i’m sorry but what are the ODDS that i found someone who loves me just as much as i love them. we love each other!! it’s so wonderful and astounding and rare!!!
The Flash Family have lost track of Bart, but not because of any of the usual reasons.
They lost him because a group of occultists dropped him in a rift between realities.
They're loathe to do it, but they.
They have to use magic. To summon a...ghost. King. Thing.
It's all very smoke and mirrors and the scientifically minded speedsters are fed up with it even before they've started diving into it.
They've grabbed Zatanna, made a sigil on the ground out of goat blood, and are waiting for her to finish chanting nonsense to summon an interdimensional being that thinks it's a ghost, of all things.
The space above the sigil condenses, both imploding and exploding at the same time. For a brief moment, everyone staring at the anomaly sees what looks like the end of time itself, only to suddenly be looking at the beginning of time, and then.
Void.
A rip in the air, a hole of pure void, floats above them, a shade of black so dark their eyes cannot comprehend what they're looking at.
Then, piece by piece, something unfolds itself from that void.
Pale fingers wrap along the edges of the tear in reality, with too many joints and claws far too sharp, slowly pulling the thing that owns them through.
It has white hair, a body made of space and ice, and a form that their minds can only barely comprehend.
"Who dares to try to summon Pariah Dark?" It demands, a million voices all at once, none of them speaking English but yet able to be understood all the same.
"We do!" Wally shouts, pushing himself forward. "One of our own is trapped in your dimension, an-"
"Wait, wait, hold up. A normal human is in my dimension? Like, from this location?" The sinister being asks, holding up it's hands in a 'slow down' motion.
"Uh, yeah. He's just a kid, and he shouldn't be-"
"Fuck me how long has he been here?!" The eldritch creature shouts, slowly shrinking in size until it's...about as tall as Wally. Also, less eldritchy. Now it just looks like some hero with white hair and green eyes, currently about to pull out his own hair with how hard he's grabbing it.
"Like, a day."
"Shit, be right back, he can't have gone far." The apparently normal-ish looking Pariah Dark says, jumping back into the void.
Wally looks at Zatanna.
Zatanna looks a strange mix of shocked, scared, confused, and slowly morphing into pissed.
Fifteen minutes later, a frazzled looking Pariah Dark reappears, Impulse thrown over his shoulder as he sprints through the portal.
"Close it close it close it!" Pariah shouts, waving a hand at Zatanna, who does it with a snap of her fingers.
"Oh no. Bart, is he-?"
"-Drunk out of his mind? Yeah. Yeah, he found his way into one of the nightclubs. By the way, he's wanted for underage drinking now. Probably shouldn't go back any time soon."
Summary: Memories of your past are coming back to haunt you, and the pirates you're stuck with are bound and determined to give you something to do.
Warnings: nightmares, panic attacks, child abuse, severe harm to reader (past)
“Stop dropping your guard!”
You yelp and sidestep out of the way of another strike aimed at your face, but it wasn’t far enough. Akainu’s fist still connects with your arm that you had up around your head. It sends you stumbling to the side, and his quick advance has you scrambling to correct your form.
“I’m trying!” You attempt to plead your case, not understanding why he’s getting so much more worked up this time than usual.
“Try harder!” Akainu’s foot connects with your stomach and launches you back, sending you rolling across the floor. “You’re only guarding your head, you need to guard the rest of yourself!”
All you can do is cough and gasp for air, trying desperately not to lose your breakfast after the devastating blow to your guts. You were trying to protect yourself, but up until that last hit, he was exclusively targeting your head. How are you supposed to guard your face and body at the same time? You don’t know what he wants from you, much less how to do it.
Before you can get back onto your feet, he’s on you again. You roll out of the way of another kick with less than a second to spare. You risk a glance up at his face, hoping to see approval, but he appears to only be getting angrier as this progresses. Why? Why is he so mad at you today?
You’re back up onto your feet, and you bring your arms up into a high guard again as you see another punch coming at your head.
“What did I just tell you,” Akainu’s voice raises even more, “about guarding your damned middle!”
In the next instant, you feel his fist connect with your chest. It’s followed immediately by an all encompassing, searing pain that sets your nerves on fire. Your eyes drop down in terror, only to find magma burning its way through your clothes and into your chest.
As soon as you wake from your nightmare, you find yourself already upright in bed. Cold sweat soaks your sleepwear, and your chest is heaving.
Frantically, your eyes dart around the room, taking in your surroundings. Lots of beds with people all sleeping soundly in them. Nurses. You’re in the nurses’ quarters. On the Moby Dick. Not an infirmary at a Marine base.
Good. This is good. This is much safer.
Your hands open and close repeatedly in a sorry effort to ground yourself, but it’s in vain. You’re too shaken to calm down. Going back to sleep is obviously out of the question, not when every nerve ending in your body is lit up and agitating you even more. Your clothes are clinging to you like a cold, wet second skin. Your chest feels like it’s about to explode and implode at the same time.
You need to get out of here.
As quietly as you can manage in this state, you climb out of your bed and hurry toward the door. Every move makes your shirt feel like it’s constricting around you more and more. It’s making you feel like you can’t breathe. You need to get it off! Right now!
Before you’re even out of the room, you’re ripping the long sleeve shirt off over your head, reveling in the lack of uncomfortable friction. You push open the door, admittedly somewhat carelessly, and rush out with the intention of going into one of the personal bathrooms on board so you can splash some cold water on yourself and hopefully calm down.
What you wanted was to get there and back without being seen. What actually happened was that you plowed right into someone almost immediately.
The collision makes you stumble back since you were not at all prepared for it. You don’t make it far before two hands grab onto your shoulders and pull you back up.
“Whoa! Is everything… o… kay…”
Thatch is looming over you, staring down at your trembling form. You’re so shaken that all you do is gawk at him for a moment, just as frozen as he appeared to be.
“What…” Thatch’s voice is barely above a whisper, as if he was speaking more to himself than you, “happened?”
The combination of his words and the door to the nurses’ quarters creaking open snaps you out of your stupor. You push away from Thatch despite his attempt to hold onto you and bolt to the nearby bathroom, where you lock yourself inside as soon as you’re inside.
Whatever had been keeping you going evaporates once you’re in the relative safety of the bathroom. You slump against the door and thread your shaky hands through damp locks of hair. The pounding of your heart is so loud in your ears that it’s making you dizzy.
This is ridiculous! It’s never this bad. You can’t remember the last time you had such a debilitating reaction to a nightmare. How childish. This is pathetic!
In a desperate attempt to regain control of yourself, you force yourself to march over to the sink while slapping at your face. You instinctually look into the mirror, and that erases any progress you’d made.
The dampness you had felt on your face had now proven itself to be tears, not perspiration like you had previously assumed. Dilated blood vessels reddened your eyes and the skin around them, making it impossible to mistake the wetness on your cheeks as anything other than the handiwork of your tear ducts.
Showing such weakness around enemies was inexcusable, not to mention humiliating. You twist the handle to start a flow of cold water, then aggressively scrub your face with it. Hopefully this will erase the signs of your emotional distress, even if it was too little too late.
After a moment, you stand back up and check the mirror again. Your eyes look less swollen now, which is a positive. One hand settles on your throat, dropping lower until your fingertips graze the edge of firm scar tissue.
In your desperation to escape the unpleasant sensation of a sweat-soaked shirt, you left yourself in only a tanktop to cover your torso, and it hid nothing. Your scar covered arms were both fully exposed, but the worst part?
The massive scar of burnt flesh covering your chest and inching up the lowest part of your throat. All of your scars were noticeable. The taut, distorted skin would be impossible to miss if you had it exposed. What was on your chest was even worse because it had depth to it. Your fingers dipped ever so slightly as they found where your skin had been eaten away and burnt off. You loathed all of your scars and what they represented, but this was the one you hated the most.
It was also the subject of your most recent nightmare. It’s been about five years since that day, but you can still remember that moment vividly. The confusion you felt leading up to the near-fatal blow, the unbearable agony that came with it, and the realization that you no longer cared about getting your father’s approval. That desire died along with your skin.
Akainu losing control of his devil fruit powers was far from a new happening. His magma had a tendency to bubble to the surface every time he became too emotionally charged, but it usually stayed below the surface. Still hot enough to burn and scar your skin, but it would stop the second he pulled back.
On that day, however, it broke the seal. The magma had come out of him and onto you. Right on your chest and over your heart. You should have died that day, but as fate would have it, Garp and Kuzan had just so happened to be walking past the training dojo when it happened.
They rushed in upon hearing your blood curdling screams. Kuzan, thinking quickly, used his own devil fruit powers to freeze the lava before it could eat through you and into your heart. You passed out shortly after this, so everything else had to be relayed to you at a later date.
Fortunately, Garp was happy to do so once you came to several days later. The first thing out of his mouth was assurance that he’d done his best to beat some sense into Akainu on your behalf. Said that that was why he wasn’t making an appearance. He was too embarrassed to go out and about all black and blue.
Not that you believed that. That wasn’t the first time your own father had put you in the burn unit; far from it. Not once had he ever visited you during these extended stays. The one time you worked up the nerve to ask him why he never visited you, he dismissed the questioning by simply stating that there were doctors and nurses watching over you while you were there. You didn’t need him, and he had more important things to do.
Everything was more important to him than you.
At least you weren’t alone that time. Garp visited you frequently, bringing snacks and stories about his grandchildren to help distract you from the painful recovery. Kizaru and Sentomaru also made several appearances to see how your healing journey was coming along. Even Kuzan stopped in once and asked how you were feeling. A dumb question, really, but you appreciated the effort.
Having so many people fussing over you at the time had been a very new experience, one that you hadn’t understood then or even now. They had no responsibility over you, no reason to care if you lived or died. The medical staff were obligated to tend to you, but everyone else was there because…?
A beleaguered sigh escapes you, and you sag forward. The stress appears to slowly be evaporating from you along with your sweat. Now you’re left feeling exhausted and annoyed. Another over reaction. How shameful. You should have just stayed in bed. Then you wouldn’t have to deal with having been seen in such a state.
Or have to make it back to the nurses’ ward without another sighting.
Your gaze drifts around the bathroom until it lands on the floor where you’d dropped your shirt upon entry. Crouching down, you reach out and pick it up only to immediately cringe at how wet it still is.
How disgusting. Putting it back on would no doubt overstimulate your nerves again, but you aren’t about to try and leave this bathroom without something to cover you. A quick once over of the room confirms that this is all you’ve got. The only other thing in here are some hand towels; hardly enough to cover up everything you have to hide.
There seems to be no other choice.
Just as you’re about to bite the bullet and force the sweat-soaked turtleneck back on, there’s a gentle knock on the door. Your muscles stiffen, and you’re about to call out that the room is occupied when the person knocking speaks up.
“You okay in there?” The voice belonged to Thatch, making you grimace. Why the hell is he still out there? You had assumed he’d left by now. When you neglected to respond, he continued, “I, uh, I brought you a change of clothes. Do you want them?”
Clothes? Your eyes dart down to the damp shirt pinched between your fingers, then back up at the door. Dammit all, you do want them. You really don’t want to be seen right now… but he already saw everything. What’s the harm in him getting another glimpse of your arm when it snatches the clothes out of his hands?
When you unlock the door and crack it open to peer out, you find Thatch standing right there and indeed holding some neatly folded clothing. A smile forms on his face upon making eye contact with you, but you’re able to clock the underlying tension within it. The grin was too rigid, and it was impossible to miss the way he was blatantly craning his head so his eyes could scan over you. Was he seriously trying so hard to get another look at your plethora of disfigurements? Rude.
You’re quick to reach out and grab the clothes, which he allows you to do without any resistance. Before you slam the door in his face, you look him in the eye and strictly tell him, “You didn’t see anything.” The door is shut and locked before he can affirm this.
As annoyed as you are by his presence, the opportunity to be able to change into clean, and more importantly, dry clothing was greatly appreciated. Your remaining sweaty clothing is promptly shed and discarded. A relieving sensation, truly.
The new pants and undershirt fit you well. All that’s left is what appears to be a white jacket. You pick it up and shake it out to unfold it, giving yourself a better look at what exactly Thatch had brought you.
It’s the uniform for his division. You’ve seen everyone manning the kitchen wearing this exact jacket. It feels light, likely made of cotton for breathability to help them withstand the heat of a kitchen in full swing. The sleeves are long enough to cover your arms, and the collar is high enough to cover the lower portion of your neck.
All of these qualities make it the perfect piece of clothing for you, and definitely better than the turtleneck you keep overheating in. You eagerly pull it on and button it up. Finally having all of your scars covered creates an immediate sense of security. You look in the mirror at yourself, only to frown when you notice something.
On the breastpocket is a bit of embroidery. Whitebeard’s jolly roger.
Sporting the mark of a pirate makes you instinctively recoil and scowl. Your hand raises, ready to rip the pocket clean off, but then you stop. Deep breath. Your hand lowers. No. You’re going to leave it. If you’re going to ever have any chance of killing Teach, you’re going to have to make them believe you’re coming around to them. This will help.
If you wearing their flag doesn’t convince them, you don’t know what else possibly could. It’s just a little embroidery. A purple blotch of thread. You don’t need to pay it any mind. You won’t even be able to see it most of the time, anyway.
After giving yourself a final once over in the mirror, you decide that you look presentable enough to leave the confines of the bathroom. You aren’t entirely sure what you’re going to do next, though. Going back to sleep won’t happen, you know that much. And you’re pretty sure that it’s too early for much of anyone to be awake yet. You’ll probably just find some quiet corner of the deck to sit and brood in until sunrise. That sounds good.
The door is opened, and you leave the room… only to find two people standing outside of it and waiting for you. Thatch is, for some reason, still here. Next to him is Elise, clad in pajamas and whose curly hair is sticking out in all directions due to not being held back in a bun like it usually is.
Oh, right. Now that you think about it, you can recall hearing the nurses’ quarters door opening before you ran off to hide.
Elise lets out a sigh of relief and hurries over to you with a smile, “There you are. How are you feeling?” Her hands grab onto your face and tilt it in all directions as she very obviously starts checking for injuries. A habit she’s developed since Marco gave orders for the nurses to back off from you and let you have moments to yourself. She didn’t seem to trust you at all not to maim yourself or worse if left unattended. You suppose you have no one to blame for that belief but yourself.
“I’m fine. Just needed to use the restroom, that’s all.” You attempt to pull your head away, but Elise’s features sharpening into a stern glare stops that in its tracks. For such a generally kind woman, she sure can give off a mean look when she needs to. Makes sense, given where she works.
While Elise is fussing over you, Thatch inches closer, “Do the clothes fit okay? I just kinda guessed your size.”
Your eyes flit to him and you hold his stare for a moment. He’s seen far too much, and you can tell that it’s on his mind what with how his own eyes keep trailing to where your scars are before stopping and returning back to your face. He’s definitely thinking about it, but he isn’t saying anything. Maybe he is heeding what you said after all.
“Yeah, they fit alright.” You shrug, trying to act casual and disinterested. “The jacket’s nice. You don’t mind if I keep it, do you?”
Thatch blinks in surprise, “You like it that much?” You’re about to backtrack when he nods excitedly, “Of course you can! It suits you. If you want it, it’s all yours.”
‘Suits me?’ You internally cringe at the idea of pirate’s attire “suiting” you. It’s not so much about you liking it, so much that it’s just a convenient article of clothing, but you’ll let him believe what he wants. You aren’t sure as to why he’s so happy about this, but you guess it doesn’t really matter. You look off to the side, breaking eye contact with him, “Cool. Thanks.”
“Since you’re feeling better now, do you want to go back to bed? If you don’t, I can stay up with you.” Elise, having finished scrutinizing you from head to toe, was now at your side and looking up at you expectantly.
The circles under her eyes gave away how much she really shouldn’t be missing out on sleep. She’s always working so hard and running herself ragged as a nurse. Guilt begins to fester as you put together that you must’ve woken her up in your rush to get out of the communal room. You scratch at the back of your head, not meeting her eyes, “You don’t have to do that. Please just go get some sleep, I’ll be fine on my own, really.”
Elise’s mouth opens like she’d about to protest, but Thatch cuts her off, “If you need something to do, why don’t you come help me out in the kitchen?” His lips quirk up into a smile, and he gestures at you, “Besides, you’re already dressed for it.”
He wants you to help out in the kitchen? You?
“Oh, I think that would be a wonderful idea!” Elise takes it upon herself to answer for you and pushes you toward the Division Commander, “You need a hobby, maybe you’ll find one in there. Go on.”
Well, it appears it has been decided for you. You can already see the scowl that will be on Elise’s face if you try to refuse. Either you go with Thatch willingly, or the nurse behind you will take matters into her own hands and drag you there by the ear.
… To think that you were once a widely feared marine. Now you’re obeying some nurse like a child fearing a scolding.
“Alright, alright. I’m going. You can go back to bed now.” You begin walking toward where the kitchen is, not waiting for Thatch.
Footsteps come up behind you as the cook is left to catch up, only slowing once he’s at your side. You glance at him, then resume staring ahead. Instead of giving him a chance to lead the conversation he would no doubt start, you beat him to it.
“Stubborn woman, isn’t she? Is she like that with everyone, or am I special?”
Thatch let out a laugh at that, “That’s Elise for you. She’s a feisty little thing. Can’t believe some of us used to be worried about whether or not she'd be able to handle being here. She can put a pirate in their place better than the rest of us.” He briefly looks over his shoulder, then back at you, “But I do think you’re her favorite right now.”
Favorite? Why would anyone favor you of all people?
Before you can really get the opportunity to dwell on it, you’ve arrived at the kitchen. Thatch pushes open the door and motions for you to enter. For a moment, you hesitate. Did you really want to be in such close quarters with the entire Fourth Division of the Whitebeard pirates?
No- Yes! You needed to do this. They need to believe that you’re accepting them.
Feeling more resolute, you cross the threshold confidently… Said confidence is immediately lost when all of the cooks turn their heads to look at you. Were they going to object to your being here? Try to throw you out? Try to kill y-
“That kid is joining our division? How the hell did you pull that one off, Thatch?”
A hand settles on your shoulder as Thatch guides you deeper into the kitchen, “What can I say? I’m very convincing! I was able to soften up Ace after he got here, this kid was a walk in the park compared to him.”
Some chuckles and murmurs of agreement echo through the room, then everyone resumes breakfast prep. No one appears to be particularly bothered by your presence. Dare you say, they didn’t seem to care at all. Thatch brings you over to what you assume must be his work station, then addresses you directly, “So, do you have any culinary experience?”
“Does warming up field rations over a fire count?” Even before you asked that, you knew the answer would be no. This was something you had absolutely zero practice in. You’ve never been put to work in the kitchens on Marine bases, nor in Akainu’s home. He couldn’t cook either, as far as you knew. Honestly, you’re not sure if there even are any cooking utensils in his kitchen.
If there are, they’re purely for decoration.
“Guess we’ll be starting from scratch then!” Thatch claps you on the shoulder, “At least I won’t have to worry about training you out of any bad habits.”
“Is that really a good thing? Isn’t training someone who knows nothing a hassle?”
“Not to me. I enjoy being able to teach someone something new. It’s rewarding.” He grabs a barrel and drags it over to you, “And it’s a good thing I happen to like it, because I’ve had to teach most of the people here everything they know.”
“Really? They weren’t already cooks by the time they joined?” How odd. Was that not a requirement for joining the Fourth Division?
He snorts and raises a brow. “Just how many pirates do you think are naturally running around with culinary expertise?”
You open your mouth, then close it. He’s got you there. You concede and nod, “Good point. Guess I never thought about it that way.”
“Take Milton over there for example.” Thatch nods his head toward a young man in his twenties with blonde hair held back in a ponytail, who upon hearing his name, snaps his head in the chef’s direction with an indignant expression. “First day on the job, and he managed to set a stove on fire while trying to boil water.”
“Would you stop telling every new recruit that story! It was one time! Something fell into the burner, and I didn’t see it!” Milton’s pasty skin is tinged pink as he makes his protest against this known. He then jabs a finger at a man with dark, curly hair and a mustache chopping vegetables, “Stefan has had way more fuck ups than me! Make fun of him for a change!”
Stefan, seemingly not one to take this kind of thing lying down, shouts back, “Hey! What did I do? Don’t drag me into this because you keep setting shit on fire, jackass.”
“One time! It was one time!” Milton spins around and marches over to Stefan, “At least I can tell the difference between a vidalia and a yellow onion, unlike you!”
“Eh, they’re basically the same thing,” Stefan shrugged his shoulders and waved the complaint off dismissively.
“No they aren’t!” More cooks began participating in the conversation as a debate broke out over the differences between onions. You’re far from an expert on the topic, but from what you’re overhearing, it seems like there is in fact a distinct difference, and that this is why Stefan is never in charge of grocery shopping.
An elbow gently nudges your side, prompting you to tear your gaze away from the bickering ensuing not far from you. Thatch is bent down to be more at your height so he can talk without being overheard by the crowd, “See? This is what I’ve got to work with. I’m a miracle worker, if you ask me.”
Seeing the petty argument breaking out brings back memories of trying to corral all of the teenage ensigns you’d been assigned upon your promotion to lieutenant. It was complete and utter chaos. You felt like you were herding cats on a good day. Between their lack of experience, adolescent egos, and an initial unwillingness to listen to their twelve year old commander, it left you feeling overwhelmed.
But, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant. You had become so accustomed to rigidity and silence in the years leading up to that. Being around people who were so lax and playful with each other (and later, you) was a very alien experience. Before long, you went from dreading having to command them, to quietly anticipating their antics.
A soft chuckle escapes your throat. You don’t even realize what had happened until Thatch turns his head to look at you so fast that he almost hit you with that ridiculous hairdo of his. He stared in wonder at you like he just saw a shooting star.
“You laughed!” He was grinning like an idiot.
“S-So what? It’s not a big deal, quit making it weird!” You frantically try to find something to change the subject, then your gaze lands on the barrel that had been dragged over. You move over to it and pull out one of the many potatoes sitting inside it. “You brought me in here to help, right? What am I supposed to do with these?”
Much to your relief, Thatch takes the bait. He straightens up and joins you at the barrel. He pulls something out of a nearby drawer, then begins using it on one of the potatoes to take off the skin, “Well, since you don’t have any experience, I thought that peeling potatoes would be as good a start as any.” He holds up the now completely skinless tuber, “Like this. You think you can handle that?”
“Looks easy enough.” You take the peeler from him. When he did it, the skin came off all in one long, spiraling string starting from the top. You hold the tool up against the top of the potato, then begin. It immediately cuts through the skin and cuts off one small patch that falls pathetically into the bucket beneath you.
Shit. Bad start. You try again, this time trying to be more careful with it, but the same thing happens. Again and again you try to mimic what Thatch had done, but all that you’re doing is shaving off tiny bits and pieces each time.
“Easy, huh?” Thatch’s teasing prompts you to glower at him, but it’s woefully ineffective. He moves past you and drops his infuriatingly perfectly peeled potato into the nearby sink while speaking to you, “Lighten up, you just got started. You aren’t going to be an expert at this on day one. These things take time, you’ll get better the more you practice.”
But you want to be an expert at things on the first try. Learning curves aren’t supposed to be a problem for you. You keep trying to peel the way he did while muttering to yourself, “I’m just peeling a potato. This isn’t supposed to be hard.”
“Are you trying to say that cooking is easy?” Thatch crosses his arms and looks down at you, waiting for an answer.
The direct questioning makes you freeze for a moment, then avert your gaze, “No… I get that it’s a skill that people put a lot of work into.” You gnaw at your lip while trying to explain yourself better, then go on, “But I’m someone who's trained in complex military operations, I should be able to learn new things with minimal difficulty.”
An eyebrow is raised at your response, “You know that those two things are wildly different skillsets, right?”
“Of course I do!” You stammer, becoming flustered, “But- But-”
“Can you paint a mural?”
“Huh?” The sudden question completely distracts you from your thoughts.
Rather than giving you a chance to process this bizarre question, Thatch presses on. “Do you think you could perform ballet?”
“N-No? I’ve never danced a day in my life. Or painted anything. Why the hell are you asking me these things?”
A triumphant smirk splits across Thatch’s face, “So you do understand that someone can’t reasonably be expected to do well in something they’ve never done before?”
“I- I mean…” You stop and take a breath to gather your thoughts. He’s making a valid point. You’re just being ornery by continuing to argue. “Okay, fine. I’m not an expert and need time to learn. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you happy now?”
“Yes.” Thatch nods, looking annoyingly pleased with himself. “Now that you’ve accepted this, I can really start to teach you. You’re going to be a perfect fit for this division.”
“Hang on, I never said I was joining your division!”
“Details,” Thatch easily dismissed your rebuttal without a care in the world. “You're here right now, so you're as good as joined in my book.”
As much as you want to argue against him, you're left with little opportunity to as he redirects your attention to the job you're supposed to be doing. His hands reposition yours as he starts to talk again.
“Now, what you want to do is cut it slowly and carefully…”
—
Working in the Fourth Division was certainly an… interesting experience. You were largely out of your element suddenly having to prepare food, though at least Thatch seemed set on introducing you to the process gradually rather than throwing you into the deep end and letting you figure it out or fall behind.
Having someone go to great lengths to explain something to you and then not lose their shit when you don't master it on the first try was… nice. It was nice. The process was significantly less stressful this way.
So much so that you agreed to continue helping out in the kitchen going forward when asked. Your own answer had honestly surprised even you. The word ‘yes’ came so naturally. You hadn't even needed time to think about it, your brain took the reins and seemingly made the decision on your behalf.
And that was fine. There were worse ways to spend your time on this ship. Who knows, maybe this will give you an opportunity to poison that rat bastard Tea-
“(Y/N)! You're looking better.”
Elise’s voice makes you perk up and push yourself up from where you were leaning against the railing. When you turn your head to acknowledge her, you're mildly surprised to see her wearing casual clothing rather than her nurse uniform. She notes your confusion and explains, “Today’s my day off.”
“You get days off?” The revelation surprises you. Due to how much time you spend in on base Marine hospitals, you were able to overhear the medical staff bemoaning the overwhelming working hours and lack of breaks. It wasn’t uncommon for you to see the same exact people stay on shift for the entire duration of your long-term stays. Honestly, you just kinda assumed all of them lived at the hospital. If they didn’t, they might as well have.
“We do. Marco is strict about us having downtime so we don’t get burnt out and start making mistakes.” Elise joins you at the railing, leaning her back against it while looking at you. “I’m guessing that isn’t normal on Marine bases if you’re so surprised.”
“It’s not. That whole field is chronically understaffed, so I guess they don’t have much of a choice.” You honestly felt bad for the doctors and nurses working there. Everyone was blatantly exhausted whenever you saw them.
“That explains why the Marines advertise those positions so heavily wherever they think anyone with medical training might be. The hospital I used to work at always had posters plastered all over the walls to try and tempt us into joining. But enough about that.” Elise leans closer, eyes shining with barely contained excitement, “How was kitchen duty? Did you have fun?”
Fun is a strong word… but you didn’t hate it. You mull over your words before giving her an answer, “It wasn’t bad. I think I’ll stick with it for a while. Thatch wants me to come back and help with dinner.” He gave you lunch off in the name of not wanting to overwhelm you with too much at once, which felt a little silly. It’s not like you were doing anything particularly strenuous. Prepping vegetables certainly isn’t going to land you in the intensive care unit or anything like that.
Elise clapped her hands in excitement, “That’s wonderful! I just knew that you would enjoy it! Since that went so well, and we both have some free time, you’re going to come watercolor with me.”
“I am?” You distinctly noticed that she did not phrase that as a question. She wasn’t asking, she was informing.
“Yep! I’ve already got everything set up for us. Let’s go.” Without waiting for a reply, she takes hold of your arm and starts pulling you in the direction of the nurse’s quarters. It would seem this has already been decided. You might as well go along with it. There is no harm in indulging Elise.
Upon entering the room, you find one of the tables littered with art supplies. Across from it was a bedside table with a vase holding a colorful variety of flowers on it. Front and center is a pink zinnia. A couple of stems of pale pink snapdragons are sticking up behind it, with some yellow abatinas and tansies interspersed among them. Peeking out from behind all the other flowers is a blood red rhododendron that you almost missed at first glance.
By the time you finished examining the flowers, Elise had already taken a seat at the table and was waiting for you to join. You pull out a chair and sit next to her, eyes focused on the unfamiliar tools before you. You didn’t know where to even begin.
The sound of water spraying catches your attention. Elise is spritzing her palette with a spray bottle. Is that the first step? Must be. You’re quick to do the same once she sets the bottle aside, but as soon as that’s done, you’re left side-eyeing her again for your next cue. You watch as she picks up a paint brush, dips it in water, then rubs it against the pink paint in her pallet.
Her eyes meet yours, startling you and making you look away. She giggles and begins painting her sheet of paper, “Don’t just watch me, (Y/N). Give it a try. See what you can come up with on your own.”
“But I’ve never done this before…” You grumble to yourself while grabbing your own paintbrush and staring at it dubiously. Nothing about this felt intuitive to someone like you.
“Exactly. You should try and figure it out for yourself so you can get a feel for it. There's no right or wrong way to go about trying something, just have fun.”
Being told to “just have fun” felt incredibly vague in your humble opinion. Over the years spent as a marine, you grew accustomed to having very clear and precise directives to follow. There was never not a distinct structure present. It's not like you were incapable of free thinking, you did plenty of that on missions and the battlefield, but even then there were overhanging orders to go off of.
Right now you felt like you'd been thrown into the deep end of a pool with no life jacket and told to swim.
There's a moment of hesitation, then you set your mind to it. If you can navigate warfare, surely you can paint some flowers. You decide to start with the zinnia since it's the centerpiece of the bouquet.
Some pink paint is dabbed onto your brush, then you try to make a circle to outline it. You glance back up at the flower, noting the plentiful rows of triangular petals. When you look back down at the outline, you feel like it's far too small to be fitting so many petals into it. Maybe you can… paint it bigger? This is terrible. How are you messing up at the first stroke?
This time, when you look over at Elise it's much more about making sure she isn't looking than it is about spying on her technique. Mercifully, she doesn't seem to be paying you any mind.
A bout of silence takes over the room while you attempt to create distinct petals on your paper to no avail. The paint is simply becoming one big blob of pink. Your teeth grind together in frustration, and you decide that you need literally anything to distract yourself from the abject failure before you.
“Hey, Elise?”
“Yes?”
What to talk about? You think about it for a moment, then settle on a question that had been on your mind for a while now, “How did you end up on a pirate ship? Why aren’t you working at a normal hospital or something like that?”
“Oh, because Whitebeard single-handedly saved my home island, and I wanted to return the favor in any way that I could.” A soft, nostalgic smile graced her features. “I’m from Hanabira Island originally. We’re known for having the best and widest variety of flowers in the Grand Line. It’s a beautiful place to live. At least, now it is.”
The corners of her lips droop, “For years it became a target for pirates trying to conquer the Grand Line. Log poses would send them straight to us, and it was rare for them to mind their manners once they got there. They’d steal anything that wasn’t nailed down, abduct the locals for who knows what purposes, and they’d kill anyone that tried to stop them.
“I worked at the hospital there at the time, and there was always a crisis happening. Always someone gravely injured or dying. It was awful, but we needed all the help we could get. And finally, we got real help.” Elise tilts her head to look at you, face relaxed again, “The Whitebeard pirates were passing by when we were getting raided again, and they intervened. They drove off the other pirates with ease, then raised their flag at the port to mark our island as being part of their territory.
“Overnight it was like we were living on a completely different island. Pirates either skipped over us entirely, or they would come ashore and leave as quickly as possible while being sure not to do anything untoward to the locals. The hospital went from having a revolving door of critical patients to being downright slow. When they passed through our island a year later and Marco came poking around the hospital to see if anyone on staff would be interested in joining their crew to help the captain, I leapt at the opportunity to help them like they helped us.”
You nod along as she speaks. You’ve heard about the Whitebeard pirates doing that to islands all across the Grand Line and beyond. Back when you first had this explained to you, it was by Akainu who likened it to a dog pissing on a tree to mark its territory. He saw it as nothing to be glorified, so it was odd to hear someone speaking of it in a positive light.
While listening to her story, your hand had stalled and you’d stopped painting entirely. You quickly wet your brush again and attempt to tackle the snapdragons next. You glance at her again, then speak up for the first time since posing your question, “That’s… I guess I can understand why you would want to do that. Still, aren’t you worried about being on an emperor’s ship?”
Elise giggles and shakes her head, “Oh, not at all. Very few people are stupid enough to try and pick a fight with someone sporting the epithet of ‘the strongest man in the world’. On the off chance someone does, it’s dealt with so swiftly that us nurses hardly get a chance to even notice.” She hums in thought, then tacks on, “Honestly, the last time I even saw anything resembling a fight was when Ace first got here and he kept trying to take on Whitebeard.”
This is far from the first time someone has eluded to Ace’s introduction to the crew, and your curiosity only grew more each time. At this point, you may as well ask about it directly. “How bad was Ace when he first got here that everyone talks about him like he was some feral animal?”
There is a dramatic exhale from Elise, “Don’t get me wrong, Ace is a very nice young man now, but back then… Bless his heart, he was nothing short of a headache, and that’s putting it mildly.”
Her blunt admission makes you snort, “Really? What the hell was he even doing to be giving pirates headaches?”
“More like what wasn’t he doing.” She rolls her eyes as the memories come to her, “He somehow got it into his head that he could kill Whitebeard, and let me tell you, he did not give that up easily.”
“He actually tried to kill him? Whitebeard?” You’re not sure what shocks you more. That anyone could possibly think that was a good idea, or the realization that Haruta was apparently not just messing with you when he told you about that.”
“Yes! We couldn’t believe it either!” Elise set down her brush, now fully focused on the conversation. “And what a sorry sight it was. Ace would try to kill him, then Whitebeard would flick his wrist and send the boy through the deck like nothing. All of the carpenters and shipwrights aboard couldn’t stand him and rejoiced when he finally gave it up.”
“Tate, though, oh she hated him at first. I thought for sure she was going to kill Ace and throw him overboard before he could even come close to harming Whitebeard.” She covers her mouth and lets out a laugh, “One time, Ace made another attempt on Whitebeard’s life while she was checking his drainage tubes, and she was so sick of him by that point that she took matters into her own hands. She whipped around and landed a kick to the back of his head that knocked him out instantly.”
“No way.” A smile tugs at your lips at the mental image of such a notorious pirate being one-hit KO’ed by the head nurse on board.
“None of us thought she had it in her, but she showed us all that she is to be feared when someone messes with her patient.” Elise moves some curls of hair behind her ear, then resumes painting again, prompting you to do the same.
“Knowing all of that now, I’m feeling increasingly insulted that everyone keeps comparing me to Ace when he first joined.” You dab random blots of yellow across your paper, not even caring to try and imitate the petals of the tiny, yellow flowers.
“Well…” Elise shoots you a sideways glance, making you bristle.
“I am not that bad!”
She laughs at your denial, “Okay, okay. You’re not as bad as Ace was at first… But there are definitely similarities between you two. He was about as prickly as you are.”
“I’m not “prickly”,” you mumble under your breath.
“Sure you aren’t, sweetie.” Elise leans back in her seat, then looks over at your painting. “How is that coming along?”
You stiffen, then look down at it. If you saw this picture with no context, you would have never guessed that it was supposed to be of a vase of flowers. All of the paint has pooled together into a pinkish-brown puddle. It’s absolutely hideous.
Seeing the scowl on your face, Elise scoots closer, “Hey, quit making that expression. This is good.”
Bullshit. “Stop lying, this is an atrocity.”
“Oh, hush. For your first painting, it’s great. Do you think I was born with the ability to paint as I do now, or do you think I had to work for it?” Her words prompt you to peer over at her completed picture. Anyone could look at it and immediately tell what it was supposed to be. The flowers were distinct and had detailed petals, and she even managed to capture the shine of the glass vase. Hers was beautiful, unlike yours.
“Besides, flowers are one of the hardest things to paint in watercolor, you really shouldn’t beat yourself up over it.”
“Wait, what? Then why did you have me start with that?” How was that fair? You feel a pang of annoyance course through you at the reveal.
“Because that’s what I had on hand. There aren’t exactly a lot of landscape opportunities while we’re at sea.” She looks to be entirely undeterred by your blatant irritation, “So now that you’ve gotten a taste for it, how about you and me try this again the next time we’re on land? Then you can show me what you can really do with something more reasonable.”
You know what she’s trying to do. She’s posing this as a challenge in hopes that it’ll be enough to coerce you into playing into her hand and doing what she wants… Unfortunately, it would appear that she has come to develop a very accurate assessment of who you are as a person.
“Fine. You’re on. The next one is going to be way better.” You really hope so, at least. Another glance down at your current one shows that the bar for that is horrendously low.
“Perfect! I’ll look forward to it!”
Allowing yourself to be so invested in what most would consider to be juvenile matters felt silly at best, and downright ignorant at worst. There were far more pressing matters at hand, you’re plotting a revenge murder after all… But what is the harm in indulging yourself if it helps bring you closer to your goal? This is helping you cement yourself as a trustworthy member of the crew. If you keep this up, they’ll never see the murder coming until it’s too late.
Huh… Perhaps you and Ace are more alike than you previously thought. But at least you know how to keep your mouth shut about it.
hii, can i request a fic about Michael secretly dating Prince sister? and that everyone would find out through an awards ceremony or something like that 🤭
The rumor mill at the record labels had been humming for months.
Nothing concrete. Nothing confirmable. Just little things people swore they saw and then couldn’t quite prove: Michael Jackson and you slipping out of the same side entrances, his hand hovering just a little too close to yours in crowded rooms, your laughter always catching at the exact moment he looked at you.
But of course, no one knew.
Because “no one” meant exactly that—no one in the world, not even the people who thought they knew everything about Michael Jackson.
And definitely not your brother, Prince Rogers Nelson.
That was the part that made everything dangerous.
Because it wasn’t just a romance. It was a secret threaded through two of the most recognizable names in music history—and one family that would absolutely implode if they found out.
⸻
The night of the awards show glittered like a promise.
Camera flashes cracked through the arena in waves. The air smelled like perfume, hairspray, and tension disguised as celebration. You sat backstage in a pale satin gown, fingers nervously smoothing the fabric at your knees.
You weren’t supposed to be nervous.
You were just presenting an award.
That’s what everyone thought.
Michael stood a few feet away, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket. Black, sharp, impossibly tailored. He looked calm in the way only he could manage—like chaos never quite reached him, even when it clearly did.
His eyes flicked to you.
Just for a second.
But it was enough to undo you.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured softly.
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “It’s adorable.”
You shot him a look. “Do not say that backstage at an awards show.”
His smile widened slightly. “Why not?”
“Because someone could—”
“See me?” he finished, voice quieting.
That settled between you like a shared breath.
You both knew what was at stake.
The door creaked open.
A stage assistant called your name.
Showtime.
⸻
The stage lights were worse than you remembered.
Hot. Blinding. Alive.
You stepped up to the podium alone, applause rolling through the audience like distant thunder. Somewhere in that sea of faces were executives, reporters, fans, your brother—watching without knowing what they were actually looking at.
Michael stood off to the side, just behind the wings.
Close enough to see.
Far enough to pretend.
“And the award for Best Contemporary Performance goes to…” you read, smiling into the crowd.
The envelope felt heavier than paper should.
You opened it.
Paused.
And the world shifted slightly under your feet.
You looked up.
A camera zoomed in.
Too late to hide your expression.
Because there it was.
His name.
You swallowed once. Twice.
“Michael Jackson.”
The arena exploded.
⸻
Backstage monitors showed everything.
Michael froze for half a second, like even he hadn’t expected it to land that cleanly. Then he moved—graceful, automatic—walking toward the stage as applause swallowed everything else.
But you weren’t looking at the crowd anymore.
You were looking at him.
And he was looking at you.
Something unspoken passed between you in that instant.
A decision.
A line finally reached.
He stepped onto the stage.
Took the award.
Smiled into the microphone.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
Then, almost like an afterthought:
“I think…” He paused, eyes shifting—just barely—to you. “I’ve been keeping something from all of you.”
The crowd quieted.
Even the flashes slowed.
Your stomach dropped.
Backstage, someone whispered, “What is he doing?”
Michael turned slightly.
Not to the audience.
To you.
And suddenly you knew.
He wasn’t going to let this stay hidden anymore.
Not here.
Not like this.
“I’ve spent a long time protecting what matters to me,” he said into the microphone. “My music. My life. My peace.”
A beat.
“But some things…” His voice softened. “Some things deserve to be seen.”
The silence in the arena turned heavy.
You couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
Because across the stage, in front of thousands of people and every camera in the building—
He was choosing you.
Not carefully.
Not secretly.
Openly.
The crowd buzzed, confused, leaning forward.
Then Michael stepped down from the podium instead of exiting the stage.
Walked straight toward the wings.
Toward you.
Security didn’t stop him.
No one did.
He reached you in a blur of lights and sound and stunned silence.
And then, softly—so only you could really hear—
“I’m done hiding,” he said.
Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt.
“You didn’t tell me you were going to—”
“I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”
Behind you, the stage manager was frozen.
On the monitors, the world was watching.
And somewhere out there—
Prince Rogers Nelson was going to find out.
But Michael didn’t look afraid.
He only looked at you.
Waiting.
Not for permission.
For truth.
And after everything, after all the secrecy, all the careful distance and stolen moments—
You finally reached for his hand.
The arena erupted again the second your fingers intertwined.
Not because they understood everything yet.
But because they understood enough.
And backstage, as chaos began to unfold and headlines started writing themselves in real time, Michael leaned closer and whispered:
Harry is assigned his absolute last choice of auror partner.
"Malfoy," he says, through gritted teeth—determined to grin and bear it, to be civil, to be the bigger man.
"Don't talk to me," Malfoy snaps, lighting a cigarette in the middle of their shared cubicle.
By 2 p.m. human resources has sent him a memo. Harry plucks it out of the air, perplexed.
"That will be about the complaint," Malfoy says, leather shoes propped up on the desk as he reads through their case notes, looking bored enough to pass away. Maybe that's wishful thinking.
"What are you talking about?" Harry is trying and failing not to be short.
"I filed a complaint. Against you." Malfoy looks up at him, smirking. "You were eight minutes late this morning, and your lunch break went ten minutes over."
Harry gapes at him. Aspirations of civility begin imploding with the force of a nuclear bomb. "Are you fucking serious?!"
"No; he's dead."
Harry punches Malfoy in the face.
"Mr. Potter." The senior witch from human resources, Griselda Mayhawk, sits him down. "We have received six complaints about you."
"Right," he scowls.
"Six complaints—in your first week." She looks sternly over her glasses at him. "Including physically assaulting a colleague. I will be frank with you: if you were anyone else, you would have been fired already, and the only reason I'm not firing you today is because the Department isn't keen to attract that kind of media attention."
Harry's mouth drops open. "Have you not noticed that all the complaints have come from the same fucking psychopath?"
"Each complaint has addressed behaviour that is legitimately against Ministry policy." She looks at him calmly. "Swearing at fellow staff members is also—"
"Sorry. Sorry! I'm just—" Harry runs a hand through his hair. "He's impossible to work with."
"Do you want me to arrange a transfer?"
Of course Harry wants that.
"…No."
But he wants, even more badly, to break Malfoy's spirit, and win this battle of wills.
"Very well." She stands. "But if I receive one more complaint, Mr. Potter, I will have to pursue further action. Do you understand?"
Harry arrives at his desk at 8 a.m. sharp every morning, sets a tempus charm to time his breaks down to the second, and spends many pleasant hours imagining what it would be like to get his hands around Malfoy's neck.
But week two becomes week four, and one month turns into three, then six—and somehow Harry has avoided the sack, they haven't killed each other, and they actually have a good track record on solving cases.
It's infuriating.
What's more infuriating is how many intrusive thoughts Harry's experiencing.
Instead of picturing himself choking Malfoy, now Harry's thoughts drift in the opposite direction: what it would be like to be choked by him.
It's the three piece suits. It's the long legs, the arched brow, his sharp tongue, his even sharper wit. It's the way he smells. Harry hates himself. This is the most embarrassing—no, NO, he refuses to call it a crush—he's ever had, and they've all been fucking embarrassing on some level.
But this? Jesus wept.
"So," Malfoy says, legs spread wide as he swivels his chair side to side in half circles. "The Griffith case."
"Mm," Harry says, chewing on a quill and trying very hard not to stare directly at Malfoy's crotch. "Yeah. Yes."
Swivel. Another swivel. "Eyes up here, Potter."
Harry's gaze snaps up. Fuck. "Sorry, lost in thought."
Malfoy smirks. "Clearly."
And so it continues.
"Here." Malfoy steps into his space, too fucking close, batting Harry's hands away from the straps on his Impervius-fortified vest as they prepare for a raid. "Let me."
"Wait," Malfoy says, stopping Harry with a hand to his chest.
"What's that?" Malfoy grips his wrist, examining a burn on Harry's arm.
The touching. All the fucking touching. Harry's going to EXPLODE.
And then Malfoy goes down in the field.
Curses hurtle through the air. There's chaos and movement all around Harry, but all he can hear is white noise, and all he can see is Malfoy, crumpled on the ground.
Instinct takes over. He pelts through open fire, ignoring the shouts from behind him, not stopping until he's at Malfoy's side, collapsing to his knees and throwing up the strongest shield charm of his life as he grips Malfoy's wrist, checks his pulse, his breath. It takes him three, eon-length seconds, but—fuck, yes, he's alive.
"Rennervate," he breaths, wand shaking in his grip.
Malfoy comes to, coughing, and Harry grips him, almost shakes him. He's so scared, fear ripping through him belatedly.
"Harry," Draco murmurs, covered in dust, eyes half-lidded.
"Don't do that again," Harry says roughly, and kisses him.
Bear 👊 Day 12 of @peachydreamxx and @uncannycerulean’s prompts. Full collection on ao3.
this comic is so good rereading it with the new update made us fall in love with loz again... so uh, thanks! <3 in any case, extremely excited to see War snap or explode or implode or all of the above at the same time!
happy to hear it, thank you!! also extremely funny sentiment it really brings me joy that u all have gotten with the program immediately
Tags: Established Relationship. Pregnancy. Fluff. Slight Angst. Smut.
Word Count: 4.6k
Summary: Bucky achieved what every male of his kind is supposed to want. But the Thal'kyr don't do fatherhood -don't even have a word for it- and now he must figure out how to be something his species never taught him to be.
Note: Follow-up story to Tangled.
Note: And this miniseries of the Tangled AU has come to an end. Thank you for reading❤️
Previous Chapter - Masterlist
She felt like she was going to explode.
That was the only way to describe it. Like her body had reached maximum capacity weeks ago and was now just... holding on. Barely.
Her feet were swollen, her ankles thick and uncomfortable, no matter what kind of shoes or slippers she tried to put on. And the pain in her groin every time she walked -sharp, stabbing, every time she stood or walked- made her want to curl up on the couch and not move until this was over.
She wanted the baby out. Desperately.
And at the same time, she was terrified.
The hospital bag sat by the door, packed and ready. Had been for weeks now. Every time she walked past it, her stomach did a complicated flip that was part anticipation, part dread.
Soon.
Very soon.
She just had to get through these last few days.
----
"It has to stretch how much?"
She looked up from her phone to find Bucky staring at the laptop screen, catching his expression somewhere between horrified and fascinated.
"What are you watching?"
"The birth video." He didn't look away from the screen. "They said to watch the birth video to prepare, so I'm watching it, and-" He gestured vaguely at the screen. "How does that even fit?"
She bit back a smile. "That's kind of the whole issue, yes."
He muttered a number, still staring. "That's..." He held up his hands, trying to visualize the measurement, then looked at her with something close to panic. "That's impossible."
"And yet."
He shook his head slowly, gluing his eyes still to the screen. "I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't realize it would be..." He trailed off, apparently at a loss for words.
The online birth prep course had been his idea. The one offered in town had been, to put it generously, underwhelming. A single two-hour session in the community center with a midwife who'd seemed more interested in talking about breathing techniques than actual useful information.
And when Bucky had tried to attend with her, he'd been told -politely but firmly-that the course was for expectant mothers only. Partners could wait in the hall.
He'd looked at her with such complete bewilderment that she'd almost laughed.
"Why?" he'd asked on the drive home.
"I don't know. Space limitations? Women who feel uncomfortable around other men watching?"
"That's idiotic." He'd clenched his hand around the cone of fried fish, almost making it implode inside the car. "How am I supposed to help if I don't know what to expect?"
So they'd found an online course. Comprehensive, detailed, with videos and diagrams that Bucky watched with rapture.
"Okay," he said now, closing the laptop with more force than necessary. "I've seen enough of that."
"Traumatized?"
"Concerned." He stood and crossed to where she sat on the couch, crouching in front of her. He settled his hands on her knees, careful and gentle. "You're going to go through that."
"I am."
"And I can't do anything to help."
"You can be there. That helps."
He didn't look convinced.
She reached out, brushing hair back from his forehead. "It'll be okay. Women do this all the time."
He exhaled slowly, then shifted his attention to her feet. "How's the pain today?"
"The same. Worse when I stand."
"Then don't stand."
"Bucky, I have to move. The course said-"
"I know what the course said." He was already sliding his arms under her, lifting her carefully. "But you're in pain, so I'm moving you instead."
"That's not how this works."
"It's how it's working today."
She wanted to argue. She really did. But being carried was significantly more comfortable than walking, so she let him take her to the bedroom, where he set her down on the bed with almost reverence.
"I'm not made of glass," she said, but there was no heat in it.
"No. You're made of something much more impressive." He rested his hand on her belly for a moment, feeling the baby shift beneath his palm. "Stay here. I'll bring lunch."
"Bucky-"
But he was already gone.
She sighed, settling back against the pillows, and wondered -not for the first time- how she was supposed to convince a man who could lift her like she weighed nothing that she needed to walk on her own.
----
The breast preparation video came up three days later.
She'd been half-dozing on the couch, uncomfortable and exhausted, when she heard Bucky make a soft, thoughtful sound.
"What?" she asked without opening her eyes.
"Nothing."
"Doesn't sound like nothing."
Silence.
Then-
"The course says you need to prepare your breasts for feeding. That there are... techniques."
She cracked one eye open. "Yes," she said, "Massage, mostly. Stimulation to encourage colostrum production before the baby-"
"I can help with that."
He said it so earnestly that she almost laughed. But then she caught the look in his eyes, and it wasn't innocent at all. There was a heat there that had nothing to do with prenatal education.
"Bucky."
"It's practical," he insisted, but he'd dropped his voice, gone low and gravelly. "The video demonstrates the technique. I can do exactly what it shows. Better than it shows."
She stared at him. Something warm and traitorous clenched low in her belly despite the backache, despite how huge and uncomfortable she felt.
God, she wanted him to.
It had been weeks. Weeks since he'd touched her like he meant it. He'd been so careful -terrified of hurting her or the baby- that their intimacy had shrunk to soft forehead kisses and the most infuriating/soothing back rubs. She'd explained a thousand times that sex wouldn't harm either of them, that her body could handle it, but he still resisted, even if he said he would try to do more.
And she was starving for him. Hormones had her walking on the walls for months, and he'd barely laid a hand on her.
"Bucky," she said again, softer this time, almost pleading.
He pressed his hands carefully on her hips, brushing his thumbs against the curve of her belly like he was still afraid he'd break something.
"I just want to help," he murmured, but he'd dropped his gaze to her chest. Her breasts had grown heavy, straining against the soft maternity bra, nipples darker and more sensitive than ever. "The course says it's good for you. For the baby."
She let out a shaky laugh.
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm not lying," he growled, faintly offended. "It is true."
But when he looked up and saw the way she was watching him -lips parted, eyes glassy- something in him snapped. He leaned in and kissed her, slow and deep, like he'd been starving for months. She moaned into his mouth, and he answered with a low, hungry sound.
When he pulled back, he'd already slid his hands up beneath her breasts.
"Can I?" he asked, voice rough.
She nodded, words failing her.
He moved with reverence, pushing her maternity dress up and over her breasts, and then her bra, baring them to the cool air. Her nipples hardened instantly. He swallowed hard.
"They're… bigger," he noted.
"Thanks for the update, but that has been happening since the last time you checked on them."
He didn't smile. He was too focused. Slowly, carefully, he cupped them, palms warm and broad, covering them completely. The heat of his hands felt like heaven against her tight, aching skin.
"Like this," he murmured, repeating the motions from the video: slow, firm circles from the base toward the nipple.
She closed her eyes and let out a trembling sigh. It was exactly what her body needed, and a thousand times better because it was him. Because his hands were huge and rough and still so impossibly gentle with her.
"Does it hurt?" he asked, stopping immediately.
"No… don't stop."
He started again, more confident now. He brushed his thumbs over her nipples again and again, and she arched without meaning to. A soft moan slipped out.
Bucky made a strangled sound.
"They're…" He stopped, searching for the word. "Wet."
She opened her eyes. His cheeks were flushed, pupils blown wide, breathing uneven.
"Bucky…"
He leaned down and pressed a careful kiss to one breast, then opened his mouth and drew the nipple between his lips, sucking with intent. She gasped, flying her fingers to his hair.
"Not… not too hard-" she whispered, but her body betrayed her, pressing closer.
He eased off, but didn't pull away. He licked, sucked, slow and deliberate, switching between them like he couldn't get enough. Every flick of his tongue sent a bolt straight between her legs. She was soaked, and he knew it.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were wet, his eyes dark with something raw and desperate.
"I want…" He paused, like he didn't know how to say it. "I want to keep going. To keep tasting."
She understood immediately.
"Bucky, I don't have milk yet. Just colostrum, and it's barely anything."
"I don't care," he growled, and the raw edge in his voice made her clench all over again. "I want everything your body makes… it's mine too."
She stared at him, stunned and turned on in equal measure. It's been a while since she saw him so possessive, so hungry for something so intimately hers.
"Come here," she whispered, tugging him up for a kiss.
He kissed her deeply, never leaving her breasts with his hands, still teasing her nipples with his thumbs. When they broke apart, she was trembling.
"Bucky… please."
"What do you want, mate?" he asked against her mouth. "Tell me."
"Touch me. I need to know you still want me."
He made a broken sound, almost a growl.
"I want you so much it hurts," he confessed, shaking his voice. "But I'm scared-"
"Bucky," she interrupted gently, cupping his face to make him look at her. "With all those prenatal videos… did you get to the part where they suggest that sex in full-term pregnancies can help the body prepare for birth?"
He frowned, knitting his brows together. "No. I didn't… get that far."
She smiled faintly, despite the ache building between her thighs. "There are hormones in semen that help ripen the cervix, make it ready. And orgasms cause mild contractions, nothing dangerous, just enough to encourage things along. It's a really good way to help me right now. I'm… so ready to burst, Bucky. I want this baby born. And I want you."
He widened his eyes slightly, processing. The fear was still there, but now it warred with that practical, protective instinct of his, the one that always kicked in when something was "good for the baby." He dropped his gaze to her belly, then back up.
"It… helps?" he repeated, voice rough but curious.
She nodded, shifting a little under him, letting her thigh brush against the tent on his pants. "Yes. And it's been months. I need you. Please."
That did it. The pretext -the logic of it being practical, good for her body, good for their child- gave him the push he needed. His expression shifted, fear giving way to resolve, and that raw hunger she'd missed so much.
He closed his eyes for a second, like he was steeling himself. Then he lifted her carefully, effortlessly, and carried her to the bedroom. Then he laid her down on her side, the way she slept best these days, and stripped off his shirt before sliding in behind her.
Bucky pressed his chest to her back, sliding one arm under her neck, curving the other protectively over the swell of her belly. He found the curve of her shoulder with his mouth, kissing slow, open-mouthed trails up to her ear.
"I'll be careful," he murmured, voice rough with restraint. "Tell me if anything hurts."
She nodded, already arching back against him, feeling the hard line of his cock pressing between her thighs through his sweatpants. He tugged them down just enough to free himself, groaning softly when his bare skin met hers.
He slipped his hand between her legs from the front, sliding his fingers through how wet she was, spreading it back, teasing her entrance until she whimpered. He circled her clit once, twice, then guided himself to her, pressing in slow -inch by thick inch- watching her face in the dim light.
She gasped at the stretch; it had been too long, and he felt bigger than she remembered, but her body welcomed him greedily. He paused halfway, breathing hard against her neck.
"More," she whispered, pushing back.
He growled low and slid the rest of the way, burying himself fully inside her. They both stilled for a moment, just feeling him throbbing inside her, her walls fluttering around him.
Then he started to move.
Slow, deep thrusts from behind, rolling his hips in a rhythm that rocked her gently forward with each stroke. He kept his hand on her belly, cradling it, feeling the way their baby shifted slightly under his palm. The other hand returned to her breast, kneading, flicking his thumb over the nipple until she moaned.
He kept the pace careful but relentless, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in, grinding against her ass at the end of every thrust. The angle was perfect -deep without pressing on her belly- and she could feel every ridge of his cock dragging along her walls.
"Bucky-" she breathed, reaching back to grip his thigh.
He nuzzled her neck, grazing his teeth against the skin. "You feel so good, mate. So tight. So wet for me."
His hand left her breast and slid down to where they joined, finding her clit again with his fingers, rubbing in tight circles that matched his thrusts. Pleasure started to coil fast and sharp inside her.
When she started trembling, he shifted them carefully, rolling her forward onto her knees, lowering her chest to the pillows, belly hanging safely between her arms. He stayed behind her, bracing one hand beside her head, guiding her back onto him with the other still on her hip.
This angle was deeper. She cried out softly as he filled her again, the head of his cock nudging places that made stars burst behind her eyes. He moved faster now, snapping his hips forward, the wet sound of skin meeting skin filling the quiet room.
"Still okay?" he rasped, voice strained.
"Yes! don't you dare stop-"
He didn't. He fucked her steadily and deep, careful not to jolt her too hard, but letting himself go enough that she felt claimed, wanted, desired. He slipped his hand under her again, working her clit with his fingers until she shattered, clenching her walls hard around him, tearing a broken moan from her throat.
Bucky groaned her name, his thrusts stuttering as he followed her over, burying himself deep and coming in thick pulses, filling her just like the videos promised would help. He stayed inside her as he softened slightly, wrapping both arms around her belly and chest, pulling her back against him.
They stayed like that -spooning again, still joined- he pressing his lips with soft kisses to her damp shoulder.
"I love you," he whispered against her skin, voice raw. "Both of you."
She smiled, exhausted and sated, threading her fingers through his where they rested on her belly.
"We love you too."
----
A couple of days later, she woke to pain.
Not the dull, constant ache she'd grown used to. This was different. Sharp. Clenching. A band tightening around her middle that made her gasp and bend forward before releasing just as suddenly.
She lay there in the dark, breathing hard, one hand on her belly.
5:17 AM, according to the clock on her cellphone.
Another contraction hit.
She counted through it, timing like the course had taught her. Forty-five seconds. Strong enough to take her breath away.
Beside her, Bucky stirred.
"What's wrong?" His voice was rough with sleep, but he was already pushing himself up, alert.
"Contractions," she managed. "Real ones."
He was out of bed in an instant, turning on the lamp, crouching beside her. "How far apart?"
"This is the second. Maybe... fifteen minutes?"
"Okay." He ran a hand through his hair, visibly trying to stay calm. "Okay. We wait. We time them. When they're five minutes apart for an hour, we go."
She nodded, breathing through another wave.
They didn't have to wait an hour.
By 6:30, the contractions were coming every seven minutes. By 7:00, every five. Hard, regular, and undeniable.
"Hospital," she said through gritted teeth. "Now."
Bucky was already grabbing the bag by the door, his phone, his jacket. "I'll call a cab."
"A cab?"
"You're not driving right now." His hands were shaking slightly as he pulled up the app.
She didn't argue. The contractions were getting stronger, closer together, and the idea of driving her car through them didn't sound ideal.
The cab arrived in eight minutes. Longest eight minutes of her life.
Bucky helped her into the back seat, one hand firm on her lower back, the other holding hers. He gave the driver the hospital address in a voice that left no room for questions, then turned all his attention to her.
"Breathe," he murmured. "Just breathe."
"I am breathing," she snapped, then immediately felt bad. "Sorry. I-"
Another contraction hit, and she squeezed his hand hard enough that she heard his knuckles pop.
He didn't even flinch.
The hospital was a blur: check-in, wheelchair, labor, and delivery floor. They got her into a room, into a gown, and checked her dilation.
"Four centimeters," the nurse said cheerfully. "You're doing great. We'll check again in a couple of hours."
Four centimeters.
Six more to go.
Time became strange after that. Contractions that lasted forever and seconds that stretched into hours. Bucky stayed beside her the entire time, holding her hand, letting her grip him through the pain, murmuring encouragement that she barely heard.
Until the contractions got worse.
Much worse.
She screamed.
Couldn't help it. The pain was enormous, all-consuming, like her body was tearing itself apart from the inside out.
Bucky went white.
"Something's wrong," he said immediately, turning to the nurse who'd just come to check on them. "Do something. She's-"
"She's in labor," the nurse said calmly. "This is normal."
"Normal?!" He looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "She's-"
Another contraction. Another scream.
Bucky turned to the doctor who'd just entered. "You need to do something. Give her something. Make it stop-"
"Bucky-" she gasped, trying to get his attention between waves of pain. "I'm okay-"
"You're not okay!" His voice cracked. "They need to-"
"Bucky!" she grabbed his face, forcing him to look at her. "This is normal. This is what happens. I'm okay."
But then another contraction hit, and she was screaming again, and she saw the panic in his eyes deepen.
The nurse who'd been checking her vitals, finally had enough.
She stepped directly in front of Bucky, putting her hands on her hips: "Young man, you are here to comfort her, not the other way around. If you can't stomach this, you can wait outside like men used to do in my time. But if you're staying, you pull yourself together and support her."
Bucky stared at her, stunned.
The nurse didn't back down. "She's doing the hardest work of her life right now. She doesn't need you falling apart. She needs you strong. Can you do that?"
Something changed in his expression. The panic receded, replaced by shame, then determination.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I can do that."
"Good." The nurse nodded once, sharp and final, then moved to check the monitors.
Bucky turned back to her, and this time his hands were steady when he took hers.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She managed a weak smile before the next contraction took her.
But this time, he didn't panic. He held her through it, let her squeeze his hand until she thought she'd break bones, and when she screamed, he just leaned close and murmured against her temple: "You're doing so well. You're so strong. I'm right here."
And he was.
Through every contraction. Every scream. Every moment of doubt when she sobbed that she couldn't do this, couldn't keep going.
"You can," he said, over and over. "You are. You're almost there."
When they finally told her to push, she was exhausted beyond measure, but Bucky was there, supporting her back with one arm, holding her hand with the other, his voice in her ear telling her she could do this, she was doing it, just a little more.
And then-
A cry. Loud and alive.
"It's a boy," the doctor announced, holding up a tiny, squirming, screaming baby covered in vernix and blood and absolutely perfect.
She burst into tears.
Bucky made a sound like he'd been punched, grabbing her hand tighter.
They cleaned the baby quickly, checked him over, then placed him on her chest, skin to skin, and she looked down at this tiny, impossible person they'd made and couldn't breathe.
"Oh my god," she whispered. "Bucky, look at him."
He couldn't speak. He just stared, hesitating with one hand like he was afraid to touch, afraid this wasn't real.
The baby had dark hair, wet and plastered to his head. His eyes were squeezed shut, little fists waving. But his ears… were slightly pointed. Just a little. Just enough.
"He's here," she said, breaking her voice. "He's really here."
Bucky finally touched him -just fingertips against the baby's tiny hand- and the baby's fingers closed around his immediately, gripping tight.
Bucky made another broken sound, and when she looked up, his eyes were glassy.
"Hi, pup," he whispered, voice raw. "Hi."
And despite everything -despite the pain and the fear and the exhaustion- she thought this might be the best moment of her life.
----
The house felt different.
Not physically, everything was exactly where they'd left it three days ago when they'd rushed out. But because now there was a third person here.
Ethan.
She carried him inside while Bucky handled the bags, and just stood there for a moment in the living room, looking around with this tiny, sleeping bundle in her arms.
"You're home," she whispered to him. "This is where you live now."
Ethan didn't respond. He was two days old and mostly interested in sleeping, eating, and occasionally screaming for reasons they were still learning to decipher.
Bucky appeared beside her, setting everything down carefully. "You should sit. You're supposed to be resting."
"I've been sitting and leaning down for three days."
"Because you just gave birth." He guided her gently toward the couch. "She said to keep up with the salt water. Two months, remember?"
Right. The postpartum seawater soaks. Her body was still adjusting back to normal after months of supporting the baby.
The basin was already filled and waiting. When did Bucky do it? she didn't know.
She sat on the couch with Ethan still cradled in one arm, and Bucky carefully lifted her feet into the water.
The relief was immediate.
"Better?" he asked.
"Yeah."
He sat beside her, not touching, just close. His eyes were on Ethan, had barely left him since the moment he was born.
"You can hold him, you know," she said softly.
"I know."
"So...?"
"I'm afraid of dropping him."
She smiled despite her exhaustion. "You won't drop him."
"He's so small."
"He's almost nine pounds. Tell that to my-"
"That's small." Bucky insisted, flexing his hands, like he was working up the courage. "What if I hurt him?"
"You won't." She shifted, angling Ethan toward him. "Come on. He's your son. Hold him."
He swallowed hard, then reached out with exaggerated care, taking Ethan into his arms like he was made of the frailest kind of glass.
The baby stirred slightly, making a small noise, and Bucky froze.
"It's okay," she murmured. "He's just settling."
Slowly, carefully, Bucky adjusted his hold, cradling Ethan's head with one arm, supporting his tiny body with the other, just as he saw in the videos. The baby fit easily in his hands, small and warm and perfect.
Ethan opened his eyes for just a moment -dark and unfocused- then closed them again.
Bucky stared down at him with an expression she'd never seen before. Wonder. Terror. Love so intense it was almost painful to witness.
"Hi, pup," he whispered, voice rough. "Remember me?"
Ethan yawned.
She laughed softly, wiping at her eyes because apparently she was still crying at everything these days. Damn hormones.
"He has your nose," Bucky said quietly.
"And your ears."
He brushed his thumb gently over one of Ethan's slightly pointed ears, the only visible sign of his heritage. Everything else was perfectly human. Ten fingers, ten toes, round eyes, no gills.
Just a baby.
Their baby.
"I thought I'd be ready," he said after a long moment. "Spent months preparing. Watching videos. Reading everything I could find. And I still wasn't ready."
"Nobody ever is."
"You were."
She shook her head. "I was terrified the entire time. Still am."
He looked at her then. "You didn't seem scared."
"Because you were falling apart." She said it gently, without accusation. "Someone had to keep it together." She chuckled.
He winced slightly. "I'm sorry. For-"
"You don't need to apologize." She reached over, resting her hand on his arm. "You were scared. I was scared. We both got through it."
"That nurse was right. As a man, I should have-"
"Bucky." She squeezed his arm. "You were perfect. Once you calmed down, you were exactly what I needed. You're exactly what we need."
He didn't look convinced, but Ethan chose that moment to make another small sound, and Bucky snapped his attention back to him immediately.
"Is he okay? Does he need-"
"He's fine. Probably dreaming."
"Do babies dream?"
"I have no idea."
They sat there in comfortable silence, just watching the baby sleep. The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, warm and golden, and she thought about everything that had led them here.
"We did it," she said softly.
Bucky met her eyes with his. "You did it."
"We did it," she repeated firmly. "Together."
He smiled -small and tired- and shifted closer so she could lean against him while he held their son.
They stayed like that for a long time, her feet in the seawater, Ethan sleeping peacefully in Bucky's arms, the house quiet and still around them.
Different.
But good.
Really, really good.
----
Later, when the baby woke up hungry and screaming, when the exhaustion hit and neither of them could remember the last time they'd slept, when Bucky had to change his first diaper and looked at her with such betrayed horror that she laughed until she cried-
Even then, it was good.
Hard. Terrifying. Overwhelming.
And Bucky, holding his son in the quiet moments before dawn, feeling his tiny weight, thought that maybe this was what his people were missing. The after. Watching them grow. To get to know them.
The love.
He hadn't understood the concept before meeting her. His people didn't love. They took, they claimed, they moved on. There was no word for it in his language, no framework for the feeling that had grown in him when he looked at her.
But she'd taught him.
Taught him that love wasn't weakness. That caring about someone was a strength.
And now, holding Ethan, feeling that same fierce protectiveness, that same overwhelming need to keep him safe and watch him grow and be there for him at every moment-
Now he understood it even more deeply.
And he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.
