#will margaret ever get her turn to wear pink? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

grimmswan · 1 year ago

Text

Mess

Once Upon a Time

Neal is a mess, and keeps getting messier. He has an interest in Emma Swan. But Killian Jones has his life put together more than Neal ever would.

Warning!! This is not a story for Neal fans. This is a story for those who like to see Neal being given a hard time.

No one told Neal not to shower for two days. No one told Neal to wear the same clothes three days in a row. And most definitely no one told Neal to ignore his deodorant completely.

But that didn’t stop him from blaming every single one of his house mates for why he made the absolutely worst impression imaginable on the stunning Emma Swan.

The guys of the house all knew about her. She was the best friend of Mary Margaret, who was the girlfriend of David Nolan, their housemate.

There seemed to never be a chance to talk to her. It was only through David’s and Mary Margaret’s social media that most of the house knew Emma Swan existed.

She was very beautiful. And she liked to be active. She especially seemed to love the beach.

A little scrolling through Mary Margaret’s social media photos showed a girls’ trip where all of the ladies were wearing swimsuits.

Neal was determined to meet Emma. He was sure they would have a lot of fun together.

When David said they all of the housemates were invited to a party hosted by Mary Margaret’s parent’s, one that all of her friends would be attending; Neal thought the perfect opportunity to meet Emma Swan had arrived.

The party was scheduled for Friday starting at seven. So Neal planned on showering and using his favorite scented products a half an hour before they would leave to attend. He even had the clothes he planned to wear already picked out and set up.

But he chose not to shower Wednesday night, at all Thursday, or Friday Morning. And he wore the same clothes he had put on since showering Wednesday morning all through that Friday evening.

And even though he had a brand new stick of deodorant on his dresser, he decided not to open it until after his shower Friday evening.

The rest of the housemates repeatedly, and vehemently begged for him to do something, anything, to reduce the odor that was beginning to emit from him. But Neal didn’t see the point since he would be getting cleaned up before the party.

Friday was a hot sunny summer day. Meaning by noon, Neal could be smelled from several feet away.

The only saving grace was that his greasy hair could have been excused as being damp from sweat.

He needed all of the help he could get when he met with his housemates at their favorite diner for lunch and discovered David had invited his girlfriend, and her two best friends.

“Well isn’t this a pleasant surprise? It’s going to be a more enjoyable lunch with these three beauties dining with us.”

Neal had to clamp his jaw shut to prevent himself from telling Kilian Jones to shut up.

His fancy words and accent were always causing women to blush and giggle.

Ok, maybe the women weren’t giggling, but they were all smiling, And Emma looked like her cheeks had turned a little pink.

Neal got angrier. He had dibs on Emma, and Jones was ruining his chance.

David introduced everyone. “Ruby Lucus, Emma Swan, these are my housemates, August, Graham, Killian, and Neal.”

“Oh, he’s your housemate? I thought he was homeless.” Emma exclaimed in surprise.

All of the guys except for Neal laughed.

“Cassidy is taking a strike against bathing.” August said

The group was seated at a booth. Neal was made to sit on a chair on the outside of the table.

As she was moving past him, Neal noticed Emma’s nose turn up in disgust. He also noticed Killian Jones scoot in right next to her.

Her cheeks turned a darker shade as Killian spoke softly to her. He was just telling her about the best things on the menu, but he had a talent for making anything sound like poetry.

Neal could not hate him more.

Emma’s face was very expressive. Every emotion she felt was right there for all to see.

Every word Killian said, every gesture he made, earned a smile and a look of fascination by Emma.

However, everytime Neal said anything, motioned in any way to get her attention, Emma would actually lean back in her seat, putting as much distance between them as possible. Her polite smile would seem pained. And she would turn her head slightly, usually behind Killian Jones’s shoulder.

Neal wanted to scream that it wasn’t fair. If he had known he was going to be meeting Emma Swan for lunch, he would have cleaned himself up.

But he was stuck in a situation where he looked his worst and his rival looked his best.

“You did that on purpose.” He accused David when they were back at the house, getting ready for the party.

“What are you talking about?”

“You invited the girl’s for lunch just to make sure Emma saw me looking horrible. But you made sure Jones was looking good.”

“Jones always looks like that.” David retorted. “Unlike you, he believes in bathing.”

“And he's always been a stickler for keeping himself presentable. He’s been that way since before he moved in with us.” August added.

In the back of his mind, Neal remembered that Killian believed in always dressing well. Clean clothes every day. Facial hair neatly trimmed. Well groomed.

To Killian, it was important how he presented himself. So he always ensured his appearance was the best it should be for that occasion.

But while it was reasonable to believe that it was just an unfortunate set of circumstances that made his first meeting with Emma Swan to be a disaster, Neal wasn’t in the mood to be reasonable.

Instead, he was going to make them all pay for embarrassing him.

He scrubbed himself nearly raw, trying to get as clean as possible. While showering, he was trying to think of ways of getting Emma Swan’s attention away from Killian Jones.

He insisted on driving his own car to the party, instead of hitching a ride with anyone. And he insisted on not having any passengers.

He planned that Emma would be leaving the party with him, and he didn’t want anyone else with them in his car.

The others were more than happy to not have to put up with him and his attitude on the way to Mary Margaret’s parent’s house.

It escaped Neal’s notice that both Graham and Killian had left the house early, each in their own cars.

It turned out, Mary Margaret’s parents were wealthy. They lived in a mansion with a large yard, a massive pool, a garden maze, and an outdoor kitchen.

The whole party was being held in the back area with the pool, and all of the food was being served from the outdoor kitchen.

Neal grabbed a plate, loaded it up, got a drink, and found a spot where he could survey everything, keeping an eye out for long blonde hair.

He finally spotted Emma. And nearly cracked the beer bottle in his hand when he saw that Killian had his arm around her.

They were looking at one another adoringly, smiling and popping pieces of food in each other’s mouths.

Neal stomped over. He tried to knock the plate of food Killian was holding out of his hands, but his reflexes were just as good as his hygiene, and he got it out of the way before a mess could be made.

“Watch it, mate.” Killian growled.

The menacing look on his face made Neal take a step back. But he didn’t want to seem weak in front of Emma. So he mustered up all of his courage and growled back at Killian.

“You watch it. You knew I was interested in Emma. But you just had to push your way in.”

He turned to Emma. “Baby, you and I could be really good together.”

“You have sauce down your shirt. And all over your beard.”

There was a bark of laughter from the crowd of people Neal hadn’t noticed that had gathered.

Neal also hadn’t realized that while he was busy focusing on finding Emma, barbecue sauce had been spilling down his shirt. Adding on to the fact that he hadn’t remembered to wipe his mouth before charging to where Emma and Killian were sitting, Neal once again looked like a complete mess.

The second face to face meeting with Emma Swan in one day, and the second time he was appearing in front of her looking like a complete slob.

“The lady obviously has no interest in you. So I suggest you shove off.”

Neal’s pride would not allow him to simply walk away. Especially knowing Killian would certainly have his hands all over Emma that night.

“A slut like you wouldn’t appreciate a nice guy like me, anyway. You’re obviously a gold digging whore who prefers guys with money.”

He tried to toss the remainder of his beer on Emma, but had his vision blocked by a fist to the face.

He heard the crack of bone breaking, right before he felt a searing shot of pain and fell back on his ass.

“Apologize to the lady.” Killian hovered over him menacingly. At that moment, Neal feared there was a very real possibility of Jones killing him.

Emma went to Killian’s side. First touching his shoulder, then cupping his face to have him look at her.

“Hey, Killian, come one.” She spoke softly, as if addressing a dangerous animal.

Neal half wondered if that’s what Killian was.

“He’s not worth it. He’s not the first guy to get his pride hurt and shoot his mouth. He won’t be the last.”

“No one should talk to you like that, Swan. You’re an amazing woman.”

“What he thinks doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care what he thinks or says about me. I’m not interested in him. I’m interested in you. I care about what you think about me.”

“I think you’re beautiful.” Killian allowed Emma to guide him away.

“Now you’ve got blood running down your shirt.” Ruby shot at Neal as she walked past with Graham by her side, his arm tightly around her.

“If you're thinking about pressing charges against Killian, we’ll all say that you tried to attack Emma and he was just defending her.”

Neal had thought Mary Margaret was all sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns. But the way she spoke made him realize that she definitely had a dark side.

“I think it would be a good idea if you started looking for a new place to live.” David added. He and his girlfriend in obvious unity.

Neal got up and left. He was grateful he had brought his own car and didn’t have a passenger to deal with.

He wasn’t leaving with Emma like he had planned. And while that knowledge made him angry, he comforted himself with the belief that she would regret her decision when she saw how much of a womanizer Jones was.

He focused on that thought at the hospital while he was having his nose looked at.

He focused on that thought as he was packing his stuff and moving out.

He focused on that thought three months later when he heard that the rest of the guys had moved out of the house.

David and Mary Margaret were moving in together.

Graham was moving in with Ruby and her girlfriend Belle.

Neal hadn’t realized he should have been jealous of another one of his former housemates till he heard that news.

August was moving into a studio apartment above his new workshop.

And of course Killian was moving with Emma into a place by the water.

Neal tried to tell himself that it wouldn’t last.

He was still trying to tell himself that even a year later when he saw their engagement announcement. Their smiling faces looking out at him. Mocking him.

Angrily, he slammed his phone down on the counter. Then shouted in frustration when he heard the screen crack.

“What a mess.”

#captain swan #once upon a time #ouat #emma swan #killian jones #once upon a time au #captain hook | killian jones #killian x emma #emma x killian #grimmswanfic

23 notes · View notes

yourbelgianthings · 1 year ago

Text

nuts and bolts, androids and steroids

a sundrysyx fluff fic (2k words) as a surprise gift for @onehandkilling! no tws, i would say it's like pg-13, basically the same stuff the aso season itself has in it

When Norman Takamori first met his prospective crew for the Red Hot, he was not at all impressed. Norm was not a man who was easy to impress. His years with the Amercadian Space Brigade had left him gruff and cold. He stood in front of his ship, which resembled a hot dog far more than he would have liked, surveying the comms officer (an Aguatunesian floating in a large globe of water), the engineer (a human whose body was cyborg from the neck down), the two gunners (a unique all purpose android and a clone), and a businesswoman (a human) who would be working on the ship. At least she would be paying rent, Norm thought.

“All right, from here on out, you are the crew of my ship. Well, except for Ms. Encino, she works for some big company and is giving us money, so make sure she’s happy. I’m Norman Takamori, but call me Skipper. Do what I say when I tell you to do it, and there won’t be any problems.”

The five others looked at each other, unsure of what to do since the skipper had simply turned and left. They helped get the Aguatunesian onto the ship and into their larger water enclosure, then the android with pale skin, the long red ponytail, and one cybernetic eye wearing a retro pink waitress dress and roller skates spoke up.

“Hey y’all, I’m Sundry Sidney, the Swiss Army Wife! Or, that’s what they marketed me as. I can throw grenades, make drinks, and I even have pleasure protocols! I’m one of the gunners, and I’m happy to help out with anything!”

Everyone smiled and clapped. Then, Riva introduced themself, explaining that they were on their gallivant and had psychic communication, so not to get startled by that. The short cyborg with the bald head and Black skin was Gunthrie Miggles-Rashbax, but you could call him Gunnie. Margaret’s red hair was in a bob with bangs and she wore a skirt suit, introducing herself very briefly like she had somewhere better to be, and asked Sidney to bring an iced matcha latte to her office as soon as possible. Everyone stared silently as she retreated down the hallway until they couldn’t hear the click of her heels anymore. The last member of the crew, a large muscled man with a tan and shoulder length medium brown hair, wearing dark sunglasses, stepped forward.

“Well, I don’t know what her deal is,” he exclaimed as he took off his shades and tossed his hair, “but I’m Big Barry Syx, the other gunner with Sidney. Just call me Barry, and know that I’m down to be anybody’s bro!” With introductions complete, Riva swam away and Gunnie left to do some tutoring to earn extra credits towards paying off his body, leaving just Barry and Sid standing together.

“Seems like it’s time for me to go make Miss Margaret’s drink, then,” said Sidney. She smiled at Barry and continued, “Pleasure meeting you, I think we’re gonna work together just fine.”

“Hey, I got nothing else to do tonight, and it sucks that you’re the only one who gets extra work. Would you mind some company?”

Sid stopped dead in her tracks. Nobody had ever offered to spend time with her as a friend before, let alone while she worked. She blushed, and quite uncharacteristically, nearly whispered, “Why, not at all,” before turning and skating down the hallway so fast Barry had to break into a jog to keep up with her.

Once she had gotten everything set up, Sid showed Barry all the steps of making a perfect iced matcha latte. He was disappointed to find out the drink contained no protein powder, which gave Sidney a good laugh, and she whirled around the kitchen faster than Barry could process, ending up right back in front of him with a chocolate protein shake served in a milkshake glass. He gasped in surprise.

“Oh man, Sid, you didn’t have to do all that extra work for me!”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied, “it’s nothing! Now you enjoy that, I have to go take Miss Margaret her drink,” and she squeezed his hand and skated off. Barry was still adjusting to not being around his other Barry bros all the time, but Sidney was different than anyone else he had met in his time on his own. He didn’t know what to do with this thought yet though, as Barrys were generally more inclined to action than reflection. So, he simply decided to wander around the ship until he finished his drink before going to bed. Over in her room, as she was about to power down for the night, Sundry Sidney also processed how their interaction was unlike any she had ever had before, her new fellow gunner seemed to see more in her than what she was programmed to do. It made her feel strange, but also excited to spend more time together. That night, Barry dreamed about the battalion’s trip to Uncle B.O.B’s Fantanimalland, and Sidney did not dream at all.

As the malton units passed and lengthened into nargons, the crew grew closer and developed an excellent working relationship. Well, everyone except the skipper. That was, he was still mean as ever, but nobody could deny his skill as a pilot. When they needed all hands on deck, even Margaret would put down her phone and close her laptop to help out. They made it out of a lot of risky jobs by the skin of their teeth. The life of a proldier was dangerous and unpredictable, but Barry and Sid still found moments to sneak away together. As good of friends as they all were, they enjoyed spending time with the whole crew, but the others could also tell there was something a little more going on between the gunners, so they would come up with reasons to leave the two of them alone. On one such night, when the movie had finished and Gunnie “needed to fix his calculator”, Margaret “had an important email to send”, and Riva had simply floated away with a wink, they found themselves the only ones left on the couch.

Barry cleared his throat. “Uh, great movie, right?”

“No, Barry, you hate that one and specifically said you didn’t want to watch it,” Sid laughed.

“Oh yeah, I did, didn’t I?” He blushed and awkwardly stood up. “Well, I haven’t done my foam rolling, so I should probably head out. Wouldn’t wanna get a cramp or anything, yknow…” trailing off, he turned and left. Sidney thought his shyness was adorable. In fact, maybe tonight would be perfect for that idea she had had in mind. She clicked on her comlink to the gunner channel.

“Hey Riva, are you still up?”

“Sure am,” came the reply.

“Oh great! Do you have any of that stuff you sell here on the ship?” she asked.

“Pleasure putty?” Riva’s voice instantly perked up.

“Excuse me?!” exclaimed Gunnie, and Margaret just chuckled. Suddenly, Norman Takamori’s voice was on the line, and he was furious.

“How many times do I have to tell you idiots that the gunner channel is only for the gunners to use in combat before you get it through your thick skulls? It’s not your goddamn party line, and don’t even bother trying to explain what’s happening right now because I do NOT want to know!”

“Sure thing, Skipper,” replied Sidney in her sweetest voice possible, “have a good night now!” She giggled to herself as she skated down towards Riva. When Barry heard a knock on his door, he jumped. He didn’t startle easily, but he must have zoned out without realizing it. As he opened the door to see Sid, a big smile spread across his face. He had secretly been hoping she would come.

“Hey, Barry! Skipper’s sure in a bad mood tonight, huh?”

“Oh, what?” Barry glanced at her quizzically. “I was in the shower so I didn’t hear anything, but I’m sure he was yelling about something like always.” Sidney mentally did a huge fist pump. Yes! He hadn't heard!

“You got that right,” she replied, “but that’s not why I’m here.”

Barry gestured for her to come sit on the bed next to him, which she did. “I really like you, Sid,” he told her. “You’re the best gunner partner a Barry could ask for. Well, besides another Barry.”

“I’m glad to hear I’m second best,” Sid teased, but she was clearly proud to be complimented on her work. “You’ve been working plenty hard too, Barry. While we’ve got a few martrons to ourselves, why don’t we” and pausing to pull the tin Riva gave her out of her pocket, “have a little fun?”

Barry’s jaw dropped and he blushed so much he felt like his head might explode. “Uh, hell yeah!” he exclaimed. Sidney leaned in to kiss him and it was all a wonderful blur of sensations, both physical and mental, from there.

Some time later, they lay on the bed cuddling, Sid’s head resting on Barry’s very muscular chest, and their arms around each other.

“Hey Barry?” she asked.

“Hm?”

“Where are the other Barrys? You never call them or anything, and you seem sad whenever you mention them. You don't have to answer, I don’t want to ruin the mood or anything, but I’ve just noticed and kinda been worried. Barry’s eyes welled with tears Sid could not see from her position, and he took a deep breath.

“Damn, Sid, you are the most caring person I’ve ever met. Who else in the galaxy would have the best sex ever with me and then ask me how I’m doing like that?” Sidney sat up and replied as she gently wiped away Barry’s tears.

“Nobody, I’m the only one of me.”

“I had no idea. How about I tell you about the battalion and then you can tell me whatever you need to, okay?” He got a nod in response.

“Just one sec though.” Sidney rummaged around in her bag and pulled out some red nail polish, holding it out towards him. “I don’t do well with just sitting and not doing something. Do you care?” Barry hesitated. Since being separated from the battalion, he had done his best to maintain the identical appearance he had always had to them, but he was here now, and nail polish wasn’t permanent. It was like a little gift from Sid.

He said, “go for it,” and began to tell her about his time with the bros and all their adventures across the galaxy “unfucking the little guy.”

“I still can’t believe what Barry Nyne did to them.” Here he paused a moment before continuing, “It’s just the two of us left, but he betrayed the Barrys, so I don’t know if I can call him my bro anymore. It really sucks when I think about it too much, but honestly, I’ve been okay. Getting to know and work with people that aren’t just another you is different, but it’s not a bad change. This crew is the best!”

Sidney nodded. “Oh Barry, that’s terrible. I’m glad you’ve mostly been happy here, though. All your other clones would want you to still have fun and kick ass, I think.”

“You’re so right, Sid! You’ve got the true bro mindset!” Barry congratulated her.

“Hey now,” she laughed. “Don’t move yet, your nails aren’t dry!”

“Okay, okay!” and Barry settled in to listen to her story.

Sid recounted her daring exploits at the Handy Andi board meeting to escape a fate of destruction, and what she knew about her creator. “It’s just strange being the only one of my kind,” she mused. “I wasn’t built to need friends, but they’ve really been great.”

They both smiled and Sid reached out to take Barry’s hands (both of which were now dry). Without saying anything else, they knew that they were both less alone than before, and had a bro (or maybe something more) at their back all the time, not just when they were in the gunner stations.

#message from mirph #mirph's manuscripts #adventuring party #fic writing #d20 fanfic #d20 fic #a starstruck odyssey #sundry sidney #big barry syx #barry syx #ship fic #dimension 20

13 notes · View notes

remyfire · 1 year ago

Note

Redo! Assign them all an eeveelution :pleading_face:

OUGH.

This is for aesthetics, and my personal interpretations of their personalities in my personal verses, and nothing else, do not come AT me fans—

—Hawk: He gets a sylveon because he is the least cis and most fairy (affectionate) out of everyone on this list to me— But he's also one of the most loyal people you'll ever meet, and if he's Picked You, you feel like the most special fucking person in the world. So the trans pokemon who has to already be gay before you make it your best friend ofc evolves from his eevee. —Trap: Jolteon, and not JUST because of his pretty robe, thank you. He's a driving energetic force among those around him, known to bring just as much light to the others as Hawk does. Normally his skies are pretty calm, but in the moments where he turns his full wrath on something, perceiving it is incredibly terrifying. —Beej: Flareon. California sunshine boy. Golden retriever. Bringer of a smile to every face around him as often as he can. If you touch him for too long, he's liable to leave you red, blistered, burned, needing to heal. But also you can't stay away from him for long, or the world feels like it's freezing you into ice. Also he turns people pink a lot because he's handsome— —Peg: Vaporeon. An even temperament, taken to laughing as gently as a babbling brook. She's stunning on the surface, but a lot of people are willing to take her at face value and not dip beneath and see how fucking much is buried inside of her. Able to move, to weave, to change with her surroundings rather than being rigidly solid. She wears down barriers and walls and invites people to come rest by her, to let their troubles be washed away. —Margaret: Glaceon. In a narrative way, I think she would actually get unsettled if it evolved this way, if it didn't require a tool to do so—she'd wonder if she was responsible for it, and she'd be correct. Rigid, chilly to the touch but aching to melt. Every agony in her life has chipped something off her, leaving her with sharp edges. But god, she gleams. She's gorgeous. She's thawing and changing shape, and this time she gets to decide what she'll become in the aftermath. —Charles: Umbreon. He reenforces so much distance from people, stays cool, keeps them at bay, tells himself over and over and over again that he'd rather be as far removed from their light as he possibly can. But god, do they bring out the best in him, that really lovely golden gleam. I think about some of the abuse and horrors he's lived with that have forcibly changed the color of his skies. I think again about the friendship requirement for umbreon, think about how the moment Charles decides someone is His, they're hard-pressed to get him away. They just have to earn it first. —Sidney: I'm being stereotypical and giving him an espeon, but the man went to med school and fucking EARNED IT. Incredibly elegant as well, so watchful, the kind of man who is happier sticking to the edges of a scene and observing rather than wanting to be in the thick of it. He knows what you need just by looking at you. —Father Mulcahy: He gets a leafeon because we see him working in a garden but also because he's able to coax so much fucking growth out of people. He's unconfident in believing that he can help prune away areas that cause people emotional pain, but he's so fantastic at it. —Radar: He gets an eevee because he's full of potential and he just needs to believe in himself and train up a little to see it!!!!!

#EXCESSIVE answer but i'm emotional now #love my eevees love my 4077th family #my ramblings

4 notes · View notes

knockyasocksoff2022 · 6 months ago

Text

The Tribute Parade Part 1 - NAKAHARA

| 1,399 words |

My stylist is a woman. She wears what I swear must be the frilliest dress I’ve ever seen in mint green with intricate lace, like Kouyou’s curtains. I wince at the reminder. She said her name was Margaret, and she’s actually quite hilarious. Witty, cynical, and a little bit morbid. I think, if she lived in Two, we would be friends. But she doesn’t and I make sure I don’t forget that, even as I laugh. It’s good to make her like me, but I can’t end up befriending her. She isn’t my friend. No one here is. Especially Dazai.

“Do you know what Dazai is wearing? Stylists usually coordinate, right?”

“Yes, but in your case, you are also wearing a suit so you’ll be in identical outfits.” She frowns at this, displeased not to have been able to show off the elegant dress she prepared. It’s beautiful, truly, and women would look stunning in it, I’m sure. But I’m no woman.

I frown too. I don’t want to match with shitty Dazai, but what choice do I have if I’m to show everyone that I’m a real man. Damn, he’s not going to shut up about it, is he?

“Something wrong?” Margaret asks as I sigh.

“Everything.” I want to yell, I want to rant, but there’s nothing she can do about this, nothing anyone can do so I keep my mouth shut letting the anger boil and bubble quietly beneath my skin.

I can’t help my satisfaction at my reflection. I’ve worn suits before, every year at the reaping. But this one feels different, tailored perfectly looking almost geometric, the natural shine of the stones catching the light. Despite the rocks, the garment is still light. It’s so . . . me.

Then Margaret takes out a makeup pallet. I cringe away so fast she nearly drops.

“Oh, I’m sorry, lady, but there is no way in hell you’re putting any of that anywhere near my face.”

She’s already putting it away before I finish like she can tell I’d never let her. Good for her.

“Ugh, denying an artist a chance to work her magic.”

“Go be Dazai’s stylist if you want to do makeup, I’m sure he’d love to have your hands all over him.”

“Um, no. I’m married.”

This surprises me. I’d assumed with her demeanuor that she would enjoy the single life. Most of the stylists are single, I think, since they’re all so young.

“Really.”

She smiles. It's the truly happy kind of smile, the kind you can’t help when your loved one is mentioned. The same expression Edogawa had on his face when he talked about his boyfriend. I push down the nausea. “Yes. He’s a teacher.”

“Oh. That’s nice.” It’s so odd, like a flash of reality behind the glitz and glamour. It does make sense, even in the Capitol children still go to school. I wonder what they learn. Do they learn to hate us the same way I’ve learnt to hate them?

With the addition of silver tinsel woven into the long part of my hair, the outfit is complete.

“Alright, brat, let’s go.” she pulls me into the lift, still miffed she didn’t get to show off her makeup skills.

Three minutes later Dazai isn’t here. God, that’s so like him to skip out. I wonder what punishment they’ll give him, or both of us, or maybe just Fukuzawa-san. Selfish bastard, screwing all of us.

I stop looking for him and start observing the other tributes. They’re all in much more colourful outfits, with the exception of 12, whose industry is coal (their female tribute, the youngest ever, a 12-year-old girl won by a landslide last year, shocking everyone and making Two even more eager for the crown than usual.). What they make up for in colour they lack in taste. The garments are gaudy, offensive costumes and caricatures of each district's industry. Disgusting.

I hear giggling and turn. The doors close on a flash of bright pink-ish red hair and Dazai steps forward.

We both stop, taking each other in from across the room.

His outfit does not match mine.

He wears the same grey shirt, yes, but it melds perfectly into a corset that looks like a rock formation. Geometric and layered with stones like armour. And the corset blends easily into high-waisted trousers. He looks elegant. He always has, even more so when fighting, but now his overly long limbs make him look otherworldly in the good way, rather than like a beanpole.

His hair has tinsel just like mine, only his is all over, rather than just in the bottom. It’s done so that I’d almost swear it was natural if I didn’t know that was impossible.

And the stylist has done something to his eyes, the lids are smeared in a faintly blue-ish grey that faintly sparkles as the light shifts and there are tiny rocks in the outside corners of his eyes.

He must be wearing makeup, some kind of contouring, or something (because I swear he’s never looked like this before) his features look sharp enough to cut stone. He looks dangerous and somehow cat-like.

It hits me after a second of staring to see what’s nagging me about it. He’s dressed like a girl. Not exactly, but very feminine. What’s he doing that for? Did the stylists crackdown and say they wanted at least one girl’s outfit? No, he would have never let himself be put into anything he didn’t want to be, so what is it?

Before I can think of a plausible answer he’s walking over, that foxy smile on his face. He takes my arm, pulling me far closer than we’ve ever been when not fighting. When he leans down, I feel his warm breath on my neck. It smells like some floral toothpaste. (seriously what the hell is with the Capitol?)

“Hmm, it’s a tragedy . . .” he whispers, voice sticky with the floral scent and so quiet I can barely hear it, “even with all that makeup you still look like a slug.”

Something about his voice makes me shiver. He’s insulted me a thousand times over, but never tried to be quite so . . . strange about it. Like the group of bitchy girls I always try to avoid in the cafeteria. If the closeness felt weird before it feels uncomfortable now, the scent clinging to me even as he pulls away. He runs cold, his skin is always freezing but now my hand feels hot where he touches it, in fact, I can feel my whole body heating up, because of how disgusted I am. Gross fish!

I should elbow him, call him out for being a fucking perverted asshole, but I can hardly do so in such a public space. What the hell is he doing? He knows that. Is this his plan to try to throw me off my game by flirting? Well, it’s dumb as the rocks Two mines because we both there’s no chance in hell that it would ever work. Probably just another one of his sick jokes to satisfy his deranged sense of humour. I hate him using me for entertainment. Maybe they won't make me go too easy on him in training.

Well, anything he can do I can do at least 10 times better.

I get in the chariot first, leaning down to him so our faces are level. “All the makeup in the Capitol can’t make a mackerel pretty, or did you think I wouldn’t notice?” I match his tone perfectly, letting him know that I know he’s scheming something and that I intend to find out exactly what it is.

He says nothing, but I swear I see a flash of surprise in his eyes. Satisfied with that I don’t give him a chance to speak, extending my hand out to him, bracing for the heat.

He makes his face unreadable again, taking it.

As soon as he’s in I look away, staring at the metal doors, trying, though I know it’s in vain, to see through them and imagine in the crowd with no prize, only President Dostoevsky waiting at the end.

But I’ll wait. Dazai isn’t the only one who can be patient. I know victory isn’t easy, but it will be mine. For Kouyou, Kyouka, Shirase, Yuan, and me, of course.

Dazai glances once at me, then joins me in staring at the doors. Without seeing his eyes I can’t tell what he’s thinking, so I don’t try.

All too soon, the door open.

The Hunger Games | soukoku |

Dazai and Chuuya are from District 2. Fukuzawa is their mentor who never talks about his games. Ranpo is their District Escort. Dostovesky is the President. Nikolai is a Telvision show host. All is great in Panem. Why do you ask?

(This fic includes Trans female to male Chuuya. If you don't like it, just don't read it.)

32 notes · View notes

apiratewhopines · 3 years ago

Text

Weak

A Captain Swan one shot

Rating - G / 15k

Summary - A whole lot of pining, then a happy ending. Egregious amounts of chocolate chip cookies. You have been warned.

—

Monday - 2001

Logically, Emma Swan knew she hadn’t loved Killian Jones her entire life. After all, he didn’t walk into her corner of the world until she was a teenager.

The small-minded town with pretensions of grandeur that she found herself in that fateful day was the latest in a long line of never-ending stops in her short life. Same shit, different day. Sure, David and Mary Margaret Nolan seemed decent enough, but everyone did in the beginning. She had learned early on that smiles were the worst kind of lies, and a welcome usually only lasted as long as the money from the state checks did.

It was a Monday, and had felt like it. Wet, miserable, and cold. The bright pink umbrella forced on her by her new foster mother as she left for school was useless against the gusting wind and torrential rain. She was soaked through. Her worn red Converse were a half-size too big—the only pair of shoes she had ever picked out for herself—and they rubbed her feet raw. The weight of the waterlogged canvas made every step feel like she was moving through quicksand.

Her new foster family had wanted to drive her on her first day, citing the incoming stormy weather. It was a nice gesture and certainly more than most would have done. Still, Emma had felt it was essential to establish boundaries from the beginning. Polite and distant. Better for them all to treat each other as temporary roommates. She was less than a year away from aging out of the system, even though she would be granted a few extra months to graduate from high school. There was no need to pretend a permanence that was as unlikely as it was unnecessary.

Emma had walked the short distance to her new high school to start the second semester of her Junior year, only getting turned around a couple of times. She had the same trouble now as navigated back to the building the Nolans owned. She hadn’t missed the big city exactly, but the sameness of the streets in the town unnerved her. Everything looked similar, haphazardly laid out and boring. Despite always being alone, she had never felt lonelier as she made her way to her new place.

She never thought of them as homes.

Until he showed up.

For years afterward, her mind amplified the moment. It echoed through her head, taking on new meaning and exaggerated importance with every subsequent interaction. In the dead of night, she would probe the memory like a sore tooth. In the bright light of morning, she held tightly to her dreams, innocent scenes that made her heart race nonetheless. Everyone she met was sized up in comparison and immediately found lacking.

He was perfect.

Their meeting wasn’t the stuff of fairytales and legends. For one thing, she was fairly certain romantic heroines didn’t wear cast-off clothes and look like drowned rats. Still, if ever there was a man made for myths, it was Killian Jones.

The sheets of rain had made it difficult to see your hand in front of your face, so she could be forgiven for nearly colliding with the stranger. His quiet oof was barely audible over the pounding of rain, but his hands came out of nowhere to catch her before the impact caused her to lose her balance. Faster than she could even react, he had thrown his jacket over both their heads and ushered her through the door, out of the elements.

The difference between the humidity outside and the chilly air inside the minimalist hallway made her glasses fog up. It was as if the voice of God was reverberating through the space when her companion complimented in a lilting voice, “Nice shoes.”

She swiped at her lenses and was treated to a flash of blue eyes, lashes spiked with moisture and as dark and thick as the scruff covering the sharp lines of his jaw. A jaunty wink and gentle pat on the shoulder to assure himself she was steady had her scrambling for coherent words.

He waited another second before her tongue-tied silence seemed to act as a dismissal, and with a friendly nod of the head, he turned away.

She watched his form take the stairs two at a time, energy vibrating around him as if all the light in the universe was drawn to him. She wanted to shout for him to stop, demand his name and favorite color, and ask if he ever ached for things he never knew. Instead, she continued to stand frozen in the doorway, eyes following him like he was her lifeline, a buoy in the rough seas. When his red Converse were no longer visible, moving to the second-floor landing and out of sight, she heard the jingle of keys and the sound of a door opening and closing before her breath returned in a rush.

Rubbing her arm where his touch had lingered, she walked up the two flights of steps to the Nolan place on the third floor in a daze. Suddenly, her clothes felt too tight and the room too warm. Mary Margaret was in the kitchen baking cookies; completely obvious that the world had shifted and nothing would ever be the same again.

So no, technically, she hadn’t loved him her entire life. But since her life didn’t feel like it started until she met him, it was a moot point, really.

Read the rest on AO3

@teamhook @jrob64 @motherkatereloyshipper @stahlop @kmomof4 @klynn-stormz @xsajx @xarandomdreamx @tiganasummertree @snowbellewells @qualitycoffeethings

#cs ff #emma swan #killian jones #captain swan

62 notes · View notes

bohemianrhvps · 4 years ago

Text

Mon amour, puisque tu m'aimes. - G.W.

Summary: George and Fred barely fight but when it happens they might not talk to each other’s for days. After a big fight, George stormed out of the shop and went to muggle London for a walk to calm his nerves. He found himself in one of those old vintage cafes and as he was sitting outside he spot a little flower shop across the street, playing some vintage french songs then he saw her and his heart started trembling.

warnings: swearing, mentions of alcohol, fluff, modern!George and muggle!reader.

note: I love Edith Piaf and vintage songs with all my heart and lately I can’t stop to listen “Hymn à l’amour” by Edith Piaf. Physically the reader is based on me (hope that’s not a big deal). I had this idea because I think that George would definitely fall for a muggle, he finds them fascinating just like his father.

‘How dare he say something like that? How dare Fred tell me that my job is not enough and I need to focus more?’

George was furious, he and his brother Fred just had one of their biggest fight ever. He stormed of the shop that he and his brother owned leaving a furious Fred and a confused Ron behind him. He went straight to the Leaky Cauldron and entered muggle London crowded streets. It was early evening and almost everyone was going home after a long day at work.

He decided to calm down his nerves and take a walk around London’s little alleys. His mind was full of thoughts, he was thinking about the words he and his twin brother said to each other’s, angry words that it doesn’t matter that they were said impulsively they still hurt.

After a while he found himself in a little street, less crowded, one of those roads that seemed like those roads in small country villages. A little vintage cafes caught his eyes and he decided that he needed a coffee, even if he didn’t enjoyed his flavour. After ordering, paying and picked up his coffee, he went out to sit in one of those two-seater tables outside the cafes.

Vintage french musics draw his attention, making him stand up and look around trying to figure out where it came from. His eyes landed on this little flower shop on the street corner so he crossed the street and walk towards it. He was never a big fan of Herbology at Hogwarts or plants in general but he was fascinated by these plants, he also saw lemon trees and they were so yellow and so beautiful and their smell was magnificent and he wondered how could they be so beautiful, they were simple and common plants but they were the most beautiful he had ever seen.

Y/n was watering the tulips inside her little shop, humming that old french song that she put in her “oldies” playlist when she spotted this tall red haired man outside her shop, looking at her plants almost suspiciously and she wondered what he was thinking about.

“Did you know that talking to plants makes them grow better?” she calmly said leaning on the front door, still holding the watering can with both hands.

“Is that the secret to having such beautiful plants?” George said turning fully around.

When they met each other’s eyes they remained silent for a couple of minutes. She was mesmerised by his features, he was indeed handsome and his hair was a fiery shade of orange. On the other hand he was mesmerised by her looks, he found her particular, almost weird but she was absolutely dazzling. She had short brown hair, her haircut right under the ear, that perfectly framed her round face. She was wearing a white flannel shirt and a pair of beige flannel pants and the first buttons of her shirt were open. She was at least one foot lower than George, she wasn’t skinny, her waist was slightly narrower than her hips that widened, highlighting her fleshy thighs. And George, being the thighs man he is, had to refrain from staring too long. She was so simple yet so particular and captivating.

“So you like my plants, ay?” she said smiling and putting the watering can on the side.

“I’m not a big fan of flowers and plants but I have to admit that your plants look very tempting.”

‘You are very temping. No wait- George what the heck. Calm down your hormones, mate’ he mentally cursed himself for thinking such things about her.

“If my plants are tempting let me show you something then.” She laughed and went inside her shop, shouting a muffled “Come in” waiting for him to follow her. After having rummaged among the various plants she came back to George with a little succulent in her hands.

“This is a little Echeveria elegans, which is a succulent plant.” she smiled placing the plant on the counter.

George found himself entering the shop and looking around it, it was much smaller than his but it was lovely, full of colours and aromas. He looked at the plant she brought with her and raised his eyebrows, wondering why she took that plant.

“I want to give you this plant.” Her smile was so big that he sweared her skin was going to break. He panicked because he didn’t know how to pay that plant sure he had money with him but muggle money is different from Galleons. He opened his jacket to get his wallet but her hand stopped him.

“No, it’s a gift.” her hand was still on his forearm and he couldn’t help but smile at the contact.

“Forgive my rudeness for not introducing myself sooner but I’m (y/n).” her hand stretched out waiting for George to hold it.

“I’m George and it’s very nice meeting you.” he smiled softly at her, making her blush. She couldn’t help but think about how handsome and charming he was.

“You’re new around here, right? I’ve never seen your face before.” and what a beautiful face she may add.

“No actually I found myself in this street after a long walk and had a coffee in that lovely cafes I want to add that I think I’m going back because that coffe was amazing and I usually don’t drink or like coffe. Anyway I own a shop with my twin brother.” he was babbling but Oh Merlin she made him so nervous.

“Oh yeah? And where is this shop?” the way her brow frowned over in curiosity was adorable.

“Oh it’s across town actually, yeah” his initial enthusiasm had now disappeared.

George looked at his watch and realised that it was almost dinner time and tonight he was supposed to cook for him and Fred.

“I’m sorry but I really need to go now, I guess I’ll see you around then.” he said making his way out of the shop.

“I’ll wait for you to come back here again then.” she smiled at him. The sunset made the whole situation looking like one of those romantic muggle movies his parents made him watch.

He waved his hand at her and walked towards the Leaky Cauldron with the biggest smile on his face and this little plant on his huge hands, he felt like Neville back in Hogwarts.

*The next day*

“Good morning Dear (Y/n)”

“Good morning Margaret”

“Oh you’re wearing a dress and you’re in a good mood today. The usual, love?” (Y/n) simply laughed at the old and lovely woman that owned the cafe and nodded at her question.

“Can I ask you something?” she said sipping her hot cappuccino.

“Anything dear” Margaret smiled at her.

“Did a tall red-haired guy come in here yesterday?” she tried not to look very hopeful.

“How could I forget him? He had this fiery red hair, this purple suit and he was so tall. Is he your boyfriend?” same old nosey Margaret.

“What? No no” she blushed laughing nervously.

“Oh, okay then.” Margaret simply shrugged.

“If he comes again I offer everything he orders.” she smiled and hurried to open her flower shop.

“I don’t know why but she was capable of making me nervous. Me? George Fabian Weasley nervous in front of a girl? She’s beautiful though, very particular may I add. Anyway I’ll probably visit her again tod-“

“George who the fuck are you talking to?” Fred came out of his room hearing George talking to a plant?

“Oh Fred ehm nothing, I mean no one” he laughed nervously scratching his neck.

“Do you remember that we have lunch at the Burrow right? Ron and Hermione wants to tell us something.” Fred began to have breakfast as if nothing had happened.

“Alright but I have to go now” George rushed down the stairs, making his way to (Y/n)’s flower shop.

He stopped at the cafes and just as he was about to pay, Margaret stopped him.

“(Y/n) offers” she winked at him. His brows furred but he cracked a smile.

“What’s your name, dear?”

“George” he said before leaving the cafes and run towards her shop.

While he was sipping his coffe, he stayed outside waiting for her clients to leave but admiring her. She was radiant today, she was wearing a yellow long flower dress, with long sleeves balloon and she curled her hair a bit. ‘How cool, they seem shorter’ he thought.

“You know you didn’t have to, right?” he said raising his coffee as soon she was alone in the shop.

“I know, but I wanted to.” everything about her was simply adorable.

He looked around and he found these beautiful and aromatic lilies.

“Just her favourites.” he whispered to himself but (Y/n) heard that and she felt her heart clenched a bit and she didn’t know why.

“Can I have a few of these?” he turned her way.

She took the lilies and made a lovely bouquet, she didn’t want to be nosey but..

“Are these for your girlfriend?” she said tying the boquet with a pink ribbon.

“My girlfr- no no, these are for my mom.” he answered almost too quickly. “We have a family lunch, my brother and his wife want to tell us something. I’m wondering what it is.” again he was babbling and tell her things that she probably didn’t want to hear.

“Maybe she’s pregnant, I don’t know.” she answered giggling. He was going to pay but again she stopped him, shaking her head with a simple smile.

“Let me know if your mum liked them.” she waved her hand and again George found himself with the biggest smile of his face.

“Merlin’s beard George, they’re beautiful.” Molly was thrilled when she saw the lilies. “(Y/n)’s flawless flowers.. never saw it in Diagon Alley, is it a new shop?”

“Actually mom it’s a shop in muggle London, yeah.” he scratched the back of his neck, blushing a little.

“And tell me, what's she like? Big tits? Big ass?” Fred whispered pushing his shoulder a bit.

“Big tit- Fred what the hell?” he scolded at his twin brother.

“Boys behave we have an announcement!” Ron said clapping his hands drawing everybody’s attention on him and Hermione.

“I’m pregnant.” Hermione said with a big smile on her face.

“(Y/n), how did you know..” George whispered to himself while clapping his hands at the happy couple.

“Were you talking to me?” asked Fred smirking, acting like he didn’t heard George’s exact words.

It was Monday morning and it was also (Y/n)’s day off so she decided to walk around London and look for George’s shop, she wanted to surprise him. It took her almost the whole morning but she hadn’t seen his shop, he told her that outside his shop there were a huge statue that looked like him so it was impossible to miss. It was around noon and she decided to go visit her grandmother and her flower shop. The only thing was that her grandmother was a witch and her flower shop was in Diagon Alley so she made her way through the Leaky Cauldron and entered Diagon Alley. It has been a while since she was in the wizard world but she knew exactly how to act. Just around the corner she spotted an unfamiliar shop.

Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes.

The moment she saw the statue she instantly froze. She recognised it and the shop was exactly like George described it. She decided to enter and look around.

The inside of the shop was simply beautiful, so full of colours and people and she was simply enchanted. She spotted a familiar tall ginger man and she made her way to him.

“George?” she tapped his shoulder.

“Wrong one, love. I’m Fred.” he said turning around to greet her. She smiled at him as she instantly recognised him as George’s twin brother.

“And you are?” he raised his eyebrows.

“(Y/n), I’m (Y/n).” she reached out to him.

“Oooh” Fred said with a cheeky grin. “(Y/n)’s flawless flowers, right?” he squeezed her hand.

“Oì, stop flirting with our costumers and come to h-“ he froze. He was panicking when he saw her. And now what? What is he supposed to do? What is he supposed to say?

“(Y/n) hi, w-what are you doing here?” his palms were sweating so hard he hoped you wouldn’t notice.

“Your shop is literally magical.” she ignored his questions as she giggled looking around George’s shop. “My grandmother is a witch, she owns a flower shop here in Diagon Alley, so here I am.” she said raising her hands.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you” he was really sorry because he really like her, he didn’t know if he liked her as a friend or more but he sure enjoyed her company.

“Oh it’s okay, I can imagine it’s not easy telling someone you’re a wizard” her laugh was lovely.

“So, can I have the honor of showing you around the store?” he asked her extending his arm which she gladly accepted.

“Y/n guess what... Hermione’s pregnant.” he said super excited.

“I told you!” she said jumping a little making George smile like a five years old.

George turned around to his brother who was looking at them smiling. Fred knew his brother and he knew that George fell for her, even before George himself knew that.

note: I’m thinking of making this a mini series, divide it into three maybe four parts (reader meeting the Weasleys and maybe add some smut lol). Let me know if you liked it and if you want me to continue it.

#george weasley #george weasley imagine #george weasley smut #harry potter imagine #hermione granger #hogwarts #ron weasley #draco malfoy #george and fred #fred weasley #fred and george #the weasleys #the weasleys twins #george weasley x reader #george weasley headcanon #fanfiction

173 notes · View notes

donutloverxo · 4 years ago

Text

Want you back

Note - this is for @holylulusworlds 10k follower challenge! My trope was hurt/comfort Congrats I hope you like it😘

Beautiful mood board by my girl @ballyhoobarnes

Summary - You want Steve to be more than just your sugar daddy. He breaks your heart. Will he be able to make it upto?

Themes - CEO au, sugar daddy/baby relationship, implied age gap, smut, unprotect sex, loss of virginity, daddy kink

Pairing - Steve Rogers x reader

Word count - almost 4k

Masterlist is linked in the bio!

You squealed as you grabbed the deep red box from Steve’s hand, the words ‘cartier' written on it in golden cursive. You could see Steve watching in amazement from the corner of your eye. You gasped as you opened it, the prettiest and shiniest diamonds you had ever seen. “For me?” You looked at him with hopeful eyes. If he said no it would break your heart.

“Who else would it be for?” He chuckled and you gave him a smile embarrassed at your own silly thoughts. “Let me” He said pulling you by your hips to place you on his lap, taking the necklace out of the box and clasping it around your neck.

Such an act shouldn’t feel so intimate, but it really did. Steve was the most generous man you had ever met. He met you in a very difficult time in your life. Paying off your student loans, buying you a new very comfortable apartment, and so many gifts all the while never expecting anything in return.

All he wanted was quality time with you and complete honestly. He reserved a lot of disdain for dishonest people. Which is why maybe he liked having you around. You were the most honest person you knew, always wearing your heart on your sleeve, never having a filter. You understood now what Steve meant when he said ‘you're a breathe of fresh air' having met his friends. You didn’t know who to trust, all those parties seemed so glitzy on the surface but you did feel a certain darkness lingering underneath on some level.

You looked down at your new diamond necklace. Since your little arrangement with Steve started, over six months ago now, this would be the tenth diamond necklace he gave you, among a few diamond pendants and bracelets. “It’s so pretty” you said in awe of it to which he replied “It looks pretty because it’s on you doll”

“You didn’t have to daddy” You shifted on his lap to get comfortable putting your arms around his neck to look into his cerulean blue eyes, the prettiest eyes in the whole wide world.

“I just felt like spoiling my princess. It’s been a while since I got you anything. Jarvis told me you haven’t used the platinum card in weeks” He quirked a brow at you.

Well you hadn’t. You weren’t surprised Steve’s secretary Jarvis noticed. He always delivered messages, gifts to you whenever Steve wasn’t available. You started a part time job at a library just so you wouldn’t have to use it. “I’ve been thinking a lot” You murmur looking down at your lap to avoid his intense gaze. If you did look at his face you wouldn’t be able to articulate your thoughts “and I don’t want your money daddy. I just want you. I don’t want you to feel like that’s all I’m looking for”

“Hey look at me” He said propping your chin up to make you look at his face. He looked so worried you wanted to kiss away his frown. “I have a lot of money. What I do with it is up to me. And I want to take care of my princess. I don’t feel like you take advantage of me. In fact you do a lot more for me than I for you” He placed a couple of soft kisses on your knuckles while maintaining eye contact with you.

You scoffed at that. You didn’t really do anything for Steve. Not in the way women did for men. When Steve asked to be your sugar daddy, you were more than nervous. How would someone as inexperienced as you please a man like him? But until now you had only had few heavy make out sessions. Steve would feel your breasts through your shirt, and you were sure you felt his hard on that one time, but other than that you hadn’t really done anything together. “I want – “ you trailed off. What if you did tell him how you felt, that you loved him more than the word love can say it, and he rejects you, breaks your heart. You could probably take rejection from anyone else, but if it came from Steve you’d never recover.

“What is it?” He probed.

“I want you. All of you. Why can’t – I don’t know how to say this” You shook your head trying think of the best words. “Why can’t we be boyfriend and girlfriend like most people are? I –“ you paused as he stared at you intently “I love you. I know I’m not the best girl out there but I try my best” You inwardly cringed at your pathetic-ness. Not really the best way to ask to be someone’s girlfriend.

He took a deep breathe “I was afraid of this. I don’t do that doll. If I wanted a girlfriend I would have one. I don’t have space for that.”

You felt as if he stabbed you in your heart. You quickly got up, abandoning the comfort of his lap. You took the necklace off putting it on the abandoned open box. “I want more. I can’t ignore my feelings. I can live without diamonds or bags but I can’t live without –“ you choked a sob. “I think I’ll go home now”

You collected your chanel bag, which he gave you, you grimaced as you looked at it, when he got it for you were over the moon but now it just gives you pain, just like every gift he got for you would. You put on your shoes somewhat leisurely expecting him to get up try to talk you out of leaving, compromise, something! But he just sat there staring at the necklace you rejected. “Goodbye” you said and left.

You had never been to a ball. Any party you ever attended were frat parties that were well trashy for the lack of a better word. You were so amazed at the tall champagne flutes passing through, the exotic hors doers, people dressed in the most lavish gowns and suits. Everything was so pretty you knew you didn’t fit in here.

But Steve was so considerate with you. His hand never left your side the whole night. He kept you close to him, including you in any conversation he had with others. It was that kindness that you fell in love with.

But then she approached you both. She looked really talk in her sleek stilletos, her sharp cheek bones were complimented by her short brown curls. You felt a tinge of jealousy when she hugged Steve kissing his cheek as if she had known him forever. “This is Margaret” He introduced her.

You were later told that she was Steve’s ex girlfriend.

She had a posh British accent. With her classic black dress, she looked like she belonged here. You hurt yourself by thinking about how Steve and her looked so good together. They looked like they were meant to be standing next to one another. You had to try really hard to hold back tears when she touched Steve’s bicep, laughing at something he said.

You had been ‘together' for over two months at that point. You knew Steve was gorgeous. You didn’t however realise how much other women noticed his that. That night you felt as if everyone had their eyes on him. If you left for even a second to use the ladies room, Steve would be surrounded by women, all so gorgeous they looked other worldly.

You asked to spend the night at his home. He had turned his queen suite into a room for you. Complete with baby pink walls, silk sheets and the softest of stuffies. He told you he would be happy to have you. After kissing you goodbye Steve went back to his room.

You had other plans. You knocked on his door, entering without his permission. You almost considered leaving when you looked at the sight in front of you. He was only sporting his grey sweats. The dim yellow light from the lamp made his skin and hair look golden as if he was a god. He certainly looked like he was carved out by gods. His muscles so taut and his shoulders so broad. He looked like he was photo shopped.

You whimpered when you got a good look at his abs as he sat up straight. You were wearing your satin pale blue nightie, adorned with white lace on the edges. Something you bought when you were out shopping with him. You knew you didn’t look nearly as good as the women at the party.

“You can’t sleep princess?” He asked sitting back against the headboard.

“Hm” You hummed remembering your diabolical plan “I just felt so alone. Can I sleep with you?” You fluttered your lashes at him.

“Of course” He gave you a small smile shifting to his side to make room for you. You quickly skipped over to him and got under the covers with him. Nestling against his chest you nuzzled his neck. “Is everything alright with you?” He asked propping your chin up to look at him.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?” You draped a leg over his hip and started grinding against his thigh. You didn’t know much about seducing but you could only hope you were doing it right.

“Well you were quiet the whole ride home.” He pressed his palm against your hip, firmly but also gently at the same time, to stop your grinding. “What’s going on?”

“I just really really want to make you feel good.” You tried your best to sound classy and sultry at the same time, just like Peggy did.

You didn’t want him to find out just how amazing he was, and how he could do better than you. He was nice to her. Was he too nice? Did he still have feelings for her? Why did you find out from someone else that they were together. You needed to give him everything.

He didn’t try to stop when you rubbed him through his sweats. Gulping down your anxiety you looked up to see him staring at you curiously. He quickly sat back up and leaned against his pillows as you took his cock out of his briefs and sweats. He looked big. Much bigger than normal men probably. How were you supposed to take him?

You tried to recall whatever you had seen in porn or had heard from friends and stroked his length. He seemed to like it since he moaned grabbing a handful of your breast and squeezing it. You stared in awe as the creamy gooey liquid seeped out of his tip. You leaned down taking him in your mouth and going as far as you could until he hit the back of your throat. You moaned around him and swallowed your spit so you wouldn’t make too much of a mess. You were about to bob your up and down as one is supposed to do when giving a blow job but he abruptly pulled you off of him by grabbing the back of your head.

He brought you close to him and crashed his lips onto yours in a kiss which was all teeth and carnal need.

He flipped you over so you were under him and worked on taking off your panties. “I think I should tell you...” You trailed off not being able to concentrate with his lips on your neck. “I’ve never.. done this before.” You whimpered as he sucked a bruise into the crook of your neck.

He immediately stopped looking down at you. “What?” He asked and you felt ashamed and guilty that you ruined the moment. “What did you say?”

“I’ve never-” You curled in on yourself so you were as small as your voice was “I’ve never done this before you know.” You sniffles tears trailing down your cheeks.

“Hey” He shushed you. Collecting you in his arms and rocking you back and forth. You cried into him for a while. His steady heartbeat lulled you and calmed you. “We don’t have to do that any time soon. Your first time should be special. With someone you love.”

Maybe he said those words to comfort you. But he had no idea just how they broke your heart. He never saw you as anyone he could have a serious future with. You weren’t a serious put together girl. Sure he may say he prefers your innocence over the cunning and self absorbed people in his world. But he was one of them.

“Is it because I’m not her.” You spat but you weren’t brave enough to look at him.

“Who are you talking about?” He spoke into your hair.

“Margaret or Peggy. Whatever you call her.” You mumbled afraid that you had let your true feelings be known.

“Is that what this is about?” He shook his head and when you didn’t look at him he sternly called out your name which made you whip your head up. “There’s nothing between me and Peggy. We had our time but it’s over now.” He tried reassuring you.

Even if your arrangement was supposed to be purely financial you were more or less unofficially exclusive. “Then why did I have to find out from Natasha that you were both engaged?” You pouted wiping your nose with the back with the back of your finger.

“I only asked her to marry me because I thought that was how it was supposed to be. That’s what everyone had told us since we were kids. That we were to grow up and get married. But then I realized that I didn’t love her like that. Neither did she. We’re just friends now. I promise.” He kissed your forehead.

You were hurt from being rejected by the only man you ever tried to seduce. He cuddled you and coddled you. Reassuring you again and again that you’re perfect. There’s nothing wrong with you.

Just not perfect enough to actually be his apparently.

Days turned into weeks. You were just drifting through the motions. Steve insisted that you keep your apartment.

‘I gave it to you. It’s yours.’ He said.

And really beggars can’t be choosers. Before being his sugar baby, you cringed at that label now, you were just an intern in his company. But you didn’t last in that harsh environment for even a month. After that you didn’t really need to get another job since he promised to take care of you in exchange for your company.

You had no idea your company was worth that much.

You always had a crush on him. He was this stylish, smart, kind yet distant older man who was your dream guy of sorts. As in you could dream about him, but you can’t actually have him.

Of course you said yes to his proposal. And were more than happy to accompany him to exotic places in first class and private jets for over six months. To wear breath taking dresses which cost more than your tuition. To cuddle with him and make out with him. It didn’t really go far than that.

Yet it wasn’t hard to trick yourself into thinking that it was more. That you could convince him to want more with you. What a dumbass you were.

You applied to at least ten jobs, although you didn’t hear back from a single one. You were determined to get back on your feet and get yourself a new apartment. You’ll have to move back to queens or even New Jersey. There was no way you could afford a home in Manhattan. But you didn’t want Steve to get the idea that he’s any less cruel to you just because he let’s you stay in the condo he brought you.

For now you were happy wallowing in your sadness. Eating tubs of Ben and Jerry’s and watching the notebook. Thinking about how love is a lie fed to people since childhood so they don’t realise just how meaningless life is.

You were half sleep when you jerked awake to your intercom harshly buzzing. Grumbling you walked over to your door and pressed the button “Who is it?” You asked your irritation evident in your tone.

“It’s me.” Said the voice that was all too familiar to you. “Let me in please?” He requested desperately.

You let out a sigh pressing the little buzzer to let him in. As much as you loathed you, you loved him even more. It had been over a month, you were longing to see his voice, to talk to him, to smell him, to even just be around him.

You opened the door and let him into your, or his, home. You tried your best to not let him see just how happy you were that he’s in front of you. Instead you filled your eyes and drawled your voice feigning annoyance. “What do you want?”

“I want you back” He stated stalking towards you. “Please. I made a mistake” You had never seen him beg. This was so uncharacteristic of him. And you were going to thoroughly revel in it. You held his gaze, done being a coward.

“No” You simply said. “It’s too little too late”

“Don’t say that” He bent down invading your personal space. “It’s never too late. I – I love you” your jaw dropped as he stammered over the words leaving you shocked. “I’ve loved you for so long. I thought that I could pretend that I didn’t”

“Why?” You wanted to know.

“Because I’ve lost everyone I ever loved. I can’t lose you.” He kissed your knuckles.

“You already have.” But your body betrayed you as you leaned into his touch. You could already feel your resolve crumbling. “I don’t believe you.” You snatched your hands out of his hold. “You’ll change your mind tomorrow.”

“No no I won’t. I swear.” He scrambled to hold your hands again but you moved them out of his reach. It was almost satisfying to have the upper hand. To have him be the vulnerable one. “I’ll show you how serious I am.” He said removing a little red box from his pocket.

“Is that...”

“Yeah” He gave you a small smile. “This isn’t a spur of the moment thing. I’ve thought about this.” He said kneeling in front of you. He opened the box to reveal a solitaire diamond ring adorned by little diamonds on the band. It was simple enough to be classy but flashy enough to be special. “I fell in love with you the moment I saw you. You’ve always held my heart y/n. Will you marry me?” He asked. His voice slightly shaky.

You didn’t need to think about it. You forgave him as soon as you heard his voice. “Yes” You whimpered. You didn’t even know that you had started crying. He stood up on his feet and slid the ring on your ring finger.

You smiled as he kissed you. After so long. It was just a month but it felt like a thousand years. It was as if he was parched and so needy for you. His hands wandering all over your body. He swooped you up in his arms and carried you over to your bedroom. He made quick work of taking off his sweater his jeans and his underwear.

He pulled your long sleep shirt over your head. You tried to hide your breasts from him. Having never been naked in front of anyone you were shy and felt so exposed. “You’re going to be my wife now.” He purred removing your hands and taking you in. He was awestruck. “You’re so beautiful.” He stated mater of factly.

He trailed kisses down your body. Settling between your legs he stared at your heat. You couldn’t tell if he was unsatisfied or not. You gasped as you felt his hot tongue against your warm folds. You squirmed and thrashed. It was so different from when you played with yourself. So much more intense. You whimpered punching the mattress when he pulled away, you instantly missed his mouth. You gasped as you felt his fingers invade your warmth.

He moved up looming over you pushing his fingers in and out of you. “I want to watch you fall apart” He said. His voice laced with lust.

You came all over them screaming as he captured your lips into a bruising kiss. Swallowing your moans and cries.

You were still coming down from your high when he pushed his tip inside you. You gasped. “Shh it’s okay” He cooed kissing your hair “It’ll be okay. Daddy always care of you. You know that right.” He whispered kissing your tears away “I’ll never hurt you again.” He let out a muffled grunt as he completely sheathed himself into you.

He let you get accustomed to his length for a minute before moving. Thrusting leisurely into you. You closed your eyes, holding onto your shoulders. Giving out little hums and mewls, only focusing on the weight of his cock in you, his tip hitting your cervix, and how he brushed against your pussy every time he slid out halfway, only to slid back in again.

“You’re so tight shit.” He cursed against your lips. “I can’t believe. I. Get. to. have. you. forever.” He grunted each word punctuated with a snap of his hips.

He snaked a hand between your bodies and stroked your clit before ruthlessly rolling it in his fingers. It was already so overworked and sensitive. You came clenching around his cock in no time.

Your orgasm set him off. He quickly pulled out, jerking himself off over your stomach you watched through hooded eyes as spurts of his cum painted your stomach. He slumped next to you. His face and neck flushed. “Have to be careful. I’ll use a rubber next time. I’m not ready to share you with anyone just yet” he muttered wiping his shiny forehead with the back of his hand.

He draped his arm across your stomach nuzzling your neck as you stared at your new rock. “You like it?” He asked kissing your throat.

“I love it. I can’t wait to tell my mom” You replied pecking his forehead. “We have to set a date. When do you want it to be? The theme? So many things.”

He hushed you “You don’t have to worry about that. I’ll just hire a wedding planner.”

“What about your father? What if he doesn’t approve of me?” You worried.

“I don’t give two shits about his opinion.” He grumbled.

And you couldn’t help but giggle at that. It was rare to hear him curse. You couldn’t wait to plan your wedding and your life together.

Tags will be in the reblog. If you want in on the taglist shoot me an ask or click the link in the bio!

me thinks there must be a part two. what do you say?

cute pink dividers by @whimsicalrogers

Please note that my work is NOT to be reposted or published anywhere other than my Tumblr or AO3 account. Reblogs are most welcome though.

#lulu's 10k follower challenge #marvel au #steve rogers x reader #captain america x you #captain america x reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers x oc #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x ofc #steve x reader #steve x y/n #marvel x you #marvel x reader

1K notes · View notes

elizabeethan · 3 years ago

Text

Rising Tide

An Overboard Addition

The decision to travel to the Outer Banks to follow the Bluefin Tuna fishing season through the winter was an easy one, only once Emma had suggested that they go together. Even after three years of marriage, he still couldn’t imagine being apart from her for more than a week, never mind an entire winter season. But when Emma found out about the extended season down south, thanks to the blasted television show out of Massachusetts, she insisted that they take part, together.

Of course, he didn’t exactly expect her parents and brother to join them.

A/N: I wrote this because I felt like I was being too mean to Mary Margaret and decided to spread the wealth.

For @the-darkdragonfly for keeping my enthusiasm for this series alive, and for being the best beta around.

Rated M

Catch up Here

Read my other stuff

Get on my tag list

Read on Ao3

~~~~

There are too many people on this bloody boat.

Killian’s fishing vessel has comfortably held himself, his wife, and his two crew members on countless occasions, but something has shifted with the addition of a fifth person.

Or, perhaps, it’s the fact that his crew members have been traded for Emma’s entire family. Plus, there’s their dog.

Of course, he didn’t exactly expect her parents and brother to join them.

Leo has just turned 21, and is, according to his sister, soul searching. Emma claims that he isn’t sure what he’s doing with his life, what with his decision not to attend college and his struggles to find a steady job. She thought that maybe helping Killian this season would also help Leo, perhaps exposing some passion for fishing he never knew he had. But of course, Leo has never fished before, so his father is tagging along to make matters easier and safer. And why not throw Mary Margaret into the mix too… the more the merrier.

At least that’s what Killian thought until they all got onto his bloody boat and shoved off.

It really isn’t meant for five people. Plus a dog the size of a miniature horse.

Emma enjoys sunning herself on the bow, even in the winter, and Killian enjoys watching her. What he doesn’t enjoy is the quick and judging looks he gets from her father and the snickering and giggling from her mother each time he’s caught. He doesn’t enjoy the groaning and eye rolling he gets from Leo each time he kisses his wife, seen because of the painful lack of privacy on this bloody boat.

The whole journey down was near torture. Emma and Killian have grown accustomed to a certain amount of privacy, as well as a certain amount of pleasure for each of them. Everyone says the honeymoon phase will fade, and yet it hasn’t for them. Everyone also says that he will soon struggle to keep up with the energy of his much younger wife, and yet he has not experienced such a thing.

Killian’s always been a private person, preferring to love his wife in seclusion. At least when it’s Will and Robin on the boat, he can tell them to shove off if they’re caught in some unsavory position. But when her father does, Killian nearly jumps overboard.

It takes them about a day to sail into Wanchese, the harbor almost as accommodating as the one back home. They’re friendly here, but he can’t help but get a sense of competition burning between himself and the southern fishermen. Killian’s never been much for competition, but David is.

He says something cheeky and mildly ominous to the others in the fleet, something about catching the most tonnage this season despite not being from down here, and Killian stiffens beneath Emma’s hand on his back. She leaves warmth between his shoulder blades where he always seems to be stiff.

“It’s alright,” she says as she kisses his shoulder over his sweater, pressing up onto her toes. “It’ll be fun.”

“The season down here is short,” he explains, though she already knows. “But I have a feeling it’ll feel quite long.”

She hums and laughs, kissing him once more and wrapping her arms around his waist from behind him as he pulls away from the docks. When he hears her mother’s voice cooing at Ripple, “look at your mommy and daddy over there,” he stiffens again.

It’ll be a long season.

~~~~

He’s only glad for the hotel room that her parents have rented.

Leo’s still on the boat, of course, acting as Killian’s first mate, but he can handle that for the evenings. Leo does well preparing the lines and fishing for bait, and he tries to see the upside as Emma serves him spaghetti for the fourth night in a row and he realizes that they once again won’t have any privacy.

“Thank you, love,” he says softly to her as she hands him the floppy paper plate. “Smells delicious.”

She snorts, shaking her head as she takes a seat beside him on the bow. It’s become a favorite spot for them; a place where they can unwind together, make love to each other, console each other’s demons. “Don’t lie,” she says, bumping their shoulders together. “I’m a shitty cook anyway, never mind on the water.”

“You’re a brilliant cook.”

“Yes,” she laughs, nodding and twirling her fork in the flaccid pasta. “My recipe for peanut butter and jelly is award winning.”

“Aye, well, I do like when you sprinkle the potato chips in them.”

“That’s because we’re both eight-years-old.”

He leans towards her, securing his plate in his lap so that he can press a lingering kiss against her temple. “I should hope not,” he jokes.

They sit quietly for a while, enjoying the dinner she made for them despite her complaints that it’s mushy and watching the sunset. It’s beautiful here, he has to admit, and he can’t help but appreciate the way the pink sky bounces off of the sea and into his wife’s hair.

“It’ll be fine, you know,” she says softly, her lips pressing to his neck. “It’s only a few weeks, and I don’t even think they’ll come out most weeks.”

“Aye, love,” he murmurs into the top of her head. “You know I’m not upset about this, right?”

“Yeah, but I can tell you’re not completely comfortable either. I mean, my parents--”

“Emma,” he interrupts, although he doesn’t like to. He takes her face in his hands and gives her a smile. “I love your parents because I love you. I can handle a few weeks with them.”

“You promise you won’t gaff them if they mess up your boat?”

He laughs, if only to remove the image of such a violent proposition from his mind, and nods. “I promise, my love.”

~~~~

Things start turning south after a few weeks on the water, her parents, just as Emma had predicted, only making a few appearances. David was helpful enough teaching Leo the ropes, and he’s become an invaluable member of Killian’s crew. Now that he’s trained quite thoroughly, David and Mary Margaret have taken the opportunity to explore the Outer Banks.

Only today, they’re out on the boat, along for the ride since Killian suggested a shorter trip just past the sound. It was hard enough crossing the bar with Emma’s father’s watchful eye on him, and now that they've made it to deep enough waters, his anxiety is at an all time high.

Killian is a talented sailor. He knows this, and he also knows that he’s a talented fisherman. He’s earned himself a rather suitable fortune in his years catching tuna, and he maintains that he knows what he’s doing. And yet, having an audience-- especially one that seems to still be waiting for the other shoe to drop-- is making him entirely doubt himself. They’re waiting for their daughter to get hurt, either by him or because of him. He’s waiting for the doubt he has in himself to fade, and yet it never seems to unless Emma forces it away.

He would never hurt her. He would die if anything ever happened to her, especially if it was at his hands. If he were ever involved in any pain delivered to her, he isn’t sure how he would survive the guilt and anguish that would result.

Which is why he’s been so careful the entire trip, and each time she’s on his boat with him. He failed at his attempts to make her wear a lifejacket-- So what, you think I can’t swim? I’m a better swimmer than you, probably-- but he tries to take every other precaution. He’s even trained Ripple to bark when she sees a large wave incoming so that they can take cover. He keeps knives stashed around the boat so that he can cut any rogue line or rope, should anyone get tangled. He keeps lifepreservers as well, one on each corner despite the boat being small enough to reach one easily. Every sharp object has a home, a designated place to avoid accidents. He captains a very safe vessel any day, but when Emma and their Ripple are on board, it’s like his senses are heightened.

Which is why he watches her like a hawk each day, but especially now that her parents are on board. He just knows that one misstep will have them staring him down, judging his ability to care for their daughter, silently gaining confirmation that their marriage won’t make it. He knows it’s dramatic, and not entirely true, but he can’t help but fear that they think of him as too old for her. He’s not energetic enough; he can’t keep up with her needs. He can’t provide her with the life that she deserves.

They’ve talked about this, of course. But the reminders keep coming with her parents’ looks towards him, so his self-doubt flourishes.

They’ve only just hooked up when it happens. Leo is reeling-- he’s doing phenomenally as he works with the waves in an effort to drag the beast to them-- and Killian is driving. David stands at the helm with Leo, telling Killian when to go into reverse and when to go into neutral, when to turn left and when to turn right. They’ve almost brought the thing to the port of the vessel, and Emma stands diligently with a gaff ready to assist however she can. Killian can’t stop staring. Not only because she looks beautiful and strong, but because he worries for her too much.

He notices the rope on the ground quickly after it falls, calling to David to move it despite his distraction with the strained line. He kicks it away, a loop forming easily as he does so. He shouts once more, desperately as he watches Emma take a step to her left, and panics when he isn’t heard.

“Emma!” he calls from the wheel, turning towards her but unable to abandon steering the craft for fear of disaster. “Love, your--”

She starts to trip as David throws the harpoon, the line tightening around her ankle and pulling at her leg until she has to drop to the deck. Killian abandons his post easily, rushing towards her and shoving against David with too much force so that he can grab for a blade and cut her free.

She falls forward into his arms, her gasp coming out forcefully as she seems to piece together what’s almost happened as the adrenaline wears off.

“Woah,” she breathes, squeezing his hand in hers as he helps her to straighten.

“Are you--”

“The line!” David calls. “It’s-- Emma?” He hurries towards them both, finally abandoning the tool as Leo cuts the beast free and does the same and crouches by her side. “What happened?”

A sudden wave of disgust washes over him as an equally powerful wave from the sea crashes into his beloved boat. With the force of it, with his wife safe in his arms, he realizes he couldn’t possibly care less what happens to his fishing vessel as long as she’s alright.

“She nearly went overboard,” he spits. “Did you not hear me? Or were you too busy with the bloody harpoon?”

“Obviously I didn’t hear you,” he argues. “But I don’t need you blaming me when your equipment doesn’t work. This harpoon line is way too long.”

He breathes out an exasperated laugh, shaking his head and staring up at David. “Oh, so this is my fault? You aren’t watching your lines and nearly get your daughter killed and somehow it’s my fault?”

“Babe,” she starts, putting her hand on his, but he’s too angry and worked up and terrified.

“No, I'm sick of this,” he says. He hears Ripple finally bursting out of the cabin after far too many attempts to break free, and she hurries towards Emma, towards her mother, to lick her cheek. Emma giggles and cuddles with the pup, seeming to allow her breath to finally even. “Every chance you get, it’s a dig at my ability to keep my wife safe. And when I-- when your Captain orders you to move a bloody line away from her damn foot--”

“Killian!”

He can’t even respond, can’t do anything but take a heaving breath in hopes that it will calm him. He knows what she’s thinking-- that she wishes he would stop yelling at her bloody father-- but he can’t shake the feelings of rage coursing through him.

“I’m sorry,” he finally mumbles, finally able to turn his head and look her in the eye. “I’m sorry. Are you alright?”

She takes his hand and squeezes once more, nearly forcing him to maintain eye contact, and says, “I’m fine, babe. I’m okay.” he tries to ignore the discomfort written across her father’s entire being. “Let’s just go below deck and you can check my ankle, okay?”

“Is it hurting you?”

She blinks once and says, “It’s a little sore. Come on.”

They aren’t even able to shut themselves in before she tugs on his arm, dragging him close to her and wrapping him in a squeeze that he swears could kill him if it wasn’t exactly what he needs. It’s not as if she was dragged over the bow-- it’s not as if the rope truly cinched around her ankle and dragged her overboard, beneath the surface of the deadly crashing waves-- but she came pretty damn close. And now, as he comes down from the high of adrenaline of nearly losing his wife, his best friend, the most important thing in his life, he cracks.

He can barely breathe as his palms reach to cup her cheeks, if only to ensure that they’re still warm and pink and alive. He chokes when he has her in his grasp, his brows pinching together almost painfully and his teeth digging into the soft flesh of his bottom lip, likely drawing blood. “Love,” he stutters, his voice weak and small, and he nearly loses his balance as another wave crashes into them. She keeps him steady. “I almost--”

“No,” she insists. “I know, baby, but you didn’t. I’m right here, Killian. I’m not going anywhere.”

When his eyes meet hers, he says desperately, “I can’t lose you.”

“You won’t,” she tells him with such certainty that he has no choice but to believe her. “Killian, I'm right here. I’m here with you, and I’m okay. You’re not gonna lose me.”

He shakes his head, and when he does, she creeps closer to him on the small captain's bed until her hips can straddle his thighs. His hands find her waist, unable to do anything but hold her and try to convince himself that she’s here and she’s fine. He didn’t lose her, although he almost did. The sea has given so much to him, but it’s also taken. It took his brother, or so he must only assume, and it almost took the love of his life. He knows now, now that it’s been proven to him, that he would gladly give himself to the sea if she took his wife. “Emma, my love…”

She hardly gives him a chance to answer, although part of him thinks she knows that he had nothing to say. Her lips cut him off, pressing to his and destroying any thoughts of negativity or anger or fear. They fuse themselves to his mouth and take from him every ounce of distress he could possibly imagine feeling. They give him every ounce of strength he could possibly possess. Her tongue slinks out over his own and sends small tingles down his back to the base of his spine until his grip on her tightens. Until his grip is tight enough to convince himself that she isn’t going anywhere.

“I love you,” she presses against his skin, her mouth somehow never leaving his.

“Emma,” he breathes again. With a gasp, he says once more, “Emma.”

“I'm okay,” she says. Then, with her hips pressing to his, she says, “Let me show you.”

In a move that he can barely perceive, one consumed with disorientation and a need to still feel her in his arms, she’s off of his lap and shedding her clothes. Her shorts were wet and difficult to peel from her legs, her-- his-- sweater, too, but her tight tank top, the one doubling as a bra, comes off of her easily. He reaches for her breasts, his lips finding her tightened nipple, and the moan that leaves her has him shaking.

She takes his clothes off, too, leaving hot trails of fire with her mouth each time she removes something from his skin. Her tongue follows a line between two freckles on his upper thigh and he throws his head back against the thin pillow that they share most nights. When her lips purse against the angry red tip of his cock, he grabs for her, fingers lacing through her hair and holding onto her if only so that he never has to fear letting her go. If he never lets go of her, he’ll never lose her.

She hollows her cheeks expertly, quickly working him to nearly his breaking point until he has to force himself to stop her. He wants her more than almost anything, second only to the feeling of finishing with the feeling of her walls reaching the same precipice around him. He thinks-- he hopes-- that the look he gives her conveys this, and when she releases him and licks her lips, smirking at him, he knows he’s succeeded.

Her fingers find her clit, although he’s quick to replace them with his own as she settles herself just above him. When she throws her head back with a gasp, her breasts swell and her long hair nearly tickles his kneecaps. When his fingers slide down from her clit to her entrance, smoothly spreading her arousal until he can tuck them inside, she lets out a moan that’s far too loud for their close quarters, so he sits up and fuses his mouth to hers. Her fingers grip the back of his head, holding him to her and tugging at his hair in a way that he knows means she’s mad with want.

His tongue traces her bottom lip in filthy need before he bites down on it, making her moan. “I want you,” she breathes as his mouth finds her earlobe. “Killian, please.”

“I need you,” he murmurs without meaning to, suckling on her ear in hopes to silence anymore foolish confessions.

“Take me. Take what you need, please.”

Her core is just above him, his cock throbbing with a need to be within the heat of her walls, to be squeezed by her until he can spill all of the love he has for her inside. When she drops onto him, her clit running along the length of him and warming him from the inside out, he grips her hips once again and helps to guide her. When she whimpers desperately, a moan escaping the back of her throat making him twitch, his mouth finds hers once again. With another move along his length, her fingers reach between them and guide him into her, making her hiss and whine and bite and hug him tighter.

“I love you so fucking much,” she says as she grinds down against him.

He can do nothing but consume her, taking her mouth against his again and moving into her until she lets out a breathless sound of need and desire. It drives him mad, his whole body shivering as he thrusts up once again, and when she props herself on her knees and moves herself up and down along his length, he has to squeeze his eyes shut.

The fact is, he nearly lost her. She’s fine, she wasn’t injured, nothing happened, but it could have been so much worse than it was. He praises himself for being quick enough to cut her free, but fears what could have happened if he hadn’t. But when she takes his face into her palms again and presses their foreheads together, when she whispers that she’s here and that she loves him, he knows that he can believe her. He knows that he can allow himself to move on from the absolute terror that comes with nearly losing the one thing he can’t live without.

“Emma, fuck.”

“Fuck me,” she says. Her grip on his hair tightens again and she commands, “Harder.”

So he flips them over, Emma landing on her back and gasping when he slams back into her, her ankles hooking around his back and pulling him deeper into her. She moans in his ear when he tucks his face into the crook between her neck and her shoulder and sucks what he knows will become a far-too-obvious mark there. She’ll likely have to keep wearing his sweaters to cover it, not that he minds.

She squeezes, and she pushes against him, and she cries out against the lobe of his ear, and before he knows it, his hands are finding the back of her shoulders and pulling her up towards him so that he can hold her as close to himself as he can possibly manage. When she’s seated upon his thighs, his hips thrusting so that his cock can slide into her and hit every perfect part of her, she bites her bottom lip and screws her brows so tightly that he wonders if she’ll have a headache.

He can’t speak, can’t put into words the love he has for her, so he kisses her again and she kisses back. And though it’s quick and dirty, it’s just what the two of them need. She’s alright-- she’s just fine-- but they need each other now. He needs her to show him that she’s alright. She needs him to show her that he believes her. So when they come together, Emma squeezing him forcefully and desperately, he spills himself into her with just as much neediness so that they’re falling together, holding each other, losing themselves in one another.

Eventually, he falls forwards, Emma barely catching him before rolling the both of them over so that they're on their sides and facing one another. Once they’re comfortable, both of them panting heavily, she lifts her hand and rests it on his cheek, a soft smile gracing her lips and brightening her eyes, and he knows now that she’s alright. She’s fine, just like she said.

“You’re okay?” he asks in clarification.

“I’m perfect, as long as you’re here.”

“I’m always here.”

“Then I’m always okay.”

He didn’t expect to be here with her, now, with her family above deck, but he wouldn’t trade it for the world. When his palm lands softly on her cheek, the warmth of it heating his entire being, he smiles. “I love you.”

“I love you too, idiot. You’re my husband; it’s kind of a given.”

With a laugh, he answers, “You’re very rude.”

“Only because I love you very, very much.”

“I’m not sure how those two things are equivalent, but…”

She shushes him then, scooting closer to him so that she can press her lips to his. “Don’t overthink it, baby. You could hurt yourself.”

“You’re quite something.”

“Yes, I love it when they say that to me after a night of passionate lovemaking.”

“It’s only four thirty.”

She laughs softly, a warm breath pushing itself from her lungs and onto his face, his lips tingling in response to the heat of her presence beside him. He laughs, too, his hand brushing a rogue strand of hair away from her eyes. “Emma,” he whispers.

“Killian,” she whispers back, “I’m okay.”

He nods, because with her in his arms now, he knows. “I know.”

She kisses him one more time, then asks, “Now, what was it you always say to me? You’re only allowed to fuck me through your feelings if we talk about them afterwards?”

He sighs, nuzzling his nose against her own before it finds her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say you’re sorry,” she tells him, her exasperation clear in her voice. “I’m not mad, Killian. I just want you to know that it’s alright to feel angry about stuff that scares you.”

“When did you get so deep?”

“The ocean is pretty deep, right? And I almost got yeeted right into it.”

He wants to laugh, truly. He wants to make a joke about her idiotic, immature reference. But he can’t, for his fear of her actually going overboard takes over. And he doesn’t exactly know what the bloody hell that phrase even means. So he squeezes her tighter and shakes his head. “Hush,” he says, because he can say nothing else.

She whispers, “Killian,” and when he looks up at her, her eyes are deep and serious. “It’s no one’s fault. And nothing happened.”

He shakes his head. “Something very bad could have happened, love. If I ever lost you…”

“I know, I know,” she says, cutting him off with one more kiss. “And I know you’re mad at my dad, too, but it’s no one’s fault. That rope was there, and you cut it away.”

Truthfully, he’s almost surprised by her mention of her father. It’s true that he became too angry, too blameful of the man who could have prevented a disaster from taking place had he only listened. But Emma is okay, she’s fine, and David is probably just as worried as Killian was.

“I know,” he concedes.

“And I know you’re a little upset about him… I guess he’s been kind of doubting you, huh?”

He shrugs. She’s right, of course, but far be it for him to admit that he’s feeling this way. Why he can’t, he doesn’t know.

“It must get pretty tiring to have him always questioning you, especially since you're the captain. Your word goes, and all that.”

There’s no response, not without admitting that this is exactly the way he’s feeling, so he kisses her nose. She makes it easy, of course, and she’s completely right. He gave a command that wasn’t followed, and it could have cost him his life in the loss of her. “It’s just…” he starts, unsure if he’ll be able to finish.

“They’ve been doubting you all this time?”

With a sigh, he nods. How she manages to read his every thought, his every emotion, is lost on him. “We’ve been married quite a while.”

“Three years,” she confirms happily. “And we’re pretty content, aren't we?”

“Aye,” he laughs, pulling her close to him so that he can tuck her beneath his chin and press a kiss to the top of his head.

“They have this need, Killian,” she starts to explain. “They gave me up, and now they have me back. They have this need to protect me and take care of me so they don’t risk losing me again.”

“I know, I just--”

“And I’m sure it’s impossible to rectify how they could somehow not see you as the one thing that’s protected me more than anything. But they need to be the ones, I think.”

He shakes his head, unable to move past the point she’s trying to make as he asks, “So what, I can’t be the one to protect my wife?”

With a soft sigh, she suggests, “Maybe their doubts are rubbing off on you? Making you doubt yourself?”

“It’s not exactly difficult,” he says in spite before again trying to force away his irritation. Shaking his head, he says more softly, “I know that we’re perfect for one another, and that I can and will keep you safe above all else, but the constant distrust makes it difficult to believe that.”

Her fingers find the gray along his temple, scratching through it lightly in such loving gentleness. He’ll never tire of how much she loves his grays, his old age somehow feeling more manageable as her appreciation for it grows each day. She stays quiet, and he knows it��s because she knows he’s right. He’s said what he wants to say, and she agrees with him.

“You know,” she says, “you’ve known me as long as they have.”

“Aye, I know.”

“And you love me more.”

He clears his throat. “That can’t be true, love.”

“And yet, it is,” she laughs. “It’s okay, I like it. I’ve spent more time with you than I have them. I have more of a connection with you than I do with them, in a few ways,” she says with a chuckle, smirking and kissing him softly.

“Emma--”

“I spent my whole life craving a certain type of love from a certain type of person. I always thought it would be from the people who gave me up, but it turns out I was wrong. The person I was looking for was the person who would love me over everything. The one who would put me above everything. My parents did the right thing when they gave me away, but they still gave me away. You’ve never given up on me, Killian. All my life, I’ve been searching for this person, and I found you.”

All he can do is hope that the look in his eyes as he stares at her conveys the depth of what he’s feeling for her. She tells him things like this quite frequently, her comfort with him evident as she continues to open up. When they met, she was an open book, although the stories were written in another language. Now, nearly four years later, he’s fluent.

Finally, after much silence passes between them-- too much, considering her family is still just above them-- he sighs and fiddles with her hair once more. He’s said his piece now, able to get off his chest the anger and fear that he felt, but with Emma’s heartfelt confession, he feels a need to clarify some things.

“Your life as a child who was, well--”

“An orphan,” she tells him firmly.

“An orphan. It seems rather impossible. I just can’t imagine how hard that must have been, and how much strength it must have taken just to grow up.”

With a soft, sad smile, she nods. “Why do you think I don’t want kids?” she asks with a shrug.

His fingers dance along the soft skin of her temple, drawing trails down the side of her face and to the back of her neck before he pulls them together and kisses her lips gently. “It’s… It’s alright for that to be the reason, love,” he starts, hopeful that he can actually get his point across successfully. “But I just want you to know… I mean… you have a reason, but you certainly don’t need one.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean not wanting a child is enough of a reason for you not to have one. I know you struggled growing up, and you fear you could subject a child to a similar fate, but you would also have the right to make this decision even if that wasn’t the case.”

She leans in close to him, their foreheads touching and her nose bumping his, and she whispers, “I know. And I know that if we had one, we would love it and everything but… we’re enough,” she shrugs.

“We are.”

“Are you sure?”

With a tender, lingering kiss to her lips, he whispers, “What we have is perfect. You and Ripple are all that I need. A baby would add to what we are together, but it’s not something that I need to feel fulfilled. It wouldn’t complete us because we’re already complete.”

She sighs softly and nods, kissing him again. “Okay, good. I agree.”

“I’m glad.” His hands cup her cheeks as gently as they can, all of the love he has for his wife washing through his palms and into her skin. “I love you more than anything,” he promises her.

“I love you more than everything.”

“Cheeky scoundrel, you are.”

“For you, babe.”

“When did you start calling me babe?”

She silences him with one more kiss, deep and passionate as their lips meld together and their tongues tangle briefly, before she pulls away from him with a salacious grin and stands up. “Come on,” she insists, holding out her hand. “My family is probably wondering what we’re up to down here.

He catches the small, genuine smile that graces her whole face, brightening her eyes as she says family.

~~~~

Dinner that evening is awkward. Despite having an unsuccessful day as far as fishing is concerned, they decided to call it a day and turn in early. The tension on the boat was too high, a conversation desperately necessary but not conducive to their environment. He needs to apologize to her father, he realizes, but he struggled to find the ability to do so while trying to captain his vessel.

When they got into the harbor and docked, they decided to go for dinner out rather than finding something to cook either on the boat or in her parents’ hotel room. The small local restaurant they came across just beside the harbor is quiet enough, the atmosphere relaxed and quaint, but it still feels too awkward to bring up his outburst of anger, no matter how justified it was.

Finally, after they'd each finished a glass of wine and gotten refills, he clears his throat. “Dave,” he says with little conviction. He scratches behind his ear, noting the way Emma’s left brow raises expectantly, and takes a swig from his glass. “I, uh, I’d like to discuss earlier.”

Her father clears his throat just the same as he had, pressing his lips together and earning a startlingly familiar look from his own wife. “So would I.”

Without making eye contact, he nods, trying to find the right words. “It’s come to my attention that I may have gotten a bit angry.”

David raises a brow, purses his lips as he stares down at the fish that KIllian can’t believe he has the ability to eat, and nods. “Me too.”

The silence that consumes their table is deafening, the restaurant suddenly seeming far too noisy against the stiffness between himself and David. Perhaps this will be enough, he thinks. Although, he’s proven wrong easily. Dropping her fork dramatically and rolling her eyes, Emma exclaims, “Are you both serious?”

“My thoughts exactly,” her mother agrees. “Do men not talk about their feelings, ever?”

“No,” Leo laughs.

Her mouth is agape as she stares between them, each of them looking to her as if hoping for guidance in how she wants them to move forward. “You’re both being idiots,” she accuses, sitting back in her chair and crossing her arms over her chest as she shakes her head. “Just tell each other that you’re sorry, Jesus Christ. What are you, toddlers?”

“Sorry?!” her father exclaims in outrage. “What do I have to be sorry for? Your husband screamed at me!”

“Because you didn’t listen to an order and almost got her killed!”

“I think you’re forgetting that I know what I'm doing when I’m out there, Jones. You don’t need to have a power trip with me.”

“I think you’re forgetting, I’m the bloody captain.” He’s seething, leaning forward into the table and resting his elbows on the hard surface.

“Shut up!” Her voice is too loud for the quiet space, but truthfully, her words are necessary. “Dad, I know you were scared, and maybe you took that fear out on Killian. But he was scared, too, and he did the same thing. And Killian, I know you gave an order, but he didn’t hear you. So if both of you could chill out and stop blaming each other for something that didn’t even happen, that would be great.”

Killian stays quiet, his jaw tense and his teeth grinding together with too much force. She’s right, of course, they’re being childish. She had already tried to tell him that there’s no one to blame, and here he is blaming her father. It’s unnecessary, an excuse for him to ignore his fears a bit more. So he clears his throat again. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I was afraid I was going to lose her and I took it out on you.”

David takes in a deep breath and leans away from the table, the tension loosening slightly, and says, “I’m sorry, too. I did the same thing.”

In a moment of boldness, he says, “Although, it does feel like you’ve been doubting my ability to provide for her since we met, and it honestly feels like you aren’t in support of our marriage.”

He sees Emma squeeze her eyes shut, her hand cupping her forehead, but she makes no attempt to stop the exchange from taking place. Mary Margaret stiffens, so does Leo, and David takes a moment before even considering an answer.

“Killian,” her mother starts, placing her hand over his in an attempt at being comforting. It works, a bit. “Emma, are you feeling that way, too?

Though she’s clearly on the spot, Emma looks up from the table’s surface and shrugs. “I mean, yeah. I know you guys love us and support us, but he’s right. Sometimes it feels like you doubt we’ll make it.”

David sighs and shakes his head. “That’s never been our intention.”

“We both believe in each other, in our marriage, but to always have you in our ears about how Killian’s older, and his job is dangerous, and how I need stability… It feels like you don’t trust us to take care of ourselves or each other. And now Killian’s doubting himself and blaming himself for something that he shouldn’t be.”

She’s honest, almost too honest, and the tension is back.

David’s eyes seek the ceiling, his jaw tight before he says again, “It’s not our intention. I’m sorry that we’re making you both feel that way.”

Wiping at her eyes, Mary Margaret says, “Emma, honey, we just… we worry about you. We want to make sure that you’re getting everything you need and that you’re well taken care of, and we put pressure on Killian. I’m sorry.”

“I know that,” she answers in exhaustion, shaking her head. “I know you guys are putting pressure on yourselves, too, to make sure that I have a good life now that I'm here with you. But I do have a good life. I need you to trust that Killian and I have the best life I could possibly imagine.”

“We know,” Mary Margaret says softly, her head casting down.

“We don’t need different jobs, or a bigger house, or… or kids. We’re perfect just like this.”

There’s quiet across the table now, each of them seeming to settle and relax a bit with the truth out between them. It’s not like this isn’t something he and Emma have discussed-- they’ve talked at length several times about how her parents have a need to care for her. But having the words spoken aloud, having Emma ask them to tone it down, feels freeing.

“We’re sorry,” David finally says after a few moments of peace. “I’m sorry. I know I’m hard on you, Killian. I worry about my little girl too much, and it’s not fair for me to put that on you.”

It’s a big step. Truthfully, it almost takes Killian by surprise, considering the two of them couldn’t even look at each other a few moments ago. But now, David has acknowledged why he’s so upset, and he’s apologized for it. Her mother, too. Honestly, just them recognizing that this is the way they’ve been feeling is enough, even if they continue to doubt him.

“I don’t intend to let her down,” he finally says, earning a soft smile from her. “I-- Emma’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I’ll do anything I can to keep her safe. Always.”

She squeezes his hand and she bites her bottom lip, releasing it so that she can smile once more. “I love you,” she says softly for only him to hear. To her mother, she says, “I love him, okay? I’m fine; we’re fine. I promise.”

~~~~

The trip home has been a long one, her father constantly making jokes about how he’s driving that make him absolutely mad, although he knows them to be in jest. He taught Leo how to captain, showing him the ropes now that he’s used to the controls, so with only a few hours before they make port in Storybrooke, he’s able to meet his stunning, sundrenched wife on the deck of his beloved vessel. She tries to sunbathe, although it’s becoming colder and colder the further north they travel, so she’s wrapped in her blanket rather than lying atop it.

“Hey babe,” she smiles, tipping her sunglasses off of the bridge of her nose.

“Hi babe.”

The face she makes is priceless, her nose scrunching in disgust as she shakes her head. “No, don’t call me that. It’s all wrong.”

“And what shall I call you, if you can call me babe and I can’t?” he asks as he sits beside her and presses a kiss to her temple.

“You can call me… Darling, or my love, or the best thing that’s ever happened to me…”

“Those are my options?”

“Take ‘em or leave ‘em.”

His arms wrap around her easily, pulling her against him until she wriggles herself on top of him. They lie down, Killian on his back and his love resting across his chest, and he sighs happily. “Well, my love,” he starts, his fingers scratching against her scalp until she sighs and melts into him. “It seems to have been a successful season after all.”

“Just like I told you.”

“Aye.”

“You should listen to your wife, Jones.”

“I suppose you’re right, Swan.”

“It’s Jones, Jones,” she says softly, kissing his neck just above the hem of his sweater.

“My mistake, darling,” he almost whispers.

They’re quiet, so relaxed as they lie together, the swell of the ocean rocking them into a sense of serenity. Her breath is warm as it washes over his skin, sending a shiver down his spine as they travel north, back into the northeast winter. He pulls the blanket they share higher so that it covers her shoulders, and she hugs herself closer to him.

“Are you okay?” she asks softly after a while, her voice barely audible over the waves.

“Aye, are you? Are you cold?”

“No,” she shakes her head against his chest, “You're nice and toasty. But that’s not what I meant. I meant are you... okay?”

With a soft and understanding sigh, he nods. “Overall a successful season, my love, just like you’d predicted.”

“And you didn’t even gaff anyone,” she says with a grin he can hear through her voice.

“Well, no one messed up my boat.”

She laughs softly and squeezes her arms around him once more. “And you beat out those southern assholes.”

He chuckles and lets his fingers trail up her spine over his sweatshirt. He caught more than anyone else, earning more money and respect, along with a target on his back for next year. If he comes back, he’ll have to be careful to ensure that he succeeds once again.

“I’m glad we… I mean, we got a lot out in the open. Things feel simpler now.”

She nods and kisses the small patch of hair that peeks out from beneath his sweater. “I know, I feel it too. It’s like things have finally settled down, ya know?”

“Aye. Like we don’t have anything to worry about now.”

“Yeah.”

More time passes and the gentle hum of the motor lulls them as they skip over wave after wave.

“I love you,” he says softly, cutting through the comfortable silence lying between them. If he could whisper and she’d hear him, he would.

“I love you, too, babe. More than anything.”

He moves his hand from her back to the side of her face, the side that’s exposed to the chilled air rather than tucked against his chest. He lets his fingers trace gentle patterns along her temple until she presses up to look at him, her eyes fluttering shut as he cups her cheek. “God, how I love you, best thing that’s ever happened to me,” he whispers.

She giggles and leans in, fusing her lips to his, their kiss pure and longing as she deepens it. She lets her hands cradle his head and hold him to her, her tongue sliding out of her own mouth and along the line of his bottom lip before she nips at it. With his hands beneath the blanket that conceals them from the wind and the sea spray, he squeezes her ass and pulls her hips down onto his, drawing a needy moan from the back of her throat.

She breaks away from him for just a second, taking in a deep breath without opening her eyes before she leans in again and meets him once more. With a whimper as he bucks his hips up into hers, he lets his hand begin to wander beneath the thick fabric covering her curves.

Her family is here, far too close for comfort, but even so, he thinks he would risk terminal embarrassment in favor of being with her if not for the rude interruption. They hear their angel, their Ripple, barking loudly from the rear deck, Leo unable to console her as she argues with the dolphins that greet her from beneath the water. Eventually, he calls for his sister for support, hopeful that Emma’s presence will calm the beast so that she doesn’t leap overboard.

Emma groans, breaking away from him and dropping her forehead against his in frustration. “Dammit,” she whispers. “I totally would have fucked you, too.”

He snorts, shaking his head and kissing her once more, and says, “I’m sure that’s true. I suppose we’ll just have to wait until we get home.”

She smiles softly as she presses another kiss to his mouth and says, “Know what’s funny?” When he hums in question, she continues, “We’ve been married for three years, but it still feels like we’re in our newlywed phase.”

He smirks, slapping her ass one more time as she moves to get off of him, and says, “I think we should stay in it.”

“Agreed.”

Apparently, their agreement is binding. He never does lose the absolutely need-driven desire to make love to his wife any chance he gets, no matter what they should be doing instead. No matter the things that could come between them, he loves her, and he’ll never tire of showing her any chance he gets. It’s enough, they’ve both realized. They're perfect.

The End

Tagging:

@courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay @xsajx @itsfridaysomewhere @alexa-fangirl-forever @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @qualitycoffeethings @rapunzelsghosts @spaceconveyor @badcats-andmice @batana54 @sailtoafarawayland @deckerstarblanche @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @pirateprincessofpizza @captainswan21 @hookedmom @lostintheskyfaraway @undercaffinatednightmare @strangestarlighttree

#captain swan #captain swan fanfic #overboard #rising tide #overboard ff #cs ff #once upon a time fanfic #ouat ff #cs modern au #cs smut #cs angst

48 notes · View notes

shreddedparchment · 4 years ago

Text

Pseudo Princess Pt.34

A Little Spell

07/20/2020

Pairing: King!Steve x Reader Word Count: 6,799

Warnings: smut, language, FLUFF, cute babies, slight angst

A/N: Enjoy! I’ve had fun with this one. As always if you happen to reblog, thanks so much for helping me spread my work.

Tags are CLOSED!

Please do not REPOST my work on any other sites or blogs. REBLOGS are welcome!

Spring has awoken in Broklin. The sky is blue once more. Small tufts of cotton clouds fly by overhead as you walk with Maggie in your arms. She’s little, only three months, and aging with the peony blossoms in your gardens.

She wears one in her soft hay colored hair, carefully pinned by her Godmother Natasha this morning.

As she gawks at a flying bird, her chubby baby arms stretched out as if to touch it, your mind has a fleeting thought as you think about Nat, as it does every time you think of her.

What is he not telling me?

You remember it like it were only last night, Steve and Sam racing from your bedroom with a scroll crushed in Steve’s right hand.

He’d come back hours later looking tired and worried for only a moment as he walked into the room and then he’d smiled at you as you sat up, your little girl pressed to your breast as she fed.

He’d laid down beside you and kissed Maggie’s little feet just to hear her fuss a little and then laid with his eyes shut. Thinking things that you wanted but couldn’t know. Wouldn’t know. Still don’t know.

You’d known better at the time than to ask him what all of his rushing around had been about and instead settled Maggie between the two of you after she’d fed and only after he was asleep had you moved her into her cradle.

Steve had wrapped his arms around you in his sleep as you’d moved closer to him and it had chased away any fretting you’d had at the prospect of more trouble.

Despite the fear that had begun to grow in your mind, your worries seem to be unfounded as nothing has happened to alarm you or, really, anyone in the Kingdom.

“Sister!”

The call shatters your thoughts back to this blissful spring day and you turn to see Morgana moving quickly towards you, one hand holding up her pale green dress. The little vines etched along her collar and sleeves stand out in dark green and earthy brown.

“Morgana, your Majesty.” Peter states, moving towards Morgana and give her a quick bow while she too stops to greet him.

“Hello, Peter!” She smiles, then hurries back to you while Peter leaves you two to wait by the garden entrance.

You inspect your work—her dress—worried about the state of the stitching as she flounces about, but it’s holding up very well.

“Morgana, I thought you were in your lessons until the afternoon?” You chastise, eyes narrowed suspiciously as Maggie gasps in excitement, coos, and kicks her legs so quickly that you have to adjust her dress around her little feet. She’s a vision in pale blue to compliment the rosy pink peony in her hair.

Your own dress a stunning yellow, and a ribbon around your waist to match the color of Maggie’s dress.

With a little one, you have had to learn to keep your hair up or tied back. Grandmother had insisted on a braid this morning. Long with peonies also wound through to match your daughter.

For the most part, you don’t understand the fuss everyone has been making over the two of you looking so coordinated but apparently it is a tradition of the kingdom for a Queen and her child to set an example of “unity” . How exactly clothes show this, you have no idea.

“Hello little Maggie.” Morgana gushes then opens her arms to take her.

Handing your daughter over, you adjust her dress as Morgana gets her comfortable.

“Don’t ignore me, Morgana.” You warn her, with love of course.

“I’m not ignoring you.” She huffs. “I’m merely using my beautiful niece to avoid answering the question.”

You laugh. A confession you had not been expecting.

“What are you doing here?” You demand, still chuckling as the two of you resume your walk through the winding hedges of your now wild garden.

All these flowers once grouped with their own species and rigorously kept apart before were now in a truly wild blend of organized chaos.

“I finished early and the Master asked if I would like to proceed to the next lesson or spend the day on my own…” She begins.

“And naturally you decide that the day is better spent with Maggie and I?”

“Of course!” Morgana smiles, tickling Maggie’s little tummy. “Isn’t that right, Princess?”

“You should have gotten a head start on your lessons.” You reason.

“And miss out on this beautiful day? I don’t think so. Besides, my brother-in-law would like to see you. It looks like a meeting.” Morgana says, knowing that you will know what she means. “He sent me down to fetch you, and to take little Maggie back upstairs for her nap.”

“Has something happened?” You panic, stopping to look at her with wide eyes.

Maybe you were getting too comfortable too soon?

“I don’t know.” She laughs. “Father tells me nothing and mother insists that I stay out of all Avenging business.”

“They’re right, Morgana…I’m so glad that you weren’t anywhere near during the battle.” You worry. “Or Shuri. I’m glad she and her brother had to go back home before anything could happen.”

“They could have helped. The Black Panther is very skilled. And powerful.” Morgana reasons.

“He is.” You nod. “But I would have everyone be safe rather than risk the dangers of the castle that night.”

“You make it sound so terrifying.” She tells you, not realizing that you’d left out a chunk of compelling story when you’d recounted the events of the night.

“It was.” You assure her.

“Sister, even if it was scary, don’t you think that all of the Avengers fought for a reason? They all want to protect you. And my brother-in-law fights for more than just you and Maggie. He fights for the freedom of his kingdom.”

She thinks a moment, and smiles. “But mostly for you. You should see the way he watches you and Maggie. There’s a fear in his expression that I don’t understand. Almost a yearning. Even Nat says that she does not remember him ever looking at anyone so.”

“I don’t want anyone fighting for me, Morgana. I want everyone to be safe.”

There must be something in your eyes as you insist because she nods, understanding.

“Where were they?” You move on, eager to forget the night of Maggie’s birth.

“It’s only Steve, Sam, Bucky, and Natasha.” She informs you, making sure you know it isn’t the entire team. “They’re waiting for you in Steve’s den.”

“Can you manage Margaret?” You wonder, waiting to see what she’ll say.

Morgana rolls her eyes, “Of course, I can! Now go.”

With a bite to your bottom lip you quickly lean in and press a kiss to Maggie’s cheek.

She turns towards you as you pull away. Eyes wide and hands and feet flailing and kicking in excitement.

“I’ll see you shortly my pretty girl.” You coo at her then head towards the castle at a hastened pace.

As you pass the gate you move to Peter’s side with a pleading look.

“Will you stay and watch over her?” You fuss, worried about leaving Morgana alone with Maggie. Not that you don’t trust her, but you’re a little more wary now after so many close calls.

“I-” Peter begins, ready to defy you in favor of protecting you. He’s your personal guard!

“Please, Peter. I need to know that I can trust you to protect her if I cannot be around.” You plead.

Peter watches your expression then glances behind you towards Maggie and Morgana.

“Of course, your Majesty. I will protect them both with my life.” He promises, easing the worries in your heart.

You hurry on, but just as you reach the door you look back at your daughter once more and find Morgana helping her wave her tiny clenched fist as she mouths Bye-bye momma! Peter joining them with a small jog.

As he stops beside them, Morgana’s gaze is diverted, and her cheeks fill with a rosy tint.

You return their small wave and allow your feet to carry you faster through the castle towards Steve’s den.

On the second floor you pass Sharon nestled into a small library with her nose in a book.

You stop, warring with your two halves. The one side of you is eager to greet her and ask her to accompany you to this new meeting that you’ve suddenly been summoned for when you’re so often left in the dark about Avengers matters. You’re grateful to her for saving your life and the life of your little girl.

Then there’s the second half. The wife half. The woman within you that remembers the sight of her nestled in against Steve’s chest. The stern set of her jaw when you staked your claim for him and then the feeble attempt at an apology that so clearly had meant nothing at the time.

Your jealousy is moderate now. It doesn’t rear its head like a starving monster anymore, but it’s still there. You are Steve’s and he belongs to you. You’ve rarely felt the need to make it clear that you belong to each other. When you see Sharon being one of those occasions.

With a quick breath, cut short by a determined huff from your gnawed-on lips, you stifle the urge to claim and instead allow the friendlier side to move you into the room.

“Sharon?”

Sharon blinks, searching for you with wide eyes still dazed by her book.

“Oh,” She smiles, rising as she sets her books aside.

She curtsies as you stop before her, hands placed gently at your front as you try to stand the way Nat has taught you. Regal. Or as close to it as you can manage. You’re still unconvinced that you can pull this royalty business off.

You know you’re Queen and you make no arguments about it, but you’re fairly certain that Sharon—and other women like her, Nat included—will always look more the part of nobility than you do.

“Your Majesty, good morning.” Sharon greets, rising and matching your pose but clearly more relaxed.

“Good morning. I hope you’re well?” You begin, hoping the pleasantries aren’t unwelcomed.

“I’m very well, my lady. Thank you for asking.” She smiles again, a bit softer.

“I was wondering, why aren’t you with the others in Steve’s office?”

“I, my lady?” Sharon asks, genuinely confused as she presses her hand to her chest. The pale silk orange dress is elegant but fitting of the weather. The dark purple roses that flow upwards into a cluster in the pattern draw the eye to her bust, just as her hand does.

“I was sent for by Steve just now.” You explain.

“I-I’ve been in here all morning. All night even. It might be possible that they sent for me, but no one knows where I am. This has always been a good place to hide.” She confesses and her smile widens.

“Well, why don’t you accompany me? Whatever schemes they have you will no doubt be an asset. Indeed, I don’t know why they’ve sent for me. I’m…I couldn’t possibly be of much help.” You shake your head, relaxing a little more with every word you speak.

“I think it likely that his Majesty wants to keep you apprised of the events in the Kingdom.” Sharon ponders. “After what happened at King Anthony’s castle, he’d be a fool to keep you in the dark.”

You hadn’t though of that. Steve is summoning you to keep you informed? He never has before.

Once again, your mind is dragged back to the day of Thor’s visit and Sam’s urgent scroll.

You must have gone into a daze while your mind ran with thoughts because Sharon clears her throat, pulling you from your own ponderings.

“Your Majesty?” She checks, wary.

“Sorry.” You smile again. “I’m sorry. Will you come?”

Gesturing towards the door you take a tentative step as you await her choice.

“Of course!” She exclaims, rushing to open the door fully for you.

“You don’t have to-”

“Please.” She states simply, and you don’t refuse her.

The two of you walk together, Sharon a half step behind you—as she should be with you as Queen—in surprisingly comfortable silence.

When you reach the wing that you and Steve live in, you clear your throat, walking a little slower with his den visible at the end of the hall.

“I’m glad you decided to stay a little longer with us.” You tell her quietly.

“As am I, your Majesty.” She smiles. “Seeing you run the castle and the introductions with the court and the people…I hope Maggie won’t turn in her grave, but you do this job better than she ever did.”

“Oh?” You’re not exactly surprised by her statement. Steve has often told you this himself, but to hear it come from two people who loved Margaret the most and knew her the best really speaks volumes.

“Maggie was always focused on the world. It’s good to see someone care about just this Kingdom. It wasn’t in ruins or anything when she was in rule, but it has truly prospered under your care. And your attentions to its people force Steve to also consider those closer to home.

“There will always be an evil out there for us to fight. I think he used to forget those that depend on him waiting right here.” Sharon ponders, not really asking any questions just making observations.

“You’re too kind.” You smile. “It has truly been my honor to serve. To help.”

“Serve?” She asks, confused.

“Isn’t that what we do? Steve and I?” You think aloud. “We are here to provide a service. That service is indispensable. We provide stability and structure to the lives of everyone in Broklin. We were placed here to not only rule, but to help and to take care of those who need us. We are called to serve our people in the best ways we are able.

“There can be no service more important to perform in all the world.” You shrug, as if it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

Sharon huffs a small laugh, not in sarcasm, but surprise.

“What?” You stop, turning to look at her with your hands carefully placed at your front. “What have I said?”

“You truly put us all to shame, your Majesty.” She states, looking into your eyes with a sparkle of sincerity. “There are sovereigns that would say the exact opposite. That it is the duty of the people to serve their King and Queen.”

“And it is.” You agree. “We are a carriage wheel, the people and us. In order for us to carry forward, we all must do our parts. It’s why I chose to marry Steve despite never having known him.

“I love him now, but when I agreed to marry him, I had no idea who he was. My father needed me to be dutiful and I was.” You smile. “We serve the people and they serve us in turn. We cannot have one without the other. Kingdoms fall every day to famine, disease, discontent among the people…one cannot expect to take and take without giving something in return.”

“Yes.” Sharon nods, “I see that now. And I’m sure Steve has seen it too. You’re teaching him well.”

You laugh, finding it silly that you could teach Steve anything that he doesn’t already know.

“Come on, before they grow impatient.”

As the two of you approach the door, you spot Grandmother leaning against the wall just outside the door, her hand on her chest and her eyes shut tight as if she’s struggling with a pain of some kind.

“Your Majesty?” Sharon probes as you slow just outside the door.

“Go on in.” You tell her, “I’ll be right in.”

Sharon nods and joins the others while you approach grandmother, a sudden realization fills you with dread.

Grandmother is old. And as much as you’ve grown used to her care, she will not always be with you.

“Grandmother? Are you alright?” You check, easing closer before placing your hand on her back carefully.

She’s lost so much weight recently that her dresses have begun to fit her loose. You’ll have more made for her.

“Shall I send for a doctor?” You ask, ear growing.

“No.” She says, withered voice shaking with a trembling breath.

“What’s the matter?” You wonder, placing reassuring hands on the sides of her arms.

She looks up at you, her eyes boring into your own and you can see it all in the reflection.

She’s terrified. This old woman, fearless in the face of a full on battle, is scared.

“Will you not confide in me?” You fret.

“No.” She says, eyes narrowed as she considers you and her legs grow stronger. “Not until I see it all.”

You’re confused by her words but try not to dwell on them.

“Let me at least get you a glass of water.” You insist.

“I said no, girl. Get back to your duties and leave me be.” She grumbles and pushes around you, muttering something under her breath as she reaches into one of her hidden pockets and pulls from within it a small vial of glittering powder.

You watch her until she’s out of sight, your mind trying to make sense of what little she said, but you can’t. You never could with Grandmother. Why was she out here to begin with? Had she been part of the meeting up until now?

Inside Steve’s den, you find Natasha sitting on one of the plain seats by his desk, Bucky beside her, arms crossed as he stares at a map spread out across Steve’s desk.

Sam is leaning against the desk, one hand along the edge while he points at a cluster of black iron houses near the corner. Sharon, sits in the chair beside Nat giving the impression that Sam must have given the seat up for her when she entered.

Your husband sits in his large chair behind the desk, his elbow on the wooden arm. His right hand covers his mouth while he taps a finger on the other deep in thought.

All of them turn to look at you as you enter. Sam straightens up, Natasha and Sharon both rise to their feet, and Bucky drops his arms. Steve however is transfixed on the map, eyes blazing with storm clouds as his mind fixates on whatever problem has gathered them all into this room.

“No, please…” You tell the others and they relax, taking up their previous positions.

You edge your way over to Steve and almost on instinct he opens his left arm to greet you beside him, turning his chair before he pulls you into his lap without sparing you a glance.

Normally you might protest the open affection in front of your closest friends but as you sit and he wraps his arm around your waist, there’s a needy weight to his embrace that tells you in this moment he must feel you there with him.

You recognize it and it makes you nervous. Fearful of what is troubling him.

“Is it bad?” You ask, looking only at him.

He takes a deep breath and then releases it slowly but doesn’t utter a word.

“Bucky?” You turn to him and wait as he shakes his head then nods to Sam.

“They’re here.” Sam says, leaning over the map again to point at the same cluster of black iron houses. “In this village. Abandoned long ago. All of the structures are crumbling. Decayed. If they’re not overgrown with vegetation, they’re soggy with mold and moss. Thor says there are at least three dozen soldiers left.”

“Hydra?” You ask, surprised you could find the breath in your body to do so.

“We thought that Captain Danvers had killed Rumlow, but it appears that he escaped before she could finish the job. He’s taken what’s left of their numbers here to regroup and rebuild.” Sam explains.

“Then we go after them.” Sharon says passionately.

“Thor says that rushing in would be reckless.” Bucky says. “They have something there. A weapon unlike any he’s ever seen before. It turns men into mindless slaves with a single touch. It shoots out an energy that he has never seen.

“And there’s no way to guarantee that they would still be there, even if we went now.”

“Where is Thor?” You wonder, looking around as if he might appear form the shadows.

“Searching.” Nat says. “For information on the power they possess.”

“We have to do this carefully. I won’t risk open war. Not with these villages here surrounding them on all three sides and the border on their back. They could slip into the Kingdom to the south and start a war between our kingdoms.” Steve shakes his head. “We’ll take a day, come up with a few strategies. We must move but we must do so correctly.”

“I thought they were gone.” You lament, starting at the cluster of houses.

Your tone finally brings Steve’s gaze to you and he wraps his arm around you more tightly.

“And they are.” He assures you. “This is what’s left of them. They’re weakened and if we do this properly, we might finally be able to eradicate the world of Hydra.”

“Cut off one head, two more shall take its place.” Bucky says solemnly drawing everyone’s eye.

Steve is frowning, his hands gripping the fabrics of your dress above your thigh as he considers his childhood friend.

“Then we’ll rip out their hearts.” He declares before immediately stifling the rage that filled his chest. “We need to take that weapon away from them and then we can kill them once and for all. We can’t wait for Thor.”

Nat gets to her feet and Bucky drops his arms. “We should at least give him a week to return before we attack. We need to know what we’re facing.”

Steve considers this, “I’ll give him three days. It’s all we can afford. Any more time and we may as well send them the numbers to withstand us.

“You and Nat take the rest of the day for yourselves, enjoy each other and tomorrow begin recruiting amongst the guard. Anyone skilled in deceit. They should also be able to hold their own against either of you.”

Nat nods and heads for the door. Bucky hesitates but quickly follows his wife out, leaving the door open.

“Sam, ride for Malibia and see if Tony can come back and whether Lord and Lady Lang are still present at his castle.” Sam nods, then leaves too.

“Shall I reach out to Fury?” Sharon wonders, pushing herself to the edge of her seat.

“No.” Steve shakes his head. “They’re racing after a separate faction of Hydra supporters. We’ll let them do their work. I want you to go to the East tower.”

“Wanda?” She asks, curious but unsurprised. “You want me to train her?”

“I want you to question her.” Steve clarifies. “She and her brother were part of Hydra. They were created by Hydra. If anyone might know what this mystery weapon is, it will be them.”

Sharon rises and rushes out with a curtsy leaving you and Steve alone in his office.

Your eyes dance around the now empty room, stopping on the curtained off corner that had been Margaret’s reading nook.

The jealousy you feel is almost imperceptible. He’s had it sectioned off for so long that you’re certain he did it to either keep you out or shield it from view so that he might move on without being reminded of his first love.

“Are you worried?” He asks, drawing your gaze back down to meet his own.

“Only because I wish this were over.” You shake your head, reaching up to trace the shape of his cheek and then slide your hands into his soft and slightly unwashed golden head of hair. “But it will never be over, will it?”

Steve’s face is serious, pained in a way, but only because he can see your distress. “No.”

His agreement weighs your heart down and you settle into his arms a little sadly.

He wraps you up in them, pulling you so close that you might as well be fused with how he’s got you tucked in against his chest. You shut your eyes and rest your head on his shoulder, tucking it underneath his chin when he adjusts it to rest it against your head.

“Oh, my sweet flower.” He whispers. “I’m sorry that I cannot be normal for you.”

His lament gives you pause, making your heart ache for an entirely different reason.

“Steve…” You push yourself back up, searching for his storm blue eyes which you find full of sorrow. “…I would not want you to be anyone but who you are.”

He considers your words for a few moments while you renew the caress to his head.

“Wouldn’t you prefer it if I were a normal king? No Avengers? No strange enemies with strange abilities?” He wonders. “I know that even my own abilities might be a little troublesome. I know that I can be a little heavy handed.”

“Steve,” You stop him, taking his face in both your hands and turn him to face you. “I would not change one single thing about you. Not your strange addiction to salted pork with that cherry glaze Cook makes. Not the wrinkles around your eyes when you laugh. Not the strength in your body or the smiles that greet me in the morning. Not the love you will always hold for Margaret, despite your declarations to the opposite.”

You drop your voice so that it is low and only for his ears, even though you’re very much alone.

“And most definitely not those heavy hands that pin me to our bed.”

His cheeks flush pink and it makes you so proud to make him blush that you chuckle once.

“I love every inch of you. Yes, I worry but only because I’ve seen you beaten and bloody. I’ve tended your wounds and watched you flinch. I’ve waited at your bedside in fear that you would never wake. I’m afraid that someone will take you from me and I’m not sorry for that. I can’t pretend that this life is not without risk and that very risk might one day take you from me and Maggie. I would wipe the world of evil if I could, but I know that I cannot so, I will worry every day for the rest of my life because I love you.

“That’s not a bad thing.”

Steve sighs heavily, hating your words. He leans forward, pressing his forehead against your chest as his hands trace the shape of your back, rubbing it to give you comfort.

“I wish I could give you a life without strife.” He cries, voice muffled against your breast.

“Oh, my darling, there is no woman, no wife or mother in this world that lives without strife. Perhaps mine is a little more elevated with so much hanging in the balance, as Queen and also the wife of the Captain, but I do not regret my choices. I would gladly marry you and endure all of my hardships over and over again if it meant that I could have this moment. Our daughter safe with her Aunt and you with your arms around me.”

Steve smiles at you, sappy and pure.

“I’ll be careful.” He promises.

You throw your head back and laugh, your hands gripping his shoulders to keep from falling off his lap.

“What?” He asks in humored shock. “What’s humorous in my promise?”

“Just swear to me that you will return to me in a somewhat decent state. One which I can nurse you through and I will gladly wait forever for you.” You can’t expect him to make promises he can’t keep and for him to be careful…well, you know better.

“I love you.” He tells you, voice deep and low.

His sudden declaration sends massive butterflies into the pit of your belly and your heart does a dance. It robs you of breath and you lick your lips and swallow the lump forming.

“Even after seeing me as I gave birth to Maggie? You love me after that?” You wonder, knowing the sight it must have been.

“No woman on this world is stronger or more capable than you, my petal. I could not have done what you did to bring her into being and I will worship at your feet for sacrificing so much to bring her to us.” He gushes, genuine and intense in his expression despite the lovesick flow of his words.

How long will this last? How long will he really love you in this way?

You know it all fades eventually. You’re not a fool. You’ll be glad if you and Steve love each other half as well as Tony and Pepper when you two have been married as long.

He pulls you down to kiss him and you give him what he needs and what you so desperately want. You think back to every time he pulled away from you, despising you for touching him just after you were married. You remember the way he forced himself to consummate, the way he’d drowned out your cries for relief because he wanted to get it over with.

He wanted to be done with you and never could you have imagined that he would hold you so dearly. His lips wrapping themselves along yours, tongue softly probing for entry which you swiftly allow.

“Do you have to get back to work?” You whisper between a kiss, lips wet, eyes hazy with desire.

Steve pulls back to see your eyes and he shakes his head, leaning back in. He runs his tongue along your open mouth as he pushes you up onto your feet only to reach down and hike up the front of your skirt.

He pulls you towards him, hands hooking behind your thighs as he guides you back onto his lap but leaves you standing over him.

His hands disappear underneath the folds of your dress, but you can hear the swish of his pants as he braces himself on the arms of his chair and pushes his trousers down a bit.

His hands caress the length of your leg, from behind your knee to thigh before finding your hip. With one hand he leads you and with the other he lines himself up, the heat of his cock pressing against the soft wet folds of your cunt.

You shiver.

“Tell me you love me.” He begs, needy.

“I love you.” You answer, a breathy whisper as he impales you slowly.

“My sweet…” He groans, yanking you down to kiss him in a fevered passion that you hope he will never forget.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I need to go check on Grandmother.” Your eyes are fixated on the shielded corner of Steve’s den.

You’re not really looking at it, but it’s in your line of sight.

Steve groans, tracing the skin of your bum where you sit, still resting on his lap. Your head is on his chest, your body still wrapped around his. Still full of him though he’s spent after three rounds. You will both be sleeping soundly tonight, so long as Maggie will allow you to do so.

It’s not the custom for you to watch her at night but you insisted and as Queen no one will argue. Especially when Steve is so eager to support you in building a new way of life in the castle.

“She’s ill.” You reason with him, “I found her outside your door nearly fainted. With her age, I’d hate for us to be careless with her heath.”

“Shall I send for a doctor?” Steve asks, hands stopped on your bottom.

“Not yet. I’ll check with her first and then send for someone if needed.” You sit up and make to rise.

Steve’s hands suddenly grasp your bottom tight, fingers digging into your flesh. There’s a worry in it and it makes you look at him in search of what it might be.

“Do you want to see?” He asks you.

You’re at a loss as to what he means, and it must show on your face.

“Behind the curtains.” He explains, then gestures at the spot with a nod. “You were curious once before.”

You look at the spot and try not to feel too hurt or sound wounded by the memory of that day.

“And you were angry with me for it.” You remember.

“No.” Steve says, voice stern and certain. “No, my love, I-I was angry but not because you tried to look at her spot. I was angry because I thought you’d read my book.”

He sits up a bit more, arm wrapped around your waist to keep you in place as he reaches with the other one to grab the red book with the large A embossed on the cover.

“This book holds every account of every mission that we have ever run as a team. It holds details of enemies and their abilities or their motives. It has everything.

“When I walked in that day, I saw you with your hand on it. I saw you reading it.” Steve hurries to explain. “My heart dropped when I realized what it was you were looking at and I lashed out. It wasn’t right of me to do so, but the last thing that I wanted was to have you involved in that world.”

“Oh.” You realize, staring at the book in his hand. “I thought-”

“I will not lie and say that it didn’t have a little to do with Margaret and her space in my den, but mostly I-I was already in love with you and the thought of you and all your purity and goodness, all of your vulnerability exposed to the violence of the world I lived in filled me with a fear that I have never known.

“Even now, only the thought of our little Maggie in danger compares to the terror that fills me when I think of you at the mercy of Pierce’s sword.” He brings his hands up, one on your cheek and the other on the back of your neck. “I would have gone mad if he’d taken you both from me.”

You can’t blame him for the fear. You’d felt it too. Still feel it when you imagine your little one, protected only with your body and you with no way to fight Pierce off.

“We owe Sharon so much.” You tell Steve and he nods.

“I can never repay her for being there when I could not be.” Steve agrees.

Several moments pass in silence as the two of you reflect on what could have been and relish in each other’s presence, bodies pressed so close still, in gratitude for the reality of the outcome.

“So?” Steve continues. “Would you like to see?”

He tosses the red book back onto his desk and carefully helps you up. He pulls your skirts down, helping you fluff them out as they should be before tying the string of his trousers and adjusting his shirt.

With the soft hiss of skin on skin, he takes your hand and pulls you around his desk towards the corner.

He releases your hand and reaches up to unhook the heavy curtains.

As they fall away, it reveals not a reading corner but a remade space with a new seat by the window. A bench with a plush pink cushion, darker pink peonies in the fabric. The dark woods compliment the lighter colors. Around that seat is indeed a bookcase but it’s much smaller than the ones that surrounded it before.

There is also a spinning wheel, a basket of what you can only assume is everything you will need to make your own yarn. There are several small round containers that you recognize as sewing kits. In one sitting open you can see a pair of iron scissors, thick and heavy. A leather pouch, spools of already woven yarn, and a collection of cutting knives for leather should you decide to work with it. There’s a small table against the other wall where a large bookcase had sat before, piled with patches of fabrics for embroidery and a few samples of tapestry fabrics that excite you as you’ve never worked on a tapestry before.

Near that table along the floor is a plump yellow cushion. The design is also feminine but only just with silver and baby blue butterflies. A small pillow, a doll made of rags and another out of wood tells you that this spot is for your little one.

Steve offers his hand once more and you take it, in awe of his reveal.

“I know you like to read so I had some books brought for you, but I wanted this space to be yours and yours alone. Well, until three months ago when Maggie was born, and I had that small space added for her. Do you…like it?” He wonders, watching you as you let his hand go and move to trace the smooth lines of your spinning wheel.

“Like it?” You gasp. “Oh, Steve…”

You burst into tear and cover your face. Why must you be so emotional right now? You want to show him how happy you are!

“Oh, no. Please do not cry.” He pleads, moving to wipe your tears away.

“I c-can’t help it. I’m sorry.” You weep. “I’m just so-so happy.”

Steve laughs, an easy chuckle as he pulls you against his chest.

“Thank goodness.” He kisses your head and holds you until you stop crying.

The walk to grandmother’s is a happy one. You’re excited to spend time in Steve’s den. Not only because he’s given you so many new tools to really make some high-quality products but because this means that you’re officially part of his life. He wants you near him when he works. He’s opened his space up for you and is welcoming you so openly.

After so long spent wondering whether you belonged here at all, you finally have your place. Truly this is where you belong.

A keening cry pierces the cool spring air. The shade of the trees that surround Grandmother’s cottage suddenly seem looming with the clear sound of an animal crying out in protest is cut abruptly cut off.

You stop walking and wait a moment to see if you might hear anything else but when you don’t, you race towards the cottage, in fear for Grandmother’s life.

As you shove the door open, you expect to find the old woman clutching her heart again, on her knees in a heap on the floor.

What you do not expect to find is the old woman in the middle of a large circle drawn onto her floor.

Even now, a strange purple light fades from the circle leaving behind the sight of Grandmother on her knees, a slaughtered mess of black fur in front of her and her hands bathed in blood as she struggles to catch her breath.

“Grandmother?!” You race towards her, stepping into the circle as the light fades completely.

She turns towards you, watching you with pure white eyes. Although she looks at you, her eyes see beyond you. They watch something you cannot see, and you begin to realize that everything that everyone said about Grandmother being a witch had been completely correct and not at all because of her old age and her hermit behavior.

“Grandmother are you alright?” You ask in a panic, realizing her true self while trying to make sense of it with the old woman who just delivered your daughter.

When she speaks, she breathes inward. Her voice escapes as a gasp.

Breathing in. “The worst is yet to come.”

Breathing out. “There will be a power much darker than this world has ever seen.”

Breathing in. “Six are sought by the one who shall wield them. Half will die.”

Breathing out. “Already he makes his move.”

“Grandmother?”

With her eyes still bone white, she seems to finally see you and grasps the top of your arms with such strength that you’re sure her fingers will leave a bruise.

“He will fight harder than he has ever fought before. He will protect them all with his life.”

He? Steve?

“And he will fall.”

#steve x reader #king!steve x reader #pseudo princess #medieval fantasy au #royalty au #marvel fanfiction #marvel au #avengers x reader #captain america x reader #steve rogers x reader #king!steve rogers x reader #steve x reader fanfiction #steve rogers x reader fanfiction #captain america x reader fanfiction #pseudo princess pt34

732 notes · View notes

cdyssey · 4 years ago

Text

Regret

Summary: When Fran doesn't come down to breakfast after spraining her ankle, the whole house is concerned for her—especially Niles and Mr. Sheffield. Set after "An Affair to Dismember."

A/N: Okay, so I've binge re-watched nearly four seasons of The Nanny in four days, and had to get at least one fic out of my system, lmao.

Fran Drescher's acting in "An Affair to Dismember" when she suddenly broke while talking to Maxwell made me sensitive. ;-;

AO3 Link

—

Breakfast is a remarkably boring affair without Miss Fine bursting through the door, raising her arms in a floral robe, and proclaiming, with signature adenoidal stylings, “Good moooorning, everyone!”

The clink of silverware, the scraping of ceramic plates, the ruffling sound of Mr. Sheffield anxiously attacking the New York Times like a new Andrew Lloyd Webber play has just dropped—all of it is so terribly drab that Niles spends the first fifteen minutes of her pronounced absence coughing loudly in the hopes that his employer will pick up the hint to do something about it.

“Oh, do go get a bloody cough drop, old man,” he finally snaps, smacking his newspaper down on the table. “You’re driving me mad.”

“Sorry, sir,” Niles arches a brow as he refills Mr. Sheffield’s coffee mug. “I have asthma.”

He turns away to replace the coffee pot on the side table.

“And half a mind to kick your tetchy derrière,” he mutters under his breath.

“What was that, Niles?”

“Nothing, sir! Just saying thank you for your attentive care.”

“Dad,” Master Brighton thankfully interrupts, “where’s Fran, and what have you done to make her mad this time?”

Niles immediately turns around again in time to see his boss’s shoulders straighten in that way they often do when he’s indignant.

Or guilty.

Or some mixture of them both.

“I beg your pardon, Brighton,” he replies stiffly. “Why do you immediately assume I’m the problem here?”

“Process of elimination,” Brighton shrugs. “Fran’s not mad at me, Maggie, or Grace, and Niles is one of her closest friends.”

“You’re so astute, Master Brighton,” Niles smiles wryly as he moves to the left to get a better view of Mr. Sheffield’s face. The vein in his temple is beginning to throb, which is always a good time.

“She hasn’t dated anyone recently,” Miss Margaret pipes up.

“And she’s always fighting with her ma,” Miss Grace adds, “but that's never kept her from Belgian waffles before.”

“So, Dad,” Brighton grins, patting his father once on the back, “unless our math is wrong, that leaves you.”

“Goodness me,” Mr. Sheffield mutters, angrily stabbing a piece of link sausage with his fork. “I didn’t know I was in the presence of the lost Hardy Boy.”

“So you did do something!” Margaret exclaims.

“No! I bloody well did not, Nancy Drew. For your information, Miss Fine accidentally hurt her ankle clubbing last night with Val. I don’t think it’s broken, but I’ve called a doctor to come by just to check.”

“Tsk, tsk. And you didn’t offer to pick her up Cinderella-style and swoop her downstairs so she wouldn’t miss breakfast?” Niles asks chidingly, only to be greeted with a nasty glare.

“Yes, I did offer to bring her down to breakfast as a matter of fact... but Miss Fine seemed strangely subdued when I spoke to her through the door... I didn’t know what to make of it to tell you the truth...”

Mr. Sheffield’s brow contracts as he searches Niles’s face for an answer, and Niles stares back just as studiously, observing the profound concern in his employer’s dark eyes.

The gentleness.

The romance.

The stunningly oblivious care.

Niles sighs fondly.

Unlike Miss Babcock, he’s never had the heart to kick poor puppies when they’re down.

“I’ll bring her Advil and a fresh ice pack,” he promises. “Perhaps some pain relief will help her to regain her spirit.”

“I hope so,” Mr. Sheffield replies, self-consciously turning to his plate again, the tips of his ears rather pink. “I hate when Miss Fine isn’t feeling well.”

“Here, here,” the whole table concurs.

—

Twenty minutes later, Niles is at Miss Fine’s door with a silver tray laden with all the essentials: painkillers, an ice pack, a mug of coffee (milk instead of cream and extra sugar), and a copy of the new edition of Gloss. He lightly taps on her door with the side of his loafer.

“Miss Fine, can I come in?”

“No,” comes an immediate and sharp reply. “I’m not dressed!”

“How discouraging,” Niles sighs smilingly. “What ever shall I do?”

“Suff’a, and at least give me a minute to find a brassiere.”

“Oh, we’ll be here all day then.”

He hears a strange thud, a collection of evaluations (“dirty, dirty, slutty, Maggie’s, dirty”), and an assortment of Yiddish curse words he now vaguely recognizes from being friends with Miss Fine for nearly four years now. And then finally—

“Come in, Jeeves, but shut the door behind ya ‘cuz I haven’t applied a morning layer of lipstick yet.”

Niles elbows the knob and pushes with his shoulder until the door lights open to a peculiar sight. Far from being neat, Miss Fine’s room looks like Macy’s after its annual Black Friday sale with clothes strewn everywhere—from the dressers to the wardrobes to the floor. An empty suitcase is lying on the bed next to Miss Fine, who is sitting in bed wearing an oversized t-shirt, her injured ankle propped up on a pillow. Niles can tell, even from the doorway, that it’s red and swollen, but to his satisfaction and relief, it doesn’t appear to be broken.

“Welcome to the jungle,” Miss Fine mutters when she notices his incredulous gaze. “We got all the animals out t’day.”

“I can see that,” Niles replies, placing his tray on her bedside table and shutting the door. With his usual efficiency, he then walks back over, retrieves the ice pack, and gently places it on the affected area, frowning when she flinches.

“Mr. Sheffield said that the doctor was coming at ten,” he says as he gently lowers himself onto the bed, clasping his hands primly on top of his lap.

“Mm,” Fran grunts noncommittally, grabbing the two Advil pills and knocking them back with a swig of coffee.

“What? You’re not curious as to whether or not said doctor in question is single, Jewish, and living in a Manhattan penthouse? Miss Fine”—Niles reaches over and places the back of his hand on Fran’s head—“do you have a fever?”

“Oh, Niles,” she swats his hand away, “I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s been awhile since I’ve heard that one.”

“Niles!”

“Sorry, Miss Fine,” he withdraws his hand with a laugh. “You know I have to warm up before Miss Babcock arrives.”

“Glad to assist,” Fran quips, taking another sip of coffee, and it’s only as she closes her eyes to savor the taste, that he notices there are lines beneath her eyes from what seems to have been a sleepless night.

The smile sinks from his face.

“You know,” he says quietly, “in all of our acquaintance, I’ve never known of you to injure yourself while dancing.”

Fran opens her eyes only to immediately glance away, tapping her long nails against her mug.

“Val tripped me up when she thought she saw Elton John,” she shrugs dully. “Turns out it was just a really lifelike poster of him behind the bar...”

“I see,” Niles returns, raising a brow. “It was nice of Miss Toriello to forgo her weekend trip with her parents to come back and… boogie woogie oogie with you.”

“Dammit,” she pouts, scrunching her nose. “I didn’t think I’d told you that.”

“You didn’t. I overheard you and Miss Toriello gabbing on the phone about it yesterday morning.”

Fran can’t seem to help herself; she smiles crookedly, even as she shakes her head.

“I dunno who’s more absorbent sometimes—you or the dish sponge.”

He smiles back at her, patting her uninjured leg gently.

“Me, naturally."

"I can believe it, Chatty Cathy," she sighs.

"Now tell me, Miss Fine"—he regains his solemnity quickly, unwilling to let her deflect with jokes—"why does your room look like a tornado went through Loehmann’s?”

Her dark eyes immediately glance around the messy room, as though looking for an excuse and failing to find one.

It’s only now that Niles is sitting down, taking everything in, that he notices that most of the articles strewn about are her favorite clothing items, from her holographic Versace dress to the black tube top that Mr. Sheffield can’t pry his eyes away from every time she wears it.

“I almost did a very stupid thing, Niles,” she half-whispers, looking down into her coffee cup, her fingers tensed and shivering around the handle. “And the thing is, maybe it wasn’t really all that stupid? Maybe it was the smartest thing I could of done in a lifetime of doin’ so many stupid things.”

She pauses briefly before sardonically adding, “People included.”

Though Niles doesn’t have enough dots to connect the full picture, he has what he needs in the way of evidence to get the basic gist: Nigel being in town, the two of them going out, Nigel leaving town, the suitcase, the swollen ankle, and Miss Fine's uncharacteristic melancholy, smeared across her face so sharply that it may as well be lipstick.

He swallows thickly, suddenly grasping how close that they had all been to losing Fran forever.

“Well,” he says, making an effort to hitch an oblivious smile on his face, “isn’t it your mother who says that everything happens for a reason? It seems as though you’re right where you belong.”

“Yeah,” she snorts indelicately. “Twenty-nine multiple times over, single, and livin’ in a mansion with a man who won’t even commit to his meal orders at restaurants, much less his very available and desperate nanny.”

“Beautiful, young, and living in a mansion with three children who love you, a butler who’d be lost without you, and a man who won’t commit to his tie choices either but still cares for you deeply all the same,” Niles corrects her softly. “He was very worried for you when you didn’t come down to breakfast this morning. He didn’t even do the crossword on the Times.”

“Gee,” she rolls her eyes playfully, “how romantic.”

“Very,” Niles grins, “a modern day Romeo—emotional hangups and all.”

With that, he pats Fran again and stands up; he has no doubt that Mr. Sheffield will be calling for him soon to interrogate him as to Miss Fine’s wellbeing.

Maybe he can even get C.C. on speaker phone to rub it in her face.

“Y’know, Niles,” Fran smiles at him fondly, “if this whole Mr. Sheffield thing doesn’t work out, we should elope in Vegas in ten yea's.”

“Only if you wear this little number,” he says, bending down and picking up a black cocktail dress from the floor, folding it neatly over his arm.

“You wish you could be so lucky.”

“If we’re going to be in Vegas, anything can happen, I suppose.”

After he retrieves the silver tray from the bedside table, he bends down and kisses Miss Fine lightly on the head, his heart hurting when he notices the way that she closes her eyes beneath the gentle touch—young and vulnerable and terribly hurt by something he can’t quite fix with a well-timed witticism.

“Get some rest, Miss Fine," her murmurs against her head. "I'll check on you a bit."

“Thanks, hubby."

—

Scarcely ten minutes later, he’s down in Mr. Sheffield’s office as per usual, offering the producer a fresh cup of tea even though he had already drunk his traditional two cups at breakfast.

He insisted, though, on a third, for some excuse he couldn’t quite come up with.

And instead of coming up with an excuse, he immediately asked for all the particulars of Miss Fine’s health.

Predictable chump.

“Thanks, old boy,” Mr. Sheffield frowns, returning to his crossword, tapping the end of his pen arrhythmically against the paper. “Let me know when the doctor for Miss Fine arrives. I want to be there when he checks her over.”

“Ooh la-la-la,” Niles hums, dropping a sugar cube into the tea with a zesty plop.

Mr. Sheffield places his pen down on the desk angrily.

“Not like that… I just want to ensure she’s going to be well… you know, for the children’s sake.”

“Yes,” he sighs theatrically. “How will the children ever be able to bear their nanny having a twisted ankle?”

“Oh, shut up,” Mr. Sheffield snaps. “I don’t pay you to be sarcastic.”

“No, sir, you pay me to help you with the crossword when you’re missing three-across,” Niles smirks knowingly when he glances down at the incomplete puzzle. “What’s the hint?”

Mr. Sheffield adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose before looking down again.

“A word that means feeling bad for not doing something that you should have done all along. Disappointment. A sense of shame.”

Niles straightens up with a long-suffering shake of his head.

“Oh, sir, do I really have to spell it out for you?”

#the nanny #fran fine #niles the butler #maxwell sheffield #maggie writes

59 notes · View notes

harryspet · 4 years ago

Text

a long way down [3] b.barnes & s.rogers

[Warnings] dark bucky barnes x reader, dark steve rogers, violence, death, heavy angst, the walking dead au, slice of life, domestic steve, vaginal sex (wear protection, please)

A/N: I love how this was supposed to be a one-shot and now I’m finding all the ways to make this series longer and add more drama.

ADULT AND TRIGGERING CONTENT AHEAD

In which your world is shaken again and you’re forced to run back to your first safe haven.

word count: 3.4k

series masterlist

T H E N E X T S P R I N G

“She recognizes you,” You said, watching Peter’s eyes widen as the baby smiled up at him. It was currently tummy time in the living room and the two of you laid beside her, watching her explore her environment, “That’s Uncle Peter, right Margot?”

You watched her little fingers wrap around her little toys as she proceeded to put them in her mouth to taste them. Six whole months had passed since she was welcomed to this scary world and she’d already grown so much, “It’s me, Margot. It’s me,” Peter spoke in a cute voice and the baby proceeded to babble something incoherent, “Bet you I can get her to say Peter before she says Mama.”

You rolled your eyes at that as you continued to watch her, “You will be saying Mama first, missy,” You told her though she was only focused on a bright orange ring toy. You could look at her little face for hours on hours. You hadn’t felt true love until you laid eyes on her.

The long journey it took you to get here only made you love her more. You were lucky that she didn’t come too early. God forbid you needed a c-section or she was facing the wrong way. You wanted her to survive and that’s all you hoped and prayed for. When you lost too much blood and began to pass out, you were still happy knowing she’d be okay.

You didn’t think you would make it. Sharon did her best to give you the best care she could but modern medicine wasn’t available to you. You were sick and on bed rest for the first two months she was alive so now you were enjoying the time when you could move around with her. During the time you were unconscious, Steve had made the considerate decision to name the baby Margaret after some long lost love.

Margaret Rogers.

You refused to call her that and decided on a nickname of your own choosing.

“C’mere, Margot,” You sat up, lifting the baby into your lap, “Let me show you something cool, Peter.”

Peter sat up too, his eyes confused as you removed one of her little socks. She was still happily waving around the toy as you ran a finger down the sole of her foot. Her little toes spread out like a little fan, “That’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Peter declared and you giggled.

“It’s called the Babinski reflex. It might go away as early as twelve months so I’m going to savor the cuteness,” You encouraged Peter to try it too and the boy seemed to swoon over Margot. You moved the baby into his lap, continuing to tell him about all the little milestones that Margot was passing.

“She’s like a sponge, it’s amazing,” Peter said, bouncing the little girl in his lap, “Do you get any sleep?”

You nodded, “I’m up by five every morning but I’m used to it now. If she wakes up while I’m sleeping, Steve takes care of her. Luckily, she’s sleeping through the night.”

“Such a sweet girl,” Peter cooed, “I’m sure you’d never cause Mommy any problems.” You were lucky that Margot’s temperament was easy. She got frustrated like all other babies but she wasn’t very sensitive. You thought it meant she’d do well in a world like this.

The two of you spent more time with Margot but your peace and serenity was interrupted when both Steve and Bucky returned home. You always got the feeling that they disliked Peter being around but that never stopped you from being friends with him. Peter probably cared more for you then both of them combined.

“It’s getting late, son,” You heard Steve say, his deep voice trying to be as authoritarian as it could. Steve scared Peter, you could tell that much.

“I’ll go then,” Peter rushed out, handing the little girl back to you. Margot seemed a bit upset at his absence and you held her to you in order to keep her calm. You knew it was useless to argue about this with Steve and you doubted Bucky would have your back.

You stood up from your place on her baby blanket, using Margot’s hand to wave goodbye, “Say bye-bye, Peter,” The little girl only mumbled something incoherent, “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye, Margot. Goodbye, Y/N,” Peter smiled before walking out of the living room. The room went silent as Peter made his way to the front door and tension only increased

Steve walked over to greet his daughter, lifting her from your arms, “Hello, honey-bear,” Margot’s mood seemed to lift again as she recognized her Daddy and Steve’s hard exterior softened. When they were together, it reminded you how alike they looked. He lifted the giggling girl, taking a whiff of her bottom, “You need a change, don’t you?”

“I can do it-”

Steve interrupted you, “No, I’ve got it. Daddy’s gonna change you, yes he is.”

“Wash your hands please,” You told Steve who was too focused on the tiny creature. As Steve walked away to climb the stairs, your eyes met with Bucky’s. Although you liked that he was forced to face the consequences of his actions, you knew that he was still chasing your affection. He was facing his demons in order to get closer to you.

“Catch anything good?” You asked, leaning down to collect all the toys. There was a lake just outside the compound limits that Steve and Bucky frequented for their “time to just be a man” where they liked to go fishing.

“Nothing alive,” Bucky said, following you as you walked into the kitchen. You put the toys into the sink, turning the warm water on in order to clean them. Bucky leaned against the counter and you felt his gaze burning into you, “It’s still pretty peaceful out there, we didn’t run into any walkers. I was thinking we could go out there together, you could take a break like you deserve.”

“Go out there and do what?” You asked, your eyes not meeting his.

“I don’t know, have a picnic or something.”

“Or something?” You scoffed, scrubbing at the toys, “Sounds romantic.”

Bucky’s lips pressed into a thin line of frustration, “I’m trying here. I’m not good at … romantic stuff.”

“To say the least,” You added, “Bucky, I don’t need or want a break. I’m perfectly content right now.”

“You’re sure about that? You don’t have any other needs begging to be met?” You scowled at him, knowing what he was hinting at. Steve had barely touched you since you started showing and, after the rough birth, he wasn’t willing to rush into trying for a boy.

“I’m sure.”

“Looks like both the girls are down for the night,” Steve said, letting out a sigh as he sat in his desk chair. Bucky sat in the chair in front of Steve’s desk, his feet kicked up on the desk.

“What about Sharon?”

Steve rubbed his temples at the mention of the woman, “She’s been working late at the infirmary. She won’t tell me but I know it’s because my attention has been elsewhere,” Bucky was beginning to doubt Steve’s feeling for Sharon in the first place. It seemed Steve was ready to completely let the woman go due to her infertility, “I don’t really care if she doesn’t come back. Y/N and I can handle things on our own.”

Bucky only nodded, his mind already wandering elsewhere. Steve noted his friend's frustration and wondered why the man continued to bother with you. Even after all this time, Bucky still didn’t have anyone else on his mind, “What’s on your mind, Buck?”

Bucky’s fingers rubbed over his facial hair as he thought, “That Peter kid.”

Right away, Steve understood. It had been a topic they avoided despite knowing how each other felt about it, “What about him?”

“You don’t think he spends a little too much time around here? With your daughter?”

Steve didn’t believe Peter was any real threat to his family here. Steve saw him as a distraction for you. Someone who helped you forget your worries, “This is about her, Buck. You don’t want him around her.”

“Fine,” Bucky threw up his hands in defeat, “I think he’s getting in the way of Y/N letting me in again. She has Peter to be there and tell her everything's going to be alright so she doesn’t need me.”

“Tell her not to see him then. Matter of fact, tell him to stay away,” Steve spoke simply, the solution obvious in his mind.

“If she knows I had something to with it, it’ll make things worse. I have to be the good guy in her eyes.”

Steve smiled, a lightbulb going off in his mind, “Shall I be the bad guy then?”

Bucky moved his feet, leaning forward in his chair, “What are you thinking?”

“I still need someone to replace you. Someone to travel and relay messages between our camp and my allies. Peter could fill the position for the time being,” Bucky didn’t think over it long before he agreed. All that was on his mind was winning you back and this would only help his cause, “I need to keep up appearances around here anyways. We don’t need some kid running around here with our girls, right?”

“Right,” Bucky said, his mind on you, “Thanks, Steve.”

“No need, Buck. We have to look out for each other. Besides that, I think it's a good time to ask you to be my second in command.”

Margot was a complete celebrity in Liberty. You couldn’t walk on the street without people coming up to wave or to get a look at her. Margot was good with strangers which only solidified her position as princess of this place.

It was a sunny spring day and you had dressed her in a floral dress and a pink bow. You carried her in one hand and held a tupperware of deserts in the other hand. Sam wasn’t far behind but that hadn’t changed in the past year.

“We’re going to find uncle Peter, yes we are,” You cooed to the little girl who was energized from her latest nap, “And he’s going to love the cookies we made him.”

You eventually got to the barracks where Steve’s group of soldiers usually stayed, you walked through the long lines of bunk beds to find his. As you passed some men, all of them burly and intimidating, they even waved hello to your little one.

As you approached Peter’s bunk you found it empty, only a mattress sitting on top of the metal. All of his comics and textbooks were nowhere to be found. You searched around for the nearest person and found a group of older men playing some dice game, “Excuse me, do you know where Peter Parker is today? He slept over there,” You asked, pointing to Peter’s bunk.

“Packed up early this morning,” The man said, “Think he got reassigned.”

“Reassigned where?” You asked.

“Something outside of the compound. Poor kid.”

Your heart started pounding heavily as you turned back to Sam, “Take me to Steve. Now.”

“He’s on duty-”

“Find him and take me to him, Sam.”

Margot was screaming in your eyes mostly because she sensed how upset you were. As soon as you approached Steve, he swooped the little girl into his arms, trying to calm her, “What the hell are you doing?” Steve asked. He came down from one of the watchtowers, a rifle still strapped to his back, as he saw you approaching with Sam.

“Peter? Where did you send him?”

Steve sighed, “Y/N-”

“Where did you send him?” You shouted back.

“I needed a new emissary and he volunteered to do it,” Steve stated simply.

“By himself? He’s a kid, Steve!” Margot cried louder but your blood was boiling, “You’re going to get him killed!”

“We all have to earn our keep around here, Y/N. Some people put their lives on the line for a chance to live here and then people like you spread your legs for it. That’s how it works, sweetheart.”

“You’re a fucking monster,” You spat at him.

Bucky scoured the camp looking for you for a good hour. You were sitting at the bottom of a big tree, staring out into a small field. Where the field ended, the wall began. Bucky startled you when he suddenly appeared and you were quick to try and wipe away your tears.

He took a seat beside you, leaning his back against the tree. This area of the camp was peaceful, it was no wonder that you had taken a liking to it.

“What are you doing here?” You asked, your face in a frown.

“I thought you didn’t need a break,” Bucky said, avoiding your question.

“This isn’t a break,” You said softly, “You’re supposed to feel relaxed on a break-” As your voice cracked and the tears started falling again, Bucky wrapped an arm around your soldier. You leaned into him and sobbed into his shoulder.

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye,” You tried to speak as you choked on your sobs.

“He’ll be back, I promise” Bucky stated, “Probably sooner than you think. The kid can handle himself.”

“He shouldn’t have to. Margot shouldn’t have to,” You said, “It isn’t fair.”

Bucky rubbed your shoulder, drawing lines on your skin with his fingers, “I know, doll.”

It was like losing your family all over again. It was worse than losing them. At least you knew they were dead. You wouldn’t know if he was alive or dead and, if something happened, you wouldn’t even know how it happened. There were so many things outside of the walls that could get you killed.

You pulled away from Bucky gently, realizing how long it had been since you’d been in his arms. Looking into those blue eyes gave you a weird sense of familiarity. Of home, “Maybe you could talk to Steve? For me?”

Bucky nodded, “Of course, doll.”

You stared at his moment and Bucky noted the way your gaze traveled to your lips. Bucky reached over to wipe a tear from your cheek. He couldn’t hide how attracted to you he was, even when you were crying. Bucky placed a soft, hesitant kiss on your cheek, “Everything’s going to be okay. All I should worry about is your little one.”

You took a deep breath, nodding in agreement.

It must’ve been the emotions or the off-balance hormones because, when Bucky leaned into your lips, you didn’t stop him. In fact, you welcomed that touch. The soft kisses soon became more desperate and hungry. Your lips were angry, demanding as they moved against his.

It shocked Bucky as much as it did to you. Bucky was elated but he had little time to celebrate you being back in his clutches. You were hungry for something and he was going to make sure you were satisfied.

Bucky pulled you into his lap and, as you straddled him you said, “Just this once.”

“Just this once,” Bucky agreed, knowing the opposite would be true.

Your lips devoured each other and Bucky explored your mouth with his hands pulled down the straps of your sundress. As your breast sprang free, he palmed them his hand. The cold of his metal hand sent shivers down your spine but Bucky warmed you again with his mouth. He played with your nipple in his mouth causing you to bite down on your lips.

Your hands ran through his hair as you savored the feeling. As he moved his mouth away, his head tilted up at you, “You’re so beautiful,” Bucky said and you rolled your eyes, leaning down to undo his belt and zipper.

“Just fuck me, okay?” Bucky grabbed you by your ass roughly pulling you into him. He reached under your dress, tucking your underwear to the side as he positioned himself at your entrance. You could feel how hard he already was and the idea of him filling you up was making your mouth water with anticipation.

As you slowly impaled yourself on his cock, your mouth was agape. You realized how full he made you fill, how complete you felt. Bucky held your hips as you began to bounce up and down. Bucky groaned huskily, loving how your face contorted to different expressions as the pleasure went through you.

As you tried to contain your moans, Bucky placed kisses along your jaw and then on your neck. He felt all your anger and sadness as you used it as motivation, moving your body hard against his.

The two eventually met your climaxes together, your body shaking as you rode out the rest of the wave. You breathed heavily, leaning against his body. You tucked your head into his shoulder and Bucky simply wrapped his arms around you.

“Say you won’t leave again,” You whispered.

“I won’t leave you ever again, doll.”

The next day you awoke beside Bucky. You watched him as he slept peacefully, his hand over his shirtless chest and his chest slowly rising and falling. That “just this once” had turned into four times which you were sure he was happy with. You had to admit that you didn’t have that morning-after regret that you expected. Bucky had done such horrible things to you and yet he managed to bring you joy like no other.

You hated that you ran back after resisting for so long but, without Peter, you were once again feeling completely lost. Being with Bucky reminded you of simpler times and, despite the hell you knew it would bring, it was worth it just to feel that comfort.

Suddenly, you heard commotion coming from downstairs, glass shattering and Steve’s booming voice traveled through the air. You shook Bucky awake as you began to throw on some clothes, “Bucky, something’s going on!” You threw on some boots and Bucky put on a t-shirt before the two of you filed out of your room.

You heard your little girl wailing and you followed the sound. You found the front door wide open and quickly ran out of it. As you moved down the porched steps, the sight before you stopped your heart. Steve was holding Margot in one hand and a pistol in the other. A pistol that was pointing at a begging and pleading Sharon.

Bucky tried to grab your hand but you ran towards him, “Steve, what the hell are you doing?” Your eyes widened even more as you noticed that Margot had no clothes on except for a checkered dishtowel and her skin was wet.

Steve handed you the child but kept the gun pointed at the woman. By now, everyone had filed out of their homes and were watching the chaos, “She tried to drown our baby,” Was all he said, shaking with anger.

“I-I would never!” Sharon shouted back, her hands up as she laid on the gravel, “Please-”

“I fucking saw you!” Steve shouted back and you felt Bucky’s arm pulling you away. You stepped back with him, knowing that if the gun went off that you didn’t want Margot anywhere near it.

Your eyes connected with Sharon’s and there was only pure hatred there. She didn’t even look sorry for what she was being accused of, “I was helping! I was taking care of her! You know me, Steve!”

Steve didn’t believe her and you hated that you didn’t either. Was she really capable of something like this? All because of jealousy? Jealousy over a life that you didn’t even want.

“You weren’t even supposed to be in my house!” You watched as Steve cocked the gun, “You’re lucky I walked in when I did. If you had gotten away with hurting my little Margaret, I would’ve dismembered you piece by piece and I would've enjoyed it. Consider this a blessing.”

“Steve, don’t-” You pressed yourself into Bucky, trying to protect the crying child in your arms as the gun went off and the blonde woman fell limp.

Steve tucked the weapon into his belt, his muscle still tense, as he tried not to contain whatever emotions were coursing through him, “Early start today. Everyone get to work!” Steve shouted to every citizen who was listening, “And get her body off my fucking street!”

Silence fell over the small town of Liberty.

Hope you enjoyed! Let me know your thoughts and predictions!

895 notes · View notes

wefoundloveunderthelight · 3 years ago

Text

Love or Duty by GleefullyCaptainSwan

Chapter 4/8

Read on AO3: | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

Or on FF

Stacy's Tortured Crew: @teamhook @kmomof4 @stahlop @lfh1226-linda @ilovemesomekillianjones @itsfabianadocarmo @mariakov81 @qualitycoffeethings @zaharadessert @jrob64 @jonesfandomfanatic @natascha-ronin @tiganasummertree @xarandomdreamx @therooksshiningknight @batana54 @superchocovian @onceratheart18 @ultraluckycatnd @snowbellewells @karlyfr13s @the-darkdragonfly @xsajx @deckerstarblanche

Chapter 4: Duty is Sacrifice

Emma woke as the sun rose in the sky, the light beams breaching the window to her room. She stretched her arms toward the top of her bed and sighed loudly. “It is about time you have risen from your bed.” She heard Ruby laugh from the other side of her room. “If you are to go riding with Prince Killian, you need to get ready.”

She yawned and sat up in her bed. “The sun has not fully risen, even the horses will still be sleeping.”

“Just because you enjoy sleeping until the sun is high, does not mean the rest of the kingdom follows.”

“You exaggerate, the sun has barely made it beyond the walls, the day is young.” She put her feet on the ground and closed her eyes, there was a sense of excitement and dread to get to see beyond the walls of the castle today, she hoped that wherever Killian took her riding would give her a better sense of this new prison she would be trapped in once she married Liam.

“Will you be standing on ceremony this morning and wearing a gown to ride?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She laughed. “You know I hate riding side saddle; this town might as well learn who I am because I have no intention of pretending I’m something else for the rest of my life.”

“You are going to be a handful for the Prince, I can assure you.”

“Good.” Emma replied simply. “Perhaps he shouldn’t have accepted to take me riding if he wasn’t up for the task.”

“I was talking about Prince Liam.” Ruby giggled. “But interesting that your mind went to his brother.”

“It’s not interesting at all, I simply thought you were talking about our riding adventure you are busy preparing me for.”

“Of course.” She said with a sly smile.

“What is this tone?” Emma inquired.

“Nothing at all, I was simply pointing out that perhaps you find the younger Prince intriguing.”

Emma snorted. “Intriguing. He’s smug, conceited, arrogant beyond all measure…”

“So, you’re attracted to him?”

“I’m not saying he isn’t easy on the eyes. I’m quite certain he’s been easy on many a maiden’s eyes.”

“I think he’s sweet.” She swooned.

“Of course, you do.” She exhaled with a laugh. “Men like Killian Jones most often turn out to be nothing more than a child and you do so enjoy taking care of children, don’t you?”

The women fell onto the bed giggling before going about the rest of the task of preparing Emma for the day’s ride.

By the time they emerged from her chambers it was lunch time and Emma hurried to the dining hall in hopes of finding the Prince. When she entered the chamber, the Queen was seated as she sipped her soup. Emma stopped in her tracks, realizing she was alone in the room with the woman.

“Princess Emma, do join me for some soup.” Emma bowed her head and sat down at the other end of the large table. “Nonsense dear, I prefer not to have to raise my voice over a friendly chat.” She motioned for the man behind her to bring her food next to the Queen, Emma took the seat nearest to the woman. “There that’s much better.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“Please call me Alice, I have always hated formality. My mother gave me a name, I quite enjoy hearing people use it.”

Emma laughed. “You sound like my mother.”

“Ah yes, Lady Margaret. She is a fine woman.”

Emma’s head snapped up at the mention of her mother, she knew that the situation between her father and King Jones was not a happy one, but she was unaware that her mother and the Queen were acquainted. She thought it must be awkward considering her mother was once betrothed to the woman’s husband.

“I was not aware you knew my mother.”

A small smile spread on her face, “Men choose to stand behind years of resentment and bitter rivalry, but women, women understand matters of the heart, don’t we, love?” She paused. “Your mother is a brave woman in a time when women are not encouraged to speak their minds; she is someone I have admired for years.”

Emma smiled fondly thinking of her mother. “She would be pleased to hear that.”

“Are you ready to see all that Jonesboro has to offer you today?”

“Very, I love riding and experiencing new things.”

“Judging by your attire, am I to assume you are an accomplished rider?”

She looked down at her clothing, “My father and I used to go riding when I was a child. My horse back home, White Swan, I’ve had her for years. Some of my fondest memories are shared with her.”

“Killian will be pleased to know he will not need to teach you how to ride. My son is not the most patient of tutors.”

Emma laughed. “I never would have guessed.”

“How are you healing? My sons told me of the attack on the road here.”

“Sore, but nothing I can’t handle.”

“We are all very thankful that it was not worse.” She said, reaching over to grab her hand.

“Had it not been for Prince Killian, I fear it may have been worse.” She said honestly without thinking.

“I am most pleased to hear that. Besides, I could not bear needing to relay dreadful information to your father.”

Emma was about to ask the Queen how well she knew her father when they were interrupted by Killian’s arrival. “Good day, Mother.” He announced when he entered the dining hall.

“At this rate, it is almost evening.” She teased. “Can you ever emerge from your bed chamber before the sun rises?”

“What would be the point of that, if the sun has chosen not to rise, why should I?” He mused and Emma tried to hide her own smirk.

“You’ll be pleased to know that Princess Emma is an accomplished rider and should be well suited for a trip to the countryside this afternoon. Please be sure to show her the fields, the flowers are quite lovely this time of year.”

“Of course, Mother.” He said, kissing his mother’s cheek and grabbing a slice of bread from the table. “Are you ready, love?”

Emma felt herself blush as he stared in her direction. “Quite.” She said simply, standing from her seat. “It was lovely chatting with you, Alice.” She added softly, not missing the way that Killian’s face softened at the mention of his mother’s name.

She followed Killian silently through the halls until they found themselves outside, people milling quietly about, barely recognizing their Prince walking amongst them as if he blended with the townsfolk seamlessly without calling notice to the fact that he was royalty. The ones that did acknowledge that they knew him, fondly shook his hand, nodded in his direction, and a few of the women earned a genuine smile from the man. She could tell that he was well liked by their people.

“This way, M’Lady.” He gestured her toward the dirt path that led to the stables in the distance. “You are quite the surprise, Princess. I half expected you to show in full dress, ready to promenade around the villagers as their future Queen.”

She rolled her eyes at his dishonest comment. “You most assuredly did not. You know full well that I am not a helpless lady in waiting who sits back on her station in life. I’m quite sure I could match your skill with a blade, and I don’t think I’ve ever pretended to be a damsel in your presence.”

He laughed, responding with more honesty this time, “I supposed that is true, you are not quite what I expected, Princess of Misthaven.”

She found her eyes rolling again at the formality of it all, “Emma will do. I never liked the sound of Princess anyway; it makes me feel as if I am to parade around in pink satin and lace with braids in my hair and birds singing on my shoulder. It’s tiresome and boring.”

“You’re sort of an open book aren’t you, love?”

She flinched toward him as he opened the stable doors. “Usually, no.” She answered honestly. “I guess I don’t feel the need for pretense around you.”

“Should I feel honored then?” He joked.

“I am most certain the only reason I feel that way is that you yourself do not seem to be of the type to keep up pretense, unlike your brother, you do not have to worry that one day the crown will sit on your head.”

“And you believe this means that I do not have responsibility, or duty to the kingdom?”

“You speak of duty as if you understand it.” She laughed.

“Duty is sacrifice. I understand it more than most.”

“Sacrifice? What is it that you sacrifice? Your ability to roam from bed chamber to bed chamber? Missing a romp in the hay due to diplomatic responsibility?” She paused and snorted, “I misspoke, your father sends your brother for that.”

“I suppose it is more honorable that your duty is to lay yourself down for my brother.”

Emma felt the sting on her hand before she realized that she had slapped him. Her anger rising to the tips of her ears. Her mouth sat agape for a moment, his blue eyes glaring back at her. “I do not feel much like riding anymore.” She said angrily, storming away from the man and rushing back to the castle as the tears fell down her cheeks with each step.

~*~

Killian stared at her retreating form, his cheek burning from the contact with her palm. He knew he shouldn’t have said it, knew that Emma was set against marrying his brother simply because of duty. It was unkind to mention taking away her right to choose who she wanted to lie with. Yet he couldn’t hold his tongue. He wanted to scream at her, to tell her that he wanted more than his own station in life. He could do more if only his father allowed it.

Killian had waited in the wings for years for his father to call on him, he could be at the front of the Royal army, leading the charge toward battle, he could lead a diplomatic mission to other lands, be trusted to speak for the kingdom, to show his father and the town that he was more than just Liam’s little brother. But his father had little faith in him, only seeing him as the boy who caused mischief, the boy who could not be tasked with important things.

It angered him that he was always ignored, he was the Prince who would never be King. He was nothing.

Killian stormed back toward the castle, determined to spend his evening lost in drink and naked maidens. He would distract his anger away with more inviting emotions.

But his anger was not stemmed the next morning when he awoke with a hangover, his sheets clinging to his naked form as if he had tossed in the waves of another nightmare at sea. He was adrift in torment, unanchored and floating toward an ocean of regret and sorrow.

He did not like being at war with the Princess, yet he could not bear to be in the presence of the woman either. Seeing her was torment on his mind. As much as he wanted to shout his anger into her gravity, he was more tortured by the way he was affected by her company. As much as he loathed arguing with the woman, the result intoxicated him.

His mood was apparent through dinner, though his mother did not speak of it, his father was quick to point out that he was once again being difficult. Killian brooded while he ate, not making eye contact with the woman seated across from him.

“I never did hear how you enjoyed the countryside.” His mother spoke from the end of the table and Killian gulped his food down.

“I was feeling ill and had to cancel the ride before it began.” She responded quickly.

“I can summon Victor to have a look.” His mother responded.

“Thank you, but I’m feeling better today.” She said softly, looking back down at her food.

“Probably for the best, I’m sure Liam would do a better job of showing you around than Killian, unless you are only interested in the inside of our many taverns.” His father grumbled and Killian stood quickly from the table.

“If you don’t mind Mother, I have other duties to attend to.” He said, more forcefully than he intended.

His mother nodded with a frown on her face. “Of course.” He turned and bowed angrily toward his father and glanced only slightly at Emma before he exited the room, ignoring the look on her face as she tried to make eye contact with him. His feet pounded toward the courtyard, needing to feel the air, the breeze, something that wasn’t the inside of these rock worn walls.

Before he realized where he was going, he had saddled his horse and took off into the moonlight riding toward the forest. When he reached the small pool of water in the middle of the lush trees, he dismounted and sat down on the rock that had held him many times before. Times when his anger or sadness had pushed him away from the castle walls that he called home.

He pulled the flask from his jacket pocket, uncorking it and tipping it toward his mouth, the warm liquor coating his throat as it warmed him inside and quelled his discontent.

“You ride faster than I was prepared for.”

“Bloody hell.” He jumped as the voice approached him from behind. The horse stopped next to his own, and Emma dismounted, dropping down to the ground with ease. “Did you steal my horse?” He exclaimed, staring at the dark black mare behind her.

She looked back and ran her hands across her main. “Is she yours? She’s a beautiful animal.” The horse pressed against her hand, allowing her to run her palm against its face.

“Aye, her name’s Jolly, but she has not been ridden by anyone except me since she was born.” He said astounded that the horse not only allowed her to saddle it but to also sit upon her.

She shrugged, “I have a way with horses, I suppose.”

“What are you doing out here? It’s not proper for a Princess to sneak off with the brother of her betrothed. What would people think of your duty to him?” he added sarcastically.

“Don’t talk to me about duty.”

“Tell me Princess, why exactly are you marrying him? Are you perhaps too difficult for other men? Or do you not believe in love?” He spat.

“What do you know of love? You speak of it as if it is as easy to come by as getting water from a well.”

“I thought for sure that you of all people would reject the notion of performing your duty in the absence of love.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“For someone that comes from true love, one would think that it would be more important to you than duty.” Her mouth opened and he rolled his eyes. “You think I don’t know about your mother’s rejection of my father? She neglected her duty because she was in love.”

“How dare you accuse my mother of doing anything wrong. From my experience with your father, she made the right choice.”

“Don’t misunderstand Princess, I respect your mother’s gumption to defy the basic principles of royalty and duty. I just thought perhaps her daughter had the same spirit. I see I was wrong to make such an assumption.” She stepped toward him angrily and he laughed. “Did I touch on a nerve, love? Care to hit me again?”

“You arrogant, son of a…”

“Careful, that is not the language of lady in your position.”

“I’m no lady.” She said angrily.

“That part I believe. But tell me love, have you ever done anything that wasn’t part of your responsibilities. Sod the duty, no thought of what people will think of you, but you did it anyway simply because you wanted to?” He smirked.

“Of course, I have. Where do you think I learned to ride that damned horse like that?” He began laughing heartily and a pout formed on her face. “What?”

“You consider mounting a horse to be an act of defiance.” He stepped closer to her, pushing the hair lying on her shoulder behind her. “Perhaps you like the feel of the horse when you ride her bareback? Is it exhilarating having a beast as large as that between your legs?” She shivered against his touch and a grin grew on his face. He stepped back and tugged at the buttons of his shirt, dropping the garment to the ground in front of her. Reaching up to unbuckle his brace, he felt it loosen and drop onto the ground beside him. He did not have time to think about it, to feel the full weight of being this exposed to her, or anyone like this.

“What are you doing?” She asked nervously.

He reached for the string of his pants, loosening them, and dropping them the length of his body, standing in front of her nude and exposed as she rocked back on her heels, he was certain her cheeks were stained red if he had more light exposed to her. “Join me for a swim?” He asked nonchalantly, turning away from her with a grin and walking into the pool of water in front of him.

“Why on earth are you swimming in the middle of the night?” She yelled after him.

Once he was standing waist deep he turned toward her. “Because I wanted to.” He laughed with a shrug. “So, I did.”

He could see her contemplating her options on the shore, looking around nervously at the horses, staring at the pile of clothes he had left by the rocks. He knew he was being reckless; he had just discarded his clothing in front of his brother’s future wife. It was a game he was destined to lose.

And yet he couldn’t stop himself, whatever it was with Emma, it was like something was calling her to him. She was the air he needed to breathe and the blood running through his veins. He needed her and yet he couldn’t have her. “It’s alright Princess, I’m sure my brother would not want you catching cold anyway.”

As if he had just poked her, she angrily tore her gown over her head, pushing her shoes from her feet and standing on the shore in her thin shift. Killian felt his entire body catch fire as she slipped the straps from her shoulders and dropped the material to the ground, leaving her only in the flesh. His breathing wavered as she stepped into the water defiantly, almost marching toward him in the water, her eyes locked on his. God he wanted this woman.

When she was close enough to touch she sank down under the water, disappearing beneath as circles of water expanded out around her. Suddenly he felt something brush against his legs as they were pulled out from under him, and he found himself splashing backward into the water until he was submerged in the cool lake. When he breached the water, she was laughing, her hair soaked against her milky white skin, water pooling at the apex of her breasts. The mischievous grin on her face caused a reaction below the surface that he tried to tame.

“Aren’t you a bloody minx.” He chuckled. “Two can play your game, love.” He teased before he dove under the water, wrapping an arm around her waist and tossing her over his shoulder. She was laughing when she popped up from the water, wading in the deeper water behind him. She swam closer until she was able to stand, and he stared down at her.

Her eyes were wandering his body, glancing at his chest until they swept lower as if trying to see beneath the murky waters below. She bit her lip, turning her eyes back to his face and then onto his arm. “How did you lose your hand?” She asked suddenly and he glanced to his side, lifting his arm from the water, the blunt end of his wrist the constant reminder that he would never be whole.

“Sailing.” He responded sadly. “I fancy myself a pretty good sailor, but at 14 I was reckless, distracted, as my father has told the tale many times in the past.”

“Your father is an insensitive man.” She said softly.

“Aye, but not wrong. I have learned from my mistakes; I do not make them twice.”

“Couldn’t have been that easy for a 14-year-old.” She stared at him with sorrow in her eyes.

“I don’t require your pity, lass. All my other appendages work just fine.” He teased, cocksure and full of piss.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what, love?”

“Lie to me.”

“I can assure you; I’ve never lied to you.”

“Then you aren’t being honest with yourself. It’s ok for a 14-year-old boy to grieve the loss of something that everyone else takes for granted. There’s nothing wrong with struggling to feel whole.”

His eyes sought hers, her words striking something deep in his heart. How did she know that he had never felt like a full person for so many years? How was she able to see the thoughts and feelings he had tried so hard to hide from the world? Things he only spoke of in the solidarity of his own mind. He didn’t know who stepped forward first, how their bodies ended up so close that he could feel the vibration of the water beneath him from the way she moved back and forth beside him. He didn’t know when her arm brushed against his, her fingers lightly tracing the scars at his wrist.

He didn’t know how she ended up in his arms or why she was gazing at him with the look of want in her eyes but there was no denying that he was the one that closed the gap between them, his lips making contact with hers in a bruising kiss that left him feeling as though he would not be able to breathe if she pulled away from him.

She made a sound that sent shivers down his spine as she wrapped her legs around his waist, and he pulled her against his body as they hovered in the water. His hand tangled into her wet hair, his thumb tracing the curve of her neck, his tongue dancing with hers as their bodies slipped against each other.

His cock bobbed under the water, brushing against her backside as her groans became louder in his ear. He could barely contain himself, his hand brushing against her breast as she hummed in his ear, her teeth biting at his lobe. “Emma…” He groaned and he felt her stiffen in his arms.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, it was her who pulled away from him, a mortifying frown on her face. “Oh God.” She said into the air. “What have I done.” She started to pull herself toward the shore, marching toward their clothing strewn on the bank. “I must be insane.” She was mumbling to herself as he reached her side.

“Emma.”

“No, don’t talk to me right now. Don’t look at me.” She shrilled as she held her clothes up against her naked form. “I’m marrying your brother. We can’t…we should never have…Oh God.” She finished.

He turned around to speak. “Emma.”

“Please put your pants on.” She said anxiously and he reached for his pants, tugging them onto his wet legs, struggling to get them to slide up his legs with one hand.

“It was my fault. No one has to know about this.”

“You’re damn right, no one can know about this. I mean that Killian, no one can know. The dishonor it would bring to my family is more than I can bear.” She cried and Killian reached for her hand before she jerked away from him. “Don’t touch me.” She said before softening her voice. “I’m sorry.”

“Emma, I’m the one who is sorry, I never meant to…” He continued to try and tug at the fabric on his legs refusing to budge.

“I have to get back to the castle before anyone realizes I’m gone.” She said nervously, wringing her hands as she approached the horse.

“Would you just wait, love. You’ll get lost in the dark.”

“No, we can’t be seen together, just…please Killian, leave me be.” She pleaded as she mounted the horse, her wet clothes clinging to her body. She urged the horse forward, turning to look back at him once before speeding off into the darkened forest.

“Bloody hell.” He swore, giving up on his pants and dropping down onto the rock behind him. He had royally screwed things up this time.

#love or duty #stacy's fics #killian jones #emma swan #captain swan fics #captain swan au #captain swan

20 notes · View notes

justanobsessedfangirl · 4 years ago

Text

Once Bitten, Twice Shy - Chapter 4 - The Maze Runner Newt Fic

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 5

Once Bitten, Twice Shy Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Author’s Note: Thanks to everyone who’s reading! I’m going to do more planning and hopefully I’ll have a schedule figured out/posted so I don’t keep leaving you all in the dark about when I’m going to upload.

Word Count: 3.0k

You’d slept through the night. For the first time in weeks, you’d slept through the night, spending hours in a peaceful, dreamless slumber. As you opened your eyes, you felt the last wisps of sleep slide languidly off your body and settle in the recesses of your mind, content to wait until called upon.

Your bed was warmer than usual. Minho must have found you another blanket; the one under your cheek was gray. You didn’t have any gray blankets.

You blinked. The blanket underneath you shifted. Jerking away, heart racing, you frantically rubbed your eyes. When you opened them again, you saw the same thing: a waking Newt, leaning against the back of a chair in the Runner’s Hut, his arms open where you’d just been nestled into him.

Brown eyes blinked slowly at you. His lips formed a smile you’d seen so many times before, the one he always had when the morning sun hit the two of you as you stirred to consciousness in your bed. It was slow and relaxed and loving.

A dark blush rose on your cheeks. You stood up and everything that had been peaceful about the moment snapped away. You were back in reality.

I don’t love him anymore. I don’t.

You had to turn away to stop yourself from kissing him. “I have to go, I’m probably already late for...” you trailed off.

Newt, thankfully, didn’t mention how today was your rest day. Instead, he nodded. “I have to go too.” He rose, running a hand through his hair. “But if you’re not too busy, we could always use help in the Gardens.” He seemed so sheepish standing there in front of you, a pale pink creeping up his neck.

You were sure your face was red. You’d slept with him before, but that was when you were together, not in this strange purgatory. Everything was too intimate just then, the maps on the table, the untouched sandwich, Newt’s messy bed-head - they all served as reminders of the night before. The night that shouldn’t have happened.

“Um, maybe,” you replied. Then you turned your back on him and fled through the door. The four steps it took felt like they went on for years. You ran.

On autopilot, your feet led you to the Kitchen. A few boys were finishing breakfast at the tables, but the sun was already high in the sky, so most of the Gladers were out working.

“There’s my favorite Runner!” Frypan crowed. He was stirring a pot and wearing a broad grin.

You made your way over to him, managing a tight-lipped smile. Your mind was still fuzzy. The parts of your body that had been touching Newt yearned to feel him again, to fall back asleep with him, to feel safe.

“Slept in today, huh?” Frypan grabbed a nearby bowl and scooped a ladleful of oatmeal into it. With a flourish, he pulled a spoon out of his stained apron and stuck it in the oatmeal. “Don’t give me that look, it’s clean.”

You accepted the bowl hesitantly, pulled the spoon out, inspected it, then took a small bite of oatmeal. Cinnamon and brown sugar danced across your tongue. When you smiled at Frypan this time, it was almost natural. With every second that passed, you grew farther and farther from the Runner’s Hut. You could feel your shoulders already tensing under the heavy burden of stress. “Did Minho and Alby leave yet?”

Frypan nodded. “Crack of dawn.”

You took a bite, swallowing your resentment over not going with them. Another question rolled around in your head. “Were you there last night? When they put Ben -- when they banished him?”

Frypan stirred the oatmeal. His stare was focused on it, his brow heavy over his eyes. “Yes.” Another stir. “It was the right thing to do. Alby said so. Everyone agreed.”

The oatmeal didn’t seem as appetizing anymore, but when Frypan leveled his gaze on you, you took a bite, if only so you’d have more time to think about what to say. “It was right. He tried to kill Thomas.” Your stomach churned.

Nodding, Frypan stepped away from the pot. “Speaking of Thomas,” Frypan wiped his hands on his apron and smiled, “he and Chuck came by looking for you. Something about how you promised to spend the day with them? Chuck seemed pretty excited.”

You huffed out a laugh. “I bet. Do you know where they went?”

“They’re working in the Gardens today.”

You couldn’t stop yourself from muttering, “Of course they are.”

Frypan ignored you. “You better get a move on unless you want to help me wash all the dishes.”

For a second you almost said you would, but in your mind’s eye you could still see the earnestness on Chuck’s face at the bonfire, and you could still see Newt. You shook your head and scarfed down the last bites of oatmeal. “You’re on your own, Fry.” Shoving the bowl into his hands, you darted away to the sound of his laughter.

On your way to the Gardens, you passed a few Gladers. Exchanging greetings and idle chat about the weather helped delay your arrival, but all too soon you found yourself standing before rows of crops, scanning the area for Chuck and Thomas and, secretly, Newt.

Chuck saw you first. “Y/N!” he called from the tomato plants. He was waving his hands. Thomas was next to him, holding a half-full basket of tomatoes that were almost as red as his cheeks.

“She heard you, Chuck,” you heard Thomas mumble as you approached them.

Chuck paid no attention to the older boy. “I knew you’d come! Thomas wasn’t sure, but I knew. Thomas said you might have better things to do but I said that you mainly just run in the Maze all the time, so don’t even know what you would do on a day off. Oh, Thomas, that’s a good tomato, put it in the basket. How long has it been since your last day off, Y/N? A long time, right? I told Thomas I couldn’t even remember your last day off, so maybe it was before I came.”

You inspected a tomato, trying to keep your face neutral. “Not too long.” Not long enough. “Think this one’s good, Thomas?”

“I’m not much of a gardener.” He leaned in anyway. “It looks good enough to me.” Thomas held out the basket.

Chuck moved closer, mimicking Thomas’s actions. “Yup, looks good to me too. I say put it in the basket.”

You smiled and complied. “Thanks, Chuck.” The three of you moved down the row, passing over a few plants that bore only unripe tomatoes. “So, you don’t think you’ll be a Gardener?” Scanning Thomas, you said, “You could be a Track-Hoe, you look strong enough for it.”

Thomas quickly turned away from you, grabbing a tomato and thoroughly examining it, avoiding your eyes like the plague. Chuck giggled, only getting louder when Thomas shot him a glare. “No, I, uh...” He took a deep breath. “What’s it like being a Runner?” he finally asked, still staring at the tomato.

You plucked the vegetable from his hand. “You want to be a Runner?”

Thomas met your gaze. There was some nervousness in his brown eyes, but there was also fire. Fire you’d seen in Minho’s eyes before heading into the Maze. Fire you’d seen in Alby’s eyes during a meeting. Fire you’d seen in Newt’s eyes when he looked at you.

Passion. Determination.

“I need to be a Runner.” He said it like a fact, like it was an undeniable truth of the universe.

You felt trapped in his stare until Chuck took the basket and nudged your side. Dropping the tomato in, you shook yourself and began walking down the row again. “You’ll have to talk to Minho about that, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up. No Greenies in the Maze.”

Thomas trotted to your side. “How’d you become a Runner?”

You plucked a ripe tomato and handed it to Chuck, remembering the night you’d told Newt you needed to be a Runner.

No, he’d said immediately. Please, love. It’s dangerous. We can’t lose you. I can’t lose you.

He’d begged you. Overhead, the stars had twinkled like nothing was amiss, and in the Glade, you and Newt had sat in a hammock, moving closer and closer as the sky darkened.

I need to, Newt. I don’t know how to explain it, but I know that’s what I’m supposed to do. Don’t you ever feel like that? Like you have some greater purpose?

He’d looked at you like you hung the moon. He’d looked at you like you were the sun. He’d looked at you and nodded and told you about how he hurt his leg. Somewhere in the middle of his story, your fingers had become intertwined. You’d stroked the back of his hand with your thumb as he bared his soul.

When he was done, you’d told him how afraid you’d been ever since you woke up in the Box. He’d understood. God, he’d understood so well. You’d let your guard slip enough to welcome him in, and he did the same, and you’d felt safe sitting next to him. With the sun peeking above the horizon, he’d leaned in, or maybe you’d leaned in, or maybe you’d both done it at the same time because the moment was perfect.

But you couldn’t tell Thomas all of that. You settled for saying, “I convinced Minho and...Newt. But it took a while.” You hoped the Greenie couldn’t hear your voice waver.

Somewhere in the background, Chuck was gabbing about the tomato he was holding, but your attention was focused on Thomas when he said, “You and Newt seemed pretty tense at the bonfire. Did something happen?”

Your tongue was too big for your mouth, too big to form a response. Turning into the next row, you parted your lips. Any words you might have had vanished as you came face to face with Margaret.

All of the blood drained from her cheeks. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, though she said nothing.

Standing opposite her, opposite the girl who’d helped break your heart, you felt a swirl of emotions so strong you were light-headed. Anger made your hands tremble. Sadness threatened to release the tears you’d held hostage for a month.

“Hey, Margaret!” Chuck’s childish enthusiasm toward her was a slap in the face. “I didn’t know you worked in the Gardens. This is Thomas, he’s the new Greenbean. I bet you’re happy people won’t call you that anymore! Well, sometimes they might, some people still call me a Greenie, but I think that’s just because I’m kind of young, and you’re not that young, so you should be fine. Not that you’re old! I’m not calling you old. You’re Y/N’s age, right, Y/N?”

You looked at Margaret, with her shock of fiery red hair pulled back in a ponytail, her large green eyes, the freckles that spotted her cheeks. She is my age. She’s a teenager. A dumb, foolish teenager. “Yeah. Same age.” Your voice was faint. Newt’s a dumb, foolish teenager, too. Dumb, foolish teenagers make mistakes.

Margaret’s eyes were as large as plates. You thought she might cry. “Y/N,” she choked out. “I’m so-”

You walked past her, anger fading into confusion. You saw Thomas at the edge of your vision, although he could have been lightyears away based on how disconnected you felt. Chuck was behind you, saying goodbye to Margaret. His words seemed like they were spoken underwater. “She’s what happened between Newt and me.” Your mouth was moving, but was that really your voice speaking? It rang in your ears, she’s what happened she’s what happened she’s what happened.

“Oh,” came Thomas’s reply. “I’m sorry for asking about it.”

You looked up, meeting his brown eyes. They were darker than Newt’s, and, although they looked at you softly, they didn’t make your heart flutter. “It’s okay,” you said. I don’t think it is, you thought, I don’t think I’m okay. You’d been so sure that you hated Newt. You’d repeated it like a prayer. I hate him, he hurt me, he did this on purpose.

But he apologized to you. He comforted you. He held you. Somewhere behind you, Margaret’s apology lingered unsaid.

“There are other things to focus on,” you said. You had to think about things that made sense. Fact: you needed to escape. Fact: you had to explore the Maze to do that. After a beat of silence, you added, “I’ll talk to Minho about you becoming a Runner. We need more people like you.”

“Really?” Hopefulness filled Thomas’s voice.

You nodded for Thomas. Your feet were on the ground, your hands were holding a basket, and you were going to be focused, and that was how everything would end up okay. You nodded again. That one was for you.

You spent the day picking fruits and vegetables from the Gardens, managing to avoid both Newt and Margaret. Whenever you thought you saw one of them through the rows, you would divert your group in the opposite direction. Thomas was smart enough to pick up on what you were doing, and either of you could easily distract Chuck to wander where you wanted.

By the end of the day, you were sweaty and hungry, but you hadn’t had to talk to Newt or Margaret. Now you just needed to see Minho come through the Maze doors, unharmed, and you’d be able to say that the day was almost good.

“Are they usually back by now?” Thomas asked.

You glanced up at the setting sun. “Minho’s smart. And fast.” It wasn’t an answer to his question; it was what you needed to say to reassure yourself.

Other Gladers were waiting at the door too. Newt had joined the group only a few minutes before. Luckily, Winston had struck up a conversation with him, but you could still feel the weight of his eyes on you. You shifted behind Thomas's tall frame for cover and restrained yourself from looking back at Newt.

Now, though, as the sun dipped even lower in the sky, you stepped away from Thomas and Chuck, closer to the entrance. If you stared hard enough, you’d be able to see Minho and Alby rushing down the corridor. You were sure of it. Any second now. Any. Second.

The Maze began to growl. Massive stones shook as the door started to move. The rumbling of a great beast filled the air.

You edged closer to the door. The line of boys moved with you, Thomas by your side, Newt somewhere behind you, close enough that you could feel his presence.

“There!” You pointed. Coming around the corner was Minho, half-carrying a limping Alby.

All at once, the Glade was shouting. “Hurry!” “You can make it!” “Keep going!” “You got it, Minho! You got it, Alby!” “Run!” “Run!” “Run!”

Minho shuffled along faster. His face was screwed up with exertion. Opening his mouth in a yell, he took a great lunge forward, then another.

The doors were halfway closed.

You bolted to the Maze. You ran hard through the yelling of the Gladers and the grinding, heart-wrenching sound of the closing door. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Thomas running too, a lithe flash.

Then you were on the ground. A body was on top of you, holding you down, and you were flailing and kicking and trying to get back up, needing to get back up and get into the Maze. Minho was in there, your partner was in there! Minho and Alby, your partner and your leader, and they both needed help and you knew you could help them.

But there were more hands on you, holding you down. You slammed a fist into the ground. You clawed at the dirt and tried to jab an elbow behind you, but the calloused hand of a Builder shoved it back down. A hand that was meant to be comforting was on your back. You wanted to rip it off. All you could do was watch and struggle and see Thomas vanish into the Maze with Minho and Alby as the door slammed shut.

You’d never wanted to be in the Maze so bad.

You’d never been so angry.

The people around you began drifting away. Hands and arms and legs shifted out of sight. When the person on top of you stood, the person who’d started it all, you knew who you’d see before you turned.

Newt was holding a hand out to help you up. He was the picture of concern. Soft brown eyes, knitted eyebrows, parted pink lips.

You rose slowly, ignoring his help. Your whole body shook in fury. He must have thought you were crying, because he stepped forward, arms open to embrace you.

You shoved him as hard as you could. Only a small part of you felt bad watching him stumble to the ground. The rest of you felt only red.

“This is your fault. This is all your fault,” you started, teeth gritted so hard you thought they’d break. You began at a whisper, but each word grew louder until you were shouting. “This is all your fault! I could’ve helped them! I should’ve been in there! I should be in there!”

You turned back to the Maze, fists clenched in rage. You wanted to beat your way through the walls. You wanted to climb up the ivy and rappel down the other side. You wanted to hurt someone, and that scared you so badly that you had to run, like you always did, like you always would. You ran for the trees, where no one could see you. You ran wildly, full of fear, anger, regret, so many emotions you didn’t know what to do with them, you didn’t know who to turn to, you didn’t know what to do. You just kept running. And when you were hidden, you cried for Minho and Alby and Thomas and Newt and the person you had become. And then you ran more.

Tag List: @anyasthoughts

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters! Thanks for reading :)

171 notes · View notes

dwellordream · 3 years ago

Text

“For whatever reasons—the difficulty of predicting the moving target that was age at menarche, the reluctance to discuss it, the desire to fend off precociousness, the unwillingness to lower the boom on free-spirited daughters— parents and advisers did not agree on when girls were grown, and marked the coming-to-womanhood at a range of different ages, through different social rites of passage.

The English writer Charlotte Yonge marked one end of the continuum. In 1876 she encouraged great freedom for young girls—‘‘a wholesome delight in rushing about at full speed, playing at active games, climbing trees, rowing boats, making dirt-pies and the like’’—which she declared must end at age twelve. Most parents granted girls status as children for considerably longer. The literary figure of the tomboy, which some scholars have seen as ‘‘disruptive to rigid taxonomies of gender identity,’’ in fact reflected a reality in Victorian child rearing, freedoms granted to girls whose parents had yet to rein them in.

The end of youth arrived conclusively with the leaving of school, mandating a new way of allocating girls’ time. Between twelve and twenty, there were harbingers ranging from putting up hair and lengthening dresses on one hand to the prodding toward religious commitment on the other. Different families chose different ages to signify maturity, suggesting a continuum which would not be named until G. Stanley Hall published his stage-constructing treatise Adolescence in 1904.

At the time, contemporaries vacillated between the languages of childhood and adulthood to define the teenage years. The elite children’s magazine St. Nicholas claimed readers up until the age of twenty, and conventional wisdom encouraged the consignment of youth to childhood as long as possible. At the same time, Louisa May Alcott’s famous girls’ book Little Women advanced the premise repeated in endless moralist literature that girls should learn early the self-discipline and control demanded of adult women. Small wonder that actual girls were confused.

The markers of impending adulthood arrived unheralded in the surprising denials or demands of adults. At the age of eleven, Mary Boit, as she always had, wrote to Santa Claus. ‘‘Papa thinks I am too old but I do not,’’ she reported. The next day she repeated the exercise. ‘‘I had supper and wrote a letter to Santa Clause as papa burned up the other.’’ The strength of her father’s denial was matched only by the daring insistence of Mary Boit on her rights to childhood.

Two years later, however, the generational roles in the Boit family were reversed. It was thirteen-year-old Mary who was insisting on the marks of adulthood and her stepmother who was holding her back. ‘‘I think it is just as mean as it can be that I can not have my dresses longer as they are nearly up to my knees and all the girls of my age wear there dresses longer.’’ The gradual transition to adulthood was marked by these regular games of tug-of-war.

Dress length was an interesting issue both for advisers and the mothers who attempted to comply with them. On the one hand, long dresses signified adult status and therefore should be resisted as long as possible. On the other hand, long dresses covered girls’ legs and therefore should be adopted as soon as such legs might invite unseemly attention. Lillian Boit took the former position, the writers of Ladies’ Home Journal the latter. Isabel Mallon, writing under her own name rather than her famous pseudonym Ruth Ashmore, noted that she could ‘‘hear the dress reformers objecting to this’’ but declared that ‘‘keeping our girls modest is of very much more importance.’’

Emma Hooper’s descriptions of ‘‘A Schoolgirl’s Outfit’’ in 1894 recommended that skirts hit the leg halfway between knee and ankle at age ten. At age eight, they should be from one to two inches shorter. Several advisers agreed that at age thirteen a girl’s skirts should reach her ankles, while at fourteen through six- teen they should go just below her ankles. Seventeen marked full adulthood for purposes of dress length, for a girl should wear her dresses ‘‘the length that any lady does.’’ In essence, fashion advisers on hem length were gradual- ists, suggesting that hems travel steadily down a girl’s leg in accord with her increasing years.

According to the Ladies’ Home Journal, hair had its own separate clock; with no implications for modesty, hair should be kept off the top of the head throughout most of the teen years, the Journal urged. At separate times advisers staved off readers’ suggestions that fourteen, fifteen, and sixteen might be appropriate times for a girl to begin wearing her hair up. At fifteen, it might be worn ‘‘braided, looped and tied with black ribbon’’ for novelty, one writer suggested. Only at nineteen might a girl earn the right to arrange her hair ‘‘in any way she wished.’’ As in the Journal ’s recommendations for other kinds of conduct, though, it seems likely that few readers actually complied.

Margaret Tileston, who was brought up conservatively, noted her gradual adaptations to more adult pre- sentation, beginning in 1881, when she was thirteen, with the decision that she and her older sister would begin to wear ‘‘corset waists.’’ (The same year, Agnes Garrison at fifteen noted her astonishment that a new acquaintance wore ‘‘corsets.’’) The next year, at the age of fourteen, Tileston noted, ‘‘I did my hair up myself behind for the first time.’’

A month later, wearing her hair up and behind had evolved from noteworthy event to planned habit. ‘‘I intend to generally now,’’ she reported. At the age of seventeen, after her graduation from high school, she began wearing a bustle, another contested arena of maturity. As with dress length, bustles came calibrated for age and sophistication, with the progression left to family decision. ‘‘Misses’’ bustles had two or three coils, while those allowed to older girls had four, and bustles for fancy wear sometimes had six.

In the incremental adoption of the marks of adulthood, some ages were more resonant than others. In Louisa May Alcott’s novels the age when childish high spirits must be put aside for young adulthood was fifteen. On the eve of Julia Newberry’s sixteenth birthday, she imagined herself saying farewell to childhood, for ‘‘when once a person is sixteen, though they are still very young, they can never be called, ‘child.’’’ Fond parents might grant girls freedom to ‘‘run wild’’ longer.

Frances Willard’s parents chose her seventeenth birthday as ‘‘the day of her martyrdom,’’ as she recorded it in her diary. ‘‘My ‘back’ hair is twisted up like a corkscrew; I carry eighteen hair-pins; my head aches miserably; my feet are entangled in the skirt of my hateful new gown. As for chasing sheep . . . it’s out of the question.’’ Altogether, Willard felt she had lost her ‘‘occupation’’ as a free-spirited and adventurous child. Emily Eliot was allowed to hold on longer, announcing on her nineteenth birthday, ‘‘It is so horrid to get out of your teens and when you are 20 you must leave girlhood behind you and become a woman. I like teens ever so much.’’

The age of eighteen seems to have borne the most cultural freight, though, indicating the time when a girl simultaneously came into possession of herself and became eligible for possession by someone else. If her parents martyred her at seventeen, at eighteen Frances Willard claimed her own destiny, if only in choosing her reading material, declaring: ‘‘I am eighteen—I am of age— I am now to do what I think is right.’’

In elite society, as well, eighteen was a common age for a girl to ‘‘come out’’ into society, and become eligible for courtship and marriage. Birthday gifts of money to serve as a dowry and of tokens befitting young ladyhood suggested these implications. A Paterson, New Jersey, manufacturer gave his daughter yellow roses and pinks ‘‘36 in all,’’ and Lucy Breckinridge’s father gave her $200. Margaret Tileston received a $1,000 savings bond from her grandfather, as well as the news that she would have a regular allowance, a privilege enjoyed earlier by some of her class. The age of eighteen in fact was often thought to be the conclusion of a process of growing up which had commenced years earlier.

Some fond—or negligent—parents demonstrated little relish even then for moving girls from carefree childhood to responsible adulthood. Such girls were lucky. Annie Cooper grew up the youngest daughter of a retired boat builder in what she described as a near-idyllic rural setting in eastern Long Island. When she turned eighteen in 1882, she still found herself enjoying exuberant girlhood. ‘‘I am still spared, well and happy, no care yet hath been put upon me, I am still a happy, joyous, merry, hearty, and healthy, school girl, girl of 16 in feeling, but eighteen in years.’’ In reflection, she imagined the consequences of her new age.

‘‘I can’t bear to think how fast my happy youth and childhood is slipping from me, that I soon will be too big to climb trees and ride horse back straddling, etc. yes, that in fact I am too big already, it makes me feel badly, for although I love the deeper and more sound stuff, yet too I love nature, in all its phases, I love the woods the air, the birds, the storms, the water, the animals of every description, and I love nature’s sports, and I feel that in advancing age I am getting too big to do with propriety all the sports which belong to nature.’’

Her concerns for propriety encouraged her to imagine cutting back her activity, but she felt reassured that some activities were still left to her. ‘‘Thank God who has given them to me, that I still can ride horse back and go boating as much as I please, with propriety, if I can not climb trees (in the front yard.)’’ Of course there was always the back yard, where it was clear that Annie Cooper would continue to retain the entitlements of a girlhood that she remembered in later days as being ‘‘full and rich and innocent and happy.’’

Yet for every such memory of girlhood seized and held, there were other memories of entrapment, of moments when the meaning of maturing was frozen in claustrophobic anxiety. One such memory was recorded by Elizabeth Coffin, writing about her girlhood in Germantown, Pennsylvania, in the 1890s:

I can never forget my first long dress. It had an overskirt, too, which was insult added to injury. I felt ‘tied and bound’ with it, and it seemed as if, on account of it, my old life with its care-free associations had come to an end. . . . When I found myself robed in it, with my pet dog Koko I went to the garden and told my story of woe to the great cornstalks, who I felt understood me as nothing else in nature did. It seemed to me that the cornstalks waved and bowed their heads in sympathy. . . . There would be no more boiling of corn in the old kettle, climbing trees, coasting with other girls and boys, hitching my sled to the backs of sleighs or romp- ing with the dogs. I was grown up now and serious duties were expected of me.

The donning of a long dress was only the beginning of more profound changes accompanying the arrival of adulthood. Girls used available explanatory systems to describe and acknowledge their metamorphosis into adulthood, often slipping into alternating romantic, social, familial, and spiritual narratives. In the early and midcentury, girls’ diaries strove for an appropriately spiritual analysis for such changes. Later in the century, girls were less reliably successful in finding religious justification for their states of mind in an environment of increasing religious skepticism. Whether successful or failed, however, girls’ spiritual quests encouraged them to scrutinize their emotional lives and provided them with the vocabulary to do so. Unlike the keeping of diaries, however, religious commitment often required a public profession, which brought private feeling into public display.

Agnes Lee’s 1850s journal described an intense malaise which evolved through several rhetorics of understanding until resting in a religious crisis. She first considered the possibility that she was homesick, and then wondered whether her longing was ‘‘to be loved, to be worshipped by something or someone?’’ Once out, this thought provided the occasion for a final resting point for the evening’s reveries. ‘‘No—that is sinful, silly and impossible. I hope, I pray my yearnings . . . may be for something holier higher than I have yet felt. . . . I am told and I know I can, I must find it in the bosom of my Saviour and only there. I have tried, but my heart seems shut up, it is so hard! . . . Some- times the awful thought comes to me, I am one of those who are never to be good—one of the doomed.’’ Agnes Lee’s progression, all documented in the pages of her journal, ended by dropping her in the center of a traditional and appropriate script for a girl her age, especially in the early to midcentury: the quest for a conversion experience.

By midcentury and beyond, the expectation of a moment of sudden epiphany had been muted a bit; it was no longer necessary to have a moment of mystical communion to signify an indwelling Christ. Nonetheless, the anticipation of a mature coming-to-God pervaded and sometimes shaped the experience of youth. Sometimes the signs were overt.

Emma Hidden got a severe case of chicken pox during her teenage years and nearly died. On January 28, 1869, she noted the anniversary of her illness. ‘‘One year ago today I was taken sick with chicken-pox—What changes has that year brought to me. One year ago I was so silly and thoughtless—and now I have a sweet hope of a change.’’ Several weeks later she gave thanks to God ‘‘that he has made me pass thro’ the fire to purify me.’’ The loss of ‘‘silly’’ girlhood through spiritual ‘‘change’’ was a clear formula which was applied in anticipation and description of religious commitment.

Ideally, a religious quest had institutional consequences. A religious experience was formalized by joining a church. Parents were centrally involved in encouraging, promoting, and celebrating this process as a critical part of their responsibilities. Sally Dana’s letters from seminary in the late 1850s made it clear that under her father’s oversight she was to have established a connection with a local minister, an acquaintance of her father’s, to facilitate her confirmation.

She wrote, ‘‘Has Mr. Wilmer said anything about me, I have not seen him to talk to for two weeks and that on Sunday a little while after church (he has been here to see me two or three times, since I have been here) but I feel as if I wanted to see him, or his wife more but, perhaps I expect too much of a minister.’’ Dana went on to ask ‘‘God my Father, Friend’’ ‘‘to give me strength that I may continue my efforts and not disappoint my very dear parent and friends.’’ Obligation and succor were reciprocal, with Sally Dana asking God for help so as not to disappoint her father, just as her father asked her to seek help from her local minister so as not to disappoint her God.

Perhaps as early as several weeks later (the year of this letter is not noted), Dana wrote about greater resolution to this crisis. Her letter commenced with a description of a calm joy and serenity. ‘‘Father, I cannot tell you what a pleasant day last Sunday was to me, particularly after church, and after talking with Mr. Wilmer a little while. I felt so quiet and calm and peaceful, I had my Bible lesson early and I had time to read a little and then. I really loved that Sunday I wish I could have others like it.’’

Dana’s description of her state of mind had particular significance, because it accompanied a moment of commitment: ‘‘I am so glad I can be confirmed, I look forward to it with pleasure, I think of it (if I can express my self right) as being a kind of shield and defense from the world and its lusts, as if I should be nearer my Saviour friend.’’ Sally Dana’s confession of religious calm and commitment to her father represented her fulfillment of youthful obligation to both earthly and heavenly father, even without a moment of spiritual epiphany.

If girls sought commitment at parental directive, they often experienced conversion within a youth cohort. Agnes Lee wrote lengthy journal entries about her personal and spiritual journey to God, seemingly an individual in- ternal odyssey out from under ‘‘an angry black cloud that [was] ever over me,’’ which left her feeling and acting ‘‘so strange.’’ This intensely spiritual experience did not happen in isolation, however, for ‘‘Annie, Mary, Ada and Annette took the same step.’’

Individual quests under parental guidance often took place in company—sometimes of family members, sometimes of school- mates, even sometimes in classes. When Sally Dana was attempting to pro- cess her confirmation, she noted that she ‘‘was not in any class yet,’’ an acknowledgment by the churches themselves that routes to salvation might run through education and preparation, rather than through the spontaneity of random epiphany.

…Professing faith, like being good, was emotional work which required the acquisition of appropriate feelings. Unlike the quiet display of pleasantness, though, loving God required girls to verbalize their feelings to parents, ministers, and congregations. Evangelical culture encouraged a language of feeling often embarrassing to girls still trying to get their emotional bearings. Annie Cooper had delayed until what she seemed to think was the last acceptable moment—the week of her twentieth birthday—perhaps partly because she found public acknowledgment of her faith to be excruciating.

When a minister asked Annie Cooper to help with a female prayer meeting, she was thrown into a panic. ‘‘Oh! my God! how can I? I do wish I could but have not the gift of ‘gab,’ I don’t see how I can. I, who can not even, to save my life, say a single word at home, how can I brake through the barriers of timidity and natural diffidence to such an extent as that?’’

Annie Cooper’s worries about her ability to articulate religious feeling came allied with worries of all kinds about her emotional depth, especially her ability to be the kind of understanding, helpful daughter who could assist her parents in their old age. Speaking about religion meant speaking sincerely about feelings; speaking about either constituted a substantial challenge to late-Victorian girls still trying to manage complex emotional protocols.

…By its very nature, the experience of religious conversion, or even the reconfirming of religious commitment, depended on private, personal feeling. What was at issue was not what or how much you knew, or how you acted, but instead what you felt. However, unlike most other circumstances, in which private feeling was appropriately closeted in one’s heart, religious profession meant speaking of that feeling in a compelling way. Just when girlhood’s lessons had been learned, religious profession required that they be overturned in a potentially embarrassing confession of religious enthusiasm. Coming in the context of a life defined by being good and subordinating selfish desires, such public self-revelation was anathema.

…To the extent that Victorian parents and advisers demanded religious profession, they were asking that girls look deep inside themselves and come up with something profound, sincere, pure, and winning. This, of course, was what girls brought to romantic relationships as well, an alliance that brought possibility as well as danger. One mother explained to her constrained daughter the relationship between religious and romantic spontaneity, suggesting that the expression of religious feeling might itself lead to more genuine communion with those around—perhaps even a more direct route into the hearts of men.

Though they may be ‘‘apparently thoughtless young men,’’ Ella Lyman wrote, a woman’s ‘‘carrying into life the life-giving idea’’ might lead men to ‘‘show their best deepest side and one immediately establishes real trust and friendship.’’ With a young woman’s expression of religious sensibility might come the realization of oneness, ‘‘that we are God’s own children with one aim one hope one aspiration.’’

But this experience of spiritual and romantic oneness was just what Annie Winsor’s mother feared. Ann Winsor put off the matter of her daughter’s soul until just a few weeks before Annie’s twentieth birthday. At that point she sent a letter of gentle inquiry to her daughter at college, revealing her sticking point: a need to reassure herself about the role of feeling in her daughter’s life.

Although she urged Annie to express religious enthusiasm, she feared feelings of other kinds, warning about the lamentable career of George Eliot, another intellectual daughter. George Eliot’s extramarital affair with George Lewes gave Ann pause. Without ‘‘clear sight to guide it, and strict ‘puritan’ principle to strengthen it,’’ such feeling could lead a girl directly into the biggest kind of moral trouble.

The cultural critic Nancy Armstrong has argued that the development of a specifically feminine identity in nineteenth-century England rested on the construction of a psychologized, feminine protagonist in the romantic novel. According to Armstrong, the drama of the domestic heroine lay in the richness and the interest of her feelings and her sensibility, not in the interplay of bold actions on a large stage.

What Armstrong’s theory overlooks, which was especially significant in the United States, is the central role that the search for a religious self played in the development of a feeling and romantic self of any kind. Not all advisers agreed about the need for girls to demonstrate engaged spirituality. Some moralists feared excessive piety in the same way that they feared sensational fiction: it might divert girls from their little duties at home.

…The expectation that girls speak about religion, like the expectation that girls like or dislike books, was a cultural demand that girls have and then be able to communicate an interior, private being. When girls like Ellen Regal, daughter of an itinerant minister in Michigan added ‘‘secret divotion’’ to her attendance at family worship and her memorizing of the Bible, she was exercising a private, personalized religion which would pay dividends in the development of an enriched sense of self. Girls’ reservations in speaking about such a private subject as religion revealed their discomfort in speaking about, or perhaps even in having, feelings they could trust and report on. Once mastered, though, religious profession might lead to emotional assertions of other kinds.”

- Jane H. Hunter, “Interiors: Bodies, Souls, Moods.” in How Young Ladies Became Girls: The Victorian Origins of American Girlhood

#history #how young ladies became girls #jane h. hunter #victorian #fashion #religion #american

7 notes · View notes