#Medieval avengers

[vikwrites]

" DAEMONUIUM " - Tony Stark

Chapter Summary ➣ The Fall of Stark Castle. Pairing ➣ Fallen Prince!Tony Stark x Reader Word Count ➣ 611 words Chapter Warnings ➣ Medieval! AU, Slow Burn, Violence, Major Character Death. Author's Notes ➣ An idea by @welldonekhushi, a bit different to what I usually write, next chapter will hopefully provide more context. Thank you to my lovely beta reader @nicoline1998enilocin <3

Prologue - Overture

The rope felt rough against the Prince’s neck.

Tapestries of silk, once proudly displaying the kingdom’s colours and emblems, have been shredded from their rods, some burnt into meagre piles of ash; the rest torn by the passage of time and faded by the harsh sun. 

The throne, once a shining beacon in the grand hall, now stands in solitude. Its layers of gold leaf have been stripped away, revealing the cold iron underneath. The brilliant gemstones that adorned its surface have been pillaged and looted, leaving only empty settings behind. The rows of stained glass windows, each depicting a moment of the kingdom's triumphs, are now shattered, their intricate designs marred into shards. 

The peasants stormed the palace. They came in hordes of near thousands, pitchforks and flames in hand. The grand doors splintered under their force, crashing open to reveal the opulent corridors within. The echoes of their cries reverberated off the stone walls as they surged forward, a seething mass of defiance against the monarchy. The nobles, once standing proud and untouchable, now cowered in their gilded chambers, the unfortunate ones having been slaughtered in cold blood.

The same could not be said for the Prince. For he ran, like a swift wind through every nook and cranny of the castle — up twisting stairwells, down spiralling towers — the peasant’s voices like cries of the damned — the walls quaking with emancipated rage, like the first leak in the wall of a dam, forewarning that nothing could hold for long. His patterned robe dragged upon the floor, stained red with blue blood.

His legs could only carry him so far; he found himself perched at the edge of the turret, overlooking the dark horizon and the sheer drop into the ocean below, the waves crashing against the splintered rocks. He could hear the peasants’ voices as they approached, drawing closer by the second. It dawned on him that death was not a matter of when, but how.

“ There he is, ”  — fear became a tangible, living force, creeping over his figure like some ravenous beast, holding him in a standstill — “ Seize him! ” 

The Prince was bound; not by silver shackles or golden chains, but by simple rope. He was marched like cattle out of the palace gates, being put on as a barbaric display of irreverence; a sovereign turned laughing stock in the span of a night. The peasants scrambled like rats, just for the chance to witness the spectacle. 

Amidst the crackling of bonfires and the scorching heat. His body trembled with cold, but his mind burned with anger — with memories of the firelight still drifting like phantoms in his brain. 

Tears fall from the Prince’s eyes. They meander down his cheeks. 

That fateful second before the floorboards dropped, the Prince pondered if he had anything left to save in death.  He stands in solitude on the gallows. While the Cardinal recited blessings in Latin, the words in the people’s mouths were nothing but curses, laced with vitriol and the name of the Devil, lashing out like a bitten and cornered dog, condemning him to the deepest rings of Hell.

The creak of the floorboards, the roar of the crowd — these were among the last things he would hear before he died. His eyes did not bear remorse; instead, they held shame, to be stripped from the high chambers of the castle and reduced to the same fate as a lowly outlaw. 

What he’d give to be a young prince again, adorned with jewels and veneration — now he’s traded in his necklace for a noose — 

The Prince took his last few straggling breaths, and the floor gave way beneath him.

⎊ back to masterlist

[steveandbuckysdaughter]

Personal review regarding what if…? season 2 episode 8 (spoilers)

No ok, I must admit, the episode was good in some aspects.

Wanda was majestic. Loki and Scott were hilarious and I loved every single moment with them.

Thor was amazing, dark and serious out of loss but still enjoyable, and the crumbs of his relationship with Hela were very nice.

I’ve actually liked Tony for the very first time in my life, probably because I tend to like him a lot more in AUs and fanfictions than I do in the normal timeline.

And then… there were those two.

I will never comprehend why marvel wants Steve to be so dependent on Peggy. And I will never comprehend why, to make him interact with her, they have to destroy or sideline every other relationship he has built, or make his character flat.

Bucky being friends with Scott was amazing, but the fact that him and Steve interacted like two times was extremely disappointing. You’d expect “best friends in every universe”, if you dislike the romantic pairing so much, to acknowledge themselves for more than a few scenes, in only one of which they’re in frame together (Bucky was literally 😐 while his best friend disappeared, come on now).

And the storyline about Peggy coming from another world to save the universe was just… Mbah. It could’ve been executed in another way without including her and it still would have made sense. It really feels like a Y/N insert.

Seeing literally any other character was so good, so fun, and they had to ruin it this way, making Peggy once again the self insert and girlboss she didn’t need to be.

Plus, forgive my constant complaining, but it’s extremely infuriating how all of Steve’s friends were eliminated to put the focus solely on Peggy. Where’s Sam? Where’s Nat? Where’s Clint? It’s not an underrated friendship we’re talking about, a big chunk of the fandom loves the cap quartet or team cap, and after civil war it would have been nice to see them interact, especially after its popularity and popular demand. Outlaw team cap would have been glorious, a good chance to bring back many characters who aren’t here anymore in the right way, and involve characters that are rarely involved in What if in the storyline, for a change.

The treatment of Sam in this series particularly angers me, and even more so in this episode. I understand not involving him in other storylines, but Sam was a big part of CATWS and he wasn’t even in the episode centered on that film. What, because Steve met him while running he can’t be introduced in any other way? And oh, there’s no excuse for this episode. If there was one episode they could have placed Sam in, it was this one. Sam was there in infinity war, where the mess happened, and he should have been with the other avengers in this one.

If marvel wanted to involve someone from another universe so bad, it should have been a Captain America Sam from another universe. Can you imagine the poetry of seeing Steve and Nat again after endgame? Can you imagine having closure with them both, and having fun in the process? It would have been so great.

Another great storyline without involving characters from other universes would have been one where Steve, who touched the time stone, accidentally brought everyone in the past, and he was the only one to remember it. And to go back and prevent everyone’s distraction, he had to recruit the avengers, who don’t know him and don’t trust him but that in the end become his friends and companions. It would have been so interesting to see the original avengers involved in something different from being some side characters or extras in the one woman show that seems to be What if, constantly centered around the same bland, one dimensional reimagined side character. Peggy’s blandness is so obvious in these episodes (aside for some random remarks that made me smile) that literally everyone who’s involved directly with her must be bland like her, otherwise risking to overshadow her.

I don’t think I was supposed to cringe and look away as much as I did during Steggy’s forced scenes, but I did. If they had to force Steggy and Peggy down our throats, at least they could have done something different from the same bland and boring storyline as always. I wouldn’t be as mad as I am now if Peggy and Steve’s relationship wasn’t as bland. I would have preferred an enemies to lovers type of twist or change, where Steve doesn’t trust Peggy and struggles with her because he sees in her a different version of the Peggy that died in that universe. But noooo, god forbid, let’s go with the same old song.

An episode five or ten minutes longer with a better, avengers-centric or Steve-centric storyline would have been much better than what we got.

And given that this was my most anticipated episode, I was very disappointed by it. I hope for the next seasons, if there’s other ones, Marvel will listen to the general complaint regarding Peggy and will give her a break. I don’t think any of the original avengers or relevant MCU characters made as much appearances as Peggy, and being a main focus in four episodes out of nine is ridiculous.

[foxgloveprincess]

Hi! I'm obsessed with your Avengers Pantheon stuff... I thought I'd check on Steve and Bucky today... How are they and their captive lil pet doing?

Thank you so much! Steve and Bucky are doing quite well. Their pet? She’s adapting.

A Little Ficlet for Another Taste of Devouring Rush

Warnings: Dark (Soft Dark Stucky), Medieval(ish) AU, Polytheistic/Pagan Beliefs, Mythology, Yandere Behavior, Obsession, Possessiveness, Endless Hallways, Invisible Servants, Captivity (she calls them her masters), Dubious Consent, Smut (Vaginal Penetration, Nipple Play, suggestion of Somnophilia), Innocence Kink, Pet Names (sweet, blossom). Minors do not interact (18+).

What is morning when the sun and moon don’t rise upon the horizon? Without time, I cannot know for how long I’ve been kept. From the moment I wake to the moment I sleep, my life stretches endlessly. 

I rise from the cushion of my bed. No ache, no pain. Only memories illuminated in my mind’s eye, finding their brethren in previous passions. My masters, the Righteous Captain and the Freed Soldier, meticulous in their endeavor of pleasure. Three bodies joining over and over in writhing lust and satisfaction. My purity plundered. Drunk on joy, lust, bliss. A divine communion of worship and reverence shared between mouths and tongues and bodies. Until I succumb to exhaustion and the cycle begins again like the seasons. 

My feet weave a path about columns, naked body no shame. My previous life in The Broken Beast dispelled me of such notions long ago. But now, as I wander, phantom hands drape silk over my frame. A luxurious fabric unblemished by the touch of mortal man. 

The servants covering my modesty spirits upon the breeze. Invisible to the eye, yet attentive to my every step, providing anything required by my whims or their judgement. They clothe me in fine garments, a protection of my virtue. They provide a tray of food and drink upon a small table, an offering for my strength. My indulgence their design. 

I sigh and turn down another corridor. However time passes in the Land Beyond, I spend it wandering the halls of the vast castle of my masters. Every inch of space bedecked in opulence, art and offerings dazzling the eye. To think of my attempt to appeal to them, a simple sachet full of herbs, a shard of glass and a pebble, so paltry in comparison. When true masterpieces line their walls and stretch to the highest heights. Beyond what the eye can see and hidden by clouds. No ceiling to limit the display of grandeur and beauty. 

My fingers pluck a morsel from a tray, a bite of boar dripping with black sauce. Another bite passes my lips before I continue on, weaving through familiar passageways and exploring my grand prison. Kept inside, I do not even know whether anything exists without. The crash of the river upon its shore my only indication of something beyond these walls. 

With a turn down another passage and another, I pick up a new piece of boar to consume. My fingers stick with the sweet, spiced sauce left by my grazing. An echo of my name floats upon a breeze. A kiss of wind brushes against my cheek as I turn to greet my caller. A hand wraps about my wrist and draws me back. 

I fall against a sturdy chest. Plush lips wrap about my sticky fingers. A hum rumbles in their throat. 

“Hello, my sweet,” Steve greets from behind. My head turns to return the address, his shoulder leaning against the wall. A smile tilts his lips, his form relaxed and hands upon his belt. My other master, James, holds me in the cradle of his arms, tongue dancing over my fingertips. 

The Soldier pulls back, releasing my wrist to let my hand fall limp at my side. “We missed you.” 

“Did you miss us?” Steve asks, prompting a reply in their favor. 

“Of course,” I demure. My bones engrained with the graces of my training. I spin to greet James readily, wrapping my arms about his neck and cooing sweetly as he buries his face in the crook of mine. “I was trying to bide my time by searching for the gardens.”

The affection borne of our lingering connection, unable to stifle my true feelings toward the lords behind the curtain, the men before me now. Still my captors, murderers. Swept away by them, forced to abandon my family for their safety. Everything falling to their feet, nothing restrained. A mistake, Melinda once said, not to keep something for myself. I thought myself unable to forgive them their many crimes. Until I did.

Steve stalks forward, pushing away from the wall, and tucks a finger beneath my chin to meet my eye. 

“Gardens?” 

“Or perhaps the riverside?” I continue on smooth, dulcet tones, “with all the beauty surrounding you here, I only thought it might be just as lovely.”

“There’s nothing for you outside our walls,” James grumbles against my skin. His arms pressing tighter, a remonstrance. 

“What he means,” Steve says at the mournful tilt of my brow and the hitch of my breath, “is that outside our home, we cannot protect you. You would be vulnerable to any passing beast.” 

“Oh.” The sound whooshes past my lips on a disappointed sigh. “I understand.” 

Steve’s lips capture mine, an indulgent kiss. I sink into him, knees weak from his attentions. He pulls a breath away to suggest, “Let us take your mind away from such distracting thoughts.” 

His whisper shivers down my spine and ignites fiery passion between my thighs. The lick of temptation leaving me defenseless against them. I meet the Captain’s piercing gaze and nod. Ready, as ever, to yield to their insatiable appetites. 

James entwines his fingers with mine, palms kissing as he leads me down the hallway. Around only one corner, and we stand before my room. The corridors twisting and reforming to hasten our trek. Miraculous and astounding.

The door stands open. Just as I left it. Lace and the thinnest gossamer draped from the ceiling. Cushions line the floor. Colorful lanterns sparkle above. A fanciful world imitating the nights I sat behind my curtain enticing the eye of suitors, my virginity Aida’s prized gem. 

Kisses trail over my neck and shoulders. Two sets of lips forging their own paths across my flesh. I seek their touches in turn. Fingers carding through hair and soft sounds spilling past my lips. The fabric covering my frame puddling on the floor. Whisked away from my feet by phantom hands. 

My masters lead me to my bed, guiding my body to recline upon the plush cushion. Their devotion floods my body until I drown. The pinching pain of my deflowering forgotten in the heady rush that consumes. Their love an endless wave that does not recede. Their touch a scorching fire. 

Sweat dots my skin. Lips parted on hungry breaths. Eyelids fluttering with euphoria. Steve parts me around his glorious cock and fills me to my limit. James’s hands plucking at the tender buds of my breasts. I moan and writhe between their bodies. Flush with their warmth. Defiled and debauched, exhaustion tickles at the border of my consciousness. My nails bite into their flesh, dragging myself away from the tempting precipice of slumber. 

“Rest,” Steve croons into my ear, a kiss trailing my cheekbone to my lips. His hips continuing their exquisite drive. 

My head tips back, another wave of ecstasy rushing through my veins. I choke on a gasping cry. Hips bucking in tandem with those plundering my body. 

“We will tend to you as you sleep, dear blossom,” James promises. 

His sweet words lull me deep into the darkness. My eyes close and I nestle into their embrace. Their hands and lips and pleasure continuing, even as I am lost to them. A new cycle dawning in my eternal existence.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

By the King’s Hand🐍XIX

Masterlist

Warnings: noncon/rape, violence/death, trauma, allusions to torture, gaslighting, pregnancy, birth, sickness, cheating.

This is dark!fic and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you. 18+ only.

Summary: Your isolation brings you close to disaster.

Note: I know it’s been a while. I forgot I even worked on this chapter so I figured I’d share with you before I start catching up on my slumber party.

Thank you. Love you guys!

As always, I would appreciate any feedback you have. Please reblog if you can and send an ask if you feel up to it. Love you all! Have a good day and take care of yourselves.

Vali babbled at the wooden figure of a knight gifted to him by Hal. The child was bright-eyed despite his infancy, he was pensive and observant, much like his father. The reminders of his sire irked you at times and worried you at others. You hoped he was unlike either of you; kinder than Loki and smarter than you.

Whatever he was, you wanted him safe more than anything. The fixation on him, the need to have him close, confounded you. Perhaps it was that his was the only companionship you had aside from Birger’s periodic visits. Those grew less and less, more often you sat in your overdressed prison and listened to the low drone of life on the other side of the wall.

Sinthia was a frequent hum on the outside. You learned her voice and it piqued a strange curiosity, one born of monotone and isolation. Her words were obscured by the barrier between you but you tried to imagine those which would match her tone. How odd she never sounded angry with her husband when he so easily riled all others.

She must have been kind and patient. Maybe timid and obedient. Much the opposite of you. You, the uncouth and unrefined peasant, the mother of a bastard, the dirty secret hidden in the closet.

That morning, the king and queen spoke rather loudly over the clink of dishes. They supped as your stomach growled wantingly. You would have to wait until the chamber was empty to break your fast. You had only the lukewarm wine to sate your hunger and it did little but set a burn in your gut.

The longer you were trapped in this chamber, the more forgotten you felt. Hal was busy with his duties as squire and you would not keep him from those. Birger only came upon necessity, and the king did not acknowledge you upon his visits. Only his child. You had nothing to say to him as it were, not since he reminded you of your worth.

You took out the bundle of paper hidden in the desk against the far wall. You were out of practice but remembered all the letters. Piecing them together was harder but distracted you from the listless solitary. You made little progress without Hal to guide you and Vali cried as soon as you found a semblance of comprehension.

Frustrated, you took the baby from his basket and out him to feed. You felt like cattle, there to be milked and kept waiting for the trough. The child was restless and fussed as you tried to latch him. The conversation without lulled as Vali began to bluster.

You cooed and shifted him in your arms, rocking him as you tried to calm him before he could erupt. You moved him to your nipple and smothered his displeasure with your tit. He drank, slipping several times as you tried to keep him suckling.

The sudden dearth of sound worried you. You no longer heard Loki’s silty deep timbre or Sinthia’s lilted responses. Perhaps the king had noticed the stirring and quickly distracted his queen. A cunning snake, ever he was.

Vali detached again and let out a horrid wail. You hushed him and turned, swaying him as you coaxed him. 

“Please, my baby,” you begged. These fits grew more often, more frustrating. All alone, your patience dwindled and your temper piqued. You loved the child, you did, but you felt clueless at how to handle him, “please, be quiet. You cannot be loud.”

He didn’t obey. How could he when he did not understand. You cradled his head, caressing him with your fingertips, “please, for your mother, be calm, be quiet,” you whispered to him, “listen to me Vall, my precious, listen, I was like you once. I was–”

He screamed and your ears ached, a pulsing at the base of your skull.

“Not very long ago. Before I met your father. I was unknowing. I was afraid. The fear remains, it is stronger now you are here, but I did not realise there were worse things than an empty belly or a sleepless night.”

You talked to him, you didn’t know why. Perhaps because you could not fathom what else to do. You paced with him in your arms.

“Before you were born, I was most scared. And now you are here… and that fear must be conquered–” You sighed and shook your head in exasperation, “I will tell you the story of me and your father. Not a romance, no princess and her bard.”

Your eyes welled as he only hollered louder, “I knew a girl, her name is Gilla, and I believed her to be my friend. Your father was being crowned. A king, but I was only a potter’s assistant. My uncle. Perhaps one day you can meet him. If ever a day I can leave these wretched walls.”

You hugged him to you and continued, “we climbed the Founder’s Tree. Fools, fools. And then we joined the feast for the peasants but Gilla snuck into the royal’s celebration and we were caught. Well, she ran faster than I, so truly, it was only me who was snared.

“The guards took me to a room–” You choked at the memory. It felt so long ago. That terror of the night returned to you, emotion you did not realise you still harboured for the occasion, “and I sat in the cold and waited. Your father came, and to be true, I did not expect him. Never expected to see the king so close, nor this. To hold his babe in my arms.

“I begged. It is what he wanted. It is what peasants like me must do. But you are a king’s son so take this story and learn from it. I begged and he took no mercy. And neither did I. I would not, for while I was poor and lowly, I had my pride. And I hope that you never let the same vice lead you to folly. Not as I or your father have.”

You stopped, realising the child was quiet. For how long, you could not say, so lost in your reveries that you did not notice. You smiled down at him and brought him closer. He squirmed and moved his lips as if to suck. You put him back to breast and let him feed.

Past the noise of his hunger, you heard something else. Something unsettling. A scratching at the other side of the wall. Then a clap, another, a knock which revealed the hollowness of the room. You stared, heart in your throat, at the door. That which could not be seen from the outside but which now shifted slightly from the investigation without.

You backed up until you hit the wall. You looked around, uncertain what to do. The panel that concealed the door jolted then pounded. Gods. You spun and held Vali close. You went to the tall armoire and opened the door. You crouched inside and kept the baby at your chest, adjusting him as you settled in the dark.

The slit between the doors offered a scant view of the chamber. The mechanism clicked and you held your breath. You felt Vali, his noisy feeding would give you away. But what could you do, if you stopped him, he would surely cry.

The long creak sent a shiver through you and the footfalls scuffed to a stop, a gasp punctuating it. You angled slightly as you saw the skirts ripple around careful steps. Around the child’s basket and the bed, pausing to look at the wooden knight.

The shadow loomed closer. Vali gurgled and you winced, embracing him as you waited for the inevitable. You knew it was her, but where was Loki?

She neared the wardrobe and you closed your eyes, cowering as you held Vali to you. You shielded him as the doors opened  and shakily raised your chin. You looked up at the woman. 

One could never mistake her for anything but what she was; a queen. Her amber skin and golden eyes shone brilliant beneath a head of thick, curly black locks. She had the stature and the height of her standing and her confusion was quickly shrouded behind the discipline of her crown.

She said nothing as she stared, as silent and dumbfounded as you. She looked at the child and dropped her hand from the door, retreating a step as she set her jaw. You shook and Vali began to whine again.

“Come,” she spoke at last, “there is some food left from our breakfast, you should eat so the child does not go hungry.”

Your lip trembled. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

“I am queen and presumably you are one of my subjects, so do not expect me to repeat myself,” she girded and backed away.

As she turned on her heel, you emerged from the armoire. You pet Vali’s head as he continued his discontent. You followed the queen through the door and entered the king’s chamber. She sat and poured herself wine.

You approached her and made a bow. She put the urn down and raised the cup before her mouth. You knew not what to say and didn’t dare to try.

“Sit and feed your child before he starts again,” she commanded, “and eat something. I do hate to see food go to waste.”

You felt the steel in her tone. Unbendable but dangerous. You did as she said and switched Vali to the other side. He latched again and you glanced over the table. You took a grape and bit into it sheepishly.

“Your majesty, Queen Sinthia, yes?”

“Yes,” she drank and set the cup flat, “how old is the child?”

You swallowed, “I am not certain, your majesty. I have no way of keeping time.”

She nodded and closed her eyes. Her hand lingered on her cup as her lips maintained a straight line.

“Then I suppose,” she smoothed her skirts over her lap, “we shall wait and get the answer from my husband.”

You lowered your head and watched Vali. You knew what bastards inherited. Only wariness and hostility. Especially from queens.

“I’m sorry,” you uttered.

“No,” she dismissed, “eat.”

🐍

The silence was torment. Worse than any elaborate monologue Loki exposed you to. The queen said nothing. Each time Vali babbled you felt worse and were quick to quiet him.

Sinthia, tall and graceful, paced. The only betrayal of her impatience. You rocked your son until he slept, thankful at least for that. He could rest as you languished in the stifling silence of her repressed rage. For what wife would not be livid?

From the hall you heard shuffling and the doors opened at the king's will. You went rigid as the queen faced him, shoulders set for battle. You slumped and stared down at Vali.

Loki let out an audible breath as his sole scuffed to a halt. The silence extended as he considered you. You squirmed in the chair as Sinthia abruptly stormed towards him. The smack of flesh on flesh brought your head up as you flinched. 

"My king, my husband," the queen snarled, "I've found your mistress."

Loki’s jaw ticked as his green eyes watched the wall. You saw the flicker of fury, the insult, the shock, but not an inkling of shame. He stiffly turned his head and blinked, long and slow.

"You will not strike me again," he ordered, restrained. If it were you, he’d have you bent and begging. "And you will gather yourself before we proceed."

"I will act as I please. You are king but you cannot wield power over my emotions," she hissed, "tell me not to be offended by your slights. We are hardly wed and you have a bastard–"

"Pray you can deliver a son with rights," he snapped tritely, "and you needn't worry for the whelp."

"My father did not betroth me to a second son to be treated as a second wife–"

Sinthia exclaimed as the king’s knuckles cracked off her cheek and sent her staggering. There it was. Queen or not, he was the king. You did not bring up the misfortune of his birth or the very thought of his disgraced brother.

You stood and swayed. With your child in your arms, you were paralysed. If it was just you, you might have the courage to act. Or perhaps that was the reasoning of a coward.

"Sit, mouse," he pointed at you with a long finger, "need I repeat myself that you are not to be involved in my marriage."

"I did not–"

"It was the child that gave you away," Sinthia cradled her cheek, "the product of your ill deeds."

"My child," Loki reared on her, "regardless of his mother, he is of my blood. I chose honour, I chose to care for him–"

"And how do you know that whore did not get the child by another–"

"You don't know so much as you think you do of me, I'm certain that's clearer to you now," he growled, "and less of this woman."

"I can see she is a commoner," the queen retorted.

"I wouldn't deny that."

"You will send her away."

"I will do as I please–"

"No, I am your wife, your queen, I will not have her in this city, let alone behind that very wall," her voice rose as she gestured to the open door, "and you will not touch me ag–"

She gurgled as Loki grabbed her by the throat. Your heart leapt and you rushed forward, an arm under Vali as you reached for Loki. That woman did not deserve to suffer for your misdeed. 

"I shall do whatever I deem necessary. You are my wife, you will obey, and you will not order me about like one of your servants," he barked.

"L– your majesty," you tugged on his sleeve, "please–"

"Back away, mouse. You've my child in your arms, that is your priority," he sneered.

"She is right, you should send me away–"

"You know nothing. Neither of you. Women. Do not presume to know what is best for me. My wife will mind her tongue and her temper," he swung her around and threw her against the wall, "and you will recall that you would be a dead whore without me."

"Your majesty, this cannot–"

"Another word and you will not see that child again. Not a soul as I would banish you back to the cell I dragged you out of. So go back into your chamber and be a good mother."

You glared at him, lip twitching in anger and fear.

"He is yours too, you wouldn't–"

"He needn't a mother to become a man," he grit out, "do not make me show you the way."

You gulped and peered down at your son. You had little doubt on Loki’s threats. He'd proven himself little different than the cruel king who had you lashed. You were nothing to him but a vessel that had born its fruit.

You lowered your head and retreated. Anything else would only make the circumstance worse. Not only for you, but the queen, and your child. Vali would have few enough friends in his lifetime.

"My queen, lift your skirts," he followed you as he tossed the order over his shoulder, "you desire a true husband, then act as wife."

He caught your arm and ushered you into the hidden room. You stumbled in, careful not to jostle Vali and faced the door as he slammed it. The child murmured and you quickly worked at settling him.

You hushed him as you heard Sinthia's angry tones. You stepped forward and angled your ear towards the panel. A shrill yipe followed and the scrape of wood, Loki’s snakish slither cutting through the air. 

There was more crashing, more shifting, and the battle of voices, both horrified and enraged. You put your hand over Vali's ear and pressed his other to your chest. He could no doubt hear your heart. Let it soothe him as you sit and listen to the consequence of your existence.

🐍

The king did not see you again for days. Nor did you hear Sinthia visit him in his chamber. He sent Birger to you to deliver food and what comfort the physician could offer. You ate and said little. And him the same.

Not until that day.

"The queen is aware of you."

"Did the king say so?" You wondered as Vali slept in his basket.

"I guessed it and he affirmed it," he intoned, "I advised him that you should be moved."

"You did?" You chewed on a chunk of dry cheese.

"I think it wise. Queen's are notoriously vengeful and this one is no different than most."

"Do you truly believe so?" You peeked over at the dozing babe.

"I've heard tales of her years as princess and most are well aware of her parentage."

"I am not," you counter and pull apart the thick crust from the puffy middle of a slice of bread.

"Ah, and what does a potter need know of queens," he shrugged, "her mother, Queen Lucinda, she has had… many husbands. The first she despised. A betrothal by obligation. Her father chose the prince himself. It is said Lucinda refused his bed until he petitioned for annulment. Her father was aghast and was henceforth found poisoned and the marriage dissolved."

"And Lucinda was the culprit?"

"So many whisper," he smiled at Vali as he twitched in his sleep. "The second husband, Sinthia's father, was her true love, so she claims, but he did not live in marital bliss very long. Two years and he was found dead at the bottom of a flight of stone steps. Some allege another had already claimed the queen's affections.

"Her third husband, the previously rumoured cad, married her but could not claim kinghood for his lowly birth. He lasted nine months and was executed for pinching a kitchen maid's bottom. The maid met the blade in turn as well."

"Perhaps Sinthia might not be so bad…by comparison."

"It is the nature of royalty. Which is why I made my suggestion."

"Hm," you grumbled, "and Lucinda, did she have many more husbands?" 

"I believe she's on seven now," he said, "but I may very well be a paranoid old man who has spent much too long among the spoiled and ruthless."

"And what did Loki say? When you suggested I go?"

"He did as all those who wear a title do. He did not listen," he rubbed his cheeks, "but I shall persist. Regardless of the mess he's made of his marriage, it is a cruel fate to be kept in such quarters. You and your son need sunlight."

"And would you come with us?"

"I don't know he would allow it, but who else could he trust?" He sighed, "and who else would you trust, dear?"

You smiled, a weak uncertain smile. 

"It mightn’t be so bad," you said, "if the queen has a son of her own–"

"Yours will still be a threat," he interrupted and placed a hand on the edge of the basket, "to be a bastard is ever dangerous."

“I know, I know,” you pet Vali’s head, “even if he only reminds me of his father, I can’t help but treasure him.”

“He needs one person in this world on his side. A bastard often only has his mother. Not his father. His father will expect him to become a noble, by the grace of his kingly breadth. To face a court full of vipers that hiss of his true origin,” Birger sighed, “he will need a thick skin, but more significantly, he will need you. The only person in this world he could ever be vulnerable to.”

You were silent as you watched the child. You couldn’t see him as a grown man, not yet. He was so tiny, so helpless.

“When he is called to court, I won’t be invited with him,” you met Birger’s eyes.

“You are the only person I’ve ever seen defy the king effectively. When the time comes, you will figure it out,” he girded, “but for now, keep the child close and safe with you. Whispers travel fast and the snakes coil in their dens. The king has many enemies and he is foolish to make one of his own wife.”

You nod and touch your stomach, a flurry of uncertainty nestled within, “Birger, good sir, you’ve saved my life many times, and I ask of you one last thing... I will protect this child to the death, if he is left alone, without me...”

“I would proudly steal him away and see him raised as you would have him. Not as the king’s pet or the queen’s donkey,” he avowed, leaning over to touch your hand, “the king does push away his allies. Myself included.”

[rusty-pincers]

Medieval Hawkeye VanCAF 2024 commission finished! Thanks to Daniel for the project. The hood was a bit of a gamble methinks ... 🏹

[theruffiansretrorampage]

art by Simon de THUILLIERES

[prismaiden]

but my duty must be done, even alone. ©

[rebelmeg]

are you still doing the WIP ask game? Because I want to know about King Tony and his Concubine Cuddle Puddle, because that is an awesome title and also Tony deserves all the cuddles. By way of payment, I will also post this challenge with my own WIP list. :D

OKAY BUT I'M ACTUALLY REAL EXCITED ABOUT THAT ONE! So I'm gonna spill all the deets.

It started with a tumblr post I saw about a king that hires a soldier to be his fake concubine and be his secret strategy guy. And it all just spiraled from there, especially when I saw a followup addition with Bucky being the concubine and teasing a concerned Steve about it.

Well, if Tony's the king, and Bucky's a concubine, but I don't actually ship them romantically, then CLEARLY Tony needs a whole HAREM of concubines. And since Pepperony is my flagship, all of a sudden we had a SECRET RELATIONSHIP.

So we have a wounded soldier Bucky, who joins King Tony's infamous harem that is chock-full of brilliant people, and nobody understands WHY all these amazing people left their previous lives to be the king's toy. And it's because they are his super secret council, brought on board specifically for their skill set, and with very clear instructions that their job is to help Tony rule the kingdom in the best way, with no personal gain influencing them behind the scenes.

Now that Tony has a huge harem full of beautiful people, none of which he sleeps with because he's in a secret relationship with his apparently lowly personal assistant Pepper, what DOES he do with them? Other than the business of running a kingdom, that is. Well, clearly there will have to be a lot of snuggling because Tony is very tactile, and I have always loved the idea of an Avengers cuddle pile, so here we are!

A secret and super skilled council that is disguised as a slutty harem, which nobody looks twice at, can definitely be used to get Tony out of stuff he doesn't wanna do, and with bonus cuddle puddles. And since my fics are always very thin on plot, we've just got a whole bunch of character-driven scenes about Bucky adjusting to this weirdness while his bestie Steve is worried about his life choices. There's this whole family of remarkable and scantily clad people that have King Tony's back and live their best lives doing what they love in between posing as Tony's current favorite toy.

And then I got obsessed with what they'd wear, and found all kinds of fun body jewelry, and gave everyone a color scheme, and then wings came into it. So we've got half-dressed, jewelry-wearing winged concubines hanging out in a luxurious area of the palace, secretly helping Tony run a kingdom, and everyone loves it. That's it, that's the fic.

Now enjoy a smattering of inspirational pictures!

Obviously for our one-armed Bucky! He's also gonna have a lot of leg jewelry because Thighs.

Nat likes to wear this when she needs to be a really excellent distraction, which works exactly as well as she intends.

Thor will absolutely wear a bejeweled loincloth and little else.

Bruce needs his hands and arms free for sciencey things, so he sticks with jewelry that is out of his way.

Clint's got THEM ARMS to show off.

Darcy is also there and knows EXACTLY which of her assets to show off.

I'm still assigning specific wings to specific people, but I know exactly what colors and patterns they all have! Tony is going to have HUGE red wings, something similar to a macaw, with the gold in there.

[manicr]

Dark Reign: Fantastic Four #2 (Earth-96433)

Writer: Jonathan Hickman

Art: Sean Chen

[deanpinterester]

functionally what's separating any ol movie about somebody with supernatural powers from superhero movies. if a medieval movie had a serf who accidentally had wizard powers bestowed upon them and they could fly and have lazer eyes and they save their village from the Big Grey Villain who turned evil after they fell into a vat of uhhh magical sludge, is that just a fantasy movie or does it count as a superhero movie

[qft]

From Avengers Forever #7 

A bunch of Steve Rogers. Including a dog and CapWolf.

Because I’m sad I didn’t know the week it came out (but have ordered it now). 

[foxgloveprincess]

My Heart is a Hollow Plain

Pairing: Pagan God Loki Laufeyson x Female Reader [First Person Narrator]

Summary: No one told you the price of living the life of which you’ve always dreamed.

Word Count: 6.1K

Warnings: UnBeta’d, Dark (Soft Dark), Medieval(ish) AU, Polytheistic/Pagan Beliefs, Gender Fluid Loki, Mythology, Dubious Consent (Non-Graphic Smut), Death, Yandere Vibes, Deals/Contract (oral), mentions of Servitude, Magic, Jealousy, Yearning, Possessiveness. Minors do not interact (18+).

A/N: Welcome back to the Avenger’s Pantheon. Here’s Loki’s story. If you’d like to check them out, there are stories for Tony (Drabble), Steve and Bucky, Dr. Strange, and the Maximoffs in this AU. Enjoy! 

Title from “Breath of Life” by Florence + the Machine

I love feedback, so go ahead and reblog if you want. However, I give no permission to copy, translate, rewrite or post my work on any third party website or app. Seeing my work posted anywhere beside my blog, my library blog, or my AO3 account (FoxglovePrincess) means it’s been stolen/plagiarized.

Please DO NOT click ‘Keep Reading’ if you are not 18+ years of age or if you are uncomfortable with the pairing, themes, dynamics, or warnings. You are responsible for your own media consumption. Thank you!

Candles flicker and drip. A cool breeze winds its way through the stones of the temple to circle my body. Knees aching, I complete my daily prayers and stand. I bow once more before the statue of the Widow and leave. 

The sun shines down on hills of gently dancing grasses. They brush along my fingers as I walk along the path leading to town. A cart passes with jugs of milk and wheels of cheese. I wave to the farmer and fall behind them. 

The market bustles, the cacophony drifting through the open air. I pause at the outskirts, bracing my mettle. Skirts clutched in my fists, I walk on. The crowd swallows me. Passersby jostle my shoulders and tread on my feet. Another body ignored. Quite invisible to those around me. 

My mother’s head sticks up above the rest, her hair piled atop her head and adding height to her figure. She laughs and chats with her customers, wrapping loaves of bread and sweets in a cloth for them. She always sneaks in something extra—a clever ploy to draw them back week after week to her stall. My father works behind her, hefting baskets of bread from our bakery to place for sale around her before disappearing inside again. Market days always bring us the most business. 

My name breaks through the noise. My mother’s hand in the air to beckon me closer. I raise mine in return and squeeze my way behind our table. She thrusts an apron to me and I tie it quickly about my waist. 

“You took too long with your prayers,” she chides. “Your sister’s had to go off to buy our cheese. Left me all alone.”

“Sorry, mother,” I reply, hands already working to count out coins for a customer. I look up to the handsome man and press a tentative smile. 

He bids my mother thanks and turns, figure disappearing into the crowd. No regard sent my way. The smile falls from my lips.

“Come along, then,” my mother says through the side of her mouth. “The morning’s just begun.” 

We sell out of bread and sweets just after the sun reaches its pinnacle in the sky. Temperance returns from her errands, picking up not only mother’s cheese but other necessities she knew we needed. Some candles, a few new jars, onions, carrots, and herbs. 

Father leaves to check his traps in the woods, hoping for a rabbit or even a squirrel. Mother begins to cook with what we have already. Her first seat taken after putting a pot over the fire to simmer. 

My sister leads me up to our rooms, above our bakery. Two straw mattresses laid on the floor, a thin wall separating us from our parents. My sister’s hand squeezes mine, a nervous tick. 

“I have news,” she says in a whisper. Our mother’s ears like those of a hound. Nothing escapes her. 

“What is it?” I ask in an equally quiet tone. 

“The gods have finally answered my prayers,” she whispers, almost forgetting herself with her excitement. 

I nod and prod her along with an inquisitive word or two. She leaves me waiting in suspense not one moment. 

“Matthew has proclaimed his love.” Her face beams so happy, I think it might crack like a delicate pot. “He wishes to marry me.”

I blink, stunned by such incredible news. My thoughts flit to my own prayers, left unheard by the gods. Loneliness my constant companion despite my yearning, my pleas, my offerings. 

Temperance clears her throat. I startle and blurt, “Congratulations, sister. I’m so happy for you.” 

Her smile dulls and she picks a piece of straw from within her mattress. “It does not seem it.”

“Of course I am,” I enthuse. “Mother and father will be, too.” I grasp her hand still in mine. 

“He says he will ask father for my hand any day now,” she says with a slight less fervor. 

“How wonderful,” I reply with the sunniest smile on my lips despite the torrent of jealousy swirling within my belly. “Your life has surely been blessed.”

She looks into my eyes. My younger sister always able to read my heart despite all my efforts to conceal it. Her hand squeezes mine. 

“The gods will bless you, too.”

My mother and father bake a grand cake for my sister and Matthew. Stacked at the top of the others, Temperance and her new husband barely manage to kiss over top it without all the cakes toppling. 

Our town fills the field behind our home with tables of food. As grand a feast as can be made. Roasted ducks and rabbits and boars, a dozen loaves of bread, jams and preserves, cooked vegetables galore—more food than I’ve ever seen in my life. I try each and every dish, despite the tuts from my mother’s tongue. My father drinks merrily, congratulations raining down upon him. 

The afternoon passes into the evening and mother bids me retire. I prepare for bed alone and sleep alone. The first time I have done so since my sister’s birth. My eyes meet the ceiling of our roof and I blink away tears. I don’t know why I’m crying, not exactly. Missing my sister, loneliness, jealousy. All three swirl through my head. 

I close my eyes and try to force myself to sleep—to little avail. Thoughts too loud in my head. Even as I hush them and focus. The creaks of my parents returning and the soothing night sounds just outside our window a boon, lulling me into rest. 

The day after Temperance’s wedding I awaken as early as I normally do. There are trenchers and loaves and buns to bake. But first, to pray and lay offerings. 

I take one of our lanterns and strike a flame outside our shop. Early morning light still slumbering behind the horizon. The familiar dirt of the road plods beneath my feet. The temple just outside of town upon our tallest hill. 

The steep climb challenges me in the low light. The trek back home always just a little easier. A cold breeze brushes past my shoulder. The flame flickers but does not falter. And neither do I. 

Mother and father always come to say their prayers after a hard day’s work. Yet I can’t begin my day without it. The darkness and solitude of the temple at this hour, it fills my soul. With the gods watching over just me for a moment, I feel seen. 

Under the oculus, the moon shines pale and dim. I keep my lantern lit by my side. Letting the faces of the gods remain shadowed. 

My fingers draw a familiar circle about me and the offering of blue iris and violets I have brought before they clasp together and I begin my prayer. The health of my family, my sister’s happiness, and, more selfishly, mine. 

“Why are you here at this hour?” a sonorous voice asks. 

Standing by the feet of the Horned Trickster, god of chaos and mischief, they stand. I cannot see their face to discern the line of their eye, but the hairs upon my arms and the back of my neck prickle. I do not leave my place, but my body recoils all the same. 

“Do you pray for the same things every day?” they ask, unbothered by my silence. “Health, happiness.” Their hand flicks through the air in a lazy swirl. “Tedium and droll.”

“I know not for what else I should pray,” I respond, spurred by their tempting tone. I gather my flowers in my lap, their stems breaking under my tight grip. 

“There is so much more,” they reply with a scoff, “to this world, to your pathetic existence, you need only ask for it.” 

My lips part in shock. The man steps out of the shadows into the candlelight, and finally I see his face. More handsome than any other man in the village. He leaves me speechless with the sharpness of his emerald eyes and the arch of his brow. Raven hair falls to his shoulders, resting upon the finest silks of his doublet.

“Tell me what you truly desire.” Standing mere inches from my knees resting on the stone floor, he tilts my chin with two of his lithe fingers. 

Meeting his gaze proves too intense. My eyes lower to his throat while thoughts whirl in my head. All of the things I have ever wanted. A marriage to a man who will love me for all my days. The fortune of kings. Recognition. Beauty. Praise. Power. 

A smirk pulls at the corner of his lip. “Oh yes,” he purrs. “I see it.” He crouches before me and rests his free hand on his knee. His fingers trace my chin to my cheeks, and back again. “What would you do to receive such bounty from the gods?”

“I—” The phrase poised on my tongue sticks in my mouth, like honey that seals my lips together. 

He hums in question, impatient for an answer. 

I swallow, a lump in my throat, and croak around it, “I would do anything?” Though it spills from my lips as a question, it rings with truth. Conviction stirring in my belly at the words. My eyes raise to meet his, scared of his judgement. 

He smiles and traces his fingers over my lips. “That is exactly what I thought.” He releases my face, though not the thrall he has cast over me. Enchanted by his looks as I am, I follow the movement of his hand as it snakes along my arm and grasps mine. 

He rises, bidding me to follow until we stand beneath the oculus. Hues of pinks and gold bathe over us, the sun rising without. I glance up, panicked by the passing time. 

“I must go,” I gasp, tugging from his grip. Yet he does not unhand me. 

He says not one word until I meet his eye. “I will provide all for you,” he says with a gentle squeeze of my hand. As though he were my lover making an eternal promise. My heart thunders in my ear. Light shines on his skin from above, a dazzling glow that washes him in divinity. “Commit only to me, and I will be your servant.” 

My mouth dries. I stand, stunned, before him. “Are you a god?” I whisper, head bent toward him to share such an abounding confidence. 

A smile curves his lips. “What is your answer?” he asks in turn, disregarding my own question. 

I stare into his grass green eyes, luminous and intense. Heat fills my cheeks. The sun continues to rise. The temple sits quiet. He waits, his hand trapping mine. 

“Where have you been?” my mother blusters, stacking loaves of bread behind our counter. 

The door to our bakery closes behind me with a soft click. “I’m sorry, mother,” I say, rushing to grab my apron and tie it about my waist. “My prayers took longer than I expected.”

“What could you possibly pray for?” 

The sting of mother’s words pierce my chest, but I do not say anything. “Every day, prayers and every day, late,” she mutters under her breath. “You awaken the gods too early.” 

Her finger wags in my direction as she turns and places her hands on her hips. Ready as ever to drone about her displeasure. But once she looks at me—really looks—she falls silent. Her lips part and she blinks. 

“What’s happened?” she asks, slowing into the motion of wiping her hands on her apron to rid them of flour. She steps closer and reaches to cup my cheek. “There’s something changed about you.” Though she whispers it like a secret, I hear her. 

Passing by windows in the town on my walk home from the temple, I glimpsed my reflection. To my eye, I saw no difference. The same plain face, the same soft body, the same clothes. And yet, the way my mother looks at me anew—as if there were something noticeable, remarkable. 

Blinking from her daze, she pats my cheek and turns away. 

“There should be buns ready in the ovens,” she says with a loving lilt to her voice, “go and fetch them from your father.”

I nod, silent, and turn to the back where the oven burns hot and fills the room with its warmth and the smell of fresh bread. Memories of spending winters curled beside the fire and ovens with my sister tucked next to me fill my head. My hand rests on the stone of the surrounding wall and I glance around to find my father. 

“Right there,” he grunts carrying a paddle of loaves over to cool. My father pays me little mind, but nods to the buns sitting off on a side table. 

“Thank you,” I say, grabbing the tray and carrying it out to mother. 

Mr. Fitz stands there with her, paying for a loaf of bread for his wife. He glances over at my entrance and smiles. 

“Good morning,” he says with a nod in my direction. 

I pause, stunned. So rare that customers take a moment to acknowledge me, let alone greet me. My mother whispers my name with a nudge to my side. It is enough to knock me from my frozen state and return the greeting. He doesn’t say more, collecting his loaf from my mother and his coins, before departing. 

“You must be more friendly,” my mother says, “or all your good looks will be for naught.” 

A smile threatens my lips. My mother’s favor of me extending only to the help I provide, never my countenance. That she reserved always for my sister—Temperance’s lovely smile and thoughtful spirit, true beauty shining out from within. A flutter of pride swells within me at her inadvertent praise. I agree with her quickly and return to work. 

The morning passes in joyful company. Customers pleasant and plentiful. Each one sends a greeting and smile my way. They ask after my health and my temperament. They meet my eye and compliment my sunny disposition. 

As the sun crests the top of the sky, Lord Grant Ward enters our bakery. A first for the local lord. His lordship usually more content to send out one of his many servants for such a menial errand. 

His figure stands tall in our doorway. I catch a glimpse of him from just beside the door to the front, loading the few remaining loaves into a basket with my father’s help. 

“I have heard such complimentary things about this bakery today,” he says, perusing our store with a skeptical eye. His toe scuffs across our floor. 

“My lord,” my mother greets, “we are grateful for your visit to our humble bakery. How may we serve you?” 

He looks down his nose at her and huffs a haughty breath. Not even a word of response. My eyes narrow, the heat of fury boiling through my veins. To dismiss my mother thus. I push the door open all the way and exit the back, sweat dotting my brow and basket under my arm. Ready to confront such discourtesy. 

“My lord,” I bite with as much respect I can muster—which is not much. “May I serve you?”

A glance in my direction, and he pauses. The skeptical tilt of his brow evens to one of curiosity and understanding at once. He steps forward toward our counter. 

“I believe you may,” he replies, tone honey sweet. “I wish to purchase all the goods you have remaining.” 

“My lord,” my mother blusters, “you are too generous.” 

He ignores her, eyes locked on my figure. His hand rustles at his belt, tugging away a pouch and handing it in our direction. 

“Will this suffice?” 

I bob in a curtsy and accept it. My mother hovers over my shoulder as I open the pursestrings and look inside. Coins glint up at me. My mother counts aloud but trails off. 

“My lord,” she says with a voice full of awe and respect, “it is surely too much.” 

“Then accept it as payment for the inconvenience of closing your shop early.” The lord waves his hand through the air. “Will that please you?” he asks in a lowered tone, directly to me. 

“Yes, my lord,” I reply, ire cooled but not entirely appeased. “How shall we deliver your goods to you?” 

He hums and steps closer, hand reaching to pluck at the fibers of my basket. “I shall send a cart with instructions. Will you meet them?” 

“Yes, my lord,” I say and take a step back. 

His brow quirks at my retreat, but he says nothing more. Merely nods in acceptance and bids us farewell. 

“To see that look in his eye as soon as I drew his attention toward me,” I explain. My light flickers at my feet beside the godly figures. “How insufferable. To treat my mother with disrespect.”

Fingers trail along the nape of my neck. I know them to be there, yet they have not revealed themself from the shadows. 

“Of course,” I continue in a more subdued tone, “he did send his cart. He collected every bit of our bread. Took what he wanted and gave the rest to the needy.” My own hand wipes the side of my face. “Perhaps I regard his character too quickly.”

“You were right to judge him as you did,” the voice soothes behind me. Different than before. 

Turning over my shoulder, I seek the visage of the god with whom I struck my deal. A figure emerges, softer, curvier. 

I bow my head in respect, sure I’ve been addressing a goddess in mistake. “Pardon my musings,” I rush, knees ready to collapse to the floor. “I misspoke.” 

Lithe fingers lift my chin. My eyes meet the emerald green of my patron, set in feminine features still as striking as before. 

“You make no mistake,” she says with a smile tilting her lips. “I am here, my sweeting.” 

My mouth forms around words I cannot speak. Enthralled by her still, I contemplate the change in her countenance and find myself unable to avert my gaze. 

“You should know the fleeting nature of my appearance,” she explains. “I take many forms. How like you this one?” 

“You are breathtaking,” I reply in a whisper. Clearing my throat from such bold speech, I reach into my pocket and withdraw the buttery raston and small jar of my mother’s plum preserves wrapped in cloth I have brought in offering. “To thank you, and reaffirm my vow of devotion to you.” 

She unwraps the parcel. Her smile widens. A wave of her hand and only the cloth remains. Its contents vanishing before my eyes. Cupping my cheeks in her hands, she presses a kiss to my forehead—a blessing. “Thank you, my darling. You will go to town and continue to enchant all who live there,” she instructs, thumb brushing the apple of my cheek, drinking in the soft breaths which pass my lips and the surety of my attention. Her gaze meets mine with a grim darkness. “But be wary of Lord Ward. He covets you for himself. And you…” she prompts. 

“I serve you.” 

My steps crunch through the underbrush of the forest. Unused to traversing such uneven ground, I walk slowly. Father’s back pains him. My mother stays in our bakery with the few loaves we made this morning. So I search through the woods for his traps, content for a moment away. Engaged with my own thoughts. My patron a shining beacon in the forethoughts of my mind. 

“Who dares to trespass on my land?” a voice booms through the trees. “Reveal yourself.”

My heart jumps in my chest and takes up a thundering beat. My hand clutches at my chest, though I cannot soothe myself. Careful movements carry me toward the sound of the voice. Yet one false step and my ankle twists. I yelp. The cold earth greets me as I fall and sounds of a hurried strides reach my ears.

“Who’s there?” Closer now, Lord Ward’s voice carries clearer. 

“I’m sorry, my lord,” I call back, knowing he approaches still. “I did not realize these were your lands.” 

He stops before me, the leather of his shoes black as night. I dare not cast my gaze up to catch his ire. Instead, I keep my head bowed in deference and pray for help. 

“You need not fall to the floor,” he says in an air of curiosity. 

“Yes, my lord,” I say. 

“Let me help you.” He offers a gloved hand. I eye it before meeting his gaze. 

“Thank you,” I accept and lean on his strength to help me rise. My lips seal against a whimper of pain and I shift my weight to rest upon my uninjured foot. 

“You are hurt,” he observes. Both of his hands offered to aid me. 

“I will be well, my lord,” I assure with a pat to my hands on my skirt to dispel the dirt and leaves clinging to my palms. “It is nothing.” 

He steps even closer still. My breath catches in my lungs. “Allow me to escort you home.” He speaks with such a gentle articulation, it sparks a flutter of my heart. If only he behaved thus upon our first meeting. 

“I thank you, my lord,” I say, picking my words carefully. “Though I must continue to my father’s traps. I fear I only have turned myself around. Forgive me for trespassing.” 

“You’re forgiven,” he says with a nod, “always.” 

I swallow and find I can meet his eye no more. Heat fills my cheeks, as if I labored too long beside the oven. I pat them with trembling fingers and cannot understand my lack of ease. 

“If you will not allow me to escort you, perhaps you might concede to one of my servants accompanying you?” 

“I would not wish to inconvenience them by taking them away from their chores, or you, my lord, in turn.” I step back, glancing over my shoulder as not to stumble and inflame my ankle further. 

“May I at least check to see if the bone is sound?” he asks, already lowering to one knee and offering his hands out for my foot. 

My teeth sink into my lower lip and I raise my injured leg, placing it into his grip. He tests the joint. Turning it one way and another. I wince, but do not draw away. The sooner I may satisfy the lord, the sooner I may return to my task. Once satisfied, he places my foot back to the ground and stands. 

“Be careful,” he commands, with a hint of a smile drawing his lip upward. “I will send a messenger this evening to ensure you make your way home safely.” 

“Thank you, my lord,” I say one final time before turning and limping away to continue my hunt. 

He calls my name one more time, but when I turn, he waits in silence before a last, “farewell.” As though he wishes to say more, yet something curbs his speech. 

I take my leave, slow and reluctant as curiosity nips at my heels. Though I may well have stayed with the lord and heard him out for all my victory. My father’s traps sit without any bounty. Empty. 

I sigh and sink to the ground. A moment of respite so my ankle may rest. My hands dig into the soft, decaying leaves of the forest floor. My head tilts to the sky. A breeze blows through the trees. 

Something wraps about my wrist. I jolt and lift my hand, ready to shake loose any impediment to its movement. Yet find a snake wound about it. Like a cuff, it sits just at my wrist, head raised to meet my eye. 

I freeze. The snakes of which I’ve heard bite their poor victims, leading to a painful death. I swallow hard and wait for the creature to slither on its way. It does not. 

“Please go,” I plead. 

Its head tilts. Its tongue flicks. It stays. 

I stare at it, slow movements turning my arm one way and another to take a better look at it. The shine of its scales, the intelligence in its eyes. 

“Please don’t bite me,” I whisper as I move, looking at its long body, content to perch upon my arm. 

Its head moves back to look at me. In the hush of the forest, the breeze ripples through the leaves. Birds chirp. But there is silence around us. A moment, looking into the creature’s eyes where the world around me dulls. 

“You are no ordinary snake,” I pronounce in soft tones. 

Its tongue flicks. It tickles my skin and I flinch from the unexpected sensation. Thoughts entangled with what sign this creature might bring. It’s relation to the gods. Stories of them and their familiars, their sacred animals. Only one holding snakes in their regard—the Horned Trickster.

“Send my regards to your master and mine,” I say, lowering my hand. 

Its muscles move, slithering toward the ground from my fingers. It disappears beneath leaves and between trunks. The sun shines down through the forest canopy, heading to its resting place beyond the horizon. The afternoon heat cooling on a breeze. I push myself to stand, gazing after the snake’s possible path. A sigh blows past my lips, hands brushing dirt away from my skirts. Shuffling carefully through the roots and foliage of the forest, I head home on much steadier feet. 

“I do not know how it happened,” I lament many weeks later. Head in hands, my mind struggles toward some semblance of understanding. 

My patron stands leaning against the statue of the Thunder Warrior, their gaze tilted toward the ceiling. I begin to pace before them, around in a circle, perplexed by the path of my life. 

“Lord Ward has called after me thrice now within the week.” My hand smooths over my hair, trying to help my thoughts remain in my head, and not floating away in a whirl of imaginings. 

“You think of him often, do you?” their bored tone comments. 

My brow furrows. I pause. “I suppose,” I reply. “Can one not when a man supposes to be so enamored?” 

“It is everything you wished?” they ask, though the way they say it—like they don’t need an answer. A harsh bite to their words upon which I do not dally.

Instead, I give them an answer, “It is what I prayed for. I cannot help the fondness that has grown within my heart.” 

A deep hiss rumbles from the shadows, filling the temple and rattling my bones. My hands jolt to cover my ears, teeth clenched shut against the grating sound. 

“Do not forget,” he says stepping from the shadows to reveal his form, his lip curled and brow set, “you’ve committed yourself to me in this life and the next. You will never marry. You are mine.” His eyes blaze with a barely suppressed rage, fiery and dark.

Stunned by his venom, I ask, “If I am not to marry, what use is the rest? I wish to be loved.” Tears prick at my eyes, distraught as his commandment settles within me. I am to be alone. Regarded by all—and loved by none. 

His fury cools, eyes piercing daggers in the low light. “You made your choice,” he states in a crisp, clear cadence, dispassionate and cold.

“I gave you my trust blindly,” I shriek in response. My hand grasps at the cloth of my bodice, grip tight and heart aching. I swallow a panicked sob. “How could you deceive me so? I have only ever done as you bid.” 

“Do you love him?” my patron asks, accusation sharp. Answering my distress with such little regard. 

Stutters of sound fall from my lips, none forming an answer. The weight of my mistake presses down upon my chest until I cannot breathe. So often my patron had been obliging and kind, the stab of this betrayal far too deep. A chasm opens in my chest and out of it, I speak. “My sister is married and thinks herself already with child. I wish for the same, and I—”

With one last look at the indifferent expression on my patron’s face, my heart shatters. Feet rush from the temple. The candle flickers in the dark, left behind as I dart into the night. Rain spatters across my cheeks, the slick of mud beneath my shoes. Though I do not hesitate, used to the path up the hill and the slightest hint of light on the horizon. Rushing, slipping steps carrying me down the slope. Hoping perhaps my folly might remain far behind at the feet of the gods. That I might escape, even to find myself returned to my previous unremarkable life. Until I reach the cross of the roads and pause. Skirts drenched from rain and weighed down with mud. Chest heaving, coughing in the damp air from exertion. Lost in my own thoughts, the steady approaching clip of horses’ hooves escapes my notice. 

Only the impact of their bodies and the tread of wheels over mine thrusts me back to the present. I lay on the ground, gasping for breath, pain ravaging every measure of me. My lips part to call upon my patron, a last plea, but find I cannot. The whisper of a final breath leaving my body and sending my soul along its path to the River. 

The waters lap at the sides of the boat in the dark. The Goddess of Death, Hela, stands behind me, oar in hand to push us along with the current across the river. 

“Do not touch the waves,” she cautions. The pole moves through the water. “They are full of forgotten memories from those who have crossed. A temptation, but one drop will turn you mad and bind you to its tide.” 

I recoil from the edge of the boat to sit upright. Gaze falling to my hands, lighter than air they sit in my lap, grey. No thoughts fill my head. Just silence, peace. 

Turning to the Goddess of Death, I ask, “do any memories remain to those who have died?”

“Only those that bring you comfort,” she says without a look toward me or any inflection of sympathy. 

A murmur of understanding passes from me, finding consolation in the honesty. Though I cannot place a reason for it. Already, my memories drift along the stream of the Gods Blood. Lost to me. 

The oar lifts from the river and rests against the side of her vessel. Her head tilts, gazing up at the eternal black sky above us. Her brow pinches in confusion. I follow the path of her eyes, but see nothing. 

A resounding hiss builds around us. The waves of the river grow larger, the boat rocking. The Goddess of Death holds out a hand to steady us upon the water. A displeased glare prominent on her features. Whispers of words drift around the boat, a fog rolling in from behind. Hela turns to slash a hand through it. Unable to make it disperse.

I cling to the bench of my seat, the dullest fear tickling the edges of my consciousness. But nothing more. Perhaps I should fear capsizing and madness, yet such emotions remain indistinct—a consequence of death, to be sure. 

In a moment, Hela turns to lash out at a perceived threat and a great appendage wraps about my waist. Warm and strong, it constricts, but I have no breath to halt nor bones to break. It lifts me into the air, shadowed by the darkness of night. I dangle limp and lifeless from its embrace, the prize of its hunt. Perhaps a monster of legend stealing away my soul for a meal. Another fate which engenders no true dread.

A cry chases our ascent into the dark sky. The echoing roar of the goddess’s outrage at losing one of her souls and failing her duty to take me across the Gods Blood. But we ascend regardless. 

My eyes close against the light that breaks through the dark clouds, blinded. We land upon solid earth. Flowers rising to greet my fingers, yet passing through like air. I cannot feel them. 

The appendage around my waist releases me for a hand, instead, to clasp mine. My eyes turn to the person beside me. Familiar, yet I cannot put name to the lovely, angular face. 

“My love,” they say, lithe finger tipping my chin toward them, “We are home.” 

They guide me through the doorway of the quaint cottage before us. Another familiarity I cannot place in the haze of my incomplete memories. 

The fire roars in its place. I step toward it, vague recollections of comfort tickling at the edges of my mind. I reach out to the licking flames, and feel no warmth. 

A hand wraps about mine, guiding me away. They squeeze, and the reassurance of the gesture surges through me. The fingers of my other hand settle on their wrist, petting along their skin up to their sleeves. The fabric of their garments silky under my fingertips. I catch their eye, questions forming on the tip of my tongue. Who are they? Why did they steal my soul? Why am I here?

“Now, my beauty,” they praise. Their lips brush a soft kiss to my forehead. My eyes flutter shut to drink in the sensation. “You will truly be mine.”

Such familiarity, I do not ken. Their face so imprinted upon my thoughts without any recognition. 

“I do not remember you,” I admit, staring into their emerald eyes and praying for some spark to ignite. 

“That does not matter,” they soothe, thumb rubbing over the back of my palm. “We will have eternity to know one another.”

And we do. Years passing outside the windows of my cottage. Buildings fall, crumbling to dust. Only one of them, a bakery down the road, filling me with any notion of regret as its owners cross the River and time creeps across its walls. 

Apart from it all, I watch. Drifting through the cottage, invisible to passersby. Though, even still, whispers reach me—haunted, they call my home. And they are not wrong. The world withers around me, and I remain, a shade bound to the cottage. 

Only one bringing me any solace, any relief. They enter the front door and greet me with a smile, their hands offering sensation, feeling. I grasp onto them, reluctant to release them for a moment of their visit. To return to the dullness of my existence without them. The nothing which awaits me upon their withdrawal. 

“Hello, my love,” they say. Their fingers tilt my chin and I meet them in a sweet kiss. My fingers pulse about their hand. We part and I let myself fall into the greedy hunger of their gaze. 

Their head dips again, lips seeking more. Which I give—again and again. A kiss which might steal my breath if I had any. Their passion a spark igniting between us. Their moans filling the room around us. My fingers sink into the muscle of their shoulders. Clinging to each sensation. I cannot let them go.

“Sweeting,” they gasp. Hands wander across my form until they hitch me into their arms, my body of no substance. ”Come with me.” Though they give me no true choice in the matter—as if I would refuse them and their constant touch.

They carry me to our bed, and set me upon it without once letting me go. Following me to the plush cushions and sheets, their body pins mine to the bed and the weight of it brings a contented sigh to my lips. They drink it in and pull back to meet my gaze.

As always, as I lay beneath them with their eyes shining bright and affectionate, they prompt, “You are…”

“Yours.” 

“Yes,” they purr and return their sweet lips to mine. 

Unable to grasp at the bedding beneath us, I let my hands clutch at them. Our bodies joining together in amorous undulation, seeking the divine thrill of ecstasy. Chasing that peak of my existence. When the world around me explodes in bright color and brilliance. When I feel alive and whole before it fades and I return to the numbness of my eternity.

They murmur words of love into my ears. The sweat of their body cooling them. A dull shine radiates from their skin. Their holy light, they once told me. Their head rests upon my breasts, their breath tickling across me. I swallow and let my fingers weave into the silky tresses of their hair, the world dimming by the second.

“Welcome home, Loki.” 

read more of The Avengers Pantheon at The Undone and the Divine

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Crown of Thorns I

Warnings: this fic will noncon/rape, abuse of power, violence, injury, blood, mentions of hunting, tags will be added throughout. My tags are not exhaustive, proceed at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Your reclusive existence is interrupted by an unexpected company of men. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Bucky Barnes, possible secondary pairings.

Note: I’m hoping this will be like weekly installments and I’m gonna be working on Hopelessly Devoted and hopefully the final part of my Tony/Peter Medieval AU in the upcoming week.<3

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all like Prince Charming loves mirrors. Take care. 💖

The doors quake with the sudden thunk of metal on wood. You rise from your weaving, startled by the unusual racket. The banging continues, voices hollering.

"In the name of the king, open the door," a deep voice booms as you near.

It's not the first time soldiers happen upon your little hideaway. The last time, they plundered your hen house but let you be. You lift the lever and ease the door open.

"Get him in," the door's shoved into you before you can react to the men on the other side. 

You're nearly crushed as they barge in, four men carrying another on a board, a fifth at their rear, familiar. They lay the wounded man on the plank before the fire as chaos erupts in your quiet hovel.

"Bartholomew? You brought these men here?"

"I hadn't any choice," he answers, "they need help–"

"Enough," one of the soldier nears and grabs your arm, "be upon your work."

"Bartholomew?" You say quizzically as you watch him over your shoulder, dragged away by the soldier.

"Do not worry for him, worry for your king," he swings you towards the bloodied body before your hearth.

"King?" You blink cluelessly.

"Tell us, fool," another man looks up from his knees, pressing a torn tunic to the shoulder of that who lays prone, "did you lead us into a bandits' lair?"

"N-no," Bartholomew bluster, "woman, please, you tended to my son when he fell from the tree, and Diana when her labour was premature."

"I must have time," you shrug away from the gauntlet on your arm, "I can do nothing for this man if I haven't anything to tend to him with."

"But you can tend to him?" The man who seized you prompts. 

"I can try, but I am inexperienced in battle wounds."

"Do as you can and consider that as the king's life lays in your hands, so does the realm."

You clamp your lips shut. You are no healer, not truly. Your mother was more the sort and they banished her for her practices. You go to the unconscious body and kneel by him, looking over the broken links that reveal mangled flesh.

"Get his mail off," you stand and take the kettle from the table, hanging it over the fire, "you," you point to the blonde who previously growled at you of your duty to the crown, "there is a linen hung to the east of the house, bring it and shred it it to strips two fingers thick."

He winces at your orders but does not argue. He passes back through the door as Bartholomew wrings his hands. You send him a look, how dare you bring them here.

The single room of your modest abode is bustling with the intruders. Three work at carefully dismantling the layers of metal from the man's form. The king, they say he is.

You take your chest from beneath the shelf of pots and vials. You search out some dried herbs with your mortar and pestle, then gather some corked bottles from overhead.

At the table, you work at mixing the poultice, crushing it to a thick paste as the blonde returns and the noise of fabric being rent joins the mutter of voices and heavy breathing. You pick out your sharpest bone needle and weave through strand of horse hair. The thread is old and you fear it might snap if pulled to hard.

"Haven't you any medics?" You ask the soldier as he presents the strips of linen. 

"It hardly matters now," he scowls.

You sigh and gather your tools, nearing the dark haired man by your hearth. The other men move aside and stand over you as you take account of the man's injuries.

"How did he take such wounds?" You ask as you rip his tunic to the hem. 

Muscles stained with blood and gashed down the right side of the chest to his side, several smaller cuts along shoulder and down his arms as you reveal them.

"He was pulled off his horse and fell into a rabble. He may have been caught beneath some hooves," another man explains as the blond huffs with arms crossed behind you.

"I can tend to the flesh but any broken bones may not be so easily repaired," you feel his left shoulder, his arm limp.

"Do what you can," the blonde snarls.

"I need to set the arm, a stick, strong, straight," the kettles shakes noisily, "bring the water."

The man to your left rises and with his gauntlet to shield his hand, unhooks the vessel.

"Pour it into a basin," you order as you take a square of fabric.

Another man takes a large wooden bowl from a shelf and you dip the cloth, singing your fingers in the steaming water. You work at wiping away the excess blood. There is so much and the flesh is so pale it may be too late.

"You," you point to the young of the troop, "put pressure here," you gesture to the chest, "I can try to sew him up."

He pulls off his gloves and you stop him, "rinse them in the water."

He hesitates and grumbles as he dips his hands, no doubt scalding as he hisses. You hand him a strip to hold against the wound as you pack the poultice into the side of the king's torso and move up to the soldier's hands. 

The room fades away, the figures barely more than shadows as you take the needle.

"Wilson, find a splint," the blond orders.

You barely hear the words as you poke through the skin, in and out, back and forth. You tie off the horse hair, the skin closed but weeping. You tend to the smaller cuts, left by the pinch of armour and trampling. 

A soldier, Wilson, they called him, returns with a thick stick, almost a branch, and helps you place the king's thick arm and bind it tightly. Your hands are crimson as you tie the knots. You sit back and turn your hand to feel the king's forehead with your knuckles.

"He's feverish," you say, "I will need assistance. He must have some tea."

"Tea?" The blond nears as you rise, "make it in front of me."

"I need more water boiled," you say as you go to the shelf.

"What are you taking?" He follows as the youngest soldier takes the kettle and goes to the door.

"The well is to the rear of the house," you call over as you take a pot, "ginger." You present the first ingredient and the man shifts as you hand it to him, "why would I poison a man who I've already spent so much on? I do not live a bountiful existence."

"An existence granted you under his authority," he insists.

"Very well," you sort through your collection and pluck each and explain the contents. He is hardly amused by your careful explanation.

Again, you wait for the kettle to heat. The other men sit dully as the energy of the battle and their dire need wears away, but the blond remains close to observe you. You combine the herbs and spice into a dark tea and steep it under his watch.

"You claim that man is the king, James of Brookstone, yes?"

"Who else?" He rebuffs.

"And you?"

His blue eyes flare, "Steven Rogers, Duke of Ameril."

"A duke? And the rest of them?"

He's silent, staring.

"You needn't worry, I would hardly know their titles or the bearing of such should you name them. Your own is mystifying to me and I know only of the king from the minstrels and the ashes left of villages nearby."

He tilts his head as you fill a cup, "the man on the stool is Samuel Wilson, an earl, as the younger, Peter Parker. Our forth is a mercenary called Rumlow."

"You must prop him up so he does not choke," you do not acknowledge the revelation as it is hardly that to you. Merely a way to place each strange face.

He comes with you and lifts the king as you warn him to be gentle. He holds James' chin as you carefully pour the tea through his lips and massage his throat. His body swallows instinctively though he coughs a few times and you slow to let it pass. Steve lays him down again and remains at his side as you rise.

"Apologies that I have no more than a floor to offer you royal knights," you say and Steve clicks his tongue.

"We have slept in worse," he assures.

You turn to Bartholomew as he cowers by the door still, dazed as his gaze falls to your bloodied tunic, belted over a patched skirt.

"Aye, you should go home," you coax him, "your family will worry."

"I didn't know what else to do," he whispers.

"Go, I cannot say the king will survive," you keep your voice low, "you will not want to be near if he does not."

"And you?"

You shrug, "so it will be."

He heaves and frown, "I am so very sorry, lady."

"Go," you flick him away with your fingers, "it is much crowded as it is."

He gives a sullen nod and turns, angling through the half-open door and letting it clatter behind him. You shake your head and turn back, gathering up the mess left from your urgent work. 

You rinse your hands in the water before dumping it in the grass and come back to the men reclining around their king. All but Steven who watches him fervently.

👑

The soldiers sleep on the floor as you huddle in the corner on the pad packed with straw. You're rarely around people, let alone strange men. Soldiers at that, dangerous.

Their snores keep you alert, even as you doze off. Shallow slumber that leaves you stiff and stunted. 

You wake before the rest and boil oats with nutmeg and cinnamon. The aroma from your pit burning outside draws them out, all but Steven who remains inside. You offer them wooden bowls and some milk from your goat.

"Thanks, lady," the youngest, Parker, beams as Rumlow scowls and grunts and Wilson gives a smile, mouth already full of porridge.

They sit on the ground and eat as you take the last bowl and enter through the open door of your hovel. Steven watches over the king, perhaps a companion given his constancy. You near, heartened to see some colour to James' complexion, though still ashen.

You hold out the bowl but he doesn't accept it right away. Finally he takes it and peers down at the grey oats.

"He hasn't stirred," his voice is crackly from the dryness of his throat.

"He might not for some time. There was so much blood and the wounds are deep. If he did, the pain would likely put him out again."

"Yet, the priests would bleed him or put leeches to him," he sniffs.

"I cannot speak on priests, lest they claim blasphemy. I've done what I can, pray it is enough."

He looks up at you. Bags droop under his eyes. You doubt he slept, only pretended to.

"It hasn't been a day, my lord, it will take time."

"But you believe he will awake?"

"I am not healer, I only know recipes," you shrug.

"Curse that fool who brought us to some woods witch."

You go rigid. That title rarely bodes well. You stare at him nervously.

"Will you have the stake readied?" you quaver.

He lowers his chin, "I speak drolly, but let us pray for our king's recovery."

You back away. You will not provoke the man further, as even kindness seems to goad him. You return to the other men as they empty their bowls.

"There will be scouts searching," Rumlow gristles, the first words he's spoken, "we should be on sentry for them."

"We might find a few rabbits as well," Parker offers, "for supper."

"Perhaps," Wilson squeezes his shoulder and stands. You take his bowl and collect the rest from the men.

"Be wary of the bears," you warn as you sit to break your own fast.

"I could use a pelt," Wilson scoffs.

You do not answer as they go back to claim their weapons and emerge again, ready for a hunt. You're thankful to see them go but dread their return already. You do not foresee a brief stay for the men, not with the king in such a state.

👑

The soldiers return with a bundle of rabbits and some squirrels. You promise them a stew should they skin the creatures. They speak of a stag they were unable to corner as they do and you go to look in on the king and his duke.

Steven lays on his shoulder, breath even as he's succumbed to his fatigue. You near as the king remains as he was, the rise and fall of his chest slightly more obvious. You will need to check the stitches but for now, you leave him under the wool blanket before the embers.

You emerge with a cauldron and go to pick some vegetables from the patch along the west of your home. Leeks, potatoes, and a few carrots. You use your small knife to peel and cut them into the pot. 

Wilson helps with slicing up the rabbits and you add some seasoning and water. You hang it over the pit and feed it to lick at the heavy iron.

Rumlow sits dragging a whetstone along his blade, Parker tosses a knife at a tree, and Wilson wipes his hands before cleaning his nails with a twig. The days will be even longer for your unwelcome company.

👑

Two days pass as Steven keeps watch over the king. He lets you close to tend to the stitches but does not part for more than his bodily needs. The man is persistent and you can't help but admire his devotion.

That afternoon, as Steven departs to find a private place in the woods to relieve himself, and the others bathe in the river you directed them to, you take a basin of water to the king's side.

You uncover him from beneath the wool blanket, clothed in only his breeches. A layer of sweat wafts pungently from him as his hair is greasy and coiled around his head. You gently comb out the knots with your fingers, the angles of his jaw and high cheekbones lend him a noble air even as he lays weak.

His beard shines against the firelight, thick and slightly unkempt. You dip the cloth in the water as you sit on your knees and wipe clean his wounds. You check the splint on his arm before going back to dabbing gently at his face, tracing his hairline with the linen.

You're startled as suddenly a gleam of blue flashes with the flick of his lashes. Your eyes meet, his oceanic and deep, a sudden vice on your neck as his right hand meets your throat. You gasp and choke as he grips you tightly, squeezing until you can't breathe.

You can't get a word out as you drop the cloth. You don't know what to do, shocked that he can even move with the agony of his injury. Your fingers find the wound in his chest and you push down, enough to make him hiss and release you.

You fall back onto your rear and catch yourself on the heels of your hand as you gape at him. He groans and shakily touches his chest, dragging his hand heavily to his unmoving left arm.

"What've you done to me?" his tone creaks.

"N-nothing, I helped you," you rub your throat as it burns with the pressure of his grasp still.

"Where-- Who--" his confusion laces his weak timbre. He tries to sit up, only to collapse heavily and grunt.

"Lord Steven brought you."

"Rogers?" he drones as his head lolls, "where is he?"

"He went to... he'll be back shortly. I can go fetch him."

"Stay," he orders.

"Your majesty," you muster as you recall yourself.

He closes his eyes, "wine?"

"I have none."

"Ale, then."

"I have only milk and rainwater, your majesty."

He waves his fingers waveringly, a wordless ascent, whatever you have. You get up and grab the pitcher from the table, enough water remaining to fill a cup. You bring it to him as he struggles to sit up. He cannot.

"Allow me," you grab a blanket and bunch it up atop the cushion beneath his head, enough to keep him at an angle.

You take the cup and tilt it against his lips. He grimaces but lets you pour it into his mouth, gulping greedily until it's empty. You set it on the floor and retrieve the cloth and put it back in the basin. You lift it and carry it to the table.

"What were you doing to me?"

"Cleansing your wounds," you say.

He feels his face curiously. You chew the inside of your cheek.

"Trying to tidy you as best I could," you explain, "I thought it only decent."

His brows furrow and his eyes fall to the gash down his torso. He touches the end of it along his stomach. Then peeks at his arm.

"It is good I hold my sword with my right hand," he mutters.

"Your majesty," you linger by the table, "I should... see to my hens."

"As you will," he leans back and closes his eyes.

As you reach the door, another figure fills the frame. You haven't a moment to react before Steven shoves you from his path and barrels over to James.

"My king," he falls to one knee, "you've awoken."

"Is this not some nightmare?" the other man rebukes, "what is this place?"

"A hermit's hole," Steven answers, "I am gladdened to hear your voice, to see you well."

"Well? Is that what you'd call me?"

You leave them to their reunion. The king is alive and that gives you hope you too will survive this invasion. You sit by the dead pit and stare off into the trees. Perhaps you might have them out within the fortnight.

[tarnishedxknight]

Carter knew it was now or later, or possibly late, but despite the way her stomach felt like it was in knots and how her heart felt like it was in her throat, there was a part of her that was... excited. Perhaps it hadn't panned out the way she had envisioned, but... she was happy, despite her nerves. Despite it being... rather sudden.

And she just hoped that Basch would feel similarly.

She did her best to hide how she was feeling as she searched for him - brushing aside her anxiety in hopes of not drawing attention to herself. In buying herself more time from telling anyone else, even though she knew it was a bridge she would need to cross eventually. For now, it was one thing at a time, and as soon as she actually found him...

As soon as she spotted Basch, she quickly beelined for him - her gaze bright with uncertainty and delight - and she beamed up at him as she absentmindedly reached for his hand. Her heart skipping a beat before fluttering wildly in her chest. Doing her best to steel her nerves to keep herself from pushing it off. "Can I- I speak to y-you in private?" she asked - her voice quiet - and she squeezed his hand. "I- I, um-- I- I have some-something I- I need to tell- tell you."

Relief filled Carter's gaze as soon as he agreed, and she gently tugged him somewhere out of the way. Somewhere away from prying eyes. She let go of his hand, but began to twist her bracelet around her wrist instead. Her gaze still bright with the same emotions, though her nervous smile wasn't faltering. Instead, she took a deep breath to steady herself, and--

"I'm- I'm pregnant," she blurted, before she bit her bottom lip. Hoping that, once any sort of shock wore off... he would be happy, too. That... this was a good thing, even if unexpected.

((yeehaw here we go xD also maybe we should say they've at least talked about the possibility of kids for the future?? just for the sake of,,, both of their mental states FSDGJHDFJH))

It had been a quiet day, all told. No pending missions, briefings, debriefings, or meetings had been scheduled. Basch had caught up on some much needed sleep and then hit the training gym, and now he found himself in the common kitchens, making himself a salad for lunch. He had already begun chopping up the necessary fruits and veggies when he saw Carter approaching. A smile instantly graced his lips. "Hello, Carter."

Oh, how far they had come over the months he'd been with the Avengers. What had begun as awkward conversations, simple affectionate gestures, and helping each other with their emotional struggles was now a full-fledged love affair. He genuinely loved Carter, and it was with her that he'd finally lost his virginity, a momentous thing for him considering he'd waited far longer than most men did to do so, at least among those of his own time period. Truthfully, he never intended to lose it at all, but... Carter had changed much for him in many ways.

Basch never thought he would have this with someone, this sort of comforting, supportive love. Now that he did, he refused to take it - or her - for granted. So when she came to him and asked to speak in private because she had something to tell him, he literally dropped everything and the salad was forgotten. "Of course," he said with loving attentiveness but also a bit of concern, squeezing her hand back and letting her lead him to a more clandestine location so they could talk. He wondered what was so important. A little far nipped at the back of his mind that maybe she would tell him she wanted to break things off with him, but he pushed the thought away. Her smile had told him otherwise.

The moment the words had fallen from her mouth - “I’m pregnant” - Basch froze in shock. He was taken back to a time several years ago - no, several thousand years ago - when he had overheard an encounter between a man who was, at the time, a dear fried of his, and one of the royal palace maids. She had tearfully told him she was with child, and that it had to be his, because he was he only man she had lain with. To Basch’s utter shock, Vossler had stoically denied the child, callously asking the woman, What makes you think it is mine? When she repeated her faithfulness to him, he again denied it, saying that he had heard she had been with many others. This had rendered the young maid quite distraught, and yet Vossler had very easily shoved her aside, both physically and emotionally. 

Basch remembered how much the exchange had bothered him, and how he had pondered it on many a sleepless night after the fact. In talking with Vossler, he was told of the woman’s promiscuity, but in speaking with her, Basch couldn’t shake the fact that it just couldn’t be true. She’d been sweet and genuine and... scared. He had sought the maid out and offered his sympathies for how Vossler, Sir Azelas as he was known to the general public, had handled the situation. Basch had given her a sizable amount of coin, knowing that she would be very hard-pressed to support a child alone and unmarried such as she was. For a woman to have relations with a man above her class, and then for that man to deny claim to the resulting child... such a thing could ruin a woman forever, Basch knew, let alone make it difficult for her to socially and financially support herself and her child.

He lay awake many a night after the fact, wondering... how could Vossler not care? How could he lay with a woman, feel something for her, and then deny the possibility of a child being his own? But that was just it. Vossler hadn’t felt anything for her. He hadn’t needed emotion to bed a woman. Unlike Basch, he could do so purely for recreation. That thought... disturbed Basch. He still remembered how tearfully grateful the maid was for Basch’s generosity, going so far as to kiss his gauntleted hand and bless him for his charity. His heart broke for her. Such a woman as that... did not seem to be attempting to manipulate a nobleman into marriage as Vossler had insinuated. Looking back, and taking into account the betrayal and selfishness Basch now knew Vossler to be capable of, he wished he had placed more weight on this incident. He wished he had processed the warning signs through the eyes of a knight and a general and not through the eyes of a friend. Maybe then... much could have been avoided.

All this ran through his mind as Carter looked up at him, her expression somewhere between nervousness and hopeful excitement, and suddenly Basch was thrust into Vossler’s place. Years ago, he had wondered, how could Vossler deny a child that could very easily be his? How could he look into the eyes of a woman he had thought enough of to lay with and cast her aside as thought she meant nothing? How could his morals be so loose as to not only bed a woman out of wedlock but leave her with child and alone? Years ago, laying with a woman out of wedlock - or really, at all - would have been well outside the realm of what Basch would ever have done. But now... things had changed. He had changed... and he had Carter to thank for that. There was no way he would - or could - deny this child or reject Carter. He would break his own heart in doing so, no to mention that, whether he wanted this child or not, he was obligated to claim and accept it. It was a matter of basic honor and human decency that he do so, aside from being the right thing to do. It put everything he had seen that day with Vossler into perspective. He refused to be like him.

“I... Forgive me for this, Carter...” he said first, feeling some responsibility for the very unexpected timing of this situation. “We had not planned on this... so soon...” he admitted, but lest he sound disappointed or like he was rejecting her, he quickly continued. “I will of course claim the child as my own, and I will be there for you and for our child as you need me. Without question. I swear this to you,” he said, with all the romantic formality of a knight addressing a princess. 

He gently cupped her face in his hands and then... and then the man came out, instead of the knight. “Wow...” he whispered, starting to smile as he bent down to touch his forehead to hers. “There are no words for what I feel for you in this moment. ‘I love you’ would not even begin to express the depth of it..." he said with astonished reverence. He... He was going to be a father. That thought alone made tears of joy sting his eyes. "How do you feel about this development?” he asked, concerned for her emotional well-being even as the boyish excitement in his eyes already betrayed how he felt about it. He was ecstatic.

[theruffiansretrorampage]

art by Simon de THUILLIERES