#Fawn knight

[tikiss]

Polar Knight and her 5 other wives, Sakura and her 5 other wives, Eri and her 5 other wives, Tiki and their 5 other wives, Rose and her 5 other wives, Taeram and her 5 other wives-

[lilybug-02]

Sam is a big liar

Bug Fact: Buff Tip Moths have a remarkable camouflage that makes them look like a broken branch. They are found throughout Eastern Eurasia.

V2 First || Prev // Next

Volume 2 Masterpost ▴♥︎▴

[fawniswriting]

Fire and Blood

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

This is Chapter 01 of the Faithfully Yours series.

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Summary: As the princess of your kingdom, marriage has always been a mere duty to fulfill. You’re well aware of your impending matrimony to the King of Asgard, so why does the rumor of Sir James Barnes’ betrothal trouble you so?

Word Count: 5000-ish

Warning(s): historical royal AU. forbidden love (princess x knight/royal guard). slowburn. mention of arranged marriage. jealousy. panic attack. depictions of battle, explosion, and violence. angst

Hi everyone, my name is Fawn! This is the first chapter of a royal!AU series I'm writing. I used to loveee royal!AU and haven't read any in a while, so I decided to write one myself. I'm planning to update the series at least once a week, but since I just landed a new job (yay!), we will see if the schedule would work on my end. Don't forget to comment, like, and reblog if you like this story!

The barren stonewalls flutter against the unusually loud chatters inside the castle hallways. Murmurs of the long-awaited spring festival and the seasonal price of crops fill the air, although above them, talks of the impending royal wedding have seemingly taken precedence. You play impervious to their eagerness as you walk down the corridors with your maids-in-waiting by your sides, giving the people an agreeable nod while acting oblivious to the subtle sly smiles thrown in your wake.

“It seems that my upcoming wedding has truly become the talk of the town,” you remark.

“Can you blame them, Your Highness? Our beloved princess is soon to be the Queen of Asgard. It’s set to be our country’s strongest alliance in history! The people ought to celebrate,” Yelena responds.

“Moreover,” Natasha adds, “everyone is excited to finally see the King of Asgard himself in the flesh. His Majesty’s reputation surely precedes him.”

“Speaking of His Majesty,” Yelena hums cheerily, “will Your Highness truly not tell us anything about him at all?”

“I told you, Yelena. You will have plenty of time to get to know His Majesty once he arrives for the wedding.”

“But that is not for at least another month!”

You fix a sharp glare at Yelena’s direction, silencing the woman while earning a soft laughter from Natasha.

“If His Majesty takes even longer than that, we could very well have another wedding here before his arrival,” says Natasha.

The corner of your mouth tilts. “Do you already have a prospective groom in mind, Natasha?”

“I was not talking about me, Your Highness.” Rounding up a corner, you are met with a group of workers carrying ancient artworks and sculptures. They bow in respect at the sight of you, and you give them a dismissive wave to send them all on their way. “I was talking about Sir Barnes.”

At the mention of that one specific name, your steps falter.

In the tiniest bit of seconds your composure is lost, the train of your dress has somehow caught between the stone floors and the sole of your shoes. Yelena grabs hold of you before your face could plummet against the ground, helping you back to your still unsteady feet. When your head lifts, both Natasha and Yelena are appraising you in an equal mixture of confusion and worry.

“What happened, Princess?” Natasha asks.

“Forgive me. I was a little distracted, I reckon.” You brush the dust off your dress and continue on your way. “What was it about Sir Barnes you were saying, Natasha?”

Natasha eyes you in a slight skepticism but proceeds to answer, “Sir  Smith was looking for him. Have you not noticed his absence today?”

You refrain from replying. You cannot possibly admit in front of your whole entourage that not only did you notice Sir James Barnes' absence, your head has also been preoccupied with the thoughts of his whereabouts ever since you left your chamber this morning. His presence as your royal guard is hard to miss, for you have grown accustomed to having his face being one of the first you see at the start of your day. It's a constant you greatly cherish.

“What did Sir Smith want with him?” you inquire, unable to quell your soaring curiosity.

Natasha's voice drops to a whisper, “The housekeepers claim that Sir Smith is looking for a potential match for his youngest daughter!”

Yelena gasps. “Miss Dolores?”

Your skin prickles. You know the young Miss Dolores. Or at least, you know of her. Although she is not a member of the court, her father's position within the royal guard, along with her elder sister's recent nuptials with a renowned baron, have resulted in an exceptional boost to her prestige. She is young and beautiful, with an impeccable reputation to go with it. The perfect woman of every man's dream.

“I must say, they do make quite a good pair together, do they not?” Yelena notes.

You try to fight off the sinking feeling in your stomach, alongside the image of Sir James Barnes—valiant and tall—next to a dainty Dolores Smith. Yelena's observation is correct: the two do make quite a good pair. It's a knowledge that leaves a bitter aftertaste in your mouth.

Soon, the gloomy castle walls give way to a blue sky and a tapestry of half-finished grandeur. In the heart of the castle garden, stone fountains stand dry, awaiting water from nearby springs. Marble statues, veiled in white sheets to protect them from the weather, loom like silent ghosts among freshly turned soil. The air smells of damp earth and fragrant flowers, all evidence of the lavish restoration set to complete just in time for the King of Asgard’s arrival in your kingdom.

You step gingerly over a pile of bricks, spotting your older brother, the Crown Prince, leaning against a wheelbarrow as though he were a commoner. His own entourage stands not too far behind. 

“Tell me, Brother,” you begin, “is this your grand contribution to Mother’s vision? Supervising that pile of gravel?”

The Crown Prince straightens with faux offense. “Supervising is an art, Dear Sister. Someone has to ensure the gravel does not rebel and pose a threat to the kingdom.”

You laugh heartily, bumping his shoulder with yours as you claim a place next to him. “You are doing a fine job, truly. That gravel has not moved an inch.”

“Your mockery wounds me.” 

The two of you stand in silence as you watch the bustling scene before your eyes. Gardeners and laborers alike scamper to set up flower beds and plant various shades of gardenias, roses, and hyacinths. The garden is a long way from what your mother, the Queen, has surely envisioned, but you know without a doubt that by the time the Asgardian royal court arrives at the castle, this garden would rival even the legendary courtyards of far-off kingdoms.

A moment passes before the Crown Prince speaks, “I heard chatter from the servant quarters. Is it true? About Sir Barnes and Sir Smith’s daughter?”

“Words do travel fast in this place,” you ponder. “And yet, I always seem to be the last one to come upon them.”

“I am afraid that is entirely on you, Sister. If only you would accept my invitation to visit the kitchen every once in a while.”

“And watch you make eyes with every young scullery maid on the staff? I would rather surrender my soul to the Gods.”

“I shall let you know, they are wonderful companies, perhaps even better than the Gods.” You chastise your brother with a roll of your eyes. “But earnestly, how are you feeling?”

“About what?”

“Sir Barnes. The engagement rumors.”

Your chest burns. “I fail to understand what the correlation between the rumors and my feelings is, Brother.”

“You know very well what the correlation is!” your brother exclaims incredulously. “You may be able to fool everyone else, Sister, but you cannot fool me. I was there. I have watched you and Sir Barnes since we were all children. Back when he was still Jamie to you, and you were—”

“Stop.” The edge of your voice shatters like ceramics on stones. It takes every part of your being to stop your hands from trembling, to keep your limbs upright when all your body desires is to crumble into pieces above the damp soil under your feet. “What are you doing?”

“Sister—”

“I am to be married in a month, Brother. The King of Asgard himself is preparing to journey to our kingdom as we speak. You know what this matrimony means for us, for the future of our people. I have a responsibility to ensure this union, or have you forgotten?”

The line on your brother's jaw tenses. He casts his eyes on a faraway speckle beyond the clouds. “You chastise me of responsibilities, Sister, when I know all too well about it. It is my whole life. Our whole lives. I am not asking you to escape your duties. We are not the sort of people who possess such luxury. I am merely asking you to be honest with yourself, to listen to your heart for once.” The Crown Prince turns to you and takes a deep breath. “You have the rest of your life to be the Queen of Asgard. You do not have to live it full of regrets.”

Your brother gives a comforting squeeze around your shoulder before leaving the castle garden with his entourage. In his absence, his words echo louder in your head, forcing you to ponder whether his advice actually holds any avail.

Lady Brunhilde moves leisurely throughout the library, perusing the towering shelves filled with rare books and ancient scriptures. You sit at the head of the long table in the center of the room, pen in hand, working through the list of questions on Asgardian political affairs that she has prepared. Across the way, she plucks a tome from the Astronomy section, idly flipping through the pages before settling against one of the window nooks, where the sunlight catches the metal plates of her armor, sending fleeting glimmers all across the room.

You were first introduced to Lady Brunhilde two winters past, several weeks after the wedding date was ordained. She is an apprentice of the Valkyrie—Asgard’s elite order of warrior-maidens—stationed in your kingdom alongside her instructor at the residence of the Asgardian ambassador. It was King Thor himself—your betrothed—who appointed her four months ago to school you in the knowledge of Asgardian laws and politics. Before Lady Brunhilde, a governess was sent to teach the subject of Asgardian science and health, while the previous one was responsible for handling the subject of Asgardian history, culture, and arts.

Moments pass, and you find yourself staring out of the window as Lady Brunhilde examines your work. From this vantage in the library, you have an unobstructed view of the field just outside the castle walls. The distance has rendered people into the size of grains, but you can still make out the shapes of children playing and running on the grass, their laughter lost to the wind. The sight tugs at both your lips and your heartstrings.

“Twenty for twenty,” Lady Brunhilde announces at last, closing your work parchment with a satisfied nod. “Not too bad, Your Highness. At this rate, we may well have our final lesson by week’s end.”

“You speak nonsense, Lady Brunhilde.” You shake your head, though the teasing lilt in your voice stammers. “I still need you here, at least until His Majesty himself sets foot in our humble kingdom.”

“Not too long from now, then.”

You bite your bottom lip and look away, refocusing on the children playing a ball game on the distant field. The reminder that your wedding is fast approaching has your heart galloping faster than your beloved horse, Sparrow. You pray to the Gods in heaven that Lady Brunhilde does not notice your unease.

“I shall take my leave, then,” Lady Brunhilde declares. “I will see you tomorrow, Your Highness.”

“Thank you for today, Lady Brunhilde.”

The guards at the entrance push open the heavy doors, allowing Lady Brunhilde to pass through. One of them follows to escort her out of the castle, leaving you alone with the remaining knight. You recognize the young man beneath the armor—Peter Parker is his name. Knighted only last month, he spent years as a squire under Sir Anthony Stark, a general within your father’s army. 

“You.” Arising from your seat, you surround the long table to approach the young knight. “Sir Parker, is it?”

“It is, Your Highness.”

“Relay a message to everyone—I will not be dining with my family tonight. I shall remain here, in the library, and I am not to be disturbed,” you proclaim. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

The doors close softly behind him, and at last, you breathe a sigh of relief. Your shoulders are ten pounds lighter, and the hush that settles over the library is a balm to the searing pain in your temples. Moments of solitude are very few and far between in your world, and the rare times they do come, you make sure to use it to your full advantage.

Accompanied by one book after another, you let time slip away until the sky outside dims into a dark abyss cluttered with stars. Your nose remains buried in a tale of forbidden love—of a sailor entranced by a mythical siren—when a sudden knock shatters the silence in the room. Before you can instruct them to come in, the doors swing open, revealing the tall, handsome figure that has been clouding your mind for the better part of the day.

“Your Highness.” Sir Barnes inclines his head in greeting.

It has been no more than a day since you last saw him, and yet, the sight of James Barnes right in front of your eyes—so near yet so unreachable—arouses something in the depth of your chest. Your heart calls out to him. Your fingers, as if possessed by their own will, ache to trace the lines of his face, the freckles scattered like constellations across his skin. In a perfect world, you would have taken him straight into your arms the moment he stepped into the library. In a perfect world, you would tell him that you missed him, that you are glad he has returned to your side.

Unfortunately, this is not one of those perfect worlds.

“I have not seen you today,” you murmur.

“I had personal matters to attend to, Your Highness. My sincerest apologies.”

The book in your lap closes with a dull thud. You set it atop the towering pile on the table, rising to your feet to snuff out the candles you lit up earlier. 

“Is it true, then? About you and Sir Smith’s daughter?” Without the candles’ flame, half of the room is now encompassed in darkness. You angle your face towards the moon outside, chasing for its light. “Are you going to marry her?”

A silence stretches between the two of you, ponderous and unyielding. You brace yourself as you turn back, staring at the statuesque man whose face is now swallowed by the darkness. There is no way of discerning what emotions he is wearing on his countenance—what he is thinking. Then again, James Barnes is not exactly a man who wears his heart proudly out of his sleeves.

“Princess—” his voice is thick, heavy, “—I have come to escort you to the dining room.”

“I informed Sir Parker that I would not be dining tonight.”

“Your family is expecting you.”

A humorless laugh escapes your chest. With every echo of your step, you erase the distance between you and Sir Barnes, close enough until you can make out his sculpted jawline despite the darkness. “I shall be retiring to my chambers. Do not follow me. That is an order.”

The castle hallways fly in a blur as you rush out of the library. The spring wind flickers against your skin, guiding you through the maze of corridors that forge your home. You take the grand staircase in a careless sprint, each step barely landing beneath you, until at last, your foot misses one altogether.

You have fallen down these stairs once before, when you were but fifteen. The injury kept you in bed for half of summer. It was easily the longest, most agonizing several weeks you ever spent in your entire life.

As your body tenses, you prepare yourself to suffer the same fate once more—only to find the impact never comes. Instead, your feet remain planted on solid ground, your hands hanging onto something sturdy, clutching for dear life. Your breath catches as your eyes lock with another pair in blue, dark in the center but light as the ocean as they expand. Sir Barnes is gazing at you in fervent, his arms tightly secured around your waist, studying your face in an unreadable intensity that sets your pulse ablaze.

You wrench yourself from Sir Barnes’ embrace with a firm shove towards his chest. “What do you think you are doing?” He stumbles back two paces, drawing that maddening distance between the two of you once more. “I ordered you not to follow me.”

“Apologies, Your Highness, but I cannot do that,” he mutters, eyes fixed upon the ground. “My duty is to ensure your safety. In order to do that, I must remain by your side. Always.”

A scathing scoff escapes your lips, cutting through the stillness of the night. "Duty? Is that what you call it?” 

Sir Barnes stiffens, but you press forward, unwilling to let him slip away behind his armor of stoicism. "You speak of duty as if it binds you to me, as if it dictates your every move. And yet, you were gone for the better part of the day. Absent. Unaccounted for." He remains silent, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps I should ask again. Were you truly occupied with personal matters, or were you simply tending to more pressing obligations? Such as, say, securing a future with Sir Smith’s daughter?"

You regret the accusation the moment it flees your lips. It tastes sharp and acrid, laced with something bitter and dangerous. Fingers curl into your palms, sharp nails branding crescent moons into your skin. You struggle to understand this anger—where it stemmed from, why it was there in the first place. It froths inside you at the sight of James Barnes, at the image of him together with the young and beautiful Dolores Smith.

The weight of Sir Barnes’ stare anchors you in place, his silence louder than any retort he could have given. The tension between you thickens, stretching taut like a bowstring on the verge of snapping.

And yet, he does not snap.

Instead, after a long, unbearable pause, he exhales. "What would you have me do? Tell me, Your Highness. How can I make amends?" His gaze never wavers, piercing through the darkness and the venomous red consuming your thoughts. "Tell me what I must do, so that you might find it within yourself to forgive me."

Your breath stutters, but before you can summon a reply, he adds, "I will do anything, Your Highness. Anything, save for leaving you. Not today, not tomorrow. Not ever."

He takes a step closer. Not enough to touch, but enough for you to feel the gravity of his presence, to sense the warmth radiating from him despite the chill of the evening. “I swore an oath to protect you. Not only to the King and to the kingdom, but also to myself,” he utters, soft and careful, as if reciting a sacred vow. “I will always keep you safe, even if it means standing where I am not wanted.”

The silence that follows is nearly suffocating. But underneath the thickness, it conveys a great deal of unspoken admissions. Things you do not dare name, things that sparkle in the profound blue of his eyes. His oath lingers in the air, tethering you to a truth that you never asked to bear. And despite the frustration and the confusion, you feel the formidable wall around your heart beginning to wane, its sharp edges softening.

Your lips part, the beginnings of a response forming. “James—”

A crash. A resounding, erupting boom.

Somewhere in the distance, people are screaming.

You blink.

The distant shouting is increasing in magnitude, although their cries have mangled with the shrieks of something eerily similar to metals being torn apart. It doesn't register immediately. It’s too far and too foreign. Something that does not belong here, in the safe haven you call home.

Then, the walls tremble.

Your stomach plunges as a low, daunting vibration rattles through the stone beneath your feet. Chandeliers sway above your head. A tremor jolts through the castle’s bones following a faraway explosion, deafening and shuddering, as real as if it has originated inside your own bloodstreams.

The realization hits you like a lightning strike. 

This is not some misheard noise or some late-night disturbance that will be dealt with by the guards. This is real.

The castle is under attack.

Before you can form a single word on the tip of your tongue, Sir Barnes is already moving. His expression has darkened, his stance shifting instantly into something solid and unrelenting. He grabs your wrist, not harshly, but with unshakable purpose.

"Stay close,” he adjures.

You do not resist, not because you understand, but because your body is moving without your mind’s consent. You stumble after him as he navigates the halls with urgent precision. Shouts ring from left and right, north and south, somewhere beyond and inside the corridors. Footsteps, too many of them, thunder against the ground. The pungent scent of smoke slithers into the air, creeping into your lungs like a deadly poison eager to take claim of your life.

Your mind struggles to catch up.

This is home. These halls, these walls—they were the silent witnesses of your journey since birth. You know every crevice, every nook and cranny, every secret alcove where you once hid from your governess as a child. This place has always been a sanctuary, a fortress untouchable by the outside world.

And yet, there is fire.

Yet, there are screams.

Yet, your feet are racing over the stone floor, the thumping of your heart loud and erratic as your body shrivels under the clutches of fear.

A gasp tears from your throat, and suddenly, the simple act of breathing has become a chore. The walls are closing in. The corridors are too long. The air reeks of fumes and the rotting smell of death. A phantom shackle wreaths itself around your ankles, locking your body and halting your steps. Sir Barnes notices your lack of movement and stops, so abruptly that you nearly collide into him.

"Breathe," he orders, his voice as stern as it is calm. "We do not have time for this. Look at me."

You try to follow his command, but the world around you is tilting and morphing into something entirely incomprehensible. You claw at the curve of your neck, yanking at the invisible garrote that seems to have expelled the air straight out of your lungs. The voice inside your head is screaming, crying out for help, begging to be let out of this heinous nightmare.

Before your legs can give out, you finally feel it—warmth.

Sir Barnes’ hands are pressed against each side of your face. They offer solace to your icy cold skin, sturdy and rough from years of labor and exertion.

"Listen to me," he says, pinning you in place with the resolute look in his eyes. "You are safe. I am right here, and I will not let anything happen to you. But you need to breathe, and you need to move. Do you understand?”

You squeeze your eyes shut, silently giving him a meek nod.

"Good. Now follow me. In," he instructs, taking a long breath before exhaling, "and out."

You force yourself to comply. In and out. Breathe in, and then breathe out. It’s not perfect, not nearly enough to settle the storm raging inside you, but it’s enough to finally make you move. 

Sir Barnes does not waste another second. He guides you towards a particular section on the wall where he presses a specific stone before twisting one of the wall lanterns to an angle, triggering the hidden mechanism. The wall splits with a groan, revealing a narrow passageway devoured in a total state of darkness.

"Inside," he commands.

The secret passageway smells of dust and humidity. Something brushes your arm as you enter, possibly a cobweb or a bug, but you are too distracted by the ringing in your skull to care. It is quieter here once Sir Barnes seals the entrance, even if the rumble persists throughout the walls and the ground. With his sword drawn at his side, he leads you deeper into the hidden passage, traversing the path with only the help of the small lantern in his hand. 

Eternity seemingly passes before the exit finally appears. Sir Barnes pushes the concealed door ajar using his shoulder, just enough for you to slip through. You hurriedly sprint past him to chase the outside air, only to regret it soon enough when the horrific scene that greets you promptly stops you dead in your tracks.

Flames lick at the edges of the courtyard, lighting up against the night sky in streaks of gold and red. Soldiers clash, the clang of metal against metal as their swords strike one another. Shadows weave between the chaos—some friend, some foe, all indistinguishable amidst the madness.

"We have to keep moving,” Sir Barnes avers. His strong fingers around your wrist are the only thing keeping you from slipping into another bout of panic.

The two of you glide along the edge of the battle, tethering yourself to the shadows where every inch of movement is shrouded by the night. A few paces ahead, you see the stable looming through the thick haze. You dart inside without thinking, every part of your body trembling as you gravely reach for support around a wooden beam. Behind you, Sir Barnes is locking the entrance, keeping the stench of blood and combat safely out of the perimeter.

“Sister?”

The familiar sound of your name echoes throughout the vicinity. You whip your head, seeing your brother emerge from the dark corner of the stable with Sir Steve Rogers, his royal guard, standing by his side. 

“Brother,” you croak out.

The Crown Prince wastes no time to pull you into his embrace. He scans your entire body once he withdraws, shoulders deflating in relief when he ensures that every part of you is unharmed.

“We don’t have much time,” Sir Roger interjects. “The northern gate is compromised. We need to take the southern course through the woods.”

“The woods?” you repeat. Immediately, worry gnaws at you. The woods are not for the faint of heart, with its treacherous terrain full of thick undergrowth and uneven paths. There is a reason why they have become the setting of many spooky fables in your kingdom.

“It is our only option,” your brother affirms. “The main roads will be crawling with enemies. We will not stand a chance.”

As you nod, Sir Barnes works quickly. He leads Sparrow and his own horse out of their stalls, tightening the saddles and securing the reins on each of them. “We ride fast and keep to the shadows,” he proclaims, grazing his fingertips with yours as he hands you the reins.

“Wait.” You stop in your tracks and turn to your brother. “Mother and Father?”

Your brother stills. 

The stable is eerily quiet save for the distant screams beyond the castle walls. You watch your brother’s throat bob as he swallows hard, his grip tightening around his sword.

“I don’t know,” he admits, voice thick with restraint. “We were separated in the Great Hall. I tried to go back, but the enemy was closing in. I don't even know if they—”

He stops himself.

The ground beneath you sways as a rush of horror and disbelief surges through you. As much as you want to bury yourself hiding from it, you know that you cannot afford to do so right now. Instead, you take a deep breath, mount your horse, and turn to your brother, “We will find them. I will look for them myself.”

The Crown Prince nods, placing his reassuring hand on top of yours. “We will find them,” he repeats, squeezing your hand with determination. “But first, you must get yourself to safety.”

Moments later, you find yourself riding into the night, plunging into the depth and darkness of the forest. The sounds of battle keep fading behind as the surrounding trees extend higher, their skeletal branches scratching at the sky. The four of you ride in silence, every passing hoofbeat a reminder of the urgency pressing against your ribs. Sir Barnes leads, your brother close behind, with Sir Rogers taking up the rear.

Just as you are about to let out a relieved breath, something suddenly catches your attention.

A snap.

The sound of a branch breaking underneath deliberate footsteps.

Sir Barnes pulls his horse to a sudden halt. Your pulse hammers uncontrollably in your throat as you follow behind, trying to listen for something beneath the eerie stretch of silence that surrounds the group.

Right in front of you, the Crown Prince curses under his breath. “We’re being followed.”

Sir Rogers draws his sword. “What do you want us to do, Your Highness?”

Your brother stops to think. When he finally makes a decision, it’s one that makes your heart drop in horror. “I will stay behind,” he declares. “Sir Rogers and I will hold them off.”

“What?” You twist in your saddle to face him. “No! Absolutely not!”

“Listen to me,” he instructs, reaching for your hand. “If they catch us now, none of us will make it out alive. But if we split up, you will have a chance.”

“I’m not leaving you!”

“You must.” He squeezes your hand, and for the first time since this night began, his expression softens around a rueful smile. “I’ll come find you, Sister. I promise.”

“Please—”

Your voice is lost around a stifled sob, but your brother is already releasing his grip around your hand, not giving you a chance to protest, to persuade him to rethink his decision. You watch helplessly as he angles his horse towards the direction of the castle, his sword drawn and ready at his side. 

Before he rides off, he casts one final look at Sir Barnes. “Take care of her,” your brother commands.

“With my life,” Sir Barnes avows.

The next thing you know, you are being spurred forward, further away from your brother and the battle that will decide his fate. All you can do is look back, watching as his figure grows smaller in the darkness, until the thick cover of the forest finally swallows him whole.

[moomoorare]

click for better quality? tumblr loves to compress images worse than dudes repressing gay urges

Art I made for my second work in the Scales of Fate au (Blood In The Wine) featuring The Ocean Queen and her new knights Dame Gem, Lady Pearl and Earl Cleo 🌊💗

[moonknightblog]

Marc Spector used to be Freeze, now Fight.

Steven Grant used to be Flight, now Fight.

Jake Lockley is always Fight.

[fleebites]

PREORDERS NOW OPEN!!📢

✨ 14 may - 21 may ✨

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- size S-2XL available

- unisex cotton tee, soft & comfy

- high quality silkscreen inks with metallic gold, printed in USA

⁃size chart in store listing

⁃machine wash & dry (details in listing)

⁃ships in early july

check it out and pls tell your friends 💕

👉👉👉 fleebites.storenvy.com

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

also …. i have so many fics to read i’m sorry i’m so slow </33333 in my defense i think i probably need a service dog of some kind

[jxst-jada]

Disney Fairies Fancast 🧚🏽‍♀️✨

Brec Bassinger as Tinkerbell

(I liked Yara Shahidi's performance as Tinkerbell, and wouldn't mind if she came back as the character)

Minnie Mills as Silvermist

Maia Reficco as Fawn

Bebe Wood as Rosetta

Anjelika Washington as Iridessa

Lilimar as Vidia

[doshi-sukiru]

I want nothing but her from this update

[tikiss]

Happy nonbinary day to all of us

[abyssalaquarist00]

also sorry yall when i first started darkest dungeon i did Not like reynauld wjat do you mean hes a CRUSADER

[fawniswriting]

Dagger and Thread

Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

This is Chapter 03 of the Faithfully Yours series.

The above image does not indicate the reader’s physical appearance.

Summary: Your journey continues, though multiple unexpected hindrances force you and Sir Barnes to keep changing course. After one of you finds yourself in trouble, an intimate moment is shared.

Word Count: 5800-ish

Warning(s): historical royal AU. forbidden love (princess x knight/royal guard). slowburn. fake marriage. talks of war and occupation. profanities. degrading nicknames. threats of bodily harm. physical assault. violence. blood and injury. possibly an incorrect medical procedure for treating a wound.

Hi lovelies! Here's the third chapter of Faithfully Yours, as promised xx Idk why I'm not feeling this one as I did the first two chapters, but I've done my best and this is exactly where I always intended the story to go, sooo oh well. Please comment, like, and reblog to support, thank youu!

The entire town of Maltea is brimming with shops and street stalls. A vibrant maze of wooden stands and makeshift carts line either side of the town’s main road, where merchants call out their wares in competing voices, their cries mingling with the chatter of townsfolk haggling over dyed linen, fresh produce, and trinkets of silver and brass. 

You ride slowly through the mass of people, evading children as they dart between stalls, their hands sticky with honeyed pastries. Behind you, Sir Barnes follows. Although you cannot see him from your position at the lead, the weight of his stare swelters on the back of your neck, his vigilant eyes ensuring your safety at every moment in time. It takes a substantial amount of strength for you to ignore his intimidating presence, especially considering what has transpired between the two of you this morning.

This morning.

After you finished breakfast, you left the room in search of Sir Barnes, telling him to have his meal while you went to explore the vicinity of the inn. When you returned from your morning stroll, Sir Barnes was waiting for you at the inn’s entrance, your belongings all packed and secured to the saddles, ready for the road.

There has not been a single utterance about the incident. 

As you now traverse through the streets of Maltea, you figure out that it’s for the best. The journey ahead of you is long, possibly even more demanding than what you have endured thus far. The last thing you need is to tarnish the air with unnecessary tension. Some things are better left unsaid, and you are more than happy to let this particular one fester without ever seeing the light of day.

Tugging on the reins, you slow Sparrow to a stop when you spot a jewelry shop on the side of the road. Sir Barnes dismounts and takes Sparrow from your hand, securing both horses as you tell him, “I will be right back.”

The metallic smell of brass welcomes you as soon as you walk into the shop. An elderly man rises to his feet upon your entrance, smiling in greetings although it ends up looking more like a sneer.

“Welcome, My Lady! How may I help you today? Are you looking for anything in particular? I have a necklace that will suit you just fine. Or do you prefer something for your hair? A brooch, perhaps?”

The man’s eagerness tugs a smile in the corner of your lips. Approaching closer, you drop the pouch of jewelry on the counter where it lands with a soft thud, eliciting a curious arch of the man’s eyebrow.

“Actually, I was looking to sell these.”

Skepticism flickers across the shopkeeper’s face as he pulls the pouch closer. With methodical hands, he loosens the strings and empties its content onto the counter. A cascade of glinting gold and precious stones spills forth, each piece a relic of the life you left behind.

“I will need to inspect everything first,” the man says, already reaching for a magnifying glass.

“You are welcome to.”

You wait in silence as he studies each piece, tilting them towards the light, scrutinizing the cut of every gem and the craftsmanship of every clasp. Eventually, he puts the magnifying glass down, finding your expectant gaze as he informs, “I will give you fifty gold for everything.”

Your stomach folds. “Fifty?” 

Your gaze sweeps over the array of jewelry spread across the counter. These pieces are not mere trinkets; they are echoes of your past, tokens that once held whispers of love, legacy, and home. Parting with them is already an ache deep within your ribs, but to have their worth so carelessly reduced to a sum that barely scratches their value makes something inside you twist and splinter.

“Are you certain you cannot offer a higher price?” you ask. “I assure you, these jewels are worth a lot more than what you suggest. Each piece is one of a kind.”

The man shrugs, his expression indifferent. “Take it or leave it.”

“Please, Sir—”

“It’s fifty gold. No more, no less.”

“Sir, if you would only—”

“If you do not like the price, you may take your business elsewhere.” The shopkeeper scoops all of the jewelry back into the pouch and shoves it into your hands. He waves a dismissive palm, his gesture coarse and final. “Out with you, then! Get on, Lady, out!”

“But, Sir—”

“Is everything alright?”

The sudden voice startles you. Turning around, you lock eyes with Sir Barnes, his gaze flicking back and forth between you and the shopkeeper, face darkening as he takes in the situation.

“Who the hell are you?” the shopkeeper snaps.

Sir Barnes steps forward, positioning himself as a shield between you and the angry merchant. “I’m her husband.”

Your heart stumbles. For the briefest of moments, his choice of words have caught you off guard, until you remember that he is only maintaining the charade that you both have promised to uphold for the remainder of this journey.

“Is there a problem here, my love?” 

The words roll from his tongue so effortlessly, yet he barely casts you a glance as he utters them. Heat coils within your chest. You wonder how often he gets the chance to use the term of endearment for it to have fallen from his lips as easily as breathing. Your heart craves to hear it again, to have him call you with no other name but my love for as long as time should allow.

Clearing your throat, you summon your composure, willing your voice to steady before answering, “Everything is alright. I was just asking the kind gentleman if he might consider his offer for the jewelry.”

“And I have told you, I shall give you fifty or nothing at all!” the shopkeeper screeches.

Before you can muster a response, Sir Barnes takes the pouch of jewelry from your grasp, and approaches the old man with slow, deliberate strides. The wooden floor creaks beneath the weight of his steps, each footfall measured and resounding. The shopkeeper—older, shorter, and frailer—instinctively shrinks back as your knight looms before him, the broad expanse of his shoulders casting an imposing shadow across the counter. 

“Everything in this pouch is worth no less than three-hundred gold,” Sir Barnes says, his voice a quiet rumble through the room. “Offering us a mere fifty is beyond insult. It is theft. Surely, you do not mean to cheat us, do you?”

The shopkeeper swallows hard, his fingers twitching atop the counter. His gaze flickers between the pouch and Sir Barnes’ face, confidence crumbling beneath the weight of your guard’s presence. “I will pay one-hundred for everything.”

“Two-hundred,” Sir Barnes counters.

“One-hundred fifty.” 

“Did you fail to hear me? I said two-hundred.”

“One-eighty,” the man sputters. “It’s my final offer. I cannot go higher.”

Sir Barnes turns to you, the faintest hint of amusement curving at the corner of his lips. “Very well. You have a deal.”

The shopkeeper collects the pouch with a tremble in his fingers, storing the jewelry safely inside a worn wooden chest. He refills the pouch with gold coins before returning it to Sir Barnes who proceeds to quietly count the sum.

“Are you folks just passing through?” the old man suddenly asks, his voice still fraying with remnants of fright.

“We are,” you respond. “We plan to journey west towards the Kingdom of Asgard.”

The shopkeeper frowns. “You are heading for Asgard? Are you certain?”

The shopkeeper’s brows knit together, his fingers hovering hesitantly in front of him. Sir Barnes stiffens at his position by the counter, sensing the shift in the air as acutely as you do.

“Yes,” you say carefully, your heart quickening. “Is there a reason we should not be?”

The man exhales sharply, shaking his head as if struggling to find the right words to say. When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, edged with something that sounds eerily similar to sorrow.

“My Lady…” His gaze flickers between you and Sir Barnes, hesitant and unsure. “Have you not heard? Asgard has fallen.”

The words hit like a strike of iron against stone. 

You blink, convinced that your ears must have played a trick on you somehow.

“What?” The question barely makes it past your lips.

The shopkeeper leans in, dropping his voice into a low murmur. “The Titan Empire has seized it. Emperor Thanos has taken Asgard, just as he did Sokovia. And just last week, he conquered a kingdom in the north.”

The blood in your veins turns to ice. The kingdom in the north—your kingdom.

Sir Barnes is the first to react. “When?” His voice is grave, heavy, but the simmer of tension beneath is not entirely lost on you.

“We received word about Asgard a fortnight past. When our routine shipment of medicines from Sokovia failed to arrive, we knew that the land had suffered the same fate,” the shopkeeper replies. “The Titan banners now hang over the castle in the northern kingdom.”

A chill runs down your spine, cold and merciless. You know your kingdom has fallen. You saw it burn, heard the cries of your people swallowed by the night. But to learn that Asgard has suffered the same fate—your sole chance of salvation now lost to the flames—makes your stomach churn in dread.

You and Sir Barnes leave the jewelry shop in grim silence. For the first time in days, you are unsure of what the next course of action should be. Asgard was the plan, your only hope of survival, and now when that path is no longer available for you to traverse, you do not have the slightest clue on how to move forward. 

Sir Barnes helps you mount Sparrow, the quietness stretching as the two of you cruise the length of Maltea’s main road. 

“We can continue heading south,” he propounds.

You spare him a glance, exhaustion suddenly wearing down your bones. “Where, Barnes? We need a destination. We cannot possibly spend the rest of our lives on the run.”

Your mind spins under the heat of the sun, the noises of the city scrambling your head into mush. You attempt to rummage your brain for a solution, a place where you and Sir Barnes can seek support and asylum. But in these dire times, uncertainty is your greatest enemy, and without knowing which nations are friend or foe, every potential decision threatens to push your life at stake.

A squealing child runs past, your body staggering as you swerve Sparrow out of the impending crash.

The movement nearly jerks you off your horse, but before you can fall to the ground, Sir Barnes is at your side. His strong hand encircles your waist, offering a formidable support as he repositions you atop the saddle. 

“We should take a rest, Your Highness,” Sir Barnes suggests. Your mouth parts in the beginning of a refusal, but he cuts you off with a singular, urgent word, “Please.”

You allow him to lead you towards a more deserted part of the path, making sure that the large tree would provide the two of you with ample shade. He fastens the reins of both horses to a branch once you dismount, handing you a jug of water as you sit down against the tree trunk.

Closing your eyes, you welcome the bustling symphony of Maltea to wash over your being. Somewhere in the distance, a butcher’s cleaver thuds rhythmically against his worn wooden block. A bard strums his lute near the town square, his melody nearly swallowed by the clamor of bartering and the distant clang of a blacksmith’s hammer forging steel into shape. Each thread of sounds dulls the chaos floundering in your head, a brief respite from the trepidation eating at your bones. 

Above the low rumble of the town, Sir Barnes’ voice emits, “There is a land across the Southern Sea, people call it La Sarvas City. They claim it is a safe haven for people who have nowhere else to turn to.”

“La Sarvas City?” Your head lifts. “I thought that place was a myth.”

“Most believe it is, but myths are not born without at least a fraction of truth,” Sir Barnes proclaims. “We can travel south, find people who are willing to guide us there. Someone is bound to know the way, ones who have tread the path we have yet to walk.”

“And if we do not find it?” Your voice quivers. “If it is nothing more than a fable whispered to comfort the lost, what happens then?”

“Then we will find another path.”

A wry sigh falls from your lips, and from the low droop of your shoulders, Sir Barnes knows you are not yet assured. 

“Your Highness.” His voice is gentle, placating. 

Sir Barnes takes several calculated strides forward, stepping over a protruding root on the ground before stooping down on one knee, right next to where you are sitting. His eyes shine with invincible conviction as he declares, “Even if La Sarvas is nothing more than a tale whispered in the wind, I will find a way, no matter where fate leads us. I will see to it that you are safe, that you have what you need.” He exhales, his gaze lingering. “I will take care of you with everything I have. We can build a new life together, you and I.”

Your breath catches. 

You and I.

The words settle deep within your bones, threading through the cracks left by loss and grief. Something about the way Sir Barnes made that utterance—the weight of his voice, the quiet determination—compels your blood to simmer through your veins. He speaks as if he has already made the choice for himself, as if no force in the world could sway him otherwise.

The space between you feels impossibly small, every ticking moment a disruption to the fragile balance of your bond, something that does not necessarily fit in the hierarchical relation between a princess and her subject. Sir Barnes swallows, his fingers flexing at his sides as if holding back the urge to reach forward—to reach for you. The proximity alone is enough to sear your skin.

But then, before you can muster a response, something flutters across Sir Barnes’ face. He straightens back almost imperceptibly, as if rolling away from the edge of a precipice, and murmurs, “After all, I must uphold the vow I made to your brother.” 

The moment splinters.

You bite your lip in an attempt to hide the disappointment that is gnawing at your throat. In front of you, Sir Barnes rises to his feet, darting towards the horses as though it burns him to be in your immediate vicinity. His earlier declaration echoes in your mind, stubborn and loud, forcing you to wonder if any of his words held any extent of sincerity.

For the following days, you and Sir Barnes continue to travel south. The coins you earned from selling your jewelry are stowed safely inside the pouch attached to your kirtle. So far, they have been more than enough to sustain you both—securing warm meals, lodging for two at each night’s rest, and new kirtles laced at the front rather than the back.

As you now depart from yet another stop at a small village in the middle of nowhere, you brace yourself for the journey ahead. With each clatter of hooves, the village begins to shrink out of view, giving way to enormous trees and dirt roads that seemingly stretch for miles. If your estimations prove true, the two of you should reach the Southern Coast in no more than two fortnights. There, you will be able to secure passage across the Southern Sea, where the voyage will hopefully carry you to the enigmatic city of La Sarvas.

The surrounding woods grow denser with each perch you travel, the scent of damp earth thickening in the air. As the sun glides further west, the clouds overhead slowly darken in shade, unfurling a sheet of gray over the delicate streaks of sunlight.

“Barnes, wait.” You pull at the reins to slow Sparrow down to a halt, feeling an urgent discomfort pressing at your lower belly. The jug of water you downed earlier seemingly has found its way through your system far too quickly. “I need to excuse myself for a moment.”

Sir Barnes scans your entire surroundings. “You must not stray too far. I’ll be right here.”

You weave through the thick cover of underbush until you are out of sight, the forest humming with distant chirps of unseen creatures. You manage to finish your business in a timely manner, turning around to retrace the path that will reunite you once again with Sir Barnes.

But before you can take another step, something shifts.

A breeze stirs the branches overhead, yet the rustling you hear is different. It is deliberate, too heavy to be mistaken as a wild hare, taking shape in the form of an unknown presence lurking just beyond the trees. Your pulse kicks up, breath hitching as your fingers curl instinctively at your sides. The silence that follows is deafening, an unnatural hush settling over the forest as if the very earth under your feet is withholding its breath.

The realization crashes into you like the first plunge into freezing water—you are not alone.

Before you can react, a rough hand clamps over your mouth.

“Not a sound, whore,” he snarls.

Between the strange man’s obscene choice of words and the stench coming off his body, you cannot decide which one makes you recoil the most. You struggle against the hand across your rib cage, attempting to escape his hold, but the man only presses harder until your lungs constrict around a choked breath.

“I said, quiet,” he hisses. “If you still want to live, hand over your coin and jewels. Now.”

Your pulse thrums in dread. With a tremoring rate, your hand glides downward, reaching for the pouch dangling at your hip. The man’s breath is hot against your cheek, smelling of cheap ale and something acrid. You shut your eyes in repulsion as your fingers finally grab ahold of the pouch, reaching for the bundles of coins inside.

You went through a great sacrifice to acquire these coins.

With such a thought in mind, you release your fingers from the pouch and summon every last bit of strength flowing in your bones, thrashing and twisting your body with frantic desperation. His hold loosens just enough for you to drive an elbow into his ribs. A startled grunt escapes him, and in that fleeting moment of freedom, you throw yourself forward, stumbling out of his reach.

“Help! Help me! Barnes!” you cry, your voice ringing through the trees, raw with fear and urgency. “James, help!”

You do not get a chance to go far, barely dashing two paces forth before the man grabs you back into his arms, this time with a force that gives you no room for escape. Before your eyes, the rustling of trees soon give way to despairing footsteps, and relief instantly falls from your lips once Sir Barnes emerges from the thick cover of trees, his toned chest heaving as his fingers curl around the handle of his sword. 

However, your relief proves to be short-lived when you feel it—the press of a blade digging against your side.

“Do not come closer,” the man behind you warns, piercing the dagger deeper until you feel the fabric of your kirtle surrender underneath. “You take a step closer, and I will plunge this blade straight into her.”

The line on Sir Barnes’ forehead tenses, his eyes darkening. “You are making a grave mistake. Let her go, or I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Skewer me?” The man laughs. “Not unless you want her to bleed first.”

Sir Barnes’ entire form trembles with fury, his grip flexing around the hilt of his sword. “If you harm her, I promise you—you won’t leave these woods alive.”

Your guard takes a step forward, but the bandit jerks you tighter against him, forcing the blade deeper until you can feel its prickly edge cutting your skin. You visibly wince, making Sir Barnes halt instantly in place.

Your pulse drums wildly in your ears, drowning out the hum of the other noises in the forest. The air is thick, stifling, every second stretching sickeningly as the steel at your waist presses closer. You catch the flicker of something dark in Sir Barnes' eyes—rage, fear, or something else entirely. The tension in his shoulders coil like a predator ready to strike. But he does not move, his body refusing to leap forth for a reckless attack that could potentially put your life at risk.

And in that moment, you decide that you have had enough.

With a muffled groan, you grapple inside the man’s rough arms, flailing your limbs around and hitting his body wherever you can reach. The bandit refuses to let you go just as easily and retaliate with the same ferocity. You can feel his nails digging into your skin, his arms pressing vigorously as if he will break every inch of bones in your body. Summoning a guttural scream, you channel all of your strength forward, wrenching yourself free at last.

In all of the mayhem and confusion, your pouch of coins drops to the ground.

Your heart is hammering wildly as you stumble forward, sucking in a deep breath. Sir Barnes is at your side in the blink of an eye, catching your frame before your face can plummet against the earth. You watch as the bandit swipes the coin pouch and runs, his figure immediately disappearing into the dense cover of the forest. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Sir Barnes asks when you start wriggling in his arms, tightening his hold until you are unable to slip free.

Although his harshness is startling, you brush it off and exclaim, “He has the coins, Barnes! We cannot let him get away. We have to catch him!”

“No, we do not. Princess, listen to me. Hey!” Suddenly, Sir Barnes turns you in his arms, grasping your shoulders and forcing you to look into his eyes. “By the blood of Christ, will you stop?!”

The air halts in your throat. In all of the years you have known him, never—not even once—has Sir Barnes spoken to you in such a way, with such a crass choice of words. Your mind hurls, stunned by the sheer force of his voice, your face contorting in irritation. You are a breath away from demanding an explanation for his behavior when something stops you in your tracks.

His face.

Gone is the stoic, strapping knight you have come to rely on. In his place stands a man with a composure completely shattered, replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated terror. His lips part ever so slightly, as if to speak, to utter something, but no sound ever seems to come through.

When he finally does find his voice, it shudders, raw and helpless.

“You’re bleeding.”

The words barely make sense at first. 

Bleeding? No, that cannot be right. The bandit’s dagger barely even touched you. How can you be bleeding?

Then, you feel it.

A slow, creeping warmth that spreads across your ribs, seeping into the fabric of your dress. A dull ache pulses beneath your skin, growing sharper by each inhale of breath, as if your body is only now registering that it has been wounded. When you lower your gaze, your kirtle—once an unremarkable, muted gray—is darkening. The stain spreads outward in uneven tendrils, a deep, menacing red blooming against the cloth like ink spilled upon parchment.

Oh.

The realization looms over your head in an intolerable weight, and the pain—by Gods, the pain—strikes you all at once. It claws on your side like a tiger mauling its prey, heinous and unforgiving, pumping the air right out of your lungs. A fog of haze descends upon your brain, shrouding your vision and clarity, dulling the other senses until the only thing your body is able to feel is agony.

Underneath you, your knees buckle, forcing you to desperately clutch at Sir Barnes’ shirt to remain standing. His arms are around you in an instant, his presence steadying, although his breathing—ragged and trembling—is anything but.

Your vision begins to blur. In front of you, Sir Barnes’ face, taut with panic and helplessness, has started to melt. You try to say something, to tell him that everything is fine, that you are fine and that nothing will happen; but the lie never reaches your lips. Instead, all that escapes is a single, fragile whisper of his name.

“James.”

Before you can inhale another breath, the world dims to dark.

Every single night until you were five, your father never failed to soothe you to sleep. 

Despite his duties—the pressing obligations he must bear as the head of your kingdom—your father rarely missed a single moment of bedtime. A few sparse minutes was all he could give, but it was a few sparse minutes that you looked forward to each day of your childhood. He would visit your chambers with his whole entourage, still clad in his formal attire, and he would sit on the bed to recite stories and legends of far-off kingdoms. Meanwhile, his hands would encompass your much smaller one, never letting go until he was sure you had succumbed to the depths of slumber.

As your body stirs, the warmth that is currently surrounding your hand reminds you a tad too much of the times when you were little. You instinctively grip it tighter, letting the warmth sink deeper into your skin. 

“Princess?”

Blurry lights dance in your vision once you flutter your eyes open, your neck turning to see Sir Barnes kneeling by your side. His broad frame is tense, his face drawn in exhaustion. His eyes, a raging storm at sea, never stray far from your wandering gaze.

Blinking past the haze, your eyes find the wooden ceilings above, its beams weathered with age. Slowly, they begin to roam, taking in the modest space of your surroundings—the rough-hewn stone walls, the two rickety chairs in the center of the room, and the table bearing an assortment of unfamiliar belongings between them. The air is thick with dust, the kind that lingers untouched for years, seemingly forgotten in time.

“Where are we?” you croak out.

“Someone’s cabin. It looks to have been abandoned for months,” Sir Barnes replies.

Then, your gaze lowers.

Sir Barnes moves faster than the shift of your eyes, retracting his hands as if flamed. It is only then that you realize the warmth that has been encircling your hand is him, and now without his own hands on top of yours, your fingers contract in grief.

You move to rise, but a sharp sting immediately attacks your abdomen. Sir Barnes is quick, taking your shoulders and gently maneuvering you down on your back.

“You would do well to keep still,” he advises. “We do not wish for your wound to worsen any further.”

With that, the memories of the incident flood your brain—the memory of how you were stabbed. In the middle of your scuffle, the bandit in the woods had thrusted his knife into you, moments before he disappeared into the forest like a shadow shrouded by the night.

Once the memory is intact, a wretched gasp escapes your lips. “Barnes, the coins—”

“Should be the least of your concerns right now,” Sir Barnes interrupts, his jaw tightening.

You move to protest, but a sharp hissing noise draws your attention away from him. Your gaze ambles towards the hearth, where a pot of water has begun to boil, steam curling toward the rafters of the small cabin. The soft crackle of firewood fills the silence, broken only by the quiet rustle of Sir Barnes rising to his feet.

You shift slightly, attempting to sit up, only for a fierce, searing pain to lance through your side. A strangled breath catches in your throat as you press a trembling hand over your wound. Beneath your fingertips, you feel the damp fabric pressed against your dress, a strip of linen torn from Sir Barnes’ own shirt, its once pristine weave now soaked through with crimson.

It does not take long for Sir Barnes to return, carrying a small bundle of cloth—a clean shirt, by the looks of it—a pot of cold water, along with a needle and a spool of thread, still faintly gleaming from their recent submersion in the boiling water. He frowns in disapproval when he catches you struggling to remain upright.

“I told you to stop moving about,” he mutters, setting his things down onto a makeshift table with an audible thud.

“What are these for?”

Sir Barnes reaches for the needle and thread. “I need to close your wound.”

The needle glints ominously in the dim firelight, the mere sight of it is enough to send a shiver down your spine. Your throat tightens. “You have done this before?”

Sir Barnes’ forehead furrows. He does not look at you when he answers, “Not on a woman.”

There is a weight in his words, one that presses against your ribs like a phantom force. You realize, with a strange clarity, that this is a man who has seen much bloodshed, who has mended the wounds of his fellow soldiers on the battlefield, yet still hesitates now, as though the very thought of causing you pain unsettles him.

“Where did you even manage to find these items?”

“I found the needle on that table over there—” he gestures towards the center of the room, “—and the thread, I pulled from my shirt.”

“This one?” You lift the bundle of fabric Sir Barnes brought, flinching when the movement inevitably tugs at your injury. Your eyes inspect the line where the thread has been pulled, a conspicuous snag nearly fraying the fabric apart. “The shirt is ruined. I do not think you shall be able to wear it from now on.”

“Frankly, Your Highness, I care very little about whether or not I can wear a bloody shirt.” 

Sir Barnes finishes threading the needle with a practiced hand, his fingers deft despite their size. The firelight casts long shadows over his face, sharpening the severity of his features as he turns his gaze back to you. 

“I need to inspect your wound before I stitch it,” he says, his throat bobbing with the weight of his words. “The dress—” he hesitates for a fleeting moment, “—I have to tear it.”

A shiver bolts down your spine, though whether from anticipation or the chill creeping through the air, you cannot be certain. All you can do is give Sir Barnes a tentative nod, fingers tightening around the bundle of his ruined shirt in your lap. 

Your guard moves in silence, evading your eyes completely as he hooks his fingers beneath the torn fabric at your waist. The cabin is deathly silent, save for the faint, slow rip of linen as it gives way beneath his hands. His fingertips brush your side, barely there, but it is enough to send your heart stumbling in its rhythm. He is careful in the most unbearable way, as though you are something fragile and sacred, a rare gemstone in need of the most precious and attentive care.

You know he is merely going out of his way to tend to your unfortunate injury, and yet, a traitorous heat blooms in your cheeks. You wonder if he, too, feels the same pull, the searing intimacy that crackles between you like fire on dry wood.

“This will hurt,” Sir Barnes warns, his voice hesitant and sheer. “I need you to bite down on something.”

Wordlessly, you lift the shirt in your lap and clamp your teeth down on the fabric. The scent of Sir Barnes still lingers there, something akin to leather and steel, the faintest trace of musk that obliges you to briefly shut your eyes in its embrace.

Meanwhile, Sir Barnes takes the pot of cooled, boiled water, his knuckles white and tense around the handle. His jaw locks as he finds your eyes. “I am sorry.”

With a deep breath, he tips the pot, allowing the water to pour over your open wound.

Blinding, searing pain is all you can feel. An agonized whine rips from your throat, your body jolting violently as your hands scramble for support around the sheets beneath you. The pain is unlike anything you have ever felt, cruel and ravenous as it burns through your side, and for a moment, you swear your vision blurs at the edges.

Through the haze of your suffering, you catch a glimpse of Sir Barnes’ face. His expression is stricken, mouth set in a hard line, eyes burning with something raw and wretched as if he feels every bit of your pain himself. His hand trembles as he presses a clean cloth to your wound, staunching the blood from spilling too freely.

“I know,” he says hoarsely, his free hand finding your arm, grounding you to earth. Grounding himself. “I know it hurts. Just a little longer, Princess.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, biting down harder on the shirt until your jaw aches. The pain does not subside. If anything, it only multiplies in magnitude when Sir Barnes finally pierces the needle through your skin, stitching the wound close. You lose perception of how long the torment lasts, your mind already slipping in and out of consciousness by the time Sir Barnes secures the suture with a knot. His eyes storm with pain and concern when he finally lifts his gaze to yours.

“It is done now, Princess. You did so well,” he murmurs, voice rough and fractured as if seeing you in such torment has done irreparable damage to his sanity.

Sir Barnes pries the shirt from your hands, his own impossibly tender as they run along the length of your arm, soothing away what he cannot take from you. His palm lands on your cheek, and for the first time in your agonized haze, you realize that you have been crying. Silent tears slip down your skin, only to be wiped away by the rough pad of his unbearably gentle thumb. He does not speak at first, only whispers quiet reassurances between each swipe, as if willing your pain to lessen by the force of his voice alone.

“You must rest,” he suggests after a while, noticing the way your eyelids flutter, too heavy to keep open for much longer. “Come, lie down. I shall help you.”

You do not resist as he guides you back against the mattress, tucking the blanket securely around your trembling form. His hand lingers at your face, fingers brushing stray hairs from your eyes with a tenderness that threatens to undo you entirely. When he moves to pull away, you stop him, your weakened grip encircling his wrist, the last shred of consciousness ushering a single word past your lips.

“Stay.”

His breath stills.

"Always," he murmurs.

As you let yourself drift further towards the darkness, the last thing you feel is the warmth of Sir Barnes’ presence looming beside you.

Taglist: @corawithfanfiction @hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall @greatenthusiasttidalwave @yikesdrama @sleepysongbirdsings @lumoschildextra

[pupkou]

hi knight! i’ve been seeing all your restaurant polls and was wondering out of all the ones you’ve listed, which is your favourite? :)

hi sweet fawn!!! my favorite place out of all the ones i’ve listed is jimmy john’s!!! it’s special to me because my mom is a teacher and she and i used to get it together during summer break <3 and the vito sandwich is extra delicious when you ask for extra oil and vinegar + pickle chips + a pickle with a coke <333

second place was olive garden because i love their fettuccine alfredo with crispy chicken and broccoli ………….

thank you for asking <3333333 what’s yours? 💛

[katherinehillierillustration]

Belated Inktober day day 23; a fawn knight.

Went into Redwall mode for this and it was FUN, also I like to draw ribbons a lot.

Using the prompts FAWN from foresttober23 and KNIGHT from hartober

[lazaruspiss]

girl help hes not wearing protection!!!

[lively-run-away]

and here is the white piece set! this set was the first i finished so i spent a bit longer on the details of these characters even though they'd be the size of an eraser. surprisingly the tweedles were the hardest for me to design. the characters from right to left: white queen, white king AND unicorn, the tweedles, white knight, the sheep, alice AND the gnat, haigha and the hatta.