tummy while the other reaches for your bicep to caress your arm.

You seem to consider your options for a bit before you reach down to your left to untuck your legs. You flip the blanket over them exposing the mattress beside you.

“Come keep me warm.” You tell him, and then visibly shiver as the heat from being wrapped up escapes.

Steve springs up and moves around to his side of the bed. He slides in, and you’re already in his arms by the time he settles in.

He wraps you both up with the blanket and feels you nestle into the heat of his chest. Your hands are freezing he notices, and he places his own over them as you settle them against his shoulder and then tuck your head into the crook of his neck.

That cold hand wanders down towards his scarred wound, feeling the puckered skin, still soft from healing. He doesn’t pull away because as cold as your touch is, it’s home.

“I was scared.” You admit, and Steve can hear the fear.

Is it stress? Is that why your stomach hurt? What if he’s hurt the baby by leaving you and coming back to you as he did?

“I’m sorry, my flower.” He sighs. “I did not think about what my turning up as I did would do to your condition. Forgive me.”

You’re so quiet, but you’re still stroking the remnants of his wound. He can feel you press yourself closer.

“Do you really feel better?” You ask him, tilting your head back to look up at him.

“Much.” He nods. “I promise.”

You search his eyes, seeking truth and you find it. You smile up at him, filling his heart with light and he leans down to kiss your lips because you’re his and you’re in his arms again. He’d fought hard to get back home to you.

Both of you.

His hand finds its way back to your stomach as you pull back and rest your head against his chest again.

“Your heart sounds stronger.” You observe, and Steve feels worse.

“How long was I unconscious?” He wonders, worried about the amount of stress he’s had you under for it to bring you pain.

You don’t answer at first and Steve can sense your hesitation.

“Y/N?” He urges you.

“Three days.” You swallow hard.

“Shit.” He doesn’t mean to swear in front of you, but whereas Maggie might have chastised him for his cursing, you look up at him again, just watching.

“I stitched you up and when the doctor arrived, he cleansed your wounds and finished sealing them. Then I washed you and Peter helped me lay you in bed. I kept you warm and the fire hot. I fed you soup…when you were awake enough to take it, which wasn’t often. I laid with you and cleansed your wound and…I couldn’t sleep.” You shake your head, ashamed of yourself it looks like to Steve.

You place your hand over his and he frowns at the way you caress it but also the upset on your expression.

“I’m sorry.” You whisper. “To both you and our little one. I should have taken better care of myself while I nursed you, but I was so terrified for you. You were so pale, and you lost so much blood. And we only just grew close. To lose you now-?”

“You won’t lose me.” Steve cuts you off, deterring those thoughts as soon as they begin to form.

“Bucky said I should not worry. He assured me that you have recovered from worse…but Sam and I were worried.” Steve laments the sigh that parts your lips, the relief that’s flooding your person that he can hear in the tone of your voice, it makes him regret leaving you laying here.

You’d been a vision. Naked, perfect, with silk sheets wrapped around your sticky body. And he’d left you voluntarily only to return to you to sleep for three days as his body healed.

The fear you must have felt…

“I’m so sorry, my flower.” His arms feel right with you in them. He squeezes you lightly, enjoying the feel of you cuddled against his chest.

Every curve of your body is magnificent, and his hands explore it with agony at the thought of you in distress.

You smell so good, peonies with a hint of that sweat smell he’d grown to love as he’d ravished your body the past two weeks.

Your still frozen fingers tracing the shape of his scar, etching luscious patterns against his heated skin.

It begins to slow, but your touch is invigorating, and he’s missed you…and your body. He wants to see you and hold you, kiss you.

“Y/N…” He whispers, pressing his lips to the top of your head before turning to look down and meet your eyes as your hand stops moving against his side.

The world seems to stop, all of time means nothing as he watches the tension leave your face, your lips part, your eyes are completely shut, and sleep takes you.

Your breathing grows heavy and as your body grows slack in his arms, he tightens his hold even more to hold you up against him. You whimper but then you nuzzle his chest and lay still.

With his heart soaring, Steve lays himself back down. He supports you until both of you are settled against your mess of pillows then lets your body’s weight fall on him and the mattress itself.

You relax. You sleep. Steve cherishes this moment and watches you until sleep takes him once more.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Where are we going?” Your heart is in a frantic pitter patter.

When you woke up this morning, Steve was gone.

You’d scrambled up from your bed, frantically throwing your luxurious woolen robe on, and bolted for the door.

It had opened as you reached it to find Steve holding a tray of delicious breads and jams. Specifically made for you to suit your most recent cravings.

He’d smiled down at you, amused by the look of your hair and the shock in your eyes as you tumbled against his chest.

He’d wrapped his arm around your waist to catch you and chuckled beautifully as you gasped in surprise.

The two of you had spent the morning sitting in front of the fire, on the floor among a poof of large pillows and a thick bear skin rug.

It was a dream of course, as every day with Steve has been since the moment he decided to accept you as his wife. To love you as you’d always hoped he would.

It was all the more precious after the scared he’d given you, coming home all bloody.

You’d refused to make love to him despite his wandering hands.

“You need to rest.” You’d said.

And Steve had rolled you onto your back and settled over you as your hand traced the shape of his scar, already faded to the same shade of peach as the rest of his skin. Completely healed.

He’d kissed you until your lungs ached and then laid his head on your chest and fell asleep for a few hours more when you didn’t cave to his desire for you.

Now he’s got you by the hand, dragging you from the chilly halls of the cottage out into the expansive frozen gardens behind it.

The ground is covered in a thick blanket of snow, and you’re struggling to walk through it, tugging your red cloak up out of the ice diamond mulch.

“Shall I carry you?” Steve teases you, and you look up to find him grinning at you fondly.

“No.” You frown at him. “Keep your hands to yourself, your Majesty, or I will move into my own room.”

Why won’t he just rest?!

“You should be in bed.” You continue to chastise him. Irked by the amusement on his face.

“I’m all better. I promise. Here, give me your other hand.” He offers it to you and waits until you take hold of them before he pulls you to him swiftly.

He chuckles at the surprise in your expression, but lifts you easily, holding you around your waist until he’s moved to a trodden path and sets you down.

There’s the sound of cobble beneath your feet as you regain your balance.

Steve takes your right arm and wraps it around his left elbow to help support you as he pulls you along down the path.

You’re frowning at him however, staring at him with subdued fury.

He meets your gaze, then throws his head back in laughter.

“I’m alright, my flower. I promise.” He unwraps your arm only to wrap his own around your shoulders and pull you into his side to cuddle you closer. A squeeze of reassurance given. “I’m all better.”

Your mind is struggling to wrap itself around that speedy recovery. The scar already looks months old. Faded, with the skin hardly raised, like the others on his chest. How many of those had been stab wounds?

Pouting, you look forward but don’t pull out of his embrace. He’s still running at a hotter temperature than you are, and in this freeze, it is appreciated.

All of the blooms that you pass, the shrubs, and topiary are covered in a thin layer of ice. The fountain’s water frozen, and the small pavilion that has been set up at the back right corner of the large garden is piled in white from the storm.

The sky is gray, overcast, as more snow threatens to fall. It’s almost assured to come. The cottage will be absolutely buried once again and there will be no leaving for several weeks.

“Where are we going?” You grumble, still a little worried.

“Y/N…” Steve says, his voice so soft that you search for his face instinctively. “Please believe me when I say that I am alright. I understand your concern, but it depresses me to have you upset with me.”

Your mind fogs over. Steve sad?

That’s not what you want.

“I’m sorry, I just…I don’t understand.” You admit, giving in and settle under his arm in a more relaxed gait.

“I know.” Steve nods. “And that’s where I’m taking you. To explain.”

“Explain?” You keep your gaze on him.

“It’s not much further. Are you cold? Should I give you my cloak?” He worries.

“I’m alright.” You assure him.

He moves a little faster, eager to get you out of the cold, probably.

When he begins to slow as the garden splits into a grove of tall frosty pines, you see that he’s been bringing you to what looks like a small shed. The stone is crumbling, and the wood looks rotten.

Steve frowns as he stares at it, stopping only a few feet away from the blackened and splintering door.

“What’s the matter?” You ask, looking from his look of disapproval back to the shed.

“The shack, it’s falling apart.” Steve says. “They should have restored it long ago. We’ll have to tear it down and build a new one.”

You’re still not sure what he disapproves of.

“I was going to take you in, but not in this state. I won’t risk you and our little one. Wait here for me. I’ll only be a moment.” He tells you, then strides towards the shed.

As he swings the door open, the top half comes off the hinge and Steve catches it before it can completely topple.

He grabs the door from the sides and looks back at you, uncertain for bit, until he seems to make up his mind and with minimal effort, he yanks the door away.

There’s a clatter as the hinge falls onto the small cobble step. Steve sets the door to the side of the doorway, and with flushed cheeks, he looks at you once more and the shocked expression you must be wearing.

You knew that Steve was strong but…tearing doors off their hinges?

Perhaps it’s just that old?

He disappears into the dark mouth of the shed and every moment you stand there without him feels colder than the last.

You’re not sure it’s really getting colder or if you just miss his heat or just him in general, but then the wind picks up and whips your cloak around the black and blue velvet gown beneath. The storm must be coming sooner than expected.

“Steve?” You call out, drawing the cloak around yourself tighter.

In response, you hear a strange rumble and a creak. The sound moves closer and closer to the doorway until through it breaks what looks to be a wooden seat sat upon two large wheels at the front and a slightly smaller one at the back.

The seat looks like any other. Older, with navy cushions torn and moth eaten, but just like the chairs that sit around the cottage dining table. The wood of the chair is sturdier than that of the shed because it looks much newer, although, it has been kept in doors so that could only have helped.

You look up at Steve as he stops pushing it a few feet away from you. He stands beside it, one hand on the back, then meets your eyes to read your reaction.

“What’s this?” You ask him, unsure how to behave.

“This is…my past.” Steve explains. “As a boy, I was confined to this chair until around the age of eight. My spine was twisted. My lungs were underdeveloped. My skin had a constant rash. I had the sweating sickness about four times. I couldn’t run or overexert myself, as my heart would beat so fast that it began to hurt. More often than not, I was ill. I think I can remember only a handful of days where I was fine to be out on my own, with Bucky playing games. This chair…was my life.”

You stare at the seat, trying to picture your husband—strong, tall, capable, no sign of ailments at all—as the sick child who rode around this chair. It’s almost impossible.

“What happened?” You ask him, turning to meet his hesitant gaze.

“Just as I turned eight, I caught the sweating sickness again. This time, it came for me. I was almost dead when my mother, in her desperation, sought help from a warlock. A doctor, or so he called himself.

“He gave my mother the truths, that he might be able to save me and make me invulnerable to all future sickness, give me accelerated healing, strength that she could not possibly imagine…but that there was also a chance that I could very well die as my body underwent the process.

“Weak as I was, he assured her that the likelihood of my death was high.” Steve lapses into silence, thinking. About his mother?

“She took the chance.” You tell him, because here he is, standing before you a specimen of perfection.

Steve snaps out of his thought and nods. “Yes. She figured that I could either die of my illness or the next or die anyway but have the chance to rid my body of its weaknesses and live. Clearly it worked.”

“So, when he cured you…?” You begin.

“I became a whole new person. I could run and play. I was able to truly live. As I grew older and I realized that there were things I could do with this gift bestowed upon me, I created the Captain and set out to do what I could to rid my father of the threats to his kingdom. Mainly that meant Hydra.

“Bucky, Margaret, Sharon…they were all within my circle and my closest of friends. Naturally they gravitated towards the same agenda. And through this endeavor of mine, I met others like me. Some were gifted their abilities. Some stumbled upon them. Some were forced into it. But all of us wanted the same thing.

“To fight for those who could not fight for themselves. There were six of us to start with. Your father, the Iron Man.” Steve pauses, thinking this through quickly, calculating the look of intense concentration on your face. “Myself. Bruce, or rather, Doctor Banner, who you met briefly back home.”

“What can Doctor Banner do?” You wonder, remembering the handsome but somewhat reserved man who’d emerged from the council room after your encounter with Sharon.

“Bruce was one of those who accidentally came upon his gift. He was in a foreign country assisting in the research of an abandoned village. There was a flash of green light, and from what he says happened, it appears he stumbled upon a few old traps laid by a witch and he was cursed.

“Whenever he grows angry, he loses control and transforms into what he calls the Hulk. Some who have sighted him in this form have referred to him as the Green Monster.” Steve explains.

“That is Doctor Banner?!” You reply, shocked by this revelation.

Steve only nods. “Then there’s Thor, the God of Thunder.”

“Wait…God of Thunder?!” You gasp.

“Did he not tell you?” Steve’s brow puckers in confusion.

You’d known that Thor was a King but a God? You shake your head.

“Typical.” Steve gripes. “Then there’s Lord Barton, who was a spy before he joined us, and a master archer. Though, he has retired and is living in peace with his wife and children.

“And lastly, there was Natasha.” This seems to be the name that Steve was worried about telling you because he tenses, hand gripping the back of the seat.

“My Nat?!” You clarify. Steve nods. “What-?”

“She was also a spy. Trained from childhood. Conditioned to be a certain way…I don’t feel it’s right for me to tell you her story, but she’s been working hard for many years to pay a debt she feels obligated to pay. She’s a master warrior. I don’t know any other human woman who can fight the way she can.” Steve sounds proud. Protective of Nat.

Does he think you’ll be angry at her or see her differently?

Well, you can’t see her the exact same way. But you see nothing wrong. Just a little shocking.

“S-so the six of you formed a team?” You ask, remembering the word floating around somewhere though you can’t quite remember where you got it.

“The Avengers.” Steve nods. “Sharon and Maggie were not part of that particular group, but they were heavily involved.”

As the wind picks up again, you drift into thought, trying to see these people, these friends as saviors of the world.

Nat…you’ll need to talk to Nat. But first…

“Y/N?” Steve checks, visibly nervous as he shifts from foot to foot, gripping the back of his old chair so tight it’s beginning to crack under his weight.

You meet his storm blue eyes as he searches your own.

Only one thing could matter more than Nat or anything that Steve just told you.

“What does this mean for our baby?” You ask him, reaching down to place your hand over the small hidden bump. “Will he be like you before you were cured…or after?”

Slowly, fear begins to take root in Steve’s eyes. Will your baby be strong? Or will you suffer the same fate as his mother and be forced to choose between the chance of death and certain death for you little one?

ahhh I love your work!! Can you please do 6 and 14 with female reader and Poe? :) I’m a big fat sucker for a juicy friends to lovers.

A Night on Courscant

Plot: Poe and Y/n are stranded on Coruscant searching for a hotel room. But when do things ever go according to plan?

Warnings: extreme steam 🔥

Word Count: 1.9k

A/N: Why does every Poe imagine I write turn so thirsty? 😂 I’m not upset about it. I also managed to get every trope possible in this one including the famed ‘there was one bed.’

(And thank you so much, anon, for the kind words!)

————-

6: “You keep saying that we’re friends but you look at me for a moment too long for that to be true.”

14: “Don’t pretend that you don’t feel the same way.”

————

It was supposed to be a one day diplomatic mission to Coruscant. We were supposed to be back at base by nightfall until our ship’s compressor had decided against that decision. I’d contacted Leia to let her know the situation and she said she’d send a ship first thing in the morning. Until then, Poe and I were walking through the heart of the metropolitan planet in search of a hotel for the night.

“If I remember right,” Poe pointed towards a cluster of smaller buildings, “One of those has rooms for pretty cheap. Between the two of us, we should be able to swing it.”


“Good,” I replied, “I’m ready to put an end to this day.”

“Aw, c’mon, sweetheart,” Poe pulled me into his side, “There’s a lot worse people to be stuck with for the night.”

I laughed, trying to ignore the hammering of my heart at being pressed against him. Falling in love during war was dangerous, but falling in love with your best friend during war was just plain unfair.

“Look at it this way,” Poe said, “We had to sit through a criminally boring meeting, lost our ship and are stranded on a planet we hardly know. It can only get better from here.”

Like clockwork, just as Poe had finished his sentence, it began to rain. Upon the first drops hitting, he bit down frustratedly on his lip and nodded.

“You’re right,” I said over the growing noise, “This is better.”

Poe sighed and reached for my hand, “Come on.”

We dashed through the city, weaving between people on the crowded sidewalks, as the light drizzle picked up and turned to a torrential downpour. Luckily, the hotel Poe knew about was close by and it didn’t take long to make our way over. However, with the strength of the storm, we were soaked to the bone by the time we got there.

Poe had compiled both our credits and we stood at the check-in desk, awaiting our room key. In my exhaustion, I hadn’t realized I was staring at my friend. The rain had soaked through the cream colored shirt he was wearing, making the outlines of his chest extremely visible. He’d pushed his wet curls off his face but one of them stubbornly stayed in place against his forehead, perfectly out of place. There was a reason that Poe was the poster boy of the Resistance, someone that beautiful deserved to have their face all over the galaxy.

Once the worker returned with our room key, Poe and I were quick to make our way up to our floor. The sooner we went to sleep, the sooner we’d get to go home. When Poe unlocked the room and switched on the lights, we were met with the surprise that there was only one bed.

“I could’ve sworn I asked the guy for a room with two beds,” Poe said.

“I was there, you did,” I sighed, my thoughts running rampant at our situation.

Poe rubbed at his neck, a nervous habit of his, “I guess we could make it work?”

“Yeah, of course,” I replied quickly, “I mean we’re…we’re friends.”

I must have been tired because I thought I heard Poe hesitate before saying, “Yeah, friends.”

He locked the door and we fully entered the room, I was trying to figure out how to navigate the night without it being too awkward. It was too late and I was too tired for a shower and it wasn’t like I had other clothes to change into. Not to mention I’d caught a chill during the storm and was freezing, all I wanted to do was get into bed.

“Um,” I began, “We’re going to need to, uh, get out of these clothes.”

Poe nodded, “I can turn around and you can get in bed, that way I won’t see anything.”

“O-okay,” I said, Poe promptly turned around and awkwardly cleared his throat. I peeled my long sleeved shirt off, followed by my boots and pants. I was left only in my undergarments, more cold than I’d been with my layers still on. I hurriedly climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over me. 

“You’re safe,” I said, Poe slowly turned around and smiled at the sight of just my head peeking out from the blankets.

Without warning, he shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and reached behind him to pull his shirt over his head. I should’ve turned around instantly, but the shock of seeing his toned chest on display had caused my brain to short-circuit. After a few seconds, I caught myself and nervously turned on my side, mumbling an apology. I felt like a complete idiot. Poe moved under the sheets and I could feel the heat that practically radiated off of him warm the bed,

“Can I ask you something?” he quietly asked, I still hadn’t turned to face him.

“Sure,” I squeaked.

“If you were to describe you and I, what words would you use?”

I squinted in confusion, almost wishing that we would have gone to bed silently. Every word I wished I could use flooded my mind, but none of them had any place in our reality.

“Well,” I started, attempting to sound nonchalant “We’re friends.”

Poe hummed, “You keep saying that we’re friends but you look at me for a moment too long for that to be true.”

My eyes widened in horror before I turned over to face a very smug looking Poe.

“W-what are you talking about?” I asked.


Poe gave me a knowing stare, “Do you honestly think I haven’t noticed how you look at me? I know because,” he took a deep breath, “It’s the same way I look at you.”

I must have looked ridiculous, my jaw slack and my eyes slitted as I tried to comprehend what Poe was admitting to. Was he saying…he felt the same?

“I-I-Poe, I don’t know what-I mean-“ I cut my babbling off with my hand running over my face.

“Y/n, you heard what I said, don’t pretend that you don’t feel the same way,” Poe said with a nervous laugh.

I turned my head to look at him, his deep brown eyes looked so determined and yet so vulnerable at the same time. It was taking a lot for him to admit his feelings to me, even if he seemed confident about it. If he could do it, then I could too…

“Yes, Poe,” I whispered before adjusting the volume of my voice, “I have feelings for you. But that doesn’t change the fact that I can’t do anything about them.”

“What?” he said, “I thought I just-“

“Yes, you did,” I interrupted, “And I’ve dreamed about hearing you saying something like that for so long but, Poe, we’re in the middle of a war. It’s a terrible idea for to get involved with someone when there’s a chance you’ll lose them the next day.”


Poe’s eyebrows scrunched together sadly as he listened to me, I was fighting back a few tears myself. It broke my heart to say, but it was true. The one thing that had always stopped me from telling Poe how I felt was the paralyzing fear of getting to love him and then having him ripped away from me.

“I disagree,” he objected, scooting his body closer to me, “Yeah, we live more dangerous lives than most people but that doesn’t mean we should have to give up stuff like…this.”

With very little space left between us, Poe gently took my hand and pressed it to his bare chest, just over his heart. I could feel its steady beat, though clearly a little faster than usual with the moment we were wrapped up in.

“I know it’s scary, the thought of losing you has woken me up in the middle of the night too many times. But I can’t keep going on like this. I want to know what it’s like to hold you, to kiss you, I want to know what it’s like to love you. Whether we win or lose this war,” Poe’s voice cracked with emotion, “I want to be by your side.”

If he hadn’t made it easy on me before, he was making it nearly impossible now. With every word he said, my heart swelled and my mind went blank as it searched for a rebuttal.

“Please give us a shot, Y/n,” Poe whispered as he studied my face, trying to find his answer.

Words failed me as I felt the pounding of his heart in my palm, the metaphor of it not lost on me. Poe had laid everything out for me to either take or destroy. It was my call. And I knew with my new knowledge, I couldn’t spend another day living in the misery of loving him and not doing anything about it.

I slid my hand off his chest, grasping his hand and placing it on my hip. His fingers tensed at first at the feeling of my skin, his eyes locking with mine searching for hesitation. When he found none, he relaxed and squeezed my waist gently. I shifted closer into him till our chests were pressed together, I shivered at the contact as I shakily moved my hands to grip his shoulders. Poe maneuvered his arm under me to wrap around my waist, enveloping me in him. We were standing on the edge, about to fall into something wonderful.

“I-I think I can give you more than a shot,” I whispered, watching the way his eyes lit up at my words.

Poe slowly dragged a finger along my figure till he reached my chin, tilting my chin up so our lips met. Finally. Months of desire and longing exploded in a single kiss, the euphoria of the moment ran through my veins. Our lips danced together in perfect harmony, moving together slowly and passionately. Poe’s tongue slid between my lips, begging for permission to deepen the kiss, and I happily parted for him with a whimper. As he entered, he rolled onto his back and pulled me with him so I was straddling him. He sat up and pulled me tighter to him while also snaking a hand up to my back. I rocked against Poe as my hands slid into his wet hair, eliciting a groan from him at the combination of sensations. The hand against my spine moved to the back of my head, pushing me as close as he could possibly have me and intensifying our kiss. This was surely the definition of bliss; a soaking wet Poe Dameron moaning beneath me and kissing me like it was our last night alive.

———————

The next morning, redressed in our now dry clothes, we met Rey and Finn on a landing platform. The sight of the Falcon was a welcome one as Poe and I did our best to appear as if nothing had changed between us. Once we boarded, Rey came up and us both hugs, followed directly by a gasp.

“What?” I asked, worried she’d sensed something was wrong or-

Shit.

“Finn!” she called out before racing off to wherever he was, “You owe me twenty credits!”

“Were they betting on us?” I said with a horrified chuckle.

“Does it matter?” he smiled, “I’m the real winner, I finally get to be with you.”

HR Wells x Reader Hidden Among The Fairy Lights (Part 2 of 3)

**A/N: The picture/edit/gif does not belong to me. 

*There’s a hidden Easter Egg, lemme know your thoughts in the comments or in reblogs. Could be about my next one-shot or it could be about part 3, let’s discuss ;D

Word Count: 5271

Part 1 Part 3

“HR?” you gave his arm a little squeeze, concern flooding your eyes at the sudden shift in his body language. Tension replacing his usually sunshine-y disposition that you had been accustomed to seeing every day, even if it expertly masked how he truly felt at times around the others. Gradually realizing that you eagerly wanted to see him sincerely smile at the beginning of each day to know that he was doing ok. A part of you wanted to retract your question, but a bigger part wanted to know- to understand what had happened to him to cause such a change in his demeanor.

“Are you sure this is what you wish to know?”

You swallowed your saliva as your answer fell out of your mouth without a second thought, “Yes.”

HR rubbed his face with a firm hand, exhaling slowly through his nose. What he shouldn’t have expected was for you to back down, after all you were just trying to befriend him. He knows you weren’t trying to intentionally hurt him, especially with all the kindness you’d shown him. “The people in my life have always set high expectations for me.” HR reopened those crystal blue eyes that you’ve found yourself falling into more than once. Like a riptide. He held your gaze, rubbing the skin on his wrist. “I came from a well-off family of scientists. My father was a genius physicist and a mathematician while my mother contributed whatever time she had to her cancer research. Everyone in the science community knew of the Wells family. I was… different. I didn’t want to study science or math; I didn’t want to be stuck in labs making analysis and collecting data. I wanted to create worlds and write my own reality- adventures that I can only dream of going on.” Your hand soon found his, giving it a little squeeze to let him know that you were listening intently. “My mother had a weak heart after I was born, so her movement was limited, but she gave me all her time while balancing her research and my father. My father… indirectly had blamed me for her health complication, fueled by my failure to follow in the scientific field. I essentially besmirched our family name.” You can tell where that was going, heard similar stories shared by friends of the past. Your heart clenched tightly in your chest for HR. “One thing came after another and my mother passed away from her heart condition, all because she was defending my desire to write and my interests in traveling.”

“I’m sorry,” you looked down, now mentally scolding yourself. “I-I shouldn’t have asked.” I’m so stupid, of course with that reaction he… I’m an idiot for asking. After this he won’t want to talk to me. After this, he won’t want to be around me again. I’m so stupid. I didn’t mean to hurt him.

“You didn’t know,” HR chuckled mirthlessly, a somber smile crossed his face as the author waved off your apology. He hadn’t noticed your hand in his until now, how his larger hand had encased your smaller one as if complementing each other like puzzle pieces. HR swallowed whatever had gotten caught in his throat. “My father wasn’t a fan of me or I him. But my mother was the one that I held onto dearly. She always told me that it’s ok to be myself, that I’m worth something, so I should keep smiling and continue on with my work. Then I met Randolf Morgan in middle school, and well, here we are.” HR sheepishly scratched the back of his neck. You saw his eyes glistening so you couldn’t help yourself but wrap your arms around him. HR returned the hug, letting out a breath as he concluded in a low whisper, “I hadn’t… truly confided my story to anyone in a while.” The invisible chains of his past still hung onto him even after all these years. What else could I have done, but to lie as Randolf covered for me until we re-opened up STAR Labs.

“Well, I’m here for you,” you spoke softly into his chest with red cheeks, unbeknownst to you his own cheeks and ears were flushing a similar color, “whenever you need me.” When you both pulled away a heavy droplet from the heavens fell onto your nose, causing you to snap your neck back a bit. HR laughed at your reaction to which you pouted at him for until another drop hit him in the eye. You laughed at his demise. Not a second too soon, an army of rain drops cascaded down onto the city, pelting down you and HR. The clouds angrily rumbled in up above. Instantly, the Earth-19 novelist had taken off the backpack and shrugged his jacket off.

“What are you doing?” You loudly asked him as the noise of rainfall increased. “You’re going to get sick!”

With a determined look, HR was already wrapping his jacket around you, but you resisted. “You’re going to get sick too!” Your hair was already sticking to your forehead as was HR’s, your shirt clung to the skin of your back. This seemed vaguely similar to a scene in all those cheesy rom-coms that Caitlin and Iris watch, but instead of a kiss under the gentle flow of rain, the water’s unyieldingly merciless to you and HR. A kiss would have been nice though.

“We’re both going to get sick!”

“Put this on-” HR firmly spoke, taking a hold of your hand once you had your arms in the sleeves of his warm jacket, “-and get ready to run.”

“Huh?!”

“We’re only a few blocks away from the labs, we can make it back and dry off there,” he explained as HR adjusted the backpack on his person once more. You wordlessly followed him back to the labs with fast steps. His warm hand had tugged yours along. Way to ruin everything rain.

***

Once back to the empty labs, HR had ushered you to his room as you both left a trail of water droplets. You two were cold and soaked to the bone. I… think my bra’s wet too. The rainstorm ragged outside and boy where you were relieved to finally be inside the labs. Cisco’s stuff is surely damaged at this point from the amount of rain. I guess we might have to make another trip up to Star City. HR handed you a dry towel, to which you immediately began to dry your hair as he did his own. You giggle when he had finished, revealing a floofy mess. He looked at you quizzically before you shook your head at him. You had to reprimand yourself from having your eyes trail along with the droplets that had trickled down his neck and into his shirt. I have no idea how to get home and on top of that, HR’s looking unfairly sexy right now. More so than he already is on a day to day basis. You once again scolded yourself for such thirsty thoughts because there was no way someone like him would want someone like you. He was up there, and you were just… down there. Literally from two different worlds. You shifted your footing a bit as you continued to dry yourself off as best as you could.

You crinkled your nose at the way you smelled from the rain then you mentally facepalmed because you just did that in front of the cute novelist… whom you’re not crushing on because you’ve obviously got no chance with him. A shiver ran throughout your body as a small sneeze left you. HR didn’t know why, but he found your tiny sneeze to be cute as a puppy-like grin made its way on his lips.

“You can borrow my shower if you want. That way you can warm up and avoid getting sick.”

“I’m not-” you sneezed once more, holding the towel close to you for some warmth. “…” You remained silent, sheepishly and stubbornly looking at anything other than HR. A warm shower does sound really nice right about now, especially with the idea of getting out of these wet clothes. You still had his jacket on your body, you’d have to return that too.

“Uh huh, you were saying?”

“… HR.”

“Yes, little sick birdy?”

“I-I don’t have any extra clothes with m-me.”

You and HR just blinked at one another as water trickled down the back of your neck from your roots. “…” Clearing his throat, HR fumbled around his room to get clothes that would fit you. You saw his face had reddened and so your immediate thought was that he had gotten fever, but before you could ask HR had handed you a dark long-sleeve and some shorts with adjustable strings. “J-just leave your clothes in the basket by the door and I’ll put them in the dryer.”

HR sneezed after you had entered his bathroom, mind going to places he shouldn’t have let it go to, especially in this situation. The author sighed as he pushed the thought away of your undergarments also being among the wet clothes. Stop, you’re a gentlemen, not a hormonal teen with his crush over for a slumber party from kissing out in the rain like fools. HR shrugged his wet shirt off once he heard the shower start, his mind easing that you would no longer be cold. Pulling out some clothes to change into, he realized that it’s better to do so until after you’ve finished with your shower, he’d then take his turn and change into a new set, but at least he’d be dry for the moment. The laundry basket was placed by the entrance of the bathroom, but out of view from his bedroom. Picking it up, he accidentally caught sight of your bra among your clothes. Maybe I’m the fool… The dark-haired Wells nibbled on his bottom lip as he went to place the clothes in the dryer. Blue eyes took one final glance at his room before wandering to the brown bag of a purchase that he had bought a few days prior. I guess now’s the best time to set those up.

***

The entirety of your time in his shower, you had blamed the heat for your pink-flushed face and how fast your heart had been beating. The warmth of the water thawed your body as you berated your heart for running a thousand miles an hour. You’d rub your face multiple times to stop yourself from daydreaming any longer of how you’d want to spend the rest of your days in his arms, basking in his generous smile and sunny-like personality. I’m a fool for hoping. You made sure to take a quick shower as to not take all the hot water because… this isn’t your bathroom. Stepping out of the shower, you wrapped a spare towel around your form. You faced the fact that for the evening, you would smell like HR as your only shower options were limited to his own shampoo/conditioner and body wash. You played with your damp locks before fully drying off and putting the long-sleeve sweater on your body. The scent of his cologne as well as a forest-y musk hung to his shirt with the vague smell of old books and you swore it was making your head spin, intoxicating you. Get yourself together! He’s just being nice, that’s all.

You peered outside the window, finding that the rain relentlessly fell onto the city. Thankfully, your panties weren’t too wet, so you opted to have them on as you lamented your bralessness. The soft fabric scratched slightly against your nipples. Taking a glance at the mirror, the shirt hung on you a bit loosely as it reached past mid-thigh length while the sleeves needed to be rolled up to your wrists. Guess I don’t need the shorts. You re-folded the shorts he had given you. They weren’t going to fit me anyway, but I do appreciate the thought. You wrapped the towel around your head and padded out of the misty bathroom.

“HR, do you have a hairbrush that I could use?” You asked as you peered into his bedroom, mentally wondering if this is what it would be like to be his and sleeping over for the night. Sighing sadly, you pushed the idea to the depths of your mind.

“Should be back in the bathroom, first drawer on the right,” he had called out with his back turned to you. You weren’t able to see what he had been tinkering with. Hearing some shuffling behind him, HR assumed you had re-entered the bathroom for the brush. The Wells doppelganger had finished setting up his purchase and had already put your clothes in the dryer with his wet ones. He had gotten two mugs of hot chocolate, readily seated on the small counter. The Earth-19 being had remembered you telling him that you liked the warm beverage when you both were discussing drinks on a coffee run to Jitters for the team. Reasons beyond him, that was one of the details that had struck his memory 10 minutes or so ago. “Did you find it?” He turned around at the sound of the bathroom door clicking shut and HR swore that he felt his whole world stop.

HR swallowed thickly as you took your hair down from the towel up-do, messily tangled and awaiting to be brushed out. In his eyes he saw that his shirt had encased you perfectly, but also allowing his imagination to not wander too far. The novelist chewed on the inside of his cheek as he looked back into your eyes. He took a breath, knowing his self-control was what the stars were testing him on today.

You self-consciously smoothed out the soft fabric of the long-sleeve shirt as the towel hung over your forearm. “H-How do I look?” The words tumbled out of your mouth before your mind could even register what you had said. Your gaze finally locked onto his, not noticing that for a split second his eyes had looked you over.

“Good- you look good.” HR did his best not to stumble with his words when in reality he wanted to say so much more. But that would be inappropriate. He couldn’t deny that his heart had swelled with pride at how his clothes looked on you. The taller man had gathered his things for his own shower. “I- The rain doesn’t seem to be letting up now so- I mean only if you want to- you could make yourself at home until it calms down.”

“Yeah, yeah. That sounds like a plan.”

“I made hot chocolate for us- you- I think you like it?”

“I- I do yes! Um- sorry for imposing and everything.”

“Trust me, you’re not. It… gets lonely here sometimes,” he tilted his head as a laugh left him, having the gall to send you a wink before he entered the bathroom. Butterflies started a rave in your body at the wink. Shutting the door, HR leaned against it and released an audible sigh. It truly does get lonely every night. He closed his eyes as he felt various chemical hormones, adrenaline among them causing his body to feel nervous and tingly. Sensations that he hadn’t felt towards anyone in a really long time. What are you doing to me, little birdy? was the only thought left in HR’s mind as he started up the shower.

Smiling to yourself, you hummed out a little tune as you had set your hair into a French braid after getting all those pesky knots out. You checked your phone for any texts or missed calls only to find it at 5%. I should really carry a charger around with me. Placing the wet towel in the laundry basket, you turned around to observe your surroundings. You happily noticed that HR had remodeled the area to his liking, giving his temporary residency a home-y kind of vibe with the current decorum. What had really caught your attention was what appeared to be his work desk littered with books and spare papers messily put together along with glasses that were unfolded beside some candles.

Your feet had padded on the cool concrete floor as you approached the desk.I didn’t know he wore glasses. Picking them up, you analyzed them before putting them on for a few seconds. They look so much like Harry’s and Thawne’s, but they’re for reading instead. Slipping them off your face and settling the glasses back to their respective spot on the desk, your eyes wandered over to a slightly open manuscript paper set at the top of all the other case-covered books. A dark green bookmark and a pen was lodged in the midst of it, the bookmark tucking out from the top of the page. Curiosity picked and pulled at your brain, tempting you to take hold of the thick papers and unravel its contents. You pursed your lips. I’m sure he won’t mind… I’ll just put it back when I hear the water turn off… A little peek won’t hurt anyone.

Ethereal Beings was the title of the manuscript, printed with HR’s initials beneath. You settled at his desk, cracking the novel open and pulling out the pen as you wondered what kind of books HR had written. Running a hand through your hair, you began reading the prologue as you took sips from your hot chocolate-filled mug. Unbeknownst to you that you would become so engrossed in the plot of the Mermaid and the Pirate Gentleman (coincidentally meeting  and unknowingly searching for the Kjarni Flower) that you wouldn’t hear the sound of the shower shutting off.

HR turned the shower off after dealing with some… pesky thoughts. The fantasy author quickly styled his hair to his level of perfection and applied a spray of cologne onto his skin as he freshened up. HR took in a breath before exhaling slowly. Leaving the bathroom with a crisp white short-sleeve shirt and dark sweatpants, HR spotted your petite frame hunched over his desk. He raised an eyebrow at you.

“What are you doing?”

“Ah!” You felt a rush of electricity shock you as you dropped the manuscript, which landed with a dull thud. You quarter-filled cup of warm milky chocolate almost spilled over at the impact. Turning around, your blood rushed to your head as HR approach you. You awkwardly stumbled over your words. “I-I was totally not reading one of your books that just happened to be lying on your desk.” Please believe me… I’m so guilty, what the hell?

“Uh huh”

HR just shook his head at you, pulling the dropped three-hole bounded paper set from you. Out of every reading material he had published, you had chosen to crack open the one he had been revising. Taking a seat on the plush bed, his gentle baby blues scanned over the text.

“Would you be able to read to me your current work?”

“Is that what you wish your second question to be?”

He had raised a teasing eyebrow at you to which you nodded at his question in confirmation; HR smirked as he patted the space beside him on his bed. Sheepishly you stumbled onto his bed and scooted beside him but remained a respective distance apart.

“Two in one day, things must be getting really interesting in that head of yours.” HR joked as he reached over to shut off the main lights to the room, simultaneously flicking on another switch. And he said let there be light. Your eyes lit up at the spectacle dimly lighting the room, yet providing a good enough light in close proximity for reading.

“HR,” you whispered, slowly looking around the room at the twinkling fairy lights. How did I not notice them? The lights continued to sparkle around the both of you, an insightful truth hidden among them.

“I figured you’d like them. You mentioned a couple days ago that you’re fond of them, but never had time to actually go out to buy some. So, I thought…” HR trailed off once the fairy lights had illuminated. A soft and toothy grin graced his features as he saw stars twinkle brightly in your eyes. Your face held a smile of jubilee. HR held up the manuscript, regaining your attention, “Shall we continue your adventure with the Mermaid and Pirate Gentleman?”

“I thought that one was published since you seem to do things differently on your Earth.”

“So, you thought our books would be different?”

“Uh huh!”

“We have books with covers, your choice on the illustration of course, and coverless manuscripts too. This is essentially a drafting manuscript, I’m in need to revise it before submitting it in for further publication. That’s why I had it open.” HR had rubbed the back of his head as he explained, giving you a great view of his bicep unfairly and reflexing a flex. A firm vein popped along the strained muscle. You swore the universe was out to remind you of your everlasting singleness and infatuation with the Wells doppelganger. That’s really… an appealing piece of muscle.

HR didn’t grab his glasses, knowing after a while his eyes would strain a bit at the reading. But he didn’t want to look like Harry. As his handsome Earth-2 doppelganger had once said to the others “I’m my own man” and so was HR. And others may view the decision as selfish, but he didn’t want you to see Harry. Especially in this moment.

“Are you not going to drink your hot chocolate?” You pointed to his now cold beverage.

“I was, but it’s cold now.”

“Then I’ll go heat it up for you.”

“And you’ll come back?”

“Of course, you have to fulfill my second question after all.”

HR watched you perk up and off the bed with a mission to provide him a warm drink as he had done for you. Biting down on his lower lip he got under the covers. You returned with a warm mug of hot coco for your crush friend this time with a candy cane in it. HR only looked at you quizzically before you handed the cup over to him, telling him to try it. He took one sip, humming in delight and approval. You grinned taking a seat next to the author.

“Chapter 3: Of Pestilence and Mayhem,” HR had started with a low voice, unknowingly allowing your heart to jump at the tone. “The fates seemed to have decided to toy with Gerard today…” He continued on, expertly reading through each sentence that you hung on to. You fought with sleep that gradually clouded your vision as HR moved on to the next chapter. Midway through the chapter, you had subconsciously scooted closer to HR as he seemed to provide a pretty good source of heat. HR subtly noticed but voiced no rejection of it.

As the novelist moved from line to line, there was a growing battle between your mind and the cloudiness of dreams that threatened to take over. You yawned in audibly accidently causing HR to, but he kept on reading. I don’t want to go home, he’s so warm and his voice sounds so nice… Like velvety chocolate. The heaviness in your eyes won the battle against your resistance, causing them to flutter shut as a sleepy haze took over you. Simultaneously, your head had rocked to the side and fallen gently onto his shoulder as a pillow remained loosely clutched in your arms.

HR turned his head, watching your chest rise and fall as gentle breaths escaped you while you were in a world of dreams. Letting out a little breath, the corners of his lips turned up at the corners as HR shook his head at you. But his thoughts subtly stop him. Was I that boring? Maybe the plot needs to be reworked? HR decided that he’d ask you in the morning as he set aside the manuscript. For now, he pushed the covers away as he moved your gently in a better position to sleep. With one last look, HR had brushed a strand of hair out of your face. HR mused to himself that to anyone watching, they’d see hidden adoration and maybe something else within his blue iris. Maybe a dark and possessive quality he didn’t know he had. Who knows? HR analyzed your sleeping form before sweetly planting a kiss to your forehead, secretly wishing in the depths of his soul that you were willingly his to love. HR’s fallen in love before, it’s just the unfortunate fact that it was something that was never reciprocated to him in his life.

“Goodnight, my little songbird.”

***

Blood-curdling screams had greeted the multiversal author as he descended into sleep. HR’s eyes snapped open, finding himself standing ankle-length in a dark-colored substance. The acrid smell overwhelmed his senses as his eyes slowly focused. It took a few seconds for the taller man to register the foul and metallic smell of blood. He was standing in blood! HR yelped at first trying to move his legs away, feeling as if the fluid had nipped at his skin, almost burning him. But the gruesome fluid was everywhere. Trembling blue eyes looked all around the landscape, finding nothing but a void of black death.

“Pathetic,” the familiar voice sneered. HR’s gaze locked onto Harry, who continued to give him an annoyed look. HR furrowed his eyebrows.

“Excuse me?”

“Pathetic, you always were pathetic. Maybe that’s why your friend Randolf sent you here.” Harry’s cold laugh tuned to the dryness of the atmosphere. He unfolded his arms to pocket his hands, HR watched as a malicious smirk weaved its way onto his doppelganger’s features. “Booting you from Earth-19 to do away with your pitifulness. You can’t even use a computer correctly. How laughable. You crossed to a different earth. Congrats, dead man, so have many others. How could you ever deserve someone like her? She should be with me instead. After all, I was here with her first.”

In a blink of an eye, Harry’s lithe form had vanished in thin air. This is all in my head, I just need to breathe. I’ve dealt with worse; I’ve overcome many. I’m fine. I’ll be fine, I just need to breathe. He calmed his breathing for a moment, Finally turning around, HR found decaying bodies and corpses all around. His breathing hiked again at the scene, his stomach churning. Once more, HR turned to the side only to come face to face with you. You, who had blood spilling out of the corner of your mouth. HR felt his own mouth go dry.

“Why did you leave me?” You asked in a raspy voice. HR remained frozen in place, his body unable to move away from the image of you and all the carcasses. “Why did you run?”

“I-I didn’t run. From what?”

“You let him take me,” HR’s eyes widened as blood gradually stained your chest as if you had been impaled. “You let him use me and now he killed me. You were the reason he came after me.”

“N-no no no,” HR took a step back, your haunting image taking a step forward to him. “You’re safe. You’re asleep next to me. You’re fine. Nothing happened.” Hysterically, he ran a hand through his messy hair, just noticing the blood on his hands. Your blood. He tried to shake it off in fright as you closed in on him.

“Why didn’t you save me?”

“I-“

“Didn’t you promise me to stay?”

“You’ll always be a coward, HR Wells,” HR snapped his head towards the voice. Lo and behold, the one person he hoped to never crossroads with now stood in front of him in all her leathery glory. Gypsy, a legendary Collector. “You see what you did?” The brunette strode close to him. HR felt a million of pins and needles in his limbs. “You’re the reason she died. All because you kept running and running and running. Like a coward. All these corpses were your fault, if only you had learned your lesson the first time.” The author couldn’t move his legs, couldn’t feel them, as if someone had filled them up with lead. His chest felt tight, bile stuck in his throat causing him unable to retaliate. His head screamed at him achingly. He was utterly helpless. “One way or another, I will find you, HR Wells, and I will collect you.” She made a gun gesture, aiming it right at his heart. “Bang.”

HR’s eyes snapped open, feeling himself sticky with sweat. His breathing was rapid, closing his eyes once more he forced himself to calm down. That’s the third nightmare these past few weeks. HR tiredly sighed, reopening his eyes and focusing them in the dimness of the room. The sun was languidly climbing up the sky, yet it was still too early for even the birds to be out and about. HR had barely registered how close you were to him now, essentially tucking yourself close to his body for warmth. Adjusting his body, HR saw how your hair tie had left your braid, allowing your hair to half be settled in the braid and half gently untamed. Soft breathes escaped you, signaling that you were still asleep.

HR ran a hand over his face before he checked the time. The sight of you calmed him but remnants of his nightmare remained at the back of his mind. Women are usually the first ones to leave me in the morning, especially after realizing who they had slept with. He mused that thought to himself as he pulled the blankets over your shoulders. Looking over your peaceful expression, his gaze lingered on your lips before submitting to one wish of many within his being. The novelist gingerly placed a kiss to your lips, slowly backing away to gaze upon you like prince would do to a sleeping princess. But you remained asleep, unaware of his feelings and affections for you. If only you knew, what I would do-. He hated his nightmares, hated those dark thoughts that constantly plagued him from reaching higher. Consistently scaring him from doing things he never imagined of doing. HR with the lightest of touches threaded his fingers through the hair that had left the confines of the braid. I would try anything to be by your side and you at mine.

The emotion behind HR’s eyes suddenly shifted as a thought crossed him. Maybe… Randolf did want to get rid of me. He knows of the Inter-dimensional Travel Execution rule, yet… And here I am, on an Earth that’s not my own. With people who are not my own. And… Father did always favor Randolf since we were kids, even in his will. HR swallowed the bile in his throat as he pursed his lips. I guess the fates were really toying with me all along. A little noise had erupted from your throat as you snuggling closer into HR’s chest, but with sullen eyes he had to gently pull away from your welcoming warmth. The taller man decided a walk would be best to clear his head in order to face the trials and tribulations of today with Team Flash. HR tucked you in and left the room, sparing one last glance over his shoulder before shutting the door quietly.

Would that be her third?

The Swan that fell for the Sea (2/3)

Thank you to @itsfabianadocarmo for being so patient with me! This story, at this chapter, clocks in at 10k which is the longest thing I’ve ever written and there’s still one chapter to go! Your gift, my sweet, will continue on into 2020 as work and Christmas and other commitments have kept me from it :( I’m sorry for keeping you waiting but hope you continue to enjoy where this is going ♥ It’s been a pleasure to write for you! 

Another big thanks to @cssecretsanta2k19 for running this fantastic event! You ROCK! 

And, last but not least, we ALL owe a round of applause to @thisonesatellite for 1) putting up with me, 2) calling me out when things don’t make sense and 3) being an unwavering pillar of support through this whole process. THANKS LOVE!

Emma Swan falls for a man of the sea. She doesn’t mean to but she does all the same. The scent of salt and leather and rum lingers on her skin long after he’s gone and, as the warm summer breeze makes way for winter’s icy chill, she wonders if he’ll ever return.

He does, and things will never be the same again.

Part 1 ¦ Also available on AO3 ♠

Emma waits for him.

She waits and waits, dismissing any rational thought that tells her to stop. Four months is a long time but, despite the fallen leaves turning to mulch on beaten passageways in the town, she waits. Sweet ale in her tankard. The memory of a kiss on her lips.

She sneaks out of the palace nearly every night, dressed in plain skirts. The ones that now had her fading into the background, not to be noticed other than by those that looked too closely.

Ruby tries her best to bring the smile back to Emma’s eyes. Sometimes it works; dragging her up to dance and sing, around the people she’d come so close to, unlikely friends among the dirt, slamming tankards together in cheers and living in the moment. Those moments helped, patching up the longing in her heart, however temporarily.

The docks die down in the cold, the revelries of summer no longer calling forth traders and night markets, performers and tourists, or pirates. Emma still visits, hoping to see The Jolly Roger moored up, the crewmen she’d grown familiar with greeting her with fond smiles and the Captain she loves wrapping her in his warm arms, fighting off the ache in her chest that had settled when he left.

It hurts to see it empty.

After such time apart, their summer together seems like a dream. If it weren’t for the chain at her neck, she’d wonder if it happened at all.

She’ll know soon enough. Solstice is tomorrow.

The preparations spread throughout the palace with the first frost; wreaths and garlands adorning the entire place in swaths of green, red and gold, fireplaces eternally lit in an attempt to warm the cold stone floors to no avail. On the rare nights Emma didn’t venture down to the tavern by the shore, burrowed into soft blankets and furs smelling of woodsmoke and frost, she wishes that she wasn’t alone.

A giant spruce, felled recently, lays in the courtyard, a smattering of snow covering its evergreen foliage.

Emma uses it as cover, walking behind it’s thickest part to obscure herself from the prying eyes of servants whose whispers would inevitably make their way back to the ears of her mother. She hasn’t been caught yet, in her months of running away to the docks at the fall of night and crawling back home in the early mornings, but she dreads what would happen if she did.

She dips past the thick shrub along the palace wall that hides a long forgotten passage up, up and up until it reaches just shy of her chambers. In the past, they’d probably been used for more important things – escaping assassinations, fleeing coups but those days were long gone. Misthaven was at peace; her father made sure of that.

She climbs the staircase in the dark. It takes minutes to get to the tapestry-covered exit but, in the pitch black, it stretches seemingly into hours. The sensory deprivation is all-consuming, but she continues on. Exhaustion tugs at Emma’s limbs, causing her to almost lose her footing a couple of times, grabbing the cool stone walls for balance. How long has it been since she slept? Two days? Three? Between fulfilling royal duties and drowning the dull ache in her chest, there isn’t a lot of time for sleep.

When he returns. That’s when she’ll sleep.

Before she can reach to pull the tapestry aside, it’s already gone.

In its place, the Queen.

She’s cast entirely in shadow, light from the corridor outlining her in an ethereal glow but Emma would know that silhouette anywhere.

Fuck.

“If you don’t want your Father to chain you up, I would suggest using the south entrance to sneak in, far less prying eyes this time of year. People are getting wise to your ways.”

Her mother, cinched into an opulent gown that makes Emma’s threadbare and frayed skirts look like rags, fixes her with a questioning look. Despite her age, Queen Snow has always been beautiful, once holding the title of fairest in all the realm for both her rule and her appearance. As her daughter, Emma held a biased opinion, of course, but now, with one groomed eyebrow hiked up, she cultivates the seed of anxiety in Emma’s stomach until its vines wind around her limbs, rooting her in place.

“Mother, I–”

Snow’s expression softens, a cheeky knowing smile replacing any animosity Emma could’ve sworn had been there not seconds earlier. It knocks her back like an unexpected wave.

“Hush, Emma.” She steps to the side, allowing space for Emma to emerge into the empty corridor. Hesitantly, she takes it. The light, albeit dim, is still enough to be blinding after the total void in the passageway. “I too was young once. Come along now.”

“I think the circumstances were slightly different then,” They fall into step together, heading in the direction of Emma’s chambers. Nerves still tingle in the pit of her stomach, sharper and heavier than the crown her mother wears. She hadn’t expected such a… non-issue. If her father found her, she’d be having an entirely different conversation right now. “You were running from a power-hungry sorceress who tried to turn the kingdom against you. I, on the other hand, am under no such duress.”

“My stepmother was– yes. I suppose you’re right.” She muses, looking off into the middle distance as Emma pushes against the dark wood of her bedroom door.

The whole room is immaculately kept, further evidence that it had not been slept in for some time, but the hearth is lit, embers glowing, warmth only spreading as far as the dressing table and doing nothing to bite off the bone-deep chill that settled in Emma’s bones from the walk. On the bed, atop furs and throws and soft pillows, is a dress.

“I assume Father expects me to wear that.” She sighs, picking up the offending article between two fingers. It’s softer to the touch than she expected, pleated silk and silver beads, with elaborate lace sleeves that flare at the wrists.

“You assume correctly.” Her mother nods, taking a seat by the fire and swiping an apple from the fruit basket on her way. “Johanna prepared you a bath so you can make yourself a little more presentable for later.”

“Later?”

“Yes, your Father has requested our presence in one of his meetings this morning, which is why I was so anxious for you to arrive,” Emma rolls her eyes and starts towards the bath, peeling off her outer shirts and leaving a trail of clothes on the floor, leaving her undergarments until she’s safely behind the screen separating the clawfoot tub from the rest of the room. Snow tuts at the mess. “but enough about all that, I do believe I am owed an explanation.”

The water is just a touch cooler than scalding when she steps in, but her mother’s words send a spike of fear down her spine. The girl that exists there, at the docks and taverns, she has no place in this palace. Emma tries her best to shove her down, letting only the Princess remain.

“In order to rule the people, one must know the people.”

“Oh, how diplomatic! We’ll make a Queen of you yet.” Snow calls back, voice laden with sarcasm. “Now, the truth, if you will.”

Emma pauses, letting the heat from the bath sink deeper into her bones. How does she even begin to explain?

Oh yes, Mother. I spend most of my nights at the docks staring at the horizon, waiting for a Pirate, who I seem to have fallen in love with, to return from a voyage I regret refusing to join him on and when it all gets a bit too much, I find solace in drink and frantically attempt to sober myself up on the walk back to the palace at sunrise because I fear you and Father finding out the truth of my whereabouts.

“That is the truth, partly.” Letting her head sink under the water’s embrace, she sighs. The bubbles rise and pop, words she wishes she could say. She trusts her mother implicitly.

She doesn’t, however, trust her father, who would see Killian’s head on a spike if he ever found out.

Her lungs burn when she comes up for air.

“I’m suffocating here.” Emma can’t stop herself, words spilling forth like a burst dam. “My duties are limited to appearances and dinners, where all anyone wants to talk about is who I’m going to marry. I’m the fucking Princess, adored by all and all that rubbish, but I’ve never felt more alone than when I wear that tiara. I’m nowhere near ready to rule. I don’t know the first thing about defending my country and that scares me, but when I’m down there with the people– our people, I can be someone else, even if it’s just for a night.”

For a second, the only sound in the room is the gentle splash of bathwater and the faint crackle of embers.

“Emma–” There’s a creak of furniture followed by the soft clack of heels on the stone floor. Her mother pauses and Emma can see her shadow against the screen.

“Please, Mother.” She pleads, voice unbroken. “Don’t take this from me.”

Snow emerges from behind the screen, an apologetic look casting her face in a sad smile, and reaches for one of the perfumed soaps that had been laid out for Emma to bathe with. Unperturbed by Emma’s nudity, she comes to kneel behind her daughter’s head.

“I spent so much of my youth fighting to get into a palace that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be trapped inside one.” Her fingers, small and dexterous as they are, massage the soap into Emma’s scalp, forming a liberal lather. Tension leaks out of Emma’s shoulders with each touch and, before long, she’s completely lax. They don’t speak, but Killian’s name sticks in her throat, a lump she can’t shift. In another life, were she not a Princess, perhaps she would have the courage to speak it.

Her mother and father have so many tales, stretched across years of rebellion and revolt; of the Evil Queen, of the dwarves sworn to fight by her side, of banditry and betrayals and true love– that’s what Emma had been searching for each night, between dirt and flame and ale. A story, an adventure, something for people to talk about in hushed whispers, of the Swan that fell for the sea.

They don’t have to know that the Swan is their Princess.

Not yet.

Her fingers are pruning in the lukewarm water, body lulled half to sleep, by the time her hair is washed and towel-dried. Her mother sighs, knees creaking as she stands – age has been kind to both her parents but it creeps in slowly, in the silver gracing their temples hidden by golden crowns. It comes for everyone eventually.

“I’ll ask Graham to scale back patrols on the south gate and Johanna to fetch you a better cloak than that which you’ve taken to using,” She starts, placing a fresh towel by the bath side. The satin skirt of her gown is darkened with damp spots from the water, but she pays them no mind, pressing a kiss to the centre of Emma’s forehead. “and please remember that I am always here for you, Emma. I mean it.”

There’s sincerity in her eyes, sincerity and love— so much love, more than Emma can even begin to comprehend, but she trusts it. In the list of moments she would pause for an eternity, this is one of them.

“Mother.”

“Yes, dear?”

Her voice catches, a soft hopeful smile making its way to her lips. “I love you.”

“And I you.” Snow nods, making her way behind the screen, leaving Emma to dress alone. “Meet us in the great hall in an hour.”

When the door shuts softly, confirming her mother’s exit, she emerges from the water.

--

Cold stone walls, cast-iron chandeliers with tall flickering candles, fires in every hearth, stained glass effigies of past kings and queens lit with the late morning sun, eaves decorated with garlands of holly and ivy, and, raised on marble steps, three golden thrones. The great hall really is just that. Great.

Emma grew up here, excited to be involved at first, to wear the tiara her father said she was born to wear.

As time moved on, so did she.

“Emma!” A voice rings out, echoing against stone.

Her father, the King.

Seeing him smiling, lines of age forming around his eyes and mouth, has her own smile falling into place as he walks across the great hall to embrace her, posture never slipping.

As much as she may not enjoy the formalities of her role within the court or the isolation that it’s afforded her, she holds nothing but love and respect for her father. Love and respect and a sliver of fear.

“I was wondering where you managed to run off to.” Emma leans into his embrace, letting herself be wrapped up in his arms. One hand cradles the base of her skull, the way it always does when her father holds her. He pulls back to adjust the silver circlet woven into her curls. “I take it you like the dress, then?”

He takes a step back, admiring the fabric with its delicate drapery and flowing skirts, letting Emma twirl for him to better view the garment. Killian’s ring, tucked between what cleavage her bodice creates, threatens to come free, the weight of it tugging as she turns at her Father’s request. It longs to be free. “I do, Father. Thank you.”

“Excellent.” He nods, holding his arm out for her to take, and she does. “There’s only one audience today so this should be short but I wanted you here as a witness.”

Arm in arm, they walk the carpet running the centre of the room, ascending the marble steps to where their thrones, forged by the finest smiths in Agrabah, stand tall and proud. Emma slides into hers, the metal cold against her legs. It’s the first time in weeks she’s had to be present for an audience, usually boring affairs, with very little involvement on her own part and more just an excuse for David to assure the people of their strong and unified family. It’s true, for the most part.

“I must apologise, Emma,” Kneeling by her feet, David starts. Like this, she can see just how much age has crept into his features, how it lingers in his eyes and in the recede of his hairline and the grey and white peppered throughout his dark blond. “I feel like I’ve been lax on preparing you for what will inevitably be yours.”

“Father–”

He takes her hand in both of his, squeezing reassuringly as Emma’s face changes from confusion to acceptance.

“The crown will be yours, Emma, and I won’t be here to guide you forever. I should’ve done this sooner. From now on, I want you to shadow me in all audiences, all council meetings, everything. If I’m there, I want you by my side. I want you to speak up, to learn, to build your own opinions. I hope I can save you the struggle of finding your feet so, when the crown does come, you’ll hit the ground running.”

The thought of ruling is terrifying.

The thought of ruling without her father’s guidance? Even more so.

If she agrees—

She will never be Swan again.

She looks down at him, a smile, soft as the fur around his neck, meets her there.

“I’d like that.” She nods, wondering if he’s convinced by the lie that comes so naturally.

“Wonderful!” Her father beams, pulling her in for a hug. It’s an awkward angle but it doesn’t last for long. “We’ll start proper preparations after Solstice.”

Soon, David is standing, smoothing the wrinkles from his slacks and shirt before righting the fur edged robe around his shoulders. He’s a picture of opulence and authority. If Emma hadn’t seen him wear his royal garb over a thousand times already, she’d be in awe of it. Privileges of royal life, such as fancy silks and furs, didn’t draw her as they once had. She craved leather and linen and simplicity.

Summer had changed her.

“Who is it that’s requested an audience then?” Tracing the indentations in the arm of her throne, she probed, noting that her father had not divulged that particular information.

“Ah, yes.” He starts, lips pulling into a tight line as he paces before his throne. “I hired some external support on retrieving an item of extreme value from the edge of our kingdom. Upon my wake this morning, I received word that they’d returned and had requested to meet. That’s why I wanted you here today, Emma. To show you that, sometimes, even Kings have to convene with miscreants.” His voice drips with venom on the tail end of his sentence, as if the words burn as they leave his mouth.

She stays silent, the admission, dying on her tongue, that sometimes Princesses convene with miscreants too.

“Your mother will be here soon,” Taking his own seat, her father continues, picking invisible traces of lint from the flowing fur of his robe. “She’s just overseeing Graham’s security detail for the festival, you know how it is.”

That is not, in fact, what her mother is discussing with Graham but it doesn’t seem appropriate to mention it now.

They make idle conversation, discussing alliances and trade deals and all the politics that Emma is expected to learn when she takes her father’s throne. Most of it, she knows from the tutors of her youth but there are intricacies she’s not privy to that David is keen for her to learn. Agrabah will trade wine and jewels for grain when the harsh summers perish their harvests, Arendelle will trade furs, silks and meats when the arctic winters perish theirs. They will reach out in times of bountiful harvest too, offering to send what exotic fruit and spices will survive the voyage. Neverland rarely makes trade requests, their young ruler too stubborn to accept the aid of those his senior.

“Is it true his court is filled with children? I imagine that’s difficult come nap time.” Emma jokes, curiosity sparked by the mention of their most mysterious neighbour.

“Emma!” David scoffs, trying to stifle the laugh that breaks free. Like this, unconcealed laughter causing him to squint, crows feet deep and apparent at the corners, he’s no longer the King. He’s the man that wrapped her up in his furs after she’d fallen through the frozen lake as a child, who smudged cake on her nose every birthday until she was old enough to evade it, who would do anything to see her safe, no matter the consequences. “Wherever did you hear such a thing?”

Killian had told her. They’d been looking through his maps, his shirt covering her modesty and his arms circled around her waist. They hadn’t even made it to the tavern that night, need too prevalent, and after, when they were fully sated, she’d explored his cabin. He let her, watching from the bed as she went from shelf to shelf, admiring his treasures. He’d joined her by the time she reached his desk, never a fan of the distance between them. The maps outlined each realm, annotated with notes in Killian’s own cursive script.

“Neverland,” He’d said, pressing a kiss to her bare neck. “Would be far less treacherous if it wasn’t governed by children.”

She’d raised an eyebrow at him, reluctant to believe, the silent How? written all over her face. He shrugged in response, a smug smirk peering back at her.

“Magic, love.” He’d punctuated the words with a wink and they’d fallen together again, maps forgotten beneath them.

Emma can’t help her own laugh, partially at the memory but mostly at her father. It joins with his, ringing out in the echo of the hall. It’s been a long time since she’s been able to laugh with her father. It feels good.

Her mother appears, hurrying along the carpeted walkway with a determined look on her face. Their laughter dies down as Emma and her father both take her in. She’s flustered, taking the marble steps two at a time before sitting back in her spot on the King’s right. Emma gives her a questioning look at the same time David does. She smooths down flyaways at her temples and adjusts her dress to sit better against the throne before looking up at her family and nodding.

“He’s here.”

As if summoned, there’s a loud knock against the grand wooden doors directly ahead of them, at the foot of the great hall. It echoes against the stone walls, causing the chandeliers to shift slightly with the power of it.

The King straightens up, matching his posture to that of his title, and bellows in response.

“ENTER!”

Emma can feel the creak of the door in her bones as it screeches from the protesting hinges, it swings open slowly, only enough to let through one man before shutting with a slam. The man does not flinch; instead, he begins his walk towards their thrones. He’s familiar in a way that has her on the edge of her seat but his head is hung, thick dark hair touched with grey and white and the angle of her position obscuring his face.

With each step he takes, her heart stutters, he looks like– no, it can’t be. She’d been at the docks the night prior, The Jolly Roger nowhere among its moorings. She’d asked countless merchants and fishermen over the months for news of its return but none could provide any more than Killian had provided her on his departure.

I’ll be back when solstice comes.

Yet, this man, with his battered leather overcoat and dark embroidered waistcoat, strikes a pang of similarity in her she’s never quite felt. If it weren’t for the hook in place of his left hand, she’d have been entirely convinced that the man before them is, in fact–

When at the foot of the marble steps, he raises his head.

David tuts. “Captain Jones. You’re late.”

Emma’s breath catches.

It is him. Killian.

Her Killian.

Here.

She fights– oh, she fights – to keep her face void of emotion, praying the well of tears that threatens to spill at the sight of her love to lay dormant. He’s here. he’s here he’sherehe’sherehe’sherehe’s–

He’s here?

Joy turns to terror in her blood, clawing away until it’s consumed her entirely. He hasn’t yet noticed her or, if he has, he shows no indication of it. His eyes, as tempestuous as the day they met, are rage and fury and fixed only on her father.

Why is he here?

“Apologies, your Majesty.” He bites out, voice clipped and sarcastic. She has to bite the inside of her mouth to stop from smiling. “I’ve had to adjust to captaining a ship with one hand as the bloody dragon you neglected to warn me of seemed to enjoy slicing off my other one.”

He holds up his left arm, from under the wind-battered leather sleeve of his overcoat, the awkward brace of the prosthetic sits, a vicious curved hook attached to its end.

Emma gasps. The Swan he loves writhes beneath the surface of her skin, itching to be free.

“You knew the risks, Captain.” Her father adds, flippantly. “Treasure troves often acquire pests.”

Killian’s stare is fire and daggers, meant for no one but the King. It fills her veins with ice in a way she never knew he was capable of. In their time together, this was a side of him he’d never had to reveal. Emma wants nothing more than to go to him but she’s stuck on her throne, it’s golden embrace holding her tight as she watches steel form in her lover’s eyes.

“I have cleared you of all outstanding sentences, bounties and warrants held against you and your men and there’s five hundred gold ready to be transported to your ship,” David continues, motioning to the same doors Killian had entered through. His tone is terse, sharp as a blade’s edge. “I have upheld my end of our agreement.”

Killian scoffs, his eyes glance at her for less than a second and Emma’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t seem to pick up on who she is, refocusing his sights on the King.

She’s not sure what would hurt more, for him to know she lied or for him to not recognise her at all.

“I lost four men and a hand. Aye, we knew the risks, but the situation was not as you’d explained. We walked in unprepared and were almost destroyed because of it.”

“I trusted you with the information from my scouts, Captain. I hid nothing from you. Your lack of preparation is through no fault of mine.”

“Had I known the truth, I would not have lead my crew like lambs to the slaughter!” He shouts, looking for somewhere, anywhere to plant the seed of his own mistake. Beneath it all, Emma knows he’s in pain. She can hear it. She longs to soothe it. She cannot.

The King matches his shout, standing in the process. “That was your decision to make!”

A low growl rumbles between them and Emma doesn’t need to see it to know it’s Killian’s. The sound of it has imprinted itself in her mind, from when times were much simpler. He takes a step forward, but before his boot can even make contact with the polished marble step, David reacts.

Time slows to a halt with the familiar sing of unsheathed metal as her Father trains his sword on the approaching threat, poised to strike at a seconds notice. The breath leaves Emma’s lungs, stolen by the deadly sheen of steel forged in the belly of a long-dead beast. She wants to scream, to put herself between her lover and her father, she wants to but her feet are lead and her tongue is ash and all she can do is watch as Killian stares down the length of the King’s blade.

Killian’s eyes widen momentarily, fixed to the point mere inches from his face. It reaches almost to his throat, barely a step separating the tip of the blade from its target. Her father, the King, is power and justice with calculating eyes and, in that moment, Emma is afraid.

“One more step, Pirate.” The King spits, blade unwavering in his palm.

Emma’s heart stops, or maybe it’s racing, anxiety permeating every pump as it speeds faster and faster, fight or flight response triggered by the furrow forming in Killian’s brow. He does not step back and his eyes do not leave David’s.

“Don’t think the presence of my wife or daughter will impede me.”

“Father.” Her voice catches before she can even think to stop it, more forceful than she anticipates. David turns to her in complete silence, his gaze smouldering anger and his sword still trained mere inches from Killian’s throat. He’s met with her own powerful stare. One day, he expects her to rule this kingdom. One day, she will. It’s frightening and her stomach churns as the urge to bend to her father’s– no, the King’s will stirs within her.

Emma ignores it.

“Be rational, there’s been too much blood spilt already.”

The King’s fury softens, but doesn’t disappear completely. She half expects a reprimand for her outburst or at least a look to convey his disapproval but it never comes. He turns back to Killian, allowing Emma to do the same.

If he had been ignorant of her identity before, there’s no way to hide it now.

She can see the cogs turning in Killian’s mind as he takes her in; the top of her head and the circlet glinting in the sunlight streaming through the windows, her face and the sad eyes he’ll find there, her neck and his own thick chain tucked beneath lace. He goes no further. At the sight of his own ring, something breaks within him. Emma can almost hear the shatter from where she sits. He is here but he’s never been further away and it’s killing her.

So many things she should’ve said cross her mind all at once, screaming inside her skull, begging to be freed.

Despair and disbelief flash across his features–

And then it’s gone.

He faces David once again, the fire and fury he once held now calm and cold.

“I apologise for my manners, your Majesty,” He begins, his voice is controlled and a vision of decorum. Not Killian. Not her Killian. “I am not myself. Those men, they were brothers to me. It’s– It’s my fault. I could not protect them.” Taking two steps back, he bows, low and deliberate. David lowers his sword but doesn’t sheath it.

“My daughter thinks you’re deserving of mercy.” He muses, waving a hand towards her that Killian’s eyes don’t follow. It hurts a little. “I suggest you take your gold and leave before I ask my wife what she thinks.”

The Queen, sitting silently throughout the whole exchange, raises a single brow at Killian.

He nods, opening his mouth as if to speak before thinking better of it and turning away, coat billowing behind him, footsteps muffled by the carpeted walkway.

“I thought you a better man than most, Captain, agreeing to undertake such a perilous task for the chance to pardon your crew, give them clean slates. I admired you for it.” David shouts after him, returning his sword to its place at his hip. Killian stops in his tracks, turning only slightly to look upon the King’s face. For a second, there’s grief in his eyes, genuine hurt that Emma knows she put there. He blinks it away without acknowledging it ever existed.

“I am truly sorry for your loss.” David continues, all traces of anger gone from his voice. “But, disrespect me again and I’ll have you hanged.”

The slam of the door shatters the paralysis she’d fallen under, lips parted and eyes wide, watching the space where Killian had been not seconds before. The weight of David’s words hang in the silence.

“I’m trying to decide if this thing I did is incredibly stupid.” “What happened? what did you do?” “Well… I fell in love (with you).” (newmann prompt, again)

this prompt is SO ROMANTIC so im appropriating it for my niche regency au exactly two other people care about. this one goes out to all three of us

June is uncharacteristically harsh this year, hot and sunny and devoid of rainfall, and inside the Gottlieb house—despite its arching ceilings, its airy halls, the windows that Hermann himself went around and flung open in a fit of sweat-damp exhaustion the night before—is even hotter. No amount of refilling the water pitchers or retreating deep into the cool, dark library will do. Not even the library remains cool and dark.

Newton has come, however, as he promised he would, which lightens Hermann’s spirits somewhat. Misery loves company, if anything. Newton lays sprawled across the great chaise he favors in the library now, stripped out of his boots and waistcoat and cravat, stockinged feet propped up on a cushion, arm—the sleeve rolled up to his elbow—flung across his perspiring brow. Just over his eyeglasses. “We need to get out of here,” he says.

His throat is bared. The beginnings of his strange inkjob poke out from his unbuttoned collar. Hermann is sprawled in an arm chair of his own, fanning himself with an Encyclopedia, and he cannot tear his eyes away. “Hm?”

Newton pushes himself up. “We need to get out of here,” he repeats. “I’m boiling.”

“Where do you suggest we go?” Hermann says. He drags his eyes up, lazily, to Newton’s face.

“Not an inkling of an idea,” Newton says. He sticks each foot back into his boots, though he does not bother slipping his waistcoat back on or fixing his buttons. “C’mon. Outside.”

Hermann groans in protest, but he allows Newton to pull him to his feet and shove his cane at him; he can’t imagine a walk outside, in the sun, will do any good. There isn’t even a breeze.

Newton knows the forests better than Hermann does without a doubt, especially the forests behind the Gottlieb estate: Newton travels through them, quietly, on foot, each occasion he and Hermann have set an illicit meeting in the dead of night. He leads Hermann through them now, down a well-worn dirt path, past fallen logs and moss and boulders, deeper and deeper until the patches of sunlight streaming through the canopy of leaves above their heads become scarce. It is far cooler in the shade. Hermann will grant Newton that. “Do you know where we’re going?” Hermann pants. He’s had to rest, momentarily, against a tree; his leg does not usually ache him terribly on long walks, but the ground is uneven with tree roots and slopes up and down at random.

“Of course,” Newton says. He stands a few feet in front of Hermann, squinting deeper into the trees. “Ah. See.” He points.

Hermann sees nothing but a small clearing ahead, a bit sunnier than most of what they’ve been walking through. “What is it?”

Newton doubles back and takes Hermann’s arm to lead him along gently. The closer they get to the clearing, the louder the sound of running water becomes, and soon, they stand at the edge of a stream. “I found this last month,” Newton declares, sounding delighted. “Fell into it while I was walking home.”

“You fell?” Hermann says, turning to him in mild alarm. Newton flashes him a smile.

“I’m still in one piece, aren’t I?” Newton says. He drops Hermann’s arm and begins to fish around in the small satchel he’d packed discreetly and brought along with them: he pulls out a sheet (one of the Gottliebs’ nice sheets, clearly liberated from the linen closet off the washroom, though when Hermann is not sure), and spreads that on the grass, then sets down the makings of a rudimentary picnic atop that. (Food just as clearly liberated from the Gottlieb pantry, Hermann is quite sure.) “Here, have a seat.”

Hermann obliges gratefully, loosening his cravat and helping himself to grapes and a canteen of what turns out to be lemonade. Both are technically his, after all. But Newton does not sit next to him, as Hermann expected, choosing, instead, to settle his hands on his hips and continue to admire the stream. “Are you not joining me?” Hermann says.

“I will,” Newton says. “Shortly.”

He shucks off his boots once more, then his stockings, then—to Hermann’s great consternation—his breeches and linen shirt, leaving him standing before Hermann in nothing but his plain white undergarments, broad, inked chest bare. “Newton,” Hermann near-squeaks. He averts his eyes in modesty.

Newton casts him a roguish smile. He twists his index finger in the tie strings of his undergarments and tugs lightly. “I can take off more, if you’d like it.”

“No,” Hermann says, quickly, blushing pink and fumbling the grapes. They fall to the sheet and upend his tin cup of lemonade. “No, ah—”

Newton turns away with a wink. As Hermann attempts to mop up the lemonade with his handkerchief, Newton begins to wade into the clear water of the stream, barefoot, hoisting his undergarments up past his knees. “Bit cold,” he says, with a low hum. “‘S perfect. You should come in, too. Ow.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Stepped on a rock. Should’ve kept my shoes on. Oh, look!’

Newton dives down, plunging his arm into the water, but emerges empty-handed. “Damn,” he says. “Thought I saw a turtle.”

“Please don’t harass any turtles,” Hermann says, a half-hearted scold, because, truthfully, he’s too distracted by the small droplets of water now glistening on Newton’s chest to care about turtles.

Newton does not respond, his attention caught by a bright green dragonfly that zips by his head. “Wow,” he says with a whistle, pushing up his eyeglasses as he tracks it. “Look at that. Beautiful.”

“Mm,” Hermann says. One of the droplets curves down Newton’s right pectoral, down over the small swell of his stomach, and disappears in the waistband of his undergarments. Another begins a similar journey. After Hermann tracks four, he realizes, belatedly, that Newton is still talking about the dragonfly. Specifically its diet. “Fascinating,” Hermann interjects quickly, when it seems like the appropriate time to.

The ghost of a smirk crosses Newton’s face. Hermann had not been that subtle. “Indeed,” Newton says.

Their conversation lulls into a comfortable silence. Newton continues to splash around in the stream, occasionally plucking small rocks from the sandy banks and shoving them in his pockets, while Hermann—angled so his body remains in the shade, while his face remains in the sunlight—stretches out on the length of the sheet and shuts his eyes. (A quick examination of Newton’s satchel proved he had packed one of the tomes from Hermann’s personal library as well, but Hermann decided a nap, not reading, was far better suited to today.) In the distance, Hermann hears birdsong. Cool, and contented, and with Newton so close by, Hermann admits to himself it really is quite nice.

After a while, Newton tires of the stream and flops down at Hermann’s side with a little grunt. Hermann can feel his sharp breaths against his neck, and a hand—damp, and gritty with sand—untucking his blouse and sliding against his skin; he does not open his eyes. “You’re wet,” Hermann murmurs.

“Am I?” Newton says, low in his ear. His hand creeps higher. His lips find their way to Hermann’s throat.

Hermann swats at him. “Not here,” he warns. “Someone will see. Not—”

Not outside the confines of Hermann’s bed chamber, with the window Hermann keeps unlatched for Newton at all hours should Newton decide to climb up the lattice; the Gottlieb family library, with its inviting hearth and and dark, dark corners and convenient lock for when Newton and Hermann need to discuss research after a meal away from Hermann’s father’s prying eyes. Not outside the seclusion of night, even, beneath the stars, where they may do whatever they please until the pink of dawn breaches the horizon. But Newton does not retreat. His hand settles on Hermann’s sternum.

“Kiss me,” he begs, warm over the shell of Hermann’s ear. “C’mon, Hermann.”

Newton’s face is hovering mere centimeters above Hermann’s own when Hermann finally opens his eyes. He’s freed his hair from the confines of its usual braid, and it tumbles over his shoulders, catching the sparse sunlight. His tongue pokes out between his lips. His glasses hang on the end of his freckled nose. Hermann presses his fingers to the nape of Newton’s neck, his lips curling into an affectionate smile. “Dear boy,” he says. He cannot deny Newton anything.

They kiss languidly in the small patch of sunlight, their hands roaming over the expanses of each other’s skin, under clothing, through hair, until the noise of a twig snapping nearby startles them both; they turn quickly (the fingers of Hermann’s right hand tangled in Newton’s long hair, the fingers of his left pressed to his soft abdomen) to see a doe standing on the opposite bank of the stream. Her wide eyes are fixed on them. She darts away when Newton laughs.

“Scared the hell out of me,” Newton says, and—his heart racing comically fast—Hermann nods in agreement.

Ever restless, ever unable to remain confined to one activity for too long, Newton parts from Hermann’s arms with a last long, lingering kiss and busies himself with plucking wildflowers from the patch of grass to the right of the sheet and winding them into a chain. Hermann props himself up on his elbow to watch. He has not bothered tucking his shirt back into his breeches, nor has he bothered doing his collar up or tightening his cravat; his neck stings from where Newton got bold and nipped at his skin gently at a spot that would not be in any danger of discovery. The overall sensation is one of debauchery. Reckless hedonism. Hermann finds he enjoys it.

“I’m trying to decide if this thing I did is incredibly stupid,” he declares.

Newton glances up from his flower chain and readjusts his eyeglasses. His eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What happened?” he says. “What did you do?”

“Well,” Hermann says. “I fell in love with you.”

Newton laughs again, but Hermann does not miss the blush that stains his cheeks and the tips of his ears, nor the way he fumbles the flower chain and errs on his next knot of a stem. “You old romantic,” he teases. “And it’s very stupid, for the record. I didn’t think you were capable of making such errors in judgement.”

“I suppose it is,” Hermann says, lips twitching up. Then he prods at the chain. “What is that for?”

Newton ties the last stem around the head of the first wildflower, creating a perfect loop. He settles it atop Hermann’s head. It’s a big large, and sags down near Hermann’s eyes, but they smell sweet and Hermann’s mouth goes dry nonetheless at the gesture. “You,” Newton says. He leans in and pecks a kiss at Hermann’s forehead.

kinktober: day 21

day 21: washing

y’all know lucky’s cinderella AU, so thank you @midnightluck for letting me play in your sandbox; anon who requested cinderella!AU I don’t know if this is what you wanted at all but uh, have some uniform/class/service kink 

“This is,” Ace hissed, “the royal bath.”

Even though Sabo had been conscientious enough to leave his boots at the entrance, there was still a trail of dirty footprints following him from the door. He bared his teeth at the creamy marble underneath.

“Yeah, Ace, I've noticed.”

“What are we even meant to do in here?” Ace was externalizing all the unease and distrust Sabo was choosing to keep under wraps, glancing agitatedly about and pacing around. But not pacing too far—he stuck within the perimeter of two square flagstones lining the floor, and Sabo watched as the soot gradually darkened in the shape of a rectangle. “Can we—Fuck it, let's just steal some water and get out.”

“You don't have to steal anything yoi, just bathe here,” came a familiar voice from the side door, its amusement echoing through the bath chamber. Marco came into view, dressed already for his birthday ceremony. As crown prince, there were all sorts of appearances he was expected to make on this big day, and apparently it began with this: a stiff purple coat with double-breasted gold buttons, a black leather belt cinching the waistline, a thinner one running across the torso, military stars and the family crest pinned to the chest, shimmering braided chords draped over a tricep. Trousers pressed with neat sharp lines, unflinching leather boots.

At Sabo and Ace's wide-eyed staring, he immediately held up his palms in apologetic recognition.

“It's a lot, I know.”

“Yeah,” Sabo heard himself say, “we were definitely just about to complain about how you look.”

“Cheers,” Marco acknowledged with a snort. He was quick to unravel the belts and shed the coat (Sabo may or may not have heard a soft sound of protest from Ace), then sat down on a dry bench to shed his boots. Most of his glitz laid aside though, Marco still looked every bit of the regal prince, tie done up and the collar of his shirt in perfect geometry. His bare feet stepped familiarly onto the flagstones that marked the beginning of the bathing space. “Well, in an effort to make sure nobody complains about how any of us look tonight yoi, let's get you both cleaned up. Unless...?

“No, no we'll still be going,” Ace piped up, quick to assuage Marco's concerns. He glanced down though, picking self-consciously at his servant's tunic, one that he definitely nicked from Sabo. Neither owners had ever been too precious with it (which was absolutely the point, Sabo thought, why have a shirt you couldn't even work in), and it showed. “We want to support you, y'know? But we just, I guess we're kind of...”

“Misled?” Sabo filled in with a scowl. “Why did Thatch tell us to get in the royal baths?”

“Well, it was closer I guess,” Marco blinked. “And you two are technically royalty and all—”

“Yeah,” Ace said, “but we don't really know how to—”

“—bathe?”

“Bathe here,” Sabo snapped. “Jerk.”

Along with the steam from the ever-warm bathing pool, something rigid and uncomfortable suffused the air. Marco slowly, fully took in the distraught expressions on Ace and Sabo's faces, and his smile cleared into something a little more serious.

“Ah, I see.” A self-effacing little quirk of the head and Marco was making his way to the hot water. The casual way he strolled through the palatial space (like he owned it—because he did) and rolled up his crisp shirt sleeves that somebody else ironed and starched for him only served to piss Sabo off even more. Made Sabo feel that much more insecure. “My apologies, I should've been more considerate yoi. There is a sort of specific way to do things in here.”

“Is it called getting servants to do it for you?”

“Sabo...” Ace sounded reluctantly chiding—keyword, reluctantly. He knew exactly what was going through Sabo's mind and getting Sabo's hackles up. Marco though, didn't really react, just crouched down and pulled two little wooden stools out from under the lip of the bath. He slid them nearer to Sabo and Ace, then pulled out a relatively big basin as well, with a little ladle tumbling about inside. In calm, certain motions, Marco filled the basin with water from the bath and poured in some fragrant soapy solution, giving it a quick swirl with his free hand.

Then he turned on his heel, looked right at Ace, then Sabo.

“I could call in some servants for you,” Marco said, crossing the flagstones. As he passed the stools, he set the basin down in between them. “But I get the feeling neither of you really want that.”

“Look,” Sabo sighed in exasperation, “we can just go back to the servants baths and do this, okay? Like we've always done—”

“Sure you can yoi. Or—” Pausing squarely in front of Sabo, Marco, with a meaningful look, lifted his hands to the top button of Sabo's shirt. “Allow me. My prince.”

Sabo bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. There were so many things he could say, some angry, some scoffing, all of them rejections. He drew blood instead and swallowed it with saliva. Looked instead to Ace for guidance.

Ace's expression was... strange. On one hand there was the daring, beautiful rejection of protocol he's always worn so well, sitting right underneath the day's dirt and soot. There was the matching tension in his knuckles, the anger to demolish the extravagance and lavishness that surrounded them that Sabo found so resonant.

But at the same time there was the helpless softness in his eyes for Marco, the bone-deep certainty that whatever unpleasantness scorched at their nerves, Marco wasn't the enemy here. Furthermore, there was the speculative angle in the tilt of his chin, an allured curiosity for what Marco was offering here.

Drinking all that in, Sabo made his decision. He lifted his chin, and let the curl of his lips go haughty.

“Go on then,” he said, throat bared so vulnerably to Marco. Marco the Crown Prince, the legendary top warrior of his father's kingdom, whom Sabo has seen fight in Impel Down and knew lived up to the legend. Marco, who's left all the medals and epaulettes hanging by the side door and offered to serve. “Attend us.”

A smile bloomed on Marco's face, so gracious and genuine that Sabo had to look away, heart pounding condemningly loud. Even as children, it was this precise smile that changed Sabo's life. Even after crawling through rosebush thorns, pinpricks scoring through his expensive shirt and across his skin, Marco's only ever had that smile for him.

He said you were pretty.

Sabo gritted his teeth when his side with all the scars became exposed to the swirling bathhouse steam. Marco's hands didn't linger on them though—didn't linger anywhere. He drew off Sabo's shirt with professional ease then started unbuttoning Sabo's pants. He didn't let the trousers fall, instead guided them down like they weren't frayed and stained with age and grime. His own trousers—the expensive ones, thick and pressed—kneeled right onto the damp floor tiles.

“You—” But Sabo shut himself up, because why would he protest? They were just pants for crying out loud, and it's not like Marco harvested and weaved and sewed them himself. And it was just water; a bit of sun will get the dark stains now around the knees right out. There really was no need to protest.

Marco smiled at him again like he was kind, gathering Sabo's shirt, trousers, and undergarments over the crook of one arm (those dirty clothes smearing immediately across the neat white fold of his shirt cuff). Standing up with nary a blink at the state of his own pants (nor at what removing Sabo's pants had revealed, which Sabo was absolutely not disappointed by), Marco now turned to Ace, who had waited patiently for his turn with the pink-cheeked, almost-smile of someone who's figured out his role in the script.

“You'll wash us both by yourself?” Ace asked, with only a hint of tentativeness, as Marco undid his buttons. “That's not enough hands to go around, is it? I'll go cold from the waiting.”

“I'll do my best yoi,” Marco replied. Now that Sabo was watching from relative distance, he could see how thoroughly Marco was actually enjoying this; it was visible not only in his face, but also in every gliding gesture, every curved posture. It was like Marco luxuriated in his servitude. He went to his knees again, and Ace was fully and gloriously nude. “Please, sit down.”

Eyes fixed on each other in both solidarity and hazy arousal, Sabo and Ace drifted forward to the stools Marco had pulled out earlier, and sat. The lines of demarcation in the bathhouse, Sabo could see now, were subtle; the flagstones marked out the space where the actual washing could be done, and the thin grooves carved across the flooring drained the water out to a corner. Things brought out to the flagstones were meant to get wet, carved out of heavy dark woods, and fine with a bit of dirt (unlike say, the polished cream marble that lined the entrance).

Shelves of powders, soaps, and bottles lined one side of the room, and that was where Marco went to fetch an array of items. He also grabbed a long flat legged plank that seemed the perfect height for sitting on, before piling on it thick fluffy towels of several different sizes and coming back over.

“Who's first?” he asked.

“Sabo,” Ace said, at the same time Sabo demanded, “Ace.”

“Sabo goes first,” Ace insisted, cupping some water and absently splashing it onto his own legs. “You'll never guess it but his hair's actually blond underneath all that soot.”

“Yeah, but your face is actually—”

“Sounds good to me yoi,” Marco interrupted cheerily, setting everything in his arms down on the floor. Sabo quickly scrambled, turning so that he faced Ace and pulling Ace's whole stool closer.

“Fine then, I'll get Ace while you're at it,” he insisted, desperate for something to do with his hands so he wasn't just stuck like a useless doll while Marco rinsed him off. This was stupid, but it'd be fine. They'll get the dirt off, none of it will get on things it wasn't meant to get on, and they'll be done in minutes. Just like normal. “C'mon then, gimme a sponge and your back.”

“Ah,” Marco made an apologetic sound, suddenly in Sabo's ear, “I'm afraid that's not how things are done here.” His torso against Sabo's back was a different kind of heat than the impersonal steam of the bathwater. A hand smoothed up the front of his neck and bared his throat. “Here yoi. Close your eyes.”

Obedience came easier than Sabo would've liked, but what else was he supposed to do, with Marco's face right over his? He heard a soft clunk, a glug of water—then he felt the water, a guided stream being poured over his hair. The overflow stopped just short of his forehead and trickled down the backs of his ears. Marco's arm touched gently against the scar on Sabo's face as he began carding his fingers through Sabo's tresses, getting them thoroughly soaked. The rushing splashes filled Sabo's ears, and his lips fell helplessly parted, drinking in the steam.

Marco refilled the water scoop. Repeated.

An echoed, low murmuring vibrated in the air, against Sabo's skin, but he didn't even bother to parse the words, so utterly enraptured by this sensation. He liked the soft brush of Marco's clothes on his back. He liked the soothing drag of water, and Marco's nails softly scratching across his scalp. He liked the new fragrance that's just appeared, wafting to his nose.

“Keep your eyes closed yoi,” Marco rumbled, all sonorous tenor and an echoic chest, and it still took Sabo a few moments to understand there was meaning in the phonemes. It's not like he was planning on opening his eyes anyways. “I'm putting in the shampoo.”

“What's that scent?” Ace asked, knee knocking comfortingly into Sabo's.

“Night jasmine. Seemed fitting.” Marco's fingers methodically kneaded a gelatinous paste through Sabo's hair, until suds coated every strand. There was a pattern to his motions, and Sabo's eyes fluttered open when Marco's thumb started rubbing soothing circles across his hairline. The disobeisance was out of trepidation; Marco would reach his scar this rate.

And reach it he did, swiping excesses of water and soap off the uneven skin without a single stutter in his motions. Sabo didn't want to meet Marco's eyes, but couldn't allow his own eyes to close either, not when he felt so fucking vulnerable—he stared up at the ceiling instead, that smooth dome of stone slabs, and worked on not letting those threatening tears condense on his eyelashes.

(He failed, when Marco finished washing clean the back of his ears and leaned forward, brushing just the gentlest kiss over the point on Sabo's forehead where the scar tissue began. Twin tears fell from the corners of Sabo's eyes and all three of them pretended it was just bathwater.)

“May I wash your face?” Marco asked quietly, and he looked prepared for Sabo to say no. So Sabo said no. Sabo wasn't quite ready to be completely cracked open yet. “Let me get your back then, yoi.”

There were still scars there, but at least Sabo wouldn't be in danger of seeing Marco's face (and whatever enticingly reverent expression Marco'd wear) every time he opened his eyes. He would see Ace instead, but Ace was—Ace was safe. Ace had seen Sabo's jagged edges and then chipped himself apart to match. For Ace, Sabo could fall to any pieces that he needed.

He scrubbed at his own face with the flat pads of his fingers, eager to sud up, rub the grime off into balls of dead flesh, splash the whole mess away. Except Ace was playing into a role as well, moving Sabo's hands away to wash at Sabo's cheeks in much gentler little circles. When Sabo glared, he just grinned and used a soapy hand to swipe Sabo's eyelids down.

“You put all that powder on my face, I wash all the dirt off yours. Seems fair,” Ace laughed, scrubbing up to the temples.

Marco started on Sabo's back at the same time. First came the blanket of water to wet everything down. Then there was a soft but textured flannel drawing determined swipes over the planes of Sabo's muscles, leaving soapy streaks in their wake. Another scoop of water. Soapy hands this time, the controlled drag of thumbs over the backs of Sabo's shoulders, finding spongey muscle with corded, tense tendons underneath, aligning the lengths and the pressures and pushing—

“—ah—!”

At the same moment of the instinctive flinch forward, Sabo also jerked his entire torso back, desperate for more of that amazing pressure. If his eyes had been open, Sabo was sure they would've rolled back in his head. Marco's grip, having slipped from the initial jerk, doubled back down, twin bars of beautiful force getting stronger and stronger and stronger until Sabo truly felt squeezed dry—

—and then abruptly released. Breath tumbled out of Sabo in a long unsteady stream, and his spine curled forward like a rubber band released. A whine escaped his throat.

“Good, yoi?”

“I'm pretty sure he'd say yes if he could,” Ace replied with both amusement and awe. “I'm gonna rinse your face now Sabo.”

He accepted the wash of water down his face without any squirming. Ace patted a dry towel encouragingly over his face. It all felt so dangerously indulgent.

“Your back is still quite tense,” Marco commented, thumbs tracing down the twin strips of muscle lining Sabo's spine. “A soak will do you good, yoi.”

And perhaps it was all the tension released from that one good prolonged squeeze, perhaps Sabo just felt like it was high time he got some control back in the situation, but the words left his mouth before he could think too much of them:

“Is that anyway to speak to your prince?”

Marco's beat of pause felt, against all odds, delighted.

“My apologies for overstepping,” another hesitation, like he was testing some waters he couldn't wait to leap headfirst into, “your highness.”

And—what the hell was Sabo actually playing at? Wasn't he the first and most enthusiastic shirker of crowns and titles? The moniker that tasted so genuinely bad in his parent's joke of a court—why did it seem so tempting here? Like a thick-petaled flower set on a dinner plate, meant for décor but inviting teeth. Like the soap that smelled so sweet but should sting his tongue so bitterly. And yet—

“Turn around Sabo,” Ace said, voice so hot with intention. “Let Marco wash your feet.”

Heat | Werewolf!Shawn AU

warning: 2.8k of filthy, filthy smut

You groaned at the sight of your blank phone screen, foot tapping in anticipation of when you’d hear from Shawn next.

It only took a few days into your relationship to discover he was a werewolf. Though he didn’t flaunt it like the others you’d encountered, he had a lovely habit of purring whenever you came into physical contact with him and it was pretty obvious right away. It was sweet and reassuring, and was only one of the wolfly characteristics that left you weak in the knees for him.

New to the whole wolf thing, you also discovered that he’d go into the occasional heat. He explained that he’d lock himself away in his house and avoid others at all costs because he wasn’t able to "control himself.” Around you, in particular. Though it left him passionate and lustful, he deemed it dangerous due to how rough he could get, so he swore to stay away from you until his heat ended.

It was day six, and you were dying to know when this would be over.

He wasn’t holding back via text message, though. Shawn had been sending constant updates on how he was feeling or what he was doing, mainly because he was bored, but a part of you believed it was to sexually torture you. Constant vivid descriptions of what he wanted to do to you or what he wanted you to do to him would come rolling in, leaving you hot and bothered and totally frustrated. He was out of reach, and he’d warned you beforehand not to entertain his behaviour because he was too weak and likely to give in. It was far too dangerous.

The sun wished you a good night as it dipped beneath the horizon, leaving you alone in the darkness of your living room. You set your feet up on the coffee table, stretching your limbs with a groan of exhaustion. The cold days seemed to be stretching on forever, leaving you tumbling along in the wake of exams and eating properly and getting enough sleep. It didn’t help that Shawn wasn’t around to keep you company.

You tilted your heavy head back against the couch, tasting the strawberry-flavoured chapstick coating your lips as you gave them a quick lick. A deep exhale left your chest as your eyes fluttered shut, breath slowing as you took a moment to relax in the blackness of your empty home. You had barely drifted off before your phone was blaring its default ringtone, snapping you out of your trance and bringing you back to reality.

The bright screen blinded you momentarily, causing you to hesitate before observing your boyfriend’s face staring back at you. Shawn hadn’t called in the entire six days he’d been away, and you worried that the sound of your voice might set him off. Your head told you not to take the call, but your heart was more powerful. Always.

“Shawn?” you answered, panicking a little at the sound of heavy breathing on the other end of the line. “Shawn, are you okay?”

“Hey,” he spoke, a smirk evident in his tone. This couldn’t be good.

“Uh, hey,” you spoke flatly, crossing your legs and leaning forward on the couch cushion. “What’s up?”

“Mm, nothin’,” he lied. “Just wanted to hear your voice is all.”

“Oh,” you smiled, heart warming at his blunt softness. Such a puppy. “I miss you.”

“Miss you more,” he exhaled, seemingly out of breath.

“Hun, are you tired? W-what have you been up to?” you asked quizzically, leaning sideways to turn a lamp on.

“Oh, me? Nothing, babe. I’m pacing,” he said flatly, leaving an uneasy feeling in your stomach.

“How’ve you been, love? Haven’t heard from you in a bit,” you bit your nail, nerves pulsing with anxiety as you tried to keep things tame.

“Been missin’ you,” he stated with a little growl. It was a sound all too familiar to you, a sound he only made when he was desperate and needy.

“Shawn, you shouldn’t have called me,” you responded, picking at your chipped nail polish as you awaited his response.

“Don’t hang up,” he spat as goosebumps spread across your arms. “M’not done.”

The line was silent for a few seconds, the dead air only being filled by Shawn’s heavy breathing and the static of the poor connection.

You sucked in a breath, finally speaking, “I’m still here.”

“Good, babe. I just, I needed to hear you. Been away from you so long, and you know how it is,” he breathed, “how I need you. It’s been torturous, not being able to--feel you.”

You gulped, unsure of where he was going with this but resisting all the signs telling you to stop.

“Yeah? Feeling’s mutual, I can assure you.” you cooed, leaning back against the cushions.

“Fuck, yes,” he answered, “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“What about me, baby?” you giggled, heat already beginning to rush between your legs at the sound of his desperation.

“Your lips,” he breathed, “and the way they work against mine. You continue to nip and suck at my mouth even though I’m the wolf here, and god, does it ever get me going.”

You let out a laugh, tongue darting out of your pout to taste your chapstick once again.

“And the way they fit so perfectly around my cock, Jesus, babe,” he said lowly, “Mouth was fuckin’ made for me.”

A blush was rising in your cheeks as you brought a hand to your lips, running your fingers over the mouth he spoke so highly of.

“What else?” you encouraged.

“Miss kissin’ your neck, and sucking on the insides of your thighs. Just you wait, babe,” he growled, “Just you fuckin’ wait until I can have my hands on you. Your hands, they’re the devil. My god, I want them all over me, all the time.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, babe. Want your fingers wrapped around my cock while you pump it, your slick pussy sliding back and forth on my thigh. Want you gripping and scratching at my back while I pound your pretty little cunt. Wanna make you scream for me.”

Your jaw had dropped at this point, core throbbing at the thought of having this again with Shawn.

“Bet you’re hard for me, thinking about those things,” you spoke lowly, knowing the risk you posed but blatantly not caring.

He gulped, clearly caught off guard by your dominance and cooperation, having expected you to have hung up the phone minutes prior.

“So hard for you, baby,” he grinned, fighting the urge to palm his bulge in his tight jeans. “Always hard for you.”

“I’m soaked, Shawn,” you breathed, a sly grin gracing your lips as you imagined his reaction.

“Oh m-, fuck,” he grunted, and you imagined him running a hand through his mess of fluffy curls in sexual frustration. He did this a lot, usually when you were out in public and he needed you, needed to feel your snug walls wrapped around his thick cock.

“What is it?” you teased, softly massaging your heated core through the fabric of your sweatpants.

“Need to fuck you,” he panted, a rattling sound audible through the fuzz.

“What’s that noise?” you asked.

“Oh, uh, my keys,” he answered, stumbling on his words a little.

“Shawn? Are you home?” you worried.

“Yeah,” he answered a little too quickly.

“Why are you holding your keys in the house, then?” you questioned.

“Was, uh, putting them on the hook, they were on the kitchen table,” he panted, trying not to sound too suspicious, but you were onto him.

“Okay,” you agreed.

“Hm,” he cleared his throat.

“Nice night out, eh?” you asked, testing the waters.

“Yeah, it’s beautiful. Chilly, but crisp.”

“Caught you! Shawn, where are you? Why did you leave the house?” you panicked, now on your feet as you began to pace around your coffee table.

“Nowhere, babe, don’t worry about it,” he reassured, but you weren’t having it.

“No, Shawn, you told me you’d have to stay in and that you were dangerous and I’ve been sitting here without you, what’s going on?” you asked a little frantically, wondering if he was messing around or if someone was going to get hurt.

“Babe, babe, calm down,” he spoke, out of breath. “Open your front door.”

Chills ran up your spine as you wondered what would happen next. Would he be violent? Was he angry? Was he done? You quickly shuffled to your front door, glancing at him through the side window to notice his sweaty state. He ran here, and that’s why he’d been panting.

You took a breath and swung the door open, expecting to give him a hug but being taken aback when he shoved his way through the door and had you pinned against the back of it.

“Hi,” he breathed, his lips a mere inch from yours.

“H-hi,” you responded shakily. His face fell.

“Baby, you don’t have to be scared,” he whispered, leaning forward to plant a quick peck on your lips. “I’m not gonna hurt you, I would never. My heat’s over.”

“Yeah?” you smiled, realizing he was safe to be around and you could once again have your way with him. Your small hands reached for his hips, pulling his torso flush against yours. His pants were already tight at the crotch.

“Mhm,” he hummed, dipping his head down to assault your neck with wet kisses.

You let out a deep groan, sneaking your fingers under the hem of his shirt and raking your nails up his soft sides.

“Shawn, please,” you whimpered as he parted from your chest and allowed the long-sleeved shirt to slip over his shoulders and be discarded on the hardwood floor.

“Mm, need, you,” he spoke between kisses to your lips, reaching for your ass as you wrapped your legs around his middle and prepared for him to climb the steps. Your arms were wrapped around his thick neck as he ascended the stairs without breaking the kiss. His chest rumbled with deep purrs, vibrating against yours as he entered your bedroom and plopped you down on the mattress.

“Clothes off,” he grunted, unbuckling his jeans and kicking them away while he tried his best to peel your sweats from your thighs. You wiggled out of your clothing, discarding all undergarments and laying beneath him in your naked glory.

“Baby, my god,” he breathed, wrapping a hand around his erect cock as he tried to contain his composure.

You giggled, “What is it?”

“Fuck, need you,” he growled, “Need to fuck you.”

Suddenly, he brought a massive hand down on your thigh, a loud smack echoing in your ears.

“On your knees,” he snapped, earning a squeal of excitement from you as you flipped over and knelt on the mattress, supporting yourself with your elbows.

“My favourite view,” he chuckled, kneading your ass cheeks with his strong hands. You could feel his erection brushing against your skin, so you pushed back on your knees a bit in hopes of getting access to more of him.

“That what you want, princess?” he teased, tapping your ass with the head of his cock. “Yeah? Beg for it.”

You moaned at the thought, tilting your head to look back at him. He was standing at the edge of the bed, leaning over you slightly. His hard cock was in his massive hand and he was slick with sweat, heaving chest and neck pink with flush.

“I fuckin’ said beg,” he said firmly, bringing a hand down on one of your ass cheeks, the sting causing you to whimper.

“P-please, please Shawn,” you repeated.

“Please what?“

“Please, just fuck me!” you exclaimed, your wetness pooling in your core and threatening to drip down your thighs.

“S’what I thought,” he growled, pulling your hips toward him as he teased your slick folds with his rosy tip. You moaned at the contact, aching to feel him fill you out as he slid the head of his cock along your slit. Without warning, he brought his hand down on your ass once again and pushed into you, slipping between your snug walls and filling you out.

“Fuck!” you breathed, trying to keep from squirming as you adjusted to his size.

“So fuckin’ tight, baby,” he muttered, soothing the hot skin of your ass with his calloused hand.

You groaned again as he pushed into you completely, the pain quickly subsiding and fading into pleasure. “More, Shawn.”

He got the message and began thrusting into you roughly, balls slapping against the back of your thigh with each soft growl he let out. You could feel a bead of sweat drip onto your back as he rolled his hips toward your ass and his forearm wrapped around your middle, pulling you flush against his front.

You were a moaning mess, whimpering and groaning for more and to go harder. He was growling in your ear, nipping at your shoulders roughly to keep from exploding right there.

“You like that, sweetheart? You like takin’ my whole cock?” he grunted in your ear, coursing a wave of pleasure through your veins as your stomach twirled in response to his words.

You tried to reply but were unsuccessful, only able to release a string of moans and whimpers. He chuckled in your ear, grabbing a handful of your ass before smacking it, hard.

“Shawn, fuck, missed you,” was all you could seem to get out, reveling in the feeling of his clammy skin slapping against yours.

“Fuck, babe, ah,” he grunted, sinking his cock between your slick folds as deep growls rumbled from his chest. He soon backed up a bit, only fucking you with his tip and causing you to squirm.

It was teasing yet fulfilling, leaving you hungry for more yet allowing you to enjoy the firmness of his slick tip dipping into your soaked core. It was like an itch that was finally being scratched, something only Shawn could do.

“Not gonna, not gonna fuckin’ last,” he panted, hips ramming against your ass cheeks as he growled violently behind you. You were at a loss for words, ultimately aroused by his wolfly tendencies and the way he lost himself in fucking you. It was a skin-slapping mess as he fucked you rapidly and ruthlessly, and you were sure you’d be sore and potentially unable to walk the following morning.

“Fuck, Shawn, more,” you panted, pushing back against his length as he moved his hands from your middle to your aching pussy.

His fingers danced over your clit rapidly as he rammed his cock into you, overwhelming your senses as your knees gave out and your body began to fall. His other hand moved to your middle, pulling your hips up to meet his as he fucked you senseless.

“Shawn, fuck, close,” you whimpered as he flicked your clit in small, concentrated circles. His grunts and growls shot adrenaline through your veins as you were positive he was on the edge, too, and you wanted nothing more than to hear the sweet sounds of him coming undone.

“Come for me, Shawn,” you mewled, reaching back to thread your fingers through his curls.

“Come with me,” he panted, flicking your clit a few more times before you unraveled beneath him. You cried out in pleasure, pussy clenching around his hardened length as he pumped hot spurts of liquid from his throbbing cock. A low growl accompanied his rough thrusts as you collapsed onto your stomach, allowing his cock to slip out of you as he came down from his high.

“Fuck, baby,” he breathed, falling beside you and wrapping a heavy leg around yours, pulling you against his chest. “Missed that.”

“Shawn,” you mumbled, collecting yourself and trying to ignore the aching throb between your thighs. “That was unreal. It’s never been like that.”

He chuckled in response, pulling you tighter. “I’m sorry, it’s because of the last few days. I’m kind of… an actual animal. Just gotta remember to be gentle with my human.”

You smiled as your heart swelled at his words. “Your human.”

You nuzzled his chest with your nose, feeling the soft hairs against your face as something else began tickling you. A soft hum filled your ears as his chest began to vibrate, the familiar purr encompassing you.

“That’s it baby, purr for me, harder, yeah,” you mockingly fake-moaned, trying not to laugh.

“You’re a sicko,” he giggled with a shake of his head, but his purrs never faltered.

“Your sicko,” you stated, planting a wet kiss on his chest.

“My sicko,” he grinned, kissing the top of your head and shifting against you, his purring slowly fading to gentle snores.

@ffsshawn

go crazy!!! also i dont mind omegaverse :33

Sorry this took me awhile!

Tags: Omegaverse, Alpha Xander, Omega Takumi, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Daddy Kink, Fluff and Smut, Mentioned mPreg, Cesarean Scars

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17885852

There was a certain power dynamic inherent to their relationship. Sure, Takumi was a prince -- and a queen he supposed, though that title was not his by birth -- but it wasn’t nearly the same as being a king. And try as he might, it was difficult for Xander to shed the mantle and just be a mate, an Alpha, a father. He would never know a true equal, aside from Ryoma perhaps.

That didn’t mean Takumi couldn’t try to help him relax. Over the years his mate had softened a lot -- Especially as the kids grew older. And he did his part to help facilitate that. Not a thing out of place, kids taken care of, homemade meals… Whatever Xander needed to ease his burden. He’d spent a lot of sleepless nights those first few years; They’d both agreed that their children wouldn’t be raised by maids and servants, but juggling two crying toddlers wasn’t easy.

He’d put Siegbert and Kiragi to bed a while ago, and now he was snuggled up on the couch under a blanket with a good book. Takumi liked those quiet hours before Xander came home, when he finally had a moment to breathe and relax before bed.

It was always a challenge though, compromising between the warmth of his swath of blankets and a comfortable reading angle. This country was too damn cold; He’d been here for over a decade and he still wasn’t used to it. He couldn’t wait for Xander to get back so he could snuggle under his comically over-sized cape, but it looked like it was going to be another long night for his  mate. Leo tried to pick up some of the slack, but there were a lot of things even his best friend couldn’t do.

He was just thinking of making his way toward bed when he heard the familiar thumping of heavy boots echoing down the hall. He set the book aside and jumped up off the couch to meet him just as the door opened.

Xander unceremoniously dropped his cape on the ground by the door, and in one swift motion he grabbed him by the waist and pushed him roughly up against the wall. Takumi pushed himself up onto the tips of his toes to meet his Alpha’s lips. Though his treatment was rougher than usual, Xander’s lips still moved tenderly against his.

He laughed breathlessly when they broke apart for air. “Rough day?”

“You have no idea.” He whispered, peppering kisses against the side of his neck.

He dragged his Alpha into the room and plunked him down on the bed with a gentle push. Then, he gently removed his crown and sat it on the vanity like he did each night. The thing was deceptively heavy, and very delicate. He���d learned that the hard way when he’d accidentally dropped it during his first pregnancy, and Xander came out of the bathroom to find him ugly crying over a dent in the metal.

With that done he picked the cape up off of the ground and laid it over the back of the couch. Now that was his only gripe he had about their nightly process. How hard was it to walk two feet to the couch before putting it down? Xander did this every night, and every night he had to pick it up. Though, he supposed they could be squabbling over worse things than a cape.

Now came the most tedious part: The armor. It was heavy, and he had to remove it slowly, piece by piece. And for every piece he had to carry it to its proper place and put it away. Why Nohrians designed armor that couldn’t be put on or taken off by themselves was beyond him, but he’d be lying if he said he hated the process.

Xander had already removed his gauntlets and boots, and Takumi started the slow process of helping him remove his the rest of it.

When they were finally finished he sat down on Xander’s lap, legs straddling him. The Alpha plucked the ribbon out of his hair and ran his fingers through the silky strands.

“Thank you, my darling.”

“Mm… Now is there anything else you’d like me to do for you?”

He ground his hips down against his mate’s. Xander’s fingers dug into his waist and his breath hitched in his throat. He grinned internally; There was something so immensely satisfying about breaking down that facade.

Though, maybe he was too tired tonight. His Alpha guided him off of his lap and back onto his feet. There was a small twinge of disappointment, but he understood. It was getting late, and Xander was probably tired.

But his mate always had a way of surprising him.

“I want you to suck my cock.” He said it with the same commanding demeanor he issued all of his orders. Then, with just the barest hint of his domineering Alpha voice: “On your knees.”

A shiver ran up his spine. There was almost nothing more satisfying than obeying a command from Alpha; He was happy to oblige.

“Yes, daddy.”

Takumi practically saw his cock twitch in his pants. There was something almost comically ironic about Xander of all people having a daddy kink, but it was the raunchiest they ever got.

He pulled it out past the waistband and wrapped his lips around the head.

Xander wasn’t rough with him. Xander was never rough with him. He wove his fingers into his hair and gently guided his head along his shaft. Takumi wrapped one hand around the base to keep himself from choking, and the other braced himself against his mate’s thigh.

He turned his eyes up to look his Alpha in the eye. Xander’s eyes were closed, head thrown back in ecstasy as he ran his tongue along the underside of his cock and over the head. Completely and utterly lost in the moment. Exactly how Takumi loved seeing him.

His grip tightened, and Takumi pulled his head back so he could catch every last drop on his tongue. His Alpha shuddered and his mouth was filled with his sticky warm seed. A little salty and bitter, but he drank every last drop like it was the nectar of the gods because it made Xander happy… And he loved making Xander happy.

It took a few moments before he was done. Takumi lapped hungrily at the last few drops and then pulled his head off, wet trail of saliva connecting his tongue to the member. He wiped his mouth off with the edge of his sleeve.

Xander bent down and kissed him on the forehead, just like he always did. He reveled for a moment in the feeling of those warm lips on his forehead, and then he stood up.

“We should probably get to bed, it’s getting late.” His mate was a busy man and he needed his rest, so he tried to ignore the tightness in his own pants. He could finish himself off in the bathroom after Xander fell asleep.

But it seemed like his mate had other ideas. Xander grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him back onto the bed.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I…”

Xander pushed him down onto his back. One hand flat against his chest to keep him down, and the other grabbed the front of his trousers and pulled down. His cock sprang free, and Xander tossed his sticky undergarments aside.

“Let daddy take care of you now.”

“Yes, sir.”

He bit his knuckles. The kids were just down the hall along with the rest of the royal family; He didn’t want them to hear him. But fuck was this good. He’d been needing this. He moaned around his fist as Xander took his cock into his mouth. Strong hands gripped his hips and forced them down to prevent him from thrashing and bucking.

He arched his back up off of the bed and whined. It was embarrassing how quickly he came when his mate touched him -- His slick-soaked hole hadn’t even been touched before he unloaded into his Alpha’s mouth.

Xander pushed his shirt up and kissed the faint white scar on his abdomen. It wasn’t the only scar he had, but it was definitely his most treasured. The little butterfly kisses continued up his abdomen until their lips met once more.

“We should get ready for bed.”

“Are you sure satisfied? We can keep going if you’d like?”

It’d been awhile since they’d had sex, and Takumi would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little frustrated.

“Mm, I think not. If I’m not mistaken, your heat is coming in a few days? As I recall, you threatened to have my head if I dared impregnate you a third time.”

His Alpha grinned down at him… Was he teasing? Xander? By the gods, it was the end of the world. He shoved his mate off of him

“Geez, I didn’t think you paid that close attention.”

“To you? Frankly I’m surprised I can pay attention to anything else.”

Takumi slid off the bed and started getting changed into his night clothes, using it as an excuse to hide his blush from his mate’s intense gaze.

“Alright, alright… You’re right, we’ve been up late enough. Get ready for bed  already so I can sleep!”

“Of course my dear.”

He was rummaging through the dresser drawers for something suitable to wear when Xander gently tilted his head up by the chin to kiss him. A sneak attack, how unfair. He slapped his hands over his burning cheeks, and Xander chuckled at him.

They got ready and climbed into bed rather quickly; Takumi hated wearing his nightclothes in the cold Nohrian air for too long. As soon as they laid down Xander cocooned him in his warmth, bodies united against the frigid air. Takumi nuzzled the fabric of his shirt affectionately.

“G’night Xander.”

“Good night, my love.”

Luffy, son.... you are not supposed to serve tea this hot to people… (I wanted that to be its separate chapter, but it turned out to be waaay too short for that, and thus, a waste of ch numbers. Art incoming, too; because of that, this will be another “tumblr exclusive (for a while)” part.)

As I’m rather happy with this thing and it’s a halfway Law-centric chapter, I shall put it in the main tags. (this is a dumb LawXOC thing; this one seems to beee.... roughly 4500 words, attagirl)

This was the part that was fun to write even while unmotivated. I think y'all understand why. Now, for the less pleasant things, out of which I'm missing the next two or three chapters entirely… ho, boy. Now, this will be power writing. (Also thanks to anyone who might be here who might have written any of the anon messages I got to keep me going past this particular chapter???)

Ps.: do not ever sterilize your whole entire house if you have a kid. They are meant to catch things so their immune systems get stronger… and have work to do. Because if they don't, they get bored, and a bored immune system will look for shit to defend against anyway; this is how your kid gets allergies ranging from 10 pollens through animals to fucking SUNSHINE. They are meant to be sick a lot in the first couple of years, deal with it. And fucking vaccinate them, too.

31. We need to talk

8 o'clock; there's noone opening the door gently, nor is there anyone near-falling down the stairs. All is perfectly still.

Law drums on the desk with his fingers and sighs; he kind of saw this coming. Doesn't make convincing himself to go out and fetch the girl any easier, however. He's about as unwilling to seek her out as it is the other way round.

A good ten minutes later, he drags himself out of his room and up to the surface; it's relatively silent for a Saturday morning, but a lot of these idiots have been out partying, so whatever. He wouldn't be surprised if half of his crew was still out snoring on a bank or alley.

It's all the more scary when a masked rando pops up right beside him at the railing of the Thousand Sunny with a cheerful ‘yo, Kat’ as he starts checking on her whereabouts.

It's Luffy with one of those fucking… things. Looks like a cheap imitation, too. Seriously… if he didn't know it was one of these idiots, he would have gotten a heart attack. He's still way too jumpy in this body, goddamn.

“Strawhat-ya, honestly... does Kat-ya make a face like this all day?” he asks, with mild annoyance, pointing at his scowling self. “Also… take that thing off.” It's kind of creeping him out, now that he's taken a good look at it up close.

“Ah, right, it’s you, Torao… and nope, it's pretty rare,” Luffy nods, then plucks the mask off his head. “Found it between these big warehouses! Pretty cool, huh?”

“I'm not surprised it was ditched… Anyway, if even you can tell that much, then why do you keep mixing us up?” It's been like… no, not ‘like,’ it HAS been a week, for fuck's sake.

“Well, hugger you is definitely not you you, but otherwise... both Kat and Torao are worried, sad or angry most of the time, so it's hard to tell them apart, to be honest,” he states wondering as he drops the prop on deck with relative care and puts his hands on the back of his head to lounge at the railing. “Like today. And, whenever they are really tired, it feels like the prickly needle thing you get when your leg falls asleep. Everyone else tends to be more like... slow waves, when you stand in water.” He stretches one leg out and flaps the sandal to his soles.

“Huh?” What? Being talked about in third person is also weird, but… excuse him?

“The feel you two give off is pretty similar is all. Though I guess Kat is also more tense overall, at least she used to be. And she has a lot of weird jokes. That I usually don’t get,” he squints. Whenever the others find something she said funny and he doesn't get it, he feels left out, really.

“No, I mean… what would she be pissed off at?” And sad. And tense… He won't even try comprehending that other stuff. Anyhow, she can be the very literal definition of a nervous system at times, that's for sure. The very first thing he knew about her was that she was either really nonchalant about something, or about to have a panic attack, after all. And not exactly in the situations that matched those reactions... she shrugged off a date with the Reaper, but was really anxious when Nami dragged her off to get her cuts and bruises treated by Chopper on board of the Sunny two minutes later. But... halt, stop. It just registered… what does rubber boy mean by him being similar to her?

Luffy shrugs. “Dunno and don't really care. It's not even directed at anything, though... which is the weird thing about it.” He hops up on the railing to sit, then crosses his arms.

Law sighs… his observation haki will never be on this level. And the way Luffy formulates it is akin to an 8-year-old giving descriptions of a dream, which doesn't help, either. Reading faces and gestures can only get you so far, doesn't it.

Scowling a bit, Luffy eventually comes to a conclusion. “Maybe she just hates herself.”

The surgeon is a little taken aback by that; going by what this dunce just said, it makes sense, but... “Why would she...?” he mumbles mostly to himself, also crossing his arms. Going by whatever he could gather from Shachi and the rumors from her time in the dining hall, it did cross his mind that she might have some self esteem issues, that’s why he decided to be better safe than sorry and basically walk on eggshells when dealing with her. How she acts in general can support the idea, too, when considering some traits from another point of view…

“You are the one hanging out with her all the time, so why do you ask me?” Luffy pouts. The expression turns into a thoughtful one soon, then turns into mild worry.  “… do you hate yourself, Torao?”

In the blink of an eye, he and his body (that’s worryingly cold in the first place) both realize that it’s like twelve degrees Celsius at best outside, and that not taking a sweater over a thin undergarment and breezy, medium sleeved shirt was a Mistake™. “You're… overthinking it,” he responds while waving dismissively.

“Really? That's a relief!” the other captain sighs and puts a smile back on.

“... yeah.” Perhaps it all boils down to her having a similar way to handle her emotions? She did keep being in pain a secret, which is something he does, so that's one thing they have in common. But goddammit, Strawhat… don't just say things like this all of a sudden.

He peeks then up towards the garden, where rhythmic little thuds have been disturbing the silence for the past minute. They really ought to talk.

Right now.

This is much easier to do once Nami appears from the direction Kat could be, as the navigator won’t let her captain go alone and get himself lost again in town when latter declares his intention to go back, even despite his excuses of being able to see the Sunny from the church tower when it’s not dark. Having gotten rid of Luffy surprisingly quick this way, Law stops on the stairs as soon as he’s high enough to look around. He peeks towards where he suspects her being, and indeed, the noise that started somewhere down the line was caused by a dazed Kat. He weighs his options for a moment; on one hand, taking some time off is a reasonable way to handle this. On the other… if he leaves this up to the girl, she may never show her face again, which is no viable route for him to take. He’ll definitely have to take initiative.

Noticing the light steps closing in on her, Kat stops drumming her heels against the ship.

Law sighs. “Look…. I know I’m making you uncomfortable right now, but I really kind of need my body back as soon as possible.” … maybe not the best start, but he got the point across.

After a short pause, Kat bonks her head into the wooden pillar in front of her with considerable power, and takes a long, sharp breath.

Law watches in perturbed bafflement. Um… maybe… it was a bad start, after all.

“I’ll manage,” she sighs, straightening herself at once. “It’s hard to ignore, and cuts my productivity in half, but… is, what it is. I’ve kind of made peace with telling my boss as-is, too, so that won’t be bothering me.” She pauses the fast rant for a moment to cut the speed, and stares into the waves licking away at the side of the ship. She had enough time to think about this somewhat objectively during her short-ish wake around midnight and later in the morning. “And you… shouldn’t have to worry about it, either. Once you're all gone for good, it will fade away soon. Knowing myself, I might not even be able to remember your name in a few months, anyway,” she shrugs all limp. “I’m no good with names, so… it would be nothing new.” It’s a famous and super simple name that’s not hard to catch, so she likely will. Maybe even his surname, since it’s a funny one. No promises, though.

… twisting knives much? Sheesh, he never suspected her of being capable of such… savagery. And he thought Luffy was being blunt today… Generally, he likes both of their honesty quite a lot, but Kat saying that he’ll be deleted from mind as soon as he’ll be out of sight is… a bit too much. And frankly, it hurts like a bitch. If he was in any way unsure about how he felt about her until this, well... there are no doubts about it now. He better keeps all of this to himself, though.

After all... it really is for the best. Technically, good news, even. And he also gets her; it’s the pragmatic thing to do. Having any kind of amiable relationship with a pirate is not exactly easy. There's no sure way to reach them, and sending messages to someone endangers that person. Hell, they all could die the day after setting sail for all he knows. A part of him has an even deeper understanding of what she means… it's not about worrying about anyone getting killed, quite the contrary. She's sheltering herself from getting hurt, by simply staying indifferent. He handles strangers the same way, and did the same for the longest time while with the Family: laughing whenever he felt like it... helping if he wanted to, or if he had to... generally enjoying the company, but not building any meaningful relationships. The question is, though... how did she get there, to this mindset? Few normal people do that. It could be just the way she’s always been, but considering how much she strives to please people around her, and how sensitive she seems to be to other’s moods in the first place…

Who hurt her?

Getting no response and feeling his eyes on her back is getting to her fast; Kat puts her head back against the pole and continues. “... Sorry, that sounds... really mean... but I suck at keeping in touch anyway. People just... come and go?” She shrugs, then starts to swing her legs again, until her heels hit the ship and she stops with limbs still flailing about. “I have no idea what my kinda-friends from high school or college are up to, either. Even when I think about fun times and miss someone… I never sit down and write a letter or go visit. I don’t get any further than grabbing a pen, but… what even are the chances they still live where they used to, huh?” She puts on a bitter smile that fades away fast. “Am I... a bad person? For that?” Her voice is unstable and hoarse at this point. She takes a shaky breath, followed by a gulp.

“... no, you're not.” Not being able to keep up with people is okay. Being stuck in a cage of her own making is, though. He takes a moment of consideration, then joins her at the railing.

Kat stares down to where her hands should be through the white pillar as Law plops down, then speaks up after a short pause while holding back a sniffle. ”The other week, I was wondering... why none of them tried to hit me up, either. Ever. I guess I'm just... that insignificant...” The sniff escapes and she also needs to wipe off a tear.

“…” He didn’t plan on joining a therapy session, nor doing anything else past talking, but a good old shoulder pat is definitely warranted here, so that’s what he does. Realizing that the cold hand made her shiver is too little, too late, so he just rolls with it. “Now, now… you know like a dozen of infamous people as of last Tuesday, so that automatically makes you count for something.” Her self esteem really seems to be in a bad shape. There's definitely some asses that ought to be kicked on these islands, because this is definitely not normal behavior.

Cannot help but crack a smile at that. “If you say so.” She rubs her eyes. “Sorry, I went off tangent again.”

“As did I the other day… and? Got it out of your system?” Seems like she’s bouncing back at least.

“Kinda,” she breathes after a pause.

“Just kinda?”

“…” She rests her temples against the railing again, even though it’s starting to hurt, bump she just made notwithstanding. “Every now and then, I keep thinking… how there would be someone in my place to do all the things I do.” Her eyebrows furrow. “If not now, then later. I’m just another pebble in the sea, and it feels… suffocating.”

“… I see.” Oh, boy… this actually sounds like more zero filter stuff, but without drugs to make it weird. Which is iffy, since he’s far from being a psychologist. Well, is what it is… take notes, analyze, and most importantly, watch your fucking mouth.

“Like, I know it’s the same for important people, inventing and doing actual, impactful stuff. Because, there’s little difference in the grand scheme of things, is there? It just doesn’t matter whether something happens today or in a hundred years. Everyone is replaceable. As is everything else. What I wanna say, is… wanting attention… at all… makes me feel selfish. Even when it probably shouldn’t.” Feeling the hand on her shoulder makes it tingle… she’d move, if not for knowing that he would lift it off again.

“… Um…”  Okay… he might have stepped into this one hard. Aside from blinking wildly, because this has suddenly nosedived into deep waters… he needs a second here. The spaced-out girl he got to know in the past two weeks thinks about this shit regularly? She did seem less bubbly and way less excitable than she actually is at first glance, but… holy shit. She actually is pretty good at brooding herself. If he wasn’t so dumbfounded, he’d be impressed. “… wow, I… never considered the possibility that you could be a nihilist.” A very sentimental nihilist. That’s certainly what he takes from this. The conclusion is kind of enlightening.

She remains silent for a second, then squints. “... all I crave is death.”

Law lets out an exasperated sigh, then slaps her on the back of the head resulting in another light bonk. “Don’t you think for a second that I cannot tell the difference between you being serious and on the brink of grinning like an idiot,” he tells her off with the other hand on his hip. She may be trying to keep a poker face up, but none can do if she’s gonna use that overly dramatic delivery anyway. This woman, he swears to god.

And, as soon as the jig is up, there it is: the smile.

She reaches up to scratch the head area that stings a little after getting smacked. “Heh… sorry, had to break that gloomy mood.” Though, no lie, she does like talking about heavy stuff like that. If Law did not seem to be bothered by it, she probably would have continued.

“By willingly pissing me off?” Was that really necessary?

“Well… it worked, didn’t it?”

“Touche,” he breathes, crossing his arms. “But don’t make a habit out of it, if you know what’s good for you.” If she has actually figured out how to dig down to his berserk buttons, she’s playing with fucking fire, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she found enjoyment the activity. “I can fix myself up as soon as I get my body back, and rearranging your internal organs or face with, or without my powers, is not beneath me.”

She nods, humming. “I didn’t doubt for a second that you’d make a feisty kuja, alright. Will not overdo the gremlin act.”

“… good.”

After a silent pause, Kat stops rubbing her head. “… say, Law?”

He lets out a questioning hum.

“Are you in pain… because you were sick?”

“…” Is there a point to tell her anything if it’s so obvious in the first place? Oh well, she's asking, so… “Yeah. There are a few intergrowths I cannot really do anything with. Removing the lead deposits left my body aching at random, the bigger they were, the worse it is… you’ve probably noticed, but some areas like the left side of my torso and the right jaw are the main culprits. Those spots tend to act out a little even when everything else is fine. And I have additional god awful headaches when it’s too hot or cold outside and I don’t hidrate proper. These are honestly the worst aspects of it, no lie.”

“Act out like... Saturday evening?” When she first noted how something was a little off? It’s the only common experience they have…

He thinks for a moment. “Yeah, like that. The odd tissue that seems cancerous during a checkup, I can get rid of... but the fucking pain just won’t go away. Unless I kill off the receptors altogether, but that strikes me as an exceptionally stupid idea.” Even if it sounds really tempting at times. Maybe if he did it to his internal organs only…

“Wait…” Kat takes the first look at him today, and looks very much taken aback at that;  “did you say cancer?” As soon as he looks back, she averts her eyes again. Seeing him, save looking him in the eye, is just… not something she can handle at the moment.

He blinks at the reaction, but keeps his eyes on her for a second. “Heard me right. Don’t shit yourself, I can deal with it.” Looking back in front of him, he adds, “I’m also legally infertile, but that’s the least of my problems.” He’s unlikely to get old, too, but honestly… there’s only so many times you can cheat your expiration date.

“Oh,” she says a second later. And sounds quite disappointed at that.

“... don't you ‘oh’ me. You can have all the kids you want for all I care.” As long as her plans involve someone else, that is. … aw fuck, brain, don't you have anything else to comment on?

“Oh, no, no, no, it's just…” She gives the sideburns a scratching; “This is going to sound so stupid… but you seem like… the dad type?”

Law laughs out at the ludicrous idea. “Me? Seriously?” Geez, that’s so… out of the blue. Even more so than the being married line. Never even seen him with a kid around, has she? They just tend to shit their pants right away. He needs to put a hand on his temples to process this a bit… and to make sure there’s no headache caused by stupid on the way. “God… the hell makes you think that?”

“Well, for starters… someone like Luffy would drop his toddler into the ocean by accident, which you would… not.” As simple as that. From what little she’s heard about Garp’s parenting… even if Law happened to be on the strict side, there is, like, no competition here, honestly.

A millisecond of consideration ends up in a concerned, solemn nod on Law’s part. He wouldn’t want Strawhat oversee children in general, or at the very least, not leave them with him all alone. He out-dads him in any technicality regarding safety and common sense, so that’s a score.

“You still could be fun around, though,” Kat continues leaning back; “Like… you would totally do something like sticking them to the ceiling as punishment for being bad,” she muses with a little relaxed smile, pulling up some average family scenarios. “but, unless you are obviously angry with them, they would love it instead. You could experiment with pretty much everything from floating to chopping them up, but all would backfire spectacularly as they think of it as just another game.”

“... can’t argue with that,” the notes, raising a brow. “Little hellraisers be like that.” Punishing a kid that's acting out, well… Best bet would be the basic ‘send them into a corner’ situation instead of getting creative, huh?

“You’d also be the go-to solution for homework… despite not being helpful at all.” Definitely trolling the shit out of anyone who’s trying to use him for an easy pass… yes, yes. Would come through when needed, too, she knows that much firsthand.

“Correct,” Law nods with a smug grin. He absolutely would be the most useless genius around. It would drive them crazy and he would be enjoying the hell out of it. If they legitimately did not understand something, though… that’s actually negotiable.

Having seen enough of his self-assured smile from the corner of her eye, she addresses him directly. “... get off your high horse, Law. You might be a little shit, but you’d also be out-bawling anyone at any milestone your kiddos reach whatsoever,” she states with an amused look.

“Absolutely not,” comes the indignant reply; “Do I look like the sentimental type to you?”

She takes a long, thoughtful look at his general direction. “Look… I might not be able to guarantee it, but as far as I’m concerned, you would transform into the worst mess of a doting ‘pappa’ there ever was as soon as you’d be holding your firstborn.” First day of school and graduations would be just as bad, if not worse… god save everyone if he’s around for a wedding. Him sobbing in a tux while trying to operate a visual transponder is not a mental image she’ll forget any time soon. In fact, she’s going to treasure the hell out of it. Even if she’s more used to him looking like her, so it takes some extra imagination points to see him in his own body.

Her chuckle earns a very unamused face. “I won’t even begin to try and imagine what you just thought of, but really? Really really?”

“Ve-really,” she states while booping his nose, then gets her hand pushed off to the side. “Honestly… you’re saying it’s very unlikely in the first place, right?” She ponders, scratching her head while sitting upright again. “You can’t tell me that you wouldn’t be all over a baby? Beating whatever low odds?”

“...” She’s probably not wrong on that one. Up to eight, maybe ten per cent aren’t a lot...

“And let’s not even get started on the naming process… You have at least…” her fingers straighten one by one; feather guy, little girl, baby’s grandparents, and who knows, who else? “four, if not a dozen they’d have to pry from your cold, dead hands before settling for anything else!” He based his entire image on one of these people, for fuck’s sake. First boy would definitely get that name, whatever it may be.

… not to mention the chances of a healthy child…

“And… little ones are always sick or some shit, right? You’d go into doctor overdrive. Give them checkups like every fucking week, and be staring from over the bathroom door to make sure they wash their teeth, and… dude, I’d fucking hate to be your kid, oh my god!” At least it takes him like point five seconds to sterilize the entire house instead of scrubbing everything all day like a manic housewife, but holy shit…

“Kat…“

“I have no idea how you’d handle feeding them in any capacity, though… you run, like, exclusively on a handful of veggies, rice, potatoes… and chicken… and fish. And, you suck at cooking.” And the occasional drink. Would he be willing and able to make legit sandwiches…? He has no qualms touching the bread, made those French toasts, so that’s a start. This kind of presupposes him being allowed in the kitchen like a single dad, but still, she can’t help wondering how he would tackle that humongous elephant in the room if the need arises.

“Kat-ya, stop.”

The edge in the word startles her enough to delete the train of thought altogether. “Uh… um…” Did she say something wrong again? Did she hurt him? Or insult him? Is… is he angry…?

He sighs, staring into the darkness underneath the waves. “I suppose… you are right,” he says a few seconds later, his head also meeting the railing. “I am… the dad type.”

She stares down at her now interlocked hands; the images she found so amusing before…  look sickly and pale all of a sudden. A quick reality check has sucked all life out of them. Managed to fuck his day up again, huh?

“Dreaming… is dangerous,” Law concludes. The last time he did something like that… came with just another harsh wake-up call.

“… sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you.” Again.

“Eh, I’ll get over it.” However… he’s once again reminded of the fact that he’d been living to fulfill a singular goal for over a decade, and ever since he’s pretty much reached it, he’s been feeling… well, rather lost, to be honest. Stretch goals, like going against Kaido are a sufficient distraction at best. Sometimes he hears a little voice in the back of his head breaking through regardless before muffling it, talking about being tired of this life… bringing up the clinic of his own he's always wanted… having a home to return to.

Peace.

He knows better than to hope for any of that.

A single finger tapping his arm makes him realize that his eyes and nose cavity are burning up. This is followed by her barely audible, little mouse voice; “... Law?”

He takes a shaky breath and rubs his temples, sneaking in a finger to wipe away the half-ripe tear from the corner of an eye. “I’m fine, I’m…” he comes to a halt upon looking at her; “oh my god, are you crying?”

“... a little,” Kat squeaks after swallowing once.

Law snorts all of a sudden, then breaks out in painful laughter. The tears are also coming, but fuck it, because... while he’s hurting, this… also feels kinda good. Actually, it feels great. Talking about all of this… is great. She’s a better psychologist than he could ever aspire to be. Cafe girl… you are too fucking nice for your own good. Sincerely, fuck you.

As soon as the surprise wears off, Kat joins in, too.

After a solid minute or two, Law flops on the grass with hands covering his face. “... both of us… are kinda fucked up, huh?” he ponders out loud after the last couple of laughs. It’s kind of a dumb question; who even is not fucked in the head from all the people that he knows? He should have known that she was no different, even if the causes are still a mystery. No wonder the two of them can hit it off.

“I guess so,” Kat sniffs, rubbing her entire face that must be as red as it feels.

Sliding his freezing hands lower, Law stares skyward at the thickening clouds for a while. Laughing and crying are both exhausting… not to mention doing both at once. It feels like floating in a weird dream. Peaceful, even. Every weight has slid on his back, which is neatly supported by this nice ship made of pure sunshine, leaving him to breathe freely for the time being. He would say a ‘thank you,’ but it gets stuck somewhere in his throat.

He must be in really fucking deep, huh. Not that he minds, though… it feels really nice, after all. A little too much to be true, yes. But for now… he doesn’t want to worry about his short future. Instead, right here, right now... he just wants to enjoy this moment.  As much as he can. As long as he can. To the fullest.

Pseudo Princess Pt.02

A New Princess

09/27/2019

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader          Word Count: 5,910

Warnings: a smidge of abuse, language?, floral baths

A/N: I literally worked on this all day. Haven’t edited much. Did one quick pass through but I probably missed a whole bunch of stuff. Pardon my typos. I was just so eager to get this out. Again, I will not tag you if you ask to be tagged in the comments. Only tag requests sent in ASKS will be answered. I hope you enjoy this new chapter. Please let me know what you enjoyed. If you happen to reblog, thanks for helping me spread my work. xoxo

Baths have never been anything that you’ve particularly hated. You don’t mind getting clean, in fact, you like feeling like you’re new after a bath.

However, until today, your experience with baths has been one of need rather than want.

You always had to bathe in cold water from the river. You nearly always bathed without soap. And you only ever came out smelling slightly better than when you went in.

But today...

You sigh with contentment as your body sinks into the large copper basin. Fresh flower petals, peony and jasmine have been spread across the water. Scented oils are still being added as you settle in.

Technically this is your second bath.

You'd been doused in water before, over the a different smaller tub to scrub the layers of mud that had caked onto your skin.

Now, since your skin is mostly clean, you’re lowered into this one.

Your lady in waiting adds the oils to your bath, having shooed the bath preppers—two stocky young men that had taken to staring at your barely covered naked body as they poured cauldron after cauldron of hot steaming water into the tub—she’s taken it upon herself to make everything just right.

Now that you’re seated, you watch her as she calculates the oil before stopping the amber bottle and setting it on the table where your food had been a few hours ago.

Your lady has long straight hair the color of rubies and sunset. Her skin is silken cream. She’s clearly a beauty but you can’t tell if she’s a noblewoman or lucky, like you.

“Natasha?” You ask, tentative as she fetches a maroon bar of soap. It smells like pomegranate and more jasmine.

She smiles at you. “Yes.”

It’s a kind smile but you also saw her eyeing you suspiciously when she came in at first. She also seems to know that you’re checking to see if you remembered her name correctly.

She sits beside you on a slightly lower stool so that she still sits above you but low enough to help you.

“Lean forward, your Highness.” She asks, and your neck flares with heat.

Butterflies erupt in your stomach making you queasy and your chest begins to hollow.

“Your high-?” You probably lose most of the color in your face because Natasha’s eyes flash with concern.

“Are you alright, your Highness?” She wonders, genuine in her concern.

“I…” You look to the shut doorway and know that there’s a guard sitting out in the room entryway between the main doors and the doors to your bedroom.

Natasha leans in closer as you finally lean forward and give her access to your back.

When you speak again, you whisper as Natasha smiles conspiratorially.

“I’m not really a princess, Natasha. The king plucked me from the side of a road, covered in mud. I’m nobody.” You worry, chewing your lip harshly.

Natasha frowns and reaches up to run her thumb across your lip, stopping your biting.

“Don’t do that. Princess do not chew on their lip. And I know.” She assures you. “Tony, that is to say, the King cannot hide much from me. I was the one that gave him the idea to look for a peasant.”

“You?” You lean back, slightly shocked as she really goes at your skin with the smaller towel she'd lathered up.

“I have worked as his Majesty's assistant for many years now. Too many. He’s like a brother to me and Pepper, that is, the Queen, is like a sister.

“His Majesty figured you might find it a little difficult to acclimate which is why he’s entrusted your care to me. Don’t worry, your Highness, I’ve got your back.” She smiles reassuringly but you know she has no loyalty for you yet.

Her loyalty, like yours, is to the crown. You agreed for the sake of your kingdom.

“So, we have a day full of things for you to do. You won’t get much rest today. Or for several days. Maybe weeks, depending on when King Rogers decides he wants to get married.” She informs you.

“What’s he like?” You ask eagerly, desperate for information on the widower. “Have you met him?”

“I have. He’s very upright. Upstanding. Noble. Honorable. A little serious but very sweet. He’s gentle when he isn’t angry but when he is angry he has been known to lash out.” She explains.

You blanch again, feel queasy once more. “Is he violent? Will he hit me?”

“No.” Nat answers, reassuring you with the tough spark in her emerald eyes. “Like I said, he’s honorable, and even if he were inclined to hit you I wouldn’t let him. It’s my job to protect you.”

When she says that it almost sounds like she’s willing to fight. Physically. With punches and kicks.

“What is it that you did for his Majesty, Natasha?” You wonder, suspicious now.

She smirks down at you, pleased with how observant you are. Sharp.

“Never you mind, Highness. Sit back, I’ll scrub your tummy.” She asks but as you sit back you reach up and take the cloth from her.

“I can do it.” You watch her until she releases it.

“Very well. Make sure you get all your nooks and crannies. We need you shining like new.” She says, getting up to rifle through your wardrobe.

“What things will we do today?” You wonder, attempting to mimic the correct way she speaks. Most of your word choices are fine but there’s a posh little tone to her words that you’ll need to learn to mimic.

Right now you sound too much like the country bumpkin you are.

“These dresses will need to be altered to your specific body type. You'll also start training in etiquette and we need to attempt to teach you a little to write and read.

“I’m hoping King Rogers will take his time in accepting you as his wife. It’ll give us time to get you trained a little.” She picks a floor length gown with no hoop which you like. It has an latticework of lace along the bodice and the sleeves over a beige underskirt made of voile and organza.

It’s pretty but more expensive than all of the money you've ever earned sewing up patches and fixing shirts and pants.

“This looks the closest to your size. It might sit a little loose but it'll work until we can get you a proper wardrobe.” She turns towards the bed to lay out your dress and you wonder if she did that on purpose to show off the flowing fabric of the dress.

She proceeds to pull out several undergarments, a long and thin white shirt, and a corset with back lacing to put over it.

Your own well worn undergarments had been discarded, along with your dress.

“Okay.” She says, moving to you and holding out her hand. “Give me that. You’re too slow. I need to get you scrubbed and changed within the hour. We still have to wash your hair.”

“I can do it.” You protest and make to dip under the water.

“No!” Natasha almost shouts. “Not in there. We will wash your hair separately and when we are done with your bath.”

“Why?” You frown, looking down at the now slightly murky water with its flowers and oils.

“Because, you haven bathed in a while and that water is already rife with dirt.” Natasha explains.

“I’ve done it before.” You complain.

“You weren’t a princess before.”

“This is stupid.”

“Stupid as it might be, doesn’t change the fact that you were filthy when I got you. Please, your Highness, let’s do it my way at least a few times. Then after a few washes, when you’ve used soap and I’m sure your body is clean enough, then you may wash your hair at the same time. Alright?”

You consider Natasha for a moment, still standing with her hand outstretched, long red hair braided and pinned up on the top of her head. She doesn’t look upset though and is genuinely pleading with you.

You give in and hand her the cloth then lean back as she pulls her stool over and takes to scrubbing your legs hard.

“You don’t think I deserve to be here, do you?” You ask, feeling shameful for being so dirty.

Nat stops her scrubbing and looks up at you. She blinks, thinking for a moment before shrugging her left shoulder.

“It doesn’t matter what I think.” She says. “What you’re doing is going to be hard. I don’t know if you’re prepared for what taking this on means.

“I don’t know if you’re good at lying which you will have to do on a daily basis, to everyone but myself, the King, and the Queen and often it will have to be spur of the moment.

“Can you do that?” She asks, brow furrowed with worry and curiosity.

“I…I dunno.” You admit. “I’ve lied before but not about something this important.”

She nods. “And we'll have to fix your speech. You don’t sound too bad but sometimes you can really tell you’re not of noble birth.”

More shame draws your eyes down as Nat goes back to scrubbing.

“But you are very brave. You’re choosing to do this from the kingdom when you are not obligated to. You’re giving up your freedom for a life in service of the crown. And it won’t even be our crown.” She says in astonished admiration. “Have you even considered that?”

“I have no one, Natasha. I don’t even own my own home. True, at least I could go out and do what I liked but my life was meaningless. I would grow old, if I was lucky, and I would die alone. At least this way, I might serve a purpose.”

“Didn’t you have parents? Or maybe a beau?” She’s scrubbing between your toes and it takes all of your willpower not to squirm.

“Um…” Your voice shakes, itching to laugh. “No.”

She looks at you and you can’t help it, you burst into laughter.

You throw your head back and the water sloshes around you as she hurries to finish your other toes, smiling wide as you laugh. Your finished leg lifted and bent against your chest as you wiggle.

When she’s done she drops her hands, leaning against the side of the tub, a look of fondness in her eyes.

You chuckle a little more as you settle in the water again. It’s still warm. Will she let you soak a bit longer?

“What?” You chuckle. “Why do you look at me like that?”

“Because now that you’re all cleaned up, with laughter in your eyes, I think you just might make King Rogers fall for you. Genuinely.” She gets up and moves to hold open the thin white robe for you.

Ears burning, neck flaring once again, you rise. The water sloshes around you and several petals stick to your wet skin as you step out onto a small carpet placed by the tub so that you don’t slip.

She wraps the robe around you, and it sticks to you, growing sheer as the wet is soaked up.

You can see everything. You shiver and Steve closer to the fire, but Natasha reaches for you and pulls you to the stool she'd been sitting in.

“Here. Sit.” She moves to fetch a brass pitcher and holds it, waiting for you.

You sit, then naturally lean back on instinct.

“Do you really think he might like me?” You ask her. Eyes wide, heart pounding. “What does he look like?”

Now that you know that he isn’t abusive and is in fact a true gentleman by all accounts, you’re eager to see this possible future husband.

“He’s very handsome. I’ll show you his portrait when we’re done. As far as his liking you, it may be better if you don’t expect too much.” She says sadly.

“Why?” You ask, worried.

“Well, as you know, King Rogers lost his first wife.”

“Yes.” You nod.

“Queen Margaret was the love of his life. I have never known anyone to love someone that much, except perhaps Tony and Pepper.” She explains. “When he lost her, I heard he went into seclusion.”

“How did she die?” You wonder, watching as much of Natasha's face as you can while she works her hands through your long hair, pouring warm water from the pitcher’s until it’s soaked.

She gets the soap and begins to lather it up, pitcher set aside.

“An accident, I think. I don’t know the details but I heard she had to get surgery done and she passed from complications.”

“Oh.” You’ve never heard of anyone actually getting surgery but the rich can afford it so it’s probably more common here. “So you’re saying he may not like me?”

“He might not. He needs to remarry and he needs an heir so, whether he likes you or not, he will tolerate you. Perhaps even grow fond of you? It think that may be the best we can expect but I hope he can see you laugh as you just did.

“Perhaps it will sway his heart.” She smiles.

Grabbing the pitcher, she rinses your hair and you stare at her beautiful face.

“Why do you care? I mean, whether he likes me?”

She looks down at you in slight shock. “You are under my care, your Highness. I want you to he as happy as possible in this new life you are choosing especially because you are doing it for the kingdom.

“If I can make him love you. I will.” She promises and finishes with your hair.

~~~~~~~~~~

You’re exhausted.

The day has been endless, and it all began with a fitting for your dresses.

All of the gowns in your closet had to be altered. Then your head was measured for a new tiara and several others to take with you.

The one you are given to use with your dress is silver with a gold inlay, a large ruby at the front surrounded by smaller yellow diamonds.

It belongs to the Princess Morgana and you’re really nervous about wearing her tiara when she isn’t home. What if you lose it?

“It only until your own is made. You’ll have it tomorrow. Were you satisfied with the design you chose?” Natasha asks.

You'd chosen a simple tiara with silver leaf designs that run along the entire front and the center should be two large gems.

You’re not sure what they’re supposed to be as the design was just a sketch but you’re sure that his Majesty will choose the stone.

“Yeah.” You answer.

Natasha frowns at you. “Yes.” She corrects.

“Right, sorry. Yes.”

“Come on. We need to get you to the speech tutor.”

This is the moment that Princess lessons takeover your day. You do indeed begin with your speech. You’re corrected often but after a few hours you begin to understand what the tutor wants, and you deliver.

He’s impressed and you leave the lesson feeling more confident. Etiquette is much more different.

You slouch often, and the new tutor, a stern middle-aged woman slaps the center of tour back several times to make you remember as she teaches you how to hand things to others. How to sit. Stand. Bow. Curtsy. And all the other intricacies of life in the castle.

The long and carefully crafted waves of your hair provide a little cushion, but the smack still stings.

On the sixth hit, you hiss in pain and Natasha’s hand is suddenly there, grabbing the rod she’d been hitting you with.

“Hit the Princess again and I will personally make sure this rod ends up somewhere unpleasant.” She threatens, death in her eyes and a sneer stretching her red tinted lips.

The woman pales but she looks at you as you reach behind you to try and rub at the spot on your back.

“Negative reinforcement works better to create a memory for her to remember.” The woman argues but she’s just barely enthusiastic about it.

She’s eyeing Natasha with fear.

“Then I guess I’ll just have to use negative reinforcement so that you remember not to hit the Princess. Do it again, and I’ll have you sacked. Got it?” And Natasha waits, eyes narrowed at the woman.

“Y-Yes, my lady.” The woman nods then moves on to sitting at the dinner table.

You’re taught how to walk. How to sit with a book. How to relax when you’re told to though really, it’s still just sitting up straight and it’s not a very relaxing position.

You’re taught how to walk in your dresses and how to lift and adjust them when you climb stairs and sit down or stand up. When you asked them what you do before running, Natasha had smiled and looked at the middle-aged woman.

“A Princess does not run. You never run.” She insists.

“Never?” You ask again.

“Never.”

“What if-?”

“A Princess does not run. I think we will end our lessons here. I will see you tomorrow to see what you have retained. Good day, your Highness.” She curtsies and leaves.

You eat in your room and then return to the empty school room you’ve been using to find a new tutor waiting for you.

The alphabet is written across several sheets of parchment paper, and with a quill provided, you are given the task of copying their shapes.

“Once you can write them, we’ll learn what their names are and how to sound them out.” The man says before watching you copy the letters.

This is how you spend your day and soon, darkness takes over the castle once more. Natasha hasn’t left your side all day and with your fingers cramping and your eyes burning, you turn to look at her, massaging your hand.

“I think that’s enough for today, Master Rymond. Thank you for your hard work. We will see you again tomorrow.” Natasha tells him.

“My lady.” He says, nodding to her then he bows to you. “Your Highness. Good work today.”

When he’s gone you really want to sit back and slouch and really relax but the center of your back is still stinging, and you realize that the etiquette woman was right. The smacks are a good way to ensure you remember.

“I don’t think I will ever slouch again.” You whine, reaching up again to rub the sore spot. You’re probably bruised up.

“That’s good news.” Natasha teases. “Are you hungry or would you prefer to go to bed?”

As she stands beside you, hand on your shoulder, you look up at her and think.

“Both?” Are you being greedy?

Natasha however nods. “Okay. Do you know your way back to your room?”

“I will escort her, Lady Romanoff, madam.” A young male voice pipes up from the doorway and you lean around Natasha to get a look.

The young man is wearing a more relaxed suit of armor. Where the majority of the Knights are decked out in full gear, this young man seems to be wearing shoulder guards, knee guards, and sturdy boots all much lower profile than regular armor.

He has wavy brown hair, smooth and light. Peach white skin, sweet and bright hazel eyes, and a thin but tight muscular build. He looks lithe. Like he could outrun anyone simply because he’s lighter.

“Peter,” Natasha says fondly. “I didn’t know that his Majesty was going to give you to us.”

“Yes, Ma’am. He thinks it might be better to have someone like me with you at all times, in case something should happen.”

“Good.” She beams. “I’m going to go get the Princess some food, will you show her to her room for me? I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Of course.” He nods, giving you a sweet smile too.

“I’ll be back.” Natasha gives your head a gentle caress and your heart soars at the affection.

Why are they all so nice to you? You’ve never been this loved before. Is it really them loving you or are they just appreciative of what you’re doing? You don’t want to question it, but it all seems to good to be true.

She leaves you, sweeping out of the room in her stunning black gown.

“Shall we, your Highness?” Peter gestures towards the door and you nod with a smile.

There’s silence between you and Peter for a few minutes as he leads you back up the stairs to the floor above. You watch his easy gait and the smile he seems to wear at all times.

“Peter?” You check, afraid to make a mistake in decorum.

“Yes, Princess?” He says, turning to walk slightly sideways but just long enough to give you an expectant look.

“Is it okay that I call you that?”

“Of course.” He smiles at you then faces the front again. “I’m at your service.”

“Why are you at my service?” You check, so confused by everything here in the castle.

“His Majesty, King Stark, thought that it might be good to have me by your side. You’ll need a protective detail and he thought one knight would be better than four.” He explains, beaming with pride at the job assignment.

Why only one of him though? Doesn’t this leave you and him more vulnerable?

“Why you?” You ask, “Not to be rude…I don’t mean to be rude if that was rude, but I’m a little confused as to why his Majesty would send only one guard instead of four and why Lady Romanoff would be so keen to have you with us.”

“Oh.” Peter says, nodding with a knowing smile. “That’s because I’m different from the other Knights. I’m stronger.”

“Stronger how?”

“Well,” He reaches up to scratch the back of his head. “Since we’re going to be spending so much time together, maybe it’s best if I let you know. I would hate to scare you.

“A few years ago, I got lost in the woods. I wandered away from my school group and found myself right smack in the middle of a witch’s hut. See, my uncle died, and my aunt was so sad about it that I thought, maybe, if I can find a good witch, she might help me get my uncle back. I found a spider instead and…well, it must have had a spell on it or something because it bit me and when I woke up the next day I was…different.”

It all suddenly falls into place, making sense in a way that you weren’t expecting.

“Oh my God, you’re the Spiderling.” You realize, looking him up and down again and for the first time noticing the red of his uniform beneath the navy painted armor plates. There’s a hood around his neck which you assume he uses to hid his identity.

“Actually, I go by Spider-Man now, but yes. That’s me. Please don’t tell anyone.” He begs, looking at you with worry.

“I won’t.” You promise, overcome with subtle pride that His Majesty would assign someone so skilled to be your protector.

“Wonderful.” He smiles at you, and you can’t help it. You stare a little as he leads you to your room.

Once you’re there, he hurries forward and opens the doors for you.

“Thank you.” You beam at him and he nods.

“Of course.”

The sight of your bed prompts your exhaustion to catch up with your body. It’s been twenty-six hours since you’ve slept, and you know you’ll have to get up early in the morning for more lessons.

“I’ll leave you to get changed.” Peter says. “Goodnight, your Highness, it was such an honor meeting you. I hope we get along really well together.”

Sweet. He’s really very sweet.

“I’m sure we will, Peter.”

He leaves you on your own, shutting the doors as he leaves but you know he’s probably stationed himself in that entryway.

You want to change. You want out of this dress and this too tight corset, but you know that you can’t take it off on your own, so your best bet is to wait for your lady in waiting to come back.

It takes her only twenty minutes. When she walks in, you sit up from truly relaxing in the chair by the fire, shooting up into your perfect posture.

“Good.” She praises you. “You’re practicing.”

She’s carrying a tray of some cold meats, cheese, and grapes.

“But you can relax when it’s just us, your Highness. I won’t tell on you.” She looks up at you as he places the tray on the table by your chair and gives you a quick wink.

You smile up at her and dive into the food she’s brought you. She pours you a glass of wine and you take a drink to wash the gritty cheese from your teeth.

“If that’s the case, I insist that you call me by name when we’re alone.”

“Your Highness…” Natasha begins to protest.

“Please? This all too much already. I’ve been called Princess and your Highness since I arrived. I’m starting to forget it. Please?” You’re begging wears her down and her gaze softens.

“Very well. Y/N.” She says, her cheeks flushing from the enjoyment of using your name.

You eat in semi-silence, Natasha munching on her own plate of food at your insistence.

“Tomorrow will be just as long.” She warns. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“Yes.” You nod. Certain that you can do this for them. All of them. Your entire kingdom.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Natasha begins, taking a drink of her own wine before setting her empty plate aside. “His Majesty has sent for a painter.”

“Why?” You wonder, finishing up your grapes.

“Well, they’ll need to paint you into the family portrait and King Rogers has replied to his Majesty’s letter.” She smiles at you, teasing you.

“Already?!” You gasp, nervous, heart pounding.

“Yes. He seems very eager which can be both good and bad.” She explains and as you eat your last grape, she gets up and takes your plate and empty goblet.

“Why? Why is it both?” You demand, terrified suddenly.

“Well, for one, it means that he’s accepted you. Mostly. He has requested a portrait of you be sent so that he might know what you look like. So, he seems able to overlook the strangeness of why you’ve been hidden away for so many years.” She seems more satisfied by this than you are.

“What if he doesn’t like the way I look?” You worry.

“You’re beautiful, your High-Y/N. He’ll love your looks.” She promises.

“You don’t know that.” You say under your breath, fiddling with the skirt of your dress.

“Come.” Natasha urges. “Let’s get you changed for your bath.”

“Another one?” You get up and move to her though you don’t understand why you need another bath.

“Yes.” She laughs. “Another one. You will bathe once a day until you are married and then you will bathe as often as they require you to in Broklin. There’s a kingdom in the south where they bathe almost three times a day. It’s ridiculous.”

She helps you out of your dress and begins to undo your corset.

“So, why is it bad?”

“Hm?”

“King Rogers’s eagerness. Why is it bad?” You clarify.

“Oh!” She shakes her head, glancing at you through the ornate mirror before you. “Well, once he gets your portrait, if he’s satisfied with you and calls for you, then our time here is finished. We have tomorrow, then the painter arrives the day after. He’ll paint your portrait in a few hours and then send it to Broklin. That will take a day and if the King likes it, we should hear back from him the day after that.

“That gives us only five days in which to get you ready for him. We may have to make excuses for why you cannot read or write.” She’s already brainstorming, and you feel shame once again for not being educated. “I’ll get with his Majesty and we’ll work something out.”

“I’m sorry.” You nearly whisper.

“For what, your Highness?” Natasha asks, finally pulling you free of your corset.

“For not being better. For not knowing how to read or write.” You keep your eyes down, suddenly hating your upbringing and orphaned state.

“Oh, no.” Natasha gasps. “No, Princess. Don’t say that.”

She turns you around slowly and ducks down to grab your under shirt and lift it up over your head. With it off, she pulls the same thin white robe you’d worn before and after your bath last night and helps you slip it on.

“Never forget that you are doing us a favor by agreeing to this foolhardy scheme. I told his Majesty that it would never work but when I met you, I suddenly realized that maybe, with the right girl, it might actually be something we can pull off.

“You gave me the confidence to take this post without fear. If anyone can marry King Steven Rogers and keep war at bay, it’s you.” She chafes your arms, more affection. “Trust me, Princess. I know what I’m talking about.”

A look into her emerald eyes tells you that she does indeed feel confident in you and it eases your worries a bit.

“I’ll work really hard.” You promise her, and she smiles.

“I know you will.

You fall asleep in the bath, the lavender and jasmine concoction along with the pomegranate soap and rose oils make you sleepy.

The heat from the fire, the hot water, it all lulls you into a truly relaxed state and you don’t even feel Natasha as she scrubs you down.

Suddenly she’s shaking your shoulder gently and your eyes pop open.

“Wake up, your Highness. Just a quick brush of your hair and you can go to sleep.” She says sweetly.

You lick your lips and get to your feet, stepping out as she wraps you up in a warm towel, then proceeds to brush your hair.

You very nearly fall asleep again on the edge of your bed but then she’s finished, and she helps you put on your nightgown.

It’s long and white and almost as sheer as your robe with puffed sleeves and a scoop neck that ties just along your clavicle to keep it shut.

“Um…” Natasha suddenly worries as she pulls the bottom of your nightdress down.

“What is it?” You ask her sleepily.

“I have something for you, but I forgot it in my room. Don’t fall asleep, alright? Lay down but try and stay awake. I will return in just a few moments.”

She bounds from the room, her black dress sweeping behind her majestically.

You slide back along your super soft and plush mattress, your body almost melting into it as your head finds your mountain of pillows.

For a few minutes, you wonder how it is you got so lucky. Sure, as Nat had said, you are giving up a lot of freedoms for this, but you’ve never slept in a bed this comfortable. You’ve never eaten food as delicious as you’ve eaten today. You’ve never fallen asleep in a bath of sweet floral water or smelled this good afterwards. You’ve never gone to bed with a full belly and you’ve never worn silks and jewels worth more than any amount of money you might have made in your lifetime.

You are truly blessed, and you vow to work hard to make certain that his Majesty did not make a mistake in choosing you and that Natasha’s hard work will not go to waste.

Despite your trying, you do end up dozing off. The bed is too comfortable and the fire too warm.

The door opening is what snaps you out of your slumber and you blink away the sleep before sitting up to watch your lady come in wearing her own nightdress and a thick red robe around it to keep her modest.

“Here you go.” Natasha says happily, the tease of a wily smirk on her lips.

“What is it?” You ask, staring down at the small silver compact case she’s holding out for you.

“Open it.” She urges, sits on the side of your bed and lets you take it.

You search for the small clasp at front and flip the lid slowly.

For a moment you forget how to breathe. The man inside, this small portrait, robs you of all rational thought.

He’s beautiful.

“He has blonde hair.” You say breathlessly.

“Yes.” Natasha nods, sounding amused. “It’s shorter in that photo. He’s grown it out some now. He also has a beard now. Very kingly.”

His strong jaw angles sharply. He has a long straight nose. Full rose-pink lips. Stunning storm blue almost gray eyes. His brow is slightly severe in the portrait. Stern. But it only makes him more handsome.

“I…” You begin, worried suddenly. “What if he doesn’t like me? I’m not at his level.”

With a frantic heart, you look at Natasha and she smiles with more amusement.

“I told you, you are beautiful. You are more than a match for him. In four days’ time, we won’t have to worry about that because he will have written about how beautiful you are and how much he can’t wait to marry you.” She lies.

You look back down at him and try to calm your heart.

“I want him to like me.” You admit, admiring his beauty.

“Most women do.” Natasha teases. “I knew you’d like him.”

“I hope he’s as kind as he looks.” You sigh, wishing you could know him already but also scared to disappoint his own expectations.

“He is. He may just need some coaxing. He was very saddened by his wife’s death.” She nods.

“I will do everything that I can to not only ensure the safety of our kingdom, but also to make him happy.” You gush. “I want to make him happy, Natasha.”

Natasha chuckles. “Of course, you do. And I’m sure you will. Now, get some sleep. I’ll be back in here in a few hours.”

Her warning falls on deaf ears however because you’re engrossed in his portrait.

“Can I keep this?” You ask her as she rises to her feet and pulls the blanket out to get you underneath it.

“It’s yours. I had one made for you. If you want a more recent one, you’ll have to get one from him once you’re married.”

Could this Adonis really marry you? Live his life with you? Be your husband? Your King?

“Goodnight, Princess.” Natasha whispers as she shuts the doors, knowing that as you lay down with your eyes glued to that portrait, nothing will break your concentration.

And she’s right. You stare at King Rogers’s portrait until his image is burned into your retinas. You blink and his face is there.

Soft golden hair. Piercing blue eyes. Perfect pink lips.

You fall asleep stroking his face, wondering if you’re foolish to get quite so enamored with his looks when you don’t know him one bit.

But…he’s to be your husband. Better to love him than to not.

All you can hope is that when he sees your own face in paint, that he will not be too disappointed.

13. My body reacts before my mind does and I'm running out the door, across the lawns of the Victor's Village, into the dark beyond. Moisture from the sodden ground soaks my socks and I'm aware of the sharp bite of the wind, but I don't stop. Where? Where to go? The woods, of course. I'm at the fence before the hum makes me remember how very trapped I am. I back away, panting, turn on my heel, and take off again. The next thing I know I'm on my hands and knees in the cellar of one of the empty houses in the Victor's Village. Faint shafts of moonlight come in through the window wells above my head. I'm cold and wet and winded, but my escape attempt has done nothing to subdue the hysteria rising up inside me. It will drown me unless it's released. I ball up the front of my shirt, stuff it into my mouth, and begin to scream. How long this continues, I don't know. But when I stop, my voice is almost gone. I curl up on my side and stare at the patches of moonlight on the cement floor. Back in the arena. Back in the place of nightmares. That's where I am going. I have to admit I didn't see it coming. I saw a multitude of other things. Being publicly humiliated, tortured, and executed. Fleeing through the wilderness, pursued by Peacekeepers and hovercraft. Marriage to Peeta with our children forced into the arena. But never that I myself would have to be a player in the Games again. Why? Because there's no precedent for it. Victors are out of the reaping for life. That's the deal if you win. Until now. There's some kind of sheeting, the kind they put down when they paint. I pull it over me like a blanket. In the distance, someone is calling my name. But at the moment, I excuse myself from thinking about even those I love most. I think only of me. And what lies ahead. The sheeting's stiff but holds warmth. My muscles relax, my heart rate slows. I see the wooden box in the little boy's hands, President Snow drawing out the yellowed envelope. Is it possible that this was really the Quarter Quell written down seventy-five years ago? It seems unlikely. It's just too perfect an answer for the troubles that face the Capitol today. Getting rid of me and subduing the districts all in one neat little package. I hear President Snow's voice in my head. "On the seventy-fifth anniversary, as a reminder to the rebels that even the strongest among them cannot overcome the power of the Capitol, the male and female tributes will be reaped from their existing pool of victors." Yes, victors are our strongest. They're the ones who survived the arena and slipped the noose of poverty that strangles the rest of us. They, or should I say we, are the very embodiment of hope where there is no hope. And now twenty-three of us will be killed to show how even that hope was an illusion. I'm glad I won only last year. Otherwise I'd know all the other victors, not just because I see them on television but because they're guests at every Games. Even if they're not mentoring like Haymitch always has to, most return to the Capitol each year for the event. I think a lot of them are friends. Whereas the only friend I'll have to worry about killing will be either Peeta or Haymitch. Peeta or Haymitch! I sit straight up, throwing off the sheeting. What just went through my mind? There's no situation in which I would ever kill Peeta or Haymitch. But one of them will be in the arena with me, and that's a fact. They may have even decided between them who it will be. Whoever is picked first, the other will have the option of volunteering to take his place. I already know what will happen. Peeta will ask Haymitch to let him go into the arena with me no matter what. For my sake. To protect me. I stumble around the cellar, looking for an exit. How did I even get into this place? I feel my way up the steps to the kitchen and see the glass window in the door has been shattered. Must be why my hand seems to be bleeding. I hurry back into the night and head straight to Haymitch's house. He's sitting alone at the kitchen table, a half-emptied bottle of white liquor in one fist, his knife in the other. Drunk as a skunk. "Ah, there she is. All tuckered out. Finally did the math, did you, sweetheart? Worked out you won't be going in alone? And now you're here to ask me ... what?" he says. I don't answer. The window's wide open and the wind cuts through me just as if I were outside. "I'll admit, it was easier for the boy. He was here before I could snap the seal on a bottle. Begging me for another chance to go in. But what can you say?" He mimics my voice. '"Take his place, Haymitch, because all things being equal, I'd rather Peeta had a crack at the rest of his life than you? I bite my lip because once he's said it, I'm afraid that's what I do want. For Peeta to live, even if it means Haymitch's death. No, I don't. He's dreadful, of course, but Haymitch is my family now. What did I come for? I think. What could I possibly want here? "I came for a drink," I say. Haymitch bursts out laughing and slams the bottle on the table before me. I run my sleeve across the top and take a couple gulps before I come up choking. It takes a few minutes to compose myself, and even then my eyes and nose are still streaming. But inside me, the liquor feels like fire and I like it. "Maybe it should be you," I say matter-of-factly as I pull up a chair. "You hate life, anyway." "Very true," says Haymitch. "And since last time I tried to keep you alive... seems like I'm obligated to save the boy this time." "That's another good point," I say, wiping my nose and tipping up the bottle again. "Peeta's argument is that since I chose you, I now owe him. Anything he wants. And what he wants is the chance to go in again to protect you," says Haymitch. I knew it. In this way, Peeta's not hard to predict. While I was wallowing around on the floor of that cellar, thinking only of myself, he was here, thinking only of me. Shame isn't a strong enough word for what I feel. "You could live a hundred lifetimes and not deserve him, you know," Haymitch says. "Yeah, yeah," I say brusquely. "No question, he's the superior one in this trio. So, what are you going to do?" "I don't know." Haymitch sighs. "Go back in with you maybe, if I can. If my name's drawn at the reaping, it won't matter. He'll just volunteer to take my place." We sit for a while in silence. "It'd be bad for you in the arena, wouldn't it? Knowing all the others?" I ask. "Oh, I think we can count on it being unbearable wherever I am." He nods at the bottle. "Can I have that back now?" "No," I say, wrapping my arms around it. Haymitch pulls another bottle out from under the table and gives the top a twist. But I realize I am not just here for a drink. There's something else I want from Haymitch. "Okay, I figured out what I'm asking," I say. "If it is Peeta and me in the Games, this time we try to keep him alive." Something flickers across his bloodshot eyes. Pain. "Like you said, it's going to be bad no matter how you slice it. And whatever Peeta wants, it's his turn to be saved. We both owe him that." My voice takes on a pleading tone. "Besides, the Capitol hates me so much, I'm as good as dead now. He still might have a chance. Please, Haymitch. Say you'll help me." He frowns at his bottle, weighing my words. "All right," he says finally. "Thanks," I say. I should go see Peeta now, but I don't want to. My head's spinning from the drink, and I'm so wiped out, who knows what he could get me to agree to? No, now I have to go home to face my mother and Prim. As I stagger up the steps to my house, the front door opens and Gale pulls me into his arms. "I was wrong. We should have gone when you said," he whispers. "No," I say. I'm having trouble focusing, and liquor keeps sloshing out of my bottle and down the back of Gale's jacket, but he doesn't seem to care. "It's not too late," he says. Over his shoulder, I see my mother and Prim clutching each other in the doorway. We run. They die. And now I've got Peeta to protect. End of discussion. "Yeah, it is." My knees give way and he's holding me up. As the alcohol overcomes my mind, I hear the glass bottle shatter on the floor. This seems appropriate since I have obviously lost my grip on everything. When I wake up, I barely get to the toilet before the white liquor makes its reappearance. It burns just as much coming up as it did going down, and tastes twice as bad. I'm trembling and sweaty when I finish vomiting, but at least most of the stuff is out of my system. Enough made it into my bloodstream, though, to result in a pounding headache, parched mouth, and boiling stomach. I turn on the shower and stand under the warm rain for a minute before I realize I'm still in my underclothes. My mother must have just stripped off my filthy outer ones and tucked me in bed. I throw the wet undergarments into the sink and pour shampoo on my head. My hands sting, and that's when I notice the stitches, small and even, across one palm and up the side of the other hand. Vaguely I remember breaking that glass window last night. I scrub myself from head to toe, only stopping to throw up again right in the shower. It's mostly just bile and goes down the drain with the sweet-smelling bubbles. Finally clean, I pull on my robe and head back to bed, ignoring my dripping hair. I climb under the blankets, sure this is what it must feel like to be poisoned. The footsteps on the stairs renew my panic from last night. I'm not ready to see my mother and Prim. I have to pull myself together to be calm and reassuring, the way I was when we said our good-byes the day of the last reaping. I have to be strong. I struggle into an upright position, push my wet hair off my throbbing temples, and brace myself for this meeting. They appear in the doorway, holding tea and toast, their faces filled with concern. I open my mouth, planning to start off with some kind of joke, and burst into tears. So much for being strong. My mother sits on the side of the bed and Prim crawls right up next to me and they hold me, making quiet soothing sounds, until I am mostly cried out. Then Prim gets a towel and dries my hair, combing out the knots, while my mother coaxes tea and toast into me. They dress me in warm pajamas and layer more blankets on me and I drift off again. I can tell by the light it's late afternoon when I come round again. There's a glass of water on my bedside table and I gulp it down thirstily. My stomach and head still feel rocky, but much better than they did earlier. I rise, dress, and braid back my hair. Before I go down, I pause at the top of the stairs, feeling slightly embarrassed about the way I've handled the news of the Quarter Quell. My erratic flight, drinking with Haymitch, weeping. Given the circumstances, I guess I deserve one day of indulgence. I'm glad the cameras weren't here for it, though. Downstairs, my mother and Prim embrace me again, but they're not overly emotional. I know they're holding things in to make it easier on me. Looking at Prim's face, it's hard to imagine she's the same frail little girl I left behind on reaping day nine months ago. The combination of that ordeal and all that has followed - the cruelty in the district, the parade of sick and wounded that she often treats by herself now if my mother's hands are too full - these things have aged her years. She's grown quite a bit, too; we're practically the same height now, but that isn't what makes her seem so much older. My mother ladles out a mug of broth for me, and I ask for a second mug to take to Haymitch. Then I walk across the lawn to his house. He's only just waking up and accepts the mug without comment. We sit there, almost peacefully, sipping our broth and watching the sun set through his living room window. I hear someone walking around upstairs and I assume it's Hazelle, but a few minutes later Peeta comes down and tosses a cardboard box of empty liquor bottles on the table with finality. "There, it's done," he says. It's taking all of Haymitch's resources to focus his eyes on the bottles, so I speak up. "What's done?" "I've poured all the liquor down the drain," says Peeta. This seems to jolt Haymitch out of his stupor, and he paws through the box in disbelief. "You what?" "I tossed the lot," says Peeta. "He'll just buy more," I say. "No, he won't," says Peeta. "I tracked down Ripper this morning and told her I'd turn her in the second she sold to either of you. I paid her off, too, just for good measure, but I don't think she's eager to be back in the Peacekeepers' custody." Haymitch takes a swipe with his knife but Peeta deflects it so easily it's pathetic. Anger rises up in me. "What business is it of yours what he does?" "It's completely my business. However it falls out, two of us are going to be in the arena again with the other as mentor. We can't afford any drunkards on this team. Especially not you, Katniss," says Peeta to me. "What?" I sputter indignantly. It would be more convincing if I weren't still so hungover. "Last night's the only time I've ever even been drunk." "Yeah, and look at the shape you're in," says Peeta. I don't know what I expected from my first meeting with Peeta after the announcement. A few hugs and kisses. A little comfort maybe. Not this. I turn to Haymitch. "Don't worry, I'll get you more liquor." "Then I'll turn you both in. Let you sober up in the stocks," says Peeta. "What's the point to this?" asks Haymitch. "The point is that two of us are coming home from the Capitol. One mentor and one victor," says Peeta. "Effie's sending me recordings of all the living victors. We're going to watch their Games and learn everything we can about how they fight. We're going to put on weight and get strong. We're going to start acting like Careers. And one of us is going to be victor again whether you two like it or not!" He sweeps out of the room, slamming the front door. Haymitch and I wince at the bang. "I don't like self-righteous people," I say. "What's to like?" says Haymitch, who begins sucking the dregs out of the empty bottles. "You and me. That's who he plans on coming home," I say. "Well, then the joke's on him," says Haymitch. But after a few days, we agree to act like Careers, because this is the best way to get Peeta ready as well. Every night we watch the old recaps of the Games that the remaining victors won. I realize we never met any of them on the Victory Tour, which seems odd in retrospect. When I bring it up, Haymitch says the last thing President Snow would've wanted was to show Peeta and me - especially me - bonding with other victors in potentially rebellious districts. Victors have a special status, and if they appeared to be supporting my defiance of the Capitol, it would've been dangerous politically. Adjusting for age, I realize some of our opponents may be elderly, which is both sad and reassuring. Peeta takes copious notes, Haymitch volunteers information about the victors' personalities, and slowly we begin to know our competition. Every morning we do exercises to strengthen our bodies. We run and lift things and stretch our muscles. Every afternoon we work on combat skills, throwing knives, fighting hand to hand; I even teach them to climb trees. Officially, tributes aren't supposed to train, but no one tries to stop us. Even in regular years, the tributes from Districts 1, 2, and 4 show up able to wield spears and swords. This is nothing by comparison. After all the years of abuse, Haymitch's body resists improvement. He's still remarkably strong, but the shortest run winds him. And you'd think a guy who sleeps every night with a knife might actually be able to hit the side of a house with one, but his hands shake so badly it takes weeks for him to achieve even that. Peeta and I excel under the new regimen, though. It gives me something to do. It gives us all something to do besides accept defeat. My mother puts us on a special diet to gain weight. Prim treats our sore muscles. Madge sneaks us her father's Capitol newspapers. Predictions on who will be victor of the victors show us among the favorites. Even Gale steps into the picture on Sundays, although he's got no love for Peeta or Haymitch, and teaches us all he knows about snares. It's weird for me, being in conversations with both Peeta and Gale, but they seem to have set aside whatever issues they have about me. One night, as I'm walking Gale back into town, he even admits, "It'd be better if he were easier to hate." "Tell me about it," I say. "If I could've just hated him in the arena, we all wouldn't be in this mess now. He'd be dead, and I'd be a happy little victor all by myself." "And where would we be, Katniss?" asks Gale. I pause, not knowing what to say. Where would I be with my pretend cousin who wouldn't be my cousin if it weren't for Peeta? Would he have still kissed me and would I have kissed him back had I been free to do so? Would I have let myself open up to him, lulled by the security of money and food and the illusion of safety being a victor could bring under different circumstances? But there would still always be the reaping looming over us, over our children. No matter what I wanted ... "Hunting. Like every Sunday," I say. I know he didn't mean the question literally, but this is as much as I can honestly give. Gale knows I chose him over Peeta when I didn't make a run for it. To me, there's no point in talking about things that might have been. Even if I had killed Peeta in the arena, I still wouldn't have wanted to marry anyone. I only got engaged to save people's lives, and that completely backfired. I'm afraid, anyway, that any kind of emotional scene with Gale might cause him to do something drastic. Like start that uprising in the mines. And as Haymitch says, District 12 isn't ready for that. If anything, they're less ready than before the Quarter Quell announcement, because the following morning another hundred Peacekeepers arrived on the train. Since I don't plan on making it back alive a second time, the sooner Gale lets me go, the better. I do plan on saying one or two things to him after the reaping, when we're allowed an hour for good-byes. To let Gale know how essential he's been to me all these years. How much better my life has been for knowing him. For loving him, even if it's only in the limited way that I can manage. But I never get the chance. The day of the reaping's hot and sultry. The population of District 12 waits, sweating and silent, in the square with machine guns trained on them. I stand alone in a small roped-off area with Peeta and Haymitch in a similar pen to the right of me. The reaping takes only a minute. Effie, shining in a wig of metallic gold, lacks her usual verve. She has to claw around the girls' reaping ball for quite a while to snag the one piece of paper that everyone already knows has my name on it. Then she catches Haymitch's name. He barely has time to shoot me an unhappy look before Peeta has volunteered to take his place. We are immediately marched into the Justice Building to find Head Peacekeeper Thread waiting for us. "New procedure," he says with a smile. We're ushered out the back door, into a car, and taken to the train station. There are no cameras on the platform, no crowd to send us on our way. Haymitch and Effie appear, escorted by guards. Peacekeepers hurry us all onto the train and slam the door. The wheels begin to turn. And I'm left staring out the window, watching District 12 disappear, with all my good-byes still hanging on my lips.