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romanteacism · 4 months ago

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Knight Aemond x Princess Reader Love

Synopsis: Emotions run high after you and your knight were attacked, and though it was the most unfortunate of events, you would have to thank it for all that would transpire after. Warnings: None (yet), Aemond and Princess Secret Relationship, Fluff, Mentions of Violence PREVIOUS PART / NEXT PART A/N: I have decided and we shall all expect the addition of canon characters in the next coming chapters!

“I— I saw them on their way to the hill, her seated on a white stallion and her knight holding the reigns. She was wearing a… a pink dress, and there were flowers and ribbons in her hair, and she even bid me ‘good morrow,’ but that was all, I swear! I never told anyone that I saw the princess by the grove; please, you must believe me!” The prince looked upon the woodcutter, who was one of the last persons who had seen his sister and her knight. You and Ser Aemond had left early in the morning two days before for you wanted to have a picnic on the hill, they granted you permission, thinking the two of you would return by midday, but two days had passed, and naught a word nor sign appeared to tell them the whereabouts of the princess and Ser Aemond.

The prince gritted his jaw and nodded, the testament of the woodcutter believable. He turned to his father, who was growing impatient and was consumed by his nerves. They had no idea what had happened to you. They had sent out search parties since the afternoon you had left, but none still had seen you. “Next!” A voice announced as another witness stepped towards the throne where your father sat and your brother stood next to. “Your Highness, your Majesty; I—I have not seen the princess, but I have found this,” The prince paled as the man raised the eye patch of your knight. “I have seen the princess’ sworn protector a couple of times in the city, and I believe it to be his— his initials are carved on the leather.” A squire brought the found eye patch to the king, and they witnessed the ‘A.T.’ engraved on the strap, signifying that it was truly your knight’s.

The prince gave a hesitant nod for the next witness to come and hoped it would give them the answers they were desperate for. However, it was just the same information given— you were seen near the grove with your knight. “This cannot be. Double—no, triple the search parties, and extend their territory. I want my daughter found!” The king almost yelled as he was with his son and the council in the privacy of his study. “Of course, my king,” A council member bowed and hurriedly left the council room to do the king’s order, and in exchange for him came a knight.

“My king, the princess, and Ser Aemond had been spotted by the gate,” He said, almost out of breath. The prince immediately stood and went to the window and witnessed that it was truly you. The prince ran out of the room to meet his sister, pushing away all the members of the court who had flocked as they were worried out of their minds about the disappearance of their princess. The prince felt further dread pool in his stomach as he saw the state you two were in. Your dress was torn, your hair disheveled, and a speck of dried blood by your temple; the cloak of your knight draped over your shoulders to keep a part of your torn dress concealed. Ser Aemond, on the other hand, had dried blood trickling from his thigh and arm, pieces of his cloak to bandage his wounds— and what was most shocking was the lack of his constant eye cover which revealed more of his scar and a gemstone in his eye-socket. The prince looked away, fearing he would offend your knight if he continued to stare.

“Oh gods, sister…” The prince’s voice was barely above a whisper as he could not believe the state you were in. “He needs a maester— Ser Aemond needs a Maester,” You fretted as your brother enveloped you in a hug, though you found comfort, you could not be calm as your knight still held his injuries. “I’m fine, princess,” Aemond interjected, more concerned about your well-being than his, but you parted from your brother and shook your head furiously. “His wounds, it might grow infected— a maester, please!” You pleaded, and before anyone could do your plea, your father came and immediately took you in your arms, your mother following behind him. “Oh my darling, you’re alive— you’re safe,” Your father finally breathed out a breath of relief, but you quickly parted from his arms as you turned to a squire and urged him to fetch a maester.

“Why are you hurt? Where’s your injury?” The king began to fret once more, but you shook your head, unable to answer him until a maester came for Ser Aemond. “Princess, truly, I am fine,” Aemond said quietly, fearing your anxiousness would catch the attention of the court who still circled around you. He feared your understanding would be found out by the way you fretted over him. “Bu—“ You were cut off as your brother spoke, “Here’s the maester now— sister, come, we must get you inside, Ser Aemond will be fine,” Your brother said and gently pulled you to guide you inside. You gave one last look towards your knight, his eye imploring you that he would be fine before you reluctantly followed your family inside the castle.

After the events of the two days were cleansed from your skin, you sat in the sitting room of your chambers with the whole of your family before you. All of them were cautious as to how to question you on what had happened, so all of you sat in silence. You stared at the fire, your mind still consumed by Aemond, fearing that his injuries would grow worse after days of being unable to treat them properly, but the faint yet distinct sound of his armor from the other side of the door made you quickly look up. “Is that Ser Aemond?” Your brother questioned as he noticed your attention was turned to the door. You did not know, so your brother went to confirm, and indeed, it was your knight standing by his post bathed, with clean bandages, and wearing his eye patch. You followed your brother and grew confused as your knight was in his post, your eyes silently imploring him that he must rest, but your father called upon both of you.

You went back to your seat, and your knight stood behind it, stance straight and ready to answer any query. “What has happened?” Your father asked the simple question. “We were attacked.” You answered, surprising the king because he aimed the question at your knight. “We were ambushed on our way back to the castle. They placed a felled tree upon our path as a distraction— it was too heavy and wide to be moved or be lept by the horse, and in consequence, we had to take the road less traveled.” Aemond explained, and you rested your back on the cushion of your chair to see your knight better from your peripheral vision. “They… had shot arrows at the princess’s horse, making her fall, and before I could make my way to her, three men attacked me while the other two took hold of the princess…” Aemond paused as he felt the familiar dread he felt as he heard your desperate cries as two men took hold of your frame.

“And then?” Your brother dared ask. “When I had killed the three, I found them in a distance. They tied the princess upon a tree and…” He trailed, having difficulty to utter the words before your kin. “And?!” Your father roared, his mind imagining the worst in the few seconds of Ser Aemond’s pause. The knight straightened his stance, his eye growing darker. “And they had torn her dress and attempted to sully her— but before they could lay another finger on the princess, I had cut their hands and taken their lives.” He said coldly, finding an odd sense of calm as he recalled their lifeless bodies falling upon the dirt ground, the fitting retribution for what they dared to do to you. The king let out an exasperated sigh, his hand running along his face as he felt rage consume him with just a retelling of what had happened. “Did they suffer?” The king gritted, surprising you and your brother with his question. “The three had rather swift deaths…. But I had made certain that the two would endure each minute of their death.” Aemond answered, the king giving a satisfied nod.

You traced the embroidery of your dress as you glanced towards your knight. Aemond glanced towards your fingers, your nervous habit of tracing the delicate stitching of your gowns. He was itching to have somewhat a hold of you for fear you were still traumatized at the scenes you had witnessed. He remembered your scream; it still echoed in his mind, as well as the horror on your face as you begged him not to kill another bandit, but how could he not? When all of them threatened your life, and all had the goal to harm you and take you from them— from him?

“Well, Ser Aemond, you have proven to us once again how well you take your duty— thank you. We… we are not certain what will befall our daughter if it was not you who was with her,” The king commended, and Aemond nodded. You sat still for a moment, waiting for your family to leave, for you wanted a moment alone with your knight, and when they did, you immediately went to Ser Aemond’s side, dissolving the damned gap that had to return each moment any other presence accompanied you two.

“You must rest,” you said, inspecting the bandages of his wounds. “I am fine; you must not worry so much,” Aemond said softly, his heart warming at how concerned you were of him. “No, you are just saying that! Please, you must rest, at least for a few days— let your wounds settle,” You murmured, gently caressing his arm. “And leave you in the protection of another? No. Princess.” Aemond said, no longer trusting another to watch over you now that he had come to the full realization that there are more dangers that may come to you than he had previously thought. Aemond sighed and cupped your fretting face with his calloused, stained hands, but you found no care, you only leaned closer to his touch. “Thank you.” He whispered, confusing you.

“Why are you thanking me? You are the one who saved my life; I should be thanking you,” You murmured, placing your hand atop his. Aemond smiled and shook his head. “Yes, but you are the one who nursed me back to health— the one who cleaned and bandaged my wounds; if you were not there, I might have bled to death.” Aemond smiled even though the subject was grim. You, however, frowned greatly, “Do not say such a thing,” You said, not even able to grasp the idea of such a proposition. Aemond smiled wider as he attested to how much you truly cared about him. He placed a kiss on your forehead and let his arms wrap around your frame. “I don’t think anyone has cared for me as much as you do,” Aemond murmured, confessing the truth. You felt a twinge in your heart as he said such a thing. How can someone not care for him when it came so easily for you? You sighed and only held him tighter as you had no words of reply.

“I still think you need to rest,” you say after an intimate moment of silence, making Aemond laugh. “Stop fretting, I am fine.” He insisted as he tried to wipe away the furrow between your brows with his thumb, just as how you had done for him before. “Very well— but swear to me if you feel any discomfort, you will tell me, yes?” Aemond sighed and nodded as he knew that was the only way to calm your fretting self. “Promise?” You asked, not completely believing him as he does have a tendency to keep what he feels inside. Aemond did not answer but instead kissed your lips as he always believed that actions do speak louder than words. You sighed, finally feeling some relief after the few days that had passed. You felt more secure and safe now that it was just you and Aemond in the privacy of your chambers, and you could only hope and pray that it would always be like this.

Days passed, and the whole of the kingdom had been privy to the fact of how you were ambushed and how your knight bravely and gallantly protected you from the five ambushers— proclaiming him as a hero for he was the reason why their beloved princess was saved from further harm. Aemond did not like the attention; he had noticed whispers regarding him were quick to grow, and usually, the eyes of the court were most pointed at you, but now it was as well directed on him; he did not like that. You, however, appreciated how the kingdom was starting to take notice of your knight’s effort and how much he had taken his duty incredibly.

“Stop scowling, you’re scaring them.” You say quietly as you walk through the gardens with Aemond and your two cats trailing behind you two, the passersby taking a double look at your heroic knight. “Good.” He answered, glancing behind to see the commotion your two cats were creating as they practically fought each other. “Sapphira, do not bite your brother,” Aemond then scolded, making you bite your lip as you wanted to laugh because you had never heard him refer to or speak to your cats, but it would seem his frustrations with the attention of the kingdom upon him was affecting his usual behavior. “They mean well, Aemond— they see you as a hero; nothing to be upset about,” You say quietly, but he only shakes his head. “I am no hero. I was simply doing my duty.” You sighed at his stubbornness. “Duty or not, if it were not you who was by my side, we would not know what would befall me— and for that, you are a hero.” Aemond restrained himself from answering as his frustrations were getting the better of him.

“Well, I hope your mood will improve, the Knights’ ball is fast approaching— you are aware that you have to be part of the reception, yes? You’ll have to be presented before the kingdom to receive the Medal of Valor.” You informed, and that only severed the frown on Aemond’s face. “Do not remind me,” he drawled, as he took the bouquet of flowers in your hands as it was getting quite hefty. “That reminds me, have you heard from your family? Are they to come so we can prepare their rooms,” You say, and Aemond stilled, as he had not sent out a letter to his family informing them that he was to receive a medal and that they were invited to the banquet but he had told you he had.

You turned to your knight, but he was silent and was avoiding your gaze. “You did not send the invitation, didn’t you?” You sighed, in a way already expecting this. “No matter, I shall send the letter myself,” You say, making your way back to your chambers to draft a letter for Aemond’s family. “Princess, I— please, I—“ You shook your head. He followed you to your desk beside himself, not knowing how to hinder you. “I do not understand you— other knights have waited a lifetime to be presented with such recognition, yet you hold it with such animosity,” You were starting to grow frustrated with Aemond’s attitude, a deep furrow in your brows as you drafted an invitation to House Targaryen.

Aemond sighed and crutched down to the side of your chair so you would meet him at eye level, his hand gently resting on your arm that furiously scribbled the words. “I am honored that you shall bestow upon me such recognition, but I do not think it is needed. I was doing my job— I was only fulfilling my oath to protect you,” Aemond said softly, his voice immediately making you forget your frustrations upon his actions. “I do not need all this pageantry and frills— I am not after recognition… I only wish for you to be safe.” You sighed and cupped his cheek as he said such words, not thinking you could fall for him further, but apparently, there were still uncharted dimensions where your affections for Aemond could still reach.

You captured his lips in a quick kiss. “I know you do not like attention, but I’m afraid it is custom— you have naught a choice,” You say delicately, biting on your inner cheeks as a slight pout appeared on Aemond’s thin lips as he thought he had convinced you to hinder all these frills. “I’m beyond all of this, my love. I cannot make them cease with their curious gazes and wants to celebrate you,” You laughed as you found the small pout in his lips amusing. Aemond, however, froze as he realized the endearment you called him. “My love…?” He questioned with uncertainty if he had heard you correctly.

Your eyes widened as you realized that the words had slipped your lips— instead of brushing it off and making some excuse, you breathed in a deep breath and smiled, taking another risk. “I… I love you,” you confessed, hoping your emotions would not be too much for him and scare him off.

Aemond was rendered in shock. You love him—him! He was speechless, something that he had never experienced, but he realized he best get used to it because you often managed to dismantle and stun him.

You sat in quiet fear as Aemond made no reaction, horror starting to settle in you as his silence was making you believe he felt no strong emotions towards you. That you perhaps said the words too quickly, or worse, he saw you as a passing fancy when you yourself believed him to be the one. You began to trace the embroidery of your dress again, removing your gaze from his lilac eye. Your hands were clammy, and you were starting to regret your confession as it would seem you would be scorned. But Aemond took hold of your cheek and guided your face to look upon his. “I—It’s fine if you do not feel the same,” You lied, trying to save face, hoping no more wounds be afflicted to your pride.

Aemond shook his head, realizing he had taken too long to reply, and doubts quickly festered inside you. “You… love… me?” He said slowly, trying to confirm what he had heard because he doubted it might be a cruel joke. You licked your lips as your hands fisted the fabric of your gown. “I do.” You repeated. “But I am not forcing you to feel the same way— I understand if you don—“ Aemond kissed your lips shut, not wanting you to utter such words.

“You love me,” He repeated again, voice holding thrill and disbelief. “You, love me.” He said for the third time, and you could not help but be amused. “Yes. I love you.” You repeated, letting go of the potential wound that would be inflicted on your pride if he did not feel the same. But as you stared into his eye, the amazed look on his face, you could not believe that you had let yourself doubt him— though no words were said, you had your answer. He loved you. And his actions were proof enough.

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zepskies · 9 months ago

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Wake Me Up - Part 1

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x F. Reader

Summary: A few weeks after you and Ben celebrate your first Christmas together, Ben is returning from another mission with the Supe Affairs team. When he discovers that you’ve been taken, he’ll do whatever it takes to find you. And then, to help you heal.

AN: Welcome back to the BMD-verse! Let me tell you, I’ve had this mini series outlined for months, but now I thought it was finally time to get to it. If you’re not tired of the Break Me Down world yet, I very much hope you enjoy Wake Me Up.

**As a reminder, this story is set shortly after Love Actually, and will contain references from that three-part story.

Song Inspo: For this whole series it’s “I Can Read Your Mind” by the Doobie Brothers. (I pretty much listened to this on repeat.)

Word Count: 5.5K

Tags/Warnings: 18+ only. Starting off strong in this one: with mature themes, show level violence, angst, kidnapping, PTSD, mentions of torture (not too graphic), and character death.

💚 Wake Me Up Masterlist || Break Me Down Masterlist

Part 1: “Familiar Territory”

The start of a new year continued a steady rhythm for you and Ben. Namely, another successful mission for the Supe Affairs team.

While you were patched into the team’s communications line from the safety of your desk back at the S.A. headquarters in New York, your friends were a few states over in Denver, Colorado. They’d just arrested a supe that had been committing a series of bank robberies by literally slipping away from the police, thanks to his particular superpower.

“Somebody better get this shit off of me,” M.M. groused.

He wasn’t too happy about some questionable ooze this particular supe secreted as a defense mechanism. According to Frenchie’s research, it was the same shit that certain frogs could produce to repel predators.

“Need a good hose down, more like,” said Butcher. “You smell fuckin’ foul.”

“Like Satan’s ass crack,” Ben remarked.

You couldn’t hold back a snort of amusement.

“Let’s just get the fuck outta here,” M.M. said, his tone all surly, as per usual. You didn’t envy his plight.

“Good job, guys,” you said, to change the subject. “Now it’s just a short flight back to New York.”

“No layovers this time. I’m not being paid to rot in a fucking airport with a bunch of mouth-breathing assholes and their screaming brats,” Ben said.

Charming. You rolled your eyes, but a smile played on your lips when you imagined his taciturn face.

“Okay, your majesty. I’ll make sure it’s a nonstop flight,” you said. “I’ll be waiting for you at home.”

That last bit, you said with a hint of more behind your words. You drummed your nails on your desk and crossed your legs underneath it. A week was a long time for you and your boyfriend to be apart, and you’d been missing him.

“You better be,” Ben said. His voice was deep and cocky. He was smirking, you were sure, and you knew that he’d understood you perfectly well.

“Anybody else hearing this blatant foreplay?” Hughie quipped.

“I sense cheeks will be cracked tonight,” Frenchie muttered.

“Ugh!” you heard Annie shudder.

You knew she supported you and Ben, but you also knew that she didn’t want to hear about the gushy details. You laughed through your embarrassment.

“Okay, guys. I’ll see you all tomorrow,” you said, before you officially signed off.

You grabbed your purse that was stowed away in a desk drawer, fished out your cell phone, and you called Ben’s cell. He picked up on the second ring.

“Yeah?” he said.

“I love you,” you said with a smile. “Just wanted to make sure you knew that.”

“Mhmm,” he replied. “I’ll see you soon, baby doll.”

You pouted. “Come on, say it.”

“Say what?”

You sighed. You knew he was being deliberately obtuse.

“You know exactly what,” you replied.

Part of you was upset that he didn’t say it back as often as you liked. God forbid Butcher and the others hear him express his affection for you.

But you supposed you understood that any kind of vulnerability was difficult for him, especially in front of others. As much shit as you gave him, you also knew how to pick your battles with Ben.

“I told you. I’ll see you soon,” he said.

You once again tapped your nails, on your armrest this time. After a moment, you relented.

“Okay, baby. Have a safe flight,” you said, even if you were still frowning.

When Ben hung up with you, he let out a deep sigh.

An entire week with these juvenile cocksuckers was almost too much for him to fucking take. While he often felt your presence with you on the comm line during the actual mission, and the occasional phone call on long nights in between, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t enough.

He was ready to go home.

The flight itself was fine, though dealing with civilians and the tiring experience of a long-ass flight made him even more antsy to land. Because even when they got to JFK, he still had a hired car waiting for him to drive him from the airport to get to Scarsdale, and to the apartment he shared with you. It had already been almost a year of you two living there, in a three-bedroom spanning two floors.

Ben hadn’t thought he would get used to such a small place, but it was all right. It had become his home, far more than the penthouses and party mansions ever were, at least.

When he finally got home and unlocked the front door of the apartment, he stepped into darkness. All the lights were off.

Odd, he thought. He called your name while he shut the door behind him, then flicked on the foyer light. He realized then that he hadn’t seen your car in the driveway. Were you still working? It wasn’t unlike you to get caught up with the paperwork and other logistics after a case.

After a quick look around of each room, from the kitchen to the living room, Ben knew you hadn’t come home yet. A frown marred his face.

He went upstairs and entered the bedroom next. He unclipped his wrist guards and took his gloves off first, followed by loosening the collar of his supe suit. The bed was made, untouched since this morning, he was sure.

Then he noticed the scrap of paper resting on his pillow. He picked it up, and his brows furrowed as he read.

By the time you find me, she’ll wish she was dead.

Ben called Grace Mallory first.

When she didn’t answer, he called Butcher next. Ben’s hand shook the slightest bit while holding the phone up to his ear.

“Evenin’, guv,” Butcher answered with a tired sigh. “What’s this about—”

“We have a fucking problem,” Ben growled.

Ben pushed the limits of his Mercedes Benz while driving himself to Supe Affairs.

The others met him there in a conference room, except for Grace, who was on an active case at the moment. There Hughie and Frenchie tapped into the S.A. security footage on their laptops.

They eventually found you getting into your car in the S.A. garage, about four hours ago. Then two later, the street cameras picked you up somewhere in the Village. Ben recognized the street.

You probably had dinner with your friend Yvette and her family, but you intended to make it home on time to meet Ben when you left around 9:00 p.m.

You had parallel parked at a meter on the street. According to the footage, it looked quiet and empty when you headed back to your car.

You were stopped by someone before you could get the driver’s side door open. It looked like a man’s height and build; he grabbed you by the shoulder and threw a punch you managed to dodge.

You put up a good fight, but you were eventually knocked out with what looked to be a crowbar, at first glance. When Hughie zoomed in, it was actually a black baton. Ben watched it all with a deepening frown. Anger churned in his gut and ignited his blood as he watched your unconscious body being hauled into a black SUV.

“That looks military-issued,” M.M. said, pointing at the baton that the suspect used to hit you.

Butcher nodded, and also noted the man’s fighting style. “That’s a professional.”

“He would have to be, to take her out,” M.M. said, glancing at Ben. “And the timing. They knew you were coming home. That note was personal, besides the fact that they were casing your place…they’ve probably been watching both of you, waiting for the chance to get the jump on you.”

“The question,” Butcher said, “is who the fuck would wanna tangle with Soldier Boy that badly?”

“Shit. That’s a laundry list, isn’t it?” Hughie said. M.M.’s glance told him to shut the fuck up.

Ben was silent, but his fury was mounting. His head turned sharply to Butcher.

“Get Mallory on the line. Now,” he barked. When no one moved quick enough for him, his temper snapped at its thinly held leash.

“I said right fucking now!”

Slowly you blinked your eyes open. For a moment, you were seeing in double vision. It soon cleared up to reveal dark, damp, musty surroundings.

It smelled familiar; after that mission to find and subdue Sapphire a couple of months ago, you’d recognize a New York sewer anywhere.

Fuuucking shit, you thought with a groan. Your head was aching. You felt a trickle of blood down the side of your neck, and you found yourself in a familiar position—seated on a metal chair with your hands secured behind your back. Your restraints felt like zip ties.

“You finally with us, sweetheart?” asked a man. His voice was smooth and commanding.

“Jackson, I don’t know about this,” whispered someone else. Another man, though he sounded slightly younger, reminding you of Hughie.

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” Jackson snapped.

At least you had a name. He stepped into the light that came from a couple of small lanterns. One was propped on top of a bucket by the wall. The other was on a plastic fold out table that you saw a few feet beside you.

The man who stepped into your line of vision was tall, maybe around Ben’s height, if just shy of his build. He was blonde, just like his skinnier friend. They shared some notable facial features and coloring, but while Jackson’s eyes were dark brown and self-assured, the younger man’s were blue and apprehensive. If you had to guess, they looked like brothers.

“Nice digs,” you remarked, gesturing with your gaze at your surroundings.

Jackson rose a brow, crossing his arms.

“You’re taking all this pretty well,” he said.

You huffed humorlessly.

“This isn’t exactly my first kidnapping,” you said.

He quirked his head and drew closer.

“All right. Well, since we’re on the clock, let me tell you why you’re here,” he said. He bent down in front of you so that his face was level with yours. “I need you, sweetheart. You’re going to tell me how to bring down Soldier Boy. How to kill him. How to end him. Then maybe, I’ll let you go without gouging out those pretty eyes.”

You stared back at Jackson with an expression that didn’t change.

Then you spat in his face.

And you expected the hard, back-handed slap that made your head whip to the side. It rattled you for a moment as you caught your breath, but you recovered enough to lean back in your seat. Your eyes met Jackson’s directly after he wiped his face with his shirt. “Tommy” stood off to the side behind his partner. He’d looked away when you were hit.

You focused on the other man, Jackson. He was wearing black cargo pants to match his boots, and a belt with a gun on his hip. He carried himself like a trained killer.

“Military, government agency, or private sector?” you asked.

His head tilted. He studied you, just like you were studying him.

“None of the above really,” he said. “Not anymore.”

He walked over to the fold out table, where he grabbed a black bag and unzipped it. A flash of silver gleamed as he pulled out one sharp instrument after the next. You had to hide your apprehension, and fear that made your insides tremble.

He glanced over at you.

“Let’s get started,” he said.

Hours later, you were teetering on the edge of consciousness.

After the last hit, you spat a wad of phlegm and blood onto Jackson’s shoes. He rotated the ache out of his hand. He looked down at you through furrowed brows.

“Damn, bitch,” he said, catching his breath. “You can take a hit. I’ll give you that.”

“My dad was a Marine, numb nuts,” you managed to reply, through labored breaths. “He used to hit harder with his open hand than all the strength in that limp-dick wrist of yours.”

Jackson smirked. “Christ. Daddy issues, huh? Why doesn’t that surprise me.”

You gave him a droll look. Again, to cover your fear, because you weren’t willing to give him the satisfaction of seeing it.

Angered and frustrated by that defiance, he reached down and grabbed your neck and jaw with one hand. You winced at the force of his grip, but when he started squeezing, this was the one thing that made you truly whimper. You tried not to think about the ghost of your father’s hand around your neck.

“Don’t you get it, asshole?” you gritted out while struggling for breath. “You can’t kill him. No one can. Stronger, smarter people than you have tried.”

Moments ticked by while Jackson contemplated your words.

Then he released you. You sucked in gulps of air and tried not to cough out a lung.

“Maybe,” he said. “But Soldier Boy’s got a weakness. If anyone knows it, I’ve got a feeling it’s you.”

You can’t say anything. You can’t, you can’t, you can’t.

That had been your mantra for every minute you had spent in this hole. You shook your head.

“Look, Jackson.” You sucked in another breath to steady yourself, and blink a drip of blood out of your eyes. “He’s going to kill you. You and your brother. Take your family and run, while you’ve still got a chance.”

“…You know what? You’re probably right,” Jackson said, scratching the back of his head with his crimson-stained hand. “But I just realized something.”

He leaned down again, until he was level with your face.

“When he finds you, drowned in your own goddamn blood…I think the look on his face might just be enough for me.”

Your eyes widened.

It took days. Three painful days to pick up the threads, which led closer to home than anyone could’ve anticipated.

Grace Mallory put pressure across the chain of command, and even reached out to the FBI for assistance. An alert email finally came to her phone, and she realized that an agent on her own payroll had been flagged for never reporting back for his debriefing on a reconnaissance mission.

That agent was Jackson Rawlins.

The further she read into his file, the worse her frown became. She immediately sent the lead to Ben, Butcher, and the rest of the team to run down. For the first time in years, Grace actually prayed.

She prayed that they would reach you in time. It wasn’t until then that she realized it; she hadn’t thought of you as a cog in her system for some time now—not even as leverage against Soldier Boy. She was genuinely concerned about you.

Grace worried that she was setting herself up for disappointment…if it was too late. However, she also worried about what would happen if you didn’t survive. She considered how Ben might react, with that nuclear power within him that he was still learning to control. The consequences of this mission could very well be catastrophic.

You were losing track of time in this windowless pit. You knew it had been days, but you didn’t remember how many. The cellar was cold, and the way sound and air traveled, it felt like you were underground. It certainly smelled like it—damp and gross. It made you certain this was a sewer.

Now this is Satan’s ass crack, you thought. You winced at the pain that radiated…pretty much everywhere. Blood had dried from various lacerations across your face, neck, chest, and arms, and bruises were dark against your skin.

Your blouse was in tatters, and your jeans had bleeding rips as well, though at least he’d kept your ankle boots on. You were too weak even for hunger. And a large, heavy chain attached to manacles on your wrists had replaced the zip ties. One end of the chain was fastened between the wall and a line of plumbing.

Footsteps echoed down the hall behind you. You closed your eyes and steeled yourself.

“Are we actually gonna have a conversation today?” Jackson asked.

“Depends,” you replied, your voice dry and coarse. “Are you going to tell me why you hate Ben so much?”

An angry sigh escaped Jackson’s lips. He pointed up in frustration.

“Ben.” Jackson rolled and cracked his neck, like just the mention of your boyfriend’s real name was disgusting to this man.

“You talk about him like he’s a real fucking person. Not like the animal supe he is,” he said.

“He is a person,” you said, both in exhaustion, and in pain. “And he’s trying to be better. Look, he’s done terrible things. I’m not saying he hasn’t. I don’t know what he’s done to you in the past, but—”

Jackson shut you up with a sharp backhand. It made black spots encroach on your vision as you caught your breath.

You noticed his brother Tom come in the room as well, to watch and worry. He didn’t seem comfortable with this way of things. He looked like a civilian. Maybe you could use that to your advantage…

But you lost track of thought after that, when Jackson started in on you with either his hands, or the creativity of the instruments on the table nearby.

You tried to block out the pain, along with his questions about Ben. If you couldn’t talk about him, you couldn’t let yourself think about him. So you couldn’t say anything.

Not about the Novichok nerve agent, one of the few things that had been found to incapacitate him. Not his imprisonment by Vought or the S.A.—nothing that your captor could one day use against Ben.

You can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

Even though all you wanted right now was him.

Ben, please…

You zoned in and out of consciousness from there.

When you next registered being awake, mercifully, you were left alone. You raised your head when Tom came to blot at least some of your wounds and give you water. You’d only eaten small pieces of protein bars for days.

“I’m sorry,” Tom whispered.

“Why does he want Ben?” you wheezed. “Why are you going along with this if you’re so damn sorry?”

Tom looked up at you with pain and grief in his blue eyes. He sighed and dragged a nearby chair from the table. He sat beside you while he fed you half a protein bar. It was a struggle to even get the pieces down.

“Last year,” said Tom, clearing his throat. “I lived in the building that Soldier Boy blew up when he got back from…wherever the Russians had him.”

Your eyes widened as you processed that. “You…but you made it out. Why—”

“I wasn’t home. I was at work,” Tom said. His voice was pained as his eyes became red and glassy. “Our mom wasn’t so lucky.”

You sighed, closing your eyes.

“She was retired, and I was taking care of her,” Tom said. He wiped at his eyes and sniffed. “Jackson wasn’t here. He was on a mission in Colombia. Told me he was cleaning up some cartel shit.”

At that, you had a sneaking suspicion that coiled in your gut. Ben had left a bit of a mess when he peaced out of Colombia, with an entire plane filled with drugs and weapons from whatever cartel he’d infiltrated. (In his words, he’d cut the head off the snake.)

Grace told you she’d sent a team in to handle that mess…

“Your brother—who does he work for?” you asked. Though you had a feeling you knew the answer.

Tom seemed to read your understanding, and his face turned grim.

“The CIA,” he said.

Fuck, you grimaced. So not only had Ben been responsible for their mother’s death, but Jackson had been part of the team that cleaned up his mess in South America. It explained why Jackson was somehow able to find your information; Supe Affairs had become a subsect of the CIA, thanks to Grace.

“I didn’t know he was planning this. I swear to God. All he said was that he had a way to get at Soldier Boy,” Tom said. You let out a deep breath.

“I’m sorry for your loss. I really am,” you said. Tears welled up hot in your eyes. “But you need to let me go. For your own safety, believe me.”

You saw the guilt, the sadness, the regret on Tom’s face. The brief indecision was overtaken when he glanced down the hall. You knew then that he was more afraid of his own brother than he was willing to do the right thing.

Your tears spilled over, though you tried to breathe through it. You’d tried to save them for when you were alone, those seldom few, cold hours, but you were reaching your breaking point.

“Okay, before I go, do you have to use the bathroom?” Tom asked. There was a bucket in the corner, and Jackson preferred it away from the chair. It was the only time Tom was allowed to unchain you from the wall and let you stretch your legs.

Letting out an exhausted sigh, you nodded in agreement. It was humiliating to know you were going to have to do this yet again, in a bucket, with company. With the manacles still on your wrists, he brought you over to the “special” corner.

Tom sighed and looked away to give you some semblance of privacy.

That was when you used every scrap of energy you had left in you.

You grabbed the chain and yanked it out of his hands long enough to wrap it around his neck from behind. You cut off his sounds of strain and kicked out his knees, so he was forced to kneel on the ground.

You wrapped the rest of the chain around your thigh, giving you the leverage you needed to tighten your grip and choke him out, until he was unconscious. His body fell to the side, and you heaved for breath. Once again, there were black spots in your vision, but you did your best to blink them away.

Now set with determination, you made your way to the plastic table and searched for the key to your chains. After the manacles were unlocked, you rubbed at your raw wrists and rapidly scanned the room. Adrenaline pumped through your veins as you calculated which way you should go to try and escape.

There were three possibilities in this clearing under the sewer: left, right, or straight ahead. Every time Tom or Jackson emerged, it sounded like it was behind you. The chair was facing to the east, which meant you had to take the left tunnel.

You ran in that direction and tried to find a metal ladder that would take you to whatever manhole cover these guys had detached. Someone couldn’t just open up any of those iron plates without the right tools, from the inside or the outside.

You walked as fast as you could manage, even though your entire body protested in pain. Then finally, you saw a black duffel bag lying on the ground, against the wall. Next to it was a metal ladder that went all the way up to the top.

“Jackson, don’t!”

You heard Tom’s voice, but you felt the presence behind you too late. Jackson hit you in the back of the head with that damn baton, so hard that even he grimaced at how the sound echoed on the walls. You crumpled to the ground.

Jackson stood over you with a grim set to his face. He turned to his brother with a shake of his head.

“She’s a walking welt, and you couldn’t handle her?” he said.

“This is too much,” Tom said in worry. He bent down and held two fingers to your neck. He still felt a pulse, at least, but when he felt behind your head, he found blood. His hand shook as he stared at it.

“If you didn’t want in on this, you should’ve said so from the beginning,” said Jackson. He spun the baton in his hand and clipped the hilt to his belt, from a small metal loop on the end of it.

“You didn’t say anything about…about this!” Tom argued. He cleaned your blood off on his jacket.

Jackson regarded his brother with disappointment, and he hefted you up into his arms. Tom followed him back to their setup with your makeshift prison. There Jackson left you lying on the ground, and chained you back up by your wrists for good measure. He then literally and figuratively wiped his hands of you.

“Come on, we’re leaving,” he said. “For good this time.”

Tom looked at you, then his brother in shock. There was even emotion in his eyes.

“We’re leaving her to die,” he said, his voice unsteady. He knew then, that their mother wouldn't have wanted this in her name. If she saw both of them now, she wouldn't recognize them.

Jackson grabbed his younger brother where his neck met his shoulder. An iron grip.

“And what do you think Soldier Boy is going to do if he finds us?” Jackson asked. His gaze encouraged Tom to explore that reality for a moment.

Jackson nodded at your unconscious form. “Trust me, that bitch was never going to talk. But this is almost better.”

It wasn’t right, Tom thought. He knew it, deep in his heart, but he wasn’t strong like his brother, or even like you.

That was when they heard it. The rumble of engines dying and tires rolling overhead, dislodging a few stray pebbles and dust from the ceiling. Jackson’s eyes widened.

“Fuck!” he muttered. “All right, let’s go.”

Jackson forced his younger brother to leave the sewer with him, and leave you chained up on the floor.

Ben, Butcher, M.M., and Frenchie had done much of the legwork in tracking down Jackson Rawlins and his brother Tom (with help from Annie, Kimiko, and Hughie of course). Frenchie had found your likely location with a powerful thermal scanner, courtesy of Grace.

Now, they’d driven up to the wide alley in the city and blocked off all the exits on the block. Ben was the first to get his boots on the ground and stride toward the point of entry, where according to Frenchie’s scanners, more than one body was holed up in the sewer. He held his shield at his side and at the ready when the manhole cover loosened, and slid open.

A small gas bomb rolled out towards his feet, but it was just tear gas, not the kind of thing that could actually affect him. Ben picked up the little round ball of metal and crushed it in his hand. While the rest of the team dove for the oxygen masks stored in the car, Ben stalked forward.

Seeing the silhouette of a man, Ben threw his shield hard enough to rattle a supe.

Jackson Rawlins was thrown clean onto his back with a force that stole the breath from his lungs, even through his gas mask. It also broke half a dozen ribs. Ben was soon bearing on top of him and ripping off the mask.

Jackson cried out as remnants of the tear gas seared his eyes.

“Got us a runner!” Butcher shouted. He intercepted and grabbed up a second man who tried to escape. Tom Rawlins wasn’t the threat, but he still wasn’t going free. M.M. and Frenchie also dove down into the sewer to try and find you after they got their gas masks on.

Meanwhile, Ben hauled Jackson up by his neck and walked him back until he hit the brick wall beside a nail salon. Jackson grunted in pain. Every breath he took was now agonizing, thanks to his now battered and broken ribs.

“Where is she?” Ben demanded.

Jackson actually laughed in his face, despite his now bloodshot eyes.

“All you fucking supes are the same,” he said. “But you…you’re the worst. Quite literally, the original asshole. And what does the government do? What does the world do? Gives you a pass on decades of indiscretions, fuck ups, and straight up murder.”

Ben didn’t outwardly react, but he knew what Jackson’s problem was. He knew he killed the man’s family. Collateral damage—something that had caused Ben more than one argument with you in the past.

But he didn’t care.

He didn’t care, because all he could see in his mind’s eye was a metal bat hitting the back of your head and knocking you clean out. He saw you being taken against your will. Taken from him. And that, he couldn’t abide.

“Where. Is she?” Ben said, as his grip flexed around the other man’s neck. It would be easy. Easier than snapping a toothpick. And he warned, “Don’t make me fucking repeat myself.”

“Dead, probably,” Jackson spat, despite his red and bleary eyes. “Real tough bitch. I see why you’re fucking her…I had me a little taste myself.”

In that moment, Ben couldn’t compute.

His green eyes widened. His breath stilled.

Then his jaw clenched so tight that his teeth were grinding. A fire in his blood and behind his eyes, and fury that burned hot in his chest, almost giving it that nuclear glow.

His hand tightened and choked any salacious words Jackson might’ve spewed out next.

“He didn’t!” Tom shouted out. He was being restrained by Butcher. Ben glanced at them out of the corner of his eye.

“He didn’t touch her. Not like that,” Tom said. He looked sincere.

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy,” said his older brother.

It earned Ben’s attention back. Jackson had the look of a man who knew he was going to die either way.

Ben’s lips curled into a sneer. He took the man’s head with both hands, and slowly crushed his skull. The scream echoed between Ben’s ears, but he was only satisfied when Jackson’s lifeless body dropped at his feet.

He turned to the other Rawlins next.

Tom had screamed as well to watch his brother’s life ended before his eyes. He now stared straight into Soldier Boy’s, pleading wordlessly for his own life. Ben started toward him.

“Please,” Tom said. He tried twisting away from Butcher, who held firm to the man’s arm. The Brit knew all too well, the rage that Ben had in his blood.

“Ben,” Annie tried, and she even stepped forward. Butcher held a hand out against her with a knowing look. It wouldn’t be wise to stand in the way.

“Hey!” M.M. shouted up from down the open hatch of the sewer. “We found her! Need help getting her loose.”

Ben paused in his steps. Tom was shaking, lips trembling, petrified.

Tilting his head, Ben let out a subtle breath through his nose. He began to turn back toward the sewer.

At the last moment, however, he drew his gun and shot Tom Rawlins between the eyes. The man was dead before he hit the ground.

Annie and Hughie flinched, but Butcher and Kimiko weren’t surprised in the least.

Meanwhile, Ben made his way back towards M.M.’s voice, and into the sewer. He heard M.M. and Frenchie arguing about first aid and head wounds, the further in he went. Ben’s dark mood blackened even more along the way.

Once he reached them, he also reached you, held in M.M.’s arms as he cradled your head.

You were unconscious with your wrists locked into heavy chains. The furrow between Ben’s brows deepened, but he got down to his knees beside you and first, broke your chains. He guided you out of M.M.’s arms and into his own, making sure to support your head. Blood was already staining his half-glove and fingers.

It was then that he noticed the small crimson pool lying where your body had been, likely from the wound he could feel at the back of your head. Ben’s mouth trembled the slightest bit, mostly in anger as he drew himself back onto his feet. Your body was littered with bruises, cuts both shallow and deep made by what looked like a blade, and God knew what else.

“I had me a little taste myself,” Jackson had taunted.

No, Ben internally shook that thought from his mind. No, you hadn’t been touched like that, at least, according to the sniveling, cock-sucking brother.

But can you trust that little cunt’s word?

Ben briefly closed his eyes, pressing his lips to your forehead. He continued walking down the hall and towards the light and fresh air of the world above.

You’re gonna be just fine, he promised you, if just within the safety of his mind.

Yeah, you would be all right.

He was going to make sure of it.

AN: 🫣 I'm sorry...BUT, I can promise it will get better (eventually). First, it's going to get worse.

Next Time:

It was a slow process, and it hurt, but you managed to turn your head. You saw a man sitting in the corner with a laptop balanced on his lap. He typed with two fingers at a time, which reminded you of your grandfather. His brown hair fell over his furrowed brows, but his beard was well trimmed.

His head soon raised, possibly feeling the weight of your gaze. His eyes widened a fraction, and he hastily closed the laptop and set it down on his seat before he went to you. You frowned when he came to sit at your bedside, and even touched your cheek with a gentle hand.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he said. His voice was deep and smooth. “How’re you feeling?”

You didn’t have the energy to lean away from his hand, but you did give him a look of weary confusion.

“I…I don’t…who are you?” you asked.

▶️ Keep Reading: PART 2

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 11 months ago

Text

the soaring arrow

fused with the foe, chapter two

a/n: we getting somewhere in this one... progress... and by progress, i of course mean that we are one chapter closer to when they finally get to be happy and in love.

summary: “…do you still wanna learn?”

warnings: king!steve rogers x reader, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, slow burn, innocent!reader, violence, gore, injury, weapons, big scary dire bear, a bit of a cliffhanger of an ending to this chapter (the drama is here, it has arrived, in the majestic for of [spoiler])

word count: 4706

∼ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∽

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Rising yet again from the plush stool, your feet carried you the short distance back around to the opposing seat. Your elbow came to rest against the edge of the small games table as you glanced down at the chequered board and your chin swiftly found your propped-up palm as a bored breath seeped from your lungs.

As you moved one of the ivory pieces, the thoughts you’d been trying to keep at bay for weeks slipped through ever so slightly. The king hadn’t talked to you since the wedding, in fact, whenever you’d been in the same room with each other, his gaze never found you.

You might as well have been invisible.

The arm beneath your face slowly melted down till it layed flat against the table and you let your head follow along. Slumped over, your cheek pressed against your forearm.

Raising your gaze from your up-close perspective of the chess pieces, it fell upon the man leaning

against the wall by the exit. Dark locks only half tied up, a crossbow was strapped to his broad back as his stormy gaze stayed low and locked on the small dagger he absentmindedly twirled and flipped in his fingers.

Letting out another sigh, you didn’t bother straightening out before you asked, “so, is this just how it’s gonna be?”

Halting his fiddling, Barnes’ eyes met yours, “pardon me, your majesty?”

“You just lurking wherever I am, is that how it’s gonna be for the rest of my life?” you lifted yourself only slightly so that both of your palms pressed into your soft cheeks to prop it up.

“No, I’m just here till you get settled, then I’ll go back to my usual business,” the advisor stated.

“And when will that be?”

“I don’t know, your majesty,” he sheathed the short blade at his side, “why? If it’s because you don’t care for my presence then please just say so, I won’t be offended if you’d rather have a different warden looking out for you.”

“No,” you sat up properly, “it’s not that, not at all, I just–… could I maybe go for a walk?” the question hesitantly left your lips.

“Sure, you can,” he nodded slightly, “where do you wanna go? I could show you the Valarian Ward in town, there are lots of museums there you might like–”

“No,” you cut his offer off, “I meant if I could go for a walk on my own.”

“Oh… well, I’m not entirely sure that’s the best idea…” he uttered carefully.

“I am your queen, aren’t I? So, can’t I just command you to let me go by myself?” you tried, blinking up at him like a little puppy, “please, Barnes.”

A low sigh then flowed from his lips as his stare raked across the floor. A moment passed before he opened his mouth again, slowly saying as his gaze stayed averted, “your majesty, I am gonna leave for a moment, I suddenly remembered that I forgot something in my chambers this morning. Please excuse me as I momentarily won’t be here watch where you go,” his eyes flicked up to meet yours, “you got that?”

“Yes,” a bright smile stretched across your features, “I understand what you’re saying,” as you instantly shot up to your feet, “thank you, Barnes.”

Though half regretting his choice already, he still offered you a half-hearted smile, “you’re welcome, your majesty.”

Bending down, you plucked a long-stemmed daisy and added it to the bouquet of wildflowers your left fist was tightly enclosed around. As you lifted yourself back up, your vision washed over the blossoming meadow you stood on, located on the hill directly north of the castle. From here only parts of the seaside community were perceivable, as from this angle the mountainous fortress blocked off the vast majority of Borün city, only the edges closest to the main road, like the city stables and the water mill, caught your gaze. But the farmlands that curved over the rolling hills west of the town had no obstructions in their path. The vision of golden fields as well as wide pens that housed both fuzzy brown cows and round little sheep, that blissfully soaked in the mild afternoon sun, couldn’t help but bring a smile to your lips.

Peeking over your shoulder, the warnings of the king’s right-hand man faintly echoed in your mind as you glanced at the thick forest. Temptation had swayed your feet to carry you dangerously close to the edge. The Noll woods didn’t seem that dangerous from this angle, perhaps it was safe enough on the perimeter and it was just the dangers deep within it that they were so terrified of. So, the next thing you knew, your leisurely stride had crossed the meadow and the dark wilderness had swallowed you whole.

Extending an arm as your feet slowly walked over the crunchy leaves and the pillowy moss clusters, you felt the cool leaves brush against your open palm, almost as if you were greeting each and every one of them as you passed. The chirping birds high up in the dense treetops sang a pleasant melody that caused a bright smile to bloom on your lips.

You weren’t sure how long you ventured forth, deeper and deeper into the twisted forest, but eventually, a small and speckled bush caught your eye, ripe with the vibrant berries you recognised from the layered cake that you had been served for tea just a few days prior. The fabric of the long burgundy cloak you wore billowed behind you as you rushed to pluck the small fruits. A soft hum vibrated at your lips as you tasted their tart sweetness, popping them in your mouth one by one.

Though just as your head was up in the clouds, over the moon about this little slice of paradise you had discovered, a low growl emanated from the tall shrubs just behind the berry bush. Your fingers froze in an instant and the fruits in your berry-stained palm rolled to the ground. Slowly, you raised your gaze as a giant snout pushed through the dense plants and the creature’s rotten breath fanned across your cheeks, causing your stomach to churn.

Holding your breath, petrified with fear, you willed your feet to shuffle back at a terrifyingly slow pace. Your entire body trembled like a leaf on the wind as your eyes stayed glued on the dark animal slowly creeping into the clearing.

A bear, though at least three times the size of any normal one, came stomping into the light. Its footsteps were heavy enough to make the forest floor quake. Long and gnarly teeth curled up over its drooping lip as viscus slobber, and what looked like blood, dripped from its gums, staining the blades of grass below with every hefty step. Nowhere on its scarred skull were something that resembled eyes, so as it sniffed loudly, your hair nearly rustling in the gust, the blind monster detected precisely where you stood.

A snarl rumbled out from its toothy maw as it clawed closer to you like a predator playing with its food just before it pounced. Eclipsing the dabbled sunlight that streamed in through the tree canopy, the massive creature blocked off any chance you had of escape. The petrifying roar it then let out caused your hands to instinctively shoot up in front of your face.

Falling back, you collided with the thick tree trunk right behind you. Adrenaline pumped so furiously throughout your body that the tree almost felt like a pillow, as your body was so filled with terror that it didn’t let you notice any of the pain.

Through your shielding fingers, you caught sight of a swift movement, though it wasn’t the ravaging bear before you. From out of nowhere a broad figure suddenly appeared, slipping in between you and the creature.

Your eyes widened as you saw the king hold a shield up high, groaning from the strain as he blocked the monster’s mighty attack. Drawing a stout axe at his belt, he sliced it low, catching one of the bear’s legs and causing it to reel back enough for him to bash the shield against its snout, sending it back a few paces. The arching blows he then landed on the gnawing beast were a brutal blur to your eyes as he didn’t yield till the monster was slain and its blood stained the mossy forest floor.

Slowly turning to face you, crimson dabbled his features and tainted his beard as he stared you down and roared, “what the hell were you thinking?” his broad chest still heaved from the battle as he took a step closer to you, “you’re not in Obelón anymore, you can’t just wander off!”

“I–… I’m sorry,” you said weakly, your eyes felt heavy as you stumbled to distance yourself from the tree trunk, “I didn’t–”

“You didn’t what?” inching closer, he sheathed his weapons, “think you’d bump into a dire bear? What if it had been something worse, huh? What then? Do you have any idea of what kind of dangers lurk in these shadows?”

Black spots dappled your vision as you just managed a faintly utter, “I’m s-sorr–,” before you collapsed.

As the king caught you in his arms, your cloak unfurled to reveal the silks of your gown ripped and peeking out from the shreds was a grave wound on your waist.

When you finally woke up, you weren’t in the forest any longer, but warm under the covers in your own bed.

You weren’t sure what you noticed first, the familiar surroundings or the sharp sting that throbbed at your side. Wincing silently, you pulled down the blankets and saw the clean cloths that bandaged the injury. As you carefully ran a fingertip over the dressing, a figure at the foot of the bed caught your hazy gaze.

Slumped over on a small stool with his head resting against his folded-up arms, there sat the king, completely out cold.

A clay pitcher of water stood on the adjacent bedside table beside a few empty cups that had a deep green tint to the glass. Carefully, as to not rouse the slumbering monarch, you reached for the jug in order to quench the thirst that scratched at your throat. As your fingertips brushed against the handle and moved it just a tad, an aching wave suddenly washed over you as the attempt stretched and disturbed your injured waist enough for you to recoil back, accidentally tugging at the decanter in the process and retroactively knocking over one of the nearby glasses.

As soon as it smashed to the stone floor, the king bolted up like he’d been struck by lightning.

��Sorry, I’m sorry,” you rushed as you clutched your throbbing side and leaned back against the pillows, “I just wanted something to drink.”

Still groggy, he sucked in a breath as he squinted over at you in the bed, “don’t move,” his voice was deep from sleep, “I’ll get it,” and he reached over to fill up the glass that didn’t fall to its doom, “here,” handing it to you, his eyes stayed on you as you took a sip, “how are you feeling?”

Lowing the drink to your lap, you watched the water ripple gently in the glass as you uttered, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking I’d run into any monsters, I just wanted to see the forest. I’ve never been in a real forest before, so I just–… I’m sorry…”

A low sigh flowed from the king’s lips before he asked, “how are you feeling, dove? Does it hurt badly? Because I can fetch you some herbs if it does.”

“It’s not pleasant, but I’ll manage,” as you always did. Your pain tolerance was through the roof when it had to be, “I’m sorry.”

“Would you please stop apologising?” your tense gaze finally flickered up to meet his, “I understand you wandering out on your own, I even understand you wanting to explore the forest, but what I don’t understand is why you didn’t bring a weapon with you. I know you don’t know too much about this kingdom, but you must have a basic understanding of just how dangerous it is, especially The Noll Woods. So why didn’t you bring anything to protect yourself with?”

“What?” you blinked, “I don’t own a weapon.”

Eyes widening, his brows shot up, “you don’t?”

“No…” you shifted lightly under his gaze, “why are you looking at me like that?”

Leaning forward slightly, he asked, “dove, do you not know how to fight?”

“Why would I know how to fight?”

“Why would you–…” he echoed faintly before lowing his gaze to the blankets spread out on the canopy bed, “gods, I knew that Obelón’s high walls helped protect its people from many creatures, but I know even that doesn’t stop the citizens from knowing the basics at least. Why didn’t you ever?” he found your eyes once more, “you’re of royal birth. Why haven’t you been in lessons since you were a child?”

Shifting your grasp around the glass, you uttered, “…my father wouldn’t let me…” your brows were still deeply knitted as you said, “I thought it was improper for fine ladies to have such skills.”

“It’s not,” he shook his head, “trust me. Some of the best fighters I’ve ever known were fine ladies such as yourself.”

“Really?” you couldn’t help but inch forward a bit.

“Yeah, my mom for one taught me a lot of what I know, as well as–…” an unreadable expression briefly washed over his features as his sentence suddenly crumbled, “well, others…”

“I always wanted to learn,” you thought back, “used to spy on my brothers when they were training, even tried to convince Callum to teach me in secret, but none of it ever worked out… my dad always found out and then he’d–…” your gaze stayed locked on the outline of your legs beneath the covers as you felt a shiver run down your spine, “I, uhm… I learned to stop doing that. Going against his rules.”

After he helped you place the glass back beside the pitcher, the king’s deep timbre filled the chamber once more, “…do you still wanna learn?”

The gentle wind kissed your cheeks as you squinted your eyes at the circular target close to the ivy-covered outer wall of the front courtyard. Though the training area stood nestled between the warden’s barracks and the royal stables, the king’s right-hand man had ensured that there wouldn’t be as many people crowding the common area as there usually were, a gesture you’d become thankful for as the act of learning an entirely new skill was intimidating enough without having the added commotion of experts in the field directly next to you, granting you the perspective of just how green you were.

Over countless days, bedridden in your chambers, the wound to your side had scabbed over and healed nearly completely. Though the wait was significant, it hadn’t felt that dreary, since at the first dawn you woke, the king’s presence had been exchanged for a tall stack of meticulously selected books. The majority of them were factual records about Eflorr, the land, the history, everything that had been out of your fingertips in the library of your birthplace. But occasionally in between the tomes of the kingdom were books of completely different genres. There was a wide and worn book of fables that had whimsical illustrations on each page, a pocket-sized novel counting the mystery of a fictional rogue, as well as a collection of flowery poems.

Letting the nocked arrow fly, it didn’t pierce itself into the bullseye your eyes were boring a hole into, but instead joined the cluster lodged in the ground.

“I am never gonna get this,” you muttered, nearly tossing the training bow from you.

“Oh, don’t lose hope yet, your majesty,” you twisted your neck to see Barnes standing by the small, open-style stables adjacent to where you stood, petting the cheek of the black horse that stuck its head over the fence, “you’ve only been going for a few days.”

Drawing another arrow from the quiver not yet strapped to your back, but simply resting on the small stool scooted close, you attempted once more, and though it didn’t hit the target, the arrowhead did wedge itself in between two of the stones on the wall behind it.

“Not bad,” your body jumped at the unexpected voice, “you’re getting closer.”

Spinning around, you saw the king, arms crossed and leaning against the building directly behind you, “your majesty!” your eyes grew to the size of saucers, “h-hello.”

“You need to relax your bow arm more,” he pushed himself off of the wall and walked up to you.

“What?” you blinked, still slightly stunned and scrambling to catch up to the fact that he was even there.

“Here,” he stepped up behind you and a sharp breath of air filled your lungs as his touch found the limb clutching the bow, “you need to relax this arm,” his presence ghosted against your spine as his touch adjusted your appendage to the proper angle, “and lower it just a bit,” plucking up an arrow, he too nocked it for you and let his fingers linger over yours as you drew the string back tight, “use the corner of your lips as an anchor,” as the feathery fletching tickled your cheek, you could have sworn that you felt his curled knuckle shyly brush against your features as well, “and since you’re not very brawny, try and keep a bit of tension right here, it’ll help,” his hand slid down to your waist, the other palm briefly joining on the other side before he let go of you. You could feel the gentle gust of his breath on the shell of your ear as his low voice instructed you, “give it a try.”

The arrow then soared through the air and lodged itself into the outermost ring of the target, “oh my gods,” you squealed, your body victoriously wiggling at the sight, “I did it!”

“Atta girl,” he smiled at the result, and you turned your head to gaze back at him, the fact that he hadn’t shifted back yet caused a shiver to crawl up your spine, “see? I knew you could do it,” his eyes finally flickered down to yours, though when the close proximity dawned on him, only a second passed before his feet began to move, “anyways,” clearing his throat, his vision now seemed to wander over anything but you, “uhm… good job,” he offered your upper arm a small pat, “keep it up,” then turned to the high warden still off to the side, “Buck, I need you to take a look at something for me, up in the war room.”

Giving the horse one last scratch, Barnes answered his friend, “sure thing.”

“You know the king well, correct?” you asked the soldier as he walked with you down to breakfast. At this point, you’d gotten fairly used to Barnes acting as your shadow.

“You could say that,” the corners of his lips curled up in a soft smile, “my mom was a servant here at the castle, so I essentially grew up alongside him. Then as soon as I was old enough, I joined the wardens, partly just to stay at his side. So yes, I do know him well,” he nodded slowly, “I know him very well.”

Rounding the corner, you walked down a long hallway with windows facing out toward the sea all along the right wall. Motes of dust hung suspended in the morning sunbeams that spilt into the hall, perfectly still, like flakes of gold leaf trapped in resin.

Glancing over at him once more as you stepped through one of the golden rays, you slowly opened your mouth once more, “can I ask something?”

“You can ask me anything you’d like,” he met your eye.

“Does–…” you hesitated a moment before averting your gaze to gather up the courage to utter, “does the king have someone else?”

Gently cocking his head, Barnes echoed, “someone else?”

“Does he have someone else?” you repeated, sensing heat creep up in your cheeks.

“Oh, uh,” he breathed as you reached the end of the hallway and he stretched out his arm to push open the door you’d arrived at, “no, not that I know of.”

As he opened the door to the smaller of the dining rooms for you to enter, you noticed that you’d been unconsciously gnawing at the inner part of your bottom lip till it nearly bled and you forced yourself to stop, “alright…”

When you crossed over the threshold, Barnes stayed put on the other side, though offered you a small nod before the heavy doors fell shut behind you.

Turning to face the long table centred in the chamber, your eyes suddenly grew wide as an unexpected figure sat on the far end.

“Good morning,” the king glanced up at you as he popped the piece of strawberry lodged on the tip of his fork into his mouth.

“Your majesty! I–, I–…” you blinked a second, finding it impossible to get your feet to move the last few paces over to your set place, “I thought you took your breakfast up in your personal chambers.”

“Felt like a change in scenery today,” he plucked up a porcelain cup filled with steaming tea and brought it to his lips, though paused before taking a sip, “is that alright?”

“Of course, it is,” a shudder ran through you as you shook yourself out of your stupor and sat down at the table.

A generous spread of options layed arced around your empty plate. From seasonal fruits, cut up and arranged on an oblong platter, to hearty bread, sliced and toasted, propped up for it to stay crisp, the selection never ceased to make your belly rumble in want.

When your plate was filled up and you slowly began to pick away at it, the king’s voice suddenly echoed from the other end of the table.

“Are you busy this afternoon?”

“Busy?” you lifted your gaze and sent it down past the short floral centrepiece to look at him, “no, your majesty, not in particular. Why do you ask?”

His elbow was propped against the edge of the table and his hand gently rested against his beard as he continued to stare at you, “I was wondering if you’d care to promenade with me.”

“I know it doesn’t look like much from this angle,” the king pointed to the dark cave entrance on the cliff that the castle stood upon, “but that emergency exit has saved countless monarchs.”

“So, the tunnel leads up to the basement?” you glanced down to the part of the coastline still a ways further down the pebbly beach.

“Yep, opens up into the wine cellar, it’s actually one of the racks that’s concealed as the door down.”

Glancing up at him as you slowly walked beside one another, an amused smile curled up on your lip, “clever.”

“Yeah, my mom thought so, she was the one who implemented it.”

The corners of your lips then dropped back down, and you waited a second before asking softly, “when did she pass?”

“A while ago now…” his vision briefly flickered down to look at the waves foam at the shore, “anyways, I’d recommend taking a guide with you if you’re gonna go exploring in the cave because it can be easy to get lost if you didn’t grow up with it as your playground.”

“I’ll remember that,” a faint chuckle bubbled out of you.

The pebbles crunched beneath your slow stride as you made your way down the beach, closer and closer to where the fort loomed and the docks beyond flourished into the bustling city.

After he’d bent down to pick up a smooth, dark rock, the royal then spoke in a slightly apprehensive tone, “hey, I actually wanted to talk to you about something…”

Noticing that his stride had halted, you stopped as well, “yes, your majesty?”

His gaze stayed on the small rock in his palm as he turned it a few times, “I know I haven’t exactly been the warmest towards you, I haven’t given you any solid reason to trust or even like me,” his ocean eyes then lifted to meet yours, “but we are supposed to rule together, be a team. So, I propose that we call a truce. Let’s start over and try and be friends,” his broad hand then extended.

Clasping your fingers around his palm, you shook on it, “truce,” and a small smile bloomed as you then returned to your walk.

Your eyes didn’t stray long from him, staring at him inquisitively till he, on a glance, noticed.

“What?”

“It’s just,” you squinted over at the man walking beside you, the water gentle and calm behind him, “I don’t even really know you…”

“Well,” he breathed, as if that setback was easy enough to remedy, “what would you like to know?”

“I don’t know…” as you continued to stare at him, your fingers absentmindedly fiddled with the opalescent stone attached to the chain hanging from your neck, “tell me everything.”

“Everything?” his eyebrows raised a second before he exhaled lowly, “alright… uhm,” he then lowered his gaze as he scrambled his brain, “my favourite colour is blue. I can’t stand pears,” he began to list off, “I know I don’t look it now, but I was a very scrawny kid, sick all the time. I’m excellent at skipping rocks, actually learned how to just down there from an old family friend. What else… uh, I don’t have a lot of free time, but the little I do, I tend to either read, history in particular, as well as draw or paint, whenever I have the chance.”

“Paint?” you chuckled as that was one of the last things you thought he’d say.

“Yes,” he nodded, “not many, but a few of my pieces are strung up around the castle.”

“I will have to keep my eye out for those, your majesty,” you smiled.

“Oh, and please, no more of that,” he pleaded, “you shouldn’t call me your majesty any longer, we’re friends now,” he momentarily turned to toss the rock into the rippling sea, and a small ring bloomed on the surface as it delved in, “you are my wife,” the corners of his lips tugged upwards as he faced you once more, “you should call me by my name.”

“Alright, Steve,” the name felt oddly intimate on your tongue, “I’ll try my best to do better.”

As he smiled down at you, a shadow suddenly soared across the sky above both of your heads. Lifting your eyes to the clouds above, they swiftly went wide in fear as you saw the creature that flew straight towards the village.

“Oh gods, is that a–”

“Dragon,” Steve uttered before you could.

The winged behemoth of a beast had scales like the darkest tree bark, but in the sunlight it soared through, they shined regally like an oil spill.

Grabbing you by the hand as warning bells rang out over the seaside community, Steve dragged you with him and he addressed the two wardens that had lingered a few paces back while you both were out, “take her inside, through the cave, stay low, away from any windows.”

“Yes, my liege,” they swiftly replied and moved to defend you, but as the king’s grasp left yours, you reached out to halt him.

“Wait!” your fingers rushed to snag your lucky charm off, “here,” and you layed the fine necklace into his open palm before finding his eyes one last time and uttering, “please don’t die.”

Closing his fist around the jewel, he offered you a grave nod before the wardens led you into the cave and the king rushed down the banks and up the algae-slick steps that led up to the harbour.

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lucid-loves · 1 year ago

Text

First Light ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 1

Pairing: bodyguard!Ghost x princess!reader (fem!reader)

Word Count: 4.5k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, verbal abuse by parents, physical abuse by parents, psychological abuse by parents, opposites attract, forbidden love, slow burn, fluff, attraction and sexual tension, reader POV and ghost POV, minors DNI, eventual smut, virgin reader

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: After receiving death threats from a mysterious terrorist organization, your royal parents make a decision to reach out to the United States for help. Specifically, they want the US to send a bodyguard to protect their precious princess. When the 141 is called upon to investigate, Ghost is the one assigned to protect you. With your lack of experiences outside of your royal life and his experience with nothing but deadly, worldly affairs, opposites attract.

Chapter Synopsis: Ghost travels to the small country of Stuoca to meet the person assigned to guard for the next month. When you lay your eyes on him, you can’t help but feel scared, yet also curious. He feels the same when encountering such a precious, fragile thing like you.

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6 ~ Part 7 ~ Part 8

The porcelain teacup felt warm in your hands, holding your favorite blend of tea flavored to your preference. The grandfather clock in the room ticked by, filling the silence. While you normally liked to play some music to fill the space with sound, your parents told you that you must be quiet. That you had to sit pretty and be patient until you were allowed to do so.

You stared into your cup, slowly losing your appetite for teatime as the pit in your stomach grew bigger. You felt like there was something wrong, but you couldn’t figure out what it was. Normally, your parents were eager to show you off to any guest that was coming to the palace. Right now, it is different. You were locked away in one of the many palace studies. There was your butler with you who watched your worries grow. There were a couple of guards outside the closed doors, stopping anyone from entering unless the king or queen allowed it.

Looking out the arched window and overlooking the lush palace garden, you wished you could enjoy your teatime outside like you normally did. Feeling the fresh air, hearing the birds chirp in the distance, enjoying the subtle aroma of flowers flowing with the wind. It was really the only time you were allowed to be outside.

Even though you were a grown woman, your parents have always seen you as their little princess.

While you sat silently in the study, the king and queen of Stuoca was meeting the man that would guard you with his life. It was jarring being in a place like this. Everything from the floor to the ceiling was crafted with exquisite, polished stone. Anything made of wood was a rich cherry. On marble pedestals along the halls held works of art behind glass. Jewelry, crowns, busts. Golden chandeliers with crystals reflecting the light hung from the ceilings that were painted with angels.

Everything in the palace was worth billions upon billions of dollars. Standing in the middle of it all was Ghost, a man that once was just scraping by in his younger days. He still stood out like a sore thumb among it all. The skull balaclava secured over his head, tattoos revealed on his forearm, the black t-shirt that clung tight to his muscles. It was like death himself walked the bright palace halls.

“Pardon me, Lieutenant Ghost, but you don’t have to wear that mask here, do you?” The queen, your mother, nervously addressed from her red velvet seat. The mask was making her scared. That was how people normally reacted when they saw him for the first time.

“Yes I do, your majesty.” He curtly responded, the words tasting bitter on his tongue. Ghost was just as uncomfortable as your parents were. When he heard that he was being deployed to guard a princess, he laughed, thinking it was a joke. But now, here he was being served tea and cookies with the king and queen of Stuoca. As much as being on base was a pain in the ass at times, he missed it.

The king cleared his throat before taking another sip of tea from his teacup. When they reached out to the United States for a bodyguard, they weren’t expecting someone so. . . rough to be sent out. But, if this was the right man for the job, then so be it. As long as his princess was safe. “Thank you for traveling so far away from home in order to help us with our problem. Being a country so small, we weren’t even sure if your country would even bat an eye at us.”

Ghost shifted on the balls of his feet, growing more uncomfortable with the sudden gratitude. He just wanted to start the job already. The sooner he starts, the sooner he can end it. “You said that you’ve received threats. Anything else happened while I was busy traveling here?”

With a snap of the king’s fingers, a maid came over and presented an opened envelope. Ghost quirked a brow under his mask as he took it. Opening it revealed the original letter that was reported to Laswell. The one that he’s already seen with his 141 team. Handwritten, black ink, very articulated. The letter detailed how the royal family would burn down along with their palace. That the princess will be kidnapped and tortured if they didn’t get what they wanted, which was power to control the country.

Ghost sighed, feeling like he got the short end of the stick on this mission. The entire 141 was working on this case. However, Ghost was the one stuck with babysitting duty while the rest of the guys got to experience all of the action. They were off investigating while he was sitting on a velvet couch in the grandest office he has ever seen.

“That’s all we have for now to physically show you. The only other concern is the graffiti that has been popping up around the city.” The king explained calmly as a different maid brought over a manilla folder full of pictures. Pictures depicted a graffiti crow on various different buildings. They weren’t murals, but the symbols were prominent enough to be noticed.

“A crow is a symbol of misfortune and death. A bad omen, wouldn’t you agree?” The queen spoke up, taking a slow sip of her tea as she tried to read the lieutenant’s reaction. It was impossible to do so with his mask.

“Where is the princess right now?” He inquired. It seemed odd that you didn’t come in with your parents. He figured that they would want you right by their side at all times if they were really concerned about the threats.

The king and queen stood as if on a cue. The king gestured for Ghost to do the same. “Our daughter is in one of the studies waiting to meet you. For her sake, please refrain from bringing up the letter and graffiti. We don’t want to startle her more than what has already been done.”

Ghost gave a curt nod before following your parents to the study where you stayed. The way they spoke about you, you seemed more like a caged bird rather than their beloved daughter. It unsettled the lieutenant, but perhaps it was just the consequence of formality. They wouldn’t have reached out to the United States for help if they didn’t care after all.

Once they approached the door, the guards saluted and opened it up. Beyond the doors was the most ornate office Ghost has ever seen. Once his eyes settled on you, you were the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

Every hair on your head was in place with the help of maids. There were no wrinkles in your dress and no stains in sight. Your makeup was light and only flattered your features. The gems on your necklace complimented your bright eyes. Ghost was almost at a loss for words. When you stood up and curtsied to greet them, he could feel his heart beat against his ribs.

“Good evening.” You simply greeted, your tone polite as ever as a princess should be.

“Sweetheart, this is going to be your personal bodyguard from now on. He’s going to keep you safe, no matter where you go. Isn’t that wonderful?” Your mother gave a sickly sweet smile, her efforts to meet the status quo seeming a little more forced as she interacted with you.

You definitely knew that something was wrong now. You may have been a confined princess, but you weren’t stupid. However, you decided to refrain from asking what the trouble was. It wasn’t appropriate. Not with your parents watching you.

For now, you focused on the news that you were now going to have a bodyguard. Your eyes shifted towards the large man. Muscles clearly defined under his shirt, posture straight and strong, mask hiding his identity. Compared to him, you were much smaller and much weaker. It intimidated you a bit. It made you hesitant to accept him. However, there were expectations to meet, regardless of how you truly felt.

“Princess Y/n. It is a pleasure to meet you.” You softly spoke as you gave another sweet curtsy towards him.

He quirked a brow. You were taking this awfully well. A part of him expected some more push-back. He honestly expected you to be a spoiled brat. Yet, here you were, taking everything in stride for now. You knew how to compose yourself better than he expected. “Lieutenant Ghost. I’ll be keeping you safe. For me to do that, there’s going to be some changes.”

You looked to your parents, looking for the explanation for this change. There was not even a bat of the eye as they faked their smiles. “You will still complete your studies as a princess should. Attend the parties as needed to keep up appearances as well.”

Ghost shook his head, authority taking over his baritone voice. “Negative. The princess will not be attending any more parties. Doing so could risk her safety.”

Something was definitely wrong. Your eyes widened at the news. A part of you, though, was celebrating. No more parties? Would your parents really accept this? The sudden shock on their faces morphed into strained smiles, telling you that they weren’t going to accept this so easily. The king cleared his throat. “Lieutenant, it is very important for the princess to still make appearances. It is essential for her.”

Ghost looked at you all of a sudden, wondering how you felt about this change compared to your parents’ obvious protest. You tried to remain unreadable, not wanting to set either party off with your personal opinion. If you had the choice, though, you would sacrifice the parties. They were more for your parents than they were for you anyway.

Ghost sighed in slight frustration. Normally, he was excellent at reading people. He did it all the time with new recruits, enemies, and his team. Their poker faces were nothing compared to yours. “One party if absolutely necessary. No longer than an hour. Just to keep up appearances.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, holding back your disappointment. Well, at least you weren’t expected to be present during the entirety of your parents’ showing off. “Understood, Lieutenant Ghost.”

At least your parents seemed happier with the compromise. Your mother grinned brightly. “Wonderful! Give him the princess’s schedule!”

Your butler hurried over and gave Ghost your schedule. He nearly stumbled back with how packed it was. Piano lessons, dance lessons, tea times, dress fittings, and independent study went on and on for pages and pages. Did you have any time to yourself besides sleep?

“The show must go on! If you have any questions or procedures to discuss, don’t hesitate to reach out to us. We hope that you two get along well.” The queen concluded, eager to leave the room so that she could go on with her own daily life. The king followed close behind as they left the room, leaving you and your bodyguard to get to know each other.

You didn’t mind being civil, but you doubted that he would try to get to know you. He simply didn’t seem like the type to stray away from his responsibilities for anything. For now, you silently went back to your seat to finish up tea time. Ghost stood awkwardly for a moment before finding his own place to settle. Leaning against the stone wall, he examined you further.

The way you held your teacup was gentle. Your dress draped against your legs like a smooth waterfall. The way you looked out the window was melancholic. After a few minutes, you spoke up, curiosity getting the better of you. “Why are you my new bodyguard, Lieutenant Ghost?”

Ghost didn’t expect your question. He hardly even knew what you meant when you asked it. Still, he kept his cool as he dug further. It wasn’t like there was any malice in your tone. In fact, your tone was nothing but innocent. “What do you mean? Are you asking me why I took the job?”

You shook your head, staring into your teacup once again as you got a little shy. Lieutenant Ghost wouldn’t report your conversations to your parents, would he? But, you had to know. “Is my life in serious danger?”

Behind the mask, Ghost’s mouth was partially opened with shock. His body grew tense as he realized what was really going on. “They haven’t told you, have they?”

“My parents can be. . . protective. Their priority to maintain normalcy can cause them to make certain judgments in regards to my life.” You subtly worded, fearing that the guards outside were listening to what you were saying. Hopefully, Ghost would understand what you meant.

Thankfully, he did. Now more than before, you really did seem like a caged bird. You deserve the truth. “Your parents received a threatening letter from a terrorist organization. They seem to be after your life in order to manipulate your parents. I serve under Task Force 141 that specializes in missions like this. The rest of my team is investigating the organization while I am to protect you personally.”

Your grip around your teacup tightened slightly as you learned the truth. It seemed that your intuition was correct. This was a serious problem. You swallowed your new fears down hard before proceeding as normal. “Thank you for your honesty, Lieutenant.”

Ghost sympathized with you as he finally saw a shred of how you really felt about this entire situation. His perception of who he was protecting was completely wrong. You were no brat or clueless royalty with too much time and money on your precious princess hands. You were sharp. You were polite. You were obedient. It made him want to know the real you.

He knew that he shouldn’t get closer than what was necessary. Yet, the anxious look in your beautiful eyes as you stared out the window made him want to provide you with some comfort. Some way to break the ice while also doing his job. He opted for a simple conversation about your daily schedule. “What’s independent study for you?”

“It’s my time to study what I wish within reason. Any subject that I may find interesting as long as it is appropriate for a princess.” You delicately explained, putting everything as nice as possible.

All Ghost heard was that you were restricted from real knowledge. However, it wasn’t his place to make a comment on it. It didn’t matter if he didn’t find it fair. You were a princess and you obviously took your responsibilities, fair or not, seriously. He gave a simple hum in acknowledgment for the time being on that matter. “What are you studying?”

You looked at Ghost curiously, wondering how much of this was just workplace conversation and how much of this was genuine attempts at knowing you. The way Ghost looked at you with such resolute, cold eyes made you shiver. Something told you that this was his usual look. “I’m studying many things at the moment that would be proper for me to know.”

It seemed like subtle and vague answers were the only things he was going to get out of you, but he already picked up on the fact that you didn’t do this to be cold towards him. The tone you carried was careful. Gentle. You didn’t want to say anything that could get you in trouble. Simon knew what that was like.

The conversation was dropped for the time being. It seemed like your physical being wasn’t the only thing he had to protect. Your social reputation was at stake as well. Respecting that, he focused back on guarding you. Not without noticing every little thing about you though.

You stole glances at him every so often as well as you sipped your tea. The more you looked at him, the more he intrigued you. You’ve never had a guard that had his build. You’ve never even seen someone with tattoos in person before. He stood out against the pristine white around the palace. A shadow in the light. You were curious about what he looked like under the mask.

The rest of the night proceeded as normal save for your new shadow. You were ushered by your butler to your routine lessons, Ghost always close behind. He stayed silent throughout it all, but observant. You did feel like he was watching your every move. While you were used to being heavily monitored, having Ghost be the one observing you made you more nervous than normal. Music lessons, dance lessons, and studying didn’t go as smoothly as you made more mistakes under the pressure. For some reason, you wanted to impress him like you were one of his newest soldiers.

Ghost thought nothing of it as you did what you had to do. In reality, he found your abilities to be quite impressive, mistakes or not. He did chalk it up to him being an intimidating presence. Despite it, he could tell that you were skilled.

When bedtime rolled around, he followed into your room. A grand room with a king, white canopy bed, cherry-wood antique furniture, and large, arched windows leading to a balcony. The windows were the second problem that Ghost needed to address if he wanted to keep you safe. “You can’t sleep in here. It would be too easy to-”

Meeting your eyes made him pause. You waited patiently for him to finish as he was going to say, prepared to take the steps necessary to ensure that the next change would be as smooth as possible. Looking at you, though, Ghost saw a pretty woman that he needed to be more gentle towards. Less explicit in language. You were already afraid for your life. He didn’t want to make that anxiety worse for you.

“Is there another room in the palace that has less open windows?” He asked cautiously, minding his words this time.

You appreciated his careful consideration, feeling more and more safe with him as he made decisions to protect you. “I believe there is. I can sleep there tonight.”

He followed you to another room in the palace that was away from any windows. He nearly sighed in relief as the new bedroom was windowless, smaller, and much more comfortable to be in. The bed was still massive and the antique furniture was polished, but the warmer palette of the decor made the room feel less like a museum display.

You felt better too as you looked around the cozy room. The windows in your usual bedroom just reminded you of what you couldn’t have. Though, your anxiety grew as you realized that Ghost was still within the room. Your cheeks grew a subtle pink as you chose your words with precision. “I would like to get ready for bed. Is it necessary for you to be here while I do?”

“Well. . .” Ghost thought carefully, trying to make the best decision here. After a few seconds, he determined that you needed your privacy. He was already invading it enough by being your personal bodyguard. With an accepting, silent nod, he stepped out of the room while you changed into pajamas. A few maid staff passed by, gawking at the lieutenant. A glare was enough to have them scurry on their way.

While you changed, you thought about Ghost. About his real personality, his job, his friends. What kind of work does he normally do? Has he ever killed someone? It certainly seemed like he’s gotten into his fair share of fights from the scars you have seen on his arms. Was he dreading this job? At times, you thought that you could see him get antsy while waiting for you. You probably wouldn’t like waiting on a princess either if you were in his shoes.

Once you were changed into your silky pajamas, you knocked on the door. “Lieutenant? I’m all dressed. You could come in now.”

Swiftly, he came in. For a second, he admired the way you looked in your pajamas. You looked so much more comfortable. The way you were letting down your hair in front of the vanity had him gulp too. “I won’t be watching you sleep all night. Just until you fall asleep, and then I’ll wait outside the door.”

“What about your sleep?” You asked, tilting your head to the side. The way his arms were crossed over his broad chest made you shrink within yourself a bit.

“I’m used to not sleeping. I don’t usually sleep well either. Don’t worry about me, princess.” He responded bluntly, putting some more personal distance between the two of you. He would be lying if your concern over his own time didn’t make him melt a little though.

“I see. My apologies, but I am unsure that I will be able to fall asleep quickly tonight. You might be waiting for a while.” You honestly admitted, feeling the anxious pit in your stomach begin to swallow you like a blackhole. You already felt enough like a burden to the maids and butlers with how strictly your parents had them wait on you.

Ghost shook his head, noticing how lightly you scrunch your brows in concern. How you nervously bit a tiny part of your bottom lip. Subtle behaviors that no one would notice if they weren’t truly paying attention. You were so different from what he was expecting when he was first told that he would be guarding a princess. “It’s fine. This is my job.”

You turned away from your reflection in the mirror to look at Ghost. Your heart skipped a beat as you noticed how blue his eyes were. Such a deep, oceanic blue that held so many secrets. He stared right back at you, noticing how your worries couldn’t be quelled with just two simple sentences. Finally, he was able to read you.

“If it will help, you can talk to me until you fall asleep. Anything you want. I promise that I won’t tell the king and queen.” He offered, taking a seat on the Victorian-styled couch that was at the foot of the bed.

His offer came as a complete surprise to you. You didn’t expect him to be so kind. You have learned long ago that there was a difference between being civil and genuinely kind. Ghost was being nice, which felt like a rarity given his outward personality. Quickly, you finished getting ready for bed. Once you were cozy underneath the cotton covers, Ghost turned off the main light. The small lamp on your nightstand stayed on, allowing a comfortable dim to illuminate the otherwise dark room.

An awkward silence fell between the two of you as you tried to think about what to talk about. There was still a fear in you that he would tell your parents, but Ghost didn’t seem like the type to break his promises. Besides that, you never really talked about yourself before. No one has ever been interested in what you liked and disliked. Not that you had a lot of experiences with how your parents kept you in the palace and filtered what you could learn. However, that wasn’t to say that you were curious enough to find a way to learn anyways. At the very least, you had plenty of questions about the outside.

“For my independent study, I am focusing on classicism art. At least. . . that is what my parents think. I. . . I have been studying other things in secret. My handmaiden sneaks new books into the library for me sometimes if she can.” You confessed, feeling a weight of your chest as you admitted your truth. You didn’t like lying and sneaking around in secret. While you loved new knowledge, you still carried that weight with you.

Ghost listened carefully to your confession. His back was turned towards you, a comfortable thing for you since you weren’t keen on the idea of someone watching you fall asleep. It was enough for him to just sit at the foot of your bed.

“What new books have you read?” He inquired, wondering what sorts of books a princess could possibly want to read in secret.

You took a deep breath, feeling your cheeks flush as you admitted more of your secrets. Without interruption, he let you speak. He listened to your voice that lowered into a pleasant whisper when you told him about all the books you were reading and wanted to read. A couple of times, he couldn’t help but crack a smirk at some of your opinions that were refreshingly assertive.

It didn’t take long for him to hear you start dozing. It started with quieter words morphing into sweet slurs. As soon as he heard your steady, deep breaths, he silently got up and left the room. Standing guard in front of the door, he contacted his team by phone to give an update.

“Lieutenant, how is she?” Captain Price cut to the chase, his voice low as he investigated matters on his side.

“She’s. . .” Ghost began before trailing off. He had to think about the right words to use.

“She's a spoiled rotten princess?” Another voice came through. The chuckle was no doubt Soap.

“Honestly, no. She’s a princess, but she’s anything but rotten.” He finally admitted, keeping his voice quiet since the halls seemed to echo.

There was another laugh before the captain cleared his throat, regaining authority. “I’m glad that she is much more pleasant to deal with than what was expected. Just be careful not to get too personal. I know you will be around each other a lot, but the mission is our priority.”

“Of course, Captain.” Ghost promised, wondering if this particular promise would be easy to keep or not.

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heart-ripping · 8 months ago

Text

Behind Closed Doors.

pairing: Regina Mills (The Evil Queen) X Reader

summary: in the public eye, feared by all in her kingdom. the evil queen reveals a hidden side where she kneels before the woman who secretly controls her heart and an unexpected twist.

words: 3542 words, 20798 characters.

warnings(+18): queen!regina, maid!reader, ownership, abuse of power, submission, pet names, usage of magic, poisoning, praise kink(brief), degrading kink(slight), slight blood and violence.

this scenario came up in my head and i got distracted along the way but i just HAD to write this. hope u guys like this one!

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The grand hall of the throne room was a place of opulence and dread. Gilded columns lined the vast space, their surfaces etched with intricate designs of ancient conquests and mythical beasts. The high, arched ceiling was a tapestry of celestial scenes, painted in vivid hues that seemed to come alive in the flickering light of the grand chandeliers.

At the far end of this magnificent room, elevated on a dais of polished marble, sat the Evil Queen, the ruler whose beauty was matched only by her ruthlessness.

Regina's throne, carved from obsidian and adorned with precious gems, seemed to absorb the light around it, casting an ominous shadow over herself. She sat with cruel authority, her posture rigid, and her gaze piercing. Her eyes scanned the assembled knights and courtiers with a mix of disdain and indifference. She wore a gown of deep crimson, the color of freshly spilled blood, its fabric flowing around her like liquid fire. A crown of black diamonds rested on her brow, its sharp points catching the light in menacing glints.

The knights before her, clad in gleaming armor, shifted uneasily. Their leader, Sir Graham, stepped forward, his expression a mask of grim determination. He bowed low, the sound of his armor clanking echoing through the hall.

"Your Majesty," Graham began, his voice steady but edged with tension, "we have captured the rebels who dared to defy your rule. They await your judgment in the dungeons."

The Queen leaned forward slightly, her lips curling into a cruel smile. "Bring them before me," she commanded, her voice a melodious contrast to the venom in her words. "Let us see these fools who thought they could challenge my reign."

As the doors to the throne room swung open, a group of ragged prisoners were dragged in by the guards. Their faces were smeared with dirt and blood, and their eyes were filled with a mix of defiance and fear. Regina's gaze swept over them, her smile widening as she saw their pitiful state.

"You dare to defy me?" she hissed, her voice rising. "You dare to incite rebellion against your queen?" She stood abruptly, the motion causing the knights to flinch. "I am the law in this kingdom. My word is absolute. Those who challenge me face only one fate."

She descended the steps of the dais with a predatory grace, her gown flowing behind her like a river of fire. She stopped before the nearest prisoner, a young man with a battered face and a defiant glare. Regina reached out and grabbed his chin, forcing him to look up at her.

"Do you know what happens to traitors in my kingdom?" she asked softly, her voice dripping with malice.

The young man spat at her feet, his defiance unbroken. Regina's eyes blazed with fury. She raised her hand, and with a swift, brutal motion, backhanded him across the face. The sound of the impact echoed through the hall, and the man crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

"Take him to the dungeons," she ordered the guards, her voice returning to its heartless tone. "Let him rot with the rest of the scum."

She turned her attention back to Graham and the other knights. "You will root out every last one of these rebels," she demanded. "I want no corner of my kingdom left unchecked. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Your Majesty," the knights chorused, their voices trembling slightly.

Regina returned to her throne, her expression once again a mask of uncaring detachment. "Now go," she ordered. "And remember, failure is not an option."

As the knights hurried out of the throne room, Regina's gaze lingered on the empty doorway, a faint smile playing on her lips. She relished the fear she instilled in her subjects, the absolute power she wielded. Here, in the public eye, she was the embodiment of cruel, unyielding authority, a queen who demanded and gained respect through fear and intimidation.

The grand hallways of the castle, lined with ornate tapestries and dimly lit by flickering torches, felt eerily silent as soon as the night began to cast its dark veil. The Evil Queen, her presence imposing even in solitude, walked with measured steps, the sound of her heels echoing through the empty corridors. Her crimson gown, now slightly trailing with the fatigue of the day's harsh rulings, whispered to the shadows that danced along the walls.

As she reached her private chambers, the heavy oak doors creaked open to reveal a sanctuary of opulence and grandeur. The room was bathed in the soft glow of moonlight streaming through a large window, its beams reflecting off the polished surfaces of gilded furniture and priceless artifacts. Regina closed the doors behind her and sighed, a sound that was more a hiss of displeasure than a release of exhaustion. She moved to her grand canopy bed, its silken sheets cool and inviting. Sitting on the edge, she removed her crown, placing it on the bedside table with a clink of metal against the marble.

Collapsing onto the bed, she allowed herself a moment to breathe, to let the day's relentless performance of power slip away. Her eyes fluttered shut, but the reprieve was brief. A soft knock at the door interrupted her fleeting solace.

"Enter," she groaned frustratedly, her voice sharp despite the weariness that tugged at her.

The door opened hesitantly, revealing a young maid with wide, fearsome eyes. You stepped into the room, your hands trembling as you clutched a silver tray with a goblet of wine.

"I did not summon you," Regina expressed harshly, her eyes narrowing at you.

"I apologize, Your Majesty," you stammered, your voice trembling. "I assume you might enjoy some wine to help you unwind."

Regina's gaze remained unflattering, yet she made no move to dismiss you. "You presume much, entering my chambers without permission. Do not forget your place," she declared, her tone a mix of irritation and authority.

You bowed your head, your face reddening with humiliation. "Forgive me, Your Majesty," you whispered, stepping forward and placing the tray on a nearby table.

Regina's eyes flicked to the wine, then back to you, her expression inscrutable. "Leave it and go," she said curtly, dismissing you with a wave of her hand.

Regina's focus snapped back to the glass of wine, the deep crimson liquid swirling hypnotically in the dimly lit room. She raised the elegant crystal glass to her lips. The tantalizing aroma of the rich red wine filled the air around her. She took a slow, deliberate sip, savoring the complex flavors dancing on her palate.

However, just as the velvety liquid touched her tongue, an unusual sensation sent a shiver down her spine. It was as if something otherworldly surged through the wine, enveloping her senses in a swirling embrace. A rush of warmth spread from her mouth to the tips of her fingers, and at that moment, her eyes seemed to flash a deep, eerie shade of red.

Her heart quickened, and for an instant, the world around her seemed to blur and twist before the feeling vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, leaving her bewildered and breathless.

You stood as you observed, before lowering your head and retreating towards the door. But just as your hand touched the handle, Regina's voice cut through the silence like a blade.

"Stop."

You froze, your heart pounding in your chest. You spun slowly, your eyes broad with apprehension. Regina's attention was fixed on you as she slowly rose from her mattress, her eyes so unwavering and intense, a strange intensity burning in those dark-brown depths. The room seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with an unspoken tension.

"Come here," Regina commanded softly, her voice laced with an undercurrent of something darker—something that sent a shiver down your spine.

You hesitated, your eyes flickering with a mixture of fear and curiosity. Then you took tentative steps forward, your hands still trembling. As you neared the bed, Regina extended a hand, gesturing for you to approach quickly.

"Closer," the queen murmured, her voice now a low purr. You obeyed, stopping just within arm's reach of the bed. Regina's eyes roamed over you, taking in every detail of your appearance.

"Do you know why I keep you?" Regina asked, her tone as cold as the winter's night outside.

You shook your head slightly, your eyes settled on the floor. "No, Your Majesty," you responded softly.

Regina tilted her head to the side, studying you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. With a bold, prideful motion, she lifted your chin. "I keep you because you amuse me. Because you are loyal. And because..." She paused, a slow smile spreading across her lips. "Because you fear me."

Your breath fastened, your eyes darting up to meet her gaze. For a moment, something flickered in her stare—an emotion too fleeting to name.

"Pour me the wine," Regina commanded, her voice regaining its usual imperious edge.

With trembling hands, you picked up the goblet and the carafe, carefully pouring the deep red liquid. You held the goblet out to Regina, your head bowed low. Regina took it, your fingers brushing momentarily. The moment your fingers brushed against each other, a jolt of electricity shot through both of you, but neither of you dared to acknowledge it.

Regina brought the wine to her lips once more, her eyes never leaving you as she swallowed. The rich, dark liquid seemed to invigorate her, and her gaze grew more intense, more penetrating. She drank deeply, each sip refined and unhurriedly, the tension in the room palpable. You stood frozen, your heart thumping in your body, unable to look away from her piercing stare.

As Regina lowered the goblet, her eyes began to glow with an eerie, otherworldly red light. The transformation was subtle at first, a flicker of crimson that slowly intensified until her eyes blazed like embers. You inhaled sharply, taking an involuntary step back, but Regina's gaze held you in place, a silent command that rooted you to the spot.

Without breaking eye contact, Regina set the goblet aside. The room seemed to shrink around you both, the air thick with a tension that was almost tangible. The Evil Queen, the epitome of regal authority, began to move with a grace that was both conscious and assertive. She took a step forward, and then another, her eyes never wavering from you.

And then, in a move that defied all expectations, Regina began to kneel. Her knees touched the ground, her crimson gown pooling around her like a river of blood. Your breath was caught in your throat, and your eyes were wide with shock. You had never seen the queen show vulnerability, let alone kneel before anyone.

Regina's head bowed for a moment, her long, dark hair cascading around her shoulders like a silken veil. When she lifted her gaze, you were met with the full intensity of those glowing red eyes. They were filled with something unspoken—a mix of need and surrender that left your heart racing.

Regina's voice, when it came, was a low, husky whisper. "I am yours," she said, the words almost a plea. "Command me."

You stared down at Regina, your mind racing to make sense of the scene unfolding before you. The Evil Queen, who ruled with an iron fist and inspired fear in all who crossed her path, was now on her knees, submitting to you. It was a moment that shattered all perceptions, leaving you both terrified and exhilarated.

As Regina looked up at you, her red eyes blazing with a strange, fervent intensity, you felt a power shift you had never imagined possible. The night outside grew darker and more silent, as if the world itself were waiting to see what would happen next.

Your heart continued to pulse in your chest, your mind a whirlwind of emotions. You began to reach out a quivering hand, your fingers brushing lightly against her cheek. Regina closed her eyes at the touch, a shiver running through her.

"My Queen," you whispered, your voice a mix of awe and confusion.

"Command me," Regina repeated, her voice more insistent, her eyes fluttering to lock onto yours once again. The red glow seemed to pulse with her heartbeat, a visual manifestation of her inner turmoil and desire.

You took a deep breath, your fingers tracing a path down her cheek to her chin. You tilted Regina's head up, causing her to look directly into your eyes. The power you felt in that moment was intoxicating, a heady mix of exhilaration.

"Stand," you ordered gently, yet firmly.

For a moment, it seemed as if Regina might resist, but then she obeyed, rising gracefully to her feet. The red glow in her eyes dimmed slightly, replaced by a look of deep, unspoken emotion.

As the tension thickened in the chamber, the air seemed to crackle with an unspoken electricity. The Evil Queen, her eyes still shining with a dim scarlet glow, watched you with a mixture of anticipation and uncertainty. Regina's own vulnerability—her unexpected submission—had left her on edge, her instincts warring with the unfamiliar sensations coursing through her veins.

But as your grin began to appear slowly across your lips, Regina's unease deepened. There was something unsettling about the way you looked at her—a gleam of triumph in your eyes that sent a shiver down her spine.

"What is it?" Regina asked, her voice low and cautious.

Your grin enlarged, and your eyes sparkled with newfound confidence. "Oh, nothing, Your Majesty," you replied, your tone innocent yet tinged with something darker, something that set Regina's nerves on edge.

Before she could respond, you took a step forward, your movements intended and purposeful. Regina tensed, her instincts screaming at her to flee, to regain control of the situation before it spiraled out of her grasp. But something held her in place—a strange fascination with the woman standing before her, a fascination tinged with a growing sense of dread.

"What have you done?" Regina demanded, her voice betraying her rising panic.

Your smile dilated further, a flash of triumph in your eyes. "I simply offered you a drink, My Queen," you stated, your tone mocking with a hint of sarcasm. "A drink laced with a little something extra."

Regina's heart skipped a beat, her mind racing to comprehend the implications of your words. A spell. The wine had been enchanted with a spell, a trance designed to force submission and bend the will of its drinker to the caster's command. And she had drunk it willingly, having allowed herself to be ensnared by its insidious power.

The realization sent a surge of anger through Regina's veins, her fear giving way to a burning fury that threatened to consume her. She clenched her jaw, her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

"You dare to manipulate me?" she hissed, her voice low and dangerous.

Your smile faltered slightly, a flicker of uncertainty crossing your features. But then you straightened, your gaze defiant.

"You've ruled with fear and cruelty for too long, Your Majesty," you grimaced, your voice steady despite the tension crackling between you both. "It's time for a change."

Regina's mind raced, her thoughts a whirlwind of rage and betrayal. She had been outmaneuvered, outsmarted by a mere servant. The humiliation burned like acid, eating away at her pride and her power. But beneath the anger, beneath the fear, there was something else, something she couldn't quite name—a spark of admiration, perhaps, for the woman who had dared to challenge her, to defy her.

The room seemed to spin around you, the air heavy with the weight of your confrontation. Regina narrowed her gaze as she bore into yours, searching for any hint of weakness, any sign of vulnerability. But you stood tall and stubborn, your eyes blazing with a fierce determination that sent a thrill of something akin to admiration through Regina's veins.

And then, in a sudden, unpredictable twist of luck, Regina felt something shift within her. It was as if a dam had burst, releasing a flood of emotions she had long kept buried deep within her heart. Fear, anger, pride—all of it melted away, leaving only a strange sense of liberation in its wake.

Regina's eyes flashed, but this time—a glowing purple hue, reflecting the intensity of her emotions as she felt a familiar purple mist slowly enveloping her entire body before it disappeared like a mist of strings. Regina smirked in delightful satisfaction as she began to realize what was happening. The spell—the spell had worked, but not as you had planned. Instead of forcing Regina to submit, it had stripped away the layers of armor she had built around herself, revealing the powerful woman beneath.

A slow, rueful smile spread across her lips as she looked at you, her eyes alight with a newfound clarity. "Foolish girl, you thought you could control me," she snickered playfully, her voice soft yet filled with an undeniable strength. "But you underestimated me."

You flinched in disbelief, the ground suddenly feeling unsteady beneath you as doubt crept in for the first time since your intense altercation formed. "What are you saying?" you whispered, your voice barely audible above the beat of your heart.

Regina moved closer, taking a step forward to narrow the distance between you. "Let me make it clear for you," she towered over you, her voice low and husky, dripping with malicious intent, sending shivers down your spine as if darkness itself had taken form in her words. "You may have thought you had me at your mercy, but you were wrong."

And then, with a sudden, swift movement, Regina reached out and forcefully clutched your wrist, pulling you close until your bodies were inches apart. You breathe in, but before you can react, Regina leans in and smashes her lips against yours.

As your lips met in a searing kiss, a sudden rush of sensation swept through the both of you. Regina's heart throbbed in her chest, her senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. As she continued to manifest her dominance, Regina began to fiercely insert her tongue into your mouth, and a strange, tingling sensation began to spread through your lips as if something were coating your tongue with a thick, viscous liquid.

Regina pulled back abruptly, a sinister laugh could be heard from her lips as she looked down at you. The wine had transferred to your mouth during your kiss, carrying with it the control spell that had been intended for her.

You panted heavily, your pupils dilating in horror as the harsh reality dawned on you. You staggered back, your hand flying to your mouth as you tasted the bitter, metallic tang of the enchanted wine. Your heart raced with panic as you struggled to comprehend the implications of what had just occurred.

Regina's gaze hardened as she watched your reaction, a cold fury burning in her eyes. "Pathetic," she snickered, her voice dripping with disdain. "It seems the tables have turned."

You stumbled backwards, your mind spinning with fear and confusion. You had never intended for things to escalate like this, never anticipated that the spell would backfire in such a catastrophic manner. You had only wanted to level the playing field, to challenge the queen's power and authority. But now, as you felt the weight of the spell pressing down on you, you realized that you had made a grave mistake.

Regina's amusement grew as she advanced on you, her movements gradual and greedy. "Did you really think you could overpower me?" she teased, her voice a deadly whisper. "I'll show you what it means to be at someone else's mercy."

Your breath came in short, ragged gasps as you felt her body cornering you against the wall with your heart throbbing painfully in your chest. Your eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, but there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. You were trapped, ensnared by your own arrogance and folly.

Regina's hand shot out and seized your jaw in a firm, unrelenting grip, causing you to tilt your head upwards to meet her gaze full of hatred and revenge.

"Don't hold it back," She ridicules, her voice low and taunting. "Let it come." Your eyes blinked rapidly and glazed with a mix of terror and the residual effects of the spell, locked onto Regina's, searching for any hint of mercy, of reprieve. But there was none to be found.

Her fingers dug into the soft flesh of your cheeks, her nails biting into your skin with enough force to leave marks. You winced, but the queen's grip only tightened further.

Regina's eyes never left you, her expression a twisted mask of conquering and ruthlessness. She reveled in your helplessness, in the way you whimpered beneath her touch. Regina began to lean toward your side, her lips brushing against your ear, her voice a seductive whisper.

"Good girl," she praised, her voice a hush, raspy whisper filled with dark satisfaction. "That's right. You belong to me." You closed your eyes, a single tear slipping down your cheek as you surrendered to The Evil Queen's will.

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#regina mills x reader #regina mills #evil queen #evil queen x reader #ouat #ouat imagine #regina mills fanfiction #once upon a time #lana parrilla

207 notes · View notes

mins-fins · 19 days ago

Text

i CAN feel .. 𝒏a jaemin

👑 , ❝ i want to fill my mouth with your name. i want to eat you whole . ❞ ─ pablo neruda

⠀૪ જ the prince of regnum morsu has always been the slightest bit peculiar, looking to devour, appearing to yearn for the very taste of ..

pairing, na jaemin x male!reader.

genre, alternate universe, medieval & mid–1800s combination, romance, ..fluff(?), inspired by many gothic tales, (attempted) horror, strange cryptid jaemin, royal au, arranged marriages.

warnings, violence, murder, cannibalism, romanticizing cannibalism 😕, blood & gore, implied sexual content, initial corpse details, somewhat unhealthy relationships, reader is pretty pathetic, jaemin is a strange creature (which is not specified).

word count, 7.3k.

notes, first real post of 2025 lets go!! cant get over my final work of 2024 being jaemin & my first one being jaemin again.. i love this strange mf 🫶 please do head all of the warnings given because this thing sort of goes into a few grisly details!! i obviously do not condone cannibalism i just enjoy love being expressed through wanting to consume your partner bone by bone <33 its romantic 💖 as always, user junjiie, my forever technical beta reader, i love you 🫶🫶 always so receptive to my ideas even when its THIS monstrosity 😭😭 it really killed me to write idk 🤷‍♂️ i just enjoy writing strange creature jaemin and i love daphne du maurier btw 😊.

YOU COULD BEST DESCRIBE REGNUM MORSU AS DEAD.

death awaits all souls, and maybe the landscape of the kingdom is somewhat akin to sand slowly allowing for you to sink, taking everything which equates you to a human being. tragedy permeates the earth, even the nocturnal creatures fear the weight of the land under their feet, less of crunching dirt and more of crunching bones after each step.

the liveliness of the subjects are all which save the incarnation of ruination which is this kingdom. without the tunes, the gatherings in the square, the dancing, the sheer joy of containment concerning human relations, this kingdom would be the haunting walk it so much exudes.

despite its own state, there’s beauty in the picture of death.

yet tonight can be excused, it is a much different story.

“a body has been discovered just before the palace”.

you would often assume your nightmares could not escape your mind, if you do not dwell, how could they escape its corners? well it seems you’ve mistaken the extent of this kingdom, though death is as mundane as the rising of the sun, the astonishment remains festered in the air.

the council falters for a singular moment, in spite of the clear feat of normalcy, there’s a rise to the worry. the gleam of concern causes for the widening of eyes, frantic pupils glancing back and forth as the situation attempts to be assessed.

one soul remains dormant though.

you find yourself releasing a wince at the alarming details. he was one of the knights stationed outside, the bones of his skull protruded out from where his head had been completely lacerated. there laid bite marks sunken into his skin, animals bites potentially? but what kind of animal snaps a bone in a singular bite?

“what kind of creature..?”

“that is what we are all thinking” it is clear that nobody can help their own fear, you cannot place blame on them for that. “were trying to see if we can.. capture it”.

you stifle a scoff at such a suggestion, the trembling of their undertones alone sells that the feat at which they appear to think they can capture this thing is faulty at best, it needs reparation, there’s none of courage in each of their singular glances.

you suppose you have to hand it to them for the attempt.

“what do you think it might have been? some undiscovered wolf?”

“it’s not the time for comedy, your majesty”.

with the quirk of an eyebrow, na jaemin relays his pure amusement, no such need for words. you envy his seemingly born courage, not even the flinch of a facial muscle, it is as if the gruesome nature of the execution is just another tick on a yet rising pile.

you manage to shake out of your thoughts, assuming his degree of empathy is ridiculous, he could just cope with passing in a differing manner. your gaze falls to the ring caged around your finger, the spontaneous paleness of it causing a drop in your stomach, you didn’t realize the tightness of it.

when you cease your staring, jaemin’s eyes burn into the side of your head, a small smile tugging at his lips, chatter fading into the background as it seeps into ear bleeding noise.

but you cannot wince, focus lasered in on the pierced eyes of your fiancé. you do not fear him, yet it appears as if he has earned a ticket to your very own mind, each distinct wavelength of thought sprawling outward, not perfectly hidden in the corners you folded them into.

his lips remain upturned, an indescribable gleam shadowed by his voided pupils. “are you alright, your highness?”

they’re speaking much too high, you’re afraid of your ears popping, jaemin opts to turn in his seat, speaking no words to you. “just a little disturbed”.

the words are scarily lessened, yet you surmise those surrounding you still capture the fear of your undertone.

you cross your arms in feigned defiance, as though the air would sink its own barred fangs into you, ripping seams from your neck with the simultaneous blood pour following the crushing of your bones.

a painstaking demise, you ponder on when the fear would take form. might it possibly begin in the same manner as the ripping of your muscle, or perhaps the trepidation would descend as the life drained from your soul, skin paling, eyes rolling back, bones snapping in tandem.

you have much time to consider such a thing, you’re aware the wedding will be delayed.

you do not mind that.

“it hasn’t become a pattern yet, guards will remain stationed outside”.

a whisp of the air, hot breath behind your ear you have bright knowledge does not exist. you shiver, aware someone must have caught that.

that lonely night, you dream of death in the form of a beast. tearing at the cursed remains of your soul with the pure white gleam of its fangs, crushing the bones of your body with pure animosity. you would have no time to escape, all life coming to a nought.

you assumed the death which would grasp at the strings of your viability may appear beautifully, a face of clear artistry. perhaps you would pass in your sleep, eyes peacefully fluttered shut as life slipped away. yet you now have the mind to comprehend a newly settled fear, this creature, a monstrous varmint attempting to gnaw through the protective barrier of your skin.

your existence may now depend on the ability of this thing to stalk around the palace, the palace of a kingdom defined by its deadly curse. you offhandedly realize the danger of your arrangement, yet what can you do besides allow for it to unfold?

after allowing for several hours to pass, your eyes unwillingly flit upward, darkness shrouding visibility, ticking clock akin to the countdown of terror, an imaginary behemoth scales the walls, golden pupils staring intensively into your soul, serrated edges of teeth pulling at the confines of your heart in spite of the clear deterrence you attempt to make face with.

you fear sleep, so you do not sleep.

THERE APPEARS TO BE SOMETHING TERRIBLY WRONG WITH THE CROWN PRINCE OF REGNUM MORSU.

you have always linked the worst of your nightly thoughts to your insane extent of observance, the act of you picking up on singular traits, quirks, peculiarities that no one person would utter to another human being without a feat of embarrassment.

prior to the engagement, you had always perceived na jaemin as just a little odd. children often perceive the unknown as strange, yet na jaemin carries the eccentricities in adulthood, split smiles, voided out irises, unmoving molars which appear jagged once you allow a squint, curls of hair strands unrealistically unalloyed in a hue of white.

the titular moment you laid your eyes upon na jaemin, childish naivety surrounding your circle, you feared him. feared the conundrum of him, feared the clear darkness of his eyes which contrasted the bright shade of his hair, white you could not make sense of.

and the engagement brought out oddities you could not comprehend prior, something of a mystifying element added onto his presence. yet over the years, the formerly habitual fear has become something much more..

you assume the strange likeness is one of his most prominent qualities, though his parents often irk you, they are not as anomalous as the man they brought into the world. occasionally, you assume he may not even be of human nature.

you have known him for long enough that it all simply contains its own fit of normalcy.

of course, the thoughts shall remain entrapped in your mind.

just up until two more guards appear slain before the gates, face paled, the structures of their skeletons protuberant, skin— oh lord, you feel yourself growing disgusted.

after a consistent nightmarish battle with your inner conscious, you spare yourself the definite details, instead yearning for some degree of isolation.

the marriage shall be pushed back, knights will no longer be stationed outside, the subjects are now granted a curfew in order to ensure their own safety, the king can’t risk any more accidents before the ending of his term.

you spend days scouring the library’s romance novels, fearing that if you blink severely enough the entity would flash before your vision. you do not make time to listen during important discussions, having to catch yourself once the titular spot on the walls begin to blur your sight, not even the callings of your name enough to snap your conscious into working order.

you so desperately yearn for the solace of your home kingdom, agitation grasping at your soul, now seemingly guiding your movements. you long for the peak of sunshine, there appears to be nothing of light in this place, the air devoid of soul, life, animation. you ache for your parents, in spite of their consistent arguments, they provided you with some necessary protection.

but you are no longer a child, a simple monster should not be enough to petrify you.

in order to not sink into your fit of terror, you occupy your time with reading and painting, an illustration of the creature which plagues your nightly thoughts.

you are able to scribble through eight of those before you feel the settlement of horror.

“y/n, i feel you are taking this strangely”.

for all his own abnormalities, na jaemin’s parents appear to be as mundane in the daylight. you stare down your creations, feeling the carving of your own sockets, lethargy seizing you by the throat.

“i’m simply.. curious”.

you suppose the mechanism of your subsistence is clearly inquiring, and by the flickers of their eyes, the debate of if they should have engaged you to their son is clear.

well, their son is enough of an atypical figure, they have no place to judge.

“those look.. beautiful”.

in contrast, na jaemin appears enamored at the sight of your art pieces, splattered red paint coinciding with the widening of his eyes, the blank shade jumping out to your own, you cannot even make out a gleam, it is the slightest bit disturbing.

yet there remains a degree of devotion, a deep sense of partiality, it appears he intends to remain transfixed by your artwork, nothing of a falter in each singular movement.

you are thoroughly perturbed.

“all of them are hand painted?”

“with my very own ones” you whisper, beaming off that of the lamp, his pupils widen in manual astonishment. the engrossment outweighs any chance of reason, it appears he will not emphasize on external stimulus. a stark warmth encapsulates you, the shy appreciation does wonders to your very heart, something of a miracle. “do you.. uh— enjoy them?”

he steps closer, the curvatures of his fingertips tracing the esteemed canvas, corners seeming to stab, yet falters whisking out into the air. “you are dementedly adroit”.

“well i was just painting based on my night terrors” he spares a glance, and the speck of affection settles a fit of disquietude, for an unsure moment, you fear the presence of a man who you are bonded to by none other than a slab of golden jewelry, a man who, in a odd manner, you also cannot help but desire in the same breath. “can’t even muse on where my mind went when i crafted these..”

and spontaneously, he occurs closer, frightening you enough it manifests in a physical reaction, a wince caught in your teeth. it did not even arise that his footsteps are startlingly silent, it is as if he simply surfaced besides your own, materializing out of the air’s own particles. how does one perform such a thing?

his lips pursue, the cracking of his bones emitting a daunting sense in your very own blood, heart yearning to burst out of your skin. he unnaturally bevels his head sideways, boring through the valor you attempted to fasten in place. “there appears to be something wrong, are you bothered y/n?”

suddenly, there descends a chill across your being. lord, should this room not be hot? should his occupancy not be the catalyst of calefaction? why are you chilling?

“no, i’m simply weary”.

you do not mean to display full dishonesty, yet you cannot help it.

and then, you have your stomach twist when his guise transforms into that of concern, a latterly aspect of his face which you haven’t seen. guilt grabs at your heart, you are unsure how.

“make sure you sleep, alright?”

regard, perhaps you may blush.

“thank you for the notice, i will”.

oh, well you suppose the oddities stray far once proximity nears. you happen to enjoy observing the crescents of his features, because you can state the prospect of beauty, na jaemin conveys beauty, you could sketch that of his own concaves, already picturing a perfect painting.

yet a degree of alarm remains.

THE FOLLOWING NIGHTS, SEVERAL OTHER BONES CRUSH UNDER THE FORCE OF TEETH.

you physically regurgitate, fearing the inevitable sickness which typically seizes you in tandem with consternation. existential dread may be your downfall, the expanse of your mind, and contingent upon your very scrutiny, will completely overtake any of your credible sense, tears welling up in your eyes, all safety naught.

the palace encapsulates impending doom, your sight appears to be pulling strings of its own. you envision bite marks, engravings cursed into your skin, the fracture of your skeletal structure now plaguing your days, no longer secluded in the form of your nightmares.

the pattern of a bodily pile continues, yet you strive to venture down a contrasting path, possibly able to distract yourself by burying your nose in absorbent literature.

the palace swallows you whole, the terror rendering you unable to escape its clutches, however, you are encased by your own unrest.

the night you find the metaphorical monster behind your back a minimal issue, you find the act of treading the extensive hallways to perturb you much more.

you take a small breath as your footsteps shuffle towards the door of a titular room. your defense is meant to be the brick wall cascaded by the supposed hardness of your eyes, but you believe it might not be doing much.

na jaemin settles where you supposed he would settle, atop his bedsheets with a book in hand. your eyes nowhere, his current read being that of ‘madame bovary’, a piece of literature you could only squint at when passing through the library. you surmise from the quirk of his brow that he takes a liking to the novel. “y/n? evening”.

you muse that he appears much too tranquil.

“hello, i..”

you swallow your upcoming words, weakness stabbing at the skin of your stomach. “my apologies, could you accompany me to the cookroom?”

he blinks, eyes devoid of particular passion, yet vibrant with a capital of affection. you really do find his individual qualities strange, down to the movement of his pupils. his eyebrows then jump in a silent display of amusement, fingertips tracing the curves of his storybook. “is something astray?”

you practically tremble at how visible you are. “i’m a little frightened”.

then he spontaneously splits into a smile, allowing for the novel to remain dormant on his sheets. “that is no issue, y/n”.

in clockwork, he emerges beside you, offering his arm for you to cling to. “don’t worry honey, i’ll keep you safe”.

the use of an endearing name could be concern for perturbation, yet you instead feel an encapsulation of warmth. although na jaemin is typically numbing, there’s an air of mellowness which captures you as your arms come to intertwine, the hold providing solace you seek in moments such as this.

“what exactly do you fear?”

the inquiry results in the freezing of your facial muscles, perhaps intrigue is integral in moments such as this, or perhaps this is a trick, it is conceivable to say that he draws amusement from your fright. “well.. the unknown, i suppose”.

there appears to be a gleam across his pupils, absorption you would be an imbecile if unable to pinpoint. “ah, but it is not that bad”.

“how are you so sure?”

“i’m simply gauging the prospect” he whispers, mouth splitting into a smile, the display of his straight white molars alerting you to the uncanny ferocity of the spaces. “there is no need to fret, y/n, i’m here”.

“for protection?”

the sight of the cookroom alerts your eyes, yet you can only gaze upon the man who you surmise is the definition of valiance, you spite your very own mind. “of course”.

you blink, vulnerability overtaking your presence as he slips from your grasp. it appears the protection heightens once he remains close, you do not want for him to leave just yet. “could you.. uh— well, i would enjoy it if you remained by my side for the time being”.

amusement colors his features, humming gleefully. the stretch of his smile pleases you, his smile really is a touching sight, you could sketch out its pattern from memory. “that will not be a trouble”.

the soft sigh which escapes you completely displays your serenity.

THOUGH HE APPEARS TO BE THE PINNACLE OF BEAUTY, you have yourself a fear of the.. humanity regarding the man you are set to marry once the dust settles on these morbid “animal” attacks. when the thought initially crossed the threshold of your mind, you surmised that the demented man some whispered you to be was finally making himself known.

it really does appear ridiculous, na jaemin, for all the abnormal actions of himself, is human. a fairly odd human with fairly oddly sharpened molars, voided out eyes, and the untypical appearance of his limbs, but a human nonetheless.

at least.. you yearn.

there appears to no longer contain order, regnum morsu seizes you by the throat, a knife against your heart and air swallowing you whole.

you suppose one day you might waste away in this kingdom, death coming to fasten your end, there appears to not exist an endless struggle, the tug will not end up in failure, and perhaps you’re a weakling, a pathetic excuse for a man whose right mind has been hindered from the flurry of stories you have been fed in the passing weeks.

it is completely feasible, you are going to perish here, despair scrawled across the stone which will house your corpse.

and na jaemin, he happens to strike the balance of elevated paranoia in tandem with simply.. adherence. you crave a degree of intimacy which appears to have manifested itself out from thoughts you had mislead yourself into believing did not exist, it is not as if the marriage disappointed you, the prospect was aptly plain, a paradox which did not trouble you enough for such thoughts to arise,

you desire the brushing of his curvatures against yours, the astounding delicacy of his fingertips as they make contact with your skin. grown nails cultivating individual marks on the vain, restrained complexion of his simply striking epidermis, teeth barred in the manner of an animal as you unabashedly ground them into the side of his neck, masticating each piece in a singular bite, the bitter lingering of copper remaining on your tongue.

but no sane individual divulges such feelings, you envisage the horror that shall paint the features of your parents, and you’re aware of the petulance of jaemin’s own, they would chop off your head.. astoundingly, that would be a terrific case for you.

you really do despise how far your mind strays, intrusively worming into your conscience, staining every plain thought you could ever have.

na jaemin makes it no better.

and it occurs to you that he is completely aware of that fact, your clear lack of contentment aside, there’s a sense of delight he derives from your plight, lips splitting upward in that terror inducing grin he possesses.

“do you still have night terrors?”

he inquires it to you the following week, accounts of attacks have lessened, yet you remain entrapped by surrounding dread. your nails sink into the conjunction of your shoulder blade, but you neglect to mention such an aspect. “yes but.. i can take care of it myself”.

“aw, don’t you desire my company?” he begins breaching through your safety guard, a specific chord striking in tandem with his candidly alluring smile. “i heard lying along with someone helps do away with them”.

heat coils over your previously unadorned skin, a shade of red evocative of the blood which warms even in the wintry tenor this room holds. you remain frozen, he somehow manages closer. “ah, really? and who states that?”

“that will have to remain a secret”.

you intertwine your fingers before even concluding your contemplation process, basking in the mellow delicacy brought by the contact. your eyes flutter closed, as if completely against your own being, but you do not fret.

you do not exactly recall agreeing with his term, but you suppose your memory does often deviate occasionally, that does not happen to grasp your attention.

what does grasp your attention is the sheer mellowness emanating from such an embrace, you once surmised na jaemin would be cold, you reckon he can be once focus is truly applied, but you have never begun to slip so easily. your breathing steadily plummets to a silent state, chest rising and falling in consistent motions, fatigue rendering your limbs weak.

you question what otherworldly abilities he must hold, head tipping over as your conscious slips. his hand remains on your back, jaemin hums, you cannot see him, yet you envision a beam marking his features. “see, what did i tell you?”

a thumb swipes across the skin of your cheek, a touch so pliable you could fall asleep from just it alone. “..soft” you mutter, lips pressed on the blade of his own shoulder. “i’m exhausted”.

the brush of lips on your forehead just barely breezes by, but by such a point, you’re about halfway gone. “sleep fine, i’ll wake you up tomorrow”.

and you cannot halt such movements, you slip almost insistently.

MEETINGS TACK THE FIGURATIVE SCHEDULE YOU MUSE PROBABLY BURNS INTO your brain, though you typically assumed as a child marriage would be much simpler, you retained little of the knowledge needed for such extensive features riddled in the complexities which scorch the arranged union. your mind is misplaced over the course of a few slipping weeks, and if you had little known knowledge of your surroundings, you would be oblivious to how jaemin breaches through your soul with his stare.

his suddenly spiked intrigue in you is displayed by the several thousand gazes you truly wish you could avoid. he has the prettiest of irises, the softest hands though his palms run frigid, a few sharpened molars yet a strikingly enticing smile.

of course you had been riveted first, a flooding, intense fascination marked once you two were children, you suppose you aren’t exactly superior to him in that regard,

but it begins striking that chord again, a pit burying itself further in the crux of your gut, it takes its own childish turn, your skin tone burning bright red as if it is some playground coquetry, he simply holds so much skill, lording all of it above you in a fashion he is aware you could never avoid.

though that cannot shadow over the impending dismay he can always seize one with.

“you’ve been captured by a bundle of nerves haven’t you?”

your constant grazing of your fingertips against the very ring binding you two is enough indication, you wish to envy such observance but you had been much too keen on displaying such anxiety.

he appears knowing of it all.

his riposting grin earns a physical recoil.

yet there’s a shadow of beauty your gaze is sure he possesses, snow white hair and all.

“this is a bit imbecilic”.

“won’t you brighten?”

the corresponding locutions sprout a small smile, regardless of several other feelings present in the air, he somehow boasts the ability to blossom a beam.

“see? you have a beautiful smile”.

and you attempt to grasp at words which have suddenly whisked away, skin possibly an atypical shade of red.

there is an irretrievable skill, you admit.

“won’t you let me help you?”

you blink, baffled, poking a short nail into the visible skin of your chest. “with— with my shirt? i can do it mysel..”

“what kind of fiancé would i be?” and when he advances you remain in your spot, your core organ threatens to beat out of the confines created by your bones. when he takes ahold of your very hands you gaze, in an almost obtrusive manner, his are astoundingly beautiful, the ends of his fingers curve perfectly into your own, despite a clear unconventionality concerning the civil partnership of you two, he simply.. fits. “you deserve to be spoiled”.

“well not.. spoiled, odd word”.

“not even by me? i have no qualms with it”.

“i..” then his hands cross the figurative barriers you had yourself fasten upward in regards to strangers, it all crumbles speedily, the brick wall fragmented by his plainly frozen hands, prompt points of his fingertips coming to aid you in pinning the buttons of your shirt together. “it’s a little convoluted”.

whispering appears to be his forte, his reply arrives swiftly; “i’m good at decoding people”.

you have diminutive assertions against that one.

the silence is an irreparable exertion you somehow fear though the expectancy rules over the now chilling air.

you peek with the upward flit of your eyes, an encapsulating fear tugging onto the seams of your conscience. jaemin’s gaze retains hunger, faultlessly dimmed over by affinity mysteriously wrought.

a flinch, his thumb dances over your knuckles and the brisk touch withdraws a wince. “ah, you have a problem, do you always bite them?”

you timorously heave yourself away from such a convenience, leer averting as you attempt to disconcentrate. jaemin chuckles, it has a peculiar, harmonious ring, a sweet rhythm you loathe enjoying as much as you do. “i’m simply.. uh—“

well you’re a bit pathetic aren’t you? so entrenched in the confines of your very mind that the prospect concerning a simple tête-à-tête had you just about yearning to perish at his presumptuous peering. “i get overwhelmed easily, it has a better effect than scratching”.

you misread his upcoming expression, the reticent nature of his eyebrow raise unsettling you. “could you not?”

you are slightly baffled. “what?”

“it’s destructive”.

nail biting is a years aged tendency sparked in your juvenescence, simply ridding of it has proven arduous. he appears to miscalculate you in the same breath his confidence overtakes him,

but you cannot say that.

his grip tightens yet you cease the painful sound crawling up your throat, hands threatening to burn a shade of red. “okay”.

he seemingly senses the urging perturbation, movements faltering as he relaxes his tensed limbs. “sorry, i care for you, you know?”

you remain quiet, he hums.

“i won’t ever do anything to harm you” oh his tone is so docile, pupils shaded over with intimacy. “trust me”.

you swallowed down your extent of fear, despite it all, there was a certain degree of benevolence you cherished.

WHEN NA JAEMIN DOES KISS YOU, FOR THE initial moment you’re stagnant, motionless, astonished yet not all averse to such actions. darkness shrouds over the horizon as brisk months reign in, candles blazing in tandem across the halls, effortlessly brightening the atmosphere despite a clear weariness. your limbs had acted upon practice and a step back was taken, expression remaining stalled.

“sorry” his laughter always produces a harmonious rhythm, a sound so pleasurable you constantly wonder the circumstances of such actions. “did you not..?”

“no, no! i—“ well you could merely blink, a stark glance retaining all of the apprehension you could communicate, though silent. “i was put aback, that is all”.

a sullied frown tugs at his lips, his appearance remorseful even in the face of your clear craving, soulful desire you could barely contain in the crevices of your pupils and the continuous exhibition which concerned your very inclination. “is kissing restricted?”

“i..” he is indeed adept at rendering you aghast, tongue tied as your stare lingers. “no, i was unaware our relationship extended far enough”.

the visible light bouncing off his eyes falters a bit, as if planned by those pulling the strings of the universe, an indurate pool of dullness coating it all. he then chuckles, the hysterics a chorus in itself, you are unsure of what to expect from him, courtesy to several peculiarities.

“we have to practice for the wedding”.

a short snicker itself escapes you, amusement as clear as the bright red displaying itself across your cheeks. “you’re charming”.

“ah, really?”

“strange.. but charming”.

he may as well eat you whole, a shadowing creature which reminds you of the word devoro; consume, devour, taken from the roots of devorare; devoravi, devoratus. teeth all illicit, conniving in that evil manner you cannot comprehend, tearing first at your flesh, then muscle, then bone, licking it all clean simply, gore painting the seams of his lips.

yet you are irresolute to just how freakish you would find the sight, in the worst of shades he could possibly behold the world’s beauty.

such a shameless notion is pathetic.

and perhaps you are too, a stout man built off concerning queries.

“how about we just anchor in on the charming point?”

you chuckle again, delight somehow trailing behind you once in his presence, perverse eccentricities and all.

“well it’s..” the mismatched terms lodge themselves in your throat as he purely approaches you, once more, inaudibly, lashes fluttering in their typical fashion. his fingers trail across the fabrics of your shirt, it acting as a barricade towards his veracious desires. you waver, fumbling through terms which should be compatible. “is seduction formidable?”

“what were you speaking of before?”

“i— jaemin..”

“hm?”

a sharp clutch at your collar, his lips hook upward into a grin which entices you greatly, ready serenity faltering.

your sanity shatters in definite fragments.

he latches onto it, some solemn creature, dimmed gaze boring through the enclosure you once prided upon the existence of, yet you are simply so..

frail.

you may well have madness scrawled over your features, permeating the insolent corners of your very mind.

so he does advance again, and you do not stagger astern, in the moment, you solely submerge yourself into the juncture.

kissing is.. odd, on his part anyway. it is as if his proclivity does entail the prospect of drinking your lungs, unhinging his jaw from its point of origin to swallow you whole, scant bones behind in your wake.

the honesty which persists colors your cheeks a baby pink, his drive is uncoordinated, mismatched yet boyishly endearing. its endlessly puerile, a complete disparity to what you might have assumed in specific late night dreams.

he nips at the breaching barrier of your top lip, teeth all perfect as he groans into the seams of your mouth. it’s all foolish, asinine in the fashion concerning a child, uninterrupted clashing with pulling and gnawing, like you supply a ready source for his hunger.

his teeth take a grinding motion in the sector of your neck, you sigh.

“still wedding practice?”

his tongue slides over his teeth, your breath hitches.

he breaches in and takes you apart with easy pulls, his nimble hands embed themselves into the crevices of your sides, barrages of red and purple blossoming in the stitching joints which align your hip bones, overly interfering with the digging of his nails.

it’s all a dizzying prospect, his fingertips figurative markers in the canvas which smudges your epidermis.

he is intensively torrid, blistering despite the frigid stabbing the ends of his digits offer.

the starry stricken actions remind you of scribbled literature, poetry echoing in reference to intimacy, boundless scriptures throughout history concerning love, amor, roaming hands clasping several individual emblems into your typically pallid dermis.

you can muse on several instances where you reflected over love making, isolation leads to those sprawling out perplexing ideations of how their fate may play. the curvatures painted into the ceiling jump out in your vision, figures reaching to entwine fingers despite their inevitable distance.

jaemin lifts a finger, the touch emitting some otherworldly pinch on your temple, cushioned up across your ecru comforter, his features appear all docile in spite of the intimate point shared, laid out bare before you. “your eyes keep brightening in that manner..”

“hm?”

“you are all disconnected, is ceiling architecture truly so riveting?”

you tut, habitually seeking out your unguis to pick at, yet na jaemin instead interlocks your hands, soundless in his scowling. “i’m unsure”.

somehow, he nears, your frames practically woven as the fragmented vaulting artwork resembles something of a dream, dormant pastel shades weaving into each other, an image you can equate to a quite familiar sight.

“do such paintings come with the palace?”

“do i possess all the world’s knowledge?”

you stare. “is that the start of a spurn?”

“is all you do inquire endlessly?”

you fall inaudible, interlaced hands falling atop the door of your heart. jaemin hums.

“your heart beats rapidly, you’re all skittish”.

such a circumstance is unfortunate, you could not illustrate a much fitting word.

MAN OFTEN ESCALATES STRIFE, IT IS OFTTIMES WHY you speculate violence transpires in the manner of an outdated experiment, rapidly evolving upward, surfacing until it all delves into inevitable failure, the gurgling of one’s own blood or the protruding fragments their bones offer. the landscape crunches under your scōns, figurative screams of souls suffocating in the mountains encapsulating nature’s parcels haunting your very ears.

yet you have not been in the face of death for a few yearning months, nightfall extends over the horizon and the numbing atmosphere seizes your nimble heart, rendering you a mere useless vessel.

what pleases your mind is the presence of flora, all slight graces and bated breaths heeds it. there is trivial discrimination on your part, floret all bear beauty; daffodils, irises, daisies, roses in spite of the rudimentary thorns and peonies all alike. they harbor no true judgment, the luminescent moon beams several petals containing grace, across the curves outlining your features which then correspond to the solace easily provided.

the most unsaid of thoughts do not bear a name in the crevices which begat your mind, yet you are aware the inclined hymns of nightly creatures bring out the worst notions any one mortal being could manifest, such an upheaval a stoic plight.

jagged, uncanny corollas about splinter the core of your middle finger when you are alerted by a sound. your eyes flit upward, encompassing ambience encapsulated within the twilight area, veiled in tenebrosity.

nothing, you have a mad mind, y/n.

chastisement does you no aid.

a twig snaps, the racket nearly shaking the encircled environment.

you shut your eyes, avoiding any semblance of antipathy is intelligent, your parents clobber in the like statement ad nauseam, lacking juvenile violence a marker for the clear upshot.

you shake your head, naught imperilment yet a stark disquietude.

you retain a minuscule feat of valor, all which compasses you equates to one fainthearted caitiff, one who could not withstand peril,

yet you take the two steps.

stalking around the overarching woodland bordering the garden is possibly an imbecile’s action. thorny vines form shards in the cross of your epidermis, weaving before your path as if shading you against the inevitable hazard.

but you haphazardly breach through the incorrigible protection offered by mother nature herself, all impetuous, unhandled negligently.

on the outset, you surmise the continuous snapping is of your soles pressed against the ground, a poignant snap resounding in every step.

you are terribly mistaken.

the former uptake of clouds has now dispersed, though you are completely overtaken by whelmed dread.

there stands a.. creature, wolf-like features all nowt, a nauseating crack echoes throughout the environ, magnetic pulsars reverberating off the walls. its jaw extends, splintering, inhumane, hanging onto the point at which it begins. enlarged claws drawn from the seams of its fingertips, it towers over the surface its feet begin at.

you, insoluble in all sane mind, are starstruck.

throughout the several pages of scorned literature which permeate your mind, you have never once envisioned the skeletal structure regarding such a behemoth, but this is no veridical varmint.

frankly, the sight is obscene, though such a statuette has not once beliked the eyes of one human being, yet you gaze upon it, alive, fragmentary..

the thing is much akin to leviathans, swines you had sworn to fiction in the safety of your shy story books, its protuberant skeletal frame distended from the very corium which relays the sliver of humanity a beast could retain.

then it descends upon its victim and.. oh lord how you do not purge up every single internal vapor at the grotesque sight. he is hapless, seraphic phenomena nowt as it takes one ceremonious bite, resounding in a abhorrent crunch to destroy formerly order bones in the seams of his chest cavity.

your breaths remain intact, a dutiful action which could possibly save you a couple years.

it is ruthless in its execution, the overgrown claws obtruding from inhumane limbs sinking into the core of the human senses; the heart. ribs snaps in tandem with trenchant talons euchring the man’s existing cutis, blood beginning a violent stream as his continuing beating heart seemingly withstands the barbarous strafe.

you are aware of how it may transpire, you are an imbecile! you ought to evade such a discerning affair and hasten.

yet you gaze on, enigmatic, the inscrutable urging to merely perceive such gnarled events, perhaps inciting your very demise, a death which you had narrowly circumvented with impromptu prosperity.

ichor almost poetically stains the lamented land you and all others associate the air of regnum morsu with, coloring it with vibrancy one would surmise could only be caused by celebrations of human life.

you suppose it is much forthright.

clear thought is steered clear once the hankering creature, abundantly immersed in feasting on the heart of one innocent man, pauses in their maneuvering, as if sensing your very presence, you muse on how far you would make it to ready safety, aptly falling into the arms of your parents in the manner of a skittish child, sobbing into the night.

yet you are once again frozen in your locus, the purging pool in your stomach relinquishing.

its..

“jaemin?”

indeed, it is the scrawled face of your imminent husband, golden marriage token binding you to him. a spate of several conversations hastily meeting the points which intersect your mind with your common sensibility.

the sight is sickening, a ravishing grin overtaking his distinct facets, gore staining the formerly vain white of his teeth, softening pupils akin to the unlit ether relegated by the existing sky. he does not allow a kindred terror to grip his heart, unlike the one he had been mauling.

you despise your very fortitude, you cannot help.. well,

he is beautiful, almost ethereal, otherworldly in his denominative modus. your blink produces teardrops you had little cognizance of, though you conserve the inevitable sniveling.

“y/n” and oh, may the lord forgive you for your actions, peering in the direction of this monster, yet you reside, circumstances enigmatic to your very sanity, how does one oppose a prospect?

the back of his hand comes smeared over with blood as he seemingly polishes himself, a sheer amount tinting definite strands of white.. red. a sight paralleling the printed words regarding the queen of hearts painting her white roses red. “ah, i wished for this to hap another way”.

you grapple with deduced terms, inhaling a long breath.

“you want to sob”.

your riposting head shake displays lucid dishonesty. “well.. i—“

foreseeable words perish in your throat, his stupor dissolves, and he again inclines back into the jaemin you know, startlingly peculiar, yet not an entire monster.

you whimper, his stained hands come to cradle your cheeks. the slight caress jostles a sob upward from the crux of your chest, blood painting your very own skin despite the nearby ferocity. “pardon me, it’s simply.. difficult”.

your sleeve acts as a cushion, drying up your tears. a swiping finger, your teeth sink into the side of your cheek. “you— a bath, you’re filthy”.

it’s a pragmatic approach, a man’s heart lay bare over the grassy landscape, yet you have apprehension concerning the portrayal of your fiancé.

he chuckles, the first of many pink tints accompanying his rejoinder.

you two interlock hands, solicitously, uncanny callousness meeting your very fingertips.

in sickness and in health, they muse, till death do us part.

AMANS SEMPER, QUOD TIMET, ESSE PUTAT; a lover believes it to be as he fears. your several durational stints are pervaded by absorbent literature, tempura airbrushing permeating the air fumes, and an anomalous expanse of displayed macabre, distempered varnishes staining several of your very canvases, clashing hued red only deciphered with the slightest narrows.

the marriage shall go forward, the reflection of your aureate trinket reminding you each moment. per capita, jaemin insights hindrance, prodding at the seams of your very mind which clearly does not detest, you surmise that something has to be wrong with him.

yet you suppose uncanny cheshire grins and flagrant embraces he feigns all innocence to are little of an indicative hassle, you covertly enjoy such disturbances.

he heedlessly carves over the arches of your shoulders, thumbs compressing the sheer few knots, all tempering the strain which weighs upon you.

you affably bat no eyes when jaemin infiltrates your chambers during the off fashioned twilight hours, habitually whilst you fasten your focus onto a particular novel, his lips stained a peculiar red, the prospect now its own distinct color painting your very canvas.

jaemin is exotically benign considering his.. attributes, as if you are all fragile, a lone share of glass, one where despite the sting, is all volatile at the merest of graces. his fingers weave extensively into yours, digits often tapering off into callous territory, natheless evading their typical docile manner.

there is a clear lack of the imminent monstrosity you expected prior, or perhaps you have simply been driven deranged.

you presume the derangement pervades it all. feasibly, he could consume you one day, once the figurative cattle go to waste, you remain. he commences at a hushed beginning, allowing you to gaze on at his teeth as he carved out the thoracic cavity, the core of your thorax decimated to fragments in a singular bite alone. dawning at your lungs, then mangling your thymus, esophagus, trachea, you muse he would save your vascular organ as an apparent finish, savoring each singular sinking of teeth.

jaemin is an indicatively amorous, pure white smiles planting kisses upon your skin.

“you are all.. hysterical”.

“not quite”.

his fingernails require some trimming, it is a stark reminder to you what he truly entails, uncannily splintered claws abrading over your nightly cooling dermis. “i reiterated i would never”.

“what if i’m the only one left for you to?”

his thumb snares at the corner of your lips, his caress so placid you about pitch into a slumber. his grin is narcotic, every single tooth, including those which occupy much brimmed space is displayed.

“is that where intimacy lies for you?”

“is it truly that intimate?”

you reckon the answer is about crystalline.

it may appear intimate to him, desire as imminent as the ichor which would smear over his hands at the grasp of your beating heart. “intimacy varies..”

“a sincere romantic you are”.

the flat of his palm feels your heart once more, he may devour it one by one, chewing immersive.

you infer perishing is inevitable, but if you do, you crave for his hands to be those to ruin you.

#na jaemin #nct #nct dream #nct dream imagines #nct dream drabbles #nct dream scenarios #nct dream x reader #jaemin imagines #jaemin drabbles #jaemin scenarios #jaemin x reader #na jaemin x male reader #𑁍 ࣪˖ 𓂃 isa's works!

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strangelittlestories · 1 year ago

Text

“What entertainment do you bring before me today?” Squawked Augustine, the king of the birds. “Have the mockingbird players returned from their tour of the provinces? Or maybe that prattling parrot will reprise its human impressions?”

“Alas, milord.” Replied the king’s seneschal, a somewhat fussy flamingo. “You had the parrot killed for excessive repetitions and hesitations.”

“So I did!” The king spread his majestic tail feathers proudly, reliving the happy fuzz of murder. “Well, they knew the rules. Or, at least, *I* knew the rules and they probably should have inferred them.”

“One can never argue with your execution of the law.” Said the long-suffering seneschal, keenly aware that the wrong answer could result in his suffering moving from *long* to *short*. “Or with the law of your executions, for that matter…”

“Speaking of executions,” Said the king, whose mind was never truly far from state-sanctioned violence, “Do we have any on the docket for today?”

“Your majesty, I’m afraid the dungeons are quite empty.”

“What, no traitors left?”

“No, sire.”

“No criminals of any kind? No thieves or fraudsters or comedians who are overly reliant on props?”

“All thoroughly and legally murked, milord.”

“Well, I suppose send in my jester, then. I’m so dreadfully bored.”

At this command, the jester fluttered into the room, wearing a jaunty cap made out of a McDonald’s wrapper with a small lost key jangling from it in place of a bell.

The king and seneschal looked at the jester - the air was heavy with the potential for further royal atrocities. The seneschal crossed his talons.

“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester, hilariously.

A pause. A silence.

“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester again, making unblinking eye contact with the king.

The silence stretched on further. (Surely it could not keep on stretching or it would pull something…)

“Coo.” Said the pigeon jester, tragically.

And at this, the king finally burst into laughter. Uproarious, over-the-top, gut-busting laughter.

Which was just the distraction the seneschal needed. The elaborate flamingo costume was abandoned; the false wooden legs clattered to the floor and the fake neck - a painted length of hose pipe - flopped grotesquely back and forth.

From the costume burst forth a small army of truly tiny owls, which set about tying up the king while he was still prostrate from the laughter.

“What is the meaning of this?” Wailed the king.

“Coup.” Said the pigeon jester, accurately.

“Your reign of terror is at an end, vile tyrant!” Chirped an Elf Owl, puffing up its chest. “Revolution is here and your foul murderous regime will fall. In its place will rise a majestic and fair government! Vive la republic of feathers!”

“This is a conspiracy!” Cried the king.

“No,” Said the Elf Owl. “A conspiracy is ravens.”

“Owls are…” It donned a tiny pair of sunglasses. “...a Parliament.”

#writing #microfiction #short story #flash fiction #puns #feghoot #MORE BIRD PUNS NO MORE THAN THAT

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girlactionfigure · 5 months ago

Text

the British

SEPTEMBER 18, 2024

For many years, there has been a concerted effort to delegitimize the State of Israel as a British colonial project. These people decontextualize one single paragraph-long, non-binding statement -- the 1917 Balfour Declaration -- and ignore everything that happened before and since.

The fact of the matter is that by the time the British actually occupied the territory that now encompasses the State of Israel and the Palestinian Territories, they actively worked with the Arabs against the establishment of a sovereign Jewish state.

Anyone familiar with the complicated history of the conflict beyond the same tired propaganda talking points knows this. Our own grandparents know this, because it was they who suffered under British curfews, detention camps, unfair laws, and more.

THE BALFOUR DECLARATION: IN CONTEXT

In 1897, at the First Zionist Congress, the Zionist movement decided that “Zionism seeks to establish a home for the Jewish people in Eretz Israel [the Land of Israel] secured under public law.” In other words, the Zionist movement sought to accomplish its goals through legal means, rather than through violence. To do this, the Zionists tried lobbying a number of world powers, most significantly, the Ottomans, who then ruled over what is now Israel and the Palestinian Territories. They were unsuccessful. In fact, the Ottoman Empire tightened its anti-Jewish restrictions in the Land of Israel in response.

Meanwhile, as the Ottoman Empire weakened, a number of Indigenous religious and ethnic minorities in the Middle East, as well as the Arabs, began vying for their own independence. This was especially true during World War I, after it was revealed that the British and the French had conspired to take over the spoils of the vast Ottoman Empire once the Ottomans were defeated. Other groups that made public -- though ultimately unsuccessful -- bids for sovereignty included the Assyrians and the Kurds. In other words, given the context of the period and the region, Zionism was not an anomaly, but rather, it fell in line with what other national groups were doing at the time.

In 1916, the British promised the Arabs a unified Arab state in Greater Syria, which included what is now Israel, the Palestinian Territories, Lebanon, Jordan, and parts of Turkey. A year later, in 1917, the British signed the Balfour Declaration, supporting the establishment of a “Jewish national home,” which, in the eyes of the Arabs, contradicted the promise the British had made just the previous year.

“His Majesty's Government view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for the Jewish people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.”

WHAT WAS THE BALFOUR DECLARATION?

The Balfour Declaration was a statement issued in 1917 by the British government supporting the establishment of “a national home for the Jewish people” in Palestine.

There are two important things to keep in mind: (1) in 1917, Palestine was not yet under British rule; thus, the British had no actual power to assign it to anyone, and (2) by the time the British were given administrative powers over Palestine, they’d already changed their tune in favor of the Arab aspirations. It’s also important to note that the Balfour Declaration never specified the exact nature of this “national home for the Jewish people,”and, as such, the British felt that this promise did not actually contradict the earlier promise they had made to the Arabs in 1916 regarding a unified Arab state in Greater Syria.

The causes for the Balfour Declaration are subject to speculation. Some historians believe the British wanted to reward Chaim Weizmann, one of the most active proponents for a Jewish state, for producing acetone, which was critical to the British war effort during World War I. Others believe the British were desperate for the Americans to enter World War I, and because they held the antisemitic view that Jews had a great deal of power over the American government, they thought that in rewarding the Jews, the Jews would reward them. Others claim Lord Balfour was a Christian Zionist -- not to be confused with a Christian who is a Zionist -- and he felt that the returning of the Jews to the Land of Israel would hasten the Second Coming of Jesus. Finally, others think the British “embraced” Zionism because they felt that it would justify their colonization of Palestine over the French colonization of Palestine, as the French were also vying for control of that strip of land.

BRITISH RESPONSE TO ARAB VIOLENCE

British rule over Palestine was characterized by appeasement to -- and oftentimes outright support for -- the Arabs, even when the Arabs carried out antisemitic massacres against the Jews. After the 1920 Nebi Musa pogrom in Jerusalem, for example, the Jews accused the British of complicity, as they had actively prevented the Jews in the Old City from getting help. In fact, it was this riot that led to the formation of the Haganah, the first Zionist paramilitary in Mandatory Palestine, as the Zionist movement realized that the British could not -- or were not willing to -- protect the Jewish population of Palestine.

In 1936, the Arab Higher Committee, the Arab leadership in Mandatory Palestine, called for a general strike and boycott of Jewish products. This quickly escalated into violence and terrorism, leading to the massacre of some 500 Jews and hundreds of British. Due to their inadequacy in protecting the Jewish population, once again, the British reluctantly agreed to arm the Haganah.

In 1937, the British issued the Peel Commission to investigate the causes of unrest in Palestine. The investigators decided that partitioning the land into one Jewish state and one Arab state was the best option -- putting partition on the table for the first time. The Jews agreed to the plan reluctantly -- the terms weren’t great, though Chaim Weizmann said the Zionist movement was prepared to accept a state “even if it’s the size of a tablecloth” -- but the Arabs rejected it vehemently. Wishing to appease the Arabs, the British immediately discarded the 1937 Peel Plan and instead rewarded the Arab perpetrators of the violence with the 1939 White Paper.

THE 1939 WHITE PAPER

Given the results of the 1937 Peel Commission, which found that it was the Arab leadership that had instigated the violence of the Arab Revolt (against Jewish immigration), the Jews in Palestine were absolutely dismayed when the British issued the 1939 White Paper.

The White Paper, in direct contradiction with the findings of the Peel Commission, called for the establishment of a singular Palestinian Arab state. The Jews felt that, in light of previous promises, hundreds of years of Arab subjugation of Jews, and Arab violence against the Jews in Palestine, a single, Arab-majority state would shatter any illusion of Jewish self-determination.

Most damningly, the White Paper also almost entirely banned Jewish immigration, while Arab immigration continued to flow freely and without restriction into Palestine. The White Paper limited Jewish immigration to up to 75,000 people within a period of 5 years, and any further immigration would be subject to the approval of the Arabs. Keep in mind that this was on the brink of World War II, when millions of Jews were desperate to escape Europe.

Jews were also banned from purchasing any lands owned by Arabs, save for 5% of the Mandate territory.

The Jewish Agency for Palestine issued a statement saying that the British were denying the Jews their rights in the “darkest hour of Jewish history.”

ALIYAH BET

Aliyah Bet is the code name for the wave of Jewish illegal immigration and illegal rescue missions to Mandatory Palestine between 1920-1948, and particularly after 1939, after the British passed the 1939 White Paper. Aliyah Bet happened in two phases: phase one (1934-1942/1944) and phase two (1945-1948).

The rescue missions were carried out by a network of Zionist organizations. Some 62 missions were carried out between 1937-1944, the majority of them unsuccessful and often ending with catastrophic results.

Some 70,000 Jews, aboard 62 or 66 vessels (sources differ), attempted to reach Palestine via ship during World War II. Only ~15,000 made it safely, as most were unable to penetrate the British blockade. Five ships sunk, resulting in nearly 1,600 casualties.

After the war, the Haganah continued its illicit operations, now smuggling Holocaust survivors out of Europe. Overall, some 70,000 Jews arrived to Palestine in over 100 ships throughout the course of Aliyah Bet. This was a modest number considering the high number of Jews that attempted to travel to Palestine unsuccessfully.

Aliyah Bet created a conundrum for the British. On the one hand, they were trying to appease the Arab Higher Committee, which decried Jewish immigration. On the other hand, the world saw the British as cruel, keeping Holocaust survivors trapped in detention camps and banning them from Palestine.

Had the British supported the Zionist movement, there would have been no need for Aliyah Bet, nor would 1600 Holocaust refugees have died at sea en route to Palestine.

DETENTION CAMPS IN CYPRUS

The 1939 British White Paper remained in effect until 1948, with the establishment of the State of Israel. After the end of the Holocaust, Aliyah Bet continued in full force. Most of the would-be immigrants -- Holocaust survivors -- were detained by the British and placed in prison and internment camps. The largest of the camps were located in Cyprus, which was a British colony at the time.

Between 1946 and 1949, some 53,510 Jews were held prisoner in these camps. The majority had arrived from the Balkans and Eastern Europe, though a small number of Moroccan Jews were imprisoned as well. 80% of the prisoners were between the ages of 13-35, and 6,000 of them were orphans. Some 2,000 Jewish children were born in the camps. After Israel’s independence, Israel evacuated the last 10,200 prisoners into Israel.

The conditions at the camps were atrocious and inhumane.Jews had to face obstacles such as poor sanitation, overcrowding, lack of privacy, and a shortage of drinkable water. The American Joint Distribution Committee, which provided medical aid, extra food rations, and more, stated that the British treated Jewish refugees in Cyprus worse than they treated Nazi prisoners of war in adjacent camps.

Tents and barracks were overcrowded. There was a severe clothing and shoe shortage. The food was bad quality. Undoubtedly the biggest issue was lack of water, particularly during the summer, which resulted in poor sanitary conditions and the spread of disease. The British officers responsible for the refugees were unwilling and indifferent. The barbed wire and watchtowers reminded the Jewish refugees of their time in Nazi concentration camps, which was retraumatizing. Additionally, the camps had been built by Nazi POWs, which understandably upset the Jewish detainees.

Some 400 Jews died in the internment camps in Cyprus.

Jewish children in a British detainment camp in Cyprus after the Holocaust. Some 400 Jews died in these camps, due to lack of sanitation, malnutrition, subpar medical care, ill-treatment, and other poor conditions.

ATLIT

Atlit was a British concentration camp near Haifa used to hold Arabs and Jews under administrative detention (i.e. without a trial) during the period of the British Mandate. It was built in the 1930s and was primarily used to imprison Jewish refugees who arrived in Palestine. Some 10,000 Jewish refugees were held there.

Men and women were separated upon arrival and sent to showers to be deloused with dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane. Since many of the prisoners were Nazi concentration camp survivors, the showers were especially frightening and traumatic. Barbed wire formed a barrier between the men and women in the camp and the perimeter was surrounded by watchtowers eerily reminiscent of the Nazi camps. Children were separated from their parents.

A nurse at Atlit described the conditions in 1947: “"...when the Jewish Agency asked me to come here, I felt maybe at last I could do something for the survivors. Then I saw the things that you're seeing now. The results of the Nazi dehumanization. People with no belief in the future, apathetic, quarrelsome, no morals...”

JEWISH INSURGENCY AGAINST THE BRITISH

Had the British been “on the side of the Zionists,” then there would have been no need for the Zionists to launch an insurgency against the British.

Zionist non-violent and violent (including terrorism) resistance to the British began after the 1939 White Paper. It was temporarily put on hold with the outbreak of the Holocaust, when the head of the Jewish Agency and future first prime minister of Israel, David Ben Gurion, announced, “We must assist the British in the war as if there were no White Paper and we must resist the White Paper as if there were no war.”

Towards the end of the Holocaust, however, the Irgun resumed its anti-British operations, when its leader and future prime minister Menachem Begin announced in February of 1944: “There can no longer be an armistice between the Jewish Nation and its youth and a British administration in the Land of Israel which has been delivering our brethren to Hitler…Our nation is at war with this regime and it is a fight to the finish.”

The Haganah, which was under the jurisdiction of the officially recognized Jewish leadership in Palestine, remained mostly cooperative with the British, while putting pressure on them to open up Jewish refugee restrictions.

Perhaps most infamous of all Irgun operations was the bombing of the King David Hotel in 1946, where the British held administrative quarters. Begin had warned the British of the bombing in advance, giving them ample time to evacuate their staff and hotel guests, but they didn’t listen. In the end, 91 people were killed in the bombing.

Following the bombing, the Irgun and Lehi continued attacking British police and military targets. In retaliation, the British imposed a number of restrictions on the Jewish population of Palestine,such as martial law, military curfews, random searches, and mass arrests. Tensions grew between the Haganah — which condemned the bombings — and the Irgun and Lehi.

BRITISH ANTISEMITISM

The unrest in Palestine reignited widespread British antisemitic sentiment, both within the Mandate and in Great Britain.

For example, after the Irgun kidnapped and hung two British sergeants, British soldiers went on a rampage in Tel Aviv, indiscriminately attacking the Jewish community and killing five Jews. In Great Britain, the outraged population rioted against the Jewish community, a riot which devolved into a pogrom, with many carrying signs with messages such as “Hitler was right.”

Jews were consistently put under curfews and subjected to ill-treatment.

Winston Churchill himself wrote that the British soldiers in Palestine were strongly pro-Arab. The Jewish Agency issued frequent complaints that the soldiers made antisemitic remarks, such as “bloody Jew,” “pigs,” or even vowing to finish the job that Hitler had started.

It was the British officers in Palestine that first engaged in Holocaust inversion; that is, the depiction of Jews as Nazis. In March of 1945 — about two months before the Nazis even surrendered — the High Commissioner of Palestine, Lord Gort, told the Colonial Secretary in London that “the establishment of any Jewish State in Palestine…will almost inevitably mean the rebirth of National Socialism [i.e. Nazism] in some guise.”

Sir John Bagot Glubb, who later became the British Commander of the Jordanian Arab Legion during the 1948 war, called Jews “unlikeable, aggressive, stiff-necked, vengeful, and imbued with the idea of [being] a superior race.”

1948

The British abstained from voting in the 1948 United Nations Partition Vote. Some British officials, most notably British Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin, openly opposed any partition or establishment of a Jewish state.

The British fought in both official and unofficial capacities alongside the Arabs in the 1948 war. In other words, they fought against the establishment of a Jewish state and in favor of an Arab state. Most importantly, British officer John Bagot Glubb commanded the Jordanian Arab Legion in 1948.

After the British withdrew from Mandatory Palestine on the eve of Israel’s independence, they handed their arms over to the Arabs, not the Jews. In fact, it was British intelligence that convinced the Arabs to invade in 1948.

At one point in 1949, the British even considered invading the State of Israel to protect their own interests in Egypt.

In conclusion:

Before the British even set foot in Palestine, they had made contradictory promises of sovereignty to Jews, Arabs, and other Middle Eastern minorities.

However, by the time that the British actually were in Palestine, they actively did everything they possibly could to appease the Arabs, thus working to prevent the establishment of a Jewish state.

Had a Jewish state not become a reality in spite of the British, the Balfour Declaration would have long been forgotten, just like the unfulfilled promises the British made to the Assyrians and Kurds.

The fact of the matter is that virtually every border in the Middle East was carved up by the British and French, yet only the Jewish state is delegitimized on that basis. In fact, some countries were invented by the British entirely. For example, the British aided in the creation of Saudi Arabia by funding and supporting the Al Saud family, which, with their help, came to dominate a large chunk of the Arabian Peninsula. The British quite literally invented Iraq when they created the Mandate of Iraq in 1921 in part of what had long been known as other regions, including Assyria, Mesopotamia, and Babylonia. And, of course, the British created Jordan when they handed an enormous piece of the Mandate of Palestine over to the Hashemites in 1922. The Hashemites are from Arabia, not Transjordan.

For a full bibliography of my sources, please head over to my Instagram

rootsmetals

EDIT - 1948 slide - partition vote was in 1947! Sorry typo 😅

the British put Jewish children (Holocaust survivors!!!!) in concentration camps to appease the Palestinian Arab leaders, but the BaLfOuR dEcLaRaTiOn, right? 🙄 Crazy how certain people think it’s totally fine to whitewash this horrid history when this whitewashing comes at the expense of Jews and Jewish trauma. Genuinely wondering if you’d treat another minority’s history like this.

#Israel #British #antisemitism

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blurredcolour · 1 year ago

Text

We'll Meet Again

[One-shot]

Eugene Roe x Nurse!Female Reader

Nine hours is all it takes for Eugene Roe to realize that his hesitance to share his feelings for you was completely misguided.

Warnings: Language, Weapons, Canon Typical Violence, Smoking, Treatment of Wounds, Medical Procedures, Hospital Settings, Pining, Questionably Written Cajun Accent, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY

Author’s Note: The title of this fic is based off the song We'll Meet Again by Vera Lynn (I recommend the version where she is accompanied by Sailors, Soldiers & Airmen of His Majesty's Forces). This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the HBO series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 7578

-------------------------

“Roe it’s not mine, I’m alright. Roe.” Eugene was vaguely aware of your voice as he pulled at your blood drenched field jacket, fingers fumbling slightly as he fought with the buttons before he was able to delve beneath, beginning to tug at your sweater and wool shirt, desperate to find where you were hit. “I’m fine, please…Eugene!” You grabbed his wrists forcefully, your blood-slicked fingers sliding against his skin, but it was enough to finally pull his attention to your face. “It’s not my blood, I’m alright.” You repeated gently as his eyes met yours and he exhaled at last.

He frowned anew as he lifted a hand to wipe at the splatter of arterial spray across your cheek, succeeding only in smudging the scarlet across your beautiful skin, marring it further. You sighed and gestured with your head to the SS officer laying on the table behind him, his now-unseeing eyes staring blankly up at the ceiling, the wound at his neck obviously the source of all the blood you wore.

You tugged at his left wrist, which you still held within your grasp, and he looked back to you quickly, following as you led him over to a bank of sinks at the back of the room. As you released him, he watched you grimace slightly at the sensation of the blood growing slightly tacky between your skin and his. You took both his hands in yours and gently began to wash them.

Eugene’s heart throbbed tenderly as he watched the warm water sluice pink before your fingers thoroughly coated his skin with soap then rinsed it clean. Looking up to you with a soft smile, he was reminded of the state of your face and quickly swiped it clean with his wet thumb, lips stretching hopelessly wider at your warm grin.

“Nine hou’s.” He sighed, jaw clenching as his chest constricted painfully, the terror and anguish he’d been desperately trying to hold at bay all day flooding back to him.

“What?” You asked, confusion painting your face and he swallowed roughly, having to fight to focus while standing in your presence after so many months apart.

“Ya were missin’ – a hostage – fo’ nine hou’s.” He pressed his lips together, struggling to hold back the depth and breadth of his feelings on the matter.

He watched you swallow and put on that brave smile you wore for the sake of soothing your patients. “It was just like any other nine hours, except there were German patients and machine guns.”

“Please don’ give me tha’ smile.” He muttered sadly. “Are ya really alrigh’?” He pressed, eyeing you meaningfully.

Your brow twitched, mouth opening, looking about answer his question when the door to the room opened and you stepped back to grab a towel, handing it to him. “I’m just fine, Roe, thank you for asking. The rest of the SS patients are through that door there.” You gestured, nodding to the latest arrival, Webster, who quickly went through to secure the next room with Liebgott hot on his heels.

Roe watched as you assumed your professional mantle, leading him into the room where seven SS men, prisoners now, were being looked after by the rest of the nurses that had been in your hospital convoy when the 6th SS Mountain Division had decided to take you all hostage to provide them with medical care in this abandoned nursing home near Juchen. The women immediately flocked to you for direction and Eugene realized that you now wore a silver 1st Lieutenant’s insignia on your collar, promoted since he’d first met you that night in February of last year in Swindon.

------------

“These heels are killing me…” You muttered as you finally escaped the dancefloor to sit at the table next to Eugene’s, wedging yourself into the corner defensively.

He’d been watching you all night. Watching as trooper after trooper of the 506th from Able right through Item asked you to dance, barely giving you a moment to sit despite how tired you looked, behind that beautiful smile of yours, and how time and again you accepted, too polite to refuse.

“I’m surprised you didn’t wear your combat boots.” One of your tablemates teased.

A mischievous grin crossed your features and Eugene ducked his head as he found his lips twitching automatically in response to it. “Well, I would have except every time I upend the things, I still find sand from North Africa.”

A chorus of laughter flitted around the table and Eugene was convinced that yours was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard, finding himself thoroughly annoyed when it was extinguished by a couple of men sidling over to pull a few of your fellow nurses onto the dancefloor again.

“What was it like…over there…” A timid voice piped up as the band began to play that Vera Lynn song the Brits were crazy about and Eugene risked a glance at your face as you addressed a young woman, she could not be much older than twenty, only the two of you remaining at the table.

“Well, Barbara,” You paused thoughtfully, eyes focusing on some distant memory, the hints of fatigue he’d seen lurking beneath your smile coming to the fore for a brief moment before you turned to your colleague with a reassuring warmth. “It’s exactly like they say it’ll be.” You nodded firmly.

The girl’s shoulders relaxed as she smiled in relief, nodding in renewed confidence as you each took a sip of your drink. Eugene swallowed, wishing he could hear your real thoughts on North Africa, not just the canned propaganda reels put together to show before the pictures, but the firsthand account of a medical professional. There was only so much training could prepare them for, and they all knew as soon as the weather was right, they were headed for France.

Despite the longing he felt to do so, Eugene did not ask you to dance that night. He drank a few beers and smoked more than a few cigarettes as you forced yourself onto the dancefloor three additional times before you and the youngest of your companions decided to call it a night. Eugene felt that was a sensible idea – the number of buses back to Aldbourne was growing increasingly limited by the hour.

As dictated by the blackout, clumps of people were walking on either side of the road with their flashlights pointed downward, barely lighting their way as vehicles with their headlights reduced to mere slits wended their way through the crowd of inebriated celebrants. Eugene could not help but feel like it was a recipe for disaster, but your laughter, like the peal of bells, pulled his attention from across the darkened street.

“It’s snowing!” You declared with a wonder-filled gasp, and he blinked up at the sky to feel the kiss of melting snowflakes on his cheeks, his breath curling and hanging in the notably colder air.

The peace of the moment was shattered as an unruly group of men from Fox company bolted across the road, trying to reach the same bus stop he was heading for, a drunken straggler not seeing the delivery van and unfortunately the driver not seeing him either – until it was too late. There was a squealing of tires, a ‘crash’ as the load within the van was displaced, and a sickening ‘crunch’ followed by a wail of pain. Eugene lunged into the street, surprised to find you already kneeling beside the victim as you looked him over.

“What’s your name, trooper?” You were smiling warmly, your colleague hovering behind you nervously as the driver had begun pacing anxiously.

“Robert Boye, Ma’am.” He replied through clenched teeth.

Unlike the calm look on your face, your hands were a flurry of movement, honing in on the compound fracture on the man’s leg, lifting your fingers into the slim beams of light to reveal blood from where the bone had broken through his skin. Eugene was already undoing his belt when you turned to him, and you graced him with a brilliant smile that had his adrenaline-fueled heart skipping a few beats.

“I’m a medic, Ma’am. Tourniquet?”

“On his thigh, please, trooper.” You nodded, shrugging out of your overcoat to drape over Boye. “We’re going to get you to a hospital, alright Robert. Just hold on.” Standing quickly, you walked over to the delivery driver though Eugene wasn’t able to hear your conversation as he finished checking over the man in the road, confirming there were no other apparent injuries.

“You’e from Fox company, righ’?”

“Yeah, that’s right…Easy?” He replied, shaking from the cold or shock – or both, most likely.

Eugene nodded in reply, lifting his eyes as the delivery driver raised his voice at you, the sound of crates and empty milk jugs hitting the sidewalk filling the night air.

“Ya crazy Yankee cunt, what in god’s name d’ya think yer doin’?!”

By then quite a crowd had gathered in the road, and the slur hurled your way had more than just Eugene’s hackles up. Undeterred, you stepped forward, looking the rude and careless man directly in the eye. “You’ve struck an innocent pedestrian and now you’re going to make it right, sir. Your cargo will be right where you left it.”

He returned the look coldly but seemed increasingly aware of the looming threat in the darkness about you, eventually huffing in agreement. You provided directions to a hospital Eugene recognized as the nearest American hospital, surely that was where you were stationed, before sending several men to help him load Boye into the back.

“Medic, please come with me?” You looked to him as you climbed into the van and Eugene nodded quickly, jumping into the back with you as you looked to the wide-eyed young woman standing at the curb, watching you in awe.

“Barbara, go back inside and find Fran. Get her to walk you home.”

“Y..yes Ma’am!” She nodded quickly before hurrying back toward the dance hall as the back doors of the van were closed, leaving the three of you in darkness as the van lurched into motion.

“Medic…” You huffed and introduced yourself properly before asking him his name.

“Eugene Roe, Ma’am.” He replied quickly, turning on his flashlight. He was rewarded once again with one of your heart-stopping smiles.

“Wonderful, you have a flashlight. Thank you. How’re you holding up Robert?” You turned your attention back to the patient, checking his pulse at his wrist, pressing a hand to his forehead – most likely to assess for temperature and perspiration.

“Hurts an awful lot, Ma’am.” He grunted as the van hit a rut and you nodded sympathetically, kneeling on the floor beside him in your dress uniform, balancing easily as the van wove its way through the crowd outside the dancehall with more care this time.

“Thank you very much for being so brave for me. Where are you from?”

“Yakima, Washington.”

“Tell me, Robert. If I were to visit Yakima, Washington what is the food I absolutely must try?” You asked, bracing yourself against the roof as the driver took a wide turn.

“My momma’s cherry pie, without a doubt. My father grows bing cherries. Best in the state. And then my momma makes the best pie you will ever eat in your life.” Robert replied with relaxed smile, conversation taking his mind off the pain in his leg.

“Cherry pie – that sounds positively heavenly. So, you grew up on a cherry farm?” Your practiced smile and encouragement prompted the injured man to ramble on about his childhood playing amongst the cherry blossoms, gorging himself on ripe fruit, and skiing in the mountains whilst you the pair of you subtly kept an eye on his wound and vitals. Ever vigilant for a sudden change in demeanour that might signify a head injury or internal bleeding – your patient management was effortless, and Eugene could only feel his affection for you growing.

He was admittedly a little disappointed when the van came to a stop, the flustered driver opening the doors as a duty nurse came outside and gasped to find the three of you in the back of the unassuming vehicle.

“I’ll be right back with a stretcher!” She called out before dashing inside, returning promptly with two orderlies to help load the injured Boye so he might be carted inside.

The pair of you rushed behind into the temporary hospital in a building that looked like it had begun its life as a warehouse of some kind. The shift Doctor appeared from down the hall, and you quickly provided all pertinent information related to treatment.

“Well, you two had best inform the MPs as well, before that driver disappears on us.”

“Yes, sir.” You replied quickly, shooting Eugene an apologetic look before leading him to the MP office at the front of the hospital to make your report, pulling your garrison cap from your head, reminding him to do the same.

You’d barely started your tale when the MP told you both to ‘take a seat’ and dashed out of the office to try and stop the driver and you looked to him with even more pronounced regret. “I’m so sorry, Roe, I’m sure you were just trying to get back to your billet.”

Your use of his last name undoubtedly came from place of professional courtesy, however a part of him ached with the longing to hear how your mouth might form his first name.

“Not at all, Ma’am.” He gestured for you to take one of the empty chairs, only sitting once you had sunk into it with a soft sigh.

“Thank you very much for your help. I was feeling quite adrift with no supplies but then the universe sent me you.” You smiled warmly and he swallowed thickly.

“Ya did all tha work, Ma’am, I was jus’ there.”

Shaking your head stubbornly, he frowned a little as he watched a small shiver roll through you, belatedly realizing your coat had long since vanished with Boye. He started to pull at the jacket of his dress uniform, and you lay a hand on his arm.

“I’m alright, just tired. Based on your accent, I’d say you need your jacket more than me.” You smiled teasingly and he huffed a laugh, looking down at his shoes briefly as he straightened his uniform before lifting his eyes to meet yours quickly.

“It was impressive, Ma’am, how ya stood up ta tha’ man.”

You looked to him earnestly then, not sugar-coating your expression, or your answer, as you had for Barbara. “If we don’t stand up for our patients, Roe, no one will.” You spoke with breathtaking sincerity and all he could muster in response was a firm nod.

The door banged open as the MP hauled the very man in question into the office, his expression going livid as he once again came face to face with you.

“Goddamn Yankee cunt.” He spat at you, making Eugene surge to his feet to stand in front of you protectively, the scent of liquor potent on the man’s breath as he brushed by his rigid frame.

“I’ll be right back to take your statements, one moment.” The MP muttered, putting the uncooperative driver in a back room.

“Could this night get any longer…” You whispered and pinched the bridge of your nose, making Eugene turn back to you.

“How long ya been in England?” He asked, trying your own trick of distraction on you as he resumed his seat.

“Hmm? Oh, landed two weeks ago, I guess. Thought a break from the heat would be nice, hasn’t been quite as quaint as I was led to believe.” You laughed softly and shook your head. “You?”

“Las’ Septembah.”

“Well, I bet you know all the best spots by now then, hmm?” You smirked and he shook his head with rueful smile but did not have the chance to elaborate on his lack of free time as the MP returned to finally take your full statements.

It was nearly two in the morning once all the paperwork was done, the driver of the van turned over to the local police while the MP summoned a subordinate to return the pair of you to your billets.

“See you in a few hours.” The nurse who’d first greeted the pair of you poked her head out of the doorway to the treatment room.

You laughed without much energy. “For sure, Betty. Thanks for your help.”

“You work weekends?” Roe asked quietly, offering a hand to help you into the back of the jeep and you nodded as he settled next to you.

“My days off are Monday, Tuesday.” He must have frowned visibly as you shrugged with a weary smile. “It’s alright, I was the last to arrive here and someone needs to do it.”

As you hugged your arms around yourself tightly in the open back of the vehicle, overcoat still nowhere to be seen, he shifted to try and block the wind with his body. As you shuffled closer, huddling against him slightly, he swallowed thickly, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“You’re going to do great out there, Eugene Roe.” You smiled warmly, the vehicle pulling up outside a nearby shop with an apartment on the second floor.

“Thank ya, Ma’am.” He murmured quietly, taking a shaky breath as you climbed out of the jeep, pausing to wave at him from the curb.

He ought to ask to see you again, to write to you, something, but a part of him was reluctant to start anything he might not be able to see through with his future so very uncertain. He lifted his hand in return as the MP pulled out to drive him back to Aldbourne, regret immediately settling into his gut, leaving a sour aftertaste in his mouth.

Eugene was surprised when his belt arrived at his billet the following Thursday along with a note from you, once again thanking him for his assistance with Robert Boye’s care. You also assured him the patient was doing well and would be ‘fighting fit’ within a few months. He was impressed to see not a trace of blood on the woven fabric, indicating that you had obviously taken the time to clean it for him. Unable to stop the fond smile from unfurling on his features, he quickly hid the note in the pocket of his ODs as he heard Spina’s footsteps on the stairs.

“You coming to London this weekend, Gene?” He asked, sitting heavily on his bed in the corner and Eugene found himself shaking his head in return.

“Too much to do.” He replied vaguely, recalling one of the posters from the hospital hallway calling for blood donations.

“You’re missing out.” Spina teased in a sing-song voice, laying back on his bed once he’d taken off his boots.

The smile you greeted him with Saturday morning when he arrived to donate blood thoroughly convinced him otherwise.

“That’s very generous of you Roe, follow me, I’ll get you set up.” You turned to lead him past a few of the occupied beds and he nodded warmly to Boye as he looked up from a letter he was reading. “If you could take off your jacket and roll up your sleeve please, I’ll be right back with the supplies.” You said as you gestured to a cot, unfolding a privacy screen before turning to fetch the necessities.

Eugene complied, swallowing thickly as he watched the way your hospital dress swished around your hips as you walked away, quite frankly preferring this outfit to your dress uniform. Returning with a collection bottle, needle, and some tubing, you lifted his arm to search for a vein. He swallowed thickly at the goosebumps that rippled across his skin, able to smell the scent of soap lingering on you, the proximity nearly killing him.

“I never did ask, Roe, where are you from?” You glanced at him with your professional smile, fingers settling over their target in the inside of his elbow.

“Loosiana, Ma’am.” He murmured softly, watching you insert the needle so smoothly he barely felt more than a pinch before his blood began to fill the bottle in your hands.

“Louisiana.” You repeated warmly, eyes flicking between the bottle and his face, listening while monitoring the volume you were collecting. “Famous for Mardi Gras, yes?”

He nodded quickly. “Tha’s righ’, yes.”

“A lot warmer than England, hmm?” You chuckled and shook your head.

“Did ya get you’ jacket back?” He tilted his head. “Thank ya fo’ returnin’ ma belt.”

“I did, yes. And again, it was the least I could do.” Your eyes crinkled at the corners as you smiled this time, his heart swelling as he was becoming more skilled at discerning your real versus polite expressions. You pressed a piece of gauze over the needle before pulling it from his arm, the bottle now filled with the crimson fluid from his veins. “Could you apply pressure to that for me please?”

He nodded, fingertips brushing against yours as he took over, a jolt of electricity sizzling through him. Your eyes met his briefly before you turned back to the task at hand, and he could not help but wonder if you had felt it too. As you lay your fingers over his to lift the gauze and take a peek at the puncture in his skin, Eugene bit the inside of his cheek trying to maintain his composure. Replacing it with an adhesive bandage, you handed him a cookie to eat as you jotted down his information on the label on the bottle.

“Thank you aga–” Your gratitude was cut short by a loud crash over by the nurses’ station that had Eugene quickly on his feet though he noticed you barely reacted. “Sorry about that.” You sighed and urged him to sit back down with the gentle pressure of your palm on his shoulder. “I keep trying to fix that darn shelf, but the screws won’t stay in the wall.”

“Sorry!” Called a timid voice Eugene recognized as Barbara from last Friday’s dance and he looked up to you.

“I’d be happy ta take a look at it fo’ ya.”

You eyed him a moment, clearly weighing your desire to impose on him further. “Eat your cookie and then we’ll talk.” You ultimately said and he nearly inhaled the thing.

“I like fixin’ things.” He murmured once he’d swallowed, rolling down his sleeve and following you over to inspect the carnage Barbara had unleashed.

You helped her stack the last of the clipboards and manuals that were scattered across the floor onto the edge of the desk as Eugene looked over the shelf before eyeing the screws and finally the holes in the wall.

“You’ screws are stripped. Needs some new ones an’ maybe a few anchors.” He added as he eyed the weight of what you intended to store up there.

You worried your lip between your teeth for a moment before grabbing a key from the desk. “Maintenance room is this way, shall we see if they have what we need?”

He followed you down the hall and around the corner to a room that was no more than a glorified cupboard. You pulled the cord on the lightbulb dangling from the ceiling and he began rooting around, collecting tools in an empty toolbox before nodding to you to signal that he’d secured everything necessary.

“Don’t carry that with the arm I just took blood from please.” You reminded gently and he nodded again, walking back with you. “How can I help?” You tilted your head, nurse’s cap barely hanging on by the pins in your hair, presenting quite possibly the most adorable sight Eugene had ever seen.

“Could you an’ Miss Barbara hold tha shelf up fo’ me, please? Show me where ya’d like it?” He set the toolbox on the ground, grabbing the pencil he’d prepared as the pair of you positioned the shelf on the wall. He made a series of marks beneath it where he would drill new holes and marked the end placements. “Thank ya both, kindly.” He nodded and you set it down with a smile.

The sound of the door opening signalled the arrival of the doctor to do his midday rounds and you glanced at him, looking ready to apologize but he shook his head. “Don’ worry ‘bout me, you’ workin’. I’ll get this fixed an’ get outta you’ hair.”

“Thank you, Roe.” You nodded warmly before grabbing the clipboards from the desk and hurrying over with Barbara in tow.

Eugene did a thorough job of re-installing that shelf for you – putting new holes in the studs with the hand drill before tapping in a set of anchors to ensure it would never let you down again. It may have taken him a little longer than necessary due to the numerous glances he stole at you over his shoulder, but when his eyes met yours around the fifth glance, he turned back to his work quickly, cheeks burning, and did not risk another.

Once he was satisfied in the shelf’s structural stability, he began to place the manuals back onto it, hazarding a guess that you would want them in alphabetical order, glancing at you as you stashed the clipboards – now neatly back in their rack – beside them, rounds clearly complete.

“This looks amazing, Roe, I am once again in your debt.”

“It should hold alrigh’, even if ya get mo’e manuals.” He nodded humbly. “It was ma pleasu’e.”

“Well, I assure you we are extremely grateful.” You nodded firmly and he was unable to stop the slight smile that snuck onto his lips, watching as your own grew brightly in return. “Now I’m sure there’s somewhere you’d much rather spend your days off than our boring little hospital.”

He swallowed tightly, quite convinced that was utterly untrue but was unable to verbally disagree. “I’ll leave ya to it then, Ma’am.” He nodded, putting the tools away before shrugging into his uniform jacket once more and heading out into the drizzly afternoon.

It became a habit, spending his Saturdays at your hospital, fixing up little things that were broken but not priorities for the regular handyman. Donating blood every few weeks when you’d let him. It was, of course, all a thinly veiled excuse to see you – not that he would ever reveal that to you. As winter melted into spring, training and preparation for what was to come only intensified, and the potential outcomes remained at the forefront of his mind. If he were to speak honestly, Eugene, like many men, did not expect to survive the assault on France. Hitler had been there too long, had had too much time to get dug in snug as a tick. What they were planning to attempt was nearly impossible – just like his chances of survival.

You deserved better than that. Better than to open your heart to a man like him, if you even cared to, only to have him wiped from the earth by some piece of artillery or some such horrific ending. Eugene had a sense you’d seen enough horror first-hand in North Africa and he wanted no part in inflicting more upon you. So, he remained cordial, friendly, holding his breath and biting his tongue when your hands would brush, when you’d gently fix his tie after he’d gotten it crooked under the sink and when you’d swipe the sawdust from his shoulders before he put his uniform jacket back on.

The domesticity of your care and concern for him made his heart ache something fierce but he bore it stoically, silently, repeatedly like some kind of martyr. A smarter man might have stayed away but Eugene needed those few hours with you every week as badly as he needed the comforting nicotine of his Lucky Strikes. The news that they were shipping out to Upottery in late May was thus a rude reminder that his time, his life, was no longer his own.

The entire time he was packing, Eugene debated with himself before ultimately deciding to jot off a quick note of apology explaining his absence for that coming weekend and wishing you well until ‘next time.’ What a terrible expression it was. Forcing himself to take it to the post office, he sent it to the hospital where you worked before boarding the transit truck to move out. The days passed in almost a blur, the frenetic pace of preparation and practice jumps all leading up to the inevitable.

Eugene was dressed in full gear, having just secured his leg bag when he heard Vest call out his name, waving a letter addressed to him. Settling back down on the tarmac to open it, his brows furrowed in confusion at the unfamiliar handwriting.

Eugene was so taken aback he nearly missed Meehan’s announcement that the jump was off due to bad weather that night, spending several hours re-reading your letter, thinking about the things he wished to write to you in reply. Vowing to put them on paper if he ever saw the end of this thing. By the time he made it back to Aldbourne in July, he made a visit to the hospital where you had been stationed only to be informed by Barbara that you’d left for France with the 47th Field Hospital five days earlier.

He swallowed his bitter chuckle while Barbara kindly scrawled your post address now that you were deployed. “If you’d like to write to her.” She murmured timidly and he took it with a soft thanks before heading back to his billet.

It made perfect sense that you had been sent to France; nurses with field experience were hard to come by and you were obviously too talented to loiter in England. Thus, he had taken the time to reply to you, a proper letter this time, though still withholding his true feelings now that his eyes were well and truly opened to the rapidity with which a man’s fortunes could change.

Mail was slow, your replies taking a frustrating amount of time to reach him, and Eugene was certain you felt the same, especially as it became increasingly apparent that your paths through Europe were remarkably similar and yet did not cross again. Not until Easter Sunday of 1945.

2nd Battalion had left Belgium that morning, crossing the border into Germany in the grey light of dawn. It had been deeply unsettling to pass so close by their former positions in Bastogne, Foy, and Rachamps the day before. Memories, thick as winter fog, had put a damper on the mood of excitement amongst the men at being on the move again, a hush that persisted into the morning. It was a quiet that allowed them all to hear the frantic honking of a jeep horn, many of them, including Eugene, sitting higher in their transports to see a vehicle painted with the Geneva cross pull up beside that occupied by Winters, Nixon, Speirs and Welsh, bringing the entire convoy to a halt.

Craning his neck, Eugene strained to hear the conversation, but his attempts were futile as they were simply too far away. His brow furrowed as the rest of the batallion’s Lieutenants were called up by Speirs, a map was then unfurled on the hood of the jeep, intense conversation occurring amongst the huddled officers. Like some kind of silent movie without the title cards.

“What the hell do you think that’s all about?” Heffron griped beside him, and Eugene shook his head, completely at a loss.

It wasn’t until Lipton returned to the back of their transport, hauled up with the assistance of Luz’s friendly hand, that Eugene understood the gravity of the situation.

“Hospital convoy has gone missing, boys. Left Aachen over four hours ago and should have arrived in Juchen by now. There’s no trace of them.” He began putting on his gear, a silent signal for everyone to do the same.

“Nobody just vanishes in Germany, Lieutenant.” Heffron muttered grimly, securing his webbing.

“Major Winters’ thoughts exactly. We have eleven nurses and four ambulances unaccounted for somewhere between here and Juchen. So, we’re going to find ‘em.”

“What hospital, sir?” Eugene piped up as he secured his satchel around his body, the men glancing at him, reminding him that he rarely spoke.

“Uh, the 47th Field Hospital I think, Doc.” Lipton replied before getting the men off the truck to begin combing the roadside for clues.

The 47th Field Hospital. Your 47th. He stood rooted to the spot, blind to all that moved in front of him, sound muffled as he felt like the only thing he could be sure of – your safety – came crashing down around him.

“Hey Doc, you coming or what?” Heffron called up to him and Eugene blinked rapidly before hopping out of the back of the transport to follow quickly.

Eleven nurses missing. Field Hospitals had roughly eighteen nurses, if fully staffed, meaning there was more than a fifty-fifty chance you were among the missing. He shoved his balled fists into his pockets and began searching. Searching for what, he had no idea. The infuriating feeling of helplessness rose within him like the tide, relentless and uncontrollable.

It took a further three hours of driving, stopping, searching, until finally a farmer reported having heard machine gun fire earlier that morning near Titz. A yawning pit of dread opened deep within his stomach as all manner of possible scenarios played out in his mind. The three companies split up then, with Easy heading into the town of Titz while Dog continued on the road to Juchen and Fox turned towards Gevelsdorf.

He was not able to lay eyes upon you for another two hours, and to find you soaked in blood had sent him immediately into a frenzied state of triage, desperate to keep you alive after finding you at last. Calmed only by the proof that you were unhurt, at the reasonable explanation for the state of your clothes lying dead behind him, Eugene had never been more annoyed with Webster and Liebgott than when they had interrupted his chance to speak with you.

The rest of 2nd Battalion arrived, taking over the building for the night and securing the prisoners until MPs could arrive the next day to take them to a nearby prison camp. Winters had ensured a wing was reserved exclusively for the nurses, though you had assured him a guard would not be necessary. Eugene had offered himself and the other Battalion medics to help with the schedule you were drawing up to watch over the patients, but you politely refused, insisting he had done enough. Eugene certainly did not feel that way.

Finding himself unable to sleep that night, he slipped out of the room he shared with Spina, Heffron, and Ramirez, making his way down to the makeshift treatment space you had set up to see if he could be of any use. He stopped at top of the stairs as he nearly ran into you, making your way up to the nurses’ wing with your wet field jacket in your hands.

“Roe!” You breathed, startled, before smiling at him tiredly. “Can’t sleep?”

He shook his head. “Ya neithah?”

“Wanted to try and get this somewhat clean for tomorrow.” You murmured, gesturing to your jacket before glancing at him. “But no, not really.” You admitted softly.

He motioned with his head for you to follow him to sit on the ledge beneath a large bay window opposite the staircase. You draped your damp jacket over the back of a wooden chair that had seen better days, turning to look out over the landscape as raindrops began to patter against the glass. He slid a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, offering it you and only once you had declined with a shake of your head and kind smile, lit it for himself.

“Nine hours isn’t a long time considering the years I’ve spent away from home.” Your hushed voice, a continuation of your conversation from hours previous, broke through the sound of the rain hitting the windowpane.

Eugene exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips. “It only takes seconds ta die…”

You eyed him sharply in the dim light, shaking your head. “You of all people know how little control we have over that.”

Swallowing tightly, as you did have a point, he nodded. “Sorry Ma’am.”

You huffed a little. “Eugene, every time you call me Ma’am I feel like my mother.”

“But ya outrank me, even mo’e so now 1st Lieutenan’.” His nose crinkled in confusion.

You hummed noncommittally, an uneasy silence falling over the pair of you as Eugene finished his cigarette, stubbing it out against the windowsill behind him. Neither of you seemed certain of what to say or do next. Of what you were anymore – no longer just acquaintances, colleagues, or pen pals. Despite his best efforts, Eugene was terrifyingly convinced you were a great deal more.

“What’s something you wish you had done before you came over here?” Your voice broke through his thoughts, and he inhaled sharply before giving you his answer without hesitation.

“Shoulda asked ya ta dance tha’ nigh’.”

He heard your breath leave your lips with a shudder, watching you stand with the sinking feeling that he’d misjudged the entirety of your relationship. It was only when you turned back to him with your hand outstretched that he remembered how to breathe.

“Dance with me now, Eugene.”

His eyes widened, confusion surely evident on his face even as he set his worn and battered hand in yours. “But there’s no music.”

Your fingers closed around his, tugging him to his feet as you began to hum that Vera Lynn song, bringing a smile to his face as he set his other hand on your waist to begin dancing with you in earnest. Your fingers laced through his, a shiver running through him as you wrapped your arm around his shoulder before laying your head against his collarbone.

“Cold?” You whispered and he shook his head.

“It’s nice.” He replied as you started humming again, the repetitive nature of the song making him grin slightly. “Finally got ta dance in you’ comba’ boots.” He murmured, discreetly inhaling the scent of you.

You giggled softly against him, leaning back to look over his features in the low light. “Why didn’t you ask me to dance, Eugene?”

He swallowed roughly. “Ya looked tired, Ma’am. Didn’t want ta make ya suffah any mo’e.”

“Dancing with you is not a hardship.” You whispered, the pair of you still moving to the ghost of the song in the now silent hallway. “I would have said yes with one of those smiles you like.”

He laugh softly, squeezing your hand slightly. “I was worried, too. Worried I’d do somethin’ stupid like make ya care ‘bout me an’ then get myself killed. But then I thought I’d lost ya today…did lose ya fo’ nine hou’s…” His throat clenched with emotion, sealing off his ability to say anything further.

Your feet came to a stop as you eyed him intensely. “Eugene Roe, you have no control over that either.” You admonished gently. “I do care about you, whether you like it or not.”

The sound of his heart frantically pumping blood through his body filled his ears as he stared at you in wonder, awestruck by your fierce determination to bear affection for him despite the risks.

“M..may I…” He struggled to speak through the overwhelming adoration he felt for you, and you sighed fondly, leaning in to press your lips to his.

His grip tightened on your waist as his eyes fluttered shut, your soft mouth feeling like the finest silk brushing against his. He sighed dreamily as your fingers abandoned his shoulder to wend their way into his hair, drawing him tighter to you. He indulged in the impulse to slide his hand up your spine to rest between your shoulder blades, the feeling of your back arching in response headier than any liquor he’d ever tasted.

Your fingers gently unlaced from his, hand shifting to cup his jaw as you pulled back to press featherlight kisses across his brow and down his nose. “You didn’t lose me, Eugene.” You sighed against his skin, lips traveling across his left cheek. “I’m just fine.”

As you made your way along his jaw, he turned his head to kiss you fiercely, tongue darting past your startled lips to communicate all the things he could not seem to be able to say, holding your body so tightly against his as though he wished he could absorb you into his very being. You clung to him, matching the ferocity of his embrace with a reassuring tenderness of your own that had him melting against you, face burrowing against your neck.

“Thank ya, Ma’am.” He sighed with a bone deep weariness and felt your body shake against his as you laughed softly.

“Call me something better, Eugene.” You chided sweetly, kissing his temple. “Especially if you’re going to kiss me like that.”

He smirked before pressing his lips to the column of your throat, trailing kisses up towards your jaw, reveling in the way your breath hitched in your throat in response. “Alrigh’ cher.” He smiled warmly before kissing you gently.

“Cher.” You repeated softly once he released your lips.

“Cajun for darlin’.”

He watched your teeth sink into your lower lip, a grin stretching over your face as you looked to him through your lashes making the muscles of his abdomen clench.

“That will do quite nicely, Eugene.” You sighed before your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling him in to kiss him deeply.

You were both short of breath by the time you pulled back, hand caressing his face as your features contracted apologetically. “I should go before someone finds us.”

Eugene nodded begrudgingly as you were once again speaking the truth. “Goodnigh’, cher.” He said softly, loosening his hold on you.

“We’ll meet again, Eugene.” You smiled, eyes twinkling with mirth in the not-so-dark hallway as the light of pre-dawn began to seep through the tracks of rain cascading down the window, and his eyes widened as he realized that was the name of that damn song.

“You’d bettah not be covered in blood nex’ time, cher.” He admonished playfully, freshly addicted to the way your lips ticked up at the corners every time he said it.

“Likewise, Eugene.” You laughed and blew him a kiss before grabbing your surely still-damp field jacket, walking backwards as far as you could until you absolutely had to turn around.

He stood on the porch the next morning, hiding from the rain as he watched you load the nurses in your charge into newly arrived ambulances to complete your journey to the field hospital in Juchen. He barely looked up as he heard the scuff of jump boots on the worn brick beside him, Heffron leaning against the wall to light a cigarette, trying to soak in every last moment of your presence before you were inevitably parted once again. It was a great comfort to know you’d be just twenty-five kilometres behind him, perhaps a sign of kinder times ahead.

“So, you get your hands on some tits in Titz?” Heffron asked with a sly grin, making Eugene turn to him sharply.

“Heffron, watch you’ damn mouth.” He snapped at him brusquely, making the redhead’s eyes widen.

“Sheesh, Doc, she must be somethin’ special. Sorry.” He squawked and pointed at the road. “She’s looking this way.”

Eugene looked back quickly to see you, drenched by rain, waving at him with a bright smile he could still see despite your helmet, and he waved back, cheeks aching a little as his expression automatically mirrored yours.

“You’d bettah keep this to you’self, Heffron.” Eugene rounded on him with a serious look that he hoped was intimidating as soon as you pulled the backdoor of the vehicle shut behind you.

“Your secret is safe with me, lover boy.” Heffron winked, and Eugene did not believe him for a second.

-------------------------

Read the Sequel - Born To Be Yours

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apomaro-mellow · 1 month ago

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King and Prince 40

Part 39

The next morning, things felt so soft and syrupy and Steve didn’t want to move and break the moment. Eddie indulged him by having breakfast brought up to them. He got up and put some trousers on to accept it at the door and keep Steve from moving a single muscle off the bed. And even when Eddie returned, he hand-fed Steve.

“My sweet, sweet prince.”

Steve licked at his fingers. “My sweet, sweet king.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“Then don’t”, Steve said.

Breakfast had been polished off between them. Eddie moved the tray of empty plates back onto the cart and thankfully the amount of crumbs on top of the blanket were minimal.

“I would. But I have important work to do today.”

Steve laid his head on Eddie’s chest and Eddie felt very much like a person whose pet had decided to sleep on their body, effectively trapping them. Because how could he move when Steve looked so comfortable?

“I already tag along”, Steve said. “I can just be with you all day. Unless…you think you’ll get tired of m-mmph!”

Any doubt he might’ve had about Eddie wanting him near were assuaged when Eddie flipped them over and kissed him all over his face, then on his neck, then his collarbone, then back up to his lips.

“My love, how does your skull not burst from your wondrous ideas?”

And so, after a bath and getting dressed, Steve went with Eddie to his study. And for at least the first half hour, they both made a valiant effort to keep their hands off of one another. Eddie sat behind his desk and Steve lounged on the chaise in front of his bookshelf. He kept himself busy with a book Robin had recommended while Eddie read correspondences from other kingdoms. Months before, Steve would have sat there wondering if his father’s letter was among them. He no longer cared for that.

When his mind wandered, it instead went to Eddie. To how serious he looked as he was focusing on the page and thought of how best to reply. To the way his lips moved as he read the words, his hair sliding off his shoulder, his fingers as the pen moved across the parchment. It was so very easy to get distracted by Eddie. But people came and went to speak with Eddie, so his feelings of temptation were abated, at least for a while.

But soon enough, lunch was brought in for the both of them and Steve got up to sit on the other side of Eddie’s desk, only for his kingly lover to pout.

“Why so far away, love?”

And so Steve found himself in Eddie’s lap again, being fed by his hand.

------------------------

Bramble had been on King Edward’s council for about ten years now. He had been one of the votes in favor of war. So the fact that almost a year had passed since the prince’s kidnapping without an ounce of reaction to the opposition, he felt like a bee without a flower, buzzing without purpose. He was one of the few on the council who still longed to end the threat of the Harringtons through violence.

He was also one of the few still in the camp of spreading their influence through dominance. Their king was immortal and held immense power. He controlled legions of beasts that could ravage any army. And yet, their borders hadn’t grown. They hadn’t ceded territory either, but that was neither here nor there. The situation left a bad taste in his mouth. And the king’s treatment of the prince made things all the more bitter.

A spoiled thing that was once their enemy and was now the king’s pet. It made their monarch look foolish and easily swayed.

Bramble knocked on the door of the king’s study, intent on discussing the arrival of a duke who lived on the outskirts of the kingdom who was set to be at the castle by the end of the week. He heard giggling before King Edward’s voice beckoned him to come in. When he opened the door, his annoyance wasn’t at all relieved to see Prince Steven, looking ever the pampered pet in the lap of the king.

“Your Majesty, I can come back at another time…”

“State your business”, Eddie said, one hand on Steve’s thigh while the other was around his waist.

“It is about the Duke of Aste?”

“All preparations are going well, I hope?”

“They are. I only ask if there is anything else required for his arrival?”

Bramble’s eyes took in their combined forms. The prince’s hand was against the king’s chest. His other was hidden, arm around the king’s shoulder and a slight movement told Bramble that he was playing with the king’s hair. A question was on Bramble’s tongue. One that had been there ever since the prince was allowed out of his cell. But he kept it hidden beneath his teeth.

“...Ble? …Mble?”

“Hm? Yes, my king?” Bramble snapped out of his thoughts, realizing his name was being called.

“I said, ‘is that all’?”

Brambled cleared his throat. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Then you are dismissed”, Eddie waved him off, eyes instantly going back to Steve. It was like there wasn’t anyone else in the room. Bramble left, hearing more giggling before he completely closed the door.

“I don’t think he likes me very much”, Steve said once the door was shut.

“Well, I’d say even without his vote you still have a majority of the council’s approval”, Eddie smiled.

“Oh?”, Steve quirked up a brow. “Just the council’s?”

“And perhaps you’ve also gleaned some acceptance from the subjects…”

“Oh if that’s all…”, Steve trailed off as he moved to stand up, only for Eddie’s hold to tighten and pull him even closer.

“I shall never again play at this game. You are the air that gives me life, the sun that gives me light, and the spark that gives me passion. I won’t ever pretend otherwise if it makes you remove yourself from me.”

Steve smiled, melting back into him. “Still, perhaps we should tone it down in front of the council members that aren’t actually your friends.” Nancy and Jeff might be used to them by now, but as for the older members… “And I know you want me by your side when the duke arrives but-”

“I won’t hear of it. My courtship of you means you should be introduced as such. You will be by my side when the Duke of Aste comes.” Eddie took Steve’s hand and kissed his palm. “Just like this.”

Steve snorted. “Just like this?”

“Just like this”, Eddie repeated. “And if Bramble or the duke or anyone else have an issue with it they can take it up with the toe of my boot. Don’t worry about them, starlight.”

“Well now I do love a king who knows how to lay down the law”, Steve purred as he leaned in for a kiss.

-----------------------

The number of council members differed depending on what Eddie needed. At the moment, he had six - Nancy, Jeff, Gareth, Douglass, Bramble, and Sansweet. Bramble and Sansweet had served Eddie the longest. There had been a period before them when there was no sitting council. It had been an odd era in the kingdom’s history. But Bramble had made a name for himself for his ability to make hard decisions and Sansweet, well…

He had come to King Edward with the intention to create a network of spies. That idea had been dismissed and instead Sansweet had been put to task watching the flow of money in the kingdom. Something he could do half asleep. So he went about recruiting spies across the kingdom anyway. Ears and eyes both inside the castle and outside of it, all reporting to him. The king never wanted to hear what he had discovered.

But tonight, he would be meeting with Bramble. And together, they would formulate what do do about the problem of the prince.

Part 41

Taglist CLOSED

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent @snakeorsquid @ignoremyworld @theclichefortunecookie

@goodolefashionedloverboi @just-a-tiny-void @0body0disphoria0 @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @samsoble

@jamieweasley13 @y4r3luv @xtkxkrzrizir @un-knownperson @greekgeek24

@justdrugsformethanks @potato-of-the-lord @notaqueenakhaleesi @swimmingbirdrunningrock @queenie-ofthe-void

@nebulainajar @lil-gremlin-things @nicememerino @robininblue @hornedqueenofhell

@anne-bennett-cosplayer @moomkin77 @here4thetrama @bookworm0690 @autumncrocusandladybug

@lil-gremlin-things @littlebluejane @puppy-stevee

#apo writes #stranger things #steddie

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saintsenara · 2 years ago

Note

Call for asks: I’ve noticed you’ve avoided saying anything about Jegulus for the last few asks so…. Jegulus 😈

anon please, i’m not avoiding saying anything about jegulus, i genuinely don’t know her.

but, fine, let’s imagine i do.

i don’t enjoy it as a pairing, not because i think it’s unfeasible [in my view, the joy of fanfiction is taking a completely implausible premise and making it work], but because i don’t like the way that the fandom which has built up around jegulus expects certain tropes and characterisations which turn the characters into just profoundly uninteresting people.

and this is the case for all the marauders and marauders-adjacent characters [i’m looking at you, fanon barty crouch jr.!], undoubtedly because the era has so little actual canon material that fanon becomes canon and authors run from there. and that’s great - anyone writing stories in a world hostile to hobbies and creativity is a triumph - but the standard way of writing jegulus which has coalesced around this fanon doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest.

there are many jegulus tropes i don’t love: how it always becomes a parallel wolfstar [james and peter would be the cultured choice if we have to do that]; how it’s just drarry but in the seventies [when the cultured choice for that is lucius malfoy/arthur weasley]; how james becomes a tediously good person when the evidence of canon is that he’s a bit of a dick; how it relies on an exaggerated portrayal of orion and walburga’s abusive parenting which misses the fact that regulus evidently colluded with them against sirius; how it assumes the marauders aren’t intensely codependent [sirius mentions-lily-once black is definitely going to let his brother hang around with them, sure]; how snape is sometimes there and always a knob. james and regulus are also so similar in terms of background, social position at school etc. that there’s no juicy spark [as in snack, for example]. and, of course, prongsfoot is canon.

and so on…

but the biggest reason i can’t get into it?

regulus is a death eater, and not by mistake.

now, we all love a fluffy no-voldemort au, but unless that is a jegulus author’s stated setting, they are going to have to deal with the fact that regulus fucking loves the dark lord. this is a teenage boy who has press clippings about voldemort’s terrorism taped above his bed. he knows exactly what he’s getting into and he likes it.

indeed, my reading of deathly hallows is that regulus’ decision to go and get the locket has absolutely nothing to do with a damascene conversion that conducting a campaign of sectarian violence against muggles and muggleborns is bad, but that learning of the existence of the horcrux - and also voldemort’s lack of respect towards his property, kreacher [after all, we see an attitude expressed canonically by wizards that other people have no right to interfere in how you treat your slaves] - makes clear to him that the dark lord’s aims are not oligarchy, with those from pureblood families ruling in happy condescension over a ministry which is fundamentally unchanged, but ruling in majesty as an immortal absolute monarch. his death is a repudiation of his beliefs, yes, but it is a repudiation of the fact that he believed voldemort was his champion, rather than that he believed voldemort was wrong.

and, actually, i don’t think this in and of itself makes jegulus insurmountable. james is a pureblood, and while there is absolutely no evidence in his few canon appearances that he harboured blood-supremacist views, the very fact of his background would allow a complacency which might let him overlook some of regulus’ opinions [think, for example, about ron’s attitude towards house elves]. equally, we have no evidence that regulus couldn’t completely disavow his former beliefs.

but, it requires the fact that regulus isn’t just a tiny baby who aspires to join a terror group by mistake to actually be dealt with, and i have never seen a single piece of jegulus which does so.

#asks answered #asenora's opinions on ships #jegulus #regulus black #james potter #i'm in danger

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angelremnants · 4 days ago

Text

A TALES OF... l Twilight and Treachery

OR.. After the harrowing events in the Hollow of Trial’s cave with Loki, you return to the courtroom where Odin Allfather, his wife and the court scrutinize you. You're forced to relive a memory that shakes you, along with the unsettling prophecy that had previously unfolded before your eyes. The gods may want answers, but at what cost?

pairing : Loki Laufeyson x f!reader

warnings : Mature themes (+16), graphic description, disturbing imagery, bit of gore, violence and threats, psychological strain, subtle tension, mild language. Proceed with caution if you're sensitive to such material.

word count : 10.7k

author's notes : And the lore is slowly coming to light! This is a straight-up continuation of Tides and Mishaps (the Jasmins and Prayers side story happens in the middle of this one). I kid you not, I think I gave myself a snake phobia while writing this ficlet—I literally shuddered multiple times at one point.

Also excited to announce that my next big project, which will hopefully come out soon, is my Bridgerton!Asgard AU series! I'm currently building up the storyboard to have planned directions for the chapters.

(ao3 version)

⠀

Returning to the courtroom felt like stepping into a gilded cage—a place where both beauty and suffocating control intersected. The chamber loomed before you, its walls rising with imperial majesty, each corner covered in gold and decorated with gigantic tapestries harboring intricate patterns that talked of royal authority, of destiny and history alike. The palace, so pristine and cold, caused your chest to constrict with misery as the rich aroma of polished metal and incense filled your nostrils.

It promised regal, but you could still feel the bitterness underneath—an odor that frantically attempted to disguise the decay lurking beneath the surface. A subtle reminder that everything here, no matter how lovely, was built with power. You'd learnt that power is seldom genuinely kind.

You despised it. It was a setting where everything appeared excessively neat and impeccable, a reminder of the bridge between you and the authority that dominated the realm. The people who governed here had long forgotten what it meant to struggle. Such things did not belong in this stark beauty. This was no place to rest, no place for anything genuine, and there was certainly little room for complicated emotions and the agony of unresolved issues.

The unfamiliar coolness of the marble floor met the soles of your heeled sandals as you stepped inside, where each footfall uncomfortably echoed off the walls and amplified the hollow emptiness that always seemed to haunt the walls. The ceiling stretched impossibly high, and the flickering torchlight cast long, eerie shadows dancing on the edges like little imps cheering for your demise. Everything about your surroundings was imposing, reminding you of your smallness and your insignificance. It was a place where the gods watched and judged in silence, and where you could never quite shake the feeling that you didn’t belong.

It wasn't simply the location that made you uneasy. No, it was what had transpired in the cave. The unnatural trance-like state you'd fallen into, the way you oddly remembered a feeling of an archaic course of energy soaking into your body, as if it had drawn something out of you that you couldn't stop. The shimmering light, the auroras, and the serpent that slithered out of the pendant—the entire event had been so bizarre and disturbing that you couldn't make sense of it. You could still feel its draw deep within you, that hum of force that had temporarily permeated your body.

For once, you really wished Loki was beside you, regardless of what had happened in the previous occurrences. For the little time you had the misfortune of rubbing shoulders with him, you pegged him as an insufferable, sharp-tongued menace—an overaged godly young adult that was bloated with arrogance, riddled with misplaced charm, and far too pleased with his wit for anyone’s good. However, his sudden shift in demeanor back at the entrance left you rooted in your place, bewildered as you wondered if the troubled look in his eyes and his hasty retreat were perhaps born of shame due to what had transpired in the cave, a consequence of your rather charged exchange.

His presence lasted even long after he'd left, especially after that brief conversation with his mother, where she had so delicately implied the possibility of something greater blooming between you moving forward, ultimately leaving you burdened with questions you dared not ask. You couldn't get over the way he had stared at you, as if you were as much of an intriguing spectacle as you were a terrible bother. It perturbed you. And even though he had departed, withdrawing to whatever corner he sought for reasons beyond your grasp, the nagging sense of something slipping past your notice refused to leave you. Something crucial. Something you should have seen, but failed to do so.

Now standing in the golden space, you realized how much you wanted him to go through this with you and how uncomfortable you felt in the sight of these celestial beings, particularly his imposing father and equally impressive right-hand man. They examined you with enigmatic stares, as if expecting something from you, leaving you feeling exposed and vulnerable. The yet-to-be-spoken inquiries, the penetrating stares—it felt just too much. Loki wasn't here to shelter you, to entertain another match of banter or to provide the odd, comforting warmth you'd become accustomed to.

You breathed in quietly, wishing for something more substantial to grab onto. But all that remained was the weight of their gaze and the feeling that you were under scrutiny, with every action being examined.

The Allmother Frigga, bless her heart, offered your shoulder a soothing squeeze, a nonverbal gesture intended to steady yourself. Her warmth was a slight consolation in the frigid, opulent assembly room, and you couldn't help but lean into it, even for a brief moment. The place became aloof to you once she took her place next to her husband, whose lone eye pinned you in place, as if peeling back your layers piece by piece. His stare was neither cruel nor hearty, and his face was one of keen inspection and silent expectation.

"Well?" Odin’s voice broke the silence with a sonorous dominance that sent ripples of faint jolts traveling down your spine. "Whatever happened in the trial?"

"I don't know, Your Majesty." The words tumbled out of your mouth, exposing your anxiousness. You looked over to the queen, hoping for some subtle guidance, but she remained silent. "It was... unlike anything I'd ever known. I was drawn to the light, and eventually it became too much. The magic—" You stopped, wondering how to go, unsure if you really had the words to convey the tremendous, unearthly intensity that had encompassed you.

His gaze softened, but it was not particularly soothing. "That is not an answer," he remarked, his tone steady. "You are linked to something beyond the mortal realm, and I need to understand it."

Frigga, ever so gentle, stepped forward in your favor. "Dear," she interjected softly, her gaze shifting between you and her husband, "maybe we shouldn't press too hard so soon. Allow her to gather her thoughts.”

But Odin was unyielding. "And what of Loki?" he questioned, his tone becoming sterner. "He has exhibited more interest in you than I expected. Does he know anything about your capabilities? About what happened in the trial?"

The mere mention of the prince made your heart skip a beat. You had not anticipated him to be involved in this so soon. It had been a tense encounter in the cave, yes, but... was his reaction merely a thirst for knowledge? Or was there more?

“I don’t know.” The words felt weak even as you repeated them, and you could feel the stares of your small audience pressing down on you. “I don’t know what he took from it. He—he asked questions, but I’m unsure as to what he was looking for. I mean, I think it was just mere curiosity, really.”

The Allfather's eye squinted, and his spouse's expression became troubled in a way that made you aware that you might have made a mistake. "He was not meant to be in that cave, yet you speak of him as if he were by your side. Why?"

You froze as a surge of heat rose to your face. Shit! You completely forgot that he wasn't allowed to join you. You hoped it wouldn't get him into trouble.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, I misspoke," you attempted, pushing yourself to remain calm. "I simply meant that he was curious when I mentioned it later. I did not mean to imply—"

Odin's unwavering glare pierced into you, cold and heavy as carved granite. "Do not play games with me, child." His voice was calm, yet it conveyed the weight of an implicit threat. "I will not tolerate deception. Speak plainly."

Your mouth felt dry. You casted a short glance toward Frigga, seeking some silent encouragement, any indication that she may intercede once more on your part. She simply sighed gently, her lips squeezing into a thin line as she gave the slightest shake of her head.

Your stomach twisted. There was no getting out of this.

"I—" You breathed shakily and lowered your sight. "Yes, he was there." The words felt heavier than they should have, like a stone dropping into still water. "Loki was in the cave."

The elderly man's visage deepened, and his grip on the stick tightened. "So, he defied my orders," he concluded, his definite tone hinting at a displeasure that simmered bit by bit, tantamount to a hurricane kept at bay. "That reckless, arrogant boy has never known when to keep his place."

You winced, a sense of uneasiness passing through you. "He didn't interfere," you responded hurriedly, still unsure as to why you felt compelled to defend him. Maybe you simply had compassion for him to be under the guardianship of such a steel-willed father. "He only watched."

"Watched," Odin repeated, his stare penetrating right through you. "And what exactly did he witness?"

Your pulse throbbed cruelly against your ribcage. That was the question you dreaded answering the most. Out of unease and a deep-seated distrust of what they might do with you—or to you, for that matter—you hesitated to say more than necessary. How could you describe what had happened without revealing too much? Without divulging the trance-like feeling that had engulfed you or the way Loki had stared at you, which you could still feel winding around your skin with the qualities of traces left from a spell?

"I don't know what he saw," you affirmed, softening your voice in hope of appeasing the king. "But he did not stop me. He did not meddle with the trial or try to influence the outcome.” You paused before continuing, "If he learned anything, it wasn't from me."

Odin examined you with such intensity that your stomach twisted into knots. "And yet," he added, "he left that cave changed."

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

"It was reported to me that he returned and retired to his chambers at once," he revealed with a tinge of contempt. "Not to boast about his defiance. Not to tell his usual lies. He slunk away silently.” His single eye narrowed. "That is unlike him. He is a serpent, shedding one skin to slide into another, ever hunting for an advantage. What did you give him?"

"I—nothing, Your Majesty, I swear."

"Do not play games with me, girl." His words were low growls, a warning encased in hot iron that threatened to strike at any moment. "Loki doesn't do anything without reason. If he was present, it was because he desired something.”

Frigga, who had been silent up until now, finally took a step forward and placed a kind yet firm hand on his arm. "Husband," she said, leveling her voice to a firm tone. "This line of questioning is getting us nowhere to what we truly seek."

Odin's jaw tensed, but he did not instantly respond. His suspicious leer quickly shifted to her before returning to you.

The queen focused her attention on you, her look far gentler than his. "The trial," she recalled, thankfully returning the subject to its initial topic. "That is why we're here. Tell us what you saw.”

You gulped, still reeling from the Allfather’s allegations and the crushing weight of his scrutiny. However, her calm and gentle voice served as a steadfast anchor. The words tangled on your tongue, hesitant, uncertain. You glanced between them before slowly exhaling. “It was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.”

Odin remained unmoved, but Frigga nodded, encouraging you to proceed.

"When I stepped forward, I felt something," you admitted. "Not only around me, but within me. It seemed like a pull—a force beckoning to me, compelling me to give in to it. I did not think. I barely felt like myself. It seemed as if I were moving through water and viewing myself from the outside."

You noticed her fingers barely twitching and a glimmer of recognition flashing over her face. "And then?" she inquired.

You paused. "And then… nothing." A cramped hush settled over the room as her eyes sharpened, Odin’s fingers on Gungnir tightening ever so slightly.

“I don’t remember anything else, just a bright flash coursing over me,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “The walls, the air—everything got constricted. And for a moment, I swear... it felt like it was looking back at me.”

The elder man sharply puffed air out of his nose, his countenance twisted between disappointment and frustration. "Useless," he grunted, conveying the weight of a man who had yearned for so much yet received nothing. "A wasted effort."

His words struck you like a brutal blade, and for a hot minute, humiliation coiled in your stomach. You knew you weren’t to blame for being overwhelmed by forces beyond understanding, but still, you couldn’t shake off the feeling of being a child who had made a disastrous mistake and now faced the harsh reprimands of her parents. As you struggled to hold your composure, fighting the overwhelming pressure inside, Frigga's voice sliced through the cutthroat silence that had installed itself in the courtroom with tempered steel.

“There must be something,” she insisted, stepping closer, her presence suddenly imposing. “No one enters the Hollow of Trials and leaves untouched. If she sensed agitation, then it disclosed itself to her in some way.”

“If I may, Your Majesties,” A voice you had nearly forgotten rumbled from the far end of the chamber. "The cave's intentions do not reveal themselves easily." Heimdall stated last, his booming voice echoing across the golden walls. He had been watching, faithful to his role and silent as a sentinel, with an opaque expression.

“The Hollow of Trials is not merely a place underground,” the protector elaborated. “It is a force. An entity woven into the bones of the realm itself. It would make sense that with her Midgardian constitution, she would naturally suffer some aftereffects. After all, it does not test out of curiosity, nor does it give answers freely.”

You swallowed hard, your fingers twitching against the fabric of your still damp clothing. "Then what does it want?"

"It strives to bring out the truth."

A shudder raced down your spine. "What truth?"

"That," Heimdall mused, "is for you to answer."

The auditorium dove back into stillness for a time, save for the faint crackling of the torches. Odin’s scowl deepened, but there was something else lurking behind his hardened expression.

"If she has been marked," the Allmother pressed on in a low voice, "then we cannot ignore it."

The old man breathed through his nose, his patience visibly waning. "What if it meant nothing? If this was just a fluke?"

"The Hollow does not waste its time," Heimdall countered. "Nor does it waste its power."

A tight beat passed. Odin's fingers tapped repeatedly in disquiet against his staff before thoughtfully studying you. His scrutiny was heavier than before, as though he were weighing something yet to be seen.

"Then let us hope," he answered at last, "that whatever it seeks does not bring ruin upon us all."

Frigga pulled her lips together in thinking, her gaze shifting between you and her husband. "There is still a way to know what it revealed," she carefully proposed.

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"By retrieving the memory."

Your breath caught. "What?"

"The mind does not forget so easily," she explained. "Even when events appear lost to us, they are simply buried and waiting to be rediscovered, else they remain stocked beneath the surface of your subconscious. I can help you remember what happened in the cave."

You stiffened instinctively. The mere thought of someone probing into your head and shifting through the panels of your mind, over which you personally had no control made your skin crawl. You'd already been subjected to forces beyond your control today—that was enough of an experience you were not especially fond of repeating.

"I mean…" You hesitated, wondering how to express your reluctance without flatly refusing. "Is that really necessary?"

"I understand your hesitation. However, this will not hurt you. I will not push my way into your thinking or take anything from you. I'll simply direct you to what's already there.”

You swallowed and shifted on your feet. "And if my mind doesn't want to remember?"

She looked at you for a while before saying, "If there is nothing to fear, then what harm is there in knowing?"

Odin sighed, plainly impatient with the discussion. "Enough dithering. If this is the only way forward, let it be done."

Your fingers curled at your sides, your uncertainty still evident. Still sensing your anxiety, Frigga stretched out and placed a calming hand on yours.

"I promise," she pledged in a soft tone, "you'll stay in control. I will not press if you refuse."

You took a deep breath, calming yourself down at the eventuality. To all intents and purposes, you had no choice in the matter—and even if you did want to defy the proposition, you did not have the capacity nor the will to go against such powerful beings. Every gaze in the room was focused on you, waiting for your evident acceptance. Finally, you made a slight, tentative nod.

“Alright,” you quietly agreed. “Let’s do it.”

The summoned servants moved silently, their footfalls barely audible on the marble floor. At the Allmother's command, they produced an assortment of artifacts, each with a function and steeped in a ritual seemingly older than memory itself. A great brass basin was placed at the center of the hall, its surface polished to a mirror’s gleam, catching the flickering torchlight and distorting it into molten gold. Beside it, little earthen jars were carefully arranged, packed with crushed herbs and fine-ground powders, their aromas drifting into the air—sage and myrrh, damp moss, and something slightly fresher, the smell resembling a tang of petrichor.

One of them unfurled a length of dark silk, rich as midnight, and spread it across the floor beneath you. Threads of gold embroidery laced through the fabric in twisting—ancient runes, if you had to guess, catching the light whenever the material shifted. It was a spell woven into cloth, vibrating gently with force, but its meaning was lost on you.

Frigga knelt with practiced grace beside the basin, her hands ghosting over its rim, fingers pressing lightly as if feeling for a pulse. She whispered something under her breath—too soft to catch and far too long in the tooth to understand—while a second servant stepped forward, lifting a vessel carved from onyx. Water streamed out in a silken ribbon, striking the basin with an eerie, unnatural uniformity. The surface did not ripple; it simply absorbed the offering, silent and deep, dark as glass.

The blonde-haired woman then reached for one of the jars, taking a pinch of the dried herbs between her fingers. She crumbled them laboriously, letting the fragments fall into the water. The moment they touched the surface, the liquid shuddered, releasing thin tendrils of silver mist that curled and coiled into the chamber, bearing resemblance to restless spirits in their gyrations.

“You must sit,” she ordered you, her voice a soothing murmur against the mounting tension.

Every instinct in you screamed against this—against the waiting shadows, the cold press of magic hovering just out of reach. But Frigga was watching you, and while you trusted her patience to be as endless as the sea, you didn’t want to mess around and provoke her wrath by delaying her efforts any further.

Reluctantly, you sank to the silk-covered floor, the fabric surprisingly balmy beneath your fingertips and offering a stark contrast to the wintry temperature that had long since settled into the courtroom.

Frigga plunged her digits into the water to draw curving patterns on your temples, and with them, the world seemed to shiver. The coolness of her touch glided across your skin in a liquid whisper, a chill that slid effortlessly down to the core of you. But then came the warmth, sluggish and creeping, sinking deeper until it throbbed within your very marrow.

“Close your eyes,” she instructed.

Your pulse drummed at the base of your throat. “With all due respect, Your Majesty, I don’t think I like this.”

Her fingers brushed lower, resting just above your brow. "You must trust me."

It was then that you gradually felt it. A flicker of magic.

It felt like the softest breath—a whiff so delicate it could have been a trick of the wind, a wisp of waft so subtle that it brushed against your soul and left a fleeting sensation that you might have thought to be a figment of your imagination, if not for the unmistakable weight it left behind.

A presence, gentle but insistent, pressing into the spaces between your fleeting thoughts in the manner of a shadow stretching long across the floor just before dusk. It did not demand your attention, but it sought it nonetheless. It felt akin to a pulse that echoed of the deep gaps between time, where all matters and beings began.

The air got rendered captive in your throat, caught between uncertainty and an incomprehensible pull that tugged deep within you, an invisible force that made the ground beneath your feet feel less certain. You clutched at the silk, the only thing anchoring you to the present, to yourself. "I'm not sure—"

The world tilted as you slurred the start of your sentence, and the ground began to spin in an abnormal axis.

Glancing at your sides, the torchlight curved, stretching in odd, fluid arcs that resembled reflections on the surface of a pool of water. The flames twisted, and the shadows they produced pulled and stretched against nature. The sounds in the room—the flutter of robes, the faintest shifts in respirations, the distant footsteps marching on the luxurious floor—merged into ghosts of forgotten voices drifting on a breeze. Everything became distant, stretching to the borders in an imitation of the last traces of a dream that refused to stay.

Pressure started to build in your mind. It was almost imperceptible at first, presenting as a faint tug at the edges of your consciousness. It eventually deepened into an insistent, coaxing strain, slithering through the defenses of your thoughts. You fought it, tried to hold onto the edges of yourself, to remain grounded in the altering reality. In the fullness of time, it felt like trying to hold onto smoke—the more you reached for it, the more it slipped from your grasp.

"I can still speak," you managed to say out loud to reassure yourself, but the words felt foreign and heavy, as if they weighed more than your body could support.

Frigga's voice reached you, distant and almost spectral, analogous to a mother calling from beyond the threshold of slumber. "You are resisting," you could just about hear her say, amplifying the sense of inevitability. "You must not fight it."

Nevertheless, you did. You struggled with all of your stubbornness, desperately clinging to your sense of self and the fragments of the real world that lingered. You battled the pull, frightened and refusing to give up, unwilling to let it all slip away.

Your chest heaved, and each breath became gradually slower as you attempted to force your eyes to remain wide open, latching onto the moving auditorium that was rapidly fading into gloom. However, the palace, and indeed the entire realm, appeared to dissolve in spite of your dolorous efforts. The edges blurred, became liquid, and vanished before you could say anything else.

⠀

The mist swirled around your feet, its curling and twisting comparable to ethereal serpents looming in the air as you stood poised on what you recognized as the Bifrost's rainbow road. Beneath you, the path shone with vibrancy and the colors danced in iridescent hues that melded into one another in a divine harmony. You could feel the energy of the road humming with each step you took, sending a faint vibration through your legs.

Every sound seemed muted, swallowed up by the vast silence that enveloped the space. There was no wind, no chip, no rustle of fabric—only the steady beat of your heart and the resonant drone of the Bifrost beneath you. Time in this place showed signs of being bent along the very rules of existence and ultimately leaving you in a liminal space between worlds. The one before you, vast and unknown, seemed to stretch on forever, inviting you forward even as the very essence of this place warned against it.

Where had you previously been? Who had you been with? The questions swirled in your head, and the recollection slipped through your fingers like water. You couldn't quite comprehend the boundaries of your predicament and everything in your mind was hazy, yet for reasons you couldn't explain, it conveyed the impression of being precisely where you were supposed to be.

Despite the uneasiness coursing through your veins, you felt an almost gravitational push towards the route ahead, driven by an unwarranted force that enticed you to advance and leave behind the familiar solidity of the bridge you knew after a fashion. You put one foot in front of the other almost in hypnosis, drawn to the continuity of the prismatic platform that elongated before you, its kaleidoscope colors appearing to respond to your steps by lighting up with each one. Your senses became more acute, and it made you wonder how you could breathe so easily in space as you observed the environment changing in your venture.

You reached the end of the line and the mist seemed to have expressly parted for you, granting you the view of vast and old roots coiling out of the ground. They gnarled and twisted, snaking across the ground in sweeping, intentional arcs, each one thicker than the other, all connecting to the tallest tree you'd ever seen that spread out before you. There, towering above you, was the trunk—impossibly immense, stretching far beyond what your eyes could see. There was a quiet solemnity to it, its surface appearing rough and aged and lining with deep ridges and grooves, as though the wood had borne witness to eons of history.

How could this be? Before you stood Yggdrasil, the mythical World Tree. The very heart of existence. Peering up, you spotted enormous, bright spiral structures suspended in the air around its base and branches. The celestial orbs floated in repose, their surfaces glinting with incredibly bright colors of pigmentations beyond description. Some flashed with a delicate, continuous chromaticity, while others seemed to alter and warp their surfaces rippling similarly to water disturbed by a gentle breeze. They reminded you of delicate glass baubles used as Christmas ornaments, hanging from the huge branches of the tree and illuminating the cosmic plane.

The ground added to the scene's surrealism and twinkled like a liquid night sky. It faithfully echoed the bejeweled infinity that appeared to be sewn into the platform on which the tree stood, casting an infinite mirror of the stars scattered across the void. Nebulous swells of stardust ebbed and flowed beneath you, with galaxies twisting and growing in dallying, enthralling rotations.

You stood there, starstruck, astounded by the brilliance of it all. The space around you seemed endless and provoked a sense of amazement and horror fell over you as you realized that you had stumbled upon something so deeply sacred that simply standing in front of it felt like a profoundly significant act of heresy.

How had you ended up here? Was this the consequence of your trial? Or had the upper forces that governed this universe drawn you here for a reason you had yet to uncover?

The nightskied floor that housed Yggdrasil appeared to be an island floating in space. You could make out its edges lead to an apparent gulf on all sides, a gaping split through which the grounded stars spilled in a cascade of silver threads, spinning in anarchic concord. The borders of the tree's massive roots curled down into the clouded abyss, defying any measure of scale.

Even so, despite the endlessness of this place, your gaze was pulled to a darker part that beckoned you closer. There, in the depths of the World Tree's trunk, you noticed the shadowy mouth of a cave carved into its core. The gateway yawned wide, but it was impeded by a massive throng that appeared to be holding the entrance shut, unwilling to let anyone pass through.

Coincidentally, your pendant suddenly began to produce a sound that seemed to gradually increase in volume, emitting a sizzling current that prickled over your skin and zapped through your nerves. Yet it was not the pendant alone that sang. No, the whirr poured into the space around you, a power shrouded in static that insistently pulled at you toward the rupture like a siren's call woven, attempting to lure you deeper into the unknown.

A muffled squelch then greeted your ears as your foot came into contact with something, followed by the leisurely roll of an object displaced from its resting spot. You looked down and saw an apple—if it could still call it that—at your feet, its once-lustrous skin tarnished by decay. Mottled spots of rich purples, sickening greens, and otherworldly blues spilled together across its surface, creating colors that were quite uncustomary for such a common fruit.

It moved. Not with the haphazard tumble of a fruit displaced by chance, but rather with frightening precision, gliding over the surface as if led by an unseen hand. Your gut constricted as you watched it roll, slowly at first, then with increasing surety, toward an unpredictable destination. You followed it hesitantly, compelled by instinct—or perhaps something less of your own volition. The apple avoided scattered rests of other rotten apples that were each with the same odd hues of degeneration.

Finally, it encountered an impediment in its journey—an enormous bulk blocking the entrance to what appeared to be a cavern dug into the very base of the trunk. The apple gave a final, lifeless roll before resting against it.

It was then that you witnessed it.

The impediment was not of stone, wood, or anything inanimate. It was meat. A body—somber, motionless.

Your breath halted in your throat as your gaze followed the massive, coiled form, the dull shine of scales barely catching the dim shine of the surrounding spheres. The smell of rot hung thick in the air now, and you understood with bone-deep horror that the other fallen apples were scattered around it, arranged in a way that made you guess that they had previously been offerings.

The massive snake, once a beast of immense stature, now rested dead at your feet. Its huge corpse sprawled across the starlit grass, a scattered and bloated mess of a shell that coiled like an abandoned rope. You took in the sheer magnitude of the body in front of you that you speculated to be a former source of power and life that had been reduced to little more than a husk. The once moving apple now appeared almost mocking in its positioning. Its decay mirrored the serpent's—skin peeling, flesh soft and withered, but nonetheless oddly intact and kept in some abnormal condition of ruin.

You stared in horror at the severed head and particularly its mouth—once a formidable maw of deadly fangs and unquenchable fury, now slack and hollow in death, gaping wide like the dark entrance to an abandoned crypt. The dull and glazed pupils looked blindly into nothing, yet there was something in those eyes that appeared to penetrate through you and reach deep into your very soul as if it still saw and knew you, even in its final moments.

Your throat tightened with a frantic want to yell, but you stayed silent. Making a sound here would mean disturbing the deceased in their ultimate rest. You felt a shudder crawl through your body as you looked down to the scale embedded in your pendant, which communally had the same ridged texture and subdued sheen as the ones on the lifeless body.

The emergent awareness sank like ice in your veins. The scale you carried belonged to him.

Your fingers curled into shaking fists, but the scene in front of you remained unaffected by your presence or your rising terror. And in the pit of your stomach, a sickening certainty grew.

It was a message. A warning reserved for you alone.

A deep, resonant tremor suddenly rumbled through the silence like a faraway avalanche, the sound felt rather than heard—an uncomfortable vibration that wormed its way into your very bones.

"You finally came."

The voice did not echo. It did not boom across the enormous expanse, nor did it originate from any identifiable location. Instead, it was like it had been spoken into your ear. A fear washed over you, thick as the previous mist, coiling about your ribs with rigid hold. Your breath became shallow as you turned, your gaze scanning the continuum behind you. There was nothing. No movement. No shadow dancing through the clouds, only the vast clearing that extended beyond the base of the big tree.

An elongated hiss glided across the air, like a dagger emerging from its sheath and made your stomach turn into a knot. Every instinct told you to escape, to flee from your current place in whatever way you came from. But you stood frozen, torn between panic and morbid curiosity for this ongoing calamity.

Slowly and cautiously, you pivoted again. Nothing.

The sensation of an unseen presence slammed against your back, and your fingers trembled at your sides, gripping as cold sweat prickled at the back of your neck.

You forced yourself to breathe. Calm down. Stay calm. You then looked forward—

And screamed.

The serpent's lifeless eyes, which were before dull and shrouded with death, now blazed with fervor. A mystical and penetrating lazuline luminescence punctured through their empty sockets, searing through the mist like beacons of light.

You felt the world move around you and the air tremble as a swirling and wild vortex raged around the trunk of the tree. It was a choir of shrieking gales, shards of ice flung like celestial shrapnel, and darkness so dense it seemed to devour the light itself. The wind ripped at your skin, tossing your hair about your face as the swirling energy plummeted, spiraling downward around the trunk in a terrible vehemence. You fell back, hands raised against the dazzling current, but its might surged against you like an invisible flood, pushing and pulling.

Within the hailstorm, an elongated shape began to develop, moving amid the pandemonium of gleaming luster. Scales as black as the abyss itself, with luminous veins of the same gradient as the newly lighted eyes and of varying designs on their surfaces. The patterns etched into its hide appeared to be runes, scars, and relics of ancient magics long forgotten by gods and men alike.

A monstrous head emerged from the swirling maelstrom, its maw packed with fangs the size of blades that gleamed like obsidian.The body stretched well beyond sight, its whole form masked by the raging cyclone, yet you could still focus on the enormous beast's scale humming around your neck, against your feverishly rising chest.

That was him.

Níðhöggr.

The devourer. The one Odin had spoken of.

The one whose very essence now coiled in the air before you, stirring awake from the depths of oblivion. There were no words for this—no parables strong enough to shield you from the enormity of what stood before you.

The pendant gripping the skin of your neck throbbed in symphony with the frantic cadence of your heart. The scale. His scale. It vibrated against your chest like it remembered something you definitely didn’t.

His presence was a weight, pressing against your lungs, coiling around your ribs like chains woven from shadow and ash. His voice slithered into the space between heartbeats, smooth and venomous, though his mouth did not move.

"Look at you," he rasped, slick and invasive, "so small... and yet—you carry the taste of eternity on your breath."

The words wrapped around your ribs like invisible chains, tightening with every syllable. From the abyss, he emerged—not all at once, because something that vast could never fit within the confines of a single moment. His body oozed from the darkness like oil spreading over water, thick and slick, shifting between the tangible and the intangible. Solid. Smoke. Shadow.

His head lowered, the jagged ridges along his spine catching flashes of lightning that did not belong to the storm. His eyes—two slits of frozen blue, burning with intelligence so calculated it felt less like being seen and more like being dissected. They drifted lazily downward, landing on the pendant at your throat.

A grin split his monstrous face—a wound tearing across his maw, revealing rows of blackened, glass-like teeth.

"Wearing my flesh like a trinket. How quaint."

The words slithered through the air as he insisted on rolling the “s” and the “sh” phonemes, tasting them on his forked tongue and curling them into the spaces you couldn’t protect.

"Do you know whose hunger you feed, little seedling?"

You didn’t answer. And to be fair, you couldn’t. Your heart slammed against your ribs and the pendant didn’t help your case, feeling heavier now as though it had always been waiting for this moment—to betray you.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, each beat a frantic drum of disbelief and terror. The pendant felt heavier now, as though it had been waiting for this very moment—to betray you.

"You’re supposed to be dead," you whispered in a brittle and raw voice, straining against the weight of fear. "What do you want from me, serpent?"

A sound rumbled from deep within his chest—not laughter, not in any mortal sense. It was akin to the grinding of stone beneath the earth, the groan of the ancient roots snapping under the pressure of this inevitability.

"Ah, ignorance at its finest," he mused, tilting his head lazily, almost bored. "The sweetest poison. More potent than Idunn’s bitter harvest." His body moved like a current with massive coils folding over themselves, each motion stirring the air—not with wind, but with the oppressive pressure of something that should not exist.

"I am the shadow beneath the roots," he whispered, though his voice struck like thunder against your skull. "The hunger time forgot. The end that always waits, patient as death itself."

His gaze narrowed, sharp and unrelenting. "She thought her golden fester could tame me. Thought it could slow the gnawing."

A pause. A breath. A memory, jagged and bitter.

"But roots always wither from within. You, of all things, should know that." The accusation hit like a slap, though you couldn’t understand why. "For now, small one, I do not want. I see."

His pupils shrank into razor-thin slits, gleaming with something dangerously close to curiosity. "You are certainly interesting. Born from what should not be. A mistake wrapped in flesh."

Anger sparked, raw and sudden, trying to drown the fear. Your fists clenched at your sides.

"Even with a curse and a bite... A sliver of me rests against your heart, yet you stand unscathed." His jaw expanded into a wider grin, impossibly so. "Curious."

"What are you talking about?" you snapped with a defiance you didn’t fully feel. His laughter returned, a grinding, hollow sound.

"Cradled by hands that never meant to hold you. Even the roots didn’t expect you." He tilted his head again, studying you like a puzzle missing its edges. "But here you are... a question with no answer."

His sneer suddenly faltered, and you were under the impression that he was looking through the core of your being rather than at you. "I am the shadow beneath the roots. The hunger time forgot. The end that always waits, patient as death itself."

His pupils narrowed, pinpricks of molten flame, colder than winter’s grasp, and just as unforgiving. They bored into you, piercing straight through the veil of your reality.

"Even the Allfather couldn’t prune the rot. He just hid it under golden leaves."

His declarations settled over you like a fine layer of ash. There was no escaping them, no wiping them away from your consciousness. It was as though his voice had branded them into your soul.

"The gods simply forgot that rot grows in the dark."

With a movement that was as fluid as it was abrupt, his attention snapped back to you, and the air around you seemed to freeze in his wake. His eyes, now molten shards of cold fire, never left yours.

"Pass this message to your little friends."

The shadows around you began to thicken, creeping like living things across the ground. They twisted and folded inward, wrapping and closing in around you. The air itself grew thick with a smell of lost time and forgotten promises. His voice lowered in a solemn tone that was too heavy to ignore and too filled with prophecy to dismiss.

"When the roots bleed and the branches wither, when the song of the tree grows faint to the ear, be aware that the splinters are scattered far and near—for what was whole is now broken, and what is broken cannot hold back the tide."

His grin stretched, a cruel mockery of amusement that split his face wide. His jagged teeth gleamed like shards of obsidian, glinting in the flickering light. With agonizing deliberation, he lowered his head, bringing his serpentine snout inches from your face. The rancid air that escaped his maw wrapped around you, spreading the scent of decay even more and mingling with something older than death itself.

"You tremble, little seedling," he hissed, the words curling into your mind like cold fingers prying at the edges of your thoughts, seeking to unearth your deepest fears. "But there’s something buried under all that fear, isn’t there?"

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the pendant at your neck searing against your skin. The hum grew louder until the sensation burrowed beneath your ribs and through your entire bone structure.

Until it snapped.

A radiant burst erupted from you—not fire, not lightning, but something wilder and far more spectacular. Light poured from your epidermis in rapids of greens, violets, pinks and blues, painting the storm with colors stolen from the northern sky. The glittering ground beneath you cracked, veins of frost-like markings spidering outward, glowing like the roots of Yggdrasil itself.

The serpent recoiled with a hiss, his vast body jerking back as if scorched by the light. His eyes narrowed, slits of icy blue burning with fresh intensity. "Ah, there it is."

The aurora wrapped around you, wild and uncontained, reflecting in the abyss of his gaze. His scales shimmered under its glow, revealing dark veins pulsing beneath, fractal threads of corrupted power.

"I see your purpose now, you wear the sky itself," he spat, coils writhing with irritation. "A trick of the tree... but light doesn’t scare the dark, little one. It only shows where the shadows are hiding."

His maw opened wide, a cavern of a cavernous void ready to consume you whole. His fangs, sharp as the very edge of oblivion, hung poised to strike. Níðhöggr lunged, and the light felt so bright it seared your vision, the darkness so deep it threatened to swallow you whole. The world collapsed into that singular moment, and then—

Nothing.

You jerked awake with a sharp gasp, your body soaked in cold sweat and the echo of his hiss lingering in your mind like a poison you couldn't shake. The phantom glow slowly receded from your vision, but the image of that monstrous presence remained, etched into your thoughts like a scar of frost that would never thaw.

⠀

You considered the guest room to which you were led to far too extravagant for your tastes, bathed in the soft glow of flickering candles, their warm light dancing across the polished stone flooring and beautiful yet complicated carvings on the walls. The ceiling above arched high, with imitations of ancient constellations and mythical creatures engraved into the minarets. The aroma of jasmine and old wood wafted through the air, a gentle reminder of the monarchial magnificence all around you.

You perched on the edge of the bed, letting out a gentle sigh as you looked around, your fingers nervously holding the thin fabric of the nightgown they'd given you. The Asgardian furniture was exotic in its luxury but pleasant in a disconnected sense. The bed, huge and fluffy with yet again, gold embroidery that shimmered slightly in the dim light, felt like a gilded cage. If it wasn't evident to you before, the feeling of being trapped in a realm where time functioned differently and events larger than you unfolded at an unfathomable rate was now deeply inscribed in your head.

Your attention shifted to the desk across the room, where a variety of goods lay jumbled. A gilded quill with an ink well sat next to an exquisitely wrought tome with its contents open. The symbols on those pages were elusive, as if they were intended to be deciphered by a select few. A little crystal vial containing what appeared to be sparkling dust rested next to it. Something warned you it wasn't supposed to be touched. However, your curiosity prickled at the edge of your consciousness, tempting you to take it up and investigate.

You had been unable to sleep since the happenings in the courtroom. Your thoughts perpetually returned to Níðhöggr's words—those cryptic riddles and the sinister implications of his presence. You could still feel the harshness of his voice and the dread that permeated your innards.

You failed to get rid of Frigga's disturbed expression either, as well as the way Odin had stared at you like you were a problem he hadn't worked out yet and was fearful of. The royal scholars were summoned in a flurry, scribbling furiously on their scrolls, their gaze flitting between you and the ancient books they preserved. The court reporters had done no better, their pens speeding across their parchment as if they were afraid of missing something important.

The Einherjar had quickly led you out of the courtroom. The guards were polite, even friendly, but the urgency in their eyes was clear. "Stay in your room and don't leave," they had said, hinting at no possibility of arguing.

You brought your knees to your chest, pushing your forehead against them as the weight of everything pressed down on you. The silence was infuriating, and the calm of the room only exacerbated the commotion that raged in your mind. What did all of this mean? Why had the monster singled you out? Why had Heimdall’s stare conveyed such recognition? He knew something, he had to. And the peculiar manner in which the damned amulet you wore showed itself back in the trial made you feel as if the answers were just out of reach.

Your fingers brushed against the hem of your nightgown, the soft fabric smoothing between them while your mind raced. There were no explanations, only a sequence of mysterious images and a thorny warning. You looked to the window, where the light from Asgard's twin moons trickled in, putting a pale glow on the stone walls. How long will you be kept here? And what happens next? You only prayed you’d live long enough to figure it out.

"I didn’t peg you for the type to gawk at everything like a lost fool."

Your heart leapt in your throat, and before your mind could catch up, you jumped out of your position and whirled around, fists flying instinctively toward the unexpected sound. Only your punch sailed straight through the air like there was nothing more than a mirage.

Loki stood before you, grinning, the playful glint in his eyes masking the unreadable depth of his gaze. He leaned back, hands casually resting at his sides and his smile curled into a smug arc. “I believe the expression is third time's the charm, but you might want to work harder on properly getting me,” he quipped with unrepentant amusement.

You blinked, taken aback for a moment, but the irritation rose in you quickly enough. "You do know that what you’re doing is a breach of my privacy, right? What if I was changing or something?"

The prince didn’t flinch. Instead, he granted you a stare far more serious than the one you were accustomed to, and if you were quick enough, you would have been able to pick up the flash of a curtain of darkened thoughts passing his pupils at your reprimand. The subtle shift in his posture spoke volumes of his underlying intents—he wasn’t here to taunt but to stand on business. There was a strange sense of gravity about him as he slowly stepped forward, like a pressure building up in the space between you.

"I need to speak with you," he declared, stripped of any pretense of mockery. "And you better listen intently as this concerns you."

"Oh, so now you want to talk?" you spat, crossing your arms. "After scurrying away like a little mouse to go hide in the shadows?" You couldn’t help but let the sarcasm taint your words. You were still salty about the fact that he let you face all of your previous ordeals alone, leaving you to fend for yourself. "Fine," you snapped without waiting for his response. "What’s so important?"

Loki didn’t respond to your taunt. Alternativerly, he reached behind him and conjured with a flick of his wrist a few parchments with what looked like to be fresh ink spilled on them. He held them out and you noticed the edges curling slightly, as though they had been hastily pulled from somewhere else.

“Before they figured out what I was doing, I managed to borrow these. It’s about what’s happening.”

"Why do I need to know anything about this?" You frowned in a mix of confusion and suspicion. "I’m just a—"

"A human, yes, I know," Loki interjected, his eyes narrowing as he regarded you. “But a human with quite a promising role in their play.” He gave a disbelieving shake of his head, as though something deeper was at play here that you still hadn’t grasped. “Which is exactly why you need to hear this.”

He glanced down at the papers, his fingers gripping them tightly as he continued. "Afortime your arrival here and our discovery of your existence, there had been a disturbance in Asgard. A tremor, violent enough to be considered as a precursor to an attack. When everyone got confined in their homes and they sent out sentinels to investigate on the possible cause of the perturbance, they found nothing and came back empty-handed. A short time after, bits of our mockup of Yggdrasil were found laying around the Hall of Science."

"Okay," you acknowledged his tale, unable to fully grasp what he was saying. "And how does that concern me?"

Loki’s gaze darkened, his face hardening at your ignorance of the gravity of the situation. "Because, you dull-witted creature, you are a part of this," he harshly rebutted with exasperation. "They think your vision served as a prophecy, and the fragments of the mock-up are echoes of real ones scattered across the realms by Níðhöggr in order to bring about Ragnarok. And his interest in you as well as your little ability might be implicated in his scheme."

Your stomach twisted as you processed his words. "Wait, wait," you stammered. "So you’re saying that not only are we all in danger, but that they want to use me as a weapon? But I don’t even know what’s happening half the time! All I did back there in the trial was shoot around these ridiculous rainbow lights!" You gestured vaguely in frustration toward the weak glowing aura originating from your trachea. "How is that supposed to help?"

"Unfortunately, you might not be as useless as we think of yourself." His eyes bored into you while he countered your arguments with a clipped tone. "Odin plans to sequester you away until he figures out how to separate you from that pendant." His voice softened but didn’t lose its edge. "He doesn’t care what happens to you. He cares about what he can take from you, and your way of thinking only serves as a benefice to him."

He leaned in closer conspiratorily, gazing into your eyes with urgency. "You’re a piece of something far larger than you realize. And if you let them do what they plan…" His voice trailed off, but the implication was clear. You were in deeper than you knew, and the consequences of waiting around and trusting the gods would only end in endangering yourself.

A gnawing itch that had been growing ever since you’d been dragged into this mess threatened to take you over along with the fatigue that had long since settled in your bones, blurring the line between what was real and what you wanted to believe. You took a step back and crossed your arms over your chest, attempting to shield you from him. From everything.

"Why are you telling me this?" The question left your lips faster than intended, slicing through the tense silence between you. "What do you even gain from this?"

Loki’s expression didn’t falter, but an emotion passed through his eyes, too quick to catch and gone before you could name it. Still, you pressed on, fueled by exhaustion and justified distrust.

"Wasn’t I supposed to be a simple task for you?" you sourly recalled. "You successfully found me and dragged me back to Asgard. So why the sudden change of heart?"

He continued to let your accusations unanswered and satisfy himself by staring at you with those infuriating and enticing eyes, a behavior that only served to agitate you all the more. His silence stretched thin between you, taut like a wire about to snap.

You took a shaky breath, feeling the tremor of doubt in your chest. "Why should I trust you, Loki?" His name tasted like cutting glass on your tongue. "You’re the god of lies, remember? Deception is kind of your thing."

"If I wanted to lie to you, I wouldn’t take this many risks and I’d make it much easier for you to believe."

His voice had resonated in the room, but his mouth didn’t move accordingly with it. Without delay, his image dissolved into nothingness, leaving only the faintest ripple in the space where he’d stood. Your breath hitched, heart lurching with the sudden absence. You spun around, fists instinctively clenched, frantically searching in the dim room.

That’s when you saw him—perched lazily on the narrow ledge of your open window, one leg dangling over the edge, the other propped up as if he were lounging in a throne rather than flirting with a deadly fall. The night air stirred the loose strands of his dark hair, moonlight casting silver streaks across his sharp features. His silhouette was framed by the incredible skyline—golden spires reaching into the vast, star-strewn dark, indifferent to the chaos brewing within you.

"I am supposed to be confined to my chambers, retained by a rather irksome little spell, courtesy of the Allfather,” he said, picking at his nails with his dagger in a theatrical nonchalance. “And if I were to somehow escape—which I haven’t, obviously—I’d be granted the pleasure of even greater punishment.”

You arched a brow, swallowing down the remnants of your racing heartbeat. "Then how did you get out?"

Loki’s grin curled arrogantly as he slid gracefully off the window ledge, landing with the effortless poise and started toward you. Each step made you further and further aware of his presence filling the room, stalking in it like he owned everything.

"Oh, please," he drawled, voice dropping into that annoyingly smug lilt. "Don’t insult me by assuming mere spells could keep me in. It’s terribly unsophisticated of you."

You stood your ground, even as he closed the distance, the space between you shrinking with every step until the air itself felt too thin. His eyes—those impossibly enchanting green eyes—locked onto yours, daring you to flinch first due to his nearness. A flicker of doubt whispered at the back of your mind. After everything he'd done with illusions and vanishing tricks... was he even present right now?

Without thinking, you lifted your hand and gave him a small, tentative punch to the chest—not hard, moreso of a test than an attack. Your knuckles met solid leather and the faint resistance of muscle beneath the fine Asgardian fabric.

You hated how aware you were of him. How his presence seemed to pull at the edges of your thoughts, tangling with the fear, the exhaustion, the doubt. And yet, you didn’t step back.

Definitely real.

The raven-haired man glanced down at the spot where your fist had landed, then back up at you, a grin spreading across his face like a slow sunrise. "Ah, see," he mused, "you’ve finally managed to land one on me. Took you long enough."

You rolled your eyes, fighting the twitch of a reluctant smile threatening the corners of your mouth. "I wasn’t even trying," you muttered, pulling your hand back, though the warmth of the brief contact lingered longer than it should’ve.

"Sure you weren’t." Loki didn’t need to smile this time. The look in his eyes said enough.

He wasn’t moving and neither were you. It felt as though time itself had slowed, its cloak contracting around you both. There was something unsettling about the way he looked at you, like he was trying to see through you, or perhaps trying to see you for what you truly were. You felt the sting of his gaze burn into you, and despite yourself, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away.

Finally, the god broke the silence after what seemed like an eternity.

"I’m not here to coddle your feelings or win your trust," he circled back to the initial subject of your conversation, cutting off the temporary light mood that had settled between you. "Whether you like it or not, you’re at the center of the situation. And regardless of how they choose to dress it up with prophecies or destiny, my survival is still on the line." He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second. "As much as yours."

His explanation, albeit selfish in essence, somehow managed to land heavier on you. Because deep down, buried beneath the exhaustion and the fear, you knew he wasn’t lying.

And that terrified you more than anything.

"What am I even supposed to do?" you whispered, your throat tight. “I’m powerless against most of you.”

The prince stepped back, his expression softening for the briefest of moments at your resignation, but there was a steeliness in his eyes that refused to soften. "You have a choice," he quietly replied. "You have more power than they’re letting on. Untapped, certainly, but if you let them take it from you—if you let them control you... then it will be too late."

Just as he concluded his sentence, a loud, jarring sound ripped through the quiet of the room, followed by another, and another. The unmistakable pounding of fists against the door.

"By order of the Allfather, you must open the door!" Your heart skipped a beat, the realization sinking in. Loki’s escape had been discovered, and the alarm had been raised.

The door didn’t hide a single guard, but multiple—their boots pounding against the stone floor, the sound of frantic voices rising. Your breath caught in your throat as the noise intensified and became louder, mirroring the banging of drums that signaled the arrival of impending doom.

Loki’s eyes flicked toward the door instantly, his body going tense, the air around him crackling with the energy of impending action. His face, usually a mask of sardonic detachment, was now etched with ultimate alertness. He stepped toward the window while you stood frozen in your place, your indecisive gaze flicking between the door, the noise growing louder, and him.

Should you open the door? Should you let them in?

Or should you flee?

Panic clawed at your insides as you shifted between looking at the door, still shaking from the guards' pounding, and at the Asgardian, who gave his back to you as he prepared to make his next move. Each thought collided with the next, crashing against each other and leaving you paralyzed. The guards would break in soon, and the consequences of standing idle were becoming more and more real.

The god of mischief precipitously pivoted without turning to face you fully and extended his hand. "I’ve placed a spell on the door," he claimed with urgency. "It’ll hold them off just for a little while longer. But if we’re going to get out of here, we need to move quickly."

You hesitated, fingers twitching at your sides, your mind racing with a thousand questions. Leave with him? The choice felt impossible, like choosing between the lesser of two evils. "What if I end up dead?" you nervously whispered, more to yourself than to him. "What if I end up imprisoned? I don’t know—"

"If I managed to cheat them and death all this time, would I be standing here asking this of you if I didn’t think you had a chance?" Loki cut you off with a sureness that made your chest tighten. "You’ll be in just as much danger if you stay here. Don’t fool yourself into thinking there’s safety in doing nothing."

The door rattled again, a shuddering thud reverberating through the room as the guards slammed against it with all their weight. You flinched, your pulse spiking, and before you knew it, your thoughts evaporated into instinct. Panic settled over you like a cold sweat.

His impatient gaze flicked toward the door before redirecting it toward you, his eyes narrowing with a flicker of annoyance. "Now."

It was as if time had been brought back into focus, the brunt of your uncertainty crumbling as your naked feet advanced with a mind of their own. In a final peek at the door—and the guards attempting to force it open—you reached out, your fingers quivering as they met his. Everything around you seemed to fade away the moment you held his hand, all evaporating in the pull of his grip.

Loki drew you toward him in a one smooth movement, snaking his arm around your waist with such suddenness that it took your breath away. You didn't have time to think or question. The window sill was in front of you, and you both leapt out into the chilly night air.

At the same instant, the sound of the door breaking open became a distant echo, drowned by the deafening rush of wind and the helpless sensation of falling. You didn't think and didn't process. The air blasted around you sd you descended, and the world spun at terrible speed while your stomach threatened to spill out du to the absence of a ground.

The wind buried your shriek as you both fell, your arms instinctively tightening around his neck and your pulse hammering in your chest. You couldn't see anything below, and you felt like falling into the unknown, into whatever awaited you both at the end of this perilous descent.

A terrifying notion crossed your mind. Would you even survive this?

The unfortunate truth was that there was no turning back. You were no longer a passive participant in this story. You were caught in the clutches of the universe, unable to break free. And as you plunged into the boundless sky, you were forcibly compelled to reflect on the harsh susurrations within the back of your mind.

Particularly, the prospect that no matter what you selected, your fate would have no enjoyable finale.

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thyme-in-a-bubble · 8 months ago

Text

where the brook bends

the wistful wyvern, chapter two

a/n: something about fighting giant spiders just feels so quintessential skyrim...

summary: “you are two of my most trusted warriors. If it can’t be me out there, then it should be you two,” his glance then shifted between you both as he noticed the look on your face, “unless, of course, you have any objections.”

warnings: knight!bucky barnes x knight!reader, fantasy AU (monsters, but not much magic), original fantasy world, ex-friends to lovers, coworkers to lovers, former fuckboy!bucky, tattooed!bucky, slow burn, one-sided pinning, forced proximity, arachnophobia (giant spiders), weapons, violence, bathing in a river

word count: 2243

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“This is the third time in two years that dragon has attacked us,” the king’s jaw clenched, “third time, and we still don’t know how to slay it,” leaned against the central table in the war room, he glanced up to find Bucky’s eyes, “I was planning on going on a mission to gather intel, find its lair, study the beast, but–… things have changed,” on a heavy exhale, he let his eyes momentarily fall shut, “I need to stay here,” he stated slowly, “I can’t risk my life on a quest like this, not now that Cordelia is born… so,” his gaze fluttered back open, “I’m here to ask the two of you to take care of it.”

Shooting a glance over at Bucky, you hesitantly uttered, “us?”

You wanted to say no. A mission such as this could take months, and being stuck with Bucky for that long, just the two of you on the road, having to work so closely together, it might break you for good.

But then when Steve’s gaze locked with your own, the declination got stuck in your throat.

“You are two of my most trusted warriors. If it can’t be me out there, then it should be you two,” his glance then shifted between you both as he noticed the look on your face, “unless, of course, you have any objections.”

“No, of course not, your majesty,” you swiftly replied, knowing that this plague was so much bigger than your own little feelings, “it would be an honour.”

“Hi, I’m here to pick up an order, it should be under the name Y/l/n.”

“Ah, yes,” the blacksmith nodded with recognition, “your blades are right over here,” he turned to retrieve them, “it was five new daggers, correct?” he glanced over his shoulder as he gathered the crafted arms in his grasp.

“Oh, six actually,” you slightly raised yourself up onto your toes to catch a glimpse.��

“Right,” he turned his attention back to the table of finished and shiny weapons, “uh–”

But then before the blacksmith could begin to panic, a young apprentice came running over from the forge, “uncle, here!” and handed him the last dagger, “sorry, I was sharpening them and forgot one of them by the grinding stone.”

“Thank you, Peter,” he then let his expert eye wash over the metal, “ah, you’re getting better!” a bright grin crept up on the lad's face, “excellent work, my boy,” the blacksmith then walked back to where you waited and slid the cloth-bound blades over the soot-stained counter, “here you are, miss.”

“How much do I owe you?” you opened up your coin purse and began to flick through the change.

“Oh, no,” his hands raised up before him, “no charge,” a gentle shake tipped his head, “that’s already been taken care of by his royal majesty himself.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nodded, “received a letter yesterday morning for anything that you, or your other warden friend out there, might need, to put it on his tab.”

“Alright, then,” a grateful chuckle bubbled out of you, “thank you.”

And as you headed back out of the open smithy onto the quaint streets of Borün, the proprietor cheerily called after you, “have a good day!”

“You too!” you glanced back over your shoulder and offered the two figures a small wave.

Nestled in a t-intersection, the heat of blacksmith swiftly got soothed by the breeze from the docks that bloomed only a few storefronts down to the left. The melody of gentle waves crashing against the harbour sloshed directly into your soul. One seagull had even dared to bravely wander past you into the town square that unfolded in the opposite direction. Casting a brief glance down there, by the bistro on the corner, you saw an energetic child spring and flee from the rest of their family, as they sat around one of the cosy outdoor seating options and enjoyed a quiet lunch, to favour a sprint around the vast tree that stood rooted in the centre of the square.

“Did you get what you needed?” Bucky asked as you exited the shop, his grasp clutched tight around the reins of both Echo, his own horse that had a shiny black coat, as well as Zenna, the brown spotted mare you’d ridden for years.

“Yep,” you tugged the newly acquired weapons into one of the saddlebags strapped to your horse, “you ready to go or do you have any last-minute errands before we head out?”

“Nope, I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” he exhaled as you slid up onto Zenna, “let’s head out.”

“So, the dragon always escaped out west,” Bucky spoke, shooting a glance in your direction as you rode beside him, “every time, it was that direction.”

“Hm…” you searched your inner map, your vision dancing betwixt the trees you passed as you cut through the south-eastern corner of The Noll Woods, “could it be dwelling out by Anng?”

“Maybe…” he cocked his head, “there are a lot of small islands all along that part of the coast, maybe it could have claimed one of them?”

“Possibly…” one of your brows then tilted up as a theory struck you, “or perhaps it’s even closer than that,” your neck twisted and you met his eye, “The Asadånie Mountains.”

“That certainly is a possibility,” his gaze averted as he thought on it, “I mean, the mountain range is immensely vast and dangerous by design. I don’t even think it’s ever been properly represented on a map yet with how few venture up there.”

A noise then suddenly found your ear. A shrill clicking call from somewhere within the forest.

“Shh, shut up,” you swiftly snapped as you pulled on the reins to stop your horse.

Not hearing your hushed tone, Bucky kept on rambling, “it’s perfectly tucked away and secluded for a creature such as a dragon.”

“Barnes, I mean it, shut up,” you raised your voice sternly as your eyes raked the overgrown area around you.

“What?” he finally stopped as well a few paces ahead of you, “what is it?”

Sliding off of Zenna, you carefully looked around, listening intently for the sound that had chilled your bones.

You should have looked up, because if you had, then you would have maybe spotted the giant spiders lurking before they dropped down from their vast webs spun throughout the treetops above.

When one pounced on you, its curled fangs gnashing for a bite of your flesh, Bucky jumped off of Echo, though didn’t reach you before two skittered out to get him.

Drawing a dagger in each of your grasps, you then sank both of them into the spider’s dark and clustered eyes, twisting them clockwise before it sank to the forest floor below.

As you yanked them back out, a spray of ickier trailed your blades, even as you turned to throw one of them into the bigger of the creatures advancing on your comrade, your aim slaying it instantaneously, the viscus scattered against the side of your face at the toss.

But then a fourth one came from out of nowhere and pinned you down in the dirt. With the weapon still in your palm, your reach was too limited to strike it anywhere vital, though you still dealt a few blows where you could. Pierce it open above you, slimy viscera spilt out and showered your struggling form.

On your next attack, the hilt of your blade managed to get stuck in the tough hide of the monster, and with the spider guts that slicked up not only your grasp, you began to fear you wouldn’t be able to pry it back out.

But just before your hands slipped, as you tried to push it off of you and not render you its dinner, the spider suddenly went limp above you and you glanced up to see a thick bolt splitting its skull.

“Hey,” you snapped as you scrambled up onto your feet, “I had that one!”

Swinging his crossbow back over his shoulder, Bucky simply smirked, “sure, you did,” and bent down to pick up the dagger you tossed to save him, briefly flipping it playfully in his palm before he glanced up and threw it. For a split second, your eyes went wide, but then the short blade flew past your ear, and as your neck twisted to follow it, you watched as it logged itself into a younger spider you hadn’t noticed till now.

As the horses grazed and drank from the nearby stream, you unfastened your own bedroll from the back of Zenna.

When it was nestled under your arm, you offered the horse a gentle pat before turning back to the makeshift camp for the night. Sparks finally began to dance from Bucky’s efforts and the pile of twigs he had gathered was set aflame.

Once your bedroll was unfurled on the mossy ground, you quietly sat atop of it, chewing on some dry rations you’d found in the bottom of your satchel and stared at the sun as it slowly sank into the horizon. As your vision danced between soft pink clouds in the lavender sky, your gaze suddenly grew wide as Bucky stood up from his side of the fire and began to shed his clothes.

“What are you doing?” you asked as he peeled off the partial chainmail he wore and swiftly the dark blue tunic beneath, revealing his bare back to you before he cast a glance over his shoulder.

“Going for a dip. What does it look like I’m doing?” not slowing down at your alarm, he fiddled with his belt and stepped closer to the riverbank, “you know, you could use one as well,” he playfully added before stripping off the last of his clothing, “you reek of spider guts, my friend,” your gaze instantly fled up towards the sky before you could see more than just his backside.

At the splash of his jumping into the water, you subtly sniffed yourself before reluctantly uttering, “alright, fine,” and you pushed yourself up to your feet. After gathering a clean shirt as well as a wide rag to dry yourself off with from your supplies, you piped up again, “but you stay up here, I’ll go find somewhere more private further down.”

“Ah, come on, snow, you don’t have to do that!” he argued as you began to wander away, “what do you want me to turn around? Promise not to sneak a peek at your goods?”

But you just kept up your stride and called over your shoulder, “enjoy your bath, Barnes!”

The stream luckily curved slightly a ways further down. Not a lot, but enough to grant you enough assurance to give it a go. After you’d peeled off your layers of clothing and the pieces of leather armour that protected your frame, you slowly dipped a toe into the cool water.

The blushing skies slowly melted into black as you bathed in the river. When you took a moment to rinse out the ivory tunic you’d worn, your gaze flickered down the stream to spot Bucky as he splashed water up onto the part of him not submerged. As droplets danced down his skin, you nearly stopped breathing entirely as you followed their trail down to what the water obscured.

But then, like snapping awake from a dream, the dizzying sensation gave away to the depressing reality.

Once you’d scrubbed and cleaned yourself the best that you could, the stars above began to twinkle as you patted your skin dry and shrugged on the acquired clean shirt, a burgundy one, as well as the rest of your attire.

When you found your way back towards the camp, Bucky was already sitting by the fire, dressed and with his hair still dripping gently and turning the shoulders of his navy tunic nearly as dark as the night sky.

After you’d hung your wet shirt over a nearby branch, without sharing another word with the other warden you travelled with, you laid down on your bedroll and closed your eyes.

But before too long, Bucky’s low timbre found your ears over the crackling of the fire.

“Hey, what’s going on with you?”

“Uh, I’m trying to fall asleep,” you sighed loudly, “just as you should.”

“No, I mean what’s going on?” he persisted, “are you mad at me or something?”

Your eyes then blinked open to stare up at the stares, “why would I be mad at you?”

“I don’t know, yet you’ve given me the cold shoulder ever since you came back from Efira,” he then asked, “did something happen there?”

“Other than comb through tombs with a boring ass lord,” you huffed, “no, nothing happened.”

“Then what’s wrong?” he demanded.

The muscles in your jaw clenched tightly before you uttered, “nothing’s wrong.”

“Did I do something to piss you off?” he kept pushing, “because if so, I’m sorry.”

Your muscles flexed as you forcefully raised yourself up on onto an elbow and twisted to shoot him a glare, “look, we are here on an important mission. We don’t have to be all buddy-buddy and reminisce about old times in order to get the job done, alright?”

Dark brows tightly knitted together, he stared back at you before eventually huffing, “fine.”

“Great,” you then heatedly flopped back down and tensely turned your back to him, “goodnight.”

#lea’s writing #eflorr au #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes series #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes hurt/comfort #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff

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